I Got the Shaft For Real

...and mats at the range are a bitch

Many years back, my friend Dave and I ventured out to a driving range near my parents place to hit a few balls and shoot the shit. I borrowed my dad's golf clubs and we headed to the site, which consisted of a long empty shack lined with astro-turf mats and a field of grass marked only by a few flags and distance markers. It was like $4 for a wimpy bucket of balls, but we didn't care. We were just happy to be out in the summer weather, beating the crap out of some range balls and basically pretending to have our shit together.

While slamming ridiculous sliced drives off the huge rubber stand up tees which are really way too high to hit anyway, I flailed and scrubbed the flat concrete hardness beneath the mat and cracked the base of my father's beloved Harrison graphite shaft he so cherished on his Calloway Big Bertha three wood. I winced in agony, and tried to rationalize the incident with Dave who laughed in my face in return. Fortunately, when we got home and I told my dad he didn't really seem very fazed, so I almost forgot about it. He must not have been very enthusiastic about his own golf game at the time.



Anyway, a few years later, my dad told me he had purchased a new set of clubs and that I could have all of his old ones. Elated, I was eager to get the set and couldn't believe my luck. That was, until the day came when he turned them over to me, revealing that old cracked three wood that I had never replaced and there remained cracked as ever. In guilty regret, I winced again, maybe even stronger than before, when I received it back as a gift. Little did I know at the time that karma was about to roll up on my ass like a midnight taco!!!

Then Karma Came Back in a Bad Way...

It was a sunny, clear, early spring day and I was more than ready to get back out and break in my new pair of FootJoys. I didn't even have time enough that day to get in nine somewhere, so I actually planned to go to the driving range and hit a few balls. I had the top down on the Jeep and I was cruising to the range with my bag hangin' out of the back and an innocent smile on my face to round out the scenario. My bro Trey was ready waiting there when I arrived and we proceeded to get three buckets of balls without hesitation.



As we walked slowly towards the range, conversing carefree all the while, I complained to Trey out loud about having to hit off the mats. As we approached, we could see the UNC golf class kids scampering gleefully in their childlike way up to the rubber tees, so we chose a couple mats as far away as possible from the nerd kids.

After I stretched briefly, I decided to start the exercise with a seven iron. I don't know why, but it felt good. Trey was next to me, just beating the shit out of balls and was experiencing a mild amount of success in the process. We both swung away for a good while. The grass on the fairways here in N.C. still hasn't greened up enough, so my last few rounds have been played on dry, beige, flat fairways. That is, when I keep the ball in play anyway. Hitting a seven iron off the plastic astro turf mat was a comfortable start for me. I really just wanted to improve on my new grip that my friend Jonny taught me a couple weeks ago.

I hit around ten of those, and then I moved on to several other clubs in my bag. After about forty minutes of this, I reached for the demon club (the ominous Calloway three wood with the cracked graphite shaft). I have always hit this club well. Sometimes, I'll even hit it off the tee when I should be using my driver, just because I hit it straighter and more consistently. This day was no different, and I hit the ball straight as usual with the trusty demon club.

After around ten swings, I hit what was to be my last three wood practice shot of the day. It went straight and I relished in the glory of it all to myself quietly, and after completing my swing, I nonchalantly let the club slowly glide down though my right hand and suddenly I felt a disturbing feeling followed by sheer pain. A splinter off the cracked shaft had entered my right hand and penetrated deeply into my index finger, almost to my palm. I still had my glove on my left hand and I didn't want to move anything, so I turned to my buddy Trey for assistance.

At first, he didn't know what was going on, and why would he? I was just wanting to get this shit out of my hand. the black tip of the splinter stuck out like a half an inch. He pulled at it and lost his grip. Then he tried again. He pulled again and out came two inches of black plastic. It had gone in so deep that you couldn't see where it ended. There wasn't much blood, but inside the base of my finger I felt a pain and something else lurking inside. I couldn't straighten my finger all of the way and I couldn't close it either. I gripped my club and hit a couple more balls before I realized that the situation wasn't getting any better.

I went home and decided to wait a while before I made a decision on what I should do. Greg came over with the boys and we had a little cook out and I replaced a burnt out headlight on the Jeep. My finger was really bothering me and I would have sworn there was something inside there somewhere. It just didn't feel right at all. I finished my third beer and headed off to the emergency room where, little did I know at the time, things were about to get way worse.

When I arrived at UNC Hospital's E.R., they admitted me right away. I barely spent anytime in the waiting area, maybe five minutes. This was unprecedented, and I thought maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. At least I'd get home a little earlier anyway. They took all of my vital signs and pertinent insurance info before shuttling me to a room of my own, with a television no less, in the Minor Trauma Unit. The doctor came in after a painstaking viewing of Wife Swap, arguably the worst television I have ever seen. He was about twenty -five and looked like he hadn't been out of med school for more than a month. He looked at my hand and decided he'd have to go in with a scalpel. We both, me being the expert, thought there was something in there.

