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Okay, the long-awaited highlights from The Police show at Fenway Park on Saturday night:
- It was a regular family affair, as Madden and I were joined by paissons from the old country JRock and his lovely wife KRock as well as a select few members of Boston's wealthiest cover band French Lick.
- We arrived on the field just as Sting's son's band were finishing their set. We could not have been happier about the timing. I think I saw a saxophone player up there. Eeesh.
- Between sets, we got to walk around the field, touch the Green Monster, lean on the bullpen wall, etc. It was the experience of a lifetime (as soon as I get some pics, I'll post them). Unbelievably cool. I almost didn't want the Police to start so I could hang out on the field all night and look at shit.
- The Police show itself was pretty good. Sting's voice still sounds great. Copeland and Summers are still amazing musicians. The thing I liked best about the show were the giant errors. Sting's mic fell off the stand in the middle of a song and his bass shorted out in another one - all things that have happened to me on stage. There was something strangely comforting about that.
- On the way out of the outfield, Joe "Who's Your Daddy?" Welsh spotted some warning track dirt and grabbed a pinch. I followed suit. We were giddy, actually owning some Fenway Park dirt. After a few minutes, the excitement morphed into "Okay, what are we actually going to do with this shit?" Joe decided to smear his under his eye a la Trot Nixon, whereas I pulled a Keith Richards and snorted it up my honker.
That's right - there are small particles of Fenway Park kicking around inside my mucuous membrane. You're jealous.
I know I promised you highlights from the Police show at Fenway Park, but I'm too tired from staying up all night reading the final Harry Potter book (spoiler alert! Hermoine and Ron spend a full three chapters graphically experimenting with BDSM and scat play).
Not only did I stay up late like a gigantor idiot, but the humidity made it a little tough to get a restful, rejuvenating slumber. AND my alarm for some inexplicable reason decided to jump ahead daylight savings time and reduce volume by about 90%. I wake up at what I think is 8:40am and rush through my morning beauty rituals only to jump in my car, get halfway to work, and realize that it's actually coming up on 8 o'clock rather than 9.
I have no explanation. It must be Harry Potter magic.
Hoooooo boy, I am in the crankiest of cranky moods. If you wanted to goad me into an internet fight, this might be the morning. I'm feeling prickly.
Highlights of the Police show tomorrow. Fuck you guys.
Stop the world. It's Mike Mirabella's birthday.
Mike's birthday for Scamper is like Passover for the Jewish people. It is a day of deep spiritual reflection and sacrifice. It's not at all the haven of drunken debauchery and sloppy handjobs about which you have likely read in the local gossip rags.
Let us all take a moment here on this holiest of days to pay tribute to Scamper's holiest of holes: Mike Mirabella.
I'll be back next week with a full report on Mike's birthday celebrations as well as The Police show at Fenway. Fa figgidy fa!
See? What did I tell you? Stewoids for Papi!
In other news, I'm thinking of taking a bit of testosterone, choking out my insurance claims adjuster, and gently laying a Bible next to him. So let me get this right - some guy runs a red light and hits me, so I have to front the money for the repairs because you're too incompetent to send either me or the auto body shop a check on time? If I weren't so exhausted from all my training for the Macrame Olympics in '12, I'd be downright pissed.
When someone hits your car and it's completely not your fault, they should have to throw you a few bucks for your trouble. Seriously, I was driving through a green light minding my own business when WHAM! Now I've got to get rides to auto body shops and car rental places and take time out of my work day to argue with retarded claims adjusters. It takes up my valuable time and energy that could be used in a more productive manner such as handicapping the favorites on VH1's Rock of Love
(sorry, Rodeo - even the most fit body and "I'll go the extra mile in the sack" attitude can't overcome a Sgt. Slaughter jawline in a lady).
I should be compensated for the giant turd casserole I have to wade through just because some dillhole couldn't tell the difference between green and red. The other guy's insurance company should say "You know what? Here's another $200 for your trouble." Seriously, I'm not asking a lot. A symbolic gesture, really.
Once again, I should be in charge of everything.
Despite the fact that the Red Sox have put a little bit of a win streak together and the offense has started to wake up a bit, I'm still concerned. What seemed a slam dunk World Series guarantee only a month ago now looks a little on the shaky side. With the trade deadline looming, there is rumbling about adding another power bat to the lineup. While pundits weigh the costs and benefits of trading a prospect for an established hitter, I have a more elegant solution:
David Ortiz needs to start taking steroids.
