Let's say that a company is consolidating the 4,000 or so employees it has at one of its campuses from two large office buildings into just one. As part of this effort, the interior of the building everyone is squeezing into is being completely remodeled so as to more efficiently accommodate them. Now let's say that, as part of this effort, you have been put in charge of redesigning the men's rooms. Here are a few helpful thoughts on what you should not do:
You should not reduce the number of stalls in each from three to two.
You should not reduce the number of urinals in each from three to two.
You should not make one of the two urinals a kiddie urinal whose top lip sits below waist level.
You should not place said urinals so close together that two average sized men using them at the same time are bumping hips and elbows, especially when there is ample room to space them out, as evidenced by the 20'-long sink counter.
If the building has no kitchen facilities for employees to use to clean out personal items -- mugs, glasses, French coffee presses, what have you -- thereby forcing them to clean such items in the bathroom sinks, you might want to reconsider installing automatic-sensor faucets.
These are just my own ideas, of course. I've never studied architecture, interior design, or ergonomics, so by all means take what I have to say with a grain of salt.
Tags: Men's Rooms
Tracy does. And so we are off to New York City for the day, where she has a 4:45 PM audition. Wish her luck.
Update: Well, she didn't get on. But we had a great time wandering Central Park, a great lunch at Jean Georges, and, of course, we got the good news that Edwards endorsed Obama. So, all in all, not a bad day.
Tags: Who Wants To Be A Millionaire
There are few things I find more satisfying than a well-executed weekend home improvement project that delivers maximum bang for minimum buck, and this past weekend I completed yet another such project.
See, back when I bought Tracy the set of Circulon™ pots and pans for X-Mas, I got this idea in my head that I wanted to put a pot rack over the sink. The new array of cookware was larger than our old one, and because each piece has a stainless steel base the manufacturer recommends you avoid stacking them so you don't scratch the insides. The result was that we had to use approximately 18 square feet of cabinet space under the stove to store them; a wholly unsatisfactory state of affairs.
Problem is, I couldn't find anything like the sort of rack I was picturing in my head. Went to Home Despot and Lowes and Sears, plus a couple of smaller hardware stores. Looked online. All I could find were the racks that hang a grid down directly from the ceiling, and as you can see from the picture at left, those wouldn't work in the available space. What I wanted was a suitably stiff rod (huh huh) a couple of mounting brackets and some hooks. Very simple.
So wait: Simple, inexpensive, and functional. Can anyone say.... Ikea?
Yesterday, as a mother's day present of sorts, we took Tracy's mom down to the Swedish mega-super-giant's New Haven location so she could shop for stuff to fill her new apartment. Of course, we picked up a bunch of stuff as well, since it's nigh on impossible to transit the maze of bins and display rooms without accumulating a cart or two worth of things you didn't necessarily even know you needed but which, once you get them home, you wonder how you lived without them. We bought pinch cups (little shallow glass cups, about 1" in diameter, used for measuring out small amounts of spices), magazine holders for Tracy's every-expanding Bon Appetit library, a little plastic cup to hang next to the chalkboard door and hold chalk, a basket for storing blankets underneath the living room end table, some trivets, a cheap set of silverware for Tracy to take to work, a hanging metal basket for Gorm (our kitchen shelving unit, which we also bought at Ikea), and quite a few other items as well.
The real find, though, was the pot rack. When I saw that bad boy in the kitchen department I thought "Could this be the one? Could this work?" It had to be strong. I tried bending it and didn't feel any give. It was strong. (If I had managed to bend or snap it, well, it was only $10.) It had to be long. Forty seven inches. Dammit, I never measured the space between our cabinets. I asked Tracy and she thought that was close enough that we should take the gamble.
Long story short, we bought it, got it home, and it was perfect. Took five minutes to install. Hell, it took me more time to find my stubby Phillips' screwdriver than it did to mount the thing.
The result is exactly what I pictured in my head: Pure suspended cookware glory. Every time I've walked into the kitchen since putting it up I've had to pause and marvel at its beauty. Freed up two whole cabinets. Plus, now we get to have our very handsome pots and pans on display. I have achieved Pot Rack Nirvana.
Tags: pot racks
Executive Summary: "Over the Top" does not begin to cover it.
Thoughts: Lets get the things I didn't like out of the way first. 1.) Roger Allam left me cold as über-corporate scumbag Royalton. When he's giving his big "I Am Evil, Hear Me Roar" speech I wanted Speed to tell him "Shut up. You're boring me." In a movie this zanily extreme, you really need a more impressive bad guy. 2.) I thought the fight scene in the middle of the Crucible race was just way too goofy. And why would a family of racing enthusiasts know how to fight like tenth-degree blackbelts anyhow? 3.) I found the first twenty minutes or so, where they're cutting back and forth between young Speed, older Speed, Speed's race and deceased brother Rex's race to be mildly confusing. 4.) I hate chimps. Chimps add nothing to a film. If you're thinking of adding a chimp to your film for cheap laughs, please sit down and have a re-think.
OK, that's all I've got on the negative side. On to the good stuff.
