Know Your Rodents

How do you like our quasi-futuristic font?

Today's rodent-you-should-know-better is Ratt, one of the more laughably named multi-platinum heavy metal acts of the 1980s. Their hair is very pretty, don't you think? Formed in Los Angeles, their major label debut on Atlantic, thoughtfully titled Out of the Cellar (not exactly Beggar's Banquet, is it?), sold more than 3 million copies to headbangers and 12-year-old girls in 1984. Ratt continues to record and tour, but you wouldn't know it unless one of their venues burned down or they were arrested in some especially scandalous manner. In terms of album sales Ratt remains the number one rodent-related band, having easily outsold Modest Mouse and Alvin & The Chipmunks.

Cream Egg Resurrection

I have a little Easter tradition that seems in danger of being snuffed this year. The Easter season is always accompanied by the return, the "resurrection" if you will, of the Cadbury Cream Egg. Across the Atlantic in the Jolly Olde, you can get Cream Eggs year 'round. Here in the States, they are a seasonal phenomenon. This makes it that much more important to consume one delicious egg a year (and to let the teeth-aching rush of sugar remind me why eating them is an annual deed).

Perhaps it was the Cadbury commercials in my youth (those with the clucking rabbit) that first hooked me, but the pursuit of the egg has become all-important. I can't abide a Peep. It's not a bizarre, elaborate ritual or anything like that. Although the Cadbury website encourages me to "Dip in the goo to unleash your naughty, playful side!", I prefer to consume the egg in a more traditional and less creepy way. But although I've searched high and low this season, apparently I missed the boat. There is nary a cream egg to be found (except for the obviously inferior knock-offs). The equilibrium of the year will be thrown off unless I find my egg. I'd hate for this to become some kind of Harold & Kumar Go To White Castle-type saga, but after checking at three grocery stores and two CVS's, that's what it's turning into. Despair.

Nerd Alert

The New York Times reported today that the world's largest prime number has been discovered. The number, written in exponential shorthand, is (drumroll, please) 225,964,951-1! It has 7,816,230 digits! It is also one of the very rare group called Mersenne primes, which can be written as 2n-1 where n is also prime. Gosh, isn't it all so exciting!

You can get back to your day now, secure in the knowledge that if you're ever asked what the number 225,964,951-1 is divisible by, you can answer, "Only by 1 and itself. That shit is prime, bi-yatch!"

This Is The Year

...and an Indian and a Swede will lead them to the promised land.

I don't know if you've heard yet, but your Seattle Mariners are going to win the World Series this year. Not that you'll find this little tidbit on ESPN or Sports Illustrated or any of the other hack publications that worship the New York Yankees. How can I be so sure, with the regular season still a week away? It's obvious with even a cursory study of Mariner's history from the modern era (Lou Piniella - Ichiro).

Firstly, the Mariners tend to do well in odd-numbered years (1995, 1997, 2001, 2003). 2005 just happens to be an odd-numbered year. Reason the second: the Mariners cannot be perceived as winners, or they will blow it (see: 1997-2003). Nearly losing 100 games last season puts them in perfect position to be comeback kids. C) The Mariners always go to the play-offs when they have a losing record in Spring Training. Although with last night's win over the Cubs their record has closed to an alarming 12-13, they did start Spring Training 1-10. Reason the fourth: They finally have an everday third basemen and an everyday left-fielder for the first time in 15 years. With these kind of advantages, it's no wonder management isn't concerned about not having a number one starter.

The current odds in Vegas are 72/12 that the Mariners will win the World Series. That makes it far too complicated for me to figure out my winnings once I sell all my possessions and place a massive bet on the M's. Now some might call me delusional, driven mad by years of failure, but they're just out to bring me down because they know deep in their jealous little hearts that I'm right.

