Spectacular Failure

...I know it well.

So, to begin, you may have noticed that we had planned a weeklong Twins bar fight thing. You may have also noticed that we had only one post that actually had any fighting going on. Sure, we had a post hyping the fantastical wonderland that was to be this week's posts, but we didn't really have any posts to warrant that sort of quasi-advertisement. Spectacular failure... welcome home my friend. You've been gone far too long. I haven't seen you since the last time I tried to hammer out a screenplay over a long weekend.

There were some mitigating factors that contributed to us not actually doing what we planned. Mule got sick. Then I got sick. And we are of the "sit alone quietly suffering" ilk when it comes to sickness. No unnecessary steps taken. On Wednesday I spent nearly the entire day on my couch alternating between reading a solid if unspectacular book and watching season one of Battlestar Galactica on dvd. In it's own way it was fantastic, but the idea of sitting at a computer and actually thinking was a little beyond me. So I mailed it in. And now I've lost my notes on the brackets and whatnot. And believe me, there were copious notes. Jokes about Juan Castro trying to snap Super Joe's knee, about Cuddy being jerked around by the coaching staff (not that he doesn't deserve it). I actually did research on this stuff. And I hate research. But I believe it was not meant to be. And plus, Spectacular Failure has taken up residence on my couch for the past few days and he said he wouldn't leave until I explained this stuff to you people. It's not that I want to do it, but he keeps on tivoing late night cinemax movies and drinking my beer. Mr. Failure has got to go, he's getting me in trouble with the Little Lady.

I'm sitting here drinking some Irish Breakfast tea and I'm still shivering because winter decided to show up in Minnesota again. It's been a while. Most days I don't even wear my coat into the office. Today I had my scarf wrapped ninja-style across my face and about 1 square inch of exposed skin showing. I'm sure by noon I'll be all warm again and then I'll run outside for lunch and start the whole deal over again because I am an idiot. I've got Stevie Wonder rocking out on my speakers and that makes me feel a little better. Songs in the Key of Life - the second album. It's hard to feel like crap when Stevie's singing and putting the funk down on this junk town.

So, for the six people actually fired up to read anything about the Twins this week I apologize. If it makes you feel better you should know that we were going to have TC Bear kick Nick Punto's ass. A lot of people don't know this but TC Bear put up an .817 OPS at AAA and I think he would have broken Punto's clavicle just on intimidation.

Minnesota Twins Drunken Bar Fight - Kent Hrbek Bracket

This entire week's worth of columns owe Billy Martin a huge debt. Billy was the manager of the Twins for a short period of time. That's not really important though. What is important is that during his time with the Twins he happened to get into a drunken bar fight with one of his players.

We here at BMC Headquarters happen to think this is fantastic. We think there should be a statue of Billy slugging Dave Boswell right outside the big, inflatable toilet we like to call the Dome. Or, at the very least, outside the Mall of America which stands on the ground that used to be the Twins' home back in the day. Unfortunately the statue has not been erected to this point so we're just going to have to contribute in our own little way.

This is day one of the Drunken Bar Fight Tournament. If all goes as planned then we should be crowning a winner this Friday some time. I'm handling the Hrbek and Killer brackets and Mule will be hammering out the details of the Puckett and Tony O brackets. For more information on the rules of this here contest I recommend you check out the post here or just scroll down a bit you lazy so and so's.

There have been a few revisions to the combatants since last week. The logistics involved with using the entire 40 man roster (including many players that even supergeeks don't know yet) and past and present team-related folks seemed like a lot of work so we blew it off and toned the tournament down to a much more manageable 32 fighters. Maybe someone, somewhere is lamenting the exclusion of Errol Simonitsch (minor league pitcher) on this list. To that person I say "Fuck off". Seriously. Outside of having a sweet name and a helluva reach (Errol's 6 foot 4) he's really not that interesting.

Now, our plan is to knock this thing out in a week as a means to kill off some time before pitchers and catchers report and also because we're guessing two weeks of reading about Pat Neshek engaged in fisticuffs with Naked BP might bore you and, more importantly, us. But we guarantee nothing. We're not what we would call "planners" or "organized individuals" (as evidenced by our failure to sort out how to show brackets on this here site) so you'll just have to bear with us. Or tune us out. We get that a lot too. We consider it a valid option in most cases. You may tune us out 99 times out of a 100. BUT NOT TODAY! Today, you read what we write. Today, you laugh at our jokes. Today, you win.

So, without further ado. Let's kick this pig...(and yes I just referred to an emotional, and probably slightly fictionalized, speech from a hockey game and then threw out a football reference as well to introduce this baseball blog)......

HRBEK BRACKET

A Northwoods bar, probably somewhere very close to Bemidji, is the host site for this year's Hrbek Bracket. Several dead animals are mounted in various sinister poses along the walls. We've got a vaulted ceiling, the scent of pine, and a rather nice hot stove in the middle of the room.

1 - Ron "Gardy" Gardenhire
8 - Jason Bartlett

4 - Kyle Lohse
5 - Bert Blyleven

3 - Rondell (RonDL) White
6 - Herb Carneal

7 - Unknown Free Agent
2 - Terry Ryan

1 Gardy vs 8 Bartlett

Drink of Choice
Gardy - Shot and a Beer
Bartlett - Daquiri

Gardy's what you and I like to call an avid bowler so he has his favorite ball "Pearl" with him on this fine occasion. Gardy's been drinking all day so he's pretty much ready for game time. Bartlett is baby faced and it took him 10 minutes to get past Merle, the 70 year old bouncer at the front door. Merle actually knew he was old enough, he just likes messing with the youngsters.

The fight, like you would expect, starts over playing time. Bartlett wants more and the manager isn't in the mood to hand it out to a kid who hasn't earned it yet. Bartlett immediately tries to work the right side of Gardy. Gardy's been expecting this since the kid seems like a natural 2 hitter and should be used for hit and runs whenever possible. Gardy blocks easily because, let's face it, Bartlett still doesn't know how to work it to the right as well as he should. Gardy does the only sensible thing you can to a kid who you might rely on in the future but not today. He knocks him out with one well timed swing of Pearl.

Hours later Bartlett would wake up with a massive headache but all of his bones intact. He knew his manager had saved his future. As Bartlett stumbled to the door Gardy called out to him "Why don't you go down to the Wilson Farm and work on your fighting, Rook". The rest of the bar laughed as the kid gets sent down. Gardy Wins.

4 Lohse vs 5 Blyleven

Drink of Choice
Lohse - Sam Adams
Bert - Whisky (straight out of the bottle)

Lohse has his usual sullen look about him. He seems pissed off just being here. Bert is happy and working the crowd. For some reason he's wearing his 87 Twins uniform. It still fits.
Lohse: What are you so happy about old man?
Bert: Well, for starters, I'm not you.

Lohse immediately starts kicking at Bert's legs. He's been coached up on staying low in the zone and he's not going to blow it right off the bat. Bert dances around merrily, not even setting down his bottle of whisky. Lohse finally makes a mistake and takes a swing at Bert's face. Bad move. Bert dodges and throws a perfect 12 to 6 curve of the whisky bottle. Lohse at first thinks the bottle will fly over his head but then stands in a moment of awe and sadness as he watches the amazing break of the bottle. A second later it breaks on his head and the fight is over. Bert Wins.

3 RonDL vs 6 Herb Carneal

Drink of Choice
RonDL - Rum and Coke
Carneal - Scotch

Rondell is a bit of a class act and doesn't want to fight the old man. Carneal, the VOICE OF THE TWINS, is almost all powerful and doesn't want to hurt Rondell either. Rondell has a history of falling apart physically and the old man doesn't want to hurt his ego anymore then is necessary. But this is drunken bar fight night and they have to fight. RonDL starts out with a big swing and then holds his side, he may have pulled something already. Carneal lets out his Banshee scream and the VOICE OF THE TWINS nearly wins the fight with one yell. RonDL falls to his feet and barely manages to get back up. Carneal is winded (he's very old) so he stops for another finger or two of scotch at the bar. Just as RonDL is about to attack John Gordon and Danny "Dazzleman" Gladden come in to relieve Carneal. The announcing underlings work RonDL over while Carneal enjoys his casual drink. Finally Carneal turns around and lets out another banshee scream to finish RonDL off. Carneal Wins.

7 Unknown Free Agent vs 2 Terry Ryan

Drink of Choice
UFA - Dom Perignon (he's not paying)
Ryan - Gin and Tonic

The UFA sits at the end of the bar having quiet conversation with some older gentlemen. They look like GM's from other teams. Ryan recognizes Omar Minaya from the Mets and flicks him off. Ryan looks longingly at the UFA but he's not sure if he can pick up his bar tab so he stays put. Finally, after most of the other GM's have left he saunters on down to talk to the UFA. He never sees Minaya behind him. Minaya picks up the Hot Stove in the middle of the room, breaks it free from the ground and, as Ryan is mentioning to the UFA that he could hit 4th in the lineup this year, he drops the Hot Stove on Ryan and knocks him out immediately. UFA (with an assist from Minaya and sweet irony) Wins.

Round 2

1 Gardy vs 5 Bert

Gardy has a weakness for veterans and goofy guys. Bert is both. But Gardy wants to win this fight. Just as they're beginning to circle each other the front door of the bar kicks open. Every single writer eligible to vote for the Hall of Fame walks in. In unison they tell Bert he's not good enough to be in the Hall. Bert's confidence is crushed. He's been screwed by these guys too many times to count. He attacks the Hall of Fame voters and, after beating 50 or so of them to a pulp, he collapses. Gardy walks over and kneels down to the worn out Bert. "I'm sorry buddy. I'd vote for you." Gardy Wins.

