the only six things i know about the game

THE BASICS OF FOOTBALL
by: the G.

1. Rex Grossman sucks
2. Everyone in this town is still bizonkers for the Redskins even though Daniel Snyder is a total douche.
3. Boise State uses the "statue of liberty" play.
4. Everett is the guy who got hurt really bad
5. Plaxico Burruss has a name that cracks me up every time I hear it, and I once referred to him as "the guy who's name sounds like 'plastic' but with an 'x'."
6. Also, Rex Grossman sucks.

dinner parties

good: leftover 2amys for lunch, a really nice and sympathetic waitress.

better: learning how to distinguish good moonshine from bad moonshine: "the secret is to shake it. if there are big, floaty bubbles - don't touch the stuff. too much methane."

Also Jens Lekman = Jay Garner

The last three times someone has asked me who sings the new Ipod Nano commercial I told them it was some lady named Feith.

How I wish it were so.

misc.

- Today on the car ride in, the N decided "Myanmar" sounds like the name of something delicious. I, hwver, have decided it sounds instead like the name of a cat. Nermal, Heathcliff, Myanmar.

- Hey, way too late on this for all of you: but Lawrence Wright's My Trip to Al-Qaeda at the Kennedy Center? Really, really good.

- New York City

- 7 year trade-up

- Polly Jean Harvey, 93ish? (from unfogged)

Where was I. Hotel Chevalier* is free for download on ITunes, so I'm gonna go grab me some of that before having my second cup of coffee and conducting the most awkward business phone call in the history of mankind. Take care, Internet.



* update: jason schwartzman officially creeps me out.

Iowa: part 2 - Tiny Town

Golden retrievers
Grapes
Rex Grossman
United Airlines
Dolly Parton
Hot summer days
Thanksgiving
Eskimo college scholarships
Carole King
The Coal Miner’s Daughter
Volkswagen Passats
Van Morrison
Beer in containers greater than 12 ounces

The list above is just a malnourished fraction of the topics you can bring up around the G that will result in her responding, “I have a friend whose mom raises miniature horses.” She claims that they are bred as helper horses and it’s one of her favorite avenues of conversation. I assume being a helper horse means they eat small amounts of unwanted hay you may having lying around or possibly quell tiny riots. She also claims that they wear slippers painted to look like tennis shoes so they won’t scuff supermarket floors. But the G is a known fabulist.

The thing is, even though she loves talking about them, I’m not sure that my dear wife has had much personal exposure to miniature horses. The idea of a shrunken version of any draft animal is obviously charming. And since the G is a girl and all girls love horses and all horses can be manipulated to produce weensy-ized versions of their parents, it would be natural for her to become infatuated. Or so argued my college Logic professor who looked like a Fraggle.

I, on the other hand, have intimate familiarity with miniature horses seeing that I have just returned from an Iowa county fair. I have looked into the face of these stupid things and can tell you without reservation that they are by no means cute or worthy of anyone’s adoration.



First, they have strange hair. It feels like a dog’s fur after it’s been shaved for the summer so it won’t get hot. It’s dry to the touch but still looks somehow oily. Almost like if it’s been greased up with its own canine shame.

Second, they have weird eyes. They’re not soulless like a shark’s or a possessed doll’s but they look dead nonetheless. They didn’t react to any movement in front of their faces like hand waving or carrot nubs or fried cheesecakes. And most of the one’s I saw had some serious discharge and subsequent crust-ation.



Finally, they clearly look ______*. It’s a word you’re not allowed to call people anymore although I assume it still enjoys popularity in middle and high schools. And if you use this there will always be one girl nearby who has a brother and she scolds you for being insensitive. You know the word I’m talking about. Miniature horse’s heads aren’t shaped like other horses’ heads. They’re bulgy in weird places. Whatever is genetically influenced to achieve itsy-bitsyness also clearly causes some sort of retardation.

Fine. You made me say it. Miniature horses look retarded. I’m not proud of feeling this way.

Their images beg for photo manipulation. Below is an example of the only acceptable use of miniature horses, as far as Pygmalions are concerned: baby unicorns. Not miniature unicorn only baby unicorns.



Only a fraction of the distaste for these abominations can fall to the horses themselves. The rest clearly falls on the breeders. But I haven’t determined what is worse, the fact that they are bred into stupidity to be judged and mocked or that they are actually forced to drag their captors around.



