Chapter MMMCCCXXXV: In which there was hockey...

Eh. You'd think as a Cub fan, I'd be used to this disappointment shit.

There are a lot of people a lot better equipped to speak on this Olympic hockey experience. Gooseneck and Emily are both fans who've spoken in the past...they may put something up. And even if they don't, they both deserve a read.

When I lived out toward Nashville, I started to get into the Predators and hockey in general. I moved back out this way right as the NHL was recovering from its lockout. I'm sorry to say that in Southeast Tennessee, I think Pro Bass Fishing gets more press coverage than does hockey (and I don't think I'm exaggerating...I'd be interested to see which actually gets more TV time and local paper coverage).

It's only been in the past couple of years, since wandering back out to a handful of Predators games that I've really started to get interested again. It's still tough to follow on a consistent basis, since outside of the Home Ice TV package, television coverage is spotty at best. And I still live 2 and a half hours from the nearest NHL arena.

But, the interweb helps. Finding people and forums and blogamathings and twittermathings and facebookmathings from people who do follow and think and write is tremendously helpful.

This Olympic thing? Very cool. I ate it up.

I did finally get to see last Sunday's USA/Canada game via the interweb. And, to me, it's the hockey the world SHOULD see on that scale. For the first time, we had the very best in the world leaving every bit of it on the ice. It was an extremely fast game, and the most enjoyable one I can remember watching on television...

Until today. Maybe it's that I didn't grow up with hockey, or that the Predators haven't made it past the first round of the playoffs. Dunno. I was on the edge of my seat for this one. Also, via Twitter, I may have expressed the sentiment something along the lines of "Fuck Canada."

And, reluctantly, I apologize for that.

That's the sort of thing I reserve for the Yankees, Cardinals, Ravens, Cowboys and the University of Kentucky. Generally.

Like I said, the followup game today was even better, for my money, except for the result. And, well, that's just how things go. Like I said, I'm a Cub fan, so I've got a few decades practice at it, so far.

Still, it was cool to see the Americans get someplace they weren't expected to. I enjoyed that ride, at any rate.

Anyway, there was one thing that the Pisces in me truly did dig, even if it wasn't my national anthem. Hearing that Vancouver crowd get into their National Anthem was a thing of beauty.

This is an old video, from 2006, but it illustrates much the same thing.



Congratulations, Canada. And thanks for some of the most enjoyable hockey I can remember.

Also, thanks for the poutine.

Always thanks for the poutine.

A letter from my rear end

Hey dude:

I know you like the crushed red pepper, and all that.

I don't. At all.

I can't see all that well. Did you just open up the canister and dump the contents on your pizza? Also, are you sure it wasn't laced with Drano, or Battery Acid?

Or was this some manner of punishment for that sneezing incident at Thanksgiving dinner? We all have an off day. There could be more in the future. Just saying.

Barring those circumstances, I'm unsure there's a happy medium we can reach concerning appropriate allocation of said spice. As such, I'd like to recommend a complete dismissal of this product from your diet, until such time that we can find a way to line the walls with asbestos or perhaps some other non-osmotic coating.

Thanks for your consideration,

Your butthole.

Trotter

I learned tonight from a high school friend that one of my favorite teachers, Jerry Trotter, has passed away.

I don't have a lot to say about the man himself, and I wish I had more. I wish I knew him better. As it was, I had him for only a couple of classes in high school. He was one of the few teachers I wish I'd had for more.

I'd just like to say that it is a valuable, valuable man who refrains from chastising a kid because he thinks differently, and instead challenges him to do just that. Patient. Stoic. Thoughtful. Funny. He was the best history teacher I ran across, and one of the teachers who I can honestly say taught me how to think, rather than just threw facts at me.

Thanks, sir. Many, many thanks.

Update, here's the Daily Post Athenian's Obituary.

A Brief Lie

I met Sir Anthony Hopkins the other day. I was putting gas in the truck, and wondering at the "Jesus will return, repent your sins" post-it note somebody had stuck on the gas pump at the BP station, when a man wandered around the rear end of my truck.

"Hey, fella!" he said.

"Hi," I said.

"You got fifty cents I could borrow? My cell phone is out of power, and I need to use the pay phone. I'm Anthony Hopkins."

