No Points for Second Place

Happy All Hallow's Eve, or Happy Samhain for you pagan Celts out there. What a gloriously mischievous event for all the ghouls and goblins intent on executing a trick in the absence of the delivery of a treat! And less than a week before the incendiary hijinx of Guy Fawkes Night! Huzzah! Huzzah!

Anyway, so this past weekend was a haze of tomfoolery and bitter discontent. Halloween is my favorite holiday, so I make anyone with me dress up (As soon as she downloads them, Kate will be sending me some pictures from the weekend, which I will them post for everyone's enjoyment). The costumes in our group were as follows. Jessie made a homemade bat costume that was pretty sweet (this picture really doesn't show the costume, but it does make Jessie look like an evil, guano slinging seductress). NaviKate was a doctor ("These are O.R. scrubs. O, R they?"). Tron was Sam Rothstein from "Casino" ("and here's your host of 'Ace's High,' Sam Rothstein"). Tron's friends, Mike "I Have an Unusually High Tolerance" Johnson and Joe "I Just Flew in From Chicago and Boy Are My Arms Tired" Vitale didn't dress up. Goni and I dusted off our naval whites for another run for the gold on Saturday night. As usual, we took hundreds of pictures with awestruck coeds. The customary cheers of "oh my God, you guys really look like them" echoed from every corner of every bar we visited. For this one night each year, we shed the ordinariness and mediocrity that plagues our mundane lives for the other 364. For this one night each year, we are kings. Kings, I tell you. And no, it never gets old.

The weekend, however, was not without its share of disappointments. For every dizzying up, there was an equally heartbreaking down, and vice versa.

Up: I turned 28.
Down: I turned 28.

Up: We were the first ones in the lot we parked in for tailgating.
Down: We woke up at 6:30am after going to bed around 3:30 so that we could beat the nonexistent rush to the tailgating lot.

Down: IU got disemboweled on Saturday by the Spartans, 45-16. I was so pumped up when we got a safety to make it 7-2. I should have left at that point.
Up: Bears 19 Lions 13 in OT. Our seats were about 10 rows up on the goal line that Charles "Peanut" Tillman crossed for the winning score (these pictures shows the Bears celebrating after said touchdown). I only wish they had more than 3 remaining games against NFC North opponents.


Down: I missed the birthday-wishing calls of several of my friends and family members.
Up: My lone living grandparent (Grandma L) called me early Saturday evening to wish me a happy birthday. I was still half drunk from tailgating and in the middle of a postgame nap. My voice was hoarse. I was confused and disoriented. Hopefully it went well.

Up: After the IU/MSU game, we had some sweet burgers at a bar/restaurant called Crunchy's.
Down: We saw a fucking mouse scuttle out from behind a big screen TV and die 10 feet from us on the floor at Crunchy's (photo to the right--it was dark in there, but you can see the mouse at the bottom of the picture).

Down: We had 5 people in the car for both drives, and the drive back took forever because of some construction just north of the Michigan/Ohio border.
Up: On the drive back, along with 2 other cars, we prevented some ass from trying to jump a whole bunch of traffic when the lanes when down for construction. It was a solid box-in -- a real team effort. And we got to listen to a David Cross standup CD on the drive back. That dude is disturbingly hilarious. His rant about God sanctioning priest molestation may be one of the most wrong (yet funny) standup bits I've ever heard.

Up: Goni and I got into a bar called Landshark that was apparently the only bar in East Lansing that had a costume contest Saturday night. We waited in the VIP line for a half hour before getting to the front of the line and having the bouncer tell us that we were in the wrong line. We pled ignorance and then turned to bribery. Turns out college bouncers are pretty cheap. When I asked him if I could buy a VIP card, he said no (they only give those out to regulars). Then I said, "Well, I have $25 in my wallet. Will that get me in?" I was thinking that would just get me in, but he said that it would get both me and Goni in. So basically we just paid an extra $7.50 each to get into the bar for the contest. It looked like a simple investment that would reap its rewards in less than an hour.
Down: We never saw that extra $15 again. For the first time ever, Goni and I lost a costume contest. To make matters worse, we lost to -- get this -- Cap'n fucking Crunch. We were doomed from the beginning. He had home field advantage, and thus, his cheering section was larger (and more vociferous) than the one we brought. The MC clearly wanted Mav and Goose to take home the crown (even letting us sing "You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling"), but alas, it was up to the crowd. We made it to the finals, but the Cap'n's crew was too large and too loud for us out-of-towners from Miramar to stand a chance. Like at flight school, there were no points for second place here. Only a $200 first place prize. Afterward, stunned and distraught, we talked to the Cap'n, and it turns out his mom made his costume. What a douche. At least Goni guilted him into buying us a sympathy shot with his newly won money. Every dynasty needs a gut check, and this was ours. Next year, we're going to a bigger market (Chicago, Cincy, Dayton, Indy), and we're taking a crowd with us. We will reign once again. So help me God, we will reign.

Up: Halloween allows for any and every girl with a tad of self-confidence to dress up like a slut. Saturday night at Landshark was no exception: slutty cats, slutty nurses, slutty flight attendants, slutty witches, slutty cops, slutty forest rangers, slutty parking attendants, slutty angels, slutty devils, slutty teachers, slutty school girls, slutty nuns, slutty school bus drivers, slutty Planned Parenthood workers, slutty pro-lifers, slutty cheerleaders, Tara Reid, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. It was off the hizzie. Apparently there was a slutty cop whose pants went down approximately one half-inch lower than her vagina.
Down: A night-long combination of Bud diesel, Jager bombs, and a smattering of other shots prevented me from remembering seeing any of them.

Down: The power on the jukebox at Landshark went out at some point after the contest, right in the middle of "Shout" (not sure if it was the Isley Brothers or Otis Day & The Knights version), during the "little bit softer now" part.
Up: I don't put up with that shit, so I kept it going. The first "a little bit louder now" was quiet, with only our little group keeping the song alive. The next "a little bit louder" gained more vocal chords. By the time the "hey ey, hey ey" call-and-response, we had at least half of the bar, and with the "hey yay yayee yay," we had everyone jumping around and joining us. Then I said "fuck it," left on a high note, and got a burrito.

Tonight, the Belangers (Jamie, Amy, AC) are having a bunch of us over to scare trick-or-treaters. Reason #715 why Ohio sucks: They call Halloween "Beggar's Night," and trick-or-treating is not always on Halloween night, with each community choosing which night to allow trick-or-treating. Reason #716 why Ohio sucks: This year's Beggar's Night trick-or-treating is allowed only from 5:30-7:30 tonight. What irrationally scared idiot parents convinced local authorities to make this decision? "I heard that Satan kills kids after 7:30. After all, this is a pagan, devil-worshipping holiday." Man, I used to trick-or-treat basically from after school until like 9 or 9:30. No parents, no supervision, no curfews, no worries. Just a shit ton of candy. In a show of my rebellious angst, I plan to make at least one trick-or-treater cry and/or piss himself tonight. That'll teach these fucking Puritans who's boss.

"Talk Is Cheap, But So Is She"

Hair Band Friday's in full effect here in my office today. Everyone's still partying from Wednesday night's celebration. The last three songs from the CD player have been stellar: "Rattlesnake Shake" by Skid Row, Ratt's "Round and Round," and L.A. Guns' "Ballad of Jayne." I got several strippers passed out half naked on the floor of my office, clutching their White Sox pennants, empty bottles of Wild Turkey, and random Ohio Supreme Court Reports. Candi puked all over herself after watching Billy turn in a killer memo last night. She needs to get her shit together or else we might not be able to keep her around much longer. We got plenty of groupies who love our insane writing ability and document review prowess that don't need to have their stomachs pumped every time they mix Jack and 'ludes.

Big weekend for me. Tomorrow at 1:32pm Eastern (or 4:32am Sunday for GMYH's readers in the Solomon Islands), I reach the big two-eight. Ouch. At least I still act like I'm 19. Anyway, along with Jessie "Wife" LeMar, Marc "Tron" Wiescinski, and "EradiKate" Rohrer, I am heading up to East Lansing for the IU/MSU game. Mike "The" Malangoni "Bologna Pony" is joining us as well. Goni and I plan to once again dominate any costume contest that comes our way. In case you have no idea what I'm talking about, you obviously weren't at The Bluebird in Bloomington on October 31, 2001 or October 30, 2004, and you must have missed SportsCenter on February 20-21, 2002. Look forward to seeing us at a costume contest near you some day because we are going to milk this as long as humanly possible.

Anywho, we will then be going to the Bears/Lions game Sunday at Ford Field. The NFC Norris lead will be on the line. I'm fully expecting a 10-3 type score. Look for the guy in the Gale Sayers jersey getting in punched in the face by a Lions fan after one too many "Do you think Jeff Garcia is gay?" comments.

The other big news of the past couple days (aside from the Sox winning the World Series) is that Harriet "The Spy" Miers withdrew her nomination from the Supreme Court. I don't know about you, but I'm happy that she's out, not so much for political reasons, but more for purely aesthetic reasons. For shit's sake, her face looks like a beat up old catcher's mitt. It looks as though she's the love child of Nosferatu and that old lady in "Poltergeist" who says "this house is clean." I heard a rumor that anyone who makes eye contact with her turns to stone. We simply couldn't have risked the lives of America's great litigators by allowing this gargoyle to sit on the bench of the Supreme Court. Plus, the fact that we would have had a Supreme Court justice with the same first name as that annoying red-headed neighbor in "Small Wonder" would have driven me to commit suicide. Man I hated that attention-seeking bitch. She was always coming over and snooping around in the Lawsons' business. It's no (small) wonder Jamie didn't want to do her.

Rat Man

Greg Bohmann sent me this link, and it was good enough to share with the GMYH posse. If you don't watch "Scare Tactics" on a regular basis, you should.

