A Lesson Learned the Hard Way

Let this be a lesson to all of us about what happens when you combine alcohol and overconfidence:

My idiot brother, co-captain of this very blog and sworn enemy of the White Menace, was so confident that the University of Akron would prevail over Ohio University in yesterday's MAC title game that he agreed, while under the influence of gin, to the terms of a bet* with his girlfriend Lauren that would require him to ingest a spoonful of mayonnaise in the event the Zips should lose.

Quite naturally, the Zips lost, and so did Jeff.  Of course the bet is immaterial when you consider what he really lost:

His dignity

His credibility

His soul

His lunch

This scandal has already had widespread implications throughout the McBoniverse.  My brother's commitment to the anti-mayonnaise movement has rightly been called into question.  Some of you have demanded his immediate resignation.  Others want his head on a plate.  I say, let's not be so quick to judge.  Jeff, who has gone into hiding, understands the seriousness of this situation.  He also knows he has the aftermath of his betrayal to clean up.  A long road to redemption lies before him.  The journey begins when a contrite Jeff Bowler steps forward to face his loyal McBoners.

Let it be known that while a significant quantity of mayonnaise did in fact pass his lips, none was swallowed**, as his stomach immediately discharged a payload of 2 pounds of delicious barbecued pork ribs.

I would now like to take this opportunity to congratulate my alma mater for its rousing 81-75 overtime victory and advancement to the NCAA Tournament.  Go Bobcats!

nwb

*Had the Zips won, Lauren would have been required to eat a spoonful of anchovies.

**Alex has opined that this fact renders his punishment null and void and necessitates a redo.  However, because all betting parties were satisfied with the outcome, his debt is considered paid and no further action will be taken.

The Indians Offseason; Change You Can Believe In

After the Indians disappointing 2009 season that saw them finish a ghastly 65-97, the Tribe brass knew it was time for change.  But not just any change.  We're talking the real, serious kind of change.

So when General Manager Mark Shapiro took the stairs three at a time to owner Larry Dolan's office for their annual offseason powwow, he wasted no time asking what the budget for 2010 was looking like.  Dolan stood up, emptied his pants pockets and dumped a modest pile of coins into Shapiro's cupped hands.

What's this? asked Shapiro, counting about $1.37 in nickles and pennies and a linty piece of Bazooka.

Dolan blinked.  Whaddya mean, 'what's this?'  Don't you recognize change when you see it?

But how am I supposed to build a winner with this? 

You tell me.  You're the basketball genius.

Baseball.

Whatever.  I just write the checks.

This isn't a check.

That's right; it's change.  Real change.  That's what you said we needed, right?  Now quit wasting time, kid.  Go get me some thoroughbreds.  And let me get that gum back.

But...but...

Dolan, seeing Shapiro deflate, threw an arm around his beleaguered GM.  C'mon, kid, smile. This is 2010.  You read the papers, right?  Who's a free agent in 2010?

Who?

Haha.  Stop fooling.  You know who...that one kid.  He plays for Cleveland.

This is Cleveland.

Right. Wait, what? I'm talking about that James King kid.

You mean King James?

Yeah, that puppet kid.  Heluva player.  Sign him.

He's a basketball player!!

Don't be stupid.  How can a puppet play basketball?

And so, with a sigh, Shapiro slumped away.  After ownership once again busted open the coffers, the Indians will go to training camp having lured the following marquee free agents to Jacob's Field:

Jamey Wright - Nothing says 'committed to winning' like signing a 35-year-old Royals castoff.

Mark Grudzielanek - Nothing says 'commited to winning' like signing a 38-year-old Royals castoff.

Mike Redmond - The 38-year-old Redmond cited the triple he legged out last season as proof that there's a lot left in the tank.  The triple was his third in a 12-year career.

Austin Kearns - Tribe deep thinkers hope Kearns, a .198 hitter for Washington last year, can bounce back to the Kearns who tore the cover off the ball at a .266 clip in 2007.

