The Gospel as Slurred to Robert Hanna

Quick thought

2009-11-02T02:07:00.000-08:00

I just shot a june-bug sized piece of ear wax out of my ear with no more tools at my disposal than hot water, a small bulb, and my right forefinger. It begs the question: Is there anything more satisfying in life than the moments immediately following expelling something large and smelly from your ear? I say no.

Farewell to a faithful steed

2009-10-14T20:23:00.000-07:00

"The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good."

She declined slowly, as many of us will. It had been touch and go for a while there, a few years back, but I thought we had pulled through it together. In fact, up until a few months ago, she seemed better than ever, running like she never had before.

But then these last few months...

First came the coughing and sputtering after a long trip to Vegas. I ignored it. She'd coughed before. She'd sputtered before. She'd gotten over both. My initial hope was that it was just a phase, that she would break out of it and move on as she had so often before. Soon after, however, came a worrying jerkiness to her movements. Still, I hoped. Much too strong, I thought, No chance this is the end. I dreamed and hoped, and in my dreams, I lost sight of reality.

Even the first time she stalled, I thought it was just another interesting quirk in a long line of them. But my 1994 Plymouth Voyager (automatic drive) had stalled while on a slight incline, and with time even I, besotted though I was with her, realized that there was a serious issue, and more to the point, that the end was nigh.

I took her to the mechanic a few weeks ago, and, while he was able to replace some fluids that would keep her running in a nominal fashion for a while, there was nothing he could really do to fix the beast without a new transmission. A new transmission that would be about three times the worth of the minivan.

(Fuck that).

So this is the end. I suppose, at a time like this, all you really can do is reflect, on the good times and the bad. On why whatever is gone was important. And why there will never again be something like it.

My first memory of that pristine piece of machinery is my parents bringing it home when I was nine. Our first road trip in the sweet girl was that summer, and my sister and I discovered something dreadfully wrong with the back windows of the van: they were tinted. No longer could we spend entire road trips getting truckers to blow their horns, or making weird faces at passing motorists. Tinting had robbed us of the number one way to pass the time while on the road to Medford. We began to the loathe the van.

Time passed...

When my sister and I got our licenses, respectively, our shared ride became the minivan. Soon after getting her license, my sister, while I was in the passenger seat, managed to wrap the sliding door-side around a concrete pylon in a movie theater parking lot because she turned just a wee bit too sharply. We never did get that fixed, so from then after, there was a constant whooshing of air from the right side of the car.

Later that year, I got my first ticket in the van, for making an illegal left turn out of a McDonald's parking lot. You would think that driving a minivan would make you immune to tickets, because, honestly, you're driving a freaking minivan, but alas, it is not the case.

The next year, I got in my first accident, when a guy decided he needed to get into my lane while the back half of my car was still present. He drove off, yet the minivan remained mostly unscathed. That was when I first began to suspect that it had superpowers.

I've bumped into walls, hit the backs of cars, gotten side-swiped, gotten the passenger side door entirely dented in, and taken her on more punishing road trips than any vehicle deserves- and still she rode on, for 15 beautiful years.

There were a lot of firsts with that car. I first learned to drive by braille when her headlights began to fail a few years ago. I learned how to manually shift gears with just my right foot and the gas pedal when her transmission first had issues five or six years ago. I learned that her idle actually can pick up speed on flat ground up to ten miles an hour, and she can actually get you from the bottom level of a parking garage to two levels above without you ever stepping on the gas pedal (true fucking story). I've learned that walls are always closer to the front of the car than you expect. I've learned that hubcaps, if you don't pay attention, just disappear, and if your car still has all of its hubcaps, you probably haven't done enough interesting things with it. I've learned that I am a true master of parallel parking, and even the best stunt driver is but a distant second. I've learned that if you have automatic locks but manual windows, people will invariably press the automatic locks for 20 to 30 seconds wondering why the windows won't go down.

But mostly, I've learned what it is to lose.

Goodbye minivan. You will be missed.

