Welcome to my soapbox. Here you can typically expect to find my various and sundry diatribes, vituperations and general jawing on whatever it is that's on my mind at the time that I decide to post - you know, typical, self-indulgent blogging for the sake of externalizing what was previously a perfectly content internal monologue and putting it on the page for all the world to see. Again, welcome. Thanks, The Management

Monday, December 20, 2004

A Cold War of Epic Proportions

It's that time of year again, when a small-town newspaper offers a full-page spread and forum to taunt your neighbor's inability to best you in the annual "Parade of Lights" most-obnoxious house-lighting competition. There's even a $100 cash reward. How about that!? A visit to my grandparents' this past weekend reminded me of the local tradition. Dean, their neighbor across the street, has been engaged in a three-year illuminated arms race with another self-proclaimed master electrician from an adjacent town. Dean and Jim's relationship is tenuous at best, making China and Taiwan look like old Pinochle buddies.

The "Parade of Lights" dates back to the Holiday season of 2001 when the local paper must've been wooing advertising dollars from General Electric. The Editor in Chief decided to cough up $100 and a full-page spread with pictures to the home-owner who utilized the most lights decorating his/her house. Perhaps there were other entrants, but for all intents and purposes, only two - Dean and Jim - were willing to go to five and six-digit light-counts to win the prize.

A mere 30,000 lights won Jim his first "Parade of Lights" back in 2001. For his effort of 25,000, Dean received honorable mention in the paper and a vigorous published mocking from Jim. At one point Jim jokingly referred to Dean as "GE and PG&E's second-best customer." Jim offered an analogy later in the piece, calling Dean "Reno" to Jim's "Vegas." And so began the feud that has made 20th century U.S./Soviet tensions look like a playground shouting match.

With lines clearly drawn in the sand and tempers running hot, 2002's competition promised high expectations and the distinct possibility of fisticuffs, or perhaps worse. In November strategy sessions, Dean decided he would need an additional 25,000 lights, a Nativity scene and a large shameless, gaudy sign that read "Parade of Lights" to compete, as Jim would surely increase his totals. Both competitors knew home-size would not be a limiting factor; each owned three-story houses with several thousand square feet to play with. Quantity, not quality, would win it.

Judgment Day took Dean by total and utter surprise. Jim had given no quarter in his execution. 114,998 (two bulbs had burnt out in the days leading up to the judging) multicolored indoor/outdoor lights dotted seemingly every square inch of the home. From the point of the roof, a life-size internally lit Santa Claus mannequin slid back and forth on a zip line. Activated by a motion sensor, the Santa zipped down to the sidewalk entrance and jovially hollered, "Ho, Ho, Ho! Welcome!" to visitors and extended a basket with candy canes. Under the living room window a baby Jesus waved from a manger with flashing lights. Dean's loss made Super Bowl XXIV look like a nail-biter.

Dean came back with a vengeance in 2003 after refinancing his mortgage, executing a direct wholesale contract with GE and finding a Chinese manufacturer to build his recently patented Flaming Yuletide Log. The design was made of some state-of-the-art material and looked very similar to a Redwood stump, approximately 20 feet in length with a diameter bordering on four feet. Based on a motion sensor, it would burst into a five-minute pyrotechnic display if something moved within ten yards of it. With no care for consequences, Dean pinned his hopes for victory on his creation. In addition to his usual figurines, stars and the Flaming Yuletide Log, the GE relationship netted 175,000 multicolored and white lights. More than enough, he figured, to trample Jim.

Once again, his estimates fell short - this time only slightly. A brief bout with pneumonia kept Jim from realizing his full 2003 strategy, but his 176,500 lights were the winner...again. In addition to the lights, Jim had added his own new invention: The OnTrack Christmas. The contraption consisted of a rail system encircling the entire roof of the house. On the rail was the complete well-lit herd of reindeer: Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen, Rudolph, of course, and a new one that Jim had named after himself. In back was a sleigh with primered flames and updated versions of Mr. and Mrs. Claus: he in biker attire with a red leather hat in the traditional Santa style, and she in a bustier and garter belt. In the end, 1500 lights separated the two. It was another Yuletide drubbing.

