Wolter's Random Braindump, Vol 40

Some assorted thoughts on this fine Thursday:

Through a combination of extremely bad planning and wretched tiredness, I missed the World Series opener. However, I guessed the outcome solely by noticing the lack of psychotically pro-Yankee facebook status updates from friends of mine who have no business rooting for that team. Nobody's louder than a Yankees fan when they win, and nobody changes the subject faster than a Yankees fan when they lose. I'm hoping for a sweep.

On that note, while I think it's good for the Series to have a villain, there is nothing I want more than for the Cubs to have more 21st century WS wins than the Yankees. Anyone who wishes otherwise is insane at best, and at worst, a traitor to the human race.

I haven't done any sophisticated analysis on the TMS 2009 baseball predictions, but I believe this entry wins the award for Most Completely Correct Prediction in History.

"The 97 mph fastball was long gone, the aura and mystique had faded, and he was fighting to prove his ability to merely contribute. The former Cy Young ace was now a conjurer, a Merlin of the mound, hoping his knowledge, guile, and a little bit of smoke and mirrors was enough to make it back to the Show.

"Sadly, I don't think it was."

"The box score will say Pedro didn't do that badly, giving up one hit, hitting a batter, and striking out one. But great change-up aside, I'd say his tank is empty."

"... I wouldn't be surprised if Sunday was the last day of Pedro Martinez's brilliant baseball career."

This is the exact sort of predictive skill one would expect from a writer for a blog named after future Hall of Famer Matthew Henry Murton.

Sadly, it looks like I'm missing tonight's game due to a prior engagement, but I really hope Pedro sticks it to the Yankees all over again. It would be so very, very sweet.

Part of the bad planning mentioned above was an unscheduled trip to the Apple Store with my fiancee and her mother to help her with a PC-to-Mac switchover. This, in itself isn't hard. I've actually done it twice now. But the Best Buy employee that originally backed up her PC files did a number on it. Let me tell you this: I'm not a computer guy, so I love Macs. I love iPods. I really love my iPhone. But two-and-a-half hours in an Apple Store is a form of almost Lovecraftian horror. Nothing makes sense after about a half-hour, and by the 2nd hour sinister forces beyond your comprehension begin to reveal themselves to you. On the plus side, the wi-fi was free.

I have decided not to include pictures in this blog post. Why? Because I hate you, the reader.

Behind the scenes at TMS, we spend a lot of time deciding to whom we give support, and from whom we take it away. There have been some rumblings that we must no longer support Wanda Sykes (which surprised me, because I didn't even see her name on the TMS Support Whiteboard). Brant Brown has offered the following evidence for the prosecution:

"The promotional spots for her new Saturday night talk show on FOX have become a painful nuisance on our otherwise peaceful Sunday NFL and MLB viewing. What is really expected here? The Wanda Sykes Show will air at 11:00 p.m. Sure it will get a half-hour jump start on Saturday Night Live, but let's be serious: no one watches late night television on Saturdays anymore. Conan is struggling to regain his predecessor's ratings numbers on weeknights, and Leno is living his own Bad Idea Jeans commercial at a "gimme" 10:00 p.m. slot.

"Will people DVR her show and watch it later? C'mon, would you DVR it? Our DVRs as a nation are so backlogged with Top Chef and Ice Road Truckers episodes that we'll never get to Wanda.

"The bottom line is that there is no incentive to watch The Wanda Sykes Show. Don't get us wrong, she's not a hack like George Lopez. It's just that her style of comedy really works when it is untethered, but it will be difficult to translate to network television. While we applaud her good fortune, we can no longer support her entertainment endeavors.

Even playing Devil's Advocate, I can only come up with the following Lionel Hutzian defense:

"Well, she was funny in her segments on Dr. Katz"

Ok, I don't really hate you, the reader. I was just being cranky. I think I need a nap. And some cheap scotch.

Apparently, the Cubs are considering leaving their spring home in Mesa, Arizona if they are not granted new facilities. If so, they would move right near the tip of America's Dong, Florida. Naples, to be precise. While this sort of thing doesn't move me too deeply, it has long been my policy to support the destruction of Florida, and everything it stands for. Except for quality Death Metal and Space Mountain, everything Florida has given to this nation has disappointed me mightily. Wait. Even Space Mountain is kind of blah. Well, at least they have Atheist. I'd rant more about how much Florida sucks politically, but I usually leave our radical liberal agenda to resident TMS Communard, Arcturus.

On a final note: I will be celebrating Halloween this year, the same way I always do - sitting alone in the dark, drinking cheap scotch, and listening to the Misfits. Feel free to do the same.

Hervé Villechaize Named New Cubs Hitting Coach

Well, yesterday was Wednesday, so that can mean only one thing: time for the Cubs to hire a new hitting coach.

We could see it coming. Anemic bats and a lackluster offense piss a fan base off to no end, so Jim Hendry did the one thing a good GM does to revive flagging run production: through a series of intelligent trades and smart free agent signings, he picked up some patient hitters with good power to...even I can't finish this sentence.

No, he did what Jim Hendry does: he changed coaches. Again. And this time, he did it in a spectaculary Hendrian way: a long term contract.

At first I was stunned that Hendry chose Hervé Villechaize for such a demanding position. I mean the man's main claim to fame is playing the lovable Tattoo from television's Fantasy Island, a show I'm pretty sure I watched as a very small child, but have no concrete memories of other than it gave Khan a chance to dress like Sonny Crockett. Of course, I mainly remember him as Nick Nack from the exquisitely awful Roger Moore Bond flick, The Man With the Golden Gun.

And while I'm aware that the entertainment industry has a long tradition of casting little people in major motion pictures (including such luminaries as Billy Bardy, Verne Troyer, Peter Dinklage, and Tom Cruise), baseball hasn't really followed suit (with the notable exceptions of Eddie Gaedel and Mike Fontenot).

I'm sure some think this signing is a tip of the cap to the late, great Bill Veeck, and a belated acknowledgement that the Cubs haven't really been a worthwhile franchise since a Veeck ran the show on the North Side. But I beg to differ.

First, the Cubs aren't so completely awful and low-attended that the fans need distractions to come to the ballpark. Yet. And Villechaize is a native Frenchman. Baseball has long had problems with Francophonic peoples, culminating in the near-30-year flirtation with Montreal baseball, an affair that ended in such an ugly manner than the team ended up moving to Washington, a city whose reputation for baseball suckitude was so widespread that even musical theatre types know it.

No. I know what this move is.

Pure Dada.

The Cubs have tried making coherent plans to win a World Series in the past. Clearly, they aren't good at that. At all.

No, they're shaking things up by challenging the notions of narrative and sense in public discourse. They're tapping into the unconscious, anti-reasoning dark side of human nature and making a comment to the sporting world that chaos and irrationality are the only solution to a rationalistic world that has led to global wars, corporate greed, and the continued existence of Aaron Miles.

And I, for one, salute this new avante-garde team. For too long have Cubs fans tried to make sense of the myriad asinine moves made by assorted front offices. Why not push it all the way, defying all sequential thought and causality? Why not sign a bitter, angry alcoholic, French midget to teach a team of multimillionaire atheletes how to hit?

Whoa. It turns out Villechaize has been dead for 16 years. GENIUS!

My cap is doffed to you, Hendr--what? Hold on a sec.

Oh. My mistake.

The Cubs actually signed former Texas hitting coach Rudy Jaramillo.