Hear me out. Let's face it, due to nagging injuries, Big Papi's power numbers are way down this year. Also, steroids are awesome. They make you big and strong and hit lots of homeruns. Yes, there are some health detriments to using performance-enhancing drugs, but he won't feel the effects until much later in his life, when he's out of the public eye. We won't have to see his body break down, thus avoiding unpleasant feelings for us.
Take one for the team, Big Game Dave. Even if you get caught, it's only a fifteen game suspension for the first offense. The rest of the team can pick up the slack for that two weeks. Just make sure you don't get caught right before the playoffs.
I am hereby starting a "Steroids for Papi" grassroots campaign. I want to see message boards, websites, people holding signs at Fenway. Ideally, I'd like to hook up with the Jimmy Fund and get a little bald cancer kid to make a commercial saying, "Pwease use your stewoids to hit homewuns for me, Papi!"
Let's make this happen. Get to it, soldiers!
Update on my vehicular situation: sadly, my craptastic car has NOT been totalled by the auto body shop and I'm not going to be new car shopping for a while. Sadly, this means I am now nearing the end of my run with my far superior rental car. I must recommend the Nissan Versa for any of you in the market for a small car. Killer gas mileage and not bad giddyup for a wee little thing.
I must also admit that due to my utter unwillingness to get out of bed at a reasonable hour on Sunday morning/afternoon, the Kathy Griffin reality show won me over. I've always out-and-out hated Kathy Griffin for the following reasons:
- Her face is a 38.7 on the Rough-o-meter. As you are well aware, the Rough-o-meter only goes to 42.9. That, my friends, is pretty rough.
- Her stand-up act is all about celebrities, a subject which is boring as hell to me.
- The whole "making fun of famous people while obviously desperately wanting to be one" thing is totally played out and yes, I'm looking in your general direction, Mo Rocca and Michael Ian Black.
- I mean, really - have you looked
at her face? As McGruff the Crime Dog would say, "That bitch is nasty."
But after a few episodes, I must admit I was sort of digging the show. Griffin's constant, almost compulsive need to make inappropriate jokes and create awkward moments in every situation was somewhat amusing. I stuck in for 3-4 episodes and I can't say I totally regret it. Way to pleasantly surprise me, Kathy!
It does confirm my theory that for some counterintuitive reason, television is most palatable in marathon form. I don't think I would have watched an entire episode had I not known that there were five solid hours to follow during which I would not be required to leave the comforty womb of my bed.
I can't post my journal today because I'm too busy lining up to see Hairspray
! It's got Queen Latifah who was downright delightful as Jimmy Fallon's sassy sidekick in the action comedy Taxi
. And John Travolta as a fat woman! Ha HAAA!
Shoot me in the fucking head right now. Show no mercy.
So yesterday, I mentioned a possible alternative ending for the new Adam Sandler-Kevin James gay marriage farce I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry
. Coming up with alternative endings to movies has always been a bit of a hobby of mine, so I'll present to you my all-time favorite: the alternative ending to The Shawshank Redemption
. (Note: I may have posted this one before, but I'm 600 posts into this bad boy, so you takes your chances).The scene:
A beautiful deserted beach. Red (Morgan Freeman) has finally been freed from prison and has come to this beach to reunite with his inmate friend Andy (Tim Robbins). Red follows the instructions left him by Andy and finds a box. He opens the box...
... to find piles and piles of gay pornography. Red looks directly into the camera, throws his hands in the air, and in a high-pitched voice says "Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa?"
The lights come up in the theater and the credits roll at about five times the normal speed, as if the movie wants to get the fuck out of there.
Can you imagine sitting through the two hours of this sentimental tear-jerking crap expecting an emotionally satisfying ending and THAT's what they give you? They just completely pull the rug out from the audience in the last ten seconds. Simply awesome. The world would be a perfect place if that's how that movie ended.
Any other alternative ending ideas?
I was watching a little morning TV this AM as I gussied myself up for the day when I happened to catch Diane Sawyer's in-depth, hard-hitting interview with Adam Sandler and Kevin James about their hilarious
new gay marriage movie I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry
The funniest part of the interview was when Sawyer preambled with "Let me ask you a serious question..." It didn't really matter what was coming next. I was already sold. Game, set, and match. When Kevin James started making his "serious question" face, it was too much for me to handle. I had to take a second shower shortly afterward.
