Through stained glass we gaze

Sorry, I'm not available...

2006-03-10T10:14:00.000-05:00

...to take your call at this web site. I've moved. So you can either leave a message at the tone, or hit me up at my new spot: www.thewastebasket.com

Bad news and good news

2006-03-07T14:36:00.000-05:00

Let's start with the bad news, friends. Check out this letter I received a couple of days ago.

To rmaese
From Blogger admin

Hello, valued Blogger user. We'd like to take this opportunity to thank you for your dedicated service with Blogger and Blogspot. You've been a valued member of our community. However, our legal department has spent the past 5 weeks investigating a series of allegations made against you (rmaese) and your Blogspot site (Through Stained Glass We Gaze). It has come to our attention that you're not exactly an amateur. Blogger and Blogspot prides themselves in providing forums for amateur writers, thinkers and bathroom pundits. You, sir, are clearly no amateur. It is with only a bit of regret that we must ask you to cease and desist all publication on your Blogspot site (Through Stained Glass We Gaze). Your attention to this matter is appreciated.

Can you believe that? I know, I know -- I was shocked, too. I had my legal department review the letter and there's basically nothing I can do about it. But that leads us to the good news. Blogger's fascist tactics actually coincide with a big announcement that we've been working on. With the help of my talented and slightly retarded brother, Joey, I am very pleased to unveil a whole new brand of hotness that you were scared to even dream about. Starting this week, I will be posting to a new web site called thewastebasket.com. It's going to be like this blog site, but like 100,000 times better. I'm going to step up my game, and in turn, I'm asking each of you to step up your game. So give it a look, give us a bookmark and let's enjoy the new home.

Again, the site is www.thewastebasket.com.

I'll see you there.

Missing the unreal

2006-03-03T14:27:00.000-05:00

To the producers of "The Real World"

Hello. My name is Rick. I don't watch a whole lot of television, but I've been watching your show since the start. I'm the generation that defined my own adolescent reality based on the norms and characters you put forth. As you might recall, I began sending letters to you about three years ago, most of them coming during the tawdry "Las Vegas" season. I had grown quite unhappy with the choice of cast members in recent years. It seemed like MTV posted ads in alt-weeklies across the country for a modeling showcase, then selected seven pretty people and threw them in a ridiculous house. I was upset because suddenly, I felt like I couldn't relate to the Real World and its Abercrombie & Fitch cast. Anyhow, today I'm writing to tell you that I'm sorry about all the complaining.

Yesterday, I watched the first episode of the new season, set in "Key West." Wait, keep reading. I'm not one of those who's writing because you foolishly chose to put a self-concious anorexic woman in your perverted little puppet-theater. While I'm not doing back flips over that decision (full disclosure: I can't do a backflip), that's not what upset me about the new season. I can't believe you all took my advice -- are you idiots? What an average-looking cast this year. There's not a single girl that I'd even give a second look to in a bar. I used to watch the show and feel bad because they made me feel so, uhm, normal. But I was watching the new season and just felt bad for these cast members. As much as I detested the genetically-modified nature of recent seasons, we've all grown accustomed to a certain societal role of "The Real World." It should represent the ideal, define the hip and put forth a generational attitude. It should give us something to collectively strive for in our daily lives, not make us feel as though we're already ahead of the curve, that we're already pretty and smart and cutting edge.

Before they were a bunch of carefully-chiseled mannequins. Now it's just a bunch that was scooped up from the bus stop and thrown in a house. I thought that's what I wanted. I thought it would make the show "real." And now I've come to find out that I never wanted real. I deal with the real every day of my life. I drive by the bus stops, I pump gas, I encounter unattractive people. I realize now that when I turn on the TV, I want something different. We're all escapists and the TV is the easiest portal to get-away. MTV, you failed us. We want our unreality back.

Italia unpack

2006-03-01T18:42:00.000-05:00

I know we're all very eager to get both feet firmly into the Now, but I gotta unpack a few things before we move forward, k? We're datelined Orlando right now, and yes, my cell phone is working again. We ran into some slight complications when Germany refused to surrender my luggage. It was finally delivered by a young man driving a Ford Taurus at 2 a.m. last night. No joke. I don't like feeling disconnected to the world, even though I long for it. It's very uneasy. Kind of like walking up a rocky hill, where you're just waiting to fall.

I'm still adjusting to life in the USA. The language barrier is proving a bit more difficult than I anticipated. People look at me funny when I use the three Italian words that I picked up over the past three weeks (on average, I learned one word a week). And I keep thinking Dick Cheney is gonna pop out from behind a bush and start firing away. But it's mostly OK.

The last few days in Italy were nice. Let's review just a bit and I promise we'll be posting more regularly and we can start talking about issues and trends and news more on the regular.

A couple of nights before I left town, I cut out of work at about midnightish and went with some friends to the "Holland House," kind of a gathering place for Dutch athletes sponsored by their host nation. It was a cross between a frat party and a rave, if you throw in the 75-foot ice rink. It was very surreal. Most of the people were wear clad in orange (Wheaties-bos orange, to be exact) and there was generally a friendly vibe moving from corner to corner. We danced, we watched people ice skate and studied the Dutch curling team. Theory proposed by Steinberg of the Post: the Dutch curlers are about as legit as microwavable ice cream (ok, those weren't his exact words).

There was no Duth curling team competing in these Olympics. And when Steinberg presented them with a printed out rosters of the top Holland curlers, they had to acknowledge that their names were nowhere to be seen. So what gives? These Dutch curlers had been all-stars at the Games, gaining mention in reputable publications like the Chicago Tribune and the Wall Street Journal. They were at parties, competitions and even news conferences. They showed up everywhere wearing the same matching T-shirts, and taking photos of each other kissing random girls. It was basically the most brilliant thing about the Olympics.

Yes, there are several things that I'll remember about ol Italia, but maybe none moreso than the gelato.

Check out that picture. The people are crowded around a tiny window. There's no order, no line. It's complete chaos. You can picture this gelato shop in the middle of a Mad Max movie. And this exact same scene takes place every 15 feet all across Turin where the people go absolutely bonkers for gelato. It's their crack. And I don't mean that it's dangerous (though it's certainly addictive); I call it crack because of the way people act.

When there's a gelato window, there's no semblance of civility. I saw an 74-year-old man from Milan fashion his walking stick into a shank and stab a 7-year-old kid because he wanted to be 2 feet closer to his sweet, sweet pistachio nut. These people are crazy when it comes to gelato.

I'll also remember all the buildings -- and yet I won't remember a single one. That's because these foreign countries with their centuries of history have way too many important buildings. And here's the other thing you need to know -- every one of them is a church. No joke. That building pictures above, for example: I didn't write down the name it, and I can't specifically recall snapping the photo. But I'm 100 percent that it's some type of church. Apparently, that's all they built until the 20th century: churches and gelato stands.

The people were nice and the food was good. I'll take that back with me. In fact, the people were too nice and the food was too good. The Italianse -- they were more helpful than I liked. They usually didn't have the information to back up the advice and directions they were giving. So you'd end up on a goose chase and before you know it, you're in Prague... all cuz you were looking for a bathroom.

And the food... by my estimate, I've gained 28 pounds. I walk and I can actually see my feet denting the earth. While this might seem like a good thing because I could write a cool "Footprints" poem like that one in hanging in your aunt's living room, if you saw me, you'd know it was bad.

Also, the photo taken above was from a restaurant. How appetizing is it to look at that while you're trying to get your chow on? Also, I eat truffles now, so act like ya know.

We had a good run, though, me and ol Italia. I don't really remember much of it, except of course for those all-night advertisements for 1-900 numbers. True story: I woke up one morning with just the telephone receiver lying next to my head. Apparently I'd fallen asleep and forgot to hang up the phone (?). I woke up the next day fairly convinced that I'd called one of those numbers. But my phone bill didn't reflect it, so maybe I'd just called Papa John's or something.

So I said good-bye to my housing village (above) on Monday morning. It was called Mortara, unofficially we called it "Mortara: the Village of Death." I then sat on an airplane for 18 days before landing in the U.S. without my luggage.

By now, a couple days have passed, and I'm feeling more adjusted. There's so much I want to discuss, and I finally have the energy to put it out there for you. (For example: Now we're hearing that Bush knew about the dangers posed by Katrina? Hmmm... for a president who knows very little, he sure knows quite a bit, huh.)

Arrivederci

2006-02-26T19:00:00.000-05:00

Friends, enemies and dearhearts,

I'm bouncing from Italia in a couple of hours. I have a few things to share with you. I just wish I had the time to share them. Rest assured, we'll debrief all of this in a couple of days. Just wanted to drop you a line to say that I'm looking forward to seeing everyone in B-more, O-town and ABQ in the couple of weeks. And just a heads-up, I kiss on both cheeks now. (You all know what I'm talking about.)

Ciao

Field trip Friday

2006-02-24T15:50:00.000-05:00

If I was to be totally honest, I didn't know exactly what to expect. I knew I was excited. I knew I was at least a tiny bit spooked. And I knew I'd enjoyed saying over the past few days, "Oh, by the way, I can't do dinner on Friday because I'm going to the Gates of Hell.

I'd booked a tour guide a few days ago. For 35 Euro, she was mine for two hours and what a wealth of information. She knew what I wanted: I needed to know about Turin's long history with magic. We're talking good, we're talking bad. Because this city has both. There are supposedly two triangles, decided by meridian lines and energy forces. There's a white triangle and a black one. Turin is amazingly a point in both. (White also includes Prague and Leon and Black includes London and San Francisco.)

I met my tour guide -- her name is Harinella -- at the Piazza Statuto. While I waited for her, I grabbed a capuccino and stared at the giant statue in front of me. It's at least 50 feet tall, and I found it curious, to say the least. Honestly, I really didn't know how I felt about it.

You can't really tell from these photos, but the statues form a pyramid. At the very top is a dark angel -- Lucifer. He has a pentagram atop his head and his hand is positioned in such a way that he's pushing the other angels down.

The scene was perfect. It had been a terribly ugly day today. Not even gray, it was a dark gray. And by time I'd approached the statue and looked for my tour guide, it was raining. As we moved throughout the city, the rain never stopped. The neon lights -- "Cafe" and "Cafeterria" and "Bar" -- reflected beautifully off the asphalt and the puddles of water.

You want to know more about Turin? Nietzche came here and wrote the words, "God is dead." Nostradamus came here and wrote, "I lived here where paradise and hell meet together."

"You can believe this if you want," Harinella told me. "Even if you choose not to, you must know that Torino is a city of many coincidences. It is interesting, yes?"

She's also call Turin a "city of contrasts" and a "city of ironies." Which I liked.

Harinella took me around town. We ducked in and out of plazas and city blocks, and she told me all about the free masons. She pointed up at the huge banks and noted how almost all of them had devil or demon statues decorating the facade.

I also saw the most elaborate door I've ever seen. Above is the knocker. It's the doorway to a bank. Harinella said that there are more than 300 devils around town.

The devil pictured above is also on a bank and it's right across the street from where an archbishop lived. This is what he saw every morning when he opened his window and there was nothing he could do about it.

We kept walking and she told me fantastic stories. She pointed out statues and sculptures and churches. Of course we went by the Holy Shroud, the fabled cloth that wrapped around Christ. And then we returned to Piazza Statuto, back to the dark angel presiding over the others.

Harinella explained that this land is like a "carpet of bodies," a place where executions and battles took place. She explained that right in front of the dark angel is considered the Gates to Hell. She pointed downward and paused, as if to pay reverence.

Yes, a manhole cover. But it sure seemed spookier when I was there. I listened closely, thinking I'd hear the faint screams of ex-girlfriends, high school teachers and childhood bullies. I heard something, but I'm not sure it was them. It was still dark and the rain was still falling. It was definitely an eerie mood.

"Harinella, do you really believe in all this stuff you've told me over the past two hours?" I asked, half-believing most of it.

"Well," she paused. "No. I guess it's another one of the many ironies. The agency would probably want me to say 'Yes' to this question. They make me wear black. For atmosphere, they say. But no, not me. Many other people, yes."

It's a contest, son!

2006-02-23T11:57:00.000-05:00

Just got back from a taxi ride with a couple of players from the U.S. women's hockey team. (Yes, that's how pathetic I am: Name-dropping chick hockey players you haven't even heard of.) And we all agreed that the motto of these Olympics is a bit lame. All around town, we see the same phrase plastered on signs everywhere: "Passion is here." I'm not gonna lie to you (because we all know that I wouldn't do that), I'm gonna remember Turin more for the cheese than the passion.

So, I'd like to come up with a new motto for these Winter Olympics, and I think you should help. If you don't know anything about the Olympics, here's all you need know to make the motto: It's in Italy, it's cold, it's a series of athletic competitions. I'll give you a couple of my own motto suggestions, but I'm sure you could do much better.

Oh, and here's the best part. I have a special prize for the best motto. I got a lot of positive feedback about my bathhouse trip, and unfortunately I don't think I'm going to be able to satisfy all those requests for a photo of me in the paper G-string. However, the person who comes up with the best motto will win the paper G-string that I'm bringing home!!! Here's a photo to whet your appetite and encourage you:

Don't use these. These are mine (though I've ruled myself ineligible from winning, so you still have a chance).

"Turin: You shoulda went to Torino instead!"
"Home of the Spagehitti-O-lympics"
"Go around" (this is the direction given to get anywhere you want to go)
"You're early -- the Special Olympics are in two weeks"
"You want cheese on top?"
"No more wine for you. We cut you off"
"No, you're shaped like a boot"

Funny things foreigners say...

2006-02-23T11:55:00.000-05:00

ME: Do you all know about 'Saturday Night Live' where you're from?
FOREIGNER: I'm Israeli, not retarded.

Quello e Questo

2006-02-21T07:32:00.000-05:00

That means 'That and This' ... go learn you some Italian...

# # #

I have nothing of substance for you today. Went to the grocery store yesterday -- which I don't even do in America -- and the girl who checked us out looked EXACTLY like Pete Townshend, circa 1967. Also, when you grocery shop, they charge you 5 cents for each plastic bag that you use. Also, they sell starfish in their grocery stores.

Starfish! I didn't even know those were real. I thought they were like Snorks or Spongebob.

# # #

Sometimes I hang out with Nancy Kerrigan. Ran in to ol' Nanc the other day. I put her in my book of freak-show encounters right behind O.J. You gotta think back to 1994 when Tonya Harding and her band of merry men whacked Nancy in the leg. It was reality television before we really knew what reality television was. Tonya was the greatest villain of the 1990s, hated more than even Saddam.

Anyhow, Nancy looks completely like a TV anchorwoman. No one around me even recognized her. She's on the "Entertainment Tonight" payroll out here, and I can officially tell you that there camera people and producers live in a special world that is many city blocks away from journalism and our set of operating procedures. I shook her Nancy hand and said hello. But that was about it. If I had to do it all over again, I would have been much more upfront: "How's the knee?"

# # #

I haven't been following American news at all. Has Dirty Dick Cheney capped anyone this week?

# # #

Came across something interesting the other day. You know how states have an official flower and an official song and all sorts of official whatnots. Well, many also have an official beverage. For many -- like Delaware and Minnesota -- the official beverage is milk. But my two favs: for Alabama, the drink of choice is whiskey. And for Nebraska -- them fools are killing me right -- their official drink is Kool-Aid. I can't make this stuff up. Check it out for your ownself.

# # #

I'm seriously coming back 30 pounds heavier. The Athens Games were terrible for me food-wise. These ones are more than making up for it. Every day it's a different pasta, pizza, salad, grilled vegetables. Italy is about to become my official top country to eat in. Sorry, Omaha, I haven't seen no Mountain Berry Punch yet. (Fun fact: Kool-Aid was invented in Hendley, Neb.)

# # #

In Greece, our hotel rooms had one channel that was like 24 hours of porn. Well, sorta kind of. See, after 30 seconds, the screen would automatically go to black. But it was dumb because you could just change the channel and then change it right back and boom, porn was back. Anyhow, we don't have that here in Italy. But late at night at least a half-dozen channels turn into a running advertisements for 1-900 numbers. They're essentially infomercials that feature totally naked women. Yes, Italy disgusts me, too.

# # #

Did you know that Nancy Kerrigan married her former agent? Her agent was married when the two met, but that didn't stop Nancy. We all learned in 1994 that she fights through adversity like no one else!

More bad photos!

2006-02-19T19:20:00.000-05:00

Family, friends and bitter enemies: It's time for more photos. Hurray! These are from the past couple of days. I've been downtown twice now, which is a good thing. I've seen a couple more events -- men's figure skating, speedskating -- but starting this weekend, I'm mostly focused on women's figure skating. That'll consume most of the next week. Anyhow, here's a few photographs. I've had many, many requests for photos from inside the bathhouse (Hello, ladies!) but sadly, cameras were not permitted in there.

It snowed last night, but that didn't stop this dude. I call him Mario. We were waiting at a bus stop, leaning against a building for cover. And there was Mario singing his fool head off. I think it was an aria. Or maybe it was Twisted Sister. When we all got on the bus, he kept looking at my lady friend with the biggest smile. Like he was going to eat her or something.

What, you didn't know about the shroud? Man, go get some religion. The shroud is like the holiest piece of cloth this side of the Pope's boxers. Word on the street is that Jesus died and they wrapped him in this. Well, not this exactly. The actual shroud is kinda like the groundhog -- it only makes a public appearance every 25 years or so. This is a duplicate that's on display in some church I visited. (Yeah, mom, I'm going to church in Italy. Get off my back.)

This is a street near downtown. After a few days of complaining that I don't get to see nothing, I finally got out a bit. There's definitely a lot more life downtown than where I'm staying. And they got it decorated pretty good, too. I haven't seen hookers, but I'm sure they're there somewhere.

This is a city street. That is all I have to say about that. Except I had to fight off an Italian street gang just to cross the street. They were armed with golf clubs and remote-controlled killer bees. It was very scary and it's a good thing that I'm a ninja or I might not have survived. OK, that was a lie (except for the ninja part.)

Sometimes when I go to Italy, I hang out with supermodels. This was one of those times. (Note: Due to poor reproduction quality, it might seem that I'm merely standing in front of a photograph of a supermodel. This is not the case. We were on a date, eating gelato and sipping cappuccinos.) I got kind of turned-off on the whole supermodel scene, though. They're really shallow, it turns out.

And here's some cars. On my way to the bathhouse, I jumped on the wrong bus. That meant I was lost for like 29 hours. The most intriguing thing I noticed is that 9 in 10 cars here is a hatchback. Crazy, huh.

Here's some snow at night. This was the first day in Turin when it actually felt like the Winter Olympics. It's been cold, but we haven't been seeing any snow down here in the city. It was actually pretty cool.

Cleaning up

2006-02-18T10:00:00.000-05:00

My family is a passionate one. We find something we like and throw ourselves into it. So it probably shouldn't surprise you that after a couple days of enjoying the bathrub in my shoebox-sized dorm room that I'd seek out a Turkish bathhouse where big hairy mean could rub creams all over my young unsuspecting body. Or maybe that does surprise you. I dunno. Anyhow, to share the story, I'm bringing in a pinch-hitter. David Whitley is a columnist in Orlando. (This entry was published on the Sentinel's web site.)

The great thing about any Olympics is when you can break away for a day, knock around town, check out the cuisine, wear a paper G-string as a strange Italian man rubs oil all over your body.

Immersing oneself in local culture. That’s my justification for going to a Turkish bath on Friday, and I’m sticking to it.

Wait, you say. Isn’t Turin/Torinio in Italy, not Turkey? You are correct. But there are no Italian baths. Heck, I was thrilled to discover the Media Village even had showers. Turkey is renowned for its public baths. And since there was a Turkish bathhouse listed in the phone directory, it seemed incumbent upon every responsible journalist covering the Games to check it out.

For whatever reason, approximately 9,998 of the 10,000 credentialed media members have not seen it that way. Though I extended an open invitation to all, and a special one to Katie Couric, only Rick Maese decided to join me.

You may remember talented young Rick from his groundbreaking days at the Sentinel. He almost won a Pulitzer for his expose on horses being slaughtered to make Big Macs, or something like that. Now he’s the leading vegetarian sports columnist in America for the Baltimore Sun.

Rick will try anything as long as it doesn’t have meat. That’s a great setup line for a joke about a room full of semi-naked men, but I’m trying not let this blog sink to such cheap humor.

The bathhouse was like every other business in Turin in that nobody had the decency to learn English before we showed up. But we struggled through enough to sign up for a steam, a body peel and a massage.

This guy, we’ll call him Ahkmed, guided us up some stairs, motioned for us to take off our shoes and go through a door. It was the lockerroom where we were to change into our skivvies.

Because the Olympics are all about cultural exploration, I’d tried a Japanese bathhouse during the Nagano Olympics. The sight of 50 naked men in a large whirlpool still haunts me, so I was relieved that the Turks at least let you wear something in their baths.

Ahkmed took us into the big showering area, which looked a lot like the Turkish pavilion at Epcot. Actually, I’m not sure there’s a Turkish pavilion at Epcot. And if there is, it probably doesn’t have men sitting around in Speedos getting all lathered up and discussing that night’s ice skating finals.

Ahkmed more or less told us to shower, hang out in Turkish pavilion, and then go into the adjoining sauna for 10 minutes. I don’t mind telling you, it felt like a sauna in there.

It had to be 190 degrees, but there was a lot of humidity. You could hear the faint sounds of reggae music. I never associated Turkey with Bob Marley, but I was just relieved they weren’t playing "It’s Raining Men."

We managed to stay in for a couple of songs, then had to cool off. After a few minutes, we went back in. Maybe it was the dehydration, but at one point I think I gazed through the steam and Johnny Weir doing a triple lutz.

Panicked, we exited the sauna. I sat down for a minute, then looked up and Rick was on a table. Some guy was rubbing this soap-like stuff all over him in a very tender way. At this point, I was kicking myself for not sneaking my camera in, though I’m not real sure where I would have put it.

The scene stopped being funny when the guy motioned for me to lie down on a table. He started rubbing the soap all over me using some sort of Michael Jackson glove, and I remember thinking, "Man oh man, I sure hope this guy works here."

I’m still not positive, but I think that was the "body peel." I’m not embarrassed to say it was the best body peel of my life. I am embarrassed to say what happened next.

We were motioned up some stairs to the massage room. I’ve had plenty of massages, and usually don’t mind stripping down. I was fully prepared to go Al Fresco, but the Turks have a much more depraved sense of humor.

Ahkmed took Rick behind a small partition and pointed at a blue envelope wrapped in cellophane. At least I thought that’s what it was. It turned out to be a G-string type thing. Honestly, it was a couple of strings attached to a piece of paper about the size of doily, only less masculine.

If Pamela Lee wore one on her website, she’d get about a million hits. If Rick Maese wore one on the Baltimore Sun website, the entire Internet would collapse from laughter.

Not that I can talk. We looked like the kind of thing that got the Abu Ghirab guards court-martialed. All we needed were the dog collars and orders to make a human pyramid. At least now I know why Turkish baths have never gone over big in America.

If the average U.S. male had to wear one of those little blue disposable G-strings, the psychic damage would be so severe we’d surrender to the French. On the bright side, however, we’d probably become the dominant world power in ice dancing.

To wrap this up before I stoop to Brokeback Mountain jokes, we got our massages. I don’t speak Italian, but at one point I think I overheard Rick’s masseuse whisper, "What happens in Turin stays in Turin."

One thing that won’t stay is a G-string, since Rick pilfered one when Ahkmed wasn’t looking. The last time I saw him, he was wearing it on his head around the Tribune Co. World Olympic Headquarters.

I’m not sure there’s a moral to this story. Other than if there’s a Chinese bathhouse at the Beijing Olympics in two years, I’m not going unless the ruling party sticks a gun to my head, or Rick’s G-string.

