Let the Polamalu suck-off begin!

OK, I meant to write this last week. My bad. I hope it's not too late to throw another knee-jerk NFL preview log on the fire, even with the benefit of 20/20 week-one hindsight.

I'm going to hold myself to one sentence per team here (though beware of cheating with semi-colons and parentheses and stuff). I do this partly to focus on what I really think (rather than going off on tangents and shit), partly because I'll likely recycle a lot of what I've already read and heard (unconsciously or otherwise) and partly because I don't necessarily know much about teams that don't start with N and end in S and have an ewenglandpatriot in the middle. And I won't pick a Super Bowl victor because that should be painfully obvious by the end due to my thorough impartiality.

(Just one remark on the post title: I think Troy Polamalu is a fine player, but if I hear one more analyst or ESPN2 douchebag talk about what a nice guy he is off the field and what an intense competitor he is on the field I will shun the color yellow for the rest of my life. Ed Reed is better anyway.)

I'm doing this pinko-style, straight-up alphabetical order:

Arizona Cardinals
Everyone's calling this the sleeper team, just like everyone did last year, which tells me that everyone is an idiot.

Atlanta Falcons
Ron Mexico is in the house and I won't hate the player, I'll hate the game—because he is too fun to watch.

Baltimore Ravens
If Ray Lewis tackled Steve McNair, would they both end up on injured reserve?

Buffalo Bills
Gave the Pats a good game last week so I'm wondering if they could challenge the Dolphins for second in the AFC East; in fact, I think Willis McGahee could find the real killers.

Carolina Panthers
I thought these guys would coast to the Super Bowl last year, so I have no idea what to make of them; on the other hand, Steve Smith Steve Smith Steve Smith Steve Smith Steve Smith Steve Smith.

Chicago Bears
Everyone's saying "Hey, it was only the Packers," but to do that in Green Bay is still impressive; on a related note, I'll be buying all my furniture in Chicago from now on.

Cincinnati Bengals
If I'm flipping around on a Sunday and the Cincinnati offense is on the field, I'll park it because I don't want to miss the Chad Johnson Experience (I'm not being sarcastic here, I think he's the best).

Cleveland Browns
I can type the name Willie McGinest without sobbing, but just barely.

Dallas Cowboys
I don't know anyone around here who doesn't want Bledsoe to do well; matter of fact, the somehow-still-employed-by-the-Globe Ron Borges wishes he was still our starting quarterback.

Denver Broncos
Fuckers.

Detroit Lions
I don't have anything to say about the Lions, except that Thanksgiving might be my favorite holiday.

Green Bay Packers
Favre right now is as selfish as T.O. has ever been, and I can't believe no one's mentioning it; he said last year that it's not his job to mentor a young quarterback—what a prick.

Houston Texans
Still can't believe the Oilers aren't around; great name, great uniforms, great Bum.

Indianapolis Colts
Hold on a second: this is a team that couldn't win the "Let's win this for coach" game against the Seahawks last year (they were resting their starters, but come on), they lost Edgerrin James, Peyton proves again and again that he has no game management skills in the playoffs… and everyone's picking them to win the Super Bowl?

Jacksonville Jaguars
To paraphrase Flavor Flav: we got three black quarterbacks so step back!

Kansas City Chiefs
I miss that Snickers commercial where the grounds-crew guy accidentally paints Chefs in the Arrowhead end zone, and then mumbles "Great googity boogity."

Miami Dolphins
A few years ago my friends and I traveled to East Lansing for a Michigan State/Penn State football game (long story); Nick Saban was the MSU coach at the time, and the undisputed highlight of the weekend was some guy shouting "You suck, Saban!" from a few seats away—we still make each other laugh with that one.

Minnesota Vikings
I'll avoid the obvious Sex Boat thing and say the decision to put the viking horns down the length of the pant legs was unsound.

