News for Nick: 11 Jul 06

Dr Bartha being pulled from his townhouse (How a Townhouse in N.Y. Went From Dream to Nightmare)

• Mom Gets 8 Years for Giving Baby Methadone [Newsvine]
• Fifa investigates Zidane red card [BBC Sport]
  

  Other Related News:

  • Revealed: The Remark that Unleashed Zidane's Fury [Newsvine]
  • Materazzi Denies 'Terrorist' Insult [Newsvine]
  • E l'incornata di Zizou diventa gioco (a Flash game) [via Best Week Ever Blog]
• US detainees to get Geneva rights [BBC News]

Also: U-turn on Guantánamo rights [Guardian UK]

• How a Townhouse in N.Y. Went From Dream to Nightmare [NY Times]
• Hilary Rosen: Singing a New Song? [Wired]
• US in $80m 'Cuba democracy' plan [BBC News]
• Adam Carolla hangs up on Coulter [via Best Week Ever Blog]

ah, i feel it in my bung.

For most of my cell phone using career I've been a loyal MetroPCS customer (there was a brief stint of Nextel at the precipice of their "walkie-talkie" age but not long enough to really matter). Sure, I couldn't really leave the Atlanta area lest I render my phone useless but unlimited minutes, unlimited long-distance and a flat-rate per month is a great deal. Besides, where am I going? I don't even have a car.

But my parents bought be an unlocked RAZR phone for my birthday, a phone I asked for since it was the most advanced phone Metro services. I walk into the service center Monday afternoon and ask them to switch over my service. They say no. "This isn't one of ours," he says. MetroPCS doesn't operate on SIM cards so my Unlocked Phone of Awesomeness is completely useless with my current carrier. Son of a ...

My options are few: (a) find some way to return my phone (which was purchased online) and buy a MetroPCS RAZR phone or (b) find a new carrier. The problem with (a) is that getting a MetroPCS phone sort of locks me into their service until I get a new phone. So, I think to myself, maybe it's time to become a big boy and get in on one of the larger carriers. Who knows? Maybe I'll go traveling about if I know I won't be stranded without a phone somewhere.

I'm checking out the major carriers now and, seriously, I don't know how you kids do it. I've been looking at T-Mobile, Cingular, Verizon and even All-Tel. Phone carriers in the United States are all about raping the customer. You lose minutes even when people call you? That's ridiculous. I mean, ISPs gave up the "per minute" ghost way early on. How can mobile phone companies still be doing this? Is it just that people don't know a better way, haven't been able to apply the theory of flat-rates to mobile phones, therefore allowing carriers to essentially hit them with bats until prizes fall out every month?

I might be making a little much of it since I'm really not used to having a limit on my phone service. Maybe 1000 "whenever" minutes/month for $49.99 is a good deal and I wouldn't know because I really have no idea how much I talk on the phone. Do I talk for 16 hours a month? Hard to say.

So I implore you, all ye hurt-bottoms of carrier abuse, what do I do? Where do I go? Should I just try option (a) and get over it, continue in my primarily Atlanta-only existence? Or should I just bite the pillow and branch out?

john williams should do my soundtrack.

Spoiler Warning: What follows is possibly a spoiler for the movie Superman Returns. I say possibly because even EW all but gave it away in their recent article. In any case, don't read it if you don't want to know.

Like many dark-haired, blue-eyed boys in the world, I have a special affinity for Superman. The sheer impossibility of his defeat (an impossibility that has tested my limits for suspending disbelief throughout the years) is attractive, his iconic status incredible and, at least for me, his strength of character standing through test after test in a world that completely doesn't understand him pull us toward the Man of Steel. Sure he's a little more hokey than say the dark brooding of Batman, the mixed-blessing conflict in Spiderman and the overt outsider plot encasing all of the X-(Wo)Men. But he's Superman. He's the standard. You can go to the jungles, find a native and show him a picture of Superman and he'll show you some thatched footie pajamas with the big diamond-and-S. I still feel today that the best illustration of this was at the end of the Batman: Dark Knight series when Miller hinted at the people regarding Superman as a religious savior. He has that level of power.

Even with all of that, the new flick interested me in a new way. To preface, my opinion of the movie is that it was good but could have been better; Bryan Singer did great but the script needed some work and, as a co-worker pointed out, for a criminal mastermind, Lex Luthor's evil plot was pretty lame (Land grab? Really?). I'm still planning on catching it again, though, this time in IMAX.

