Kobe's Heel Turn?

Bill Simmons, over on ESPN's Page 2, suggests that Kobe "turn heel" and embrace his notoriety. That would work, except (yes, I'm about to pretend this suggestion was serious) that heel or face, you have to have charisma to get over. I've seen Kobe in interviews. He's got all the mic skills of Steve Blackman. Frankly, Kobe would probably come off more as Bob Holly than Hollywood Hogan if turned heel.

But then, I'm just a wrestling nerd. What do I know?

In your face, Patriots fans! Tom Brady could not save you!

And to the Steelers fans out there: you're welcome. Use the home-field advantage to your, um, advantage.

Yeah, I know, this is just the third win of the season. You gotta take your opportunities to gloat whenever they come. This is the best thing to come from this shitty season. Could not have happened to a better team.

Proof that Girls are Evil.

The question is, how does Ice Cube's assertion that "life ain't nothin' but bitches and money" fit here? Any of you math gangstas want to figure this out?

There's a live music review over at my music blog. Check it out, if'n you're so inclined. And then go buy Panopticon (which I'm listening to as I type this; another benefit of having a boss on vacation).

Say, have you heard of this viral marketing thing?

(See what I did there? Well, you will after you read the article, which requires a login because it's a NY Times piece.)

This bit from Shake on Aqua Teen Hunger Force (in the episode "Moon Master") is so ridiculous it's almost sublime:

"What's it called? Anal Blazer? 'Cause that's what you like to play, over and over, don't you? You know how to play it? I'll tell you. Level one's in a truckstop filled with lonely truckers! Level two's in a public restroom along the highway."

The fact that there would be a game called "Anal Blazer" nearly made me Danny Kaye my drink all over the place, but Shake's description of the levels just put it over the top. That, friends, is commitment to a bit.

Speaking of ATHF, Volume 3 of the series is now available. Go out and get some.

Hope all of you good people out there had a great Thanksgiving, however, and with whomever, you chose to celebrate. To my friends who read this, I am thankful for your wit and intelligence, because it enhances mine by association. (Ha!) Sorry, but there was no way I was going to sneak in some sentimentality without the requisite cheekiness.

I thought I had more to say, but apparently not. Hmm. Don't that beat all.

Oh wait, there is one thing: the new commercial for Jenga (with the father about to jump on top of a human pyramind comprised entirely of children) is hilarious, in the same way that Jack Black kicking a dog off of a bridge is hilarious. It's great when advertising doesn't completely suck.

Now I'm done.

Just Because

Jerry Springer: The Opera?

Reports that the production was to be called Jerry Springer in The Magic Skin Flute are completely unfounded.

Also, many critics are already starting to sing the opera's praises, saying it is "cut from the same cloth as Boito's Mefistofele" and that it is "a worthy successor to the works Britten or Rossini."

I love this game!

Man, the one time you don't want them to suspend Ron Artest, look what happens.

I'll say it up front: Ron Artest is a knucklehead. Always has been. There's no real justification for him going into the stands.

Yet, somewhat guiltily, I'm glad he did. I just wish there would have been a good few minutes of a breathtaking beatdown before being pulled off. Because, quite frankly: fuck the fans.

Yes, it was just a cup of ice. Yes, he should have just let security handle it. I'm not saying he's right. I'm just saying the fans need a good asswhuppin, and I wish they had let Artest uncage some serious violence, because jackass fans--far more than spoiled athletes--are ruining sports in this country. Hell, I won't even stop at sports: any form of live entertainment is being ruined by fans who think that the price they overpaid for admission entitles them to behave like a bunch of savages. Well fuck the lot of them. I just wish that the cup of ice had been thrown at Shaq. Not because I want to see Shaq suspended for the season, or because I wish him any ill will, but because the violence Shaq would unleash would have been hilarious and I don't see too many people in an NBA arena being able to peel Shaq off before he does damage.

And I do not even want to hear people say that professional athletes should be held to a higher standard. Any other time, people want to see athletes be humble, be like the "rest of us." They want them to pay for their crimes just like anybody else. (Just ask anybody who is still seeing red over the OJ verdict; you know they're out there.) Yet, when these athletes have a very real and human reaction, as Artest did, we expect them to be above the norm, turning the other cheek. Well, you can't have it both ways. I certainly am not repulsed by Artest's actions, idiotic though they were.

What kills me is that, not only did this fan not get the asswhipping he so deserved, he will probably try to sue Artest and get some money out of it. Yet, there's absolutely nothing that Artest can do to hurt this person financially as much as Artest is getting hurt already. That's a shame.

While the punishment meted out by David Stern are not likely to be reduced upon appeal, I would like to suggest a way to handle future cases of fan jackasserie.

If a player is hit with any foreign object thrown by a fan, the player (or players) who is hit should immediately request a video replay of the incident. You can call it a "player challenge" or something. Naturally, this would require more video surveillance of the crowd, but I don't think that should be a problem, what with all the money the league makes with suspensions and such. Once the unruly fan has been singled out on video, he should have his face put up on the Jumbotron, with the caption "Waste of Space" underneath. Then, he should be escorted down to the floor, where he must face his victim. The victim will then be given an option: strike the fan (but earn a three-game suspension) or give the fan a chance to apologize or (now strap in for funny!) soil himself. Then the fan should be kicked out of the building and barred from further events at the arena for at least one year. Before each future event, they should play a slideshow of all fans who have been banned. Any fan who spots one of these offenders in the crowd should be urged to turn him in for a small cash reward (about $500). If a barred individual is turned in at an event, he should be prosecuted for criminal trespass. And, for comedy purposes only, if the banished individual is at the same event (ie, he was banned during a Pacers game and is spotted at another Pacers game), if his victim is in attendance, the offender should be brought to the floor again, and this time, kicked square in the nuts by his previous target.

And if the offender is a woman, each arena can keep the city's, biggest, baddest bulldyke on call to administer punishments, if necessary. Heck, they could generate some serious cash by making the competition for "Female Guardian of Fan Integrity" a live event. I know I'd pay to see it.

This could be bigger than Elf Bowling and Frog Blender.

Um, yeah.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am now a proud owner of The Real Rip Taylor CD. (Thank you, Jim O!)

Cue hilarity! And please crack up!

You know, I rarely get over to Modern Humorist these days. Anyway, behold: The Britney Papers.

Loser.

I don't think they could have used a worse grab. He looks like an even bigger douchebag than usual.

Vaya con dios, Wanny. Perhaps if you get another shot at coaching, you'll actually care enough about the offense to let someone else run it.

And thank the maker that Huizenga and Spurrier have both said that the latter will not be a candidate for the Dolphins job. I would have had to start smacking fools just for living if that happened. If we're going to remain defensive-minded, why not Romeo Crennel? Brad Childress is another possibility, since he has experience with A.J. Feeley when he was up in Philadelphia. Personally, I'd like to see an offensive-minded guy in Miami, like Mike Heimerdinger or Al Saunders. Sure, they're an offensive line and a running back away from being able to accomplish things on that side of the ball, but having a coach in place who can work with what he has on offense until better players arrive is a big step in the right direction.

Of course, I would like to see the Dolphins go the way of the Redskins and go back to the future: Don Shula as "new" head coach!

So I was checking through my Sitemeter stats, and one of the referrals was from Technorati's political post index. It was listed under "Recent Posts from Liberal Bloggers." I had no idea I was a Liberal Blogger. I mean, I am a Blogger, and I am Liberal, but I've never been terribly explicit about it in my blog. Perhaps it was my endorsement of Rip Taylor that got me classified as such. It certainly isn't my association with hipster Republicans.

And another thing:

Vote or Die.

Thank you.

Today's random internet find: Blum Blum Shub. My new band name.

A quick rundown of the past few days:

Friday: nothing. End of the long work week. I went to the gym Friday night.

Saturday: helped JG move into his new digs. Very nice bachelor pad he's got going on now. Mit fireplace! Solid. After we (JG, CO, RF, and I) finished, we went to Lone Star for a few beers. At the point, Mrs. O picked up Mr. O, while the rest of us headed toward southern MD to return the U-Haul. We get it returned, then get ourselves to RF's very Shag round house, where we got ourselves showered (man, we were busted after that move). After a bit of chilling, we make our way to Wal-Mart so JG could pick up a couple of things for the house, then we went to dinner (Ruby Tuesday's style), and finally finished up the evening at The Green Door. RF did us a big solid by being the DD, so that JG and I could get our drink on. As always, a good time was had, making a nice cap on a long, long day. We crashed at RF's, with JG and I talking trash about fantasy football before we finally just crashed.

Sunday: wake up and JG and I get our asses in gear back to Alexandria, where I am deposited at the Braddock Road Metro stop. Now, let me say that I wasn't particularly rehydrated, didn't get much sleep (maybe 6 hours), and didn't shower before leaving RF's. Now, while I'm not in a bad mood, I'm certainly not feeling completely alive.

