End of the Year Awards

Since the year is ending, and since Grandma always said that the only thing that people like more than lists is awards, and since she also said you can't have too much of a good thing (or of two good things combined, right Grandma?)...


Best Name: Dick Pound

The chairman of the World Anti-Doping Agency, Mr. Pound had a strong 2004. And even though 2005 is unlikely to provide him with as many chances to shine, we believe he will be a top candidate in this category for years to come.


Most Overrated Movie: Napoleon Dynamite

Almost everyone we know who saw this movie loved it. We thought it was a Saved by the Bell episode drawn out to 90 minutes and yearning to be a clever indie flick; a heartless imitation of the works of Todd Solondz and Wes Anderson; a paint-by-numbers appeal to wanna-be hipsters, with its moon boots and A-Team theme montage. The movie tosses itself comedic softballs in the form of one-dimensional, self-absorbed nerds; it clowns them like a bully would--and asks its audience to laugh along. After about 75 minutes of this, it expects its audience to cheer for those nerds--and against the popular kids who laughed at them for the same reason the audience did--for the last 15.


Fantasy Baseball Team of the Year: The Douche Bags

We feel we deserve an e-pat on the back for the job we did managing our fantasy baseball team. Our lovely girlfriend has insisted that, as a result of our rather focused and determined behavior this summer, we will not be allowed to have a fantasy baseball team next year. As she is not the boss of us, we generally do not let her tell us what to do, but perhaps she is onto something with this one. Nevertheless, have a look at our lineup:

C: Javy Lopez
1B: Travis Hafner
2B: Michael Young
SS: Carlos Guillen
3B: Eric Chavez
OF: Vladimir Guerrero
OF: Manny Ramirez
OF: Carlos Beltran

SP: Johan Santana
SP: Oliver Perez
SP: Carlos Zambrano
SP: Freddy Garcia
SP: Mark Buerhle
RP: Francisco Cordero
RP: Brad Lidge

Can you believe we assembled this team in a league of ten players! Move over, Billy Beane!


Scientist of the Year: Science Man


Where Are They Now?: Perley King

Usually "Where are they now?" pieces are titled rhetorically, rather than earnestly, as pleas for information. Also, it is rare that such pieces--or any typical feature stories--are given out as awards. Nevertheless, this may be the exception that proves the rule, or just the exception that rules! But you don't have to take our word for it.

One Saturday morning in the year 2000, eight-year-old Perley King woke up to find that there were no Cheerios in the cupboard. As Cheerios were his favorite cereal, he did what any bold and resourceful eight-year-old would do: he got the family dog, stole the keys to his sister's car, and attempted to drive to the grocery store, alternately pressing the gas and lifting himself to see over the dashboard. The highlight for us, however, was the picture of Perley that ran in the papers:



People may have found the story cute, but as you can see from the picture, Perley wasn't fucking around. Today he should be about 12 years old. If anyone knows what he's up to, we'd love to hear it.

Well, that's all for this year, folks. Have fun tonight, and don't drive drunk.

Affordable Health Care

The Superhighway to Self-Gratification

On The Revolution is Not a Dinner Party, our friend jsanjana writes:

"as a side note, I think wikipedia is the best thing to happen to the internet in a long time....I'm old enough to remember Lynx and Gopher and when the Net was an information source rather than a porn machine...I been blogging for 3 weeks now and can safely say that blogging is closer to masturbation than journalism"

We agree that wikipedia is wonderful, but is the proliferation of free, easily accessible adult entertainment really something to bemoan? We are old enough to remember having to pay for our adult entertainment--having to pay a premium, in fact, for second-hand, second-rate magazines from our fellow, underage classmates; having to find places to hide those magazines; and having come home, at the age of 25, to find that our parents, in preparing for their move, had unearthed our stash and placed it in the pile of belongings through which we were being asked to sort...

Do we really want to subject another generation to these humiliations? Should they not be allowed to explore--furtively, in the pale glow of a computer screen in an otherwise unlit bedroom, as they listen for the faintest hint of footsteps in the hallway (and why won't Mom respect the "Please Knock" sign?)--the rewarding world of human sexuality? And who better to act as their sherpa then The Hun? (Don't click that one at work, silly!)



Surfers, bloggers, here's to ourselves.

An Interesting Business

"Manufacturing Quality Industrial Vibrators & Vibratory Equipment since 1923"

Christmas Limerick

Jesus was born in the spring,
But the Church said, see, here's the thing,
The pagans have solstice,
But our god is mostest!
So December is when we will sing.

Special Interactive Feature

Our Friend Chaka wants you to tell her something good.



If you have something good to tell her, you may do so by clicking on the "comments" link below. Chaka thinks you're all great and promises to read every post!

Also, Rufus says hi.

Hot Atmosphere!

Greetings, Friends!

After a long day of travel, we have returned to the family headquarters, where we were received warmly by our parents and age-defying family dog. This evening, handsome brother Dean will arrive.