6 Carneal vs 7 Unknown Free Agent

The UFA only made it to round 2 with the help of other GM's. Those other GM's now know the UFA has a knee problem and they also know his OPS has dropped 150 points since the steroid ban went into effect. They have all gone. Carneal senses the lack of leverage for the UFA and immediately moves in. Using his trademark tactics he lets loose another Banshee scream. The UFA, with no one left to pick up his bar tab, runs off into the night. John Gordon and Dazzleman Gladden sit at the bar sipping Banana Daquiris and Glueks beer respectively. They didn't even need to assist on this one. Carneal Wins.

Round 3

1 Gardy vs 6 Herb Carneal

The old man, Carneal is staggering at this point. He's won two fights already. Not even Dark Star would have bet on him to win one. The scotch has been working it's magic but so far but this seems like the end of the road. He could win this fight if he had a solid supporting group. Sure Dazzleman is good in a tussle, but Gardy's gonna be tough. They'd need a reliable third guy. But they don't have one. They have John Gordon. And Gordon is an idiot.

In a rare move Carneal teams up with Gladden from the outset. Dazzle throwing punches while Carneal lets loose the Voice of the Twins. It's a harrowing spectacle. Harrowing I say. Gordon sits at the bar drinking his banana daquiri and commenting on past bar fights he's witnessed. He talks over the action but never gets involved. He has no idea what's going on. Gardy unleashes Pearl and drops Dazzleman in a horrific collision of bowling ball and mulleted anger. Only Carneal is left, and he is near the end of his rope. He admirably retires and shakes hands with Gardy for a fight well won. And then he pulls out a revolver and shoots John Gordon in the arm. Justice is served. Gardy Wins.

So Gardy wins the bracket. He's in the final four that will be hotly debated on Friday. If any of you are still reading this I implore you to do one thing. In my research for this thing I found out that anyone at any time can email TC Bear. This is just fantastic. I implore you. Email TC Bear and send in your responses. If you get nothing else out of this, at least take a chance to annoy a mascot.

DVDefect

DVDefect.

Saturday

Saturday is a day filled with possibilities. You can sleep all day, get a project done, go on an all day bender, or just relax on the couch. Saturday (provided you don’t have to work) is the best day of the year.
But of all the Saturdays the aforementioned relaxing on the couch Saturday is my favorite. Sure the laundry piles up, and the dishes never do seem to wash themselves, but Saturday isn’t for such dark deeds. You wake up at dawn… noonish, crawl to the couch, cover up, and turn on your one way ticket to a better day. Nursing a bit of a hangover or nursing the day’s first drink, you flip through the channels looking for something to ensconce you for the next 2 hours. And you find it, Tremors starring Kevin Bacon, Conan the Barbarian starring Governor Swartzenegger. Or on a special Saturday, provided you have the appropriate number of channels, you can happen upon such cinemagic wonders as Krull sort-of starring Ken Marshall, The Beastmaster with Marc Singer, or Remo Williams: the Adventure Begins magically portrayed by Fred Ward.
Whether or not you like these particular on screen gems the premise remains the same. Why watch a movie that you’ve seen several times, and why watch it edited for content, formatted to fit this screen with commercial breaks? Why… Because they are your childhood, because they are your friends, because they are known, safe, comforting, and most importantly, because nothing better is on and doing anything else would require effort.
Yes, I do like Saturday. Movies, video games, sleeping. No matter what life throws at you, it’s nothing that Vision Quest starring Matthew Modine can’t deflect for an hour or two. Now onto my recently watched.

Like any good reviewer I will use a rating system. From 1-8 one being the letter (C) two being (Co) and so on and so forth until seven (Coolest). The eighth is reserved for few movies, but will be refereed to as (100% Awesome).

Example:
“That movie Kurt Russell was in”
Rating: (100% Awesome)

New on DVD.
That one new release that should be in everyone’s collection this week is.

I don’t know what to tell you, I didn’t purchase a new release again this week. I’m terribly disappointed in myself. So my commitment to you is this: Pick a movie, any one movie. I will buy it (if I don’t already have it) watch it, and review it. Whether it be a movie you’re not quite sure you want to rent, a movie you think I’d like, or a movie you think I’d hate. If I don’t already own it, I will. That’s a Remo promise. (limited to the first 5 comments, excludes adult film and the Brothers Grimm, seriously people).

Other must haves.
Movies I have watched or re-watched in the last week and must have in my collection.

The Predator (1987)
Rating: (Cooles) For being well done, for an excellent ensemble, and for most shots fired per actor.

Synopsis. Major Alan “Dutch” Schaeffer, Arnold Schwarzenegger (The Terminator) is the leader of an elite commando (pun intended) unit charged with going behind enemy lines to rescue American civilians from a Central American drug cartel, and some random Russians. What they least expected to find was a 7’2” Alien portrayed by Kevin Peter Hall (Harry and the Hendersons, Big Top Pee-wee), the rest is just awesome.

Comments. The scene when Mac picks up the mini-gun… and of course, “I’m here, I’m here, kill me, I’m here!”

Unbreakable (2000)
Rating: (Coole) For a darn good concept, for bridging the gap between comics and reality. (not that there was one)

Synopsis. Bruce Willis is an “average Joe” who after miraculously surviving a horrific accident begins to realize he is so much more than average. From Director M. Night Shyamalan (The Village, Sixth Sense) Unbreakable comes equipped with intense scenes and surprise plot twists.

Comments. It’s a slow pace, low action, semi-sci-fi drama that’s overall appeal was the artistic way in which it was shot, with multiple angles and long camera takes and dark shadowing, it was just as pleasing to watch visually as it was for the story.

Snatch (2000)
Rating: (Coole) For interesting dialog, and for not getting the bi-noc-cu-lars out in time

Synopsis. Following the path of a rather large diamond, this semi English film is a hell of a lot of fun that includes bare knuckle boxers, gypsies, gangsters, thieves, and oh yeah, dags.

Comments. Not Guy Ritchie’s (Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels) best work, but fun none the less, and extremely quotable. Best served with friends and beer.

Four Brothers (2005)
Rating: (Cool) for a good cast. Writing, layout and delivery weren’t so good.

Synopsis. Oddly enough this movie is about four rough and tumble brothers who’s adopted mother is murdered gang-land style, causing the estranged brothers to return home to avenge her.

Comments. Well it got a (Cool) which basically means it’s worth a viewing, maybe on a Saturday when you just don’t want to get off the couch. But as far as vengeance movies go, I would have like to see the script and roles more tailored to the actors. And I could have done without the thanksgiving dinner scene.

Avoid at all costs
Many of you have written asking to know what would earn the rating of (Coo) or less. This category is devoted to you.

Batman and Robin (1997)
Rating: (Co) For making me watch it again last night for the sake of being thorough.

Synopsis. Director Joel Schumacher (Falling Down, Tigerland) takes a crap, throws it in the bat suit and tries to pass it off as a Batman movie. There’s something about a guy with a freeze gun who shouldn’t talk, and Bane, quite possibly the greatest evil villain (Batman Knightfall) played by “the” Jeep Swenson (God rest his sole, and may humanity not remember him for his role in Batman and Robin) reduced to a bumbling idiot who spends most of the movie grasping at air while missing a slow moving Clooney and O’Donnell. There’s also a hot lady who wears green clothes and has absolutely nothing of relevance to say.

Comments: Obviously I’m upset, but I did give it a (Co), why? Because this travesty, this coagulated boil of cinematic refuse, this inane attempt to destroy humankinds ability to interpret the graphic novel to live action paved the way for those who would say, “Never!” “we will not let this dynasty fall so easily” The result is Batman Begins, and the hope that Director Christopher Nolan (Memento) will make enough worthy sequels to bury this horrible nightmare forever. You bastards made me Hate Arnold! If only for a moment.

Editors notes.
I do greatly appreciate your comments, corrections and concerns. Having said that

I stand corrected.
Firefly originally aired on the Fox network in 2002, and was picked up in syndication on the Sci-Fi channel, still no word if there will be any new episodes. My fault sorry.

You’re welcome.
If I can help even one person avoid the agony of watching such horrible movies as The Brothers Grimm, well then, I have done my job.

In regards to The Punisher (1989).
Medical science has made tremendous advances in the last two decades, however if they haven’t dropped by now, I think you’re in trouble. Next time you feel like disagreeing with what has been made fact, just hold your breath for eight minutes and go to hell. Communist.

February can kiss my ass

I realize by naming this little post something like that I've virtually guaranteed a 20 degree drop in temperature and a heavy snowfall roughly equivalent to the amount of cocain that has gone up every starlet's nose in hollywood for the past 20 years. (on a side note, if you got a snow globe for Columbia would it be filled with little bits of cocain?) And yeah, that was a long way to go for a cocain joke. But much like Brett Favre behind the O-line of the 96 Packers I've got all kinds of time.

I hate February. I don't know if it hates me or not. As far as I can tell February is ambivalent towards me. So now I'm gonna rattle her cage and see what happens. It can't be much worse.

Part of what makes February honk the horn is it's fault and part of it is not. February happens to be a cold month, of which I am not a fan. The snow can be pretty and fun when you're sitting at home reading a book with some tea or cocoa sitting nearby. But the allure of the snow and the bizarre feeling we minnesotans get when we think we're hardier than others because we put up with this stuff wears off around mid January. No more holidays to look forward to with family and friends. Just cold. For two months. Just ice on the road that makes going out to rent season one of The Wire seem like a chore.

Now, lacking holidays can't be entirely blamed on February. I mean they are trying with the whole MLK Jr. day. Which I'm fully behind. And not just because I think I deserve more time off. MLK Jr. is one of the beautifully flawed humans that I actually consider a hero. That's rare for me. But February has managed to fuck it up and so we still have to work on MLK Jr. day. This wouldn't happen if everyone was in a good mood. Put MLK Jr. day in June and we'd have that thing as a national holiday in no time. Everyone's pissed and gives up on the world in February.