"I'm Gonna Get Up in the Mornin', I Believe I'll Dust My Broom"

It still hasn't quite sunk in. Surreal doesn't begin to explaing how it feels. For the first time since 1917, all eyes in the baseball world are on the South Side of Chicago. Last night, from Bridgeport to Morgan Park, Garfield Ridge to Hyde Park, and Back of the Yards to Beverly, Sox fans were doing something they (or fans of any Chicago baseball team) hadn't done in 88 years and 11 days: celebrate a World Series title. Congratulations go out to all the players, coaches, owners, and fellow fans. This one is for Bill Veeck, Luis Aparacio, Luke Appling, Nellie Fox, Sherm Lollar, Dick Allen, Harold Baines, LaMarr Hoyt (pre-coke), Ron Kittle, Bobby Thigpen, Shoeless Joe, Minnie, Pudge, Psycho, The Big Hurt, Black Jack, and most importantly, for Steve Perry, who had the courage to lead the White Sox to victory, refusing to stop believing.

The Sox beat down the Red Sox, Disney's Los Angeles California Angels of Anaheim, and now the Astros (don't get me wrong--I am still just as big a fan of the Astros as I am of the White Sox). They went 11-1 in the playoffs, which only one other team has done since the playoffs expanded to three rounds. Pretty good for a team who was expected to collapse at the end of the regular season and who, according to many "experts," was an underdog in the ALDS, ALCS, and World Series. "'Ozzie ball' will never work for the whole season," they said. "They don't have enough power," they said. "The [insert East Coast team here] are better and have more playoff experience," they said. And now, for once, Ozzie doesn't have to fire back a witty Spanglish response. He can just hold up that shiny trophy.

Never again will I have to argue with some dumbass Cubs fan about which team is better or which team has a greater tradition. Never again (or at least not until the beginning of next season) will I have to hear from some dumbass Indians fan trying to tell me that the Sox should just go ahead and lose so that a "real" team can make the playoffs. Interestingly, as it stands, the Cubs and the Indians are now the teams who have longest and second longest World Series droughts, respectively. If my friends who are Cubs fans all die before the curse of the Billy Goat is lifted, I will have lived a fulfilling and emotionally prosperous life (sorry Christoff and Gemkow).

For you non-Chicagoans who can't quite appreciate what this means to Sox fans and the City of Chicago, let me try to explain why a World Series title (especially one won by the Sox) is unique. First and foremost, Chicago is a football town. Everyone loves the Bears, and when the Bears win, the town is as on fire as it was back in October of 1871. Soldier Field is downtown, on the lakefront, right smack dab in the middle of Chicago, providing equal access from the North Side, South Side, West Side, and the suburbs. The entire city embraces the Bears (and, for that matter, the Bulls when they're good and Blackhawks when the NHL decides to hold a season).

On the other hand, rather than being located downtown, in a suburb, or even another state (I'm looking your way "New York" Giants, "New York" Jets, and "Washington" Redskins), Comiskey Park (I refuse to call it by it's corporately sponsored name) and Wrigley Field are entrenched within their respective neighborhoods. The Cubs and Sox have grown to embody Wrigleyville/Lake View and Bridgeport/Wentworth Gardens, respectively. Comiskey resides in an racially and ethnically diverse area of the city where generations of factory workers, plumbers, carpenters, cops, and firemen have lived (and are proud to live). Wrigley resides in a mostly white, young affluent neighborhood where the turnover is as high as the price of a beer at the Cubby Bear on gameday ($5 for a can of Old Style--are you fist fucking me?). The South Side is the cold shank in the ribs to the North Side's warm handshake. The South Side is home to the Robert Taylor Homes. The North Side is home to multi-million dollar homes. The South Side is home to the now-forgotten gardens of the 1893 Columbian Exposition World Fair and the stockyards that made Chicago the "hog butcher for the world." The North Side is home to the Steppenwolf Theatre and the Lincoln Park Zoo. The South Side has areas renowned for meat packing. The North Side has areas renowned for fudge packing. The South Side is Muddy Waters and Howlin' Wolf. The North Side is Liz Phair and The Redwalls. The South Side is Al Capone. The North Side is Bugs Moran (whose ass Capone kicked, I might add). South Siders fly out of O'Hare only when they can afford to. North Siders fly out of Midway only when they have to. Sox fans are, for the most part, blue collar, while Cubs fans are, for the most part, white collar. Sox fans go to Comiskey to watch baseball. Cubs fans go to Wrigley so they can call someone on their cell phones from the game to tell them that they're at a Cubs game. Many Sox fans have season tickets even though they can barely afford them. Many Cubs fans have season tickets simply because they can afford them. Sox fans don't believe their team suffered for 88 years as a result of a curse--just bad baseball. Cubs fans think a restaurant owner with a goat is the reason they haven't been to a World Series since 1945 or won a World Series since 1908.

For unknown reasons (perhaps the fact that the likelihood of getting shot near Comiskey is 1000% higher than near Wrigley), most people in Chicago are Cubs fans. This has given the Sox fan base a giant chip on its collective shoulder. Cubs fans hate the Sox, but not as much as Sox fans hate the Cubs. We were like the little brother who thinks he's just as good, if not better, than his older brother, and he kicks and screams to get people to notice him, but everyone just kind of passes him off as a cute, harmless little kid. Last night, little brother cold-cocked big brother with a right cross, giving every father of four who has lived in Englewood his whole life working two jobs to make ends meet the chance to say "fuck you" to every 25-year-old investment banker who grew up in Winnetka and now lives a posh condo in Marina City Towers. A White Sox World Series means more than just baseball bragging rights. Being a Sox fan finally means something beyond the corner of 35th and Shields. Trying to quantify what this means to Sox fans is like trying to quantify what getting laid means to a 50-year-old virgin. Chicago has a baseball champ for the first time since before women had the right to vote. And what makes it sweeter than a Maxwell Street Polish is that it wasn't the hard-luck, aw-shucks Cubbies. It was those bastards in black from the South Side--the forgotten team from a city with enough forgettable baseball moments to fill Lake Michigan. Chicago is officially a Sox town. At least for the next few days.

They Took the Midnight Train Goin' Anywhere

What a game! For those who missed it last night/this morning, Game 3 of my dream World Series, which ended around 2:15am Eastern, went 14 innings and almost 6 hours, making it the longest World Series game ever. In the end, the Sox pulled out a 7-5 win, thanks to the bat of former Astro Geoff Blum (by the way, I hate it when "Jeff" is spelled "Geoff"--get the fuck off your high horse). The Sox are now up 3-0. I was hoping for a closer Series, but this means one of two historic things will happen: (1) The Sox win their first title since 1917 (if they do it tonight, they will be only the 2nd team since the start of the current expanded playoff format to lose only 1 game in the playoffs); or (2) The Astros will be the first team in World Series history to come back from a 3-0 deficit. Either way, I win and Cubs fans are pissed off, which is really all that's important.

Perhaps the most intriguing subplot involved the beloved former lead singer of Journey*, Steve Perry (not to be confused with the real name of British porn star Ben Dover). Apparently the Sox have adopted Journey's '80s standard, "Don't Stop Believin'" as their clubhouse anthem. While I'm positive there are no small-town girls livin' in lonely worlds on the Sox, I'll be damned if the smell of wine and cheap perfume isn't emanating from the Sox clubhouse on a nightly basis. I guess the Sox asked Perry to come to all of their World Series games as kind of a good luck charm. In return, I assume the Sox paid for his ticket, transportation, cocaine, and hookers.

Anywho, I hope everyone watches Game 4 tonight. I got nothing else today. Peace out.

*Interestingly, Perry made his stage debut with Journey the day before I was born.

Interview Tips

I just got done with one of the worst interviews I've ever had. On paper, the kid was great: top 10% of his law school class, honors degree undergrad, blah, blah, blah. I was actually pretty excited to interview this guy. Then he gets to my office and proverbially shat all over his otherwise excellent resume. For those of you interviewing out there, I have several tips:

1. For the men, make sure the tip of your tie is not hanging 6+ inches above your belt. It makes you look like a clown.
2. For both men and women, mustaches are not a good idea. They make you look like any one of the following: (1) a turbo child molester; (2) a complete redneck; (3) a dude (if you're a chick); or (4) Kip from Napoleon Dynamite (note, if you are actually training to become a cage fighter, a mustache is your prerogative).
3. Never under any circumstances make reference to anything from Lord of the Rings.
4. When the interviewer asks you if you have any questions about the company or firm, your first two questions should not be, "What are your hours like?" and "How much vacation time do you get?"
5. If you are interviewing for a job at a law firm that does only litigation, when asked what interests you about the firm, try not to say, "Well, I really have no idea what I want to do, so I figured I'd give litigation a try." That's like me saying to the Unauthorized Practice of Law Committee, "Well, we really liked law students, but medical students are pretty smart too, so we figured we'd give them a try for a while to see how it worked out."
6. Be sure to know the correct name of the company or firm at which you are interviewing.
7. When the person interviewing you is speaking to you, it's nice to look at him or her at least once during the course of the interview.
8. When the interviewer notices that you went to law school a great distance from your hometown and asks you why you decided to go to law school where you did, don't answer like this: "I only got into 2 law schools, and the other one wasn't ABA-accredited."
9. When asked what your hobbies are, the answer "I'm addicted to video games," while it may be true, is not the kind of thing that convinces an employer of your superior intellect.
10. At the end of the interview, when the interviewer extends his or her hand, you might want to shake it. If at all possible, don't look at it and turn away.

So Wouldn't That Just Be "In the City"?

My paralyzing fear of public conversation with my wife has allowed my eavesdropping skill to blossom immensely. For instance, last night we went to Panera for dinner. Jessie had some shit to do for the class she's teaching, so she was working on her laptop the whole time, giving my ears free reign over the conversation occurring at the table next to us.

From what I could gather, it was two college kids (one male, who I will dub Wilfred, and one female, who I will dub Eleanor) who may have been in the beginning stages of dating or may have been in the midst of a torrid, clandestine affair marked by awkward conversation and a love of sandwiches (hence coming out to the Panera in Kettering, and not the one right by UD). They talked about interviewing (Eleanor's had only one), what they wanted to do after graduation, how Eleanor always orders the Caeser's Salad at Panera forgetting that she doesn't like it, and other things not meant to attract eavesdroppers. Alas, it takes more than salad talk to dissuade me.

