Every so often, I feel the need to spend some time thinking about how to supplement my already vast appreciation for The Big Lebowski by adding the element of a drinking game.
Having a White Russian each time The Dude makes one in the film seems to be the most popular approach, but White Russians are nasty, coffee-laden concoctions that could manipulate my gag reflex as easily as Monica Lewinsky manipulated Slick Willy’s ding-dong. And I’m trying to augment my enjoyment of the film, not turn it into a bigger disaster than Rod Marinelli’s career as an NFL head coach.
The problem with such an absolute rejection of the White Russian is that it’s the signature drink of The Big Lebowski—it’s what The Dude likes to drink. But there are a few scenes in the bowling alley where The Dude seems to be drinking shitty light beer. So maybe it’s possible for me to kick back with a bunch of PBR tall boys and still have at least a reasonable claim of non-poserdom, if not one of experiential authenticity. At least now I know my beverage of choice.
But I’m still left with the problem of the game itself. I’ve thought about taking a swig of PBR every time someone swears, but I don’t want to end up on the floor before The Dude even meets the other Jeffrey Lebowski. A swig each time someone says “dude” or “Dude” could put me in the same predicament. Perhaps a more substantial swig each time someone mentions The Dude’s rug or his car could put me in the ideal sort of pig to shit ratio that would produce Dude-vana.
Ultimately, though, I think that the best thing is to get together a few people, a case of PBR, and The Big Lebowski. It could be a wet-run of sorts, the kind of thing where we figure out what might work and what will crash more violently than the Dallas Cowboys’ playoff train. Who’s with me?
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Friday, March 20, 2009
Eat this with a straight face
On a recent trip to the grocery store, I came across the following item in the bakery section:
The label identifies it as a Boston Butterfly Cake. Which is laughable to me, because while I can vaguely see a butterfly when I view this item, it's hard not to see something else entirely. It's like the ghosts of Georgia O'Keefe and Andy Warhol collaborated on a pastry.
Damn right I bought it.
The label identifies it as a Boston Butterfly Cake. Which is laughable to me, because while I can vaguely see a butterfly when I view this item, it's hard not to see something else entirely. It's like the ghosts of Georgia O'Keefe and Andy Warhol collaborated on a pastry.
Damn right I bought it.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
The Vegas Addiction
I always thought that I’d hate it. The place glorifies the worst kind of rampant over-consumptive waste, and as an ecological disaster, it ruined a vast area of high desert. Everything about it is fake. Still, I cannot resist an opportunity to go there.
Nothing relaxes like walking down the street at half-past nine in the morning taking swigs from a Tecate tall-boy. That’s being free from the shackles of quotidian bullshit that govern everyday existence. If a man walks down the strip in a suit and tie, he’s just partying high-class today; he’s not on the way to some cubicle to fill out his TPS reports. He can wear whatever he wants because he likes the look of it or the feel of it. No self-righteous jackass who signs his paycheck gets to tell him what to put on in the morning. That kind of freedom hooks him like a drug, and as soon as the man heads toward McCarran Airport to leave Vegas, he’s already thinking about what he’ll have to do to come back.
A good sports season augments the potency of Vegas-crack as well as anything. Lunchtime during college basketball season plays witness to eager fans scouting the day’s games on the big boards in all of the sports books up and down the strip. Everyone knows that Memphis will beat SMU, but twenty-six and a half points? Really? Maybe Memphis will get up thirty, but then they’ll put in all their walk-ons and end up winning by only twenty-four; no way they’ll cover that spread. Throw a bet on SMU in a parlay and hope for the best. Later, with Memphis up twenty-five on the big screen, SMU misses an indifferent jump shot with twenty seconds left. Memphis gets the rebound. Even this most mundane of blowouts comes down to the wire in Vegas; a guy in the back by the bar yells, “Shoot that motherfucker!” Everyone’s heads turn toward the big screen and pulses quicken. But no one sees a shot. Memphis’s back-up point guard runs the clock out, either content with a twenty-five point win or under orders from his coach not to run up the score, and Memphis doesn’t cover its twenty-six and a half point spread. The parlay bet is still alive, and with it, the chance of an exponential payout. And who wouldn’t want to put down another while the predictions are hitting?