Shelley Duncan - Scraped from the bottom of the Yankees rubbish heap.

Jason Grilli - Journeyman bullpen bum.

Saul Rivera - Another bullpen guy who couldn't cut it on the Nationals.

Luis Rodriguez - Will compete with Grudzielanek to fill the gaping hole left by utility man Jamey Carroll.

Russell Branyan - At one time, when the Indian's farm system was churning out big talent, Branyan was the Indians third baseman of the future.  This time around, the Tribe found the journeyman strikeout artist in a bin at Odd Lots and figured he could fill in at DH should Travis Hafner's freefall continue.

Currently, the Indians are 5-0 in Cactus League play.  Here's predicting a 60 win season.

Oh, and Chief Wahoo is still on the uniforms.

Go Cavs

nwb

Nathaniel Ayers, Official Bassist of McBone

This is Nathaniel Anthony Ayers Jr, Cleveland native, one-time Julliard prodigy and subject of my favorite movie of last year, The Soloist.

Ayers' immense musical talent earned him a scholarship to the most prestigious music school in the land.  Tragically, schizophrenia prevented him from ever reaching the heights he seemed destined to reach.  By the time he was discovered by journalist Steve Lopez, he had drifted to Los Angeles, where he was living under a bridge and out of a shopping cart.  His battered violin, which he played for nickles and dimes, had two strings.

Today, at age 58, things have improved for Ayers, who takes it day by day and sometimes jams with the LA Philharmonic. With the help of a few friends, he has moved into private living quarters and has managed to salvage his life to a pretty impressive degree, all things considered.

Schizophrenia is a terrifying disease.  Nathaniel Ayers is, if anything, a survivor.  For this we admire him, and see fit to name him the Official Bassist of McBone.  We think you'll find he has all the qualifications:

Northeast Ohio pedigree
Musical genius
Particular fondness for Beethoven
The first name 'Nathaniel'
Cleveland Indians hat, indicating loyalty to the Cleveland Indians baseball team

Check out this 60 Minutes feature, which highlights the friendship struck up between Ayers and Lopez.


Watch CBS News Videos Online

Or better still, see the excellent movie.

nwb

Why I Will Never Forgive CJ; How One Man Single Handedly Doomed a Baseball Franchise

They say to forgive is divine.  Piss on that, says I.

Back in the fall of 1997, the Indians and the Florida Marlins were locked in an epic, seven-game struggle for baseball dominance.  The Tribe had beaten the highly favored New York Yankees in the division series, and then, against all odds, took out the powerhouse Baltimore Orioles to win the pennant.

Over in the National League, the wild card Florida Marlins emerged triumphant.  The stage was set for the battle of underdogs.  After spending two playoff rounds developing bleeding ulcers, I was bracing for a full fledged gastrointestinal rupture. 

On the mound for the Indians was rookie-hero Jaret Wright, who throughout the playoffs had been asserting himself as a budding superstar by mowing down opponents in increasingly high pressure games.  Now his number was being called in game seven of the World Series.  Florida countered with Al Leiter, touched in his last start for seven runs.  By all appearances, the Tribe was poised to end Cleveland's then 35-year championship drought.  I was confident, yes, but cautiously so.  I knew the steep price a Cleveland fan pays for hubris. 

I had planned on watching game seven alone and in the comfort of my own home.  I bought a 14 ounce strip steak, to be seasoned, grilled and devoured in the event of a victory.  I had enough beer to drink myself back into the Stone Age in case they lost.

The phone rang about an hour before game time.  My buddy Brad invited me over to watch with him; beer was in plentiful supply and he would even grill the steak for me.  I wasn't sure.  As a registered atheist, I'm not prone to superstition.  When it comes to sports, however, I'm as superstitious as they come.  I live in fear of the sports gods.  The Tribe had been doing quite well with me watching from my sofa.  Why upset things?

