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How To Get Out of Iraq

Well I have an idea for this. First thing we do is, put it to the men and women are serving over there. If they want to stay, as some of them do, let them. If they want to go home, as some of them do, let them. AS I understand it, some of them do and some don't. Let them decide as it is their lives they are risking.

Second phase is:

Take those remaining troops and (1) Secure the Northern, Kurdish area as it appears that they are our only real allies and we have fucked them over once already, and (2) Secure the area around the Baghdad Airport. Then set up a 10-mile wide (or however wide it needs to be) kill zone from the airport to Kuwait in which if a person enters, they will be killed. Make this public knowledge. We cordon off the area with barbed wire, and station several high-resolution satellites over this strip. Anyone enters: dead. Thus no surface-to-air missiles can be fired at any incoming flight traffic. Much like the Berlin Airlift, this would enable us to send troops/supplies and also enable us to help out any friendly Iraqi forces that need it.

Finally, establish a large airbase in the north and one in Kuwait. All air strikes can be called in from there.

Done.

Links

No time to post today as I have actual work 2 Du, but, some killer pics and video of Wing Bowl here and here. L8r.

Tennis for Tampons

So I worked for a while at one of the Philadelphia-area “Cricket Clubs.” I won’t say which one so as to prevent any slander/libel lawsuits that may or may not come my way. However, I will say it is located in the northwestern section of the city proper, so, figure it out on your own. And as a few of them work with me now, I would like to avoid any blanket, sweeping statements; however, this is what it is, and that is:

If you are a member of one of these clubs you are a disgusting pile of dog shit, less worthy, in my opinion, of the entitlements you take for granted and which you condemn others so easily for taking advantage. I know, that was a wordy sentence. Let me break it down for you, dumbasses: Just because mommy and daddy paid your way through everything, including this club, does not give you the right to look down your nose at the below-average person on collecting food stamps. In fact less; further: at least those people have poverty or a lack of education to explain their aberrant, anti-social behavior. What are your excuses?

Let me explain: take a walk sometime at midnight through the men’s locker room, and here is what you will see: towels littered everywhere, despite the fact there is a bin for used towels. Un-flushed toilets. Used condoms. Empty bottles and plastic cups. And if you think it is any different in the “ladies” locker room, let me tell you: no, it is far worse. Won’t even go there.

And that’s just the start. Check out the patio on a Sunday about 11p.m. after a warm June day/evening: trash, trash, and even more trash, like none of these people have ever even heard of a wastebasket. Literally, squirrels would come to eat the lemon and orange and lime rinds. So I suppose in that way they were “recycling” although I‘m sure that none of them ever considered this as such. I swear, if it were socially acceptable, these people would just wear gigantic diapers, shit and piss themselves silly, and then hire a nanny to do the wiping and changing. Thank god it isn’t.

Then there was the “deal” we (the "regulars" and I, as if there was anything "regular" about them) worked out. That is, I’d pretend to like them and “buy” them drinks. Then after they had signed their cheque (they never paid on the spot, just a bill at the end of the month) I’d add all the drinks they had on to it. Dumbasses. Why is my bill so high? Duh, you’re an alcoholic and you drink too much. An entire fifth of Canadian Club is way too much for anyone, and I don’t care how much Diet Pepsi you mix it with, it still has a lot of calories in it. Why am getting so fat? See the above. Oh and how come I’m not buying you any drinks? Ever hear of a gratuity? No? I’m not surprised. Yes, the $8 an hour I’m making is real swell, Mr. Wilson, but barely enough for rent gas money for my hither and thither to school every day.

And that was just the squash players. The tennis people were far worse. More than once I had to tell a group of thirty or more of them that, you see, I am by myself, and there are thirty of you. Queue up; get in line, one at a time. There’s an old joke: Black guy finds a magic lamp, he rubs it, a genie comes out and says’ “I grant you three wishes.” So, first the guy says, “I want a million dollars.” Poof, a cool mil appears. Next, “I want a trick-ass ho that looks like Janet Jackson.” Poof, JJ clone appears. Finally, I want to be white, uptight, and outta sight. Poof: Genie turns him into a tampon.

