Two Thrills for the Price of Two

Apparently, the sign in still works.

2006-01-09T23:05:00.000-05:00

No, I don't really plan on starting up again. I was just surprised to see I could still access this baby. Miss me?

In Case There Was Any Doubt In Your Mind That Boston Is Occasionally The Greatest Fucking Place On The Planet...

2005-04-11T13:55:00.000-05:00

I didn't see it first hand, but my dad just told me that as they're conducting the Opening Day ceremonies at Fenway, they were introducing the Yankees. And player after player were getting booed, of course, until Mariano "4 blown saves in a row against the Red Sox" Riveira was introduced, who got a rousing standing ovation for two minutes. Showing that Riviera, despite his piece of shit uniform, seems like an okay guy, he was apparently laughing on the field.

Yeah, Boston. Yer funny.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Looks Like I Picked The Wrong Week To Quit Sniffing Glue

2005-04-06T23:43:00.000-05:00

Well, I should have known better. This week we're prepping for a shoot this Saturday, so there's a lot to be done...I went to the site today, and I have to go back tomorrow & Friday. Therefore, I'll try to post something at some point before the week is out, but I'm not sure when.

My feelings on the Red Sox bear a lot of similarity to those adjoining pages in The Onion's Our Dumb Century, where one page exclaims that the 1929 stock market juggernaut will never die, and the next page advertises pencils for sale.

[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Boston.com Totally Misreads Bostonians

2005-04-05T08:16:00.000-05:00

April is here, the first game of the season is in the books, and your Sox are defending champs. We're all able to take it easy for the first time in 86 years and just enjoy the ride. "The Idiots", Captain Varitek, and BOO-MAH, all in the Hub! Your thoughts?

MikeGreenwellsMVP Posted:

Anyone suggested to Johnny Damon that he could've used the time he was cheating on his wife to practice fielding routine fly balls? Or, I've got a novel idea. How about you cut the book tour short and take an extra couple of swings in the batting cages, you jackass.

Spiritof67 Posted:

Is it too late to throw Renteria under a moving train, collect the insurance, and use that to pay Cabrera to come back? Or Nomar? More accurately, could I get away with it? If you can't hit for shit, you might as well be able to hold a fucking routine fucking ball in the fucking hole in your motherfucking glove. If I ever go to Colombia, it's all about Cartegena. Fuck Baranquilla or Baracudaville or whatever, and fuck you too.

BrunanskysCatch Posted:

Fuck off Wells, you fat fuck.

TheGhostofRhealCormier Posted:

A BALK?!?!?!? A fucking BALK?!?!??!?

Beaneaters Posted:

Worst. Season. Evah.

PedroFansKnoblauch Posted:

Once again, I'm sorry already for the username. I know it's outdated, it WON'T LET ME CHANGE IT!! Thanks for nothing, Boston.com. But seriously Varitek, any chance you take that ridiculously fucking stupid hockey Captain's "C" off the front of your jersey and have it field for Manny? It looks like it's got a better arm. Rodriguez from fucking second to third on a fucking routine fly ball to left fucking field. Fuck.

TianteGigante Posted:

Don't worry everybody, we've got "Ace" Clement on the mound this afternoon! I'm gonna go kill myself.

[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

The Onion's April Fools Day Edition

2005-04-03T23:16:00.000-05:00

April 1, 2005

US Exports Face Punitive Duties From Canada, EU
Canada and the European Union (EU) will impose punitive duties of 15 percent from May 1st on certain American exports following the United States refusal to repeal an anti-dumping law.

Profile: Hachim al-Hasani, Speaker of Iraq's New Parliament
BAGHDAD-Hachim al-Hasani, an experienced businessman and active politician, was elected on Sunday by Iraqi lawmakers as speaker of the newly sworn-in National Assembly (parliament).

Doctors Lobbying to Halt Cuts to Medicare Payments
WASHINGTON- Doctors are mobilizing a nationwide lobbying campaign to stave off cuts in their Medicare fees as Congress hunts for ways to rein in the soaring cost of the insurance program. Because of a quirk in federal law, Medicare will cut payments to doctors by 4 percent to 5 percent in each of the next six years, Bush administration officials say.

Cranberry Juice Modulates Atherosclerotic Vascular Dysfunction
Protection against a wide variety of diseases is among the many benefits of a diet high in whole fruits and vegetables. Cranberries over the years have been identified with preventing or ameliorating urinary tract infections and playing a positive role gum disease, ulcers and even cancer.

APRIL FOOLS DAY!!!!!

Things I've Learned While Filling Up My New iPod.

2005-03-31T09:54:00.000-05:00

I think I'll try to post regularly again next week. In the meantime, I thought you'd love to hear some important things I've learned while playing with my new and favorite toy. I've been slowly going through my CD collection, album by album, gleening from each whatever songs I would conceivably listen to. Of course, this means going through albums I don't really ever listen to or remember, as well as those long lost tracks at the end of albums that, say, I only listen to the first couple tracks of and then put away. So, I've learned alot.

(1) "Tugboat" by Galaxie 500 is great. I never really liked my Galaxie 500 album, I sort of preferred Luna. Luna isn't for everybody, it's lazy day music for sure, and Galaxie 500 takes the "lazy day" thing up to another level without having as much of a committment to melody, it seems. But I took out my Galaxie 500 album anyway, just to see what I might like to have off it. As it turns out, the last track of the album is now one of my current favorites. "There's a place I'd like to be, there's a place I'd like to be, there's a place I'd like to be..."

(2) I think Death Cab for Cutie are totally overrated. Take "We Have the Facts and We're Voting Yes" as Exhibit A. I don't really like Ben Gibbard's voice either. That's why, for example, The Postal Service are not worth writing home about. Stick with Stephin Merritt and Vitesse.

(2b.) Despite what I just said, "Nothing Better" by the Postal Service IS something to write home about.

(Back to Regular 2) So, I'm not so crazy about Death Cab for Cutie, I thought. Then I put in my copy of "Transatlanticism", came to the determination that the whole album is really good and kept every track. So who's the asshole now (note: still Ben Gibbard's voice.)?

(3) Apparently there are songs on Elk City's "Hold Tight the Ropes" album after track 3, and they're actually pretty good.

(4) I don't like Sebadoh. Sorry. I've tried a bunch of times. I don't get it.

(5) Johnny Cash's cover of Springsteen's "I'm On Fire" reminds me why Johnny Cash was the greatest.

(6) GbV's "Mag Earwhig!" really IS a pretty good album after all.

(7) Robert Pollard's side project Go Back Snowball is one of those albums I bought and hated so much I only listened to it once back in 2000 or 2001. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not reccommending anyone goes and buys it. But this go around, I put 5 or 6 songs on the iPod. What gives? I always wonder what happened when I do a turnaround like that.

(8) Tobin Sprout is probably the best melodic songwriter that only I seem to own any records of.

(9) As their career progressed, Bettie Serveert really did begin to sound like they belonged in an airport jazz club.

(10) When I saw Preston School of Industry and The Shins in Montreal before either of their albums had come out, I believe I preferred Preston School of Industry. What the fuck was I thinking? And yes, in addition to being a compliment to The Shins, that is meant to be an insult to Spiral Stairs.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

True English Fiction

2005-03-24T10:23:00.000-05:00

OK, I know I said I wouldn't put anything up for a couple weeks, but I changed my mind today only because I did not have to actually come up with the following. I found it sort of funny. In the 80s or early 90s, Montreal's own Mordecai Richler wrote a story as a sort of protest against ridiculous French language laws (a/k/a no English outdoor signs, if bilingual signs exist indoors French lettering must be bigger, must be to the left or above the English, the spacing between French letters must be wider, if the languages are written in different colors the French color must be "bolder" and it's up to the discretion of the language authority at any given moment to determine what exactly constitutes a "bolder color"). Anyway, as both France and Quebec began to go off the deep end in attempting to remove any anglicisms from the language (le weekend = le fin du semaine, hamburger = hambourgeois (in Quebec only, and my favorite word), Richler decided to write a story in English removing any gallicisms, just to show off the beauty of a language isolated from the rest of humanity. No words with any French roots were allowed. Here it is:

"Clarissa and I got together for a head-to-head later that morning. Ah, but how attractive she appeared, seated on her long chair, wearing a linen article from her woman's wardrobe, through which I could just catch a glimpse of her mammary-gland hanger. We had filtered coffee and crescents for breakfast. The she asked me if we could also have dinner together.

'Of course I could manage it,' I replied. 'Excellent,' she said, 'because I have heard of a public eating place that happily does not specialize in the new kitchen. In fact, the cook has studied at the school of the blue rope.'"
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

The Long Awaited Answer (After, I Dunno, 10 Or 11 Hours)

2005-03-22T09:26:00.000-05:00

I think I will actually try to get this going again after a short break. I'm just too tired right now. Mono? So stop crying.

Thank you Craggle/Craigina for the great present of The Office complete set. What a good gift, you crafty bastard.

It Was Only A Matter Of Time.

2005-03-21T00:44:00.000-05:00

Well, after a bit of consideration, I think I'm going to have to put this thing on hiatus for a couple weeks at least, if not call it quits altogether. I'm not so sure about the latter option yet, but my current schedule and general lack of even one-off/thirty-second-ideas make the former pretty necessary. And if I do decide to call it a day, this has been up for over a year, so I guess I could feel sort of content about that.

So, I'll see you in a little while, or never. We'll see.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

The Week Of Evacuation Day Goes Up In Smoke

2005-03-18T00:40:00.000-05:00

Many apologies for the sort-of-accidental week off. Hopefully I'll have more energy after the weekend. I will, however, give you my mother's 7th Heaven inspired dialogue between a brother and sister.

BROTHER: You're a rat's ass.

SISTER: And I don't give a rat's ass.

THE END

No, that's not made up. Though I wouldn't mind a cowriting credit for writing it down.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

It's Just That Kind of Week, So McSweetstums Will Fill In

2005-03-16T09:42:00.000-05:00

I think if I catch up on sleep one of these nights I'll be fine. I'm not sure why I'm so tired, but in any case, today something from McSweeney's. I thought it was pretty funny, even if I at first didn't really want to like it.

On second thought, I can't seem to hyperlink on this computer. Just visit http://www.mcsweeneys.net, if you're interested. It's the newest addition.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

All Rights, All Media, In Perpetuity.

2005-03-11T00:52:00.000-05:00

Roland-Michel Barrin, Le Compte de la Galissonniere

Sorry for the lack of posting the last two days. Tonight I have the excuse that I had to write an email in French to Le Musée de la Maritime in Paris about a portrait for one of the documentary episodes. You try asking if it's possible to acquire all rights, all media, in perpetuity in a foreign language. Actually, that part wasn't that hard. Bless you, giant French dictionary.

Speaking of not posting, please enjoy this link. I thought it was sort of funny. From Über

Now, we all know that Montreal is suddenly the darling of the music scene, what with The Arcade Fire, The Unicorns, Stars, godspeed you black emperor, and The Dears (who I don't actually like that much) among others all giving torn-sweater assholes aneurysms. And no, I didn't mention the Stills, because they moved to fucking Brooklyn and they suck anyway. But just let me tell you before anyone else: Wolf Parade will be next. Just you wait. I think they need to release an album first, or at least EPs available in the United States. And then I'll be jealous because I liked them first and I'm still a child in that way. But they're pretty great. And considering the number of throw away tracks that seem to make it onto EPs, I can only look forward to whatever LP they may come out with some day. I told you about the first Arcade Fire album way back in September before David Bowie started masturbating over them, didn't I? And their lead singer went to MCGILL, just like LEONARD COHEN and BURT BACHARACH. If you feel like a little (il)legal sampling of Wolf Parade's wares on a download site, I suggest "Dear Sons and Daughters of Hungry Ghosts," "This Heart's On Fire", and "The National People's Scare" for starters.

On the other hand, I suppose you could buy that new Bloc Party album that's coming out (in the States) in a couple weeks. I've only heard a couple songs but it sounds good. And they're from Englandland.

By the way, if you're ever at a computer where you can listen to music, check out the link to WOXY on the sidebar. A pretty good indie mix, if you like that sort of thing.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

"An Ode To "Ma Patrie"" By Belgian Actor Joos Dixmudye-Alinckbroodt On His Deathbed, 22 July 1831, One Day After Belgium Was Founded

2005-03-09T00:03:00.000-05:00

Call me man or call me mouse. May my name ring from the heavens or fall, without din, into purgatory's crevace.

But call me a Belgiuminian. A Belgiquemensch. Belgoiner? Belgiese? What adjective did we decide on?

But call me that. Remember me, ma patrie. From the Antwerpen Gewesten to the Oost-Vlaanderen borders once they figure those out, to whatever the German states let us keep for awhile. Your smells ring out in my Belgisian nostrils.

I would tell you one of our little jokes, my darling, the sort only our people of Belgiperson stock understand, in whatever our official language should be. But to be frank, I don't understand our little jokes yet. Maybe in like 50 years? We should come up with some of our own jokes. I suggest they all involve fish.

Why could I not die on your ramparts, defending Vlaams-Brabant? The last words on my lips 'Vlaams-Brabant!' probably. Instead, I served you from the stage. Bringing to life the tales of our ancient heroes, like Don Quixote and King Leer, for example. Oh yeah, and Faustus. We can take him too.

I must leave you now, my heart, ma patrie. If you remember me at all, remember me as someone who enjoyed whatever you decide it is our national passtime should be. My final gasps, like a Flemish wind, "What's a Walloon? What planet are we on?"

But I can die in peace. Fine. Just as long as there aren't any French people here. There are?!?
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Court Exhibits For The Hellbound: Michael Musto Sardonically Insults The Clothing And Hairstyle Choices Of 1994 Rwandan Nuns

2005-03-08T00:12:00.000-05:00

MICHAEL MUSTO: (sits in front of an ironic VH1 graphic of flying toasters or arms snapping on snap bracelets or some shit) I don't even remember what I was wearing in 1994. But brown head covering, white collar, and robin egg blue habit? Hello?!? What is this a Howard the Duck sequel? Wait, I meant Natalie from The Facts of Life. Would she wear something like that?

I'm a journalist, I know what was going on in Rwanda in 1994. There was some kind of strike, right? When did Lech Walesa become their new king? Wait, no, Rwanda! I know this one. That's the story when the puppy got stuck in the drainpipe, yeah? Did they ever get him out? How did it get in the [bleeping] drainpipe, that's what I wanna know, right Sugar Ray guy?

SUGAR RAY GUY: Leave me alone.

MICHAEL MUSTO: All I'm sayin' is I know Rwanda's stuck in the middle of the Indian Ocean and they had that whole big ice storm when the dog was in the pipe, but couldn't those nuns get some hairspray? A comb at least? One shower? I haven't seen that much oil in a head of hair since that Howard the Duck sequel. Wait, I meant Grease!

Why's the floor opening in flames beneath my seat? Is that another ironic flying toaster graphic? I haven't been this scared since Michael Alig's last Bloodfeast party [editor's note: obscurity factor: 900%]! I was the toast of the town.

So what's the Rwandan drainpipe dog doing now? Did it have fun during the ice storm? Dogs are stupid.
THE END
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Migraine Town.

2005-03-07T01:14:00.000-05:00

They have their own town. In my head. I get a lot of headaches, did you notice?

So I'm going to go sleep it off. As for today, for fans of The Office my brother placed a link for some (audio?) Ricky Gervais project in the comment section from the post previous to this one. Check it out, I haven't really had a chance yet.

A friend of mine just back from Montreal brought me back some Saint Viateur bagels. That's what I'm talking about. Thank you, Mr. Cameron.

When I Can't, Mr. Odenkirk Can

2005-03-04T01:00:00.000-05:00

I've determined that the one sentence I'd love to hear directed at me in my lifetime would be: "Golden, if you cross me one more time I can assure you you'll never dance again!"

That being said, I don't feel like doing anything tonight. So, I'll give you something funny instead.

By Bob Odenkirk, from bobanddavid.com
BLURBS 4 SALE!!!
Get ‘em while they’re HOT!*

I took a night-time class at the Adult Education Center for Early and Late Adult Education.

I learned how to write blurbs for people’s books. You know - "blurbs", the little comments on the back cover that give you an excuse to buy it. I was told those are always in demand. I think I did a damn fine job.

My teacher was a Mr. Mark Twain himself. I’ve gotta be honest, he looked a lot like Deepak Chopra in a wig and white suit.

I thought I would put these up for sale right here on the ol’ website. If you’ve written a book, spend the money for a good blurb! Don’t shortchange your work - it deserves nothing less than a rave! From me!

Here are my blurbs for sale followed by their pricings.

Like no porn ever – $125.00

Finally, a 'Catcher in the Rye' without the indeterminable longing for lost innocence. - $3,500.00

Tells you about horses and how they get taken care of. - $0.23

The writing in this book is so darn sexy it masturbates you. - $0.08

A magical book that will haunt you like a ghost being sawed in half. - $2.50

I loved this story! It’s got everything; murder, retribution, justice, family humor, a hot-rod that talks, the key to black-holes, a shoe-horn that talks, loss of innocence, innocence regained, a map to the louvre, camping descriptions, erotic passages, an infant Hitler you’ll grow to love, a dancing surgeon, a talking whale, a talking button, a talking Pope, a franco-philes tour of Paris in the 20’s, a list of ingredients, clichéd metaphors strung together like nobody’s business, an indictment of the military-industrial complex, an old woman with a secret (she’s really a man), and 5 more things I’ve forgotten. Okay, so it doesn’t have it all. But it has 27 things and that’s a lot! - $0.10

A comic novel about the horrors of female circumcision in Sub-saharan Africa like no other! – $2,000.00

Makes other bibles look like fucking horseshit. - $2.50

La Terre des Steamie-Frites

2005-03-03T00:37:00.000-05:00

I haven't really been into the idea of using this site for non-fiction purposes. Well, other than the first month or so when I spent a couple ill advised days as a news commentator. But tonight I'm going to share some of those insane little stories about a city I miss very much these days...Boston's got many great ones too, as do most places (note: but not Little Rock). Here are some of those bizarre urban legends-that-are-at-least-mostly-true of Montreal that I either remember actually hearing. Or cheated and read in a book at some point. I may do it again at some point if I can think of any other ones.

The Mont Royal Cross

There's a big white-lit cross on the top of Mont Royal to shine its divine light over the city, or perhaps to shoot laser beams at Mordecai Richler's old house in Outremont.

No, it doesn't shoot laser beams. Well, unless a pope dies.

Speaking of popes dying, a story I always found sort of funny was the fact that when Pope Paul the somethingth died in 1978, some city or Catholic officials decided to honor him by lighting the cross purple. However, the cross didn't have purple lights at that time. So, they had some painter paint each individual light bulb on the giant cross with purple paint. When Pope John I was "affirmed," or whatever Christians say (forgive me, you shaggitz), they lit the cross white again. They also couldn't see the point of keeping purple lightbulbs and threw the whole frigging lot away. Pope John I died within a month. And a painter got more work.

Fame Is Fleeting, If There's A Hall Involved

Montreal was once the proud home of the Hockey Hall of Fame, well, until the Rocket Richard hockey riots. The Hall of Fame was moved by the NHL to Toronto as punishment, making Montreal the only city I know of to lose a hall of fame for having a major riot based on the sport that hall recognized.

I Never Saw Houdini Eating Any Poutine At Lafleur's

The irony of that title is that apostrophe s's are illegal in Quebec. No, seriously. So even if it's a sack of shit diner that serves steamie-frites and hambourgeois, you have to call it Chez Lafleur or something.

Anyway, to get to the point, at least a few history conscious McGill alums like myself are aware that a McGill student is credited with killing Harry Houdini. The story goes that, after performing in Montreal in the 20's, Houdini invited one of a group of McGill students who had seen his show to punch him in the stomach. He did, Houdini wasn't ready, and he died of organ trauma.

But the other part of the story is that that student's name was J. Gordon Whitehead, a divinity student at McGill who had meant to kill Houdini for dabbling in the occult and creating a threat to the church. Yes, I had to look the name up.

The other version says he died of fucking appendicitis. I prefer the former.

What Are You Doing This Summer?

If you want to see if (headless) ghosts exist, don't commit yourself to anything on June 26th. Mary Gallagher was a prostitute in the late 1870s who was killed and had her head chopped off by another hooker. A headless ghost of Gallagher supposedly shows up at the corner of Rue Murray & Rue William (I don't know where that is, but the Anglais tells me its in the west somewhere) every 7 years, the next due date being this June 26th. Yes, I had to look this one up too.

L'Oratoire St. Joseph (Is Too Far Away)

One of the world's great Catholic tourist destinations, probably because it was for many years the second biggest dome outside Vatican City and its churchbells were originally meant to be part of the Eiffel Tower.

But the better part is that within the church is the heart of André Bessette, the canonized miracle worker to whom the oratory was built in honor. The heart is pickled in a jar. What I really like is that it was kidnapped in the 1970s and held for ransom, then somehow recovered or returned with ransom unpaid. Luckily it wasn't the FLQ, or they'd have blown it up for having "heart" written more than 2/3rds the size of "coeur" on the label (obscurity factor: 600%).

Everyone's Favorite Town: Gamelin

I'm tired, so this will be it for the moment. But at least I leave you with a verifiable, absolutely true classic.

Montreal Island used to have several towns other than Montreal, before they were all merged into one giant municipal district during my time at McGill. That's right, everyone, Dollard-des-Ormeux and Baie-d'Urfé are no more. But there's a little story of another town on the island, this one within the bounds of the traditional city.

In the eastern section of the city there is the Lafontaine Hospital insane asylum. In one of the great mysteries of our time, the mental hospital was a separate town until 1980, known in the seldom talked about record books as "Gamelin." Let me make that more clear, the mental hospital, and only that hospital, was a town separated from the buildings next to it or across the street. It had its administration system, police, etc.

Then again, it was run by Catholics.

I can't figure out.

Oh yeah, they found mysterious unlabeled graves in what was termed the "pigsty cemetery." No pigs though, my man, these were people. No city records on any of this have ever been released, and no one has ever explained what that whole "mysterious pigsty cemetery" thing was all about.

Yes, I had to look that one up too. But wasn't it worth it?
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

"By The Bomb's Early Blight" (1975) Felix Ungar-Lopez, Some Baltimore Jackass (& Current Poet Laureate of Maryland)

2005-03-02T00:20:00.000-05:00

Felix Ungar-Lopez's poem "By Bomb's Early Blight" is being used in Baltimore's current tourism campaign. With tourism only down another 31% this year, it is the most successful ad campaign in the city's storied history.

By Bomb's Early Blight

Freon shores, I walk you with my
syringe shoes

I breath your napalm holocaust
Agent Orange
Orange lungs wheeze
I am your son of Thalidomide

Minimart parking lot
Strip mall holocaust (again)
your veins are dumpster juice
your synapses are triggered by electric Hoover vacuums

Collect Callicaust, Turkey Butterballicaust

Traffic to a Crawlicaust

Your heart is the puke of rat feces
Your dream is tuberculosis mucus, also of rat feces

Free Mumia
When he's arrested for murder committed seven years from now

You're my asbestos baby
My lead paint lady
Give me your coal dust kisses, make me hazy

I've got a really good feeling about this whole Pol Pot Revolution thing

Maryland crabs have shat out my heart
Don't forget to visit the Edgar Allen Poe house

Felix Ungar-Lopez

Nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature: Placed.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Very, Very, Very Short Entries: Sentences I Hope Never To Utter In The Workplace, But Am Unwilling To Yet Rule Out

2005-02-28T23:38:00.000-05:00

1. Don't tell me it's April 4th already, or my fucking NAMBLA dues are late again.

THE END

(The craziness is now over, the take-home work phase is done, and I'll be back in earnest tomorrow.)

And while you're at it, why not check out the World Socialists's review of the Oscars!

Ray Flynn, You're In Trouble Now

2005-02-25T12:01:00.000-05:00

I felt I had to relate something my mother said to me on the phone this morning. She mentioned that she saw something on TV last night about the importance of this particular Pope, and that Ray Flynn (former Boston mayor and former Vatican ambassidor) was one of the people on, and essentially said this Pope was to a great degree responsible for the end of Eastern European communism. I asked my mother what she would say to Ray Flynn if she was a panelist debating him, and she said: "Whaddaya you know, ya stupid Mick! Yoah face is red from drinkin' too much!" She said it my mother's yelling voice that only she can do; you have to hear it to know what I mean.

I should mention that my mother is, in fact, Dedham/Dorchester Irish. But my father used to beat her entire family as one team at Trivial Pursuit every time, so she's probably on to something. Either way, that'll show that fucking Ray Flynn.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

An Episode Of Star Trek Tediously Written For An Audience Entirely Composed Of Remote Amazon Tribesmen

2005-02-22T23:56:00.000-05:00

CAPTAIN PICARD: Set course to the Borg Megacube!

ENSIGN KOPENAWA: What?

PICARD: Do you know the bend in the river with four trees?

KOPENAWA: Yes. It is the end of all things.

PICARD: No. Close your eyes and imagine the bend in the river with four trees, the clearing with two stones, the cooking space, the huts of your cousins, the bubbling stream. Now picture that there are thousands, side by side.

KOPENAWA: Thousands? What?

PICARD: Uh, a number greater than 7. Much greater. Like every speck of dust.

KOPENAWA: 7?

PICARD: No, more than 7. We're getting caught up here. The land of the Yanomami is not the beginning and end, the all-amidst-nothingness. There are millions...

KOPENAWA: Millions?

PICARD: There are more than 7 Yanomami's in more than 7 parts of a land, a land much bigger than here.

KOPENAWA: I don't understand. We are the Yanomami, we are all there is.

PICARD: You are the Yanomami, but there are people who are not Yanomami across these vast lands I've described.

KOPENAWA: People?

PICARD: Uh, Yanomami who are not Yanomami. Okay?

KOPENAWA: You say the land is vast?

PICARD: Yes.

KOPENAWA: There is another bend in the river with the four trees? More than 7 other ones?

PICARD: Well, to be technical, yes there are other bends in rivers with four trees...but Kopenawa, not all of the vast lands look like yours. There are oceans.

KOPENAWA: What?

PICARD: There are rivers where the bank does not exist. There are deserts.

KOPENAWA: Deserts?

PICARD: Places where the sand at the bottom of the bubbling brook is not under the brook, but is without water and baked by the sun.

KOPENAWA: Without water? Desert?

PICARD: ...and not everyone speaks the Yanomami dialect.

KOPENAWA: Dialect?

PICARD: The sounds that come out of your mouth are not the only sounds in the vast lands. Other Yanomami who are not Yanomami make noises that to you would make no sense, but to them signify your "tree", "brook", "cooking place", and about half a zillion other words you have no equivalent for.

KOPENAWA: Half a zillion?

PICARD: More than 7 other words. Anyway...Jesus, this is taking forever...

KOPENAWA: Jesus?

