She Wants Revenge

New music day, already! I never got around to last week's revisionist music review, but I'll definitely have one this week. I think the hardest thing is deciding on what album to review, since there are so many worthwhile albums (yet it's hard to decide on what to bring to light, since so many "underrated" albums have already gotten that treatment).

Anyway, this week is a bit of a slow week in the music world. I use MTV.com's news page (much, much better than MTV itself) as a guide for new releases, and four of the five most notable releases are artist tributes. Yikes. We're not talking This Bird Has Flown quality, either. The only one that remotely interests me is one dedicated to Tim and Jeff Buckley, but unfortunately I don't have access to that album today. So the new music review for this week is for the new self-titled release from She Wants Revenge.

The name She Wants Revenge makes them sound like a riot grrl band or something. It just screams "angry militant feminist." Fortunately for my testicles, the band is just a couple of Los Angeles DJs who like post-punk. Unfortunately for me, I'd rather be emasculated than listen to this couple of Los Angeles DJs who like post-punk ever again.

Okay. I tried. Really, I did. But there's only so much Interpol techno I can listen to. At least Interpol has interesting lyrics and seems cool enough that I can justify listening to them. She Wants Revenge doesn't have a single interesting musical quality to them. The vocals are purposely monotonous, placing a heightened importance on the lyrics. But the lyrics suck. This sounds like Interpol and Depeche Mode covering Britney Spears. I want to shoot myself in the face. This album doesn't even get an album cover picture from me. And it's a shame, too, because the album cover is the most interesting thing about this album. The artist name is number two. But then you hear the music, and you realize, "Oh! I get it! They're just pretending to be interesting."

She Wants Revenge pretends to be interesting. I don't know if you can think of a worse thing to say about a band than that. There are tons of uninteresting bands out there, but most of them don't pretend to be interesting. Coldplay pretends to be interesting, and even though they're not, they're about 1000x more interesting than She Wants Revenge.

This album sucks. I'm giving it a 1/10, because it lacks all semblance of melody, harmony, prose, lyrical content, anything. The 1 is for effort, because at the very least they try very hard to make their music interesting. It's still not, but they pretend it is. That's it. Fuck She Wants Revenge. Fuck them.

James Howard Thome

How often is it that a team like the Phillies of 2002 make a big splash in free agency? It would be like the Kansas City Royals, the Minnesota Twins, or the Oakland A's signing Johnny Damon this year (coincidentally, he's already played for two of those teams). It helped that the Phils were getting a new stadium soon, but for a team whose last "big" deal was when they signed Danny Tartabull in 1997, this was pretty unexpected.

When Jim Thome (or Howie, as my friends and I like to call him) came to Philadelphia from Cleveland, he brought everything Phillies fans wanted. He was a natural fill-in after Scott Rolen's career in Philadelphia ended bitterly. He hailed from the midwest, just like Rolen, and he hit lots of homers and played corner infield, just like Rolen. He was the strong, silent type, just like Rolen. He said and did all the right things when he came to town, playing up his good old boy accent and blue-collar background. It didn't hurt that he'd hit 52 homers the season before that, either, which would have been the most ever by a Phillie.

But three years later, and he's out the door. If you traded Jim Thome for Aaron Rowand in 2003, you'd be run out of town. Now, it seemed like a good deal for the Phillies. In Rowand they get a centerfielder (finally!) who can hit for average and power. The White Sox get an aging, oft-injured power hitter to put at DH and replace their other aging, oft-injured DH, Frank Thomas.

Thome came into town labeled as the franchise player meant to lead the team into their new ballpark, eclipse some milestones, and retire a beloved figure in two huge baseball towns. Instead, he played very little last season (only 59 games), and most of the time he did, he was obviously not at 100%. He finished the season hitting .207 with 7 homers and 30 RBIs in 193 at-bats. Things only got worse when Ryan Howard, the Phillies former trade bait and current rising star, absolutely exploded for a tremendous NL Rookie of the Year season marked by 22 home runs, including 10 in the month of September.

How will Thome be remembered in Philadelphia? When he was healthy, he was a great power hitter. Whenever he came to the plate, there was always that feeling that he could go deep and change the game. He hit his 400th home run in Citizens Bank Park, undoubtedly one of the memorable Phillies moments of this decade. He was an all-star for the Phillies in 2004. No Phillies fan will forget the series he had against the Florida Marlins in the midst of a wild-card race in 2003 (remember the Hurricane Game at the Vet?).