So one day, my buddy Gerry the waiter and I are working a banquet upstairs, and we are looking out of the balcony windows, watching the tennis players, dressed in their horrible, atrocious white-fasion-fuax-pas tennis outfits, making their horrible, atrocious attempts at tennis, and I’m snapping pictures ‘cause in a weird way it was a nice scene, and I tell him: Gerry they’re tampons: white, uptight, outta sight, and sucking the blood out of me. Totally cracked us both up, yah good one! There really is no more of a fitting metaphor than that.

Now I’m going to subcategorize for a minute: most of these people had some degree of money, I’d guess a personal income of $75,000 per individual per year and above. These were the neuveu riche. Then there were the real old-money ones, the genuinely rich, the ones who worked as a hobby. Neuveu riche: asshole lawyers, doctors, brokers, the worst of the worst no matter what ball they chased around what court.

Genuine millionaires: nicest people you could ever meet. Took time to read. Books, magazines, newspapers, anything with some kind of depth or information. Didn’t look down their snouts. Took time to learn your name. Actually gave you an envelope at Christmas without ever asking for anything gratis.

So to those very few of you there were there at that time and place: Thanks.

Neuveu riche: generally would say things like “Well I’ll do what I want, this is my club.” I heard that so many times, I eventually read the Club Member’s Handbook or whatever and read all of the by-laws.

Turns out, it is not “their” club at all: they are simply dues-paying members of an established institution, entitled to the rights and responsibilities their monthly dues purchase thereof, but no more than that. The old money, which goes for the perpetuation of the club, is entrusted in a bank someplace, thereby guaranteeing the club’s existence in perpetuity, and has been entrusted there since the establishment of the club.

So, after I read that, the next time I heard the phrase “My club,” I had had that subparagraph memorized, and repeated it.

I love out-lawyering a lawyer, especially a snotty, tennis-playing one.

Wing Bowl XV: Part V: The End

Well, it is 2:53 a.m., morning of Wing Bowl, morning of the big dance. Slept for a bit after work, got up at midnight. Watched Jimmy Kimmel, then Oprah. I like Oprah even though she sucks most of the time. Man-hater. Anyway, the plan is already awry: I was supposed to meet everyone for drinks at 700 at midnight-ish, but when I called Meats, no answer. He called back about an hour ago, gonna meet Meats at 4:00 a.m. at The Congregation a.k.a. The Church. Whatever, go with the flow. 'Til then, listening to Howard Stern replay. Will update later today. Be good.

OK, I'm back to some reasonable degree of sanity.

So we started at the Congregation, this old church in Fishtown where George, Woddy & Ang and Meats live. Pretty cool spot, first time I've checked out either George's or Woody's pad, both exceptionally nice spaces, really, well thought out and well-lived in. Chilled out and cocktailed for a bit, met Pete, good dude, one of us for sure. Then we cabbed it to Pete's bro Nips place (yes, his name is John, but everyone calls him Nips. As a fan and a receiver of many a quality nickname, I was on board immediately), so six dudes in a cab, seven really, including Mr. Cabdriver, whatever, it's all good.

Cabbie let us out in front of McFadden's at the Ballpark as the cops shut us down from getting any closer. It was surreal: about 40 degrees, quite warm comparatively, but somehow snowing big beautiful flakes. Anyway, we split up at the northeast entrance to the Wach, as Meats and I had floor passes from the Slack's event which needed redeeming at the will-call window.

Eventually we figured out where to go, with the help of the wiil-call lady, and went inside: Surprise VIP passes! Dope! I've never actually been a VIP at anything before, unless you include life in general, and from my own perspective at that.