And this is where the fun begins. First, I put my Metro card into the machine and it jams. So I have to a wait a minute or so for the manager to get over and open the card reader and fetch my card. Just long enough for me to see the Yellow line train pull away. That's fine, I'll catch a blue and then I won't have to transfer. Next blue line is in 6 minutes. So I give CO a call to find out how his wife was doing in the Marine Corps Marathon, with the hopes that I can catch her at some point. We talk until right before the Blue line comes. It's just before 11:00 when I board. At noon, we're just about to pull into the Crystal City metro stop. For those of you unfamiliar with the Metro system, that's just two stops away from Braddock Road, which is usually covered in five minutes. It seems I had the good fortune to get on the train that would get stuck for about 40 minutes just outside the Ronald Reagan National Airport stop due to a failure in the system grid (or whatever). Fuck. Now, I have my headphones on, so the time isn't really spent with my thumb up my ass. But after about 20 minutes of not moving, of false starts that shake the train enough that it feels like it might derail (and we're suspended probably a good 25 feet above ground where the train was stuck on the track), my mood does a nosedive into the black. Completely infuriated, particularly because of my Metro card had not been jammed, I would have been able to board the last train to get through before the system decided to go into the shitter. After 45 minutes, we are slowly pulled back to Braddock Road by another train, where my fellow passengers and I are able to switch to a Yellow line train. Or Green. Or Orange. See, the electronic marquee announcing arrivals said it was a green line. The outside of the train said it was an Orange line. But the conductor said it was a Yellow line. So we take off on whatever color train (it was a Yellow, based on the route), get to National Airport without a hitch...then stop. We hold in the station for about five or ten more minutes. Finally, at 12:20--80 minutes later on what is usually a 25-30 minute ride tops, with transfer--I get off at the Farragut North metro stop. Some of the rage had dissipated at this point, as all I wanted to do now was get home, shower, and watch a little football. Unfortunately, I was in no mood to go back out and see Mrs. O, wherever she was at that time.

Here I am, a shower, nap, two football games, and a dinner later blogging about the nonsense. I feel much, much better. I cannot believe tomorrow is November 1st. Worse, it's a work day. Still, I just popped Caddyshack in, and Rodney is making his first appearance as I type this sentence. Hilarious. "This is my guest Mr. Wang--no offense."

Finally: good luck to Mr. O, as you embark on NaNoWriMo.

If only this were in Badtz-Maru. (Link found at Jinjur)

So, so small.

This is on right now. I can't believe the Emmanuelle series has come to this. Had Jim Varney lived, I'm sure we would have seen Ernest Does Emmanuelle. Somewhere, Hoot Gibson is weeping about this lost opportunity.

I've chosen Richard Pryor instead. I believe I've made the right call.

Tucker Carlson vs. Jon Stewart: Fall Brawl

STEWART: You know, the interesting thing I have is, you have a responsibility to the public discourse, and you fail miserably.

CARLSON: You need to get a job at a journalism school, I think.

STEWART: You need to go to one.

Gold!

Christopher Reeve dies at age 52.

RIP, Superman.

(Another reason I'm going to hell: the first image to enter my head is of the fetus-sucking Christopher Reeve from a recent episode of South Park. That episode is hilarious, but I am terrible.)

Farewell, Rodney. You weren't the greatest rapper, but you were certainly one of the funniest men alive.

(Rodney was my father's favorite comedian. I hope Big Lou is holding up okay.)

Check it out, people. My endorsement (and my buddy MC's comment on said endorsement) is actually being used on the The Real Rip Taylor Rap Song CD web site. Woo hoo! Who knew the genius of Rip Taylor would pay such dividends for this here blog?

So, I only have to wait five more years before The Tonight Show is watchable again. Not soon enough, if you ask me. Fuck Jay Leno.

Gold!

Well, now I know what to get everyone for the holidays.

The Sect of Homokaasu - The Gematriculator

Uselessness stolen from GC. Behold:

I finally get British humour. Too bad it's only tongue-in-cheek. This could be the best thing to happen to art since, um...since...soup cans?

(C) 2004 Scott R. Kurtz

You know, I used to be a hardcore Star Wars nerd, and still consider myself a fan despite the now-tarnished "legacy" (fuckin' Jar-Jar). But I'm starting to find my fellow Star Wars fans to be more intolerable than the changes being made to the movies themselves. Look, if you still have the original, unblemished versions on tape, pop those in and enjoy. But to piss and moan because the new movies aren't as good as the originals (duh) or because Lucas keeps fucking with his movies is pointless. Despite your ability to recite the movies in your sleep and make your genitalia look just like Bib Fortuna, they are not YOUR movies. Let it go. Jesus.

Now I'm depressed. It sucks to lose a hero. RIP, Mr. Meyer. If heaven is anything like I picture it, you should be right at home.

Oh, for crying out glayven!*

*Note: Not Simpsons related, merely nerd related. The use of Frink, therefore, is appropriate.

Sustained.

The World's Shortest Blog

Ridiculous and hilarious. If my site didn't make it abundantly clear, this makes it official: there are too many blogs.

3-0, fool! What?!

Strangely, I feel no different. I think when you jettison artificial deadlines for your goals in life, milestone birthdays such as this are neutered for the most part. I don't feel old. I don't feel unaccomplished. (Not to say neither is true, I just do't feel it.) I'm just one year closer to being able to legally date women "half my age." And that can only be a good thing.

I don't feel like I'm getting stodgy, either. My tastes have not ossified/pussified. I actually feel better conditioned, physically, than I have in quite some time. And, of course, my pimp hand is stonger than ever. Intelligence remains low, but confidence creeps ever higher.

Anyway, the intent here is not shameless self-promotion/deprecation (well, not with this post; obviously, this blog, like most personal blogs, is a big fucking vanity project). Just a few meager ruminations on turning thirty. I'm the first in my group of friends (at least local friends; my out-of-towners all beat me to it) to hit this mark, and it's not as earth shattering as I once imagined.

I think today, because I can, I will use this phrase wrecklessly (complete with mock-Japanese accent): "Please to moustache ride?"

And the countdown is on...

T-Minus 117 minutes and counting.

Will this spell the end of my tenure with my current employer?

And if so, is Damian Vegas gonna have to choke a bitch?

DOOOOOM!

So, a strike seems inevitable. Oh well. The only positive I see from this is the remote possibility that some of the managers in this place could suffer from some hot, picket-line violence. I want to see cars overturned, baby!

In semi-related news, I may resign from my position before this week (day?) is up. When you become increasingly furious as you walk to work, you know it's time to change jobs.

Stuck To ODB

Like you clowns won't watch this.

Outstanding.

Only the first part of this applies to me.

I haven't heard anything official, but I'm pretty sure the strike is a-happening.

If the hell that was my day on Friday didn't make me more sympathetic to the cause, a flyer that was posted by union members today surely did. I don't have it here (I thought about picking one up to scan, but I did not want any union members to think I was trying to silence their voice), and describing wouldn't do it justice. Needless to say, it was a parody that was, if not worthy of The Onion, at least as good as The Modern Humorist.

I think I may have quoted this before, but this line is still gold:

"Well aren't you little crackers just as cute as the dickens."

Ahhhh...good evening. Boozin' mit JG and Los O's. Slept past my metro stop. Fortunately, I woke up at the stop after, and there was a train going in the other direction at the next station.

Now I'm here, eating a KitKat and watching South Park. This much I know: no showering for me tonight. It's just not worth the risk.

Surprise of the night: not one hooker spotted on my way home. I must have hit the lull time before they're out in force, which should be in about 20 minutes or so.

Bedtime soon.

Football season is here, folks. And it already sucks. (For me, anyway. Fuckin' Dolphins.)

"Buncha savages in this town.

Lord, help me...

I can't get "Love Shack" out of my head. And it's not even the whole song, just the goofy Fred Schneider bits.

Dammit!

For Greg.

Now that's what I call special sauce....

Booooo!

The weekend, prior:

Friday: Dinner with mother and youngest sister out in Maryland. A little bit of shopping (finally replaced my ghettotastically beat-up wallet) and some clothes from mom (six new shirts, and none of them suck. Go mom!) later and it's back home. I de-boarded the Metro sometime around 12:45am, meaning that it was too early for K St. Hooker saturation, though I did pass one who was built like Will Sasso. (And this time, that's not a compliment.)

Saturday: down to Alexandria to meet with JG for a trip to South Central PA (not nearly as gangsta as that sounds) for a birthday party. Los O's followed us up there, as well. A good time was had, with plenty of cooked flesh and beer to sate our lusty needs. Beer pong is an okay game at which to suck (as I do) if, and only if, you're playing against people who don't. Otherwise, it can be a Bataan Death March with no beer consumption to speak of.

That night, shortly apres the departure of Mr. and Mrs. O, JG and his crew and I went to another house (read: the beer had run dry!) for more beer consumption. We also played a little 'Hole, watched some TV (split action between college football and Chappelle's Show), burned things (well, that was mostly MH) and got some more food into us. For the record, Domino's may not do pizza very well, but their wings are pretty decent.

Sunday: after crashing at JW's spot, he and I (and Goose!) hit a diner for breffuts. An eggs benedict later, we're back at JW's watching the DVD section of Triumph the Insult Comic Dog's hilarious Come Poop With Me. Soon after, JG arrives to haul my sorry ass back to DC. On the way, we make the stop: Hoss's. Boy howdy, is that good eatin'! An hour and change later, I'm being bundled onto the Metro, soup (homemade, from the family JG) and sleepover bag in hand. The rest of the day was spent melded to my PS2 with some HSG:F! action.

Monday, I give to you in haiku form.

Virginia suburb
Fried chicken and The Simpsons
Drama by Dick Wolf.

And that's it...

"I'm a firm believer in the philosophy of a ruling class. Especially since I rule." This could either be genius or tragic. Only time will tell.

Speaking of ruling geniuses, I believe I'll own this year's fantasy football for once. If the powers that be are going to curse me with a poo-poo Dolphins team, the least they could do is hook me up with a fat fantasy football payoff. Deuce McAllister to glory, bitches!