There are no sports worth watching this time of year. The super bowl is over. Baseball has yet to start. The NBA and the NHL are still pretending their regular seasons matter when they clearly do not. And they don't call it February Madness do they? So college basketball is out. This isn't February's fault directly, but I think it kinda is.

I think that somewhere in the annals of time the leaders said "y'know what, let's have a month where everyone just mails it in." And February was born. Does anyone try in February? And if so, why? It's snowing right now but it's just barely coming down. Typical. Even the snow isn't put forth the effort this time of year. I guarantee you we'll get 6 inches of snow in March a couple of times. March is all fired up. March likes to play a bit. February? February is the month of half-assing life. And me? I'm a whole ass kinda guy.

The Interview Bootlegs: The King of the Boogers

The Booger King contacted me, several years ago, about doing an article on him and his claim that he had an important message that must be shared with the world. At the time I had a desk at the St. Paul Pioneer Press, working the beat from 8 in the morning until 5 at night.

Unfortunately for the Booger King, as well, in a way, as myself, I was working on the fourth floor of the Cedar Street Building, the Classified Ad department and the Booger King had mistakenly called us not the news tip line.

Still, journalism is journalism and, for posterity’s sake, detailed records must be kept of it all.

Booger King: I have made a remarkable discovery; one that must be shared with the entire world.

Bad Mother Coitus: Where did you find it? It’s best not to go into too many details so that you don’t receive a million phone calls from people trying to score a quick one of whatever it is. Also, unfortunately, I know that we used to do these for free, but now we charge a fee for lost and found ads.

BK: I have discovered the exact amount of time it takes for a booger to decompose and am ready to make available the data of my findings.

BMC: What? Booger, what’s a booger? You mean a booger, booger?

BK: Due to the rather dry weather that we’ve been experiencing lately, coinciding with the lack of humidity I have found myself with a bumper crop.

BMC: You’re growing boogers? Are we talking about the stuff in your nose?

BK: I harvested five boogers of a good size and wiped them all in five different locations all over my cube at work. Including a booger of unusual size which I have dubbed as The Perfect Booger, its' size and content were perfection. It’s now available for sale on Ebay.

BMC: Um, yeah, I don’t think that I can mention Ebay in your ad. They’re technically competition. At least I think that they’re competition. Honestly, I don’t know if we’re really even competing with anybody anymore.

BK: It was the Perfect Booger and it unleashed such a torrent of mucus that the booger, before removed, surely must have extended all the way to my brain.

BMC: Or, slightly more believable scenario: Maybe it was your brain.

BK: You just blew my mind.

BMC: Well, you just blew your nose.

BK: Continuing with my findings, is Joe Soucheray available?

BMC: Speaking of somebody that blows.

BK: I feel that he is somebody that would understand my position. May I be transferred to him?

BMC: He’s actually out of the office right now. I think he’s covering the governor’s gastronectomy or something where they remove his balls. So what happened with the five boogers, I'll pass this along to Joe?

BK: Haven’t you always been curious of where the boogers go? You pick your nose, you flick in a random direction and then forget about it? But doesn’t it seem interesting that you never see those boogers ever again? Even if the entire population was to harvest only one booger a day, we would still have 252 billion boogers floating around. Think of the outcome in Flu and Cold season.

Now, with my recent studies I have found that boogers will eventually disintegrate on their own, but this is still over the course of two months. Sir, it is my contention, and being a paying subscriber of this newspaper I demand a full investigation, that it is the government that are secretly abducting our boogers and furthering the use of a giant booger of mass destruction that they may some day even use against us honest red blooded Americans.

BMC: Maybe we just need a large Kleenex to stretch across the United States

BK: That wouldn’t work. You can’t make a Kleenex that is that big.

BMC: So you’re saying that there is a Kleenex gap? I bet the Russkie’s have a Kleenex all the way over everything, even Kazakhstan.

BK: What are you speaking of?

BMC: I’ll make sure to pass this information on to Bob.

BK: Thank you, please tell him to contact me immediately.

Minnesota Twins Drunken Bar Fight - The Preview

Coming next week! An all out extravaganza of baseball foolishness. Me and the Mule have been debating who would win in a drunken bar fight between various Twins players for the better part of the last couple days. We think we have a firm grasp on the situation. So, beginning on Monday the 13th we will be holding a tournament to determine who will reign supreme. Who will be your 06 Bar Fight Champion? Only time will tell (or Mule if you get him drunk).

We don't normally do this sort of thing here at the BMC headquarters. But some ideas are too good to pass up. Sure we've considered having "theme weeks" in the past but we haven't really bothered to follow through with them. Partially this was due to subject matter - I happen to disagree with Mule on our readership's interest in a weeklong debate between whether Strawberry Shortcake or My Little Pony was the better series. But this, this is a solid idea.

We have narrowed the field down to a prestigious (or anonymous) group of 64. All players on the 40 man roster will be included. There will also be some notables from years gone by. We will also include ownership, upper management and the coaching staff. There will be havoc. But this isn't a Celebrity Deathmatch sort of thing. This is just a drunken bar fight. Something brothers might do with a little too much tequila and an old grudge from their Bantam hockey days. So, here are the ground rules...

GROUND RULES

1. The players have to fight according to their hitting/pitching skills. So for instance, Justin Morneau will be going for a knockout punch every time rather than some nice easy jabs (singles to left field). Nick Punto will be all about quick jabs with no power. And he'll probably slide for no reason at some point in time. I haven't figured out what the equivalent to a slide into 1st base is yet but hey, that's what the weekend is for.

2. The players must treat each fight AS IF THEY HAVE TO RELY ON THE GUY THEY'RE FIGHTING FOR A GAME TOMORROW. So, if you have a good team player and he's fighting Johan Santana he will do everything he can to WIN the fight AND AVOID hurting Johan's left hand. If you have a bad team guy, well, let's just say he might be going after Mauer's or Kubel's knee to get himself some playing time.

3. There will be 4 brackets of 16 fighters each. These fighters will each have to fight according to their bracket's requirements. We have named each bracket in honor of past Twins players and the fights will be held in their most obvious environments. The brackets are as follows:

Kirby Puckett Bracket: All fights must take place in the bathroom of the bar in question.

Kent Hrbek Bracket: Hrbek is a huge fan of the outdoors so all fights in this bracket will be in a Northwoods bar. This means there will be various mounted heads on the walls. Do not overlook how valuable a deer antler can be in this situation.

Harmon Killebrew Bracket: Like most pleasant old guys I assume Harmon spends his time at the local VFW. All fights in his bracket will take place in a smoky, no ventihalation VFW. Anyone with asthma (or an affinity for older ladies) will have problems with this bracket.

Tony Oliva Bracket: The great Tony O hails from Cuba so all fights in his bracket will take place at the Copa Cobana or similar cantinas. Those spanish tile floors are slick as hell if they get wet. This could factor into the whole Punto unnecessary sliding thing. Also, the winner of this bracket gets a Cuban Pork Samich. They are fantastic.

So come on back on Monday and we'll begin breaking down the first bracket. Each day, Monday-Thursday, we will crown a winner of each bracket. Friday we will have the final four face off and announce the winner.

Death in Amsterdam

We descended on the town of Fargo; eight men armed with Rum, Beer, Scotch, Whiskey, more Beer and curling brooms. It was another pilgrimage to reclaim what we believed to be rightfully ours.

Naked women and men, then more women cavorted across the screen as I laid down a hand to make fifteen and peg two. Playing as teams, my partner and I lost as the others signaled it was time to go to the bar.

Drunk from a punch in the face by a liquor heavy drink that had been a vague friend of coca cola you find yourself laying down a twenty dollar bill to buy a round for your friends and yourself. A friendly gesture crosses your mind to buy a drink for the old man sitting next to you comes too late as the bartender retracts his drink and refunds his money. More blurry images give way to a return ride home.

Morning comes like a sin and I tried to remember where I was. My right hand hurts and I’m missing part of a fingernail on my left. These details are filled in as the end of a Bloody Mary is passed around and a mini-van trudges us to the curling club. At the club, the ability to drink a beer while curling takes precedence over the competition but the match still ends with the score in my favor.

At the bowling alley the drunkest man in Fargo confronts me. He meets us with hostility but then promises to take us to his house to watch curling on his Canadian Cable. He exits to the bathroom never to come back again. You win the game without noticing.

The sun, in an unsettling way, leaves the skyline for the day as you leave a bar after throwing darts. After a brief intermission you’re back at the club, talking with an old woman that is setting plans, on the phone, to meet a friend at an adult bookstore when she is done with work. At this point nothing seems too surreal. This fact is made more prominent as you give a fellow curler the shirt off your back. Mercifully your brother is there to give you the shirt off of his.

And you hate this town, you hate everything about it and try to drowned it in beer. A staggering somebody tells you it’s time to eat. Even though you don’t like meat you order a hamburger, demanding of the waitress that they make it as rare as possible.

The blurs continue, first to one bar, then to another. Standing, dizzy in the glow of cigarettes and light reflecting from behind the liquor on the top shelf, you receive a call from the governor that takes you away to a place you would more rather be for two minutes and thirty six seconds.

More strange memories are retained from this evening. Stuffing your brother into a pull out couch, justifying it by saying that he asked you to do it, but still hating yourself because you could’ve hurt him.

Another morning comes to pass, hours before anybody else is alive. Already Uncle Headache is banging out the tune, “Hangovers, Hangovers are no fun/Hangovers, Hangovers hurt someone”. And this time, without music, I’m taken back to a more foul memory. Another time that I pushed the envelope to the breaking point and felt that I lost.

It was snowing outside and the flat landscape provided little protection from the wind. Ashamed and broken down I pulled the hood up on my sweatshirt and wondered how this weekend would be remembered.

Were there stories that are here worth remembering, or was I just another corpse walking around another dead town?

