Attention Weary Searchers
The WULAD Community Appeasement Council has decided to break down, once again, and give readers what they apparently want—in this case, addressing the desires of the hundreds of people who have accessed the site in the past few days, urgently seeking one of two unusual things. We'll tackle them in order, and then it's back to the usual non-pandering, after an enjoyable Halloween weekend for all, of course.

Part 1:
To those curious souls who—for what I will assume are completely innocent, non-racist reasons—need to know (Boston Red Sox centerfielder) Johnny Damon's ethnicity: His father is white, his mother is Thai. You can go back to living your lives now. Unless you've been looking for...

Part 2 (Exclusive!):
You loved her witty repartee and incisive commentary during the World Series—now you can get an even closer look. After an exhaustive search during which our intrepid staff risked life and limb, WULAD may now finally present our readers with perhaps the most sought-after image since Our Lady Paris of Hilton flashed her hoo-hah: Jeanne Zelasko nude.



And don't say I never give you anything.

A Night to Remember
Congratulations to the Boston White Socks, who last night won their first Super Bowl in 1,918 years! Led by their Most Valuable Person, Manny Martinez, the Socks dominated the Phoenix Cardinals in four games following their dramatic comeback against the Connecticut Yankees, finally reversing the dreaded “Curse of the Zamboni.”

It seems like only yesterday that Christopher Reeve, Jacques Derrida and I were at the Socks’ legendary Safeway Park, cheering for our favorite team together and praying that Boston would win just once before we died. Well, sorry guys, but in the words of Inspector Gadget: “missed it by that much!”

(Homage à l'maitre.)

A Note to Readers
Faithful frequenters of this website will remember the golden olden days of yore, when each eye-rolling visitor could be expected to do a fair amount of baseball-related skimming on a semi-weekly basis. Lately, however, that hasn’t been the case, as a) the team to which my primary allegiance unfortunately belongs suffered a freefall of Sisyphusian proportions and alienated their fan base with moves both on and off the field—in July; and b) I’ve been gradually re-orienting the M.O. of WULAD toward the less frequent, shorter and funnier, rather than the longer, more frequent, and rambling.

Unsurprisingly, the decrease in baseball-, politics-, and navel-gazing-related entries have corresponded with an increase in readership (details here.) Common sense would dictate that I stick to this road more traveled, onward and upward, toward the rarified air of the Blog Elite.

But since this is my stupid site and barely anyone reads it anyway, I’m going to talk about what I want to talk about, and today I want to talk about baseball!* To the 89% of you who don’t want to read about this, see you tomorrow!

*And not even in an ironic way.

Take Me Out to the WULAD
To recap, for anyone who hasn’t seen a newspaper or television for the past week (you know who you are, Mr. President), perennial also-rans the Boston Red Sox staged an epic comeback to beat the New York Paychecks in the American League Championship Series, sending millions of heartbroken Yankee fans and Billy Crystal home with tears streaming down their tear-soaked, teary faces.

(Also, they were crying, sobbing—bawling, really—in a really, really weak, pathetic, way. And believe me, my heart bleeds for them. Let me add: Aw, Did Poow Baby’s wittle team woose? Let me also add: Awwwwwww.)

But that brings us to the last two nights, which provided some pretty good drama themselves. For commentary on the actual baseball, you can find a good writeup in today’s Hardball Times. I will merely point out a few thoughts that occurred to me over the course of these first two games of the Series That Could Rain Toads on Boston.

• Jeanne Zelasko would make a pretty good Antichrist.
  
  
• I used to like Joe Buck a little; after he said Curt Schilling’s blood stain looked like the state of Oklahoma, I like him a lot.
  
  
• I really enjoyed James Taylor’s national anthem, and I thought its subtlety made the hooting “USA!”-chanters look like a bunch of idiots, which is what they are. Thank God they didn’t have the jets fly over.
  
  
• Did Schilling say “I’ll never use the phrase ‘unbelieve in the Lord’ again”? Who the hell says ‘Unbelieve in the Lord’? What does that mean?
  
