Rock Star The Porn Suave Saga was not a memorable experience for most of us. Sometimes, I am a part of most of us. Most of the time I am not part of most of us, but in this case, I am. I had to re-read my blogs about the last season of Rock Star to re-horrify myself in order to write this piece. The question is: Is this the LAST season for Rock Star? I haven’t read anything about its future. In fact I haven’t read anything at all since the season ended. I spend my days ignoring words. It’s not as easy as you would think especially if you read to the blind, like I do. “Mr. Rub, I don’t like this book, all the words are in gibberish.” “Yes, dear blind person, Stephen King’s later works aren’t as good as his earlier ones. You should have chosen The Shining for me to read to you instead of Bliimvlidly Fon Goffnofbilshly.”
Are they planning a third season of Rock Star? If so, what will it be, RockStar: Elvis? RockStar: Dexey’s Midnight Runners? RockStar: ABBA? RockStar: HeeHaw? RockStar: Sonny and Cher? That’s it! Cher needs a new Sonny. She’s been full of herself ever since The Sonny and Cher show ended. She needs a shorter, less talented and politically aware patsy by her side to bring equilibrium back into her life. That poor woman. Mark Burnett has saved the lives of the Farriss brothers and Tommy Lee, it’s high time he worked his magic to save the tragedy that is Cher Bono Allman Simmons Geffen Stoltz Kilmer Sambora and possibly Clapton. Out of all of those wonderful men she has befriended over the years, she has never found another Sonny. Neither has Mary Whitaker. I’m calling Mark Burnett right now!
OK, I’m back. Mark said he’d think about it, but he doesn’t know who Mary Whitaker is. He thinks he’s heard of Cher. If he makes it happen and if it is successful, he said he would send me a free The Apprentice: Martha Stewart smock.
Since the future of the RockStar:Whatever curiosity is murky (note: if you do happen to know what is going on with the show, please do not tell me. I want it to be a surprise when Mark Burnett calls me back about Cher. And, he will call me back.) all we have is the brain damage that the first two seasons inflicted upon us, the second more so than the first. The Marty Season, as I like to call the first season, did not cause so much brain damage as it caused JDidiots to crawl out from underneath their discarded toilet brush shelters to bore the rest of us with their inane claims of JD worthiness. The INXS fell for it. The rest of us fell for Marty, right kids? Let’s hear it for MARTY!!! Woooooooo! You know, when he sings, he thinks about me.
My brain damage happens to be wondering what the RockStar: Suave Porn contestants are doing with themselves these days. Golly, it’s been almost five months since the show ended. Certainly, they have put their lives back together by now. Through the miracle that is the Internet and an outmoded tool some refer to as imagination, I conducted extensive research to unearth the goings on of our second favorite group of Rock Star contestants. Below are the findings of my findings. Read carefully. These findings may surprise you. They may also make perfect sense. Or somewhere in between. Rest assured they are, indeed, findings. That should provide you some solace. Before I found them, they were lostings, or maybe misplacedings, or possibly who-caresings. It doesn’t matter what they were, they are now findings. Stop wallowing in the past. We don’t care how you got to the party, as long as you brought some muffins.
Storm Large – Storm was a little more upset about being cut from the show than she let on. She began eating constantly and ballooned to well over four hundred pounds. At some point her clothes did not fit her anymore, and she was too depressed to buy new ones. She became a nudist. One day she was having a web teleconference with her grandma and a delivery guy (nitrous oxide tanks) at her grandma’s house happened to get a look at the nude, fat Storm and became fetishly aroused. He pursued Storm, but she would have none of him. He persisted. She resisted. His will was stronger than hers. He did not want any physical contact, only the pleasure of watching her from his pc. So, she loaded up the truck and started The Fat Nude Storm web cam site. Not only does she attract people with large women fetishes, she also gets the occasional weather enthusiast. She has never been happier, especially when she drips chocolate sauce on herself.
Ryan Star – Ryan attempted to ignite his career by exploiting the fizzle that was the response to his original song, Back Seat Doinking Before Death or whatever it was called. He used the concept to brand himself. Unfortunately, George W. Bush has created such a safe global environment for US citizens to live in that the idea of somebody pelting us with atom bombs seems unfathomable, so nobody bought into the concept of making love as a beautiful curtain call to the cheers of nuclear devastation. I’m kidding, of course. We’ll all be dead soon, thanks to Bush. The fact is, the song sucked and so did Ryan. But, he stuck with his brand. Never compromise the integrity of the brand! Lately, he’s been selling himself to bachelor parties for live sex shows in the back seat of cars. He has a giant piece of cardboard with a mushroom cloud on it drawn in crayon that he uses as a back drop. It looks more real than you might imagine. Sometimes he climbs things and can’t figure out how to get down if they pitch in and extra fifty dollars.
Toby Rand – Being a consummate opportunist, Toby is trying to take advantage of the death of Crocodile Hunter, Steve Irwin, to become America's next Australian Sweetheart. First, it was The Naked Vicar, then Crocodile Dundee, and then, mistakenly, Russell Crowe until he admitted being from New Zealand, and he is too much of a dick to be considered a “sweetheart", and then Steve Irwin. Since the crocodile motif seems to have been the most beloved by Americans, Toby has invented the persona “Crocodile EVS”. Whenever he comes into contact with a crocodile or the subject comes up in conversation, he simply replies “EVS” (meaning “whatever”), which ties in the popular catch phrase he introduced to the world on the Rock Star show. Paul Hogan (Crocodile Dundee) has agreed to help Toby since he has nothing better to do. However, people close to Toby feel that Paul Hogan is using Toby as a puppet sweetheart and intends to overthrow any success Toby achieves by the time the next Crocodile Dundee movie (Planet of the Crocodiles) comes out in 2011.