That Wacky Satan

Apparently inspired by Sen. John Cornyn's (R-Texas) comments about the union of man and box turtle ("It does not affect your daily life very much if your neighbor marries a box turtle. But that does not mean it is right"), Satan has redoubled his efforts to make the box turtle a tool of evil. This brings us to pet store owner Bryan Dora, from the suspiciously named city of Michigantown, Indiana. Seems that when a fire destroyed his pet store in October, the only survivor was a turtle. But not just any turtle. This red-eared slider was now emblazoned with the horrible visage of Satan himself(!).

According to Dora, "The marking on the shell was like the devil wanted us to know he was down there. To me, it's too coincidental that the only thing to come out unscathed would have this image on it." This manifestation of Lucifer would be all the more horrifying if the image on the turtle didn't more accurately resemble Bowser from Super Mario Brothers.

If I was in possession of this turtle, I'd put it on e-Bay along with the Virgin Mary Grilled Cheese Sandwich. In a thousand years they could be just as popular as the Shroud of Turin. Invest today! This just goes to show that when not making life horrible for others, sometimes religion can be fun, too.

The Office: Yankee Style

Let's see Carell bust this move

As anyone who has made the mistake of bringing up BBC's The Office within my earshot knows, I consider this program (especially Season 1) to be as close to televised perfection as we mortals will ever witness. With Thursday night came the inevitable(?) American remake, which I viewed with the aforementioned fear and trembling. Since nearly every attempt to import British television to America, from Fawlty Towers to Coupling, has failed (miserably), expectations were not stratospheric.

On first blush, The Office does not seem to lend itself readily to American transplantation, especially on network television. Its bread and butter is the uncomfortable pause, with nary a canned laugh or musical interlude to relieve the tension. Along with Curb Your Enthusiasm, it has been dubbed "squirm television", sometimes so painful that it is nearly unwatchable.

Other adaptability problems abound. The first line of the original ("I don't give shitty jobs") would have put those prudes at the FCC right over had it appeared on NBC. And while David Brent's racism, homophobia and sexism is tolerated with a stiff upper lip or a raised eyebrow in Britain, we Yanks are far more reactive and litigious when it comes to such things (witness the slap Steve Carell receives in the Episode 2 preview). The Gareth character couldn't be in the National Guard, America's equivalent to the Territorial Army, since he'd probably still be in Iraq on a stop-loss order. It remains to be seen whether Steve Carell can overcome his Daily Show-bred ironic distance and embrace the boss's raw mix of vulnerability and petulance. All this creates some pretty high hurdles to overcome in addition to adapting the source dialogue.

At times, the identical line readings and stilted inflections from the American pilot gave the impression of a high-school theater production (one could almost envision the frumpy drama teacher in the wings, mouthing along with the words). The British version is graced by truly fine acting, while the performances in the American pilot struck me as second tier. I can understand that it would be limiting for the actors to recite line-for-line from the British version; can they bring anything new to the roles as they break from the source material? Also, there is going to be a disappointing loss of sophistication translating from British to American English (saying someone is "rubbish" vs. saying they "suck"), so we'll see what the writers can do with this.

The preview of episode 2 made me laugh harder than anything in the pilot, which is promising since the "Diversity Day" plot seems to depart from the word-for-word recitation that the pilot offerred. Scranton, PA should be a suitable doppelganger for the much-maligned London suburb of Slough (although I might have suggested Burien, WA as a drab American locale).

Can the Yankee version capture the unexpected soulfulness of the original? As Martin Freeman's Tim remarks in the Christmas Special, we have no control over who we work with. They are just people with whom we pace the same patch of carpet on the weekdays, yet we spend more time with our coworkers than with our friends or family. And just as you can't escape the family you were born into, the paralysis afflicting the Slough office drones created a surrogate family that they must suffer through.

With my admitted bias in favor of the original, the watered-down The Office is still one of the best five sitcoms on network television at the moment. I have some (unexpectedly) high hopes.

