After the Gold Rush

My Aunt Kim on my Dad

2010-09-03T17:24:00.000-07:00

My Aunt Kim just posted a beautiful blog about my dad. Check it out and enjoy.

http://www.hersecretgarden.blogspot.com

2010-08-10T12:23:00.001-07:00

It's been a long since I've posted anything on ATGR, and even longer since I've posted anything worthwhile. Someday, when I have more time, which will probably be twenty or thirty years from now, I'll sit down and write a post about Kimya's birth and what that whole experience was like, although I don't think I'll ever be capable enough as a writer to describe it without using cliches. It was just an indescribably wonderful experience.

For now, I'm just going to post a picture of our beautiful girl, Kimya, or as I like to call her, Mimya, or The Mim, or sometimes, Rancho Cucasmoocho, which is a reference to her Southern California roots. I also like to call her my little gulab jamun and my little jalebi baby, which are references to her Indian roots and the fact that she looks like a sweet dessert. Every once in a while, I like to sing a song in which I call her my pumpkin pie and tell her that she's the apple of my eye. She likes looking at me. She doesn't like it yet when I kiss her, which is probably because of my beard and stubble and coffee breath. But she smiles at me when I get home from work and hold her. And when I stick my tongue out at her, she sticks her tongue out back. It's all pretty damned amazing.

Dumb and Dumber

2010-04-07T16:16:00.000-07:00

As an attorney, I'm a terribly inefficient biller. It's not that I don't work enough billable hours. In fact, I think I work pretty hard and generally get things done. And I always bill enough at the end of the day. But I have the bad habit of not entering my time into my computer, or even jotting it down, contemporaneously while working. I usually wait until the end of the day to write down my time. Sometimes I'm even lazier than that and let a day or two go by before I jot my time down. The problem is that on the third day I often can't remember what I had done two days before. Inevitably, I forget to bill for things I did. At the end of the month, when my time entries have to be submitted, I have to compare all of my billing to my archived e-mails to see if any of my e-mails remind me of some project that I was working on that I forgot to bill for. There are always at least a couple things that I had forgotten to enter. The whole process of checking my e-mails and entering my time takes me about 6-7 hours at the end of the month. And I usually wait to start doing it until late in the evening the day before my billing is due.

Sometimes I even miss the deadline for submitting my billing to accounting, and for no good reason. I just hate entering it so much that I put it off and put it off. I go to sleep the night before it's due and convince myself that I'll go in early and be able to finish it by noon. By noon I'm never finished. Dave from accounting will then come by my office and say, "How's the billing coming along." I always say, "almost done." And he says, "ok," and gives me a dirty look and walks away. If Dave was allowed to hit me with a stick he probably would.

Priya can't understand why I just don't enter my time each day while I'm working so that I don't have so much drama at the end of the month. Every month I tell myself that I'm going to change and be an efficient biller. But I never do. I go right back to implementing incremental doses of billing procrastination that add up to a big ulcer in my stomach at the end of the month.

So I know that procrastination makes my life worse and I know that I should stop procrastinating, but I really feel helpless to do so. Does anyone else ever feel like that? Is it just a moral failing? A lack of willpower? Does it have to do with faulty wiring in my brain? Past drug use? Can I take a drug to make myself more task oriented?

I think I need to start jogging. Joggers are all weird type-A people who balance their checkbooks every month and keep records about oil changes and the fluid levels in their cars. I would give anything to be like that. I don't even know where my checkbook is right now. And I'm not even sure if the Prius needs oil.

Sometimes I wonder what it says about me that I have, on 3 separate occassions in the last 2 years, left a bar and gone home and gone to bed without realizing that I hadn't paid for my drinks/food or gotten my ATM card back from the bar.

What does it mean that I once ran out of gas in downtown Los Angeles and then, as I was waiting for AAA, locked my keys in the car?

I will never be able to live down the fact that I once accidentally gave a bag of my wife's dry cleaning to Good Will.

And worst of all, I will never forget that I once scored a basket on the wrong hoop during a high school basketball game. In case you want to know how it all went down, we had just started a new quarter and so the teams had switched baskets. The ball was inbounded to me under the opposing team's goal and there was a full court press on. I guess I forgot that we had switched sides and was confused by the press. I was also quite tired because I had just played in the JV game. (I was a sophomore and was only playing in the varsity game because my brother, John, the starting point guard, was ill and hadn't made the road trip). Anyway, I caught the ball and made a sweet drive to the hoop. I laid it up and in. The gymnasium was dead quiet for a moment as no one was quite sure what was happening. But then the whole place erupted into laughter and sarcastic applause. The opposing cheerleaders were right next to me underneath the basket. I made eye contact with one cute girl who was laughing hysterically. She quickly covered her face with her pom poms. I heard a whistle blow and realized the coach was pulling me right out of the game. I sat down on the bench and he threw a towel at my head, which drew more sarcastic applause and laughter from the crowd.

But I know I'm not the only one who does stupid things. If you have also done stupid things, why not share them here? I will feel much better about myself if you do.

Random Moment of Defeat

2010-02-17T09:55:00.000-08:00

As I was leaving work and about to step onto the elevator last night, I went to rub my tired eyes. In rubbing my eyes I somehow managed to knock my glasses off my head. I made a grab to catch them but only bobbled them in my hands, causing both lenses to pop out in different directions. With a second swipe I managed to catch one of the lenses but the frames and the other lens fell straight into the crack between the elevator and the floor, down into the elevator shaft and down 27 floors to the ground. This happened as an Asian man waiting in the elevator looked on in bemused disbelief. He politely said "good luck" before the doors closed and he continued on his way.

Using my one lens as a monocle, I was able to find a maintenance worker who volunteered to go into the chamber at the bottom of the elevator shaft and look for the frames and other lens. He told me as he was entering the chamber that I couldn't tell anyone what he was doing because, technically, the elevators are supposed to be shut off before anyone enters the chamber because, otherwise, you might get squished by a descending elevator. I started to say, "Well it's not worth..." but he was already gone, bobbing and weaving around the descending elevators, scanning the ground with his flashlight and then peering up at the elevators to make sure none were about to squish him.

Amazingly, he found my frames still in tact but could not find my lens. He said it could have landed on a ledge on any of the 26 floors below and would likely never be recovered. Fortunately, I had my prescription sunglasses in my car which enabled me to drive home. I don't normally recommend driving in the dark wearing sunglasses but if you have to drive in the dark wearing sunglasses, LA is a good place to do it because there is a lot of ambient light and most people never take off their sunglasses anyway.

The point of this post is that you should always make sure that your glasses and other belongings are properly secured before you step onto an elevator. I wouldn't want anyone else to have to learn this lesson the hard way.

Favorite Beers

2009-11-11T13:55:00.000-08:00

Here's a list of the best beers I've had over the last few years in no particular order. I've included profiles of the beers from beeradvocate.com. Let me know which beers make your lists.

La Fin Du Monde: http://beeradvocate.com/beer/profile/22/34

Allagash Curieux: http://beeradvocate.com/beer/profile/4/16909

Allagash White: http://beeradvocate.com/beer/profile/4/59

Tripel Karmeliet: http://beeradvocate.com/beer/profile/202/656

Young's Double Chocolate Stout: http://beeradvocate.com/beer/profile/664/73.

Damnation: http://beeradvocate.com/beer/profile/863/12770

Delerium Tremens: http://beeradvocate.com/beer/profile/180/1385

Delerium Noel: http://beeradvocate.com/beer/profile/180/2347

Maudite: http://beeradvocate.com/beer/profile/22/33

Chimay Green

Out of all of these, I would have to say Allagash Curieux is probably my favorite.

By far the worst beer I have ever had is Budweiser Chelada: http://beeradvocate.com/beer/profile/29/37389. It tastes liked carbonated tomato vomit.

Why I'm Against The Death Penalty...

2009-10-05T18:13:00.000-07:00

http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2009/09/07/090907fa_fact_grann

For My Love On Her Birthday

2009-09-24T09:12:00.001-07:00

Yours is the laugh that makes me want to say silly things;
To sing your name with pleasant chords;
And kiss my hand while pretending it’s yours.
Yours is the smile that sets me at ease;
A hat for my heart that won’t let it freeze.

I wish I could shrink you and keep you with me;
Get hugs when I need them and scratches for free.
I wish that our snuggles would go on without end;
With no worries and flurries of things to attend.

I’m glad for your birthday we’re going away;
You love to travel and eat good soufflé.
Someday we’ll have time to go back to France;
Drink wine in Bordeaux while learning to dance.

Together we’ll sail down the Chesapeake Bay;
We’ll stop in St. Michaels and buy a cafe.
You’ll make the chili and bake funny cakes;
I’ll smoke the meats and cook all the steaks.
Then we’ll move on to London or maybe to Greece;
Or maybe to Sweden, Tahiti or Nice.

Wherever you want, I’m happy to go;
Whenever you’re leaving, I’ll be in tow.
I don’t need a job, a house or a car;
I don’t need my bongos or my guitar.

I just need your love, your lips and your thighs;
And maybe your hair, your hips and some pies.
I do need those cheeks that draw me so near;
The ones on your face (and the ones on your rear).

Gang Violence in LA

2009-09-22T16:14:00.000-07:00

http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/lanow/2009/09/massive-raid-in-glassell-park-snags-44-avenues-gang-members.html

Police arrested 44 "Avenues" gang members last night in a sweep of Glassell Park. Our neighborhood of Mt. Washington sits between Glassell Park, Highland Park and Eagle Rock, all turf of the Avenues gangs. I had heard about the Avenues in the past, but never having witnessed much gang violence in our area, I figured they were small time hoodlums. Apparently I was wrong. According to this article, the Avenues are serious drug dealers with connections to the Mexican mafia.

Now, even though we live two minutes away from the streets where these arrests were made, our neighborhood is one of the more peaceful and quiet areas you'll find within the city of Los Angeles. Mt. Washington is essentially a big hill that rises up from the valley where these other neighborhoods are located. It's one of the oldest neighborhoods in the city and it's managed to maintain a few nice open spaces for parks and trails. Moreover, the streets in Mt. Washginton are so steep and winding that there is no foot traffic from the lower area. Because of the views and the relative exclusivity, the houses get nicer the further up the hill you go. The houses on the very top of Mt. Washington are absolutely stunning, with panoramic views of downtown, Hollywood, and the snow-capped mountains to the north. Strange though, that if you look directly down from these multi-million dollar homes, you'll see neighborhoods controlled by Mexican drug dealers. It's a typical example of life in Los Angeles, where the rich people literally live above the poor folks, only a few blocks away.

Reflections on The Shore

2009-09-18T15:47:00.000-07:00

Part 1

Talbot County features three, picturesque Colonial towns on the Eastern Shore of Maryland—Easton, St. Michaels and Oxford. The area was founded in the 17th Century by a mixture of Quaker, Catholic and Protestant settlers from England, who farmed tobacco and other crops with the help of their African slaves. The towns, all accessible by water, served as ports where the farmers could buy and sell goods with traders from London, Virginia, St. Mary’s City and Annapolis.

Later, the locals took to harvesting the bounties of the Chesapeake Bay, with oysters being the exportable cash crop. It was brutal work, especially in the winter, but there was money in oysters and no one ever had to worry about going hungry with the abundance of wildlife on the Shore. In the warm months, the Bay was full of crabs and striped bass. In the colder months, there were oysters, ducks, and skies full of Canada geese. And in leaner times, there were always deer, rabbits and squirrels, not to mention raccoons, brown bears, muskrats and opossums.

Until the 1950’s when the Chesapeake Bay Bridge was built, few people from other areas had ever visited the Shore, despite its relative proximity to places like Washington, DC and Philadelphia, PA. Moreover, few of the people who were born on the Shore had ever left it. To the “foreigners” from the “Western Shore” there was no reason to visit what they perceived to be a flat, inaccessible swath of farmland. To the people of the Shore, who lived quite, pastoral lives in harmony with the seasons, there was simply no reason to leave.

Thus, for generations the Shore was populated by the hardworking, sometimes rough and tumble, descendents of a few founding families and their slaves. Due to the lack of influence from other areas, the people of the Shore retained the accent they inherited from the first English settlers.

“House” is pronounced “houes.” “Water” is “wuter.” “Wash” is “warsh.”

“You ol’ sum’bitch, go in’arr houes an’ warsh up fer supper.”

Although to outsiders the accent can make the locals sound like cretins, once you get used to it, you realize that the people of the Shore have an unusual talent for speech. There’s an inherent rhythm and humor to the dialect.

Asked about the difference between oysters and clams, an old waterman once said: “An arster makes a clam taste common.”

Once the Bay Bridge was built, however, affluent families began trickling over to the Shore, purchasing up old plantation homes and large waterfront lots to pursue quite lives of leisure, with sailing, hunting and fishing being the main recreational activities. These folks built a few private schools and then tended to themselves at the local yacht club. In the summertime you’ll find these people and their yuppie children “preserving the sailing heritage of the Bay” by racing historic Chesapeake Bay log canoes while getting plastered on rum drinks.

In the last 20 to 30 years, as Talbot County has gained notoriety as a tourist destination, and the DC, Baltimore, Annapolis metropolitan area has expanded east, more wealthy retirees and upper middle class commuters have moved to the Shore, causing property values, especially for waterfront homes, to rise dramatically.
Sadly, this migration of people has coincided with a dwindling commercial fishing industry. Due to overfishing and pollution in the Bay, it is simply no longer profitable to be full-time watermen. As a result, many of the locals have sold their homes to “foreigners” and moved on to other things.

And, so, the old way of life of the watermen, which had been preserved without much influence for hundreds of years, is now disappearing. Visiting the Shore today, you’d be luck to hear a “warsh” or an “arster,” let alone eat seafood that’s actually from the Chesapeake Bay.

Growing up on the Shore in the 1980’s and 90’s, there was an open hostility between developers and the locals who didn’t want the Shore to change. I understood both sides. I didn’t want to see ugly box stores or chain restaurants outside of our Colonial towns. I didn’t want Walmart to put the local shops out of business. But, at the same time, it felt un-American to prevent progress just so certain people could keep things the way they liked it.

While this tension between progress and preserving the older culture has been the backdrop for life on the shore for decades now, there was one particular moment when, for many people, the Shore lost its innocence.

That moment occurred on February 19, 1996.

Part 2

Like me, Michael Fisher was a 16 year-old junior in high school. Unlike me, Michael attended the public school in Easton, where his mother was a well-liked science teacher. His stepfather was also a teacher at a nearby elementary school. Although his stepfather was more than ten years younger than his mother, the family was highly regarded in the community. They went to church together, vacationed together, and generally seemed happy.

Michael was a quiet, honor roll student who enjoyed chess and worked after school at the local Pizza Hut. He was also the editor of Easton’s High’s student magazine, Voices.

At 4:00 a.m. on February 19, 1996, the Easton Sherriff’s Office got a call from Michael Fisher, who reported a “problem” with his family. When the police arrived at the Fisher house, they found three dead bodies. Michael’s parents were found in their bed with “massive wounds to their heads.” Michael’s 14 year-old brother, David, was found on his bedroom floor with numerous stab wounds, including a “gaping hole in his throat.” Michael’s youngest brother had not been harmed.

Michael confessed quickly to the police. He told them that he had woken up in the middle of the night and just “sort of snapped.” He said he remembered standing in his parents’ room for about four minutes with a hammer and knife in his hands. He then bludgeoned his parents to death with the claw end of the hammer.

“I knew it was going to happen,” he told the police. “I tried to stop, but it was like it already happened.”

He then woke up his brother and, after struggling to regain control of himself, cut the boy’s throat. Michael said that he had tried to distract the boy by telling him look out the window.

When the story broke that morning, everyone, including the police, was at a loss to describe what had happened. The police admitted that they were baffled by the act and that there seemed to be no motive.

People in the community continued to support Michael, saying that he was a good student and a churchgoer. Many people refused to accept that Michael had committed the murders. Others, including myself, believed that Michael had had a schizophrenic episode.

We soon found out that Michael’s real dad was a schizophrenic who had been hospitalized in Pennsylvania, and that Michael’s mom had been open in expressing her fears that Michael would inherit his father's disease.

It seemed clear that Michael would plead insanity, be diagnosed as a schizophrenic, and then sent to a psychiatric institution.

But none of that happened.