Now if you'll go excuse me, I have a little nasal drip to attend to.

So I'm sitting here, watching the 25 greatest moments in sports or whatever this fucking show on ESPN is called (Ed. Note: it's called "The Headlines"), and it's the one about Tiger Woods winning The Masters. Anyway, it's very well put together, hitting all the requisite highs and lows, and just after one of the more serious moments in the program, we get commentary on Tiger by Luther Campbell. Yes, 2 Live Crew's Luther Campbell. It was so ridiculous that I let out a shrill, Krabappel "ha!" when his face came on the screen. Classic.

More appropriate for my other blog, but since this one gets more traffic...

You Have Bad Taste in Music

Are you listening to me? Because I'm about to unload!

So, I really hope that Lil Jon opens up a school for backup singers someday.

Thaitanic has quality food. And the decor (especially the bar stools) is quite shag. CLJO, take note. Best of all, it's located right around the block from me.

Have started waking up at six in the morning to hit the gym before work. I'm getting more sleep, I'm getting to work earlier, meaning I'm getting OUT of work earlier. And on evenings where I don't have plans: two-a-days!

I like saying "Errrybody." Curse you, J-Kwon!

Finally finished up Breath of Fire: Dragon Quarter. Good game. Not the best balance, but that's sort of the intent, considering the overlay system of restarting/restoring games. I can't imagine people making it through the game without a few restores. But apparently, they do. Geeks.

"Hello? Dr. Cheesesteak? We require one sandwich. With 40 ccs of cheesesteak, stat. With an infusion of medical sauce."

Hot Shots Golf Fore! is out. Will probably be purchased this weekend.

I cannot wait until football season actually starts for real. You know, when Chris Simms will be taking his rightful spot on the bench and I won't have to deal with names like Kordell Stewart unless there's a rash of injuries.

I still contend that Tony Shalhoub's greatest role was in Quick Change.

"Hey, martial arts fan. Are you ready to get your guts kicked out?"

Okay, now I'm bored with the two-bit Larry King routine. Bedtime.

sincerely,
Damian "Thunder Kick" Vega$

Can anybody tell me where I can get my hands on a Carlos Arroyo jersey?

What does it all mean?

The US got beat. I don't want to hear, "they didn't beat us, we lost the game." No, you got beat. Plain and simple. And the final score should not have been as close as it was.

This is not a punk US team deserving the whupping they got. There's a misconception that any team of NBA pros has got to be full of egotistical lunkheads. That can be true, but it really isn't in this case. With the exception of Iverson, this is a team of quality character players. And say what you will about AI, but considering how many other elite players couldn't find the courage to represent, he deserves at least a slap on the back for going to Greece.

The best players in the US have really lost touch with some of the fundamentals (shooting a jumper, especially) of the game. There are still some players in the US who value the jump shot (Rip Hamilton, for one), but increasingly, it seems this is a mostly lost art. High school kids jumping to the pros without learning these fundamentals from college coaches is not helping, either. But that's a whole other rant.

All of that being said, international competition just isn't as close as the events of the last few weeks (and the sports columnists spreading the word) would indicate. Without taking anything from any of the other countries, let's face facts: they are not facing Shaq, Kobe, Garnett, Vince Carter, etc. I'm sorry, but I've yet to see any team--international or otherwise--that has an answer for Shaquille O'Neal. And as much as the rest of the world has raised their game, I find it hard to believe that any team on Earth could hang with a starting five of Kobe Bryant, Shaquille O'Neal, Kevin Garnett, Ben Wallace and Allen Iverson. Maybe some international coalition of all-star players (Nowitzki, Yao, Stojakovic, etc.), but not one individual country. But the fact is, those players are not here, and the US did not raise the level of their game to match the expectations and reputation surrounding "US Basketball" on an international stage. It's one thing to say you're good (Los Angeles Lakers), it is something else to go out and prove it (Detroit Pistons).

Much love for Puerto Rico. They showed what being a tenacious, fundamentally sound team can do. I hope they go far.

If I Can Be Serious For A Moment...

Just a brief entry to thank those people who sent good thoughts or otherwise wished my sister well for her surgery, which was completed successfully yesterday at Johns Hopkins. As of this writing, she is awake (but in pain, obviously) and her vitals look good. So, barring any post-surgical complications, she should be on the road to recovery.

Thanks again. The madcap hilarity that usually fills this space will return anon.

I missed my calling.

Bric-a-brac

Had dinner with Big Lou (my father, for the uninitiated) last night. Came home with lumpia, stuffed shrimp, pansit, and fresh cantaloupe and pineapple. Delicious.

Went on a bit of a music binge yesterday as well. Some solid additions to the collection, I'd say.

Also picked up ESPN NFL 2K5 this weekend. No, it's not Madden, but it's supposed to be nearly as good. And for $19.99, it's worth the risk.

And while we're on the topic of games, here are a few titles (I've done this before, I think, but can't find it in the archives) on the horizon that I think would make wonderful additions to the library of any PS2 owner.

Hot Shots Golf: Fore! This will be out in a mere 10 days and looks like it has far surpassed HSG3 on every level.

Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas Yeah, I'm one among millions awaiting the release of this game. I've yet to read one bad thing about the game. The setting this time around is actually split between three cities. The cities are based on Los Angeles, San Francisco and Las Vegas. Rockstar Games have gone out of their way to up the realism quotient, allowing you to customize the lead character by way of visiting barber shops, tattoo parlors and what you eat. That's right, diet is important to the gameplay here. I wonder if they considered making buying condoms an option before you pick up a hooker. Honestly, while I like the fact that they are trying to add realism to the game, I think it might be unnecessary, and possibly a distraction as far as the whole eating element is concerned. I mean, leave that shit to The Sims, a'ight?

Silent Hill 4 I honestly don't know why I'm looking to pick this up, because I haven't played SH2 or SH3. But I want to, and I want to play this as well. I think I should probably get one of the other titles, first, though, to make sure the series hasn't fallen off.

Metal Gear Solid: Snake Eater The last two MGS titles for the Playstation (not including the VR Mission training games) have been spectacular, and I expect nothing less from this installment.

Sly Cooper 2: Band of Thieves I bought the first Sly Cooper when it was a Greatest Hit and I loved the game. Yeah, it was a bit too easy, but the art was fantastic (I love cel-shaded games), the characters were fun, and the gameplay was enjoyable. I actually watched a demo of this playing in the store today and it looks great. I'm sure it's not much harder, but who cares? Fun is fun, no matter how much you have to work for it.

Star Wars: Battlefront I honestly don't know too much about this game yet, but they have been on a bit of a roll with their recent Star Wars titles (the Starfighter games, Knights of the Old Republic) and I'm a Star Wars mark, so there it is.

WWE: Smackdown vs. Raw Speaking of being a mark. Okay, I guess you have to be a wrestling fan to be looking forward to this. But I swear, if you look at the Smackdown games as just another "fighting" game, it more than holds its own. Always a great game with immense replay value. But again, I guess you'd have to be a wrestling fan to enjoy replay.

And did you know they're making a game for Reservoir Dogs? Well they are. Don't know if this will be good or not. Chances are no, but we'll see.

If you don't buy this right away, there is really something wrong with you. (Found courtesy of Rip Taylor dot com)

Now the US can finally see Vincent Gallo get his suck off. The Brown Bunny will be showing at the E Street Cinema here in D.C. on September 10th. You know, I think I'll just look for the minute or so worthwhile footage from this film on the internet and save the $10. Still, kudos to Mr. Gallo for being able to pull this off.

I now have a reason to keep blogging! This is an interesting concept, if ultimately nothing more than a creative time killer. I can't believe such a site exists. And hey, I have a shareholder! She bought 4000 shares of The Experience. (Sorry boys, the only one among you who also has a shareholder is SR. Keep blogging!)

And for those who read about my MCCXXIII dilemma: I opted not to go. I did wind up going to Mexicali Blues with Mr. and Mrs O., who were joined by some friends o' the missus. A good time was had, especially as the laughter I induced in Mr. O led to pain in his leg.

Some things I don't get...

Guys who wear buzzcuts/flattops with absolutely no military affiliation.

The popularity of televised poker. I love poker, but to me, it's one of those things that is much more enjoyable to play, but maddeningly dull to watch on TV.

People who think Van Halen was better with Sammy Hagar. I just saw a commercial for Best of Both Worlds, which features the best of Hagar-era and Roth-era VH. In the commercial, they alternate clips of songs from each era, and it's no contest that the Diamond Dave era was far superior.

UPN still exists? C'mon, did they give Fox this long to fail miserably? They should pull the plug on this awful network. Case in point: this abomination. Not to mention they tried to revive Dan Cortese's career. For that act of insanity alone they should have their broadcast license revoked.

***

In other news, I'm going to MCCXXIII tomorrow after work. Well, I'm tentatively going. I've been invited, I've said yes, but I think I'm going to back out. The reasons? One, money. Even though it's just a $15 cover for open bar from 5-9 (plus tips, of course), I'd still rather save the money for something else, clothes in particular. Two, my rule about not mixing work with pleasure. These are my boys, true, but I'm still trying to keep a clear demarcation between the hotel and my home life. I fear the slippery slope this could introduce. Three, it's MCCXXIII. This flies in the face of my "fuck any club with a velvet rope" personality. Four, and this isn't really an issue (I don't think) but I like the possibility, nonetheless, violence. Considering my showing during the bar crawl a couple of weeks back, the fact that I'm going to hate 95% of the people in this joint and it is practically an open bar for five hours, well, the chance of a drunken, violent outburst, no matter how remote, is there. Especially if one of the hated 95% turns out to include some unsavory co-workers who have been known to frequent MCCXXIII on occasion.

