Like having your best friend berate you.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
A-Rod is Available, Pricey
New Fanhouse blog here. I can't wait for the pithy comments of teen deviants hopped up on Jolt cola.
Monday, October 29, 2007
That's not shocking
I called it after the All Star break: the Yanks offered a five year extension to A-Rod and he told them to go fuck themselves. And they deserve it.
This, after winning the Aaron Award AND having been voted most "clutch" player. The press in New York should all jump in the East River.
This, after winning the Aaron Award AND having been voted most "clutch" player. The press in New York should all jump in the East River.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Dane Cook is a delight
I'd hate to keep harping on it, but I love Dane Cook. And his Superfinger. The latest video from Fanhouse TV.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Great Dane!
Thanks to Mike Solomon's tutorial, my dream has come true. This simple video test makes me so happy, previous descriptions of joys by even the greatest odists cannot possibly touch my level of ecstasy. Look for this to be implemented in an upcoming Fanhouse vlog.
Thank you, Mike Solomon. Thank you.
Thank you, Mike Solomon. Thank you.
Happy Trails, Joe
Joe Torre was offered a five million dollar contract to return as manager of the New York Yankees next year (with the possibility of an additional three million) and he turned it down. A friend at work suggested that this offer was a public facade to cover up the fact that the Yankees were simply firing Torre and wanted him to be able to save face.
Truth be told, it's a shame that Torre won't be around for the post-Steinbrenner years (which ostensibly begin next year, if reports about his sons taking over are correct), because while the Boss was in charge, it honestly doesn't matter who managed that team. It's funny, I recently rented ESPN's miniseries "The Bronx is Burning" and it paints Steinbrenner as a pigheaded jerkoff. I tend to agree. Even Billy Martin, who was more strong-willed and obstinate than Joe Torre could ever be, had to kowtow to the Boss's authority and watch, handcuffed, as Reggie Jackson was brought in to an environment that had madhouse written all over it. Steinbrenner ran the team like a television network. It wasn't just about winning, it was about drawing people to the stadium with larger than life personalities. Reggie Jackson, Ricky Henderson, Roger Clemens, Randy Johnson, Alex Rodriguez. Each of these players brought with him a name both famous and infamous. Steinbrenner's looking for pennants and championships insofar as they yield ratings. It was a circus in 1977 and it's a circus thirty years later.
Baseball managers have a tough job these days. In fact, with owners and general managers doing all of the meaningful negotiating, it's amazing that they have any pull in the clubhouse at all.
All that being said, however, the idea of Tony La Russa coming in and taking the reins is a good one. But ultimately, does it really matter?
Oh, and as much as I love Don Mattingly and regard him as my favorite player of all time...I question his readiness, as he himself did, to take over as manager. Plus, it can be painful watching him talk as a manager. Yeesh.
Truth be told, it's a shame that Torre won't be around for the post-Steinbrenner years (which ostensibly begin next year, if reports about his sons taking over are correct), because while the Boss was in charge, it honestly doesn't matter who managed that team. It's funny, I recently rented ESPN's miniseries "The Bronx is Burning" and it paints Steinbrenner as a pigheaded jerkoff. I tend to agree. Even Billy Martin, who was more strong-willed and obstinate than Joe Torre could ever be, had to kowtow to the Boss's authority and watch, handcuffed, as Reggie Jackson was brought in to an environment that had madhouse written all over it. Steinbrenner ran the team like a television network. It wasn't just about winning, it was about drawing people to the stadium with larger than life personalities. Reggie Jackson, Ricky Henderson, Roger Clemens, Randy Johnson, Alex Rodriguez. Each of these players brought with him a name both famous and infamous. Steinbrenner's looking for pennants and championships insofar as they yield ratings. It was a circus in 1977 and it's a circus thirty years later.
Baseball managers have a tough job these days. In fact, with owners and general managers doing all of the meaningful negotiating, it's amazing that they have any pull in the clubhouse at all.
