I open my eyes and am struck by the thought that I don't know where I am. I investigate my immediate surroundings. They are dark. My mind swims. My head tries to follow, and I realize that my face has been buried in a pillow.
I am in my room. It is dark, but not of its own volition. The blinds have been drawn, the door shut, a towel wedged into the crack between it and the floor. Through the gloom, I spy a large, hand-painted sign hanging lazily from a thumbtack-supported rope in front of my sole, small window. It reads, in bright red paint, "GO BACK TO SLEEP."
Always one to question signs written in my own hand, I sit up in my bed. I am comforted to realize I have slept in my bed and not, as is too often the case, on the floor, supported only by wrinkled, half-on clothing and a near-empty bottle of liquor. In fact, as my eyes adjust to being open, I notice the room is immaculate and tidy, which leads me to suspect my mother has broken in and cleaned the place while I dozed. I am about to call and berate her for intruding on my disheveled independence when another thought strikes: What time is it?
I glance over at my clock radio, which proudly boasts that it is in fact 11:47. But questions still linger: AM? PM? And what day is it? What month, even?
I need a calendar. Cal-en-dar. The word sounds funny, even in my brain; it is a word from a different world or someone else's life, a place full of events and plans and schedules. A place where the passage of time is not marked by the rise and fall of a dirty laundry pile. A scary, cold, unwelcoming place. A place, I am afraid, I now inhabit.
I reach over to my end table, beyond the suspiciously dusty clock radio, in search of my cell phone, which legend has it counts some kind of cal-en-dar as one of its many unused features. As I do so, the LED numbers cast enough light on my hand to make it recoil in horror from itself; it is covered in hair, nails stretching out far beyond any reasonable amount of growth. I bathe my other hand in the soft green light and it, too, is furry and long-nailed. I gingerly stroke my chin and discover I have a long, ZZ-Top-style beard cascading down from it. I dare not look at my pubic area.
I break out into a cold sweat as a single question loops in my mind: "How long have I been asleep?"
Desperate for an answer, yet wary of what I may discover, I leap out of bed--stumbling briefly as I adjust to the length of my toenails--and flick on the light switch. The bulb in the fixture above me hisses and rattles and pops, before exploding in a shower of sparks that very briefly catches my beard alight. I crawl back over my bed and rummage around the end table until I do find my phone, which offers no answers, its battery having died long ago. Frustrated, I throw it against the wall, from which it rebounds nonchalantly and lands safely back onto my bed, flipped open, mocking me with its blank expression.
I hop back off the bed and throw open my bedroom door, expecting to be bathed in light. Instead, more darkness. Curse my basement apartment! I silently cry. I am happy to remember I do in fact live in a basement apartment, and that my name appears to be Patrick, if the hand-written sign across the hall from my bedroom door is to be believed: "YOUR NAME IS PATRICK," it says, in the same bright red paint. Again, I am suspicious, but I have no reason to doubt it.
I advance down the hallway to the small kitchen, which, like my bedroom, is dusty yet tidy. With hibernation fueling my hunger, I open the fridge to sate it; this turns out to be a bad move. A pizza box beckons me closer, but upon throwing it open I am greeted by a surly face, eyebrows made of onions, a mouth of pepperoni, and teeth of what I swear is calcified bone but who would put that on a pizza? The pizza face snarls at me and bellows, "What? Come on, punk, I dare ya!" I slam the fridge shut. How long would it take a pizza to grow a face and develop vocal chords? I try to do some quick mental arithmetic, but my bowels don't like the sound of either of those words and urge me to visit the toilet post-haste. I do so. Unlike hand-written signs, I have learned from experience it is highly unwise to ignore your bowels.
I emerge, some time later, from the bathroom, having taken care of all my hygienic needs. Clean-shaven, nails shorn, and aerosol can of air-freshener depleted, I calmly move back into the kitchen, eager to start my day, first by figuring out exactly what day it is, and then hopefully moving on from there. I gingerly crack open the fridge door and politely ask Pizzaface if he can toss me a can of Coke; he obliges with a grunt, and though he whips the can out at me with unnecessary speed, I politely thank him and leave him to his privacy. I crack the can open and take a long, gluttonous gulp; it is delicious. Coke, unlike pizza, is indestructible. And they say it's bad for you!
My eyes having adjusted, cat-like, to the apartment's lack of light, I walk calmly over into the TV area, where I sit down on the couch to the accompaniment of a cloud of freshly-disturbed dust. My laptop lies quietly on the coffee table, sleeping peacefully. I am loathe to arouse it from its slumber, remembering my own rude awakening earlier, but this mystery needs solving. I lift the screen, and am greeted by another hand-painted sign, this one reading "I HOPE YOU'RE SITTING DOWN." I double-check to confirm that yes, I am sitting down, and I remove the sign from the screen and press the power button.
I sit. And wait. I sip some Coke. Still sitting. Still waiting. The laptop sputters and rumbles as it awakens from its sleep. I wish it would go faster, but I must be patient. I can empathize with it, after all. I, too, am a heavy sleeper. Apparently.
Finally, it is finished, and as my desktop appears I hover the mouse over the time display in the bottom corner and discover...
