The Slog

Oh, I did some Freelance Dramaturgs a while back

2011-02-21T19:58:00.005-06:00

That's right, my sporadically created, hastily drawn Roman-a-clef about a noseless simulacrum of myself is back. In drawings I actually did several months ago.

Aren't you lucky?

And yes, the FD rules are that I cannot redraw anything or fix my mistakes. Though I think I cheated a few times.

Ah, JEEZ! RIP Ron Santo

2010-12-03T07:43:00.004-06:00

I'm sure someone else here [Exile on Clark Street] will go a little more in depth on this later (okay, I'm not so sure), but (shoulda-been-a)Hall of Fame Cubs third baseman and broadcaster Ron Santo has passed away:

I'm not going to lie - the last few years of Santo's broadcasting career made me hope he'd retire, but I'm pretty sad he's gone. Listening to him call a game was like watching it with one of your uncles - sure he'd lose track of who was up or what happened, but he definitely loved the Cubs and the sport of baseball - apparently in that order. And that has to count for something.

EDIT: You know, this upsets me more than I think I realized. Ron Santo is dead and Hawk Harrelson still walks the earth? No justice.

Source.

Cross-posted at Exile on Clark Street.

A TWO MINUTES OF HATE NEWSFLASH

2010-12-01T11:45:00.002-06:00

(Crossposted from Exile on Clark Street)

Really?

Former Cubs infielder Ryan Theriot has been traded from the Los Angeles Dodgers to the St. Louis Cardinals, the Cubs' most hated rivals. As if that wasn't enough, Theriot, who was a fan favorite when he was here in Chicago, commented that he was "finally on the right side of the Cubs-Cardinals rivalry." (CSNChicago.com)

Go guzzle a hose that sprays syphilis-infected dicks, you banjo-hitting, overrated sack of shit. Don't think being on the Cardinals will get you out of some time in the FIREBARN. I never thought you were that good, and now I don't even have to pretend to give a shit whether you live or die. I hope St. Louis has a great time watching you throw two-hoppers to Pujols and pissing away scoring opportunities by failing to steal bases, you baseball-illiterate dolt.

Source.

And That's A Wrap For Chicago Baseball

2010-09-22T08:04:00.001-06:00

Hey, I wrote something halfassed for Exile on Clark Street! Here's a copy of it:

Whoa, there are cobwebs everywhere in here.

So, last night the Twins won, the White Sox lost, and the entire city of Chicago pretty much has let forth a collective "meh." Thankfully, the Bears are starting off solid. And preseason Hockey begins today, so Goreo has something to write about, assuming he's still alive.

I'd like to give some cogent analysis of the whole season, but let's face it: I haven't willingly watched an entire White Sox game since...well since before my last post on here. And, as far as the Cubs are concerned, this season is already being blocked out of my memory. Apparently Charles Darwin made the team and some guy named Kelvin was speared by a bat. Or something. I dunno. Also, the Cubs are apparently being managed by a svelte Michael Chiklis.

It's been a long, strange season. Probably longer and stranger if I had paid attention.

I'm #1!

2010-09-21T10:45:00.004-06:00

I was just informed that I am the #1 Google Image search result for "Amputee Horse Porn." And the #5 overall. And apparently the first 4 are clearly spam, though I'm not about to search that on this work computer.

I've never been more proud of myself.

Really.

(Not shown: Horse, remaining 3 limbs, penetration)

When Will the Killing Stop?!?!

2010-09-14T14:44:00.001-06:00

Rest in peace, Harold Gould. You battled long and valiantly against the Golden Girls house.

What the hell, Captain America?

2010-08-23T11:50:00.000-06:00

What.

The.

Hell?

That is all.

What Are All These Cobwebs Doing Here?

2010-08-12T07:22:00.005-06:00

My life is a seemingly endless stream of corrogated cardboard, Allen wrenches, and items damaged in shipping.

Wait. That probably needs some backstory:

Ever since the move, Ali and I--

Wait. That probably needs some backstory:

While we were on our Honeymoon, my wife and I decided that we needed to--

Wait. That probably needs some backstory:

So, Ali and I finally got married, and, thanks to the transplant, her father was able to dance with her--

Man, how freaking long has it been since I've updated this blog?

Okay. At any rate, I've decided to try to revive this moribund franchise. I'm also VERY GRADUALLY moving all of the things I've written for other blogs (except, of course, the 400-odd entries in Hitler Getting Punched) over here. They'll be put up by the date written, so if for some reason you accidently ended up here and give a damn, keep checking the archives. And if you do give a damn, feel free to tell me why.

Well, anyway, I've got to actually start doing my job today (that hasn't really changed, though). But I thought I'd put it out there that I might start actually Slogging again. Maybe, just maybe, I'll finish that whole Dark Underbelly of the 80s thing...¹

Oh, and the Slog's Album of the year last year was Assjack. By Assjack. In case you've been waiting patiently since last September...

Probably not.²
Man, I can't believe I remember how to code the footnotes.

At Least It's the Expos' PR Problem Now...

2010-04-22T07:00:00.001-06:00

More EoC archive fun.

Well, it looks like another of my childhood heroes is possibly letting me down.

From the article:

A publicly funded organization that cares for poor and disabled adults is suing Miami baseball legend Andre Dawson, alleging that his family's funeral home business reneged on a deal to provide prepaid memorial services and burials for deceased clients.

One man's corpse lay in limbo for weeks because Dawson's Grace Memorial Funeral Home refused to accept the remains, according to a lawsuit filed Wednesday in Miami-Dade Circuit Court.

Sigh.

I hope this turns out to be groundless. Because this will REALLY break my heart if it's true. The Hawk has always been someone I looked on as a class act. I'd rather be wrong as hell about that Zambrano move than be wrong about this.

Say it ain't so, Hawk. I'm running out of ballplayers to admire.

My Two Minutes of Hate: Lou Piniella

2010-04-21T07:00:00.001-06:00

Really, in hindsight everything about this season sucked. Here I am at EoC, still believing that anything could save Zambrano's season.

Zambrano to the bullpen?

GOD.

DAMN.

IT.

This is the stupidest idea in history, Lou.

I'd analyze it further, but you are making me want to punch myself in my own dick for ever following this festering sore of a team. I'm this close to rooting for the Nationals. At least they still have hope.

This is a desperate move by a manager that now seems clueless to me. It can only create ill will with Zambrano, and lower any market value he might have had otherwise.

God, I hate this team.

My Two Minutes of Hate: Jeff Samardzija

2010-04-07T10:45:00.001-06:00

God I hate Jeff Samardzija. Here's me hating him in detail. From the EoC archives.

There are times that I ask myself why the hell I'm a Cubs fan. For example: last Monday, 2005, 2006, and every goddamn September. I keep swearing I'm not going to put up with this bullshit anymore. But then I end up missing baseball. I'll say I'll follow another team - some AL team that isn't the White Sox. It never works. I just don't care about any other team. I often hate the team that I love, but I can't give them up. I guess I'm a lifer.

But that doesn't mean I can't give up on players. Oh, I'm really good at that. In the past decade alone I have given up on dozens of players. And the last decade was the best Cubs decade since their peak in the 1930s (I know Will Leitch thinks otherwise, but he is a fucking moron). I can't even imagine the ragedump I would take on the 1950s Cubs.

From Will Ohman to Neifi Perez, from Jacque Jones to Michael Barrett, from Milton Bradley to, well, Milton Bradley like 5 times over again, I have done my part towards wishing if not active death, then career-ending injuries on so many of the players that more Pollyanna-ish fans seem to think I should have faith in. Hell, I even have an arbitrary fatwa out against any Cub named Aaron, after Miles and Heilman stunk up the place so bad last year.

Which brings me to Aaron Samardzija.

Sorry, Jeff Samardzija. Force of habit.

I've been so distracted by other horrid Cubs since the Samad...um...Samardj...er...Smarch...Fuck it. I'm calling him Snork for the rest of this article, because he spells his name like an idiot. Not Shark, because sharks have fucking earned their respect by being emotionless, unstoppable killing machines, like Ted Lilly. No. Jeffy is a fucking Snork. He's just like the Snorks: useless, annoying, and only chicks should like him. Also he's clearly a ripoff of Kyle Farnsworth just like the Snorks were a ripoff of the Goddamn Smurfs. WHICH I ALSO HATED--

I'm...I'm getting...distracted. Sorry. My rage at this mulleted roster-clot is moving from white to blue hot. Let me start that last thought again...

I've been so distracted by other horrid Cubs since the Snork signing in 2007 that I really haven't had the energy to focus my hatred of him into the laserlike efficiency I expect from myself. Until now. His opening day ERA of 108 (no need for the decimals...ONE HUNDRED EIGHT) just confirmed what I have always suspected:

Snork is a huge waste of the Cubs fans' time and the Cubs ownership's money who was signed because he went to Notre Dame and also played football (TWO SPORTS! HE MUST BE GOOD!). That is it. That is all he has going for him. A $10,000,000.00 (LOOK AT ALL THE PRETTY ZEROES!) no-trade contract in the 5th round? Man, he must have been really dominant in his final season of college ball. He must have...

Oh, go to hell, world.

A 4.33 ERA and a 1.41 WHIP? That's...unimpressive. At least once he signed to the Cubs, they gave him a chance to season and grow, and didn't...

AAUUUUUGHH!

After mediocre showings in AA and AAA ball, the Cubs called Snork right the hell up, huh? And they did what the Cubs always do when a player comes up and plays decent at first. They decided to stick by him come hell or high water. Even gave him a couple of starts. Let him amass a 7.53 ERA in almost 35 innings. And, being the Cubs, instead of realizing they may have rushed a guy who might never have the skills to be a useful player, and shipping him back down a few levels to give him time to grow, have done what they always do: put him right into the goddamn pen, where he can suck on toast until he has negative trade value, get's DFA'd, or dies after someone mysteriously locks him in a burning barn along with Fontenot and Theriot...

The Snork signing really is emblematic of the shitty scouting, shitty development, and shitty life skills that Cubs upper management has displayed over the past...I dunno...60 years. There was no reason to offer that much money to someone who has shown nothing but Neal Cottsian levels of pissing me the fuck off. No metric I've seen and no independent analyst I've heard or read has said Snork would ever be anything but a journeyman. So what do the Cubs do? GIVE HIM MORE MONEY THAN I WILL PROBABLY EVER SEE IN MY LIFETIME TO PLAY A SPORT HE IS CLEARLY OUTCLASSED IN.

You know what else sucks? Snork looks like one of those pudwhacks in the puka-shell necklaces that listened to a ton of DMB in college, pulled tail like you wouldn't believe, and called you fucking "brah." And this website really does nothing to disabuse me of that notion (the flaming baseball in the picture is misleading - that's actually a Pujols-hit comebacker rocketing at his smug chad face).

Do I want to see Snork pitching less for the Cubs? Ultimately, yes. If by less, you mean never. But until that day comes, I hope that Lou drops his ass in every single Cubs blowout loss, and only in those blowout losses. Then I hope he leaves Snork's shaggy, sub-Novoa corpse out there for a minimum of 250 pitches. Pitch him until his fucking arm pops off at the elbow and flies into the crowd. And whoever catches that bloody stump wins a free dinner from Harry Caray's. On me. It would be worth it.

Then, trade him to the Reds, or whatever team Dusty Baker is running into the ground at that point.

In conclusion,

Chicago Cubs: stop wasting money on untalented choads because idiot Notre Dame fans will spend money on green jerseys emblazoned with any chuzzlewit alum that happens to draw an MLB paycheck.

Cubs Fans: DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE, ENCOURAGE THE CUBS BY BUYING THOSE JERSEYS.

Snork: cut your fucking hair, quit playing fucking baseball, and maybe you could go to the NFL, where hopefully you will have your spine split in two in the first preseason game. Otherwise, stay the hell out of any barns in the greater Chicagoland era...I hear they're mighty flammable and often lock from the outside...mysteriously.

2010 Season Preview: Cincinnati Reds

2010-03-30T07:00:00.000-06:00

More Exile on Clark stuff.

CINCINNATI REDS

2009: 78-84 (4th)

So Long: IF Danny Richar, OF Willy Taveras, IF Adam Rosales
Welcome: OF Josh Anderson, P Jose Arredondo, SS Orlando Cabrera, 2B Miguel Cairo, P Aroldis Chapman, 2B Aaron Miles

Projected Starting Lineup (courtesy of rototimes.com)
1. Drew Stubbs, CF
2. Orlando Cabrera, SS
3. Joey Votto, 1B
4. Brandon Phillips, 2B
5. Scott Rolen, 3B
6. Jay Bruce, RF
7. Ramon Hernandez, C
8. Chris Dickerson/Wladimir Balentien

Rotation - Aaron Harang, Bronson Arroyo, Johnny Cueto, Homer Bailey, Matt Maloney, (Aroldis Chapman)
Setup - Arthur Rhodes, Nick Masset
Closer - Francisco Cordero

An admission: I had all the best intentions of getting this bad-boy out by last Friday (when it was scheduled to be put up), but my non-EoC life took me by the metaphorical balls and twisted. Then, when I finally sat down to write this, I saw that somehow Bronson Arroyo is considered a #2 caliber starter and had to fight to keep my brain from exploding like John Cassavetes at the end of The Fury.

Once my cerebellum stopped trying to eject itself out of the back of my head, I took a cold hard look at this team. And it...really doesn't seem that bad. I mean, they've got a lot of decent young players like Votto and Bruce, and several vetarans that could still have some degree of ability left in the tank (assuming 35-year-old Scott Rolen's 87-year-old spine doesn't start acting its age, for example). I don't think they're amazing, mind you. But this is the NL Central. Pretty much any team (except the Pirates) could probably put together a run while the other teams are slumping and sneak into the postseason.

But god help them, they might have some problems with pitching. While checking on this team's roster, I spotted this article, which kind of points out that they play in a bandbox, and have a mostly flyball-focused rotation. Good luck on keeping balls in the park, guys. Especially after Dusty Baker has you all tossing 155 pitches a game.

I expect the Reds to hover around .500 this year, and maybe even post a winning season if they get a lot of breaks going their way. And frankly, as a Cubs fan, I think that's more than they deserve.

PRESEASON AWARDS

If this team were a disease/ailment it would be: Addison's Disease. This insidious disease creeps slowly up on the sufferer, usually a member of the starting rotation, normally beginning with fatigue, dizziness, weakness, joint and muscle pain, and an inability to stand up. I believe it's name comes from where it was first sighted, at 1060 W. Addison in Chicago, between 2003-2006.

The "Mark Prior Award For the Player Most Effectively Destroyed By Dusty Baker": Gotta go with Aaron Harang. Maybe I'm wrong, but it seems like ever since Dusty brought him in to pitch four innings of relief on two days rest, he's gone from a "potential ace" to a "not too shabby pitcher." There's still plenty of time for him to go from there to "AA Pitching Coach."

The "Was It Worth Breaching the Embargo?" Award: Aroldis Chapman. A rumored 102-mph fastball, a decent slider, and a change-up that...exists, combined with control problems? Interesting gamble. Is he a superlative version of Carlos Marmol, or a Farnsworth that knows how to get his hands on some really good Robustos?

Is This Really the Best The Cubs Can Do?

2010-03-16T07:00:00.000-06:00

EoC archives.

Last night, while working late no less, I learned that Lou has made up his mind that Ryan "The Ryan" Theriot is going to be the Cubs official, no-turning-back leadoff hitter this year. I was too furious to think straight at first, so instead of posting a string of unrelated swears, I let myself sleep on it.

Having given it some thought, I'm not so much furious as just sort of confused, wistful, and sad.

Now I'm not a total stats expert. I don't really understand the high end stuff. But I do know enough to know that the leadoff hitter's job (as the man on the team with the most plate appearances per season) is to get on base for the next couple of hitters to move him over. By hook or by crook, if the leadoff hitter is doing his job right, he should be sitting on first at the end of his at bat, and (depending on his teammates) crossing home before the end of the inning. So, need #1 of a good leadoff hitter is a high .OBP. Theriot's isn't too bad. It's also not outstanding, either. His career average of .356 is decent, but I'd be a lot happier with someone hovering at least around .380.

Moving along (and this is where I really, really get annoyed): a lot of people judge a leadoff hitter by how many bases he steals. Well, no one on the Cubs steals worth a damn. Theriot's 21 last year led the team, with second place being 9 - by Alfonso Soriano, a man whose legs were replaced by al dente linguine some time mid-season. However, just putting a guy in leadoff because he has the most steals is asinine when those 21 steals were achieved in 31 attempts. That's a success rate of less than 70%. That means failure in the school district I came out of. And THAT was in SOUTH FRICKING CAROLINA.

In my opinion, the #2 skill of a good leadoff hitter is to STAY ALIVE ON THE BASEPATHS UNTIL HE CROSSES HOME PLATE. What the hell is the point of putting a guy on base if a full third of his stolen base attempts are poorly conceived and just send him right back to the dugout? Theriot -- and I apologize to Sarah Palin in advance -- is retarded on the basepaths. He doesn't throw the pitcher off his rhythm, because he's not scary to them. All he does is waste my fucking cheers for his at-bat by making it another meaningless single. I highly doubt many of those 21 steals were game-changers, and I'm pretty sure the ten times he was sent packing were mostly meaningless as well - except for, you know, losing a baserunner and one of only 27 chances to bring another hitter to the plate.

My confusion was caused by the fact that taking all of the above into account, Lou locked Theriot down in this position in the order. I'm not saying Lou won't change his mind later in the season, but why not think about this a little more now, before the goddamn games count?

My wistfulness and sadness is caused by the fact that really there aren't a lot of tremendously better options. But there is at least one that might work a little better: platoon leadoff. Because of, you know...lefty-righty splits?

You see, despite his disappointing performance so far and his ridiculous windmill strikeouts, there is one Cub who really gets on base well against right-handers: Kosuke Fukudome. The 'Dome had an .OBP of .387 against northpaws last year. That's like...a good leadoff hitter's .OBP (as opposed to Theriot's almost Soriano-esque .339). Of course, against the sinister, he had a sub-Soriano .299 .OBP, so you definitely don't want Fuku facing anyone who had to use those weird padded scissors in elementary school. But...and here's the interesting thing...Ryan Theriot gets on at a .361 clip against lefties. Much better. Not amazing, but not embarassing.

So my one, very humbly delivered suggestionto the Cubs this year: why not try the following in leadoff this year:

Put Fukudome at the top of the order against right-handers, and slide Theriot down a bit.
Put "Ther Iot" in leadoff against left-handers, and slide Kosuke WAAAAAAAAAAAAAY down the lineup.
DO NOT EVER GIVE THERIOT THE GREEN LIGHT TO STEAL. EVER. If you have to, install a shock collar that delivers a few hundred volts every time he starts "giving second the glad eye" at a bad time.

See? Nothing too revolutionary. Just a slight tweak. Let's see how that plays out before just handing out at bats to a decent, but not awesome hitter, ok?

2010 Season Preview: San Francisco Giants

2010-03-11T07:00:00.000-06:00

The Exile on Clark archives continue:

SAN FRANCISCO GIANTS

2009: 88-74 (3rd)

So Long: 1B Rich Aurilia, 1B Ryan Garko, P Bob Howry, P Randy Johnson (retired), P Noah Lowry, P Brad Penny, P Merkin Valdez, OF Randy Winn

Welcome: OF Mark DeRosa, 1B Aubrey Huff, P Guillermo Mota, P Horacio Ramirez, P Todd Wellemeyer

Projected Starting Lineup (courtesy of rototimes.com)
1. Aaron Rowand, CF
2. Freddy Sanchez, 2B
3. Pablo Sandoval, 3B
4. Bengie Molina, C
5. Aubrey Huff, 1B
6. Mark DeRosa, LF
7. Nate Schierholtz, RF
8. Edgar Renteria, SS

Rotation - Tim Lincecum, Matt Cain, Barry Zito, Jonathan Sanchez, Madison Bumgarner
Setup - Jeremy Affeldt, Sergio Romo
Closer - Brian Wilson

Well, after a solid year of therapy, I am once again reminded of the existance of the NL West, and the hated Giants. I've been working on some deep breathing exercises and taking medication, so hopefully, I will not accidentally make this entire post about my hatred of Will Clark this time.

Okay: time to man up and admit I sorta lost track of the Giants mere moments after hitting the "Publish Post" button last year (though to be fair it only took about 4 months for me to stop watching the Cubs, a team I actually give a damn about). So I will check the internet and see what it has to say. Back in a moment.

Okay, I'm back. Sorry about the delay; I totally got caught up in some youtube video of Christoph Waltz doing the TROLOLOLOLOL guy.

Apparently, according to the internet their publicity stunt of hiring a panda to play third base has worked out surprisingly well, they somehow managed to put a stake in Randy Johnson's heart, and Brian Wilson is following up his critically acclaimed Smile album with some decent closing work. I'm stunned, but apparently they had a winning record last year. But then again, I'm stunned the west coast actually has baseball and that almost every other EOC writer actually cares about soccer, so my "stunned threshold" might be low.

Of course, once again Brian Sabean's strategy of "surrounding the best player in baseball with a team of basically solid-to-below-average players" is probably going to tank slightly, as Barry Bonds used up all the available steroids already. And once again, no one in the organization seems to have a problem with putting out a cleanup hitter with only a bit of power, almost no ability to discern the strike zone, and who would be hard pressed to outrun Jabba the Hutt to first.

As far as pitching goes, Tim Lincecum can get as stoned as he wants with the stuff he has. And Cain is solid. But, to paraphrase the old line, it's "Lincecum and Cain, and pray for rain." Zito, Sanchez, and Bumgarner all project to be fair to middling starters this year. The bullpen looks decent enough, but my research on this consisted of 28 seconds on Fangraphs, so don't hold me to it.

Oh, and they rolled the dice with Aaron Rowand leading off again this year. Let's see what happens. My guess: he'll be average-to-disappointing. He's 48 years old (okay, 33 - what do I have to do math now?) and his OBP was only .319 last year. Eh. Not as bad as putting Molina in cleanup, I guess.

PRESEASON AWARDS

If this team were a disease/ailment it would be: Lingering Bursitis. This team just sits there: crawling along painfully, never dying, but never really going anywhere (Okay, I totally shoehorned that in to make a lame, semi-esoteric TMS reference, but at least I didn't just use Erectile Dysfunction again. Yet).

The "Do They Have Trixies In San Fran?" Award: Mark DeRosa. Oh, he'll put up solid, journeyman numbers this year, but will the aging supersub win the hearts and minds of the people who don't really come to the ballpark to watch the games? Only time will tell.

The "Kenny Lofton Memorial Team Loyalty"Award: Edgar Renteria. Starting a SECOND CONSECUTIVE SEASON with the same team? Kudos, Edgar. Not sure why people still allow you to play shortstop, or (for that matter) professional baseball. But kudos, nonetheless.

Oh, and Will Clark: why haven't you died in a fire yet?

Milton, It's Not Chicago That Wants You To Choke On Your Own Tongue...

2010-03-04T07:00:00.001-06:00

...it's ME.

According to professional whiner and overpaid bench jockey Milton Bradley:

"Two years ago, I played, and I was good," he said. "I go to Chicago, not good. I've been good my whole career. So, obviously, it was something with Chicago, not me."

He then goes on to bloviate:

"Just no communication," he said. "I never hit more than 22 homers in my career, and all of a sudden I get to Chicago and they expect me to hit 30. It doesn't make sense. History tells you I'm not going to hit that many. Just a lot of things that try to make me a player I'm not."

Yeah, well Milton, all I personally expected from you was a great OBP, some decent pop to your bat, and for you to be less of a shitsouled headcase than LaTroy Hawkins.

You let me down on all three counts, you neurotic bag of human garbage. I hope you hit worse than Aaron Miles next year and then try to accuse racist Seattle fans of running your kid out of daycare. At least OJ had a Hall of Fame Career and some Naked Gun movies under his belt before he played the race card. And that was to keep from frying like a Hendry breakfast doughnut for a double homicide, not to explain away getting paid more than the GNP of Poland to play half a season of Todd-Zeile-level baseball.

I hope when you're finally run out of the league and have to play in Japan, Matt Murton beats you death with a shovel. Seriously. How can you be so hateful that Carlos FUCKING Silva suddenly seems worth it?

This was, of course, an Exile on Clark Street archival entry.

1979 Season Preview: Oakland Athletics

2010-03-02T07:00:00.001-06:00

Thunder Matt's Saloon was renamed and repurposed as Exile on Clark Street for the 2010 Season. This is the first archived post after the change.

I still technically write for EoC, but like most writers, I seem to be on hiatus. Damn this team for sucking so bad.

Note: We here at EOC made the mistake of assigning some team reviews to Wolter, not realizing that he barely even pays attention to the Cubs, much less Ban Johnson's upstart "American League." Also, he's hung up on the past. One year in particular. When told his review was 31 years out-of-date, he snarled "what I say stands." So here we go:

Oakland Athletics

1978: 69-93 (6th in AL West)

So Long: P Pete Broberg, DH Rico Carty, P Steve Renko, C Bruce Robinson, P Elias Sosa

Welcome: P Dave Hamilton, P Jim Todd

Projected Starting Lineup
1. Glenn Burke, LF
2. Miguel Dilone, RF
3. Mitchell Page, DH
4. Jeff Newman, C
5. Dave Revering, 1B
6. Mike Edwards, 2B
7. Tony Armas, CF
8. Mickey Klutts, 3B
9. Rob Picciolo, SS

Rotation - Rick Langford, Matt Keough, Mike Norris, John Henry Johnson
Setup - Jim Todd, Bob Lacey
Closer - Dave Heaverlo

Hoo boy... The A's have been stinking up the Bay Area ever since Charley Finley began dismantling his powerhouse team 3 seasons ago in 1976. Long gone are legendary players like Reggie Jackson, Catfish Hunter, Rollie Fingers, Vida Blue, and Sal Bando. In their place are a bunch of washed up losers and "never was"es.

Frankly, if the A's want to get the kids out of the discoteques and off the Galaxian games, they're going to have to play exciting, purposeful baseball. Right now, there are literally only hundreds of people showing up to A's games. And who can blame their fans for leaving in droves. What kind of masochist would want to see a team that's clearly assembled out of the rejects from other teams' farm systems because their cheapskate owner won't pay for a real star? If I were an author, I could do worse than write the story of Charley Finley's destruction of this team. I'd call it "Moneyed Ball," because he's too concerned with holding on to his money than building a winning team.