Eleanor now and then thinks about "going somewhere far away and making a fresh start." Wilfred encouraged such behavior, offering the obvious choice: "Yeah, do it. You should go to California or something." Eleanor seemed dissatisfied with such a suggestion. After all, she wants to remain in close proximity to her family. Despite what he had just heard, Wilfred -- the gentleman that he is -- kept Eleanor's blatant inconsistencies to himself. Eleanor and Wilfred continued to have one of the worst conversations Panera has ever hosted, highlighted by Eleanor's satisfaction with the mix CD Wilfred made for her and her seemingly related dissatisfaction with the mix CD given to her by a man or boy named Paul (possibly her real boyfriend). After her pleas, Wilfred assured Eleanor that he would not tell Paul about the way Eleanor felt about Paul's inferior mix CD. A good laugh was had by both.

Just as I thought it couldn't get any better, Eleanor threw me a curveball. The conversation had returned to familiar ground: making a fresh start. Wilfred did not express any desire to make a fresh start, but Eleanor -- sweet, innocent Eleanor -- just couldn't keep her mind off of it. Wilfred finally asked the question women love to hear: "Why?" "Well," Eleanor replied coyly, "I just have this dream that if I make a fresh start somewhere else, I'll be able to live the kind of life I've always dreamed of." Wilfred bit on that: "And what would that be?"

I shit you not when I tell you that the next eight words out of Eleanor's mouth were "A Christian version of Sex in the City." Had it not been such tight quarters, I would have let out the kind of bellow normally reserved for non-strangers sitting more than three and a half feet from me. If I was Wilfred -- and for Eleanor's sake, thank God I'm not -- I wouldn't have been able to handle it. I would have said, "So let me get this straight. You want to move somewhere far away to change your life and make a fresh start, but be close enough to home so that you're able to be with your family? And you want to model this fresh start after the teachings of Jesus Christ, inasmuch as it allows you to get hammered off flavored martinis and cosmos every night and get fucked six ways from Sunday by a guy named 'Mr. Big'? Sounds like you have it all worked out." Wilfred, however, responded in a manner that ensured future interaction with Eleanor: "I've never seen it, so what does that mean?"

It was at this point I stopped listening, since I was trying not to laugh and also trying to fathom what she could have possibly meant by a sentence with such a poorly-thought-out contradictory statement. I kind of heard her say something about buying shoes and hanging out with friends, but the damage was done. Eleanor -- sweet, innocent Eleanor -- had forever supplanted herself in my memory from a mildly attractive curiosity with a hatred of the music Paul loved so much to another one of the many Daytonians with no apparent idea of the world outside Montgomery County. Prove me wrong Eleanor. Spread those wings and fly to Columbus or Cincinnati.

Fantasy Update:
-Corn Hole'ers (1976 Tampa Bay Bucs): 3-4 (T 4th of 8, 2 games back)
-FIC You (Car Ramrod): 1-6 (T 9th of 10, 5 games back)
-Glenview Gridiron (Angry Pirates): 5-1 (1st of 12, 1/2 game up)
-League of Extraordinary Gents (Angry Pirates): 3-4 (T 6th of 10, 2 games back)-Pigskin 2005 Pick 'Em (Angry Pirates): 5th of 17 (T 12th last week)

Ups and Downs, Geniuses and Clowns

Well the weekend went by too quickly, as usual. As I boldly predicted, Friday was relatively low-key. Jester and I met "NaviKate" Rohrer at the Oregon Express (aka The OE) for a couple beers early on, and then headed home and went to bed early. I rose at 6 in the (6 in the) mornin', and Holt "It Right There" Hedrick and Ian "IU Rookie" Taronji arrived at my house around 6:30, and we headed to Bloomington for what would be a fairly forgettable IU/Ohio State game.

This picture of IU coach Terry Hoeppner during "The Walk," which occurred 2 hours before kick-off, shows what was probably the last moment on Saturday that he was happy.

IU seems to love to make Ohio State look like national champs every year, and this was no exception. A parade of bad decisions and surprisingly mediocre play-calling led to a 31-point loss. To make matters worse, there were about 15,000 OSU fans there.

My distaste for Ohio State fans stems from my freshman year at IU, when their fans rushed our field and tore down our goalpost after clinching a Rose Bowl birth. The best way I can describe OSU fans is that they're a bunch of idiots who have been there, but act like they've never been there. As an example, when Holt, Ian, and I were heading out to the tailgate fields for a halftime beer, at the bottom of the ramp in the stadium were 2 OSU fans basically telling every IU fan that walked by that IU sucks, as if we haven't been paying attention for the past 12 years. I guess that'll happen when you have a university (OSU) that admits any in-state high school graduate.

Inside the game, the few moments of positive play for the Hoosiers resulted in me yelling at some idiot a few rows in front of us that had a Chris Speilman jersey on and a foam buckeye nut on his head. While the definition of a Hoosier isn't exactly clear, I do know one thing: it's not a fucking nut. And for that I'm grateful, because I will never feel obliged to put nuts on my head.

To add to the joy of a 41-10 depantsing, it took us over 4 hours to get back to Dayton (usually a 2 1/2 hour trip, tops). Solid. Then I headed down to Cincinnati for the evening to Marc "Tron" Wiescinski's new pimp pad. Already there were Jessie, Kate, and John "Hamburger Helper" Ashcraft. We went to a bar, where I was able to watch Game 1 of the World Series. It goes to show how much football has taken over baseball as the national pastime when the majority of people at a bar nowhere near Louisiana or Alabama were watching the LSU/Auburn game rather than the first game of the World Series.

"Pistol" Chris Stoll met us out, and proceeded to mack on as many ladies as possible. Despite over 40 crotch shots from last weekend still on her camera, Kate let Marc, John, and I take pictures with it again. That 40 is now closer to an 80. We also took some generally excellent group photos. I love ruining pictures. Hopefully Kate will send me some of the better ones and I'll post them for everyone's enjoyment.

Sunday, we got up at around 9 to go tailgate by Paul Brown Stadium before the Bengals/Steelers game. Nothing like carrying a full cooler several miles in 50-degree rain to make you hate Bengals fans. It turns out that Bengals fans are the natural extension of Ohio State fans. The only difference is that there is really no tradition with the Bengals (as you may recall, the Bengals were the losingest franchise in professional sports for about a 13-year period). It turns out Bengals fans hate the Steelers, as evidenced by the many homemade t-shirts available for sale by men with mustaches and women with mullets. My favorite one made reference to the "Shittsburgh Squeelers," which I guess is supposed to be some sort of total burn. I'm not exactly sure why calling the Steelers the "Squeelers" is a burn, though. I also saw more "Fuck Pittsburgh" t-shirts than I thought would (or should) have ever been made, including one on a kid who had to be about 8. It was then I remembered that only a couple hundred yards of water separates Cincinnati from Kentucky.

"Metal Health Will Drive You Mad"

It's Friday, and we all know what that means in my office: Hair Band Friday. Last night got pretty wild for a school night, so I'm still a bit ripped today. Tico and I were taking shots of SoCo like our last name was Joplin, and we were hanging out with these twins who were big fans of some of the motions we've filed. Unlike a lot of guys in this business, I didn't become a lawyer for the fame and money. When I started out, I was just writing motions for the love of writing motions. I never dreamed it would take me this far, and you know, as long as there are people out there who want to read the well-organized, succinct, and amazingly persuasive arguments I put on paper, I'll keep layin' 'em down. Currently I'm listening to 3 mix CDs I made for the legendary Hair Band Party back in aught-two at 503 N. Grant (aka the Ded Relm--yes, that's how it's spelled) in B-town. The only memories anyone has from that party are in picture form, if you know what I mean. Anyway, the last 3 songs blasting out of my CD player have been totally killer: Jackyl's fun-lovin' "Down On Me," Quiet Riot's fist-poundin' "Bang Your Head," and Slaughter's thought-provokin' "Fly to the Angels." Rock on. I just hope I can make it through the day without sobering up. Lord knows I can't perform when I'm sober and I have a big motion to write today.

So this weekend is looking like it will be a good one. Tonight will be low-key. Jester and I will probably just chill with the dog, and maybe watch a movie or just simply dance. Tomorrow morning, 'round about 6:30, Holt "The Pickles" Hedrick, Ian "Can't Stop Peein'" Taronji (a co-worker of mine and Holt's), and I will be heading over to Bloomington for the IU/Ohio State game. Ian went to Michigan, so this game will provide him the chance to root against his archrival in a much nicer setting than Ann Arbor or Columbus. As usual, this is the only biennial sellout for the Hoosiers, since OSU brings about 10-15,000 of their hideously obnoxious fans. If I told you that there's a fan base in the Big Ten with less class than Ohio State fans, I'd be blowing smoke up your ass, which is really a mutually non-beneficial exercise. For the most part, OSU fans are complete jackasses. There are obviously exceptions, but overall, these people are idiots -- the "purple stuff" to the rest of the Big Ten fans' Sunny D. I would like nothing more for Terry Hoeppner to lead the Hoosiers to their first victory over the Buckeyes since 1988, not only because it would put IU only a game away from their first bowl birth in 12 years, but also for the delightful possibility of holding that over the heads of everyone in my office for the next year ("Oh yeah, sure, I'd love to write that memo for you, and I would do it -- I really would -- but apparently your memory is smaller than your dick because you seem to have forgotten that my Hoosiers beat your Buckeyes. Booyah!!").

So then after the game, we're driving back, and then I'm heading down to Cincinnati, a city once nicknamed Porkopolis (seriously), to Marc "Mr. 1000" Wiescinski's new hizouse. Also coming down will be Jessie, Kate "Like a Lion's" Rohrer, Jenn "Still a Rookie" Weisgerber, and Harley "The Dog Who Cried Wolf" LeMar. I think I'll probably drink a beer while watching Game 1 of my dream World Series. Then on Sunday, the Bungles are playing the Steelers, and Kate's a big Steelers fan, so we're all going to go to a bar down there Sunday to watch some football. I just hope Kate doesn't get us maimed (like Buckeye fans, Bengals fans are generally extremely intelligent, well-spoken people when it comes to their love for their team). And I also hope we go to a bar that also shows the Bear/Ravens game, which is likely to end with a final score of 6-3 or 3-2.