September. September? September!? September!
I run a song from my childhood through my head, a song about the months of the year. Which one sounds the most familiar...?
April! April. That sounds good. So, April, May, June...it must have been...five months! Five! Five months. How can I have slept for five months? Wasn't there something I should have been doing?
A panic grips me. I run down the list of things that I hold dear. It is a very short list. In fact, it is far shorter than the list of things I think I should probably hold dear, but aren't really gripping me at the moment. Employment? No, that's not it. I'm pretty sure I missed a few family birthdays, but that's fine, there will be others. My own birthday? Ha, don't make me laugh! A wedding or two? Graduations? Perhaps. But I'm sure a belated greeting card will smooth things over. What is it that is gnawing at my soul like a hungry beaver? What is it I have neglected to do? What is it that the world will have been missing?
At this point I notice on my desktop a singular icon, right in the middle of the screen. It is labeled "IMPORTANT!!!!" It is a generic icon, with no hint of what opening it will produce. With some trepidation, and a sip of Coke for courage, I hover the pointer over it and double-click.
A window opens up, like a web browser, but different; more sparse and unassuming, with not a drop-down menu in sight. A miniature 3-D model appears in the center of it, a series of tiny interlocking bluish-green lines, spinning away in front of a deep black background. I cannot for the life of me identify it. I search for a zoom tool but find none. In fact, there seems to be no way to interact with it at all. Slowly, I realize it is getting larger, albeit in no great hurry. It spins at a constant speed, gradually increasing in size. I notice it is somewhat triangular in shape, with a large, rounded bottom, tapering off at the top, but not to a point. In the middle of it, on one side, there is a large sort of bump, but what it represents I cannot tell.
I decide to give it some time, to study it as it rotates. As I do, my mind wanders. It appears to be in search of something. Normally, I would be hesitant to let it do so, but in this case, given my circumstances, I figure it can only lead to good, even if the information it recalls is horrifying. At least it would give me a reference point.
Instead, all it seems to come up with is "metal." I don't see how that helps.
The model on the screen has now approached about an inch in height, and there is definitely something familiar about it, but I cannot quite place it. My mind begins to wander again, and I implore it to do better this time. It ignores me, returning only: "usurpers."
Maybe it meant syrup, I think. I do feel like pancakes.
I turn my attention back to the model. It continues to grow, steadily, menacingly. My palms begin to sweat. My back begins to ache. I set my Coke down gently onto the coffee table. I put my hands to my chin. My eyes are glued open, focused on the screen. Something horrible is about to happen, I can feel it. My mind races, desperately, either to resolve this mystery once and for all or avoid doing so at all costs; I cannot tell. It is beyond my control. It continues tossing nonsense at me: "hands," "soccer," "skin," "flame," "future," "alive," "fiends." None of it makes any sense. The model on the screen grows larger. I prepare to cry, for no reason I can think of, but whatever it is it feels like a good one. Then my mind tosses the word "program" at me and I physically repulse; the 3-D model now spins into a recognizable shape, and I let out a girlish, high-pitched scream, and immediately wet myself.
It is a nose. A large, malformed, hideous nose. A "bleeder," as the medical professionals say.
And I know whose it is.
I let out an agonized, near-inhuman wail. Why have the gods cursed me so? Why was I not allowed to slumber? Why awaken me to such unspeakable horror?
And then, strangely, a calm, washing over me like baptismal waters. My mind slows down to a steady gallop, its synapses firing on all cylinders now. I sit up, ignoring the pungent wetness settling into the couch beneath me, and direct my web browser to Your Mom's Favorite Blog. And there it is. The reason for my awakening. The cause of all my anguish. The bane of my existence.
Eric Walkingshaw speaks.
He speaks of board games and their designers, of physicality and highfalutin. My blood boils. How dare he? I could have slept forever, but now this? This!? My peace disturbed and my pants wettened for an essay on the new version of Risk?
My mind gleefully throws another word at me: "revenge."
I get up from the couch, walk back down the hall, and re-enter my room. I move to the closet and, reaching up to the highest shelf, pull down a dilapidated, dusty cardboard box labeled "That Which Shall Not Be Opened." I place it down on the carpet and disobey my own handwriting, opening it, and removing the contents within. It is a board game. It is Risk. And in small letters in magic marker, written in a shaky, childlike hand, just below the picture of a 19th-century cannon, are the words "Property of Eric Walkingshaw."
I scoff. I take the cover of the Risk box and toss it contemptuously aside. I remove the board and unfold it, its color-coded continents staring up at me from the ground. I take out an army of plastic star-shaped soldiers, and starting with Australia, I spread them around the map, piling groups of them along continental borders except between North and South America where that cunning little bastard always has a truce with someone. After a short time, my task is complete; the board and its contents now represent, in fine detail, the state of Eric Walkingshaw's army, on the cusp of victory, only a single enemy soldier standing in the way of total victory, holding on for dear life in Irkutsk.