The one bright spot on this team, in my opinion, is left field. Really, the whole future of the organization rests here. Glenn Burke is a gamer, a cultural touchstone ( his celebratory "high five" is sweeping the nation), and I think this is his year. He's got grit, determination, and plays the game the right way (and the ladies love him). If Finley cares at all about winning, he'll lock Burke down to a long term contract, and trade away a minor leaguer, maybe that brash young hothead Rickey Henderson, for some decent starting pitching. You already have some speed with Burke (15 bases last year!), and Mike Edwards and Mitchell Page could easily combine for 50 bases. And it's not like Henderson could top that, no matter how speedy he is.

All in all, this is a weak team, but I doubt they could be worse than last year. That would be as unthinkable as George Lucas making a bad movie!

PRESEASON AWARDS

If this team were a disease/ailment it would be: Alzheimers. It's like they forgot how to be a good club just a handful of seasons after being considered a dynasty. At this point they'd either need to pump their players full of performance enhancing drugs, or hire some super-genius GM with some sort of slide rule or "personal home computer" (if such a thing existed) just to make this team win.

The "Man I'd Most Like to Hire" Award: Backup catcher Jim Essian. He's such a strong presence behind the plate, he'd no doubt be a great skipper one day. But is Major League Baseball ready for an Armenian manager?

The "Third Time's The Charm" Award: The entire Oakland infield. Did you know the Oakland A's (Despite their current nickname, The Triple A's) have yet to have a triple play since moving West? I'm gonna go out on a limb and say that there's no way this team lets the 70s end without getting at least 3!

Cubs Condemned By Church Group

2010-01-27T07:00:00.001-06:00

From the Thunder Matt's Saloon archive.

After learning that the Chicago National League Base-Ball Club signed Chad Tracy to a minor league contract, the National Council of Churches condemned the organization for ethical transgressions.

According to an NCC spokesperson, the Chicago Cubs were guilty of "playing God," when they combined the DNA of poor fielding former Cub and Ginger Spokesmodel Matt Murton with the DNA of poor hitting former Cub and War Criminal Aaron Miles, to create an amalgamation that "stands as a mockery to the laws of both Nature and Our Lord. An OPS of .695 on a man whose primary position is first base is nothing short of Sinful."

The Cubs fired back with a press release, which began: "Dude, the guy was a pretty good hitter a few years ago. Give us a damn break," and concluded "it's not like God has done any favors for us up to now."

Cubs Sign Marlon Byrd

2009-12-31T07:00:00.001-06:00

I don't really have much to say about this, other than: "It's come to this? This is the major signing we were waiting for?"

http://sports.espn.go.com/chicago/mlb/news/story?id=4785125

This offseason blows.

This was another TMS archive. In hindsight, I'm glad Byrd was signed. I like him. But, in hindsight, I had no idea just how BAD the 2010 Cubs would be.

Pop Culture Gauntlet: Boba Fett vs. Fried Chicken

2009-12-17T07:00:00.000-06:00

Man, TMS got weird before it stopped...

Welcome to Pop Culture Gauntlet, where people, places, and things from various subjects face off in a virtual cage match. As part of an ongoing series we will bring you new battles each week between randomly selected items from the Thunder Matt's PCG database. We will provide you with a brief background of both competitors. After reading, you can then vote on your choice in the poll located in the right sidebar column. Monday battles will run until 12am Thursday. Thursday battles will run until 12am Monday. Also we welcome any arguments for either competitor in our comments section. May the best man, thing, or whatever win.

Today's match: Boba Fett vs. Fried Chicken

Boba Fett
The nerd's ultimate idea of cool, Boba Fett is the cleverest, slickest, most dangerous bounty hunter in the Star Wars series. Of course, he does this more or less by the time honored tradition of "not being as dumb as Greedo," an alien so dumb that even after Lucas felt bad enough to go back and spot him a free first shot, managed to miss from 2 feet away. Still, Boba Fett was the only person in the entire Galactic Empire not to notice the huge spaceship that disappeared from view might be floating amongst the ONLY cover within ten light years, so we can definitely give him that. Boba Fett also flew the legitimately badassed Slave-1. Sure it was a weird looking combination of spaceship and hair-dryer, but when you fly in something named Slave-1, no one fucks with you. Except maybe Harriet Tubman.

Like all things awesome about the original Star Wars series, Lucas managed to make Boba Fett lamer than Joe Theismann, circa 1986 during the "new trilogy." Apparently he's a clone of his own "father" Django Reinhardt, along with EVERY SINGLE STORMTROOPER...which means the entire Imperial Army is pretty much a bunch of renowned jazz guitarists. Or something like that, I stopped paying attention halfway through that crapfest.

Strengths: In The Empire Strikes Back, he is easily the most competent employee on the Imperial Payroll. He has a kickass jetpack, a grappling hook, and the stones to stand up to Darth Vader.

Weaknesses: Being accidentally hit on the back by a blind Han Solo will cause his kickass jetpack to malfunction and enable him to be digested over a thousand year period by the Saarlacc. Nice heel, Achilles. His death merited a slide whistle.

Fun Fact: Did you know, per Wikipedia, that the plural of "Saarlacc" is "Saarlacci?" And the plural of "nerd" is "more than one person who knows that."

Fried Chicken
Though one of our bartenders is secretly a vegetarian (guess which one!), the rest of us know that chickens are essentially Food Alive. And everyone knows the best way to serve any food is to bread it and deep fry it. Even things that are counterintuitive, like pickles, okra, or ice cream.

Invented by Jesus shortly after he turned water into beer, fried chicken lay dormant until rediscovered by the American South, especially poor African-Americans, as chickens were the only farm animal slaves were allowed to keep. This led to some rather disgusting racist connections with fried chicken, but let me assure you, as a caucasian southerner, I have eaten more than enough of the stuff to bely any aspersions of that nature.

Strengths: Aside from tasting like awesome lives in your mouth, fried chicken keeps for longer than most dishes, which is another reason it became popular in the pre-refrigeration south. It may well be the perfect picnic food, since you are required by law to eat it with your hands in most states.

Weaknesses: Other than the whole "racism" angle, it looks like fried chicken might not actually be healthy. More on this as it develops.

Fun Fact: Colonel Sanders was named a Kentucky Colonel in 1935, nearly 20 years before KFC was franchised.

Addition by Subtraction

2009-12-03T07:00:00.001-06:00

TMS archive #something-or-other

I usually hate that term. But I just had to pop in to say good riddance. According to ESPN Chicago, the Cubs have traded Aaron Miles and Jake Fox for some prospects. It's a Holiday Miracle!

I mean, don't get me wrong, Jake Fox has a decent bat, but he was a worse fielder than this site's namesake.

And more importantly, with this move the 2010 Cubs will be AARON FREE!

2010 update: don't know why I bothered moving this over. Inertia, I guess. At any rate, the 2010 Cubs found plenty of ways to suck without Aarons...

Wolter's Random Braindump, Vol 40

2009-10-29T07:00:00.001-06:00

Some assorted thoughts on this fine Thursday:

Through a combination of extremely bad planning and wretched tiredness, I missed the World Series opener. However, I guessed the outcome solely by noticing the lack of psychotically pro-Yankee facebook status updates from friends of mine who have no business rooting for that team. Nobody's louder than a Yankees fan when they win, and nobody changes the subject faster than a Yankees fan when they lose. I'm hoping for a sweep.

On that note, while I think it's good for the Series to have a villain, there is nothing I want more than for the Cubs to have more 21st century WS wins than the Yankees. Anyone who wishes otherwise is insane at best, and at worst, a traitor to the human race.

I haven't done any sophisticated analysis on the TMS 2009 baseball predictions, but I believe this entry wins the award for Most Completely Correct Prediction in History.

"The 97 mph fastball was long gone, the aura and mystique had faded, and he was fighting to prove his ability to merely contribute. The former Cy Young ace was now a conjurer, a Merlin of the mound, hoping his knowledge, guile, and a little bit of smoke and mirrors was enough to make it back to the Show.

"Sadly, I don't think it was."

"The box score will say Pedro didn't do that badly, giving up one hit, hitting a batter, and striking out one. But great change-up aside, I'd say his tank is empty."

"... I wouldn't be surprised if Sunday was the last day of Pedro Martinez's brilliant baseball career."

This is the exact sort of predictive skill one would expect from a writer for a blog named after future Hall of Famer Matthew Henry Murton.

Sadly, it looks like I'm missing tonight's game due to a prior engagement, but I really hope Pedro sticks it to the Yankees all over again. It would be so very, very sweet.

Part of the bad planning mentioned above was an unscheduled trip to the Apple Store with my fiancee and her mother to help her with a PC-to-Mac switchover. This, in itself isn't hard. I've actually done it twice now. But the Best Buy employee that originally backed up her PC files did a number on it. Let me tell you this: I'm not a computer guy, so I love Macs. I love iPods. I really love my iPhone. But two-and-a-half hours in an Apple Store is a form of almost Lovecraftian horror. Nothing makes sense after about a half-hour, and by the 2nd hour sinister forces beyond your comprehension begin to reveal themselves to you. On the plus side, the wi-fi was free.

I have decided not to include pictures in this blog post. Why? Because I hate you, the reader.

Behind the scenes at TMS, we spend a lot of time deciding to whom we give support, and from whom we take it away. There have been some rumblings that we must no longer support Wanda Sykes (which surprised me, because I didn't even see her name on the TMS Support Whiteboard). Brant Brown has offered the following evidence for the prosecution:

"The promotional spots for her new Saturday night talk show on FOX have become a painful nuisance on our otherwise peaceful Sunday NFL and MLB viewing. What is really expected here? The Wanda Sykes Show will air at 11:00 p.m. Sure it will get a half-hour jump start on Saturday Night Live, but let's be serious: no one watches late night television on Saturdays anymore. Conan is struggling to regain his predecessor's ratings numbers on weeknights, and Leno is living his own Bad Idea Jeans commercial at a "gimme" 10:00 p.m. slot.

"Will people DVR her show and watch it later? C'mon, would you DVR it? Our DVRs as a nation are so backlogged with Top Chef and Ice Road Truckers episodes that we'll never get to Wanda.

"The bottom line is that there is no incentive to watch The Wanda Sykes Show. Don't get us wrong, she's not a hack like George Lopez. It's just that her style of comedy really works when it is untethered, but it will be difficult to translate to network television. While we applaud her good fortune, we can no longer support her entertainment endeavors.

Even playing Devil's Advocate, I can only come up with the following Lionel Hutzian defense:

"Well, she was funny in her segments on Dr. Katz"

Ok, I don't really hate you, the reader. I was just being cranky. I think I need a nap. And some cheap scotch.

Apparently, the Cubs are considering leaving their spring home in Mesa, Arizona if they are not granted new facilities. If so, they would move right near the tip of America's Dong, Florida. Naples, to be precise. While this sort of thing doesn't move me too deeply, it has long been my policy to support the destruction of Florida, and everything it stands for. Except for quality Death Metal and Space Mountain, everything Florida has given to this nation has disappointed me mightily. Wait. Even Space Mountain is kind of blah. Well, at least they have Atheist. I'd rant more about how much Florida sucks politically, but I usually leave our radical liberal agenda to resident TMS Communard, Arcturus.

On a final note: I will be celebrating Halloween this year, the same way I always do - sitting alone in the dark, drinking cheap scotch, and listening to the Misfits. Feel free to do the same.

Hervé Villechaize Named New Cubs Hitting Coach

2009-10-22T07:00:00.000-06:00

A filler, no killer from TMS.

Well, yesterday was Wednesday, so that can mean only one thing: time for the Cubs to hire a new hitting coach.

We could see it coming. Anemic bats and a lackluster offense piss a fan base off to no end, so Jim Hendry did the one thing a good GM does to revive flagging run production: through a series of intelligent trades and smart free agent signings, he picked up some patient hitters with good power to...even I can't finish this sentence.

No, he did what Jim Hendry does: he changed coaches. Again. And this time, he did it in a spectaculary Hendrian way: a long term contract.

At first I was stunned that Hendry chose Hervé Villechaize for such a demanding position. I mean the man's main claim to fame is playing the lovable Tattoo from television's Fantasy Island, a show I'm pretty sure I watched as a very small child, but have no concrete memories of other than it gave Khan a chance to dress like Sonny Crockett. Of course, I mainly remember him as Nick Nack from the exquisitely awful Roger Moore Bond flick, The Man With the Golden Gun.

And while I'm aware that the entertainment industry has a long tradition of casting little people in major motion pictures (including such luminaries as Billy Bardy, Verne Troyer, Peter Dinklage, and Tom Cruise), baseball hasn't really followed suit (with the notable exceptions of Eddie Gaedel and Mike Fontenot).

I'm sure some think this signing is a tip of the cap to the late, great Bill Veeck, and a belated acknowledgement that the Cubs haven't really been a worthwhile franchise since a Veeck ran the show on the North Side. But I beg to differ.

First, the Cubs aren't so completely awful and low-attended that the fans need distractions to come to the ballpark. Yet. And Villechaize is a native Frenchman. Baseball has long had problems with Francophonic peoples, culminating in the near-30-year flirtation with Montreal baseball, an affair that ended in such an ugly manner than the team ended up moving to Washington, a city whose reputation for baseball suckitude was so widespread that even musical theatre types know it.

No. I know what this move is.

Pure Dada.

The Cubs have tried making coherent plans to win a World Series in the past. Clearly, they aren't good at that. At all.

No, they're shaking things up by challenging the notions of narrative and sense in public discourse. They're tapping into the unconscious, anti-reasoning dark side of human nature and making a comment to the sporting world that chaos and irrationality are the only solution to a rationalistic world that has led to global wars, corporate greed, and the continued existence of Aaron Miles.

And I, for one, salute this new avante-garde team. For too long have Cubs fans tried to make sense of the myriad asinine moves made by assorted front offices. Why not push it all the way, defying all sequential thought and causality? Why not sign a bitter, angry alcoholic, French midget to teach a team of multimillionaire atheletes how to hit?

Whoa. It turns out Villechaize has been dead for 16 years. GENIUS!

My cap is doffed to you, Hendr--what? Hold on a sec.

Oh. My mistake.

The Cubs actually signed former Texas hitting coach Rudy Jaramillo.

I guess that makes a lot more sense. He's had a hell of a lot more baseball experience. Assuming that the Cubs are planning on moving in the outfield walls, juicing like a Tropicana factory, and swinging for the stars, I support this move wholeheartedly.

So yeah...sorry about wasting your time. I really shouldn't have tried to do cogent analysis when I stopped following baseball in July. Next week, I'll write about Iron Maiden or post-punk or the hilarious results of teen pregnancy.

P.S. - God, I still hate Aaron Miles so much.

The 1979 Files, Volume 3

2009-10-15T07:00:00.000-06:00

More TMS archiving, brought to you by Mutual of Omaha.

Has it really been over three weeks since I last spoke on that most glorious of music years, 1979? A quick look at the calendar says yes. But a quick look into my heart says I never really left.¹

And so, as promised back in the mythical era of late September, I now return to the Promised Land to bring back a slab of near perfect wax. And as promised, I present to you the Finest Hour from The Only Band That Matters. I present:

The Clash - The Cost of Living E.P.

(A disclaimer: I like the Clash. A lot. A whole lot. As in, I "have a tattoo of Joe Strummer on my right arm" like the Clash. So I have some very strong opinions about them. Some of them are irrational. Deal with it. )

Okay, I'm sure several people probably already assumed the best Clash release came out in 1979. And they assumed it was London Calling. I'm not here to find fault with London Calling. I love that album more than most people love their children. But anything that has a song where Joe Strummer sings about tantric sex (shudder) will never be a perfect album.

But the Cost of Living is.

This is four songs that basically define what made the Clash a great rock band. Their seminal debut is a classic of the time, but the razorwire production and inconsistent songwriting knock it down a peg. The criminally underrated Give 'Em Enough Rope is a classic in the heavy 70s glam guitar tradition (and is not a Heavy Metal album, despite what the lazy music press accuses it of being), but the vocals are too far down in the mix, and side two dips in quality compared to the amazing 1-2-3 punch it opens with. London Calling is a deep and rich album, and gives CoL a run for the money, but falls just short. Sandinista! is a sprawling,² insane mess. Combat Rock is filler-heavy, and is clearly the sound of a band breaking up. And Cut the Crap? Clearly the work of a madman.

The Cost of Living, however? Perfect. It's a distillation of the Clash in their purest form. And as it's only 4 songs, I can actually do a song-by-song review without spending the rest of my life writing this:

"I Fought the Law" - Opening up the first side with a galloping, unforgettable drum beat courtesy of Topper Headon, wailing guitar, and perfectly spat-out vocals, this track is, without a doubt, the definitive version of the Sonny Curtis classic. Sure, the Bobby Fuller Four version still gets airplay, but everyone who has ever covered it since is basically covering the Clash version. Simply stunning song, absolutely flawless cover, and a great way to start the album. In fact, I would go so far to say this is the single greatest cover of any song in rock history.

"Groovy Times" - The fact that this is the weakest track on the E.P. should show how strong an album this is. A scathing indictment of the depressing state of late 70s Britain, this is an epic track, with a surprisingly deft, understated guitar and harmonica courtesy of "Bob"(actually guitarist Mick) Jones. Bitter lines like "They discovered one black Saturday/the mobs don't march, they run" and a subtle swipe at Elvis Costello (so subtle it was nearly 10 years until I became aware of it) dance across the elegiac music. Again: the weakest song.

"Gates of the West" - Mind-rapingly awesome power pop with a Mick Jones vocal about the band on the brink of actually breaking America, an achievement that 95% of British bands claim not to care about while desperately attempting to do so. Proof that the Clash could have gone down the Cheap Trick/Raspberries/Knack path and still been legendary. When I started collecting Clash bootlegs, I was gutted to learn this was never played live.

"Capital Radio Two" - Holy. Shit. This song smokes more than Dan Ackroyd does in Ghostbusters. The original "Capital Radio," a scathing assault on the government sponsored radio station, was released on a promotional flexi-disc from the NME, which was so sought-after that copies were going for over 40 pounds within a year of realease. To rectify this, the Clash re-recorded it...louder...and with a different arrangement. Beginning with a simple, soft intro, the song kicks into overtime about 30 seconds in, as the entire band smashes into the song like a brick of compressed radness slamming you in the face. And after about a minute and a half of pummeling your senses with Les Pauls and Telecasters, Joe Strummer calls the bands attention and tells them they'll never get on the radio like that. So, "on the count of four...FOUR!" the band breaks into a hilarious parody of disco music, including a lyrical swipe at the Grease soundtrack and screeching falsettos leading to fadeout.

Thus ends the most perfect release in Clash history.³

The Cost of Living is a little tricky to get your hands on in a hard copy these days. If you want to pony up the money for the Singles Box Set, you can have a replica sleeve, but it's pretty much only for hardcore fans. "I Fought the Law" is on the American reissue of the debut, and pretty much every Best of... complilation the Clash have ever released. The remaining songs can all be found on Super Black Market Clash (where I originally heard them in 1993), a compilation that I highly recommend for showing all of the strengths and all of the weaknesses of the Clash on a single disc.

Thanks to iTunes, I rather imagine you could download all of the tracks separately and make your own, though. You really should.

Tune in next time as I somehow use the weakest album from one of my favorite bands to glorify 1979.

1. This is entirely metaphorical. A quick look into my actual heart actually reveals decades of McRib-related arterial plaque.
2. It is mandated that all reviews that reference Sandinista! use the term "sprawling."
3. Okay, the original vinyl release, and the Japanese version of the recent Singles box set include the "Cost of Living Advert" track, but that isn't really a song, so much as Joe Strummer talking in a really bad Jamaican accent over music. But you'd have to go out of your way to hear it in that version, so I discount it.

"Wrigleyville" Bar Project: The Long Room

2009-10-08T07:00:00.002-06:00

TMS archive again, folks. Sensing a pattern?

With the name Saloon included in our moniker, one could surmise that we here at TMS like to drinky drinky. One that would make such an assumption would be correct, thereby throwing out the whole, 'when you assume you make an 'ass' out of 'u' and 'me' bullshit. We're here to profile some of the local watering holes around Wrigley, so that you aren't the poor sap who gets dragged into going to the Cubby Bear before the game, wherein you are soon left wondering how your life spiraled out of control so quickly. Tommy Buzanis has pledged to help out with this column, as he is no stranger to the bottle, but you can rest assured that those promises are as empty as his shot glass. So here it is, another sporadically timed, mildly entertaining column that you can only find here at the TMS. Actually you can probably find lots of info on Wrigley bars in a much more concise and helpful format, but that's neither here nor there.

Today’s Bar: The Long Room, 1612 W. Irving Park (Look, I don't actually drink in Wrigleyville proper very often folks. You'll have to bear with me).

Website: http://www.longroomchicago.com/

Douchebag Factor (1-10, with 10 being this guy): 2 (it would have been even lower, but there was a really shrill voiced girl that had trouble deciding what beer to get).

Who You’ll See Here: Mostly neighborhood folks. Decent mix of humanity. The Tamale Man.

What to Order: They have a pretty large beer selection here, as well as some decent specials. The prices seem about average-to-low for Chicago on most items. I had a couple of La Fin Du Mondes (one of my favorite beers) at 6 bucks apiece, followed by a Schlitz for 3. The kicker though was closing out with a Laphroaig Islay Malt Scotch for only 8 bucks (which is very decent for ordering that at a bar).

But really, what you need to bring your money for are the TAMALES. More on that later.

If you were to see a celebrity here, it would be: I'm just going to say Harry Dean Stanton. It seems like his kind of place. Not sure why. Just go with it.

Summary: The Long Room was a pretty low-key, very relaxed place when I visited it last night. Nice atmosphere, and so unpretentious that Chaim Witz would probably burst into flames if he crossed the threshold.

The bar is aptly named, as it runs narrowly down the length of its building. There is an outdoor porch in the back that I didn't see much of, but I can assume is nice. There's a photobooth in the back if you like wasting money, and a good amount of regular "seating" booths (I hate sitting at regular tables in bars). And get this: it has parking for customers.

Again, there were a lot of beers available (enough that I panicked and went to a go-to beer to start), and what seemed like a pretty good liquor selection as well.

But what makes it for me is that that atmosphere of comfort and relaxation is interrupted every hour by The Tamale Man. I love bars with tamale salesmen coming through. Made fresh in a van parked nearby, these little packets of joy are sold in bunches of six, and man are they worth it. One of the people in our party said they were as good as the tamales his grandmother made, and I guarantee you that they're better than my grandmother ever could have made (however, this is probably because my grandmother probably never saw a tamale in her life).

Really, I'm actually annoyed writing this, because I want more of those tamales. They're like crack, only legal and you don't feel like a dirtbag 15 minutes after trying one at a party out in Goose Creek, South Carolina and STOP LOOKING AT ME!!!!!¹

Anyway, good bar, great tamales, parking. Check it out.

Thunder Matt Rating: 5.5 piping hot tamales out of 6.

1. I actually have never smoked crack. That was ACTING!

Mathematical Elimination Fever - CATCH IT!

2009-09-29T07:00:00.000-06:00

TMS archive again.

Well, that was fun, huh?

You didn't have fun this season? Yeah, me neither.

To be honest, I haven't watched a lot of Cubs baseball lately. For the same reason I don't hang around the oncology ward of my local hospital. Tending to the slow wasting away of a reasonably promising team is not my ideal plan to spend the fleeting Chicago summer.

Which is not to say I didn't have nagging fears about this season. After compiling what was probably the best Cubs team of my lifetime in 2008, Hendry did so very little in the offseason. How was I to know that even the little he did was awful?

I'm not going to go into detail about all the wretched ways the 2008 Cubs were dismantled (other than to say that I had no beef with getting rid of DeRosa, provided the Cubs received more than a bucket of goddamn baseballs - which they did not). I'm just going to make a quiet list of the things that annoyed me about this season, with the hope that a few of them could be rectified:

The addition of Aarons to the roster.

The addition of roughly 78 pounds of pot tits to Geovany Soto's frame.

The annual jerk-around deal that doesn't happen. At least this year it was Jake Peavy Watch, and not year three of Brian Roberts Watch.

The fact that I was under the assumption that the DeRosa trade was part of a master plan to trade for someone like Peavy.

The fact that I assumed ANYTHING was actually part of a master plan on anyone's part in the front office.

Aaron Miles.

The loss of franchise face Kerry Wood combined with the meatheads who failed to notice how awful he did in Cleveland. Both a kick to my emotions and my brain.

The way the same meatheads turned on Zambrano, as if this team has another #1 starter.

The ongoing love affair that this fanbase has with mediocre gritlings like Ryan Theriot and Sam Fuld.

Aaron Fucking Miles. Have I mentioned him yet? Or Heilman? What about him?

Kevin Gregg's Extra Chromosome: Closer

The fact that Derrek Lee's production seems to be inversely proportional to the production of his teammates. God, if he played for the Nats this year he'd be hitting .460 with 98 home runs.

Everything about the Milton Bradley debacle. EVERYTHING. Everyone one every side and every statement ever made on it should be scoured out of our collective brains.

The loss of the Z-stache. I'm pretty sure that was the beginning of the end.

Aaron Miles. 'Nuff Said.

I've never looked forward to football and hockey so much in my life.

Want More Freelance Dramaturg?

2009-09-22T16:16:00.005-06:00

You got him!

I promise to one day provide real, honest to god Slog-tent sooner or later. I have been plugging away over at Thunder Matt's Saloon, though, so if you need your Wolter fix, remember to check there (usually on Tuesdays).

But until then, have a little Freelance Dramaturg on me...

As usual, click to enlarge.

Standard Disclaimer No One Believes: though FD bears superficial resemblance to me, he is not me. Nor is FSO meant in any way to represent the always charming and vivacious Alibear. She would have been attentive to a fault if I came home like that. Also, she has a nose, and is drawn a lot better than that in real life.¹

Coming soon: The Slog's Album of the Year!²

One of the "rules" I've set for Freelance Dramaturg is that I don't lay these out or sketch them in any way first, so any weird proportion issues or odd panels are explained by that perverse self-discipline.
I swear it's not Damn Right, Rebel Proud again. Honest.

The 1979 Files, Volume 2

2009-09-22T07:00:00.000-06:00

More 1979 fun from the defunct Saloon.

It's a random Tuesday morning, so that can only mean one thing: the return of my quasi-popular series (well, now that there are two, it's a series) profiling that of forgotten year of majesty, 1979.

Today I will be joined by special guest co-blogger, me at age 13, who will be providing a non-post-punk-fans perspective of this album. Part of the purpose of this will be for me to convince people of the importance of this relatively obscure work. Because at 13, I needed to listen to much better music than I did. So without further ado, we bring you:

The Slits - Cut

Wolter: Thank you for joining us, 13-year old version of me. I know you've had a tough year, what with the hurricane destroying your house, and the Cubs getting knocked out of the playoffs by goddamn Will Cla--but I digress...

13-Year Old Wolter: Excuse me...are those tits on that cover?