After a few weeks, the local paper began reporting “rampant rumors” of Satansim as an element in the killings. We learned that in addition to chess, Michael enjoyed fantasy games like Magic and Dungeons and Dragons, which he often played with the stepfather. We also learned that Michael wanted to listen to music that his parents “did not approve of.”

And then there was the short story that Michael had published in Voices called “Last Days of Life.” The local paper published a haunting passage from the story: “Tomorrow will surely be our last day. I say this because I’m confident that the overwhelming number of demons outside the stronghold will no doubt break through . . . . Then we shall perish.”

The strangest rumor was that Michael and some of his Goth friends were dressing up in black clothes, painting black X’s over their eyes, and congregating at what was referred to by teenagers as the “Hanging Tree.” The Hanging Tree was literally an old tree that stood next to a winding country road outside of Easton. People claimed that slaves had been hung from a low branch that protruded from the tree, or something to that effect.

I first heard about the “X people” from a girl who lived near the Hanging Tree. She claimed that one night she and a friend were driving home when she saw someone standing in the middle of the road. As she approached, the person failed to get out of the way. She was forced to stop the car, and when she did, the person climbed onto her hood and stared at her with crossed-out eyes. Then of a number of other people appeared from the side of the road. They surrounded her car and began shaking it. She said that she floored the car, knocking several of them over, and drove home as fast as she could.

This story was repeated over and over in our high school. We had suspicions about who these X people were, if they actually existed. They were just a few “dorks” who didn’t fit in with everyone else and had decided to scare the shit out of some preppy kids.

But the rumors became much more sinister after Michael Fisher. Parents and teachers wanted to know about students who practiced Satanism and listened to Goth music. Most of Michael’s friends kept quiet about everything, and for good reason—they hadn’t done anything sinister. The friends who spoke publically about him just said that he was a nice guy who liked science fiction and fantasy games.

Michael was assigned public defenders who initially stated that Michael would plead insanity. When it came time to enter a plea, however, Michael pleaded guilty to “reduced” charges of second degree murder. He received a sentence of 90 years, 30 for each murder. His attorneys later noted that while they believe Michael suffers from serious mental illness, they “did not want him to undergo a trial.” Apparently, they found it significant that they couldn’t point to a “trigger event” that would have brought out such a severe schizophrenic episode.

No one could understand their reasoning. Michael clearly seemed schizophrenic. Moreover, he was already precluded from getting the death penalty because he was minor, so why not roll the dice and plead insanity? Was the chance for parol at the age of 62 really worth bargaining for?

After the sentencing, the lack of answers was frustrating. Most people came away feeling like Michael was a victim of the system—a strange response from a conservative community that had been without a homicide since the previous decade. In fact, it was reported that locals were sending Michael clothes, food and books at the prison after the sentencing.

To this day, it seems so strange that such a thing could have happened in Easton that I sometimes wonder if it was real.

It’s even stranger to think that Michael Fisher is now thirty years-old, sitting in a jail cell in Jessup, MD.

I wonder if he feels remorse for the murders or if his mind has been lost ever since that evening in 1996.

I wonder if he knows that he shattered an illusion of innocence for a whole community.

Basketball as Antidepressant

2009-08-31T15:51:00.000-07:00

http://myespn.go.com/blogs/truehoop/0-43-98/Basketball-as-Antidepressant.html

According to this short Truehoop post, shooting hoops is good way to deal with depression. That's obvious enough to me. While I've never been clinically depressed, I know that my weekly hoops game helps me tremendously in dealing with the stress and fatigue of work. I certainly agree with all of the factors listed in the article regarding why basketball is good for the brain, i.e., the mental health benefits of exercise, sunlight, and being part of a team.

The one factor that I think Mr. Ilardi left out is that playing basketball just feels really good. At least for me, it is mentally and physically gratifying to play hoops. When I make a positive play, such as making a basket or blocking a shot, it's gratifying when it happens, and I continue to think about it in a positive way after I'm done playing. When I have a day when everything is clicking and I play my best, it makes me feel incredibly good and I use it as sort of a touchstone to pull myself out of a funk.

For example, earlier today I was feeling stressed about work and then I remembered how I dominated my brother John in two one-on-one games last weekend in Florida. Sure, John hadn't played since Easter and I had played only two days prior, and, sure, I'm four inches taller than John, and, yes, John has spent the last year doing nothing but working in a kitchen and rearing a toddler, but damn did I beat him thoroughly. I had the trademark flip shots working, along with the baby hook from the left block, and even the three point stroke was in effect. As John struggled with the Florida heat and the extra spring in the rims, I backed him down and crossed him up. "I think there's too much air in this ball," he said. "You're lucky I have bronchitis," he said. True, he did have bronchitis. Still, no one would ever question the impressiveness of my domination. I controlled the paint on offense and defense, hit trifectas from the great beyond, and then rained in deuces from mid-range just to show the completeness of my game. It was a display for the ages and one that John will certainly never forget.

So I encourage everyone to go out and play hoops when you are feeling down. It will make you feel great inside and out, unless, of course, you are my brother John and you have to play against me.

Really?

2009-08-17T18:43:00.001-07:00

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/32450588/ns/business-personal_finance/

Diary of Alberto Honore Santa Maria, Sr

2009-08-10T10:19:00.000-07:00

One of my second cousins just posted the wartime diary of my great grandfather, Alberto ("Santy") Santa Maria, online. Santy was a fighter pilot in World War I. His life in France during the war consisted of daily patrols and other missions during which his plane was regularly shot up by the enemy. The vast majority of the other pilots in his squadron were either killed or seriously injured after either being shot down or from crashing due to engine failure. Remarkably, Santy made it out of the war uninjured. And he got to play a lot of baseball during his downtime.

http://home.comcast.net/~chrissm01/site/?/page/Santy%27s_Diary_/

Family Life

2009-07-29T00:16:00.000-07:00

“Jesus Christ Hal, another one?” My aunt Sandra chortled out from the kitchen. She was tired of stepping on all these fucking toad turds. Unlike ordinary amphibian excrement—generally 2 inch segments of brown silly string piled neatly—toad turds boasted in their magnitude. It was not uncommon for a seasoned toader to shit out a full two-thirds of his internals. This time Sandra was especially piqued as she toed straight through the acrid jelly; well, that and she had also decorated the house to be perfect for James’ arrival.

My uncle Hal had promised her that he would speak with the neighbors last week. The proposal had sunk into his head each night for too long. Sandra was not inconspicuous with her dislike for the random piles accumulating throughout the house. She wouldn’t pee in her own toilet for nearly a year when a midnight bit of business landed right on top of what would have otherwise been an unusually considerate toad.

Ironically, whenever Hal started his heroic bounce next door, Sandra would distract him with other chores.

Pond Scum 2

2009-07-24T15:07:00.000-07:00

He was born in the marsh under the open sky as has become a sort of tradition for us Legers. Don't ask me how or when it started, but people around here all say that the first thing a Leger hears when he drops out into this world is the sound of croaking toads. And it's true. It must be like waking up to a dog licking your face from all angles, except you don't know what a dog is or why it's there. You get used to it pretty quick though and soon you don't even hear it unless you're listening for it.

Anyway, James was born in the marsh under rain clouds and amidst a heavy fog. When he came out it was so dark that nobody noticed his extra leg. He got all wrapped up pretty quick and taken inside to eat and sleep with his mother. It wasn't until the next morning that we found out about the leg.

pond scum

2009-07-23T00:24:00.001-07:00

I verge on intractable when I write, but this moment must be documented. I will try to keep my extraneous thoughts at minimum. An incorrigible element to the day’s progress stood as a fixture mocking me. Angst and incrimination were as heavy in the room as my eyelids. A mélange of miniature singing toads harmonized the sunset as it drew near. But a painful gasp in my recollection jettisoned their stoic display of piety and joy.

Look at me dance. I am a portentous mammal swimming about the whim of melancholy tides. My kin are near but without swollen gullet. I should not eviscerate the calm their presence shunts over our pond with, but I must tell you about a disturbing event involving my three legged cousin James. At first most are inclined to avoid considering such a preposterous affair solely due to a lack of belief. Not regarding James, who I assure is much too potent to disregard, but rather due to the enormity of the story’s unnerving palpability.

The quagmire we call ours is more the Thompsons than our own by propinquity’s sake, but we are truly the caretakers of the marsh and thus feel obliged to defend its perimeter from assault. A feat that we have managed without disturbance for two or three generations, at least until James’ disfortuitous encounter (with the pond dweller).

James had always been my favorite cousin. He was …

Photo Magic

2009-07-09T21:24:00.001-07:00

There is a story behind this piece of photo art, but not an interesting one. Jason was taking suggestions for creative photos of himself for his department website or something.

Thoughts on the Law

2009-05-27T17:42:00.000-07:00

Yesterday afternoon I skimmed the California Supreme Court’s opinion in Strauss, et al. v. Horton, et al., in which the Court held that Proposition 8 constitutes a permissible change to the California Constitution. Prop 8 was a ballot initiative that was approved by CA voters last November. It defined marriage as between a man and a woman, thus making gay marriage illegal. The main issue before the Court in Strauss was whether Prop 8 was a permissible amendment to the state Constitution or whether it was an impermissible revision of the Constitution, such that it could be accomplished only through legislative action. California law allows for the amendment of the state Constitution through ballot measures but requires legislative action for a wholesale revision of the Constitution.

Although the Court entertained various side issues and arguments, the lengthy majority opinion ultimately boils down to two points: (1) the Court’s determination that Californians had long ago agreed upon a very liberal process for amending the state Constitution through ballot initiatives; and (2) the Court’s determination that Prop 8 is not a wholesale revision of the equal protection clause of the Constitution, but rather, carves out a narrow and limited exception to those rights. As a secondary issue, the Court held that Prop 8 does not apply retroactively, meaning all of the gay marriages that took place in CA before the measure was adopted remain valid.

What is most striking about the decision is the almost apologetic tone of the majority opinion. Justice George framed the issue thusly:

First, as explained in the Marriage Cases, supra, 43 Cal.4th at page 780, our task in the present proceeding is not to determine whether the provision at issue is wise or sound as a matter of policy or whether we, as individuals, believe it should be a part of the California Constitution. Regardless of our views as individuals on this question of policy, we recognize as judges and as a court our responsibility to confine our consideration to a determination of the constitutional validity and legal effect of the measure in question. It bears emphasis in this regard that our role is limited to interpreting and applying the principles and rules embodied in the California Constitution, setting aside our own personal beliefs and values.

In other words, we don’t agree with Prop 8, but our personal opinions can’t get in the way of our task of impartially interpreting and applying the law. That sentiment won’t pacify gay rights advocates, but it sounds fair enough, right? We don’t want our judges deciding cases based on personal biases or political preferences.

But is it really possible for judges to interpret the law impartially? What is it that we even mean when we say that judges should be impartial?

I suppose we mean that we want our judges to “follow the law” and not decide cases based on their own beliefs. Of course, we know that deciding a case is rarely as simple as following the law. For that to be true, there would have to be an applicable law or legal authority for every situation that a judge could conceivably come across, no ambiguities in the applicable law, and no conflicting or competing authorities that could apply equally in a given case.

As you can see from Strauss, the reality is that appellate judges must determine what the law dictates in situations where the governing legal authority is contested between the litigants.

So then, how should judges “apply the law” when presented with a new or disputed question of law?

In Strauss, the Court peered back in time so to speak and considered what Californians intended when they created a Constitution that could be amended by a simple majority vote on a ballot measure. This approach of determining constitutional issues by looking at what the drafters/framers intended is known as Originalism, and is currently espoused by Justice Thomas of the U.S. Supreme Court. Originalists believe that the Constitution has a fixed meaning that was determined at the time it was drafted. Similarly, textualists, like Justice Scalia, believe that the interpretation of a written constitution or law should be based on what reasonable persons living at the time of its adoption would have declared the ordinary meaning of the text to be.

There are both practical and philosophical problems with the Originalist/Textualist approach.

One practical problem is that what the drafters intended at the time they created the constitution is not always known, and so judges are apt to speculate about what they might well have intended, often by reference to the language of the constitution or law. Circular, I know.

A second problem is that the intentions of the drafters of a constitution may not be uniform. For example, the right of freedom of speech, as guaranteed by the First Amendment, meant one thing to Thomas Jefferson and something else to John Adams. (I know this from watching the HBO miniseries on John Adams.) Indeed, our Constitution was a compromise between various people of greatly differing political opinions. How then can judges be expected to look to the framers' intentions to resolve questions of constitutional law?

An even more significant problem is the issue of why we should hold the framers’ intentions above our own moral judgment. The framers lived hundreds of years ago, had different values than we do, and faced different issues than we do. So why should we look to them to determine what our laws should be today?

Cynical legal realists will argue that Originalism and Textualism are merely methods by which conservative judges are able to justify the decisions they want to reach. This makes sense to me. If you are looking for a way to keep the world from changing, align yourself with a theory of judicial interpretation that is bootstrapped to the perceived intentions of people who lived in the 18th century.

In fairness, cynical legal realists will argue that all judicial interpretation is a process by which judges attempt find ways to justify the decisions they want to reach.

That’s not to say that cases are decided arbitrarily by judges without regard to precedent, or that judges are always able to reach decisions that comport with their personal preferences. Judges cannot simply ignore precedent. If an “activist judge” were to start deciding cases based on nothing more than a personal agenda, and without regard for precedent, the judge would be overruled, scrutinized by his peers, slammed in law review articles, and ultimately removed from the bench. So then what is it that judges do? They walk a fine line between ruling in a way that is consistent with their moral conscience and creating a plausibly valid legal opinion given the legal precedent.

I find nothing offensive about the inherent tension in the law between deference to precedent and the moral conscience of judges. If our judicial system did not require that deference be given to precedent, the law would, of course, be inconsistent to the point of being incoherent, and would at times be radically at odds with the prevailing values of society. On the other hand, judges can rarely just "follow precedent" and often have to decide cases based on their own notions of fairness. The statement that judges should never "make law" reflects both ignorance of how legal decisions are reached and a preference for some nonsensical theory of judicial interpretation. Do we really think judges should be deciding cases by divining the dictates of natural law? How does that work exactly? Or perhaps judges should be trying to ascertain the intentions of people who lived hundreds of years ago and, oh by the way, owned slaves. That’s just silliness.

So, maybe instead of saying that we want judges who are impartial—because we know that that’s an absurd idea—we should say that we want judges who are without prejudice, who are honest, who are intelligent, and who are wise.

With all that in mind, it was interesting to read President Obama’s remarks about Judge Sotomayor and the role of the judiciary yesterday morning. He said:

While there are many qualities that I admire in judges across the spectrum of judicial philosophy, and that I seek in my own nominee, there are few that stand out that I just want to mention.

First and foremost is a rigorous intellect -- a mastery of the law, an ability to hone in on the key issues and provide clear answers to complex legal questions. Second is a recognition of the limits of the judicial role, an understanding that a judge's job is to interpret, not make, law; to approach decisions without any particular ideology or agenda, but rather a commitment to impartial justice; a respect for precedent and a determination to faithfully apply the law to the facts at hand.

These two qualities are essential, I believe, for anyone who would sit on our nation's highest court. And yet, these qualities alone are insufficient. We need something more. For as Supreme Court Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes once said, "The life of the law has not been logic; it has been experience." Experience being tested by obstacles and barriers, by hardship and misfortune; experience insisting, persisting, and ultimately overcoming those barriers. It is experience that can give a person a common touch and a sense of compassion; an understanding of how the world works and how ordinary people live. And that is why it is a necessary ingredient in the kind of justice we need on the Supreme Court.

Obama makes a tenuous but clever distinction between judges who bring an ideology to the bench and judges who bring a certain experience to the bench. What's the difference? The difference is that "ideology" is a conservative buzz word for "judicial activism." Clearly, Obama's second point about valuing judges who have "a commitment to impartial justice" is merely his way placating conservatives. He's a smart lawyer and a smart politician. He knows that, whether we like it or not, judges make law. The law is, as cynical legal realists say, whatever judges say it is.

Nate's Wedding

2009-05-18T08:18:00.001-07:00

Nate's wedding was awesome. I'll post some pictures and stories when I get a chance.

Update: There is apparently a CD of the music from the wedding floating around. I will try to see how people can get this CD if they want it.

