Let's start by making it clear... who is the enemy here.

Universal Pictures to make at least 4 movies based on Hasbro toys or games.

Wait... what? Apparently, this is the real deal. And the games/toys in question are Monopoly, Battleship, Candy Land, or Stretch Armstrong.

I'm sorry, I'm gonna need a minute here.

...

...

...

OK, look. I'm not really one of those "such-and-such raped my childhood" types, who goes into a big kerfuffle every time something from my youth gets made into a big-budget craptavaganza movie. I don't give a shit about any or all of the games or toys listed above there. I didn't care about the Transformers movie, and I don't care that they're making a G.I. Joe movie. Because, if we can be honest with ourselves for a moment, our memories of these things are based on our mental states when we were 8 years old. And 8-year olds are fucking stupid. Seriously, at that age you're only a couple of years removed from eating dirt and pooping yourself.

If you go back now and watch any of those shows? They're completely moronic. Trust me. I watched an episode of Transformers recently and it was the dumbest thing I'd seen since Just My Luck (What? I was sick that day and couldn't find the remote! Oh, get fucked.)

So I'm not outraged about making fucking Candy Land into a movie. What I am, however, is seriously fucking perplexed. I mean... why? What possible storyline could you make out of fucking Candy Land? Or Monopoly? Studio executives have to know this, right? They have to know up front that whatever is produced is going to be complete garbage. And yet, there they go, charging ahead.

I mean, I'm not upset. I'm certainly not going to see the movies - I guess I'll probably get annoyed when I'm relentlessly bombarded by the inevitable marketing campaign of trailers and posters and toys and Super Bowl spots and the New Special Pink McDonalds Candy Land Slightly Less Unhealthy Than Eating Pure Mercury Flurry Ice Cream Super Snack. But let' be real about it for a second - I'm annoyed by pretty much everything. This isn't going to be what pushes me over the deep end (Now a live-action Akira... that might do it). I just don't see the point. The reason for doing it. There's no demand for it. There's no... anything, really. I'm just confused.

I suppose if this isn't comprehensive evidence that Hollywood studios don't have souls, I do not know what is.


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Listening to: Thievery Corporation - Marching The Hate Machines Into The Sun (Feat The Flaming Lips)

I heard the news today, oh boy...

Dear CNN,

I get it. News media outlets are taking a beating these days. You've got too much competition, and there's too much information out there. Not to mention that you have to try to balance what's important with what's popular, and rarely do the two meet. However, this week, I and many others believe you've made a grave error. Yeah, I'm talking about this. Even though I don't always agree with him, he's one of the most engaging, intelligent writers I know of. And you canned him for being, well... engaging and intelligent, essentially.

But what's more important is - the man's got a pretty impressive readership. And by taking this action, it's entirely possible that you're going to open up a box that you won't be able to close. Word gets around, and this one is moving quickly. I suspect this won't be your first angry letter.

Just thought you should know.

Don't drive angry!

My quest to become Emperor of the Internet continues.

Clicky.

Eat, eat, you fucking jackals...

I can't actually believe I'm posting this. But due to my writing about it somewhere else, a couple of people have asked for this. "This" being the recipe for the beans and rice that I made on Sunday.

I have a fairly eclectic group of friends, all of which can cook pretty damn well. Our Super Bowl party (where everyone made something) consisted of St. Louis-stlye ribs, home-made corn dogs, some sort of Chinese-style deep fried pork, Chili, homemade cream cheese-filled chocolate cupcakes, and chicken wings with homemade barbecue sauce. And, the rice I made.

Incidentally, this recipe could end up a total disaster. I made the dish up on the spot, without measuring anything, so the measurements are just guesses. It's worth noting that this is ridiculously unhealthy, and possibly dangerous. It's also potentially spicy as a motherfucker, so be wary and reduce spicy stuff if you're a wuss sensitive. But my friends loooooved it (as did I), so here goes:

TK’s Glorious Rice and Beans of Super Bowl Failure

Ingredients:

1 Box Goya® Arroz Amorillo Spanish-style Yellow Rice (family size)

1 Ham Hock

¾ Pound Chicken Thighs (trim off as much fat as you can), cut into chunks

½ Pound Chorizo Sausage, cut into ¾” pieces

1 16 oz. Can Large Red Kidney Beans, drained

1 16 oz. Can Black Beans, drained

1 Red Bell Pepper, diced

1 Large Cubanelle Pepper, de-seeded, diced (Anaheim peppers would work nicely too)

2 Cayenne Peppers, dried, de-seeded, cut into the smallest possible pieces… as close to powder as you can make it (or just use powdered cayenne – I had grown and dried my own Cayennes, so it’s a little easier for me)

½ Onion, diced

1 Large Tomato, diced into chunks

Dried oregano to taste

Cumin

Coarse-ground black pepper, to taste

2 cloves garlic, chopped fine or minced

Cholula® Garlic Hot Sauce, to taste

Sylvia’s® Triple Pepper Hot Sauce, to taste

Peri-Peri hot sauce, to taste (you probably won’t find this anywhere – I brought it with me from South Africa. Either just use the other two, or find another kind).

Olive oil

Cooking Directions

Start by doing all the chopping, dicing, cutting, etc.

Begin to make rice as instructed on the box, except put the ham hock in the water when getting it to boil. Once the water is boiling, remove the hock with tongs and then add the rice. Follow the box instructions (reduce to simmer, cook for 25 minutes).

On a second burner, put ½ tablespoon olive oil and ½ the chopped garlic in a large pan or skillet to heat. Once garlic is bubbling, add chicken, oregano, cumin, black pepper and stir and cook until lightly browned and cooked throughout.

Remove chicken from the pan (I started out with large pieces and cooked them, the cut them up after cooking. Doesn’t really matter).

Keep an eye on the rice. When it's ready, either leave it in the pot you cooked it in or dump it into a casserole dish. Cover it to keep it warm.

If you removed most of the fat from the chicken thighs, there should be a small amount of fatty, garlicky goo left in the pan. I don’t know if this is healthy or not, but…

Add the chorizo to the goo, and let it cook on medium-high heat, until cooked through. Add already-cooked chicken, the three peppers (red bell, cubanelle, cayenne), onion, the remaining garlic, a bit more cumin (if you want), and as much of the various hot sauces as you can handle, and the ham hock from the boiling water. Cover and cook over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until onions and peppers are cooked, but don’t let them get squishy. Then reduce heat a bit and add the beans. Let them get hot, but don’t let them get to the point where they’re too soft. Continue adding hot sauce as you go, if you like. Remember, spicy food gets hotter over time, so if you’re going to have leftovers, they’re gonna get hotter. Be careful. Add the tomatoes at the very end, just to get them warm.

Once everything is cooked to your liking, remove the ham hock and discard. Drain as much of any excess fluid you can from the saucepan. Pour cooked rice into a large casserole dish, and then using a large serving spoon, add the meat/vegetable ingredients to the rice, stirring to mix as you go. Throw some cilantro on it, if you’ve got it, and if it’s not unhealthy enough, serve with some shredded cheese and/or sour cream.

Note: Don’t use any salt – between the chorizo and the hot sauces, there’s plenty of salt built-in. Any more and it would be grody.

Choose and perish

Let's play a little guessing game. Today, TK is:

A) Tired
B) Angry
C) Frustrated
D) Dejected
E) Hungover
F) Go fuck yourself
G) All of the above

Hey, whaddaya know. You guessed right.