I knew that it was Anthony Hopkins, because I've seen Freejack maybe 200 times. I know that movie better than I know my duties at my job, which is something I'm sure will come up on my review later next month. In fairness, I did mention that fact in my own self-review, that as great as my job is, it comes nowhere near the hellishly fun world made all too real by Masters Estevez, Jagger and Hopkins.

I gave Anthony Hopkins 50 cents, because I've seen Silence of the Lambs and Hannibal, too.

"Thank you, sir!" He gave me a light salute off his right eyebrow, and he turned to walk away.

"Mr. Hopkins?"

"Yes?" he said, turning, but still sidestepping toward the gas station.

I had to ask. I didn't know if I'd ever have this opportunity again:

"What was it like to work with Ice-T in Tank Girl? Did you laugh at his makeup?"

A rather glum look crossed his face. He slowly walked back to my truck. It was as if he were afraid to break the news.

"I think you're confusing me with Malcolm McDowell. I wasn't in Tank Girl."

If ever I've been dumbstruck in all my life, it was then, at the Willow Springs BP station.

Anthony Hopkins patted the tailgate of my truck lightly. I think he did this, because he knew that if he got too close, I'd cry.

"I'm sorry," he said. And he turned and walked into the gas station.

Right then, the gas pump kicked off, as my gas tank was full. I returned the nozzle to its holder, and screwed the cap back into place. The world had a terrycloth on your teeth feel, and suddenly, I needed moonshine as badly as I needed oxygen, water or pictures of dogs with hats.

I got into my truck, and as I drove away, I saw Sir Anthony Hopkins emerge from the station carrying two 24 oz. cans of Old English, talking on a cell phone so recently reported to be out of power.

I have even money that the old son of a bitch was calling Malcolm McDowell.

I hate when Malcolm McDowell laughs at me.

Progression....

First, I was a little pissed about having to work during the USA/Canada hockey game tonight.

But, it wouldn't have mattered, I guess. I'd have needed to go someplace to watch it, because I jettisoned shitty Comcast a little while back. I wouldn't have been able to watch at home, regardless.

But then, I realized, it wouldn't have mattered even if I still had cable. Athens, Tennessee has positively the worst cable system ever devised by man. It's like they signed a treaty that every other channel must be churchy or shop-at-home. No Comedy Central, and they got rid of Cartoon Network late last fall.

And I just realized that even if I weren't working, and were at home, and had cable, I still wouldn't be able to watch it, because I had CNN and Fox News, but no MSNBC. According to the NBC.com lineup, that's where the game's playing.

Anybody want to help a brother out and record the game?

Chapter MMMCCCXXX: In which there is not a holiday to recognize his birth. Yet.

Sometimes, I'm a little dubious of this timesuck we call social media (even when I should be more concerned about my ability to focus in the face of it).

Still, it takes the edge off wandering to work at Oh-Dark-Turdy to wake up to several birthday greetings, even at 5:30 on a Saturday. Gracias, folks.

Dear Tiger

Dear Tiger:

I don't care who you made sweet, sweet love to.

I also don't care about golf.

Not sure why I write this.

Except to say that America needs a bad guy.

Honestly, we've been eating each other alive ever since the fall of communism. We've managed to turn some goat farmers who've spent the last three millennia screaming at each other over a watering hole in the desert into the world's villains. It's become something of a problem, because they're too scattered to truly establish a Mexican Standoff of mutually assured destruction, and honestly, they've proven fully willing to destroy themselves if it means destroying us. A villain who is perfectly willing to spite his own face if cutting his own nose off hurts us isn't as good for prime time ratings as one might think.

I'm not sure how effective that last metaphor was, if it was at all. As much as I enjoy making an entire cross-section of the world's population seem like a bunch of screaming maniacs--wait...check that....screaming Religious maniacs...I'd like to say that if I'm going to get on Fox News. As much as I enjoy making an entire cross section of the world population out to be a bunch of bearded, screaming, religious maniacs, I know that ultimately, we'll have an Oprah prime time special that will completely destroy this line of thinking.

(As an aside, Tiger, remember that Super Bowl commercial with David Letterman, Jay Leno and Oprah? If Oprah had a late night talk show, would she destroy those two? I actually think she would hurt Jay more than Dave, but would ultimately have higher ratings than the two).

Anyway, my point is this:

We need a villain in this country.

If you were to come to your statement this morning, wearing a Ric Flair robe, with a drink in one hand and a swimsuit model on each arm, came to the microphone and said "America? Kiss my ass!" I think it would be the one thing that would finally unite us as a people.

