I opened the mailbox the other day to a surprise. A generic looking brown envelope. The return address was from Seattle, my beloved hometown. "10 Club." It's from Pearl Jam.
Inside was a white vinyl single for "The Fixer" (B-side is "Supersonic") from the upcoming record Backspacer. The record doesn't come out for another month.
It felt like when I was a kid and would order limited edition G.I. Joe figures with the "Flag Points" that I had collected. A little rush of excitement for a grown up toy: rock and roll on wax. Never grow up, my friends.
Spin the black circle...
Viva la vinyl...
The video is directed by Cameron Crowe. Shot at one of my childhood haunts, the Showbox in downtown Seattle.
On my way to meet my buddies Mike and Brent for lunch, I was walking through the Upper West Side. On 76th Street there was a building under construction. One of those beautiful pre-war brownstones that will sell for $5 million bucks when finished. On the door of the building was a familiar figure.
Man, it has been hot this past summer in New York City. Beyond hot. The kind of hot where Bugs Bunny would be crawling through the desert, hallucinate and see a lush tropical oasis in the distance. Bugs would sprint toward the mirage and jump into the non-existent pool of water only to snap out of his heat-induced delusion and realize he’s drinking sand.
Scientists – or witch doctors and astrologists depending on your viewpoint – are telling us that the rise in temperature and all-around freaky weather is a result of global warming. That is why the icebergs are melting like the ocean is hot chocolate. Muskoxen are bartering with Eskimos for air conditioners. Polar bears are having difficulty finding areas to hunt. Sharks have begun sweating in the Atlantic Ocean. Even the cute little penguins are dancing less than they do on television. I’m not a scientist, but I heard that is true.
My point it has been bloody hot this summer.
There are people like myself that run hot. There isn't anything I can do about it. I'm a human heat pump. "Johnny! Dude, were you doing step-aerobics in the sauna?!? You're dripping." "Uh, no, I brushed my teeth 20 minutes ago."
I dread the summer. One uncomfortable overheated day after another.
The picture above was taken this morning during a meeting at Comedy Central. I had just walked 9 blocks from the train and was nearing a stroke. My boy Adam put that pic on his Twitter with the caption "When it gets above 50 degrees, Johnny sweats like R Kelly at a Girl Scout camp." That's not bad. Cheeky monkey.
Daniel Johnston is a fascinating musician. If not for the mental illness that has plagued him all his adult life, he may have been regarded as one of the great singer-songwriters of his era. Perhaps along the lines of Brian Wilson or Tom Waits. Here a disturbed Daniel sings/wails his song "Don't Play Cards With Satan." There has been times where Daniel's music has moved me to tears.
Audio of Ernest Hemingway is hard to come by. There isn't very much of it. However, Papa's brief and poignant speech as he accepted the Nobel Prize in 1954 makes up for the lack of material. Powerful words from my hero.
When Andy Kaufman appeared on The Dating Game, how many people knew he was doing a character? The character that would become Latka on Taxi. "What do you want for Christmas?" "Food." Amazing.
I'm not sure what it is about this song that makes me so happy. Perhaps it's the memories of Saturday mornings tucked in sleeping bags eating cereal while we watched cartoons. School House Rock is an institution. Bringing this full circle, Daniel Johnston covered this song ("Unpack Your Adjectives") on the record Schoolhouse Rock! Rocks.
My first job out of college here in Manhattan was a CBS Page. After bouncing around various shows for a few weeks and a little maneuvering, I was put into the CBS newsroom. There I assisted where I could and watched Dan Rather and Bob Schieffer put together the nightly newscast.
On the one year anniversary of the 9/11 attacks, I was in the newsroom. It was a marathon day. 20 hours. People were running ragged, chugging coffee, barely holding it together. Late in the afternoon, the bustling newsroom got quiet. In succession, one by one, people stopped working. Then they stood up. Walter Cronkite had walked into the room. Slowly. Cronkite waved his hand and smiled warmly. Then disappeared into the hallway. Why did everyone stand? Why did we all pause on the busiest news day of the year?
Out of respect. Respect for the greatest newsman there ever was. That's the way it is, friends.
While his most famous broadcast is probably announcing the death of President Kennedy, it's Cronkite bringing America sights and sounds of the moon landing in 1969 that is his most endearing moment.
Goodnight Uncle Walter. Sleep warm. And thank you...
On a slow Friday, it's time for a few videos I have enjoyed recently on the YouTube. A little peek into pop culture history.
