V for Vapid

The Best Ever?

2006-08-21T09:15:00.000-04:00

ESPN's Gene Wojciechowski wrote an article yesterday declaring Tiger Woods the greatest athlete of all time. This came after Woods put the hammer down to blow away the rest of the field in the PGA Championship, winning his 12th major golf title. He's now alone in second place in all-time major wins behind only Jack Nicklaus, who owns 18 majors. Nicklaus won his 18 majors over 25 years. Woods has won his 12 over 10 years. At this pace, Woods would win 30 majors in the same amount of time Nicklaus won his 18.

To be sure, Woods will go down in history wearing the mantle of Greatest Golfer Ever. Perhaps it's custom-fitted to his shoulders already. And there will probably never be another like him in the golf pantheon. Ever.

When he first burst onto the scene, Woods was even responsible for me starting to watch golf on TV, a pastime I once decried as the most useless thing ever. Even when he's crushing the field and drama is completely absent, I still watch Woods. As another ESPN writer noted, watching greatness is never boring.

But there's something about elevating Woods above the likes of Wayne Gretzky and Michael Jordan that bothers me, and I couldn't quite put my finger on it until just now.

Basically, what it boils down to is this: what golf lacks is speed, quickness and timing, the pressure of having to execute your skill in a split second.

A golf player gets to prepare for every single shot: reading the green, tossing a few blades of grass into the air to determine wind speed and direction, consulting with his/her caddie, selecting a club, taking a few practice swings/strokes, setting his/her feet, resetting his/her feet, resetting his/her grip on the club, backing off, consulting the caddie again, changing clubs — well, you get the idea.

I would argue that what The Great One and MJ accomplished in their sports was much, much more difficult, to an exponential degree. All their preparation had to be done before the game, because during the game there was no time for anything but instinct — honed by years of training and practice — to take over.

Among holding more records than can be counted on the fingers and toes of three Homo sapiens, Wayne Gretzky holds the all-time record for most goals (894), assists (1,963) and of course, points (2,857). Now remember, mind you, that all this was done with an opposing player wearing 50 pounds of pads determined to stop him from scoring, plus at least one other opposing player with his mind set on preventing Gretzky from doing same by knocking his block off. And yet Gretzky managed to befuddle opposing players with speed, finesse, power and sleight-of-hand to light the red lamp 894 times.

Even more difficult and artistic, perhaps, was setting up lesser teammates 1,963 times. This meant reading player positions on the ice in the blink of an eye, and threading a perfect pass right onto the tape of a friendly stick to make it easy enough for them to score.

Michael Jordan, on the other hand, does not dominate the NBA record books in major statistics. He's only third all-time in points, 32nd all-time in assists, second all-time in steals, and isn't even in the top 100 for 3-point field goals or rebounds. (Rebounds, of course, not a critical statistic for a guard.)

But again, this was done while attempting to fit a nine-inch-diameter ball through an 18-inch-diameter hoop ten feet above the ground. With at least one opposing player draped over Jordan like a blanket. And it was the way he did it: cutting past defenders and leaving them spinning in circles like they had two left feet; gliding through the air and defying the laws of gravity, elevating above us mortals, almost like Nightcrawler from the X-Men, *BAMF*-ing from one point in space only to magically *BAMF* and reappear right next to the backboard.

Watching Jordan was like watching Baryshnikov at his prime, pure poetry in motion, the Perfect Storm of genetics and talent and Fate and hard work.

Watching both of these athletes in their element, you got the sense of space and time. With golf there is no dimension of time, only space; no urgency, no shot clock, no monster opponent a tenth of a second behind you itching to turn your glorious effort into an embarrassing flop.

When the game was on the line, there was only one person you wanted to handle the puck or the ball, one person you counted on to save the game or the season, one person who instilled your faith in miracles to begin with.

Both players also managed a very difficult accomplishment in team sports, achieving not only individual greatness but elevating their team to greatness, too (The Great One's Oilers winning four Stanley Cups, and MJ's Bulls capturing six NBA championships).

So is Tiger Woods the greatest golfer ever? Unquestionably, even at this sophomore stage in his career. Is Woods the greatest athlete ever? With this sports fan, at least, the answer is not quite so cut and dry.

Tribute

2006-07-04T20:36:00.000-04:00

Steve Yzerman has retired. I've been waiting for this day with dread, waiting for the day I would have to write those four words.

In this day and age of free agency, Steve Yzerman was an anomaly, a player who was drafted by the Detroit Red Wings in 1983 and remained with them throughout his entire 22-year career. Along the way, among his laundry list of awards and achievements, he was elected to the All-Star Game 10 times and helped the Red Wings win three Stanley Cups. He also holds the record as the NHL's longest-serving captain at 19 years, and departs as the league's sixth-leading scorer.

But statistics and titles don't even begin to define Steve Yzerman. More than any other player in the history of the National Hockey League, Yzerman stood for leadership and courage. His ability to play through injuries and pain is already legend. He led by example and commanded unwavering respect, allegiance and loyalty from his teammates and coaches. And he did it quietly and humbly, without raising his voice, throwing a punch, acting like a prima donna or holding out for more money.

For 19 years he was the heart and soul of the Detroit Red Wings, and now at age 41, he is hanging up his skates. Words cannot express what a loss this is for Hockeytown and Red Wings fans. This fan in particular has tears welling up in his eyes as he writes this, because no other player in the history of the NHL is as deserving of the name I bestowed upon Yzerman ten years ago, a name that I whispered every single time I saw him:

Lionheart.

Farewell, Stevie. May the wings on your feet carry you as nimbly and happily through the rest of your days as did the hockey skates of your youth.

Night's Time

2006-06-30T19:30:00.000-04:00

Whenever I talk to people about M. Night Shyamalan's movies, I always get mixed responses. Almost everyone loved The Sixth Sense. Not too many people saw Unbreakable, but those that did usually gave it a thumbs-up.

Signs is the one that threw everyone into a tizzy. Some people loved it, some people hated it. The Village received tepid reviews.

Personally, I think there is no one in Hollywood right now who is more fresh, startling and uniquely original. His movies are scary, thought-provoking, imaginative and sometimes downright touching.

His fifth offering, Lady in the Water, looks no less remarkable, and I, for one, can't wait to see it.

Knight Riddance

2006-05-09T20:10:00.000-04:00

I would actually go see this. You know why? So I could purge my memory banks of David Hasselhoff as 1980s cheese icon.

(And there's another awesome TV special. Have the new Knight Rider, whoever gets cast in the part, with the new K.I.T.T. car face off against David Hasselhoff and the old K.I.T.T. car. Both drivers and their vehicles will race towards each other, launching off ramps to collide in mid-air in a giant fireball. Whichever driver walks away from the crash wins $1 million.)

'Knight Rider' coming to big screen

NEW YORK (Hollywood Reporter) — The talking car K.I.T.T. is heading to the big screen in an adaptation of the hit 1980s TV series "Knight Rider."

Series creator Glen A. Larson will write and executive produce the Weinstein Co. project, which he anticipates will begin production next year. The project had previously been in development at Sony-based Revolution Studios.

Larson has bandied about the project for years. "A number of people wanted to do a pure comedic send-up of it, but I always felt that would throw away the franchise," he said. "There was always some humor on the show, but this film will probably have more gallows, foxhole humor.

Despite the darker tone, he said he would aim for a PG-13 rating because he doesn't want to exclude the series' core audience. The show ran on NBC from 1982-86.

The story centers on the tale of a police investigator shot in the line of duty who is nursed back to health by a mysterious millionaire. He's given a new name (Michael Knight), a new face and a new car to help him continue his work. As in the pilot, he also seeks revenge on the criminals who left him for dead.

Larson wouldn't say whether David Hasselhoff, who starred in the series, would appear in a cameo or if William Daniels would reprise his role as the voice of K.I.T.T.

Other Larson TV series being developed as film adaptations include "Magnum, P.I." at Imagine Entertainment and "The Fall Guy" at Warner Bros. Pictures.

Burrito Battleground

2006-05-05T21:03:00.000-04:00

Conduct a random poll among Boston and Cambridge residents about which establishment has the better burritos, Anna's Taqueria or Boca Grande, and you're likely to find people pretty evenly divided. Anna's had the advantage of being the first mover in the Boston area several years ago, branching out into numerous locations and earning a large and loyal following. Up until recently, I considered myself an Anna adherent.

But after crossing paths with many a Boca buff, who would shake their head wistfully and proclaim, "Boca Grande is the One True Burrito," I had to wonder. Conveniently enough, where I live on the Somerville/Cambridge line is a ten-minute walk from both a Boca Grande and an Anna's Taqueria.

So last Sunday, after having eaten a Boca burrito and an Anna's burrito in the same day — a fact I conveniently neglected to mention to my girlfriend — and having another Boca burrito tonight to cement my certainty, I have to confess to being a taqueria turncoat: Boca Grande's burritos are indeed better.

Speaking merely from a single point of comparison — my beloved combination of grilled chicken, ricenobeans, guacamole, salsa and hot sauce — Boca wins hands down. The chicken has an incredibly smoky grilled flavor that is noticeably absent from Anna's chicken. The guacamole is thick with chunks of avocado, not thin and runny like Anna's. In short, Boca's burritos are bursting with flavor.

My only complaint is that Boca is a little stingy on the cheese, but what the hell, I need to lose weight.

Another Miracle of Science

2006-04-19T23:33:00.000-04:00

It's amazing the things one discovers when one lives alone.