Not that it really meant anything. I mean, I figured an open bar or some kind of special treatment, but really what it meant was: Welcome to the floor of the Wachovia Center, where bad hockey and basketball has frequently been played, at least by our homers. Whatever, someday maybe we'll get a Cup or an NBA Championship or something besides a Wings trophy, and then it will mean something. But I'm not complaining, well, yes I am: first of all, poor execution from whoever designed this event. You could only enter from the penalty box (actually, that was pretty cool, being in the penalty box, more later on that though) on the one side and exit the floor from a location approximately on the other side of the rink. Both of these locations were maybe 20 feet from the stage. So, naturally, a bottleneck (the first of which I'll gripe about) developed. So to get in or out was an exercise in elbow tossing, with the obligitory "Pardon me, 'scuse me's," tossed in for politeness sakes. Had this whole affair taken place at the Spectrum, I may have actually lifted the plyboard and kissed the ice, gladly sacrificing flesh for fulfilled fantasy. However, this is not the case. So I didn't.

Other than those gripes, the inside track was kind of cool: got to see most of the first twenty or so parade members up close and personal. Plus every time a chick took her top off in the stands, it was a matter of: track down the cheer, look for pointed arms/fingers, bingo!: titties! How much fun! I mean really, it is Mardi Gras set indoors for six hours. The last bastion of political incorrectness in Philadelphia, thank god. God save 610 and Wing Bowl.

But, problem was, there was so much going on everywhere else, it meant a lot of neck-craning, and I've had a stiff neck for a few weeks. And plus there was the, every-time-I-need-to-pee-or-catch-a-smoke-I-have-to-fight-these-people thing. So I stuck around in the pit long enough to, as he passed by in his Vince Papale #83 jersey, give my regards to Frank DeFraud, at least with a very close "Eat Frank Eat!" shout and some eye contact (by the way, he had cleaned up for the event: good look, man). Plus I met a few of his South Philly bu,ds which was good enough already. Good guys.

Gripe #2: At some point, I left the floor to go to the bathroom, and was forced to to return through the penalty box, and wait in said box while the first parade party passed. And let me tell you: I'm not sure who, but someone really smelled. Of shit. And it was not me. I think it was the usher. Anyway, I'm not sure if that's why they call it the "penalty box," or whatever, all I know is: I've done my time. Get in the box!!!

So I guess after that I went to smoke, and here is gripe #3, and my final gripe:

Why is it that at every bottleneck, you stupid people have to congregate? I mean, the outside smoking area is about 400 square feet, yet everyone hangs out by the doors leading to it.

Look: it was not that cold or windy outside, and besides, we were all pretty cocktailed at that point, and shouldn't need shelter from a few flakes, which of there were none, actually. Seriously: move along, dopes, less congestion at doorways prevents such tragedies as what happened in Connecticut at that Great White show.

Whatever: In my mind, natural selection.

So next I guess was, finally, they opened the bar at 7 a.m. Meats and I got a few more drinks, two vodka and tonics each with a whiskey chaser for myself. But by then, the actual wing-eating contest had begun, and as we watched on high-def a man projectile vomited a la Lina Blair. Turned out it was a replay from last year: still good shit.

At this point Meats and I decided to meet up with the rest of our gang upstairs, section 214 or whatever, close enough to the stage. It went like this:

First round was all-involved: Eat like the madmen you are for 15 minutes, see what shakes out, next round, they take the top 10 of Round 1 and enter them into Round 2. Unfortunately, Frank DeFraud did not make it past Round 1, bummer. I was going to go down to the pit to chat with him, but, frankly, I was too inebriated at this point to navigate the steep incline of the stairs at the Wach without help, thusly deciding against it.

In the meantime: Titties!

Round Two was 5 minutes, more shaking the tree.

After Round 2: something I don't understand: a lady getting tossed out for exposing breast meat. I mean, I understand at a 76ers game, or even the Flyers, but here? Then? What's the point? Whatever. Way beyond my comprehension or control.