The way the new movie intrigued me (even though it was a deep perversion of the Superman mythos) is through the kid. We can only assume that Lois told her baby's daddy what's up by Supes' Jor-El-ish speech to Jason late in the movie. Why that is interesting to me? Let's look at the similarities: (1) My dad has always been told he looks just like the late Christopher Reeve and I am my father's son, (2) my dad has lived the life only a man that can be reborn in multiple ages as the same person can accomplish, (3) I'm asthmatic and was a sickly child, and (4) I had a similar haircut when I was five-ish.

If the Man of Tomorrow can have a child then, clearly, I'm the heir to a superhero throne.

I will rock that cape.

what to search for when you're bored.

My friend Josh was always being bestowed with the latest cutting edge Apple products by way of his obsessed father, a man we believed to be wired into the internet in his sleep. In fact, it was him that provided us with our first dose of the internet. It was 1994 in a community called eWorld. eWorld was a lot like AOL, except more spatially-based (it porported itself to be a planet with locations). Josh and I hopped onto a very new Yahoo! and watched the cursor blink in the search box.

"Well," he asked. "What do we look up?"

The world was at our fingertips. Though burgeoning, the internet was bursting with information waiting to be taken in. But my thirteen year-old mind pumped out the first thing that came.

"Boobiestette."

Yes. The first search term we looked up on the internet, a medium that would become my livelihood, was boobies.

So now, when I sit bored, watching the cursor blink in the Google search box, I think of that day. I relive it, the results being far more in numbers than the original run. But now I know better, about life and how the web works, and have to laugh.

Next time you're bored on the internet, look it up. Check out the search results and then think of all the people, in their content or in their keywords when developing pages, that have to seriously type the word "boobies."

reprise talent evaluation.

B-list (or lower) celebrity panel of judges. Quirky (and sometimes abrasive) host/MC. The public being manipulated into believing they truly want to be on television only to have 85-90% of them become totally humiliated. Is it just me or does NBC's new show America's Got Talent look like a high-cost production of NBC's classic The Gong Show? The only major differences I can see: bigger audience, creatively lit in Vegas-style, and a strange Cooperation of the Gong (the three judges each have a buzzer -- the "talent" is excused after all three judges sound their buzzers).

Although David Hasselhoff does say in the commercial, "KITT, get me out of here." Points are awarded to the goofy celebrity for recognizing his own awesomeness.

half a pint for the world.

I was infamously bad at soccer when I was a little. There were many times when I would just sit on the ball until another, larger kid (typically a girl) would come along and kick it from under me. The one time I was on my game I was really off: I dribbled down field and scored for the other team.

Redemption came in middle school when I found a position I was good at: goaltender (though now I recollect being relegated to the role since I was terrible at everything else). PE brought out my talents and they were proven during my 7th grade school Olympics. My team took 2nd place in soccer (after some dirty officiating) but I had a lot of blocked kicks, including a couple that elicited "oohs" from the stands. It was the first time (among few) my athletic skill was impressive to others.

After that, though, soccer fell by the wayside. My mom didn't want me to play sports because she was afraid I'd "hurt my brain" and, though I knew I'd be a great American football player, I was comfortable just watching the Packers on TV. Soccer was probably not the sport for me anyway with my ass-mar.

It's always intrigued me, though. I'll get sucked into any game on television but soccer has a certain pull on me. I could watch it for hours. Basketball and baseball bore me but soccer (and American football) are deeply captivating. If nothing else, soccer attracts me because it's something the whole world is into (you know, except us).

With that said, 2006 is a World Cup year. And I'm heeding the advice a person I don't even know expressed to a certain Heartbreaker: "Get into it!" I read the BBC World Cup form guide, Wikipedia'd World Cup 2006 and have been all over the official site and the ESPN soccernet page. I'm no expert but I know enough to enjoy it (I think). Maybe it'll be me and a bunch of hooligans at 9am trying to watch England v Paraguay. Argentina v Côte d'Ivoire (aka Ivory Coast) looks interesting. And, of course, there's Italy v US. I'm excited.

Get into it!