I guess that makes a lot more sense. He's had a hell of a lot more baseball experience. Assuming that the Cubs are planning on moving in the outfield walls, juicing like a Tropicana factory, and swinging for the stars, I support this move wholeheartedly.

So yeah...sorry about wasting your time. I really shouldn't have tried to do cogent analysis when I stopped following baseball in July. Next week, I'll write about Iron Maiden or post-punk or the hilarious results of teen pregnancy.

P.S. - God, I still hate Aaron Miles so much.

Adventures in the Basic Cable Wasteland

Over the past week or so, my cranky back has rendered me almost completely sedentary. Unable to get comfortable on either of the living room couches, I've been forced to spend most of my days in the bedroom, where the TV (the same 19" I bought with my paper route money when I was 13) only gets channels up to 65. So without the digital box or its onscreen channel menu, I spent more time flipping through the channels looking for things to watch. I came across some things that I had no idea were even on TV (or why, for that matter). This is just part of what I've come across over the past week or so.

5. Rocky Marathon on Spike. Over the last week or so, I've become convinced that Spike only shows CSI reruns and Stallone movies, although I did see ads for Van Damme movies and some sort of UFC fight featuring a rather large gentleman named Kimbo Slice. However, during the day that I watched Spike as I segued in and out of a pain/drug induced haze (depending entirely on how recently I'd taken my pain killers) all I saw was Rocky. They apparently ran the first five Rocky movies back to back, which was just fine with me as I was only half paying attention. It all kind of seemed like one movie to me. Rocky collects money for a loan shark, romances a pet store clerk (in a special ed kind of way), gets a shot at the title, eats raw egg and runs a lot, punches meat, earns a draw with the flamboyant African-American champ who says there will be no rematch, and then changes his mind two minutes later. Rocky says no to the fight, gets married to the pet shop clerk, knocks up the pet shop clerk, spends a lot of money, goes to work in a meat plant, gets laid off from meat plant, agrees to rematch against pet shop clerk's wishes, pet shop clerk slips into coma after delivering a surprisingly healthy (and hairy) kid, and she wakes up just in time to tell Rocky to fight. Rocky must have won because next thing I know, he's fighting in an exhibition against Hulk Hogan before being savagely beaten by Mr. T. Then his old Jewish manager dies and the most uncomfortable grief scene in the history of movies follows as the Rock bellows like a wounded rhino while clutching the old man's body, then we're treated to the former champ stumbling through the Jewish funeral service. The flamboyant African-American former champ returns to train Rocky to beat Mr. T (yeah right) by turning him into an Italian jive turkey in some of the most homoerotic bromance sequences ever set to celluloid. But this somehow works because he's somehow champ again, now at ringside for the flamboyant African-American former champ who's fighting James Brown. No, scratch that, he's fighting He-Man, who must have lost a bet with his hairdresser. He-Man kills the guy from Predator, which pisses the Rock off. After training in the Russian snow, he becomes brain damaged and returns home to find he's lost all his money and owns nothing except the ballsweat smelling gym his dead Jewish trainer left him. I can only assume that the fight between Rocky and He-Man was called off because even the Russians didn't want to essentially beat up Corky from Life Goes On. Glastnost at its finest. Rocky, his now pretty, assertive wife, and his son move back to the old neighborhood in Philly, where we learn that the Rock's son has pretty much turned into a douche. So Rocky adopts some other dude and starts training him, only to be stabbed in the back when the guy signs with Don King. And then I don't know what the hell happened, because all of a sudden, Rocky's in some shit small town and is being hassled by the local fuzz, until he steals a motorcycle and rides off into the woods. Talk about confusing.

4. To Catch a Predator. I had heard of this show, but had never watched it. In agony Sunday night and unable to sleep, I had left the TV on MSNBC and this was what came on. First of all, I knew criminals were dumb, but I had no idea just how mentally retarded some of them really are. I ended up tossing and turning through two episodes of this show, in which about five criminals per show were lured to a remote house with the promise of sex with an underage girl they met on the internet. First of all, this show has been on the air for years. These guys are meeting chicks on the Internet. Do they not have a Facebook group or something where they might warn each other, "Hey, Dateline NBC has been running stings in cooperation with law enforcement. If you get an offer that looks too good to be true, it probably is. Watch out for chicks with laundry baskets and lemonade." After two hours of this crap, my faith in humanity was at an all time low. The next entry didn't help.

3. Parental Control on MTV. Shit, I pretty much stopped watching MTV after I graduated from college. I wasn't sure exactly why I stopped on this show, but I'm going to blame the drugs and the fact that the girl on the first show I watched had enormous boobs, which wasn't fair, because she distracted me. I think you know you're too old for MTV when you find yourself sympathizing with the parents of these girls who are dating these complete losers. If you've never seen the show, the parents each fix their daughter up with a guy and he takes them out on a date. At the end of the show, the girl decides if she will keep her current boyfriend or start dating one of the parent selected beaus. Great drama this is not. The kicker is that the parents and the current boyfriend sit together and watch the footage of the two dates. Talk about uncomfortable, try watching your girlfriend slip her tongue down some guy's throat while sitting on the couch next to her mother, who's egging her daughter on. In the two shows, I watched, the boyfriends were both total dicks. Both of them made fat jokes about the mothers. One of the guys made pussy jokes when the family cat wandered into the living room. TO HER PARENTS. I actually give these parents a lot of credit, because if I had a teenage daughter and if she were dating either of these two mega-douches, I wouldn't have gone to MTV to solve my problem. I would have just buried the body in the crawlspace with the others and been done with it. Big Boob Girl stayed with her boyfriend and her parents and I cried. The second chick was just as hot and a psych major to boot. Or a psycho. One of those. She was dating Mr. Pussy joke guy, who was wearing a dirty watch cap in the middle of summer, which is why I don't own a gun, because I would hunt people like him for sport. One of her dates takes her paintballing and fucking SHOOTS HER IN THE FACE, then gives her PB & J out of a cooler. Classy. Luckily, the other guy is a metrosexual musician who likes every single band that she does and she dumps Mr. Pussy for him. Mr. Pussy has a douchey meltdown before running outside to ride off in his, or should I say, on-his ten speed (No Pussy Wagon for you). While crying. I was too. Tears of joy for the psych major's parents. (Apparently, this show is fake, which I did NOT know while watching. I guess that makes me feel a little better. Maybe.)

2. We're Doomed. This is what I learned from the History Channel this past week. They must have run every Nostradamus related program they've produced over the past ten years the other day, including some new shit. Did you know that the world is ending in 2012 because the Mayan calender runs out? I didn't, but I sure do now. I also learned that Nostradamus predicted not one, not two, but three Antichrists. Some of the nuts, er, Nostradamus researchers believe that the world has already seen two of them, Napoleon and Hitler. They don't know who the third, more powerful one is, but obviously, he needs to surface soon as the clock is ticking here, people. The History Channel didn't name any names, but the images they showed were back views of a jug-eared person of indistinguishable color wearing a white dress shirt and dark dress pants speaking before a large, adoring crowd. Let's lock up Carlos Marmol, just to be safe.

1. And to end on a good note, PBS has been showing Ken Burns's latest documentary, The National Parks: America's Best Idea. If you haven't seen any of this documentary, then you're missing some good stuff. As always with Burns, the images are spectacular and the stories behind how some of these places came to be set aside are fascinating and compelling history. I enjoyed the second episode in particular, as my favorite President, Theodore Roosevelt, and his contributions to the national park system were explored. Don't miss it. It really is good stuff and thank Vinnie I was able to end my basic cable sojourn on a positive.

