I'm losing ... I'm losing ... I'm losing ... I'm losing my Vitamin D

Actually, it's pretty sunny today (cold, but bright), which is good for my seasonal affective disorder, but it's annoying, in that it exposes just how lousy a housekeeper I am. If dust were Euros, I could retire. Have you ever tried to dust a ridiculously large number of stacks of CDs and DVDs and books leaning precariously (some stacks having already lost that fight with gravity and/or pet-related mayhem) all over your living room? Me neither. And the rug needs vacuuming, cuz I have two cats who seem to be practicing to be place-kickers for a feline sandlot football league. Goddamn litter everywhere. Which -- d'oh! -- I forgot to buy at over by The Jewels's this morning. I guess the current supply will hold out a little longer. Maybe I should feed the monsters some cheese. Constipate em up. I hope the judges of the Pet Owner Award of the Year don't read this blog.

Anyway ... I'm "telecommuting" today, and I have a stack of work right by my side here at CBRAT Central, but I'm taking a holiday week next week, so ... my "business before pleasure" ethic is facing a challenge at this particular moment.

While I'm at it, I want to go on record with the claim that I have been making jokes about pretending to be confused between Janet Napolitano and Johnette Napolitano for yeeears now, ever since Janet N. was attorney general of Arizona. That's 10 years, folks. Now that she's being considered for an Obama cabinet post, everyone (OK, two or three blogs and/or commenters thereon) thinks that joke is the heighth and breadth of wit. Anyway, of the potential appointments being bandied about, Janet Napolitano is probably the one I have the least to complain about, so far. And I always liked Johnette pretty well.



Concrete Blonde - Joey

Oh yeah, one last thing. It's flu season, people. Get your shots, and pound that good citrus. It's probably lame and passe (I think it's kinda limp-wristed myself, if you know what I mean), but if you need to put lime in your beer to get it, that's OK with me. This has been a public service message from Seattle Pilots manager, (Chicago's own) Joe Schultz. Joe adds, "Shitfuck. I've been dead for 12 years and I still have more sense than you idiots. Fuckshit."



Can - Vitamin C (truncated clip, unfortunately)

This Just In: John McCain Confuses Self with Kim Basinger

Via HuffPo: John McCain: Jackson Browne Used Me

In other news:

The return of "Musical Commute Report"

During the drive to and from the upper upper lower upper north burbs over the last couple of weeks, I've heard this song about a dozen times on the Loyola U. station, and it's growing on me. It's muddy, it's poppy, and the (Brooklyn-based) band's name references weird creepy dead reclusive Chicago outsider artist Henry Darger:



Vivian Girls - Where Do You Run To

Hot Stove Report: Japanese League Edition

According to news reports, Japan could soon have its first female professional baseball player. The Kobe 9 Cruise, a franchise in a new independent league, has drafted 16-year-old Eri Yoshida, a knuckleball pitcher.

I don't know what the rate of success is for draftees in Japan, but I'm sure the washout rate is quite high, as it is in the United States. Still, given that it's a new league, maybe she will get a chance to play, and maybe she'll be the one that finally breaks the gender barrier.

Particularly (pathologically, even) obsessive/compulsive readers of this blog might recall that I mentioned in a post some time ago that, in 1986, shortly before his death, former White Sox owner Bill Veeck wrote in the epilogue to second edition of his autobiographical book, The Hustler's Handbook, that he foresaw the eventual shattering of said barrier:

There is ... one source of talent that has never been tapped: the female of the species. In 1980, I had a promotion worked out, secretly, with Coca-Cola to conduct a national hunt for the best of the female players, with the winners to be placed in the minor leagues and brought along like anybody else. It was not a stunt.

Although the female of the species lacks the upper-body strength to stand much of a chance in the competition for the power positions, young women are more than competitive when it comes to dexterity and agility. If everything had gone according to plan, we would have had a female playing second base in Chicago within three years and, unless I was off the mark, a pitcher with style and control within five.

Unfortunately, Veeck never got to carry through on the experiment, and subsequent owners have lacked his vision. Major League Baseball hasn't even been able to put women umpires on the field -- and that's a profession desperately in need of an increase in its talent pool.

But the drafting of Eri Yoshida represents a step forward, so maybe someday, maybe soon ...

The Meme Game ... Listy! Listy listy, bo bisty ... etc.

OK, although I haven't posted a post every day this month, I've been kind of inspired by Feral Mom's dedication to the whole "National Blog Post Month" concept (if that is its real name), and in connection with this post over by there, here, from me, to you, is the following "playing along with the whole 'getting to know you' meme burgoo" posting. Please to enjoy.

Three Things You Want To Do Before You Die:

1) Read every George Herriman "Krazy Kat" strip ever drawn
2) Take up art again and make something good
3) Take up fiction writing again and finish some goddamn thing

Three Names You Go By:

1) Moss
2) Dirt
3) STD

Three Physical Things You Like About Yourself:

1) Neckbeard! (Kyle Orton, woot!)
2) That one crazy eyebrow hair that grows about an inch a day
3) Third nipple

Three Parts Of Your Heritage:

1) English coal miners
2) Pennsylvania coal miners
3) South Dakota farmers

Three Things That Scare You:

1) Sarah Palin
2) Unemployment
3) Success

Three Of Your Everyday Essentials:

1) Beer
2) College/indie radio
3) Comix

Three Things You Are Wearing Right Now:

1) Captain Hand t-shirt
2) Gray jeans I found $12 in the pocket of this morning
3) Eyeglasses the cute little redheaded optician helped me pick

Three Of Your Favorite Bands/Musical Artists:

1) Cheap Trick
2) Ian Dury (with or without The Blockheads)
3) Charles Mingus

Three Of Your Favorite Songs (at the moment anyway):

1) M.I.A. - Paper Planes



2) Diesel - Sausalito Summernight



3) The Kings - This Beat Goes On/Switchin' To Glide



Three Things You Want In A Relationship:

1) Someone to eat cheese with
2) No Republicans
3) Must love White Sox

Two Truths And A Lie (in no particular order):

1) Chicks dig me because I rarely wear underwear
2) If I kill all the golfers, they're gonna lock me up and throw away the key
3) I know a lot of Bill Murray movie quotes

Three Things You Want To Do Really Badly Right Now:

1) Bong hits
2) Tina Fey
3) Pee

Three Careers You're Considering/You've Considered:

1) Tavern owner
2) Lighthouse keeper
3) Librarian

Three Places You Want To Go On Vacation:

1) The Painted Desert
2) Coconino County
3) Back to the Big Island, Hawaii

Three Pet Names You Like:

1) Toots
2) Cholly
3) Pally

Three Ways That You Are Stereotypically A Girl:

1) My tits hurt when I drive on bumpy roads
2) I want you to use utensils and a napkin when I make you dinner
3) I want to tell you about my day long time, GI Joe

Three Ways That You Are Stereotypically A Boy:

1) Total slob
2) Loves the baseballs
3) Yes, I like boobs a lot; also, I like big butts and I cannot lie

"Fire Joe Morgan," RIP

Bummer. The folks over at "Fire Joe Morgan" have called it quits. They don't have time anymore, work and family, etc. and so forth. Oh well ... it was hilarious while it lasted. And it opens the door for me to provide their "making fun of bad sports writing and broadcasting" services, which I fully intend to do, with the spirit of ineptitude and half-assedness my dozen of regular readers have come to expect over the last 507 posts (and counting). That's right, folks, CBRAT is going nowhere. Fast!

