Ruminations 9.0

Greetings and salutations to my devoted readers and an extended hand to those who have the virtuoso-level supplies of patience necessary to tolerate me as a real person and not a clandestine character whose identity is neatly veiled by the insipid grays of the interweb.

Here's hoping that everyone had a safe and joyful Christmas time. In case you care, or in the event that you don't, I had a wonderful Holidays spent with family, and despite my thoughts of solitude that I shared with you all prior to the break, I have no complaints...

Especially when you consider the present that was delivered on a blustery night in North East London this past Tuesday.

Arsenal 3 - 0 Chelsea

Thanks Santa. For once, I actually got something that was on my list.

Theo Walcott looked like a man possessed, and despite some early heavy touches by he and captain Cesc Fabregas, the two managed to team-up on two occasions in a two-minute second-half span that cemented the much needed result. The top of the table is tighter than a newborn stuffed with an engorged yam, made even better by Lee Bowyer's late equalizer last-night against Man United that has United, cross-town poofters City and heroic talismen Arsenal within close proximity.


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In the spirit of the scatter-brain state of Ruminations, I wanted to take but a brief moment to identify something that really pisses me right off. Previously, I've done rather well by my lofty standards to point-out some massive violations of the English language, both spoken and written. As a writer, I take pride in the words I produce and on the maintenance of a high-standard of said writing.

Sure, every once and a while, I'll publish a "having said that" or a "be that as it may", but this is my site, and I don't receive a penny per word, only an enhanced self-esteem, now similar to that of an anorexic goth-chick from a flyover state with a history of childhood abuse and glue consumption.

Having said that (piss-off), in a past piece about titled "The Death of the English Language", I identify the problem with writer's usage of cliches. Like using a vibrator during sex, there's a time and there's a place for such things.

Cliches, proverbs, popular metaphors and analogies can all do a great deal towards helping to paint a picture for a reader, but like the flogging of a dead horse, there are invisible limits which should not be traversed.

What really angers me is the usage of the word 'proverbial', as in "you hit the proverbial nail on the head". In conversation, when a term such as the aforementioned is used, unless you are literally putting a finishing nail in a ninety-degree casing while framing a home, we mutually comprehend that you are not actually striking a nail with a hammer, but instead accurately depicting or answering a query.

There is never ever ever a need to say proverbial - it is sophomoric, novice and fucking stupid.

If you choose to resort to a proverbial statement, make a concerted effort to avoid saying the word. Your friends will appreciate it.

Good People: Rudy Favard

In ths spirit of the holidays, I'm re-gifting this fine article. Thanks to DS for the link and to the Boston Globe for publishing stories like these.

We could all afford to be a little bit more like Rudy Favard. Enjoy and Merry Christmas to all.

MELROSE — Everybody was waiting for Rudy.

On Tuesday night, Patty and Rick Parker were in their cramped kitchen with their 8-year-old son Ben. Dinner was over. Bedtime was near.

Ben’s twin brother, Sammy, lay on a cot in the narrow hallway just outside the kitchen. Unable to see or speak or control his limbs, he coughed or let out a little moan every now and then. Rick and Patty took turns feeding Sammy, who has cerebral palsy, through a stomach tube. He cooed when they kissed his face or stroked his cheek, and when they cooed back, he opened his mouth into a wide, joyful O.

A few feet away was the narrow, winding stairway that is the family’s biggest burden lately.

Which is where 17-year-old Rudy’s simple, life-changing act of kindness comes in.

Until recently, Rick carried Sammy up those 14 stairs to his bedroom each night. But a few months ago, Rick had major surgery for a life-threatening heart condition, and now he can’t lift much at all, let alone a 75-pound child.

“We thought Rick was going to die, and we were terrified,’’ Patty recalled. “We knew right away he had to stop carrying Sam.’’

Patty couldn’t carry him, either. Desperate, she called her pediatrician, who put her in touch with Elizabeth Paquette, the nurse at Malden Catholic High School. Paquette said she’d take care of it. The boys at Malden Catholic are taught to embrace service: She’d find plenty of students to help.

Rudy Favard was the first kid Paquette came across after that call. At Malden Catholic on a partial scholarship from the Catholic Schools Foundation, this son of Haitian immigrants was one of Paquette’s treasures. The linebacker, cocaptain of the football team and honor roll student was always willing to lend a hand.

The nurse had barely begun telling Rudy about the Parkers before he said he’d help. Another boy would fill in for Rudy on game nights. And a third boy was on standby in case neither of the others could make it.

When Paquette brought the boys to meet the family for the first time, the Parkers cried.

“Just to see this outpouring of people,’’ Rick Parker began, his eyes welling at the memory. “To see that these people were willing to put their hands and feet to what they believed. . .’’

It is profoundly isolating to have a child as severely disabled as Sammy. It’s hard even for well-meaning friends to understand the immense strain of his all-consuming needs. Patty and Rick — who tried for 8 years to get pregnant before Ben and Sam were born — grieve for one son’s lost potential every day, even as they struggle to give the other as normal a life as possible.

“You plan for your child’s future, but it’s hard to do that for Sam,’’ Rick said. “You have this pathway he should have taken, and the pathway he did take, and you don’t want to look at either one.’’

And over it all hangs the certainty that Sammy’s condition will never improve — even as he gets bigger and heavier.

Into this world of love and hurt comes Rudy. Four nights a week, he leaves his homework and makes the 10-minute drive to the Parker house. Around 8 p.m., he carries Sammy upstairs, chats a bit, hugs everybody, and heads home to finish his work. After considerable effort, the Parkers convinced Rudy to take enough money to cover gas, with a little left over.

In the few months the Parkers have known him, Rudy has become not just a help with Sammy, but a salve for their pain. He and Rick talk about football. Patty quizzes him on girls. Ben usually parks himself as close to Rudy as possible, looking up at him adoringly. And most nights, Sam will tremble with excitement as Rudy picks him up.

“It’s like family,’’ said the shy senior. It goes both ways: The Parkers were on the field with Rudy’s mother the night Malden Catholic honored its senior football players.

And so Rudy had barely knocked on the door Tuesday night before Ben was at it, jumping up and down, yelling, “Rudy is here! Rudy is here!’’

He greeted the Parkers, and went over to Sammy, gently lifting the boy’s left arm and sliding his hands under his back, the way Rudy’s father, a professional caregiver, had shown him. He lifted Sammy and held him close to his chest, and as the boy made his joyful O, Rudy carefully maneuvered him around the corners on the narrow stairway.

You couldn’t help but be struck by the painful contrast between the two boys: The robust athlete cradling the pale, helpless child; the young man preparing to go out into the world carrying someone who never will.

It’s a comparison lost on nobody, least of all Rudy himself.

“Can I ask you something?’’ he said, sitting in the Parkers’ living room after Sammy was asleep. “Is it OK if this article is more about Sam than me?’’

Why?

“He’s done more for me than I’ve done for him,’’ Rudy said. “There are times when I don’t want to go to practice, and then I look at Sam. By God’s grace, I can do what I’m doing, so I should keep it up. I’ve never been one to complain a lot, but just seeing Sam reaffirms everything, you know?’’

The Parkers won’t have Rudy for long. He’s already been accepted at four colleges, and others are courting him. Where he goes depends on financial aid and football.

The Parkers hope to be out of this cramped house and into a bigger one — with no stairs — before Rudy leaves town in search of his degree.

Until then, Rudy will bound up to the modest, pale green house on Fairmount Street. He’ll carry Sammy up to his cozy room. Then, for a little while, he’ll carry the Parkers somewhere better, too.

Personal Shit: The Holidays

Well being that it's but a few days from Christmas, I am allowed more free time than usual to reflect on the past year that was - and what an amazing year it was. My standards for life have grown to new heights.