The first time the great detective Sherlock Holmes was featured on the silver screen was in 1900. A silent short called Sherlock Holmes Baffled.(The copyright on the film is 1903, but it was shot in 1900.) A taste:
Those special effects ain't bad for 1900.
I had this bit on VHS as a teen. Recorded off CBS. Steve Martin and David Letterman at their best in "Dave and Steve's Gay Vacation." It really is an homage to silent film comics like Charlie Chaplin, Harold Lloyd and Buster Keaton.
Pearl Jam covered Elvis' "Little Sister" live in Vegas. Incredible.
Some vintage nature photography. An epic battle. Tiger versus crocodile.
In 1956 the mystery guest on What's My Line was none other than the great Walt Disney. Jerry Lewis is here as well. I often feel that I am in the right place, just the wrong time.
Last night my buddy Adam and I hopped a downtown train and attended Gawker Media's shindig promoting the HBO showTrue Blood. Joining other media elite and entertainment dignitaries. We think this means that Adam and I are now going to be featured on the Gawker Stalker. "Johnny Wright is going back to Gray's Papaya hot dogs. He had breakfast there this morning. What a jerk."
You'll see in the picture that we both have a shoulder bag on. This is beacuse we were unsure just how many vampires would be in attendance. Thus, we needed to pack along vampire hunter kits. I had the crucifix's and wooden mallet, Adam had the garlic and holy water. Thankfully, we only had to dispatch of three vampires. Slow night.
For the last few weeks, my buddy Adam and I have been doing video podcasts called 3 Chords & the Truth. The title is a phrase that I used over the years. Bono said it in U2's live version of "All Along the Watchtower." It's an old blues expression. Sometimes 3 chords and passion is all your need.
If you would like to see me and Adam rant and rave about complete nonsense, you can go to our YouTube page.
I'll put a sample down below. Where I express my disgust that a movie star can't have a good old fashioned barroom scrap with the fuzz and publicists getting involved.
Whenever someone asks me why I love Manhattan as much as I do, I may begin telling this story.
Out and about on a sunny Saturday, I passed through the Times Square station to change trains. I heard something in the distance. A familiar refrain. Is that "Smooth Criminal?" Damn right it was. There was also cheering. Better investigate.
Coming around the corner in the dank subway station I froze in my tracks. Is that what I think it is? By Odin's beard ... It is. That's a midget Michael Jackson impersonator shaking his tail feather. The crowd was loving it. Little MJ grabbed his little ballsack and everything.
The song ended and then I heard something that made this even more surreal. A local mother wanted to capture the moment in pictures. She directed her son to approach the performer. The child's name was amazing. "Messiah! Go stand next to midget Michael Jackson so I can get a picture!"
That's a sentence I never thought I'd hear.
Good luck topping that weekend sight, Planet Earth.
For years I have lugged around a Mead Composition Notebook with me. It's an obsessive habit. The notes for columns and articles go in them. As do the rough drafts of letters. (Yes, sometimes letters get a rough draft when you are ridiculous.) Part of this habit is inspired by Eddie Vedder, who uses the same tool to write songs and set lists in. My Notebook is often covered with stickers and Sharpied phrases and quotes.
The Notebook travels with me. (I know I'm capitalizing it. The Notebook is my good friend.) You never know when a good A-Rod joke could pop into your brain. You need to jot that puppy down.
Which leads us to this short anecdote. I was on the subway this morning. Pretty early for a Saturday. I was seated near the door, scribbling some notes about an upcoming YesButNoButYes column. A Chinese gentleman was standing next to me, looking over my shoulder. Sensing his presence, as one does when someone is reading over your shoulder, I looked up. The chap cocked his head to the side and asked "You're trying to write Arabic?"
For crying out loud ... "Uh, no, that's English."
"Oh," he said.
Should have lied. "Yep, that's Arabic. No big deal."
My handwriting is notoriously bad. It's a strange twisting beast that is usually only legible to myself. If I slow down and concentrate it's not that bad. However the only time I do that is if I am writing a letter to my Mum or to the female object of my affection. The fairer sex has always received letters from yours truly. Always will. I feel it's a lost art; the good love letter. Those, for the most part are legible. Every so often I have been asked "Uh, sweetheart, is this word 'adorable?'" "Oh, that's actually 'trousers.'"