All that being said, however, the idea of Tony La Russa coming in and taking the reins is a good one. But ultimately, does it really matter?
Oh, and as much as I love Don Mattingly and regard him as my favorite player of all time...I question his readiness, as he himself did, to take over as manager. Plus, it can be painful watching him talk as a manager. Yeesh.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Classic FODJ moments
Seeing as the previous iteration of this blog was destroyed, I thought I'd post a bit I retained (to celebrate the 18,000th hit):
HIPPY BUDDHIST VISIBLY PISSED ABOUT ROBBERY
Dayton, OH - Video store employee Carl Tawny, a practicing Buddhist and humanitarian, became uncharacteristically aggressive today following the robbery of his downtown studio apartment last night.
"I am trying extremely hard to remember that the idea of possession is an illusion, an earthly distraction from true happiness" says Tawny, 33, standing at the window of his meager home, which houses eleven of his friends. "But they took the XBox, and that fucking sucks."
"And what about those autographed pictures of Tina Fey I got at the Mean Girls premiere?" Tawny continued, huffily tossing an empty hommus container at his cat, Phishface. "I mean, those fuckers don't grow on trees, although, I guess, spiritually, it doesn't matter."
"I hope nothing but a busy, cluttered lifestyle on those stupid cocksuckings," he awkwardly swore and finished filling out the police questionnaire.
HIPPY BUDDHIST VISIBLY PISSED ABOUT ROBBERY
Dayton, OH - Video store employee Carl Tawny, a practicing Buddhist and humanitarian, became uncharacteristically aggressive today following the robbery of his downtown studio apartment last night.
"I am trying extremely hard to remember that the idea of possession is an illusion, an earthly distraction from true happiness" says Tawny, 33, standing at the window of his meager home, which houses eleven of his friends. "But they took the XBox, and that fucking sucks."
"And what about those autographed pictures of Tina Fey I got at the Mean Girls premiere?" Tawny continued, huffily tossing an empty hommus container at his cat, Phishface. "I mean, those fuckers don't grow on trees, although, I guess, spiritually, it doesn't matter."
"I hope nothing but a busy, cluttered lifestyle on those stupid cocksuckings," he awkwardly swore and finished filling out the police questionnaire.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Dental UPDATE
Nothing is as symptomatic of the plague that is "blogging" than posting an update about my teeth. Let me tell you about my upcoming oral surgery, because it's fascinating. Seriously.
In a mouth without even a SINGLE cavity, there exists a rogue molar hell-bent on revenge. If a movie were made, I want my molar to be played by a tough, loner type. Like Charles Bronson. Or, I want it played by an asshole. Like Dane Cook.
The dentist's office assistant informed me that the oral "care" for which I was scheduled would total $3500. I laughed at her. She then told me I had horrible dental insurance, a fact I could have let her in on before any of this farce began. She laughed at me. Then, we laughed together and I told her I would seek my surgery elsewhere.
So, I've decided to throw my dental plight at the feet of the student doctors of New York University. After what I'm expecting to be seven clumsy man-hours hammering away at my molars, the deed will be done at a substantially lower rate. For awhile, I entertained the idea of having them replace the old tooth with the tooth of another animal. Like a beaver or sabertooth tiger. I figure as long as it's cheap...
In a mouth without even a SINGLE cavity, there exists a rogue molar hell-bent on revenge. If a movie were made, I want my molar to be played by a tough, loner type. Like Charles Bronson. Or, I want it played by an asshole. Like Dane Cook.
The dentist's office assistant informed me that the oral "care" for which I was scheduled would total $3500. I laughed at her. She then told me I had horrible dental insurance, a fact I could have let her in on before any of this farce began. She laughed at me. Then, we laughed together and I told her I would seek my surgery elsewhere.
So, I've decided to throw my dental plight at the feet of the student doctors of New York University. After what I'm expecting to be seven clumsy man-hours hammering away at my molars, the deed will be done at a substantially lower rate. For awhile, I entertained the idea of having them replace the old tooth with the tooth of another animal. Like a beaver or sabertooth tiger. I figure as long as it's cheap...