Brad persisted and, finally, lured by good company and a big TV, I conceded.  Good move.  Things were going great on this October night.  The Indians had built a modest two-nothing lead.  Wright was in top form; the Marlins couldn't touch him.  On the whole, the Tribe was playing good, crisp, efficient ball.  As the game progressed, it looked more and more as though I would finally be able to remove the jagged bit of metal that Cleveland sports had been twisting beneath my ribcage for 22 years.

Then doom came knocking at the door.

In popped our mutual friend, and native Chicagoan, CJ, and at once I could see a sort of bad luck, shit-colored aura of defeat surrounding him.   Brad, in spite of my protestations, let him in.  Two seconds after the door shut, Bobby Bonilla launched a home run off Wright.  The Marlins had cut the lead in half, but I knew what the score was.

When Jose Mesa started throwing 55 foot curveballs in the 9th inning in his hopelessly jinxed attempt to save the game, I looked at CJ, the countanance of Belial smeared across his face.  In a panic, I demanded that he leave at once.  Threats followed but I was paralyzed by delirium.  Old CJ just smirked as he scooped gobs of French onion dip with his finger.  "They're gonna lose," he casually announced, and, oh, I can smell them still, words carried upon a noxious vapor--onion and sulfur, burning, burning.  My nasal hairs curled.  A thousand worm-ridden carcasses would have been like nutmeg and cinnamon next to this unholiness.

The Marlins tied the game, but the gods were too cruel to end it there.  They twisted the metal, let the agony endure for eleven innings, until old stalwart Charlie Nagy was called on to keep the score even.  Tony Fernandez booted a routine grounder.  By the time Edgar Renteria singled and Craig Counsell crossed home plate with his fists raised in victory, I was on the floor, reduced to a tears and contemplating the most torturous murder I could devise for my "friend."  His arrival had upset the scales, and the gods, watching from celestial box seats, were angry.

And not just angry--vengeful.  Jaret Wright, future hall of famer, saw his mighty arm reduced to overcooked rotini.  Dick Jacobs sold the team and died.  The Indians have not made the World Series since, and now find themselves sinking into the festering, putrid bog that is Dolan ownership.  The highlight in 13 subsequent years?  A 2007 ALCS meltdown against the Red Sox after building a 3-1 lead.  When does it end?

It ends now.  Are you listening, CJ?  I place the blame for all of this squarely on you.  That's right.  I love you, but I will never forgive you, and I'm not putting up with your goddam hex anymore.  That's why, tonight, I'm going to burn your image in effigy.  I offer this up to the sports gods, in the small hope that our teams may be freed of your pox.

nwb

McBone Presents: The Third Annual McBone Awards

Another year of moviegoing come and gone, and we find ourselves on the eve of the dreaded Academy Awards ceremony.  The idea of rich people giving each other awards makes me want to cough up a hairball, but, as always, I'll be glued to the tube, in an advanced state of intoxication, decrying the whole decadent mess at every turn.

Before I begin, allow me to sing a sad lament for all the movies we didn't see this year, whether because of the lack of independent movie theaters here, or because Hollywood would rather fill the cineplex with Nicholas Sparks adaptations.

I've said my piece.  Without further delay, the McBoners go to:

The Soloist--Best film. This already forgotten gem that was released in that nether period between Oscar years is one that has haunted me the most, and emerges from a pack of strong contenders that includes District 9, Where the Wild Things Are, The Fantastic Mr. Fox, Inglourious Basterds and what was probably my favorite movie of the year, Watchmen.  Part of me just loves The Soloist because it is infused with some of my favorite Beethoven scores.  But there's more!  The story of Nathaniel Ayers' descent from Julliard prodigy into schizophrenia is told by director Joe Wright with a mastery that is matched by its two leads, Jamie Foxx and Robert Downy Jr.  What I really appreciate is that Wright takes the high road by not turning Ayers' tragedy into a feel-good story.  We have billions of movies about heroic white people coming to save the day, and Wright could easily have had us reaching for the barf bags.  Instead, he delves as deep as he can into the struggle that people (not just schizophrenics) face just to survive one day to the next (as illustrated by Downy).  Then Wright, in taking us through a journey through Ayers' mind, asks us to consider how impossible it must be for the mentally ill. Well done and bravo.