Ownership Society

With the Cherry Blossom Festival a mere week away, the first tourists have begun descending upon the District of Columbia. This is only a prelude to the swarm of families that will soon invade like polo-shirted cicadas. And while I personally feel only a passing affection for the city of Washington, a plague of out-of-towners never fails to make me a possessive, prideful citizen. Whether wandering like lost sheep around Columbus Circle or firmly planting themselves on the left-side of the escalator, tourists are sure to give any local, no matter how transient, that particular attitude: "Welcome to Washington, now go home." And take your sunglasses on lanyards with you.

Bad

Some movies are bad. Some are so bad they're good. And some, in a little known third category, are so bad that speaking of them is rendered unecessary. This brings us to the cumbersomely titled, Miss Congeniality 2: Armed and Fabulous, which we're unlikely to be sending Borko to. Why even mention this thoroughly gratuitous film? I feel that it has reached a milestone that few can claim, and I'm not talking about its 17% fresh rating on RottenTomatoes.com. I direct you to Roger Ebert's review in the Chicago Sun-Times. MC2 was so unremarkable to him that he spends nearly a third of the article discussing the obscure, cameo filmography of director Sam Fuller. If he had his druthers, I'm sure Ebert would have spent all nine paragraphs on Fuller. Now that is bad.

Who Is Irene Madrugo?

This modern life seems to create faux pas in spades for we upstanding folk. I have been plunged into quite the sticky situation as of late. Quite embarrasing really. I've been receiving e-mails directed to a certain Irene Madrugo (such as: Free Loan Offer for Irene Madrugo!). What a wacky error! I can't imagine how our contact information came to be muddled. What other reason could there be for unsolicited e-mails turning up in my in-box?

By reading the subject lines of her e-mails I have developed no small number of concerns. She appears to be in dire straights, inundated by debt-consolidation services, home-refinancing schemes and offers for discounted dental work. This poor, toothless woman. How does she get through life? Possibly with Herbal Ecstasy, Cialis and an unhealthy interest in Paris Hilton-related pornography (I dare say she has solicited enough of it!).

I tried to track her down, just to sort out this little mix-up. Strangely, there is no listing for an Irene Madrugo in the United States. This seems peculiar, especially in a country with four Hugh Jasses. She must be out there somewhere. Don't let the bad times get you down, Irene. I'm pulling for you.

What's In a Name?

Namesake and nemesis?

I would like to present an excerpt from a conversation that I've had, oh, roughly 78 billion times in my life:

Me: "Hi, my name is Eli."
Some Damn Fool: "Did you invent the cotton gin?! Ha ha!"
Me: "I invented no such thing, sir. Harumph!"

It would appear from my highly scientific analysis that for 99% of humanity the only context for the name "Eli" is Eli Whitney, he of the cotton gin and the interchangeable parts. Sure, Whitney's most popular invention made slavery profitable and put the nation on a path to civil war, but at least he's no longer the most destructive graduate of Yale. I bring this up only to expound on the pathetic joy I experience upon the entry of any new reference into the Eli Cultural Lexicon (a feeling I'm sure Eli Morrero and Eli Wallach know only too well). Thus, we come to the well-reviewed new album by Portland, Oregon's The Decemberists. Track 3 is entitled, "Eli, The Barrow Boy," and though it is unlikely to supplant Three Dog Night's version of "Eli's Coming" for Q-factor supremacy in the world of music, I find the need to mention it. Why? See above (re: "pathetic joy"). Though we Elis must forever live in the shadow of the reknowned Whitney, we're chipping away bit by bit, piece by piece, boats against the current, born ceaselessly back into the past, and so on and so forth.

Speaking of music, I've been puzzling over a certain quandry for some time. First a little background: in film and art history, a "mise-en-abime" is "a narrative enclave that reproduces the features of the whole work that contains it." A self-reflexive story-within-a-story, so to speak. Is this odd French concept applicable in other areas and contexts? Thus we come to my question: can the entire oeuvre of a band or performing artist be summed up in a single line or verse? For example, The Beatles="All you need is love." Marvin Gaye="When I get that feeling/ I need sexual healing." Van Halen="Got it bad, got it bad, got it bad/I'm hot for teacher/Whoa!" I have some more examples, but I'll put it to my more music savvy readers to see if this tree will bear fruit.