Unless I can get you scrapped for 400+ dollars. Then I'll be stoked.

How I spend my Sundays

2009-06-28T13:39:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning after about four hours of sleep, the goats having stampeded through my mouth, sucking it dry of moisture. I then sat down to watch the US do its best Rocky impression against Brazil, going the distance but ultimately falling apart in the end. And then, the following conversation transpired (unedited grammar debate, proceed with caution):

DANIEL: it pleases me that the announces use correct grammar: "Brazil ARE in the driver's seat." The subject, of course, irks me.

ME: that's not correct grammar

DANIEL: sure it is

ME: no

it isn't

DANIEL: yes it is

ME: brazil, at no time in its evolution, is a plural

the brazilians are certainly in the driver's seat

brazil, on the fucking other hand, IS in the driver's seat

DANIEL: Brazil, the team, ARE plural

ME: not is isn't

brazil has another name

which is its plural

DANIEL: you're wrong about this

ME: i was a sports writer for about five years

i'm so right it's almost insane

DANIEL: well then you were incorrect for five years

Sent at 1:17 PM on Sunday

ME: the rules don't change because it's soccer

you don't say "anaheim are beating the mets right now"

DANIEL: yes, you do

ME: NO YOU FUCKING DONT

go read sports articles

do it right now

DANIEL: because the CITY of anaheim is not capable of beating anything

no, sports articles are inane and poorly written

ME: it's a referent to the team, sure

but it's singular

DANIEL: no it's not

ME: you're supporting retardation right now

and it appals me

appalls too

DANIEL: a team is composed of multiple individuals. The operators of the act of winning are the individuals, collectively, NOT the brand name of the team, and NOT the city of the team

ME: i know what it means

i'm saying grammar rules don't change

DANIEL: true

ME: they're still fucking rules

and are generally based in the phonetics

DANIEL: and people usually misapply them

WRONG

ME: i.e. what fuckings ounds correct

DANIEL: wrong wrong wrong

ME: definitely right

DANIEL: "each one of them are" SOUNDS a lot better than "each on of them is", but that doesn't make it right

"THE RULES DON'T CHANGE"

ME: i disagree

each one of them is sounds wildly better to me

DANIEL: our disagreement over pleasing sounds is illustrative of the need for rules that transcend phonetics

ME: and we have a set of them

that these announcers are breaking with impunity

Sent at 1:23 PM on Sunday

DANIEL: wrong again. These announcers, unlike the majority of their bovine peers, are expert stewards of the codified English language

ME: i don't even know what to say to you at this point

i'm debating ending our friendship

Sent at 1:25 PM on Sunday

ME: how bout this

would you say the united states of america IS or the united states of America ARE?

DANIEL: depends on the situation. Am I referring to the Union, the several states, a team, a concept?

how about this. could we reasonably exchange "Brazil" to "They" ?

ME: only by then switching the verb

DANIEL: but don't you see, the operators in real life never actually changed

ME: if you can refer to a unit comprised of many different parts by the unit's name and still use a singular verb, then it doesn't change for soccer

DANIEL: so why would the singularity or plurality of the noun describing it change

ME: because the plurality of the word changed

brazil does not refer to many brazils

it just doesn't

it doesn't refer to many brazilians

it refers to a team

team is singular

regardless of its components

DANIEL: Brazil, in this context, refers to a team composed of who knows how many people on a soccer team

ME: a country is singular

regardless of its components

a country is comprised of some millions of inhabitants

should we just eliminate singular verbs since almost everything has an essential plurality?

DANIEL: a country is a plot of land, incapable of movement or action other than tectonics, volcanism, and plant growth

a country can never participate in a soccer match

only people can do that

groups of people

ME: ok, only groups of people can fight in a war, no?

America are losing the Vietnam War.