After leaving me in the room for about an hour, he returned with his menacing grab bag of surgical instruments; a bottle of Lidocaine, syringes, scalpels, tweezers, gauze, and an individually wrapped 5mg Percocet, which I readily gulped down with a cup of water at his request. The jerk didn't understand that one measly 512 isn't going to have any effect on the pain I was about to endure. When I asked for more, he refused, acting like he was giving me heroin or something. Get real. The next thing I know, I've got Doogie Howser stabbing the sides of my knuckle with a needle filled with Lidocaine, which I found out later is not supposed to be used in the hands. It was tortuous pain. He must have stuck my knuckle and finger no less than twelve times and it was excruciating every single time. Finally, after I couldn't feel anything, he began cutting. I told him that the splinter was more to the left, but he said he wanted to start near the entry point of the wound. He dug deeper, and further. Blood oozed out of my finger. He suddenly stopped and left the room.

He soon returned with some old hack of a doctor in tow. Doogie's new assistant, Dr. Dig, was the type of doctor who probably flunked his way down through the ranks to end up on this sorry ass ER shift and now, with the assistance of young Doogie, he would proceed further into my finger, opening up the entire base of my right index finger in the process. Hug dug around inside there for ten minutes and came up with nothing. Then, they sent me to x-ray! Wait a minute, why didn't we do that before we sliced open my hand? They never really answered that question, and before I knew it I was back in the Minor Trauma Unit with Doogie stabbing my finger directly into the wound now with more Lidocaine so he could sew me back up. My right hand was basically out of commission, in a makeshift Doogie splint and wrapped in a few feet of gauze. I had the pointing mummy hand look for a couple of days. I found out that there is nothing worse than hand pain. It is hell. Painkillers barely work at all unless you triple the dosage and drink a six pack along with them, so what's the use.

Its over now, and I think this blog entry has grown out of control. Sorry.

Just When I Thought it Was Safe

Every time a soccer mom loses her keys, every time an NBA player misses a dunk, every time a beauty pageant winner trips on the runway, every time a budding executive misplaces an important memo in his cubicle, and yes, even those rare moments when a pill junkie like Rush Limbaugh says something that makes sense, the world is an imperfect place. To me, it is most imperfect when I am am spending money to fix things that I usually take for granted in this modest life I live. My recent documented wranglings with my Buick have been harrowing experiences that I have posted here on this very blog (check the Salvage Yard piece).

The last thing I want to do on any day is vacuum the house, or anything else for that matter. Just the act of running the thing around on the floors is a pain the ass, but the prep work can be even more brutal and sometimes proves to be the most arduous and time consuming. The prep work can also be costly if not attended to. I learned this the other day when I decided to clean the house again for the fourth time in one week. At the time, I thought I had the floors all clear and ready for a thorough vacuuming, but little did I know there was an enemy waiting for me to slip up. To my discomfort, it would prove to be an enemy which would strike when I was at my weakest and most vulnerable position, and then attack with a vengeance.



My enemy came in the form of a small black nylon sock which was lurking under the corner of our bed. I was moseying along like there was no tomorrow, when suddenly, the vacuum jerked a bit and then dug in. I stalled. Then, there was a terrible whirring sound which increased its shrill even after I had thrown the once trusty power switch on my Hoover fold-up bagless. I winced. Like a smack in the face, a mass of the worst smelling smoke poured out from under its wheels and filled the entire house with the nastiest smell of chemical burnt rubber and I don't know what else. My mind raced as I wheeled the smoking vac out into the carport, flipped it over to reveal that underside that you never actually want to see in any appliance, and removed the smoldering sock from its black spinning brush cylinder thing.

Now I was left with a dead vacuum and was looking at another expensive trip to the Home Depot or some other such establishment and was not pleased at all. My parents had come into town for a visit recently and I thought I finally had things under control with regard to having the family house set up. My dad loves to play golf when he can, so I got some cheap passes to The Crossings in Durham from my bro Jonny (aka: Jonny R n R), and we planned on 18 holes of golf and got an afternoon tee time. Then, I later planned to throw down some grilled eats at my house with the parents, and do some entertaining for the kids and basically do the family thing the right way. My wife and I were beside ourselves with happiness, thinking we had all of the bases covered, it looked like it was going to be a great visit after a decade of struggling to make these parental stays better than awkward and a lot less than horrific for all of us.

Finally the day of the visit came, and just before my parents appeared at the front door, I was beaten down once again by another unexpected event which had a dollar sign attached to it. In a carefree way, I bellied up that morning to my computer, moved the mouse and waited for the usual signs of life. I heard a loud pop, followed by a crackling sound which continued for like five seconds. My first ignorant perception was that the inside of my monitor was on fire or something. The screen just went completely black. After that very moment I knew it would never work again. I was at a loss for words at that point and I didn't even think of mentioning it to my parents.



Luckily for me, when we were on like the tenth tee, my dad asked me what the deal was with my computer monitor. I had no idea he knew what was up with it. He told me he had slapped the side of it to get it to work right and that he was going to buy me a new flat screen monitor. I couldn't believe my luck. My dad has always done what he said he'd do, and the next day he showed up with a new monitor in box. I am looking at it right now. It is awesome.

Anyway, my wife and I awoke the following morning to an empty house. The kids were at the hotel with my parents. The silence was peaceful. I wondered as I walked down the hallway what I was going to do with my first day off in a week and decided I'd start by using the restroom. Sure enough, when it came time to flush, Crack!!, the toilet handle snapped in two. Tack on another trip to Home Depot.



