Landis Speaks

In an emotional press conference, Tour de France winner protests his innocence. I'd probably believe him more if he wasn't weeping one second and swinging a folding chair around his head like a baseball bat the next.

Seriously though, I do hope they find him innocent. This was one hell of an inspiring comeback, and for once, I'd like to see a sports hero win without the specter of steroids or some other form of performance enhancer looming in the background.

One of the sad results of last year's steroid hearings (along with McGwire's lame "I'm not here to talk about the past," Sosa's sudden inability to speak a word of english, and Rafael Palmiero's strident (and ultimately false) denials that he was a user) is that we look askew at anyone who achieves any degree of greatness and wonder whether he's juiced or not.

Just last week, I was with some guys who were talking about how Albert Pujols is on the juice, and it's only a matter of time before he's outed. I was his sole defender in the room, and still, a small part of me wondered whether I was just wasting my time defending yet another cheater.

Maybe I've become to jaded to enjoy sports, or perhaps I'm far too naive, because I want our athletes to come by their successes using God-given talent, hard work and drive, as opposed to dirty needles in a cramped bathroom stall, while hoping they can figure out how to evade the next round of testing.

In any case, right now a winner stands in front of the world, trying to maintain his innocence. Even if he succeeds, the taint will be with him for the rest of his life, coloring his actions, spreading doubt into the hearts of those who want to believe in him. In some ways, he's already lost.

Party Shuffle

I'm playing poker online and kind of bored at the moment (don't tell the feds--they're still looking for me after that little incident; I'd prefer not to talk about it right now, from what I hear, the statute of limitations is almost up). And don't worry, I claim all winnings on taxes (so far, it hasn't been much of an issue).

I saw this done here, and thought I would try something similar. So I have the i-Tunes up and here's the first ten songs in the party shuffle:

1. No Rolling Back - Jay Farrar
2. Sympathy for the Devil (live) - Jane's Addiction
3. Eyes on My Back - Joseph Arthur
4. Narc - Interpol
5. My Father's Waltz - Hem
6. Garden - Goober and the Peas
7. You Might Think - The Cars
8. Madness (Is All in the Mind) - Madness
9. What's the New Mary Jane? - The Beatles
10. Christ is My Hope - The Innocence Mission

I don't use the party shuffle enough; it's a pretty nice mix, and it certainly beats reading donkeys chatting with each other between hands.

I Am Superman and I Can Do Anything

Way back in '03, I sat through the Matrix Revolutions, wondering how I was going to get my money, and more importantly, my time back from that complete piece of garbage.

However, from my perspective, the movie did offer one revelation, if you will: after watching Neo and Agent Smith battle in the skies and throughout the city, I thought "Someone's going to make a kick ass Superman movie someday."

Fast forward to today. Superman Returns is out in theaters, and while I was right in one regard – it is impressive. Otherwise, I’m feeling a big pile of ambivalence about the movie.

For those of you who don’t know, the basic plot is after a mysterious five-year absence, Superman returns to Earth, discovering that the more things change, the more they stay the same. Lois Lane is winning a Pulitzer for her editorial “Why the World Doesn’t Need Superman.” Oh, and she’s raising a son and engaged to Perry White’s nephew, and associate editor at the Daily Planet. Lex Luthor is out of prison and he’s raiding the Fortress of Solitude for advanced technology, but he’s using it for a land swindle. And the world? Still needs saving.

This movie does a lot very well. I liked that Bryan Singer chose to make it a sequel to Superman II, effectively removing Superman III and IV from the picture, and using Richard Donner’s version of Superman as a springboard was a great choice, in that viewers are already somewhat familiar with the basic premise and story.

The action scenes, especially the plane rescue, are simply breathtaking. (If you get the chance, see it in 3-D; you’ll thank me later), and Brandon Routh, except for his propensity to pose like Gerorge Reeves in every scene, isn’t bad as Superman. (I was most concerned about him in the title roll – I originally thought he looked too pretty for the part).

But the movie brought a lot of negatives along with it as well. Kate Bosworth, while easy on the eyes, simply wasn’t very convincing as Lois; she failed to convince me that she had Lois’s steely character down. However, she’s still a step up from Margot Kidder’s gravelly voice rumbling “SUUUUPPPPEEERRMMANNN!!!” –shudder-

Superman Returns is also about 30 minutes too long; I’m pretty sure small scenes could have been cut. As it was, the movie screeches to a halt in several scenes and it has a lot of trouble recovering the lost momentum.

And then there’s the plot. I felt like there was a lot of been-been-there-done-that thrown into the movie, and I’m not sure why. Rehashed jokes from the original Superman movie included Superman reminding reporters that flying is still statistically safe and Parker Posey’s character repeating one of Miss Teschmacher’s jokes from the original. Plus, there’s the small problem that the plot is largely a rehash of the first movie, where Lex Luthor is going to kill millions in a land grab. Couldn’t they do better?

