The Newest Olympians

Unless you have been residing under a rock for the last week or so, the Summer Olympics are well under way in Beijing, China. Soon enough the torch will be extinguished and the wait for the 2012 version will commence. Sadly though, the next go around will not feature the sports of softball and baseball - the players of these sports have been told that there is just not enough global interest in their tiresome, mind-numbingly tedious games to justify their continued presence on the world stage. Meanwhile, there are now a couple of open spots in need of filling in time for the next Olympics. Such a conundrum got me thinking. What could possibly be an exciting and globally relevant replacement? What could match other truly impressive athletic endeavors like trampoline jumping, synchronized banner twirling (probably called something else), ballroom dancing, or power-walking. In my mind there is only one choice (granted there are two open slots, but we will make the other one your goddamn problem) to be elevated to the Olympian heights - and that, of course, is beer pong.
Question my logic if you will, but I shall now bring an assortment of overwhelming evidence to the table that will leave you awestruck and doubting your sanity rather than mine for at least this single instance. First of all, beer pong has been catching on all over the country, as a recent two page article in "Time" magazine indicates. A preeminent periodical would not fill important space with such a frivolous topic without good reason. Just check out these recent covers if you doubt Time's commitment to serious journalism: 1) Lebron 2) Bode 3)Spielberg. Well, at least they take the Olympics and movies seriously.
Beer pong is not just an American phenomenon either. The movie "Beerfest" illustrates the international appeal of drinking related contests. In this cinematic masterpiece a group of Americans stumble into a secret tournament held by a great German brewing family. Our heroes come close, but are unable to defeat their hosts and vow to return the next year to redeem themselves. Although I shall not reveal the ending to those few sad saps who have failed to view the film, the athletic pursuits contained within its reels are unequaled (well maybe with the exception of "Kingpin"). The movie was an overwhelming success in theaters and on DVD because the games showed within are practiced by millions of young bingers around the world. I could see myself in many of the characters as they struggle to chug down the last of the boots filled with beer. The market for beer pong in the Olympics is clearly out there. In fact, a variety of new competitions could be derived from drinking pursuits. Perhaps a decathlon for alcoholics could be created. Total crap like synchronized swimming, or perhaps gymnastics could easily be replaced to make room for these much more worthy athletes.
Why is beer pong an endeavor worthy of Olympic glory? Read the rules here if you need to know a little more about the sport first. Okay, now that you have caught up with the rest of the world, you've probably already left to get involved in a game. If not, let's examine the arguments for including beer pong during London 2012. First off, throwing a small ball at several targets only a few feet away may seem to be a fairly simple task. I am sure that for those at the top level of competition, such a toss is not terribly difficult. I propose, therefore, that the contest should be of such length that the amount of beer consumed (even by teams doing well) should significantly curtail the abilities of the competitors. A best-of-25 format would probably suffice to stagger even the highest tolerances. Try shooting with vision so blurry that the five cups appear to have become twenty cups and your arm feels like jello (not the shitty kind with bananas in it) - now that is a worthy challenge. The saliva from your teammate's slurry attempt at instructions dripping from your eyeballs also helps to obscure the target further. Multiple days of competition could add difficulties brought on by massive hangovers and the crusty, bloodshot eyes of the terminal drunk. Some contestants might have to overcome the raunchy odor of their own puke-stained uniform to compete, not to mention the spiders and snakes crawling across their body as they arrive in the terminal stage of delirium tremens. If such imagery does not remind you of the Greek Gods, I don't know what could.
Before our country can hope to take home the gold medal in beer pong, a dream team of sorts would have to be put together. What kind of motley crew could be counted on to do the nation proud? I believe a competition that begins at the grass roots would be the best possible approach. Starting at the local level will allow us to unearth any hidden nuggets of beer pong greatness. For example, Upstate restaurants and universities could put their own teams together and show off their talents in a regional contest. Although most observers would favor a restaurant team or perhaps a group from Clemson, the Bob Jones Fighting Baptists would probably battle North Greenville College for the title. Severely repressed people are just better alcoholics - its a proven fact. The winners would move on to statewide, Southern Regional, and finally national tournaments. Everyone who has raised a glass of beer would have a chance to pursue their own Olympic dream. What is more American than that?

Go Cubs Go!

