Thursday, July 26, 2007

They are coming for you. Murmuring high-pitched, incoherent threats. At first, you'll only sense a slight rumbling in the earth. the tremors of thousands of nerf feet pounding the asphalt to dust. They are coming for you.

Goddamn Japanese scientists. They just can't leave well enough alone.

Podiatric Fetish?

1906dc's First Female Posting

Men are like shoes. The shoes that you absolutely loved during your high school years you eventually outgrow, and sooner or later dump. Years later, you look back and say to yourself, “What the fuck was I thinking?” Some shoes hurt you immediately. As soon as you try them on for size you cringe with pain. There are shoes that you’ve invested so much in that you decide to live with the torture. You put up with agony, until one day, you decide that your heart and sole can’t take it any longer. You walk away, barefoot and happy. If you’re lucky, you’ll find a keeper. The perfect shoe that will remain so, at least in your eyes, until death do you part. These are the quality ones that lasts a lifetime. The ones that you love so much you won’t ever throw them out no matter how old and worn out they’ve become.

If men are like shoes, then 1906 is like a shoe closet. You have, Hamilton, your very versatile and oh-so-comfortable sandals. Whether they are Rainbows, or Reefs, or $3.99 CVS brand, sandals conform to your feet making them more comfortable with wear…and trust me, there are not many things that are better after wear. Although not appropriate for all work environments, you’ll find that sandals are a must-have --- perfect for long walks on the beach and Guatemalan adventures.

There’s Nate, the limited edition, very expensive sneakers (just ask Kristi) --- the Fukijama of Michigan, if you will. These sneakers are quick to jump on you for your lame remarks and run you out of town for your stupid actions. The Holy Grail of footwear that is too cool for school and too legit to quit (again, ask Kristi). A shoe of this caliber is worth the sugar.

If boots are made for walking, then one of these days Alec Gross is gonna walk all over you. Once you discover the greatness and spectacular qualities of boots, you’ll absolutely love them. Boots are of a distinctive style that footwear fashionistas admire for their flair and appreciate for their beauty. If you own a pair, you’re like a cowboy at dawn, a soldier at Iwo Jima, a fireman on 9/11 --- you’re on your way to the top. “Are you ready boots? Start walkin'!”

Tom, of course, is the flashy 3½-inch stilettos. The shoes that scream, “Look at me!!!” and “I need attention!!!” The ones that you’re wearing when strangers stop you on the street and ask, “Super cute but aren’t they painful?” Heals that you wear on special occasions when you want the spotlight, but not too often because you can only handle such ostentation in small doses. They’re definitely the shoes of choice when you want to have a really good time.

1906 is the shoe closet where you throw all your different pairs of shoes and get this great eclectic footwear collection. Whatever their drawbacks may be, whether they’re dirty, or smelly, or loud, they’re definitely all keepers.

What shoes do prominent members of pop culture remind you of? Dick Cheney an Army Boot (rigid and militant, no sense of humor or room for comfort) - John Bobbit a pair of High Tops without any laces (Look masculine but without the proper equipment to do the job) Or what types of shoes do you fancy yourself as being? Leave a comment making some footwear comparisons of your own…

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

Sports Apocalypse….Da Da Da…Da Da Da

Do you remember when SportsCenter was enjoyable? The show crammed itself with highlights – clips of world class athletes doing the amazing and unimaginable. Nightly, I itched for 11:00 hour to view the compilation of these memorable feats. Now, at 10:59, I’m forced to pop three Excedrin PM with aims of preventing myself from committing a hate crime against my roommate’s TV. What thee Fuck? The Worldwide Leader’s flagship program is now no different than DC’s abhorrent News 7, or any random local news channel. Gloom, doom, atrocity, danger, fear – it’s gone beyond ridiculous. Whereas local news reports 15 minutes of fabricated neighborhood murders, SportsCenter devotes at least a half hour to scandal, criminal charges and congressional indictments. Is this Court TV? I want to watch sports, fuckwads.

Obviously, ESPN’s new breed of shit throwing monkey’s are in heaven this summer with Vick, Bonds and Donaghy immovable from the headlines. I suppose these stories are somewhat important, but honestly I can’t take it anymore. According to reports “Atlanta Falcons owner Arthur Blank must factor protests from PETA and the negative publicity generated by them when considering disciplinary action against Vick.” Protests from PETA? Have I lost my fucking mind? These are the same people we tell to go fuck themselves when they block the sidewalk in front of Nordstrom’s. Remind me again of the public response to PETA’s ongoing crusade to “free” live mascots from their domesticated prisons. Last time I checked, Uga was still wearing a sweater and licking his own balls. Go save an Elephant bitches!