Links:

• FIFA World Cup 2006 Official Site (powered by Yahoo!)
• Wikipedia entry for World Cup 2006
• BBC Sport World Cup Form Guide
• ABC Sports/ESPN/ESPN2 American Television Coverage

Also of Note:

• I never finished Fever Pitch because I found it boring. It's the only Nick Hornby book I bought and haven't immediately read cover to cover. I did, however, see the Americanized (and pathetic) remake.
• The US team's logo is stupid.

the pep-talk that led to a new messiah.

When Vince Vaughn, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie wrapped on Mr and Mrs Smith, I wonder how they settled the partner swap (probably in a conference with no Jennifer Aniston invite). I think it all started with one pep talk.

Note: I did this in two columns so that it would (hopefully) take up less vertical space. If it becomes problematic I'll snip it up into sections or link it to my site.

On the set of Mr. and Mrs. Smith, Vince Vaughn is sampling a little of everything at the craft services table as Brad Pitt walks up.

Brad: Hey, man.

Vince: Hey. Great last scene, by the way. I really felt it.

Brad: Thanks, brother.

Vince: Yeah. [shovels more food into his mouth]

Brad: Hey, take it easy there.

Vince: Huh?

Brad: What’d this food ever do to you?

Vince: I know, I’m just so hungry all of a sudden. I don’t even know why.

Brad: Well, try not to pork down too much. There are starving kids somewhere in Africa you know.

They laugh. Vaughn keeps shoveling food in his mouth.

Brad: Besides, you don’t want to end up like your fat friend Favreau.

Vince: [with mouth full] Too far, Brad. Jon is a very dear and close friend. He deserves all the food he gets.

Brad: All right, all right. Sorry, man.

Vince: If he wants to blow up and look like a Goodyear blimp, who am I to say no?

Brad: Fair enough.

Vince: Besides, I’ve always been blessed with a fast metabolism so I don’t have to worry.

Brad: [turning to the food] All right, so what do we have here?

Vince: A little bit of everything. It’s all pretty fantastic.

Brad: Cool. [picks up a plate]

There’s a brief pause. As Vince continues to nibble, Brad glances over at his supporting star then shakes his head. Finally, he gets the courage to speak.

Brad: Hey, I gotta tell you something. You have to tell me if I’m crazy or not.

Vince: Sure thing, pal. Shoot.

Brad: [leans in; quietly] I think I’m in with Jolie.

Vince: Excuse me?

Brad: I think … I, um …

Vince: You could hit that?

Brad: Maybe.

Vince: Angelina Jolie?

Brad: Yes, Angelina Jolie.

Vince: You think you could tag Angelina Jolie?

Brad: I wouldn’t put it like that but …

Vince: Well, I’m not totally surprised. I mean, you’re fucking Brad Pitt, right?

Brad: Right. But I’m not sure. It’s just speculation for right now.

Vince: Oh, right, right.

Brad: Nothing assured. But I think, if I wanted to, I could … you know …

Vince: Hit that shit?

Brad: Right.

Vince: What makes you say that?

Brad: I just get this vibe from her or something.

Vince: [looks up] Shit, here she comes.

Brad: Act cool, man.

Vince: [at normal level again] Hey, Angelina.

Angelina Jolie walks up to the table and pours herself some tea. Vince is all smiles while Brad grins meekly and nods.

Angelina: Hey, Vince.

Vince: Great scene, by the way. I really felt it.

Angelina: Thank you, Vince. You were so funny in your last scene I almost popped a vein trying not to laugh.

Vince: Thank you. That really means a lot to me.

Angelina: No problem. See you around.

Vince: Okay. [does a small wave with his free, not-holding-food hand]

Angelina: [subtly looks Brad up and down then smiles] Bye, Brad.

Brad: See you later, Angelina.

Angelina walks away.

Brad: Jesus, did you feel that?

Vince: Did I feel it? I think I may need a cigarette after that. Maybe even change my pants.

Brad: So I’m not totally crazy then?

Vince: Crazy? No, no, no, no. Did you feel that vibe coming off of her? She wants you, my friend.

Brad: Really?

Vince: She’s making the call. She’s just waiting for you to pick up. Getting the voicemail and calling back again.

Brad: Should I pick up?

Vince: Should you pick up? Are you simple? Of course, you pick it up. Do you know how hot that would be? Not only is she incredibly hot …

Brad: Incredibly hot.

Vince: I mean, there’s no question. Those lips, those tits. That tight little ham she calls an ass. Package deal.

Brad: Way hot.

Vince: Also, she’s a little crazy.