During the aforementioned serious part of the interview, Sawyer asked them about walking the line between portraying homophobic characters and making a homophobic movie. Sandler responded with "We went pretty far with their ignorance at the beginning so that it would help show they learned a lesson at the end."
Uh, dude? You just ruined the ending! How about throwing up a little "SPOILER ALERT"? They learned a lesson at the end? I would have NEVER seen that one coming! Now there's no reason to see the movie except for Jessica Biel in her underwear which I've already seen on the commercial twelve hundred times. You just cost yourselves $10 and whatever popcorn costs, Misters Misters!
Imagine they didn't learn a lesson at the end? The last scene of the movie is Sandler turning to James and saying, "Man, do I hate faggots." Then, the movie rolls the credits with wacky bloopers playing over the song "It's Raining Men." Now that
movie might actually be worth seeing.
I should be in charge of everything.
Hey, I just realized this is my 600th post on the ol' Scampernet. I will mark the occasion by talking about Scott Baio.
Okay, I know that the Bret Michaels Rock of Love
show seemed to have the most promise to deliver total and absolute cable television awesomeness. However, I must say that the sleeper show for pure entertainment value is Scott Baio is 45 and Single...
The basic premise is Scott Baio talking to all his old girlfriends about why he never could hold a relationship together. Somehow, the "fake reality TV bad acting" quality of the cast doesn't take away from the enjoyment of the show. It's ridiculously
fake and yet somehow completely awesome.
For me, the breakout star of the show is Johnny V, Baio's long time "wingman" who has a vested interest in keeping Baio single so that he can indulge in any spillover groupie ass. It's just tremendous. In the first episode, Johnny V (an early candidate for the 2007 Brooke Hogan "Worst Actor on Reality TV" award) gets in a hilarious passive-aggressive yelling fight with Joanie from Happy Days!
Don't get me wrong - the premiere of Rock of Love
did not disappoint. Twenty fake-breasted women spent an hour getting drunk and calling each other sluts one minute and then immediately attempting to win Michaels over by rubbing their silicon rib balloons in his face. But not in a slutty way.
Still, I'm getting in on the ground floor of Scott Baio. Mark my words - this show is going to be awesome
This weekend, I got to play reverend again. My cousin Sean and new cousin-in-law Lynne gave me the honor of naming them husband and wife. It was a wonderful event and I am grateful my cousins asked me to play such an important role in it. Some highlights:
- I got thanked by almost every wedding attendant for "keeping it short." It seems that people really
hate long weddings these days. They just want to get to the bar... uh, I mean reception. As a culture, let's just go ahead and institute a 20-minute limit on the actual ceremonies, shall we?
- Scallops wrapped in bacon. Ain't nuthin' wrong with that. This should also be a requirement of every wedding reception: if you don't have scallops wrapped in bacon, your marriage should be legally made null and void on the spot.
- Most of the music played at the wedding was all this "new country" malarkey. Big and Rich. Rascal Flats. Kenny Chesney. I'm not sure exactly what happened, but while I wasn't paying attention, there has been a serious redneck infestation in my family. I must do something about this before it's too late.
- Even though he was playing the role of the busy groom, good cousin Sean was still working the room, trying to hook me up with available women, leading to the following conversation:Sean:
Do you like big boobs?Me: (pause)
No, Sean. I hate them.
- Did I mention scallops wrapped in bacon? Mmmmmmm.
Weddings are fun, especially if you get to wield the power to legally bind people together for life. If anyone needs a reverend, I work cheap. I can be paid exclusively in scallops wrapped in bacon.
I'm never one to shy away from admitting when I'm wrong.
Remember a few months ago when I railed against those "Where You At?" Boost Mobile commercials, asserting that no urban youths would be openly gay enough to want to keep track of each other? Refresh your memories
I officially stand corrected. Walking through Central Square on my way to my mani/pedi, I was stuck behind an agitated urban youth yelling into his phone, "Where you at, dawg? Where you at?"
Clearly, this could have been avoided with the purchase of a Boost Mobile phone featuring creepy GPS (or Cree-PS, as it is now to be known) system.
I am so out of touch with the young people. They still wear parachute pants, right?
Quick, someone sing something other than "We Are The World." It's been in my head all morning and I can't concentrate on anything else, including writing more than a three-sentence journal entry. And sentence three ends... now.
I didn't see much of the All-Star Game last night, but apparently it was a big ol' San Francisco gay-ass lovefest for Barry Bonds.