I’m thinking probably not. I’ve long suspected that Singer and his writing partners, Michael Dougherty and Dan Harris, don’t have many original ideas within themselves. Take their biggest recent venture, X-Men 2; the plot was a cross between Chris Claremont’s graphic novel God Loves, Man Kills and Star Trek 2: The Wrath of Kahn (watch the end of X2 and then watch the end of Star Trek 2 and tell me the end of X2 wasn’t a straight lift – I expected Patrick Stewart to start saying “Space, the final frontier . . .” in his ending voiceover). It worked, but I was a little disappointed, seeing that there was so much better material available to use.

So we get Superman Returns, which is basically a rehash of Superman: The Movie. I didn’t think it was bad, but I was disappointed that they chose to basically remake Superman instead of mining other parts of Superman’s rich 75-plus year history. There are other villains available – Brainiac, Mongol, Metallo, but they went with Luthor again (and apparently, there was a version of the script where Zod made an appearance, but Jude Law, who Singer wanted for the role, declined so they wrote him out). And lest I forget, the scene where Lois is on board the yacht and finds all of the wigs was also lifted straight from Star Trek 2.

I don’t mind homages; I don’t mind even incorporating elements from previous films, but I believe this could have been a better movie had the filmmakers chosen to go a different route.

In any case, while it's definitely not a great movie, it's not a bad one either. If you're looking for decent check-your-brain-in-at-the-door entertainment with a lot of truly impressive special effects, or you're a big fan of the Man of Steel, then Superman's well worth seeing.

Just be sure to block out lots of time.

My Man Otis

Is currently covering the World Series of Poker. Poker might not be your thing, but Otis is one hell of a writer and he offers first-rate coverage of the events. Click the link over in the sidebar to check it out.

Don't Forget to Duck!

Do you think the Busch Stadium ground crew was thrilled when they heard it was seat cushion night? I’m sure they didn’t think too much about it – at least until the Cardinals won the game in an ugly ninth inning. Soon the outfield and warning track was covered in a blanket of seat cushions.

I would have thrown mine, but I left it at our seats when David and I slipped down from our seats on Mt. Everest to some empty bleachers.

The contrast between the fans in the bleachers and the Top-of-the-World club couldn’t be greater. At the top, we were nestled between a gung-ho ex-Marine extolling the virtues of the Casino Queen (dude, while I like the Queen’s proximity to downtown, the place is one giant smoke-filled pit of –EV) and how pitchers shouldn’t be hitting and a bitchy Shirley Jones lookalike with a bruise on her foot that looked as if it was ready to blow at any moment. How did I see said bruise? After accusing us of stealing her seats and nearly tripped into everyone between her and her seat, she pulled off her high-heeled sandals and propped her dogs up on the seat in front of her. I know that’s certainly something I wanted to see. At least I wasn’t in one of the adjacent seats. No one drinks up there – the air’s too thin and drinking requires too much exertion at that height. The beer vendors had nearly forsaken us up there.

But the bleachers crowd – now that’s some local color. In the bleachers, the drinking starts with the opening of the gates and ends only when the beer man sings his sad, final last call. A woman sat nearby repeatedly sang the refrain of “Staying Alive”. Parents blanched as drunks cursed So Taguchi for a fielding error. Of course they apologized – we’re nothing if not polite in St. Louis – we just get a little emotional over the baseball. In the eighth inning, with the bullpen on the ropes, LaRussa pulled Looper and put in Izzy, and the fun began.

First the debates: “YES! – Go Izzy!”

“NOOOOOOO!!! Izzy sucks!”

“You suck cheesballs and drink Bud Light!!”

That shut him up good. I certainly didn’t know what to say, and I wasn’t even in the debate.

So Jason Isringhausen came up, trying to protect the Cardinals’ meager lead in the game. It’s important because leads are something the Cards haven’t seen too much of lately, and with the starters pitching batting practice, the hitters’ anemic bats and the bullpen’s willingness to let inherited runners cross the plate, the losing streak is starting to take on a life of its own. The tension in the stadium began mounting as everyone asked – which Izzy is it - the strike-throwing closer who fears no man, or the dude trying to figure out that whole strike zone thing?

Apparently, it was no-strike-zone Izzy, because he fell behind the count on each batter he faced, and that’s when this little observation hit: Jason Isringhausen may be the slowest working pitcher in all of baseball.

Between pitches, he stood on the mound, staring at the batter. Staring. Staring. Staring. He’d start to move . . . and throw to first. Then he’d stand on the mound. More standing. Glaciers slowly advance and recede over the continents. Izzy pitches. Waits. Waits. Waits. Sand wears the Sphinx down to nothing. He pitches. Another ball. At this point, I’ve convinced myself that they’re not using a stopwatch to time Izzy – they’re using an hourglass, and that might be too fast. I think I saw Duncan dust off the sundial.

After a brutal eighth, the Cardinals come up in the bottom of the ninth trailing by one run and the bottom of their order coming to bat. I was ready to leave, but a few things happened: Taguchi got on base. Bigbie hit a nice double (and man, was he flying), and the Indians pretty much handed the game to the Cards. (At least LaRussa pulled Izzy and had Spezio bat. I had visions of Izzy watching a pitch pass him, waiting, waiting, waiting and then swinging. Of course, this might let him hit the next pitch. Who knows?). And the hail of seat cushions flew forth.