More on Dominick

2006-02-17T03:14:00.000-05:00

And alert Sun reader read all about Dominick my race-car driver and pointed me in the direction of an obscure Christmas carol. It's similar to Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, but it's called "Dominick the Italian Christmas Donkey." You can't make this stuff up friends. 5 points to someone who can find me a link to the actual song. In the meantime, here's the lyrics:

Hey! Chingedy ching,
(hee-haw, hee-haw)
It's Dominick the donkey.
Chingedy ching,
(hee-haw, hee-haw)
The Italian Christmas donkey.
(la la la-la la-la la la la la)
(la la la-la la-la la-ee-oh-da)

Santa's got a little friend,
His name is Dominick.
The cutest little donkey,
You never see him kick.
When Santa visits his paisons,
With Dominick he'll be.
Because the reindeer cannot,
Climb the hills of Italy.

Hey! Chingedy ching,
(hee-haw, hee-haw)
It's Dominick the donkey.
Chingedy ching,
(hee-haw, hee-haw)
The Italian Christmas donkey.
(la la la-la la-la la la la la)
(la la la-la la-la la-ee-oh-da)

Jingle bells around his feet,
And presents on the sled.
Hey! Look at the mayor's derby,
On top of Dominick's head.
A pair of shoes for Louie,
And a dress for Josephine.
The labels on the inside says,
They're made in Brooklyn.

Hey! Chingedy ching,
(hee-haw, hee-haw)
It's Dominick the donkey.
Chingedy ching,
(hee-haw, hee-haw)
The Italian Christmas donkey.
(la la la-la la-la la la la la)
(la la la-la la-la la-ee-oh-da)

Children sing, and clap their hands,
And Dominick starts to dance.
They talk Italian to him,
And he even understands.
Cumpare sing,
Cumpare su,
And dance 'sta tarantel.
When jusamagora comes to town,
And brings du ciuccianello.

Hey! Chingedy ching,
(hee-haw, hee-haw)
It's Dominick the donkey.
Chingedy ching,
(hee-haw, hee-haw)
The Italian Christmas donkey.
(la la la-la la-la la la la la)
(la la la-la la-la la-ee-oh-da)

Bad photo gallery

2006-02-16T21:25:00.000-05:00

I finally figured out a way to post photos up here without the computer getting all cranky on me. Anyways, nothing great, just a quick tour of a few sights we've seen the past few days. It often doesn't occur to me that I need to be snapping photos, so a lot of the beautiful scenery is only saved in my memory. You'll just have to take my word on some stuff, people. Trust is the foundation of our relationship, right?

These are gigantic ice skates made of grass and bushes. They're like 20-25 feet tall. I had some extra time, so I tried them on and skated along the icy, rolling meadows of Italy. Until Edward Scissorhands tripped me. I hate that Edward Scissorhands!

This is where I live. It's a media village called Mortara. The inside of it is essentially a stack of college dorm rooms, which means I've hung up 25 posts of Nirvana, Che, Bob Marley and a few scattered Playboy centerfolds.

From the outside, though, the place looks like the projects -- except it has blue neon light. I snapped this photo the other morning when my foolish self had to wake up before dawn. Never again!

It's curling! Four games go on at once, which basically is way too much for the human brain to handle. The thing many people don't know about curling is that it is scientifically the only Olympic sport on the planet that can stimulate all five senses at once. It's true.

So if you're watching four games at once, that's essentially 20 senses you're talking about. Overload, I'm afraid. So you have to try your best to focus on just one or else your ears will pop off your head and you can get this intense brain freeze that feels like you just chugged a Slurpee in one quick straw-suck.

It's curling! That's Team USA. And that's Cassie Johnson releasing the stone. And that's me snapping the photo, and picking out wedding colors. I don't know this first hand, but I suspect curling participants can also stimulate all five sense at once.

This is a big ol gigantic thingy. This what you need to know about places like this: It's full of giant thingies. When important people organize important events, they make a checklist and right at the top: "Erect as many giant thingies as possible." So every few blocks of the seat has its own version of the giant thingy. Some have neon, some shoot out puffs of smoke, some shake your hand and make great cappuccino.

You can find giant thingies in the USA, too, but this one is Italian, which it makes it cooler (like how Italian men wear hair gel and look all cool and I just look like a NSync reject).

This particular gigantic thingy in the photograph is located near the heart of the Olympics. It's like art or something, I guess. That's the moon you can faintly see in the middle. Little known fact: the moon was the first-ever giant thingy constructed to please the eye. IM Pei designed it, I think.

Sometimes we're living and sometimes...

2006-02-16T13:20:00.001-05:00

UPDATE: Bad photos added.

Geez Louise, what a day: I almost die in a car accident, Michael Jackson might lost his babies and curling continues to be awesome! Where to start, where to start...

Today's assignment took me and Candy outside of Turin. The athlete we're covering the most is a young girl named Kimmie. She's a figure skater who lives near Baltimore and is competing in these Olympics. But out here, she's not practicing in Turin.

Instead, she's been training in a small ski town called Courmayeur, which is located about two hours away near the French border. After three days of headaches, I finally hired a driver and a car yesterday. So we met him early this morning. His name was Dominick (and if he's still alive, I suspect that's still his name).

After just a few minutes on the road, it was pretty clear that he thought he was auditioning for this weekend's Daytona 500. We watched the needle on the speedometer hit 140 km/h. I don't know what that means in Americanese, but I'm pretty sure it converts to 347 mph. Normally, I don't mind a bit of speed -- as my driving record would indicate -- but the roads were narrow and icy. We were essentially riding down a bobsled track for two hours.

The sights were amazing. Mountains stretched infinitely. The roads aren't carved into canyons like back home. Instead, we zipped in and out of an endless series of tunnels. It was snowing outside, but I like to think that NASCAR Dominick was swerving just to show us all the really good views.

Once we got to the city, we had the challenge of finding the actual skating rink. We didn't speak Italian... our hired Kamikaze driver didn't speak English. We resorted to the international language of exaggerated hand motions and some slow and loud enunciating, I blurted out: "HOCKEY!? YES? YOU... KNOW... THE... HOCK...KEY?"

"Ahhhh yes," Speed Racer said. "Zee ice, yes?"

I nodded my head. Dominick responded with a couple of scary turns, which is how they nod heads in Italy, I think.

We hung out at the rink, fully aware that we'd have to return to Turin. We ate our last meal. I noticed a U.S. Route 66 sign hanging on one wall. I smiled, which I sometimes do. We did our interviews, scribbled our notes and sought out Dominic.

A couple of hours later, we made it back to Turin safely, our stomachs and nerves a bit more seasoned from the wear. We paid Dominick and watched him race off toward the checkered flag in his head. We kissed the Italian ground and said our prayers for our day's pilot. God speed, Dominick.

God speed.

Hunt like Dick

2006-02-15T09:41:00.000-05:00

Please allow me to share with you the hottest game on the Internet today. It's the Dick Cheney Quail Hunting Game, brought to us by HuffingtonPost.com. Give it a try or two. Doesn't take long. Feel free to post your top scores below. Best of luck to all you hunters. Wear safety goggles and ear plugs. Now get out there and bag you some birds.

Our national anthem: "Under Pressure"

2006-02-15T05:59:00.000-05:00

I know there's news happening in far-away lands, but I don't feel connected to it. For that I apologize. It absolutely kills me that I wasn't around to share Dick Cheney jokes with you. I can't believe that I leave the U.S. for five seconds and you all let your vice president just up and shoot everyone. Someone please keep a closer eye on him. (Here's some jokes about the whole scene, btw.)

I guess Baltimore got slammed by a snowstorm. I didn't miss that for a second. I'm not sure where I am right now, to be honest. But it's not Italy. I've decided that I must be the gum stuck on the bottom of the boot nation.

I'm in a country called the Olympics. And I'm a mere pheasant boy here. Our nation is not an especially exciting one. It's void of real people and picturesque views. We have no postcards to send and no depth to our lives. (We also don't have shower curtains or Q-tips.) Our daily routine is the same. And we have no time to visit our bordering neighbors, such as Italia and France. Our country is a series of bus rides and mix zones. (A mix zone is like a cattle pen where media members climb over each other in order to get their tape recorders within 10 feet of a Yugoslavian bobsledder no one has ever heard of. It's the most demeaning thing about being a journalist... well, that and our passion for lying and misleading the American public... oops, I'm not sure I was supposed to share that with you all.)

I drove through a town called None yesterday. I'm happy to report that no one seems to live in None. There's nothing to do in None. And even though there was nobody in None, strangely, there was nowhere else I wanted to be.

My trip by the numbers:

I've consumed 15 slices of pizza.
I've lost 1 cell phone.
I've gotten my ownself lost 17 times.
I've walked 43 miles.
I've ridden on 173 buses.
I've put evil hexes on 4 people of foreign descent.
I've seen 5 sporting events.
I've been in 3-5 different Italian cities and towns.
And I've played Simon & Garfunkel's "America" 19 times. This morning.

Yesterday I went to curling, which is easily the most addictive sport out here. Here's another reason to watch it. It's also the only sport that I'm pretty sure I could qualify in for the 2010 Games. When I get back to Baltimore, I already got plans (in my head) to play at a local club. (Here's a curling game you can play on your computer!)

The rest of the events feel more like spectacle than sport. The problem, I think, is that I really want balls. You know, that's what American sports got going for them: balls. Think about it. Which are your favorite sports to watch? Odds are, there's balls involved. The closest we got here in Turin is pucks. If I was organizing these games, I'd find a way to mix in a ball or two. (Suggestion: snow-beach volleyball. With cheerleaders.)

That reminds me... let's discuss our favorite Olympic words:

Pucks
Bobsled
Luge
Kyrgyzstan
Flying Tomato
Dick Pound
Vino
I'm missing some, so you fill in the blanks...

And for you curious ones, we're approximately two inches away from our big announcement here. I'm fearful that those of you who've been holding your breath have died. I'm sorry about that. That's my bad.

Rest assured that I'm bringing back snow, pizza and Paul Newman Italian dressing for you all.

I'll take two pins please...sike

2006-02-13T18:03:00.000-05:00

A big Olympic tradition is the trading of the pins. You go around and swap pins -- yes, pins -- with reporters, athletes, fans, anyone. And then you go home with as many Olympic-themed pins as possible. Here in the media center, we deal with random foreigners walking in all day long asking if we have any pins. The Olympic volunteers especially seem to get a kick out of collecting these things.

We do have some pins, though I haven't traded any yet. In the mall, which is adjacent to here, I think pin-swappers gather and exchange goods like 24 hours a day. Anyhow, I'm trying to tell you something, so pay attention:

My Israeli reporter-friend tells me that 'pin' has a different meaning in Hebrew. Apparently, 'pin' is a word that also descibes a certain part of the male anatomy (a part that I generally call "Binky," not "pin" ...but whatever).

So all these random people keep approaching her and asking if she wants their pin. And each time she's taken aback. I didn't ask if she takes them up on the pin offer, but I think it's safe to assume that she does.

Opening weekend

2006-02-12T17:56:00.000-05:00

The Games have started. Opening weekend just concluded and there's a lot to catch you up on, so let's get right into it. The opening ceremony was Friday night. It was cold and long. Pavarotti was great, though. I love that dude. When I'm rich, I'm gonna hire him to call my family to the dinner table. "Dinner is SERRRRRRRRRRVED!" [Huge applause!]

No, we didn't get lost and end up at a Klan meeting. Everyone who attended the ceremony was supposed to wear those hoods. We were supposed to be like snow. You should try feeling like snow some time when you're bored. It's awesome. That's me and my Mexican friend George and Whitley, who I also think is of Latino persuasion.

Earlier in the day, I officially swore off mediocre Japanese restaurants located in Italian malls. They serve a unique vegetarian dish that involves huge chunks of chicken on my noodles. I gave dude the universal finger shake to indicate that he committed a no-no. So he just reaches on the plate and removes the chicken, thinking that made everything OK. It didn't. Anyhow, the whole scene escalated and a major international incident ensued. I declared war on two countries.

This is a mountain. I jog around it each morning and then do 10,000 sit ups while I read the Bible.

As we walked from dinner to the opening ceremony, my unfunny friends were making rude jokes equating health-concious vegetarians to folks of a different sexual makeup. Their lewdness caught the ears of a young woman, a veggie journalist from Jerusalem, who quickly became my best friend in Jerusalem. She told us about how her neighborhood has been bombed nearly a dozen times in the past three years. When we accused her of killing Arafat, she said, "I wish."

This is me wearing a wig and practicing my mad caligraphy skills.

So I've been asked by a few people how I'm enjoying Italy. The truth is, it hardly feels like I'm in Italy. I wake up in my cardboard box of a room. Get on a bus. Go somewhere. Get on a bus. Come to the office to write. So far, it doesn't feel like I'm getting any taste of local flavor. But it's early still.

That's me in the blue. That dude in the front just stole my cell phone so I was chasing him down. I finally caught him and beat the crap out of him. It was awesome. You should have seen it.

I've hit up two events so far. Day One was the biathlon, which isn't quite as cool as the triathlon, but twice as good as the original athlon. The bi- involves skiing and shooting a rifle. Naturally. I'm still wondering how they got those .22 caliber guns by the security people.

This is another mountain. It's a second-cousin of that first mountain a couple of photos up. Though they're cousins, they don't really talk much. It's sad, really.

On Day 2, I rode 73 buses, got lost 14 times and walked 9 miles. All to see some downhill skiing. By time I got there, I saw a downhill skiing press conference. The days here have been long. The day of the opening ceremony was a 19-hour workday. Hopefully there aren't too many like that. But it's all good. More about our setup and the surroundings coming soon.

I made this mountain. I fashioned it from the dirt stuck in the bottom of my boots and then groomed it and watered it until it grew up. It's the Italian version of the Chia pet. I named this one Mt. Maese. You're invited to hike it when the weather gets warm.

A whole new world

2006-02-10T07:03:00.000-05:00

Tonight is Opening Ceremonies, which means that beginning tomorrow we'll spend more time at the competition venues than anywhere else. Up to this point, though, we've spent most of our days in the media center. When you shoot through cup after cup of cappuccino, you make frequent visits to the lovely media center restroom facilities.

Once there you'll find the most curious set of sinks. There's no knobs. There's no motion sensors. There's no way to get the freaking water out of the freaking faucet! My first time in there, I spent a good five minutes studying my surroundings, tapping the faucet in rhythm, pushing wall tiles to see if one secretly activated the sink. It's rather embarrassing. At one point, I was certain Ashton Kutcher was going to jump from one of the stalls.

Finally, my foot hit something on the floor. I stepped on the magic button and water emerged. Sweet, glorious water. I felt like an old Italian explorer who just made a major discovery. I suspect it was the same feeling Christopher Columbus, technically an Italian, had so many years ago.

Rub a dub

2006-02-09T05:43:00.000-05:00

There's something you don't about me: I take baths now. Yup, I'm not even scared to admit it. Society has unfairly attached an effeminate tag on taking a bath. It makes no sense. All you're doing is lying down in a tub and letting soothing hot water wash over your young, thirsty body? Why's that gotta be associated with the ladies? (And while I'm on the subject, how come guys can't use loofahs? And how come we can't shave our body hair?)

I remember when I was just a wee Maese. I wasn't old enough to take showers. But showering was something I associated with being grown-up because that's how my parents bathed. One of my earliest memories is of me lying to a friend, telling him that I took showers instead of baths. "It's like playing in a waterfall," I told him. "Which I also do." Shortly after that, I started showering full-time and have taken far too few baths ever since. Until now!

Taking a shower is no longer an option in my life. My room here has a bathtub but no shower curtain. So this morning, I filled up the tub with steaming hot water and slipped my body in. What followed was 15 minutes that I can't account for. That's relaxation, friends!

Unfortunately, I couldn't figure out how to drain the tub, so I just left it filled with water. Would it be so bad to bathe in the same water for three weeks?

Italy through the lens

2006-02-09T05:13:00.000-05:00

Snapped just a couple of photos on my way out the door this morning, just so you can have some simple visuals.

It doesn't look to bad at a glance, but right now I'm really missing an alarm clock and an iron.

It's essentially a no-frills dorm room. A fridge would be nice. Until the TV and telephone work, there's really nothing to do in here but sleep.

I do have a balcony, though. I'm on the 14th floor. This is looking out to the east (I don't really know if it's the east. I just said that..)

And this is the view to the west. (Ditto.)

Sound and safe

2006-02-08T12:09:00.000-05:00

The first sign visitors in Turin see from the airport advertises the “American Circus,” which was somewhat disappointing. Did I really travel 4,000 miles to observe the White House from afar? The next thing I saw heading into the city: A man pulled over on the side of the road urinating. Buon giorno, visitors! I was stunned. This was nothing like the picturesque postcards I hoped to see out every window. But the sight also reminded me that I needed to pee, which wasn't comforting.

I know everyone enjoys flying in an airplane, but I REALLY enjoy it. It's so majestic and ethereal. Usually, it's the clouds that get me, ya know. And I thought it was that way this time, too. I stared out the window and looked down. For as far as your eye could see, there was this endless ruffled blanket of white. It took a couple of seconds, but I realized those weren't clouds; it was the Italian Alps. When I think of mountains, I think of a two-dimensional line of peaks and valleys. What I saw from above was definitely 3-D. It stretched in all directions and was an amazing sight, for sure.

I landed, got in a shuttle and whizzed by urinating locals to get into the actual city. Aesthetically, Turin reminds one of Cleveland -- only with a color palette that solely consists of grays. “It’s beautiful in the summer,” an Italian journalist told me. “But in the winter, you wouldn’t know it from Prague.” Of course, I wouldn't, I thought. Cuz I don't know no Prague. Though, I hear it's a lot like Turin.

Anyways, I know no one wants to hear me complain about being in Italy, so I won't complain. But I will explain. My living accommodations are not optimal. (I'll try for some photos tomorrow so you all can visualize what I'm talking about.) My bed is the size of an ironing board. I have a telephone and television -- neither of which work. The TV could nearly fit in my mouth. Just like Greece: No shower curtain! And the only towel I have is the size of a placemat. Again, not complaining... just saying.

I already miss you all, which is a complete lie. But I do miss some of you. There's so much more to come, but I just wanted to let everyone know that I'm landed, I'm safe and I'm tired.

Arrivederci, friends

2006-02-06T12:18:00.000-05:00

To my fellow countrymen:

It is without a great deal of trust and confidence that I depart these continental United States on this day, the sixth of February, in the year of our Bush, 2006. While I am gone, I am certain that you all will behave yourselves. Cuz if you act up while I am gone, you don't even want to think about the punishment I have in store for you. And don't think I won't find out about it, because I will.

In my absence, I'm leaving Alec Baldwin in charge. Please mind him. He's very capable and responsible. If you have any questions, you ask him first, OK?

I've left a list of phone numbers on the kitchen counter in case anything goes wrong. There's a pizza from last night in the fridge, if you get hungry. And if an emergency does pop up, you can always email me. Or email Homeland Security.

I expect a good report about your behaviors when I get back. If you behave yourselves, there just might be a treat for you. I will be in Italy taking care of work matters. But I know you all are getting older and are ready to stay here in th U.S. without me.

The good news is, if you miss me, I'll keep updating this bloggy-blog. So you'll barely be able to tell that I'm gone. And of coure I'll be on IM and email, too. I'm taking my camera, so you can be kept up-to-date on my activities.

Now please be good. No rough-housing. Here, give me a kiss on the cheek. I love you, my dear-hearts.

Love in the inbox

2006-02-06T00:57:00.000-05:00

HELLO

I am ellizebert,how are you, hope you are fine and in perfect condition of healt,I've a resonwhy am making contactact with you and you seem like an interesting person. am loveing caring am up to any thing you may think or like or want in a lady come what may i dont copromise my love to any thing i know what it take me befor falling in love and if i do i dont like go essilyly I would like to know more about you, so I am writing you hoping that you will answer. ,if you don't mind i will like you to write me on this adress (lizy515[at]yahoo.com) hope to hear from you soon, i will be waiting for your mail because i have something VERY important to tell you.

Lots of love from you beby girl
ellizebert

ISO, Steve McQueen (again)

2006-02-04T20:55:00.000-05:00

Lance Armstrong and singer Sheryl Crow have reportedly split up. I feel bad for the two of them because now they have to go through all of that awkward, uncomfortable post-breakup stuff. You know...

"Hey Sheryl, I kind of need to come by and pickup my bicycle lock. I think I left it at your place."

And...

"Uhm, Lance, it's not you. Really, it's me. And it's also kind of this fetish I have for men who still have both their testicles."

Of course, there's the most difficult decision of all now. If you're Lance, do you or don't you ask for your little yellow bracelet back?

As deadspin.com correctly pointed out, can you imagine being a dude and approaching Sheryl for a date now. Her last boyfriend beat cancer like 24 times. He won 7 Tour de Frances. He's rich. He's famous. He's charitable. You can't exactly walk up to her in a bar and say, "Hey baby. Would you like to see my large collection of Internet porn?"

# # #

John Madden was among the Pro Football Halll of Fame inductees announced earlier today. Don't quote me on this, but I think this marks the first time a video game has gained entry to the hall. It certainly raises the bar for Grand Theft Auto, doesn't it? Personally, I'd like to see Sonic get in, but after him, the field is weak. (And I'm a bit worried his arrest for crack possession might hinder Sonic's chances.)

# # #

I'm not one to insist that you absolutely must sit and watch Sunday's Super Bowl, but can I suggest that you avoid flying your airplane anywhere near Ford Field? The Air Force says they'll shoot down planes flying through restricted air space, and I have a feeling they're serious.

So is Tyrone Biggums a whore, too?

2006-02-03T16:43:00.000-05:00

By now you probably saw that Dave Chappelle went on Oprah today and said he felt like a prostititute doing his hit TV show. Usually when someone says that on Oprah, they actually are a prostitute.

I guess when I think about it, Dave does make a valid point, though. He basically is exactly like a hooker... except he's rich... except he has a farm in Ohio... except he has a cult following bigger than the Mormon church... and except he goes to Africa whenever he's stressing.

Yup, sounds like most of the hookers I talk to. (Except he isn't screaming that I shorted him $5.)

If living the Chappelle life equates to prostitution, I'll bemaking some lifestyle changes. You can find me walking the streets of Baltimore with pants around my ankles and my hand sticking out. And after two seasons of that, I'll be chilling at my New Mexico farm.

Ten for Friday

2006-02-03T15:49:00.000-05:00

1. When I was younger, I'd see my parents' wallets and notice the cash. I'd always think the same thing when I saw large amounts of money: Man, does anyone realize how many baseball cards I can buy with all that? My brain still works that way today. So when I saw yesterday that Bush wants to give the Defense Department $440 billion, all I could think about was visiting a baseball card store and going crazy.

2. For a variety of reasons, I have never cared less about a Super Bowl than this year's. Is it like that for you, too? It's the matchup, it's the fact that I'm not there, it's the fact that on Monday I leave for three weeks in Italy.
But here's the part that is making me weep: missing the Super Bowl parties. Tonight is the night it gets crazy in Detroit, with parties hosted by Playboy and Maxim. And there's a new one this year. The host: Jenna Jameson. I really hope there's a secret handshake to gain entrance. The bloggy-blog does have a correspondent assigned to the events, so we'll have a full report soon.

3. Speaking of Italy, I got an email this morning from a friend of mine who's already there. Here's some:

Greetings from Turin...
The good news. We'll get to that. S
ome of you remember the [Bad Hotel] from Athens. Well, the media village, at least mine ...makes [it] look like the Ritz.
I had dinner last night with some broadcast types and they said the talk of the Games was the bad media villages. They're right.
My phone doesn't work, so it's a matching set with the television. I have not been able to take a shower without flooding the bathroom floor. The bed is about one yard wide, maybe.
There doesn't appear to be any security at the media village, either. So, Rick, if you find any "special friends" on the street, you can probably bring them back to the village.
The walls are paper thin and construction starts about 6 a.m.
The traffic borders between bad and horrendous, altho the Olympic lanes are working. The
buses are running but rarely on schedule.
Very few English speakers here, especially the cabbies. But we'll manage.The good news: the weather is great (for a cold weather place), the wine is cheap and the food is good.

