A mysterious ooze

A few weeks ago they handed out these cool stress balls at work. I don't have much job-related stress (it's pretty cushy) but I do have busy hands, so this was a much-appreciated little toy—even with the company logo on it. It had a cool green rubber skin, not unlike those semi-translucent iPod cover things. The only unfortunate thing is the ball had a white residue all over it that reeked of industrial plastics, and when I attempted to wash it off the ball became tacky like the Wacky Walkers of my youth. So I could pick up crumbs with it now, which is nice.

I have a fairly destructive tendency with tactile things that normally is kept just in check. For instance, I spent a few solid hours trying to pop the thing, as it was certainly too stretchy for its own good, but just when I got to the point where it might actually rupture I would let up. Because I wouldn't want to be without it or the ability to torture it.

One time, though, I reined myself in too late, and the next thing I know I've got this goop on my hand. This mysterious ooze. The motherfucker was mortally wounded and bleeding on me.

(On the way home I called A. to let her know there was a strong possibility I would mutate overnight. I advised her to buy a shotgun. But I was hopeful I would survive and be able to harness my mutation into a kind of superpower. As in, I would show up in stressful environments, have everyone grab a handful of me and squeeze for a few minutes, then move on when everything was chill. Who wouldn't like that? Beside me.)

Needless to say I was a little disappointed to not have this little stress ball to push around anymore, especially since I never did mutate. Lucky me though, I was walking around the office one afternoon looking for free food and I saw a table with extra stress balls on it. Same green rubber, same white powder, presumably the same clear interior ooze.

I wasn't going to kill this one off so easily. I treated it pretty well, kneading and bullying it every day for about a week and a half. But then I started to pick at the little plug on the bottom, and it was all downhill. I must commend the manufacturer because there were a lot of safeties in place to prevent someone from accessing the ooze this way—many thin layers that I had to breach in spite of myself. Eventually I had a slow leak going, which put a damper on its supposed de-stressing abilities but kept me focused nonetheless. I could still twist the thing around with minimal discharge, so long as I was smart about it. Smart.

On Thursday of last week I settled on letting the thing destroy itself. I twisted the ball into two distinct sections—one half ready to blow and the other with a lot of slack—and leaned it against my computer so it looked like a mushroom (slack half a nice dark green on top, catastrophe-in-waiting half stretched to near-translucency underneath). No change as of Friday, but it had a nice long weekend to develop. (By the way, I know this is pathetic like a retarded fourth-grader and his science-fair potato is pathetic, but give me a break. The alternative was to go shopping for a fun hat for Friday's "Fun Hat Day," and nothing good was coming out of that. At least I was adding a new level of de-stressing to this thing: full-on distraction.)

Got in yesterday and noticed a slow leak had formed. Like when Ash went berserk in Alien, that first drip of android fluid on his temple? Look out!

At last, a nice puddle of ooze greeted me this morning. I couldn't be happier, and not just because we're allowed to wear jeans all week. I was sad to throw the corpse in the trash, but at least I have my ooze-puddle to carry on its memory. There's an air bubble right in the middle and the whole thing is gradually solidifying, and I will cultivate it until I can pull it off the desk like a pancake. I will try to roll it up into Son of Stress Ball. Then I will make it scream.

Loyalty is: Royals… Athletics… Red Sox… Yankees…

The Johnny Damon Saga is unfortunate but not Earth-shattering. There are several pissed off people around here (and I've met some Yankee fans who aren't too psyched either), but I'm still pretty buzzed by the 2004 win to care too much about anything the team can do right now—even though I'm troubled by how very little there is left of that 2004 team, Theo included. I'll miss Damon, but I'll miss (and have missed) Cabrera, Lowe, Pedro, Mueller, Mirabelli, Bellhorn, Roberts, Myers and a few others too. Baseball is a business and that is a little sad, but so is football and the Patriots have managed to keep a solid core of guys while dealing with a salary cap! So I think the Sox organization has a lot to answer for when it comes to the live-and-die-by-the-Sawx fans around here (which, as big a fan as I am, does not include me).