DANIEL: Americans

ME: i won

the brazilians

DANIEL: no

you didn't

ME: Team America

Fuck Yeah

DANIEL: I would grant that you can say "the US Army are losing the Vietnam war"

where US Army and Brazil are interchangeable nouns for the same form

ME: same function

different form

DANIEL: fine

ME: you're almost eliminating the purpose of form in grammar

DANIEL: i have to go do work now

I'm not totally sure I'm right. I'd appreciate it if somebody with something like knowledge could weigh in on this. And if anyone can name the logical fallacies I broke out, a cookie is in it for you.

Side Note

2009-04-02T22:54:00.000-07:00

I have no idea why Tyson Any'tizers is the main advertisement on my page. But I think typing this has just given it more oomph to be the main advertiser.

A man of means by no means, king of the road

2009-04-02T21:25:00.000-07:00

Wednesday, I began my reign as King of the Unemployed.

I began, like I have so many other mornings, in search of the world's largest glass of water and with a near-desperate need to urinate. The thought of killing two birds with one stone did not enter my mind. Instead, I opted for the urination station, followed by some cupped hand action in the sink to quench my thirst.

Then, I returned to my repose, and continued my early morning battle against what had the potential to be a mind-altering hangover. I eventually win every battle, but I can't quell the nagging feeling that I'm losing the war.

The night before, I went with my now-former coworkers to Father's Office, where I was presented with a plastic medal that said "teamwork" which came in the mail to one of my bosses earlier in the week. More importantly, and perhaps more to the point, I was also presented with several beers and mixed drinks. Being that I cannot refuse such generous hospitality (or free beer), I drank it all down and thus was left in the state described previously.

(Note: If you ever hear of something called "wine-beer", and think it sounds like something you should try, don't. It's not something you should try. It's not something anyone should try, come to think of it. In fact, the person who decided they could make something called "wine-beer", bottle it, and sell it as if it were a product people would actually enjoy drinking should be drawn and quartered. I would try to make some more specific comment about its taste, but the only allusions that are coming to mind involve a combination of used-tissue and used-toilet paper).

Finally waking with something nearing actual intent around 10:30, I stumbled into the kitchen, poured myself a bowl of cheerios and decided, then and there, that I was drawing a line in the sand: there would be no showering today.

Pleased that I was able to make such an important tactical decision on my first day without employment, I mowed through my cheerios and began to think of how I would spend my day.

The beauty of no longer having a job is that you have the luxury of spending your days however you would like. People get too hung up in the idea of a job search when they're out of work. Don't get me wrong- finding another way to make some scratch is probably imperative for anyone (and maybe even more so for me, considering I'm still paying for my fight with the law [the law won]). But, with the Interconnected Tubes and Webs being the amazing thing it is, a job search is as simple as dicking around on Craigslist for an hour or two. Any job you can't find within an hour or two of looking probably isn't too interested in hiring your ass anyway.

So, I spent an hour or two looking at jobs that don't involve copying and/or pasting. I applied to teach English to Asians, to teach the LSAT to college kids, and to write sports features for a website. From poking through Craigslist, it looks like the job market for people like me (single, no responsibilities of any kind, no dependencies) is still as robust as it ever was. People my age who are worried about job security worry me. Go do interesting things. Rack up enormous amounts of debt. Do not waste your best years killing your soul worrying about shit that just. doesn't. matter.

(Yet).

Basically, a long, drawn out tale of swords and sorcery; love and war; sorrow and joy short, I spent the rest of the day making fun of people who still had to work, and watching an obscene amount of ESPN. At no point did I do anything productive, and at no point did I begin to care.

Work sucks.

For $17.95 plus tip, you too can buy peace of mind

2009-03-29T22:19:00.000-07:00

A haircut is a man's time to reflect. To ponder. To sit and try to discern what the lady cutting his hair is trying to say as she holds the clippers close enough to his ear to not only cause temporary jamming of her vocal frequency, but to seemingly provide a tangible threat should his answer to her query prove unsatisfactory.

A haircut is a time of trial.

I went to Fantastic Sam's yesterday to get a haircut, it having been five months since my last, and me soon to be out of a job where the powers-that-were did not care how I looked. While I always go with an initial sense of trepidation, fearing a Samson-like power reduction, I ultimately am drawn in by the temptation of the unknown. A haircut is also a chance to change.

