Weekly Selects #34

Quick Civie update before we get started. I took her in to get fixed with a mechanic who has been fixing cars for local LDS people for what I'm sure has been decades. The mechanic's name is Howard, but I prefer to call him Father Time, because he is quite possibly the oldest mechanic alive. It would not shock me if he started a story with "You know, I remember what I was doing when I found out that McKinley was shot." But Howard's a stud, and knows what he's doing, so I'm hoping for the best.

Okay. Now to this week's highlights:

-Via Google Reader:

Rechristen Yourself with the Wu-Tang Clan Nickname Generator

I know you want to know what my Wu-Tang name is: Misunderstood Demon, son. And I also know that you want to try it yourself. Let me know if you get something you like.


-Via Email from Gina C:

Funny baseball interview: Park Chan-ho, the first Korean to play in Major League Baseball.  After a horrible first game of the 2010 season, Park Chan-ho pitched 3 innings of score-less relief in Game 3.  Reporters asked him what was the difference.  See the interview for his answer...

The funniest part is Park's inability to understand why his teammates are laughing so hard. Someone can correct me if they disagree, but my experience has been that people from east Asian cultures are much more open about discussing toilet-oriented topics.

-Via Email from BreakUpEasy.com:

Subj: JMill has something to tell you: We here at BreakUpEasy.com are sorry to be the ones to tell you that JMill no longer wishes to be with you. Because breaking up with someone can be hard, JMill has decided to use our website to give you this news.

The email expounds on the specific reasons for the breakup.

So they have a break-up websites, now. Huh. What else are cowards going to have the internet do for them in order to avoid confrontation? Beat up the bully at school? Tell the high school band teacher that they're quitting band? Unbelievable.

-Via Email from Drew, a coworker and a huge runner who advocates the "minimalist" approach to running shoes (it gets good around 0:45):

Nike Free Ad

I don't know why this is awesome, but it is. The disclaimer at the end is also a nice touch.

I always answer that if given three wishes by a genie, my first wish would be to be the best breakdancer ever. I think my second may have just become "be a Japanese DJ that mixes with Nike shoes."

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A-Rod the Centaur -- Photo of the Week 9 Nov 2009

This may be old news to some of you, but...

(writer's conception)

To answer the quizzical look on your face, NY Yankees star Alex Rodriguez, is reported to have a portrait of himself as a centaur hanging in his bedroom. A painting he commissioned. Commissioned: As in he proactively thought of the idea, sought out a painter, and paid said painter.

Now, many of you may be thinking this is strange. Beyond strange. Vain. Egotistical. But before you become judgmental of A-Rod, I suppose a confession is in order. I actually commissioned some paintings of my own a few years back. The problem I ran into -- besides finding a portrait artist whom I could afford -- was that I never specified what sort of creature I wanted my head to be placed on. Needless to say, the portrait didn't turn out so well:

Not what I would classify as flattering. Oh well. Some things just don't go as expected. I hope A-Rod is happy with how his turned out.

But really, it's super creepy. Previous to knowing this about A-Rod, here's a rough estimation of how my Top 3 "Things That Creep Me Out To No End" list was laid out:

1. Clowns
2. Creepy movie-children
3. Ventriloquist dummies
   

And now, the new list:

1. Clowns
2. Creepy movie-children
3. Alex Rodriguez

On a career note for him, maybe once he's done with baseball, we'll see if A-Rod makes a cameo in the next few Narnia movies.

Happy Monday. Spend the rest of the day being jealous of my MS Paint skills.

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Beasties Bracketology

Disputes and disagreements have always been a part of human history, and will continue to be.

As for the best way of settling those disputes -- well, everyone has an opinion, and that is dictated by a combination of factors: religion, education, nationality, occupation. It's a long list.

For example, you ask a surfer how to settle a disagreement, he'll say to "chill, brah" and then burn down a joint. A baseball manager will tell you that throwing a tantrum involving, but not limited to, the following actions will solve things: Kicking dirt; yelling angry stuff two inches from an umpire's face; taking a tazer to said umpire once his back is turned (my philosophy: strike first, ask questions later). And then, if you could ask him I'm sure Aaron Burr would have told you a good ol' fashioned pistol duel; Alexander Hamilton also seemed to be of the same opinion until he had a lead ball stuck in his chest. Anyway, you get the idea.

I have a discovered a foolproof way of resolving disagreements: Brackets. Maybe the 100 Years' War wouldn't have lasted so long if they'd sat down hashed things out, bracket-style. Who knows.

