gimme saturday

I've been overwhelmed as a human being for the past two weeks. There is just a lot of stuff going on in the day-job realm of the Bungleverse and everything, including this here e-log, has taken a backseat.

That's not an excuse, just a fact.

Among my many other admirable traits, I realize that I have an enormous capacity for getting wrapped up in my own bullshit and failing to care about others. For instance, a colleague was recently in the hospital, and I was too worried about all my own crap to call or visit him. I kept telling myself I was going to do it, and by the time I got around to it, he was out already. Terrible.

I am also a lousy finisher. I like taking tasks within one small effort of conclusion, then shelving them and watching my stress slowly build.

Oh, and I like coming up with ideas for righteous good-hearted thoughtful things I need to do and then slowly abandoning them over the course of a few weeks.

I'm also a loud typist.

Did I mention vacillating between bursts of intense self-confidence and long periods of total self-doubt? I do that. With much more self-doubt now that I don't drink much anymore.

In the old days, you got a couple beers in me and you'd find yourself talking to one confident-ass motherfucker. What a joy I must have been to be around.

My college friends are gathering in Chicago this weekend and I won't be there. Maybe that's why I feel old and weak. When important people gather in Chicago, you need to be there. Fellas, take some pictures and talk about me for at least ten minutes. And exchange a few verbal high-fives.

I was watching the TV channels and I saw an ad for one of these chat line numbers you're supposed to call, and all the people on the ad were women of the bimbo variety. And I thought to myself, "Why should I call this number? What would we really have to talk about?"

It would be cooler if the ads featured a bunch of dudes with pot-bellies, wearing Replacements T-shirts, sitting on the phone in cruddy little bedrooms with John Starks posters visible in the background.

At work today I started thinking about how much I've failed to stick to my own STFU credo lately, how I've been running my mouth fast and wide in all sorts of inappropriate ways. Mostly trying to tell people what they want to hear. Trying to manipulate conversations and people towards my own pathetic ends.

At least once I realized this afternoon how little I've been STFU, I STFU a bit. It takes intense concentration though.

You gave me some good if limited advice on the what-to-sees in Munich, now I turn to you again for more help. Please recommend a couple books I can read over there. They don't have to be Germany-related. I have been reading Motherless Brooklyn but to be honest it's pretty fucking boring and I may abandon it. I think the guy's a good writer, but the whole narrator-with-Tourette's thing I find showy and highly annoying. How about a compelling fucking plot instead? That would be nice, especially in a detective story. Anyway, give me a couple books to read, preferably relatively new paperbacks, fiction, and if they're about coming of age in the 1970s suburbs, all the better. Anybody read this Crossing California book? If I knew more about Chicago I might give it a shot. When it comes out in paperback.

My iPod freaked out on me a little bit today. I think I may have pressed a button too long or something, but I got stuck in a bunch of diagnostic screens, the last of which required me to plug into a firewire connection. I didn't have one with me, so that screen just stayed up until the battery died. Couldn't escape. Seems to be OK now.

BA got the Mario Batali third of the Chandelierdat challenge. The other two names we were looking for were Jimmy Fallon and Lars Ullrich (who, it should be reported, "wasn't really drinking").

I've been watching a lot of mindless TV lately in an effort to relax. Unfortunately, even though we have like 15 movie channels and they actually show quite a few good movies, I am never in front of the TV when the movie is starting, so I don't end up watching any of the new ones. Instead I tune in in the middle of movies I've seen 12 times and I watch them through to the end anyway. Midnight Run holds up very well, btw. And I love The Last Waltz. I was watching it last night and there was a scene where Scorsese is interviewing Levon Helm and Robbie Robertson, and they both have unlit cigarettes. Helm is in the middle of a story, and he slowly, almost unconsciously, gets out a match, lights Robertson's cigarette and then his own without missing a beat. It was just a really sweet moment. Hard to believe those guys hate each other now. Here's today's 12 point, non-googling, old movie Genius Challenge: Who is the only actor to appear in both Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction AND survive both movies?

laundry list

Life got hard again today after a couple of decent days. I need to ride some shit out is all.

Just a couple orders of biz:

It's always good to periodically check on the comments page for my admittedly lame "available band names" page. In addition to everything else that's wonderfully stupid about these responses, who chooses their band name off an internet list???!!!???

Through HaloScan's magnificence, I stumbled across this blog which seems quite good. Today's post is definitely interesting, and anybody who has any connection to the word "Moncrief" is aces in my book.

Also worth a daily read although sometimes NSFW is The Pants.

We have finally completed the latest three-part Trayline saga, complete with ambiguous ending. You make the call.

In discussing my weekend achievements, I left our perhaps the most impressive of all: I cleaned the damn bathroom.

Lauren Bacall was the right answer to yesterday's genius quiz. BC MI gets the points, which is ironic because he actually slept with Lauren Bacall back in 2002. Good job on both counts, BC.

