Saturday, November 30, 2002

Um. Yesterday's post...did I write that?

My parents have to get a satellite dish. This 5 channels nonsense is detrimental to my well-being.

It's either write for a half-hour about Star Wars, or bother my sister. And she retaliates with violence.

We joined the mad throng of people at the malls yesterday. The one we hit in Chattanooga wasn't so bad. Busy, but not ridiculous.

Parents: Do NOT teach your children to walk in front of people just to catch up with another member of your party. It makes them turn into assholes just like you.

I was walking down the hall, in the flow of traffic. A lady walks past me, left to right, into one of the stores. Her husband (I assume) and two small children were in the middle of the aisle at one of the kiosks. Instead of waiting for me to pass, where there was like 15 feet of empty space, he tells the child "Follow Mommy! Go! Go!"

My buddy Adam once told me, in ten words or less: Everybody Has an Exaggerated Sense of Entitlement.

There are too many people in the world who feel that you have to beat somebody else to get something, otherwise you won't get it.
In their mind, those people are there only to cheat you out of what's rightfully your'n.

Take it from your old buddy Big Stupid Tommy. Ain't nothing here for you. Go home.

I missed this weeks NWATNA show at the Fairgrounds in Nashville. Vince Russo apparently cut a promo, and Sean Waltman left the company. Russo Bad, but Waltman leaving the company: muy bueno.

Friday, November 29, 2002

Fox showed Star Wars episode one last night. Dad and I made an attempt at watching episode II after the first went off, but the turkey and pumpkin pie hit home and we were both too groggy to make much sense of the mess.

But I got to thinking about what I'd do if it were Big Stupid Tommy making the first trilogy instead of Billionaire George.

Problem the first:

That's the first problem. He's a freaking billionaire. As such, he's not much of a storyteller anymore. He's a billionaire with a misbegotten sense of obligation. He's not trying to tell the best story, as convinced as he is of the fact that he is trying. A friend of mine made the excellent point that episodes IV-VI, the stories are for the kid in everybody. It's a story that no matter where you are in your life, you can understand and appreciate everything on some level or another.

The first couple of movies, however, don't try to appeal to everyone. Where the original trilogy attempts to communicate with the kid in everybody, the second set of movies treat you like a child.

It's all flashy. Everything gets a pedantic explanation. (Midichlorians, anybody?) Things are put on the screen just for shock value or the oddity of it (Yoda's lightsaber fight). And the only form of humor comes in the form of Jar Jar Binks' idiocy (getting a hand caught in a podracer engine; getting disgusted when a pack animal farts before the podrace).

What's more, they pander to the audience. There's nothing to work for.

Problem 2: Yoda

My favorite part of the original movies comes in Empire Strikes Back. Luke's landed on Dagobah, seeking a great warrior, and this little creature comes into his camp, hitting R2-D2 with his cane and stealing things from Luke's pack. Only after Luke goes into one of his whines (What Am I doing here anyway), does Yoda reveal his true nature. We learn that this strange little creature (whom we've never seen before) is indeed one of the greatest Jedi ever to exist.

But now, if anybody tries to watch all six movies (when that sixth comes out) in a row, Yoda's already appeared in the first couple of movies, and we know what he looks like, and we know that he can hold his own in any situation. There's no surprise about who he is and what he looks like.

Now, I can see where George is coming from. With the possible exception of Darth Vader, Yoda is the most instantly recognizable character from Star Wars. So it's easy publicity and credibility to have the little creature wandering around in your movie.

From a storytelling standpoint, though, I think it's bad mojo. It doesn't give your audience any kind of credit. I'd never have shown Yoda. Mention him. Obi-Wan says: When Yoda trained me, etc. Let other characters bring him up. Even say around Episode II or III that Yoda has gone missing. Nobody knows where he is. The audience would know that he's sequestered himself on Dagobah, presumably to ride out the storm, but at the time, none of the characters would have any idea.

Problem 3: The Jedi and Sith codes.

Also, I think George has taken this Jedi and Sith Code stuff a little too seriously, and in doing so, painted himself into something of a corner.

The whole thing about one master, one apprentice. Especially with the Sith. It bugs me.