PICARD: Some of the Yanomami who are not Yanomami believe in other great beings in the sky. One is Jesus. Some don't believe in any great being at all. They're called the Church of England.

KOPENAWA: Other great being? No great being? Church of England? I don't understand. What's a church? What's an England?

PICARD: It's called religion, and that other thing was a joke. Kopenawa, I don't have time to explain the minutiae of the entirty of human history and civilization to you. It's, uh, more than 7 years long and would take more than 7 minutes to explain to you. So let's wrap up. There are other Yanomami who aren't Yanomami. The lands are vast. There are other religions and other dialects. Okay?

KOPENAWA: No?

PICARD: And BEYOND all that, there are all these other planets with vast lands...

KOPENAWA: Planets?

PICARD: Great turtles's backs rising from the seas that came from the tears of the great being. So, there are all these other Yanomami who are not Yanomami who are even MORE different than the others who are Yanomami who are not Yanomami that I already told you about; these others are called aliens. And some of them are called The Borg. They have no individuality.

KOPENAWA: Individuality?

PICARD: Not that anyone cares, but I think I should mention we passed the Borg Megacube 700 million light years ago. I don't know where the hell we are now.

KOPENAWA: Megacube?
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

"Chuck Stuaht, I'm Comin' Ta Meet Cha!"--Momma

2005-02-22T00:33:00.000-05:00

The title is for people familiar with regionally famous Boston murders of the 1980s and the subsequent suicides. I was getting my car fixed today and spent the day working at my mom's. I can't remember why Momma decided to jump off a bridge so eloquently.

She also wrote out her grocery list on the Boston Phoenix special adult section, erotic personals. On the boobies of some Asian girl, actually. I said "mom, do you know what you're writing on?" She looked at it and laughed and nearly choked to death.

Then she talked about bringing it up to an old lady at the supermarket and asking her, "do you know where the oranges are?" while pointing at the word "oranges" on her list which was, yes, on a giant Asian boobie. Then she laughed some more, but did not almost choke to death.

So, that was my day. Unfortunately, because of all that and having to work out of the office, I've got to head in extra-early tomorrow to make up a little ground. So, nothing else tonight.

But I think the above-mentioned story was sort of worth it.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

"A Tree Of Rotting Discarded Cattle Parts Grows In The Chicago Stockyards," By Betty Smith, Jr. (1936)

2005-02-18T00:07:00.001-05:00

"Francie," my father coughed. "Go down th' factree 'n till Mr. Wodchuk I'm not ginna be able t' put in m' thirty two hours tiday."

Daddy coughed again, hacking up the black lung, and died. Course, he worked in a slaughterhouse, so the black lung was kinda unrelated.

I walked out the front door into the sooty, black, poisonous air. Then I stepped out of Comiskey Park altogether. I was in ol' meatpackerburgh. The Chicago River, in this squalid spot where the water stands still, bubbled and festered the way no stream in Bohemia I remember ever would. The air smelled as close and dank as a small cellar in summer, if it were hanging rancid meat from its walls; and from where I stood that wasn't so far off.

"Francie!" yelled my mother from the window of one of the nearby killing floors. "Is Papa dead yet? I really need his extree set 'a gloves!"

"Francie," said a man of generous proportion, who came to the same window. "My name is Philip Danforth Armour, and I own this factory. Your mother never should have made those anti-entrepreneurial remarks about death and gloves. I'm afraid her ass and face will now be turned into hotdogs."

"How I wish I were back in the green pasture mountain deserts of Bohemia!" exclaimed my poor Mama.

"Bohemia?" asked Armour. "Is that near Finland?"

"Maybe," said Mama.

Just at that moment, Jane Addams flew down to the factory on her kite and cut Armour's motherfucking head off!

"More like Skull House, Shitcago," she said and cackled as her teeth rained down on Armour like bullets.

"FRANCIE!" exploded Jane Addams, speaking with my mind telepathically, staring at me with her glass eyes while eating J.D. Armour with no hands--only twisting her neck abruptly the way crocodiles do. "Would you like me to bring your father back from the dead?"

"Nah," I said. "It wouldn't do any good, he'd still be Czech."

I would have thanked Miss Addams right then and there, but I really had to get some shut-eye to work my sixty seven hour shift the next day with all the other nine year olds.
THE END
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Ill Advised Graduate School Theses, V. II: Sociology

2005-02-17T00:58:00.000-05:00

[Note: V. I was about four years ago.]

After Careful Consideration, I Think Scottish Highlanders Are The Closest Thing This Planet Is Ever Going To Get To Klingons: A Study

Query #1: In what language does the following mean "Today is a good day to die"; Scots Gaelic or Klingon? Heghlu'meh QaQ jajvam.

Findings: Indeterminate. Findings complicated by the fact that (a.) there is no such thing as "Klingon", and (b.) Scots Gaelic is only English pronounced drunk.

Query #2: Who is the Scottish Highlander & Who is the Klingon? In this experiment, the following pictures were shown to a set group of Highlanders & Klingons.

------

Findings: All pictured: Klingons.

Query #3: The following question was asked to a "control group" of middle schoolers: If a certain nationality of people were to eat sheep's lung, heart, liver & kidney fat out of that sheep's boiled stomach with their bare hands, would you assume that nationality might be some kind of half-step between humanity and a race of barbaric aliens?

Findings: Question phrasing prejudicial and unprofessional. But everyone said "yes."

Query #4: What if they added nutmeg?

Findings: Responses unchanged.

Query #5: Have you seen the Highlander Games?
Findings: Seriously.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Unfortunately, I Don't Really Like The Chances Of Our Prison League Baseball Team

2005-02-16T00:32:00.000-05:00

So, first of all, despite repeatedly arguing for some kind of drafting system, the league has again upheld the status quo. I'm afraid to say that I've always known there wasn't much justice in the world, so I can't really pretend to be surprised. And now I have to go about the business of putting together a roster, again, and convincing these guys we're not going to lose every fucking game again even though everybody knows we are.

There's a certain stigma attached to being child rapists, and that's no secret to the coaching staff of Block C. Nobody owes us any favors, and day in, day out, we're going to have to play a full nine between the chalk lines. Fine. But what I don't understand is why all the regular rapists end up on teams with the car thieves, drug dealers, and murderers. I mean, some of those guys are really good. And if it really is just about the kid thing, well, I happen to know that everyone's aware that O'Donnell on The Miraculous Fucks of Cellblock A tried to sell his kid to an undercover cop when strung out. And he's got a cannon for an arm. But somehow, that doesn't violate the prison "code." I'm getting pretty tired of that damned code. He gets to play for the defending champs. And don't get me wrong, the Miraculous Fucks are a classy organization, but if you stack your roster by offering of crank discounts to every assault & battery convicted doubles hitter, there's not much our scouts can do.

You'd think some of those high OBP sociopaths wouldn't particularly care what we did to get in here and at least consider joining the You-Better-Thank-God-For-A-Separate-High-Security-Child-Molester-Ward-You-Sick-Animals Diamondbacks (not our preferred name, trust me). But, as it turns out, we just have our pick of the litter of those fat little embezzling accountants who weren't rich enough to get into minimum security prisons. With those thick arms at least some of them might be power hitters, but no, they're all weak, it's just fat. They don't particularly care for us either, but I'm sure our company is at least something of a welcome relief from all those forced blowjobs.

Anyway, those embezzling types don't really put in much of an effort at all. They're the types who want to sit on the bench in the shade for the whole game, you know? You ask one of these guys to come in as a late inning defensive replacement, in maybe the one game we actually have a shot at winning all season, and you'd think we were asking for a forced blowjob.

So, another season of pedophiles and dishonest accountants, playing against drug dealers and contract killers with some of the most impressive extra-base-hits per season stats you've ever seen, trying to fulfill our obligations to this unfair, uneven bullshit league. Between the random shankings, anyway. I'd ask you if you know how difficult it is to replace a second baseman with a puncture wound in the middle of the 5th inning, but we both know you don't.

I try not to quote Paul Weller too often these days, but this is the modern world that I've heard about, and our shortstop sucks ass. Well, "accused."
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Very, Very Short Plays, V. Infinitum: "Kooky Thursday"

2005-02-15T01:06:00.000-05:00

In case you weren't aware, Freaky Friday has been remade four thousand times. And only three thousand starred one of countless cyborgs that go by the moniker of "Jodie Foster." However, that being said, I'm introducing "Kooky Thursday", which is entirely unrelated for legal reasons.

Jimmy Tortella stands in his booth on the New Jersey Turnpike, eating a calzone.

JIMMY TORTELLA: Ey, wassa madda youz!

NJ DRIVER: Stugots, ya minestrone!

Jimmy Tortella looks at the floor of his booth, and sees a magic potion or earring or whatever.

JIMMY TORTELLA: What da frig?!?!?

Jimmy picks up the earring-potion and drink-sticks it in his ear-mouth.

JIMMY TORTELLA: Ey, look at me, I'm one classy broad!

Instantly Jimmy Tortella's, eh, "essence" is transported from his NJ Turnpike booth into the body of Jamey Tortulo in a booth on the Massachusetts Turnpike.

JAMEY TORTULO: (now in the NJ BOOTH)
& JIMMY TORTELLA: (in MASS BOOTH) (simultaneous, while rubbing their eyes like window washers) I say, I say, I say: WHAT DA FRIG?!?!?

JAMEY TORTULO: Ok Toahtulo, play it cool pahtnah. Cool as ice.

NJ DRIVER: Ey meatball, wassa madda wid yoah bazambas!

JAMEY TORTULO: Wheah's ya Fastlane?

NJ DRIVER: Fastlane?

JAMEY TORTULO: Uh, I mean "EZ Pass"...

NJ DRIVER: Ey!!! You really is one-a us, you balamanoona!

THE NJ Driver speeds away and crashes into a toxic waste truck, vastly improving the neighborhood.

MEANWHILE...

JIMMY TORTELLA: Dad'l be three Jersey quadihs, ya shamanabuno!

MASS. DRIVER: Wha'?

JIMMY TORTELLA: I meant, dad'l be three Massachusetts quadihs, ya shamrock clam chowdah!

MASS. DRIVER: Sir, you've capchid my haht. Tell me, wheah the fuck's the Applebee's round heah?

JIMMY TORTELLA: Get off any exit, take a right, drive a half mile, and they'll be four or five on your left.

MASS. DRIVER: Actually, that's right in Massachusetts too.

JIMMY TORTELLA: Phew. Actually, this whole thing has been pretty anticlimactic.

JAMEY TORTULO: (many miles away) And the fact we were cheating on our wives with the same Atlantic City hooker makes things pretty convenient too.

END SCENE
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Tabernacle.

2005-02-11T09:23:00.000-05:00

I miss Montreal. Sniffle. This is the northern boundary of Square Saint-Louis, a right turn and 20 second walk from my old house.

Cough.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Much Like Possible (Though Unlikely) Impending Snowstorms, My Illness Sweeps Into Town And Cancels Everything This Week

2005-02-10T01:05:00.000-05:00

I have to admit, calling my slowly departing cold with minor feverish moments "my sickness" is just the sort of overblown melodrama I like. But I am actually still feeling too crummy to sit in front of the computer and try to think of something to write.

So, despite promising not to go long periods of time without posting anything substantial again, like, a month ago, I'm doing just that.

Cough.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Blargh.

2005-02-09T01:48:00.000-05:00

I really wish I had something to offer you on the *official* one year anniversary of the website. Instead I'm painfully sick, especially at night, which is the only time I have to do this anyway. So, I'm going to sleep.

But, here's a McSweeney's piece from today I liked: McSwoonsies.

Did you know I once had something on McSweeney's? Do you care?

Cough. Sniffle. Whatever sound a headache makes. Bonne anniversaire.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Napoleon: Fighter of History

2005-02-08T09:12:00.000-05:00

I'm quite under the weather.

Here's the newest Patton Oswalt/Erik Blevins movie treatment in the meantime.

Napoleon: Fighter of History
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Very, Very Short Plays, V. Infinitum: Local Politician Instigates The Worst Street Renaming In History

2005-02-04T01:49:00.000-05:00

Mayor Jonestown stands at a podium on a stage in a city park, with a medium sized throng watching.

MAYOR JONESTOWN: Ladies and gentlemen, I'm glad you could all make it out a very special day.

Polite applause from the assembled.

MAYOR JONESTOWN: Phil Mickelson, thank you for coming out, it's a real honor for all of us.

The mostly inner-city crowd applauds politely.

MAYOR JONESTOWN: Phil, I can't tell ya how honored we are to have you staying at one of our local hotels for a couple days while you wait to fly out to a golf tournament.

PHIL MICKELSON: No problem.

MAYOR JONESTOWN: That's why we're gonna do a little something special for you...something a little unexpected, just for you, our honored guest.

PHIL MICKELSON: Gee, thanks...I don't know what to say.

MAYOR JONESTOWN: Now we treat folks right around here, eh everybody?

The audience claps politely.

MAYOR JONESTOWN: That's why, Mr. Mickleson, today and forevermore, the streets that form this intersection, Martin Luther King Boulevard and Malcolm X Avenue, will be renamed Putt Putt Street and Golf Shoe Avenue!

The audience errupts in anger and shock.

MAYOR JONESTOWN: And this, Frederick Douglass Memorial Park, will be renamed Caddyshack Center!

AUDIENCE MEMBER 1: I'm going to kill you!

AUDIENCE MEMBER 2: You're a disgrace!

MAYOR JONESTOWN: What?!? What did I say?!?

PHIL MICKELSON: (fending off thrown debris with a folding chair) I had nothing to do with this!

MAYOR JONESTOWN: You didn't even let me finish! What, not enough? I didn't even mention that this 1871 statue of Harriett Tubman, directly behind me, will be melted down to make a statue of a giant golf ball! Dimples and all! I mean, 1871? Am I right?

AUDIENCE MEMBER 3: I can't believe this is happening!

MAYOR JONESTOWN: Hey, calm down everyone. I know we're all excited, but I haven't even gotten to the best part yet. The master tape, and every disseminated copy in the world of the feature film Glory will be recut, and be about golf.

AUDIENCE MEMBER 4: How could you do this?

MAYOR JONESTOWN: Oh, come on. It'll have a few minutes about Vijay Singh in it.

AUDIENCE MEMBER 5: He's an Indian guy, from Fiji! What's your problem?

MAYOR JONESTOWN: Aw, lighten up. Remember, you're standing on Putt Putt Street!

IN MEMORY OF MAYOR JONESTOWN, 1954-2005.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Concept Only Funny To Those Who Saw (And Have A Detailed Recollection Of The Plot Points Of) The Movie "Gothika"...And Even Then, Probably Not

2005-02-02T23:56:00.000-05:00

Terrible Hollywood Films Brought Into The Real World Of American Jurisprudence: Gothika's Dr. Miranda Grey (Halle Berry) & The ACLU Sue The Fuck Out Of Everybody

HALLE'S LAWYER: Your honor, I'd like to call Sheriff Ryan to the stand.

Sheriff Ryan (John Carroll Lynch)takes the stand.

HALLE'S LAWYER: Sheriff Ryan. Did you know the murder victim, Dr. Douglas Grey (Charles "Roc Live" Dutton)?

SHERIFF RYAN: Yes.

HALLE'S LAWYER: In what capacity?

SHERIFF RYAN: We were best friends.

HALLE'S LAWYER: For how long, would you guess?

SHERIFF RYAN: Since we were little kids.

HALLE'S LAWYER: And Sheriff, do you know that woman, the woman accused of murdering your "best friend"?

SHERIFF RYAN: (gritting his teeth) Yeah. That's Miranda Grey.

HALLE'S LAWYER: And what was your relationship with her?

SHERIFF RYAN: We were great friends. We knew each other for years and years and years.

HALLE'S LAWYER: So, if I'm understanding you right, you were the chief investigator of your best friend's murder, and you investigated another one of your best friends?

SHERIFF RYAN: Yup.

HALLE'S LAWYER: Did you go to the mental hospital as chief and sole investigator, start to interview Miranda like she were a complete stranger, then shove pictures of Dr. Grey hacked to pieces under her nose while babbling on about "how could you kill Doug? He loved you!"

SHERIFF RYAN: Yup, I did that.

HALLE'S LAWYER: And that didn't strike you as sort of unprofessional?

SHERIFF RYAN: Uh...

HALLE'S LAWYER: ...or the fact you were involved in the case at all, especially as chief and only investigator, might be grounds for immediate dismissal due to an unimaginable conflict of interest and clearly biased investigation?

SHERIFF RYAN: Yuh. Uh, no?

HALLE'S LAWYER: Next witness! I call Dr. Pete Graham!

Dr. Graham (Robert Downey, Jr.) takes the stand.

HALLE'S LAWYER: Okay.

DR. GRAHAM: Hi!

HALLE'S LAWYER: How are you doing this morning, Dr. Graham?

DR. GRAHAM: Super!

HALLE'S LAWYER: Let me see if I got this straight.

LAWYER FOR EVERYBODY GETTING SUED: Objection! That's not a question!

JUDGE: Sustained.

HALLE'S LAWYER: Let me see if I got this straight?

JUDGE: Very good.

DR. GRAHAM: Sure!

HALLE'S LAWYER: You worked for Dr. Douglas Grey at the mental hospital.

DR. GRAHAM: Yup!

HALLE'S LAWYER: And Dr. Miranda Grey was your colleague and dear friend.

DR. GRAHAM: Uh huh!

HALLE'S LAWYER: And, as a matter of fact, you had in the immediate lead-up to Doug's death, a somewhat flighty, unprofessional, and dare I say, nebish-like demeanor with your colleague Miranda Grey.

DR. GRAHAM: Yes!

HALLE'S LAWYER: So it might have been a little hard to take you seriously, as a psychiatrist at a mental hospital for the clinically insane, if you happened to see you in the context that Miranda did.

DR. GRAHAM: I guess!

HALLE'S LAWYER: So, after Dr. Douglas Grey is murdered, you thought it would be a good idea for Miranda Grey to be committed to the same hospital she had worked at only the day before the murder.

DR. GRAHAM: Sure!

HALLE'S LAWYER: With you, her dear friend, dear friend and employee of the murder victim, and man of unserious airs around the victim and the accused, as her treating psychiatrist.

DR. GRAHAM: That's right!

HALLE'S LAWYER: It's usually a good idea for criminally psychotic patients to be treated in the same hospital they treated criminally psychotic patients, well, yesterday, and be lead down their painful path of treatment not by an objective doctor but by their ol' pizza-eatin' buddy?

DR. GRAHAM: Whatever!

HALLE'S LAWYER: And, after you let her wake up confused in a cell in her former workplace, told her and a very un-psychiatrist way that she had killed her husband with no recollection of it, and had her manhandled seemingly purposelessly by an orderly, you decided it was a good idea for the same nurse she knew well and gave instructions to the day before to forcibly give her tranquilizers and treat her like garbage.

DR. GRAHAM: Exactly!

HALLE'S LAWYER: And this didn't strike you as completely inappropriate in trying to treat a patient?

DR. GRAHAM: Nope!

HALLE'S LAWYER: And, beyond these things, you had her committed into a wing with the criminally insane patients she had been treating as a psychiatrist the day before she was committed?

DR. GRAHAM: I sure did!

HALLE'S LAWYER: Ok, so despite the fact she had a hostile encounter during a therapy session with a deeply disturbed patient, one Chloe Sava (Penelope Cruz) about 12 hours previous, you thought it might be a good idea if the two of them could take forced showers together as nutcase patients?

DR. GRAHAM: Yes!

HALLE'S LAWYER: Next witness. Dr. Phil Parsons!

Dr. Parsons (Bernard Hill) takes the stand.

HALLE'S LAWYER: Permission to treat as hostile, your honor.

JUDGE: Huh?

HALLE'S LAWYER: Dr. Parsons! Did your dead daughter, who was raped and murdered by Douglas Grey despite the fact we all think it was an accident, invade the body of Miranda Grey on an empty country road in the rain, kill Douglas Grey, then mutilate Miranda a couple times for some reason?

DR. PARSONS: Yes.

HALLE'S LAWYER: Mathieu Kassovitz should be killed for this.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Let's Trim Our Hair According To Socialist Lifestyle

2005-02-02T01:00:00.000-05:00

Bad week, bad week. Some unseen forces don't want me to succeed in regular updates. Monday, computer problems; Tuesday, fatigue; Wednesday, I'm getting a cold.

Well, whatever. The title of this post is the *official* name of North Korea's new policy to get it's young men to cut their damn hair ("damn" added by yours truly). Though I am thinking of someday stealing this title for something. Like maybe a cooking product I develop, or some such. I'd like to find you another link to read, but the internet sucks. As you may have picked up.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Soon Your Ass Is A Bloody Glove For My Hand And A Tore-Up Boot For My Foot

2005-02-01T01:01:00.000-05:00

Well, I've had a couple internet problems over the last few days. Let me rephrase: I thought I did, until early this evening when I realized the cable had accidently become unplugged. So, that's why no update yesterday. Why today? Because I'm fucking tired, you assholes.

But once again, something to read nonetheless...the most recent Patton Oswalt/Erik Blevins movie treatment from bobanddavid.com. Enjoy.

Slade Ripfire: Soon Your Ass Is A Bloody Glove For My Hand And A Tore-Up Boot For My Foot

[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

My Favorite Songs Of The Moment

2005-01-28T01:38:00.000-05:00

It's just been that kind of week. Sorry I ended up too busy to do any real updates after Tuesday, I didn't see it coming. I suppose those who share any of my musical tastes might have something to find and download, so this may not be a total loss. So, here's one of those "bloggy" entries, in ascending order of my fickle love.

12. Wilco, "Someone Else's Song"

Sometimes I get so sick of alt-country I want to puke. Especially when I can hear that twang on Brooklyn boys or Wellesley raised cowboys. On the other hand, Jeff Tweedy is from southern Illinois, and he doesn't have much of a twang, so I reconsider and grab a Wilco album. Despite it being more fashionable to put in Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, I will give Being There its due respect. Well, Disc 2 anyway. "Someone Else's Song" is a great ballad about how impossible it is to be original when talking about love..."I keep on singin', but your eyes they just roll, it sounds like someone else's song, from a long time ago..."

11. Holland, "Oh, Death"/"American Eyes"

On a totally different track, Holland is a guy who plays synth songs with a bit more kishkes than Magnetic Fields. Although I've listed two songs, and two songs that sound entirely differently at that, they are the only two songs I ever listen to when I take out the Drums EP, and I always listen to both. So they are forever linked in my mind. When I get tired of them again, they'll go into retirement for another 3 months, but for now that harder synthesizer sound is doing it for me on "Oh Death", and the "American Eyes" chorus of "Let's shoot heads of state, yeah, so fucked up this future, let's run away, let's go to bed" is suiting me well.

10. The High Water Marks, "Queen of Verlaine"

9. A.C. Newman, "Come Crash"

If I had decided to put up this cop-out post about a month and half ago, this song probably would have been number one. A great, sweet song with a beautiful hook...probably the best song off of one of the year's best records, but that's a little hard to say. It sounds like a very sweet song, and it sort of is. But I don't really listen to lyrics--which seems to be a condition many of the dangerously music obsessed seem to suffer from for some reason--and only recently realized that the song opens with a car crash: "That's luck, she led, we should be dead/ We eyed the wreck. Good god, we said/ She plants one kiss, for the road, on my chest/ Sirens came after we left."

8. Pavement, "Range Life"

This is the benefit of making mix CDs. I was making a few CDs for a friend of mine the other day, and decided to put a few tracks from Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain on one of them. I didn't forget "Range Life," but these days always skipping over the Pavement in my case of CDs simply because I've heard so much of them over the years and am usually in the mood for one of my newer additions, I probably hadn't taken the album out for a year or so. "You've got to pay your dues before you pay your rent." Yes indeed, Malkmus.

7. The Pixies, "Rock Music"

Okay, so another ancient addition to a current favorites list. The Pixies, being my favorite band of all time for about half a million reasons, are one of those groups that because I so often listen to their entire catalogue, my favorite song shifts. All of the usuals show up--"Hey", "Where is My Mind?", "Levitate Me", "Debaser", etc.--but, from time to time the not-so-obvious are lifted from the level of good to an obsessive favorite--"Alec Eiffel", "Dead", "The Happening", "Space Equals Rate Times Time"--and right now, Rock Music. Probably the most intense the Pixies ever were...and there's something about the screamed lyric "Hey you know me, me conoce" that I really, really like.

6. Royal City, "I Am A Raw Youth"

The second of four Canadian entries. A topic for another time, but Canada, at this moment, has far and away the best underground music scene for my tastes in the world. No contest. This is a fairly old song from the 2000 album At Rush Hour the Cars, which may be out of print already. I don't know if this song is about God or not, but it should be. Slightly country, semi-devotional stripped down song I love.

5. Palomar, "Underwater"

Forgive me, lovers of New York music, but I have to admit I feel shame including an indie-pop band from Brooklyn on my favorites list. It's not much of a secret I'm not the biggest fan of New York's attitude-over-everything, piece of shit music scene..but I guess it could be worse: Palomar could be one of those unbearable Williamsburg dance punk bands. Sorry. I know this sounds like the same old "New England ragtime" from me, as Will McDonough might say, but seriously dude, New York's music sucks. Oh yeah, my point: I like this song by Palomar.

4. The Wrens, "Boys, You Won't"

I really like this song, against all odds. "Against all odds" because it's kind of a mid-tempo anthemic sort of song, and I usually don't get into those. But it is quite catchy, and I think it's the interesting guitar that really holds my interest. It seems The Wrens are quite popular, but I don't own any of their albums and I only know this song, but I do like it. At the moment, anyway.

3. Unicorns, "Les Os"

Alright, back to a city I sort-of-but-don't-really understand: Montreal. The Unicorns hit it big awhile ago, and now it's over, in the sense that it's not really worth talking about anymore. But "Les Os" recently made it back onto my favorites list. Why the lyric "is this love of ours alive?" repeapted over and over again near the end of the song wins me over is sort of a mystery. A great, very bizarre pop song.

2. Frog Eyes, "One of Six Children Will Flee in Boats"

Did I say something about bizarre? I think Frog Eyes may own that title, with an odd, slightly pretentious (I guess) theme album that I can't understand at all, with song titles pretty much as indecipherable as the one above. There's a great melody hidden in strange arrangements and instrumentation, and I really love it.

1. The Blood Brothers, "Love Rhymes With Hideous Car Wreck"

My absolute favorite song at the moment. Apparently, The Blood Brothers are in fact some sort of hardcore-ish punk band. If hardcore actually sounded like this song, I probably would have listened to it in high school after all (note: not really). The song is sort of disturbing if you pay attention to the lyrics, and has a strange mix of a low-voiced lead singer and a guy who sings like a psychotic grade school girl in the mix as well. My only dislike with this song is about 30 seconds three quarters of the way through the song which actually sounds like a hardcore song, reminding me of why I don't like hardcore at all. But the rest of this oddly catchy, fucked up song is really doing it for me this week.