Holy fuck was that some eye candy. In fact, envisioning a candy store is actually a good way to get a sense of the color palette that the Wachowski brothers employed for their big-screen rendering of this classic cartoon from my childhood. Every inch of every scene jumps on your eyeballs like a mammoth bag of Skittles™. It's awesome. Or, as Angelos put it, "sumptuous". Or maybe put it this way: Speed Racer has rowdy sex with your visual cortex. (Actually, if you haven't done so already, check out Angelos' review for the loads of pics. That will give you a good idea of what I'm talking about.)
The plot that plays out is pretty simple: A cartel of corrupt businessman have a strangle hold on the racing world; Speed's dad - Pops Racer - is one of the few independents in the business and when Speed rises to prominence, one particular scumbag, the aforementioned Royalton, tries to sign Speed and absorb Pops' company. Speed rebuffs this advance and Royalton vows to destroy his career and his family. Speed is then approached by the mysterious Racer X and a government agent who are trying to bring down Royalton and right the wrongs of the racing world. Kind of your basic David and Goliath or Elliot Ness and Al Capone scenario. There's also some touching family drama thrown in, mostly revolving around Pops' unresolved guilt after the death of Speed's older brother. Nothing terribly complex here, but it's a more than serviceable framework for the action that plays out.
That action, of course, primarily involves racing. And this is where I've got to place a big "your mileage may vary" flag. To call the racing scenes in this movie "cartoonish" would be giving cartoons insufficient credit for their commitment to verisimilitude. The Wachowski brothers do not merely transgress the laws of physics, they commit felonies against them. So it's not enough to suspend your disbelief; you need to lock your disbelief in a safe, wrap it in chains, and drop it deep in a lake for two hours and fifteen minutes. If you can manage that, you are going to have a ton of fun. If not, you'll probably be irritated by the manifest silliness.
The racers in this movie don't drive their cars so much as wield them like weapons. NASCAR drivers trade paint. World Racing League drivers detail, remodel, and customize each others vehicles, all at speeds that, if I'm converting from kilometers correctly, are around 350 miles per hour. There is much slipping and sliding and spinning and jumping and cartwheeling across the track. In fact I think the average WRL car spends less time getting meaningful traction out of their tires than they do separated from the pavement, which is totally OK anyhow because the cars are primarily propelled by rocket-like engines. Oh, and did I mention the "track"? Remember Hotwheels™? Remember those plastic tracks that you could splice together, twist into loops and all kinds of other cool shapes and then zoom your little die-cast metal cars through them? Remember thinking how cool it would be to see such car/track awesomeness in real life? That's what this was like. Quite the spectacle.
Aside from my gripe about Allam's bad-guy skills, Speed Racer is a well-acted affair. Emile Hirsch handles the title role admirably, giving Speed the right mix of naive boyishness and crazy racer aggression. John Goodman is perfect as Pops. Susan Sarandon, while bringing some flippy-haired MILF action to the screen, is actually a bit underutilized. Christina Ricci plays Speed's girlfriend Trixie perfectly, and she looks damned cute doing it. I've never found Richie particularly attractive because of her disturbingly large forehead, but she's got that covered up with bangs here, so, um, yeah, that worked for me. Lastly, Tart will be happy to know that Matthew Fox totally kicked ass as Racer X (who may or may not be Speed's deceased brother Rex) and she might be even happier to know that he plays the role dressed in what looks for all the world like a leather S&M slave outfit.
One of the criticisms of this movie -- and there have been many as the early reviews mostly killed it -- is that it's too long. I disagree. The opening segments were a little clunky, but the last hour and a half or so absolutely flew by. I guess it seems longer if you're not allowing yourself to enjoy it. And that's the key: You have to give yourself permission to enjoy this movie. Because yes it's ridiculously bright and loud and entirely over-the-top and frequently very, very silly. But it's a ton of fun too, dammit.
A final note: Unless you've got one hell of a home entertainment setup, you should see this movie in the theater to achieve maximum sensory overload.
Money Quote: "It's terrible what passes for ninjas these days."
Bottom Line: A few blemishes here and there, but for the most part a sensational movie-going experience. Piss off a critic and go see it.
Rating: 
Tags: movies, Speed Racer
For some reason, when discussing Hillary's non-existent chances of winning the Democratic nomination, people keep bringing up the subject of the "popular vote". Here's the thing about that: I don't give a flying fuck about the popular vote. And neither should you or anyone else. You feelin' me, Hillary partisans? Try to wrap your tiny little minds around this fact: The nomination is decided on the basis of delegates. Period.
On a not-so-unrelated note, could we please, please, please put to bed this notion of a "Unity Ticket"? Hillary Clinton has demonstrated beyond any shadow of a doubt that she is the antithesis of everything Obama wants to bring to our political discourse. She's a dirty, despicable, no-holds-barred, Rovian mud-slinger who, at this point, is in this race for nothing but her own self-aggrandizement. Adding her to the ticket as VP would instantly negate Obama's credibility with regard to instantiating a new political order. Far from bringing the party together, she would be the poison pill that would kill him in November. Get off it.