New England Patriots
I can't say anything here without sounding like a homer, so I'll just give another reason why Bill Belichick is the coolest: when asked if he cares whether his former assistants are successful as head coaches in the NFL, he responded "I don't sit around and cheer for other teams in the league… I root for the Patriots every Sunday, like a lot of other people around here do."

New Orleans Saints
Not sure if I'm inventing this conspiracy, but I think the NFL made the Texans not draft Reggie Bush so the Saints could, allowing them to reap the financial benefits (merchandising and game attendance) and remain in New Orleans; call me crazy.

New York Giants
Blah blah blah Manning Bowl blah blah blah Jeremy Shockey blah blah blah tough division; all overrated.

New York Jets
I can't think of the Jets (or the Steelers) without thinking of watching their 2005 playoff game at the People's Republic (Cambridge's faux commie bar) and being unable to decide which was worse: the "competition" itself or what passed for a Guinness "pint" (twelve ounces, five dollars).

Oakland Raiders
The Aaron Brooks??

Philadelphia Eagles
The secondary is so strong, they could put as much pressure on opposing offenses as Donovan McNabb's cornrows put on his hairline.

Pittsburgh Steelers
It pains me that this team won the Super Bowl last year; but then I remember the Terrible Towel and what a sissy little gimmick it is, only the team and its entire fanbase don't realize it; and then I think that Carson Daly might have something with this karma thing.

San Diego Chargers
I visited the San Diego Zoo once and took a picture of a rhinoceros standing next to a sign warning about the animal's "spray zone"—the sign had a cartoon rhino spraying urine out of its rear, and for maximum artistic effect I snapped the pic while facing the rhino's ass (luckily managing to not get spray-pissed on); I think there's a Marty Schottenheimer joke in there somewhere.

San Francisco 49ers
I was impressed that Vernon Davis, the tight end the team drafted this year, wasn't afraid to show emotion on national television when he was picked; I was also impressed with his hair, which reminded me of Predator, which is a symbol of American triumph.

Seattle Seahawks
Have fun with Deion Branch, he's a good player and a formerly sensible guy; just hope the Madden curse doesn't come through and shatter Shaun Alexander's kneecaps, therefore costing you a top-ten pick.

St. Louis Rams
The Sports Guy picked the Rams as his sleeper team this year, and since he did the same thing with the Bears last year I'm inclined to believe him; then again, he made one of those celebrity iMixes on iTunes and his taste in music is historically bad; so I don't know what to think.

Tampa Bay Buccaneers
Phil Simms is a terrible TV analyst, but he is a TV analyst, so every uptight sycophant in the media is afraid to say how much his QB son sucks.

Tennessee Titans
I hated that "Tennessee" group Arrested Development and, like with so many shit bands, I refused to bow down to their popularity and associated peer pressure… and I'm a better person today because of it; also at this party are Bon Jovi, the Spin Doctors and the Strokes, with Bloc Party knocking on the front door.

Washington Redskins
I'm no PC thug but it's about time to retire the name Redskins; the team's baseball hats have a cool R they could adopt as a new logo, and they could become something else that starts with R like the Rapscallions or the Republocrats.

Playoff picks
AFC division winners: Indianapolis, New England, Pittsburgh, San Diego
AFC wild-card teams: Jacksonville, Cincinnati
NFC division winners: Chicago, Carolina, Philadelphia, Seattle
NFC wild-card teams: Atlanta, New York
Super Bowl: New England, Chicago

Count it!

Love is...

If I ever hit my head and wonder who is this woman in my bed and why am I marrying her then I should reread this. It's an email she sent me yesterday. (She's an editor at a local publisher.)

Just had to share that in the new book I'm getting, which is a multicultural reader (essays from and about difficult cultures), in the section called "Comparison and Contrast" the authors have included an essay called "Puritans and Parrotheads: A Columnist Compares the Concerts and Fans of Bruce Springstreen and Jimmy Buffett." !!! Shouldn't this be in the "similarities" section ("A Columnist Compares the Fans of Bruce Springsteen and Jimmy Buffett and Concludes That They're Pretty Similar After All: Both Like Crappy Music")?