This year will be the first Christmas that I've been single in 5 years. Despite the fact that I will be surrounded by family and friends, there is something missing. The holidays are a time when the lonely really feel that solitude, and I can somewhat empathize with that notion this year.

If you love somebody - make it work, and if it doesn't, because many things in life are beyond repair, then have no regrets.

Allow the holiday season to gather some perspective on life.

I have just now finished compiling a list of the 5 things I want in the New Year. These things are not available in stores, but are things on which I build my foundation. Nothing lying under that Christmas tree will have any lasting value. It can be a new job, finish that novel you started, or even get your ex-girlfriend back - whatever it is, allow nothing to get in your way.

Compared to my typically sarcastic and barely-comedic tone on this site, all of this may sound bizarre - perhaps it's the season to reflect.

Compile your own list of 5 things you want in the New Year, spend the next 8 days until then getting really fucked-up on egg nog and spiced rum and enjoying the company of who you have, and come January 1st - start with the list of 5.

All of life's goals are achievable, you just have to set them for yourself and have an insatiable desire to achieve them.

Happy Holidays from badnewsblog.

Lunar Eclipse: Live Blog

It's Lunar Eclipse time boys and girls.

A lunar eclipse occurs when the moon passes behind the earth so that the earth blocks the sun's rays from striking the moon. This can occur only when the Sun, Earth, and Moon are aligned exactly, or very closely so, with the Earth in the middle.

Initially I had trouble understanding this (obviously I'm joking), until I drew a diagram where the earth is my junk, and the sun and the moon are my two balls, where if everything is in proper order, a lunar eclipse will occur in my pants.

Because of this, there is always a full moon the night of a lunar eclipse. The type and length of an eclipse depend upon the Moon's location relative to its orbital nodes. Orbital nodes could not be metaphorically translated into the aforementioned analogy, though I'm told from a friend of a friend that I may have contracted orbital nodes once in university.

Let's take this opportunity to use the world wide web to its fullest and have ourselves a little live chat.

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1:48AM - Fuck it's bright out. Between the snow and the light emitted from the moon (yes, I'm aware the moon doesn't produce light), you'd think we're enjoying a midnight sun in southwest Ontario. Yippee.

1:54AM - Well, this is going rather swimmingly - there is nobody participating in this live chat, however, despite the lack of reaction, nay support, I continue to stare at the moon.

1:59AM - Just made popcorn. Still no participants, eclipse continues to cover the left-side of the moon, approximately a third of the way.

2:04AM - Wowzers. Briefly stopped by the loo to make water and pause for a quick, yet necessary exfoliation, only to find upon returning to the kitchen window that the moon is now half-covered. Live chat members total 1. Yours Truly.

2:20AM - Holy fuck the eclipse is really moving now - which is the complete inverse of this live blogging experiment.

2:21AM - On another subject, Mavs beat the Heat, halting their win streak at 12. Take that Lebron. Somewhere, Jamario Moon is finally smiling, as astronomers worldwide mistakenly check his twitter feed.

2:29AM - Now but a sliver of the vibrant moon remains visible. Much like my confidence, with each passing signal, the light begins to vanish like the bulb at the end of the dock in F. Scott's marquee work, slipping away through the sands of time.

2:35AM - Goodnight Moon. See you tomorrow night, hopefully as I serenade your beauty as I stumble home drunkenly with confidence momentarily regained and temporally intact.

Thanks for participating in this maiden voyage of the badnewsblog live blogging.

(italics used to imply sarcasm.)

Where Amazing Happens Sometimes: Picture Of The Year

First off, yes I am aware that the title "Where Amazing Happens Sometimes" requires a comma after the Happens. In order to modify this I would need two things I don't have a surplus of to go-back an alter the tags on all of my NBA bits; patience and time. So for the time being, it is what it is.

See all those bald, portly Jewish-looking dudes sitting on their asses underneath the baskets at NBA games? No, not Jon Lovitz sitting courtside, the other ones. The same guys that get flattened by Shaq and kicked by Dennis Rodman are there to take photos of the action taking place before them. Often the shots are mundane and indicative of the repetitive nature of the game and what transpires in the paint; white dudes getting dunked on, players leaping en mass for a rebound and homo-erotic scrums for a loose ball.

Sometimes said photographers capture brilliance. In but a week's span, two shots were captured that require noting.

The first I stumbled upon while reading Bethlehem Shoals in-depth coverage of the Miami Heat in "Heat Strokes" which my friends at Deadspin.com publish following Heat games. Shoals also writes for FreeDarko.com, which is one of my favorite sites on the interweb. They also recently published an amazing book on the subject of basketball which is a must-have for fans of the hardwood.

No, not that hardwood, if you fancy that well I can't help you, well actually I probably could, but I have my eyes on something else. Shotta!

That right there is a statement picture. Captured accidentally, it displays the "Big Three" in various stages (Yup, that's Chris Bosh marinating under his own basket - way to run the break buddy.) At the time, I thought this might be the photo of the year.

Until last night, following the Celtics win over the Knicks at MSG, whilst trolling online I found this gem. Despite the fact it's not during game action as is the above photo, find me another shot that features four teammates each in a different stage of celebration. Not sure what Nate Robinson is up to, but you have to love Garnett's Vaudeville-like pose no?

Funny how similar Paul Pierce's pose is to Mr. Wade's in the previous photo. Trust me, Pierce is very aware of this fact and enjoys being 20-4 while the rest of the league talks about the Heat.


How aware is my boy P Squared aka The Truth about the goings on around the league, following a second consecutive defeat of the Heat, he tweeted this:

"It's been a pleasure to bring my talents to south beach now on to Memphis"

Obviously trivializing LeBron's choice of words in "The Decision" to which, in reply, Heat power forward called Udonis Haslem said this:

"Paul who? Man, ain't nobody paying them dudes no attention, man. You know what studio gangster is? Look up that, look up the definition of studio gangster. I'm here to play basketball. First of all, I don't tweet. So I wouldn't know what he tweeted if you guys didn't tell me."

Damn, that makes me chuckle every time. Haslem calling Pierce a studio gangster - ouch.

Just another reason this season, like I've said numerous times before, is the best since Michael left the Bulls for the final time. The Bulls I said, fuck that 27.6 points a game with the Wizards with Tyronne Lue at the point, I don't count that rubbish.

Things Done Changed: Santa, I Actually Want Something This Year

Word has it Christmas is around the corner?

How could you not notice? Even those living under the proverbial rock are inundated with Mariah Carey's "All I Want For Christmas..." ad nauseum.

As I get older I care less and less for what I receive as gifts, and more for the time spent with family and the creative nature of my gift-giving tendencies.

In other words, I don't hold my bated breath in anticipation of an amazing gift.

Sure, last year I was spoiled by both my parents and my girlfriend, but it was a bit of an abbhoration. This Christmas, I'm single for the first time since Seattle had an NBA team and frankly, I don't deserve much.

Leave it to a UK Grime rapper Tinchy Stryder to change all of that with a 3-minute video.

Santa, I've been an above average young man and I want, nay I demand an iPad.

Peyton Hillis: Barrier Breaker

Despite losing Sunday to the Buffalo Bills, Peyton Hillis became the first white running back to rush for a 1000 yards since New England's Craig James did so in 1985.

Amongst NFL running backs, 1000 yards rushing for a season has become a benchmark for success. Mr. Hillis deserves praise for his efforts this season with the Cleveland Browns not because he is white, but because he overcame anonymity whilst playing with the Denver Broncos, to find his niche in Cleveland.

As much as I'd like to think race does not matter, let's face it - white running backs are less common on a professional stage than are black hockey players in the NHL. There are certain positions on a football team, often called the 'skilled positions', that are dominated by African-American athletes. Where speed and agility is required, such as in the case of running backs and wide receivers, most often these positions are held by black players.

This is not a forum on the ethnic and physiological reasons for why certain races excel at certain sports, while others seem to struggle in comparison, however the fact remains that the numbers don't lie.