I recently bought one of those toilet wand cleaning systems. It consists of a plastic handle/wand, and you clip a chunky cleaning pad to the end of it. Cleaning solution is contained in the pad, so when you begin swishing it around in the toilet bowl, the solution gets released and turns the water blue. When you're done, you click the release button on the wand and the pad drops away, to be flushed down your newly sparkling toilet along with the blue water. And since the wand is all plastic and contains no metal parts, it's easy to rinse completely clean without anything building up on it or anything rusting.

Gone are the days of wire-and-bristle toilet brushes that you stick next to the toilet still snarled with hair, pieces of toilet paper and bits of God knows what other organic matter.

In fact, this evolutionary leap might qualify the toilet wand cleaning system as a bigger miracle of science than the Swiffer. All hail toilet science!

Hanzi Smatter

2006-04-05T10:33:00.000-04:00

This, from a Chinese person's perspective, is one of the funniest things I've ever seen.

http://www.hanzismatter.com

This guy's blog was written up in the New York Times and Los Angeles Times, and the predominant subject matter is the misuse of Asian characters, especially in tattoos.

Brilliant.

Ideas

2006-03-09T10:17:00.000-05:00

(I told you my brain was flooded. I think I've found a new calling in life as an event coordinator.)

1. Create an Ultimate Fighter reality TV celebrity spinoff, where Randy Couture trains David Hasselhoff, Kenny G, Michael Bolton and Zamfir in mixed martial arts, while Chuck Liddell trains Yanni, Kitaro, Michael Crawford and John Tesh. Follow the blood, sweat plus emotional highs and lows as these eight sucky-entertainers-turned-cage-match-killers prepare for their fight:

Fight #1: Bolton vs. Tesh
Fight #2: Kenny G vs. Kitaro
Fight #3: Hasselhoff vs. Crawford
Fight #4: Yanni vs. Zamfir

The highlight of the series will be Kenny G sobbing in the locker room after his fight, his face looking like a piece of pulverized steak, blubbering through his black eyes, "I never thought I had it in me. I mean, I know I'm a 98-pound musical equivalent of Cheez Whiz, but Randy took me way out of my comfort zone and showed me how to be a real man. Kitaro gave me everything I could handle, and he probably thought he was a lock because, well, you know, he's Asian, and all those Asians know karate and stuff, but it just goes to show you that curly hair beats straight hair any day of the week. So take that, bitch!"

2. Set aside a special eight-episode block of the Dr. Phil TV show, each one getting their own one-on-one session, where Dr. Phil yells for the whole hour, "You suck!"

3. Create an American Idol reality TV celebrity spinoff where each one performs, then stands in front of the judges while Simon Cowell yells, "You suck!"

4. Have all eight appear as guest celebrity competitors on the sixth season of The Apprentice, where Donald Trump unceremoniously sends each one packing by saying, "You're fi-- I mean, you suck!" At the end of the season, with no contestants left, Trump becomes confused and fires himself.

5. Host a Most Extreme Elimination Challenge special celebrity competition where all eight have to navigate an obstacle course. For the last obstacle, the challenge is to try and get past a steroid-pumped Barry Bonds, who guards a narrow walkway suspended above a pool filled with hungry piranhas. And just to give Bonds some extra insurance, music of Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Dave Brubeck and Nat King Cole will be blared over loudspeakers, ensuring that each contestant will freeze dead in their tracks, their brains unable to process and comprehend real jazz music. Vic Romano's (Takeshi Kitano) last overdubbed comment before signing off will be, "Gee, Kenny, where'd we get these guys? Were they all runners-up on Star Search or something?"

6. Just in case aliens are monitoring Earth for a possible invasion, assemble all eight into an All-Star Music Revue, which will go on a world tour and sell millions of dollars in tickets, especially in France and Germany. The aliens, disgusted by just how stupid the human race is, will abandon plans for an invasion of Earth and instead, abduct all eight to perform lobotomies. Upon discovering absolutely nothing in each person's cranial cavity, the aliens attempt anal lobotomies. When that procedure fails as well, the aliens dump all eight back on Earth and start the 83-year journey back to their planet, arguing heatedly the entire way home about the futility of their mission. Our eight celebrity musicians, meanwhile, suddenly finding themselves in Washington D.C. with severe memory lapses, immediately become nominees for George W. Bush's Cabinet.

Domestic-Violence Duo

2006-03-09T10:03:00.000-05:00

Yanni and Hasselhoff in the same week? The sudden influx of gleeful, snide comments that have flooded my brain is too much for my system to handle.

Oxygen supply... cut off... feel like... passing... out...

Hasselhoff's wife claims domestic violence

LOS ANGELES, California (AP) — Less than a month after filing for divorce, the estranged wife of David Hasselhoff has filed for a court order on a claim of domestic violence by the former "Baywatch" star, according to court records.

Actress Pamela Bach, 42, made the filing Monday against Hasselhoff, 53, in Los Angeles Superior Court, summary records on the court's Web site show.

At a private hearing, Bach also asked for a temporary restraining order against the actor, but a judge denied the request, instead instructing the two to stay away from each other.

"The court indicated that she should stay where she is, and he should stay where he is," Hasselhoff's attorney, Melvin Goldsman said by phone Wednesday, declining to comment on the allegations.

Documents pertaining to the hearing have been sealed by the court to protect the pair's two teenage daughters and their privacy, Goldsman said.

Bach was granted custody of one daughter while Hasselhoff was given custody of the other, publicist Judy Katz said Wednesday.

Hasselhoff filed for divorce January 12, citing irreconcilable differences after 16 years of marriage. Bach filed her own divorce papers a day later, also citing irreconcilable differences.

Messages left Wednesday at the office of Bach's attorney were not immediately returned.

Hasselhoff played lifeguard Mitch Buchannon in "Baywatch" from 1989 to 2000. He also starred in the 1980s TV series "Knight Rider," in which his character, Michael Knight, teamed with a talking Pontiac Trans Am sports car to fight crime.

Bach appeared in the soap opera "The Young and the Restless" and in numerous episodes of "Baywatch" and "Knight Rider."

Remorse

2006-03-07T21:23:00.000-05:00

I apologize for my previous post. It was rude, callous, and demonstrated a complete disregard for human life. I don't really hold the lives of eight men that cheaply. In addition to $116.02 in cash (I put $5.04 on my debit card for a burrito since my last post) and my car, I'll throw in a copy of Spawn #1 in mint condition. I mean, it's only worth about $10, but come on, this is a classic comic book we're talking about here!

New Age Knockdown

2006-03-07T10:17:00.000-05:00

Am I the only one that finds this funny? Does anyone have the girlfriend's phone number? I'm willing to pay her good money to go back and take Yanni out. I've even got $121.06 in my savings account. Hell, if she'll seduce and bump off, one by one, Kenny G, Kitaro, John Tesh, Michael Crawford, David Hasselhoff, Michael Bolton, and Zamfir, Master of the Pan Flute, I'll even throw in my 1997 Saturn SL2 with a broken side-view mirror, a leaking sunroof and an expired inspection sticker.

Yanni arrested after domestic dispute

MANALAPAN, Florida (AP) — Florida authorities say new age musician Yanni faces domestic battery charges.

He was arrested at his home Friday after an alleged domestic dispute with his girlfriend.

Yanni, whose legal name is John Yanni Christopher, denies the allegations.

"These allegations are cruel, false, without merit and baseless," said the statement released by his manager, Danny O'Donovan. "At a more appropriate time and place, I hope and pray I will have an opportunity to address my fans and colleagues all over the world."

Police say the singer-pianist asked his girlfriend, Silvia Barthes, to leave his beachfront home in Manalapan.

She told police she attempted to pack her clothing, but the 51-year-old musician assaulted her.

Yanni told police the girlfriend kicked him, and he believed he injured his finger during the incident.

The keyboardist and composer has sold millions of albums and performance videos worldwide. The Recording Industry Association of America database lists U.S. album sales as 11 million.

No one answered a call to a telephone listing for a John Christopher in Manalapan late Monday. But the musician said in a statement he was innocent.

Miracle of Science

2006-03-04T09:39:00.000-05:00

I know this comes as no news flash to the modern industrialized world, but I cannot overstate this strongly enough: For the man who lives alone, there is no better friend than the Swiffer.

Yes, indeed, nothing shows a woman that you care more than running around the apartment in your underwear at the last minute before she comes over, frantically pushing a Swiffer across the floor.

Swiffer even saved me an extra precious few minutes to write this post.

Such wondrous times we live in!

Bode Bust

2006-02-27T11:35:00.000-05:00

I know enough has been hyped and editorialized about Bode Miller, so I won't jump too much at such easy, low-hanging fruit except to say:

What a tool.

The Looney (Tunes) World of Dick Cheney

2006-02-26T23:45:00.000-05:00

(With apologies to Mssrs. Bunny & Duck)

"It's quail season!"

"It's human season!"

"It's quail season!"

"It's human season!"

"It's quail season!"

"It's human season!"

"It's quail season!"

"It's quail season!"

"It's human season — FIRE!"

Burrito Bliss

2006-02-08T20:26:00.000-05:00

Truly, few things in life are as satisfying as a Super Burrito from Anna's Taqueria. I am moved to wax eloquent about such after finishing my second Super Burrito from Anna's in three days.

I mean, talk about comfort food! You get your choice of meat (steak, pork, chicken) with rice, beans and cheese, plus optional salsa, guacamole, sour cream, hot sauce, jalapeno peppers, olives, beans, refried beans or lettuce, all of which gets generously stuffed into a 12-inch tortilla. The finished product ends up weighing about as much as a Trident-class nuclear submarine and costs around $5. Five measly dollars!

