mm-eh

The saddest thing that came out of Saturday night's Elitexc show as not the actual fights.  It was this 

Many people who had never seen a well fought MMA match will continue to echo John McCain and call it "Human cockfighting". And from the Lame amateur fights displayed on Saturday who can blame them. From James Thompson getting gassed 2 minutes into the fight to Kimbo Slice's head squeeze attempt at a submission the whole thing was laughable.. The good fighting took place on the WEC event held on Sunday night.  

I beg cbs and Elitexc, PLEASE NO MORE FREAK FIGHTS. Treat MMA like a sport, a competitive sport and you'll get your viewers and silence your detractors.  Props to UFC for making an attempt at putting on competitive fights.   

The Original King of Comedy

Bohemigrant can't help but laugh at the antics of Father Pfleger, who does an excellent impression of Eddie Griffin at the Apollo.

A Woman's Place Is in Jihad

Love how the Jihadi gender politics debate is being scrutinized as an academically fascinating event. A terrorist is a terrorist is a terrorist. That women have succumbed to this evil is a saddening perversion.

She Has a BF

The British are leading a new invasion. In video comedy.

She Has A Boyfriend - Watch more free videos

Stinksox

Ok, Boston has sold it's soul to the Devil. After 80 years of futility all of a sudden they win two world series and have back to back NO HITTERS? How else can you explain this? Like Hank says, we must restore the universe to order. Hopefully by playoff time the Yankees will bounce back. Hughes makes his comeback and has a good second half. Pap-smear has his arm fall off. Papi is caught with a hooker and Manny high fives a mack truck. All this redsox success is making me angry, I MUST RE-WATCH THE GIANTS SUPERBOWL.

If the Yankees don't win the world series, they should shell out the 100 mill for Yu Darvish.

Putin the Cryptofascist

Sounds kinky, don't it?

the force is strong in this one.

Han Solo might not have the force, but his reflexes are second to none.  

and the Yankees should get this guy 

Acta Es Fabula

Hard as it was to identify any of our kith and kin under the best of circumstances, my aunt’s estranged second husband was beyond recognition with Ki-Adi-Mundi’s gigantic egg-cone head, canvas robe, brown vest, and Jedi Council-issue collared tunic. A onetime star engineer in Sevastopol, Stepan failed to sell any patents in the U.S. Finding his life’s work obsolete, he’d traded in his Ph.D. for a barber license and opened a buzz cut salon in Forest Hills. His horn-rimmed glasses, slanted over the bridge of his bumpy resident alien nose, optically camouflaged near-empty, half-foot-long eye sockets. Stepa assumed an intellectual stance, hands behind back, looking toward the empty hupah amid set pieces resembling the idyllic lake retreat on Naboo.

It was a sight to behold. Weeks of incessant planning, checklists, research, fighting with relatives, recriminations, and political triangulation, all culminating in this very ordinary Sunday. Collateral damage sullied both sides. My maternal grandparents vowed never to speak to Marisa’s. Marisa’s catechism-trained stepdad reneged on his share of our condo down payment. The wedding party pairings had to be revised several times due to mismatched personalities. Marisa’s aquamarine-clad bohemian Jedi friends couldn’t get behind the aisle walk with my high school friends (whose gold Magen Davids were as thick as their necks), all clad in the scarlet robes and helmets reserved for the Emperor’s Royal Guard.

Rabbi Yoni, one of those ultra-reform guitar-wielding kibbutzniks fresh out of seminary, proved accommodating of our special requests, but stood his ground on the central issue: there was no way in hell he was sporting a full-body Yoda outfit. “No f’n way,” as he put it. He was 6’5” and not terribly found of jumbo ears. “Besides, someone has to be the center of gravity…I can’t do it looking like a huge green troll.” But, he’d go as far as wearing an olive-toned rustic robe of fine linen, and did make one important concession —the Seven Blessings in Yodish rearranged sentences —a Hebraic challenge Jonah embraced with heroic zeal.

The service began. After the wedding procession, the room, now heaving with extraterrestrial family, friends, and business associates, settled in —some wiping tears, others puckering brows in lingering disapproval, many curiously observing these heretical proceedings, everyone passively enduring the discomfort of their costumes. I looked over at my wing of the three-ring circus, where Marisa’s older brother, Vincent, was fingering his light saber. In comparison, my best man Sergey’s thoroughly wrought Obi Wan was an afterthought. Yeah, that Afro-hipster hair really brings out the force in Luke, I imagined him scoffing.

We said our betrothals and sipped from the special bottle of Mouton Rothschild Marisa’s oenophilic parents generously provided from their personal hallowed cellar. I placed a ring around Marisa’s slender finger and advised her that it betrothed her to me by no lesser law authority than Moses and Israel (“law of the Jedi” was stricken from an early draft over my bride’s muffled objection). Her impish eyes shifted upward slightly at the mention of these patriarchal relics of antiquity (as she once called them). And here, before our closest —and most alien —witnesses, we were prepared to embark upon the great mystery of marriage.

I turned back and swept my side of the aisle, evident emotion stronger up front and receding toward the back with each successive row of relatives. My own tearing eyes stopped on Grandma Ida. Her laser-beam glower was apparent even through the furry Chewbacca head, slightly modified to accommodate her asthma. My loving Grandma, who survived starvation in a ghetto when the Germans invaded and cursed Marisa in Yiddish every day until the wedding. We looked at each other a moment longer than the situation required, and I thought I finally saw consent in her eyes. Maybe not absolute approbation, but the unavoidable nod to the inevitable was there. Encouraged, I blew Grandma a kiss and imagined she caught it. We turned back for the last blessing.

“Blessed are you, sovereign of the world are you, Lord our God, the fruit of the wine created you have.” Marisa and I swapped a brief glance. By God, he did it! Yoni went Yodish, croaky voice and all. We smiled affectionately. It was real, then—we did it—we really were husband and wife, lord and lady, goose and gander!

Suddenly we started back as a spastic shriek filled the pews. Grandma Ida’s furry mask was off. She spat with a younger woman’s vigor, right into the aisle, the hallowed ground my sweetheart’s feet had touched just moments ago. Arms hoisted in the air like a manic music conductor set to bring down his baton, Grandma was raring to perform an exorcism. In the blink of an eye, Jango Fett and a coterie of Trade Federation viceroys surrounded Chewbacca and conveyed the churlish creature to the side exit.

Heaving a sigh of relief, I crushed the chalice beneath my shiny A. Testoni (a humble gift from my beloved well-heeled uncle), mashing the chards into the carpet fibers with heavy heels. After all, this could be the only chance I’d ever get.

