*** We join you now, live, to Eric's acceptance speech, already in progress. ***
"...And it is with great aplomb that I accept the grand total pot of $40, for my winning efforts in this year's NCAA March Madness Tournament. In the great tradition of guessing, estimating, guestimating, and pulling selections out of my ass, I succeeded where many others - much smarter others - have failed. My winning bracket - the only bracket with all #1 seeds in the Final Four, in the first tournament in NCAA history ever to have four #1 seeds in the Final Four - is pure elven magic. Tonight's final game, now rendered meaningless to our group, will no doubt..."
*** Back now to our regularly scheduled post, already in progress. ***
So just as long as they don't use lye or any other sodium-infused compound, the bodies should be secure and hidden for decades to come. But enough about Tijuana...
I'm old(er) now! I hit 28 this week, in a grand display of aging and acceptance. I beat out Kurt Cobain, Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, and others. But thanks in no small part to Heath Ledger, there's a new elite group being formed, The 28 Club. And what better way to reflect on one's own life than in the dim, shallow reflection of shadows cast by celebrities? I was actually too busy last week at my non-famous job to hard-party the occasion in a celebrity-like manner of booze, drugs, and gender-questionable prostitutes.
The celebration of my existence - thrice denied by congress to be declared a national holiday - did, however, happen. On Thursday, my actual Day o' Birth, Amber was kind enough to accompany me to the Yankees game. The trip to the game wasn't actually planned. At the last minute - and on April Fool's Day, no less - I was touched by the Birthday Gods, and two heavenly tickets fell up'n my lap, like plucked feathers from the wings of angels. (Thankfully, to that point, the Bombers weren't actually playing the Angels, lest my 28th birthday suffer the indignity of a home game loss.) It was damn cold, but my sherpa girlfriend planned ahead, and we remained warm under a blanket. Around the 7th inning, the blanket was rendered useless, as the nail-biter of a game inched closer to victory, causing my spastic, spirited cheers to lift my frozen meat-popsicle of a body vertically. The 8th inning was celebrated standing (Joba), as was the 9th (Mo), and then we were trekking home with the satisfaction and fanship of an above-.500 team.
The following night we had a small last-minute shindig at home with friends. It kicked off with the over-the-top, really-really-shouldn't-have gift of Rock Band. What was once fun - two people playing Guitar Hero - has now mutated and expanded to heights that which dictionary.com has no definition, nor science an explanation. Two guitarists, a singer, and a drummer? Poppycock, you say? To which I reply: nay; 'tis truth. And 'tis awesome. Songs were belted, beats were missed, and a beer was spilled. 123 Awesome Street has now been officially declared a venue, and tickets for gawking will be sold. Just look for the guy at the door with the kick-ass Paul Frank iPhone case.
Reviews
Books
Summer Blonde
Eric: "A great primer to Adrian Tomine, Summer Blonde is fantastic."
Games
Gears of War
Eric: "A bit repetitive, but a lot of fun."
Rock Band
Amber: "I-i-i-i-i-i don't wanna wooooork!"
Eric: "I just wanna bang on these drums all day!"
"...And it is with great aplomb that I accept the grand total pot of $40, for my winning efforts in this year's NCAA March Madness Tournament. In the great tradition of guessing, estimating, guestimating, and pulling selections out of my ass, I succeeded where many others - much smarter others - have failed. My winning bracket - the only bracket with all #1 seeds in the Final Four, in the first tournament in NCAA history ever to have four #1 seeds in the Final Four - is pure elven magic. Tonight's final game, now rendered meaningless to our group, will no doubt..."
*** Back now to our regularly scheduled post, already in progress. ***
So just as long as they don't use lye or any other sodium-infused compound, the bodies should be secure and hidden for decades to come. But enough about Tijuana...
I'm old(er) now! I hit 28 this week, in a grand display of aging and acceptance. I beat out Kurt Cobain, Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, and others. But thanks in no small part to Heath Ledger, there's a new elite group being formed, The 28 Club. And what better way to reflect on one's own life than in the dim, shallow reflection of shadows cast by celebrities? I was actually too busy last week at my non-famous job to hard-party the occasion in a celebrity-like manner of booze, drugs, and gender-questionable prostitutes.
The celebration of my existence - thrice denied by congress to be declared a national holiday - did, however, happen. On Thursday, my actual Day o' Birth, Amber was kind enough to accompany me to the Yankees game. The trip to the game wasn't actually planned. At the last minute - and on April Fool's Day, no less - I was touched by the Birthday Gods, and two heavenly tickets fell up'n my lap, like plucked feathers from the wings of angels. (Thankfully, to that point, the Bombers weren't actually playing the Angels, lest my 28th birthday suffer the indignity of a home game loss.) It was damn cold, but my sherpa girlfriend planned ahead, and we remained warm under a blanket. Around the 7th inning, the blanket was rendered useless, as the nail-biter of a game inched closer to victory, causing my spastic, spirited cheers to lift my frozen meat-popsicle of a body vertically. The 8th inning was celebrated standing (Joba), as was the 9th (Mo), and then we were trekking home with the satisfaction and fanship of an above-.500 team.
The following night we had a small last-minute shindig at home with friends. It kicked off with the over-the-top, really-really-shouldn't-have gift of Rock Band. What was once fun - two people playing Guitar Hero - has now mutated and expanded to heights that which dictionary.com has no definition, nor science an explanation. Two guitarists, a singer, and a drummer? Poppycock, you say? To which I reply: nay; 'tis truth. And 'tis awesome. Songs were belted, beats were missed, and a beer was spilled. 123 Awesome Street has now been officially declared a venue, and tickets for gawking will be sold. Just look for the guy at the door with the kick-ass Paul Frank iPhone case.
Reviews
Books
Summer Blonde
Eric: "A great primer to Adrian Tomine, Summer Blonde is fantastic."
Games
Gears of War
Eric: "A bit repetitive, but a lot of fun."
Rock Band
Amber: "I-i-i-i-i-i don't wanna wooooork!"
Eric: "I just wanna bang on these drums all day!"