Today I give you a little celebrity genius challenge. A colleague found himself in a fancy bar this weekend with an eclectic group of celebrities, playing chandeliers(!) Among this group was one celebrity from the world of food, one from the world of comedy, and one from the world of music. Eight points for each of these three celebrities that you can name.

brief and sad

This was a neatly orchestrated, efficient weekend. Not a whole lot of fun, but I did what needed to be done and now I can face the workweek with 13% less stress than I would have before.

9 loads of laundry: check
Grocery Shopping: check
Awards Show Attending/Winning: check
New Contact Lens Care Program initiated: check
Run to Staples for some household bullshit: check
Sleep Catchup: sorta check
Previously Guaranteed Completion of Current Trayline Blog storyline: no check, but significant progress made
Pointless Update on Status of Little-Cared-About Trayline Blog: check
Stressing out about meaningless crap: check
Anticipating of Horrible Workweek: check
Sports Half-watching: check
Sports Half-playing: no check
Bad Blogging: check
Baby and Wife Hanging Out with: check

Non-Sopranos-watchers are the only ones eligible for these eight genius points (no googling): On Sunday night's episode, what legendary actress, playing herself, got cold-cocked and robbed by Christopher? As long as you didn't see the episode or hear the answer somewhere, please guess.

winning

New (Cleveland-centric) euphemism for taking a dump:

"I'm taking the Browns to the SuperBowl."

So tonight I went to an awards show. The widget I work on was nominated in a very specific widget category for the second straight year. We were up against four of the strongest, most well-established widgetmakers in the business, and our award was the last one (out of like 50) to be announced.

We won! It was really exciting. I've never really won anything before. Even in this case, I didn't technically win. The head widget-makers on our team get to take home the actual statuettes and give the acceptance speeches, but I feel that my efforts have played at least a small, small role in the success of our widget, so I take joy in the victory.

It was a nice capper to a cruddy week. Things finally started looking up on Friday, when I trusted my instincts in a particular situation and refused to cave to what I thought was unreasonable pressure. It paid off as a couple of balls rolled my way and the opposition was finally forced to punt.

So, 1,100 men went in the water, 317 men come out, the sharks took the rest...meaning that Isired is our USS Indianapolis winner with his guess of 350. What a story.

getting ready to kick back

This has been a rotten week and it's only getting rottener. I am trying to remind myself that sometimes you need to get kicked in the balls a few times before you can justify life-improving scrotum surgery, but with each successive kick it gets tougher, man.

I'm looking forward to Munich. Just to be away from stuff for awhile. Thanks for the tips, GWeb, Kissel, etc. Thanks to Isired for the fine photoshop job on yesterday's pic of the day.

Kissel continued his late-season surge with yesterday's ArchieBunkercalleditdat response, even giving us a word for word recollection: "You're gonna get Reagan in 1980." Archie had written in Reagan's name on the ballot and was giving Meathead the business after Carter won. For those who enjoy a brief and superficial take on history, here's Wikipedia on Reagan's role in the 1976 election.

I haven't seen a Yankee game this year. How's Meacham been in the field?

How many men survived the sinking of the U.S.S. Indianapolis? No googling, 8 points to whoever's closest, 12 points for an exact hit.

Ace Low

Ace's bad night meant a big night for Kissel. He came in yesterday, put his hard hat on, and went to work. He answered both questions first and he answered both questions right, and his genius account is now 13 points fatter as a result. Well done. Unfortunately, his late surge probably won't help him in this round, as cW is within a smelly fart of the championship, but like a baseball team that's out of the race in June but finishes 17-3 to push themselves over .500 for the year, he has reason to be optimistic for next season.

I'm also gonna throw ten GP's Dipak's way for his appropriately sarcastic American Idol answer, wich cracked me up:

who will get kicked off?
Kelly Clarkson? Reuben? Clay Aiken?
Refrigerator Perry? Pee Wee Herman?

The thought of The Fridge reaching the final 7 on AI, only to be eliminated, kinda made my day.

Exhaustion and Anxiety and possibly some actual Conflict are all going to be poking me in the ribs for the next couple of weeks. Just gotta muscle through and remind myself how minor it all is. It's really all minor. Someday in the future I will be playing skee-ball, eating saltwater taffy and making out with factory girls beneath the boardwalk.

Oh, sorry, that's actually what Bruce Springsteen did on July 19th, 1971. I will be doing all that metaphorically. Living metaphorically is the only way to go. You don't get sand in your underwear.

Ten GP's to anyone who can honestly tell me they've made out with a girl (or boy) beneath the boardwalk. 20 points if it was a factory girl (or boy). 220 points if you're Bruce Springsteen.

After my rough spell, I will be off to Munich for a few days, both literally and metaphorically. Ma Bungle will be busy so it'll be me and Baby Bungle touring the city together on foot. (Baby-friendly) entertainment suggestions are welcome. I know we have at least three German-speaking readers out there, so let's go.

I am now guaranteeing the conclusion of the Trayline saga by the end of this weekend. Sorry for the delay. I am also guaranteeing I drink at least one tall can of delicious beer during Sunday Night Softball. I guarantee I make at least three errors as well, two of which are beer-related.

