I wanted to use this space today to talk about how emotional this weekend's Yanks-Sox series will be, but I just am not up to it at the moment. I think I'll wait until tomorrow to offer my witty commentary. In the meantime, enjoy this wee beagle, who's definitely rooting for the Yankees.
Reminded of an Elephant Larry gameshow skit as I write this, it's time to play, "How! Much! Would! You! Pay! To Laugh?!" All you have to do is think about how much you would pay for these gateways to hilarity:
1. Two "Saturday Night Live" tickets on eBay, with the entire bid amount benefitting Hurricane Katrina victims
2. The Complete Monty Python: The 16-Ton Megaset DVD collection
Before revealing the actual costs, I will offer my personal answers:
If my friend wanted to sell me SNL tickets that he/she secured for free (and, really, that'd just be rude and I'd question his/her friendship), I'd probably pay $150 for two stubs, assuming the quality of this season matches its previous. (During the Myers-Hartman-Farley-Spade-Sandler era, I'd have paid $200.) Why those prices? I liken these tickets to those for one of my favorite all-time bands or artists: I'd pay between $75 and $100 for one ticket to see 90 minutes of a favorite band I've never seen perform. So, I'd consider the current SNL product to be on the lower end of that scale. For the eBay bid, I'd have gone no higher than $200.
As for the Monty Python DVD, I watched almost all the episodes about 1 million times as a middle- and high-schooler and, honestly, I'm kind of burnt out on them. Still, I'd probably appreciate the jokes more now than I did as a teenager. I'm hoping the price comes down to about $100.
Okay, think about your answers.
Think hard now.
Think some more.
Keep thinking.
Ready?
Okay, go ahead and check out these links for proof:
1. Winning eBay bid for two free-but-nearly-impossible-to-acquire SNL tix: $2,076.00 (link courtesy of The Apiary).
2. Monty Python DVD collection list price: 199.99 (Borders price as of Sept. 29: $179.99).
*Incidentally, this is my 100th Varsity Basketweaving post! Woohoo!*
I have seen actor Christopher McDonald, far more often than I realized before meeting him Friday night.
Before McDonald sat next to me and my friend on an extended leather sofa at the Living Room lounge (where I had another celebrity encounter in June), his friend Stan informed me that he had just wrapped up his run in the Broadway production of Chicago. Stan also informed me that he had played Shooter McGavin in the Adam Sandler movie Happy Gilmore, which I've never seen. This is the extent of the information I was able to acquire before "Chris" sat to my right and introduced himself. Very nice man, although -- because I hadn't been aware of his extensive body of work -- I was limited to discussing his role in Happy Gilmore and asking him about his next project (four weeks of filming in Nova Scotia).
Fast-forward to today, when I realize, to my embarrassment, that he stole his scene in none other than Broken Flowers, which I had seen not a month earlier. I've also seen McDonald play Yankee broadcaster Mel Allen in 61* and Jack Barry in the super-awesome Quiz Show. According to his IMDb.com profile, he's appeared in no fewer than 82 movies and 50 television episodes, including "Requiem for a Dream," "The Perfect Storm," "Nurse Betty," "Terminal Velocity," "Thelma and Louise," and the Norm MacDonald-Artie Lange classic, "Dirty Work."
Also, after the fact, I remembered his amusing Happy exchange with Sandler involving eclectic breakfast delicacies.
So all I could do was discuss my sparing knowledge of a wacky golf comedy. Ugh. Where's that Life Rewind button when you need it?
Whiny teenagers rejoice!
Here's the scoop about an upcoming video game based on "The OC":
Gameloft president Michel Guillemot said the property will allow players either to assume the role of one of the four main characters from the show or to create their own original character.
Even though I've never seen more than two minutes of this show, I like this concept tremendously. I could be Chris, the emerging alternapreppy writer with a penchant for breaking hearts, escaping trouble and struggling with my new addiction to In-N-Out burgers.
"The game was designed with the intention of capturing a realistic and true environment that mimicked the show, yet provide new elements to it that was specific only to the game," [Guillemot] said.