Buick Update: The power windows no longer work and a couple are stuck open. During the rain storm the other night, birds took refuge inside the embattled automobile, where they proceed to shit on the fine Buick interior, which also, was completely soaked in the storm.

Hell at the Salvage Yard

It was an early spring afternoon. I was aligned with the notorious Ream Team and we were preparing for another one of our epic wedding events which we hold regularly, yearly, monthly, and sometimes weekly at our restaurant which will remain unnamed to protect the innocent. Dee Shaftini had just ordered tacos from the generic Mexican restaurant on our block, our resident celebrity wait was present, and the crew was about to segue into some heavy rafting sessions, some involving random acts of insensitivity. I was happy as a clam and I love clams. Instead, I opted for two crispy chicken tacos. Everything seemed to be okay as I joked with Sean Butera, our executive bus, and speculated as to the events that would soon unfold involving the tournament.

Suddenly, to my shock and dismay, my wife and children appeared in the main bar. They were all talking at once, spinning tales of an untimely meeting with the curb right outside the restaurant. Apparently she had flailed in my Buick because the sun was in her eyes and she turned too soon and ended up blowing out both tires on the passenger side. The car was disabled, parked backwards on the curb by our side door. At first, I was just trying to understand why they were all there in the first place. I just couldn't process that information. She said had to get something out of our other car which was parked in the back lot. My kids were in a frenzy and my wife was in awe. She had this wide eyed look of shock in her eyes, and when I got to my car, I soon understood why. The tires weren't just flat, they were shredded and basically ripped in half. Luckily for me, Johnny G. Shaft had the AAA card and the tow was free.



That's when I called the evil empire, aka Walmart, where I bought the tires and where I had the car towed. First, I spent at least twenty minutes on hold with the wrong store after being transferred like six times in the process. Chetorious Raft witnessed this debacle as we conversed in the upstairs office waiting for the ceremony to commence. I finally got through to a human being in the tire department and proceeded to set up a deal to get the tires replaced. The clerk rattled on about the possibility of a prorate on the price and so on and that they were going to go ahead and put the tires on. It would all be done first thing in the morning.

So, I called Walmart the following morning and the woman I had spoken to had not shown up for work and they didn't know where she was. I was put on hold for another ten minutes. Then, a guy got on the line and told me they were going to put the new tires on it. I waited and didn't show up there until 2:30 and the car was sitting outside with blown out tires, untouched. I went inside and the same guy I had spoken to on the phone was there, haggling with some dirtball at the register. Then, all of a sudden, a young blonde sorority looking chick, the kind you might find on www.campusbabes.com, approached questioningly, and he immediately dropped everything and took her outside. They didn't reappear for like fifteen minutes, and then they re-entered, calling her father on her cell. The good clerk was all of the sudden a deeply concerned, considerate, and caring individual. He reassured her that he would take care of everything, and saw her to the door.

Soon enough, when Bambi exited with cell phone in ear, he instantly turned back into Biggie Shortelay from the Durham ghetto ready to pop a cap in my cracker ass for looking at him wrong to get my tire fixed in his hizznitch. I felt like Frog from the 21st Street Crew in Colors when he got sent to County with the Crips. Then, he blurted, in his toughest voice, "What you need man?" When I told him I had called, he rolled his eyes and spat back, "There are a lot of customers up in this place, we ain't been able to get to it yet." After I gently inquired, he then said reluctantly that it would be ready by the time they close, 6:00. So, I said I'd just come back.

When I returned, the Buick was on three good tires and one piece of shit temporary tire. They had the spare on in full effect, donut stylee, kickin' a little black rubber in the back with a bagel on the fly. I knew a shafting was coming fast and I suspected a bent rim. Sure enough, the rim was shot and I had to call a salvage yard to get a replacement. I was less than thrilled. The asshole at the Walmart gave me the name of the nearest junkard, and what follows is simply a continuation of the reaming that took place on this ill-fated weekend.

Of course, the guys at the salvage yard were dicks. I was there for like 45 min waiting,and they had about fifteen employees there, none of whom I saw do a damn thing except watch Nascar on their little shitty TV. In the middle of my wait, one of the guys exclaimed, "Gordon just hit the wall!!" Everyone sat silent like E.F. Hutton had just piped up. That was the first sign that I was in a really bad redneck place. Then, a woman came out of the back office to use the soda machine and some hick co-worker crept up behind her and tried to press the wrong button and she slapped his hand shrieked in her country tone, "Get away from me you idiot!"



I continued to sit and wait. All of the customers were either Mexican laborer types or gangsters wearing fake diamonds and Yankees gear. Then, after I paid, the guy told me to go through the side door and the rim would be out there. I got my bent rim out to match it up, and noticed there were two of the same exact rim out there. I matched one of them up to mine and no one offered to help or anything. It was like I was invisible. Suddenly, the guy who brought the rim up from the yard entered with a disturbed look on his face. I could see him coming from the corner of my eye. This grizzled redneck fucker with a half-smoked Kool hanging out of his wrinkled lips was like, "What in the hell you doing boy? That ain't yer rim!" I was like, just give me my piece of shit Buick wheel so I can get out of this shithole. I told him what I was told by the cashier, showed him my invoice and he mumbled around, bitched at some people in the garage and then muttered something under his breath about me or someone being "fucked up". I was over the whole experience at that point and was ready for a full-on down home redneck confrontation. The kind you have when you're sober and it's on. Before I completely went off on the guy he drove away in his little shit wagon back out into the junkyard.