F%*k 2009 Anyway

Is this bullshit year over with yet? For the love of all that's holy, this year has sucked some major dick, mostly because of the Chicago Cubs. The baseball season was pretty much over in August as the Cubs pissed away whatever chance they had of winning this sorry division. But the Cubs are only one of the reasons 2009 sucked. Allow me to elaborate . . .

1. The St. Louis Cardinals

Ordinarily, I'm not a bitter Cubs fan. I didn't even move to Central Illinois until I was 15, so the Cubs/Cards rivalry thing didn't really matter all that much to me. But combined with the tank job the 2009 Cubs have managed, the Cardinals have managed to polish a turd into a big shiny gold nugget and I'll be damned if I can figure out how. Sure they have Albert Pujols, whom every baseball writer, announcer et al, has proclaimed as the Greatest Player of Our Time, but that's not my main issue here. I'll give you Carpenter and Wainwright, but how in holy fuck have they gotten good performances out of Joel Pinero, Kyle Losche, and Todd hatesockfucking Wellemeyer? And the trades?! Sweet Jesus, the trades. Every trade these bozos have made has paid off. Matt Holiday was just kinda cruising along in Oakland, but he puts on a jersey with those stupid fucking birds on it and all of a sudden he's Babe Ruth. DeRosa's stats with St. Louis might suck, but you know he's being all clubhouse leader guy in the dugout, the anti-Milton Bradley. And John Smoltz looked like a dead duck in Boston, but going into his start against the Cubs this weekend, he'd walked one guy as a Cardinal. One! And then there's Julio Lugo. Even Julio Lugo is hitting for these dbags. Unbelievable. I wouldn't be surprised if these assholes win another damn World Series. And they-unh-er-probably-arr-grr-deserve to. Gah!

2. Politics

I'm not gonna go on too long about this. You guys come here for the sports and the funny, not my leftwing ravings. So I'll try to be be brief. This Country Has Lost It's Damn Mind. The right wing loses one goddamn election and suddenly there's talk of secession and armed revolution. Just because their guy didn't win, all these jerkwads want to tear the system down and start over. That's not the way America works. If you don't like what's going on, you have until 2012 to try and find a candidate that supports your agenda and try to get enough votes to get him/her in. That's how democracy fucking works. Until then, suck it up Sparky. If I have to see any more footage of Birthers, Deathers, Tenthers, Tea-Baggers, etc., I'm gonna throw up.

3. Toby Keith

Toby Keith was just named Songwriter/Artist of the Decade by Nashville Songwriters Association International. Granted, this is country music we're talking about, but still. Toby fucking Keith? This is how low country music has sunk? The genre that gave us Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, Patsy Cline, and the original Hank Williams? Toby couldn't lift one of Johnny Cash's stones, let alone write a song as good as Fulsom Prison Blues. "How Do You Like Me Now"? "Courtesy of the Red, White, & Blue"? Come on Nashville. I mean, holy shit, Toby Keith?



4. Michael Jackson Died

And I had to hear about Michael Jackson for the next several months. I'm still hearing about Michael Jackson. The media is sending subliminal Michael Jackson signals into my brain while I'm sleeping. Michael Jackson is still alive and he's cooking burgers with Elvis in a run down truck stop diner in Pussyhump, North Dakota. Michael Jackson's ghost was spotted hanging around a children's graveyard. The Liberian National Anthem has been changed to "Beat It" in honor of Michael Jackson. The doctor who murdered Michael Jackson is seeking custody of his children. Hee-hee, shamon, Ho!

5. The Chicago Cubs

Last but not least, the Cubs have been the most infuriating thing about 2009 for me. Picked by many to threepeat as Central Division Champs, the Cubs quickly dashed expectation. The frustration begins in the offseason, when Jim Hendry trades away Mark DeRosa (bad) and Jason Marquis (good). He also chooses not to resign Kerry Wood (bad-Wood is face of franchise, good-we thought Carlos Marmol would be closer). He then trades Jose Ceda (?) for Kevin Gregg (oh so obviously bad). He also signs Aaron Miles (Sweet Jesus, why?) and Milton Bradley (Known headcase, clubhouse cancer & all around humanitarian. He eats kittens, too).

The DeRosa trade will go down as one of the dumbest in recent memory. Not so much because of who DeRosa is, but what he does. What he does is play almost every position on the field, most notably third base. The trade sucks because I know, and you know, and every goddamn Cub fan knows, but apparently Jim Hendry does NOT know that Aramis Ramirez has never played a full season since joining the Chicago Cubs. I love Aramis. He's my favorite guy on this failure crater of a team, but he's had quad problems, groin problems, and this year, in a fluky bad play, he separated his shoulder. Now if Hendry had immediately brought hot hitting Jake Fox up to take over at third base, I'd be fine with the DeRosa trade, even if Fox was terrible. But no, Hendry called up Bobby Scales and Andres Blanco and Lou played them at second, while trotting Mike Fontenot out to third. No one should have had to see the Cajun Hobbit playing third base. And Aaron Miles was a complete joke. Guess what, we still have one year to go on his contract. Yay!

Ridding the Cubs of DeRosa and Marquis (who proceeded to have his best season . . . ever, maybe?) gave Donut Jim the funds he needed to sign Milton Bradley. Milton, who also can't seem to stay healthy for a complete season. Milton apparently really wanted to come to Chicago, but didn't bother to learn that we actually have a media in this city, unlike say, Texas, Oakland, or San Diego, where you basically show up to play and consider yourself lucky if they remember to spell your name right. Now at the end of the season, Milton hates Chicago, hates the media, hates the fans, feels alienated from his teammates, and since being suspended, probably hates his cracker GM and manager. Only the Cubs would have signed this guy to a multiyear deal. Shit, if his schtick didn't work in San Diego, where nobody gives a fuck what you do, then why did Hendry think it would ever play here? Did he think Lou was going to turn this guy around? I think Lou would have kicked his ass, but didn't want to get accused of committing a hate crime.

And now there's talk of trading Carlos Zambrano, one of the most consistent guys on the team. Get rid of Milton Bradley, but don't you dare trade El Toro Loco, Jim. He may be a nut, but he's our nut, dammit. And he's not a clubhouse cancer, but a team guy. 2009 is already ruined. Don't ruin 2010 for me.

Lord, at least hockey is starting up. That was one of the bright spots of the year, watching the 'Hawks in the playoffs. And even they goofed up, by letting Marty Havlat walk and signing a guy with a balky shoulder to an absolutely retarded contract. Is it January yet?

If I had a Time Machine . . .

As an über loser, not surprisingly, I'm a big science fiction fan. One of the tried and true science fiction plot devices is time travel. Lord only knows why, but I started thinking about what I would do if I had a time machine. Would I travel back to the past to avert wrongs like the Lincoln Assassination, Pearl Harbor, or try and stop the Titanic from sailing? Return to September 10th, 2001 and try and warn the country? Punch Hitler? Natch. But being me, my thoughts soon turned from the good I could do with such a device, to the selfish goals I could accomplish for myself. Such as:

1. Return to late 2000 and warn my past self not to carry Bobby Rock's drum hardware up the steep back stairs of the music store I was working in at the time. Maybe I wouldn't have these herniated discs right now. (Oh, and tell past self to start exercising and lay off the pork tenderloins.)

