DEATHRAYS: Killer of the '08 Red Sox Season or They're Still Devils to Me

As a Red Sox fan it would be wrong for me to blame '08 on the baseball gods seeing how we won the big one in '04 and again in '07, but I feel cheated. At midnight on the 16th the Sox were shutout 7-0 with two outs in the seventh inning. They looked doomed, fit to spend the off-season wondering what happenend in the ALCS, left to ponder how they, a 95 win team, could look like something out of Williamsport. Admittedly, even after the miraculous comebacks in '04 and '07, I gave up. As I laid in bed ready to pack in the '08 season, I casually watched the game flipping back to it every 10 minutes or so when, lo and behold, something out of this world. First a Pedoria RBI, then a dormant Big Papi erupting with a 3 run shot.

"Holy shit, it's a three run game!" I screamed.

Then Pap shut the young Rays' bats down. Bay walks. J.D. homers. Two more runs on, 7-6. You have got to be kidding me! Then, Kotsay doubles over Upton's head, the guy who previously looked like he had a teleporter out there because he grabbed everything in sight. Then the at bat to end all at bats, the unforgettable moment that made him a true Sox after two years of injuries and mediocrity, Coco hits the RBI single. Tie ball game.

Enter Masterson against their healthy Big Papi, the clutch Carlos Pena, which sent shivers down my spine. Double Play. No way! Then Youk goes to 2nd after a Longoria throwing error and J.D. comes through again with a ground rule double over Gabe Gross's head. Ball Game. Sox win! Sox win! Sox win! If the moon was made out of barbeque spareribs I would eat it.

Long story short, after all of that, after somehow winning game 5 and then game 6, how, how in the world could we lose game 7? It was ours. Fate's team seemed destined again to somehow overcome the odds, but, alas, it wasn't so. Certainly became cruel disbelief when Iwamura stepped on the second base bag. That was it. Fate had a new favorite now.

"Fuck," I murmured.

"Fuck," Chrissty's step-dad, Dana, echoed.

Him off to bed. Me back to my house to wallow in the post game show. That was it. See you in 2009.

I wish I could just be okay with what happened. I've said this all along: if you are not a fan of the Red Sox you should be rooting for the Rays to win it all. What they've done all season long is amazing. Last to first. Laughingstocks to future dynasty. Nobody expected it.

It's easy for me to say that to others but Red Sox Nation knows how I feel. I'm bitter. I see missed opportunities around every corner: Francona keeping Beckett in Game 2, even after Grady Little watching at home knew he was done, and Kotsay and Tek stranding about 100 runners in scoring position, just to name two examples. I wanted to pat the Rays on the back and say great job, no one expected you to make it this far, as WE hoisted the trophy. Is it selfishness or is it just vehement fandom that makes me, us, this way?

"You guys have two, let the Rays have one, especially after all they've done," Chrissty said trying to console me.

There is no consoling though. I love her for trying, but she doesn't understand. We're done. I'll watch the Series and root for the Rays to finish their storybook season with a happy ending, but I'll loathe every minute of it thinking Youk would have hit that or Pedoria would have gotten to that ball.
They'll say the silver lining is that the Sox put up a fight, that they did not go gentle into that good night, that they did not go out playing like beer bellied amateurs in an over 40 softball league. On that Thursday night, the ALCS turned from one of the more embarrassing moments in Sox history into one of the better and most competitive series that I have ever seen. In a series that goes the full seven, I'd like to believe the winner is truly the better of the two teams, but after the Pedro/Grady incident in '03, it's hard to say that.

It truly was an amazing season topped off with a magical ALCS. Either team could have won this thing. In the end, it's disapointing, but the Rays are doing something special. They're good for baseball. When A-Mac and I ventured down to the Trop to watch the Sox and Rays over the past few years we marveled at how good Tampa could be, at how with some above average pitching and quality veteran leadership they could be a force in the AL East. Well, this year they did it. They're proving that free agents and payroll aren't everything, that guts, fundamentals, chemistry, scouting, farm system and heart can push you through to October. They, like teams such as the Twins and Marlins, are showing that the gap between small and big market teams is much smaller than previously thought. They are making the unconventional conventional. For that I have to tip my hat and say "beat the hell out of the Phillies," as I murmur, "we'll get you bastards next year."