Hot Stove News: Calculating the Square Root by Performing Logarithmic Functions, While Multiplying Percentages Exponentially by Division Edition

As anyone who cares has no doubt already heard, the Sox dealt Nick "Swishy Knickers" Swisher today to the Yankees for some dudes no one has ever heard of. Chicagoland peroxide dealers are on 24-hour suicide watch. I'm not sure what the deal does for the Sox, exactly, but they didn't really have anyplace to put "Dirty Thirty," and, frankly, they already have more than enough joker-jester-trickster representation from Toby "If It's Funny Once It Must Be a Hundred Times as Funny the Hundredth Time" Hall.

And, in other non-exclusive news, the (for my tastes, much too gradual) purging of local professional athletes with girls' names continues, with the Cubs finally cutting loose Kerry "Carrie White" Wood after eleventy thousand dozen years of disappointment. And they acquired relief pitcher Kevin "I Don't Have Any Jokes for This Guy Yet" Gregg from the Miami Swordfish, who will probably close if Carlos "Nice Marmot" Marmol continues to succumb to, in his native tongue, "dee shpilkes" every time he's asked to play that role.

That's it for now. Stay tuned for more hot "Hot Stove on Hot Stove" action, and watch for our soon-to-be-released no-holds-barred DVD, "Hot Stoves Gone Wild" -- you won't believe what these stoves will do for the camera! Hot!

"If I was P.F. Sloan, I'd say the Dow Jones can suck my bone, yeah!"

YouTube videos!

The "Republicans, one and all:
their tallywhackers are mighty small" Set

Mojo Nixon & Skid Roper - I Hate Banks



P.F. Sloan - Eve of Destruction



DEVO - Secret Agent Man



The Fugs - Crystal Liaison



The Holy Modal Rounders - Boobs A Lot



Dr. Hook & The Medicine Show - At The Freakers Ball



Jimmy Carl Black - Lonesome Cowboy Bert (from "200 Motels," feat. Phlorescent Leech & Eddie and various other Mothers)

Meanwhile, in the land of faulty analogies ...

Herein, the President of the United States is compared to a washed up, mulleted, pop-country one-hit-wonder:

Miley's dad wants Obama girls to help hype 'Hannah'

So many ironies in the following paragraph that it defies smartass remarking:

"They are kind of like me before I started my own career," the "Hannah" star said. "You are kind of put in it because their dad and because of my dad so I would want it to be normal and they could come hang out on the set with normal girls. I think that would be fun for them."

Here Now at This Time, in This Location: Global World Premiere on an International Basis of Uncle Tiny Tim's Rock Futon

Yesterday ... Somewhere deep below the Jersey swamps, in the subterranean HQ of SMonkey Enterprises (parent company of CBRAT), our Northeastern USA Vice President, One O Ball, marked the passage of another year on Earth, and then he shrugged. Another birthday in paradise, he said to no one in particular.

Today ... He woke up and made this -- the world premiere pilot number one episode of "Uncle Tiny Tim's Rock Futon" (featuring Super Karaoke Fun Time Band's pahfahmance of "American Band") -- which we now embed without further anything:

[Never mind -- apparently this video has been inadvertently deleted by its maker. Nothing to see here. Scroll down, folks.]



And there's more! In the form of this! Which consists of Black Stooges whomping on "I Wanna Be Your Dog"! Don't watch too closely or else you might not miss several cameos from a certain blogger.



Meanwhile ... we've been busy, too, in Chicago, at CBRAT Central Nerve Center. Among other things today, we installed a new electronic dart board, a new analog scratching post, and a new shower curtain, here being in the same room with mascots of the blog, Piper and Mingus.



That is all.

Wait -- one more thing. Get well, Neckbeard. Get well quick. We can't stand Sexy Rexy. From one (small "n") neckbeard to another (big "N") Neckbeard. Seriously. Get back in there. Walk it off! Rub some dirt on it! BEAR DOWN!!!

OK, now that's all. Back to the dart mines for me.

That was a short honeymoon

The incoming administration's chief of staff addresses "progressive" Democrats, letting them know, in no uncertain terms, what they can expect:



If you feel like dancing, here's this version. Same message, bouncier beat:



And, in case you took some acid ... well, you probably don't need to watch this. But the rest of us can watch it, so as to better understand your reality:

Sox Fan in the (White) House

As his first act upon taking office, I would like President Obama to issue an executive order declaring that the shortened form "Sox" refers to, and only to, the WHITE Sox, and not the Red Sox. Henceforth and forever after. Amen.

The Indian of the Group: RIP

Well, doggone it, this thing is turning into DeathBlog: 2008 lately. Maybe if Killy McGee up there would take a break, I could write about something else. Or ... maybe if I wrote about something else, Killy McGee would take a break up there. Kind of an awesome responsibility, come to think of it. But I digress.

Just found out today that original Mothers of Invention drummer Jimmy Carl Black (trademark quote: "I'm Jimmy Carl Black, and I'm the Indian of the group") died on November 1. He was a funny guy. I always liked him. But he says not to be sad, so, OK. I won't.

Here's a clip of Jimmy with Dr. Eugene Chadbourne performing Captain Beefheart's "Dropout Boogie" in Tokyo on June 6.



Also passing away on November 1 -- exotica music goddess, otherworldly Peruvian soprano Yma Sumac. Mang ... I didn't even know she was still alive. I used to enjoy getting baked and listening to her back in my "exotica" phase, in the early 1990s. Les Baxter, Martin Denny, Arthur Lyman, Esquivel ... fantastic stuff. Here's a taste. If you like it, I suggest YouTube mining a little bit. Totally worth it, baked or not.

You can't change time, man ... time changes you

At some point over the weekend, my age changed to a prime number. Which is apparently meaningful to some people I know, prime number ages, although I don't know why. Also, through no action or intention of my own, this morning I found myself awake an hour earlier than my clocks said it was, which just means that I have too much time to kill before wasting the afternoon watching the Bears game. Damn you, time! You suck! Who don't think so?