As most people who know me are aware, I am a rabid, drooling, somewhat irrational follower of the Chicago Cubs, the cursed baseball franchise that has driven the majority of its fan base to an early grave or merely drooling catatonia. Every once in a while, and an astounding portion of the time this year, the good guys manage to pull out a victory. When such an unlikely occurrence does take place inside the friendly confines of Wrigley Field, the win is quickly followed by a song, an insanely catchy ditty that goes by the title "Go Cubs Go." Here is a link where you can hear the tune if it is unfamiliar to you.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DrlLmTh32KI

Musician Steve Goodman wrote the original lyrics, which are as follows:

Baseball's season's underway
Well you better get ready for a brand new day
Hey, Chicago, what do you say
Cubs are gonna win today
They're sayin

Go, Cubs, Go
Go, Cubs, Go
Hey, Chicago, what do you say
Cubs are gonna win today (repeat refrain)

They got the power, they got the speed
to be the best in the national league
well this is the year and the Cubs are real
so come on down to Wrigley field

We're singin now
Go, Cubs, Go
Go, Cubs, Go
Hey, Chicago, what do you say
Cubs are gonna win today (repeat refrain)

Baseball time is here again
you can catch it all on WGN
So stamp your feet and clap your hands
Chicago's got the greatest fans

You're singin now
Go, Cubs, Go
Go, Cubs, Go
Hey, Chicago, what do you say
Cubs are gonna win today (repeat refrain)

I feel strongly that, although the song is a good one, a preponderance of cheese does occasionally infiltrate the lyrics and drive down the level of quality here and there. I have, therefore, made my own humble attempt to rewrite the words in a way that is a little more intimidating for the foolish foes that dare oppose my beloved Cubbies. Here are the results:

Life is ceasing soon I say,
get your ass ready for a funeral today,
Hey, Chicago, what do you say,
Cubs are gonna massacre (opponent's name here) today
They're sayin

Kill, Cubs, kill
kill, Cubs, kill
Hey, Chicago, what do you say
Cubs are gonna maul (opponent's name here) today (repeat refrain)

Now comes the hour, now comes the need
to obliterate the entire National league
well here come the fear and the death is real
so come check out the body count yield

Crush, Cubs, crush
Crush, Cubs, crush
Hey, Chicago who do we flay
Cubs are gonna perform a vivisection on the decapitated corpse of (your team here) today (maybe don't repeat refrain) *Author's Note- vivisections can only be performed on the living but reality should not determine lyrical content

The end time is nigh again
wallow in the destruction
so smash heads and wipe blood from hands
mutilate the opposing fans

Die, Cards, die
Die, Cards, die
Hey, Chicago make the day red
with the gore of St. Louis dead (repeat refrain)

I hope that you enjoyed my much more pleasant rendition.