Oh, I'm feeling nerdy: I seriously think I might have to make this. I know I'll likely have no takers among the Entourage, but I'm putting it out there anyway, in case anybody needs to know my whereabouts on the weekend of October 2. Though, how dull do you have to be to turn down a chance to meet one of the stars of Tron?

(This was found when I was checking out the minibosses site to see if they might be playing on this coast any time soon. And sure enough, they will be at MagFest. Thanks again to CLJO for clue-ing me in on this band. This almost makes you a credible hipster. Ha!)

Snippet of my current conversation

ML: ...I also saw The Stepford Wives.
Me: Ugh, why would you see that?
ML: Because I didn't know it would suck ass worse than any movie ever!

What kind of fucking morons would claim responsibility for this?

The Return of the Great Assholio (pt. ii)

So, we leave Lulu's and head to Porters. This is another establishment that nobody had been to before. We get in, grab a beer, and kinda hang back by this area at the end of the bar near the door. Then, we decide (and I may be mistaken, but I believe this was prompted by a skirt) to make our way back. I get a slight separation between myself and the boys, which is just enough not to see where they go. I choose wrong, of course, and go downstairs. As it turns out, it was only wrong in the sense that this was not where the boys were. I found out, upon our reunion, that it was definitely more happening than the upstairs route they took. Anyway, we return to the floor on which we entered and found a nice spot near a beam and these benches along the wall. We basically just surveyed the scene, with me taking a break to "sing" along to "Kiss" (by Prince) when it came on. We officially declared it "dead" (ha!) shortly after and left. Our next stop: Sign of the Whale, right around the corner.

Oh yeah...

So, we get there, passing the Madhatter (just next door), which has a ridiculously long line coming out of its roughly Fotomat sized interior. People, please. There are so many bars on this crawl, why not go find one where you are not constantly dry-humping strangers just to get close enough to the bar to ask for a shitty Bacardi O? Of course, SotW was not much better. We go in, and something just snapped in me. It may have been the music playing (fuck Bon Jovi, okay?), or (much more likely) my testosterone and alcohol levels were pushed into the red simultaneously. Whatever it was, I went kinda insane. I started screaming "can you believe all the guys in here with vaginas?" and "this place is packed wall to wall with pussy" and so forth. When I would pass some duck, I'd say (loud enough to be heard, mind you) "excuse me, miss" or "pardon me, ma'am." Unbelievably, nobody decided to play the role of tough guy. Not a one. And I found this, in my fabulously inebriated state, disappointing. I think I was really ready to deal on the first jackass who even looked at me cockeyed. At one point, while we're in the back, beers in hand, this clown walks by and I start to mock him with this little jig (if you've seen the movie So I Married An Ax Murderer, you should know the one I'm talking about; yes, I was so drunk I stooped to ripping off Mike Myers). Well, as I'm doing this, this cute girl and her friend ("I specifically requested...") walk by, and the girl starts dancing right at me. Then she comes up to me and tells me I have to flip my collar up...

(RANT: Okay, why in the world is this fucking fashion disaster back? I find it an atrocity and I think the precious men and women who have started flipping their collars up, in some futile effort to look fashion-minded, should be stoned in the street and then sterilized. Fucking wastes of blood and tissue, my lord...)

I tells her, I says "You have to give me one of those beads if you want me to do that." So she obliges. Being a man of my word, I flip it up, and she puts her arms around me so her friend can take a picture of us. Post photo, I immediately return the collar to its natural non-Queer Eye state, and ask her what she's doing the rest of the night. She said something drunkenly about drinking more (*swoon*) and going to another bar (possibly Lulu's) but now she had to go to the bathroom. Somewhere in all of this, she must have asked me for my name (or I offered it, who knows), because as she's coming back from the bathroom, she stops by and says "Damian, you have to keep this collar up" and she clumsily pulls it up, then walks off. After our beers are finished, it's back out into the night. Again, all the way out, whenever I have to press by a guy, it's "excuse me, miss" or "pardon me, ma'am." No takers. Oh well, that's probably for the best. Still, this is turning out to be a terrible "Year of the Bar Fight."

Oh yeah, re: the photo, CO stated "you know that's going to be on somebody's blog tomorrow." Ha! I can only wish for such immortality.

Once outside, we decide to head to The Front Page, up in Dupont Circle. I am definitely more calmed down now, though I'm still taking swipes at ducks here or there, including outside the men's room at FP, while waiting for JG to emerge, when I directed some dudes coming down the steps by saying "bathroom's this way, ladies."

We go upstairs, and we stand by the bar on the side of the establishment near the restrooms. There, we watch this totally trashed (and slightly trashy) girl gyrate sexily for her boyfriend. After a few minutes here, we walk to the other side, near the dancefloor and get some more beer in us. On this side, we watch another drunk girl freak this guy she's with at the bar. The way they were going it would lead one to believe that they were mere seconds away from one of those "beside the dumpster in the alley" fucks. But, when I went up (ha!) and asked the dude if he was going to be hitting that, he actually said he wasn't. Hilarious.

After our beer, we decided to leave again and go back to Lulu's, by which time things should have definitely picked up. And things were definitely livelier, but not in any major way. We grab the same table we were at the last time and got more beers. (Oh, this just came back to me: on one of the visits to Lulu's--I believe it was the first--I squirted a dollop of ketchup on my hand, a la the salt for a shot of tequila, and sucked it right off. What in the world was I thinking?) Unfortunately, I had backslid a bit into my misanthropy for the night, mocking some of the ducks that passed by our table. At this point, I believe the boys just gave up and withdrew a conversation about...something. War, cars, the price of tea in Kenya. Something. All I know is that after the discussion, I turned to CO and says to him, "So, who would win in a fight, Rommel or Francis Marion?" I'm pretty sure he came back with "I will stab you" or something like that. After hitting the head one more time, we decided to call it an evening. We parted ways at the exit of Lulu's, the boys heading to the Metro while I went home, stopping for McDonald's (again...ugh) on the way. I got home, killed the food, talked to EMT on the phone for a bit, and then crashed, waking up seven hours later to begin this day, which was an awesome outing with AK. I shall detail this soon, I suspect. Until then, read and laugh at my public shame. 'Nuff said!

++ DVX: THE DAMIAN VEGA$ EXPERIENCE ++

Sports note: congratulations Maria Sharapova for winning, in a most convincing fashion, your first Wimbledon. Kournikova with skills, indeed. Has anybody thought about what kind of response this final might have received in the 60s? A strong, black American woman taking on a Russkie? America's race issues pitted squarely against its patriotism? Comedy!

Check me out America...

I'm being an asshole!

Ahhhhh...Friday. What have we done to you?

The day was short (burned a bit of my overtime to leave early) but sweet, as we had thai food for lunch. That's solid, no? Anyway, I left work a bit early so I could meet up with JG and CO for a little bar crawl action. Despite my advanced age, this is, in fact, my very first bar crawl. And she was a solid one.

Things kicked off at Mackeys, a bar on L St., where the main registration was held. Registration was $13 on-site, or $10 with a couple of cans of food. Or, if you weren't lazy like I, you could have registered in advance for $7. Met JG at the metro, then we both met with CO, who was already at the bar. Registered, and the drinking was on. Stood outside with the other participants, packed neatly into the little patio area. Things of note from Mackeys:

There was a surprising lack of baseball caps (at least standing outside), save two guys with their Red Sox hats on. Believe me, these ducks embodied everything wearing such a chapeau would indicate.

"Circus ugly." Okay, I'm certainly not a GQ model, and it is mean to just be slamming random women, but there was a girl there who was just hideous, and became sort of the running joke of the night, as she wound up being at many of the bars at the same time as we (since there were a number of bars on the list, and there is no order of attendance, this is actually odd). She had a Mrs. Potato Head-thing going on. Sorry, but just thinking about her again makes me vurp. (See? Asshole!)

The guy at Recessions, next door and also part of the crawl, had a creepy, Everquest playing, van with tinted windows look going on. He was out there announcing "$2 shooters!" but was not getting much of a response. Shocker, no?

So after Mackeys, we bail on to Rumours, which is at the corner of 19th and M. Again, we got on the patio and just took it all in. Not a bad spot, especially when one of the dancers for Camelot walked by in all of her wonderful, beautifully fake (as opposed to "painfully fake"; I think we all know the difference) titted glory. Magnifico! We are eventually joined for a bit by CO's co-worker, T. Good guy, funny guy, nearly made me choke on my beer when he pointed out some old dude coming up the street (in my current, slightly hungover state, I cannot remember what he said about him). He eventually left with some femininas (friends of his) who did not want to pay the cover (all the bars were charging $5 covers if you had no wristband for the crawl). I should state that our selection of this venue was not entirely random, as JG spotted a couple of hot youngbloods on the patio that we had noticed at Mackeys. Sadly, I don't think we saw them the rest of the night. (I know I didn't.)

So once we're done with Mackey's, it's on to Lulu's, which is 23rd and M (I believe). On the way, we stop at McDonald's, so I can get a little bit of food into me (just a burger) and I called my mom, in a semi-inebriated state, to check on my sister, who is having some medical issues that are pretty common in my family. I should know by next Thursday (approx) what exactly is happening on that front. I have a feeling everything will be okay, but that doesn't dampen my concern any.