I’m happy to see the losing streak end, but I think it was the best thing that could have happened to the team. No longer do we have to listen to ownership claim that this is a world-championship-caliber team. It’s pretty obvious that even if they win the pennant, some American League team is going to tee off on them. Hopefully, when the ownership group is busy selling off commemorative field-level seat cushions and the embers from the fire earlier in the season, they’ll remember that championship teams cost money to field, and after the taxpayers and fans have ponied up boatloads of money for them to get their new stadium, it’s only good manners to return the favor.

Be Careful What You Ask For

I've been watching a lot of Cardinals baseball this week. What can I say? I'm into torture. Nothing too painful, mind you, but still, I enjoy watching beat downs. However, one thing makes me cringe more than the bad baseball itself -- those Ford commercials with the dude who won American Idol.

Judging from that commercial, either the "talent" on the show this round was pretty damned miserable or he claimed the pity vote from America -- his scratchy voice and herky-jerky spasms across the stage must have triggered a wave of compassion unseen in this nation in many years . . . compassionate conservatism indeed.

In any case, does having him attempt to sing really sell Ford trucks? I seriously doubt vast numbers of teenage girls are watching Cardinals baseball games - or any baseball games for that matter, and I pretty sure that if you're in the truck-buying demographic: older than 20, needs a truck for some reason or another, then some prematurely gray-haired "singer" really isn't going to move too many trucks off the lot.

I think we're seeing one of the inherent problems of cross-promotion here: sure it helps getting your name out, and ultimately, no publicity is bad publicity. However, I can't help but think that this ad is going to cause nothing but backlash. Most guys I know of turn it off in annoyance -- if they're paying attention to commercials at all, and those who do let it sneak through their filters (either TiVO or personal) probably aren't going to run out and purchase a Ford. (Personally, it makes me want to run them off the road, which I did this morning - three times). And I can't imagine it's helping skippy's "career" (aka - three years of producing banal, soporific pop while basking in the glow of a nation's utter indifference).

In the end, I don't really have all the answers . . . or really, too many at all. Maybe this will sell more trucks and albums. Maybe Ford will continue it's decline. Maybe this dude will sing the greatest song ever and bring love and harmony to all God's children. Somehow I doubt it. I do know one thing, however, and that's when the screen fades to black and the commericals come up, I'm doing my part to help him - and Ford slide into irrelavence: I'm changing the channel.

Appalling

Generally, I don't like making this space too political. I have my views, just as I'm sure both my readers have theirs, and that's perfectly fine with me. However, one thing I will say right here: I've thought for a long time that despite any statements, truthful or otherwise, the most unforgiveable sin the administration has committed is the complete lack of planning and preparation for the war in Iraq. Read this (I found it here).

Like Lex said, if you don't find the story outrageous, you really can't claim to support the troops.

Duller Than Dirt

After suffering through a few minutes of Windfall last night, I decided that I'd probably be the most boring lottery winner ever. Granted, getting picked up by helicopters or buying small amusement parks for your kids is a fun way to use your winnings, but I'm guessing the second season (we should be so lucky) will be the winners going through bankruptcy court. Now that my annual foray into prime time network television has come and gone, it's time to turn off the TV for another three months.

Ten Books

A forum I lurk at (and sometimes post) posed a question: what are ten books you like and why do you like them? Not necessarily your favorite books, and they should be from different times in your life. I thought I would give it a shot. What ten books do you like and why? Here's my list:

1. Watership Down by Richard Adams– I read this every few years. I was in the seventh grade when I discovered Richard Adams’ tale of survival, friendship and courage – told from the perspective of rabbits. I scoffed when a teacher recommended it; I was nearly crying when I finished it. I love the stories, the language, and how Adams created a richly painted world that mirrors ours; one where all you need is friends to rely on, hope to carry you through the rough times and a place you can call home.
2. To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee – I wish she would have written more novels. I read this twice in high school and once a couple of years ago.
   
