31 March 2004

Holy F*cking Crap


This may be the last thing that
I write for long
Can you hear me smiling as I
Sing this song,
For you?

So a few things happened this week. Monday morning I decided I had had enough of lawn care and shed my job like a virulent Kordell Stewart jersey. I decided on this course of action while, in fact, on the way to work. So yes, you're assuming correctly--I had no real money, no plan, and no other job prospects.

No, wait. I DID have another job prospect. Just 3,000 miles away in LA. Out of the question. Mom is sick. I feel brothers are in need of guidance. Other brother coming home in May. Family reunion in June. Can't go nowhere.

Until June!

I have told myself that I've been waiting to move to LA because I needed to save money in case something happened and I was without a job. Then a few thoughts occurred to me out of the blue. One, I'm waiting to move because I'm saving money to go out and take a job that will make me more money (mull that one over for a second). Two, because of One, I'm a huge embarrassing p*ssy. With those realizations in hand, I quickly extrapolated a brilliant plan from my inner gray matter...work two part-time jobs until June, give the Big F*ck-All to saving anything, and go out and take your job. I call my LA Guru. Come in June, job waiting. Done Deal. I quit work. OK, so I quit work before I set any of the previously mentioned into motion...minor detail. I'm excited.

Long story short: stuff happens, plans change, and I'm moving to LA this Saturday. For good.

No I will not explain. Just trust me.

The main point is this: as stated, I've been a huge d*uching b*tch about this relocation thing. I've been making a lot of excuses--some valid, some not, but all excuses--for not leaving for a good year or so now. This is the best way for it to go down--I pack the hell up and leave. Done. No time to think. I feel good. I'm nervous. I'm anxious. I'm excited. Mostly, though, I'm so scared out of my ever-loving skull that one wispy, errant Spring breeze might cause me to fill my drawers.

But Holy Weeping Jesus on the Cross, I'm finally taking control of my life. Remember the post I wrote a while back where I was feeling all sorry for myself and whining about the Captain's Chair and boo hoo all over it? Yeah, so now I'm actually doing something. I'm not even on the plane yet and already I can feel myself stepping off the curb and into the parade...instead of just watching idly as it passes by me. And I know I'm lucky.

It almost passed completely.

I want to write about the cash Friday I just had in NJ with my college buddies which, incidentally, featured a good portion of the night where we punched through all the walls in Keith's attic ("No, it's cool, really, we can beat the sh*t out of 'em."). I want to write my damn Yankees article. I NEED to write about Real World San Diego and The Inferno. But for a little while, a few weeks at least, I'm going to hang up the Blogging and get my ass to work. I always thought people were stupid when they said that sh*t about getting what you always wanted and it being the most scariest thing ever. But those people are right. It's absolutely terrifying. In a good way.

I want to thank a few people who have helped me out over the past few days. Some of them will see this, some of them won't, but it doesn't matter, because the "Thank You" is 100% heartfelt and 200% deserved:

Tim, Eric, Hannah, T. Richardson Brown, Banker, Jen, Cousin Carrie, and most of all, God most of all, Mom and Dad. They've helped me be able to say something I was never quite sure I was going to be able to say...

I've got to pack now.

Aye, for a ship is safe in the harbor. But that is not what ships are made for.


19 March 2004

Man I'm Bad at This Writing Frequently Thing


If you somehow come across this in your internet travels and are a friend of mine and read this junk I put up here somewhat regularly, I can't get into my IM and my world is crashing down around me. Help.

OK, let me ramble:

--Why do they not make orange yogurt? Why is it constantly displaced on store shelves by Peach? And for that matter, why is there no peach juice? Something f*cking serious is going on here.

--Now that I work in lawn care I see a lot of interesting things. One of the best was last week. A woman had a stone goose in her front yard about the size of my Stanley. The goose was adorned in a St. Patty's Day outfit, Leprechaun-style, complete with pointy buckle-shoes, pointy hat, and yes, red beard. Possibly the Greatest Thing I Have Ever Seen. I need to get Stanley one of these. Does anyone know where I might find one?