I concede that the destructive behavior of athletes and referees warrants some attention, but the media chooses to shove this stuff down the consumer’s throat until we choke, cough and vomit blood. I thought it would be in ESPNs best interest to protect athletes, after all, who will Skip “I was born with a Vulva” Bayless condemn when every black athlete is banished to attend classes at his “Nurture Your Vagina” detention center? Skippy is the only employee I’ve ever heard of who’s allowed to trash his own company’s product incessantly and still keep his job.

I can’t understand, is it ESPN’s goal to destroy every sport, to make me feel guilty about cheering for 756 or hoping that Vick stays out of jail? My generation – the current “it” generation and advertising’s target demographic – just wants the chance to experience a little bit of greatness. Instead, these bitter old media dinosaurs attack the morals, flair and attitude of their successors and diminish all of our accomplishments:

“Eighty points? What a ball hog. There will only be one Jordan.”
“How I long for the glory days, when white Americans could actually dribble the ball.”
“I’m so fucking old; I can’t make new memories, everything I see today is inherently shittier then when I had a functional brain.”

SportsCenter anchors and contributors have turned into the most predictably cliché group of American employees. Seriously, Mark Cuban has a better chance of being rejected at a whorehouse than an ESPN viewer has of making it one day without hearing drone Stuart Scott say “He’s straight ill wit it.”

That’s right; the sex workers of America have more backbone, integrity and balls than the newsroom in Bristol. By the way, I’m putting the over/under at two years for Ryan Seacrest becoming ESPN’s highest paid employee – in addition to his daily fluffing responsibilities (carried over contractually from his current job), he will replace Mr. Scott as the “edgy, almost black” anchor on ESPN.

This tirade could continue at infinitum, raising questions like why doesn’t the reputation of the Screen Actor’s Guild suffer when Lindsey Lohan is photographed snorting coke out of Nick Nolte’s shitter? Or what might happen if the media spent as much time investigating the crimes of our current Presidential Administration as they do on Pacman’s botched Rain Dance?

Instead, I am challenging myself with a call to action: Henceforth, I will be devoting the remainder of my life to creating a website and online community with the exclusive purpose of highlighting the positive work of athletes and feel good stories about sports. No DUIs or entourage melees, but insights on the comically ironical story of Shaq helping fat kids lose weight; shout-outs to Junior Griffey for autographing a magnum jock to a relentless heckler and of course a healthy dose of Maria Sharapova up-skirt shots™.

I shall call it a sanctuary for positive sports energy; a place to rival to ESPN’s constant hate mongering, where true fans can honor their heroes and ignore their human flaws.

Here are some classic clips to remind the true believers just how enjoyable sports can be:

Does this count as a gangbang?

Key on the crazy white chick running by the sideline at the end.

Messi Goes All Maradona

Let's just hope he doesn't become a fat, suicidal, coke head.

Randy Johnson Hunting With an Unauthorized Firearm

The Big Unit has Kills

Vince Carter - Deez Nuts

Vin Baker was on the Olympic Team? There is a nugget for you.

Sunday, July 22, 2007

Guest Blog: Third Force Act Day

It was April 20th when my journey started…a day that is rightfully infamous to many Americans, while, regrettably many Americans have no idea of the significance of April 20th in our shared history. You see, in addition to being Hitler’s birthday, on April 20th, 1871, Congress passed the Third Force Act, popularly known as the Ku Klux Klan Act, which authorized President Ulysses S. Grant to declare martial law and use military force to suppress the Ku Klux Klan (KKK).

It is this glorious piece of legislation that we celebrate every April 20th. People around the country, often times not even knowing what it is that’s compelling them to celebrate, nonetheless fully indulge in commemoration.

This past Third Force Act Day I found myself in Lowell, Massachusetts (the birthplace of Jack Kerouac. Lowell is often cited as the birth place of the industrial revolution, the catalyst to industrialization. It was an old mill town that boomed back in the olden day. If Detroit is forgotten, Lowell is ancient. There are many a vacate is the case in most Rust Belt cities. However, Lowell had a unique feel about it that gave it the appearance of having been chewed up and spit out, except for a few select pieces of land that had been salvaged for whatever capitalistic value they might have left…it was a unique place.

Work was the only reasonable explanation I can have for being in Lowell on such a day as Third Force Act Day. But there was an upshot. I was catching the MBTA rail system from Lowell to Boston. In Boston I was catching an Amtrak train to D.C. I would arrive on April 21st at approximately 7 AM in DC.

I was ready to began my odyssey, or pilgrimage if you will, to go to the place where the Third Force Act (a.k.a. the Ku Klux Klan Act) had been passed by a brave new Congress.

