George Carlin has a routine about how baseball is a friendly game, while football is all war and destruction, based only on terminology. This routine always bugged me, because it really goes both ways. In baseball, the pitcher tries to blow the hitter away with his gas, but the hitter stays alive by fighting off the heat. Eventually the batter wins the battle and connects with a huge blast. He crushes the ball and the outfielder tries to run down the rocket before hitting the warning track. The batter thinks about heading for second, but holds off because the fielder has a cannon. On the next play, the runner might try to steal second, but he could get gunned down by a laser from home plate. Meanwhile, in football, a runner takes a friendly handoff, then dances behind the line before finding an opening and heading for daylight. He jukes and jives, and if he goes out of bounds, that just means it's time for another play. Then the quarterback will toss a beautiful spiral to the receiver, who will gallop past the safety (who is just there to make sure nobody gets hurt!) for a touchdown.

The Knicks just made a big trade to clear out cap space to make a run at Lebron in two years. The theory goes, I think, like this: New York is the capital of the sporting world, and everyone wants to play here! Honestly. What schlubby Midwesterner wouldn't jump at the chance to move to the Big City? Does he want to pick corn in the offseason? Hoho! Come Jasper, refill my drink.

I think this is preposterous, and I would like to tell ESPN so, preferably through an anonymous, little-read Internet platform.

Let's base this discussion on Lebron's three goals, which the talking heads say are something like this:

1) Win titles
2) Become a global icon
3) Cash money y'all!

1) The Cavs have played the Knicks a couple of times already this year, and both times they blew the Knicks out of the arena -- even when Lebron was on the bench. The Cavs' supporting cast isn't elite, but it's good enough to play with teams, even without Lebron. Mo is a capable scorer, Ilgauskas is an above-average center, they have three elite shooters, and everybody on the team (sans Wally) plays excellent defense. Danny Ferry dumped every single bad seed in one brilliant trade last year. Now, the Cavs get along, they're humble, and they know their roles. Throw in Lebron, and they have everything they need. They could win the title this year.

The Knicks, by contrast, have literally nothing at all to build around. David Lee has some potential, but honestly, his upside is basically the same as Anderson Varejao's.

Sure, you say, but the Knicks have lots of cap space. They can sign Chris Bosh, too! The Celtics did it! Well, the Celtics became a contender last year by throwing money at stars, but they won because Posey and Rondo and Perkins all held their own. You need a full complement of pieces to win a title these days, and the Knicks don't have even one guy as good as James Posey. Not one. Lebron and Bosh, by themselves, won't do a thing.

And what everybody ignores is that the Cavs have a ton of cap flexibility too -- and it's better than the Knicks'. They have expiring deals right now in Eric Snow and Wally World that they could flip for someone like Antawn Jamison, who would take the Cavs to another level entirely (they'd be beating teams by 35 instead of 25, I guess). The year that Lebron gets to free agency, they would have enough expiring contracts to offer Lebron the max (more than New York could) -- and STILL pick up Chris Bosh themselves. Can you imagine Lebron plus Bosh plus other good players?

2) So this is the big one. Lebron can be a global icon in New York! You can't do that in Cleveland?

Well, Chicago was nothing until Michael Jordan came along. Peyton Manning is in more commercials than anyone else on the planet, and he plays in Indianapolis. Wayne Gretzky became an icon in freaking Edmonton. And does Tiger Woods even have a home city? If you're awesome, it doesn't matter where you play. And Lebron is awesome. Case in point: Lebron's star power is clearly bigger than Kobe's already, and Kobe is in LA. Lebron is in more commercials than Derek Jeter, and the Captain plays in New York. Really, Lebron is a stud in China -- how much bigger is he going to get? Who doesn't know who he is already?

If you ask me, Lebron goes to New York and disappears a little bit among A-Rod, Eli, Favre, and that obnoxious media. In Cleveland, well, he's competing with Derek Anderson and Slider. 

3) Money! Money money!

Right off the bat: The Cavs can offer Lebron more money than the Knicks can. That's in the salary cap rules, and the Cavs have the space, so there's no debating it. The counter-argument to that is that Nike will offer him bonuses that dwarf his NBA contract if he plys his trade in the big city.