Seriously. Don't you have enough money?

I've never made more than 39K in a year. I don't know what it's like to need another million. I'll likely never know what it's like to get that first million, barring a lot of people deciding to pay for my particular brand of tripe. You've got more than enough money. Why apologize to the housewives of the world?

Did you take their children to raise?

Is that what you're going to apologize for?

That would be a good way to start Tiger Woods Heel Turn: Announce that you've been in successful negotiation to adopt all America's children. They should be delivered to you no later than Tuesday morning. They should have two pairs of shoes, and a headlamp.

You could have all America's children work in the mines beneath your palace.

Especially Ke Huy Quan.

America would hate you for that. But imagine how they'd feel if they realized you were ripping your opponents' hearts out and sacrificing them to Kali?

Have you gotten the Sankara Stones already?

Anyway.

I'm now thinking that Tiger Woods' Thuggee Cult might be my fantasy baseball team's name this year. It's a contender, at any rate.

It's just a thought, Tiger. Honestly, I've never given a shit who you've had sex with. Pretty much, as long as you're not trying to have sex with me (the answer is still no), it's none of my bee's wax. I'd be fully with you, though, if you came up to the mike and said just that: "This is none of your concern. There has been an incident. However, this is all under control, we have no need of assistance. Obey Treaty Stipulations, and remain outside the neutral zone."

But that's because I like Star Trek VI, and I know that you're a dork, too.

Honestly, though. The only sex life I truly care about is my own. And hey, if you could put a good word in with the ladies for me, I'd appreciate it. But otherwise, carry on. It's very little of my concern.

Thanks,

(Big Stupid) Tommy Acuff

Words that need out of my head

"Did you shit in the washing machine?"

"The what?"

"You heard me."

"No, I really didn't."

"You didn't hear me, or you didn't shit in the washing machine."

"Hear you. Hell yes I shat in the washing machine."

beat.

"Why?"

"You took a really fucking long time in the shower, this morning.

"We have another bathroom."

"Really?"

"Are you serious?"

Cheap Theater...

I dunno what manner of change has come over Chattanooga's cheap theater, or if any change has truly occurred and it has simply been recently that I've noticed it. Regardless, it's very cool to see your arthouse stuff making its way up there, even if it's just a temporary nod to the Oscar season.

The Road was one that appeared in my general neck of the woods for one showing at 2 o'clock in the morning on a Thursday, I think. (More likely, it came when I was involved in a holiday week or an inventory week or a vacation week or any other bullshit week that seems to cause me to keep my nose to the grindstone, and my eyes off anything cool like a movie I've been looking for coming to town).

Actually, the Road and 3 Idiots are both playing there, starting this weekend, and I'd like to see both. So, it's kinda nice to go pay three bucks instead of 9.50....

I'll say too, that it seems like they've taken an extra step to clean the joint up. While I appreciate the ambience of the Wicked Witch's castle in Wizard of Oz, I don't necessarily want to watch a movie with a winged monkey lurking over my shoulder.

Thoughts from the Ass End of the Night: the Return of Smeagol

Just a few random thoughts, rolling around in my head. It's not necessarily an insomnia post, per se. I just haven't felt the urge to go to bed, just yet.

Went out to the Riverfront Pub, down in Chattanooga last night. I hadn't gotten to see the sister and brother-in-law in a couple of weeks, and we wandered out to play some trivia. A buddy (and I say that because I can't think of a better term for the guy--he's run most of the trivia shows we've attended for the last six months, and we are on terms somewhere between acquaintance and friend, though I couldn't tell you precisely where) was running a trivia show there.

I like to think the Riverfront's the type of bar I'd open, were I to open a bar. Nothing extravagant. Simple wooden bar. A couple tables. A TV behind the bar. Maybe a little area set aside for a band to play. Couple of decent beers on tap. Nice environment without a lot of ragamuffins running around, too. A couple or three years ago, Tennessee's indoor smoking laws took hold, basically barring smoking anyplace where kids can be found. Most places took the route of the higher number of potential customers, and barred smoking from the premises.

I'm not a smoker, myself and generally speaking, people smoking doesn't bother me (beyond the levels of my family members dying a slow, painful, suffocating death because of it). Still, I'm not overly huge on kids. So, it's a nice tradeoff. Just a cool place to hang out. Not a lot of room to get rowdy. Riverfront had a good vibe, and I dug it.

