In Praise of Our Nation's Scholar Athletes

The eyes of the nation have turned to various gymnasiums across the land, as College Basketball shows College Football how to crown a champion--by duking it out on the floor (and yes, I was looking for a "Gymkata" joke, but couldn't fine one). See, they have the crazy idea that arguments don't win championships, but that proving that you are the better team through competitive engagement of sport is in fact the most effective way to determine the Greatest Team In All Of The Land.

The best part of the whole tournament-deal is the opportunity to earn Huge Cash Rewards from filling out various brackets, and competing in pools with your officemates. This is an opportunity to earn respect and gain friendship from your peers, as well as their money. However, if you fail (and chances are, you will), you risk humiliation. Cue the sad Charlie Brown music.

Now I'm known as a guy who knows a thing or two about sports, so I tend to take pride in making such picks. I mean, I still recall predicting a Final Four, Championship Game, and Champion correctly about 7 years ago. But I've grown tired of College Basketball--compared to the NBA, it blows. The players are short and slow (hell, at 6 foot, I could post-up half of these guys), plus they can't shoot for shit. In other words, I haven't followed the sport at all--the only thing I was aware of was the fact that LSU fired their coach, despite the fact he took them to the Final Four two years ago. Hence my motivation to name my tourney picks "The Ghost of John Brady".


As for my picks this year, I can't say enough bad things about them. But to be fair, you can't expect much when you're in an ether-induced haze at 3 in the morning making your picks. Or the fact that I took 45 seconds to pick out the entirety of my bracket. At least there's no money at stake for me, what with my lack of actual employment. Though I feel sorry for everyone who copied my picks--tough break kids.

Now where's the rest of my ether?

Of Functional Health Units and Holy Hand Grenades

Or: I've Made A Huge Mistake...

Continuing my look back at the weekend that was...Mardi Gras 2008


I left you guys with a quick look at Bourbon Street, which is essentially the soul of Mardi Gras in New Orleans. As a sleazy 70s porn producer would say, "it's where the magic happens." If you've heard any fantastic tales about the debauchery of the holiday, chances are these stories took place on a select few blocks of La Rue Bourbon. And sure enough, that's where we spent the entirety of our Sunday. Before I continue, I should teach you the Rules of Bourbon St.:

1. Don't Pee On The Street The cops allow just about anything, so it's a good idea to at least let them have this one ("laissez les bon temps rouler" officially replaces "To Protect and To Serve" for that weekend).

2. Don't Sit On The Street Because people tend to violate Rule No. 1. Assholes.

With those rules in hand, you're pretty much set for a quality weekend of partying On The Holiest of Streets.


So I woke up on Sunday morning, in the same clothes from the previous day's festivities. And because it's New Orleans, we decided "fuck it", and went out without changing. I mean, who's going to complain about our potential smelliness? The bums? Unlikely. So we decided that we needed to ease into the day, and that meant a quick stop for some alcohol. Everyone talks about New Orleans and their famous Hurricanes, but the official drink of Bourbon Street is the Hand Grenade. It looks like a bong that the Ninja Turtles would use, tastes like the Slimer version of Hi-C, and features a grenade shot on top of the ridiculously copious amounts of alcohol already present in the drink. It would be the strongest drink on the strip, except for a couple of places that feature a Knockout 191 (yes, that's 191 proof), and since I wasn't in the mood to get date raped, I felt satisfied with my choice of Hand Grenade.



While we sipped on our beers and Hand Grenades, we encountered a truck that had a couple of dudes tossing what looked like to be free Gatorades. In fact, it turned out to be some sort of Detox drink, one of those hangover cures you're likely to find at your local 7-Eleven. We grabbed a few, then hit up a local restaurant for some of that down-home Cajun cooking that I had missed so much over these years, which meant one fucking sweet Shrimp Po' Boy for lunch (and there you were, thinking that a Po' Boy was just a random Creedence album reference). Not only were we provided with very necessary fuel for future alcohol consumption, but we got the chance to analyze the scientific benefits of our Urban Detox. There was a fantastic bar graph, pictured here, that showed that it helped alleviate hangovers and nausea and potentially cancer, because it contained so many "functional health units".



