The Cabbage Gene

When it comes to "nature vs. nurture", I often find m'self firmly in the "nurture" camp.  Surroundings and upbringing, not to mention the snowflake-like diversity of humanity, often has more to do with how a person behaves than pure instinct and breeding, at least in my experience.  The movie Trading Places should have put this argument to bed in the 80's, for all intensive purposes.

Take me, for example.  I am a man of simple tastes.  A product, some might say, of my catholic-style, small town, coastal New England upbringing.  What this basically means, from a day to day perspective, is that I like to make fun of foliage tourists (aka: leafers) while wearing  LL Bean outerwear.  And not because LL Bean is fashionable (which it has never been), but because every piece of clothing comes with a lifetime guarantee.  So, I can return the sweater I'm wearing right now should I spill lead paint all over it.  Oh yeah, they'll take it back, no questions asked.  But, i'm getting off topic...

All this confirmation of one of my firmly held beliefs is well and good.  EXCEPT...it doesn't totally stand up when it comes to the foods I am instinctively drawn to. Specifically, this applies to that stinkiest of vegetables: the cabbage.  I can't get enough of the stuff.  Shredded raw over fish tacos, in coleslaw, braised,
sauerkraut-ed, golabki (that's stuffed cabbage to the uninitiated), and, more recently, as Kimchi.  It's all so damn good.

With a little bit of rye bread and some mashed on the side? Heaven!

There are three groups of cabbage love that all people fall into, I've found:

1. Those that enjoy it raw, mostly because it neither behaves nor smells that strongly of cabbage in this state.
   
2. Those that enjoy eating it as much as I do in both cold and hot forms, but will not, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, cook it in their own home, because it stinks up their kitchen for a good 38 hours afterwards, and the smell turns their stomach while they're trying to enjoy their morning coffee two days later.
   
3. Those that would invite other people over to cook cabbage in their kitchen, not only because they enjoy cooked cabbage dishes, but because they really look forward to how their kitchen is going to smell for the next 38 hours.

I am firmly in camp number three.  I was reminded of this fact this weekend, when, during our korean-style labor day barbeque with friends, the Velogirl opened a fresh can of kimchi.  Keep in mind, we didn't even pickle it ourselves, yet I could smell it in our upstairs bedroom within 30 seconds of the lid being popped off.  And, I was in heaven.  This, I feel, is due to generations of past McBanks', passing on their passion through millions of cumulative potato and cabbage meals both in Scotland and in Poland (on me mum's side).  Thankee ancestors, that I should instinctively adore all the delights that can be found from so noble a crop. 

Or, maybe I'm just strange.

The best part?  Not everyone at the barbeque shared my enthusiasm for kimchi, and as a result, I have about 4 cups of the stuff still in my fridge.  I had a heap of it on the side of my eggs this morning--it ruled.  Someone, please save me from myself.

Stuff I Don't NEED But Really, Really Want: Ice Cream Maker Edition

So, last night I was treated to a lovely dinner party at the home of some friends.  All pistons were firing last night.    Freeflowing, stimulating conversation?  Check.  A martini put into my hand by the host just as I walked in, before my (figurative) coat was even off?  Check.  Delicious, well thought-out and conceived dinner menu featuring some of my favorite foods?  supaCheck.

But, just when I thought the night couldn't get any better, the hosts pulled out their container of HOMEMADE ICECREAM.  It was butterscotch flavored.  Butterscotch flavored ice cream. As if not enticing enough, I was encouraged to "drizzle a little bit of whisky over it", as I guess it brings out the flavor of  butterscotched, homemade ice cream.  It was fan.  fucking. tastic.  Like a caramel-y, coffee-y, whisky-y, butter-y dream.

If I owned a smartphone (and had 45 dollars in one place), I probably would have excused myself from the table, gone to the bathroom, and ordered one for overnight delivery while I pretended to tinkle.  Then, after washing my hands to complete the illusion of a "successful" stint in the loo, I would then have sauntered back to the table, confident that I would be making my own ice cream this very evening.  But, I own no such device.  Boo.  My rash decision making would have to wait.  Curses!

In the clear light of day, I have thought over the pros and cons of owning my own ice cream maker.  And, I have come to a decision:  I really want one.  I  want to take my seat at the roundtable of those who make their own ice cream.  I want my very own ice cream "reactor" in which I can magically split butter from heavy cream, liquid from solid.