Good to see that programmers will incorporate the realism of 20-something, acne-free, homework-less actors playing high-schoolers.
Speaking of realism, I'm hoping the creators of "Grand Theft Auto" are somehow involved in this project.
... till it's over, which is why I'm not cocky or even confident about the Yankees' chances of making the playoffs, despite a one-game lead in the AL East.
But it's also why sports columnists should be wary of making bold and volatile predictions:
It's OK to say it. Don't worry about jinxing them. The 2005 Red Sox are going to win the American League East. By a landslide. - Dan Shaughnessy, June 26.
Today, the Boston Globe columnist made a quasi-apology.
This reminds me of when I asked Mike Lupica about the column he most regretted writing; he recalled the time he blasted the Yanks for hiring Joe Torre.
My colleague Sean, who sits nine paces away from my news desk, reports today in The Journal News that (my) wild nights out in New York City soon will last 20 minutes longer as of Oct. 2:
The last trains out of Grand Central Terminal now leave around 1:30 a.m. Those trains will depart around 1:50 a.m. next month.
Since it takes me about 20 minutes to down a beer in social settings, I'll be one drink closer to nirvana while the train shuttles me home.
Although, I have to say, I still think it's odd that any train service in and out of The City That Never Sleeps takes four hours off every day.
Update! I just checked the MTA Web site, which now says the last Harlem Line train will depart Grand Central at 1:53 a.m. Twenty-three more minutes of nutritious levity!
Beer commericals are very much hit or miss, but one campaign that consistently makes me laugh is Bud Light's Real Men of Genius campaign, including "Mr. 80 SPF Sunblock Wearer," "Mr. 'Kiss Me I'm Irish Pin' Wearer," and "Mr. King of the Karaoke Mic."
But the true attraction of this site is the Real Men of Genius vote section, which features deliberately lame Flash videos to correspond with the radio copy that salutes "Mr. Overzealous Foul Ball Catcher" and "Mr. Ceremonial First Pitch Thrower Outer." Drag the mouse arrow over the REAL MEN OF GENIUS the menu at the top of the page and click RMOG VOTE to get to these nuggets of video Zen.
Although both made me tear up during my spasms of laughter, I'm partial to the First Pitch Thrower Outer because of the re-enactment of the fastball "clocked at a breathtaking eight-and-a-half-miles-an-hour." Judge for yourself.
"Musicians, industry professionals and journalists" will vote on the following nominees for the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, and although I marginally qualify as all three, I was not invited to participate. Yet here are my votes, from most to least deserving:
Blondie - Debbie Harry is phenomenal and the versatile band maintained credibility shifting from punk to disco, rap to reggae.
Black Sabbath - Because AC/DC's in there (and they should be), these guys are a no-doubter.
Lynyrd Skynyrd - Turn it up.
The Sex Pistols - I hate them and think they're overrated. But there's no doubt about their influence and their place in this hall of fame.
John Mellencamp - Not a huge fan of him, but an excellent storyteller. His Middle America anthems appeal to Blue Staters, too.
Cat Stevens - Extremely annoying and politically frustrating, but prolific and among the best of the folk-rock singer-songwriters.
I'm not saying police didn't have the authority to do what they did, but the situation that unfolded here continues to define a country that's only comfortable listening to one side. The story reminded me of another recent NYC controversy involving politics and protestors.
Some thoughts about the Emmys, or at least the parts I watched before and after viewing "Rome" on HBO as well as "Best Week Ever" and "Breaking Bonaduce" on VH1:
TOPIC A: HOT GIRLS!
Appearing in a five-minute span, Alyson Hannigan, Kristin Bell and Rachel Bilson won the Emmy for Redhead-Blonde-and-Brunette Actresses Chris Foolishly Believes He Could Have Dated in a College Scenario or Made-for-Television Movie.
Fun Bonus Fact No. 1! Hannigan apparently appeared in two episodes of "Veronica Mars," starring none other than Bell.