It's hard to blame Damon in the whole deal because the Sox seemed caught off guard. Inexcusable on their part. Damon is a dense, narcissistic star who, despite what he had to say about loyalty, was going where said stardom would best excel (hence all the New York and Los Angeles talk). But the team was completely blindsided, like they assumed the whole negotiation thing was on holiday as they sat around the tree wrapping up pieces of Fenway Park grass to sell to lamebrains. Is this how you appease a fanbase when it comes to one of the game's most popular players?

In two years (if that long) I think the Yankees will be lobbying hard for the institution of a short-field allowance like in softball, where you can field a tenth player a bit behind second base, purely to act as Damon's cutoff man when he's trying to throw out a baserunner. I loved watching the guy play, but seeing him throw was like pulling out a nose hair: you cry out and then your eyes water. Someone recently wrote that he threw like a girl… throwing left-handed. Funny and true.

This transaction probably won't amount to much in the larger baseball scheme. Damon won't help the Yankees win a World Series because that offense was already stunning. What they need is for everything that went wrong last year with their pitching (Pavano, Wright, even Johnson and Mussina to an extent) to fully correct itself, and everything that surprisingly worked (Small, Chacon, Wang) to keep clicking. They'll score a lot of runs, and they'll need to.

As for the Sox, we'll see what a brand-new infield can do. I'm not too enthusiastic, and am already expecting a cruise-control year. They are looking squarely at 2007 when it will practically promote its entire AAA Pawtucket squad to the big leagues. One thing I'll miss about Theo is his commitment to the farm system, and in the next couple of years we'll see some amazing young talent all over the roster, pitching staff included. This year it's a bunch of "Who dat?" old dudes running out the final years of their contracts, keeping the field warm for the young studs to follow. At least the Beckett deal is pretty cool in the meantime.

If the Pats can win another Super Bowl (here's hoping for a XX rematch against the Bears; I'll probably make a playoff post after next weekend when I know who we're playing, but as of now I'm not too afraid of the Jaguars or the perennially overrated Steelers) then maybe the lunatics around here will settle the hell down, listen to their new Christmas iPods instead of WEEI and actually enjoy a Summer without having to constantly check the scores (Red Sox and Yankees), wonder where Manny's going at the trade deadline (because I think he'll still be here) and convince themselves that $12 isn't all that bad for two Bud Lights.

Let Damon have his bottle and get yourself to the beach. It's lovely.

Redemption, Cambridge style

I realized last night after yelling at a fellow motorist for the fourth or fifth time this week that I have occasional issues with rage. These are usually restricted to when I'm in the car, because driving in Cambridge (even more so than in Boston) will destroy your faith in a universal order. The one-way streets and criminalized U-turns are stacked up in such a way that mankind does not stand a chance. You might be able to snake your way through the city without a scratch, but you will die a day earlier in spite of it.

(By the way, a big middle finger to the Porter Square shopping plaza, where I'm sure they'll start pouring sugar into everyone's gas tanks as yet another way to screw you—tight parking spaces, narrow lanes, aloof cabbies and carriage corralers, retarded pedestrians and no way to exit south on Mass. Ave. are not enough in the war against reason. And I seem to be the only one bothered by this.)

Alright, this was supposed to be my positive Cambridge entry. Really, though, I love living here. I love my apartment, and sharing it with A. and my cat Steve and even the corpse of the giant spider I killed last night. I love getting one of the best burgers in town ninety seconds away from my doorstep, and washing it down with a great beer menu to boot (that is, a selection from the beer menu; the menu itself slakes no thirst!). I love walking to Harvard Square and taking advantage of the forty-second Walk light at the main intersection (actually a triangle) that kicks my sanity in the nuts whenever I'm stuck trying to drive through. (I know it's forty seconds because the display counts down from forty. Forty! Seconds!)

Deep breaths. The first thing I love about Cambridge this week actually started out badly. Back in April I walked out to my car that wasn't there—it had been towed. Short story is there was a sign that said you couldn't park there during the day on Tuesday and I was towed on Wednesday. So not only did I have a parking ticket to battle, I had to head out to the tow yard (not subway-accessible, naturally) and drop $65 to retrieve my car. Hey, who doesn't like handing out $65 on a whim? (Of course I'm blaming the city here, not the tow yard. Even though the owner of the place took offense when I made some remark about how no one likes to visit a tow yard because it means you got towed, and who likes that? Hey, they did a good job towing my car. Real nice. But let's not pretend your service offers as pleasant a customer experience as, say, back-alley mattress sales.) The good news is—after many fruitless conversations with an asshole named Margaret who repeatedly assured me my claim was "still being investigated," which I think is bureaucrat-speak for "You and your claim can blow me"—I finally got my goddamn $65 back. I'm thinking I might buy myself $65 worth of gum, chew it up real good and stick it in every city-property keyhole I can find.