This seems wildly unfair.


*The N: Can I call a horse retarded?
The G: i think it would be funnier the farther you take trying to not say "retarded"
but yes
that horse
looks retarded

crank dat engineering bylaw review

As i have reported via IM to anyone who would listen to my silent internet screams this morning: I am spending the day in a frigid meeting room full of older white neckties, 20 of em or so, all with varying levels of low-grade autism.

Paying real attention would make my head explode, so instead I've spent the morning reading about the Padres MB's knee injury (dumbass), and emailing my brother about lepruchans in Alabama. They exist.

say no more, shark eyes

Also somewhat peculiar is the fact that buried in one of Anderson’s monogrammed suitcases is 10,000 euros in cash—about $14,000—an amount that may or may not be legal to carry, and that was given to the director by Bill Murray, who asked that the money be “delivered to Luigi.”

Okay, sure, Wes Anderson. Great.

But. Good God, how much do I love Bill Murray.

I don't think I'm spoiling anything, but here goes.

Have you ever wanted to express such love and devotion and earnest excitement about something/someone, that you start hyperventiliating a tad and then get teary-eyed and can't talk? It's jut altogether too overwhelming?

Go see D-Wars. Now. Just leave work. I'll be the first to admit that the film raised more questions than it answered concerning dragons, Korea, the arms race, young love, tattoos, roommates named Britney, the power of the press, "poor man's Chris Tucker, if he was fat and lazy, and still the best actor in a film", edamame or perhaps umami (unclear), Jedis, the bombing of downtown LA, etc. but oh God, who cares. I laughed, I cried, I clapped loudly several times at the best repeated line ever. Also, I think I accidentally kicked the toddler sitting in front of me in the back of the head several times with my giant clubfoot. My apologies.

Not Bully

I’m guessing the Nat’s are going to argue that they wanted to create some bond between the traditions of RFK and the new stadium* by having Teddy Roosevelt not win the president’s race. Fine.



However, the fact that he didn’t participate in the race was remarkably intolerable. He didn’t even show up to the stadium until well into the later innings! Sure it was nice to win the game but the people want Teddy. I didn’t hear the 30,000+ fans chanting any one else’s name at the game.


*Have they announced a name for the new place yet?

i have photoshop at work, hi.

i am a monster:



my halloween costume: lily allen lifting her spaceman face shield, on loop.

Okkervil Tix - i gottem

Okay, hi. I can't do basic math, and somehow ended up buying an extra ticket (I think) for the 9/30 sold out Okkervil show at Rock and Roll hotel. Catherine also has an extra as well. We are tandem-blogging this windfall of ticket availibility. (windfall = 2)

I need to confirm I'm not totally dopey and have promised this to someone else already, but I'm pretty sure it's up for grabs (and Cat's ticket is def. available.) Want it? Face value, I don't make money on these things.

Email me: Pyginablanket AT gmail dot com.

you should see the ads

things discussed at great length this morning via gchat:

- Beards, beard championships, beards made of chia seeds, growing your own salad toppings on your face, redwood tree toppling, types of lava

- Okkervil River, flair bartending

- Consensual sex where the girl takes drugs beforehand as to be unconscious during the act: kinky-and-terrifying, or boring-and-terrifying?

- S's coworker Tim's investment strategies.

- my anti-nut philosophy

UPDATED: Oh. And I forgot the chat about vampire peacocks. How could I overlook that, you ask? I don't remember.

a month away!

me: ... unrelated... did you know that Target is selling adult Hermione Whore costumes? for halloween? ?"

Amanda: hahahaha WHAT?

me: because they are

Amanda: holy shit

me: and they are labeled "Wanda witch." dude. you are fooling no one, Target.

Amanda: hahahahahhahahahha. you must photograph this, and blog about it. thanks.

me: done. i need to go try it on in person, don't i? dammit. OMG ALSO WHORE LIBRARIAN!!!

Amanda: 'member that time we were in prison, and our jump suits had flare pants and a halter top?

Boji

Iowa. Seriously. You’re perhaps a relatively normal state. But probably not. Exhibit number one: my father.

Exhibit 2-100 are to follow. And I will try to do this in the chronological order in which they happened.