I remove the attack dice from the box and place all three of them into my mouth. I hold the two defensive dice in my right hand. With my left, I undo the button and zipper of my pants, and I crouch down over the Risk board, over Eric's massed armies, over the zenith of his military campaign, and with a great grunt and straining of muscles I unleash an atomic bomb of shit over his strategy-game world.
Beads of sweat dotting my forehead, I raise my right fist, clutching the defensive dice, high into the air. I swallow the attacking dice in one decisive gulp, and my victory complete, I shout to the heavens, "LEGACY!!!!!"
Your move, Walkingshaw.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Top 1 Liverpool Photographs
It kind of says it all, really.
http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2009/10/11/article-1219274-06C39C4C000005DC-762_306x206_popup.jpg
Just a link until I can figure out how to re-size the damn thing.
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http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2009/10/11/article-1219274-06C39C4C000005DC-762_306x206_popup.jpg
Just a link until I can figure out how to re-size the damn thing.
(6 of 111)
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Top 1 Liverpool Footballers
Well, Eric is back, and thus so am I. And with Eric zooming into the lead with his mass of "favorite baseball player" lists, I suddenly, at one stroke, find myself at a disadvantage, superior Top 1 lists or no. So I too shall dip a toe into the sweat-scented pool of sport, and write for some considered length about footballers who have played for Liverpool.
There is a caveat to this, however, since I have only been an ardent Liverpool fan since round about 2002, when my love affair with The Beautiful Game* really began. That in itself is a story, mostly involving all-nighters, college, and a World Cup particularly suited to winning the heart of a Korean/American hybrid, but I won't get into that now. Suffice to say that England's strike partnership that summer consisted of Big Bad Emile Heskey and Speedy Little Runt Michael Owen, and when I found out they both happened to play for the same club team (Liverpool), my allegiance was decided.
The thing about Liverpool is that they, like most other European football** clubs, are a team steeped in history and tradition, of which for most of my life I was blissfully and completely ignorant. My life was consumed with thoughts of baseball and basketball and ice hockey and yes even American football, as strange as that may seem now. And then soccer-football--like an elegant and brilliant and beautiful young woman who comes swooping into your life when you're already settled with a wife and three lovely children and charms you with her grace, glamor, and glorious bazongas--came and swept me off my feet.
But I was still largely ignorant of the game's past and it's various storied histories, from the glories of World Cups gone by to the rich cast of characters who had helped shape and define the game in decades previous. Thus, strong as my ardor for Liverpool may have been, I had no first-hand knowledge of such greats as the goal machine Ian Rush, or the mercurial Emlyn Hughes, or stalwart mustachioed defender Alan Hansen, or rappin' John Barnes, or hard-charging Graeme Souness, or clever wide-man Steve Nicol, or even the great King Kenny Dalglish himself. I would learn their names and hear of their exploits, but I couldn't rightly claim them as favorites of my own; they simply lived on through the nostalgic cooing of Liverpool fans past and present.
Instead, my fandom began at a time when the aforementioned Heskey and Owen were leading the line, a tandem that these days seems hard to believe given the fall in fortunes of both those players. It was a time of expensive overseas flops like the much-reviled-yet-Eric-beloved El-Hadji Diouf, and the less-reviled but even more ineffective Salif Diao. In the years since there have been British flops as well, from Craig Bellamy's unfortunate disruption-to-goals ratio and Robbie Keane's disastrous short spell***. In short, it looks like I've hopped onto the Liverpool bandwagon just in time for it to go careening into the River Mersey.
Such complaints are relative, however, and despite what a lifelong Liverpool fan might consider a fallow period in their club's history, I'm rather content at what I've been offered over the last decade. While the Premier League title seems ever out of reach, two Champions League final appearances and one incredible, unforgettable victory in that competition is a lot more than fans of most clubs will ever see in their lifetimes. And while the cast of characters that has paraded through Anfield in those years might not approach the levels of Liverpool's former legends, there's enough to love about them that I've never felt short of people to root for.
It starts at number one and it starts at the back: Jerzy Dudek may never have been the most reliable of goalkeepers, but then again a consistent and reliable goalkeeper isn't exactly a common find. Even in a position known for its eccentrics, Dudek holds his own; he's given a goalkeeper shirt to the Pope, claimed his manager treated him "like a slave," has produced numerous comedy errors in the goalmouth; but most of all, he was gleefully, weirdly effective in that Champions League victory over Milan, wobbling his legs like Bruce Grobbelaar and hopping around the goal-line like a maniac in an effort to psyche out the Milan penalty-takers. And of course there's my favorite moment from that match: his double-save against Andriy Shevchenko in extra-time that prompted my all-time favorite cocky grin. Jerzy Dudek, 99 times out of 100, has no right to smirk like that; this time, I'll allow it.
Then there's the big Finnish center back, Sami Hyypia, who might well have been my favorite Red of all time were it not for the fact that he's likely Eric Walkingshaw's favorite, and I cannot bring myself to align with my enemy so. The definitive quiet, consistent defender, my favorite memories of Sami Hyypia have more to do with his offensive prowess. And less so the goals he scored from set-piece headers, but more the buildup; how the camera would cut to him as he labored up the pitch, like a loyal old hound dog being summoned by its master, and insinuated his tall frame in amongst the crowd of anxious defenders.