Speaking of guarantees and predictions, what world event did Archie Bunker correctly predict in a 1976 episode of All in the Family? No googling unless you're Bruce Springsteen. Ten genius points for the correct answer.

Thanks to BJL for agreeing to take over the softball stats, at least for now. That will be a huge relief to me.

The Game

No, not that game. But if you're playing it, I guess you just lost.

Howard Cosell was among the people (though somehow he's not on the list) for whom my father instilled in me an automatic distaste. Pop hated Cosell's self-aggrandizing ways, such as when he'd tell a story and be all, "I went to lunch with my good friend Roger Staubach yesterday, and he said to me, 'Howard, I think this season might be it for me.'" He especially hated that "Howard..." bullshit whenever Cosell was quoting somebody who he'd interviewed. Fair criticism, and Cosell was clearly a douchewad in many ways.

At the same time, he stood up for Ali when very few others did, and he seemed to be on the right side of most of the big issues in sport and society. And he was interesting. Interesting enough that my pops grudgingly gave me his autobiography, I Never Played the Game, for Christmas one year. Like Howard himself it was cranky, arrogant, and self-important. But it kept my attention.

I especially liked the title. It was perfect for Howard, a pun that incorporated at least two of his favorite themes:

1) You don't have to be an ex-jock to understand and comment on sports. He was always railing on the "jockocracy."
2) Howard never "played the game" -- meaning he never compromised what he believed in or caved to pressure from outside forces to say something he didn't mean. He told it like it was.

Whether that's true or just a bunch of Cosell horseshit, it got me thinking about how much, or how little, we all play the game. One time a colleague of mine, a guy I couldn't really stand, called me up because he had gotten into some trouble at work by opening his big fat mouth. I don't think he really liked me, either, but he wanted some advice on how to dig himself out of it.

"Hans," he said. "Tell me what to do. You always seem like you know how to play the office politics."

And I never thought about it that way. Certainly I haven't pushed myself ahead at the expense of others, nor have I gone out of my way to suck up for the sake of a possible promotion or raise. Nor have I climbed the corporate ladder with any great speed (to say the least).

But I guess I do try to be nice to people, and I try not to get in fights with other employees, especially my superiors. I don't steal or go into three day mood funks or stink up the bathroom. I don't get drunk at the holiday party and throw things at other employees (anymore). I don't fearfully hide unapproved invoices in my desk for months at a time (anymore). I don't play my radio out loud at my desk. I don't look at porn sites or jack it under my desk. I don't blow off requests from my boss or from anybody for that matter. I try to listen when other people want to vent. I try to help create a comfortable working atmosphere. I don't constantly bitch about the company or my lot in life. I don't lie to people to shake off my mistakes. I fess up when I fuck up. I basically try to mind my own business and create as little trouble as possible, and then I get to go home to the things I love. I guess that's "playing the game" to an extent but it's certainly not calculated. It's not like I sit around biting my tongue all day.

Hans Bungle plays the game. Do you play the game?

I have nowhere to go with this one. Let's pull the plug.

I still like this picture.

I was shaving the other day, and even though my beard is still patchy at best, it's now getting gray! I feel like goddam Dan Roundfield.

For eight points, who is getting kicked off American Idol tonight? Answers must be in before the show starts. For five more, tell me what obsolete candy bar most desperately needs to be brought back?

high hopes

The level of ambition I felt towards today's post is symbolic of the role ambition has played in my life as a whole. I was all into it and I had a lot of big ideas and energy to spare, and then somehow time got away from me so you get what you get.

In today's case, I was going to hit you with a full-on brilliant post up in this space (about what I dunno), and I was also gonna hit you with the end of the stupid and painfully slow Trayline saga, which has now been going on for so long that all but the most patient have lost interest. And I was also going to post Joe Monkeyweb's softball recap complete with box score and league leaders.

Well, I got to one out of three: here's Joe's recap. Thanks for the fine work as always, Joe. Next week I am going to bring my camera so we can get some action shots. Maybe even some video. Because I just don't think we've goten dorky enough.

And who wants to be official statkeeper? It's a resume-bolsterer, I assure you.

cW checks in with this query:

Hey were points alloted for last week's do-something-nice-for-your-fellow-man-blah-blah- dat? Because I done did what I set out to done do. And the world is better for it.

Well, cW, did you complete your task within a week's time as specified? If so, you get the points and you are also the only one who amounted to anything. Well done.


There's another shot from Central Park this weekend. See all those people? Jon Bon Jovi has rocked a significant number of them over the years. Honestly, I wonder if anyone there is in a bad mood.

Yeah not much again today. Howzabout we give out some Jean-yus points. 5 points for each reasonably funny set of team names you suggest for next week's softball game. Limit one set per respondent.

I drank some decaffeinated tea today. Not so bad.

this post will take you less than two minutes to read, absorb, and purge from your memory

I don't think I'm bipolar. I mean, I do seem to go through huge emotional swings from one day to the next. But shit, isn't that normal? Isn't life bipolar? Some days are good; good stuff happens to you all day. Some days are bad; you can't catch a break. Some days are OK. My mood is generally connected to those factors. I react strongly to whatever events take place in my life. I am able to enjoy the highs and I certainly wallow in the lows when they come my way.