So shut up Jackie Chan reading over my shoulder on the subway. I'm the only one reading this. So what if one needs the forces of divination to decipher my President Obama joke.
I haven't put anything up here in a while because I have been busy with other writing. So, why not a few YouTube vids that have caught my attention recently.
In 1955 Gene Kelly starred in a film calledIt's Always Fair Weather. Certainly not a box office hit or as famous as his other song and dance hootenannies, but the show has on of the most incredible sequences you'll ever see. Gene Kelly tap-dancing on freaking roller skates.
Spanish surrealist painter Salvador Dali was a bit nuts. The word eccentric doesn't begin to cover his antics. But he was amazing. Check out his work. Not the melting clock nonsense or the Lobster Telephone, try Swans Reflecting Elephants or The Face of War. Brilliant. Here Dali was a guest on the classic TV show What's My Line.
Ricky Jay is a master magician. He is also a talented writer and knowledgeable show bidness historian. I'm a fan of his books as they cover the history of the odd and bizarre. In the stacks of the J-Dub Memorial Library you'll find Jay's Journal of Anomalies, Dice: Deception, Fate and Rotten Luck and Learned Pigs and Fireproof Women.His skills and patter are really entertaining.
When it comes to theatrical freaks, few can top Prince Randian. He was a chap that was just a torso. No arms or legs. He was sometimes known as The Pillow Man or The Human Caterpillar. Believe it or not, Prince Randain was married and had five children. He was quite capable. See him fire up a cigarette with just his mouth from the film Freaks.
Extra tidbit: Freaks was banned in the United Kingdom for 30 years due to "shocking content."
And finally...
Just watch John Lee Hooker work his mojo. I saw John at the Seattle-based Bumbershoot festival in 1992. I was 17 and already obsessed with the blues. Sing it John...
In December I pre-ordered Pearl Jam's Super Deluxe Box Set of their debut album, "Ten." It wasn't going to be shipped until March. So it was to be a birthday present to myself. When you're older you can do that and it's not weird.
The package came today. Along with all the goodies -- 2 CD's, a DVD, 3 vinyl records, a book and other assorted goodies -- was the prized possession; A vinyl copy of my first rock concert and one of the seminal moments of my childhood. Pearl Jam's legendary free show, Drop in the Park in 1992. I was there.
As I opened the package and saw the record, I couldn't believe what I saw. There is Ed swinging over the crowd from his microphone cord. A story that I have told countless times to anyone that will listen and am thrilled I now have visual proof of the story's validity. And in the middle of the photo, adjacent to Ed's ankle, there I am, looking on in awe. Right where my finger is. That's me, wearing a Who t-shirt.
That day in Magnusson Park was a momentous occasion for a 17-year-old obsessed with music. I remember the entire day in great detail. Detail that was confirmed as I poured over the accompanying photos in the box set. Right down to what the band was wearing, I remembered.
The magic that spilled from the speakers that day still exists. I'm quite proud that I can still get that feeling from music. It's the same feeling I had as a teenager. It's more rare than it was, but it's a carbon copy. The hairs on my neck stand at attention, my head bobs instinctually and I lose myself in a musical moment.
Truthfully, I'd rather be dead than not feel it ever again.
Goofy's Sour Balls candy from Disneyland. One of the great candies in the world. An underrated and rare candy.
They can only be found in the Disney theme parks. The family was there a couple weeks ago. They had the foresight to lug a "family sized" bag of Sour Balls back for my birthday. That's how easy it is to please me. Appease the childlike sweet-tooth and I'm happy as Larry.
Candy. It's as simple as that.
Oh yeah, the Sour Balls? They're already half gone...
I got a call from my buddy Jon Heder last week. He's here in New York doing reshoots for a film called When In Rome. We've been able to hang out a few times. They have been good times.
When I asked Jon where he was staying he paused. "You're going to laugh. I'm at the Trump Tower." Wow. When I headed to the Trump, it was just as you'd expect. Gaudy as the day is long. Pink and gold. The trash can in the loo is gold. The joint looks like Melanie Griffith threw up.
As we were leaving the hotel, and joking about how ridiculous it is that he was staying there, (and on the top floor) the Kardashian sisters passed us in the lobby. Incredibly funny.
For my fourth annual 30th birthday, Jon took me to dinner. He found a perfect joint to go to. A steak house called Quality Meats. It was spot on. Not some annoying place called Exhale or Smoke or Prey. You get what's advertised. Quality meats.