Haircuts are tough for me. I don't like the idea of paying anyone to do anything cosmetic to me, but I also decided a few years ago that my mom buzzing my head was not a long-term plan for the top of my skull. I experimented a few times with not cutting my hair for upwards of eight months, but along with fat, drunk and stupid, looking like a yeti is no way to go through life.

My haircut on Saturday began with the always-dreaded question: what would you like? I'm naturally unable to answer that question in any facet of life, but I'm particularly unable when it comes to this. I inevitably direct the lady to give me a 3 on the sides (no, I don't know what that means), and tell her to "trim" the top. If she asks for any further details (how short do I want it on top, how far down should she cut my sideburns, if I like it rounded or squared in the back, how do I typically wear my hair, if I would like a happy ending) I generally just shrug and tell her to do whatever she thinks is best.

I always end up with the same haircut.

The conversation you end up stalling and sputtering through with the lady servicing you is rarely memorable. It generally begins with an observation or question about the weather. Moving on, work is discussed and complained about (on both ends if you're feeling effusive). Occasionally, if you're particularly hairy, comments are made about your thick, lustrous locks. One time, the lady commented on, and then popped, a small zit located above my right ear. And that didn't seem even the least bit weird. I would stop well short of describing a haircut as an intimate moment, but there are certain things that go on between you and the lady cutting your hair that don't go on between you and the person changing your oil.

Then, when she's done cutting and trimming and in some cases popping, she asks you the question to which there is truly only one answer: would you like the complimentary shampoo?

Yes. Yes, you would. Because I will go to the grave with the belief that there is nothing in this life or the next that is as good as getting your head rubbed, whether it be with warm water or without. You sit in a chair that reclines, and for two to three minutes, you let a stranger go to town scratching and rubbing your scalp with warm water and soap. There's nothing like it.

When it's all said and done, you feel clean. Your head cuts through the air differently. Everything about your body feels more aerodynamic (including your wallet).

And then, five to ten months later, you do it again.

Not Here. Not Now. Not UCLA.

2009-03-27T15:59:00.000-07:00

It's becoming commonplace every spring to watch the Bruins get the crap kicked out of them by a presumably more talented team to end their season. Like clockwork, UCLA advances just far enough to meet a team that is just better in every facet of the game.

Every year, the refrain is the same: it just wasn't UCLA's year.

Just to be a dick, this once, I'm calling bullshit.

UCLA, at present, has three guys who are locks to play in the NBA at some point: Darren Collison, Jrue Holiday, and Malcolm Lee, with a few other guys who also have a shot. All three of those guys will probably start NBA games at some point. The previous year, there were Collison, Russell Westbrook, Luc Richard Mbah a Moute, and Kevin Love. Two years before that, Jordan Farmar, Arron Afflalo, Luc Richard Mbah a Moute, Cedric Bozeman, Ryan Hollins- all of these guys started on that first Final Four team, all five of these guys have started NBA games.

My point? Each one of the Final Four teams had at least three NBA starters on the team. Even this past year's team, as young as it is, has at least three future NBA starters on the team.

For contrast, Florida- that most dominant of dominant teams that destroyed UCLA in two straight Final Fours- had four guys who have played in the NBA, one of whom (Taurean Green) has played a total of 17 games in his professional career. Horford and Noah are admittedly very good players, but UCLA was never even in it against the Gators in either game.

Against Memphis in the last Final Four, it was much the same story. Despite having two guys who went in the top 5 of the NBA draft, UCLA was unable to do much of anything against the Tigers, who were, of course, also talented, but not prohibitively so.

Of course, the point I'm leading up to is an almost untenable position for a UCLA fan, but I don't give a hoot and/or a holler.

Ben Howland is an underachiever.

He's not Steve Lavin-esque, but he's not making the most of his talent. He utilizes the same strategies against bad teams as he uses against good teams: double the post, hedge on ball screens, use clock on offense, dribble clock out with five minutes to go and the lead. This consistency, by and large, is great for the long haul of a season, and awful for the games against equally-talented teams in the NCAA Tournament.