----

I found out today that there is apparently little in the world that made me happier than watching the little grandmotherly type curse a storm everytime her bowling frame didn't go as she'd wanted. A friend & I grabbed lunch today, as we were both off work, and decided to bowl a couple of games. We were lucky to find a lane, as a retirement age league plays in Athens on Wednesday (the things you learn....).

The lanes nearest to us, one little old lady started her game with "Crap," which we were allowed to say in Sunday School. She'd escalated into the hells and damns by the fourth frame, and had wandered up into bullshit and a couple of God Damns by the eighth. She bowled strikes to finish out her game, which was probably a good thing, because an 68-year-old lady letting a string of "motherfucks" out at a 5/10 split would likely have led to my shitting myself in hysterics.

And as we all know, that's allowed to happen only once a week.

----

Two of my co-workers, neither aged more than 19, were completely oblivious as to the existence at any point of one Nell Carter. And I, so proud of my "Gimme a Break" joke, was left with that minor bit of cleverness hanging. One might assume that the joke is hanging still in the air around the office of my store. I would watch out for it, if I were you. I'd hate for my eye to be taken out by an 80's sitcom.

Chapter MMMCCCXXIII: a meandering post about snow

What up?

For the first time in several years, I can say that it's been a snowy son of a bitch here in my corner of East Tennessee. We live down in a bowl, edged by the plateau to the northwest, Lookout & Monteagle Mountains to the southwest and the big rise of the Appalachians to the east. We seem to hold all the warm air (along with allergens and pollutants) long after the areas around us have gotten their share of snow and ice. In the past several years, when areas 60 miles from us have gotten three or four inches of snow, we've gotten flurries or sleety rain.

This year's been a little different. It can't begin to compare with what our friends and family up in the Mid-Atlantic have gotten in the past handful of days. It's been with a wry eye I view some of the news & pictures. I particularly enjoyed the news that the bread, meat and Pop Tarts had been freed from a new Food Lion up in Delaware, but they had plenty of beer and peanut butter on hand. I also liked the video from a friend in Virginia where they took their toddler out into the yard, and dropped him into snow taller than he was.

But we've gotten a handful of snow around these parts. Just enough to turn everybody into half a retard every few days, driving like mad to the grocery to fill up on bread, milk and eggs, as if French Toast were the one thing will save us all from a freezing death.

The weather systems are coming in such quick succession that to my mind, there is almost no way for a family to have gone through the $300 in groceries they bought just before the previous snow scare to warrant another cartful of groceries for the current snowpocalypse. To me, if your family's going through food that fast, then your biggest problem is not necessarily snow.

Still, it keeps me employed, so I'm not one to argue too much.

The weather systems seem to come in every three to five days. Lot of precipitation, in general. When it's not snow, it's rain.

I woke up late, on my day off Friday. I got up, tried to write and played on the timesuck that is Facebook for a couple of hours. I stood up and saw through a crack in the curtains that there was something white on the ground outside. Not thinking that snow was in our call (it was supposed to miss us to the south), I was pleased to find a half-inch of stuff on the ground.

I dig it, actually. Southeast Tennessee's an algae yellow mottled with brown pretty much from November to March. It's nice to cover some of that shit up, even for a day or two.

My friend Shyam's taken some nice pictures of recent events...

Like I said, it's not ridiculous snow, but it's an event enough for us.

Anyway. I write all this to say that we're calling for anywhere from 1 to 6 inches of show in this neck of the woods again tonight (depending on which weather person you decide to look at and listen to). I'm sure the workplace will be nutballs again today, despite people rushing out 2 days ago. Don't have a real point to this post, except to say Pray for Me....

Quotable...

Ran across this one, from Stephen Jay Gould's Rock of Ages:

"I want to raise serious point about our usual approach to complex problems....Our minds tend to work by dichotomy--that is, by conceptualizing complex issues as "either/or" pairs, dictating a choice of one extreme or the other, with no middle ground (or golden mean) available for any alternative resolution. (I suspect that our apparently unavoidable tendency to dichotomize represents some powerful bagge from an evolutionary past, when limited consciousness could not transcend "on or off," "yes or no," "fight or flee," "move or rest"--and the neurology of simpler brains became wired in accordance with such exigencies)....."