Duuuuuude...

Don't ever call potheads uncreative. If you smoke weed out of a man's corpse, does his soul get high???...duuuuuuuuuuuuude.

Scared Vows, Part IV

Dad lifted off his hulking plastic helmet to adjust my Corellian bow tie. After months of tensions, squabbles, and threats (mainly from his side of the family) to defect back to Ukraine, I needed an anchor just now. However temporarily, I had to pick a side. “Papa, thank you for putting up with this. But you know these American girls. Hopefully this will quiet her silly Western temperament,” I grinned, rubbing my dad’s gray mane the way Marisa did her family’s mare. She’d have eviscerated me slowly with a hot serrated rake for this betrayal, but it came easy now. It felt good on this side, simple and right.

“Don’t worry son,” Dad said, hugging me. He pushed me away slightly for a better look and fixed his squarely eyes on mine. “This is the way with women.” No doubt about it —he was sending me a grave message, a warning more profound than the simple words couching it. And all I could do was nod back with practiced solemnity. But he was back on my team. Back where we had started. My father placed his right hand, calloused from a lifetime of grinding factory work and unmentionable side employment, on my back, as if to support me in case I fainted. “I wasn’t going to do this, Vitka…but my friend Edik said he did this for his son Misha —you know, the doctor?” I ignored the immaterial implication. “Anyway, he says this is an American tradition, so, here, I want you to have the American wedding.” Dad produced a tiny box and for a moment I thought he was proposing to me.

“Papa, I’m afraid I’m already spoken for. Maybe Mom can use a second ring.”

“Smartass, ey?” He took his hand off my back and gave me a quick shaloban —a mild act expressing both affection and aggression as a middle finger, pulled back like a slingshot by the big finger, lands on your forehead with considerable impact. Dad opened the box with some embarrassment, the way he’d always opened costly, elaborate gifts for us. Producing a clear zip-locked bag, I saw the contents immediately, incredulously. “Look, even has initials.”

Rapt with gratitude for this unlikely present, I felt a tremor only experienced during stirring old movies and the night Marisa smiled at my first profession of love (naively surrendered in appreciation for her sleeping with me). Suddenly the lids around my eyes swelled and filled with that familiar but —in my family — forbidden substance. My fingers numb with stupid happiness, I pinned my dad’s nuptial gift onto my shirt sleeves and jacket: pair of 24-karat gold Millennium Falcon cufflinks.

BWAHAHAHA

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

BALLIN'!!!!!!

Fresh off displaying his strong (basketball) fundamentalism playing in a USMC shirt with a diverse crowd of ballaz (in the cradle of hoops fundamentals, no less), Barack steps up his game to workhorse college player of the year Tyler Hansbrough and the powerhouse Tarheels. Now that is good pandering, imo!

Substance Abuse

Don't you love it when politicians complain about negativity getting all the play, then lament the dearth of coverage "substance" gets on the campaign trail? Lately Bill Clinton, for example, has been playing the victim, but he's just one of many.

First off, and most obviously, bottom lines are bottom lines, and bottom lines for media (especially one that's struggling to perpetuate its existence in a rapidly changing technological environment) coverage is numbers. More importantly, let's suppose that political stump puffery really is a significant body of information that the American public deserves to hear, and that the media should somehow be compelled (through force or shame) to provide it. Imagine pages and pages (and hours and hours) of Bill Clinton's legacy-laden homilies, the candidates' nearly indistinguishable sound bites, and focus-grouped oratory from every man on a soapbox who can get in front of a camera.

Now that's public service!

updog

Couture and Mamet have a new movie coming out. I hope it's as good as this one.

Would the Jets pass up on selecting Darren MccFadden? it's just the dumb move the Jets have been known for.  

venture bros season 3.

last weekend I was in a line to see this. Season 3 coming in june 

..... it should be noted that my sn was named after this  and not Rusty Venture. Both voiced by Terminator: the Sarah Conner Chronicles' James Urbaniak.  

Honor Thy Parents

Nice to know there are ways to make money during a financial crunch. For instance, filling stock is way up!

"People are really cashing in. If a dentist passes away, their kids come in with a big pile of gold teeth," said Scott Taber, owner of Taber Coins, a Shrewsbury, Mass., coin dealer that buys dental gold and then resells it to a gold smelter.

Who knew dental hygienists were sitting on such precious nest eggs?

the new indiana jones movie

I have a horrible feeling this movie will suck. It's hard to believe that Sr Spielbergo would ever cast a shia laboof in anything but evidently he did. did Spielberg not remember JAKE Lloyd? yes one person can kill a franchise. A shia laboof has the annoying quotient of a jar-jar with the acting chops of a lloyd.  

Nucear Fallout

Nuclear nonproliferation is usually a good thing (I guess), but I do wonder where all those now unemployed Russian nuclear scientists are going to go from here. Good thing due to proliferation in other parts of the world, there are a number of peaceful civilian nuclear projects going on around the world...

Sacred Vows, Part III

I had to start with the phone call I wanted to make last —it was the only way to do this thing. I drew in some breath and pressed the digits, my fingers shaking, jumping now to the wrong row, now to the wrong column. She’d slammed the phone twice already.

“Grandma, will you talk to me? You’re coming as Chewbacca…yes…a large, furry character from her favorite movie…no, I have not been sticking needles in my arm…it’s already paid for —we have size and all, Grandma…it’s only for 2 hours or so…everyone is donning something…I don’t know why Chewbacca….no, it’s not because of your facial hair…no, Marisa loves you, really…her grandma is Grand Moff Tarkin…yes, human, but pretty unimportant…everyone loves Chewbacca—he is affectionately known as Chewy…yes, I am serious.”

Dunking my head right under the tap, I lapped up the warm, soothing spray of fluorinated water. One down. Fifty-five to go. Our Judaeo-Catholic matrimonial alliance carried with it the curse of two large families —and, necessarily, gave Marisa the opportunity to dip into Lucas’ extended universe —including cartoon and book characters so obscure I couldn’t dig them up without the help of some friends in the IT trade. Now there was room for Clegg Holdfast, Stass Allie, and Gizor Dellso.

The sheer breadth of the cast of characters/guest list made me wonder how my wonderful Marisa —the girl who was always too busy with mock trial, animal activism, and psych experiments for long phone conversations or horsing around in our dorm suite —had found the time to study the most trivial and arbitrary details from the mind of an overgrown sci-fi nerd. I suppose we all have private pockets where no hand but our own can gain admittance.