For instance, Saturday April 15th 2006 was a splendiferous day in NYC. It was the type of day where you needed a good excuse not to enjoy yourself. I didn't do much of anything, just walked all around with Ma and Baby Bungle, but that was more than enough. I was basically grinning from the moment I woke up (12:06 p.m.) until the moment my 10th and final load of laundry came out of the dryer.

Sure I took a brief emotional hit when I read on the internets that Mariano blew the game against the Twins. But I got over it.

Sunday was real nice, too. Saw some good friends. Played some decent softball. Drank a beer. Had a margarita. Finished adding songs to my iPod for now. I got 3000 of 'em in there. Yup.

Slow news day.

During my travels on Saturday, I came across these tourists:

For 10 GP's, what NYC landmark are they looking at and photographing?

Nobody got froshhatdat. It was an Raiders baseball hat. 1983. I wonder if Eazy E passed me on the street one day and had a Eureka moment, then waited a few years before co-opting my style. I can't stay mad at ya, Eazy.

It is worth noting that during my 82-day Raiders Hat Rampage, I kissed a total of 0 girls. But I can't blame the hat for that.

I'm gonna post some more pics from my Saturday walkabout soon. We need more pics here. Sunny day pics are the best.

And Joe Monkeyweb has already done a fine job on the softball recap, lightning-quick turnaround. As soon as I figure out the stats, I'll post that shit.

And soon we'll have some other cool stuff, too. Like a new Trayline. Hopefully.

Quit That

I gave up coffee today.

That might seem like a big deal, but the truth is I've only been drinking coffee with regularity for like 6 months. Before that, maybe 173 cups in my entire lifetime. In college, I wasn't one of those cool kids who walked around campus with a thermos strapped to my over-the-shoulder bag. I wasn't a sleep-deprived, hard-studying, caffeine-slurping hipster. My main drug of choice when faced with extreme tiredness was sleep. I slept. Oh sweet slumber how I miss your touch.

Coffee never really did it for me, until recently. Now I like the iced coffee in the summertime and the hot coffee in the wintertime. I like dipping the dippers in the coffee.

But the coffee turns me into a lunatic. Today I had a cup (my last) around 5pm along with some of them European wafer cookies with the cream in the middle. Holy shit that was good. But when I got home I was feeling all twitchy and nervous. My heart started racing. Then Ma Bungle asked me about something I should have done, casually, like, "Did you remember to do X?" and all of a sudden I realized that I had forgotten to do X, maybe not even forgotten but never even realized that X was something I should have done. And I won't lie to you, X is pretty huge. Neglecting to do X could conceivably change my life forever.

And this combination of events sent me over the top, into a desperate spinning anxiety attack. I haven't felt that bad since my last really bad hangover/whatdidIdo episode back in 2004. I don't miss those and I won't miss caffeine-related freakouts like today's.

So, no more coffee.

It was about 70 degrees in NYC today, and I walked part of the way home from work. I felt inspired by the warm weather. I wonder if I lived somewhere like Southern California where it's 78 degrees every day if 78 degrees would still be inspiring. Probably. Whatever, here's what I decided on the way home. (It's almost heartbreaking to hear it because it's all been said before and none of it will come to pass.)

1. No more coffee. I can't handle it. It makes my heart go thumpa thumpa thumpa.
2. Stop eating things like Euro-cream-wafers. I mean, who the hell am I to eat a big handful of Euro-cream-wafers at 5 o'clock in the afternoon at work? What's next, eating Doritos on the crapper? Seriously, I eat by far the worst food of anybody I know. I am a disaster. And it shows. Just take a look at the transition again. From young feather-haired dreamboat to angry ugly chubby middle-aged shitbag. I was talking to Kissel today and he reminded me of a time when I was good at basketball. What a concept! The funny thing is, I still sort of consider myself good at basketball, because my decline has been gradual and I've been here to watch it every day. So it doesn't seem like a big deal. But if I had a mirror for my game, it wouldn't lie. It would tell me how much I suck. It would say, Hey Hog, stay away from the chunky chews! Drop twenty and then skim off another ten. Like three times in the last five years I've run into someone who I haven't seen in a while and they've said something about how much weight I've gained. And those are just the people who are saying it out loud! I am going to lose fifteen pounds by the end of softball season.
3. Seeing all the people out and about and heading off to bars to drink cold beer made me happy. It made me nostalgic, too; it made me miss certain places and specific people and youth. It reminded me of when I used to think about doing things. You'd get drunk, talk some shit, and occasionally hatch a plan. It could be about a trip you wanted to take, a story you wanted to write, a huge ballsy career switch you wanted to make. You never went through with it the next day, but during the hatching process there was a tremendous amount of excitement, a sense that nobody could stop you from what you wanted to do. I miss hatching plans. I'm gonna do something ambitious in the next six months. You wait and see.
4. Hearing the music piping out of the bars made me want to buy some new music. F the Apple Store, though. I'm going to buy a good old-fasioned CD this weekend. In fact, I think we should all buy CD's in pairs. One old one that you've always wanted but never got around to, and one newer one so you can keep track of what the kids are up to.