Friday, October 12, 2007
About average
I am wonderfully and perfectly average. I am of average height, and for that height, I am the average weight. There are six possible genotypes for the eye color brown (as opposed to a mere two genotypes for blue and green), and, as my eyes are brown, I'm in the majority. There is nothing remarkable, rogue, diverse, interesting, shocking, eye-catching, breathtaking, novel, or exceptional about me. I'm the consummate Everyman.
And yet, despite how boring that may seem, I feel incredibly lucky. Most things we encounter every day are catered to the average person. I can slip into a subway seat perfectly and when I have to stand, the overhead bars are at just the right height. Clothing stores always have my pants size. I can remain anonymous at almost every thinkable social gathering. I can be subsumed into the masses. I can disappear.
And yet, in the face in the comfort this gives me, I am constantly fighting this anonymity. I want people to look at me. I want to be exceptional. I want to leave a gaping hole in my wake when I leave the room. I want people to notice.
Still, regardless of how much I might struggle and flail and dig and shout, the most I could achieve, the most anyone can achieve, is to be slightly above average. Only slightly.
That makes me smile.
And yet, despite how boring that may seem, I feel incredibly lucky. Most things we encounter every day are catered to the average person. I can slip into a subway seat perfectly and when I have to stand, the overhead bars are at just the right height. Clothing stores always have my pants size. I can remain anonymous at almost every thinkable social gathering. I can be subsumed into the masses. I can disappear.
And yet, in the face in the comfort this gives me, I am constantly fighting this anonymity. I want people to look at me. I want to be exceptional. I want to leave a gaping hole in my wake when I leave the room. I want people to notice.
Still, regardless of how much I might struggle and flail and dig and shout, the most I could achieve, the most anyone can achieve, is to be slightly above average. Only slightly.
That makes me smile.
A little bittersweet weekend
My pal Amanda played Chet Baker's rendition of "I Get Along Without You Very Well" on her Wednesday radio show and I had completely forgotten about how much I love Chet Baker. For me, he's that voice that as soon as you were introduced to it, you devoured every song you could find until you were fat and bloated on the stuff. Having spoiled your appetite, you forgot about him only to rediscover him at the perfect time in your life. Or, reminded of. Thanks Amanda.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Beautiful
I was watching an episode of House when I heard this rendition of Cristina Aguilera's "Beautiful" coming from Hugh Laurie's iPod headphones and I thought "that's Costello. That's Costello's voice doing that cover." I searched and searched and searched and I never found a copy. At long last, Fox released the soundtrack and thankfully, the cover is on it. My obsession grows by the minute:
**UPDATE** I added some other songs from the soundtrack.
**UPDATE** I added some other songs from the soundtrack.
The whole tooth and nothing but the tooth
I have a pristine set of teeth. When I was a mere boy and a beardless youth, our family's dentist would shower me with accolades and present my mother with a modest bill. Unfortunately, as the pressures of life's incessant barrage of trouble wore on my now adult mind, I began to grind and clench my teeth while I slept, no doubt my subconscious mind's way of reminding me that things are not, in fact, "okay" and that everything's going to shit. All of this jaw gnashing resulted in a solitary fracture in one of my bottom right molars, which I had clumsily repaired by an Israeli dentist in the autumn of 2004. The tooth never really felt "fixed," but having been handed a bill to the tune of $1,200, I was hesitant to ever set foot in a dentist's office again, for fear of losing all of my possessions because of a single tooth.
I avoided medical attention successfully until a few weeks ago, when my molar decided that it had had enough of this shit and unleashed a full out attack on my dumb mouth. The ensuing infection produced mind-numbing pain and a blister on the gum line. Defeated, I went to the dentist yesterday and he assured me I had nothing to fear. Then, he said he may have to perform two root canals and secure a brand new cap. Unless I miss my guess, that sounds like $2000 worth of work. Seeing as my insurance is a cruel joke one wouldn't wish on his worst enemy, my "out of pocket" expense (the term "out of pocket" makes me laugh every time. Who carries around $2000 in his pocket?) will be astronomical.
