One of the more bizarre movie-related items I've ever read, this brief in IMDb today says that director crap auteur Uwe Boll has beaten up five of his critics in a boxing match. Best part:
A triumphant Boll says, "See what happens when they take a blow to the head? They like my movies."Update 9/29: There's footage of Boll kicking his critics' asses up on YouTube. If only he was as good at making movies. As good as Ed Wood!
Random thoughts on a Friday...
In the world of my uncledom, the nephews now outnumber the nieces with the arrival this week of one Brett Joseph. I'm sure I'll get to meet the little bugger soon.
Any bets on when the first major election will be affected by a Google search on one (or more) of the candidates? I mean, to some extent it's probably already happened. But what I'm talking about is when we reach a time when practically one's whole life and opinions can be dug out of Internet searches. Creating "images" or "re-inventing" yourself will be much more difficult, if not impossible, in the age of the digital trail. (Unless, of course, you are a Bill Clinton type and know at the age of 6 months that you're going into politics and thus avoid the Internet like the plague.) Politics aside, the social ramifications of being able to Google (yeah, yeah, suck it, trademark police) anyone are interesting to ponder. (See, .e.g, the "dating background check" skit with Rosanna Arquette and Steve Guttenberg in the generally execrable Amazon Women on the Moon or The Final Cut with Robin Williams.) Meanwhile, I know my career in politics is most likely over before it's begun, thanks to this blog, among other things. And I really do mean "thanks"!
It looks like it's going to rain on my Saturday football parade. I'd better find a poncho to take to the noontime game against Wisconsin. For any nonpsycho, nonkleptomaniacal readers in the area, feel free to drop by the house tomorrow for a day of eating, drinking, and loafing. Especially if you are a cute girl. Already have one keg (blonde from the Corner Brewery), probably will have another lined up by tonight. As John Blutarski would say, grab a beer, don't cost nothin'.
Merry weekend to all, and to all a grilled cheese sandwich. Fromage, bitches.
We rolled into South Bend around 1 o'clock, ditched our stuff at Matt's mom's house, then proceeded to the tailgate scene outside of the stadium. Two friends from Ann Arbor, Dave and Jill, had driven down separately and joined us there. After some 
beers and dogs, Dave, Jill, and I decided to take a quick tour of the campus. Touchdown Jesus, the grotto, the dome, and so on.
Then it was game time. Dave and Jill sat in a different section from Matt and me, so Matt had only to endure one delirious asshole next to him instead of three. Well, not counting the two Michigan students directly behind us. (The dude in front of us was a different -- and thoroughly confusing -- story. He wore a Colorado hat and a North Carolina shirt, said he was an Ohio State fan, and was at the Notre Dame-Michigan game. Uh. Citizen of the world?)
Things did not seem to go right for Notre Dame even before the game started. As the final strains of "The Star Spangled Banner" filled the stadium, all eyes looked upward in anticipation of the thunderous jet flyover. There was nothing but the quiet haze of a warm, late-summer Indiana afternoon for 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 seconds. Then the jets, flying too far overhead to be truly thunderous, made their languid, unimpressive way from one lip of the bowl to the other.
Of course, any thought of that as an omen would have been overwhelmed by our palpable anticipation of kickoff. Notre Dame wins the toss, elects to receive. The crowd of roughly 81,000 makes more noise than is typically heard from 110,000 at Michigan Stadium. I am a little jealous of this.
The rest is known to all. From the third play of the game, it was mostly heartbreak for the Irish faithful. From our seats 44 rows up from the Michigan band, I had many opportunities to stand, high-five the Michigan students behind me, and sing "The Victors" in unison with them to the great consternation of the many Domers around us. There was only one tense moment late in the game, as one of the students, after yet another terrible Brady Quinn pass, yelled, "There goes the Heisman!"
"Hey, remember where you are, son!" warned a stern-faced (and obviously frustrated) Domer.
"So what? I can say what I want."
"You want to bring it? Bring it."
The student then wisely clammed up and allowed the potentially violent guy to quietly stew in his team's broth of suckitude.
This meathead was far from representative, however. I encountered very little hectoring or, really, anything other than politeness and graciousness before, during, and after the game. As I was on the way into the stadium, one guy wondered about my shirt. "Michigan English," I said. "As in Ron English, whose defense is going to kick Notre Dame's ass today."
The contingent of Michigan fans in the south end zone under the scoreboard was great, chanting the de rigeur "Overrated!" and the more creative "Why so quiet?"