Patrice Pike – Patrice tried exploiting the contacts she made in Hollywood during the show to procure a personal assistant position with Ellen DeGeneres. She did get an interview with Ellen’s manager, but was not asked back for a second interview when they found out she was bi-sexual. They claimed it was potentially characteristic of Patrice’s inability to commit herself to a project. So she painted “Mystery Machine” on her VW van and is now driving around the United States solving supernatural mysteries with her dog, Labia Dooby-Doo. Sometimes she receives help from the Harlem Globetrotters or Phyllis Diller. This is actually a ploy to get close to Sarah Mclachlan. Patrice heard Sarah’s house may be haunted. She figured if she could solve the mystery behind the haunting, Sarah would consider redeploying the Lilith Fair festival and giving her the morning spot on the main stage, since Patrice has written several brunch appropriate songs. Unfortunately for Patrice, Sarah is expected to award the house cleaning bid to that freaky stumpy woman from Poltergeist.
Magni – Magni decided to go back to Iceland to make up some lost time with his family. Not only did he miss his son’s first steps, he also missed his son’s first electrical outlet encounter, his first pots and pans concert on the kitchen floor and his first standing broad jump (1 foot, 3 inches). Magni’s cab driver mistook Greenland for Iceland and dropped him off there instead. Magni argued they were on the wrong island, but since he could not convince the cab driver that just because there was so much ice it didn’t mean they were on Iceland, he was stuck there. The cabbie replied in a Cornish accent with a repetitive “What do you want, Bermuda?” until Magni paid him, without a tip. It was there that Magni discovered first hand affects of global warming, when his pumpkin garden was continuously washed out from the run off of melting glaciers. Magni took action and formed a coalition of concerned citizens who are fighting global warming by keeping their refrigerator doors open.
Zayra Alvarez – Zayra is attempting to recreate herself as Eva Peron as depicted by Madonna in Evita. However, instead of Argentina, she is trying to take over the state government of Montana. She faces a couple of obstacles in her quest. First, she is unable to find any Montana colonels to seduce so she has set her sights on Montana’s Lieutenant Governor, John Bohlinger, since a lieutenant is kind of like a colonel. Although Mr. Bohlinger has seriously considered her offers, he politely declined, and he outright shut down the idea of changing his last name to Peron, fearing he would lose his identity with the voters. Second, she is scaring the people of Montana by singing at them “Don't cry for me Montana, The truth is I never lived here, All through Rock Star days, My crazy costumes, I kept my weird stage moves, Don't keep your distance”. Frankly, they think she’s a little nutty.
Jenny Galt – Jenny became a prolific writer whose fiction explores three geographies and their cultures: the Yukon, California, and the South Pacific. She experiments with many literary forms, from conventional love stories and dystopias to science fantasy. Her noted journalism includes war correspondence, boxing stories, and the life of Molokai lepers. A committed socialist, she insists against editorial pressures to write political essays and inserts social criticism in her fiction. Jenny’s great passion is agriculture, and she was well on the way of creating a new model for ranching through her Beauty Ranch when she died of kidney disease at age 40. Well, she hasn’t died yet, but that is how she’ll go. I’m certain of it.
Josh Logan – Josh woke up this morning one minute before he was supposed to start work. He put on a pair of sweats, hawked a loogie into the sink and sat down to his computer, which was left on from last night. He logged into his company’s network exactly at his start time and then lied down on his couch. He had set his computer speakers at the highest level so he could hear alerts when email and instant messages floated in. It wasn’t loud enough. Josh woke up at lunch time. He opened the refrigerator and grabbed the butter dish. When he removed the cover, the three-quarters stick of butter fell to the floor where it collected numerous dog hairs. Josh spent a half hour de-hairing the butter until he decided not to have macaroni and cheese for lunch. Instead, he got a loaf of bread and a jar of jelly and treated himself to bread slice jelly dip jubilee. With jelly on his face, Josh returned to his computer and began addressing work related issues sent to him via email. Soon this practice transformed into chatting on his favorite message board. The afternoon passed quickly. The work day ended. Josh logged off the network and returned to the couch to watch a rerun of The Simpsons.
OK, this was actually a description of what my day was like today. I have no idea what Josh is doing lately, but I think he repairs lightening rods.
Matt Hoffer – Matt did not join a Duran Duran cover band, as everyone expected he would do after the show. In fact, he was duped into singing that Duran Duran song by one of Mark Burnett’s hookers and has been trying to live it down ever since. A word to the wise – do not sing songs hookers in Hollywood ask you to sing on TV. Killing the hooker did him no good, but it did provide an opportunity for an Iowa-born starlet who had stepped off the bus that same day. He moved back to Chicago and has been spotted hanging with the Lovehammers. Like Snoopy playing the vulture in A Charlie Brown Christmas, he waits for something bad to happen to Billy Sawilchik so he can become their new guitarist. Little does he know that Billy wears the Reverse Amulet of Peril. For those of you who don’t know about this sort of thing, the Reverse Amulet of Peril is actually the Amulet of Peril (which brings peril and destruction and other kinds of fatal dangerousness to the bearer. For the life of me, I don’t know why anybody would wear one, but to each his own.), but he wears it in a special way, around the waist and hanging backwards down his butt crack (don’t worry, it is made out of an emulsified polybicarbonate material that is actually pretty comfy down there. Not that I would know, but I heard good things about it.) so that the normal, unfavorable effects of the amulet are reversed, thereby protecting the bearer from the ill will of loitering Snoopy vulture type people. Matt has his work cut out for him.
Dilana – The day after she was booted from the show, Dilana filed a multi-billion dollar law suit against Phillip Morris claiming that their cigarettes did not effectively erode her vocal cords to the refined quality to entice Suave Porn. She insists she religiously followed their “Two and a Half Packs a Day to Stardom” program (which has since been removed from their web site). She argues that her voice has turned into more of a Lucille Ball on acid than a smoky seductive Roctress. Phillip Morris provided no official statement regarding the law suit, although I did get one of their reps to admit in a bar that he did her.