--You know you're coming out of your sexual prime when you think more about March Madness and who will be on Conan O'Brien more than you think about getting laid. To be honest, I've often looked forward to this day. Can you imagine how much less stress you would feel with no sex drive? Can I just have it removed entirely? I'll pay good money. I don't even care anymore.

--I'm still working up the energy to write and defend my Why the Yankees Have Ruined Baseball essay.

--On that note, I'm tired of skirting around this fact, I don't care anymore, but aside from a few people I hate pretty much everyone from the following areas: North Jersey, New York City, Connecticut, Long Island. Is there anything worse than a North Jersey girl, with the accent and all the makeup and whatnot? I mean I know there are exceptions, but come on.

--I need a shower. Or I could just not shower and move to North Jersey. God, I'm on a roll tonight.

--Mark April 24th on your calendar: this is the day the Cleveland Browns draft WR Mike Williams and I shove a spoon into my eye.


Chapter I, Epic III - How to Further Strip a Deformed Girl of Her Dignity

It has become apparent to me that 92.37% of all the good things that have happened to me in my life happened at my lunch table in high school. This story (and the one to follow sometime in the near future) is no exception.

Sitting at the edge of our lunch table was none other than the venerable Matt Klein, who was huge and had red hair. Thus, we called him the Big Red Ox. It was appropriate. A man of shallow thought and a dwindling number of brain cells, he spoke little but when he did what came out was usually important.

During one sunny day of Junior Year, two girls got in a fight at the front of the lunchroom. There was some slapping and some pulling of the hair, and though the entire lunchroom got into the ruckus, it was pretty short-lived. Both were summarily escorted to the Principal's Office (TM).

One of the combatants, Jess Jesserson (I'm going to run out of these adorable and clever aliases soon), was well known around school due a birth defect. She had since her inception had a bright red birthmark, not unlike a port-wine stain, that encompassed her entire right hand, forearm, and elbow. It looked like she had just dipped the appendage in grape juice. It wasn't disgusting or socially invasive (she was rather attractive otherwise and, as I'm told, did well with the men-folk in a romantic regard), but it was highly noticeable.

Jess, apparently free of the repressive Principal's Office Environment (TM), came back into the lunchroom towards the end of the period. Possibly the biggest mistake she ever was to walk by our table and, consequently, by a scheming Big Red Ox. I leave you with the conversation that transpired, and good you bid day:

OX: Hey Jess, come here a sec.

JESS: Yeah?

OX: So, you got in a fight with Tammy Tammerson, huh? What was that all about?

JESS: She had been talking sh*t about me or whatever, but whatever, it's no big deal.

OX: Oh, OK. Did you get sent to the principal's office?

JESS: Yeah.

OX: Wow. Guess you could say you got caught...red handed, then.

(EDITOR'S NOTE: It was all in the timing and the absolutely pompous way he said it. I recall us all being to afraid to laugh until she walked away. Jesus Christ, where have those days gone?)


09 March 2004

What Do You Mean I Can't Own Canadians?


Posting this real quick because it made me laugh:

Biblical Laws

Religion is such a sham.

Allow me to take a moment specifically to link Snopes. This is one of my All-Time Favorite websites. The people who run it have spent their time researching and investigating just about every Urban Legend and Pop-Culture Rumor you've ever heard and most of the ones you haven't. All Legends are backed with some kind of documentation. You can dig up a lot of really fascinating stuff here.

I personally always thought that the "The Average American Swallows Seven Spiders a Year Whilst Sleeping" Legend had to be true, but alas, it doesn't seem to be. Great stuff like that. Total time waster. Good for us then.

OK bye.


The Happiest Day of My Life So Far in 2004


Today (late last night actually) The Cleveland Browns signed free agent Jeff Garcia, formerly of the San Francisco 49ers, to a four year, $25 million contract. The Browns have scheduled a news conference for...well, now. That is, 5:00PM EST to introduce.