Odds are, parents of children playing amateur football are aware of the percentages and motivate their kids to play other positions, or even other sports such as lacrosse.

The dissenting opinions of naysayers and those that told him it couldn't be done are no different than those that criticized black quarterbacks 25 years ago for lacking the cerebral qualities and leadership skills required to lead a team. The likes of Donovan McNabb and Michael Vick would be quick to point out that things change, and stereotypes do nothing but motivate the hungry.

Kudos to Peyton Hillis for overcoming such stereotypes, succeeding on the field and inspiring kids across America, not only white ones, but children of all ethnicities, that labels mean nothing and molds are made to be broken.

Letterz From Da Editor 3

Before I get started with today's installment, yesterday a reader approached me on the streets and asked me what the core concept was behind my blog. Following a brief moment of internal reflection, I answered with a long, drawn-out 'uhhhhhhh', followed by a 'wellllllll funny you should ask that.'

Funny because as much as I try to have some central ideas behind the site, I do it for myself. I write it for myself and do not use it as an attempted means of garnering respect from my fellow writers or as a portfolio of sorts for my legitimate career ventures. The copious usage of F-bombs and the continuous haphazard posting of blogs related to YouTube-embedded rap videos should imply as much.

I am an 80's baby, and I grew-up with a bizarre melange of rap, punk and Sub Pop-era indie rock, skateboards and mountain bikes, the kids of Beverly Hills 90210 and Saved By The Bell, Bill Nye and Mr. Dress-Up. My current standing was molded by the likes of Nintendo, Marv Albert and Mike Fratello, Tom Cheek and Jerry Howarth, winning Blue Jays teams and Maple Leafs squads floating mainly in the purgatory of mediocrity. Michael Jordan, and later Thierry Henry were my Christ-like figures, with John Steinbeck, Mordecai Richler, James Joyce, Mark Twain and Nick Hornby as my literary disciples.

The point being, my interests now, as tempered by my interests as a youth, are as varied as ever.

This is a blog about the things I love. One day there may be a compelling well-written piece about Toronto's streetcars, the next day a fluff piece linking rappers by way of guest appearances on each other's work. There may be a week of NBA discussions, followed by a book recommendation or anecdotes from my travels in Europe.

One core idea I do try to implement and discuss is that the times are changing - for the worst. I believe I am from the last generation before the birth of the hypochondriac, excuse-making, allergic to everything and generally pussy-gentrified generation that I often critique here at badnewsblog. Albeit, my generation is the one that is destroying the world, but it is the next one that be the fuel for my fire.

I hope everybody who either follows this blog or stumbles upon it enjoys it for what it's worth.

Having said that (a term I despise, yet still use too often), I plan on making an effort to veer-away from the sophmoric and novice post that any blogger could bang-out in a few minutes, and instead emphasize on learning through writing, and of course, many post-comma 'ands'.

Occasionally, we might even learn a thing or two together. Thanks for reading.

Dipset Fridays: 6 Degrees Of Juelz Santana

Greetings. Today, we're going to play six degress of Juelz Santana. From NYC to 'Bama, ATL to Houston, to the council estates in London and a voice that gives me goosebumps. Enjoy!



Yella is soooo greasy.



Dungeon Family + White Trash = Heaven on Wax



I love me some mature rap.



Houston wardies + Dizzee = Fuckin' Magic. R.I.P. Pimp C



Yup... That's right - We just did Juelz to Flo and The Machine with a few stops in between. That was fun no?

FIFA: Crooked-Ass Bastards Part Deux

Today, amidst considerable dissent from media worldwide, FIFA President and Swiss National Sword Swallowing Champion 1968-2010 announced the 4 nations vying for the 2026 World Cup.

The envelope please.

And the nominees are:

1) Djibouti/Ethiopia/Eritrea joint venture (matches will be played using the skulls of Sudanes Rebels as adidas official game ball and the posts will be antique AK's from the Afghan War with modified bayonettes used as a means of anchoring into the arrid East African sand.)

2) Yugoslavia (when informed of changes in the Balkan region over the last 20 years, Blatter insisted they fight for the right to house the 12 necessary venues. Chaos enused in Zagreb, Belgrade and all towns inbetween, as sales of firearms and Asamoah Gyan jerseys rose steadily.)

3) Alderan/Tatooine joint venture (currently searching for a third host, preferably from the Coruscant, Tatooine or Kor-uj sectors.)

4) Qatar (Oh wait - fuck me. Thought it was all a dream.)

Where Amazing Happens Sometimes: Dick Bavetta Rapes Raps

Any fan of the L knows who Dick Bavetta is. The longest serving active NBA referee has been the face of officiating for years, through both good times (eliminating hand checking rules) and the bad (Tim Donaghy's match-fixing scandal).

As a natural reaction to teams performances and the calls that go against them, fans often react negatively towards the officials, their verbal criticisms and boos a means of implying that they are partial towards certain franchises. Just ask any knowledgeable Mavericks or Spurs fans about their records when one of the Crawford brothers is officiating, especially Dallas' putrid record when Joey Crawford has the whistle in his hand.

Last night the Raps were robbed by Mr. Bavetta in a 3-point loss to the Knicks at the Madison Square Gardens 113-110.

Despite the fact that the Knicks have been on a tear of late, the Raptors played well, led by Andrea Bargnani's career-high 41 points which included an outburst of 15 points in the game's final 12 minutes.

Regardless of their effort, the Raps could not get a break, and I'm not even considering Raymond Felton's game-winning three ball with under 3 seconds remaining that bounced upon the rim more times than Shawn Bradley has been posterized by large black men.



You may be asking yourself why bitch about the officiating and do you have any specific instances to back-up your point? Fuck you, and yes should adequately answer both queries.

Late in the 4th quarter, Amir Johnson was called for a 3-second violation, which in the event you suck at life and know nothing, means an offensive player cannot remain inside the paint for a duration of 3-seconds without a part of him (i.e. his foot) outside of the area. The whistle was blown just after a jump shot was taken, which means the final of the penalized 3-seconds is a moot point as a shot was taken. That would be the first grave error.

The second is far more infuriating, and a call that in itself is rarely made. With the Knicks up 110-107 with 57 seconds remaing, Raps forward Linas Kleiza was called for a 5-second violation, which penalizes a team if they are not able to inbound the ball within the allotted period of 5-seconds. I'm struggling to find the clip on YouTube, but it was clearly not more than 3-seconds when Bavetta crew-mate Tony Brothers blew his whistle. Post-game Kleiza had this to say;

"Definitely I thought it was three or four seconds. I never had one go against me like that. I definitely don't want to comment about the calls. You know how the NBA does it. You guys don't want me to get fined. It is what it is."

Conspiracy theories aside, any fan of the game knows that the league wants its marquee franchises to succeed. For long enough, the Knicks have blown chunks all over the hallowed court at MSG and embarrassed their ever-passionate fan base. They are due for some success, and commissioner David Stern must be frothing-at-the-mouth witnessing the revival of the playoff bound Knicks and a basketball revitalization in the country's largest market.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not even hating on the Knicks. I like Amar'e Stoudamire and Coach Mike D'Antoni because they run high-tempo offensive sets and I love me some names with punctuation. Raymond Felton has found his niche, Wilson Chandler is my black cousin and holy fuck, how did Landry Fields go from dropping 12 a game with Stanford to being the starting 2 Guard for the Knicks? Who-the-fuck-knows, regardless I like the Knicks and they're far more tolerable minus the Isiah factor.

Fair enough, but do you have to fuck the Raps like this as a means to an end. Nobody wants to play here but a handful of Europeans and frankly, for that matter, Bargnani and the boys are playing with a shitload of heart each and every night, only to be ridiculed by pundits as the league's worst starting five.