The scenario I have in my head is this: Episode I has Darth Maul kill Qui-Gon, and he and Obi-Wan go the distance, possibly injuring one another, but both leave the movie alive to get one another on another day. So we know Maul has to be back for another movie.

But think about the whole surprise that if Obi Wan goes to get Maul in episode II, and ends up fighting not one Sith Lord, but a second, or even a third? We'd know that this threat of the Dark Side is really coming to a head, and this is an issue that will make or break the Jedi Council.

Here's how I'd have done it: Like I said, Maul kills Qui-Gon, but he and Obi Wan fight but leave alive. Meanwhile, Count Dooku should have had a role in the first episode. Have him arguing with the Jedi Council over their actions, and him leaving the group. In Episode II, show Dooku as a Senator, not an enemy of the Jedi but not a supporter, either. Meanwhile, the shadowy name of Darth Tyrannus keeps rearing its head. Over the course of the movie, have Dooku re-join the Jedi in their fight at Geonossis, where Darth Maul has taken Obi-Wan prisoner. Mace Windu and Dooku try to save Obi-Wan. It comes down to Dooku and Windu vs. Maul. Then, at the standoff, Dooku undercuts Mace Windu. He and Maul stand over him, with Obi-Wan as a witness. It is then that Dooku reveals that he's the Sith Lord Darth Tyrannus. And they kill Mace Windu--and with No Yoda in the flick, he's the Head Honcho as far as Jedi go.

One more thing: Jango Fett, Boba Fett and the Mandalorian Supercommandoes.

Remember how cool Boba Fett was in the first movies? And remember in the Special Edition of Star Wars they put out in 97, where Boba Fett shows up with Jabba the Hutt? Well, it's ominous, but only because we've seen Empire and Jedi, and we know what Fett does.

But assuming that we watch the movies in order.

Boba Fett wears the armor of the Mandalorian Supercommandoes.

Make those guys part of the movie. How about, instead of Destroyer Droids when Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan try to break into the bridge on Nute Gunray's ship, three Mandalorians show up.

And Make Them Badasses!

Make those three Boba Fett lookalikes a match for the Jedi!

And in the final battle on Naboo in episode I, have a couple more Jedi there, and have them die at the hands of the Mandalorians.

That gives it even more impact when Jango Fett shows up in episode II, and he's trying to assassinate Amidala, have Obi Wan curse about the damned Mandalorians.

Let the Mandalorians have a greater role. Let them be feared. Scum and villainy are their way.

Wow. I'm tired.

A last couple of things:

Direction is an issue. But I'm not sure it's because Lucas is a bad director. Cheesy, yes. I can handle his direction and pacing, I think. Except for how he handles Anakin.

I don't like Jake Lloyd. Even in his other stuff. Jingle All the Way and whatnot. He's too serious for a little kid. He's one of those kids you get the idea of how smart he thinks he is. It rubs off on Anakin. There's no wonder in his voice when he asks Amidala if she's an angel. When Watto says he can go home, he gives a half-hearted "Yippee!"

Part of it is the shitty dialog.

But a better director would get more out of a kid. If I were directing and in charge of casting, I'd have found a different kid, too.

Hayden Christensen is not much better, but as a grown up might understand a little better direction, were it available.

Anakin's a whiner. Make him darker, with less whining.

But at least with his whining, you know Luke comes by it honestly, when he whines to Uncle Owen about going to Toschii Station to pick up some power converters.

And lastly: Don't dwell on the special effects.

I know it's hard, when 80% of every shot is a visual effect.

Part of this goes with my first point: You don't need to explain everything. But there are too many self-gratification shots of droids, ships, clones, Coruscant and interiors that just say: Look what we can do!

There's very little of that in the first three. There's some, but it's a pause every now and then. Now, it seems every shot which is intentioned as an establishing shot is simply a shot just to glorify the CGI.

Lastly: Focus on the people.

This is the big one.

The original trilogy is about Luke, Han, Leia, Obi Wan and Vader.

This second trilogy tries to be about Obi Wan, Anakin and Amidala. But instead, it's about clones and wars and the Senate and it's not as intimate as the first three.

Don't get me wrong. I enjoyed the first two episodes. I own them. But in no way do they match (in my mind) the original trilogy. They're just not as fun.

Make them fun, dammit.

Thursday, November 28, 2002

It ain't a monkey. It's my sister. Apparently, her name is "April."