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Listening to: Moby - Bring Back My Happiness

Little Child Runnin' Wild... Continued

Where were we? Oh, right- dumb shit I did as a kid.

Part II - Grand Theft Auto: Suburbia

No, we didn't actually steal cars. I mean, we were young and stupid, but not fucking criminals.

OK. That's... that's not entirely true. We kind of stole cars. Let me explain with a little background first.

It started when we were a little older than the last story, probably junior high somewhere. We got bored one day, and our parents weren't home (when my cousin's family first immigrated here from South Africa, they moved in with my family for a couple of years). Why our parents ever left us home alone together is a mystery to this day. We had always had a thing about cars... we liked watching them, and we had a long standing hood-ornament contest - we'd rip the hood ornaments off of cars and whoever had the coolest one won. You know, five points for Oldsmobiles, 10 points for Cadillacs, 20 points for Mercedes', and 50 points for Jaguars (the Jags were a bitch, you usually needed pliers or some other tool). We also used to periodically take my uncle's car out and do figure 8's in the parking lot, until a neighbor caught us, and told our parents.

I still get a little shiver when I think about the little bit of disciplinary action that resulted in.

Anyway, the point is, we were bored. So we were walking around the neighborhood, looking for something to do, and we wandered into an underground parking garage. And this is where things get a little... quasi-legal. Semi-legal. OK, fine. It was probably completely illegal.

It started out as looking to see if any cars were unlocked, so we could, you know... steal change and shit. I don't know, we were 13 and bored and apparently lacking in conscience. So we found a few unlocked cars (a surprising number, I confess, but this was 20 years ago, before keyless alarms and what not). I should make it clear that we did NOT break into any cars. Ahem. Anyway, then we decided to... well, we decided to move them around. We didn't know how to hotwire them (my cousin would learn this skill later in life, and end up in the clink as a result) but we figured if we popped them into "Neutral" and one of us pushed, we could move 'em around.

Look, I know, alright? I KNOW. This is not what good children do. Would you let me finish my story before you get all judge-y?

So we found about 10 or 12 cars that were unlocked, and took turns steering versus pushing. At first, we thought it would be a funny joke to just put them into different spots, to confuse the drivers when they got out of work. But then (and I confess, this part was my idea), we decided to - ah - to stack them up. Basically, we maneuvered all the unlocked cars so that they blocked in all of the other cars. We essentially created a miniature traffic jam with empty cars in a parking garage. It was actually sort of funny. And maybe sort of evil. I'm never sure which one. The only sad thing is we couldn't stick around to see what happened when people got out of work.

Anyway, that's my tale. Sure, we did some other dumb stuff, but those two stories have been rattling around my head for a while now, so I figured I'd tell them. Listen, if it makes you feel any better, I'm actually a relatively nice person now. Seriously. Ask anyone. If we were to ever meet, I totally wouldn't steal your shit or anything. Finally, if there's a lesson to be learned from my story, it's this: lock your fucking car, people. Seriously. There are some crooked motherfuckers out there.

By the way, if you're curious about how things ended up with my cousin, since he was my chief partner-in-misdemeanors, well, we drifted apart. He moved on to getting into more serious trouble (hence his time in the pokey), while I just settled into minor drugs, drinking, teen angst and occasional shoplifting. The following is perfectly illustrative of how things ended up.

When we were around 17 years old, my family was at his family's house for Thanksgiving. I was up in his room, goofing off, and we had the following conversation:

Cuz: Hey, you need a car stereo?
TK: What?
Cuz: A car stereo. You need one?
TK: You serious?

He promptly slides a box out from under his bed. It is filled with car stereos, as well as other contraband.

TK: Dude. The fuck am I gonna do with a car stereo? I don't have a car.

[pause]

Cuz: Oh. Right.

[pause]

Cuz: You need a car?
TK: [sigh] Naw, man, I'm good. Be a little hard to explain to my dad, you know?
Cuz: Riiiight.

[pause]

Cuz: You wanna get stoned?
TK: Fuck and yes.


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Now playing: The Coasters - Down In Mexico
via FoxyTunes

Little Child Runnin' Wild

Perhaps you may have noticed that I haven't been posting much. Frankly, I've been somewhat lacking in inspiration. But then, as is frequently the case, I found that inspiration in one of the more unusual places. And that place, my friends, is Hobocamp. After reading this, I got to thinking of all the goofy shit I did as a kid. However, unlike our sympathetic heroine Meg, I... well, I suppose it's confession time.

I was not a very good child. I don't mean that I picked on the smaller kids, or talked back to my teachers or parents (Good Lord, no). I mean that I got into a lot of trouble. I did a lot of stupid, frequently illegal, and sometimes downright dangerous shit when I was a wee TK. There were two reasons for this.

1) When I moved here from Cape Town at 9 years old, I came from an environment that was rigidly structured, with curfews and teachers that would beat you with bamboo canes if you did something wrong, even insignificant things. Late for class? Caning. Can't do division? Caning. Then I moved to the uber-liberal suburbs of Massachusetts, and realized that the worst thing that could happen was I'd get detention. Oh. Fucking. No. Not... detention! Bitch, please. I could do detention standing on my head.

2) When I was a kid, I was fairly certain I was invincible. I'm serious. Somewhere along the line, after escaping a few too many situations, I began to think that I simply wasn't going to die. Not that I wouldn't get hurt (I think I've made that clear), but that eventually, I'd make it out OK. Not a smart philosophy, but hey, I was 10. Cut me some slack.

So allow me to tell you some tales of what a bad and often foolish child I was.

TK's Misspent Youth: A Story in Two Parts

Part 1: When It's Cold, I'd Like To Die

When I was about 10 or 11, my parents lived on a house at the very peak of a very tall hill. There was a municipal fence that ran along the back of all the houses on our street. A 10-foot chain link fence that basically served as the boundary between everyone's back yard and the municipal property. And the reason it was government property is because behind that fence was a hill. A BIG fucking hill. Long and steep. And at the bottom of that hill was... The Massachusetts Turnpike, better known as Interstate-90. It's worth noting that there was no fence at the bottom of the hill. Just hill, then highway.

So, of course, what else is there to do when presented with such a vision? Well, if you are my cousin and I, you go sledding. Yes, one winter, after the first snowfall, we decided we were sick of the little Mary hills on the local golf courses, the little wussy hills that only ended in a fence or a pond or a tree. No, we wanted to up the risk factor a bit. So we jumped the fence with our sleds in hand, and stood there, gazing into the mouth of madness. It was one of those moments that you'll always remember, even when it happened over 20 years ago, where you stand on the precipice (literally) and gaze down into your possible doom. There's a moment where your heart beats impossibly fast, where your breath doesn't seem to want to coordinate with your lungs. When your laughter is the kind of high-pitched, crazed laughter that means you are about to do something that every common-sense cell in your brain is screaming in protest against. Then, with a semi-deranged grin on your face, you sit your snowpants-covered butt down on that plastic red disc, and there's a moment when you simply say: Fuck it.