Allow me a moment to thank the powers of the universe that influenced the Browns to make their first intelligent offseason move since their re-inception in 1999. I'm doing my best to sound official, but really, I can't wipe the PermaGrin off my face. We finally have a legit signal-caller, and I don't care if he's an old, goofy, effeminate redhead. I don't care if he f*cked me over for two consecutive Fantasy Football seasons.

Allow me a moment to offer a stoic bit advice to the Browns' Front Office and Head Coach Butch Davis: keep the new guy safe, for Christ's sake. Either address the woeful offensive line via free agency or in the Draft. We don't need any more WR's. Or CB's. Ross Verba is coming back. Just get some big motherf*ckers and put them in front of Mr. Garcia. Please.

Allow me a moment to address Tim Couch. Timmy, I have been a big supporter of you since day one. I was disgusted with the way Palmer put you out to pasture your rookie season behind a Kleenex-thin O-Line. I was disgusted when they booed you as you walked off the field with a concussion. May you find new life in Dallas when the Browns trade you there on Draft Day. You are a good QB and a good person. Godspeed.

(EDITOR'S NOTE: I'm crying. OK, not really, but I think that would be very appropriate and dramatic.)

Thus, I restructure my 2004 Cleveland First Round Pick Wish List (TM) as such:

1. Sean Taylor, S, Miami
2. Robert Gallery, OT, Iowa
3. Shawn Andrews, OT, Arkansas
4. Kellen Winslow, TE, Miami
5. Tommie Harris, DT, Oklahoma

But soft, yet, for I can already predict what's going to happen. See, the Brownies have this propensity to draft WR's. Even when they're not needed. But I can already see the disease creeping into Butch's head...

"Well, we did lose (underachiever and no better than 2nd WR) Kevin Johnson. And we just signed a new Pro Bowl QB. Hmmm....let's grab ourselves a receiver with the Seventh Pick!"

And there you have it...mark my words, if he's still there (and he probably will be) the Browns will draft USC WR Mike Williams with Pick #7. It's not that Williams is a bad prospect--he's not at all--it's just that they need so much help elsewhere. I am confident going into the season with Quincy Morgan, Andre Davis, and a hopefully re-signed Dennis Northcutt. They did just fine last year. Also, some teams are concerned about Wisconsin WR Lee Evans, who blew out his knee before the beginning of last season. He should be there for Cleveland's pick in Round Two. Grab him instead. He would have been a Top Ten pick if not for the injury, and teams are scared, but Jesus, the guy just ran a sub-4.4 40 at the Combine. Think he's OK?

Anyway, good day today. I have something I really want to being to everyone's attention that I will write about tomorrow.


08 March 2004

In the Spirit of Friends on the Other Side of the World


Got to talking to a co-worker today about a buddy of mine who is in the Army and currently stationed in Iraq. I have mentioned this fine young lad before, and his name is Matt Sanders, known to those of us who love him as Sanders, Sanchez, The Right Honorable Sanchez Maxton (he's very exciting), or the preferable, simple, Chez.

Chez is a man of much laughter. Infectious laughter. Rollicking if you get him going. It's a sight to see. Watch the women and children if you get him near a movie with any kind of anal expulsion comedy, as there is every chance he will one day explode. In any event, whenever we get together here in good 'ol PA--times that are, quite sadly, fewer and further between these days--we rehash every sweet story from high school. They get Chez rolling. You know it's a good night when all the drunk people at the bar are staring at the four or five idiots (usually consisting of myself; Chez; T. Richardson Brown, Banker; Patty; and Princeton Andy) mucking up epics such as The Perfect College Bowl System, The Pat Gahr Special, The Time Geoff Nearly Got An Ass-Whipping From the Entire Steel-High Starting Five With Support by the Bench as His Friends Left Him for Dead, and countless others. Most of them would be funny to only the few of us.

Most of them. Really, all but two.