Know Your Rodents

I originated in Southeastern Europe and Asia-Minor!

Today's furry little friend is the beloved hamster, a regular feature of elementary school show-and-tells. This adorable, tail-less rodent is known for its tendency to run endlessly on a wire wheel and chew on balsa wood in an especially endearing way. The hamster makes a good "starter" pet for youngsters, at least until it develops a taste for the sweet blood of small children. Then it's time for a "burial at sea," if you catch my drift. It may also exist in the wild somewhere, but that would require some research on my part. The hamster remains one of America's most popular pets. . . . perhaps too popular.

Objections

It's been an interesting week on the jurisprudence front. In a real shocker, Robert Blake was acquitted. I take personal responsibility for this. A couple weeks ago I mentioned his case and didn't say "allegedly" when I alluded to him shooting his wife in the head. I obviously jinxed the verdict, because he had the weakest alibi I've ever heard ("I left my gun in the restaurant, and when I went back to get it an attacker chose that very moment to shoot my wife in the head."). It was even worse than Scott Peterson's.

Blake mentioned that he's broke, which hiring a good lawyer will do to you, and needs work. If I had Dick Wolf's phone number I'd give him a call with my idea for the latest Law & Order spin-off. Law & Order: Criminal Negligence would star OJ Simpson and Robert Blake as crime solvers extraordinaire. When they arrest somebody, they'd give the old Baretta catchphrase, "You do the crime, you do the time," and then lapse into uncontrollable giggling.

Out here in Washington Town, the 109th United States Congress, when not giving Sammy Sosa a venue to perjure himself, has been busy breaking down the authority of the courts to score cheap points with the nation's second most ridiculous interest group, The Christian Right (the most ridiculous interest group has got to be the Miami Cubans. Castro's gonna die sometime, people, chill out). The New Yorker had a piece last week on this well-publicized fallacy that Christian values and rights are being persecuted from all sides. For all the evangelicals with a Christ complex who are convinced the world is aligned against them, I'll try to clarify things for you: This is a martyrdom, this is not.

But I digress. Proving there's a first time for everything, Bushie-Bush cut his vacation short to fly back to Congress and sign a bill singling out one person for special treatment and voiding 15 years of Florida state court decisions. I'm so sick of this Terri Schiavo mess that I'm ready to recommend somebody handy with a pillow put the Ari Fleischer Plan into effect. However, if Congress wants to get personal, I can see the angles. I'll be busy drafting the "Eli Gets a Million Dollars Act of 2005" and sending it to my senator. Since the passage of my bill is assured (after a rider attaching funds for highway construction in Iowa, of course), my ultimate dream of obtaining a solid gold Jet Ski is finally within reach.

Peace Declared

Taking a page from my book, 50 Cent and The Game have announced a truce. Also inspired by the eight anniversary of Notorious B.I.G's death, Fiddy and Game have vowed to " set an example for the hip-hop community." This is similar to Milton "Mr. Bad Attitude" Bradley's recent vow to become a role model.

The news media isn't treating this exactly like the Chechens and the Russians have kissed and made up, but it's all pretty silly, right? Right?

On the March?

No one would be more happy than I if peaceful, democratic societies suddenly blossomed in the desert. Then I could go on my long-gestating tour of the wineries of Lebanon. Bushy-Bush claims that freedom is on the march. It's inspiring to see the thousands involved in the so-called "Cedar Revolution" demonstrating in Beirut. Suddenly the press is freaking out, wondering if maybe George II was right about the Arab masses yearning for liberty (and completely ignoring the original reason for the invasion). Hack conservatives like David Brooks are poking their heads out of their holes in order to praise Iraq war architects like Paul Wolfowitz.