On the left side of defense there was John Arne Riise, really remarkable for one thing: his rocket left foot. Enjoy. Oh, and then I guess there was that time Craig Bellamy bashed his legs with a golf club following an argument about karaoke. But I'm not sure who the real winner is in that one.
Of course, Jamie Carragher will go down in Liverpool history as one of its finest center backs, his dogged defensive heroics a large part of their 2005 Champions League success and a huge part of the limited successes they've had otherwise. It's been enough to inspire the charmingly repetitive song "Team of Carraghers," set to the tune of "Yellow Submarine." But I'll always remember Jamie Carragher for the impenetrable thickness of his Scouse accent. Watch this video and close your eyes to avoid the subtitles, and see how many words you can actually understand.
There's not a lot that has to be said about Steven Gerrard, although I will say that I find the funny side in him being accused of assault after getting into a fight with a DJ who refused to play his request for Phil Collins in a club. And I can overlook his hypocrisy when it comes to diving because when a guy scores goals like these a few flops here and there aren't enough to sully my enthusiasm.
I briefly mentioned Emile Heskey and Michael Owen before, but I'll briefly mention them again. In his day, Michael Owen was a sublime finisher, and his blistering pace only added to his goal-scoring threat. It's hard to believe the man who scored this goal against Argentina is the same man who's been rotting on the Real Madrid, Newcastle United, and Manchester United benches over the past few years. But that's what chronic leg injuries will do to you, I guess. As for Heskey, I've always got a soft spot for forwards who routinely fail to find the back of the net. And Emile is no different. Fight on, Heskey, fight on.
Xabi Alonso is close to my favorite Liverpool player, but not quite there. It's true that the team has yet to find a suitable replacement for him in the midfield (also Javier Mascherano), and he's an underrated part of that Spain team that seemed so unbeatable and proved it to be the case. He put away the tying goal back in the '05 final, and then, of course, there was this.
People always mention his hard work and his never-ending running, but to me Dirk Kuyt's legacy will be this description of him: "like someone poured a pot noodle over Rutger Hauer's sister." Look.
More so than Emile Heskey, Peter Crouch is my favorite seldom-scoring Liverpool forward. His seemingly interminable, 19-game, four-month scoreless streak at the start of his Liverpool career--after a 7-million-pound transfer--made him a cult hero; his lanky, stick-like 6-foot-7-inch frame only helped matters. And of course, who can forget him doing the robot after scoring for England? Mock those robots, Peter, mock away! He's got a bit of skill, as well.
I'm still hurt over Fernando Torres leaving Liverpool, but I do hope that for his sake, and for lovers of the game itself, that he finds his best form soon. I'd hate to think that such a bright talent has flamed out so early, though if he has, that 50 million pounds Liverpool received from Chelsea for him will look like the steal of the century. Still, for ditching the team in the middle of troubled times, I can't look back too fondly on his time at Anfield.
But I can and do with my actual #1 favorite Liverpool player: Dietmar "Didi" Hamann, German defensive midfielder extraordinaire. In that magical Champions League final in 2005, Gerrard gets the credit for inspiring his team to victory, but what goes overlooked far too often is Hamann's introduction at half-time; it was his steady, disciplined work that laid the foundations for Liverpool to push forward, while keeping the Milan attack that had so thoroughly cut Liverpool apart in the first half at bay--and did so with a broken toe. A stalwart for seven years with the club, he was no mere side-to-side passer either; he had a propensity for getting forward at opportune times, and oh, yeah, he also had a cracker of a shot. He's the kind of unassuming, quietly consistent player that I admire, and thus earns top spot on this one-man list.
Honorable mention video goes to the Anfield Rap. Oh, the '80s....
And a final post-script: Dudek!
*This is the preferred way to describe soccer, if you want to sound like an insufferable prick.
**I refer to European soccer as "football" and North American soccer as "soccer," partly to reflect the regional differences in nomenclature, but mostly just to be an insufferable prick.
***I realize that technically speaking Robbie Keane is Irish and therefore not British, but I'm too lazy to re-word this paragraph and quite frankly, it's not as if anyone reading this really gives a damn. Besides, as the proud holder of the most incongruously Irish name in mixed-race heritage history, I feel I have the right to not really give a shit about this distinction. End footnote.
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There is a caveat to this, however, since I have only been an ardent Liverpool fan since round about 2002, when my love affair with The Beautiful Game* really began. That in itself is a story, mostly involving all-nighters, college, and a World Cup particularly suited to winning the heart of a Korean/American hybrid, but I won't get into that now. Suffice to say that England's strike partnership that summer consisted of Big Bad Emile Heskey and Speedy Little Runt Michael Owen, and when I found out they both happened to play for the same club team (Liverpool), my allegiance was decided.
The thing about Liverpool is that they, like most other European football** clubs, are a team steeped in history and tradition, of which for most of my life I was blissfully and completely ignorant. My life was consumed with thoughts of baseball and basketball and ice hockey and yes even American football, as strange as that may seem now. And then soccer-football--like an elegant and brilliant and beautiful young woman who comes swooping into your life when you're already settled with a wife and three lovely children and charms you with her grace, glamor, and glorious bazongas--came and swept me off my feet.
