Why You're Here:

You've said to yourself, "beauty walks a razor's edge, someday I'll make it mine."

You've often thought about what it would have been like to drop acid with Groucho Marx.

You know that until you measure it, an electron is everywhere, and your mind reels at the implications.

You'd like to get drunk on the wine from my sweet, sweet mind grapes.

Sunday, May 31, 2009

What I Want to Get Across Regarding Eastern Philosophy and Quantum Physics

It began when I was in high school. My mom would cut out and give to me articles on quantum physics from magazines and newspapers. She bought me Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time. (Ooh!ooh!ooh! I get to tell you my favorite famous person sighting. Driving up a canyon just outside Aspen, Colorado, on a glorious summer day in 1996, I and my rag-tag band of merry men spot a group of people walking down the two-lane road toward us, one in a wheelchair...and damn if it isn't him! As we passed, I thought "Whoa...I was just inches away from the smartest dude on the planet...and I knew he was thinking the exact same thing!)

Anyway, back to the show. I never really knew then why she did this (though I do now, but that's a topic for another day), but I read the articles and did my best to get through the book. That was tough stuff and I was no scientist, but I recall taking away the feeling, the feeling that comes from thinking about what lies just beyond the edge of the ever-expanding universe, or what preceded the Big Bang.

Over the years, I continued to read articles and follow stories in the news about developments in the field, but it wasn't something I ever wanted to study. My brain just don't swing that way, academic-wise. But a desire to know, to understand, to have your brain's reach exceed its grasp? Yeah, I could dig that. Dig it the most.

So that's the start. I think I'm gonna parcel out the chronology over the course of several posts. All at once just wouldn't do. Which is appropriate: I wasn't gonna get familiar with quantum physics all at once. In fact, my paltry understanding has taken me years and years and years.

Where's the eastern philosophy part? Well, chronologically we're not there yet, but I will say my interest in and understanding of eastern philosophy--including but not limited to Tibetan and Japanese Buddhism--would not have occurred or been possible without quantum physics.

As a place-saver and appetite-whetter I'll leave you with the following: quantum physics and Buddhism are two sides of the same coin. Maybe on the surface that seems glib or even obvious, maybe not. But the implications...oh, the implications! See, that's the business end of things as far as I'm concerned: the meaning of objectivity, how it may not be any different from subjectivity, the interconnectedness of all things, our ability to influence the world around us in ways we dimly understand, how we communicate and understand each other....you know, stuff like that, that's what I want to talk about.

Learning about and thinking about this stuff has changed how I see the world and changed it for the better. That's why I want to share it with you. It's taken me years, and many books and many hours, but I think I can provide you a shortcut, because I've reached a point where I should be able to squeeze all this stuff out of my brain and direct it through my fingertips. I'm well aware there's more than a wee bit of hubris involved in such an undertaking. But that's how my brain works best--analyzing, understanding and then synthesizing information. The synthesis part, that's what I like best and it's what I think will be of interest to you.

That's how I do--I come correct with conclusions hot and fresh out the kitchen.

Stay tuned to this space because it's high time for a chautauqua.
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Friday, May 29, 2009

Time For Some Live Music

There was a time when I was johnny-on-the-spot when it came to seeing live music--both bands I knew and liked as well as up-and-comers I was curious to check out. Sadly, the last live music I can remember was Radiohead at the Hollywood Bowl (last summer?), and that was due to a friend's largesse.



Before that...I have no idea.

Which brings me to this upcoming Sunday. On the strength of a short review in The New Yorker of the band and its most recent album, I picked up a ticket on Craigslist to see Brooklyn natives Grizzly Bear play a sold out show at the Music Hall of Williamsburg. Well, that review and then a blog review that started off this way, "Reviewing a Grizzly Bear album is not the same as reviewing any other album." Are you kidding me? That is the most pretentious fucking thing I've ever heard! I read no further out of principle, or disgust, or I dunno what, but I have to admit it really pinned the needle in the red on my intrigue meter.

It's been a long time since I've seen a band without having heard a single note. I must say, this fact quite excites me. And I can't wait to descend into the belly of the beast to see this hipster-beloved band playing a triumphant hometown show mere days after releasing a new album to rave reviews. In Williamsburg no less, the literal ground zero of the HD nation. My head might explode if I'm not careful.

For the curious among you who haven't heard them (and clearly don't wear super-skinny jeans and unreasonable amounts of purple and turquoise), here they are on Letterman playing a song from their last album:


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Thursday, May 28, 2009

Can You Tell Me How To Get....