4. My thoughts on that email: In journalism circles, we talk about 'burying the lead.' It's when a writer hides the most important information at the bottom of a story. If I was doing this email,the very first sentence would've read: The wine is cheap and the food is good.

5. Did you hear about the group of truckers that is upset over a Coca-Cola Super Bowl ad? Apparently, they say the ad reinforces negative stereotypes about truckers. I tend to agree with them here. The last thing I'm going to want to see during a break of a football game is more oversized sweaty men. Let's recast: Panthers' cheerleaders in trucker hats!

6. And of course I'm also going to share with you a link to AP video of models preparing for the Lingerie Bowl.

7. Why does it seem easier to come up with 10 blog post items than just one really good one?

8. Found on fark.com: There's an ebay listing for a "Bring Your Squirrel Back to Life" kit. The official site is right here -- the kit seems to essentially be a can of Red Bull. Here's more from the ad:
Squirrels are forever!!! They don’t deserve to leave this earth. That little twinkle in their eye can make your day shine like the brightest star in the sky! Let them once again breathe the fresh air we all enjoy. Why? Squirrels are cool!! It’s awfully hard to argue against that!

9. My favorite Super Bowl story of the week -- predictably -- had nothing to do with the game. The web site deadspin.com posted photographs earlier this week of Steelers QB Ben Roethlisberger. In the photos, Roethlisberger looks like he's either drunk or sat in an office chair and spun around in circles for 20 minutes. The photos are here. The Steelers, predictably, had no comment. I have a comment, though: Ha!

10. And here comes Hint #2 about the big pending announcement: As long as you have a wall outlet, it could become a daily source of joy.

Still holding your breath?

2006-02-02T15:30:00.000-05:00

We're even closer to the big announcement I think it's time that I start preparing you a bit. Before we drop the news. you need to do a few things:

-- Purchase a pair of reinforced steel-toed socks. Because this news is liable to rock your socks right off.
-- Also, you are advised to care for your head. It is recommended that you purchase a helmet of some sort. If you're the poor type and cannot afford something this nice, visit your local pharmacy and buy some gauze tape. Wrap this around your head as tightly as possible. The upcoming announcement is sure to blow your mind.
-- Have your birth certificate, credit card, a box of facial tissue, a fork and a coat hanger within arm's reach.
-- It is also recommended that you read a copy of Milan Kundera's "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" for background purposes.
-- Clip your fingernails.

OK, you only have a couple of days to get all of this done, so get going.

Oh, and some of you might want a hint to what I'm talking about...

Hint #1: You can take it with you everywhere.

Good news, bad news

2006-02-02T01:30:00.000-05:00

The link we're discussing today can be found right here.

The good news: Stephanie Tanner is getting a divorce.
The bad news: Stephanie Tanner is a meth fiend.

How rude.

I just sighed pretty heavily. (You didn't see, of course, because you're not in my living room.) I don't know how to take this news: Jodie Sweetin, the super-hot actress who played Stephanie on the hit ABC comedy "Full House," admitted on "Good Morning America" yesterday that she dabbled in methamphetamines and required intervention.

"There is a certain sense of loss when a series ends. It is kind of hard to figure out who you are when you've lost your job at age 13, when that was basically how you identified yourself," says Sweetin, 24.

This kills me because I feel quite a bit of personal responsibility. My feelings about Jodie are well-documented. I always sensed she was in need, yet I never really sought her out. And believe me, I thought about it. Often. I could have been there for her. I could have let her know that she has purpose, that there's meaning, that Michelle wasn't as cute as everyone pretended she was.

I know it's not easy being the middle sister. Everything DJ did was special and everything Michelle did was adorable. Funk that, I say. It's no wonder Stephanie grew up this way. She just wanted some freaking attention, a little love. And all this time, that's all that I've wanted to give her. But I wasn't there, not when she needed it.

Lesson learned. Stephanie, I want to help. I really do. Let me be your friendly ear and your comforting shoulder. Like I always say -- up with hope, down with dope.

Diner Adventure No. 2 / 50

2006-02-01T15:15:00.000-05:00

Here's the thing about '50s-style diners: Too often you get a diner that's trying really, really hard to be a diner. You know what I mean? That was my initial fear with the Broadway Diner in Dundalk. From the outside, the place catches your eye. It's like the neighborhood's big piece of bling. There's so much chrome wrapping around the Broadway, you'd think the owner took it to "Pimp My Diner" and the dudes at West Coast Customs worked the spot over.

Bling, bling!

There was a lot going on at the Broadway Diner, enough to keep your senses busy. It's not an accurate time capsule by any means, but we quickly learned that that's part of its charm. The place crosses generations with its character and quirks, like your grandpa sporting an earring. The old-school theme is everywhere, though you never forget that the year is actually 2006. Just scroll through the jukebox sitting at each table. We played a Modest Mouse song, though we could have also rocked out some Jessica Simpson or Mandy Moore (fun Mandy Moore fact of the day: She has a song called "Saturate Me" ... think about that one for a few seconds).

There was also some Willie Nelson, Dixie Chicks and Tim McGraw, too. Plus Bowie and the Beatles, so it wasn't all bad.

Our waitress was really well-cast. She just fit the part. Her name was Wendy and she was the kind of woman that you could meet in a grocery store or gas station and you'd guess that she's a diner waitress. Whenever she picked something off the table, her fingernails made a loud tapping noise against the table. (Another fun fact, offered up by my Divorced Friend: Opi sells a nail polish called 'I'm not really a waitress.')

While Wendy's charm mixed perfectly with the diner booths, ceiling fans, and the glass display-case featuring a variety of desserts, there were other bits that keep you guessing. The placemats have advertising: American Tattoo and some air-duct cleaner. And the place has a liquor license so you could order a shot of whiskey with your eggs. Instead of a jukebox, some tables were outfitted with the touch-screen video games like you might find at a bar.

For the sake of comparison, I placed a some coffee creamer next to the pie so you can get a feel for the mammothosity of the whipped part of the coconut cream pie.

I ordered coffee, soup and an omelette and everything was adequate. My Divorced Friend had a slice of pie and coffee, and she seemed impressed. For us, though, the Diner Adventures aren't about the food as much as the experience. We risked walking into a cliche at the Broadway. But as with everything else in this city, even the predictable is littered with quirks.

Ito foshito!!!

2006-01-31T18:35:00.000-05:00

Samuel A. Alito has been confirmed as the 110th justice of the Supreme Court. I don't know about you, but whenever I hear his name mentioned, I think of my man Judge Lance Ito. That guy was awesome. How come Bush won't appoint him? Oh wait, we all know why: Cuz Bush is scared. Lance Ito could change the world with one swoop of his hand. He'd bang his gavel and whole nations would crumble. His magical beard is like a vortex of love and peace and harmony. Clearly, Bush is threatened by Ito.

I just did a random web search on Lance Ito. Here's one paragraph from the first site that popped up on Google:

A bit irreverant in his teenage years, Lance Ito used to decorate his room with Playboy centerfolds and drove a hot Boss 302 Ford Mustang with an air intake and chrome magnum wheels. The young Japanese-American was also known to humorously celebrate Pearl Harbor Day by wearing an aviator's helmet and cape and running through the campus hall's shouting "Banzai".

I didn't make any of that up. Doesn't that sound like the most awesomest candidate for Supreme Court justice ever? Sadly, I just did a search for "Lance Ito T-shirt" and there's not a single thing out there for purchase. The iron is hot, Judge Ito. Now is the time to strike.

a note from Lucy

2006-01-31T14:15:00.000-05:00

to whom it may concern:

i've carefully considered your statements, and here is where i am right now: abstaining from sex with one mr. rumsfeld.

i don't believe people generally deserve STDs, but i can understand the thought that he might be lying, and here is why i haven't bought that yet: there was no reason to tell me about it at all if he was such a bad guy. he told me far before there was any chance of anything happening between us. if he was as awful as some of the commenters implied, he could just as easily given me the g-dub as he got his swerve on.

he does have some really great qualities, which is why i continued to consider the possibility of a relationship. don't be so quick to judge.

cordially,

lucy looo

That and this: I'm Back edition

2006-01-31T11:38:00.000-05:00

Things I Did During My Blog Hiatus
1. Entertained Charm City visitors
2. Tried to calculate pi to the 100th place before giving up and watching back-to-back episodes of "Family Matters"
3. Answered phone calls and emails inquiring about my blog absence (and by "answered," I mean "ignored")
4. Read encyclopedia edition: "H"
5. Wrote a book review of encyclopedia edition: "H"
6. Devoted more time and energy to my other blogs, which, to be honest, pays me more... and as many of you know, I equate love to money
7. Trained a young class of neighborhood kids in my hybrid form of martial arts: noodlitsu
8. Danced merrily
9. Spent an entire day seeing how long I could hold my breath. My record: 17 minutes.
10. Outlined my metaphysical philosophy for soon-to-published paper: "If we're all one, and I'm touching myself... does that mean you and I are doing it?"

# # #

Oh, and I also did a lot of reading, which included blog reading, which included my friend Mike's new blog. Mike is preparing for a marathon and he's documenting the preparation online. (Right now, Mike is smiling cuz he's getting blog-love from me. But secretly, I'm about to ridicule him. Watch!)

I preface this by reminding you that I love Mike more than 4 of the 5 Backstreet Boys. My man posted on his blog about the songs he listens to when he runs. The list includes:

Come On Over (All I Want Is You), Christina Aguilera
Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm, Crash Test Dummies
Footloose (From "Footloose")
Don't Stop Believin', Journey
Let's Hear It for the Boy, Deniece Williams

This is running music? "Let's Hear It for the Boy" ??? Are you serious? Here's a lyric sample for you:

Maybe he's no Romeo
But he's my lovin one man show
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa
Let's hear it for the boy
Maybe he's no casanova
Still his kisses knock me ov-ah

Seriously, what is Mike's deal? He's a supa-talented musician, but he's rocking out this crap while he runs. Who finds this stuff inspirational? Does Mike hear the kisses-knock-me-ovah line and get really psyched to run an extra mile? Or does Mike just picture boys while he's running and it takes the mind of the blisters on his feet?

# # #

And now here's a shameless plug for the future. But we're doing it in that obnoxious obtuse style of advertising geniuses everywhere. You know those ad campaigns where they tease you that's something's coming, but they don't tell you what it actually is. So the curiosity strangles your attention span until you can't take it anymore and you just want to walk around punching old ladies in the eye. Well, we're doing that here on the bloggy-blog...

We're very close to telling you something very special. The news will affect you all in a very profound way. For some, it might be the bridge to intellectual enlightenment. For others, it might simply be the sexual kick in the pants you've been searching for all these years.

But unfortunately, I can't tell you the details quite yet. But I can tell you that it's very close. More details very soon.

# # #

I downloaded this iTunes playlist a couple weeks ago of the Notorious B.I.G. I don't know if you all have heard of the Notorious B.I.G., but he was a rapper in the '60s who was killed by Tupac and Oprah. I was listening to other stuff when he came to fame, so I'm a little late to the study group... but the Notorious B.I.G. is pretty G.O.O.D. It's no "Let's Hear it for the Boys," but the guy has moxy. (No, I don't really know what that means.) I didn't know, but now I know.

# # #

No one is invited to visit me in February. I won't be here.

# # #

But you can come in March.

# # #

I'm still laughing at the metaphysical philosophy line. I really should write that paper. I don't know if any scientific journals would publish it, but maybe Penthouse would.

2-Thing Thursday

2006-01-26T19:17:00.000-05:00

Real quick, you all did a great job helping Lucy Looo today. You should be real proud of yourselves. Slackers.

OK, Thing #1: Halloween is taken care of. Was out and about today and picked up a Rafael Palmeiro jersey on sale for only $30. Isn't that great?! I can't even wait for Oct. 31. Wonder what kind of moustache I should wear.

Thing #2: You absolutely must check out this video. It's called "Poop Today," (it's safe for work, in my opinion).

Dirrrty like Xtina

2006-01-26T11:09:00.000-05:00

Let's not lie to ourselves: There are people out there who need our help. What I'm about to share is entirely true. The names have been changed, however, to protect the infected. Your counsel is sought. Don't let America down.

A cute girl -- we'll call her Lucy Looo -- likes a hot boy -- who we'll call Donald Rumsfeld. It turns out that Donald Rumsfeld also likes Lucy Looo. On the surface, it seems like a recipe for babies, right? Well... sit tight.

On third time hanging out after their initial meeting, Donald Rumsfeld tells Lucy Looo that his ex-girlfriend (we'll call her Janis Joplin, even though she has just a bit part in this story) cheated on him. Normally, a guy tells a girl this and gets all kinds of sympathy and the new girl wants to prove to him that she's not like the other girls and then -- BOOM! -- a recipe for babies. Not quite...

The cheating Janis Joplin gave the innocent Donald Rumsfeld genital warts, which we'll affectionately call 'the g-dub'. (I hope you're following all of this. You might want to get a pad and paper.) The g-dub is very contagious and very permanent, AND can lead to cervical cancer in women, like Lucy Looo, for example.

So that's where we are. Boy likes girl. Girl likes boy. Boy is infected with g-dub. If you're the girl -- if you're Lucy Looo -- is this a deal-breaker? Do you ditch the dude and find cleaner pastures? Do you stick it out and keep it intellectual? Or do you challenge fate and maybe invest in peroxide and Clorox and rubbing alcohol? She's really at a crossroads and needs your help.

My thoughts are coming soon, but I don't want to taint your answers by giving you the correct response right away.

Napolean-sponsored Zen

2006-01-25T12:04:00.000-05:00

There's something very peaceful and heartwarming about the link I'm going to share with you today. The video combines two of my favorite things from last year: the dance scene from the "Napolean Dynamite" movie, and the widely circulated Numa Numa Internet video. (If you haven't seen that one, watch it immediately!) About midway through this marriage of art, you really get a sense of balance in the universe. Anyhow, click here.

Also, if you're that intrigued with Napolean dancing, here's a site where you can learn some of his sweet moves.

Maese on movies

2006-01-22T17:02:00.000-05:00

From time to time here at the bloggy-blog, we have what I like to call "an epic blog post." For you, for us, on this day, in the year of our Lord, this is one of those times.
After months of research, experiments and vote-tallying, I'm ready to reveal our latest exclusive list. But first some background: I was watching this movie the other day called "Brokeback Mountain," about a couple of friendly cowboys with an affinity for bareback riding in Wyoming. The entire five hours of the slowly-paced movie was picturesque, as it's supposed to be, but it got me thinking...
I'm not sure if "Brokeback Mountain" is an Oscar winner or not, but it is probably the best movie I've seen set in the state of Wyoming (runner-up: "The Laramie Project"). I started calling my Hollywood sources, digging through dusty film canisters and scouring old records and documents to determine the very best movie set in each of the 50 states. Without further adieu (and I apologize for all the adieu you've suffered through up to this point), here are your winners...

Alabama: "My Cousin Vinny" (updated)
Alaska: "Insomnia"
Arizona: "Raising Arizona"
Arkansas: "Primary Colors"
California: "The Big Lebowski"
Colorado: "South Park: the Movie"
Connecticut: "Far from Heaven"
Delaware: "Dead Poet's Society"
Florida: "Scarface" (updated)
Georgia: "Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil"
Hawaii: "Blue Hawaii"
Idaho: "Napolean Dynamite"
Illinois: "Ferris Buehler's Day Off"
Iowa: "Field of Dreams"
Indiana: "Hoosiers"
Kansas: "Capote" (updated)
Kentucky: "Elizabethtown"
Louisisana: "Streetcar Named Desire"
Maine: "Shawshank Redemption"
Maryland: "The Diner"
Massachusetts: "Goodwill Hunting"
Michigan: "Gross Pointe Blank" (updated)
Minnesota: "Drop Dead Gorgeous"
Mississippi: "Oh Brother Where Art Thou"
Missouri: "Waiting for Guffman"
Montana: "A River Runs Through It"
Nebraska: "About Schmidt"
Nevada: "Ocean's 11"
New Hampshire: "What About Bob?"
New Jersey: "Garden State"
New Mexico: "Young Guns"
New York: TIE "Goodfellas" and "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind"
North Carolina: "Cold Mountain"
North Dakota: "Fargo"
Ohio: "Major League"
Oklahoma: "Grapes of Wrath"
Oregon: "Short Circuit"
Pennsylvania: "Wonder Boys"
Rhode Island: "Outside Providence"
South Carolina: "Prince of Tides"
South Dakota: "Dances with Wolves"
Tennessee: "The Firm"
Texas: "Texas Chainsaw Massacre"
Utah: "Footloose"
Vermont: "State and Maine"
Virginia: "Last of the Mohicans"
West Virginia: "Silence of the Lambs"
Wisconsin: "American Movie"
Wyoming: "Brokeback Mountain"
Washington: "Sleepless in Seattle"
Oz: "Wizard of Oz"
Hogwarts: "Harry Potter & the Fifteenth Sequel"
Llaso, Tibet: "Seven Years in Tibet"
Metropolis: "Superman"
The universe: "Muppets from Space"
Canada: "The Adventures of Bob and Doug McKenzie: Strange Brew"
Virgin Islands: "Weekend at Bernie's"

Because my printer is running low on ink, I haven't printed the list and mailed it to Hollywood, so the list is a bit tentative still. If you have suggestions, a compelling argument could change one of these winners.

Homework

2006-01-20T12:17:00.000-05:00

Yup, you all have a weekend assignment. I think the conspiracy-theorists out there -- which is about half of you -- will like this one. This link will take you to a documentary called "Loose Change." It looks back on the 9/11 'terrorist' attacks. I'm not going to say more than that because I want to wait for you to give it a watch before I start dropping my comments.

Anyhow, it's long, so set aside some time this weekend to check it out. The time really does fly, though. Make some popcorn, find your loved one and get into the government conspiracy that's gathering steam.

Here's the link again.

And here's the official web site.

You say it's your birthday

2006-01-19T16:56:00.000-05:00

We don't do this often here on the bloggy-blog, but we gotta give a big bday shout-out to my man, E.A. Poe, who's celebrating yet another birthday today. In his honor, I share with you an Associated Press story that moved a few hours ago. To be honest, I'd hoped to stake out this mystery visitor, but now I'm kind of glad I didn't.

For the 57th year in a row, a mystery man has paid tribute to Edgar Allan Poe by placing roses and a bottle of cognac on the writer's grave to mark his birthday.

But some of the 25 spectators, drawn to the tiny, locked graveyard in downtown Baltimore to view the ceremony, climbed over the walls of the site and were "running all over the place trying to find out how the guy gets in," according to the most faithful viewer of the event.

Jeff Jerome, curator of the Poe House and Museum, who has seen the mysterious visitor every Jan. 19 since 1976, said early today he had to chase people out of the graveyard, fearing they would interfere with the mystery visitor's ceremony.

"They had a game plan," Jerome said. "They knew from previous years when the guy would appear."

Although the visitor managed to get in and go out without anyone stopping him, Jerome said because of the disruption early today and of previous years, he will not reveal details of what the Poe Toaster was wearing, what he did at Poe's grave, and whether he left anything besides the roses and cognac, such as a note."

In letting people know about this tribute, I've been contributing to these people's desire to catch this guy," Jerome said. "It's such a touching tribute, and it's been disrupted by the actions of a few people trying to interfere and expose this guy."

Most who gathered, Jerome said, were interested in having a good time."After one or two hours, you let down your guard and start getting punchy and don't think he's going to show up, and, of course, that's when he does."It was a crisp, cold, clear night. "I was hoping for wind and rain in keeping with a Poe story," Jerome said.

But the museum curator was saddened by the disrespectful spectators.

"I hope to preserve this tribute. It's one of those things that make Baltimore so unique," he said.

For decades, a frail figure made the visit to Poe's grave. In 1993, the original visitor left a cryptic note saying, "The torch will be passed." A later note said the man, who apparently died in 1998, had handed the tradition on to his sons.

Poe, who wrote poems and horror stories such as "The Raven" and "The Tell-Tale Heart," died Oct. 7, 1849, in Baltimore at the age of 40.

Just needling ya!

2006-01-18T23:30:00.000-05:00

That's a photo of the Space Needle in Seattle. I snapped a pic of it when I was on a walk over the weekend. I'd never seen it before in person, only in documentaries like "Men in Black." I didn't really seek it out; it was just located near my hotel. Sit tight, there's a point coming up.

I know people who travel and specifically avoid things like space needles. They'd go to New York and skip out on the Statue of Liberty. They'd go to Paris and pass on the Eiffel Tower. They'd visit Albuquerque and not visit my grandpa's house. It's not just that they're neutral on the matter of space needles. In fact, they're very passionate -- thy completely detest space needles and the whole idea of out-of-towners visiting said space needles. They see space needles as tourist bait. Because of their wide-spread fame, things like space needles can be iconic but not necessarily a part of a city's true experience. You following?

So these people would travel somewhere and spend the day in small coffeeshop with a bunch of locals rather than visit the monument that they remember from their 5th-grade history book. I think I'm a bit in the middle on the whole matter. I don't really have an interest in seeing something just because I've seen a picture of it a thousand times. But there certainly are some things that you 'experience' as much as you 'see'... the smell in an old cathedral... the details of an aged painting... the enormity of a building or monument.

That said, I think I'm rather unimpressed with space needles.

# # #

Writers are always getting ripped for slanting a story or only showing our preferred segment of a story. Meanwhile, photographers seem to have a free pass -- yet they often fail to show a complete story. Here, look at this pic of the Space Needle.

Here's the same photo taken from about 10 feet away. It's a different picture and has a different feel to it. Photos are unreliable!!!!

Actually, this was all just an excuse to share a link with you. Check out this site. Click on portfolio and then click on before/after. (The Nicole Richie one is great!)

This Saturday

2006-01-16T23:42:00.000-05:00

It's another party in Orlando! Which means it's another Joey poster!

For some reason, party organizers bagged the party-theme idea of the century -- "Homelessness" -- and are now going with a "Leaving to Las Vegas" theme, in honor of the night's honoree, who may or may not be entertaining the possimability of leaving to Sin City.

Click the pic to get a bigger look. Here's the words that might seem blurry: "warning! this party may contain one or more of the following: dealers, scallywags, pimps, hoes, skrippers, hookers, prostitutes, crackheads, Real World cast members, skanks, skeezers and/or more skrippers"

Get your Abe on

2006-01-16T13:57:00.000-05:00

This is an unpaid advertisement. We've chatted before about Abe Lincoln. Tonight there's a special on the History Channel that I'm pretty excited about. It starts at 8 p.m. on the East Coast. Be prepared to discuss tomorrow in class.

Dateline: Seattle waterfront

2006-01-14T13:21:00.000-05:00

You know how there's just a certain vibe to some places. Like you tell people that you're going to a place like New York or Miami or Vegas or Austin and they automatically start thinking that you're cool, simply by extension of your temp surroundings. You could be going to visit your grandma in a hospice, yet they're envious because they know you'll be feeling the vibe of an MTV city and infinitely cooler just as soon as your plane touches down.

Well, I'm in Seattle, which is supposed to make Screech look like Zach Morris, and it's pretty easy to feel that vibe. I'm rambling, but the whole point is this, Does something like being cool transcend humans? Cuz I swear I saw a bird with some ruffled feathers and a certain strut. He was like, "I'm in Seattle, pigieons!!!" Is it possible for animals to feel cool, and is it possible that they might feel cool simply based on their surroundings?

# # #

I saw the coolest thing this morning. I went for a little walk and on the opposite side of the street I saw an old man walking toward an old woman. The woman was walking her dog. They smiled and exchanged hellos as they passed. I caught the man doing a head-turn as the lady continued walking away. Then just as the old man started looking forward again, the lady spun her head around to check out the old man. But then she, too, kept on moving on.