Brad: Yeah.

Vince: Completely unpredictable. I can’t even fathom a guess at what sex with her would be like. Whips, chains, outfits, possibly animals.

Brad: You think animals?

Vince: Well, maybe not animals. Or maybe animals. It’s Angelina Jolie: who the fuck knows?

Brad: Billy Bob Thornton knows.

Vince: Yeah, Slingblade hit that.

Brad: See, that makes me question the whole thing.

Vince: Why because Billy Bob “I fucked Halle Berry” Thornton was up in there?

next column

Brad: He didn’t fuck Halle Berry.

Vince: Please. Did you see Monster’s Ball? You think after that scene that they just put on their robes and said good night? Be realistic.

Brad: Anyway, we’re both ignoring the elephant in the room here.

Vince: What’s that? That Jolie would want to wear your blood around her neck, too? Because, I gotta tell you, I think that’s pretty fucking hot. I know it’s weird but it’s a little hot, too, you have to admit.

Brad: No, no. I mean I have a wife.

Vince: Oh right.

There’s another small pause.

Vince: But it’s fucking Angelina Jolie, though.

Brad: [sighs then laughs] I know.

Vince: Listen, you have to do this.

Brad: No, no, I can’t. It’s flattering but I can’t.

Vince: It’s flattering?

Brad: Yeah, it’s flattering that someone like her would be interested in me but it’s just not the right time.

Vince: Yeah, and it’s an honor just to be nominated. Horse shit, Brad. This isn’t flattering. This is divine providence.

Brad: [laughing] Divine providence?

Vince: Who else gets this opportunity, to fuck the hottest, sexiest, craziest girl in Hollywood? Shit, she’s so hot straight chicks would fall all over each other just to go to girlytown with her. I mean, this isn’t one of those party sluts spreading her legs for anyone with a trust fund or losing her virginity to someone who plays a foreign guy in Wisconsin on TV. This is Angelina Jolie.

Brad: Fucking Angelina Jolie.

Vince: Fucking A right it’s Angelina Jolie. And only a man in your position, of your caliber, of your pedigree …

Brad: Pedigree?

Vince: That’s right: pedigree. Your pedigree of looks, smarts and experience can land a girl like that. The planets are aligning, my friend, and I’m no Nostradamus but I know you only got one shot at this.

Brad: You think so?

Vince: Listen, here’s what we’re going to do …

Brad: Oh, no.

Vince: Hear me out, Bradley. The fact that you’re entertaining this at all means you’ve forsaken the wife at the prospect of Angelina Jolie.

Brad: Now, I wouldn’t say …

Vince: It’s okay, Brad. No one expects you to be Superman. And even if you were, all men have a weakness for hot sex and Angelina Jolie is like a fucking planet of kryptonite. I’m even going to do you one better: I salute you.

Brad: You salute me?

Vince: I salute you for doing your duty, for making this kind of sacrifice to chase the dream. The Dream, Brad. So here’s what we’re going to do.

Brad: [smiling, not taking Vince too seriously] What’s the plan, brother?

Vince: You raid Lara Croft’s tombs over there and I’m going to be your wingman.

Brad: My wingman?

Vince: I’ll run interference with the wife. Hopefully she won’t find out but, God forbid that she does, in that unfortunate instance, I’ll be there to help console her. Don’t worry, Daddy will take the hit for the team.

Brad: Some hit.

Vince: The point is while Jolie’s out being your bone collector, old Rachel can rest her head on someone’s shoulder. Takes the heat off you.

Brad: Wait, did you just call her Rachel?

Vince: Did I say Rachel? I meant Jennifer. Jennifer.

Brad: You totally have a crush on her Friends character.

Vince: No, I do not. That’s preposterous. That’s almost offensive.

Brad: Oh my God. You have a crush on Rachel.

Vince: All right, so what? So I sometimes disgrace myself in the shower to her in the green dress going [with “bunny quotes”] “commando.” Does that make me a bad person?

Brad: [laughing] No, I get it.

Vince: That’s right you get it. Now you get that. [points to Angelina]

Brad: I still don’t know.

Vince: [turning Brad toward him] Brad, if you don’t stick that I will never forgive myself. I’ll consider myself a failure for the rest of my life.

Brad: It’s that bad?