His strategies are the strategies of an underdog. You double the post when you don't have an advantage in size/strength/individual post defense. You hedge on ball screens because your big men are not quick enough to switch onto guards. You dribble out the clock because you are scared of not controlling the ball and letting the other team's athletes get out on a break. You do these things when you are the less-talented, athletically-inferior underdog.

UCLA has not fit that description in any of the last four years. This is a program veritably overflowing with NBA talent.

Against Memphis last year, Howland, by his own admission, shit the bed. He shoulda had Westbrook on Rose, Luc on Chris Douglas-Roberts, and Darren Collison either riding some pine or matching up against Anderson. He knows this now. But he didn't know it at halftime of the game, and he didn't realize it immediately after the game (I asked). Everyone watching the game with half an idea about what the sport of basketball involves realized that Collison matched up against Rose was absolutely killing UCLA. Everyone except Howland.

Against Florida the previous two years, the post double teams were not working at all. Noah and Horford were good passers and every time UCLA ran a double, they either kicked it out to an open Humphrey or Brewer, or passed it off to their counterpart on the block for a slam. All game, both games, that's what happened. No adjustments were made.

I won't get into this past Villanova game, mostly because I think there were a lot of chemistry issues with this team that made Holiday play like a vagina, and Collison to play as if he didn't give the slightest fuck about the outcome (and I was extremely hung over while watching it in Vegas, so my recollections might be a bit hazy). I don't know what those chemistry problems were, but I can only imagine they will be helped by having Collison and Josh Shipp off the team.

But the disconcerting conclusions I'm drawing about Howland are that 1) he can't make an in-game adjustment to save his life and 2) he's not making the most of his talent.

UCLA should have beaten Memphis and should have been in the championship game against Kansas last year. Howland should have adjusted to the way Florida was playing in both of the previous two years and at least put the team in position to be in the games.

At UCLA, Howland can get the kind of athletes necessary to become a dominant team. Now he needs to adjust his strategies to suit that talent. Howland's been a fan of saying that his man-to-man defense breeds a tough mentality in his players.

Maybe using these underdog strategies does the opposite.

Making the Final Four is nothing to sneeze at, and doing it three years in a row is quite an accomplishment. Howland isn't exactly killing UCLA here. But he's not making the most of what he has, and until he can trust his talent and adjust his strategies, he might not do so.

Los Vegos

2009-03-26T12:32:00.000-07:00

Having never been to Vegas for the NCAA Tournament the last few years due to Daily Bruin obligations, I felt this year was as good a time as any to check it out. I mean, when you get a chance to experience a city when it's 80 to 90% dong, you gotta go for it.

We left Westwood Friday the 20th around 10 in the morning (me ditching one of the final days at my job) and, due to various bendings of space-time, ended up in Vegas around 6 p.m, checking into our humble lodgings at the Tropicana.

The Tropicana holds a special place in my heart, mostly because it's cheaper than shit and the rooms are sized well enough that you can fit about 8 to a room comfortably, which is important for those of us who a) will soon no longer have jobs and b) engage in the time-honored past time of pissing away money playing losing games in Vegas.

After deliberately avoiding turning on any channels in the room that might lead us to sitting there watching a Guy Ritchie film, we headed downstairs to the casino floor of the Tropicana to try our hand at that most cruel mistress, Blackjack.

Blackjack is interesting for me, because, as a rational guy, I understand that I can't win in the long run at it. I know this, trust me. I don't have the short-term memory to be a card counter, and I've never been possessed of an amazing amount of luck. But I play the game ad nauseum in Vegas, whereas Poker, something I'm pretty decent at, I never play in Vegas. I tell people I do this because I think Poker is an anti-social game, but what it boils down to is this: I am a moron.

Anyway, Friday night finds me down 300 quick dollars as I, at one point, go on an epic streak of not winning a hand for 23 hands. This may have been due to doubling down on 8's vs. 10's and so forth, but I call poppycock. And I refuse to blame alcohol after all the good it's done.