And while it pleases me to have an answer as to why I passed out when I had to decide whether to put jelly, honey or bananas on my peanut butter sandwich, the other day, I say that Stephen left us way too soon....

I may not know all 24 letters in the alphabet, but I can sure as hell put them in order....

Hello, and welcome to Friday.

You're looking at a man who's somehow wandered into two straight days of full night's sleep. There are a lot of words I'd use to describe myself: poet, lover, ninja assassin, but well rested is very rarely among them.

Still, the morning was not without incident. It did start with a brief moment of panic, when I woke up and saw the number 9 and 42 on the alarm clock. I picked my favorite curse word (Stront!!!!!) started to roll out of bed, only to remember that Friday is your old pal Tommy's day off.

I would say that this particular feeling, that one of relief upon realizing that you don't actually have to leave the house with pants, if you don't wanna, is among my favorite in the world.

Lunch plans with some folks with the old workplace fell by the wayside for business on their end. I find myself this morning with a thought or three, but no cohesive way to tie them together. Par for the course, I like to think.

_________

My friend Jerri made an observation that really came to irk me very much this week: my little town does not have a Chinese restaurant that delivers. We tend to lean more toward the All Your Ass Can Hold Buffet around here. And even though my ass can hold a shitload of food, buffets are not my first choice. Mostly because you have to put on a pair of pants. Trust me, I would like nothing more than to load up three plates with General Tso's chicken and enough egg rolls to make my house smell like a papermill the next afternoon.

I just don't wanna put on pants to do so.

Can I just pause here to say God Bless America?

Anyway, since the buffets in town frown upon my calling and saying "Can you load up a cardboard box with twice-fried chicken and eggrolls and bring it to my house?" I smell a minor business opportunity here in this little town.

I'll start small. The only Chinese cuisine I know how to make is noodles and Chicken that you fry the hell out of until it has no taste. I see this as my having a step up already on the China Wok.

-----

The excitement that has popped up on multiple fronts, all at once, over the A-Team flick strikes me as odd. Not the excitement in or of itself, but that it seems like everybody reached some manner of A-Team epiphany all at the same time. Like there's been some confluence of the universe, a bit of A-Team synchronicity.

I'm not knocking it. Just noting the coincidence of it, which has included my neighbor, who's become something of my Kramer (which will warrant a post, I guess, once my irritation at his knocking on my door at all hours of the day or night...or at the fact that he and his girlfriend apparently relate to each other physically very, very well. And often.) Anyway, my neighbor knocked on my door not very long after I'd gotten home from work last night (to return my copy of Slither, actually), and asked "You like UFC, right?"

"Yeah."

"Did you know Rampage Jackson is going to be B.A. in the A-Team Movie?"

His excitement at the news made me wonder if being in the A-Team movie was as important as curing Cancer and AIDS in the same day.

"Yeah, I did. Looks cool."

"Yeah."

And then there's a moment that we've had probably a half-dozen times at this point, where I'm pretty sure he's wanting me to ask him in, something that might happen at 4:30 in the afternoon, but not 12:10 in the morning. Have you seen me? I need several weeks of beauty sleep, and all this talk about Quentin "Rampage" Jackson and the A-Team movie will only serve to keep me awake for hours on end.

------

And lastly, it's February 12, and it's 20-something, and we're possibly looking at snow AGAIN later this weekend. And I got my first invitation for fantasy baseball.

I'm really looking forward to baseball this year. I kinda floated through last season. It may sound silly to say, but that 2008 Cubs playoff loss to the Dodgers kinda made me keep my distance for most of 2009. I watched, but I didn't embrace like I usually do.

Heartbreak, even for a Cub fan who should be used to it, sometimes takes a while to get past.

April 5, the Cubs open in Atlanta. I'll be there, for my first opening day, actually.....

Crazy Heart

As I wander into hour 21 or 22 of "Tommy is Awake," I want to drop a quick note telling you that Crazy Heart is nothing but Jeff Bridges saying "Watch me root around all drunken, bumbling and being awesome" and you agreeing that yes, he is indeed awesome.

There's a really neat moment where Jeff Bridges's Bad Blake and Robert Duvall's Wayne are sitting across the bar from one another, where you realize that two of the greatest actors of the past 50 years, and probably two of the least heralded for their troubles, are staring at each other. It's a really neat scene, when Blake wanders back into Wayne's little bar, and one that I think I want to see again.