While there, I found that I have some new restaurant goals. Jon had been to the place before. So, the manager says, "Welcome back, sir." After we ordered the server brought over a tray of fine meats and cheeses. "Compliments of the chef, sir." That's two things I want to hear at a restaurant. "Welcome back" and "compliments of the chef."
The steak we both had was a "still on the bone" cut. Coming out of the delicious monster was seven inches on bone. It looked like it could have toppled Fred Flintsone's car. Then the waiter made steak sauce from scratch right there at the table. Quite impressive.
I have come home to New York City. A land where life makes sense.
As I have been out and about the first few days home, I have seen some amazing sights. The kind of oddities that make me love this city like I love the blues.
-On the 3 train was an African American man in his 40's, reading a sports article in Look Magazine from the ... 1940's. I saw an ad for Lucky Strike cigarettes. Where did he buy it?
-As I got off the train at 72nd street to go to Gray's Papaya for a hot dog breakfast -- seriously -- a Mexican mariachi band got off with me. They had been strumming away for 3 stops. I gave them a buck. Anyhoo, as they got off the train, standing on the platform, was an identical Mexican mariachi band. A mirror image. Accordion guy, short guy, fat guy, big nose guy, all with mustaches, all with dinner plate-sized belt buckles and ostrich boots, the exact same band. The two groups paused and stared at each other, both frozen with a strange fascination. I was transfixed. Would they start an accordion battle? Breakdance style. I was hoping so. Alas, nothing happened. No battle. They just nodded to one another and moved on. -On 59th street, there was a midget whose head and face looked exactly like Jaws from the James Bond series. It was uncanny.
-While I was walking through Central Park, down Literary Walk and right next to the statue of Scottish hero Robert Burns, was a gentleman with "T-Rex arms." That is, the chap's hands were placed at the elbow. I remained perfectly still, testing if his visual acuity was based on movement. I think he still saw me.
On my way out of the Park, I walked past Strawberry Fields, next to the Dakota. There was a group of Australian tourists engaged on an impromptu John Lennon sing-along with a local busker. They were butchering "All You Need Is Love." It was great.
Maybe it's a generational tendency. Or a natural human emotion. Maybe it just means I'm getting older. Whatever the reason, and there may not be one, I often find myself reminiscing about the good old days of being a sports fan. My brothers and buddies and I have made it a sport unto itself. "Remember Kelly Tripuka? Loved that guy."
The practice isn't uncommon and certainly not limited to something as trivial as a grown men putting a leather ball into an iron hoop. (That's a Hoosiers reference, kids. You should re-watch Hoosiers.) My father speaks as fondly about cheeseburgers at Bunk's Drive In as a teenager in Bellingham Washington and Jack Kennedy as much as he waxes poetic about Muhammad Ali and Johnny Unitas.
The bear trap of the glory days continues to ensnare me, and she won't pry loose. I miss when sports were better. When they were magical.
I miss when steroids were a rare occurrence, limited to Lyle Alzado and the East German woman's swim team. Not the horrible plague that they are. I miss the innocence of the pre- Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa era in baseball when the numbers were sacred and real.
I miss when the layup-laden WNBA "highlights" did not get any airtime during Sportscenter. A finger-roll is not a highlight.
I miss when boxing was relevant. Not the beyond-broken mess that it is.
I miss when stadiums were revered cathedrals of sport, full of tradition and wonder. Not hideous monstrosities that cater to the rich and douchey who are only there for a social outing not the watch the game. (The new Yankee Stadium has a martini bar for crying in the night.)
I miss when we could watch sports on the telly without overbearing graphics that swooshed around the screen like crazed bats, were literally on fire and there was no dancing robots. I don't need dancing robots.
Speaking of dancing...
I miss when more stadiums had pipe organs than out-of-work-porn-star, sluttified "dance teams."
I miss when NBA players smoked opposing defenders, not the chronic.
I miss Converse Weapons, Walter Payton, Johnny Most and Chick Hearn, when families could go to the ballpark for less than the cost of a Volvo, "Marvelous" Marvin Hagler and Tommy "The Hitman" Hearns, Steve Largent, the "NBA on NBA" theme song, Tom Landry's hat, when no uniforms had the color teal in them, Bobby Hurley, Bo Jackson, The Boston Garden, Ozzie Smith, Ronnie Lott, ABC's "Wide World of Sports," Joe Dumars, Chris Mullin, Pat Summerall doing games with John Madden, when there wasn't much mention of the police blotter in the sports section and Steve Young.