I bring this up because after three weeks and 171 emails of vigorous debate, Boyer, Jay Z, J2K and I have settled the mother of all disputes -- the greatest Beastie Boys' song ever -- via a 64-song tournament bracket. You all care, I know. The winner: Shadrach, a lesser-known song from an even lesser-known album called Paul's Boutique.

Eventually reaching that consensus was much harder than any of us ever imagined it would be. At the outset, none of us knew what we were in for. Had I known, I would have given some deep, profound pre-tourney pep-talk, channeling Friday Night Lights: "We will be tested. We will be tested to our very souls."

Granted, Coach Taylor said the above in the context of his star quarterback having just suffered a paralyzing injury, but whatever.

See, the tournament presented no clear-cuts, no black v. white, no right v. wrong -- just awesome v. awesome. Every single matchup featured two songs that we grew up loving, so pitting them against each other and having to pick a winner between them created intense internal conflict -- like that scene in Spartacus when Spartacus and Antoninus are forced to duel each other to the death. Both are guys you like and you don't WANT to cheer for a winner, because that also means there will be a loser.

Having to pick only one to come out of it alive twisted us all up in knots. Kept us up at night. Found us crouched in the corner of the shower, weeping because we'd never been so lost and conflicted in our lives.

But we pushed on. And here is the end product; our finalized bracket (click to enlargin'):

I will be making a commemorative CD featuring the tournament's final 16 songs. Let me know if you're interested in having a copy.

And now, some testimonials from the participants.

Boyer:

Quite the undertaking we all got on board for...I don't think anyone (certainly not myself) thought things would be this massive or this involved... Perhaps this is a life lesson about our place in the universe and the value in futility. The Beasties still teach us things about ourselves to this day.

Jay Z:

Having recently completed my role as a voter in the greatest musical tournament of all time, I have a few reflections.  I learned more about the Beastie Boys, as well as myself, than I thought possible.

J2K was unavailable for comment, as he is currently planning the massive corporate takeover of yet another company, Donald Trump-style, only he's doing it with better hair.


Sending you off with the greatest music video ever. Enjoy, and be safe over your Halloween weekend.

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Weekly Selects #11

Back in the saddle with some D.C. from the past week or so:


-Via Facebook from Jenny P and Nartker, respectively, regarding the growth that is my hair:

I'm more concerned that your hair is going to make your marathon time 5 minutes slower at least...


That is some serious salad Josh. . . I'll be able to draft behind that thing during the marathon. . . I like it.

As mentioned before, I am of the firm belief that my hair is sentient, so I think it's just glad that it's still a topic of conversation. Large hair has needs, too, ya know.

-Via Email from AG, a rather hilarious article titled the "Brocyclopedia" defining the term "bro." An excerpt:

Brosephs are best known for taking bro-like behavior to its extremes. For example, while the wearing of a backward visor is a strong indication of a bro, a broseph may be identified by wearing a visor backwards and upside down.

-Via Email from Saree, which I found to be related to Jay's nascent crusade against my people:

 Honestly, I can't argue with that. Now hanging in my cubicle at work.

-Via Gchat from Banker, a proud Philly native and staunch Phillies fan, who just sent me the URL to this article. The gist: A Philly woman offering sex for World Series tickets.

Now, Banker never actually expressed pride or disgust at his fellow Philadelphian, so the jury is still out on how he feels about it.

-Via Email from cousin Mei Mei, who is hosting a Mac & Cheese contest this coming Sunday, where we will all make and bring our own homemade dishes to enter into competition. She was throwing out suggestions on a prize for the winner:

we could smear all the mac and cheese down a slip and slide, winner gets first slide.

Disgusting, yes, but you know you'd watch a YouTube video of it. It is likely that the real disgusting thing will be whatever I concoct for said contest, considering I have no competency in the mac&cheese department, and will likely conjure up some blob-mass that will be indistinguishable from The Swamp Thing, hardened caulking, or some sordid combination of both.

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My New Summer Pasttime

Summer is over, and while I will NOT miss the stifling humidity and resultant SwampA**, or large women wearing disproportionately small clothing (OMG MY EYES ARE BURNING I AM SCARRED FOR LIFE), there is a huge list of things I will miss about summer.

Some fun activities that are essential to every summer? Here's a short list: BBQs; swimming; disappointment in more overhyped blockbusters movies (ahem... Wolverine, Terminator); watching Wipeout!; watching the "will he /won't he?" fiasco that is Brett Favre's (non)retirement; eating ice cream and other flavored frozen goods; reading outside in my double-wide fat-person camping chair; wrestling grizzly bears, only in my case I get the bear to submit with an armbar, and I do it shirtless; you know, standard summer stuff.