  
• If one more motherfucker says that it’s “ironic” that so-and-so and so-and-so used to be on the same team but now they aren’t, I’m going to open a can o’ nukeass on him.
  
  
• The article above debates this point, but it seems to me that the Red Sox fans don’t really know what to do with themselves now that their team isn’t on the verge of elimination. Maybe 1986 (Boston won Games 1 and 2) is still fresh in their minds.
  
  
• Since it keeps coming up, I will never stop reminding people: the game was tied when the ball went through Buckner’s legs. You lost the win on a wild pitch, not Mookie’s grounder. To use the past-present combined tense favored by the sportscasters: even if Buckner makes that play, we still have to play extra innings.

All right, that’s enough for now. Back to the new, more streamlined WULAD after these messages.

Friday Double-Dose!
Featuring an exciting two-fer of entertainment that required no new creativity on my part whatsoever! First, it's Ye Olde-Tyme Blogge Worke-Avoider...

Part 1: Delicious, Mouth-Watering Internet Searches
... which have recently led weary web-travelers to the swinging doors of our dusty little virtual saloon:

• BUCKNAKED JAIL FOLSOM 2004 [How did they find out about that? I thought those records were sealed!]
  
  
• Todd Zeile's children, Christian Schools [And nobody covers it better than WULAD.]
  
  
• delusions of grandeur Lyme disease ["I am the greatest... tick-bite victim... of all time!"]
  
  
• "old men in dreams" [Come here and sit on Grandpa's lap, Sweetie...]
  
  
• how to give yourself "highlights at home" with materials at home [At home.]
  
  
• shirtless Harry Caray [Arrrgh! Must... think... of something else...]
  
  
• Red Sox boobies [Manny Ramirez does have a pretty nice rack.]
  
  
• "gay mascots" [Youppi? Is that you?]
  
  
• Assasin with fancy pants [Well, thank you, Mr. Fancy Pants Assassin!]
  
  
• dickhead costume [Who said it's a costume?]
  
  
• "kill queers" God's will [Tell that to the judge, big guy.]
  
  
• homemade douche [Just-a like-a Mama used to make!]
  
  
• What would be the golden interpretation of the Neal v. Gribble case?
  
  
• Johnny Damon Menudo [Few people know about his pre-baseball career...]
  
  
• She inserted the suppository deep butthole [I—don't know what to say.]
  
  
• Jeanne Zelasko nude [Arrrgh! Must... think... of Harry Caray shirtless...]

Part 2: WULAD Web Wround-up
... Bringing you wondrous little virtual treasures you've probably seen before—such as this wonder, which would've single-handedly won my grandfather's vote if he were still alive and not constitutionally incapable of voting for a Democrat anyway.

Zulkey vs. Manners. (More? Zulkey vs. Pop Songs.)

And, in case you forgot: Andy Richter still controls the universe.

¡Hasta la Game One, folks!

Game Seven in Pictures

WULAD Wround the Web
I've got a piece up at Yankee Pot Roast today, "12 Easy Steps to a Better You." I guarantee that anyone who reads it will awake tomorrow morning with a sunnier and more patriotic demeanor, firmer abs, clearer skin, and an encyclopedic knowledge of the works of Peter Breughels both Elder and Younger. Anyone who doesn't read it will awake with an extra buttock.

I Love the Smell of Stereotypes in the Morning
Bus driver today: "Ain't nothin' feels better than rain on a fresh-shaved head. Dries right quick. And a pig in a blanket,"—here he took a big bite—"that's livin'."

The Hair that Launched a Thousand Votes
So you suckers who either, a) through no fault of your own, don’t live in the Bay Area, or b) through much fault of your own, didn’t come to my gig Tuesday night, missed out on some history.

No, I’m not talking about the music, although it was historically rockin’—in the eloquent words of a drunk guy who will crop up later in this story, “You guys fuckin’ kicked ass!”—the historical event in question actually occurred after we had finished our last set.