But I was still largely ignorant of the game's past and it's various storied histories, from the glories of World Cups gone by to the rich cast of characters who had helped shape and define the game in decades previous. Thus, strong as my ardor for Liverpool may have been, I had no first-hand knowledge of such greats as the goal machine Ian Rush, or the mercurial Emlyn Hughes, or stalwart mustachioed defender Alan Hansen, or rappin' John Barnes, or hard-charging Graeme Souness, or clever wide-man Steve Nicol, or even the great King Kenny Dalglish himself. I would learn their names and hear of their exploits, but I couldn't rightly claim them as favorites of my own; they simply lived on through the nostalgic cooing of Liverpool fans past and present.
Instead, my fandom began at a time when the aforementioned Heskey and Owen were leading the line, a tandem that these days seems hard to believe given the fall in fortunes of both those players. It was a time of expensive overseas flops like the much-reviled-yet-Eric-beloved El-Hadji Diouf, and the less-reviled but even more ineffective Salif Diao. In the years since there have been British flops as well, from Craig Bellamy's unfortunate disruption-to-goals ratio and Robbie Keane's disastrous short spell***. In short, it looks like I've hopped onto the Liverpool bandwagon just in time for it to go careening into the River Mersey.
Such complaints are relative, however, and despite what a lifelong Liverpool fan might consider a fallow period in their club's history, I'm rather content at what I've been offered over the last decade. While the Premier League title seems ever out of reach, two Champions League final appearances and one incredible, unforgettable victory in that competition is a lot more than fans of most clubs will ever see in their lifetimes. And while the cast of characters that has paraded through Anfield in those years might not approach the levels of Liverpool's former legends, there's enough to love about them that I've never felt short of people to root for.
It starts at number one and it starts at the back: Jerzy Dudek may never have been the most reliable of goalkeepers, but then again a consistent and reliable goalkeeper isn't exactly a common find. Even in a position known for its eccentrics, Dudek holds his own; he's given a goalkeeper shirt to the Pope, claimed his manager treated him "like a slave," has produced numerous comedy errors in the goalmouth; but most of all, he was gleefully, weirdly effective in that Champions League victory over Milan, wobbling his legs like Bruce Grobbelaar and hopping around the goal-line like a maniac in an effort to psyche out the Milan penalty-takers. And of course there's my favorite moment from that match: his double-save against Andriy Shevchenko in extra-time that prompted my all-time favorite cocky grin. Jerzy Dudek, 99 times out of 100, has no right to smirk like that; this time, I'll allow it.
Then there's the big Finnish center back, Sami Hyypia, who might well have been my favorite Red of all time were it not for the fact that he's likely Eric Walkingshaw's favorite, and I cannot bring myself to align with my enemy so. The definitive quiet, consistent defender, my favorite memories of Sami Hyypia have more to do with his offensive prowess. And less so the goals he scored from set-piece headers, but more the buildup; how the camera would cut to him as he labored up the pitch, like a loyal old hound dog being summoned by its master, and insinuated his tall frame in amongst the crowd of anxious defenders.
On the left side of defense there was John Arne Riise, really remarkable for one thing: his rocket left foot. Enjoy. Oh, and then I guess there was that time Craig Bellamy bashed his legs with a golf club following an argument about karaoke. But I'm not sure who the real winner is in that one.
Of course, Jamie Carragher will go down in Liverpool history as one of its finest center backs, his dogged defensive heroics a large part of their 2005 Champions League success and a huge part of the limited successes they've had otherwise. It's been enough to inspire the charmingly repetitive song "Team of Carraghers," set to the tune of "Yellow Submarine." But I'll always remember Jamie Carragher for the impenetrable thickness of his Scouse accent. Watch this video and close your eyes to avoid the subtitles, and see how many words you can actually understand.
There's not a lot that has to be said about Steven Gerrard, although I will say that I find the funny side in him being accused of assault after getting into a fight with a DJ who refused to play his request for Phil Collins in a club. And I can overlook his hypocrisy when it comes to diving because when a guy scores goals like these a few flops here and there aren't enough to sully my enthusiasm.
I briefly mentioned Emile Heskey and Michael Owen before, but I'll briefly mention them again. In his day, Michael Owen was a sublime finisher, and his blistering pace only added to his goal-scoring threat. It's hard to believe the man who scored this goal against Argentina is the same man who's been rotting on the Real Madrid, Newcastle United, and Manchester United benches over the past few years. But that's what chronic leg injuries will do to you, I guess. As for Heskey, I've always got a soft spot for forwards who routinely fail to find the back of the net. And Emile is no different. Fight on, Heskey, fight on.
Xabi Alonso is close to my favorite Liverpool player, but not quite there. It's true that the team has yet to find a suitable replacement for him in the midfield (also Javier Mascherano), and he's an underrated part of that Spain team that seemed so unbeatable and proved it to be the case. He put away the tying goal back in the '05 final, and then, of course, there was this.