Happy story, part two: progress on the William Dawes site! I wrote about this in September, and I'm happy to say the project is nearly complete. Something is seriously wrong though, because they only started on it the other day and should finish by the weekend. This goes against every Cambridge construction policy I'm familiar with. Instead of a lazy/unionized clan there are only like four guys (seems just right) who've actually been working. So I'm guessing they're either non-union (wonderful!) or, even better, four guys who just got sick of looking at that shit and decided to get it done. Bravo! I'll have to give them some of that gum.

Lost in the maize

What can I say, I'm good with puns. Anyway, A. and I had a fun Autumn Sunday last weekend: we went leaf-peeping, picked some apples and then conquered the Davis Mega-Maze. This is a seriously large cornstalk maze in central Mass.—about an hour away—that we learned about in the AAA newsletter, of all things. No AAA discount though. What the fuck?

Once we traversed the parking lot maze (not really, but close) we started our adventure. They said it could take anywhere from thirty minutes to three hours or more to reach the exit. Frankly, I don't think thirty minutes is possible unless you have a map or guess correctly all the way through. We did it in about eighty minutes, which is pretty good for a first time (they change up the maze once or twice per week).

Throughout the maze are these bridges that raise you above the corn so you can supposedly see where to go, but it doesn't really help since it just makes you realize how far off the mark you are. There are also these pit-stop areas along the way where you can take a pee break, eat a snack, paint your face or zap some villains (there's an odd superhero theme to the whole thing). It's important to remember how to get back to these spots, since they act as hubs from which to move forward instead of backward. We also had to get over the fact that we repeatedly saw the same people over and over for a while, going in all directions, and just trust that no one else knew what they were doing any more than we did. Once we adopted this attitude we pretty much cruised, except for some of the muddier spots (it was close to seventy degrees on Sunday after snowing a couple of inches on Saturday; did I mention we live in New England?).

As you exit they reward you with a token proclaiming that you are a maze superhero. Hopefully, if we make a habit of this and conquer the maze once every Autumn for the next twenty years, I'll have enough tokens to melt them down and fashion a championship belt.

It’s football season so please move on

What's getting lost in all this Red Sox/Theo Epstein hooplah is the fact that Dan Shaughnessy is a terrible, terrible writer.

Seriously though, all of this mess was avoidable. Many people are saying (and these people are right) that Theo should have been offered a contract extension on October 28 of last year, the morning after the Sox won the World Series. Maybe it's a little poetic justice, since Theo waited until the last minute to try to re-sign Pedro last year and it fell through. But I have respect for him right now, since walking away is probably the most difficult decision he could have made. (And difficult is a relative term because he won't go hungry any time soon.)

This story should blow over in the next few days, hopefully, since it's not the end of the world. Theo did a great job, but I think a lot of people could do at least a good job with the payroll the team can afford. Even Dan Duquette—Theo's predecessor who is hated around here for letting Clemens go, even though these same haters agreed at the time that Clemens was on the downslope—did well in signing Pedro, Varitek, Damon, Lowe and others. Whoever lands here, so long as he's not a total nut, should do fine. (And as much of an ass as Lucchino is at times, he's an intelligent baseball guy who's been around the league a long time. Too bad he didn't put the kibosh on the Renteria signing, though, and insist on keeping my man Orlando Cabrera. Everyone in New England knew that was a mistake before it was even official.)

Last note: A. and I had the news on Monday night, and hadn't yet heard anything about Theo's resignation. The sound was muted so we couldn't hear the report, but the headline on the screen read "Theo Resigns." So A. said "Oh no, Theo resigned!" (as in quit) and I said "No, it's re-sign" (as in signed again), because that was the story earlier in the day. Language is a funny thing.