Let me back up: as locals already know, San Francisco is embroiled in an occasionally noisy hotel workers strike, resulting in motley crews of locked-out workers marching up and down the sidewalks in front of the hotels, banging on cans and tiredly droning their dogged call-and-response:

“Whaddawe wannh?”
“Uhhhnnunnn!”
“Whendowewannit?”
“Nuhhh!”

Anyway, the venerable House of Shields, where I periodically ply my craft, happens to be across the street from one of these union-busting robber baron hotels, so our performance was frequently punctuated by the mellifluous sounds of the Unite Here Local 2’s strike brigade (at the beginning of our first set, about 20 people dragging themselves across the sidewalk lethargically and one dude with a microphone).

However, by the time we’d finished our three hours of magical music-making, the crowd of agitators had swelled to 50 or so, and they were unleashing their rhythmic near-English with a vigor not heard since the early days of the strike (last week). Suddenly we (bandmates, friends, Romans, countrymen, C-baby) noticed some commotion outside, including a definite swarm of police presence. I headed outside, where camera crews were hastily setting up while potential miscreants like myself were ushered back on to the sidewalk, and asked a bystander what was happening.

“John Edwards,” he said.

Could this be true, I wondered? Was the real star of the Democratic ticket wasting valuable campaign time visiting our sleepy little uncontested town? Surely, I thought, he should be in Missouri somewhere kissing baby coal miners.

But behold, after several long minutes of extensive security/press/P.R. jockeying, a buzz went up from the picketers, and His Royal Hairness stepped out of one of the giant black sport utility behemoths parked in front of us. I found myself clapping and hooting as he dove into the crowd, even as I thought, “What are you clapping for? He’s not doing anything.”

“Bush!” shouted the fat drunk guy mentioned above. People like that should be illegal here.


(The WULAD News Team has obtained this photo of the event, enlarged to include our protagonist and his significant other.)

“Fuck Bush!” shouted our saxophone player in response, but he was quickly shushed by the crowd, according to the age-old commandment, “Thou shalt not curse in front of a vice-presidential nominee, unless it’s Cheney.”

Meanwhile, the hunkiest candidate in this year’s field (How hunky? You’re lucky I’m straight and you have all those bodyguards, Sweetness!) made his way along the picket line, surrounded by lights, camera, and action, shaking hands and “energizing.” (This quality was beautifully distilled in this week’s Onion.)

And then, as quickly as he appeared, our sweet prince ducked back into his bulletproof Popemobile Jr. and, with a shadowy wave in our direction from behind tinted glass (“He’s waving at us!” I thought, involuntarily jumping up and down), he was gone.

A half hour or so later, as we stood at the doorway saying our farewells and trying to hide the emptiness with which the Golden Boy's departure had left us, a visibly shitfaced white guy in a Phat Farm sweatshirt stumbled down the sidewalk toward us.

“Whazz this shit?” he slurred, waving in the direction of the much-diminished group of strikers, who had returned to their dreary megaphone-mumbling.

“They’re on strike,” I said.

“Uhhn. Ain’t got nothin’ to do with Bush, duzzit?” he drawled.

“No. They’re hotel workers,” said one of our group.

“Cause you know, I’m Bush,”—here he hit his chest for effect—“till the day, I die,” he growled.

“Probably,” I said.

I Promise I Won't Make a Habit of This, Vol. XMCII

It's time for another edition of Instant Message News Analysis, with your hosts C-Baby and the Wu-laddie. This time, we tackle the case of a mother-son conflict in Florida which came to an unfortunate and medieval-themed culmination...

Wuladdie: Did you see this?

CBaby04: "After taking a bike ride to cool down, he took a crossbow from the trunk of his car and shot a phonebook 'so he could impress his mother with the power of the cross bow,' according to a report by Martin County sheriff's officials. He said when she wasn't impressed, he shot her in the chest, the report said."

Wuladdie: Just goes to show...
Wuladdie: when somebody shoots a phonebook with a crossbow,
Wuladdie: BE IMPRESSED!