And that argument doesn't fly at all.

See, Lebron's Nike deal expires at the same time his Cavaliers deal does. He's a shoe company free agent as well. And Nike will not lose him to Adidas (or, like, Converse?). That would be armageddon. Phil Knight would murder some Malaysian children (or more than he usually does). So Nike is going to give him whatever he wants, no matter where he signs. If they try to pull some shenanigans -- "We'll give you $20 million more to go to New York City!" -- Lebron will say "No, you'll give me $20 million more period." And Nike will fork it over, because they won't have a choice.

Now, I'm not saying it's an impossibility that Lebron will fly the coop in two years. But if he does, he'll be going to a worse team, for less money, and it's not like he's going to get any more famous. Frankly, his best chance to win a title might be to sign with Portland (who have cap space, plus Brandon Roy, plus Greg Oden, plus Rudy Fernandez -- wow). But would that be a step up from the Cavs? I don't know.

Maybe I'm just a starry-eyed Witness, but I'm feeling pretty good about our chances.

Today at lunchtime, I went to a nice little restaurant called Abbey Road. It was Beatles-themed, and had lots of vintage rocknroll stuff on the walls. I got the Ringo burger, which was delicious, though perhaps not as essential as the other items on the menu (ha!).

Near the end of my meal, I went to the bathroom, which had, bizarrely, been turned into some sort of impromptu memorial. The walls of the men's room was carved with engraved messages of mourning. Every wall, RIP this, RIP that. There were dozens of them: "RIP Sarah," "RIP Tony," and even "RIP Mr. Bones," which was left with love by "Drewz."

I don't know what sort of phenomenon leads to a mass outpouring of emotion on the walls of a one-room men's bathroom. I wonder if the women's room has the same theme, or if maybe they've gone a more cheerful route ("Welcome to the world Jaden Gill! 6 lbs. 4 oz!").

I just hope that, wherever he is, Mr. Bones knows that Drewz and I are thinking about him.

I wish I had been at this Obama victory party:

It's possible that I have watched too much tennis in my lifetime. Today I was watching the U.S. Open quarterfinal between Rafa Nadal and Mardy Fish (USA hyped it like Fish had a chance, but he never did) when they flashed to a shot of the chair umpire.

"Oh good," I thought. "Carlos Ramos. He's an excellent umpire."

Then, realizing that I had both recognized and judged a referee, I wondered what I was doing with my life.

My mom's third book came out a couple days ago. They had a big event for it and 45 people came, and only two of them were related to her. That's how you know she's a star. Also, random people are creating YouTube reviews of her books. Their take? "I know she has a weird name, but she's amazing!"

Demitri Martin tells a joke I identify a little too well with. “I’ve noticed that all board games are pretty much the same,” he says. “Which one of my friends is a competitive asshole? Hey look, today we’re playing Steve!”          

I like that joke, but my friends tell me that too often they find they’re playing me. Jess thinks I rub my wins in other people’s faces. I think I just play to win, and if she doesn’t approve of my Trivial Pursuit victory dances, she should answer more questions correctly. It’s probably a bad sign when you’re accused of cheating at War, but really – nothing was ever proven.

That’s why I enjoy it when people around me are insane enough to make me feel better about my own competitive tendencies. I may be a little intense, but I’m positively mellow compared to the guy brandishing a deck chair during a game of shuffleboard.          

A couple weeks ago I had a particularly gratifying athletic experience, in that it made me feel very normal by comparison. I like to save these little stories to make myself look good. At the end of a 15-minute argument over the rules of CatchPhrase, I can always say, "Hey, at least I didn't try to attack a referee."


I’ll be honest: Cisco is a wonderful, forward-thinking company, but I could go weeks without seeing a black person until I joined my after-work basketball league. Then they came out of the woodwork, which sounds pretty racist -- and is pretty racist -- until you consider that they all are brilliant engineers. Asians, strangely, are not proportionately represented. And all that is a moot point, because the star of this story is the one white man on our aptly-named opponents, Cin City.