Update: Awesome post on Hillary by Wil Wheaton:
[O]ver the last 10 weeks or so, I've gone from respecting to feeling sorry for to actively despising Hillary Clinton.
It's over. She knows it's over. It's been over for almost three months, but she's been moving the goalposts and cynically and cravenly pandering to voters in a way that's not only insulting, but is embarrassing. John Cole frequently says that he can't believe he ever supported Bush, and I can now join him in saying that I can't believe I ever supported, defended and believed in the Clintons.
The thing about all of this is that, with a Clinton victory in the primary about as likely as jumping off the roof of your house and landing on the moon, it's become clear that this whole thing isn't about Democrats or beating McCain (who is inexplicably running for Bush's third term) or saving our country from the catastrophic failure of the Bush years. No, it's all about her. It's about her ego. It's about refusing to admit that she did her best, but voters (except those encouraged by Rush Limbaugh to cross party lines and fuck with our primary) have pretty clearly said "No thanks. You're a good senator, but we want something different now."
It's been crystal clear for weeks, yet she refuses to put party and country over personal ambition and drop out of the race, forcing Barack Obama to not only run against McCain and the Media, but also against her. It's particularly galling, because she can only win if her campaign can force Democratic superdelegates (one of the worst creations in the history of politics) to tell millions of Democratic voters -- many of them first time voters who, like me, finally feel truly inspired by someone -- to go fuck themselves.
Ensign Crusher speaks the truth. (h/t: VMH)
Tags: Hillary Clinton
At long last, Tracy has a blog. The world rejoices.
Tags: blogging
Recognize that line? It's from Iggy Pop's Repo Man, title cut for the soundtrack of the movie of the same name, which is a fucking classic and anyone who disagrees is stupid. I've been pouring quite a bit of stuff into my iPod's empty 40-or-so gigabytes lately, ripping CD's that didn't make the cut for my old 30 GB 'Pod, borrowing from friends, buying from iTunes, and allowing anonymous people on remote, torrent-hosting PC's to "share" their music with me. Last weekend, some kind soul was nice enough to "share" Black Box -- the first eight Black Sabbath albums -- with me, which was necessitated by the fact that I simply had to listen to Iron Man before going to see the movie. But I digress.
This morning, for some reason, I had Hombre Secreto in my head, and that made me think of the Repo Man soundtrack, which made me search my library, and then my CD collection, and finally come to the realization that I didn't have it, which was totally unacceptable. I searched the iTunes store to no avail, but was subsequently able to find a handy torrent of my quarry. (That is my pattern: I buy what's available for sale; I only liberate songs from strangers' collections when I can't find them easily available for quick-and-easy digital purchase.)
"Wait, WE decided?! MY best interests??!!
Sorry, listening to Institutionalized by Suicidal Tendencies. Had to throw that in there.
Oh, wait, Coup D'Etat by the Circle Jerks is on now. Followed in another two songs by the Burning Sensations' excellent cover of the Modern Lovers' hilariously brilliant Pablo Picasso.
Best. Soundtrack. Ever.
TV Party by Black Flag. Let's Have a War by Fear. Good stuff.
Soundtracks are notoriously iffy. We know this. It's rare to get a soundtrack that's solid all the way through. Trainspotting is outstanding in this regard. Forrest Gump is excellent as well, although they sort of cheated by assembling a Super Hits of the 60's and 70's. Repo Man, though, that's the best. It perfectly captures the "fuck you" vibe of early eighties punk. There's not a track here I'd throw away. And man does it bring back memories of my geekily misspent youth. Good times.
And so, at long last, it's time for a new question: What's your favorite soundtrack? Hit me with it.
"Some people try to pick up girls. Get called an asshole..."
Tags: soundtracks
Sat - 7:50 PM: Darrel Rasner: 6 innings, 2 runs, 4 hits. I am starting to like Mr. Rasner.
Sat - 9:10 AM: I have a request for David Dellucci, Mike Francesa, Chris Russo, and anyone else who has a problem with Joba Chamberlain's fist-pumping: Shut your fucking mouths.
Fri - 9:55 PM: Kei Igawa: 3 innings. 11 hits. 6 earned runs. Not a major-league pitcher. Never will be. Move on.
Fri - 4:30 PM: Kei Igawa. If you're a Yankee fan, reading that name just now sent a small chill down your spine. Kei Igawa. See? There it goes again. Am I right? Yep, Kei Igawa is pitching for the Yankees as they open their three game set at Detroit tonight. Kei Motherfuckin' Igawa. The forty-nine-million-dollar mistake, signed prior to the 2007 season because the Yankees didn't want the Red Sox to be the only team that massively overpaid for a Japanese pitcher*, is back in the majors, filling the last slot in our mangled rotation. Igawa has a 3-3 record and an 3.86 ERA pitching for the Scranton/Wilkes-Barre Yankees so far this year, which for him is really tearing shit up. It will be interesting to see how that translates tonight against the Tigers' lineup. And by "interesting" I mean "potentially horrifying". (Although, to be fair, he probably can't pitch much worse than Hughes was pitching before getting injured.) In any case, Go Yankee Bats! We're going to need you.
