99% Week: Whimsy Up Your Ass

Earlier this week, Dave introduced you to 99% Invisible, the podcast hosted by the euphoniously-toned Roman Mars. As the G:TB staff knows, in accordance with our carefully curated editorial calendar, this post is the second installment in our new (and now ongoing) series of pod-reports on 99pi's offerings.

Episode 351, released on April 23, 2019, tells the story of Isamu Noguchi. Born in 1904 to an American mother and Japanese father, Noguchi found himself caught between two cultures as a young man. His blue eyes marked him as an outsider in Japan, and his skin tone and facial features the same in America. His lonely childhood would inspire his life's work. From the podcast, "He started to think of a concept for a giant public sculpture, and in his mind, it took the form of a massive pyramid. Try to imagine a cross between a Mayan temple and a mountain. It pushes out of the earth with a long slide sloping down with steps on two of its faces. Essentially, it’s like an asymmetrical Egyptian step-pyramid. Noguchi thought of it as a playground, and he called it Play Mountain."

After building a career as a sculptor of busts of prominent people, Noguchi sought ways to bring his ideas about play and form to broader audiences. In the early 1930s, he received an audience with famed New York parks commissioner Robert Moses. The latter envisioned a massive park-building program across the city, and Noguchi pitched Play Mountain, his whimsical, free-form monument to non-directive play. Moses favored the four S's - swings, slides, see-saws, and sandboxes, and summarily dismissed Noguchi's fanciful idea.

Noguchi went on to live a roller-coaster life, gaining fame as an artist and designer (the Noguchi coffee table is one of the most famous furniture designs of the 1950s), while also being interred briefly during World War II with other Japanese-Americans. But he never forgot about Play Mountain and his notions of the importance of non-directive play.

Ironically, while he never saw his vision executed in America, his growing fame in the art world led other designers to develop playgrounds that borrowed heavily from his ideas, even as increasing concerns for safety spurred new standards for playground equipment and influenced much of the bland sameness we see today in our parks.

It wasn't until 1988 that Noguchi got a chance to build the park of his dreams. Sapporo, Japan commissioned him to develop a 454-acre parcel of land to his whimsical specifications, called Moerenuma Park. Sadly, while he designed the project, he died in December of that year, and his collaborator Shoji Sadao oversaw its construction, which took 17 years. The finished product is "this huge green swath of land, tucked into a bend in the river. There are forests of his candy-like play equipment, mounds and pyramids and swooping paths, an enormous conical hill to climb, a huge fountain that cycles through an hour-long water show."



We'll give Roman Mars the final word on this Gheorghie artist:

"Isamu Noguchi was never able to take in the view from the peak of his creation. The sculpture he’d spent his whole life dreaming about., like a mountain teleported from the wild alien planet of his mind. The one place he ever felt he really belonged. Noguchi wanted us to see the world as if we were visiting for the first time. To move our bodies through space as if the simple facts of gravity and contour were brand new delights. To look around with wide eyes, to feel with outstretched fingers, and imagine infinite possibilities. In other words: to live like kids on a playground."

Audio Up Your Ass (Squirrel Edition)

Aloha Gheorghies! As yesterday's report card can attest, I haven't been writing much of late. Instead of churning out my award-winning sentences and opinions, I've been listening to podcasts and recording audio, but I recently stumbled upon some pressing squirrel related material which I just had to relate to y'all. But once I finish this post, I'll probably go back to the audio. I just don't have the attention span to sit still. This is actually getting worse as I get older (I thought it was supposed to fade). Perhaps audio is the right choice anyway. I'm almost fifty, and there's certainly a greater chance that I'll go deaf-- or at least suffer some serious hearing loss-- before I go blind (there should be odds on this). So I'd better enjoy the audio while I still can. 

And no doubt, it's a great time to enjoy audio. All the music is available. It's what my generation imagined when we were kids, spending our hard earned money on CDs (only to sell them back to the local record store weeks later). In addition to this vast array of streaming music, we're also living in the Golden Age of Podcasts.

Our audio cup runneth over.

And one of my favorite podcasters, Roman Mars-- he of the golden mellow baritone-- has recently informed me that amongst all this abundance, we are also living in the Golden Age of Squirrels.

Yes Rob, The Golden Age of You. What a time to be alive.

The new episode of 99% Invisible is cleverly titled "Uptown Squirrel," but a more apt description might be: 

"Everything You Wanted to Know About Squirrels But Were Afraid to Ask (or wouldn't even think of asking, because no one ever thinks about squirrels . . . though we do occasionally think about Squirrel."

Rob, I urge you to listen to this thing.

I learned so much about squirrels during this podcast. Mainly, I learned that though I have constant (and rather embattled) daily contact with squirrels (my dog Lola wants to eat all of them) I know very very little about these furry critters.

Squirrels are always underfoot, but despite their ubiquity, we don't even know the basics. For example, how many squirrels live in Central Park? 

To ascertain this, you need to take a squirrel census.  The squirrel census will eventually be plugged into a wildlife counting formula and reveal the coveted "squirrel abundance number." Roman Mars claims that the method of reaching the "squirrel abundance number" was created by "mid-century Danish-American squirrel biologist Van Fleeger." 

I googled the shit out of this guy and could find nothing on this person. Nothing related to squirrel biology, nothing related to the squirrel abundance number, nothing nothing nothing. I don't even think "Van Fleeger" is a name. While I generally trust Roman Mars . . . probably because of that trademark mellow baritone, I think the 99% Invisible interns may have fabricated this Van Fleeger. Roman Mars demanded some cutting edge squirrel research and they had to produce. Van Fleeger the Danish-American squirrel biologist? Sounds legit. Who's going to check up on that?