And now Lulu's. First, this was the first Lulu's experience for all of us, which is surprising considering we've all been in this area for the last 10-odd years. We probably would have gone on President's Day '03, as Girls Gone Wild was there, but that was also the weekend we got a couple of feet of snow dumped on us. I was stuck in Silver Spring for 4 days. Good times.

Second, it was really dead at that point. Lulu's was definitely going to be the finishing spot for the night. So after a beer, we beat it out of there. Nothing much to report from this establishment. Up next, Porters.

(I'm running out of time, as I'm about to meet with AK for a glorious day of fun, so I'll post this now and finish it later. Believe me, you do not want to miss that. Stay tuned, bitches!)

Jesus...I started this two weeks ago and I'm now just finishing it. Not that I have been working on it the whole time (obviously...could I have cut more corners), but that's still a long time to take on one goddamn post/recounting. Anywhere, here's some old shit:

(FYI: this narrative was started on 6/16/04)

Well, it was bound to happen. I got on the elevator, expecting it to go down instead of up. I then, without looking up, went to the apartment that I thought was mine and tried to fit the key into the lock...

Wait...when did 3s start looking like 5s? (Only when I'm in a bar wearing beer goggles. *rimshot*)

Thankfully, I didn't make a big fuss, jiggling the knob or what not. That could have been ugly. Or, a potential Penthouse Forum moment. Guess I'll never know.

Speaking of apartments in my building, I met the occupant of one a few doors down from me. Nice guy freshly moved in from Brazil, though, as I found out, he used to live in Rogers Park. I was just there visiting my goil EMT.

Hey! Transition! Huzzah!

(Totally unplanned, ladies and gentlemen. I'm just THAT good.)

And now, the trip.

Thursday (6/10): wake up after the second consecutive night of 5 hours of sleep, shower, throw the last things necessary for my trip into my bag, and I'm out the door. At the sound of the tone, the time will be: 8:15 am.

I get my Metro on and before I know it, I'm in glorious Ronald Reagan National Airport. I do the e-ticket check-in and am greeted with the message: "Your flight from Atlanta to Chicago is experience mechanical problems. Your new arrival time is now 3:16pm." So, I finish the check-in, give EMT (who will eventually meet me at the airport) a ring-a-ding and let her know what's what. Get to my gate, grab some breffuts (chocolate croissant and a bottle of water, bitch), and wait.

Fly to: Atlanta.

Atlanta's airport ain't bad. Easy to navigate, and I find my gate with no problem. Now I have some time to kill. About 2.5 hours, to be precise. So apres lunch (BK my way, fool!), I sit down in a primo spot for people watching, slip my headphones on, and kill time.

Ze women...they are, how you say, fizzine? That's right, French Snoop coming at ya.

Of course, just as my zone is about to board, the display now reads 3:40pm for arrival. Le sigh.

So after yet another call (voicemail), I'm back in the air, landing in Chicago sometime 'round...hey! 3:40! Good call.

(Already I've lost control of this narrative. And I'm starting to lose interest in typing it. But I shall press on...)

EMT and our cabbie Muhammad (not a joke; his actual name) pick me up just outside of where I claimed my bag. I load in and we're on the road. It's kinda rainy, but this does not deter Muhammad from playing slalom on the highway. Not in any overly dangerous way, but it was aggressive in an "out of my way, jerkass!" sort of deal. We make a stop at Superdawg for some most excellent vittles, then we're back off to EMT's where we finish our food, watch some Simpsons, then...nap. Between food and rain and travel and lack of sleep in general, sleep was inevitable. After a quick nap, more tv was watched (Game 3 of the NBA Finals), and dessert was craved. The solution: EMT bakes! Mmmmmm....pudding cake. And just as the cake finished baking, a couple of EMT's friends show up, with ice cream and cookies! Score!

So we all adjourned to the living room, the television was turned off (novel concept, that), and conversation was made. Well, the women made conversation. I kinda stared into space. But at least I wasn't the over-the-top chowderhead that I usually am. So I think, impression-wise, I broke even. After they left, EMT and I relived old times, then it was back to sleep.

That was Thursday.

Friday, I was roused from sleep by Hermione (who, with Ursula, comprise EMT's fabulous feline duo), who was nuzzling and licking the top of my head. Much to my surprise, the close proximity of said kitty did not send me into an allergic fit, which was my state for 95% of Thursday. So apres shower, we cab downtown (EMT is lugging a computer in to have cleaned by geek co-worker), drop my bags off in her office, and it's out into the city to explore.

What happened next? Lunch, walking, more walking, even more walking (all this walking, by the way, was mostly done on Michigan, Wabash, and State), and finally, some lost time in the Jazz Record Mart. Considering the amount of time spent inside this monument to all things good about music, that I walked away with only one CD seems a bit of a shame. (The CD, for those keeping score, was the Joe Morris/Mat Maneri album, Soul Search.)

By the time I finished in there, it was time to pick up my bags from Liz and get on the train to Midway, where I was meeting up with CLJO and JG, who were flying in. Said a quick goodbye to EMT (felt a bit too rushed, actually; wish I could have had more time with her) and dashed off. Well, I wasn't quite dashing, as my bags were pretty heavy. So it was really more like an amble than a dash. Anyway...

Got to the train station, made a couple of calls (returned calls to AK and CLJO), then boarded an orange line out to Midway. No wacky passengers to report, though, there was one ghetto lookin' white girl who was either wearing a thong or panties with the waistband frayed apart. (It was honestly hard to tell.) God bless her.

Arrived at Midway and was greeted by Mr. O. We exchanged pleasantries while awaiting the arrival of JG, who arrived perhaps 15 minutes after I. Soon after, our host for the weekend, GC, pulled into the parking lot. I turned to JG and said, GC "just pulling into a parking spot is hilarious." And so it we piled into the vehicle, noting that Mr. C was covered in grease, much to his dismay/chagrin/surprise. Well, not covered. But had a nice dollop of it on his shoulder, and a bit on his short pants. Totally inexplicable. (The shoulder blotch, anyway.)

And now, some fast-forward recounting of the drive:

"I'll kick you in the face!"

Fallen H on the Oaklawn Hilton.

(Formerly) one of the worst intersections ever.

Take the Reed Richards ass-cannon to that White Castle.

So this is where the Bill Swerski and the Superfans would be.

And so much more. See, this is one of the drawbacks of waiting nearly 2 weeks to recount this trip. So many fun details are lost. Next time, I'm bringing Edie McClurg to take notes. (Yes, that's a Back to School reference.)

Get back to GC's spot and just kinda crash. No, not nap time or anything. We just get ourselves situated and chill for a bit. But not long, as we're soon out the door to fill our bellies with delicious pizza, courtesy of...wait, let me think. Nino's, yes? (Correct me if I'm wrong, fellas. Damn my memory.) Wherever, it was mighty tasty. Much beer was consumed, I ogled me a nice young employee of this fine eating establishment, we spoke ill of the dead (the Reagan funeral was in full effect), and overall had ourselves a helluva good time. And if you eat there, I recommend the garlic bread. Now that's buttery!

After this, it was time for dessert. The answer? Why, a combo Dunkin Donuts/Baskin Robbins, of course! Ice cream and donuts? You betcha! And all served to us Ganesh twins. Delicious. But the best part happened in the parking lot, where a line floored me (and would continue to crack me up) for the duration of my stay:

"Check out Johnny Southside."

Mr. O, you have bested me yet again.

And it was true. Total Johnny Southside. The mustache, the open shirt, the shameless swagger, all there in spades.

We put away our desserts and roll back to the spot for some rest. I don't remember if we napped briefly, but I do remember going through Mr. C's music, as well as some solid Shotgun Charlie. (I'd explain, but I don't even know the genesis of this particular character. Let me just say it's fuh-diddly-uckin' hilarious.) Finally, it was back out into the night for some drunken fun at Bourbon Street. Met up with MD and his girl (okay, boys, do it with me: flip through the rolodex!) and started the drinking. That place is sweet, and I wish DC had something similar. Unfortunately, DC crowds don't know really know how to have fun and such an establishment would be lost on them. Anyway, we started at a table outside, but then the rain clouds came a-rollin' in, so we moved the fun into the enclosed portion of ze beer garden. We spent some time trying to free Mr. C when he indicated that he may have some sort of history (I forget the story) with one of the women in attendance. Alas, he did not fly in and find out. A shame, that. Her ass, if memory serves, was vurr' nice.

Eventually, we were done drinking, and so we hopped into the ride and proceed (through some heavy rain) to get some terrific Mexican grub at...some place whose name escapes me. (C'mon...it's been three sleep-deprived weeks.) And while all of the food was good, the best part in my somewhat inebriated state were the fries. Oh lordy, those fries. We took the food home and housed them in the dark, as the place had lost power. Then, we slept.

And now, Saturday:

Woke up, sat and scratched our asses. Actually, Mr. O made a food dash, which Mr. C turned into a delicious, delicious breffuts. Eggs, bacon, donuts, hash browns, biscuits...you know, if I take anything else away from this weekend (other than the naked bodies, which of course are first and foremost), it will be the food. We sat around and watched some quality television (well, with the aid of the DVD player): The Best of Chris Farley, Old School, and Arsenic and Old Lace. Chris Farley, Will Ferrell and...Cary Grant? You bet your ass. Oh, and in between the movies, we got out and played some mini golf (I fell apart on the back nine in a most magnificent fashion) as well as made a stop at Juniors (that's the name, right?) where I had my first Jr-ito, sans tomato. Eventually, it was that time. We made our way to the groom-to-be's place, toasted his fleeting bachelorhood, watched a little baseball, then finally descened upon the fine establishment that would play host to The Bachelor Party.