The white guy looked something like I imagined a decathlete would, tall, rippling with lean muscle, a buzz cut and a vaguely tribal tattoo circling his right arm. I had to guard him – I’m still not sure why – and as soon as he saw the small white dude following him, he shouted “POST UP! POST UP! HE CAN’T GUARD ME!” It would have been insulting, except he was probably right.

The first time down the court, his teammate tried to toss it to him under the hoop, and I darted around him and poked it away. He yelled at the passer. A couple minutes later, he was able to get the ball, but I jumped up and blocked his shot. Then he yelled at the referee.

As the half went on, he got more and more visibly frustrated. I dribbled around him and scored, then guarded him by running around in front of him waving my arms and trying to cut off passes. I won’t say that I did a great job, but he still hadn’t scored as the first half came to a close. Then, when one of his teammates missed a free throw, he pushed inside, grabbed the rebound, and put it back up and in.

Then he turned to the referee and screamed “AND THAT WAS A FUCKING FOUL TOO!”

And the referee gave him his first technical.

In basketball, a technical foul is akin to a warning for bad behavior. A second gets you thrown out of the game, and if one team gets three they have to forfeit. Generally, amongst engineers, that isn’t an issue.

The decathlete quieted after his technical, but one of his teammates flipped out. The half had ended, and he thought that meant fouls could not be called. “YOU CAN’T CALL A FUCKING ‘T’ AT HALFTIME! IT’S FUCKING HALFTIME!”

And that was his first technical.

So then my team’s star, Marcus, lined up for the first of his four free throws. Just as he released, the star of our story clapped his hands and screamed “BWAUGH!”

And that was his second technical and his team’s third.

And that’s when things got really nuts.

 “What the fuck, ref? What did I ever do to you? Why do you fucking have it out for me? You’ve been doing this all fucking season! Every game! Does it make you happy? Are you having fucking fun? This is the fucking PLAYOFFS, man! Why are you fucking doing this to me?”

The referee, calmer than I would have been, said “OK, you need to leave.”

The guy jumped in the ref’s face, then, and screamed. “I’M GONNA BEAT YOUR ASS, PUNK!”

Then he made as if to throw a punch, but two of his teammates grabbed him and wrestled him to the ground. He strained against them, still screaming, as the referee slid behind my team. As if we were going to protect him from the decathlete.

By that point, someone in the crowd had called security, and two burly officers arrived on the scene. It was probably their moment in the sun – I can’t imagine Cisco security officers are needed very often.

They grabbed the man under the arms and dragged him away from the courts, even while he continued to shout. “I’LL SEE YOU AFTER THE GAME, MAN! I’LL BE IN THE PARKING LOT!”


I don’t know if that guy kept his job, or if he ever had a job. Maybe he was brought in as a ringer by a struggling business unit that figured they needed more of a post presence to make a serious playoff run.

It’s hard to imagine a person that crazy about the Cisco after-work basketball league. I picture him in his cube, berating his boss: “How could you give me that fucking performance review?! I got screwed on that fucking project! The fucking customer was out to get me!”      

Still, he’s not that rare among cube-dwelling athletes. Another man spiked me in the head with a smash during a tennis match last week, but these are necessary risks for me. It takes a certain anount of ridiculous characters to produce entertaining life stories. Many writers have found great success turning to drugs, hitchhiking, or homosexuality. I just join sports leagues.

I just got an email in my inbox from Amazon.com. It went something like this:

"Based on items you have recently purchased, we think you may be interested in Overlord: Raising Hell. Click here to preorder today!"

Amazon thinks I may be interested in something called Overlord: Raising Hell. Where did I go wrong with my life?

I don't update very often. So here you get a series of thoughts that could really be like five different entries. Only now you get them all at once! Feel free to leave five comments per person.

1) I went to a thrift store recently and saw a shirt that opened up a lot of questions. The front of the shirt had a big picture of a heart with a cat inside. It was obviously a poor iron-on transfer. The back of the shirt said "I love Muffin."

Obviously it takes a special kind of person to create a shirt proclaiming his or her love for a pet cat. But more important than that, in my mind, is just what the poor kitty did to make its owner dump their custom-made t-shirt at a Salvation Army. How do you go from "I love my cat so much it can only be expressed through iron-on clothing!" to "Fuck Muffin! Let the poor people and scenesters have her!"