Photos taken from imdb.com, si.com, and espn.com

Let's Get Po-lit-ical, Po-lit-ical: Isn't it a Little Early to be Voting?

Early voting began in Valdosta and throughout Georgia Monday, a month and a half before the Nov. 4 election and days before the first presidential debate, which, currently, is still scheduled McCain or no McCain.

It is irresponsible for voters to cast their ballot this early, especially before any major debate has taken place. What is your vote based on? Party lines. Your gut feeling. Misleading and completely false negative TV ads. 24-hour news talking squares. Teleprompter speeches. In this public relations run world, especially considering the sickening display both camps have displayed towards free press, debates are the one place where voters will be able to see these candidates for what they really are. No more talking points. No more Wikipedia references. No more smiling photo ops. No more waving off screaming reporters, People magazine photo ops, and PR agents saying 99% of questions are off limits.

Besides this point, once you vote that's it, that goes even for you folks down in Florida (By the way, I hope they've finally got their act together. To quote the wise Ug of Salute your Shorts, "Now get it right or pay the price!") There are so many "what if" scenarios that can occur before the election that it seems silly to vote this early. Sure, like most of you, I'm leaning a particular way, but what is the rush? Election time is a mudbog; Let's stop and smell the monster truck exhaust fumes.

So why would you vote this early?

To avoid long lines? You cannot get off work Nov. 4? These reasons are legitimate and it's sad in the self proclaimed model of democracy that people have to choose either a) voting early and possibly regretting their choice or b) missing a day off their paycheck to take part in the Democracy our leaders supposedly hold in such high esteem.

I propose this: If the U.S. government is so quick to write a 700 billion dollar bail out check to big business with little to no checks and balances, why not provide funds to working folks so they can take off Nov. 4 and vote?

If you're going to vote early, vote during the early voting period a week before the election. By then the cards should be laid out for all to see. In the meantime, just sit back and laugh with me at what was supposed to be "The High Road Election" - the "Straight Talk Express" vs. "Hope, Change, and Real Solutions" and what has sunk to Swamp Thing vs. Sasquatch, mud and lore.

New Orleans' visitors/A Slightly Inappropriate? Edo to Primeveal

With Hurricane Gustav headed towards New Orleans, Chrissty's family members who live in the city and the surrounding area came to Valdosta while the storm passed over. Not the best reasons for a family reunion but it was good to see everybody. Interestingly enough, Chrissty's cousin Kaleigh was here three years ago hiding out from Hurricane Katrina when Chrissty and I first got together on the night of Sept. 15 on the beer soaked Mellow Mushroom floor.

Almost three years later, Kaleigh was back with her brother and brother's friend so we took them out to Milltown Groove, formerly Loozie Anna's, for a night of debauchery. The inside is still decorated with New Orleans garb, which seemed to make Kaleigh feel at home, but they took out the table and chairs that used to clutter up the stage front. The stage front is actually now a dance floor with a DJ spinning all the latest in beat driven hip-hop that drunkin' ladies love bootyshaking too. With this in mind, I wonder if this new bar will feature the great music that its predecessor was known for?

Also, they added horseshoes pits in the back (am I the only person who refers to Horsehoes, as Horeshoes? How funny would it be if you had to try and ring 5 inch Stellitos). I love this addition, but as Bunky and I enjoyed a few rounds, I couldn't help wonder what the liability coverage on something like that costs as drunkin' fools are tossing around weighted metal. Then I realized I don't own the bar and it's not my problem, so game on. This new establishment will do well with its size being the only thing that will impede its success, but, the people who own Flip Flops own it, for now paying a Milltown/Flops cover will also get you into the other bar, so it's looking like the Milltown Groove will act as a flood ditch for the people washed over from the Greek chaos of Flip Flops.