Then some moron who had been there all along doing nothing but walking around in circles pretending to do stuff, rolled over the other rim, which was the exact same wheel as the one Jethro yanked from my reach. Apparently he was the one who was supposed to be helping me all along. Suddenly, he now had the sacred invoice. After handing it back to me, he walked away shaking his head. I was like, "What the fuck?!" It's bad enough to have to deal with getting this stuff fixed, not to mention then paying for it. Enduring experiences like this is what makes angry old men angry old men. Maybe thats why I don't live in the city. Its incredible how something so simple can turn out to be such a pain in the ass. Thank God I had my blog so I could just let it all out.

My Bracket is Lame

So, I threw caution to the wind and got involved in this bracket thing again this year. Now, after two rounds of some of the most gut wrenching defeats I can remember ever enduring, I'm wondering if I'll make it through to the final. The sad thing is that thus far none of this has killed me nor made me stronger, it has just pissed me off. I think I am developing high blood pressure and I almost lost consciousness at Shorty's during the Carolina upset. What are these guys doing to me?



I am pissed at Ohio State and UNC the most. Not because I had them both going to the Elite Eight and they are history, but because they barely showed up in this tournament and I had to sit through it. Not to mention that I'll then be heckled by one of my co-workers at the restaurant who picked Georgetown. Georgetown? C'mon! What happened Buckeyes? I don't know if I can stomach the reason my bracket sucks so bad is because these guys basically threw it away. It may mark another bitter loss for me in the sports betting arena, but it definitely marks the point in my life when I have realized that NCAA basketball is just too competetive to really bet on with any degree of certainty. Anything can happen in these tournaments. Anything. The point where I began to think that I knew what was going to happen in this tournament was when I entered into a fantasy land.

Other teams I'm mad at: Kansas, Tennessee, Illinois. You guys really screwed me, are you happy now??

VOID: Hardcore with Flavor

The year was 1982 and I was a freshman at an all boys Catholic high school near the heart of downtown Wheaton, MD, a somewhat irrelevant little suburb of Washington, D.C. Neither the town nor the school were exactly the pride of the metro area, but it was in Montgomery County, one of the wealthiest counties in the country and your parents had to pay for you to go there. I had already been heavily into skateboarding and BMX for years by then and my musical tastes had ranged from funk to metal, but mostly I was into what is now called classic rock, although I was branching out. I had a couple of Devo records and I liked the Ramones. I was fourteen years old and on a collision course with hardcore punk rock and didn't even know it.

At our school, you had to dress like a yuppie square, so everyone generally wore the standard attire, dress shirt, tie, no jeans, no athletic shoes. This made it just that more difficult as a freshman to tell who was who. I had spent the last few years in Montgomery County public schools where kids could basically dress however they wanted. Private school was a completely different place. The teachers, some of whom were referred to as "brothers" would get up in your business. They would get physical if they were so inclined. It was a weird and sometimes overly aggressive male environment. All boys, jacked up on fresh testosterone and basically just being dickheads at that clueless stage of life. Only, instead of fighting in school, if two kids had a beef with each other and word got out, everyone would go down to the Wheaton Library at 3:15 and watch them brawl right in the front lawn. It all seemed so organized and weird.

One day, in class, I noticed some kid sneaking a read of Bob Haro's Freestyle BMX book during a boring lecture. I was jonzing to see all of the newest maneuvers and the latest freestyle mini ramp plans, but I hardly knew the kid. Being the pest that I can be, I had to at least ask. He reluctantly agreed and passed it to me under the desk top. Some time after that day I came across this same kid sitting on the bench outside of the school waiting for a ride listening to a walkman. I sat next to him and all I could hear was this blasting fast paced music blaring into his headphones. I looked at his cassette in the deck and the tape inside read in bold capital letters, "FLEX YOUR HEAD". Being the same curious asshole that I was the week before, when the music stopped I had to ask, "Dude just let me hear one song." He put the headphones over my head and on came the most raw rock music I had ever heard. That is the first time I ever heard Void. Never before had I heard such organized chaos, and at the age of fourteen I was already overdue. Oh, and that nameless kid who BMXed and revealed DC hardcore music to me was none other than the now notorious punk music writer, Chest Pains singer and local Chapel Hill maniac Greg Barbera, aka: Greg E. Boy.

So I went out and purchased a copy of the classic DC punk sampler at Records Yesterday and Today in lovely Rockville, MD and I listened to it over and over for months. My absolute favorite tracks still to this day are the ones by Void, a band that at the time captured the pure essence of thrash punk with the most mind blowing guitar sounds I had ever heard before. This was the kind of music we started listening to at the ramps where I was beginning to spend almost all of my spare time. It just made you skate better listening to it. Back then, we had to build the ramps deep in the woods and steal all of the materials to do it. Blasting Void on the box at the ramp became a regular ritual for the suburban punk skaters in the metro area. I'll never forget some of the furious skate sessions with Void's epic split EP with The Faith screaming in the background. It remains as one of my favorite records of all time, the Void side anyway.