It should be noted that I once made a mix CD (a mix CD!) for her called No More Springsteen which basically compiled some songs from the sixties and seventies that I will play when I win the lottery and take over WZLX, Boston's sucky classic-rock station. They currently have about twenty songs in rotation and you've heard them all a million times, only the dregs who listen don't care and want to hear "Sweet Home Alabama" again even though they likely own it on five different albums.

I didn't put this one on her CD (she wouldn't have it) but the first song of my WZLX Reign of What-Took-Us-So-Long will be "Sister Ray." That should sift away the dead weight. Song number two? "Sister Ray," the live bootleg version! Shit yeah!

WEEI must be stopped

Ladies and gentlemen, your 2004 world champion Boston Red Sox!

Just wanted to remind everyone of that. Remember then? Glorious times. And it wasn't even two years ago. Aren't we still in a kind of grace period for a spell? I guess not, because this city and region are acting like it's 2000 all over again—it's become impossible to take. Sometimes I think I'm the only sane man around.

I mean, is it a real surprise that this team isn't going to win the World Series this year? Granted, the fact that the Yankees are doing so well—they are clearly the team to beat—isn't helping with the local psyche. But starting pretty early this season (somewhat out of necessity, yes, but also out of a desire for long-term success), Theo said "These young guys are going to have to play sooner or later, and we might as well get it out of the way at the same time. And don't think I won't Lucchino-tize anyone who utters 'rebuilding year' to the media."

Overall, the Sox are below sea level against everyone except the National League and the Orioles. That is amazing. And this is supposed to be a team that deserves high expectations? Not to go all 20/20 hindsight here, but I did understand before the season started that this would be the first year of the youth movement, and I mean ever because I can't remember the team even once saying "Screw it, this is a lost year so let's start over."

(I'd also like to take credit for the George-Clooney-haircut craze from way back, because I had him beat by three years. In 1993 I saw the Butthole Surfers in Gardner at the PA Beach Club (né the Polish-American Citizens Club, renamed as if Kendall Pond were a season-long family destination; similarly, the band was abbreviated as "BH Surfers" on the ticket in a world of prudish acronyms gone mad). It drizzled all day and my hair eventually matted forward, prompting a friend to remark how cool it looked and paving the way for an international phenomenon. When Clooney and From Dusk Till Dawn stole my thunder three years later, anyone who said to me "You have George Clooney's haircut!" had to listen to a ten-minute tirade about how he really had mine.)

The Beckett deal really sold me on this rebuilding thing, even if he has been struggling (despite last night's strong showing against a good Angels team). In the past the team would have traded for Greg Maddux or Kenny Rogers or some other quick fix on a career downslope who, when it was all said and done, didn't really help (see Frank Viola and David Cone). And as haphazard (being nice here) as the young bullpen has been, did we really want to ship them out to bring in some journeyman third starter or reliever who would ultimately bring nothing to the table (Larry Anderson)? People are expecting the Nomar-level deal every July now, but the stars aligned just right for that one—let's not get greedy. (Contrasting this, Abreu is a great move for the Yankees. No good pitching available, so why not bring in a solid outfielder with a good OBP and score some more runs? He wouldn't have fit into the Sox line-up as successfully because he'd be asked to carry too much in what has become a wildly inconsistent offense, and we would have had to give up a lot. Consequently, if Pluto gets pissed off because it's no longer a planet and spins wildly out of its orbit, taking the Yankees team plan down with it, New York is done because they have no farm system—no one—they can promote. Steinbrenner would be better off buying the Brewers.)

