Little Israeli Teapot

Today as I watched a young Israeli athelete receive a gold medal and heard Israel's national anthem for the first time, I realized that it was actually a minor key version of "I'm a Little Teapot." As we watched the athlete with tears in his eyes mouthing the Hebrew words we couldn't understand, my father and I sang along anyway, belting what we knew by sheer intuition the translation to be- "WHEN I GET ALL STEAMED UP HEAR ME SHOUT, TIP ME OVER AND POUR ME OUT!"

Stick the Landing

Tonight I watched the olympic men's team gymnastics final on NBC, and listened as two gymnastics experts tried in vain to convince a third commentator that there was more to gymnastics than sticking landings.
"At this point, steps like that are dream-killers," said Number 3.
"Actually Alan, I think that should be more than enough to ensure a medal," said Tim, sounding very nasal, very excited, and very gay.
"It seems that the Americans have eeked out a silver. Who knows what might have been had it not been for those steps on the landing," said Alan. (That might not have been his name. He sounded like an Alan though.)
I wish America would wake up and stop living in this dream world where all anyone has to do to achieve olympic glory is land on two feet and not take a step. This douchebag Alan isn't helping matters.

Go Eagles!

My college (formerly Mary Washington College, now the University of Mary Washington) was never high on school spirit. Many people wrote whiny letters to the school newspaper about it, usually attributing it to the absence of a football team and the fairly lopsided 70:30 female to male ratio.
I think the problem was our team name. Our sports teams were called "the Eagles," but nobody ever referred to them that way, they were just "the MWC Crew Team," or "the MWC Girls Basketball team," or whatever. We had no mascot to speak of, and nobody seemed to notice or care. People went to games to cheer their friends, but if we won a big game nobody ever cared enough to talk about it on campus. "MWC beat Hampden Sydney this weekend" was just about as exciting a piece of news as "Associate Professor of History Bruce O'Brien tripped on the steps of Monroe Hall and skinned his knee."

Sports teams often pick animals to represent them; names like Bears, Tigers, Lions, and Raptors associate a team with the sort of strength, speed, and grace that can only be found in nature. Mary Washington picked the Eagle, a bird often thought of as majestic or noble, with great speed, strong talons, and predatorial instincts. Unfortunately, I don't think this name has worked for us. "The Eagles" is just too commonplace, used too frequently by too many organizations. It's the sort of bland name that gets picked by someone who isn't even trying, someone whose focus lies elsewhere.
So, in the wake of one change at Mary Washington I would like to suggest another; namely, that instead of using an eagle as our mascot in a literal sense we distinguish our sports teams by making Philadelphia Eagles great Donovan McNabb our mascot. Here is a man who personifies speed, strength and grace just as much as any bird or beast, and he brings the added benefit of being completely unique; no college has ever before adopted a professional athlete as their school mascot. By adopting Mr. McNabb, we could remain the Mary Washington Eagles, just a different sort of Eagle-- an Eagle who has left the wild to pursue an extravagant life-style made possible by a long term multi-million dollar NFL contract.
A special styrofoam suit could be made, with an oversized head and a #5 jersey, and a larger than life Donovan McNabb could dance around the stands or field, throwing long passes to the fans. This could also provide our gymnasium, our basketball team's "house" as it were, with a cool new nickname-- "The City of Brotherly Love." We might even change the school letterhead, replacing the eagle and its outstretched wings with Mr. McNabb's face, complete with green helmet and approving smile. I'm sure he'd approve if we paid him enough.
To sum up, I think that a symbol of athleticism like Mr. McNabb would do a lot for the sports program at the University of Mary Washington, and provide a much needed boost to our school spirit. I hope that my idea will be received seriously by President Anderson and the Board of Visitors, and given the consideration it obviously deserves.

Unrelated stories about Brian Elmore and Captain Beefheart

1. When I was in college I was friends with a girl who dated this spectacularly racist loser named Brian Elmore. Brian was born and raised in Petersburg, and, rather than blame his parents for settling in a shithole like Petersburg, Brian decided to look back farther in time and blame the Union Army that he says ruined that beloved city. Yes, if the Yankees hadn't invaded his homeland and forced his fore-fathers to give up their negros, Brian would be much better off. Wouldn't we all?
Brian went to William and Mary, and dreamt of one day writing stories and dialogue for comic books. Why not draw them you ask? Because, dear reader, Brian can't draw. But he is determined. Determined to create a comic book called "Strikezone." My friend summarized her boyfriend's idea for me like this--
A scientist goes back in time and changes the outcome of the Civil War by giving General Lee AK-47s. This has all kinds of historical repercussions, and the comic book series would be devoted to exploring these.
"Wow," I said. "Strange that he's so racist and crazy that he fantasizes about a parrallel universe where black people are still enslaved, but I have to admit that he's pretty imaginative."
I said this because I did not yet know that he had stolen the entire idea- lock, stock, and barrel- from a series of science fiction novels by a man named Harry Turtledove. I found that out today as I shelved in the science fiction section at Barnes and Noble, and since there were no customers in the store it was okay when I shouted "Son of a bitch!" at him.
My co-worker Natalie heard me and came to see what was the problem.
"You can't trust anyone, not even racists." I said, and lit a cigarette.

