Today is the Major League Baseball trade deadline. A bunch of trades were made by contending teams looking to get better and hopeless teams looking to add players for their futures. I care very little about most of this, however, one trade was made at the deadline that I think deserves to be brought to everyones attention.

This is Charlie Furbush:
He's a Tigers pitcher and he was just traded for this man,
Mariners Pitcher Doug Fister
I'm sure that you'll all be happy to know that the Fister-Furbush trade went down without a hitch. 
That is the dirtiest sentence you will read today. 
Thank you, Seattle Mariners and Detroit Tigers, for keeping my mind where it belongs, firmly entrenched in the gutter.

Now please rise for the national anthem...
     I'm really sick at the moment and thought, in an effort to feel better, that I'd take my nasal drippings over to Jamba Juice and get myself a "Coldbuster" smoothie. Time slows down to a crawl when you are sick and are doing anything you don't want to do. TIme also slows down when you're waiting in line. Also, for me, time slows even more when people around me are speaking in a language I don't understand. Call it xenophobia if you will, but it's the truth. So, in front of me on line at Jamba Juice was a group of Hasidic Jews who, rather than ordering, seemed to be having a very deep, philosophical conversation about something very involved while occasionally holding up a single finger at the poor Asian dude who was practically begging them to take their order. They completely ignored me, Mr. Sniffles, standing directly behind them, as well as all of he other people on line. I'm pretty sure that they had never even heard of fruit before, thats the only possible excuse for taking as long as they did before all ordering the same thing. 
     If it hadn't been for the fact that I never saw the sun go down and that my phone still has charge, I'd swear that this entire exchange took somewhere between seventy-five and ninety hours. 
     I think I'll go watch "Schindler's List'. It"ll cheer me up.
     As a big fan of writer/director/producer/editor/composer/DP/production designer/set decorator John S. Rad's magnum opus, 2005's "Dangerous Men", I decided that I would check out the film's preview on youtube again.
     I am so very glad that I did because it turns out that typing "Dangerous Men" into your Youtube search bar yields exciting results than I would have ever thought possible. 

Firstly, you get the preview for one of the greatest films ever made:
After you're done basking in that glory, you ALSO get a preview for an awesome looking Nigerian action-thriller of the same name: 

Well, it's nice to know that all those tens of thousands of dollars I have been sending over there via email so my Nigerian Prince 2nd cousin's lawyer can get his millions out of the bank have not gone to waste. He should have just told me that he was making a movie. 

All this AND you get a crazy old yutz babbling antiquated child-rearing theories where he equates masculinity with pointless violence.
Man, what a treasure trove. It's like opening the Ark of the Covenant and finding three Nazi-face-melting lights instead of one.

I have a funny feeling this weekend is all downhill from here. How can it not be?
     The X-Games are in town. There is one thing and one thing only that I like about the X-Games and that is this:
     Guys who seriously hurt themselves doing stupid stuff meant to be done by little kids. Here's hoping for a nice, old-fashioned fatality or two, preferably doing something as infantile as possible. LIttle known fact, if you die while wearing a Monster Energy Drink wool cap, you are an embarrassment not just to yourself, but your entire family line and all the way back to the primordial ooze that first generated life on this planet. At least that ooze had the good sense not to ride a bicycle down a handrail for no good reason whatsoever.   
     The more I learn about about this debt ceiling situation, the more ridiculous I think it all is. Let me pull a few fruits off the metaphor tree all at once to try to explain it from my perspective: The American people are your average morphine addicted child prostitute, lulling in and out of consciousness with every slight gyration. The Democrats are our pimp, who is technically looking out for us, but still is using our supple, nubile orafices as their main source of income. The Republicans are our regular, experienced John, making every possible effort and, frankly, really looking forward to screwing us brutally and without remorse. Just outside our creaky bedroom door, there is a negotiation going on which will determine exactly how harsh our impending violation will be. The Republicans want to use their switchblade to cut us up a bit (It's the only way they can get off at this point), which will really effect our ability to make any more money in the near future. The Democrats are trying to negotiate so we merely get a black eye and maybe, maybe, lose a tooth or two. You see, the Democrats don't want to see us get all cut up. However, even though we're their whore, they're a really shitty pimp. They are nothing compared to the fun-loving, effective pimps we grew up loving. Where are the Dolemite's of the political world now? What good is a sissy of a pimp? Well, we'll find out by Tuesday, won't we?  
     In the absence of any real protection, the Republicans are going to barge in, get their jollies stretching us out like a sock puppet, cutting us up a bit and leaving a few modest coins on the dresser. There's really nothing we can do about it at this point, either. As a people, we tend to have very fleeting moments of lucidity between jackhammerings. Let's hope we don't have one anytime soon. The last thing I want is to be awake for any of this. I just hope the Democrats get us a nice teddybear afterward or take us out for some ice cream to go with the mouthwash and ice packs. 
Daddy loves us.   