The new love I discovered this summer: Wiffleball. It's simple. Anyone can play. You don't need a lot of people to play. You try to hit people with a ball. Very rewarding.

More important to me, though, is that wiffleball has helped me reconcile with a long lost friend: baseball. My complaints with baseball are well-documented. It's boring. It's slow. These dudes aren't athletic. Baseball slang is just a bunch of thinly-veiled innuendos. Whine whine whine. I actually loved baseball growing up, but somewhere along the way we had a falling out (partially due to his solid decade and a half of heavy steroid usage).

Wiffleball helped me remember why I enjoyed baseball in the first place by taking me back to being a kid. It reminded me of playing catch with my pops. Of smelling freshly cut grass, watching The Sandlot, and especially of playing Little League baseball.

In Little League, just like every other kid, I imitated the batting stances and the mannerisms of the famous players. I tried to swing my bat like Griffey, tried to crouch in fielding position like Ozzie Smith, and itched my crotch like Cal Ripken Jr. Did I know what I was doing at 9-years of age? No. But hell, these guys were my heroes, and somewhere in the back of my head I thought emulating the greats would help me be great. This thinking, of course, pre-dated my knowledge of things like natural talent, work ethic, syringes, and the Dominican Republic's baseball farm system. So if Cal was going to go to town on his cup region, I would, too.

I write this because when I played wiffleball for the first time this summer, 18 years after having played in Little League, I picked up right where I left off. I looked at my bat contemplatively before stepping into the batter's box, dug in my feet with my non-existent cleats, took a wide stance and tilted my bat slightly back, just like Albert Pujols.

Even if it was only for a few hours, I was a kid again, imitating the greats. And while the sound of the plastic wifflebat hitting a ball doesn't have quite the same ring that metal on cork does, it still made me smile like a 9-year old as I ran the bases.

Man. Now I want to go watch Field of Dreams.

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Weekly Selects

More DC highlights from the past week. Enjoy.

--Via Gchat from my boy Banker, who is a Philly native, and does amazing things with the English language, such as turning an adjective into a plural noun (ie "Are you lames going to that party?"). I was watching Phillies-Cubs last Thurs and texted Banker about his boy Pedro's dirty stinky (another Bankerism) pitching. His reply, of course:

"yo. my man is s***ing all OVER the cubs"

Coincidentally, this is the game in which an idiot Cubs fan threw his beer at Phils' outfielder Shane Victorino as he was catching a flyball. Deadspin got all of its readers in on the vigilante justice that was about to be laid down on the moron -- I'm sure Banker was at the forefront with both Molotov cocktail and chair to throw at the guy.

More on my reconciliation with baseball later.

--Via iPod Touch, White Josh's ongoing med school adventures:

Med school acapella group is trying to recruit members [by] giving us a sample--breakfast at tiffanys. They suck.

--Via Gchat from Jay. Seriously, for anybody who has any doubts about his affinity for less clothing, here is more testimony. This was after I had chatted with him for a good 10 min:

well I'm naked so I better run
good chatting with you

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Playing For Keeps

I can totally relate to Manny Ramirez. Minus the $20mill/year contract, the dreadlocks, and taking of female fertility drugs.

The level I can connect with him on is a willingness to do anything to be more competitive at a sport.

See, my pong game had been slipping as of late, and I was consistently losing. I blamed it on temporary disruption of my chi that would shortly return, but I kept losing. My ancestors were rolling over in their graves at the disgrace that I had become.

So I decided that, like Jessica Simpson, whatever I lacked in talent and skill, I would make up for in appearance. I strapped a glove on my blade hand and prayed that this would serve as the catalyst for a turnaround in my pong fortunes.

Some Q&A from the 2 April post-game press conference where the glove was originally unveiled:

• Q: Did Banker start laughing so uncontrollably when he first saw the glove that he could barely get out: "Is that a football receiving glove?" ? A: Yes. Yes, he did.
• Q: Have you taken to calling yourself "The Glove" or "The Second Coming of Gary Payton"? A: Yes. Yes, I have.
  
• Q: Does anybody else? A: No, because no one else takes the thing seriously.
• Q: Have you taken to referring to yourself in the third-person? This seems like the kind of attention-grabbing stunt that an attention-deprived megalomaniac who refers to himself in the third-person would do. A: The Glove is still contemplating the merits of referring to himself in the third person.
  
• Q: Do you bear some resemblance to Michael Jackson now? With the one-glove thing? A: What? You think I'm stupid enough to compare myself in any way with Michael?
• Q: Probably. A: That's it. This press conference is over.
  

I was placed on a two-match suspension for golf club-smashing the car windshield of the reporter who asked the last question, but since my return I have been on a ping-pong tear.

