Dogg'n It

One of my favorite scotches Oban 14 is not available in the state of Washington. I shit you not. I have searched every liquor store and bar that I know for this smokey seaside single malt, and have come up empty. Every time I demand an anwer from the bar or liquor stor proprietor, they come up with some lame excuse about their wholesaler being short on stock, but they were sure it would come back next week. There is something fishy going on in the state of Washington, and I don't like it. I am sure the fat cats at the tobacco companies are involved somehow.

Oh, and yes the State of Washington controls all hard alcohol sales within her boarders, completely inflating the prices in a monopolistic fashion and stopping the free market from getting me my scotch. It's like prohibition all over again.

My ability to incorrectly pick NFL games against the spread is reaching historical heights this year. In a league with roughly 90 participants, I am currently ranked dead last in the ranking. There is a small last place prize that I am now shooting for, and you have no idea how hard it is to stay the course with my method in picking games. If I start trying to pick losers I am going to end up winning a week or something and completely screw my last place chances. This is stressing me out just thinking about it. See the TAP blog for my current pick % and be impressed.

My protrade account had a nice pop with the simultaneous selling short of Sean Alexander with the buy of Maurice Morris. The Sea Chickens are also 4-0 since Morris took over running the ball.

Is anyone else still a little pissed that we demoted Pluto to Non-Planet status a year or so ago? I LOVED Pluto. It was the little runt planet really far away that was named after Mickey's Dog. What wasn't to like about Pluto? I mean, what do you really remember about Uranus (other than the perverted name)? Now though, thanks to a grand triumph of scientific reasoning, Pluto has been reclassified as a "Dwarf Planet" along with Ceres and Eris, two little bitch rocks that happen to cirlce the sun too. I also think that phrase is B.S., and that they'd actualy prefer to be called "Little Planets".

I do like astronomy, and Astro 10 with Professor Filippenko was my most enjoyable class at Cal. Though I think my astronomy career peaked when I made a room full of pledges pretty accruately reenact the orbital rotations of the nine planets (YES, INCLUDING PLUTO) around our sun, along with a few moons, and a comet.

Poorly Hung

In case anyone wasn't at the Cal - UW football game last week, you missed one heck of a halftime show starring Berkeley's very own American Idol, William Hung. Thank you to beat reporter JTW for finding a link to the video here and reminding me of my thoughts on the matter.

OK, JTW isn't beat, unless you consider a 4.7 on hotornot.com as beat. But I digress.

There we were, loyal Cal Berkeley grads and football fans, fighting off the rain and cold of a typical November game in Seattle, when we are warmed by the announcement that our very own William Hung would be performing for us at halftime. What a nice gesture to the Cal crowd in attendance, right?

Well homeboy appears on the field, wearing HUSKY gear, and shouts out "GO DAWGS" to the student section just before going into his inspiring rendition of his trademark song "She Bangs" while the UW cheerleader corps dirty danced around him. The UW band backed him up and even spelled out IDOL! in their own special marching band way. They were one. They were a people. Hung might as well have faced his ass toward the Cal section of the stadium, dropped his pants, and showed us a sparkling new "KISS HERE CAL" tattoo.

I felt betrayed. I felt angry. I felt like someone had kicked my wet cold nuts with a hot iron boot. Was he so wrapped up in the gig that he didn't realize his own people were there, as sworn enemies that day to the school he was now siding with?

William Hung is dead to me. He is the new poster boy for high treason and treachery. That sell out no longer deserves the honor of being considered a true Berkley icon among the ranks of The Naked Guy (may his soul rest in peace), Rosebud (may her soul rest in peace after doing time in the slammer in the sky for attacking the Chancellor), Rick Starr (may his overworked liver and crazy mind continue to belt out Sinatra into his fake microphone attached to a coffee can), David Temple (a.k.a The Yashua Guy), and the lovable Hate Man.

Where you once stood William Hung, you are no longer welcome.


NOTES:
In googling for pictures of the above I ran across this article published in September 2000 declaring that the venerable Rick Starr Show has gone on permanent sabbatical. Something about his tendency to harass attractive coeds on their way to class. Oh that suave crooner was always testing the limits. Rick Starr, thanks for your tunes, I bid you adieu.

Dog Jamm'n

I was TERRIFIED over the weekend when the power went out for about 90 minutes on Saturday night. It wasn't so much the dark that scared me, or the heat being off, or the kids being scared, or my wife going crazy, or the dog barking... it was the potential that I was going to have to cancel on my whiskey tasting party I was headed to. Thank GOD (and Puget Sound Power) for getting things worked out in time.

Yeah, my wife went into action like a crack commando unit. Or a commando unit on crack. The contingency plan was enacted, we had candles lit, and the emergency flashlights on in like 8 seconds. I was informed we needed to conserve battery power "just in case". I was amazed she wasn't handing out firearms to the kids, and telling me to get the hell out of the way, or to just start baking bread.

HD service is entering my life in 24 hours. Just TRY to wipe the dopey grin off my face. I DARE YOU.


Whiskey tasting was MUCH harder than I gave it credit for. After 6 or 7 drinks in, everything starts to taste the same. 100 proof Knob Creek or Balvenie Doublewood Single Malt? Who the hell knew? Except the Laphroaig... a very distinctive scotch that smells and tastes like a peat bog... it's awesome.

I almost had a spit take (spit took?) in the car yesterday when I heard on the radio the following words: "I'm Wally Szczerbiak, and YOU'RE listening to Sonics radio!". I just realized that the shock that Wally Szczerbiak is a Seattle Supersonic is clearly overshadowed by the spelling of his name in the blog format.

By the way, my early season prediction that the Sonics were going to go 0-82 this year is looking more and more like a lock.

That "Dick in a Blog" guy looked like he had so much promise when he entered the blog world, but then just disappointed. He reminds me a lot of Niner QB Alex Smith, well except for the promise.

If you stare at the Monkey Collage long enough, you can see the image of a little black wooden dog. Creeped out yet?

If you are scheduling a training for work, that is really more of a boon-doggle, and are trying to get away with it, you really shouldn't refer to the training location as "Vegas" to your boss. It's "Las Vegas". And don't follow up with the obligatory "baby" either.

Jesus, it's like we have all been programmed to say Vegas "Baby!" when talking about a trip to Vegas. I personally can't help it. I try to fight it, but it just happens. It's just way too fun and catchy not to I guess. Note to marketing people everywhere: all you have to do is repeat a word 10,000 times over the course of 90 minutes to permanently engrave it into someone's unconcious.