Dana Andrews – Dana received a special gift from the Rock Star show – Tommy Lee’s demon seed. She went back to Georgia to have the baby and raise it on her own. She enjoyed being a mother so much that she now has five children from seven different fathers. Tommy Lee sends her a check for a hundred bucks each month to support his child. To make ends meet, Dana works the overnight shift at WalMart and sells heroin on the side. The heroin dealing is more of a hobby than an occupation. It’s a habit she picked up during her Rock Star days in Hollywood. She has also added to her other keepsake from the show – her tattoo. Her body is now ninety percent covered in tattoos, depicting her entire Rock Star experience – from the time she first entered the mansion on her little toe, to the pool table scene when she received Tommy Lee that is drawn on the left side of her neck. She has a special homage to Ryan Star on her anus, but she wouldn’t let me see it.
Phil Ritchie – After being brutally tossed off the show when Suave Porn found out he was only there to get exposure for his lame band, Phil tried bolstering his rebel, devil-may-care, rock star attitude by getting moose antlers surgically implanted to each of his scapula. He claimed it would make him look like a fallen angel and people would be enchanted by him. Eventually, he got tired of people hanging their coats, hats and purses on his “angel wing skeleton” during his band's shows. He ended up cracking them off in a revolving door, leaving two hideous, giant nipple-looking things in his back. He can deal with only two people hanging their coats on him while he rocks out, so they continued their bar tour across the central eastern seaboard.
Jill Goia – Jill’s body has become possessed by the spirit of Sam Kinison. He had been lurking in the ethereal world for quite some time waiting for the perfect screeching voice to seize so he could carry on his comical message. It didn’t matter to him whether the voice belonged to a man or a woman. Sam actually likes being inside of a woman’s body, if you can believe that. However, during the metaphysical transfiguration, Sam’s spirit began to accidentally rotate around its horizontal access, which caused some discombobulation in Jill’s brain. Consequently, Sam’s prior experience as a preacher melded with his latter experience as a comedian to form Jill’s new persona. She now travels the world trying to help people with Sam’s comedic routines. For example, she has just established a mission in the northern plains of Mali to tell those suffering from hunger to move to where the food is. That’s the only help she provides to them. She has also set up shelters for people with social anxiety where she conducts sessions of incessant screaming. Her most controversial cause concerns the training of lesbians to learn to lick the alphabet, with the hopes of them become self-assured enough to come out of the closet.
Chris Pierson – Chris continues to try to convince anyone who will listen (mostly convicts and people in confessional booths) that he is one of the best singers in the world, as he deduced from that fact that he was chosen to be on the Rock Star show. He was not making much progress so he penned a letter to Andy Summers when he heard The Police were planning to tour again. He included a tape of his rendition of Roxanne and assured Andy he would be available should Sting choose to “go Big Shot on their asses again and rip their rock and roll feedbags from their faces” before the tour was over. He also asked Andy Summers if he was related to Donna Summer, Suzanne Somers or Edgar Winter. Chris lives in a tent outside of his post office box in anticipation of Andy’s response.
Lukas Rossi – Lukas joined Suave Porn and was never heard of again.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Sid's Bored - AI 2/27
I'm stuck in the hospital with crappy channels and have an hour to spare before having to feed myself, so let's check out AI. I haven't been watching so I'm not sure who these people are or how this works. I think the winner gets to do a movie with Eddie Murphy. This ain't a regular feature, either... if you want that stuff go visit our old friend AMAI at Islands In The Stream. I believe it's a site dedicated to Kenny Rogers, Dolly Parton and home redecorating, but people seem to dig it.
First up - Phil - appears to be a Coast Guard dude that was released from his important role in the war on terror to share his gift with us. Apparently the gift of being a good karaoke guy. I won't be missing him at all when he goes away. Damn, Simon just stole my karaoke line. Then let's just say that Phil will be a fine line cook after serving his 39 tours of duty and he will probably get some consistant torn-up waitress tail by singing to them in the kitchen.
Jared is trying to accomplish something more adventurous by doing some Marvin Gaye. Because there's nothing edgier than Marvin Gaye. He looks like he just wants to hang out and tutor some underprivileged youth, but his parents are forcing him into being a man-child star. Like most of these songs, he makes me want to put on a Marvin Gaye record and forget I've ever heard this noise.
I missed AJ's backstory while trying to figure out how to upgrade my Blogger account. He picked a cool song, but it's a chick song. And while he did sing it like a chick and looked like a chick singing it, they should make him go sit with the girls and compete with them if he's going to be that way about it. Check out some Motorhead, AJ, and bring it like Lemme before you start menstruating.
Sanjaya - wow, pathetic. He's Indian, but the skinny dude put his hair up in a hat and he was a tad Prince-ish. If you dressed Prince at the Salvation Army, dumped some date-rape drug into his veins and then told him to make fun Harry Connick.
Chris - I'm sure I"m not the first to point out that he looks like Jack from the Osbournes. And he self-admittedly got the pretty hot wife despite his looks. Boring song, not much stage presence other than his Sideshow Bob haircut. Anyone that votes for this guy needs counseling.
Nick - He gushes a little too much about his girlfriend before the song, but picked a cool song (Fever) and did it without being annoying whatsoever. Not the greatest review, but I guess he should be thankful based on what I've seen so far.
Blake - He dresses like a fuckstick. Strike one. He wants to be Justin Timberlake. Strike two. He reminds you of your friend who thinks he's Justin Timberlake, you know, the one you just want to bitch slap and plant in the backyard. Strike three.
He'll probably win.
Brandon - I missed most of this performance but here are my vital signs as of 20:00 hours: Temp 37.3 C, BP 134/75, HR 81, Oxygen 99. Seemed like a pleasant enough song, but I won't be downloading that performance anytime soon. Or ever. Nor should anyone. But I bet his grandma liked it. Grandmas are like that.