The Velogirl is wise to my scheme, and is very supportive.  She even very helpfully pointed out that a new ice cream maker could also be used to make sorbet, for a delicious and refreshing change of pace.

The more I think about it, the more I have decided that I will not want my ice cream maker bowl tainted by sorbet.  I know others will disagree with me, but sorbet, to me, is the very OPPOSITE of delicious.  Nor is it refreshing.  You know what's refreshing?  Water.  But nobody eats a bowl of ice cubes for dessert, so there.

Each time I put some sorbet onto my tongue, I secretly WISH that my saliva would magically transform the slushy peach concoction into cookies and cream, as an alchemist would turn lead into gold.  Instead, I always find m'self disappointed that I'm not eating ice cream, and have instead settled for a bowl of cold fruit juice.  But, i'm getting off topic...

I will own one of these magical devices soon.  And, lo, it will be awesome.

DC, You Are REALLY Trying my Patience! (But You're SO Cute!)

To live in our nation's capital is to embrace the art of waiting.  We as a people pretty much queue up for everything around here.  And not even for spectacular, awesome-pants stuff, like hot apple pie or a REALLY good deal on slacks.  That kind of on line waiting  is SO suburbs.

Nope, here in town waiting in line is mostly reserved for the overwhelmingly mediocre.  Which got me a-thinkin'.  What's the worst thing to wait for?

Without any more ado, here is my top 5 list.  Argue with me if you must, but know this: I didn't spend more than 5 minutes thinking about this before I started writing.  And away we go...

TOP 5 THINGS IT SUCKS TO WAIT FOR HERE IN DC:

5) Grocery Store
Sure, the grocery store near the metro stop at rush hour truly is an unholy marriage of cranky, hungry, and rude humanity that will test even the most patient of us city folk.

Then again, the grocery store almost NEVER smells like urine, so only four of your five senses are accosted.  Plus, isn't it REALLY your fault for not spending the extra 50 cents and picking up the TP at the bodega near your office when you had the chance, thus avoiding all of this?  Yeah, waiting 30 minutes in the 12 items or less line will force you to blame the victim eventually.

4) Metrobus
Then, there is the bus. I mean the fact that it is first necessary to wait on the side of the road in order to board the damn thing would be enough to put it on this list.  Here's the real reason: for all of the hassle that waiting for the bus brings, all regular Metrobus passengers really dread the actual moment their bus will arrive, for every bus in this city is a hot, crowded, garbage filled, baby-crying, ass-smelling, slow-moving caravan of sadness any hour of the day or night.

On the other hand...it also tends to run on time, and the bus drivers themselves are almost universally nice folks, from my experience.

3) Emergency Services
Yeah, the emergency rooms in the city's hospitals all have one thing in common: after only 20 minutes of waiting--hardly a long time by anyone's standards--you will seriously reconsider whether that stabbing, blinding pain in your abdomen is REALLY that bad, and whether or not taking two advil with a glass of scotch might just do the trick.

It's not just the fact that the waiting rooms are always terrible (which they are). Or that the cheap florescent lighting makes everyone in there look 400% more stabbed in the face than they were when they walked in (Which it totally does).  It's the fact that the TV programs they choose to play to this huddled mass are so depressing, they make every minute feel like three.  I know this shouldn't bother me so much, but if i'm going to hang out in the most depressing room in the District while in pain, I don't want my last TV program I watch to be an infomercial on skincare starring Neve Campbell.

2) Sandbags
Ah...kudos to the department of public works.  Even when they succeed in doing something great for the community, like say, handing out FREE sandbags to all DC residents  before a tropical storm is scheduled to hit so's their low lying real estate will not fill completely with water, they STILL manage to make the experience about as uncoordinated and clusterfucky as possible.

Picture 2 1/2 hours in a rental car, weaving back and forth through a 3 block maze of back streets, main streets, and one lane alleys until you get to the ONE sandbag distribution center they have in the entire city.  Worst case scenario? You could wait in that line only to find out they had run out of sandbags 7 hours before they were advertised to stop giving them out.  Yeah, that would be a long, long wait my friend.