To be clear, I'm not one of these Barry Bonds haters. Personally, I like the guy. He's a giant dickhead who double-talks his way around steroid questions, relaxes in a barcalounger in his own private section of the clubhouse, and randomly accuses sports reporters (the real
scum of the earth) of racism. For me, Barry is doing his best to give me the most for my entertainment dollar. Well, that and all the homeruns.
Still, I had an idea to add a little bit of razzle and maybe even a touch of dazzle to this year's All-Star festivities:
Intentionally walk Bonds.
No matter what the situation, just refuse to pitch to him. At the All-Star Game. In San Francisco. The year he's going to break the homerun record. Just don't pitch to him no matter what. It's brilliant.
Can you imagine how ugly the San Francisco crowd would get if Barry got up to bat and American League manager Jim Leyland decided to put him on intentionally? It would be hilarious
. If I were Leyland, I would wait for the boos to start raining down. Then, I'd step out of the dugout and do a slow 360 degree circle with my arms out, yelling "What? What?" It would go down in history as a great moment in sports villiany.
At the very least, he could have pretended
to intentionally walk Bonds. Have the catcher step out for one or two pitches. Then say "Just kidding" to Barry and give him a meatball over the middle of the plate to crush into the bay. It's called creating a moment, people.
But would that ever happen in stodgy old baseball? Of course not. "Respect for the integrity of the game" and blah blah blah.
I wish I were in charge of everything.
Not to be deterred by my lack of vehicular transportation, I was not going to be kept from the Applesauce Master's birthday celebration. Like the true nerd that he is, the Applesauce Master wanted to explore Tomb
. I (along with 15 of his closest friends) was more than happy to oblige.
If you've never heard of it, Tomb is this interactive game where a tour guide takes you into an ancient Egyptian tomb and you have to solve puzzles in order to pass on to the next level. It's actually kind of cool... if you're about 10 years old. If you're a group of 30+ adults, it's downright hilarious.
Realizing early on that she was dealing with a seriously goofy and difficult group, our poor "tour guide" tried to usher us through the puzzles as quickly as possible. It was mostly to no avail. At certain points, I was actively preventing the puzzles from being solved, either by hiding crucial pieces in my pants or distracting my fellow explorers with my seductive Egyptian dancing.
The poor 20-year old tour guide was really earning her money. At one point, the lights went out and the mummy cursed us all to live in the tomb forever. When the lights came back on, the curse had taken my shirt off! This was only first five minutes of the tour. The tour guide was psyched
My favorite moment was probably when Mrs. Applesauce Master stepped on a hidden booby trapped panel. I grabbed her by the shoulders, shook her, and yelled in her face, "You're going to get us all killed, you stupid bitch!"
So anyway, Tomb is actually a lot of fun. I recommend going drunk. And bring the Applesauce Master with you to solve all the puzzles.
If you see me hoofing down the byways with my thumb in the air, please be a pal and offer me a lift. And don't play that whole "stop and then drive up a little so I chase you and then drive up a little more" game. I'm on to you, hillbilly.
Yes, I am temporarily vehicle-free since some weiner in his weinermobile ran through a red light and smashed my rear passenger side, sending me spinning like an extra from Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift.
Don't worry, worry warts. I'm a-ok. Luckily, no one was hurt. There was some physical damage to both cars and now I'll be suffering from severe migraines brought about by dealing with auto insurance companies for the next several weeks. But all in all, I was pretty lucky.
However, I learned a lot about myself during this little mishap. Once my car stopped spinning, I immediately got out of my car and waved to the concerned bystanders, saying "Don't worry. I'm all right." Then, I went over to the other car to make sure that no one was hurt. The other guy was clearly upset and took full responsibility for the accident.
And here's where my psychosis kicks in. Upon seeing how upset and guilty he feels, I start comforting
the guy. The guy that just rammed into me and spun me around like a top. I start saying things like "Don't worry - accidents happen." I should have slapped a figure four leglock on him and instead I'm wrapping him up in an empathy blanket and figuratively massaging his doodacky.
What the hell is wrong with me? Besides the fact that I use the word "doodacky"?
Some people (mostly from the Madden family tree) have spent the last day or so trying to convince me that the visuals in Transformers
are actually awesome. While I'm not entirely ready to shell over my $10 yet, I'm reconsidering my earlier anti-Transformers
In other news, I'm tired.
That is all. Have a nice weekend.