Did Muffin claw the four-poster bed? Did she kill one of her owner's 13 other cats? Did she jack a car to pay for her Oxycontin habit?

I don't know. And I didn't buy the shirt.

2) I went and visited Jess a couple weeks ago for her graduation. You'll notice that I buried this story second so that you wouldn't immediately see it and tune out. This is a notable event for me because it means that, barring some unexpected event, I will never again be dating an undergrad. That makes me old. We need to get Jess into dental school fast, just so I can say I'm dating a college student.

3) I went and played volleyball today. It was a group that I like, but one guy brought his college-age daughter and her three sorority sisters. Normally I'd be excited for people my own age, except that these girls sucked. Oh well.

So we're playing volleyball, and it's getting near the end, and there's a lot of sass being thrown around because it's that kind of group. Then somebody on my team -- Maya -- hits a serve that flies right past one of the sorority girls -- Megan -- and lands barely out of bounds. Maya shouts "Why didn't you hit it?" and the girl, confused, says "Well, it was out."

That's when I, in the spirit of good humor, started giving her crap. "Look, Megan. This is a game about fun. This is a CASUAL volleyball group. We're not about things like in and out. We're trying to have a good time here."

She turned back to me and moaned, "Why are you being so hostile?!"

And then I felt bad. Because she didn't get the joke. Eep.

4) Overheard at volleyball, from a couple that was practicing kayaking together: "Look, my ex-girlfriend almost died because she couldn't perform a wet exit! Do you want to end up like her?!"

5) A few weeks ago some horse died in the Kentucky Derby. Less than a year before that, another horse was fatally injured in the Belmont Stakes. Both times, people that are really into horse racing went into mourning. They cried. They wrote poems. They acted like it was the biggest tragedy they had ever endured.

Here's the thing. I'm not going to make a huge deal about how stupid horse racing is. There are bigger problems in the world. But if you support a sport that involves shooting steroids into ponies and then hitting them with whips, you lose the right to complain when one of them dies.

You know what would have saved that horse's life? If you had left it alone in some field.

First, to those that asked, the police did not get the mysterious urinator for drunken driving (apparently they have to see you do it), nor for parking in a handicapped spot (because it's a gated community, my apartment complex is responsible for enforcing the handicapped spots that they marked). So nothing happened at all.

Half of my floor here at Mystery Company X is taken up by a fancy laboratory, where racks and racks of strange equipment hum and glow and whistle and pop. It takes a keycard to get into the lab, but I'm allowed in. Maybe I shouldn't be, though, judging from the signs that litter the door.

"CAUTION!" screams the first one. "This lab contains class 1 laser products."

I'm not sure how a class 1 laser differs from, say, a class 3 laser, but it's probably something like "ability to burn holes through chest cavities."

That's not the scariest sign, though. Another one stands out in bright yellow, with a red box surrounding a lined triangle -- it looks something like a triforce -- with an empty hand in the middle. The text proclaims "ATTENTION. You are entering an ESD level II controlled work area! Observe all necessary precautions."

I have never taken appropriate precautions. I'm not sure what an appropriate precaution might be -- maybe a gas mask? In any event, I go in this lab all the time to mess with phones, look out the window or bug my friend Greg. I haven't noticed any effects yet, but I'm keeping an eye out for super powers.

When I started at Imaginary Company X, I began a 401k. Because that's what you're supposed to do. So I put money into it every paycheck, and forget about it, and am probably going broke in the stock market. Oops. But until yesterday, I had no idea that, as a shareholder, I actually have some voting privileges over the mutual fund that I chose.

I got a ballot in the mail asking me to vote on a couple issues, and I got the impression that it was mostly a formality -- probably nobody but me actually returns those cards. I had to elect a couple representatives that I knew nothing about, and there were a few other issues that seemed rather trivial. And then there was the last item on the ballot:

"A shareholder proposal directing the fund's brokers not to invest in corporations that, in their determination, promote genocide."

That gave me a start, but what really surprised me was the next line: "The Board encourages you to vote against this item."