1) The Dump
Ah, the "Waste Transfer Station" as it is called 'round these parts.  Normally, a smelly, fairly mundane yet necessary chore for the homeowner or contractor on the go.  Nine times out of Ten?  You're away in about 10 minutes.  Then there's that tenth instance, when YOU HAVE SOMEPLACE TO BE AFTERWARDS.  LIKE WORK.

Rest assured, if this is the case, someone from the city will purposely turn over their commercial garbage truck  and set it on fire right at the entrance, turning a 5 minute errand into an hour long outlast-a-thon.  At the dump.  Where, even in the best of times, it is necessary to go home and take a Silkwood shower afterwards, lest ye bring home a case of some flesh eating virus after stepping through what one must step through to get one's garbage out of one's vehicle and onto the concrete slab.

You know something else about hot garbage at a hot dump on a summer day?  It don't smell too good.

And yeah, this last one JUST happened to me, so I guess I'm still a little raw about it.

And...I'm Back from Hiatus! (It's due south of Akron donchaknow)

Greetings!

If you're reading this, it can only mean one of two things:
1) You googled "Hiatus" as part of a scrabble challenge, and accidentally clicked on this link (WELCOME!  And, yeah, it's 9 points, plus loss of turn for the unsuccessful challenge.  Sorry.)
2) You are a member of my family.

In either case, you may have noticed it's been about 6 months since my last post.  Well, I could try to blow some smoke your way and tell you the gap is due to some sort of non-laziness related factor, but seein' how wer're family and all...you know me way better than that.  I am prone to laziness bordering on apathy, especially when it comes to putting 250 words together into a semi-coherent, mildly amusing order.

Plus, you know...I was getting a little too comfy with all this social media, and I kind of prefer to be the douchebag sitting next to you at the bar who, after a few cans of Stroh's, turns to you all unsolicited like and lectures you about the evils of facebook or twitter, and how "I'm not active on either because I feel it is killing the art of conversation and correspondence letter writing."  Or not.

So, as this is my first post in a while, I thought I would get you all caught up on what's happening, before I get back to making fun of complete strangers tomorrow.

THINGS THAT HAVE HAPPENED (TO ME) SINCE THE LAST TIME I POSTED: 


In no particular order:

• An Earthquake hit TIACAICTG studios, putting a crack in the plaster and forcing the Wonderdog and I into a door jamb, all confused like.
  
• A hurricane hit TIACAICTG studios, forcing the Velogirl and I to wait in line 2 1/2 hours for DC sanctioned sandbags so's our basement wouldn't flood. (they were successful).
  
• The Red Sox won 82 games of baseball, and look good to win at least another 15 this year.
  
• I FINALLY sat down and learned how to play the first solo from "La Villa Strangiato" with the help of internet tabs and alot of coffee.  That was on the "guitar parts I need to learn before I die" list since I was 15.
  
• I read 4 books. 
• My parents moved 300 miles closer to me, which is something they should have done 10 years ago.
• I signed up to ride my bicycle 100+ miles one day in September, which has me alternately excited and filled with terror, as I have kind of told everyone I know about it, and if I don't finish, I will have to lie to their faces and tell them it was awesome and they should try it sometime.  
• LOTS of house projects.  Lots.  

More on all of this tomorrow.  Well, not all of this list, obviously.  But you know what I mean.

The Weekend Update

I would like to begin this week with an open letter to Cameron Diaz:

Dear Ms. Diaz,

Speaking on behalf of every person in America, or at least of the 80% of us who have TV's and watch the Super Bowl,  let me just say: eww!  You know what you did.  You fed A-Rod.  In public.  On camera.  In HD, in my case.  Maybe you're thinking it wasn't as creepy as everyone whom had the misfortune to witness it believed it was.   Well...you are wrong.  Very, very wrong.  Witness:


My biggest concern?  That you would feed ANYONE in public, like some sort of mama bird putting a worm into the gullet of a newborn.  This concern is followed closely a secondary repulsion: i.e. that you would feed an adult in public, especially one who actually appears to have a free hand in which to reach for the popcorn.   

The third, and perhaps most puzzling moment, is that the adult you are choosing to feed is A-Rod.  To bastardize a line from "Tin Cup", it is an established fact that he hates old people, children, and dogs.


You seem to be a bright, talented individual.  I'm not sure why you're spending free time with A-Rod, but it is only a matter of time before any of his sociopathic tendencies come to the surface, and you are forced to run for your life.  I pray this happens before he gives you a scarf he has knitted for you, one made from your own hair that he has fished out of the trap in the shower over several months.