2. Return to summer of 1995 when I was working as a pizza delivery driver and totally fuck up the asshat who got all pissy about putting his driver's license number on the check and asked me if I wanted his dong size on there, too. (If my post 2000 self starts working out as directed, I should be pretty ripped by now and should be able to take the meathead. If I'm still flabby, I'll just key his car.)

3. Return to May of 1998 and stop myself from selling my first car, a 1979 Ford Mustang. Convince my past self to spend the money I used to buy my second car on fixing the Mustang and getting it a decent paint job. Oh, and fixing the hole in the floor behind the driver's seat. My second car was a 1987 Ford Taurus that turned out to be the biggest piece of shit on wheels. Sure my Mustang was ugly as fuck, but at least it was a Mustang (In a Mad Max kind of way. And unlike the Taurus I could drive it in the rain without it stalling every few hundred feet.)

4. Return to May of 1994 and force my past self to ask out the chick who cozied up to me at the bonfire after high school graduation. Because I seriously don't know what the fuck I was thinking that night. Jesus Christ, I was such a goon. (And while I was there, tell my past self to actually fucking try hard in college. I'll bring video of my current job and show him posts from this blog. That oughta scare my douchey past self into putting his nose to the grindstone.)

5. Return to September of 2001 with a copy of Dan Brown's The DaVinci Code. Type it up and send it to an agent, get published, and invest my earnings in Apple just in time for the iPod to come out. Buy an island in the Pacific and retire there with Bonfire Girl.

6. Since this is a Cubs related blog, I've gotta go back to 2003. Not to strangle Bartman in his sleep before Game 5, but to knock out Larry Rothschild and take his place on the field. (I figure if I have a time machine, I would also have a futuristic hologram disguise thingy as well that would allow me to impersonate an old fat white guy. I'm already two of those things anyway, although I might be ripped at this point in the time space continium.). After the Bartman incident, I would convince Dusty to pull Prior and replace him with Juan Cruz, Big Z, or Matt Clement. Hopefully, one of them would get the game to Sweaty Joe, who would close it out and take the Cubs to the World Series. (And even if the Cubs lost to the Yankees, I could always come back in time again and fix whatever Baker fucked up in that series.)

7. In my one non-selfish act, I would go back to August 4, 1961 and take a picture of baby Barack Obama with his white mama in the Kapiolani Maternity & Gynecological Hospital in Honolulu, Hawaii. Although I guess technically that is a selfish act, because hopefully it would shut some of these birther retards up.




So that's what I would do with a time machine. So much for making the world a better place.

SPAM Alert

I receive, on average, a few hundred emails a day. I have everything set up so that the proper emails end up in their respective folders and I can make some sense out of the madness. I also have my junk email folder set to empty once a week, though I never actually check to see what ends up in there. Lacking any sort of direction today, I took a peek and wow, a kings ransom worth of comedy!

There seem to be three major categories:

Sex (Make your dick huge, last forever in bed, hot girls in your neighborhood that want you)
Cash (Credit cards, Nigeria)
Drugs (Canadian pharmacies, drugs that help you have sex: see above)

There is a certain art to crafting this kind of poetry so when something sticks out, it really has to be a special kind of gold. Here are a few of my favorites:

Learn the Tricks to Being a Player

"Nothing sadder than being the nice guy that always gets left behind..."

Well that's a real kick in the taint. Why wouldn't I want to click on this link? I'm a nice guy. Why shouldn't I be fighting off hordes of women with a sharp stick? There is, however, a warning that these are advanced links so it might be better just to move on to the next link and pick up some experience first.

Make 3-D Girl Wet

3-D is so in right now. Everything from ninja hamsters to Up! to The Final Destination is being shoved in America's face and you'll miss it if you don't have a pair of cereal box red and blues. Unfortunately this ad is a little bit misleading and actually offers a HUGE discount on Cialis and Levitra from Canada. "With our pilule taken waking your friendo will be more like stepping over the threshold!" Sweet.

nightcap. The baby is very comfortable, for I peeped int....

I understand that spam is supposed to try and get you to open the message with a gimmick or in making you feel like the message is from a loved one. Alright, let's see how the baby is.

"one of the finest little boys that the medical man had ever seen all Beyond putting a very excellent client out of humour, Miss Nickleby has harmless, faithful, loving creature but the same in nothing else. the gentleman displayed, the transformation of the ladies was still more".

What? I mean, I realize that I'm already on the FBI's watch list for opening this but that's not even a fucking sentence. At least make an effort. Humour? I blame the Brits for this one.

CONGRATULATIONS YOU ARE A WINNER

Now we're in business. "The International Awareness Promotion Department of the BMW Automobile Company wishes to congratulate you on your success as the STAR PRIZE WINNER in this years' BMW Automobile International AwarenessPromotion (IAP) held on Monday 3rd of August, 2009, in Accra Ghana. This makes you the proud owner of a brand new BMW 5 Series, MSport Saloon car and a cash prize of £750,000.00 GBP (Seven Hundred And Fifty Thousand Great British pounds)"

Holy shit, a saloon car? Finally, my time on this site has paid off, in spades. International Awareness Promotion dept. huh? Accra Ghana? That all seems very reputable. I mean, if our President is from there then they wouldn't scam me right? Yes we can!


Power up your love making gun once and forever

Go on...

My Sad Little Life: A Recap

What's been going on in my brain of late:

Thunder Matt has been DFA'd in Colorado, yet no one will pull the trigger on the AArons here. Hendry, I'm looking in your Huttesque direction.

Apparently Crane Kenney is still going to be president of the Cubs under the Ricketts regime. Meet the New Boss. Literally and With No Exaggeration, Same as the Old Boss.

Despite my best attempts to defend him from the more emotional and strident Cubs fans I know, Milton Bradley insists on being a temperamental prick. At least he's making contact, finally.

Wednesday's 9-4 win has done NOTHING to wash the stain of the 15-6 loss to the Nats on Tuesday. I thought I had given up on this team before, but AAron Heilman coughing up the Grand Slam will go down in the history books as the exact moment I stopped giving a tin shit about the 2009 Cubs. And I'm better for it.

I'm up to page 190 on Mason & Dixon. Some really beautiful writing on the relationship between fathers and sons and the nature of love, longing, grief, and duty. Not nearly enough talking clocks, though.

My fiancee is out of town for four days starting tonight, which means the meals I cook are less in the area of "a small portion of cooked fish and a salad with homemade vinaigrette," and more along the lines of "steak, tater tots, and scotch." It also means I may have a heart attack by Friday.

On the subject of Steak:

A) My cut was pretty cheap, but I marinated the living hell out of it. With coffee. It was pretty decent.

B) I also made gravy. Because I am southern. It was awesome.

On the subject of Tater Tots:

A) Much like Wayne Newton with pasta, I always make too much.

B) If you are going to bake them (because, like me, you don't want to start a grease fire in your hovel), for god's sake, broil them for a couple of minutes or they're really just soggy potato lumps.

C) Though they run the risk of moving into Overrated territory, I love that Tater Tots are showing up on a lot of local bar menus. They are great drunk food.

On the subject of Scotch:

A) I like it.

B) A lot.

On the subject of Holy Shit, This Is Rad:

A) Holy shit, this is rad.

Repeated viewings of Bridezillas with said fiancee over the past few weeks (which is doing wonders for my masculinity, let me tell you) have led me to the conclusion that Women Must Be Stopped. Honestly. It seems like half of these cows are only getting married so they can treat their best friends like slaves for a few weeks.