Vince: For all us slobs out there eating Pop-Tarts at the craft services table or in our lonely apartments plastered with posters of Lara Croft you have to do this. Do it for us. Do it for us, Brad. [takes a bite out of a strawberry Pop-Tart]

Brad: I’ll take it under consideration.

Vince: That’s all I can ask.

an open letter to the atlanta summer.

Dear Atlantan Season of Summer,

First, I would like to say welcome. Your official start date isn't until June 21st but here you are, more than a month early. I like your work ethic and your moxy. Don't let human-created dates hold you back; a task is at hand and you are the abstract conceptual entity for the job. I commend you.

But what exactly is that task? We'll start with some positives.

One, I would rather be warm then cold and you bring the heat, my friend.

Two, you usher in the month of my birth. July (7th for interested parties) is special to me and I always hold a place in my heart for the warmest of months. Not only am I celebrated but I also get lots of presents. Even if I hated the hot I would still love the summer by positive reinforcement.

Three, you're a good excuse to eat ice cream all the time.

But let's cut to the chase: you're out to kill me, aren't you? You know I walk everywhere and that the nearest train stations are at least twenty minutes away. Why do you have to turn up the heat? Not only am I at the threat of heat exhaustion/stroke, I am also at risk for horrible bacne, one of the most dreaded of acnes, from sweating into my shirt and trapping it between my back and backpack. Zits on my back! How am I going to Oxy those? Ask for assistance? Gross, dude!

Sweat just pours off my dark head of hair and onto my headphones, inevitably in my ears. It's like an infection waiting to happen. I constantly look a mess (from the sweat) so I have to bring a dopp kit of toiletries, as well as a change of clothes, everywhere I go so I can look like a halfway normal person when I arrive somewhere. My ice-cold water bottle turns warm in minutes, I get stinky, wet socks, and horrible, horrible farmer's tan! Even my tan-well, near-never-burn skin is turned against me!

Spring is so nice to us and you cut it off, Summer. It's like you're a little over-anxious and somewhat high-strung, possibly a bit of a Seasonal Stage hog. And then when you start to perform you overdo it: the blistering heat, the choking humidity and what feels like an unfiltered sun bouncing off the white sidewalks and burning my eyes. What is with the punishment? I know I'm supposed to live in Hotlanta and people tell me, "You've lived here for, like, 12 years. Aren't you used to this by now?" But would it be so hard for us to be just "Mild-yet-Comfortablanta" for a summer? Are you over-compensating?

In summation, Summer -- I always look forward to you in the Winter, begging for you to come. But when you get here I start to realize what I really wanted was Spring or even Autumn. Just, please, cut me a break here, ASS.

biscuits will not fly quite so high.

My stubborn fantasy for when I eventually move out of Atlanta to pursue a career I have not yet quite begun to pursue yet is my last stop in city to be at The Flying Biscuit. I was to pull the Budget/U-Haul/Ryder truck over on Clifton, snag a dozen biscuits for the road and pick up a t-shirt from one of my favorite eateries. How cool would I be sporting a shirt that only "locals" would truly understand? Part of that dream faded when Katie brought me home a free Biscuit t-shirt she got at work (and kept because it's a freaking cool shirt). But news today brought a tragic end to my future cool points.

I was on the train today when I saw and read (the subtitles for) a story most disturbing: The Flying Biscuit was bought out by Raving Brands. First the term "bought out" put fear into my heart and then "Raving Brands" nearly stopped it completely. If you're not sure who they are, the best way this collection of restaurant "concepts" can be described is as the folks who brought you "Welcome to Moe's!"

Yes, the people that own Moe's just bought out one of your favorite breakfast places. Not only did they buy it, they're going to franchise it. Everywhere.

Raving Brands also owns Planet Smoothie, Doc Green's Gourmet Salads, Shane's Rib Shack and three other restaurant concepts. It said yesterday it plans on opening 50 Flying Biscuit stores in 2007 and another 50 in 2008. The first franchises will be in metro Atlanta.

And so, I feel, an Atlanta institution is doomed to be ruined.

Upon further reflection of this during the day, I realized something: most of the Raving Brands are mediocre at best. I mean, I can do Moe's but I almost always would rather go to Willy's. I don't mind Mama Fu's but I'd just be thinking about Fried Chicken Rice Bowl at Noodle or even a meal at Doc Chey's. And Planet Smoothie? Let's just say I'd rather get a milkshake.