I don't even know where to begin here. It was open bar from 8pm to 1am, and boy did we make it count. The pizza ordered for the party was supoib. The first stripper was late (and, as it turned out, never showed), but the second stripper made up for it. She came to play and I thought she did her job well. After taking good care of the groom (and the father of the groom, and the best man), she opened up shop to the rest of the boys. This was all legal, so don't let your imagination go too far. My boys paid for a little "feed the kitty/pie in the sky" action for yours truly (which involved a dollar bill and whipped cream being cleaned off of me with the stripper's naught parts) and I treated myself to an "around the world," where I did the whipped cream cleaning. Word is that I made the stripper blush, but you know, that could have been crazy drunk talk.

After the entertainment left, we (and I don't know how this started...I believe one of the groom's uncles was responsible) roped in this hot (and when I say hot, I mean hot in that totally trashy, fake-tits kinda way), could-have-easily-been-a-stripper-at-a-hotel-strip-club, twenty-two year old blonde to join the party. In my very hammered state, I totally tried to break her off, but it didn't happen. Digits and some kisses is the extent of my action that night. We also tried to get her to bring more girls upstairs from the bar downstairs, with mixed results. After the open bar closed, it was time for the strip club. Sadly, the story does not pick up here. Needless to say, a last minute change in destination proved to be a big mistake. I did see some quality titties, but after some shoddy treatment and likely being labeled as "the cheap guys," I got no lap dance. I believe this is the first time I've been in a strip club that offered private dances without actually receiving one. Oh well...there will be more. After last dance was announced, we ended the night. Got back to Mr. C's spot after 3, slept for about three hours, and then it was time to get up and get my ass to the airport. Yes, my flight was insanely early, but at least I made it back on Sunday. CO and JG could not make the same claim.

And that's it. That was Chicago. Food, titties and beer. Top notch. Worth taking all this time...well, no. But it had to be told, if only so I wouldn't feel like a colossal blogging failure. Now I can start blogging about more recent events, like the Barbecue Battle ("ve are barbecuing aren't ve not?"), my job search (maybe), new music (well, if not here, then on the other blog), and other random silliness.

(Weblogs and) The Mass Amateurisation of (Nearly) Everything...

and

Weblogs and the Mass Amateurization of Publishing"

Late, I know. Stumbled upon these articles randomly, actually, but I thought they were worth the read. I have some thoughts about this, coming out on the con side more than you/I might think, but I'm not done formulating.

Lazy. Sooooo lazy.

And you know, Homer was right. That Andy Capp really is onto something.

Chi-town recap almost done. Seriously.

Sooooo lazy.

Zzzzzzz...: this is the conclusion reached by the NY Times. To quote the article: "The book, which weighs in at more than 950 pages, is sloppy, self-indulgent, and often eye-crossingly dull..." Ouch. Though, I like the image of "Uptown Clint" (thank you, Aaron McGruder) reading this and ranting, McGuirk style:

New York Times
New York Times!
You think you're better than us?
Us?
U-S?
U-S-A?
No way.

The end.

Sofia Mini: "Because getting drunk on canned booze is easier than picking up a camera to document your ennui." (Quote and link provided by Defamer.)

Still no Chicago update. Soon, I promise. Soon.

Sontag vs. Kael: The Brawl to End It All. Possibly another fascinating read about two people I only know by name. (Link found via Rock Critics Daily)

Also: Chicago was a blast, but I won't blog about it just yet. Lotsa fun. Monkey fun. But I'm not gonna write it out yet because I'm very (pronounced Dirty South style as "vurrry") tired. Hopefully I'll belt it out tomorrow.

But, I'm back. Let the tea parties and slapfights game!

Some bric-a-brac:

I'm all packed. I'm nearly Chicago-bound. Just have a few things left to take care off (a bill to mail, getting itinerary to people en caso de emergencia), but other than that, I'm good to go.

I totally forgot to mention this in the weekend recap, but I ran into Blelvis again. Nice guy, really nice. That's only the second time I've run into him, which is odd, since I'm always on the streets late at night on weekends. He must get around. It was funny, I told him I saw him in a movie, and he rattled off three other movie titles (the only one I remember is Heavy Metal Parking Lot, a film I've only heard of, but would like to see one day) that he knew he was in, but none of them were the one I saw. (FYI, he's in the beginning of an otherwise crappy movie called One Big Trip. Great soundtrack, though. In this movie, he's right outside of the Common Share in Adams Morgan, if I remember correctly.) He seemed genuinely surprised to find out he was in another one.

Watching the first Matrix movie as I type this. Man, did that series become a turd. The second movie was passable, and well, I didn't even bother with the third movie, based on reviews (both professional and amateur). Honestly, how many people can be that wrong? Maybe the Star Wars trilogy will work like the Matrix in reverse: crap (fuck you, Jar-Jar), serviceable crap (saved by the Yoda/Dooku fight), and awesome. Dare to dream, eh?

That's it. I'll be off the blog until Sunday night at the earliest. You all take care of yourselves.

Feel free to provide your own caption to this. (Thanks to ML for sending this to me.)

This weekend has been great: friends, drinking, and a movie. Plus, I'm getting my ghetto Chinese on as I type this. And above all, I turn my TV on and Purple Rain is on. Was there trim involved? Well, no. But you can't get everything you want, and I'm grateful for this.

Goodnight, bitches.

sincerely,
Dr. Funk

Though I am no lesbian (not even a woman, for that matter), I certainly support the idea behind this site: The Eliza Dushku Estrogen Brigade. I think my new favorite word is "dykon." Who coined that?

Here's a rundown of my day:

Work
Lunch
Haircut
Monterey's
Conker
Hooker titties.

Thank you and good night.

Mr. O has stated that he has some thoughts coming re: the "controversy" surrounding Wonkette/Washingtonienne. (Do a Google News search if you have no idea what I'm talking about.) Before he puts his own spin on the issue, I thought I'd get my bile on and rant nonsensically about it.

With a deep breath, I must ask a simple question: WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE? You know, I can understand needing some escapist "news" in the face of our current war on terror, heinous local crimes, and Michael Moore's chubby puss on every news channel, but do we really need to focus on some Paris Hilton/Monica Lewinsky wannabe-hybrid? Couldn't we come up with something a little more challenging, a little more outrageous, like say, I don't know, a possible Scott Baio/Erin Moran reunion sitcom? (For the record, I made that up, though, I do find the idea outrageous.) Seriously, some whore (and let's not mince words here; she may not have put out for money explicitly, but she jolly well knew she was getting something besides physical pleasure out of the deal) bangs some anonymous Hill people, and suddenly it's news? Haven't we moved past the days where a woman's sexual exploits are considered shocking? I mean, unless Saxby Chambliss was involved, this story isn't worth the column/screen space it's been alloted. (Yes, yes, the irony tastes delicious. Let's continue.) There's nothing outrageous or shocking or newsworthy about anything in this story. Not the libidinous **** (rhymes with "stunt") at the center of the "controversy," not the government officials who banged her, and not the fact that she blogged about the whole thing. Any genetic defective with rudimentary knowledge of the internet and some time to kill (hint: look at what you're reading) can get a blog going. So she did it on company time; pardon me while I break out the defibrillator. I'm sure 95% of all bloggers use the company hardware and time to post their irrelevant ponderings. Hell, I'm doing it right now! Where is the newsworthiness in this story? Jebus H. Vishnu, didn't Clinton drain the well on the sexual "deviance" of government? Because that seems to be the only hook, and I cannot believe that people are so eager to eat it up. Here's a little clue for you: just because it happens between elected officials and the town whore doesn't make it news. You swap "elected official" with "J.C., the Cracker Barrel custodian" and the picture of what it is becomes clear: people fucking. No more, no less. Get over your mock indignation or your 2nd-grade teehee-ing. You should be ashamed of yourselves for making one act (sex as currency, aka, "a woman can fuck in exchange for goods and services") seem like something out of the ordinary. That's about as run-of-the-mill as a D.C. cop issuing a parking ticket.

Now if you'll excuse me, I still have 20 minutes left with my freaky prostitute. Did somebody say "pastyface?"

Just heard on ESPN re: American Idol (they were showing the announcement of the winner as part of their Top Ten): "the death knell of American culture."

Funny, I think the same thing every time one of their summer stock wannabe announcers spouts their lameass, wouldn't-be-heard-on-a-shitty-UPN-show, catch-phrase. Fuck ESPN. They are becoming the MTV of sports, and that is not a compliment.

Defamer: Monday Morning Box Office: America Assumes The Position For Shrek 2.

Hilarious: "The big, green ogre bent over the American moviegoing public and banged it until $104 million flew out of its sequel-hungry ears."

(Thanks to JW for turning me on to Defamer.)

You know, I haven't been much for posting lately. Not that things haven't been happening, but I've just been feeling incredibly indifferent to my blogs these days. So, in order to at least keep this thing from falling too far behind, I give you some fluff links for your amusement and/or consternation.

Maybe it was going after the fly. Seriously, is Mr. Magoo ladling out the soup in that kitchen? How do you miss a mouse?

Wait...Around the World in 80 Days starring Jackie Chan? Ha! Hooo! Can't stop laughing. Okay, I just did. Actually, check out that cast: Steve Coogan, Kathy Bates, The Governor of California, John Cleese, the Brothers Wilson, Sammo Hung. Maybe I will see this after all.

