Here again, maybe more permanently. We'll see.
We'll chalk it up to the baseball season, boys and girls, because I Live For This.
The best thing that can be said, sadly, about Dead Man's Chest is that we're closer to the final piece of the trilogy. "Lacking" might be the appropriate word here, because if there was a story hidden inside Davey Jones' tentacled-face, it stayed in there, writhing, painfully trying to be free of the bloated, overdone, effects-heavy dark movie I endured this morning.
Nice Drew Sharp piece about the Awesomely Sweet Tigers. I hope that place sells out this weekend.
Happy first day o' summer.
What country gets your vote for most farked up on the planet? Seriously...another missile test? Kim Jong Il is not from this world. Then there's Iran, perhaps the most insecure nation on our blue ball. Sudan? Sierra Leone? Can we call out China for burying its people under clouds of pollution and state-run media while tantalizing them with capitalistic gold? Perhaps the Democratic Republic of the Congo, which is systematically killing its people for no apparent reason? And if you're an Arab, is Israel on this list?
The going-ons are ridiculous and crazy, capped off by Eric's 5-day visit that ended this morning when he went back to the SassLand of Detroit to generally get on with his life. I think he enjoyed Florida, so I fully expect him to move down here soon so we can start our nightclub together. PollyEsther's Clone in full effect.
Ron the Tiger tagged me (ahhhhhhh), so apparently I have to do this survey. Next is Colleen; you're it.
So,Cars. Comes out soon. John Lasseter. Directed Toy Story and A Bug's Life.
Moving the car characters and adding realistic reflections and other details posed formidable problems. " 'Cars' was a really difficult film technically," said Ms. Anderson, the producer. "It's the most complex film we've ever made." Even with a network of processors that ran four times faster than the ones on "The Incredibles," each frame of "Cars" took an average of 17 hours to render.
I can't imagine that anyone possibly cares, but I finally found a way to compile every personal email I've ever sent (using Alma's account and my yahoo account...there were flirtations with usa.net and excite, and of course there are accounts for business and commercial stuff), and some numbers:
On your march for a World Series ring, the days meld together...a baseball game becomes another activity in a time period that doesn't run on a 24-hour cycle...there's no wake-up/work 9-5/run errands/eat dinner/watch TV and surf internet dynamic when you work in professional sports. Your cycle becomes that of the homestand and the few days preceding it you need to get ready, and you just sorta flow from one activity to the next...gameday preparation to eating to gametime to going out to getting home to sleeping to waking up to watching yesterday's Daily Show to getting ready to gameday preparation...it's actually a neat way to live, because the only thing that matters is that you're ready to go when the gates open.
Oh happy day! Oh wonderful thing of sweetness! Oh bearded Zeus...how sweet you are...and by bearded Zeus, I mean Jim Leyland, because he's turned one of the laughingstocks of baseball, one of the only things I've kept with me with my whole life, one of the things that comes every spring but is a disgrace by summer, into a Beacon Of Sweetness.
Why does Nolan Ryan have a bio on the White House's website?
Where'd that song Move Along come from? Steven knows I love it; his nifty little macbook spun it three times for me in the control room. That might have to be the theme song for the next 365 days, to the extent I have theme songs, which is to say never.
Your solid Rays swim back into town this weekend with plans to beat the Red Tide and its Master Manny and shock the Sox out of first place while gaining some eastern ground. Gomes and Wiggy bring back some still-smokin' bats to back up Fossum the Possum, Hometown Guy Waechter and Spectacular ScottyKaz in what promises to be a fun chapter in the neverending and always simmering duel between the Former World Champs and eventual Champs-To-Be. We've got a spectacular Friday Night Fight, so brighten your lights (thanks Franzone) and rock your house. Live from Tropicana Field: Rays v. Red Sox. Right Now.
The most what-is-he-saying lyrics of the last few months have to be Sugar We're Going Down.
Oh April 20. How fondly dost thou linger in my memory; a splendidly sunny spring Saturday in the middle of the Mitten you were, watching over the 4 of us graduating from lovely Alma College. More like 384, because with 4, we wouldn't have to sit around and hear names called for 62 hours. Aguilar, I believe, to Zimmerman, was the order. But I could be wrong.