I sat in the front room of my grandparents' house marveling at this awesome display of electrical gluttony, this effulgent testament to two men with far too much time on their hands. As I recalled the history of this not-so-civil war, however, something seemed different this year. "It looks like Dean's gone a little light on the decorations this year," I said, noting that the shingles were bare and the front lawn was devoid of the animated Nativity scene and Flaming Yuletide Log. "Oh, you didn't hear," my grandmother said. "The paper's not sponsoring the event this year, so Dean decided it wasn't worth the health risk to go the full nine yards." This sounded like solid logic, as I pondered for the first time exactly how dangerous it would be for a 70 year-old man to affix the lights on a three-story house - particularly the apex of the house. "What about that flaming log thing?" I asked. "He only got to use it once last year before the cops got involved. He did, however, manage to torch his Nativity scene, so that got scrapped too," Grandma apprised me.

I couldn't help but feel gipped. I hadn't realized until now how much I enjoyed the caustic nature of this bitter rivalry. After only three years it had found a place in my own Christmas tradition. Oh well. It is what it is. I guess I'll go offline and do my Christmas shopping in the stores this year to appreciate public displays of all the ugly behaviors and emotions we try to suppress during the holidays. I do love irony.

Thursday, December 16, 2004

To the moon, Alice!

Somewhere between last night's revelry in $3 cocktails and waking up this morning, the joy train abruptly derailed. Last night was North Beach's annual "Miracle on Green Street," a four-bar pub-crawl/canned food drive that benefits a local charity. In the end, the only miracle was that I somehow found my way home unscathed. Any opportunistic muggers or ne'er-do-wells lurking at 2 am must've thought me unworthy prey. What with stumbling, smelling of booze and wearing at least a shot or two of Jagermeister, I surely appeared no different than a street-person. Of course, don't ask me what I looked like at 2 am. In fact, don't ask me the last two bars I graced toward evening's end. I can't tell you. All I recall is being overwhelmed and downright beaten over the head by the Christmas spirit. That must be why my eyes feel like lead and my head is pounding like a hippie drum circle.

We drunken revelers numbered about fifteen at the height of the night, and seven of us showed up late for work this morning. One particularly spirited member of the team found it necessary to convalesce in the confines of his own home, fearing a vomit situation in his work-cubicle. I wish I had been so wise. A trip to FedEx a short time ago felt like an out-of-body experience as a wave of light-headedness nearly left me a crumpled heap in the middle of Sacramento Street. The dry-cleaners would have wondered how I got gum and glass embedded in my suit. Fuck 'em. I don't pay them to ask questions.

I now sit in the confines of my office, nursing a mean case of the Irish flu and lamenting last night's thirst. It just occurred to me what tonight holds in store - two Christmas parties, the second featuring loud, live music. I can already tell I'll be getting friendly with my inner Scrooge. I'll hope for the best and try to keep the unprovoked verbal assaults to a minimum. It'd be just like me to show up to a party, hung over, and somehow manage to make the hostess cry. "Can I help you sir?" "I'm not sure. Do you have a bottle of sleeping pills and suicidal tendencies?" No, I shan't do that. I'll control myself, smile, listen and observe. I'm in no shape to add anything constructive or interesting to a conversation...unless the topic turns to alcohol-induced gastrointestinal oddities. Then I might throw in my two-cents.

I now must bid adieu for the day. The dizziness has returned and I think my left eye has become gangrenous.