Hilarious or ridiculous? ("Can't he be both, like the late Earl Warren?") I came across this site because I was looking for more pictures of this guy. When did J. Jonah Jameson become the FEMA director?

Speaking of ridiculous:



Also: at retroCRUSH, they're doing a "50 Coolest Song Parts," chronicling the top 50 songs where "pieces of the song are cooler than the song itself." Interesting.

Kentucky Derby

The race is a couple of hours away (current time: 3:56pm EST), so I will make my picks public. How will I do?

W: Pro Prado
P: Lion Heart
S: Quinton's Gold Rush

The Utah Trip

As travelogues go, this will be by far the most mundane. To be blunt (and possibly save you time), I really didn't do much in Salt Lake City, but not for the reasons you might expect. You know, like, "Dude, it's fucking Utah! What can you do there?" But first, some back story.

The entire purpose of the trip was to see A & C. I went to school with A, both of us freshmen in the fall of '92. She was one of the first people I met (admittedly, through her then roommate, who I kinda had a little crush on) and to this day is one of my closest friends. We even lived together for a couple of years in two different group housing situations. Anyway, the last time I saw them was nearly five years ago. (I have known C for nearly as long, as he and A met that same fall of '92.) The last time I saw C was the day of the birth of their first son, M, in August of 1999 and the last time I saw A was a month later, at a friend's wedding. We have remained in touch, of course, but due mostly to my financial struggles that began in the winter of '99, I haven't really had the scratch to get down and see them. In that same time, they have also had a second son, S, so raising a family, in addition to their work, has kept them from making it up to this area.

Needless to say, this trip was long overdue. I set aside the vacation time a few months back, and was really looking forward to making it back to Austin (where they were living until a few weeks ago; a bit more on that in a sec). Then, sometime at the end of February, when I was getting ready to coordinate times and such with them, I found out the news: due to some occupational re-shuffling and downsizing, they had to move to Salt Lake City, where A was getting a job at the corporate headquarters (the other option being unemployment). So SLC it was. I booked the room sometime during the first week of March and booked my flight a few weeks later. Fast forward to a week ago today and presto, I'm in beautiful Salt Lake City.

The flight: window seat the entire trip, with only one connection (in Chicago, my next travel destination). Not too bad, even though it left at 8 in the morning and I wound up only getting 4 hours of sleep the night before. C meets me at the baggage claim, we head off to his truck, and mere moments later, we're in search of vittles. I have to say, Salt Lake City is beautiful. Mountains all around, some still with snow on top, a decidedly tall building-free skyline, and an all-around cleanliness (for lack of a better word) makes it a joy just to ride through. And ride we did, in search of food. What was my first official stop outside the airport in Salt Lake City? Why, Hooters, of course. As has been the case of every other Hooters I've been to, the experience was underwhelming. The beer and wings were delicious, but the staff--less than stimulating. From there we get on to the hotel, where I drop off my bags, give my hair (which is really fucked up for some reason) a once over, and it's back on the road. At this point, it's almost time to go pick up the kids from day care, so our next destination is decided. But before that, a few things to note about my first impressions of downtown Salt Lake City:

Clean. Almost freakishly so. To the point where I nearly question its "city" status.

Traffic is obeying the letter of the law. Stopping at all the crosswalks, going the speed limit, the whole bit. On more than a couple of occasions, I marveled at how some people were able to cross the street without becoming roadkill, as they would have here or just about any other metropolitan area for that matter.

A big billboard for Alternative Utah. If you go to that site, the first billboard I saw was the top, without the makeover. I thought, "wow, the queer community doesn't even get that kinda board space in Dupont Circle! And here they are representin' in Mormon nation. How deliciously perverse!" Okay, that last part I just added in there in a fit of Paul Lynde/Oscar Wilde tomfoolery. Sorry. Then, the next day (or possibly even later that day), it was redone as the bottom billboard (as seen on the site), pimping "Alternative Music Utah." Feh. Modern rock shenanigans. And look at those fucking assmonkeys! I bet you Bill likes to fart on Kerry and Gina while they eat.

Back to the actual trip: we go to pick up M and S from day care. We go to M's class first, and he runs up and hugs C with a loud "Daddy!" cry. Then he sees me standing a little behind and he says, "Who's that guy, daddy?" After a brief explanation, we go pick up S (who is a mere 10 months) in the baby room, where he is being tended to by a rather cute employee. (Another aside: two of the kids there, a brother and sister, were named Jet and Jade. Now if you're going to give your kids alliterative names--damn you, mom!--those are two of the better ones.) We scoop up the kids and we're back to their crib. And what a crib it is! They are actually only renting it for six months from a WNBA player who was a member of the now-defunct Utah Starzz and currently plays elsewhere (but keeps her home in SLC, in which I believe she may have roots). Anyway, A and C are definitely living large for the time being. Not P. Diddy large, but large all the same. We are greeted at the door by Chuy and Max, their two dogs. And cue: allergies! Actually, the allergies didn't kick in immediately, and as it turns out, they were mostly cat related (as one of the couches is still home to some dander that belongs to the WNBA player's cats). But for that evening, when I was on the couch, my allergies just took me to the woodshed. I think the lack of sleep and hours of travel may have worn me down a bit, too, making me more susceptible. But, I prattle on.

Moments later, A arrives from work, we hug, she is warmly greeted by M, and it's catch up time. The rest of the evening consisted of conversation, dog walking, a homemade spaghetti dinner, and a game or two of Hi Ho, Cherry-O!. Sometime around 10:30, A drives me back to the hotel, where I quickly change out of my hair-covered clothes, turn on HBO, and crash not too much later. And that's Thursday.

Friday: I slept in late (when C called at 9 to see if I was up, I had to beg off for a few more hours). When I do get up and ready myself, it turns out that he needed to get a new battery for A's car. So we're postponing for a little while longer. That's fine. I decide to do a little exploring for myself. I get outside, in search for a small bite to eat (nothing big as lunch was in the cards), and just wander. I finally get a $0.99 type burger from Carl's Jr. with some chocolate chip cookies. Yum. Then I walk around some more, seeing the Temple (of course), and some other nice buildings which I cannot identify. Here's where the travelogue really falls apart, because my whole purpose for this trip was to spend time with A and C and their family, not to explore/sightsee. Sure, that would hopefully be part of the deal (especially since it would be a exploration for both of us, since they had just moved up there about a week before I arrived), but not a major priority. I come across Crossroads Plaza (your typical mall) and finally, Wasatch CD Exchange. Ahhhhhhh...here we are. One thing I try to do when I travel is find the local music dive where I can pick up your basic indie/avant/underground/miscellaneous album. This was a fine store, indeed. My purchase: Virtuosity, by Chops (he of The Mountain Brothers). It's a solid, if a bit "same-y" sounding, record and recommended to all you hip-hop headz out there. After that purchase, I get back to the hotel. Time passes by, then I'm out the door with C.

Another aside: the weather is ridiculously nice. The temp is only in the mid 60s, but with no wind and on elevated terrain, it's perfect, and not at all what was being called for when I checked the weather on Wednesday night before I packed. Score!

Lunch was at Squatters and was delicious. We dined on the outdoor patio, where I had some amazing garlic fries with my entree and a couple of delicious beverages (a Black and Blonde as well as a Captain Bastard's Oatmeal Stout). C also bought this shirt on the way out, which I wish I had picked up, in retrospect. Funny.

Post-Squatters, we basically drove around, looking for something to do and coming up mondo empty. We drove up by the university (of Utah) and then back down in the valley, but ultimately found nothing that interested either of us. Really, there isn't much more to say about this day: we picked up the kids from day care (where the older children, including M's class, were doing sing-a-longs for the parents; a verse: "If all of the raindrops were lemon drops and gum drops, oh what a rain it would be!" Eat your heart out, Bernie Taupin! I had that song stuck in my head the whole weekend); we had dinner at Wingers, then went back to the spot for some more maxin' and relaxin' (and dog walkin'). My return to the hotel that night was about 12:30 am.

Saturday: woke up and found out that little S was sick and had to be taken to the doc. So I had some time to kill, which I did with the NFL Draft. Fuck you, Eli Manning! And welcome aboard, Vernon Carey! But of course, fuck you Pittsburgh, and fuck you harder Buffalo! I can't believe Big Ben dropped to the Steelers, and that the Bills picked up the QB I was hoping the Phins could somehow pick up. Damn!

Lunch, around 2pm, was at Cafe Pierpont (mit bad service! But excellent salsa bar), then it was off to Hill Aerospace Museum. We didn't have a lot of time to explore, but it was good fun, and recommended if you're into that sorta thing. After that, we went for a brief expedition on Porter Rockwell Trail. Again, not much more to the day, winding down once again at their house, watching Trading Spaces reruns and some late night chinese food.

Sunday morning was a comedy of errors trying to cram in one "fun" thing before I left, or at least a nice little brunch, as A kinda felt bad that we didn't get to do much due to sick kids and car batteries and work and such. She needn't have felt that way, though, since I really enjoyed myself. I saw enough of the place to want to go back and everything I wanted to accomplish--catching up with A and C and their family--was done. Anyway, as it turns out, all the restaurants we wanted to try were either closed or too far from the airport for us to get to and actually dine. So, after dining under the golden arches, I was packed off to the airport. It was a hard goodbye for sure, but that happens. I had forgotten how much I loved being around A and C. And their kids are just angels! Even M took a shine to me, something I learned was rare, unless you happen to be a pretty girl. (Smart kid.)