Fact-checker wanted

I'm a big fan of The Underground Garage, Little Steven's weekly rock show. I tape it every Sunday night so I have something to listen to in the car the following week, since too much of what passes for radio around here will suck the intelligence right out of you. It's always a great show, excepting a few new bands he plays alongside classic Stones, Damned and Sonics tunes.

I'm drawn to the music first, but his between-set musings are entertaining as well. He frequently has a good anecdote about a particular song's recording session or history, stuff I'm a sucker for. (So much so that I rented Sympathy for the Devil last weekend and had to put up with Jean-Luc Godard's nonsense when all I really wanted to see was how much—or, it sadly turns out, how little—Brian Jones contributed to the track.)

Few things irk me more than a DJ sounding all high and mighty and tossing off a bunch of "facts" in a look-how-much-I-know manner, and then it turns out he's plain wrong. Like this stiff John Laurenti who hosts a weekly Beatles show on the local classic-rock station—that was another one I used to tape every week, but he and his idiocy drove me away—he's one of these superfans who thinks the Beatles did everything first, totally discounting the other geniuses of the day (the Kinks, the Who, Hendrix, etc.). So one time a few months ago he mouths off about the Stones not recording a long song until the Beatles cut "Hey Jude." Just sloppy. I was annoyed enough to email him, pointing out "Going Home," "Sing This All Together (See What Happens)," "Jig-Saw Puzzle" and others, and telling him (in so many words) that if you're going to be a loudmouth, at least be an accurate loudmouth. So that was pretty much the end of the show for me.

Which brings me to my man Little Steven. During last week's show he played a terribly inferior version of "(Tell Me) Have You Ever Seen Me" by Apostolic Intervention (it was written by the Small Faces and performed perfectly for their third album). A few songs later he played Donovan's "Hurdy Gurdy Man," one of my all-time favorites. So during the break he's telling us what we just heard, and it pains me to say he made two inexcusable errors—errors that frequently trip people up, but could be avoided with some Google research and common sense.

The first was in explaining that "Steve Marriott of the Faces" gave the song to Apostolic Intervention. For the last time, Marriott was in the Small Faces and was the only member of the Small Faces not to move on to the Faces in 1969. (True that the new group continued—against the band's wishes—to be called the Small Faces for their first album in the US, but in their home country and everywhere else in the world it was the Faces.) This is basic stuff if you're into sixties music.

I'm more flexible regarding his second mistake, since Donovan was enough of a flake to put it out there himself: "Hurdy Gurdy Man" does not feature three-quarters of a future Led Zeppelin (theoretically, all but Robert Plant), despite his Greatest Hits liner notes saying otherwise. He even admits as much in the notes to the later-released Best of Donovan. Think about it: it's a confirmed fact that Allan Holdsworth played guitar (because Hendrix and Page, Donovan's first and second choices, were unavailable) and Clem Clatini played drums on the song; does it really sound like there is more than one drum track on this song, or that there are two guitars beside Donovan's own? John Bonham was a relative unknown at the time anyway, and Page and John Paul Jones likely didn't even meet him until Plant brought him into the Yardbirds/Zeppelin fold later in '68 ("Hurdy Gurdy Man" was recorded in April of that year, Led Zeppelin in October).

So that leaves Jones, who indeed did perform (and nicely) on the track. But I guess "Featuring one-quarter of Led Zeppelin!" isn't quite as strong a selling point. By the way, I love the thought of Donovan sitting down to write his notes and thinking "Hey, what's a good story about 'Hurdy Gurdy Man'? I was so out of it, baby." Then he just starts making shit up, "I was the first singer of Led Zeppelin, why not?" Seriously, these are the best liner notes I've ever read. Regarding "Barabajagal," which he did record with the Jeff Beck Group, he writes "When the record escapes, no one knows who the hell it is… only one thing happened, fusion of a rare and curious kind. Angels and hipsters collide in love." Woot!

Little Steven, you are better than this. I can't blame Donovan too much because it's still painful to watch the "To Sing for You"/"It's All Over Now, Baby Blue" sequence in Dont Look Back—let the man live his dreams, already. But realize that you might want to double-check his "facts."