Second City

Chicago has long been considered second behind New York in the list of great American cities, a silver medal winner in the urban olympics. Is the runner up in the race for metropolitan mastery a worthy competitor or just another in a long line of loser towns dotting our nation? I recently traveled there myself to get a lay of the land and to investigate the bars and restaurants of the Windy City. Would I find a sizzling party town on par with any other, or is Chicago just a frozen icicle of boredom hanging from the sagging nipple of Lake Michigan? I brought my brother along for the ride, so that he could decipher my decision from amidst the incoherent rambling of my binge-induced blackouts (assuming he could avoid similar stumbling blocks).
Our arrival was timed carefully so that we would show up in the summer months, when the depression inducing frigidness of the Midwestern winter would not distract me from my appointed task. In addition, we slunk in under the cover of night in order to avoid the traffic that would have driven me into a panicked frenzy and left my weakened cranium unable to lucidly judge the quality of the town. When my friend Tim, with whom we were staying, returned from work early the next afternoon, we were ready to begin. Colin (my brother) thought we should check out the Navy Pier, but Tim thinks that place is an overrated in all facets except for sucktacularity (tourist trap). He suggested that we check out some of the Irish culture that is a feature of life in Chicago. The Irish had been integral in the construction of the city, and any visit would be incomplete without experiencing some of the landmarks of Irish culture that dot the area. Therefore, we headed straight to a bar.
The first destination, Corcoran's, was great, but it was merely a warm up bar, so I will move on to our second location, which was known as Fado. By the time we appeared there, our warm up beverages were starting to marinate nicely and we were ready to move on to the complete defilement stage of the binge. Several of Tim's Chicagoan friends joined us to provide local flavor and good conversation. All of the Chicagoans I talked to were lifetime natives, a fact that is definitely in the city's favor. On second thought, perhaps when winter comes around, and they want to leave, they find themselves frozen in place.
Fado was an authentic Irish bar, the Gaelic word for post office was written atop the bar to prove its inherent Irishness to any doubters. Since we were in an Irish bar the only beer for me to drink was Stella Artois (hey Belgium is in Europe which my geography teacher claimed is near Ireland). Actually I started with the aforementioned beverage and was planning to switch to something else later when a crazed female friend of Tim's informed me I would get too drunk if I persisted in imbibing Stella. Being stubborn, I decided then and there to drink nothing else that day. I possess a level of stubbornness that would make a mule jealous. I am so unyielding that once I have found my path I find running into walls preferable to going around them (actually that part may relate to my abject laziness).
Since this publication purports to be about restaurants I suppose I should speak for a moment about the food at Fado. Colin (my brother) and Tim enjoyed an Irish favorite known as the quesadilla (according to historians the Irish were the Mexicans of their day) while I actually did consume an Irish meal, something called steak boxty. This dish consists of something similar to Guinness stew (beef, potato, carrots, sauce) wrapped inside of a potato crepe. A mouth-watering meal it was too even if Tim's friend Steve, who told me seventy five separate times to get the Guinness wings instead, was a bit disappointed in my choice.
Shortly after supper we left for our final destination of the night, (bar wise at least, some claim that we had a midnight snack at a local diner later) a little place called Salukis. Salukis is owned and operated by graduates of Southern Illinois University, a school unfortunate enough to be burdened with the odd mascot that the bar is named after. According to my buddy, this bar happens to have the only pool table in downtown Chicago, so we took over the felt and reigned supreme there until the late hours, when we got kicked the hell out for some unspecified reason (I think it might have been because they were closing). After a delicious breakfast of omelet cheese runoff, we went to bed and prepared to face a day of debauchery at the epicenter for all that is liver-obliterating in Chicago - Wrigleyville.
Upon my birth, my father came up with an ingenious scheme to keep my humble and help me to understand suffering - he made me a Cubs fan. So I have remained to this day, over thirty years of pain later. Each season a new beginning, a hope for something great, ending in tragedy and failure, crashing upon the rocks of the National League. Not once have the Cubbies even seen what a World Series game would be like, but always we believe that next year is the time the drought will end.