And then, on top of that, Biscuits everywhere? It's an interesting concept to have breakfast places in as many places as there are Moe's(es?) but can the eatery stay the same? None of the current Raving Brands have servers and one of the things that makes the Candler Park store is its neighborhood quality. It's in a freaking house (a gutted one but, in any case, it's very homey). Can that be replicated in fifty more locations? Or am I going to have to order my moon-dusted potatoes from a counter? All this is very disconcerting.

So, though it may be premature, I say "bon voyagebuon viaggio" to The Flying Biscuit. I still have the cookbook so the memories will last always, even when I eventually say, "The Biscuit's okay but I'd rather go to Ria'sLa Biscuit e' buona ma preferirei andare a Ria's. instead."

- - - - - - - - -

A small note about the WSBTV.com article: my favorite part is the last paragraph:

The original Flying Biscuit, opened in 1993, is in Atlanta's Candler Park neighborhood, not far from the slightly Bohemian Little Five Points. A second restaurant is near Piedmont Park.

L5P is "slightly" Bohemian, downgrading from "full-on" Bohemian since it's now "slightly" commercial and "slightly" the hang-out for "cool" suburban kids. Also I like how the original Candler Park location gets most of the mention between the locations while Piedmont Park's inferior nature is exemplified in words by only a blurb telling of its existence. I cry for you, Biscuit!

pity, music. pity.

My friend Ian and I have never really seen eye to eye on a lot of music. We mesh more on the electronic side of things but, as far as rock goes, he pretty much hates everything I like. Anything with a melodic voice is immediately tagged with an "emo is crap," whether the music is "emo" or not.

He's up here this weekend and, on a trek to Alpharetta, we discussed (separately) the Pantera Behind the Music (amazing if you haven't seen it) and this quality of Ian not liking most of the bands I listen to nowadays. I used to listen to a lot of harder rock music. I sing Marilyn Manson in the shower (just today growling "Light a candle for the sinners; set the world on fire") but occasionally move into lighter territory at other times (later in the shower: "if you have just one // let me be that love // if you have lots of others // please let me, please let me be one" -- onelinedrawing). What happened? What changed? Was it me?

Rewind to 1997. I was at the height of being a "Mansonite," wearing the panty-hose on the arms, black jeans and band shirts even in the summer and lipsynching to the likes of Pantera, Zombie and Korn (yes, sadly, Korn -- the guys that did the "Word Up" cover). I took glee in telling people I listened to bands with names like Life of Agony and defended Manson's art. I lived and breathed hard rock (as much as I could since I lacked the musical talent to play the sound, or any sound that wasn't noise). To me there was intelligent, rational reason to listen to some of these bands. It was destiny and I felt I was in the scene forever.

So why am I here? Why do I now listen to Doves, Elbow and Snow Patrol? Why is the only band from that bygone era I still purchase CDs for Deftones?

Some of it may be that I've gotten older and don't need to thrash around as much. But I still crank Far Beyond Driven ... a lot. White/Rob Zombie are still in heavy rotation on my iPod. "Bloody Cape" is one of my favorite songs from the newer Deftones record. It can't be that my tastes have changed too dramatically. I find a lot of old Korn to be unlistenable, particularly Issues but even on their "breakout" Follow the Leader but a lot of the music still holds up. Only thing I can determine is that music is lacking.

Yeah, I'm one of those 23634764 guys that says music today sucks"la musica oggigiorno fa schifo".

Nowadays the "metal" is simplistic (unless you tread into the more underground subgenres of the scene where I fear the bands are slightly more "glamorous" with their stage shows), "rock bands" are more like "pop bands" (in fact, boy bands are using guitar licks to give their sounds credibility) and punk died in the early 1980s. It's true. We can discuss it later.

So why wouldn't I turn to the only genres still making music that says something? Yes, sometimes the lead singer for Death Cab for Cutie sounds like a girl, but the lyrics are great and the sound is tight (also, what's wrong with sounding like a girl?). Jonah Matranga may whine but his music and songwriting are exploratory. Sigur Rós and Mogwai are just powerful. It may be a little lighter but the hair on the back of my neck stands up just the same.

And, when all else fails, we can all start learning how to play the spoons.

why be original?