So last round, the speed round, was essentially between three IFOC pros and two locals. Let me tell you something: Joey goddamn Chestnut can eat some wings. A combination of skill, heart, and technique. He was ripping flesh like nothing I've ever seen. Really. Very impressive. And he won. A diamond ring from Steven Singer and a Suzuki Grand Vitara. Well done, my man, well done. Good work. Wing on, man, wing on.

But:

Best was: El Wingador, pissed about these outsiders "winning our championship," announced his official un-retirement!!!! Go Bill! Go you motherfucker!!!! Get 'em, get those bitches!!!! Bring 'em down to Chinatown!!!! I'm there with you in both heart and spirit.

So I guess by and by we drifted out about a half hour later. We went back to the Congregation for some post-Wing Bowl come-downs. Somehow, Meats turned on NPR, who, surprise surprise, were talking Wing Bowl! Must be pledge/sweeps week.

Anyway, I stayed for a bit, but had to meet my Pops for a junk engagement. But I listened to stupid Terry Gross on the way home. Finally, getting pissed enough at her condescending attitude towards food eating competitions, I had to call in. I don't think I got my point across, but what I meant to say was, not in so many words, but, here we go, for the record:

Fuck you: Terry Gross, and your pals at the Philadelphia Weekly and the Philadelphia City Paper. I am in fact as smart if not smarter than you. And you know what? I like Wing Bowl. You stupid pseudointellectuals don't get it. Know what? I don't care. As someone told me at Wing Bowl about your attitude, in fact:

"Let 'em stick the're fois gras and truffels where the sun don't shine. Fuck them. We're blue-collar. They don't know us. They don't know Philly."

Amen.

As for me:

Next year: I don't care how I get in. But I will have: Wingettes. A float. And a chance. I god-damn-guarantee it.

Peace Y'all.

Smarty Bones: Out!

Sirius Satellite Radio

The guys at 610 are gonna kill me for this, well, not kill, but you know what I mean, anyway, this one is about Sirius Radio, great shit it is. And anyway I still listen to 610 a lot too.

Anyway in the interest of full disclosure of conflict of interest, I must mention am both a subscriber and a shareholder. Granted, only 75 shares, (well, at one point 100, but after ditching it December 30 in order to take advantage of the tax break on capitol losses, I re-bought it before the February 1 time frame which would have made my transaction legal, when they announced they had finally gone into the black and turned a profit for the last quarter of 2006. Dammit. Live and learn I guess) but a shareholder nonetheless.

Let me tell you why it rocks: because, simply, it rocks. I mean, this morning, I was listening to Howard Stern, and planned on continuing listening to him as I drove to work. My model, the Starmate, has this feature which allows you to program in up to 30 artists, so when an artist you like comes on, it will beep, and you can tune to that station. So I get in the car, plug in the radio, turn it on, and it beeps, Velvet Underground, “Sister Ray.” Now I haven’t heard that horrible beautiful noise in some time, and it was just the thing to cut through my morning fog, so I listen for a bit, get lost driving for a bit, then it beeps again, Dinosaur Jr’s version of “Just Like Heaven.” Then “Heart of Gold.” Then “Bohemian Rhapsody,” followed by “More than a Feeling.” I actually parked and sat in the car for a few minutes to listen to the sound of Maryanne walkin’ awaaaaaaaaaaaaay…, a trick I learned from my pop.

Oh yeah, did I mention, all that stuff is commercial free? And they have every variety of music? From classical to bluegrass? And are now getting NASCAR? Not that I’m into any of that, but you might be.

So, don’t get XM ‘cause that company is apparently currently being run by what appears to be escapees from the orangutan cage at the Philadelphia Zoo, at least going by what I read in the papers.

If you like music, like I do, buy Sirius. Well worth the $13 / month subscription and the intial purchase of equipment.

Trust me.