Who's up for a few videos?

I have the following itinerary in mind. Kind of a belated Halloween line-up. Bruce Springsteen has a new song, in which he appears to be channeling Captain Beefheart, minus most of the insanity. A clip from a French TV show from 1980 will illustrate what I mean. And, wrapping it up, a cover. OK, here we go.



Bruce Springsteen - A Night With The Jersey Devil



Captain Beefheart and His Magic Band - Big Eyed Beans from Venus



GUGUG - Grow Fins (Melodica Version)

Take it easy, but take it

Of course I knew Studs Terkel had to die someday ... but I still kind of thought he never would. I'm not going to try to out-obit the world or anything, but I will say that Studs always made me grateful that my life-span overlapped his. He was a great historian, unparalleled broadcaster, and the essential Uptown citizen, but more than anything else, his spirit was amazingly infectious. I only saw him in person one time -- speaking at Bughouse Square five or six years ago -- but it was a great thrill, I say completely without irony. I'll miss him, but he will continue to be a big influence on how I try to navigate this crazy world.

Now baseball is over again.Long ... take place ... baseball

Ahem.

Congratulations to the Philadelphia Diminutive Nicknames for winning the "World" Series.

Now here's a few YouTube videos.

First, here's one to describe my feelings about the 2008 Series in general:



Blondie - Rip Her to Shreds

And now here's a classic number by a fine musical artist from The City of Brotherly Love (and Racist Cheese Steak Vendors):



Todd Rundgren - You Cried Wolf

One from one of the best-known Philly Soul bands:



The O'Jays - For the Love of Money

More Philly Soul:



Teddy Pendergrass - Love T.K.O.

And lastest but not leastest, a band that brings to mind the following anecdote. Freshman year in high school, my "History of Western Thought" (honors history) teacher, Mr. "No Relation to William Jennings" Bryan was telling a story that ... as far as I can recall, had no point whatsoever. But it had something to do with what he considered to be the irrational price structure of pop culture ephemera, I guess. See, he was over by the Lakehurst Mall in Waukegan to get a birthday present for his son, who he always called, "The Kid," like he thought he was some kind of D-List Tribune columnist or something, like an incredibly impoverished man's lice's Eric Zorn. And he heads over to The Camelot there, the record store, cuz The Kid likes this pop group, "Oates and Hall." So, The Camelot's got two Oates and Hall cassette tapes on sales there, one for $8.99, and the other for $6.99. But -- get this -- they're BOTH Oates and Hall tapes. Which ... isn't that just irrational and totally nuts?

Anyway, as I was saying, lastest but not leastest, here's this:



Hall & Oates - Rich Girl

Where have all the rude ukulele boys gone? . . . and other ssstuff

Fourteen days have come and gone, and this afternoon Doctor The Vet took the staples out of Piper the cat's healed-up belly and removed the crazy cone from her head. The cat's head, I mean. If Doctor The Vet wore one of those things, I'm not so sure I'd trust her. But anyway ... the mood is predictably upbeat hereabouts this evening. Which calls for ... A little YouTube Video Juke Box action.



GUGUG - Blank Expression (Specials cover)



The Ethiopians - Train to Skaville



Toots & the Maytals - 54-46 Was My Number



Madness - Baggy Trousers



Junior Murvin - Police & Thieves



Leroy "Horsemouth" Wallace - Herb Vendor



Skafish - Disgracing the Family Name

Deceased But Not Decreased: Rudy Ray Moore

Best known for his epochal character, Dolemite, comedian, godfather of rap, and super genius, Rudy Ray Moore has died at the age of 81.

If you don't know him, you should. There's a reasonably priced collection of his films available out there on DVD, so get to work. In the meantime, there's a recent interview at this site.

And for the audio-inclined, here's a recording of one of his most famous interpretations of an old, old story from African folklore, "The Signifying Monkey."



Rest in peace, Rudy Ray Moore, and don't take no shit from all them no business, insecure, rat soup eatin', junkyard motherfuckers in the afterlife, whatever it may be!

A Self-Rebuttal on the Subject of Noisy Fans

Earlier today, I disparaged southern sports fans for making repetitive noises in a cretinous and irritating manner. After some reflection, I realize I was unfair, and I'm going to issue a rebuttal to myself in the form of a single photograph:



So ... to all southern sports fans, as well as all union locals of the International Brotherhood of Cow Bell Bangers, I apologize. It's way worser up north.

We Need Less Cowbell

Now that the World Series matchup has been set, it's time to pick a dog. Which is easy -- I'm rooting for the Phillies, and not just because expansion teams sicken me. I want the Rays to lose, if only because of that goddamn cowbell bullshit at that shitty excuse for a stadium they play in down there. What is it about southern sports fans and irritating, repetitive noises? Oh yeah, I forgot. They're cretins. Unfortunately, I think the Rays are going to demolish the Phillies in straight sets. At least it will be brief.

A Belated Requiem

I should have posted this a while ago, when it would have been fresher, but it just occurred to me. Here's a repeat from 2006, the post titled "Not Quite a Sonnet." Even has an added dimension of faux-sense, with the "rays" reference in the fourth line. Heh heh. Oyyy.

-----


The Pale Hose doth break my heart
with errant bat and faulty throw
Still's better to have soared so much
that solar rays do melt one's wings
than crawl around like Cub or such
and dine on soil with lowly things
We flew so high that none can ken
how bittersweet the landing's splay
But when snows transfix The Cell athwart
and Farmio plays golf all day
we'll wait for spring's warm winds to blow
to start again this futile art
this game for boys played by rich men
who poot perfume each time they fart

Levi Stubbs, RIP

Levi Stubbs, lead vocalist for the Four Tops, has died at age 72.

In honor of Mr. Stubbs, here's a live rendition of my favorite Four Tops tune.



Bernadette

Democrat, Heal Thyself

So I just read an entry on a librul blog (which shall remain name- and link-less) bitching out Preznit Bush for signing, on Monday, that ridiculous intellectual property remedy-enhancement law that, among other things, doubles fines for selling knockoff (counterfeit) products and creates a cabinet-level "Copyright Tsar" post.

But if you look up the Congressional vote tallies, guess what? The fucker passed UNANIMOUSLY in the Senate, and 381 to 41 in the House. Only 22 of the "nays" were Democrats (and that group did not include my congress critter, Jan "Just Lost STDPM's Vote" Schakowsky).*

I despise G-Dub as much as the rest of the 77% of the population who can't stand him, but he had a LOT of help with this one. And he's had a lot of help with pretty much every piece of crappy legislation he's signed. Much of that help coming from The Donkey Party. Even after they took ostensible "control" in 2006.