Then there's the other side, the typical pessimistic Phillies fan that would bring up how often Thome got injured, how he was overpaid, how he tended to come up small in big situations, how he struck out too much, and how he ultimately didn't live up to the expectation of leading the Phillies to the playoffs.

It was too short an affair. I'm not saying that the Phillies shouldn't have traded Jim Thome, but it seems unfair that such an important player only played two full seasons with them. Thome was a hard-working player, a great power hitter, and a team leader. It's a shame he couldn't have stayed a little longer.

That said, I'll be rooting for him to stay healthy this year and do well with the Chicago White Sox. If the Phillies don't make it to the World Series (hah!), I'll be rooting for the ChiSox the whole way. Thanks, Howie.

Tuesday Is New Music Day

Okay, so I secretly (oops, not anymore) want to make this a music blog. Every week, I'm going to review a new CD, and if there are multiple new CDs that I want to review, I'll do a couple. Then, every week or two, I'll review an older CD that not all my palberts may be familiar with (a la my entry on Astral Weeks). Today, I'll be reviewing Cat Power's The Greatest.


In case you don't know anything about Cat Power, I'll give you a brief rundown. Cat Power is basically just one person (sort of how Bright Eyes is just Conor Oberst), a southern gal by the name of Chan Marshall. Yes, she is gorgeous. She's on Matador Records, which is one of the big names in indie-rock (Yo La Tengo, Sleater-Kinney, et. al.).
















Despite the title, The Greatest is not a greatest hits compilation or anything. It's just a regular old album. Well, maybe "regular" and "old" aren't the best words to describe it, but you know what I mean.

Marshall has a great, soulful voice. This album really showcases it well. It was also recorded in Memphis, which should give a hint as to the feel of the music on the album. The piano has that old saloon feel to it, a lot of the guitar has a country twang to it, and the drums are low-key if present at all. The album is just about the definition of stripped-down. It's got a very nice aesthetic to it.

The problem with stripped-down albums, however, is that the vocalist really has to put out a great effort. Like I said, Marshall has a great, soulful voice, which really suits the music. However, she pulls her punches with her lyrics a bit. They're not laughably bad or anything, but they're pretty basic. I suppose that also goes along with the stripped-down aesthetic of the album, but it's not very impressive. Simple lyrics work in the blues genre because generally in a blues song, the instrumentation is the focus. On this album, the music is just as simple as the lyrics, so despite Marshall's vocals, the songs fall short.

Still, it's a very nice album. Marshall's charm and the Memphis soul aesthetic are cool enough to make it a 7/10.

Guess what? Today's one of those special days where I'm reviewing two CDs. The second CD on the docket this week is The Elected's Sun, Sun, Sun.


















Now, for some background info on The Elected. The band is the side band of Blake Sennett. If you don't know who Blake Sennett is, trust me, you probably do. Ever watched Boy Meets World? Remember Joey the Rat? Yep, that's Blake Sennett. He's also a member of Rilo Kiley, for whom he plays guitar and is overshadowed by the utter hotness of Jenny Lewis.

The Elected isn't all that much different from Rilo Kiley, except that they're not fronted by an uber-hot chick. Sun, Sun, Sun is a solid album, though. Sennett's vocals have shades of Elliott Smith, and the guitars have some Wilco-style alt-country twang to them.

The title and cover art for this album are fitting. The sound is bright, and the art (which reminds me of Disney World's Frontierland) suits the laid-back feel. While it could easily come off like a Jack Johnson acoustic surf album, it stays unpredictable enough to make each song feel like its own. It's not going to blow you away, but it's a nice, fun album without overdosing on sugary indie-pop. "Biggest Star" has a great crescendo, closing the album perfectly. I give it a 7.5/10.

The Pantheon

America is obsessed with celebrity. Actually, the whole world is obsessed with celebrity. Most celebrities are pompous, arrogant, self-centered, vain, conceited, snobbish, stuck-up, or pretentious. So why do we love them so much?

Real people have flaws. Famous people are put up on a pedestal because we don't know them in real life. That's why, when someone meets a famous person, more often than not the reaction will be, "S/he was a bitch/jerk" rather than "S/he was cool." We expect them to be perfect, and when we find out they're not, we're inevitably disappointed.

I made a list of celebrities and public figures who I think seem like the type who would actually be cool in person, and who I would love to be like. This isn't based on any personal experience other than my perception of their character in the public spotlight.

Pat Croce -- Pat Croce is a breath of fresh air. He's infinitely optimistic, charismatic, and an all-around great guy. When he want to do something, he goes out and does it. It's sort of a shame he's so ambitious, because once he got the Sixers to the NBA Finals as the team president, he decided he was poised for bigger things. Unfortunately for Croce, Ed Snider was unwilling to give up his powers as Comcast-Spectacor's chairman, and Croce decided to move on. The Sixers have since fallen to mediocrity and Croce is now off doing lots of crazy stuff, like commentating for NBC in the summer Olympics and opening a pirate museum in Key West. His optimism is contagious. He's Pat Croce and he feels great, because he is great.

Shaquille O'Neal -- How can you not love Shaq? He strikes me as the kind of guy who could be a bit sneaky in the background, but I love his character in the foreground so much I'm willing to look past that. The guy is a machine. He's the best NBA center since Wilt Chamberlain. How he can move so quickly despite having a behemoth physique stuns me. And you know what the coolest thing about Shaq is? He's a fucking police officer in Miami during the off-season. Would you not lose your stool if Shaq was chasing you? Dear God, I might have nightmares tonight just because I imagined that. And you know what's the ultimate measure of how cool someone is? How many nicknames he has. Shaq has a lot. It doesn't matter that he gives them to himself; he still has a lot. Here's a short list:

• Shaq
• Shaq Fu
• The Big Aristotle
• The Big Maravich
• The Big Felon
• The Big Cordially
• The Big Diesel
• The Big IPO
• Shaq-Zilla
• Shaq Daddy
• The MDE
• Superman
  
• Will Chamberlinni
• The Big Deporter

Seriously, anybody who's got more nicknames than the ODB has gotta be one BAMF. Speaking of BAMFs, let me introduce the next celeb...

Dane Cook -- Whether you think he's hilarious or overrated, you must admit, he can take the most inane situation in everyday life and make it humorous. He seems like the kind of guy who you could actually hold a conversation with and never stop laughing. I would definitely hit up the BK Lounge or The Wall with him.

Conan O'Brien -- Conan and I have a lot in common. We're both Irish, awkward, and self-deprecating. Except Conan's funny. I tend to think if I were a late night host, I'd be a lot like Conan, except without the great hair. He just seems like such a nice guy, too. Not like that asshole Jay Leno.

David Letterman -- Some of what I said for Conan goes for Dave. Great sense of humor and he seems like a genuinely nice guy. He's also a great interviewer. You could have zero interest in his guest and end up watching anyway, laughing through the whole thing. He would make for great conversation.

Bill Lyon -- This is the only guy on this list that I've actually met. He's my favorite sports writer ever, and he had a great philosophy. He's not a sports writer; he's a people writer. He said that people reveal their true selves in moments of pressure, and sports is nothing but a series of pressure situations. His pieces on Lance Armstrong, the Phillies, and the Eagles are what made me love him as a writer, but meeting him in person and hearing him speak made me like him as a person.

Jack Black -- Jables would definitely be my broseph in real life. If I had a movie made about me, I'd want him to play me. We have similar physiques and features, and he's one of the most entertaining actor in the world, up there with Johnny Depp and Bill Murray in my book. He's also loves to rock and has great taste in music. Speaking of music...

Beck Hansen -- Or just Beck, if you like. I don't generally comment on people's style, because I know jack shit about style. But I do know that Beck has awesome style. I know that he can dance like a mofo. He can also rap better than any other whiteboy out there.

Those are all my Living Legends. If I named any dead guys, I'd say John Lennon and Jimi Hendrix. Hendrix was simply the coolest man of the 20th century. You might say Miles Davis, but he was an asshole. John Lennon was an asshole too, but in a good way, I think.

All-Nighter Ranting

Yeah, that's right. Old habits die hard. Sleep is for the weak. Ranting is for the self-important.

So I've been reading a Hendrix biography that DJ got me for Christmas, and it turns out that Jimi Hendrix's weight at birth was the exact same as mine--8 pounds, 11 ounces. This statistic is baffling for two reasons: one, I've never heard of anyone who had the same weight as me at birth, probably because the probability that a) I find out someone's weight at birth is low, and b) there are a ton of possible birth weights to go around; two, I've never read a biography that lists the person's weight at birth. Bizarre. I'd proclaim myself the next Hendrix, but he had a few things going for him that I didn't--the long fingers, the family musical history, the oodles of free time spent playing the guitar while in the paratroopers...I could go on for pages. I'll try and work this little factoid into conversations when possible. I can see it now...

Person A: "Hey, did you hear Jane and Jimmy had a baby?"
Me: "Oh yeah? How much did it weigh?"
Person A: "How the hell should I know?"
Me: "It's important. Very important. Did you know Jimi Hendrix and I share a birth weight?"
Person A: "What the hell are you talking about?"

Oh yeah. Climbing the social ladder.

In other news, I've decided to list a few random demographics that I'd like to date (at least) once:

• A natural redhead. I think I inherited a love of redheads from my father, who also has a thing for them. I don't know what it is about the juxtaposition of fiery hair and pale skin that makes me go wild, but there's something. Blame Jessica Rabbit.
• A girl with an accent. Preferably one I can understand, like English, Irish, Australian, etc. Maybe even a Southern accent. I don't care. Accents are hot, and nobody can tell me otherwise.
• A minority. It's like trying a new flavor. It's human nature to want to try new things, right? I'd also like to be certain I'm not subconsciously limiting myself to white girls. [Note: this demographic would likely be unpopular with my parents. But that's a blog entry for another time.]
• A musician. I'm not talented enough to be in a band, so why not live vicariously through my girlfriend? Girls are automatically at least twice as hot if they can play guitar, bass, or drums. It's science.
• Women's hockey player. I just came to this conclusion on Saturday, when I was standing outside Penn State's ice rink waiting to go to watch the men's hockey team kick [Come On, Feel the] Illinois team's asses. Women's hockey players are hot. They're athletic, but at the same time, not nearly as intimidating as the basketball or volleyball players, most of whom have a considerable height advantage over me.

My word of the moment is "chuffed." Here's the Urban Dictionary entry:

chuffed

To be quite proud of ones self.

I just had my first backshot experience, i'm so chuffed!

[Note: I didn't know what "backshot" meant, and I didn't care to put it in here. Check it out for yourself, if you wish. Be warned.]

On a final note, I changed a couple of the links on the sidebar. One is a comprehensive Penn State sports blog, if you're interested in that stuff. It's got news on recruiting, previews of next year's football team, news on the current players, and then stuff about the basketball team to go along with it. The other new link is for a music site that posts nothing but covers--for example, one recent one is Anthrax covering Radiohead's "The Bends." It's interesting at worst, entertaining at best.

Astral Weeks

It starts off with a simple upright bassline and percussion. A couple guitars join in the fun. Then something extraordinary happens. A voice pierces the group of smooth, solid instruments, as though telling a story that's never been told before. Every word is new, every note is new, and they're sung with a conviction that could only come from an Irishman.

Van Morrison has an incredible voice. He is never content to stay in one spot, jumping through the modulations that the background music allows him. His words are prosaic and poetic all at once. Listening to Astral Weeks is like reading your favorite novel with a soundtrack. It's probably one of the best five pop albums ever recorded, up with the likes of Sgt. Pepper's, Pet Sounds, What's Going On and Highway 61 Revisited. The reason all these albums are up there is that they all do something that has never been done before and has never been done since. Sgt. Pepper's is a rock carnival, Pet Sounds is a true pop masterpiece, down to every melody and harmony, What's Going On is a powerfully political yet smooth Motown period piece, and Astral Weeks is a perfect, unique blend of folk, blues, jazz, and rock and roll. It's beautiful enough to make you cry tears of joy out your right eye and tears of sorrow out your left.

There are no rules on Astral Weeks. There is no definite rhythm section. The string bass is on its own wavelength, as are the two guitars that appear on most tracks. Besides those central instruments, the album features flutes, saxophones, vibraphones, keyboards and a number of percussion instruments. But while the album is unpredictable, it remains anything but chaotic. It's a rare mix in music to find composed unpredictability.

I'd always see this album named on those "Best Albums of All-Time" lists and wonder why. I mean, Moondance had most of Morrison's hits ("Moondance," "Into the Mystic," "Caravan," "Crazy Love" and so on); his most well-known song ("Brown Eyed Girl") was on 1967's Blowin' Your Mind! What place did Astral Weeks have on these lists?

Bob Dylan was always credited for being great at telling stories through his songs, and rightfully so. Dylan is arguably the best lyricist of all-time. Dylan was never much of a singer, however, as most can agree. He was a decent musician, but certainly nothing spectacular. On Astral Weeks, Morrison doesn't just write great lyrics; he sings them like no one else ever could. While Dylan has often been one-upped by artists who cover his songs, nobody could touch Morrison's "Cyprus Avenue" or "Madame George." He doesn't just sing the songs, either. He lives them. There is an unparalleled passion in his voice on "The Way Young Lovers Do" and "Sweet Thing."

The main reason that Astral Weeks isn't very popular is that it's not really a pop album. It can't be confined just to pop or rock or folk or jazz or blues or even classical. It spans them all like no album had done before or has done since. There's a relatable theme in every single song, yet the songs are personal and illustrative. If Shakespeare was a songwriter in the late '60s, these are the songs he would write. Calling some of them love songs doesn't do justice to the magnitude that the lyrics touch. It's a damn shame this album doesn't get the notoriety it deserves, because any music fan with some semblance of taste would be well-served to listen to this one.

Random Thoughts on Friday the 13th

One week of school down, roughly 80 to go...

Yeah, that's right. 80 weeks until I'm done college. I'll probably end up staying here in State College for a couple summer semesters, granted the classes I need to take are available. And you know what? I couldn't be happier about that.

It's not that I dislike living at home, or that living at school is perfect by any means. It's that, for the first time since my 2nd semester of college, I'm excited about school. Ever since then, I've been...well...distracted. Now I have nothing to worry about but my grades and my physical and mental health. My self-confidence is at an all-time high. To paraphrase the immortal Pat Croce, I'm Kevin Doran and I feel great.

So, one week down. So far, so good. I still don't have a roommate, which allows for double the space any normal Penn State student is allotted. I bet even Michael Robinson would be jealous. My room is messy, but because of the surplus of space, it doesn't even matter. I have crap in all corners of the room, but there's still extra space if I need it. I feel like a millionaire.

The one problem with this is that I don't have anyone to hang out with in my room yet. I am lucky enough to be on a floor with someone I already know (a complete coincidence), and I've held conversations with two other people, including my RA. One of my conversations with my RA began because I was playing music too loud. This does not bode well for him. I mean, it's the first week of the semester--do you really need quiet time at 2 in the afternoon? I just met the other guy today.

My classes are going pretty well so far, though somehow I've already missed a class. Only me. It's okay though, it was just my first recitation class for my American politics class. No worries. My comparative politics lecturer dude is insane. He publicly embarrassed a girl whose phone went off in the very first class. Can we at least get a grace period here, Stalin? (That reminds me, he actually does resemble a European dictator--thick mustache/beard combo and all. Even the way he walks around the room makes me suspicious.) My news writing teacher is also crazy. It's an introductory course, yet we had a paper assigned on the first day of class, without any teaching given beforehand. I guess it's one of those "hands-on learning" classes. God, I hate that.

I applied for a job at Lion Line, which is basically Penn State's telemarketing department. They call alumni, friends and family of students, and other rubes to sucker money out of them. Actually, it's more like begging them for donations, but in such a way that you talk them up first and then BAM! "So, you wanna fork over some cash?" I figured I'd apply just to see what the job was like, but then they told me about the interview. I was handed a "script" to practice, then when the time came for my interview, I'd call their number and go through the script as though I were actually doing the job. You know what? Telemarketing sucks enough without having to do actual work before you get the job. No dice, Lion Line.

I've sent two e-mails to the editor of The Daily Collegian to see if I can get my job back. I've gotten no responses, which means I'm going down there and getting my job back the hard way--via oral sex. Or perhaps groveling. We'll see how it plays out.

In other random news concerning my first week back at Penn State, I talked to Paul Posluszny a few days ago. He was sitting on a bench in Waring Commons and I asked him, "How's the leg, Paul?" He responded politely, "Seven more weeks. It'll be fine." Who wants to touch me?

So that was the first chapter in The Kevo Strikes Back. Stay tuned for more.

Best of 2005: The Memories

Before I say anything, I'd like to do two things: first, I'm going to apologize in advance for the dearth of comprehension this entry will provide. I know I've forgotten memorable things, for any number of reasons. Secondly, I'd like to thank everyone who has affected my life in a positive way this year. If you're reading this and I know you, chances are you're one of those people. Go raibh mile maith agat.

So This Is the New Year
DJ and I left Jake's party early in favor of a more low-key affair. We hung out at Ginny's, then we smoked cigars at my house. DJ made omelettes and we woke up the next morning to drive down the shore, where the Four Horsemen made sweet love (okay, we talked) on the beach.

Reading this recap, I'm thinking I should be owed some money from the Brokeback Mountain royalties.

One Team, One City, One Dream
McNabb drops back. The Atlanta rush is coming. He rolls out of the pocket, buying himself some time, just as he's done hundreds of times before. He fires a laser to an open Chad Lewis in the back of the end zone. The force and conviction with which McNabb throws the ball seems to knock Lewis on his ass, but he holds on to the ball for dear life. Both feet remain planted in bounds. Lewis raises his arms in victory. I collapse to the floor, tears of joy flooding the hallway.

Downtown State College is Little Philadelphia for a short time. As I watch the final seconds tick off the clock (just to make sure), I bundle up and run outside into the falling snow, hugging people I've never met before.

The Eagles are going to the Super Bowl.

Jump On It
The lights go down. The music kicks up. I begin laughing hysterically as I hear James Brown belting out "Living in America" and see John Albert Kurz walking down the aisle, sporting his red, white and blue threads and gigantic boxing gloves.

The Mr. Haverford competition is the pinnacle of entertainment. I am enthralled from the beginning as Andy Bench defys the precedents of the human anatomy and threads a Twizzler Pull and Peel through each nostril and out his mouth.

Jake never fails to disappoint, and I laugh through his entire "talent," which consists of him coming up with impromptu responses to Dating Game-type questions.

Unfortunately, it's not in the cards for Jake, as the panel screws over a couple more talented gentleman in favor of the minority (not that Dan Ha didn't do well, but come on...)

He did, however, win the Mr. Penny designation, as I donated about 20 bucks to his favor and my archenemy Randy Koch put in his fair share as well.

Hold Me Closer, Tony Danza
I couldn't be prouder to say that I know a man named David Gene Million. Words cannot do justice to the sequence of events that will forever etch his memory into my brain, but I'll try.

On a day that many people will remember for Live 8, I'll remember for the annual Manoa Road block party. Karaoke, pick-up hoops, the works. It's guaranteed to be a fun time.

Goldfish certainly meant well when she brought out the glowing necklace things. They're always a hit with the kids and immature young adults such as myself. We all grabbed our share.

Jake and Dave have a history of feuding that goes back to the 4th grade, but I nothing will top the battle that ensued. As you may know, those glowing necklace dealies double as dangerous weapons. Dave certainly knows, for he and Jake got into it with the necklaces as the weapons of choice. Somehow, Jake outduels Dave and gets control of both of the necklaces. When the moment is right, he blindsides Dave, delivering a welt-inducing blow to the back.

Dave is left reeling, but in a moment of blind fury, he grabbed the nearest projectile--a basketball--and armed himself. Jake, with his head turned towards DJ and me, got caught celebrating prematurely--caught right in the jewels with the basketball.

Jake collapsed in a broken heap. I collapsed in a fit of laughter.

The weekend's antics didn't end there. That Monday was the 4th of July, and Sir Elton John was coming to town. As part of a last-second plan, my sister and I met Jake, Dennis, and Kyle downtown to catch the flamboyant rocker.

I wouldn't consider myself a big Elton John fan, but he put on a hell of a show, despite my Billy Joel cracks. Among the highlights of the night were my pink and blue polo shirt and Dhani Jones onstage with Patti LaBelle.

However, the main highlight of the night was when we shockingly ran into Dennis's spazztastic neighbor, Lanky Dave. He is named such because he is about 6'7" and about 150 pounds. He also has a propensity for slow dancing with strangers, apparently. We belted out all the words to "Tiny Dancer" together like it was the last day of our lives.

Hey, Where's Kevin?
I don't know where it went wrong. It might have been the choice of beverage (Vladimir). It might have been the number of shots (probably around eight). It might have been the decision to go outside. I don't know; I'm not a doctor.

Somehow, in the span of about a half hour, I achieved the following feats:

a) almost got clocked by an angry Steelers fan,

b) got a girl's number programmed into my cell phone without requesting such, and

c) became the first of my group of friends to get arrested.

It was a productive night.

***

There were many more nights to remember, but unfortunately, I have the worst memory of anyone I know. My short-term memory is spectacular, but ask me to recall something that happened more than an hour ago and you're stretching. If I had to describe 2005, I'd say it had its moments, good and bad. But altogether, it was an interesting year to say the least. Hope you had a good one, and here's to a happy 2006.