In honor of my conversation about my good friend today, I will present the following two stories. One directly involves Chez; the other is simply his favorite Cedar Cliff Flashback of All Time. He told me over Christmas break that he would be out in the field, doing some kind of military exercise with other Armyans, and think about this story, which sent him into fits of laughter that he could not accurately explain to his unenlightened companions. This brought about much joy. To go a bit further, any sweet story I relay to you all will now be filed under a new GooseTown Subsection...


Chapter One, Epic I - We Can Only Hope the Desk Calendar Survived

Senior Year, circa 1997. Chez is halfway, kinda-sorta dating one of our girl friends. She is a bit standoffish. He takes her to Homecoming; she summarily dismisses any attention he gives her both at the dance and at the after-party, at the house of a girl named Beth Betherson*

(EDITOR'S NOTE: The names are changed not because I care but because I do not want to get sued. Even though that would be wicked sweet.)

Chez is honestly the nicest kid in the entire world, and it would take a hell of a lot for him to ditch anyone, let alone a girl he took to Homecoming. But there's beer, she's pissing him off, and he does so. Long story short, the kid ends up not only banging the hell out of the hottest girl at the Cliff, Stephanie Stepherson, but doing it in Mr. Betherson's office. I do not find this out until someone brings it up by accident that Monday at our lunch table. I proceed to stand, clap, then sit and bang my fists on the lunch table chanting, "SANDERS! SANDERS!" until Tony Carozza (Sean Connery V.2) asks me what the hell is going on.

Fast forward to the break immediately following Homeroom that Friday. There is a fall sports Pep Rally that afternoon. The aforementioned T. Richardson Brown, Banker is Student Council President and therefore must introduce each and every member of each Fall Sports Team at said event. He has to throw in some nicknames. Chez is on the soccer team. Stephanie is on the field hockey team. They'll be on the floor at the same time. The whole school knows what had transpired. Naturally, this is a f*cking Potential Kodak Moment if there ever was one. It was right in front of us, and we just called it out; it was on the tip of everyone's tongue--we just gave it a name. Betwixt T. Rich and myself, we decided he would introduce Chez as " Matt 'I Do My Best Work in the Office' Sanders".

F*cking brilliant, right? God I love this story.

Fast forward to lunch. Banker approaches me in a panic. "It's a no go on the Sanders thing," he tells me. The faculty liaison to Student Council (her name slips my mind at the moment) nabbed him in the hall and told him the reference to Chez was inappropriate and was not to be used, lest he risk disciplinary action. One thought crosses our minds--how in glorious f*ck could the FACULTY have found out about this? There was no reasonable connection. Befuddling. Pure insanity. They know. Trevor spends the rest of the day up until the Pep Rally sweating the decision as whether or not to use the verbage we so creatively...eh, created.

Pep Rally. Packed gymnasium. This was back when people cared about our Cedar Cliff and the sports teams were excelling. Trevor is doing his introductions. The announcement of Stephanie brings a few cat calls but nothing serious. Then we move to the Boy's Soccer Team. The tension is mounting...especially in my stomach. If banker has the balls, this is one for the books. Publicly defiling an otherwise innocent girl and sending a big F*ck You to The Man. He's calling them off...I can barely contain myself...we're three away from Chez...blind people with Parkinson's have had better luck trying to build a house of cards in a wind tunnel than I am having holding in my excitement...Chez is up...he begins to walk on the floor...Banker starts, "Next, eh, we have...uhhhhhhhhhh..."...this is it, g*ddamnit, I can feel it..."Matt......"

I'm coherent only of the fact that I'm standing and applauding before Banker spits out the fastest sentence in the History of American English: "...IDoMyBestWorkintheOfficeSANDERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Absolute. F*cking. Mayhem.

Everyone goes NUTS. I mean crazy. Standing, cheering, whistling. To that point, it's the best moment of my life, and I'm not even the one that got laid. The faculty are in disbelief. Banker looks like he has been arrested for anally raping a midget in the middle of Toys 'R Us. Pure Glory. I wish you could see the smile on my face--then and now. Stephanie is taking it quite well, not hiding behind her hands or running off the floor. Remember the goosebumps you got at the end of The Shawshank Rdemption? Multiply it by a hundred.