Needless to say, the Northside Nine drive many thousands of their fans to drink, and nowhere is that fact more evident than in the bars and restaurants surrounding the field. We arrived in this area, known simply as Wrigleyville, early in the afternoon during the middle of the Cubs/Pirates game. We sat down in an establishment called The Houndstooth Saloon and settled in to watch the ballgame and have a few Old Styles, the semi-drinkable official beer of Wrigleyville. The Cubbies pulled out a 5-1 victory and the celebration was on, the whole area turning into one big party for the team and their legion of cursed fans.
The Houndstooth itself was a curious amalgamation of Alabama Crimson Tide (safe to assume the owner was a graduate) and Chicago Cubs regalia mixed with chandeliers constructed from antlers that would have seemed more at home in a hunting lodge. The signature beverage there was a forty oz. wrapped in a paper bag, the homeless guy special, I suppose. The crowd was equally odd and even more entertaining than the drinks and decor. After a couple hours of imbibing Old Styles and singing "Go Cubs Go" (I promise a future blog entry dealing with this awful and yet infernally catchy ditty) a game of speed quarters broke out at the table next to us. These fools had brought their own shot glasses into the bar in order to play that most magical of drinking games. Our kindred spirits found, we immediately jumped into the fray.
After one of the shot glasses was fatally wounded, we decided to move on towards the heart of our journey, Wrigley Field itself. Wrigley is more than just a baseball field, more than just another patch of grass surrounded by seats and screaming fans. Wrigley is a shrine to everything that is great about baseball - warm summer days, cold beer, beautiful women (so I'm told), hot dogs, lush ivy, cracker jacks, and an exciting win or devastating loss for the hometown Chicago Cubs. Blasphemous though it may be to some (and not just to rival Cardinals fans), stepping onto that field would be like a religious experience for me. Although some claim there are two teams in Chicago, only one of them can turn me into a twelve year old boy again, ready to scream in exultation or to bury my head in the ground in a fit of overwhelming sadness (unfortunately the latter has been the norm over the years). I grabbed my brother's shoulder tightly as we walked down Sheffield Avenue and gazed upon the white W hanging over the old hand-operated scoreboard, indicating the Cubs' victory that day. Who knows, I thought, as I wiped a single tear streaming down my face, perhaps this just might be the year we win it all. No more chants of wait til next year for the lovable losers. I would shed a lot more than one tear were that day ever to come.
After our haj to the corner of Waveland and Addison, we had one more important task to take care of before our departure the next day. Although Chicago cuisine boasts many world class chefs and myriad fine dining establishments, the real judge of a town is the kind of food the working classes eat. For the masses in the Windy City there is nothing more delightfully delicious than a deep dish pizza. Eating one of these pies is more like a mining operation than a meal. The crust is like the side walls of an edible quarry and inside lies the loot, a layered bottomless pit of cheese, meat, and sauce. The sauce lies on top, a thick layer of soil over top of the diamonds and emeralds that are the cheeses and meats beneath. When your excavation is complete, your stomach will be filled with a treasure trove of pizza goodness that would make King Solomon go green with envy.
Sunday morning came all too early, the time of our journey home at hand. The three of us headed upstairs to take one last look at what two of us would be leaving behind. Atop the forty-four story building in which Tim resides lies a breathtaking view - and not just of the glistening, oiled, half-naked bodies absorbing the sun aside the swimming pool that sits on the roof. The entire city of Chicago opened up before us, expansive Lake Michigan reflecting the sunshine as ant-like splotches of humanity crawled across the shore. Giant skyscrapers reached to grace the heights previously inhabited only by God before the coming of steel monstrosities like the Hancock Building and the Sears Tower, the occasional crane indicating that the skyline is not yet complete. A hugely impressive city indeed, but the equal of the city that never sleeps? Perhaps not, but one can hardly blame the residents of Chitown for taking a nap every once in a while. Even the hardiest bear would be smart enough to hibernate through the arctic blasts of the Windy City winter. As my brother and I found, waking up during the summer in Chicago is certainly worth the wait.