3. The Spy Who Came in From the Cold by John LeCarre– For me, LeCarre's best novels are about the old, burned out and bitter Cold Warriors – those who do the unspeakable so that we (the rest of the world) can sleep soundly in our beds. On the surface, Alec Leamas, the disgraced anti-hero of this novel, is sent back out “into the cold” for one final mission: bring down Mundt, his rival in the East German secret service. What always brings me back is how it’s so much more than a simple revenge story: we’re not so different from our foes, friendship and love have little place in the world of Cold War espionage, and there are no lengths a government won’t go to in order to protect its secrets.
4. The Lord of the Rings by JRR Tolkien – This one makes my “read every few years” list. I love that Tolkien created a living, vibrant world, where different cultures mix and, at times, clash. Granted, some of the characters are little more than cardboard cutouts and archetypes, but my favorite aspect of the story is how two simple farmers bring down the greatest evil in the world.
5. The Civil War by Shelby Foote – I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to read this series again, but if you want epic, there it is. Foote starts you from the beginning – you meet the key players, the political landscape and then the battles begin. The thing I enjoyed most about this series is that unlike many history books, Foote really brings the people alive; this history is like reading a novel (a very, very, very, very long novel).
6. Where the Red Fern Grows by Wilson Rawls – Recently, I noticed a copy of this at the bookstore; I picked it up and thumbed through it. I put it down when I started getting verklempt at the end, and tried running away before anyone noticed. Same reaction I had when I was 10. Darn sad books! If you can get through the end of this book without tearing up a bit, then I think you’re a rock, but this was one of my favorite books when I was growing up. I like books that cause strong emotional reactions, and this one does it in spades.
7. Shibumi by Trevanian – I like this book because I don’t really have to think too hard while reading it. The hero, Nicolai Hel, the world’s greatest assassin, lover, spelunker, and Go player, runs afoul of a monolithic corporation that essentially rules the world. All hell breaks loose. Damage is done. Revenge is sought. Everyone lives happily ever after. What’s not to like? The outrageous, larger-than-life characters make this book one of my favorites.
8. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams – Any book that answers the nagging question of life, the universe, and everything is all right with me. Any book that explains the myriad uses of a towel belongs on my bookshelf. The gleeful absurdity of the story reeled me in. Strangely enough, I still haven’t seen the movie.
9. Where The Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein – I remember pulling this out, running to my mother’s lap and getting her to read “I’m Being Eaten by a Boa Constrictor” time after time. Of course I was 22 at the time . . . not really, but giggling to the little poems in this book is one of my earliest memories and something that I treasure.
10. Chasm City by Alastair Reynolds – The key to great science fiction is to not focus on the physics, the kewl spaceships and the uber-powerful rayguns that can level cities, but to focus on the things that make a story great: the characters, the plot, the scene. I wish that more sci-fi writers (for both TV and written word) would remember that. Sure, you can throw in explanations for the cool doodads here and there, but give me a compelling mystery as told by a bodyguard seeking revenge for his (former) employer’s murder, and you have a pretty kick ass novel. This is the second, and my favorite, book in Reynolds’ Revelation Space series.

Mutant Explosion

When I saw the trailer, I figured we were either in for a train wreck or a pretty decent movie. Normally, I'd wait until video and banish it to my "movies that didn't suck as much as I thought they would" category, but since I'm nothing if not a dutiful geek (and therefore a completist), I saw me some X-Men: The Last Stand over the weekend.

I've always been fascinated by jugglers; I think it's amazing that someone can keep all those chainsaws in the air without dropping them, but there's a little part of me hoping that at some point, one will slip and we'll have a sight to see. This was my big problem with the movie: too many chainsaws in the air.

Just because we're different doesn't mean were not human. Love conquers all. If we stand together, there's nothing we can't accomplish. I love my gay -- errr, mutant son. Brett Ratner managed to set up each of these plotlines, and in fairness, he did resolve them. However, it wasn't very satisfying, since you needed a scorecard to keep track of all the characters running around. I was getting confused, and I read the comics for 15 years.

I don't really blame the director too much here: the action scenes were well done and fun to watch, but while Bryan Singer handles the character and plot development better than the action, Ratner definitely brings the big action to the screen well.

The basic plot: pharmaceutical company develops mutant "cure", so Magneto gets pissed and raises an army to slap the government around and announce that mutants aren't taking anymore crap from any humans. Meanwhile, the house of Xavier is a little shaky: the X-Men are now Storm, a withdrawn and depressed Cyclops, and the inexperienced Colossus, Rogue, Iceman and Shadowcat? Ariel? Sprite? Kitty Pryde? (They never really said her codename). I believe this would have made a serviceable and fairly satisfying film, but it looks like the studio made a few "suggestions" designed to set things up for future films.

So suddenly, we have Phoenix; we have Angel and his father, who developed the "cure"; we have Henry McCoy, the Beast. All these characters and plots zip around the screen and they come crashing together in the end in a rather unsatisfying explosion of CGI. Had they gone with fewer characters and one or two less plotlines, this would have been a much better movie.

But despite all this, I didn't hate the movie. It did move along well, and the action sequences were well done (Kitty vs. the Juggernaut is a definite highlight; in fact, Vinnie Jones as the Juggernaut was an inspired bit of casting); however, I believe that had Bryan Singer finished the trilogy as was originally planned, this would have been a better movie and a stronger conclusion to the series. But Singer was drawn off to make Superman Returns and Ratner, originally slated to make Superman, took his jobless ass and made X-Men.

So if you're looking for a good check-your-brain-in-at-the-door movie, X-Men is a fine choice. It's no Snakes on a Plane, but what is? If you liked the character-driven stuff from the other two X-Movies, consider yourself warned. And if you do see it, stick around until after the credits end. You'll thank me later.

Give Him the Heat, Ricky!

Jose Canseco has a new hobby.

I heard this on Jim Rome today; I almost wrecked the car I was laughing so hard. Imagine Jose Canseco with his 450+ major league home runs, marching up to the plate to face a 30-something accountant-pitcher bringing his blazing 60-mph heat. Oh yeah -- Canseco is using an aluminum bat.

The last thing some poor infielder is going to hear is PIIIINNNG!

