Friday, November 22, 2002

The Golden Bears of Berkeley, California have been denied the Axe for 7 years, but that all changes in Strawberry Canyon tomorrow. I'm feeling confident. The bears are gonna do it. They're gonna beat Stanford and lock down their first winning season since, well, a while. It's been a heck of a year considering last year's 1-10 season. Click here for a shitload of info on the game tomorrow as well as the bear's football season which comes to a close against the trees from the farm in a blaze of glory. Be there or be square. I'll be square. Bummer. Stuck on an island. Poor me.

Oh yeah and don't forget to check out the official Big Game webpage. You know you can't live without it. It's like crack and you're Pookie. It's like, ah ferget it, I'm not feeling metaphorical. (simile-al?) uh, no.

Anyhoo, the Big Game is not the only important Cal sporting event tomorrow. The Cal Basketball team opens their season at the Pit in Albuquerque, New Mexico, which is one of the toughest places to play in the country. Click here for a plethora of scoopage on the B-Balling bears and the game.

Well, Mrs. P and I head for Cali on Tuesday for Turkey time and my Grandma's birthday in G-Town. Ah, G-Town, home of the body bag. I remember we had to watch our backs so much back in the day i got a permanent kink in my neck. Now that's a fukn war report, dawg. It was like, you could just be chillin, drinkin a 40 of gatorade grape and it was like, big wheel rolling, Mac-Ball and his criznew rolling deep, drive-by style any minute. And if bullets were flying, damn, that was a good day, usually we had to dodge hand grenades up in that bitch. Anyway, I should be checking in here and there while we're gone for the long Thanksgiving weekend, though, as I'll have internet access at my folks' place. But I gotta get past my dad's kennel of rabid pit-bulls to get to the computer, so we'll see if I'm brave enough.

Don't worry though, before that I'll be gracing you with my presence on Monday, so don't think you can punk out and skip class, goddammit. Let's just say that Pop quizzes are to be expected. Kinda takes the pop out of it, but well, deal with it, 'na mean? Looking forward to my first blog entries from the mainland. Maybe I'll do an in depth analysis of eating an in-n-out burger. Oh yes, in-n-out, you cannot escape my wrath and fond glances. Gotta go easy on the turkey this year, no fourth trips to the trough. And only 8 pieces of pumpkin pie. Gotta watch my delicate figure after all.

Ok you frikken hippies, I'm outta here.

Fuck yahoo! Jesus fuckin christ, how much junk mail do they have to send my ass? They with their little supposed junk mail filter, fuck they send half the shit themselves. Hotmail never sent me half or even a quarter of that crap. Hmmm.

Hmmm seems to be my favorite word around these parts the last day or two. Hmmm. What could that mean? Hmmmm.

Serious bummer in paradise: they closed the old-school big-ass movie theatres in Waikiki last night. At 6 PM the manager let the employees know that would be the last night. They'll all be moved over to the shiny new cineplexes, so at least their jobs are safe, but FUCK that was the LAST truly cool place (except the Varsity by UH, I guess, but those seats are pretty Uncomfy) to see a movie on the island. The theatres in questions are one 1200 seater and two each 900 seaters. They are so sweet and OG and HUGE and spacious and non-mall-horseshit. Yeah there are some pretty big new stadium seating theatres in the new Multiplexes at Ward and on the Windward side, but it ain't the same. I'm really gonna miss going into Waikiki and catching flicks on the fat 60 footer. LAME. But moolah talks and sympathy and nostalgia take the long walk of the short pier, so what can I do except whine and bitch and moan.

What else kiddies? I don't know if you've ever noticed, but I am prone to bouts of crankiness. But they go away. And then they come back. And then they go away. And then puppy dogs come running in the door with daffodils in their mouths and pinesol spray shooting out of their asses and it's happy joy joy time again.

Dagnabbit I don't know what to write. A vote. If I don't have anything to say, would you rather me write nothing at all or write this horse manuer? Hmmm. The sad thing is your vote doesn't count. This is a monarchy and I am the king/court jester. Ruling and amusing myself. And I say horse manure. Spelled all kinds of different ways. Horse menewr. Spread it around, live it, breathe it, soak it in. Get it under your fingernails, now that's REAL. Actually screw the donkey feces, what we need in here is a feast and some crazy hijinx involving knights swinging from ropes and monks making out with chambermaids in the armor closet. That would make this king proud of his castle. That would inspire me to feats of strength and possibly a bacchanalian breakdown. OK here goes.

Yup. Yap. Yip. Yop. Mmm-hmmmm. Well, yuh-huh. Oh, yup. Gyup gyup gyup. Yippedydippedy dee.