That's about it. I also went to the eye doctor today. My eyes have been red for like 12 years. When people aren't telling me how fat I am, they're often letting me know that my eyes are red as hell. And over the last couple of weeks, they've started to get swollen and they're constantly tearing. I was worried I might have the eye-fungus. Turns out it's just allergies. My eye glands are all swole up and my eyeballs are irritated. The doc gave me some drops and told me to switch to a non-multi-purpose contact solution. Other than that, I just have to suffer. It could just be dust or pollen or it could be a specific thing in my life that I just can't abide. I bet it's my new Apple computer. Or my new scrotum cream. Or the baby wookiee I recently adopted.

Jerseys I've owned: Dan Fouts Chargers #14, Kellen Winslow Chargers #80, Walter Berry SJU #21, Davd Rivers Notre Dame #4, David Robinson Naval Academy #50, Patrick Ewing Knicks #33 and Patrick Ewing '92 Dream Team #6 (on sale). Edit: And Steve Kemp Yanks. GP's have been appropriately distributed.

For ten GP's, tell me what hat I wore to high school for like 82 straight days freshman year.

Cool Times Call for Cool Shirts

You probably know that if I had to name my all-time favorite band it would be The Replacements of Minneapolis, Minnesota, USA. That's if I had to name my favorite band. If I didn't have to, it would most likely be Queensryche.

Anyway, I have tried for years to convince people of the Replacements' excellence, with little success. But I will try again.

Usually, in my attempts to win people over, I play them one of my favorite Mats songs, such as:

I Will Dare
Unsatisfied
Swingin Party
Left of the Dial
Sixteen Blue
Here Comes a Regular
Waitress in the Sky
Skyway
Alex Chilton
Hold My Life

There are probably 15 or 20 more in that category but these all come to mind and they are all fairly catchy and accessible. Still, most people are like, "Yeah, that's nice Hans. Now will you stop calling? It's 4 in the morning." Whatever. There's no wrong time for cool tunes (or cool shirts for that matter).

Since that technique has failed, and since I have nothing better to do than plug defunct 80s bands on a stoopid website read by precious few, I will attempt a new approach. I will play you a song that demonstrates that they had something that a lot of other bands could desperately use : a sense of humor (you reading, Bono? Oh, that's right, you're still mad because I took your blog off my honor roll on the right).

This song is by no means their best, and it's probably only charming to me because it's The Replacements, but who cares. It comes off their third release, Hootenanny, an album full of half-baked efforts mixed in with a few real gems. The story goes that when they went into the studio to record the album, they started screwing around, playing jokes on the engineer, switching instruments mid-song, and generally failing to give a shit. When they finally pulled it together and were ready to dig in and start giving it a real effort, they were told that the album was done. Oops.

Yeah, all we have here is Paul reading the City pages classifieds to music. But that's good enough for me.

Enjoy: Lovelines and the accompanying graphic aid.

***

Yeah, it was Bucky's time to go tonight. I was sad but it was the right thing to do. Good job, America. Now let's agree that Ace's run must end next week. Dude is annoying as hell.

I am shocked, I gotta say, SHOCKED, by cW nailing the Hypercolor clothing. But eventually I think most people will accept that this was the worst fashion moment in a decade full of 'em, the same way we all can safely admit that "We Built This City" is the worst song of all time. Whatever the case, cW's rise to genius status is nearly complete. Not sure who can stop him now, especially with Brian Castro still fuming because I haven't mailed him his lyric stumpah II prize yet.

Five points for each athlete you can name whose replica jersey I once owned. Hint: there ain't many.

Elton Brand is rapidly becoming my favorite NBA player. Still a little behind KG, but closing.

from me to you, free of charge

When you're a kid, surrounded by mean-spirited other kids and scary adults who are constantly bossing you around, one of the hardest things to say is "I don't know." Ridicule, punishment, humiliation, shame, and infamy are what await you if you have the misfortune of admitting "I don't know" to the wrong person at the wrong time.

These fears of being mocked or flunked or punched in the face for admitting what is really only the honest truth -- you don't know something -- are what turn most of us into such magnificent bullshitters by the time we're 15.

As you go through life, in your struggles to discover the real you and to answer life's big mysteries and to maybe, slowly, become a better person and all that crap, you might reach a point where you triumph over some of your adolescent insecurities and you decide to put an end to the bullshitting once and for all.

From now on, you tell yourself, when I don't know something, I'm just going to own right up to it. People will respect my honesty and my self-confidence, and they will look to me as a no-bullshit straight shooter. This isn't 8th grade anymore.

Then the opportunity arises. Your boss asks you "Did we ever finalize the paperwork on the Gnazzo Account for 3Q 2005?"

"Actually, boss," you'll say with confidence, knowing the truth is on your side, "I don't know."

And your boss will look at you like you're an asshole. And he'll say something sarcastic. And your co-workers will have a laugh at your expense. And from that moment on, you will remind yourself to bullshit enthusiastically at every chance.