# # #

Time differences always kill me. The weirdest part of my day was going out for a long walk, getting a bite, stopping off somewhere else and grabbing some coffee while reading through a pair of newspapers. I got back to my hotel room and the clock barely read 10 a.m. Can you believe it?! I hadn't accomplished that much before 10 a.m. ever in my whole wide life.

# # #

One of my stops was at the first-ever Starbucks. As I turned the corner and spotted it, it felt like I was suddenly on some meaningful journey, a holy pilgrimmage of sorts. I've spent quite a bit of time over the past half-dozen years sitting in various Starbucks. It's been one of the few environments that has threaded through my adulthood and connected the various life-stages together. And here I was where all the magic began. It was a magical land of coffee beans, to be sure. And the coolest part: the nipples. Yup, the old-school logo features nipples and they're still on display. Check it out right here.

State vs. Unfriendly Neighbor

2006-01-12T21:17:00.000-05:00

Alternate post title: Don't mess with a Maese.

As some of you know, one of the Maese bros. has been involved in some legal troubles. He and his neighbor have been fighting for a nearly a year. Before that, they were inseperable. Now, they're bitter enemies. To the point where my bro has purchased a secret camera and aimed it at her backyard. And to the point where "someone" has ordered the neighbor catalogs under the name AnneWatersHerPants. So, anyhow, yesterday was courtday. What follows was lifted from my bro's myspace page.:

Today, Jan. 12, 2006, has marked the end of an ongoing, high tension, everything at stake court battle between myself and my next door neighbor. For anybody who needs a recap over the past 7 months, the following paragraph will be of interest to you. If you feel you have stayed current with the strife, go ahead and skip the following paragraph.

It all began in May when I was relandscaping my frontyard. My neighbor, we'll call her AnneWatersHerPants, decided she wanted to participate in my venture and basically alter my plans. I didn't take to well to this, so I broke it to her that she was being excluded from the designing committee. The news didn't stop her from continuing with her conspiracy to make my landscaping fulfill her appetite, so to speak. The month it took to complete the project was filled with violent words, harassing gestures, and spycams. As the police got involved, she was quickly notified she was being charged with trespassing and larceny (for removing plants out of my yard without permission). The days leading up to the courtdate consisted of typical neighbor war events, including that time she kicked a dead bird toward my friends and I, while asking, "Did you lose something?" While one friend lipped, "What is that?" Another was quick to respond "I don't know, but I definately saw her take a bite out of it!" A look of animosity was shot in our direction.

It's courtday, and everybody shows up. AnneWatersHerPants successfully requests a continuance. This action continues for the duration of 5 months, one hearing per month. Various reasons were being spilled out to the judge, who was letting Ms. Watersherpants' public defender take some control over the situation, as to why the case should be continued.

It's the final showdown. Annewatersherpants is present with her girlfriend. A new public defender presents herself through the courtroom doors. As she acqaints herself with the case, pressure sets in. She soon realizes Anne is backed into a corner and is about to face the risk of being incarcerated if convicted of either crime. Anne still believes that she is not guilty, so a jury trial is set up for that afternoon.

As a couple of hours pass by, the district attorney offers her a final plea bargain. Similar to the one initially offered, she can plead guilty to trespassing and the 2nd charge of larceny would be dropped. Anne begins to squirm in her chair, unsure of what to do. The public defender pulls out her art supplies and begins painting a mental picture of the next 6 months if convicted. When the words "criminal history" were brought up, something inside Anne allowed her throat to relax.

It was then, that her pride was able to make its way from her mouth down to her stomach, a path well known for cheezeburgers and bird carcasses (see above paragraph). A pen was withdrawn as a clammy fist began signing the plea bargain. I sat patiently before the courtroom for the judge's sentencing. As she answered the judge's questions, her voice had a streak of resentment.

The judge, realizing this, asked her one last time, "Is this what you want?"

With the courtroom's attention, a hesitant, yet full-toned voice boomed, "Yes."

"Annewatersherpants, I find you guilty of criminal trespassing on your neighbor's property, I hereby order you to one year of probation, no contact with the victim, and not a single violation of the law, at the end of this time, if any of these conditions have been violated, I will put you away for at least 6 months!"

The gavel sounded through the courtroom. As she acknowledged the conditions and turned away, AnneWatersHerPants looked at me. I couldn't help but notice a lone tear making its way down her right cheek. The look was not describable, but interpretable. I took it as to say, "Andy -- Thank you! Thank you for showing me that I CAN be a better person- I owe you one."

That and this

2006-01-11T12:55:00.000-05:00

Coolest gift I've received this week: A Stephen Glass reporter's notebook. It looks like promotional material for the "Shattered Glass" movie and features the Glass character's big face on the front. Inside, at the bottom of each page, there's hand-scrawled script that reads: "Are you mad at me?"

# # #

Sign spotted last night in a bar...
Q: What's the difference between an Irish wake and an Irish wedding?
A: One less drunk at the wake.

# # #

A couple of updates for the curious ones out there:
-- Nick and Casey have not settled on a name for their baby yet. It is my strong feeling that Rupert is the front-runner, but they won't even confirm that much. They're saying that Evan might be a leading candidate if the baby is a boy -- which sounds an awful lot like a bluff to me. And if the baby is a girl, they're still considering Abby and Zoe. They added up your votes here on the bloggy-blog and said it came to a tie. Ughhh.
-- And you'll recall that our friend Pistol Pete has a mom who purchased a mannequin look-alike while her husband was off to sea. Well, I'm happy to report that her hubby is home for a couple of months and the dummy has been folded up and placed in a box.

# # #

The Washington Post reported today that former D.C. mayor Marion Barry recently tested positive for cocaine. In other news, the sun rose, I still like Dr. Pepper and Tom Cruise is crazier than a one-legged dog jumping rope.

# # #

And fark.com helped me find this story that tells us that there's an overlap between drinking and working. Quick excerpt:

Just over 7 percent of American workers drink during the workday — mostly at lunch — and even more, 9 percent, have nursed a hangover in the workplace, according to a study.

Young, single men are tied most often to workplace-related drinking, especially managers, salespeople, restaurant workers and those in the media, according to the findings by the University at Buffalo's Research Institute on Addictions.

Allow me to say this: I'm appalled. Only 9 percent have nursed hangovers at work? WTF have the rest of you been doing? Maybe it's only talking about midweek hangovers or hangovers that leave you in a coma. As far as I'm concerned, "for those in the media," working with a hangover is just part of the job.

I know the answer to this, but have any of you not gone to work with a hangover? Didn't think so.

(Note to bosses, for the record, I have never nursed a hangover at work, nor have I consumed alcohol at work, nor have I done anything with any member of the janitorial staff at work.)

The Diner Adventure No. 1 / 50

2006-01-10T06:18:00.000-05:00

When I arrived in Baltimore, I was immediately attracted to its indescribable qualities and deceptive charm. It's quirky, to say the least, and every corner and every city block reveals a little bit more about Baltimore's collective personality. I read books and watched movies to learn whatever I could about my new home and its eclectic sense of culture. One DVD I bought was called "Diner," a Barry Levinson movie set largely in a 1950s Baltimore diner. And so it happened that I started believing that the heart of Baltimore pumped comfortably from the back booth of a cozy diner. Actually, not just one particular diner -- but every diner. And when I started thinking about my goals for 2006, I knew the biggest undertaking would be to explore the heart of this city -- from that back booth.

The other night I scrolled through web page after web page, compiling a careful and thorough list. And so Monday was Day 1 of the Diner Adventure -- my effort to visit 50 diners in and around Baltimore. The goal is roughly one a week. The lone rule I've set is a mandate to order coffee at each establishment. I'll visit, I'll observe, I'll soak. And then I'll come back and if there's something worth noting, I'll store it here in our bloggy-blog corner of the Internet kingdom.

Even before I started searching for diners, I knew what my first stop would be. It was one of the first places I ate at here in town. I liked it because it was different than any place I'd visited before, because it wasn't like the diner in the Levinson movie and it wasn't like the diner I often visited back home in ABQ. This one was called "Papermoon Diner" and if I didn't know better, I'd think it was something hatched by Charles Manson on one of his darkest days.

I went there this afternoon with my Divorced Friend. She was immediately struck by the freaky exterior decor, just as I had once been. Bright colors, none of which seem to match. Kitchen sinks and toilets serving as planters. When you open the doors, you feel like you're stepping into Dali's subconscious. There are mannequins and dolls and appliances hanging from the walls and ceiling. Above the exit, there's a collection of babies glued to the wall. A ceiling fan spinning above the bar has been turned into a mobile, with dangling toy airplanes and action-figure toys circling in a steady clockwise motion.

The interior looks like a collection of junk you'd find in your great grandmother's attic. Everything from the blender to the dolls looks to be decaying. You get the feeling that a Goodwill store has already rejected most of this stuff. The menus are covered by retro-yet-authentic science books, part of the "Life" series. The first page of the menu is a list of rules. We cannot talk to the cooks, nor can we feed them. And we cannot smoke our pipes either, and absolutey no cry babies.

The menu is hardly traditional diner fare. I contemplated the hummuside and the bleeding heart artichoke sandwich before settling on an omelet with avocados and salsa. My Divorced Friend had a grilled cheese, which I thought was an excellent diner choice. The service was lousy, which is OK because that's not the allure. We excuse bad service in a diner environment, don't we? The food was great, the ambience sublime. This diner is open 24 hours and hosts a wide variety of patrons, many the artsy types with hip dark-rimmed glasses, the kind you'd think we would've tired of by now, even though we haven't.

There was one line on the menu that I really liked. "Thank you for choosing our joint," it read. "We give a damn." I'm glad this was the first stop. I don't expect to encounter another diner like the "Papermoon," and that's a good thing. (You can feel the vibe, too, by visiting their web site.) But to be honest, I don't know exactly what to expect from the others. Not a single one will fully capture Baltimore, I know that already. But hopefully, by the time I sip from my 50th coffee mug, I'll have a better picture of the full picture, ya know.

Dominican Republic revisited

2006-01-09T18:05:00.000-05:00

Just a few photos from my trip to the Dominican Republic. Nothing too great here, but I thought I'd share, especially so my friends in cold environments could feel a little warmth...

These dudes are just chillin the day away, which is what a lot of folks seem to do. Whether it was city streets or the beaches, people here definitely take them some time to relax.

My man here carries a machete, but he isn't fighting crime. He lops the tops off coconuts and pours the sweet, sweet nectar into a cup for you. Or for me, since you weren't there.

Gigantic Xmas decoration. There are religious symbols and images depicted, though you can't really make them out here.

This is like a super-large statue thingy and you can't really appreciate how big it is from this pic. I'm not positive but I think it's an homage to either Andre the Giant or Yao Ming.

Two important things here: 1) You get a little taste for the colors of the DR. As with many Latin American countries, they aren't scared of pastels and bright colors in their architecture. And 2) sometimes you gotta hang your clothes on the roof. I like that for some reason.

This is a thingy.

Just so you don't think everything there is a beautiful, here's a peek down at one beach. That stuff you see -- it's trash.

A million little lies

2006-01-09T14:52:00.000-05:00

I know a few of you out there have read "A Million Little Pieces," the NYT best-seller by James Frey, because it's been recommended to me a few times. The book was vaulted into national prominence by Oprah last year.

Anyhow, check out this story by the Smoking Gun, which shows that Frey's little real-life memoir is packed with fabriction and fiction. BTW, I love that the Smoking Gun is doing lengthy investigations like this.

Best year ever!

2006-01-07T23:13:00.000-05:00

World, start lining up. Come be part of the adventure that is Maese 2006. The early reviews are in, and let me just say, it'll be quite a show. Here's a sneak preview provided by Rob Brezsny, who does the horoscope you read in many of the nation's alt-weeklies:

CANCER (Jun 21-July 22): There's no delicate way to say this, so please stop reading and come back next week if you're offended bygraphic references to pleasure. According to my analysis of the long-term astrological omens, you're on tap to experience more orgasms in 2006 than you have in any previous year. On average, your climaxes are also likely to be longer and more intense. Other varieties of bliss, rapture, and joy will probably occur at record levels, as well. Think you can handle it?

Yes, I do, Rob. Yes, I do. (Wondering what Rob says about your 2006? Check it out here.)

Press 7 to delete

2006-01-06T10:58:00.000-05:00

Ol' Brew was up in my business again. That dude loves getting on my case. The lecture topic du jour this time was my voicemail messages. They filled up again, which meant that folks calling me couldn't leave a message. This really bothered some folks, which surprised me. A lot of people know that I don't regularly check my messages and don't always return the phone call. These same people, though, were bothered that they couldn't leave a message.

It's very curious to me. Why would they be so eager to leave a message that they knew I'd never listen to? It really started bothering me yesterday and I just had to know. So I did the unthinkable. I didn't merely check my messages. I listened to them. Each and every one. Why do people leave these? Are they urgent? Important? Mind-blowing? One by one. "Press 7 to delete." 7. 7. 7. 7.

You want to know what I decided? My voicemail is like therapy. People just want to hear my voice sometimes. They want to feel like they can talk to me at any given moment and that I'm there listening. When I thought about it, I remembered that I've used certain friends answering machines and voicemailboxes in the same fashion. And it's OK. I owe it to these people to do a better job of deleting messages so that they can leave even more!

But you don't have to take my word for it. Here's a rough transcript of the 27 messages I deleted last night.

1. Dec. 27, 7:38 p.m.: “…hoping I could catch you before you got on the plane, but I couldn’t… I hope you
stay safe…”
2. Dec 27, 8:46 p.m.: “… calling to get some more details about your New Mexico Christmas…”
3. Dec. 27, 9:42 p.m.: “…I just wanted to call and see if you were in the country. Your phone doesn’t have a signal so please call me when you’re back in town…”
4. Dec. 27, 11:09 p.m.: “Hello Mr Rick Maese. Sorry for calling so late. ‘Im not sure of you’re sleeping patterns. But I wanted to talk to you about something. I’m actually at the hospital, kind of sitting around, so give me a call when you get the chance.”
5. Dec. 27, 11:12 p.m.: “Hey Rick, just calling to see if you want to go get a drink…”
6. Dec. 28, 8:56 a.m.: [singing] “You’re in a foreign country!!! Helloooo! I hope you’re OK. And if you are, then you can call me. I would like that.”
7. Dec. 28, 7:40 p.m.: [automated creditor voice:] “… about an important matter…”
8. Dec. 28, 8:36 p.m.: [singing] “It’s me, it’s me, it’s me.”
9. Dec. 29, 10:43 a.m.: “Call me back.”
10. Dec. 29, 1:15 p.m.: “Hey Rick, it’s [name] from [radio station]. Wanted to know if what your schedule looked like and if you had a chance to come on later today and talk about…”
11. Dec. 29, 2:57 p.m.: “Hey Maese, it’s your buddy. Just wanted to check in on you and see how you’re doing. Take care. I look forward to talking with you eventually.”
12. Dec. 29, 4:29 p.m.: “Hey Rick. It’s [my boss]. Can you give me a call when you get a chance?”
13. Dec 29, 5:48 p.m.: “Hey there Rick, it’s [my boss], I’ll try you again…”
14. Dec. 29, 6:10 p.m.: [automated creditor voice:] “… the number is toll free, please call 1-866…”
15. Dec. 30, 8:45 a.m.: [automated creditor voice:] “… again, the number is….”
16. Dec. 30, 3:31 p.m.: “…I’m having a bit of a problem. I need to go to the store, just so you know…”
17. Dec. 30, 5:33 p.m.: “Hey, call me back. Write down this number…’
18. Dec. 31, 6:46 p.m.: “RICARDOOO!!! Happy New Year’s Eve to you. I hope you have a splendid time. Don’t feel the need to call me back. Ahh-chooo, that’s a sneeze. Bless me. We’ll catch up soon, I’m sure.”
19. Dec. 31, 11:57 p.m.: “…just wanted to be the first to wish you a Happy New Year…”
20. Jan. 1, 12:04 a.m.: “Heyyyy. Happy New Year. Hope it brings you much good luck and cheer. Or something…”
21. Jan. 1, 1:01 a.m.: “Hello, Mr. Maese, Happy New Year. Hope you’re having a good time. And I’ll talk to you soon. Bye.”
22. Jan. 1, 1:18 a.m.: “Yo, just because all interpersonal communication cannot be done via blog or IM, I wanted to call and wish you a Happy New Year. Later.”
23. Jan. 1, 2:05 a.m.: [singing] “Should auld acquaintance be forgot” [talking] Hey man, just wanted you to know that you’re not an acquaintance that I’ll forgot…”
24. Jan. 1, 2:16 a.m.: [barely audible shouting] “HAPPPPY NEW YEARS, BITCHES!”
25. Jan. 1, 8:34 p.m.: “Rickus, I have an important message for you, so listen close… (inaudible) is coming out with a new movie called… get online and go to www…..watch the trailer…”
26. Jan. 2, 2:20 p.m.: “Dude, you should probably stop working and come to the beach. Uhm, yeah. Cuz I got to work, too, but I also have a case of Coors Light, so come over.”
27. Jan. 2, 7:03 p.m.: [automated creditor voice:] “…thank you.”

W.W.J.D.

2006-01-05T23:59:00.000-05:00

Baby Bro tries answering the question, What Would Jesus Drink?

By Joey!

I ch-ch-ch-choose you

2006-01-03T12:28:00.000-05:00

So this morning my friend J-Dizzle is reflecting on last night's events and what they mean in the greater contest of his life. So he focuses on the checklist:

Fallen in love? Check.
Sunset in Key West? Check
Beers at Fenway Park? Check.
Watched a drunk guy get hit by a train? Check.

Yeah, you read that right. The last item was checked off the list last night. The sparse details of the fatal accident can be found right here. We were hanging out in downtown Lauderdale and about 3 a.m., we parted ways. A few of us piled into a cab. J-Dizzle walked to his car in a parking garage. I had been in the cab for only a couple of minutes when the phone rang.

"I CAN'T BELIEVE WHAT I JUST SAW!" J-Dizzle said. I'd missed it by just a couple of minutes. I'm not morbid, by any means, but I was more than a little bit jealous that I didn't get to see it.

How do you get hit by a train? There are basically only three possibilities: 1) your foot gets caught under the tracks, 2) your arch nemesis ties you up and places you helplessly on the tracks, and 3) by playing chicken. If you think about it, playing chicken with a train is the dumbest of the three options. As my baby brother correctly pointed out, do you really think the train is going to turn first? No, of course not. The train is going to win that battle 100 percent of the time. The train is the Harlem Globetrotters of railroad-track chicken. And the trains chalked up another one last night.

It's gruesome and sad and stupid and numbing. Though I was initially bothered that I didn't get to see it, a day later, I don't think I want my list to even include the "Watched a drunk guy get hit by a train" option anymore.

All we are is dust in the wind

2006-01-01T13:34:00.000-05:00

You're my boy, Blue.

Pssst... wanna link?

2005-12-30T08:29:00.000-05:00

I don't have too much time to amuse you today, so instead, I share a link.

Take some time and give a read to Jemele Hill's column in the O-Sent. J-Hill is a friend of the bloggy-blog (but hated rival in real life!) and opines on turning 30, which she and Tiger Woods have both done in the past week.

I know what you're thinking and you're exactly right: Jemelly-belly is crazy-old!

Donde esta el bano? Gracias

2005-12-29T10:17:00.000-05:00

Here's something you didn't know about how I roll: I have super-hero language powers. You know how sometimes a baby is trapped under a car and a scrawny woman with an Olsen-twin body comes over and lifts up the whole 1982 Buick LeSabre and saves the little baby? (Even though the baby is probably doing one of those cries where its little mouth is open, the lower lip is quivering but no sound comes out... I hate those cries.) Well, that's how I roll with the Spanish. When push comes to shove and I'm in a situation where I need to employ my super-hero language skills, the Spanish come shooting out of my mouth as though I just did 10 shots of tequila, ate a pickle, some cheese fries, scrambled eggs and a bunch of lo mein. Which is to say that it comes flying violently out of my mouth and I just can't stop it.

This is my way of telling you that I'm in the Dominican Republic. Now I know some of you haven't been to the Dominican Republic before, so I've prepared a list of all the things you need to know about the Dominican Republic. Here ya go...

1. They serve fried cheese at breakfast.
2. During televised baseball games, they run advertisements during the actual game. So while a pitcher is shaking off a sign, an ad will cover 1/3 of the screen while you watch.
3. I was at this spot last night that played C&C Music Factory. (Here's a C&C Music Factory fun fact for you: The second C died of meningitis in 1995.)
4. The next song they played was Barry White's "Can't Get Enough of Your Love, Babe," followed by "YMCA." And then, the icing on the cake: "Careless Whisper," by George Michael. You remember "Careless Whisper," don't you:
I'm never gonna dance again / guilty feet have got no rhythm / though it's easy to pretend / I know you're not a fool / Should've known better than to cheat a friend / and waste the chance that I've been given / so I'm never gonna dance again / the way I danced with yoo-ooo-ou
5. No matter the city or the country, there are three people who I will always trust: a bartender, a barber and a taxi cab driver. Now I don't trust that they won't rip me off, but I do trust their conversation and their information. They know what time it is.
6. No one has called me papichulo. Not a single person.
7. I bought a coconut from a guy on the street. But he didn't let me keep the cocunut. He just cut it open and poured its innards into a plastic cup.
8. Before I arrived here, a friend gave me some advice: "Whatever you do, do not run over a Dominican. It's OK to hit a Haitian -- they might not even put you in jail -- but if you hit a Dominican, you're in trouble."
9. It's 85 degrees here. I had to blow-dry the sweat from my shirt after taking a walk yesterday. Today I'm going to write by the swimming pool. And by "write," of course, I mean "gawk."
10. At baseball games, pretty girls dance on the dugouts between innings. When they're not dancing, they don't make much small talk. And they certainly don't call you papichulo -- even if you ask nicely and say please. And then when you start begging, they call security.

Xmas rewind

2005-12-26T21:22:00.000-05:00

The people keep asking me, What's Christmas like in New Mexico? So I tried to take a few notes on my recent visit home. With an ABQ dateline, here are some highlights:

-- I wanted to scoop up some vegetarian tamales en route to family festivities. But the restaurant -- Richard's -- was too far away. My mom had a suggestion. She remembered that there was another restaurant nearby, but she couldn't remember the exact name. (The place is called Dos Hermanos, Spanish for 'two brothers.')
So Mom says: "We could stop by Dos Homos and see if they have what you want there?" Dos homos, can you believe it?

-- My baby brother Joey made mockery of Christmas once again. As I've told you before, we don't always get each other serious gifts. Until this year, though, at least the presents always had a Christmas theme. Joey gave me a menorah. He gave our other brother a candy dish shaped like the star of David. The bottom of the dish read, 'Happy Hannukkah!" From Joey, my father received a book called "Judiasm for Dummies." Thanks, Joey.

-- Also, my mother received two sweatshirts from young Joey. I think one declared her the world's best grandma. The other was a holiday-themed sweatshirt that also referenced mom as a grandma. Mom is, in fact, not a grandma. That we know of.

-- Went to church on Christmas Eve. Paid our debt, made our peace, ya know. Baby brother Joey and I also devised a marketing campaign that we're thinking about shopping around. We're going to offer it to the fine folks at Dr. Pepper first. The campaign revolves around the acronym: W.W.J.D. -- What Would Jesus Drink? The answer, of course: Dr. Pepper.
For just two seconds, picture the commercial and a famished Christ up on the cross.... or picture a young Baby Jesus in his manger, sucking on a bottle of DP. Hot, right?

-- Quote of the visit goes to Grandma. She's a nearly 70-year-old white woman. A bit kooky. She started using an oxygen tank about a year ago. I think she's scared of black people. And I'm fairly certain she doesn't like Grandpa. I love her, though. Anyhow, we were talking about judge shows on television and without being prompted, Grandma declares: "Oh, I really like that 'Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.'"