Walking the Dog on a Night Like This

It’s May 1 and I’m wearing a stocking cap. I’m not sure if it’s going to help, but with the rain pouring down and a dog hopping around while crossing all four legs, I’m going outside. And my raincoat? The really good one that I use for camping trips? It’s doing a fine job keeping the trunk of my car dry.

Maybe an umbrella, you ask? Nope. I’ve long distrusted umbrellas, since those breezy college days, when winds would blow off the plains and rush between the campus buildings, creating little wind tunnels that would rip umbrellas from unsuspecting hands, or if you were prepared, the wind would just turn the umbrella inside out. Do this enough times and you don’t have an umbrella – you have a frame with little nylon tatters hanging from it. Mother Nature can be a real bitch sometimes.

So I open the door to the howling winds, preparing for a long, cold soak, and Trudy stares out the door, cocks her head and looks at me like I’ve lost my damn mind.

“Go out? In this? Are you crazy?” Her little brown eyes seemed to say.

I dragged her out of the house, because by God, if I’m getting soaked, then so is she.

We made it to the gate in my backyard before she stopped, took care of business in the yard, and started pulling me back to the house.

By this time, I’m looking around for the Four Horsemen, because this never happens and I’m thinking that the world is truly coming to an end. Trudy lives for the outdoors. She stares out the windows longingly. She loves sniffing at every blade of grass, every wayward leaf, every acorn or piece of trash on the streets (mainly she’s looking for food).

Lightning? No problem? Thunder? She’s stone deaf, so while I might be cringing and hoping the next blast of lightning isn’t aiming for me, she’s gleefully oblivious to me sparking like a roman candle. Wind? I could be blowing around the block like that cow in Twister (I can’t believe I actually watched it this weekend, and more importantly, I can’t believe I actually saw that piece of crap in the theaters – twice), and Trudy would be trying to take a dump in the crazy old man’s yard. She’s equally ignorant of plummeting temperatures and ice storms.

But a little rain, and she’s hauling ass back into the house.

Who knew? Maybe these smart pills are working (I know that fusion generator in the basement didn’t build itself and I sure didn’t do it. I’m not sure where she found the deuterium, and really, I don’t want to know). Maybe she’s just gaining wisdom with age.

All I know is that on a night where most sane people would be staying indoors keeping warm and dry, I was standing outside in a jacket and stocking cap, trying to coax a dog into staying outside to relieve herself.

Who needs the smart pills now?

Wanted:

• Female kickball player. Must be available this Sunday afternoon. Preferably someone who's not afraid to catch a large red rubber ball.
  
• Someone to remind me why I put up with this crap every freakin' spring.
  
• Something for my headache.
• Copious amounts of alcohol.
• Ten hours of sleep.
• More booze.
  

A Roof Spun from Gold

I believed this was going to be a total waste of time, but I figured what the hell -- give the guy a chance.

My fears were confirmed when he pulled up in a new Escalade, not a ladder in sight. After glancing briefly at my roof from the ground, he said, "You're missing a lot of shingles up there. You could start leaking any day now."

Uh-huh. And so it began.

I'm going to need some roof work on statley Brian Manor soon. As I've mentioned before, she's shedding shingles like crazy. According to the roofing contractor who actually climbed up on the roof and looked at it, Fortunately, all the old roofing material the previous owners left on the roof basically guarantee that it won't leak anytime soon, but it looks like crap. If I want to sell the house any time in the near future, I'm going to have to do something about it.

Meaning I got to visit with my new best friend. Jay strutted in, perfectly coiffed wearing a shiny leather jacket. Forgive me for stereotyping, but I want a roofing estimator to look like he actually stood sometime in the last 20 years with a hammer and roofing nails. I find that reassuring.

Jay started getting on my good side by commenting on my Indiana Jones DVDs that were out on the table - I'd been doing a little watching. He started talking about the good old days, watching Raiders and that one movie, with those guys, Monty . . . Python was it? The grail? Right! The Holy Grail.

Please. No self-respecting geek with an ounce of geek cred forgets about the Holy Grail. Nice try though.

But that's okay; I then heard about how his company is the most benevolent, kind, noble organization on earth. They rescue old ladies from the evil contractors. They remove kittens from trees. They save orphans. By the time he finished, I was crying. I wasn't worthy to be sitting in the presence of such magnamity.

Soon, it was time to talk turkey. He wasn't a salesman, and he hated it when sales people named a price, then cut it down in order to get the business. So a new roof would cost me . . . $22,000. But wait! They're offering $1,000 off as a special -- and another 15% since they buy so many shingles (apparently they're magic shingles, each one coated in gold and kissed by a fairy), and if I sign the paperwork tonight - right this very minute, he'll cut the price to a mere $13,000.

I didn't have the heart to tell him that the other bid I had, the one from the guy who actually walked up on the roof, was for around $3800. Needless to say, I know which bid I preferred.

My new best friend left, without a signed contract. For some reason, I had trouble pulling the trigger on a roof that would cost more than my car. At least the car has moving parts.

There are all sorts of predators in this world. Some say they'll do something and run away with your money. Others are nearly as bad -- they dazzle you with a long presentation and flummox you into signing your life away for a service that you can have at a fraction of the cost. Sadly, there are people who fall for the dog and pony show every day; that's why Jay was driving his shiny new Escalade around town.