Regardless of the existence or nonexistence of this particular squirrel biologist, there's plenty of good, verifiable stuff in this episode.

Such as this shocker: once upon a time, squirrels were reclusive creatures. You could only find them deep in the forest. They avoided humans. In the 1800s, rich folks kept them as exotic pets. In 1856, a Manhattanite's squirrel got loose and climbed a tree and police had to disperse the crowd that assembled to gawk at the agile little critter. These days it would take a whole troop of monkeys to galvanize that kind of crowd. But in 1856, it only took a squirrel.

At first, squirrels had a hard time in the city. There weren't enough trees. But once we started preserving larger natural spaces within city bounds, and planting more trees, the squirrels could make it. They had to be introduced. This is mind-blowing. Cities were once squirrel-less. Philadelphia was the first city to add squirrels (in 1847). People enjoyed feeding them. Like pigeons, they were cute peaceable animals, and city-dwellers anthropomorphized them: they were regarded as wonderful animal citizens. Those were the day when it was perfectly acceptable to shoot a hawk or an eagle or a wolf or a coyote . . . because they were mean, vicious predators. Meanwhile, people were loving the squirrels and pigeons. Then crows and raccoons and possums moved in, and people revised their opinions on predators. They realized they were necessary. Now peregrine falcons and red-tailed hawks nest on skyscrapers and cull the exploding squirrel population. It's a much healthier and biologically diverse situation.

BUT the squirrels haven't given up all their power. They are still more dangerous than Russian hackers and wily terrorists in one regard: their attacks on our power grid. There's a web site devoted to this: CyberSquirrel1.

If you don't feel like listening to a podcast about squirrels, you could check out two newish tracks I put up on Soundcloud. Listen to the audio before you go deaf!

One of the great things about audio is you can't tell how ugly a space it was recorded in. For instance, I work in this lovely studio:

Greasetruck Studio

Right now I'm calling my music project Park the Bus (the same as my blog) but I'm looking for a new, cooler sound name. Something that evokes the future while embracing our hirsute analog animal past. I'm taking suggestions. Winner gets a prize.

The first of my newish songs is a combination of Willie Nelson and Cormac McCarthy's take on "the road."



The second song is a shorter and better remix of a song about simians that I've been monkeying around with forever.



Both songs are SFW and I appreciate the listens. I think soon enough our man in the field Whitney is going to post some audio as well. He needs to post a picture of his studio, as it looks far nicer than mine (but after we have our giant garage sale, I'm really going to clean my studio up. It's going to be beautiful . . . absolutely gorgeous. I've got a real eye for that sort of thing).

It's Report Card Time Again

Every 69 posts or so, the G:TB powers that be (doofus overlord and tiny dictator) are always pressing for the latest stats. They're been delivered, possessed, and stewed over.

While Teejus will hit us with a new ghooghles post soon, supposedly, here's your GTB Report Card for the first third of 2019:

Keep up the solid work, my friends.

Some of you thrive in Comments rather than posts.  Working our interns to see if we can get those stats. In the meantime, remember rob's mantra: "postcount over punctuation"

Until the next time...

Of Mics and Men

About six years ago I wrote what I consider to be one of my best posts here--a long rambling description of my old Subaru as an introduction to a meditation on the 20th anniversary of "Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers)." Simply put, you can never have too much Wu-Tang.

To that end, I encourage you to watch "Of Mics and Men," a four-part series about the Wu-Tang Clan that will start May 10 on Showtime. Here's the trailer.



I think it will be eye-opening. The Wu is just like us! Who can't relate to a story like this, for example.



Bong bong.

via GIPHY

Brothers Don't Shake . . . Brothers Fight

Tommy Boy had it wrong.  For once.

The War Between the States was known ignominiously as casting brother vs. brother in the field of battle.  It wasn't the only time such a stage was set. Fratres who share DNA and Greek affiliation alike don't always get along, and when they don't, it can be especially ugly.  

Especially in rock and roll.  A few notorious brother battles:

The Fogertys (John and Tom)

Creedence Clearwater Revival 

The Fogerty sons weren't so fortunate, as it turned out. Little brother John rose to prominence as the band's leader, and he both behaved despotically and also led them into one of the classic 60's/70's awful record deals. Tom couldn't stop John's reign, so he bolted, and it all blew up. Someday they would make amends... except Tom died 30 years ago, so someday never came.  John's solo act rolls on after four decades.

The Davies (Ray and Dave)

The Kinks

London scrappers Ray and Dave are well respected men with an illustrious career but have never, ever gotten along. They fought onstage and off, and they shitcanned The Kinks decades ago. When Dave had a stroke some years back, there was hope of a reconciliation, but better things between them have not materialized.  They each keep playing, just never together.

The Gallaghers (Noel and Liam)

Oasis

As chronicled a decade ago, these boys can be real douches.  Despite a rise to popularity, they spend their lives wallowing in look-back anger and vitriol for the world, especially each other.  Their bands are now Beady Eye and Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds. I'll let you guess whose is whose. I cannot vouch for either.

The Robinsons (Chris and Rich)

The Black Crowes

The early days of the Crowes were filled with drunken on-stage antics and stories of Chris being hard to handle.  They subsequently morphed into a great Southern rock band, but like the others on this list, there has been no remedy for the fraternal in-fighting. They now play in the Chris Robinson Brotherhood and Magpie Salute.  I've seen the former and heard good things about the latter. Maybe this is better for both of them.