Back in the day I made a post detailing my disappointment in others usurping my good name. The mugs of all the folks with any semblance of an online personality was upsetting, given that clearly I am the best "Nick Campbell." But Google searches for all my former online personae have become just as disappointing, particularly the "thatkidnick" monicker:

• on Mindviz
• on a message board for The Sims
• even on MySpace

But also for ku.sama and lucian9 (but not poor, sad lifestrem1). Maybe it's punishment for trying to create cute names for myself, that my online identities get unintentionally kidnapped by lamer people. Why even try to be original anymore (with nicknames)? Maybe I should just stick to "Nick Campbell."

And to any other "thatkidnicks" or "lucian9s" that may be reading: I know the feeling is mutual.

the lord, strapped to a car.

I-85 Southbound, Shallowford Road area -- 13 May 06

my life as puzzle mechanics.

I'm a recovering puzzle addict. A few years ago I got hooked on a game called Yohoho! Puzzle Pirates. You become a sea-farer in an MMORPG world full of items to buy, homes to build, boats to sail and plenty of people to swashbuckle with. The twist to the game is that all the tasks, whether it be navigating a ship or swordfighting with a rival crew, are puzzle-based. Bailing water is a lot like Tetris Attack, fixing the ship floor is similar to to tangrams, and swordfighting is all kinds of Puzzle Fighter. For hours I would "sail" around this "ocean," looking for "booty" (currency taking the form of "pieces of eight"), messaging back and forth with other players (including my friend, Ian, who was just in the next room), building reputations, gaining ranks ... it was a ridiculous affair. It took me a while to ween off it. I didn't actually fully stop being involved until after the beta period was over and they started charging for the game. And even then a $5 buy-in was tempting. It was seriously one of the most addictive things I've ever played. Even with the constant terrorizing I received from Joey and Erica about being a "puzzle pirate," I played on. I can't even in good conscious give you the link to this site lest you fall prey to the devestating effect this game can have. Ah, heck, here you go.

From sudoku to The Da Vinci Code Quest on Google and all kinds of other stuff not alphabetically bookended, puzzles just deeply appeal to me. So it was only natural that once I started to watch Lost that I would attempt to solve all the clues the show's creative/marketing team leaves.

I started to watch Lost after learning Darren Aronofsky would be directing one of the last episodes of season two. Now that he's dropped out, I'm still hooked watching (I can stop any time I want). Katie on the other hand ... totally snagged.

Intriguing on a different level is the extra non-broadcast material from the show. There are sites and even books involving the people on the doomed Oceanic Flight 815 and the island itself. I don't know why I'm explaining this to you. Lost dominates the numbers on Wednesday nights. You know what I'm talking about.

So I've been stuck lately trying to uncover all the hidden secrets of the sites such as inputting the "numbers" into subLYMONal.com to get the secret code but not knowing where on the Hanso Foundation site to input it since the page I'm led to has a blank but no submit button (I'm thinking this may be a Firefox/Mac problem ... but maybe not; Win/IE users: do you have problems?). Also I'm trying to figure out why the Dharma Initiative site reads "17 -- diapause." This, of course, has led me to a brief (and almost definitely unrrelated) investigation of the Yucca moth, who has a diapause of 16 to 17 years. I know the diapause is the holdup of the actual initiative (I think) but it is an interesting coincidence. Oh, and, of course, the manuscript Sawyer was reading that Jack tossed in the fire to get the guns back, Bad Twin, is now a published novel you can find at any bookstore. It's written by Gary Troup (a nice anagram for "purgatory").

Avast! There be puzzles about!

we got a winner.

(via BestWeekEver Blog)

This is a decent mash up of Toy Story 2 and Requiem for a Dream. If you can't point it out who's who (and maybe I can because I've seen Requiem A LOT):

Woody :: Harry (Jared Leto)
Buzz Lightyear :: Tyrone (Marlon Wayans)
Jessie :: Marion (Jennifer Connelly)
Bo Peep :: Sara (Ellen Burstyn)
Zurg :: Big Tim (Keith David)

But the real question is ... does this mean Jessie and Barbie are going to go "ass to ass?"

that, my friend, is how they shoot you.

the glorious N

I don't live in the greatest part of town. Well, that might be the wrong way to put it. I live in a good part of town with: lots of restaurants; a decent proximity to school, entertainment and the occasional festival; the air of downtown while still have some quiet at night. All in all, it's not bad. But it is sort of, to use a white euphemism, "transitional." There's been stuff stolen from here (previous to my stay and before the doors automatically locked) and you'll see a crackie or two scampering beneath the street lights. So, when I hear weird things outside my door, I don't tend to open up to let it in my house.