People always mention his hard work and his never-ending running, but to me Dirk Kuyt's legacy will be this description of him: "like someone poured a pot noodle over Rutger Hauer's sister." Look.
More so than Emile Heskey, Peter Crouch is my favorite seldom-scoring Liverpool forward. His seemingly interminable, 19-game, four-month scoreless streak at the start of his Liverpool career--after a 7-million-pound transfer--made him a cult hero; his lanky, stick-like 6-foot-7-inch frame only helped matters. And of course, who can forget him doing the robot after scoring for England? Mock those robots, Peter, mock away! He's got a bit of skill, as well.
I'm still hurt over Fernando Torres leaving Liverpool, but I do hope that for his sake, and for lovers of the game itself, that he finds his best form soon. I'd hate to think that such a bright talent has flamed out so early, though if he has, that 50 million pounds Liverpool received from Chelsea for him will look like the steal of the century. Still, for ditching the team in the middle of troubled times, I can't look back too fondly on his time at Anfield.
But I can and do with my actual #1 favorite Liverpool player: Dietmar "Didi" Hamann, German defensive midfielder extraordinaire. In that magical Champions League final in 2005, Gerrard gets the credit for inspiring his team to victory, but what goes overlooked far too often is Hamann's introduction at half-time; it was his steady, disciplined work that laid the foundations for Liverpool to push forward, while keeping the Milan attack that had so thoroughly cut Liverpool apart in the first half at bay--and did so with a broken toe. A stalwart for seven years with the club, he was no mere side-to-side passer either; he had a propensity for getting forward at opportune times, and oh, yeah, he also had a cracker of a shot. He's the kind of unassuming, quietly consistent player that I admire, and thus earns top spot on this one-man list.
Honorable mention video goes to the Anfield Rap. Oh, the '80s....
And a final post-script: Dudek!
*This is the preferred way to describe soccer, if you want to sound like an insufferable prick.
**I refer to European soccer as "football" and North American soccer as "soccer," partly to reflect the regional differences in nomenclature, but mostly just to be an insufferable prick.
***I realize that technically speaking Robbie Keane is Irish and therefore not British, but I'm too lazy to re-word this paragraph and quite frankly, it's not as if anyone reading this really gives a damn. Besides, as the proud holder of the most incongruously Irish name in mixed-race heritage history, I feel I have the right to not really give a shit about this distinction. End footnote.
(5 of 111)
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Top One Blog Posts This Week By Either Me Or My Robot-Loving Nemesis
1. This one!
That's right, this one. By default, really, because Eric, no doubt cowed by my superior 111 Top 1 Lists idea, has crawled into his aluminum-lined hidey hole to solder his wounds. What else could explain his absence? "Graduate school?" Pshaw! A retreat for society-fearing layabouts*, and nothing more!
And the beauty of it is, of course, that this post is meaningless! It contains almost no content. Its words are empty, its pauses barren, its punctuation unnecessary and often wrongly used? And yet, it is by far the better of the posts posted this week on either mine or Eric's blog, because Eric has failed his loyal readers once again.
Readers. Pfft. I scoff at such quaint notions as "readers." The beauty of no readership, dear sir Walkingshaw, is the perfection of silence. No caterwauls greet my disappearances and disappointments. Like the mythical tree falling in the proverbial forest, I am the sound of one hand clapping.
And so this post ends, as pointlessly as it began. So. Victory is mine!
*Not true, of course, and I look forward to the day when all people with advanced degrees will bestow upon me the currency of their hard-earned dough, because I will very likely be homeless.
That's right, this one. By default, really, because Eric, no doubt cowed by my superior 111 Top 1 Lists idea, has crawled into his aluminum-lined hidey hole to solder his wounds. What else could explain his absence? "Graduate school?" Pshaw! A retreat for society-fearing layabouts*, and nothing more!
And the beauty of it is, of course, that this post is meaningless! It contains almost no content. Its words are empty, its pauses barren, its punctuation unnecessary and often wrongly used? And yet, it is by far the better of the posts posted this week on either mine or Eric's blog, because Eric has failed his loyal readers once again.
Readers. Pfft. I scoff at such quaint notions as "readers." The beauty of no readership, dear sir Walkingshaw, is the perfection of silence. No caterwauls greet my disappearances and disappointments. Like the mythical tree falling in the proverbial forest, I am the sound of one hand clapping.
And so this post ends, as pointlessly as it began. So. Victory is mine!
*Not true, of course, and I look forward to the day when all people with advanced degrees will bestow upon me the currency of their hard-earned dough, because I will very likely be homeless.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
A Programming Note
No, not that kind of programming note. I mean the kind where you're informed ahead of time about changes to your regularly scheduled programming. Like this:
See, with Eric embarking and, to my mild annoyance, seemingly intent on completing his marathon 333 Top 3 Lists, my stated aim of responding in kind to each of his posts with daring feats of textual mockery is in danger of being overwhelmed by the likes of "Top 3 Ways a Robot Can Remove the Brain From a Living, Breathing Human Baby," or "Top 3 Risk Games Eric Walkingshaw Has Played, In Order of Smugness of Victory." And while my wholly original (and in no way a shameless rip-off) compilation of 111 Top 1 lists may stem this tide somewhat, it appears I may have been too clever for my own good, seeing as how long after I've completed that list of lists, Eric will still be only one-third of the way towards Ultimate Victory.