With boom baps like that I'm surprised they don't call me OG Showtime. Oh wait. I hear the phone. "Yes, hello. OG Showtime? Ah shit, I guess you're speaking to him. Preach on and let me sermonize."

Sorry everybody, I've gotta take this call.

Thursday, November 21, 2002

"You will soon receive pleasant news of a personal nature."

Hmmm. Well then. Time to start making plans. How shall I react? Now that I know it's coming, do I feign surprise or admit that I knew of this fantastic (ok it didn't say fantastic, but it did say pleasant, and pleasant can be fantastic, can't it?) news after whoever mysterious person is going to inform me of it? This could be downright uncomfortable, I am not much of an actor, and depending on the happy scale of the news which is now I KNOW forthcoming, I won't be able to muster up the proper excitement. Dammitt. Damn you Panda Express. Damn ME for playing with fate and cracking open that fortune cookie. Dammitt all dammitt. I mean, I guess I could have eaten the fortune cookie and tossed the fortune into the trash but isn't that bad luck? Is it only bad luck if you eat the fortune cookie? Is it bad luck to not open a fortune cookie? Who says this thing is my fortune anyway, who organizes these things? Yet somehow I know it's true.

Hmmm. Deep thoughts. But not as deep as others. Others like Christopher Hitchens, who has determined that Mother Theresa is not necessarily the model of heavenly goodness that everyone takes her for. He discusses this in great length in this interview, and damn if he doesn't have some pretty compelling evidence and arguments. It's pretty crazy how much of our thought processes are controlled within parameters that have been set up by society. And we don't even know it. Mucho mucho mahalo vibe-action to Elizabeth at Capital Influx for being the signpost that led me to this revelation. There's all kinds of deep thought but not the Jack Handy kind over at her site. My brain hurts just thinking about it, but I was trapped in a vortex of knowledge. Don't you hate those damn things, and yet conversely admire, respect and hold in high exaltation their inherent zest and nuevo thought processees. That's right processees, plural of process, cuz I said so. Don't look it up in your dictionary. You act like just cuz it's not in your dictionary it doesn't exist. C'mon, peeps, get with the PG. Don't be a slave to the Uni-Mind! Verbalize at will in your own sector. If you want to hook up with some processees, there is just absolutely nothing wrong with that, in fact, it's right. Very right. And so are processeez. Cuz you can't go wrong with the zeta.

Ok, well I would continue with this but I've gotta read People magazine. Jon Bon Jovi is such an inspiration. Now that's a REAL person that we should be donating millions of dollars too, not like that fake ol' Mother Theresa. I mean he's a rockin' dad that still wears leather pants and hangs out with his Jersey girls. But seriously, I know my tongue is often welded to my cheek, but please be advised that I don't approve nor cater to Bon Jovi philocation in this media. Not allowed nor advised. Randy Rhoads however is another story. Where's his goddamm People magazine cover? The 20th anniversary of the death of the greatest guitar player if not musician if not man of all time was this year folks. Damn. But ya know? Let's skip the usual bullshit and celebrate the 21st anniversary with true player style. That would make me proud. I'm gonna celebrate the 21st anniversary of Randy Rhoads' airplane accident with a huge bar mitzvah at my alf-mansion. My non-jewishness will only be an obstacle for the closed-minded.

Think about it.

Hola my peeps. Remind me not to fall for the whole McRib thing ever again. Why the fuck is somebody gonna go to the gym and then go eat a goddamm McRib? Am I a fukn dumbass or what? I was gonna go home and eat a veggie burger (frozen, microwave it, throw it on a wheat bun with mayo, relish, maybe some onions and lettuce, tomato, DAMN that shit is the bomb) but I had to rush it and eat fast to help my girlie study for her botany test. Wish Mrs. P luck today cuz she had to memorize mad scientific names and Hawaiian names and family names of large amounts of plants as well as their uses and features and all kinds of crazy info and I was dizzy by the end of the night quizzing her.