You know what, fuck you Knick Bavetta, fuck you NBA officiating committee and fuck all those players who don't want to live in Canada and play for the Raps because it snows too much and there's a shortage of fried chicken spots. There's a foot of snow at the base of the Eiffel Tower as I write this and Toronto's bigger than the Dallas-Fort Worth area. So fuck everybody - I'm out.

Ruminations 8.0: G20 Summit Follow-Up

First things first, something that will be relevant only to readers who like myself are native Torontonians or those who have a penchant for humanitarian goodwill. The Toronto Star needs to drop the whole police abuse of protesters rant they've been on for months.

If you require a refresher, I wrote a piece about the G20 Summit in Toronto a few months back. Apparently the local paper has it out for the police and their handling of the situation. A man named Adam Nobody has filed complaints against the police for an unlawful beating at their hands as a result of his supposed peaceful protests.

Mr. Nobody, who should shut-up and seek anonymity like his name suggests, suffered a broken nose and some facial lacerations, and because of this has become the cause of concern for the Star and it's anti-police agenda.

Apparently Mr. Nobody was holding a sign that read "Let Donna Graduate". If you recall either Beverly Hills 90210 or my installments on the topic of the show, you'll remember that Donna Martin (played by Tori Spelling) was kicked-out of school just prior to graduation. Without a high school education, the future looked bleak for Donna. Because of her physical appearance, odds are she'd be sent-out to stud for a few months before being slaughtered and refined into glue.

Eventually, the school wilted under the pressure of Mr. Spelling's script and allowed Donna to graduate. Thank God for that. Mr. Nobody thought his sign would incite laughter because of its trivial nature, and it did, at least I laughed when I heard it, but nonetheless the police were put in a difficult situation.

Amongst thousands of police, it can be expected that there were a few bad apples. The Toronto Star clearly has a few, just read the entertainment section (not including Peter Howell, Ben Rayner or Richard Ouznanian) or the GTA section (which amounts to 8 pages of journalistic diarrhea) to confirm that within each sub-section of the work force, there are those who take less pride in their work than others.

The Toronto Star is painting a picture that casts doubts on the entire force, pigeonholing the 99% who are upstanding police officers into the same category as the few that allegedly committed brutal and violent attacks during the G20 Summit.

Were I, or any of my readers put in a situation with our backs to the wall and a handful of violent protesters wreaking havoc amongst the civil and peaceful lot, I wonder how you or I would have reacted.

I think, nay I know, that one skids broken nose and the misuse of power of a single police officer does not necessitate front-page news months after the fact.

The Toronto Star, you are my jerk of the week. Enjoy.

By no means does the above opinion have anything to do with the fact that the Star has repeatedly turned-down the authors query letters and freelance work because it's too fucking cheap to hire real writers, after letting-go of much of their senior staff because they are moving-away from salaries and towards contract work for recent grads with whom they can play puppet master.

Things Done Changed: Getting Old

It is well for the world that in most of us, by the age of thirty, the character has been set like plaster, and will never soften again.

William James said that. A native of Chocorua, New Hampshire, James was a pioneering psychologist and philosopher at the turn of the 20th, who disregarded his training as a medical doctor to charge hourly and mind-fuck his patients.

Why waste my valuable time - a measure of time relative to Zimbabwean-like inflation - to mention his origins? Well for one, he's from a town named Chocorua, a moniker adopted to pay homage to Count Chocula. Secondly, and most noteworthy of all is that the good doctor shun a more practical form of medicine, one which I would most certainly fancy the assistance of in my current debilitated state.

In the spirit of the holidays and the seemingly endless adaptation of traditional Christmas songs, the author would like to alter the above quote to speak volumes of his currently fragile state.

Substitute character for back.

It is well for the world that in most of us, by the age of thirty, the back has been set like plaster, and will never soften again.

This morning I awoke with a back so tight, it's rigidity left me paralysed much like Harrison Ford was in that boring sci-fi trilogy that nerds beat-off to, but sits well below my allowed standard of 'no attractive women, yet still redeemable' entertainment. No I don't think Princess Leia is hot, Natalie Portman however, is a completely different story.

What I would do to that woman with my light-saber...

Anyways, my back is killing me. Perhaps it's a combination of several variables such as age, granite-like mattress density or the impending winter chill, regardless, it took me at least 15 minutes to erect myself completely vertical. The last time it took that long was, well never, and yes I am still talking about my back.

For the better part of the day, I thought of the finite nature of time and life, and how in the last year I've aged physically more so than any year I can recall since high school. These notions had me down for a moment, but like a phoenix rising from the ashes of shit, I too rose from the fiery chasm which once crippled me in fear.

As a mechanism to drown such negativity, I reverted to my youth and read a little Mark Twain. Funny how a few words can really change your day for the better, which for all intensive purposes, is something I hope this site never does for you. It is called bad news isn't it?

Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don't mind, it doesn't matter.

FIFA: Crooked-Ass Bastards

"I'd say it's about this big give-or-take an inch" replied Blatter when questioned about the one of the many dildos included in Russia's lavish gift basket sent to the Swiss FIFA boss.


South Africa, Brazil, Russia and Qatar.

Four countries that have more in common than you may think. They are all third-world nations with notable major issues. They are also the hosts of the last World Cup, and the three that will follow until 2022.

Legacies matter to pompous men who wear expensive suits and have far too much power. Where NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman's legacy was growing the game in the sun-belt, and his former boss NBA Commish David Stern's was financial stability and a worldwide profile, FIFA President Sepp Blatter's will be remembered as the man who spurned Europe for other more irrational choices.

Russia is the world's largest country, and beyond the lack of a solid infrastructure, the sheer size of the country provides some serious obstacles for travel between venues. They are also in need of some new stadiums and it would be nice if their government weren't corrupt and tied to the mob, as seemingly every Russian appears to be. President Vladimir Putin is the world's Alpha Dog and likely sent Blatter a gift basket of birds named Svetlana and Oksana that went to town on Ol' Sepp.

Qatar makes a little more sense than Russia, only because the Middle East has been a bit of an untapped resource for FIFA and has pockets that are economically viable. However, beyond these pockets exists a third-world country that is stuck in the 19th century, with a government-imposed ban on homosexuality and stringent laws against alcohol consumption. Besides this, the temperature during the day can reach 110 degrees and the country is roughly the size of Connecticut.

Are you fucking serious? England's bid for 2018 received only 2 votes to finish 4th out of 4 teams. The U.S.'s bid for 2022 was similarly received by Blatter, a man who has far too much power considering the pantheon of ignorant statements and decisions he's made in the past. England is the birthplace of the game and since the World Cup 1994 hosted by the Yanks, the game has grown even more so and many clubs around the world have experienced an increase in revenues based on American consumerism.

While pundits believe the on-field fracas between Birmingham and cross-town rivals Aston Villa supporters the other night may have doomed the English bid, it's clear that Blatter was against the idea from the get-go. During the selection ceremony Thursday he even pointed-out that China, not England, is the birthplace of soccer. Bollocks Seppi, kicking-about the decapitated head of a Hun doesn't qualify as the creation of the world's game.

FIFA is corrupt and it has never been as apparent as yesterday. My plans to attend a future World Cup with my yet to be born offspring have now been dashed by one man, who like other power-drunk bureaucrats worldwide, needs to step-down before he is forced to resign.

Things Done Changing: My Opinion of Lebron

Boy, am I glad tonight is over and done with. The result may not have been the one I had initially wanted, crafted in compliance with the angry, biased and journalistic integrity-breaching built-up penned by the likes of Adrian Wojnerowski - but alas I am pleased with the outcome.

I'm not a Lebron guy, nor can I argue that he is not a physical aberration and probably the prototype of all future cloned professional basketball players. Something about him bothers me and the whole "The Decision" spectacle left a gnarley taste in my mouth probably more than it should have.