Within hours of declaring that I was arbitrarily supporting West Ham United FC (though not actually watching soccer, as it bores me to tears) for the sole reason that Steve Harris of Iron Maiden is a huge fan, their supporters got into a riot with Millwall supporters. Which delights me to no end, because while I don't really care about soccer, I really love hooliganism.

It turns out none of the things I've had to say have moved me enough to write a full blog entry. So you get these dregs. Hope you're happy.

Oh, and instead of watching the Cubs game tonight, I watched a couple of Simpsons DVDs. It was the most fun I've had during a ballgame all year. I can only assume the fact that my apathy has hit full swing will make the Cubs a team of winners. You're welcome.

The Expendables vs. Machete: Greatest Movie Ever Made

Lawrence of Arabia. The Godfather. Gone With the Wind. Casablanca. These are movies that are universally regarded as masterpieces. Best of the best. Until now...

There are two movies that are coming out next year that will forever change the face of the cinematic horizon: The Expendables and Machete. Each one reads like you gave me millions of dollars and told me to do whatever I wanted with it. I’m going to break down each one and let you decide which movie will be most likely to cause me to give birth to a muscled forearm covered in hair exactly nine months after I see it in the theater.

The Expendables


Plot Summary: A team of mercenaries head to South America on a mission to overthrow a dictator. (obviously)

Main Cast: Sylvester Stallone, Jason Statham, Jet Li, Dolph Lundgren, Eric Roberts, Randy Couture, Steve Austin, Giselle Itié, Mickey Rourke, Brittany Murphy, Bruce Willis, Arnold Schwarzenegger

HOLY SHIT! (fans face with hands) I’m setting the +/- on number of brown people killed in this movie at 1000. I mean, Arnold pretty much took care of 400 single-handedly in Commando. Did I mention that Sly also wrote and directed this thing? Dolph Lundgren, ladies and gentlemen! I thought we had seen the last of The Siberian Express. Willis and Schwarzenegger are pretty much throw-in characters, from what I understand. That alone says how awesome this movie will be. Never mind the fact that a SITTING GOVERNOR is staring in this film. What are the odds Jason Statham is even seen with a shirt, let alone wearing one? I suppose he’ll want to avoid any plot holes and simply use his shirt to kill a few dozen infantry. That’s the showmanship I expect from a production like this. Oh, and Ravi Shankar is listed in the cast as well. Why the fuck not? I would advise against pregnant women and the elderly even ordering tickets for this movie.

Machete


Plot Summary: After being betrayed by the organization who hired him, an ex-Federale launches a brutal rampage of revenge against his former boss.

Main Cast: Danny Trejo, Lindsay Lohan, Jessica Alba, Michelle Rodriguez, Don Johnson, Cheech Marin, Robert DeNiro, Steven Segal

This movie is basically an expansion on the fake trailer that was made specifically for the movie Grindhouse. (Caution: some NSFW footage at about the 1:40 mark, tee hee hee). I'd say it pretty much speaks for itself. And when it speaks it doesn't care that you got the part you wanted in the school play. Why can't you be like the other boys? Now cut the grass and get dad a fresh beer.

Right off the bat you'll see that this movie doesn't have the same weight behind the cast, as does The Expendables. I respect that. But you know who doesn't? Danny Trejo, that's who. He basically plays the same character in this movie that he played in Desperado. If you don't know what I'm talking about then you probably shouldn't even be reading this in the first place. Cheech Marin is a shotgun-wielding priest who helps Trejo regulate some vengeance despite having taken a "vow of peace". Bobby DeNiro even has a small role in here as the senator that Trejo is suppose to gun down, and Steven Segal (!!!) makes an appearance as a drug lord. Maybe the casting isn't so weak after all. And let us not forget the ladies. According to Wikipedia, Michelle Rodriguez plays Trejo's assistant / taco maker. Alright. Lindsay Lohan and Jessica Alba should round out the cast nicely (see what I did there?).

So that's it. Two movies that will have more testosterone than Jason Giambi's gym bag. I leave the decision to you.

**Grabs an infant and crashes through a window on a motorcycle, laughing and shooting into the air**

Point / Counterpoint: CGI

White Chili, formerly Dave Thomas, checking in.

Computers have gifted recent directors with the tools necessary to bring us to worlds filled with dinosaurs, aliens, and armies of thousands. It used to be that all the actors in movies were actually human beings and creatures were either made of clay or costumes stacked with minorities trampling miniature cityscapes.


The Big Unit has seen better days
I remember when T2 came out and everyone first got a glimpse of the T1000. Holy Crap! Have you seen this boy? How about a clean pair of pants? Jurassic Park was made 16 G*d damn years ago and it still holds up as a masterpiece. All hail Stan Winston! And remember when Forrest Gump came out and people were excited when Tom Hanks dropped trou in front of the ACTUAL Lyndon B. Johnson? CGI has given us some of the most memorable moments in cinematic history. But if you abuse it, like any good thing, it's no longer special. Turkey dinner becomes a turkey sandwich.

The trick is to use CGI in conjunction with good acting and real props. Apollo 13 had some great computer generated scenes, but the actors also spent hours and hours inside one of NASA's planes dubbed the "vomit comet" that flies up and down to simulate zero G where they filmed all the space scenes a few minutes at a time. And what about Ghostbusters? Here's a movie made 25 years ago about ghosts that used almost zero computer effects. It's a good thing they're not going to brutally rape that series and sell yet another piece of my childhood back to me...........what's that? They're filming what?

And as for the other side of the story...

Go fuck yourself Michael Bay
And if that wasn't enough for you, here.

A Grown Man Attempts to Review NES Games, part 3

Or, Smiting Pagans With the Power of EXODUS!

I've been holed up in my apartment for roughly a week now, sick as a dog, so I decided to dust off the old NES emulator, and write a review. However, I'm just not up to discovering another lost gem like The 3-D Adventures of World Runner or the face-meltingly odd 8-Eyes. I'm sticking with one of my own personal favorite games from "back in the day," a classic of non-licensed, religious-themed, oddity.

Of course I mean...EXODUS!

I first discovered this classic when I was in High School, at The Good News Bookstore in Mt. Pleasant, SC. This blessed place was a combination Fundamentalist Christian bookstore, deli, music store, and toy store that I used to refer to as "The Christian Chuck E. Cheese." The 17-year-old obnoxious punk version of Wolter used to come there after school with his obnoxious punk friends to play this classic of the genre on an NES they had set up in the back. Why?

Well, you are Moses, leading your people out of Israel. According to the game's description you...

But, ultimately, that really means

SMITING PAGANS WITH THE POWER OF THE LORD!

Oh sure, once I read the instructions (when I caved a bought a copy in college), I discovered that you are ostensibly using the "Word of God" (it's shaped like a W, but it's a lighting bolt, people. Trust me on this) to "convert" them. But when they are converted, they explode and disappear. Sounds like a smiting to me, chief.