When the games end, a legion of cabs head from all points on the strip to the gentlemen’s clubs a few blocks west. In a place with a neon-colored skyline, people understand that it’s possible for men to enjoy the prurient aesthetics of female bodies without degrading the women to whom those bodies belong, and that there’s nothing wrong with the Dionysian throes of physical pleasure. Either that, or it’s party time all the time, and no one has time for judgmental crap. And Vegas is, among other things, the American stripper’s Mecca. The best dancers come from the farthest corners of the union to practice their trade there, and the resulting diversity of appearances never disappoints. Who wants to leave a place where beautiful strangers approach at every turn with rapt attention?
In the morning, when the previous night’s Dionysian frenzy demands a return to the clean, bright lines of Apollo, hit a fitness center for a run on the elliptical. An endorphin rush overlooking the harmonious blues of an immaculate casino pool can add the desired balance. Afterward, a stroll through the wide, tall, airy corridors of Mandalay near the Shark Reef is just the thing. Then, step outside there, at the far Southern end of the strip, with the mountains stark and sharp in the distance, and take a breath. Soon, none of this will be yours anymore. As the day begins, you’ll head North; people will emerge from their restful, rented abodes high above the casino floors and descend in elevator after elevator. Gradually, they’ll fill the ground floors. Whether in bars or restaurants, at blackjack tables or next to the lion habitat at the MGM, these people will simultaneously infuriate, amuse, and interest you. They will be absolutely, gloriously incomprehensible.
I will go back and see them, again and again.
Nothing relaxes like walking down the street at half-past nine in the morning taking swigs from a Tecate tall-boy. That’s being free from the shackles of quotidian bullshit that govern everyday existence. If a man walks down the strip in a suit and tie, he’s just partying high-class today; he’s not on the way to some cubicle to fill out his TPS reports. He can wear whatever he wants because he likes the look of it or the feel of it. No self-righteous jackass who signs his paycheck gets to tell him what to put on in the morning. That kind of freedom hooks him like a drug, and as soon as the man heads toward McCarran Airport to leave Vegas, he’s already thinking about what he’ll have to do to come back.
A good sports season augments the potency of Vegas-crack as well as anything. Lunchtime during college basketball season plays witness to eager fans scouting the day’s games on the big boards in all of the sports books up and down the strip. Everyone knows that Memphis will beat SMU, but twenty-six and a half points? Really? Maybe Memphis will get up thirty, but then they’ll put in all their walk-ons and end up winning by only twenty-four; no way they’ll cover that spread. Throw a bet on SMU in a parlay and hope for the best. Later, with Memphis up twenty-five on the big screen, SMU misses an indifferent jump shot with twenty seconds left. Memphis gets the rebound. Even this most mundane of blowouts comes down to the wire in Vegas; a guy in the back by the bar yells, “Shoot that motherfucker!” Everyone’s heads turn toward the big screen and pulses quicken. But no one sees a shot. Memphis’s back-up point guard runs the clock out, either content with a twenty-five point win or under orders from his coach not to run up the score, and Memphis doesn’t cover its twenty-six and a half point spread. The parlay bet is still alive, and with it, the chance of an exponential payout. And who wouldn’t want to put down another while the predictions are hitting?
When the games end, a legion of cabs head from all points on the strip to the gentlemen’s clubs a few blocks west. In a place with a neon-colored skyline, people understand that it’s possible for men to enjoy the prurient aesthetics of female bodies without degrading the women to whom those bodies belong, and that there’s nothing wrong with the Dionysian throes of physical pleasure. Either that, or it’s party time all the time, and no one has time for judgmental crap. And Vegas is, among other things, the American stripper’s Mecca. The best dancers come from the farthest corners of the union to practice their trade there, and the resulting diversity of appearances never disappoints. Who wants to leave a place where beautiful strangers approach at every turn with rapt attention?
In the morning, when the previous night’s Dionysian frenzy demands a return to the clean, bright lines of Apollo, hit a fitness center for a run on the elliptical. An endorphin rush overlooking the harmonious blues of an immaculate casino pool can add the desired balance. Afterward, a stroll through the wide, tall, airy corridors of Mandalay near the Shark Reef is just the thing. Then, step outside there, at the far Southern end of the strip, with the mountains stark and sharp in the distance, and take a breath. Soon, none of this will be yours anymore. As the day begins, you’ll head North; people will emerge from their restful, rented abodes high above the casino floors and descend in elevator after elevator. Gradually, they’ll fill the ground floors. Whether in bars or restaurants, at blackjack tables or next to the lion habitat at the MGM, these people will simultaneously infuriate, amuse, and interest you. They will be absolutely, gloriously incomprehensible.