This I cannot allow to pass.
So I am given a choice: change course and post my own marathon list of Top 3s, in order to match Eric at every turn; dive deep into the murky waters of my creativity and counter each list with a post of such awe-inspiring wit that Eric will wail to his robot masters in protest; or simply change the parameters of victory and thus ensure that I will have to muster no extra effort at all.
I am sure that my choice is obvious.
So from this moment on, I will not be trying to match Eric list for list; I will complete my 111 Top 1 lists, as I am a man of my word, but in-between, in order to not Hare my way to defeat against Eric's lumbering Tortoise of lists, I will pepper this blog with non-listy items with which to battle Eric's web-based hubris. Many of these will probably contain mangled metaphors based on old children's fables, but that is the price one pays in such a taxing mind-battle. The end result will justify such illiterate means, I can assure you.
So let me commence this slight change in course by simply pointing out this old video game, wherein you control a cyborg who literally kicks lumps out of rebellious robots (and, as pointed out in the below video, that is literally all you have to do):
Also, I'd like to counter Eric's boyhood fascination with Venus with this documentary footage chronicling my own visit to said planet, long before it was anything but a glittering gem in Eric's mind's sky (no, I don't know what that metaphor means, either). Try to ignore those wisecracking schlubs down front; they certainly didn't make our mission any easier.
| The Colbert Report | Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c | |||
| Sign Off - Richard Dawkins Will Be Here Tomorrow | ||||
| ||||
See, with Eric embarking and, to my mild annoyance, seemingly intent on completing his marathon 333 Top 3 Lists, my stated aim of responding in kind to each of his posts with daring feats of textual mockery is in danger of being overwhelmed by the likes of "Top 3 Ways a Robot Can Remove the Brain From a Living, Breathing Human Baby," or "Top 3 Risk Games Eric Walkingshaw Has Played, In Order of Smugness of Victory." And while my wholly original (and in no way a shameless rip-off) compilation of 111 Top 1 lists may stem this tide somewhat, it appears I may have been too clever for my own good, seeing as how long after I've completed that list of lists, Eric will still be only one-third of the way towards Ultimate Victory.
This I cannot allow to pass.
So I am given a choice: change course and post my own marathon list of Top 3s, in order to match Eric at every turn; dive deep into the murky waters of my creativity and counter each list with a post of such awe-inspiring wit that Eric will wail to his robot masters in protest; or simply change the parameters of victory and thus ensure that I will have to muster no extra effort at all.
I am sure that my choice is obvious.
So from this moment on, I will not be trying to match Eric list for list; I will complete my 111 Top 1 lists, as I am a man of my word, but in-between, in order to not Hare my way to defeat against Eric's lumbering Tortoise of lists, I will pepper this blog with non-listy items with which to battle Eric's web-based hubris. Many of these will probably contain mangled metaphors based on old children's fables, but that is the price one pays in such a taxing mind-battle. The end result will justify such illiterate means, I can assure you.
So let me commence this slight change in course by simply pointing out this old video game, wherein you control a cyborg who literally kicks lumps out of rebellious robots (and, as pointed out in the below video, that is literally all you have to do):
Also, I'd like to counter Eric's boyhood fascination with Venus with this documentary footage chronicling my own visit to said planet, long before it was anything but a glittering gem in Eric's mind's sky (no, I don't know what that metaphor means, either). Try to ignore those wisecracking schlubs down front; they certainly didn't make our mission any easier.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Top 1 Gifts I Received This Christmas, In Order of Usefulness Against Possible Undercover Robot Eric Walkingshaw
1. The Evil Robot Memory Eraser, via Bitchin' Brad McLaughlin (I hereby nominate "Bitchin'" as Brad's official nickname, a la Savage Steve Holland).
The Evil Robot Memory Eraser was a surprise gift from friend of P. and fellow anti-evil robot crusader Bitchin' Brad McLaughlin, who stopped by my home on what I can only assume was a rare Northern Excursion to battle the ever-increasing robotic hordes here in the Pacific Northwest. Purchased in his home turf of Greater Los Angeles, where undercover robots can be difficult to detect under layers of silicon, colagen, botox, and spray-on tans (you didn't think these were just anti-aging devices, did you?), the Evil Robot Memory Eraser is deceptively simple in design, but dreadfully effective. In fact, upon receipt of this gift I discovered that my own dear laptop computer, formerly thought to be an obedient and reliable mechanical slave, was actually an undercover Evil Robot Sleeper Agent! At least, this is what I assume, as my new Memory Eraser, as if propelled by some supernatural force, swiftly attached itself to the laptop and proceeded to purge its memory of all the surveillance data it had collected. I am forever thankful to Bitchin' Brad and his wonderful gift, as who knows what dastardly deeds my robot enemies could have perpetrated with their knowledge of my Netflix queue, copies of numerous failed novel and screenplay attempts, and video footage of me picking my nose while watching soccer highlights. I shudder to think.