But first, after I was done working, I had to take in the sights of Lowell. I love industrial wastelands. I grew up in the Rust Belt and have always been intrigued by the ever-present shopping carts in creeks, the broken glass and the edge that comes with the leftover remnants of a capitalist boom.

I found a decent place to walk, where I’d be away from people and could park the ride, and took a walk. I walked through a parking lot, between a fence and over a bridge across a creek.

There was another factory on the other side of the creek. I stopped on the foot bridge and took in the sights of the running water. There was an abandoned ATV four-wheeler lodged in the side of the embankment on the left, a shopping cart on the right and what appeared to be an oily substance throughout the creek.

But I chilled.

Then I saw a car – it was two girls in a ride. I thought perhaps they were out celebrating Third Force Act Day too…They were chillin…I figured after awhile I ought to hit the road…so that’s what I did.

As I began walking back across the bridge, a man started walking from the factory on the other side of the creek towards the bridge…guess he was coming to enjoy the sites of abandoned ATV’s and shopping carts.

I found my car and made my way to the parking garage, where the parking attendant had a dent in the middle of his upper lip. (It reminded me of that girl’s lip in Kill Bill II when Uma goes to Mexico to talk to Esteban) It gave him a lisp of sorts, sorta felt bad for the guy until he tried to rip me off. He did some faulty math and charged me about $14 more than it costs to keep my car there for three days.

Whatever, got my money back went to the car to chill…train wasn’t coming until 6:35 PM. It was about 6…I enjoyed some music, celebrating Congressional action against the KKK.

Got to Boston about 7:30. Took a cab to the bar where I was meeting a friend, took out my bags and scurried into the bar. I was thirsty.

Drank some beer, ate a few appetizers and hit the road. I was near appropriately lit before the train ride. Luckily they sell Heineken on Amtrak, I could finish the job.

It was a 10-hour train ride…or maybe 9…whatever the case I was on that train for a damn long time, and didn’t sleep for more than 3 hours at a time, so from my perspective it wasn’t technically a new day when I finally arrived at the Shaw St./ Howard Univ. Metro stop. I had done a little sleeping, but was mostly just in that semi-delusional, half drunk, half asleep state that we sometimes find ourselves in.

I was greeted at the Metro stop at about 7:30 AM by Vogel, who was still rocking his threads from the night before. He’d had a rough night of boozing, but he made it…so at least I wasn’t stranded in Ledroit Park at 7:30 AM.

I entered was like a beacon of light at the end of the tunnel. I had left my bed in New Hampshire the morning before at 7 AM, and had been going, on the road from city to city, state to state, for 24 hours. Caught maybe 5 hours of sleep along the way.

So I was beat, caught about another 2 hours at 1906…so I guess by the time I woke up at noon I’d had about 7 hours…but I was not ready for the madness to ensue.

Hamilton had a rugby game. Vogel and I were going.

I’d never been to a rugby match before. I had no idea what I was in for.

Granted I brought some of it on myself, no one forced me to accept the outstretched icy cold Bud Light, that had water dripping off it…it was hot, about 90 degrees. Hot. I accepted the beer and I drank.

Not just one, but no more than 12. Somewhere in between.

Rugby is a fascinating sport. Sort of like football without the pads, a more physical soccer. And you can sit on the sidelines and drink beer. And I was definitely not the only one.

After the rugby match, it seems to be a custom to go to the bar, where a strange game is played…a game involving a golf ball and pitchers of beer. I don’t think I ever figured the game out, except that it involved being required to drink pitchers of beer if you happen to hold the pitcher with the golf ball…or something…

I was about half in the bag before entering the bar, so I think that I was easily susceptible to trickery involved in such silly games. But I drank, like a champ. Smashed about two pitchers of beer…something like that. It was a lot.

I was pretty well wrecked by the time I left the bar…it was maybe 4 PM.

But the night was not over, sleep would not be had as of yet. Keep in mind that because I hadn’t slept for more than 3 hours at a time, I considered this to still be the day before – therefore I could justify such excessive drinking due to the fact that I was still celebrating Third Force Act Day.

There was a party to go to.

After food, shower and other attempts to sober up we prepared for departure to the party.

We made it to the party…and drank more. Don’t remember preciously what I drank. There was tequila involved, perhaps in a margarita…then also maybe some shots. I’m a little unclear about this. I do remember sitting down on the couch, there was tiered seating in front of me, it was a crazy living room. I thought to rest my eyes.

I’m not exactly sure how many hours later it was that I woke up, but I woke up. I just opened my eyes, there were two guys sitting there, and I stood up, stumbled, in a dazed fashion towards the kitchen and found a beer. Walked outside and there was Vogel. He looked at me like I’d risen from the dead, which I guess in some ways I had.