Last night, Shocktober continued as Kim "Possible" Byrum and Casey "Did I Say I Wanted Extra" Mayo had several of us over for movie night. The list of attendees read like a who's who of Kim's non-work friends that live in Dayton, Kettering, and Springboro: Jamie "It Was Clear Black Night" Belanger, Amy "Just Hit the East Side of the LBC" Belanger, AC, Holt "These Hookers Lookin' So Hard They Straight Hit the Curb" Hedrick, Kate "So I Hooks a Left on 21 and Lewis" Rohrer, and myself. We watched the movie that showed the world the softer side of Cabrini Green, "Candyman." I had never seen it before. Honestly, it seemed to me like the Candyman himself was a misunderstood romantic more than anything else -- an artist who longed to make the world remember his work. Spilling the blood of innocents was merely a necessary stumbling block in his quest for love and recognition. Personally, I think the director really did a good job of making the viewer empathize with Candyman's plight. The director also did a good job of making sure that female breasts did not go unnoticed, whether it was Virginia Madsen's bountiful bosom covered with a dog-blood-soaked bra, Madsen gratuitously taking a bath, or that non-bra-wearing student Trevor was banging after Helen went crazy. All in all, I give it 5 Hands Up.


Damn, I almost forgot. So Jamie works with a guy named Tapan Buch (last named pronounced like a synonym for shrubbery or a certain brand of low-brow beer). While Jamie did not realize the extreme hilarity in this guy's name, Amy immediately picked up on it an could not contain her excitement, thus telling all of us. Surprisingly, Tapan is the business world and not the adult film industry, even though his actual name is undoubtedly better than any fake porn name he could dream up. My only hope is that this guy names his kids Shayvan, Trimin, Kockan, Dicken, Munchan, Phistin, or Luvtueet, but not Stankyass, Yeestee, Smellee, Punchan, or Harry, and certainly not George W. Have a pleasant weekend.

Astroberfest

Well, it happened. After being one out away from the World Series on Monday, only to give up what could have been a momentum-changing homerun to Albert Pujols, the Houston Astros made the St. Louis baseball Cardinals look like the old St. Louis football Cardinals last night. Where's Stump Mitchell when you need him? The Astros won the NL Pennant for the first time ever, and will be heading to Chicago to play the White Sox in the World Series. First off, I'd like to thank all of you out there who answered my plea to root for the Astros. Without your love and support, my dream World Series never would have been possible. It still hasn't quite sunk in.

Many of you have asked me who I will root for. That's like asking a man to choose only sex or football for the rest of his life. On one side, the prospect of never seeing a Super Bowl again is as painful as The Clap, and there's always the internet and Curel. On the other side, as Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell so eloquently stated, "ain't nothin' like the real thing, baby." So I choose both. For the next week and a half, I'll be having sex while watching football. I will be rooting just as hard for each team, and I will be happy no matter what happens. On one side, the Sox haven't won a World Series since 1917. On the other side, the Astros have never won a World Series, and this might be Jeff Bagwell and Craig Biggio's only chance. Basically, I'll root for whoever wins.

Here's how I see the advantages:

Starting Pitching: White Sox
This is a very slight edge for the Sox. The Sox had the 3rd best ERA in the majors during the regular season, while the Astros took 2nd place. Buehrle, Contreras, Garcia, and Garland have proven that they can rock the hizzie in the playoffs. They pitched in the ALCS with the bravado of a flamenco dancer and the soft charm of a Golden Girl. The Astros' staff is just as good, with the Big Three (Clemens, Pettitte and Oswalt) and Brandon Backe. Expect few mistakes, few runs, and a few laughs along the way.

Set-Up Men: Astros
This is another close one, but the advantage has to go to the Astros. Chad Qualls has established himself as one of the best set-up men in the game. Add Dan Wheeler, Mike Gallo, and Russ Springer, and it's a pretty tall task to get a run in between the starters and Lidge. The Sox set-up men aren't exactly chopped liver. Neal Cotts, Cliff Politte, and Damaso Marte were one of the best set-up combos in the AL, not to mention the fact that El Duque can come in at any point.

Closer: Astros
Brad Lidge could kill your mom. Bobby Jenks can and will eat your mom.

Hitting: White Sox
Top to bottom, the Sox hold a pretty solid advantage. They had seven players who hit 15 or more homeruns and eight who drove in at least 55 runs. The Astros, on the other hand, rely on their four big bats -- Lance Berkman, Craig Biggio, Morgan Ensberg, and Jason Lane -- who combined for 112 of Houston's 161 homeruns. The Sox finished 5th in the majors with 200 homeruns, while the Astros' 161 put them in the middle of the pack. In addition, the Astros finished near the bottom of the league in batting average. In a pinch, the Sox can count on anyone in their lineup to come through with a big hit. The same can't be said for the Astros.

Managers: Even
They both have heart. They both love small ball, but not small balls. They both played for the teams they're coaching. They're both player and fan favorites. They both make good decisions. They're both tigers in the sack.

Fans: Even
When the roof is closed, Minute Maid Park is the loudest stadium in baseball. Sox fans have been waiting for this for 88 years. Both Comiskey and Minute Maid will be electric. It's hard to think of two fan bases that want their team to win more than these two.

Intangibles: White Sox
Aside from the fact that both teams have 2 former Yankee pitchers who have been through the drama of a World Series, everyone on both teams is new to this. Both teams have been considered underdogs for the whole year (including the playoffs), despite the fact that they are both very good teams. The Astros are coming off of an emotional roller coaster of a series. The Sox beat the piss out of the Angels and have had a couple days off to rest and regroup. The Sox are firing on all cylinders this postseason, and seem to have the same shit-on-a-curse attitude as last year's Red Sox.

My Prediction:
This will be one of the best (i.e., closest) World Series in recent memory, marked by great pitching and opportunistic hitting. Don't expect any blowouts. No matter who wins, I would like it to go six games, so that the clinching game is on my birthday, which would therefore mean my birthday would always be associated with the end of futility for one of my favorite teams (and I can shake my birthday curse -- the 1929 stock market crash that started the Great Depression). But I have a feeling each team will have three wins after that sixth game. White Sox in seven. Or Astros in seven.

Chicagston Astrox or Houstago White Stros?

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"I've Got Dreams, Dreams to Remember"

Okay, so either all of my good karma was used up when the Astros got their 2nd out in the top of the 9th last night, or Albert Pujols is just a huge asshole.

On another note, anyone who knows me knows that I remember my dreams in great detail. While most of my dreams involve coeds and ever-so-delightful misunderstandings, many of my dreams are just plain weird. The first dream I really remember happened when I was 3 or 4. I was petrified of the Incredible Hulk, so sure enough, I had a dream where my parents go out to dinner and leave me at home alone. I was fine with that, since I was able to lie on the living room floor while smoking my pipe, wearing a fedora, and reading the Houston Chronicle. All was going well until I heard a rustling sound behind the couch. Out of nowhere, what seemed like hundreds of Incredible Hulks of all different shapes and colors come out of nowhere and pounce on me. Let that be a lesson to all those out there who think it's a good idea to read.

Weeks before January 1, 2000, when there was talk of the world ending, I had a dream that Jason "Wee Wee" Whitney, Jamie "Mountie" Belanger, possibly Kevin "Silent" Yeh, and I were at a huge New Years party. Everyone was having a great time. Champagne flutes were in hand as we counted down. When the countdown hit zero, it felt like I got punched in the stomach. Then everything went completely white, and it felt like I was on a huge drop on a roller coaster. All of a sudden, I look around and Wee Wee, Jamie, Yeh, and I are flying through the clouds on our way to heaven. Why, you ask? As Jamie explained, looking at me as we glided toward eternal salvation, "It's because we're good people."

More recently, I had a sweet dream where I was being held hostage in an abandoned factory by these hot chicks. I can only assume I was on the wrong end of a Charlie's Angels dream. Anyway, for some reason, the factory was in downtown LaGrange (Illinois--my hometown, for those who don't know). As I always try to do in dreams where I'm held hostage, I bided my time until the perfect chance to escape. It came when they left me alone for some reason (probably to go to the Starbucks across the street), or so I thought. I loosened my ropes, grabbed a spare gun, and headed out the door, only to come face-to-face with one of my worst nightmares: a hot chick with a revolver pointed at me. I drew my gun and fired some shots her way. Apparently she was quite handy with a revolver, unloading all six shots into my chest. Being a Democrat, I'm not familiar with how to handle a Glock, so while I unloaded my clip, I only landed a couple shots--enough to drop her to the ground, but not enough to kill her. I then ran (yes, ran) down the street to the hospital (which was also located in downtown LaGrange for some reason). People were staring at me, on account of the blood soaking through my shirt, but I wasn't too worried. You know why? As I ran to the hospital with six slugs in my chest, honest to God, I thought to myself, "Well, at least now I have something in common with 50 Cent."

Last night, the trend continued. In my dream, Jessie and I were driving along a tropical, yet mountainous, winding road, not unlike what you might see in Kauai, although I got the distinct impression that this was not Kauai. We were going to some sort of resort town where we planned to make a fresh start (I can only assume we were running from the law after we paid 2 homeless guys to fight to the death). It was peaceful and beautiful, not unlike Kauai. But something wasn't right. As we get into town, we hear this faint conch-like horn sound coming from the mountains, and everyone in the resort town goes inside. Confused, we look up to the mountains to see none other than a ton of Darth fucking Vaders creepin' out of the trees. No kidding. So we head on to the resort hotel (and casino), where apparently everyone in the town lived. Everyone had to go into the basement, which was several levels. When I inquired about the situation, I got a perfectly logical explanation: those Sith bastards would kill anyone above ground, but they were scared shitless to go underground. Hence, everyone hung out in the several underground floors of this luxurious hotel and casino after they heard the conch. It was like a combination of ABC's hit drama "Lost," M. Night Shyamalan's near miss, "The Village," and a bizarro H.G. Wells's "Time Machine." Luckily I woke up before Jessie yelled at me for losing $500 playing blackjack.

I'll keep you all apprised of any future dreams that you might find of interest, which I can only assume is all of them.

Fantasy Update:
-Corn Hole'ers (1976 Tampa Bay Bucs): 2-4 (7th of 8, 3 games back)
-FIC You (Car Ramrod): 1-5 (9th of 10, 4 games back)
-Glenview Gridiron (Angry Pirates): 5-0 (1st of 12, 2 games up)
-League of Extraordinary Gents (Angry Pirates): 3-3 (T 3rd of 10, 1 game back)
-Pigskin 2005 Pick 'Em (Angry Pirates): 5th out of 17 (1st this past week)

While I did win the week in Pick 'Em, leave it to Marc Bulger, the QB on my 5-0 team, to get injured. That's about right. Maybe that's when my good karma ran out. It was nice knowing you all.