To quote some random woman at a Kentucky Fried Chicken, PUH-SCUSE ME?! How is this even something to vote on? I realize that there is a lot of gray space in this issue, and that it's difficult to decide what actually constitutes "promoting" something, and that every corporation has some negative baggage. But if you determine that something is promoting genocide, you do not give money to it.

How could they possibly advise me to vote against this proposal? It's not like it's taking the decision out of their hands; it explicitly says "in [the board's] determination." They want the right to continue investing my money in corporations that they believe promote genocide? How could you possibly justify that? It's human decency!

I'm just amazed that this was debatable enough that it had to come up for a vote. I voted in favor, of course, but probably most people will ignore the vote and it will fail.

________________________________________

Following my recent trend of posting about events a week after they happen, let's talk about my birthday! Rather than sit alone in North Carolina, playing video games and sipping Cherry Coke, I decided to fly to Illinois to play video games and sip Cherry Coke.

Oh, and to see my girl. Mainly that.

It was a delightful weekend, featuring a delicious dinner, a Ruby Tuesday employee named Jim, some bowling, and my total upstaging by Sean. See, Sean decided to pick two days prior to my birthday to propose to Liz, a wonderful and exciting event that I totally disapprove of because it meant people weren't talking about me all weekend. And then Liz bought Sean a Wii as an engagement present, a wonderful and exciting gift that I totally disap -- no, wait, I approve of that one because I got to play Wii all weekend.

So yay for Sean and Liz. They're the best, and I totally better be their ring bearer or flower girl or wedding planner or something.

Now onto more important things: me!

Jess threw me a very nice birthday dinner, which she organized via Facebook and which was very nearly ruined because Paul responded "maybe" and then didn't show up. I don't know how he planned to get from Strongsville to Illinois in time to meet us at Ruby Tuesday, but I'll never forgive him for failing to pull it off. Thankfully, enough cool people showed up that we still had a grand time. And then, in the midst of my drunken revelry*, I left my phone at Ruby Tuesday.

Normally this would be a non-story, except that Margs called to wish me happy birthday. A man picked up and said "Hello?" to which Margs responded "CHEMO IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY YAY HOORAY I LOVE YOU!" (that's a direct quote). And the man replied, "This is Jim."

You would think Jim would immediately bring up that he was a Ruby Tuesday employee, and that some dipshit had left their phone there. Instead, he told her his name -- as if he expected her to amend her statement to "HEY JIM IT'S CHEMO'S BIRTHDAY!"

But anyway. Oh, and Rohit was there too, which was nice.

In other news, we went bowling, where we discovered that Michelle is a crack bowler, but only in the first game of the night, and that Liz is surprisingly ambidextrous. She bowled a lefthanded strike. I'd elaborate, but that pair has stolen enough of my thunder already!

Some very nice people got me presents. Sean and Liz got me Bring It On: In it to Win It and Ice Spiders, which is hilariously awful. Michelle and Joe got me candy, which I have already devoured. My parents got me an iPhone, which I also devoured. Oops!

And Jess got me a shirt and 3:10 to Yuma for my birthday, both of which I enjoyed. She also got a book autographed for me by one of my favorite writers, who signed the book "Eric, it was nice of Jess to get this book for you. Be nice to her. -Will Leitch."

He's a wise man.

Oh, and if you missed my DinoWorld post (and judging by the comments you did), check that out below.



*note -- not actually drunken

About two weeks ago, I visited my good friend Shoeshine Walter in Lakeland, Florida. From there, we met up with fellow Poynter alumni Bill and Mallory to visit the only attraction befitting young professionals such as ourselves: Dino World.

Sorry -- DINO WORLD!!

Dino World is the sort of attraction that you notice because of the giant dinosaurs by the side of the Florida highway. It's like a museum, only with the educational parts taken out. Basically, somebody owned a forest and decided it would look better with massive styrofoam/plastic dinos. And they were right.

While we were buying our tickets for dinosaur world, a woman called on the phone to ask whether the dinosaurs were real. Informed that they were not, she got increasingly angry with the poor lady behind the counter. I think this tells us a lot about both Dino World customers and Florida residents. Dino World caters to a unique demographic: total idiots (and fresh grad journalists).