Yeah, I know you're all too busy being terrified of a Palin/McCain administration, yadda yadda yadda, to pick on the Democrats. Not me. I admit I'm less scared of an Obama admin than the probable alternative, but on at least two big issues -- intellectual property law and foreign policy (the latter of which I won't get into right now) -- the GOP and the Jackassery might as well be the same party. So I intend to continue to bitch about Democrats when they piss me off. Which, I'm sure, will be early and often.

-----

*Dennis Kucinich voted "nay." Good old Dennis Kucinich.

Feline Update and Other Nuggets: Cat Slightly Happier, Owner Hanging in There

Waal, we outfitted the Piperoni with a more-comfy blue cloth cone, which she can use instead of the nasty plastic one, so long as she doesn't wrestle it off of her head. And she got the go-ahead from the vet for playing (as if she could be stopped), so here she is with her favorite toy.

In news of shameful personal weakness, the stress this week sort of caused to me to start smoking again. Bad human.

After all the excitement last night, I did manage to catch the end of the NL game. I'm not sure I care, but since I predicted a Phillies-Red Sox series back in early June, I have my prognosticatorial reputation at stake ... which, of course, is worth exactly nothing.

Here's an item of note: Now that the baseball off-season has commenced, at least locally, my favorite Chicago sports web comic strip artist has shifted back to festivities over by Smells Like Mascot. Leaves falling off the trees, unreasonable hopes for the Bears burgeoning, and Smells Like Mascot up and running. Yeah, it's fall.

And while I'm recommending stuff, if you haven't taken a look at the "Reel Geezers" movie reviews on YouTube, they're worth checking out. I won't go too deep into background, because you can find that out easily if you want, but the dude geezer, Lorenzo, wrote for the 1960s "Batman" TV series, so that might be some enticement. Anyway, to easify it for you, here's the latest installment, which I particularly enjoy. It's about political movies, and two excellent highlights include bashing of Frank Capra by Lorenzo and discussion of one of my all-time favorite flicks, "A Face in the Crowd," starring Andy Griffith.

Bad Cat Craziness

Stressful week here at CBRAT HQ. "Rowdy Roddy" Piper the kitten has had a hard time with her incision from getting spayed last week, and has opened herself up a couple times. I thought she was over the worst of it, but tonight she busted herself again and started bleeding, so I ran her over to the emergency vet over by Clybourn and Belmont. They said she was healing inside OK but the outer skin layer was still not closing all the way, so they put in some staples and fitted her with one of those dreaded head cones. She is one miserable kitty cat at the moment, and having a ridiculous time trying to navigate around with that thing on. And her brother Mingus is hella confused. And I am exhausted.

And that's all she wrote ... but I think she's just pausing to put more toner in the printer

Thus ends the 2008 baseball season in Chicago.

In less than a month, the 2008 election season in the USA will also end ... I hope to God. (Or, in lieu of belief in God by me, a reasonable facsimile thereof -- such as, my big red lamp. Make it stop, Big Red Lamp! I beseech thee!)

Shortly after that, the despised and dreaded ... ugh ... holiday season. Which, painful as it is, will end on January 1. Which is not really all that far away.

And a little over a month after that ... Spring Training 2009 begins. Why, it might as well be tomorrow.

In the words of Frank Zappa, the torture never stops.

POSTSCRIPT: Yeah, I'm probably going to watch the rest of the playoff seriesesez, because I almost always do. And, to some surprise, I am finding that I dislike the Angels even more than the Red Sox, which I couldn't have guessed prior to about five minutes ago, when I caught myself hoping the Carmines will finish them off tonight. I was under the impression that the Red Sox were my least favorite team (they bug me even more than the Yankees -- at least since 2004). I must be favoring them because I predicted in early June that they'd be facing the Phillies in the World Series. And getting a prediction right is more important than maintaining a good hate. Although if that is the World Series match-up, it's going to be awfully difficult to pick a team to root for. It'll be like some kind of giant Obnoxious-Off.

If I were a Cubs fan, I would blame Eddie Vedder

If this doesn't stop the City of Chicago from holding downtown rallies after the Cubs clinch the division (that is, if they ever do again -- and I hereby predict it will be a few years before they do), nothing will. I can understand why they would want to celebrate before having actually won anything -- because otherwise they might assuredly, absolutely, inevitably will never get to celebrate at all. But it's just bad form.

Also, Lou Piniella is an idiot for more reasons than can be summarized here, even in bulleted-list format, but he's an especially idiotic idiot for allowing the team to get cold after the clinch. That never pays off.

Or maybe Of course they were doomed anyway. Alfonso Soriano's entire career history is marked by post-seasons in which he was in dire need of the Heimlich Maneuver. But then I can't stand him even when he's playing well.

Dempster panicked, the infield wet their pinstripes, A-Ram looked even more than usual like he was about to cry at any second (which I didn't think possible), and Fukudome ... makes me really glad I'm not a Cubs fan.

But seriously, so does that Eddie Vedder song. That song is twelve kinds of shit on a stick, deep-fried, coated in sprinkles, dipped in tinkle, and served up with a puke-bag full of awful.

Into the Valley of Death rode the 25-man playoff roster ...

Is it looking good?

No.

Are we crying about it?

No!

Screw disappointment and frustration. Let's rock.



Stiff Little Fingers - Alternative Ulster



Minutemen - Little Man With a Gun in His Hand


Tar - Goethe



Red Aunts - Roller Derby Queen



Sensational Alex Harvey Band - Runaway



Naked City - Victims of Torture



TheWrathofZod - Ka Mate (Haka)

That will teach them to get born with dirty parts

So I dropped off the kitty kats, Piper and Mingus, over by the animal hospital this morning for their wiggly-bit fix-jobs and New World Order homeland security chip implants. While they're Out of the Office, I'm going to take advantage of the lack of tornadic feline maelstromity to straighten up a few things ... so that they can dismantle them again when they come home tomorrow.

In that connection, here, in no particular order and for no particular reason, is a list of paperback books Pipey and Mingey have knocked off of my cheap orange metal bookcase over the last few weeks, and that I haven't bothered to pick up until now:

• Nineteen Eighty-Four - George Orwell
• Our Gang - Philip Roth
• Radical Lawyers - Jonathan Black, editor
• My Secret Life - Anonymous
• Inside the Third Reich - Albert Speer
• Teenage Runaway - John Benton
• The Way of the Bull - Leo Buscaglia
• The Social Contract - Jean Jacques Rousseau
• Sincerely, Ronald Reagan - Helene von Damm, editor
• Babbitt - Sinclair Lewis
• Group Psychology and the Analysis of the Ego - Sigmund Freud
• War and Peace (abridged version) - Leo Tolstoy
• The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge - Carlos Castaneda
• Masters of Deceit - J. Edgar Hoover
• Myra Breckenridge - Gore Vidal
• Beyond Cloak and Dagger - Inside the CIA - Miles Copeland
  

Ooh, here it comes ... Wait, no, no, that's not what we ordered!