I will go back and see them, again and again.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Pittsburgh Pirates 2009 Season Preview
Give them this much: the Pittsburgh Pirates are consistent. They consistently underspend their competitors. They consistently waste high draft picks. They consistently make poor free agent signings. They consistently get poor value in trades for their few valuable players. They consistently play bad baseball. And, since they do all of these things at such a high level and with a reliability that would make the Maytag repair man green with envy, they consistently lose.
If everything goes according to plan (and don’t delude yourself, to disappoint for this long, there must be a plan), 2009 will mark the 17th consecutive losing season for the Pirates. They currently share the record for most consecutive losing seasons in a North American major professional sport (MLB, NFL, NBA, NHL) with the 1933-1948 Philadelphia Phillies. Perhaps Phillies fans from that time had it worse. After all, in addition to watching their club stagger to losing records year in and year out, they had to claw their way out of the Depression, watch their sons tangle with the Third Reich, and then be witness to the dawn of the nuclear era. Compare this to the current Pirates fan base, who have had to endure the likes of Pat Meares, Derek Bell, and Jimmy Anderson. It’s unclear which fan base has suffered more. Which is why this year is so important for the proud Pirates organization and its few remaining devotees. With another losing season, we can at least claim numerical superiority in the suffering column. In other words, we can finally win something.
Things are looking very promising for another losing season. Let’s break the team down position-by-position:
Starting pitching: Paul Maholm was regarded as the staff ace in 2008, in much the same way that Tom Gorzelanny was the ace in 2007, Ian Snell was the ace in 2006, and Zach Duke was the ace in 2005. Unfortunately, to be a proper ace, one is expected to perform at a high level for a period of several years. Performing at a high level for 1 to 3 months at a time means that you’re a #4 starter, which is essentially what Maholm, Gorzelanny, Duke, and Snell are. Unfortunately, other major league teams have pitchers they can rightly classify as #1 through #3 starters. In what I suspect is a related story, the Pirates staff posted the worst team ERA in the National League last season at 5.08, nearly 0.3 runs per game worse than the next worst team, the Colorado Rockies. As usual, there are a few youngsters who will be competing for a starting rotation spot whom Pirates management claim to be “high on.” Though tempting, I’ll refrain from making a joke about Pirates GM Neil Huntington grinding up and smoking Jeff Karstens, because I really see Huntington as a cocaine sort of guy.
Bullpen: Baseball writers often describe quality bullpens in ways that make them sound more like military reinforcements or structural supports on buildings. They use words like bolster and stabilize, and characterize reliable bullpen arms as modern day minutemen, ready to quell any offensive upswell by the HGH fueled opposition. Pirates fans are more accustomed to hearing their bullpen likened to flammable materials. This year should be no different. Matt Capps, John Grabow, and Tyler Yates will anchor this year’s pen. And, when I say “anchor,” I mean children under the age of 18 should not be allowed to watch the late innings of Pirates’ games.
Catcher: Ryan Doumit looks to build on his quality offensive numbers (.318, 15 HR, 69 RBI) from last season, while hoping to do a better job of staying healthy (only appeared in 116 games). Actually, I assume that’s what he’s hoping for. It’s what I’m hoping for. If nothing else, Doumit provided me with my favorite Pirates offseason quote. When Neal Huntington announced that Doumit had been signed to a long-term deal, he noted that both Doumit and the Pirates had to assume some risk with the contract. In response, Doumit told Karen Price of the Pittsburgh Tribune Review,
Let me translate that for you:
First base: The Pirates will not have anybody at first base for the first half of the year. After the All-Star break, Adam LaRoche will be the Bucs’ first baseman. Actually, that’s not true. Adam will be there the entire time, it’s just going to seem like he’s not there for the first half of the year.
Middle infield: Really, I’m too lazy to give Freddy Sanchez and Jack Wilson their own entries at second base and shortstop, respectively. Freddy hasn’t been much of an offensive weapon since winning the National League batting title in 2006, and Wilson is a throwback player, in all possible ways. He’s an excellent defensive shortstop who dives for any ball in his zip code, but he’s also a light hitter. While the rest of the league has moved on (or tried to move on) to more complete players like Hanley Ramirez, Jose Reyes, and Jimmy Rollins, the Pirates have been trying to trade Wilson to anyone who will take him. But they won’t take him. It’s almost like the league has evolved to the point that a light-hitting shortstop doesn’t have much value. Wait, I think I’m on to something...