Fun Bonus Fact No. 2! Bell might be my favorite actress I've never seen act. I'm basing this on on critics' reviews and her feminine charms. (I missed her on "Deadwood" because I never saw the first season. My bad.) Also, showcasing her midriff didn't hurt during her Emmy Idol performance of "Fame." I'll conveniently ignore the likely lip-synching she did for that one.
Fun Bonus Fact No. 3! Evidently, Rob Thomas took enough time off from matchbox twenty to create "Veronica Mars." Oh, wait, this Rob Thomas created it. Never mind.
TOPIC B: FUNNY PEOPLE!
The funniest part of any Emmys broadcast is always the nominations for writing in a variety or talk or something something comedy show. Here's how each writing staff's video presentation ranked on the Funny Meter, with the funniest at the top:
"Late Night With Conan O'Brien" (Credits of all the writers except Conan quickly ascend on a black screen, then the audience sees a closeup shot of Conan's profile in front of a lush green field with a large subtitle "CONAN CHRISTOPHER O'BRIEN." He mugs for the camera for a good 10 seconds thereafter. Classic Cone-Dogg.)
"Da Ali G Show" (A series of still photographs juxtoposing writers' announced names with contorted facial expressions of adult film stars. In the series of nominees read by the presenter, this one came first. So to speak.)
"The Daily Show with Jon Stewart" (The staff doing wacky things on a computer. Some moments were funnier than others. Stewart's credit proudly subjects the audience to a self-described "Anticlimactic Punch Line." To no one's surprise, this show won the Emmy.)
"Late Show with David Letterman" (While an announcer reads writers' names, Regis Philbin tussles with a bear, shoves it into a closet, then proclaims the studio is safe for another night. Not bad, not great.)
"Real Time with Bill Maher" (A montage of... ah, who cares?)
TOPIC C: THINGS NOT EASILY LUMPED INTO ONE CATEGORY!
Donald Trump was intentionally and unintentionally funny, and dare I say endearing, with his Emmy Idol performance of the "Green Acres" theme song with Megan Mullally's "Karen" character from "Will & Grace" -- although Trump's becoming more and more like the Darrell Hammond impression of him ... Doris Roberts being escorted by her grandchildren was adorable ... Letterman's tribute to Carson was classy and evocative (and I'm glad he did it instead of Leno, likely because CBS broadcasted the ceremony) ... I fear, without proof, that Paul Newman's unexplained absence from the ceremony means he's not doing well physically ... I enjoyed the tribute to Tom Brokaw, Dan Rather and the late Peter Jennings. I definitely enjoyed elements of all three and they deserved the recongition they received ... Tyler James Williams, the child actor who plays Chris Rock as a kid on "Everybody Hates Chris," was the most genuine person of the night and did a beautiful job with his Hurricane Katrina segment.
TOPIC D: WHO WON AND WHO SHOULD HAVE WON?
I'm tired of Brad Garrett and Tony Shaloub winning the comedy awards. Bring on the Bateman-Braff era! And the Piven-Tambor regime! Garrett, while amusing, was always the least funny on that show, let alone among the other nominees. And while I admit Shaloub's good at what he does, who the heck still watches "Monk"?
Anytime William Shatner wins an award for acting, you know the whole night's a joke. And am I the only one who finds James Spader creepy? Give the best actor in a drama to the deserving Ian McShane of "Deadwood" and give the supporting actor trophy to... anyone but Shatner.
I've never seen "Lost," and while I would have preferred "Six Feet Under" or "Deadwood" winning for best drama, I'm glad "The West Wing" didn't win ... I like reruns of "Everybody Loves Raymond," and while my friends obsess over "Arrested Development" (still haven't seen it yet -- please don't cancel it!), I'm glad "Desperate Housewives" didn't win ... Although I enjoy reality TV, I'm surprised Emmys are given out to those shows ... Frances Conroy, and the entire "Six Feet Under" cast for that matter, got jobbed.
And you've fallen asleep. I think I shall do the same.