-- There's a part of town not far from the University called Nob Hill. It's eclectic, where the hippies, artists and misunderstoods live and hang out (it's where friend-of-blog Michael Joe lives, in fact). I was driving through late one night when I noticed something in someone's yard. Now this time of year, you expect to see a nativity scene. Maybe a little light-bulb Santa. Snowmen made of tumbleweeds have been known to decorate a lawn or two.
Not this place. Not in Nob Hill. It was a life-size rhino. For no reason. It was just there, a light shining up on it so all the passing cars could see. A rhino! Random.

-- Do your bars have machines that read your blood-alcohol content? We went to one spot and for 50 cents, you blow into a machine and it gives you a reading. Wild, huh? I conducted my own test on the way home, by monitering my friend's driving capabilities. I gave him a 0.07 (and an A for effort) -- less than half of what the bar machine gave him. (I'm a bit more generous, I suppose.)

-- The most depressing thing from that night was remembering back to how this particular bar -- we'll call it Burt's (because that's its name) -- used to be really hot on Thursday nights. For a stretch we were down there every Thursday. And then we realized that that was five years ago. Five freaking years ago! And everyone around us looked like little kids who were ditching algebra class.

-- Many people question whether New Mexico has electricity. Ha -- we got that beat by like a million points. Drove by an Arby's, which is a chain restaurant featuring sliced-meat sandwiches. Sign outside: "Free wireless Internet!" At Arby's! Beat that New York.

-- There's a certain rhythm to opening presents in our family. It's all incredibly obnoxious. There are really two options. You either like something and pretend that you don't, or you don't like something and make sure everyone knows how much you dislike it.
If you like something and want to pretend like you don't, you open the present and sarcastically announce in a hyperbolic glee: "It's a menoraaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!!!! Hurray!!!!!" Then you leap across the room to the gift-giver and give a hug that's way too enthusiastic and a wet kiss on the cheek (that may or may not involve the tongue). This is how families that aren't comfortable expressing themselves say 'thank you'... by making the other person as uncomfortable as possible.
And then there's the gifts that we don't like. We don't use much tact. You know the game-show buzzer... the sound effect used when you deliver a wrong answer. Well, if you open a present that you don't like, you let out a giant: "EEERRRT!" like a game-show buzzer. Or you open the present, turn it around in your hands for a few minutes, thoughtfully examining it before asking, "Did you wrap the receipt separately?" Ahhh, to be a Maese in '05. It's all so tragic and many shrinks will send their children to fancy schools on our dollar.

-- Oooh, you're wondering what I got... besides the menorah. Joey also got me a fat cigar. (No, I don't smoke cigars.) I also got some socks and books and music and pistachio nuts and a big ol metal cross and an Edgar Allen Poe action figure and clothes and an iron and a scarf made out of a llama some other stuff! Hurray!

-- I didn't see enough family or enough friends. Spent too much time at the mall, drinking coffee, peeing coffee, visiting hospitals, making friends at Babies R Us and waiting for lunch appointments that were always running 3o minutes late. But, you know what, it's all good, as the kids say. I could spend a year back home and at the end of it, I'd still complain the same thing: I wish I had spent more time with my fam and friends.

Feel free to share your favorite Christmas memories from '05.

(And the W.W.J.D. thing was just a joke! Geez, lighten up...)

Greetings of the season

2005-12-25T22:56:00.000-05:00

man, i have so much i want to tell you. but no time.

but i couldnt let the day pass without wishing everyone a joyous day. and for our jewish friends, i wish you a joyous however-many-days you feel like.

it's xmas night. im in an airport, leaving new mexico.

more later.

Happy hump day!

2005-12-20T14:28:00.000-05:00

On the way back home for the holidays. Here's a couple things worth spending some time with:

-- The fine folks at Jib Jab have produced their year-end musical cartoons, featuring President Bush looking back on a tumultuous 2005. You'll recall that Jib Jab are the funny cartoon satirists who poke fun at our political leaders through song and dance. Click right here!

-- And noticed earlier this week on Defamer that there's a web site that purports to have solved this lingering Chappelle mystery. The site -- called the Chappelle Theory, probably satire -- claims that leaders from the black community, including Sharpton, Cosby and Oprah, conspired to get Dave off the air. The whole site takes at least 20 minutes to read, but the time flies. So click right here, if you got the time.

I said Luge, not loogie

2005-12-20T11:43:00.000-05:00

I was up in Lake Placid, N.Y. for the luge World Cup last weekend. I'm returning to Baltimore with a newfound appreciate for the sport. When you're at home watching on television, the luge looks like a lot of fun. It seems like a a twisty slide at the park. Only this slide is made of ice. And it’s highly probable that you’ll either a) suffer permanent injury or b) die.

I nicknamed my sled the Rick Rocket. A real-life luge sled is different but those people wouldn't let me anywhere near one of those.

There are only two luge tracks in all of the U.S. -- Salt Lake City (host of the 2000 Winter Olympics) and Lake Placid (home of the 1980 Games). Track officials at Lake Placid officials agreed to send me down on a modified sled called a luge rocket, following Saturday's World Cup competition. The rocket is like the high-performance sled used in Olympic competition, except there’s a resting place for your feet, a small cage over your head and the sides of the sled curve up, making it tougher to fall out.

"It’s like a casket on ice," I was told.

This is a friend and Sun photog bundled tightly inside. The dude behind her is about to give a running push, as though she was on a swingset and he wanted her to flip over the crossbar.

After signing a piece of paper that I didn't read (I suspect it said: 'You will probably die and by signing this you agree that it's not our fault... perhaps you should take legal action against God instead'), they pushed me out of the chute. As I approached the first turn, I relinquished my Olympics dream. I wanted out, but there was no stopping. The sled was rattling on the track. I was rattling in the sled. And my lunch was rattling inside of me.

Imagine yourself driving down a narrow, icy highway. The gas pedal is floored, and you have no steering wheel. You can taste your previous three meals as you whip around Whiteface Turn and by Devil’s Highway, you’re negotiating your soul for the opportunity to be upright just once more in this precious, short lifetime.

You can tell by how white the track is in front of the luge, that the real sledders are never this low on the track. They're going so fast that they're riding much higher on the wall.

My sled reached nearly 50 mph. Olympian sliders hit 80 mph. They take turns and hit 5 Gs, which means that 60 or 70 pounds of force is slamming their heads around. Meanwhile, they're steering their magic carpet with tiny shifts of body weight and making the some of the smallest, most precise moves in sports.

Not me. I was bumping the walls like a pinball. I swear I shook death’s hand at least three times. It took 1:01.016 to make it down. I was counting.

It’s not a track record, but it is my personal best. And because I will never again lie in one those death sleds, I can guarantee you it’ll remain my personal best for a long time to come.

It's a blog poll, people!

2005-12-18T20:51:00.000-05:00

So, many of you know that we're having a baby!!! And by we, I mean bloggy-blog friends Nick and Casey. The problem is that we're about to pump this thing out and we're still having trouble coming up with a name. So we need your help. The parents-to-be have promised that they'll go without whatever name the bloggy-blog readers select.

We don't know if it's going to be a boy or a girl. So we have two options for each. You can vote anonymously but you cannot vote more than once.

BOY
Evan
or
Rupert

GIRL
Abby
or
Zoe

We need your votes, people!!!

ASAP!

Winter Wonderland

2005-12-18T16:34:00.001-05:00

The Adirondacks, New York -- December 2005

How many shopping days?

2005-12-15T12:50:00.000-05:00

There's this thing we do in my family around this time of year that is completely juvenile and adds a layer of frustration to the holidays. We essentially try to buy each other the worst possible present. But we make certain that we buy it from a store that may, in fact, have the best present possible inside, thus allowing the family member to return the ridiculous item and exchange it for the dream item. It's like purchasing a gift certificate, but with more chuckling involved.

In the past, I've bought my mother a three-foot ceramic rooster from a home decorating store. One of my brothers received a Backstreet Boys action figure from a toy store. Another brother received a book on how to become a better cheerleader from a bookstore.

This is all my very long lead-up to this year's Worst Possible Christmas Present: a talking Dick Vitale alarm clock. Dickie V spouts off 14 phrases. Oh geeez, you're thinking. This thing would last exactly one night on my nightstand before I smashed into pieces.
I first learned about the demon-gift from the mighty mjd sports blog, who said the clock is the perfect gift for that special person who you'd like to see commit suicide. Here's another brief excerpt from that site:

I would rather have an alarm clock that jabs me in the neck with a branding iron every morning. If the first thing I saw in the morning was his face, and the first thing I heard was his voice saying, "This morning is AWESOME, BABY, with a CAPITAL A!", I would become the most irritable son of a bitch that has ever walked the planet. I'd make Jerry Sloan look like Richard Simmons.

Anyways, I'm using this as my little gateway to ask you what as the worst present you ever received? The only one that really sticks out in my mind was when I was like 12 or so. My great grandma gave me a toy school bus. It seemed like such a baby present. Meanwhile, my cousin had just opened a walkman. I was like, WTF? A school bus? My great grandma was old -- I think she died within the year -- and probably had no idea that I was too old to have any fun with a dumb ol school bus. I wasn't happy. Today, looking back on my worst present ever, it isn't accompanied by a laugh. More like guilt.

What you got?

Stand by your mannequin

2005-12-14T00:13:00.000-05:00

It was a normal morning drive. I was heading to Pennsylavania with my friend Pistol Pete. We were going skiing. Not even 30 minutes into the drive, Pistol Pete takes a phone call. It's his mom. She called to tell him all about her appearance earlier that morning on "Good Morning America." And now, apparently, she's also been booked on Wolf Blitzer later that night on CNN. I was catching bits and pieces of the convo from the passenger seat but was mostly in the dark until Pistol Pete hung up and filled me in.

You see, last year, Pistol Pete's mom, Suzy, remarried. She wed a man named D.B. Pretty good stuff, except Pistol Pete's new stepdad works on a submarine. That means for 3-4 months at a time, he's away at sea. I don't know about you, but that strikes me as a pretty tough thing to deal with if you're a newlywed. Suzy found an answer, though.

She didn't tell her son, Pistol Pete, but she got on eBay a few months back, and for $40, she bought a mannequin. It looked very similar to her husband, D.B. Suzy named the doll B.D., and when he arrived in the mail, she dressed him in one of her husband's sailor uniforms and drew a moustache on his face. Voila -- the next best thing.

Soon she found herself taking the mannequin all over the place -- restaurants, the mall, road trips, Disney World. And at every stop, she'd ask someone to take a photograph of her and the mannequin -- to document the excursions and give her something to share with her husband when he returned home from sea.

Pistol Pete admits that some might hear all thist and think his mom is a little, uhm, quirky (?). I say, to hell with them. That's devotion, man. In fact, I'm ordering me some mannequins right now. I won't tell you what I'm gonna dress them as, but I'll give you a hint: rhymes with 'Barolina Manthers deerleaders.' I'll show you all devotion.

OK, here's some important links. Click right here to read the story on the "Good Morning America" site. Or better yet, click right here to check out some of the photos of Pistol Pete's mom and her mannequinl. And here is video of the GMA segment, though you have to give them a bit of info before they'll play the video. It's worth it.

Yay Pistol Pete, Pistol Pete's mom and her mannequin!

Like cartoons?

2005-12-12T14:27:00.000-05:00

Editorial cartoonists around the country banded together for "Black Ink Monday," a non-violent protest against newspaper cuts. I think many were directed at Tribune Company, which has done some hardcore layoffs and job cuts the past couple weeks. Anyhow, click right here -- www.editorialcartoonists.com -- and browse away. Many are quite good. (Note: on my browser, I had to search through the 'previous' ones, and not the 'next' ones.)

That and this

2005-12-12T11:22:00.000-05:00

I don't have that much That and This for you today. It's more like Tha and Thi.

# # #

The following is a true story and it happened to a friend of mine. He was out of town. Checked into the hotel. Struck up a good, flirty convo with the cute girl at the front desk. They chatted it up for about 10 minutes and then he heads up to his room. After setting down his bags, he immediately clogs the toilet. What to do? Big dilemma. It was a small hotel, the kind that only has one person on duty.

You make the call: Do you call downstairs and tell the cute girl you need a plunger? Or allow your problem to fester for the indefinite future?

The answer is below.

# # #

There's not a whole lot of things you can do at 4 o'clock in the morning. By far, the one that makes the most sense: Ordering the 5th Wheel Uncensored off pay-per-view. Is there really any other option?

My goal in life is to be on VH1's "I Love the 00s!" talking about the dating shows that flooded my television in the mid-00s. I want to be one of those commentators. You know the ones. It's always some B-list nobody whose face you might recall but whose name you never know. In fact, immediately after the airing of the "I Love the _____," they'll be more known for doing that than whatever they formerly did. And they all have the same role on the "I Love the ____": To look back on a quirk from a certain time period and say, in some fashion: "Man, what were we thinking?!!"

# # #

One thing I don't like about my job: complete strangers writing to insult me or tell me that I don't know anything about anything. That may very well be the case, but only a select few are actually qualified to really know all of my shortcomings.

I'd love to write back a sincere email to these people, just tear into em. You can't, though. You'd get in trouble. So you thank them for taking the time to write. One of my old colleagues used to write back, no matter what was said: You may be right.

# # #

As some of you know, a friend of mine -- K-Duck -- spent the better part of '05 working on a book. I got an advance copy in the mail on Saturday. While I haven't had a chance yet to read the whole thing, I did scan through and find where my name is mentioned. So I'm prepared to offer you the following book review:

"K-Duck's latest tome Wrigleyworld is a fanciful tale of youth and coming of age, featuring an exciting cast of supporting characters. The witty protagonist is overcome at times by some of the rich, colorful miscreants that cross his path. It reminds us that the human drama isn't self-contained and the laughs, tears and pearls of wisdom shared by some of the story's secondary characters make this a difficult book to put down."

# # #

OK, let's revisit the You-Make-the-Call and take a look at what my buddy did...

Clearly, you can't call down to the cute girl and order up a plunger. That would ruin any chances of even making eye contact later. My buddy does the smart thing: He leaves the room ASAP, thus walking away from the problem and giving him a chance to talk to the girl on his way out the door. But all was not solved. When he returned from dinner, it turned out that the girl was still working. This is not a good thing. My buddy gets up to his room and his stomach is churning like a cement mixer. He knew from his convo that the girl got off work at 11. He stared at the clock, but couldn't hold out.

He finally called her downstairs. His voice was different than before. This was a business call. "Uhm, yes, hello, I'm in Room 409 and I'm in need of a plunger." She said she couldn't leave the front desk, but she'd take care of it as soon as she could. Of course, she didn't. My friend called back. She said she'd get to it. He called back again. This time, a dude answered the phone. Shifts had changed. "Oh yes, there was a note here for me to find a plunger for you," he said. "But I can't find one anywhere."

My body has already declared federal emergency status on the bathroom and his internal organs. He starts issuing threats. It seemed like years ago that he was flirting with the girl at the front desk. It was nearly midnight. There's a knock on the door and the dude hands over a plunger. He explains that he had to call and wake up his manager at home.

"When you're finished, could you leave the plunger outside your door, in case someone else has an emergency tonight?" the guy asked.

There's no you-make-the-call decision here. My buddy fixed his problem and went out in the hallway, placing the plunger in front of somebody else's door down the hall.

It was 25 years ago today...

2005-12-08T11:38:00.000-05:00

Friend of the blog JimmyD called me yesterday from Central Park. He was at Strawberry Fields, a little section dedicated to John Lennon, located not far from where Lennon lived. Jim spoke in a quiet voice and I got kind of sad. Today marks the 25th anniversary of Lennon's death. I've been really blessed to come across many people who have affected me and taught me and molded me. Obviously I never met Lennon, but I consider him the first important teacher. Do you have people like that, men or women who you never met, but through your exposure or studying, you just found yourself changing? Yeah, I guess we all do.

I was fortunate to fall in love with the Beatles as an early teen. It was a time that I didn't really know who I was or what I believed. It took only about a half-dozen Beatles songs for me to decide, though. For two years of high school, I rode a city bus to school. It was a 60-90 minute-ride and required a transfer in downtown ABQ. There were many, many occasions where I'd get downtown and skip out on the second bus, spending the day at the public library instead. (I know: what kind of nerd ditches school to hang at the library?) I read every word they had on John Lennon. I soaked it all up and then I used it to build my internal wardrobe. It was perhaps the only period that I knew who I was, or at least knew who I wanted to be.

I'm not being as eloquent as I'd like here, but needless to say, I consider it a very sad day. I watched a TV special a couple of weeks ago that looked closely at the man who killed Lennon ('the Man Whose Name Must Never Be Spoken'). I was still crying over it the next day. It's silly, I know. Because we're talking about a stranger. Because we're talking about a man who did bad things. And treated many people terribly. But to me, he was this great teacher at a moment in my life when I was starved for some direction.

I think the world needs someone like this. Not just someone who has the message, but someone who has captivated an audience enough where they're open to hearing it. I look at things and think, We would not be at war if Lennon was alive. Silly, I know. But I believe it.

Anyways, I'd be interested in hearing what role models you all have. To me Lennon wasn't a Cobain, a Tupac, a James Dean. But I don't know. We don't always control our influences, huh.

There's something we need to talk about

2005-12-07T10:58:00.000-05:00

I know you all are wondering how I'm surviving with all this snow and the lack of degrees and whatnot. Well, I finally had a homemade meal last night. Which is to say: some ho made it.

Ha! I'm so funny. Speaking of, I accidently stumbled on this web site, which is worth 30 seconds of your time: http://www.hoslap.net/ . As always, we here at the bloggy blog do not condone this type of behavior, though we do laugh at it.

Anyways, rather than make this a post about me (I went to the store yesterday and bought 19 frozen food items for my freezer, which I hope will help me survive this cruel winter), I wanted to apologize to you loyal readers. You see, these past couple of days -- geez, I don't really know how to tell you this -- these past couple of days, I've been kind of sort of doing another blog.

First of all, this isn't about you at all. You've been faithful, you've been loyal, you've even been witty on occasion. But I feel like I had to see what else was out there, you know? I'm so young and I guess I'm a bit scared of getting tied down with just one blog right now. I don't want to lose you. I really like this thing we have, you know. We'll work this thing out, but at the same time, I feel like I just have to do a little something-something with this other blog for a bit.

I really enjoy our talks. We talk about so many different things. But you never let me talk about sports. So I guess that's what I'm trying to do with this other blog: sports. I don't want you to feel threatened. I won't do anything to bring you shame. You can even moniter my other-blog activities right here. And I'll keep a little link thingy over there on the right-hand margin for future reference.

But I'm not abandoning you! I'll still be here on the daily, whether you like it or not. It's my hope that with this other blog in the picture, we can learn to appreciate each other more and maybe this will even bring us closer together.

Saving face

2005-12-05T12:10:00.000-05:00

Need to head to the DMV, do a little changeup on my driver's license. Right now it says I'm an organ donor. Gotta change that. You see that story out of France last Friday? A lady got a face transplant. Yeah, just like that Nic Cage-John Travola movie. A dog had took her nose, chin and lips, so doctors just cut the face of a dead person and planted it right on lady. It's somewhat controversial and I can tell you why: Identity theft. We're already at risk for ID theft and they're just upping the ante. Already these fools are going through my mail and my trash. Cats out there trying to walk like me, talk like me, dress like me. And they want my face, too?!! It's a crazy world we're living in.

You need to let this unfold in your mind. Try this: You're visiting France, sipping vino in gay Paree when you suddenly die. Those fools are gonna check your license, see that you want to donate your whole self and then they're gonna cut off your face like it was the plastic wrapping around a CD. Your body gets shipped back to ABQ but your face stays in gay Paree. They're gonna find some lady who was in a house fire or something (probably didn't turn off the iron) and give her my face!!! Then that lady is gonna feel so ostracized cuz she suddenly looks like a Backstreet Boy reject, that she's gonna flee to the U.S., probably settle down in a quiet little place with good Mexi food, like ABQ. Then the Frenchard lady is gonna go to the Dollar Store cuz she needs to buy a new iron and probably run into my grandma, who's doing her holiday shopping (ahem, Christmas shopping). Then my grandma is gonna see MY face on some smelly lady and flip out, have herself a heart attack right there in the Dollar Store. All because that little mark on my driver's license.

It's just not worth it. I know you all love your science and your technology and your cellular telephones. But is it really worth it? We're talking about my grandma here!

In a very related note: this morning on Showtime was a movie called "Demolition High." The plot involves these terrorists taking over a high school cuz they want to shoot a missile they stoled at the local nuclear plant. Fortunately, Corey Haim, a confused and rebellious youth, is roaming the school halls, fighting the terrorists one at a time. His father is played by Alan Thicke, who's the local police chief. Alan Thicke is stationed outside the school, giving goofball advice to Corey Haim whenever Corey can find a telephone. It's filled with all those perfect lines, like when Corey knocked terrorist out a second-floor window: "School's out!" And as the movie closed, Alan Thicke tells his son good job and Corey Haim walks away with his arm around his new girlfriend. You can see the glow from the school explosion reflecting off Alan Thicke's face. He shakes his head and says, "Ahh, kids...." I love it.

Actually, that had nothing to do with Frenchards stealing our faces. Sorry.

Anyways, if you're gonna steal someone's face, who would it be? I'm somewhat partial to Morgan Freeman, Tori Spelling, Rip Hamilton, Seal, Lou Holtz and Cheech Marin. I'd make molds of them faces and print up a gabillion Halloween masks.

And three more things...

2005-12-04T10:55:00.000-05:00

Can you believe it's snowing here? Temps hovering around 30 degrees. All I have in the fridge is a bottle of water with only about an inch of water in it and my emergency string cheese. Formerly, it was my for-a-special-occasion string cheese. But I've decided that it's more likely an emergency will arise before a special occasion, so I've changed the cheese's role in my life.

(Related: Two of the regulars from my neighborhood -- by "regulars," I mean "homeless dudes" -- died last night in the cold. For reals. Check it out.)

# # #

Went to a small show last night. Martin Sexton is one of these dude singer/songwriters. Just him and a guitar on stage. It was delightful and splendid, but one of my fav parts was between songs when some dude in the back of the room would yell out the most random song requests.

"Jessie's Girl!" was the first one.

Then he asked for "Jesus Walks," the Kanye anthem.

"Silver Bells!"

"In Da Club!"

Sexton is one of these sensitive dudes who probably sleeps next to his acoustic and might get tongue-tied asking a fly to shoo away. "In Da Club!!!!" I don't know if he heard any of the requests, but he did play a snippet of "Stairway to Heaven" on the acoustic.

# # #

Because of the Army v Navy football game, I've been conversing with some soldiers and their kin these past few days. I actually appreciate it. None of my family or friends really joined the military or had to serve serious time overseas. Anyhow, this one is a former football player at Navy, currently stationed in Fallujah. His emails are long and interesting, and one of them includes this:

"To this point in my life,and this may upset other Marines and maybe my wife, I consider wearingthe blue and gold for Navy Football my biggest achievement."

Well, dude CC'd his wife on the email. Sure enough, the next day I get an email from her. She's CC'd me on an email she'd written to her husband. Her email was much shorter:

"Hey ass,
glad to know that navy football is a bigger achievement to you than marrying me :( Also glad to see you have an hour to write a freaking book to some random newspaper guy but don't have the time to call your wife who is all by herself away from her family. "

Three things for the weekend

2005-12-02T13:17:00.000-05:00

Did Sarah Silverman really say... "When life gives you AIDS, makes lemonades?"

I love her.

# # #

I forgot to get you all into the big Thanksgiving debate. It actually occured the night after Thanksgiving. There's this thing some of us do, where we punctuate everything we say with the word, "son." Ex.: I like cheese, son! or That's how I roll, son!

In this context, it is interchangeable with a word like "dude" or "man" or "buddy" or "friendly trannie aquaintance." I think Chappelle first got us hep to the word "son" and then when young Kizza says it, it sounds so cool. So now I say it. Cuz I'm cool like that, too. K, background briefing over...