The record begins with a humming feedback that soon stops abruptly and gives way to a guitar intro that brings back memories of the Guess Who. Suddenly, you're slammed face first into a manic attack on your senses. Its the kind of music that makes you want to smash something with a smile on your face and then drop in on the ramp and do a frontside lapover grind while giving your friends on the platform the finger just for fun. The second track Time To Die will blast you into a backside air, and on from there the songs just continue to shred and they are actually great songs. Listen to the track Organized Sports with the gang chorus from outer space for a real eye opener. Guitarist Bubba Dupree may have been the only true master of punk rock guitar feedback that I can recall. His style and rhythm stand out on these old Void tracks. Singer John Wieffenbach was a rabid punk singer who sang every song like he meant it. The track Think will rattle any unsuspecting listener into a frenzy, and what about those lyrics... "When young pianist builder Kimberly as Iris, exacting Moran as will diversified present, and her area senior as recital popular as June 26 swells and gets Orchard Lake Avenue in America..." It goes on and really does make you think. Holy shit these guys rocked. They were onto something.

Anyway, as far as I know Void broke up in like '84, and two years later when I went to Maryland, I found out that Wieffenbach had lived in my dorm before me. This geeky kid named Doc on the third floor of Cecil Hall on South Hill used to weave tales of "The Mighty Weef" and proclaimed that there would never be another singer like him ever again. Doc was one of those kids who never moved out of the dorms until he graduated. He always wore a white lab coat and combat boots. He was a wacko dude, and I think now that he was right all along. He used to hang out with Weef and he naturally was a huge Void fan. I never saw him after my first semester when I moved out of the dorms.

Bigger hardcore punk bands emerged in the mid eighties and thrash ended up turning into speed metal, and then it all started to sound the same to me. Speed for the sake of speed. I guess thats part of the whole deterioration of that scene during that time. But now, looking back and giving Void another listen you begin to realize that they had a flavor all their own. Still to this day, when I hear their music I get amped.

check:
http://www.punkrecords.org Void Demo Download

http://www.dementlieu.com/~obik/arc/dc/void_tg22.html Void Interview

I Cabbage Patch Early and Often

Everyday when I awake, I usually use the bathroom and then get back in bed just to remember what it feels like to be comfortable and at rest before I am rattled into reality, or my perception of what is my existence. Then, I cabbage patch. When thats over, I continue with whatever it is I am doing, or I merely cabbage my way through the rest of the morning, and sometimes into the late hours of the evening. Then I cabbage patch again. I guess it all depends on how that pale green, round, leafed vegetable stands up to the daily rigor of my routine shafty activities. Taking all of this into consideration, and other things I have yet brought to light, the true essence of the cabbage patch must be revealed. In this essay, I will try to translate what the cabbage patch means to me and the rest of us who cabbage regularly.

First, the cabbage must be carefully selected and admired in that sequence, and then it's onto the real patching which involves a myriad of rafty variables which could just jump up and bite you on your unsuspecting ass if you're not paying attention. And that matter would then be the patch itself. Naturally, it would then follow that when you enter the patch you usually don't know what is going on and sometimes you don't even want to know what is going on. Raft happens... I think we all know where this is headed.

Second, the cabbage must be addressed as a separate entity from the collective term which by its unplanned yet innate nature combines the rubbery green vege-ball of life with the patch which we will see as the forest in that old "see the forest from the trees" analogy. The patch exists only as an inevitable and observable response to the energy of all of the individual cabbages we deal with regularly. Yes, all of us must be a part of this synthesized cabbage patching as long as we exist as ardent individuals with no fear of patching our way through life and the hereafter. The cabbage is real. CPSR!

Third, and last, we all well know the meaning of the C.P., but do we dare take a gander at the last two initials of this fabled war cry? S.R. stands for whatever you think it means. A lot of people have their ideas. Some think it stands for Strained Rotation. What the hell? Cabbage Patch Strained Rotation!? What does that mean? My friend was sure it meant Served Regularly. Cabbage Patch Served Regularly. Now that makes more sense, but unfortunately it is way off the mark. Only the people truly in the know really understand what CPSR stands for. And it is to them that I say, "I love you guys, CPSR forever!".

please check:
http://www.niallkennedy.com/blog/uploads/cabbagepatch.mp3

http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=cabbage+patch

Bear Psycho by Stabler Hsu

Grizzly Man
The Story of Timothy Treadwell

This acclaimed documentary by renowned director Werner Herzog investigates the life of Timothy Treadwell, a grizzly bear activist and fox loving maniac who basically lived with giant grizzly bears for a few months a year for thirteen years until he was finally eaten by one. Unfortunately, he died along with his mysterious girlfriend who was crazy enough to be out there with him making bear movies. They were basically ripped to shreds and eaten by a huge grizzly. Ironically, in this final act, Treadwell would end up responsible for the killing of one of his beloved grizzly friends. They shot the bear, cut it open and out came both bodies in mangled chewed up pieces.