As Sports Illustrated reported this week, a Kentucky rock radio station is using a ploy likely inspired by Major League to motivate a college football team.
WKQQ-FM, "the station that puts a new meaning to winning streak" and boasts a busty on-air personality by the name of "Kitten," is offering the Kentucky Wildcats incentive in the form of good ol' fashioned nudity. Evidently, Kitten has agreed to peel off an article of clothing for every win the they peel off this season.
For most red-blooded heterosexual males, who temporarily abandon the "Is this really a good thing?" argument, this is a tremendous idea. However, I'm firmly in the camp of "This isn't a good idea" -- mostly because Kentucky sucks. You're telling me there's no gorgeous and kinda-sorta-desperate SoCal "personality," who wouldn't be willing to do the same thing for (last year's national champs) USC? Just think of the cross-promotional marketing scheme they could do with Trojan!
Although the Wildcats won Sept. 10 against pushover Idaho State, resulting in the tragic loss of Kitten's button-down shirt, they were defeated the previous week by No. 12 Louisville 31-24 and drubbed 38-14 tonight by unranked Indiana.
The good news: Kentucky has eight games remaining and, by the looks of the billboard, I doubt Kitten's wearing seven shirts. The bad news: Kentucky still sucks and must play at least three more ranked opponents -- No. 5 Tennessee, No. 6 Florida and No. 7 Georgia.
Since Kentucky is well established as a Red State, I'm obviously curious to see what happens if the Wildcats just happen to roll off eight straight victories. I'm guessing it'd be the equivalent of when teenagers play strip poker for the first time; it's all talk, then once the shoes come off, someone undoubtably bails or says, "Yeah, I'm gonna take my watch off now." And then a parent or program manager knocks on the door and everybody scrambles.
Still, I wish my second-favorite college football team luck in the next two months. Not since Varsity Blues has a blonde been this much of a motivator for a quarterback wearing a blue jersey.
Sept. 24 Update! Kentucky lost to Florida, 49-28. The only reason Kitten's breaking a sweat is because she's still wearing too many clothes for early fall.
Oct. 8 Update! After a bye week that had no stripping implications, Kentucky lost (yes, again) to South Carolina, 44-16. Kitten might have been a little nervous with a 10-10 halftime score, but let's face it, she might as well start putting clothes back ON at this point.
Oct. 22 Update! Yawn. UK loses again, this time to Ole Miss by a 13-7 score. And that Wildcats touchdown was scored with only 2:36 remaining. Unless Kitten changes her wager terms by removing an article of clothing for each UK point scored, she's going to be quite comfortable as fall changes to winter.
Before sharing commercial campaigns with the D-O-Double-Jizzle and around the same time the man who would be George appeared on a seminal NBC sitcom, Jason Alexander showcased talent in the West Side Story of hamburger ads. Warning: Immediate Sound.
Here are some other McDonald's commercials of yore bound to make you cringe, scratch your head or, actually, feel really embarrassed about getting a little choked up (scroll down one-third of that page).
I'm all for making victims' lives easier after Hurricane Katrina, but something about an item about the NCAA in this ESPN story really annoys me. Note: bold emphasis mine.
The NCAA said last month that it would bend some rules to help students and schools deal with the hurricane, including letting students compete without attending classes.
As opposed to...?
Student-athletes get another break? You don't say! Oh, wait, so because they generate revenue, that lets them -- and not, say, a dance team or an a cappella group or a service organization -- off the hook for academic responsibility?
Not once, but twice, on my drive to work today I was reminded of one of my all-time pet peeves: Luke Slowwalker.
Today's otherwise pleasant commute was interrupted by the teenagers, who were literally too cool for school, preening their way across the street; and the lethargic soccer mom, glued to her cell phone at a busy intersection and oblivious to the green light and snarling traffic on both sides of her. They just made me want to floor the gas pedal and pick up the spare, to use a bowling analogy.
What infuriates me is not the wait but the amount of effort (or lack thereof) displayed by Luke and Laura Slowwalker. I'm totally okay with letting people walk in front of my car if they first look at me, wait for recognition and sprint or jog across the lanes. And I don't blame senior citizens or disabled people or small kids who don't know any better for taking their time because many of them don't have a choice.