How To Get To Sesame Street?



Happy 40th birthday to the enduring spawn of the Children's Television Workshop.

When it comes to learning how to count, how can you possibly beat tripped-out early 70s animation, steel drums, and the Pointer Sisters? Answer: you fucking can't.



This post was brought to you by the letters L and O and the number 7.

UPDATE! I'd be remiss if I tossed up some SS links and didn't give you this one. I don't care if you've seen it. Watch it again.


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Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Anecdotal Evidence

Is there anything it can't prove? Like basketball teams with inferior talent should always use the full-court press? Oh, Malcolm, sometimes you're too clever for your own good!

Anyway, I'm making this post to say I've gone 3 and a half weeks without a cigarette. This time without the help of the patch. And I've got to admit, the driving force behind this solid, albeit short-lived, accomplishment is the ludicrously high price of cigarettes in New York City. In my weaker moments I snap out of it and think "Ten bucks!?!?!" I love me some Parliament Lights, make no mistake. But F that noise. So I will concede that my experience anecdotally supports the effectiveness of sin taxes, however regressive (and just plain no fun) such taxes might be.

But even in the face of such a concession, I will continue to laugh in your face--heartily and with abandon--if you try to prove a point to me by telling me "yeah, but the same thing happened to me that one time." Seriously. Shut up. And peer review your shit before you come at me like that. Refer to a respected journal. Hell, tell me what you saw on Animal Planet while waiting at the veterinarian's office. Just don't tell me what happened to you! That's a fact, Jack!

But just like the man in the big suit sang:

Facts are simple and facts are straight
Facts are lazy and facts are late
Facts all come with points of view
Facts don't do what I want them to
Facts just twist the truth around
Facts are living turned inside out
Facts are getting the best of them
Facts are nothing on the face of things
Facts don't stain the furniture
Facts go out and slam the door
Facts are written all over your face
Facts continue to change their shape

(check out this pre-big suit, super-funky 1980 live version complete with backup soul singers and Adrian Belew wailing away on guitar)
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Thursday, May 21, 2009

And Another Thing...

Film festivals, revival houses. This is just the sort of thing I was looking forward to when I moved here. I think I'll be able to see 6 of them.
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Wednesday, May 20, 2009

It's Business Time

Ok, sportsfans, I'm running out of silly shit on which to pontificate here...no, that's not true--I'll never run out! That's what pumps through my veins, weekly, monthly and yearly til them dumb motherfuckers see clearly. I simply mean that I'm pussyfooting around because I started this blog with 3 very specific intentions:

(1) keeping my friends up to date with things I'm doing and stuff that interests me (this is the easy one, as the past month shows);

(2) dragging my demons from out of the shadows, facing them down, and then sending them on their way (about which today's post marks the beginning);

(3) making sense of the wild thoughts in my head concerning political philosophy, human nature, our place in the universe and the evolution of consciousness (this one is beyond the scope of today's post).

At first I thought it would just be 1 and 3, but in the last few months before I moved to New York people close to me told me I had given them no insight into why I was moving. This begged the larger question: "John, why don't you ever tell anybody what you're thinking?" Upon introspection, I realized that my failure to communicate was making my friends worry about me. If I don't provide information, they are left to fill in the gaps, which is just bad for everybody involved. And I thank those who were brave enough to express their concern and demand some answers from me.

Now, much of what I want to say about my decision to move to New York City is tied up in my relationship with my wife of 5 years (and partner for 10), Jennifer. She was here for a year before I moved. I plan to speak about this aspect of my decision in this space, but anything I would say I'd want to run by her first because this space is public. So it will have to wait for now.


That said, there were many reasons for moving here beyond my marriage. But let's get something straight before I go any further. My love for Los Angeles and Southern California is IMMENSE. It will never waver and it will never recede. It is my home and it is who I am. Los Angeles is the cauldron in which I was forged. Sun, space, food, ideas, ocean, mountains, desert, cars, asphalt, palm trees. The space shuttle lands in our desert and the entire city is the backlot for the world's entertainment. I'll always be the 10 year old boy forced to learn about losing when the Celtics beat the Lakers in 1984. I'll always be the 14 year old boy jumping up and down in the living room as Gibson's homer disappears into the night. I'll always be the 18 year old boy, bronzed and carefree, bodysurfing at Zuma 7. I'll always be the man running full speed up the pitch, taking that perfect cross from Ian, bouncing it off his chest and blasting a full-volley shot into the net on a beautiful Santa Monica Sunday afternoon. I'll always be the man shooting the shit on a warm night, laughing with his friends and relishing making them laugh.