W: Yes, but--

13yoW: Wow...right on the cover?

W: Yes, but really that's no big deal. They were making a comment on the commodification of sexuality--

13yoW: Can I look at that again?

W: No. Honestly, the Slits weren't even that attractive. And their lead singer is kinda insane. That's not my point. Cut is a seminal album of the post-punk era. At first dismissed as teenage groupies and hangers-on of the punk scene (with an admittedly amazingly perfect name), the Slits managed to put together one of the more iconic female-led albums of the scene.

Cut is louded with naive (in a good way) guitar play, heavy dub bass, solid drumming (from future Siouxsie & the Banshees drummer Budgie, the only man in the group), and weird-but-engaging vocals. Vocalist Ari Up was singing like Bjork before Bjork knew how to sing like Bjor--

13yoW: Whose tits are hers? The middle one?

W: It's not important. What's important here is the sense of genuine female empowerment in these songs. Such classics as "So Tough" and "Instant Hit" provide a strong mockery of some of the more foolish and bravado-laden men in the burgeoning punk scene. They makes the commodified rebellion of Alannis Morrissette seem as contrived as the so-called "Girl Power" of the Spice Girls. And the back-to-back punch of "Spend Spend Spend" and "Shoplifting" present the problem of commodification and a not-quite-tongue-in-cheek solution.

13yoW: So, back to this cover...

W: I'm beginning to think I made a huge mistake. I should have asked 19-Year Old Punk Rock Wolter for his persp--

19-Year Old Punk Rock Wolter: Up yours, sellout. I'm not writing your shitty blog post for you, fatass.

W: Nevermind. Anyway, there are several other standout tracks, like "FM" (which stands for Frequent Mutilations) and "Love and Romance." And, of course, the standout track, "Typical Girls." A wild sleighride of a song, which speeds up, slows down, and rocks hard at every turn, "Typical Girls" is a slam on all of the cultural notions of what women are supposed to be, that asks the question:

Who invented the typical girl?
Who's bringing out the new improved model?

Then gives the chilling conclusion:

And there's another marketing ploy:
Typical girl gets the typical boy!

Which points out we are all forced to play the roles that society assigns us, and the typical boy is no better off, as he will also be caught in the same web with the typical gi--

13yoW: I'd settle for getting caught in a web with any girl at this point.

W: Oh for Christ's sake! Will you--Okay...I probably shouldn't have tried talking about sexuality with a 13-year old. This is bringing back some embarrassing memories.

Okay...moving on...the only flaw I have with this record is the flaw I have with all heavy, dubby music: though I don't think any of the songs are weak, it's hard to listen to in one solid sitting unless one is high enough to drink the beef juice out of a crock pot full of loose meat for sandwiches--

13yoW: What the hell are you talking about?

W: You'll understand when you're older.

At any rate, Cut is a first-rate postpunk album, that has inspired, either directly or indirectly, a large portion of women's independent music in the last quarter century. Whether this is a good or a bad thing is probably up to you to decide.

Oh, and if you decide to get this album, I recommend the version with bonus tracks, so you can hear the pretty cool heavy reggae version of "I Heard It Through the Grapevine."

13yoW: Does it have the same cover?

W: ...Yes.

13yoW: Awesome.

W: Tune in next time, when I focus on the best slab of vinyl The Clash ever made. And it's NOT what you think.

13yoW: How old am I when I finally get this album?

W: Old enough to buy actual porn.

13yoW: Oh. Cool. I guess...

1979 Files Archive:
Entertainment!

Unsticking the Craw

2009-09-15T07:00:00.001-06:00

More TMS archival material.

I got a lot of things stuck in my craw this morning, so I'm just going to uncraw the hell out of a couple, folks.

I. I Am Apparently Friends With a Lot of 13-Year-Old Girls

No, not literally. I am not Gary Glitter; step back Chris Hansen. I just noticed yesterday that, judging by Facebook statuses, a lot of my friends, many of whom are my age and older, were filled with outrage that Kanye West interrupted Taylor Swift to praise Beyonce, or something like that at the Video Music Awards. Which means that a lot of my friends, many of whom are married adults with college degrees and young children, are watching the Video Music Awards.

Folks: an overrated pop star insulted another overrated pop star, and a third overrated pop star was involved. Genocide in Darfur never gets this kind of outrage. You are adults. You should really start caring about adult things, which I define as whatever the hell isn't on goddamn MTV.

II. Chicago Sports Fans Are Actually Worse Than 13-Year-Old Girls

I know it's only the lunatic fringe now, but the fact that immediately following Chicago's (non-blowout) loss on Sunday, certain Bears fans were already ready to run Jay Cutler out of town only strengthens my point. I mean, I'm used to my fellow Cubs fans being out on the ledge, but COME ON. Calm down. It was a loss. It was a bad day. Relax. And for God's sake: do not even pretend that Orton is better than Cutler based on one goddamn day. And it will only get worse if they lose another game between now and the Super Bowl.

I have never seen a whinier batch of fembots than the average group of fanatical Chicago sports fans when faced with an unexpected loss. And I know several Morrissey and Cure fans. Every time a highly touted player lets them down, Chicago is flooded with a sentiment of "bring back the mediocre journeyman with grit and hustle and scrap that couldn't win a damn ballgame either!" God, if one of the Cubs slap-hittin' cajuns actually gets traded, prepare for a collective, city wide crying jag.

Note: It is acceptable to be upset about losing Urlacher to an injury. That actually does suck donkey wang - although most of the people hand-wringing about this loss wanted to run him out of town on a rail last season. Crybabies.

III. We Are Creeping Closer To a Police State Again

Read this article, and this follow up.

If you still think Kanye West's behavior is worth wasting your outrage after hearing this story, then you can die in a fire.

"Wrigleyville" Bar Project: Driftwood

2009-09-08T07:00:00.000-06:00

A TMS archive joint.

With the name Saloon included in our moniker, one could surmise that we here at TMS like to drinky drinky. One that would make such an assumption would be correct, thereby throwing out the whole, 'when you assume you make an 'ass' out of 'u' and 'me' bullshit. We're here to profile some of the local watering holes around Wrigley, so that you aren't the poor sap who gets dragged into going to the Cubby Bear before the game, wherein you are soon left wondering how your life spiraled out of control so quickly. Tommy Buzanis has pledged to help out with this column, as he is no stranger to the bottle, but you can rest assured that those promises are as empty as his shot glass. So here it is, another sporadically timed, mildly entertaining column that you can only find here at the TMS. Actually you can probably find lots of info on Wrigley bars in a much more concise and helpful format, but that's neither here nor there.

Today’s Bar: Driftwood, 1021 W. Montrose (Okay, fine. This is in Buena Park. Sue me. It's like 4 blocks from my house).

Website: http://www.driftwoodbarchicago.com/

Douchebag Factor: (1-10, with 10 being this guy): Variable, usually between 2-6

Who You’ll See Here: probably between 2-6 other people, a dog or two, and 2-3 junkies spanging on the sidewalk outside.

What to Order: Cheap beer, and a lot of it. I've seen specials on PBR tallboys, Hamm's, and Miller High Life when I've been there. Though I've heard you can get yerself a pretty stiff likker-drink if you'd like.

If you were to see a celebrity here, it would be: I dunno. Somebody that no one would recognize anyway, like a character actor. M. Emmet Walsh or D.B. Sweeney, I guess. Possibly Benji.

Summary: The Driftwood is a bar with a serious identity crisis. It looks like it was originally intended to be a reasonably upscale local watering hole, but the corner of Montrose and Broadway is not a reasonably upscale neighborhood (The four corners are: A Jewel, A Check Cashing place, a crappy Chase that used to be an even crappier Wamu, and a construction lot that used to be a tattoo parlor, and will one day be a Target. One day...). It sells shitty canned beer like it wants to be a hipster-centric dive, but the hipsters are all either further north, south, or west of Buena Park. And despite the photos on the website (and the one above), the place is hardly ever crowded (which is fine by me, because I hate other human beings almost as much as I hate Cardinals fans).

What it loses in identity issues, it more than makes up for in cheap prices and closeness to my house. Plus, despite looking like a hotel bar in an 80s movie, it actually feels like a neighborhood place. Assuming your neighborhood is a mix of 20-something recent college grads with no future, 40-something Bears fans with no present, and 30-something Mexican immigrants that don't talk about their past (and really, really, really like to shoot pool). Best of all, it's dog-friendly. Which means if I want to get wasted, but still know that my dog isn't taking a dump on my bed, the option is there. It really is a decent place to relax, have a beer, and watch the game.

Oh, and there's darts. You know. In case you want to play darts.

Thunder Matt Rating: 4 crumpled tall-boys in the construction lot across the street out of a six-pack.

The 1979 Files, Volume 1

2009-09-01T07:00:00.000-06:00

Though I have only done like 3 installments of this, this is one of my favorite TMS archival series.

Ah, 1979. I have nothing but the fondest memories of that year. Probably because the only memories I have of that year are vague ones about seeing the Star Wars reissue in the theater and getting a puppy for Christmas. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that 1979 was pretty much the watermark for Music That Is Designed to Make Wolter Happy. Which therefore makes 1979 the Artistic High Mark of Human Culture.

Bear with me on that.

I know you’re going to talk about the prevalence of shitty disco and bad chart music. But know this: since the 60s ended, every year’s top 40 and dance music has been crappy. That’s what top 40 and dance charts are for, and it can be safely ignored. Also, I should cop to the fact that unlike bartender Chip Wesley (who could probably write a top 100 albums for every year TMS has been around), I own maybe 25 albums recorded in the 21st Century. Of which I regularly listen to about 3.

So with this, the first in a potential running series of articles (we’ll see how much steam I have on this) highlighting the achievements of this underrated year, I’ll start with an obvious choice:

Gang of Four – Entertainment

Leave it four very Caucasian Marxists from Leeds to take funk, remove the sexy from it, add political sloganeering and guitar noise (and just a slice of dub-reggae production), and create a masterpiece of angular, quasi-danceable, post-punk manifestos. This album is the aural equivalent of a slow building mental breakdown, except halfway through the process you realize that going crazy was probably the sanest thing you’ve ever done.

From the plodding, spaciously-claustrophobic opening track (“Ether”) to the final ominous, noise-droned anti-love song (“Anthrax”), which on one channel has Jon King chanting neurotic lyrics about his aversion to love, while on the other channel, guitarist Andy Gill casually and clinically analyzes why bands record shallow songs about love, not a note is wasted. Gill’s scraping guitar often sounds like it’s spilled across Dave Allen and Hugo Burnham’s muscular rhythm section, only to coalesce into a tight, noisy lockstep that shows he knew what he was doing all along.

God, I love this album. Sure, the lyrics are mostly sloganeering, but so are all political songs. The unreconstructed angry leftist in me eats up songs decrying the Great Men Theory of history (“Not Great Men”), Patriotism and Militarism (“Guns Before Butter”), and the commodification and work-induced regimentation of every waking moment of our lives (“Return the Gift,” with the insistent, chilling chant of “Please send me evenings and weekends.”). But the bitter, alienated cynic in me can latch on to the anti-Romanticism of the aforementioned “Anthrax” (a case of which King compares falling in love to catching), and the jaundiced view of sexual relationships found in songs like “Damaged Goods” and “I Found That Essence Rare,” (which reminds us that the bikini is named after an atoll decimated by atomic testing – “She doesn’t think so, but she’s dressed for the H-Bomb.”).

Before you start sneering, “Jeez, Wolter…that sounds really fun. Why don’t I just open a vein instead,” I need to point out that this album rocks. Hard. Sure it’s angular and dissonant, but it’s also danceable and funky as hell (in a funhouse-mirror sort of way). And it has a long reach: Flea from Red Hot Chili Peppers has said that hearing Entertainment! changed the way he viewed playing bass guitar, and a slew of the stronger Punk/Hardcore/Independent bands of the past 30 years have followed Go4’s lead, which is especially clear in the way both 80s SoCal stalwarts The Minutemen and 90s post-hardcore legends Fugazi incorporated their guitar vs. rhythm section arrangements. And I’m not even going to spend more than a sentence saying that Franz Ferdinand, Bloc Party, et al, have more or less made careers out of re-hashing Go4 songs, in the same way that Enemies of TMS Oasis have done with the Beatles and their contemporaries.

Top this off with provocative cover art about Cowboys and Indians that can be interpreted as a slam on historical Colonialism, the unspoken media presentation of racial and cultural issues in simplistic terms, or simply emblematic of the album’s relentless assault on the exploitation, commodification, and dehumanization of modern society (repackaged as entertainment, no less), and you have one hell of a party.

If these adjective-vomiting histrionics have somehow inspired you to check out this album, I strongly suggest the Rhino reissue, which has the entire Yellow Ep as well as 4 other bonus tracks (including a surprisingly faithful live cover of “Sweet Jane”) tacked on to the end.

Tune in next time, when I will probably review an album with tits on the cover.

My Sad Little Life: A Recap

2009-08-27T07:00:00.000-06:00

Thunder Matt fun for the whole family!

What's been going on in my brain of late:

Thunder Matt has been DFA'd in Colorado, yet no one will pull the trigger on the AArons here. Hendry, I'm looking in your Huttesque direction.

Apparently Crane Kenney is still going to be president of the Cubs under the Ricketts regime. Meet the New Boss. Literally and With No Exaggeration, Same as the Old Boss.

Despite my best attempts to defend him from the more emotional and strident Cubs fans I know, Milton Bradley insists on being a temperamental prick. At least he's making contact, finally.

Wednesday's 9-4 win has done NOTHING to wash the stain of the 15-6 loss to the Nats on Tuesday. I thought I had given up on this team before, but AAron Heilman coughing up the Grand Slam will go down in the history books as the exact moment I stopped giving a tin shit about the 2009 Cubs. And I'm better for it.

I'm up to page 190 on Mason & Dixon. Some really beautiful writing on the relationship between fathers and sons and the nature of love, longing, grief, and duty. Not nearly enough talking clocks, though.

My fiancee is out of town for four days starting tonight, which means the meals I cook are less in the area of "a small portion of cooked fish and a salad with homemade vinaigrette," and more along the lines of "steak, tater tots, and scotch." It also means I may have a heart attack by Friday.

On the subject of Steak:

A) My cut was pretty cheap, but I marinated the living hell out of it. With coffee. It was pretty decent.

B) I also made gravy. Because I am southern. It was awesome.

On the subject of Tater Tots:

A) Much like Wayne Newton with pasta, I always make too much.

B) If you are going to bake them (because, like me, you don't want to start a grease fire in your hovel), for god's sake, broil them for a couple of minutes or they're really just soggy potato lumps.

C) Though they run the risk of moving into Overrated territory, I love that Tater Tots are showing up on a lot of local bar menus. They are great drunk food.

On the subject of Scotch:

A) I like it.

B) A lot.

On the subject of Holy Shit, This Is Rad:

A) Holy shit, this is rad.

Repeated viewings of Bridezillas with said fiancee over the past few weeks (which is doing wonders for my masculinity, let me tell you) have led me to the conclusion that Women Must Be Stopped. Honestly. It seems like half of these cows are only getting married so they can treat their best friends like slaves for a few weeks.

Within hours of declaring that I was arbitrarily supporting West Ham United FC (though not actually watching soccer, as it bores me to tears) for the sole reason that Steve Harris of Iron Maiden is a huge fan, their supporters got into a riot with Millwall supporters. Which delights me to no end, because while I don't really care about soccer, I really love hooliganism.

It turns out none of the things I've had to say have moved me enough to write a full blog entry. So you get these dregs. Hope you're happy.

Oh, and instead of watching the Cubs game tonight, I watched a couple of Simpsons DVDs. It was the most fun I've had during a ballgame all year. I can only assume the fact that my apathy has hit full swing will make the Cubs a team of winners. You're welcome.

TMS Roundtable: Ghostbusters.

2009-08-20T07:00:00.001-06:00

Unsurprisingly, my love of ghostbusters ended up on TMS.

Or, THIS Is What We Do When We’re Not Writing Blog Posts

I'm actually so furious with the last couple of weeks of Cubdom that I can't think straight about the Cubs. When I learned that AAron Miles' OPS+ is like 20, I had to lay down for a minute. When I learned that even Neifi Perez in 2006 had an OPS+ of 53 I almost punched a hole in the Space-Time continuum to kill Jim Hendry before he was born.

So, I'm having trouble writing about baseball.

Instead, I thought I’d give another, much more lucid account of what goes on when TMS bartenders hang out in the break room (Per TMS Head Bartender Chip Wesley: “Well it's not Cubs-related so I don't see why it wouldn't be suitable for TMS”)

You may or may not know this, but the TMS staff is in constant communication via the miracle of email. That’s how we decide whether or not to endorse players like Randy Wells, or excoriate players like Miles. What follows is a transcript of that conversation, cleaned up ever so slightly (I apologize for the length, but you can always skip the boring comments, just like I do in a real email thread).

To set the scene: a couple of weeks ago, Chaim Witz came out with a shocking statement…

Chaim Witz:
I'll probably catch hell for this, but after watching it last night for the first time in years....while it was by no means terrible, and would certainly qualify as 'mildly amusing', I gotta say:

Overrated: Ghostbusters

Wolter:
Chaim, you couldn't be more wrong on the wrongingest day of your life with an electrified wronging machine.

Lingering Bursitis:
"Pompous PR flack slanders Ghostbusters unprompted; loses cushy job and all credibility regarding movies"

Arcturus:
Chaim: Gotta disagree with you on that one, although to be fair, Wolter and I probably got to experience the movie at a much younger age. Ghostbusters is one of the first movies I remember seeing in the theater.

Chaim Witz:
Defend it for me then. Sure, it's a nice piece of nostalgia, but unlike a movie like Back to the Future, it doesn't hold up to me. The plot is threadbare, even for what it is, it's only intermittently funny (courtesy mostly of Bill Murray) and the special effects are atrocious unless you view them in an 'awww, isn't that cute' way.

*****

Have you guys seen it recently though? Just because it was good when you were a kid doesn't mean it's still good today. There are a lot of 80's movies that are that way.

The only time I LOL'ed was the 'dickless' joke.

*****

Note, I didn't say it was "bad", just overrated. No way is that one of the best movies of the 80's. Dan Akroyd? Just not funny, sorry. Neither is Harold Ramis. If not for Murray (and sadly, Rick Moranis), that movie would be as forgettable as most of my posts.

Brant Brown:
"PR lackey shocked by firing; maintains that 'I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell' is better than 'Ghostbusters'"

The Hundley:
Chaim is guilty of "Pulling a [INSIDE JOKE WITH THE POTENTIAL FOR A LIBEL CHARGE EXCISED]" here. I disregard it all.

Brant Brown:
I have a strong feeling that I would agree with Chaim on Ghostbusters, so I intend to keep it locked away in my memories. I do always remember thinking that the marshmallow man was out of place, even when I was young.

Wolter:
I watch Ghostbusters on a surprisingly regular basis, Chaim. I love it oh-so-very-much.

Arcturus:
I've seen it many times, Chaim, most recently about a month ago, and I still enjoy it immensely. I'm not going to say it's the greatest movie of all time, but I think it’s held up pretty well, special effects aside. Those were good for their time and are now outdated, although I find they have a kind of charm.

I think many of us have gotten spoiled by CGI, but GB has action sequences I can follow without giving myself a headache. I watched the first Transformers movie and everything moves so fucking fast I have problems telling who's fighting who and who's doing what. In GB, when they're shooting the streams at the ghosts, I can actually tell what the hell is going on. I kinda like that.

You're certainly entitled to your opinion, but I love the movie. Bill Murray is the best part of it, but the way the rest of the cast interacts is pretty solid.

Wolter:
I love Aykroyd's pseudoscience. Also, the Moranis Lewis Tuttle party sequence was largely ad-libbed, which is massively impressive.

Arcturus:
Ernie Hudson has probably the most under-appreciated role in that movie. I fucking love Winston.

Wolter:
I think Ghostbusters is probably the movie (outside of maybe the original Star Wars trilogy) that I have quoted the most in my life. It's my Casablanca.

*****

Or, I should say "my Caddyshack?"

Former Bartender Jordi Scrubbings:
I'll admit Ghostbusters is a different movie from a kid to an adult, especially after you experience college. As a kid you are amazed at the idea of catching ghosts and the photon pack, etc. As an adult you get more into the relationships - the Ghostbusters with the college (awkward and forced at best), Peter with Dana (completely unprofessional), and the Ghostbusters with the city. Keep in mind, too, that it followed Caddyshack and was a reunion of some of Second City's greatest alumni. Why it is based in NY and not Chicago is beyond me - maybe as a response to Blues Brothers?

Although random, what I am trying to say is that I still like Ghostbusters. It’s just for different reasons.

The Hundley:
Yeah, after I got to college I said, "That's it; I'm done trying to catch ghosts".

Wolter:
The Hundley just made me laugh out loud. Hard. A coworker just peeked in.

One thing I never noticed as a kid that I do as an adult: everyone smokes like a fucking chimney in that movie.

*****

The reason it's probably not a huge ode to Chicago is that Aykroyd (the main force behind its original creation) was from the Toronto Second City, where Ramis had also done a lot of work. The Firehouse base is based on the Toronto Second City's location, and that scene was very much homage to the early days there.

White Chili:
I still can't wrap my head around Belushi playing the part of Peter.

Wolter:
What about John Candy in the Moranis role? If it weren't for Splash conflicting, it would have happened.

Chaim, you have inadvertently strengthened my resolve to watch Ghostbusters again, post-haste.

Hey, Arcturus. Here's some Ernie Hudson love: a remixed trailer with him as the star of a much darker supernatural thriller:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Olfn5LvcnnY&feature=player_embedded

Jordi Scrubbings:
Interesting for gb1, but I could not see Annie Potts being turned on by a geeky John Candy in gb2. No way.

Actually Candy and Sigourney Weaver is kinda unbelievable as well.

Arcturus:
Murray was perfect for Venkman. I have a hard time seeing Belushi in the part. He's sleazy enough, sure, but Murray makes the part. Dana says he's like a game show host. Murray really makes that aspect of the character shine through.

Loved the Ernie Hudson vid, Wolter. He's one of the best parts of that movie for me, despite the fact that he really has very little to do.

Ghostbusters II is utterly horrible, though. I did just recently watch that on TV the other day and it's godawful.

Wolter:
Ghostbusters II is terrible.

[We talk about other Bill Murray vehicles for a while. But SOMEONE can't let this go.]

Chaim Witz:
Back to Ghostbusters for a sec: Ernie Hudson is under -appreciated? That's because he doesn't come until halfway through the movie, has nothing to do and has maybe 10 lines the whole movie. They might has well have just called him, 'black guy that smokes'.

Wolter, you're right about the smoking. Just chain smoking throughout.

Wolter:
No small roles, Chaim.

Chaim Witz:
Another thing you don't notice as a kid is how basically everything is superficial and they don't even make an attempt to explain anything, save for a few lines of mumbo jumbo spouted off by Aykroyd.

Not that I wanted the movie bogged down with a lot of unnecessary exposition that sucks the fun out of it, but you do notice how they go from Point A to B to C rather quickly, while skipping over how they got to each point.

Trivial qualms I suppose. It was still fun, just not nearly as good as I had hoped it to be.

Wolter:
Man, if they actually tried to explain the Ghost Science, I suspect I would love that movie significantly less.

White Chili:
It's easier to explain using Twinkie logic.

Arcturus:
There is a ton of smoking in the movie.

And who needs scientific explanations for all the crazy shit they do? I don't want it to be like Star Trek, where you've got every nerd under the sun debating on whether or not warp drive is possible.

Egon says, "Hey, there's a good chance we could capture and hold a ghost indefinitely." They have a big red box they put the ghosts in, which works until the EPA shuts off the power. That works pretty good for me because it's basically a comedy and it doesn't really matter how any of it works.

And the Twinkie explanation is fucking brilliant.

Chaim Witz:
Ok, scientific explanations wasn't what I meant. I guess I'm just a sucker for a "plot". We'll just have to agree to disagree. There are a lot of movies I like that I can't really explain why as well.

White Chili:
You're claiming that Ghostbusters suffers because it's not realistic? Really?

Next you're going to say that Chain Reaction was bad.

Arcturus:
It's all right, Chaim. My wife isn't real big on Ghostbusters either. It's one of those movies that I can't seem to help watching if it happens to be on TV. She'll roll her eyes in disgust and just shake her head. I get that a lot.

Chaim Witz:
That's ok. The Burbs is one of my Top 5 movies ever, and I can in no way defend it or even explain why I like it so much. I just do, dammit.

[With that, the talk gradually subsides to other, even less interesting topics, interspersed with randomly inserted barbs about Ghostbusters from Chaim…who is still horribly, horribly wrong.]

Imagine if we harnessed all that time wasting ability for good, instead of evil.

P.S. - Only 30 pages further into Mason & Dixon. Damn you Pynchon.

The Pynchon Project: Mason & Dixon

2009-08-13T07:00:00.000-06:00

TMS archive.

Or: Is Pomp Culture Making a Comeback?

Or: The Cubs Are So Wretched, I'm Turning To Literature.

Or: No Seriously, I Hate That Jeff Samardzija Just Started a Game.

Confession Time: I am addicted to Thomas Pynchon books. Utterly, completely addicted. His insane writing style, a mixture of James Joycean wordplay and stream of consciousness, Raymond Chandlerian pulp excess, and Joseph Helleresque paranoia and modernist neuroses really appeals to me on a deep level.

Confession Time, Part II: I am not nearly as addicted to actually finishing those books. Oh, I start them with the best intentions, but my (until recently undiagnosed) severe Adult ADHD has made me set them aside for shinier distractions. The problem with Pynchon is, the longer you set him down, the harder it is to remember just what the hell was going on the last time you held the book in your hands. Couple this with a prose style that often requires the casual reader to stop, go back, and reread a passage to figure out what just happened, and (if you're me), you end up with a lot of dog-eared and bookmarked detritus on the shelves.

Compounding Incident: Pynchon has recently released a new novel, Inherent Vice. From everything I can gather, it's a noir-detective novel dipped in a druggy paranoiac haze of decaying 60s idealism. And I want to read it so very badly.

"But Wolter," says my Better Judgment. "You have a metric ton of unread Pynchon on your shelf. And can you really justify a new purchase when you haven't even gotten your money's worth out of the last few?"

"Shut the hell up," I respond. "If I wanted the opinion of an anthropomorphized abstraction in my psyche, I'd ask my Inner Child."

"MORE DOCTOR SEUSS!"

"See!"

And at this point my reverie devolves into nothing and my bookshelf gathers dust.

Economic Twist: Given the fact that I currently have less than $9 in my checking account right now, it seems much more viable to read what I have, instead of buying more things and not reading them.