Tuesday, December 07, 2004

Shoe to the Groin: The Life of a Bay Area Sports Fan in 2004

As a Giants fan, I experienced the roller-coaster ride that was 2004: an abominable early season showing where the pitching staff consistently pitched 87 mile-an-hour grapefruits to opposing hitters, and our batting order scored less often than the Samoan soccer team. Then things turned around. The bats got lively, the grapefruits turned to BBs and our ragtag crew of predominantly no-names and journeymen put together a season that bordered on playoff-worthy. Of course, in the end, what should have been a time to rejoice - a 10-0 shutout season-ender against our arch-rival Dodgers - was all for naught when the Astros completed their improbable run on the playoffs. It was a heartbreaker. Not the same caliber as losing the 2002 Series, but a tough pill to swallow, nonetheless.

The real story of last season was the same as it has been for the past five or so: Barry Bonds. His tremendous play continued and, despite published suspicions of steroid use when the BALCO story broke, the excitement in following him was palpable. Now, of course, we've read his "sealed" grand jury testimony. His name has become more synonymous with juice than Tropicana. The season itself was bad enough. Now the media vultures have to go and retroactively make it worse. Not only the 2004 season, but as far back as they'll allow their suspicions.

I could give two shits about steroids. The game and the dollars that it garners are all about entertainment. We pay for the salaries, often for the stadiums, and everything else that baseball has. This is not the Olympics where pure unadulterated athleticism and fair play is expected. Major League Baseball is not much different than the WWE, save for an unscripted outcome. If a player wants to potentially decimate his body to cement a legacy of homeruns or strikeouts or longevity, so be it. The stakes are high, and this whole steroid thing was exactly what baseball needed. Now that the media and politicians decided to witch-hunt the whole thing, it's back to 162 games a-year of small ball, 3-2 games with pitchers throwing 85 and a power hitter being defined by hitting a homerun every 50 at bats. Well whoopedeedoo!!! Give 'em the juice, enjoy the game and shut your mouths.

At least there's the Niners, I thought. Sure, their offense would be weak, at best, but the defense! Now there was something to talk about. It might just be good enough to keep us in some games and put us at .500 or just above, possibly enough for a playoff berth, given the weakness of the NFC West. I even took the winless pre-season as a good sign. It never means anything anyway. It's all second and third-stringers vying to stay on the team. So we don't have much depth. No problem. Our starters will carry us through and we'll hope for few injuries.

Then the regular season began and I saw exactly what we were dealing with. Donahue sites the salary cap as the locus of our woes. Dennis Erickson still can't believe what's happening, nor does he have any legitimate excuses. What we do know is salary cap or not, Niner brass could have arguably fielded a more talented team rounding up athletic-looking vagrants on Market Street. Sure, they'd need to feed them regularly and buy them some gear, but they're warm bodies and new blood. The current players look more like the dancers' understudies for the Thriller video. Now at 1-11, the 2004 49ers couldn't get much worse...except by tacking on four more losses to round out a near-perfect season. At this stage, the Niners go into a coin toss with an 88% chance of losing. Impossible, you say. Nothing's impossible when ineptitude runs through your organization like rats in an abandoned cheese factory.

This season almost turned me into a basketball fan. Sure, the Warriors spent the gross national product of Eritrea for a guy named Adonal Foyle. That name sounds more like a new competitor for Reynolds Wrap. At least they have money to squander. Mike Montgomery - a fixture in Bay Area sports after his incredibly successful tenure coaching Stanford - inherited the helm to much excitement and fanfare. Mike Dunleavy was poised for a breakout year. Expectations were guardedly enthusiastic. I even started buying in. Perhaps Golden State could be the savior of the 2004 Bay Area sports season. Of course, somewhere between the local media hype, the guarded optimism and the abysmal track record of our franchise fell the reality: the Warriors have become the new Clippers, minus the proud ownership admission of being a cheap-skate. Alas, I have no reason to join the ranks of rabid NBA fans paying top-dollar to watch men with GEDs making multimillions to jump around, point at one another and exchange niceties varying from "in yo' face," to "cha-ching! That's why I make $5.6 million a-year more than you...biyatch!"