That run was pure adrenaline. I barely remembered it. But I do remember this: There was no way to stop. The sleds were too slick, the snow was too wet. Digging your heels in didn't work. I realized this halfway down the hill. The only way to avoid certain death was to dump the sled. So I rolled and released, and tumbled sideways to a jarring halt, then flipped over just in time to watch the sled careen down the hill, onto the highway, and get smashed into so much red plastic debris by a pickup truck. Then I watched another sled go flying onto I-90 and then into oblivion, as my cousin had made the same decision I had.

Victory. We had done it, and we had survived, and it had been a fucking blast. Only one problem... after our virgin runs, we were plum out of sleds. And we could hardly tell our fathers that we'd lost our sleds because we'd been sledding down a hill of death. So we did what any pair of morally suspect kids would do in this situation: We stole more sleds. Every weekend when it snowed, we'd wait until it was dark, then creep around the neighborhood and steal a couple of sleds. Then we'd hop the fence and try it again. Of course, it also resulted in a neighborhood-wide campaign by the parents to find the thieves, which is why we only did it at night. Sledding. Down a hill that leads to a highway. At night. Yes, it's actually stupider than it sounds.

The game evolved into a test of wills - which of us could go the longest before dumping the sled. Many people, if they had to think of a term for this game, that term would be... ill advised. Unwise, even. Maybe even foolhardy.

I'm pretty sure my cousin won - my momma may have raised a fool, but she didn't raise no suicide.


Part II - Grand Theft Auto: Suburbia - coming soon.

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Listening to: Citizen Cope - D'Artagnan's Theme

If they move... kill 'em.

If you're interested in my continuing efforts to conquer the internet, then by all means, click here.


That is all.

This constant compromise between thinking and breathing

I got nothing today. I've got something interesting coming up for next week, but for now, I'm just going with random crap.

1. Should I be concerned that the mens room in my office smells like bananas?

2. Smoking. It's been 18 days. I'm doing well. I've even succeeded in hanging around a couple of smoking friends. Wasn't comfortable, and I got a little twitchy, but overall, it went well. So things are progressing nicely. Except...


3. Insomnia. It's here, and it's here with a vengeance. It's hard to point to the cause, since as I've mentioned before, this is a relatively common issue with me. But I feel like I've probably had three or four nights of sleep in the last two weeks. It's getting brutal. Today I woke up at 3:00 AM, and lay there staring at the ceiling, trying to will myself back to sleep. And eventually, I did. I fell back asleep at about 5:30 AM. 30 minutes before my alarm went off. Awesome. No, really. Thanks for that, gods of sleep, you fucking bastards.

Have you ever had insomnia so badly that you start drifting into madness? I think it's starting to happen to me. It started out normally... and then I started thinking too much. I thought about work, and what projects I'm behind on. I thought about smoking. I then started thinking about whiskey, and what my favorite brands are. I thought about Irish vs. Bourbon, and decided I'm definitely more of an Irish whiskey kind of guy.

I then started listing my favorite John Carpenter movies, and then wondering how someone can make so many great movies, and yet still make Ghosts of Mars, arguably the worst movie about people possessed by homicidal Martians ever made. I decided to write something, eventually, about the best of John Carpenter. Then I started composing it in my head.

It went downhill from there. Finally, I glimpsed true madness. Have you ever been so tired, so completely and utter exhausted, and yet still not able to sleep? I started wondering (seriously): Could I punch myself hard enough to knock myself unconscious? I mean, I'm a relatively big person, and I'm sure, if I wasn't a complete pacifist, if I got my weight behind it, I could knock someone out. Sure, I might break my hand, but the point is - could I turn that on myself? I decided the physics and the angling just wouldn't work.

So instead I got up and went to the bathroom.

Upon exiting the bathroom, I thought... what if I just took a flying leap at the bed, and deliberately slammed my head into the wall above the bed? I'd get knocked out, and then just collapse onto the bed. It seemed a perfect plan, except it would probably wake (and completely freak out) Mrs. TK, who was sleeping soundly (damn her).

Then back to whiskey. I thought, "I've got a couple bottles downstairs. Maybe I'll just go drink a mess of whiskey and pass out." I abandoned this thought because a) I'd end up waking the beagle, who would promptly become a tiny, three-legged pain in the ass, and b) probably not the best plan when I have to be a work in four hours. I'd be like this by lunchtime:



Then, miraculously, I fell asleep without having to drink myself into submission or crack my skull. And then 30 minutes later my alarm went off. Despite my regular use of profanity on this blog, and my blatant disregard for religion, I couldn't possibly type out the words I used to curse at God. It was that bad. I mean, points for creativity, sure, but anytime you call the Lord Almighty a "worthless whoremongering shitfucking pedophile", and that's the least offensive phrase you used? You should probably just keep a lid on that shit and hope Ole' Big Pants in the Sky was busy monitoring something else. Um... and... apologies to any religious readers. It was an extreme circumstance.

Anyway, I guess what I'm saying is... I'm really fucking tired.

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Listening to: Corinne Bailey Rae - Trouble Sleeping

That's a negative, Ghost Rider. The pattern is full.

Tiny white man, I will break every fucking bone in your hands.


Credit to Agent Bedhead for the picture.

You know me, I'm your friend, your main boy, thick and thin...

Hi.

So I think I'm finally ready to talk about this. I was nervous about mentioning it, for fear of jinxing it. Or because I'd feel like an asshole if I mentioned it and then it didn't work out. (And no, I'm not talking about the Patriots). Let's begin with an exercise.

Try to think about something that you've done every day since you were sixteen years old. Something that you do with your friends, or when you're alone. Something that's with you when you're sad, or frustrated, or angry. Something that's with you when you celebrate and when you mourn. Something that you've come to rely on as always being there for you. Something that is always there with you, like your wallet or your keys or your hands.

And then try to think about never having that thing... ever again.

...

I quit smoking.

I mean, sure, it's only been seven days, but I'm pretty sure this is the longest I've ever gone... since I was sixteen years old. And I'm doing it for real, not just "let's see how long I can go" bullshit. I've got patches and lollipops and all kinds of fucking gum.

It's a pain in the ass. It's not helped by the fact that a) I drink quite a bit, and usually smoke when I drink, and b) all of my friends except one smokes too. Which has led me to these unfortunate conclusions...

1) I have to stop drinking for a while. Needless to say, I am not pleased. Particularly since one of my friends just got me a spectacularly good bottle of Scotch for Christmas.

2) I am also going into temporary exile from my friends, to avoid temptation. I'm not thrilled about that either. But it's gotta be done.

I'm not looking for sympathy, because frankly, I got myself here. It's not like I couldn't have stopped years ago, when it would have been easier. But like most people, I thought I was immortal when I was young, and am more and more being forced to realize that... well, that's just not fucking true. But more importantly, for years I didn't quit because I didn't think I'd be able to. And if that isn't the most ridiculous self-fulfilling bullshit I've ever fed myself, I don't know what is. And then, late last year, I started getting angry with myself. Who am I to think I'm not strong enough? Goddammit, I'm plenty motherfucking strong. I've survived broken bones, stitches, and my parents leaving the country. I've survived heartache and deaths in the family. Fuck that. That excuse just ain't gonna wash anymore.

Not to mention that it pains me to do something that supports one of the absolute worst, most evil corporate machines in the history of the known universe.

So anyway. This is day seven. And it's on like Donkey Kong.

For real, I'm livin' life with some burdensome niggers.