Imagine my embarrassment.
I'm at my parents' house for a little while, and imagine my surprise when I wake up this morning to find they have a new pet monkey.
It's a regular zoo around here.

It's a pretty big monkey.

It's name is Rill. I don't get it either.

And it talks.

It says "My name is Ape Rill."

It hits, too.

When it hits me it says "Stop calling me a monkey! I'm Ape Rill."

Great! A monkey who argues semantics. And also, we have to let it eat Thanksgiving dinner with us.

Wednesday, November 27, 2002

We're coming up on The Day of the Sacred Turkey, and all I have to say is that some of you people need to learn how to drive on the interstate.

Here's a quick recipe for those in a state of panic over what to serve tomorrow:

Tommy's Quick Cranberry Stuffing

You'll Need:

1 medium size pan of cornbread.
1 large onion
1 chicken breast, torn to pieces
1 15 oz. box Raisin Bran
2 slices provolone cheese
1 gallon milk
1 package jelly beans (with the black jelly beans removed)
1 large bottle olive oil
1 flounder
1 tsp. cinnamon
1 tsp. yeast
1 tsp. chili powder
1 tsp. dillweed
1 barrel mountain oysters
1 six pack of Canadian Beer (Biere)

1. Take one beer from six pack. Drink it.
2. Preheat oven as high as it will go.
3. Get a big old bowl. Pour the cornbread and the raisin bran into it. Mix with blender on high.
4. Chop up the onion, add it to the mixture.
5. Open another beer.
6. Pour in almost half of the gallon of milk.
7. Put the mixture into a pan. Put it in the oven for 8 minutes, 15 seconds. No more, no less.
8. Take the pan out of the oven. Use an oven mitt, you fool.
9. Cool hand with a cold beer.
10. Turn oven down to 350 degrees.
11. Put cheese on top of mixture.
12. Add dillweed, cinnamon, yeast and chili powder.
13. Stir in the jelly beans. Did you remove the black jelly beans? Mail those to Big Stupid Tommy.
14. Place Flounder in a blender with the remaining milk from the jug
15. Drink another beer.
16. Pour into the pan.
17. Putthe whole shebang back in the oven.
18. Let cook for 4 hours, or until fire alarm goes off.
19. Drink the rest of your beer. Watch TV. Dare somebody to eat the Mountain Oysters.
19. Remove the pan from the oven, using your uninjured hand.
19. Scrape the mixture out of the pan. You may need a trowel.
20. Eat.


Comments? Questions? Nothing Else to do? E-Mail Big Stupid Tommy at

Tuesday, November 26, 2002

I got one of those e-mail surveys where you get asked questions about your favorite childhood book (The Complete Lyrics of Kris Kristofferson), your favorite day of the week (Pizza Day) and where you would move if money were no object, and you could go any place you pleased (Next to the Kelly Mart in Niota, Tennessee).

And one question was who would be the first to answer said survey.

The sender's response was Tommy, since he apparently has no life and time to burn to make

It's not that I have no life, Diane. Though I can't argue that fact too vehemently.

Mostly, it's to escape the night terrors.

Al Roker can't rub on my booty if I'm awake and making web pages.

Speaking of which, I think Al's a little spooky looking since he lost the weight.

Diane works here. They've got a really neat deal going with a train. I read about it in the Knoxville paper. Really. I learned to read. They tought me. Took years, but I can now comprehend things on a second grade level. Mostly.

I have to attend a meeting tomorrow morning in Nashville. Honestly. Who schedules a meeting the freaking DAY BEFORE THANKSGIVING??!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!????
I had one of those nights last night where I didn't sleep very well.
Every little noise would wake me up.
Somebody beeped their car alarm outside, and it woke me up.
Somebody spun their tires on the wet pavement, and it woke me up.
Somebody slammed their apartment door and it woke me up.
I think I even snored too loud and woke myself up.
Why Lord?

A poem, by Big Stupid Tommy.

Your Horoscope: Today is your lucky day, but don't sit down on any toilets today.

Monday, November 25, 2002

Here's why this site is called Big Stupid Tommy.

I'm walking to the truck this morning to go to work, and I'm eating an apple. I take a bite out of the apple, it splinters, and the largest portion falls onto the ground.