Third base: The Pirates will not have anybody at third base before or after the All-Star break. Actually, that’s not true. Andy LaRoche will be at the hot corner the entire season. It’s just going to seem like no one’s there. (If you’re not familiar with the LaRoche brothers, just think of them like the Giles brothers, only much, much worse.)
Outfield: Expect big years from Jason Bay and Xavier Nady. Sure, Bay can be streaky at times and his outfield range is lackluster, but his numbers will be there at the end of the season. Ditto Nady. Unfortunately, Bay and Nady will be playing for the Red Sox and Yankees, respectively, this season after being dealt prior to the trade deadline in 2008. In return, the Pirates “snagged” the following “major-league ready” outfield talent: Brandon Moss. Nate McLouth hopes to build on his breakout 2008 season, and while I hate to poo on his parade, his numbers following the Bay and Nady deals last year aren’t encouraging. I don’t want to suggest anything too distressing for Pirates fans, but methinks Nate is going to need a little more protection in the lineup if he hopes to repeat his 2008 numbers. Nyjer Morgan and Craig Monroe are also in the mix for outfield spots, but pondering either one getting significant playing time depresses me.
Are we done yet? Thank God. That was unbearable to write. There’s no real sense in providing a final outlook statement, but as this claims to be a season preview, I suppose it’s mandatory. Here’s my version: With a lackluster pitching staff, an inconsistent infield, and a outfield that lost 2 prime performers without getting any major-league help in return, Pirates fans can expect their club’s historic run of poor performance to continue in 2009 and beyond. Perhaps more distressing than the lack of talent at the major league level is the utter dearth of prospects in the farm system. With proper mismanagement, 20 consecutive losing seasons is not out of the question. Let’s put that in perspective. There are Pittsburghers who are legally driving who were not yet born the last time the Pirates posted a winning season. It’s possible that someday there will be Pittsburghers who are of legal drinking age who were not yet born the last time the Pirates posted a winning season. Jesus.
Actually, I think that makes a fine slogan for the 2009 club. “The 2009 Pittsburgh Pirates. Jesus.”
If everything goes according to plan (and don’t delude yourself, to disappoint for this long, there must be a plan), 2009 will mark the 17th consecutive losing season for the Pirates. They currently share the record for most consecutive losing seasons in a North American major professional sport (MLB, NFL, NBA, NHL) with the 1933-1948 Philadelphia Phillies. Perhaps Phillies fans from that time had it worse. After all, in addition to watching their club stagger to losing records year in and year out, they had to claw their way out of the Depression, watch their sons tangle with the Third Reich, and then be witness to the dawn of the nuclear era. Compare this to the current Pirates fan base, who have had to endure the likes of Pat Meares, Derek Bell, and Jimmy Anderson. It’s unclear which fan base has suffered more. Which is why this year is so important for the proud Pirates organization and its few remaining devotees. With another losing season, we can at least claim numerical superiority in the suffering column. In other words, we can finally win something.
Things are looking very promising for another losing season. Let’s break the team down position-by-position:
Starting pitching: Paul Maholm was regarded as the staff ace in 2008, in much the same way that Tom Gorzelanny was the ace in 2007, Ian Snell was the ace in 2006, and Zach Duke was the ace in 2005. Unfortunately, to be a proper ace, one is expected to perform at a high level for a period of several years. Performing at a high level for 1 to 3 months at a time means that you’re a #4 starter, which is essentially what Maholm, Gorzelanny, Duke, and Snell are. Unfortunately, other major league teams have pitchers they can rightly classify as #1 through #3 starters. In what I suspect is a related story, the Pirates staff posted the worst team ERA in the National League last season at 5.08, nearly 0.3 runs per game worse than the next worst team, the Colorado Rockies. As usual, there are a few youngsters who will be competing for a starting rotation spot whom Pirates management claim to be “high on.” Though tempting, I’ll refrain from making a joke about Pirates GM Neil Huntington grinding up and smoking Jeff Karstens, because I really see Huntington as a cocaine sort of guy.