Chris - Oooh, a second entry in the Timberlake subcompetition. I think Chris might be a better Justin than Blake. I still wanted to bitch slap him, but I think I'd spare planting him in any soil. Maybe he'll win.
Sundance - I saw Sundance's audition and I like him. But then he brings the most overplayed, make me want to scratch my eyes out, can't you think of anything else to request you blues club ninniies, songs - Mustang Sally. He makes it work and it's a nice change from the crap assembly line the other guys were working off of, but it wasn't much better than what you can hear on any given weekend in any given city with a fake blues club and a spare house band. I'll give him a break, but if I watch this show again, he had better be bringing the Motorhead unless he wants to end up going back to Saturday nights at the Roadhouse ($5 cover, $2.50 drafts all night long).
That's all I got. Go listen to some Maria McKee now.
First up - Phil - appears to be a Coast Guard dude that was released from his important role in the war on terror to share his gift with us. Apparently the gift of being a good karaoke guy. I won't be missing him at all when he goes away. Damn, Simon just stole my karaoke line. Then let's just say that Phil will be a fine line cook after serving his 39 tours of duty and he will probably get some consistant torn-up waitress tail by singing to them in the kitchen.
Jared is trying to accomplish something more adventurous by doing some Marvin Gaye. Because there's nothing edgier than Marvin Gaye. He looks like he just wants to hang out and tutor some underprivileged youth, but his parents are forcing him into being a man-child star. Like most of these songs, he makes me want to put on a Marvin Gaye record and forget I've ever heard this noise.
I missed AJ's backstory while trying to figure out how to upgrade my Blogger account. He picked a cool song, but it's a chick song. And while he did sing it like a chick and looked like a chick singing it, they should make him go sit with the girls and compete with them if he's going to be that way about it. Check out some Motorhead, AJ, and bring it like Lemme before you start menstruating.
Sanjaya - wow, pathetic. He's Indian, but the skinny dude put his hair up in a hat and he was a tad Prince-ish. If you dressed Prince at the Salvation Army, dumped some date-rape drug into his veins and then told him to make fun Harry Connick.
Chris - I'm sure I"m not the first to point out that he looks like Jack from the Osbournes. And he self-admittedly got the pretty hot wife despite his looks. Boring song, not much stage presence other than his Sideshow Bob haircut. Anyone that votes for this guy needs counseling.
Nick - He gushes a little too much about his girlfriend before the song, but picked a cool song (Fever) and did it without being annoying whatsoever. Not the greatest review, but I guess he should be thankful based on what I've seen so far.
Blake - He dresses like a fuckstick. Strike one. He wants to be Justin Timberlake. Strike two. He reminds you of your friend who thinks he's Justin Timberlake, you know, the one you just want to bitch slap and plant in the backyard. Strike three.
He'll probably win.
Brandon - I missed most of this performance but here are my vital signs as of 20:00 hours: Temp 37.3 C, BP 134/75, HR 81, Oxygen 99. Seemed like a pleasant enough song, but I won't be downloading that performance anytime soon. Or ever. Nor should anyone. But I bet his grandma liked it. Grandmas are like that.
Chris - Oooh, a second entry in the Timberlake subcompetition. I think Chris might be a better Justin than Blake. I still wanted to bitch slap him, but I think I'd spare planting him in any soil. Maybe he'll win.
Sundance - I saw Sundance's audition and I like him. But then he brings the most overplayed, make me want to scratch my eyes out, can't you think of anything else to request you blues club ninniies, songs - Mustang Sally. He makes it work and it's a nice change from the crap assembly line the other guys were working off of, but it wasn't much better than what you can hear on any given weekend in any given city with a fake blues club and a spare house band. I'll give him a break, but if I watch this show again, he had better be bringing the Motorhead unless he wants to end up going back to Saturday nights at the Roadhouse ($5 cover, $2.50 drafts all night long).
That's all I got. Go listen to some Maria McKee now.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Ode to the Chin
Bad, yet poignant, poetry by Captain Break-It
Many, many years ago
In a place from afar,
Out dropped a creature
From a chick named Babar.
This monster's head hit the floor
With a resounding din
Caused by the weight
Of its gigantic chin.
The doctors amputated the chin
After having a talk.
If not for this procedure
The mutant couldn't walk.
Babar finally decided
Sid be thy name since
It much better than the symbol
Formerly known as Prince
The chin remained dormant
For a plethora of years.
But this did little
To calm Babar's fears.
One day it happened,
The chin began to grow
Sometime around the period
Of Mr. Brady's fro.
Sid took his chin to college
To get a degree,
Where he met a bunch of losers
In the tower of Oglesby.
The chin was corrupted
By these wasters of life.
All that was left
Was Pink Floyd and a knife.
The deans of the school
Said in a rage,
You don't belong here,
Try the College of DuPage.
The chin went back home
To take the suburbs by storm.
For the chin could not
Be confined by a dorm.
Sid plotted his return
While attending C.O.D.,
He knew in his heart
The chin had to be free.
The Coalition awaited
His triumphant return,
There was a place called Leper House
That needed to burn.
The chin finally returned
And had grown into many
Along with our Sid
Now came Vinny and Lenny.
The chin and its trio,
With their fury unleashed,
Everyone thought,
"What a dick!"
The power of the chin
Mesmerized the masses.
Even the mighty Coalition
Couldn't make it to classes.
With the college ladies
Sid was a hit.
They swarmed to his chin
Like flies do to shit.
Attempts at his life
Were brushed aside with ease.
He even survived
A case of killer pubic fleas.
The day finally came
For him to leave school.
The chin had a business world
That it had to rule.
The chin stood up
And pointed north with his hand.
He shouted, "I'm leaving now
To be the King of SeaLand."
The chin was so bad
At routing its freight,
He was banished forever
To the Lone Star State.