The bell rang. It was Mom. Luckily, Marisa was out shopping for art supplies with her former roommates to build a set from the forest moon of Endor. Kids from both sides of the family, whom I’d projected as my easiest targets, were in a silent revolt against Marisa’s unilateral decision to cast them all as Ewoks. “What’s an E-Wak?” my youngest nephew asked. “Is it an iPet?” Clearly, Marisa and I were the Lost Generation here. Half the brood wanted to be Harry Potters. The other half wanted to be home playing video games.

Without greeting or a customary kiss, Mom stepped through the doorway and proceeded to the bathroom, dropping two large shopping bags to the floor. “What’s that, Ma?” I inquired.

“This?” she asked, with histrionic ire. “This, is what you think of us, and of yourself.” Without another word, she pulled out a peasant robe. With the limited number of female Star Wars roles, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that Marisa wanted my mom to be Shmi Skywalker.

“Oh, get out —you think that’s bad? This is the easiest role in the whole wedding party! Uncle Borya is going as Jabba the Hut. Jabba, Ma! He’ll probably need time off from work to start putting on his costume if he wants to make it for the wedding.”

“I’m no fool, Vitya. I saw The Phantom Menace. I saw the Attacking of the Clowns. This Shmi, she is some sort of floozy, no? Is that what Marisa thinks of me?”

“Well, no, not quite…she’s a slave —it’s different. She’s sold to the Tusken Raiders, and it’s not really explicit about what she does.”

“Marisa wants me to be a work slave, that’s better? Funny, I don’t see her parents going as a Tuscan prostitute or Mandalorian pimp.” It was plain as day; Mom had been brushing up on her Wookiepedia.

“Dad’s not a pimp, Ma. He’s Jango Fett, a very important bounty hunter. Very powerful. And you know it was Marisa’s idea, so, you know, her mom is Queen Amidala and her father Bail Organa. Woman’s prerogative, and all that.”

She looked at me blankly, without reproach, blinking wordlessly, now pathetically, the fire in her eyes extinguished. Sinking into my Goodwill-acquired couch, Mom buried a doleful look in her weary hands and sobbed.

It was too much. My mom. The one who birthed me, defended me from Dad’s crazy whims and tenacious dogmas; the one who supported my every decision, no matter how moronic or ill-conceived. Till now. If she wouldn’t stand with me, how could I stand? Why was I standing at all? On the cusp of this momentous breakthrough, Mom beat me to it with one of her own. “Your father wanted a crazy wedding? Out all day with his damn partners doing ‘estimates.’ Well, he’s getting one!” And with that, she picked up a sample invitation, commending Marisa’s character while carping about her taste. Her spiteful alliance would be a toxic comfort.

Golf

Ronnie Lott played a game with a SEVERED finger. 

Aaron Ross separated his shoulder TWICE against the Cowboys in one game making tackles.  

Brett Farve didn't MISS a game for 15 years. 

Fedor Emelyanenko was slamed on his HEAD and ended up submitting Kevin "donkey kong" Randleman. 

Renzo Gracie would NOT TAP OUT even thought Sakuraba had broken his arm with a Kimura. 

Larry Bird suffered a concussion in the first half of a game and RETURNED in the second half to lead his Team to a victory. 

Tiger Woods played the Masters with an ouchie on his knee. 

Wait, what?

 

http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/2008/extramustard/03/28/25.toughest.athletes/index.html

Recently Sports Illustrated named Tiger Woods the toughest athlete. Anderson Silva was ranked 3rd. Evidently their definition of tough involves  fist pumps more than avoiding fists. please!

More importantly, golf is not a sport. Just like darts isn't a sport. As Max Kellerman says golf is a game for middle aged white guys to play and feel like they're still participating in a sport. Golf is weather porn. Please espn and sports radio, no more Golf talk.    

Sacred Vows, II

“If there’s anything I can’t stand, it’s a tacky wedding. People always take the path of least resistance – well, I won’t settle. I want it to be personal and unforgettable, all about us, and I want it to really mean something. You know what I mean by that? Not some hokey vows we scrap together surfing poetry.com. It’s not style over substance, it’s substance that speaks to you,” she lectured.

“Honey, you know I wanna be on your team here. But I was also born to a team that believes wholeheartedly in tacky weddings, and last I checked, I’m not a free agent till I win the World Series.”

“Okay, I think you can switch off the strained sports metaphors. I could have dated a lax player for those.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he would have given you the new-age wedding of your dreams! ... Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” I relented.

“If you asked me for something that meant as much to me, you know I’d go to bat for you,” she snuffled, “and yeah, I know I’m back on baseball.”

Using the small opening she gave me, I decided to soften the tone. “You know that I’d do anything for you. But this­ ­—this is lunacy! I mean, ask me to beat up that asshole kid in your painting class who’s always drawing sketches of you banging the cafeteria guy…ask me to buy you that vintage bike with the stripes…ask me to get rid of a second-tier friend, even —come on!”

“Thanks, I can take care of myself. A real man would find a way —he’d find a way no matter what. Stand up to your family for once in your life, will ya? Or what’s the point?” she threw up her hands. Then, walking over to the nightstand, my lovely Marisa grabbed the latest issue of Mademoiselle and disappeared behind the screen door on the balcony.

There it was, then, the stinging ultimatum of unconditional love.

***

Of course I could have broken her down or buttered her up and, in a few days, she’s drop it. I could have held my ground and asserted my muscular self-governance. But in the end, I knew I’d be giving her the first ammunition to stockpile for a later date, the inevitable surprise attack. So I set out to do the impossible.

“She wants what?!” Trying to focus on my dad, I could hear my brother choking from laughter in the background, no doubt exaggerating his mirth with milk-snorting sound effects.

“Dad, you have to understand, this movie means a great deal to her. Her mother adored…it was the only thing that cured her depression when she was getting chemo. Marisa thinks the second one helped her mom recover…I mean, she had a death sentence!”

“Which one’s the second one? Remind me. Jabba Hut?”

“The Empire Strikes Back. Luc Solo gets petrified. It’s generally acknowledged as the greatest.”

“So we play the stupid movie on a TV at the youth table. We set up a room, we have a special viewing party and we play the movie on the big screen —she’s happy, you marry, she has boy, then girl, The End.”

“Uh, I’m afraid not. She already said no to everything I could think of. Marisa doesn’t do compromise. She had a sociology professor lower her C to an F. Trust me, we have to do this.”

“Have to? Did I have to send you to that stupid school in Maine? Did you have to take ‘Physics for Poets’? Did your grandma have to spend her pension on your Native American drumming classes? Did you have to date an Episcopalian from Portland? Now you want me to spend our hard-earned savings on this silly American child fantasy? When are any of you growing up!”