But all remaining pedestrians who are meandering in nonchalant fashion just a foot or two away from the double yellow lines should become fair game for hood ornaments. At that point, my cartoon crush and her cohorts should cut car insurance costs for patrons who knock out the 10-pin in Darwinian fashion.
And you know the problem's bad when all of this comes from a man who had to go to the hospital after being hit by a moving vehicle.
I've been a big fan of Mike Birbiglia for a few years now. Just really smart, funny stuff. Plus, both he and my brother won Georgetown University's Funniest Person on Campus competition (although not at the same time). Gotta love that acerbic Jesu-wit.
Click "Jazz" here to watch one of his best riffs: a rant about Kenny G.
SNL decides to keep its basic cast intact and import Bill Hader and Andy Samberg for the 30th anniversary season.
Honestly, aside from two of the repertory players (you know who you are), I don't think the cast is the problem. The writing needs to improve most.
Why not go public with my two least favorite cast members? Because I might work there someday.
Although my dating patterns of late have indicated otherwise, I've always had a thing for pretty redheads. But I'm not exactly sure what to make of my crush on a pinkhead named Erin.
Yes, I'm talking about Agent Erin. Yes, I'm talking about the Esurance girl. Yes, I'm talking about a cartoon.
I've had vehement arguments with male friends of mine who claim they do not find cartoon women attractive. Call me crazy, but Erin's not too shabby. Clearly, she's in phenomenal shape, runs away from unsavory men, doesn't overstay her welcome and knows how to find a great deal. That puts her ahead of most of the women I've dated in the last year. (If you're a recent ex of mine reading this, of course you aren't inferior to a cartoon; I meant all those other girls, honest.)
I guess I should continue working out, grow longer sideburns and stay late in the office. Guys who do those things seem to be her type.
Despite the fact that I've been conveniently avoiding "Super Size Me" and "Fast Food Nation," I've made an effort to cut down on my fast food intake in the last year. I'd like to limit it even more, but one thing of late seems to be standing in my way.
It's spicy and tempting and the hotter it is, the better. I started to appreciate it in college. Like most guys, I can't stop thinking about it.
Buffalo sauce. With this (onion) ring, I be wed.
About three years ago, McDonald's came out with a Buffalo chicken sandwich that I ingested practically every sixth meal. Now Burger King has outdone Ray Croc and Co. with their chicken fries -- breaded chicken, shaped like fries, served in a cupholder-friendly carton with a divot to cradle the nectar of the gods.
Of course, I could just order the chicken tenders with the Buffalo sauce on the side. Blasphemy! The crispier coating of the chicken fries and the marketing of the buffalo-sauce-goes-here packaging has convinced the normally savvy me that chicken fries are the coolest thing since (laughing at) Hammer pants.
The good folks at the Mount Kisco Burger King drive-thru sometimes forget to include Buffalo sauce with my chicken fries (although in fairness to them, a sign at the pick-up window instructs drivers to specifically request condiments), so I'll request extra packets. The superfluous sauce comes in handy when the fast food folks forget to drop it in the bag; or if I have some fries and an Angus burger that need a little kick; or if my Snickers bar I purged from the work vending machine is boring me to tears.
So, thank you, Buffalo sauce, for making my lunch, and my life, so enjoyable. If you listen to the whispers and run for president in 2008, consider boneless wings or chicken fries as your running mate.
In the meantime, enjoy your first-ballot induction into my personal Sauce and Dressing Hall of Fame alongside Newman's Own Creamy Caesar, Vodka Sauce, Grandma Rose Serico's Marinara, and Hot Fudge. (But please, don't get too close to all of your peers, thereby founding the Least Appetizing Sauce and Dressing Hall of Fame.)
No, it's not Veggie Tales. Or even Denver, the Last Dinosaur.
