Tales from the Lost Semester - Volume 9

The Dead

I have never considered myself to be on the cutting edge in terms of my musical tastes. As a young child, the only music I can ever remember myself proactively listening to was The Beatles – I had the albums Rubber Soul, Revolver and Sgt. Pepper’s from my dad’s collection, and I kept these albums on a pretty steady rotation on my shitty, one speaker record player. As I got older and puberty began to cloud my judgment a bit, my musical tastes got much more obscure. Let’s face it – popular music in the mid-to-late ‘80’s sucked ass, so I spent most of my time alternating between the oldies and classic rock stations, and the albums I owned painted me as some sort of a schizophrenic freak. I guess when you have Blackout by the Scorpions sitting on top of the four “Weird” Al Yankovic records you own, that just screams “identity crisis”. Or “loser”, but that’s beside the point. Even after my brother brought home the Dead Kennedys’ Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables, which caused me to open my eyes to a whole new genre of music, I still remained pretty true to form – classic rock was my cup of tea, with no other band holding a candle to my beloved Beatles. To this very day, I still point to those lovable moptops as my all time favorite band, no questions asked (they currently hold three of the top five positions on my “Desert Island Albums” listing, which is no small feat). However, as we have established beyond a shadow of a doubt in these Tales, I was not always as level-headed as I am now. At no time was this more evident than the Lost Semester, where for a few brief months, I sold my soul, forsaking the Beatles as my one true musical love…for the Grateful Dead.

Allow me to clarify something – I do not dislike the Dead. As a matter of fact, I still quite enjoy some of their work and listen to it to this day. And “Unbroken Chain” remains my favorite song of all time – I think everyone has a song that sweeps over them, takes them to another place, and, if only for a few minutes, let’s them be alone in their own mind without a care in the world; that’s “Unbroken Chain” for me. Yet for as much as I still enjoy their work, I have also come to realize that much of what they have put out over the years comes off as clunky, repetitive, rambling nonsense aimed at keeping their doped-up audience in a trancelike state for hours on end (see: Drums and/or Space). Yet during the Lost Semester, fueled by marijuana and mushrooms, I was captivated by the music and the concept of the Dead – it was like they could see inside my mind, like they were singing to me, man!

Rooming with Dead fan CS only helped fuel my newfound fascination with the aging San Francisco-area band. CS had a stockpile of Dead CDs that made mine look downright puny. As freshman year progressed, my collection grew, as did the frequency with which I listened to their music. I mentioned in Volume 2 of the Tales that there was a steady diet of music that typically made its way onto the stereo system in Room 23 – the Dead’s live album One From the Vault was probably the most frequently played of the bunch. Whenever the CD or album we were listening to would end, someone would invariably shout out, “Hey, so-and-so, put on some music.” There was no rhyme or reason behind who was called upon to put on the tunes – usually it was the person sitting closest to the stereo or the person who had just walked back into the room and was arguing with the individual who had just stolen their seat. Being that I was pretty fried most of the time and that I was no longer self-confident enough to make a radical choice that might (God forbid) be ridiculed by the group, when I was called upon to DJ, there were probably three albums that I felt comfortable putting on – One From the Vault, Live from the Mars Hotel (also the Grateful Dead), and the Beatles’ Abbey Road. As I would get up to spin one of these oft-heard selections, I could usually feel Sadahara’s energy seeping out of his body – unlike most of the group, who liked or at least tolerated the Dead, Sadahara was, to put it lightly, not a fan. He often tells a hilarious story about going to a Dead concert with his friend, who happened to be wearing a Public Enemy t-shirt, and being accosted by a dirty hippie demanding to know, “Why are you the enemy? We’re just trying to have a good time!” Yes, that exchange alone would be enough to turn even the most open-minded individual in to an enemy of Jerry’s dancing guitar riffs, Bob’s bluesy tunesmanship (or was it tunesy bluesmanship?), Phil’s ample bass work, and Donna Gordceaux’s incessant caterwauling.

But I digress. When I would stick in One from the Vault (always disc one), in an instant everyone would know exactly what we were in for as the voice of Fillmore West Master of Ceremonies Bill Graham belted out, “Good evening, we welcome you…on behalf of the group. We wish to introduce…

“On the piano, we have Mr. Keith Gordceaux”

“On the drums on stage, left, Mr. Mickey Hart”

“On bass and vocals….Mr. Philip Lesh” (ba-dum-bum-bum-bumbadada-dum-dum-dum)

“On rhythm guitar and vocals, Mr. Bob Weir”

“On the drums on stage right, Mr. Bill Kreutzman”

“On the vocals, MISSUS Donna Jean Gordceaux” (half-hearted cheers)

“On lead guitar and vocals, Mr. Jerry Garcia” (wild cheers)

“Would you welcome please, the Grateful Dead!”