We know that we recently promised to revive the campaign to change Mooncalf's name to Hot Atmosphere. We shall keep our word--sort of. That is, the campaign shall be revived, but by someone other than ourself. Have no worries, for he is more than worthy.

You may know him by his two initials, S and M. He is the poet laureate of these pages, the bard of blue skies forever. From Berlin, where he is on leg two of his three-legged study of the adult film industries of former axis powers (the forthcoming tractate is tentatively entitled "Finger, Butter, Verboten"), here he is--your favorite, and mine--Science Man.

[Applause]

Thank you, readers, assembled and dispersed. It is factual that, generally, I speak publicly and write verse only on matters of science. But an issue has arisen that tickles my conscience. It tickles my conscience in the way a feather might tickle human skin. [Scientific explanation here removed] Mooncalf is a fine band. Their website may contain a few misspellings and dead links, but their music is rather fine. Fine in the sense of being superlative. Their name, too, is fine. But their name is fine in the sense of being just satisfactory. I believe they can do better. Ergo I have penned the following bit of verse in honor of their new name, Hot Atmosphere.


Damn, I nearly,
Almost, clearly
(As merely happens yearly (every year);
Oh, despair, fatigue, malaise, short days, and fear),
Did almost give up hope, Hot Atmosphere!

Oh, but truly,
Warm and bluely,
Sunny skies that shined so bright and clear;
Almost newly, most uncruelly, duly, did your hot self reappear.
Duly did it so, Hot Atmosphere!

Yet still, some doubt;
Enclosed, they pout,
Lonely in their cubicles of fear...
Would they come out, in joy they'd shout
(Loud enough to reach each comrade's ear),
"There is no hot quite like HOT ATMOSPHERE!
Truly, it's the hottest, far or near!"



The founders of the band formerly known as Mooncalf (from left): Matt M., Matt S., Patrick W. (Not pictured are new, full-time member Diarmuid C., and sometime member Yianni M.).

If you would like to see them become Hot Atmosphere, please e-mail them at info@mooncalfmusic.com.

Our Bluegrass Song

Below is the bluegrass song we wrote


[banjos and guitars]

Moonlight on the train tracks
Vomit on my shoes
Midnight Wild Turkey
couldn't chase away my blues.

Gobble gobble Turkey
Gobble gobble goo
My girl just up and left me
Now you done left me too

(repeat)

One Reader's Response to a Fruitful Discussion

We received an e-mail from our friend Colin in response to Wednesday's fruitful discussion. We think it unfortunate that 27-year-old Colin was not around to present such arguments when we were seven, as they might have helped us to accept our parents' insistence that the brick simply exists. Here is what he wrote:


damon, i checked out your blog, and i couldn't get over your philosophical
musing about the supposedly lifeless brick. How do you know the brick does
not see or feel or think? Just because it can not (or does not) communicate
with you, doesn't mean it isn't aware on some level. It might be sitting
there the whole time asking the coffee table (in language imperceptible to
human ears - not unlike a dog whistle) why that goddamn kid keeps asking for
proof of it's existence.

Hey asshole, if you see me, my existance is as veritable as yours! Try
running through this wall and then ask yourself if we bricks exist!

Furthermore, why is existence predicated upon sensory perception and/or
thought? Can't an unfeeling unthinking object simply be? Just look at me
when I'm high. I'm thinking less, I'm feeling less, but I'm still there.
Just not as present as when I'm sober.

Colin


* Coming soon: We revive the campaign to convince Mooncalf to change its name to HOT ATMOSPHERE.

1960s Literati

From the jacket notes of Norman Mailer's St. George and the Godfather:

NORMAN MAILER--

has always been close to the pulse beat of America and a distinctly American phenomenon in his own right. He appears in newspapers and magazines more than any other writer, gets into reverberating discussions wherever he goes, even runs for Mayor of New York City, and has the nerve to confront, head on, the subject of Women's Liberation. And it's all in a day's living. He has his finger on the American artery as no other writer has.

Now, Norman Mailer presents himself once more as a witness of our times--inside the conventions, 1972, he eyes the candidates with skyrocket brilliance, smells their aura, feels around their crowds, and sniffs the general ambiance. Through potent description, philosophic genius, humor and compassion, great reporting becomes an art as Norman Mailer, with exquisite cunning and precision, exposes the forces that energize and characterize the American political arena.


Can you believe we purchased this book for a mere two dollars?!


At the age of eighteen, we were particularly taken by the works of Ken Kesey. Our father, knowing of our interest, set up a meeting for us with a man named Dr. Dean Brooks, whose wife--a charming woman whose name we have forgotten--was a patient of our father in his dentist store. Dr. Brooks played Dr. John Spivey in the movie "One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest". At the time, Dr. Brooks was the superintendent of the Oregon hospital at which the movie was shot. He had spent considerable time with both Kesey and Norman Mailer, among others, and he told us a number of stories about each.