But does this game live up to my fond memories? Let's find out using science (by "science," I, of course, mean "arbitrary ranking scales based on my whims"):

Graphics: Okay, these are pretty basic, even by 8-bit standards. But Moses is actually surprisingly cute. And unlike some games, I know what the hell is going on at any given moment. Also, there are plenty of subpar single picture "scenes" in-between levels, but not every game can be Ninja Gaiden. The graphics are nothing special, but nothing awful. Plus, you get to SMITE PAGANS WITH THE POWER OF THE LORD. (3/5)

Sound: Oy. This is where it gets bad. Unless you love an endless midi loop of "Father Abraham had many sons" playing for all eternity. I usually turned off the sound and listened to the Misfits on my walkman back in the day. (1/5)

Gameplay: Okay, this game is a lot like some sort of weird allegorical Dig Dug. You're Moses, and you shoot little W-shaped bolts out of your staff (the "Word of God") these in turn help you dig tunnels through "The Murmuring of the Israelites" and "convert" assorted Egyptian soldiers, magicians, and etc. (as mentioned above). You can also "convert" the pagans by pushing boulders on their heads. While moving through the level, you collect "manna" jars, bibles, and "questions" while looking for the door to the next level.

At the end of each level are 5 questions from the Bible. You get a bible for answering each question correctly. Every 7 bibles gets you an extra Moses. Oh, and when Moses dies (usually from failing to avoid the unclean touch of a pagan), he puts his hands over his eyes in a truly adorable fashion.

Really, though, the point of this game is SMITING PAGANS WITH THE POWER OF THE LORD. (5/5)

Level of Adult Confusion: Dude, you walk around SMITING PAGANS WITH THE POWER OF THE LORD. What's not to get? (0/5)

Level of Childhood Rage If I Had Spent Money on This: I doubt I would have been angry as a child. I was pretty religious, plus I loved smiting things. (0/5)

Time Spent Playing As An Adult Before Quitting in Annoyance: Hell, I'm only annoyed that I had to quit long enough to write this review. I need to get back and SMITE PAGANS WITH THE POWER OF THE LORD.

Composite Grade: Sound issues aside, I give this one five bibles out of a possible five. Because I'm pretty sure I have literally every track the Misfits recorded.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some smiting to do...

The Prodigal Son Wants A Crack At the State House

Often, when people learn I am, in fact, from South Carolina, they are stunned. I’m an avowed atheist, a civil libertarian, and I have never shot a gun at anything living. I don’t even have a strong enough accent to place me anywhere near my home town of Charleston (most people assume I’m from Ohio or something). I hate NASCAR, and don't sleep with my cousins.

But, if you get to know me, the hints come out. I’m passionate about the fact that barbecue is a noun, and should be made with either mustard or vinegar. I strongly believe tea should be iced and sweet, or it’s better off in a harbor. When I drink I get maudlin about country songs and boiled peanuts. And, I own a few slaves (it’s a heritage thing, people. It has nothing to do with hate).

And, while I love my adopted home state of Illinois more than I love John C. Calhoun’s wild-eyed stare, I’m willing to do my part and throw my hat into the ring.

That’s right, Palmetto State. This expatriate Sandlapper is willing to come home and govern you. Govern you hard.

Well, that’s not really true. I’m in no way willing to actually “come home” for more than a few days at a time. But hey, in these internet-savvy days, you don’t need to actually live somewhere to control it. Most of the TMS bartenders don’t live anywhere near Chicago, and Chaim Witz was actually replaced by a team of Indian day laborers 7 months ago.


However, I've got big dreams. In 2012, I will be 36 years old. That's the first election where I will be legally eligible to be president. And, as that election approaches, I will be unveiling a comprehensive platform that is sure to galvanize the entire electorate (I'll give you a hint: Flying Goddamn Cars). I am the man to build a bridge to the mid-20th century's idea of what the 21st Century was going to be like.

Or, I would be, if I didn't have absolutely no experience in governing, a public record of underachieving, and almost zero personal charisma.

Easy way to solve this: get elected governor of some podunk state, be charmingly stupid, and pander to the masses. And here is where South Carolina steps in...

I'm not going to go deeply into this current imbroglio. We all know what's going on down there. And, frankly, I found those emails disarmingly heartfelt and embarassing. Human emotions like that sicken me, and I will not support their promulgation.

I think what outrages voters more than sinful behavior is pretending you aren't a dirty sleazeball. Bill Clinton still kept a reasonably high approval rate while nailing every thick ankled, small uvula'd woman in the Beltway. Sure he denied everything, but he did it with a wink that said..."you've all ridden a moped, too, boys..."

So, South Carolina, I make these promises:

1. I have no ability or experience in leadership roles. I know nothing about running a state government. This should not be a problem, as I'm pretty sure no one born in South Carolina in the past 75 years knows how to run a Quizno's in a strip mall, much less a State Government.

2. I will be abusing the power of my office. That is the strongest campaign promise I plan to make, and I'll be damned if I break it. You can trust in me.

3. Most importantly: I can assure the voters of my home state that if I disappear for 3 days I am safely ensconced in a mountain hideaway with a pile of drugs, a few handles of whiskey, and no less than 6 prostitutes of no less than 3 different ethnicities. In fact, even when I'm actually going on a hiking trip or just taking some time to catch up on reading, I will tell the press I am going to Argentina to bang my hot mistress. Because I have a rep, people.

So what do you say, South Carolina? Are you willing to take a chance on an unproven maverick who won't play by the rules? I mean, your leadership has been running your state into the ground for almost 2 full centuries. Why not choose a man who will do it openly, honestly, and (quite likely) completely fried out of his mind on psychedelic mushrooms and Islay malt scotch?

Vote Wolter. His Sordid Scandals WILL Go Into Sexual Details.

Paid for by the Committee to Elect Jon Wolter to Run South Carolina Into the Ground.

I Formally Denounce Our Newest Bartender

"Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast; for it is the number of a man; and his number is 666." Book of Revelation Chapter 13 Verse 18 (Also, the Book of Maiden, Album 3, Track 5).

They laughed. They all laughed.

I have tried to warn the other bartenders about the Scion of Satan we just allowed to waltz in here like he owns the place. And, for once, I'm not talking about Ginger Russ or any of our other summer interns (keep striving gentlemen: one day Chip Wesley will let you take off the paper trainee hats). No. I'm talking about the beer guzzling, obscenity spewing, foul-smelling demon in the vintage 1978 road cap (and for once, I'm not talking about Dave Thomas).

I'm talking about Damien Lucifer "Hack" Wilson Brown V. Or as he insists on referring to himself, Hack the Fifth.

I'll admit, part of my resentment stems from the fact that I momentarily assumed that Hank III was writing for the Saloon, thus increasing the Truckliness of this site 600-fold. But no. Instead of the Hellraising Grandson of Country Royalty, we get the Hell-Spawned Foster Son of TMS Bartendertry.

Oh sure, he looks like any other human larva at first glance. Unfocused eyes, poor coordination, thin dribble of drool, etc. (and, for once, I'm only partially referring to Chaim Witz)...but the moment Brant brought him back to the Saloon with the proud grin of the newly adoptive father/host organism I sensed trouble. And yes, to paraphrase that Imp of Beelzebub, my first instinct was to fob this evil off on the Heathen Chinese for what they did to Kingston Falls in general, and the vivacious and talented Phoebe Cates in particular. Oh, and Mr. Futterman...I'll never forgive them for Mr. Futterman...

So, mark my words, giving this preternaturally self-aware murderbaby a soapbox on this, the 579th Most Popular Vaguely Cubs-Related Blog on the internet is like dropping a Mancoulteratee in front of Jordi. It seems like a good idea at the time, but it will end in tears.

And a hell of a dry cleaning bill.

If I May Be Pompous For a Moment...