Still, the siren call of the world's capital has haunted me for years. I can recall reading children's books set here and wondering what it might be like. Parks in the middle of a city, people living in tall buildings, not houses with lawns and backyards. Stamped in my memory are brief visits to Manhattan in 1986 and 1988. An alien scale, a place so old, the motion, the sounds...so unlike home, crackling with a different energy that made me curious and more than a little scared. I grew up knowing that athletes who played in New York City faced a higher level of scrutiny and were also paid more money. Why was this the case? What was it about this place? I also knew one day I would have to find out for myself.

That's the stuff that's easy to admit and easier to explain, despite the fact I've never told anybody that, including Jenn. What's harder to admit is that my life has been stuck, stagnating, while I've been mired in a years-long depression that I've only just begun to climb out of. Put simply, and to use a well-worn cliche, I needed a change of scenery. New people, new experiences. I need to feed my brain new stuff. I need to etch new and different gooves into a clean, unmarked surface. Relocation as electroshock therapy, if you will. And I'm ready to dabble in alchemy, too. By immersing what was forged in Los Angeles into this reeking, shrieking, alien environment I hope to emerge different than before, burning away the waste and augmenting what was already strong.

Well my ship's been split to splinters and it's sinking fast
I'm drownin' in the poison, got no future, got no past
But my heart is not weary, it's light and it's free
I've got nothin' but affection for all those who've sailed with me

Everybody movin' if they ain't already there
Everybody got to move somewhere
Stick with me baby, stick with me anyhow
Things should start to get interesting right about now

--"Mississippi," from Love And Theft, with two alternate versions on Tell Tale Signs, The Bootleg Series Vol. 8

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Monday, May 18, 2009

Breakfast For Dinner

I love it. Always have, always will (r.i.p., Florent). Might even have it for a last meal if I'm ever staring down Ol' Sparky. Not necessarily the Grand Slam pictured there, but you get the idea.

Anyway, I just made eggs, toast and veggie breakfast sausages. Jenn's a vegetarian, so that pretty much makes me a vegetarian, (at home, anyway) but I will admit when there is a standout item. So standout in fact, it prompted me to throw words at the computer to tell you about them faux sausages--damn if they aren't better than the real thing (not counting, of course, the sausage in a sausage mcmuffin with egg. I mean, c'mon).

Also, I had to post to tell the world that Breakfast For Dinner would be a great name for a wimpy indie band from Portland.

One day, Breakfast For Dinner might even open for Melty Re-Freeze & The Bright White Lights. You never know...
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Thursday, May 14, 2009

Burgertime! Five Guys Update


This update addresses my concerns about the bun at Five Guys.

Today I had another cheeseburger, but I didn't order fries. I just wasn't that hungry. Turns out, this decision largely solved the bun problem.

Last time, I ate a bunch of fries first, because I like to judge them at their hottest. But I kept on eating, and didn't think about what was happening to the foil-wrapped burger. Well, duh, it was getting soggy.

This time I tore straight into the burger and the bun was much better. Not good, but it didn't detract. I found myself thinking this is a fair substitute for Fatburger. Which is high praise, because I'll go through alternating periods where I think In 'N' Out and then Fatburger is the pope of Burgertown.

Bottom line: next time I need someone to go with me so I can get summadem fries!
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Then & Now (Handbasket Edition)

That was then







This is now









It makes Baby Jesus cry tears of rage.
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Aw, man (for my people in Los Angeles)

How am I just finding out about this place now?

I hope I remember to check this place out on my first trip back.

Schafler, I expect a report on this place in my inbox in the near future!
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Wednesday, May 13, 2009

An Unimportant Message From the Grammar Police

I am a member of the grammar police, though I don't work that beat as much as I used to.

However, there are two tiny things I take issue with these days. One is, I suppose, a matter of preference, but the other is a matter of right or wrong. Or is it the other way around? Oh hell, what I'm telling you is right, what you've been doing is wrong. Got it? Good.