There's an alternate theory out there. Some people think that the word is "sun" and not "son." It's a Wu-Tangy def where you're not actually saying that someone is like your kin, you're saying that they shine like the sun. "This is what black people mean when they say it," I'm told, by a black person, of all people.

Me, being an expert and connoisseur and professor in black culture, disagreed. No, says I, it's "son."

I consulted urbandictionary.com, which I assume was created by really cool black people, and learn that in fact, I am right. Son!

# # #

And the third thing I want you to think about this weekend is the alleged War on Christmas. Man, this one really has me shaking my little Maese head. Give a little spin through this story for background. The basic idea is that the media and corporate America is going overboard with its PCness, trying not to alienate folk who don't celebrate Christmas. Instead of Christmas, they've started saying "holidays."

"Happy Holidays!"
or
"My, what a beautiful holiday tree you have!"
or
"I'm hanging this freaking bush of mistletoe over my bed and if I don't get a chick to lay there before the holidays, I swear I'm gonna kill myself."

The Christian right is basically arguing that they're being discriminated against and corporate America is trying to eradicate the Christian holiday from existence. I love it. I love everything about it. I love that we have a real war taking place where 2,000 people have died and Jerry Falwell and Bill O'Reilly are on my telly screen every night talking about the War Against Christmas. Here's a quote from the Bmore Sun story:

"Christmas seems to be widely observed in this country," said Joseph Conn, a spokesman for Americans United. "I don't know if [Falwell] has been to the mall lately, or any number of houses of worship, but it seems to me that Christmas is perfectly safe."

Of course it's safe. It's the smoke-and-mirrors technique. It's distracting us with something that isn't a problem so that we won't concern ourselves with the real travesties. They're calling this a war? Are you serious? Not going to work on me. I'm staying focused. This holiday season, I will not veer off my mental course. In fact, I'm gonna head out right now and find me that bush of mistletoe.

Loss

2005-12-02T09:57:00.000-05:00

I spoke with a woman whose son is among the 2,100 men and women who have died in Iraq. I asked her whether she still supported the war. That's how I phrased it. By time I reached that question, of course, I already knew that she still supported the war. What I actually wanted to ask was how in the world could she still support it. But I already knew that, too. It's her son's war. He died for a reason. There's no other way for her to see it. And I can't blame her. Check out this quote. She cried as she said it and I was struggling to type it. Her son died a year and a half ago.

"The first 6-7 months, you live in denial and shock. You think it’s just one long bad dream. I tell you one thing, now that we’ve moved past a year, it’s actually been more difficult. The reality finally hits. I still have his number in my cell phone. I can’t erase it. I just wait for the phone to ring, to see his name pop up on there. Or an email that says ‘Hi mom, how you doing?’ You know it’s not going to come anymore. You walk into a store and know that you don’t have any reason to visit the men’s department. There’s nothing over there for me to buy. The reality of it makes it much more difficult for me. His friends call and they visit. They are all in their next stages, getting married, having children. He's not."

I hung up the phone and just stared at the computer screen. Sometimes you can understand what another person is going through. Sometimes you just can't fathom it. (The story is right here, if you're curious.)

What happens when you IM me at 3 a.m.

2005-12-01T11:41:00.000-05:00

2MuchStella (3:17:56 AM): y ou're a beatch
2MuchStella signed off at 3:18:15 AM.
2MuchStella signed on at 3:19:21 AM.
2MuchStella (3:20:13 AM): what up beatch. you act like i'm mary. o th horror....
2MuchStella (3:20:27 AM): i am not her.
2MuchStella (3:22:43 AM): w hy yo u mean?
2MuchStella (3:22:58 AM): be atcj
2MuchStella (3:23:00 AM): h
2MuchStella (3:23:58 AM): y ou've got to help me;
2MuchStella (3:24:10 AM): sara has my phone
2MuchStella (3:24:19 AM): please call her
2MuchStella (3:24:26 AM): help.
2MuchStella (3:24:36 AM): 287=-43-1628' [Blog note: I later learned that this was actually a social security number, not a phone number]
2MuchStella (3:25:09 AM): LAME ASS GET OUT OF BED MOTHER!!!!
2MuchStella (3:25:45 AM): XXX-290-9088 IS MY NUBER
2MuchStella (3:25:55 AM): CALL HER
2MuchStella (3:26:37 AM): MAESE I DON'T HAVE A PHONE., I'M STUCK.
2MuchStella (3:27:21 AM): MAESE., I NEED A PHONE1!!!!!!!!
2MuchStella (3:27:24 AM): HE;P
2MuchStella (3:27:28 AM): HELP
2MuchStella (3:27:33 AM): GT UP
2MuchStella (3:27:36 AM): YOU FREAK
2MuchStella (3:29:39 AM): wake up i need you to call sara. what's her number?
2MuchStella (3:30:01 AM): RICHARD MAESE!!!
2MuchStella (3:30:08 AM): WAKE UP!
2MuchStella (3:31:01 AM): I KNOW YOU'RE UP. YOU CALLED ME. I NEED A PHONE!
2MuchStella (3:31:27 AM): HE Y YOU !
2MuchStella (3:32:17 AM): MAESE! MY PHONE IS IN SARAS car i need it! can you please call her!
2MuchStella (3:32:41 AM): Please!
2MuchStella (3:32:42 AM):
2MuchStella (3:32:43 AM):
2MuchStella (3:32:43 AM):
2MuchStella (3:32:43 AM):
2MuchStella (3:32:43 AM):
2MuchStella (3:32:44 AM):
2MuchStella (3:32:52 AM): {Please
2MuchStella (3:34:13 AM): wake up! i am not tr yin g to wk e your ass. please resp\ond!
2MuchStella (3:34:24 AM): PLEASE!
2MuchStella (3:34:36 AM): PLEASE!
2MuchStella (3:34:51 AM): RESPOND!
2MuchStella (3:35:09 AM): MAESE!
2MuchStella (3:35:18 AM): BEATCH!!!!!!
2MuchStella (3:38:01 AM): MAESE YOU FUCK EMAIL ME BACK. I DON;T WANT IN YOUR PANTS I WANT TO CALL SARA SO I HAVE A PHONE TOMORROW...... HELP !!!
2MuchStella (3:38:30 AM): LAME
2MuchStella (3:40:28 AM): MAESE WAKE UP YOU FUCK I KNOW YOU'RE UP. I NEED A FUCKING PHONE PLEASE HELP ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
2MuchStella (3:40:39 AM): PLEASE
2MuchStella (3:40:48 AM): NO STRINGS ATTACHED
2MuchStella (3:42:19 AM): COME ON MAESE!!!i am clearly not trying to hump you!2MuchStella (3:42:44 AM): wake upyou cock!~
2MuchStella (3:43:03 AM): Wake Up !
2MuchStella (3:44:56 AM): maese yo u bitch i am never speking to you agian!
2MuchStella (3:45:11 AM): i need a phne!
2MuchStella (3:45:11 AM):
2MuchStella (3:45:11 AM):
2MuchStella (3:45:12 AM):
2MuchStella (3:45:12 AM):
2MuchStella (3:45:20 AM):
2MuchStella (3:45:21 AM):
2MuchStella (3:45:21 AM):
2MuchStella (3:45:22 AM):
2MuchStella (3:45:22 AM):
2MuchStella (3:45:23 AM):
2MuchStella (3:45:30 AM): f
2MuchStella (3:45:31 AM): u
2MuchStella (3:45:33 AM): c
2MuchStella (3:45:34 AM): k
2MuchStella (3:45:36 AM): bi
2MuchStella (3:45:47 AM): tch
2MuchStella (3:45:48 AM):
2MuchStella (3:45:56 AM): email
2MuchStella (3:46:00 AM): mer
2MuchStella (3:46:02 AM):
2MuchStella (3:46:05 AM):
2MuchStella (3:46:06 AM):
2MuchStella (3:46:06 AM):
2MuchStella (3:46:06 AM):
2MuchStella (3:46:07 AM):
2MuchStella (3:47:27 AM): you are not my friend anymore!
2MuchStella (3:47:44 AM): EAT DONKEY SHIT IN HELL!

That and This

2005-11-30T10:20:00.000-05:00

A friend of mine lost his job yesterday as the newspaper business slowly continues to lay off its soul. It's a helpless feeling. I picture a lumberjack swinging an axe and the fifth estate shrinking every few weeks.

# # #

I saw 'Rent.' I enjoyed 'Rent.' Get off my back about it already.

# # #

In the past few days, this world has lost Mr. Miyagi and Stan Berenstein, who created the Berenstein Bears. It's like God is assembling his own "Surreal Life" cast right there at the pearly gates. If I was Charo, Steve Urkel or Tommy Lee, I'd be real worried right now.

# # #

From Orlando, my bro and I flew into Baltimore and headed over to D.C. As cultured and worldly as some of you think I am, I had never really visited D.C. It didn't take me long to figure out why our elected officials seem to get so little done. The walking. Seriously, we walked 500 miles. I was counting.

We popped out of the train station and then walked by all these landmarks that I had seen in my U.S. History book: Washington's phallic stick of bricks, suicidal Lincoln chillin like a mofo, the White House, and memorials remembering some wars. If I'm a congressman, I'm too tired everyday from walking to propose legislation to stop the war. By time I finally get to the office, I'd just want a Nestea and a nap. Clearly, they need Segways.

# # #

One night we went a club (cuz, ya know, I'm still young enough to do that sort of thing). It was a two-story club called Heaven & Hell. "This is where the Bush twins are always hanging out," we were told. Not wanting anything to do with a Bush twin, I stayed in the 'Heaven' part of the club where I was sure I was safe.

# # #

Thanksgiving recap: The weather was great, the company splendid and the tofurkey delectable.

# # #

Getting back to that bit about how newspapers are going all Hannibal Lecter on their own: One of my friends suggested that the only job security these days is in the drug industry and in adult entertainment. People are always gonna need coke and ho's, apparently. So anyways, I'm not one who really enjoys getting shot and killed, so consider my reporter self officially in training to be join the adult entertainment industry. I did a stomach crunch earlier when I got out of bed and I think I'll post something on Craigslist this afternoon for a workout partner.

# # #

You didn't know this about Baltimore, but we're hardcore. Thug life and all that. I finally finished season one of "The Wire" and I'm thinking about buying a handgun. The show is based in Baltimore and is all about the gritty neighborhood drug trade. It's good and you should watch it, but also reminds you that the whole world isn't cold Dr. Pepper and "Iron Chef" reruns.

I don't want that handgun cuz I'm suddenly scared, though. I was thinking once I get my horse and handgun, I could start fulfilling some of these superhero, crime-fighting fantasies. If you're not part of the problem, you're part of the solution.

# # #

Got a wake-up call this morning. "Wake up. It's National Friend Day. So Happy Friend Day, friend!" Pffffft.... made me wish my friends realized I don't get up that early. But for real, happy friend day to you and yours.

Central Florida's largest pie-eating contest

2005-11-28T09:55:00.001-05:00

ORLANDO, Nov. 25, 2005 -- Forks dug in at 7:48 p.m. and a nervous tension washed over the room. If yesterday was a day for turkey, this one was a day for pie. If yesterday was a time for giving thanks, this one was a time for trying to stuff an entire pumpkin pie into your face as quickly as humanly possible.

Yes, the forks successfully dipped into pie, but historians will always note that this year's festivities almost didn't happen. Organizers battled obstacles at nearly every turn. The contest was nearly scrapped just one week prior when news surfaced that Polk County hosted a pumpkin-pie eating contest just three yeares early that featured 75 contestants. Hopes that Friday's pumpkin pie contest might set a Central Florida record were dashed.

And then even on the day of the pumpkin-pie contest, event coordinator was forced to deal with a certain reality: Joey had made a poster, but in fact, had no actual contestants and no actual pies. He watched one finale episode of Divorce Court on television and then began scrambling. He flipped through the phone book in search of pie eaters and visited grocery store after grocery store in search of enough pies.

The contest was scheduled to begin at 7:30. However, as the time approached, the coordinator Joey was nowhere to be seen. This author reached Joey via cell phone. "I needed to step away," he said calmly through a crackled connection that reached out to his own personal Russia. "I needed some time to mentally prepare for the competition."

He arrived at the house 15 minutes late. Pies were distributed. As were forks. Two official judges were on hand and the rules were announced. The contest -- Central Florida's largest pumpkin-pie eating contest of the year -- was set to begin.

Cool whip, pie crust and tiny globes of orange mush flied violenty through the air. Right out of the gates, Andy (Maese 2.0) made huge advances on the rest of the room. The crater at the center of his pie widened so quickly a breeze rustled the paper napkin tucked into his collar. The other Maeses were not deterred, especially the youngest Maese, Joey (3.0), who kept steady rhythm with a side-to-side bop as his pie receded.

Across the room, naked aluminum flashed from the lap of the oldest Maese, who tackled the contest's sole home-made pumpkin pie. The consistency and girth of the home-made pie put Rick (the Original Maese) at a disadvantage, but he famously laughs in the face of adversity.

"Ha ha ha," he said, when confronted previously by adversity.

The room's other competitors were outmatched. They ate pies like a bunch of girls. Which is to say that they're soft. LIKE GIRLS! The contest quickly had become a three-Maese race, a long-standing sibling rivalry that was finally playing itself out over pie tins.

Three minutes into the competition, three quarters of the pies in the hands of the youngest two Maeses were gone. The title could have gone either way, but Andy 2.0 underestimated the crust's pastiness. He controversially lubricated his filling with a generous slather of Cool-Whip. As Joey's pie slowly disappeared, so did Andy's huge lead.

The younger Maese (3.0) had paced himself. He bobbed and weaved like Ali with a fork and never slowed up. Andy was still cracking his crust into managable pieces when Joey scooped up crumbs and lifted a final wedge from his tin. He rose from his seat, intent on devouring the final bite in his brother Andy's face.

It was over. Joey had created the contest. And Joey had won the contest. The pie went from pie tin to his scrawny little body in 4:28.

The rest of the room, their tins half full and their hearts close to empty, tried to take solace in the fact that Joey is still a big, big dork. A really, really big dork.

In the end, it wasn't the largest pumpkin pie-eating contest in Central Florida history, as it had been billed. It was, however, the most important, most hotly-contested, most cooly-whipped pie-eating contest in the history of time and space. I don't think I'm understating the significance of the day's events when I say, Gourds may never be the same.

Spank you very much

2005-11-25T14:04:00.000-05:00

Thanksgiving, huh. Been there, done that. We were cooking some stuff on Wednesday night, getting ready for the next day, and someone insisted that over Thanksgiving dinner, we go around the table and one-by-one share something that we're thankful for. Of course, my eyes rolled so fast, I thought I was having a dizzy spell. But I gave it some thought over the next several hours. What exactly am I thankful for? That's when I realized that there's something intrinsically wrong with the holiday. At least for me.

This year, Thanksgiving was for them. Me? I celebrated Thanks-taking. Essentially, I worked the room, collected 'thank-yous' from all of the people who owed me some gratitude. Frankly, I had a really good year and it was time to reap the verbal rewards. I did a lot of favors, lent a lot of moral support, even bought folk a drink here and there. Thursday was my day. It was time for some people to be thankful, and it was a wonderful timefor me to take a break from my busy schedule and finally receive these thanks.

It was very rewarding. I get so caught up in my daily routines and rushing from agenda item to agenda item, that I often don't pause and allow people to pay me the thanks that I deserve. Over time, you could tell that it was weighing heavily on some people. They needed the day as much as I did. We barely had time to eat yesterday, people were so busy thanking me for the past year. It was tiring for me, too. All day, the same thing, the same two words. The day is passed now, but allow me to say it one final time: You're welcome.

Dateline: Orlando

2005-11-22T16:49:00.000-05:00

Two things:

-- I'm kind of an idiot, but I didn't realize the whole backstory to Roe vs. Wade. Mainly, I didn't know Roe's full story. Anyhow, I was reading a story on the plane today that explained it all. You probably already know, but Jane Roe (not her real name) was this 22-year-old carnival worker who got knocked up back in '69. It was her third pregnancy. Anyhow, the Supreme Court drops its landmark decision a couple of years later but Roe doesn't come out publicly until the 1980s. She actually was a big pro-life activist. But then in '90s, she finds religion and starts speaking out against abortion. She even files a lawsuit to have the decision in her own case from '69 overturned. Where was I and how come I was so ignorant of this little backstory? Did you know? If so, how come you didn't tell me?

-- Also, there's a good chance that I'll die this winter. I learned this last night. You see, in Baltimore -- that's where I live -- it gets freaking cold. Supposedly allegedly, I haven't seen the worst of it yet. Anyhow, the part about me dying comes in with the food issue. See, I'm not big on the grocery shopping and stacking up food in the fridge and cabinets. Typically, my kitchen will have some Dr. Pepper, maybe a chunk of cheese and a couple takeout boxes that are at least 2 months old. So last night, it's way too cold and rainy for me to walk to a restaurant. I was forced to dine at the vending machine on the first floor of the Underwear Factory. Dinner was Fritos and one of those gross apple pie thingies. I'm not sure I can live like this. But I have no other options, unfortunately.

Remember the time Walker killed the alien queen?

2005-11-21T23:07:00.000-05:00

You gotta peek at this link. Spotted by Kduck, it sends you to some hilarious Chuck Norris-related quotes. Three of my favs are below.

Bible's missing page: Chuck Norris was the fourth Wiseman. He brought baby Jesus the gift of "beard." Jesus wore it proudly to his dying day. The other Wisemen, jealous of Jesus' obvious gift favoritism, used their combined influence to have Chuck omitted from the Bible. Shortly after all three died of roundhouse kick related deaths.

The almight: Filming on location for Walker: Texas Ranger, Chuck Norris brought a stillborn baby lamb back to life by giving it a prolonged beard rub. Shortly after the farm animal sprang back to life and a crowd had gathered, Chuck Norris roundhouse kicked the animal, breaking its neck, to remind the crew once more that Chuck giveth, and the good Chuck, he taketh away.

Thanksgiving special: When Chuck Norris's wife burned the turkey one Thanksgiving, Chuck said, "Don't worry about it honey," and went into his backyard. He came back five minutes later with a live turkey, ate it whole, and when he threw it up a few seconds later it was fully cooked and came with cranberry sauce. When his wife asked him how he had done it, he gave her a roundhouse kick to the face and said, "Never question Chuck Norris."

My bad

2005-11-21T15:24:00.000-05:00

Email received this afternoon:

To: Rmaese
Subject: You visit illegal websites

Dear Sir/Madam,

we have logged your IP-address on more than 30 illegal Websites.

Important: Please answer our questions!

The list of questions are attached.

Yours faithfully,
Steven Allison
Central Intelligence Agency -CIA-
Office of Public Affairs
Washington, D.C. 20505

My List

2005-11-20T11:03:00.000-05:00

It occurs to me that I have yet to share with you all My List. Today is a wonderful time to do this because there's a new No. 1 ranking! I hope you'll join me in congratulating our friend Kat, who regains the top spot after nearly four weeks of sitting anxiously at No. 2.

Now I'm not usually a list person. Off and on, I try to write out to-do lists. At the end of the day, I hate looking at to-do lists because I only see the things that I didn't accomplish. It fills me with guilt, so I generally try to avoid lists. But I do have one: Top 10 Girls I'll Marry If I'm Still Single When I'm 35. See, here and there, I don't mind being single. But I do not want to go through my entire life single, ya know. I realized this awhile ago, the first time a girl broke my poor Maese heart. Right then, I created the List, scribbling down names as fast as I could. At one time, it was scientific and followed a point-system, a formula, ya know. I also used to let every girl know exactly what number she was on the List. I wanted to encourage competition and really allow the girls to showcase themselves.

Nowadays, the List exists only in my head. I move people about arbitrarily. Of the original 10, I'd say 5 of them are still in the top 10. (People have a hard time disappearing from my life completely, so the other 5 are still receiving votes.) It's a good list, if I do say so myself, mostly girls I think I could peacefully coexist with for a long time and mostly girls who probably wouldn't follow through on their murderous thoughts. Four different girls have held the top spot. Kat actually held it for much of last year, beginning in September 2004. But I tired of stagnation and moved her to No. 2 nearly a month ago.

But she's back! I know your generation doesn't like to read too much, but I like bragging on my friends now and then, so I'm encouraging you to check out this little spread in the NYTimes Sunday magazine. Click right here. The story is about political unrest in Bolivia (or something like that). The photos were done by Kat. I know, huh -- hurray, Kat. It's sort of a big deal and when I thought about it the past couple of days, it certainly gives Kat the muscle to regain the top ranking. Yes, something that simple moves people around on the List. Many of the qualities I look for are completely superficial but that's what makes every ranking so vulnerable.

Interesting Kat trivia you can share with your friends: She posted the very first comment on this bloggy blog. It was also the last comment that she ever posted. Maybe that contributed to her slipping to No. 2. Anyhow, I suspect her current reign will last the rest of '05. But you never know. Girls act funny around the holidays and the List is traditionally very volatile this time of year.

For more on Kat, please visit your local library. Or click here.

Tomorrow's memo today!

2005-11-17T20:12:00.000-05:00

Remember a while back we made a list of topics that I probably shouldn't write about? Well, one of those topics is probably layoffs in the newspaper industry. As you may have read, several newspapers in my company have announced significant cutbacks. (Here's a news story from Editor & Publisher that says nearly 2,000 newspaper jobs have been lost in the past year.) I will not be offering commentary. But I will share with you a post that I found humorous -- and slightly scary. It's the memo of the future, as written by Ken Fuson, who is a columnist in Des Moines. This was originally posted on Romenesko's site:

Colleagues:

As you are aware, these are troubling times in our industry and at our newspaper. Energy prices are soaring, health care costs are rising, and yesterday's announcement that Google has figured out a way to wrapfish over the Internet had made it increasingly difficult for us to maintain our 30 percent profit margin and keep Wall Street happy.

Therefore, it is with great sadness that I, your editor, announce the layoff of 159 people in our newsroom. These people will be offered a generous severance package, featuring a fabulous retirement cake, our hearty thanks for their many years of toil, and 10 percent off their newspaper subscription.

But we must look ahead. The layoffs will leave us with one full-time reporter, Billy Reston, who just graduated from Lincoln High School and says he is healthy enough not to require medical insurance. Billy's jobresponsibilities will be split among reporting, editing, photography, and keeping our Web page updated every 30 seconds. Billy's younger brother, Bobby, will handle newspaper deliveries on his bicycle. Billy will be responsible for paying him and handling all liability insurance.

This decision will have absolutely no impact on the quality of the newspaper our cherished readers will receive. I have it on good authority, from studying the memos of other editors throughout the country, that it doesn't matter how many people you lay off or buy out, or how many years of experience they have, quality always remains at the same extraordinarily high, prize-winning level. (FYI: Billy will also devote roughly 75 percent of his weekends to entering contests. Bobby will lick the stamps.)

Our operating committee is holding an emergency retreat this weekend in Paris (great travel deals since the troubles!) to discuss future strategies. Please keep in mind that we will always work in the best interests of our shareholders, advertisers, readers and employees -- well, employee.

Regards,
Your Editor

P.S. We could use some volunteers to conduct the United Way campaign. Billy?

What do trannies and cardboard have in common?

2005-11-16T10:46:00.000-05:00

I can't even fully explain why, but I have several different email addresses. I know one is for work, one is for friends, one is for signing up for newspaper web sites, one is for signing up for, uhm, "other" web sites. Anyhow, I have an email address with Yahoo! that I formerly used with friends. (I love typing Yahoo! because the idea that a formal noun might have an explanation point, frankly, excites me quite a bit.) I don't often check this account, but I did yesterday -- much to my disappointment.