It's this freakin' cartoon public service announcement from the '80s that warns kids not to "drown" their otherwise inedible greens in the flavorful crime that is dressing. Warning: Immediate Sound.
Growing up, I can't tell you how much I hated this commercial because of its ridiculous premise. Instead of encouraging impressionable young children like me to eat salad -- even if it means coating it in a gallon of flavor goodness -- these suits have the nerve to imply, "No, no, don't actually enjoy your vegetables. Be sure to keep them as bland as possible so you'll avoid them like the plague at dinnertime every night." This is particularly heartbreaking for fast-food devouring kids who have no digestive problems until their late teens, when it's too late to reach them to say, "Hey, how about salad? Remember that? Yeah, I thought not."
I, a cheeseburger and hoagie connoisseur, was in A&P today, talking to myself aloud like a derelict. "You will have a salad today. Have it. HAVE IT." I changed my mind three times before picking up the little plastic tray and wielding the tongs to craft a custom-made, overpriced salad of three kinds of lettuce, carrots, cucumbers, tomatoes, peppers and black olives that was actually delicious.
That is, after I smothered it in Creamy Italian. Take that, Health Board Commies!
After reading this article about last night's crucial Yankee comeback, powered by Jason Giambi's clutch bottom-of-the-8th home run, I crafted a conspiracy theory that I'll have to pitch to Buster.
On Aug. 24, Major League Baseball announced that the annual Comeback Player of the Year award would be decided by fans' votes.
At that time, Giambi was no doubt in the middle of a 2005 resurgence, batting .273 with 21 home runs and 52 runs batted in -- vast improvements over his entire 2004 season, during which he hit .208 with 12 HR and 40 RBI.
Now hitting .270 with 27 HR and 70 RBI, Giambi is the likely favorite to win this award, especially when the other candidates were already great (Roy Halladay), play in small markets (Bob Wickman in Cleveland and Richie Sexson in Seattle), should have played well in the first place (Barry Zito) or had a dramatic drop-off in the second half (Jay Gibbons).
And, in case you've been asleep for the last year, sources in December leaked that Giambi allegedly admitted a year earlier to a federal grand jury that he had taken steroids and human growth hormone. On Feb. 10 of this year, Giambi held a press conference to make a quasi-apology, but never specifically mentioned steroids. The next day, sportswriters crushed him.
Since then, Giambi's on- and off-field progress dramatically improved, perhaps by default. In the clubhouse, he's made a point to answer non-steroid questions in a pleasant fashion. He's been seen signing countless autographs. Despite a prolonged slump to start the season and his refusal to find his stroke in the minor leagues, he's rebounded admirably and continues to credit batting coach Don Mattingly, a fan favorite, for approaching his MVP form. (Despite these improvements, my friend Valentina -- a Mets fan extraordinaire -- repeatedly has refused to get off her bike at their common gym when Giambi hints that he wants to use it.)
Enter Serico Conspiracy Theory: In late July, MLB officials realized Giambi's rebirth might have force them to bestow the Comeback Player of the Year award to a player connected to steroid allegations. Thus, letting the fans decide the winner allows MLB to avoid a public relations nightmare. Besides, letting fans vote for anything is virtually fool-proof from a PR perspective -- although, from a baseball standpoint, allowing Joe and Jane America to pick All-Star Game starters is downright wrong.
Irony Alert! The Comeback Player of the Year Award is sponsored by Viagra, fostering at least two "comeback" puns and one "player" joke.
Double Irony Alert! Rafael Palmeiro, MLB's biggest star to be disgraced by a failed steroid test, had been a Viagra spokesman. As my friend Brian described him: "He's more like the Go-Away Player of the Year." Perhaps like a balding man selling the Ford Focus in favor of a Porsche 911 to compensate for losses elsewhere, Pfizer is overcompensating for driving a washed-up vehicle by throwing lots of money toward a more appealing venture.
I've slowed down just a bit in recent years. I can't quite party like it's 1999 anymore. Mostly because it's not 1999 anymore.