My favorite incarnation at the moment:

• Chicken Super Burrito
• double cheese
• no beans, just some extra rice, please
• salsa, guacamole and hot sauce

And astonishingly, when I Googled Anna's (they don't seem to have their own website), I came across someone who has taken their obsession with burritos to a whole new level.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you The Burrito Blog. I bow my head in humble awe of this obvious labor of love.

English Lesson 2.1

2006-02-03T13:54:00.000-05:00

While I'm on a roll about poorly written English, here are a couple more of my pet peeves:

(Many years ago, I temped for a summer in the Word Processing department at Bain & Co., a major, major consulting firm. I can't tell you the number of documents that came across my desk — submitted by cream-of-the-crop MBAs, no less — that were written at approximately an 8th-grade level, with spelling sometimes around a 3rd-grade level. No wonder America gets so much shit for its poor education standards.)

• reign vs. rein vs. rain — If you're talking about a monarchy, or a domination in some particular respect, like "the New England Patriots' Super Bowl reign," then please stick in that extra "g," for God's sake. "Rein" means to restrain or curb something, or refers to the straps used in riding horses. And "rain"... well, that needs no explanation, does it? I hope not.

• pore vs. pour — If you are very intently scrutinizing a stack of books, for example, then you are "poring" over them, not "pouring" over them.

• desert vs. dessert — Sand = desert. Cookies, ice cream, cake, pie, etc. = dessert. Clear?

• stationary vs. stationery — I've heard that "stationery" is this very elegant, paper-like stuff that people used to write on with pens and pencils before the era of computers. I think maybe I've seen some in a museum or something. "Stationary" means to remain still, unmoving.

• pique vs. peak vs. peek — To arouse or stimulate someone's interest is to "pique their curiosity." "Peak" means a summit, or as a verb, to hit the high point of something. "Peek" is to steal a glimpse, as in "peek-a-boo."

• affect vs. effect — I suppose this one can be confusing, but not to me, on account of I'm so smart and all, so it still bugs the crap out of me and I have no sympathy for you.

There are four distinct words here. When "affect" is accented on the final syllable (a-FECT), it is a verb meaning, "to have an influence on," as in, "I affected the outcome of the vote by tampering with the machine." A much rarer meaning is when the word is accented on the first syllable (AFF-ect), meaning "expression" or "emotion," as in, "The rich playboy's spoiled son always had a glib, carefree affect."

"Effect," too, can have two different meanings. The more common one is a noun synonymous with "result," as in, "When I left the pasta on the stove too long, the effect was that it burned and the house filled with smoke." The less common one is a verb meaning "to create" or "to produce," as in, "I'm trying to effect a change in my eating habits."

So there. Any questions, go back to your hometown, back to your elementary school, squeeze your butt into one of those now-tiny chairs next to all the 11-year-olds, and start your English education all over.

Speaking of which, there's another frequent mistake that irks the hell out of me. When describing someone's age as a singular adjective ("a 40-year-old executive") or even with the noun implied ("My cousin Kent has the maturity of a six-year-old [girl]"), then the hyphens remain. When the age description is not used as an adjective (typically, then, as the predicate of a sentence), then the hyphens disappear. ("My friend is 32 years old.")

Stupid English

2006-02-03T12:43:00.000-05:00

There's a business headline today, "Unemployment Rate Lowest Since 2001."

This is a convention of the English language, especially in the news media, that drives me absolutely fucking crazy. I hate journalistic hyperbole — using an "est" type of word, only then to qualify it. Such as:

30-YEAR MORTGAGE RATES CLIMBED TO THEIR HIGHEST POINT since late December.

MARIST'S 23-POINT WIN OVER RIDER WAS THE LARGEST MARGIN OF VICTORY since a 28-point win against Saint Peter's on Feb. 21, 2002.

HURRICANE KATRINA BECAME THE STRONGEST HURRICANE IN THE CENTRAL GULF since Hurricane Camille.

God dammit, if you're going to say something is the "highest," "lowest," "largest," "smallest" whatever, then it'd better be absolutely #1 in that category of ALL TIME. If it's only the sixth-largest or whatever of all time, then just say it's #6. Don't say it's #1... since last Wednesday. I mean, come on, that's just ridiculous.

Jesus.

Hooters' World Domination

2006-02-03T11:20:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, Hooters announced the grand opening of its new Las Vegas casino. My friend Ken, who sits in the cube next to me, said, "Hey, you can fly Hooters Air to Las Vegas and play at the Hooters Casino and eat afterwards at the Hooters restaurant! Hooters is, like, the new Microsoft!"

"The new Microsoft." I thought that was frickin' hilarious.

(Ken is always saying blithe, funny stuff like that. I have the feeling my blog will be featuring many more of his remarks from now on. Stay tuned.)

Freaky Femme

2006-02-01T17:35:00.000-05:00

Bodybuilder Kelly Ryan has been charged with kidnapping and murdering her personal assistant. I like the part in her online bio where she says, "The Special Olympics embodies all of life's true beauty..."

Uh-huh. Apparently, she demonstrates her reverence for life by Tasering, drugging and strangling another human being.

(Maybe she should update the "On Tour" page of her website to say, "Death Row, Nevada State Prison." WAHAHAHA...

I know, I know, again, I'm a horrible person.)

Bodybuilders charged with aide's slaying

Couple allegedly drugged, used stun gun on personal assistant

Wednesday, February 1, 2006

LAS VEGAS, Nevada (AP) — Prosecutors added more charges Wednesday against professional bodybuilders Craig Titus and Kelly Ryan who are accused of drugging, suffocating and using a stun gun on their live-in personal assistant.

A Clark County prosecutor, Robert Daskas, called it premature to say whether authorities would seek the death penalty based on the upgraded charges.

The new charges include murder and kidnapping against Ryan, and kidnapping against Titus in the slaying of 28-year-old Melissa James.

Titus, 41, who made his first appearance in a Las Vegas court, previously faced murder, accessory to murder and third-degree arson charges. Ryan, 33, had appeared in court Tuesday on accessory and arson charges.

James, a former fitness instructor, moved last year from New Jersey to live with Titus and Ryan. Her charred body was found December 14 in the trunk of Ryan's burned Jaguar off a desert highway.

Neither Titus, nor his wife, Ryan, was asked Wednesday to enter a plea to the amended complaint. They remained shackled to other Clark County jail inmates as they sat two rows apart.

Titus' arm muscles stretched the fabric of his blue jail uniform. He offered a one-word reply when Las Vegas Justice of the Peace Joe M. Bonaventure asked each if they understood the charges.

"Absolutely," Titus said.

"Yes, sir," Ryan said.

Daskas declined Wednesday to describe a motive for the slaying. The complaint accuses Titus and Ryan of using a Taser stun gun, administering morphine or a related drug, and asphyxiating or suffocating James with a fabric or wire around her neck.

Their lawyers have maintained Titus and Ryan are innocent of the charges.

"On behalf of our client, he is 100 percent not guilty," Boston-based lawyer Steven Boozang said.

Ryan's lawyer, Tom Pitaro, was not immediately available for comment.

Bonaventure, who had planned to consider bail for Ryan, scheduled a formal bail hearing February 10, and a preliminary hearing March 29.

An alleged accomplice in the case, Anthony Gross, also appeared in court Wednesday, although charges against him remained the same.

Gross, 23, was arrested December 21 and has pleaded not guilty to accessory to murder and third-degree arson. He remains under house arrest.

Gross told authorities he bought a can of gasoline and followed in his pickup while Titus allegedly drove the Jaguar to a remote spot outside Las Vegas, took the gas and set the car afire. Gross told police he drove Titus back to Las Vegas, but they did not discuss what happened.

Titus and Ryan were arrested December 23 in Stoughton, Massachusetts, near Boston, and returned last week to Clark County jail.

Boozang has denied the couple fled Las Vegas to avoid charges after being interviewed by police in the case.

He said they had intended to spend the Christmas holidays with friends in the Boston area, and left town before charges were filed and arrest warrants were issued December 20.

Titus won a 1996 bodybuilding championship and competed in Mr. Olympia events. Ryan is a past Fitness America and Fitness International winner and Fitness Olympia runner-up.

Olympic "Sports," Take Two

2006-02-01T16:29:00.000-05:00

Okay, not to sound like a snob — because Lord knows I'm no poster boy for lean, mean, six-pack-abs athletes — but curling still sounds ridiculous, I don't care how many reporters laud its "athleticism."

(Want to see the two most physically exhausting events of the entire Winter Olympics? Check out the men's 10,000-meter speed skating final on February 24, and the men's 50-kilometer cross-country skiing final on February 26.)

Curling can get you twisted

It might look easy, but this competition is of Olympic caliber

By MECHELLE VOEPEL
The Kansas City Star

If you get the chance to try curling for the first time, you might consider this advice: Stick with the broom. Your odds of staying upright are much better.

Last October in Colorado Springs, members of the media who were interviewing potential winter Olympians were also extended another offer: Come to a local ice arena and give curling a shot.

It makes sense that this opportunity would come with curling. There really aren't many other winter sports that the U.S. Olympic Committee would risk having reporters attempt — at least not without a liability waiver.

Ordinary people skate, play hockey, ski, ride on sleds ... but it's nothing like what Olympians are doing with those activities. And most of us have the good sense to understand that.

But curling ... people look at that and think it's like bowling or shuffleboard. How hard can it be to slide a big, round rock down a sheet of ice?