Soxtoberfest, Pt. 2

If you would have told me in March that the White Sox would be in the World Series this year, I probably would have shat on you. Seriously. I would have held you down against your will and defecated on your forehead because I would have assumed that you were playing with my emotions for your own sick, demented personal pleasure. Well I'm sorry for doing that. Last night, the Sox became the first Chicago baseball team since the 1959 Go Go Sox to advance to the World Series, ensuring the first World Series since 1987 comprised solely of teams from the Central Time Zone. How about that starting pitching? 5 games, 44 1/3 innings, 4 complete games. Are you fist fucking me? Needless to say, I'm happier than a pit bull in a room full of sleeping babies. Holla. Here are some nice pictures: Paul Konerko and Jose Contreras pretending to be falcons, and the team celebrating the end of almost a half-century of broken dreams.


The rest of the weekend was a combination of joy and pain. What else what else? Sunshine and rain. Friday night was a great time, as we went to "NaviKate" Rohrer's company's 20th anniversary party. Those who joined me at the party read like a who's who of previous GMYH posts: Jessie "Feet of Fury" LeMar, Marc "Mr. 1000" Wiescinski, John "Stop Calling Me 'Hamburger Helper'" Ashcraft, and Holt "The Phone" Hedrick, as well as two newbies at my firm, Katie "My Dog is a Bull in a China Shop" Miltner and Adam "Happy, Not" Sadlowski. Marc, John, Jessie, and I walked to the party (which was located in Dayton's historic Oregon District, or The OD, as I like to call it). On the way there, we saw a sweet mobile molestation trailer parked in downtown Dayton, with some dude wearing a black short-sleeved button-down shirt who kept asking every passerby if they wanted to meet Snuffleupagus.

Despite the appeal of Snuffy, we ventured onto the party, which had everything we could have asked for and more: free beer, free pulled pork, a band, albino pumpkins, and one of those old-school carnival games where you hit the lever at the bottom with a huge mallet and try to get the little piece of metal to go all the way up the column and ring the bell (I got it on the first try--no big deal).

But what really made it memorable is that they hired two homeless guys to fight to the death for everyone's amusement. To the winner went an albino pumpkin. To the loser went a pauper's grave and salvation from a failed life. In one corner was Emil "The Grave Digger" Winston, a shifty and wily paranoid schizophrenic who claimed to have killed over a hundred "Russian pigs in the name of Her Royal Highness Queen Victoria" in the Crimean War with his "trusty rifle and bayonet," as he looked at a rusty shovel he carried around with him. In the other corner was Albert "The Urban Sasquatch" (last name unknown), a self-proclaimed polygamist with enough track marks to make Courtney Love look like Pat Boone. The last time he shaved was during the Reagan Administration. His weapons of choice were a shank fashioned from a broken shopping cart leg and an imaginary metal flail he swung vigilantly over his head.

The fight itself was somewhat of a disappointment. After repeatedly attempting to smite Emil with his flail, Albert was surprised that none of his swings connected with Emil. His surprise soon turned to hemorrhaging, as Emil shouted, "Long live the Queen, you orthodox Russian bastard!" and connected a devastating swing of his shovel with Albert's chin, knocking Albert to the ground and knocking the shank out of his non-flail hand. Still swinging his imaginary flail as he fell to the ground, Albert tried mightily to fight off the shovel blows Emil was raining down upon Albert's unprotected head. As Albert's blood spilled onto the once-pristine sidewalk (as seen faintly in the picture to the right), Emil quietly sang to himself, "God save our gracious Queen / Long live our noble Queen / God save the Queen. / Send her victorious / Happy and glorious / Long to reign over us / God save the Queen." Once the last signs of life had left Albert's putrid body, Emil raised his arms in victory to a chorus of boos from the crowd, who had hoped for fight that would last longer than 26 seconds.

After the fight, Emil was given his albino pumpkin and Albert's body was thrown into a nearby dumpster to a chorus of cheers from onlookers. I caught up with Emil and he had this to say, "I'm humbled that Her Majesty would bestow such an honor on me [looking at the albino pumpkin] for simply defending her crown against the tyranny of Russian oppressors. He had what could have been a very deadly flail, but the Tsar's medieval weaponry is no match for the rifles of Her Royal Highness's Royal Army." He then devoured the albino pumpkin and was later seen urinating on the hood of a Mercury Topaz.

After the carnage, we went to Adam's house (conveniently located next door to the party) for a quick celebratory beer before heading to the bars. Adam's bachelorhood was confirmed by the fact that his first two purchases after he got a job were a keg-o-rator and a big screen TV. Well done. His bachelorhood was further confirmed after he served beer out of a coffee pot. Well well done.

After Adam's house, most of us went to a bar, the Oregon Express (or The OE, as I like to call it). Kate kept making the mistake of letting Marc and I take pictures with her camera. Hence, she now has about 43 pictures of various crotches on her camera. Crotch pictures aside, the highlight of the trip to The OE went down like this: We were standing in the corner of the bar, and at a nearby pub table was a woman who was drunker than the Bush Twins on Sixth Street. This girl was leaving and entering consciousness, leaning over the table, barely propped up by who we assumed was her boyfriend. Then, apparently because he could, the boyfriend pulled down the woman's pants a bit to see if she was wearing any sexy panties (or so Jessie said). This did not sit well with Jessie. Rather than yell at the guy (which wouldn't be too far out of character for Jessie), she kicked the back of his bar stool, setting off a peristaltic chain reaction that resulted in the guy bumping into his girlfriend, thereby sending this poor woman barreling to the ground like a dying oak tree. The best part is that the guy had no idea that Jessie (or anyone) kicked his stool. I think he just thought someone walking by bumped into him. As you might imagine, I've never been so proud of my wife.

After that, most of what I did for the remainder of the weekend involved watching football and baseball, sleeping, and eating. With an Astros victory tonight, I will have used every possible speck of good karma I have available. With my untimely death a near certainty, I'd like to leave you with one request: please avenge my death. Every harm visited upon me I want to be visited upon my slayer tenfold. So help me God, tenfold.

Suck It Trebek

This is good enough for it's own post: a website with all 13 SNL Celebrity Jeopardy skits (http://www.smithappens.com/video_celebrityjeopardy.php). I have put the link in my Humor Links section on the right. Props to Greg Veeser for sending it to me. Have a good weekend.

"Nice Boys Don't Play Rock & Roll"

It's Hair Band Friday and I'm loose as a goose. I guess bonging Jack at 7:30 in the morning will do that to you. As I write this, my CD player is blasting out Bon Jovi's seminal "Slippery When Wet," G 'N' F'N' R's second album, "G 'N R Lies," and AC/DC's underrated "Powerage." It's not quite as wild as it was last week in here, but I'd be lying if I told you I hadn't banged at least two sets of triplets this morning. At once. And we had to take Vince to the hospital because he temporarily lost his sight after he took a shitload of speed and tried to review 1000 documents in an hour. That dude's crazy.

So the Astros won last night in what will hopefully be the last game in that lump of architectural dung called Busch Stadium. Roy Oswalt dominated the Cardinals to help the 'Stros even the series at 1-1. The Sox play tonight, and I'm not even going to touch the whole AJ Pierzynski/Doug Eddings/Josh Paul situation, except to say that if Paul didn't hear Eddings say "out," he should have tagged Pierzynski just in case, AJ made a heads-up play, and Eddings should change his third-strike mechanic from now on in order to avoid any confusion. Most of all, everyone needs to quit dwelling on it, since there are still a possible 5 more games in this series. Hopefully the Sox will win the next 3 and "the call" will be less of an issue. The Sox have historically played poorly in Anaheim's theme-park-themed excuse for a baseball stadium, but this year the Sox had the best road record in the majors. Something's gotta give. Go Go Sox!! Gut that monkey with a butterfly knife!!

The weekend is shaping up to be somewhat low-key, but a good time. Tonight, my lovely wife Jessie and I will be heading to "NaviKate" Rohrer's company's 10th anniversary party. It should be a gala event, with free food and free booze--a welcome, but lethal, combination. Marc "Mr. 1000" Wiescinski and John "Hamburger Helper" Ashcraft are coming up from Cincy for the festivities, and in doing so, increased the likelihood of me doing Jager Bombs tenfold. Again, welcome, but lethal.

IU plays at Iowa tomorrow. It should be interesting to see if the Hoosiers can play with the Hawkeyes in Iowa City. Blake "Danger" Powers has certainly been impressive at home, but needs to step it up on the road. All we need to do is go 2-4 in order for that elusive Motor City Bowl berth. Vroom vroom, muthatruckas!!

In other college football news, I hope USC drops 60 on Notre Dame. I'm sure I'm not the only one who hates Notre Dame more than AIDS, and I'm also sure I'm not the only one finds Notre Dame fans more annoying than Kathy Griffin. There are a couple Domers in my office, and they honestly think ND might blow USC out. This kind of idiocy is typical of ND fans, who usually think their team is MUCH better than it actually is. Apparently they don't understand how ridiculous USC's offense is. They average 640.4 yards per game. That's only a couple yards a game off the record set by the mind-numbing 1989 Houston Cougars' offense led by Heisman-winning QB Andre Ware and WR Manny Hazard (142 fucking receptions and 22 TDs) that once dropped 95 points on a post-death-penalty SMU team that I can only assume was comprised of one-legged, overweight, blind, deaf kids with Down Syndrome (too far?). Speaking of too far, what did Helen Keller's parents do to punish her? Put doorknobs on the walls and a plunger in the toilet. Why was Helen Keller's leg yellow? Because her dog was blind too. Why was Helen Keller's face burnt? Because she answered the iron (this one seems to be off, since Helen Keller was both blind and deaf and thus, would not have heard said phone ringing). I do like how her Wikipedia bio describes a young Helen as "spoiled" (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Helen_Keller). I certainly can't think of a more accurate description for a blind, deaf six-year-old. But I digress. Combine USC's offense with ND's passing defense (ranked 116th out of 119 in D-1), which is penetrated more frequently and forcefully than a pre-marriage Jenna Jameson at a cock party (if such parties exist and involve frequent and forceful penetration), and I'm looking for a 20+ point USC win.