Just remember, folks. I play for keeps.

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Baseball Brawls

I may have written about how I don't completely understand baseball. One thing I do enjoy, though, is the more or less sanctioned mass brawls. I got this from "The Onion", titled "History of the Bench-Clearing Brawl." Enjoy.
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The Yankees–Rays spring training brawl was a notable bench-clearer, but hardly exceptional in the grand scheme of things. Onion Sports remembers some of the best:

1861: A pitch thrown by New York Knickerbocker pitcher Chic Paulding at the head of Atlanta's Byron Teagarden starts the Civil War

1898: After getting hit by a pitch, Honus Wagner walks briskly to the pitcher's mound and waves his handkerchief right in Kid Nichols' face

1903: Without realizing they too could fight, the Chicago White Stockings get their asses kicked in their own dugout

1968: While not a bench-clearing brawl, the time when Bob Gibson wordlessly stalked onto the field, cut Ron Santo's throat, and walked back to the dugout is certainly worth mentioning

1972: Following a brushback pitch from Tom Seaver, Dave Kingman storms the mound with his bat and swings it at Seaver; he whiffs nine times in a row before finally connecting and sending Seaver's head 475 feet over the left-field bleachers

1987: Oakland A's manager Tony LaRussa notices his team struggling in a sixth-inning fight with the Texas Rangers, forcing him to call up players from the Triple-A Sacramento River Cats to join in the fray

1998: The Yankees and Orioles engage in what is not so much a bench-clearing brawl as it is a fracas

2002: A controversial strike call during a game between bitter rivals the Houston Astros and St. Louis Cardinals results in a stadium-clearing brawl

2003: In Game 3 of the ALCS, Pedro Martinez grabs Yankee coach Don Zimmer by the head, playfully tosses him to the ground, and then slowly digs his metal cleats into his skull

2006: In a brawl between the Dodgers and Brewers, 78-year-old Tommy Lasorda unexpectedly storms onto the field screams loudly while running around in circles, causing both teams to slowly retreat to their dugouts and look around nervously

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Presidential Aspirations

These are the bobbleheads we got at the Nationals-Mets game. Check out Abe's scowl. Abe isn't angry because of racism, or the South's rebellion... He's upset that every history textbook inevitably precedes their chapter on him with "although not particularly good-looking, President Lincoln was known to..."

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Baseball: Our National Pasttime?

Baseball confuses me.

Now, before you misunderstand that and start patronizing me with "In baseball, there are nine players; the pitcher throws the ball and the catcher catches it..." I should clarify that I understand the scoring, the positions, the strategy, etc--but to me the sport is still a bit of an enigma (not to the extent that baseball's illegitimate-second-cousin-by-marriage relative [cricket] is, but you get my point).

I love going to baseball games. I like the vendors yelling. I like being able to sit back and relax while watching a sport. I especially like the guarantee that I will get to hear Ozzy Osbourne scream: "ALL ABOOOOOARDDD! HAHAHAHA..." multiple times in a game, because I am fairly sure that it is a League mandate that each team must have a player whose 10-second approach-the-plate-music is Black Sabbath's "Crazy Train."

And yet, if I'm surfing the channels on TV and I have a choice between watching the "Battlefield Earth" television broadcast premiere on TNT* and a baseball game, I hesitate. Granted, the hesitation lasts a split-second and I choose baseball, but this still concerns me as a self-proclaimed sports' fan.

Maybe it's because I sometimes have difficulty accepting professional baseball players as athletes. Guys that spend most of their time sitting, standing, or chewing, and who get winded after jogging 180-feet, don't present much of a defense for themselves to be classified as athletes.

But the other half of me thinks about the physics that is involved in pitching, or hitting a baseball with a relative toothpick for a bat, and it blows my mind. Einstein never even got around to explaining it. There is no denying that the hand-eye coordination needed for baseball requires ridiculous skill. I'm guessing the hand-eye coordination needed to adjust yourself 50 minutes every night doesn't, however.

I guess I'm trying to say that I find it difficult to understand the appeal sometimes. Maybe guys like watching baseball on TV because they can sit on their couch with one hand down their pants and tell their wives: "Look, babe. That guy has no problem adjusting himself in front a stadium of people and millions of viewers. Why can't I do it at home in front a few of your Tupperware-party friends?"

So I began this blog trying to talk it out in hopes of resolving my feelings about baseball... And I end just as confused and ambivalent, if not more, than when I started...

*I understand that TNT would never do this and the idea that they would even consider broadcasting "Battlefield Earth" is a blatant insult to the competency of their staff, but it was the first network that came to mind.

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