This movie is kind of disturbing in a lot of ways. At first, your expectation is that this guy was a thoughtful activist with lofty bear advocacy dreams and the fact that he comes off weird is because he might be a little "quirky". But by the end of the film, you are just waiting for him to get eaten. Please will one of the bears eat this guy and get this over with! Listening to this guy is difficult. In take after take of his whining about everything from homosexuality to one of the local foxes that took off with his hat, you begin to see that Tim Treadwell was really Tim Notwell. This guy was a basket case. He wanted to get eaten by a grizzly bear. Its all he ever talked about. My favorite part of the movie is when Herzog interviews this guy who states in a serious deadpan manner that he thought the reason Treadwell made it out there so many years without getting killed is because the bears thought he was retarded. I highly recommend checking this film out, but you will have to endure some complete retardation in the process.

more dvd reviews by stabler hsu

Dig
The Brian Jonestown Massacre VS. The Dandy Warhols
I rented this originally because I thought my friends Dominic and Jennifer were in it. I once hung out with them at the fabled BJM house where a lot of this movie takes place. They weren't mentioned. This documentary, which more resembles reality TV at times, is a genuine work of art. Whoever made the effort over the huge period of time this film (do your own research) covers to document, film, edit, etc. all of the sordid details of this L.A. indie rock fairytale gone bad did an excellent job. At the end of Dig, I felt like I really knew these guys. The singer for the BJM, Anton, is a complete basket case, but you have to love him because not only is he talented and a leader type, but he reveals his weaknesses openly and puts his heart into it. He eventually gets strung out on heroin and his rock star good looks and smiles turn to gray hairs and hate-filled rants directed at unwitting audience members. I remember the stories back when they were touring of aggro behavior and the like, but when I saw them in Austin, there were no such events. However, this film does a fantastic job of documenting the actual events which earned the BJM their notoriety at the time. My favorite person though has to be Joel, who just doesn't seem to give a shit about anything but having fun. God bless him. He says it best at the very end of the debacle with a smile on his face as usual, "What a gyp" (JB)


Robert Evans Documentary:
The Kid Stays in the Picture
The reason I rented this doc is because Patton Oswalt mentions the book in his stand up comedy CD. I love that disc. Anyway, Patton has done us all right, for this documentary about the legendary Robert Evans is brilliant. The images alone of his life and times are utterly fantastic. This guy was basically genius in every way. Yea, it is an autobiography, so he is able to spin it that way, but more power to him. At least he was doing something. I know people that don't do shit. Robert Evans basically dragged people with him to success and in the end this worked for him and against him. Some took the money and status and ran. Others whom he had mentored in years past eventually came into power and supported him and brought him back after the crash he suffered in the eighties. The stories and personal film and photos reveal and endless flow of unbelievable celebrity tales. Jack Nicholson personally flew around the world to beg a French Industrialist to sell Bob his house back. He made Copolla lengthen The Godfather and basically redo the entire film. He produced a shitload of movies, all of which I've seen and never knew he had anything to do with, not that I was paying attention. He was the quintessential seventies player type. He, in a sense, really defined the whole thing. (JB)

2 random dvd reviews

Hitch
This guy Albert (Kevin James) goes to Hitch (Will Smith) for help hooking up with this celebrity chick(Amber Valletta). Albert is a portly funny guy. Will (as Hitch of course) is his usual charming and amusing self. I like both of these guys. Will yearns for, and winds up totally in love with Sara (Eva Mendes), who is really super attractive. She is a gossip columnist for this cheesy tabloid style publication that wants her to keep close watch on the celebrity chick aforementioned in this review. In spite of its corny mainstream and tacky mass appeal, this movie left me feeling as though I hadn't completely wasted my time paying attention to it to write this review. However, it wasn't a particularly rewarding experience either. Unfortunately for the discerning viewer, Hitch proves itself to be yet another movie set in a huge city where six or seven people just all happen to continue to cross paths and I could not accept this on a basic level. Actually, the characters' ability to randomly come across each other and proceed to have a deep interaction is kind of annoying at times. As expected from this "feel good" flick, Albert perseveres and eventually is able plunge his fat body into the love snuggle nest of the celebrity chick. Its all good when the Fresh Prince is in da house. (JB)



Metallica Documentary:
Some Kind of Monster
This movie stands alone as the number one reason to hate Metallica, and I loved Metallica back in the eighties. No matter how much you appreciate their music today or yesterday, this deep look inside the band and their weird, quirky stadium concert playing heavy metal world is disturbing at best. Halfway through it I was cringing whenever any of them opened their mouths. Why do we care what these guys do or say when they're not playing metal? They may as well be a fucking knitting circle as far as I can tell. The whole bit with their "band Psychiatrist" (I wonder what he was prescribing), made me disinterested immediately. The fact is, that whether or not this documentary is a real document of what Metallica is or was, I think a more positive and upbeat recollection of their work and tours would have been more fun to watch and listen to. Who wants to watch a bunch of old geeks bicker with each other over nothing and mean it? I once shotgunned beers with this kid when I was in high school who lived and breathed Metallica and that was back in 1985. I rode the lightning and it was glorious. That kind of stuff wasn't covered in the doc. For real metal documentary fans I recommend Heavy Metal Parking Lot. (JB)