As a result of all my friends invariably marching toward (or even beyond) the big 3-0, there's one aspect of my life that's been lacking in recent years. And some people actually consider this drop-off an improvement. Uh-uh. Not me.
Drunk dials. I love getting them. Really!
Why? Because there's no more honest form of communication. Alcohol + repressed feelings + phone calls = awesomeness. And since most of my exes are either friends with me now or have deleted my number, I'm always happy to receive someone's inebriated honesty.
I revel in late-night communications that involve one or more elements of screaming, pining or nonsensical jibber-jabber. I can't recall, off-hand, the most recent drunk dial I received, but I'm guessing it was shortly after midnight on New Year's Day. Early that morning, my friend, who shall remain nameless, decided to call and tell me about every last emotional detail about her very single night out. Which begs the (rhetorical) question: Why was she calling me?
While I'm not always the recipient of amorous, drunken senselessness, it's been my experience drunk dials otherwise provide high comedy. Take this dramatization involving any of my male friends:
"Serrrriiiiicooooooo!!! (cheers, shouts, AC/DC song in background) WHAT UP, SERICO! Dude. Dude. DUDE! You totallllly should be here right now. What the hell are you doing right now? You suck! Why aren't you here? Everyone's asking about y-- wha??? (muffled conversation as phone rubs against shirt-like substance) Tell herrr I'll be right there. Right tharrr. HAAAAAAA. (returning to phone receiver) Dude, Mike, I rotta gun. I rot to, rot to, got to RUN. Dahhh, totally can't talk. Gotta walk, can't talk. Gotta walk, can't talk. Word to yo' motha. SERIIIIICO. Hey, let go of my--END OF MESSAGE."
However, I'm usually not a fan of drunk-dialing friends myself. Especially after, well, the public release of a high-profile journalist's supposed message for a special little lady, which, by the way, is something you definitely should not listen to in the office.
But, as The New York Times points out, if you not only feel the need to leave Natty Light-flavored voice mails for one friend, but for the entire world, you can always call 321-600-1200. After you're done, SlackerTown.com will post it on the Web for everyone's amusement/bemusement. Needless to say that there's lots of stuff on that site you don't want to play in the office, either.
My friend Rach reminded me about drunk instant messages -- a different animal that's a blog post for another time. (And do I even dare consider a drunk blog post? Hmm....)
Top 10 things I learned in and about Portsmouth, NH this weekend:
10. Its population is somewhere between the 2004 Census estimates for Tuckahoe, NY (6,257) and New York City (8,104,079).
9. Its state motto, "Live free or die," continues to be the nation's most inspiring ... and creepiest.
8. Crime happens only when parents come to visit for the first time.
7. Experts agree that nearby beaches have the starkest warm-sand-to-frigid-water ratio in the U.S.
6. Experts disagree about the city's ratio of hot women to hot men.
5. When it was completed in 1923, the Portsmouth Memorial Bridge that links the city to Kittery, Maine, was the tallest lift bridge in the world. (Well, I didn't learn that this weekend. I had to Google that information just now. But I did learn that it's awful purdy in person. Hyuh. Hyuh.)
4. Naming a boat that you don't own yet is much more difficult than evaluating the names of other people's boats. (Ex. Knot To Worry = clever. Atsa My Boat = just not trying.)
3. Portsmouth law mandates that the mere mention of getting hit by a car must result in a close call of said catastrophe five seconds later.
2. Similar to most cities, air hockey matches in bars cost $1. In Portsmouth, however, the fee also pays for all bar patrons to express as much interest in that score as there is for that of the televised Red Sox-Orioles game.
1. Claiming that you will not get sunburn has an SPF of -30.
Hey, I've been on vacation this week, so I took a break from posting blog updates. Thanks for your patience.
Also, thanks to friends and strangers for all the kind comments about my cameo in The New York Times. One of buddies told me he was inspired enough by my comments in the NYT article to relaunch his own blog. Thanks for the tribute, man.
In addition, check out the other new Cool Blogs entry: the blog of former Unsung Hero and far-from-former friend Calvin.
More posts soon!