The Insane Challenge: In the grand tradition of the TMS Bat Project and Chaim's Mustache Diaries, I am wading in feet first into a project that is no doubt doomed to failure: to read ALL of Pynchon's catalog that I own. All of it. Even the stuff I actually did finish (which includes, oddly enough, Gravity's Rainbow, which ranks up there with Finnegan's Wake on the "so-called classic no one ever actually reads" scale). If I can do that, and live to tell about it, then I will allow myself to invest in Inherent Vice. If I fail, I will be forced to tear the suede patches off my tweed jacket and admit I only have an undergraduate degree. The good news: thanks to the addition of ADHD-inhibiting drugs, I've already made it 117 pages into my first book...

The First Book: Mason & Dixon. The impetus behind this whole project. I picked this up and realized that, though I remembered loving what I had read of this, AND that I had a bookmark halfway through, I couldn't actually remember anything at all about the book.

The Story So Far: It's the late 18th Century, and the Rev'd Wicks Cherrycoke is in Philadelphia, telling his niece and nephew a tale of intrigue about his youth traveling the world (after his exile from England, under pain of losing his inherited income from his father). The tale centers around his travels with Mason & Dixon of the famed line (and one supposes Jars and Cups). Charles Mason is a young widower, a London resident given to melancholy whose favorite pastime is attending public hangings. Jeremiah Dixon is a boisterous, hard drinking apostate Quaker from up north. They travel together on a series of missions of Astronomical import, assailed (up to this point) by a French frigate, nubile underaged Dutch blondes, and an overabundance of mutton-based meals. Along the way, they encounter a Learned dog that gives sage advice, world traveling clocks that (like all acquaintances) spend most of their time discussing the weather, and the seductive charms of the exotic ketchup.

All in all, typical Pynchon. Now let's see if I can make it through this thing. I figure it's the least I can do after making the rest of you read this.

Note: Don't worry, bored reader. I will NOT be writing any other posts about this project, but I will be appending status updates to the end of my other, much more fascinating posts about Iron Maiden, Video Games, and The Brutal Murder I Have Planned for Jeff Samardzija.

2010 Update: I finished it like 8 months later, and totally backed out of doing the rest. Then I bought another Pynchon book which I started and didn't finish. Sigh.

Freelance Dramaturg Returns! Again!

2009-08-07T11:16:00.006-06:00

That last post was a real bummer, huh? Cathartic for me, but it can't have been too fun for the rest of you.

Here's something a little more frivolous: a Freelance Dramaturg cartoon I drew last weekend, when I was far too drunk to actually draw well (thank goodness he's easy). Click to enlarge:

For those "in the know," I'm not actually a fan of Rebecca Gilman¹ - so Freelance Dramaturg isn't really just a noseless caricature of The Slogger.

So there.

Theatre Geek Footnote: I think Gilman hides behind shock value and would not be half as critically acclaimed if she were a man writing the same Neo-Websterian Grand Guignol pieces of cod-Mamet. In fact, her writing reminds me of that guy in every first year playwriting class who thinks that staccato dialogue liberally interspersed with "fucks" and "cocksuckers" makes him edgy. But she's the one getting awards and critical acclaim, whereas I haven't even been paid for my writing in almost 9 years, so I'm certainly no judge... Also, I've never even read or seen Spinning Into Butter, which is usually considered her best work. ...Hell, I guess I shouldn't throw stones.

War Criminal: 2009 Cubs Named Aaron

2009-08-06T07:00:00.001-06:00

Some good hate in this TMS archive post.

Ugh. I hate you, 2009 Cubs Named Aaron.

I hate you so much that it’s beginning to impair my judgment.

When I see one of your names in a lineup, or a box score, or on the back of a jersey in the bullpen, I seethe with a rage I used to reserve for Will Ohman. 2009 Cubs Named Aaron, you are worse than tuberculosis, kitten drowning, and a Sex and the City marathon combined. If you had a collective neck, and this neck was lying in front of me, I would step on it and twist. I hope to one day eat a delicious McRib while watching you choke on a tightly compacted ball of cilantro and my own bile.

Aaron Heilman, you aren’t even the closer and you have blown SIX saves. If you aren’t leading the league in that, you’re damn close. And I’m beginning to think that if we called Doug Dascenzo up, he could do better than a WHIP of 1.55. Before you start trying to defend yourself, remember that your league-slightly-below-average ERA+ of 98 certainly does not make up for the fact that your face reminds me of Todd Hollandsworth, whom I have no nostalgia for (though I bet HE wouldn’t shit the bed as badly in leverage situations).

Aaron Miles? I don’t give a crap what Arcturus says, because even he knows the truth. You are a War Criminal. You have never grown on me. Not even in the sense of a fungus. I know I should be all stats-nerdy, but the fact that you are about 2 more bad games away from hitting my weight says all I need to know, you sub-Mendoza water baby.

Is it entirely within the realm of reality for Jim Hendry to find a second baseman that doesn’t meet any of the following 3 criteria?

1. Is too short to ride the Cyclone on Coney Island.
2. Can grow a douchey beard between innings.
3. Sucks.

Because you meet all three, you slap-hitting Travelocity gnome.

Holy crap, I just checked your OPS. I think the damn gnome could have done better than .489. Hell, on further inspection, your career OPS makes me long for the heady days of Neifi Perez. I’m beginning to think Bobby Scales actually SHOULD be up in the Big Show instead of what I can only assume is a Cardinals sleeper agent.

Clearly, the “AA” in “2009 Cubs Named Aaron” is a hint. Ship these fools to the Smokies, and leave them there.

P.S. I’ve got my eye on you, “Aaron” Samardzija.

My Little Buddy is in a Bad Way

2009-08-05T10:40:00.014-06:00

Serious one again. I hate serious ones.

Far be it from the Slog to only post about those suffering from cancer, but my remaining rat, Dante is on his last legs. He was recently diagnosed with a malignant, aggressive sarcoma. It's been over a year since I lost my last rat, Dante's little brother Wilson, to a sudden respiratory condition, and it hasn't been any easier this time around.

This time around, I refuse to write a post when Dante passes on, though. While he's still here, I'm going to talk about my special little guy, and why he's my favorite pet rat of all time (and I've had eight of them in the last 12 years).

I got Dante (and his brother Wilson) about 2-1/2 years ago (I'm guessing here, my personal sense of time is a little screwy), when Ali and I were in the early stages of dating. Ali had just lost her own rat, Ezzie (short for Esmerelda), to mammary tumors (a common occurence in female rats at a certain age).

As I usually say when faced with an impending rat death, I swore up and down, "I'm never getting another one. Never again. They don't live long enough, and it's just to hard to watch this."

So, of course, we ended up getting two rats within weeks.

The backstory: Ali and I were picking up food and bedding for her chinchilla (we have a lot of animals. A lot) when we happened to go by a cage with 4 male rats frolicking about. They all had really great personalities, and we were hard-pressed to tear ourselves away from the cage.

We left the store, ran a few more errands, and realized we forgot something. We went back to the pet store to discover that two of the rats were gone. We mentioned to an employee that at least the person who bought them knew that rats, who are social mammals, do better in pairs.

"Ugh," said the employee. "I hate when people buy the rats here for snake food. They're intelligent animals. It's sick the way people feel the need to feed snakes live food to watch, when you can get them prekilled items, which are healthier and safer anyway."

Ali and I looked at each other. As one mind, we said "we're getting them."

So, we ended up with two rats. We justified our purchase with the statement, "At least they're male. We won't have to worry about mammary tumors" (which are, more or less, breast cancer for rats). We decided that each of us would name one. Ali, named the (much, much) smaller one "Wilson," which I have always assumed was after Dr. James Wilson on House, MD. I named the lumbering, gentle giant Wilson shared a cage with "Dante," after the Medieval poet, not Dante Bichette as some of you no doubt expected.

We lost Wilson last June, but Dante lumbered on, getting fatter, lazier, but friendlier all the while. He is, by a long stretch, the friendliest little (huge) rat I've ever met. He would, if you let him, spend literally hours licking your hands and grooming your nails (rat ways of showing affection). He spent almost any other moment out of his cage engaging in the curious rat behavior known as bruxing, a tooth grinding that is roughly akin to a cat's purr. In fact, I'm going to go out on a limb and say he is the friendliest pet I've ever owned.

And the laziest.

Lord, how he loved to just sit there on your lap, or chest, or shoulder and be petted. Take any other rat I've ever had out of the cage, and within minutes he or she had explored the entire area around, and probably wouldn't sit completely still until every fun thing was exhausted, and it was time to take a nap.

Then there's Dante. I think in the past two years, Dante never went more than two feet away, and inevitably waddled back to his starting point, to be petted and scratched between his shoulder blades (which he adored - I don't think he could reach there, otherwise). He often dozed off while I sat with him watching TV - and I often came close to joining him.

But there is one thing the little guy has shown more love for than sleeping: eating. He could pack it away in better times. Clever little guy that he is, he figured out that if he banged on the roof of his cage in the late evening, it would remind me that it was feeding time...so he started banging earlier and earlier every day. His feeding time started creeping sooner and sooner. By the end, he was usually eating a full two hours earlier than he did at this time last year.

He also took advantage of my ADD-ravaged memory to, on more than one occasion, trick me into feeding him twice in one night. I spent much of the last year complaining bitterly that the rat was going to be softball shaped before much longer.

Given that he was always a fat, male rat, his current condition is particularly hard for me to bear. He's lost a lot of weight, and has a ghost of his old appetite. His former lumbering gait has turned into a limp (surgery scars and and a series of abcesses near his pelvis, combined with the stunningly fast reappearance of a tumor have rendered his back legs nearly useless). And the ultimate cause of this? A mammary tumor. That's right. The gentle giant of a rat that I used to pretend talked like Barry White ended up having more in common with Quincy Jones. And now he looks small and frail.

I'm going to go home tonight and take him out, let him sit in my lap and give him a scratch between the shoulder blades. Maybe a little baby food will perk his taste buds up a bit. When he passes, which won't be long, you won't hear about it here. I'm going to talk about Ghostbusters or sleazy Glam Punk bands or Stan Lee's progressive views on females next time I log in to blogger. But I had to get this off my chest, and this lunch break seemed the best time.

I love you Dante. And you are the last. This time I mean it.

It's just too hard.

RIP, Billy Lee

2009-08-03T19:38:00.000-06:00

http://www.commercialappeal.com/news/2009/aug/02/sun-records-giant-billy-lee-riley-dead-75/

Damn.

Press Release: TMS Was Right To Endorse Wells

2009-07-29T07:00:00.000-06:00

More TMS archive folderol.

***FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE***

Thunder Matt’s Saloon Was Right To Endorse Wells

Chicago, IL – July 29, 2009

After 8 solid innings of shutout ball, giving up only 6 hits and walking 2, TMS's July 16th endorsement of Randy Wells has thus far proven to be "right on, bitches," in the words of an anonymous TMS staffer.

This staffer then went on to call Wells "Nails. Totally f@cking nails, bro."

Mr. Wells himself remains unavailable for comment, no doubt because he is to busy kicking ass and taking names.

Contact:
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c/o Thunder Matt’s Saloon
Chicago, IL and Parts Unknown
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TMS Beer Project: Hamm's

2009-07-27T07:00:00.001-06:00

TMS archive.

With the name Saloon included in our moniker, one could surmise that we here at TMS like to drinky drinky. One that would make such an assumption would be correct, thereby throwing out the whole, 'when you assume you make an 'ass' out of 'u' and 'me' bullshit. We also like to plagiarize each other. In the same vein as the Wrigleyville Bar Project, we are proud to bring you another installment of the TMS Beer Project. The premise is simple: we review beers. Each rating will feature a variety of scores from 1-10 and comments from the bartender. This is a public service damn it. We don't want you to be the sucker who pays $15 for a six pack of some overrated Belgian cat piss. Now, we all drink massive amounts of beer so we know what we speak of. Each of us seem to have a favorite style of beer though. Will we be reviewing macrobrews like Bud and Coors? Oh you bet your Aunt Susie's ass we will. For purposes of this science experiment, and it is in the name of science, those will be the "control" group. Use them as a base line for when we review lesser known imports and microbrews. Without further ado, I bring you our next beer:

Hamm’s

I think Hamm’s deserves a bit of a preamble. This venerable beer (first brewed in 1865, no doubt to celebrate the end of the bloody American Civil War) is in the same family of Cheap American Lager as the more commonly consumed PBR and Old Style, but of late has failed to be fully retrofitted into either the Hipster Community (like the former) or the Chad Community (the latter). Of especial note is the incredibly awesome vintage commercial featuring the Hamm’s Bear, that can be found on youtube:

Apparently, Hamm’s had a heavy sponsorship of Chicago baseball in the 50s and 60s, but as I have only been on this earth for 33 years, and in Chicago for 5, I do not see much evidence of this once mighty footprint.

Brewery: Miller. Which means it now joins High Life as The Only Two Miller Products I Don’t Hate. Seriously, if you’re ever in the Buena Park region and want 3 cans of Miller Lite that my dad left last time he came to town, let me know. The process that made it a Miller product is fairly tortuous: according to Wikipedia, the Minnesota-based Hamm’s family sold the brewery in 1968 to the Hueblein Brewing Company, then a long chain of mergers and purchases pushed its ownership through Olympia (“It’s the Water!”), Pabst (“It’s the Aluminum!”), Stroh’s (“It’s…affordable…”), and finally Miller (“It’s crap!”), which is actually owned by some South Africans now, apparently.

Type: American Pisswater Lager (If you know me, you know I don’t mean that in a bad way)

Receptacle: 12 ounce can. I’m sure you can get it in a bottle as well, but cheap beer belongs in cans, dammit.

Drinkability (1 being Jim Jones' kool-aid, 10 being the nectar of the gods): Ease of drinkability is at least an 8. If you can’t drink this, you are either the lightest lightweight in the history of lightweights or a pretentious ass that only drinks skunky hippie microbrews. However, if drinkability = flavor in your mind, knock this down to about a 5. It’s not unpleasant, but it’s moving into “making love in a canoe” territory.

Heartiness (1 being fresh mountain spring water, 10 being a pureed British steak infected with mad cow disease): 3. Hamm’s is, after all “From the Land of Sky Blue Waters.”

Intoxication (1 being your friend's weird pentecostal grandmother high on Jesus, 10 being Boris Yeltsin on a week long bender in the Crimea): 3. Maybe 4 on an empty stomach. An ABV of 4.73% pretty much means you need to really pound the everloving hell out of these to get too embarrassingly drunk. I downed about 5 of these with a burger and tater tots, and a shot of tequila, and I was fine. And I'm not a remorseless boozing maching like Dave "White Chili" Thomas.

Celebrities You May See Drinking This Brew: Well, I had it at the Holiday Club, so maybe Vince Vaughn. That and old Midwestern guys like Dennis Franz and Dennis Farina. Hell, any ex Chicago cop named Dennis that became an actor.

Affordability ($ being chiclets in Tijuana, $$$$ being diamond encrusted braised lamb shank from a trendy cafe on the Champs d'Elysee): ¢. This is about as cheap as you can get without choosing “American” Beer at Delilah’s on Punk Rock Night.

Overall: 8. But I love cheap, pisswater lager. My tastes in beer are pretty much either “High End Import” or “Under $5 a six pack.” The middle-of-the-road is for dead possums with yellow stripes on their backs. So, buyer beware!

A Grown Man Attempts to Review NES Games, part 3

2009-07-20T07:00:00.001-06:00

More TMS Archive Joy.

Or, Smiting Pagans With the Power of EXODUS!

I've been holed up in my apartment for roughly a week now, sick as a dog, so I decided to dust off the old NES emulator, and write a review. However, I'm just not up to discovering another lost gem like The 3-D Adventures of World Runner or the face-meltingly odd 8-Eyes. I'm sticking with one of my own personal favorite games from "back in the day," a classic of non-licensed, religious-themed, oddity.

Of course I mean...EXODUS!

I first discovered this classic when I was in High School, at The Good News Bookstore in Mt. Pleasant, SC. This blessed place was a combination Fundamentalist Christian bookstore, deli, music store, and toy store that I used to refer to as "The Christian Chuck E. Cheese." The 17-year-old obnoxious punk version of Wolter used to come there after school with his obnoxious punk friends to play this classic of the genre on an NES they had set up in the back. Why?

Well, you are Moses, leading your people out of Israel. According to the game's description you...

But, ultimately, that really means

SMITING PAGANS WITH THE POWER OF THE LORD!

Oh sure, once I read the instructions (when I caved a bought a copy in college), I discovered that you are ostensibly using the "Word of God" (it's shaped like a W, but it's a lighting bolt, people. Trust me on this) to "convert" them. But when they are converted, they explode and disappear. Sounds like a smiting to me, chief.

But does this game live up to my fond memories? Let's find out using science (by "science," I, of course, mean "arbitrary ranking scales based on my whims"):

Graphics: Okay, these are pretty basic, even by 8-bit standards. But Moses is actually surprisingly cute. And unlike some games, I know what the hell is going on at any given moment. Also, there are plenty of subpar single picture "scenes" in-between levels, but not every game can be Ninja Gaiden. The graphics are nothing special, but nothing awful. Plus, you get to SMITE PAGANS WITH THE POWER OF THE LORD. (3/5)

Sound: Oy. This is where it gets bad. Unless you love an endless midi loop of "Father Abraham had many sons" playing for all eternity. I usually turned off the sound and listened to the Misfits on my walkman back in the day. (1/5)

Gameplay: Okay, this game is a lot like some sort of weird allegorical Dig Dug. You're Moses, and you shoot little W-shaped bolts out of your staff (the "Word of God") these in turn help you dig tunnels through "The Murmuring of the Israelites" and "convert" assorted Egyptian soldiers, magicians, and etc. (as mentioned above). You can also "convert" the pagans by pushing boulders on their heads. While moving through the level, you collect "manna" jars, bibles, and "questions" while looking for the door to the next level.

At the end of each level are 5 questions from the Bible. You get a bible for answering each question correctly. Every 7 bibles gets you an extra Moses. Oh, and when Moses dies (usually from failing to avoid the unclean touch of a pagan), he puts his hands over his eyes in a truly adorable fashion.

Really, though, the point of this game is SMITING PAGANS WITH THE POWER OF THE LORD. (5/5)

Level of Adult Confusion: Dude, you walk around SMITING PAGANS WITH THE POWER OF THE LORD. What's not to get? (0/5)

Level of Childhood Rage If I Had Spent Money on This: I doubt I would have been angry as a child. I was pretty religious, plus I loved smiting things. (0/5)

Time Spent Playing As An Adult Before Quitting in Annoyance: Hell, I'm only annoyed that I had to quit long enough to write this review. I need to get back and SMITE PAGANS WITH THE POWER OF THE LORD.

Composite Grade: Sound issues aside, I give this one five bibles out of a possible five. Because I'm pretty sure I have literally every track the Misfits recorded.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some smiting to do...

Press Release: TMS Endorses Wells

2009-07-16T07:00:00.001-06:00

TMS archive.

***FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE***

Thunder Matt’s Saloon Endorses Wells

Chicago, IL – July 16, 2009

The following is a transcript of the speech delivered by TMS Bartender “Wolter” this morning (annotated with hyperlinks, and edited to be printable):

“Thank you all for coming. I’m here today to talk about a matter near and dear to my heart: the Chicago Cubs.

“Given the poor quality of the Cubs’ offense in the current season, it has been a temptation to say that “This whole damn team sucks,” and indeed many Cubs fans and TMS bartenders alike have joined in iterating some variation on that theme.”

[Wolter pauses for a moment, clutching the podium with white knuckles and mutters something that sounds like "Sori-f@ckin'-a55h0le."]

“However, this fails to take into account the bright spot of this year. The anemic offense (God, has that cliché ever been more accurate) is at least being offset by the solid, and occasionally brilliant starting pitching. As much of a “f@cking nutpunch” (per a high-ranking TMS insider) it is to lose close, low-scoring games, at least the Cubs are not being utterly annihilated in the field, like the residents of ”NATSTOWN!”

“One of the linchpins of this rotation is the surprisingly competent rookie, Randy Wells. Once thought by many Cubs commentators, including this speaker, to be a career Quadruple-A player (much as the namesake of The Saloon is sadly turning into), by picking up a surprisingly devastating “Slutter” (a slider/cutter hybrid that just defeated the "Slurve" to become the Best-Named Pitch in Baseball History), Wells may even garner some votes for Rookie of the Year (like first ballot HoFer Jerome Walton…).”

[Wolter coughs nervously.]

“Moving on…

“Wells, like pre-sex change Rich Harden last year [Note: Harden’s agent will neither confirm, nor deny, Mr. Wolter’s assessment], has been the victim of a few atrociously bad offensive games which have kept his W-L record from being particularly impressive”

[Wolter balls hands into fists and smashes them into podium]

“Can we please agree, as thinking people, that wins are as meaningless a stat as “holds” and move on with our lives?

[Wolter again coughs, and an unnamed TMS intern approaches the podium nervously. Wolter waves him off]

“I can do this. If you look at Wells’ performance, he is pitching damn well. In 81 innings, he has an ERA of 2.55, with about six K’s per nine, and only about 2 walks. His WHIP is is like 1.1, and most importantly…seriously guys…his slider is sickhouse.

“In conclusion, I have been authorized by the Powers That Be at TMS to give Randy Wells our blog’s official support. May God have mercy on his soul.”

[Wolter pauses for applause, then realizes he has been delivering this speech standing on his desk, alone, in an empty office.]

“Holy crap. This cold medicine is awesome…”

Mr. Wells has not yet commented on this announcement.

Contact:
Press Secretary
c/o Thunder Matt’s Saloon
Chicago, IL and Parts Unknown
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TMS Hellspawn

###

A Very Modest Proposal That Most People Probably Don't Agree With

2009-07-15T07:00:00.001-06:00

TMS archive, folks.

The All-Star Game Sucks. Get rid of it.

I should probably say more on this subject.

St. Louis sucks. Get rid of it.

Ok, I'll elaborate on both of these notions.

First: St. Louis, you couldn't get any classier if you assigned monocles to every single bemulleted Jorts-wearer in St. Louis County. Booing Ted Lilly? Classless. Booing the sitting president? Seditious. Cheering the former president louder than any other, despite the fact that man-ape ran the country about as well as Peter Angelos runs the Orioles? Dumber than Ronny Cedeno opening a baserunning school.

Second: the All-Star Game is just a giant letdown. It always is. And I'm not just talking about the fact that the NL couldn't win against the Washington Generals. I'm talking about the fact that it isn't really ever much of a good baseball game, involves more lineup changes than even Tony LaRussa can stomach, and is about as culturally relevant as a Pro-Bowl with a better publicist.

Once upon a time, the All-Star Game made sense. There were two leagues that only played each other for 4-7 games a year, max - and that was only the two best teams. Free agency was an insane pipe dream that hadn't even twinkled in Marvin Miller's eye. Good players on periennial sucky teams (like Ernie Banks or Warren Spahn) didn't have a chance to show their stuff against the other league. And beer cost a nickel, dammit!

Even after Curt Flood made a small crack in the reserve clause, and those after him shattered it, the All-Star game was still a fun little break from the regular season. It was a meaningless game, meant to be an exhibition of the best talent baseball had to offer. For fun. The fans voting for whomever they wanted to see play made sense. Because, you know, it was for fun. A game.

But then, Bud Selig had to do what he does best and douche it up by doing the following:

1. Starting Interleague play
2. Making it count.

Addressing the first point: I'm not 100% opposed to interleague play. At least not opposed enough to rant about it. But, alongside the rampant team-hopping of the free agency era (which I am not opposed to at all - I'm glad players aren't the slaves of the owners any more. As greedy as some of these jagoffs players are, they are saints compared to most owners) it renders moot the coolest part of the All-Star Game: finding out how good your favorite player is against the best of the other league. My dad (though a lifelong Cubs fan) idolized Stan Musial as a kid. What a thrill it was for him to find out just how well The Man would do against an AL ace like Whitey Ford or Early Wynn (assuming they ever faced each other...I'm just being rhetorical here).

Fast-forward to today. Most fans with google and patience could tell you how well any given All-Star has done against the other league in general, and often, any other player in specific. Using my own pathetic favorite team, I don't have to wonder how well my favorite Cubs would do against any of a number of AL players, because at some point I've seen the matchup before. Although, to be fair, I could safely assume that the Cub player would probably screw it up this year.

But I digress. More than usual. My point being: it's not a big deal to see these player matchups these days.

I'm going to do my best to be brief and not to rehash the numerous criticisms many have made regarding the second point: making the ASG "count." The main problems I have with this are that

A) That can't be much motivation to the numerous skilled players who are playing in cellar-dwelling (or at least mediocre) teams. If you play for the Orioles, why on earth should you hustle and possibly injure yourself so that some Massholes will be the ones celebrating in October? Honestly, if you're the kind of person to play your hardest with that low a level of incentive, you're the kind of person who would play that hard in an exhibition anyway.

B) Most people playing in the ASG are very good at what they do. But most of them have never played together before this week, and probably never will until next year. This isn't a team playing another team. This is a lineup of skilled individuals that have no vested interest in each other playing against the individuals on the other team. I don't really believe in the hokey notions of team chemistry overriding talent, but on some level not playing with the group you've gotten used to working with day-in, day-out over the course of a season has to be a tricky prospect.

C) It's just not as much fun. Christ, there are 162 regular season games that "count." If you have to have an exhibition game midway through the season, make it a joyous celebration of playing a game on a summer evening just for the joy of the game. Baseball is awesome, folks. It doesn't have to mean something to be awesome. I for one would love to be able to watch a great AL homerun or defensive webgem without thinking to myself "dammit, even if the Cubs somehow pull this shit off, they're going to lose home advantage."

Ultimately, all this is moot because it's not really like watching a real baseball game. By the time one pitcher finds his rhythm, his inning or so is done. There's no real sense of "uh oh, Player X is running out of gas and the heart of the lineup is coming up. Who do we have in the pen?" There's no thinking "if Player Y strikes out, Player X might be able to finish out this inning against the bottom of the lineup." It's just: "Inning over. Next inning will be a new #1 starter or last year's best closer facing 3 solid hitters." No flow, no game rhythm, no dynamics. That gets old. It's the reason hardcore bands don't make 18 minute songs.

In conclusion: the All-Star Game sucks. Get rid of it.

Unless the NL ever wins one of the damn things.

It's Pop Culture Quiz Time!

2009-07-09T07:00:00.001-06:00

TMS archive. Again.

Featuring: The Exquisite Existential Horror of 16 and Pregnant

Ok. First and foremost: I am not here to praise this show.

I know TMS has a long and storied history of promoting incredibly crappy television. But that isn't my style.