Oddly, the following was finished moments before the excellent review at Pajiba. So those of you who read both sites, forgive the confusion, as well as any possible similarities. It can't be helped if Mr. Freilich and I share the same excellent taste. While his is a review of season five specifically, I thought I'd offer my thoughts on the show as a whole.
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"It's about how institutions have an effect on individuals, and how…whether you're a cop, a longshoreman, a drug dealer, a politician, a judge [or] lawyer, you are ultimately compromised and must contend with whatever institution you've committed to." - David Simon

I'd like to start things off with a quick poll. How many of you are watching HBO's The Wire?

Show of hands?

Those of you who didn't raise your hands should be hanging your heads in shame. Because, while I know that sometimes I have a predilection for exaggeration, I say this sincerely and without hyperbole: The Wire is the best show on television. It might actually be the best cop show in the history of television.

Seriously. Let me explain why. I'm not going to give a recap of the four seasons that have been shown so far, because I don't want to ruin anything. Instead, let me just explain why you should be watching it. The Wire, for the uninitiated, is the complicated story of cops, criminals, politics and education that takes place in Baltimore, MD. The show was created by David Simon, a former police reporter from Baltimore, who wrote the book that another excellent show "Homicide: Life on the Streets" was based upon. Much of it is based on the experiences of co-writer Ed Burns, a retired Baltimore homicide detective (not the asshat in that stupid time travel movie who married a model). By combining the wealth of experience of these two, they've succeeded in creating perhaps the most realistic portrayal of the perils of city living in the history of television.

Because the truth is, The Wire is grim. I mean... really grim. It takes a mostly sparse methodology of portraying its events. There are no special effects. There are no explosions. There is little romance, and there is absolutely no pretense to it. It is brilliant in its simplicity. By ignoring the jokes, the car chases, and the other artificial sociological creations that affect so many other cop shows, it is allowed to focus on the events and the people, making it so starkly real that it is at times uncomfortable. Many of the scenes were filmed on location in Baltimore public housing projects. Normally, given that it's my line of work in the real world, I'd avoid the term "projects", given its stigma. But here, that's what it is. It's what people think about when they think about low-income housing. It's low-income living at it's worst, which for decades, Baltimore was renowned for. Along with Philadelphia (where I once worked), Chicago, New Orleans and Detroit, it's one of the harshest urban living environments out there. For them to film the scenes involving poor families and drug dealers on location there truly gives those scenes a sense of desperation and desolation.

In addition to the setting and the vibe of the show, the cast is what truly makes it great. There are no saints in The Wire, but there are plenty of sinners. There are no heroes, but there are those who do heroic things. Everyone feels real, because everyone is flawed. If you like them, you like them in the way that you like your alcoholic uncle. Sure, he's funny and he tells a great story, but you also know that when you leave his house, he's going to drink himself into oblivion... and possibly do much worse. The show is rife with alcohol and drug abuse, people cheat on their significant others, the good guys lie and cheat, and sometimes the bad guys will show remarkable compassion. All of these things can be found in other shows. But the reasons they do it is rarely explored as fully as they are here. There is a sense of despair that permeates the show... even the most noble character feels it, and as a result, even the most noble character succumbs to the temptation that can come with it. The cops are jaded, they cut corners, and they plant evidence. Some of them are simply burnouts that are running out the clock until retirement or death - whichever comes first. The police administration is filled with back-stabbers and political animals that will gladly sacrifice a subordinate, regardless of talent and ability, in order to progress through the ranks. The crooks are dangerous and volatile. But they're also, at times, vulnerable and scared. But while the vulnerability that will be shown in a scene that makes you tear up and sympathetic, will also be the reason that they shoot someone in the back. Their loyalty is admirable, until you realize that it's just as selfish and tenuous as the lives they lead. The humor, while clever and occasionally laugh-out-loud funny, is harsh - from the sharp, slang-filled dialogue of the drug dealers to the gallows humor of the cops and politicians, it feels real and unburdened by the wisecracking pseudo-jargon of many of its contemporaries.

The cast is brilliant and pretty much completely unknown. Some of them have become known since the shows inception, but mostly they are still relatively obscure. The presence of a number of character actors, as well as the fact that many of the smaller parts are played by non-actors, and in some cases, actual Baltimore residents, gives it even more legitimacy. They are rarely beautiful people, but instead the cast looks like they bear the scars of the wear and tear of a difficult, harsh city life. What's interesting is that each group in the show, be they cops, dealers, or politicians has a group of seasoned, grizzled veterans that are trying to play the game to survive, and a group of hungry young bloods who are trying to change the game altogether.

There are, so far, three main groups who have been shown throughout the series. I'll give you a brief rundown, as well as a quick example of the fan favorite character:

The Cops. The cops are, in many ways, the heart of the show. But these aren't your glamorous CSI cops, or even the much grittier NYPD: Blue cops. Never before have I seen cops portrayed as realistically as these. The scene that always springs to mind is when one of their own dies in the line of fire, they gather together at the local cop bar to mourn him... except that they bring the body with, which is the tradition. He's placed on a pool table with a glass of whiskey in his hand, and everyone toasts him and drinks with the kind of hopelessness that is usually reserved for third world countries. At one point, two detectives are sitting outside on the curb, leaning on each other in a private moment of lament. Another one comes staggering out the door, vomits into the gutter, and then hands them each a shot glass. It's this kind of scene that shows the grim realities of the show. Most of the cops pile drunkenly into cars and careen off, only to get up the next morning with heads full of hornets and hearts full of sadness, and get back to it.

The fan favorite has always been Jimmy McNulty, played by Dominic West (most well known as the traitorous Theron in 300). He's renowned as one of the best cops in Baltimore, except that he's got problems with women, alcohol and authority, and not in that order. As a result, he spends the seasons getting busted down to uniform, then back up, depending on the political climate and the case. My personal favorites have always been Herc and Carver, a pair of young detectives who, while not the brightest knives on the Christmas tree, in some ways understand the streets far better than their subordinates.

The Dealers: There are several different factions of dealers, and each season deals with a different group that must confront another, be it for "corners" which they deal their product on, or for bragging rights, or simple revenge. Heavily regimented into Leaders and Soldiers, the dealers wage a constant struggle with each other, as well as within, for survival. One of the great things about The Wire is that the gang wars are rarely the stylized, drawn out gunfights you see in movies. They're fast, and clumsy (most drug dealers are hardly practiced marksman), with bystanders going down and even the bravest of tough guys running when it gets too hot. The fan fave here was always Stringer Bell, the educated businessman of the Barksdale gang, who went to night school and tried to apply the business practices he learned to drug dealing (is your product weak from being stepped on too much? Simply change the name to get people interested again). The other favorite (and my favorite) is Omar, the lone gunman of the series, a scarred, dangerous stick-up man who specializes in robbing drug dealers. Omar, while perhaps the most unrealistic character on the show (when he leaves his house to go to the grocery store, people start yelling that he's coming and everyone goes into hiding), his character is so remarkable that you can't help but be riveted by him. He's perhaps the most honorable character on the show, although it's common knowledge that he'll help you if it serves his purpose, but if you cross him later, or get in his way, all bets are off.