Sincerely,
Planet Earth (c/o this blog)

ON A MUCH BETTER. NOTE..how about Newcastle Football Club!  Down 4-0 at halftime to a much more talented Arsenal team, the lads were able to fight back for a draw, and might have even nipped the full three points had Nolan been able to hit the target in injury time.  4-4, and one of the most exciting games I have ever watched.  Hair on my neck is standing right now thinking about it.  And no, I haven't stopped smiling yet.

This kind of fightback was wholly unexpected from NUFC.  Especially after the week they've had: 1)selling their only decent striker to Liverpool for a mint, 2) Having their remaining mediocre striker (Shola...poor Shola) have his cheek broken midweek in a loss to Fulham.  And, to do it against Arsenal?   And to be able to take 4 points out of 6 from the Gunners this year?  Yeah, you could say it really kicked off my weekend on the right note.  Newcastle are now the first team in premier league history to climb back from 4 goals down.  Howray the Lads!

Welcome to Crackpot Theory Week!

Brains are spongy, fickle, easily distracted objects, especially when given too much caffeine.  Which, as luck would have I have been doing consistently to my brain since Friday last.  So, I thought I would dedicate this week to a few observations I have made while riding the black dragon.  Without ado, here's your Monday fix:

Crackpot Theory Number One: 50% of all people carrying around yoga mats are NOT actually enrolled in any yoga class, and are in fact only doing it to rub their alleged fitness level in my face.

Let me get this out of the way right at the top: I think yoga is probably the most perfect way to exercise.  I mean, you combine flexibility, muscle building, endurance and spirituality all into one package.  And, to plagiarize a line from "Pride and Prejudice": if I had ever learnt, I would no doubt have been a great proficient.

Clearly others share my admiration of this discipline.  Witness: there are, in my neighborhood, four different places for all the would-be yogi's to get their stretch on.  In theory, this would explain why, at any time of day or night, one out of every six people I pass on the street are carrying their own yoga mats.  However, I have NEVER seen anyone actually walking in/out of any of the studios. 

Weird, right?  You would think, as TIACAICTG studios is smack dab in the 'hood, and am out on patrol with the Wonderdog twice a day, I would have witnessed either:
a) A crush of people entering a yoga studio, in advance of a class getting ready to start
b) A stream of people leaving the yoga studio after a program has ended

I'm not suggesting that these yoga studios (studia?) do not offer classes and are in fact, fronts for the mob.  Rather, I'm asserting that a good percentage of these folks that are carrying around yoga mats are full of shit.  Big difference.

For instance, people who have recently worked out do not usually make a bee line for their local watering hole.  Yet I see an inordinate amount of folks hanging out in bars with yoga mats strapped to their backs. (draw your own conclusions as to why I'm in there, although I'll give you a hint: chicken wings.)  Huh?  Usually, working out is followed by showering and a change of clothes before nightlife begins, ex. just like that Michelob Ultra Commercial featuring that cheating cheater Lance Armstrong.   It is, almost universally, NOT followed by pouring PBR down your gullet while still wearing your sweaty workout gear.  CONCLUSION: 100% of people carrying yoga mats into bars are not whom they claim to be, and may actually be aliens.

The worst offenders are to be found at the local coffee shop. Here, they try to camouflage themselves among actual yoga practitioners, whom, i found, enjoy coffee  after a good stretch.  You can always spot these fakers by the type of drinks they order.  Breve?  Venti anything?  These people are, to be sure, full of crap.  However, if you see mat carrying folks drinking reasonable sized beverages or chocolate milk, there's a very good chance that they are coming down from a yoga workout.  CONCLUSION: About 25% of yoga mat carrying folks are full of poo, and are only trying to fit in with the flexible few.


I'm not really sure why these folks bother me so much.  Maybe it's because I would love to try the yoga and incorporate it into my wellness program.  But, I don't go around carrying around a mat to get myself psyched up for the possibility that I would someday, maybe WANT to attend a class.  It's like slapping a "26.2" sticker on your volvo, when you can't take a lap without collapsing in a heap.  IMPOSTORS! 


I did mention the crackpot theme to all of this, right?