What can I say? It sucks always being right. I closed the door and climbed up the stairs, chuckling all the while.

Milk Bones for Algernon

Some choose to celebrate holidays by quietly spending time with friends and family. Some choose to observe any religious obligations associated with said holiday. Some, on the other hand, have their own special way of observing these holidays. Take Trudy, my trusted canine companion, for instance.

She celebrates holidays by pooping in the house.

Trudy has always been a little shaky on the whole house training thing, but most of the time she gets it. Inside = bad; outside = okay. Sure we’ve had incidents over the last couple of years, but what relationship doesn’t have its ups and downs.

So this year, my dog celebrated Valentines’ Day, St. Patrick’s Day and Ash Wednesday by relieving herself in various rooms of my home. She also chose to do so for several days afterwards. She’s also been behaving more erratically, staring into corners, sleeping more frequently and generally acting more confused than normal.

I hit my limits after one particular post-Ash Wednesday session, where I spent an hour with some industrial strength cleaner on the rug in my sunroom upstairs. After a phone call to the vet, we determined that either Trudy is suffering from CCD (canine cognitive dysfunction – basically senility for dogs, or dumb dog syndrome as someone I know refers to it) or she’s losing control of herself.

So at the vet’s prompting, I started giving her some pills (smart dog pills!) that might alleviate the CCD. So far, no real changes, except that last night she pointed out that I forgot to carry the two in some calculus problems I was working out. It was a nice catch - that could have caused some trouble down the road.

If the pills don’t actually work, then it may be Trudy’s time. I can’t keep cleaning up after her, especially if I want to sell the house this year.

Trudy is a sweet dog, but she’s a difficult dog as well. She’s not particularly affectionate; she never plays and only acts happy to see me when I come home in the afternoons. She's also flatulent like you wouldn't believe. She can clear a room in six seconds. I’ve spent more money on inconclusive vet visits and kennel trips than I like to think about.

However, I also hate giving up on someone – even if she is a dog. I agreed to take care of her, and so it’s my responsibility to do so, even if she becomes an inconvenience. And, most importantly, she's still my friend.

Inconvenience or not, though, she may drive me to ulcers, especially if we have another argument like we did last night. I mean, come on, who really believes that given a little more time, McClellan could have revitalized the Army of the Potomac and beaten Lee? Smart dog pills, indeed.

The Blue and the Green

“Brian, there’s green and blue stuff all over your dryer!” Darcy’s disembodied voice floated up from the basement.

Coffee. That’s where my mind was. Needed to finish making coffee. Before bed, I set up the coffee pot, and at that moment, my head was buried in the pantry, trying to find more coffee.

“It’s all over my clothes. It looks like there was a crayon in there . . . oh. I might have had a crayon or two in one of my pockets,” her voice floated up at me again.

Found it. Mixed the grounds and sugar. Poured in the water. Set the timer. There. Now the counter needed wiping up. Clean kitchens are good.

“There’s a big glob of green crayon stuck to the side!”

Apparently, my plan to bury myself in kitchen cleaning and coffee making wasn’t going to pay off. I was going to have to face cold, hard reality – something that I haven’t wanted to do much lately. I’d like to sell my house this year, but I’m not sure it’s going to happen.

There’s a big hole in my kitchen ceiling, which I can’t fix until I get the corroded water line for the toilet replaced. I have a broken ceiling fan in the kitchen. The grass in the backyard is dead, but at least the weeds give some appearance of life. Once the weather turns warm, I’m going to replace most of the deck. But to keep things interesting, my house has decided that it could use a new roof as well.

As the roofer said, it probably won’t leak due to the inch of rotted crud under the shingles, but anytime there’s a good windstorm, my house sheds shingles like a Labrador sheds in the spring. I’m thinking this won’t encourage a potential buyer.

Needless to say, for me, the joy of homeownership was long ago replaced by a sort of bunker mentality: what’s going to blow up next? When I purchased the house, a friend said to me, “Congratulations on the best purchase you’ll ever make. And in getting the biggest pain in the ass you’ll ever have.” I laughed at him, charmingly naïve. Now I’m laughing at myself, cynicism fully restored.

But you learn from these tempests in teacups. Six months after I moved in, my roof started shedding shingles. I was convinced the whole house was broken; the next rainstorm would sweep the roof off the house and ruin everything. I found someone to fix it; he patched them up and no problem. (Until now, but I still needed to learn about finding competent contractors).

When I discovered my gutters had developed a new trick: they were pouring water into the house, as opposed to away from the house (there’s nothing more fun than seeing water trickling from an exterior wall), instead of losing my mind and pacing around like I’d forgotten my meds and the voices were getting a little too loud, I had them replaced along with the fascia.

Had it happened a few months ago, discovering that my dryer is now producing aqua-hued clothing would have caused me to pull out clumps of hair as I paced around fretting about it. Now, after deciding that ignoring/avoidance isn’t going to pay off, I needed to take a look. Hell, I might even be able to fix it. Right.