From the moment I first witnessed the King James show live and up-close, I hated the talcum-powder toss, the seemingly disingenuous smiles and the way he walked on his toes (something that is not as apparent on TV - my dislike for which is based on growing-up amongst ethnically confused boys whose fancy for 'urban wear' with soquettes and Jordan's led to an over-reliance of the metatarsals.)

Tonight I forgot all about it.

The Heat took the Cavs out-back of the shed and whipped them like they just cursed at they mamas. Lebron looked engaged, interested and motivated. It's about fucking time buddy. For Christ's sake, he dropped 24 in the third. Shit.

This could be a turning point for the Heat, but they still suck, have awkward offensive schemes and sets and are perhaps the least-balanced team in the league.

The cause of Cavs supporters, whose misfortune became a nation's point of both pity and sympathy, was erased in but one night with the chorus of boos and cruel signs.

We have felt your pain and joined you in your hatred of the smug face seen on "The Decision", but he torched your asses, decided to leave a bleak and insipid Midwestern town for the T&A of Miami and that's that. You've had your moment on the soap-box, your cries were heard, and we've had enough.

It's a sport and a business, and as fans, let's face it, sometimes we care a whole hell of a lot more than the athletes themselves.

Can you blame the pencil-pusher for jumping at the opportunity to move from the cramped cubicle to the corner office? Nope.

In the spirit of the holidays, I'm going get off the man's back and leave him be. If a dissenting opinion of the man should come-up, I'll do what the people of Cleveland should do, and keep it to myself.

Where Amazing Happens Sometimes: Game Recognize Game

I posted the dunk when it happened nearly a fortnight ago. Amare's recognition of B.G. makes it that much better.



"Game recognize game" - couldn't be better described, not mine and used without permission.

Phoneshop

Again, my apologies for the lack of posts this week - not that anyone really gives a fuck - but I've been a bit busy. Also because England's Channel 4 has produced another winner: Phoneshop.

Leslie Nielsen: Peace-Out

"Doing nothing is very hard to do... you never know when you're done."

This Week's Winner of the Dave Parker Award for Excellence: Fred & Barney

This dated advertisement could also fit under the category of "Things Done Changed".

Boy, those were the days, when children's cartoons characters would slang smokes for the suits at Philip Morris and the like. I'm struggling to see any parallels between underage cigarette use and commercials such as the above - but it's a lazy Friday and I got turkey on my mind.

Turkey? Yes turkey. It's Thanksgiving for our American friends to the south, and by virtue of the fact that I have a sister on scholarship to an school in the States who's visiting, me mammy is whippin'-up a nice bird for the fam.

Speaking of Turkey...



That would be the home supporters of Turkish football club Besiktas welcoming new off-season acquisition Allen Iverson, who signed a 2-year deal to play with the Besiktas Basketball Club in Istanbul. You have to be happy for the guy. He's gone through some difficult family issues concerning divorce and a daughter's health over the last while, compounded by the fact that the once perennial all-star couldn't find a club that would start him - that smile made my day - no homo.

Now his only concern should be to avoid Fenerbahce and Galatasaray fans when on a promenade throughout the beautiful continent dividing city of Istanbul. Them Turks are passionate about their clubs, especially the three Istanbul clubs who between them, share a fair amount of hatred.

Don't believe me? Ask Graham Souness. The Englishman was the manager of Turkish side Galatasaray in the mid 1990's. Following a defeat of cross-town rivals Fenerbahce, Souness ran to the midfield point and stuck a massive flag donning the famous Galatasaray Gold & Red for all the angry Fenerabahce supporters to see. Bloody English and their ignorance of other people's hatred.



The hatred shared by the Instanbul clubs for one another is so great, that in the Fenerbahce dominated part of Istanbul, the McDonald's signs are blue and gold, and not the common red and gold also used by Galatasaray. I'm not kidding.

Letterz From Da Editor 2

I've been eagerly anticipating this moment for some time, but finally the time has come. One of, if not my favorite websites, Deadspin.com asked its readers a few weeks back to submit some awkward team photos from their youths. Today they were posted.



http://deadspin.com/5693693/the-awkward-team-photos-of-our-awkward-youth-and-one-dog-a-gallery/gallery/15

If anybody can guess which of the approved commenters I am based on my screen name and avatar, you will win a framed copy of my 1987 Guildwood Softball League team photo sponsored by Rapid Lube Oil Change & Filter.

Things I've Learned From Rap: Words Mean Nothing

Sitting around today, just living in the fuckin lap o' luxury, thinking about a blog entry and the common themes of this page came to mind.

The staff here, a collective greater than the quantitative measures of mathematics (see 1), have always strived to assist in the progression of targeting certain ideas without deviating from the script.

On that note, let's revisit the idea of the Things I've Learned from Rap Music.

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According to the massive breadth of rap music I have been privied to, it would seem that contextually - words do not matter. A very small percentage of what rappers actually put on vinyl is factual.

Not much different from fictional literature, the words are meant to tell a story, paint the proverbial picture and provide a form of escapism for its readers or listeners. The problem with this is that rappers posture themselves to give the impression that what they say is the truth i.e. Real talk.

While Master P aka Percy Miller might want to convince you that his driveway is actually similar to a dealership based on the number and production date of his automobiles, C.S. Lewis would never try to have us believe that their is indeed an amazing fantasy land blanketed by snow and inhabited by strange woodland creatures easily accessible at the rear of your wardrobe.

Which reminds me - this video is a nice introduction:



Let's face it - rappers are artists no different than a folk singer or a writer - they have a passion for their craft and even at the most unreknowned of standings, give said craft effort. Based on my experiences, its impossible to be both in the studio and on the block chopping that rock at the same time. One or the other I'd reckon.

When an artist is talking about his army of luxury vehicles or his arsenal of weapons with armor-piercing rounds, inevitably he is lying. Perhaps these false statements are metaphors or intelligently veiled notions meant to inspire its listeners visuals, but nonetheless, they are factually incorrect. There are examples that both come-off a blatant lies and those that sound false, but are more difficult to prove.

Let's have a gander at a few examples;

Bling, Bling - B.G. feat. Hot Boyz, Birdman and Mannie Fresh (1998)

B.G. "I got the price of a mansion around ma neck and wrist, my dog Baby got a special-built machine, Mercedes Benz 700, V-14." (@3:15)

This track is stuffed to the brim with braggadocio and inaccuracies, however perhaps B.G. takes the cake. Not only does he say that he has the price of a mansion around his neck and wrist, which cannot be true, even if we were to fast-forward a decade and purchase that post-Katrina home at 90% off, but he states that Baby aka Birdman had a custom-built automobile made for B.G. that was a V-14. The V refers to the cylinder-type of the car, where the 14 represents the number of cylinders. The original Benz 700 1998 was a 8 cylinder (V8) which was a common for a luxury vehicle at the time, however even if Baby had the scratch to afford a V-14 modification, he would have had a struggle finding somebody pre-millennium to do the mod. He lying.




Hustlin' - Rick Ross (2006)

In the very insular hip-hop community, there has been a fair bit of backlash concerning Miami's own Booby Boi Ricky Ross. Prior to entering the world of recording arts, Rick Ross was a prison guard, which contradicts much of what he has to say about being a drug-dealer and all-around hustler. His 2006 breakout smash hit Hustlin' is ripe with lies and inaccuracies.

Rick Ross - "I know Pablo, Noriega, the real Noriega he owe me a hundred favours." (1:10)

Here Mr. Ross is very clear that he knows that actual Noriega, who's first name is Manuel, and not Pablo, so I assume he's also speaking of Colombia drug kingpin Pablo Escobar, who was murdered December 2nd 1993. Here he's differentiating between Noriega the rapper, and Manuel Noriega, the 'politician'. Stating that Manuel Noriega, the former military dictator of Panama, owes him a hundred favours seems bizarre, since Noriega was captured and imprisoned in 1990, making said favours more or less obsolete. If there's anything Ricky Ross hustles, its likely the ladies at the local drive-thru who upsize his combo at no additional cost.