#2

Generally, I’m pro-statue. However, my opposition to artists creating likenesses of children is well documented. Child statues are creepy. The proportions are always incorrect, the poses are generally unnatural and anytime the children are interacting with an adult there is always be perverse presentiment about it.

For instance, I once drove 4 hours out my way to visit the only town in American that still sells bottles of the original cane sugar recipe of Dr. Pepper. I got there late and the museum was closed. But the statue out front was on full display.



I can’t remember who the guy is, maybe the good Dr. Alphonso J. Pepper M.D. himself. Or maybe some other weird Texan. Either way, besides the unquestionably painful height of his pants there is nothing really wrong with him or his statue. The child, however, is terrifying.

It’s similar situation with this statue we found in Iowa.



I have no complaints with the captain statute*, even with his Bolton mustache. (Ok, the giant steering wheel belt buckle is bit put-offish.) But that fraking little girl. Sure the first few steps will be awkward when her mystically animated body tries to free itself from the metal base plate. Once she gets going we’ll have to lure her into a lava pit just to slow her down.

Maybe it’s the hair. Is it hard to render long hair in metal replica form? Artists? Scientists? I don’t know and I’m both.

Notice I didn’t mention the boy. While I am aggressively anti-child statue I am 100% behind any statue that memorializes chocolate covered ice cream bars on sticks rolled in nuts.



The statue here is a tribute to not only the good Cap’n but to the Nutty Bar, which was reportedly created in this Iowa “resort” town. I am therefore only one-third against the installation as opposed the normal two-thirds.

*In honor of talk like a pirate day:

This boat captain statue walks into a bar and orders a drink. The bartender brings him a beer but asks, “What’s the deal with the steering wheel on your pants?”

The captain statue replies, “YAARRGG!! I don’t know. But it’s driving me nuts!”




OMFG that is funny!

Ridley makes me late, again

I heard or read or made up somewhere that NYC has a law that limits the number of construction projects allowed on one way streets that travel in the same direction. It’s intended to allow drivers coming in or out of the city during rush hour an opportunity to find a less hindered alternate route.

I’m not sure if DC has a similar law. But if it does it needs to extend past construction projects. Let’s say they are tearing down a building on 20th Street and have two lanes blocked off.



Then Russell Crowe shouldn’t be allowed to come in and block off 18th for some bloated, globe spanning suspense picture that will dismay your senses with its austere realism and exhaust you with its passion.

On the plus side, I got to watch them tear down that building on 20th for, like, 10 minutes. I’ll miss that Zero’s subs. But the rainbow was pretty.

also, i am back at the office today conducting important workstuffs

So SM ("asian experience" is a flavor? what does that taste like, exactly?) was unaware of Steven Seagal's energy drink production, which naturally led back to re-investigation on the Interhos. Upon revisiting lightningdrink.com; we discovered that there is a helpful icon in the lower left hand corner that tells curious consumers such as ourselves that one can find Lightning Bolt Energy Drink at fine 7-11 retailers. No need to order online! Good news for all.

OH! All this came up because of her hat tip of the millenium:

SM: if i still had a personal blog, i'd be tempted to do something about these photos (scroll down to the ones with the kids)

me: oh good lord. oh. that is outstanding.

SM: he's totally going to drop kick those kids into submission. Steven Seagal is angry! i love the Ukrainian media.

me: Steven Seagal is pouting!

I am on hour 58 of a cable-television-watching marathon. if i don't get out of this house soon? cutting. some. bitches.

the part where the astronaut turns out to be Lily Allen? Funny every time, I swear.

pyg in an aircast

I suppose it was due. I've spent 800 billable hours at emergency rooms with the N (shoulder, teeth, ankle, knee, full body blow, concussion, staples, the list goes on), so it's only fair that he hang with me in Alexandria INOVA emergency room til 2:30 AM, watchin' on the Eukaneuba Dog Show and blowing up medical gloves into what resembled rooster crowns (all the better to perform the "Arrested Development" Gob dance with.) The Xray tech's name was Bob and he asked me if "I fell off a boat, too?" (what? no. who boats in the middle of the night? what? confused? huh?) Also, there was a nurse on duty who had made soup for the overnight ER staff and was serving it from a CAULDRON (seriously). The N told me they were making my potions and poultices. Instead, they gave me Vicodin. I LOVE YOU, ER! I cannot relay to you how much funnier yr little pill bottle made the Reg & Kelly 20th anniversary show this morning.