[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Esperanto Speakers Use Their Innate Artistic Gifts To Lament The Long, Tortured History Of Their People

2005-01-25T01:24:00.000-05:00

Esperanto speakers, much like Europe's Jewish and Gypsy peoples, have expressed their long, but much less interesting, story of oppression through poetry, song, and painting. The Esperanto have been the most ignored of the oppressed, overlooked, and disrespected peoples in Europe other than the Romansch of Switzerland, but fuck them.

FORMLESS SONG CHANT THING:
A Dirge For L.L.
by Andrew Cummings

L.L. Zamenhof
In 1878 you thought Latin might solve our problems
But you were wrong
You tried and toiled, cried and, well, toiled
til one day it happened
"Set suffixes would really cut down on confusing vocabulary"
Then there would be peace on earth
Did World War I make you wonder whether being able to read the sign for a confectioner's shop in Byalostock was really such a big deal?
I'm glad it didn't
You tried to translate poetry into proto-Esperanto,
But it was too hard and you gave up
In the twenties, you tried to make the League of Nations use Esperanto
As the language of operation
But that piece of shit Gabriel Hanotaux from France said no way
If I see that guy walking down the street
I'll give him a hearty however-you-say-fuck-you-in-Esperanto
But since he must be dead, I'll just take it all out on Mathieu Kassovitz
I can't believe he directed Gothika, what a disappointment
But speaking of death, you're probably dead now too
So sorry about that
And whenever I figure out how to say the Mourner's Kaddish in Esperanto
(My mother's Jewish but my father's Methodist,
I was kinda raised "religiously confused," long fucking story man)
I'm totally going to do that for you

PS Do we need to make up Esperanto names for ourselves? Cuz if so, maybe I could just drop one of the "m's" in Cummings? Give me a call sometime. Love, Andy

PAINTING:
Esperanto Sufferingica
by Pierre Langlade

HAIKU:
Snowfalls
by Rick DiPodesto

Esperanto Class
I thought I'd meet some great ass
But girls here are weird*

*It should be noted that, despite being written in Esperanto class, neither Rick nor his teacher knew how to say any of this in Esperanto.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Iggles Are Toast, Much Like A Few Stillers I Used To Know

2005-01-24T01:34:00.000-05:00

You'll forgive an evening's recess from legitimate site additions as I walk around with the swagger afforded only to those who live within the boundaries of the geographic fanbase of a team made-up of strangers who won a game I had nothing to do with.

To untie that tongue twister, let me say this: The Patriots win again. Yawn. Sorry America, I feel sorry for your failures.

Heah we go Supahbowl, heah we go. Damn you to hell Philadelphia, you will be destroyed. But, uh, not by me, because I'm not on the team. And not really "destroyed" per se but rather bested in a game. A football game. Fucking Philly.

Now I must go bask in the glory, in my bed, with my eyes closed, for roughly eight hours.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

"Our Lady Of The Anthracite Mines" (1968)

2005-01-20T23:43:00.000-05:00

(Jose Maria Hernandez's 1968 chef d'oeuvre about Bolivian miners somehow made its way into my personal archives (the mop bucket under my sink). Enjoy.)

The men raise their picks over their heads, and bring them crashing down on the walls of the mine shaft at a plodding, rythmic pace. They appear exhausted.

HATUNTUPAQ: (collapsing) Madre Maria, help me!

CRUEL PEDRO THE COMPANY SHILL: Pray to your pagan devils, Indian! Leave God to the civilized.

HATUNTUPAQ: Pedro, you're mestizo...your mother is Quechua, just like mine.

CRUEL PEDRO THE COMPANY SHILL: (angrily) I am a Spaniard!

LUIS: Pedro, leave Hattie Tupac alone!

HATUNTUPAQ: Hattie Tupac?

Hatuntupaq dies.

MIGUEL: We should bury him, with all the honor due to a pauper Indian anthracite miner with no family in 1960s Bolivia.

CRUEL PEDRO THE COMPANY SHILL: No burials on company time. Back to work!

ALEJANDRO: If only you'd given him water...

CRUEL PEDRO THE COMPANY SHILL: (foaming at the mouth) SHUT UP!!! Back to work!!! (foaming more and more, veins bulging) HIT THOSE WALLS! CRACK THOSE STONES!! ANTHRACITE!! CAPITALISM!! THE COMPANY!!!

THE MEN: (awakening Marxistly) Ah ha!

The men put down their pick-axes.

CRUEL PEDRO THE COMPANY SHILL: What are you doing, you thieves? Do you not realize the company's power rests on your subjugation?

LUIS: Actually, that's exactly what we realized.

CRUEL PEDRO THE COMPANY SHILL: Then why would you do that, after you all came to my birthday party last week?

THE MEN: Strike! Strike! Strike!

CRUEL PEDRO THE COMPANY SHILL: Okay, so are you going to give back the door prizes?

THE MEN: Strike! Strike! Strike!

MIGUEL: May I add I am also a Catholic Priest. (rips his overalls off revealing a Franciscan habit, falls to his knees in devout prayer) Dear heavenly Saint Cobalt of the miners and smelting plants, invest us with the power of Karl Marx. May our anthracite be daggers of anti-imperialism...but later, cuz right now we're dealing with this mine shit. And may the coal tar derived from destruction distillation sustain our children's mouths with your bounty of blacky dusty poison. Unionize! Unionize! LIONIZE!

Miguel rips off his Franscian habit to reveal yet another pair of overalls.

ALEJANDRO: May I also add we've also been awoken to gender politics. Pedro, you shill, we will not leave this mine! Viva la revolucion!

CRUEL PEDRO THE COMPANY SHILL: What a fucking cliche. Fine, this place is tapped anyway. I'm going home.

Several hours into the standoff later, a number of miners sit around a bubbling pot of anthracite soup as one of their fellow miners plays solidarity songs.

MORRISSEY: Truly, truly, truly, oh...
Drank too much
And I said too much
And there’s nowhere to go - but down

Young boy - I wanna help you
See these lines? : truly disappointed

LUIS: (whispering) This guy is freaking me out.

MIGUEL: You wanna give up?

MORRISSEY: All in all, imagine this :
Nobody loves us
Dab-hands at trouble
With four days of stubble, we are
Never loosen the grip on our hand
Call us home
Kiss our cheeks
Nobody loves us

ALEJANDRO: Yeah.

LUIS: What about the memory of Hottie Tupacs?

ALEJANDRO: Fuck that guy.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Very, Very, Very Short Plays V. Unknown: A Pittsburg(h) Steelers Fan Taunts New Englanders With Cocksureness

2005-01-20T01:17:00.000-05:00

Curtain up

PITTSBURGHER: (Chokes to death on coal dust)

Curtain down

THE END
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Introducing The Starting Lineups Of The 2004/2005 NHL All Star Game

2005-01-19T01:20:00.000-05:00

PA ANNOUNCER: Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, introducing yooooouuuur 2005 All Stars!

(Empty arenas can't cheer)

PA ANNOUNCER: #11, and spending the winter watching Canadian Air Farce reruns translated into French on Radio-Canada on the couch in his parents' rompus room: Pierre Miquelon!

PA ANNOUNCER: The left wing, #34, playing hockey for the Kazar Professionist-HockMen(tm), doling out only 90% of his salary to the Tatarstan mob in order to keep his other seven fingers and his children out of Siberian prison-orphanages, braving the -35 degree temperatures to get to what was advertized before he signed his contract as a modern hockey rink that runs at -32 on an average night: Oleg Kasparov!

PA ANNOUNCER: Defenceman, #45, and working at the Home Depot in your neighborhood trying really fucking hard to get your 15 year old daughter's phone number, proving in every waking moment that there's nothing really that nice about Ontario farm boys: Pete McCormack!

PA ANNOUNCER: Defenceman, #56, who when hockey was on played for the Columbus Blue Jackets and therefore his life is essentially exactly the same: Michel Desjardins!

PA ANNOUNCER: And the goaltender, #4, who now has to confuse people about whether he's an effette necrophiliac serial killer or just a Czech goalie solely on his own time: Jan Hus!

And while we're announcing things, here's to a lazy uninspired addition by yours truly.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Bit of A Headache...What Else Is New?

2005-01-18T01:59:00.000-05:00

I'll tell you what else is new! I'll actually give you something to actually look at on a day a headache keeps me from boring you the regular way.

There's a pretty good feature on BobandDavid.com that Patton Oswalt provides...these movie treatments from a guy named Erik Blevins, which are more often than not extremely funny. I think they're made up, sadly. But still good.

Slade Ripfire: Burning Explosion of Hell-Flame and Justice

Tuning Rod

Unseeable Fear

Slade Ripfire: Deadly Blood-Kick To Oblivion

Cancer Pond

A Pretentious College Junior Finally Hitches His Way To "That Fuckin' Manu Chao Concert"

2005-01-17T01:45:00.000-05:00

Well, Rick is at it again with another "Mass Email From A Pretentious College Junior To His Shithead Friends." Remember? Well, it was about 9 months ago.

FROM:PAuster11@Freemail.com
TO: RosncrtznGlnstrnrded@Freemail.com, Babybear@Freemail.com, GLaroux@Oxfam.org, NapDynomtSweet@Freemail.com, RSanderson.1@nyu.edu, PLO4evr@Freemail.com

SUBJECT: Clandestino

Salut, again. Sorry it's been so long, it's been a crazy couple months. Jaromir from Prague turned out to be a total fuckin' psycho. He stole this moped from his ex and we hoofed it up to Amsterdam for a few days...he was poppin shrooms like they were fucking popcorn, man. Then this stripper stole his cowboy hat and he went berserk. He broke the window to this McDonalds and kept screaming Journey lyrics at the cops. Eastern Europe, man. Never again.

The novel's on hold, everyone. I just couldn't work out the details of what perspective a copying machine would have of an office. Would it be judgemental, or just totally fucking stoic? But don't worry, the inspiration doesn't die. It can't fucking die over here. I swear, if I never see the fucking Reed College campus again it'll be too soon. Sorry guys, I'm not trying to minimize your experience back at school or whatever, I'm just saying...fucking neo-hippie SUV driving pretentious bourgeois kids. I know you think I'm describing you, Rachel, I know how fucking sensitive you can be...but seriously, no. Old vindictive Rick, right? I've put all that behind me. He sounds like a great guy, btw.

Amsterdam was too touristy. Too many fucking Americans, you know? That's why Prague kicks so much ass, it's really not like that yet. Ugly fucking Americans, bleeting out English like pigs, looking for dope. I don't know Dutch either, yeah, and sure I was looking to score, but the people can totally sense I'm down. I'm not some frat boy.

So yeah, on with the show, right? Like I said, the novel's on hiatus...but I got this great idea. When I was in Rotterdam I saw this noise-core duo...a retarded girl and her sister. The retarded girl like sings or kinda screeches or whatever, and her sister hits a drum with this big stick while over-fucking-loading this speaker with killer feedback. I'm thinking of writing a play where the characters sit there, and this fuckin' noise duo plays this shit, and the characters don't say anything but open their mouths like retarded robots every time the girl screeches, like it was dialogue or whatever. I think it'll really push the fucking envelope, like we've all been talking about. But it will, of course, require a real, non-simulated blowjob on stage. It's probably to intense for pseudo-liberal "Reed College", so fuck it, it'll have to wait til I move to Brooklyn next summer...I'll be moving in with Ramses. You remember him, he's that visual artist...he does those fucking intense montages of dead birds. It's amazing.

Sorry guys, I keep getting sidetracked by all the incredible things that are going on in my life right now. The travel updates! So, when I was in Rotterdam at the train station, I realized I was almost totally out of fucking money! I ran into this French guy named Yanic. He was kinda cool, I guess, but he wore these really tight white jeans and these dumb looking button down shirts and rolled his own really shitty cigarettes...I couldn't tell if he was a complete fucking dork or just really French. Anyway, he loved Rambo.

So he's driving me down to Paris, and he's kind of freaking me out a little bit, but then he mentions Manu Chao is playing in Seville! And I was just like, "dude, you've got to take me there." Manu Chao, in Spain, can you fucking imagine? Greg, I can see you just seizuring with jealousy right now. Manu Chao got me really interested in the shit that's going down in Nicaragua or El Salvador or whatever, and he's just sort of changed my fucking life in terms of my awareness. I know how that sounds, but guys, when it's us, we've gotta just tear down the walls and be fucking real.

So Yanic's a complete fucking loser and won't drive me to Seville. He had "a job" to go to. Asshole. So I take the train from Paris after kinda panhandling with these fucking amazing gypsies I met at the Tour Eiffel (I figure if you're going to be in fucking France, you might as well call it what they call it, for fucks sake. Piece of shit imperialist American "Eiffel tower" bullshit). I'll tell you more about those gypsies later, but it was fucking intense. I can't believe France colonized their country and now completely ostracizes them. It's sick.

So I'm there. Sevilla. Manu Chao. To think I used to listen to that David Grey bullshit. I heard "This Year's Love" in Crazy/Beautiful and I was just like "I'm all set."

So he plays Clandestino. And all these amazing fucking people are around me, just sparking up. You know how I am about weed-chic, but this was totally fucking different in every way. And it's Europe, so the cops don't fuckin' care. They start sparking up too! Well, not really. There's this girl from Lisboa (fucking American "Lisbon") with dreads next to me, and I turn to her--and I've got fucking tears in my eyes, I'm just being real with you guys--and I say, this is "so fucking amazing." And she's crying too, and it was intense. INTENSE. He plays "Me Gustas Tu," like this reggae version or whatever, and I'm fucking bawling my eyes out and dancing and looking at the stars and just thinking "thank God I'm not at fucking Reed right now." Sorry again, guys, but let's be real. Someday, we'll be living over here or in New York and open that fucking theatre company and laugh that we ever spent four years in fucking Oregon with a bunch of soulless fake-hippie cubicle-workers-of-the-future.

Well, off to Granada. Salut, Rick

PS: But if you're over here, seriously, avoid the Moroccans. I don't want to sound racist or whatever, but they'll rip you off I swear to God.

I Must Be Some Sort Of Hero.

2005-01-14T09:41:00.000-05:00

For what it's worth, at the Baseball Writers' Dinner last night, I held the World Series trophy in my arms. It's heavy.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Cameron Crowe's "Singles" Conquers The Space-Time Continuum, Trading In The Trappings Of 1991 Seattle For 2005 Indianapolis

2005-01-13T01:16:00.000-05:00

CAMERA PANS OVER, OH, HOW ABOUT THE RCA DOME 50 TIMES

PAUL WESTERBERG: Na nanana na nanana na na/na na na na nana etc./Ah ah ah.../You shoot me glances and they're so hard to read/I misconstrue what you mean/Slip me a napkin and now that you start/Is this your name or a doctor's eye chart?/I try and comprehend you but I got a dyslexic heart/I ain't dying to offend you, I got a dyslexic heart...

KYRA SEDGWICK: (to camera) For the first time I've got my own place. No Purdue dorm, no roommates.

Kyra Sedgwick walks down the streets of Indianapolis, stopping at a pet store window to admire a crate of dogs.

EXCHANGE STUDENT: In my country, how you say, we no keep them in crates, they in...how you say...bins...so you can touch them.

KYRA SEDGWICK: What's your country?

EXCHANGE STUDENT: Western Kentucky. I study at, how you say, DeVry Institute?

CUT TO:

BRIDGET FONDA: (to camera) Well, here I am. 23. Do you remember how old 23 seemed when you were little, drinking bacon grease in your Fort Wayne kitchen? 23. Hmph. I work at the Pacers pro shop. Our sizes range from XXL to XXXXXL. But I have this great boyfriend. He's in a band. He really inspires me. They're called Living Proof, and they're at the focal of 'Napolis scene. They play the smoothest funk in town.

MATT DILLON, LEAD SINGER OF LIVING PROOF: (on stage) Salt-n-Pepper - taste better when they’re together Sugar-n-spice -.by themsleves they’re not quite as nice (hey)/So we better think twice and we’ll realize/That we’ve all been put down here on this Earth/Let’s make the best of our time...

MATT DILLON: (to camera) My passion's the band. But I make ends meet with a lotta odd jobs. Mostly I just eat as many hotdogs as possible. Yeah, Indy's alright.

CUT TO:
Interior of a sizzlin' (note: there should be a "g") nightclub.

JIM TRUE-FROST: I lead my life like a French movie, Steve!

CAMPBELL SCOTT (STEVE): What's "French" mean?

JIM TRUE-FROST: Dunno. Fuckin' traitors.

Campbell Scott sees Kyra Sedgwick from across the club as music of the Indianapolis Sound(tm) blares...

DUKE TUMATOE: (on stage) From Fort Wayne, to Evansville, Colts are the team that have the skill/After years of anticipation, the rise of the Blue Nation/let's get crunked believe in blue, in Kokamo and Muncie too/the rise of the Blue Nation

CAMPBELL SCOTT: Me and my friend have this bet going. He thinks if I want to get the number of an Indy woman such as you I have to have an act, you know pretend I'm something I'm not. So I saw you, and I thought (a.) I can come up with an act, (b.) I can leave you alone, or (c.) I can just be myself. I chose (c.). So, here it goes. I once voted for a Democrat. But only for the school committee, and he was totally racist and corrupt, so it's still okay. Whaddaya say?

KYRA SEDGWICK: Fuck off to Detroit, you bleeding heart communist.

CAMPBELL SCOTT: Yikes.

In the meantime, the band has changed.

URBAN FIRE FEATURING BRENDA WILLIAMS & AARON STANSBERRY: Well I'm movin' on up to "Nap Town"/home of the blue horseshoe/that's where I'm going to get my crunk on/if you're a Colts fan you would too/home of the future champions/don't believe me, just wait and see/that's why I'm moving to the home of the blue horseshoe

Fast forward several months. Campbell & Kyra have gotten together, broken up, and now are on the verge of reconciliation.

CAMPBELL SCOTT: (looking haggard, on the phone, his XXXXXXXL Pacers sweatshirt stained with beer and pretzel mustard. Well, more than would usually be inconspicuous in Indiana.) Linda, I love you. You...and I...belong together! Just please, call me back. Meet me at the P.F. Chang's China Bistro. You know the one, our P.F. Chang's China Bistro...at the center courtyard of the octagon of Red Lobsters.

Hours later. They meet. Their eyes are locked.

CAMPBELL SCOTT: Linda...

KYRA SEDGWICK: Steve...

CAMPBELL SCOTT: Linda, words fail. We belong together. Just listen to this song, it says it all.

Campbell presses play on a tape deck.

URBAN FIRE FEATURING BRENDA WILLIAMS & TADA: I've got the fever/I've got Colts fever/I-I-I've got crunk fever/Can you feel the Blue, yeah?/Thanks for showing up we're gonna send you to school/first lesson of the day...

They begin to make out. They rip off layer after layer of stained sweatsuits.

KYRA SEDGWICK: Come on. Let's go fuck in the dumpster behind that Walmart.

THE END
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Kraftwerk: We Have Failed You (And Also Electricity)

2005-01-11T01:50:00.000-05:00

We just got out of our time machine. We have seen the future. We brought our synthesizers with us, but left them on board. We were hoping they would be necessary to communicate with all the robomen who would be running around. Or at least space robots of some kind.

There were none.

Did the scientist-men not hear our Technologiehymne "It's More Fun To Compute?" We were at least hoping for metallic clothing. You know, a shiny silver shirt. Maybe it gave you your nutrients. Or acts as some sort of forcefiel...I don't know! You were living in the future, it was supposed to be your job, how should I know what the shirt does? We were stuck in 1981. Doesn't matter anyway, there are no metal shirts, apparently.

Even in your music, we're back to all that LouReedischschiesse. Where are the automatons?!? No, other than Lou Reed.

I suppose you haven't even made any progress with replacing our blood with calculators. We tried to speak to a zukünftigerjugendlicher (future-teenager) in binary code, and he just looked at us like we were a bunch of assholes. When we used the word "zukünftigerjugendlicher," he told us if it wasn't for his grandfather we'd all be eating sauerkraut right now.

We were also upset to see trees still exist. In German, we have a word for this feeling: Donaudampfschiffahrtselektrizitaetenhauptbetriebswerkbauunterbeamtengesellschaft.

In Swedish they have a word about Germans who insert compound nouns that don't mean what they claim it does, and that's: NORDÖSTERSJÖKUSTARTILLERIFLYGSPANINGSSIMULATORANLÄGGNINGSMATERIELUNDERHÅLL-SUPPFÖLJNINGSSYSTEMDISKUSSIONSINLÄGGSFÖRBEREDELSEARBETEN. Just joking. That's some whiny Swede crap about aviation surveys over the Baltic.

By the way, while we're on the topic we were also upset to see the Baltic still exists. But that's for totally different reasons.

Oh yeah, Florian tried to drink a glass of mercury and he died. Great. Can't even drink liquified metal. What have you been up to for the last 25 years? The European Union? Thanks. Now that Germany's saddlebagged with Lithuania...cough, again...we won't even catch them up to the Dark Ages until 2350. Forget about robots with that lot. Why would Lithuanians invent robots, even if they could? To see which one could find and then cover up the most Soviet era mass graves for a bribe of potato soup? How would you even program something like that? What's a robot supposed to do with potato soup?

We can't really figure out the point of this century.

We will have to continue to live in our technodreams, I guess. Personally, I like the one where Greenpeace are eaten by cyborgs and shat out as Atari parts. Or the one where Ralf Hütter fucks a battery charger. That one's alright.

This future of yours is like mood music, if the mood you're in is for puking.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Chief Paralegal Martin McGarvey (Angrily) Writes A Pilot Episode For A Show About Office Life

2005-01-10T01:23:00.000-05:00

Dear Hollywood or whatever Limey Hollywood is called,

Comedies like The Office and Office Space have been wildly popular depicting the drudgery of life in the American or Pasty-American (British) offices. Everybody's so boring and bored. Let's all have a big laugh. Oh yeah?!?

Well, here's my comedy. I wrote it in my apartment last night. I've been the chief paralegal at Podhertz, Santovenia & Leetch for eleven years, so I think I know what I'm talking about. Why don't you put this on your TV screens?

JOHNNY: Oh no! The printer says "Deck 2: Load Legal Paper!" What am I gonna do? Oh yeah, if I were a competent employee and just read the printer instructions like I was supposed to, I know that just means it's out of legal-sized paper. Open a box of paper, put it in this clearly labeled feeder, and press print at my computer. Wah, wah, wah. It's so hard to figure out user friendly modern technology. Looks like I'd rather work in a factory and have my fingers chopped off. "Why won't my fax send?" Maybe because I didn't press # and then press 9 and then press 1 before the area code, followed by "SEND". Gee whiz, blah, blah, blah.

SALLY: Oh look at me. I hate being a paralegal. Wah, wah, wah. I'm so much better than Mr. McGarvey who looks at my tits all day. Blah, blah. Why don't I just quit then, if I hate my health insurance and partial dental. Oh, my comfy desk is such a drag. I guess I'd rather live during a time where I have to kill what I eat. If the ocean's out of fish, looks like I'm dead as a doornail. The supermarket I pay for with my hefty salary's so much worse. Wah, wah, wah.

MIKE: These buzzing fluorescent lights are so depressing. Blah, blah, blah. I guess I just don't know that these lights are made like this to save my vision. Maybe I'd like soft mood lighting at my computer, so I can go blind. Poor little me.

JAKE: Hi, I'm the boss. I guess I must be a loser because I gave all of you cool dudes jobs straight out of college. What a nightmare that must be for you. Blah, blah, blah. I have a mortgage and a car, and I like outdated music. I guess I should be the butt of your jokes. Everybody have a laugh because I said I went to the Home Depot on Sunday (note: what's British for "Home Depot"? Insert it here.). Ha, ha, ha.

PETER: Hey everybody, I'm an efficiency expert. I suppose it doesn't matter that I took a lot of classes for this and have a degree from a prestigious school. Oh well, I guess businesses should just lose money because of inefficiency. Blah, blah, blah. Wah, wah, wah. Sorry for bothering you.

Why don't you put my show on your primetime, huh? Why don't we mention a nice business like this one takes out all of your social security and all before you even get the check, to save you the hassle? Huh? HUH?!?!? Sorry for boring you, Hollywood. And don't even get me started on those English people. Except for Monarch of the Glen. What a treat!

But seriously, if you put the show on, I have a question. These characters are based on these jerks that work for me, so will I be sued? Give me the number of your legal department before we get crankin' (crackin') on this baby.

Fuck you very much (note: read "thank you very much," with hostility),
Martin McGarvey
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

To Make A Long (Uninteresting) Story Short...

2005-01-07T02:40:00.000-05:00

I will try to resume as normal next week.

Academic Historian Angrily Debates A 7 Year Old Presidential "Expert" On A Late Night Show

2004-12-17T01:20:00.000-05:00

JIMMY FLIMMERS: Next up, we've got Sally Kile, seven year old presidential trivia expert!

[Audience applauds]

JIMMY FLIMMERS: Well Sally, who's your favorite president?

SALLY: George Washington.

[Audience applause]

JIMMY: Why's that?

SALLY: Because wifout him as genwil of the Wevolution, we wouldn't have Amewica.

Audience aws.

PETER HARRINGTON, PhD.: HOGWASH , FLIMFLAM & COCKSHIT!

JIMMY: Dr. Harrington, we'll get to you and your book...

PETER HARRINGTON: NO! Argh & Arghh (editor's note: I don't actually know if the extra "h" comes across.)!!!!!! Listen to me you bitch, how dare you further the foolishery that Georgus Augustus Caesar Washington was somehow the only one capable of leading America's pitchpatch of raggedy hodgepodgers to victory?

SALLY: Bu...

PETER HARRINGTON: "Bu...bu..." Ha ha! How will you defend your dissertation?

SALLY: He waf the Genwil who made Amewica. His birfday's on...

PETER HARRINGTON: Birthday? Birthday, dear girl? Or should I call you "dear girl"? What is this, amateur history night in the high school gymnasery?

JIMMY: Huh?

PETER HARRINGTON: I'd be interested to hear your response to the fact that (a.) Washington was a moderate with little interest in the so-call founding values; (b.) was a general of the shoddiest shod for most of his life and (c.) Christopher Columbus was a pirate! You may take this on a point by point basis, starting with point c.

SALLY: (crying)

JIMMY: Damage control! Sally, Sally, darling. Which president had the fattest body?

SALLY: (sniffling) William Howid Taft.

AUDIENCE: Awww.

PETER HARRINGTON: Hah, hah! The question was "who had the fattest body"? The answer, of course, is Theodore Roosevelt who had the body of the fattest man in America chained to his basement door. And the name of that man was...William Howard Taft.

JIMMY: (checks the book, gasps) He's right. Sally, you're in deep trouble.

SALLY: But I'm tenured.

JIMMY: Only by listing every First Lady's favorite cookie recipe will save you now. Start the egg timer, Dr. Harrington!