Ric Flair is My Idol

WWHHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
Back in the late nineties, when there still were a few videotapes being used, there was one fabled VHS tape in particular that bounced around Austin, TX for a solid three years and it continues to make history. Every once in a while when the stars were aligned, it would turn up at a party and some unwitting guest would pop it in the player and within two minutes the television would capture the attention of any discerning partygoer within earshot of the boobtube. The tape would eventually be known simply as "The Flair Tape". Only God knows how many copies of this fabled tape have been duplicated and how much joy and/or fear has been felt by those who have witnessed it. Stylin' and profilin' from beginning to end, the Nature Boy proves legendary.
The notorious videotape was made by a misguided UT student named Lance who was a legend in his own right. He drove a classic Mustang coupe with chrome Cragars and was known for his house parties. By some stroke of genius he had recorded nearly an entire season of WCW's classic wrestling show called Monday Night Nitro. He then edited it down to just scenes featuring the wrestler Ric Flair basically going off between bouts. It was the same show which showcased many early 90's classics like Hulk Hogan, the Giant, Machoman Randy Savage, Sting, the list goes on... However, what stands out above all the rest is the documented mania of a one, Ric Flair.
During a few of his episodes, it looks as though Flair's face is just going to explode. Beet red with veins popping out of his neck in a manner that would make Henry Rollins look a docile altar boy, no one in the history of television has ever made eye contact with the camera like Ric Flair. He's focused on the viewer and on kicking some ass. Ric Flair's in-between match rantings and ravings are played out in sequence throughout the entire year and with each rough cut, the fervor and intensity displayed by Flair are absolutely invigorating. Anyone who has seen this tape will attest that Ric Flair was beyond genius on this Monday Nitro program. He was inspirational. And poor Mean Gene had to suffer through all of it, sometimes almost getting his head taken off in the process.
I'm not sure what gave Lance the idea to create this furious montage, but bless his soul for unearthing some of the finest American drama I have ever seen unfold on screen. I believe it was taped around '94 or '95. It spanned the entire year and included all of the classic characters and The Nature Boy's moments of pure genius. Included are: Brian Pillman with his dungeon of doom, the constant calling out of Hulk Hogan, the 4 Horsemen of the Apocalypse, Double A, Ben Wa, the girls, the figure 4, Elizabeth, grabbing Mean Gene's headset, etc etc.. And you know what that means... Classic quotes like (Flair to Double A) "You brought the behind the scenes family to the front, and a stranger into the forbidden land, baaaaaadddd idea!" or (Double A to Sting) "Do not hang your head in shame for you did the unthinkable. You stayed in the ring for one minute with four Horsemen and just by the sheer laws of nature this seemed impossible." They go on like this for hours.
Anyway, so I'm in a Walmart and I see a sign for an in-store book signing featuring the one and only Ric Flair! I freaked out. He was promoting a new wrestling book in which he is featured. Finally, there was some reward for patronizing such an evil establishment. I had no time to think of what I would say to the legend, but I knew I couldn't pass up this chance. I wanted to recite back to him all of his best lines. I haven't actually watched the tape in years, but Flair's words are deeply ingrained in my psyche.
I followed the masking tape arrows on the floor which led us around the entire store and into a little nook where the Nature Boy sat behind a little table. He didn't look very excited, and by the looks of the other nerds standing around, I got the impression that this wasn't a high energy gig. I decided to chill and not upset the Walmart shoppers. We shook hands and I told him how awesome I thought he was, but after leaving I'd wished I would have mentioned the tape. His cell phone had gone off and he had to take a call. I imagined him being driven off to some party somewhere where he'd take some chick to Space Mountain or something.
Some time later I heard that he was arrested in a road rage incident. see link.
http://www.thesmokinggun.com/archive/1129051ric1.html
and this is an awesome related link
http://www.areavoices.com/wrestling/?blog=947

Why Does Chakka Rock?

(and is that how you spell it? -ed.)


When you are a washed up child actor with no hopes of ever being the next Todd Bridges, what kinds of roles are made readily available for you? Maybe ones where you play a disfigured half cro-magnon little freak like Chakka. What kind of acting skills must one possess to capture the essence of the furry kid freak with the terrible make up? Who was Chakka anyway? Why was there a Chakka? What did he want? Was Chakka a girl or a boy? Maybe he really did just want his disturbing image to remain lingering in our minds for the rest of our lives. Face it, if you had a television in the seventies, and something makes you think of a cave child, the first horrible image that comes to mind is the one of that ratty-ass Chakka kid. What was the deal with his youth-caveman/inverted Donald Trump combover on top of a Grace Jones forehead head piece? Why was Chakka always afraid? Was he afraid in every episode or what? Chakka afraid, Chakka very afraid!!!. I don't remember, but for some reason now, after all these years of not seeing him I must say that Chakka does rock. I admit it now and its hard to do so, but I relent. Chakka rocks.

random thoughts stabler hsu 2/21

The best cookie I ever had was the one that was discontinued at my local morning stop-in. I haven't seen one since. I can only assume that one of two things must have happened: The cookie became to expensive to make any money for the shop, or the demand for the cookie never became strong enough for the cookie to survive in this heartless capitalist society we live in and love. My hope is that I will soon find another cookie that lights my fire. I rarely complain about confectionary items, but when I do, its something very unusual. An ice cream sandwich competition is sounding really good right now.