Faggy Yellow

Does this shit even work anymore? And what's with the Faggy Yellow color? Did you go to bed, bath 7 beyond and ask for fagy yellow and they gave you this or did you come up with this shit on your own? I don't know if i can be asociated with this kind crap. soooo fuckingg gay man.

The Many Sides of Harm

I'm always amused by these personality tests that try to break people down into little sections of uniqueness. You've heard of them I'm sure. They're all basically variations on Type A and Type B breakdowns but they add a little fluff to the numbers to justify their own existence. Corporations use these things for work so they can clarify that hey, Justin from Accounting IS a jerk, but that's just because he's a Dominant/Influential personality and he's task oriented not people oriented. There's even the Beatles test where you can sort out which Beatle you're most like. You can check it out here. Most of them are a variation of the Meyers-Briggs test, which I would explain but I don't happen to agree with so why bother? I know that they're trying to boil it down to who you are in MOST situations, but I don't agree with that assumption. My reaction to a situation is based on my mood, the other persons involved, etc. So basically I think it's a bunch of bullschnickety.

I like pretty much everything most days. And some days I hate pretty much everything. I can be incredibly nerdilicious and analytical. This probably explains why I love baseball and also why, if given time and proper motivation, I can support my belief that Joe Mauer was arguably the 3rd best catcher in the AL last year.

There's also the overly arty side of me that believes in creating a project and following through and basically showing everyone that really I want to be a woman because all I want to do is bring something new and beautiful into this world. And yeah, that last sentence was awkward to write. I'm not proud of it. I don't like where my head was at during that sentence at all. But let's face it, guys don't really get a chance to nurture things into this world like the ladyfolk do. Not that I'd trade with them. My belly need not grow larger. This is getting worse. Moving on...

I'm just trying to illustrate that, depending on the day, I can be seen as completely different than the last day. I think most people are that way so it seems like a scam to me when one of these tests says something like "this person is cautious". Because everyone can, at some point in time, say "hey, that's totally me! I'm cautious!" And then those same people read something from a different personality group and think to themselves "hey, I'm totally impulsive. That's me in a nutshell!" But no one ever bothers to ask if maybe this thing is bullshit. It drives me nuts. Maybe that's my dominant personality coming through though.

So anyway, I think I'm all over the map of personality. If I was a Transformer (and if there's any justice I will be in Heaven) then I would be a Quintesson. They were the creators of the Transformers and they had 4 faces that would rotate. Here's a picture of one of them. I think his name was Bob. And here's a pic of Optimus Prime holding a press conference. No reason really, I just like Optimus. Back to the Quintessons though - they were kind of goofy in that all of their faces really looked like slight variations of the same thing. Maybe to a Quintesson there were subtle differences that denoted personality. This is another reason why I need to be a Quintesson in heaven, then I'll know if the four faces are unique personality-revealing devices or just 4 different sides of bullshit on a stick. They never adequately explained what the other 3 faces were doing when not facing the camera but hey, I'll figure that out when I get to be one...y'know, in heaven. So that'll be pretty sweet.


If I were a character on He-Man I would be Man-E-Faces. If for nothing else then I would get to double hyphenate my first name! That's just tremendous. I think it's funny that the names on this show were so basic. I'm surprised they didn't have a guy named Dude-Who-Shits-His-Pants but apparently the toy line fizzled out before they had a chance. For excellent analysis of this and other He-Man insights I would recommend this site. Plus there's a great photo series of Man-E-Faces showcasing his various forms. I think today I will go with Robot Face to start and maybe turn into Monster Face around 3. If I were a character on Thundercats I would...actually I'd just hit myself in the face with a shovel...Thundercats kinda sucked.

I bring this personality issue up because I was torn about what to write today. On the one hand I have the starting lineups for the World Baseball Classic as presented by Baseball America to review. On the other hand my good friend Johnny H has some sweet stop motion on his site that I think you should check out. See? Nerdy stat guy vs. nerdy art guy. This happens every day in some form. And what happens? I address neither side and just talk about the various sides. I'm turning into a grade A douchebag here. Next thing you know I'll be shuffling around the breakroom microwaving my own shit (and I mean that literally, not like "hey, lemme put my shit down and I'll give you a hug". I mean feces.) for lunch and telling people about why I'm not a "people pleaser".

January 2006: A Recap

Favorite Quotes
Found or inspired by the month of January

“The next time that you want to stab me in the back, do it to my face.”

Mal to Jane
Firefly

“When you pray for what you want most in the world, its’ opposite comes along with it. I was given a woman whom I truly loved and whom truly loved me. The opposite side o such love is the pain of its’ loss. I can only feel such pain today because, until yesterday, I knew that love.”

Pandit Pyarelal Kaul
Salman Rushdie’s Shalimar the Clown

“One never knows the answers to the questions of life until one is asked.”

Salman Rushdie’s Shalimar the Clown

“And it came to me then that every plan is a tiny prayer to Father Time.”

Death Cab For Cutie
‘What Sarah Said’ off Plans

“We have arrived too late to play the bleeding heart show.”

New Pornographers
‘Bleeding Heart Show’ off Twin Cinema

“Now the rainman gave me two cures then he said ‘jump right in’, the one was Texas medicine and the other was just railroad gin. And like a fool I mixed them and they strangled up my mind now people just get uglier and I have no sense of time. And here I sit so patiently waiting to find out the price you have to pay to get out of going through all these things twice.”

Bob Dylan
‘Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again’
off of Blonde on Blonde

Mixtape of the Month

1. Good Day
The Dresden Dolls
The Dresden Dolls

2. Use It
The New Pornographers
Twin Cinema

3. Hearts of Oak
Ted Leo and the Pharmacists
Hearts of Oak

4. Kiss the Bottle
Jawbreaker
Etc.

5. Cocaine Blues
Johnny Cash
At Folsom Prison

6. You Said Something
PJ Harvey
Stories from the City; Stories from the City

7. After the Goldrush
Neil Young
After the Goldrush

8. 22 Hours of Darkness
The Ike Reilly Assasination
Junkie Faithful

9. Blinded By the Lights
The Streets
A Grand Don't Come for Free

10. Rodeo Town
The Kills
The Kills

11. Lost In the Supermarket
The Clash
London Calling

12. Dink's Song
Bob Dylan
No Direction Home (Bootleg Series Volume 7)

13. Mr. Kennedy
The Soft Boys
Nextdoorland

14. Little Black Back Pack
Stroke 9
Nasty Little Thoughts

15. Old Shit/New Shit
The Eels
Blinking Lights and Other Revelations

Lamest Voyeur... Ever

I have a weird thing going on with the Minnesota Timberwolves. I don't watch their games. There are a myriad of reasons for this. I hate how refs can tilt the balance of the game. I hate watching amazing athletes who can literally jump out of gyms stand around and fist bump each other after every free throw. I hate free throws. They seem like a rule that was thrown in so that slow, whitish dudes had a chance to score too. I hate the fact that people pretend that coaches are necessary. And that coaches are given roughly 23 timeouts per half. There are more reasons for why I don't watch the games but I think you get the point.
I do, however, read about their games in the paper every day and listen to commentary about the team on the radio though. It's kind of weird. I'm like a voyeur. It's like I'm stalking someone actually. I never get close enough to get noticed. While the team is going for a walk around the lake I'm cleverly hidden behind a bush. When KG takes the team out for ice cream sundaes I'm sitting behind the Metro section of the Strib watching them without being noticed. You can see how it could be creepy.
I think the Wolves have slowly turned into something very much akin to Jennifer Aniston for me. I don't watch her movies (unless they're on tv for free) and I don't watch her show (unless the Little Lady has commandeered the remote). So even though I actively miss all of Jennifer's "day job" I still know waaaaaaaay too much about her thanks to the countless magazines and sites devoted to celebrities.
I like her, I hope she's doing well, and let's face it she's not too hard on the eyes. But I don't really care about her life in any tangible way. I still feel like a stalker though. I know all these bizarre things about her and yet she doesn't know me at all.
So by now you should see that the Wolves are very much like Jennifer Aniston. And yet not at all. I don't, for instance, want to see any of the current or former Wolves in a French Maid outfit. Which apparently Jen will be wearing in her next movie according to the good folks over at joblo.com. I guess you could make a case that they are very much alike when it comes to basketball though. I don't want to watch either of them play the game.
I suppose there's a bigger issue here about the way we follow celebrities and teams in some half assed effort to live vicariously through them. I'm not really interested in that though. And heck, I don't want to live an NBA life or a celebrity life. I wouldn't mind the money, I think I could find some good ways to use it, but it's not something I would really enjoy otherwise. It literally would take millions to convince me that hanging out with Ron Artest or the kid from Malcolm in the Middle is a good time.
I will say one thing though, Brad Pitt sure fucked up.

The Interview Bootlegs

I met Rodney in a crowded Italian restaurant on Grand Avenue, a spot that he insisted on showing me as it had what was, according to him, the best pizza in the Twin Cities. “You see the way that they do the Italian sausage here, it’s the best… the Best!”

A few months back, Rodney had stopped a party and issued a formal challenge to all people of a meteorological background to fisticuffs. “The only real regret”, he says as he pours himself another grenadine coke, “was that I took away as much from the party as I did. It was the Holiday Party, after all, and I think that I overcooked the chicken by making my challenge and then sticking around for the brief question and answer period after it.”

I wanted to do this follow-up conversation with him to make sure that his intentions were still pure and that the challenge was still out there. I also wanted to see if anybody had accepted his challenge as of yet and whether he had bested them.

Bad Mother Coitus: What was the motivation for having an outstanding challenge to fight all weather people?

Rodney: Look, I could go on TV and start talking about how cold and how it will snow in January. I say no thank you. They are not only not very accurate, but not confident either, since no one has responded to my challenge.

BMC: So do you consider the weather people to be a cowardly lot?