Anyway, what it comes down to is this: the Yankees are probably going to win the world series, and THAT is what has everyone so worked up. If they were out of the picture and the Sox were doing this poorly then I guarantee it wouldn't be as big a deal. But you know what? We can still watch Manny and Papi on a daily basis, and will be able to for the next couple of years. Beckett will probably turn things around in the off-season, and once Lester and Papelbon mature we're going to have some exciting, long-term pitching for the first time in my twenty years of following the team. Also, we get to root for a team that is almost always competitive, encapsulated by a soul-crushing game seven loss in 2003 and then the transcendent victories in 2004. We're stuck with a winner here, and fans of few other teams can say that. (Yes, I do think this team will be back, probably starting next year. And yes, it will be good for everyone involved if they miss the playoffs this year so we can all cool out for six months.)

Lastly, we should just be happy that Captain Brady & His Patriot Men are back in our lives—now there is a team to get passionate about, counting competitors (Colts, Steelers) with whom we can have healthy rivalries, instead of the collective self-loathing the Yankees inspire in many mouth-breathing "Sox fans." Go Pats!

Between light and delete

In January, just in time for the Super Bowl (which sucked—and not only because those no-talent hacks who call themselves the Steelers won it), A. and I broke down and got a DVR box. I find DVR to be one of those technological developments that is impossible to recover from, like evolving from dial-up internet to broadband: there is no going back. Our timing was good because my VCR has been dying a slow death for about two years now, to the point where every now and then it would make a loud snapping sound out of nowhere, despite being switched off and empty. It was the right move.

I kind of fought it for a while, because I suspected it would ruin my life. And it has a bit. As I wrote a while ago, I have a tough time dealing with our Netflix queue and knowing we have so many rentals to plow through, and now I have to deal with all the shit we record on a near-daily basis. If anything sounds even remotely interesting it's going to get recorded (for instance, it was Red Dawn a few weeks ago; I was in middle school when that came out and we all thought it was awesome, because we knew those commies were bad—even if we didn't know why; and it turns out, of course, that twenty-plus years later it is a dreadful, dreadful movie on every level). The best part is the display that tells you how much of the hard drive is full—I become obsessed with idle passions that involve getting under a certain number by the end of such-and-such weekend. These are serious goals I set for myself. (I'll lighten up every now and then, though, like when we're at sixty-nine percent. I laugh and laugh.)

We're big on the "series recording" feature too. This only adds to the pile, and drives up our damned percentage. A. and I get into little contests too, like who can get through all of his or her shows first. A typical example of this is pitting my reruns of The Twilight Zone against her frequently aired What Not to Wear. We're so cute.

I have gotten into The Twilight Zone though, for real. I watched it for the first time a few years ago, probably on a July 4 weekend because the Sci-Fi Channel always runs a marathon then (not sure why). I think it was "Back There," still one of my favorites, where Russell "And the Rest" Johnson travels back in time and tries to prevent the Lincoln assassination. Just a great story-telling show. I'd become curious about it mostly because of The Simpsons, which frequently spoofs some of the better-known episodes, though I had always written it off as for nerds only. On the contrary, I was hooked immediately. Or not contrarily, and I'm a nerd too. (This is eerily similar to my eventual embrace of the Beatles: an ill-informed opinion of what they really were—i.e., Paul McCartney's worst—followed by randomly hearing "It's All Too Much" and instantly understanding what all the hype was about.)

So thankfully I no longer need to throw an eight-hour cassette into the VCR every July 4 and be happy with whatever episodes they're running. Now I watch what I want and then hit the delete button as fast as I can. Progress!

All your chair are belong to us

I have a destructive habit. At my new job, where I've been now for about two months, I have a chair that enables me. It's one of those office-type chairs that allows you to lean back, though I like to (as the athletes say) take it to another level. I'm still within the manufacturer's boundaries of leaning, only I lean and then unlean and then lean, etc., all day long. That is to say, I rock in my chair.

It's not what I would call a nervous habit or anything, I just legitimately enjoy rocking. I always have. And no matter how much shit my new co-workers (playfully) give me about it, I won't be stopping. It's unconscious at this point. (In fact, when A. and I met on the job a few years ago she vividly remembers me rocking back and forth in my (glorious!) chair while her boss brought her around to my cube to introduce us.)