On a final note, if you're going to a moving picture show this weekend, consider "Domino," the story of a hot young lesbian bounty hunter with nothing to lose and everything to prove, or "The Fog," a scare-a-minute thrill ride with banshees and such. Avid GMYH reader and former member of both the Beans and the Pythons, Greg "Weez" Veeser, had a hand in the production of both films, as an Editorial Assistant and Assistant to the Director, respectively.

Mr. 1000

***This is a fake biography. It is purely satirical and devoid of truth. Any names, places, events, etc. discussed in the following biography are not real and are purely coincidental to and have no connection whatsoever to any names, places, events, etc. that may exist in the real world.***

Defining moments come along every so often in a man's life: birth, first day of school, first BJ, college graduation, marriage, the 1000th visitor to GMYH. At least three of these things have happened to Marc Wiescinski.

Born in Oak Hill, West Virginia, in the heart of coal-mining country, in May 1977 at the hospital that was mere blocks from the all-night service station where Hank Williams was discovered dead in the back of a Cadillac only 24 years earlier, Marc was destined for greatness. His father, Cletus Jefferson Wiescinski ("CJ"), ran the local mine's general store, while his mother, Sally Mae Wiescinski was a teacher at the local K-12 school, where she taught all grades at one time. Marc's birth, Sally Mae's first, left her completely barren.

At an early age, Marc displayed an affinity for music, and was strongly encouraged by his parents to pursue his talent. CJ always used to say, "Boy, if you ain't got Hank Williams's soul in ya, I don't know who does." These types of references to reincarnation were not greeted well in Oak Hill, a town comprised of over 100% fundamentalist Christians. Nonetheless, the town folk let it slide if it meant hearing Marc play the jug and sing. Soon enough, it wasn't only the townspeople who noticed Marc's talents. Word started to spread, and before too long, legendary Steel Polecat Records A&R man Slim Lehart, known around West Virginia as "The Wheeling Cat," made an unannounced stop in Oak Hill for the annual Coal Carnival, at which Marc was the featured act.

Lehart recalled: "I had heard that Oak Hill had a kid that played the jug like Curly Owens, stomped his feet like Clarence "Brickhouse" Hatfield, and sang like Cooter Lee. Now the good Lord knows I don't believe in all that voodoo reincarnation hooey phooey, but I tell you what--I'll be damned if I wasn't lookin' at a six-year-old Hank Williams up on that stage."

With his parents' blessing, Marc signed with Lehart to be a part of the country and skiffle band, The Blazin' Bituminous Brothers. Comprised of the region's biggest up-and-coming young stars, The Blazin' Bituminous Brothers were Southwestern West Virginia's answer to Menudo. The year was 1983. It would be his first foray into music, but certainly not his last.

The Brothers were a smash, thanks heavily in part to the subject matter of their music. Songs like "Mine is Yours," "Wildcat Strike Shuffle," "A Scab is a Scab, But That Scab is My Dad," "Coal Miner's Daughter's Daughter," "My Canary Up and Died," and "Black Lung Boogie" spoke to the hearts and souls of Southwestern West Virginians like no one had ever done before. Their tours were legendary. If you can name a city, they probably played there. Ansted, Fayettsville, Iaeger, Pinesville, Welch, Williamson, and yes, even Beckley, to name a few. A particularly wild evening, though, would lead to changes that Marc never could have envisioned.

Marc's excesses eventually caught up with him on March 17, 1984. After a St. Patrick's Day show in Delbarton, Marc drank 15 cans of Tab and was found backstage licking Lik-M-Aid Cherry Fun Dip powder off of the exposed knee of a 9-year-old Delbartonian girl. Unfortunately for Marc, the girl's father had media connections, and the next day's headline in the Mingo County Times-Review read, "Delbarton Girl Nearly Raped and Murdered by Rock Star."

Marc was mortified, even though he had no idea what "raped" meant. CJ and Sally Mae took the news even harder. Sally Mae recalls, "We just had to get Marc away from that party lifestyle. We had looked the other way when it came to a lot of stuff: ice cream, Coke, Sprite, Root Beer, Mountain Dew, cookies, brownies, candy bars, and hookers--dozens of 'em. Enough was enough. We needed to make a fresh start somewhere else. And that's when CJ found out about a general store in Bay City that didn't have a manager."

CJ, Sally Mae, and Marc packed up their 1973 Chevy pick-up and left Oak Hill for Bay City, Michigan in the middle of the night on March 20, 1984, and they have not set foot in West Virginia since. CJ found a job managing the local 7-11, while Sally Mae, suprised to learn that a college degree was a requirement for teaching in the state of Michigan, enrolled in the local community college so that she could one day teach again.

It was in Bay City where Marc would discover a musical world outside skiffle and country. The transition, though, was not seemless. Marc was ridiculed on nearly a half-hourly basis for his rat tail and heavy drawl. It would be years before he would pronounce "wash" without an "r" in the middle. Those of his classmates that were not giving him wet willies, grundies, and Indian burns, though, turned Marc on to hard rock, death metal, punk, and hardcore rap.

In addition, Marc discovered the joys of television, something only seven families in West Virginia had, and motion pictures, somthing he had only dreamed of seeing before. He fell in love with the cyber-techno-drama, "Tron." Soon his life was consumed with Tron: Tron sheets, Tron blankets, Tron shoes, Tron shirts, Tron action figures. If it had to do with Tron, Marc had to have it.

It was this obession that would lead to tragedy. On the night of December 18, 1985, Sally Mae was at a local Meijer, searching for any sort of Tron-related gift to get for Marc for Christmas. She spotted a limited-edition Tron nightlight. It was the only one left, so she made a move to get it. She, however, was not the only one with her eye on that nightlight. Carol Childress, an out-of-work seamstress from nearby Saginaw, needed that nightlight for her son Ricky, and she would stop at nothing to get it. Sally Mae's drawn and quartered body was found in a dumpster outside a Farmer Jack grocery store in Flint. To this day, Marc refuses to use a nightlight, out of respect for Sally Mae.

At Bay City High School, he excelled both in and out of the classroom. His 3.5 GPA earned him a place in the National Honor Society, and his 14-2 record as a starting pitcher for the Rollers' baseball team earned him a scholarship to Michigan State University. Marc, however, turned down the scholarship to MSU after he was drafted in the 38th round of the Major League Baseball draft by the Cleveland Indians.

After several unsuccessful seasons in the minor leagues, Marc had slipped back into his old habits he learned on the road over a decade earlier in West Virginia. He was destitute, having spent nearly all of his money on booze, heroin, and high-priced call girls. Desperate to make ends meet, Marc was forced to turn to a dark, odorous place: gay porn. Using the pseudonym Slider Stevenson, Marc starred in several baseball-themed gay films, "Rounding Third and Heading for Hole," "Bat Boys," "Gayngels in the Outfield," the "Foul Balls" series, and of course, "Backdoor Slider," which earned him an AVN Award for Best Male Performance.

Broken, ashamed, and sore, Marc had made enough money that he decided to end his baseball and gay porn careers, and head to MSU to get his degree. It was in East Lansing where Marc would find the next of his life's passions: packaging engineering. Coasting through school in a record 5 semesters with a 4.0 GPA, Marc had no problem finding a job with the world's number one consumer goods company, Procter & Gamble. In yet another cruel twist of fate, though, Marc was not placed in Cincinnati, where the company's headquaters were located. Instead, he was placed at the Iams Company, which P&G had purchased a few years prior, in Dayton, Ohio, the birthplace of aviation.

After living in Dayton for a couple years and earning a living designing some of the most sought-after dog- and catfood packages in the world, Marc learned that the music bug is a tough one to swat. Taking the stage name Tron 3000, he teamed with John "$2 Dolla" Ashcraft (formerly of San Diego-based Sun Drubbas) and Andrew "Lysol" LeMar (formerly of the curling-themed Stone Throwaz) to form the Blue Gate Killas, Dayton's first successful hardcore rap group. After locking themselves in a Scottish castle for 3 months with nothing but recording equipment, 32 cases of Courvosier, and 45 pounds of Bahama Mama, the Killas enjoyed a period of extremely prolific song-writing and recording, the result of which was their debut double-album, "Five Inches of Limp Dick." Behind the Top-40 hits, "Zamoralized" (a staunch pro-condom song), the catchy "Ding Dong Bitch," and the fun-loving "FUPA Bitch" and "Angry Pirate," the album went quadruple platinum in the first six months. No song, however, was as popular as "Daugther Got Abducted," which spent an amazing 15 weeks at No. 1. The lyrics show exactly why is was so popular:

Verse 1 (Tron):
"Check it out, it's the Killas back up from the Gate
All the playas know Tron is the one dad's hate
I steal bitches like my last name was Rider
If you have a daughter, you better go and hide her
'Cause I'll take her out to dinner
And treat her real nice
You think that I'm a winner
Until I roll the dice

Chorus:
Uh oh! Your daughter got abducted
Uh oh! You never should have trusted
A man with no tan and a white Cadillac
Who told you by 12 he'd have your daughter back

(Tron, yelling in the background): $2 Dolla, tell that fool what he don't already know

Verse 2 ($2 Dolla):
The name's $2 Dolla and I play a lotta craps
Bitches think I'm crazy 'cause I don't take naps
But your punk ass is the one who should sleep with one eye open
'Cause I'll flash my guns and snatch your daughter like I was hopin'
We'll fly out to Vegas on the $2 Dolla Express
And I'll bet your daughter when my cash gets pressed
Now she's makin' purses out in Singapore
Makin' 12 cents a day, all because she's a whore

Chorus:
Uh oh! Your daughter got abducted
Uh oh! You never should have trusted
A man from Cali who rides like Sally
Who lost your daughter to an Asian man at Bally's

($2 Dolla, yelling in the background): Lysol, clean this man's motherfuckin' clock

Verse 3 (Lysol):
I came into this world with a chip on my shoulder
I'll take all of your daughters, even if their older
I'll make you think I'm the one she's gonna marry
When actually I'm gonna sell her to this guy I know named Gary
I can't help it if I didn't roll a seven
Next time you'll see your daughter will be in heaven
Until then, she'll have a pill stuck in her throat
Oh wait, that's my dick, I don't mean to gloat

Chorus:
Uh oh! Your daughter got abducted
Uh oh! You never should have trusted
A man with a tat of a lizard on his back
Who let some dude put your daughter in a sack

(Lysol, yelling in the background): Break 'em off some up in h'ya

(lengthy guitar solo)

Chorus (x2):
Uh oh! Your daughter got abducted
Uh oh! You never should have trusted
3 men from the 'ring who don't know how to sing
Who took your daughter from you, but you can't do a thing."