R: As long as they have Doppler Radar, they will be hiding behind a false pretense.

BMC: Aren't you afraid of the Doppler Radar? These are all college grads and most likely have some or rudimentary skills in the art of Kung Fu?

R: I would say ballroom dancing rather than kung fu.

BMC: I'm going to get right down to the hard-hitting question, is it true that you once had a dust up with a local weatherman when you verbally chastised him with repeated accusations that, and I quote, "You are a nerd"?

R: No, no, and no....

BMC: I have the video tape surveillance camera from that night as you held the nerd down and screamed indecent things to his face, are you saying that this isn't true? Remember, you are talking about Weather people, it's not like they're human beings.

R: So what if I did?

BMC: I'm not accusing you of anything, but what was it like, to stare that sort of evil in the face and to emerge the victor. Weather people are in league with the devil, yes?

R: Correct, I mean they are bottom feeders of bottom feeder waste, if that makes sense...

BMC: So you're saying that we should drowned all Weather people? Is this some sort of final solution?

R: Oh god no, just let me challenge them to a fight.

BMC: Typically, according to Sun Tzu's Art of War, combatants will pick weapons for a duel. Would you set parameters for this or would it just be in front of the blue weather screen with a hurricane in the background: Winner takes all?

R: Winner takes all. I am going to hit their Doppler so hard, they will crap their pants with fear.

A Fruit in the Belly of the Beast

I don't really understand Gwyneth Paltrow. She routinely does things that annoy me. Her movies aren't exactly fantastic. She married a complete douche. But then I see her in a movie and I think to myself "wow, she looks a lot better than I remember" and I notice that she makes fun of herself and plays kind of goofy roles and I think she might be levelheaded and down to earth. It's very confusing, no?

I mean, have you looked at her choice of movies on imdb? She wins an Oscar in Shakespeare in Love and then she does some Farrelly brothers goofball comedy, picks a movie in which she sings with Huey Fucking Lewis and then does Sky Captain and the Computer World of Boredom. I mean, I can see doing a movie with Huey Lewis (who wouldn't) but what about the News? It wasn't just Huey knocking out those hits you know? I think the News shouldn't have to follow Huey around like a puppy chasing a kid who is careless with his PBJ samich. That's just me. Credit where credit's due. But other than that movie what good choices has Gwyneth made?

Also, I'm not a big fan of her personal choices. She apparently jets around in a private plane and then rips on the American government for the war in Iraq. I happen to agree with some of those sentiments but I don't go around in one of the least fuel efficient vehicles on the planet while I do it. If you think the war is about oil maybe you could scale back the jetsetting? I mean, c'mon, it's not like you really want to go see another Coldplay concert anyway. I know you don't. You can't. It's not possible.

I don't really understand the whole baby being named "Apple" either. I don't hate it but it sure seems like a great way to make other kids hate your child for the rest of it's life. The only possible way that she can get herself out of this is if she names the second kid "Banana". Who doesn't want to go through life as literally the second banana? Or better yet have two more kids and name 'em both "Banana" so you can be even more literal with the second banana plan. I doubt more kids are in the offing though because she married a guy who seems to only be in love with himself and U2, thought not necessarily in that order.

Let's put aside for the moment that Coldplay is slowly becoming the most embarrassing band on the planet. Let's put aside that all of their songs are the same and the lyrics are childish and waaaaaaaay too appealing for 17 year old girls. Here's an interesting dilemma though, a real thinker. Do you think Charlie on "LOST" with all of his metro bracelets and fingernail paint and tape on his fingers with "fate" written on them is a direct mockery of Chris from Coldplay? OR do you think that Chris from Coldplay (I like that it makes him sound like Jon from Woodbury) thinks that the character is so cool that he started doing all the little metro bracelets and crap because he saw it on Charlie? I need to know the chronology of this stuff.

So Chris from Coldplay somehow impregnated Gwyneth once and, in a shocking upset, has managed to do it again. Despite his obsession with being considered cool by everyone he still takes time out of his life to knock up the little lady. I find this fascinating. It's not that I think the dude is gay I just think he really, really, really thinks he is cool and no one else even comes close. So having sex with someone for him is probably a little like shopping at the Gap for you and me. In general it's a pleasurable experience but it's not like you're getting something really nice or high quality, it's just better than Old Navy. In fact I think sex for them would go something like this.

Interior - bedroom - night

Lights are on and there are mirrors on all the walls and the ceiling.

Chris from Coldplay: Are you ready?

Gwyneth: Are you talking to me? You seem to be looking at your reflection.

CfC: No baby no. I'm talking to you.

GP: C'mere.

CfC: What do I like to hear?

GP: Seriously? Do I have to say it?

CfC: Yes.

GP: You're way more sexy and talented than the guy from that crappy band Travis.

CfC: Come and get your love baby.

They begin.

CfC: My! This is pleasant!

GP: I know lover.

CfC: This is very pleasing!

GP: Yes.

CfC: I am enjoying this!

GP: Chris?

CfC: Who?

GP: Chris from Coldplay.

CfC: Yes?

GP: Just shut up and fuck me.

CfC: Very well.

I don't know if I'm any closer to solving the mystery that is Gwyneth. She will probably still fade from my memory and then I'll see a rerun of The Royal Tenenbaums and think again "hey, what's up with her?" for the thousandth time. She's like a modern Teri Garr. Not so much career-wise but in the whole looks department. Try watching the old Young Frankenstein with Teri as a young and buxom blonde and reconcile that with your memories of her as an older woman now. It's traumatizing.

The Way of the Rain; Paths in the Desert

With the return of the flood we were again blessed with the rain. We were singing: Raindrops keep fallin’ on my head, and we had a talkin’ to the son, that we don’t like the way he got things done.

The flood crept and we kept our eyes upon it. Rain gathered up the water damaged baseboards in our homes; further and further until we hoped that it wouldn’t hit the high mark from all those memories ago.

Outside again, the disciple was trying to walk on water but really standing on His rock. He was giving thanks to the rain. Rain that left us food for our tables; food for our souls. Preaching practically, teaching us this is the way to our salvation, that we must join him, this was the way of our parents, this is what we must do; this is what we must want.

And in a mob we joined him. We lifted our arms parallel with our shoulders and fell backwards, feeling the floods washing over our faces.

I opened my eyes and looked past the white water and wondered if it worked. I wanted it to work so much. Wanted to be what everybody wanted me to be; wanted it more desperately than those that wanted it for me. But when my eyes closed I was out in the dry country, chasing after the shadows of Cain.

Words float by: is it better to burn out than to fade away? is the way of the flood better than the person praying for rain?

Then from out of the blue, a voice pushed me: You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.

straight, no chaser

i am doing everything i can to not whine about work and january weather and everything else in my life that i'm not a fan of at the moment. i've found that all whining does is convince the ladyfolks to find someone more interesting to pay attention to. ladyfolks like action.

i don't know what kind of action i'm going to take but i can tell by the queasy feeling in my stomach that there will be some sort of action taken soon. well, either that or i got punched in the pants and didn't notice (but that seems unlikely). i am, like most dudes, kinda protective of the bathing suit area.

i've got good music coming out of the 1 and a half speakers on my desk and that's kinda nice. I say 1 and a half speakers because one of them barely puts out any sound. putting out sound, you would think, would be high on the list of things a speaker needs to do but apparently the wise and discerning gentlemen at GE weren't as focused on that particular issue as I was. There's a lesson in this. When you pay $10 for some speakers because you were killing time at Target while the Little Lady was doing some shopping you sort of deserve to only have 1 and a half of the speakers work.

i'd like to think that listening to my morning jacket while hacking this out would be more entertaining than it is. i'm still on the fence about this band. i like them but i haven't figured out why yet, and that's a little disconcerting. like noting that a certain gentleman was charming and interesting at a dinner party and then finding out later he was a serial killer. i need to know why i like something or it taints the journey a bit because i'm always holding back. maybe the reason why i like this band (but can never love it) is because they remind me of a journey or kansas song i liked when i was just a tot and didn't know any better. mind you, i'm not saying that's the case with them. i'm just sayin' you don't want to buy a bunch of albums of a band, pick up a t-shirt and see them in concert and suddenly wake up one day and think "the hit single from these guys sounds like a rip off of when the children cry by white lion." that's a horrifying thought.

a few years ago i realized that i needed to stop pretending i was idealistic and focus on being reliable. it's a lesson i think everyone must learn at their own pace. there's no definite timeline that it needs to happen, but it needs to happen. half of success is just showing up. it's amazing how many people can't do that. but i've come to the realization that i think i understand what it means to be reliable and for the most part i think i've got it covered. so now i'm going to move into the next part of my life. reliable AND idealistic. here's a short breakdown to help you understand.

Age 0-18: all idealistic. i'm gonna change the world and blah blah blah.
Age 19-25: pretend idealistic/semi-reliable. the death of childhood dreams and the awkward first intimations with adulthood.
Age 26-29: reliable. nothing special, just show up and dedicate yourself to whatever it is that needs to be done. this would be the montage sequence if there was a movie about your life.
Age 30-?: reliable AND idealistic. i've dedicated myself to something i have no interest in. now i need to find out what it's like to dedicate myself to something that i actually have interest in.
Age 65-Death: idealistic (with a brief moment or two of outright crazy). dust to dust and we all go round again. it's easy to be idealistic when you're young and stupid or old and war-worn.

people always say things like "we don't know what the future holds" like the future is a container of sorts. i don't know about that. i don't know if it's a container or if it's a good idea to look at the future as an empty space. i don't know what the future holds, but i know i'm gonna try to fill the fucker up. and that seems like a goal worth working for.

Versus

My friend, on her website, recently made the complaint that she is suffering from writer’s block. Not that she believes in writer’s block and nor do I for that matter, but for whatever reason that is out there, she is unable to put pen to the paper.