Guess what? It's hard. Or at least, hard to get the hang of, unless you're naturally gifted at gliding over the ice on one foot while trying to make a 42-pound stone go exactly as far as you want it and in the right direction.

Put it this way: Don't make fun of curling until you’ve tried it. And if you've tried it, you may well have bruises to show for it.

Many of the media folks fell down while attempting to "deliver" — that’s the word you're supposed to use — the rock. And that was even before putting on a "slider," which is a very slick surface (such as Teflon) on the bottom of one shoe. You attach that on your sole either with elastic or a strap and then try to stand up.

Yeah, right.

If you put weight on that foot, odds are it's going to go out from under you. You have to get used to it. That's the foot you're supposed to slide gracefully on as you send the stone toward the "house," which is the round scoring area that is 12 feet in diameter.

If you can't slide with grace — and most first-timers can't — you’ll probably go as far as your balance allows. Then you let go of the stone about the same time you tumble over, probably striking various body parts on the ice.

After a round or two of attempted delivery, most media members opted for broom duty. You don't wear a slider for that, but your arms can get a little tired. For real curlers, a lot of intricate strategy is involved in knowing exactly how fast and long to sweep.

Sweeping creates a thin film of water under the rock, which allows it to move forward easier. Accomplished sweepers can add 10-15 feet of distance for a rock, and they also can influence how much it curls and thus, where it ends up.

Curling started in Scotland in the 16th century, and all the rocks are made exclusively of a type of evenly grained granite quarried there. Brooms or brushes are made of straw or synthetic materials; that's up to individual preference.

There have been World Championships in curling for men since 1959 and for women since 1979. Curling made its debut as an Olympic medal event in the Nagano Games in 1998, with Switzerland taking the men's gold and Canada the women's. In the 2002 Games, the gold winners were Norway's men and Great Britain's women.

In Turin, the curling competition will consist of eight days of round-robin competition, one day for tie breakers, one day for semifinals and then the women's and men's gold- and bronze-medal matches on consecutive days. In other words, curling goes on 12 of the 16 days of the Games.

On its various cable networks, NBC will show 26 curling matches from the Games next month, with 15 of them live. The ratings may be a bit better in the northern states where it is most popular. Eight of the 10 U.S. Olympic curlers are from Minnesota, including all four on the men's side, for which Pete Fenson is skip. For the women, Cassie Johnson is the skip.

It may take a little while to get the hang of the rules and procedures in curling, but not too long. One thing that's a bit confusing: in curling, a rink doesn't mean a building that has an ice surface. It means the actual curling team, which consists of four players: the skip (captain), third, second and lead. All the players participate in each shot, with one delivering the stone, two sweeping and another calling strategy.

A curling competition consists of ends, which you could think of as like innings in baseball. The two teams deliver all eight of their stones in each end, and championship matches usually consist of 10 ends. That generally takes about 2 1/2 hours to complete.

For each stone you have closer to the center of the circles than your opponent, you get a point. And the team with the most points wins.

And if watching it makes you want to try it ... don't say we didn't warn you about the sliders.

Darwin Award Nominee?

2006-02-01T16:16:00.000-05:00

I wonder if this teenager qualifies for a Darwin Award? (I know, I know, I'm a terrible, awful person. But it was the first thing I thought of. I mean, duh. Seriously.)

Zoo elephant tramples boy to death

Wednesday, February 1, 2006

ASUNCION, Paraguay (AP) -- A 13-year-old boy who entered an elephant's open-air cage to feed it a mango was crushed to death on Tuesday.

Guillermo Gonzalez got past a rock wall and two metal fences to reach the 4 1/2-ton elephant, named Maia, but the animal reacted violently, stomping the teenager to death before a trainer could intervene.

"Maia understood that its territory had been invaded by a stranger, which is why the elephant trapped Guillermo with the trunk, taking him by the legs and then crushing him with one of its front feet," said Carlos Britos, a veterinarian and director of the zoo.

He described the 35-year-old elephant as docile and obedient with him and other handlers.

The elephant's caretaker, Maximo Ramos, said he has intervened with commands before to protect visitors who got too close. He said he did the same on Tuesday, after he saw the boy had passed the barriers.

"She obeyed and let go of the child, but he was already dead," he said.

Olympic "Sports"

2006-01-25T09:36:00.000-05:00

With the 2006 Winter Olympics in Torino, Italy coming up in two weeks, I thought I'd gripe a bit about some of the competitions that have managed to lay claim to being an "Olympic sport." (I'm sure this is a rant that's been done a million times before, but hey, when I'm original, I'm original, and when I'm not, I'm not. So sit down and be quiet.)

I mean, listen, folks, we've got to make the distinction between a "sport" and a "game" here. A "sport" is something that is primarily driven by human strength, speed, stamina, endurance or some form thereof. A "game" or "recreation" is something that can certainly require some human skill, and perhaps even years of training and hard work, but is still not a sport.

Actually, the Winter Olympics are pretty good in that regard. Here's the list of endeavors:

Alpine Skiing
Biathlon
Bobsleigh
Cross-country Skiing
Curling
Figure Skating
Freestyle Skiing
Ice Hockey
Luge
Nordic Combined
Short Track (Speed Skating)
Skeleton
Ski Jumping
Snowboard
Speed Skating

The only one that doesn't make the cut, in my mind, is curling. I mean, come on, curling? Curling is like shuffleboard on ice, goddammit. That's not a sport.

Biathlon escapes my ridicule because the cross-country portion of it is grueling, but the shooting part is most definitely not. (See below.)

The Summer Olympics, on the other hand, have started to get out of hand in recent years. Here's what's on the schedule for the 2008 Olympics in Beijing:

Athletics (Track & Field)
Rowing
Badminton
Baseball
Basketball
Boxing
Canoe/Kayak
Cycling (Road, Track, Mountain, BMX)
Equestrian (Jumping, Dressage, Eventing)
Fencing
Football (Soccer)
Gymnastics (Artistic, Trampoline, Rhythmic)
Weightlifting
Handball
Hockey
Judo
Wrestling
Swimming
Synchronized Swimming
Diving
Water Polo
Modern Pentathlon
Softball
Tae Kwon Do
Tennis
Table Tennis
Shooting
Archery
Triathlon
Sailing
Volleyball (Indoor, Beach)

So, one by one:

1. Equestrian. I'm going to catch hell for this from my girlfriend, but in a discipline where success is very much dependent upon the abilities of another animal (the horse), equestrian events, in my mind, don't qualify as sports. Even though it takes years and years and years and years of blood and sweat and tears and toil and skill and finesse and talent. (Hi, sweetie, I love you. Buttercup.)

2. Table Tennis. Even though ping-pong is a staple of Chinese recreation, and one where they dominate quite a bit, I have to say table tennis just isn't a sport. That's like saying foosball or air hockey or skeeball is a sport.

3. Shooting. Firing bullets is not a sport. Period.

4. Archery. Ditto for archery. It certainly takes an eagle eye and deft hands, but it's not a sport.

5. Sailing. No doubt I would be sore as hell after a day of sailing, but how well I steer my super-composite fiberglass/graphite/Kevlar/titanium watercraft, which is powered by the wind, should not garner consideration as a sport.

Why do I not poke fun at badminton, which may seem like an easy target to ignorant people? Because of the five racquet sports (tennis, racquetball, squash, badminton and table tennis), squash and badminton players are some of the fittest athletes in the world. In a typical 20-minute badminton match, players will run over 1 mile in start-and-stop fashion, leap three to four feet in the air for smashes, all the while dealing with a shuttlecock that can travel in excess of 200 mph.

Here's a more empirical comparison that I've found on several badminton websites:

At the 1985 All England (Tennis) Championships (Ed. note: otherwise known as Wimbledon), Boris Becker defeated Kevin Curren 6-3, 6-7, 7-6, 6-4. At the 1985 World Badminton Championships in Calgary, Canada, Han Jian of China defeated Morten Frost of Denmark 14-18, 15-10, 15-8.

The following is a statistical comparison of those matches.

Time: Tennis, 3 hours and 18 minutes. Badminton, 1 hour and 16 minutes.
Ball/Shuttle in Play: Tennis, 18 minutes. Badminton, 37 minutes.
Match Intensity: Tennis, 9 percent. Badminton, 48 percent.
Rallies: Tennis, 299. Badminton, 146.
Shots: Tennis, 1,004. Badminton, 1,972.
Shots Per Rally: Tennis, 3.4. Badminton, 13.5.
Distance Covered: Tennis, 2 miles. Badminton, 4 miles

So even though the badminton match was only 38% the length of the tennis match, the ball/shuttle was in play twice as long, the match was 500% more intense, there were nearly twice as many total shots, nearly four times as many shots per rally, and the badminton players covered twice the distance of the tennis players. Enough said.

And why do I not take synchronized swimming to task? Because synchronized swimming is like doing gymnastics or Pilates suspended in water, without anything to brace against. For those of you who have even a taste of gymnastics or Pilates, I don't think more convincing is needed.

Modern pentathlon (shooting, fencing, swimming, equestrian show jumping and running) barely squeaks by, with three-fifths human sweat and two-fifths not.

So there you have it, The Olympiad According To Me. Please send all objections, grievances and hate mail to:

George W. Bush
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW
Washington, DC 20500

Poor Michael Jackson

2006-01-17T10:19:00.000-05:00

Michael Jackson critics should be ashamed of themselves, constantly picking on this gentle, kind yet obviously tortured soul. The manner in which Michael has been ridiculed by the media circus is a prime example of the general public at its worst, displaying the darkest side of our brutal, callous, heartless society.