PETER HARRINGTON: (Dead)

JIMMY: Go!

SALLY: Uh...Washington: Scottish Shortbread! Adams: Scottish Shortbread! Jefferson: Scottish Shortbread! Madison: Scottish Shortbread! Monroe: Refried Dogballs! Quincy Adams: Scottish Shortbread!
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

End Of A Cabrera Era.

2004-12-15T13:55:00.000-05:00

Although you most likely have read it on more reliable sources, after a bit of false information this morning, Edgar Renteria is now a Boston Red Sox.

Who knew.

See you around OCab, I was a fan. But this works for me.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Break Out Your Anti-Masonic Party Pamphlets

2004-12-14T02:14:00.000-05:00

I have a different sort of entertainment for you today. Due to the baseball news yesterday, I spent a little time this evening looking at Red Sox sites (my only comment on "the news": I certainly hope the rotation looks much better on opening day than it does at this moment). On Sons of Sam Horn (shudder) I found the following. Be warned: its long, the grammar is at times poor, but there's a great payoff.

Essentially, what follows is the most bizarre, clearly fabricated, intricate and diabolical conspiracy theory I've read in some time. And, then when I stop for a minute to remind myself its ABOUT BASEBALL, it makes it even a little more amusing. Essentially this poster claims to have a secret source he can't name and will only call "XXX" (for fear for his life or something) who has told him the dark inner secrets that one John W. Henry, owner of the Red Sox, has for his team. If you're willing to read for awhile, it's worth it.

I need to protect my friends, because all hell will break
loose if I don't. They would know almost immediately if both XXX & ZZZ
were mentioned directly. (ONE XXX) is known to be friendly
with Mia Hamm and Nomar Garciaparra.

Also, if you could post without mentioning XXX’s position
at a PROMINENT NEW ENGLAND NEWSPAPER, it would be fine. You can say they have been there nearly 20+ years and is in a substantial position, but not anything else or they'll link
this to XXX, because they may have mentioned XXX’s work at some point. I can't be sure.

This is what happened: Henry apparently decided way back last February or
March that Pedro wasn't someone he wanted to keep. Actually, if he had
his way he'd wipe the slate totally clean of anyone that they didn't bring in
themselves. It isn't about the team so much as it is for Henry to have
chess pieces he can move around the Red Sox board of play. It's all about
control to Henry and he doesn't want anyone who was here before...anyone
at all.

Pedro was onto them back in late April. If you'll recall, he said
publicly that they were dirty dealers and were underhandedly trying to maneuver
himself, Tek, Nomar and Lowe out of town. I can send the article if you
wish. It was amazing in that it hardly got any real notice. Pedro took a
real chance doing it. He felt he had to speak up. That finished any
chance
of him ever remaining, in Henry's eyes. Henry will not brook anyone
speaking up like that; he finds it insubordination.

Larry gets angry, but gets over it. Larry also appreciates Pedro as a
premiere pitcher and a real competitor. He knows that Pedro is a good
game player himself. Larry can be dislikeable, but he isn't expressly devious
and he doesn't feel that these guys have to kowtow to him, as Henry does.

So Larry has wanted to offer Pedro the third year all along. XXX told
us this at least two weeks ago, maybe more. XXX said that Henry has to o.k.
everything...he micromanages to an unbelievable extent. Truly. He's got his nose in everything. And he has paid people looking over everyone's
shoulders. Theo answers first and foremost to Henry.
Theo has been selling himself out, piece by piece, over the last year and
a half. He specifically told Nomar and the press, one week before he traded
him, that he was not going to trade Nomar. All the time, Theo knew full
well that Henry had been waiting for the chance to get rid of Nomar. XXX thinks he (Theo)
had hoped it would not happen, but he never had any business saying that
to Nomar privately and then telling reporters the same thing, on a whim or a
prayer. And he (Henry/FO) lucked out big time, as you know. They (other MLB teams) saw him (Theo) coming and it's why he got so little for Nomar. They knew he (Theo) was under orders to dump Nomar
and they took advantage. It's true that Cabrera did well for us, he's a good
little player who was so unhappy where he was that it deeply affected his
play, some of us believe.

This is not a popular point of view with SoSH members, XXX knows, but it's true nonetheless. Some people, especially emotional ones like Cabrera, are deeply affected by their surroundings and
their emotional state. Nomar is another. It's why he signed with Chicago when Anaheim offered him a longer deal for a little bit better money. He is so thankful for Baker and the organization's dealings with him, that he wants to repay them for at least the next year and then see what happens.
He's so appreciative that he may never leave there, even though XXX can tell you definitely that Mia does not like the city of Chicago. Nomar made the FO aware of this fact last year, when he got to ST, telling them that if they wanted to trade him, to please try and make it a west coast team.
And he specifically mentioned that he would not want to go to Chicago because Mia dislikes it intensely. It's why, we think, they pushed so hard for Chicago to get him. This is Henry all over. He's a vengeful man and Nomar calling the station from his honeymoon was more insubordination. Then Nomar
told some people his side of things and it got out and that was MORE
insubordination. He was a marked man. He knew it, but he didn't quite
believe it until it happened. Nomar is a really naive guy in a lot of ways.
He just couldn't believe the fact that people would dislike him and not get
over things. All he wanted was an apology from them in ST. When he didn't
get it, he began to become unhappy. He wanted them to explain what had
motivated them and why they'd done it. He got no explanation of any kind
from any of them. Larry tried to reestablish a friendship with him, but
Nomar disliked him the most because he's the loudest and the most obvious.
Nomar is very bashful and also never really knew, up until he left
anyway, that it was Henry who was the biggest trouble. XXX knows that he does
realize this now. Because XXX has told his wife. And her friends, of whom XXX shares
one close relationship in particular.

I tell you all this because I need for you to believe me, I don't know
what else I can do, short of giving you XXX’s private email addy or phone
number

XXX stays in touch with Larry ….and managed to get back in between
…….(specific dates and occasions). But if Larry
is being misinformed, then this explains why XXX is.
XXX told ZZZ on Saturday night that Larry had convinced Henry to offer
Pedro the third year. They'd lost out on a couple of people they were
aiming for, and Pavano wasn't looking so good either. Larry convinced (or
so he thought) Henry that they needed to lock Pedro up or at least offer
him the third year in case they did lose Pavano. Larry has wanted Pedro back for at least the last few months, because he told XXX that he wanted him back.

Henry gave him the go-ahead and Pedro was pleased and told them this was
all he had been waiting for. He was ready to sign but they asked him to give
them the weekend and he (Pedro) could announce it on Monday, so as not to tie
Theo's hands at the GM meeting. Pedro agreed.
Then yesterday it's all over hell and creation that Theo is trying to
trade Manny. He (Theo) was talking deals for Piazza, Floyd, some other guy and that Japanese fellow (Matsui).

He (Manny) was just too out there, for one thing. Too many possibilities. Too
extreme. Insulting stuff. And he (Theo??) knew it and never planned to follow
through on any of them. He had it leaked and it was leaked for one reason
only - to upset Pedro and hopefully push him to sign with the Mets or
whoever else, but preferably the Mets. Then they figured they could
really ditch Manny cause he'd be glad to go.

The problem is that Pedro is wise to them and knows enough not to
overreact. He's got it out there through his agent that he is intending to sign but
wants an assurance from the Sox. Well, he's not getting that assurance.
He's not getting his point of view out there at all to this point. Maybe in the papers tomorrow, but probably not much. The Globe is hopeless. Just hopeless. It's Henry's spin and nothing else.
Either way, the Pro Jo may be the only hope Pedro has of getting anything
about his side of this printed in New England. And someone close to him
is going to have to speak on the record, while skirting the issue about
Manny, since no one would believe it anyway.

As XXX says in closing-
“I realize that if too much of this subterfuge stuff gets said, it turns
everyone off. Hey, I am Irish and as straight out as you can get. I don't
have a sneaky bone in my body. I hate this stuff and am the last one to
look for it. I still figure people are usually out front with their
motives, because I am. Even though I'm nearing 50 years old, I still tend
to think this way. It's taken me a while to see just how surreptitious
Henry is. I was convinced for the first year or so that Larry was the
main problem.

I don't know...you are the member there and I read the place and it's darn hard to get anyone to see anything wrong with these owners, cause very little gets out there. And even what does, is usually bits and pieces and no one puts the whole together. There's not enough out there to do it.
And given Henry's reach in New York and New England, there probably never will be.

So you might want to keep it very careful and note that Pedro did appear
ready to sign, by all indications. Then the Manny rumors yesterday, that
were just too varied and too complex to all be mere "rumors". I don't
know
if the board would accept that it was disinformation, because that's what
it was. Maybe they would accept it if the FO weren't directly blamed for it.
I don't know. But I do know, from reading these guys, and not just them,
everybody mostly, that you just can't seem to point out anything about the players and have it even considered. And what bothers me is that this
isn't just recent; since they won the Series. I was trying to point stuff out from June on and no one would even consider it. Even when they'd known Nomar for nearly 10 years. Even when Lowe spoke up publicly and said they wanted him to fail this year. Even when Pedro said what he did on May 1
and accused them of trying to degrade his career while also trying to get rid
of him. Even Varitek, who has said quite a bit for him, but has decided to
play hardball with them big time.

****************DELETED THIS SECTION PER REQUEST OF AUTHOR******************

.....Jason
made it clear last ST that he knew the team was going to be dismantled
this year. He said so publicly, but nearly everyone missed that too.
So here's what I know as of 8:30, which is what it is now. Pedro is
trying to get some word to somebody, and I don't know who. I don't know if he
realizes that Larry is the one he should appeal to. I heard he was trying
to reach Werner, which is useless. Werner will report anything to Henry.
He doesn't really like to get involved.
I have no way to reach Pedro Martinez myself, as I have only met him
briefly and he has no idea who I am. I hesitate to call on Mia Hamm to get poor
Nomar involved with this thing, as he has had enough trouble already and
it trying to get on with his life. They can still make a lot of trouble for him too, if they want to. Especially with the steroid thing heating up
and two of them, Henry and Lucchino, in the mix to smash the players union.
They want a salary cap in place immediately, as the mlb forms that have to
be filled out this year have made QUITE the difference in the salaries, haven't they? The players are not stupid and they know full well the
owners have been signaling each other the last few years.
Now the owners are going to use this steroid issue to try and destroy the
union. Schilling, whom I dislike immensely as you may know, or if you
don't, Tiegs can tell you, has said that they do not trust mlb to do the
testing. This is true. When Schilling says something against the owners,
you should really listen because he sleeps with the devil that gives him
what he wants, usually.

They not only don't trust them, they actively think that the people in mlb
would falsify test results to control players. They'd pick some poor
player and make an example of him. To let the others know that if they don't
play ball to the owners' specific tunes, they'd be destroyed. Yes, it's gotten
that bad. This is what the majority of players who are involved in the
union think. Schilling actually said it outright and for once, I liked
the fact that he can't keep his mouth shut.

The Red Sox owners are the most dangerous in the game today. Far more
dangerous than Steinbrenner. He is an unpredictable nut who has temper
tantrums and can't stand losing, but he's not viscious and he's not
against the players having some say about themselves. Just that they have to
perform. This Giambi thing is because Steinbrenner feels he didn't pay
any attention to what he was actually doing to his body and showed no
restraint or common sense about it. George feels this kind of recklessness should
cost him his contract. But he'll settle for getting it reduced on his
end, we suspect.

But these guys...with Selig in their corner all the way,....are very
dangerous. Especially John Henry. Lucchino is only with these guys
because he was moved at the last minute and he isn't a full partner. Werner is,
but he's the one who gets his show business links through New York and Henry's
reach at the Times and various other papers. Henry has fingers everywhere
in New York. He has trusted friends within the Yankee organization. That
whole "Evil Empire" stuff was Henry and Werner pumping Lucchino up for
show business effect. Lucchino is competitive and likes to be up against
someone...but that's all. He isn't a bad sort, when compared to Henry and
even Werner, who is just completely amoral. Not immoral. Amoral.

But due to circumstances beyond my control, I got drawn in slowly over the
last offseason when XXX began telling YYY about poor Nomar and what was
happening to him. I barely knew Nomar at that time and considered him to
be a nice guy who had funny ways and tried too hard and jinxed himself. I
believe he was the heart of the team. They beat on without him, mostly
because of Ortiz and Varitek and Muellar and Millar too, though I don't
like that little weasel anymore at all.

> I don't know.....you'll have to decide how much to say and how best to say
> it. Henry and Theo will be aware of it within a half hour or so after you
> post, so you'll have to write as if anything I told you, if you go with my
> story and don't just type it as a question mark, that anything much you
say
> in the way of specifics leaves me open to discovery. This will lead to,
> probably, divorce court, and certainly will lead to XXX losing his
> retirement and XXXand Larry too will be in big hot water.
>
> So proceed with caution. You know best how to convince these guys by now.
> I don't know how to move men's minds when they are made up like this. And
> especially guys like this, because if they can't see it on a stat sheet,
> most of them don't believe it exists.
>
> It's up to you. But I wouldn't wait too long.
> I am going to email this to Tiegs. But again, time is of the
> essence. It's getting onto 9:00 p.m.

Volume VII Of Crust Punk Bands That Open At Local Clubs: The Rise And Fall Of Asshole & The Shitheads

2004-12-13T02:05:00.000-05:00

Asshole & The Shitheads came together, not unlike a moonbeam on a still lake, at Hingham High School in 2002. Bass player Kevin Dougherty met "Asshole" in a second-tier pre-calculus class. "Asshole" prefers not to be referred to by his given name, and for good reason, as it's J. Geils Murphy, son of a weekend staffer for the Globe's Metro/South section. After their meeting, Kevin and "Asshole" realized their love for the still-relevantly named The McVeighs and pissing on things was the beginning of an inspiring collaboration.

"The rest is history," as lead guitarist Pat O'Doyle wrote in an unsolicited email to me entitled "The Rest Is History."

They began angrily playing high school coffeehouses during their sophomore year, sharing the stage with such acts as Tripnight, who covered String Cheese Incident covers of Phish.

Assole & the Shitheads were not to wallow in the obscurity of every third Friday at the Hingham High Gym for long. It was with a roar, not a whimper, that they burst onto the big stage of Unitarian Church basements in Cambridge. That moment, nearly 5 weeks ago, is remembered like it was yesterday. The 4 track recording of their first hit, Fuck Your Shoes, is still making the rounds through the eight kids sitting in the Harvard Square Pit.

Fuck Your Shoes
Fuck Your Shoes
Fuck Your Shoes
Go! (x5)

Fuck Your Shoes
Fuck Your Keds
I'm Gonna Rip Out Those Fuckin Dreads
Go! (x30)

"Asshole" reminds me that he wanted to list Birkenstocks instead of Keds, but the rhyming was "not happening" (editors note: not an actual quote).

It hasn't been an easy 5 weeks for the "boys from Hingham," as one overworked Cambridge truency officer calls them. They've broken up 11 times, mostly over whether it would have been more original to name themselves Dogshit & the Assheads. Drummer Geoff Fitzsimmons suggested the Heartbreak Strolls, but that's only because he got really into the Raveonettes, turned his back on gutterpunk, and someday dreams of boning a preppy chick from the Western suburbs. He's since been replaced by Fleshknife, a 38 year old real crust punk who scares the living shit out of the rest of the band.

They'll be playing this weekend at the Somerville VFW with Scissordick, Amerikan Disgrake and The Cunteens. You'll recognize Asshole as the 17 year old with the "I Remember The Rat" t-shirt. When I asked him if he did, in fact, remember the Rat, he asked me if it was near North Station.

He then asked me if I thought Accutane was really that dangerous. I said I didn't know. He then played a song about fucking.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

84 Year Old Answorth Hallington, PhD, of the Modern Urban Literature Department, Gives His Farewell Lecture

2004-12-09T02:00:00.000-05:00

And lastly, I would like to thank you, students, for all the inspiration you've given me. As a young man, enveloped by the salty breezes of Bristol seaside, I never could have imagined a career so rewarding. Modern Urban Literature has been my life, and I would not have done a single thing differently.

Think not of me, young minds. What is it that they say about old soldiers? I do look forward to the slow, warm fade...though I am quite sure those as young and full of promise as those assembled would not understand. What was it Taydatay once spoke? "I thought I told ya/game over/sideways till the next motherfuckin' level/I hit the ghetto/hands on my heavy metal/I see some hatas /and their bitches lookin' my way/little did they know/I plotted with their hoes yesterday/hit the freeway/I got cash to get/international/need blaze, bumpin' milk-a-bitch."

Milk-a-bitch, milk-a-bitch. J.R.R. Tolkien can have his "cellar door," for I know in my heart that the truly most beautiful combination of phrases to the human ear be this.

I will live amongst my books, students. I will travel. I will remember my dear departed wife, Clara. Upon the door to her masoleum, may it be written: "She that gangsta type/love to fight/Rode motorbikes, wodie shit, do it all night/Feel the fall, she a killa dawg/Do a bid in a minute just to get some scrilla dawg."

But I fear my scrilla attaining days are past. But yours, young ones, are just beginning.

Have the inner strength to look life in the face! Stand up to the adversity you find. To the narrow of mind, the dimwitted, the charlatans and shams, call down from the book at heaven's door the words of Duece Poppito of 24 Karatz, as featured in Shut Up by Trick Daddy. that will sustain you! "Whassup, are you ready to go?/You ready to tongue kiss with the blue fo'fo'?"

Now children, when I swallow these pills, please eat my heart out of my chest. When it is finished, bury me with my gold-gilded copy of 1-800-SUICIDE by the Gravediggaz, that on which my dissertation was based, oh so many years ago. On the River Styx, my password will be, as it always has been, "Genocide Homicide you won't figure this out til you die/It's a suicide."

Here Come Your Mandrew's Too Busy To Add A Proper Post, Yet Again

2004-12-08T02:31:00.000-05:00

I was filling out an accident report this evening because some commercial van driver hit me the other day. Not much damage, but the report took much longer than I would have thought.

Anyway, in honor of the fact Steven and I will be going to the Pixies show this upcoming Thursday at Avalon, and I figured I'd compile a list of my favorite songs that wouldn't make it onto the greatest hits comp.

1. River Euphrates, off Surfer Rosa. I've never understood why this particular song is not more popular. Greatest Black Francis/Kim Deal harmonies of any of their songs, plus a great discordant guitar riff.

2. Levitate Me, off Come On Pilgrim. This one WOULD make it on the greatest hits comp, I think, but I'll tack it on anyway because people always seem to forget about it.

3. Dead, off Doolittle. One of my favorite Pixies songs, but only every so often. Off of an album where nearly every track still gets plenty of attention, this is one you might need to whip out a copy of the album to remember. I also used to misunderstand some of the lyrics as "hypocracker", which is still a word I really like.

4. Mr. Grieves & Crackity Jones off Doolittle. Also two of the slightly less famous choices off the Pixies most famous album, but slightly more well-known, I guess. These two songs have nothing to do with each other, but one follows the other, so what th' fuck. "Hope Everything is Al-ri-hi-hi-hight," indeed. I would add "Hey" to the list too, but it would be on all the greatest hits comps, and is one of my favorite songs of all time. But the Pixies have a few like that for me.

5. Is She Weird, off Bossanova. Fits the atmosphere of the Bossanova album, which is most people's least favorite Pixies album but certainly grows on you over time.

6. All Over the World, off Bossanova. One of the most underrated Pixies song, mostly because any song that absolutely no one remembers or cares about HAS TO be underrated. And I like it...partly because I can't tell if Black Francis is harmonizing with Kim Deal or with himself.

7. The Happening, off Bossanova. The bulk of this song is sort of forgettable, from the "loud Pixies" genre. But the chorus and the breakdown make it rank as one of my favorite songs. And any song about aliens usually wins me over. I especially appreciate the lyrics that, as the aliens may very well be about to destroy the world, "They've come so far I've lived this long/at least/I must just go and say hello."

8. Bird Dream of the Olympus Mons, off Trompe Le Monde.

9. Distance Equals Rate Times Time, off Trompe Le Monde. One of my favorite song titles, one of my favorite songs about the lack of tv and going blind, and totally underrated. I hope they play it on Thursday.

10. I feel the need to defend Alec Eiffel here, which probably is a greatest hit by many counts, only because Steve doesn't care for it. And although Motorway to Roswell gets its share of respect, I figure I'll bring it up anyway because it's wonderful, and about aliens (again).

11. Winterlong. Neil Young cover off the B-Sides album. With the notable exception of River Euphrates, perhaps my favorite Black/Deal harmonies.

Thursday at the Avalon. As long as they don't play an entire set of "Bam Thwok," I'll be quite happy.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Comedic Set-Up Operating Off Of A Completely Invalid Premise

2004-12-06T01:41:00.000-05:00

STAND-UP RICKY DAIRE: Here's one from the "What If-zer?(tm)" Files!

What if Fyvush Finkel were Jewish?

Perhaps his lines in Boston Public would sound a little something like this:

"Ach, mein bissel alrightniks! Vat say ve say a bruchah over these math problems, ey bubbellahs? Heh? Looks like Timmy O'Toole is farshnickert in class, farshtaist? Vit all of mine farshlepteh krenk you'd tink I vouldn't spend mine days vit all zese farpishteh punims!"

That's alotta f's, ey folks?

AUDIENCE: Stunned silence.

RICKY DAIRE: That was part of the joke. It's all about intonation. But what else would Fyvush Finkel say, if he were Jewish? I'll tell you one thing, he'd spend less time eating those cucumber sandwiches at the golf club, huh? What would a Jewish Fyvush Finkel say when he was hungry?

"Oy, I could use a little nosh in Broch-lyn! I'll eat til my pupik is as long as a putz! I feel rachmonis for de kishke dumb enough to plop itself down on my plate. It could run, but svet gornisht helfen!"

Can you imagine folks? And what if you were getting in a Jewish Fyvush Finkel's face? No, he wouldn't be calling the Yale Alumni Club security...if you gave him the evil eye, maybe he'd say...

"Stop givin' me ze kaynahorah, you oysvorth!!!!"

AUDIENCE MEMBER: HE ALREADY SOUNDS LIKE THAT!

RICKY DAIRE: Huh? Oh, wait! I meant George Plimpton! FUCK!
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Oh, Other Cultures.

2004-12-03T01:52:00.000-05:00

So, my younger brother registered a level of disgust so high with that "TBC" Caribbean Detective thingy that it had to be dropped altogether out of shame.

In lieu of coming up with another idea, I will find comedy in cultural misunderstanding.

In their most recently updated map, National Geographic labeled the Persian Gulf the Persian Gulf, as it always has done. But, in order to reflect the fact that a number of country's in the world call it something else, in parenthesis, it is also labeled the "Arabian Gulf."

The level of outrage in Iran is so great that it has brought hardcore Islamic Revolutionaries and reform-minded students together in a common cause: yelling at National Geographic. Iranian computer programmers were so angry they made it so that if one were to search for the "Arabian Gulf" on Google, their reply to this major controversy would be the first result.

Now we all know I have a great affinity for Persian culture. The Rubaiyat, for instance. Oh, and the fact that several of the Islamic Republic's citizens have stumbled upon this site searching for Azerbaijani prostitutes from Naxivan, only to be greatly, GREATLY disappointed. And in case you haven't heard that before: yes, that's true.

Anyway, there is also a massive, MASSIVE petition to National Geographic to reverse this insult to ancient Persian culture. Hilariously enough, even to your Jewish correspondent, among the culprits fingerpointed in regards to this atrocity were "Zionists," who apparently dedicated a massive Gulf to their loving relationship with Arabs.

Here's that petition. Click on "View Current Signatures" to read some of the responses many individuals have left next to their names. One of my favorites was "Nowadays everything seems to be possible even finding a star globe on which moon is named soon or an atlas in which Washington is named the land of Taliban."

Then again, when Fox once referred to my great Commonwealth as Taxachusets, I angrily signed a petition stating that the end has two fucking t's.

So there.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Long Lost Sears-Roebuck Catalogue Maxwell House Endorsement By Teddy Roosevelt

2004-12-02T01:33:00.000-05:00

Ladies, cease hiding behind your draperies. Put down your chicory, never to taste it's vileness again. Maxwell's House has done it! The house of Maxwell is strong indeed, King Lear! That's from Shakespeare.

Oh, the scented scentery of its very beans! How it pierces my nostrils and porces my eardrums!

Dearest ladies: I speak to you not only as your Presidentery, but as the darling old Knickerbocker so many of you once knew biblically, in a flop house of the Isle Staten. I would awake from my drunkifois (that's Frencho-Frankish, as you know, Premier Ministre Caillaux!) quite bedraggled and buntrified. I would order the simple half-man from the Eleventh level of the Fourth layer of hell, in autre mots, the Chinaman from Japanity, to fetch me some coffee.

"I say, your worthless cur," I would remark politely to the half-man, as you most likely attempted to force your bossoms into your torn-asunder bustier, "ground some beans in the grindington, pass hot water through the groundinglings, and enter the results into a mug. If you fail me, you will not live it down until the day when a Hebrew throws his becurled head upon a pillow in Brooklyn-Towne! That'll be the day!"

And then we laughed for hours. And it would take just as many hours for the coffee to return with the Asia-thing. Then you and I would feast on China-food, although I do wish he had not worn such heavy clothes as I feel it made his flesh rather tough.

However, this was about the coffee of the House of the Maxwells. Now, the chore detailed above is but a happy memory. From the catalogue of Sears, every childbearing woman of America can have a can of the coffee beans's grounds delivered to her home in three ton bundles. You could entertain the pastor, have fireside chats with the minister, and plot how to have the Catholik priest run back to Rome or killed. All possible, while barely noticing the fourteen hours of *modern* coffee preparation. "Moliere!" you might yell. That's from Moliere.

The curs of Colombia, the mongrels of Ethiopia, and the banshees of Kenya have slaved in their sweltering fucklands to send this coffee to America. Although in retrospect "banshees" was not the best word I could have used. When preparing a coffee, or puking out the last vestiges of your chicory, please imagine the rotting bones of these fiendish bean-pickers being snapped under the foot of the Sears-Roebuck catalogue. I know I'll be masturbating.

Regards, Theodore "Teddydore" Roosevelt, Holder of the Office of the Presidentary & Trademark Holder of the Maxwell House Slogan "Ignore those Colombian fingernails, they're for flavor, but if you find any whole fingers, consult your local doctor at the quackery for some opium. It's good 'til the last drop!"
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Tales Of A Useless Caribbean-Based Private Eye, Pt. 1

2004-12-01T02:41:00.000-05:00

"Brick Lincoln!" boomed Captain McHenry of the Miami Police.

"You've got no jurisdiction in the Bahamas, parrothead," said Brick Lincoln, lounging in a hammock and drinking a sun-colored drink from a large glass.