On My Defeat to Meat

2009-05-04T17:47:00.001-07:00

When it comes to food, I have the self-discipline of a hungry labrador. If you've ever owned a lab, you know that whether or not it's hungry, it'll gobble up everything you put in front of it. No matter how much food you put in its bowl, it will eat all of it. It could be as fat as a tick with legs that no longer touch the ground and still it will wiggle its way over to the dinner table and beg for scraps, eyes bulging out of its head and all. Labs, unlike smarter, more self-respecting breeds (like German Sheppards, for example), will even over-eat to the point of vomiting, if allowed.

Not many people have ever over-eaten to the point of vomiting. I'm embarrassed to admit that I've done it...twice.

So, considering my lack of self-discipline, it might have been a bit naive of me to think that I could go a month without eating meat. And, in fact, it was naive. My self-inflicted exile into vegetarianism came to an end this past weekend when I ate a delicious plate of halibut at Cafe Beaujolais on Friday night and then a slab of ribs on Sunday afternoon. I fell two weeks shy of my goal of making it one month without eating meat.

Why was I unable to meet my goal? Two things messed me up. First, in the middle of last week, I accidentally ate a chorizo-filled, deep-fried squash blossom. I guess technically I didn't accidentally eat it. I intentionally ate it not knowing that it was filled with chorizo. Anyway, I'd like to say that I spit it out and threw away the second bite, but it was freaking delicious so I ate it. After this happened, I kind of felt like I had failed in my quest and that I should just give up. But what really put me over the top was when Priya told me on Friday afternoon that she had eaten chicken for lunch and that she was done with the vegetarian diet. That was all the excuse I needed to quit.

What did I learn from my 2.5 weeks of vegetarianism? A few things, actually.

1. Cucumber sandwiches are a delicious alternative to meat sandwiches. All you need is sliced cucumber, mayonnaise (or cream cheese) and some salt and pepper. If you want to add some other fancy seasonings or a sprig of mint and/or basil, all the better. These are especially good on hot days with cold cucumbers. They taste like summertime. While I'm on sandwiches, let me add that peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are the most underrated sandwiches in all of the sandwich kingdom. I used to eat them all the time as a kid but have only occassionaly eaten them as an adult. Turns out, they are still just as delicious.

2. Tofu is difficult to make taste good. I tried cooking it twice and it didn't come out right either time. I just don't know what the hell to do with it. Priya will tell you that it was fine, but it definitely was not fine. I saw a guy cook it on TV the other day by wrapping it in proscuitto and grilling it. That kind of defeats the purpose, doesn't it?

3. Going vegetarian will not cause you to lose weight if you replace your portions of meat with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

4. When J-Bird said that eating a steak after not eating meat for a week made him feel high, it was because he was actually high at the time and not because of the steak. Or perhaps he was eating a steak made out of marijuana. I don't know. But I felt exactly the same going from meat-eating to vegetarian, and then switching back to meat. I mean, I felt exactly the same. This leads me to believe one of two things about people who claim that going vegetarian makes them feel ill or tired or whatever they say: (1) these people went from eating meat, which has some nutritional value, to eating nothing but potato chips and ice cream, or (2) they're lying and just want an excuse that justifies why they couldn't cut it as a vegetarian.

5. When in doubt over what vegetarian food to get, go Indian. Indians are, after all, a mostly vegetarian people, so they know how to do it right.

So that's it. I hope that I can use this experience to forge a healthier, less meat intensive diet going forward. That will officially complete my transformation into an effette, Prius-driving, interracially married, Los Angeles liberal pigdog. Oh how you all will feel so morally and culturally inferior when that day comes.

Baby Shaker

2009-04-22T21:32:00.001-07:00

http://tech.yahoo.com/news/macworld/20090423/tc_macworld/babyshakerappapprovedthenremoved_1

Did anyone else see this article about an IPhone app that was recently scratched by Apple after some public outcry over it being in incredibly poor taste? Here's the description of the app from the article:

"Developed by Sikalosoft, Baby Shaker features a crude drawing of a baby, and the object of the game is to stop the baby from crying by shaking the iPhone until red X's appear over the baby's eyes. The description of Baby Shaker read: 'On a plane, on the bus, in a theater. Babies are everywhere you don’t want them to be! They’re always distracting you from preparing for that big presentation at work with their incessant crying. Before Baby Shaker there was nothing you could do about it.'"

I know the Hartattack Kid is laughing somewhere in Vermont because he hates babies and is the sort of person who would find this amusing. I don't, but he does. He also doesn't like dogs. What a cold-hearted SOB!

Our Trip Back East

2009-04-19T19:09:00.000-07:00

Priya and I recently visited Maryland and North Carolina. We started our trip in Maryland where we spent a couple days on the Eastern Shore with Nan and Uncle Joe. While we were there, we went on several long drives out into the countryside. Here are some photos of the Eastern Shore in its current state of being.

These next two photos are of Wye Island. Wye Island is a "Natural Resource Management Area," whatever that means. My poking around on the internet revealed this synopsis concerning the history of Wye Island:

"For over 300 years, Wye Island was privately owned and managed for agricultural use, including tobacco and wheat farming. Two of the most noteworthy owners were William Paca [interesting sidebar, Priya and I were married at the William Paca House in Annapolis] and Charles Beale Bordley. Mr. Paca, third governor of Maryland and one of the signatories of the Declaration of Independence, owned half of the island north of Dividing Creek. Mr. Bordley was a distinguished lawyer and jurist who owned half of the island south of Dividing Creek. In the 1770's Mr. Bordley gave up his law career to devote his life to farming and make Wye Island totally self-sufficient. Under Mr. Bordley's control, the island prospered with its own vineyards, orchards, textile production, brick yard, and even its own brewery.

Eventually the island was sold off into at least 13 separate farms. The most influential owners were Glenn and Jacqueline Stewart. Ultimately they owned eight of the thirteen farms and turned Wye Island into a cattle ranch. The Stewart's built the hunting lodge (Duck House), which remains today on Granary Creek. In the mid 1970's the encroaching threat of residential development forced the State of Maryland to purchase the island to ensure its preservation."

Priya likes Mr. Bordley's definition of "self-sufficient," which is broad enough to include vineyards and a brewery. Having tasted wines made on the Eastern Shore, I understand why the vineyards didn't stick. While we were in Annapolis during our trip, we bought a bottle of "Gollywobbler Red," which is red wine produced by St. Michaels Winery. To our dismay, the wine tasted like Concord grape juice, which would have been fine if we were shopping for something to serve to children to make them go to sleep. Priya and I resolved that it should be called "Alcoholic Grape Juice. Great for Mixing!" and then we would have known not to buy it. Later, we examined the label more closely and found that it read: "This fun, fruit-forward wine is made with a combination of Concord grapes and a splash of Cabernet Sauvignon. A great picnic red with hints of lime and lemon. Drink it well chilled over crushed ice, or as a spritzer or martini." There you go. Always read the fine print.

If you want to visit Wye Island, the official website recommends that you bring bug spray.

In North Carolina we visited John, Kristen and Baby Rosie, and were joined by Mom and Dad, Jason and Marina, and Marc and Deanna. Here are some photos from that part of the trip.

Victory!

Don't worry Rosie, you're not related to him.

Rosie likes keeping her shoes on her hands. I don't know why but it's cute.

Don't let the pose fool you. He's neither strong nor muscular.

Why the grimace, Mr. Sandman?

Breaking Hollywood Insider News

2009-04-16T08:47:00.001-07:00

I learned some interesting news yesterday that may be of interest to those of you who know my good friend Bronas Van Flugen Helsen (you may also know him by his professional names...The Riverboat King and Carl Hungus). Bronasty told me yesterday that he will be a "recurring character" on a reality TV show that has been picked up by the G4 channel. He will be filming in Vegas next month. I think the show is going to follow a bunch of professional gamblers who live in Vegas and try to act like the guys from Entourage. The producers actually wanted Jonuts to be a primary character on the show--a more svelte Turtle perhaps?--but he refused. He apparently values dignity more than I do. I told him that he needs to become one of those people who makes a career out of being on reality TV shows. Like maybe he could parlay this show into an appearance on I Love New York. (In case you have no idea what I'm talking about: http://www.vh1.com/video/browse/index.jhtml?id=2004.) I really think he can pull off a career in reality TV. And I would watch every minute of it.

Follow the Riverboat King's blog and maybe he'll post official details about it. I'll be sure to advise you of the airing of this show before it happens.

I'm Going Vegetarian

2009-04-15T14:19:00.000-07:00

I'm going to see if I can go vegetarian for a month. Why? Mostly to see if I can do it. I also feel like I eat way way too much meat and not enough vegetables. I want to see how I feel after a month of not eating meat. Who knows, maybe I'll feel great and decide to keep it going. Anyway, one month from today will be my brother Nate's rehearsal dinner. I'm not going to eat meat until then. Who thinks I can make it? (Priya, sorry for not discussing this with you first. I will still cook meat for you if you decide to not go with me on this journey.)

Weirdest Foods I've Eaten

2009-03-30T17:09:00.000-07:00

Marc's comment on my last post made me think back about the weirdest foods I've ever eaten. Being a habitual compiler of lists, here's a list of the 5 weirdest "foods" I've ever eaten:

1. Deer heart. I had deer heart many years ago on the Eastern Shore of Virginia. We were visiting one of my dad's friends who had just shot a deer. The heart was served as an appetizer before dinner. I don't remember how it was cooked but it was delicious, albeit incredibly rich. It's something that should be eaten like pate, i.e., served on crackers or perhaps on a salad. It's simply too rich to be eaten by itself as a main course. Definitely good though if you can get over the dark purple color and aren't opposed to chewing on the occasional ventricle.

2. Squirrel. Yes, I've eaten squirrel. One day while my parents were out and about, my brother John shot a squirrel in our backyard with his 22. We were probably 13 or 14 at the time. Anyway, John decided that we needed to skin the squirrel and cook it for dinner. Skinning the squirrel involved me holding the squirrel's head while John tried to rip the skin off with his bare hands. This ended up being a traumatic experience because when John yanked on the squirrel, I lost my grip on the squirrel's head, and the squirrel's teeth caught hold of my palm and shredded my hand. I was bleeding everywhere, as was the squirrel. John assured me that the squirrel wasn't rabid. Apparently it hadn't tried to attack him before he shot it. In any event, this didn't deter John from skinning the squirrel and putting it into a bowl in the fridge with some sort of Asian-inspired marinade.

If I recall correctly, the squirrel marinated in the fridge for a day or so without anyone noticing. It was finally noticed by my grandmother who screamed in fright. "Oh, Nan, don't worry. It's not a rat. It's just a squirrel. A squirrel that John killed and which he plans on eating."

John cooked the squirrel in a skillet on the stove top. It was greasy and disgusting.

I don't think I ever told my mom the truth about what happened to my hand because I knew she'd make me get a rabies shot.

Surprisingly, John went on to be a great chef.

3. Rabbit. This probably isn't too weird for a lot of people, especially if you're from Western Europe where rabbit is eaten commonly. But you don't see it often in the US and many people are openly hostile to the idea of eating such a cute thing. That's a shame because it's delicious. It's also extremely nutritious and lower in fat than chicken, turkey, beef or pork.

4. Fois Gras. Fois gras is also not that weird, but most people have never had it because it's extremely expensive and/or because they've heard about how frois gras is made/farmed and are morally opposed. I am actually one of those people who is morally opposed to frois gras, but I tried it once anyway because I lack moral fiber and just had to try it. So for all of you who want to try it but probably never will, here's what it tastes like: imagine making a pate that is equal parts liverwurst and butter. If you're into that sort of thing, you'll love frois gras.

5. Alligator. Had it in Florida. It was dry and bland. But it made me wonder, has anyone ever tried farming alligators for meat? That would be a dangerous venture. Definitely want to keep your small dogs in the house if you live on that farm.

That reminds me of a story. Several years ago, Nate and I were hanging out at the house one of Nate's co-workers outside of Sarasota, FL. I think the guy's name was Buddy although Nate called him Boutros (like Boutros Boutros Ghali). Anyway, Buddy lived inland and had a big pond in his backyard. Apparently the pond was full of large gators. Buddy told us about the huge gators as we sat on the little dock at the side of the pond late one evening. He told us about one occasion when his sons were fishing from the dock and a big gator jumped up out of the water at them following their bait. It lunged all the way onto the dock and almost grabbed one of the boys. The other boy ran and grabbed a golf club and then went back and bashed the gator in the head a few times. The gator apparently retreated back into the pond. This was a scary story to be hearing late at night with things splashing around in the water nearby, particularly since we were all high on mushrooms and Nate was crying for no apparent reason. Just kidding.

Anyway, would you ever let your children out of the house if you had a gator infested pond in your backyard? Me neither. But then I would never give my 14 year-old sons free access to riffles and shotguns so that they could go out into the yard and slaughter road kill for dinner at their leisure.

6. Okay, I know I said five things but this is a bonus item because I just thought of it. There were rows of big maple trees that ran along both sides of a road that bordered our property in Maryland. John and I used to climb at least 50 feet up into one of those trees and would literally spend hours up there. One time I was up there by myself and I noticed that one of the branches had a hole in it that was leaking sap. I touched the sap with my finger and noticed that it was really watery and kind of smelled like maple syrup. I immediately wondered if it tasted like maple syrup. Instead of tasting the little bit of sap that was on my finger, I put my mouth to the tree and sucked as hard as I could. I was instantly gagging on a mouthful of sap and all sorts of bugs and dirt. I climbed down the tree and never told anyone about it.

It feels good to finally get that off my chest.

I would be interested to hear about the weirdest things other people have eaten. Marc and Hartsong, nothing perverted please.

Restaurant Review #1

2009-03-28T16:01:00.000-07:00

I've decided to write some brief reviews of a few restaurants near our home in Mt. Washington. Why? I'm hoping that someone from a newspaper or a food website will read the blog and offer me a full-time job as a restaurant critic. Then, once I become well known and respected, I'll become a judge on Iron Chef America where I'll get paid big bucks to eat delicious food on TV and say things like, "I enjoy the textures and flavors in this dish, although I wonder how much the sea bass is really starring here. I feel like the risotto would be just as delicious without the sea bass." Could happen, right? Anyway, here goes.

The York

The York is a hip Gastro-Pub located on York Boulevard in Highland Park. This is one of our go-to restaurants, meaning we go there when we're hungry and don't want to take a chance on getting crappy food. Our favorite offerings from the black chalkboard menu are the shrimp bruschetta, the corn chowder, the fish and chips, the cheeseburger and fries, and the pulled pork cuban sandwich.

The cuban sandwich is particularly tasty. Imagine a good cuban sandwich in your mind's eye. The outside of the french bread is still hot and slightly greasy from the press, while the inside of the bread is soft and warm. With this sandwich you taste the pulled pork first. It's tender, thinly shredded, and slightly salty. It plays nicely with the thin slices of sweet ham and melted white cheese. The sandwich is also well complimented by a side serving of pickled slaw.

After a couple of big bites you've eaten half the sandwich. Now you're looking at the second half wondering if you should order another. You grab some fries from Priya's plate because you know you'll look like a pig if you order another sandwich. Mmm, the fries are good. Hot and well seasoned. A couple sips from your fine Beligian-style beer -- this time it's an Allagash White -- and you're wondering if you've ever had a better sandwich or a better beer or better fries. Perhaps, but the pork is causing delerium. Pork delerium hightened by fine Beligian-style beer. Now the room is spinning in pleasant harmony with your little food dance. It's really just a sway, that's all it is. A sway, back and forth, in your chair. You don't realize that you're doing it until Priya says, "What are you doing?" And then bartender gives you a funny look as if to say, "This bar is really meant for cool people, but it's okay, you look like you're having a good time." And you are. A great time, in fact.

So I recommend the York highly. Just try to get there early to avoid the dense hipster crowds.

Here is the link: http://www.theyorkonyork.com/

Marc has a blog

2009-03-16T08:26:00.001-07:00

About gardening...