The Politicians: Perhaps my favorite group in the show, if only because it's an element of city life that is rarely explored seriously in either film or television. As someone who's had some experience working with (or around) politicians in large urban areas, I can only say that they are startlingly well realized. They scheme, they form and break alliances. You can tell that many of them probably started out as well meaning and with good intentions, but they just can't let go of the power they've come to have. And they will do anything to protect it. The main power players are the mayor and the city councilors, as well as their competition in the elections. I'm not sure if there is a fan favorite politician, but mine is Tommy Carcetti, the new blood city councilor who wants to be mayor. It's no small feat for him to run, since he's an upper class white man running for mayor in a predominately black city with a popular (though crooked) black mayor. He's written incredibly well, somehow managing to be young and idealistic, while simultaneously scheming, smarmy and willing to make almost any deal to get what he wants.

The truth is, there are so many characters that it would take up pages to list them and adequately describe them. On of the many standout things about the show is its ability to richly detail even the most inconsequential of characters. Just watch a scene where detectives question the mother of a missing drug dealer - you'll probably never see the mother again, but in those five minutes, you'll know everything you need to know about life as the mother of a child who, in reality, you lost years ago. There are many other groups you'll come to know and love (and mourn, in some cases) - the kids who live in the city, on the knifes edge between school and the drug trade, the dockworkers who are trying to compensate for a failing shipping trade by smuggling, the teachers who want to teach the kids, but instead have to settle for attempting to maintain a semblance of order instead. All of these groups are realistically and brilliantly rendered.

The Wire has always been special to me, in particular because I have some experience with the subject matter. Having worked in public housing for the last eight years, it's refreshing and surprising to see it rendered so impressively on screen. And while life in the low-income housing isn't always the desolate wasteland that The Wire depicts it as, it's important because it breathes life into a frequently neglected part of the American urban landscape. And to be honest, anything that makes us aware of the people and issues in these places is inherently valuable, even without its other (substantial) merits.

So, that's my case for it. I hope it worked. The Wire is currently in its fifth and final season, and along with Firefly and Veronica Mars, I'll miss it more than any other television show. It's the only show worth watching, and if you're missing it, then stop reading, don't even comment. Just go get season one, because you might be missing the best show you'll ever see.

Trust me.

The closing of the year

I'd like to say that I have some fantabulous idea for a New Year's post... but I don't. Honestly, I'm just really fucking bored at work. So, a couple of random notes:

Our anniversary dinner... it... I still get a little excited thinking about it. Zebra's in Medfield, MA. If you're ever in the neighborhood, you owe it to yourself... to baby Jesus... Hell, you owe it to America to eat there. Seriously. All in all, a wonderful night.

Saturday... I'm not gonna harp on it. I'll just say a single word, and move on.

Sixteen.

Sunday. I played what can probably be called an unhealthy amount of Playstation 3. Peppered with watching some football. Hey, if you've gotta be home alone on a cold Sunday in December, there are worse ways to spend the day.

And now I'm stuck at work. Sweet.

OK, this post really blows. I'm not feelin' it. But I hope you all have a spectacular night tonight. Be safe, have fun. We're having sushi with friends, and then maybe a late cocktail at their house. I'm perfectly happy with that plan, frankly.

Happy New Year.

You've got the cool water, when the fever runs high.

Anyone who tells you that an beautiful, stunningly smart Philly girl who loves science, documentaries, knitting and Broadway musicals can't get along with a math-impaired, sports-obsessed Boston boy who loves video games, comic books, punk music, and science-fiction movies... Well, let me tell you a story.



About twelve years ago, I did the smartest thing I've ever done. I ignored the voice in my head that told me it couldn't work.

About nine years ago, I did the dumbest thing I've ever done. I broke up with her because I was scared. It only took her a few weeks to talk me out of it.

About six or so years ago, I did the second smartest thing I've ever done. I asked her to marry me.

Five years ago today, she did just that. I can say, hands-down and without reservation, it's been the happiest five years of my entire life.



Happy Anniversary, babe.

Yours Forever.
12/28/2007.

----------------
Listening to: Paul Simon - St. Judy's Comet

Christmas is all around

OK, here's the obligatory post-Christmas post.

The good:

*The drive to Philly. Made it in less than five hours. The dogs did not pee in the car.

*The playlist I made for the drive. Featuring the greatest hits of Journey, Foreigner, Pat Benatar, Boston and Kenny Loggins. Cheezalicious.

*Seeing our friends, who are all doing well, with the exception of my friend B, whose dad died suddenly two weeks ago. But I hung out with him, and he's doing better, all things considered. I brought one of my dogs over to console him (his dog also died recently. I know. Rough few months.)

*Cheesesteaks. I can't help it. Those fuckers are good.

*Mrs. TK's parents. Who are crazy, but overall, a fun crazy. They keep their house heated to about 100 degrees. They watch TV at deafening volumes, then shout at each other because it's so loud (but make no effort to turn the volume down). Here's a verbatim example:

I'm watching TV (and slowly going deaf) with her mom. Her dad has to work the next day, so he's upstairs. He comes downstairs, and...

Dad: I need my glasses so I can set my alarm.
Mom: WHAT?
Dad: I NEED MY GLASSES.
Mom: WHERE ARE YOUR GLASSES?
Dad: I SAID, I NEED MY GLASSES TO SET MY ALARM.
Mom: ARE YOU LOOKING FOR YOUR GLASSES?
Dad: WHAT?
Mom: WHAT?
Dad: HAVE YOU SEEN MY GLASSES?
Mom: WHERE ARE YOUR GLASSES?

(I swear, it's like living in a sketch comedy show. They're sweet, and very good to me, but hoo-boy. A little nutty.)

*My new, shiny, pretty Playstation 3. It takes a special woman to buy her husband something that is guaranteed to distract him for... well... forever.

The bad:

*The temperature in the in-laws' house. Like I said, it was easily 100 degrees. And dry as the desert. I thought I was going to wake up completely dessicated. Seriously. At one point, I was lying in bed and I swear I could here myself blinking.

*The terrifying car accident we got into on the way home. I was driving Mrs. TK's car, in the left lane on the PA Turnpike. A Mercedes SUV came flying up behind us and proceeded to drive about 4 inches off my rear end. I swear, I could smell the guy's breath he was so close. So I pass the truck next to me, and change into the middle lane. The SUV pulls up next to me and starts SCREAMING at me through his open window. I make a "whatever, man" gesture, and he DELIBERATELY SWERVES INTO OUR LANE, SLAMS INTO OUR CAR, AND TAKES OFF.

I am not kidding. Thankfully, despite having a mini-heart attack, I managed to get us to the breakdown lane without smashing into any other cars. We called the staties, made out a report and all that, but I'm sure they never caught the crazy motherfucker. So Crazy Motherfucker in the Black Mercedes SUV - I hope you die in a fiery crash, you worthless bastard. People like you are a danger to the rest of us, and should just be taken out of the gene pool altogether. You almost killed me and my wife, and scared the hell out of my poor dogs, on the day after Christmas, no less. So burn in hell, you stupid fuck.

...

[deep breath]

...

Anyway, other than that, it was a wonderful trip, and a very good Christmas. How was y'alls?

You sexy thing.

Hey there, hot stuff.

How you doin'? You're lookin' good, that's for sure.

I've been lookin' forward to meeting you.

Yeah, seeing you on Christmas is just what I needed.



C'mere.

It's the most wonderful time of the year

And I mean that. Seriously. Christmas is hands-down my favorite holiday, and no amount of cynicism can change that.