As an ardent Michael supporter, I feel I am duty-bound to report two jokes I heard on the radio this morning while driving to work. If you are as horrified and offended as I am, I urge you to complain directly to KISS 108 FM in Boston and let them know just how incensed you are at the mockery they are making of this poor man's plight.

Q.: Have you heard Michael Jackson is doing a remake of an Elton John song?

A.: "Don't Let Your Son Go Down On Me"

Q.: What did the man say to Michael Jackson at the beach?

A.: "Excuse me, could you please move? You're in my son!"

Despicable. People who come up with such jokes that make me laugh until I expel boogers and nearly get into a car accident should be shot.

And Let's Not Forget...

2006-01-13T11:45:00.000-05:00

While I'm at it, let's give equal time to my other two favorite artists to skewer, Michael Bolton and Kenny G. There's actually not much to say, really. I mean, they kind of speak for themselves, don't they?

As far as Bolton goes, the only thing worse than his adult contemporary crooning is his previous incarnation as... a metalhead?

And my favorite jazz guitarist in the world, Pat Metheny, pummeled Kenny G better than I ever could.

David Hasselhoff Files For Divorce

2006-01-13T11:06:00.000-05:00

LOS ANGELES, California -- Former "Baywatch" star David Hasselhoff filed for divorce Thursday from actress Pamela Bach, his wife of 16 years.

"The couple have agreed to an amicable settlement," said Hasselhoff's publicist, Judy Katz.

Hasselhoff, 53, and Bach, 42, wed in December 1989. They have two teenage daughters.

Hasselhoff played lifeguard Mitch Buchannon in "Baywatch" from 1989 to 2000. He also starred in the 1980s TV series "Knight Rider," in which his character, Michael Knight, teamed with a talking Pontiac Trans Am sports car to fight crime.

Bach has appeared on the soap opera "The Young and The Restless" and in numerous episodes of "Baywatch" and "Knight Rider."

Details on custody and property issues were not disclosed.

Bach, who cited "irreconcilable differences," elaborated further in the divorce filing, saying, "Can you believe I put up with this pompous ass for 16 years? Just look at his body of work: a talking car and a bunch of bikini babes. I think the low point of our marriage was that 'Baywatch' episode with the 'killer electric eel' that looked like a giant five-dollar rubber toy. And let's not even mention the pop albums and musicals. I mean, please, Michael Crawford is a genius by comparison. Besides, it tells you a lot when David is so hugely popular in France. Everyone knows the French have terrible taste in entertainment. Plus they're fun to pick on."

When asked to comment, Hasselhoff issued a statement through Katz, saying only, "Did you know I'm listed in the Guinness Book of World Records as 'The Most Watched TV Star in the World'? I mean, I rock!"

Arnold Schwarzenegger's Best Movie Lines

2006-01-13T09:50:00.000-05:00

• "I'll be back." (The Terminator, 1984)

• "Hasta la vista. Baby." (Terminator 2: Judgment Day, 1991)

• "He had to split." (The Running Man, 1987) (Editor's note: This is after Arnold's character cuts a bad guy in two. With a chainsaw. Vertically, upwards. Starting from the crotch. Ouch.)

• "You are one ugly motherfucker." (Predator, 1987)

• "Chill out. Dickhead." (Terminator 2: Judgment Day, 1991)

• "Jump, Billy! I will catch you! You can doo iit!" (Last Action Hero, 1993) (Editor's note: Now, see, for me, this was the original "You can doo iit!", preceding the running Adam Sandler/Rob Schneider gag.)

• "So can you believe how much I am in heaven? I am, like, getting the feeling of coming in the gym, I'm getting the feeling of coming at home, I'm getting the feeling of coming backstage. When I pump up, when I pose out in front of 5,000 people, I get the same feeling. So I'm coming day and night." (Pumping Iron, 1977) (Editor's note: This is Arnold as himself, in a bodybuilding documentary, describing the similarities between lifting weights and having an orgasm.)

• "I just never really applied for it. It's just one of those things that I never really did."

Okay, so that last one isn't a fictionalized movie line, either — it's what the Gubernator said to reporters after his recent motorcycle accident, when grilled about why he didn't have a motorcycle license. The governor of California. Never occurred to him. To get. A. Motorcycle. License.

...

...

...

(stunned silence)

Which brings me to the point of my post: that art is simply a pale imitation of life, and no Hollywood screenwriter could ever possibly match the hilarity of what comes out of Arnold's mouth in real life.

Valentine's Day Gift

2006-01-13T01:27:00.000-05:00

Gentlemen, Valentine's Day will soon be upon us, and nothing says "I love you" quite like... an armadillo purse.

Confessions of a Converted Chocoholic

2006-01-12T12:56:00.000-05:00

All my life, I've never really been into sweets — I've always been a salty foods kind of guy. Doritos, for instance. Now there's the most perfect and delicious food group ever created. I can eat a one-pound bag of Doritos in one sitting easy. (The best flavor ever? The Sour Cream & Onion flavor the company produced roughly 25 years ago, not the Sonic Sour Cream of recent times.) Yet believe it or not, I'm very good about avoiding Doritos when I go shopping. I almost never buy them. I usually scarf them down whenever someone else supplies them, say, at a party.

So aside from my weakness for cheesecake (which I'm also really good about passing on when I shop), sweets and candy have never really held much appeal for me. That is, until lately.

Ever since I met my girlfriend Sue, I've been eating sweets like crazy — cookies, pies, cakes, candy. I blame her, really. She's a great baker, and for Christmas she made insane amounts of sugar cookies, gingerbread cookies, chocolate chip cookies, pecan balls and shortbread. (A disproportionate amount of which went into my mouth as I "helped" her bake. But I digress.)

Sue also really likes chocolate, and she's constantly justifying her consumption of such (and urging me to take up the chant) by reminding me that chocolate is "good for you."

In fact, there's a lot of truth to that. Dark chocolate in particular is loaded with antioxidants that may help boost levels of "good" cholesterol (HDL) and suppress the oxidation of "bad" cholesterol (LDL). Other antioxidants may aid in fighting cancer and heart disease.

Chocolate also apparently stimulates the production of endorphins, serotonin and phenylethylamine in the body, all of which are naturally released in large quantities when one is in love. (Yet another rationalization from Sue: "You're craving large quantities of chocolate as a substitute for me during the week when we're apart.")

This is all well and good, except it still doesn't fully explain my astonishing physical, physiological, psychological and whatever-logical about-face after 38 years of being completely ambivalent about chocolate. After half a lifetime of looking upon people who "ooh" and "ahh" over chocolate with amused scorn, I have become one of them. I have joined the Dark (Chocolate) Side. I crave chocolate every day now. It's deeply disturbing, startling, maddening, and oh, so very luscious, smooth, creamy and decadent. I wonder if this is what crack cocaine is like.

Which brings me to the fun part of my post: my favorite chocolate. Keep in mind this is a relatively new addiction; I haven't explored many of the dozens of gourmet chocolate brands out there, but my starting point is the chocolate bars lining the shelves at Whole Foods. My favorite thus far: Tropical Source Rice Crisp Dark Chocolate. Sue is particularly impressed with Valrhona Le Noir 56%. And we both agree Lindt's Lindor Truffles are exquisite.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm starting to get the shakes because I haven't had my chocolate yet today.

Switzerland

2006-01-09T12:09:00.000-05:00

And this one time, at band camp...

The Real World: M.I.T.

2006-01-08T17:25:00.000-05:00

The shock still lingers, the horror still suffocating my senses like toxic fumes. It only happened seven hours ago, yet it seems I have already endured a lifetime of nightmares.

My cousin Colin and I are hanging out with a friend of his in Building 36, one of M.I.T.'s electrical engineering research labs. We're in the elevator lobby of the first floor getting ready to exit the building, when I hear someone out of view sprinting down the hall. A feeling of dread begins to tickle my brain, a pricking-of-my-thumbs-something-wicked-this-way-comes. A slightly disheveled figure, breathing heavily, hurtles into the lobby wearing a red headband and clutching a firearm. Two companions are close behind, similarly equipped, and they seem like they're getting ready to sprint up the stairway. They suddenly change their minds and quickly backtrack the way they came.

The source of their hasty retreat soon becomes evident. Swarming from the other side of the lobby emerges a platoon of wicked-looking blue-headbanded warriors — the female leader replete with infantry helmet — giving chase to the severely outnumbered scarlet-clad rebels, who have disappeared around the corner. The blue phalanx sweeps terrifyingly close to myself and Colin, ignores us, turns the corner and suddenly halts as adversaries size each other up in a split second of disbelief. And then... the carnage begins. The popping sound of plastic guns discharging fills the air. Rubber-tipped darts fly as Death gleefully dances to a tune as familiar and as old as time. Sons, daughters, husbands, wives all, are cut down in a hail of slaughter as...

Okay, I'm having trouble continuing this, as my diaphragm threatens to seize up on me. Earlier this afternoon, in between paroxysms of laughter much like the kind I'm having now, Colin explained (somewhat sheepishly, since he's an M.I.T. graduate) that we were caught in the middle of a skirmish between warring factions of M.I.T.'s (yes, that's the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, folks) Assassins' Guild. The particular universe we stumbled upon is called Patrol, whose rules of engagement can be found here.

Kids, kids, listen, I say all this in good fun and fondness, but you know, I used to play this game, too. WHEN I WAS SIX YEARS OLD.