Check it out: http://www.growouterbanks.blogspot.com/

New Blog Post

2009-03-01T16:00:00.000-08:00

So I've completely neglected ATGR in 2009. It's been that dreaded combination of work, laziness and lack of inspiration. Although I really haven't had much to write about. The one noteworthy item is that we almost bought a new house in January. We put an offer on a place in our neighborhood that we had always liked and which had come on the market cheap through a short sale. Unfortunately, when we had the inspection done during escrow, we found out that the house is full of termites, has a septic tank, needs a new roof, and has major structural problems. Even worse, we found out that the house was built on an Indian burial ground. Not a Native American burial ground. An Indian burial ground, as in, a burial ground of people from India. It's actually much worse than a Native American burial ground. For example, we encountered this one ghost named Darjaymender who warned us that the real estate market is still two years away from hitting rock bottom. It was terrifying. We also met a ghoulish Punjabi programmer named Ramjeet who said to Priya, and I quote, "आप मेडिकल स्कूल के लिए चले गए हैं चाहिए." From what Priya tells me, that roughly translates to, "You should have gone to medical school like my daughter, Ramjeeta." So we couldn't buy that place. Not with all that drama. Thanks, but no thanks.

Well, fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your feelings about me and my off-color Indian jokes, I have nothing else to write. I guess I'll go to bed and sleep off what was another unremarkable day. Peace and love to all. As the late Louie Goldstein would say, God bless ya'll real good.

Snuggie Magic

2008-12-13T10:16:00.001-08:00

Christmas came early this year. Priya discovered the package before I had a chance to hide it. Actually, I guess I didn't look at the package very closely before I handed it to her and asked her what she had ordered. My mind is like a dying star in a lonely galaxy far far away.

It's like being hugged to sleep.

What fun! What fun! For the dogs too!

Wait a second, do I have this thing on backwards?

Notes on Marc Murray

2008-12-08T16:55:00.000-08:00

My good friend Marc Murray recently reminded me of what an odd fellow he is. During a conversation about his daily alcohol intake he brought up a movie called 28 Days staring Sandra Bullock. 28 Days is apparently about a woman going through rehab. I think Marc was attempting to relate his situation to the main character or something, but I cut him off before he could get too far. Here's how the conversation went:

Me: "Wait a second. You're a huge Sandra Bullock fan aren't you? I totally forgot about that."
Marc: "Well, I was until she started making the Miss Congeniality movies."
Me: "You didn't actually see the Miss Congeniality movies, did you?"
Marc: "Only the first one. I was too disgusted to see the sequel."

Now, as far as I can tell, Marc is not gay. Despite having seen Miss Congeniality willingly and not because some chick he was dating made him see it -- because he truly thought it would be an entertaining movie to watch -- Marc is not gay, as far as I can tell.

Marc has actually dated more than his fair share of women over the years. I say "more than his fair share" not because Marc is a bad looking guy but because of his remarkable and almost sadistic capacity for honesty when a white lie is the only reasonable option. During college Marc dated a girl named Nicole. One day Nicole was in our room and Marc, out of the blue, said, "You know, you're starting to grow a little bit of a mustache. You should consider waxing that." It was a jaring statement for both me and Nicole.

Not to mention -- can you imagine being told that you need to wax your upper lip by a man who grows foot long beards? Yes, Marc grows foot long, caveman beards. And he surfs and plays the electric guitar. And he's Christian...and I mean he's a real Christian...not like the Sunday morning Catholics I grew up with. And when Marc's not bossing people around at a contruction site, he's watching Sandra Bullock get married over and over again. It's all very confusing to say the least.

In attempting to understand Marc, I think it's imperative to note that Marc is the son of a beautician. My guess is that because of his mother's profession, Marc is more apt to notice and be bothered by things like unibrows and a couple days worth of leg hair on a woman. But at the same time, he feels the need to rebel against the carefully groomed neck lines of his youth and so he grows long caveman beards.

Does that begin to explain his taste for Sandra Bullock chick flicks? Of course not. I'm still trying to figure that one out. But some people would probably say that Marc's just a contrarian. And indeed there is support for this hypothosis. When everyone else in college was huffing drano and getting blasted on Special K, Marc was a good, sober Christian. And though, during our four years of college together, Marc could have gotten more tail than the proverbial toilet seat, he generally preferred to play chastity mind games with his confused female counterparts.

And when everyone else decided to sober up and settle down, Marc picked up binge drinking.

So maybe "Miss Congeniality" is just Marc being the constant provocateur, the perennial contrarian. I sure hope so.

Because otherwise it seems pretty gay.

(Not that there's anything wrong with that.)

More Violent Dreams

2008-11-21T16:25:00.000-08:00

I'm not a violent person. In fact, I'm a pacifist in ideology and in temperament. But for a while now I've been having particularly violent dreams. I don't know what's causing them, possibly stress from work. Or maybe my two years of dabbling in medical malpractice etched some deep morbidity into my sub-conscious and I'll never be the same again. Who knows. I don't entirely mind them, because it's nice to wake up from bad dreams and experience that feeling of relief as you realize that it isn't real.

Last night I had a whopper of a nightmare. I dreamt that I was walking down a dark alley in some city. There were two kids walking behind me. Although they were just talking to each other and joking around, it suddenly occurred to me they were going to mug me. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a gun pointed at my head. Before I could say anything I heard the gun go off and I felt the bullet go through my brain. My body went limp and I dropped to the ground. Everything started fading to black and I knew I was going to die right there. I couldn't move and my only thought was how terribly sad it was going to be when Priya found out. She wouldn't understand how I could be shot dead on the street for no reason. After a few seconds, was dead. I looked down on myself as I started to float away.

Then I woke up. My heart was pounding and I was breathing hard.

I lied there for a couple seconds and then rolled over and kissed Priya and Maddie who were both lying next to me. Priya didn't really wake up but she rolled over and put her arm across my shoulder.

When I was thinking about the dream today it occurred to me that I actually was mugged once, or almost mugged really, by two kids in a dark alley. It happened in New Orleans, only two or three days before I moved to LA for law school. I was walking around the French Quarter at about 3 am on a Wednesday night. I had been out late with some friends and was trying to remember where I had parked my car. At some point I realized that two guys were following me. One was just a kid. The other was older and looked like a criminal. He had a full grill and short dread locks. He looked pissed off. At some point the older guy told me to hold up. Although my gut told me to just start sprinting away, I reluctantly stopped. The guy asked me for change for a bus fair. I told him I didn't have any change and kept walking. I turned a few corners and walked couple blocks away, but they cut me off at one intersection. I started walking up another street and maybe got ten yards away when I heard one of them running up behind me. I turned around just as the older guy was taking a wild swing at my head. The punch just glanced off my face and knocked my glasses onto my head. I thought the glasses had landed somewhere on the street and I didn't realize they had stayed on my head until the episode was over.

I had managed to push the guy past me in the direction that his wild swing was taking him. But then he got back in my face and started yelling, "So you ain't got no change huh, bitch?" or something like that. I put my fists up -- seriously, I did -- and said, "I don't have anything for you." The younger kid watched us from about ten feet away. He looked nervous and I felt like he wasn't going to bother me. But the other guy was threatening me, staying now a few feet away.

My friends had told me stories about having guns pulled on them in the French Quarter. It had literally happened to two or three of my co-workers, all late a night when no one else was around. No one else was on our street. So I was expecting the guy to pull a gun out at any moment. In fact, I was sure it was going to happen. I was just waiting for him to pull it out and I was going to give him my money. (Yes, I realize how gay that sounds.)

But he didn't pull out a gun. In fact, after a couple seconds of him staring me down, I just turned around and walked away. I had no idea if the guy was going to follow me, but he just walked away too. I never saw either of them again.

I was told later that the tactic is to surprise people with a punch and knock them to the ground. But muggers don't want to risk fighting someone straight up without an advantage. Apparently the guy was trying to stun me and then they were going to pile it on.

After I got a couple blocks away from the guys I realized that I still had to find my car. With no police officers in sight, I went back to where I thought my car was parked, peering around corners before starting off in a direction. Eventually I found it, locked the doors and went home. The next day I had nothing to show for the incident except a slightly red cheek. I wasn't sure if I should even tell people about it. I told my boss and I think he thought I was making it up. Oh well.

It's been a while since I've thought about that night in New Orleans. My dream last night rekindled the same feelings I had had that evening. Mostly, the feeling that I was going to die alone on an unfamiliar street because of someone's random act of violence. It's a terrible feeling for sure.

Anyway, the point is that I hope I'm always lucky enough to be able to wake up from such violence and enjoy the love and comfort that only a half-asleep wife can provide.

Comparing the NFL to the NBA

2008-11-11T09:53:00.000-08:00

Last Monday night I was flipping back and forth between the Monday night football game involving the Kurt Warner led Cardinals (the old Jesus freak is apparenlty still at it) and the Shaun Hill led 49ers (I don't know who he is either), and the Celtics/Raptors game. Both games were dubbed "great" and even "classic" by the post-game space fillers. For me, the two games epitomized how I feel about the NBA and the NFL.

Lets start with the NFL. I've never been a huge fan. I've always watched it, but I've never cared too much about it. I've never fully invested myself in a team, except that I genuinely hated the 1990's Dallas Cowboys dynasty. Despite my dislike for the Cowboys, the home team of my youth, the Redskins, never really compelled my rooting interest. Why? For starters, growing up on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, I never associated myself with Washington DC or anywhere else on the "western shore," as it should be known. In fact, I was taught to believe that people from the western shore were all helpless idiots who we tolerated in our little towns for the sake of making a few bucks off them. But they were Baltimorans and Washington dirt bags -- all helpless fools who would die quickly in a state of nature. Now I could have been pulled into the Skins had they had a particular player that I cared about. I loved the O's because they had Cal Ripkin and, for a while, Harold Baines, who was from my home town. But the Skins have always had boring players. When they won the Super Bowl in 1991, they were led by Mark Rippen and Art Monk, two of the most boring players in NFL history. Can you remember anything about either of those two guys other than Mark Rippen's crater face? Me neither.

Now, rooting loyalties aside, the NFL has always struck me as an impersonal game where the stars hide behind helmets and frequently come and go before you can really get to know them. The only avenue for self-expression is annoying and contrived end-zone dances that stopped being fun in 1984 or thereabouts. It's also a game that's bogged down by drive-killing penalties and conservative play calling. I can't watch a game with Priya without her getting all indignant about failed run plays up the middle. "That's so stupid," she says. "Why didn't he just run around those guys?" she says. "Because he would have taken a loss," I tell her. "It was better for him to just go nowhere."

So the NFL a game of risk avoidance and clock management that is occasionally punctuated by incredible displays of athleticism. But those displays of athleticism tend to involve familiar things -- a breakaway run, a great catch, a great throw, a big hit, an interception run back for a touchdown. Rarely do you see anything that makes your jaw drop.

In the entire 22 or so years that I can remember watching the NFL, there has been one player that excited me to the point of jubilation (no, not Tom Brady): Barry Sanders. Barry Sanders was a virtuoso in the backfield who ran like a gazelle among a field of retarded water buffalo. He did things with the football that made you laugh and giggle. He took risks that no other running backs could afford to take and frequently took big losses as a result. But even if he took a loss, even if his team was never that good, Barry's brilliance always made him fascinating to watch. Not one player in the NFL today has that quality.

That brings me to the Monday Night game. It was a game that ended with a goal line stop as time ran out for the Niners. The final was 29-24, Cardinals. If I remember correctly, the Niners had four plays and about 45 seconds left to get the ball into the end zone from 5 yards out. The first play was a spike. The second play was a run that fell two yards short. Then the Niners let about 30 seconds run off the clock before spiking the ball. The final play was a run up the middle that fell short again. Game over. The Niners lost, having wasted a down and calling a horrible final play. This supposed climactic finish capped off a game that had 20 penalties called for a total of 160 yards lost. One penalty brought back an interception that was returned for a touchdown.

It was a terrible game. Poorly played. Poorly officiated. Frustratingly slow. Like so many NFL games, the outcome was determined by penalties, poor clock management, and poor play calling. But since the game came down to a goal line stop, it was deemed a classic of Monday night football. When it was over, Kurt Warner thanked Jesus 47 times in one sentence and Stewart Scott continued to embarrass black people everywhere. And I said to myself, "This is why I hate the NFL."

Now, lets contrast that with the Celtics/Raptors game. Despite the NBA season just having kicked off, the Celtics/Raptors game was indeed an instant classic. It was a surprisingly chippy game from the get go and by the third quarter it felt like the 7th game of the Eastern Conference Finals. In the 3rd quarter, Kevin Garnett, who had worked himself into rage coming out of half-time with the Celtics down by 12, decided to cover the Raptor's pointguard, Jose Calderon. Just think about how ridiculous this is for a second. A 7' man guarding a quick, 6' point guard all the way up the court? KG is probably the only 7' man alive who is quick enough and athletic enough pull it off. The funny thing is, KG didn't just pull it off, he terrorized Calderone, nearly poking the ball away several times with his long arms.

Not to mention that as he hounded Calderon up the court, Garnett clapped his hands, pointed a finger in Calderon's face and shouted obscenities at him. After Calderon passed the ball off and a whistle blew, Calderon got back in Garnett's face and shouted back. To his credit, Calderon didn't back down. But Garnett had clearly gotten into his head. Garnett walked over the bench with a smile on his face for the first time all game.

But the real story of the night was Paul Pierce rallying the Celtics back from the dead by scoring 22 points in the 4th quarter. The Truth did it in classic Truth fashion -- he got insanely hot, hit about three heat-check jumpers in a row, and spun, spun, spun his lanky body to the hoop. He claimed the lead for the Celtics with less than 2 minutes left. It was a complete 4th quarter roll of the Raptors who walked off the court with their heads down, presumably saying to themselves, "If we only had someone like Paul Pierce to finish games for us." The amazing thing is, Pierce did it all with a sprained wrist. It was something I wasn't even aware of until I read about it the next day. Though it's not at all surprising.

Paul Pierce was stabbed in the neck, chest and face 11 times before the 2000-2001 season. He had to undergo lung surgery to repair the damage. You would think that that would have screwed with his game a little bit? Well, the Truth was in the starting lineup for the first game of the season -- less than two months after the incident -- and started all 82 games that season. He had a great year and has never said much about the stabbing. To say that Paul Pierce is a gamer or a tough dude doesn't begin to give him justice. He's a warrior from another era, a guy you would want beside you on the battlefield for lack of a better cliche.

But here's the great thing about the NBA: If you were to rank the most compelling and interesting players in the league, Paul Pierce probably wouldn't crack the top five. Though it's known as a league of prima donnas, it's really a league of warriors, phenoms and virtuosos. There are so many superstars who have risen out of troubled pasts, take Iverson and Carmelo for example, or Loul Deng who happens to be a Sudanese refugee, that it's easy to forget about a guy like Paul Pierce who was once stabbed 11 times. The NBA is also a league of freaks and curiosities, like Yao Ming and Nate Robinson. There are also villains like Kobe Bryant, Bruce Bowen, Ron Artest, and Tim Donaghy, and good guys like Tim Duncan, Shane Battier, and Derrick Fisher. And then there are heros like Lebron, Pierce and D-Wade. They all have something different to offer but they all, in their own ways, will make you giggle.

So I've always loved the NBA. It's soap opera, sport and mythology all colliding before your eyes. It's a sport where the athletes shine and improvisation and creativity abound. As David Thorpe says, if football is played with military precision, basketball is jazz. Great teams like great bands, have the right mix of complimentary musicians. And when the mix is right, the results are a joy to behold.

Those are my thoughts. Let me know what you think.

BABY ROSIE!

2008-09-26T10:22:00.000-07:00

Had to post this cute picture of my baby niece, Rosalee, with Nan, her great grandmother. We get to see Rosie this Christmas and can't wait! Hopefully we'll get to see Nan before too long as well.

Tahiti and Moorea

2008-09-12T15:27:00.000-07:00

So Priya and I recently got back from our romantic getaway to Tahiti and Moorea. We were in Tahiti for three days and then took a ferry over to Moorea for another four days. Here's a brief description of our trip and the islands.

Tahiti is the largest and most populated island in French Polynesia, though, by comparison, it's a little smaller than Oahu and considerably less populated (175,000 people compared to 800,000 people living on Oahu). The first thing you notice about Tahiti is the dramatically steep, green mountains that rise up into the clouds.

This is a picture of Papeete, Tahiti's largest city, as seen from our ferry returning from Moorea. Despite the few big hotels you can see in this picture, it's actually a quaint city...reminds me of a mix between a much larger Avalon (on Catalina Island) and New Orleans' French Quarter. It has sidewalk cafes, an open air market, and a certain sleaziness that would probably turn off some American travelers. Of course, everyone in Tahiti speaks French and/or Tahitian, with English being a widely spoken third language.