"This, chief?" said Brick, pointing to his drink, answering a question never asked. You're gonna need 2 c.'s of granulated sugar. 12 passion fruit, 6 c.'s hot water.
And you guessed it, spices optional. Keep those 'cubes in blender, if you can't stand the heat."

"Brick..."

"But no, seriously, you do actually need the icecubes. It has nothing to do with standing any heat."

"Brick! There's been a grisly murder in town. It was a very important denizen of the Miami community."

"Dowager?"

"Denizen."

"You knew her, Brick. Linda Ortega. We both know I ain't got the jurisdiction," McHenry said. "I need you to do the legwork."

" One: Remove seeds and pulp from fruit. Two: Pour hot water over seeds and allow to cool. Three: Sweeten to taste and dilute with water if one wishes a milder flavor. Four: Serve with ice."

"Brick!"

"Five: Ice the motherfucker who killed Linda. And that, most assuredly, would sweeten to taste my revenge."

"What?"

"And I'll remove his seeds alright, but I won't be removing his pulp. But I sure will turn him into it. The only passion fruit served around here will be my fists. Oh yeah, and the ones in that punch I've been talking about."
-------
TO BE CONTINUED

A Williamsburg Playwright, Raised By A CFO In Duxbury, MA, Writes A Play In Which He Tells Minorities From Brooklyn What Their Strife REALLY Means

2004-11-29T02:57:00.000-05:00

The Curtain Opens On A Bus Stop in Brooklyn. An elderly black man, two high-school aged black guys, a Rabbi, a middle-aged poor Latino, and a Jewish yuppie-ette stand at a bus stop.

CLARENCE (ELDERLY BLACK MAN): Folks don’t talk like they used ta.

DARNELL (BLACK YOUTH #1): Shut the fuck up, old man!

JAMES (BLACK YOUTH #2): You’re not my dad.

RABBI KOFFMAN: (under his breath) That’s the problem in this neighborhood these days. No fathers.

DARNELL: You fuckin’ racist! Why don’t you take those curls around your ears and shove ‘em down your throat, Yid!

RABBI: Watch your mouth, punk.

RACHEL (JEWISH YUPPIE): Shut up, Rabbi!

CLARENCE: Yup, our cultures sure are clashing. Didn’t used to be like this.

JAMES: It’s always been like this on the streets of Crooklyn.

DARNELL: I think you meant Brooklyn.

JAMES: What did I say?

DARNELL: Crooklyn.

JAMES: Oh. Yeah. Sorry. Brooklyn.

CARLOS (LATINO POOR MAN): I work my hands to bone to bring family from Guatemala. Dream of America. El Sueno. Instead, I wash dishes at restaurant for rich. I live alone. Où est mon rêve? I spend some time in Haiti.

RABBI KOFFMAN: What?

DARNELL: Who are you talking to?

Carlos leaves.

RABBI KOFFMAN: You kids with your rap music. Why do you harass the Jewish people?

DARNELL: Why do you own all the shops?

RABBI KOFFMAN: Why do you hang out on the corners?

JAMES: Why do you cross the street when you see us coming when we don’t even do anything?

RACHEL: Stop, Rabbi! Don’t be a racist! (turning to the youths) Allow me to apologize for this man. I renounce him, this neighborhood, kasha varnishkes, and all of my heritage. Can I come to one of those slam poetry concerts now?

CLARENCE: I seen your kind before, Rachel…

RACHEL: How did you know my name?

CLARENCE: You with your phony Yuppie liberalism. Stop patronizing us!

RABBI KOFFMAN: I thought you were the voice of reason!

CLARENCE: Don’t give me any lip, Rabbi.

RABBI KOFFMAN: Hey! I marched with Reverend King!

CLARENCE: He marched in a Lubavitcher neighborhood?

RABBI KOFFMAN: Well, I saw him on TV and my heart marched with him.

DARNELL: Let’s get back to the cultural misunderstanding back-and-forth. Why do you treat us like prisoners when all we want is a jug of gefilte fish?

RABBI KOFFMAN: Why do you knock the books out of the hands of our young yeshiva students?

JAMES: Why do you wear those funny hats?

RABBI KOFFMAN: Why do you wear those throwback jerseys?

DARNELL: How do you know the term “throwback jersey”?

RACHEL: I should have one more line.

CLARENCE: ENOUGH!

The arguing abruptly shifts to complete silence.

CLARENCE: You know what we need? Some WASP to impartially observe nobodies like us and figure out what we’re really all about. He should be from the suburbs somewhere, dad made, oh, I dunno, 300 K a year…Oh! And he should live in some piece of shit hole in the wall in Brooklyn not because he has no other choice, but because he got the idea at UVM that poverty is charming or breeds art or something. Nothing will solve our problems but the omnipotent eye of a Presbyterian from Massachusetts with a Lit degree. But where in New York could we possibly find anyone like that?!?

THE END

Everyone takes a bow except for the actor playing Carlos, who had a cocaine induced heart attack backstage.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Students Ask Their Favorite Linguistics Professor, Noam Chomsky, For Some Advice Before Leaving For Thanksgiving Break

2004-11-24T01:38:00.000-05:00

JOHN: Professor Chomsky?

CHOMSKY: Yes, John.

JOHN: Professor Chomsky, I really need your advice.

John begins to get a little choked up.

CHOMSKY: (uncomfortably) I...uh...yes?

JOHN: Can we have a "rap around"?

CHOMSKY: What?

JOHN: Professor Chomsky, I need to "rap around" with you. Like it was 1991. It's really personal. My girlfriend, Jenny, broke up with me.

CHOMSKY: (uncomfortably fumbling over his bookshelf) Perhaps we could discuss the new American Mandarins?

JOHN: Proffie...I can call you "Proffie"?

CHOMSKY: No.

JOHN: Proffie, Jenny left me for Raja...he's this electrical engineering student...I just don't know what to do! (lips trembling) I really love her!

CHOMSKY: The interesting thing is the level to which American hegemony has tried to assert itself in a substantial and malicious way in the shaping of Indian domestic policy...

JOHN: He's Sri Lankan.

CHOMSKY: Uh, the tacit acceptance of the American government of Sinhalese government-dominated crimes against the Tamil Tiger freedom fighters demonstrates...

JOHN: He grew up in Oswego New York. His family's been in this country for seventy years.

CHOMSKY: The decimated ranks of the Oswego Native tribe...

JOHN: Professor Chomsky, she's the only girl I've ever loved. Now I can't even get her to look me in the eye when I see her in class. Do you know how that feels?

CHOMSKY: (pause, followed by an explosion of tears) YES!

TWO HOURS LATER

A female student knocks on Professor Chomsky's office door.

SARAH: Professor Chomsky?

CHOMSKY: Yes, Sarah. Can I interest you in a copy of Manufacturing Consent?

SARAH: No.

CHOMSKY: (crestfallen) Uh, what can I do for you?

SARAH: Proffie, I found a really great job opportunity for after my graduation!

CHOMSKY: That's nice to hear, Sarah.

SARAH: Sure, it might start off like some kind of internship, but there's a real opportunity to work my way up. I hope. It looks sooo ideal!

CHOMSKY: Very nice.

SARAH: Proffie, can I sit on the floor with you cross-legged?

CHOMSKY: Hmm?

SARAH: Uh, leg over leg?

CHOMSKY:

SARAH: Pretzel stick?

CHOMSKY: I...

SARAH: Indian style!

CHOMSKY: SARAH! I never!

SARAH: Proffie Chommie? Will you write me a rec?

CHOMSKY: Sure. Perhaps I'll include my thoughts on the duplicitous role of American Leftist intellectuals during the Vietnam War.

SARAH: Ok, well, make the letter out to S.C. Johnson & Company.

CHOMSKY: But...

SARAH: Yeah, I'll be starting off in an overseas exploritory committee...me and some other people from S.C. Johnson are going to go over to Africa and see if it's possible to extract Windex from the hearts of living people. It's gonna kill 'em, and it probably won't work, but we could always use a new source of Windex.

CHOMSKY: SARAH!

SARAH: Go organic, right Proffie? And by the way, could you take out all that shit about American somethings and the Vietnam War?

CHOMSKY: (resigned) Ah, well. Another one lost. Maybe I could just figure out a way to blame all of this on Israel.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

A Brief Interview With The Lead Singer of Everybody's Favorite Death Metal Band

2004-11-23T01:34:00.000-05:00

LIEF: Recently I caught up with the lead singer of Grime Knife Pictorture Gore-lection, a band that's pretty much the scariest thing in the scene these days.

THORLATIMUS MOKSAAR: Hey Lief.

LIEF: Hey. First things first. The name of your band...

THORLATIMUS MOKSAAR: I saw the cover of a Time-Life Picture Collection, and imagined that fuckin picture, y'know, of that soldier kissing the girl? I imagined that picture covered in maggots. It inspired the song "Storm Trooper Sucks Spine From Mouth of Evan Spawn."

LIEF: Thorlatimus, that's nice. But I'm really here for a bit of an intervention.

THORLATMUS SKALAAR: Wha?

LIEF: "Thorlatimus." What are you trying to do? Did you think that's Gothic?

THORLATIMUS: More like Gothikkk.

LIEF: Uh...

THORLATMUS: Wait, Gorethikkk.

LIEF: Listen. I think I figured it out. It kept me up all night, but I finally came up with a solution after two pots of coffee. You named yourself after the Norse god Thor?

THORLATIMUS: Yes. How the brain matter sprayed from under the watch of his mighty eye socket.

LIEF: You mean Odin. Thor was the one with hammer. So here's what I couldn't figure out: What the fuck is the "Latimus" for?

THORLATIMUS: Uh...

LIEF: What's the point of fake Latin? And why is Latin supposed to be so scary anyway? It's the language of the frigging Church!

THORLATIMUS: Uh...

LIEF: And Moksaar? I don't understand the point of gibberish words. That's supposed to sound Scandinavian, right? It's not a name! You could look something up.

THORLATIMUS: Take it easy.

LIEF: Let's talk about some of your music, Thorlatimus. What's the name of your next album.

THORLATIMUS: It's gonna be called Corpses Christi. That'll really shake things up in this fucking country.

LIEF: Corpses Christi?

THORLATIMUS: You're damn right.

LIEF: You do realize "Corpus" already FUCKING MEANS CORPSE, DON'T YOU?

THORLATIMUS: Listen Lief, I'm not into your attitude tonight. Are you the most balanced columnist at Rotting Skull Full Of Maggots Weekly or not? Those other assholes are so political! You think you're talking about your next single, "Killed-A-Girlfiya, Goresylpainya" and it just turns into a fucking Bush advertisement!

LIEF: Thorlatimus, there's something else I want to talk to you about. Your song dedicated to the remake of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

THORLATIMUS: Yes, "Guts Caked On Chain Blades (Gunnar Hansen Lives)."

LIEF: First of all, Gunnar Hansen is an actor. No one said he was dead. What is that even supposed to mean?

THORLATIMUS: It means watch out, or he'll come for you.

LIEF: The actor?

THORLATIMUS: No. Listen, I grew up in Texas. I fuckin' remember when that shit happened.

LIEF: No you don't.

THORLATIMUS: Oh yes I do.

LIEF: No, you don't. It didn't happen.

THORLATIMUS: Well, what about all them newspaper headlines in the movie?

LIEF: Let's move on. The song is actually just a remake of This Mortal Coil's "Song to the Siren," which was itself a Tim Buckley cover.

THORLATIMUS: Yeah, it was in the trailer.

LIEF: Yeah. But you changed the lyrics?

THORLATIMUS: Sure did. I think you'll be happily surprised.

LIEF: Mind sharing?

THORLATIMUS: Of course not. In the original it was some weird shit...here (takes out his guitar)

"On the floating, shipless, oceans
I did all my best to smile
til your singing eyes and fingers
drew me loving into your eyes.
And you sang "Sail to me, sail to me,
Let me enfold you."
Here I am, here I am
waiting to hold you."

THORLATIMUS: That's for pussies. Here we go: "On the crushing, lipless gore-shun/I killed all my worst to slice you/til your devoured popped eyes and shredded fingers/drew my razor blade into your thighs./And you screamed to me "Entrails in me, entrails in me,/Let (gore) me en(gore)fold your gore."/Spears through your hand, spears through your hand/"waiting to decimate you into gore."

LIEF: Jesus.

THORLATIMUS: Exactly.

LIEF: Those are the worst lyrics I've ever heard in my life. Why do you just keep saying gore? And gore-shun and en-gore-fold don't even make sense. Why is that scary?

THORLATIMUS: Fuck you.

LIEF: At least it's better than your two-part homage to Vietnam War sex crimes "Tanks for the Mammaries," and "Agent Orange You Glad I Didn't Say Bananarama Records Will Play in the Background of Your Ritualistic Torture, Phong Trang." Fuck this. Any projects in the works?

THORLATIMUS: We're re-recording all those fucking songs from that soundtrack to "O Brother Where Art Thou?" Stay tuned for our first single "In The Pig Gore Candy Mountains (Of Entrails)."

LIEF: Jesus.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

As Steve Martin Would Say In My Sequel To "Cheaper By The Dozen": S-s-s-s-say WHAT?"

2004-11-22T02:47:00.000-05:00

I got caught up reading something earlier, and now I'm going to bed. I will have a conventional post tomorrow. But I still have something for you. Oh yes I do. This is better than anything I could come up with anyway.

I don't know why, but I heard a commercial for this site on some radio station and made a mental note of their web address. Mottocitizens.com. I don't want to link from here because I'm afraid they might be some sort of cult that would link back to me and murder me. Or, at least, e-murder me.

Reading it is good. The pictures of the founders are better. But, oh you at work, listening to the sound clips is the best. Only because I can't really understand any of it. Notice the fact that the writer/audio clip speaker is obsessed with the word "therefore."

So, enjoy, if you'd like. Better than anything I could come up with, I must say.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

A Very Cheap Trick From A Very Cheap Man.

2004-11-19T02:14:00.000-05:00

Yes, I know it's sad and unoriginal. But tonight's entry is as follows: We all remember "Dr. Sam Beckett Is Sad To Discover He's Quantum Leaped Into An Era When Scott Bakula No Longer Has A Career." It was an all-time classic.

And what did I do tonight? I fed the text into Dictionary.com, translated it into Dutch, then translated it back into English. Please to enjoy the mangled mess that emerged. But read the original first, or a little of it, to get a sense of what it actually says.

Dr. Sam Beckett fly by wolk-gevulde a sky at ongelooflijke speed, naked and surrounded in a blauw slightly. Finally finds itself he in small slaapkamerflat. It smells laundry and macaroni of Kraftpapier as the long ongewassen which hanging around in plates for weeks, hard and crisp swing. On the wall is dusty, lichtjes tattered poster for the programme crookedly Quantumsprong hung. SAM scrape confused head is. Suddenly, behind materialiseert already Calavicci, the hologram guide of the admiral.

ALREADY HOLOGRAM: Hello, SAM.

SAM BECKETT: Already, are I glad see you! Who is body is I in this time? What is the tale with this kerel?

Already: Well SAM, you Scott Bakula are. Dr. Sam Beckett try of him put hand over to the tree Mike to speak to already, but there find nothing.

SAM BECKETT: (lichtjes confused) Jesus Dean! You break character! Clamour me not Scott. It is SAM. SAM! Besnoeiing!

Already: Who shout do you for? I am frightened this really but is already too laborious.

SAM BECKETT: What means you?

Already: SAM, you live in the body of one Scott Bakula. The year is 2004, and it does not look at good. The discontinuance character of "SAM". He is now Scott Bakula.

SCOTT BAKULA: (does lip tremble which) means Whaddaya?

Already: It is more none 1989. in the world has changed.

SCOTT BAKULA: (in disavowal) Oh yes? Who win did previous year the range of the world?

Already: The marlins of Florida.

SCOTT BAKULA: (using are hands as window wipers concerning its eyes) WHAAAA?

ALREADY: Lustre. It is 2004, the Quantumsprong long have gone.

SCOTT BAKULA: But our classifications...

Already: The fucking dead. Agreement with.

SCOTT BAKULA: How concerning movies?? I those movies make now be??

ALREADY: No. the last part you in theater-bevrijde movie got a small role was since COP in one or other piece shit called living as house.

SCOTT BAKULA: Well, are I that gets no matter which work? There a battle at the door.

Already: Why don't you ask your owner?

Already disappears. Scott open the door.

OWNER: You tell what, Bakula. You were in necessary roughness, right?

SCOTT: Yes.

OWNER: If you stipulate them to voornvallen in the basement as told I you, and if you me gets contact information of Sinbad, you can remain for another month. I have a manuscript I wanna him have read. Krijg this: he is black people with attitude on arrogant butlersschool! But Bakula, if you do not pass, you are from on your rest!

The owner starts, but twists for a moment to leave.

OWNER: And no returning role on bruine Murphy will save now u. the eigenaarbladeren.

Already appears.

Already: See?

SCOTT: How was this possible event? Everything went this way good. What was my last project?

Already: You had been called in movie role of a life in 2001. the plot are - actor falls of public opinion have assumed and dead. When Hollywood decide concerning its life movie to make, he decides a return to make by assuming another identity.

SCOTT: Three years suffered it does?? How'd?

Already: Actual, it went directly to video, with an average classification of "terribly".

SCOTT: What I already DO day?

ALREADY: You do not want know. Say only you for commercially as Bakula the spatula tried out. And they did not bite. That had been suffered eighteen months.

SCOTT: Fuck! I outta of the wanna Quantumsprong these place. Take back me to the days of the task of the mercy: The rescue of flight 771! When the last time I did fucking make public verschijning?!?

Already: You were on Wayne Brady show for a verschijning last February, actual.

SCOTT: Large. Perhaps am possible I that, as regular guest dinghies or something continue building!

Already: It was cancelled.

SCOTT: (crying to hemelen) QUANTUMSPRONG!

Well, I enjoyed it anyway.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

New Party Rules The Overwhelming Republican Majority Will Change, Other Than Forgiving Tom DeLay's Status As An Indicted Criminal

2004-11-18T01:20:00.000-05:00

1) Massachusetts will hitherto and henceforth be known as New Berkeley Traitorstan. Berkeley, California will be known as "nuked."

2) By unanimous vote, it is decreed that all copies of Franz Kafka's The Metamorphosis will be changed to reflect that Gregor does not change into a bug, but is rather born again, to receive the Word and Glorify the Name. It's a lot shorter now. The title will also be changed from The Metamorphosis to The Bible, and the name "Gregor" will be changed to something more American, like "Toby Keith."

3)The Party hereby declares that boobies will forever be banned from television screens, only to appear on our congressional office couches when our wives are out of town. Unless we write legislation banning gay marriage, in which case we're clearing looking to bone guys in the ass. But then we'll read The Metamorphobible, hate ourselves even more, and then do something really crazy, like maybe ban men altogether.

4)It is approved by a two-thirds majority of our Party that at the funeral of any prominent Democrats from across the isle, we will show clips of Willie Horton raping America's wives on a big screen over the casket. Then we'll show a picture of Michael Dukakis in a tank. That picture is so funny. And then we'll tell that Democrat's widow to pay her damn funeral bill and get the fuck out of town already.

5) It is agreed that every time a fat Nebraskan woman in a pink sweatshirt with kittens on them say "I think we should all believe in America," we should appoint her to be, oh, I dunno, the next National Security Advisor or something.

6) No one is allowed to laugh when people holding up signs that say "These Colors Don't Run" vote for draft dodgers like Richard Cheney, George Walker Bush, et al. But it has been decreed, by one of our New England colleagues of the "moderate" persuasion, that that really is kind of funny if you think about it. Well, we aren't going to think about it. And that colleague is now dead.

7) We will never rest until more people with names like Denny, Newt, Strom, Arlen, or "Asa Hutchinson" are elected to something. Stupid names from places like New Shitburgh are what the real America is all about. Well, that and racism.

8) There are now and forever more 15 planets in our solar system. The original nine, plus 6 named after some shit Reagan did. Senator Kennedy burst into our meeting and said he couldn't imagine a planet named "Gross Incompetence" or "I Laid A Wreath At The Graves Of Nazi SS Soldiers," so we wrapped him in barbed wire and threw him in the Potomac. I guess the barbed wire was kind of unnecessary.

8 b.) Senator-Elect Coburn of Oklahoma requested a rider to Rule 8 making explicit that none of these planets are older than 5000 years, and that no planet can marry another unless one has a penis and the other has a vagina.

8 c.) Senator-Elect Thune of South Dakota requested an additional rider be attached striking the words "penis" and "vagina" from the English language out of respect for his dear mother, who is a good Christian woman and has neither.

9) Senator McCain is very concerned about the environment. The rest of us are very concerned about all this bad news the damned liberal media is putting in their papers. Critical news about the economy, Iraq, the Supreme Court, etc., is hereby banned from all newspapers, which, Senator McCain, will really cut down on the amount of paper they'll need.

10) Congressman Hastert came into our meeting to demand our rules reflect that all negative references to gluttony be removed from the Christian religion. He speaks not only for his fat ass self, but the countless other greedy, horrifying fat asses who voted Bush-Cheney this year for "moral issues." These gluttonous, fried food eating cows absolutely refuse to go to Hell. They won the election, they make the rules. So eating like a disgusting pig is now fine in the Bible, but two dudes making out isn't, because we're just totally arbitrary that way. And all that stuff Jesus says about war and violence in terms of Iraq, well, he wouldn't of said that if he'd seen last year's Super Bowl. I mean, we've got priorities here.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Steve Martin, Do I Ever Have A Script For You!

2004-11-17T01:43:00.000-05:00

I need to find a way to make a million dollars really quickly. I'm telling you, I need to establish a luxurious lifestyle before it's too late. The only way out is to continue to pitch scripts to Steve Martin until he either accepts or dies. Here it goes. Trailer style this time, Mr. Martin? Whatever works for you.

ANNOUNCER VOICE OVER: You saw Cheaper By The Dozen. Yes you did. It was on TV last night when you were reading that magazine. Well, you saw about 20 minutes of it!

And you thought 12 kids was crazy. Oh yeah? Try 40 kids. You heard us right, family holiday audience. All this upping the ante is going to kill us someday. Why don't we just skip to 200 kids? You sure about that, fuckface? Okay, we just did! Steve Martin, meet your (gulp!) 200 kiddereenos! By the way, that means "kids."

How will this midwestern basketball coach deal with Trevor, Pete, Nancy, Sookie, Hailey, Cassandra, Mike, Ike, Sandy, Soondy, Babsers, Ralph, Andre, Yasmine, Heloise, and, I dunno, let's say 185 kids named Danny? I mean, he just got the big promotion to run the basketball program for North Southington Illinois Polytechnic? Especially with ol' Dean Pritchard breathing down his neck? How about a sample?

STEVE MARTIN: Ike! Mike! Danny, Danny, Danny, Danny, Danny, Danny, Danny, Danny, Danny, Danny, Danny, Danny, Danny! A frog in the punch bowl? S-s-s-s-say WHAT?!?

DANNY #125: Kids rool!

STEVE MARTIN: It's spelled rule, Danny.

DANNY #125: Spelled? I said it out loud! And my name's Danny, you asshole!

STEVE MARTIN: A Elmers Paste salad? S-s-s-s-say WHAT?

[At this chaotic (and hilarious) moment, Steve Martin's nextdoor neighbors come bursting in through the front door.

KEITH VAN SNOOTSLEES: I say, Steve Martin! Your hundreds of kids are too much to bear!

ANNOUNCER VOICEOVER: That's right, we changed our mind! He's a father with 600 kids!!!!!!

STEVE MARTIN: Mr. Van Snootslees, I'm terribly sorry. But you gotta love kids, huh?

KEITH VAN SNOOTSLEES: No, Steve Martin. We hate kids.

MARTHA VAN SNOOTSLEES: Didn't you notice our last name? We also drink wine, and we're from Massachusetts! Plus, we say "harumph" all the time. It's quite clear we can't abide children!

KEITH VAN SNOOTSLEES: See? She said "abide." People who know that word hate families, right greater metro Houston? We're focus grouping this for you, you know.

STEVE MARTIN: Van Snootleeses! I may have 4,000 kids...

ANNOUNCER VOICEOVER: Did you hear that?!?!?!?

STEVE MARTIN: ...but I have all the love in the world. Now go back to Holland, you communists!

VAN SNOOTSLEES: Why, I never! I grew up in Friesland.

STEVE MARTIN: I've been focused grouped into saying I have no idea what that means. Now get the fuck out of my house!

DANNY #s 1-117; 118-121; 347-2,081: Yeah!

DANNY #s: 157; 333; 3,033-3,109: No!

STEVE MARTIN: Roller skates in the dishwasher? S-s-s-s-say what?!?

THE END

Please, Steve Martin. I need to buy an airplane.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

"Rick Steves's Europe" Guides You Through Modern Paris

2004-11-15T02:30:00.000-05:00

Make sure to get plenty of rest if you're going to really allow yourself to pack in the sites on Day 1. I suggest on the plane ride to Paris, set your mental clock to European time! You'll wake up ready and refreshed.

When I go to Paris, I always make sure to immerse myself fully in my surroundings. There just aren't many places in the world with the character of Paris, so let yourself flow with it! When I travel to the City of Lights, I make sure always to stay at the Sheraton.

When you wake up, if you're anything like me, you're going to want an espresso and a pain chocolat. Vive le difference! Make sure to find the genuine article at Starbucks. Its on Avenue de l'Opera. You won't want to miss out on their Italian biscotti! What a treat.

Ah, Les Champs Elysees. Quel cauchemar! That means "good," right? I never go to Paris without taking a leisurely stroll down Europe's grandest boulevard. Make sure to do a little window shopping! From Nike to Timberland, from Tommy Hilfiger to Calvin Klein, Europe's finest products will be there for you to observe with awe. Try to leave yourself a little extra cash in your travel budget, so you can say when you get home: "I bought bona fide Parisian Osh Kosh B'Gosh!" The bragging rights alone will be worth the expense.

After sampling the local flavors of Roi de Hambougeois Croissandwich's and Cokes, don't forget to save room for dinner. There's nothing like a night out in Paris. Wait til late to eat--like the Europeans do! At, I don't know, something crazy like 5:20 PM, roll on up to the Champs Elysees Chi-Chi's and say "trois tacos, si vous plait!" Trois, of course, means "refried."
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

The Pride Of The Martletts Wells From Within

2004-11-12T10:41:00.000-05:00

Somewhere, in a mythical land or upon the great seal of McGill University, a legless bird smiles.

According to the Times of London's Higher Education Supplement ranking of the top 200 universities in the world, the old alma mater is 21st in the world and 12th in North America. And, surprise surprise...and many apologies University of Toronto, 1st in Canada.

Forever may she reign. We're #21! We're #21! We missed the top 10% by one friggin' place. Thanks for nothing, Beijing University.

Now that that's over, today's crappy post is found below. Regards.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Confessions Of The Prop Manager For The "Touch Of Gray" Video By The Grateful Dead

2004-11-12T01:50:00.000-05:00

(1.) The "official" version would tell you that the song and video were in response to Jerry Garcia's diabetic coma. Skeletons transforming into the band members was all about coming back from the brink of death.