Grimly Fiendish

I found a disc of The Damned in the Very Scratched bin at the used bookstore a couple weeks ago. This song has been stuck in my head ever since. I probably hadn't heard it in at least five years, and probably closer to ten. It hasn't left my brain in two weeks. Maybe it's why I can't sleep tonight.

Thoughts from the Ass End of the Night, February edition

Been a little while since an insomnia post. A few random thoughts:

• February is a motherfucker. Don't care for it, and I'd argue that it's seven or eight days too long if it weren't already 28 days. February's the month where I generally find myself getting sick as hell of the gray....we don't get much winter weather in this neck of the woods, but from November 15 or so, on to the middle of March it's almost perpetually overcast. Add to that working a job that'll keep me out of any potential sun often from sunrise to sunset, and your old pal Tommy's drinking himself through a nice case of Seasonal Affective Disorder the likes of which you don't see in the U.S. outside of those perpetually dark motherfuckers up in Alaska.
• And as for the winter weather, we've already had Two (2) bouts of the shit in 2010, which is two more than we're generally blessed with. And while it's got nothing on the 30 inches of hell the Mid Atlantic's fighting with, it's enough mental retardation to make me want to pack up for the Caribbean.
  
• February's generally a bad sports month, and this one's not a lot different. Football finishes, and baseball's two months away. I try to get into college basketball, but it's just not something that latches itself into my obsessive compulsive disorder like baseball. I've gotten back into hockey over the past couple of years, and that's helped. It was actually February 2008 that helped begin this new interest...Tivo was recording a random game here or there. I honestly hadn't paid too much attention since I'd moved away from Nashville. For all the attention hockey gets even in the Knoxville or Chattanooga papers or TV, it might as well be cricket or Australian rules football. Or chess. But the interweb is helpful, inasmuch as you can find not only instant news or results, but also other people who are interested and write well enough to pull you back in. And in 2010, I find myself following on a daily basis, and what happens? Olympic break.
  
• And, I'm trying to be interested in the Winter Olympics, and there's hockey there, but to be honest, I'm just not feeling it. Maybe I'll feel different when it gets here. I like shows of harmony as much as any good Pisces. But Bobsled? Really? Make two bobsled race down the same chute, striking at each other with hatchets, and then I'm interested. Until then, it's like watching a guy with a stopwatch run the same 500 feet over and over again.
  
• February's also a birthday month, which isn't a bad thing, I suppose. My mother's birthday is the middle of the week, and my own falls weekend after next. I'm turning a Jesus age this year. Maybe this'll be the year I learn to pick my clothes up and put them into a hamper.
• I don't know if there's a way to bitch about Valentine's Day that doesn't leave you thinking that or me feeling like I'm a bitter guy without a girlfriend, but suffice it to say I've seen it from both ends of the spectrum, and Valentine's Day is garbage. When I become Emperor, I will destroy the Hallmark and American Greetings companies with my very own flamethrower, and pee the fires out myself.
• Lastly, and I know this isn't a February thought per se, but my upstairs neighbor made up with his girlfriend this week. They'd been broken up maybe 2 weeks. But they are back together, for the time being. They love each other very often. Just thought I'd share. This whole Tommy Buying a House thing cannot move fast enough.
  

In which a corner is turned....

Wandering through Netflix's on-demand selection, I ran across World's Greatest Dad, which interested me because it's Bobcat Goldthwait's creation. He was interviewed on some radio show months (years?...is time funny out here for anybody else?) about making the flick.

Now, I dig Bobcat's comedy, which is reliant much upon the idea of broken people, and am a bigger fan of Shakes the Clown, which is one of the finer dark comedies to wander down the pike in a long, long time. In fact, it is indeed a shame verging on minor tragedy that I do not own that flick on DVD.....

Anyway, I clicked on World's Greatest Dad.

I don't want to say too much on the movie, my kneejerk reactions veer toward the extreme ends of the love/hate spectrum. Want to think on it a moment.

I will say that there are a few moments in various movies that I can precisely point out when and why I like a movie.

Somewhere around minute 37 in this flick, when I was honestly rather iffy on the flick, a sudden corner was turned involving a death of a character.

Yeah. This is a fine, fine comedy, folks.....

The Funny...

Dear Online Nerd Diary,

Today was one of those days where for all my best efforts, I felt like everybody was somehow in on the joke but me.

Which is cool. I like jokes.