This nightmare is merely on while I am in the room (actually, in the interest of full disclosure, it just ended and my fiancee changed the channel to the slightly less hateful Chelsea Lately). But it is the single bleakest thing I have ever been exposed to. And I have read almost everything Samuel Beckett ever wrote, and own Joy Division's complete discography.

So I did what my father taught me to do when encountering a tough chore. I made a game out of it.

The rules: Pick out the false statements from these random true facts about this show. Every right answer earns you $50 in TMS Fun Bucks, which can be redeemed for Mustache Rides from Chaim Witz¹

The "Facts":

1. Whitney is 16 years old and pregnant.

2. She has dropped out of school to have the baby, because she is ashamed of being pregnant.

3. Her mother is also pregnant.

4. Both she AND her pregnant mother are living at her "Mee-Maw's" house.

5. Her "Mee-Maw" is renting said house.

6. Said house is already overcrowded. Before Whitney's son and her brother are even born.

7. Her "Mee-Maw's" landlord is selling the house.

8. Once the house sells, they are evicted, meaning the only good thing about the crappy housing market is that maybe the depressed economy of whatever backwater community they live in will actually keep a roof over their head.

9. Since dropping out of school, Whitney was a social recluse. Because her friends will not hang out with her for fear of "getting pregnant theyselves."

10. Did I mention everyone in East Dogpatch, or Hooterville, or St. Louis, or wherever this takes place sounds and looks like an extra from Deliverance? Because they hella do.

11. When she ran into her friends at the mall on the first day she left the house in weeks, it was more awkward than discussing "Black Quarterbacks" with my extended family...

12. Oh, remember that House of Despair currently on the market? "Mee-Maw" has to sleep on the couch.

13. Whitney and her Babydaddy Weston (WESTON?) go looking for an apartment. Despite the fact that they live far enough from human civilization that the rent for AN ENTIRE HOUSE costs less than an efficiency in Lincoln Square, they still couldn't afford it. Because they are sixteen.

14. Weston.

15. Weston has a job, but his hours are being cut gradually...

16. While clearing a drawer out in "Mee-Maw's" old room (remember, she's on the couch now!), they found her New Orleans souvenir mug with a ceramic penis for a handle.

17. This made "Mee-Maw" so angry that she told them they had to move out. To recap this one: Whitney's grandmother kicked her pregnant granddaughter out because she found her mug with A CERAMIC PENIS FOR A HANDLE.

18. In an hilarious twist of fate, Whitney goes into labor on what would have been her Prom night. If she hadn't dropped out. Because of her baby.

19. Oh, and there were complications with the labor, necessitating a C-Section. Even after the labor inducing drugs were given.

20. Oh, lest I forget, the baby was not moving enough before delivery, which necessitated being placed on a Fetal Heart Monitor.

21. I still almost forgot...she was just going in for a check-up. The baby wasn't actually due.

22. The baby was born healthy, and Weston actually ended up being good with him. Which is fortuitous, because Whitney was clearly suffering from post-partum depression.

23. The notion of a happy ending was introduced, when Weston's parents offered to let them move into their storage room.

24. A few weeks later, Whitney sat with her baby, and stated in a flat voice "I was too young to have a baby. Thank goodness I had help."

25. The baby looked like a Gray with a pignose. Or, I guess...Sean Marshall.

26. Did I mention the baby is named Weston, Jr.?

27. In celebration of their life maintaining subsistence levels, Whitney ends up baking a cake. Which looks like the easter bunny had diarrhea. Only more depressing.

28. I was just reminded on re-reading this list that Whitney cannot tie her own shoes. She has reproduced.

29. Weston, Jr.

Answer key: If you said every single one of these things was absolutely true, give yourself a mustache ride!

Tune in next week, when a weeping teenage couple decides to re-enact the plot of Juno, only with more heart-wrenching despair, as they decide to bring a baby to term for adoption!

MTV, you truly are devoted to the joy and fun of youth!

1. The Chaim Witz Wild Mustache Ride is unfortunately closed for repairs.

Billy Lee Riley needs help!

2009-07-07T19:14:00.004-06:00

Not one of my usual jokey, frivolous posts. Bear with me, and if you can, help.

I found this out here, which in turn got the following from the Rockabilly Hall of Fame site:

Billy Lee Riley ...
one of the remaining original Sun Records artists, Is in VERY bad need of help! Billy has had his share of health problems, and is now battling Stage FOUR bone cancer. Although musicares is helping with house payment, car and such, He and Joyce are totally out of money and can barely afford to eat. This is a CALL FOR HELP to all musicians and fans. Please remember, twenty bucks from all of us would make a HUGE difference in Billy's life! What if this was you? Let's all get together and send something today to Billy and Joyce and show them that he means alot to us. If you have a website, a facebook or myspace, please post this need for help on it! We can't save the world, but it will mean alot in Billy Lee's life!

His Address is:

Billy Lee Riley
723 Crest Drive
Jonesboro, Arkansas 72401

I don't have much to add to the blog above (read the link, it's short and to the point), but Billy Lee Riley is a living legend, and his "Flying Saucers Rock and Roll" is as close to perfect as any music can be. In an ideal world he would have been as big as Jerry Lee Lewis, Carl Perkins, or really any of the great Sun artists.

If you can help him, please do. I know I can't afford much, but he's worth it.

My First Foray Into Electoral Politics....

2009-06-25T16:47:00.004-06:00

Okay, this is less of a blog, and more of a link to Thunder Matt's Saloon, where I actually wrote a blog entry.

I guess that earns a lazy blogging tag, even if I worked on it elsewhere...

2010 Edit: Hey, since I'm doing this whole Archiving Project, here's the piece:

The Prodigal Son Wants A Crack At the State House

Often, when people learn I am, in fact, from South Carolina, they are stunned. I’m an avowed atheist, a civil libertarian, and I have never shot a gun at anything living. I don’t even have a strong enough accent to place me anywhere near my home town of Charleston (most people assume I’m from Ohio or something). I hate NASCAR, and don't sleep with my cousins.

But, if you get to know me, the hints come out. I’m passionate about the fact that barbecue is a noun, and should be made with either mustard or vinegar. I strongly believe tea should be iced and sweet, or it’s better off in a harbor. When I drink I get maudlin about country songs and boiled peanuts. And, I own a few slaves (it’s a heritage thing, people. It has nothing to do with hate).

And, while I love my adopted home state of Illinois more than I love John C. Calhoun’s wild-eyed stare, I’m willing to do my part and throw my hat into the ring.

That’s right, Palmetto State. This expatriate Sandlapper is willing to come home and govern you. Govern you hard.

Well, that’s not really true. I’m in no way willing to actually “come home” for more than a few days at a time. But hey, in these internet-savvy days, you don’t need to actually live somewhere to control it. Most of the TMS bartenders don’t live anywhere near Chicago, and Chaim Witz was actually replaced by a team of Indian day laborers 7 months ago.

However, I've got big dreams. In 2012, I will be 36 years old. That's the first election where I will be legally eligible to be president. And, as that election approaches, I will be unveiling a comprehensive platform that is sure to galvanize the entire electorate (I'll give you a hint: Flying Goddamn Cars). I am the man to build a bridge to the mid-20th century's idea of what the 21st Century was going to be like.

Or, I would be, if I didn't have absolutely no experience in governing, a public record of underachieving, and almost zero personal charisma.

Easy way to solve this: get elected governor of some podunk state, be charmingly stupid, and pander to the masses. And here is where South Carolina steps in...

I'm not going to go deeply into this current imbroglio. We all know what's going on down there. And, frankly, I found those emails disarmingly heartfelt and embarassing. Human emotions like that sicken me, and I will not support their promulgation.

I think what outrages voters more than sinful behavior is pretending you aren't a dirty sleazeball. Bill Clinton still kept a reasonably high approval rate while nailing every thick ankled, small uvula'd woman in the Beltway. Sure he denied everything, but he did it with a wink that said..."you've all ridden a moped, too, boys..."

So, South Carolina, I make these promises:

1. I have no ability or experience in leadership roles. I know nothing about running a state government. This should not be a problem, as I'm pretty sure no one born in South Carolina in the past 75 years knows how to run a Quizno's in a strip mall, much less a State Government.

2. I will be abusing the power of my office. That is the strongest campaign promise I plan to make, and I'll be damned if I break it. You can trust in me.

3. Most importantly: I can assure the voters of my home state that if I disappear for 3 days I am safely ensconced in a mountain hideaway with a pile of drugs, a few handles of whiskey, and no less than 6 prostitutes of no less than 3 different ethnicities. In fact, even when I'm actually going on a hiking trip or just taking some time to catch up on reading, I will tell the press I am going to Argentina to bang my hot mistress. Because I have a rep, people.

So what do you say, South Carolina? Are you willing to take a chance on an unproven maverick who won't play by the rules? I mean, your leadership has been running your state into the ground for almost 2 full centuries. Why not choose a man who will do it openly, honestly, and (quite likely) completely fried out of his mind on psychedelic mushrooms and Islay malt scotch?

Vote Wolter. His Sordid Scandals WILL Go Into Sexual Details.

Paid for by the Committee to Elect Jon Wolter to Run South Carolina Into the Ground.

If I May Be Pompous For a Moment....

2009-06-16T12:00:00.003-06:00

Note: In lieu of writing TWO non-Hitler-Punch-Related Blog Entries in the same month, I am dual posting this entry on TMS and right here on the sadly-neglected-of-late Slog. You know...in case you give a rat’s ass.

Welcome to Wolter’s Music and Pop Culture Theory Corner, a feature deemed “Too Pseudointellectual Even For Pomp Culture” by a volunteer panel of U of C grad students.

Today’s discussion is based on aspects of the Generational Theory first espoused by William Strauss & Neil Howe in their seminal work, Generations (not to be confused with the incredibly bad Star Trek movie of the same name), and how they related to the lyrical content of the debut single two unrelated UK bands from roughly a quarter century apart (The Adverts and Art Brut).

Generational Theory is a more or less cyclical explanation of long-term historical trends based on each generation’s relation to and reaction at the previous generations throughout the phases of their life. It’s a very fascinating tool that, while not fully accurate as a predictive device, is very interesting as a means of analysis of events. You can get a decent quick-n-dirty overview in the wikipedia link above, which I strongly recommend reading as a background material (I'm going to be relatively brief in my reasoning, so if you find flaws with this theory, remember that Strauss & Howe wrote several books on the topic, and it's worth reading more about it).

At any rate, the short version is each generation has an overall character that is the result of its environment (though obviously there are always members of each generation that defy the prevailing norms). The two generations that matter for this discussion are Generation X (also known as 13th Gen) and the Millennial Generation (also known as Generation Y).

The Adverts formed in 1977 as part of the slew of punk bands that appeared in the wake of the Sex Pistols (and to a lesser extent, the Clash and the Damned) rise to notoriety in the UK. Their debut single, “One Chord Wonders” is a marvelously paranoid ode to the bravado and gallows-humor of musicians with low-self-esteem everywhere who know in their hearts they are doomed to failure. For the purposes of this discussion, please feel free to download a copy here.

And, for your perusal, here are a copy of the lyrics (hopefully correct, as god knows I don’t want to search too deeply for lyrics sites, and the requisite computer viruses they seem to contain):

I wonder what we'll play for you tonight.
Something heavy or something light?
Something to set your soul alight?
I wonder how we'll answer when you say,
"We don't like you - go away,
"Come back when you've learnt to play"

I wonder what we'll do when things go wrong,
When we're half-way through
Our favorite song,
We look up and the
audience has gone.
Will we feel a little bit obscure?
Think "we're not needed here,
"We must be new wave
- they'll like us next year"

The Wonders don't care
- we don't give a damn (repeated to end of
song)

Note the outright pessimism and cynicism of these lyrics. This is a band that fully expects to go nowhere, but plans to do so defiantly. This is very indicative of the Nomad Generation mentality, which describes both Generation X (born c. 1960-1982 – opinions differ on the exact dates) and preceding similar generations (such as the Lost Generation). Of course, Adverts lead vocalist TV Smith was born in 1956, a few years before the first Generation X cohort, but this song’s worldview is much more Gen X than Boomer (and most of the fans he was reaching for were first cohort Boomers). Indeed, most of the idealized notions of the Punk subculture are overwhelmingly suited to the first stirrings of Generation X – rebelliousness tempered with nihilism, a belief that there is no future and very little hope. Irony is the shield of the Nomad Generation, defending it against the dark pessimism ingrained in most members.

On the other hand, Art Brut (who formed in 2003 at the cusp of a Post-Punk revival in the British charts, are staunchly part of a Hero Generation (The Millennials who followed Generation X and are most closely analogous to the GI, or Greatest Generation born c. 1900-1924). Team oriented, optimistic, and usually hard-working, Millennials are often thought have no use for the cynical irony of the Gen X-ers (which irritates Gen X-ers almost as much as being called "Gen X-ers"). They have the sense that they are special and have been brought up for a purpose, which can be seen in the debut single "Formed a Band" which can be found here (well, the album version). Also, note (like T.V. Smith) that Art Brut's lead vocalist Eddie Argos was born just before the technical beginning of this Generation, but is singing to an audience of first cohort Millennials. I think some artists on Generational cusps are the canaries in coal mine who feel the shift as it's happening.

Now contrast the following lyrics with what goes before:

Formed a band
We formed a band
Look at us
We formed a band
(x4)

Honey pie, I don't know when it started
Just stop buying your albums
from the supermarkets
They only sell things that have charted
And Art Brut?
Well we've only just started

And yes, this is my singing voice
It's not irony
And it's not rock and roll
I'm just talking
To the kids

Formed a band
We formed a band
Look at us
We formed a band
(x4)

I want to be the boy
The man
Who writes the song
That makes Israel and Palestine
Get along

I'm gonna write a song
As universal as Happy Birthday
That's gonna make sure
That everybody knows
That everything's gonna be ok
I'm gonna take that song
And we're gonna play it
Eight weeks in a row on Top of the Pops

Formed a band
We formed a band
Look at us
We formed a band
(x4)

Dye your hair black
Never look back
My past is my business

We have two songs about more-or-less the same subject by bands that aren't massively musically dissimilar. But what a difference a generation makes. A specific denouncement of irony (at least the humorless kind), and a bouncy statement that despite their admitted shortcomings, Art Brut (whose very name means, more or less, "Primitive Art") will take the world by storm and solve everyone's problems. The Adverts seems to be saying "You probably will hate us, but screw you, we don't care what you think...much...." Art Brut is saying "You don't know it yet, but we're your new favorite band. And we love that about you." There's a bit of a twist of the knife at the end, but no true darkness pervades this song.

Ultimately, of course, this is just an observation I made while listening to my iPod on shuffle. But it gave this late-cohort Gen X-er (God, I hate that term) some food for thought about two songs he happens to enjoy quite a bit for very different reasons.

Captain America: Man's Man

2009-06-01T16:40:00.005-06:00

Or not.

Cry me a river, Captain Emo.

"A Team Full Of Outlaws"

2009-06-01T07:00:00.001-06:00

Another Chip From the TMS Fireball.

... or so the Cubs were dubbed last week by Paul Sullivan of the Tribune.

And I for one, embrace this image. If I can't root for a winning team, at least I can root for an entertaining (and not a little scary one). And let's face it, a team where Ted Lilly, a man who allegedly got into a fistfight with his manager, doesn't even make most fans Top 3 Cubs Hotheads list, is bound to be entertaining.

But outlaws? Well...I suppose if you really want make this judgment, then I suppose the only right way to do it is to compare the Cubs to the True Barometer of All Things Outlaw: 1970s Country.

Well, that's easier said than done, mister. Unless you're one of those responsible-type bloggers who does their research and writes in a timely manner. Which I clearly am not.

But I suppose I should actually earn my keep here, so here goes:

Waylon Jennings
Waylon is one of the true giants of the Outlaw movement, with a solid musical resume and a bad-boy image that belied his down-to-earth nature. So who better than Milton Bradley to personify this? A man with a solid pedigree of above average ballplaying mixed with some rather public moments of...hold it...I'm being informed that I should probably not talk too much about Milton. I might make him angry....

Willie Nelson
Willie is an outlaw in spirit, but his laid back, easygoing (read: stoned) demeanor doesn't fit this current spate of umpire run-ins very well. However, his past run-ins with the IRS and his support for a controversial position on marijauna legalization remind me of a relatively laid back and softspoken Cub with a controversial position on chickens pecking each other to death: Aramis Ramirez. Expect Aramis to appear in Stephen Colbert's manger scene next year, prize rooster in hand.

Johnny Cash
A hipster favorite, even though his true outlaw days were far before this time, Cash is a difficult one to pin down as a Cub. Based on the fact that in the 1970s, Cash was entering a decline that lasted some time, I'm going to cheat and say that it's Derrek Lee. Lee used to be a very good (and for a year, elite) player, and once almost landed a punch on Chris Young (that's like going to Starkville County Jail for picking flowers, I guess). Let's just hope Rick Rubin can engineer a comeback for Lee soon.

Johnny Paycheck
Now here's a real wildman. Paycheck had an awesome run of raw edgy honky-tonk classics in the late 60s, but flew under the mainstream radar until he re-invented himself as an outlaw. And late in his career, Paycheck ended up serving a couple of years in prison for shooting a man in a scuffle. Ted Lilly spent several years as a solid but relatively unnoticed pitcher before reinventing himself as a psychopath for the Cubs blogosphere. And Lilly will no doubt serve a few years in prison if anyone finds the bodies...

Kris Kristofferson
Kristofferson has always been the thinking man's country musician. It's not a well-known fact, but Kristofferson is a Rhodes scholar with a Masters' in English from Oxford. No. Really. He is. But he still manages to exude a sort of gruff, good-ol-boy air that gives him an authentic bad-boy feel. Now, if Greg Maddux was still a Cub, I'd assign him Kristofferson in a second. But since he isn't, the closest thing we have to intellectuals on the team are...well, the Canadians...I guess. I'm putting Ryan Dempster in this role, because Harden is clearly a robot.

David Allan Coe
Now here's where it gets fun. David Allan Coe is immensely talented, immensely self-destructive, and you never know just how much of his crazy is a put-on and how much is just...because there's no doubt he's insane - it's just to what degree? After being released from prison, Coe put out a couple of strange, poetic, blues based art albums about the prison-industrial complex and being a young man in America, then wrote some of the tenderest country love ballads ever. Later he put out two of the most racist and offensive country albums ever made. He's dressed in a mask and rhinestones, in Nudie suits and huge belt buckles, and (most recently) like the scariest white-trash biker grandpa in history. If there is anyone else than Carlos Zambrano who fits this mold, I'd like to hear it.

Merle Haggard
Lou Piniella. I will brook no argument.

George Jones
Like Merle and Cash, he's not technically "Outlaw" country at all, but his carousing days certainly put him on this list. But not as a Cub. His legendary drunken exploits behind the wheel put him squarely in St. Louis, most likely as resident "jeenyus," Tony LaRussa.

Okay, I'm stretching this concept to the breaking. See you in 3 months, when I write my next TMS feature. Special thanks to my fellow bartender Dave Thomas for the photoshop.

The Ignominious Return of Freelance Dramaturg

2009-05-25T23:25:00.004-06:00

One more exciting, halfassed cartoon for the Freelance Dramaturg series! I drew this in an attempt to avoid clawing my eyes out from boredom last weekend at the National Restaurant Association convention.

Collect 'em all!

Double-Fisting At Minifist

2009-05-21T07:00:00.000-06:00

Yet another Thunder Matt's Saloon archive piece.

An Attempt At Remembrance

Chaim's memories of last Friday has inspired me to dust off my keyboard and participate in this blog like an actual writer, as opposed to just drawing a salary and commenting on every fifth article written by someone else. So here's what I'm capable of remembering from the 2009 Minifist:

To catch those just joining us up, last Friday was the long-awaited Annual Thunder Matt's Saloon Gathering of Bartenders That Could Actually Make it To Chicago, or "Minifist" for short. I have been told this is a reference to a previous full gathering of bartenders known as "Thunderfist," but I suspect it's actually named after a midget porno that Dave Thomas kept trying to get us to go back to his house to watch.¹

The reason for this gathering was to watch the Cubs play the hated Houston Astros. I'm not kidding when I tell you that the Astros are my "least favorite team that I shouldn't give a shit about" ever. I really hate the Astros. A lot. I'd be more eloquent about it, but the white-hot rage that fills my veins when I think too much about them is making it difficult to type, so I'm going to change the subject.

I was originally scheduled to attend this game, but had to cover for our receptionist, who was out of town. So I was limited to meeting up "after the game," where I expected to meet either several very annoyed or very excited bartenders for a post-game Celebration/Drowning of Sorrows. Then I learned the game had been postponed to another day due to the weather, which was about 10 different kinds of ass that day.

So, at about 4:30, I texted our very own Chaim Witz to ask if they were still at the Gingerman (on account of I was dreadfully sober), and received the following text:

Oh god yes

That's always a good sign. When I finally arrived at the Gingerman (at roughly 5:30, for those keeping score), I found Chaim (who was heroically warring with Sobriety and winning at this point), as well as fellow bartenders Chip Wesley and Dave Thomas in fine spirits. With them were Valued TMS Reader Nick V (whose real name, it turns out is Steve V), a friend of Chip's that I will call "Mark," to protect his identity, and my good friend, Dr. Scotch, whose company I greatly appreciated, considering that I was at least 5 hours behind everyone else on the booze front.²

Not in attendance was the legendary Tommy Buzanis, who had apparently left some hours before I arrived, muttering something about "ditching this sausage party to look for a steak and some broads." I still have yet to meet this mysterious, near mythical man, but his empty seat was treated with the greatest of reverence.

A raucous conversation ensued, whereupon I learned much about how to administer a throat-jab properly, the most obscene insults Lingering Bursitis had used in private correspondence, and the proper way to eat at Wrigleyville Dog (answer: apparently Not at All). At some point (about 3 pitchers in from my arrival), Chaim's head finally hit the table, and we all knew he had defeated Sobriety handily. We bundled him in a cab pointed towards his house, and staggered into the still sunlit evening to find the next bar.

This being Wrigelyville, the bar selection was wide, but shallow. Pretty much the only non-sports bar left open was The Irish Oak (where, incidentally, I spent a fascinating night last fall listening to the Clash's excreble Cut the Crap album and watching a friend of mine get hit on by a DEEPLY RELIGIOUS group of Suburban Cougars). So we went there, Chaimless, but proud. Dave Thomas and I shared a shot of Rumple Minze³, and I trace my ultimate downfall to this point.

Eventually, we left the Oak, losing Nick V and Dave Thomas in the process, and the remaining three (Chip Wesley, "Mark," and myself) decided to go to the Wrigleyville North (a delightfully rednecky and cheap bar not far from the Sheridan stop). Every trip I take to the Wrigleyville North is either a disaster or not memorable at all, so I don't know why I get drawn to it so readily. Unless it's because the drunker I get, the more I want to listen to country cover bands.

We had barely settled in when I got a series of texts from my fiancee, who was in nearby Boys Town, singing Karaoke with her friends at a relatively seedy gay bar named Bobby Love's:

Worst version of tiny dancer ever on the karaoke stage EVER! ;)

And I'm babysitting a sox fan glass. HELP!!!

So, I asked my companions if they minded swinging by, and when I assured "Mark" that there are tons of chicks at karaoke night at a gay bar (there are), and Chip that I wouldn't tell anyone about this (I did), we staggered drunkenly there. On the way, I almost got us lost twice, recieved a text that my fiancee was leaving soon, made it there in time for one more round, coninued to be collossally drunk, watched "Mark" make out with a friend of my fiancee's and mine, failed to sign Chip up for a song (I assume he was planning to sing "Two Minutes To Midnight" or something, but my memory is swimmy by this point), and finally left.

All in all, a fine night out.⁴

1. Not strictly a "fact," but I've never let that stop me before. In fact, anywhere from 50-95% of these remembrances might not be literally "factual." But dammit they are still The Truth.

2. Of course, I now know that any less than a 10 hour head start for Dave Thomas is not fair to the rest of the group...

3. I just googled the spelling. Huh. Two words. Weird.

4. Well, if you don't count the huge argument I started with my fiancee on the way home (entirely my fault; I was a mess), the fact that I had to get up at 6:30 am to work a convention, and that I spent all the next day shaking and covered in a thin, clammy layer of beer-scented sweat.

Stan Lee: Still a Feminist

2009-05-15T12:22:00.003-06:00

Why aren't more women reading comics?

Because they're too busy doing their hair.

Am I right, guys? Huh? Am I?

Captain America's viewpoint is particularly disheartening. If I were his girlfriend, I'd shoot him for this:¹

1. Topical.

Freelance Dramaturg

2009-05-09T12:20:00.005-06:00

A Poorly Drawn Comic Strip By Someone Who Normally Draws Better Than This

Some time ago, I drew a couple of halfassed comic strips on a sheet of 3-hole typing paper, reflecting my own semi-jaundiced view of my experiences in theatre. And this morning, I decided to do a third using my el cheapo pen tablet. I figured I'd share them.

Who knows? Maybe I'll make more one day.

If you click on them, you can see them at legible size. I particularly like the way FD looks in the last few panels of the third one.

Disclaimer: Freelance Dramaturg is not NECESSARILY a self-portrait without a nose. For one thing, I hardly ever actually work as a dramaturg anymore. However, it's not NOT a self-portrait either.

EDIT: Jesus fuck, the spam commenters had a field day here (well, 3 comments, which is a field day by my standards). Seriously, spammers: this site averages about 40 hits a day, mostly from people doing image searches and not reading the words. It's not worth the effort to even run a bot.

This Filled My Tiny Heart With Joy

2009-05-06T12:01:00.000-06:00

I'm sorry I've been neglecting this place lately (I didn't even mourn Bea Arthur yet, as the pain is still fresh), but I've been too busy Punching Hitler and slowly losing my mind over at Thunder Matt's Saloon.

But I saw this, and thought: "What an easy way to put up a lazy post!

That is all.

Blogging About Blogging About Not Blogging, Part 2

2009-05-05T07:00:00.000-06:00

More TMS insanity.

Or, "This Isn't Working, But If I Talk About How Talking About It Not Working Isn't Working...It Just Might Work."

When last we met me, I was remembering how I came up with the idea to write about the sheer genius of Iron Maiden's Powerslave album vs. the sheer Power of Apples. And then I promptly passed out in a haze of "inspiration."

Which brings me to:

12:11 PM, Tuesday, May 5th:
After microwaving my lunch and sitting down to start composing the next chapter in this masterpiece, I decide how to begin this, and end up settling on:

1:24 PM, Monday, May 4th:
I give the following update to my fellow bartenders: "I ran out of lunch time. This will be at least a 2-parter.