My tear ducts are severely depleted and my abs are going to hurt tomorrow from laughing so hard. Thanks for the entertainment, guys, it made my day. (Twice!)

Robertson, Part Deux

2006-01-06T20:12:00.000-05:00

Make that two sticks of dynamite. With short fuses. Wrapped in nails and shrapnel laced with bubonic plague.

May the Israelis "carve up" their land however they damn well please.

And check out this hilarious spoof on the original news article.

Movie Hall Of Fame: Heat

2006-01-06T17:05:00.000-05:00

To continue with the Michael Mann theme from yesterday, I thought I'd highlight one of my favorite movies of all time. I mean, not only does this movie feature Mann's incredibly stylish direction and vision, but it's the only instance to date that giants Robert De Niro and Al Pacino have acted together. (Godfather II — even though I've never seen the Godfather trilogy, much to Kent's dismay — doesn't count, De Niro and Pacino don't appear onscreen together.)

This movie is nothing but a crime story, but calling Heat just another cops and robbers flick is like calling the Great Wall of China just another pile of stone.

The entire movie has a gritty, cool-blue, L.A.-by-streetlight look to it, but it never gets mired in its own coolness. Mann weaves tension and anticipation into every scene, every subplot, every dialogue exchange, and sometimes even releases that tension in heart-pounding fashion. The shootouts explode off the screen and stun you like a percussion grenade, leaving you breathless.

Yet despite all the high-powered action, Mann never abandons the most important and intriguing aspect of the film: examining and exploring both sides of the thin blue line, both of these men prowling the streets of L.A.

Both are hunters: De Niro is always stalking the big score, the big payoff, while Pacino stalks... the stalkers. (They remind me of two stealth submarines creeping in the deep blue, circling, waiting for the other to slip up.) Both men are restless creatures that roam the shadows of night, their nocturnal wanderings in sharp contrast to the daylight routine of "normal" people. And it takes its toll: De Niro can't seem to find a good woman; Pacino can't seem to hang on to his.

But even though one has a badge and the other doesn't, Mann's message seems to be that they're not so different, these two lone wolves. They're both driven by the same instinct that fuels all predators: there's prey out there somewhere and I've got to find it, because it's a matter of life and death and it's all I know how to do.

This singular obsession, desperation and feeling of impending doom is what draws us into these characters. Do we automatically root for Pacino's cop, the dysfunctional, hollow, haunting and baggy-eyed good guy? Or do we empathize with De Niro's renegade, the disciplined killer ronin living a life bereft of love and friendship?

Like a moth drawn to a flame, the two spiral towards their inevitable confrontation. The climax is somewhat typical and predictable, but leaves you unsatisfied, yet not in a bad way. Because we know this is not the end of it: long after these two combatants are gone, the night will continue to draw men into her bosom, luring them with whispers of greed and lust and fortune. And new stalkers will be born again, telling the same old story of tattered lives and ignoble deaths.

At 2 hours and 52 minutes this is a long movie by anyone's standards, but it's well worth it. You've never seen crime and its principal players dissected like this, the way Mann does it. And what a cast! Besides De Niro and Pacino, there's Val Kilmer, Jon Voigt, Tom Sizemore, Ashley Judd, Diane Venora, Amy Brenneman, Wes Studi, Ted Levine, Dennis Haysbert, Natalie Portman, Hank Azaria, Danny Trejo, Henry Rollins, Tone Loc, Jeremy Piven, just to name most of the recognizable names and faces.

A movie like this comes along only once in a lifetime. Watch it. You won't regret it.

Robertson Links Sharon Stroke, God's Wrath

2006-01-05T19:07:00.000-05:00

NORFOLK, Va. — Christian broadcaster Pat Robertson suggested Thursday that Israeli Prime Minister Ariel Sharon's stroke was divine punishment for "dividing God's land."

"God considers this land to be his," Robertson said on his TV program "The 700 Club." "You read the Bible and he says 'This is my land,' and for any prime minister of Israel who decides he is going to carve it up and give it away, God says, 'No, this is mine.'"

What a fucking stupid, retarded, right-wing idiot. Someone please shove a stick of dynamite up Pat Robertson's ass.

And The Award For Most Improved Actor Goes To...

2006-01-05T17:42:00.000-05:00

According to the news wires, Jamie Foxx's album Unpredictable debuted at #2 on the Billboard charts a week ago and leapfrogged to #1 yesterday, making him only the fourth Oscar-winning actor ever to have a #1 album, the other three being Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby and Barbra Streisand. Now that is what I call "select company." Boy, what a long, long way he's come.

I remember Foxx 16 years ago as part of the cast of In Living Color. While there's no doubt the groundbreaking TV show was a milestone for African-American actors/comedians, Foxx is the only one to have attained legitimate commercial and critical success. (The show also featured a young Jim Carrey, who has also enjoyed commercial success since then, but critical success? Eh. Besides, Carrey's not a brotha. There was also a young lass by the name of Jennifer Lopez as a Fly Girl, but I don't really count her as being part of the show. And again, she's not a sista, not to mention the fact that her name and "Oscar" will never be uttered in the same sentence.)

If you had asked me 16 years ago — surveying the motley crew of Wayans family members, Jim Carrey, Tommy Davidson, David Alan Grier, Foxx, etc. — who would eventually go on to win an Academy Award, I never would have picked Foxx. Come to think of it, I wouldn't have picked any of those (Homey the) clowns. But I've got to tell you, Foxx has done some amazing stuff: Any Given Sunday, Ali, Collateral, and of course, Ray. The kid has bloomed into a damn excellent actor.

And I'm really looking forward to the 2006 release of the new Miami Vice movie, too, steered once again by the stylish vision of director Michael Mann (Heat, Ali, Collateral, and the original executive producer of the Miami Vice TV series), and featuring Foxx as Ricardo Tubbs. I have a feeling, unlike Philip Michael Thomas, that Foxx's Tubbs will not be "the token black partner."

Such promise and potential for many more great things. Who knows? Maybe Foxx's career won't be limited to just one Oscar!

Way to go, Jamie.

Why I Hate The NBA

2006-01-05T10:32:00.000-05:00

I'm not a rabid sports fan, but I do like my sports. And of the four major American sports (baseball, basketball, football, hockey), I have to tell you, I've developed a severe dislike for pro basketball. Why? Because the NBA is full of overpaid, disgustingly rich players that preen, strut, whine and pout, and whose only goal every game is to stuff a spectacular dunk so they can make the highlight reel on ESPN that evening. Arrogance and selfishness have spiraled out of control in pro basketball, and I, for one, am sick of the glory hounds that populate the NBA.

Do you take issue with that? Let's look at the other three sports first.

Baseball. Yes, baseball is full of fat, lazy, overpaid players, no doubt about it. Baseball players score a paltry 2 on the Chang PSFI. (Pro Sport Fitness Index, a scale of 1 to 10 measuring the ratio of average player fitness to annual salary. It's all very complicated math, I won't get into it here.) And Major League Baseball's players union (this is a great example of a bad union, Kent) has far too much clout and has protected its steroid-pumped members for far too long. (Baseball is still the only one of the four major sports without a mandatory drug testing policy.)

But it's more difficult to be a selfish player in baseball. If you're in the field, you can't control whether or not the ball is hit to you. And if the ball is hit to you, you can't stop and think about making a glamorous play, because if you screw up you'll hear a collective groan from 35,000 people. (Plus an echo from ten times that many watching on their televisions.)

If you're at the plate, you can't be concerned with making yourself look good — you've really got to work hard and fight to get a hit. It's not easy tracking down a ball that seems the size of a vitamin pill when it's coming at you at 90 mph. If you don't produce, you'll find yourself back on the farm team in a hurry.

And if you're the guy who does get all the ball time and camera time — the pitcher — you've really got to put in a 110% effort in order to get outs. (Sidebar: Read Roger Angell's A Pitcher's Story, a great book that follows the career of pitcher David Cone.) All it takes is to be 1% off your game, and opposing batters will beat up on you like the LAPD on Rodney King. (ooooooooooooh...)

Football. Spoiled, loud-mouthed players have been getting a lot of press lately. I won't name names, just the initials T.O. will suffice. But even so, football is a pretty rough sport and players have to exert themselves a lot. Football players score a 7 on the Chang PSFI — most are incredibly fit, but they also get a decent amount of rest in between plays, and when their half of the ball isn't on the field. (Some players don't even need to be incredibly fit, just incredibly large, accomplished by consuming roughly 50,000 calories a day.)

Let's examine spotlight opportunities. If you're the quarterback, you can't set yourself up for a good photo op, hoping you'll be on the cover of the next Sports Illustrated — you've got to think fast and smart, or else get blindsided by a defensive end whose only mission in life is to take your head off. Longer term, if you don't win games, you'll be the scapegoat for the entire team's woes even if it isn't totally your fault. Of the four major sports, aside from coaches and managers, no single individual has a bigger weight to carry on his shoulders than a football quarterback.

If you're someone else who handles the ball — receiver or running back — you're pretty much in the same boat as the quarterback once the ball is tucked in your arms. You can't stop to strike a Heisman Trophy pose. You've got to run and dart like Bambi with Godzilla in hot pursuit, because you've got 11 opposing players locked in on you like heat-seeking missiles, salivating at the chance to rearrange your internal organs.