Anyway, about a month into the job I noticed the chair started squeaking a little bit, though low enough that I assumed I was the only one who could hear it. Thing is, I could feel it a little bit too, like a couple of things within the mechanism were out of whack. After a few days of this it was unmistakably making noise, enough that others around me started joking about it. And then the noise grew.

It eventually became intrusive enough that some people, unfamiliar with my "quirk," walked the floor trying to find the source of "that sound." And then Friday I get a call from the group's administrative assistant: "Can you let me know when your new chair arrives?" Um, new chair?

Yes, my chair and I must have disrupted someone so much—someone with chair-purchasing power—to say "Get that bastard a new goddamn chair!" And at this rate, if I'm here for three years, that will only need to happen about eighteen more times.

I found myself admiring a homeless person today

There's a homeless man I walk by every morning on the way to the T. He always sleeps on the same bench in sort of a mini-park area that runs alongside Mass. Ave. It's actually a nice spot.

Sometimes when I walk by he's still asleep. But other times, like today, he was "getting ready." I've seen this ritual a few times now and it fascinates me; he lays all his stuff out on the bench and neatly folds his clothes and things, and then dons a jacket and tie and moves on. If I didn't know better I'd swear he was getting ready for work, and if I hadn't seen him sleeping there during a few late-night walks home I might still wonder about that.

It tells me that no matter how dire his situation might be—and how humiliating it must be (or, at one time, must have been) to plainly and repeatedly reveal to hundreds of people that you sleep on a bench—he retains dignity. Maybe the clothes he wears aren't fresh out of the wash, but if I saw him strolling downtown I likely wouldn't think anything of it (except maybe for all the bags he lugs around).

Contrast him with this offensive woman from the shantytown that overcomes the Coop's entryway every night. Now I know that dreadlocks, for some people, have a spiritual significance. But this woman has one giant, horrifying dreadlock down to her ass. (She reminds me of the green woman who danced for Jabba the Hutt, with those droopy things coming off her head. Minus the "Holy shit, I'm about to be eaten by the Rancor!" expression.) I'm sure there are civilizations of things living in that ugly mass. She and that thing sit Indian style on the sidewalk with her hand jutting out, waiting for her share. What an asshole.

Without going into the politics of homelessness and whether or not these folks deserve my change, these two represent opposite ends of the public-face-of-the-street-person scale—and the dignity scale as well.

Nudity!

I caught From Russia with Love recently, one of those Bond films that has somehow eluded me. I really enjoyed it—a bit slower-paced than, say, You Only Live Twice (my favorite by thousands and thousands of amazing miles—where else can you find characters in a movie watching the movie they're concurrently filming, like with the giant magnet and rocket sequences?), but not in a bad way. I think I could listen to Robert Shaw read the phonebook, especially if after each name he added "He has lifeless eyes, like a doll's eyes."

I've got Doctor No waiting for me in the DVR queue (at once the greatest and most debilitating invention of our time). Haven't seen that one in years and I remember being unimpressed, but I'm a lot more mature now and can appreciate adult things like nuance and alcohol. I think a marathon is on the horizon because Goldfinger and Thunderball are both on soon. But where's On Her Majesty's Secret Service, man? Where's George Lazenby? I've never seen that one because TNT, USA, et al have no G.L. love. Maybe he's lousy, I don't know, but if it wasn't for him they might not have brought Sean Connery back for the uproariously bad Diamonds Are Forever, which is basically a silly Roger Moore Bond caper starring Connery—given a choice between Roger Moore and two weird homosexual assassins I will take the assassins every day of the week.

Then again, A View to a Kill was either my first or second Bond experience—the other being Never Say Never Again; were they just driving up to Connery's front door with dumptrucks full of money?—and definitely one that has stuck with me because Christopher Walken was terrific and Grace Jones was a pure pop-culture mystery. The one scene where she crawls in bed with Moore is the Grace Jones cinema moment. As an adolescent boy watching this scene—and still—three thoughts rumbled as she drops that robe: You can almost see Grace Jones's breasts there. I don't want to see Grace Jones's breasts. Grace Jones is from outer space.