Happy Day After Independence Day, Americans! On this day in 1776, our founding fathers woke up from their post-Declaration signing mead bender, kicked their attractive female slaves out of bed, and tried to figure out how to spend their extra dough now that they weren't paying taxes to England. Abraham Lincoln spent his on a new iPhone. True story.
As for me, I'm celebrating my independence by NOT seeing the new Transformers
Let me explain myself - I'm not taking some pointless nerd principle stance against remaking something meaningful from my childhood. Yes, I was a huge Transformers
fan when I was a kid, but I don't take it so personally. I'm not ranting on a message board about what a great American tragedy it is that Michael Bay was put in charge or that Megatron isn't a gun anymore. Even my nerd-rage has its limits.
The trailer simply looks terrible. And by "looks terrible," I don't mean that the trailers lead me to believe that the movie will have a hokey, illogical script with bad acting and one-dimensional intelligence-insulting characters. I mean, I'm sure all those things are the case. But none of them would stop me from seeing a big action movie.
But it actually looks
bad. There's a lot of really messy filmmaking. The robots don't look cool. And in a movie that's entirely based on "Hey, come see some cool-looking robots," that's simply unforgivable.
I've got to say - I've sort of had it up to here (by "here" I mean "my balls") with CGI. I don't think it looks that good. The other day, I couldn't tell whether I was watching a commercial for the Transformers
movie or the videogame. Movies aren't supposed to look like giant videogames with Anthony Anderson thrown in there.
It makes me long for the days when George Lucas was making movies with scale models and Jim Henson puppets. The puppet Yoda looked better than the more modern CGI Yoda. And that's just a fact, Jedis.
If someone wants to convince me otherwise about Transformers
, my ears are open.
Still playing catch-up on the big week I missed...
Hogg - who as of last week is (gasp) somebody's dad - and I were discussing last weekend's "Concert for Diana." There were a few things from the event that really surprised us:
- Kanye West stopped in the middle of "Golddigger" and went on a ten-minute tirade about how the Queen of England hates black people.
- The laws of physics finally caught up with Fergie as her ridiculous face lift snapped back into place, injuring the first three rows of soccer hooligans at Wembley Stadium.
- Rod Stewart and Tom Jones tried on each other's tight pants and then made out for fifty-three straight minutes. It was actually a pretty good set.
- Elton John surprised the capacity crowd when he unveiled his re-REwritten version of "Candle in the Wind," this time dedicated to the memory of late Red Sox reliever Rod Beck.
Yup. Didn't see that one coming.
Oh my God - you missed me soooooooooooo much.
I'm back now, kittens. No need to freak out and go all "Chris Benoit" on me (What? Too soon?).
Things that happened in my absence from the journal:
- We played one of our funnest, most awesomest shows to date on Friday night. It didn't start out so great, as the band that preceded us was, shall we say, less than peppy. A few audience members got so depressed, they went home and immediately pulled a "Chris Benoit" (What? Too late?). Not exactly the ideal lead-in for an obnoxiously smiley power pop foursome.
Eventually, our sexy dance moves and gin-augmented enthusiasm won them over. Plus, it was Scamper's crazy summer sale: our merch was all half-price! And you missed it, you fucking jerks! God, sometimes I get so angry at you I want to go all "Chris Benoit" on you (What? Does lame comedy always
have to come in threes?).
- I lost a hug contest to my drummer. I'm still reeling from it.
- The greatest pro wrestler in the world (sorry, Kurt) went nuts and killed his family and himself. Despite my earlier lame attempts at coping humor, this was probably the biggest gut punch I've felt as a 20+ year wrestling fan. While there has been no shortage of tragedies in the wrestling world (Owen Hart and Eddie Guerrero were particular toughies), there has been nothing on this level of brutality, confusion, and sadness. I don't know whether it was steroids, concussions, or just good old fashioned mental illness that made Benoit do what he did. But I'm sure the grind of the wrestling lifestyle didn't help.
As a fan of the sleazy business of wrestling, you always know in the back of your head that these men (and few women) are essentially mutilating their bodies and rotting their minds for your entertainment. You tell yourself that a) no one's making them choose this line of work and b) they must love what they do. Ultimately, they want to entertain me.
After this nightmare, I can't help but feel a little bit culpable. It's no one's fault but Benoit's, of course. He's a murderer. But I'm starting to feel weird about continuing to watch this form of entertainment that has shortened so many lives.
I've watched zero hours of wrestling since I heard about the Benoit incident. And I don't know when or if I'm going back.