I had the WEIRDEST dream last night. I was jogging around in Kailua town, and I notice this dirt path that seems to wrap around this mountain, so I start jogging down it. I soon realize that this is the "gay" path on the edge of town. Don't ask me what the fuck that means, I guess it relates to the ancient theory (?) that there is a secret "gay" road in every city/town, and I had stumbled on one. Being comfortable in my heterosexuality I decide I have no problem cruising through homoville. So I start seeing all these billboards along the path for gay-centric products, I can't remember what they were, but they seemed foreign and very "gay" to me. Anyway, jogging on a little bit, I get freaked out cuz I see all these skulls all over the path. Only they're not really skulls, they're like melted skull faces, and there are hundreds of them. And near all the flat corroding skull-faces is a big barrel that looks like it's been there a while. It's black and industrial looking and it stinks of death (well, there ARE fukn skulls everywhere, I don't per se remember a smell, whatever). Anyway I'm like FUCK this is uh fukn freaky. So I keep jogging and a little spell down the way, the same scene, mad skull faces all over the road and another mysterious barrel which looks like someone left it there a long ass time ago. It's like partially embedded in the side of the mountain. Now I'm thinking that the corporate bigwigs are stashing all their toxic waste barrels in the "gay" section of town because the rank and file don't give a fuck, and by the time the gay people figure it out, they're dead from hanging out too close to these barrels and there's nothing left of them but skull faces. Then I'm thinking I got to get the fuck out of here before my skull face is here with all the rest of these poor bastards.

So I had that odd imagery in my noggin this morning while I'm eating capn crunch and OJ and Coffee and my stomach is aching from revenge of McRib. FUCK McRIB!! Goddammit. Why is it that every couple years they come out with this crap I think, oh, yeah, McRib, that was pretty good, and I always fall for it at least once, and it always sucks. Am I just a stupid idiot?

Maybe the McRib is toxic waste and that's why I had my fucked up dream. Maybe Ronald McDonald is secretly the Don of Hazardous Materials and weird gay studio 54 type clubs that secretly destroy alternative society solutions via death camps and biohazardical chemical warfare. Fukn Ronald. And fukn Donald Trump is part of it. That doesn't kill me as much as the betrayal of Grimace. I thought I knew that big fat purple pile of shit.

Just goes to show, you think you know, and then you eat a McRib, and then it's like, outtie 5000.

Wednesday, November 20, 2002

Artist: Dr. Octagon (Kool Keith)
Album: Dr. Octagonecologyst
Title: Earth People

First patient, pull out the skull, remove the cancer
Breakin' his back, chisel necks for the answer
Supersonic bionic robot voodoo power
Equator ex my chance to flex skills on Ampex
With power meters and heaters gauge anti-freeze
Octagon oxygen, aluminum intoxicants
More ways to blow blood cells in your face
React with four bombs and six fire missiles
Armed with seven rounds of space doo-doo pistols
You may not believe, livin' on the Earth planet
My skin is green and silver, warhead lookin' mean
Astronauts get played, tough like the ukelele
As I move in rockets, overriding, levels
Nothing's aware, same data, same system

Earth People, New York and California
Earth People, I was born on Jupiter x4

Now my helmet's on, you can't tell me I'm not in space
With the National Guard United States Enterprise
Diplomat of swing with aliens at my feet
Comin' down the rampart through beam on the street
Obsolete computes, compounds and dead sounds
As I locate intricately independent

Economic rhymer got savoury store food
In Capsule D my program is ability
For a reaction and response to a no-one
Identification Code: Unidentified
I got cosmophonic, pressed a button, changed my face
You recognised, so what? I turned invisible
Made myself clear, reappeared to you visual
Disappear again, zapped like a android
Face the fact, I fly on planets every day
My nucleus friend, prepare, I return again
My 7XL is not yet invented

Earth People, New York and California
Earth People, I was born on Jupiter x4

Space Ranger, contact tubes, send synthetics
I program one and go to Earth through the fax machine
My number's Seven-Oh-Nine Seven-Five-Five Six-E-L-Three
Computer File: Nine-Three
Digital level, standing on the terminal
Upside down through polygons fightin' pentagons
Changin' blue skin, my brown colour's comin' back
I'm psychedelic this time, come in rainbow
Look at the green lights and y'all see my brain glow
Five colours: yellow, black and red and green...purple

Earth People, New York and California
Earth People, I was born on Jupiter x4

Today is the 20th anniversary of the greatest play in football, if not sports, history, aptly called "The Play." For those not in the know, it was the kickoff return at the end of the Big Game in 1982. The Big Game is the annual Cal-Stanford football contest. After receiving the kickoff, the Cal players lateraled the ball to each other repeatedly as they ran down the field, culminating in a touchdown as the Stanford band had already started marching through the end zone in what looked like a victory for the Cardinal.

Ivan Maisel, a writer for ESPN and Stanford alum, was there that day, and he wrote an article today about it which you should definitely read. Here's an excerpt that really emphasizes how big this was:

"I have seen college football played indoors and out, in stadiums that no longer exist, in Honolulu and College Station and Blacksburg and Corvallis and points between. All of it amounts to a backyard game of touch compared to what I saw from the stands of Memorial Stadium in Strawberry Canyon twenty years ago today."