(*Yes, Dicey is doing rather splendidly this year. But still: $111 Million? Well, we'll see...)
Tags: baseball, New York Yankees
On Sunday, June 8th - a mere month from yesterday - I will be participating in Jim Calhoun's Cancer Challenge Ride. This is an annual event to raise money for both the Carole and Ray Neag Comprehensive Cancer Center at the University of Connecticut Health Center and also the Coaches vs. Cancer foundation. Tracy saw a flier for it at the office gym and suggested that, me being a bad-ass cyclist and all (not), I should sign up for my company's team. So I did. I went right out to the web page, checked the box marked "50-mile (untimed)" and started sending emails to family and friends asking for donations, thereby locking in my commitment.
I could have opted for the 10-mile ride, but that's way too easy. I can ride ten miles in my sleep.
I could have opted for the 25-mile ride, which is right in my sweet spot.
But no, I went with the 50. Despite the fact that the last time I rode 50 miles or more was when Wilde and I rode from Troy, New York to Bennington, Vermont and back. That was twenty years and twice as many pounds ago. Hey, I suppose I could have been really brash and signed up for the 50-mile timed event, but I skipped that on account of I'm not a complete friggin' idiot.
This is the first time in over thirty years of riding that I've signed up for any sort of cycling event. I'm sort of looking forward to it and sort of dreading it. It could be fun riding with hundreds of other cyclists. Or it could suck. Depends what sort of riders show up. If it's all cardio freaks with toned bodies and day-glow cycling jerseys riding in packs and drafting each other like would-be pros, I'm going to feel a bit out of place. If there are more everyday Joes there, maybe not so much. I just don't want to be the only fat-ass asthmatic lugging my potato-shaped self through the hills of Connecticut and Massachusetts. I don't want to be the last guy crossing that finish line on Iron Horse Boulevard as the sun sets behind the hills.
(This is why I rarely participate in athletic contests. The only person I'm really comfortable competing with athletically is myself.)
As for the ride itself, barring an accident along the way I'm certain I'll be able to complete it. I've been gradually working up to longer and longer rides, with a 35-mile jaunt around Avon Mountain planned for this weekend. I'm getting my cycling legs back. Also, I had clipless pedals installed recently, and I am shocked at what a difference they make. Being able to actually pull on the upstroke is a game-changer for me. It's like I've got a whole other part of my legs I can use now. And, of course, even if this ends up being really, really, really difficult -- it's a pretty hilly course and there's a substantial (900') climb about 9 miles in -- I can always tap into that grim, stubborn determination that in the past has allowed me to push through physical challenges my body has no business meeting. Mind over matter. Ego over muscle.
You can check out the route here on the incredibly awesome MapMyRide.com. (Really, this site is the bomb. I'm addicted to it.)
Then you can go here and help me meet my fundraising goal. (Only $155 more to go!) It's for a good cause, people, and even small donations will be greatly appreciated.
Update: Well that didn't take long. $500 and counting. Everything from here on out is gravy. Thanks, everyone! You guys are the best.
Tags: Jim Calhoun Cancer Challenge Ride
I read this blogmeme at Angelos' place after seeing it first at Mike's. I was actually vaguely relieved that Mike didn't tag me because this seemed too similar to a bunch of other memes I've already done. But then Angelos declared "If you see this, you're tagged." And so, once more unto the memeech!
1) Ten years ago I was...
Still married to my first wife; Living in Oxford, Connecticut upstairs from a cranky old landlord; Commuting 1.5 hours each way to my job at AMS Rating Services where I worked with Fridge coding insurance rating algorithms; Taking a course in Visual Basic 5 which would later help me get a gig at the same company as a "real" software developer, leading eventually to the well-remunerated position I occupy today; Watching the GOP horde building up to their impeachment of William Jefferson Clinton.
2) Five things on today's tomorrow's to-do list:
Go to the gym.
Continue reading Rich Newman's "Introduction to CAB/SCSF", the single best primer on Microsoft's Composite UI Application Block I've found yet.
Weekly package store run.
Take out the trash.
Drink, but not so much as to interfere with the 30-mile bike ride I've got planned for Saturday.
3) Things I'd do if I were a billionaire (shouldn't this specify a number of things?):
Never, ever, ever work again.
Buy a condo in New York City and a house in Key West.
Buy a bar.
Buy Yankees season tickets.
Give a million dollars to these guys.
Take Tracy to dinner at the finest restaurants in the world.
Take up serious mountain climbing.
Buy a sailboat and learn to sail, then sail around the world.
Buy loads and loads of obscenely expensive single-malt Scotch.
Pay off my mother's condo and pay all my nieces and nephews' college tuition.
Fund Fridge's campaign for Joe Lieberman's Senate seat.
Fund a liberal think tank.
Never, ever, ever, ever work again.
4) Three bad habits:
Leaving piles of mail and crap on the stairs to sort through later on.
Nose picking.
"One-click purchase" binges on iTunes.
5) Five places I've lived:
Melrose, Massachussetts.