It all seemed to be falling into place, that is until the ousted, pro-Syria prime minister of Lebanon was reinstated and Hezbollah held a massive pro-Syria demonstration. I guess we shouldn't have spent fifty-years propping up totalitarian regimes in the Middle-East, 'cause it's kind of hard to turn things around overnight. Whoops! This seems like a poor long-term move by Hezbollah, but things aren't going to be peaches-and-cream overnight.

Dashed Hopes

Oh, how I loathe him.

You can imagine my excitement when I read the following headline in the New York Times: "New Gag for Leno: Keeping Mouth Shut". It seemed logical, enough to me. The producers of The Tonight Show had obviously come to the same conclusion as I did several years ago: an hour of dead silence would be infinitely less painful than listening to Jay Leno speak for any length of time. But sadly for the state of American comedy and television, the article is merely about Mr. Leno summoning others to tell jokes when the monologue turns to the Michael Jackson trial. Pretending that his possible inclusion as a witness precludes his commenting on the case, Leno calls in such comedic legends as Brad Garrett and Dennis Miller to make jolly on the subject of child molestation. Apparently this tasteful topic has been occupying a large segment of his opening monologues. After the Michael Jackson jokes have been dispatched, Mr. Leno can once again take over and crack wise about Robert Blake murdering his wife. Let the hilarity ensue!

Is the new American Dream to become a fake celebrity? I'll have to ask Ken Jennings or Amber Frey next time I see them. Paging Horatio Alger.

RIP, Bubba

The twenty-two pound lobster hauled out of the Atlantic off Nantucket has died. Although at first he was thought merely to be resting or pining for the fjords, he has expired. He has joined the choir invisible. He is no more.

Sensitively named "Bubba" by the lobsterman who snagged him, this leviathan is thought by some scientists to have lived through both World Wars and the Great Depression. The noble Bubba certainly fit the description of a fellow of his species, owned by Gerard de Nerval: "It does not bark, and knows the secrets of the deep." The logical thing to do with such a scientific marvel was to put him on display in a Pittsburgh fish market, where he passed on (this could be a possible solution to the Social Security crisis, as America is currently overwhelmed with people who lived through world wars and the Depression. Can they all be sent to fish markets in Pittsburgh?).

Was it the saline levels in the tank that done him in? Was it the stress of being moved so often? Or, like Andre the Giant, was he merely the victim of a weak heart? Where's Billy Crystal to make a movie about Bubba?

Know Your Rodents

Greetings, comrade!

Today's critter is the Cuban solenodon, or almiqui. Although its outward appearence suggests one of the more homely Muppets, it is an insectivorious inhabitant of the Oriente province of Cuba. Long thought to be extinct (no specimans were found between 1890 and 1974), the almiqui's secret hiding place was discovered by Cuban authorities attempting to bury Jose Contreras's original birth certificate. No way is that dude only 34.

The almiqui is currently listed as endangered, but its prospects appear more promising since it began attending party meetings in Havana.

Stations of the Cross

Thanks in part to forward thinking measures like the Bush tax cuts, the divisions between rich and poor are the most pronounced they've been since the Gilded Age. In response to this, I propose the reinstatement of the draft, but a very special kind of draft. Let me explain. Since the Civil War, the US has periodically resorted to conscripting young men into the military. The by-product of this institution has traditionally been a mingling of people from radically diverse regional and economic backgrounds. Incontrovertable proof of this can be found in any WWII movie, where various stereotypes (such as the Ivy League WASP, the Jewish clown, the Southern cracker and the guy from Brooklyn) all work in harmony to defeat Nazis.

The draft I'm proposing would be an updated one for the 21st century (that's the one we're in now, right?). My aim is to increase societal understanding and harmony by drafting young men and women into the service industry. Most people can probably guess the "Stations of the Cross of Wage Work" of which I speak. Roughly speaking, they would be Manual Labor, Food Service, Retail and Customer Service. Young Americans would be rotated in order to master different crafts. And not only would rich and poor learn to better understand each other as they work side-by-side scouring out the deep fat fryer, but they would gain empathy for those who work in the service fields. Thus, no more berating of the bag girl when she puts the bread on the bottom, or the cashier who gives the wrong change. And Mommy and Daddy won't be able to call a congressman to get Junior some cherry gig. Wouldn't Arby's be a glorious proving ground for the leaders of tomorrow?