So, I have a small dilemma to overcome. Living with pain is not exactly a strange phenomenon in my life, but it would be foolish to proceed with it voluntarily. On the other hand, I was just starting to corral my finances into a workable routine and this will rend all of the progress I've made to shreds. Still, it's life. You know?
Ah, to be a replicant:
I avoided medical attention successfully until a few weeks ago, when my molar decided that it had had enough of this shit and unleashed a full out attack on my dumb mouth. The ensuing infection produced mind-numbing pain and a blister on the gum line. Defeated, I went to the dentist yesterday and he assured me I had nothing to fear. Then, he said he may have to perform two root canals and secure a brand new cap. Unless I miss my guess, that sounds like $2000 worth of work. Seeing as my insurance is a cruel joke one wouldn't wish on his worst enemy, my "out of pocket" expense (the term "out of pocket" makes me laugh every time. Who carries around $2000 in his pocket?) will be astronomical.
So, I have a small dilemma to overcome. Living with pain is not exactly a strange phenomenon in my life, but it would be foolish to proceed with it voluntarily. On the other hand, I was just starting to corral my finances into a workable routine and this will rend all of the progress I've made to shreds. Still, it's life. You know?
Ah, to be a replicant:
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Friday, October 05, 2007
Money balls
Hey Joe Torre! BUNT!!! BUUUUUUNNNNTT!!!!
Runners on first and second, nobody out, down two runs in the top of the fifth inning. BUNT! BUUUUUNNNTTTTT!!!! I don't care that Jeter is .500 lifetime against Sabathia. Swinging away in that situation makes no sense. None. And don't give me that Money Ball Billy Bean bullshit, either. Bunting is a waste of an at bat? Oh yeah, is it? Could someone tell the entire National League that? Great.
Don't get me wrong, I love dramatic home runs and clutch doubles late in the game. But, I don't love counting on that sort of fantastical output every time the Yanks take the field. And believe me, I UNDERSTAND that everyone's bored to tears by small ball. Bunting is boring. Well, when Posada strikes out on a high fastball after seeing five of them in the same at bat, you kind of wouldn't mind seeing someone lay one down now and again instead of this highlight reel nonsense that everybody seems to want (in every sport, not just baseball).
Does bunting bore you? Guess what, you don't like baseball, shithead! Pick another meaningless distraction to help you get through your miserable life. This distraction's mine.
Runners on first and second, nobody out, down two runs in the top of the fifth inning. BUNT! BUUUUUNNNTTTTT!!!! I don't care that Jeter is .500 lifetime against Sabathia. Swinging away in that situation makes no sense. None. And don't give me that Money Ball Billy Bean bullshit, either. Bunting is a waste of an at bat? Oh yeah, is it? Could someone tell the entire National League that? Great.
Don't get me wrong, I love dramatic home runs and clutch doubles late in the game. But, I don't love counting on that sort of fantastical output every time the Yanks take the field. And believe me, I UNDERSTAND that everyone's bored to tears by small ball. Bunting is boring. Well, when Posada strikes out on a high fastball after seeing five of them in the same at bat, you kind of wouldn't mind seeing someone lay one down now and again instead of this highlight reel nonsense that everybody seems to want (in every sport, not just baseball).
Does bunting bore you? Guess what, you don't like baseball, shithead! Pick another meaningless distraction to help you get through your miserable life. This distraction's mine.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
JUDGE: Has the jury reached its verdict?
JUROR: We have, your honor. We the jury find the defendant guilty...of being innocent!
(Wild courtroom laughter)
DEFENDANT: (through tears of laughter) You guys!
JUROR: (after laughter dies down) Ah...in all seriousness, you're going to jail.