Since it was still early in the day, we decided to go to a fantastic shithole bar for some cheap alcohol and that famed New Orleans ambiance. That's The Abbey for you, which has a nice Dixieland funereal vibe going for it. In between meetings with an angry Polish/Greek and an old man with a nose covered in c-c-c-c-cocaine, we talked to the band, which featured a singer from Portland. I'm telling you, Portland musicians are fucking everywhere! Though the finest musical performance went to a local guitar/violin/tuba sidewalk trio, who played the most kickass version of "Stairway to Heaven" you'll hear.


After a quick stop at a cafe serving some authentic absinthe, it was time to partake in the more standard Mardi Gras fare. Which, in one word, can be described as "overindulgence". For this fellow right here, that involved a rack of test tube shots and the body parts of various hostesses at a Bourbon Street club. Frankly, there were a few scandalous photos taken that might prove compromising if I were currently running for office, but you weren't hearing any complaints from me at the time (though my mouth was otherwise occupied). But tough shit for you folks, because those photos aren't currently in my possession. So you'll just have to let your imaginations wander as to what it was exactly that I was doing.


It was at this point (about 54 shots later) that our female companion decided that it was a good time to get bodypainted. Not being one to complain, we ended up at a little place that was able to provide such a service. While waiting for the services to be rendered, we struck up a conversation with a retired Army colonel who's now a private security contractor in Afghanistan, and ended up spending the day with him and his newly-bodypainted ladyfriend. As you can imagine, walking down the street with these two lovely ladies provided quite the commotion. No joke, this was the top attraction on Bourbon Street, and I spent the afternoon providing my services as a bodyguard (even if I wasn't exactly sober). I had my head on a swivel, but you couldn't really ask for a better job. Actually, I'm more concerned about the photos from these events--if you see a fat Greek guy in a goofy pink foam Captain Morgan's hat next to some beautiful ladies, well that was me. I fear my eventual appearance in a Girls Gone Wild video.

As for the rest of the night, it involved a lot of drinks, and a lot of bars. In between various stops and shots, we managed to watch the majority of the Super Bowl, but had to make the trip back to Baton Rouge once the Giants gained the lead in the fourth quarter. Of course, we missed the best part of the game, but considering everything that happened before it, I'd say we made a fair tradeoff. Plus, we got to enjoy the replay of the game, so it really worked out well in the end.



While this certainly was the craziest day, that's not all the tales I have, so keep tuning in for more this week. For those of you who just hung around hoping for the pictures of the bodypaint, for shame! We are a blog of standards! If you want them, you're at least going to have to e-mail us. Come one, we have standard practices to follow.

Don't Bother Me, I'm Watching TV

I'm sure most of you are wondering what I do with my time besides write for this blog, watch movies in a drunken stupor, and "researching". Since I am of minimal social skills but practice good hygiene, I spend a lot of that time watching TV (instead of, say, playing video games (hence the point about hygiene)). And tonight marks the night where I celebrate this fact rather than mourn it.


That's because for once TV is worth watching. It's Thursday night, and that means the comedy lineup on NBC. There's the amiable My Name Is Earl, which while the weak link of the night, is a nice appetizer for what's to come. Then there's the brilliantly zany 30 Rock, which quickly became a favorite last season. Between Alec Baldwin's deliciously insane portrayal of a corporate head to the endless parade of quotable lines ("Live every week like it's 'Shark Week'"; "TELEVISION: ON! PORNOGRAPHY!"), it's comic sunshine in my dull dull life. There's the now-familiar standby, The Office, which still has a kick in it, even when you think it's heading downhill. And then there's Scrubs; though it may have lost its fastball, it's still worth keeping up as it winds down its run.


Adding to this great lineup this season, there is the added bonus of It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia on FX. 10 o'clock rolls around, I'm watching this one. As Zhuang put it, it's kind of like Friends, if all of them were evil. I've totally caught up on the first two seasons (not much of an accomplishment, in any sense of the word, since there were only a handful of episodes in total), and now I'm prepared for doubleshots of new episodes each week. Follow this with the standard Daily Show/Colbert Report power hour, I've got my entire Thursday night booked. And that means I want no distractions.

Fuck you if you ruin my Thursday night. Of course, NBC kind of ruins it with one-hour premieres and FX does the same with slightly long episodes that bleed into my power hour, but I can take it. I'm strong like that.