Thursday CIty Life: Why Can't I Speak Spanish? Edition

When I was a wee lad, no more than 3or 4, I learned my first Spanish word: Agua.  I learned it from this Sesame Street segment:


Judging by the comments on youtube, this little 26 second blip inspired a nation of pre-K kids to crawl through living rooms like a man dying of thirst, or disgusted by his dirty hands.  I was one of those guys.

The point being, I had a leg up on the language.  Of course, when it came time in school to learn a language, all they offered me was French. (dry cough).  Don't get me wrong: I love French.  It is a beautiful language.  Many times, when I hear people speaking it, I can pick out phrases and just generally follow what is going on.  I can even speak it a little (drier cough). 

Here's my only problem with French: it isn't Spanish. I tried to remedy this situation in college, when I was introduced to the world of...Destinos.


It's basically a soap opera that teaches you Spanish while following Racquel Rodriquez in her search for a long lost person.  Racquel es una abogada, don't ya know.  Yeah, i'm not sure why it didn't exactly grab me either. (driest cough).

Long story short: I feel cheated.  Here in the District, I live in an area with a large latino community.  Being able to speak Spanish would, almost immediately, make me feel more a part of my neighborhood. Parlez-vous-ing the francais doesn't really get me anywhere fast. Or allow me to understand what the nice lady at Taqueria D.F. is saying on the phone.  Or allow me to translate what "el feo gringo" means, instead of smiling meekly and then, much later at home with the google thesaurus, figuring out what was actually said.  Damnit.  Although, that gringo was pretty fugly.  Silly ugly gringos.

So, my resolution is to remedy this situation as quickly as possible.  Rosetta Stone, here I come.  The good lord willing, this time next year I will be able to at least speak Spanish as well as John Wayne did in "Rio Bravo".  I think that means "Brave River".  Maybe I'll just start with all the words that have to do with agua and move forward from there, given my confidence that I will never not understand that word.  Maybe start with the word for rain, move onto beverages, then branch out with things that mix with agua, things that don't mix with agua....etc.

Stay tuned for my first Spanish blog post, summer of 2014.

All in on Reverb: Who's With Me?

It all started when I was 16   I had  just bought my first "REAL" amplifier, a $200,1975 Fender Bandmaster(aside: it came with a speaker cabinet the size of a Skylark.  What was I thinking?).  The best part of this monstrosity was the fact that it had, inside of it, a real spring reverb unit.  I don't think I can explain how cool I thought this was.  I would sit in my room, plug into my brand new wall of sound, turn the three reverb knobs up all the way, and just strum chords for hours at a time and just giggle.  To this day, whenever I hear a guitar with an ungodly amount of reverb (think Dick Dale, or, really any surf rock), I am immediately made happy.

Which is why the early returns on 2011 music holds so much promise for me.  It seems that many of the bands out there (or at least, the one percent I am drawn to) have picked up the reverb/echo mantle, loaded up the boat, and are sailing for awesome, empty room sounding shores.  Need proof?  Here's the duo Tennis doing a new song called "Marathon" (CLICK TO LISTEN)

Did I mention I think it's even cooler when singers put that reverb/echo pedal in front of their voice?  I probably should have.  This is the first 2011 song that I have officially wished I could have played guitar on.  It is SO much fun to strum that part, I bet.  And try to get that song out of your head.  Tennis  is all in on reverb. Here's them playing another song live: Long Boat Pass (CLICK TO LISTEN). 

Aye Aye Captain!

Another pro-reverb group is the band Women out of Calgary, AB.  My word. Just give a quick listen to their song Bullfight to hear what I'm talking about: (CLICK TO LISTEN)

That is ALMOST too much reverb on the guitar part, even for me.  Oh, who am I kidding?  LOVE! 

The best part?  I could throw tracks up here all day with a similar vibe, all released within the last 6 months.  You can't hear it through my fingers as I type this, but I am giggling with excitement.

Friday City Life: Proper Taco Edition

If you want to hear pure food specific poetry, ask someone living in the DC area where the best place to get "authentic" Mexican/Latin American/TexMex food is to be found.   Chances are, you will get a 10 minute, impassioned response, detailing not only where the place is located (in a whisper), but also a treatise about the ambiance and some of that person's favorite dishes on the menu, as well as a word on what they always see the "locals" eat yet are too timid to try.  Even people who are "out" on "food", most likely have a favorite non-Chipotle place to eat tacos.