“You’re right Dad, maybe I’m not ready for marriage. Maybe marriage is not for me. I’ve been thinking, Marisa and I should just pack it up and move to Thailand. She can help start a group counseling child prostitutes and I can teach English to destitute villagers.”

There was silence on the other end. The silent intermission before success.

yeah

I know what you're thinking, two posts about this?

the fact is, the c-walk is the way of the future. 

 

Suburban West Coast Asian Teens Can C-Walk

Garcia Marquez He Isn't

Speaking of offenders, it's amusing that every time I Google this particular company *ahem* something shady inevitably pops up.

I have no major quarrel with this man's grievance (and choose not to comment on the likelihood of this scenario), but I will note that the author is both grammatically and mathematically illiterate (run those numbers again) as per his letter. VP, whoever they are, should really raise their admission standards for the Beginner Novel Writing Program.

Mr. Marquez-Garcia, would that your hyphenation were inverted, the sword of justice would swing swifter.

Grandma, Holding Strong (As of 9/7/2007)

Remember Sarah Van Etten? Maybe the word "Grandma" will jog your memory. That's right, everyone's favorite narcoleptic, turn-a-blind-eye beer purveyor from Ithaca. This hard-hitting expose (some might say Daily Sun hatchet job) was a long time coming. Even the MSM has picked up Grandma's story.

We learn that Grandma likes the work:

Grandma said that her favorite part of the job is “dealing with the people.” Interacting with kids — especially teenagers — is tough, she said. She added that, in general, she has a very interesting, never-boring job. Grandma said the students are all good kids and she appreciates the help they give her by lifting heavy 30-packs and shoveling her walkway.

Of course, it might have occurred to Grandma to reward these sweet youngsters with Twizzlers, not 40's of Cobra.

The feel-good story takes another ugly turn:

In 2004, police caught a high school student drinking in Stewart Park in downtown Ithaca, and he said he got the alcohol from her store. She assumed “he stole it here” — but she was strapped with a $6,000 dollar fine.

A logical assumption to make, considering Sarah's scrupulous enforcement of federal law and careful scrutiny when it comes to potential offenders.

Grandma leaves us with a stern warning:

“watch out for ‘townies’ — they’re bad.”

Indeed, Grandma. Indeed. As Doug Adams would say, so long, and thanks for all the beers.

Bohemigrant Crip Walk Week

It is my utmost pleasure to present the First Annual Bohemigrant Crip Walk Week. Post your crip walk video. All proceeds go to improving Bohemigrant's dance technique.

Viva la Liberte!

It's good to see a healthy sense of humanism alive and well in the world. Especially when freedom-loving French martyrs leap at handicapped torch-bearers in defense of Tibet, a horror worse than the Holocaust.

Yearning for Zion

I really shouldn't laugh at this awful violation of child welfare, innocence, and what have you, but...

investigators finished executing a house-to-house search of the 1,700-acre property, which includes a medical facility, a cheese-making plant, a cement plant, a school, numerous large housing units and an 80-foot white limestone temple that rises discordantly out of the brown scrub.

If ever you're holed up at a polygamist compound, make sure your cheese stores meet or exceed capacity. The cheese shall keep you free! Every time a dirty old man wants to polish his nob, no man can stand between him and a 15-year-old waif; Jesus firmly by his side.

Leonid Utesov in Full F/X

Sacred Vows

“Now this is a party!” slurred the second cousin of my second cousin downing his umpteenth double shot of Balinoff. Slapping me on the back with glazed camaraderie, Vadik slithered back unto the lacquered dance floor, elbows ready for the dropping as the strobe lights danced like intoxicated prison yard searchlights around young couples, soused middle-aged men, and —inexplicably —several elder ladies forgetting to lift their chiffon hems.

Nodding to no one in particular, I sipped from my own sloppily poured shkalik, sweeping the room with a surveying swivel. This is a party alright. $90,000 of my uncle’s money later, everything was in its proper place. The uneaten lobster bisque was cooling on approximately 180 plates. Unopened Grey Goose bottles lined the tables, their ice-cold inertia contrasting the dance floor decadence: not a reflection of the guests’ temperance, but a testament to my family’s “better safe than sorry” mantra. No guest goes hungry on our watch, my mom’s face seemed to intone from across the room, where she was chatting up one of our more abhorrent relatives.

“Eh, Vitya, whaddaya say?” Dad interrupted. “Jealous, ey?”

I had little to offer but a shit-eating, cognac-chugging grin.

“Want one like it, eh? Don’t worry, go back for your master’s, and we’ll put on a feast they’ll be talking about from Santa Monica to Sochi!”

As implausible as the prospect sounded, in my still youthful mind, coated with top-shelf spirits, spinning copies of the New Russian Word, Moscow Times, Izvestiya, and Odessa’s Slovo carried front page announcements of my own nuptials to my college sweetheart. Vitaly Siroy, Of The Medical Supply Siroys, Weds…Speaking of…sweetheart? Where are ya? Missing her seriously for the first time that night, I remembered the awkward unpleasantness of her absence and flipped my shiny new phone open to drunk-text her:

Grandma’s finE. False aLarM. Ospital prohibtz cell, Wll call frm home.

The band, suddenly shifting from the Russian golden oldie standard “My Dear Old-Timers,” feting my aunt and uncle courtesy of Cousin Misha’s prodigal best friend, played the first bars of “Who Let the Dogs Out,” a tribute to the youth in our midst. “Ey, Vitya, dance floor, toute d’suite!” ordered my younger sister Valya, who’d just completed her study abroad in Provence. But my mind was still on the song:

My old timers got old,
Unnoticeably as it happens,
And all of a sudden,
My mom is now called a grandma.

Even the liquor couldn’t freeze out my better senses. I looked over at my parents, one at a time; at 65, an age once considered old. Despite my protestations, they did, too. Time was running out and we all knew it. “My old timers got even older…” Dad would croon around the Sunday dinner table, in jest, Mom sighing. No, it was no joke —they wanted grandkids. To make up for the gifts I’d received over the years and hadn’t reciprocated––birth, food, and a healthy sense of shame––I was finally returning the favor by coupling and planting the seed of the only American fruit Mom and Dad had yet to taste. Married?…my God. Where is she, anyway? I searched the room, as if expecting her to come from behind the fake marble Ionic column propping the old rabbi making his third toast to my grandfather’s health. Baby...oh, right, I didn’t bring her. Marisa was knitting wool socks at home, wondering if my grandma’s cerebrovascular accident was resolving. More than happy to report that Grandma was full of punch, tisking disapprovingly at the slow-grinding session my younger cousin Vera was now engaging in with her boyfriend, but, for obvious reasons, I could not. An infrequent liar, tonight I’d committed the most mundane and dishonorable of fibs: I didn’t want my New England-bred, vegan, drama-major, petition-signing girlfriend to see how Russians got married.