Long before Hurricane Gustave hit, I heard its name uttered as it was headed towards the Gulf and my mind conjured the gigantic killer croc of the same name from the ridiculously campy, Sci Fi Channel Aztec Rex of a movie released to theatres, Primeval.

Adam and I went to see this movie back in '07 thinking it would be one of the greatest slasher movies ever, based on the film's tagline, "Inspired by the True Story of The Most Prolific Serial Killer in History," but instead were forced into a poor man's Lake Placid that had no place in theaters, not that Lake Placid really did either. This movie is an example of some of the best marketing ever as we couldn't have been the only poor souls duped into paying the $8 plus popcorn and soda to attend this dirty diaper disguised as delicious curry chicken.

Bravo (accompanied by sarcastic slow dramatic clapping) for the suits who spent countless 3 a.m. mornings surrounded by empty Chinese food containers crafting this ploy. While you're drowning in 2 for 1 martinis celebrating, I'm still wondering what joys I missed on a glorious Valdosta night because I didn’t walk out as soon as I realized what this movie really was. I'm shocked not one seedy advertising during afternoon soaps lawyer hasn't tried making billions from a false advertising suit. If you're not to busy hanging out in emergency rooms or getting people out of blatant DUI charges, call me, but in the meantime, I'm appalled at the irresponsibility of the people in charge of naming hurricanes. If you're willing to name hurricanes after laughable movie monsters in even worse movies that take themselves way to seriously, what's next? Clearly, you need help naming these storms, so feel free to consult the following list:

T1000, Hannibal Lecter, Leatherface, or any other horror/thriller/action movie villain whose name causes Chuck Norris to cry – I'm sick of people trying to stick out category 5 hurricanes during mandatory evacuations, so if the threat of 200 mph winds and torrential rain isn't enough maybe these names will put the necessary amount of fright into them. I understand nobody wants to leave if they really don't have too. I get it. I'm all for drinking hurricanes at a hurricane party, but if there's a mandatory evacuation get your ass out of there; the Big Bad Wolf is coming to blow your house down.

Corporate Sponsorship – If you’re going to give hurricanes unjustified or boring names at least make some money doing it. Hurricane Microsoft, Hurricane Starbucks, Hurricane Wal-Mart. Get the picture. Bubby, these storms aren’t just blowing winds; they’re showering you with loads of cash. Sure, any PR director will tell you that it probably isn’t a good idea for their company to be associated with a destructive storm, but I defer to celebrity press secretaries who say any press is good press. On the same note, how about Hurricane Obama or Hurricane McCain? Name recognition is vital in an election people.

Bertha and Helga - My apologies to any hot and/or friendly, let's sit back with a brew and aimlessly chit chat ladies of this name, but, really, any reference to this name conjures some redwood tree of a woman with a menacing look in her eye, cracking her knuckles, looking to cause some form of pain to any and all bystanders around. Not even the promise of a happy ending could get me on the massage table with one of these ladies standing over me.

Nitro, Laser, Lace, or any American Gladiator name (the original, not the farce they're trying to peddle now) – These names just sound cool and any excuse to use them in a real world context should be taken. Hurricane names are the first step in the grander scheme of things. I want to see things in the future like the Nitro Public Library and The Gemini Champion of the Joust College Scholarship.

Recommended Rental: They Live (1988) 3.75/5

Before I saw They Live, the undisputed champions of movies featuring 80’s professional wrestlers were Predator and Suburban Commando. However, now John Carpenter's cult classic has been tagged in.

This film is 80’s cheese at it’s best with former WWF star “Rowdy” Roddy Piper taking on the role of down on his luck, homeless laborer John Nada and his quest to enlighten his fellow Earthlings to the fact that aliens have taken over the planet and are profiting through human ignorance in a twisted form of capitalism and media control through subliminal messaging and a signal that hides their true form. Much of the acting and dialogue will get you rolling on the floor laughing, but this dark comedy is a perfect satire of 80’s consumer culture, something viewers can identify with today in our current gimmie, gimmie society.