Also, it probably makes no damn sense. "
I shortly receive this response:
1:26 PM, Monday, May 4th
Brant Brown: "Jon, brevity is a virtue."
I immediately snark back. This devolves into one of our numerous pissing matches (I think he is trying to haze me or something). Nothing witty is said on either side, so I will not recount it here, and only mention it as a bit of local color (and proof that it was my negative attitude that killed Pomp Culture not some "editorial decision," as the press release stated).
3:00 PM, Monday, May 4th:
Part 1 is published according to schedule and meets with the following critical response:

3:03 PM, Monday, May 4th:
Jordi: "My personal guideline:
The Serious Tip: 500 words or more
all other blogs: 300 words
Less than 144 characters: I'm Twittering that bitch" That's right. Jordi even pushes his blog in our private conversations. What a whore. Wait: don't tell him I said that, though. He will totally suplex me.

3:10 PM, Monday, May 4th:
Brant Brown: "Jon, I don't care for the direction of your post, but I do appreciate you working in the Tyler Perry quandary." I take this as the effusive compliment it clearly is.

3:41 PM, Monday, May 4th:
Chaim Witz: "Jon, though that post may not be fully appreciated until well after you've passed on from this Earth (quite possibly at the calloused hands of Brant Brown), let me be the first to recognize the tortured genius that emanates from those disjointed words. " I am momentarily flattered, then realize that Chaim also thinks the finest work of Western Literature is the 1970s KISS Adventures comic book, because "it uses real KISS blood in the red ink. Let's see Tolstoy do that."

6:41 PM, Monday, May 4th:
In our comments section, Nick V states "It took a few minutes to realize what you were talking about Wolter, but by the end I chuckled" By the end he chuckled. Exactly the response I wanted! Emboldened, I renew my vow to finish this, come hell or high water.

12:31 PM, Tuesday, May 5th:
I sit back for a minute and try to remember where the hell I was going with this. Oh yeah:

1:01 PM, Monday, May 4th:
I write something to this effect before stopping:

3:03 AM, Monday, May 4th:
I totally pass the hell out drunk, thinking I had a great idea for a blog post. (I am paraphrasing here).

12:35 PM, Tuesday, May 5th:
I'm back on track!

6:48 AM, Monday, May 4th:
Oh god. Is that my cell phone alarm? Jesus Christ! I need to get up and go to work...holy god, my mouth tastes like country fried ass. Why do I do this to myself...

This goes on for some time, until...
10:13 AM, Monday, May 4th:
I step out of a near-endless staff meeting, still haggard and not-a-little-hung-over, yet determined to write the best possible blog entry on my lunch break.

10:16 AM, Monday, May 4th:
I realize that Powerslave vs. Powersauce is the stupidest idea I've ever had. Even stupider than those damn NES reviews.

10:18 AM, Monday, May 4th:
The following idea passes through my brain and is quickly discarded:
Iron Maiden:

vs.
...THE IRON SHEIK
Again, Jordi would totally nail me if I didn't fact-check this one.

10:37 AM, Monday, May 4th:
I come close to googling pictures of Iron Chef before banging my head on the desk in frustration. Bad idea, as it re-activates my fading hangover.

10:53 AM, Monday, May 4th:
I hit a spark of inspiration, moments after I nix a plan to write about the incredibly awesome religious NES game Exodus (in which one plays Moses and Smites Pagans With the Power of the Lord). That one will come back. Trust me.

The plan is simple: I will write a "behind the scenes" look at how one of my posts comes to be. The only problem is: I don't have any good recent posts that I could possible remember the conception of. But I always say "when life gives you lemons, make crap up until you've filled the blue book." So I decide to write about the fact that I'm writing about the fact that I'm not writing anything at all. And by using dates, times, blockquotes, and different fonts, I can make a silly and pointless verbal puzzle that will both confuse and annoy all readers, while still making some semblance of sense if the reader wastes the time reading it.

And if anyone questions it...I'll say it's postmodern!

Armed with this confidence, I get back to doing my actual job until my lunch break.

12:54 PM, Tuesday, May 5th
I check the original entry again to make sure I know what the hell I'm talking about before starting to wrap this up:

12:11 PM, Monday, May 4th:
I begin typing the following:

I am not a prolific blo

...before spilling hot soup on my desk.

Blogging About Blogging About Not Blogging, Part 1

2009-05-04T07:00:00.001-06:00

From the Thunder Matt's Saloon archive. This one's a doozy. As is the next one.

Or, "The Making of "The Making Of "Iron Maiden vs. [TBD]"""

I am not a prolific blogger.

There. I said it.

Some would theorize that the reason behind this is that I am simply lazy. Others might say that, when I do write, I pour so much of my heart, soul, and limited html programming skills into it that I'm bound to put out less posts than most. The latter group is being charitable. I'm pretty damn lazy.

I note that it has been ages since my last post here, and that was a list post. Ugh. Shame on me. Well, actually, shame on Neal Cotts. What a turd he is.

But I digress.

Anyway, one thing I think I can provide to the TMS reader is a free peek behind the scenes at TMS - what makes us tick, how we come up with what we do. And an that note, maybe I can give you a look inside the process of how looking into our process has affected me, both as a TMS bartender, and as a man.

And the best way to do that is a diary of my thoughts about the diary of the events that shape a typical blog entry on TMS:

11:47 AM, Monday, May 4th
I decide I should probably write that "Behind the Scenes at TMS" blog entry, as my lunch time is fast approaching. I then realize that I need to get something to eat.

12:10 PM, Monday, May 4th
A quick trip downstairs for a Coke and to the kitchen to microwave my soup, and I'm ready to begin. I start thinking about the events I'm going to have to recall to make this blog make sense...first I need to start remembering when the idea for a blog post about writing a blog post first came to me, then I'll have to OH HOLY CRAP!

12:13 PM, Monday, May 4th
I finish cleaning the hot soup off my desk, and get back to writing. I decide to start back last week, when Brant Brown was being a total Nazi about the "Gists," and my lack of particiaption in them. I begin to type:

Sometime Last Week
Brant Brown starts being a total Nazi about the "Gists," and my lack of participation in them.

I then look at that and realize that's a crappy thing to say and decide to cut that part. I decide a better place to begin is to start is my growing realization that I have not been adding much to the TMS landscape lately. I modify my statement:

Sometime Last Week
I begin to realize that I have not been adding much to the TMS landscape lately.

11:32 PM, Saturday, May 2:
Brant Brown writes: "Mookie. Write 200 words on how Tyler Perry's "House of Payne" differs from Tyler Perry's "Meet the Browns". Due Monday, via TMS post." [Note: Brant has taken to calling me "Mookie Blaylock," probably because he's bitter that I'm able to blog under my own name, whereas his real name (Perez Hilton), has apparently already been taken].

2:54 AM, Sunday, May 3:
I respond: "Perez: No." But the need to write something soon festers.

12:23 PM, Monday, May 4:
I realize that I should probably mention my current mental state, as a way of explaining this entry. I take a second to find the right phrasing, then type:

7:30 PM, Sunday, May 3:
I attend my fiancee's graduation from her acting conservatory.

9:36 PM, Sunday, May 3:
The word goes out that everyone is leaving the after-graduation reception to get a few drinks at Brehon Pub. I tell my fiancee, "You can stay out as late as you want tonight, but I'm want to be home and in bed by 11:00, because I have to work tomorrow."

1:17 AM, Monday, May 4:
I do a shot of Jameson's with all of the members of her graduating class that are still upright.

12:30 PM, Monday, May 4:
I stop to reflect on my hangover for a moment.

12:52 PM, Monday, May 4:
I remember what I was doing with this blog, and start writing about the moment I remember that I haven't written jack and/or squat on TMS for some time.

2:47 AM, Monday, May 4:
I decide that I need to write a TMS post. But about what? I think about maybe getting up to play a little NES, but someone apparently set the room to "spin," so I decide against it.

2:55 AM, Monday, May 4:
I have a brainstorm. Mentally, I begin typing out the following Genius Idea:

Powerslave....

vs.

Powersauce!

3:03 AM, Monday, May 4:
Satisfied with this incalculably brilliant concept, I drift into a dreamless slumber.

1:02 PM, Monday, May 4:
I realize that I need to stop writing this, as my lunch break is over. I decide to continue writing this one later, and break this entry into multiple parts. The next part will commence with my morning-after second thoughts about this formerly "incalculably brilliant" post idea. It will also include the angry responses from other bartenders that this entry will no doubt provoke.

End of Part 1.

Tune in tomorrow (no really) for the continuation of this in-depth look into my thoughts about my thoughts about something no one cares about,. Unless I am murdered by my fellow bartenders before I can finish it.

Things I Would Rather Do...

2009-04-24T07:00:00.001-06:00

From the Thunder Matt's Saloon archive.

I missed yesterday's game, but I hear that once again, Neal Cotts is violating the Geneva Convention by pitching in baseball games. This saddens me enough to allow Thunder Matt's Saloon to print some excerpts from my upcoming book, 10,001 Things I'd Rather Do Than Watch Neal Cotts Pitch For the Cubs.

The book will be a lavish, coffee-table style hardcover full of illustrations completely unrelated to Neal Cotts pitching for the Cubs, as there are over ten thousand other things I'd rather do than ever see that again. However, plans are in the works for a deluxe edition bound in Neal Cotts' skin, if I can just talk Hendry into releasing that turd.

Here are a few to whet your appetite:

~Hammer a 6" railroad spike through my own left foot

~Listen to an Audiobook of Mike Tyson reading the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

~Listen to Chris DeLuca explain how Alexei Ramirez is the best baseball player in Chicago, even though a mentally challenged Cocker Spaniel can tell he's not the best baseball player on his own team, or even the best player named A. Ramirez in Chicago, for that matter

~Spend one full year living in Indiana (Official State Motto: "Why Not Give Up On Life Here?")

~Relive the time I was eight and watched my dog get hit by a car over and over again

~Attend a synagogue in Jerusalem with Mel Gibson

~Play an 8-hour marathon of The 3-D adventures of World Runner

~Perform a pap smear on Paris Hilton

~Get a tattoo of Ernest Borgnine's face on top of my own face

~Sit in a hot tub full of Au Jus with a naked Chip Wesley (the casual TMS reader probably doesn't realize how real this fear is)

~Eat a huge bowl of cilantro, and wash it down with a Woodchuck Pear Cider

~Listen to Chaim explain, in depth, how Kiss are "totally better than Maiden, man."

~Actually write a blog post for TMS

I'm already gathering data for the sequel, 10,001 Things YOU'D Rather Do Than Watch Neal Cotts Pitch For the Cubs, so feel free to submit your own in the comments section.

Friday Morning Spew

2009-04-10T08:49:00.003-06:00

I figure if ladies man and inhuman freak of nature Larry King could spend 20 years working for USA Today as a syndicated columnist by vomiting stream of consciousness statements and the occasional plug for a celebrity project,¹ then this can't be too hard. Let's see how I do. Note: this blog is also posted on Thunder Matt's Saloon, but not Hitler Getting Punched - at least, not yet.

After Kevin James and Seth Rogen both took the plunge, who's the next Hollywood Heavyweight to star in a Wacky Mall Security Guard vehicle? The smart money is on Chris Farley's Painfully Unfunny Right Wing Lunatic Brother......Some people may prefer A.J. for his plus fastball and dazzling curve, but MSNBC's Erin Burnett's dazzling curves can be on my fantasy team any day.......Sure it was loaded with clever wordplay and knowing references, but I think Edward Everett Horton's voice work is what made the Rocky & Bullwinkle Show special......Jimmy John's may claim to be "America's #1 Sandwich Delivery," but faced with a choice, I would have Potbelly Sandwich Works......Rashida Jones seems to be a very pretty lady. I had no idea her father was famed producer Quincy Jones. Her mother must have been hot as hell......When one is an atheist raised by Southern Baptists participating in a passover seder with your fiancee's family, try not to switch Israel and Egypt. It doesn't go over well......For my money, a sciatica outbreak is the best way to remind yourself you aren't a teenager anymore. I'm glad I still have some leftover vicodin, but I hope it hasn't expired......Anyone else remember the song "A Deeper Shade of Soul" by Urban Dance Squad? Man that sucked.......The vicodin is kicking in. I can't feel my fingers......I am shocked and saddened by the death of Angels starter Nick Adenhart. But not a deep enough man to then speculate about how the Angels will fare in the first month of the season missing 3/5 of the planned rotation. If I believed in a hell, I would be going there......Hank Williams III is my favorite member of that celebrated country family, if only for his slam on Kid Rock for pretending to to be the heir to the legacy......I may be a godless heathen who hates the troops, but Captain America riding a motorcycle over Nazi lines while his sidekick shoots them with a tommy gun gives me what I can only call a "'F*&K YEAH' hard-on for the USA."......Why are ants with human faces crawling all over my monitor?......I think every Friday is Good, so why is the Roman Catholic Church so big on today? Must be sweeps week......The ants are shrieking accusations at me......Who ever expected Iowa to legalize gay marriage before California, or as I call it "America's Gomorrah?"......Do they still sell Teddy Grahams? I mean, I know Tato Skins are still around......Dixie Carter is a registered Republican that leans Libertarian. Think on that the next time you sit around in your underwear watching a "Designing Women" marathon on We and Julia Sugarbaker gets all Liberal and shit......I AM BECOME DEATH, DESTROYER OF WORLDS!......I can see why Hugh Laurie's American brother loves this stuff. I feel like I could make rude observations and diagnose the critically ill with aplomb......I'm sleepy. Wolter go bed now.

1. I know that link is technically to the Onion parody of King, but it's almost identical in style to what he wrote.

Shameless Self-Promotion of Sorts

2009-04-07T09:09:00.007-06:00

Like watching Hitler getting punched? Then I have just the halfassed side project for you!

http://hitlergettingpunched.blogspot.com/

I'm hoping that everyone will submit their own examples of Hitler getting punched (send them to HitlerPuncher AT gmail DOT com). I have a small library of pics that I will be gradually releasing on the world, but I need more. Special primacy will be placed on original works of artistic Hitler-Punchery, whether they be cartoons, sketches, photographic recreations, or short literary works.

I will, of course, give credit and/or links where they are due.

Won't you join me in punching Hitler?

P.S. - Artistic skill is not mandatory: I don't care if it's in crayon and done by a five-year-old; I just want to see and hear about Hitler getting punched. And I bet I'm not the only one.

TMS MLB Preview 2009: Iron Maiden

2009-04-07T07:00:00.001-06:00

From the Thunder Matt's Saloon archive.

2008 Season: Did not play the game of baseball

SO LONG: Paul Day (V), Dennis Wilcock (V), Dave Sullivan (G), Terry Rance (G), Bob Sawyer (G), Tony Moore (K), Terry Wapram (G), Barry Purkis (D), Doug Samson (D), Paul Di'Anno (V), Paul Cairns (G), Dennis Stratton (G), Clive Burr (D), Blaze Bayley (V)

WELCOME: Nicko McBrain (D, P), Janick Gers (G, BV), Michael Kenney (K-live only)

WELCOME BACK: Bruce Dickinson (V), Adrian Smith (G, BV)

NEVER LEFT: Steve Harris (B, BV, K-In studio), Dave Murray (G)

PROJECTED LINEUP
1. Eddie the Head (M)
2. Dave Murray (G)
3. Bruce Dickinson (V)
4. Nicko McBrain (D, P)
5. Steve Harris (B, BV, K-In studio)
6. Adrian Smith (G)
7. Janick Gers- (G, BV)
8. "You, the Maiden fans! SCREAM FOR ME, LONG BEACH!" (A)
9. Michael Kenney (K-Live)

Starting: Probably some lesser act on the revival circuit, like Helloween, or some upstarts like DragonForce
Setup: About 6-7 hours, give or take local load-in times
Closer: Giant robotic Eddie breathes fire during "Running Free"

Well, Maiden has always done what it could to shock and impress fans, and their insistence that they can conquer Major League Baseball as easily as they conquered the New Wave of British Heavy Metal is nothing if not consistent with their storied career.

However, can this aging team of veterans (average age: 53) really take the world of baseball by storm? Sure, Eddie and Dave Murray provide both speed and evil at the top of the lineup, and the 3-4-5 punch of Dickinson, McBrain, and Harris provides finesse, power, and sound fundamentals respectively. But one wonders if they will be able to translate their dominance of metal and hard rock into the dominance of a division, or even parlay that into a Wild Card berth.

As usual, the back of the order is a question mark. Adrian Smith is dependable when he's healthy, but will Janick Gers and Michael Kenney be around at the All-Star break? And will the #8 hitting Maiden Fans be able to "Up the Irons," or will their boss at the Body Shop refuse to let them take off work because he's "Understaffed."

Sure, these doubts plague all teams, but I think it's a safe bet that, given that no member of Iron Maiden has ever even picked up a baseball, that this is not to be their year. Like all expansion teams, they are doomed to mediocrity. However, I am confident in saying that they will finish ahead of the Washington Nationals.

PREASEASON AWARDS
Mr. Sexy Time: Well, there's nothing much sexy about these yobs. But Eddie the Head is still badassed after all these years. So, there you go.

"Keyboards? Really?" Award: Michael Kenney. In a band with THREE guitarists, it's no doubt he doubles as a band technician. I'd be surprised to learn he isn't their "Beer Bitch."

Ugliest Guy in an Ugly, Ugly Band Award: Nicko McBrain. Ugh.

For More Reading
Official Website

So, yeah...

2009-04-02T18:45:00.005-06:00

I can't think of anyone who reads this blog who doesn't know this already, but to all the people who came here looking for pictures of Adam Ant, explanations of Boy George Lyrics, rants about Ghostbusters and/or The Golden Girls, or just some good old fashioned amputee horse porn:

I got engaged last night.

That is all.

TMS MLB Preview 2009: The Philadelphia Phillies

2009-03-25T07:00:00.000-06:00

From the Thunder Matt's Saloon archives.

2008 Record: 90-72 (1st in NL East, WS champs)

SO LONG: OF Pat Burrell, P Adam Eaton, P Tom Gordon, P Rudy Seanez, OF So Taguchi

WELCOME: 2B Miguel Cairo, OF Raul Ibanez, P Gary Majewski, P Chan Ho Park, C Ronny Paulino

PROJECTED LINEUP:

1. Jimmy Rollins SS
2. Shane Victorino CF
3. Chase Utley 2B
4. Ryan Howard 1B
5. Jayson Werth RF
6. Raul Ibanez LF
7. Pedro Feliz 3B
8. Carlos Ruiz C

Starting Rotation: Cole Hamels, Brett Myers, Jamie Moyer, Joe Blanton, Chan Ho Park

Setup: Ryan Madson

Closer: Brad Lidge

A friend of mine once described Philly as a place where every available surface was damp with some form of human bodily fluid - urine, phlegm, blood or worse. That in no way links to anything I have to say about the Phillies, but I always found that amusingly disgusting. Almost as disgusting as the notion of Cheez Whiz on a steak sandwich. Jeez, can't you even get your own cuisine right, Philadelphia?

Anyway, easy prediction. Phillies win the NL East. Mets take the wildcard...done. TMS can mail my check to the usual location. Adios...
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Okay...I've just been informed that PECOTA is projecting the Phillies to rank below the Mets and tied with the Braves this year. Also, the Phils have an interleague schedule that can only be called "hilariously brutal," as they are lined up to face every good team in the AL East. Worst of all, I am apparently not getting paid for this.

Still, the Phillies offense is pretty nasty looking. It may not be the famed Murderer's Row, but it will be lucky to plead down to Manslaughter. Rollins, Utley, Howard...any of these are potential, MVP candidates - and I'm not laughing at most of the rest of them.

Of course, they're probably going to need some runs, as Cole Hamels continues to be the only Philly (Phillie? Phillee?) starter that I wouldn't be annoyed to have on my own team. I mean, I love soft tossing lefties as much as anyone, but Jamie Moyer is so old that I...that I...well, crap. I used up all my "old guy" jokes on Randy Johnson in my drunken Giants preview.

Kidding aside, the Phillies are a tough team in what is shaping up to be a tough division (abeit graded on the NL curve). I don't suspect them to repeat their Series win this year, but then again, from March to May I am still contractually obligated to believe this is "The Cubs' Year."

AWARDS:
Mr. Sexy Time: Any of a number of Philleay batsmen could qualify. I guess I'll go for Chase Utley, as a childhood of idolizing Ryne Sandberg has given me a soft spot for second basemen with surprising power. Even if his name sounds like the Villainous Head Counselor of the Rich Boys' Camp in a Meatballs sequel.

The Ronny Cedeno Memorial "Thank God He's Not a Cub Anymore" Award: Well, technically, the Mariners' Ronny Cedeno has this one locked. But I would like to extend a hearty "good riddence" to Scott Eyre's arterial fat. Would it kill you to skip one meal?

The Yuengling Award: Given annually to the player that's better than I give him credit for. A player who is nothing to write home about, but better than average. This year's recipient is Jayson Werth. I didn't even realize how good a year he had last year. And I don't see a reason he couldn't put up a pretty decent set of numbers this year. Even if he looks like a sex offender.

FURTHER READING:

The Good Phight
Beer Leaguer
We Should Be GMs

In Which the Slogger Goes Prime Time

2009-03-20T12:06:00.020-06:00

Wow. Two posts in one week? I guess this makes it official.

I’m back.

After a long hiatus, contemplating that hideous soft-core amputee cheerleader mystery horse picture (and occasionally posting my random, mostly Iron Maiden-related thoughts over at ~~Pomp Culture~~ Thunder Matt’s Saloon), I’m giving all one of my remaining reader some more glimpses into my fevered psyche, and why I think it should be plastered on national television.

That’s right. National television.

I know what you’re thinking: “But Wolter (or “Slogger,” or “Jon,” or “Cuddles,” – I don’t know exactly what you’re thinking or what you call me in your spare time), you always struck me as too high-blown and arty for television. Isn’t that a vast wasteland?”

Yes, yes it is.

And I want a piece of the withered heath.

And speaking of withered, this plan (like most of mine) involves a Golden Girls spinoff. Also détournement. Because what would a Slog-based TV series be without Situationist Propaganda?

First and foremost, spinoffs often fail because just taking one or more of the original characters and putting them into a new setting isn’t a strong enough premise to carry a show. And, as Golden Palace taught us, putting 3 of the 4 GGs into a new setting is foolish – even if you replace Bea Arthur with the admittedly more feminine Cheech Marin.

And Bea, while powerful, is not even the strongest character one could carry over into a new series. No, as I have long maintained, and linked to on every occasion possible, the house itself is the true star for the discerning Golden Girls aficionado. My plan calls for the nightmarishly conceived set to be rebuilt¹ (preferably along a ley line) and utilized for what can only be the most brilliant television show in history.²

Here’s the pilot treatment for The Golden Ones:

Opening title: Visually identical to The Golden Girls' credit sequence. Except that every face on every original character is replaced with cut-out black&white photos of the The Golden Ones' 4 main cast members pasted over the corresponding retiree, and animated in a similar manner to Saddam Hussein on South Park. The saccharine title theme will be replaced by "Fish Fry" as performed by Big Black on their seminal album, Songs About Fucking. It's a sentimental choice on my part, but I think it's artistically valid.

Theme: I'm thinking sort of a cross between the Golden Girls, The Young Ones, and an issue of Weird Tales, circa 1934. This show will follow the hilarious and terrifying adventures of 4 aging hipsters who purchase a mysterious Miami house after its previous owner’s tragic death in a sex-swing related hip injury. Each episode, they laugh, love, and learn about nameless terror beyond their comprehension.

Characters: What's in a name? Eh, who the hell cares. Each of the four main characters will take their name from one of the original members of Public Image Limited. They all have distinct personalities sure to make them household names:

Jim is the irritable argumentative one. He often argues with the other residents of the house, and is unpleasant to be around.
Keith is the irritable argumentative one. He often argues with the other residents of the house, and is unpleasant to be around.
Wobble is the irritable argumentative one. He often argues with the other residents of the house, and is unpleasant to be around.
John is the irritable argumentative one. He often argues with the other residents of the house, and is unpleasant to be around.

The Pilot: Our four main characters, each having been kicked out of their apartments by their respective roommates, meet at a grocery store bulletin board advertising a house for sale, and all agree to chip in together and buy it, sight unseen because it's so cheap. Their excitement is muted upon arrival, when they see The House, long left decrepit and in disrepair. There are odd pieces of graffiti spray-painted on the walls, several broken windows, and a group of local gypsies³ all make the evil eye when they pull up.

But does that faze our quartet? Not even John, the irritable one, complains. These four ne'er-do-wells are content to wallow in the filth, cursing at each other and breaking dishes…until, at the end of the first act they discover the garage. From that note on, the show takes on a decidedly darker spin, as more and more oddities involving the non-recursive space kick in, with hilarious results:

Wobble (the irritable one) wakes up in the middle of the night to use the rest room and ends up blinking confusedly in an open-air market in Cairo after a wrong turn into the linen closet. He turns around only to find himself falling out of the cabinet under the sink (where Dorothy encountered the lovable little mouse she couldn't hurt those many years ago).
Lovably irritable Keith keeps hearing an otherworldly disembodied voice in his closet telling tales of small-town buffoonery, and is only able to sleep each night after eating at least seven pounds of lutefisk.
John is irritated to discover that he keeps seeing odd tentacled creatures out of the corner of his eye every time he goes out for a job interview. But, by the end of the episode, he gets a job anyway, when he learns the ad agency he's applying for just got an account with a company that sells sashimi vending machines.
Jim⁴ has a wacky time trying to date two women at once while each night dreaming he's an eldritch priest committing vile sacrifices, then awakening with mud, blood, and other less identifiable viscous fluids across his sheets each morn. Did I mention the women are twins? He's on an express train to wackiness!

And that doesn't even cover the zany neighbor, Cyrus Wycheley - a retired Professor Emeritus of Parapsychology at venerable Miskatonic University, played by a heavily made-up Henry Rollins (who I'm going to sadly have to ask to lose enough muscle mass that he resembles his Black Flag days - also, he's got to cover those tattoos). Professor Wycheley's patrician "Old Arkham" ways will grate the irritable Wobble to no end, but delight and irritate Keith. Or the running gag that John has no sense of smell and cannot detect the odd odor of must that comes from the corner of his room that doesn't meet at a Euclidean angle! Or the work we're doing to get Charlie Manson furloughed for the Season Finale, where he plays Wobble's kindly Uncle Chuck, whose unstinting kindness will cause one of the cast members to commit the vilest and most unspeakable of crimes (I don't want to spoil the surprise, but here's a hint: the one who does it is a mighty irritable customer). Or the running joke where veteran character actor Dick Miller plays a series of different elderly gardeners and/or caretakers (each related to the previous in some way) who keep being found dead, with their gazes twisted into expressions of unimaginable horror!