I love how they had to shoehorn the actual words of the movie title into the dialogue. Something like "Nice view." "It's a nice view, alright. To a kill." Not exactly that, but it might as well have been. What is a view to a kill? Poor Duran Duran had to write a song based around that phrase for the soundtrack. Rivers and perverts are tangible things you can wrap scenarios around, but this? Maybe they grasped what viewing to (at?) a kill really stood for. Maybe they lived the viewed-kill life.

After Moore came Timothy Dalton for only two goes. Too bad, I thought he was second-best after Connery. Nice vindictive quality to play off of Moore's proper aloof Englishman. Too bad the producers watched too much Remington Steele and replaced him with the inferior Pierce Brosnan, and it became more important to surround Bond with explosions and big-name starlets instead of an entertaining story. Dalton was this franchise's last gasp at greatness, unless the new guy can bring back a little weight.

Still, one thing the Bond films have always done well is the opening-credit sequence. Have you seen this nudity? It's the equivalent of the Small Faces having a hit single with a drug song like "Itchycoo Park" in that censors remain constantly oblivious. It's remarkable, I'm almost afraid to publicize it. So if you like your PG spy action mixed with a few minutes of R-rated nudity (or X-rated, should someone hack Comcast like they did a few years ago and stick a half hour of hardcore pornography in the middle of Never Say Never Again), check out your local AMC Bond Marathon. And give my regards to George Lazenby.

The retail power of sitting

A. and I visited Northampton recently. I lived there for a couple of years and we've been wanting to go back for some time now—it's a nice town and we're still in touch with some friends there. Plus there's the Northampton Brewery, which is worth the drive on its own.

We timed the trip to meet with a local wedding photographer, and got together with her at a nice little café that opened up not long before I moved away. I can never remember the name of it so I call it the Woodcock, because that makes me laugh. It also makes A. laugh against her wishes. (I think it's really called the Woodstar or the Northstar or something; it should be called the Shadestar because the patio is never in the sun.) (This also reminds me of the Irish bar across from Boston City Hall that I can never remember the name of, so I think I'll start calling that the Glasscock.)

Anyway, we reasonably enjoyed the photographer's stuff, though it didn't blow us away. She's probably in the lead, but only because our first choice (talent-wise) is too expensive, and her idea of cutting us a deal was asking us to pay her in cash under the table so she doesn't have to pay taxes on it. We'll keep looking.

Afterward we walked around town a bit, sold some CDs at Turn It Up and hit some other shops. The lady loves to shop, and she loves to shop in Northampton. One thing I remember about shopping there (actually, waiting around while A. shopped there) is that many stores offer—let's just say it—the guys a place to sit while the girls look at and try on every little thing. I cannot stress enough how essential this is to a store turning a profit. I'll admit it, I can turn into a grump when I'm waiting for her to finish up, to the point where I'm sure she's cut it short a bunch of times for my sake.

But if a store puts a chair or a bench or something for me to chill out on, then I'm less likely to pester her and more likely to just wait it out. Which increases the odds of her buying something. Hell, it increases the odds of me buying something if they have an interesting book or anything to play with to pass the time. Often when we're (she's) making a concerted effort to shop somewhere I'll bring along a magazine because I know what I'm getting into. Now if you're a retailer, and you have a half-comfortable seat in a corner of the store with a slang dictionary on the table next to it (which I did flip through during one of these Northampton pit stops), that will give A. time to browse around and pick something out. And then I might get up and walk to the register with that dictionary. Now isn't that good for business?

Of course I didn't, and she didn't. But we could have.

Back for more!

No matter how out of touch I'm getting, it's still fun to discover new music. And "discover" is the loosest of terms here, because it usually indicates unearthing something that, you know, hasn't been discovered yet. But I'm too old and tired to be doing much of that anymore. So I'm talking about discovering something that's been around for a while, even popularly enjoyed for a while, but has so far avoided me and my picky ears.