Besides all this last night, my spouse and the remainder of my local family had a plane to catch to Iowa in less than twelve hours, so why NOT snap an ankle or two. Awesome timing, dipshit!

I am strongly considering hooking the dogs into some sort of chariot apparatus to pull me to Galaxy Hut for grilled cheese. Anyhooos, my stellar vball season is officially over and I have crutches that are one inch too big for me since I live in a family of giants.

More later, maybe even pictures. I'm off to cut some sweet deals with uninsured people with busted ribs for my extra Vics. Capps says pills are worth his other ribs. I can make my own woman out of them, so I'm considering his offer.

Kenneth and the Amazing Pig Realm

On June 12, 1959, a young boy named Kenny Wilson attended a birthday party for a classmate in northwest Iowa. Like most of Kenny’s friends, this classmate lived on a farm and the party was held outdoors between the house and the large grain silos. The young partygoers were pointedly herded away from the barns since they were noisy and foul smelling and filled with a few hundred hogs.

Between the pig pens and County Highway B24, ran a ditch about 15 feet wide and 5 feet deep. At the far end, a small hole led into a winding series of limestone caverns. While it was very easy to get into these caves it was exceedingly difficult to get out. The county placed an iron cap over the entrance but it was commonly damaged during large rainstorms.

On the rare occasion where they gate was loosened and a hog managed to get free of the pens, it sometimes found its way underground. Although little light penetrated the winding crevices, it was possible to survive in the caverns. While the lack of proper nutrition would stunt their growth, they would still turn feral after a few months - sometimes to the point where the small tusks, normally filed down by farmers, would grow out of their months. Usually, only the smaller piglets managed their way into the caves and it was seldom worth the time or effort to retrieve them.

If you’ve ever experienced the hardships of growing up on a farm, you know where this story is going: Kenny Wilson wandered away from the birthday and fell into the cave. A quiet boy, he was not missed at the party until his parents came to pick him up a few hours later. A search of the farm by the family, neighbors and police revealed little. Of course, hanging over the entire effort was the immutable horror of living on a farm that no one dared speak: the child may have been knocked unconscious near the hogs. If that were the case, he surely would have been eaten in only a few minutes.

As dusk approached and the search grid got larger, the broken cap was discovered. And when Kenny’s parents yelled into the hole, they could faintly hear him calling back. The lowered a slate down to him and he scrawled out that while he was okay there were things down in the cave moving around near him.

A rescue effort was quickly launched but it soon became apparent that the fragile nature of the limestone could not withstand drilling without risking a total collapse. Days of digging by hand also yielded little progress. Food was lowered into the chamber, as well as a flashlight and blankets. The feral hogs, for the most part, left Kenny alone.

After weeks of heroic yet fruitless attempts, everyone became resigned to the idea that Kenny may spend the rest of his life in the cave. They lowered food and water down several times a day. At least one family member stood vigil over the cave entrance at all times in case he needed anything. Clothes, tools and dismantled furniture eventually made their way to him and he built himself a makeshift bedroom. Each night a classmate would send down his homework and the next morning someone else would pick it up. He made the pigs his pets and was even able to train a few to perform basic tasks.

As of 1986, Kenny the Pigboy was still living in his cave in northwest Iowa.




Obviously, this story is complete make-believe. There was no moral or lesson. My dad told it to me when I was eight for no other reason than to fuck with my head. While he did grow up on a farm in Iowa, there was never a Kenny, he never had a birthday party in his yard and their certainly isn’t a vast series of limestone caves under my grandparents farmhouse.

But I didn’t know that when I was a little kid and told it to my friends and grown-ups and any pet that would sit still long enough to listen. “Did you know there’s pigboy living under my grandparents house in Iowa?” I became that kid who told fanciful bullshit stories. And not because I wanted the attention or because my dad ran off or because I lived with my grandparents and my older sister wasn’t really my sister but actually my mom.

I asked my dad this morning why he would do such a thing to a little boy and he just laughed and laughed and laughed. If you’ve met my father, then you know what I’m talking about.

Anyway, I'm off to see my grandparents in Iowa tomorrow. 60th wedding anniversary. I'll pass your regards on to Kenny.

sigh.

"His friends thought he was doing an art piece," Pirtle said.