Mark Kreidler also wrote a nice little piece about the lives of the heroes of Cal lore who participated in those 5 fateful laterals, and how they are basically just normal people who once a year get a bunch of attention, but like true Golden Bears are well-rounded and not caught up in the hype.

So I'd like to recommend that everyone celebrate the 20th anniversary of the Play in the appropriate manner. For example I will be painting my body blue and gold and jogging through Waikiki naked except for some Oski underoos singing "We are Sons of California, fighting for the gold and Blue, la la la la la la la la la la la la la."

Why is it every time I feel the need to make a public statement it involves softcore theatrics? And what's my obsession with body painting? My therapist is at a loss, what say you dear reader?

Go Bears! Oh yeah and fuck John Elway! Peace! Love! Happiness! Squirrels with Submachine guns! Hamster Sodomy! It's all good in the hood here at UB. Outs…..

PS: an extra nugget of wisdom for you, the most loyal, the most high, the kriptonik booty shakers. What I want to talk about here in this 37th chamber is Justin Timberlake, and his "new sound." Uh, Justin, what you've found isn't a new sound, my curly haired mouseketeer, it just so happens to be Michael Jackson's nutsack. I know he's not using it for anything besides possibly disfiguring surgery (although I doubt that, I think the King of Pop is only concerned about the portions of his anatomy that people see, isn't it ironic, then, that those are the only portions spared his Dr. Frankenstein like manipulations? Isn't it just SO fukn ironic, hmmm?), but still Justin, I don't think your Justified (get it, huh, huh, gyeah, I am a fukn comedian, not the funny kind, you know, but the superhero watchman secret dirtbag kind, except I know the meaning of no, werd?) in jackin jack-o so blatantly and then trying to get your ghetto pass reinstated. Oh jeez and yesterday Ja Rule, if his descent into sell-out-ness had not been totally and completely ratified, on TRL he referred to that Justin Timberlake song as "his jam", he was like "oh, yeah, that's my jam, right there." Carson Daly was like, "yeah, you like that one, huh?" Now it's pretty damn sad when Carson Daly is clowning you on national TV and you don't even know it. Carson Daly, who's fukn name should have been Stanley he's such a goddamm tool. Ja Rule, why don't you go all the way and do a song with the Olsen Twins, I mean, what's next for this fukn R&B hooked out beyatch? OK super secret rant over. Consdider yourselves executive clubbed and make a like a tree and get out of here.

Tuesday, November 19, 2002

Def Leppard Adrenalize. Not their best. Not their worst. A mediocre album from the most important band in the history of music. Mediocre by their standards. For virtually anyone else a classic of mammoth proportions. "Let's Get Rocked" is how I need to start my workday, it is what must be done.

I barely got to work on time this morning because I was simply captivated by the amazing story of the Dixie Chicks. Those crazy girls.

I was also flipping by Direct Effect on MTV. Hey, Busta Rhymes, I like your work, your talented, you've made it, you don't have to fukn promote your album every time you're on camera and shout out your fukn agent every five minutes, just tell me what goddamm video I'm gonna watch and shut the fuk up. And DJ Clue, I know you're playing the game, but could you at least tone down the ass kissing? Maybe take it from a 12 to an 8?

Cranky meets Def Leppard meets coffee bean meets happy boy. Now this is the mindstate for which the ultimate works of art of the last century were surely created.

Randy Rhoads' ghost jumped up front and rode shotgun this morning after I dropped off Mrs. P at school. Silly me, I hadn't even noticed him in the backseat when we first hopped in the AlfMobile. "Ya know, Alfred, that's a heck of a good woman you've got there," he said.

"You don't have to tell me that, Randy."

For the next couple minutes, he was strangely quiet. I was about to say something stupid like "damn Olowokandi had a monster game against Golden State last night," but as I looked over, I noticed a tear in his eye. I thought about asking, and then didn't. Let him have his moment. Memories of a lost love? Ponderings of relationships undeveloped? That girl that he always figured he'd come back to in a few years after he sowed his wild oats playing axe for the Madman? Whatever it was, he seemed over it just as we turned the corner to the Alf Mansion.

"If you could come back and do anything in the world besides play guitar, what would you do Randy?" I asked him.

"I don't have to tell you that, Alfred. I'd rather be a dead man bangin' out hits for the Reaper."

And he didn't have to tell me that. And he felt better. And we laughed and parted ways and got on with our day.