Papeete was cool but this vacation was all about relaxing on the beach.

Tahiti has almost entirely black sand beaches as it is a volcanic sort of place. (I wish I could say that I took this photo but I actually downloaded from Wikipedia...we somehow managed to not take any pictures of the black sand beaches.)

Our resort had one of the few non-black sand beaches on the island. We spent lots of time lying on the beach and around the pool at our resort. Tahiti is the kind of place where you can shamelessly lie around for days because, frankly, there isn't a whole lot else to do. It's a guilt free beach vacation in paradise.

Here's another picture of the same view at sunset. The island that you see in the distance is Moorea, which means yellow lizard.

We did manage to go on a half-day 4X4 tour up into Tahiti during which we saw some cool waterfalls and swam in a beautiful river. Here's a pic from that excursion.

After our time in Tahiti we took off on a ferry to Moorea. Physically, Moorea is distinctively paw shaped with two nearly symmetrical bays on the northern side of the island that are separated by a mountainous peninsula. Here's what I'm talking about:

This aerial photo shows the two bays. You can also see them in these next two photos.

This is Cook's Bay, named after Captain Cook who, as we were told a thousand times, actually landed in Oponohu Bay and never went to Cook's Bay. Cook was not the first European explorer to reach the island but rather the third behind fellow Brit Samuel Wallis and Frenchie Louis Antoine de Bougainville, both of whom arrived in the 1760's. Wallis was ill and didn't stay long enough to make much of an impact. Bougainville and his men, however, had a good old time. They were greeted by the natives with outrigger canoes filled with fruit and women, the implication clearly being that the men were to each choose a woman of their liking and make sweet love. Bougainville's men happily oblidged. Many of them actually abandoned the captain and ran off with their native girlfriends. Surprisingly, Bougainville appreciated that the Tahitian's didn't have an "ownership society" like we got here in America, and tolerated a good amount of theivery as well as the looseness of the women.

Cook, however, was not as liberal-minded and destroyed some of the villagers' homes after a goat was stolen from his men. He also locked up some of the island's chief's in order to get back a few of his men who had run off with their own native girlfriends. While Cook didn't seem to enjoy the people of Moorea, they were apparently amused by Cook and often stole things from him only to give them back a few days later. It must have been love-hate relationship because Cook returned to the island twice and was warmly welcomed on both occassions, or so we were told.

In this picture, taken from the same spot, you can see Oponohu Bay.

Moorea is maybe 1/3 the size of Tahiti and has only 16,000 residents. It takes about an hour and half to drive the one road around the entire island. Actually, there is one other road that goes up to the lookout from where these pictures were taken. From there you can hike out into the island's jungles. We did exactly that and found some cool stuff, including ruins of several old temples and this monstrous banyan (or banyan-like) tree. It's hard to judge the size of the tree from this picture but it was easily 30 feet around. I climbed it a little before Priya made me get down. Oh to be a kid again.

Okay, so the interior of Moorea is cool, but the main attraction is the warm turquoise waters that surround the island and all of the cool stuff that lives in the water. The picture at the very bottom of the blog is the view from the end of the dock near our bungalow. This next picture is of Priya looking serene on the "dock" of our bungalow.

The little buoys in the water are marking a coral garden so that kayakers don't bump into it. There was great snorkeling all around our bungalow. Priya even got into it and she generally doesn't take to swimming.

This is another picture of our resort in Moorea. Again, not a bad place to lie around.

Other highlights of Moorea included feeding sting rays, swimming with black tipped sharks and eating some delicious fresh seafood.

The rays are not at all afraid to swim right up to you. In fact, they hover around like pigeons waiting to be fed...like demonic water pigeons.

All in all, Moorea is one of three most breathtakingly beautiful places I have ever been. (The other two being Kaua'i and Rocky Mountain National Park.) I would live on that little island for the rest of my life if Priya would come with me. Maybe if McCain wins I can convince her.

Someday.

RIP Scott Bailey

2008-08-25T08:45:00.000-07:00

Got some bad news this weekend. An old friend from college, Scott Bailey, died last week after being hit by a car on his bicycle. Sadly, he leaves behind a wife, Terri, who was also a college friend, and a new baby, Paul. Scott was starting his second year of law school at Wake Forest.

Scott was as talented of a person as I have ever known. He was a great all around musician; he could sing and play all variety of instruments including piano, guitar, mandolin, banjo, and drums. Scott eventually become a music teacher -- something I'm sure he enjoyed more than teaching the LSATs, which, incidentally, he was also qualified to do. Scott was also a great athlete, being a former #1 on the VWC tennis team and a nasty basketball player who could easily dunk at about 6'1". Moreover, he had an extremely deep and inquisitive mind. Scott liked nothing more than to sit around and talk music, philosophy, psychology or whatever was attracting his interest at the time. And unlike most college kids, Scott didn't spend hours in front of the TV. He used his free time to write songs and poems, learn new instruments, and read interesting books. When it came to those things that he was passionate about, he wasn't just driven, he was an unstoppable force of nature.

Scott had been playing music with my good buddy, Marc Murray, when I first met him during my freshmen year. We hit it off pretty well -- probably more as friends than as musicians because he was much much better than me back then -- and Marc and Scott invited me to join up. And so we formed the "The Sultans of Swing." The Sultans played every Wednesday night for a good two years at a dive bar in Norfolk called Batterson's. Usually, we made just enough money to cover our bar tab, but it was more fun than I had ever had in my life. And Scott was our leader. He taught us all the songs we played, organized most of our gigs, and assumed the responsibility of nodding at us (usually me) when the bridge or chorus was coming up. Scott was also our unquestioned speaker between songs, yet another thing that he was a natural at due to his confidence and sense of humor, but also because he had a great deep voice. Scott's personality was infectious. When I started college, I was painfully shy and reserved, but being able to hang out and play music with Scott, who was so naturally cool and confident, and Marc, who was equally confident if not as cool (at least not in the traditional sense), made it easy for me to come out of my shell.

I remember that during the first few months of playing music with Scott, he could be quick to tell me or Marc if we were screwing up, but he became much more patient as the years went on. By his senior year, he seemed to be much happier with himself and his life. Thinking back, I'm sure the change occurred when he started dating Terri. He adored Terri and it showed.

Scott and I corresponded by e-mail last year when he started law school. He had found my profile on my old firm's website and was joking about my goofy picture. I was looking forward to calling him up one day and addressing him as counselor. I'm sure he would've already had something to teach me about law. He was a good teacher and an even better friend.

Bullet Points

2008-08-21T14:14:00.000-07:00

My old pal and fellow blogger, Jason "The Hitman" Hart, of TBSP fame, likes to blog in bullet points. So, in honor of him, or, really, because I saw it on his blog, here are some less than interesting bullet points for you many many readers to ponder:

Wii Love

We just got a Wii. It's the first gaming system I've had around since my parents bought the little Howell boys the original Nintendo back in 1989 or thereabouts. All I remember about that thing is that you had to blow into the games about 50 times before they would actually work. Brother John eventually stomped it to pieces. Not totally sure why but I think Nate had been hogging it and John decided to teach him a lesson in sharing. John was good at lessons.

Anyway, here is my analysis of the Wii. The swinging controller action is nifty and surprisingly accurate. It makes the games much more fun than if you were just pushing buttons. The Zelda game is particularly fun and not too difficult for someone like me who could never come close to beating the original Zelda. But the coolest thing is the Wii Fit, which is a game that walks you through various exercises with a digital personal trainer and keeps track of your progress by calculating your weight and BMI. You basically stand and work out on this electronic board that is synched to the Wii so it knows where your center of gravity is, if you've done a pushup, etc. The funny thing is that the game tells you to stand on the board and then when you stand on it goes, "Ohh," in a little girl's voice, every time. Not sure what that's all about but I guess it's a Japanese thing.

Do I feel guilty for playing a video game when I could be doing something productive? Of course. Am I embarrassed to own a video game at 28 years of age? Absolutely. But when you get home late, and you're tired, and you just want to sit down and unwind...it's not that bad, right? Anyway, it was totally Priya's idea to get it. Seriously.

Seattle

We're going to Seattle this weekend for a wedding. If anything exciting happens there, I'll blog about it. Looking forward to trying some of that famous Starbucks coffee that I've been hearing so much about.

Olympics

I haven't watched one basketball game and will be in Seattle for the medal rounds. Very sad about that. And they don't show any damn highlights on ESPN. What the hell is that all about? From what I've read, D Wade has been the best player. I'm looking forward to watching him when the season begins.

# 9 The End... At Least For Now

2008-07-01T10:48:00.000-07:00

There were a number of tools in the old shed that could have been utilized as instruments of mayhem. For example, if Laszlo had looked over at the work bench, he would have seen a hammer, a railroad spike, several wood saws, and a hatchet. Even closer to him, lying in an open shelf near the ground, was an large mallet made of wood so hard and dense that it would actually sink in water. (This fact was something that the boys had learned one day after Erogenous threw the mallet into the creek trying to hit a pair of swans that happened to be paddling by. The mallet was reclaimed a couple weeks later at low tied by Joey who was mucking around for glass bottles. When Erongenous saw Joey with the mallet he accused him of stealing and punched him in the side of the head. And "'Oh shit' is right!" yelled Erongenous after the knock. "Take it again and I'll bash your damn nuts!")

Now Laszlo reached over and picked up the mallet. He stood up quickly and with a new sense of confidence that owed largly from the piece of hardwood in his hand. "You miserable little bastard!" he shouted before taking a wild swing at Erongenous' head. "Jack...Ass!" he screamed with another flailing lunge. The swings were all wiffs and the momentum of the pendulating mallet nearly carried Laszlo onto his butt. Nevertheless, it was enough to cause the boys to retreat towards the house. "Enjoy your gay marriage," BB yelled from well out of striking distance.

Laszlo returned to Joey who was smiling broadly. "Sit still while I undo this tape, Joey," he said. Joey smiled even wider and began purring like a cat again. "Oh fuck, please stop that," said Laszlo. "For Christ's sake." But Joey kept on purring and even pressed his cheek against Laszlo's hand as Laszlo attempted to unwrap the rope that Erongenous had tied around Joey's neck like a noose.

"It's not your fault, I guess," said Laszlo. "Your family is even more fucked up than mine."

Joey bounced his knees as if he were wagging his tail.

Laszlo finally got the rope loose enough for Joey to wiggle out. "You're free," he said. "Get up and go home."

Joey stood up sheepishly. He looked around the shed and then peered out the door to see if the boys were still around. He then pointed at the mallet and said something like "please, fuckface, please?" Laszlo nodded and handed Joey the mallet.

Joey cheered and jumped in the air. He then ran full speed from the shed all the way to his house, houling and cussing with glee, and smelling like piss and shit the whole way.

Meanwhile, Laszlo had crept into the house through the side door and scampered up the stairs. He had slipped into the bathroom and locked the door. He was now writing in his journel that he kept behind the toilet of all places.

"Today I saved the farting dogboy from near certain death at the hands of Erongenous. Maybe someday he'll save my life, though I seriously doubt it," he wrote.

After a few minutes, Laszlo put away the journal and got in the shower. He turned it on and washed the clumps of dogshit from his hair.

#8

2008-04-28T14:54:00.001-07:00

Yes, Laszlo's initial thought was that he would smear Joey with the dogshit. That would be the simple way to end this game. Joey would bark like a crazed dog and the brothers would howl along with him; but then they would let him go and perhaps Laszlo would no longer be Joey's "girlfriend."

So, with that in mind, Laszlo extended the handful of crap towards Joey's chest.

"Rub it in his stupid face!" Erogenous yelled.

Laszlo paused but then slowly raised his hand so that it was just under Joey's nose. Now Joey was staring down cross-eyed at the smelly fist.

Erongenous was hopping up and down with excitement as Joey began to mumble. The boys pulled in closer to hear him speak.

"Uhhh....n-n-no...." began Joey, "...n-n-not hungry now..."

The boys exploded with laughter. "He thinks your gonna feed it to him, Laszlo! Make him eat it! Make him eat it!" they yelled.

Laszlo returned his eyes to Joey who met his gaze with a doleful stare. It caught Laszlo by surprise and he retracted his fist.

Joey's mouth was still quivering as if he hadn't finished his sentence; the boys became silent again in anticipation.

Joey then looked up with a pathetic face and began to meow in soft but agonizing voice.

The boys again broke out in laughter. They chanted: "Put some the shit on the kitty..." and so forth.

But Laszlo couldn't do it. He shook his head and turned back towards the door.

"What's wrong," Erogenous sneared, "you don't want to rub dogshit on your future wife?"

"No, this is stupid," Laszlo responded.

"Leave then," yelled Erogenous, who now had his hands behind his back. "We don't want any gaywads here anyway."

With that, the other boys stepped to the side and cleared a path for Laszlo to exit.

Laszlo only made one step for the door before Erogenous sprung forward and dumped the entire pale of dogshit on his head. It knocked Laszlo completely to the ground. He coughed and gagged as the boys howled and danced around him.

"Mother fucker," hissed Laszlo as he tried to wipe the shit from his eyes.

He immediately heard the phrase repeated to him by Joey, who was still tied down, but was now doubled over with laughter. "Mother fucker! Mother fucker!" shouted Joey as he pissed his pants. "Holy shit, mother fucker!"

Random thoughts on Dick Vitale

2008-04-11T17:38:00.000-07:00

Dick Vitale got inducted to the hoops Hall of Fame this year while several other deserving candidates got left out; most notably, Dennis Johnson. This caused many basketball purists to get upset.

Charley Rosen wrote of Vitale's induction: "The Mouth That Roared, a.k.a. The Shill That Shrilled ... his induction only proves how much the game has been sullied by hype."

Mark Kriegel wrote: "Dick Vitale wasn't a player. His coaching career — culminating with a 34-60 record for the Detroit Pistons — was a failure. And while the Hall recognizes media members with its Curt Gowdy Award (a distinction Vitale has already won), one cannot be enshrined as a mere broadcaster. So, again, how the hell did he get in? Is he insightful? Thoughtful? Provocative? Courageous? No, no, no and no. He's loud. He's a salesman."

Personally, I think Dicky V deserves to be in the hall because he's been such an incredible salesman for the college game. Seriously, who's done more to promote college basketball -- essentially an unwatchable sport until March -- than Vitale? Sure, he's kind of a clown, but his image, which is also one of passion and positivity, has become synonymous with the college game. And that's a good thing.

I actually have a funny story about Vitale. He used to own a restaurant on Siesta Key in Sarasota, Florida. I think it was called the Broken Egg or something. One time I went there with my parents and we sat at a table directly next to Vitale and his wife. He seemed extremely gracious, smiling and shaking hands with people as they occasionally came up to his table to say hi.

When people weren't coming up to him he was reading the sports page of a paper and going over the box scores of some college games. At one point I heard him say, "eleven rebounds, this kid's gonna be amazing, amazing..." to his wife, who never looked up from her magazine. And that went on for about ten minutes -- Dickey V scouring the box scores, gushing about players, and his wife ignoring him. It was hilarious, but also endearing.

So I'm glad Vitale got into the hall. He's truly passionate about the sport and its players.

Of course, the fact that Dennis Johnson didn't get elected is just awful. Really just unforgivably awful.

The Phoenix Also Rises # 7 (from Hart)

2008-04-11T09:13:00.000-07:00

As Laszlo entered the shed he was immediately overwhelmed with the pungent stink of shit. He immediately assumed that Joey had emptied his bowels, a reasonable assumption given Joey’s propensity for clothed defecation and certainly understandable given the dog-boy’s current predicament. However, as he acclimated to the stink of sweat, oil and feces, Laszlo realized that the most potent source of the stink lay to his left. He turned his head and noticed a white plastic five-gallon bucket. As he looked closer Laszlo noted that the bucket was brimming with what appeared to be collected piles of dog shit in various states of decay and petrification.

“Fuckin-A right, Bitch!” screeched Laszlo’s youngest brother, BB. “Took us all fuckin’ weekend ta git all that turd! We figured since yer little doggy-boy girlfriend likes turdin’ on ‘imself so much we’d help ‘im out an jus cover ‘im in all kinda turd!”