Say what you will about the travails of our baseball, football and basketball teams; at least they're playing. The NHL can't even get their athletes to play. On the bright side, I don't have the Sharks to bitch about. On the other hand, they were probably the best shot at success we Bay Area fans had this season. Of course, when a fairly obscure sport like hockey starts commanding higher salaries than players of America's past time, something's got to give. All it takes is one hockey player to finish college with a degree in finance and maybe then the NHL Players Association will understand that payrolls twice the size of team revenues don't make for a very healthy business. I wish I could say "there's always next season." In this case, however, I think the holdout may very well alienate the few fans the NHL has left. It may serve as a valuable lesson to all athletic primadonnas. Now all we need is the NBA to go through something similar and we won't hear guys like Latrell Sprewell proclaiming "I've got to feed my family," when he's currently making over $14 million a year.

So, in the end, as a Bay Area sports fan in this foul, brutally unfair year of our Lord, 2004, I am left with about as much hope and excitement as Nick Cage at the end of Leaving Las Vegas. Of course, like Cage, I can turn to the bottle and slowly euthanize myself. Then again, it's only one season and I'm sure the Niners will go to the Super Bowl next year. What with All-Pros-in-waiting such as the inimitable Tim Rattay, Justin Smiley, John Engelberger and a host of other non-factors, and Dennis Erickson at the helm of this ship of fools, the sky's the limit, right? Do we still have a Major League Soccer team?

Thursday, December 02, 2004

Lono's Great Innovator Award

The Lono's Great Innovator Award is given out not necessarily every day, but certainly any day an invention of such usefulness becomes salient to me and I am able to triumph in its use.

Today's award goes to a man who's philanthropic tendencies rival that of the great Oscar Schindler. I am speaking of course of the inventor of the snooze button - the quintessential pot of gold at the end of the altruistic rainbow.

My newest alarm clock features a luxury previously enjoyed only by heads of state and the wealthiest of the world's citizens. Now available to the masses and bettering lives one at a time, the nine-minute snooze is a testament that all men are not inherently evil. I'd say one person was so inherently good he became a beacon of hope to the minions of sleepers that felt five or seven minute snoozes were a travesty.

No other invention can single-handedly turn waking up into a marathon of three or four nine-minute intervals. Last night, in an attempt to leave my friends at the bar, I distinctly recall declaring this morning to be an "early" one, easily warranting my midnight departure. However, somewhere between the cab ride home and waking up this morning, my unconscious self and snooze button conspired against me to delay the inevitable until 8 am. Glorious. You know, every once in awhile I really have to hand it to my unconscious self. Every once in awhile he really comes through in the clutch. This morning was one of those times.

So here's hoisting one, first, to my unconscious self. Hoist the second higher and more proudly to the man who gave us the snooze button and, more specifically, the nine-minute variety snooze button. Hip Hip Hooray for this veritable Prometheus of sleep-time. Hip Hip Hooray!

Wednesday, December 01, 2004

Woe is me...

...the humanities-minded person trying to fend for himself in setting up a goddamn blog. If only I'd spent more time on learning HTML and less time on BS and T&A, I might have a much cooler looking blog right now. Alas, I shall make due with none of the bells and whistles, nifty pictures, collages, or esoteric technological rigmarole that might grace the site of a blogger with a name like LinuxDude or HackFu. But LD never would have come up with a word like "rigmarole. " And that's where I've got him.

My pen is my only weapon, not an href or the always sharp <> dealies. I have no ability to wield those in any meaningful way. I wage war with multisyllabic incantations and pedantic declarations that'll make you wonder at my sanity, or lack thereof.

As I sit here, creatively bankrupt and firing on three mental cylinders, I realize that today was probably not the best day to bring my blog into this world. And for that very reason, it is the perfect day! Not really, but I thought that might add some extra ambiguity-laced suspense. I was wrong.