To all my fellow lefties who are rubbing your palms together like greedy monkeys and limbering up your eyeballs for viewing the drubbing of the century delivered to Sarah Palin in the VP debate ... be careful. Learn something from the hapless Cubs fans.

You're setting yourselves up for a terrible shock. Joe Biden is Ryan Dempster. Hell, at times, Joe Biden is Neal Cotts. (I won't go so far as to say he's Bobby Howry. Hyperbole is hyperbole, but that would just be ridiculous.)

At any rate, be prepared for the possibility that you will wake up tomorrow extremely depressed and dejected.

Game 163 Coming Up

Oy gevalt! I can hardly wait. That exclamation is in honor of Steve Stone, who had to leave the radio booth around the midpoint of yesterday's game against the Tigers due to the sounding of the shofar. So, presumably, Chris Rongey will be subbing for him tonight, which is suboptimal, but it will still be better than listening to the audio on TBS ... ugh.

I hope the Sox win, of course, just because -- but also because I hope I haven't heard the last of Stone and Farmer on AM 670. They made a great team this season. Stone will do fine alongside Hawk on TV, and DJ or whoever else replaces Stone on the radio will be all right, I'm sure, but it won't be the same great combo as The Pony and Farmio.

OK. About an hour to go. Get yer black threads on and let's win it.

UPDATE: 6:30 pm: My bad. I guess it's past sundown, so the holiday obligations are over. Anyway, Stoney is on the air. Which starts things off right, from my perspective.

UPDATE: 9:00 pm: That was an awesome catch by Brian Anderson. Wowie wow wow. Onward to Tampa.

Meanwhile, Elsewhere in the Blargasso Sea

Hey, here's some unexpected news that is quite decent, I must say. Back-in-the-day ("day" in this case meaning late '90s) acquaintance of the blogger Michael "Professor of Dangeral Studies" Bérubé has resumed blogging at his blog. And he's as blabby as ever.

No word on a potential Nastybake reunion, although I gather that the non-Bérubé members of that band are scattered at various arctic research stations. But we can dream.

Also Off Topic: Curtain Closing, Too, as You No Doubt Have Heard, on The House That Stein Wrecked

And my nominee for "Number One Yankee Stadium Moment" is the following, which is only better for being fictional.

It's the Great Smoke-Off immortalized by Shel Silverstein (born in Chicago, September 25, 1930 ... and I'm remedying things by noting that anniversary almost two days late, yes) between Pearley Sweetcake (D-California) and The Calistoga Kid (D-New York).

Here's a verbal taste. Then the video embedation.

See the dealers and their ladies
Wearing turquoise lace and leather
See the narcos and the closet smokers
Puffin all together
From the teenies who smoke legal
To the ones who've done some time
To the old man who smoked reefer
Back before it was a crime

And the grand old house that Ruth built
Is filled with the smoke and cries
Of fifty thousand screaming heads
All stoned out of their minds
And they play the national anthem
And the crowd lets out a roar
As the spotlight hits The Kid and Pearl
Ready for their smokin' war

Shel Silverstein - The Great Smoke Off

Off Topic: Curtain Soon to Close on Shea Stadium; Nobody Cares

OK, I can't help but razz this a little bit -- I just read over on the Mets' website that fans have voted Bill Buckner's error in the 1986 World Series as the "Number One Shea Stadium Moment," or words to that effect. I can't argue against that being a huge baseball event, and very memorable ... but isn't it kind of weird that the biggest thing to happen for Mets fans at their home park was an error by an opposing player? Wouldn't you rather have it be something great that, like, a Met did there?

Apparently I was a little bit too level-headed and kind last night

OK, now I gotta say that the White Sox don't just need a new bullpen.

They also need new starters.

Kansas City is beating Minnesota at this moment, which means the agony could be prolonged for another day.

But I'm going to just go ahead and declare this season ovuh.

I'd like to say I'm happy the Sox did better than I expected them to do this season.

But I'd be lying.*

Watch for a new "Cubs" look for this blog soon. As in, blue background, and new song lyrics in the sidebar, along the lines of

We love our favorite team
They're the Chicago Cubbies
We love teddily bearses
And cuddly things
And pissing on lawns again and again
Like drunken Teletubbies
And centuries devoid
Of World Series rings

It's a work in progress.

---

* Do you dig my use of the Rick Telander "paragraph break after every short declarative sentence" technique?

I think I've mastered it.

Don't you?

Suspension of the State of Non-Hiatus

OK, you know what? Someone send me a note when the White Sox get a fucking bullpen. Until then, they're dead to me.

POSTSCRIPT: One O. Ball sez the following -- a slightly bitter and alcohol-influenced email from me to him late last night -- would have made a much better post. And I think he's right.

Washington Mutual fails tonight. Which, although it was pretty much expected for a while, is the biggest bank failure in U fucking S his fucking tory.

So what does the Trib website have up for its top story? Yep, of course. White Sox swept by Twins and blow first place. Almost certainly to miss the playoffs.

I have two responses. Fuck you Tribune. And fuck you to hell White Sox. Fuck you with the fuck power of a thousand fuck suns.

They desperately needed to improve the relief pitching. So what did they do? Sure. Sign Ken Griffey Jr. An aging, way way over the hill power hitter who can't hardly hit a ball out of the infield anymore at his advanced age of approximately 974 (ok, 38, which is the same thing, in baseball years).

The White Sox relief pitching staff has blown more games this year than Andy Dick has blown dicks. Which isn't even possible, because Andy Dick has blown even more dicks than the number of people who have been born since the dawn of time ... but somehow it is true anyway.

Therefore, they can gnaw upon that which pees in my toilet. Gnaw and ruminate, you cow-like retarded fuckers. I take shits into the mouths of your unborn children. And you don't even want to know what I do to your already born ones.

Bah. Everyone can eat shit and get cancer. I'm going to bed.

Don't stop now -- this joke has only started getting funny, and it has infinite potential

Bloomberg say:

Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson's $700 billion plan to buy devalued assets from financial companies is "a joke" because it doesn't go far enough to calm markets, said Kenichi Ohmae, president of Business Breakthrough Inc.

Ohmae, nicknamed "Mr. Strategy" during his 23 years as a McKinsey & Co. partner, called for a $5 trillion "international facility" to be made available to financial institutions.

These finance boys ... they need to stop thinking small. As Burnham said, "Little boondoggles lack the monkeys to make barrels fun again and thus suck boneless chicken dicks." Or ... something like that.