Saturday night I went upstairs for my nightly feeding and noticed a bright light under the door. I dismissed the idea of aliens coming to abduct me when I heard people talking outside. But they were voices I didn't recognize (from strangers). There was also a series of horrible bass-ridden songs competing with their conversation. I came to the conclusion, based on my small amount of evidence, that someone's headlights were pointed straight at the front of our place and these cats were yakking it up on my pseudo-stoop.

What do you make of something like that? There's a car pointed toward your door, no one is knocking but people are talking amongst themselves outside? They're waiting for something. Or someone.

I should also mention a ridiculous part of my life. Once upon a time, in 2004, I dated a girl I probably shouldn't have and this led to one of the craziest phone interactions I've ever had with anyone in life. The girl I was "dating" (who had terrible taste in music) turned out to be a little ... how you say ... "married." The story of how this came to be is for another time but I will say this: her husband was stationed overseas and seemed pretty confident in the fact that he (who also had extremely poor taste in music) could send "Special Ops" after me (I'm a "quoting" fool today). He told me this over the phone, including things like I'd "better not sleep" and to "watch [my] back." Now, I'm a rational human being. I know that Special Ops is not going to come crashing down through my skylight any time soon. Really they have better things to do. But I'd be lying if it wasn't something in the back of my mind. If you can conceive it, it can happen.

So when I came back downstairs and heard our chained N, which hangs in front of our door, swinging as they tapped it, my mind started racing. I imagined a couple of guys blasting music and talking loudly outside my door so that I'd come outside angry and, more importantly, too frustrated to have armed myself. That's when two other guys, who'd been kneeling in front of the door the whole time with shotguns, open fire and blast me back into the table against the far wall. Fliers, bank statements and all other manner of mail fly into the air as I struggle to get my bearings, gasping for breath (they're Special Ops and they don't want me to die just yet). Mr. Mih -- this guy comes in, behalo'd by the bright Suburban headlights. He walks over to me in his best "I-love-the-smell-of-napalm-in-the-morning" saunter, puffing on the butt of a cigar. He leans over to be realize his "I did this to you" moment, a la the "Down Low" video by R. Kelly.

I'd be totally screwed! They would have the drop on me and what could I have done? Nothing. They're freaking Special Ops.

I talked to Ian later that night and relayed to him the story to which he agreed with my sentiment very scientifically. "Yes," he said. "That, of course is the scenario." When the sounds outside were gone I breathed a sigh of relief until Ian pointed out the dastardly scheme: "The noise was the red herring. They knew you wouldn't come out for that but wait until they left to survey the area for any damage or evidence to who it was. Clearly they're laying low for you to come outside."

What a ridiculous sentiment! Ha ha ha! I mean, come on!

I didn't go outside for the rest of the night.

At least the N was still there when I left the next morning.

c'è l'hai un bel culo.

As I was in search for how to say something sucks in Italian (fa schifo) I came across a site for the book An Italian Affair by Laura Fraser. Apparently, from the descriptions, it's basically Under the Tuscan Sun but with more international humping. The site for the book, which proports itself to be a true story, contains interviews with and essays by Fraser, pictures of things mentioned in the book and a sample chapter. But the most intriguing thing was the list of Handy Italian Phrases for Lovers. It had a list of the basic ("ciao" is "hello/goodbye," "piacere" is "please to meet you") and some not-so-basic phrases ("No, mi dispiace, non ho neanche una goccia di sangue italiano" meaning "No, unfortunately, I don't have a drop of Italian blood"). The interesting part, one that is eased into, are the ones really for "lovers." Some examples:

I'd love to have dinner with you. -- Sarebbe un piacere cenare insieme. Dinner was delicious. What's for dessert? -- La cena era squisita. Cosa c'è per dolce? Kiss me. -- Baciami. Maybe we'd better stop. -- Forse dovremmo smettere. No, don't stop. -- No, non smettere. Take off my clothes. -- Spogliami. Slower. -- Piu piano. Faster. -- Piu in fretta. You're going to kill me.-- Mi ammazzarai. That was incredible. -- Era incredibile.

Enough material for Katie to make many, many jokes.

This is the New Blog

Much like the old blog: thatkidnick - Myspace

But better than the older blog: thatkidnick - LiveJournal

~ nick