Or was it?

I know. I was there. We didn't get those skeletons from a med school, I'll tell you that much. The skeletons were from college co-eds Jerry killed in a series of grisly serial murders. Bob Weir bleached the bones in a giant vat of acid in his basement.

(2.) The enthusiastic audience members? They're all cyborgs. Sure, the band didn't know it. Neither did I. But then this one time, Bobby told a joke about those co-ed murders, and Jerry laughed so hard water shot out of his nose. The water landed on one of the audience, and he started sparking and fizzing and flipping out. Mickey Hart put him down with one shotgun blast to the back. Turns out that particular audience member wasn't a cyborg, but I'm pretty sure most of them were. They had to be.

(3.) If I told you how many spider eggs the hairdresser had to comb out of everyone's beards, you'd puke.

(4.) Mickey Hart is wearing silver-toned aviation sunglasses behind the drum kit because he was born without eyes. Think about it. Have you ever seen his eyes? Oh yeah? What color are they? This whole hilarious anecdote inspired The Eyes of the Killer Robot by John Bellairs, who's now totally dead.

(5.) The camera adds 10 pounds, or so they say. I can tell you, the camera took about 400 pounds off Jerry that night. He was in rough shape.

(6.) There's a point in the video where there's this lyric: "The dog has not been fed in years," and this dog runs across the stage with one of the co-ed's leg bones in his mouth (totally unscripted!). It was a really cute moment, right?

Or was it?

I hate to ruin the illusion, but that dog was a direct descendent of dog owned by, you guessed it, Adolf Hitler.

(7.) I know what everyone's been asking these many years. How come Jerry Garcia's skeleton is fat, and why does it have a beard? You're probably even more confused because of the co-eds. Well, I was the prop manager, so I know the truth. That particular skeleton happens to be the only documented evidence of the existence of sasquatches. Strangely, I found it on the inside of this biker from La Jolla...it was holding his insides together, for some reason! Ha. Those were some crazy days.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Double Duty #2, Even Though It Appears 1st: The Co-Chiefs Of The Republic of San Marino Lay Out The Agenda For Their New Term

2004-11-11T01:30:00.000-05:00

Oh, politics. The independent republic of San Marino (independence, 3 September 301) has politics of its own!

The Co-Chiefs of San Marino have layed out their ambitious plans to the world. Their mandate's fucking huge.

From the desks of Co-Chiefs of State of Repubblica di San Marino, Captain Regent Giuseppe Arzilli and Captain Regent Roberto Raschi:

The people have spoken. We went out to the movies to see an Italian dubbed version of Gothika starring Halle Berri, and when we got back this big mandate was on our desk. We won. We won again. If the measure for a healthy democracy is the number of people who don't vote, we're doing fine. My fellow Sammarinese, your voice has been heard. We now know that you support our agenda 100%, and we will push this motherfucker to the brink.

Agenda Point 1: We will finally break through the territory of our Italian overlords and make our way to the sea. Only then will we learn what fish tastes like. To be honest, the whole thing seems pretty gross. They look like aliens! And they smell. But a lot of you keep coming up to us and saying you want fish in San Marino. So, lets declare war on Italy. I suggest we all sleep over in Faetano. I know it's really exciting to have a sleepover when you haven't gone to one for a long time. We're all going to want to stay up and gossip, drink coffee and fool around. But seriously, we can't. We're gonna fucking declare war. We all need to get some sleep if we're to crush the spines of our enemies the next day. So no coffee, no gossiping, and everyone bring their own pillow.

Agenda Point 2: What the US is doing in Iraq is making us sick. I mean, we're good Catholics over here. The only thing we hate more than Muslims is people who shop at Target Super Centers. That's right, I'm talking American dog-pigs (c), a nickname the Sammarinese people made up! We shopped it around at some Euro protest in Berlin the other day, but those kraut bitches weren't having it. I guess it can be distracting to protest a foreign war when you're busy treating your own Muslim immigrants like shit. Oh, we just got Germany! Give one point to San Marino on that one, we Co-Chiefs will share the wealth.

Speaking of Target Super Centers, I think they may have those in Canada too, but we won't be as hard on them because their girls wear their hair shorter than Yankees on the whole, which turns both of us on.

Agenda Point 3: Speaking of Agenda Point 2, we've only got 28,503 people in this piece of shit country. No, I know what you're thinking but Pietro La Manna left to study in Spain two years ago and changed his residency to Seville. The number's right, trust us. Anyway, speaking of Agenda Point 2, and speaking of only having 28,503 people here, we're seriously lacking in grade-A, quality pussy. I know we're saying what you're all thinking. If only 50% of people are girls, and if only 10% are good looking, what's that? Like 4 people? We dunno, we suck at math.

Agenda Point 4: Math has been banned in San Marino.

Agenda Point 5: Okay, we've all got to stop kidding ourselves. Enough with listing our ethnicity as Sammarinese. We're fucking Italian, for Christ's sake. Come on, who're we fooling. On the other hand, they call themselves "Alemannic" in Liechtenstein, so who're the assholes now?

Agenda Point 6: We've got to get Val Kilmer over here for something. That motherfucker's crazy. Imagine hanging out with him? He thought he was Jim Morrison after he made "The Doors" with Oliver Stone. Can you even picture getting drunk with him? We Co-Chiefs can.

Agenda Point 7: Try to find some money behind a tree, or buried in something. That always seems to help.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Double Duty #1, Even Though It's Published 1st & Will Be Displayed 2nd: Great Lesser Known Songs By Mainstream Artists, Irredeemable Genres, Or Both

2004-11-11T01:02:00.000-05:00

Yes, another list for the ages. The songs listed are not necessarily obscure, though some are.

Aerosmith: They didn't call me Aerosmith Boy at the Ephraim Curtis Middle School for no reason. And I still remember some of my favorite, not-so-famous 70s tracks from the boys from Beantown. That's right "Walk This Way."

Ha ha! Did I fool you? I didn't? Well, the joke's on me then. My favorite of the obscure, never heard Aerosmith of their glory days is certainly "Sight For Sore Eyes" off of the Draw The Line album. Probably the best funk bass line they ever came up with, and this from someone without much appreciation for funk, especially from white dudes from southern New Hampshire (I'm talking to you, Joe Perry). Honorable mentions go out to "You See My Crying" off Toys in the Attic, and "Bone to Bone" off of Pandora's Box.

!Hopeless Genre Alert!: You guessed it before I even said it, partner. That's right 3rd Wave British Ska. This song is so obscure, so unfindable, so undownloadable, so I-know-you-don't-know-it-able, you may wonder why I bother. The song is called "Another Town," by Mr. Review, from a ska compilation I bought on the cheap when I was a sophomore in high school called Ska! The Album on Cult Records. Great song, great lyrics, and has been a song I haven't forgotten since I was 16, and still break out every so often.

And I know everyone hates ska. But this one was a keeper. Honorable mention to "Pound to the Dollar" by Maroon Town on the same album, mostly because I like the sax.

Bob Dylan: For the majority of people I already have some familiarity with who check out this site, the following song is far from "obscure," but to the average Bob Dylan fan it probably is. The song in question is "Song to Woody" off of his self-titled debut. Its one of the best songs he ever wrote, beautiful tune and lyrics, and he was fucking 20. I'm sure I could list many other under appreciated Dylan songs, but I don't really feel like it at the moment.

!Hopeless Genre Alert!: Leo Kottke's "Julie's House." No, you don't know him, no it's not a very famous song, and I've never heard a recorded version. Only live. He's the kind of Upper Midwest folk artist you would only be aware of if you had a grandma from Duluth, Minnesota or had, I dunno, one of those uncle's who's the unbearable kind of 50 year old liberal who talks really softly and wears sweaters while drinking chai tea. Or, if you happened to hear it on the radio once while driving in Maine, like I did. Yes, it's that kind of folk music.

Bruce Springsteen: Prepare yourself for what is, apparently, an indie rock cliché. As many of you may know, there are certain albums by certain people that someone at some independent music review site must sign off on that its not only okay to like, but that everyone must like. I usually steer clear of that whole mess like the plague. However, on this occasion, they're right. "Nebraska" by Bruce Springsteen, off of the album by the same name, is an excellent, excellent song.

It also happens to be of a particular genre that I really love. Sweet, soft songs with really dark subject matter. "Nebraska" is about a guy and his girl from Lincoln, Nebraska who take a drive into Wyoming to kill people for no reason. Its a great song, accompanied by only an acoustic guitar and harmonica. Ends on the great line "Well, sir, guess there's just a meanness in this world." Honorable mention also has to go to "Highway Patrolman" off of the same album, which I almost like as much. Another song that deals with pretty dark subjects. A highway patrol officer with a real bastard for a brother, who he always turns a blind eye to his misdeeds because "man turns his back on his family,/well he just ain't no good." The brother ends up killing some teenager at a roadhouse, the patrolman chases him in his car until he sees a sign that says the Canadian border, then just pulls up and lets his brother get away.

Leonard Cohen: Okay, this one is really cheating, because anyone who happens to know Leonard Cohen in the first place knows this song. I'm just laying it in there assuming no one gives a shit about Leonard Cohen and doesn't know this may be one of his "greatest hits" to begin with. "Sisters of Mercy." It's a gooda.

Dire Straits: The Dire Straits have a terrible habit of playing songs for way too long. The song ends, and then there's all of this Grateful Dead-like dicking around for two minutes. This happens mostly on their ballads. This song is no different. "Why Worry" is like the "Romeo & Juliette" you can like without having to admit to something as painful as liking "Romeo & Juliette." Very pretty song, so I'll forgive the dicking around.

The Pixies: Okay, so they're not mainstream per se, but they are famous. The song in question is "River Euphrates" an eternally unappreciated classic from their first album. Greatest discordant guitar riff followed by perfect boy-girl harmony in history. Honorable mention goes out to "The Happening" on Bossanova, but only for the coda.

Tom Waits: It's not secret I'm not that crazy about Tom Waits. He fucks around too much for it to be worth buying his albums, if you ask me. But my favorite Tom Waits song isn't "Give This Friggin' Pianer A Drink" or whatever that song's called, nor is it off Rain Dogs. It's called "The Low Side of the Road," off of Tom Wait's first "comeback" Epitaph record, Mule Variations. Messed up, dusty and dirty sounding gulch/bayou song. No, I don't know what that's supposed to mean either.

Perhaps I will add to this list as I think of examples, but feel free to add something if you'd like.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Out At The Bar This Evening.

2004-11-10T01:15:00.000-05:00

I was out at the bar this evening, at an Irish music session at The Druid in Inman Sqaure. I am now too alcohol-weary to write the planned update, but will pull a double duty and put two things up tomorrow night. And this time, for once, I actually mean it.

On another note, my Irish hairdresser has the nicest accent in the entire world. Something about "I got t' work at tree tirty" that brightens a day.

On yet another note, I'm glad the US military, independent of political parties and election seasons, always looking out for the best interest and safety of its own soldiers, decided to wait to attack Fallujah until the last couple days. Personally, I know the plan just wasn't ready on November 1st. It was gonna take a few extra days, the contingency plans weren't solidified until 8:01 Hawaiian time on November 2nd. What's the big fucking deal!
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Andrei Marko Tries To Educate You About Serious World Issues Through The Medium Of A Lighthearted Sitcom: Kyrgyz Bride Kidnapping

2004-11-09T01:03:00.000-05:00

TURGUNBAEV HOME

A young man rushes through the front "door" of a small, traditional nomadic yurt in the Kyrgyz hill country.

EMIL TURGUNBAEV: Father! My boss comes to dinner next week!

UMJDAN TURGUNBAEV: Ah, so prepare the besh-barmak, the boorsoks, some chuchuk, shorpo, and chak-chak! But with the way you prepare the bouillon of the besh-barmak, best to have plenty of kumys and maksym in goblets to wash it down, or else I fear he will vomit upon his chyptama!

AUDIENCE: HA HA HA HA HA!

EMIL TURGUNBAEV: Father! Enough of your humorings. I have something to tell you. My boss believes that I have taken a bride, and have been married under the watchful eye of Allah and Stalin since I was 14.

UMJDAN TURGUNBAEV: Your lack of spouse shames our family, and I have wailed many a lament on the temir-komuz, and the wind howls like the notes of the sybyzgy as if to agree.

EMIL TURGUNBAEV: Father, what shall I do? I fear a ritualistic murder of some kind if I am found to have lied.

UMJDAN TURGUNBAEV: You must take these asses and your brother from this hill country, where women are scarce. Travel upon these asses for many a day, until you reach our capital of Bishkek. Find the Kyrgyz Agrarian University. There are girls there. Then, you must follow the custom.

EMIL TURGUNBAEV: But our recent Leninist might crushed out that "custom," father. It is illegal!

UMJDAN TURGUNBAEV: Ha ha! Communism's attempt to correct our culture was not unlike the village fool seeking success in the sport of struggling with horses, oodarysh!

AUDIENCE: HA HA HA HA HA!

UMJDAN TURGUNBAEV: Go to Bishkek, and capture a bride.

EMIL TURGUNBAEV: What if her family attempts to slay me?

UMJDAN TURGUNBAEV: Those decadent students in the city of Satans look to the Western World--Tajikistan--for example. She will be unaccompanied, I assure you.

EMIL TURGUNBAEV: I am off! If I die, be sure to tell the eagle hunter berkutchi of my bravery!

UMJDAN TURGUNBAEV: Sure, sure. By the way, when you're there, pick me up some fuckin' Levis and pirated CDs, okay?

BISHKEK, KYRGYZ AGRARIAN UNIVERSITY

A young woman stands in front of a group of fellow students speaking.

GULNARA NURJAMAJL: We must spread these agronomics and econarians across our vast, pointless country!

Emil and his brother Abdujalil lurk in the corners of a destroyed statue of Brezhnev.

ABDUJALIL TURGUNBAEV: What do you think of her, brother?

EMIL TURGUNBAEV: She will do. Her arms are fat from the gluttony of a meat meal once every four months. My boss will believe her to be my wife, I am quite sure.

The Turgunbaev brothers swarm the poor college educated woman.

GULNARA NURJAMAJL: Nooooo! I am an educated woman of the city and of the Western world! I will not submit to your country superstitions and barbaric customs!

EMIL TURGUNBAEV: You will be my wife in the hill country. Your life of extreme hardship, toil, and no rights will warm the traditional heart I'm sure beats in your Kyrgyz breast.

GULNARA NURJAMAJL: But how will I teach the people of agronomic theories their nomadic ways will ensure they disregard completely?!?

BACK AT THE NURJAMAJL HOME

Emil's mother, aunts, and grandmother berate Gulnara.

JANIL TURGUNBAEV: City whore! You will marry my son.

AINURA TURGUNBAEV: You may only refuse our advance three times! You must allow us to place the marriage scarf upon your head!

GULNARA: NO!

AINURA: Yes.

GULNARA: NO!

AINURA: Yes.

GULNARA: NO!

AINURA: Yes.

GULNARA: Okay, fine. But let's get that fucking Chuchuk cooking! That salami fat won't fry itself, for fuck's sake. Can't I ever get help from my piece of shit husband 'round here? What's your name anyway, sweetie?

EMIL TURGUNBAEV: Emil.

UMJDAN TURGUNBAEV: I hear the boss approach our yurt!

MR. FROWNFEATHERS: TUR-GUN-BAYYYY-EEVVVV!!!!!

THE FAMILY: Mr. Frownfeathers!!!

MR. FROWNFEATHERS: I say, Turgunbaev, where is this wife of yours.

EMIL TURGUNBAEV: That is her, tear stained face, cooking over the fire.

MR. FROWNFEATHERS: I say, Turgunbaev, she does seem a bit forlorn to be your wife of 10 years.

EMIL TURGUNBAEV: Well, we do live in a post-communist hell hole!

AUDIENCE: HA HA HA HA!
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Aesop's Fables With Less Than Desirable Lessons For Children, v. II

2004-11-05T01:12:00.000-05:00

The Art of Voter Suppression

The little antelope was coming back to his section of the savannah after doing some important errands, when an odd scene caught his eye.

His local polling place was packed. The lines were very long, overwhelmingly comprised of tired, confused looking zebras.

At that moment, Mr. Giraffe whistled for the antelope to come over.

"Hey," his Mr. Giraffe. "We need your fucking help here! We're overwhelmed."

"Are you getting out the vote?" asked the antelope innocently.

"Are you kidding? No, we've got to win this thing, antelope. BAMN. That's right, "By Any Means Necessary." For the good of this savannah. Listen, put on one of these t-shirts."

"Why?" said the antelope, as he was handed a t-shirt with the phrase "Anti-Fraud Enforcement" written across the chest. He noticed that Mr. Giraffe and several hyenas were wearing them too, standing around the polling place and looking menacing.

"Check out these zebras, little antelope," said the giraffe under his breath. "All looking for a free handout. And their music sucks. Well, we're not gonna let them or their NAAZP thugs steal this from us. Here's what I want you to do. See that old zebra over there? Tell her she's at the wrong place. Then, if she acts confused, tell her she needs to show you six forms of ID."

"But what about free elections?"

"That's cute," said Mr. Giraffe. He turned quickly around to a couple of young zebras getting in line. "Hey boys, you know if you've got any outstanding parking tickets we're going to have to arrest you if you check in to vote. It's all right there. And if you have any other parking misdemeanors on your record? You're going away for a long, long time."

The zebras scattered away.

"This is illegal!" protested the antelope.

"You're illegal, antelope. You're illegal. Shut the fuck up. I mean, do you want "Hanoi" Hippo to win this thing? If he gets in, the vampire bats win."

"I feel bad about this..." whined the antelope.

"You do what we tell you, or we'll take the tax exemptions away from your synagogue! And another thing, if you see any fat slob rhinos come to this precinct, with either (a.) "Jesus Saves" t-shirts or (b.) "Who Farted?" t-shirts, send them to the front of the line. And give them 11 ballots. I can't wait to read Wild African Jackass Bill Kristol's column tomorrow!"

"Well," said the young antelope. "At least I'll go to my grave knowing two fag cheetahs never gained hospital visitation rights in my lifetime! Phew!"

[Editor's Note: I do not mean to suggest this election was a result of malfeasance. Rather, the Jesus Saves/Who Farted? vote came out quite strongly to remind us that although Kansas, Nebraska, Oklahoma, South Dakota, North Dakota, Idaho, Wyoming, Colorado, Nevada, Montana, New Mexico, Arizona, Mississippi, Alabama, Arkansas, South Carolina, North Carolina, Florida, West Virginia, Indiana, and elsewhere have never contributed anything to this country other than stunning historical embarrassments, people apparently still live there..]

It Just Keeps Coming

2004-11-04T01:36:00.000-05:00

Truly sorry, today was to mark my illustrious return to the general mission statement of this site. Unfortunately (a.) I'm having a strange computer glitch that seems to focus around Hotmail but now is freezing everything, and I've lost too many posts through frozen computers to try that again (b.) I need at least another day of mourning.

For something funny, I've got a good video from Bob & David.com. This link will bring you to the registration page (it's free, of course), which then leads directly to the video.

Anybody Want To Go Open A Flowershop In Montreal?

2004-11-03T13:33:00.000-05:00

Or apply to McGill Law School? We could specialize in helping Inuits sue icebergs, or Winnipeg sue giant mosquitoes.

We're in deep shit.

I'm not one for unfounded speculation, but I would suggest not letting your passport expire. On the other hand, I also wouldn't plan on travelling out of the country in the near future without first perfecting your Canadian accent.

Thank you, Herr Weigner, for the picture, and my deepest wishes.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

As You Might Imagine...

2004-11-02T01:32:00.000-05:00

I am too nervous for this tonight. Vote today.

I know I've said it a couple times over the last couple weeks already, but after this final distraction is over with, this site will be back to normal. But if the results are too depressing, it might be a few days before I make with the funny.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

It's Time For Andrei Marko To Endorse...

2004-11-01T02:02:00.000-05:00

Yes, Election Day is tomorrow. The mystery is finally over. After careful deliberation, and much soul searching, TTFTPOT is ready to endorse a candidate for President of the United States. Actually, we've known for a long, long time. I know you will all be incredibly surprised to hear who we've selected.

This fine establishment & all of its limited liability partners endorse Massachusetts Senator John F. Kerry to be the 44th President of the United States. Please close your now slack jaws. Please remember the "Daily Reasons to Dispatch Bush" link has been in the upper right hand corner of your screen for about 5 months. You don't look at the links, do you?

If you're a conservative who believes in the principles of small government, fiscal prudence, lack of government interference in the personal affairs of consenting adults, and a restrained foreign policy, please vote on your principles and not for the asshole with a (R) next to his name, who believes in none of those things.

If you're a leftie green type, and more importantly, if you're one of the small minority of those so described who will be voting for Ralph Nader, please for one single moment in your life find a way to get beyond your self-obsessed egotism. Yes, you heard me. Elections and the direction of American government and society are about far more important issues than your own personal "purity." And when you cast a vote for Nader in an election such as this one, your vote is only meant to say one thing: "I am pure and uncompromising. My purity will never be superseded by something as trivial as reason." Nader will not win. Nader does not care about minority rights. He does not care about women's rights. He does not. Listen to him talk when these issues come up. Nothing can distract him from his singular fixation on corporate influence (despite the notable fact he has no problem taking money from Republican corporate execs who hope helping him in one state or another will hurt Kerry. How's that for purity?).

If you're against Bush's foreign, economic or social policies over the last 4 years and if you feel the country is on a wrong and dangerous track, but you think Kerry sounds a little wooden when talking about his favorite beer or what he thinks of Pete Rose, get the fuck over yourself. Neither one of them is going to be your friend, they're not coming over to play pool when the election's over. They're only your president.

George W. Bush is most likely the worst, most anti-American president in our history. In terms of American ideals, Andrew Jackson may have been more "anti-American" in the sense that, like Bush, he had very little interest in the democratic process and had a dictatorial bravado. John Tyler was considered to be more illegitimate. Abraham Lincoln was more polarizing. Warren G. Harding was more corrupt. Theodore Roosevelt was more reckless with American military power. Dwight D. Eisenhower was the most unqualified, Reagan the dumbest, and Grant the most unbearable drunk. But when all of these qualities are added up, we've got this guy.

And unlike John Tyler's mad rush to take dearly departed William Henry Harrison's place in the White House in 1841, and Andrew Jackson's ironfisted rule over an internationally irrelevant backwater in the 1830s, we can't afford to have in this era in which we find ourselves a president so idiotic, unreasonable, unqualified, anti-American, unrepentant, dishonest, anti-liberal, non-conservative, who if not corrupt himself absolutely refuses to investigate or have removed corruption within his administration, and who is so stubbornly, unflinchingly wrong.

Bush has the worst economic record since the great Depression. He is the only American president to get embroiled in a truly preemptive war, and for reasons that turned out to be entirely false--and whether that was a result of a GOP worst-case-scenario bald-faced lie or a GOP best-case-scenario issue of gross, top-to-bottom incompetence makes no difference. He is the single most divisive president of the modern era. He is the worst environmental president in history, a mark that is hard to beat in this country. He has blown the most money in one term--from a record surplus to record deficit in under four years--than any president has ever done in two terms. Even if his level of intelligence is not as low as is joked about, he is incapable of incorporating new, relevant information into how he approaches problems and situations, a skill lab gorillas need to figure out how to get a banana out of box. He uses fear mongering to get reelected, because he knows if anyone looks at any other issue, period, he loses in a landslide. Despite his fear mongering, he is incapable of stabilizing Iraq, incapable of simply finding a way to leave it as bad as he found it instead of significantly and dangerously worse, his administration has not caught Osama bin-Laden because, at least as far as a serious military effort, they stopped trying years ago, and he has seen terrorist incidents across the globe--from Madrid to Bali to, more relevant for direct US involvement, Kabul and Baghdad--rise since 2001. He finds a way during wartime to remind us why we should hate fags, judges, and people from Massachusetts. He is a president who hates people who disagree with him so much, that even the ones trying to help him--from Paul O'Neill to Eric Shinseki to Richard Clarke to Christie Todd Whitman to even Colin Powell--get either ignored, fired, disgraced, embarrassed, or banished from roles of influence.

He has sent this country down a very dangerous path. I'm not sure if it's too late. I fear that if this election goes the wrong way, that question will be, unfortunately, clearly decided.

For the love of God, vote tomorrow. It's going to matter. Really.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Ovah.

2004-10-29T00:37:00.000-05:00

Sorry, my sleep schedule has been destroyed by baseball. I promise this whole site will be back to normal in the coming days. Perhaps I'll even update tomorrow evening, even though I don't usually put anything up on weekend nights.

But tonight, nothing.

I think it finally just hit me that the Red Sox actually won the World Series. It's hit me before, but I think I'm actually starting to comprehend it now.

Before the Red Sox won, or even made it into the World Series, a small part of me wondered if I'd still be able to invest in them the same way if they actually won. I guess a part of my subconscious, after hearing it for so many years, actually believed the Red Sox would evaporate if they were ever really successful. Would I ever be able to feel the same way about them, if they won?

The answer is yes. I went from secretly feeling that about 10% of me actually wanted them to lose to realizing that wasn't at all true.

86 years, and it all ended so easily. Tremendous play is all it takes? Maybe it still hasn't hit me, after all.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

There Are No Words.

2004-10-28T02:07:00.000-05:00

I'm not ashamed to say a shed a few tears in the immediate aftermath.

I'm glad my grandfather saw this. I'm glad my father saw this, and I'm glad I saw it with him.

I don't know what kind of uniform Derek Lowe will be wearing next year, but he will forevermore be a legend in Boston. Martinez, Lowe, Schilling, Wakefield, Arroyo, Embree, Timlin, Foulke, Leskanic, Myers, Ortiz, Ramirez, Damon, Nixon, Millar, Bellhorn, Mueller, Varitek, Cabrera, Reese, Kapler, Youkilis, Mientkiewicz, Mirabelli, Roberts. They may pull it off again, but this is the team you'll remember forever.

The Red Sox won the World Series. 1918 is gone. Bill Buckner's ball, Pesky's hesitation, Boone's homerun, Dent's homerun, curses, Babe Ruth, it's all over. If a chant goes up at the next meeting of the Sox and Yankees, it could only be: Two-Thousand!

I can't think any more now. I'm certain to write about this with a bit more style at some point.

But tonight, the Red Sox are Champions. As my brother said: "Who's World Series drought is longer than the Red Sox?"

Everybody's.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Is This Really Happening?

2004-10-27T01:29:00.000-05:00

Way to go, Pedro. I hope it's not the signature, but if it was, what a way to finish off.

As for the rest of it, I can't believe this really might be about to happen. It can't be real.