Anyway ... Why not eleventy trillion? Twelvety ann-jillian? Blurve-blivvity squabunderglassinabalsamicreductionillion? These numbers are completely meaningless anyway. Why not just say we'll need $Universe?

Infinity money! Plus one!

In the parlance of our times

I am suspending this blog until Congress gives me $700 billion.

The banks! The banks! The banks are on fire!

We don't need no water!

Let the motherfuckers burn!

A brief reflection on late-season baseball in Chicago 2008

So the Cubs have clinched the NL Central Division, and the Sox are still 2.5 games up in first place in the AL Central, so there's a good chance that both clubs will be in the playoffs, which hasn't happened since, I think, 1906, which was the year they faced off in the World Series (Sox won). Not that I think that will happen this year, but it's a lot of fun to have this much "meaningful" baseball this late in the year.

Especially during late September, baseball starts to feel like hanging onto summer for dear life ... fingernails ... toenails ... teeth. The longer baseball lasts, the longer summer lasts.

Which is why I'm always glad when either team makes the playoffs (in my lifetime, that's 1983, 1984, 1989, 1993, 1998, 2000, 2003, 2005, 2007, and 2008), but, both ... that's like double reprieve. That's like, summer hasn't ended at all. Both teams in town are still playing.

Feels almost like June.

In the future, far awayWe will live in outer spaceThere will be a cure for cancerThere will be one race

And the North Siders come one step closer to the unthinkable.



The Cleaning Ladys - When the Cubs Win the World Series: Punk Gospel Rendition

Friday Nite Veddeos: Not Dedicated to Ike the Hurricane Edition

No baseball no damn where tonight.

Man, did Roger Bossard look pissed off earlier tonight or what? And Ozzie in his stupid kelly green "Halfway to St. Pat's Day" or whatever hat. That's a hella snazzy red tarp they got now, though. I gotta admit.

And, as the Cubs fans out there know, Houston is soon to be inundated by some form of cyclonic vicissitude, and I'm tempted to dig for a good YouTube version of Jimmy Webb's "Galveston" and post it up, but it seems too obvious.

So, instead, here's some veddeos that aren't intrinsically related to anything, with parentheticals describing the disparate categories they fall into.



Slade - Look Wot You Dun (category: favorite Slade song of the moment)



M.I.A. - Paper Planes (category: favorite college radio hit of 2008)



Gugug - Outdoor Miner (Wire cover) (category: Gugug)



Harry Nilsson - One (category: Nilsson: the best)



Blondie - Union City Blue (category: States: New Jersey)



Bongwater - Nick Cave Dolls (category: nostalgia for the year 1990, which was a pretty good year)



Big Black - The Power of Independent Trucking (category: '80s)

Driving and Rocking: Report from the Commute

Yesterday morning on the Edens, on the way to work up above the Arctic Circle, I heard the following one-two combo on the college radio, in the following order, over by dere. I'm still enjoying it. I love to listen to Brian Eno rock songs when I'm driving fast. And Bauhaus kicks ass here, too.



Bauhaus - Third Uncle (Eno cover)



Brian Eno - King's Lead Hat

Bill Meléndez, RIP

Somehow I missed it until today, but Peanuts animator José Cuauhtemoc "Bill" Meléndez died last Tuesday at the age of 91. The Peanuts specials often get slagged for being low-rez, jumpy pieces of work, but I think Melendez did a great job of interpreting the comic strip. It certainly would have been incongruous -- if not downright jarring -- if they had been lush, 3D, "uncanny valley"-transgressing Disneystraganzas. Also, TV was TV. Budgets were budgets. The classic Peanuts specials were great, and I won't tolerate contentions to the contrary!

OK, so maybe the Saturday morning cartoon shows weren't quite as good, but it's still hilarious in Portuguese:



"ISN'T THERE ANYONE WHO KNOWS WHAT CARNIVAL IS ALL ABOUT?!"

*sigh*

So long, Bill. Thanks for everything.

Because Exene Cervenka is the antidote to Sarah Palin ...

Because she is.



X - Under The Big Black Sun



X - Devil Doll



X - We're Desperate (Get Used To It)

What's this noise I hear about some kind of "foot" ... "ball"? Is that some kind of Republican stunt?

Fall is a mixed bag for me. For the most part, I love it. But it has a couple of drawbacks. For one thing, the leaves fall off the trees (coincidence? I think not!), which is a drag. For another thing -- the one-two punch of college and professional football seasons starting.

My one-word assessment of football: Ecch.

OK, that's only recognized as a word by Mad magazine's editorial style manual. And I watch more than my share of football every fall and winter. Actually, one game -- one play, even -- is too much, but I watch a lot more than that. I get bored after baseball season ends, and Sunday afternoons in the winters here are very conducive to ingesting a few alcohols and being bored to death by a game that should be called "Pause Ball." People say baseball is slow and dull -- people who are WRONG, that is -- but watching football is like watching C-SPAN. Minus the action.

The average football play consists of 11 gigantic armored freaks of nature running about one-and-a-half feet into 11 other gigantic armored freaks and then falling down. Then they all get up and gather together in New Agey discussion circles and talk about it for approximately two days. Then they line up and collide into each other again. Sometimes the ball gets thrown, and once in a while, somebody catches it. But then some guy dressed like a convict sticks his head in a contraption that looks like one of Matthew Brady's original Civil War cameras and they have a Constitutional Convention to decide whether the receiver's foot touched a line or didn't touch a line, or whether his socks match, or don't match, or whether the marching band's drummer was off-beat, or just too hip for the room ... etc.

And every year they change the fucking rules. Although the rules that get changed usually are rules I didn't know existed anyway -- because there appear to be about 700 million rules in football, especially pro football. The NFL rule book must be thicker than the Internal Revenue Code and all the tax regulations put together. So when they enact a new one that says something like,

"A tackler who tackles the quarterback on his mother's birthday must send the quarterback's mother a nice birthday card -- and not one of those 'funny' ones. It must be one of those mushy ones that will make the quarterback's mother cry with happiness, so as to forget the fact that her Number One Son has just been pummeled into the turf with the force of the Tunguska Explosion,"

you can't hardly notice the difference, I guess.

So ... anyway ... I'm told that we have our own professional football team in Chicago. OK, I guess I knew that, since my hometown was (and is) totally riddled with players from that team, temporarily living there, for some damn reason. Pro football players can't afford to live in Lake Forest? Or Highland Park? Or even Libertyville, or some other decent Lake County village? Maybe some of them do, but Tank Johnson used to live in my old neighborhood, and Fridge Perry used to live in a crummy aluminum-sided cookie-cutter box in a very mundane subdivision in Mundelein, so ...