Christoph Waltz--Best Actor, Inglourious Basterds.  Am I cheating?  I don't think so.  Inglourious Basterds is driven, in my opinion, by three lead roles.  Waltz's turn as a terrifying, quadrilingual Jew hunter stands out as not only the single best performance of the year, but one of the greatest of all time.  Jeff Bridges will win the Oscar in this category.  That's cool.  Waltz will win for a supporting role.  That works too, but I believe he deserves better.

Mélanie Laurent--Best Actress, Inglourious Basterds.  Lost amid all the praise that Waltz is receiving is Laurent's role as the hunted Jew.  Tarantino loves a good revenge story, and Laurent is up to the challenge, filling her performance with muted pain and cold calculation.  The scene when she and Waltz share a strudel is one for the time capsule.  She edges Carey Mulligan from An Education, and Gabourey Sibide from Precious.

Jeffrey Dean Morgan--Best supporting actor, Watchmen.  In just a few scenes it is Morgan's job to play what really amounts to the central role of the film.  What he does is construct the most villainous hero imaginable, and you can't take your eyes off him as he runs roughshod over everyone he encounters.  Morgan beats out two tremendous performances from the latest entry in the Harry Potter saga, Alan Rickman and Jim Broadbent.  Oh, and I would like to mention Leonard Nimoy as well, who single handedly made that new Star Trek worth watching.

Mariah Carey--Best supporting actress, Precious.  I can't really believe I'm doing this, but she deserves it.   In about five minutes of screen time, Carey defines exactly what a supporting role should be--small, essential and unforgettable.  She edges Maggie Gyllenhaal in Crazy Heart, Catherine Keener (is there a better actor alive?) from Where the Wild Things Are, and wallops the overrated Mo'nique from Precious, who has pretty much been anointed the Oscar winner.

Zach Snyder--Best director, Watchmen.  Never did get to the book yet, but I love movies that reward multiple viewings.  Every time I see Watchmen, I am more impressed by the care that this guy put into his film, how every frame is filled with meticulous detail.  For all its faults, and there are many, Snyder's ambition mostly pays off.  He beats Jason Reitman for Up in the Air and Quentin Tarantino for Inglourious Basterds.

Quentin Tarantino--Best screenplay, for Inglourious Basterds.  No one writes better dialogue than Tarantino.  There is a LOT of talking in this film, and it's all awesome.  

The Fantastic Mr. Fox--Best art direction.  Avatar may be the most impressive, and will certainly win the Oscar, but I prefer the aesthetic of Mr. Fox, which had me laughing out loud.  Apologies to Coraline.

That's it, folks.  Think I'm a total idiot?  Take a look at the Alex Awards:

This year we didn't get to see The Last Station (which is about my favorite writer Tolstoy and has my beloved James McAvoy in it, so it probably would have been up there in the awards for me) and Invictus.  Not to mention all the foreign films and all the documentaries--except for the spectacular Food Inc--since bloody West Lafayette is allergic to such films and they're nowhere to be seen on Netflix yet. 

Best film: I'm going to go with Precious for its amazing courage and beauty.  The power and sincerity of all the actors and the fantastic way in which they get inside Precious's mind affected me more than any other film this year.  I also can't deny that from a political standpoint, I am eager for more stories like Precious to be told.  Obese and illiterate African American women rarely grace the screen, not to mention doing so under such loving care from everyone involved.  Here's to hundreds of films like it to come (let's hope!).

Best Actress: Gaborey Sibide gets my love here.  She nailed the brilliance of a mind that refuses to be beaten down in spite of living in the worst conditions possible.  She glows as she gets to live, really live, for the first time in this film. Carey Mulligan was fantastic too, and comes in a close second.