I officially hate the Clash

Last week A. and I met her friend and her friend's new boyfriend for dinner. It was predetermined that he and I would get along well and I'm glad to say we did. But the reason given is that we both are really into music. So there it is: somewhere in the air, a bit of High Fidelity-style static has appeared. Even if it never rears its head, we're both now thinking "I bet I have better taste in music than this guy."

And I hate that this even crosses my mind. It's really a self-imposed stigma, along the lines of answering "Anything and everything" whenever someone asks what kind of music you listen to. (I always think people who answer with this are liars or assholes or both.) So when he inevitably asked what I like I said I didn't know, and asked A."What do I like?" Really to avoid the issue. In a real or imagined competitive atmosphere, I want nothing to do with that question.

I'm sure a lot of this has to do with my complete lack of awareness regarding good new bands—I have no idea what's going on anymore. WZBC (Boston College) and, to a lesser extent, WMBR (Massy Tech) (not its actual name, or nickname even) used to be major forces in my world, keeping me entertained during my morning and evening commutes and all day in between. No more. Taking the long view, though, I think I've reached the age where it's OK to fall out of touch. I'm not out all night at the Central Square clubs like I used to be; it now annoys me to shop at Newbury Comics because useless crap seems to be their main source of revenue; and I'd rather hear a ten-year-old Stereolab song on the radio than the goddamn Killers.

Anyway, the conversation somehow turned to sixties music, which I'm much more open to discussing because it's fun stuff and there's really no right or wrong (except for the Four Seasons, who fucking suck). We talked about the Stones' Beggars Banquet and Between the Buttons (an underrated classic, and home to a song from The Royal Tenenbaums he was seeking out) and the Small Faces vs. the Faces (one is timeless and the other… uh, well "Stay With Me" is good). Overall a fine, safe conversation.

And then the restaurant played a Clash song. I understand the Clash are a popular band—so are the Eagles—but I groaned because I've never liked them. Not ever. Boyfriend asked "You don't like the Clash?" "Nope." "What's wrong with you?"

And it begins.

When I was a freshman in college I nearly came to blows with someone over the validity of the Doors (I was a fan—I later learned he was as well and just enjoyed playing the contrarian). I'm glad to say I've matured some since then. For instance, after a handful of arguments about music over the years, I've come to the realization that I don't care enough to change anyone's mind, and I'm unwilling to listen to someone trying to change mine. So "Nope" was the right answer there, as opposed to what I might have said (should have said?) five or six years ago: "Oh, you mean that pasty band of reggae/disco posers who wrote adult contemporary hits like 'Train in Vain' and 'Rock the Casbah' and called it punk? The one whose fans also tend to be posers? They fucking suck." Our food arrived instead, and an innocuous response to his challenge ("I just don't like them") shifted us to a different topic. (In truth I think he was half-joking. Half.)

Afterward, though my dislike of the band never wavered, I thought I should double-check because I hadn't heard a Clash album since college. (You see, until recently I had a similar aversion to the Ramones because I thought they were just aping the Beach Boys; turns out that was the point, and since I finally get it I can enjoy them now.) So I… acquired… The Clash, Give 'Em Enough Rope, London Calling (truly awful) and some early singles over the weekend to give the band a blank-slate listen, no skipping allowed.

Guess what? No born-again moment this time. Other than "1977" I didn't hear one song I liked. So what? It's just another band about which I won't elaborate beyond "Nope" when asked if I like them. It's just another band that won't prompt my badgering people with "What's wrong with you?" if they're a favorite (though, admittedly, I'll think it… I've not evolved beyond that). And it's just another band I won't hear without groaning. Because I hate the Clash. And now it's official.

Scruples vs. Netflix

A. and I subscribe to Netflix, and we've been pretty good about moving through the queue lately (only 140+ to go!). I'm the type who (unrealistically) wants to just plow through the whole thing—in truth, I won't be satisfied until there is nothing left. And there is always something to add.

We keep things fair—most of them we both want to see, but there are some her-movies (Emma, Vanity Fair, etc.) and some his-movies (The Mack, Night Shift, etc.) in there too. She'll be away this weekend, so to make sure I stay entertained (just in case my Six Flags plans get washed out… again) I've front-loaded it with his-movies: a bunch of short ones I can knock out in under ninety minutes and send right back for more trash. This is my model of efficiency—quantity over quality, and the more I can check off the better. (Much like my iPod playlist of songs I haven't heard yet that are under two minutes—if I have to put up with a Guided by Voices or Bad Brains song every five minutes then so be it.)