Bullpen: Baseball writers often describe quality bullpens in ways that make them sound more like military reinforcements or structural supports on buildings. They use words like bolster and stabilize, and characterize reliable bullpen arms as modern day minutemen, ready to quell any offensive upswell by the HGH fueled opposition. Pirates fans are more accustomed to hearing their bullpen likened to flammable materials. This year should be no different. Matt Capps, John Grabow, and Tyler Yates will anchor this year’s pen. And, when I say “anchor,” I mean children under the age of 18 should not be allowed to watch the late innings of Pirates’ games.
Catcher: Ryan Doumit looks to build on his quality offensive numbers (.318, 15 HR, 69 RBI) from last season, while hoping to do a better job of staying healthy (only appeared in 116 games). Actually, I assume that’s what he’s hoping for. It’s what I’m hoping for. If nothing else, Doumit provided me with my favorite Pirates offseason quote. When Neal Huntington announced that Doumit had been signed to a long-term deal, he noted that both Doumit and the Pirates had to assume some risk with the contract. In response, Doumit told Karen Price of the Pittsburgh Tribune Review,
I didn’t look at it as a risk... I could see how it could be a risk to them with my injury list, but I didn’t think it was a risk at all for me.
Let me translate that for you:
I’m a competitive guy, and I’d prefer to play. Unfortunately, unless I’m encased in bubble wrap for the rest of eternity, I’m going to spend at least 6 weeks a year on the disabled list, and there’s a chance I’m going to suffer a career-ending injury in the next 18 months. Guaranteed money? Where do I sign?
First base: The Pirates will not have anybody at first base for the first half of the year. After the All-Star break, Adam LaRoche will be the Bucs’ first baseman. Actually, that’s not true. Adam will be there the entire time, it’s just going to seem like he’s not there for the first half of the year.
Middle infield: Really, I’m too lazy to give Freddy Sanchez and Jack Wilson their own entries at second base and shortstop, respectively. Freddy hasn’t been much of an offensive weapon since winning the National League batting title in 2006, and Wilson is a throwback player, in all possible ways. He’s an excellent defensive shortstop who dives for any ball in his zip code, but he’s also a light hitter. While the rest of the league has moved on (or tried to move on) to more complete players like Hanley Ramirez, Jose Reyes, and Jimmy Rollins, the Pirates have been trying to trade Wilson to anyone who will take him. But they won’t take him. It’s almost like the league has evolved to the point that a light-hitting shortstop doesn’t have much value. Wait, I think I’m on to something...
Third base: The Pirates will not have anybody at third base before or after the All-Star break. Actually, that’s not true. Andy LaRoche will be at the hot corner the entire season. It’s just going to seem like no one’s there. (If you’re not familiar with the LaRoche brothers, just think of them like the Giles brothers, only much, much worse.)
Outfield: Expect big years from Jason Bay and Xavier Nady. Sure, Bay can be streaky at times and his outfield range is lackluster, but his numbers will be there at the end of the season. Ditto Nady. Unfortunately, Bay and Nady will be playing for the Red Sox and Yankees, respectively, this season after being dealt prior to the trade deadline in 2008. In return, the Pirates “snagged” the following “major-league ready” outfield talent: Brandon Moss. Nate McLouth hopes to build on his breakout 2008 season, and while I hate to poo on his parade, his numbers following the Bay and Nady deals last year aren’t encouraging. I don’t want to suggest anything too distressing for Pirates fans, but methinks Nate is going to need a little more protection in the lineup if he hopes to repeat his 2008 numbers. Nyjer Morgan and Craig Monroe are also in the mix for outfield spots, but pondering either one getting significant playing time depresses me.
Are we done yet? Thank God. That was unbearable to write. There’s no real sense in providing a final outlook statement, but as this claims to be a season preview, I suppose it’s mandatory. Here’s my version: With a lackluster pitching staff, an inconsistent infield, and a outfield that lost 2 prime performers without getting any major-league help in return, Pirates fans can expect their club’s historic run of poor performance to continue in 2009 and beyond. Perhaps more distressing than the lack of talent at the major league level is the utter dearth of prospects in the farm system. With proper mismanagement, 20 consecutive losing seasons is not out of the question. Let’s put that in perspective. There are Pittsburghers who are legally driving who were not yet born the last time the Pirates posted a winning season. It’s possible that someday there will be Pittsburghers who are of legal drinking age who were not yet born the last time the Pirates posted a winning season. Jesus.
Actually, I think that makes a fine slogan for the 2009 club. “The 2009 Pittsburgh Pirates. Jesus.”
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