I miss when I cared so much that when the Seahawks would lose, I would cry.
I miss when college bowls not only mattered and weren't determined in part by computers, but had cool names like the Gator Bowl, Freedom Bowl and Holiday Bowl, not the Poulan Weed Eater Bowl.
I miss when an athlete knew when to hang up the cleats and ride off into the sunset with dignity not embarrass themselves when they were way past their prime. Yep, looking at you MJ. And good riddance Brett Favre, please go away now.
Speaking of Michael Jordan...
When he was in his prime, I miss the excitement and lethal competiveness of #23, Magic Johnson and Larry Bird. We'll never see the NBA as good as it was in the 80's and early 90's. Never.
As the sports world and morality police continue to hammer A-Rod's admitted steroid use, the New York Post brought it to the next level. Nobody in New York will defend Alex. The city has never embraced him. Now, never will.
Attention Alex Rodriguez! You all around phony and fiend! The bell tolls for thee!
In one of the least shocking and most satisfying sports stories in quite some time, Yankee third baseman Alex Rodriguez tested positive for steroids and testosterone in 2003. A year that he won the AL MVP.
Pay-Rod's response, you may be wondering? "You'll have to talk to the union. I'm not saying anything." Not exactly a passionate, Clemens-like denial.
Joining Sammy "I Forgot How To Speak English" Sosa, Roger Clemens, Mark McGwire, finger pointing Raphael Palmeiro and Barry "Holy Crap This Stuff Makes Your Head Huge" Bonds, A-Rods has pissed away his reputation, legacy and hall of fame numbers in a matter of hours.
Justice, kids. Sweet justice.
Alex wants nothing more than to be loved and revered like Michael Jordan or Tiger Woods. However, his thinly veiled act has always been sniffed out by the astute observer. We weren't buyin' it.
Well, it's really a wheelbarrow of apes, but close enough.
My head is reeling trying to think just what is the purpose for the transportation of orangutans in a wheelbarrow. It's all I'm going to be thinking about until the debate tonight.
“Give me six hours to chop down a tree and I will spend the first four sharpening the axe.” Abraham Lincoln
Another presidential debate will be on your idiot box tomorrow night. Expect Barrack Obama to more aggressive and John McCain to continue his travelogue. “I’ve been to Narnia and Rivendell, Senator Obama. I met with Elrond personally and he supports my foreign policy platform. … And you don’t get it.”
Of course their will be droning punches and counterpunches about our sickly economy and how we need Doc Brown to invent a Mr. Fusion so our time machines can run on banana peels and beer cans. While you’re at it, scientists, we could also use a flux capacitor. And some Willy Wonka style Lickable Wallpaper and Three-Course Dinner Chewing Gum. Get to work.
One hopes that Tom Brokaw will steer the debate to, you know, an actual debate and not a canned stump speech like we saw in the Biden vs. Palin Bore on the Shore. (I don’t think the debate was on a shore, but it rhymed. They can’t all be winners.)
There will one topic, one hugely important topic, that I fear will continue to be ignored. An issue that has been swept under the partisan carpet.
That of education.
Why aren’t we talking about education? Why aren’t the candidates putting the issue in the forefront? How is it not a huge hot button, talking-point-laden subject?
Our schools are falling apart. Teachers are woefully underpaid. American test scores continue to plummet. In 2006, the Program for International Student Assessment reported that American 15-year-olds ranked 17th out of 30 industrialized countries that participated when it comes to science test scores. In math? We sat at 24th place. We are the Detroit Lions of world education. The U.S. is the third largest country in the world. You don’t need to rank higher than 17th to figure out that is troubling. A complicated algorithm isn’t necessary.
Ask a young person who the vice president of the U.S. is. I’ll wager most won’t know. Ask them when World War II happened. Or who John Kennedy was. Or what the last book they read was titled. You can get angry all you want when people say America is getting dumber. But common sense and test scores make it an irrefutable fact.
Why aren’t the two presidential candidates addressing this? Why aren’t they pounding the pulpit with promises of education reform? Stumping away in town meetings and rallies on how they will fix our fledgling education system.
If a teacher did not have a starting salary in the mid 20’s, but in the mid 40’s, imagine the caliber of people that would become educators. Teachers should be making six figure salaries. There should be overwhelming competition for teaching spots in public schools across the country. The noble men and woman who are already sacrificing for your children should be justly rewarded.