Sometimes I wish: could it at least be a cool joke? Like, with some Indians talking about the weather, or maybe where a guy asks for golf clubs instead of sex?

Because today, I feel like I'm in a joke that ends with me having to stuff pumpkins up my butt.

I don't like that joke too much.

Tommy

Badass Roar

I wish I had a badass roar.

You know that scene in Jurassic Park, when the Tyrannosaur has busted out his pen, and he's just gone eyeball-to-eyeball with that blonde chick? When the Tyrannosaur roars, that's how I'd like to roar.

Think how cool that would be.

Imagine: You and I are standing around, enjoying nice cool cans of Diet Rite (I had the regular flavor, you had the White Grape because of your cough syrup addiction). I'm telling that story about how I got my letter about the Pizza Tank read on David Letterman. I finish the story, down the last contents of my can in one quick swallow, and just as you think I'm about to let a Diety Rite good belch, I instead let an ear-splitting roar loose that stops traffic and very likely makes you shit in your pants.

I tend to think that's the sort of thing that gets a feller a nickname.

Perhaps it's the sort of thing that gives a feller a little bit of gravitas when it comes to suggesting names for nephews.

Tonight, my sister rejected the following names for the tiny human she's growing in her innards:

Nikolai Volkoff
Jimmy Superfly
Bam Bam Bigelow
Big John Studd
Barry Windham
Tully Blanchard
Arn Anderson
Ole Anderson
Mike Rotunda
Dr. Death Steve Williams
Ryne Sandberg
Leo Trotsky
King Kong Bundy
Special Delivery Jones
Barry Horowitz
Jungle Jim McPherson
Bubba Ray Dudley
D-Von Dudley
Sign Guy Dudley
L'il Spie Dudley
Big Dick Dudley
Black Superman Tony Atlas
Rowdy Roddy Piper
Ferris Bueller
Butch Reed
Ron Simmons
Dusty Rhodes
Lex Luger
Hillbilly Jim
Uncle Elmer
Jim the Anvil Neidhart

Any one of those names is the type of name that would bring a young man much respect and acclaim. Hellfire, they'd probably make him the starting quarterback for his high school the very minute little Nikolai Volkoff enrolled in school. He'd be the Fonzie of his generation.

Which begs the question, who was the Fonzie of my generation?

Probably me. You know it. Even without a badass roar.

Anyway, back to the point.

Here's how the conversation would have gone, had I a roar:

"Hey, April!"
"What?"
"Put that hamster down and get over here!"
"It's not a hamster, it's the Holy Grail, which I've quested for."
"Oh. Well, I have a real neat idea: You name your kid Nikolai Volkoff!"
"No...that's stup..."



"Okay, okay. We'll name him Nikolai Volkoff....you're such a baby..."

It would be just that easy.

ReRun Booby Thoughts

Anybody else floored that the whole Janet Jackson flashing incident was Six (6) years ago? I posted this a day or two after the incident (which I didn't see live, as I note...we'd flipped over to a showing of Independence Day, apparently. For the record, Independence Day is still preferable to anything Sean Combs does.

From February of 2004:

My Last Thoughts on the Booby (for Today)

You know, we're watching a violent game. That's a given, right? Where 300 pound men run in to each other several times over the course of the hour.

Played by players who were given preferential treatment all through their schooling....some of whom can barely read beyond a first grade level, yet were given a free ride through our educational system all the way to the college level based on their ability to catch a ball or run into another guy really, really good.

Also, these guys are getting paid six and seven figures a season to do what they do. Some of them will get more money this season than the greatest majority of teachers, firefighters, policemen and women, almost anybody serving in the armed forces, or even most doctors, will see over the course of their lifetimes.

And, without a doubt, a few of these men constantly push the envelope of acceptable behavior as far as how they conduct their chemical supplementation and their home lives.

What's more, the television broadcast of the game is paid for by ads for alcohol, movies that contain scary and violent images, and two different drugs that help people get and maintain erections. We even had a commercial (my personal favorite) where the girls in bikinis are playing volleyball on a beach in winter time, and at the end, they curse!!!!!! (damn).

Yet, an FCC Commissioner calls the Janet Jackson flash an outrage (quote borrowed from Mark Evanier):

F.C.C. Commissioner Michael Powell says, "I am outraged at what I saw during the halftime show of the Super Bowl. Like millions of Americans, my family and I gathered around the television for a celebration. Instead, that celebration was tainted by a classless, crass and deplorable stunt. Our nation's children, parents and citizens deserve better."