I'm 25 years old.

And my mind just says to me: 5 Second Rule.

And before I can stop myself, I start to pick it up!!!!!!!!

I gain control of my senses, and ask myself what the hell I think I'm doing. Presumably, I bent over to pick it up to eat it. There's a little voice inside of me that says: Nobody would see you, so it would be alright.

This is what I deal with on a daily basis.

I do pick it up, however, and throw it away. Because I'm a nice sumbitch. Or something.

Other stuff:

Henry Phillips has a nice little funny vignette/film series going on It's called The Loner. In Henry's words, it's yet another forum for him to spread his message of social awkwardness and borderline psychopathic behavior. Henry's one of my favorite comedians. His songs are killer.

My thanks to Eric and Becky Davis, all the way up in Virginia, for linking me on their site. Eric and Becky are moving into a new home quite soon. I congratulate them. And they've assured me that they have multiple toilets in the home.
Eric's cool because he tells me stories about trying to eat cereal while driving, and I laugh because I've tried the same (once, to marginal success). Becky's cool because she just is. Also, Eric told me she'd found the perfect girl for me. I assume that she's in Virginia, too, which sucks, because I'm not in Virginia. Yet.

Also my thanks to the Evil Hippy who was the person who showed me this blogspot stuff. He's the one who made all this possible. Blame him.

Saturday, November 23, 2002

Big Stupid Tommy's Movie Corner (Now with Potato!)

Punch Drunk Love

I wonder if Paul Thomas Anderson finds himself often at odds with the world. Based on his works, he seems intent on making the viewer as uncomfortable and ill-at-ease with the world as possible. As much as the Writer/Director? I can't say for sure.

Whether it's using potentially inflammatory subject matter (the porn industry in Boogie Nights), a potentially difficult story structure (Magnolia) or simply characters that are themselves difficult to reach (Sydney in Hard Eight, and even moreso Adam Sandler's Barry Egan in this here flick Punch Drunk Love), the viewer often finds himself at something of a disadvantage--they spend much of the movie trying to catch up with the action on screen.

Add to the story structure and characterization Anderson's directorial style. Shots are filled juxtaposed elements competing for the viewer's eye. Often, a shot is obscured by some object in the foreground: a car door, a tree, or even another person. Cameras are tilted. Dialog is often obscured (and often drowned out completely) by background elements or even the soundtrack. Scenes are connected not so much by segue than by jarring hard cuts or a musical interlude complete with a psychadelic kaleidoscope of color.

What seperates Anderson and lesser directors is that Anderson largely understands the use of these tools.

However, even a master chef will sometimes mix the batter a touch too much.

Punch Drunk Love is a good movie. I'll not trip over myself anymore before I say that. It is better than most I have seen in 2002. Anderson's script is strong. He manages to pull a convincing, evocative performance from latter-day stooge Adam Sandler (it is easily Adam's best movie;I'll comment more on this later). There are strong performances from the cast, including a wonderfully understated Emily Watson as well as consistently good showings by Anderson regulars Philip Hoffman and Luis Guzman (in perhaps his most likable roll to date).

But I have one or two gripes that keep PDL from being a great movie, to my mind.

Anderson is enamoured with maintaining the most authentic sense of verisimilitude possible. He rebels against the idea that what happens in his movies are actually staged events. I like the idea, in principle. In one of the best uses in PDL, Barry attends a party with his sisters, but finds himself overwhelmed by both the sheer noise and clamor of the event, as well as the condescension he recieves from his family. Barry attempts conversation a couple of times, but quickly backs out of the quagmire. He quickly gains control of his situation by kicking in plate glass windows (an impressive feat, by the way).

In one of Anderson's more annoying attempts at verisimilitude: Barry attempts to use payphone along a parade route. The noise from the parade not only disrupts Barry's conversation, but also forces the audience to strain to hear everything going on within Barry's conversation. Perhaps the problem is mine for wanting at least a step toward closure with Barry's situation, and hearing what's going on over the phone will at least be a guidepost toward that closure. But keeping the audience engaged is likewise important. I remember thinking during this scene: Let's move on.

I'll talk for a second about the good.