The chin was welcomed
With a "Howdy, y'all".
Sid cracked a smile.
Texas would fall.
Sid is still there
To this very day.
The last I heard
He was drinking with Ray.
Some say the chin is shrinking.
I don't know about that.
I kind of think
His head has gotten fat.
Many, many years ago
In a place from afar,
Out dropped a creature
From a chick named Babar.
This monster's head hit the floor
With a resounding din
Caused by the weight
Of its gigantic chin.
The doctors amputated the chin
After having a talk.
If not for this procedure
The mutant couldn't walk.
Babar finally decided
Sid be thy name since
It much better than the symbol
Formerly known as Prince
The chin remained dormant
For a plethora of years.
But this did little
To calm Babar's fears.
One day it happened,
The chin began to grow
Sometime around the period
Of Mr. Brady's fro.
Sid took his chin to college
To get a degree,
Where he met a bunch of losers
In the tower of Oglesby.
The chin was corrupted
By these wasters of life.
All that was left
Was Pink Floyd and a knife.
The deans of the school
Said in a rage,
You don't belong here,
Try the College of DuPage.
The chin went back home
To take the suburbs by storm.
For the chin could not
Be confined by a dorm.
Sid plotted his return
While attending C.O.D.,
He knew in his heart
The chin had to be free.
The Coalition awaited
His triumphant return,
There was a place called Leper House
That needed to burn.
The chin finally returned
And had grown into many
Along with our Sid
Now came Vinny and Lenny.
The chin and its trio,
With their fury unleashed,
Everyone thought,
"What a dick!"
The power of the chin
Mesmerized the masses.
Even the mighty Coalition
Couldn't make it to classes.
With the college ladies
Sid was a hit.
They swarmed to his chin
Like flies do to shit.
Attempts at his life
Were brushed aside with ease.
He even survived
A case of killer pubic fleas.
The day finally came
For him to leave school.
The chin had a business world
That it had to rule.
The chin stood up
And pointed north with his hand.
He shouted, "I'm leaving now
To be the King of SeaLand."
The chin was so bad
At routing its freight,
He was banished forever
To the Lone Star State.
The chin was welcomed
With a "Howdy, y'all".
Sid cracked a smile.
Texas would fall.
Sid is still there
To this very day.
The last I heard
He was drinking with Ray.
Some say the chin is shrinking.
I don't know about that.
I kind of think
His head has gotten fat.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
An Innovative Swarm
The WNBA began in 1997. The league has enjoyed some success, more than their predecessors, but has not gained the popularity of the men’s game. During their ten years of play, I’ve seen maybe thirty minutes of exciting WNBA action. I would probably watch more if they would broadcast it on PBS and if I liked watching basketball. I don’t watch many NBA games, either, so it’s not like I’m purposely boycotting the WNBA. I would rather play than watch. That is until both my rotator cuffs stopped rotating and my knees decided to hate me with pain.
I’m looking out my window, and a large green garbage truck is parked outside my house while the garbage man tends to my trash in the driving snow. For some reason, I don’t want that large green truck to leave. But, it did.
While experiencing my thirty minutes of WNBA viewing, over multiple sittings, I realized that the WNBA game is not much different than that of the NBA, which we should call the MNBA, and refer to only the umbrella organization over both leagues as the NBA. But the men probably don’t want to be bothered by Inuit art enthusiasts who would mistake them for the Musée National des Beaux-Arts in Quebec. It’s hard to do a lay-up when some guy is trying to get you to autograph his caribou sculpture. Why does the women’s league have to lug around an extra letter in their acronym? Because this society places greater burdens on women than it does on men, that’s why. And that’s wrong. Please remember to vote for me in the 2007 Male Feminist of the Year competition sponsored by oxygen.com. If I win, I get a $100 gift card to Crate & Barrel and a trophy in the shape of a burned bra.
In the WNBA, they dribble, pass, shoot, steal, rebound, sweat, spit, pat each other’s asses, have pillow fights, scratch each others eyes out, stop talking to each other, and if you don’t know why I’m upset, I’m not going to tell you, just like they do in the MNBA. One difference is that the MNBA has a habit of impregnating groupies out of wedlock across the country, which is something I haven’t seen in the WNBA. I wonder why that is. I remember that neither league swarms around the ball and runs around the court like a gaggle of paparazzi hounding Lindsay Lohan for a nipple shot. I didn’t notice they were not doing this at the time I was watching since I never even considered it as a basketball strategy. But then I watched my daughter and her schoolmates play in their fifth grade after school basketball program. As it turns out, the after school program girls identify a lot of aspects of basketball that the professional game is missing, but the swarm is their prevailing statement.
Since the after school program is not a league, there are no set teams. Teams are chosen at the beginning of each session from the girls in attendance. Although the teams are determined by a seemingly fair, two captain-based draft system, arguments prevail while feelings are hurt. Picking somebody first last week is not always a valid contract for a return favor the next week when last week’s first-picked girl is now the captain who is best friends (for the time being) with some other girl. Player quality is not always a factor in draft order, either, but shoe color and who sits next to whom in class seem to be.
The program is managed by Mr. Christopher, who is either a saint or really hates going home to his family. Or maybe he needs the extra $1000 a year for supervising an extracurricular activity, which he probably spends on aspirin and ear plugs. By the time I was available to attend a game, the season was just about over. Apparently, Mr. Christopher had long given up trying to teach basketball to these young ladies, and preferred to watch the clock and hope nobody was killed or maimed, while the girls re-invented the game. Little girls have a tendency to enhance their competitiveness through the dulcet sounds of screaming. Based on what I observed, they are full of ideas on how the game should actually be played, regardless of the rulebook, and were not shy about making Mr. Christopher aware of their proposed rule changes with a considerable volume of zeal. He ratified most of their suggestions, except the one about if you hit the referee (him) in the head with the ball, you get a point.