There are other examples, but I draw your attention to one of the most inane.  I obviously can't comment on the behind-the-scenes drama that goes back a generation or two among siblings, but a band that used to have some street cred, then got popular, then cashed in and coasted but was at the very least a fun, lively, talented band to take in . . . well, they've imploded and now there are two separate bands that represent a hole far less great than the sum of its parts.

The Campbells (Ali and Robin)

UB40

This dispute bubbled over in 2008, with lead singer Ali leaving presumably for dollars-and-cents reasons. So now there is UB40 . . . and UB40 Featuring Ali Campbell, Astro and Mickey Virtue (a couple of other original members).  Each singing their "own songs," the old stuff.  You all know how I feel about fragmented bands touring under their original names.  This is doubly dumb.

Lawsuits abound, and there is no end in sight. Brothers have disowned each other. There's a documentary about the split. Can't we all just get along?




Seriously. One of the acts (the one without parenthetical clarification) now has a song called "What happened to UB40."  Have a listen if you dare.



Lyrics:

What Happened to UB40

Say what happened to UB40 now
Some off them think dem bigger than Bob Marley WHOA!
Who's who in a the party now
Gould's lurking in the corner now

Some of dem flimsy some of dem
shallow, want dem money in a Wheelbarrow
Dem mind is weak dem mind it Narrow, Little after dat them get para
Three Yoko Ono's so craving, dem want new house new car and tings
Spangles and bangles and Diamond rings,
you can hear them coming dem a J'lingaling

Say what happened to UB40 now
Some off them think dem bigger than Bob Marley WHOA!
Who's who in a the party now
Gould's lurking in the corner now

One Man try fe go Solo, like the explorer Marco Polo
The attendance weak de attendance low
Him have fe stop cause him woulda bruk fe sure...
Your best friend could be your worst
enemy, him a backbiter tun spy tun thief
Him pride broke down say him a creep creep
Oh gosh me bredrin you done know we have fe weep...

Say what happened to UB40 now
Some off them think dem bigger than Bob Marley WHOA!
Who's who in a the party now
Gould's lurking in the corner now

That's . . . something. To all you who said Bob Marley and Yoko Ono would never be name dropped in the same song . . . there you go.

Look. I saw UB40 in 1988 at the Boathouse.  Tip. Top.  They were damn good musicians playing great reggae harmonies.  The decade or two that followed for UB40 featured an over-reliance on watered-down covers of old standards, but their more politically-minded material of the early 80's was good reggae. These guys should get it together -- literally -- and channel their angst into the more spitfire sound of their youth.

Anyway, do NOT go see either version of them until that happens, but in the meantime, be kind to your brothers (and sisters), and check out UB40 below, when they weren't a soft reggae-lite factory of dreck. My preferred tunes of theirs, in order...

Lego Beast

People who use their idle time to hone a very, very silly skill and bring a goofy smile or two to the world . . . they are among my favorites.

For Dave

For Marls

For anyone who read this post (and rob)

For Nathanial Hörnblowér

Crush Groove 2: Katie Lou is Who

Our fondness for former Delaware Blue Hen and current Washington Mystic Elena Delle Donne is long-documented. She's been every bit the stud in the professional ranks as she was in college, averaging 20 points and 7 boards in six professional seasons, and winning the WNBA MVP award in 2015. She still tops the list, number 11 in our program, number one in our hearts.

But she's got some competition.

I don't, as you might imagine, watch a ton of ladies' hoops. Call me shallow, and you might be right, but it also isn't on offer nearly as much as men's. I do, though, try to watch the women's Final Four every year. And this year I was reminded of a player who caught my attention way back when she was a freshman.

UCONN grad Katie Lou Samuelson is a 6'3" wing with a great touch from deep and advanced offensive instincts. She made 41.7% of her three-pointers in college, finishing her career with 371 triples. She scored 18.6 points, pulled down 6.6 boards, and handed out 3.9 assists a game her senior season. She's really fun to watch on the court.



And back to the shallow thing, she's athletic-cute on the court, which is nice. But she looks like this off the court, about which I had no idea (hey, if Shlara gets to objectify Jay Wright, I can think a lady baller is attractive):



Huge Larry Bird fan, to boot, and she just got drafted by the Chicago Sky, the same team that brought Delle Donne into the league. I think it might be fate.

Festivus

We're not at all above reposting our own stuff in the service of journalism. By journalism, of course, I mean laziness and lack of inspiration. And since this weekend happens to be the 10th anniversary of one of the great weekends of the tiny dictator's life, it's an excellent excuse to re-up a terrific post.

Well, the longer we wait to post something to do with our jaunt to JazzFest 2009, the more underwhelming it will be. As it is, I can't imagine a blog post that could ever do a great New Orleans weekend justice; if you've never been, there's no capturing the wow-ness of the place. If you have been, discussions of it either don't hold up to your ridiculous memories of the place or piss you off that you missed out.

Anyway . . . the biggest aspect of the weekend may have been the little guy's first foray into the Crescent City. G:TB's own Rob joined me, a couple of W&M folks, and a small horde of my hometown chums at the Fest. I'd say his eyes were sufficiently widened and his horizons sufficiently broadened throughout the weekend. Hell, every time I go back, mine are all over again. For his part, Squirrel truly brought his A-game and then some.

Rather than give you a rundown of our weekend teen journal style -- that would inevitably not make chronological sense due to the fuzzy memory of the journalist (only because so much was going on and I wasn't concentrating on the details of the moment!), I'll just show how Rob found out you can spend 72 hours in that town and still only see a fraction of its offerings.