My thing is, just be honest. Don't lie to me. Don't promise something and then deliver something else. People who send out spam used to be great about this. The subject line would tell you about a miracle drug that might make your fern grow and then, sure enough, the body of the email would give you the details. Not anymore. I had a bunch of junk mail in this Yahoo! account and quickly sifted through it all. But you can't trust the subject line anymore. For example, an email with the subject line "hot sluts in action" was actually about NAFTA and the Canadian lumber industry. I don't know about you, but if I think I'm opening an email from an exciting young woman and suddenly I have to hear about oversized lumberjacks with goofy Canadian accents, well, suffice it to say, I was not a happy camper. Not that I even camp.

My personal favorite was an email with the subject line "trannies in heat." I know, exciting, right? Wrong:

Low-tech and unpretentious it may be, but the cardboard box has fostered learning and creativity for multiple generations - a key qualifier for inclusion in the museum's seven-year-old hall of fame. And its appeal as a plaything or recreational backdrop is universal.

Here's one with the subject line: "young barely legal hotties" ...it should be noted that I accidentally opened this one...

On 20 January 2009, at precisely noon, the world will witness the inauguration of the 44th President of the United States. As the chief justice administers the oath of office on the flag-draped podium in front of the US Capitol, the first woman President, Hillary Rodham Clinton, will be sworn into office. By her side, smiling broadly and holding the family Bible, will be her chief strategist, husband, and co-President, William Jefferson Clinton.

And here's one featuring the subject line: "depraved housewives want some:"

Anamosa, Iowa, has found out how difficult it can be to fill a vacant city council seat -- especially when most of the residents are behind bars.The city's Ward Two includes the Anamosa State Penitentiary. That left just 58 non-inmates in the district. Even though the city has grown, Ward Two only had 65 registered voters in Tuesday's election.

See what I'm complaining about? Not only is the subject line a complete lie; it's the exact opposite of what you're hoping -- I mean, expecting -- to find when you accidentally open one of these emails.

Dissecting Charm

2005-11-15T21:27:00.000-05:00

Some of our bloggy-blog visitors have a lot of time on their hands. Below is a guest post by our friend michael joe, who recounts his recent visit to Baltimore. I told him I'd post it here cuz my man is itching to be published these days. In typical michael joe fashion, it's loaded with inside jokes and unfounded innuendo. And yeah, it's too long. Now we know what dude does all day...

VISITOR’S GUIDE TO CHARM CITY: RULES OF ESTRANGEMENT
It has come to our attention that many of this Blog’s readers are actively planning or currently considering a trip to this seaboard city (although it’s quite likely we’ve been lied to about this) to meet with The Nation’s Youngest Sports Columnist. If we had one piece of advice to give, it would be: Don’t. But if we can’t dissuade you, we can at least prepare you. As an early pioneer to the Maese Mecca, we have constructed a handy Clip & Save for future visitors. We would never want anyone to be as unprepared as we were.

1. Alternative transportation is prohibited. It was our earliest suggestion that we pop into one of the many Segway Rental stands that dot the downtown to reserve three Segways for the entire extended weekend. We had grand visions of roaring thru the checkerboard neighborhoods and relatively empty streets of the Inner Harbor like three Southwestern avengers. Blasting up to a Baltimore tavern, dismounting our powerful machines, ordering a Grand Marnier (maybe with a twist), and then ripping off to our next destination. Who were those Pale Dudes? Maese shot the idea down so crossly that our backup plan—three ponies—never even made it to the table. Rick has his Columnist’s Limo on call 24/7, and it was plush, but we somehow think it distanced us from the people. Personally, we’re up from the mean streets and the extreme luxury made us a tad uncomfortable. That’s just us. Y’all might like it.

2. Baltimore has the strictest noise regulations in the country. We were never permitted to speak above a whisper in Rick’s space-aged bachelor pad, which will henceforth be referred to as the Underwear Factory. During the over-long weekend, we saw two brand-new movies on DVD that we think we can recommend to you: Big Lebowski and Old School. We can only go as far as we “think” because we never actually heard any dialogue. We watched them with the sound off and text scroll on. Those noise regulations again. Some people might think it would be important to hear the actual voices of Jeff Bridges or Will Ferrell, but we’re not sure we agree. Still, we’ll probably stick with Network Broadcast Premieres. Anyway, the point is to be prepared to be regularly “schussed” during your visit. “Dude, I think I’m too loud for Baltimore,” we finally observed in frustration. “Dude, you’re too loud for a lot of places,” Maese confirmed, in his typically kind way.

3. Baltimore is kind of bossy. We were regularly approached on the streets by complete strangers who commanded us to do things like:

a. “Call the Fire Department!”---This happened roughly every hour on the hour.

b. “Kiss me!”—Not as good as it sounds. See item on Enormous Street Folk.

c. “Don’t go in that neighborhood!”—We weren’t even going to the Poe House.

d. “Shake it!”—Accompanied with a finger point.

e. “See if anyone’s in that building!”—It’s your idea, you do it!

We’re super-reserved and semi-Amish, so we found it all rather unsettling.

4. Sweet Potato Fries are a local delicacy and you will be forced to consume them with every meal. We eventually got used to the Gerber-like consistency of their liquid centers and stopped throwing them back up. We’re one day back in the World and already missing them. Did we mention we lost three pounds while on vacation?

5. You will be promised lavish brunches on the rooftop of the Underwear Factory, which overlooks Camden Yards. You will be served Breakfast Bars (which were excellent, by the way) on paper towels in front of the soundless television. One half-pot of Folgers will be brewed. No complaints here. Did we mention the five pounds we’re missing?

6. The traffic flow is puzzling. We finally made it to a two a.m. nosh at Paper Moon after Rick exited 83 South onto Fells Road for a seventh time. “This is the quickest way,” he assured us.

7. Enormous homeless people will routinely approach and ask if they can kiss you. Again, given our semi-Amish upbringing, it takes some getting used to. Especially the actual kissing.

8. The street performers are mediocre and profane. The jugglers can’t juggle and the torch-bearing unicyclist will almost tumble into and set ablaze his six-year-old volunteer. Call the Fire Department! They all make creepy remarks that seem to involve unnatural intercourse of some kind. Many may be pederasts.

9. Conversational topics will be restricted. Maese had many friends call him with midnight epiphanies during our visit. Several times, we asked him to put the caller on the speakerphone so we could participate in the discussion. We had a university-trained counselor and a shade-tree savant in our group. We had resources that weren’t being fully utilized. Rick refused. Possible future blog subject for Stained Glass: Is Rick Maese any Fun? We say yes, but everyone may not agree.

10. You will not be permitted to purchase a copy of the Washington Post within the confines of the Inner Harbor. “I heard it was worth reading,” we told Our Host as he slapped our hand away from a vending machine. “It’s very, very average,” he replied. “You’re not missing anything. The Sun is far superior. Read my column again.”

11. We would recommend a rigorous weight-lifting regimen before arriving in Charm City. We would also recommend that you pack light. You will be hand-carrying your luggage all over town. Our Host has a curious network of Safe Houses spread across the Inner Harbor that functions something like an Underground Railroad. They’re actually Parking Garages in which he has leased spaces. One near the newspaper, one near the Underwear Factory, one near the Poe gravesite. But the emphasis is on “near.” Each is at least six city blocks from the appointed destination. We recommend a backpack.

12. Don’t be concerned when Rick issues you a surgical mask upon entering the Underwear Factory. Everything will be fine if you follow his directions. The uber-hip IKEA shag rug in his front room has a bit of a shedding problem and sends great clouds of an asbestos-like material into airborne suspension. Nothing to worry about. When we watched Big Lebowski, it was like being at Soldier Field for the Bears-Eagles Fog Bowl. Kind of cool, actually. Anyway, adjust your own mask first before assisting any companion. We came home with a bit of a coal-miner’s cough, but it seems to be fading. If you do suffer from asthma or any other breathing-compromised condition, we would suggest you delay your Maese visit until the Tribune Company moves him to the Los Angeles Times. The air is much cleaner there and Plaschke isn’t getting any younger.

12. Shout out to Rick’s handful of Caucasian friends: You might need to dial your aura down a level. Not everyone is comfortable around white folks. When we walked into our favorite liquor store to buy another 30-pack of The Bull (the Folgers was tasty, but it went so fast), the African-American proprietor darted behind the triple-thick safety glass to deal with us. We watched him just moments earlier make cash sales out of his pants pocket to some of his regulars. We had to show three forms of identification and he kept his hand close to the panic button throughout. Now, my guy Nick hadn’t shaved in three days and was looking real rough, but we wonder if it wasn’t something else. Give it some consideration.

13. Don’t try to tell Rick his business. As we walked the colorful and thronging streets of the Inner Harbor, we encountered what we considered to be story after story. Most of them involved fire engines racing by. “Should we call that in,” we asked him. His annoyance level seemed to escalate throughout the weekend. Suffice it to say, the answer to our inquiry was never “yes.” Look, people, Maese didn’t get where he is without knowing his business. Don’t be presumptuous while in his company. This is something Nick suggested to us on our flight home. We think it an excellent insight.

14. Baltimore loves Your Boy. This is never clearer than during Maese’s standing Sunday-morning appearance at the Starbucks on Eutaw Street. He grabs an over-stuffed chair near the front door and carefully arranges the Sunday sports section—the one with his column photo on the front page—so that it stands up like a studiously rumpled origami. People (C’mon, who am I kidding—you know I mean Young Ladies) walk by, see the mugshot, see the Man, see the mugshot, see the Man, and the most wonderful look of recognition eventually passes over their faces. Sometimes Rick will loudly clear his throat, occasionally several times, to accelerate the process. The love that ultimately flows is amazing. Two things we heard most from fans: They love his new Glamour shot, and he looks much older in person. Key tip to first-time visitors: Do not touch the sports section once it’s situated!

15. Finally, listen to Your Host. We mean Listen. At some point, each of you will get your shot at a quick heart-to-heart. In those brief moments, you need to be all ears. If we heard it once, we heard it a couple times: He Knows How You Feel!

Okay, lecture over. So, did we have a Great Time? Haven’t y’all been reading?

Need to buy a garden hose

2005-11-15T09:38:00.000-05:00

I had visitors in town this weekend. I'm a seat-of-the-pants kind of guy, not real used to planning things, but it was important to me that my friends enjoyed their visit. You want people to appreciate your scene, ya know. So we caught some music (Ben Folds with Baltimore Symphony Orchestra, Groovie Ghoulies, the Black Keys) and walked and talked and whatnot. Oh yeah, and there was that raging structure fire downtown that I helped fight. Yeah, there was that.

We walked out of Starbucks on Sunday and I led my friends on a little detour. I wanted to introduce them to Edgar Allen Poe, who has become a reliable B-more bud. En route, as you might guess, we encountered a building that was all ablaze. (I love doing that...putting "a-" in front of a word). We weren't the first to notice the flames. There was a lady on a payphone screaming to us, "If you have a cell phone, call 9-1-1!" Rather than whip out my cell, I preferred to stare at the woman with scorn in my eyes: "Why don't you call 9-1-1, lady?" I'd learn later that she already had and was actually on hold as she yelled at us.

Eager to impress my friends with my heroism, I quickly dialed the numbers and was promptly put on hold. I turned my head to Sally Save-the-Day and gave her a knowing nod. She continued barking orders to passers-by. "Go see if there's anyone in that building!! Go make sure everyone is OK!!!" Everyone just kind of looked at her. She was frantic and excited. They were not.

Soon, we were both connected. I think Sally Save-the-Day hung up before me because before I knew it, she was sprinting across the street toward the fiery building. I wanted to scream, "Sally, NOOO!!! It's too dangerous." But I didn't.

"Does anyone have a fire extinuisher?" she honest-to-God said. I checked my pockets. Nope. Musta left it at home.

She wasn't a small woman but she tore across the street like a jungle cat. I gave the 9-1-1 operator all the info I knew ("Uhm, I think there's, like, a fire... yeah.... yeah... OK... buh-bye") and then watched Sally operate. She was at the base of the building by the time I hung up the phone. Her hands were cupped over her mouth and she was shouting upwards: "Is anyone in there? Are you OK? The building is on fire -- please come out!"

Sirens circled the neighborhood. Sally Save-the-Day ran into the street, jumping and waving her hands to get the attention of the fire crews. It was like watching Grimace do jumping-jacks (he was the large purple dude of McDonald's fame).

Right about now, you're thinking that I'm pretty crass and heartless. Well, in my rush to brag about my heroic nature, I might have exaggerated this fire a bit. Technically, there weren't actually flames. But there was smoke. We definitely saw smoke. Most people just walked by and didn't notice. But as Sally Save-the-Day yelled, a small crowd gathered to watch the whisp of smoke crawl out of a window. But Sally was the only way taking action. It was odd because she felt this incredible sense of urgency, screaming, waving and freaking out -- and the rest of us just stood on the sidewalk as though we was staring a rainbow.

Fire engine after fire engine stormed the scene. Lights were a-flashin' and sirens were a-roarin (see, I did that thing with the "a-" again). There must've been about 50 of them. It took about 15 seconds, but they were able to contain the smoke and stop it from spreading. Then they stood around talking for awhile.

As my friends and I left the scene, we swelled with a strong sense of civic accomplishment. Strangley, I noted that Sally Save-the-Day had quietly disappeared. I can only imagine that she got called away to another emergency elsewhere in the city. I don't know about you, but I certainly feel safer with people Sally on the streets. God bless her.

Caring for poultry

2005-11-14T09:18:00.000-05:00

Personally, I'm starting to get in the Thanksgiving mood. Here's a little song from my childhood. I didn't think this song existed outside of ABQ, but a Google search reveals that it's fairly popular, possibly the best Thanksgiving song ever.

Albuquerque is a Turkey
to the tune of "Clementine"

Albuquerque is a turkey
And he's feathered and he's fine
And he wobbles and he gobbles
And he's absolutely mine

He's the best pet
you could get yet
Better than a dog or cat.
He's my Albuquerque turkey,
And I'm very proud of that.

He once told me, very frankly,
He preferred to be my pet --
Not the main course at my dinner,
And I told him not to fret.

Now my Albuquerque turkey
Is so happy in his bed,
'Cause for our Thanksgiving dinner,
We had egg foo yong instead.

When a TV show dies, where does it go?

2005-11-11T12:01:00.000-05:00

This is the day that I've been fearing for a while now. I guess a small part of me knew it was coming. You've probably heard by now -- they're cancelling "7th Heaven." For real. I wouldn't make this up. I couldn't make this up. I'm still going through that first stage of complete and utter shock, but I'm regaining my senses (I can hear a slight hum and my home smells faintly like cherry oak). We need to take action, friends. When the world gives us lemons, I say we squirt some of that lemon juice back in their eyes (because it's really acidic and it might cause slight irritation or at the very least, some degree of annoyance).

I've been bummed before when TV execs have cancelled some of my favorite shows. You'll recall when they cancelled "My S0-Called Life," I fashioned my hair like Claire Daines for six months and made a 10-inch Jared Leto sculpture out of Play-Doh. And when "Family Guy" was originally cancelled, I spoke with a Middle Eastern accent for 33 days. I'm not sure why, but it was clearly effective. And just last week, when the freakin Food Network stopped airing "Iron Chef" weeknights at 11, I started fasting. I haven't had anything to eat in five days now, but the silent protest is worth it. Anyhow, my point is that we can be proactive. We don't have to let "7th Heaven" die.

We must save our show. I'm not doing a letter-writing campaign or any of those online petitions. They never seem to work. There's really only one option: I'm going to hold my breath until they bring it back. Yup, you read that right. Starting as soon as I finish writing this piece for Sunday, I'm gonna put on some Supertramp (that's hold-your-breath music) and position a chair right next to the window (that way the passers-by can witness my protest and spread the word). And then -- gasp -- giant inhale.

I don't imagine it will take long for the network to cave to the pressure, so hopefully "7th Heaven" will be saved so we can all watch Sunday's episode together! And then we can talk about it Monday by the ol water cooler. If by cruel chance it's not on this Sunday, though, please do me a favor. Someone tell my mama I love her.

Ferris approaching 30

2005-11-10T14:18:00.000-05:00

There have been times in my life where I've felt hounded by some variation of the same question: Why aren't you married? Or why don't you have a girlfriend? Or why haven't you committed your life and failed grasps at independence to someone who can balance your checkbook and pay your bills on time? By now, most know the answer: the future wife probably hasn't been born yet. It's good to know that I'm not alone.

Did you see the story in this morning's NYT about the college kid in Wisconsin? Johnny Lechner is 29 years old and in his 12th year of college. He's basically my hero. Here's my fav excerpt:

When Mr. Lechner enrolled in college in 1994, the Internet was practically a baby and his current girlfriend was starting fourth grade. He has since drifted through four majors - education, communications, theater, women's studies - and watched hundreds of friends graduate, get jobs and marry.

I know we all read things and find things that we identify with -- but that paragraph was perfect for me. Not just because dude dated a chick so much younger than him or because he shuffled through different majors (at one point or another, I majored in communications, women's studies, sociology, political science and finally settled on university studies). But because it illustrated some separation from people who were formerly his peers. Sometimes I feel this way. When I look back at ABQ and my old friends, I feel they're so grown up now and put together. And somehow I've resisted it or haven't been able to embrace it the same way. In fact, my life is very similar to my life in college -- probably with fewer tangible work demands and zero school demands. This dude in Wisconsin is Peter Pan with a backpack. He stays the same while those around him grow in a more traditional manner.

Last night in ABQ, our favorite band played a show downtown -- Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers. Not a single one of my old college contemporaries made it down there. I remember a time when we were 10-12 deep to see this group. It's sad to me. I'm still in a period where I wouldn't miss a show like that, even if it's on a weeknight. But we all accept different responsibilities and create different priorities. Here's the last couple of lines from the NYT story:

"Johnny has his little core of buddies," [a fellow student] said, "but a lot of people think, 'Why doesn't he just grow up?' "

Mary Martin, a Los Angeles producer who knows Mr. Lechner, said that hard-working students across the nation might share that view. "But," Ms. Martin added, "it's also every 40-year-old guy's dream to do what he's doing."

Maybe. I'm certainly envious of dude, but I know that's not the mature reaction. Because I think I'm even more envious of my friends who are settled and understand their respective paths.

Posted this week on craigslist

2005-11-09T14:49:00.000-05:00

Reply to: comm-109606706@craigslist.org
Date: 2005-11-07, 8:29PM EST
I've been thinking a lot lately about a horse. As in, I think I might want one. I'm interested in companionship and having something to ride once or twice a week. Now here's the thing: I've never had a horse and have no experience in owning a horse. My question is simple: How feasible would it be for me to own a horse? I guess I'm asking mostly about cost. What does it take each month to have one of these things? I live in the city and would have to board (unless I can work something out with my parking garage.) Because I've never had a horse (or any other type of farm animal, for that matter) I'm not exactly sure of the commitment: time, energy or monetary. Many thanks.

About a dozen people responded. Here's a few of em. My comments in italics.

# # #

They are magnificent animals but are expensive and high maintence so keep that in mind when weighing pros and cons. Do a google search for horseback riding in Maryland and you will get what you need!

Is it just me or does the world start and stop with Google? Well, maybe it doesn't stop, but it definitely starts. I find myself Googling everyone I meet.

If you are as lazy about taking care of animals as you are about the slightest bid of research, maybe a horse isn’t the best place to start for you. In fact a fish tank might be too much also…how about a cactus. I hear they need to be watered every once in a while. But the best part is you won’t have to think, because that can be painful.

I already have a cactus, you shmoe.

Horses are a ton of work. You can't keep a horse in a garage. It is not healthy for them (think about it - would you want to live in a garage) and it is illegal.

Is it a felony or a misdemeanor? Cuz if it's only a little fine, that still might be cheaper than paying for a barn.

Okay, I am sure the response to your question has been harsh. And most of them are correct...
Here is some good news, there is a therapeutic riding school in Harford Co that helps children with disabilities. The farm is ran by volunteers. The volunteers do everything from feeding to cleaning out the stables. It is a fully functional stable with a huge indoor riding ring.

Volunteer? How much does it pay?

Until you are sure you want the commitment, why don't you contact a rescue organization close to you and go out there every weekend and and any other "leisure" time you have to see if you really want it. They love to have people come and work and just love on the horses.

Again with the charity work? What is with you people? I can barely get myself through most days and you think it's a good idea to put me around sick children and dying horses? Who does this stuff? I mean, Sean Penn, but who else? (Also, did you say "love on the horse?" What exactly does that entail?)

Communion and Teen Wolf

2005-11-08T12:11:00.000-05:00

I'm only sharing a couple of things with you today. The first is my way of introducing you to Mike, a bud and former roommate who is starting a little blog of his own. I'm sorta kinda obligated to share his site with you. Give him a peek over the next couple weeks. The link will always be in that little right-hand margin.

Here's his inaugural post, which is OK for a rookie:

Ok, so I had this idea that if you took the sacred Christian practice of "communion" and married it with the convience of a "grab-bag potato chip" than you could possibly have the sweetest novelty item since Hebrew Franks. Check it out! Each production run would be blessed by a priest before it was bagged and shipped. The commercial could state, "When you need the body of christ to go, try (insert name here)! They're Sacrelicious!!" I figured since the image of Jesus isn't copyrighted, you could put that dude right on the bag! I know for a fact that sales would sky-rocket in Central and South America. Hell, you could even burn the savior's image right on the chip! Once they really started moving, you could add new flavors to keep the public's interest. Cheesy Nacho, Bar-b-Que, even Fish and Bread!

# # #

Here's something that's funny. Remember the movie, "Teen Wolf," with Michael J. Fox? What a stupid question -- of course, you remember it cuz it was freakin awesome. My man was simply unstoppable on the basketball court. If it weren't for the hair, he'd be an honorary member of the Maese family. Well, mcsweeneys.net was published a coach's guide to defending Teen Wolf. Check it out here. Here's a couple excerpts:

Used to be, the key to beating Teen Wolf's Beavers was just to play them on any night there wasn't a full moon. We were unlucky one season in that we met them 28 days apart, both times in their barn, and Teen Wolf destroyed us—64 points in the first game, then a quadruple-double in the second, with 14 blocked shots and 25 steals. Our third matchup, though, we were fortunate enough to have a 76 percent waxing gibbous, so it was regular Scott Howard, who turned the ball over twice before fouling out, scoreless, in eight minutes of play....

Teen Wolf gets scrappy once you put the pressure on, and he's a great ball handler with a low-to-the-ground style reminiscent of Pistol Pete or a young Isiah Thomas. Add to his skill and quickness those gigantic, hirsute paws, and you're up against one hell of a dribbler. We've tried giving Teen Wolf a step, respecting his speed, but we've found that if our guys slack off him, he'll generally hit the open jumper—or else take off from wherever he's standing on the court, sail over everyone's heads, and finish with one of those dunks where he ends up sitting on the top of the backboard, howling, feet dangling down through the hoop...

That and this

2005-11-07T13:19:00.000-05:00

Do you like that smell from someone smoking a pipe? It's such a distinctive fragrance. Something about it always makes me think of grandpa. Not my grandpa, though. He's never smoked a pipe.

# # #

I have a request of you. A doc one time told me that I should get a pet, something small to take care of. Of course, that's silly. But I really do have this urge to name something. So what about a horse? Seriously.

I know someone out there must have had a horse before. What do you think it would cost to maintain one of these things each month. Room, board? It'd be nice if the boarders would also pet it and comb it's tail, I figure, so I'd be willing to pay extra for that.

Also, has anyone heard of some type of time-share deal for horses... like a horse-share? I think that would be a good plan, though I would want to retain naming rights.

I don't want a real needy horse, just something I can talk to a bit. I'd probably want to climb on its back like once or twice a week. Obviously, I'd have to board it outside the city (my garage only allows cars), but I wouldn't mind driving out there for a couple times a week. Also, it should probably be a fluffy horse because it gets pretty cold here in the winter, I'm told.