For instance, a couple weeks ago I heard for the first time this song "Mongoose" by Elephants Memory. I was aware of the band only because I knew they backed John Lennon on some tour(s) or recording(s) or other(s), but to my knowledge I'd never heard them before. Not even backing Lennon. (I leave most of his solo stuff the hell alone. In fact, here are the solo Lennon songs I like, in chronological order: "Cold Turkey," "Working Class Hero," "Well, Well, Well," "Gimme Some Truth" and "How Do You Sleep?" I've tried to like "Jealous Guy" but it's just too sappy. Sappiness sucks.)

So "Mongoose." 1970. Phenomenal. I recognized the opening drum bit from some hip-hop song (Jungle Brothers?) so I was probably preconditioned to like it. [Edit: It's Cypress Hill's "Latin Lingo" and Pete Rock & C.L. Smooth's "It's Like That." At minimum!] As it played on it just kept getting better, luring me in further, convincing me it could not possibly get better so I'd lose focus a bit and then get knocked over again. I'm a sucker for the way the instruments join the fray one at a time (as in "The Crunge," also hip-hop fodder). And then the groove gets going, and the harmony-like wailing (another thing I fall for—voices as instruments; I love what the Kinks and the Who used to do, and what Yo La Tengo does still, where they harmonize melodies; wonderful). And the distorted bass, and the chunk-a-chunk guitar. I'm practically melting to death as I hear the first thirty seconds of this song. And then the vocals come in, not my favorite singing voice but good and urgent and unrestrained and fucking human. And then the chorus, with a backing that tells me there were at least two black guys in the band—they pull off an all-time riff. One of those that can stick in your head all day, one you never want to forget. Plus, the lyrics (guess I picked up something here) are about finding a mongoose to exact revenge upon a cobra, or something like that. And then the baby cobras call bullshit on that and exact their own revenge. Heady shit.

Can't think of too many others that grabbed me the way this song does. Definitely "The Big Three Killed My Baby." "Touch Me I'm Sick" and, going historically backwards with that riff (skipping "I'm Sick of You"), "Happenings Ten Years Time Ago." The Stooges one that slayed me (having owned only Raw Power at the time) was "T.V. Eye," even if it's in a commercial now. Another is "There Was a Time" from the live James Brown album I pimped in one of my first posts. "How Many More Times." "Baron Saturday" (first psych-era Pretty Things song I heard). "Rebel Without a Pause." "Kerosene." And so on. These are all songs that excite me just thinking about them, just writing about them in the silent vacuum of the office this morning.

So thank you, Elephants Memory, for "Mongoose" and its glory.

“How can we manifest that as a problem?”

An actual quote from an actual meeting! Basically, we were reviewing how successfully or unsucessfully some year-end process went. I'll spare you the details, but the person in charge of this ninety-minute craptastrophe had to keep reminding us that we were there to bring attention to problems we ran into, rather than trying to provide solutions to these problems. It was an open forum, and whenever someone mentioned a problem she would have to distill it down to something she could fit onto one of those giant Post-It pads. Thing is, she didn't understand much of what anyone was talking about. So there were a lot of clarification breaks.

Not only that, but after she had finished scrawling down all of the "problems" we had to vote on which were the most severe. She assigned a number to each one and we were given ten votes that we could scatter around. (I'm not explaining this well, but my head is starting to hurt… again.) Rather than go back to our desks, put the votes into an email and send that shit off to her, for each topic (like forty) she went around and counted hands. Then, someone had to keep a record of how many votes each problem received, and then turn that into some kind of spreadsheet or whatever. Which I guess is easier than copying and pasting from a bunch of emails and giving everyone in the room a half hour in which to do actual work. I mean, that would be my guess if, say, I kept shitting in my own pants. Because seriously, I'd have bigger things to worry about then. But only then.