The Music
What we heard: The best Fest music ever, so says I. For those familiar with New Orleans artists, Galactic, Trombone Shorty, and old fave and redhead fiddler extraordinaire Amanda Shaw really brought it -- in addition to the bunch of great smaller acts who graced the Fais-Do-Do stage. Shorty was a late addition to our viewing docket, since the Drive-By Truckers backing Booker T were hell and gone from our encampment, and he rewarded us with a bang-up, foot-stomping set. Oh, and Amanda Shaw is 18 now, so comments about her aren't (as) creepy.

More well known artists like Spoon and Dave Matthews delivered the goods as well, but the Avett Brothers and Wilco really lit up their respective stages. Wilco is solidifying its place as the best live band in America right now. And the Avetts . . . well, they do their own thing, and do it well.

What we didn't hear: We took in no live post-Festival music at places like the House of Blues, Tipitina's, Maple Leaf, Howlin' Wolf, or 1,000 other places. We did catch a bit of a band at the Sea Horse Saloon across from the Fest, but according to those not blacked out, I put my feet up and my eyelids down for most of that. Next time, Rob, we'll get you to some of them nighttime joints.


The Food
What we ate: The Bayou Philly at Cooter Brown's was no letdown. I ate some other delectables there off other people's plates, but I can't really remember what or if they were even friends of mine. Cooter's was very fuzzy. (Pun intended.) We also had a killer shrimp/fried green tomato/remoulade po' boy at a great place called Mahoney's in the Garden District pre-Fest Saturday.

As for the JazzFest food, I feel like Rob really only got a tiny taste (TJ, joke) of it. Crawfish bread and Crawfish Monica are two absolute staples, but the list goes on so far beyond that. Still... they're fucking dynamite.

Oh, and we ate the hell out of Igor's burgers at some point. As the story goes.

What we didn't eat: Jambalaya, crawfish pie, filet gumbo. (I actually ate some gumbo and got most of it on my shirt, but no real worries -- I wore the shirt for two full days and nights, so it was looking awesome anyway.) No meat pie, no red beans & rice, no crawfish sack. (Crawfish sack is underrated, and you can guess why.) No boiled crawdads. Next time, more Fest food, Robert.


The Drink
What we drank: Beer. Assloads of it. Abita Amber. Foster's. Miller Lite. PBR. Heineken. Bud. Red Stripe. I remember drinking a Coors on a bet, I think. Bloody Marys with green beans. A tequila shot followed quickly by a Jager shot. A number of screwdrivers, but only because it was breakfast time (in England).

What we didn't drink: Chivas Regal. Chimay. Zinfandel. Zima. A few other things. And hand grenades, because--


The Place
Where we went: The Fairgrounds for JazzFest. Igors. Rinse. Lather. Repeat. We did do something I haven't done much in New Orleans, and that's party at some people's place of residence. Some newly made friends of friends had us over once (or twice . . . honestly, Rob, please help me on these logistics).

Where we didn't go: The French Quarter, amazingly. TJ goes to NOLA and never leaves the Quarter, Rob goes and never enters it. I won't speak for him, but I think we did a good job of partying in the Garden District and at and around the Festival, neutralizing any strong desire to head downtown. He still needs to go back if for that alone, but we did just all right without it.


And finally, the strongest performance of the trip:
So we rock it out Friday but hit the hay at a very East Coast not-New Orleans hour (2ish). We get up, head back down to the nextdoor bar (Igor's) and have Bloody Marys. Fest it up again, get shnockered to the gills, do ____ and ____ and maybe ____, then I get fall-down "tired" and go to bed. Midnight. Embarrassing.

I wake up at 5 AM, see that my man the Squirreler is still not back, and call him. He berates me, but I'm just thrilled to know he's still at Igor's. I race downstairs (hence, the clothes don't get changed) and try to redeem myself by drinking at the bar from 5 til noon or so. His two compatriots tag out, and I figure he might need to do the same.

Nope.

He powers through the whole day, not pausing to stop drinking and making it til close to midnight Sunday before he crapped out. Unbelievable. I was actually pleased with my rise-and-shine rock star performance that day (I was a little inspired by seeing my old friend Bryan behind the bar t 5 AM after a 3 years' ban), but I have to tip the cap to the little guy. Such a hearty rookie performance, I overheard one friend's wife proclaim, "Whitney's out, Squirrel's in. Squirrel is the new Whitney." Not sure about all that, but still.

And so the recovery time ensues. We're looking at 2-3 full days before feeling like a human again kicks in. Ugh.

And that's what we did. Most of it. Some of it. I don't know.

Sentence of a Different Dave

Now that we no longer have the daily distraction of Dave's sentences/book reports, we turn to other sources for our bibliographical updates. Today, our man in the OBX wants us to learn some hard stuff. 

I love my country as much as the next person. I wish that collectively we were a little less grabby, a little more compassionate, and not so cocksure of the superiority of all things American. But overall, my life and that of many friends have been a blessing.

Not so for all Americans. Native Americans were pushed off of their lands and herded onto reservations. Black Americans, many of whose ancestors arrived here in bondage, are far more likely to be arrested, jailed, killed and die in childbirth than whites. On average, black people have accumulated a fraction of the wealth of whites.

The last point gets to the heart of a remarkable book that I came across – The Half Has Never Been Told. Cornell history professor Edward Baptist argues quite convincingly that slavery wasn’t simply a practice confined to the agrarian South, but the engine that jump-started the American global economy. Slavery drove the country’s southward and westward expansion, and turned a fledgling coastal republic into a world player.