But I gotta get movin' and packin', since we're heading to Motownphilly tonight to spend Christmas with Mrs. TK's family. It promises to be a great weekend. So I hope you all have great holidays, where you get lots of shiny, pretty things. Make sure to eat and drink your faces off, and be careful out there, OK? Whatever you celebrate, be it Christmas or whatever the Jews do or some sort of zombie-hybrid Chrismukkahzaa, celebrate the ass off that bitch.



Happy Holidays, everyone.

-TK

I hope this letter finds you well out of harm's way

Open letters... return!


Dear Winter:
Listen, you overeager motherfucker. It's December 17th. You are supposed to stay away for FIVE MORE DAYS. So seriously, back the hell off. Enough. 16 inches of snow in the last five days? Four and a half hours to drive home? 11 degree weather? What the hell? ENOUGH ALREADY, you overzealous bastard. Wait your fucking turn.

Your pen pal,
TK



Dear fire alarm in my office that has been going off incessantly for the last two hours:
Seriously. Knock it the fuck off. I feel like there's a gigantic mosquito in my head. And if there are two things I despise, it's mosquitoes and gigantism.

Eat shit and die,
TK



Dear co-worker who I accidentally crashed into and knocked over and sent flying into that table with the printers and stuff on it when I came stampeding out of my office because I am sometimes careless and tend to walk too fast and without looking and with heavy feet and you're kind of small and I didn't see you:
Um... sorry 'bout that.

Apologetically yours,
TK



Dear Rilo Kiley:
Um, I'm not sure how to say this. Because you know I love you, and I think "Take-offs and Landings" and "More Adventurous" are spectacular albums, and I think "Portions for Foxes" is seriously a song that I can listen to on an endless loop, especially the part where you yell "Come here!" All of that said... "Under the Blacklight"? Kind of blows.

Disappointed but not angry,
TK



Dear chipmunk that has taken up living in the ceiling above my basement:
OK, apparently you didn't get my last letter. I know you're still in there, you fucker. I'm warning you. I killed three of your cousins, and I am coming for you next. Get out while you still can, or I swear on the swollen belly of Buddha you will suffer.

Waiting to see the whites of your eyes,
TK



Dear Ipod:
Please don't die. Please? I love you so. And then I'd be forced to get some overly fancy new Ipod that plays video and massages my hands and... shit, I don't know... speaks four languages and knows how to satisfy a camel. And frankly, I don't need any of that. You're fine. You're better than fine. But... you're kind of shitting the bed right now. You freeze up for hours. I've needed to wipe you clean and start over twice. And there's that creepy death rattle that comes out every now and then. I'd really rather not have to replace you. Plus, I kind of dig that you're old-school in that cool-like-Donkey-Kong kind of way. So, please don't die.

Hopelessly devoted to you,
TK




----------------
Listening to: Rilo Kiley - Portions For Foxes

We interrupt this blog for a special announcement:

Dear Michael Vick:



SUCK IT.

*This message is brought to you by Ceili the Wonder Dog and Audrey the Three-Legged Beagle.
**Picture courtesy of With Leather.


----------------
Listening to: The Soggy Bottom Boys - In The Jailhouse Now

There'll never be a better chance to change your mind

I read about this over at Kerstin's, and decided to give it a run. By the way, check her site out. Good stuff.

Anyway. The premise: compose a letter to your 13 year old self. That's it.
-----------------------------------------

Dear 13 Year Old TK:

Hey there. Yeah, I know this is weird. But I think there are some things you need to know. It's currently 1988, and you're in the middle of Junior High School. So let's start there. I guess your sister is in high school and being an insufferable bitch. You probably just moved into the new house, which will be your favorite house ever until you're... oh, about 30 years old. In a couple of years you'll be jumping off the roof into the snow banks.

That blond kid with the glasses? Don't waste your time being friends with him. Eventually, you're going to get busted for shoplifting and he's going to blame the whole thing on you (and Dad is going to knock you around pretty badly for it). Yeah, he's kind of a dick. But it should make you feel better to know that if you do go through with it, when you're 17 or so and have grown a lot more, you're going to beat his ass. He'll totally have it coming.

Speaking of growing... um... the next few years? Are going to be kind of awkward. The good news is you don't have to worry about being the small kid for much longer. I know you're only 5 feet tall, but trust me. Your enormous feet should be a good hint. In the next 2-3 years, you'll grow about 14 inches. Seriously. It's hard to believe, but it's true. So... um... eat more. Or else you're gonna be painfully skinny. Yes, I hate to admit it, but Mom is totally right about this. She's also right about not buying you nice clothes, since you're going to need new ones every 4 months.

OK... I'll tell you this, but I don't think it's going to matter. You're going to hurt yourself. A lot. And soon. I'd tell you to stay off your bike and don't go play football when you get the call in 8th grade, but the truth is, knowing us as I now know us... you're gonna find a way to hurt yourself no matter what. So don't sweat it. But you should really do the physical therapy after you break your left arm the third time, because now it's not terribly useful.

On that note, you're going to break your thumb soon. Badly. I mean, you'll snap that fucker right in two. I'd tell you how it's going to happen, but it's much more fun as a surprise. Plus, it'll make for a good story later in life. And it'll get you out of history class.

By the way - wear your damn glasses more.

High School is going to suck. But it sucks for everyone, so don't sweat it. But my two biggest pieces of advice are: go to class more, and no matter what you do, DO NOT GO AFTER EITHER OF THE CURLY-HAIRED GIRLS. Only heartbreak will ensue, and it will take you a long time to recover. Trust me on this. There is one curly-haired girl who will make your life great, but neither of them is her. Stick with the tall blonde, she's perfectly nice and won't mistreat you. It'll ultimately fail, but that's high school. Also, be less of a jerk when you break up with her.

Don't sweat the drugs. Seriously. Just go ahead and try them, have fun. You're going to end up fine. But... maybe don't drop acid that Thursday morning in homeroom, because that entire day was a disaster. And I guess you should avoid trying the hard stuff. Nothing bad really came about from it... but it just wasn't a great idea.

Oh, right... Hey, Mom is gonna fight with you about your clothes, your hair, and your earrings. My advice? Let her win. Seriously. It's no big deal. You're gonna get some goofy haircuts in college and then get a bunch of tattoos anyway, so just let her have that small victory.

Listen. About Dad. This is the hardest part, because I know you kind of hate him right now. But try to be patient with him. It's not going to be easy, and you've got another year or two of scattered beatings before he stops. But he will stop. Although... he'll still be a pain in the ass. Look, he's... he's a pretty angry guy. And he doesn't really know how to handle these things. But he'll learn. I promise.

It's... hard to explain.

And... he's going to apologize eventually, believe it or not. It's going to be one of the top-five weirdest days of your life. You're not going to know how to react, because it's going to be blurted out at dinner. And when he does? Do me a favor... Get up and hug the sonofabitch. It's going to be his most vulnerable moment, and he's going to need it. I regret never acknowledging that to him.

For God's sake, drive safely.

College is going to be an unholy mess. I'd tell you to drink less and go to class more, but I don't think it'll do any good. Amazingly, you won't have any serious girl-related drama. Incidentally, the curly-haired girl you meet in college? THAT'S "the one". But you're going to know it right away anyway, so don't worry about remembering this. Try to be less of a pretentious asshole, and for God's sake, stop making fun of the Midwestern kids, because that East-coast ego is going to earn you some enemies.