They Live teachers viewers why they shouldn’t just wear their sunglasses at night as, while lazing about his shantytown dwelling, Nada uncovers an underground revolutionary movement creating sunglasses that allow its wearers to see through the aliens’ subliminal signal. The effects are shocking as Nada finds the truth is a black and white reality where magazine and billboard advertisements are replaced with sayings like “OBEY” and “MARRY AND REPRODUCE.”

Look out for one of the longest and most hilarious fight scenes in movie history as, after what looks like a murderous rampage to the unenlightened public, Nada tries to convince his fellow down on his luck best friend Frank Armitage (Keith David) to the truth. Here we see why Piper was cast as he continually takes punches and body slams Armitage while repeatedly wiping the blood from his lip and saying “Put on the glasses,” until Armitage finally does, sees the world for what it really is, and joins Nada and the underground revolutionary movement.

I’ll leave it up to you to see how this ends but I will say it concludes with a perfect middle finger before death. Check this movie out if you are looking for something to quote and laugh along with while receiving a strong satirical, sociological message.

THE HIGHS: Classic dialogue. Examples: Nada to Armitage, “Brother, life's a bitch... and she's back in heat.” Nada walking into a bank during his alien killing spree, “I have come here to chew bubblegum and kick ass... and I'm all out of bubblegum.”

THE LOWS: Acting from crazy eyed actress Meg Foster that is amazingly worse than Piper’s. For her sake, I hope her dismal performance is due to an accidental Piper elbow slam from the top rope.

Guerrilla Charity: The T1000 of Solicitation

For those of you who don't have a cyborg sent from the future to protect you from weekend morning solicitors, turn off the lights, shut the blinds, and lock the doors.

Anybody who has walked through the city with me will tell you that I’m the kind of guy who looks the downtrodden in the eye. When they want something I give it. Call me what you want; my friends always blast me for my giving nature, but I don’t care how these folks have gotten into the mess they’re in. If I can spare some change or the rest of my bottled water I will. If a guy needs a buck to purchase a 40 of Steel Reserve, I’m like Superman swooping in and extending a crumpled Washington. But, before you start throwing Nobel Peace Prizes at me and spitting at Mother Theresa’s supposed generosity, when it comes to certain other solicitors, I’m not so understanding.

Until recently, my resentment scope has been aimed at the Jehovah’s as they are always willing to walk up in their white button up and black slacks and ruin a perfectly good Saturday afternoon. I remember as a kid working with my dad in the garage and us running inside when we saw them approach. I think my dad might have even shut the garage door but the brain cells holding that memory have been sucking on an exhaust pipe.

Not even my pop, a pretty tough hombre, wanted to deal with these characters. Upstairs, we wiped our nervous sweaty brows and chuckled, knowing we had pulled off a James Bond like escape, and watched them, shoulders hung, walk next door to terrorize our neighbors. We had escaped, but, like the ending of a good film-noir, there would always be the “Until we meet again…”

Also, in this same category, are the Sunday pamphlet wielders ready to ruin a good hang over as they push their beliefs on my just rolled out of bed, alcohol oozing, hair fairy self, forcing me to awkwardly half smile until I can make up some lame excuse of why I need to go inside. “Umm…yeah…I hear what you’re saying, but…ummm...I think my laundry’s done.” Most of the time they are easy to avoid as judges aren’t allowed to grant them warrants into your home, but they have a knack for timing their arrival perfectly as I’m putting the keys in the door, breakfast in hand. No wonder the Chinese don’t want missionaries in their country.

The two above solicitors cause my heart to plummet every time I hear a knock on my door, but this rant is really aimed at Guerrilla Charity. At least Jehovah’s and pamphlet wielders have the cohones to stand in the open and fight in a gentlemanly manner. But, lately, I’ve been bombarded at retail stores and fast food eateries by at purchase, Vietcong foot in a spike trap box style $1 donations. The charities launching these missiles from afar vary quite a bit and sometimes the name tagged solicitor just says the dollar is “for charity.”