Well, Michael, I'm sorry that your high and holy celebration of the ignorant and violent erection and beer ceremony was tainted by a brief flash of Janet Jackson's booby. Just so you know, the Super Bowl in general is a crass and classless stunt. That's part of why I like it: in the sports world, the Super Bowl and the NBA players' entrances are the closest things we have to Pro Wrasslin' in the "real sports" world.

I should add that Bill thinks what we should be worried about is the whole misconception of the breast that our children will have now because of this.

Personally, I wasn't wanting to celebrate America or have a high and holy day with the Super Bowl. I just wanted to watch a football game. (A pretty decent game, but one I just couldn't get an emotional stake in, so I ended up not caring a whole bunch....)

Now. Let's all shut up about this, and focus on what's really important:

Baseball Season starts in two months.

Thoughts on a Monday Afternoon

Hello, and welcome to February. My name is Tommy, and I enjoy wearing pants, and other pieces of clothing. This is simply a rambling post, and I invite you to wander with me....

Not much on my mind. I've wandered through a rare couple of days without obligation, and let me tell you that it does wonders for the disposition, at the very least, and very likely much for the soul.

My little corner of Southeast Tennessee has fought its way through Snowpocalypse 2010. The final results? Five inches of snow, which, believe it or not, managed to stick around longer than 5 hours. It may not sound like much, but it's enough to turn Southeast Tennessee into the south's home for the criminally retarded. The last day of work, which resulted in the top business day in more than a decade for my store, went relatively smoothly (with the exception of once incident, where yours truly was cursed....I'd say it's probably not wise to expound upon such things here, suffice it to say the way you treat retail and service staff is generally the best reflector of the type of person you are at heart).

Roads were an issue, and I'll say that my drive home, some 30 miles, was slow, but uneventful, aside from one What-the-Fuck-is-That moment where the lights on a road grader being used to shove snow to one side of the road made absolutely no sense to me as I approached it up Highway 11.

I didn't crap my pants. I call the day a win.

Not much to report on Saturday, minus the successful acquisition of Indian food on Saturday night. If you're having a rough day, I very much recommend a steaming plate of lamb korma.

Sunday saw a trip down into Atlanta. I figured I needed to go scream my head off at a wrestling event. There are a couple of pictures I took that I'll put up, as soon as I can remember where I've left my file transfer cable. I think one will speak volumes as to why the WWE needs to put their cart behind C.M. Punk to pull them into the next half a decade or so. The man, ostensibly a heel, had the crowd eating out of the palm of his hand. The man's maybe the best heel the company's seen since Macho Man or Piper in their heydays.

One other minor revelation: I do not need a Dave & Buster's anywhere near me. It's like Showbiz pizza for grownups. Substitute beer for the animitronic singers, and suddenly, you've got a 6'4" goofball going ticket crazy. I'd blow my paycheck trying to win a flexible piano and hire Robert Loggia to play Chopsticks. I didn't see him on the wall, but I'm fairly sure you can hire Robert Loggia, with enough skeeball tickets.

The first Monday of February was spent wandering around changing services for cable and arranging new payment of bills. I've changed my cable so that the only service I receive is the internet. I figure that between work and Netflix, I'm watching all of 3 hours of teevee a week. And the vast majority of what I watch on TV, I can get off the internet or DVD down the road. I'm cancelling TiVo, too. As much as I dig the service, the above statement still applies.

I do this in full recognition that Lost starts again tomorrow. It's one that I can catch online. Sometimes, I miss stuff online, but I can't see paying the 54 bucks or so I'm saving a month just for Lost. Considering I'll be able to pick up the DVDs around Christmas for around half that.

Just restructuring a few finances here and there. Biggest reason is that I'd like to take a vacation or two this year. I've talked with a couple fellow bloggers about meeting up across the mid-west, and out on the west coast. I'd like to hit a couple different baseball stadiums this year, put some faces with names that I've read for years (and years, in a couple of cases...). Just feel like I'd rather pay for that stuff than pay for television I'm not watching (or fast foot that's only making it hard to fit into a decent-sized pair of pants...still doing well with the no-fast food, last night's post Rumble trip to Mickey D's aside).

Anyway. Not much else on my mind. Just putting some words on paper to get them out of my head.

Y'all take it easy.