We noticed a sign above the entrance welcoming young Emily for her birthday party. I couldn't help but wonder if this would be the highlight of her year. It was certainly a highlight of mine.

There were some informative plaques by the dinosaurs and some plants (with helpful information like "Boston Fern -- not native") to give the appearance of being educational, but I'm pretty sure nobody looked at them. We just looked at the dinosaurs. And took pictures.

There were ropes around the dinos to keep youngsters from fooling with them. We did not heed those rules for long:



Shosh got in on the action, though hers required less agility.



I made friends with a triceratops. You can see here the incredibly ineffective ropes, though they do make for a good footrest.



You would think that a park like this would cater to kids. But if I was a parent, I don't know if I would want my child to see the horrors available on Predator Boardwalk. There's nothing like cheery, pastel-colored dinosaurs ripping chunks out of each other. Needless to say, I loved it!



We watched a great video with computer-generated pterodactyls. I was transfixed.



Even the trashcans were just like authentic dinosaurs! Unfortunately, every time you tried to throw something away, it looked really inappropriate.



The whole experience was very immersive. Soon we started to feel like dinos.



Eventually we started to behave like them. Mallory is a picky eater.



Finally, the transformation was complete.



Luckily Bill snapped me out of it with his magic camera. So we all took a happy picture to commemorate our wonderful day at Dino World.



Then we started an indie rock band.

On Sunday, I went to a Super Bowl party with Jesse and Brian, who were nice enough to invite me along when their neighbor invited them. It was a good time, and I guess Jesse ("wicked!") can correct me if I get anything wrong.

So it came to pass that I was sitting on a chair next to a very large stranger with a very large cast on his arm -- not just an "I broke my arm" cast, but a "Lucy, you'll never play the piano again" cast. And near the end of the first quarter, he made an offhand remark:  "There's nothing I want more than for the Giants to win this game. Except maybe to get this cast off my arm."

Naturally, I had to ask: "What'd you do to your arm?"

And that's when he told his story.

"Last week I hadn't had lunch or dinner or anything, but I popped a Xanax and went out drinking at a bar and got blackout drunk. I guess I ended up in a big fight with the bouncer, and then I punched the manager in the face. After that, a few bouncers ganged up and threw me out the door."

"Wow," I replied. "So you landed on your arm?"

"Oh, no. I was okay after that. But I got in another fight with a guy out there, and then I realized someone called the cops so I ran off. Down the street I got in a fight with another guy, but then the girl with him maced me in the face. That kind of drove me crazy, cause you know, getting maced in the face will do that to you."

At this point, I was wondering what could come next that would be even crazier.

"So I hijacked a delivery truck that was sitting there and drove off in that, and then I kind of swerved it off the street and almost crashed, and I got out. But the cops were still coming, so I ran over and tried to punch through some glass to get into a building. I never got in though, and I just kept punching it until the cops surrounded me. So that's when I smashed up my arm. Broke three bones, tore a couple ligaments in my wrist, and ripped it all up. Had to have surgery a couple days later."

I looked up in astonishment at his wife, who was sitting next to him.

"Oh, but don't worry, the glass got the worst of it," she replied sarcastically. "He won. We're all REAL proud of him."

At this point, I had so many questions, starting with "Why are you still with him?" and moving on to "How is he not in jail?" But then I looked down at the beer in his hand, and his massive frame, and decided to keep my mouth shut.

I quietly scooted a few feet away and turned back to the game.

Today I passed the second half of the CCNA exam, making me a Cisco Certified Network Associate. I failed it the first time I tried, last week (which, oddly enough, I didn't journal about... why do you suppose that is?), but passed it this time. Barely.

The minimum passing score was 825, and I pulled off an 832. There were 49 questions in 75 minutes, and I finished with 45 seconds to spare. That's cutting it about as close as you can get.

To celebrate, I bought myself a delicious smoothie and basked in the adulations from my coworkers (who knew because my boss sent them all an email telling them to congratulate me). One of them, who I have never met in person, sent me an email saying only "Congratulations DUDE."