One of my favorite little moments from yesterday involved, of course, Joe Schultz. The LED has been partly corrupted by the corporate whorage of the world, so now you get your DET/CWS score alongside some kind words from metroPCS telling you that you have permission to speak freely. So I click up the metroPCS graphic, and Schultz turns to me with a look of disgust and says: "What Is That?"
The NYTimes says that 4 of its 3 million brackets have the Final Four correct. That's amazing. It warms my heart. Why? Because all of the gaseous blabbering emitted on ESPN and talk radio and that moderately annoying fellow in Sales who is convinced he knows more than you about sports was proven, yet again, to be void. Empty. Worthless.
Oh, the excitement continues.
DOA, Foo Fighters, hott.
In honor of a certain Paquet girl arriving to stay tomorrow, I believe my 42 months of bachelorhood need a semi-proper send-off that does not involve the "Vegas Showgirls" place on Gandy. So, here's to:
Life is excellent. March in Florida is so insanely beautiful...warm sunny days and pleasant cool nights...the kind that are perfect for driving around, jamming to, perhaps, the All-American Rejects' Dirty Little Secret, which after 1,854 or so listens still doesn't sound old. The Book Of Evil (media guide) that was nothing but a night/weekend/life sapper is done, so now I can focus on getting ready for the season, which I celebrated yesterday by enjoying a hott spring training game downtown. Chris and Jen visiting was a nice happy boost, seeing Mariah was sweet, and the 'rents are coming...and of course, so is Holly. Let the living in sin begin! Being with her for more than five days at a time will be the greatest treat ever. Wedding plans are still going swimmingly, the Pistons are still winning, and the Rays still look like they might be decent. I have enjoyed the production values of Entourage, the writings of Jonathan Franzen, and the lovely Kiefer and his quest to stop the terrorists on 24. And of course, I couldn't be excellent if everyone else wasn't, but Jen loves her job, Lauren passed her boards, Kari has a lovely daughter, Steve is kicking up dust in Atlanta, Mike and Cara are getting married, Colleen keeps running, and Andrew and Mariah are moving to Madison.
Oooooooh, poor Duke. A loss to the great Florida State, to be followed by a loss to North Carolina tonight. Heels rule.
First off, the dirty little ditty Dirty Little Secret is my new favorite pop turn-on since Speed Of Sound. It's fun and rolls right along with you driving down 275 or whatever sweet freeway you're near. For my loyal readers: have a download.
Okay. So I'm rolling through the visitor logs. Someone keeps logging onto the site through facebook. But their IP address is in Plano, Texas. No one I know's from Plano. A WHOIS doesn't help; all I get is that SWBell is the backbone of the connection. Oh wait: Here's the ISP, thanks to the statcounter logs. It's Gerace Construction! In Midland, MI! Amazing. St. Pete/Plano/Midland. The question then becomes: Who is this person? Karb? Should I care? Do I care? This sort of lame website-hopping-as-hacking is about as close to CTU as I'll ever get, so I'll at least have fun with it.
Former quadmate and still fraternity brother K. Ritsema is on The Price Is Right at 11am today. Tune yourself in.
Publix no longer sells Cosmic Brownies. The entire Little Debbie stand, as well as the entire Hostess stand, have disappeared, replaced by nothing, turning Aisle 1 into a wasteland of space and depression flanked by the solderous milk cartons and endless bottles of Gatorade that, I continue to wonder, exist inside the Pistons' cooler. What is that? Just water? Or a "sports drink?" The Mudcats featured PowerAde in one cooler and water in another, but when those little people who always wear hearts hold cups into huddles at timeouts, what's in them? Water would make the most sense; perhaps a former "manager" could tell me.
Oh, O.A.R. Swoon! Check out this HOTT setlist from the 2.12.06 show in Champaign (pretty close to my perfect show):
You just know a trip's gonna be sweet if it starts with Red Vines and Mr. Pibb. Thanks to DougEFresh and J for said provisions, the combination of which set the stage for a swell jaunt to Los Angeles to do "work."