Hockey. The fittest, hardest-working, most underpaid and least appreciated players of the four sports. Hockey players score a 10 on the Chang PSFI. Yes, they do get to rest roughly 75% of the time (most NHL teams use four lines), but do you have any idea what it's like to skate all out, back and forth along a 200-foot-long ice rink for 30-90 seconds every shift? It's brutal. (Kris Draper of the Detroit Red Wings does squats and calf raises after each game to improve his conditioning. I mean, good Lord.)

Much like football players, if you're a hockey player and you've got the puck, there's no time to think me-first. (Hockey players all know they don't get the media coverage and TV ratings anyway, so they're not even concerned about appearing on the cover of SI!) You've got to accelerate, juke and deke like your life depended on it. Because it does, almost, what with five opposing players, big graphite sticks in their hands and blades on their feet, their velocity tripled by said blades, looking to relocate your jaw five rows up in the stands.

Basketball. I've already said my peace about the NBA. Basketball players score a 6 on the Chang PSFI. It takes incredible strength and explosiveness to jump that high, but considering how slowly players bring the ball up the court to maximize their on-camera time...

College basketball, however, is a completely different beast. At this level, college players haven't been fully exposed to the shoe-endorsement-bling-bling-fur-coat-Pimp-Daddy-my-best-friend-is-a-rapper lifestyle. College kids play in earnest, knowing that for most of them, graduation and a 9:00-to-5:00 lifestyle awaits.

Plus, coaching strategy is more apparent in college basketbal. (There's no such thing as calling a play, then watching Kobe Bryant take the ball to the hoop himself anyway.) It's fun to watch the chess match between coaches, and the differences between zone and man-to-man defenses.

And for my money, nothing is more exciting (aside from watching the Red Wings win a Stanley Cup) than the NCAA Tournament. 64 teams, anything goes. Upsets galore. Last-minute buzzer-beaters. #1 seeds tripped up by Cinderella teams.

Glorious.

Wolves Are Cool

2006-01-04T10:58:00.000-05:00

So I just put up my new 2006 Wolves calendar (thanks, sweetie!) and once again I am struck by the majesty and beauty of these animals. There's something so haunting about the eyes of a wolf, a being that is the living embodiment of moonlight; something so intriguing about an animal that runs in packs, yet seems so isolated and forlorn in the deafening silence of the wild; a creature that conveys calm, quiet and introspection, yet possesses a hunter's instinct and a predator's power.

If you live near one of the notable wolf preserves below, go visit and see why Native American Indians have always revered wolves as teachers and the embodiment of wisdom. (And buy a membership, sponsor a wolf or donate some money!)

• Wolf Hollow (Ipswich, Massachusetts)

• Wolf Park (Battle Ground, Indiana)

• Lakota Wolf Preserve (Columbia, New Jersey)

• Seacrest Wolf Preserve (Chipley, Florida)

• Mission: Wolf (Silver Cliff, Colorado)

The Saddest Deaths In Rock 'n' Roll

2006-01-04T00:00:00.000-05:00

• Stevie Ray Vaughan
• Freddie Mercury (Queen)
• Jaco Pastorius
• Steve Clark (Def Leppard)
• Randy Rhoads (Ozzy Osbourne)
• Marvin Gaye

Rest in peace, fellas, you live on forever in your music and in our hearts.

Just Desserts

2006-01-03T23:32:00.000-05:00

I love cheesecake. I also love tiramisu. So it goes to follow, then, that the tiramisu cheesecake at The Cheesecake Factory is as close to perfection as it gets. The only other sweet indulgence that could possibly tie it is...

Cold Stone Creamery. Cheesecake ice cream with graham cracker crust mix-in. Nothing else. No strawberries, blueberries, chocolate sauce or anything. Just graham cracker crust. It's cheesecake! But it's ice cream! I mean, what more could you ask for?

Album Of The Moment 1.2

2006-01-03T21:36:00.000-05:00

Steely Dan is my favorite band in the whole world. I'm not sure words can even describe Donald Fagen & Walter Becker's music. There's just something about their seamless, lush blend of rock, pop, jazz, R&B, soul, blues, 1970s-nostalgia-meets-modern-New-York-hipster sound that does what all good music is supposed to do: provide you with an existential experience and transport you to another place, another time.

Steely Dan's Alive In America album is astonishing not just because it's their only live album and it kicks ass: Steely Dan is known for being a product of studio musicians, and Fagen and Becker have always had a reputation of being, shall we say, anal retentive in the recording and production of their music. So to hear them perform their songs with the same tightness, groove and polish of the studio albums, but with the energy and electricity of live performace, is truly a wonder to behold.

And yes, the band is named after a dildo in William S. Burroughs' novel Naked Lunch, but that shouldn't stop you from getting to know them. Buy this album plus Aja and Gaucho, at the very least. Listen and love them. You have been so ordered.

Another Weak Defense Of Boston

2006-01-03T14:35:00.000-05:00

Oh, yeah, the weather blows, too. Boston doesn't have four seasons, it only has two: winter, which lasts from approximately October through freaking May; and summer the rest of the time. But not glorious, luxurious summers, either — it's either raining, 90 degrees in the shade, or just cool enough to make you wonder whether you should be wearing a windbreaker. It's maddening.

And as mentioned in a previous post, the worst drivers and pedestrians on the planet, bar none. And the most convoluted, M.C. Escher-esque airport roadway in the world at Logan Airport. You know those scenes in sci-fi movies where they show futuristic-type space cars in the year 2602, careening around at 900 mph in seeming chaos and narrowly missing one other? Well, the future is now, folks, Welcome To Logan Airport.

Good things about Boston? Uh... Cambridge. (*snort* That's really funny. I'm just a gas. But I'm being serious.) The seafood. (The best of which, Maine lobster, doesn't even belong to Boston or Massachusetts.) Cape Cod and Cape Ann. (But not between Memorial Day and Labor Day.) The jazz scene. (But not the local indie rock scene, which I've watched slowly die over the last two decades.) Being on an ocean, even if it isn't the Pacific. Hordes of hot college wome— I mean, my girfriend Sue. (Just kidding, honey, just wanted to see if you were paying attention.) Brookline and Coolidge Corner. Winning the World Series in 2004. Winning three out of the last four Super Bowls and establishing a Dynasty. (Yes, that's right, I capitalized it.) A surprisingly vibrant martial arts scene for such a second-rate big city.

So I guess it's not too bad, but for the most part the negatives still outweigh the positives.

In Defense Of Boston... Sort Of

2006-01-03T12:21:00.000-05:00

My cousin Kent wrote a post last July in which he lambasted Boston. To wit:

I'm sorry, Boston, but you're not really a city. You're a community that used to be a city and now struts around like a skinny 15-year-old boy trying to prove he can take on the big boys at the biker bar. You talk about how tough and great you are, but deep down, you know you have nothing to back it up, and you'd be so screwed if you ever had to deliver on your boasting. Just look at what a dullsville affair you made of the 2004 Democratic Convention. You have no nightlife, little in the way of cuisine or culture, and despite the presence of a large population of young people and college students, you're remarkably stodgy, prissy, close-minded, and mired in the ways of generations past. There might be a lot of new and good ideas generated in Boston, but not one of them has a chance of being implemented within your boundaries. To put things simply: you offer no fun, you offer no innovation, and you have ... no ... energy.

Bastard. But you know what? He's right: Boston is pretty lame. I've been here 18 years now, and have wanted to get the hell out for the last 10. But various things or another always kept me here, and now I find myself looking to stay in Boston (or in Massachusetts anyway) indefinitely, what with my girlfriend Sue (there she is again) here, and me settled in perfectly into my various martial arts schools.

Boston is okay for an old fart like me who doesn't need the urban energy equivalent of a triple espresso, but the one thing that has always pissed me off about Boston is how conservative it is. Yes, politically, Boston is rampantly liberal. Yes, Boston is a college hotbed. You would think it'd be cooler than it is. But when you belong to a minority ethnicity and you're not a pretty female, you learn to recognize The Look. It's the look you get when you're surrounded by generations of blueblood snobbery. It's the look you get when white people won't even look you in the eye, and their facial expression instantly falls the minute you go near them. It's the look of class and racial division, of prejudice. 18 years, I know that look.

San Francisco? I don't get that look. New York? Nope. (Just to name two cities I'd infinitely prefer over Boston.)

Whew, getting kind of heavy, aren't I? Didn't I promise nothing of the sort in this blog? Time to get back to writing things no one cares about but me.

I do love the Red Sox and the Patriots. Celtics and Bruins, you're on your own, I want nothing to do with you — it's still Pistons and Red Wings for me.

And Johnny Damon, I mean this in the kindest, most non-spiteful way, because I really am quite fond of you, but I hope you break your leg on Opening Day.

Album Of The Moment 1.1

2006-01-03T10:11:00.000-05:00

As I sit here listening to The Greatest Disco Album Of All Time (more on that later), let me say a little something in defense of disco. Growing up in the Detroit area (okay, Ann Arbor hardly evokes the gritty image of "Detroit area," but close enough), I was right in the middle of the "Disco Sucks" backlash in the late 1970s. And I thought it was healthy, to a certain degree. I mean, no one could argue that the era of guys with poofy shag haircuts, waxed moustaches, oversized sunglasses, white leisure suits and cheesy dance moves just had to come crumbling down.

But the music? The music was unfairly trashed as well. I mean, let's face it, disco was the funk, brother. That shit was kickin'. Bands/artists like Earth Wind & Fire, Chic, A Taste of Honey, The Gap Band, Shalimar, The Jacksons, Cheryl Lynn, and yes, even The Village People and The Bee Gees, were tearing it up. (For those last two, let's just overlook the visuals, okay?)