Terry Francona & Media Day At The World Series

2004-10-26T01:21:00.000-05:00

Now, as we all know, media day at the World Series doesn't just bring in the local baseball beat writers for the two teams. Every little paper, entertainment magazine & other outlets without much knowledge of the teams shows up to ask questions.

THE BOSTON GLOBE: Hey Terry. Can you talk for a second about the decision to bring Schilling back out for a 7th when he seemed to be in a bit of pain for the 6th?

TERRY FRANCONA: Well, ya known, Schill's gonna battle. I'll tell ya what, I wanted to talk to him and see how he was feeling after the 6th, but he can be a bit ornery on the day he pitches. And he stays ornery until he knows he's done...he still had enough in the tank for the 7th.

MESA TRIBUNE: Hey coach. Your second baseman isn't very famous. Is he good?

TERRY FRANCONA: Yes, and coaches are for football.

MESA TRIBUNE: What do they call you?

TERRY FRANCONA: Manager.

ENTERTAINMENT DAILY: Terry, your team has some crazy hair. What do you think of Reese Witherspoon's crazy hair?

TERRY FRANCONA: Huh?

ENTERTAINMENT DAILY: Hey coach, can you say: "Entertainment Daily belts out the homers like Gwen Stefani belts out the hits"?

TERRY FRANCONA: No.

ENTERTAINMENT DAILY: How about "The Red Sox curse won't beat the curse on you if you don't tune in to Entertainment Daily's explosive interview with Katie Couric about how she feels about Ashlee Simpson's lip synching"? Then say "so let that goat back into Giants Arena and 3-2-1 EN! TER! TAIN!"

TERRY FRANCONA: No.

ENTERTAINMENT DAILY: "MENT! DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!"

SAN JOSE SENTINEL: Hey skipper. Somebody in the crowd said something about hitting a dinger. What's a dinger? Is it a homer? And why do they end in "er"? Is that your version of "slanged" words?

TERRY FRANCONA: Uh...

SAN JOSE SENTINEL: "Hey, I'm gonna throw a strike outer to these here opposition men." Do I sound like a pitcher now?

ANCHORAGE TIMES: So, how long have you been fighting the Curse of the Grand Baberino?

BUDAPEST MAGYAR TIMES: Smash! HOMER RUN! Kill red or mercifulness? To bean!!

CNN: So, if the Red Sox were in the Race For The White House (r) (tm) (c), who would they be? I mean, if you were playing Houston, forget it! You would be Bush, they would be Kerry. I mean, the opposite. But now, who are you? Are you Edwards? Oh! Maybe General McPeak? Who's the other team?

JIM ROME: I hate your team's fucking guts. But if they win the World Series, can I brag about liking them?

PARIS REVIEW: First, will a lingering summer's sun glint in the eyes of New England's sons in a late autumn, or will the cold winds of winter close the gates of the old ball yard for another eternity of snow? And secondly, what's a baseball?
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

My Brain Is Dead, Temporarily or Permanently

2004-10-22T00:59:00.000-05:00

I know I have some readers who are not from Boston and therefore don't really care. But after all the sleep I've lost over the last few days, and the sleep I'll continue to lose over the next week of the WORLD SERIES FEATURING THE BOSTON RED SOX, I have a feeling you won't be seeing much on this site other than that which relates to all things Sox.

I can't believe what I saw. I can't believe that happened. Did that happen? Could that POSSIBLY HAVE HAPPENED?

I saw Tim Wakefield crying as he held the American League Championship Trophy in the visitor's locker room in Yankee Stadium, I saw David Ortiz tell reporters he was responsible for ending Johnny Damon's by trying to keep him away from his fiance, saying "`Hey, Michelle, listen, you are sleeping in somebody else's room. You've got to stay away from my boy for the next couple of days.' And I think it helped. Look at my man today.'' I heard Manny Ramirez telling NESN's Eric Friede that the team believed in each other and never gave up hope and then, perhaps thinking he was actually in one of the commercials, turned to the camera and said "I Live For This". And then I thought, damn, I really do love this team.

Sometimes, when doing whatever amateur self-evaluation most of us do, I come to the conclusion that I'm a fairly well-adjusted person. And yet, the Boston Red Sox are my heart and soul. When the Patriots won the Superbowl last year, after 30 seconds of happiness, my next thought was "fucking Red Sox!" Turning my back on them, making the vow after an horrific loss or series of losses or entire season that "I will never watch them again!", is one of the only vows I am entirely incapable of keeping. I sneak a peek at the score, then I do it again, and again. And if they win, I'm back again. If they lose, it won't stop the same pattern the next night.

After the Sox lost Game 3 in such an embarrassing, history making way, I probably spewed more vitriol against them when talking with my dad the next day than I ever have. I said there was no way in hell I would sit by and watch a sweep. I'd find something else to do. As usually happens this time of year, my brother and I exchanged the very weighted question: "So, how are the Patriots gonna do this weekend?" That question, you see, has just about nothing to do with the Patriots. It's an angry, hurt snub of the only sports team that's actually in my blood, from when its good to when its very, very bad.

But after the Red Sox lost Game 3, despite my diatribes and anger, I started going through my crazy superstitions. In some poll I saw on one of the local news shows, and in conversations I've had with people, maybe 99 out of 100 people think the actions, thoughts, and rituals they go through directly affect the Red Sox's chance of winning. I took my old, discolored, beaten Red Sox hat, the one I had thrown into the corner the night before, and wrote a little good luck phrase into the inside of the hat, something that had once done the trick last year. I took my "auxiliary" Red Sox cap when they were down in the late innings of Game 4, turned it inside out into a rally cap, and put it on the TV.

I took my king of all good luck charms--the object that single-handedly won them the series--and placed it on top of the television. It's a picture I took off the internet, printed on photo paper and framed, of Alex Rodriguez getting smashed in the face by Jason Varitek at Fenway Park earlier this season. It worked in Game 4. It worked in Game 5. It worked in Game 6. I finally broke my ritual a little for Game 7 (partly by design, I had followed rituals exactly for Game 7 last year and it didn't turn out to well): I wore a different sweatshirt for the first time since Game 4, a different pair of pants...and I actually left my apartment, the only place that had guaranteed a Red Sox win so far. I headed over to my dad's place, as the score was already getting a little lopsided, and it seemed fitting to watch such an unbelievable bit of history with one of the most dedicated Red Sox fans I know. I wasn't with him in Stoughton, but I'm damn glad my grandfather saw this.

At my dad's, I also made sure to break some former rituals. In tense moments when Boston was pitching, I made sure NOT to even step foot in the bathroom that caused Pedro Martinez's meltdown in Game 7 last year, or GO ANYWHERE NEED the corner next to the front door that caused Tim Wakefield to give up that home run to Aaron Boone. Not all rituals changed though. As I was leaving my apartment to head to my father's, I made sure to pick up the framed photo of "A-Rod's Disgrace" and brought it over with me. It worked again.

Saturday night brings another game. I don't think the A-Rod photo has much relevance, but there's plenty of time to tinker with the rituals. For the first time in awhile, it won't be an elimination game. Perhaps I'll download a photo of former '67 Cardinal and Fox color man/Yankee lover Tim McCarver and destroy it. Or make sure to put the television on mute and listen to the call on the radio instead, so not one word from him. We'll see, there's time.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

"Well, It's Done Now."-Pedro Martinez, When Reminded Such A Comeback Had Never Before Happened In Major League Baseball

2004-10-21T01:54:00.000-05:00

At the end of the Anaheim series, something that seems like a million years ago as I sit here now, I said to myself, with a tinge of dread, that it had to be the Yankees. And it was. After the most humiliating postseason loss the Red Sox had ever suffered in their history, someone on the street cracked a joke that, "actually, I woulda taken the Twins." I think a spiteful smile crossed my lips, and I probably said a little prayer for a merciful sweep & a long winter.

But it had to be this way. Now I know why last year's Game 7 had to happen. Now I understand why the Red Sox couldn't win last year. It had to be like this. They had to play the Yankees this year, not the Twins. They needed to lose the first three. If they had won last year, beating the Yankees when it counts for the first time in their modern history, it would have been wonderful. But it would have been wrong.

The Red Sox had to do this. They had to beat the Yankees like this. They had to make history against them. No team--not just in the small universe of the Red Sox & Yankees--no team has ever come back from a 3 game hole to even make it to Game 7. No one has ever won after that. For that to happen would require the gutsiest comeback & the most spectacular collapse in the history of the sport. And that's exactly what happened. And that was the Red Sox, and those were the Yankees. That was Kevin Brown & Javier Vasquez giving up runs in a do or die game, not Tim Wakefield or Derek Lowe. That was David Ortiz hitting a two run homer, that was Johnny Damon hitting a grand slam and a two run home run, not Alex Rodriguez and Gary Sheffield. That no name hitting a home run to put the game away was Mark Bellhorn, not Ruben Sierra or Tony Clark. That desperate look saying "let's fucking go already" when one measly run came in to make a small dent in a large lead was on Derek Jeter's face, not Jason Varitek's. And that team that slammed the door shut was the Boston Red Sox, and they did it in the face of the New York Yankees.

And the New York Yankees were 3 outs away from the World Series. And then they had another chance. And then they had another chance. And then they had another chance.

I hope you'll remember this day, because things like this may not happen again. Certainly, not in this manner. The Red Sox have now given the Yankees the least sought after and most pathetic of all records: BIGGEST CHOKE JOB IN THE HISTORY OF BASEBALL, while they have won for themselves a record everyone thought was impossible to attain.

Derek Lowe, I don't know where you'll be pitching next year. I don't know how much they'll give you. But I will never, ever forget you for this. As I said in last night's comments, it was all up to you, a walking metaphor of Red Sox sublimity and failure--and you would either be able to do it or you wouldn't. And boy, did you. That was the game of your life. It will never be forgotten.

Billy Crystal, Mayor Giuliani, Mayor Bloomberg, Jack Nicholson, Nicole Kidman, Spike Lee, and every other fairweather celebrity who dons a Yankee cap for a guaranteed win, I hope that quizzical look on your face stays there for awhile. "Wait, aren't the Yankees supposed to win?" I hope you'll head home, stick that hat in a drawer, and find something else to do with your time.

George Steinbrenner and every Yankee bully from Stamford to Jersey City to Levittown, I hope you saw this. I hope you remember it for a long time. I hope the next time you try to get out an "intimidation" chant at Yankee Stadium when the Red Sox are in town next year, you stumble and falter over the weakness in your own voice and the lack of relevance of your sentiment. I hope you save the papers from today. I hope you remember this. And, damn, I know you will. I hope it hurts like hell.

And if you're from New York, and you scoff and say "they haven't won any World Series yet," you'd be right. But don't worry, this weekend, it'll has nothing to do with you. It's over, and history was broken--with New York on the historic, inconceivable losing side. Now go home and get some rest, Georgie has some firing to do in the morning.

In case you hadn't heard, Game 1 of the World Series is at Fenway Park on Saturday. No, A-Rod, I don't care whether you'll be watching.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

History Is Made, What's A Little More?

2004-10-20T01:15:00.000-05:00

I don't really know what to say. I can't believe I'm even in the position to have to have a mental breakdown during Game 7. The 2004 Boston Red Sox, who only days I go I had written off so completely, and with such venom I was practically begging for them to get swept in a brutal fashion and get it over with, have made history. The one and only baseball team, in the history of Major League Baseball, to lose the first three games of a seven game series, and to come back to tie it up. The first ever. And this was the Red Sox, and those were the Yankees.

I have no idea what will happen tomorrow. I have no way of knowing whether the Red Sox can conceivably win, in Yankee Stadium, in a Game 7, after all they've been through over the last few days. My gut is it will take a miracle. But so did tonight. Maybe there's an extra miracle out there.

I will be heartbroken tomorrow if they lose. It will be horrible. I won't be able to bear to watch it if it's clear at the end, and barely able to if it's close. But I still have to admit, not even in spite of the way this series started but perhaps because of it, this may be the greatest single series of baseball--or any sport--I have ever seen. The ace goes down hard in Game 1, seemingly with no hope of coming back. Game 2, far from a classic, was a pitcher's duel we lost. Game 3 handed the Red Sox their single worst playoff loss, ever, a game in which the records for runs scored & extra base hits in an LCS series were broken, as well as the record for postseason homers (Bernie Williams). It was the longest 9 inning game in LCS history. Game 4, a game started by a much maligned starting pitcher so shaky he had lost his spot in the postseason rotation and virtually on his way out of town, makes a valiant effort to help the 0-3 team save a little face. Trailing in the 9th against the greatest closer of all time, they come back to tie it. They win on a glorious home run in the 12th. The next day, trailing by 2 in the eighth, they come back to tie it, again off of Rivera & Flash Gordon. In Game 4 & Game 5, not to mention the mop up work in Game 3, many pitchers pitched more than they ever had before. Pitchers from the Yankees & Red Sox matched each other, zero after zero, especially in Game 5. Tim Wakefield, volunteering to have his ass handed to him in mop up work in Game 3, just because he could swallow his pride and do what was needed, essentially giving up his start the next day, comes in and throws great baseball for 3 innings. In the 14th inning, a broken back single, muscled in by the extra-innings hero from the night before, wins the game. The longest game in ALCS history one night, the record broken the next night, creating the longest game in baseball postseason history.

And tonight. A starting pitcher, who by many accounts should already be under the doctor's knife and beginning a three month recovery, has stitches put into the skin of his ankle to keep his ailing tendon in place. You can literally see the blood soaking through his sock. And he doesn't give you 3 innings. Or 4, or 5, or 6. He gives you 7, giving up one run. Mark Bellhorn, deserving the ire he's received over the entire postseason, is the offensive hero, from the 9 spot. Bronson Arroyo, massacred in Game 3, and having pitched the night before on only one day's rest, comes back on no days rest, and despite giving up a run, keeps his composure after the supposed "gold standard" of baseball pulls a bush league move and karate chops his arm with ball in hand...which, for a moment, seems to bring the Yankees with in one. But the cheapest multi-millionaire in baseball is called out for interference, the run comes back, Arroyo takes a deep breath, and gets out of it. Keith Foulke, pitching for the 4th day in a row, gets the Red Sox through a breathless ninth without allowing a run. And he said he'd be back tomorrow if they needed him, though I have to imagine that would be physically impossible.

Yes, there have been plenty of Game 7s in baseball, and we had a bit of a doozy ourselves last year. But, it's not just because Game 7 is tomorrow, or because this is the Yankees & the Red Sox. This has been the greatest sports series I have ever seen. And I haven't been able to enjoy much of it. It's too frightening to let it soak in.

If the Red Sox win tomorrow, they'll have beaten the odds. They already have. If the Yankees lose tomorrow, though, they will have committed the biggest choke in the history of the sport. Let that sink in, if you must. The Yankees are on the verge of the biggest collapse in the history of professional baseball, in any series, in any era, and it would be at the hands of the Red Sox.

I can be an idiot about baseball sometimes. Sometimes, I actually am taken with the poetry of it, and how it's the only sport with that quality. Derek Lowe--that walking metaphor for the Red Sox--sometimes soaring, sometimes crashing--in what may be his last pitching performance for the Red Sox, on the biggest possible stage, against the Yankees, in Yankee Stadium, in a Game 7. And he'll either be able to do it, or he won't. He may not be in there for long, but it's up to him to make it possible for them to win. And he'll be able to do it, or he won't. And that's it.

I will be heartbroken if they lose tomorrow. Nothing I can say can hide that fact. But I think, eventually, I would be able to live with it. The Red Sox have done something I've never seen. The only fitting way to end it would be to win, but if they lose I'll never forget this & I'll never hate this particular Red Sox team. I wouldn't have been able to imagine a scenario where I could have said that Saturday night. This team, exhausted, battered, and overworked, gave it absolutely everything. And every one of them did. I'm sure they will tomorrow too, win or lose, and for perhaps the first time in my life I can say without blinking: I can live with that.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

So, I Watched.

2004-10-19T01:43:00.000-05:00

You'll have to forgive me, but I'll be pretty much useless until this is over, win(s) or loss (one). In either event, I won't be able to think clearly enough to make an update worthwhile. I surely haven't over the last two long and exhausting nights. 5 hours and 2 minutes last night, the longest extra innings game in ALCS history. 5 hours and 49 minutes tonight, the longest game in postseason history.

I don't know what will happen now. I know Schilling's pitching, but I don't know if he can pitch. I wouldn't count on much but fumes from either bullpen tomorrow, and if Schilling's injury causes trouble early, I'm not sure what they'll do.

But I do at least know they turned an irredeemable embarrassment into a series worth remembering. A hatred toward the team as a whole that was guaranteed after the sweep I was practically, maniacally, praying for has now washed away to remembering how gutsy these guys can be sometimes: the guys you forget, like Dave Roberts, who if not for him getting on to run they don't win either game. Keith Foulke, coming in again for an inning-plus, after throwing fifty pitches over three the night before. Mike Meyers, Alan Embree, and Mike Timlin all giving up nothing. Bronson Arroyo, finding some redemption with a stellar inning, on one day's rest , after a terrible start. Tim Wakefield, reminding you that when it comes to heart & effort, you can never write him off. How he pitched that third inning of his I don't really know. And don't forget to mention Derek Lowe last night: a guy so maligned by the fans, a guy who had a terribly inconsistent season, a guy kicked out of the playoff pitching rotation until an emergency, a guy so untrusted by the coaches at this point he barely made an appearance throughout the playoffs, a guy who knows when he steps out onto the mound it will most likely be his last start in that uniform, ever, all while facing an 0-3 hole, with many fans wondering if he would just mail it in to get the whole ugly series, and for him ugly season, over and done with. And he pitched better than any of the other starters to that point. And when they took him out, and you could see him linger a little longer as he walked into the dugout, you had to feel good for him.

And of course, David Ortiz. There's nothing to say. I pretty much believe he's the sort of the player who, many years from now when he's a distant memory, you'll remember and say "now that was a baseball player."

So, off to bed. I'm now in the position where if they do lose tomorrow or the day after, I'll be heartbroken. It'll hurt. But at least, a little ways off from now, I'll be able to remember that there was at least a little good with the bad. And that's pretty much all being a Red Sox fan is, after all.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

No, I didn't watch.

2004-10-18T02:16:00.000-05:00

Well, not really. But all I will say is that I hope the other team, the one from down there, have to take a plane trip back to play one more game. The series is lost, a sweep would have put it all to rest quickly and quietly, which I wanted. But if you're going to stick around for a game or two, might as well make them use some pitchers so they aren't absolutely guaranteed a World Series victory, which would happen as the NLCS continues to be a--gasp!--competitive series that will probably end up wearing down the victor. And that's all I have to say about baseball for the remainder of this season, and no, I won't pay attention tomorrow either.

On another note, way to go Patriots.

I don't really have much for tonight. I think I need another brainstorming session for this thing, I've been pretty weak for awhile, both in updates and quality. I think I may do another great songs update soon, which always has a way of boring everybody. Maybe I won't. What's with typed out, supposedly internal deliberations? Sloppy, shitty writing.

But I won't leave you with nothing. Not to beat a dead-news-cycle-horse, but here's a link to the Bill O'Reilly harassment complaint, which is great reading. There are two reasons why, despite my desperate hopes, I still am slightly afraid that this is too good to be true: (a.) he talks about sex the way he talks to guests on his show and (b.) he actually goes on an "Al Franken will pay" tirade in the middle of one of his sexy calls. If all of this is true, however, thank you Lord, I've always known You to be merciful and just, but feel free to give Yourself a raise after this one.

Please vote for John Kerry. Please? I really won't make it, otherwise. Seriously.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Comparative Reading: A. Bartlett Giamatti's Reflections On Baseball In 1977 Vs. His 15 Year Old Corpse's Reflections On Baseball Last Night

2004-10-14T01:15:00.000-05:00

A. Bartlett Giamatti was the commissioner of ML Baseball in the late 80s. He's famous for writing so eloquently on baseball, specifically from the unenviable position of a Red Sox fan, as seen (in full) below. After you finish reading, please continue to see what his zombie climbed out of the grave to write last night.

"The Green Fields of the Mind "

It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops. Today, October 2, a Sunday of rain and broken branches and leaf-clogged drains and slick streets, it stopped, and summer was gone.

Somehow, the summer seemed to slip by faster this time. Maybe it wasn't this summer, but all the summers that, in this my fortieth summer, slipped by so fast. There comes a time when every summer will have something of autumn about it. Whatever the reason, it seemed to me that I was investing more and more in baseball, making the game do more of the work that keeps time fat and slow and lazy. I was counting on the game's deep patterns, three strikes, three outs, three times three innings, and its deepest impulse, to go out and back, to leave and to return home, to set the order of the day and to organize the daylight. I wrote a few things this last summer, this summer that did not last, nothing grand but some things, and yet that work was just camouflage. The real activity was done with the radio--not the all-seeing, all-falsifying television--and was the playing of the game in the only place it will last, the enclosed green field of the mind. There, in that warm, bright place, what the old poet called Mutability does not so quickly come.

But out here, on Sunday, October 2, where it rains all day, Dame Mutability never loses. She was in the crowd at Fenway yesterday, a gray day full of bluster and contradiction, when the Red Sox came up in the last of the ninth trailing Baltimore 8-5, while the Yankees, rain-delayed against Detroit, only needing to win one or have Boston lose one to win it all, sat in New York washing down cold cuts with beer and watching the Boston game. Boston had won two, the Yankees had lost two, and suddenly it seemed as if the whole season might go to the last day, or beyond, except here was Boston losing 8-5, while New York sat in its family room and put its feet up. Lynn, both ankles hurting now as they had in July, hits a single down the right-field line. The crowd stirs. It is on its feet. Hobson, third baseman, former Bear Bryant quarterback, strong, quiet, over 100 RBIs, goes for three breaking balls and is out. The goddess smiles and encourages her agent, a canny journeyman named Nelson Briles.

Now comes a pinch hitter, Bernie Carbo, onetime Rookie of the Year, erratic, quick, a shade too handsome, so laid-back he is always, in his soul, stretched out in the tall grass, one arm under his head, watching the clouds and laughing; now he looks over some low stuff unworthy of him and then, uncoiling, sends one out, straight on a rising line, over the center-field wall, no cheap Fenway shot, but all of it, the physics as elegant as the arc the ball describes.

New England is on its feet, roaring. The summer will not pass. Roaring, they recall the evening, late and cold, in 1975, the sixth game of the World Series, perhaps the greatest baseball game played in the last fifty years, when Carbo, loose and easy, had uncoiled to tie the game that Fisk would win. It is 8-7, one out, and school will never start, rain will never come, sun will warm the back of your neck forever. Now Bailey, picked up from the National League recently, big arms, heavy gut, experienced, new to the league and the club; he fouls off two and then, checking, tentative, a big man off balance, he pops a soft liner to the first baseman. It is suddenly darker and later, and the announcer doing the game coast to coast, a New Yorker who works for a New York television station, sounds relieved. His little world, well-lit, hot-combed, split-second-timed, had no capacity to absorb this much gritty, grainy, contrary reality.

Cox swings a bat, stretches his long arms, bends his back, the rookie from Pawtucket who broke in two weeks earlier with a record six straight hits, the kid drafted ahead of Fred Lynn, rangy, smooth, cool. The count runs two and two, Briles is cagey, nothing too good, and Cox swings, the ball beginning toward the mound and then, in a jaunty, wayward dance, skipping past Briles, feinting to the right, skimming the last of the grass, finding the dirt, moving now like some small, purposeful marine creature negotiating the green deep, easily avoiding the jagged rock of second base, traveling steady and straight now out into the dark, silent recesses of center field.

The aisles are jammed, the place is on its feet, the wrappers, the programs, the Coke cups and peanut shells, the doctrines of an afternoon; the anxieties, the things that have to be done tomorrow, the regrets about yesterday, the accumulation of a summer: all forgotten, while hope, the anchor, bites and takes hold where a moment before it seemed we would be swept out with the tide. Rice is up. Rice whom Aaron had said was the only one he'd seen with the ability to break his records. Rice the best clutch hitter on the club, with the best slugging percentage in the league. Rice, so quick and strong he once checked his swing halfway through and snapped the bat in two. Rice the Hammer of God sent to scourge the Yankees, the sound was overwhelming, fathers pounded their sons on the back, cars pulled off the road, households froze, New England exulted in its blessedness, and roared its thanks for all good things, for Rice and for a summer stretching halfway through October. Briles threw, Rice swung, and it was over. One pitch, a fly to center, and it stopped. Summer died in New England and like rain sliding off a roof, the crowd slipped out of Fenway, quickly, with only a steady murmur of concern for the drive ahead remaining of the roar. Mutability had turned the seasons and translated hope to memory once again. And, once again, she had used baseball, our best invention to stay change, to bring change on.

That is why it breaks my heart, that game--not because in New York they could win because Boston lost; in that, there is a rough justice, and a reminder to the Yankees of how slight and fragile are the circumstances that exalt one group of human beings over another. It breaks my heart because it was meant to, because it was meant to foster in me again the illusion that there was something abiding, some pattern and some impulse that could come together to make a reality that would resist the corrosion; and because, after it had fostered again that most hungered-for illusion, the game was meant to stop, and betray precisely what it promised.
Of course, there are those who learn after the first few times. They grow out of sports. And there are others who were born with the wisdom to know that nothing lasts. These are the truly tough among us, the ones who can live without illusion, or without even the hope of illusion. I am not that grown-up or up-to-date. I am a simpler creature, tied to more primitive patterns and cycles. I need to think something lasts forever, and it might as well be that state of being that is a game; it might as well be that, in a green field, in the sun.

From A Great and Glorious Game: Baseball Writings of A. Bartlett Giamatti, © 1977, 1998 by A. Bartlett Giamatti.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Beautiful. Now it's 2004, and Mr. Giamatti has something to say.

The Green Fields of I'm Gonna Kick Kevin Millar's Motherfucking Ass

It breaks your heart. It's designed to break your heart. Fuck it. There's nothing heartbreaking about losing from the first inning, without a lead or a tie even once, for 18 innings straight. There's nothing heartbreaking about not being able to get more than one hit off of Mike Mussina & John "Effing" Lieber for a combined 12 innings.

John Lieber? JOHN LIEBER?!? I can see his fucking Tommy John scar! They're showing it on TV right now! The guy's like two games above .500 in his CAREER! What the hell is happening?

Why can't I just keep my big frigging mouth shut? I wake up in the morning, I look in the mirror, I say "A. Bartlett, we've got to play it cool." But then I go and say something about how rock solid Johnny Damon's been leading off, and he's swinging at pitches from the Cardinals game! I say "Bellhorn may have a strikeout problem, but he walks so often." What's he batting .020?!?!? I say, "unlike last year, they're coming in to the LCS with hot hitters." Has Millar even TAKEN A SWING YET?!?!?

Whatever can go wrong will go wrong. WHATEVER THE FUCKING FUCK CAN GO WRONG WILL GO WRONG!! Schilling's talking a big game, and a tendon came out of its sheath? It's "snapping around"? What the fuck does that mean? I've never EVEN HEARD OF ANYTHING LIKE THAT BEFORE! And I went to an Ivy League school! When I was alive, people treated me like I was some kind of frigging genius!