By the way - the unedited version of this track is exponentially better than this version.

Despite the proliferation of lies in rap music, there are several artists like Jedi Mind Tricks and Immortal Technique who pride themselves on truth and educating their listeners through their songs, however they are unfortunately not as popular (see mainstream, shit) as other artists.

I could go on and on copying and pasting videos from YouTube and pointing out all the inaccuracies, but the point has been made no? Rappers talk so much shit that they cannot be taken seriously - the problem is that kids are impressionable and believe a lot of bullshit they hear in songs. Because of this they have principles and value things in life that are only wasteful and counter-productive. Fuck - whatever it's a loss cause - can't blame me for trying.

Letterz From Da Editor

Hey boys and girls. My apologies for the brief hiatus between posts, but I've been a little busy the last few days.

Here's a link if interested - hope it works:

http://64.246.64.33/merge/tsnform.aspx?c=sportsnetwork&page=soc-mls/news/news.aspx?id=4358175

Before I go any further, this happened the other night:



In other news, I ran into Cee-Lo and Big Gipp from Goodie Mob today while shopping for boots. I grew-up on the ATL sound perfected by Dungeon Family artists like Goodie and Outkast.


Guess who's white and not from Atlanta. I need sun more than photosynthesis.

We had a few laughs, despite the fact Cee-Lo was a little distracted by the jentrified pop music that had his portly frame girating akwardly, and talked about some of my favorite tracks - Gipp and I even shared an impromptu duet of Cool Breeze's Watch For The Hook.





Check-back tomorrow for more useless information and enlightenment. Cue the Goodie.

Ruminations 7.0

This blog has already established the fact that people are getting lazy with both the written and spoken word. I often fear pointing out such errors since many are easy to make and I don't want to come-off as a hypocrite, but I have website so why-the-fuck-not?

Much of this laziness is apparent in the world of sports journalism. While errors of the like are far more permissible in sports writing than they are in other avenues of journalism, they are still preventable. As a writer who often dabbles in the field of sports journalism, I am often privied to some strange choices.

One that has really been bugging me lately is the usage of the following sentence:

"Michael Vick is better than people are saying"

"I disagree with the fact that people are saying Greg Oden is the second coming of Sam Bowie"

These notions are typically stated by a host of sports program, where his opinion is seemingly contrary to the ones shared by the 'people'. Sure, the majority of 'people' (who are these people? the layperson, the pundit, the expert?) feel one way, but by no means can the majority sentiment be expressed in terms of the 'people'. Recall the fact that opinion are like assholes.

It's a simple correction really. Instead of referring to the people, say the majority or the masses:

"Michael Vick is better than the majority of people are saying."

Or preface it by pointing-out some specifities using some qualifying agents:

Any of the following will work: naysayers, cynics, conservatives, white people, d-bags, etc.

How novice does using "people are saying" sound? That's what people do - they say things. There's no need to qualify the fact that people are saying things, because last time i checked, animals and inanimate objects keep their feelings to themselves.

All I'm asking is that people in the sports media use more qualifying and literal terms to be specific and shy away from making broad statements like the aforementioned.

"People are saying this blog blows"

Actually, only people that can read and have read this blog think it blows. See what I'm saying.

"People who have stumbled upon badnewsblog think it blows, the illeterate are impartial."

If you disagree - you're playing yourself.

Sports Induced Orgasms

The enjoyment and viewing of sports is much like cooking for yourself - watching them require both time and effort, however more often than not it turns out terrible. In the same manner that watching a sporting event for a second time has little to no value, my leftovers also have a shelf life of little less than a minute and a value of a little less than a homeless man's feces.

Trust me on this one folks, I watch a lot of sports, and as a result of this, I have witnessed many an event that left me questioning more than my interests and motivations. It's not unrealistic to assume that 9 out of every 10 Leaf games ends in disappointment, and much like my cooking, will only leave a putrid taste in one's mouth.

I don't really have the time to discuss the Raps, but besides Bargnani, not a single player would start on any other NBA team. Really? True dat - Even the Clippers. I'll take fat Baron Davis and rookie Eric Bledsoe over Jack or Calderon any night. Reggie Evans - thanks a million for all the rebounds, but having the ball traverse the cylinder and fall-through the mesh is actually the most important element of the game. It's called scoring and can be practiced both on the court and off the field (vaginal insertion of appendages, preferably the penis.) Actually, considering the aesthetic value of your face and that gnarley jihadesque beard Mr. Evans, let's focus on scoring in a game, and I'll try to pick-up your slack with the gaggles of groupies.

If only every game could provide that euphoric form of ecstasy that leaves many a men at the point of near climax, where that exact moment would be substituted in place of sex for a very similar result. Last week's Texans - Jaguars game provided a little of this, as Jags QB David Garrard's last second Hail Mary pass was batted-down and out of the end zone by a Texans safety, only to land in the arms of a Jags receiver. Touchdown. Game over. Coincidentally, the most euphoric and ecstatic play-by-play man on the planet no involved in Latin American football was covering the game. Thank God for Gus Johnson - we need more of you.

Here's a quick crash course on Gus Johnson - most are short, the Brandon Stokley one and Xavier - Kansas State finale is worth watching multiple times. Enjoy.

Xavier - Kansas State... Ignore the Ad... CRAWFORD FOR THE THREEEEEEEEEEEE


STTTTTTTOCKLEEEEEEY


Batista With The Catchhhhhh


Gus Loses It Following a Put-Back


An Al Harrington 3-Ball


Blowing His Wad on a Jamal Crawford 3

A Very Celtic Halloween

These photos have been posted elsewhere, but I thought why not put them up on badnews since many of my devoted readers are fans of the ol' game of peach basket. I've mentioned before how this season I am switching my allegiances to support the green and white, which is lame, however I know that at least one of my loyal readers is Celtic crazy. Enjoy.


P Squared aka The Truth channeling his inner-frog, Ray Allen doing the Off The Wall era MJ, an unknown chubby brother as a ghetto-ass Batman and KG dressed-up as some dude from Yo Gabba Gabba, or so I'm told.

Marquis Daniels exploring a post-NBA career change. Hey 'Quis, there's no pussy in the priesthood.

The Big Shamrock in drag as Shaqueasy with some chick dressed as his pimp I assume

Rondo lookin' all Tiger, Jermaine O'Neal as Mr. T, Big Baby Davis as a man who woke-up only for the ribs, Delonte West doing the V for Vendetta thing (he fucked LeBron's mammy) and KG and Pierce preparing to sexually assault that dish of Mac N' Cheese.

Damn I'm hungry. That last photo has me thinking about one genre of cuisine in particular:

Ruminations 6.0

A new day, another morning after – thank goodness for my cappuccino maker, sometimes it feels like you’re my only friend.

Two quick thoughts – more often than not, realized always in hindsight, an excess of draught beer does not agree with me. Secondly, stand-up comedy is not as easy as it looks, and I was only heckling (despite the fact my annotations were funnier than much of the comedian’s material.)

Having said that, 2 weeks from now I will be climbing on-stage to cast-off the shackles of stage fright and retrieve my self-esteem from the hallowed recesses where it currently hides. Anybody that knows me should have just experienced a mild chuckle knowing that if there is one thing I do not fear, it is standing before a room of people staring intently at my delightful visage, seconds before I begin to verbally eviscerate each and every one.

Literally, I can’t wait.