Troy, New York
Woodbury, Connecticut
Windsor, Connecticut
Weatogue, Connecticut
6) Six jobs I've had in my life:
Delivery person for the weekly Shopper's News.
Grocery cart wrangler.
Kelly temp.
Cellular phone programmer/installer.
Pizza delivery stud.
Software developer.
I tag Tracy, Tart, and the recently-married Kate.
Tags: blogmemes
Bold Prediction: No matter what happens, we're going to wake up tomorrow morning and Hillary Clinton will still be in the race.
Update: Obama picks up a net gain of 12 delegates after cruising in North Carolina and coming within 2 points of the upset in Indiana. Clinton gives another weak-ass speech vowing to march on until Hell freezes over. At this point, Hillary's campaign strategy is starting to look a lot like George Bush's Iraq strategy.
Tags: Democratic primaries
Over at Slate Timothy Noah has a great idea:
Here's a rule I would like every political reporter, campaign official, TV talking head, and politician in the United States to follow. Go ahead and say, if you like, that Hillary Clinton retains a serious chance of winning the Democratic nomination. If you say this, however, you must describe a set of circumstances whereby this could happen. Try not to make it sound like a fairy tale.
We need this rule. We need it because of shit like this. We need it because every moment the media spends fanning the embers of Hillary's dipshit campaign to overturn mathematical and political reality is a moment that we could be using to discuss the comparitive merits of Barack Obama and John McCain.
Tags: Hillary Clinton
Sun - 4:15 PM: Holy shit are the Jazz white.
Sun - 4:10 PM: Ugh. The Lakers are playing the Jazz in the second round? That's terrible. I mean, I hate the Lakers with a passion, but I can't root for the Jazz to beat them. The Jazz were one of the first sports teams I ever hated, and they've still got that punk-ass bitch Jerry Sloan on the bench. Fuck me. Oh well, I'll just have to hope it goes seven games and the two teams beat the shit out of each other so that whoever moves on to the conference finals gets their ass kicked.
Sun - 4:00 PM: The Yankees just beat the Mariners 8-2 to sweep the weekend series and move back over .500. Darrell Rasner, called up to take Phil Hughes' place in the rotation, went six strong innings, giving up two earned runs. More like that, please.
Sun - 3:35 PM: The Celtics just destroyed the Hawks in game 7 of their first-round playoff series, winning 99 to 65 and moving on to face Cleveland. This game was over at halftime as the C's held Atlanta to just 26 points in the first half. Still, as impressive a win as it was, did anyone see this series going the distance in the first place? I had sort of lost track, so when I saw it noted in the Friday sports section that the series was tied up, I was in shock. Boston was not supposed to have any trouble with those guys. And now they get King James. Yikes.
Sun - 3:30 PM: Paging Oddjob: Tracy wants to know if these are weeds or if they're something desirable.
Sun - 12:15 PM: Kennedy sent down. Good luck in Scranton, young man. Get your shit right and we'll see you later in the year.
Sun - 11:50 AM: Wow. Roger Clemens. Wow. Talk about seeing your "reputation" flushed down the toilet. And not a nice toilet like you've got in your house. Clemens' reputation is currently residing in the depths of a porta-potty in the Yankee Stadium parking lot that hasn't been serviced in weeks. Wow, dude.
Sun - 9:15 PM: I'm a little alarmed that this guy is not only one of the Yankees top prospects but also one of my minor league keepers in roto. Because frankly this makes him sound like a bit of a pussy:
Double-A outfielder Jose Tabata, considered one of the organization's top prospects, was suspended for three games last week and considered asking the Yankees for his release before returning to the team.
A 19-year-old from Venezuela, Tabata left last Saturday's game without permission, fleeing the ballpark after striking out in the seventh inning. That led to a three-game suspension.
Tabata is hitting .186 with no home runs and 12 RBI over 26 games for Trenton.
"The expectations of who I am supposed to be and what I am supposed to do finally got to me," Tabata told The Trenton Times through a translator. "I made an irrational decision. Maybe it was immaturity, inexperience or just that I didn't know how to handle what was happening. I just kept thinking I am not producing the way I should be and maybe I didn't belong here."
Jesus, kid. Take a Valium. You're in AA ball and the pressure is making you crack? Can't wait to see how you handle the Bronx.
Sat - 4:55 PM: Oh, and Mike Mussina is looking pretty good so far this season. He started out rocky but has now won his last three starts to pull even on the year. Hell, at the moment he looks better than Pettitte. It's funny that I thought he was the weak link in the rotation. Shows what I know.
Sat - 4:50 PM: Well, well, well. Two wins in a row for the Yanks. Looks like Seattle was the cure for what was ailing 'em. Oh and hey: My boy Pete, while live blogging the game, said "Brutal outing for King Felix. He just got the ziggy in the sixth inning after allowing six runs on 12 hits, four of them for extra bases." Um... the "ziggy"? What is?
Sat - 7:40 AM: Abrasnark:
Wang is 22-6 after a loss in his career, winning the last 11 in such situations. He’s now 6-0, 3.00 this season. But keep in mind that he is not an ace.