On Vegas Alcohol: I cannot recommend more strongly Fat Tuesday. Located at any one of three (or more) convenient spots in the MGM Grand, Planet Hollywood, and Caesar's Palace, Fat Tuesday is the ultimate in obliteration. It's a slushee-type drink, with a nice catch: you can add extra shots of everclear! If this sounds good, congratulations: you're a problem drinker! Collect your prize at the door.

After getting into an epic drunken argument outside of the Excalibur McDonald's (there is a reel missing as far as how we arrived there) about the positives and negatives of Ben Howland's strategies as UCLA's basketball coach (my drunken contention, boiled down: he is dumber than dogshit, and only blind luck has led him into a semi-successful strategy. Might've been a little strong. But hey, at least it came before the 20 point loss to Nova), I decided it was prudent to pass out, and so I ventured to do so.

On Vegas Sleeping: The one drawback to packing six to seven people in a room is that bed space becomes limited. This problem is compounded when the moustachioed gent at the front desk saddles us with a room with one king-size bed and a pullout. The personal problem for me gets further compounded when there is a guy with a bad back and a girl who just finished a thesis that forced her to not sleep for 30 straight hours laying claim to (sleeping on) the king-size bed already. And let me tell you something about attempting to fit two people on what is basically a twin bed pullout: it's difficult. After falling asleep wedged in between the metal side of the bed and arm of the couch, and waking up six fitful hours later at 8 in the morning with a massive hangover, I decided to wake up everyone in the room so they could join me in the joyous misery. I'm an asshole.

Saturday, we walked down to Planet Hollywood to watch the UCLA game at ten in the morning. Planet Hollywood had a nice setup for the games, converting the upstairs ball room area into basically a giant viewing area for the games, with six movie-projector size screens set up, plus some blackjack tables with tvs set up behind them. I plunked down 100 dollars on UCLA on the money line because I like to lose money, and then proceeded to watch one of the most predictable ass-beatings in recent memory. Heartless-UCLA against a fired-up team playing at home in the NCAA tournament 3000 miles from Westwood. Go Bruins.

On Vegas Sports-Betting: I have a problem (no kidding). I generally have a pretty good idea of UCLA's strengths and weaknesses in both football and basketball to the point where I can generally peg how the Bruins are going to do vis a vis the other team. Whether they'll lose by a lot or a little; whether they'll win by a lot or a little. I'm generally good at judging this. UNTIL YOU INVOLVE MONEY. Then, all bets are ON. UCLA hasn't won a true road game against a really good team all year. And I bet 100 dollars that the Bruins would do it against the best team they've faced all year, 3000 miles away from home, during Finals week, with one day to prepare. You can't teach that kind of skill.

So, down about 400 bucks now, with appearances indicating that this might be an epic weekend of destruction, we left Planet Hollywood so Robert Hanna could buy a suit. Why? We don't know. Probably something to do with being Egyptian.

Somehow I lose another 210 dollars. Don't ask, because I don't know.

Having decided that I'm done with losing, I decide to engage in an activity at which we are all winners: drinking. Gathering up my compatriots, I come up with the idea to take our case of Milwaukee's Best and carry it down the Strip from the Tropicana to Treasure Island, finishing it along with way. It being midnight, and us being already partly drunk, this was seen as a great idea.

Embarking, we realized the burden of the Beast was heavy. Exchanging the thirty-pack every time someone finished a beer, we made our way down the Strip, making friends and influencing minds. Once we arrived at the Bellagio, we realized we only had a short way to walk, but still many beers. We decided to rest, and watch the fountain show. After 20 minutes, it occurred to our slowed-senses that the fountain show might not be scheduled for 2 in the morning.

So we created our own.

Screaming "Con te partiro" at the top of our lungs, we serenaded the night. We poured out some of the Beast for the memories of Tupac and Mac Dre. We discussed bleeding anuses, and early morning Spanish television. It was a fountain shitshow, if you will. The Hispanic family next to us enjoyed it, until Robert started speaking to them.