The trip back was a little hellish (I was in the middle seat most of the way and had two connections), ending with a lost bag. On the plus side, I had a reason to skip work the next day. All in all, my first encounter with Salt Lake City turned out to be a very good one, with the city defying my (admittedly ignorant) expectations and then some.

Now...green jello for everyone!

I just got back to the spot from Utah about an hour ago (it's 1:15 am right now). The trip, which will be described in greater detail some time in the future, was great until the finish, when my last connecting flight was about 25 minutes late and my luggage was lost. Yeah, if you heard a loud "FUCK!" around 11:15 tonight in the vicinity of National Airport, that was me.

On the other hand, today (the 26th) is my nephew's 5th birthday. So I got that going for me.

Just heard on TV:

Artie Lang, doing a Regis Philbin impression, "Rock, do you mind if we hit you with an ASS-BALLOON?!"

Ahhhhh....late night.

Gawker put this up today. Oy. Cuddle parties? Of course, without them, I may never have read the phrase "ridiculous California-damaged ninny" today. The only way a cuddle party would work out is if it was combined with a bacon tasting. Then I could go for it.

Ugh...this joke writes itself. The job of late night comedy writer just got a bit easier for at least a week. Just sad.

Slow your roll, Maurice. That's right, the courts did the right thing, in my ignorant opinion. As much as I am a mark for Clarett (being a Harding alum and all), I still think his career, and that of every other player who would try to get into the league under this ruling, will be better off in the long run. I just hope he can get his college eligibility back.

In other "news," I'm going to Salt Lake City this week to visit my good friends, Mr. and Mrs. C. It should be fun. The last time I saw both of them together was almost five years ago, when they had only one dog and one kid (who at that time was just a day old). I saw Mrs. C a month later at the wedding of Mr. and Mrs. M, whom I will be seeing (among others) on my trip to Chicago in June. (FYI to those which the following is applicable: rooms without ridiculous daily rates are impossible to find for those dates, so I will likely be seeking assistance on the housing end. I have one more connection to try to get me the hookup; otherwise, expect some requests.)

The weekend that was: home for mom's birthday on Friday night (this trip also included an "inspiring" trip to Annapolis on Saturday afternoon), drunkenness at the Black Cat on Saturday night, and nothing of consequence on a beautiful, lazy Sunday. (Well, except for Backlash, which featured two must-see matches for you marks who missed it: Cactus Jack vs. Randy Orton was tremendous for its brutality, and the booking and execution of the main event made it another match of the year candidate for Triple H, Shawn Michaels, and Chris Benoit. That's two PPVs in a row now.) Here's something useful to all you aspiring alcoholics out there: black cherry soda and Vanilla Stoli, like Ben Affleck in Phantoms, is the bomb, yo.

There is nothing else to report.

Today's phrase that pays: horror vacui.

Also: Astroboy as currency. What would be an American equivalent? Homer Simpson? (I seen it. That is to say I saw it here.)

Then there's this: I wanna be trailer trash. (This was swiped from here.)

Finally: take that. (Lifted from this site.)

People, people, please. Cease your wailing. I'm back. Those dependent upon my hilarious braying need wait no longer. Daddy's home, daddy's home.

Just got back from the birthday/Easter weekend. All in all, very good. The kids were over last night, which was hilarious as always. My niece has the best afro my family has seen since my sister (the one turning 19 this weekend) was a baby. Just awesome and wild. My sister's was more spherical, with tighter curls. Perfectly round, actually. My niece is closer to Ludacris in 2 Fast 2 Furious, but curlier. (His busted-ass hairstyle was more of a comb out than a big, fucked-up afro.) Actually, if you want a good comparison, think King Buzzo of the Melvins/Fantomas. Just wild.

As for my nephew, he's also on that wild, accelerated growing up ride. He seems a bit taller and a lot smarter every time I see him. To be expected, I guess, since he's going to be 5 in two weeks. Still, I can't help but take notice. I suppose if I saw him more, the progression would seem natural. As it is, it seems like he'll be hotwiring cars and crossing state lines in no time at all.

The rest of the family are holding it down as always. There's the normal dysfunctional stuff, sure, but that's not really for this forum. (And not too bad, anyway.)

Not much to report. Even though the family is in Annapolis now (as opposed to that beautiful social desert, the Eastern Shore), there's not much for me to do when I go home. I do have one thing: when we finally made it back to my mom's place on Friday night, she was watching The Brini Maxwell Show. I have to say, I enjoyed what I caught of it. It's like Martha Stewart without the evil, and just the slightest bit of camp. Brini plays it so straight-faced and sincere, though, that it never reaches the point of overbearing. (She's not Paul Lynde, for example. Though, if he were alive, I'd like to think he'd have a similar show on TV.) Plus, and I have no idea if this happens on every episode (I sort of hope it does), Brini and some guy, having thrown a record on the hi-fi, belted out a nice little duet. Very Shag. Mr. O would approve. I think this comes on E! as well, so I might have to keep an eye out for it

Le mot du jour: entelechy.

Yeah, that's all.

Black Gallagher, bitch!

Um, yeah.

Anyway, what's been going on? Last weekend basically revolved around Saturday. In the afternoon, JW and I went to see Hellboy, which was a solid film. Not being at all familiar with the source material, I have no idea if it was faithful to the comic, or if it was another Hollywood whitewash, but based solely on its merits as a movie, it was definitely worth seeing. Moreover, it makes me want to go pick up a Hellboy collection or two. Now that's quality.

That night, JW, Mr. O, and I hit Bugsy's, as well as the Fish Market (is that the name of that joint?). We hit tried Bugsy's first, but it was still silly packed because of the Duke/UConn game. (Go UConn!) So we hit the Fish Market instead, and by the time the game was over and we went back, Bugsy's had thinned out considerably. So we got our table, got our drinks, and basically just shot the shit. I once again tried to "Free Westy," but did not succeed. All these ducks is killing me inside.

The work week has flown by. Boss is out tomorrow and Friday, and today, we had the farewell reception for the assistant boss, who is getting promoted to CFO of another property. Good for her. Meanwhile, I got my drink on. Nothing like getting roasted on company time. What?! And the foodstuffs was tasty to boot. I felt kinda bad for the outgoing assistant, though, because not many people showed up. (She was not exactly the most well-respected person in our hotel.) Oh well, what does it matter to her? She's about to get paid some serious ducats.

Speaking of jobs, the one I was considering is now off the radar. I found out that they're not trying to pay a brotha more than he's making now, so I said fuck it. It's just as well; a new department would have only been a temporary solution. The real solution is finding a job elsewhere altogether.

The next few weekends are fatpacked. This weekend is my baby sister's 19th birthday, as well as Easter. Next weekend is my mother's birthday, and the weekend after that is my trip to Salt Lake City, plus my nephew's birthday. And yes, I did finally buy my SLC ticket. I bought it when I got home Sunday afternoon, and it cost me about $75 less than I would have paid any time between then and when I booked my room. So everything is set for that. I have one weekend to breathe, then if everything goes well, the following weekend I'm in Virginia Beach with JG and anybody else who wants to come along.

This weekend, I'm missing two social gatherings. On Sunday, a friend of mine is having an Easter BBQ, and on Saturday, a co-worker of mine is having a birthday party at H2O, which from what I've heard, is one of the hotter clubs in D.C. Of course, it also seems like the kind of place where I would not have a good time, just because I would be so out of place in a club where you have to dress up. Consequently, even if this weekend wasn't booked up, I would have probably found an excuse to get out of it.

And that, motherfuckers, is that.

'Sup fools. The DVX is in the hizzy and um, something else hip. Or something.

The week is wrapping up and it's been up and down (work-wise). I talked to the director in the department to which I'm considering transferring, and from my conversation with her, the job sounds like it's mine if I want to take it. There are pros and cons, of course. Despite her reassurance that I'd be perfect for the job (she actually said I was the first person she thought of when the department was given the green light to create the position), I'm having doubts. Nothing major, probably just jitters, but still, the doubt exists. It's going to be an entirely new experience and the perfectionist side of me (small and hidden though he may be) doesn't like the idea of going into a new position and possibly fumbling around during the transition.

The pro side--a very big pro--is that it would be a change to a different department. While it's not getting me out of this place completely, the change may be enough to not make me want to smack fools just for livin' on a daily basis. Seriously, I have some pretty great co-workers, but the place has kinda fallen apart due to what feels like non-stop turnover and position switches since last summer. What was once a fairly cohesive unit feels like a patchwork lineup of journeymen and past-their-primers. (To use a convoluted sports analogy.) Plus, though it's not been confirmed, I believe I'll be making more cash in this new job. That's always sweet. And hey, if I decide I want to stay in the hospitality trade, the area in which I'll be working will be very valuable in the future. So I got that going for me.

Quoi d'autre? Oh yeah, new term that I hope to never use legitimately (i.e., under a non-comedic setting): "ass-milk." Thank you, Dave Chappelle.

Also, thanks to Monica, I now have "shibby" stuck in my head again. Haven't had that in a long time. Shibby!

Okay, obviously I'm just padding this entry out. But before I wrap it up, I have to say well done to Mr. C on his entry in the wonderful world of blogs (as mentioned previously). It's a swell read.

Speaking of reading blogs (segue!), I'm almost positive one of the boys posted this, but if not, here it is: an anthology of blog writing. (More about it here.) I want to say there's something wrong with this...something that does not sit well...but it would probably come off as my suckling at the teat of hate. One more time with feeling: I don't hate, I participate.

Vega$, bitch. What?