TBC...

The Death of Newspapers

So, does anyone besides Times editors actually read these puffy essays? This is beyond yuppy, guys, seriously.

Words Matter

On March 18, 2008, Barak Obama delivered one of the great speeches on race, or any topic, in our nation's history. It's not unlikely that this speech will be remembered for years, perhaps even decades or longer as one of the defining political sermons of my generation. It is arguably so merited as to join the annals of great American oratory in the Library of Congress. (Take that, Mitt Romney's tour de force on Mormonism!)

Far be it for me to assail a man of Obama's background and credentials for taking the name of African Americans in vain. Yet the elegance, zeal, and, no doubt, sincerity, of his speech notwithstanding, what gives Obama the racial capital to mitigate Black Liberation Theology or pontificate on slavery's acrimonious legacy? Especially when he has far more credibility as a race-less candidate or, indeed, a Hawaiian one.

Honor System

Granted, I wouldn't be a fan of this thing myself, but how can the AFL-CIO or any other hack labor group defend outdated work-clocking? It's not really creepy unless you consider someone who makes sure you carry out the duties outlined in your job contract as creepy, right? Are they against the means or the idea of oversight? If oversight itself is creepy, why don't we just switch to an honor system, since all of these workers are clearly enamored of their jobs and willing to log extra hours for their labor of love.

radio lab

http://blogs.wnyc.org/radiolab/2008/03/23/sound-off-was-radiolab-out-of-line/

public radio wars!

In response

In response to the last post about Bill Richardson's latest look. I'll try to clear a few things up. 

The Richardson tan. It is well known that Bill Richardson is half Mexican what is not well known is that his other half, is also Mexican. (Smigel line) 

The new beard is his stylist's response to his bloated corpse like chin. A beard line is no replacement for jaw line but is much more effective than walking around like this.

(joe lieberman)

Senor Richardson

What's up with Bill Richardson looking like a cartel runner from south of the border? Those Hollywood tans and that Rio Grande coyote beard are some serious upgrades over his relatively pale, puffy-cheeked look. Is he running for VP of the USA or Chair of the Sinaloa Cartel?

You Don't Know Symbol Dynamics? Fuck YOU!

Here is a man who gives hope to all of us non-Bretts still struggling to solve the star puzzle...

About That Monkey Wedding

Another propitious simian match made in India. But isn't it time we let monkeys be agents of their own fate, and choose their own mate? If we truly come from these noble creatures, what better way to honor them?

Good thing this was the one game that wasn't nationally televised

Well congrats to the Cornell basketball team on a great season and all, but all I really wanted was to not look like the worst team in the entire tournament. Too bad about that.

See My Vest

Cloning technology may not quite be there yet, but you can reunite with Fido or Rover today--or at least have him keep you warm through the cold, lonely winters. Too bad I didn't cryo-freeze my long-dead parakeets. They'd have made some nice safari hats.

Snoop Song

Everybody go out and get this OG's memoir. It's the real, yo. Straight cheese.

obama sold out his white grandma

I thought the Obama speech on race was very good. But my fellow Americans from Hannity's America seemed to disagree. My favorite caller said "we can't trust a man who would sell out his grandmother like that, Sean!"

Preview

A taste of things to come: Reverend Jeremiah, monkey weddings, a new story, and why Sinbad matters...

TGIF

In the corporate (or even average office) world, Friday is frequently cited as an excuse for any misstep, slip of the tongue, faux pas, or questionable action. While predominantly displayed among the lower rungs of the officer hierarchy, you're guaranteed to hear "It's Friday" at some point during your 9-to-5 (or 8-to-12) adventure from the lips of a superior. From botched water cooler refills to faulty customer service to negligent machine operators, the much sought-after day is something of a wild card, a panacea and Get out of Jail Card for any offense committed on the clock. If you're putting off risky, unadvised work activities, Friday is your day. Spilled coffee all over your coworker, scalding her and blotching her cashmere cardigan? "It's Friday!" Let out a racist quip in the presence of a sensitive coworker? "There I go again!" After all, you've been working hard all week, counting down the days so you can wrap yourself in the casual quilt of a lay-z-day. Ice Cube and Chris Tucker were right.

Utah Loosens Up

The state that brought you polygamy and Orrin Hatch is finally seeing the light on booze restrictions. Wait, no, they're not. Certainly a group of Mormon lawmakers who presumably have never touched the stuff are the best arbiters of mixology. Did no one think of bringing in frat consultants from Arizona or Colorado?

Harvard Sucks

For once, Cornell played Harvard, it was a big deal and it wasn't on ice. Who knew that Cornellians could storm a court with zero previous experience in doing so? The only question remains is whether the bandwagon stays filled after the inevitable first-round drubbing in the tournament.

That seals it up!

Cultish hero-worship aside, I was already behind Obama, but if he is good enough for (NBA) veterans than he is certainly good enough for me!

The Real News is Fake

Campus activism at its finest

Of Giants and Dwarfs

Last week brought us such gems as the diminutive celebrity weightlifter from India and Gary Coleman's wedding...thought it appears the marriage remains unconsummated. Are these dwarfs among giants or giants among men?

feb 14.

to all you Casanovas out there who forgot to get roses for you significant others.

Love Fests

It's February 7, 2008 and we're still no closer to knowing who our next president will be. GOP is falling apart, with loathsome radio hacks pushing their bilious lockstep ideology against conservative McCain! A lifetime pro-lifer, mind you, who doesn't like taxes or spending and who's arguably more hawkish than Bush and Co. The talk radio nincompoops seem to want some combination of Bush (are they sore the brainless George Allen was undone by racist indiscretion?), acting buffoon Fred Thompson, and xenophobe demagogue Tom Tancredo. Sorry, all you're getting is a bona fide war hero who's unafraid to pick a fight when he believes in something. Live with it, you stupid, worthless assholes. Only in our decadent Western society is there room for these opinion-makers.

On the Democratic side, the Cult of Obama has completely obviated any capacity for common sense assessment. What are this guy's accomplishments? What does he really believe in, other than his own branding? Change is not a policy. Hope is not principle. I swoon for this guy as much as the next schlub due to his unlikely skin pigmentation, but what's his case for the biggest job in the world? Hillary has better start making a case for herself. Her experience campaign might be suitable for state senate, but it's slightly more inspiring than a fart on an empty train.