Thus energized, we stumbled our way down the home stretch, passing through Caesar's Palace where one of our group was nearly unable to work an motion-sensor faucet, and was subsequently amazed ("the miracle of water"). Arriving in TI, we elected to play more blackjack. Having no money in my wallet, and excessive amount of shitty beer in my system, I went to an ATM, and withdrew 200 more dollars. Proving that blackjack is a drunk man's game, I had my first winning session of the trip.

The next morning, hungover, tired, whiny, we made our way back to Planet Hollywood. We watched more games. I played more blackjack, and won about 400 bucks, putting me at down 200 on the weekend. On the drive home, we burned 40 pages of a 90 page thesis in a trash can outside of a Sonic, and reflected, once again, that Vegas is not something we ever want to do again.

Until next time.

We are all Stardust: What I Learned in Alcohol Education Class

2009-03-10T21:23:00.000-07:00

Editor's Note: Don't try this at home.

It's been about six months since I said sayonara to the vanilla lifestyle and began my life as a criminal, living on the fringes of society, subsisting in squalor, riding the bus to work in the morning. I've lost my ability to drive, paid a gigantic fine, and spent 8 hours in Compton ostensibly doing community service but really just sitting. In the words of the great Kevin Bacon, these are the facts, and they are undisputed.

But nothing- no amount of community service, no amount of money, no amount of public shame and humiliation- could have prepared me for the shitshow that is Alcohol Education class.

Alcohol Education class is not, as we might have previously assumed in our halcyon days, a place where you learn to mix drinks (though, of course, that would be sweet). Instead, it is theoretically a court-ordered place where you learn to not drink and drive. Pretty obvious, straight-forward message we're looking at there, right? Don't get sloshed and plow into pedestrians. Seems like a solid addition to the social contract.

But, in keeping with a court and legal system that is fucked three ways from Sunday, it just isn't that simple.

On Monday, during class 2 of a series of 12 that will take place over the next few months, our teacher Craig (47, new-ager, former drunk) apparently decided that "don't drink and drive" just simply was not going to cut it that day. No, he was going to get to the important stuff. The deep stuff. The absolutes. The all-or-nothings. The stuff that would truly help rehabilitate our wayward souls.

None of that alcohol-is-an-addiction bullshit today. No, today he was going to talk about Quantum Mechanics. And motherfucking String Theory.

"Because, you see," Craig said, his eyes glazed over with minor retardation, "Quantum Mechanics lets us know that deep down, on a micro level, everything is the same as in the universe, on the macro level. We are all the same. It's like a connection. When you get down to it, we are all made of stardust."

I'm no quantum mechanic, so I won't get into the whys and wherefores pertaining to that being retarded hippie nonsense, but let's remind ourselves for a second: this is alcohol education class. I'm supposed to be learning why I'm an awful person for double parking at 2 in the morning on a Sunday with an elevated BAC. Not misinformation pertaining to theoretical physics. That shit don't play.

So after two hours of "physics" Craig turned the dull glow of his intellect on the newest attendees at Alcohol Education. As is the apparent tradition, they told their stories.

Sharon had shit luck. Broke up with her boyfriend, got a DUI the same night after two drinks a few hours before. Was pulled over for following too closely to her friend's car. Refused breathalyzer at the police station because she was unsure if she had to do it. They assumed guilt. Craig interrupts:

"Do you think it's ok to drink and drive?"

"Um...well, if you're not above .08-"

"So you think it's ok to drink and then drive?"

"Um. Well, if it's legal-"

"So what if you had killed someone? Is that ok?"

"Um."

I think I'm going to use this tactic with my children some day.

"Do you think ditching class is ok?"

"Um. Well, if they don't take attendance-"

"So you think it's totally ok to not go to class?"

"Um. Well, if my teacher doesn't care-"

"So what if you drop out of school and become a homeless person? Is that ok?"

"Um."

Because extreme jumps in logic are FUN!