A public school teacher should not have to take a part-time job teaching night classes to make sure his four boys have new basketball shoes and can go to regional track meets. That is what my father did for his sons. I never heard him complain. He has diligently served his community and taught mathematics for longer than he would like me to say. He is a hero. Why did he have to work two jobs to make ends meet?
To fix this? Make gambling legal.
Serious as a heart attack. Make gambling legal. Gaming is already a (roughly) $500 billion dollar industry. There are casinos on Indian reservations and lotteries in nearly every corner of the country. Very few don’t live within driving distance of somewhere you can walk into the climate controlled confines of a casino and play Pai Gow poker. People are going to gamble no matter what. Why not legalize it, regulate it, and tax the holy hell out of it? Funnel that money to public schools and overhaul the whole shebang.
That eliminates the illegal bookies that are raking in dough hand over fist from the national obsession with sporting events. A licensed “Sports Book” would be a cash cow for statewide education. Hell, you could charge a cover fee just to get into the joint.
Don’t give me the rubbish about how gambling is addictive and is detrimental to society when cigarettes, alcohol and coffee are allowed to roam free. We permit far more addictive vices than blackjack.
Allowing gambling, which Americans are going to do anyway, to be a source of income for the school system could bring in millions. Millions.
I would like to hear less about what we are doing to police the rest of the world and more about the problems at home.
There may be no more important issue than the education of the future of this country.
Speak up Mr. Obama. Speak up Mr. McCain. Tell us what you are going to do to stem the tide of stupidity in America.
So Humphrey the Bear has a hankerin' for a Cold Cut Combo. It had been a long day. Humphrey went into his local Subway sandwich shop.
The sandwich artist abandoned her post and refused to serve Humphrey. Bigotry to bears if you ask me. How dare she not serve the bear because of the color of his fur and the reputation of other bears. Just because a few bad apples have boosted picnic baskets and mauled documentary filmmakers, that should not impugn an entire species.
Angry and insulted and still hungry, Humphrey went across the street to Quizno's and got the Steakhouse Beef Dip.
When my brothers and I were kids, we would often rent videos to watch Sunday nights. This is long before the days when you could buy a beloved film for $9.99. You didn't own videos. That being the case, we rented a handful of favorites over and over and over again.
One of our go-to vids was a collection of vintage Disney shorts entitled Sport Goofy. All the Goofy shorts where the lovable doofus botched up any number of sports. Football, baseball, basketball, tennis, skiing and so forth.
I still love those Disney shorts.
You can imagine how excited I was when I read that Disney was actually not pandering to the dumb "tweens" and trumpeting a comeback of the hand-drawn short.
The first of which is a Goofy misadventure called Goofy in How to Hook Up Your Home Theater.
Nature/Sports correspondent Sedro Woolley phoned in to give us a quick rundown this past week's wildlife scoreboard and highlights.
All scores final.
Lions: 171 - Zebras: 0
Lions: 201 - Water Buffaloes: 1 A Namibian water buffalo scored a lucky horn to the abdomen of a lioness for their only point this week.
Mongooses: 3 - Cobras: 3 Some tight, bitterly fought matches resulted in a draw.
Mountain Lions: 1 - Hikers: 0
Dragons: 4 - Centaurs: Nil
Great White Sharks: 742 - Seals: 0 From the opening kick, the seals really never got the offense moving. In nature's version of the Harlem Globetrotters versus the Washington Generals, the seals overall record now stands at 0 and 91 million.
Cock-Fighting Roosters: 27 - Cock-Fighting Roosters: 28 Close match from Guadalajara Mexico.
Nile Crocodiles: 73 - Wildebeests: ½
11-Year-Old Boys With Slingshots: 2 - Robins: 0
Chupacabras: 11 - Goats: 0
Pet Pythons: 4,971 - White Mice: 1 A ball python named Jack Sparrow from Hot Coffee Mississippi choked and lost.
Hawks: 1,227 - Rodents/Snakes: Nil Not even a combined rodent and snake squad could stop this desert blowout.
Humans: 702,478 - Delicious Cows: 3 Delicious cows got on the board after a brief stampede in Green River Wyoming. Memorial services for local cowhands Henry "Hank" Harrison, Luther Pearce and Samuel "Chainsaw" Bernstein will be held at the Green River First Episcopalian Church of Our Lord. Light refreshments will be served.