Frankly, a show like this writes itself, so don't be surprised if I'm a household name by the next Emmys.

The original is currently under lock and key in a storage vault at an undisclosed New England university, being studied by masters of the occult).
Eat your heart out, Barney Miller.
These gypsies will be the broadest stereotype of the Roma possible, in order to spark some controversy that will increase viewership.
He's irritable.

An Essay on Liquor Puritanism and Predestination

2009-03-18T12:41:00.011-06:00

Or, "Come On! This Is Totally Unfair!"

Today is the day after St. Patrick's Day, and I feel hung-over as hell.

I'm sure you are shocked.

However, the honest truth is: I didn't have a drink last night. Not even one. No consultation with Dr. Scotch. No check-up from Nurse Bourbon. No snake oil purchased from my chiropractor, "Dr." Cheapvodka. Not even a back-alley abortion from a twelve pack of Corona that dropped out of Pre-Med.

I haven't gotten drunk on St. Patrick's day in a long time. I'm guessing 7-8 years. I don't like crowded bars to begin with, and I certainly don't like going out to capacity-filled bars loaded with part-time drinkers priming themselves to puke green-food-colored Miller Lite on my shoes.

St. Patrick's day is to the average social drinker what Easter Mass is to the lapsed Catholic. It's that one day a year to get dressed up in your finest faded Levi's 560s, green polo, and team-inappropriate-green MLB cap, snap on your snazziest puka-shell choker, and meander and sway obnoxiously in public at 3 in the afternoon, ready to pick a fight with no one in particular about nothing at all.

All that is well and good, if you're one of those idolators who think that one perfunctory and overwrought visit to church a year can save your soul,¹ or one of those drinkers that are into showiness and ceremony over the message.

But give me that Old Crow Religion. It's good enough for me.

Drinking shouldn't be all about who's wearing what beads, how to download which Dave Matthews song on the internet jukebox, or where to find the Morning After Pill after "What the Hell Was I Thinking." That obscures the message. The Word. ² The Price.³

Drinking should be a personal experience, between you and, ultimately, your Porcelain God. Those of us who have boiled booze down to it's purest message don't need the cheap vulgarity of sports bars and faux-Irish pubs to drink. Drinking belongs in simple, dimly lit rooms, with dark, simple wood and a bartender that can be reached in under 30 minutes. Sure, hot wings are a nice option, but a simple bowl of stale peanuts is just as holy.

So, much as the Puritans denouced Christmas as a pagan holiday with no relevance to their Lord, I denounce our current conception of St. Patrick's day as a false idol. Let us have a St. Patrick's day of the soul, one not bound by the calendar or Notre Dame shirts. Let every man, woman, and poorly looked-after child drink their fill in his or her own measure, and not bow to a tradition as meaningless as watching televised golf.

THAT, my dear reader, is why I do not drink on St. Patrick's Day.

And yet I woke up with a hangover. One that hasn't gone away. I have the headache, shakiness, and vague sense of nausea of a bog-standard whisky-induced hangover. You know, the thing baseball players used to call "flu-like symptoms." But this ain't no flu.

All of this proves Calvin was right. I am predestined to suffer for my sins, whether I commit them or not. For booze is a harsh mistress, and demands much from her worsphippers. But who am I to question? Dr. Scotch moves in mysterious ways.

Peace be with you.

Or that you even HAVE a soul...but that's for another blog at another time written by another person than me.
Thunderbird
Forty twice.

TMS MLB Preview 2009: San Francisco Giants

2009-03-14T07:00:00.001-06:00

From the Thunder Matt's Saloon archives.

All through March, Thunder Matt's Saloon will be previewing each Major League team. We'll give you the ins and outs of the upcoming 2009 season, how each team will do, and some other useless crap you'll wish you had never read.

IN WHICH I ATTEMPT TO BLOG ABOUT THE SAN FRANCISCO GIANTS WITHOUT MENTIONING SATAN WILL CLARK OR MAKING NUMEROUS TYPOS EVEN THOUGH I HAVE HAD SIX SEVEN EIGHT SHOTS OF TEQUILA.

Note: Pictures may come later when I'm sober. I can't get them to work and I think my girlfriend is going to kill me if I don't stop cursing out loud.

2008 Record: 72-90 (4th in the already laughable NL West)

SO LONG: P Kevin Correia, SS Omar Vizquel

WELCOME: P Jeremy Affeldt, P Bob Howry, P Randy Johnson, SS Edgar Renteria, SS Stabby Stabberson Juan Uribe

PROJECTED LINEUP
1. Randy Winn RF
2. Edgar Renteria SS
3. Pablo Sandoval 3B
4. Bengie Molina C
5. Fred Lewis LF
6. Aaron Rowand CF
7. That Unholy Spawn of Satan, Will Clark Travis Ishakawa 1B
8. Emmanuel Burriss 2B

Starting Rotation: Tim Lincecum, Matt Cain, The Late Randy Johnson, Jonathan Sanchez, A Giant Hole That Brian Sabean Periodically Tosses Money Into Barry Zito, Noah Lowry
Setup: Bob Howry, Jeremy Affeldt
Closer: Brian Wilson

OH MY GOD I HATE WILL CLARK SO MUCH! What is there to say about the San Francisco Giants, of whom I do not hold a grudge? Other than the fact that Will Clark ruined my goddamn life in the fall of 1989, as I sat in my Aunt and Uncle's house because my own home had just been destroyed by Hurricane Hugo days previously and then that son of a bitch twisted the knife in my already devastated life their lineup is a cosmic joke more hilarious than Will Clark played on me beyond all possible schadenfreude. I mean this is a really BAD lineup, even by the already anemic NL West's standards. I begin to wonder if the Giants and the Diamondbacks had a bet running as to who could score less runs a season. Take a long, steamy look at that festering boil of a lineup. Bengie Molina at cleanup? That's a fantastic move, as both scouts and statheads agree that the best choice for a #4 is a guy with mid-range power, mediocre on-base ability, and an ability to run the 50 yard dash in slightly less than 3 minutes.

The Giants also have a lot of young question marks in the lineup. Pedro Sandroval? Fred Lewis? Travis Ishikawa? Roland Burris? None of them are proven, but I guess they all paid to play.

Of course, the Giants do have decent pitching, with 24-year old Cy Young winner Tim Lincecum and 72 year old 5-time Cy Young award winner Randy Johnson, and possibly amazing, but potentially hilariously bad Barry Zito taking the mound.

I think, given the weakness of this division, the Giants have a shot Excuse me, I need to do a shot, because my rage at Will Clark is building. Okay I'm back if the Dodgers falter and they get some breaks, but the odds are they'll fall like Mitch Williams throwing a pitch that Will Clark laced over his head to drive in both the winning run and the stake through my heart during game five of the 1989 NLCS short of taking the division. And in a real division, they'd never come close.

PRESEASON AWARDS

Mr. Hatred Time: Will Clark Mr. Sexy Time: Tim Lincecum. Seriously. He deserves to be promoted from the AA SF Giants to an actual MLB team. One that rhymes with Michago Mubs, for example.

The "I'm Still Alive Like Michael-Fucking-Myers In Halloween" Award: Will Clark. WHEN WILL YOU STOP HAUNTING MY NIGHTMARES!" Award: Randy Johnson. Seriously. All age joking aside, the man was an active major leaguer when Will Clark was breaking my heart Reagan was president.

The "I'm the Infield Equivalent of Kenny Lofton" Award: Edgar Renteria, who has also won this years coveted Derek Jeter Memorial Award for Shortstops Who Should Probably Be Moved to Third At This Point In Thier Career. I fully expect Will Clark to rot in hell for all eternity Renteria to play for at least nine other teams before he retires in eight years.

FOR MORE READING
Honestly, the Giants can screw. I suggest going here:
The Official Homepage of the Band that Will One Day Kill Will Clark Onstage In Front of THousands of Screaming Brazilians.

A Grown Man Attempts To Review NES Games, Part 2

2009-03-10T07:00:00.001-06:00

From the Thunder Matt's Saloon archives.

The Battle to Understand The 3-D Battles of World Runner

I know none of you out there want to read what we think about baseball, right? That's why I'm back with another reason to knock the NES off its pedestal. As per last time, I will be rating this game by a scale that only makes sense to me, Stephen Hawking, and the rest of the Secret Genius Cabal that runs what you have all been convinced is "The Earth." Again, I have done no research on this game, and had never heard of it before I started the emulator.

The game in question is The 3-D Battles of World Runner. It was made by the same people responsible for the popular Final Fantasy games, so it's probably pretty good. Oh, wait. It was made in 1987. And it's an arcade game. I think...

Oh hell.

This is going to be rough. I can feel it.

Graphics: Okay, who designed this "3-D" world? Jeff Spicoli? Just because it looks good on a pair of Vans is no reason to assume I want to frolic on a checkerboard pattern. Neither checkers nor chess are fun unless you are (a) running a general store in Appalachia (for the former) or (b) a completely batshit Antisemitic Jewish homeless wizard (the latter). I also feel as if the characters are poorly designed, and not fully taking advantage of the lush capabilities of 8-bit processing. Also, the near constant chasms in this game are just black rectangles. Meh. (2/5)

Sound: A hideous squalling noise (not unlike a snippet from Metal Machine Music) greeted me when I started the game. And it didn't get better from there. In fact, I almost got into a fight with my girlfriend because I told her I needed to hear at least 1-2 minutes of this "Midi Carnival In Hell" score. Feh. (1/5)

Gameplay: Okay, so the "Battles" in the title seems to be a misnomer, since the whole point of this game is to run forward, while sidestepping cutesy monsters and obstacles and leaping ridiculous distances over solid black rectangles. This game could have been played with an old 2600 joystick for all the complexity of controls. You have no weapons, shields, or useful power-ups - at least none that I could discover (there is at least on part where you can pick items up, but they seem to only give points). The jump function is the exact opposite of Castlevania's - it's video game physics to the Nth degree. The longer you hold the button, the longer you jump, and you can steer yourself in midair. However, it's very hard to judge depth and while in midair it feels like you're steering an '85 diesel Oldsmobile through Jell-o. Guh. (2/5)

Level of Adult Confusion: This game didn't mystify me like 8-Eyes did, as it's clearly a mindless arcade game whose main gimmick is the illusion of 3-D. However, I would love to know exactly what the hell is the point of running endlessly until you die. At least Asteroids and Centipede had some sort of backstory. As far as I can tell, you're just running as fast as you can on a giant chessboard until you either fall in a pit, ram into a pillar of fire, or lightly bump into a bouncing ball with eyes. Maybe that's some sort of metaphor for life, but it's pretty forced. Also, would it have hurt to go through this metaphorical "Game of Life" with some missiles or something?

This game also has some sort of health meter or something, but it's clearly decorative, as every time I ran into anything, I died. And when you die, the screen flashes black and red and a dragon left over from a Chinese New Year parade flounces about the screen like Rip Taylor on ecstasy. I think he's taunting you, but for all I know, he's mourning your passing.

Other "charming" (read: confusing and infuriating) touches: when you pause the game, World Runner (I assume that's his name, or at least his title according to the Peerage Registry) turns and faces you, sitting Indian-style. And naps. Lazy bastard. World Runner also flashes a damn peace sign from the bottom corner of the screen - at all times. Maybe if you were less of a damn hippie pacifist, you'd be able to defend yourself against a figgin' beach ball moving at 10mph. (3/5)

Level of Childhood Rage If I Had Spent My Own Money On This: I'm guessing rather high. I mean, at least Spyhunter had the "Peter Gunn Theme" playing as you drove until your death, not an outtake from a Melt-Banana casio tribute band rehearsal playing as you ran until you fall into a black rectangle. The 3-D gimmick would have hooked me for a while, but honestly, even the old vector graphics Star Wars was more convincing. Being poor as a child, I would have probably gritted my teeth and gotten very good at this game, meanwhile hating every second as much as I hated my parents for not buying me a Mega Man game instead. Bleh. (4/5)

Time Spent Playing as an Adult Before Quitting In Annoyance: Wanting to give this monstrosity one more chance, I came back to this game two weeks after my first attempt. This means I have spent a total composite time of nearly 10 minutes of my only time on this "Earth" playing this game. I could have spent that time listening to 6 Ramones songs. I feel like a fool. Bah.

Composite Grade: D

You're better off just hitting pause and taking a nap with World Runner. Unless you have a fever above 103, your dreams will make more sense. And you'll have more fun.

Thunder Matt Movie Minute: Watchmen

2009-03-05T07:00:00.001-06:00

From the Thunder Matt's Saloon archives. I only wrote my responses, the rest being written by TMS contributor Chaim Witz.

For this review, I have enlisted the help of resident comic nerd Wolter to help me deconstruct this year's most anticipated film. I just finished reading the novel about a week ago and that was the first 'graphic novel' that I've ever read, having not read an actual comic since I used to devour 'Richie Rich' comics as a pre-pubescent lad (no wonder I'm so pretentious). Wolter on the other hand, has intimate knowledge of the subject matter. And by intimate, I mean he has had sex with the novel. Don't knock it til you try it. We'll spare you the details of the trying to explain the plot. You can do that legwork yourself.

IMDB Cribbed Synopsis: "Watchmen" is set in an alternate 1985 America in which costumed superheroes are part of the fabric of everyday society, and the "Doomsday Clock" - which charts the USA's tension with the Soviet Union - is permanently set at five minutes to midnight. When one of his former colleagues is murdered, the washed up but no less determined masked vigilante Rorschach sets out to uncover a plot to kill and discredit all past and present superheroes. As he reconnects with his former crime-fighting legion - a ragtag group of retired superheroes, only one of whom has true powers - Rorschach glimpses a wide-ranging and disturbing conspiracy with links to their shared past and catastrophic consequences for the future. Their mission is to watch over humanity... but who is watching the Watchmen?

Review

Chaim: Watchmen comes to us as the most anticipated comic/graphic novel since Garfield: A Tale of Two Kitties. It's length is Lord of the Rings-esque, it's violence stylized yet brutal and it's scope is sometimes too complex for it's own good and for the mere mortals trying to take it all in.

For those who are unfamiliar with the dark noir world of graphic novel that the movie is based upon (Voted one of Time Magazine's '100 Greatest Novels of All Time') the best way I could describe it would be if George Orwell's book 1984 made love to the movie Sin City and had a child, but then gave it up for adoption to David Lynch and Hunter S. Thompson, that child would grow up to be Watchmen. Sound a bit complex and slightly disturbing? Welcome to the show.

Wolter, you can probably speak to this better than I can, but I did feel that for the most part, the movie stayed very true to the novel, which may please the die hards, but alienate the casual viewer. Gone are the pirate ship sub-story and the news stand guy, and the ending is tweaked a bit for mass consumption, but other than that and a few other slight omissions, the book seemed to be the storyboard for the movie.

Wolter: I agree. In fact, last night I picked Watchmen off the shelf and started sort of half-rereading it. It's amazing how much was directly from it (at least in the first 30 minutes of the movie). Rorschach's diaries are pretty much identical, even down to what's being shown as he talks. And a lot of the signs and graffiti were pretty much directly transferred. It's pretty clear that the original source panels were converted directly into storyboards for much of the film.

Of course, such reverence could easily make the film turgid and hard to follow (which, for all I know it is - I really need to rewatch it now that I have "OHMYGOD I'M WATCHING THE WATCHMEN" out of my system). But pretty much all of the major plot changes and omissions worked for me. In fact, I think the changed ending is actually a more plausible plot device, and works better in almost every way. Oh, and I support Sally Jupiter aging into a GILF...but I'm shallow that way.

I did love the "tip of the cap" to the fans by including a brief view of the "newstand guy" and the "comics reader" near the end. Sort of a "yeah, we had to cut the Black Freighter, but you know it was still going on, fanboys."

Another observation: the score was a bold and largely successful decision. The use of mostly period songs (with a smattering of 60s songs) and a sort of 80s-movie style guitar/synth highlighting (is that the right term? I suspect not) really worked for me. It really put the movie in the proper (alternate) time frame.

I think this movie may do poorly later in the run, as it's definitely not The Dark Knight, Iron Man or Spider-Man. I'm not 100% sure how Snyder got the budget to make what has always been a niche read comic meta text ruminating on such subjects as the comics industry and the way the American Dream flirts with fascism.

Chaim: The soundtrack was ballsy, but yeah, it worked. Putting Hendrix, Dylan, Simon & Garfunkel and Leonard Cohen in key spots could have really been a disaster, but I thought it worked.

Do you think that someone that sees the film without any preconceived notions might see it as a bit cold and detached though? I will say that I think that it's easier to get away with that type of heavy tone in a book than on film.

Wolter: I think it's possible. I told my girlfriend (in as spoiler-free a manner as possible) that if I didn't know how his character sees the world from the get-go, I might have felt that Billy Crudup was way too flat and detached in his line reads.

The whole trick of the original graphic novel is that none of the characters are fully likable at all times (except for maybe Hollis Mason). Depending on the point in the story, I have felt sympathy with and revulsion regarding almost every character's morals and behavior.

An example: in many ways, Rorschach is the most heroic character of all, and the only one who stays true to his ideals - and he's actually an unlikable psychopath that is more or less a straight caricature of the Ayn Randian Objectivism and moral certitude of comics legend Steve Ditko (whose Question is the inspiration for his character). In both the original source and the movie, he ends up brutally torturing more-or-less innocent people to get the information he needs - and he is far more obsessed with retribution than genuine justice.

And now an aside: one of the more disturbing experiences at the screening was hearing all the comics geeks cheering loudly in response to some of Rorschach's more psychotic excesses (particularly in the prison). There's always been a bit of that mindset in vigilante heroes anyway, but the amount of laughter at the fate of the relatively defenseless and (at that point essentially impotent) ringleader was somewhat chilling. And somewhat more chilling: I found myself almost wanting to laugh and cheer along with them - which I believe was the result Moore and Snyder were consciously aiming for.

To get back to the original question: the Watchmen graphic novel rewards careful rereading with insights, and I suspect this film does the same with careful rewatching. However, I'm not 100% sure if the film will attract rewatching in people who weren't already fans. I would like to see it again, but I suspect my views are not those of the average moviegoer.

Chaim: I love that you casually work into the conversation "...the Ayn Randian Objectivism and moral certitude of comics legend Steve Ditko..." That's some Grade A geek speak right there.

My summary for the uninitiated would be this: If you like your comic book characters ambiguous, your violence extreme, your nudity gratuitous, your symbolism deep, your penises blue, your endings somber and your humor dark, this might be the movie for you. Or it might not.

Rating: 3.5 Blue Penises Out of 5

Wolter: For the initiated: If you can wait for the special DVD to see Tales of the Black Freighter, can accept that the original ending would never have made sense on the big screen (heck, be honest, you had to reread the comic just to understand it in the first place), don't have any cockamamie theories about Dr. Manhattan's penis size or circumcision status being symbolic, and can get over the gratuitous freeze-frames and slo-mo sequences during the fights, you probably will enjoy this movie. Very little was added that wasn't in the original, and it's still dense even after the judicious cuts were made. I did think the fight choreography (and to some extent the dreaded FREEZE FRAME AND SLOW MOTION) was out of place. But even if it falls flat on some levels (Nixon looks goofy as hell. There, I said it), remember how hard it is to even be in the ballpark of the source material. And how often will you have the chance to see a live action comics movie that is so visually faithful to the source material?

Honestly, I don't know if this movie is successful on it's own terms or not, but seeing Dr. Manhattan's crystal sanctuary rise up out of the soil of Mars on the big screen is probably worth your greasy, Dorito-stained money by itself. Watch it. You paid good money to see X-Men 3, and this is definitely better than that festering, amoral, crapfest. And, oddly, a lot more fun...

Rating: 4 Sadistic Killings Out of 5 (subject to change)

A Spoiler Laden Watchmen Review

2009-03-04T14:47:00.013-06:00

The Slogger got a real treat last night when he got a chance to see the Watchmen preview with some of his fellow bartenders at Thunder Matt's Saloon (formerly Pomp Culture (formerly Thunder Matt's Saloon)). I'll be participating in a review there tomorrow, which will be relatively spoiler free and possibly entertaining as well. But in the meantime, I'm giving anyone who ended up here in a search for Softcore Amputee Horse Porn a patented Totally Spoiler-Laden Review.¹

Of course, I'd hate to ruin this movie for you, so all of the spoilers will be from other movies. And as an added precaution, spoilers are in bold, bright red, so if you want to avoid them, don't look at the most eye-catching spot on the page.

First and foremost, I think this was probably a good movie, maybe even a great movie, but it's really hard for me to tell, due to my familiarity and reverence for the source material. The reverence is shared by the filmmakers. From the opening scene where Cyclops is surprisingly killed off by Dark Phoenix in a total bullshit move, to the near shot-for-shot recreation of Jim Gordon faking his death to help Batman capture the Joker, this movie will delight fans of the original graphic novel with the opportunity to see breathtaking recreations of iconic moments from the original, like when Luke totally kisses his sister in that hospital room on Hoth.

Of course, not all fans will be pleased by some of the changes. The leaving out of all the Tom Bombadil scenes entirely and the changing the original ending so that Greedo shoots first are sure to grate on the more dedicated. But lets face it, these changes move the story along at a greater clip, and make it a little easier to understand. Frankly, I think we should just be glad we still get to see the rednecks gun down Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper at the end.

I think there are a lot of flaws in this movie. The fights are kinda out of the spirit of the rest of the movie, and the dense plot will possibly leave a lot of viewers a bit lost. I'm familiar enough with the story to see all the clues that point to Deckard possibly being a replicant himself, but unless you keep your eyes open you'll probably never catch all the hints that point out that Peter Graves is the real nazi spy, and he's framing William Holden to draw attention from the real plot: to replace the Red Car with a Freeway built by Cloverleaf Oil.

I do think it's a movie worth seeing, but if you're already familar with the comic book, you may have to explain to the person sitting next to you that Kevin Spacey IS Keyser Söze.

Patent pending.

TMS MLB Preview 2009: Oakland Athletics

2009-03-03T07:00:00.002-06:00

From the Thunder Matt's Saloon archive. I apologize for the font colors. TMS had a white background.

All through March, Thunder Matt's Saloon will be previewing each Major League team. We'll give you the ins and outs of the upcoming 2009 season, how each team will do, and some other useless crap you'll wish you had never read.

OAKLAND ATHLETICS

2008 Season: 75-86 (3rd Place in AL West)

SO LONG: OF Emil Brown, P Alan Embree, P Keith Foulke, OF Carlos Gonzalez, OF Thunder Matt Murton, P Greg Smith, P Huston Street, DH Frank Thomas

WELCOME: 1B Jason Giambi, P Russ Springer, P Michael Wuertz, LF(or DH?) Matt Holliday, SS Orlando Cabrera (likely), the rotting corpse of 3B Nomar Garciaparra (possible, depending on the rate his body decays).

PROJECTED LINEUP
1. Mark Ellis 2B
2. Ryan Sweeney CF
3. Matt Holliday LF
4. Jason Giambi 1B
5. Dave Kingman Adam Dunn Jack Cust DH
6. Eric Chavez 3B
7. Bobby Crosby Orlando Cabrera SS
8. Travis Buck RF
9. Kurt Suzuki C

Starting Rotation: Justin Duchscherer, Sean Gallagher, Dallas Braden, Gio Gonzalez, Dana Eveland
Setup: Russ Springer, whichever platoon closer is available
Closer: Joey Devine/Brad Ziegler

The Oakland A’s always mystify me (heck all of the teams in this upstart “American” League mystify me a little). I (and this is largely due to not following the West Coast or the American League much at all) almost never know who 2/3 of the players are, and I’m never really certain where they are in the standings at any given point in the year. All I really know is that a robot named Billy Beane wrote a book called Moneyball about how baseball games should be simulated by computers while Joe Morgan’s grandchildren are tortured. Or something.

This looks to be another typical Billy Beane team: cheap, ugly, and reasonably effective. Despite last year’s disappointing record, PECOTA looks at them to bounce back to about 83-79. I say that’s not unlikely in the AL West, though I think this team looks closer to a sub-.500 team in a division that isn’t “the Angels plus ¾ meh.” Once again Oakland has a lineup of people who know the strike zone and have some power in their bats. Prodigal son Jason Giambi returns, and will probably hold his aging, steroid riddled body together long enough for at least a season or two before collapsing into his component molecules. Matt Holliday’s splits away from Coors aren’t as impressive as I personally would like, but I suspect he will still be potent. And Jack Cust is fast becoming the Platonic Ideal of the Three True Outcomes (and I leave that to you to decide whether that’s a good or bad thing). As of right now, it looks like SS Orlando Cabrera and 3B Nomar Garciaparra may both be in green soon, which means perennial DL favorite Bobby Crosby will be riding pine unless someone wants a barely productive money-pit to stand in their infield.

Big question marks in the starting rotation in my opinion, though most of the players involved seem like they have the raw “stuff” for the big leagues, if not the track record. Beane’s bullpens are always getting sold for parts, so who knows where the Devine/Zeigler closer platoon will go? Out of the dazzling array of ex-Cubs fighting for roster spots (including Possible Fifth Starter Jerome Williams, Probable Disappointment Eric Patterson, Ulcer Waiting to Happen Sean Gallagher, and Guy I Only Remember Because I Vaguely Remember Calling Him “Bowener” Rob Bowen), A’s fans may actually grow to appreciate the steady, dependable Michael Wuertz most of all, as long as they realize that “steady” and “dependable” mean “I hope they don’t know how to hit a slider.”

The biggest disappointment for A’s fans who also hate melanin is the departure of legendary Left Fielder and Future Hall of Very Capable Players inductee Thunder Matt Murton, who will soon be Bringing the Thunder to a mountaintop near you (only, of course, if you live near Colorado).

PRESEASON AWARDS
Mr. Sexy Time: Honestly, given that this team is composed of aging veterans, solid journeymen, and non-flashy-looking prospects - I have no idea. I assume the 2009 Mr. Sexy Time will be awarded in 2012, when the hitherto unknown farm prospect that replaces Holliday just before this year’s trade deadline signs to the Yankees for more money than God owns. For all I know, it could be potential 1B Daric Barton who may or may not move Giambi to DH and Cust to the outfield. Or Dennis Eckersly, out of retirement and out for revenge.

The "Empire Rent-A-VORP" Award: Future trade material Matt Holliday. Sure, Lew Wolff says Holliday will stay the whole season, but I’m willing to bet when that trade deadline starts looming, the chance to unload him for prospects will be too hard to resist.

The "Most Likely to Pass Out in His El Camino Covered in Arby’s Sauce After a Night of Hard Partying After Work" Award: the Jason Giambi from an alternate reality who never discovered steroids and ended up picking up part time hours in an auto-body shop until his Ratt cover band “starts getting some gigs.”