Please.
Fri - 5:30 PM: At left is our New York Yankees flag. It's a tradition of ours to hang it up each year on the day of the team's opening game. It's also becoming a tradition to take it down some time in May when the team's early struggles -- injuries, sleeping bats, horrible pitching, shitty record -- have made it too depressing to look at. Last year, when the Yanks hit their absolute nadir around the beginning of June, we took the team flag down and replaced it with our Key West flag. From that moment forward they went on to have the best record in baseball. Speculation about sports karma is left as an exercise for the reader.
Anyhow, I'm walking out of the garage today and I see the flag like this, all twisted up, soaking wet, looking like hell. My first thought was to do what I usually do: Untwist it so that it's hanging properly. But then I thought, no, don't. Leave it exactly like that. It's a perfect representation of the state of the Yankees season right now. Why mess with it?
Here's where the New York Yankees are at on May 2nd of this fine season:
Fourth place in the AL East (14-16), three games behind the first-place Devil Rays. Yes, I said "first-place Devil Rays".
Losers of three straight and six of their last eight.
Jorge Posada, one of the best hitting catchers in baseball, is on the DL with a mysterious shoulder ailment. No idea when he'll be back.
Alex Rodriguez, the best player in the game, is on the DL with a strained right quad.
Phil Hughes just went on the DL with a cracked rib and probably won't be back for at least two months. (Given his 9.00 ERA, 2.14 WHIP, and 1-1 K/BB ratio, this could be a blessing in disguise.)
Ian Kennedy, whose ERA and WHIP are slightly better than Hughes at 8.37 and 2.03 but who amazingly has a K/BB ratio of 4-5, might be on his way to Scranton soon.
The team is averaging .0003681 with RISP. (OK, I made that up, the real number is .245, but it sure feels way worse.)
New manager Joe Girardi is in the process of building a rapport with the media that might charitably be described as "gratuitously bitchy, paranoid and off-putting."
Or, to summarize all of that: Good. Times.
Strangely, I'm not on the ledge over any of this. I didn't exactly expect the team to rock the house this year. You can't realistically hope for a 100-win season with two semi-rookie pitchers in your rotation. It'd be nice to see the offense pull their collective head out of their ass, but I'm guessing it's hard to get into a rhythm when your manager has used 25 different lineups in 30 games. It'd also be nice to see Andy Pettitte get back to pitching like Andy Pettitte. Never expected to see him have two shit games in a row. But hey, whatever. To whip out the most over-used phrase in sports, this team is what it is. And despite their difficulties, I'm still content to watch and wait and see what happens.
At least Chien-Ming Wang is having a career year. (We've got to get rid of that guy.)
Tags: baseball
Hillary Clinton, prior to yesterday's Kentucky Derby, implored her supporters to "place a little money on the filly", a reference to a horse named Eight Belles. Hillary wanted people to bet on said horse to win because, well, she's a she, get it? And so's Hillary? So like, the female horse would win her race just like Hillary, in her fevered imaginings, would win the Democratic nomination? Yeah.
Funny story. Funny as in oddly telling, not funny ha-ha. Eight Belles broke both her front ankles towards the end of the race and had to be euthanized. The winning horse? Big Brown.
Make of this what you will.
Tags: horse race politics
Tracy got this one via email and I thought I'd have some fun and inject it into the blogosphere. Simple concept. All your answers must start with the same letter as your name. Here goes:
What is your name? Joe.
A four-letter word: Just. One of my defining characteristics.
A vehicle: Junk.
A boy's name: Jose.
A girl's name: Josephine. One of the ugliest female names ever. Took a male name and added "ine". Stupid.
Alcoholic drink: Jack Daniels. Neat, please. (That means without ice cubes, young'ens.)
An occupation: Jazz musician. A.k.a. purveyor of random notes.
Something you wear: Jockstrap. Not since youth soccer, though.
A celebrity: Joe Santos.
A food: Jumbo Shrimp. Also an oxymoron.
Something found in a bathroom: Jello™-like substance around bathtub drain. Yeah, it's a stretch. You find a bathroom item that starts with "J".
Reason for being late: Job sucks. Don't want to go.
Something you shout: JOBA!!!!!
An animal: Jaguar.
A body part: Joint. Also a recreational item.
You're all tagged. Every last goddamned one of you. And tough schizzle if you don't like it.
Tags: blogmemes
Executive Summary: A damn-near perfect super-hero movie. Halfway through it I was sitting there trying out superlatives to describe what I was seeing. That's how good it was.
Thoughts: I confess: I was never a comics geek. Never really read 'em growing up, so I'm not your go-to guy on issues like "how true was comic-based movie X to the source material". I have no idea if Iron Man will live up to the expectations of fans of the comic. I just know that, as super-hero action movies go, I thought it was fantastic. I've been jonesing for this movie for weeks - usually a recipe for a let-down - and it actually managed to exceed my expectations.