With Tim Russert sadly passing away this past summer, these Rhodes Scholars from Kentucky have become serious contenders to take over the Meet the Press desk.
Their insight into the upcoming Presidential election is pithy, sharp and to the point. I have no idea why people make fun of the South...
It's the final declaration of "these colors don't run!" that made this art. Quite a capper.
Put that in your pipe and smoke it George Stephanopoulos!
Though we knew he has been sick for quite some, time, it was still sad to dial up the interwebs this morning to see that screen legend Paul Newman passed away last night. It's a bummer of a story. He was 81-years-old.
Newman starred in two of my favorite films; Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and The Sting. I've watched them countless times. I'll watch them many more times in the future.
Newman was admirable for a few reasons. He was one of the most natural and skilled actors in the history of the talkies. In an environment where relationships are often as phony as the backlot sets they work on, Newman had a 50 year love affair and marriage to Joanne Woodward. That is an admirable achievement. Perhaps most important, Newman used his wealth and celebrity to raise over $200 million dollars for charity. Newman's Own has been making salad dressing, salsa, popcorn and other products since 1982. Newman runs the Hole In the Wall Gang, a summer camp and community center for seriously ill children. He has also donated hundreds of thousands to war refugees and college scholarships.
Off the screen, away from the cameras, Paul Newman was a hero and a gentleman.
I will miss him.
A little tribute...
The card game from The Sting.
The fight, my favorite scene, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.
Paul strummin' the old banjo and singing "Plastic Jesus" from Cool Hand Luke.
“Don’t let anyone say that it’s just a game.” Eddie Vedder
Since my pathetic Seattle Mariners have been out of contention since about the third week of the 2008 season (they may have negative wins at this point, I stopped reading about them in June.) I have not paid as close attention to baseball as I usually do this summer.
The M’s have a bloated, underachieving roster that is peppered with bums who hit well before the Mitchell Report. When “The Juice” stopped flowing, so did dingers and RBI’s.
But come on, it’s the baseball playoffs, of course I’m going to watch. Jack Bauer doesn’t return until November and the Seahawks are only on once a week, what the hell else am I gonna do?
So. I have made a decision. A borderline fan violation. For the 2008 MLB Playoffs, I am kind-of-pulling for the Chicago Cubs. That’s right Windy City residents! For the month of October I am sort-of-hoping you will win the World Series!
Notice I said “pulling” for them. Not rooting for the Cubbies. That is a self-created loophole to help me justify this. The fact they are in the National League was the only way I could pull the trigger on this momentous decision. The AL? I hope they all get syphilis.
I have no real ties to Chicago. Never stepped foot out of O’Hare. Had a layover once. However, I admire your city a great deal. The working class mentality. Great architecture. Chicago blues. Stories of Al Capone and Elliot Ness. I still miss Sweet Lou Piniella chucking bases around the Safeco infield, he’s a great manager. There is a respect for a great sports town. Love Ernie Banks. Walter Payton was a childhood idol of mine. Still love Sweetness, bless his soul.
Wrigley Field is a marvel. I like the traditions you guys have. “Throw it back! Throw it back!” Chicago residents know how to be fans. They’re educated and loyal. Loyal to almost a fault.
The Cubs last championship? (Cubs Fans: You may want to skip this paragraph. Just scroll down. It’s okay.) That would be 1908. Stop counting on your fingers, that’s a hundred freaking years. Since then there have been collapses and curses. That damn billy goat! The Cliff Notes version of the Curse of the Billy Goat goes like this; Billy Sianis, owner of the local Billy Goat Tavern, bought two seats for Game 4 of the 1945 World Series. One for him. One for a bloody goat. Billy and the goat (see what I did there?) were admitted into Wrigley. But when the stink of the goat kicked up, complaints began to be filed and Billy and the goat were given the heave ho. Billy then somehow channeled evil spirits of Beelzebub and “cursed” the Cubbies. The Cubs lost the Series and Billy wrote to team owner Philip Wrigley from Greece, “who stinks now?” There has been a curse hanging over the stadium ever since.
(Cubs Fans: Maybe skip one more paragraph.) My personal theory is that Billy may have used the possession of a pet goat to his advantage. Perhaps the beast was used to summon the goat demon Baphomet. Entirely possible.
(Cubs Fans: Welcome back.)
Another reason I am justifying a little Cubs support is my loyalty to Chicago native Eddie Vedder. I know he wants them to win more than anything. Ed has been an outspoken fan since his youth. In fact, Ed just composed and performed a song just for Cubs fans. It’s great.