Now, the CCNA is the second-lowest level of Cisco certification you can get. The highest is the CCIE (Cisco Certified Internet Expert), which entails a long written exam and then a full day lab where they basically hand you a pile of equipment and say "You have 8 hours. CREATE THE INTERNET."

It has an 80 percent failure rate.

The CCIE exam is so ridiculous that my imaginary company X has a form letter that it encourages managers to send to the families of workers pursuing the CCIE. I only know about this form letter because today a manager accidentally forwarded it to about a billion people. Here are some choice excerpts:

"On behalf on Imaginary Company X., I would like to express our sincere gratitude to you for your support of (CCIE Employee Name) throughout the duration of (his/her) CCIE Certification preparation.
...
"Company X recognizes that (CCIE Employee Name’s) commitment to attaining this remarkable achievement by means of association is not without family sacrifices.  Your generosity of time is duly noted and commended.

 (Cisco CCIE Employee Name’s) success in this, in our opinion, must be directly attributed to your support of (his/her) efforts."

Now that's heartfelt!

I got on Amazon to check the price of Shoot-'em-Up on Blu-Ray, debating whether Paul Giammatti, Clive Owen and sheer ridiculousness warrant the purchase of a movie the New York Times called "a worthless piece of garbage." I'm leaning towards yes.

In the process, I noticed that Independence Day will shortly be available on Blu-Ray, which is tempting in a similar sort of way. But the interesting part is that Independence Day is currently being out-ordered by the upcoming Blu-Ray version of "Girls Gone Wild: Sexiest Moments Ever!" despite GGW:SME! getting panned heavily in the "user reviews" section. I have to wonder what sort of person logs in (with their real name!) to post reviews like "just an endless monotony of breasts" and "not as extreme as Dorm Adventures 2."

I also wonder why the New York Times doesn't review Girls Gone Wild films. If Shoot-'em-Up is "a worthless piece of garbage," what do you think GGW:SME! is? My guess: not up to the lofty standards of Dorm Adventures 2.

Really, though, I think everybody needs to cut those Girls Gone Wild some slack. After all: it's their first tiiiiime!

There's a new breed of player coming to my weekly volleyball game. They're tall, they can jump a mile in the air, and on women's nets they're liable to kill you with a spike. Frankly, I hate their guts. But that's a topic for another entry (teaser!). This little essay is about one very special newcomer.

This man is large in every dimension. He's got to be 6'5" at least, with a gut that threatens to brush the net every time he goes up for a block. And that belly hangs down over spindly little legs, making him look like a particularly mammoth chicken. If chickens wore kneepads.

But those aren't his most striking features. First of all, this man plays in wife beaters -- maybe the same wife beater -- every single week, with thick forests of chest hair poking out from all that open, exposed skin. I'm pretty sure the ladies struggle  to resist running their hands through it. I know I do.

That's not to say, though, that our friend isn't committed to personal grooming. See, despite the swaths of exposed curlies, this man shaves his armpits. Impeccably. Either he's balding in the underarms, or he makes a point of getting smooth every week before volleyball time. And when he poses with his arms in the air after a big spike, I can't help but think he's showing 'em off.

Oh, and he's a professional masseuse. An unlicensed one. "Stupid North Carolina makes you attend 25 hours of classes every two years!" he grumbled today. Clearly he couldn't be bothered.

So now you have a proper image of our guy. He's not the most mobile player, but he's so tall that he can pretty much spike straight down on these ridiculous women's nets, making him automatically much better than me. And he knows it. The first time I saw him, he was on the opposite side of the net from my friend Lisa, a short 30-something schoolteacher and a pretty good volleyball player. She was in the back middle, playing forward like she was supposed to.

"Hey, you might want to take a few steps back," he said to her.

She stared at him. "Uh, why?"

"Cause your head is right in my SPIKING ZONE!"

And then he jumped in the air, lifted his arms to mime a spike, and showed her his shaved pits.

I hope the karmic football gods give Peyton Manning a small, niggling injury that causes him to miss their first playoff game. Then the Colts can see what it's like to have your season depend on Jim fucking Sorgi.