The Killas went on to sweep all major music awards in the rap categories in 2004 (shown here after taking home 5 Grammys). They are now working on their second album, due out in Spring 2006, tentatively titled, "As Deep As It Goes." The first single, "Pocket Fulla Pussy" is set for a December 2005 release.

Things have come full circle for Marc, who now resides in a 40-bedroom mansion in the Mt. Lookout neighborhood of Cincinnati. On October 12, 2005, while visiting the wildly popular weblog "Give Me Your Handrew," Marc realized that he was the 1000th visitor to the blog, thus earning him the opportunity to have his story told for all to see.

Bosses, Hosses, and Losses

So yesterday I learned that this coming Monday (10/17) is Bosses Day. Isn't every day Bosses Day? Isn't that kind of like having a White History Month?

Additionally, yesterday a surprise interview was sprung on me when someone else had to meet with a client or some shit like that. I don't do well unprepared and under intense pressure. I tend to forget what I'm legally allowed and not allowed to ask people. So the interviewee gets led to my office by the previous interviewer. I introduce myself, tell her to have a seat, close my door, and sit down at my desk. The conversation goes something like this:
Me: I gotta be honest, I haven't had much time to look over your resume, so I'm going to look it over briefly while you're in here.
Her: Okay.
[I stare intently at her resume without blinking or moving at all for 15 minutes. After that, I look up and smile]
Me: Very impressive resume. Top 5%, law review, president of the student bar asso--
[I stop mid-sentence and stare at her gut for a few seconds with a look of confusion.]
Me: I see you're carrying. Congratulations.
Her: Uh, I'm not pregnant.
Me: You sure? Looks like twins to me.
Her: Yeah, I'm pretty sure.
Me: Well, you might want to get it checked out just in case. Either way, it reminds me--we have great health benefits here and we just built our own exercise facility in the basement of the building. Although I gotta say, you'll probably be fired if you do get pregnant, especially with no ring on that finger. No one likes a leech. And it's not like your gettin' any younger. Anyway, let's move on.
Her: Yes, please, let's move on.
Me: What kind of last name is that? Frog? Kraut? Dego?
Her: Uh, it's Bulgarian.
Me: Ahh, a bohunk, eh? That's funny. We don't have any of those here, except for the cleaning staff of course. So you're probably some sort of fucked up bohunk religion, too?
Her: No, just Catholic.
Me: Okay okay, stop trying to press your old-world views on me. Alright, maybe you can answer this for me. My buddy and I were having a conversation, and he said that law school chicks are easier than undergrad chicks. I know I definitely fucked more in undergrad than I did in law school. Since you're obviously a lesbian, maybe you can give me an answer from both perspectives.
Her: I'm not a lesbian, and frankly, I'm a little bit uncomfortable with the questions you're asking. Can we just talk about what's on my resume?
Me: A case of the interview day jitters there Ellen? We've all had them. Want a nip of the hair of the dog?
[I pull out a flask, take a long swig, say "aaaahhhhh" really loudly, hold it out for her, and smile creepily while raising and lowering my eyebrows.]
Her: No thanks, I drove here, and plus, I really don't think it's appropriate to drink during an interview.
Me: Okay Carrie A. Nation, I get the hint, and while I'm very flattered, I'm also very married. And just to cut off your next question at the pass, no, we are not swingers. Let's move on. How do you think your experience working for a couple years in between undergrad and law school will help you as a lawyer? And so help me God, Lolita, if you say that you learned how to sleep your way to the top, this interview is over.
Her: Well, I was in sales, so I learned how to deal with many different kinds of people, and I learned that certain things please certain people while other things please others. I also learned how to make clients happy, not only by telling them what they want to hear, but also by making sure I could follow through on their requests.
Me: For shit's sake, were you in sales or hooking?
Her: What?!
Me: It's a simple question: were you a saleswoman or a hooker?
Her: Okay, this is getting ridiculous. Obviously I wasn't a hooker.
Me: Well you never know. Some guys prefer fatties. Moving on, I'm one of the younger associates you're interviewing with today. Is there anything you want to know about working here that you might not want to ask one of the partners?
Her: Yeah, what can I expect working here as a first-year associate?
Me: Well, I'd be lying if I said it's a walk in the park. Billables are 1900. You'll be working anywhere from 7 to 8 hours a day. You can have all the free pop you want. And you can pretty much take any day off you want as long as you send out an email that says you're going to be out of the office.
Her: That actually does sound like a walk in the park.
Me: You didn't let me finish. To get it that easy, you have to do 3 of the following 6 things in your first week: (1) kill a homeless man (not a woman--they're easy) with the firm's battle axe without getting caught; (2) go down on every partner, male or female, which I guess shouldn't be an issue for you; (3) go over to Thompson Hine and take a shit in the middle of the bathroom floor; (4) run a 4-minute mile; (5) wear only oversized diapers to work and drink only out of a formula bottle for a week; or (6) instead of speaking, you have to sing everything you say. If you can't do 3 of those things, then you're pretty much screwed because you have to pick up the slack for everyone who was able to do 3 of those things. We can pretty much count you out for the 4-minute mile, and it doesn't look like you're wily enough to kill a homeless man. Lord knows no one wants to see you in daipers, so warm up those vocals chords, relax that sphincter, and get used to sucking old dick and munching some hairy old poon.
Her: You are so fired. I'm going to tell your boss everything you've said and report you to the EEOC.
Me: Ah ah ah, sing it, don't say it.
Her: I'm outta here.
Me: Well, your time is up anyway. Thanks for coming in. Here's my card. Give me a call or email me if you have any questions about working here, and no question is off-limits. Seriously. Hmm, I just noticed that you went to IU undergrad and that you're from Chicago. We could have had a lot to talk about. Nice meeting you.
Her: Go to hell.

She walked out and headed straight for the elevators. Needless to say, I recommended that she be hired. Fiesty, doesn't take any shit, and a surefire instant starter on our firm rugby team, if such a team existed.

In more disturbing news, the Sox are down 1-0 to the Angels in the ALCS, which is obviously not a good thing. They certainly screwed up some opportunities. Podsednik not only got caught stealing, but then he royaly messed up what should have been a sacrifice bunt (and if he would have gotten it down, they could have scored the tying run on Dye's single a couple batters later). It's never a good idea to have AJ Pierzynski attempt a stolen base, but he did, and whoever was at bat messed up the hit-and-run. Rowand scorched what should have been a sac bunt to third base, which meant the runner was out at 2nd. Maybe the couple days off made the Sox lazy. Whatever it was, they need to pick it up tonight and get their first ever home win in the ALCS (seriously).

Astros/Cardinals start up tonight. Go 'Stros.

Lemme Holla at Ya

Well folks, we're getting dangerously close to GMYH visitor #1000. If you in fact are lucky #1000, please let me know, so that I can write a detailed, semi-accurate biography of your life and exploits. I will post in on the World Wide Web somehow.

Since I have very little to talk about today, I posted some more games under the games links on the right, courtesy of the Kilroy's Sports Bar website. The Widmer Bros. Beer Golf game is particularly addictive. My best score so far is a 50. Beat it. Seriously, do it.

Big game tonight for the White Sox as they kick off the ALCS at Comiskey. Coming off their first playoff series win since 1917, the South Side Hit Men need to go for the jugular of Disney's Los Angeles, California Angels of Anaheim, California Angels, who are coming off of about 4 hours of sleep after their win over the Yankees last night. As usual, as a Sox fan, I am wrought with a guarded optimism that only Chicago baseball fans can truly understand. As such, I cannot make any predictions, but only hope that the Sox continue to play well. Go Go Sox!!

Fantasy Update:
-Corn Hole'ers (1976 Tampa Bay Bucs): 1-4 (T 7th out of 8)
-FIC You (Car Ramrod): 1-4 (9th out of 10)
-Glenview Gridiron (Angry Pirates): 4-0 (1st out of 12)
-League of Extraordinary Gents (Angry Pirates): 3-2 (T 2nd out of 10)
-Pigskin 2005 Pick 'Em (Angry Pirates): 6th out of 17 (11th this past week)

If that gumpy mother bitch Peyton Manning doesn't throw for 300 yards and 3 TDs against the Rams this week, I will trade him, Marvin Harrison, and Reggie Wayne. For Car Ramrod, a 1-4 start is expected, since I start 3 Arizona Cardinals, but the 1976 Tampa Bay Bucs can only take so many shitty games from all three Colts (who have done about as good a job helping me defend my title as Dave Wannstedt has for Pitt's national title hopes).

Brother LeMar's Traveling Salvation Show

A Happy Thanksgiving to GMYH's Canadian readers, and a Happy Columbus Day to those of us who don't eat back bacon on a regular basis. I gotta tell you, I had a hell of a weekend, so get ready for a long post.

One of the main goals of today's post is to make all the IU grads who didn't come back for Homecoming more jealous than Purdue grads are of people with non-farming jobs. Hence, I will recap Friday night, Saturday during the day, and Saturday night in meticulous fashion. (I apologize in advance to those non-IU GMYH readers, but maybe you should have gone to IU.)

Friday Night
At approximately 6:03pm Eastern on Friday, my lovely wife Jesterio the Magnificent (light magic and card tricks at half the price of a regular magician), my half-insane dog Harley "Silent Puma" LeMar (note: "puma" in this instance is pronounced like Principal Skinner pronounces it, "pyuma"), and Holt "Give 'Em Hell" Hedrick headed out of Dayton to Bloomington, with hopes of arriving before the fortnight. We piled into my pimped out '91 Accord, Rhonda, and thanks to Holt's XM radio, we listened to the White Sox sweep the Red Sox with a "what, you think I sold 'em all?" win at Fenway, thus giving a massive FU to all the "experts" who predicted the Red Sox would win. It was a great start to a great weekend.