At the thought of this, BB’s excitement boiled over and he started leaping from foot to foot. “EEEEEWWWWWEEEEEEE! TURD BOY! TURDY TURDY! YOU GONNA LIKE IT TURD DOGGY! YOU GONNA LIKE IT!” he screamed at Joey in what could only be described as the frighteningly oblivious squeal of a prepubescent sociopath.

“Cool it, fag!” screamed Erogenous. Though he was less than a year older than BB, Erogenous had the eerie calm present in those for whom the abuse of others is not a diversion, but a calling.

“So, what’s it gonna be, freak?” he asked Laszlo, “you gonna get in on this shit and show dog-boy who’s boss roun here, or you gonna jus stand there sweatin’ and lick yer little girlfriend clean after we give her a little bath?”

Laszlo looked to Joey. Joey was no longer barking with any volume, his whimpering constant but barely discernable. His ankles and wrists quivered rapidly against the thick strips of duck tape that bound him to a steel chair. His eyes conveyed hopeless fear and bewilderment.

Laszlo had a choice to make, and that choice cut to the very heart of the existential dilemma he battled every day—to act or to observe? Would his action (or lack thereof) even have an effect on what happened to this pathetic little boy? To his brothers? Most importantly, to himself?

As for Joey’s fate, Laszlo was confident that the boy was about to be tortured despite any protestations or attempts at rescue. In fact, any attempt to intercede in the act would likely only result in an intensification of the abuse. A friendly intervention on Laszlo’s part would only serve to alter Joey’s perception of the events, and Laszlo didn’t really give two fucks about what Joey thought. At least, he hadn’t…

As for the brothers, Laszlo had decided long ago that their minds were warped beyond repair. His only hope regarding them was that he might endure long enough to see society take its role and sweep them into the corrections system. It was only a matter of time.

Laszlo’s own fate was much cloudier. Would his actions today have repercussions beyond the moment? Would allying himself with his brothers release him from their subjugation, or would it make him more vulnerable to their machinations? But again, that spoke to the effects of today’s acts on his brothers. What would happen to him—gentle Laszlo, wise Laszlo? Would the torment of a weaker human harden him? Would it free him from a sometimes overwhelming feeling of bondage and debt to his fellows? Would it show him that he could seek his destiny with pure and complete self-interest? Perhaps. Or, would it steal his purity? Would flinging shit at a harmless and helpless retard lead him to an existence where his only source of validation came in the dominance of others? Would he lose his self-sufficiency, his ability to self-gratify? Would the calm and confidence of his thoughts and his journal be replaced by a maelstrom of guilt and uncertainty? Further, what would be the consequences of making a stand against this violence and humiliation? Would there be any at all!? He would soon find out.

These questions ran rapidly through his head, and as he struggled to answer them, Joey made his decision. As he did so, he blinked three times rapidly, but his face did not change. Stone faced but with quivering hand, Joey bent to his left, reached, and grabbed a fistful of moist, steaming turd.

League of Champions

2008-03-10T18:18:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking of this idea called the League of Champions ("LOC"). It's a silly basketball fantasy.

Basically you take five players from each team in the league. They don't have to be starters, but each position has to be represented. For each current player you combine the skills and athleticism with the game of one player that played that position in team history. On top of that, you assume each player on the roster is playing in his prime.

So for example, the Celtics starting five in the LOC would be Sam Cassell (in his prime)/Dennis Johnson, Ray Allen/Havlicek, Pierce/Bird, KG/McHale, and Perkins/Russell. So, the KG/McHale player, for example, would have the athleticism, defense, and outside shooting of KG but the low post game of McHale.

Obviously, that team would be awesome. But would they beat Lakers LOC team: Magic/Fisher, Kobe/West, Odom/Worthy, Gasol/McAdoo, and Bynam (in his future prime)/Kareem?

I would be interested to see if anyone can make an argument for a LOC squad to would beat either of these two teams. The Pistons would have a nasty team.

#6

2008-03-04T17:50:00.000-08:00

Laszlo felt is stomach quiver. His voice was hollow with fear. "I don't want to help you," he whispered.

Erogenous sneered and grabbed Laszlo by the collar. "Come on pansy pants, come see what we're doing to your girlfriend, Joey." Erogenous pronounced "girlfriend" as if he were a giggling little girl.

By way of background, Joey lived down the street in a dilapidated mobile home with his grandmother, Nancy. The most noteworthy thing about Joey, other than the frequency with which he shit his pants, is that he had a very limited vocabulary, even for a twelve year-old. This was partially because Nancy had lost her tongue in a car accident before Joey was born, and so Joey was raised by a woman who couldn't speak discernible English, and partially -- more partially even -- because no one gave a crap about Joey to make sure he could talk like a normal boy. It's also true that Nancy was too poor to buy a working television set. But even if she were able to afford one, there was no place in the mobile home to put it. Back when Nancy had a working tv, back before Joey and all of his crap, she had put it up on an ironing board in her "kitchen" and watched it from the toilet seat through the bathroom door. Now, the television and the ironing board were part of a large pile of rust in the "backyard."

And so it was that Joey was raised by a mute who didn't own a working television and who, for many years, welcomed no visitors. Still, Joey learned some words, like "hungry" and "shit" and "fuck" and "fuckface," mostly from Laszlo's brothers who were always cussing. When teased by other kids, Joey would commonly say things like "Shit fuckface, shit shit," and so on. He would also make farting sounds with his mouth, which he sometimes meant to be insulting, but which also made out of boredom. Joey's favorite sounds though were animal noises because they got the best reactions from people. Sometimes he would bark like an angry dog at the kids who would ride bikes past his house. Sometimes, when spoken to by an adult, he would simply meow like a cat. He actually learned that from Nancy who could sill meow like a cat without her tongue.

To finish up with the background, Laszlo once happened upon Erogenous and the other boys as they were throwing rocks at Joey's mobile home. Laszlo was sure that they were all going to get in trouble and so he told the boys to stop. He really didn't give a crap about Joey, who was actually two years younger than him and seemingly retarded. But from that moment on, no matter what Laszlo said or did, Joey was his "girlfriend." For example, if Laszlo was mean to Joey, the boys would say that they were having a lovers' spat or that Laszlo was just mad because Joey wouldn't kiss him. And so, and after a while, Laszlo began to resent Joey. In fact, later that day he would refer to Joey as "the farting dogboy" in his journal.

Getting back to the story, Laszlo knew that something serious was being done to Joey in the shed. Joey never, and I mean never, ventured anywhere near Laszlo's house. This meant that Erogenous and the other boys had captured Joey and brought him back to the shed so that they could torment him with impunity. And yes, as Laszlo drew closer to the shed door, he could her Joey barking like a very scared little dog. Whimpering even. He also heard "Shit fuckface, shit shit" and so on.

Just ran across this quote...

2007-09-10T02:00:00.000-07:00

"Keep your thoughts positive, because your thoughts become your words. Keep your words positive, because your words become your behavior. Keep your behavior positive, because your behavior become habits. Keep your habits positive, because your habits become your values. Keep your values positive , because your values become your destiny". -M. Ghandi

Tom and My Sanity

2007-09-06T23:14:00.000-07:00

Do you think I first lost this last piece of sanity when I melted the candle over my carpet? I didn’t really mean to. It just started to spill over. Then the colors seemed to mesh so well. I thought, “Hey I’m artistic,…” It turned out that this decision was less than acceptable.

So how do you manage the initial knee jerk reaction “fuck those assholes that don’t shit from shit”. After all, isn’t it their admiration you’ve been seeking or at the very least trained to seek.

I brought this up at dinner the other night with my relatively new friend Tom. His response to the whole issue was not surprising. He is much less an alarmist than the narrator. Tom holds himself in a particular way that perhaps only a middle aged long bearded Jew could. At first glance, he blisters as some unfortunate leftover from the summer of love. But his intellectual commentary relieves him from excessive inane judgment, even for those unwilling to listen. And if pressed, you can really only fault Tom for being a bit too excited about Tuesdays. He fucking loves Tuesdays.

The excitement continues

2007-08-30T12:30:00.000-07:00

Don Pedro et al,

Much should be said in response to JJ's e-mail. But I will restrict myself to the following snipe. The balls must glisten. Shave them and all anxieties will vanish. Just ask the J-bird about this!

Wedding Bells

2007-08-29T11:18:00.000-07:00

Yes, on November 3, 2007, the P-Dog will finally be domesticated to the ever lovely and assertive, Priya Montgomery Chatwani. I've been hearing a lot of buzz about the big day from ATGR readers, including from our biggest fan, and part time contributor, J.J. Hart. J.J. wasn't sure whether he should attend the wedding or the bachelor party; he was only given the option of coming to one event for reasons that should be apparent from the following:

"Peter, First you failed to respond to my first request regarding flight times. Second, it will not be too hard for me to watch you get married -- good riddance. Third, do I have to go to the wedding, or can I just go to the party? Fourth, it's mean to say things like 'women are always horny at weddings' and then follow it up with 'I wouldn't count on it.' Fifth, even if there are horny women at the wedding, they will probably want no part of me after I throw up on my shirt. Sixth, even if there are horny women at the wedding and I manage not to throw up on my shirt, my penis will be nonfunctional after I've finished reacquainting myself with my friend John Daniels. Seventh, even if there are horny women at the wedding, I manage not to throw up on my shirt and I manage to stay functionally sober, I have sexual anxiety. Eighth, should I shave my testes or leave the woolen coating? These are all the statements and questions I have for now."

All good points J.J. Unfortunately, I have no advice regarding whether you should shave your balls.

Notes on "football"

2007-08-24T11:09:00.000-07:00

Before I post on the "The Phoenix Also Rises" and ZJ's new thread, here are some thoughts on seeing Beckham live and in person for a complete 90 minutes plus stopages (or whatever they call it) against Chivas last night:

1. Beckham was clearly the best player on the field . In fact, he and Landon Donovan were the only Galaxy players who seemed to move the ball with any purpose. Beckham also looked more polished and controlled than anyone else on the field; he reminds me very much a soccer version of Jason Kidd in the way that he sees the field and always executes the right play at the right time.

2. Beckham is much scrappier (although more diminutive) than I would have guessed. I sort of invisioned a washed up pretty boy, but he was damn tough out there, not taking any shit from anyone despite being tripped repeatedly and pushed around. He even sparked a fight after getting absolutely taken out from behind. The most surprising thing to me was that Beckham's already the leader of the Galaxy. In fact, I think they've already made him the captain, which sounds crazy considering he's only played a couple games, but not crazy once you watch him play.

3. The rest of the Galaxy suck. The defense gave up two ridiculous goals in the 2nd half, which resulted from bonehead plays. The third goal was basically scored after the game was over. They need to revamp.

4. Beckham looked more frustrated with his teammates than Kobe Bryant playing with a team full of Smush Parkers. He also limped rather severely for most of the 2nd half and basically couldn't run at the end of the game. His ankle is obviously still hurting and I doubt the Galaxy can keep playing him for entire games until he gets better. Of course, they are paying him 3 billion dollars per game, so I can see why they want him out there. Of note, Beckham is very quick when he's not limping.

5. This goes without saying, but Beckham makes women crazy. At least half the crowd was teenage girls. Whenever Beckham touched the ball, a group of girls sitting directly behind us would start screaming at the top of their lungs. It nearly blew out my ear drums. I kept looking back at them hoping they would notice me staring at them with annoyance, only to find a bunch of giggling girls. More disturbingly, Rita, Priya's friend from work, kept saying things like, "Oh my god, Beckham just bent over, I wish we were closer," and "Oh my god, Beckham just adjusted his shorts."

6. Lastly, I was surprised to find that the Galaxy were giving out staw sombreros to mock the Chivas team, which I guess has a mostly hispanic fan base. I found this to be both tasteless and charming at the same time. You would never see that sort of thing at a mainsteam sporting event. I guess it's not as shocking as fans shooting off fireworks in the stadium after every goal, seemingly without any reaction by the security. I think that would land you in jail if you did that at a baseball game.

All in all, it was a very enjoyable experience. If every MLS game were as heated as that game, I would consider becoming a regular soccer fan. Until then, I'll leave it to Jason Hart and the hispanics.

Forgive me for starting something new, and completely ignore it if it's awful. I really haven't a clue...I'm drunk!

2007-08-18T01:20:00.000-07:00

I guess I can really only go pee when she sings. Loud vibrant singing. I have her whole damned album on my ipod. In case I am caught out in public. At a wendy’s or starbucks I can blare her “Gentile is the Urchan”, and let out a might fountain at near maximum expedition.

Gary accuses me of mental conditioning. Not just with the bladder thing. Apparently he has been keeping track of seven or eight different things that are supposedly ‘neurotic’ pathological behavior. So what if I like to gargle Kern’s fruit punch in the morning while absorbing Paula Zahn and her news updates. It suits me. I feel more compelled to conquer. Although – and quite admittedly – I am not quite sure what the hell it is just yet.

But don’t you worry my estranged audience member. Your dues will come. Not in the typical form. Rather, you will be perfectly surprised by what happens next. In fact, I can’t imagine that you are anywhere close to figuring out what Gary is going to do after I tell him that they have discontinued his favorite reality show: “the simple life” with Paris Hilton.

And then there’s the tea. I don’t really care what anyone else thinks about this one. It is just proper! If a man wants to have his tea after precisely four minutes and seventeen seconds past the moment he introduced the barely scalding water to the dried leaves, then so be it. According to many Tibetan monks this is within three seconds of the optimal mediation time for attaining moksha. Don’t know where I heard that but I remember thinking that I could trust the girl who told me. And enlightenment does sound nice.

I haven’t been working on that a lot lately though. She (the lady of the 5th thru 11th dimensions according to modern superstring theory) seems to have encumbered me with psychological premonitions. The inornate and nondescript unease that usually chases after you in the mornings after a sequence of unpleasant dreams. I spend most of the day reconfiguring my brain to believe that everything that just happened actually didn’t, and I really shouldn’t be that angry at any of the unfortunate actors. I guess it’s just most disturbing that the most common emotion is anger. Why aren’t these non-sequitur premonitions filled with delight. Just once I would love to have savage romps with the faintly clad austere group of ladies living under paradise’s roof in Malibu.

But at last I must recognize my own torturous demons as they arise. It is not their cross, really nor mine, that must be born. We are just hallowed embryos of an archaic society churning out new recipients for the daily award show. Yes, we spawned this cosmic aberration. Ironically, in attempt to cleanse ourselves of what little we knew about the shitmounds growing around us, we have entrenched ourselves in further disrepair (at least so from the great cosmic eyes previously referred to).

Good Christ I wish I could have as easy recipe for taking a dump as I had when I could here her song for pissing. But no such alchemist has presented themselves….and I struggle. Day after day I spent hours soaking in the birch blond walls, a veritable contingency of overconfident men describing their latest conquests, and by most accounts, the remaining embers of a thriving business practice.

#5 (by JJH)

2007-07-17T15:53:00.000-07:00

The monocle was the object of constant derision, which frustrated the boy. The denser of his classmates found its peculiarity simply “weird”. Those more aware felt it to be a pretentious affectation and taunted him with cries of, “Hey, Mr.. Peanut!” To him, however, the monocle was an item of practical necessity. His vision perfect in his right eye but failing in the left, the boy saw no need for a complete set of glasses. Glasses were expensive, and one lens would be a smaller financial burden than two. After months of saving money by sacrificing his daily Astro-Pop at lunchtime, the boy amassed enough to correct his vision. Ridicule he could endure, but physical damage to his eyepiece he could not risk. His brothers threatened it at every opportunity, calling the lens, “a piece of gaywad bullshit” and “fagtastic”.

He shivered as he approached the front door of his house, hoping his brothers wouldn’t notice him. However, as he neared the door, the cacophony of steel, wood and howling boy emanating from the shed grew intense. He suspected that whatever preparations were being made within, they were being made in his honor. A sudden crack from the shed confirmed his suspicions.

The shed door had been flung violently open and standing within was his younger brother Erogenous. Erogenous was wearing work boots, leather gloves, a welding helmet, and an athletic supporter (complete with protective cup) over denim pants; this was what he referred to as his “Battle Dress Uniform”. The boy doubted the likelihood it would pass a military muster.

“Laszlo, you queer fucker! Get your ass over here. We need your help with something.”

Young Laszlo pivoted and shuffled toward the shed, understanding that compliance would hasten the end of the ordeal.