The People's Glorious Film Reviews

Be Cool
by Borko Naberezhnyi

Many year ago, there was movie Get Shorty. It was funny. I laugh. "Ha ha". Now is new movie ten year later. It called Be Cool. Movie start with problem like from American teenager show--oh no, we have no money to produce record album! We have to be selling our recording equipment! Black people and Russians do not like us! If only we could meet Steven Tyler from crappy band Aerosmith to make us famous!

Movie start very slow! People make joke from Get Shorty. Then make joke again. Then someone else make joke again. Aiiii! Uma Thurman do not seem to like John Travolta. She like him lots in Pulp Fiction, but that is 11 year ago and maybe she turn into lesbian. Maybe she need to meet Borko and not be lesbian any more.

Big question for Borko is why make movie? Is for Travolta-guy to have more monies for to give to Scientology? No, is movie that exist for to sell American products that nobody need, product like Diet Pepsi, T-Mobile Sidekick and Seth Green.

Is not bad movie for parts that have Andre 3000 and Vince Vaughn. Is nice. Andre is real actor guy who wear funny clothes and be very funny. Vince Vaughn say many jive things and he dance very nice. But when they not there, is not so nice. F. Gary Gray, why do you make movie that is sucking? Big thing wrong with movie that say success is to be winning MTV music video award.

The Verdict: Borko come for the Vince Vaughn, stay for the Andre 3000. Other parts make him ill, like Belarussian prostitute!


[Editors Note: In a patently ridiculous yet pivotal scene, Chili Palmer convinces Steven Tyler to take Chili's singing protege on-stage during an Aerosmith concert. He does this by telling Tyler that the song "Sweet Emotion" was truly written not about one of the many sex kittens Tyler was banging in the 70's but about his daughters. Tyler realizes that Chili is right and agrees to the publicity stunt. However, all the drugs Steven has taken must have ravaged his brain as severely as they did his body; "Sweet Emotion" appears on 1975's Toys in the Attic and his eldest daughter Liv wasn't born until 1977.]

Quote of the Day

"They say [steroids] makes your testicles shrink. I can tell you my testicles are the same size. They haven't shrunk. They're the same and work just the same as they always have."

-Barry Bonds, advancing a complex tautological argument based on the continuing function of his testicles.

Out of Right Field

Baseball players are, on the whole, a conservative GOP-leaning bunch. If only I could get my head fully around that basic point. The recent White House visit by the Red Sox has run this issue up the flag-pole again, distressing the lovable, arch-Sox fan at Asymptosy [midway down the post]. While some are more rabidly conservative than others, and some are merely self-aggrandizing dicks, the teams I root for are mostly playing for the other side (politically, that is). This cognitive dissonance must be a hangover from childhood--baseball cards don't have an ideology column.

Last September the Mariners were surveyed about politics and it appears that the team is the most right-leaning organization in Seattle. Now, I don't mind a difference of opinion, but ignorance always grates, even in professional athletes. "'I think about what happened on 9/11, and I think about what would have happened if Al Gore had been in charge,' said reliever J.J. Putz, who hails from the important swing state of Michigan. 'This country would be in shambles.'" At least my boy Bobby Madritsch was pulling for Kerry, like a proper lefty should. It's a difficult reality, but one that I must come to grips with: when it comes to ballplayers, some are Clementes and some are just Putzes.

Not Down With Huey

While "The Boondocks" has lost some of its steam in recent months, it still gets under people's skin. The Chicago Tribune decided not to run this cartoon because "[t]oday's original Boondocks strip presents inaccurate information as fact." Judge for yourself, I guess.