And on into Help/Slip/Frank (anyone into the Dead will know what that means; anyone not into the Dead – don’t concern yourselves). This became somewhat of the anthem of Room 23, and I have no doubt that by May, most of the primary players had probably grown quite tired of this whole sequence. Me? I still enjoy listening to this introduction, if for no other reason that it brings me back to those great, fun, nervous, stoned-out, class-skipping times when all I really cared about was whether I’d end up with the next green hit.

Now, I suppose if I had kept my newfound love of rambling hippie music within the confines of my living quarters, it wouldn’t seem so silly when I look back on it. But the thing about yours truly back in those days was that my judgment was so regularly clouded that I never quite realized that I was stepping over the line until it was much too late. Such was the case when my new obsession with the Dead made its way out of Room 23 and into other aspects of my life. I could tell you about my journey to see the Dead during Spring Break, but let’s save that story for another day. No, instead I refer you to the infiltration of my Dead fandom into a place much more inappropriate than a drug den – the classroom.

Up until this point, I have painted quite the picture of my academic mindset back in the spring of ’93 – five discussion sections on Friday, which I almost always missed. An all time low GPA that continued to handicap me three years into my career. Countless projects and assignments rushed through due to the fact that we had a fresh bag of marijuana waiting to be smoked. Yes, it was a banner semester for me! But as hard as it may seem to believe given the stories that have bubbled to the surface, there were those times where I actually got off my ass, shook off the cobwebs and made my way to one of U of I’s fine campus buildings in an effort to fulfill the primary purpose of my actually being in Champaign. One of the classes I happened to attend regularly was my Speech class – a required course for all undergraduate students in the College of Business Administration. What a great class to take while you are watching your ability to speak with any semblance of self-confidence slip away before your very eyes! Truth be told, I didn’t mind the class all that much – when I was forced to, I could still dig deep and turn on my speaking abilities, usually just enough so where I could get through my speech and relax, knowing that there likely was a full bowl or six-pack of beer waiting to wipe all my worries away. Since I actually had a cute teacher for the course (or so I think she was – can’t really remember at this point) and since time not speaking was spent listening mindlessly to others as they spoke, it was a pretty easy class to coast through a few times each week.

Throughout the semester, each student was required to give a number of different speeches – we had to debate a topic, present factual evidence to support a hypothesis, and also deliver a personal belief speech. Any guesses on what my personal belief statement, the one that would be the basis for the 10 minute speech I would nervously deliver to a room full of skeptics, ended up being? Why of course, it was: “I believe the Grateful Dead are the greatest band in music.” Are you fucking kidding me? Of all the commentaries I could have made, of all the axes I could have grinded, of all the causes I could have championed, this was my personal belief statement?? Why in the world would I profess this as a personal belief to a roomful of strangers and a teacher who could prove instrumental in determining whether I will be allowed back at the great University of Illinois in the fall?? My guess? I got stoned, listened to One From the Vault, went to class, had the assignment thrust upon me, and given that I had was humming “Sugaree” in my head during the walk to class thought, “Man, the Grateful Dead are the best band ever.” And yes, I actually have a job that pays me money right now.

So there it was, my personal belief statement, out there for all to judge. My first assignment for this speech was to draft an outline of how the speech would progress. I had to present my statement, give reasons as to why I believed what I was saying, acknowledge potential opinions to the contrary (I had Sadahara for that, thank goodness), present personal evidence as to why my opinion was correct, and reinforce that, yes, I did believe that the Grateful Dead was the best band in music. I’m sure my dad would have been proud to learn how that hard-earned tuition money was being spent. Someway, somehow I cranked out the outline for my speech – I amazingly found enough to talk about for 10 minutes, most likely because I made up all of the stories that I was going to include in the speech, including the one where I started dancing with some random girl at a Dead show during a particularly rousing rendition of “Turn On Your Love Light”, which was made all the more humorous given the fact that at this point I had never been to a Dead show and that the guy who sings it had been dead, literally speaking, since 1970. I turned in my outline to the teacher, who surprisingly approved it as a topic worthy of speaking about in a college-level course, and as I left class I was instantly hit by a wave of panic. “Am I seriously going to give a speech on how awesome the Grateful Dead is? What the hell am I thinking?” I started to realize that by giving this speech I was essentially saying to my teacher and the other 20 people in the class, “Hey everyone, I’m a dopey stoner and you should never, ever take another thing I say seriously, not even for a second!” Another banner moment for our protagonist!

Since every other student in the class also had to deliver a speech, our teacher had to spread our presentations out over the course of a few class sessions – mercifully the speech order in this cas was dictated by where your last name fell in the alphabet. Being comfortably back in the R’s, I knew I had some time to sharpen my angle about how amazing Jerry’s guitar playing was given his missing right middle finger, as well as con myself into thinking the stories I had fabricated had actually occurred. Of course given my fragile psyche, I also knew this extra time could work to my disadvantage should I fall into the trap of over-thinking just how stupid the whole concept behind my speech really was. No, I decided I would tough it out and keep fooling myself into believing I was doing something that was neither academically nor socially damaging. Call it the power of positive thinking.