I have been doing a hellish self diagnosis on myself, as of late (as the quacks at Web MD have yet to recognize Writer’s Block as a disease). My discovery was that while I could think of interesting ideas for articles, stories and all the like, I have grown so sick of the voice inside of my own skull that I don’t wish to hear me say anything or at least not tell those stories.

A better writer than me would switch gears; let another part of their brain take over. I find this extremely difficult as those stories don’t belong to that part of the brain and I’m jealous enough over the stories that I don’t want to share them, even with myself.

Regardless, the following conversation happened between the lobes of my brain with a woman that looked like she should be part of the French Resistance. “Call me Calliope.” She tells me, patting my hand while blowing smoke in my face. She has ratted, long, black hair and dirt on her face that almost passes for a five o’clock shadow but only makes her fierce grey eyes stand out with more wildness. Slung over her shoulder is a semi-automatic sub machine gun, not that the gun is a threat.

“But ze truf, ze storay, it mus cum owt”, she pleaded with me.

“Seriously, sweetie, you’re really cute, but this is a story of lies, deception, beauty, love and alcohol. What the fuck do the French know about those?”

“Seir, you have jus stated our nashiunal mottO. You sthrow in a little bit of surrenduer and you have the Freanch to a fAult.”

I knew she was right, of course, but still didn’t want to give into her. So, instead, I seduced her (this was made infinitely easier as she was already in my brain). Roughly five minutes later, while cleaning up and further hating myself, I realized that I didn’t wish to write and instead passed out in my own cliché.

The work that I wished to accomplished is still safely tucked up in my brain, wrapped in some vault until I find that spark, that divinity that could loosen a Kraken. Please send home remedies or actual doctors (hint: their offices should end in the words “tavern” or “bar”) that could cure me of this horrible and horrific disease.

I need a roadie

I received a great call from Todd Dancer this weekend. It went like this.

Todd: Uh dude?

Me: Todd? Where's my money?

Todd: Not now. Um, can you have my ma call me?

Me: Why don't you have her call you herself Todd? You don't need to bring a middle man into this.

Todd: Her number's always busy and I'm only allowed one call.

Me: Are you in jail dude?

Todd: ...

Me: Todd?

Todd: NO! Don't be a buttfucker. Just have her call me at 641-***-****

Then he hung up. Now, last I heard he was supposedly at a strip club in Portland Oregon. That was a while ago, granted, but Todd doesn't really have the wherewithal to travel the country with ease. 641 area code is in Iowa. Most likely Mason City. If you've not been through Mason City lemme tell ya there is a very solid Subway in one of the gas stations and they also have a strip club or two. Now I sincerely doubt that Todd was ever outside of the state until recently. And I don't think he skipped town because he had a hankering for the steak n' cheese. The boy likes to lie. Which is why he goes to strip clubs in Mason City. It's one of the few places in the world where being from Minneapolis sounds like you just landed in your spaceship made of gold and you live on the moon. Mason City sucks. I don't say that lightly. Also, you can call someone a "buttfucker" whilst you're in jail and no one thinks it's weird.

But Todd's not really the point. Sure he's in jail (probably for having "busy hands" with the ladies) but at least he's in jail in a different state. I'm stuck here. I need a roadie and I need one tootsweet.

I'm not referring to the guy who hands you guitars and moves your stuff in case you're wondering. I'm speaking of a roadtrip, affectionately known as a roadie to the Harmon clan. But come to think of it a roadie (carrying stuff kind) would be awfully handy. I could probably use one of those two. I don't know what you would need to feed them. I'm assuming some sort of grain alcohol and an occasional gas station sandwich. I think I can swing that. I should get one.

But again, I need to stay focused here. I need a roadie (traveling the country kind) in the worst way. I need to drive south. And then west. And then more south. I need to go as far as it will take for me to stick my hand out the window and not have it freeze. Sure the cold comes in handy when you're bored with traditional masturbation and want to experiment, but that's not really what I need. Plus that seems like it would lead to a life of bizarre sex with Angelina Jolie types. Women who look at icicles hanging off the gutter of the garage and thinks it looks like a good time. I definitely don't need that.

Maybe I should hit the road and go bail Todd out of jail. But the dink wouldn't even admit that he's in jail so why should I help him? You could argue he's my friend. You'd have a point. But that hardly seems like fun does it?

DVDefect

DVDefect.

The Birth of a New Era?

I am now the proud owner of a computer, the first I have ever purchased. Sure I’ve had hand-me-downs and most of my work day consists of activities involving a computer, but this is the first unit I have ever purchased. So it shouldn’t surprise anyone to know that I can’t type a paper on my computer, or compile a spreadsheet. I know how to type a paper (sort of) and I can collate data in any program you can name. The reason I can’t on my computer is for the simple reason that I have no programs not specifically related to movies.
It is however top of the line. Dual core processor, two DVD+-rw drives, X800 xl video card, soundblaster platinum and 1.5 terabits of hard drives. I don’t have any idea what that means, but I am assured it is all brought together for the sole purpose of allowing me to catalog and view a fair amount of my collection. I do not offer this to say “Look at me, I buy fancy things”, it is just to provide you with a piece of mind. A confidence that I will not steer you wrong, my own personal warranty, as if to say, I do love movies… maybe too much.


Like any good reviewer I will use a rating system. From 1-8 one being the letter (C) two being (Co) and so on and so forth until seven (Coolest). The eighth is reserved for few movies, but will be refereed to as (100% Awesome).

Example:
“That movie Kurt Russell was in was”
Rating: (100% Awesome)

New on DVD.
That one new release that should be in everyone’s collection this week is.

Ok technically I didn’t buy any DVD’s this week… well three, but they weren’t new releases. I was occupied with the purchase of the aforementioned computer. Next week though I shall return once again to offer you my opinion on the latest and greatest feature length video has to offer.

Other must haves.
Movies I have watched or re-watched in the last week and must have in my collection.

Serenity (2005)
Rating: (Coolest) For classic Joss Whedon (Buffy the Vampire Slayer) dialog, for keeping the cast of it’s television name sake (Firefly), and for an altogether “Cinemagic” experience.

Synopsis. Basically it is a wonderful feature length episode of the Sci-Fi channels not-so-hit show Firefly. Based in a future where the universe becomes humanities new “Old West”. This rag tag crew of ruffians (and hot chicks) has to fight for survival, truth, and their right to party.

Comments. It will re-ignite your hatred towards the Sci-Fi Channel for canceling a one of a kind TV watching experience.

The Punisher (2004)
Rating: (Coole) for being one of Hollywood’s better adaptations of a classic comic. Thomas Jane was convincing, but a bit on the pretty side, compared to his comic name sake. The comic relief provided by his misfit neighbors was too contrived. As always John Travolta should have moved to the Mud Creek Nursing Home after making Pulp Fiction. However it was fun, and worth a watching.

Synopsis. Frank Castle’s (Thomas Jane) wife and child are brutally murdered. The rest is just one mans way of saying, “I ain’t just gonna kill ya, I’m gonna to end everything you know”.

Comments. Well to reiterate, it was enjoyable with a good showing by Thomas Jane and Will Patton. It could have been darker, but then again, that wouldn’t pack the theaters, it would have however awarded them a better rating than (Coole). Something for the Hollywood brass to think about next time they remake this classic tale.


Avoid at all costs
Many of you have written asking to know what would earn the rating of (Coo) or less. This category is devoted to you.

Brothers Grimm (2005)
Rating: (C) for wasting my time, and for making me think they weren’t going to waste my time.

Synopsis. Pure and utter tripe, a dribble of cinema that ensnared the guttural urge to disembowel oneself. Begging for scripting, and longing for motivation Matt Damon (The Bourne Supremacy, Ocean’s Twelve) and Heath Ledger (The Patriot, A Knight’s Tale) are brothers who tool the country side looking for ways to piss me off.

Comments. I would step in front of a moving train for Terry Gilliam (Monty Python and the Holy Grail, 12 Monkeys) but now I have been brought to the horrible realization that I would step in front of a moving train rather than watch the Brothers Grimm again.

Remo: an Introductory Tale

Remo is tall and scruffy looking, the sort of person that, on a typical day, relies more on his own sense of good looks than on his wit. His biggest piece of conversation is usually a big dumb grin that he flashes as a distraction when he finds himself in a coversation where he has gotten over his head. Such conversations have been:a short dissertation on the weight ratios betwixt a steel tank and that of the common African Grey Elephant, the overall merits of Kurt Russell and Remo's life goal of having 1000 things to do and not accomplish any.

But to know the man is to know how the man drinks and the written account of this here story that I'm about to unfold does little to no justice to the events that transpired on the actual night. I've tried to keep the story as truthful as possible and only changed names so that defamations by TGI Friday Corp cannot locate us and/or charge us with the crimes here to for.

On this night, young Remo had been slurping back Wild Turkey shots in the basement of our friend Dell's house. He had actually started the night by taking straight pulls off a bottle of Malibu Rum until one of the females at the party, concerned for his health removed the bottle and replaced it with the Wild Turkey. Whether this was a good call or not is for the reader to pass their own judgment.

The night moved from bar to bar, at one point young Remo had half of his body out the back window (no small feat as this was the Dodge Neon sport coupe edition and to my mind had no rear back window) flicking off a passing limo. He claimed that he was explaining that the Dodge Neon sports edition technically could beat any car off the line for the first ten feet.

Things settled down at the bar for a while and the general consensus was that he would go into quiet mode once the double long island kicked in. This, however, was not the case as I Touch Myself by The DyVinals came on. Downing the remainder of his double long island and with a loud exclamation to the rest of the gathered TGI Friday crowd "I have a carpenter's body" young Remo promptly whipped off his shirt and proceeded to step up on the table.