You learn; you adapt. Heck, I might even be growing up a little. But I’d still prefer to be playing a video game. Or sleeping. Or reading. Or just about anything else.

So I steeled my nerve and made my way to the basement, and sure enough – my dryer drum was looking rather cyanotic. Annoying? Yes. Insurmountable? Not really. Many bottles of cleaner, WD40 (it works! God bless the Internet – source of all knowledge), several rags and a roll of paper towels later, the drum only has a light blue tint. I’ll test-run it on an old towel tonight. The slightly blue-tinted drum adds character to an otherwise bland appliance.

Before I owned a house, I believed that outside of mowing the lawn once a week, I’d be living on easy street. Building equity, watching the house appreciate in value, collecting fat income tax returns. Easy living!

It’s not easy. Sometimes, it is a complete pain in the ass, but name one thing that’s important, fun and worthwhile that isn’t a pain in the ass occasionally. What’s that? You can’t? I know, because everything worth having is going to make you work for it.

So even though I sometimes consider dousing the first floor in gasoline, grabbing the dog and lighting a match, I fix the old place up, forgive it its faults and look forward to the day I can step into a new home . . . and deal with all of its daily catastrophes.

I Bought Into the Hype . . .

. . . and now I want my $40 back

Sometimes it sucks being right; there are times I take very little pleasure in it.

Last Saturday, I met Darcy at the mall; she was dress shopping, something I know we'd both be happier if I wasn't with her. So I met up with her by the Cheescake Factory, where she said she'd put us on the waiting list for a table.

Now, I've never been to the Cheescake Factory, and to be honest, I've never been too keen on going. I simply wasn't interested in the place; all I knew was that if I never set foot inside, my life wouldn't be any worse off than it was before.

But we were there, Darcy suggested it, and I said sure. So I arrived at the mall, freshly scrubbed and all worked out from my trip to the gym, only to discover that we had a 25-minute wait ahead of us.

Darcy had put our names on the list 30 minutes earlier.

So we joined the masses waiting to get into the place. So we wandered for a few minutes, and returned with ten minutes to spare. And we waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

About 20 minutes later, we learned we got to wait another 10 minutes - at least.

I understand a restaurant gets busy at lunchtime. I understand that people act with all the predictability of the Midwest weather. But I also know that you should take that into account, so people aren't waiting much longer than you say.

So we head off to our seats after our pager signals us. Our table? One small table along a long bench, where roughly 12 other tables had been placed. It looked like a cafeteria, and funny, with the overly-loud muzak and cheap plastic cups for water, it sure seemed like one.

Thumbing through our menu, I was overjoyed to see that I had to get through the bar and appetizer section before hitting the entres. Oh yeah --- there was also all the advertisements on every other page. Every. Other. Page.

Judging by the crowds I've generally seen at these restaurants, I can't imagine their hurting for cash. If they were a small mom-and-pop restaurant in Anytown, USA, I'd buy the need for ads in the menu, but not full-page color ads on glossy paper. And not for places that were NO LONGER IN BUSINESS!!! WTF? Honestly!

Our food arrived. A lunch salad was large enough to feed a family of sixteen. It was an okay salad; nothing to make me want to shake the chef's hand, but certainly not worth the $10 it cost.

However, the carrot cake I had for desert was quite tasty. I'll give them that.

We left, having two salads and two deserts - $40 poorer. I wanted to ask the hostess or manager for a kiss, since I generally enjoy kisses while being screwed.

In short, I have never, never seen a restaurant with less respect for the people shelling out the money to eat there. You wait for an insane length of time, only to sit and wait some more in an uncomfortable seat with all the privacy of a barracks while drinking in the painted on decor and thumbing through the ads in the menu.

As near as I can tell, their basic message is "Screw you; we're going to make you wait and you're going to like it." They bribe you with insane portions of food, but for me, that's not enough.

I'm dying to know how many people regularly go there -- and not under some form of obligation or duress (they have friends or family in from out of town who want to go; they need to use a gift card, etc.). I'm willing to bet the number isn't all that high.

Perhaps I'm out of touch, but I'd prefer going to a small, more quiet restaurant, with reasonable waits and less-than-indifferent service. I don't mind dropping money on a meal; I do mind if I feel as if I'm not getting my money's worth for the experience, and to me, a mountain of salad and an admittedly good desert for a nearly one-hour wait to sit in a crappy atmosphere isn't worth it one little bit.

Fitness Tips

After a nearly two-year hiatus, I decided it was time to take my tubby ass back to the gym. Something about running out of breath while climbing the stairs, feeling slow and the vision of me being buried in a piano box with two cranes as pallbearers didn’t seem like a good life choice. Besides, kickball’s around the corner, and I need to be ready.

And it’s good to see things haven’t changed much. I like consistency; it makes me feel safe and secure, so when I walk into the gym only to see the Beautiful people congregating, it feels like a sort of homecoming. Sadly, the only thing missing is the two guys standing in the corner, straddling each other while screaming “CMON!!! IT’S ALL YOU!!! YOU GOT IT!!!! GO GO GO!!!!” I’m pretty sure one of them was holding weights, but I was afraid to look too closely.