CBaby04: Yeah
CBaby04: I like how he took a bike ride to cool down
CBaby04: THEN after he cooled off
CBaby04: he got his crossbow.

Wuladdie: Yeah
Wuladdie: Imagine if he had confronted her BEFORE he cooled down!

Surprising Pronouncements Made by Jacques Derrida on his Deathbed

• “Sandra Dee was the only ‘real’ Gidget.”
  
  
• “Postmodernism is so 1960s—now I’m all about the ska.”
  
  
• “The Mets would be fools not to bring back Bobby Valentine.”
  
  
• “Nietzsche was totally wrong about everything. Also his mustache made him look like a fag.”
  
  
• “I left a stash of porn in the library at the Sorbonne. If you can find it, knock yourself out.”
  
  
• “When I wrote, ‘Without nostalgia for more discreet forms, sometimes (sometimes only) more distinguished, less noisy, that in large part will yesterday have prepared the way for what we inherit today,’ what I really meant was, ‘I am soooo pissed that they cancelled Relic Hunter.”
  
  
• “Anyone who attempts to make facile jokes at my expense after my death by cobbling together hastily collected snippets of my philosophy with cheap pop culture references is a jerk.”
  
  
• “Deconstruct this.”

Because Jacques Derrida, Christopher Reeve, and Ken Caminiti Would Have Wanted You to Go
Attention, citizens of the Bay Area! This Tuesday will be your LAST CHANCE to hear Ian's Wicked Awesome Jazz Quintet until after:

• The presidential election;
  
• The World Series; and
  
• The season finale of that one show with that one guy!

Do you really want to face these and other momentous events without first fortifying yourself with the nutritious and infotaining sounds of Ian's Wicked Awesome Jazz Quintet? I think not.

WHO: Ian's W.A. Jazz Quintet, featuring:
Evan Francis, saxophone
Adam Shulman, piano
Fred Randolph, bass
Jon Arkin, drums

WHEN: Tuesday (Tomorrow), October 12th, 5:30-8:30 p.m.

WHERE: The House of Shields, New Montgomery & Market (415) 495-5436

HOW MUCH: Just pennies a day.

Someone I’m Glad I’m Not Dating
Monday night, 8 p.m. While I’m riding the “1” Muni bus up California Street, a twentysomething girl dolled up for a night on the town steps on at Laguna and takes the seat across from me. It occurs to me that her cheeks have so much makeup on them that they look like they’ve been airbrushed by a high school yearbook retouch artist; her left eyebrow appears permanently cocked, and her lips perpetually pursed.

After a few seconds, her cell phone rings, one of those complex new jingly rings that has brought the word “polyphonic” back into the mainstream for the first time since the swingin’ days of the early Renaissance. She fishes the phone out of her tiny bag.

“What do you want?” she barks. Pause.

“Well, I’m on my way home, since you obviously didn’t want to go with me.” Pause.

She shakes her head for a few seconds, then sighs loudly. “It doesn’t matter. You have to want to go with me.” Pause again.

“Whatever. I’m not hearing an apology, so...” She makes a big gesture out of hanging up (which is of course difficult with a cell phone, since there’s no way of slamming it down on to the receiver), stuffs the phone back in her bag, and, eyes rolling, storms off at the next stop. Good luck with that, kids!

On a Mostly Unrelated Note
One can learn the most amazing things while doing Google image searches for pictures of Muni buses—for example, they have mountain bike unicycles now. In the words of that great Muslim folksinger and airline hazard, ooh baby baby it’s a wild world.

On a Completely Unrelated Note
Dick Cheney is so predictably snarling and evil and John Edwards is so predictably smiling and plastic that I just couldn't bring myself to watch their little tête-à-tête even though the Red Sox were already up 8 runs. If I missed anything good, I trust you people will fill me in.

Wicked, Good
Say what you want about the Republicans (no, really—say it!), they know how to stay on message. (By some person, found via Fables.)