And Chez lives on as immortal to this day.

Chapter One, Epic II - Did He Really Think Accosting the Lunch Lady Would Solve the Problem?

I moved to Cedar Cliff when I was 15, in tenth grade, and knew only four people. They were all two years older than me, and one had been a family friend since the day I was born. Luckily, I had his lunch, and was able to position myself in a seat at one of the Senior Tables that year. The players: myself, Spencer Haller, Steve Clark, family friend Donald T. Gray Jr., Mike Brennan, and perhaps someone else.

We had these Friendly's Ice Cream Cups in the lunch line. They were damn good, as anyone who has enjoyed Friendly's Ice Cream might imagine them to be. There was one fatal flaw to them, however: the cream in the cup was fabulous, but it was covered in a hard disc of chocolate and whatever candy was the marquee in the dessert (usually M&M's, not that it matters). Most people just cut around the disc and went right for the ice cream; the chocolate was like cement and far too hard to eat, let alone work into the main attraction. You would find them all over the halls after each lunch period. Kids actually assaulted their friends with these sugary weapons. Poor John Rodnick was once sent to the hospital and received four stitches after an errant Flying Chocostar hit his temple. It was terrible.

OK, I made that last part up. I digress.

There was one day a month when the school served Sweet Potatoes at lunch. Don't ask me why, I couldn't tell you any more than I read Chinese. It made no sense then and it makes less now. No one ate them. They were a horrible orange color that always reminded me of cat vomit. This particular day, Mr. Clark decided to get a cup of Friendly's. He removed the cap of Petrified M&M Conglomeration from the top, ate his ice cream, and sat contently. In what would become an iconic moment in my life, he lazily set the chocolate disc back in place in the top portion of the now-empty cup. It fit in, snug as ever, and gave the appearance that it had never been touched, ice cream still waiting beneath.

I think my eyes may have lit up first, but Spencer was the one who spoke: "Steve, give me your tray."

Steve slid it over, and the magic began to unfold. Spencer packed as many Sweet Potatoes into the cup as he could, mashing them further down with a spoon. He then placed the disc back on top. Like a f*cking glove. You couldn't tell it had been touched. We all stared, dumbfounded--how could anyone have ignored the potential for so long? After a few minutes of debate involving flawless execution of Parliamentary Procedure, it was decided that Steve would place the Friendly's cup back in the freezer in the lunch line. He stood, looked around casually, and walked to the front of the cafeteria.

Had anyone been watching the front of the large room it would have been over. But everyone one served, there was no reason to look that way, and no one was paying Steve any attention. He calmly slipped into the door to the nook where the freezers were, took another quick look around, and placed The Cup (as it has become known) back inside. When he got back to the table we exchanged a few high fives. We figured that we'd hear a story from either Third Lunch that day or First Lunch the following about someone getting duped.

If we could have only known how perfectly our plan would unfold.

Minutes later, a kid everyone affectionately called "Dirt" walked up to the Lunch Line. He emerged from the serving nook with a cup of Friendly's Ice Cream. Steve was first to notice.

"Holy sh*t. Holy sh*t. Dirt's got The Cup."

We swerved to look. Steve had placed a small dent in the side of the cup, just in case. What a brilliant Just In Case it turned out to be. Dirt had the dented cup. The Cup. And he was paying for it. The poor Lunch Lady had no idea what was about to unfold. We were silent with anticipation. A strange smile had burned itself on my face. Spencer broke the void with careful advice: "Jesus Christ, don't let him see you looking at him."

Dirt took The Cup back to his table. As luck would have it, my view of Dirt, at his table, was wholly unobstructed. Donnie, Brennan and I could all see what was happening, and Steve and Spencer had to rely on our play-by-play.