The folks at the Roseville TGI Friday's are often characterized as not having a good sense of humor. Back in the old days, when they were required to wear "flair" the Roseville staff chose not to wear funny buttons, only off setting ones. To this day I think I have as yet to laugh at that TGI Friday's. On this night, however, it was doubly the case. The TGI staff immediately removed young Remo and told the rest of us to leave the premises as well. As we were walking away young Remo begins screaming at us to let him go back inside and to let him fight the waiter that had kicked us out. To make his point, he struck a large light pole in the parking lot. "See that" he said to one of the party goers, indicating a small dent on the light post. "They'll always remember us now. Always." Never mind the fact his hand had puffed up like a marshmallow.

We later found out that it wasn't the actual offense of having been thrown out for his caustic gyrations sans shirt that had truly infuriated him. What he had been doing, when the rest of the party had believed him to be quietly sipping a double long island, was removing all of the goofy shit that hung on the wall behind him and had amassed quite the little collective behind his chair that he had full intentions of stealing. To this day I still don't think that he has quite forgiven TGI Friday Corp.

The party quickly disbanded and young Remo was driven back to his car where, in an act to show all that he was sober enough to drive, he elected to climb over the top of his car and dump himself into it through the sunroof. And to that end he partially succeeded, only he was literally, ass backwards. His hands were down by the pedals, his head was on the seat, his ass was looking out over the steering wheel, the only real negative, as he told me later, is that the Nissan Stanza is built more for economy than comfort and to this end his legs were still jettisoned through the sunroof.

Dell, being soberly minded decided that while the bits and pieces of Remo that made most of his life's decisions were finally in a position to drive a car that this still might not be in the best interest for all those that were on the road and so took Remo's keys. In a further act to prove his sobriety, Remo poured himself out of the car and climbed underneath it to do what any rational man would do: eat dirt.

"The dirt, " the voice from the bottom of the car, was telling Dell, in between mouthfuls, "is to stober me up." Dell pulled young Remo out from underneath the car, dumped him into the passenger side of his car and drove young Remo back to his Mom's house, where he left him to go inside and pass out.

The ensuing morning young Remo picked himself off the linoleum floor of the bathroom. A large challenge when his head had taken on the weight of one thousand planets. Stooped over he walked down the treacherous stairs into the kitchen looking for nothing more than a loaf of bread, V8 and a little hair of the dog.

His mother gasped when she saw him then started laughing uncontrollably. The world was still not making any sense to young Remo so he began to laugh along with her. "What did you do to your hair?" His mom asked, and young Remo felt for his scalp.

As the events have been re-created in many hashings over and using the forensic technology available to us from the evidence that had been left on the bathroom floor, it appears as though young Remo was still of the mind to sober up that evening and finding no other alternative around the spacious house, elicited the help of a hair clippers and the bathroom. Fighting the drunken stupor that he had thrown himself into, it is admirable that he was even able to, though in a bit of a roughshod fashion, clip half of his hair.

And now he is our man on the scene for DVD's. Please, give a warm Bad Mother Coitus welcome to our newest feature writer, my good friend, your favorite: Remo everybody!!!

There's a Man on the Roof of the Hotel

across from the parking lot from my building. i'm just spitballing here but I'd guess he's just a shade under 6 feet and he carries a big frame. he's got a beard that can be seen easily from 100 yards and he's got a stocking cap on tight on his head. no fancy designs or stripes or colors to speak of. beige and brown and some blue jeans that are the very definitiion of windstripped. right now in new york there is a man holding a tiny puntable dog in his arms and yelling at someone on the dye team because they have failed for the 19th time this week to match this weatherworn look. i'm sure we'll see the results in a few months at the gap. i am nonplussed. the man on the roof is up there ostensibly for some maintenance work. he's not a window cleaner and he's not working on any of the many satellite dishes that rest atop the building. so, unless he's someone who just likes to spend a few hours on top of a hotel in january in minnesota i'm guessing he's working on something maintenancy that is out of my view. occasionally others stop by. they never bring tools or where a toolbelt or in any way convey tools from one location to another. there is only one access to the roof. so whatever it is that they do, they do it with their hands and their minds. i'm fascinated. i don't know anything about this guy and frankly, if i saw him at street level i wouldn't even notice him, even after writing about him like this. being on top of a hotel makes everyone seem a little cooler. i once spent a sunrise on top of one of the hiltons (the hotel not the socialites) in vegas. watching hendrixes purple haze cover the desert. i definitely feel cool when atop a hotel. so what's the maintenance guy doing up there? what's his life story? how did he get such a sweet gig working on top of hotels for a living? that's the life for me. nothing scary like those depression-era guys working for peanuts and risking life and limb going up to build the skyscrapers in new york or bridges in california. just walking around like a normal person 20 floors up. that's better than what i do for a living. that's living right there. even on the cold days you have to feel alive right? why does this guy do this sort of thing? maybe he has a troubled past. maybe he loves the sky but is afraid to fly. i dunno. that's not the point though. he's only 100 yards away and yet it seems like miles. he can sit down and lean against the ductwork and watch the planes come into the airport and feel the wind and sit up above all the exhaust smells and just be. so close and yet so far. the door's open. i could go over there and, with some timing and a little guile, make my way onto the hotel roof for a bit. i have no idea what i'd do up there but i think i'd enjoy it. maybe i could talk to the guy and find out what's interesting about him. maybe this is the coolest thing he does in his life and he thinks it's boring. maybe he went to high school with jeffrey dahmer and he gets the shakes every time he thinks about it so he works in an environment where if you're not paying attention you could fall to your death. that's what i'm going with. something strange like that. i hope he's interesting. there has been a complete and total lack of random nudity out of the hotel windows and the only thing that could make that place interesting is if the roof maintenance guy used to go to highschool with a serial killer. sad, but true. i'm an american, if i can't have nudity i would like to infer some past violence or something. call me crazy.

Dying Midwestern

At its’ heart, it was a noble adventure. It had been the brainchild of wine, then whisky then beer, then back to whisky and closing with wine, a virtual palindrome of alcohol. I had given myself the task of writing down all of the tasks that I wished to accomplish by the time that I turned 40. Actually, it had started off with by the time that I turned 30, but being a realist I scratched out 30 and replaced it with 40.

Dancing like lollipops through my head were trips that I wish to take. I want to inhale the sweet meditation of Mount Fuji and breathe in the thick air that satiates the rambler’s soul that surely resides there. To find nirvana on a crowded street in Tokyo, an individual soul lost amongst the masses with music pouring through my veins as my Zen. To fall in love, on the skyline of Manhattan while cradling a girl that is leaning out of a balcony on the top floor of a hotel overlooking Central Park. To feel the exuberance of living in England again, the benefits of not owning a car or a TV and receiving all of my culture from the pub down my row. To read 100 books then 1000. To match dreams with paper and become a writer that puts down words that would last for ever and by doing so, endeavor to become immortal in the heart of some yet unborn child.

But then Little B and I sat down and the paper stared back at me. I didn’t wish to put anything down upon this fresh page, these selfish plans that I hold for myself. This wasn’t out of fear but because the ideals that I wanted to put on it weren’t mine. These were dreams, dreams that I hope will allow me to taste the infinity that my heart so greedily churns for in every passing beat, and in the end they are only dreams and bring me no closer to that which I crave.

Instead I found myself writing ‘to live life’, to be that beautiful dreamer that could find these ideals without seeking them; to let the infinity find me. The moments that find a person at two in the morning when the ugly lights have come on at a local bar being after they’ve been wrapped too tightly with somebody in an intriguing conversation. To suck that marrow out of a life that is tasteful only to those that allow it to come to them.

I tasted what the infinity could be and looking down at the page I accepted my dream and knew that I already had written too much. In that instant the words of Polonius struck me yet again:
“This above all: To thine own self be true

Old People Can Be Our Salvation...Tis True

I'm kinda fascinated by the whole bumper sticker phenomenon. I'm also fascinated by the little window cling things that people put on their cars as well. I realize that we, as a people, all drive basically the same car/truck/suv but are we really this hard up for some individuality? I only ask because I've been having some bizarre flashbacks of this sort of thing lately.

I saw a little garfield in the back seat of a Volvo station wagon the other day. And not one of the old Volvos that are all boxy and make you think the person driving it is an English Lit Professor at the little college down the road. I mean one of the new "sporty" models that makes you think that the person driving it is late for their kid's lacrosse practice (soccer is so 1989). The Garfield suction cup thing (and Garfield puts the "suck" in "suction) hasn't been seen much in the past few years has it? Did the person dust the ol' guy off as a joke or is this the 17th anniversary of some kid telling him his Garfield doll was cool and he's still trying to cash in? I get confused sometimes. I think if the guy had a "baby on board" or one of the derivative "computer geek on board/goddess on board" window things my head may have exploded just out of self defense. (I'm fully aware that my head blowing up would probably kill me and therefore not be much of a self defense but it's sort of a cop out. If the guy had both the Garfield and the "baby on board" window things then he'd probably get out of his car and say something impossibly stupid that would make me gnaw my own wrists and if you really think about it having your head blow up in an instant is much more preferable than chewing through your own skin. That's all I'm saying. In context it makes sense.)

But enough about the outdated guy. Everyone's outdated at some point in their lives. What about the people now who use the bumper sticker? And I'm not even considering the 16 year old kid with the 10 year old hatchback that has all his or her favorite bands and 12 of those little bunny pictures saying "you smell" or whatever. Those kids are just dying for some freedom. I can't hold that against them. I'm talking about the people with the 2 year old Camry who feel the need to state their political views or their military spending views or just to tell a lame joke on their bumper. It's kind of odd isn't it?

Outside of spending $25k on something and then immediately putting something on it to make it look tacky I don't see what the point is. Do these same people paint their garage in Vikings colors or put a giant Timberwolf logo on their back porch too? Cuz then I'd be okay with it. Who wouldn't want to go to a barbeque and stand on a porch that looks like center court at Target Center? Nobody. That's who.