TOR

Myriad lights surround the halo

Like a million fireflies

Bracing air and steamy mist

Mingle dancing cheek to cheek

Dem Mellons

John Cougar Mellencamp emerges from semi-obscurity to complain about McCain using his songs. Why not use someone more friendly to Republicans? Like Jessica Simpson, KISS, or 50 Cent?

Hey Salesgenie, you failed everything, even animation!

First of all, congratulations to the Giants and their real fans on the rousing Super Bowl upset. Second of all, to my one-day fellow UVA alum Tiki Barber, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Finally, no surprise that there isn't a huge uproar over the latest attempt at Charlie Chan/Bugs Bunny Nips the Nips-inspired Asian minstrelsy. Then again, that Darfur comment from davidfuzznut does put everything into perspective. Just let me know that I should worry about human sex trafficking in Thailand when Salesgenie unleashes its new blackface campaign, ok Dave?

They Can Take Our Lives...

But they can never take our freedom!

War Without Symmetry

Al Qaeda is now using retarded women to bring death to Iraq's teen population, and to our GIs. Classy! If there reports are true, I say we fight back by parachuting in the most lawless members of our society, as once suggested by a N'owleans hobo. We pick a good number of sociopaths (especially death row and equivalent killers) currently littering our prisons, hand them Kalashnikovs, and drop down right into Al Qaeda territory, sending them on commando missions. Yes, a number of problems will arise, but we'll be killing two birds with one stone.

Study: Math Profs Are Huge Nerds

I remember seeing my English professor walking in a 3-man circle with a picket railing against Afghanistan in between classes. Nothing wrong with free speech and expression of dissent, but I remember thinking it undignified and unbecoming of an intellectual to publicly parade his sentiments in the style of a Union Square hobo. But hey, 100 years from now, this guy will be lauded as math reformer. They'll be building statues to him in the United States of Iraq while Bohemigrant's bits and bytes crumble in a void of online oblivion like a stale chocolate-chip cookie.

Santana a met

Johan Santana a met? It seems a tentative agreement has been reached between the Mets and the Twins. Santana's agent has to agree to a deal with the Mets before the trade is official.
I was just listening to Steve Summers on WFAN when a string of Yankee fans called in and complained. "CASHMAN SHOULD BE FIRED! WHY DIDN'T THEY TRADE HUGHES AND KENNEDY! SANTANA'S THE BEST PITCHER IN THE LEAGUE!"
It's morons like these that that make the Yankee fans look like spoiled jerks. Hughes and Kennedy proved themselves to be possible number 1 starters for years to come. Santana (who isn't a big guy) is clearly on the decline, and not only that, he will want a 6 or 7 year contract. NONE of those contracts turn out well. Remember the Dodgers and Kevin Brown? or the Giants and Barry Zito?
I'm glad Santana didn't go to Boston.

Bohemigrant Yaks!

Nothing more manly than these dudes.

What's Eating Vermont?

The state is admittedly a beautiful place to ski. But what's in that Ben 'n Jerry's, yo?

How all the good convocation speakers roll

LOL Lt. Murtaugh

This looks like the work of no-good punk kids

I am definitely getting old, cause this would definitely bring out a south asian-bashing tirade out of me now.

Yawwwwn

http://www.breitbart.tv/html/33364.html

What the Heck?

So Cruise is finally losing it over the Web. What to think of this? Why are respectable celebrities so drawn to the cult of the Scientist? John Travolta? Anne Archer? Beck? Nancy Cartwright (Bart Simpson)? Chick Corea? Doug E. Fresh? Paul Haggis? Jason Lee? Juliette Lewis? What, even funnyman Jerry Seinfeld dabbled a few years back? 'Tis true! Hear yee, hear yee!

Physical Fitness Greeting!

Politicking

This being 2008, Bohemigrant Blog will predictably devote a good amount of blogspace to presidential politics. Few public spectacles are as entertaining or, dare I say it, exciting. We have, for the first time, the possibility of a woman or a black man becoming leader of the (for the time being) free world. We also have the clear and present menace of a populist huckster pitching his patronizing sermons on wealth disparity.

On the republican side, we have a bona fide war hero with principles, a celebrity mayor whose common-sense politics don't fit his party's mantra, an unctuous, joke-cracking preacher, and a morphing Mormon opportunist. Sadly, the possibility of a Huckabee- or Romney-Edwards election is all too real, denying Bohemigrant an opportunity to vote in his first presidential campaign ever.

Still, with mounting suspense (see Bloomberg's teasing maneuvers), we should have one of the most exciting elections to date. And we're off!

Best/Worst

To continue the rundown of 2007's greatest hits and misses, I give you the top shows, as judged by Bohemigrant's theater and entertainment editors:

1. La Vie (Spiegeltent)
2. Fuerzabruta
3. The Seafarer
4. The Farnsworth Invention

Worst attraction: Bodies (read an anatomy textbook instead)

Happy New Year Weekend Everyone!

Now watch this baby say "truck."

Man Bites Dog

The story of 2007!

http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20071228/tc_nm/dating_dc

Wonderful Tragedy

Something struck Bohemigrant the other day: like it or not, the Holocaust is chiefly responsible for keeping mainstream Judaism alive into the 21st century. Ironically, if not for Hitler's pesky little plans to wipe the Jewish people off the face of the Earth, the partially successful mission resulted in the kind of Jewish resurgence the world had never known. Without the WWII genocide, the German reform movement that engulfed much of European Jewry in the 19th and early 20th centuries would surely be whittling away synagogue attendance through social assimilation and liberal political mobility. The Orthodox (as they surely still will) would become the stewards of the Jewish tradition.

Instead, the impossible to ignore (thanks to mass media and the Jews' growing political power) massacre effected the most unintended and unprecedented of consequences: A Jewish state drawn up overnight and mandated by world powers. A Jewry wielding the (temporary) power of guilt that, along with their rapidly expanding geopolitical and economic capital, gave it strong sway over the foreign policy of the world's greatest superpower. The Jews effectively came under the protection of the toughest kid on the street (or the world's greatest bully, according to some). Without the Holocaust, God's chosen might still be, in a relative sense, "sucking their paws" as the Russians say.

Why is this important? Secular and reform Ashkenazi Jews, the ones threatening assimilation over half or more of the race, are the ones with the talent, success, the cachet. The Orthodox, more often than not, are the poor students, the nuisances, the radical extremists. How long would a group of bearded yokels dressed, as a friend of the blog might say, like 17th-century Lithuanian nobility, be able to effectively lobby a government for protection from the vicissitudes of Jewish existence? What pride would they inspire beyond the undistinguished pride of faith? Would there be a Jewish state? A Jewish army? The keepers of the Torah, like the Hassidic anti-Zionists smooching Iran's president, are more concerned with breeding and eschewing pork than they are with preserving the dignity and legacy of an ancient people.