2. Today I heard a good story about a man named Captain Beefheart. I had never heard of Captain Beefheart, but he has a cool name and he was a musician in the sixties. Maybe he still is a musician, I don't know.
Like other musicians of the sixties, Captain Beefheart enjoyed using drugs, acid being his particular favorite, and when he was under the influence of these drugs he would claim to possess magical powers. For example, he would say he had the ability to see in the dark, much as a cat does.
One night Captain Beefheart dropped some acid and then decided he wanted a snack. He was at his friend's house, but his friend was busy (who knows with what, Dick van Dyke?) so Captain Beefheart had to go down to the kitchen alone.
Perhaps if you or I were on drugs and alone in a strange kitchen we would turn on the lights so we could see what we were doing, but not Captain Beefheart. That's why he was a rockstar and we are not. Captain Beefheart held the firm conviction that he could see in the dark, and headed to the pantry in pitch black.
Unbeknownst to Captain Beefheart, the friend he was staying with had several hundred pounds of yams in his pantry. These yams were getting old and sprouting stalks, as all tubers do when they are left to sit for too long. When Captain Beefheart opened the pantry door several hundred pounds of old yams fell on him, and he had to be taken to the emergency room. Not because he was crushed under the weight of the yams mind you, but because he was certain he had been attacked by an alien and it caused him to have a heart attack.

Are You Going to Put This in Your Blog?

A few weeks ago I worked a closing shift at work, and at midnight when I came out to my car it was covered in girls' underwear. All of my friends denied doing it, and a couple of weeks passed before I found out who was lying. They told me the that underwear at wal-mart is only 99 cents a pair, and that they waited for an hour to catch my reaction, from a safe distance across the parking lot.
"Are you going to put this in your blog?" they said. "The whole reason we did it was to get a mention in your blog."

Similarly, a few weeks ago I got a phone call at home from an AT&T operator.
"Hello sir, this is Travis at AT&T, have you had a relay call before?"
I told him that I had (Relay calls are a free service, designed for the hearing impaired. The caller goes to an internet site and places the call. They then type what they want to say so that an operator reads it to the person on the line. He then types any responses back to the caller).
"Hi, long time no see. Go ahead." Travis said.
"Who is this?" I asked.
After a pause- "Oh, you know. Remember last time? Go ahead."
"Uh, no, who is this?"
Another pause- "Man, I remember last time. You gave me such a huge boner. Go ahead." said Travis, completely deadpan.
"Uhm, I'm hanging up now. Bye Travis."
I found out soon afterwards that the call was placed by my sister.
"Man, that was so funny. I felt so bad for the operator, did he sound mad? Man, are you gonna write about this in your blog?"

The answer both times was no, but I have become hard up for things to write about.

Another Big Idea

Today I was discussing my golden retriever Betsy with Jocelyn, who owns a pair of dachshunds. I said Betsy, who is nine, was old. Jocelyn, whose dogs are both thirty-eight, disagreed that nine was old for a dog, leading me to point out that larger breeds of dogs have shorter life spans.
The discussion gave me an idea for a t-shirt with a caption reading:
BIG DOGS DON'T LIVE AS LONG.
I think that if my Wu Tang/Indigo Girls CD falls through this t-shirt will get me to retirement safely.

Transcript of an Argument with Brief Explanatory Asides

Setting- Afternoon, behind the cash registers at Barnes and Noble #2995
Characters- Courtney Marlowe- a dear though often cranky friend, Jon Biscoe- who taught me to play better Madden Football (he really improved my defense), and myself.

Andrew: Hey Courtney.
Courtney: Hey Andrew.
Andrew: I have a favor to ask.
Courtney: Uh huh.
Andrew: Well, a couple weeks ago me and Allison were saying that before she moved away we should get really drunk one night and pee on the Country Club of Virginia. [This is a big racist country club on the way home from work where the foul rich people go to eat free shrimp and grease there fat bodies with cocoa butter and have young Negroes tote their golf clubs. I should also note that I don't know how serious Allison was about doing this, but I felt that if I could get Courtney in on it Allison would be more likely to follow through.]
Courtney: No, I'm not going to do that.
Andrew: But I didn't want you to.
Courtney: Oh.
Andrew: Yeah. It's just that you know, it's not really legal, and we're gonna be drunk and probably want to make a fast get-away.
Courtney: So you want me to drive.
Andrew: Right.
Courtney: No, I'm not doing that.
Andrew: I thought you would be up for it.
Courtney: Remember the pool? No way. [Last summer Courtney and some of my other friends were caught breaking into a pool in Henrico County. They didn't get into any real trouble, but they were yelled at for several hours by an angry policeman and the owner of the pool, and ever since then everyone involved has been timid about defying the man.]
Andrew: Jon would do it.
Jon: What would I do?
Andrew: Drive the getaway car so me and Allison could pee on the Country Club of Virginia.
Jon: Yeah, I would do that, but I am working tonight.
Courtney: God Andrew, you always do this. I say I don't want to do something, and then you nag me about it and try to make me feel bad. [She is right, I always do this.]
Andrew: I don't want you to feel bad, I want you to do it.
Courtney: NO.
Andrew: Why not?
Courtney: Cause I don't want to get arrested.
Andrew: Fine be like that, old lady.
Courtney: Fuck you, asshole.
Andrew: Your mom. [The part where we called each other names is imaginary.]