#4

2007-07-12T16:17:00.000-07:00

What he admired in Fraulein Eberhardt was simple: deliciously large round breasts and smooth curves around the bottom. Years later, he would think back and realize that she was not an overly attractive woman. In fact, she had wide, square teeth that looked like crude dentures. The teeth of a primate, he thought. What's more is that Fraulein Eberhardt would unwittingly accentuate her large teeth by opening her mouth and running her tongue along the outside of her lower gums -- a gesticulation that caused the liquid in her mouth click and pop in a tedious and unflattering display.

But now he was thinking fondly about Frau Eberhard's strong thick legs and how tightly she could squeeze him. When his thoughts were interrupted by shouts from behind the old shed, he clutched his monocle to make sure it was stowed safely in his pocket.

#3 (By JJH)

2007-07-02T07:01:00.000-07:00

These concerns gnawed at the back of the lad’s mind throughout the day, accompanied by a constant uncomfortable tensing of the lower abdomen. He sat reclined in the back row of his classroom, one eye squinted, the other staring dismissively through his pewter rimmed monocle. His eyes glimmered only with the passing of his German teacher, Fraulein Eberhardt. As he glanced slowly up from her navy blue pumps to her grey woolen skirt, his eyes widened and the left corner of his mouth took a sinister turn upward. Then, as she inevitable would, the buxom German glanced downward and shook her head as she gazed at the clammy hand tucked beneath the waistband of the boy’s green sweatpants.

None of the boy’s classmates noticed this interaction, as they didn’t notice him at all. Despite this obvious truth, he felt all eyes in the room searing his nearly translucent skin. Most painful were the eyes of the Lord Baby Jesus bearing down from the manger scene depicted behind him. If only he could convince the Christ child that his innocence was in fact, intact, he thought. The pain in his gut worsened.

The bell rang, the boy tucked his monocle safely in his shirt pocket, pulled his athletic socks over the elastic cuffs of his sweatpants (to guard against ticks, of course), hefted his monogrammed backpack upon his shoulders, and began his journey home. As he waded through the swamps that guarded his home, the reflective thread of the initials LKQ shimmered on the boy’s pack as he dreamt of his commode and his journal. Little did he know his brothers his awaited him and had no intention of allowing the boy the peace and relief of his afternoon bowel movement.

#2

2007-07-02T02:42:00.001-07:00

Entry after entry was filled with a detailed commentary on his peers and their interaction. He was reclusive justice at its finest. An hour, two hours, even three passed before he realized that he had spent his afternoon wandering the cumbersome labyrinth of social perception and diagnosis.

As talented as he was, or at least thought himself to be, the young man felt most awkward in his own palpably tense skin. “A proverbial matter” was his most common response to this unfortunate self-awareness. Yet this lackluster response always ached and rattled around his ‘universal understanding.’

The question whose answer eluded him most, however, was whether he was responsible for what had happened or even what ought to happen. How obligated should he feel to both determine his role, and follow thru with that responsibility? Again, these questions were sheltered from serious consideration under the simple “too cliché” defense. "Instinct," he admonished, "has a manner of self-preservation that makes the curious mind immediately uneasy."

The Phoenix also rises #1

2007-07-01T17:22:00.000-07:00

From a young age, he was a suspicious and decidedly pessimistic boy. Most notably, he saw pretension everywhere, even among infants who could seem "over-coddled," as he liked to say. Once, in the third grade, a little girl noticed him staring at her painting, which had won a first place award in the school's recent art show.

"I see through your proverbial bologna," he said with a sneer. She didn't know what that meant, and neither did any of the other children standing around him. Nevertheless, the apparent insult made the little girl cry and run to the teacher for comfort.

Similar comments led to him being known as "weird," and, moreover, mean. However, once in high school, his disdain for his peers subsided as his detachment from school and family grew. He was soon an invisible young teenager, of little interest to anyone, including his own mother who had two younger and more promising children to tend to. At least that's what he liked to think as he scribbled into his journal -- a spiral bound notebook that he kept behind the toilet of all places.

Upon Reconsideration...

2007-06-04T11:03:00.000-07:00

I hereby renounce C. Billups and T. Prince and remove them from my NBA starting five. What a terrible showing in the Eastern Conference Finals. Prince couldn't score or guard anyone, and Billups made some awful decisions in the clutch. I'm replacing them with Steve Nash and Iguodola. Although, could you imagine Lebron running the fast break with Steve Nash? Just don't see Lebron and Kobe coexisting.

My prediction for best five, two years from now:

PG: Chris Paul (very narrowly over Deron Williams)
SG: Wade
SF: Lebron
PF: D Howard
C: Oden

From SG to C, this is the most physically imposing team ever assembled.

POEM #4 (Wrestling with an Amputated Limb)

2007-06-01T14:02:00.001-07:00

having taken on a life of its own
and burdened with self-awareness
it strikes with ferocity

it feels its open wound
and thinks about the torso it left behind

truly self-loathing
it wants you to put it down
but only so that it can strike again

America Here I Am

2007-05-26T10:59:00.001-07:00

America here I am
Old me drifting away to a dirty plan
Let me hold myself between my knees

The acrid candor grows
And the proud seek gilded goals

A tried minority screams out loud
As the shelters run down

The feeble minded die
In combat boots, but some are still alive

No one seems to care who they are
As they meter justice weighted by carnal tar

Bloody scabs dot the land
Forgotten soldiers fearless as they stand
America let me hold myself between my knees

Children grow up on the streets
Homeless and the meek grow week

Times are rough but it’s the revival
And fuck I’m sick (of the leveraged bible)

Clergy preaches to the strong
Just don’t forgot to hold on

You vomitous foul gut wrenching abomination.
Feckless imperialist masterpiece of inexcusable stagnation
America, let me hold myself between my knees

Requisition

2007-05-23T02:10:00.000-07:00

Indeed I am also tempted to stare,
but it appears that there is nothing there.
nothing that I should see.
Everything else is unfortunately beneath me.

I climbed the tree but hope had left
there was nothing there.
I looked back down but the ground had gone
alas I wish I had my death.

POEM #3 (Blue Musk)

2007-05-21T09:57:00.000-07:00

For he is my beloved queen,
A golden light in dreams serene.

Yet above his knees I dare not stare,
Admiring soft, white ankles fair.

It is his eyes that warm the sun,
but of that light, my eyes see none.

My eyes see none, my body lies cold,
A frozen gray mist, a broken clay mold.

POEM #2 (The Secret Crimes of J.H. Murray)

2007-05-17T14:35:00.000-07:00

How 'bout it?
You and me, in a tree.
Flipitty-flop, watch me drop.

A liar on a branch,
A liar all his life.

Let it rot in your heart until you die.

Written while listening to intro of "Andy, You're a Star"

2007-05-03T02:05:00.000-07:00

Don’t ever hate me bc of what I did...
Don’t ever love me bc of who I am.

I have just done what I needed to do to say...
To say that I wasn’t here for you.
And now I’m sorry.

You wanted to know what it was all about...
We grew up and left the shed door
swinging on rusty hinges.

Hold me tightly bc he’s coming back!

Don’t ever regret it.
Don’t ever regret it.

That’s the life we lived and we didn’t mean nothing but what we said...

And hold me now. Now cuz I think I’m dead.

I AM A GREEN WALLACE

2007-04-29T23:56:00.000-07:00

when you cut my belly, I squeemed. irking about the hot plate. no escape. but at last the slender cord filled my hallowed yet corpulent scaling. and then fingers. multiple fingers massaged the creatures out. ha! the trick's on YOU this time!

POEM #1 (Never Again...will I eat at that Restaurant)

2007-04-26T13:23:00.000-07:00

upon opening the plated fish
tiger shrimp remained
cold and gray
with heavy cream
that hung like drapes
from the hollow crevice

this is a test

2007-04-24T15:17:00.000-07:00

of the emergency broadcasting system. you all will have two marshies for lunch. Goodbye!

2007-04-21T19:06:00.001-07:00

2007-04-16T16:11:00.000-07:00

Solid moves below!

2007-04-16T16:08:00.000-07:00

For your viewing pleasure! And I think Iguodala does need to prove himself in the post-season.

2007-04-15T16:12:00.000-07:00

MORE NBA MAILBAG

After the Gold Rush co-founder Zupan Jam weighed in on my NBA starting five:

"The only weakness really lies with Mr. Prince. I would consider replacing him with Shawn Marion or Gerald Wallace. They are (nearly) as good defenders and they have more offensive firepower."

ZP, I like your picks of Shawn Marion and Gerald Wallace. Both are great long-limbed defenders with lots and lots of ups. I thought about both of these guys for my starting five but settled on Prince because his skills are a better fit for a half-court offense. In my estimation, he's the superior passer, ballhandler and shooter of the bunch (though he doesn't shoot enough). Marion is an exceptional finisher, and Wallace is absolutely fearless in taking it to the rack, which is why he gets injured so much. But, I just don't see them being as useful in a structured offense.

Iguodola is an interesting choice, and may end up being the superior player to Prince on both ends of the floor. Some would argue that he's already there. But he still lacks a consistent jump shot and hasn't proven himself as a winner.

2007-04-04T16:19:00.000-07:00

Mr. Hart,

Thank you for your feedback. I appreciate your interest in the blog. First, I want to make sure that you understand that I have picked guys who I think would make the best "team," not which guys I think are the best players at their respective positions. I agree with you that Nash is the best point guard in the NBA (although he's not young like you say -- he's 33, almost two years older than Billups), and that Lebron is the best small forward. Here's why they didn't make my team and Prince and Billups did:

1. Defense wins championships. I have assembled what I view to be a lock down defensive unit. Prince (and his seven-foot wingspan) is one of the two or three best perimeter defenders in the league, with Artest and Bowen. But, he presents less of a risk to commit murder than Artest, and is more offensively skilled than Bowen. He would be assigned to the opposing team's best offensive player, which would allow Kobe to focus more on his offensive game...much like the Scottie Pippen did for Michael Jordan. Duncan and KG are both 1st team all-defensive players on the inside, and Billups is the best defensive point guard in the league, without question. Kidd is comparable, but is hampered by bad knees. This group would simply demoralize teams on the defensive end.

Lebron and Nash are average to below-average defensive players for their positions (check out their scouting reports on ESPN.com). This team has plenty of offense (about 90 points) with just Billups, Kobe, Duncan, and KG. Adding another offensive dynamo has drastically diminishing returns, and would only screw up the chemistry.

2. On that note, chemistry. Since Kobe (as much as I hate to admit it) is the greatest offensive force/clutch performer since Jordan, I decided to build the team around him. Of course, he's not an easy guy to play with, so I had to pick players with whom he would jive. Billups, Prince, KG and Duncan fit the bill because they are unselfish and would never gripe about Kobe's 30 shots. At the same time, none of them would cower under Kobe's dominating personality a la Lamar Odom.

Again, Lebron, T-mac, Pierce, and Melo would have problems with Kobe's alpha dog persona and would want to see more of the ball.

Granted, I can't exclude Mr. Nash based on chemistry issues. He brings instant chemistry to every team. But I still don't think he'd be the right fit for this team. Why?

3. Offensive System: With five high IQ ballers and tremendous passing ability at every position, this team would be perfect for the triangle offense, which has brought Phil Jackson nine rings. Nash's unique and creative playmaking skills would be wasted in a structured half court offense and he would be a negative on the defensive end as compared to Billups. Billups is also a very comparable shooter to Nash from 3 point land and the charity strip, and with his size and strength, he can get to the hole whenever he wants. Make no mistake, he is a beast of a point guard.

This same analysis applies to Chris Paul and J-Kidd, who are better fits for run and gun style teams.

4. Experience: Kobe (3 rings), Billups (one ring), Prince (one ring), and Duncan (three rings). While KG has only been to the Western Conference Finals, he plays with homicidal intensity because he wants a ring so bad. He would really drive this team. Anyway, all of these guys would be confident against any team in any situation, and any one of them could step up and hit a big shot, or get a clutch block or steal.

By the way, Nash, Kidd, Lebron, Melo, Pierce, Dirk....zero rings. And Dirk absolutely choked in the finals last year. Nash has never even taken his team that far. One of those two may prove me wrong this year, but until they do, I'm sticking with my 8 rings.

5. Don't buy the hype. The Suns are a joy to watch. Steve Nash is a virtuoso with a basketball in his hands. But the Lakers took them 7 games into the playoffs last year (as did the Clippers). Granted, the Suns were missing Mr. Stoudamire. But the Lakers were starting Smush Parker, Kobe, Luke Walton, Odom, and Kwame Brown. That's right, Kwame Brown. Imagine what Billups, Kobe, Prince, KG and Duncan would have done to that team, or even this year's Suns or Mavericks. It would be ugly. Why? Because defensive is more important than offensive and you need a team that can get stops when it counts.

Hope that helps.

P.W. Howell
Senior NBA analyst for After the Gold Rush

P.S., I'm going to be sipping malt liquor and shooting off my handgun in the
streets of Los Angeles when O.J. Mayo leads USC to its first NCAA Championship next year.

2007-04-04T15:21:00.000-07:00

FEEDBACK ON NBA POST

There has been an overwhelming amount of feedback regarding my NBA starting 5. Here's one example from reader J-Hart in Vermont.

"Peter, I was reviewing your blog while bored at work
today and came accross a posting regarding the best
starting five in the NBA. Tayshaun Prince is a
fathomable choice, but a poor one nonetheless (see:
LEBRON JAMES,T-Mac,Paul Pierec,Mello). Your choice of
Chauncy Billups at point guard is baffling and
inexcusable. Nash is the obvious choice, and you
could certainly make a case for either J-Kidd or Chris
Paul. How you could choose Billups over Nash is past
my capacity to understand. I would imagine you make
some argument about winning championships. One ring
does not a legend make, and Nash is young. Plus,
there's no way Billups could run an offense as fast
and creative as Phoenix's. I'm very disappointed in
you. --Hart

P.S. Fuck OJ Mayo"

2007-03-30T00:14:00.001-07:00

2007-03-20T01:03:00.000-07:00

The Clouded Sage

I can’t imagine being upset. You get mad. Then sad. But why sad? It seems that we’ve mutated. Our emotional constitution requires that we reconsider every interaction from the other’s point of view and calculate, with some unfortunate parameter of precision, how the other party probably felt.

The old cantankerous sort has configured this wretched device to have a minimal pulse. And the morbidly astute suffer as they see sorrow beaming from their friends’ eyes. And yet the reasonable man is unable to corner the appropriate degree of concern to be used as regular machinery.

A crass tale fills context empty atmospheres just as well as a grimace or scowl. But the recipient must decide to what extent these impulses should be filtered. And why is the recipient so responsible? Simply because she must discern the nature of the story teller or shape shifter – what was their intent. And again the blasted vision the recipient holds is to be considered time and again. All as part of a regimen precipitating the matter of choice and consequence.

Wouldn’t it be lovely if everything was instinct? But then what would friendship mean? And don’t forget the opposite is starkly evident. The smile and laugh bear some semblance of attitude and personality. Motion and commotion generate ferver within a bleeding cortex.

In sum, it is a matter of credibility! Outcome based preferences are easily redefined to be all-inclusive.

Yum Yum Land

2007-03-11T13:12:00.000-07:00

If only every weekend were so nice. On Friday night, the jubilant J-Bird took the train up to LA with his special lady friend, Marina. I picked them up from Union Station at around 11:00 p.m. and brought them back to the homestead where we shared a couple bottles of red wine. On Saturday morning, J-Bird and I spent an hour or so at the golf course before picking up a pork loin and mojito fixings. Waiting for us at home was 2 dozen steamed blue crabs, cold beer and pink wine. For the next four hours, we picked crab, ate bbq and drank, all the while sitting on our deck in beautiful 85 degree weather. By 7:00 p.m., everyone was in a food coma and ready for bed. It was at that time that J-bird and Marina bid their farewell. I slept for the next 12 hours and woke up to another beautiful day. Priya and I ate pork loin and egg sandwichs for breakfast. The sound of our kisses filled the canyon until the sun set again.

These are the days that make all the rest worth living.

2007-03-06T12:00:00.000-08:00

2007-02-23T14:15:00.001-08:00

Dreams? Yes dreams. Mostly mine are too disturbing to pass along. I can’t properly embellish the sensible features of them without invoking goblined imagery too obscene and grotesque for most sensible folk to suffer thru. But here’s a dream I had the other night.