Which brings me to The Greatest Disco Album Of All Time: Earth Wind & Fire's Greatest Hits Live. I defy you to listen to songs like "In The Stone," "September," "Let's Groove" and "Boogie Wonderland" without moving your feet and your hips. Buy it. Groove it. Live it. Love all.

Peace, out.

Peach Yogurt Salmon

2006-01-03T01:08:00.000-05:00

I have to say that I am not really an ardent chef. I cook once in a while and I enjoy it enough, and my dishes turn out good but not masterful. The other night, however, I was cooking for the first time for my new girlfriend Sue (there she is again), and I was really getting into it, improvising ingredients and cooking methods on this standard yogurt salmon recipe I found online. I think going forward, cooking is going to be a blast — it occurred to me that cooking for someone you love makes it that much more enjoyable. (To those of you making "Awwwww" sounds right now: sod off.)

2 cups plain nonfat yogurt

4 peaches, peeled and pitted

1 navel orange

1/2 cup cucumber, peeled and finely diced

2 Tbsp. chopped fresh dill

1/4 tsp. salt

1/4 tsp. ground black pepper

4 eight-ounce salmon fillets

Combine the yogurt with the cucumber, dill, salt and pepper.

Peel the orange and put four sections of orange into a blender. Cut all four peaches into small pieces and add to blender. Result of blending should be a very thick peach-orange paste. Add half of the paste to the yogurt.

Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees. Place salmon on aluminum foil-lined baking pan/sheet. Evenly spread the other half of the peach-orange paste over the fillets. Broil for 15-20 minutes, or until the fish flakes easily and the center is no longer raw-dark orange.

Remove salmon from oven and spread the peach yogurt sauce over fillets before serving. Serves 4.

My Fear Of Shit

2006-01-02T23:53:00.000-05:00

I... have an aversion to poop.

What I specifically mean by that is, random encounters with animal feces in an urban or otherwise non-urban setting. The worst, I think, is dogshit. I've been known to throw away perfectly good shoes after stepping in dogshit, even after cleaning them, because I felt like I couldn't get them clean enough.

My revulsion of dogshit is such that the lower edge of my peripheral vision has been honed to a Master Ninja-like level — I can ambulate down a sidewalk, eyes level, and my lower peripheral vision will navigate my feet around any dark spot on the sidewalk, anything that might possibly be dog poop. (You see? The human body is capable of amazing feats. All it takes is the proper amount of training/fear. And speaking of circumnavigating canine excrement, have you walked the streets of New York City lately? I mean, good Lord.)

Dogshit is still just as disgusting as ever, but lately I've overcome one aspect of this phobia: I can deal with horse manure.

See, my girlfriend Sue (I said I wouldn't write about her to spare her the embarrassment, but it doesn't mean I won't reference her from time to time) owns a horse named Scruffy. Now, before I met Sue, I couldn't have cared less about horses — seeing a horse, meeting a horse, petting a horse, riding a horse, whatever. Before Scruffy, I had been horseback riding exactly once in my life.

But I have to tell you, I'm absolutely in love with Scruffy. She's adorable. (And small as horses go, which probably helps in the cute department.) I'm so enamored of Scruffy that I've had Sue teach me how to feed Scruffy, groom her and clean her stall. Which means stepping amongst and raking a lot of horse chips with a manure fork. (I don't know if "horse chips" is an acceptable term among the equine cognoscenti, but I'm going to use it anyway, sorry, honey.)

And you know something? I'm okay with horse manure. I can deal with it. Unless it's raining, horse manure is usually matted with hay and sawdust, and kind of hard. It's rarely squishy and disgusting. Even when it is, I can now step within six inches of a big, wet steaming pile without recoiling in horror.

So I'm very proud that I've gotten over this. And you all should be proud of me, too. Show me some love. (And this dissertation on poop is not Mulgrew-esque, either — I'm not fascinated by my own poop. This is serious catharsis, folks, come on.)

People I'd Like To Punch In The Face

2006-01-02T20:38:00.000-05:00

You've been forewarned. Don't cross me, bitch.

• People who leave their cell phone on/answer their cell phone in the movie theater. (Would it be socially acceptable to grab someone's cell phone and throw it across the theater so that it smashes into a dozen pieces somewhere in the darkness?)

• People who park their car, taking up the space of two cars. (I've always fantasized about printing up business cards that say, "You Park Like An Asshole," slipping one under the windshield wiper of any automobile parked as such.)

• Pedestrians who step out in front of a green light, not even looking at traffic, daring you to hit them. (Especially here in Boston, home of the worst drivers and worst pedestrians on the planet. If you ever read a newspaper headline about me mowing down a gaggle of hapless pedestrians, you'll know why.)

• People at the supermarket who get into the Express Lane with enough groceries to feed a small Third World country. (Aside from "express" and "regular" checkout lines at the grocery store, I move to create a separate "line of shame" for such people.)

• Frat boys. And sometimes sorority girls. (This whole blog is written tongue planted firmly in cheek, people, so don't start screaming "Misogynist!" at me. But you know what I mean about sorority girls. You know exactly what I mean.)

• Pro-life demonstrators. (No elaboration necessary.)

• Scientologists. (Ditto.)

• David Hasselhoff, Michael Bolton and Kenny G. (Ditto.)

• George W. Bush. (Ditto.)

(There's a little-known "B" movie called Blind Fury in which Rutger Hauer plays a blind swordsman, à la Zatoichi. In one major fight scene where he gets walloped by Randall "Tex" Cobb, the main baddie muscle in the movie, Hauer's character sighs and laments, "Unreasonable people... make life... so difficult." That's got to be one of the most concise, Zen Buddhist-like pearls of wisdom ever uttered. I love that line.)

The Greatest Guitar Players Of All Time

2006-01-02T20:14:00.000-05:00

Guitar players often poke fun at bass players, calling them "wannabe guitarists." They can kiss my ass. What the hell do they know?

(Actually, they might be right. I listen to guitar players more than I listen to bass players.)

In no particular order (except for Mr. Beck, the #1 greatest guitar player of all time):

• Jeff Beck
• Pat Metheny
• Mike Stern
• Kazumi Watanabe
• Michel Cusson
• Stevie Ray Vaughan
• Jimi Hendrix
• Eddie Van Halen
• Chet Atkins
• Allan Holdsworth
• David Gilmour
• Joe Walsh
• Alex Lifeson

The Greatest Bass Players Of All Time

2006-01-02T19:50:00.000-05:00

Because I said so. Oh, yeah? Who cares what you think?

Old School:

• Jaco Pastorius
• Stanley Clarke
• James Jamerson
• Pino Palladino

New School:

• Marcus Miller
• Mark King
• Alain Caron
• Victor Wooten

P.S.

2006-01-02T17:01:00.000-05:00

I can see from my first post that it's already too long. If I'm going to subvert Blogutopia from within by putting up stupid, senseless and uninspiring posts, I've got to do it more succinctly.

(Hey, guys, what's with the white-text-on-black-background blogs? You think you're fashionable or something? Trying to read that shit is like walking around at night with sunglasses on. Jesus.)

Listen To Me Very Carefully

2006-01-02T15:27:00.000-05:00

Everywhere you look nowadays, everyone has a blog. Blogs have become übercool — they're the new IM, PDAphone, cameraphone, iPod, whatever. And here I am, hopping on the bandwagon. Again. (I started my first blog two and a half years ago, during which time I prolifically posted a grand total of four times.) I'm kind of in the mood to make a fresh start on this here BloggerByGoogle, mainly because two of my cousins (Colin and Kent) have recently started blogging, and also because one of them turned me on to the hysterically funny blog of Jason Mulgrew, an icon and poster child for overfed, overliquored and oversexed (but underlaid, is that a word?) twenty-somethings the world over. Not that I'm going to follow in the footsteps of thousands of Mulgrew wannabes and write about boobs and beer and beejers. (I mean, give me a break, will you, guys? The media is NOT going to make another celebrity out of a Mulgrew clone!) No, I'm already naturally funny in an irreverent, caustic and only slightly obnoxious way (and he's humble, too!). Blame Harlan Ellison.

But I as I write my first post for Blog II, I wonder when the inevitable backlash will start. When will the anti-blog movement become so huge and noteworthy as to deserve mention on a mainstream news channel like FOX News? (That's a joke, kids.) When will blogging become as passé as, say, white gold or analog cable TV or Merlot? And wouldn't it be cooler if I were at the vanguard of the new, rather than jumping on the tail end of the old?

So it is without further ado that for my inaugural post on this blog, I intone in my best Scrooge/Grinch/StatlerFromTheMuppets (look him up on Google, I'm not gonna make it that easy for you) voice: Blogs are dead! Long live blogs!

Long after I am gone, history — and the United Federation of Google, a new virtual (natch) country formed by a union of Google employees, Google having surpassed Microsoft as the biggest software/netware company in the world, taking over 92.3% of the Internet by the year 2009 — will record my blog as the first one to declare such. Never mind the fact that paradoxically (or is that hypocritcally?) I'm using a blog to make said decree, or that I'm not actually the first to say blogs are dead, but hey, we all know Columbus wasn't the first to discover America, either. Marketing, baby, marketing — it's all in how you spin it.

And I will fulfill my self-fulfilling (that's a grammar joke, kids) prophecy by letting this blog wallow, wither and die just like my first one, only to reinvent myself, rising phoenix-like from the ashes, repeating the trend so that by this time next year I will have launched my 51st blog. Which probably isn't so much phoenix-like as it is ADD-like. Whatever.