My biggest complaint about Adam Sandler's movie career is the way his comedies force you to make a leap of faith in order to like or laugh at his characters. You have to accept this Cajun Simpleton in order to be able to laugh at him. He's a spoiled rich kid who has to go back through school. There are little leaps that you have to make. I need to see motivation.

We are introduced to Barry's family over the course of the film, and we are allowed a glimpse into his personal life. Oppressive is one way to describe it. Frustrating is perhaps another (considering much of Barry's personal seclusion is self-induced). Suffocating is the term I used while watching. Barry is drowning under the tidal wave of family and responsibility rather than surfing upon it.

I am able, then, to make that leap of faith. I can understand his situation. I would likewise be filled with rage.

A friend of mine referred to Adam as "the Angered One."

In Punch Drunk Love, Adam has legitimate cause to be angry. Is it funny? Sometimes. Is it convincing? Definitely.

My second gripe is not so much a gripe as an observation about what kept me from enjoying the movie completely.

I applaud Anderson for not pandering to the masses. There are too many stupid-ass movies out there that force themselves into a mold (whether due to studio pressure or otherwise). Anderson, to his credit, has fought studios to make his movies.

However, in his quest to maintain authenticity in his environments, create an ill-at-ease feeling with the audience, and basically do whatever he can to keep himself one step ahead of the audience, he does so often at the expense of fun.

You can make a statement and still have fun with it.

Punch Drunk Love, for all its qualities, is not terribly fun.

But then, I'm guessing Mr. Anderson doesn't give much a shit what I think. I applaud him for that much.

Friday, November 22, 2002

I was just studying this, and I have more hair under my right arm than I do my left.

You heard me right. There is more hair in my right armpit than my left armpit.

It's not a ridiculous amount more. It's not even significantly more. But it is noticeable. If you study my armpits.

I wonder if this is an indicator of anything?

Intelligence perhaps? I'd say this site would indicate a real lack of it.

Charm? I'd say the fact that I'm discussing armpit hair belies that.

What if the the ratio of armpit hair from right to left helped determine whether you would end up in heaven or hell? I think it would throw all of the world's major religions into turmoil. I think science, likewise, would re-direct itself toward gene therapy, which would give you a distinct leaning....lots of right armpit hair, not very much left armpit hair.

For that matter, how would we know that right armpit hair is necessarily better than having more left armpit hair? We'd have to make definitive contact with someone either in heaven or in hell. They'd have to tell us whether they had more on their right or left sides.

And what if you shave your armpits?

Or if you're European?

Or if you have exactly the same amount of armpit hair on your right and left sides?

Tell me something
My roommate Bill and I were wondering: If all the major characters from E.R. had a big battle royal, which would win?

Jerry would be an obvious choice due to his size.

Bill brought up the point that Dr. Romano would fight dirty, and he would have something of an advantage, therefore.

Kerri Weaver, we agreed, would be there near the end, if only because she would hide, stay out of the way and gun down whomever was left at the end.

But after some thought, I gotta go with Dr. Kovac. Because he's foreign, crazy and he beat a man to death.

This is what I do with my time.

Thursday, November 21, 2002

You know, sometimes I like to think about how smart I am, and how much smarter I am than the average bear.

And then I go to Chuck E. Cheese and spend about 6 dollars for game tokens to win enough prize tickets to be able to afford two (2) whoopie cushions.

I'm thinking of saving my 82 tickets to be able to afford the Remote Control Battle Tank. It costs 6000 tickets, or by my reckoning, $375.

If you'd like to donate your unused tickets toward my goal, go to your front porch, yell as loud as you can for Big Stupid Tommy. Wait until I answer, and I'll tell you what to do..
This via e-mail from The Subject Line: Want Bigger Breasts?

I'll say in general, I'm not completely against the idea.

But personally, no.

Wednesday, November 20, 2002

Yesterday, my friend Seanna gave me a piece of monterey jack cheese with vegetables in it. The garden variety. And the result was quite pleasing, and now I've made it my life's mission to acquire as much vegetable jack cheese as is humanly possible.

Not a whole lot happened today. I did shower. That much I do know.

I forgot how to count for a little while, but I remembered just after lunch.

And shouldn't they find a way to put Beavis and Butthead out with video segments intact? God, that was the funniest part of the whole show. In fact, I think more shows should be like Beavis and Butthead. You know. Funny.