My personal favorite bumper stickers are the ones that claim that God isn't a Republican or a Democrat. That's always entertaining. Politics isn't stupid enough, let's weigh in on how God feels about the whole ordeal. It's just another person slapping their own personal thoughts onto God and claiming it is real. Maybe God is a Republican. I doubt it but who knows? If only we had more bumper stickers maybe we could get to the bottom of this. And where does the Dahlai Lama side in this issue? How come no one's polled his opinion and slapped it on a bumper sticker. Heck at least he's a person. You could get a direct quote. Seems like less guesswork to me.

So anyway, I don't get the whole bumper sticker thing. I've had two bumper stickers in my life that actually went on a vehicle. One was a Packers sticker to cover up a bumper that was rusting away. I considered it to be beautifully designed duct tape. And the other was the Autobot insignia on the hood of a Geo Storm because I kinda wanted to pretend that my crappy car was, in fact, a robot from outerspace. Cliffjumper was his name. I don't know what it says about me that I imagine my car as a gigantic robot from outerspace but then I make the decision to call it one of the minor characters that most people only vaguely remember. We'll leave that for another day.

I will say this though, most young people actually seem to believe that others can be swayed by what's on the bumper sticker. Which is just ridiculous. Why would I trust what a 97 Stratus has to say about politics? I have only seen one bumper sticker that made me happy in the past 5-10 years. I saw it this weekend. It was parked at a gas station and I was laughing as I passed the owner of said vehicle. He was an old guy, probably pushing 80, and he had a cane. He had a trucker hat on and it wasn't even ironic. I think it said something about being waaaaay over the hill. I wanted to grab this guy and go buy him a beer as a thanks for the great bumper sticker. I knew I had enough cash to get him a beer but I wasn't sure if I could afford the hip replacement surgery that was sure to follow after a few cold ones and the inevitable fall on the icy parking lot so I passed on the chance. I regret it. The bumper sticker is as follows...

A Little Coitus couldn't Hoit Us.

Baseball

Sporadic snow on the ground with some grass peaking through. The temp is hovering in the 20-30 degree range most of the time which is, sadly, not even that cold if you're a Minnesota boy. Sunny today but that's a rarity. We get lots of clouds and many, many, many shades of grey with those clouds this time of year. It'll be like this (snowy, cold and grey) for another 2 months or so. Then it'll be sporadically warm or I'll be shoveling out from a blizzard. No one knows. April's fun that way. Why do I bring this up? This crappy winter existence? Because I could accept all of it if I could be playing/watching/reading about baseball.

When my brain is otherwise not engaged I'm usually thinking about next year's softball team, whether or not Rondell White will be the second coming of Chili Davis (which, when you think about it, only is a good thing if you're a Twins fan - I don't think there are many people outside the fans of the '91 Twins who even know who Chili was or why a second coming of him would be a good thing) and whether I can figure out how to get some fans in the stands on my mvp baseball game on ps2. I was digging through the basement recently and came across my old nintendo (and by old I mean the original NES with duck hunt and whatnot). I also came across my old games and, after 5 fruitless minutes messing with bats on Castlevania I rolled the dice with RBI Baseball. The Twins tore the cover off the ball on that game.

So, long story short, I'm a baseball guy. I wasn't always like this. Like most beer drinking Americans I dialed into the ol' NFL on Sundays and got hooked. I got lucky as I decided to be a Packer fan roughly 6 weeks before the start of the '92 season and therefore I've not known a time where Favre wasn't winning and playing. That'll end soon, but I'm okay with it, I've moved on to greener pastures.

I even tried basketball for a few years. I decided to boycott the NBA two years ago after watching the Lakers "beat" the Wolves in the Western Finals and I've not regretted it. The sport of basketball is beautiful, it's too bad nobody knows how to play it anymore. Chuck Klosterman loves the nba because it's like real life, the rich kids get all the breaks and everyone basically accepts that the elite players and teams will get calls they don't deserve. That's an interesting comparison, but me, I'd just like to see a nice bounce pass y'know?

So, a baseball guy. And I'm stuck in mid-winter and it's still waaaaaaaaaay too long until pitchers and catchers report. I try not to think about it. I try to push the thoughts from my head. I try not to break down what our softball lineup will be next year (last year I hit 3rd) and who will be coming back. I pause to reflect that it may not have been a great idea to take two guys who are 6 foot 5 and have the same range of motion as the Tin Man in Oz and ask them to play our middle infield spots last year. I think about the pitcher who, despite this being slow pitch softball, is still trying to hit spots to attack any weaknesses he thinks are in my swing. I think about driving a pitch that's low and outside into left field (I'm a lefty) for a double. I have endured several minutes of Cheap Seats on ESPNClassic just hoping for the 1000th rerun of Morris in Game 7.

Mostly I just sit still and try to get through work. I check the local blogs/sites like www.aarongleeman.com and www.twinkietown.com (and yes I need to learn html) and I hope for something interesting. Some statistical analysis that I disagree with, just something to spur me on to do some research and try to prove that Joe Mauer is a top 3 catcher in the league RIGHT NOW. Stuff like that. And I try not to drive my car into a bridge abuttment every time one of the guys on KFAN says something stupid like Mauer's not great until he has 100 RBIs in a season. Which leads me to do more indepth statistical analysis which is not something I'm very good at it. But at least I'm interested. That's more than I can say for most folks who cover the sport around town.

I could go all "cool of the grass, smell of the leather" on you but I won't. This has been more wistful than I intended already. I guess I'll just have to hunker down and re-read Ball Four again and try to get through this damn month and the next damn month. And of course I just realized that I lent Ball Four to Mule, who, being a jackass, has lent it to his father and I'm sure a cousin or an old friend and by now my book is sitting on an end table at some person's cabin in Duluth who I have not and will not ever meet. It's enough to turn a fella into the biggest, homeliest version of a teenage girl ever. If you see a large man dressed like a pimply 9th grade girl in a prom dress bawling, that'll be me. But I figured it would probably end this way. There may not be crying in baseball but there certainly is crying in Minnesota when it's January and there isn't a hint of baseball on the horizon.

And I don't know how, but as God as my witness I will tivo every damn game by Santana this year. And I will record those games to DVDs so that this will be the last winter that I have to go without watching baseball for this long. And my wife will wonder why I'm watching a recorded game from May next November but she'll see the look in my eyes and she'll leave me be. Because if I don't record those games and watch 'em, and if she interrupts, well then the terrorists win.

Old Friends

Saturday was a vile night weatherwise. I had settled into my couch with a warm book and a fine bottled of Macallan when someone, from a long time ago rang my doorbell. Begrudgingly, I set my book down and took him in only to have him tell me a tale that would bring a man of stronger resolve than me to their knees. Fortunately, I had taken the necessary precautions, but just to make sure, I poured myself another tall scotch.

He had recently been deployed on missionary work. For him this meant going to the heathen land, a land filled with noble savages that would welcome a man in with open arms one minute while slitting your throat the next. Something that he warmed me must be guarded against and one that you must keep your whiles about so as not to wake up dead in the middle of the night.

“Chicago is a fine part of the world”, he began, taking a sip off of the scotch, cradling it in his hands like an old friend that has been gone far too long. He continued, “I had been sent to bring the good word, but found the task was above me. I quoted from the books of Cash and Dylan and was rebuked at every turn. Thus I set myself apart from them as more of a disinterested observer than as somebody that could bring peace to that land.”

“I’ve seen many strange and wonderful things. People wearing striped shirts and haircuts that were meant to define their social status. This is a culture that does not live off of integrity that comes through words. It is a culture where ascension in their ranks is dictated by how you choose to dress yourself and regular showers.

“I was brought to one of their denizen clan gatherings, at the house of one of their local leaders. I tried speaking in a dialect they would understand, and while I did make headway with some members on the outer social circle of the clan I was turned away by others I attempted to talk with. This was most noticed when I was confronted by the alpha male of their collective.

“The alpha male is a short, well-groomed character that had dressed himself in the intellectual garb of a person of similar ilk from the 80’s. He was definitely in charge, or at least he thought so. Having been given the foreknowledge that he was interested in international talk, I attempted to communicate or even learn from him and his position. This gave way to having my words turned against me. His diatribe escalated to attacking my character and I felt my face distorting into an incredulous mask as I struggled to comprehend what was coming out of his mouth and how I had wronged him.

“Was my gesture not understood by his local custom? Had I been too forward? Did he follow some sort of Gorilla Law that dictated when I was supposed to establish eye contact with him? Was it the fact that I had been befriended into this circle by a female that he viewed as his possible alpha mate?

“I made my way back into the kitchen and blended into the conversation before taking relief in a bathroom enjoying the momentary solace that it afforded me. Upon exiting, I found the same alpha male talking to a subordinate in hushed tones. His plan was to either bring harm to my person or evict me from their social gathering.

“I then recalled a past missionary assignment one that had been in a similar setting. I had been brought as a guest of honor to watch a Nerd Dance of Death. This “Dance” is a horrific tradition unlike any other; an act where two skinny men grab one another by their shoulders, cursing in blunt, nonsensical and indecipherable phrases while attempting to knee each other in the balls.

“Wanting no part of this, I grabbed my lover and the two of us exited the party, my nuts, gratefully, still in tact.

He concluded his speech with a sigh and drained the last finger from his glass; I immediately poured him another one. He accepted this gift and eased back into the comforts of the couch, the nightmare that he had just related still hanging over the conversation.

He mulled over his fresh glass of scotch by running a finger around the top. He spoke again, a more broken voice coming out of his mouth, “They’re sending me back out; off to the Rich Coast and I don’t know if I’ll come back from it.”

He left shortly there after. The light from my doorway spilled out as I watched his footprints disappear in the freshly falling snow. In that instant I knew that he would be back, in many ways he has never left and I cursed him for it.