And the more bullshit that gets spread through all of our lives, the less all of our words matter.

That is why when we can find something true, something that comes from a place of integrity and honesty and old-fashioned knowledge, it means so much.

It is in that spirit that I offer you today's piece of free advice. I don't go throwing advice around just to make myself feel like a big shot. I pass it along because it's a lesson that this mean world taught me the hard way, and I don't want to see you walk down the same twisting road that I did.

So here goes.

If you are starting a new job, it is definitely in your best interest to show up for work your first day with a moustache. Thick, unapologetic, and take-charge. In-your-face. A what-the-fuck-are-you-looking-at, mayIhelpyouplease moustache.

Then, about a week later, shave it off.

Here's why.

When you show up that first day, people won't know what to make of you. Is that a moustache of peace or hostility? Are moustaches coming back into style? Is this guy safe to be around? I hope I don't piss him off. This confusion is good. Let them all wonder. Meanwhile, you just became the talk of the office. The boss wants to have drinks after work on Tuesday. Tell him you'll let him know.

Second, even after the moustache is gone, everyone will think of you as a Man with a Moustache and they will treat you with the respect that title commands. In fact, the moustache's absence will only make you more powerful, because they know you could grow it back at any time and that's the last thing they want.

If you're a single guy and you're looking to cozy up with some of your new office-mates, the moustache will do all your work for you. For one thing, all women love moustaches. That's just a simple fact. Moustaches are a symbol of all that is masculine and powerful and most women are helpless when faced with one in the wild.

Again, even after you remove the moustache itself, its power will linger on. Women will be waiting for its return. There will be an office pool about it.

And you'll hold it back just as long as you feel like it before growing it again. And when you do, when those first upper-lip hairs start looking like more than a two-days-forgetting-to-shave situation, there will be full-on pandemonium in your office as all the chicks gear up for the sequel. It will be so out of control that somebody will have to fly in from corporate to try to talk you out of it. Of course, once they see it they'll give in to it too. You'll walk them down to their Towncar and send them back to the airport with a passionate high-five. Nobody loses. And you win.

Sorry about this post's longness and shittiness. I'm in a bit of a slump. For more evidence of this, please check out our first softball recap of '06.

And for ten GP's, tell me what I consider the absolute stupidest fashion item of the 1980's.

Nobody got the last challenge. The answers:

"Hungry Heart" - The Ramones
"Cover Me" - Donna Summer

And the unwritable word cannot be written. BJL was closest.

friday on my mind

Looking forward to softball this weekend, although for some reason I'm all sore already. Perhaps my offseason workout program has been too intense.

It has lots of sugar and fat, but I hereby recommend the following delicious product anyway: Bear Naked Banana Nut Granola. Incredible. Don't spend another pointless day of your life without trying it.

We have a new edition of "High Socks and Short Shorts" for you. In it I decide whether Larry Bird was actually any good.

I've been hearing some good snippets lately but I'm not on the PC anymore so I am unable to easily update the ol' snippets page. I'll get around to it, but in the meantime I offer you:

"Dude, I'm at 23rd and Lex, I'm about to hit the 7-11. They got a Dr. Pepper flavored slurpee, man. No, seriously. I'm about to get one."

-man on cellphone, 23rd and Lex, Sunday April 2nd, 2006, 3:17 pm

Whether you like Bruce Springsteen or not, you must now face the following genius challenge:

Sometimes artists have hits with songs that they write for other artists but end up keeping for themselves instead. For eight points each, what artists did Springsteen intend to give the songs "Hungry Heart" and "Cover Me" to, respectively? We are looking for two different artists here, one for each song. No googling please.

For ten more points, there is a word I am thinking of, a word so bad that I could never type it on the internet. It is not a racial slur, not even necessarily offensive. But it would be very embarrassing for me to type it and you too would feel embarrassed for me after you read it. What is this word?

walken the walk

I read once that one of the secrets to Christopher Walken's bizarre word and syllable accentuation is that when he receives his script for a particular project the first thing he does is cross out all the punctuation so he has no guidelines to start from and he just stresses the words he wants to stress well that might work for Christopher Walken but I bet it would be pretty annoying in a blog post I thought to myself but what the hell I figured my blog is free like the bad comedian in the park so if people don't like it they can always hit the next blog button on the top of the screen and be ferried off to somebody's spam site in Portuguese the rest of you stick around and I'll try to make this brief so you can at least pay me the courtesy of reading the post in Christopher Walken's voice well maybe not out loud but in your head you might notice that I am using apostrophes which I guess are punctuation but I think that's OK so I'm gonna go ahead and keep using them once again if you have a problem I direct you to the Portuguese spam site

Paragraphs seem to be important to some people so I'll give you a few of those to let you catch your breath this is the coolest development I've seen in a long time even though a lot of mac fans probably see it as the beginning of a long walk down a dark road to eventual extinction to which I say whatever you douches stop worrying and enjoy it

BJL sends along this fine photo that illustrates my point about the Russell Rejection Theory:

Sorry about that colon but it seemed appropriate that guy is going up with all the athleticism and force of a sedated Corey Haim wearing ankle weights no offense to Russell but I think the game has come a long way in the last 50 years

I've been meaning to catch up on the Knicks 101 updates but life moves quick and all of a sudden it's 2am and the birds of stuytown are singing their morning song and you're just getting around to posting your Bill Russell picture well I now have two games in the can ready to be viewed and reviewed hopefully I'll get to them within the next few days again if anyone else is interested in helping out with the Knicks 101 project it would be greatly appreciated by me and the rest of the human race really

Also need to finish that whole trayline thing I'm trying to figure out a strategy because most of the events in the next section come from third parties as I was out of my skull on the booze and don't even remember the parts I participated in some of which we may never know anyway and what kind of a story is that well we should have it all set for you this weekend sometime

Good answers on yesterday's who da man challenge although I'm still not sure exactly who da man at least I feel we're closer to figuring it out and that can't be anything but good

Today we'll keep it simple and offer twelve GP's to the person who can tell me what game show my pops Grandpa Bungle went on and won back in like 1956

the same, but somehow worse

This post was scheduled to appear yesterday but halfway through I passed out on the couch under a thin blanket of Gatorade. So please imagine you're reading it yesterday. If it helps, you might want to put on yesterday's pants while you read it. If you have part of yesterday's sandwich in the fridge, you may get it out and start eating it now. Thank you.

Today is Segue Day. The day basketball bounce-passes the keys to our attention over to baseball. We'll watch some NBA playoff games, but from here on out our first hopeful remote control button press when we get home from work will be the button for our baseball team.

The NCAA final was sort of entertaining, lots of nice dunks. Not a very close game, but OK. Congratulations to li'l Joey Monkeyweb for a strong 2nd place finish in our office pool. He should be selling his picking secrets on the internets.

I only watched about a third of the game, but in that time I was able to get one full dose of Billy Packer-induced irritation. He was basically puking up a tsunami of cliches. I am not going to address them all, but there was one he used that always pisses me off. It's the one where they talk about how a good shot blocker always blocks the ball and keeps it inbounds, preferably steering the loose ball to a teammate in the process. Bill Russell's name is always invoked as the undisputed master of this skill. Packer was spewing his crap about this and Nantz was agreeing, even going so far as to say blocking a shot and sending it out of bounds accomplishes nothing.

The problem is that it's all just a bunch of bullshit. Had Billy Packer ever blocked a shot in his life, he'd know that:
-blocking shots is hard. Most of the time when you block one, it's pretty difficult to steer it in any particular direction. Sure, if that opportunity presents itself, a guy just lobs up a lollipop and you have a teammate open who you can bat it to, great. That's like 1 out of every 600 blocked shots.
-by blocking the ball out of bounds, you are actually doing at least 4 good things: allowing your teammates to regroup, forcing your opponent to reinitiate their offense, forcing them to inbound under the basket, and sending them a message that weak shit is not allowed in your casa.
-conversely, by keeping the ball inbounds, as Packer and every other lamebrained announcer suggests you should do EVERY DAMN TIME, you are potentially going to bat the ball to an opponent who is in a position to score.
-Bill Russell, bless his heart, played against a bunch of dumpy guys with names like Leonard and Dolph and Mickey and Nate. If indeed he was able to execute this move with regularity, his anemic competition is the main reason why. He would have difficulty, I wager, pulling it off against Shaq.

Pic courtesy BJL

Warning: the following may be considered my annual case of Yankee-fan guilt settling in.

From the NCAA's I flipped it over to Game 1 of the Yankee season. As I looked around the field (figuratively, I couldn't actually see the whole field), I started to realize what an awful bunch of assholes the Yankees have assembled once again this year. I mean, they're mostly the same assholes as last year, but somehow they've become a little worse.

Hard to believe, but Giambi and Sheffield are even guiltier lying cheaters than they were last year. A-Rod is as phony as insufferable as ever, maybe moreso because he has another failed postseason to answer for. For no reason, I think Cano is probably a douchey guy. We've learned that Randy Johnson has a Little Unit wandering around out there and he refuses to support this Unit. Hearing Michael Kay explain Moneyball is a pleasure on par with having one's testicles deep-fried while they are still attached. Posada is even more grouchy and joyless than last season. Larry Bowa is the only bench coach in the league who can destroy a locker room with his poisonous personality.

I do like: Jeter, Mariano, Pornfreak Matsui, Creaky Ol' Bernabe Williams, and Joe Torre. And the fact that Kyle Farnsworth's first page of google image hits shows him beating the shit out of two guys, tapping a beer and participating in an art exhibit earns him a place in our heart right out of the gate.

Whatever.

For ten points, no googling please, what product was advertised in the racist TV commercial that featured the line, "Ancient Chinese Secret"? Roger Clemens probably knows this one, so he is hereby ineligible.

For three points each, tell me who da man. 1 man per person.

my heart going boom boom boom

Making fun of the 80's is so easy and so satisfying, why aren't you doing it right now?