You could also say that I am the wrong person to fully appreciate this city-wide obsession.  My first foray into South-of-the-Border cuisine was from a Taco Bell in the Crystal Mall food court when I was around 13 years old.  Two soft tacos, side of pintos and cheese.  And, it was SO delicious. And, I was hooked. It beat the hell out of what was at that time, my usual balanced mall lunch that consisted of a sleeve of boardwalk fries and a large mountain dew.  Don't judge--you know french fries sound good to you right right now.  Moving on...

The point being, at any point in my life, my favorite place to eat tacos has always had the happy coincidence of being the joint that is closest to where I live.  Take my current favorite place, Taqueria D.F.  Is it the best taqueria in DC, or even the neighborhood?  Probably not.  But, I can sprint up there on a moment's whim and then waddle my way home, full of about 8 tacos Al Pastor and a 20 oz. of Mexican coke (made with sugar, not with corn syrup, so it doesn't feel like your teeth are wearing sugar sweaters after you drink one). 

I know there are some foody folk types that may dismiss this place as simply average, judging by the yelp reviews. Or not authentic enough because it has a website in English.  Or because you eat in an actual dining room instead of someones apartment.   Or maybe I'm just projecting my own inadequacies at not being able to tell a really good taco from a great one.  I do that alot...sigh...What was I talking about?

Oh yeah...the point being, either I'm under-thinking the art of the taco, or the rest of DC is over-thinking it.  Either way, aren't tacos awesome?

Have a great weekend!

Build DC United a Stadium This Year, Please and Thank You

Yes, I know I talk an awful lot about Newcastle United.  And they are my lads, make no mistake about it. However, NUFC selfishly takes a break during the summer months--apparently 10 months of soccer requires an 8 week break.  I guess I understand.  But what is the soccer lover, who has grown accustomed to watching games each Saturday to do?

The solution, I've found, is by supporting the local MLS team, DC United.  Oh, I know--the "football" is not on par with any of the major European leagues, and even some of the minor ones.  But, the talent in the league is quite good, the league very watchable and enjoyable, and I would argue with any Euro-soccer snob who would try to tell me otherwise.  Especially as many of these folks have never condescended to actually watch an entire match, and are just spouting anti-MLS sentiment because that's what the cool kids do.  Moving on...

The thing that most annoys me about being a DC United fan is the lack of a soccer specific stadium.  Instead, the team plays in an old crumbling concrete mausoleum called RFK Stadium.  The stadium has a capacity of 46,000, which means, on any given Saturday, the stadium is no more than 35% full. (DC United averaged about 15,000 for each match last year).  Clearly, playing in a stadium which, if placed in England, would make it the 7th largest football stadium in the entire country, is dumb, both from a financial and atmosphere perspective.

I am not the only person that has noticed this.  Hence, every year, someone writes a story about how DC United has a plan for relocating.  First, in 2006-2007 it was to build a new stadium in a place in SE DC called Poplar Point.  And the team showed us pictures like this:

 

And this:

 

And This:

And, that all came to nothing.  Then, last year, there was the debacle with trying to move the team to suburban Maryland.  Long story short: Maryland voters politely said, "no, thank you." 

Now, here in 2011, there is more talk about a possible DC United Stadium in one of two different areas of the District.  Sounds good, except that there is also considerable skepticism that the team will be willing to put up enough resources to make either site a reality.

Personally, here's my take: "zzzzzzzzz".  I am tired of hearing about possible sites, and possible stadium designs.  Wake me up when someone, somewhere has made a decision and is breaking out the shovels.

Stress Ballet and Hatchet Jobs: A Tuesday Movie Review

I wouldn't exactly characterize m'self as a regular movie goer.  In fact, I probably saw, in the theater, less than 7 movies in all of 2010.  I am not sure why this is, as I mostly enjoy the experience.  I like smelling like buttered popcorn when I get home.  I like watching other people's reactions to the movie.  And, yes, I like sitting in the dark with the Velogirl. 

However, here in 2011, I am on pace to shatter the 30 movie mark. I have already seen TWO movies.  TWO!  I know--it's a little like awarding the batting title to the guy hitting .400 in April (still a long way to go, cowboy).  But, you have to admit, I'm on a roll. 