I’d say that falling asleep on the couch at the party marked the end of my April 20th celebration…and although I’d traveled through nine states, I made it to Washington DC, to my safe haven at 1906, to properly commemorate the passage of the Ku Klux Klan Act.

Friday, July 6, 2007

Memoirs of a Raconteur

And to address all the rumors swirling around out there: it is true, I lost my virginity at the age of 14 while listening to Gordon Lightfoot's seminal work, "The Wreck of The Edmund Fitzgerald". And yes, I lasted the whole song.

Thursday, July 5, 2007


the musings below is taken from an email i sent a friend who had a picture of dylan as her facebook picture. it got me talking about some recent experiences w dylan and i think what came out talks about God and how we idolize people and ideas and make them into Gods and put them on pedastels and don't quite know how to deal w it. i really love dylan a lot, but i dont think i copy him really in my work. which is good and i'm glad. i think i draw literally from other influences more heavily, but none is greater. i'm sorry if it's a bit long, but you dont have to read it if you dont want to. you wont miss anything you dont already know all about.

"also, is it bad that whenever i look at a picture of dylan i want to be him? is it bad because that counting crows' lyric is true. i dreamt i was dylan the other night. i/dylan was livin in my first house in woodstock, ny, and had decorated it in an under-the-sea fashion. mariner. then we shot a music video where the whole town came and dismantled my kitchen. they just pulled it apart piece by piece and carried it out onto the lawn and my neighbors' lawns. what does that mean? does it mean something heavy? i think it might. but maybe it doesnt mean anything. i mean, all the townsfolk going into your home and carrying out everything and laying it on the lawn. all your neighbors laying all your personal stuff on the lawn... that's significant, right? what would the song sound like that goes with that video?

i dream about dylan a lot. a few months ago i had one where he was singing a song to me. it was that last dream you have on a wknd morning before you wake up. very vivid and colorful. i woke up singing the melody, but the words were all jumbled up. they had something to do with a car but they were so nonsensical that only dylan could get away w singing it. i straightened the words around and now i sing it a lot. i wonder if dylan does that consciously. maybe he goes around in people's sleep and gives them throw-away song ideas he doesn't want. like charity, only it's a bit of a tease. which i s'pose is pretty common w most charitable acts. i can never get over the feeling that i'm a figure of resentment for the good people. like i'm patronizing them by serving food or something. anyways, i wished dylan gave me a better tune, but that's dylan, and you don't second guess him or act ungrateful-like. you dont ask for seconds. you take what he gives you and you give him a nervous smile and whisper thanks and try not to look back too much. dylan can make us feel like we're homeless or beggars. that we're receiving gifts from something a whole lot prettier and cleaner. a whole lot purer. we shuffle and cough a lot. and we reach out pensively and we dont grab and we dont have too much to say about it that'd make any sense anyway."

Monday, July 2, 2007

My favorite is Hydrology

It was a warm Tuesday in late May of 2006. My friend Lane and I thought it would be a great idea to soak up some rays at the ballpark. The Nationals were on a two game winning streak, which had the city buzzing. The electricity in the crowd of 957 fans foreshadowed a great day at RFK. As we passed through security with our Aquafina bottles filled to the brim with Aristocrat Vodka (made with the finest potatoes in all of the Caucuses), no guards gave us any trouble as vodka is clear much like water, which was what was "supposed" to be in the plastic bottles we carried. After entering the stadium we went directly to a concession stand were souvenir cups of Sierra Mist were purchased. RFK's seating rules are equivalent to one of those budget airlines that allows you to sit where ever you please, so we got a wonderful third base line row to ourselves. The shirts came off and the Sierra Mist and fine vodka mixed into a delightful cocktail fit for any sorostitute who planned on blaming her questionable behaviors on the fact that, "she couldn't remember anything after that first glass of vodka sierra". Our own levels of intoxication rose rapidly as both the sun and vodka worked diligently to dehydrate our person. By the end of the game (I don't remember if the Nats won on accounts of the sierra vodka...), I realize it is getting late. You see, I had not yet completed summer courses for my graduate work. I had been so enjoying myself at the ball game, I had forgotten that today I had to record a podcast for my Technology in Teaching class. Before going to the game, I had strategically placed a folded up script for the podcast in my right pocket. I rushed out of the stadium, and took a drunken metro ride to class.

Here is the picture I would like to paint for you before actually hearing the fruits of my labor. A large sunburned man walks into class twenty minutes late. It is obvious he has been drinking, and his odor only solidifies this fact. He apologizes for being late, sits down and waits for his turn to record a podcast for a class assignment. After being awoken from a quick 5 minute nap, he enters the recording booth. After about 10 minutes, and what must have been at least 5 different takes, he exits the recording booth with a drunken grin on his face. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Mr. McNutt's first and only podcast.