Sequels That Somehow Never Made it Past Pre-Production

• Hamlet 2: They're Still All Dead
  
  
• A Muppet Schindler's List
  
  
• Being John Malkovitch's Kids' College Fund
  
  
• Gigli Goes Hawaiian
  
  
• Caddyshack III: The Search for the Chevy Chase We Once Thought Was Funny
  
  
• The Eighth, Ninth and Tenth Seals, with Addition of Later Seals as They Become Available
  
  
• Glory 2: Also Still All Dead
  
  
• Se8en
  
  
• Alien vs. Predator 2: Alien: Resurrection vs. Predator 3
  
  
• The Bad News Bears in Fallujah
  
  
• Koyaanisqatsi: The Extended Edition
  
  
• Bad Lieutenant II: Yep, Dead
  
  
• Three Fast, Four Furious
  
  
• Kill Bill, Vol. 3: You Guessed It—Dead
  
  
• Breaking the Waves vs. The Ice Storm
  
  
• Aguirre 2: The Wrath of God Boogaloo
  
  
• Apocalypse Now Redux II vs. Space Jam 3: Apocalypse Yao!
  
  
• 8½ II: Let's Just Round It Up to 9
  
  
• Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia Again, Would You?
  
  
• Malcom X2: Pphht.
  
  

Bush vs. Kerry: The Adventure Begins
Is it just me, or did last night’s debate seem a little... scripted?

On the hunt for Bin Laden…

KERRY: Y'all know me. Know how I earn a livin'. I'll catch this bird for you, but it ain't gonna be easy. Bad fish. Not like going down to the pond and chasing bluegills and tommycocks. You've gotta make up your minds. If you want to stay alive, then ante up. If you want to play it cheap, be on welfare the whole winter. I don't want no volunteers, I don't want no mates, there's too many captains on this island. Ten thousand dollars for me by myself. For that you get the head, the tail, the whole damn thing.

BUSH: I'm a superstitious man, and if some unlucky accident should befall Osama—if he is to be shot in the head by a police officer, or be found hung dead in a jail cell... or if he should be struck by a bolt of lightning—then I'm going to blame some of the people in this room; and then I do not forgive.


On campaign finance reform…

KERRY: Where's that money, you silly stupid old fool? Where's that money? Do you realize what this means? It means bankruptcy and scandal and prison. That's what it means. One of us is going to jail - well, it's not gonna be me.

BUSH: You're right, I did lose a million dollars last year. I expect to lose a million dollars this year. I expect to lose a million dollars next year. You know, Sen. Kerry, at the rate of a million dollars a year, I'll have to close this place in... 60 years!


On negative campaigning…

BUSH: You and I are very much alike. Politics is our religion, yet we have both fallen from the pure faith. Our methods have not differed as much as you pretend. I am but a shadowy reflection of you. It would take only a nudge to make you like me. To push you out of the light.

KERRY: Normally, your ass would be dead as fucking fried chicken, but you happen to pull this shit while I'm in a transitional period so I don't wanna kill you, I wanna help you.

BUSH: Senator Kerry, I'm gonna give you three seconds, exactly three fuckin' seconds, to wipe that stupid lookin' grin off your face or I will gouge out your eyeballs and skull fuck you!


On the war in Iraq…

BUSH: Kid, there's something I ought to tell you. I never shot anybody before.

KERRY: Ohhh! Great warrior!? Wars not make one great!


On building international alliances…

KERRY: Some day, and that day may never come, I will call upon you to do a service for me. But uh, until that day, accept this justice as a gift on my daughter's wedding day. To Ben Affleck.

BUSH: What I've got to do, you can't be any part of. Sen. Kerry, I'm no good at being noble, but it doesn't take much to see that the problems of two little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you'll understand that. Now, now... Here's looking at you kid.


Final thoughts…

BUSH: Yes. Yes. I'm George, George Bush. I'm your density. I mean... your destiny.

KERRY: Hello, my name is John Kerry. You kill my father. Prepare to die.