Also... the hardest time of your life is going to be the summer of 1996, when Mom and Dad move. It's going to be brutal. I have no advice, nothing that can make it easier. It'll get better, but never heal. But I guess that's why you should be nicer to them, because eventually, you're not going to have them around, and you will be amazed at how much you miss them.

Your sister will continue to annoy you. And you'll continue to love her in spite of it. Deal with it.

After college - you're going to panic. You won't have a home or a job. Relax. These things will work themselves out, though I'd advise avoiding that first apartment in Allston. That place will turn into a nightmare. And believe me when I tell you that you'll be surprised at the direction you'll go in, career-wise. Let's just say there's more of Dad in you than you think. The good parts, that is.

That's about it. Nothing too earth-shattering, right? Oh, three final things:

1. Your two best friends in high school will probably be your two best friends forever.

2. Don't give up on the Red Sox or Patriots. Just... trust me on this.

3. Don't get your hopes up when you hear about new Star Wars movies.

There you go. Enjoy the next 19 years until you get to here.

-TK

PS - Oh, fuck it. Eat more damn vegetables, OK? I mean it.

Random

Two short, unrelated, but somewhat funny things:
-----------------------------------------------------
The scene: My TV room, last night, during the Patriots game. Patriots are up 3-0.

Mrs. TK comes down to watch with me. The Ravens score. "Uh oh," she says. The Ravens score again.

I begin my usual routine when my team is losing. Namely, swearing constantly, standing up, sitting down, stalking around the room, swearing some more, and throwing things. Mrs. TK says "OK, you're freaking me out. I'm going upstairs."

She leaves. The Patriots promptly tie the game.

Now, I'm not sayin'... I'm just sayin'. You know?

-----------------------------------------------
Impromptu IM with A Lover and a Fighter that demonstrates that I am not alone in this world:

11:30 AM L&F: i have squash soup in my hair

11:31 AM send help

me: oh dear god

L&F: i know

me: how did you... what did you...

[sigh]

11:32 AM L&F: i am eating lunch

and it is squash soup

11:33 AM me: no, you are apparently accessorizing with squash soup

L&F: and it is hot

so i put some in my mouth

and then went "blarghgh"

me: uh huh

L&F: and it fell out of my mouth

and into the cup

and splashed

11:34 AM with some amazing hang time

and landed in my hair

the end

me: were you eating it upside down?

i mean... were you upside down when you were eating?

11:35 AM this reminds me of the time a friend found General Tso's chicken on the brim of my baseball cap.11:43 AM L&F: i can totally see how that would happen

11:45 AM me: i knew you'd understand

-----------------------------------------------------------

Last but not least - FUCK it's cold.

Here's your Antichrist Superstar...

Thanksgiving has come and gone, and I probably gained another five pounds. Despite my earlier concerns, Thanksgiving day wasn't nearly as awkward (or violent) as it could have been. I made it to my aunts house around 2:00, spent the afternoon nursing a couple of beers with my cousins and watching football, and mostly managed to avoid my uncle.

Oh, right. And there was another incident. And it's beginning to make me believe in God. And hate him. I really don't even want to write about it, because it's getting ridiculous, and people are going to think I travel under some sort of perpetual cloud of retarded dumbassery, but... *sigh* here goes:

My uncle took me outside to show me the new fence he put up. It's a fairly nice fence. Big, white, wood. You know. A fence. Anyway, as I'm looking around, asking him about the post holes, I step in dog shit.

And so it begins.

My uncle suggests that I go into the basement and wash my shoes off in his slop sink. I say this is a great idea, and wasn't I clever for wearing waterproof shoes! So I go into the basement, he gives me a little rug to stand on, and I take off my shoe. I hold it under the faucet, and turn the water on.

[here it comes]

The water comes ROCKETING out of the faucet, hits the sole of my shoe, and splatters dog shit and water... all over my shirt. Yes, it was a lovely poopy-shirt Thanksgiving.

Friends, this is a new low. I think I need to take some sort of class, or get reprogrammed, or something. This cannot continue. Needless to say, I ate thanksgiving dinner in a t-shirt. Nice. Everyone else is in a nice button-down, or a dress, and I'm in a white t-shirt. And no, I couldn't borrow a shirt, because I'm bigger than everyone in the house. Goddamn it. I guess I lied when I said it wasn't awkward.

------------------------------------------------------

Anyway, I really wanted to talk about my Friday night, which was weird, but in a different, non-shit-related way. Wednesday, Mrs. TK and I had gone out for dinner and ran into an old, dear high school friend and her family at the restaurant (her dad lives in the same town as us). He very kindly invited me to dinner at his house for Friday night, and while Mrs. TK was working, I agreed to go. And then he said, "Great! That'll make 12 people!"

Um... what? Twelve people? Aw, balls. As some of you know, I'm not great with crowds, and I'm really not great with new people. But I sack up and go. And... well, it had a real bull-in-a-China-shop feel to it. Her father is quite wealthy, being some sort of attorney. Her father's boyfriend (yes, I said boyfriend) does some sort of thing where he secures insurance for fabulously wealthy foreign people. Also on the guest list:

-Her brother, who is in Rabbinical school.
-Her brother's extremely unfriendly and whiny girlfriend, who is in Cantorial school. (I provided the link because I had no idea what this was.)
-Her stone-deaf grandmother, who would go into periodic rages because everyone kept mumbling.
-A rabbi
-Someone who works in the Governor's office
-A neurosurgeon
-the Cultural Attache to the Israeli embassy

Oh, did I mention I was the only non-Jew there?

I know, I know. You're thinking, "Wow, TK. You must have been completely comfortable and not even a little bit awkward. I'm sure you didn't swear accidentally and inappropriately, or laugh too loudly, or knock over anything important".

And you would be saying this, because you are a moron who has never read this blog before.

Oh, also, as soon as I walked in? The smoke detectors in the entire house went off. No joke. It was like cocktail hour during Pearl Harbor. LOUD, REPEATED HOWLING, with smoke everywhere and the windows open. Literally started the moment I walked in. I swear to God... This led to a number of conversations like this:

TK: SO, HOW DO YOU KNOW [redacted] AND [redacted]?
Other person: EXCUSE ME?
TK: WHAT?
OP: WHAT?
TK: GODDAMN, THAT FUCKER'S LOUD, HUH?
OP: WHAT?

Needless to say, it NOT was the quiet little family meal I had expected. It was bizarre... not just because it was cold and smoke-filled and deafeningly loud, but because any time you are the ONLY person who is not of the predominant religion, during a very religious meal, it's a little jarring. Not to mention... there wasn't a lot I had to offer in terms of conversation. No one seemed interested in sports. No one seemed interested in The Wire. No one seemed interested in hearing me blather about my dogs. No one seemed interested in hearing how I got so fucking high the night before. I don't think anyone wanted to talk about the new Jay-Z record, and I certainly wasn't going to tell anyone about how I'd splattered myself in dogshit the day before.

It was... unusual, to say the least. But I actually had an OK time, and more importantly, came home with a clean shirt.

I call that fucker a win, if you ask me.


----------------
Listening to: The Grifters - Blood Thirsty Lovers

Thank you, faceless consumer horde... I mean, people.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Today is the 21st. Which means it's Burt Reynold's Mustache Day.