In order for things to go smoothly, I will likely require some of the following people to be seated amongst the throngs of satisfied onlookers in the event I forget some of my material and need to ad-lib some jokes:

1) An obese black man wearing a FUBU #5 football jersey. My preference would be the model popularized by every rapper circa 1995 that features the ‘faded’ colour scheme with the FUBU name written in cursive on the lapel. Classy shit bra.
2) Mayor Rob Ford or the retarded dude from Goonies with the lopsided face. Either or.
3) My mother and/or any of my ex-girlfriends (pre-drinking would help.)
4) The laugh-track used on America’s Funniest Home Videos or any program on the Nickelodeon or Disney Networks and a half-ounce of shrooms to coerce the audience into laughing.

Stay tuned.


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I consider myself a chivalrous man. I put value on the little things that makes a woman feel important. Whether it be holding a door ajar or holding an umbrella, if you truly appreciate the companionship of your woman, there are several small ways of showing this. With each experience you will learn more of what pleases a woman, and inversely what offends her. Following my latest relationship, I will never again walk before a woman. It’s rude. Show the woman you love and/or kinda like that she’s special. Perhaps she will repay you with great sex/honesty (low blow - I know. Sorry Shotta.)

This need not only apply to women you fancy, as you never know when one diminutive act of chivalry towards a stranger may result in the exchange of phone numbers or perhaps if you’re fortunate, an outdoor exchange of bodily fluids. A friend of mine recently had a similar experience with a young lady on a rather precipitous night. He called it a rain-bo-bo. While humourous, I cringed nonetheless reminded of the usage of hyphenated single-syllable words as a staple of my youth, which feels bizarre when referring to the oral consumption of a friend’s tube steak.

Where were we? Chivalry right! Regardless of situation, it’s always a great idea to be kind towards women of all ages. I pride myself on holding doors open for women, even if it requires a measure of patience on my part. Imagine the patience the same woman had when pushing some child’s massive cranium through her birth canal. Anyways, off on a tangent again – the point I am struggling to make is to be chivalrous, and in being as such, expect nothing in return from these women. Do I sound like a prick?

I am.

Women of the world – you want equality? Fine, have it. I have no problem with an absolute form of equality in all regards of life, but if I spend so much time holding doors ajar for women, could you not once return the favour by half-assedly jutting out an elbow or shoulder to delay the impending closure of a door. Just the other day, while holding-open the doors at College subway station for a group of older women, I followed them to the second set of doors in a small corridor where once laid a cinnamon bun franchise. As the final lady walked towards the door, not only did she not open it any further, she darted through as if she was Indiana Jones rolling horizontally to avoid the crushing blow of a massive stone door.

Ladies, you want to be president one day? Go for it. Want to run Fortune 500 companies and have your husbands stay home breastfeeding the babies while devouring Activia and watching Ellen asexually dance about stage wearing clothing eerily similar to what I sport daily? It’s yours. All I ask for is to return the smallest percentage of favours we oblige you with on a daily basis by simply showing you appreciate our chivalry. If I may return to the experience I had the other day, I’m not demanding that the wrinkled octogenarian who narrowly escaped the closing door withdraw her dentures to perform fellatio on me amidst a web of salivic deposits and her pot-pourri smelling yellow wig, I am simply asking for her to show her appreciation by returning the favour once.

Fuck I want a cinnabun. Wouldn't say no to a rain-bo-bo either.

Wishful-Thinking Mondays

Dipset Fridays

Since it's such a gorgeous day out and it's the middle of November - let's have an ENCORE no?

Advice For Men: 2) Headphone Thoughts

My fellow men, be weary of what crosses your mind while wearing headphones in public, because you'll never know who's listening.

And no, I'm not talking about other people hearing your music and you being embarrassed by the shuffling of Cam'ron, Sigur Ros, Spragga Benz and Randy Newman in succession, there's something else which has the potential to be far more embarrassing.

The reason I mention this is because I'm constantly listening to music or podcasts while riding public transportation and sometimes I will say something under my breath that people actually hear.

Yesterday I was standing on a semi-crowded eastbound train listening to a little NBA Today with Ryen Russillo when a young lady stood-up in anticipation of her stop and waited by the door not a foot from me. She stood before me close enough that the proximity, in combination with the fact that she was gorgeous and fit and my junk was approximately 9 inches from her shapely ass proved to be special enough that I fought the urge to smile. I recall saying something under my breath along the lines of "damn that's a fit ass."

What I assumed was an inaudible thought was apparently heard by at least two ladies on the train. One was the delightful young lady who turned to face me while exiting the train and looked at me with a non-expression that equates to her actually not being offended, rather potentially flattered by the comment.

The other privileged passenger was an older lady likely in her mid 60's that sat directly next to where I was standing. Her opinion of the remark was clear, as for the remaining 2 stops of my ride, she glared at me with a look of sheer disgust. I can understand her frustration.

To be consistent with this 'Advice For Men' bit, it is integral that we learn from our errors to become better men. All I can hope for is that in some way, I am able to help in the matter.

Dipset Fridays

Works of Fiction: Bill and Bel (3/3)

Night Fell. Morning Came. The pounding sounds similar to that of a jack-hammer ripping through firm concrete force Bill out of his frozen sleep. Nearby, a squirrel vigorously chews on an acorn from one of our coniferous friends, ambivalent to the bystander spread across a neighbouring rock. The piercing pain behind his right ear has led to an annoying migraine that refuses to pass with a throbbing tenderness, amplifying all sounds around him, explaining why a critter was confused for a jack-hammer. It’s now morning and the dew has settled on the path and on Bill’s thawed exterior. He surprised that he lived the night, though he has no idea how close to death he really was. Hunger pains begin to envelope his entire body, forcing him to stand and continue his search for something to eat, and more importantly, a way out of this mess. After walking for about an hour, Bill notices for the first time that he hasn’t seen a single runner since he entered the forest days ago with Isobel. Eugene and its surrounding areas have become a hot-bed for runners and fitness enthusiasts. It’s not an uncommon site to find the local trails filled to the brim with long-distance runners attempting to emulate local icon Steve Prefontaine and his brash legacy. Bill realizes that he must be really deep in the forest if there are no runners intersecting the woods. How far must he be from an exit he wonders? Always a shade away from being a full-blown self-defeatist, Bill is now in the depths of despair. He continues to amble along for hours with nothing but the towering trees for company. With death on his mind, its easy to confuse the woods as a massive burial ground where the trees are enormous headstones and the soft-ground a warm final resting place.

Well aware that he had either just completely lost his mind or was in the process of doing so, Bill was uncertain if his eyes were now playing tricks as well. About 100 yards ahead laid a massive spruce enjoying its afterlife horizontally, blocking the winding trail, sticking out about a foot above its barky exterior a fluffy bright red feather duster. How peculiar thought Bill. Intrigued by the misplacement and juxtaposition of a feather duster smack dab in the middle of a dense forest, Bill approached the enormous log apprehensively not knowing what to expect. Using what little energy remained, Bill slowly circled ‘round back of the log to find a startled creature with a telling expression of fear painted on its small visage. It was a fox. The slyest of all animals within the animal kingdom, the fox was thought to be as sharp as it is deceptive. Bill was surprised to find this agile feather duster known for its propensity to appear invisible slumped lazily behind the log with a mouthful of what appeared to be wild berries. The sight of nourishment was clearly too much for Bill, and he fainted at the side of the fox, who now had less reason to be scared then before. Regaining consciousness just minutes later, Bill sat reclined with his head propped up against the sitting spruce as the not-so-sly fox continued to devour the wild berries just feet from where Bill sat. Still a little uncertain that he had yet to completely lose his mind, this essentially was the perfect confirmation that he in fact had. His thoughts were now those that likely inspired a drunk C.S. Lewis. Turning his head slightly to ask a question, the motions are there, but no words will come out. Not a word is spoken between the two forest dwellers, the fox too distracted with his lunch. He passes out once more.