Matt, for some reason, didn't want to stick around for the second half of the 4th quarter, so I had to catch the Quinn fumble on a tailgater's TV in the parking lot. Cute girls in Michigan shirts were coming up to high-five me. I wanted to explore that phenomenon more, but we kept walking to one of Matt's friend's house and had some more beers. The mood was somber, quite the opposite of mine. Right then I wished I was back in Ann Arbor, especially after visiting the couple mullet bars we wound up in later.
47-21. Who knew?
Flickr photoset here. My Sandwich of Victory pic is making the rounds on Mgoblog here (scroll down). (For explanation of "Sandwiches, bitches!" see here.)
The trip to South Bend was awesome. Photos and such to come, probably tonight after I get home from work.
I'll be in South Bend for the weekend, tailgating, cheering on the Wolverines against the Fighting Assclowns of Notre Dame, and generally acting like a drunken, obnoxious moron. Enjoy all y'all's weekend while I'm gone. Peace out.
(Warning: Even more cussing than usual.)
Am I still in the minority here when I say: Holy. Fuck. Enough. Already.
I was going to post a whole rant about all this 9/11 bullshit, but I'm so fucking sick of hearing about it I can't even bring myself to add to the ongoing pathos, even by writing about how fucking annoying the whole thing has become.
Look, I'm sorry a bunch of people I don't know died five years ago. In the last five years, lots of other people died who I don't know, too, and I'm sorry about that as well. At least, I'm as sorry as one can be for the deaths of total strangers who don't much affect my life.
Now that I got that off my chest, can you all shut the fuck up now? When did grief become a public spectacle instead of something to be borne with courage and quiet dignity?
Fuck.
Google is unveiling a new version of Blogger, albeit only in the beta stage at this point. Because my blogging overlords say everyone will eventually have to upgrade to the new version, I just went ahead and did it now.
Already I notice some differences, like the damn search banner across the top of my blog that I had managed to avoid for the past few years.
I'm going to experiment with some of the new Blogger features, so this is to warn you, my loyal readers, that Suds & Soliloquies is subject to change unexpectedly over the next few hours or days or weeks or whenever I get bored fooling around with it.
Translation: I expect that I'll accidentally screw something up or delete everything or who knows what. Just warning y'all.
I don't have any pictures from the mob scene that was Michigan's opening day against Vanderbilt -- where I got sunburnt, thanks to a not-entirely-accurate forecast of "cloudy" -- but I do have this nugget from the bar following the opening night of the fall bowling league:
Nothing says bowling like a lesbian lapdance. Or something.
Oh yeah, and it looks like my new average is somewhere around 122. Look out, Walter Ray Williams!
It can't be good for your reputation as an ace at your job when a co-worker anonymously leaves a copy of a book called Bonjour Laziness: Why Hard Work Doesn't Pay on your chair. Unless the message is that, you know, you work too hard and you should read this and relax a little.
Somehow, in my case, I doubt that's what was meant. I guess that's what you get when you are, from time to time, passionately vocal about the stupidity or pointlessness of livin' la vida corporate.
It's not that I don't do my job, or that I even dislike it per se. It's that I stubbornly refuse to view it as anything more than a job. It isn't a way of life or a religion or a guiding philosophy or the key to my identity or anything other than a temporary, mutually beneficial economic relationship.
That means I ignore any and all corporate rah-rah initiatives. I badmouth the entire "HR" department any chance I get (including the odious term "HR" itself). I roll my eyes at unrealistic deadlines and call bullshit on people who speak about quality, deliverables, or processes. I avoid meetings and (unpaid) overtime as much as possible.
You know, the sorts of things any sane person would do.
So let's see... the book's cover says it's an "international bestseller." It's written by a French woman, and this is the English translation. That's appropriate: When it comes to work, who is lazier than the French? The Swedes, maybe?
According to the back cover:
Bonjour Laziness dares to ask whether you really have a stake in the corporate sweepstakes, whether professional mobility is anything but an opiate. It shows you how to become impervious to manipulation and escape the implacable law of usefulness.Sounds about right to me.
In short, this book explains why it is in your best interest to work as little as possible.
It's been a few days since I've been able to find a flea, dead or otherwise, on either cat, so it's time to declare victory over the enemy and celebrate with an appropriate victory dance.
Improv Inferno, a comedy club in which I've been drunk and unruly a few times, is set to close its doors this weekend, not because business was bad but because, in the words of owner Dan Izzo, "our landlord is terminating our lease in an effort to find someone who can pay in excess of what we currently pay in rent."
We all know what that likely means: Goodbye, unique and different; hello, boring chain with deeper pockets. I don't know who owns that property, but I have a few splendid ideas for a (properly endowed) replacement tenant:
