Red Sox Go Home!

Any baseball season in which the Indians fail to qualify for the postseason is a bad season. The consolation prize is that the Yankees, in the final year of their precious little shrine of a stadium, also failed to qualify. Yes, every spring I cast a couple of prayers to the Baseball Gods, hoping they will see fit to bless my Indians, and that a horrible, flesh-eating plague will be visited upon the New York Yankees. God, if I have to read one more article about that goddam Joba Chamberlain...

And how sweet is it that the Red Sox were eliminated this week by the Tampa Bay Rays? Very sweet, for I loathe the Red Sox with a hate nearly as pure as that which burns for the Yankees. I loathe Youkilis and Pedroia, Papelbon and Beckett. A pox upon this team, and every Red Sox team to come.

Now, let's get Charlie Manual the World Series ring he deserves.

McBone Most Hated Sports Franchises:

1) The New York Yankees. The Evil Empire has been pounding my Indians for 100 years and counting. Most hated Yankee: Derek Jeter.

2) The Boston Red Sox. Seeing a team with Manny Ramirez and Coco Crisp beat the Tribe and win the world series is a blow I'll never get over. Most hated Red Sox: Jonathan Papelbon.

3) The Pittsburgh Steelers. Someday, somehow, the Browns will beat this team again, and the old rivalry will be restored. Most hated Steeler: Terry Bradshaw.

4) The Boston Celtics. The Yankees of basketball. I throw up in my mouth every time I think about this team winning a title in the LeBron James era. Most hated Celtic: tie, Danny Ainge and Paul Pierce.

5) The Denver Broncos. Three times the Browns faced John Elway's Broncos in the AFC championship game. Three times, Elway won. To this day, I would love to break John Elway's teeth. Most hated Bronco: duh, Elway, always and forever.

6) The Detroit Pistons. Always an antagonizing team, whether featuring the likes of Laimbeer, Mahorn, Thomas and Rodman, or the modern gang of miscreants, Billups, Hamilton, Prince and Wallace. Most hated Piston: tie, Bill Laimbeer and Rasheed Wallace.

7) The Florida Marlins. In their short history, the Marlins have won as many World Series as the Indians have since 1901, including one against the Indians. Disgusting. Most hated Marlin: Craig Counsell.

8) The Chicago Bulls. Five times Michael Jordan eliminated the Cavs from the postseason. Five. As in Five times in five attempts. Most hated Bull: Michael Jordan.

9) The Dallas Cowboys. America's team? Screw that. Who outside Dallas ever wants to see the Cowboys win again? Most hated Cowboy: Pacman Jones.

10) The Oakland Raiders. There has always been something disgusting about the Oakland Raiders, probably due to the pure evil streaming from its owner. Most hated Raider: Mike Davis.

nwb

Playing Chess, or Checkers, with Death

As anyone who has ever seen Ingmar Bergman's The Seventh Seal can attest, Death grants no pardons. He can, however, be forestalled for a time:



Sure, Death will eventually win--that's a bit of false modesty when he calls himself "quite a skillful player"--but a clever chess enthusiast like Antonius Block can buy himself a few precious hours, days or even weeks if he can manage to put together a solid game.

Clearly chess, a game of endless strategy, is the ideal way to postpone the inevitable. What few people know is that Death has been known to play many games. More than anything (aside from ushering you and me to our dooms) he likes a good challenge, even if he is confident in his superiority (he's also a devilshly good cheater). For those with no skill in Chess, the Grim Reaper will happily go head-to-head in any of the following:

Scrabble
Mousetrap
Electronic Battleship
Operation
Twister
Tiddlywinks
Three-Card Monty
Miniature golf
Jenga
Connect-Four
Hi-Ho Cherry-O
Tic Tac Toe
Thumb wrestling
Cornhole
Hungry, Hungry Hippos

Just remember, you don't have to be a chessmaster to hold off Death for a while, and the above list is certainly not comprehensive. He's not picky about the game he plays. Challenge him, and when he wins the first time, call it best two out of three.

nwb

Whatever Happened to Jeff Bowler?

As millions of loyal McBoners know, McBone began as a joint effort between brothers, a multi-purpose blog dedicated to liberal politics, Cleveland sports and the complete and utter annihilation of mayonnaise. And if an occasional recipe or movie review found its way into the archive, so much the better. Above all, though, we vowed never to rest until the Republicans were run out of office, Cleveland won a championship in any of the three major sports, and mayonnaise was wiped off the face of the planet.

We've made strides, to be sure. Democrats have won back the Senate, the House and, soon, the White House. The Cavaliers advance deep into the playoffs year after year while the Indians have become competitive again. Even the Browns, perennial laughingstocks of the NFL, have gained an air of--dare I say it?--respectability in recent seasons. Best of all, mayonnaise consumption is down 5-8% among international bloggers. The world has McBone to thank.

All this takes a lot of work, and it's not easy to do alone. Hardly a day goes by that I'm not stopped in the street by fervant admirers. Usually a medium to large crowd forms. Traffic stops as the throngs press upon me, all wanting to know two things: 1) What makes Nate Bowler tick, and 2) Whatever happened to Jeff Bowler?

The first question is a study of many, many posts, and I shall not attempt to answer it here. The second? Difficult to say, and it takes a Herculean effort at times to quell the conspiracy theorists. Let me just answer some of the more virulent rumors now. No, Jeff Bowler is not a closet McCain supporter. No, he has not become a Yankees, Steelers or Celtics fan. No, he is not secretly spreading the White Menace on his ham sandwiches. No, he has not checked himself into the Betty Ford Center. No, he is not dead.

So, where is he? Perhaps not coincidentally, Jeff Bowler's contribution to this blog began to decline when he accepted a job with the Lake Erie Monsters. Perhaps his involvement with someone he affectionately refers to as his "girlfriend" has also been a distraction (yes, Lauren, it's YOUR fault, woman!). But whatever the case, the bottom line is this: Jeff Bowler's probing insight has vanished from the sphere. His self-imposed exile has left a gaping hole which, despite my best efforts, has not been filled.

Today is Jeff Bowler's 27th birthday. Surely at this advanced age the spectre of Death weighs heavily in his thoughts. Time waits for no one, and with the new Cavaliers season and a presidential election drawing nigh, it's time for Jeff Bowler to throw himself back into the fray. I'm not saying quit your job and/or dump your girlfriend. Just give the McBoners what they want: McBone as McBone was meant to be.

I urge all of you McBoners out there to raise your voices. Raise your voices, and Jeff Bowler will answer the call.

nwb

PS: Happy birthday, idiot.

Three Giant Bottles of Booze

This weekend my parents came to town, and not empty-handed. For my 33rd birthday I was gifted an extraordinary amount of the good stuff. I'm talking hard liquor here. Booze. Whisky, gin and vodka. I'm in business now, so, from here on out it's gonna be martinis, Manhattans, old-fashioneds and Bloody Marys all the way. I may even take a few snorts straight up. Hell, that's what puts hair on your chest, right?

When supplies run out in a couple of days and I'm found newly tattooed and filthy in some ditch just south of the Mexican border, I'll say, thanks Mom and Dad, thanks for getting me all @#*!-ed up.

nwb

Throwing Up in Film

What is it about throwing up that inspires? Could it be the sheer ridiculousness of purging a load of half-digested food and stomach acid through the mouth? How about that smell? Maybe it's the way vomiting often induces vomiting in a witness. Or maybe it's the helplessness of the victim, immobilized by his own digestive system, face grotesquely contorting as the body contracts and relaxes--an agonizing heave, then relief, heave, relief. I don't know for sure, but I do know that vomiting is tough to depict in film. In honor of my favorite bodily function, I present here two scenes from moviedom that have made a great impression on me.

Here's one from my youth:



This scene from Stand by Me is memorable for its obvious sensationalism. Fountain-like and blue, this over-the-top take on vomit nonetheless taps one universal truth: vomiting begets vomiting. That small seed of authenticity lends an air of credulity to an otherwise fanciful tale, and lets us forget that the vomit is clearly propelled mechanically from behind the actors' mouths. Director Rob Reiner doesn't bother with realism, and he makes the right choice; the moviegoer is meant to enjoy the scene's absurdity. I like to think that the long, forceful and abundant stream of vomit inspired Quentin Tarantino's Kill Bill, where blood sprays endlessly from severed limbs.

Here's another more recent depiction:



Obviously, the victim from Team America is a puppet, which oddly enough works to the advantage of the filmmakers, who are freed from the limitations of a human actor's body. Quite often, throwing up in film is a disappointment. Either the vomiting is done off screen and is signified by that unmistakable "throwing-up sound," or the actor simply dribbles a load of fake vomit from his mouth. Clearly the second option is preferable, even though it is usually over too quickly, and one rarely gets a good look at what the character might have eaten that day. In Team America the puke is realistic in color, consistency and, for a little while, quantity. I've never thrown up drunk in a back alley before, but when the vomiting commences in this scene, a definite sense of pathos develops. Suddenly, I'm there in the gutter with our hero. He's a puppet, yes, but I feel what he feels. The genius of the scene, of course, is when the flow of vomit doesn't stop. The music swells to a crescendo. Realism is displaced by the absurd. Tragedy launches into high comedy, and our pity is supplanted by laughter. At last the drunk collapses into a veritable pool of vomit. Pathetic? Yes, but funny too, and hence the viewer is torn between emotions. That's powerful.

What we can deduce from this is that vomiting is easier to portray as comedy. Personally, I'd like to see a director rise to the occasion by offering a realistic depiction of this fascinating bodily function in a drama. Hey, puking is a serious matter, and in the age of CGI, this should be well within our capabilities. Or perhaps this task would call upon an actor to actually throw up. I say: if that's what it takes. Aficionados like me would appreciate it.

nwb

Darth Vader Was a Stutterer

James Earl Jones can make a pretty good speech. I think it's safe to say that I could spend the rest of my life studying elocution, diction and grammar and never be one tenth as captivating as James Earl Jones. Yea, should I spend hours before the mirror, rehearsing, refining my voice, I'm pretty sure I could never approach in eloquence or power the rich, rolling, sonorous baritone of James Earl Jones. You know what I mean. It's a voice that bellows as if from deep within the earth, or from long ago, when thunder gods called to each other from distant worlds. Surely Zeus must have sounded a bit like James Earl Jones. Put it this way: if James Earl Jones was your father and he told you to clean up your room, by god you'd do it and you'd do it now. My voice? Flaccid. The thinnest wisp by comparison.

Not that we started out on level playing fields. Nay, until he reached the age of 14, I would have had the big guy licked. James Earl Jones was a stutterer. Hard to believe, right? And just how did he overcome such a barrier to become perhaps the best-known voice of his generation? That was the crux of the lecture Alex and I attended the other night at Purdue.

The house was packed. More than a few geeks like myself crammed into the auditorium to see one of the more distinguished and recognizable actors of the past 50 years. He was introduced, quite naturally, as such--a master of the stage and the silver screen who had made his voice legendary in works such as Dr. Strangelove, The Great White Hope, King Lear, Conan the Barbarian, Field of Dreams and Cry the Beloved Country. Oh, he also had a voice role in an obscure space trilogy, but none of the presenters saw fit to mention that insignificant work in which Jones played an almost negligible part as the nondescript villain who nevertheless haunted my childhood and changed my life.

But I veer off course. The subject of the night the dilemma of illiteracy. Nearly mute for more than a decade, Jones overcame his handicap when a high school teacher discovered in his student a knack for writing poetry. Jones was made to recite a poem in front of his classroom, and, though petrified, the worlds flowed as they never had--without a stutter. The written word performed, a poem about grapefruits in the style of Longfellow. I can only imagine what his peers must have thought when such a voice issued from an erstwhile closed mouth.

Reading, writing, recitation. Education was his cure. Jones cited others with disabilities: Frederick Douglass and Helen Keller, those oppressed by ignorance and later freed by education. Yet, in spite of our right to a free public education, he spoke of the dilemma in the present tense. He never said as much, but I imagine he had in mind our crumbling schools and our disadvantaged inner-city youths, and I believe he was speaking of not just illiteracy, but of semi-literacy and poor education in general as a modern problem. The speech seemed headed toward a call to action, and I wish he would have given his audience a directive. Believe me, we were listening. Alas, after 30 minutes, none was forthcoming. That for me was the one missing piece in a mesmerizing half-hour.

But my complaint is a small one. The evening was profoundly enjoyable, and it was not all gravitas. Jones has the wit and charm to match his voice. When asked what roles were his favorites, he said (half) jokingly that he just loved his work for Verizon. After a quick Q&A, the voice was silent, and he exited the stage to a standing ovation.

Thanks to Laurie and Kate for the tickets!

nwb

Blah, Blah, Blah

So, after listening to almost two hours of her down-home, chicken-fried brand of debate and speechifying (how many times can she say the word darn?) here's what I can deduce about Sarah Palin.

1) She's from A-LAska, by golly.

2) She supports tax cuts. This pretty much comprises one half of the Republican credo, even though taxes pay for our infrastructure, even though the economy was undeniably in better shape before the Bush tax cuts, even though many of the most successful nations in the world have much higher taxes than we do, even though so many of our citizens live without basic human needs, like health care, while CEOs are rewarded millions in severance for driving their companies into the ground.

3) She says the surge is working, but believes that a 16-month plan to withdraw from Iraq (Eye-rack) is "waving a white flag of surrender."

4) She insists that she's just like any other "Joe Six-Pack, hockey mom" American who wears a pair of 700 dollar glasses.

5) She supports energy independence, which is of course why it's SO critical that we win in Iraq and stay there for who knows how long. She also mentioned alternative fuels a total of zero times by my count.

6) She doesn't mind that same sex couples exist, just as long as they don't expect to be treated like straight couples.

7) "Nukiler." "Nuliker." "Noo-liquor." Whatever. She can't pronounce the damned word any better than that shithead president Bush. And she doesn't really care for diplomacy with countries she considers a threat, even though a lack of diplomacy created the greatest foreign policy catastrophe in recent memory. Of course "looking back" at past mistakes is something only losers like Joe Biden do.

8) Coming from the only arctic state, she has seen first-hand the frightening reality of global warming, and yet she doesn't really believe in it.

9) Hence she wants to drill, baby, drill!

10) She supports more regulation on Wall Street, even though she's on a ticket with a guy who has always endorsed deregulation.

That's about it for now, folks. I've been swilling martinis and I can't really keep this coherent anymore. Sarah Palin sucks. It's so obvious. I'm going to bed.

Alex's take: Obviously I think Biden is a zillion times better, but I'm kind of mystified that no one saw fit to mention the poor at all. These speeches were directed at the middle class and it seems to me that the reason for the omission is that they don't think the poor vote, so why bother? But then why would the poor bother voting if neither one of the VP candidates bothers addressing them even once?

nwb

I Haven't Slept in Like 3 Days, McBoners

I don' t know what the hell my problem is, but I haven't slept in like 3 days. I'm getting kind of punch drunk at this point.

Anyhow, happy October.

nwb