Lies

During my walk to work, I pass a number of newspaper vending machines. This is not, in itself, exceptional (the newspapers that is, I know hardly anyone who actually walks to work anymore). However, on the clear plastic door of nearly every one of these dispensers is written the word "LIES" in a child-like Sharpie scrawl. This is done with no apparent discrimination for the publication, be it New York Times, Washington Post, USA Today or Philadelphia Inquirer. Always the identical graffiti, repeated all over the city (although for the Washington Times the vandal(s) occasionally mix it up, e.g. "neo-nazi lies."). I've seen this same tag in New York and Seattle; for all I know it's a nationwide phenomenon. This mono-morphemic assault on the newspaper vending machines of Washington, DC appears to be just another commentary on the sad state of journalism, albeit without an opaque political or social ideology (can anarchy be an ideology?) As Nicholas Lemann recently reported in the New Yorker, ain't nobody down with the mainstream press. I guess the graffiti "artist" wasn't hip to a piece in the op-ed section.

Don't Panic

Just to set everybody's mind at ease, I would like to state emphatically that I was not the member of rapper 50 Cent's entourage who was shot in the leg last night at New York's Hot 97 radio station. I understand the confusion: like the injured party, I am also 24-years-old and a member of 50's G-Unit posse. Many thought that this was the logical outcome of my long running feud with break-out hip hop star The Game. Though wounded by his insults against me on Church For Thugs, I've decided that too many have died in these pointless gangsta wars. Thus, I renounce my feud with The Game, and pour one out for my homies.

Anniversary

The first of March marks the one-year anniversary of my stint as a Federal Trade Commission paralegal. Will this dubious achievement (holding a job for more than one year) mark the beginning of a new era? It's not that I can't hold a job, but that no job can hold me.

Another Installment of Great Baseball Names of the 80s

Yellow and black: how can we go wrong?

Today we salute Andy Van Slyke, who began his career as a Cardinal and followed with a productive stint in Pittsburgh (1987-1994). Van Slyke spent most of his time in the outfield, with less-than-stellar stints at 1B and 3B. "They wanted me to play third like Brooks so I did play like Brooks - Mel Brooks." Van Slyke finished his career with 1,562 hits and a .987 fielding percentage.

One Last Thing on the Oscars

I'm not the first to point out that, aside from the gender of the underdog boxer, Million Dollar Baby could have appeared word-for-word in Warner Bros. 1934 film line-up. Not that there's anything wrong with a well executed, traditionally-plotted film. But if spoken by lesser actors than Clint Eastwood and Morgan Freeman, a goodly amount of the dialogue in that film would have been laughable. Great actors possess the ability to speak any dialogue, no matter how cheesy, and make it believable (Bogart was brilliant at this). In their gracious acceptance speeches, Eastwood and Freeman showed some class.

Hilary Swank, on the other hand, did not. I found her tribute to Eastwood, as her "Mo Cushla" (or however it's spelled) teeth-grindingly sappy, not to mention the crassness of yelling a shout-out to her publicist over the orchestra. I feel the same speech, delivered by a Staunton or a Bening, would have been at least tolerable. Hilary Swank's body of work is choked with mostly forgettable performances in middle-tier films like Insomnia and The Gift, punctuated with Oscar bait; she is easily the worst actress to be twice given Oscars. I realize that comparing her laundry list acceptance speech (almost identical to her Golden Globes speech) and her filmography is perhaps unfair, but watching actors like Kate Winslet or Don Cheadle, who have spent years building a respectable body of work, get overlooked merely because their characters don't die horribly grates on me. Well, that's it, no more about the Oscars now.

Somalia on the Spot

The Supreme Court today struck down the death penalty for minors, which is a huge relief for me. Back when I was eight, I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die.

"Nino" Scalia retorted in his dissenting opinion that, "the court thus proclaims itself sole arbiter of our nation's moral standards - and in the course of discharging that awesome responsibility purports to take guidance from the views of foreign courts and legislatures." I guess he felt we should stand strong with Somalia as the only countries in the world that execute juveniles.