There wasn’t much passing, and when there was it was due to a dribble gone awry instead of an actual attempt to get the ball to a teammate. The girls chose to borrow from football and employ “the handoff” as a safer means of distributing the ball. Most girls would dribble the ball until one of four things happened: 1. They were swarmed by all other players who wanted the ball (including teammates) and could not move. 2. An occurrence of dribbling gone awry (see above) 3. They would actually get a clear shot and throw the ball in the general direction of the basket. 4. The school year came to an end. Once another girl stripped the ball, or was given the ball by the ball handler, she would take off running and dribbling in the most open direction, with no regard to where her basket was. The goal was to break free from the swarm and regroup at another point on the floor. For anybody that has seen a National Geographic episode, you know that this is classic swarm survival behavior. The swarm would usually catch up to the new ball handling girl in a moment or two unless she accidentally went in the direction of her basket and was able to get a shot off. Even then the swarm charged after the ball even though it was no longer officially in play. Mr. Christopher didn’t enforce the rules very much, probably because the girls changed them as they played and he couldn't keep track of them. As long as the ball stayed in bounds and nobody was crying, he kept his whistle on mute.
My daughter tried to infiltrate the hive each time it swarmed around a new queen bee ball handler, but, being smaller than everybody else she rarely penetrated the outer defenses. One time she was able to crawl between the feet of the others and pull down the sock of the ball holder. This caused the girl to drop the ball because she was upset that the uneven sock look did not go with her hair style. I figured that was going to be the highlight of the game for my daughter, a memory she could tell her grandchildren about. It was quite a nice defensive play, one that I’ve never even seen Michael Jordan do.
The swarm buzzed around the floor for about 40 minutes, with the ball accidentally going in the basket a few times. Mr. Christopher had begun sucking on his shirt collar for strength or as evidence of his pending psychosis. Eventually, my daughter did get the ball when it popped out of the swarm like an elusive bar of soap in the shower. Her instincts took over as she started dribbling for the other team’s basket. I almost shouted, “Wrong basket!” but I didn’t want to look like Kathy Lee Gifford. Whenever I shout I project a strange resemblance to Kathy Lee Gifford. I’ve been told that many times. Maybe it’s my hair. She continued to dribble with aplomb. She reminded me of Curly Neal, except with more hair. I credit the rubbly nature of my driveway and my lack of ability to fix it to account for her dribbling adeptness. If you can dribble on my driveway, which is where she practices, you can dribble on any type of nasty surface, such as Bill O’Reilley’s face (and, please do), so the smooth gym floor posed no problem for her. She zigged and zagged and zooged (like zig zagging, but on different plane), always staying one step ahead of the swarm. When she got to the other team’s basket, she looped around and headed back towards her team’s goal. She had worn out the swarm, and had a clear path to the hoop. Her only contention was Ashley Grobel, who was standing inside the key awaiting my daughter’s approach. However, Ashley’s “I want to go home” defensive technique was no match for my daughter’s “I gotta shoot this thing before I fall down” drive to the basket and subsequent power dunk, shattering the backboard glass. Well, that’s what it looked like to me as she shot-put the ball at the basket where it scraped the rim and gently teetered over it through the net. While I awaited her teammates to revel in her achievement, she looked at me with a proud yet timid, glowing little smile. I smiled back with a prouder and glorious glow. Then she was trampled by the swarm, which was more interested in the loose ball than they were that a basket had been made.
I’m not sure who won the game. It didn’t matter. My daughter fought the swarm and she won. I’m sure there are many other stories just like this one that happened to other people’s daughters during that game, but none I paid attention to. Maybe this is why the WNBA has not incorporated the swarm into their game. It may only be interesting to the parents of each player. Maybe we’ll need to wait until these innovative young ladies grow up and find themselves in positions to change the WNBA so that it becomes as popular as the men’s version of the game. Maybe they need to televise the games on PBS. Maybe the WNBA players need to learn how to impregnate groupies. I don’t know. I’m not an innovative swarming little girl. But, I live with one, and that’s good enough for me.
I’m looking out my window, and a large green garbage truck is parked outside my house while the garbage man tends to my trash in the driving snow. For some reason, I don’t want that large green truck to leave. But, it did.
While experiencing my thirty minutes of WNBA viewing, over multiple sittings, I realized that the WNBA game is not much different than that of the NBA, which we should call the MNBA, and refer to only the umbrella organization over both leagues as the NBA. But the men probably don’t want to be bothered by Inuit art enthusiasts who would mistake them for the Musée National des Beaux-Arts in Quebec. It’s hard to do a lay-up when some guy is trying to get you to autograph his caribou sculpture. Why does the women’s league have to lug around an extra letter in their acronym? Because this society places greater burdens on women than it does on men, that’s why. And that’s wrong. Please remember to vote for me in the 2007 Male Feminist of the Year competition sponsored by oxygen.com. If I win, I get a $100 gift card to Crate & Barrel and a trophy in the shape of a burned bra.
In the WNBA, they dribble, pass, shoot, steal, rebound, sweat, spit, pat each other’s asses, have pillow fights, scratch each others eyes out, stop talking to each other, and if you don’t know why I’m upset, I’m not going to tell you, just like they do in the MNBA. One difference is that the MNBA has a habit of impregnating groupies out of wedlock across the country, which is something I haven’t seen in the WNBA. I wonder why that is. I remember that neither league swarms around the ball and runs around the court like a gaggle of paparazzi hounding Lindsay Lohan for a nipple shot. I didn’t notice they were not doing this at the time I was watching since I never even considered it as a basketball strategy. But then I watched my daughter and her schoolmates play in their fifth grade after school basketball program. As it turns out, the after school program girls identify a lot of aspects of basketball that the professional game is missing, but the swarm is their prevailing statement.