The book is compelling, eye-opening, infuriating and heartbreaking. It’s weighty, but accessible, with a rich narrative alongside charts, graphs, maps and statistics. It is exhaustively researched and meticulously footnoted. It took Baptist more than 12 years to research and write, in part he said because he was trying to re-wire the way U.S. history is understood. He wrote in an afterword:
“I was trying to center American history on the exploitation, movement, and disruption of African-American bodies, lives, and families … As I learned in my research, there was a concrete relationship between African-American suffering and economic growth: the more that enslaved people were tortured, the more efficiently they produced the new global economy’s most essential commodity. Through the cotton enslaved people made – cotton they were forced to make in an ever-more-productive fashion – African-Americans enriched almost all people in the world. Almost all people, but not themselves.”

A few nuggets: In 1810, there were approximately 1,191,000 slaves in the U.S.; by 1860, that number jumped to 3,953,000. Slave ownership accounted for 18.9 percent of total U.S. wealth in 1860, as they were treated as a commodity. In 1800, enslaved African-Americans produced 1.4 million pounds of cotton; by 1860 in a westward expanded nation, slaves produced 2 billion pounds of cotton. Cotton accounted for 61 percent of all U.S. exports in 1860, and 88 percent of the cotton imported to Great Britain.

The book title comes from an interview that a Hampton University student, Claude Anderson, conducted with a retired schoolteacher, Lorenzo Ivy, in Danville, Va., in 1937. The interview was part of dozens of projects begun by FDR’s Works Progress Administration (WPA) designed to help pull the country out of the Great Depression. Men like Anderson interviewed older Americans to get a fuller picture of the history and lives of the country. He had a sanitized list of questions to ask, prepared by white bureaucrats, about slavery and its effects. Instead of following the script, Ivy, born 11 years before the start of the Civil War, volunteered what he had seen, what he and his family and their friends endured. Black people bought and sold. Men and women beaten, whipped and raped. Families separated. Men shackled in chains walking miles to railroad stations, where they were herded like cattle and shipped off to work plantations and fields. Then Ivy said, “Truly, son, the half has never been told.”

The book came out in 2014, was widely acclaimed in publishing and academic circles, and won a handful of awards. It deserves a broader run. I suspect the reason it hasn’t is because it’s a scholarly work and because it’s an uncomfortable topic. Race relations and the treatment of black and native populations are the country’s original sin. It’s difficult enough to have honest, informed discussions about race amid conventional wisdom and our broadly accepted idea of slavery’s place in our country. But to have a historian argue, with much proof behind him, that slavery wasn’t merely a regional horror ended by the Civil War, but a foundational aspect of the entire country that benefited whites in the north and south alike and as far away as western Europe, that’s a seismic shift for a nation founded on the idea of freedom and liberty.

Baptist’s book isn’t easy reading, but it’s worthwhile reading.

Tuesday Fluff, John Oliver Style

Welcome, welcome, welcome to Gheorghe: the Blog. I'm Whitney, most of the time, and thank you so much for joining us. There's just time for a quick recap of the week... or just some filler.

Today is John Oliver's 42nd birthday, which makes one say two things instinctively: (1) Happy Birthday, and (2) I would have bet $500 that he is older than I am. Huh.

Anyway, his HBO show, "Last Week Tonight," which airs most Sunday nights at 11:00, stands out as both my favorite television programme (he's English) and the only way that I choose to get my news of the nation and the world these days. It's like eating a dirt sandwich but on banana bread.

And so, to move on from the Gheorghie Easter post, I give you a segment that may well not convey to your out-loud laughter, but when it aired 6 or 7 weeks ago, it made me laugh until I cried and almost peed. Similar to the Monty Python sketch about the funniest joke in the world that people die from laughter upon hearing it, this bit -- so stupid that he makes fun of himself later in the show for having done it -- nearly drew fluids of multiple kinds from my body.  Powerful stuff.

Here it is. Watch the first 3 mins. The part that had me in tears begins at the 1:25 mark.


Okay, I guess we aren't quite done with Easter. This is 1:15 of ridiculousness and NSFW.

Have a Gheorghie Easter

I have lots of thoughts about current events, but today's a day for reflection. And in my case, for tending a lawn that's been neglected for the past two weeks. So enjoy Easter the Gheorghie way:



Prince passed three years ago today. I saw this performance from the 2007 Super Bowl press conference for the first time this morning. Holy God above, but that dude could perform.

From Scrod Rocket to Aloha Salvation

25 years ago, if you were seeking out a loud rock show in some club in the tri-state area, you may have come across a lively act called Scrod Rocket. If you did, you saw some of the gang that were affectionately known during our fraternity years as "Dave's hoodlum high school friends."  Among them, John.

Muscle flannels...

John and Rob and Neil and Ryan and Mose and Melanie and Noelle (hoodlums aren't just male, you know) and others were surprisingly dedicated to venturing down the Turnpike, 95, and 64 to see Dave. What a draw that guy was.  They livened up our already-overachieving freshman hall with punk rock and preposterous antics, from the Olympics to the Great Shoe Heist of '88 to the Melissa Manny Mota Incident to . . . well, countless other misdemeanors and felonies best left to rapidly depleting memory banks.

And they kept returning for all four of Dave's years in the 'Burg. Fire extinguisher incidents with the campus cops, the Fake Squirrel Licking Fight, the Wok Food Fight, the Whitney's Fake Cousin at Wine and Cheese (and subsequent marshmallow-in-a-piggy-bank letdown), the Day of the Tolteca Grande . . . it just went on. It was no wonder that we all got pretty excited when these people rolled into town -- and also locked our doors.

Scrod Rocket was a related endeavor that blossomed in the early 1990's, and they had some success before life got in the way and splintered the boisterous band. John both played guitar and served the group in a capacity similar to Face in The A-Team.  He's as normal and down to earth as that collection of misunderstood savants gets, and he and I became friends if only to discuss on a rational level what the hell must be wrong with Dave. Which we had cause to do quite a bit.