The problem I see is that too many people dog the obvious targets. Take American Psycho, published in 1991. One of the worst books I've ever (almost) read. The movie was actually not bad, mostly because Christian Bale is such an excellent actor. In the movie, and probably in the book too (I'm not going to re-almost-read it to find out), they keep making jokes about Bateman's taste in music: he's going on and on about the genius of Huey Lewis and Phil Collins, etc. Sure, even by 1991, these acts had become novelties, we were all ready to disown them and shake our heads as if to say, "How could we have ever allowed X to become so popular?"

But that's kind of cheap. Artists like Collins and Lewis and Billy Ocean and Bryan Adams produced simple, unpretentious pop music, for people to nod their heads along to or sing along with in the car. Nothing more, nothing less. While each one is uniquely lame, getting mad about their popularity is like getting mad about the fact that people go see Vin Diesel movies. Save yourself the effort, nobody ever called Billy Ocean a genius or an innovator or anything. He was just singing songs about what he knew and cared about, like hot Caribbean babes and the going getting tough and the tough getting going and hey, if it's all the same to you, get out of my dreams and get into my car. Cool. Thanks. I appreciate it.

When we look back sneeringly on that tainted decade, we should focus instead on the artists who took themselves way too seriously and got us to take them too seriously as well.

First prize for the most overrated artist of the 1980's goes to...

Peter Gabriel! Peter Gabriel, you a sucker. Go back to the 80's and dress up in clown makeup and shoot all your fancy videos. This time we'll know better.

Who else qualifies?

Maybe Tracy Chapman?

Played ball outside today. It was fun as hell, even though I now have the same level of physical conditioning as Dom DeLuise. He also has a better low-post game, but he's lazy on the boards. I could take him. Overall, I was pleased. I threw up some bricks but I also had some good moments, and I didn't injure myself heading into softball. You might say that I messed around and had myself a triple double, but you'd be lying.

We're going to get a little Tony Robbins on you for today's Genius Challnge. By 11:59pm Monday evening, please list one specific action that you will perform this week to improve your life in at least some small way. That's five points. For another five, complete the action and confirm it with us at somepoint during the week. Honor system.

I hope it works. I wish you the best. OK, the second best after me.

Eight Ways to Sunday

This is one of those rare periods in which I find myself constantly thinking of stuff, maybe not super-intelligent stuff, but stuff that's good enough to post in this here blog. Unfortunately, this "creative" burst has coincided with a "busy" period that has prevented me from writing anything the fuck down. It's all gone. So you, the loyal reader, get nothing.

Sorry.

I will tell you a few stupid things, in the interest of keeping things going.

There will be a new High Socks and Short Shorts soon, MSG has blessed me with a Knicks-Celtics matchup from early '84, and I can't wait to sink my teeth, and blog, into it.

We will also finish off the endless 3-part Trayline saga at some point this week. Teaser: there are man-on-man backrubs involved. Maybe more.

Joe Monkeyweb and I tried out our new iChat software with the built-in video. That shit is tremendous. The image you receive is a little soft (here's what Joe saw), but you can blame the internets for that (or you can blame our ISP specifically for limiting our upload bandwidth). Joe and I enjoyed some rigorous video cybersex before settling into a conversation about how far things have come techmologicaly in our lifetimes. Then we started bitching about how it's not perfect, which seemed like a kinda lame thing to do until we reminded ourselves that without ungrateful people like us bitching about the state of techmology we'd all still be hunting mammoths with sharp stones. And that wouldn't be any fun. Anyway, this video chat thing is insanely cool techmology and I recommend you get on there. You can do it through your AIM account.

BJL has racked his brain (see below) and has come up with what can only be decribed as a brilliant idea that will enhance the softball season immeasurably (or rather, measurably). Softball starts next Sunday night, btw.


His idea: STATS! Assuming we can get enough people behind this, we are gonna go ahead and bring little scorebooks to the games, and one person from each team will be assigned to keep score during the game. The only thing we need to work out is getting an official scorer to judge errors vs. hits. We will post boxscores and league leaders along with the weekly recaps.

I think I will bat .177 for the year.

I was already mildly intrigued by the news of the new Mats tunes, and then cW spurred me on by sending along this link. It's a decent-quality bootleg from a 1985 concert in Minneapolis. The boys were putting on a good sloppy show for the hometown fans that night, and I would amputate my left middle toe to have been there. One thing that always kills me is hearing Westerberg talk, with that thick Midwestern accent combined with the howl of a true drunk. Reminds me of being elbowed around at a loud house party in Madison ca. 1987. In a really good way.

Late Sunday afternoon, and into this first evening of sweet daylight savings time, I will attempt an athletic endeavor for the first time in a couple of months. It's been so long I forget what it's called. It's the one where you just throw that ball up through that there hoop, as PBdotC might say. I hope I don't tear any ligaments. I will remind myself not to jump. And to hit the open man but only if he's in his spot.

Good answers on the ultimate existential quandary the other day. I'm only going to accept one answer per would-be genius, but thanks for all of 'em, even the multiple submissions. For ten points, who will hit the first called HR of the softball season?