If you've read any reviews of this movie (and if you haven't, start here) then you've probably heard glowing praise for Robert Downey Jr.'s portrayal of weapons mogul-turned-defender of the little guy Tony Stark. The critics are not wrong. He was absolutely superb. Pitch perfect. Of course, for Downey, portraying a dipshit ne'er-do-well playboy trying to turn around and redeem himself might not technically be "acting", but whatever. He was masterful at executing the turnaround and manifesting the right emotional vector. When he sees the dickhead warlord who was his former captor fucking up the lives of all the innocent villagers of Somewhereinthemiddleeastistan, you believe he's feeling rage. And as the Suit is assembled around him in its final form for the first time, you feel a chill, and maybe a little excitement coursing through your body. (Or maybe that's just me.) If action movies could win acting awards, Downey would be taking home some hardware for this next year.
But this isn't a one-man show. Far from it. Also outstanding in his first role (that I know of) as a villain was Jeff Bridges. You remember him as "The Dude" in The Big Lebowski, right? Well try to picture a character that is the exact opposite of that. Bridges' portrayal of Obadiah Stane, Stark's partner in the weapons business, is believably scary. He's got the Man with No Morals bit down with precision. You actually believe he's going to wax Pepper Potts, and that's something because I honestly cannot imagine the evilest of evil motherfuckers wanting to harm a hair on Gwyneth Paltrow's swoon-inducingly beautiful character's head. Aww yeeeahh, people, Gwynenth is back in the house, reminding me of exactly why I used to think she was the hottest woman on the planet. (She's now the second-hottest. Yes, behind Tracy.) Paltrow, sporting strawberry-blonde locks, gets a fair amount of screen time as Tony's faithful assistant -slash- possible love interest. (No spoilers; See the movie and find out for yourself.)
The pacing of this film is perfect. It's a solid hour of build-up before Stark perfects the Suit and takes it for a test drive, and that time is well spent. His initial capture and detention by the vaguely Islamist Bad Guys, where he first comes up with the idea for his Iron Garb and where he perfects the power source that will help him realize his vision, is very well done. The transitional phase after he escapes and returns home a changed man also comes off just right. These segments tease the viewer, building you up in your seat for the inevitable Moment of Awesomeness. That moment comes when Stark flies his bad self over to Afghaniwherever and wrecks the terrorists' shit. (Come on now; that was not a spoiler.) I swear, I was damned near levitating in my seat by the time that scene hit. I haven't been that giddy since Neo first got his badass on in The Matrix. My only complaint - and it's a small one - is that there wasn't at least one more Iron Man being Iron Man scene like that before the showdown/denoument between Stark and Stane. But hey, that's what sequels are for, no?
As to the special effects, they too were spot on. I don't know what the CGI guys did this time around, but I felt like I was watching a guy in a kick-ass cybernetic exoskeleton as opposed to, let's say, a pretty cool but obviously not real computer-graphic rendering of a guy in a kick-ass cybernetic exoskeleton. If you know what I mean.
Money Quote: "Give me a Scotch, I'm starving."
Bottom Line: Drop whatever you're doing and Go See This Movie.
Rating: 
There comes a time on Saturday morning where you have to acknowledge the truth. No, you will not be going out on your bike. (It's 45° and wet.) No, you won't be getting chores done. No, you won't be accomplishing much of anything. What you'll be doing is sitting in front of your computer, staring somewhat vacantly at your newsreader waiting for brain candy to show up, maybe listening to Twisted Sister on iTunes, maybe drinking a humongous mug of coffee Mexicano*. And by this time it should be clear that by "you" I mean "me". So yeah, I can't see no reason not to crank up the toaster and smoke up some Slices of Toast!
Def Leppard was the musical guest on the Dancing With The Stars results show this past Tuesday. OK, fine, let's get this over with first: DWTS is one of the most entertaining shows on television. It is outstanding. Ballroom dancing is one of the most spellbinding physical endeavors humankind has ever invented. And it's a ton of fun to watch amateurs attempt to master it. And if you disagree with any of that then, well, you're just stupid. There. That's over with. Moving on.
Like I said, Def Leppard was the musical guest on the Dancing With The Stars results show this past Tuesday. I loves me the Leppard a lot. They are easily one of the best Hair Metal bands ever, and that's saying a lot since Hair Metal stands at the apogee of music. But there are sins you just don't commit in music, and sadly, Def Leppard committed the worst of them on Tuesday.
The band's first number was - predictably for a dance show - Pour Some Sugar on Me. Here's how it went:
0.2 seconds: "Wow, Joe Elliot's voice sounds great for his age."
0.5 seconds: "Damn, that's some great production for a live television performance."
1.0 seconds: "HOLY FUCK NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! They're LIP SYNCHING!!!!"
How do you do that? As a musician, how do you lip synch and ever look in a mirror again?
And guys, really. There are Aborigines in the Australian desert who have heard the studio version of Pour Some Sugar on Me so often that they even think it's tired. And you think you're going to slide that past an American television audience? Like we're not going to recognize it? Please. Just... don't do that again. You're harshing my metal buzz.
While we're on the subject of music, I need to call your attention to something truly horrible that you may not be aware of: The dance-club-ification of non-dance songs.