Since the after school program is not a league, there are no set teams. Teams are chosen at the beginning of each session from the girls in attendance. Although the teams are determined by a seemingly fair, two captain-based draft system, arguments prevail while feelings are hurt. Picking somebody first last week is not always a valid contract for a return favor the next week when last week’s first-picked girl is now the captain who is best friends (for the time being) with some other girl. Player quality is not always a factor in draft order, either, but shoe color and who sits next to whom in class seem to be.
The program is managed by Mr. Christopher, who is either a saint or really hates going home to his family. Or maybe he needs the extra $1000 a year for supervising an extracurricular activity, which he probably spends on aspirin and ear plugs. By the time I was available to attend a game, the season was just about over. Apparently, Mr. Christopher had long given up trying to teach basketball to these young ladies, and preferred to watch the clock and hope nobody was killed or maimed, while the girls re-invented the game. Little girls have a tendency to enhance their competitiveness through the dulcet sounds of screaming. Based on what I observed, they are full of ideas on how the game should actually be played, regardless of the rulebook, and were not shy about making Mr. Christopher aware of their proposed rule changes with a considerable volume of zeal. He ratified most of their suggestions, except the one about if you hit the referee (him) in the head with the ball, you get a point.
There wasn’t much passing, and when there was it was due to a dribble gone awry instead of an actual attempt to get the ball to a teammate. The girls chose to borrow from football and employ “the handoff” as a safer means of distributing the ball. Most girls would dribble the ball until one of four things happened: 1. They were swarmed by all other players who wanted the ball (including teammates) and could not move. 2. An occurrence of dribbling gone awry (see above) 3. They would actually get a clear shot and throw the ball in the general direction of the basket. 4. The school year came to an end. Once another girl stripped the ball, or was given the ball by the ball handler, she would take off running and dribbling in the most open direction, with no regard to where her basket was. The goal was to break free from the swarm and regroup at another point on the floor. For anybody that has seen a National Geographic episode, you know that this is classic swarm survival behavior. The swarm would usually catch up to the new ball handling girl in a moment or two unless she accidentally went in the direction of her basket and was able to get a shot off. Even then the swarm charged after the ball even though it was no longer officially in play. Mr. Christopher didn’t enforce the rules very much, probably because the girls changed them as they played and he couldn't keep track of them. As long as the ball stayed in bounds and nobody was crying, he kept his whistle on mute.
My daughter tried to infiltrate the hive each time it swarmed around a new queen bee ball handler, but, being smaller than everybody else she rarely penetrated the outer defenses. One time she was able to crawl between the feet of the others and pull down the sock of the ball holder. This caused the girl to drop the ball because she was upset that the uneven sock look did not go with her hair style. I figured that was going to be the highlight of the game for my daughter, a memory she could tell her grandchildren about. It was quite a nice defensive play, one that I’ve never even seen Michael Jordan do.
The swarm buzzed around the floor for about 40 minutes, with the ball accidentally going in the basket a few times. Mr. Christopher had begun sucking on his shirt collar for strength or as evidence of his pending psychosis. Eventually, my daughter did get the ball when it popped out of the swarm like an elusive bar of soap in the shower. Her instincts took over as she started dribbling for the other team’s basket. I almost shouted, “Wrong basket!” but I didn’t want to look like Kathy Lee Gifford. Whenever I shout I project a strange resemblance to Kathy Lee Gifford. I’ve been told that many times. Maybe it’s my hair. She continued to dribble with aplomb. She reminded me of Curly Neal, except with more hair. I credit the rubbly nature of my driveway and my lack of ability to fix it to account for her dribbling adeptness. If you can dribble on my driveway, which is where she practices, you can dribble on any type of nasty surface, such as Bill O’Reilley’s face (and, please do), so the smooth gym floor posed no problem for her. She zigged and zagged and zooged (like zig zagging, but on different plane), always staying one step ahead of the swarm. When she got to the other team’s basket, she looped around and headed back towards her team’s goal. She had worn out the swarm, and had a clear path to the hoop. Her only contention was Ashley Grobel, who was standing inside the key awaiting my daughter’s approach. However, Ashley’s “I want to go home” defensive technique was no match for my daughter’s “I gotta shoot this thing before I fall down” drive to the basket and subsequent power dunk, shattering the backboard glass. Well, that’s what it looked like to me as she shot-put the ball at the basket where it scraped the rim and gently teetered over it through the net. While I awaited her teammates to revel in her achievement, she looked at me with a proud yet timid, glowing little smile. I smiled back with a prouder and glorious glow. Then she was trampled by the swarm, which was more interested in the loose ball than they were that a basket had been made.
I’m not sure who won the game. It didn’t matter. My daughter fought the swarm and she won. I’m sure there are many other stories just like this one that happened to other people’s daughters during that game, but none I paid attention to. Maybe this is why the WNBA has not incorporated the swarm into their game. It may only be interesting to the parents of each player. Maybe we’ll need to wait until these innovative young ladies grow up and find themselves in positions to change the WNBA so that it becomes as popular as the men’s version of the game. Maybe they need to televise the games on PBS. Maybe the WNBA players need to learn how to impregnate groupies. I don’t know. I’m not an innovative swarming little girl. But, I live with one, and that’s good enough for me.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Bloated Portrayal of Surrender
When I committed the aberration, I thought nothing of it. Although I sensed it was immoral, from some perspectives, I felt it fair as I was only affecting myself. The transparency of my window did not give mandatory license to observe. Eventually, the hearsay disseminated, and, of course, I abnegated it entirely. Not one person believed me. The authorities were persistent with their efforts to ensure I pay for what I had done. After an exhausting fight on my behalf, I finally acquiesced.
They subjected me to some anomalous punishment involving a rake, a few straws and some eraser shavings. Hoping that they would force me to beseech, the tormentors increased the severity of the flogging at a constant rate. I did not fall prey to their cajoling. When it was evident their will was inferior to mine, they suspended their castigation.