...to flip flops

Big jobs and bigger family commitments took him out of the New Brunswick zip code, then the area code. (He still has a southern NJ 609 area code cell phone; you never give that up if you can help it.) Along the way, music re-entered his scene, and just recently, he did what I promised you that I would do in 2019: release a 10-track album of original material. And it's great stuff. Majorly mellow melodies right in line with his band name and song titles. I'm thoroughly jealous, appreciative, and inspired.  To do that annoying thing where rock reviewers draw derivation or at least parallel sounds, he's got a bit of Jeff Tweedy, some Kurt Vile, and some Billy Joel/Elton John.

Just kidding about that last part, Dave.

I will say it's a long way from bourbon shots and Scrod Rocket band practice in the lizard-infested former brothel on Route 18.  "Surfin' Dog" has begotten "Our Love Is a Melody." From cheesesteak and egg and Fat sandwiches to poi and pineapple smoothies. Punk rock to dad rock. And I really enjoy it.

Snag a hard copy here. Listen to the Spotify playlist below. Enjoy.

What I Did This Summer

It's Squirrel Week at The Washington Post, which signifies two things: John Kelly gets paid a lot of good American dollars to make shit up, and the venerable WaPo should be the paper of record for our nation.

I guess it signifies a third thing, as well. Around these parts, Squirrel Week also means that we get cheap content ideas. For that we're grateful.

If you're looking for me this summer, you'll need to cast your gaze northward. Specifically, to the Yukon, where the Kluane Red Squirrel Project is based. A collaboration between the University of Alberta, McGill University, the University of Saskatchewan, the University of Guelph and the University of Michigan, the KRSP tracks the mating, eating, breeding, social, and geographical behaviors of a population of red squirrels.

According to the University of Michigan's Ben Dantzer, who's hiring for this year's crop of Squirrel Camp staffers (Squirrel Camp being the summer researchers who staff the project), "Red squirrels are kind of like the badasses of Sciuridae." Indeed, the scrappy little bastards have been known to kill and eat baby snowshoe hares.

The first rule of Squirrel Camp is: You must catch a lot of squirrels.

Squirrel Campers must live in northern Canada without electricity or running water for the balance of the summer. Which seems like an inconvenience until you realize they get to spend their days hanging out with squirrels. Paradise, wouldn't you say?

So if you send me a message, it might be a while before I get back to you.

Chris Davis #Ofor69 Watch

Poor Chris Davis. The man can't buy a hit. Though, it should be said, he can buy a shit ton of other stuff because he makes like eleventy billion dollars a year (intern estimate).

Chris Davis is currently mired in a 0-for-53 slump. That's a slump on steroids, frankly. But let's leave performance enhancers out of this post.

Pal, I know it sucks, but for the good of the internet (and the good of the Teej) I'm gonna need you to hit 0 for 69 next Saturday, April 20th. This will require the Orioles to bench Mr. Davis a few times over the next seven days, which seems like a proper move for a team theoretically trying to win games. Then I need them to insert him in the lineup against the Twins next Saturday night, and whiff so badly Boog's BBQ blows down.

Oh for 69, on 4/20. May the baseball internet gods smile down upon us.

Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...

...hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Why Didn't We Think of That?

Some of you, particularly those of you with children of a certain age, may be familiar with Rhett and Link. Purveyors of a number of online content properties, the duo are amiable forty-somethings from Buies Creek, NC who've managed to parlay a close and genuine friendship and a fondness for dipshittery into a lucrative entertainment career.

My daughters, in particular my little one, count themselves as fans of the pair's YouTube show Good Mythical Morning. In GMM, Rhett and Link generally, though not always, combine blind food taste-testing with comedy and good-natured self-deprecation. Among their go-to bits are things like 'Will It Taco?' (in which they make tacos out of things that likely shouldn't be tacofied and taste and rate the results). The 'Will It...' gimmick is a staple of the show, and a solid recipe for grins.

The boys are also fond of testing their culinary detective skills, frequently selecting a category of fast food and blind taste testing several different types to see if they can identify the source. For example:



I bring this to your attention this morning because (filler, for one) I find that I very much enjoy Rhett and Link and their work. In addition to GMM, they've done documentary work, toured to live audiences, and they produce an eclectic podcast called Ear Biscuits that explores the nature of friendship, among a broad range of other things. They're a joyful, grateful, silly, deeply self-unserious pair of pals.

In short, I find these two dipshits pretty Gheorghie. Imagine my amazement when the Ghooghle machine told me that they possess a net worth of between $7-8m. Which makes me very happy for them, and more than a little annoyed at the collective lack of ambition of this group.

One Shining Moment, aka One Moment from The Shining

So UVA managed to win an NCAA championship... in impressive fashion, especially after some serious ignominy.  I suppose kudos are in order, but most Wahoo types are too busy congratulating themselves to hear me congratulate them.

Their team's drought is over.

Ours goes on.

The Cubs won the World Series a few years ago. The Cubs.

The Red Sox have won 4 of the last 15 Series.  Criminy.

Even the White Sox followed the Red Sox' first win with one.

In between a parade of Patsies titles, the figgin' Eagles won the Super Bowl. A Philly victory sandwiched in between more New England wins. Neat!

The Cavs got Cleveland off the schneid a few years back.

The Saints and Seahawks have Super Bowl trophies now. Unthinkable in our youth and beyond.

Hell, even the Caps won a Stanley Cup.  (I was happy about that one.)

New Mexico State hadn't gone to a bowl game since 1960... until they went to one two years ago.

Blackhawks. Astros. Phil Mickelson.  Come on.