Bill awakes from his slumber to find that it is still daytime, meaning that he must have been out for no more than a couple of hours or that he has completely slept through the night. It was just a couple of hours. The first thing that he notices is that surprisingly his hunger pains have subsided. The stomach groans and pain which shot up his insides towards his bruised noggin have disappeared. He tastes a bitter, tangy residue on his lips and realizes that the fox must have fed him some of those wild berries. Where has the fox run-off to? Where was that massive log? He was now in a section of the forest which was far better lit with a wide, simple trail leading to somewhere he knew he needed to walk towards. Bill was confused. Had this not-so-sly fox fed him before dragging him into this clearing? Bill had several questions that would likely never receive an answer. An animal he had deemed to be deceitful and slick was in fact the reason he was still alive.

A lot can be said about reading a book by its cover. No way in hell would I have passed out alongside that fire-red fox knowing that I’d awake with a full belly and some sense of direction. He didn’t utter a single word, but I have the feeling that this is the way he wanted me to go. He knows this forest better than I do. Perhaps he was trying to lead me towards my beautiful Isobel. Forget the dude that put the ‘Bop’ in the ‘Bop – shu – whatever’. I wanna shake that fox’s hand. Nice guy, decent food.

Bill continued walking. With each step the forest’s tree coverage began to recede, identifying the something, whatever it may be, was just ahead. Anticipating a climatic end to his desperate travels, using what little energy he acquired from those wild berries, Bill begins to run along the ever-widening trail into a sun-drenched opening. Once again, Bill passes out from a combination of things. Night Fell.

Morning Came. The sunlight which blanketed his body and the field where he laid was warming. Using what little identification he had found on Bill, a long-haired and sinewy mustached runner was able to call Isobel from a nearby payphone at a public washroom. Thank god the man who had an uncanny resemblance to Steve Prefontaine always ran with two quarters stashed in a self-made slit in the tongue of his shoes, since carrying Bill any further than he had would have proved to be a rather difficult venture. Faster than physically possible, Isobel arrived at a public park, a hundred or so yards from the field where the runner had stumbled upon an unconscious Bill. Isobel and the man placed Bill in the car, vowing to never again let him out of her sight on Eugene’s challenging trails. As Bill dozed off in the back of the car, Isobel and the runner continued to speak, with the subject changing from Bill and what must have been a miserable few days, to themselves and their frustrations with dating and companionship. After about 10 minutes of banter, Isobel jumped gleefully back into her car with the runner’s phone number written on a small piece of paper. With his head poking slightly through the window of the car, the man, much to her surprise and pleasure, reached forward and kissed her softly on the cheek. She smiled and drove south with one hand on the steering wheel, the other massaging the weary bones and muscles of her sleeping border collie Bill.

Works of Fiction: Bill and Bel (2/3)

Night Fell. Morning Came. The blood which saturated the area behind his right ear had completely coagulated and much of it blended in well with the few auburn leaves which lined the path. Bill looked like shit. Covered with scrapes, knots and twigs from head to toe, there was no part of his entire body that went without pain. Almost immediately he thought of Isobel. For some reason he was confident that she was safe. Maybe it was because it was he who had fallen down the hill while she stood safely stories above. Perhaps the fact that she was an accomplished hiker was reassuring to Bill or maybe it was because she was as comfortable surviving on her own as Bill was at struggling with solitude. He knew she was fine. Now he had to worry about himself. While picking pieces of bark and branches out of his thick skin, Bill began walking slowly in as straight of a line as possible, conscious of his surroundings in hopes that he could find a way out of this forest and into the arms of his love.

Bill had no idea how long he had been walking. He continued to struggle along the trail which varied in width and difficulty as it winded through the dense forest. Though it was likely midday, the tree-coverage blocked most of the sunlight, and despite the fact that many of the trees had shed their leaves as in Eugene, many would not. Bill had some trouble understanding why this happened each and every autumn. There was much he failed to understand about the world around him. While he could barely lift his head as he continued to amble along, amazingly he noticed that he was surrounded by an army of trees, enveloped by Spruces, Firs and Pines so many it would be impossible to count. The coniferous varieties were clinging with great valiance to their cones, almost as if being contained within this vast woodland protected its members from the autumnal stripping until the very last possible moment - when the shaded forest floor would become inundated by an influx of conifer droppings - making the path as indistinguishable as the densely covered ground. These were just a few of the many species cohabiting in this dense forest outside of Eugene, highlighting the virtues of autumn in a way that only the Pacific North-West could. Though distracted by the beauty which lined the path and acres of forest beyond him, his hunger could no longer be ignored. A moan echoed from the cavern of his vacant stomach. Which each passing moment of increasing hunger, Bill’s mind began to play tricks on him, as he continued to walk aimlessly along the path to nowhere in search of his beautiful Isobel.

Hunger is fascinating. At this point I would eat just about anything to drive-off this lightheadedness. There are stages of being hungry, where the desire to eat increases, and in theory so do the options. Upon the first sensation of an empty stomach pronouncing itself, I usually crave my favorite dish. Visions of a poached, yet runny egg perched lightly on an English muffin, wedged between the two a thin slice of smoked salmon, topped with a decadently rich amount of hollandaise sauce. Thinking about this is making me even hungrier. Boy, I would settle for just about anything right now, minus the decaying animal carcass a mile back. Shit I’d eat Indian right now.

With each passing minute the probability of starvation increased. Bill was beginning to lose his mind. He walks for what seems to be forever, the trail becoming blacker by the second. As night falls, the temperature drops well below freezing with a sharp wind darting like a wolf between the forest’s pillars, emitting a high-pitched whistling that did little to alleviate our friend’s hunger-related migraine. The odds were not in Bill’s favour that cold autumn night, starvation and hypothermia wrestling with one another to claim his life, an empty stomach growling against the numbing sensation of frozen extremities, all the while worried not only for himself but for his beautiful Isobel. Had she gotten out of the forest alive, or had she delved deeper into the woods in search of Bill. He hopped that she was safe, but at the same time felt a little disappointed thinking that perhaps Isobel could easily find a replacement. Having very few friends throughout life harbors such feelings of despair and solitude. Can you blame him? The idea of positive thinking is new to Bill, where in years past thinking happy thoughts would have been a clandestine concept, Isobel’s recent influence has been a mentally rewarding one. He was now off-track, both on the trail and in a cerebral sense. He was now playing a game of survival with odds stacked heavily against him. The goal was to stay awake until the next day, when the afternoon temperature would be more conducive to slumber. He continued to walk at an impossibly slow pace. It was now dangerously cold. When the body begins to freeze, the drop in temperature has a hallucinogenic effect on the victim, where the internal thermometer fails to properly reflect the body’s core temperature, giving the person the impression that it’s warmer than it actually is. Many people who freeze to death are found either naked or in various stages of disrobement, identifying the mental damage that hypothermia can cause. Bill was starting to have strange thoughts concerning a whole slew of ideas, one of which was that either it was actually getting warmer or he was losing his mind. In this instance, the latter applies. To make matters worse, carrying nothing more than common identification meant that starting a fire was out of the question.

Were my entire head not absolutely frozen right now I’d have to laugh at the fact that having a fire at this moment would mean the difference between life and death. It seems as if the distance between the two is narrowing rapidly. I obviously do not have the ability to start a fire, so I am forced to stumble along, and hope to stay awake until daybreak. Fire. How amusing. An invention that once changed mankind so drastically only to be overshadowed over time by the likes of Edison, Tesla and Marconi, could go a bloody long way towards saving my frigid ass. Death is near.

Starving and frozen, Bill lied down at the side of the winding trail on a large moss covered rock. The moss was so great that it acted as a pillow of sorts, supporting Bill’s weary melon as he fought to stay awake, eventually giving in with a gasp of frustration. Fighting the urge to fall asleep was a battle lost. Bill was asleep almost instantly. Now the chances of freezing to death had increased two-fold, sprawled unconscious across a chilling rock with all extremities exposed, his core temperature would continue to drop steadily.


(check-back tomorrow for the finale - thanks.)