Very cunning. Very sly. No longer can I shut off the lights or ignore the knocking door. They’ve taken the battle out in the open and have used my good-naturedness against me. Either I give the dollar or feel like scum for not donating “only a dollar” and worry about the consequences. At PetSmart I’ll usually give $1 to help homeless animals but today at Taco Bell I declined giving a dollar to the Boys and Girls Club. Clearly, based on my dollarmenuaire order I only had so much moola, but did my refusal cause a loogey to be donated into my cheesey double beef burrito?

I have nothing against giving to charity. In my current financial state I try to help out when I can, donating old clothes and what not, and, when things improve, I would like to help more. But, sadly, right now, all of those dollars add up. In the meantime, until I’m winning eight gold medals swimming in piles of cash, it would be nice not having to feel like an asshole whenever I buy a crunchwrap supreme or some cat food.

Book Review: Che Guevara: A Revolutionary Life by John Lee Anderson, 754 pp. 5/5

Revolutionary Robin Hood. Murderous despot. Father. Husband. There are many titles you could give to Che Guevara depending on your political and ideological leanings; however, no matter what your opinion is, nobody can dispute that he is one of recent history’s most controversial and mysterious figures. Who is this man whose face appears on countless dorm rooms and t-shirts? Why could pundits argue for hours about his legacy? Who is Che Guevara?

These are the questions I wanted answered when I picked up Jon Lee Anderson’s Che Guevara: A Revolutionary Life. I wanted to get past the newsroom truths and passionate following surrounding Che and find an objective, truthful voice to share his life story. With Anderson’s biography that is exactly what I found. There are many other “biographies” of the revolutionary out there, but even though Anderson’s was published 11 years ago, I challenge any of them and future Che biographies to match the scope and objectivity that is found in this masterpiece.

The biography begins with the birth of Che and ends with his death in Bolivia at the hands of the Bolivian military and the CIA. In the middle you learn countless things. Che was not Cuban but Argentinean. He suffered from debilitating asthma his entire life, which makes his treks through the Cuban jungle even more remarkable. He was a doctor. He is a father of today’s guerilla warfare as he constantly improved his tactics and wrote guides on the subject. His socialist cause did not end in Cuba as he left the island after the successful revolution and tried to spread his ideas to Congo and Bolivia.

You also see why so many people could love him and why others could despise him at the same time. As a youngster, Che saw people suffering throughout his travels and could not understand why they received no aid. As he grew older, although his means spawn countless arguments, he wanted to create change so all would be provided for. Che was not like the leaders of today who preach one thing and do another. He truly believed in socialist reform and the “new socialist man,” people who shunned individualism and worked for the whole, and was willing to give his life for this cause as he eventually did. He lived in a modest home and received modest pay, and even participated in his own program that called for citizens to take one day and volunteer one’s self for society with no consideration of payment.

However, while it is honorable that he followed his own example, it is easy to see why he could also be hated as his socialist passion and anti-individualist ideals caused him to be often ruthless towards those who did not share his vigor. Also, from an American standpoint, his principles differ completely with the capitalist, “winner take all” U.S. mindset. He also believed the only way to end “Yankee imperialism” was through all out war, which almost came to be during the Bay of Pigs incident.

People who read this biography will, of course, learn about Che, but Anderson also does much to illuminate the Cuban Revolution and Fidel Castro, being that Che’s relationship with both is pivotal in fully understanding the revolutionary. Much of the middle of the biography is devoted to Castro’s beginnings, his clash with America’s imperial influence in Cuba, and his rise to power after the Revolution with Che at his side.

At an epic 754 pages this biography may seem daunting to the casual reader, but curiosity and Anderson’s quality writing will keep you going. I recommend this book to anybody who was as curious as I was about Che and to those out there who truly want to know how powerful the image on their walls and t-shirts is.