None of this matters, and I'm sorry about that. The real reason I'm writing is because A. had a crisis of conscience the other night regarding the Netflix five-star rating system. Last week we watched The Pianist and In Good Company. Neither of us was overly impressed with The Pianist until the last half hour or so, with the introduction of Thomas Kretschmann's character (I won't spoil it). We agreed to rate it a three, but up until then we were both thinking two stars.

A couple of days later it was In Good Company, a lot of which we found completely implausible but nonetheless entertaining (Dennis Quaid probably saved it, even without any Right Stuff masturbation discussions). I said it was a three, but she hesitated: she felt bad because that's what we'd rated The Pianist. After all, these two movies are pretty far apart on the heaviness meter. I see her point, but it comes down to how much we liked or disliked a particular movie, not how much we revered or respected the subject matter. Are we supposed to feel guilty about rating a holocaust film the same as a silly family film? If so, why? Is mediocrity not allowed when dealing with a sensitive topic? And what happens after I go rate Back to School five stars in a minute? These are challenging times.

I, Juror

Last Thursday I served me some jury duty—I guess that's what I get for voting. Unlike the other People's Republic experiences I complain about here, this one was honestly pleasant. (To think, I've got more good Cambridge news to look forward to. But I won't smile about that until the check is in my hand. Literally.)

I was expecting a DMV-style environment at the Middlesex County Courthouse, filled with hostile, miserable bureaucrats. However, other than the truly depressing courthouse itself (a twenty-storey eyesore—inside and out—which ironically provides one of the best views of Boston), everyone I encountered could not have been nicer. The bailiffs who signed us in and hosted our orientation; the court police officers who escorted us around during the day; the judge who explained our role and how important it was… these were people who genuinely appreciated our time there, and seemed happy in their work. They could have soullessly gone through the motions they no doubt repeat every day, but they did their best to keep the mood light ("If you have one of those letters from work saying you're too valuable to be away from the office for a significant amount of time, hang onto it so you can show it to your boss next time you ask for a raise") and remind us that we shouldn't count the day as a wasted one, even if we weren't chosen. (And I don't care if they use that same joke every day to each new crowd, because it's more than they need to do.)

I actually got to sit on a jury, which was quite a bit of fun. My panel and another (about thirty people total) were ushered into a courtroom as the jury pool for a case of "Wanton destruction of personal property valuing more than $250." Judge Marcia Thompson-Jackson, before asking any of the basic screening questions, told us the trial would be over by the end of the day. That's all I needed to hear: I wanted in.

(By the way, I'm prepared to elect Judge Jackson governor of Massachusetts based solely on the patience, reasoning and self-assuredness she exuded in those three-plus hours—and we're going to need one, with Mitt eyeing a White House run).

Luckily, based on my juror number, I was one of the first invited into the jury box. I did my best to look focused yet unbiased and it must have worked because of the eight of us who were originally called up, half were rejected by the prosecutor or defender. A bit more turnover and we were left with three guys (including me) and five women when it was all said and done. (Eventually, two of the women were selected at random to serve as alternates and kept apart from us outside of the courtroom.)

The trial itself was fascinating; that it was quick and easy may have contributed here. Essentially, a woman (twenty-five or so, looked like a strung-out Boogie Nights Julianne Moore) had pressed charges against her ex-boyfriend (a few years older, dead ringer for Manny Ramirez) for slashing her tires while she was working at a nail salon. He denied it (his alibi was that he was at his friend Laura's house at the time, but when asked what Laura's last name was he said he didn't know—well done). Aside from the useless testimony of the cop who showed up a half hour afterward, it was he said/she said.

In the deliberation room, it took the six of us about five minutes to realize we were all in complete agreement: he probably did it, but there wasn't enough evidence to eliminate doubt. Too many unanswered questions (it was a little frustrating to not be able to ask any), no witnesses, little to no context of the actual crime, apparent laziness and/or lack of preparation on the prosecution's part. Not guilty.