I had jury duty a couple of weeks ago and mustered no more faith in the United States judiciary system then I had before I served my time there. Sixty or seventy of us potential jurors, silent and petrified, waited as the Manhattan city hall answer to Tom Cruise guided us through our juror orientation, which consisted of a packet of unreadable paper and a video starring Ed Bradley who is famous for wearing an earring and being dead.
Feeling like Ed Bradley looks right now in his coffin, I scanned my fellow suckers in the room for potential comrades, only to be met with the vacant stares of newly minted American citizens, most from Spanish speaking countries, who really didn't fully understand what their Jury Summons meant until five minutes ago. After their individual revelations, each was currently in the business of either looking for a suitable sharp object on which to impale himself or seriously considering an ignorance of the English language at least for the day. So much so that the Tom Cruise clerk announced at one point, after a heated yet muffled argument with an emphatically gesticulating woman, that "if you don't know enough English, please go to the main jury room and see the clerk."
It came time, then, for the selection of jurors for the morning's first case. Sensing a wave of overwhelming dread, I grabbed my bag and sat at the ready for I KNEW that my name would be called. And it was. And I joined the rest of the damned in Jury Room Three. Then began the juror interview process, called "voir dire," which is French for "how can I bullshit my way out of jury duty?" It is truly unbelievable the lengths potential jurors will go in order to disqualify themselves for a case. For instance, the case we were being considered for was an eye injury at a construction site. When asked if there were any reasons any of us would have for not being impartial in a case like this, people were coming up with fantastic long shots.
"My brother had eye cancer. And it was really hard on all of us. So, I think I couldn't be fair in a case like this." (Had this thought gone on longer, this particular juror might have gone on to say that she has eyes. The plaintiff has eyes. We all have eyes. Therefore, she must humbly decline serving on this case due to eyeball sympathy.)
"My cousin works in construction." (Holy shit! What are you even DOING here?! Sorry to waste so much of your time, seeing as you're clearly unfit to see a case involving construction. I mean, what would your cousin say?)
Seriously, most of these jurors might as well have been saying "I have eyeballs, and one time I walked by a construction site. I CANNOT SERVE ON THIS JURY BECAUSE OF MY UNDYING ADORATION OF BOTH EYEBALLS AND CONSTRUCTION SITES AND PERSONAL INJURY ATTORNEYS!!!!"
Then came time for my questioning. Naturally, I couldn't wait.
PLAINTIFFS ATTORNEY: Mr. Silva. It says on your survey that you went to college for...
ME: ...acting.
(a strange pause. As if I had said "murder. I went to school for murder.")
ME: Well, I don't actually DO that for a LIVING.
(laughter. It's now OK to laugh at the stupid actor and every juror is happy for it)
PLAINTIFFS ATTORNEY: What do you do?
ME: I'm a consultant for a lawyer who acts as adjunct counsel to a pharmaceutical company.
PLAINTIFFS ATTORNEY: And do you have any problems with what we've heard so far about impartiality?
(bear in mind that I was the last juror interviewed)
ME: Well, I've heard some wonderful philosophical and moral sentiments spoken here today and I agree with them wholeheartedly.
(pause)
ME: Because I have no spine.
(laughter. These people would never trust me to be their juror)
DEFENDANTS ATTORNEY: Mr. Silva, if you had your druthers, what kind of acting would you do?
(this really happened people)
ME: I would prefer stage.
DEFENDANTS ATTORNEY: Oh, like Broadway?
ME: (laughing incredulously) No! I don't SING!
(laughter)
DEFENDANTS ATTORNEY: Well excuse me, I just met you.
ME: Oh, you didn't get my demo tape?
And that is how I got out of jury duty. That and a Jewish holiday, of course. Which makes me want to write a song called "Let's Hear it for the Jews" sung to the tune of "Let's Hear it for the Boy."
LET'S HEAR IT FOR THE JEWS
DON'T GIVE THE JEWS A HAM...
(Wild courtroom laughter)
DEFENDANT: (through tears of laughter) You guys!
JUROR: (after laughter dies down) Ah...in all seriousness, you're going to jail.