Rootless, survival becomes a goal, not a source of pride. Today, we build museums to commemorate our resilience. We honor fallen heroes and celebrate our victories. Thousands of years into human existence, we are still God's chosen people. And we have the Holocaust to thank for it.

Russian New Year's Special

Russia, You've Arrived

music fobbery

this has been an exhausting semester and year for me, so i can't really say anything conclusive or comprehensive about the year in music. anyway, here are some of the albums i enjoyed the most this yr (no particular order):

okkervil river: the stage names (best track: unless it's kicks)
radiohead: in rainbows (best track: videotape)
the national: boxer (best track: fake empire)
arcade fire: neon bible (best track: intervention)
lcd soundsystem: sound of silver (best track: new york i love you)
the ponys: turn the lights out (best track: double vision)
beirut: the flying cup club (best track: nantes)
sunset rubdown: random spirit lover (best track: for the pier (and dead shimmering))
spoon: ga ga ga ga ga (best track: the underdog)

and here are some trax i really enjoyed (not off of any of the aforementioned albums):

voxtrot: blood red blood
aesop rock: none shall pass
pharoahe monch: desire
electrelane: to the east
los campesinos!: you! me! dancing!
frog eyes: bushels
cajun dance party: the next untouchable
menomena: muscle 'n flo
les savy fav: the year before the year 2000
misha: summersend
fiery furnaces: my egyptian grammar
white rabbits: the plot

Vox Populis

Social commentators often unfit to comment socially often overstate the case against modern crowds. Are we duller, dumber, less demanding than previous generations? Or are we sharper, savvier, more critical? Watching the end of No Country for Old Men the other night, one could hear the groan from the full house enjoying I Am Legend across the megaplex.

Harp as I might on the banalities of herd mentality and the LCD. I'd rather focus on the tragedy of low expectations. Now, we all know what a reliable majority of the small audience (who earned points by even coming to a showing of the Coen brothers flick at the blockbuster-driven UA theater) wanted at the end, despite all logic and faith to adapted text: the cleanest, tidiest ending possible to make up for 2 hours of disturbing, unapologetic violence. As the genre shift from noir to western back to noir jerked the audience back and forth, they became that desperate gambler trying to break the ball in a spinning roulette wheel away from the force of inevitability to land on a single number.

After all, they invested a long time in coming to this rarefied movie--not the crime caper or quirky comedy the Coens have been known to make in the past--certainly not the zombie flick or CGI fantasy their friends had opted for. They even sat through the slow pacing, the drag of the dialog, all the way through the unsatisfying conclusion, all the while getting their wads ready to blow at the payoff point. But it never came...at least not in the way they expected.

With the modern gimmickry of the last decade and a half, audiences have gotten used to slick editing, narrative shifts, and all manner of twists. How is it that these audiences still expect the most prosaic coup de grace in a movie whose mood and trajectory, enigmatic as it might be, has been firmly established in the first act? Vin Diesel and The Rock are expected to come through and annihilate their enemies. We usually know that Mel Gibson will stick a flagpole through a Redcoat's windpipe at the end of a revolutionary revenge epic. Yet how can we expect the same in a movie whose stakes, if not higher, at the very least like on a different emotional plane. Never mind that--give us payoff or give us death!

All my dreams revolve around eating

I don't get it, I usually don't have very lucid dreams. For a long time, I barely had dreams where anything happened at all. But lately in all of my dreams, I'm always about to eat a huge meal, craving a huge meal, or somewhere with a lot of potential to have a huge meal. As an SF vagrant (and old running joke) might say, "what does it all meeeeann?" Do I want to become a super fatass? Am I unfulfilled? Do I not eat enough? WHAT IS MY SUBCONSCIOUS TRYING TO TELL ME? I'M SO CONFUSED I MIGHT WATCH ELF AND THEN OLD SCHOOL.

Eastern Medicine

Wouldn't you have to be mad to run against One Russia?

not you too Ron Villone!

As a Yankee fan I'm obligated to comment on the Mitchell Report.
(Or the REDSOX version of what happened in the last two decades REPORT)

20 million dollars for 20 former Yankees. Though only ONE true Yankee was on the List (and I'm not talking about Ron Villone).
As many of you know George Mitchell is a Share holder in the Redsox. What you don't know is he sleeps in Redsox pj's too, often massaging the back of John Henry. Why is it that the only people he could get to talk were a former Yankees trainer and former Met's clubhouse boy.
What about David Ortiz's comments last year. "I used to buy a protein shake in my country. I don't do that anymore because they don't have the approval for that here, so I know that, so I'm off buying things at the GNC back in the Dominican (Republic). But it can happen anytime, it can happen. I don't know. I don't know if I drank something in my youth, not knowing it." LIKELY! take a look at his pictures from when he was with the twins. Was that Eddie Griffin or ORTIZ?
I think the pressure got to Mitchell and he knew he had to put some names in there to spice it up. The report had no substance, there was weak evidence and he tried to mask that with Clemens and 80 something other names. As much as I enjoy seeing the Rich shamed, I'd rather it be fair.

A Work of Fiction

We met at Park Bar after a brief exchange on Match. She was quirky and cute, just my everyday type, the perfect quick date. The dark bar struck the the right balance of pretension and conviviality. In a New York minute, I grabbed two seats vacated by financial types (hard to isolate—the bar’s full of them). Checking my phone for texts, I scanned the room, making sure I knew where the hot girls to keep my eyes from straying.

Inadvertently eavesdropping on an Aussie’s Myth of Origin and other ex-pats’ bland tales of world travel, I awaited my date. She arrived shortly after I did, looking cute as a button in the I-just-got-out-of-college-and-have-the-acne-to-prove-it way. We slipped fairly comfortably into a fairly predictable line of questioning. Another Jew from the South. Always fascinating.

It was a half-hour into our chat when something was afoul. Now, I’d been eating free food pretty much from the time I’d entered the office shortly after 9, when I polished off several pastries, till sometime around 6:30, when I was sinking my gluttonous teeth into a bag of Chinese fish snacks. In between were several sandwiches, wraps, salad, and fruit. And some more pastries.

Back at Park Bar, there was no doubt—something foul was in the air, and it wasn’t the usual: snobbery or liquored-up fratboys. With swift sangfroid and aplomb, I calmly continued the conversation. Until a Senegalese immigrant ordering a drink over our heads shouted, “Who sprung dat leak, man?” Only two suspects. Deciding not to cop to the charge, I hung my head—in my mind, anyway. On the outside, I was cool as a flatulent cucumber.