Clearly, this is the pimp we need and we need him ten minutes ago.
     Just looked through my Sunday paper. There were coupons for KY Jelly AND Oscar Meyer bacon. 

Well, I don't know about you, but my weekend is pretty much set in stone.
     Hey, folks. Today's lesson is as such....
They look stupid, they hurt and they will make police officers want to arrest you. This is the guy that the LAPD first arrested and have had in custody for quite a while now for beating a Giants fan into a coma. His name is ... eh, I forget, but you can safely assume it's Jose or Juan or Armando or something and his last name is Ramirez, Rodriguez, Sanchez or something. Here's the thing that I find so funny about this whole situation. Not only were the LAPD so anxious to catch someone for this crime that they threw this guy in the hoosegow despite the fact there is only one of him (Officially not making him fit the description of "The two suspects") but he wasn't even at the game. He was able to prove that fact. He was with his family, he's not even a baseball fan. You know what? Nobody cared. 
     Nobody wanted to see this guy get exonerated. The world was so excited to see somebody go down for this that they seemed perfectly willing to let this guy take the fall for it. 

You know what else? I'm still OK with that.
     When this incident first happened we all just assumed that they would never find the guys who did this. When I say "We" I mean everyone who has ever been to see a game at Dodger Stadium. The authorities and people on the news first came out with these sketches:

When I first saw these I would say that I laughed so hard that The Captain left the room, but the sad truth is that she left the room beforehand because she knew that I was about to see these images and do what it has been proven time and time again I do best, revel in my love of people at their worst. Finding a pair of mexican guys with shaved heads, bad tattoos, mustaches and Dodger jerseys at Dodger Stadium is like finding someone with shitty taste in music at a U2 concert. It's not just hard to avoid, it's impossible. Finding the right two guys out of tens of thousands seemed like the hardest thing the LAPD have ever done. So, they did the only logical thing they could do, arrested the wrong guy, sat back and hoped that something better came along. 
     Luckily for them, the LAPD are well aware that the greatest weapon in their arsenal is not their resources, not their officer's smarts, it's not even Danny Glover in "Predator 2", it's the stupidity of the common criminal. For every smart criminal mastermind, there are hundreds of morons who don't cover their tracks well and make sloppy mistakes. Guess which kind the Dodger fans/Giant fan pummelers are? Eventually they bragged to a co-worker and they are now behind bars. Justice is not served yet, but odds are it will be. All the original suspect has to worry about now is the other charges that he has collected as a result of his most recent arrest (weapons concealment, parole violations, etc), which brings me back to my point: Do... not... get... neck... tattoos. You are so much less likely to get arrested for something if you don't have them. Really, if you want your parents to know you hate them, do something else, something more creative. If you're going to join a gang that requires them, maybe you should rethink your life trajectory before doing something that insures you will be virtually unhireable in 90% of all jobs you apply for. How about a nice trap-stamp instead? Something with flames, or wings or wings that look like flames? I'm just saying.  

     Finally, this is a bit of an aside, but why did the LAPD feel such pressure to find someone anyway? Seriously, it seemed like it was all pressure from people from Northern California. Why should they care so much? What are those pussies going to do? We have a very straightforward relationship with San Francisco: They kick out ass in baseball, we kick their ass at everything else. 
That's right, I'm here to being people together. Let the healing begin.
     You want to see something awesome? Like, really, authentically awesome? From a place you never thought you'd see something this awesome from?  