However, things have changed; maybe it’s the time of year – there’s a few new years’ resolution holdovers, younger people and new folks there. And these young’ns? They don’t know crap. So as the old salt, I figured I would take the liberty to give a little gym etiquette guide:

1. Stripping the weights is for pussies. The next guy’s there to work out, right? So why the fuck would you want to take your old weights off? He needs the exercise, so let him take his tubby ass up and remove all the plates you just slapped on the machine. He’ll thank you for it eventually.
2. Accessorize. Ladies, be sure to cake on an extra layer of makeup to go with the jewelry. That way, when you stand around in the humid room, it might not run as badly. Keep your purse with you too; you never know when it might come in handy, or you need to write down a phone number.
3. Attire. It’s all about the look. That’s why it’s important to wear a t-shirt saying something to the effect of “Macho”, “Pride”, or “Big Gunz”. Or, if you’re a real man and want to show it, go simple and find the Superman logo t-shirt. Your admirers will appreciate you that much more.
4. Socialize. The gym is fun. You should have fun, so feel free to sit on one of those handy seats and benches randomly set around the room and have yourself a good talk. Maybe while you’re discussing real estate, 401Ks, getting ripped the night before. The guy wanting to use your seat? Fuck him. You were there first.
5. Say it loud, say it proud. 100 lbs is a really good bench; especially if you’re doing reps. So be sure to let fly the soul-clearing scream while putting it up. You want people looking at you; the ladies will be coming over for a chat or maybe to pat your pecs. The guys, well, they’ll be hiding their heads in shame, sorry they ever set foot on YOUR gym floor.
6. Do I look like the maid? You’re in the zone. Sweat’s flying, you’re moving. If you were sweating any more, you’d have ducks swimming around you and people would be tossing coins at your feet. But you can’t stop. Even if you just used that dumbbell. Even though it just slid out of your hand due to the layer of sweat. Sweat dries eventually, especially if the next person comes along to pick up the weight. Gotta keep moving, get back into the zone . . .
7. I did it MY way, Byeeotch. America was founded by individualists; men and women who were bound and determined to make their own ways in life without some crusty old monarch in London telling them what to do. So you’re simply honoring America when you ignore the arrow telling you to walk clockwise. If it’s Tuesday it’s counter-clockwise day dammit!
8. Now that's what I call high quality H2O. A good workout means a big sweat. You want to replace that lost water, so you keep a gallon jug with you at all times. Good thing there’s all those drinking fountains around to refill the jug when you empty it. Those people in line behind you? Morons. They should’ve brought their own jugs.
9. I look good – real good. When you’re pumped up, you look like a god amongst men. That’s why you should stand in front of the mirror, blocking off all the free weights staring longingly at yourself. Because really, what can look better than you?
10. Patience is a virtue. You learned how to wait your turn when you were two (ideally), so when someone’s on the machine you want, stand right over him and stare until he gives it up. It’s your turn, dammit! Screw his slow old ass on the equipment. Asking to work in is for pussies, and that’s something you’re not.

So there you have it; a little help for you gym beginners. Working together, we can make the gym experience one that everyone can enjoy.

Progress?

While I'm annoyed that she chose to take care of business in the smallest and, perhaps, least ventilated room in the house, I can't help but be impressed that Trudy crapped in front of the toilet. At least she's has the right idea.

Ungrateful

I checked my pockets to make sure everything was in its place: cell phone, check; wallet, check; keys, in the ignition. I hadn't dropped anything, so I was awfully curious as to why the guy was jogging up to my car while waving frantically.

Somehow, I doubted he wanted to chat; when I held the door open for him as I walked out and he walked in, he didn't look at me or say anything ("Thank you" would have been nice, but what the hell). What would cause a grown man to hurry out of a bank gesturing urgently to a total stranger?

I was pretty sure he hadn't just finished robbing the place, since he'd only been in there for about 30 seconds, but just to be safe, I cracked the window as he walked up to see what he needed.

"You got a lighter?" he asked.

WTF? I mean, I hear nicotine cravings are a bitch, but he ran out to see if I could give him a light?

"No. Sorry," I said.

"How about in the car?"

To the best of my knowledge, most cars built in the past 5-6 years don't come with a built-in lighter. I have a very new-looking car.

Now, I'm willing to guess that he doesn't have a newer car, and I'm willing to guess that he's probably not the most observant soul on earth.

"No. I'm afraid not."

"I bet there's one in the car," he came back with.

"No -- there's not!"

"Oh." And he walked back towards the curb.

So let's see; he was a rude asshole when I held the door for him. Then when I didn't have a light for him, he was an even bigger prick. I was kind of pissed at this point, but I just rolled up the window while muttering a few choice words. People suck.

As I drove off, he stood on the curb, hunched over, intently studying one of the sidewalk lights on the curb. Maybe he was trying to figure out if he could light up off of that; maybe he was new to the whole electricity thing. Who knows?

All I know is it's bad form to act like a tool then expect people to bend over to assist you. I toyed with the idea of running his ass over and adding a little badly-needed depth to the gene pool, but deciding that might be considered murder, I headed back to work instead.

To the best of my knowledge, he's still looking for that light.