Best Actor: I have to give it to George Clooney for being the suavest and most brokenhearted of corporate sharks on celluloid.  A brokenheated man who thinks he's actually happy is a very tough role to play, and he does it with great dignity and sadness.  I must also give a big smile to Alec Baldwin, who played the most charming ex-husband-back-in-love-with-you bastard/not-really-a-bastard ever!  It's Complicated has gotten some slack from the critics but I saw screw them.  I had a marvelous time and much of it came from Baldwin.

Best Supporting Actress: Anna Kendrick is my gal for this one.  She embodied corporate ambition and vulnerable youth so brilliantly.  From her uptight posture, to her rapid-fire speaking, to her devastation after firing her first peron, Anna embodies her character and makes us love her against our better judgement.  I also second my husband's praise of Mariah Carey.  That last scene in her office is pure devastating magic.

Best Supporting Actor: Christoph Waltz is not to be beat here.  To take such delight in being evil, to do it so charmingly.  Oh, the milk, the strangled movie star, the joy of betraying the Fuhrer.  No, I can't say that anyone comes close.

Best Director: Kathryn Bigelow please, please, please!!!!  Sure, I'm a feminist and I'd love for this, only the fourth woman ever to be nominated for this award, to win for political reasons.  However, there is much more to it.  The Hurt Locker is the first film I've seen about Iraq or Afghanistan that captures the war with reality and compassion.  When you can create such devastating fear simply out of people looking out windows, you are a masterful director and it should be rewarded! 

Best Original Screenplay:  This has to go to my man Quentin for rewriting history with such delightful flare in Inglourious Basterds.  I think this may be my favorite Tarentino film because of its attempt to engulf the world in all those languages and the fabulous meditations on the destructive (explosive!) power of film.

Best Adapted Screenplay:  An Education gets my award here for giving us a charming, yet profound and rug-pulling tale.  You don't always get this much suspense in a love story, and you certainly don't get such loving attention to dialogue and how people relate to and deceive one another in most films.  A close second is the wonderful Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, which captured the book's magic with arguably as much flare as Cuaron's version of the the third Potter film.

Best Art Direction: I will have to agree with my husband on The Fantastic Mr. Fox.  Who can forget the foxes eating or the confused eyes of the possum?  Close seconds go to Harry Potter and friends and to Where the Wild Things Are for their gorgeous and frightening universes.

Previous winners:

2009
2008

nwb and AHA

Googling McBone

A couple weeks ago, McBone posted for the 500th time.  Significant?  Perhaps so, considering that when we started out we were pretty sure this whole internet thing would have blown over by now.  Hey, with technology there's always something cooler out there.

Anyway, the net has endured, and so have we.  In commemoration of this (colossal?) achievement, we present, courtesy of Google Analytics, the top ten Google keyword searches that have landed cyber surfers, usually for intervals of .04 seconds, at McBone.  Included are links to some of the posts that have made us darlings of the search engine.

1) Kristin Bowler - notice that none of the administrators of this blog appear on the list, which is headed by our sister, an admitted maker of homemade mayonnaise.

2) Trough urinals - An astonishing number of visitors to McBone were really just looking for a place to pee.

3) Mustard vs. Mayonnaise - Keeping tabs on the battle of Right vs. White!

4) Recipe for a happy marriage - Corny people in search of corniness.

5) What is in Miracle Whip? - Poison, filth, high fructose corn syrup, etc...

6) Is thousand island dressing bad for you? - No need to Google it.  The answer is yes, YES, YES!

7) Love Cleveland - Because not everyone thinks Cleveland sucks.

8) Mayonnaise coffee creamer - I don't like to imagine what kind of lunatic craving could motivate a Google search like this.

9) George Washington Abraham Lincoln to Heaven - Heaven: the down-low for dead presidents.

10) Carlo Rossi Burgundy - What T.V. dinner pairs best?  Salibury steak or turkey with gravy?