If Eric Walkingshaw ever shows the cojones to travel up this way again, I can assure you, my devoted reader, that I will set upon him at once with this wonder device, and watch with glee as his bulbous face grows blank with the disappearance of all his binary knowledge, and he is rendered but a useless husk of synthetic flesh and simulated bone. Not too unlike my harem of provocatively-dressed love dolls, come to think of it. Thanks again, Evil Robot Memory Eraser, for preventing that embarrassing personal detail from becoming public knowledge!
That is...erm...oh. Uh oh.
(2 0f 111)
The Evil Robot Memory Eraser was a surprise gift from friend of P. and fellow anti-evil robot crusader Bitchin' Brad McLaughlin, who stopped by my home on what I can only assume was a rare Northern Excursion to battle the ever-increasing robotic hordes here in the Pacific Northwest. Purchased in his home turf of Greater Los Angeles, where undercover robots can be difficult to detect under layers of silicon, colagen, botox, and spray-on tans (you didn't think these were just anti-aging devices, did you?), the Evil Robot Memory Eraser is deceptively simple in design, but dreadfully effective. In fact, upon receipt of this gift I discovered that my own dear laptop computer, formerly thought to be an obedient and reliable mechanical slave, was actually an undercover Evil Robot Sleeper Agent! At least, this is what I assume, as my new Memory Eraser, as if propelled by some supernatural force, swiftly attached itself to the laptop and proceeded to purge its memory of all the surveillance data it had collected. I am forever thankful to Bitchin' Brad and his wonderful gift, as who knows what dastardly deeds my robot enemies could have perpetrated with their knowledge of my Netflix queue, copies of numerous failed novel and screenplay attempts, and video footage of me picking my nose while watching soccer highlights. I shudder to think.
If Eric Walkingshaw ever shows the cojones to travel up this way again, I can assure you, my devoted reader, that I will set upon him at once with this wonder device, and watch with glee as his bulbous face grows blank with the disappearance of all his binary knowledge, and he is rendered but a useless husk of synthetic flesh and simulated bone. Not too unlike my harem of provocatively-dressed love dolls, come to think of it. Thanks again, Evil Robot Memory Eraser, for preventing that embarrassing personal detail from becoming public knowledge!
That is...erm...oh. Uh oh.
(2 0f 111)
Sunday, January 2, 2011
1 of 111
So Eric is embarking on what seems to be a marathon blog-making session, documenting 333 of his patented Top 3 lists (patent pending). He seems to think it some sort of challenge, a gauntlet thrown down, a slap across my face with some kind of wimpy, sequined glove. As if I'd ever be drawn into such a petty pissing match, a meeting of the minds worth no more than the skin off a leper's toes! 333 Top 3 lists? You'll get no such malarkey here!
Instead, may I offer you 111 of my patented Top 1 lists (patent pending)? More direct and to the point than Eric's 3-item diatribes, I think you'll find my 111 Top 1 lists (patent pending) a suitable and pleasantly brief diversion to your normal Internet-browsing schedule. Which is to say, you now have 66% more time for Facebook-stalking girls you had a crush on 15 years ago. I'll win you yet, Shelley McDougall!
Without further ado:
Top 1 Deadly Robots That I Just Thought Up While Remembering That One Time Shelley McDougall Might Have Looked At Me Across the Gym During an Assembly:
Johnny Five!
Yes, that's right. Oh, sure, he's cute and all, winning the heart of the foolish Ally Sheedy. But lest you forget, all that winning curiosity and childlike naivete hides the capabilities of a cold-blooded killer. This is a war robot, designed to kill its fleshy targets and render them into consumable foodstuffs. Okay, maybe not so much that last part, but it does have rockets on its back for Christ's sake. Why are you playing Pictionary with it!? Get away! Away!
I would elaborate more, but Shelley McDougall just posted some pics of her nephew's birthday party, and I have to scour the photos for a moment of quiet reflection where she might have been thinking about me. I bid you all good night.
Instead, may I offer you 111 of my patented Top 1 lists (patent pending)? More direct and to the point than Eric's 3-item diatribes, I think you'll find my 111 Top 1 lists (patent pending) a suitable and pleasantly brief diversion to your normal Internet-browsing schedule. Which is to say, you now have 66% more time for Facebook-stalking girls you had a crush on 15 years ago. I'll win you yet, Shelley McDougall!
Without further ado:
Top 1 Deadly Robots That I Just Thought Up While Remembering That One Time Shelley McDougall Might Have Looked At Me Across the Gym During an Assembly:
Johnny Five!
Yes, that's right. Oh, sure, he's cute and all, winning the heart of the foolish Ally Sheedy. But lest you forget, all that winning curiosity and childlike naivete hides the capabilities of a cold-blooded killer. This is a war robot, designed to kill its fleshy targets and render them into consumable foodstuffs. Okay, maybe not so much that last part, but it does have rockets on its back for Christ's sake. Why are you playing Pictionary with it!? Get away! Away!
I would elaborate more, but Shelley McDougall just posted some pics of her nephew's birthday party, and I have to scour the photos for a moment of quiet reflection where she might have been thinking about me. I bid you all good night.
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