Truly, what could I do? The popular middle-school option of blaming an anonymous loser was closed to me—lest I wanted to open the possibility that my date was the culprit. Apologize? It’d be more acceptable to confess to a murder at that point. I had no recourse—so I kept sipping my glass of California Pinot and playing twenty questions with my companion.

Then, just as I thought her confidence had been restored, I smelled it again! Are you fucking kidding me? I asked my gastrointestinal tract. This time, a more sportsmanlike yuppie stood, extending money over my head in exchange for brews, keeping the mockery to a polite chuckle. But the damage was done. Fart once, shame on your oblivious ass. Fart twice, shame on you, asshole!

Looking at the clock, I decided to call it a night and save the poor girl from the burden of courteously lingering. I even walked her home to her West Village domicile. I figured we could both use the fresh air.

Stickin' It to the Man

Take that, Airport Security! Not a drop spilled, atta boy!

Back to Pinot

The 2006 Chalone was a steal on sale for $13. Lots of cherry and sweet, ripe fruit with a legitimately medium body and hints of spice. Doesn't linger on the palate, but has all the velvety, fruity character you expect of a good Pinot. 92

O'Donnell Raging Again

http://newsbusters.org/blogs/mark-finkelstein/2007/12/08/larry-odonnells-anti-mormon-rant-demented-racist-pro-slavery-crazy

Boy Who Cried Adolph

It strikes me that in the wake of all the political hand-wrangling and self-congratulation over the nuke report, the real winner is Ahmadinejad--not because he's been acquitted--but because we've lost trust no matter what we say next. No one actually know how far along they are, but does anyone doubt the regime's intent to harness nuclear energy for purposes other than lighting the Jewish minority's electric menorahs during Hanukkah?

Courage

Some of you may be following the campaign trail. Last week, Mitt Romney made an ostensibly ballsy speech defending his Mormon faith, the "faith of his fathers." What is so courageous about stating that you follow the same faith your father indoctrinated you into, the same faith your father's father indoctrinated him with? Never mind the merit and tenets of the Mormon faith. I find little courage in being born into tradition you don't question. Those who find or lose faith, based on life experience, scrutiny, and personal choice, can sometimes be considered courageous. Is Bohemigrant courageous for not renouncing his ethnic background?

Politics by the Fat Man

Does anyone else find the drastic difference in Huckabee's before and after hilarious?

Music

I know you're all really here to see whyduck's Best-of-Music list, but here's my early shortlist for 2007:

1. The National - Boxer
2. Fiery Furnaces - Widow City
3. The Arcade Fire - Neon Bible
4. Voxtrot - Blood Red Blood
5. Radiohead - In Rainbows
   

Build-a-Bear, You're on Notice!

Faux Grace

In another example of how absurd placating PETA can be, there's this pate-ntly insincere attempt to create "guilt-free" liver spread. Now that they're no longer being force-fed to harvest fois gras, the birds are sure to be lining up to donate their own livers to the noble effort. Ducks and geese could not be reached for comment.

Look Who's Talking

Anglican uberhack Rowan Williams uses his credentials as a "theologian" to rebuke U.S.A.'s exercise of sovereign rights and criticize the Western civilization that makes it possible for a clergyman to speak his mind freely. No word as to when Williams might be clipping his owlish eyebrows.

Danish Wisdom

How absurd men are! They never use the liberties they have, they demand those they do not have. They have freedom of thought, they demand freedom of speech.
-SK

Saturday

Thursday

Wednesday

Congrats, NERDS!

Author Weinreb delivers a hard-hitting expose of the chess world after following the players at Bohemigrant's alma mater, E.R. Murrow H.S., around for a year. Winner of the Quill Award and one of Amazon's most recommended reads of the year. Whaaaaa?

Finally, Something to Cheer About

What Jets fans do when they're not hauling cement to Piscataway.

Language Lessons

Young Russian protester comes out of the closet via facepaint. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Renaissance Man

John Mayer is the Leonardo Da Vinci of our generation. Not only is he a competent singer/songwriter, but an amateur comic, enthusiastic designer, avid sports fan, and occasional columnist. Still, despite some females at work comparing him to Frankenstein, the role he'll be remembered for is heartthrob. But do we really need to see him out and about every other weekend? And what's the deal with his bosom buddy sidekick Sherrod Small? Surely he's just hoping for leftover nookie?

hitman

There's a new movie called Hitman based on the video game. I'm not sure if it's been pointed out before but Hitman the video game is some nerd's wetdream re-imagining of the Besson movie Leon. Leon was not a great movie, but it was a cool movie. So cool in fact nerds would use the same motif for other assassin films.

"The "Hitman" is a genetically-engineered, elite assassin known only as Agent 47. His hallmarks are lethal grace, unwavering precision, and resolute pride in his work. But even 47 couldn't anticipate a "random equation" in his life exactitude: the unexpected stirrings of his conscience and the unfamiliar emotions aroused in him by a mysterious Russian woman. "



The protagonist is a shaven more handsome version of filthy frenchmen Jean Reno. The hot chick is an older chris hansen-less version of the mathilda character. Here is a movie that tries so hard to be cool it resembles Marky mark's The big Hit. I don't even think tits can save this movie.
please movie viewing audience i implore you to not watch this movie.

also this movie was produced by vin diesel.

Rap Major

I can't promise this is as entertaining as bitching about grad school, but you can't fault me for trying.

The Farnsworth Invention

The Farnsworth Invention, from talented West Wing creator/writer Aaron Sorkin, is a new play concerning TV's invention and ascendance in the 20th century. Simpsons voicer Hank Azaria plays Russian-Jewish immigrant David Sarnoff, who becomes head of RCA after the requisite struggle to wrap his arms around the American Dream. His chief opponent in the race to invent TV is Philo T. Farnsworth, a Mormon prodigy and grade-A egghead.

Fans of West Wing and The American President will pick up on Sorkin's fascination with television--the great promise and the grim reality. It is in these moments that the play veers into social utopia and grandiloquent monologue. Mostly, though, Sorkin pays homage to an even greater fascination--the urge for exploration and discovery. The highly effective script speeds the story along without excessive exposition or moralizing. The actors are charming and engaging, helping the writer tell his story--a simple--but highly entertaining one.

No More Heinous Crime

Israel's existence might be to the 21st century what being called a Nazi was to the 20th. From Gaza:

"Abbas, who dismissed the Hamas-led government after Gaza's takeover and governs from the West Bank, compared his rival's actions at the rally with "crimes of the Israeli occupier."