I had jury duty a couple of weeks ago and mustered no more faith in the United States judiciary system then I had before I served my time there. Sixty or seventy of us potential jurors, silent and petrified, waited as the Manhattan city hall answer to Tom Cruise guided us through our juror orientation, which consisted of a packet of unreadable paper and a video starring Ed Bradley who is famous for wearing an earring and being dead.
Feeling like Ed Bradley looks right now in his coffin, I scanned my fellow suckers in the room for potential comrades, only to be met with the vacant stares of newly minted American citizens, most from Spanish speaking countries, who really didn't fully understand what their Jury Summons meant until five minutes ago. After their individual revelations, each was currently in the business of either looking for a suitable sharp object on which to impale himself or seriously considering an ignorance of the English language at least for the day. So much so that the Tom Cruise clerk announced at one point, after a heated yet muffled argument with an emphatically gesticulating woman, that "if you don't know enough English, please go to the main jury room and see the clerk."
It came time, then, for the selection of jurors for the morning's first case. Sensing a wave of overwhelming dread, I grabbed my bag and sat at the ready for I KNEW that my name would be called. And it was. And I joined the rest of the damned in Jury Room Three. Then began the juror interview process, called "voir dire," which is French for "how can I bullshit my way out of jury duty?" It is truly unbelievable the lengths potential jurors will go in order to disqualify themselves for a case. For instance, the case we were being considered for was an eye injury at a construction site. When asked if there were any reasons any of us would have for not being impartial in a case like this, people were coming up with fantastic long shots.
"My brother had eye cancer. And it was really hard on all of us. So, I think I couldn't be fair in a case like this." (Had this thought gone on longer, this particular juror might have gone on to say that she has eyes. The plaintiff has eyes. We all have eyes. Therefore, she must humbly decline serving on this case due to eyeball sympathy.)
"My cousin works in construction." (Holy shit! What are you even DOING here?! Sorry to waste so much of your time, seeing as you're clearly unfit to see a case involving construction. I mean, what would your cousin say?)
Seriously, most of these jurors might as well have been saying "I have eyeballs, and one time I walked by a construction site. I CANNOT SERVE ON THIS JURY BECAUSE OF MY UNDYING ADORATION OF BOTH EYEBALLS AND CONSTRUCTION SITES AND PERSONAL INJURY ATTORNEYS!!!!"
Then came time for my questioning. Naturally, I couldn't wait.
PLAINTIFFS ATTORNEY: Mr. Silva. It says on your survey that you went to college for...
ME: ...acting.
(a strange pause. As if I had said "murder. I went to school for murder.")
ME: Well, I don't actually DO that for a LIVING.
(laughter. It's now OK to laugh at the stupid actor and every juror is happy for it)
PLAINTIFFS ATTORNEY: What do you do?
ME: I'm a consultant for a lawyer who acts as adjunct counsel to a pharmaceutical company.
PLAINTIFFS ATTORNEY: And do you have any problems with what we've heard so far about impartiality?
(bear in mind that I was the last juror interviewed)
ME: Well, I've heard some wonderful philosophical and moral sentiments spoken here today and I agree with them wholeheartedly.
(pause)
ME: Because I have no spine.
(laughter. These people would never trust me to be their juror)
DEFENDANTS ATTORNEY: Mr. Silva, if you had your druthers, what kind of acting would you do?
(this really happened people)
ME: I would prefer stage.
DEFENDANTS ATTORNEY: Oh, like Broadway?
ME: (laughing incredulously) No! I don't SING!
(laughter)
DEFENDANTS ATTORNEY: Well excuse me, I just met you.
ME: Oh, you didn't get my demo tape?
And that is how I got out of jury duty. That and a Jewish holiday, of course. Which makes me want to write a song called "Let's Hear it for the Jews" sung to the tune of "Let's Hear it for the Boy."
LET'S HEAR IT FOR THE JEWS
DON'T GIVE THE JEWS A HAM...
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