Here is what I remember clearly: the whole scene played out like the most well-scripted scene ever in a movie. Dirt sat with The Cup, talking and laughing with his friends, paying no attention to The Cup as he opened it, exposing the replaced Chocolate Disc. Steve and Spencer were begging for action ("He's...yeah, he's got it open...I can't...I can't believe it, he hasn't noticed...he's not even looking...Oh God, OH GOD!"). Steve couldn't take it and turned, looking directly at the table. Spencer was half a second behind him. We watched as Dirt, distracted by the friendly (no pun intended) banter of his lunch table, drove his oversized spoon into the chocolate disc (apparently, and good for us, he was not wise to the ways of its popular extraction) and it emerged with a speck of brown and a massive underbelly of sweet, sweet orange Sweet Potato. I think I began to weep softly as he placed the massive bite into his mouth, chewing down once, twice, thir...

MASSIVE projectile expectoration. A very tiny yet angry Dirt jumped to his feet.

"What the F*CK IS THIS?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!"

We watched in simultaneous shock and rapture as Dirt hightailed it for the inevitable scapegoat, the lunch lady. He let off with a string of obscenities that has yet to be matched by any Sailor of the High Seas. Faculty Lunch Chaperones had to restrain him, calm him down. I can recall only two things:

1. I laughed so hard I nearly blew a hole in my large intestine, and I'm not kidding.
2. I never got the hell out of a lunchroom faster.

Stuff of legend. How could it have worked so splendidly, without a single hitch? To this day I can't answer that, I can only be glad I was there.

Hope you enjoyed. There will be future yarns, and hopefully son I'll have the chance to run them by Chez during an Editorial Meeting in the Greater Harrisburg area.

Come home safe, friend. Godspeed.


07 March 2004

What You Do When You Have Merely One Day Off In a Given Week


--I would like to take a moment to officially link Jessica Asche, Will You Marry Me?, a Blog I found by complete accident. Blogger every minute generates a list on its homepage of Blogs from all over the world that have been posted in that 60-second period. I not-purposely clicked on the above-mentioned this afternoon and was pleasantly surprised. All other writers are good people as far as I'm concerned. If you feel like you don't understand writers in the least, click on the link of the left side of his page under "FAQ" that says, "Who is Jessica Asche?". Perfect explanation of the Scribe Soul. Actually you'll probably understand writers less. Or more. I don't know. It makes absolute sense to me.

--In my personal writing news, I'm am deadlocked with my brain on page 64 of my current attempt at a screenplay, thus giving us a total of one finished (and still horrible) feature-length script, several finished short scripts (film and play), and six screenplays at differing levels of completion. My latest Cranial Recommendation (TM) says that I should bag the script I'm writing and focus on the notes I have for the script about The Mailey Family, my mother's side. Write What You Know (TM), right? I've got a story all lined up. Now if I could just find a free week to put all of my notes together and write a first draft...

Sign #3,478 That God Is Plotting Against Me and Laughing With Every Consecutive Success

I've been pretty good at avoiding female problems for the last 8-12 months. Well...no, that's not accurate. But I've been good at avoiding almost all of them. What I had been entirely successful at was avoiding getting interested in someone beyond a short-lived sexual encounter. It makes sense--I hope to move sometime soon, I work all the time, I have no money (nice dichotomy there, no?), the blessings of not being in a relationship seem to vastly outweigh the benefits of being in one, and, oh yeah, females are Vitality Vacuums (TM).

(EDITORS NOTE: I like that. From here on out I shall replace any mention of the generic "Females" with "Vitality Vacuums (TM)". You see the trademark there. Don't try to steal it. I'm watching you, motherf*ckers.)

So what happens? Of course! At the apex of my work-hour calendar and the deepest valley of my financial forecast, I meet someone who bucks all the V.V. characteristics I have come to abhor. But wait, there's more. Not only is the chemistry very well on, the young lady very attractive and quite my type, and the community of friends common, but it's the near-uncalled for Worst Possible Timing in the History of the World from about seven different perspectives. I mean it's uncanny. Am I not part Irish? Am I not supposed to have some kind of Ancient Gaelic luck on my side? What the hell happened here? And what does the situation make for? What's our favorite word here at GooseTown? You guessed it...