The first movie I saw was Black Swan.  Saw it at my favorite theater in DC.  It's one of those places with the gourmet snackbar, a place where you can get anything from a cup of coffee to a bar of Toblerone.  Which also happens to be the snack combo I opted for. Imagine that. The Velogirl shares my love of this theater, as they offer Italian soda for to wash popcorn down with. She doesn't like italian soda.  She LOVES it!

So, premium snacks in hand, we sat down to watch the movie.  For those of you who have not seen Black Swan, the plot revolves around a ballerina (played by Natalie Portman) who kind of, slowly but surely, loses her shit.  Watching this movie is like sitting in a quiet room with a really, REALLY nervous person for two hours, and just watching them get even more uptight and nervous the whole time, all while they pick at a scab on their hand intermittently.

My reaction?  I kind of just sat there with sweaty palms, looking for ANY excuse to nervously laugh at any moment that was remotely ironic/funny.  And, I hardly touched my chocolate--that's how nervous this movie made me.

Takeaways:

• Natalie Portman obviously made that new movie with Ashton Kutcher as a deal with the studio so that she could get this project funded.  She will no doubt run away with the Best Actress oscar for her performance in Black Swan.  Just amazing.
• Darren Aronofsky is twisted.  Truly, deeply, importantly twisted.  And I will make a point to see his movies from now on. 

So, yeah, I recommend it highly.

The second movie was The Social Network.  Saw it at this wee theater with a wee screen in the basement of a Foggy Bottom office building.  Not the place to see a Harry Potter film, but adequate for this flick.

Quick sum-up of plot, you ask? It's the story of Mark Zuckerberg (played by Jesse Eisenberg) and the necks he stepped on while founding Facebook.  To be honest, I didn't think I would enjoy this movie as much as I did.  I liked the way the story was told, I thought the pacing of the movie was excellent, and, most of all, I really ENJOYED hating the pants off of Mark Zuckerberg, who comes off as a total backstabbing, mal-adjusted prick genius.  This movie made me feel proud, at least for a few fleeting minutes after it had ended, for not being on Facebook.

Of course, that's also the downside of this movie.  It felt like a total character assassination.  There is very little here to redeem Mr. Zuckerberg, no tender moment, no real connection with anyone.  Really?  I find this hard to believe.  I'm not asking for "Springtime with Hitler", but there had to be some moments where the guy didn't behave like a total douche and dick over all his friends, right? This movie felt like it was written by someone with an ax and a sword and a mace to grind.  I mean, even that movie detailing how Bill Gates stole Windows from Steve Jobs had more nuance, and those are two guys on the Mount Rushmore of prick geniuses.


I recommend seeing it, but maybe taking it with a grain of salt.

Why Baseball HOF Voters are Dumb and Shortsighted

If you'll permit me, I would like to start off this post with one of my favorite hack-tastic jokes:

Q: What's the difference between a baseball writer and God?

A: God doesn't think he's a baseball writer.

I am reminded of this each year when the voting for the Baseball Hall of Fame occurs.  The class this year, for those of you who maybe don't follow baseball 12 months of the year because you have actual lives to lead, is just two folks: Burt Blyleven and Roberto Alomar.  I have no problem with either getting in.  Burt Blyleven had a great curveball, and Roberto Alomar was one of the top 5 second baseman ever to play the game (much better than that smarmy Joe Morgan--I don't know why I feel the need to say that--I just do).  So far, so good, right?

My little niggle? I mean, I kinda feel like Jack Morris should definitely punch his ticket now that Blyleven is in, just because he was a much better big game pitcher than old Burt.  And he could be DOMINANT.  Burt was many things: but dominant was not one of them.  I know that Jack Morris gets hurt for his relatively high career ERA (3.90), but haven't the "sabermetric" stat geeks proven that ERA doesn't tell the whole story?  You know, since defense has plenty to do with that stat, and try as they might, pitchers can't play third base. Add to that the fact he was an ACE for three different World Series winning teams, and I'm not sure what the holdup is.

(The man himself, in action.  Probably striking out Jody Reed for the 11th time)

Another thing--Ron Santo belongs in the Hall of Fame.  I can't go into it any further than that, or else I risk writing a 300 page diatribe on what is wrong with America. 