I sat in the living room. The walls had been covered with striped felt. Maroon. Then green. And again maroon. Something from the bohemian markets in San Francisco. Two children burst from my abdomen. They were screaming in garbled and synthesized voices. The torn flesh and stretched membranes covered parts of their bald heads. Anger and angst forced them to clench their fists around my dangling interior organs.

All the while I sat. I drank cognac from a large snifter and gently rocked when the fan passed. Really I was enjoying the trumpet music she had brought back from India. The door opened. She had returned. The children shut their eyes and dove back into the gaping wound at my abdomen. The flesh sealed and the scar melted into the remaining portion of my tummy.

In three words or less I would describe the dream: Fucking beautiful.

2007-02-22T18:37:00.000-08:00

WORK SUCKS

In this strange dream I had a while ago, I looked down and noticed that my member was just a wispy flap of skin, only slightly thicker than a hair. Panic set in when I realized that I wasn't wearing any pants and that I was in a room full of people who were staring and laughing at me. I tried frantically to cover it up and pretended that what they saw was just a pubic hair and that my actual member was hidden from their site. This was only the second most frightening dream I've had involving my penis.

The worst dream was as follows: I was at a dinner party where waiters in tuxedos were serving hoar-devours on fancy silver platters. One of the waiters came over to me and asked me if I would like to try my own penis. I looked down to find my own limp Johnson on his tray. There might have been a couple others there as well. So I picked it up and wondered how I was supposed to eat it. Then I woke up and vomited in my mouth.

The point is that some weeks are so awful that I would rather eat my own severed penis than go to work.

2007-02-14T01:23:00.000-08:00

chaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrlie ;-)

2007-02-12T22:55:00.000-08:00

2007-02-09T16:27:00.000-08:00

2007-02-08T16:11:00.000-08:00

NOT DONE YET...

"You hear that sound? That's the sound of your
bullshit hitting the whirling dirvish [sic] of anger that is
my fan. You are about to find out what happens when
you piss of [sic] 145 pounds of bitterness, rage, and semen.
You are entering a world of pain.

Mr. Dickface Know-It-All Lawyer, I'd like to know how
to post things on that self-indulgent, masturbatory
piece of shit you call a blog.

Mr. Pretty Boy Everything Is All Pink And Squishy
Economist, Make your damn music video. I'll get
famous and bang Playmates and shit. Plus, I like
Ziggy Stardust. Some of us still listen to rock and
roll music and not Eurotrash synthesized techno
bullshit.

In the immortal words of Wyatt Earp brilliantly
portrayed by Mr. Kurt Russell, 'YOU CALLED DOWN THE
THUNDER? WELL NOW YOU GOT IT!!!!!!'

Eat shit and die, Hart"

2007-02-08T11:32:00.000-08:00

MORE MUSINGS FROM THE HARTSONG

"Dear Motherfucker, I don't recall giving permission
for you to prostitute my innermost thoughts and
feelings, to say nothing of my covert machinations,
for all to see on the interweb. Take this as notice
that you are temporarily relieved of your duties as my
attorney while I engage a rival attorney to obtain
restitution for the theft of my intelectual property.
After I have taken posession of all your belongings
and assets you will then resume your duties gratis for
the remainder of my life. Also, if you publish any
further communiques, I will castrate you before you
have a chance to sow your conjugal oats."

2007-02-08T00:03:00.000-08:00

2007-02-06T21:03:00.000-08:00

HARTSONG WEIGHS IN

"It is wise of you to send me an invitation to your
wedding. I was planning to attend whether invited or
not. However, if not invited, I would be forced to
lurk in the rafters of the church until the
penultimate moment of the ceremony at which point I
would swing down to the altar tarzan-style wearing
nothing but hot-pants,cowboy boots, and a backpack. I
would then remove an infant goat from my backpack and
quickly slaughter it with my Rambo knife, spraying you
and your bride with the warm blood of the pure to
demonstrate my indignation with your discourteous
social slight. So, clearly it is in your best
interest to send me an invitation, or a "save the date
card", or whatever gaywad thing you are calling it. I
hope I can join you and Priya on your special day
without bloodshed. Kisses, Hart Attack"

2007-02-05T21:03:00.000-08:00

BEST STARTING FIVE IN NBA RIGHT NOW

PG: Billups
SG: Bryant
SF: Prince
PF: Garnett
C: Duncan

This is what has been decided and it is final.

2006-12-07T15:33:00.000-08:00

After nine years you might be surprised that I can recall some things from before I set out. Nonetheless, I am startled to recognize this boy, especially considering how he has changed. I see his face in and out of an old dream that keeps me listless. Unfortunately, it is a dream that I do not enjoy retelling:

The dust had settled in layers on my brow and upon my shoulders as I stood motionless in an empty office space. Yes, an office space devoid of furnishings and proper light fixtures; an office space among a series of vacant buildings, sitting on a large concrete slab that I suspect was never worth commercial appraisal. We had picked the spot together and in secrecy with the hope of finishing our project. But, as he left me there, pinned against the wall, in the quiet behind our silent beast, with its mechanical sleeve pushing fluids into my gut, I knew our partnership was at an end.

But now he was just a boy, shaking and pale.

2006-11-27T22:31:00.000-08:00

This jon is not that jon…this jon is that jon?
A strange coincidence occurred yesterday. Two universes collided. The result, an ancient version of someone I once thought I knew. Stark naked under the sunlight in a field of thorny white roses. Lost. Withering. I approached the character from behind to calm him, but only seemed to engage with his higher orders of dementia or schizophrenia. God. I don’t know who he is. Maybe I do. A calloused soul does not wear thin.

Oh yes, back to the coincidence of it all. The lad, who I soon recognized, had no discerning motions other than an impetuous shiver. A circle - he stood on the verge of a circle. You see, here is the dilemma. I only happened upon the boy because in fact it was I that had tramped the circle. It took 9 years to travel its perimeter.

2006-09-02T15:52:00.000-07:00

JONNY-5 WROTE:

Many unusual birds came to greet him. Some stayed to chirp and chat, but others left quite quickly. I imagine this was in large part due to my precarious strectching regimen. After some time Mr. Hubbard began to sing the walloping kookoo’padoo song and the mighty walrus bird quickly appeared. She was an odd pear shaped bird, but had the must beautiful mane of hair flowing from her undercarriage. As her wings flapped the walrus bird wiggled its elongated nose, tilted her head back and warbled “sharumph – sharumph – shoom”.

“Wow. That’s great! But what does that mean” I asked. “Oh nothing. She is just embarrassed. She normally does that when meeting someone new.” Mr. Hubbard then turned to me and said “I have something even more special to show you. Do you like the carpet bird?” Slightly confused I replied “Well, I don’t think I know what that is. Are you playing scoopy with me Mr. Hubbard?”

“No sir. I would not do that. You see the carpet bird is the largest and most magnificent of the miniature birds. It is approximately the size of three goolong balls.” Mr. Hubbard then performed the most astonishing feat. A myriad carpet birds fell from the sky as if they were ash falling from a volcanic explosion.

2006-08-16T17:49:00.000-07:00

In one motion, Mr. Hubbard slung his arm underneath my shoulder and carried me high into the air above my house. Before I could react, he spotted a bird flying in the distance to which he made some odd chirping noises. He then looked at me and asked,
"Do you know that there are seventy-three species of birds nesting on your property?"

"No, sir," I replied, trying not to look down.

"I've counted every species of bird on the planet and know where each and every last one of them lives."

"That's amazing," I yelled, "But how could you have done that?"

He looked at me with a wink and said, "Easy my boy, by learning all twelve of the avian languages."

Within a few seconds we were surrounded by thousands of birds all chirping in happy dialogue with Mr. Hubbard.

2006-07-20T22:42:00.000-07:00

NEW SHORT STORY

"an evening shower with the muskrat
puts a worried mind at ease
much more tender than the house cat
who fills my tub with fleas"

I was humming a silly tune this morning as I set out to find some breakfast. As you can imagine, I was startled to come across L. Ron Hubbard hovering above a street light near my car. I didn't immediately recognize the vision as Mr. Hubbard, which is not surprising considering how little I knew of his great work. But, strangely, I was not afraid. There was something pleasant and familiar about his face. With his decidedly masculine features and glimmering blue eyes, Mr. Hubbard reminded me of my grandfather, who was also a great sailor. In any event, he soon descended to the sidewalk, leaned over against my car, and quite naturally ran a hand through his light red hair.

"Would you like to see some of the artifacts from my life?" he asked.

"Sure," I replied, and walked over to his outstretched hand.

2006-06-05T17:45:00.000-07:00

[JONNY-5 WROTE]

It's Tough to be Mr. Puffy's Polyp.

Mr. Puffy returned to the scene. But this time, he immediately commanded our attention. His thunderous snort followed by three sharp, but abreviated, chirps informed us that he was ready to tell us the answer. He began in a near whisper...

"How could I say no? After all, I certainly am no specimen of outlandish magnitudes. Really, could this ever happen again?" Clearly the children's eager lauding had elevated Puffy's trounced self-worth. "She's so pretty." His eyes drifted upoward. There, attached to a sequence of iron hoops, hung a curled photograph of a woman's face. Her lips flittered as her jaw ground mechanically to the pulse Puffy tapped with his walking stick. (Of course this was the same magic stick Jbird had jettisoned earlier). The woman's torso soon appeared as the chorus of beats grew louder. At last her full figure managed the iron loops. It was obvious she and Puffy had rehearsed this lesson before.

But something unusual was happening. She spun a circle weaving her legs in and out of several rings. Dramatically, she drew a gleaming instrument from her nearby satchel. Her brow carved a rich and solemn crescent across her forehead. A scant grim came over her face while she witnessed poor Puffy's obese faculties attempting to evaluate the unexpected options. At last, he shouted at us "If I don't hurry, she'll know... "

"QUIET. Oh god, I nearly shouted at her." Puffy oscillated between barking orders at us and mumbling to himself. "She has such a bad temperament. This is becoming too dangerous. If she knows what I have... but how could she? I've never disrobed in anyone's (let alone hers) plain sight before." Puffy's obvious concern had swept over the room. We prepared ourselves for any unexpected intrusion, and according to his instructions, smeared marshmallow paste on the back of our hands.

Puffy reached for the jar, but it was too late. She had his full attention. He stood erect, gazing at her fiendish body. Puffy could not shake those placid eyes. Those dire green constellations. He later explained that her eyes could see through his cunning. They spoke to him. They would verify for her the utter bowel stricken angst he dreaded most.

"It's time." She said with a lilac trimmed voice. The sounds rumbled through his chamber, bouncing off the jagged frames holding previous years' conquests. "No!" His voice was desperate. We all screamed back. But Puffy was motionless. Again she chided him. This time her voice was apparent. All subtlety and discretion cast itself to the dark matter. She wanted it. She needed it. But what if it goes wrong? We wondered. She'll blame us forever. Another gaping breath and Puffy charged her with all of his might.

"Ole!" The crowd cheered. J-bird squealed with delight. Thurston jumped up, nearly dropping his precious mommy-cup. Chelsea howled and thumped her bronzen cleavage. And I? Well I watched with fearful eyes. I knew Puffy intended to teach us a valuable nutrition lesson, but at what cost? She was going to win. "Fuck." I screamed in agony. It's exactly wrong. No, it's exactly what she wanted. The crimson stream burst from Puffy's abdomen. "You Devil!!!" Puffy screamed and then wilted to the floor, writhing forwards and backwards alternating between bliss and pain. Her arm reached past the curdling at the incision, past Puffy's exposed intestinal tract, deep down into his swollen colon. Her stained arm retracted with a baseball of purple veined tissue. "Ahhhhh." Puffy mouthed a theatrical "Thank you Susan!" And fell into a deep slumber.

Charles Winslow Puffington regained his lost esteem. The room ogled over him as a mother would would her newborn baby. Unwittingly the answer had dawned on all of us simultaneously. It was something we had thought all along. Puffy had spent years eating processed foods. It was only recently that he had expounded upon the virtues of proper dieting. Susan soon vanished. But there in the fruit bowl on the counter. Next to the bananas, sat Puffy's colon polyp. A reminder.

2006-06-02T14:21:00.000-07:00

[PETER WROTE] By now, Jbird had lost interest in his "magic" stick, which was, in actuality, a piece of hardened wood filler that had been peeled away from the side door, and which Jbird had just dropped into the dog's excrement. He shook his head as it occurred to him that he had forgotten to ask Puffy the Claw about the health benefits of raw Orangutan. These types of jabs were not above Chelsea's head. Indeed, like many of the great apes, what Chelsea feared most was public humiliation, and even the most innocent and seemingly innocuous of slants could send her into a violent rampage. Both Mr. Puffington and Chelsea were sensitive creatures. The difference, however, was that Chelsea had only a crude appreciation for sarcasm, which made her suspicious of people like Jbird, who were always speaking with double meaning. That's why she looked so flustered when Thurston asked her -- and with a straight face, no doubt -- how fortified wine effected the evolution of the female orangutan's digestive system.

2006-06-02T14:13:00.000-07:00

[MIXMASTA P WROTE] Upon hearing J-Bird proclaim that one's name evolves over time, Thurston began to ponder how his lack of pigment had impacted the evolution of his own name. He clumsily poured his 7th or 8th glass of port into what he affectionately called "The Mommy Cup"--a round bottomed cup with a nipple shaped drinking surface. Something about holding the Mommy Cup soothed his albino skin.

2006-06-02T14:12:00.000-07:00

[TOLGA WROTE] Jbird was thinking about the question that has been bothering him since the day he discovered that wine is actually spinach in some strange form: “Does death choose you or do you choose death?” After thinking on this question for a while, with a broken glass of wine in hand, he stumbled upon a more practical question: “Does one’s name evolve over time?” This question will not trouble him till death unlike the other, thought he. As he attempted to sip from the broken glass, he realized to his surprise (but not mine) that the answer to the second question has been staring at him the whole time. He stopped dancing but not bleeding. The reflection of the moon of Kular, the planet which J-Bird has recently traveled to, in the pool of blood on the floor made him feel like a promiscous chimpanzee for just a second. And then, he screamed: “Eureka! Yes, the answer is yes. One’s name evolves over time.” The answer can be only discovered by those who are willing to read the enitre history of Jbird, Chelsea and Mr. Puffington, thought he. He was feeling somewhat happy for having answered one of the questions. But the other remained. “Does death choose you or do you choose death?”

2006-05-31T12:51:00.000-07:00

[JASON WROTE] Like Popeye with his spinach, the replacement glass of wine revitalized Jbird. By this time both the dog and Chelsea, the Orangutan, were hiding in the stairwell; they seemed to be frightened by the strange patterns our guest was creating on the floor with his blood.

When Mr. Puffington arrived, Jbird seemed to calm down. To be honest, I was never sure if he was frightened by the gentlemen we all referred to as Puffy the Claw or if Mr. Puffington represented some intellectual curiosity for the Birdman. In any event, Mr. Puffington stomped around our bloody floors with little attention to the state of affairs. As was generally the case with Mr. Puffington, he began preaching the virtues of the raw-food movement and the general problem of accumulated toxins in the typical American's endochrin system.

Now I'd always suspected that Chelsea had some instinctive animosity towards Mr. Puffington but I'd have expected her to be more even-keeled. Quite to the contrary, she began screeching and throwing bits of Jbird's wineglass -- Jbird had ceased his feckless attempts to clean the glass when Mr. Puffington began speaking of the benefits to the liver from eating raw foods -- at Mr. Puffington and myself. Fortunately no-one was injured but Mr. Puffington took his leave quite quickly and in an obvious state of frustration and with what I was surprised to discover later was a deeply wounded sense of self worth.

2006-05-31T09:29:00.000-07:00

[PETER WROTE] J-Bird hadn't noticed that his wine glass was now on the floor in little pieces. Too busy smiling and gushing about his "magic" stick. Not until he turned around on those soft white feet-- undoubtedly to put the end of that thing in someone else's ear -- was the situation made clear to him. And "Oh shit is right!" I yelled as he flopped to the ground, still gulping and cussing. Only the dog was unnerved and attempted to give aid. But J-Bird swatted him away and, with great pain, asked me to pour him another glass. I couldn't help but laugh even though the blood was making me light-headed.

2006-05-14T16:45:00.000-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UzMNGO4cSx4&search=zappa

This is a great clip of Zappa on Crossfire. He had balls.