Note: In lieu of writing TWO non-Hitler-Punch-Related Blog Entries in the same month, I am dual posting this entry on TMS and my own personal (long neglected) blog, The Slog . You know...in case you give a rat’s ass.

Welcome to Wolter’s Music and Pop Culture Theory Corner, a feature deemed “Too Pseudointellectual Even For Pomp Culture” by a volunteer panel of U of C grad students.

Today’s discussion is based on aspects of the Generational Theory first espoused by William Strauss & Neil Howe in their seminal work, Generations (not to be confused with the incredibly bad Star Trek movie of the same name), and how they related to the lyrical content of the debut single two unrelated UK bands from roughly a quarter century apart (The Adverts and Art Brut).

Generational Theory is a more or less cyclical explanation of long-term historical trends based on each generation’s relation to and reaction at the previous generations throughout the phases of their life. It’s a very fascinating tool that, while not fully accurate as a predictive device, is very interesting as a means of analysis of events. You can get a decent quick-n-dirty overview in the wikipedia link above, which I strongly recommend reading as a background material (I'm going to be relatively brief in my reasoning, so if you find flaws with this theory, remember that Strauss & Howe wrote several books on the topic, and it's worth reading more about it).

At any rate, the short version is each generation has an overall character that is the result of its environment (though obviously there are always members of each generation that defy the prevailing norms). The two generations that matter for this discussion are Generation X (also known as 13th Gen) and the Millennial Generation (also known as Generation Y).

The Adverts formed in 1977 as part of the slew of punk bands that appeared in the wake of the Sex Pistols (and to a lesser extent, the Clash and the Damned) rise to notoriety in the UK. Their debut single, “One Chord Wonders” is a marvelously paranoid ode to the bravado and gallows-humor of musicians with low-self-esteem everywhere who know in their hearts they are doomed to failure. For the purposes of this discussion, please feel free to download a copy here.

And, for your perusal, here are a copy of the lyrics (hopefully correct, as god knows I don’t want to search too deeply for lyrics sites, and the requisite computer viruses they seem to contain):

I wonder what we'll play for you tonight.
Something heavy or something light?
Something to set your soul alight?
I wonder how we'll answer when you say,
"We don't like you - go away,
"Come back when you've learnt to play"

I wonder what we'll do when things go wrong,
When we're half-way through
Our favorite song,
We look up and the
audience has gone.
Will we feel a little bit obscure?
Think "we're not needed here,
"We must be new wave
- they'll like us next year"

The Wonders don't care
- we don't give a damn (repeated to end of
song)

Note the outright pessimism and cynicism of these lyrics. This is a band that fully expects to go nowhere, but plans to do so defiantly. This is very indicative of the Nomad Generation mentality, which describes both Generation X (born c. 1960-1982 – opinions differ on the exact dates) and preceding similar generations (such as the Lost Generation). Of course, Adverts lead vocalist TV Smith was born in 1956, a few years before the first Generation X cohort, but this song’s worldview is much more Gen X than Boomer (and most of the fans he was reaching for were first cohort Boomers). Indeed, most of the idealized notions of the Punk subculture are overwhelmingly suited to the first stirrings of Generation X – rebelliousness tempered with nihilism, a belief that there is no future and very little hope. Irony is the shield of the Nomad Generation, defending it against the dark pessimism ingrained in most members.

On the other hand, Art Brut (who formed in 2003 at the cusp of a Post-Punk revival in the British charts, are staunchly part of a Hero Generation (The Millennials who followed Generation X and are most closely analogous to the GI, or Greatest Generation born c. 1900-1924). Team oriented, optimistic, and usually hard-working, Millennials are often thought have no use for the cynical irony of the Gen X-ers (which irritates Gen X-ers almost as much as being called "Gen X-ers"). They have the sense that they are special and have been brought up for a purpose, which can be seen in the debut single "Formed a Band" which can be found here (well, the album version). Also, note (like T.V. Smith) that Art Brut's lead vocalist Eddie Argos was born just before the technical beginning of this Generation, but is singing to an audience of first cohort Millennials. I think some artists on Generational cusps are the canaries in coal mine who feel the shift as it's happening.

Now contrast the following lyrics with what goes before:

Formed a band
We formed a band
Look at us
We formed a band
(x4)

Honey pie, I don't know when it started
Just stop buying your albums
from the supermarkets
They only sell things that have charted
And Art Brut?
Well we've only just started

And yes, this is my singing voice
It's not irony
And it's not rock and roll
I'm just talking
To the kids

Formed a band
We formed a band
Look at us
We formed a band
(x4)

I want to be the boy
The man
Who writes the song
That makes Israel and Palestine
Get along

I'm gonna write a song
As universal as Happy Birthday
That's gonna make sure
That everybody knows
That everything's gonna be ok
I'm gonna take that song
And we're gonna play it
Eight weeks in a row on Top of the Pops

Formed a band
We formed a band
Look at us
We formed a band
(x4)

Dye your hair black
Never look back
My past is my business

We have two songs about more-or-less the same subject by bands that aren't massively musically dissimilar. But what a difference a generation makes. A specific denouncement of irony (at least the humorless kind), and a bouncy statement that despite their admitted shortcomings, Art Brut (whose very name means, more or less, "Primitive Art") will take the world by storm and solve everyone's problems. The Adverts seems to be saying "You probably will hate us, but screw you, we don't care what you think...much...." Art Brut is saying "You don't know it yet, but we're your new favorite band. And we love that about you." There's a bit of a twist of the knife at the end, but no true darkness pervades this song.

Ultimately, of course, this is just an observation I made while listening to my iPod on shuffle. But it gave this late-cohort Gen X-er (God, I hate that term) some food for thought about two songs he happens to enjoy quite a bit for very different reasons.

"A Team Full Of Outlaws"

... or so the Cubs were dubbed last week by Paul Sullivan of the Tribune.

And I for one, embrace this image. If I can't root for a winning team, at least I can root for an entertaining (and not a little scary one). And let's face it, a team where Ted Lilly, a man who allegedly got into a fistfight with his manager, doesn't even make most fans Top 3 Cubs Hotheads list, is bound to be entertaining.

But outlaws? Well...I suppose if you really want make this judgment, then I suppose the only right way to do it is to compare the Cubs to the True Barometer of All Things Outlaw: 1970s Country.

Well, that's easier said than done, mister. Unless you're one of those responsible-type bloggers who does their research and writes in a timely manner. Which I clearly am not.

But I suppose I should actually earn my keep here, so here goes:

Waylon Jennings
Waylon is one of the true giants of the Outlaw movement, with a solid musical resume and a bad-boy image that belied his down-to-earth nature. So who better than Milton Bradley to personify this? A man with a solid pedigree of above average ballplaying mixed with some rather public moments of...hold it...I'm being informed that I should probably not talk too much about Milton. I might make him angry....

Willie Nelson
Willie is an outlaw in spirit, but his laid back, easygoing (read: stoned) demeanor doesn't fit this current spate of umpire run-ins very well. However, his past run-ins with the IRS and his support for a controversial position on marijauna legalization remind me of a relatively laid back and softspoken Cub with a controversial position on chickens pecking each other to death: Aramis Ramirez. Expect Aramis to appear in Stephen Colbert's manger scene next year, prize rooster in hand.

Johnny Cash
A hipster favorite, even though his true outlaw days were far before this time, Cash is a difficult one to pin down as a Cub. Based on the fact that in the 1970s, Cash was entering a decline that lasted some time, I'm going to cheat and say that it's Derrek Lee. Lee used to be a very good (and for a year, elite) player, and once almost landed a punch on Chris Young (that's like going to Starkville County Jail for picking flowers, I guess). Let's just hope Rick Rubin can engineer a comeback for Lee soon.