First, "suffice to say." That's how I say it, and that's how it is. It means "it is sufficient to say." "Suffice it to say" remains acceptable, as do "suffices to say" and "it is suffice to say," but they're not as good and possibly even wrong. Why? Think about the only time anybody ever uses the word "suffice" other than the phrase we're talking about, e.g.: "No, John, you don't need to eat eight fish tacos, I think seven will suffice." Clearly, you could replace "suffice" there with "be sufficient."

Therefore, the "suffice it" construction would never make sense--you'd be saying "sufficient it to say" instead of "it is sufficient to say." That's just unnecessary and stupid. "Suffices" makes no sense either (you're gonna have to take my word for it, I'm boring myself trying to think how to explain why).

Bottom line: because the phrase is shorthand, let's start using the shortest version: "suffice to say." Anybody looks at you funny, tell them they're stupid and send them to me for reeducation.

Second, "per usual." That's right. You're saying to yourself, "Where's the 'as'?" It's right where it belongs--anywhere but in this phrase. "As usual" really means the same as "per usual." (Actually, in this context "per" means "according to" so I think "as usual" makes much more sense, but I'll permit "per usual.")

So, do you really mean to be saying "business as according to usual?" No, you don't. Do I care that Merriam-Webster dates "as per usual" back to 1782? No, I don't. Back then people capitalized words when they felt like it and even spelled words however they wanted. Do you want to return to such anarchy? I know I don't!

Bottom line: as above, why make something longer when it doesn't need to be? Remember, just because something is widely used doesn't mean it makes sense. Don't give in to laziness and apathy and herd mentality thinking!

Suffice to say, as usual, I hope you've enjoyed this probably pointless and definitely pedantic post. And if you liked this, you'll love my upcoming takedown of people who say "less" when they should say "fewer," followed by my investigation to find out who's behind the disappearing "r" in February.

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Monday, May 11, 2009

Lest I forget

The Ice Cream Man origin also includes this dude and his state of mind:

















The Ice Cream Kid has grown up (a bit). But that don't mean he's stopped seeking moments of pure, no-mind joy and laughter. Nothing beats a self-inflicted ice cream cone to the forehead.

Trust me.
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Whatever you want from me

Whatever you want I'll do



Try to be more aware, try to be more right there



Try to be less uptight, try to be more aware
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Sunday, May 10, 2009

Boldly go...


...to the theater and see Star Trek.*

It is, without doubt, the best adaptation/update/reboot of beloved characters & stories I've ever seen. It was so good it brought me to tears. Not so much anything in the movie, but the fact that the people involved pulled this off so well. It was clear in every way that they cared so much to get it right--to respect what we loved while at the same time reinvigorating the universe in which it takes place.

I watched a lot of Star Trek growing up, from ages 10 to 18. This was back before "irony," you see. Back then, we took green-skinned latex-headed aliens on flimsy sets seriously--not because they looked real, but because we knew that our willing suspension of disbelief** opened a door onto a realm of understanding and entertainment that would otherwise be inaccessible. The show communicated a powerful message: we can achieve cooperation and understanding--across differences both earthly and otherworldly--through exploration, curiosity and open-mindedness.

What was the secret? The messengers: the characters Kirk, Spock & Bones, and to a lesser extent Uhura, Chekhov and Sulu. Their views at times were in direct opposition but they shared the same goal and they always found a way to achieve it. As a result, their love for each other was deep and abiding, earned through shared experiences--sometimes difficult and often mind-expanding.

For those who know me, I'd say that explains the bonds between me and my closest friends. So yeah, Star Trek left a helluva mark on me. Big ups to Gene Roddenberry.

I guess you could say I had a lot at stake walking into that theater. Upon walking out, the memories flooded back. More important, the full import of those years and those episodes and those characters struck me, and deeply.

J.J. Abrams and Co. understand this too, and I thank them for this kick-ass labor of love.


*What? You thought I was above such cheap jokes? Ha! They are the coin of the realm here, my friends. Well-worked metaphors and even bad puns are an indulgence only allowed the insane and the profane.

**In case you were wondering, yes, this is the greatest turn of phrase in the English language.

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Friday, May 8, 2009

It is and It isn't

A big deal, that is.

50 game suspension is about a third of the season. That's a lot of games. That is a big deal. He's by far the biggest star to get popped for PEDs. That's a huge deal. And ESPN gets on its knees for all things Boston, so for them this is like a hot-white-girl-disappearance-for-cable-news big deal.

But ESPN projects (statistically) a minimal effect on the Dodgers' wins total and chance of winning the division.