A-W-K-W-A-R-D. Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Not so much in the minute-to-minute operations of hanging out and whatnot, but there have been several parting moments that would have made Kevin Arnold look like Rudolph Valentino. You know what I'm talking about: you both know that you should be throwing clothes on the floor, but there is this dumb cloud hanging around your head, so you know neither of you can make a move, so you have to play it off, and you can't hug (potentially too intimate), you can't shake hands (too gubenatorial), so you just avoid eye contact by scratching your head and rubbing your eyes until someone gets the hell out of the car.

Aggravating. Even more so because neither is attached, no one is dying, no one is promised to an arranged marriage, but you have to sit around and wait for some kind of Human Respect Contract to pass its statute of limitations. God it's annoying. Of course, if history had progressed as it should, I'd be in LA now doing coke off a stripper's titty, so it's not like I should have expected different.

I'm going to go ram my head into a tree now.

--The Browns are currently courting Jeff Garcia and had Drew Henson in for a workout this week. If we can land one of those two (preferably Garcia for the time being), I will be a happy, happy man. In any event, the Browns have Pick Seven in the 2004 NFL Draft, and since I know they'll just find a way to f*ck it up and draft some kind of unnecessary Cornerback or Wide Receiver, here are my Pointless Draft Hopes, in order of whom I'd like most:

1. Sean Taylor, S, Miami
2. Robert Gallery, OT, Iowa
3. Shawn Andrews, OT, Arkansas
4. Ben Roethlisberger, QB, Miami (OH) (Total pipe dream, he'll be way gone)
5. Kellen Winslow, TE, Miami

As per our current QB situation, well...I like Tim Couch. I've always been a Tim Couch supporter. I feel bad that he has to go. It's not his fault. Chris Palmer and the Old Cleveland regime ruined him, sticking him for 3+ years behind a sh*tty line with no decent RB and no go-to receiver. They put all the pressure squarely on him and then allowed his confidence to shatter. From what I'm hearing they have a trade in the works that would send Timmy to the Cowboys for draft picks. I hope it works out that way, Parcells helps him revitalize his psyche and career, and Cleveland brings in a Pro-Bowler to help get the boys back to the playoffs.

All for now. Check back midweek.


03 March 2004

Oscar Recap Plus MORE!


But a few random things first....

--Just helped some buddies shoot a movie. The short film was called Morning Sickness. Check out all relative information at Ice Nine Productions. I played a homicidal maniac and got to kick the sh*t out of someone. I'm not kidding. The shoot was great, Drew and Tim are cinematic geniuses, and hopefully they'll let me into this summer's Feature Length Film 13 Inches. And yes, it does refer to that. And no, it's not about me. Go to the site and read about it. There might even be a picture of my sorry ass up there soon.

I want to talk more about it but I'll have to devote an entire thing and it's just best if you check out the f*cking website, for Christ's sake.

--American Idol is a joke this year. Thirty thousand people audition and they can't find 10 who are dynamite singers? There are about two that have the talent of the people from the first two years and no one even approaching a Kelly Clarkson, from whom, by the way, I am still awaiting a phone call.


Since I forgot to post my Predictions for this year, I'll just have to be honest and put who I thought would win in parentheses next to who actually did in all the major categories. I would have been dead, stupid wrong on at least two for reasons that should have been clear to me. Here we go:

Best Supporting Actor: Tim Robbins (Benicio Del Toro)--Benicio is well-loved in Hollywood because he's picked absolutely all the right roles in the last few years, which should help forgive the transgression of Excess Baggage. Anyway, you figure the guy is due. I just thought he would have been stronger than Tim Robbins. But Timmy pulled it out. I'd like to say thank you to Mr. Robbins for not getting all political in the speech, and in fact saying something rather poignantly benign, if there is such a thing. And I have to mention this: when did Susan Sarandon get hot again? She had like a ten year period where she looked like my grandmother. Now she's back. Good for Timmy.