(For a second, imagine how many girls I'll get when I'm in a bar and I'm flipping through my wallet, searching for my credit card. "Where is that card? Is this it? Oh no, that's my official minister license. Is this it? Oh no, that's a photo of my horse. Because I have a horse. Let's go back to my place now.")

# # #

Dubs, friend of the bloggy-blog, recently battled a tornado. Read about his silly shenanigans here.

# # #

Abercrombie & Fitch bowed to public pressure and pulled some of its girls T-shirts, one which read, "Who needs brains when you have these?" Here's the story.

What's ridiculous is A&F -- which I hate, btw -- reported a 31 percent increase in sales last month. Isn't that amazing -- that there'd be something that outrages everyone, and yet it sells like hot cakes?! Kind of like crack.

# # #

This is exactly what I thought!!! For years, I've watched girls go to the restroom together. Hmmm, that's odd, I'd say. Sometimes I'd just think it, but usually I said it. Then you ask them why they're going in there together and they always act real coy. Busted! Now we all know. Here's the AP story out of Tampa, which I thought was special:

Two Carolina Panthers cheerleaders were arrested after a bar dispute that broke out early Sunday after patrons complained the women were having sex in a bathroom stall, a police arrest report said.
The women were locked in a stall at about 2:10 a.m. Sunday when other patrons got angry they were taking so long in the bathroom, the police report said. The women left the stall, and one began arguing with another patron of Banana Joe's, eventually hitting that patron in the face with a closed fist, police said.

Banana Joe's!!! Our ABQ friends will remember that place. There's like two dozen of these clubs around the country. It arrived in ABQ a few years back and was the big thing for about a year. I don't recall cheerleaders going into the restroom together, but there's a lot from this period that I've blocked out.

# # #

Leave your horse advice below. Thank you.

Because I know you're curious

2005-11-06T19:42:00.000-05:00

I spent much of the weekend thinking of ways to make this bloggy-blog service you the reader even more. OK, that was a lie. Actually, I've been trying to come up with ways to make it even more indulgent. What I've decided is to tell you about things that I've enjoyed over the past few weeks. And then after you marvel at my refined tastes, you can drop everything and invest in these little gems that I've already enjoyed. Sounds like fun, right?

WEB SITES FEATURING SINGING REPUBLICANS

The best I can offer in this oft-overlooked category is http://www.arnoldsneighborhood.com/, where you'll find all your fav GOP members singing their darkened, decaying hearts out.

MOVIES

"Love Me If You Dare" -- Quirky French flick about love. But French love, which is very different from what you know.

"Downfall" -- One of the best movies about Hitler's last few days that you'll ever see. Marge Schott would've given it four stars.

"The Machinist" -- featuring the Christian Bale diet.

"The Weatherman" -- Nic Cage is in some of the best movies and some of the worst. This is on the good side. But you probably won't like it.

"The Other Side of the Bed" -- Spanish movie about cheating couples, featuring Paz Vega nude.

"Mayor of Sunset Strip" -- Documentary on this quirky little radio DJ from L.A. who looks like one of those troll dolls you used to have.

BOOKS

"Youth In Revolt" -- a tale of young love tale written in diary format

"Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close" -- a boy whose father dies in 9/11 attacks goes on personal journey

"The Tender Bar" -- A newspaper reporter's memoir, focused around the neighborhood bar in which he grew up

MUSIC

Carla Bruni's "Quelqu'Un M'a Dit" -- Supermodel sings in French. Can't understand. Don't like the French. Find myself in love.

Deathcab for Cutie's "Plans" -- Tell me you've gotten this by now.

Fiona's "Extraordinary Machine" -- Yes, I'm still talking about this, and no, I won't stop.

DANE COOK CDs

"Retaliation" -- I know, I know, you've been listening to this since the summer. Well, I bought it more than a month ago and finally listened to it last week. I hope the comedy album is really back because there's some stuff worth quoting over and over on this one.

FROM CRAIGSLIST.ORG

Date: 2005-11-05, 4:41PM EST
Dear Husband,
I am merely warning you in advance.
I am going to poison your dog and you know why.
Thanks, Wifey

Date: 2005-11-04, 1:31PM EST
True Story – this just happened…
I work out of a home office and my boss is on vacation, so Im here alone. So, Im drinking my morning coffee this morning and decide to go outside for a smoke… I put the biz phone in the pocket of my zip up sweatshirt and perch myself on the front porch. so I finish my smoke and come back in to use the restroom. After ‘dropping the kids off at the pool’ I get up, pull my pants up, and SPLASH! The effin phone falls out of my pocket and into the toilet … um, I hadn’t flushed yet!

Quickly, reach in (gagging) and grab the phone and wipe it off as quickly as possible. No problem, right?? WRONG! There is shit – literal shit - wedged in between the buttons… and it smells!!! WTF am I going to do??? Anyway, I cleaned it off as best as possible. Disinfected it with Clorox spray and everything. The thing of it is though, I just realized – after putting it back in the cradle – its my bosses phone. Yup, sits on his desk (I have another one on my desk)… It still smells like crap – but he’s an unethical asshole, so who cares, right?

# # #

I'm fairly certain that if the bloggy-blog readers cared about what you thought, they'd just visit your blog. But feel free to drop your own recommendations in the comment space anyways. Who knows...

Send Judy back behind bars

2005-11-04T09:46:00.000-05:00

I've mentioned before how intrigued I am with the chain of reactions, how profoundly different life today would be if a small something went differently in the past.

"What if I told her I love her?"
"What if I enrolled in French instead of Spanish?"
"What if my dad didn't steal cable and we never got WGN and I never got to watch the Cubs when I was a wee Maese?"

Anyhow, there was an interesting column in yesterday's LA Times by Robert Scheer. Have you been following this federal leak case? Here's some quick background: Last week, Dick Cheney's top aide was indicted. He has been accused of telling reporters the identity of a CIA agent (though he's actually only charged with the cover-up). The investigation lasted a long time because at least one reporter did not want to cooperate. Finally she did a couple of months ago and her testimony enabled the prosecutors to finally file charges. Now here's where it gets really interesting.

The prosecutor says that if reporters had cooperated initially, he would have been able to file charges a full year earlier -- in October 2004 instead of October 2005. What if that's the way history played out? Those indictments would have dropped right before the presidential election. Not only was Cheney's aide indicted but there's a blanket of proof that the Bush administration fudged its evidence that sent us into war. If the reporters would have talked, if the indictments would have come down, if the American people knew what the prosecutor knew at the time, John Kerry would have be president today. There were enough swing voters that it would have cost Bush his second term. Wild, huh.

Judy Miller is killing us! First her series of stories that convinced everyone Iraq had WMDs. Then she dupes her fellow reporters into siding with her on what really wasn't a strong First Amendment fight. Then she makes the NYT look like circus of only clowns. And all the while, it turns out, she could have inadvertantly put Kerry in office, which in turn might have meant two completely different Supreme Court justices and a host of other changes.

What if, huh. I can tell you this much. If my dad didn't steal cable, I like to think I still would have gravitated toward baseball and the Cubs. But maybe I wouldn't be a sportswriter. Maybe I'd be doing something else, teaching high school English probably. That doesn't sound so bad on some days.

I wish I had more to add...

2005-11-03T14:28:00.000-05:00

I'm sure the following have been linked off fark.com, but I got them in my inbox from friends. Is it just me are these two things becoming daily occurences? Someone getting glued to something and someone in Arkansas kills an animal with his bare hands?

Man sues, says he was glued to Home Depot toilet
The Associated Press
BOULDER, Colo. - Home Depot is defending a lawsuit filed by a man who claims the chain's Louisville store ignored his cries for help after he fell victim to a prank and was glued to a toilet seat.
Bob Dougherty, 57, of Nederland, said he became stuck to a bathroom toilet seat last year after somebody smeared glue on it.
"They left me there, going through all that stress," Dougherty told the (Boulder) Daily Camera. "They just let me rot."
His lawsuit, filed last week, said Dougherty was recovering from heart bypass surgery at the time and thought he was having a heart attack. A store employee who heard him calling for help informed the head clerk via radio, but the head clerk "believed it to be a hoax," the lawsuit said. ...The lawsuit said after about 15 minutes, store officials called for an ambulance. Paramedics unbolted the toilet seat, and while wheeling a "frightened and humiliated" Dougherty out of the store, he passed out.

Buck stopped there: Deer killed by hand
The Associated Press

BENTONVILLE, Ark. — For 40 exhausting minutes, Wayne Goldsberry battled a buck with his bare hands in his daughter's bedroom.
Goldsberry finally subdued the five-point white-tailed deer that crashed through a bedroom window at his daughter's home Friday. When it was over, the deer lay dead on the bedroom floor, its neck broken.
Goldsberry was at his daughter's home when he heard glass breaking. He went back to check on the noise and found the deer.
"I was ... peeking around the corner when the deer came out of the bedroom," Goldsberry said. The deer ran down the hall and into the master bedroom — "jumping back and forth across the bed."
Goldsberry, about 6-feet-1 and 200 pounds, entered the bedroom to confront the deer and, after a brief struggle, emerged to tell his wife to call police. After returning to the bedroom, the fight continued. Goldsberry finally was able to grip the animal and twist its neck, killing it.
Goldsberry, sore from the struggle, dragged the dead animal out of the house.
"He got kicked several times. He was walking bowlegged for a while," Deputy Doug Gay said.

These people should have a column

2005-11-03T11:27:00.000-05:00

When I wake up, I immediately get online. Sometimes I walk right past the bathroom and head straight to the computer, even if I have to pee. I know, I know, I'm sick in the head. (But it's also kind of a personal test of wills to see how long I can hold it in.) Anyhow, I have a bunch of sites that I try to visit in the morning. Since I moved to B-more, I now regularly read craigslist.org. It's never educational, never meaty, never anything. I guess that's why I like it. Here's a few of the posts I read this morning:

Date: 2005-11-03, 10:18AM EST
USE YOUR GOD BLESSED BLINKER!!!!!! how the fuck am i supposed to know what fucking idiotic manuever you're about to pull unless you give me some advance warning? thank you.

Date: 2005-11-03, 10:41AM EST
fun trivia: Today is the birthday of John Montagu, the 4th Earl of Sandwich. Let us give thanks to this man who (depending on the historian you talk to) was either too intent on gambling to get up from the table to eat or was a total workaholic who wouldn't leave his desk to eat. Either way, the man put meat and cheese on bread and voila! Sandwich!

Date: 2005-11-03, 9:00AM EST
Think maybe they could have chosen a better word than 'fingered' ?

Online Date Gets Man Arrested For Alleged Child Pornography
CUMBERLAND, Md. -- It's a lesson on how not to date women you meet on the Internet. Don't show them your collection of alleged child pornography.
Authorities in Allegany County said they arrested a Chantilly, Va., man for possessing child porn after he was fingered by a Cumberland woman he first met online. The woman said the man brought her the illicit material and that's when she turned it over to police.

Date: 2005-11-03, 9:19AM EST
It must be something in the air... as I was riding to work this morning EVERY woman that I passed on the street had something magically radiant about her. Kudos to all the ladies walking around the Canton, Fells Point, The Harbor, Downtown, and Mt. Vernon this morning.

Date: 2005-11-03, 8:24AM EST
I feel that welfare should be paid by your own race of people. If a white person wanted to collect welfare, that would come out of white tax money. If a black person wanted to collect welfare, that would come out of black tax money. Now let's see whose pile gets depleted faster. Im sick of paying all this money in taxes to support some black person that keeps popping out kids so they get more money from the government. Let your own people take care of you, or God forbid, you take care of yourself!!

Date: 2005-11-02, 12:17PM EST
Let me tell you a little something, L*****:
You are one disgraceful, self-centered bitch. Where the fuck do you get off? Over the past 2 weeks you have disappointed me, disrespected me, and completely pissed me off to the point that I’m ashamed to call you a friend. I seriously don't know what has come over you lately... Lets take a little walk on the path of "What L***** did that was down-right Wrong" since I know that you are going to want to know "why"...

Date: 2005-11-02, 11:20AM EST
the only place in the world where the words "hey! how's it going?" are capable of tying your dick in a knot and preventing the otherwise gratifying flow of urine from your body.
that's right, the office bathroom.
sometimes you guys stumble in with such levity and excitement (for what reason i know not...we're in the fucking pisser man) that it takes me an additional 20-30 seconds to relax. even then, it's a steady dribble at best, and if i'm fortunate enough not to drip on my shoes, the otherwise fantastic sensation of relieving myself is in fact ruined by your awkard presence and attention.
if you find it impossible to keep your fucking mouth shut while i do my best to feign privacy, do me a favor and in the interest of normality do not look at me while you are so effortlessly performing your urine-chatter tandem. some people can't walk and chew gum, i happen to be incapable of peeing while talking. maybe it's just because i've spent a quarter century expelling bodily fluids in relative to complete solitude, who knows? either way, i submit this post; a formal request that you postpone any and all questions about "the game" and/or comments about "the kids" until we are safely to the sink washing or hands, or even outside the bathroom door.

Date: 2005-11-02, 1:20PM EST
Dear Whomever Shit All Over the Toilet Seat and the Wall:
How is that even possible? If you were half-standing because you are afraid of catching something from the toilet seat, please know this:
• You can’t catch diseases from toilet seats, unless of course, someone SHITS all over the toilet seat! YOU are spreading e-coli and who knows what else by shitting on the toilet seat and the wall.
• If you are so worried about disease, rub the toilet seat off with some toilet paper before you sit down.
• Or, use the toilet seat guards that are hanging on the wall RIGHT OVER THERE! That’s what they are for.
Maybe you had a case of explosive diarrhea. I can understand that. Many a time I’ve felt the mud butt coming on and have thanked this fine university for providing so many shitters to choose from. But at least have the decency to clean up after yourself! If you are grossed out by your own shit, how do you think the rest of us feel?
Please, please, take this public service bulletin to heart and keep your shit in the toilet.

Family man

2005-11-02T13:39:00.000-05:00

To appreciate this, you have to picture the setting. It was about 10 p.m. It was chilly, so we wore light jackets. We were in an empty parking lot outside of a lodge building, one of those banguet-type buildings where old-man clubs meet and drink bad beer. I had just spoken to a group of old baseball men. The meeting was over and there just two of us outside. Of course there was only one street light and it was about 20 yards away. The man was about 75. We talked for about an hour out there. About the Ravens, the old Colts, various sports figures who've come through town. Then local politics, the changing faces of different neighborhoods and all the people who've run this city. It was good, entertaining stuff.

We said good-bye and headed toward our cars. "Wait, Rick," he says and I turn around around. "One more thing." He motions for me to come over. "Look, when you tell people that you know me, they're gonna try to tell that I run the Baltimore mob. That's not exactly true." He didn't pause for long but snippets from our earlier conversation raced through my head, about him growing up in a tough neighborhood, about beating in a guy's head if needed, about the importance of knowing people, and about how if I ever needed anything -- ever, he repeated that word and it came out italicized the second time -- to let him know. "I know a lot of people," he'd said. "And in this town, knowing the right people is all that matters."

"I'm not no mob guy," he says. I think I was grinning, but he wasn't. "But I do believe in loyalty and I do believe in helping friends. That stuff is important to me."

Suddenly, it's important to me, too.

Travelogue

2005-11-01T12:34:00.000-05:00

Walked into the underwear factory this morning in downtown Baltimore. It was my first time home in 11 days. Stayed in five different cities. Six hotels. Seven airplanes. Spent time in seven different states. There was a four-day stretch where I drove 1,100 miles. Here's what I learned:

1. On love

Last night in a parking garage, 1:30 a.m., a security guard makes conversation as I pay the automated machine.
"Late night, huh?"
"Yup," I say. "Gotta get home."
"Wife and kids?"
"Nah. Just wife."
I make up small fibs like this sometimes to strangers. Never anything big, just usually falsifying my occupation or my age. Sometimes I'll be a Bush advocate for sake of convo. Sometimes I no hablo ingles. This time I was married.
"How long?" he asks.
"Just two months."
"Better hurry home and enjoy it," he tells me. "You only got a couple more months before everything changes."
"Really?"
"Oh yeah. Ain't no one told you that? Every man, every wife, it's all the same. The trap you and then they change."
"Nah, not mine."
"I was young and dumb, too," he says. "You'll see. They spend the first quarter of their lives wearing a Halloween costume. Then when they got that ring, they take off the mask."
"Ya think?"
"I know. And believe me, it's much scarier without the mask."

2. On friends

I like em. Met up with old friends. Made new ones. The oddest encounter came in Houston, where I ran into Anthony. In my younger days, I interned at a TV station back in Albuquerque. I love ABQ, by the way. Anyhow, that's where I met Anthony. A few years later, me and some buddies were looking for a house. We ended up renting Anthony's four-bedroom home, commonly referred to as the "roommate house." There we were in Houston, me and Anthony, chatting and reliving a past life. I told him about the holes we put in the wall with cue sticks and I told him how we trashed the carpet. And he reminded me how we also trashed the backyard and how the bathroom sink is permanently stained with hair dye.

I punctuated every sentence with, "Best year of my life." It was me and my best buds in a small, finite perfect period of time. We were finishing college and graduating out of irresponsibility. We were still invincible but we knew it'd change soon.

Anthony lives in Houston now, where he's a weekend meteorologist. My three roommates are all back in ABQ, all settled down with women and varying stages of children. They're so grown up. I'm way out here, pathetically still talking about the roommate house and the best year of my life.

3. On work

It ain't easy.

4. On money

Baton Rouge casinos will not think twice before banning you from their establishment. "I wouldn't let you in here if came back with George Bush," they told a friend. Really? If he was arm-in-arm with the Commander in Chief, my man couldn't spin a roulette wheel? It's getting harder and harder to get ahead in this world.

5. On limitations

There are obviously exceptions, but as you age, you do less. Maybe you're not as capable, maybe your body can't do it, maybe your interests have just changed. When on the road, you must challenge yourself and your liver. You must rise to the occasion and make every stop something worth remembering. Even if by the next morning, your memory is already fuzzy.

6. On holidays

Worst holla-ween ever. (OK, the only reason for this sixth item is because I've been dying to say 'holla-ween'... so funny...)

The Big Easy

2005-10-30T12:39:00.000-05:00

It was hardly a proper introduction. I've met people before where I could just tell that I wasn't meeting his or her best self. I wasn't meeting them in their prime or at a point of happiness. It's not fair. We should all have the pleasure of experiencing the very best. It's too bad that when I first met New Orleans, she was so tired and beaten. I drove through Crescent City twice in the past few days. It was a slight detour for me, but I'm the type of person who just needs to see things for himself. The signs outside of town warn you that there's a curfew in effect, midnight til 6 a.m. I stayed only as long as it took to drive through town, though I did pull over once.

I'm not sure I can fully explain what I saw and part of the problem is I don't have a reference point for comparison. But...

Did you ever read the "Left Behind" book? It's teenage Christian fiction... a pre-millennialist approach to the Rapture, based on the idea that believers will be whisked away to heaven and the rest will be left behind. Anyhow, when I read this book several years ago, the mental image struck me as somewhat haunting. In New Orleans it was the exact same image, but I this time I saw it with my eyes. Cars were abandoned. Businesses were closed. People weren't out and about. They weren't talking on the corner and weren't walking to the store, even though the signs outside the shops said they were supposed to be open. There was no life to the city. But it was still a city: buildings, homes, roads. It's just that there were very few people. It was a ghost town, a city abandoned.

I reached in my bag for my camera, but I stopped. An ex- once told me about a friend who didn't take photographs, preferring to capture lasting images of something by writing down his thoughts. I scoffed at the time, mostly cuz I don't like an ex- talking about another guy. But it made sense here. Words seemed more important than a digital image. So that's what I did, taking a picture by scribbling on the side of the road. I can't share that with out because it's all chickenscratch in a notebook, but I can tell that what I saw was filthy and lonely and sad. It was empty and exterminated. I couldn't think of a word. History? Living history? No. Dead history. That's what this was. Sad.

You ever been to a nice restaurant or dance club long after it had closed down? It's more than a vacant, eerie feeling because you knew something had happened there. Every little thing is an artifact, a reminder that there was once function and purpose behind everything. I really wish I got to see this city at its peak because you can tell that it was something special. Next time we meet, I hope there's more to smile about.

Kicking some Astros

2005-10-30T12:32:00.000-05:00

No time for a Sunday reading list, though I'd be remiss if I didn't point you to a story written by someone who's either a good friend or bitter enemy, depending on the day.

It's about her dad, a White Sox fan who bought me dinner once.

Which way do you want it?

2005-10-29T14:33:00.000-04:00

Weekend treat: Click here and then you can laugh and all the stresses of the world will disappear.

If you don't laugh, you're banned from returning to the bloggy-blog.

(Note: The above link does concern Asians and the Backstreet Boys.)

(Note 2.0: I love dude in the background.)

Forever? Forever ever? Forever ever ever?

2005-10-28T09:12:00.000-04:00

"Don't ever stop talking to me," I told her. And I was serious. She was seated next to me at the bar. And I wish you could have heard her. I didn't lie: I could've listened to her talk forever.

I rolled into town -- Baton Rouge, La. -- a couple of hours earlier. The first one I heard was the front desk person at the hotel. Then I overheard a couple talking in the lobby. Then the restaurant hostess and then the waitress. They all talked with a shared Cajun accent, a dancing dialect that I just get lost in. I don't know if it's me or them, but I get trapped in the sound and can't even make out half the words. It moves with such a unique cadence. It makes me think of uneven hills or kids bouncing on a trampoline. I could put on a pair of Speed-Os and swim in this accent.

"Don't ever stop talking to me," I told her. And I was serious. She talked and I listened, distracted only occassionally by the drink in front of me. Because I'm one for lists, I knew immediately that I had to alter one, Things I Could Do Forever.

1. Listen to the entire Beatles catalog loop
2. Sit at a baseball game
3. Lie in bed with a girl and a newspaper and an iPod
4. Watch a neverending "Elimidate" marathon
5. Listen to Kathleen, the Nawlins native who sells medical supplies and talks about, well, I don't really know what she talks about

I'm not sure what she said about it doesn't really matter. Finally I'd swallowed enough to ask her, "Do you mind if I try to talk like you for a bit?" She laughed and said she wouldn't mind. (In fact, she was honored, as I recall.) So I tried. I wasn't as good, but it was fun. The bartender thought I was a fool. He was probably right. I wasn't one of them, but Halloween is around the corner and it was my voice's costume for one night.

So, it's a Friday and you can answer a question: What one thing do you think could do forever?

Do you all even care?

2005-10-27T15:03:00.000-04:00

So this is what it has come to, huh. Your generation, man... makes me shake my head. I wish you could see. I'm shaking it right now. What does it take to impress you any more? We talk about the damage done by Katrina. We all feel for the people directly affected, but it turns out we're ALL directly affected. It's numbed you. Anything that doesn't cause major flooding, mass evacuations and destroyed cities is just a like a shower. A few raindrops, you figure. Do you realize what's going on South Florida? Of course you don't because the media was underwhelmed by the latest hurricane. It wasn't catastrophic enough to warrant coverage. Not post-Katrina. A year ago, it'd been a round-the-clock story. Now it's buried in the newscast, stuck between stories about a school bus that brakes too hard and a new baby giraffe at the local zoo.

Talked to my man J-Dizzle down in Lauderdale. He was sitting in a Dunkin Donuts working. That's the only place near him with power. He can't drive to the office because he doesn't have the gas to get there. Most of the gas stations are empty. The ones that have a bit of fuel have lines that stretch for miles. Two nights ago J-Dizzle had Halloween candy for dinner. Later he managed to cook some soup on a grill. There's no ice, no cold food, no hot food, only a few restaurants are open. There's no way to travel and nowhere to even go if you could.

So media, federal government, FEMA, Red Cross: What about the plight of J-Dizzle? How come you don't care? What is it going to take for you to get in there? He doesn't have enough candy to last much longer. Pay attention to him. Help him. Feed him. Gas him. And also the other people in South Florida. But especially J-Dizzle.