Assuming that's the case, Ethier and Kemp will have 50 games to show that Manny's presence isn't the reason they're about to fulfill the potential the front office and the fans have seen.

Manny will benefit from getting a "Shaqation," the mid-season stretch of games missed that helps keep an aging superstar fresh for the stretch run. Granted, Manny's is not the result of surgery postponed specifically to ensure such a rest, or injuries resulting from subpar fitness, but still.

More important, Manny will return ready to kill. If last season's post-trade tear was any indication, his desire to prove all doubters and naysayers wrong will be scary (that's me trying to get in Manny's head [admittedly a fool's errand] because any rational person could say such a tear wouldn't prove anything but that he's taking more easily hidden PEDs).

Also, the Dodgers stand to save about 8 mil in salary, though I don't know what they'll lose in ticket sales during Manny's absence. That dough could make the difference for a late-season acquisition.

Does it seem like I'm saying there's only upside here? Yes, that is what I'm saying. Am I getting all Jim Tracy by asking and answering my own questions? You tell me. Am I? I am.

Which is strange, because Lord knows (and so does Mike Brown) that I am Dodger Blues to the core, one sour, worst-case scenario, everything-sucks-and-they're-all-idiots Dodger fan.

I can't explain why I'm optimistic on this one. Perhaps it's because I clung to Manny and Albert Pujols as two HoF sluggers who were just that good, no PEDs necessary. And I still think that's the case.

Perhaps Manny did have ED problems and didn't want the stigma of being prescribed Viagra or Cialis, and his doctor convinced him he had some slightly different condition that HGC could remedy. We know Manny lives in his own world, right?

Maybe I just want to live there, too.
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Tuesday, May 5, 2009

Burgertime! My Review of Five Guys

Ok, sportsfans, here comes my first burger review.

But first, some background. I do not have a favorite burger joint or chain in Los Angeles; I love many of them equally. Think of it like having children--you're not supposed to have a favorite, but if you do, you're certainly not going to tell anybody about it. These favorites include the usual suspects: In 'N' Out, Fatburger, Cassell's, The Counter, Pie 'n' Burger, Tommy's and the late, lamented shack on the corner of Santa Monica and Virgil whose name escapes me because I'm still so sad it's gone so I've just blocked it out. And then there's the upscale-y Father's Office, The Bowery, Lucky Devil and a few others I haven't had the chance to try. That's a Murderer's Row of burgers. Los Angeles IS Burgertown.

Please note: this list does not include Apple Pan. Their quality has gone to shit. I'm not the only one who's noticed. I have friends who say the same, and Los Angeles Magazine's recent list of the 101 best cheap eats does not include it--a damning omission, because that's just the kind of list Apple Pan had automatically shown up on for years and years. Which is a shame, because they were automatic--I'd take people from out of town there, and was proud to do so. (And don't get me started on their asinine seating non-policy which is regularly enforced by asshole regulars on unsuspecting children. Let's just say their hands-off approach to their lack of seating policy is akin to the Swiss knowingly taking deposits of stolen Jewish gold. And no that's not hyperbolic.)

Alright, now that that's off my chest, back to business.

Five Guys is a chain that started in Northern Virginia in 1986 and now has around 300 locations in 25 states. They get rave reviews in the press and in Zagat everywhere they pop up. There are 3 locations in Brooklyn and three in Manhattan. I went to the one in Park Slope.

[Special Note: I'm watching Arsenal get their asses handed to them by Man U in the Champions League. I promise I won't let this bleed into my burger review. Grrrrrrrrr.]

First impression upon entering: Red and white tiled interior and fresh never frozen ingredients. Hmm. Where have I seen that before?

Second impression: straightforward menu, condiments that are included or are available upon request are plentiful and clearly listed. There are "Big Burgers" and "Little Burgers" but with no description of the difference. Turns out that's 2 patties vs. 1.

I ordered a Big Cheeseburger (no bacon, no mayo, no mushrooms, with relish [relish AND pickles kicks ass in my book, and is a hallmark of Fatburgers]). $6.17. I could even tell you how many calories, because this is NYC, but that's just ridiculous.

French fries come in two sizes, regular and large. I ordered regular, and was a bit offput by the $2.99 price. I ordered a regular soda, and my total was 12 bucks and change. Hmm. Stiff. About double what a Double Double, fries and soda is at In 'N' Out. But they have Hi-C Fruit Punch and Cherry Coke, so I quickly forgot about that and sat down to wait for my burger.