I formulated and presented a cogent argument for my release, assuring to them that I was not a contagion to society. I convinced them that I would not defile their community. Subsequently, I was allowed to return home where I immediately penned a letter of diatribe to my congressman expressing to him my dismay to the way I was processed. I explained the impact of my dissoluteness was felt only by me. Surely, he could respect my right to individualism within my own home.
After I had mailed the letter, I sat and pondered. Had this experience enervated me? No! In reality, it had made me much stronger. So strong, in my mind, I exonerated my persecutors. Little did they know their admonishment had only reinforced my fecund nature. I looked for novel and arresting ways to secure my role as a heretic.
The actual course of my commitment to nonconformity was indeterminate. However, I did infuse a wide variety of over-the-counter drugs into my diet. The interfusion of these pharmaceuticals and my usual libations did nothing more than grieve my depths, but I continued ingesting the combination nonetheless. I sat for weeks enduring my internal jeremiads while contemplating strategies to express my raison d’etre.
Fatefully, I received a phone call from the office of my congressman. The emissary informed me that the call was in response to my written correspondence to his reverence. I proclaimed my joy to have actually received a response from a government proxy. Luckily, before I extended too many laudations, the other man denounced my actions and chided my licentious existence. My ligneous expression revealed the shock I had felt (although he could not see me because we were conversing by phone). I began to offer my defense, but futility repressed me. The correspondent was not in the least malleable. His opinion of me remained the same. He expanded his criticism of me by informing me that what I had done was no mere peccadillo. Overcome by indifference, I hung up the phone.
Had the government abandoned me and those like me (if any)? Had I lost one of the most pragmatic securities of living in an organized, free state? Was I a man without a country, like Kurt Vonnegut? Confidence in myself waned, but not for long. I came to the conclusion that my realm was my own being and nothing more. I was not a protraction of any other entity, and no opposition could compel me to recant. Not caring if my actions were salubrious, I bought a firearm and headed into the city.
After a fortnight of roaming the streets searching for a subject upon which to relinquish my aggression, I realized I had neglected to obtain appropriate ammunition for my pistol. I explored the ground for discarded bullets, but I found a scanty supply (none, actually). I was determined not to be subsumed into the existing structure of order. Since no traveling munitions merchant came to my succor, I decided to return to my fortress to regroup.
Within the ramparts of my sanctuary, I questioned the sanity of my mission and my being. Unsuccessfully probing the inner nooks of my mind for an amelioration, I screamed the wanting words of a supplicant and received no answer. My turbid state of mind forced me to only one recourse. Though I did not desire this outcome, the rigid nature of circumstances had destroyed my usual unflappable demeanor. I accepted it. All aspirations for veneration had expired inside of me. I chose to vilify myself. Slowly, apprehensively, I closed the drapes and returned to my trousers.
They subjected me to some anomalous punishment involving a rake, a few straws and some eraser shavings. Hoping that they would force me to beseech, the tormentors increased the severity of the flogging at a constant rate. I did not fall prey to their cajoling. When it was evident their will was inferior to mine, they suspended their castigation.
I formulated and presented a cogent argument for my release, assuring to them that I was not a contagion to society. I convinced them that I would not defile their community. Subsequently, I was allowed to return home where I immediately penned a letter of diatribe to my congressman expressing to him my dismay to the way I was processed. I explained the impact of my dissoluteness was felt only by me. Surely, he could respect my right to individualism within my own home.
After I had mailed the letter, I sat and pondered. Had this experience enervated me? No! In reality, it had made me much stronger. So strong, in my mind, I exonerated my persecutors. Little did they know their admonishment had only reinforced my fecund nature. I looked for novel and arresting ways to secure my role as a heretic.
The actual course of my commitment to nonconformity was indeterminate. However, I did infuse a wide variety of over-the-counter drugs into my diet. The interfusion of these pharmaceuticals and my usual libations did nothing more than grieve my depths, but I continued ingesting the combination nonetheless. I sat for weeks enduring my internal jeremiads while contemplating strategies to express my raison d’etre.
Fatefully, I received a phone call from the office of my congressman. The emissary informed me that the call was in response to my written correspondence to his reverence. I proclaimed my joy to have actually received a response from a government proxy. Luckily, before I extended too many laudations, the other man denounced my actions and chided my licentious existence. My ligneous expression revealed the shock I had felt (although he could not see me because we were conversing by phone). I began to offer my defense, but futility repressed me. The correspondent was not in the least malleable. His opinion of me remained the same. He expanded his criticism of me by informing me that what I had done was no mere peccadillo. Overcome by indifference, I hung up the phone.
Had the government abandoned me and those like me (if any)? Had I lost one of the most pragmatic securities of living in an organized, free state? Was I a man without a country, like Kurt Vonnegut? Confidence in myself waned, but not for long. I came to the conclusion that my realm was my own being and nothing more. I was not a protraction of any other entity, and no opposition could compel me to recant. Not caring if my actions were salubrious, I bought a firearm and headed into the city.
After a fortnight of roaming the streets searching for a subject upon which to relinquish my aggression, I realized I had neglected to obtain appropriate ammunition for my pistol. I explored the ground for discarded bullets, but I found a scanty supply (none, actually). I was determined not to be subsumed into the existing structure of order. Since no traveling munitions merchant came to my succor, I decided to return to my fortress to regroup.
Within the ramparts of my sanctuary, I questioned the sanity of my mission and my being. Unsuccessfully probing the inner nooks of my mind for an amelioration, I screamed the wanting words of a supplicant and received no answer. My turbid state of mind forced me to only one recourse. Though I did not desire this outcome, the rigid nature of circumstances had destroyed my usual unflappable demeanor. I accepted it. All aspirations for veneration had expired inside of me. I chose to vilify myself. Slowly, apprehensively, I closed the drapes and returned to my trousers.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)