And just because you need to go and read a story, here's a link to Joe R. Lansdale's web site.

Tell me something.

Tuesday, November 19, 2002

Once upon a time, Superboy had a whole menagerie of Super-Pets. Among these was Krypto, the Super-Dog. There was a Super-Cat (Streaky?) and a Super-Horse (Comet). But I think the most potentially disastrous among these was a Super-Monkey.

His name is Beppo.

The art of the day was not exact, but when I imagine things in my head, I figure the monkey was a Rhesus Monkey.

I have two problems with the whole concept: Here in Casa de Big Stupid Tommy, we refer to monkeys as Tree Clinging Crap Flingers. And the monkey, with the proportionate super-strength a'la Superman, could probably fling crap with super speed. That's the first problem.

The second problem is that Superboy limits himself with his moral code. He is in possession of powers of higher reasoning. He knows how to control his temper, and he knows right from wrong.

Beppo, the Super-Monkey, unless he is possessed of some form of super-monkey-moral-code unheard of among his brethren, finds himself possessed of many of Superman's powers, upto and including super strength, heat vision, super speed and freezer breath, but without the constraints of human intellect or Jonathan and Martha Kent infused strict moral code. He's a monkey. In my experience, monkeys live by instinct. They're happy when they have food or sleep or whatever their little monkey hearts desire. But when things go against them, they lash out violently.

What I'm getting at here is that I'm terribly, terribly afraid. Afraid that I'll be sucked into a DC Comic from the 1960's and come face-to-face with Beppo the Super Monkey.

This Site says that Beppo is mischievous and inquisitive.

But I'm sure the cameras of DC Comics only caught the good side of Beppo. (All television and media is this way. They don't show Regis Philben eating toilet paper, either, but it doesn't mean it doesn't happen!)

I'm afraid.

I'll get sucked in.

I'll make Beppo mad.

And he'll start flinging crap, super speed style. Faster than the eye can see and more powerful than a bullet from a gun.

And that's how I'll die. Riddled as if shot with a 12-gauge.

Only instead of Scatter Shot, it's Monkey Feces that causes my ultimate demise.

Make sure to watch the NWA-TNA Wednesday. It's Jeff Jarrett vs. Ron Killings for the World Title.

Mail Big Stupid Tommy

Monday, November 18, 2002

I'm watching Monday Night Raw tonight, and one of the angles had Steven Richards getting popped in the nuts by a t-shirt propelled from one of those air cannons used to shoot t-shirts into a crowd. I'll say first that it was a good shot by Stacy Kiebler. I don't know how hard it is to aim one of those t-shirt cannons, but I'd imagine you'd have to have at least a nodding acquaintance with trajectories and ballistics. Maybe not.

But at some point during the day, there has to be a conversation as to whether it is safe to shoot somebody (namely Steven Richards) in the crotch with one of these air cannons. Whether the air pressure has to be adjusted. Did somebody sit down and talk to Steven Richards and address with him potential concerns?

The WWE has to have a Hell of an insurance policy on its people. If something had gone dreadfully wrong, and Steven ended up in the hospital....imagine reporting to an insurance company "Scrotum ripped/Testicles crushed by t-shirt propelled at high rate of speed."

Also, somebody had cleaned the shower drain today, and thrown the hairball into the toilet. Without flushing.

I do my business. I finish and admire my work and am scared halfway to my grave because there's a big nasty hairball floating in the toilet. All I'm saying is that there are things you expect, and things you don't. I'd have been just as worried if I'd found a kitten down there with the typical detritus.

Or a little toy car.

Or one of those subscription cards that come in magazines.

Die Another Day starts in theaters this weekend, I think. Mr. Bond is up for another cool adventure.

However, I wonder what the world would be like if instead of countless James Bond adventures, we anxiously awaited the next installment of the Herbie the Love Bug series.

Lastly: The Answer to Next Month's Trivia Question: The Dukes of Hazzard. Twice.

Sunday, November 17, 2002

So Tony Stewart wins the Winston Cup and all Wally Dallenbach and Benny Parsons can talk about during the NBC telecast is how Tony will have to shape up, because he's representing his sport, its history, its competitors, God and everybody, and acting like an asshole won't do anything toward forwarding the image of NASCAR.