The Rangers' 1994 win was the end of a ridiculous drought, and started a new one, but it happened.

And now UVA.

But still... STILL... the College of William and Mary remains uninvited to the NCAA men's basketball tournament.  Along with Army, the Citadel, and St. Francis, of course.

What's next, the Browns winning the Super Bowl?  The Indians winning the Series?

The Buffalo Bills hoisting the Lombardi trophy??? Say it ain't so, Z.

Oh, well.  Apparently we will now be teed up for an entry, thanks to a coaching change.  Cue the victory march:

Gheorghasbord, Sporting Edition

While we've been preoccupied by the flaming bag of monkey poop masquerading as William & Mary's basketball program/athletic administration, a handful of actually important, fun, and interesting things have been happening in the world of sports, American style.

On the important tip, Notre Dame women's coach Muffet McGraw delivered an impassioned sermon about the distance we still have to cover in terms of reaching some measure of equality in leadership in women's sports (set aside the chasm that still exists in sports in general). While there are elements one might quibble with (McGraw's hard-line stance on hiring men is at once evidence of her power and potentially actionable as discrimination), it's powerful in its fierce, barely contained contempt for a system that she's overcome for 63 years.



Moving on to fun, it was very cool to see the CAA's entry in the college 3x3 tournament played in Minneapolis this weekend run through the competition to capture the title. Northeastern's Vasa Pusica, UNCW's Devonte Cacok, Charleston's Jarrell Brantley, and Hofstra's Justin Wright-Foreman swept through pool play before winning three knockout round matches to reach the final against the West Coast Conference. Cacok's free throws gave the CAA a 21-13 win. Wright-Foreman was the undisputed man, putting on a series of shows for the Mall of America crowd, including this yam.

Justin Wright-Foreman with the cross and the SAUCE! 😲😲😲#3X3U #SCTop10 pic.twitter.com/pW8jY0gEFS

— 3X3U National Championship (@3X3UHoops) April 7, 2019

At the time of this writing, we've had five Final Four games across the men's and women's tournaments, and all five have been competitive. Four of the five have been one-possession games with gripping endings. Baylor won the women's tournament last night, holding off Notre Dame, 82-81 after blowing an 11-point 4th-quarter lead. Notre Dame star Arike Ogunbowale, who won last year's final with an improbable three-pointer, missed one of two free throws with two seconds left to allow Baylor to close out the win. She dropped 31 in the game, which she won't likely remember, unfortunately. Here's hoping tonight's UVA/Texas Tech game lives up to the games that came before. It's hard to figure a way that UVA can top its last two games, to be honest.

We'll close with our kind of whimsy. The Richmond Flying Squirrels are awesome enough, just as they are. I've got a Flying Squirrels T-Shirt, and I've got my eye on figuring out how to incorporate their logo into my family crest for tattoo purposes. This week, they went one better. From this point forward, the San Francisco Giants' AA affiliate will play its Friday games as the Ardillas Voladores de Richmond, a nod to both the increasingly large Hispanic population in Virginia's capital city and the flying squirrel's Latin name. The logo features a squirrel in a luchador mask. Come on, y'all. If you love me even a little, grab me some of that merch.

Final Four Travel Guide

I think this is Mac

Several years back (I can't recall which year, but it hardly matters - think it might've been 1995), our friend Mac and a pal were drinking at a local establishment on the day before Final Four Saturday when they struck up a conversation with a guy neither of them knew. One beer led to another led to a discussion about the Final Four led to the guy offering to fly them on his private plane to the game and pay for their lodging. Sounded sketchy at the time, and it sounds even sketchier now, but it was a legit offer and the guy was a stand-up cat. Mac and his buddy had a whirlwind weekend in Seattle (?) and have an all-timer of a story to tell.

Which leads me to the real point of this post. If any of you are out this evening and meet someone who's inclined to fly you to Minneapolis to watch basketball, you're gonna need some advice on things to do. Since I'm the resident expert on the Twin Cities, you've come to the right place.

Obviously, drinking is important, and Minneapolis has an embarrassment of riches when it comes to good, local brews. Fulton, Summit, Steel Toe, Utepils, and Insight all pour terrific stuff, but if you're in the Cities, you've got to make a stop at Surly. Located near the University of Minnesota, Surly's 90,000 square-foot beer hall might be the largest such place I've ever seen. The beer's phenomenal and rolls deep - they've got at least 18 varieties on tap at any given time, and the food is out of this world. I'd give a lot of consideration to skipping the crowds at US Bank Stadium (which is, in its own right, a gorgeous facility) and hunkering down at the bar at Surly to watch the games.

Goddamn, am I hungry

If you like, food, and I know you do, Minneapolis is a paradise, as well. I'm not gonna give you a list, but you can find lots of them. No, I'm gonna send you to a little place in a residential neighborhood that serves the best pizza I've ever eaten. When you walk into Pizzeria Lola in south Minneapolis, the first thing you see is a massive copper-clad pizza oven - it dominates the room. And the stuff that comes from it is absurdly good. The crust is chewy and yeasty, with just enough char, and so thin that it's easy for a small man to eat an entire medium pie. Goddamn, but that's good pizza. Prepare to wait for a table, because folks love Lola.

You're gonna need to stretch your legs after sitting for hours watching hoops, and fortunately for you, US Bank Stadium is only a few blocks from the Stone Arch Bridge, a pedestrian-only crossing that affords great views of the city (including the Guthrie Theater, which is an architectural marvel) and the Mississippi River. Minnesotans love their outdoors, so you'll be certain to see lots of them out and about. Say hi, 'cause they're a friendly bunch.