A quick Kesey anecdote: he was originally slated to write the screenplay for Cuckoo's nest. His opening, however, featured Nurse Ratched (as viewed through the eyes of Chief Bromden) as a robot wearing a vulcerian helmet. The producers felt this would not work and hired others to adapt the novel. While we enjoyed the movie, we wish the producers would have given Kesey's script the old college try.

And one more: On a red-eye, return flight from a Disnelyand vacation, Kesey scared the passengers and flight attendants by glowing when the lights were turned off; he had broken open a glow stick and smothered himself with its contents during the day.

Back to Mailer: Dr. Brooks said that Mailer was quite a gentleman. We were baffled. A distinctly American phenomenon, perhaps, but a gentleman? Didn't he stab his wife "with a dirty, three-inch penknife"? A gentleman, insisted Dr. Brooks. He told us that Mailer had devoted an entire room of his Manhattan apartment to the construction of a Lego city.

So ends the 1960s literati gossip column. We hope you have enjoyed.






norman mailer






ken kesey






dr. brooks






penknife

A Fruitful Discussion

William Safire, the former Nixon speechwriter who occasionally converses with his purgatory-interred* ex-boss via cellphone, recently announced his impending retirement. Naturally, this made us think of the Squad Squad, the "elite group of tautology spotters" upon whom he relied to be "hunters of prolix tautologies." How will they police without Safire's column? Will they be lost without a leader? Or are they like Al-Qaeda or a hydra, able to survive a decapitation?

Further, of what do Squad Squad meetings consist (assuming they occur)? Do they spot tautologies, or just revel in them? (It appears we have a sufficient quorum! [laughter, applause] Either this meeting is adjourned...or it is not! [here! here!]).

We find that thinking about this reminds us of when we were young and we used to construct hypotheticals about russian doll television shows or movies (what if there were a show about a show about a show...?). Was this inspired by our parents' bathroom, 3 walls of which were mirrored, creating infinite reflections?

In those younger years, we liked to ponder several other seeming imponderables. (In explaining the frustration that the triangle offense caused opposing defenses, Shaquille O'Neal said, "Our offense is like the pythagorean theorem: there is no answer."). Curiously, we somehow inferred the Cartesian mantra and then reversed it, resulting in the following question, to which no one, not even our parents, provided a satisfactory answer: Since we cannot imagine what it would be like to be the brick, because the brick does not see or feel or think; since no one then can be--or is--the brick, how can the brick exist? (One may apply this formula to other inanimate objects, but we generally liked to focus on the bricks behind the wood stove, next to the television).

Perhaps we asked these questions because they were easier and less painful than others, such as "why are they laughing at us?" or "why does Dad always call us "goddamnit"? (here, Bill Cosby was helpful, at least in providing validation). Or, to ponder something Donald Rumsfeld would term an "unknown unknown" (Squad Squad: discuss), "why won't we get laid until our 20s?"

Indeed, this has been a fruitful discussion.


* According to Safire, Nixon is in purgatory, expiating for having delinked the dollar from the gold standard.

We Salute Pinto

At a time when many we know (including ourself) spend their days encamped in libraries and classrooms, dronishly preparing for exams; when still others are engaged in the forty-or-more hour work week (many of you for noble causes--you have our respect), we shall take a moment to salute a bold, globetrotting spirit: our friend, Pinto.

Pinto is a fine photographer, critic, gambler, and friend. Formerly, he worked in information technologies for Western Washington University in Bellingham, WA. During that time, he was known for, among other things, his propensity to nap during his lunch break, including once in a shopping cart--no small feat for a man who stands nearly 6'3".

Upon retiring at the age of 26, Pinto embarked on a world tour, first traveling with his mother, then alone, and now with his friend Scott. Currently, he is somewhere in India. An excerpt from his most recent e-mail:

Oryx is a delicious animal popular in Southern Africa.
They look cool too. I hope to open an oryx ranch
when I get back home.


oryx


pinto



Godspeed, Pinto!

THEIR EYES WERE WATCHING PORN

Today's News: The Presidential Medal of Freedom devalues...but at least Justice remains blind

Presidential Medal (RNC Party Favor)

Justice

recommended reading for aspiring lawyers (or those just curious about the law)

I'll Keep This Brief: A Collection of Collection-Worthy Briefs by America's Top Lawyers

Greetings, Friends!

The holiday season is upon us, so we thought it time to introduce ourself and our blog, blue skies forever. Since this is our inaugural post, and since inaugurations usually feature poems by poets laureate, we have invited our poet laureate, Science Man, to deliver a poem he wrote specifically for this occasion. So, without further ado, here is Science Man:

[applause]


Hair Traps Odors
by Science Man

Who? What? When? Where?
Dirty water, dirty air.
Acts of sodom, stinky bottom.
Grab a razor; shave it bare.