Ok, they call my number. I said "for here" but it's in a bag? I look around...ah, that's how they all come. Ok.

First impression. Holy shit that's a lot of fries. Seriously, a LOT of fries. MORE than three dollars' worth. And it was more than I could eat, which begs the question--which one of you Five Guys forgot to include an order of small fries on the menu? Anyway, the fries are Belgian cut, with some skin on, and are closer to well done than under done, which is just how I like them. So let me revise an earlier statement: it was more than I should eat, but they were damn good and I ate them all.


On to the main event, Burgertime! Wrapped in foil and the size of a Double Double, it weighs as much as a Fatburger, maybe even a Kingburger. Excellent cheese meltage, a characteristic I hold in the highest regard. Nice thick patties cooked all the way through. I ordered onions in addition to the automatic grilled onions, but I didn't see any grilled ones. I'll take the blame for that. A tasty, straightforward burger that benefits from the confluence of the meat, cheese and condiments, i.e. you don't taste them separately, you taste them together at once. Coming from me, that's high praise. The only negative was the bun. It wasn't up to the task. It was a little undersized, and tasted undercooked. The undercooked taste actually distracted from the rest of the burger, unfortunately. This could be a one-time thing, so I'll eventually provide an update to this to clarify.

Summary: I would return. Hell, I would return just for some fries and Hi-C Fruit Punch. But probably not regularly, due to my concerns regarding cost (and the bun). Re: price, I had breakfast the other day at my favorite place in Williamsburg, Egg, for $13, and that included coffee, oj, and Eggs Rothko with pork sausage. And that might be my favorite thing in the whole damn world, with ingredients I know are fresher and from more estimable sources.

So, while their territory keeps expanding, I don't think we'll see them in Burgertown anytime soon.
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Goodnight, Captain Chaos


Funnyman Dom DeLuise is dead at 75. To me and my brother he will always be Captain Chaos, the alter ego of his character in The Cannonball Run and Cannonball Run II.

Watching the gag reels during the credits of both, but especially the first one, is pure pleasure. He and Burt Reynolds were a funny pair. People forget, and young people might never learn, that Burt Reynolds was funny. More important, he enjoyed being funny and wasn't afraid to show it. I can't think of a current mega-movie star/sex symbol who is as funny and as willing to be, well, silly. I guess Brad Pitt and George Clooney have shown shades of it, most recently in that Coen brothers spy farce.

Of note: Dom was named as "King of Brooklyn" at the Welcome Back to Brooklyn Festival in 1984.

One final point, both Cannonball movies are fun and funny. Just to see that many stars of the day being ridiculous and getting into cross-country madcap hijinx is a treat. Cannonball Run II had Frank Sinatra AND Charles Nelson Reilly. Shirley MacLaine AND Jackie Chan.

No studio budget today could afford to put the comparable talent of today in a movie like that. Why? Because today's stars are image-conscious pussies. And I don't think there's enough blow left. They finished it all off while making the Cannonball Run movies!

Dun dun DUN!
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Monday, May 4, 2009

Worrying Does Not Replace Thinking Critically



Sure, this article fills me with "back in MY day" pride, but more important it prompts me to discuss my new aphorism "worrying does not replace thinking critically." I've been thinking about this so much lately that I'm going to give it an acronym, WDNRTC.

So many people allow worrying to take the place of critical thinking. This isn't limited to raising a child, of course, but then I can't think of an area where WDNRTC would have more deleterious long-lasting, society-wide effects.

Now, if those who think critically before worrying (TCBW, of course) are a shrinking number, well, that just makes our power grow relative to the rest of the sheeple!

Riding our bikes to 7-11 for the win!
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Sunday, May 3, 2009

A Bit of the Ol' Clarification

Dear readers, sometimes I'll use terms that I've yet to define.

Here are a few, as well as some answers to some soon-to-be frequently asked questions.

HD: hipster doofus, like Elaine called Kramer in this Seinfeld episode. Lately, however, this has morphed into hipster douchebag, a far more derogatory, and some may say more applicable, term. Anyway, it'll be HD for short for now.

N.G.F: Not Giving a Fuck. This term--or at least its acronymical form--was coined by my brother James, and refers to one's will power and determination, combined with an irreverent, anarchical attitude that holds nothing sacred. So, N.G.F since 1974 means I've been like this since birth. As has James. This blog will bestow N.G.F. status from time to time, pending approval by both myself and James.