Have a look at this:
     That was a clip from the movie "Head", a 1968 Jack Nicholson-penned, Bob Rafelson-directed movie staring the "Pre-Fab Four" themselves, The Monkees. This is a group that was, for all intents and purposes, grown in a test tube. They were the boy band of their day. Packaged, cultivated, calculated. So, what is this movie and why does it have a surreal and completely out of place song and dance number that ends with a conversation with Frank Zappa and a German accented bull? The truth is that "Head" is one of the greatest examples of intentional career suicide ever committed. This isn't one isolated scene of greatness in a otherwise crappy film, either. The movie is packed with surreal elements that made most of their young, impressionable, female audience revolt against them. Two years before directing "Five Easy Pieces", Rob Rafelson made this film with the input of his producing partner, Bert Schneider, Nicholson and Dennis Hopper, as well as the Monkees themselves. All parties were interested in ending the Monkees with "Head" and end them it did. The bizarre marketing and promotion coupled with the overall strangeness of the movie itself caused it to earn about  $16,000 in it's initial release. I've always been a fan of works that are acts of defiance. Things that are intentional career repositioning where an artist gets rid of the fans they don't want and keeps the ones they do. If you like the sound of what I just described, check out Lou Reed's "Metal Machine Music", Fiona Apple's "When the Pawn", Tod Browning's "Freaks" or Francis Ford Coppola's "The Conversation" . Still "Head" is less a career renovation and more of a complete teardown. Imagine if David Lynch had directed "Spice World" and you get the basic idea. By the way, in case you were curious, not only did I see "Spice World" in theaters, I did so with my brother and sister during the Superbowl. Here you were thinking I was a sissy. Take that!
     I was thinking about the Monkees because I recently went to so see them in concert. My significant other (Or, as she shall be referred to in these posts, The Captain) has always been a big fan of the Monkees, having fallen in love with them when the reruns of their TV show started to play on MTV back in 19(mumble-mumble-mumble). She'd never gotten the chance to see them in concert and considering their advanced age and the fact that they were playing a mere 112 miles from us made it an easy decision. I've seen a few rock concerts in my time where the artist(s) have been older than my dad and I can tell you from personal experience that they are a very hit-or-miss proposition. When you factor in that this is a group of guys whose main trade was their youthful exuberance, the scales tip far more in favor of "Miss" than "Hit". Still, the Monkees proved to be a unique and certainly interesting experience. They have enough good songs to keep you entertained for a while and despite the fact they they took a lot of individual breaks, they gave it their all. It should also be noted that Peter Tork looks every minute of his sitxy-nine years and Mickey Dolenz has a balding problem that rivals Brett Michaels in proportion. 
     Still, there came a portion of the show where The Monkees did a medley from "Head", to the thunderous applause of myself, The Captain and almost a dozen other people in Bakersfield's historic Fox Theatre. When it came time for "Daddy's Song", the Wavy Gravy, hippy-dippy, retro 60's aspect of the evening gave way completely as Davy Jones emerged form backstage wearing an eerily similar pair of coattails to the ones he wore forty-three years ago in the movie. Strobe lights began to flash and Davy Jones, aged as all holy hell and as culturally irrelevant now as he was relevant then, came out and did the very best he could with what dancing ability age and habit would allow him. The Captain and I have always agreed that, despite his popularity, he was always the weakest link on the Monkees. I still think that, but that night he proved an interesting point to me which is this: If you are trying to follow a trend you are by definition going to become irrelevant. It might happen sooner, it might happen later, but it will happen. However, if you do something purely because you want to, something that doesn't follow any ideals of what is popular at the moment, there is a chance, just a chance, that it will remain interesting forever. Let that be both a lesson and an inspiration to all of you. The next time you're stuck in line at a supermarket and a magazine cover of some superficial, disposable reality star's wedding makes you want to puke from your basket of veggies and lube all the way to the conveyer belt's plastic divider, remember this and how blissfully temporary it all is. It might just save both your life and the life of the cashier.
Sometimes, what's not in style then will stay out of style for as long as it damn well wants. Thank Christ for that.   
     Hey, is today the day that movie comes out where Ashton Kutcher and Justin Timberlake play urban, gays who bang each other without any commitment involved?  They should make a good pair, seeing as how they're numbers 1-A and 1-B on the "I'm under the false impression that I'm very funny when the inverse is true" list.