Sing it, Eddie.
A Cubs victory would be good for baseball. Good for history. Well, American history anyway. If I have to watch a World Series with the Tampa Bay verses Milwaukee I’ll lose it. No way I could watch more than two games before shutting off the telly and picking up my book. Give us Chicago/Boston. Or Chicago/Los Angeles. At least that’s interesting and watchable.
Chicago, we need to rid your great city of curses once and for all. Personally, I don’t see how blowing up the “Bartman Ball” and then serving the remains in pasta sauce didn’t work. If that was ineffective, man, what do you do? That should have guaranteed at least one ring. They blew the damn thing up and ate it. It should of worked. Science.
Admittedly, I am going to be really apathetic through all this. Really half-assin’ the whole thing. May even fast-forward through an inning or three. I won’t be pacing the floor in the bottom of the ninth or stewing after a loss. But I’m kind-of hoping this goes well for you.
Don’t sneer at my the power of my fanship, Cubbies. Don’t take it for granted. You should be excited. You are bringing aboard – on short term loan – a fan that witnessed a Supersonic championship at three years of age. Almost remember that. I was a cog in the machine that led to a Washington Husky national title in 1991. Sure, they crapped the bed for years after that, but I was there when we won.
It’s true Seattle teams were upset by the Nuggets when they had the best record in the NBA and pissed away a 116 game winning season and got blown out by Michael Jordan in an NBA Finals and lost in a recent Super Bowl, but I was integral to those near achievements.
Anyone with a rudimentary knowledge of American history knows the two Roosevelt's were titans of their time. Teddy the rough ridin' model of masculinity, who hunted wild game, made the country aware of conservation and put Lincoln on the penny. (That's true.) And FDR who despite a crippling illness that confined him to wheelchair, led the nation out of the Great Depression and to victory in WWII. All the while comforting millions with his revolutionary fireside chats.
But who is the greatest Roosevelt? Stephen Colbert used a scientific approach to settle the matter. Would the question finally be settled?
Damn. The debate will rage on.
How often do people get to use the word "foppish?" Great word.
After two weather delays earlier in the week, Swiss adventurer Yves "The Jetman" Rossy has flown over the English Channel powered only by jet-propelled wings.
Just moments ago, Rossy jumped out of airplane at 8,200 feet, fired up his jet-pack and flew the 22 miles from Calais France to the white cliffs of Dover. He accomplished the feat in about ten minutes.
I've watched this story for months. I honestly feel this is an incredible achievement. A feat of human ingenuity and bravery.
With the impeding financial doom we are facing later today, we need a few happy stories to serve as a distraction.
(Click on that "white cliffs of Dover" link and you'll hear one of the great songs of all time. A personal favorite that very nearly made my Desert Island Disks.)
In 1935 Papa Hemingway was given a six-toed cat named Snowball. Adorable, innit? That cat lived at Papa's Key West Spanish colonial home and estate. Snowball procreated over the years and now the kitty's progeny has grown to over 50 mostly-six-toed cats. When my Father and I visited the house when I was a teenager the six-toed beasts were everywhere.
Years later, enter the U.S. Department of Agriculture. They threatened to fine the Hemingway Museum $200 a day. Per cat. This was because the cats aren't caged. The Museum had to negotiate with the bureaucrats to stop them from removing the kitties. This was a four year legal struggle.
Once again, government agencies really know how to pick it's battles.
It's not as if Katie Couric is the late and missed Tim Russert. She's a lightweight. The pocket fluff of prime time news anchors. Even Katie has the way-in-over-her-head-and-chosen-to-pander-to-women vice presidential candidate flummoxed.
Once the novelty of the former beauty queen and failed sportscaster wore off and the public has seen how out of her depth she really is, the polls have corrected themselves. This is the person that should John McCain die -- which at 72-years-old and already having skin cancer numerous times is not much of a stretch -- that could be the leader of the free world. A vastly under-qualified person who needs to rely on memorized catch phrases and buzz words to get through an interview.
Sarah Palin has gone from radical running mate pick to punchline in record time.
Maybe it's a generational tendency. Or a natural human emotion. Maybe it just means I'm getting older. Whatever the reason, and there may not be one, I often find myself reminiscing about the good old days of being a sports fan. My brothers and buddies and I have made it a sport unto itself. "Remember Kelly Tripuka? Loved that guy."
Posts