Egg & Cheese If You Please

EGG &CHEESE REVIEW

Breakfast for real when you're on the run.
(So we'll begin with a run-on sentence. Get it? -ed.) - Stabler Hsu

What's better than an egg & cheese sandwich to start the day when you're trying to get somewhere and you're late, but you know that reality is just about to kick you in the ass if you don't get some wholesome nutrients into your body pronto? At first, one may turn to that mexican snack known as the breakfast burrito. Yes, those are great, but that's not what this article is about. Personally, I want to grab a hold of an actual egg & cheese sandwich, manhandle it, and rip a chunk out of it with my teeth, absorbing the fuel that will make me do more stupid things in the day ahead. Anyway, the essence of the egg&cheese has yet to be distinguished. For now, we'll relish in knowing that the right egg and cheese can determine the course of the day, and the wrong egg and cheese can send this writer into a 4 G tailspin on the downward spiral into hell commonly known as a shitty day.

First of all, I must tell the tale of my first actual recognition of what the term "egg&cheese" really stood for. Some friends and I had frequented a random fastfood establishment way back when, and I always ordered an egg & cheese croissant regularly (hold the meat). One day, to my dismay, I was mistakenly given a sausage, egg and cheese croissant by accident. Understand now, we had hit up this establishment for egg&cheese sandwiches for some months, and the courteous staff was well aware of the Q.O.C.C. crew and our morning escapades. (note: We were the Q.O.C.C. crew and we ran the grounds at the Quince Orchard Corporate Park every summer for three years. The stories run the gamut, and they will partially be revealed in the next issue of this very zine. )

Anyway, the next day when we pulled up to the microphone, I asserted my displeasure with the fact that I was delivered the wrong sandwich. We all sat perched on the doors of my '72 Dodge Dart for the garbled drive-thru speaker response. Sure enough, girlfriend came correct. She exclaimed gleefully, "Wha wuz dat, Egga-chey? ... Drive on up!" She replaced the sandwich without hesitation and insisted that I have a great day. I guffawed.

It was at that moment that I instantly realized that the egg&cheese was to be a favorite breakfast item for years to come. Since then, I have developed quite a palate for the concoction. I even occasionally enjoy some bacon or some other breakfast meat when I'm feeling radical. I also know now that it comes in every shape and form, and can often please and unfortunately sometimes leave you feeling like you just licked up a flour laden grease slick.

There are some basic levels of the egg&cheese that need first to be established. They are as follows:

1. Quality through and through: From the moment you look at it and the moment you bite into it, till when you chew it up, you savor every mouthful.
2. Fake Quality: Looks good at first, but when consumed leaves you feeling ripped off. The ingredients are there, but they are prepared inadequately.
3. Large Scale Commercial Quality: The site of it doesn't scare you , and after consumption, you have few side effects.
4. Commercial Low Quality: At this level, anything can happen. You might get a mouthful of grease and dough, or the egg could be raw and the cheese barely edible. Approach with caution.
5. Wild Card: These are the little roadside joints that have a lot of contractors coming through in the morning. The product can be awesome or subpar.

These five categories will be clearly defined for anyone who lives in the Chapel Hill area. We'll take a moment now to break it down.

Without question, the best egg&cheese sandwich in the area would have to be the blockbuster delight they serve up at Bagels On the Hill on Weaver Dairy Rd. Unfortunately, it really is a toss-up as to whether you'll actually get what you want, or what Hector and the boys in from Chupacabraville who they brought in to scrape together your morning grub. Sometimes the bagels are the best I've had in years, and the eggs are cooked to order on a flat top griddle. The cheese is quality deli sliced. If bacon is your breakfast meat of choice, B.O.T.H. cooks that stuff right. Basically, anything you consume at this place could put a smile on your face. Their egg&cheese is simply testament to that. They would fall under category #1. Quality through and through. Don't come on a bad day though, for because in this instance you will pay dearly.

As far as the actual food is concerned, at the next level down, we had a real hard time determining who would represent this #2 spot. After quality control testing and several arduous trials, we had to give it to Brugger's Bagels. They have the goods to make it happen, but the experience will leave the true egg&cheese fanatic wanting an after breakfast snack. They get an "A" for effort and a "T" for nice try. They fall into category #2. Fake Quality.

Now, let's ratchet this discussion down a few notches. We are now about to embark on the fastfood odyssey of breakfast sandos gone bad. For category #3. Large Scale Commercial Quality, we had to go cheap and safe. Remember, this level represents some shoddy product, but it only costs a buck or two a pop. Burger King's Egg&cheese croissant will go down easy, but you may need two. As with these lower level sandwiches, the eggs are microwaved and the cheese is straight up dull American plasticio. You're lovin' that bland maleable substance that will assuredly cut into that alcohol thats chewin at yer gut.

God you gotta love this party lifestyle. I could go on for hours about egg and cheeses. I could just keep writin' and a writin'. But then Greg and Ran would kick my ass for wasting time when the Boredom Watch Alliance (the BWA) is just beginning to become entrenched in the lifestyles of so many of our misguided former youths.

Anyway, will you dine with us? Seriously guys, get tough...