Upon our arrival in B-Town, we headed to my dad's new condo down there, which is currently completely empty, as he is trying to rent it out for a few years before he retires to it. Anyway, we plopped down our air mattresses and left the dog with my dad (who was also down for the game) while we headed out to the greatest bar on Earth, Nick's. By the time we got there it was too late for us to get a table to play Sink the Bis', but we had a good time anyway. A couple of Holt's buddies showed up and the 3 of them proceeded to do shots like they were the Bush twins.

Jester and I headed over to Kilroy's, the bar I spent the most time in as an undergrad. Walking out of Nick's, I saw none other than Todd "The Governor" Gard. We exchanged pleasantries and wished each other a happy birthday in a couple weeks (we're both Oct. 29 studs). Jessie and I continued to Fratroy's, where we were going to meet "Pistol" Chris Stoll and Mike "Manderson" Anderson. It was Pi Kapp central in there, with about 25-30 alumni getting ripped like the old days. The best part was that they had planted themselves in the area to the left when you walk in the front door. This strategy was both prescient and ingenious, not unlike Washington's battle strategy, since it avoided unnecessary carnage by preventing any need to go through the nightly clusterfuck that we all know and love as "The Birth Canal." As usual when you get 30 frat guys together, it was a drunkfest. Even though I was the oldest damn alum there, people were buying drinks for me, which is always nice. Highlights included everyone standing on the chairs and tables when "Living On a Prayer" came on the jukebox (see the excuse for a photo to the left) and hearing a group of Bengal fans singing the "Who Dey" Bengals fight song. When will people from Cincinnati realize that they have nothing to live for?

After a few drinks, Jessie and I headed over to the Bluebird to meet up with Holt and his buddies. Legendary local band Dave & Rae were playing to a packed house (the photo is not great, but yes, that is Rae). 32oz beers were flowing, hot chicks were dancing, and I was watching. My only complaint is that I wasn't there for their version of "Jack & Diane" when Dave says "trill" instead of "thrill." Holt's friends inexplicably left, and then after a few more songs, Jessie, Holt, and I headed next door to get some Rocket's pizza before calling it a night.

Saturday Day
I got up at 7:30 in hopes of being at the tailgate fields by 8, since the game started at 11. Of course Jessie and Holt were not as mentally or physically prepared as I was at that point, so we didn't get over there until about 8:45 or 9. Since it was Homecoming, the boys from PKP (who were paired with the lovely, yet predictably and noticeably absent, ladies of Chi Omega) rented out a huge tent in the corporate field, right next to the IU Credit Union. They hired Kilroy's to provide refreshments, since the rule is now that kegs at tailgates can only be served by 3rd parties. While I prefer to pump and pour my own beer, who am I to complain about free beer?

The alumni at the tailgate read like a who's who of guys who used to live in the same fraternity house as me: Jamie "Big Papi" Belanger, JR "Eehoc" Cohee, Kyle Miller "Time," Brian "Drunker Than You Are" Davidson, Nick "LeMar Didn't Know Until Saturday Night That I Have a Third Nipple" McCallum, Robby "DJ No Bose" Lewis, Jason "Kash Money Millionaire" Kashman, Tyler "I Hate Sarcasm" Kalachnik, Ryan "Romper" Room, and Scott "Life Has Finally Made Me a Little Less Cocky" Fankhauser. In addition, there was a plethora of younger alums to provide entertainment such as corn hole and tree climbing. As the music blared and sun broke through the clouds, my daily wish that I was still 21 returned.

Holt, Miller, and their friend Calvin went off to their seats. On their walk over to the game, they saw none other than Johnny Cougar rolling up to Memorial Stadium in his Range Rover. Unfortunately for them, Elaine was not accompanying The Coug. Cohee, Jamie, Jessie, Justin "Little" Hanig, and I later proceeded off to our seats. While we did not see any platinum-selling artists on our way in, we did see some dude that Jessie knows who gave me a free cheeseburger.
The game itself was excellent, with IU pulling away in the 2nd half for a resounding 36-13 win over the Fighting Zooks. In years past, the Hoosiers would have either eked out a close win or somehow found a way to lose a game like this. But alas, these Hoosiers are not the ones that the rest of the Big Ten has come to know and love. IU QB Blake "Max" Powers has already set IU's single season TD record with 18 in his first 5 games, surpassing none other than Pittsburgh Steelers wunderkind Antwaan Randle El, who tossed 17 in 1999. Redshirt freshman man-child WR James "Taller Than You Are" Hardy continues his quest for Big Ten Freshman of the Year, racking up another 110 yards and 2 TDs. It was nice to see Coach Hoeppner head into the student section to sing the fight song with the students after the victory.

After the game, Holt, Jamie, and I headed over to Assembly Hall to take a look at the new scoreboard. As you can see from this picture, they went for subtlety with this one. You put that thing up against Mothra, and I'm betting on the scoreboard. For you Illinois and Purdue fans, I also took a picture of IU's 5 NCAA championship banners, since I know you guys have never seen one.

Saturday Night
For dinner, Jessie, Holt, and I went to Macri's, where we enjoyed some college football and delicious sandwiches. Nothing quite like an Old Chicago sandwich from Macri's on a fall afternoon after an IU victory. Purdue lost at that glorified high school stadium they call Ross-Ade. So now, not only does Purdue's campus stink like a combination of chemicals, failure, burning metal, and women who eat too much pork, but Purdue also has a losing record (2-3, 0-2 in the Big Ten). Why the hell would anyone not wanting to kill themselves ever go there?

But I digress. We went back to my dad's place to freshen up for the evening. Holt and I then went to Ellettsville (for those non-IU people, Ellettsville is the town next to Bloomington), where one of Holt's friends lives. A group of 5 of us went to a local townie dive bar/restaurant ahead of another group of about 7 girlfriends/wives and relatives who were meeting us there. We get to this place, and I shit you not, the bouncer says, "Seven dollars." We all thought he was joking. After all, it's FUCKING ELLETTSVILLE, where $7 buys you a 2BR house. Then some other bouncer/bartender who looked like Bam Bam Bigalow with hair comes up and says, "Yep. Seven dollars. Duke Tomato is playing tonight" ("tomato" of course was pronounced "tomater"). So we had to pay $7 to sit and drink at this place and the band was still well over an hour from playing. Everyone else shows up and they don't get charged because they just say they're eating. This was more annoying than that same homeless guy you walk by every single day on your way to work. Even better, Holt and I left after a beer to go back and pick up Jessie and then go out in B-Town. On my way out, I said to the bouncer, "So I don't suppose there's any possibility of getting that $7 back since the band hasn't started playing." He of course said no, to which I replied, "Well, that was the best $10 beer I've ever had." He mumbled something along the lines of, "Keep walking, asshole." I chose to bite my tongue, since I'm positive he could have shot me with the gun that he keeps in his American-made pick-up truck.

Anywho, Jessie, Holt, and I went to Nick's. We got there in time to wait in line for a half-hour behind some band geeks (who wears a hat that says "Indiana Band Alumni"?) and some drunk meatheads. Upon our arrival into Nick's, we went to the new part upstairs where it was once again Pi Kapp central. Miller, his fiancé, and Cohee were anxiously awaiting our arrival at a table they snagged in the back corner, which was awesome because it was positioned such that there was very little traffic going by. Since Sink the Bismark calls to me like formula to an infant, I went to the bar and got a bucket and 2 pitchers. Our livers entered the kind bloosdhed only seen by the English at Bannockburn in the year of our Lord 1314. Only plastic cups were available, which meant that the skill level upped itself tremendously. Cohee, Miller, me, Holt, and later Calvin (clockwise) beat the piss out of each other. When it was all said and done, I sure as hell didn't like anyone of them, but I'll be damned if I didn't respect the hell out of each of them.

The most shocking and personally disappointing moment of the weekend occurred during our stay at Nick's. Somehow, despite knowing the guy for 7 years, living with the guy for a year, and giving him shit about anything and everything, I had no idea that Nick McCallum had a third nipple. A third fucking nipple! How did this slip past me? 3N, as he will now be called, did a hell of a job keeping this quiet until he was out of shit-giving range. Touché 3N, touché. I almost don't want to give him shit about it. But I will. For the rest of his life.

After Nick's, we sauntered over to the always sweaty Upstairs Pub. Luckily, on the stumble up the stairs, I realized I was too drunk for my previously planned AMF (for those who don't know what an AMF is, it's a blue drink served at Upstairs that has 8 shots in it, and appropriately stands for "Adios Mother Fucker"). Instead, Holt, Cohee, and I nursed a beer each before realizing that LaBamba was a necessity. On the walk to Bamba's, Jessie got a hot dog from the guy who's always outside of Kilroy's, which she followed up with a burrito. Well done, hon. Myself, I got a combo burrito for the first time, but not the last. While inside Bamba's, we saw some dude who had to be the human incarnation of the devil. You'll know him when you see him: shifty eyes, a goatee, cloven hooves, pitchfork. He was a spitting image.

Sunday
We left Bloomington around the time the first round of NFL games started, which meant that I didn't get the pleasure of witnessing the Bears losing to the Browns. However, on the drive back, we made a stop at the McDonald's in Martinsville. Yes, the very same McDonald's where on June 27, 1996, I witnessed the now-famous Lobstress (if you have no idea what I'm talking about, I'll save it for a "classic" post because it's a long story--suffice it to say that I saw a woman with lobster claws for hands).

We got home in time yesterday to see the 2nd 9 innings of the Astros/Braves dogfight. Good Lord, that was a hell of a game: 18 innings, 5 hours and 50 minutes, 42 players used, 120 at-bats, 14 pitchers used, 553 pitches thrown, 3 innings of relief for Roger Clemens, 2 grand slams, 1 walk-off home run. Does anyone else out there equate the Braves to the early '90s always-a-bridesmaid Buffalo Bills? For having won 14 division titles in a row, one World Series title in that span seems pretty pathetic. Then again, my 2 teams have won a total of 2 World Series and have won none during mine or my parents' lifetimes. Regardless, I'm shitting myself over the fact that both of my teams are in their respective LCS.

All in all, it was a hell of a weekend. My liver and kidneys have kindly asked me to take it easy this weekend. Kids--so adorable.