So click here and read more stupid nonsense from yours truly.

Happy T-Day, peeps.

Now I wonder what it is you're after, keeping company with this disaster

What, you may be asking, do these things have in common?

They are all things I have spilled on myself. Today. It's not even noon yet.


Word-for-word conversation that I had with my boss 20 minutes ago:

Boss: Oh, I think you-
TK: I know. It's coffee.
Boss: Oh. Sorry. Actually, I think you got some right-
TK: No, that's yogurt. And before you say anything else, this here is ink.
Boss:... oh.
TK: Can we talk about something else?


Sigh.


----------------
Listening to: DJ Shadow - What Does Your Sould Look Like ( Part 4)

Midnight's comin' round, still mostly down around here...

Sometimes, the real world can be a real bitch.

And so, I have a tale to tell.

When I was a senior in high school, on the last day of school there was always a talent show. At least, I think it was a talent show. I don't really remember, because I was high a lot. But I'll never forget my last day of high school, and I'll never forget Nick (not his real name).

At a time when high school stereotypes are either changing or disintegrating altogether, Nick fit the stereotype of "outcast" to a T. He dressed in ill-fitting, awkward looking clothes. His hair was a wiry mess with absolutely no style. He wasn't very good at school. He talked so quietly you could barely hear him, because he was self-conscious of his incredibly nasally voice. He had incredibly bad acne. He had few friends, and the few he did have were similar social outcasts.

I do not tell you this because I am trying to put him down, nor do I tell you because I was oh-so-cool. Despite my super cool fashion sense, I was neither much of an outcast, nor much of a popular kid. I was simply there. I had good friends, many of which are still around me. My point is, I tell you this because it's the truth. If you picture the sad sack outcast stereotype, this kid was it.

Anyway. So, our stupid talent show starts, and a couple of friends and I head over there. We stumble around a little, trying to find seats, because we are high as a motherfucker. And the usual collection of stupid dance numbers and lip syncing takes place. And then, we hear the loudspeaker say,
"OK, guys, let's give it up for Nick [Name Redacted]!!"

And there is collective silence. Deafening silence. Not because no one knows who Nick is, but because we all know who he is. My school was pretty big, but for the most part, you knew the rest of the students by name. And we all knew who he was, and knowing what we (thought) we knew, it seemed either a joke or a lie or... who knows.

So. High school gymnasium. 500+ kids sitting there in stunned and confused silence. And then... roaring over the loudspeaker... we hear it:

"Love is like a bomb, baby, come on get it on..."

No. Fucking. Way.

And suddenly, this kid, this introverted, misfit, four-years-of-quietly-suffering kid, comes TEARING out from the back of the room, pumping his fists and jumping in the air, and NAILS IT. He lip syncs Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar On Me", and he runs crazily around the room. He dances like his life depended on it. He's high fiving people as he runs through the stands. He whips his shirt off and throws it at a group of preppy girls. He's shaking his ass like he's got bees in his pants. I'm telling you, he fucking killed it.

It was one of the greatest things I've ever witnessed. It was way better than the Paradise City scene in Can't Hardly Wait, because it was real and it was him and it was just fucking perfect. I'm telling you, every single person in that gym was on their feet and cheering. Kids were running in from the hallway to see what the ruckus was about. And then, as the song came to a close, Nick, with a huge, sweet smile on his face, took a bow and ran out of the room.

It was the last time I saw him. But it wasn't the last time I thought of him, not by a long shot. How does one forget something like that? Something like that makes history. It becomes a story. People I run into that I went to high school with all still remember it fondly.

And while I didn't see Nick again, that was part of the poetry of it. In my mind, he ran out of that gym, shirtless, and jumped into his car and drove to California, getting into adventures and eventually meeting the girl of his dreams. Or he struck oil in Texas and became a tycoon. Or somehow ended up a secret agent, living off of fancy food and cocktails in Europe, in between dangerous missions into the middle east. I played through these scenarios in my head, periodically, and I always smiled. Nick had done something no one I knew had ever known had ever had the guts to do. To finally give the finger to an institution that shunned him, or worse, ignored him, while at the same time causing them to celebrate him.

In that small corner of the world, Nick became a legend.

I mean, 14 years later and I'm blogging about him, for God's sake. We didn't even have the damn internet back then.

And then, two months ago, I saw him...


Bagging groceries in a supermarket.

I saw him, and he had a brief moment of recognition with me. I gave a little half-smile, and he simply looked away. Ironically, I remembered his name, and yet I doubt he remembered mine.

But there was something incredibly sad about that moment. Something that tugged at me. In a weird way, it was like seeing a hero come down from the pedestal. I mean, the guy wasn't my hero, but... there was something about him that always made me smile, something that always made me think, "Not everyone plays by the damn rules. Sooner or later, people will crack and they will run from their mess of a life and become free. They will break the shackles of anonymity and become someone, and no force on this earth can stop it from happening!"

And I kind of enjoyed that, even if it was something I'd only think about once every couple of years.

Like I said... Sometimes, the real world? Can be a real bitch.


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Listening to: Uncle Tupelo - Life Worth Livin'

I would like to extend to you an invitation to the pants party.

OK, I swear this is the last Red Sox related post. But when one finds a picture of Manny Ramirez fist-bumping Steve Carell... I mean, that's like a perfect storm of things I love. I mean, I even once made the analogy that Manny is like the baseball version of Brick Tamland.



Beautiful.

As you were.

What kind of fuckery is this?

Bullshit. That's what this is. Nothing but straight-up bullshit. So go screw, Onthevirg and Country Roads. Fucking tagging is for dorks. Not to mention that there's very little you vultures don't know at this point because a) I'm not that interesting and b) I pretty much blurt out everything about myself on this damn site.

Anyway, the retard-o rules:

A). Link to the person that tagged you and post the rules on your blog...

B). Share 7 random and/or weird facts about yourself...

C). Tag 7 random people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs...

D). Let each person know that they've been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog

Here you go:

1. I'm terrified of fire. Specifically, of my house burning down. I can barely sleep if I go to bed after using the fireplace, lit candles worry me, that sort of thing. And don't get me started on space heaters.

2. When I was six years old I insisted that my clothes match completely. As in, blue shirt, blue pants, blue socks, blue shoes. I was compulsive about it. Now I'm lucky if I remember to wear pants in the first place.

3. I never learned how to drive a stick shift.

4. I can crack virtually every joint in my body, and do it frequently. Knuckles, wrists, elbows, shoulders, knees, back, neck, you name it. If it bends, I can make it pop. This disturbs some people.

5. Not counting English, I have studied four other languages. I cannot speak, read or write any of them even remotely competently.

6. When I was in high school, I shaved half of my head, dyed my hair purple, had my ears pierced, wore motorcycle jackets and combat boots and skull rings, because I wanted to be totally punk rock. Now I shop at Old Navy and complain when the kids on the street yell too much.

7. The first concert I ever went to was Kool and the Gang.

As for tagging other people - I'm too fucking lazy. So if you read this, I'm suggesting A Lover and a Fighter, New Texan, Girl With Curious Hair, Maxine Motherfucking Dangerous, Alex the Odd, and now I'm too tired to think of anyone else. So if you punks read this, write some shit down, OK?

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Listening to: Built To Spill - Conventional Wisdom