You'll likely want some culture, too, because I know how this crowd rolls. The Walker Art Center is world-renowned for its diverse performing and fine art programs. Head there for a little bit of peaceful reflection between action. And I insist that you catch a show at First Avenue, one of America's great music venues. It's where Prince first played Purple Rain in front of a crowd, and while I can't post that video because of copyright issues, it's amazing. Speaking of Prince, his Paisley Park is open to the public and only 20 miles west of Minneapolis.

Enjoy your stay in the Twin Cities. It's a very cool place, full of friendly folks, great food, good beer, and a wide range of art and music. Tell 'em I sent you. It won't make a difference, but it's an excellent conversation starter.

This Week in Wrenball: Fisch or Cut Bait

I have never in my adult sporting life experienced a situation quite like what's happened with the William & Mary hoops program over the past three weeks. In a nutshell, the ambitious young athletic director fired the school's best-ever coach to a resounding chorus of 'what the fuck are you doing' and proceeded to botch the hiring of the next coach to the point where it was obvious to everyone that the Tribe had failed and failed and failed again to land its top choices.

While all this was happening, five of the team's top seven returning players announced their intent to explore their transfer options, while a sixth, all-CAA center Nathan Knight, declared himself eligible for the NBA draft.

It was, to put it succinctly, a goddamn mess.

Yesterday, the school announced that 39 year-old Dane Fischer has been hired as the 31st coach in W&M history. Fischer, who's been an assistant coach for the entirety of his 16-year coaching career, has been on the bench at George Mason for the past four years. Prior to that, he worked with Mason head coach Dave Paulsen at Bucknell and Rider.

Fischer is a highly-regarded young coach, lauded as a very effective recruiter and a gifted offensive mind. Our man in Fairfax, the one who looks like Scott Hamilton and is on texting terms with Paulsen, says the Mason coach expects Fischer to do very well as a head coach.

And in his opening remarks as the Tribe head man, Fischer sounded all the right notes:



In particular, I was curious to see whether Fischer referenced his predecessor, Tony Shaver. He did, in a gracious manner. If nothing else, Fischer gives good press conference. AD Samantha Huge and President Katherine Rowe stretched the bounds of credulity, though, in repeatedly insisting that W&M's new hoops priorities included winning championships, but continuing to compete the right way. We had a coach that competed the right way, and he was the most successful CAA head man over the past six seasons, his only failure having the dice come up snake-eyes during the annual tournament crapshoot.

I wish Fischer no ill will. In fact, I hope he's wildly successful. But as I said on Twitter earlier today, just don't ask me to he happy for him. Doing so, at least now, feels like a betrayal of Shaver, the coach who gave us hope where none existed previously.

Win one for Tony

None of the players who've taken steps to explore their options outside Williamsburg have actually decided to leave, so Fischer's first order of business will be to demonstrate his prowess as a recruiter and coax them back into the fold. If he succeeds, W&M will enter next season with one of its best teams in years. If not, his first few seasons may test his faith and the patience of an obviously impatient athletic director.

When Fischer rolls the balls out in October and preps his team for a new season, I'll be rooting for them. Unlike my Twitter acquaintance @JeffACherry, who said earlier, "Personally I hope they lose every game next year.", I haven't the luxury of cheering for poor results for the Green and Gold. And if Samantha Huge's bold (ill-advised, rash, tone-deaf?) move pays off in an NCAA Tournament bid, I'll be thrilled for the kids and for generations of W&M players and fans. If that unlikely event comes to pass, I sure hope Tony Shaver is there to see it.

WCSAGD: Teedge Edition

My love of Teedge and French cars are both well documented. Put them together and what do you get? A WCSAGD post!

Teedge is Irish, which means that he's likely French. I say this because the Normans invaded Ireland in 1169 (clicks). As a result, modern-day Irishmen and women have more than a little French ancestry.

French cars aren't particularly hardy and they tend to fall apart over time--it isn't uncommon to find one collapsed in a heap in the corner of a garage. You cannot miss a French car rolling down the street. They stand out because they are so damn weird, but they are also weirdly cool. They often feature innovative, if perhaps poorly-conceived, technology. Pop the hood on a French car and you probably can't recognize half the stuff going on in there.

All this is to say the French make wonderfully weird cars. Similarly, Teedge's parents make wonderfully weird offspring.

When you met Teedge for the first time you were probably like "What the fuck is this?" And then when you started talking to him you were probably like "Is this guy nuts?" And after a few minutes you were probably like "This guy is certifiably insane--but I like it!" And once you started drinking with him you were probably like "We are dangerously close to going off the rails here, but I'm having fun so let's go with it."

As a result, both Teedge and French cars have a cult following in the US.

Teedge should drive a 1972 Citroen SM in vert argenté.

Nothing else looks like an SM--the kink in the passenger side windows, the skirt on the rear wheel wells, the clamshell rear hatch, the array of lights in the front. It is unique.

The interior is funky too. For example, check the gate on the gearshift. It slides around with the shifter. I've never seen anything like it. And the padded seats are pretty unusual too.

You know what else is unusual? This guy.

Surprisingly, the SM has a Maserati engine (Citroen owned Maserati at one point). Thus like Teedge it has a powerful heart.

Like many Citroens, the SM features an oléopneumatique suspension. This means that the suspension is full of oil and gas. Like Teedge. And it's surprisingly smooth. Kinda like Teedge. The oil and gas reside in those big green balls in the photo above (other similarity shared between Citroens and Irishmen).

As you can see, Teedge and the SM are uniquely alike. Weird but cool and charming, full of pleasant surprises, with the potential for a ludicrous malfunction potentially lurking around the corner.

That's what Teedge should drive.