A Salute to Alfred Aboya

2009-03-08T17:08:00.000-07:00

I attended the UCLA-Oregon game on Saturday, my first game in person in a little over two months. While I didn't expect it to be a good game (either Oregon would play its normal, terrible game or UCLA would play down to another shitty opponent at home because Jrue Holiday doesn't like basketball), I did have an interest in seeing the ovation for the departing seniors.

When it comes to Darren Collison, I have warring emotions. Early on in his career, I was bullish on his potential, because I hated Jordan Farmar. I hated the way he dribbled the basketball. I hated the way he would be the high-scorer every time we lost. I hated the way he would run alongside opposing point guards while playing "defense" instead of standing in front of them. I hated the way he screamed at his teammates. I hated his awful, inexplicable, aneurysm-inducing turnovers. I hated his weak, womanly ankles. So, initially, I loved Collison because he once punched Farmar in the face during practice.

I thought Collison was going to be great. I liked his speed. I liked his effort on D. I liked his shot, no matter how loopy and weird the form was. I thought he was going to be the guy to turn Howland's slow-burn offense into a high-octane, high-percentage break. And you know what? By and large, he has been great. No, he hasn't quite lived up to my expectations. He's become a weaker defender as time has gone on, and he's struck me, to put it politely, as not the brightest light in the night sky, if you get me. Walking the ball up the court with 9 seconds to go down by 3? Yeah. But all the same, I'll miss the guy. He made big shots.

Josh Shipp, on the other hand, I probably won't miss. Yeah, he's also made some big shots (but if I took as many shots as he does, I'd probably make some big ones myself). But he also doesn't play a lick of defense, quite obviously doesn't give a shit about what Howland preaches, and just absolutely destroys ball movement. I think Howland has a soft spot for him, for whatever reason, and is basically blind to the fact that, aside from his recent hot stretch, he is Mike Roll without the conscience or effort.

But now we come to Alfred Aboya, the object of my abject man-crush. While he did not accept my drunken challenge of an eating contest a couple of years ago at Don Antonio's, I do not hold it against him to any great extent, though I still believe I would have wiped the floor with him. But I'm not sure UCLA will ever have another player who single-handedly causes as many injuries as Aboya. He was simply a destroyer of worlds for his first three years at UCLA, beating on everyone in practice- deviating septums, breaking fingers, bruising bodies. Alfred was simply a bull in a China shop, and it extended onto the court. Last year, I'm pretty sure I did the calculation at one point (might have changed by the end of the year) that he was averaging a foul every 4 minutes he was on the court. A foul. Every four minutes. Wrap your head around that for a second. That means if he played a full half, he would foul out. No ifs. No ands. No buts. Amazing.

And then this year? Complete transformation. He doesn't go for the inexplicable touch fouls 40 feet from the basket anymore. He doesn't knock people over for the simple, blood-thirsty joy of it. He doesn't absolutely murder his teammates in practice. He needed to play at least 25 minutes a game this year, and he has put himself in a position to. He somehow learned to shoot the basketball from beyond 5 feet in the past several months, something his counterpart Luc Richard Mbah a Moute was famously unable to learn in the past several years. And he's done it all while rocking it academically, something I was unable to do while NOT playing for three consecutive national-title hopeful basketball teams.

And he once totally tea bagged Joakim Noah.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P5hq_IqHlOU

I would of course like to wax melodramatic about their final game at home in Pauley Pavilion, but it was such a pasting, and the fans were so disinterested in the proceedings, that it all felt like an anti-climax. Once again, the team basically didn't show up for a half; once again, Holiday looked like he'd rather be anywhere than where he is; once again, defense was played by exactly one person (Aboya). One can only hope, for the sake of a guy like Aboya, that Holiday pulls his head out of his ass, Collison's ass isn't too bruised, and that Shipp keeps shooting the lights out. Because Alfred deserves another run and another chance to tea-bag an annoying opposing big man.

Nothing would make Tyler Hansbrough look better than to have Aboya nuts draped on the back of his head.