A tendon's flapping around? Wait, and another thing. I was specifically making fun of John Olerud two days ago. I'm serious, I was just doing that. SPECIFICALLY. And he hits a home run? JOHN "I THINK I SHOULD RETIRE NOW" OLERUD DOES? I did it to Aaron Boone last year too. I specifically made fun of New York's starting pitching, and they practically no hit us TWO DAYS IN A ROW??? What, am **I** cursed? Does Babe Ruth have MY phone tapped?

And why do they have to come back and make it close. No, not tonight, you asshole. YESTERDAY. Why don't you just get beat? Why do you always have to make it as horrible as possible?

Please, come home and get swept. Put me out of my fucking misery already. A 4 game no-contest sweep isn't a heartbreak, it's a fucking joke. Ha ha ha. I'm laughing now. Is it too outrageous for a former MLB commissioner to call you all a bunch of scum sucking assholes? Yeah, I'm talking to you Varitek. No, don't point at Mientkiewicz. He DOESN'T EVEN PLAY!

Well, I'm climbing back in my grave now. Wake me the next time "they've really got the team to do it." Forgive me if I just decide to get some more sleep though. And the next time some Long Island bred BU student at Fenway chants "19-18" at you, counter with "Schilling's Ankle", because it has the same number of syllables. Or go see my son in American Splendor, a film Roger Ebert called "good".

Fuck this shit. When are the Nordiques playing? WHAT, THEY DON'T EXIST ANYMORE?!?!?
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Very, Very, Very Short Plays (That Only Makes Sense To A Very Small Number of People): An Anonymous Man Reacts To Something Of A Sporting Nature

2004-10-13T01:06:00.000-05:00

ANONYMOUS: Alright.

No.

No.

Jesus.

JESUS!

Wait.

Okay.

Yeah.

Yeah!

No.

No!

JESUS!!!!

THE END

My Guess At What Finnegan's Wake Could Possibly Be About, If Translated Into Human English

2004-10-12T02:04:00.000-05:00

Siobhan walked down the dusty lane, carrying a basket of Irish soda bread to pave the road to town. In the distance, she saw the men of the village standing around the front door of Finnegan's small cottage.

"Ey beys, what are ye doin' at Finnegan's," asked Siobhan.

"How in the name of Jesus and his Holy Mother Mary and the Emerald Isle of Greenland does Siobhan spell Shevaughn?" asked Tim McMurphy.

"Ay," added the town intellectual, Murphy McTimm.

"Don' be changin' the subject, beys," said Siobhan.

"Finnegan's takin' the long march up t' the heavenly gates t' share a cider with Our Lady of the Dispassionate Moon," said McMurphy removing his cap. "He choked t' death on his own Irish bluster, the bleemin' article."

"No, 'twas his bullyness that stopped his breath," said Peter O'Southie.

"We'll wait t' see what the Royale Irish Coroner says," said McTimm. "By the by, do you know how an Irish coroner determines a cause of death? He matches his own vomit stains to the smell on the corpse's breath t' figure what type of liquor he drank too much of!"

"What an odd thing to say," said O'Southie.

Siobhan was heartbroken. "Ah, my poor heart breaks for the finest man who ever impregnated me and then had me sentoff to a stone age convent to be beaten by nuns," reflected the girl. "I will toss blarney stones all over his coin cover'd eyes at his wake."

"Blarney stones?" asked O'Southie.

"Siobhan!" interrupted McMurphy.

"It's pronounced Siobhan," said she.

"That's what I said. Siobhan."

"Siobhan."

"Whatever. Siobhan! You are not invited to this here rollicking wake."

"You dare t' disinvite me t' Finnegan's wake as I stand before ye, on this briney path?"

"Briney?" asked O'Southie.

"Feck off, Siobhan," proclaimed McMurphy. "Take yer briney indignation, and kiss my royale Irishe Arse."

"That's from a different book," hissed O'Southie.

"Finnegan's Wake could never stand the raven locks of ye black Irishe, Siobhan, what with yer steamy Castillian blood," said McMurphy.

"Wait, briney?" said O'Southie.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Yes, I Know.

2004-10-08T08:16:00.000-05:00

Another job interview today. Maybe I'll update later? Yeah, maybe.

Small Price To Pay For Victory...

2004-10-07T02:40:00.000-05:00

Apologies, but late night Red Sox playoff action kept me from my solemn duties to this site. Forgive me for brimming with confidence.

The ghost of Hendu would be smiling down on us, if Dave Henderson was in fact dead.

Please To Enjoy...

2004-10-06T12:40:00.000-05:00

The real Wednesday post is below, if you haven't seen it yet. However, why don't you go ahead and check this out: GOP Convention. It's got sound, so be warned if you're at work. I'm not usually one for the political montages, but I thought this one was pretty well done.

"Baseballing Tales of "Nuff Ced" McGreevey & His Royale Rooters" (1903)

2004-10-06T02:32:00.000-05:00

The playoffs have begun. By sheer happenstance, I also found this rare 1903 pamphlet in the back seat of my car!

A Tale of the Neighbourhood Drinkery

The match had ended after a brisk seven hour contest, and the boys of the "bleaching" seats arrived at the Third Base Pub parched, looking for a bubbly lager or port.

At the front of the establishment, in a chair of wicker, sat a man of raven hair and with the colouring of olives, not unlike a froth mouthed Turkoman dervish seen on the back pages of our evening periodicals!

"I say, our lot was victorious in their offensive explosion," he exclaimed, sucking the suds of a Czechland pilsner from the whiskers of his enormous moustachio. One to nothing, and in only 31 innings!"

Of course, the men of the "bleaching" seats section of the old ballyard would not stand for this affrontery.

"I say," said Big Jim Maplethorpe. "You do appear to be from the Isle of the Sicilians, which we all do know, in times gone by, was polluted by the blood of A-Rabbes and Moors. Do you dare to vigourously root for the victorious endeavours of our Beaneating boys?"

"I do dare," said the man. "And I'm only half Sicilian."

"And that will be the very half I cut away with my sharpened cleat-shoe," said Cy Young. "I have just finished pitching 31 innings of hitless baseball while pukingly intoxicated, and now will commence to rip your face from its perch upon your skull-bone!"

"Wait," exclaimed "Nuff Ced" McGreevey, the owner of the fine spirits-house and leader of the Royale Rooters, through his gigantic moustache. "I own this establishment, and this man is my client. I do insist that you only murder his person with instruments blunt, not instruments sharp!"

So they did, and were all later elected to Congress in rigged elections. As a matter of fact, the dead Sicilian voted for all of them from beyond the grave, several times in fact.

A Tale of Gamely Gamesmanship

"Nuff Ced" McGreevey sat in his favourite seat at the Huntington Grounds. Suddenly, he observed Jimmy Sebring of the Pirates of Pittsburg attempting to make a "catching" on the swat by Boston hero Patsy Dougherty!

McGreevey began to sing the torturous refrain of Tessie to taunt poor Sebring.

"Ah hah, McGreevey!" yelled Sebring through his massive moustache, stopping mid-run to address his nemesis. "I will not again be distracted by your singing of that confounded tunesong! I will rather regain my wits and catch the ball that still makes its path towards me, in mid air!"

McGreevey could not allow this horrible prediction to be realized! "Sebring, you Hun," yelled McGreevey. "I call into question the bravery and moral valour of your relatives during the Spanish War! I daresay our Old Knickerbocker, T.R., would share my shame of your hyphenated-Americanism!"

These scandalous comments shocked Sebring, and he forgot about the ball. However, just to be sure, McGreevey then shot him in the face with a Derringer.
THE END
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Lost Jonathan Swift Novella Filled With Clumsy Metaphors

2004-10-05T02:13:00.000-05:00

The Round-a-bout Goings of Lionel Upbottom: An Adventure In 19 Parts
by Jonathan Swift

"Lord Upbottom!" yelled Captain Shardteeth, above the din of the mighty ocean's roar. "Be cautionified, or you will spill your very person over the bow of this vessel!"

Alas, it was too late. Lord Upbottom had been carried off the deck by a powerful wave of freezing grey water.

"What will become of Lord Upbottom," wailed Shardteeth, before being eaten by various sea serpents.

The Captain's unfortunate blood and entrail soaked death was the least of Upbottom's worries, as he was tossed about in the ocean. "When will I hit a patch of land," wondered Upbottom, a particularly lucid thought for a man deeply unconscious and brain damaged from water-in-lung.

Several days and hundreds upon hundreds of miles later, Upbottom washed upon a rocky shore. He awoke slowly, and found himself surrounded by a horde of tiny green men! Oh, the horrors of this bizarre world!

"Good tidings, fair sir," said one of the green men. "We are the Covetsonians of New Enviitown! Observe how green we are!"

Lord Upbottom stood, revealing his golden belt buckle. He noticed the eyes of the Covetsonians lighting up in a most disturbing way!

"Oh, how we sinfully desire that object," said one of the men, mysteriously giving voice to that thought for no obvious reason. "We feel that we want what is yours in a way that will poison our relationship with you, will cause ourselves selfish misery, and certainly offends the omnipotent Spirit in the sky that created us! Do they have a word for this feeling on your planet, my lord?"

"We're from the same frigging planet," said Upbottom. "And yes, we do. To covet. It's called envy, and you are certainly green with it."

"Why, those words sound remarkably close to the names of our home and people, and we are, in fact, of the color green!"

"What a remarkable coincidence," said Upbottom. "I am off to my next adventure!"

"Huh?" said the head Covetsonian. But it was too late, Lord Upbottom disappeared over the horizon.

After walking for several hours, Lord Upbottom heard the sound of twigs snapping under foot.

"Well, well, Lord Upbottom," came a voice from the forest. "It is we, the Fronchmen. We are in a war with the hated Aenglomehn, and will most certainly have tense relations with them for several centuries."

"How did you know my name?" quaked Lord Upbottom. "And I didn't ask you anything, so what..."

"Oh, Lord Upbottom," interrupted the voice, now connected to some kind of effete guy eating gross cheese. "This war we are in with the Aenglomehn of the Isle of Grand Britburg is so intense, I fear it could last, why, 100 years!"

"You mean like a Hundred Years' War(tm)?" asked Upbottom.

"Exactly," said the man. "My name is Seuqcaj. In case you were wondering, that is Jacques backwards, although I must admit that that is obviously gibberish to me."

"Ah," said Upbottom.

Both men paused for several seconds.

"I say, the horror's of war cause me existentialist dread!" said Seuqcaj. "Or so I am told by our people's favorite thinker, Paul-Jean Sartreday."

"They aren't going to invent that for two hundred years," whispered Upbottom caustically. "What are you doing?"

"That sounds like the mercantalist pragmatism of the Aenglomehn," said Seuqcaj bitterly. "Are there people like that on your planet?"

"What's with all this planet shit?" asked Upbottom.

THE END
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Adieu, Nos Amours

2004-09-30T01:49:00.000-05:00

It's a crying shame. The Expos were dead in the water, but let's not pretend for a moment that it wasn't MLBs fault. 2/3 of their games on the road, terrible owners who, with the help of the borderline criminal executives of the league gut and destroy the team, sell it to the worst conceivable owner of all (a/k/a the other franchise owners, collectively), decent players guaranteed to leave town...it was over a long time ago, but it probably didn't have to be. The team was popular when it was competative, or at least when some sort of effort was put in to make it so: the 70s, 80s, '94. If you want to worry about bad "baseball cities", look at the places that win and still can't draw: Oakland, Atlanta.

A decent ballpark & a winning record would have done the trick. But no one was going to do that. So, goodbye Expos. ML Baseball will never be back in Montreal, ever. Washington DC gets yet another chance to run a franchise out of town. Third time's a charm, I guess.
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Cult Leader Reverend Moon's Suggested Stories To The Ultra-Conservative Washington Times, Which He Owns

2004-09-29T00:58:00.000-05:00

JOHN KERRY MARRIES THERESA HEINZ IN BLASPHEMOUS, ONE GROOM ONE BRIDE CEREMONY

DNC DENIES REVEREND MOON'S MESSIANIC IDENTITY, GUARANTEE LOSS IN NOVEMBER, SEAT IN HELL

REVEREND MOON, MASTER & GOD THE FATHER: FARM SUBSIDIES OUTRAGEOUS!

WIFE ABANDONMENT NOT SUCH A BIG DEAL, IF NAMED MOON & LIVING IN JAPAN IN '40s

TONY BLANKLEY NOT FAT, ELEANOR CLIFT FAT: VISUAL TRICK OF SATAN ON MCLAUGHLIN GROUP, DECLARES REVEREND MOON

KOREA TO BE CENTER OF NEW ROMAN EMPIRE: ALL WHO RESIST, SMOTE

FINAL BATTLE OF EARTH BETWEEN US, RUSSIA, CHINA, N. & S. KOREA, JAPAN: ANONYMOUS GOD TO REV. MOON

WB'S GILMORE GIRLS LOSING EDGE: REV. MOON "I WILL CONQUER & SUBJUGATE THE WORLD, GILMORE GIRLS"
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Tense Moments In Town/Gown Relations

2004-09-27T01:16:00.000-05:00

A group of college students walk down the street, accidently bumping into a group of locals.

LOCAL #1: Hey, watch it!

BEN Q., SOPHOMORE, 19: (muttering) Once off the campus, this non-centralized community lacks adequate public transportation.

LOCAL #2: Oh yeah? The availability of religious services on your campus rates a 2 out of 10, with most students not ranking "religion" or "conservative values" highly in terms of their interests!

SARAH W., JUNIOR, 21: Hey! The university draws students from major East Coast cities and over 103 countries, but once you step out of the front gate, it's totally hicksville!

LOCAL #3: You damn kids. The student body claims that traditional serious relationships are really uncommon, and it is far more common to find casual "hook-ups"!

RAY R., FRESHMAN, 19: Say what, bitch? The diversity on campus--rated 8 1/2 out of 10--is a far cry from the white, working class population of the town, which is rated by many students surveyed as "unfriendly" and "prejudiced."

LOCAL #4: On campus drinking takes a back seat to casual marijuana use!

GINA T., SENIOR, 22: While the university offers internship programs in several fields, very few can be found locally, in what is best described as a generally economically depressed area!

PETE P., SOPHOMORE, 20: And while scholarships are fairly plentiful, the paperwork is complicated and the administration is generally unhelpful!

LOCAL #6: One anonymous senior in the Engineering Department writes, "You could say we have a collision of worlds between trust fund babies and out of work factory types who don't necessarily respect higher education."

ANONYMOUS SENIOR, ENGINEERING DEPARTMENT: Hey! How the hell did you know that?
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Note: In the future, I will refrain from making Princeton Review jokes.

Why The Iraqi Election Ballots Would Be So Troubling If They Could Be Delivered Around The Country In The First Place (Which, Apparently, They Can't)

2004-09-24T02:42:00.000-05:00

CANDIDATES FOR THE OFFICE OF PRIME MINISTER

ALI AL-KHUSSAIBY: Moderate Shiite, Educated at Oxford
Drawback: Already Assassinated

THANI BIN-SULTAN: Molecular Biologist, non-religious, friendly to the US & UK
Drawback: Alive, but three masked men "reminded" his bodyguards to take the day off tomorrow.

JOSEPH DHARHI: Economist, Former journalist
Drawback: Chaldean Catholic in an overwhelmingly Muslim country, his father left Iraq as an exile in 1975 before he was born, wants country to stop relying on oil money and "go green".

DAVID LESAR AL-TIKRITI: Prudent Businessman, friendly to US interests
Drawback: Not Iraqi, "al-Tikriti" part made up by FOX advertising strategists, Chief Operating Officer of Halliburton

IMAM MOHAMMED KHALEL: Radical Shiite Leader
Drawback: US will nullify results if he wins, running on the "Satan America will bathe in its own blood" platform, which doesn't play well to women or fiscal conservatives

JERRY FALWELL: American Evangelcial Pastor
Drawback: I can't really think of anything that could possibly go wrong. Also running on the "Satan America will bathe in its own blood" platform, but it's more of a homo thing.

JOHN WAYNE: Deceased American Actor
Drawback: Dead, his screen persona was greatly exaggerated, only fluent in certain Kurdish dialects , spends too much of his time trapped inside posters on a certain world leader's bedroom walls.

CIA'S PREFERRED CANDIDATE: Some sort of secular dictator who, as terrible and iron-handed as he would be with his own people, would stamp out Islamic fundamentalism with great effectiveness, would not allow his country to be a breeding ground for fundamentalist terrorism, would be strong enough to stop alliances between Iraqi & Iranian Shiite radicals from forming, and due to economic pressure from the world would be unable to build any dangerous weapons programs. Where the fuck can you find someone like that?
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Excerpts from Bill O’Reilly’s Latest Masterpiece

2004-09-23T14:31:00.000-05:00

I’m not sure if it has hit the bookshelves yet, but I was able to get my hands on the first manuscript for Bill O’Reilly’s latest book. Unfortunately, his ghostwriter hasn’t had the chance to revise it yet, so please excuse the fact it may seem as if it was written by an angry 14 year old held back in the 4th grade.

Excerpt #1: Bill O’Reilly Tackles The Delicate Issue of the Homosexuality of Suicidal High Schoolers

So, you’re thinking about coming out of the closet. Can’t take the pressure anymore, huh? Well let my psychologize you, not some Ivory Tower wise guy. Listen, I’m not a conservative. I’ve said on many occasions I believe that global warming could possibly exist. But when it comes to homosexuality, why don’t you just shut up about it? I don’t get it. Why don’t you just shut up? If you don’t shut up, you’re gonna get some ribbing and some problems—plain and simple. Can’t stand to pretend to have a girlfriend anymore? Want your parents and your lifelong friends to know who you really are? What’s that got to do with who you really are? Don’t be a pinhead. Take some advice from the coolest “dude” you know, Bill O’Reilly: just smother that anger, hold it in you deep down in a dark place until your anger and insecurity overwhelms you. Then, start a talk show with angry rants filled with made up gibberish! Your lazy eye will guide you through. If your lazy eye says no, punch your eye in its nose!

Excerpt #2: High School Language Requirements

Uh oh! Another fall is here, and its time to do your homework—“good grief”, right kids? Now, some of you high school “dudes” are gonna run into your high school principal in the halls and he’s gonna say: “hey pinhead, you need to take a language class!” Maybe Le Principale will try to get you to take French. Well here’s what you’re gonna tell him: “I’m boycotting that!” If he says something wise like, “you’re boycotting the language?” Tell him you’re gonna start to boycott him! Let me tell you something, those teacher’s unions are filled with secularists. You don’t need to put up with their guff. France is a traitor to the Stars & Stripes. If they bring up French Canada? Don’t get me started. Their secularist socialism has plummeted their nation into the depths of several spots above us on the Human Development Index. Who puts out the HDI? The UN who contains—you guessed it—France.

So maybe the principal will say, “fine, why don’t you take Spanish?” Well, if the principal and his French teacher’s union cronies had their way and we don’t put soldiers on our southern border, you can tell him we won’t even need to take Spanish lessons. If that pinhead says something wise like, “What??”, make sure to try to get him to buy some of the crap on my website—like a doormat!! Kids like doormats, right?

Last but not least, that principal of yours will try to spin you into taking German. Tell him if it wasn’t for you, he’d be speaking German and eating sauerkraut right now. Then tell him you will be taking a language: American. And there’s nothing ridiculous there.

Excerpt #3: Fashion & Respectability

Hi kids, it’s me, Bill O’Reilly again. How’s it “hangin’”? Let me tell you something, you want to be cool right? But you also want to win the respect of your peers. You need to think about what you wear. Now you’re in a no spin zone here, I’m gonna tell you straight. Look at the cover of my book. Who’s that handsome guy? It’s me! I dress a lot better than that crumb bum Stuart Smalley, and that’s why I’m so powerful. According to BillOReilly.com users, 99% of people think I dress better than he does.

Look at the picture again: I’m looking right at you! I’m looking into your eyes right now. Check out my shirt, kids—I’m not wearing a tie! And see that sweater? You like it, right? Buy one and wear it. Please? I look “cool”, right? Listen kids, do you like me? Huh? Can I come to your birthday party? I swear, I’ll pay for everything. I’ll wear a funny balloon hat and we can drink sodas. Listen, pinhead, if you don’t hang out with me, I’ll crush you. Then I’ll put up a poll that asks: who would you rather have as a friend, Bill O’Reilly or a crushed you? I predict 99% will say me. So who’s better now, huh? Well?!?
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

Cat Stevens Revamps His Old Songs To Illustrate His Current Religious Interests

2004-09-22T01:36:00.000-05:00

As many of you aficionados of 70s British pop and/or the Harold & Maude soundtrack most certainly know, Cat Stevens has been a devout Muslim, known as Yusuf Islam, since 1977. Last night, he was barred from entering the U.S. because he is apparently on a terrorist watch list, and his New York bound plane was diverted to Bangor, Maine, where he's awaiting expulsion from the country. But I feel I need to come to Yusuf Islam's defense here. I'm going to set the record straight.

Cat "Yusuf Islam" Stevens for many years denounced the decadent & hedonist Western music he performed while a pop star, once the glory of Allah revealed Himself to him. However, in 2003, he began performing again, from time to time. I have, in the interest of clearing Cat "Kat" Stevens's name of fundamentalist terror activities, dug up some notes I found in Cat "Gat" Stevens's personal papers that show lyric changes the singer made to his old classics for the 2003 shows. Here are some relevant excerpts.

Moonshadow
I'm being followed by a Spook Shadow
CIA Spook Shadow, Spook Shadow
Tossin' and a hidin' my charitable contributions
Spook Shadow, Spook Shadow
I'd better lose my receipts
Lose my Islamic "non-profit" contacts, lose my secret checkbook
Oh if, I ever lose my Islamic "non-profit" contacts, Oh if...
I didn't know that money was funding suicide bombs
and now I'm being followed by a Spook Shadow

Silent Sunlight
Silent Sunlight welcome in, there is work I must now begin,
Dreams of non-Satanic public schools not blown away
In my extremist madrassah, the children could fume & pray
They'll soon remember things to do,
like blaming 9/11 on Mossad & blowing up Buddhist statuuuues

If You Want To Sing Out, Sing Out (Song To Ultra-Wealthy Saudi Arabian Western University Students Who Will Someday Inherit Hereditary Posts)
Well if you wanna sing out, sing out
And if you wanna be free, be free
because there's a million whiskeys & colognes to buyeee
You know that there are

And if you wanna live high, live high
And if you wanna live low, live low
You weren't born a woman, so there's a million ways to go
You know that there are

Chorus:
You can do what you wan'
Your father's Prince Isifan
You can get drunk every day
You can buy crystal meth today
Daddy's renting you a condo
But when you're back home, it's all gonzo
you see, ah ah ah
it's easy, ah ah ah
but you'd better get it out of your system now

So if you wanna say yes, say yes
and if you wanna say no, say no
'Cuz you're at NYU, so anything goes
But when you take over the Ministry of Torture, be a straight Wahabi arrow

Trouble (Re-Written in American Detention, 9/21/04)
Tom Ridge
Oh Tom Ridge set me free
I have seen your not clear to fly list
And my name's right next to Ted Kennedy's

Tom Ridge
Oh Tom Ridge set me free
I'll eat this pork sandwich right in front of you
If that's what it takes to get me out of this jail in Bangor, M.E.

I won't drink your wine (note: for religious reasons)
Neo-cons makin' your world mine
So won't you be fair?
So won't you be fair?

I don't want no more of you
So won't you be kind to me
Osama, Zarqawi: I don't know where
I'm from fucking England, let me go there
[andreimarko@hotmail.com]

(Note: my fake songs are always, always a painful disaster. Won't stop me though.)

From The Encyclopedia Of Lives of Lesser Known Saints

2004-09-21T02:52:00.000-05:00

Saint Hippolyte des Poissonniers: 1113?-1148?

Patron saint of fishmongers & the city of Lille. Lille has objected strenuously to being left with the Saint of Fishmongers, and traded Saint Hippolyte and some Belgian jokes to the French Basque region in return for Sainte Regine des Navigateurs de Souffrance and a carton of apples. The Vatican doesn't recognize the trade as being one of equal value and nullified it, then reprimanded Lille because if they really wanted a glitzier saint, they should have made a better effort to get out of the hotel and to the conference center in time to participate. Lille claimed it needed a cup of coffee, to which the Vatican reminded them that there was coffee at the "bleeping" conference center.

Saint Hippolyte was born around 1113 in Perigueux. His first miracle was performed at the event of his birth, as his mother had died of the plague several months earlier, as both a virgin and a man.

Saint Hippolyte became an ascetic mystic at the age of seven. He was often seen standing on one leg, on the top of a very high post in the middle of Perigueux. Townsfolk would ask,"why do you stand upon that pole, young man?" Hippolyte would reply, his six year old beard of white flowing about his face, "It is the will of Jesus that I stand so, to atone for the sins of man." Then, on many occasions, a townsperson would ask "which Bible verse is that in?" Hippolyte would pretend to be busy flagellating himself until they went away.

Hippolyte is mainly regarded for his miraculous work during the plagues of 1121-23, 1123-27, 1128, 1129, 1132, 1135-39, 1140, 1141, and 1142-48. During the first plague, his powers became a subject of common knowledge. A woman, stricken by the sickness, begged at Hippolyte's ankles for mercy, unfortunately being unlucky in rounding up a real bona fide kind of saint, as it was the middle of August and they were all vacationing on Corsica.

"Help me, Hippolyte of the Fishmongers!" she coughed. Hippolyte did just that. He announced to those who cautiously crowded around, "I will turn this woman's diseased blood into cleansing water, and end this plague." Hours later, standing in the middle of the bloody, water soaked mess that used to be that woman, Hippolyte spoke the simple phrase, "it is as I have promised." Whether the woman died of the bludgeoning, the plague, or the fact that people, apparently, need blood instead of water in their veigns to live, will never be known. Over the course of all nine plagues of his lifetime, those who sought out Saint Hippolyte enjoyed a 0.04% survival rate, making it the greatest success story in the history of French medicine.

Hippolyte's final miracle came after death. In 1160, the local bishop had Hippolyte's casket exhumed from his grave. The casket was opened, and those gathered were surprised to find in it Hippolyte's skeleton! As this made him the first citizen of Perigueux not victimized by necrophiliac grave robbers in over two centuries, the townspeople decided to go get drunk. As a further sign of the miraculous properties of the body, only 27 of the 33 people gathered died of the plague on the walk over to the pub. Saint Hippolyte was consecrated as a saint in 1969 when the pope was on vacation by a UPS employee who thought he was just signing some kind of Saint Peter's guestbook. His face now shares a Senegali postage stamp with Donald Duck, mislabeled "Napoleon & Donnis Dock."
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