Moratorium

Apologies for not posting anything in the recent days, I have been out of town participating in the third annual Bele Chere whiffleball tourney in scenic Asheville, North Carolina. We finished 5th out of 12 teams, but did get to play in what was probably the most exciting game of the event, which sadly we lost 20-15 in extra innings despite coming from nine behind to tie the score earlier in the contest. The weather was typical of a Bele Chere Saturday, dreary and rainy early and sun-baked later on in the day. The liquid gold overflowed our gullets as usual and one of our teammates may have sustained fatal drinking injuries as a result. Get well Dan! Colin wants to take another stab at finishing off the last sliver of your liver down in Edisto.
In news relating to the future, I will be traveling to the great city of Chicago with my brother this weekend to see my friend Tim and hopefully we will be able to take in a Cubs game. A visit to the Navy Pier is also in order. I shall return on Monday the 4th and my twisted blabbering will resume shortly thereafter. Perhaps I shall speak further of this Chicago place. Please forgive my prolonged writing absence as I have just turned 33 and I plan to see the world quickly before the creeping death of middle age comes up and bites me into senior citizen submission.

The Sordid, Sinful Sands of the Sunny Sea

Whenever some poor soul from Upstate South Carolina mentions the beach, everyone knows exactly what they are talking about - Myrtle Beach. When spring and summer come upon us, where would you rather be than the mecca of the redneck horde? What more could you want than a Wings and an Eagles on every street corner - selling the kind of quality t-shirts that disintegrate on contact with your skin and for only a buck a pop! Accuse me of snobbery if you will, but I need more than a mere 7 million miniature golf courses and a rusty carousel to make my vacation the fantastic fun-filled voyage I deserve. When I am ready to hit the sands and splash amidst the waves, my car heads in a different direction, down to sun-splashed Florida and the spring break capital of the world, Panama City Beach.
During the short decade that composed my college years, I would head down 1-85 with several friends and a dozen silver cows or so to spend my spring break on the Gulf Coast. On occasion, a buddy or two would remain, never to return to his studies evermore. Such is the allure of the siren song of Panama City Beach.
Unlike the gritty, dark colored sands of the Atlantic Coast, the Gulf sands are a white powder that looks enough like flour that we attempted to bake bread with it on several misguided occasions. Do not attempt to snort it either. The water is superior as well, not the murky dark green of Myrtle, but rather a clear blue, which allows you the pleasure of viewing whatever marine wildlife is gently gnawing off your leg from the knee down. The city did suffer a setback for a couple of years when the beach was consumed by the might of Hurricane Opal, but don't worry, a magic fairy brought the dust back and all is right with the world until the polar icecaps melt, another hurricane strikes, or Britney Spear's child grows of age (hopefully that will be my last pop culture reference of the year as I have used up my quota of one).
Besides the gorgeous shore, why should you take the drastic step of driving your car through the treacherous trails of medieval Alabama? Brief aside: if you do choose to visit this sad excuse for a state, make sure to peel off your Hillary for Prez stickers first.
Panama City Beach is most famous for Club La Vela, a dance club featured on MTV's Spring Break. La Vela and its sister club, Spinnaker's, is best known for bikinis and naked flesh; sweaty bodies swinging to and fro in ecstasy and probably on it as well. Breasts bobbing up and down as dancers press their torsos hard into one another in fits of intoxicated madness. The music crashes down from the speakers and the bass beats in a tribal rhythm not dissimilar to the copulation rites practiced by Fulani chieftains in an age long past. A transcendent bass-filled cacophony crushes the tympanic membrane into submission. Soon chaos will break free of its chains and rule over the dance floor as the sexual frenzy reaches a slippery, quivering climax. Personally, I prefer playing volleyball.
During my engagements in Panama City Beach, I have without fail stayed at the Sandpiper Beacon Hotel. The amenities include four pools (including one indoors), two never-been-peed-in jacuzzi, a four hole miniature golf course, volleyball courts, and a Tiki bar. The major attraction (barely beating out the Tiki bar, location of my second place finish during the 1997 wet T-shirt contest), is something called the lazy river. The lazy river is like a pool, but shaped more like a castle's moat, running in an oval around a filled in center. The water possesses a light current that allows you to sit on a float and with either properly situated kegs or enslaved pledges, you can maintain your supine position undisturbed for several hours of relaxing, mindless pleasure.
Of course, at some juncture you are going to want to leave the hotel grounds and try out the floury sand and sparkling water that I spoke of earlier. There are also many seaside activities available including para sailing, jet skiing, surfing, and water-boarding (not to be confused with the torturing/non-torturing of America's enemies, just take a short sail out to Guantanamo Bay if that is the kind of freaky stuff you are into). There is nothing that I enjoy more, however, than riding the big yellow banana. Do you need more of an explanation, or should that suffice? Frankly, you have probably gone to far to stop now, so here goes - the yellow banana is a large inflated piece of plastic with five seats, attached to a motor boat. The goal of the boat's driver is to drive at a horrendously dangerous speed and take quick, spine-crushing turns, thus causing the riders to fly off and crash into the water. Everyone then climbs back onto the banana in order to have the opportunity to be thrown from it once more. There is nothing closer to bull riding around and the good news is this ride won't result in your body hanging off of a blood-soaked horn as your intestines leak from your back like water and pasta escaping from a poorly sized human callender.
So now you see the obvious reasons why I eschew Myrtle Beach in exchange for greener pastures. Heck, I didn't even mention the high-quality strip clubs or even the luxurious comfort of the local jails (avoid running down the beach naked if possible). There is so much to do and to see there that I can't possibly fit the words into my allotted space. Instead, I will summarize with a verse. Just free yourself from the tyranny of the same, shed your shame, show off your game, don't act too lame, head to your hotel room with a dame, not excessively tame, perhap Valerie Plame, who hopefully won't even know your name. Don't ever mix poetry and rotgut moonshine boys and girls.