Ice Cream Man (or icecreammang): What the fuck, right? It's my long time intraweb screenname, sometimes rendered as one word and with a Southern California Latino immigrant accent: icecreammang. Hence the url (but not name) of this blog. Ok, but why Ice Cream Man? This song, performed by this band. Please note that it's not a Van Halen original but a blues song recorded by John Brim in 1953. And yes, all of my flavors are guaranteed to satisfy.
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Reelin' In The Years


A few years back, I found a store in Portland that had thousands of back issues of thousands of magazines, and I picked up a couple cool issues of Sports Illustrated.

But this is a dream come true. Guess anybody that saved all their SI issues is feeling pretty stupid right now. You can even flip through an issue page by page.

You can revisit the days when SI had great writers who wrote in-depth pieces, and also had a staff large enough and capable enough to cover sports beyond the big three-and-a-half.

Personally, I look forward to reading all 288 Frank Deford pieces. That dude was, and is, the man. You can hear him on NPR and he also does stuff for Bryant Gumbel's HBO Real Sports.

Don't know how long the SI vault has been around, but discovering it today felt like Christmas sneaking up on me.

Oh, and the REALLY dope thing about the page by page feature?

Stuff like this and this. Looking at old-school print ads is darn entertaining as well.

Hey! What are you doing in there? You'll go blind!
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Friday, May 1, 2009

LA v NY

Ok, I'm going to try to be a bit more on topic with this post and throw out a few early impressions. Not first impressions, mind, as I've visited extensively over the past two years, and frequently going back as far as New Year's 1995.

Reading on the subway: fucking awesome
Not knowing when the next train is coming: weak
Being new to the city and negotiating the subway drunk: weak (but once you get home, hilarious)
Unable to hop in the car to go straight to my destination in air conditioned comfort: fucking weak

Hot dog carts all over the place: awesome
Pizza joints all over the place: awesome
Mexican food: despite minimal evidence to the contrary, I'm not convinced it exists here, despite the meager claims of Southern California transplants. When did you fools sell out?
Dunkin' Donuts: meh. Their legendary coffee is alright, and Winchell's donuts are better.

Bars open til 4: N/A due to age and marital status
Bars all over the place: awesome
Not driving after drinking: fucking awesome

Movie theaters: No Arclight here. Fucking savages. Waiting in line for seats is for morons.
People watching: fucking awesome

Local news people: Surprisingly ugly vs. LA. I miss Jackie Johnson's breasts, I mean weather.
Tabloid newspapers: I don't know, makes it feel like London, minus royalty plus Yankees

That's good for now. I'll tackle some of the more controversial issues later, like relative hotness of women and awesomeness of sports teams, in the near future, when the weather warms up, the skirts come out, the Lakers are triumphing, and Mets are underperforming.

Also, I have no idea where to get a good cheeseburger in this town. L.A. is the capital and spiritual home of the cheeseburger. I expect my quest to take up a good portion of my waking and dreaming hours over the next few months. Recommendations are appreciated, will be greeted with skepticism, and eventually vetted.

No Coke, Pepsi.
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Good for me, bad for you

I remembered to say "rabbit, rabbit, rabbit" when I woke up this morning. I bet you didn't, did you?

So I got nothing to worry about for the rest of the month. Can you rest as easy?

Time to call mom and tell her I remembered! (If I could only get her to read my blog I wouldn't ever have to call anybody. A boy can dream, can't he?).
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Desert Boy


While I have a well-documented fondness for sweets, that's "Desert Boy" not Dessert Boy. As in, my people are a desert people, and this humidity is fucking killing me. Already. Mid-60s, chance of rain? Yeah, that means I'm sweating my balls off. Pouring sweat after walking a few blocks (and no, it's not the walking, dickheads). You'll never read about me complaining about the cold. Put on a hat, a jacket, and STFU. Simple enough. But I could walk down the street buck nekkid and still look like I was melting.

Despite my pissing and moaning, I've come to understand one thing: Manifest Destiny was not America's desire to dominate the continent, despite what your high school history textbook says; it was America's desire to find a place that was goddamn dry. 'Round about 1850, newspaperman Horace Greeley wrote (or did he?), "Go West, young man." But history forgets the rest of the quote, which reads "...and don't stop until you find a steady barometric pressure reading, consistent high pressure systems, and average humidity below 30%." Wise man.

Word is bond. Gold Bond.
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