My company recently opened up a gym at the office, and Tracy and I have been working out there regularly. Nice place. Nothing like that "new Gym" feeling - all the shiny new equipment and whatnot. The staff is great too. Incredibly friendly and helpful. Also, it's never crowded. So yes, New Gym = All Good.
Except for one fucking thing. The music.
Now, I wears me iPod when I work out solo. Got a great playlist that's all heavy metal and angry hard rock. Perfect for pumping the ironses. But on the days when Tracy is with me I shun the headphones so we can be sociable. And on those days I am exposed to what could best be described as "earscrement". Terrible Gym Music. You know what I'm talking about. Horrid garbage that young people who go clubbing like to pollute their brains with. I expect that. I'm used to it. I know it's coming and I deal. I'm ready. Or so I thought.
This "new thing" I'm hearing at the gym is a giant step in the Hellish Pit of Despair direction. You know these songs: Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol, Bad Day by Daniel Powter, Hey There Delilah by the Plain White Tees. All good songs, in my opinion, and fuck you very much for disagreeing. But now imagine them as dance songs. The vocals sped up a little and that irritatingly monotonous fucking uniform THUMP-THUMP-THUMP dance club beat behind them. Do you want to puncture your ear drums? You know you do. That is what they play at our new gym. Every goddamned day they've got this mix that is essentially the Casey Kasem American Top 20 remixed as shitty fucking dance songs. I don't know where they got it from and I don't know how or why they imagined their corporate insurance worker clientele would want to be exposed to it. I just know it sucks bigger balls than anything I've ever heard before in my entire life. It is the Death of Music. It is the Negation of All That Is Good in the Ear. I don't know who is responsible for this wanton degradation of otherwise enjoyable music, but if harm were to come to them I would not feel too terrible about it.
Tags: the perils of booze, Def Leppard, earscrement
"The great divide in this country is not by race or even income, it's by those who think they are better than everyone else and think they should play by a different set of rules... In West Virginia and Arkansas, we know that when we see it." -- Bill Clinton, pandering on the stump in West Virginia
It is getting to the point where I find myself horrified that I spent so much time defending the Clintons when this man was in office. It's not that the right-wing attacks on them weren't an obscene perversion of our political system; they were. It's just that I cannot believe how quickly they -- Hillary, Bill, and their whole gang of sychophants* -- turned around and started playing the same game. I feel utterly betrayed.
Do me a favor, Big Dog. Pretend I'm you and you're Monica Lewinsky.
You're a Rhodes Scholar, you motherfucking duplicitous asshole. You, of all people, should not be playing the "elitist" card. Aside from the fact that it's yet another goddamned right-wing meme that's been used agaisnt our party for most of my life, it's just plain bullshit. Being smart, being informed, being open-minded - these are bad things for our country and our party? I'm thinking you did inhale after all. Hey, no problem though. By all means, you go right ahead and shore up the Stupid Poor White vote, which at this point is your wife's best chance to drag this process out all the way to Hell and back. Because as you've both shown over the last two months, it's not about ideas, it's not about process or fairness, and it certainly isn't about defeating the goddamned right wing. No, it's all about You.
Tags: fuck you Bill Clinton
"Nobody ever mentions the weather can
make or break your day" - Oasis - "Hello"
Dear Weekend Weather: Fuck you too. No, seriously: Fuck. You.
I've been eyeing this weekend's weather forecast since Monday. I'm kinda desperate to get out on my bike as I've got a 50-mile cancer fundraising ride coming up early next month (details later - yes, I'll be hitting you up for contributions) and I'm nowhere near ready for it. I got shut out last weekend by weather and social commitments, but I was feeling up-beat about this weekend. According to the forecast on Monday, this Saturday looked like solid cycling weather - highs in the upper sixties and mostly sunny. Perfect conditions to head out for a 30+ mile ride while Tracy was at work. That plan started looking more and more dubious as the week progressed, however. Our recent streak of craptacular weather just kept grinding on, and the weekend prognosis kept getting worse. By Wednesday the forecast called for highs in the lower sixties and mostly cloudy. And now that Friday's rolled around, that's been revised to mid fifties and fucking rain.
(sigh)
First we get June weather in mid-April, and now we're getting early March weather at the start of May.
Right. Got it. Makes perfect sense.
All the clichés you've heard about the weather here in New England, people? They are absolutely true.
Tags: shitty weather
Hey everyone! Happy Mission Accomplished Day! That's right, today is the fifth anniversary of the day George W. Bush was flown in a navy fighter jet to the U.S.S. Abraham Lincoln, which had been forced to wait offshore so that he could fly to it. It's the fifth anniversary of the day he strode across that carrier deck in a flight suit equipped with a codpiece several times larger than the job of protecting his little pin dick required, giving Chris Matthews a boner in the process. And, of course, it's the fifth anniversary of the day our president declared that "major combat operations" in Iraq were over*.
Five years. My, how time flies.
Or doesn't, when your country is stuck in terrible, pointless, and endless war that your illegitimate fuckhead president dragged you into for no goddamned good reason.
Tags: Iraq, George Bush