And here's where it goes off the tracks.  The Baseball Writers of America have apparently decided that they are going to not vote in two of the greatest players of the steroid era because they used, well,  steroids.  I'm talking about Mark McGuire and Rafael Palmeiro.  I am SO TIRED of this debate.  The 90's and early aughts were full of guys doing steroids, many of whom (Roger Clemens, Manny Ramirez, Barry Bonds) are stone cold locks to get to Cooperstown.  So why single out these two guys?  You can't put the toothpaste back in the tube, although these sanctimonious writers will certainly try.  And each year they do so, the class that is voted in will be overshadowed by the class they chose to leave off their ballots.

I'm not happy guys were using steroids.  And MLB should have put a stop to this nonsense in the mid-90's.  But, they didn't.  And those years really happened.  And there are great players from that era that had careers good enough to be enshrined.  So stop whining and just deal, already.

From a purely baseball standpoint, I'm glad the game has stepped back from waiting for the three run homer, and put more of an emphasis on solid pitching and the art of stretching singles into doubles.  The game seems purer somehow.

Happy New Year! And, oh yeah, happy Monday...

Happy 2011 Y'all!  It's the first Monday in 2011, which, like all the other "First Monday's of the Year" that have occurred since time immemorial, means  it's time for one of three things:

• It's time to think about taking down the plastic reindeer display you installed on your roof in an attempt to win your block's "most tacky xmas house decoration" contest.  (You finished second to that guy with the live nativity scene for the third year in a row.)
• It's time to go to the gym for the first time since, well, for the first time this year.  That's a nice way to say it, no?
• It's time to set a tone for the upcoming 12 months.

I don't believe in New Year's resolutions.  They are usually made in either the throes of white sugar withdrawal, or during a relapse.  In either case, the person making the list can't really be held responsible for putting things like "lose 124 pounds" or "learn to speak latin" on their to-do lists.  They always end up a bit...i dunno...over ambitious?  Besides, trying to plan a year in advance in minute target goal details is stupid.

Now, that don't mean I am anti-reflection.  I just believe this is a time for generalities, not 54 point plans.  To that end, I am keen on putting my mind in a positive place for as much of 2011 as I possibly can.

This is a complete reaction to the previous 12 months.  2010 felt, on the whole, like a big pile lot negative to me.  There was alot of the usual politics of finger pointing, not to mention all the celebrity breakups (Courtney Cox no longer with that goofy Arquette guy is enough to shake anyone's belief in the good), environmental disasters, the Bruins losing four straight to the Flyers in the playoffs...the list goes on.  And that's before I even mention the toilet of a global economy we are living with right now.  U to the G to the H.  Am I wrong?

My response?  Positivity 2011.  Which, I hope, will lead to positive actions on my part, which will, hopefully begin a wee ripple effect of positivity for the people I come in contact with.  Pretty straightforward really.

My first step in this new, positive me is kind of random: I will no longer look at pictures of ruin porn.  What's ruin porn, you ask?  It's when people take pictures of abandoned, once-grand-but-now-dilapidated buildings in an attempt to highlight the beautiful decay of American cities.  City most often depicted?  Detroit.  The latest folks to do this are a couple of French photographers named Yves Marchand & Romain Meffre.  They've written a book called "The Ruins of Detroit."  If you're interested, you can see some of the pictures here.

I for one, would like to say, ENOUGH.  There is nothing more terribly negative than showing abandoned buildings in a city that, you know, is actually STILL THERE and is currently inhabited by almost A MILLION people.  It's like the people who post deadly NASCAR crashes on YouTube--it kind of feels like they are focusing on the afterbirth, and not the infant.

Plus, having spent some time in Detroit over the last 11 years (the Velogirl hails from there), I get prickly when people start circling that city like vultures, hoping to get the last  picture of a once grand structure before it is demolished for good.  Make no mistake: most of these people are not documenting this decay because they care about what happens to the buildings.  Nope, instead they drive into town, take the 1 zillionth picture of the old Detroit train station so that they can post it on their arty blog and demonstrate how daring they were to actually, you know, go to Detroit.

So, I'm done with all that noise.  And I hope those two french photographers sell lots of books and, in an unrelated incident, eat too much brie and get bad gas.  I didn't say thinking positively would be easy.

On a completely related note--here's a link to part one of the Johnny Knoxville documentary on Detroit, in which he tries to focus on the people living in the city.  Seems to be a nice alternative to looking at a pile of crumbling inanimate objects.