Curiously, Chan Marshall was nowhere to be found on this list.

Thanks, McBoners, for your continued support of the McBone.  Without you, I'd probably be living under a bridge.

See you in another 500 posts!

nwb (on behalf of jab)

Heaven Help Me, I'm out of Gin!

I don't know how I could have let this happen, but I am completely out of gin.  I don't mean that the bottle is getting dangerously low; what I mean is, I don't have a single solitary drop left in the house.  This may seem a trifle to you, but understand, dear readers, that my blogging strength flows from gin.  Without it, there are no martinis.  Without martinis, I'm powerless, reduced to a trembling, craven wretch.  Already my senses begin to fail me.  By this time tomorrow, I may be dead.  Alas, my eyes are veiled by a grim, misty shadow.  A spectral laugh curdles my blood.  My dear, dead cat Mephistopheles awaits at the mouth of an endless tunnel, her little paw beckoning me towards who knows what end.  Good god, why did I have to give her that infernal name?

Vodka, you say?  Sure, I could drink vodka.  While I'm at it, should I try breathing mayonnaise instead of air?

This could well be my last post.

Farewell, gentle McBoners.

nwb

The McBone Malted Miracle Diet

Every year at this time the McBone mailbag fills up with letters from flabby weaklings who marvel at my uncanny physique.

Well, boys, the chiseled, bronze, oiled Adonis you see each year in the McBone Swimsuit Edition didn't get that way by accident.  In fact, over the past year I noticed that I had tacked on a few extra, unwanted pounds.  Did I panic like some crybaby loser?  Hell no!  I knew what had to be done.  Eschewing the dozens of gimmick diets out there, I sprang to action and concocted a strict regime of my own.  The results were so amazing, I knew I couldn't keep them secret.

The McBone Malted Miracle Diet

Want to transform yourself into a McBone-certified beefcake?  Stop being such a wimp and follow these simple steps:

1) Avoid breakfast!  The liberal media would have it that the so-called "most important meal" is a way to kickstart the metabolism and give you the energy you need for the day.  Our research team has discovered that eating a regular breakfast is dangerously overrated, and may be a leading cause of many ailments, including but not limited to: obesity, depression, gout, ringworm, scoliosis, leprosy, syphilis and worse.  You want energy?  Start your day instead with five cups of strong black coffee.  If you absolutely, positively MUST eat something, stick to the basics.

2) For lunch, allow yourself exactly one malted milkball.  McBone recommends Whoppers (do not confuse with Burger King's signature sandwich), which pack more vitamins and minerals into one little brown ball than you'll get eating an entire side of beef.  As an added benefit, Whoppers are made with milk.  Milk, as everyone knows, is loaded with calcium.  Calcium builds strong bones.  Whoppers: the little malted miracle food.

It is important to know that, while fun-size Whoppers come in packs of three, you should resist the temptation of eating all three malted milk balls at one sitting.  Stick to the Aristotelian credo of moderation in all things.  That includes even the most wholesome and nutritious of foods, like malted milk balls.  If you are still hungry after lunch, treat yourself to a delicious zero calorie, zero cholesterol cigarette.

3) For dinner your choices are wide and varied. Unfortunately, none of these choices apply to this diet.  Eat your two remaining malted milkballs.  That may seem like a scanty portion, but remember, eating slowly makes you feel fuller.  Don't bolt your food.  On weekends, reward yourself with a decadent recipe: Remove the cheese packet from a box of Kraft Macaroni n' Cheese.  Discard pasta.  Dissolve powdered cheese in hot water.  Drink.

Five foods to avoid:

Raw, organic vegetables
Mayonnaise
Oxycontin
Olive loaf
Human flesh

McBone guarantees 100 percent satisfaction.  If you have not lost 50 pounds of unsightly fat after two weeks on the McBone Malted Miracle Diet, that may be indicative of not having what it takes.

nwb