Your Reading Assignment, Should You Choose to Accept It

Reading is a railroad in the game Monopoly, as well as a city in both Pennsylvania and England. Reading is also fundamental, like being able to dribble in basketball or being able to execute a perfect block in football that reduces your opponent to a pathetic pile of impotent mashed taters. Reading is also something dorks like me do for fun. Today we will take a look at three different piles of paper, glue, and binding that we will refer to from now on as books. These "books" have managed to provide me with a source of entertainment from time to time and I dare hope that they can do so for you as well. Unless you would rather watch TV like a mindless zombie while your brain melts into a useless jumble of neurons and synapses, which, of course, is totally cool.
The first selection we will lift onto the lofty pedestal of literary greatness is a piece of non-fiction. Those with a mindless hatred of history should move on to the next paragraph and miss one of the greatest stories ever told. Now that we have gotten rid of those d-bags, let's get our read on. "In the Heart of the Sea" by Nathaniel Philbrick is the amazing story of the whaleship Essex and its unlucky , but edible, crew. The tale of the Essex is credited by the author Herman Melville as the inspiration for his famous novel "Moby Dick", which, surprisingly, is not a porno. The lady pictured above is holding whale vomit, which I found totally pertinent to this review.
While on an expedition deep in the heart of the Pacific Ocean, the tables are turned on the whale hunters, as they are attacked by any angry sperm whale (blue whale balls?). The ship is destroyed and the thirty man crew is left stranded with three small boats and thousands of miles of open ocean between them and landfall. They may not have enough food and water to sustain them across the distance, but it turns out that manflesh is quite a delicacy when you are stuck in the Pacific without other hope of sustenance (check out my article on zombies for manflesh recipes by Emeril Lagasse). Philbrick's prose flows like a raging river, telling a gripping tale that at times resembles "The Odyssey" in terms of its perils, except there is no scary one-eyed monster. The book is well researched and brings characters from a bygone era vividly to life. Very rarely is history told in such a readable and entertaining fashion.
We move from history to sports with our second choice, "The Blind Side," by Michael Lewis. Lewis is best known for his book, "Moneyball," which details how a small market baseball team, the Oakland A's, is able to survive and thrive in a game dominated by franchises with huge payrolls, like the Yankees and Red Sox, who are both owned and operated by demon spawn. The author's more recent effort "The Blind Side," is, although on its surface also a story about sports, a very different tale. Here Lewis relates the narrative of an individual who overcomes enormous odds to succeed - maybe. Michael Oher, the book's protagonist, is a giant of man, even at the young age of 16, standing over six and a half feet tall and weighing easily over three hundred pounds. He is the prototypical NFL offensive lineman, but there is a problem. Oher is nearly illiterate, living in terrible poverty, and on the fast track to a career as a gang leader's bodyguard. The young man's life takes a turn for the better when he is discovered by Sean Tuohy, a wealthy businessman and former Ole Miss basketball star who, along with his wife, sees the amazing potential Oher has. "The Blind Side" is a true story, but Lewis does a tremendous job of hiding the twists and turns so that the tension consumes you like a great white shark inhaling its helpless prey. The book also underlines the inherent unfairness of the American educational system as well as demonstrating that our environment, and the various advantages and disadvantages that environment provides, plays a huge role in the likelihood of our eventual success or failure. You can take the boy out of the ghetto, but can you take the ghetto out of the boy? "The Blind Side" is much more than a sports story. I wave two thumbs up in the air, as if I just didn't care, for Lewis's effort (interesting side note: Lewis is married to Tabitha Soren, formerly of MTV fame).
Finally, we will enter the world of fiction, that delightful land of all things imaginary, like fairies and elves, or the Cubs winning the World Series with an eight year old as their star pitcher (or frankly even making the World Series with anybody on the team). The creative, yet demented mind of Chuck Pahliniuk (spelling may be incorrect because I do not speak Eskimo) is the source of the final work I will discuss in these pages. Master P is best known for his novel, "Fight Club," which deals with how suburban middle class folks upset with their mundane existence find that beating the ever-living shit out of each other makes them feel all warm and cuddly on the inside (not to mention bloody and pulpy on the outside). Everyone has probably seen the movie with Ed Norton and Brad Pitt and I feel like talking about "Lullaby," the Pahlikchinook novel I just read, so let's move on from that fighting snoozefest and get on with a happier tale.
"Lullaby" is the story of a man and a woman who are brought together by a common past - they both accidentally read a lullaby from a children's book, thus causing the death of their respective infants. It so happens that they have come across a culling song, which when spoken or even thought out in its entirety, leads directly to the death of the person being thought about at that time. The two realize the danger of the culling song and set about to destroy all the books in which the verse is printed. From there follows a darkly comic story that explores the use of great power and the unintended consequences that inevitably follow (see Bush, George W.). Pahliniuk writes in a style that moves like a freight train while managing not to run over the readers with convoluted plot changes. There is in his writing a staccato machine gun-like rhythm of quick, concise prose that explains everything that is going on while also amusing the reader with bits of humor twisted like a perverted pretzel on Praxis. If you haven't yet visited the bizarre world of Pahliniuk get off your ass before I threaten to do something to you that I have not bothered to think of yet.