You know, I think it would only help NASCAR if Tony became the biggest sumbitch racing has ever seen, besides Jimmy Spenser. And all next season, he did things like punch Mike Helton, drove the wrong way on the track during a race, or simply rode the whole Daytona 500 with his left hand out the window, waggling the bird the whole race.

He'd be like Stone Cold Steve Austin.

Wouldn't you want to watch if Tony Stewart were to drive one of the road courses drunk off his ass?

Saturday, November 16, 2002

And seriously folks...if you ignore Adam Sandler, he will have to go away.

I honestly believe that.
November 16, 2002

So the Cubs hired Dusty Baker. Great. Call me Big Stupid Cynical Tommy. See, Don Baylor was a good motivator, as well. "Supposedly." He'd done great things with the Rockies and was supposed to bring new discipline and direction to an undisciplined and directionless Cubs locker room. What we found out was that the inmates run the asylum, as it were. They bucked against Don's discipline (especially that Mack Newton bullshit, which I don't blame). Sammy refused a leadership roll. Don't get me started on the Prima Donna Ballerina from Republica Dominica

Add to that: Don Baylor is to Baseball Strategy what Beethoven is to Baseball Strategy.

Which is what's got me worried. Sure, Dusty's a great motivator. And he's got experience with superstars who won't take leadership rolls (ahem, Barry Bonds).

However, Dusty's not necessarily the best strategist. He's competent. But he's got a little bit of LaRussa Syndrome. (i.e. I'm gonna outhink EVERYBODY including me).

I'm glad the Cubs have put this foot forward in hiring a manager. I mean, really, Who the Hell is Bob Melvin?

Or should I say 2003 A.L. Manager of the Year Bob Melvin.

Nah, the Mariners are older and will probably lose Jamie Moyer.

Enough about all that baseball jazz.

I want you all to stop for a second and think about your obligations. Did you buy me a sandwich?

Do you remember the episode of Seinfeld where Elaine's date had to stop and freeze whenever "Desperado" came on the radio? I've developed a real affinity for the "Suicide is Painless" M*A*S*H theme. It's a good thing they never play that on the radio, because the song makes me cry really, really hard.

We had a girl knock on the door tonight. Insistent. And after the first round of knocks, she waits about two seconds, and knocks again. She was selling newspaper subscriptions. I wanted to tell her I can't read, but I don't have those kind of balls. When I made it clear that in no way were we interested in The Tennessean (a fine publication, but one I don't have extra money for), the sales girl tried to bum a cigarette.

I told my sister that I wanted chainmail for Christmas. She didn't believe me. Wouldn't that just serve me right for me to wake up Christmas morning and find that my family has given me four suits of chainmail? And nothing else?


Friday, November 15, 2002

November 15, 2002

My Books-a-Million Discount Card expires today. THROW A PARTY

And let me just ask this question. Why should I waste all my time being sensitive about the emotions and feelings of others if all they're going to do is look at me stupidly? Much like a dog.

I don't worry about the dog's feelings.

That's not true. I spend much of the day worrying about the dog's feelings. Is she happy? Is she sad? What have I done to make her angry? Please make the dog pay attention to me.....

Perhaps that's part of the problem

Today one of my favorite episodes of A-Team was on, but I just caught the last 12 minutes or so. Still, it made me happy. I really think it would have changed the dynamic of the show if Hannibal would have given Good Ol' Howling Mad Murdoch a good smack every now and then.

But then, the show might not have been so good.

Thursday, November 14, 2002

November 14, 2002

Doogie Howser Thoughts of the Day:

Moore Potato Chips are highly underrated. They taste like Potato. Lay's are much too greasy.

If you leave your house after dark to give stuff away out of your garage/attic/closet, you really need to seek professional help. I'm serious.

And despite all reports to the contrary, this is the year 2002. I'm quite inept.

Today's lucky number: 2,391,301,309,412

Wednesday, November 13, 2002

November 13, 2001

Didn't do much today. Replaced the stopper in the back of the toilet. Slept. I think.

Went to Wrestling. Jerry Lynn rocks. Wanted badly to ram into A.J. Styles' truck, but resisted the urge. Fearing jail time and whatnot.

And Burger King needs to change their meat. Tastes really, really not as good as before.