But I digress. The fact is that I'm not much of a Bears fan. When I used to like football -- in the late '70s -- I was a Steelers fan. The Bears were bad. I'd watch them because they were local, but they sucked. Then they were good for a short while, but managed to be completely irritating the whole time -- what with the Super Bowl Shuffle, that imbecile Coach Ditka, etc. -- and then they sucked again. Somehow they ended up in the Super Bowl a few seasons ago, but that was just the kind of fluke that makes me hate football even more.

So I'm no Bears fan. But if you're interested in the semi-comedic rantings of someone who kind of is a Bears fan -- check out this new tour de farce by puppet-master Des and his cast of incomprehensible characters -- Captain Silas Redbeard's Bears Preview. You won't get it, per se, but it might weird out your brain in a manner that you can do something positive with, karmically. That's up to you.

And, in the general jugular vein of football comedy, here's a timeless classic that everyone knows, but that is worth a re-listen:



Andy Griffith - What It Was, Was Football

Blogpourri: Some bad news, some more bad news, and some videos

First of all, let me be the latest (but far from the first) to opine that Firefox 3 stinks like Charles Bukowski's abscessed taint. Slow fucking crash-prone resource-gobbling swirly loaf of soft-serv corn-studded fecal matter of a browser. OK, that's a little overboard. It has some nice features, but it is a slow memory-chomper. Granted, I'm using XP on an old machine, but fuck that. Fuck that excuse. Fuck it. Fuck it till it chafes and politely asks you to stop, then freezes up and mutherfucking dies.

Can you tell that I'm trying to quit smoking again? Yeah, I'm up to 72 hours now. Not quite past the hair-trigger rage phase as of yet.

Second -- god damn it. Just when I was allowing myself to feel good for a second about Our Favorite Ball Club, Carlos Quentin Tarantino-Crisp apparently injures himself via spazmattack tantrum, seemingly taking himself out of the season. He might still win MVP, only this "MVP" will stand for "Most Velvety Pussy." Oh man, that was totally uncalled for. I'm sorry. Especially since as of right now, the White Sox are beating the Angels 5 7 to nothing. Woulda been nice if they coulda done that at the only game I managed to get to this season -- at which the Angels beat them 3 to zero -- but, hey, you can't have everything. Or, in my case, anything.

Second and a half -- in slightly hilarious news, the Cubs are getting their panties raided and handed back to them in knots by the mighty Cincinnati Reds tonight. Not to exhibit ill-will toward my fellow Chicagoans, but -- HAH!!!!

And now, the veedeos. For no reason at all, I'm in the mood for some loud testosteronated semi-obscure '70s guitar rock crap. So here's a few of those. Rock till you can't stand it (or those nearby can't stand you, whichever comes first).



Captain Beyond - Dancing Madly Backwards (On a Sea of Air)




Bloodrock - Gotta Find a Way



Flower Travellin' Band - 8mm footage


OK, that should do it for now.

Putting aside the fact that Palin kind of looks like Stacy Peterson, if she had been allowed to exist for another 20 or so years ...

... McCain's choice for sidekick certainly gets beaucoup Novelty Points. Not that "things" were boring, veez ah veeeee this election campaign (emphasis on the "pain"), but they could get much more interesting soon. And by "interesting," I mean "slapstickutacular."

I predict that at the veep debate, Joe Biden bites his palm like Lenny and Squiggy when Sarah Palin takes the podium. OK, maybe that won't happen, but it's a sure bet that some dude, on either or both sides of the contest, is going to say something inappropriate about her purported hotness. If it's a Republican, he'll recover with the Nigel Tufnel retort, "What's wrong with being sexy?" If it's a Democrat, he'll throw himself under a bus -- literally.

I bet some GOP attack ads get aired with Obama saying "Sweetie" a thousand times in some kind of Negativland-esque tape-loop ("Sweetie. SweetieSweetSweetie. SwSwSwSwSweetie. SweeSweetSweetie. SweetieSweetieSweetieSweeSweeSweeSwee- SweeSweeSweeSweeSweeSwee. Christianity is stupid! Communism is Sweetie!"). If that hasn't happened already.

There's about a 20% chance that McCain will call Palin "a fine piece of tail," which will be good for a laugh -- but I bet he'd get away with it, and Palin will get credit from the press for being a "good sport," unlike those sourpussed feminazis in the Donkey Party. I also predict that by Nov. 4, the term "hockey mom" is going to induce projectile vomiting in me. Actually, we can revise that date to Sept. 4.

Regardless of what happens, it's sure going to be strange to have an election without any Southerner on either ticket. When's the last time that happened? And Alaska is about as far from Dixie as you can get without actually leaving the atmosphere.

Which raises the question -- if Cokie Roberts so insistently and persistently believes that Hawaii is an "exotic" locale, what about Alaska? Sure, it's technically on the same continent as America, but it's closer to Russia (i.e., zero miles, if you count the maritime border) than the contiguous United States. RUSSIA!!! They even have Orthodox churches in Alaska, with onion domes and everything. Hell, Alaska used to be Russia. There are still Russian-language documents in state legal archives. So, I wonder, what's Comrade Palin's viewpoint on South Ossetia?

ILL-ADVISED POSTSCRIPT: I've been tempted to make a "Dead Parrot Sketch" joke, by the way, but I'm not sure I'd want to do that in a public forum. I don't need to dork myself up even further, and Monty Python is way, way up there in terms of sheer dork quotient. (Although I guess I just did. Actually, the truth is, I couldn't think of a good one.)

So, in lieu of that, how about this?

Ohhh, she's a lumberjack, and she's OK!
She sleeps all night and gives birth all day!

Cuz ... see ... she's got so many kids. So ... many ... kids. OK ... maybe not.

POST-POSTSCRIPT: Allegedly, Palin returned to work the day after giving birth to her daughter, Piper. Well, there's some traditional Waltons family values for you. But I don't mention it because of that. I mention it to dispel any notions that I am biased in favor of Palin because I have a kittie cat named Piper. Any and all resemblances between Piper Palin and Piper Moss are purely coincidental. Although I didn't take any time off work when I acquired her, either. But then I didn't extrude her from the base of my torso ... so ... again, not comparable, I guess.

Mariotti Quits, Swisher Searches in Vain for Unaltered Hair to Wacky-Up in Celebration

I know it's been a while since I've written anything about the White Sox (or anything about anything, but in my defense, summer has never been a productive season for me, creatively), but I'm trying to be teh funnay hyah, and it's hard for me to write jokes smartass remarks when things are going well. I mean, Nick "Swishy Knickers" Swisher has suddenly become some kind of home-run hitting guy, Paulie seems to be shaping up, Crede is back (his back got better about a week back, thanks very much, try the veal), and Carlos Quentin and Alexei Ramirez continue to be ... awesomely awesome. The hosers are a game and a half up in first place, as of this writing, and ... until a few seconds ago, the Mariners had a two-run lead over the Twins. Damn, you, Twins! Identical upper-Midwest flies in my baseball ointment! But still, it's kind of hard to mock the White Sox right now. Even Juan Uribe.