After a free lunch courtesy of the commonwealth (still separated from the two alternates), we returned to the courtroom and delivered the verdict. Before the foreman even pronounced the Y in "not guilty" Amber Waves and her family were out of there. Manny wore a nice understated grin and his somewhat sleazy (though effective) lawyer predictably slapped him on the back. We were led out and told our obligation was complete, so we were free to go. I was home by 2:30.

Incidentally, as we all rode down the elevator together one of the alternates (neither of whom knew our verdict until it was read aloud) made some flip remark, and when asked if she would have voted another way she said yeah. Her heart was in the right place but her brain was in the toilet: any one of us could have prosecuted the case better, but that was someone else's job. We did the right thing.

A few other notes on the day:

It cost Amber $1,000 for four new tires. One thousand dollars? On her no-doubt-hourly wage? She drove a 2004 Acura something-or-other, and I'd like to know what kind of tires cost $250 a piece. Are they made of opium? What exactly are you paying for here? I want nothing to do with a car that requires those tires.

Amber and Manny had broken up two years earlier after dating for about six months. And I use the term "dating" loosely, because when both were asked what was the nature of their relationship they individually answered "We used to go together." As in, "Hey, do you want to have dinner with me?" "Nah, let's just go somewhere. Together." Amazing.

The closest we came to the Hollywood gasp-inducing moment occurred during Sleepy the prosecutor's cross-examination of Manny. After a series of mundane questions where she passed up opportunity after opportunity to really grill him (like with not knowing his friend's last name), out of nowhere she said "What's that on your left arm?" The defense attorney objected immediately, and the judge called them over for a conference. Turns out he's got a tattoo of the girl's name… a tattoo he got after they'd split, which would demonstrate how upset he was over the break-up. The judge didn't allow the question, and that was the end of that. (How do I know all this? Let's just say the room's acoustics are not ideal for private conversation.)

Without exaggeration, the otherwise-nice foreman (also picked at random) sang this chorus at least twenty times over the course of two hours: "In my gut I think he did it, but they just didn't make the case." He's repeating this to five people who wholeheartedly agree with him and have already signed off on the verdict. It's like in Twelve Angry Men when Henry Fonda is trying to convince the others to see his side, only if they each responded "Can it, asshole, I don't think he did it either!" So I guess it's more like Five Angry Men and Women and the Blowhard Who Keeps Pushing Their Buttons.

Last thing: Manny's lawyer was so confident, he jokingly complained during closing arguments that his client was not as physically attractive as the plaintiff. Is there anything more wonderful he could have done there? Highlight of the day.

The “Judas!” guy

I taped No Direction Home the other night but have yet to watch it. So I'm wondering, does Scorsese track down the dude who yelled "Judas!" during the Manchester show in '66? This guy is immortalized. For all I know, the entire documentary is a conversation with him…

Scorsese: "Wow, almost forty years since the infamous 'Judas!' performance! What are your thoughts? How should the world remember you?"

Judas Guy: "I went to the doctor the next morning for a regular physical, and he told me I had aged fifty years in the previous twenty-four hours. That sums up my legacy, alright… standing there with a man's finger up my ass as the world passes by."

MS: "I understand. I mean, it really makes you look foolish in hindsight. But why did you feel so betrayed? Isn't it a performer's right to do what he wants instead of catering to an audience? Besides, he'd been playing electric sets for almost a year at that point—it wasn't shocking like it might have been at Newport. All you had to do was leave after 'Mr. Tambourine Man' and you would have been all set."

JG: "Part of me hoped Bob's artistic and adventurous expression would whither against a collective fear. In the larger scheme we were trying to affect change in society, but by our rules—once someone challenged us with a different set of rules, or, rather, with no rules at all, it wasn't as satisfying. Especially Bob, who would've been nowhere without us. He wanted to go in strange new directions, directions we couldn't control. That integrity really freaked us out."

MS: [Considers this.] "I see." [Pauses.] "Sounds like a mob of short-sighted goons, if you ask me."

JG: [Silence.]

MS: [Notices a stack of records.] "Hey, you still have Bringing It All Back Home! Mind if I play 'Bob Dylan's 115th Dream'? That shit is funny."

JG: [Silence.] [Eats own poop.]

MS: "Nasty!"