Johnny Paycheck
Now here's a real wildman. Paycheck had an awesome run of raw edgy honky-tonk classics in the late 60s, but flew under the mainstream radar until he re-invented himself as an outlaw. And late in his career, Paycheck ended up serving a couple of years in prison for shooting a man in a scuffle. Ted Lilly spent several years as a solid but relatively unnoticed pitcher before reinventing himself as a psychopath for the Cubs blogosphere. And Lilly will no doubt serve a few years in prison if anyone finds the bodies...

Kris Kristofferson
Kristofferson has always been the thinking man's country musician. It's not a well-known fact, but Kristofferson is a Rhodes scholar with a Masters' in English from Oxford. No. Really. He is. But he still manages to exude a sort of gruff, good-ol-boy air that gives him an authentic bad-boy feel. Now, if Greg Maddux was still a Cub, I'd assign him Kristofferson in a second. But since he isn't, the closest thing we have to intellectuals on the team are...well, the Canadians...I guess. I'm putting Ryan Dempster in this role, because Harden is clearly a robot.

David Allan Coe
Now here's where it gets fun. David Allan Coe is immensely talented, immensely self-destructive, and you never know just how much of his crazy is a put-on and how much is just...because there's no doubt he's insane - it's just to what degree? After being released from prison, Coe put out a couple of strange, poetic, blues based art albums about the prison-industrial complex and being a young man in America, then wrote some of the tenderest country love ballads ever. Later he put out two of the most racist and offensive country albums ever made. He's dressed in a mask and rhinestones, in Nudie suits and huge belt buckles, and (most recently) like the scariest white-trash biker grandpa in history. If there is anyone else than Carlos Zambrano who fits this mold, I'd like to hear it.

Merle Haggard
Lou Piniella. I will brook no argument.

George Jones
Like Merle and Cash, he's not technically "Outlaw" country at all, but his carousing days certainly put him on this list. But not as a Cub. His legendary drunken exploits behind the wheel put him squarely in St. Louis, most likely as resident "jeenyus," Tony LaRussa.

Okay, I'm stretching this concept to the breaking. See you in 3 months, when I write my next TMS feature. Special thanks to my fellow bartender Dave Thomas for the photoshop.

Double-Fisting At Minifist

An Attempt At Remembrance

Chaim's memories of last Friday has inspired me to dust off my keyboard and participate in this blog like an actual writer, as opposed to just drawing a salary and commenting on every fifth article written by someone else. So here's what I'm capable of remembering from the 2009 Minifist:

To catch those just joining us up, last Friday was the long-awaited Annual Thunder Matt's Saloon Gathering of Bartenders That Could Actually Make it To Chicago, or "Minifist" for short. I have been told this is a reference to a previous full gathering of bartenders known as "Thunderfist," but I suspect it's actually named after a midget porno that Dave Thomas kept trying to get us to go back to his house to watch.¹

The reason for this gathering was to watch the Cubs play the hated Houston Astros. I'm not kidding when I tell you that the Astros are my "least favorite team that I shouldn't give a shit about" ever. I really hate the Astros. A lot. I'd be more eloquent about it, but the white-hot rage that fills my veins when I think too much about them is making it difficult to type, so I'm going to change the subject.

I was originally scheduled to attend this game, but had to cover for our receptionist, who was out of town. So I was limited to meeting up "after the game," where I expected to meet either several very annoyed or very excited bartenders for a post-game Celebration/Drowning of Sorrows. Then I learned the game had been postponed to another day due to the weather, which was about 10 different kinds of ass that day.

So, at about 4:30, I texted our very own Chaim Witz to ask if they were still at the Gingerman (on account of I was dreadfully sober), and received the following text:

Oh god yes

That's always a good sign. When I finally arrived at the Gingerman (at roughly 5:30, for those keeping score), I found Chaim (who was heroically warring with Sobriety and winning at this point), as well as fellow bartenders Chip Wesley and Dave Thomas in fine spirits. With them were Valued TMS Reader Nick V (whose real name, it turns out is Steve V), a friend of Chip's that I will call "Mark," to protect his identity, and my good friend, Dr. Scotch, whose company I greatly appreciated, considering that I was at least 5 hours behind everyone else on the booze front.²

Not in attendance was the legendary Tommy Buzanis, who had apparently left some hours before I arrived, muttering something about "ditching this sausage party to look for a steak and some broads." I still have yet to meet this mysterious, near mythical man, but his empty seat was treated with the greatest of reverence.

A raucous conversation ensued, whereupon I learned much about how to administer a throat-jab properly, the most obscene insults Lingering Bursitis had used in private correspondence, and the proper way to eat at Wrigleyville Dog (answer: apparently Not at All). At some point (about 3 pitchers in from my arrival), Chaim's head finally hit the table, and we all knew he had defeated Sobriety handily. We bundled him in a cab pointed towards his house, and staggered into the still sunlit evening to find the next bar.

This being Wrigelyville, the bar selection was wide, but shallow. Pretty much the only non-sports bar left open was The Irish Oak (where, incidentally, I spent a fascinating night last fall listening to the Clash's excreble Cut the Crap album and watching a friend of mine get hit on by a DEEPLY RELIGIOUS group of Suburban Cougars). So we went there, Chaimless, but proud. Dave Thomas and I shared a shot of Rumple Minze³, and I trace my ultimate downfall to this point.

Eventually, we left the Oak, losing Nick V and Dave Thomas in the process, and the remaining three (Chip Wesley, "Mark," and myself) decided to go to the Wrigleyville North (a delightfully rednecky and cheap bar not far from the Sheridan stop). Every trip I take to the Wrigleyville North is either a disaster or not memorable at all, so I don't know why I get drawn to it so readily. Unless it's because the drunker I get, the more I want to listen to country cover bands.

We had barely settled in when I got a series of texts from my fiancee, who was in nearby Boys Town, singing Karaoke with her friends at a relatively seedy gay bar named Bobby Love's:

Worst version of tiny dancer ever on the karaoke stage EVER! ;)

And I'm babysitting a sox fan glass. HELP!!!

So, I asked my companions if they minded swinging by, and when I assured "Mark" that there are tons of chicks at karaoke night at a gay bar (there are), and Chip that I wouldn't tell anyone about this (I did), we staggered drunkenly there. On the way, I almost got us lost twice, recieved a text that my fiancee was leaving soon, made it there in time for one more round, coninued to be collossally drunk, watched "Mark" make out with a friend of my fiancee's and mine, failed to sign Chip up for a song (I assume he was planning to sing "Two Minutes To Midnight" or something, but my memory is swimmy by this point), and finally left.

All in all, a fine night out.⁴

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1. Not strictly a "fact," but I've never let that stop me before. In fact, anywhere from 50-95% of these remembrances might not be literally "factual." But dammit they are still The Truth.

2. Of course, I now know that any less than a 10 hour head start for Dave Thomas is not fair to the rest of the group...

3. I just googled the spelling. Huh. Two words. Weird.

4. Well, if you don't count the huge argument I started with my fiancee on the way home (entirely my fault; I was a mess), the fact that I had to get up at 6:30 am to work a convention, and that I spent all the next day shaking and covered in a thin, clammy layer of beer-scented sweat.