And now Ozzie Guillen gets a nice Chreestmoose present in August: Jay Mariotti is leaving the Sun-Times "to pursue other opportunities." Yeah, I'll leave it unspeculated at this time what those "opportunities" could be.

Obama '08: Making the Politics of Failure Work Again (in a Changed Yet Believable Manner)

I don't think the Democrats know how to fight anymore. Apparently that twisted mutant Carville was the only guy who could. Anyway, today they're hammering McCain on the "I don't remember how many houses I own" thing, and I'm not sure what they're going to get out of that. What's the message, that McCain is filthy rich? That's not a negative -- people in this country fucking LOVE rich people and identify the hell with them. If they didn't, they'd never watch football or baseball.

If they're trying to play the "elitist" card, they're failing. Being rich doesn't make you "elitist," in the parlance of the conventional punditry -- eating arugula does. Being able to read and spell at a 9th grade level does. Knowing that Pakistan does not share a border with Iraq does.

I think that when Biff Nascar and Britney Hatesgays hear that McCain has so many houses that he's lost track of them, they're just going to react by saying, "Hot damn, that guy's good! I wish I could get me some a them there houses! And a new couch for every front porch! And I will, too -- soon as I win the lot'ry! Pick Four! Easy Money! Superball! Yee hah! I love Nascar! I hate gays! McCain's got more houses than a Monopoly game! I love being a Republican!"

Staycation, all I ever wanted ... staycation, had to not get away ...

Long time no post, but I've been on staycation this past week, and staycationing just did not include blogging, until now.

Some people seem to enjoy taking on extra jobs during their time off regular work, whether for the money or the fun of it. I used to work with a guy who likes to go pretend he's a trolley conductor during his time off work. But I won't comment further on that.

I'm not interested in taking on a temp job for money, but sometimes I think it'd be fun to find a little fantasy gig to get away to from time to time -- and then to get away from after a very finite span.

In fact, every summer I find myself wishing, every so often, I could spend a day at the old golf course again, cutting grass, changing holes, chasing gophers -- you know, greenskeeping. I know if I tried to do that job again I'd probably croak -- I'm old, I'm way out of shape, I have bad feet, I'm lazy as fuck, and nowadays I'm fat and can't handle the hot weather very well -- but it's fun to pretend.

So here's my idea (patent pending): Fantasy greenskeeper camp. You show up, some sunburned jerk wearing Frye boots and camo pants yells at you for being late, throws a rake at you, and then you go have a bloody mary at the 19th Hole. If you feel like it, you can rake some sand, too. Or drive some gnarly equipment around for a while, maybe a front-end loader or one of those smooth greens mowers with the zero turning radius and hydraulic everythings. Or you can just hide behind the bushes along the Number Five fairway and smoke a jay, no big deal.

Now, I know there are a few problems with the idea. Commercial viability of the enterprise, business-wise, might be one of them. And most of your demand may well come from "Caddyshack" fans who have a real skewed idea of the greenskeeping discipline. Bill Murray's character, Carl Spackler, is probably the image most people have of greenskeepers. Which is a shame. I mean, we all love to laugh about "killing the golfers" and "total consciousness," but greenskeeping is not all featherbed bent and Cinderella story.

Which is why I'd like to introduce my candidate for Head Greenskeeper of the Stronger Than Dirt Pete Moss Fantasy Greenskeeper Camp (tentatively opening 2009) -- Greenskeeper Don. If you will indulge me by watching this short clip, I think you'll see why fantasy greenskeeping is going to be the craze of the Late Zeroes, and I think you'll all be lining up with your checkbooks to invest.



OK, that one is not entirely fair. Here's Greenskeeper Don in a more triumphant moment.



Kick ass, GD, that's some fine turfgrass!

And to really seal the deal, here's just one more, in case you thought the life of a greenskeeper lacked drama. Lemme tell you, when those cute little buggers grow up, they could bite your leg clean off. (Bonus greenskeeper porn: Check out the tantalizing glimpse of that greens mower ... looks like an old Toro. Anyway, charp chariot, ese.)

White Sox Fail to Acquire Kathy Griffin ...

[insert Photoshopped image of Kathy Griffin wearing Sox uniform and blaming string of GIDPs on Jerry Seinfeld here*]

... Settle for Ken Griffey instead. Junior.

Yeah, I know that was last week's news. But you might have missed the total evisceration of the Trib's Mike Downey by Fire Joe Morgan's Ken "Some Call Me Mose" Tremendous. Which is also from last week (Friday), but ... we move slow in humid weather here at CBRAT World HQ. Although I'm not sure if complete static refusal to budge is "movement," technically. Too hot to argue. Throw me the idol, I throw you the whip. Anyway, maybe it's just because I'd have been more excited if Ken Williams somehow had managed to pull a star relief pitcher out of David Blaine's pruny, perennially submerged tuchus [insert Photoshopped image of the reincarnation of LaMarr Hoyt emerging from David Blaine's magical butt here] than an ancient, crippled bat-diva [insert Photoshopped image of KG Jr. dressed as Adam West sending back a meal here], but I found it funny.

POSTSCRIPT: Damn that's a lot of "Kens" for one tiny little blog item. Three, in fact. Ken, Ken, Ken. Ken't hold onto a goddamn lead -- that's what the White Sox ken't do lately! [insert apology for terrible, albeit true, joke here]

_____

FOOTNOTE:

*[suggestion: dip into library of Paul Konerko photos for source material -- is the resemblance not uncanny?]

Who are you?

I am Bat Cat!!!

Climbing the everythings of Gotham Apartment in a never-ending quest to rid its streets and sidewalks (I mean -- catwalks) of my most despiséd nemesis -- the house fly -- and to eat their tiny crunchy bodies, I am Bat Cat.

Armed with nothing but a soul-warping desire to cleanse Gotham Apartment of buzzy mobile bug-objects and my super-powers of: reckless extreme climbing ability ... dogged monomaniacal persistence ... and the kind of amoral willingess to mix comic-book metaphors with a sheer disregard for logic possessable only by a mutant fly-fighting feline -- as I've already said twice before (but with slightly different emphasis), I am Bat Cat.

OK, OK, you're Bat Cat. Sheesh. I'll tell you -- never bring a kitten to an Imax show. They have no sense of perspective.