The “Who the Hell are You?” Award: The current starting lineup, unless one of them steps up and blows my jaded and bitter little mind.

FOR MORE READING
Athletic Supporters
Athletics Nation

Check back tomorrow when Chip Wesley will preview the Houston Astros.

Iron Maiden Vs. The 1908 Cubs

2009-02-27T07:00:00.001-06:00

From the Thunder Matt's Saloon archives (formerly Pomp Culture).

The world is an immense place, so immense that it requires a speed of 11.2 km/s just to escape its gravity. But Iron Maiden is an immense band, so immense that the earth itself cannot escape the pull of the Irons. Is there a force on earth powerful enough to contain these Monsters of Metal?

Only science can tell.

The Pomp Culture Thunder Matt Foundation for the Study of Speaker-Melting Rock presents its current findings in today’s installment of Iron Maiden vs. The World.

Despite the TMFFSSMR’s long standing policy of neutrality on issues of athletics (due to most Foundation Employees spending their school years carving “Maiden Rules” on their desks with their keys, in lieu of participating in organized sports), the resurrection¹ of The Saloon must be acknowledged. And there’s really only one thing we know how to do: KICK IT OLD SCHOOL.

So without further ado, let’s look at the best each of these Venerable Franchises Have to offer:

The 1908 Cubs

Apparently (and I’m stunned that no major news outlet has pointed this out every goddamn time the team is mentioned in any way, shape, or form), the Chicago National League Franchise has not won a World Series in over 100 years. But, there was a time when this was not so. In fact, there was a time when the Cubs were THE most feared team in baseball.² A time when player/manager Frank Chance could say “Whoever heard of the Cubs losing a game they had to have?” and not be greeted with the same snickers as we at the Foundation make when we say “Merkle’s Boner.”³ Yes, the 1908 Cubs are the current high-water mark of the franchise (though Carlos Zambrano’s recent mustache almost gave them a run for the money).

The 1984-1985 Irons

Sure, some will say Maiden peaked with Paul Di’Anno, but those people probably think the 2005-6 World Series weren’t cancelled for lack of interest. Di’Anno was a fantastic vocalist, and most bands would kill for his pipes, but aside from the banshee howls of Bruce Dickinson, the World Slavery Tour lineup of Maiden also included the strongest, and most stable Maiden lineup in history (maybe not that impressive, given their track record, but still…). And their live setlists included such monster songs as “Two Minutes to Midnight,” “Flight of Icarus,” “The Trooper,” “22 Acacia Avenue,” and “NUMBER OF THE BEAST,” y’all!

The Methodology

Just check here. Or here. We’re not going to hold your hands every time we release a study. Criminy.

The Battle:

Intellectual and/or Literary Merit
Despite the proud working class origins of both of these organizations, they have each had their share in inspiring great literature. After the Chicago Nationals ruthlessly pricked the gonfalon bubble of John McGraw’s hated Giants in 1910 (yes, it’s after the year in question, but it’s the same players as 1908), whiny, sissy East Coast favoring Franklin Pierce Adams wrote the storied “Baseball’s Sad Lexicon,” later renamed “Tinker to Evers to Chance” by the general public, as the original title has been deemed “ridiculously pretentious.” Of course, John McGraw himself preferred the title, “Jesus H. Christ, Why Can’t We Get a Break Against These Assholes?”

But few know just how influential Maiden have been in the development of poetry. In 1797, noted proto-metalhead Samuel Taylor Coleridge (while nodding out of his gourd on a mixture of Laudenum, Wormwood, Fermented Starling Livers, and Orange Pekoe Tea) briefly slipped out of linear time, and had a vision that he described in a letter to fellow nutcase William Blake as “A Bande of Minstryls clad in tightest Samite garments, wielding Stringed Instruments of unknown Make didst shred mine Soul with an admixture of Chordes of Power and accompanies Solos of Vast Technicality.” He later cobbled his hazy memories into the renowned poem “Aces High.” Maiden later returned the favor by putting Coleridge’s own “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” to music on their epic Powerslave album.

Sure, “Tinker to Evers to Chance” has entered the national consciousness, but it’s clearly doggerel. Coleridge is apparently a good poet, at least judging by the Maiden cover (The Foundation would research this but poetry is for Chicks)…

Advantage: Maiden.

Influence
This is a tough call. Maiden, as stated in previous entries, leads more by example than influence. Indeed most of the 90s can be seen as a reaction AGAINST 1984-85 Maiden by bands that knew they could never equal the Irons in a fair fight, and chose rather to play less technical, lo-fi music in another decade entirely.

The 1908 Cubs have a tremendous impact on culture, but localized in the Chicago area, though WGNTV provides the Cubs Diaspora with as much information as they can, as does the excellent Crazy ’08, Cait N. Murphy’s fantastic account of this legendary team, and the world they inhabited – a book that is long overdue a movie adaptation. If He’s Just Not That Into You can get a movie deal, why couldn’t something that actually has a narrative drive and actual characters? Plus, baseball historians can always look to the hectic, hotly contested game won by the Cubs when noted second baseman, dugout attorney, and all around psychopath Ty Cobb Johnny “It’s Pronounced EEvers, Dammit” Evers totally FACED Giants stooge Fred Merkle on a rules violation in awesome fashion.

This is a tough call – but like their legendary season, the Cubs squeeze by at the last minute by riding Merkle’s Boner.⁴

Advantage: Cubs

Image/Aesthetic

Umm…yeah….

Advantage: Cubs

Pomposity Bringing the Thunder
Well, here’s the crux of the dilemma? Who Brought the Thunder? The easy answer is: Both.

Maiden has long had a history of delivering the goods live, and the World Slavery Tour is probably their finest 500-odd hours of Goods Delivery. Epic shows in front of huge crowds with a set that resembled a 3-D version of this:

…are pretty damn THUNDROUS.

But the 1908 Cubs were part of baseball’s first true dynasty – a team of winners who could beat you on the basepaths, behind the plate, from the mound, on the streets, and in the rulebook. Their best pitcher was missing a finger but overcame that handicap, their second best was named Orval but overcame that handicap, their right fielder had a hook for a hand, and their catcher was a steam-powered robot built by Nikola Tesla that belched flames and black smoke from his lifeless eyes.⁵ Which is pretty damn THUNDROUS in its own right.

Advantage: Push

Rocking Your Face Off

Have you HEARD the music of 1908? Not exactly awe-inspiring.

This category is a gimmie for the Irons. Sorry. Live After Death vs. the 549 Irving Berlin songs written that year? Sorry, North West Siders.

Advantage: Maiden

And this bring us to a tie score of 2/2 (with one push). Let’s see how the rotating categories play out…

Hall of Fame Members
Just as strong a gimmie for the Cubs. The legendary (though admittedly overrated) DP combination of Tinker, Evers, and Chance are all in, as is Mordecai (of the Nine Fingers) Brown – an astonishing 4/9ths of the opening day starting lineup.

Thus far, the buffoons at the so-called Rock and Roll Hall of Fame have failed to induct the 1985 Irons’ lineup, thus proving what a sham they are. This alone is proof that society is in decline.

Advantage: Cubs

Post-Glory History
Since these are both high water marks, both competitors went into the inevitable decline afterwards. Maiden expended so much effort on their tour that they didn’t release another album for nearly a year. And though their next pair of records were still face-meltingly rad, they were less face-meltingly rad than previously achieved. And it was downhill from there for many years, with Dickinson leaving, only to be replaced by veteran fill-in Ted McGinley. Indeed, it wasn’t until the early 21st century that Maiden really began their slow, Mickey Rourkesque rise from their own ashes.

The 1908 Cubs never again repeated their Series win, though they came close on several occasions. For the next 30 years, the franchise had many ups and downs, but was still a feared team for much of that time, especially the 1930s. But by the late 40s, the Cubs were under the control of an apathetic owner who didn’t care how good the team was and allowed their once proud legacy to become an even bigger joke than Metal became when grunge hit in 1992. And that owner later sold it to a huge corporation that cared even less about performance vs. profit. And the Cubs have yet to recover since.

Maiden’s Renaissance amongst hipsters and loosely-Cubs-based Pop Culture Blogs alike, combined with the fact that every member of the 1908 Cubs has either died or (in the case of Tesla’s Amazing Catching Man) long since rusted away gives the Irons a slight lead.

Advantage: Maiden

Conclusion
With a final score of 3-3 (and one push), it looks like the first tie in Iron Maiden vs. The World history. I blame Merkle. And his erection.⁶

Notes:

1. How the hell is there no Maiden song called “Resurrection”? It’s not like Judas Priest copyrighted the name. However, even a hypothetical Irons song called “Resurrection” would totally rule, according to TMFFSSMR’s sophisticated data modeling algorithm (The Possible Eddie Cover and Oh-My-Fucking-God-Wouldn’t-That-Be-Killer? Test of Awesomeness, or “PECOTA”).

2.Of course, there was also a time when the French army was the most powerful in the world as well.

3. Tee Hee!

4. Ibid.

5. The last two items may not be strictly true. But they are still an important part of the Myth of Our National Pasttime.

6. There is NOTHING funny about Priapism. NOTHING.

A Grown Man Attempts to Review NES Games, part 1

2009-02-09T08:00:00.000-06:00

From the Pomp Culture Archive.

The Exquisite Horror of 8 Eyes

Okay, the premise is simple: I have several hundred NES roms that I have downloaded; I have never/rarely played most of them. I am currently 32 years old and need to face my nostalgia for the old NES days fairly (rejected title: “Overrated: Retro Gaming”). To wit, what sort of first impression do I get from any given NES game from “Back in the Day^TM?”

I will be rating this on a Points Scale of my own devising that makes absolutely no sense. Also, I will be doing no research on the game – I don’t want my viewpoint colored by learning anything other than what I see on the screen.

The game in question is 8 Eyes. I’ve never played this game, nor even heard of it before last week. It comes from the Golden Age of the NES, circa 1988-89.

Graphics: The graphics on this game were about par for the course for that era. The first level looks a little busy, but maybe the designer was going for an “Arabesque” feel. Points detracted for kinda ripping off the look of Castlevania, but added back in because, dude, if you’re gonna rip off a game, there are worse ones. Although, I’m not 100% sure if your character is supposed to be an albino, or coloring was deemed “too expensive.” (3/5)

Sound: The music, or what I heard before turning the sound down in annoyance, sounded like a shitty demo harpsichord played by your best friend’s kid sister who later dreamed of joining Dead Can Dance. Given the unabashed radness of sound design on games like the Mega Man, Castlevania, and Ninja Gaiden series, that is unacceptable. (1/5)

Gameplay: This game plays like a not very fun Castlevania ripoff, which I can only assume it is. And that means you have the same lame gravity and jumping physics that marred that series. Otherwise, you run around and stab culturally sensitive A-rabs and Skeletons and birds (and apparently Jawas). Add to it the total tease of board that looks like you’re given the choice to select worlds a la Megaman, while not really being given a choice, and this game can go to hell. Oh, and like all games made between 1987-1991, it’s ridiculously, unrewardingly hard and there is no password function (2/5)

Level of Adult Confusion: Very, very high. Maybe the instruction book would explain the premise of this game (I somehow doubt it), but apparently you are an Albino Knife Guy with a Pet Bird that May or May not be Helping You When You Fight. You are clearly traveling the world to accomplish something. Or find someone. Or just because you like stabbing things. The first level consists largely of stabbing things and opening doors. Which you open by stabbing the switches which are…um…well

More than a little phallic. Thank God once you stab them they look…

Oh.

Nevermind.

Oh, and speaking of God, this game is apparently religious or something. When you stab the not at all racist Turbaned Arab Guys, they turn into crosses, as do all the other villains – except for the Jawas. Apparently, they drop throwing weapons. These include (as far as I’ve gotten) ANOTHER KNIFE (so you can stab people from far away) and a ball that rolls around and seemed to do little or no actual damage.

Wait a minute…albino hero…crosses…is this game made by Opus Dei? Do I have to fight a giant Tom Hanks head that shoots Audrey Tatous at me? If not, why not?

Maybe this would be cleared up if I could make it to the end of a level, but I somehow doubt it. (5/5)

Level of Childhood Rage If I Had Spent My Own Money On This: Pretty damn high, I’m guessing. Games weren’t cheap back then, and I didn’t have a job. If I had spent between 25 and 40 bucks on this swillpile because the store was out of Mega Man 2 (and not buying a new game was not an option), I would have been beside myself with fury. Oh, I would have played it for hours, because it’s not like I had a life, but I wouldn’t have been pleased. Oh, no. (5/5)

Time Spent Playing as an Adult Before Quitting In Annoyance: Not including making screen caps? 3 minutes, tops. To put this into perspective, I spent at least 2 minutes just fantasizing about miniature Amelie's raining on me when composing this.

Composite Grade: D-

Honestly, even Castlevania 2 was more fun than this pile o’crap. Of course, if you like crypto-religious games about albinos that like to stab doorwangs, by all means download this. If you ever see me replaying it, then I am punishing myself for my sins and couldn’t find my flail.

In which The Slogger is flabbergasted...

2009-02-01T10:54:00.004-06:00

This isn't really much of an entry, but I just wanted to point out that this picture making the internet rounds is mystifying me:

Seriously, my mind is blown.

On every level.

I defy anyone to make sense of this.

Iron Maiden vs. Barack Obama

2009-01-26T07:00:00.002-06:00

From the Pomp Culture Archives

The world is an immense place, so immense that it requires a speed of 11.2 km/s just to escape its gravity. But Iron Maiden is an immense band, so immense that the earth itself cannot escape the pull of the Irons. Is there a force on earth powerful enough to contain these Monsters of Metal?

Only science can tell.

The Pomp Culture Foundation for the Study of Speaker-Melting Rock presents its current findings in today’s installment of Iron Maiden vs. The World.

Well, this has been a pretty good week for my former Senator. Apparently he handily won a popularity contest against the Emperor of the Skeksis last November, and is now The Illuminati Shadow Government’s First African-American Figurehead. That means two things:

1) Woodrow Wilson is rolling in his racist grave.

2) Obama is probably thinking he’s pretty damn awesome right now.

While I approve of item one (and if Maiden annihilated the UN last week, imagine how they would have torn through Wilson’s paltry League of Nations), item two is unsetting. I’m not too fond of hubris from my leaders. And while Obama is refreshingly humble compared to His Arrogance, George II, I’m think there’s at least a peg or two he could be taken down. And I know just the quintet to do so.

The Methodology:

A full summary of the methodology (including descriptions of the Five Permanent Categories can be found here. If you need to go there, I’ll wait.

So…for the rest of you…how do you like this feature so far? Do you think I’ll really be able to keep this conceit alive for more than 2-3 weeks? Do you…oh wait, they’re back…

Caught up? Good.

This week’s additional categories will be covered in the actual battle, because you know you’re already sick of me for stalling this long.

The Battle:

Intellectual and/or Literary Merit
Well, the Irons might actually start this at a disadvantage, as the Harvard-educated Obama has actually written a pretty well-respected book. And he wrote it long before his emergence on the national scene. The following obvious communists have some pretty nice things to say about it, as well (like all sophisticated reviewers, I gleaned the following quotes from Amazon.com, a bastion of scholarship in these dark times:

“Provocative . . . Persuasively describes the phenomenon of belonging to two different worlds, and thus belonging to neither.” —New York Times Book Review

“Fluidly, calmly, insightfully, Obama guides us straight to the intersection of the most serious questions of identity, class, and race.” —Washington Post Book World

“Beautifully crafted . . . moving and candid . . . this book belongs on the shelf beside works like James McBride’s The Color of Water and Gregory Howard Williams’s Life on the Color Line as a tale of living astride America’s racial categories.” —Scott Turow

“Obama’s writing is incisive yet forgiving. This is a book worth savoring.” —Alex Kotlowitz, author of There Are No Children Here

And while the Irons are no slouches in the book learning department, Amazon has this to say about their classic third album, Number of the Beast:

Throughout the 1980s, a damning generalization held true: British metal was essentially working man's food, loosely descended from biker-meets and Northern pubs; whereas, in the States, it was an outgrowth of stadium rock, which traditionally subordinated substance to spectacle. Plug-ugly and cartoonishly morbid, Iron Maiden were typical of the Brit effort, since they effectively emphasized a driving, no-nonsense approach to the music.

Uh oh. “Plug-ugly and cartoonishly morbid” was the exact term Dorothy Parker used to savage the waitstaff at the Algonquin. Not looking good.

But wait…Bruce Dickinson has penned a screenplay (Chemical Wedding, later renamed Crowley)! Hmm…can’t find any reviews. While it’s probably safe to assume it’s hella awesome, it would be unfair to automatically credit Maiden for this achievement. I guess the challenger gets a point.

Advantage: Obama

Influence:

Obama should have this as a lock right? Wrong.

Sure, Obama is the ostensible Leader of the Free World, but what has he really done so far other than succeed in the (admittedly important) category of Not Being George Bush? Sure, he’s made a National Call for Service, but so far that hasn’t help yours truly much at all. I still have the same job, the same bills, the same health insurance, and the same haircut as I did under Bush. Okay, I just read he’s closing Gitmo, but I’ll believe that one when my Uncle Mahmoud comes home.

What has Maiden done? Well, I don’t know…they only redefined Metal as we know it. They only maintained an unheard of level of self-imposed quality control in their first decade - a decade where even Whitesnake could rule the airwaves. They only somehow managed to incorporate synths into Somewhere in Time and still ROCK BALLS. They only influenced about a thousand awful bands that no one wants to hear. They may or may not be responsible for the single greatest screenplay about Aleister Crowley in history. Oh, and while that one speech on race is pretty damn amazing, it’s never going to top the bone-chilling radness of Live After Death.

Sorry, Barry O. Call me when you’ve fixed America or something.

Advantage: Maiden

Image/Aesthetic:

The ubiquitous Eddie is one of the most popular images in the annals of 1980s metal. His grimly comic visage, created mainly in ballpoint pen, has graced thousands of Trapper Keepers, Social Sudies textbooks, and the occasional acid-washed denim pant-leg over the past 30 years (although there has been an admitted decline since roughly 1991). That’s a heck of a lot of blue ink.

However, Obama’s Shepard Fairy-designed campaign poster (and assorted parodies thereof) currently graces more Facebook profile pictures than there are actual people on earth. Even subtracting points for the exceptional lameness of the “O with a cornfield inside it” bumper stickers, Obama’s current influence on national aesthetics is indisputable.

Advantage: Obama

Pomposity:

Despite what the average Right Wing Rank’n’Filer might tell you, Obama does not actually seem to be too self important, much less have a Messiah complex. Most of his speeches are a heck of a lot more of the “we’ve got to make sacrifices and pull ourselves up” variety that Conservatives pretend they love to hear. And though he went to an Ivy League school so pompous that its graduates often hire servants for their servants to avoid accidentally rubbing elbows with the help’s help, it is only his ability to speak in complete sentences that separates him from most Americans.

Maiden, too, have their moments of humility, such as the following gracious statement from their official website:

"Iron Maiden's secret weapon is our fans. Anyone who's been to one of our shows knows that they're the most passionate and devoted fans on the planet, making the incredible atmosphere at our shows. To be nominated for Best Live Act at the Brits is as much a recognition of them as it is of us. So for all of them, Up The Irons!"

So very humble. And yet…maybe they still have a pretty high opinion of their powers:

“We have no doubt whatsoever that IRON MAIDEN is special to Latin America and Latin America is special to IRON MAIDEN. Allow us to explain...

What was achieved by both the band and their fans earlier this year in Latin America was unheard of ... over 250,000 tickets were sold in less than a week, thus setting box office records across the region. Within an 18 day time period the band covered 7 countries, played 9 concerts and flew over 15,000 miles (25,500 kilometers). No artist, no band had ever done this before. Period. With their incredible, high energy shows selling out well in advance and the insane reaction from their fans to this very classic and timeless show...Somewhere Back in Time, the question at the end of the tour was, "Should we do it again?".

And the answer from all sides was... DAMN RIGHT WE DO IT AGAIN! ... and along with returning to some of our favourite places let's play some other cities and countries too.

So in 2009 IRON MAIDEN and their fans will once again make rock and roll history in Latin America by breaking some rules, setting new records, and going to places that are normally off the usual touring route. MAIDEN will embrace Latin America like none have before. This tour will cross ancient ruins, the Amazon Jungle, The Andes and the Middle of the World! MAIDEN will revisit cities played in 2008 in even bigger venues and a rev-ed up show full of surprises. And together with their fans they will celebrate the end of their incredible SOMEWHERE BACK IN TIME TOUR.”

That’s pretty darn pompous if I do say so myself. And that’s not including any concept albums, Coleridge poems, or mentions of Bruce Dickinson’s Operatic Training.

Advantage: Maiden

Rocking Your Face Off:

Perhaps you remember this list of Obama’s favorite songs that was circulating during the campaign:

‘Ready or Not’ - Fugees
‘What’s Going On’ - Marvin Gaye
‘I’m On Fire’ - Bruce Springsteen
‘Gimme Shelter’ - Rolling Stones
‘Sinnerman’ - Nina Simone
‘Touch the Sky’ - Kanye West
'You’d Be So Easy to Love’ - Frank Sinatra
‘Think’ - Aretha Franklin
‘City of Blinding Lights’ - U2
‘Yes We Can’ - Will.i.am

While there are a few gems on there (“What’s Going On” is an immense song, and “Gimme Shelter” rocks with sufficient fury), I believe Iron Maiden can rebut this with one word:

"Wrathchild."

Advantage: Maiden

Well, B. Hussein is finding himself in a bit of a pickle, as Maiden currently leads 3 to 2. Hopefully the following two special categories will come up in his favor or the Political Honeymoon is over…
Leadership:

Ok, this is a tough one to call. I mean, yes, Maiden has the advantage of not one, but TWO legendary frontmen. But Maiden has long led by example. Sure, they are the band of choice for the cognoscenti of Headbanging, but they aren’t out there offering solutions to the current Metal Crisis (I refer, of course, to the severe lack of headbangers in elected office).

Meanwhile, Obama has taken the reins of the Washington Generals of Politics, the Democratic Party, and somehow managed to beat the showboating Orange County Globetrotters of the Republican Party. That is, in and of itself, an achievement. This round goes to Dirty Chicago Politics.

Advantage: Obama

This brings us to the tiebreaker...

Experience:

Sorry, Barack. Had to pull out the big guns here. Community organizer? Everyone knows helping people is lame. Try spending three decades as the most massive metal band in the world. 30 years of pure integrity, passion, determination, and sweat. Oh yeah. Tons of sweat.Advantage: Maiden

Well, Barack Obama seems to be a pretty competent guy, and I hope he does well by us. But lets face it, the democratic process is flawed because Iron Maiden is President-for-Life of the United States of Rocking Your Lame Ass.

Iron Maiden: 2, World: 0.

Up next: Iron Maiden vs. A Mother’s Selfless love!

Know anyone or anything you think can beat Iron Maiden in a fair fight? Well, let me know, and I’ll write a long, rambling, poorly reasoned post about why you’re wrong, fool.

The Gayest Song I Love

2009-01-21T08:17:00.006-06:00

Short entry today, I'm going to expend my creative energy on another Pomp Culture article (if you missed my last one regarding Iron Maiden's supremacy to the United Nations, by all means check it out here). And I need to once again make the disclaimer that I am not disparaging the gay community at all in this entry, as regular readers will know that It'd look like I was throwing stones from a glass (bath)house.

Anyway, like most people who commute on public transportation, I listen to music on headphones. An iPod nano to be exact, partly because I am attempting to transform, butterfly-like from post-punk hipster to yuppie sleazebag, but mainly because none of the Zunes I keep in a bucket by my front door seem to be working at present.

Like many who make the Geek "lifestyle choice," I often succumb to an axiom that my friend Susan and I uncovered more than a decade ago (note I am using Courier, the Official Font of Logical Verities):

"To the untrained eye, the line between a
well-groomed geek and a gay man is indistinguishable."

(Cf. Sweatervests, designer nerd glasses, unseemly public excitability, the inability to throw a 10-6 curve)

Yeah, I come off pretty darn queer at times. Over 15 years in theatre-with-an-"re" has not helped this, either. Or the fact that I spent Sunday night in a gay bar (my girlfriend was singing in a band, Your Honor!). Or that, in between songs, I actually overheard someone in that bar say "An honest to God GLORY HOLE. I shit you not!" with a lisp that rivalled Buddy Cole.

Anyway, as I rode in today, after I wrapped up listening to Kraftwerk's Trans-Europe Express (Note: believe it or not, that's NOT the source of the gayest song. And a day where Kraftwerk is the most macho music I have listened to so far is already red-letter), I decided to listen to the Associates collection I recently acquired.

Not to be excused with The Association (of "Along Comes Mary," "Cherish," and "Windy" fame), the Associates was a two-man Scottish band that had minor success in the early 1980s (mostly in the UK) in the height of the New Romantic movement (sorry Djakarta: no pics of Adam Ant this time). It consisted of a multi-instrumentalist (Alan Rankine) and a vocalist (the late Billy Mackenzie).

The song in question is, first and foremost, a cover of an exceptionally gay song: Diana Ross's "Love Hangover" (which happened to be the #1 song the day I was born). One might think that would be hard to top. One would be right. But that one has not heard the Associates.

Musically, the Associates, at least during the early period I'm moderately familiar with, had a sound that ranged from minimalist post-punk to Duran Duran-esque New Wave pop. And the music of this particular song is actually a pretty cool post-punk-white-funk that reminds me of Remain in Light-era Talking Heads with a more jangly lead guitar.

And the resemblence doesn't end there. At first Mackenzie's voice sounds very much like David Byrne. Very much so. Until he belts a series of ridiculously sweeping falsetto yells, laden with vibrato. Add in some ridiculously cheesy female backing vocals, and the picture is complete. This song is, well, gay...

This is a song that ran away from home at 17 to go to New York to become a dancer, stays in touch with it's mother, but hasn't spoken to its father in 10 years. This is a song that wears men's capris and clogs when it shops at Treasure Island. This is a song that owns the Director's Cut of Moulin Rouge. This is a song that the average Pet Shop Boys fan would eschew as "a little too queer for me."

And this is a song I think is awesome. This is a song that I have already played 3 times today, at the expense of listening to the rest of the album, which I haven't heard.

I'm pretty sure I couldn't find a gayer song if I looked through my girlfriends collection of showtunes and asked Clay Aiken to cover the gayest one I found. I dare anyone to find a gayer song, in fact--

Oh, wait...I'm finally listening to the rest of the album, and a cover of "Heart of Glass" just came on. Wow.

You win again, Associates.