Best Supporting Actress: Renee Zellweger (Renee Zellweger): I've said it before and I'll say it again--Renee looks incredible with that little extra bit of weight on. When she goes Ethernopian it ruins everything. Now if we could just her to open her f*cking eyes, we would really have something here. And she's banging the dude from the White Stripes, which once again proves my theory that I need a band.

Best Song: Into the West (A Kiss at the End of the Rainbow): OK, this was the first year that I thought all of the songs were tremendous. Just fantastic, all of them. But the song that one was by far the worst of the bunch, and I'm saying even though I hated the way that chick spilled out a ramshackled Version of the song from The Triplets of Bellville. But the two songs from Cold Mountain were astoundingly good.

Best Screenplay (Original): Lost In Translation (Finding Nemo): Here's where The Academy blindsided me with something I should have seen coming all along. If the final Lord of the Rings had not been in this year's category, Lost in Translation would have won for at LEAST Best Director and probably Best Picture. Clearly LOTR deserved every award it got and then some--that I'm not disputing. But here's a stupid thing The Academy does: since they can't give Sophia Coppola either of those two awards, they get her in on the only other thing she was up for so as not to stiff the Indie Favorite. Usually that's OK, but my God, the script for LIT wasn't even a factor! The script was bearable at best but was made so great because of performances. So this one pissed me off as it robbed a really great script of a well-deserved award.

Best Screenplay (Adapted): Lord of the Rings (Lord of the Rings): Duh. Though if you haven't seen American Splendor, do it NOW.

Best Director: Peter Jackson (Peter Jackson): Double duh. Was there any question with anyone, seriously? I will say this, however: clearly, they were waiting until the last one came out to award this, and that's OK. But it wasn't ALL the director. Doesn't anyone find it interesting that not a single actor in ANY of the three films got a nomination? Not Elijah Wood, not Ian McKellan, not Vigo Mortenson. No one.

Best Actress: Charlize Theron (Charlize Theron): This one was out the door months ago. A done deal since Monster was released. I bet Stephen Jenkins is looking at Michelle Branch right now and rethinking his choices in life.

Best Actor: Sean Penn (Bill Murray): Remember the whole thing with Sophia Coppola and the Screenplay? Well, this is one I figured on happening and it didn't. Alright, Sean Penn is f*cking great. We can all admit that. Insanely underrated actor by the public at large. Should have won last year for I am Sam. Maybe he threw down a better performance. But I don't think so. And for f*ck's sake, why the hell wouldn't you give it to Bill? Sean Penn is going to continue to command demanding and dramatic roles and be up for Oscars again. This will be the only chance Bill ever gets to win one. He's got an incredible body of work the whole way from Saturday Night Live up to Lost in Translation, in which he was absolutely and totally brilliant. I suppose I'm happy for Sean Penn, but I am literally heartbroken for Bill Murray, who really wanted the award. Sean Penn doesn't even show up for the Oscars 99% of the time. This has me really pissed. Give the guy the credit he has deserved for years. God I'm mad.

Best Film: Lord of the Rings: I mean, c'mon, duh.

So there you have it. In conclusion, my Top Five Hottest Women of the Night:

5. Nicole Kidman--Too tall for me but she always looks perfect.
4. Renee Zellweger--See above comments.
3. Angelina Jolie--Dear Sweet Christ in Heaven, help me. She seems to be getting back to normal after the whole Billy Bob thing, and it's always nice to see her dress classy.
2. Diane Lane--Oh Heaven Help Me. How can you be that hot at age 40? I don't understand. More importantly, why in the Name of Joseph is she marrying Josh Brolin? Why? This once again proves that I need a...wait, no. This one just proves that the world is not fair.
1. Catherine Zeta Jones--F*ck me running, every time I see her she is somehow more gorgeous. I honestly think I might urinate in my panteloons were I to ever get within five feet of her. G*ddamn. And for the 4,792, 991st time, Go Straight to Hell Michael Douglas.