P.S.: Just to let you know, I do not give glowing reviews to everything I read. The books I have been discussing are my three favorites from the last year out of thirty or forty that I managed to complete. This makes me seem like a real nerd, but I finished most of those novels on the interminable flight back from Prague, which took 17,000 hours.

Only You Can Prevent Forest Fires..... or Start Them If You Are So Inclined

Late on the night of July 4th, shortly after the conclusion of Greenville's massive fireworks extravaganza, I was invited by a friend, who we will call Mr. T (to protect the innocent, not because he wears enough gold chain to forever vanquish the US debt) to an after party involving more sky explosions. Mr. T's friend Mr. Brown (not to be confused with Quentin Tarantino in "Reservoir Dogs" or the soda, mainly because this is also a pseudonym) had taken a trip up to Shelton, SC, where the largest known supply of pyrotechnics in the free world is stored in a barn-like building the size of the Sears Tower. Mr. Brown came back with a SUV full of enough artillery to reproduce the American invasion of Grenada (yes we once invaded a Caribbean island the size of a thimble, for more look up Reagan, Ronald in Wikipedia). The group then pulled up chairs and sat back to watch Mr. T and Mr. Brown go to work turning the night into a sparkling cornucopia of aerial artwork.
Everything seemed to be going fine for a while. I tipped back in my seat and began to converse with some sort of half-crazed wench who was well gone on the demon rum. Champagne bubbled down the back of my throat as she regaled me with her endless nonsensical babbling. Then, all of a sudden, Mr. T decided he would mix things up a bit by aiming a rocket at the brush fifty yards to our right. Such an action might be considered rash at the best of times, but we are currently mired in a drought of quasi-mythical proportions, and the bushes he fired into were drier than a world without K-Y. Flames immediately shot upwards and panic gripped the group into momentary paralysis. Someone brilliant (almost certainly me and I am taking credit either way) suggested that perhaps we should run up to the host's house and grab a fire extinguisher. This masterful plan quickly took hold and shortly thereafter several folks were dashing towards the conflagration, which had reached a height warmly reminiscent of hell's fiery inferno. Full-fledged disaster seemed imminent. I decided that the best place to view the battle between man and fire was my chair, so I sat back down to take in the action in comfort.
Chaos ensued as the flames flickered higher and our heroes stumbled into the mouth of the blaze.The lines of combat were drawn and it appeared that only one would survive. Soon enough the shouting was over and the extinguisher had blown its foamy load. The brave few who had done battle returned, bruised, scraped, and dirty, but unbroken. The once powerful inferno had been beaten back, tamed like a pathetic zoo animal doomed to spend the rest of its life crapping in a cage.
Everything appeared to be okay, but we had only reached the eye of the storm. Suddenly a bright red firetruck came screaming down the highway with its sirens blaring out the clarion call of impending doom. There was little doubt in our minds that it was our blaze that these men were after - and if we did not think quickly trouble was soon to be an intergral part of our future. We acted fast, starting a small campfire that could be seen from the road. When the fire engine came roaring back in our direction, they spotted us cooking smores over the open flame. Two firemen approached and questioned us about a brush fire that a neighbor had recently reported. Mr. Brown and the owner of the property, Mr. P (not the Pizza company) led the way, claiming they knew nothing of such craziness, while I shoved my shirt well down the back of my throat to avert the explosive guffaws that were brewing in my belly. The subterfuge worked and our two visitors drove their truck away into the darkness of the night. There is surely a lesson that we can all take from this near disaster, but damn if I can figure out what it might be. Only Mr. T can start forest fires?