Monday, November 18, 2002

Doesn't that pain face say it all? Joe Igber expresses with nary a word what golden bear nation is feeling this cold November eve. Not only did we get beat by the up-to-this-weekend-winless-in-conference Arizona MildCats, but the word came down from the NCAA that Cal's banishment from bowlville is officially officialized and deemed correctomundo JJ.

Which makes the Big Game all the bigger. This is our bowl game, Cal nation, and the scary thing is Stanford sucks ass this year, meaning they're heavily favored. Anybody that follows the Big Game and the history of the Stanfurd Axe and the greatest rivalry in not just college football but all of sports, followed by a close second Raider/Bronco hatred, should know that the team with the most ass-sucking qualities usually wins this game.

More on Big Game history later this week. You can pretty much bank on me ragging on John Elway, aka chump-o-rama Stanford QB aka Mr. "My last impression of my college football career before becoming a shlong-riding Bronco was seeing a mastadonian Golden Bear knock out a Cardinal Trombone player."

You're not leaving until you go around the world.

That was just the beginning folks, there was a whole little blog entry that started with that there sentence. Then my computer crashed, and all that was recovered by Bill Gates and his dogshit was the above sentence. Think of all the things that could mean. Pull your head out of the gutter goddammit. OK, for creativity sake, put it back in, just for a minute, but it's nothing like that. Around the World. The basketball shooting game, where you have to make a shot from various points around the key. I wrote a really lame really stupid really pathetic attempt at repartee referencing that there idea.

Oh alfred antithetical self aggrandizement so does not become you. Get off the straight up bonumbo tip for all concerned and move on for chrissake.

I was recently put in the uncomforable position of being in the same room as a television set that was exhibiting the film Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood. Oh ya ya sisterhood though ungoodest of not good movies. Why art thou? Not why art thou horrible or why art thou intensely muy, just why. Why? Art thou? Art Howe. Why. There is no need, yet it COULD have redeemed itself, as shown from the extra clips they show at the end, yet didn't. Much ado which you think might have some form of payoff, then nothing. Some sob story about diet pills and a nervous breakdown. Give me a fukn break and get over it already. I was waiting for the candles to fall on the ground and burn the whole fukn house down during the final ya ya sisterhood indoctrination, now that would have been an ending to be proud of, but no, there's just no balls in filmmaking anymore. And everytime those dumb ho's yelled out "ya ya" it was like, johnny, get my gun, cuz uncle claymore is going to south central and getting wiggy wid it.

Saw 8-Mile this weekend. We WERE going to see Harry Potter, but so was everybody else and his goddamm brother. Got there at 7:15 for the 7:30 show, and not only was it sold out but so was the 8:30, do we want to see it at 10 PM? no thanks, so it was Eminem and Bulimia girl in the trailer park Saturday Night fever. Pretty ok flick, the best part is the battle at the end, eminem kicks some serious ass and takes down some intriguing names. Well he doesn't literally put he does metaphorically.

8-Mile came a day before Ya-Ya. You see, I was faced with the truth of the matter by a convincing Mrs. P at the video store that I had chosen 8-Mile and most of the movies we've seen recently, and I couldn't find any better alternative than Sexy Beast and therefore I was painted in a corner with the only exit marked with a sign that read "ya ya." Ya know, really, it wasn't THAT bad, but they could have made it better and shit, so much drama for some alcoholic beYatch with a self-sympathy issue. That and the stereotypical Irish/Scottish whatever he was fiancee with the witty remarks and worldy wisdom and yada yada yada.

Floated around in the ocean yesterday as the rain clouds gathered. Cold at first then swam for about 50 yards and then warm and bueno. Dove down and ran my hands through the sand, dug down and found grey sand under white sand under the crap sand they're importing into Lanikai now because the sandbags are holding back mother ocean. Load up the sand and protect those million dollar houses. Can't have Carlos Escobar's summer pad getting wet behind the gills, now can we?

Now, see, I went through this whole post without mentioning the Raiders, see I'm not here to bore you with sports crap, really, I'm here to give you a peek into Alf-Central, the land where game recognizes game. In the bank main, chillin in the bank, main.

Wait, did I say I saw Ya-Ya Sisterhood? oh ha ha, I meant, I took my Wah Wah into the hood. yeah, my wah wah pedal, ya know, cuz I did a big guitar solo concert in South Central Kalihi last night, ah confusion my bitter enemy yet intimate friend. I mean, you know, I'm way too tough and cool to watch ya-ya sisterhood or any affiliated pelicula.

I mean I'm a hairy buffed out claw poppin gangsta. And the cristal's on ice.