Ninja Gun CD Release Party at CR's August 9

Ninja Gun front man Jonathan Coody belts out "Eight Miles Out" (my favorite song of '08 so far) at the band's CD release party Saturday night at CR's. So, who wants to give me a Nikon?

Saturday couldn't come soon enough as Chrissty and I headed up to CR's to see the much anticipated Ninja Gun show. I've been wanting to see these guys since January when I first heard them on Myspace, but because of weeknight shows and weekmorning work drudgery, my responsible side wouldn't allow me to attend.

We met Santanna there at 9, which we should have known was way too early. Knowing this fact, you would have expected us to show up in a Lincoln Towncar, Chrissty fashioning a broach and me boat shoes and a nice pair of slacks on the way to an early bird prime rib, but at least we only had to wait 10 minutes for a cold brew (specifically a $4 32-ouncer; very nice) and another hour for the show to begin.

Ninja Gun didn't get on until about 12:30, but it was well worth the wait as the three opening bands showed off some of the true original talent that exists admits Valdosta's obsession with three 45 minute sets of covers.

Leading off was False Arrest.

This young band proved that quality hardcore punk rock does exist in Valdosta with its 30 second AK-47 blasts to the eardrums. For those out there not into this style of music, the band's stage presence alone was worth witnessing as the lead singer windmilled and convulsed among the guitarist and bassist frenzying at finger tip bleeding speeds. After each conniption/song, the lead singer would plop down on the drum stand, chest heaving, down some water and converse with the crowd. It would have made for the best Vh1 Storytellers since Meatloaf's.

I welcomed their sound as I hadn't experienced any thing like it in a long time, but, at the same time, I cringed at what poor Chrissty and Santana were going through behind me as False Arrest is definitely not their cup of tea. Luckily, things calmed down some or I would have ended up on the Rock 'N' Rodeo dance floor doing the Souja Boy.

Next was No More Analog

Chrissty and I had no idea that our friend Taylor was in a band until he told us before the show. Then, an hour or so later, there he was looking like the Cheshire Cat as he banged on the drums. It's quite a sight witnessing somebody enjoying themselves so much. The Captain's deep, fast vocals sounded superb on "No Vacancy" and later meshed well with Jack Dean's, higher vocals on one tune I missed the name of. No More Analog's brand of punk rock was intense but more laid back than False Arrest's in the sense that a fire bombing isn't as destructive as an Atom Bomb.

Next was Second to Edison

This is a band I've heard a lot about but had never experienced until Saturday night, and I wasn't disappointed. The lead singer's voice was amazingly powerful as it resonated through the entire bar. The band mixed in this amazing slow song I wish I remembered the name of; it's pace and the despair of the lead singer's voice made you cling to every word. The guy was also hilarious between sets. I don't know if it was him or the booze talking but, either way, you sir deserve an invitation to the Bob Saget roast.

Last but not least: Ninja Gun

As the band took the stage the crowd pushed towards the foursome like a group of 5 year olds listening to a grandfather' s old wise tales. The bands who played before them stood among us and looked on like apprentices watching their master craftsman pound steel.

Ninja Gun was well worth the wait as they sounded better live than on their album. They were true showmen as they put on a fun show much helped by Coody's "crazy eyes," "'Preciate it," a foul-acting guitar strap that constantly came undone, and the hilarious buffoonery of the Second to Edison lead man joining Coody on the mic on numerous occasions.

The band began with the self titled track from their new album "Restless Rubes," and followed with the faster paced "Eight Miles Out," which got many of the few remaining table dwellers out of their seats and up to the stage. The songs get hazy from there but they also played "Darwin was a Baptist", the crowd going nuts and joining in on "Can I get a little church in my state/Give me one more reason to hate everything around me," "Asking Price," "Permanent Press," and "Smooth Transitions" from their debut album Smooth Transitions; the crowd going crazy and screaming along at "God bless me, God bless me, God bless me."

All and all a perfect Saturday night. Good beer. Good friends. Good music.