Then, something amazing happened. As I sat in anticipation of my assigned speaking time, my nervousness approaching new heights, the other students in my class began delivering their speeches. One by one, they came and went, and slowly but surely my concerns that these bright, forward-thinking minds would put me to shame with the sheer depth and magnitude of their socially aware statements of personal belief evaporated into dust. Strange as it may seem given the silly personal belief I had selected for my speech, I found myself wondering how our teacher had approved some of the topics that were being spewed forth. There was the speech from the nerdy guy whose personal belief was that he had been abducted by aliens, which may or may not have been a joke. There was the normal everyman stating his belief that all state trooper automobiles should be painted a bright fluorescent orange (a great idea, I must say). And there was the Jewish girl whose personal belief statement was something to the effect of, “I believe Jewish people should only marry other Jewish people.” Hey, she believed it, so what the hell? There were many other topics too silly or boring to remember, and by the time it came to be my turn, I had little to no reservations about my topic. I stood in front of that class, delivering my heartfelt speech outlining the merits of American Beauty and Workingman’s Dead, barely stopping to fix my hair (if at all), and by the end of it all I led the class in a stirring rendition of “St. Stephen”. OK, I made that last part up, but not only did I not make a complete ass out of myself, I think I may have even looked cool to some of the class, most likely because they thought I might be able to score them some pot. My teacher gave me an A on the speech, leading me to finish with a solid B overall (attendance issues, don’t you know).

Looking back, I tend to believe that my love of the Dead peaked on that day – they carried me through that speech, they helped add to the fun of my Lost Semester, and they gave me a new appreciation for other people’s musical viewpoints. After all was said and done, I threw away all of my notes associated with that speech, went back home, smoked a bowl, went over to the stereo, and popped in some Beatles. And all was right with the world again.

Until next time…

Debunking the Myths of the World Champion White Sox

This smile on my face just won’t go away.

It’s been there since approximately 11:05 PM CDT, Wednesday October 26, 2005. This also happens to be the moment that Juan Uribe charged hard to field a high bouncer and fired it into the glove of likely-to-be-former-Sox First Basemen Paul Konerko, giving my beloved White Sox their first World Championship since the days that predate all four of my grandparents (the three who are no longer with us can lay claim to being Sox fans as well). My birthday - November 26. Bears Super Bowl - January 26. White Sox World Series - October 26. What a number.

Yes, I said “World” Championship – apparently former Major League manager Bobby Valentine is saying that it’s “arrogant” for the Sox to call themselves World Champs unless they play the Japanese Champs, the ones he coincidentally manages, in a seven game series. I’m sure he would have felt the exact same way had his Mets beaten the Yankees in 2000, but I guess that’s beside the point. Domo, but no domo, Bobby – we’ll take our title as is.

As hard as it may seem to believe, the Sox (the ONLY Sox in my heart) have won the World Series. Hell, it’s amazing enough that a team from the Greatest City in the World has won a pennant, making this all the more special. I have been trying mightily to reconcile the events of the last few weeks in my mind, to realize that this is indeed real and not part of some Lost Semester flashback episode. It’s real, and it feels fucking glorious.

As the World Series is baseball’s biggest stage, arguably only second in overall sports popularity in this country to the Super Bowl, there has naturally been a lot of attention placed on my White Sox. Surprisingly enough, the National Media has finally acknowledged that there is a team here in Chicago that participates in baseball’s American League, and they’ll be darned if they can’t play the game! Actually, the National Media already discovered the Sox when they were eager to put their spin on what surely would be the most brutal collapse in sports history – they were hoping for it, begging for it, loving every minute of it. But sadly for those vultures, the pesky Sox decided to go 20-3 in their last 23 games, sticking those hopes and wishes firmly back up the National Media’s collective ass.

As the spotlight has been shined upon this beautiful franchise in which I’ve committed an inordinate amount of love and loyalty lo these 31 years, and as it has taken so long to discover what so many wonderfully dedicated fans already know, the media naturally made a few missteps in the way they reported the goings-on of these Champions. For the benefit of my nine readers, I would like to take this opportunity to debunk some myths that surround the White Sox, their fans, and the developments of the last season.

Myth: The Sox rid themselves of the Curse of the Black Sox when they won the Series.

Fact: We’ve said it before, and we will say it again: White Sox fans do not believe in curses. We never have been, are not, and never will be cursed, unless by cursed you mean victims of poor decisions surrounding the management and marketing of the franchise. Shoeless Joe Jackson was not responsible for this 88-year stretch of misery. Blame it on poor personnel decisions, the Sox being pulled off of WGN in favor of a pay-TV network that many people in the area didn’t have access to, running into teams who were better than they were or at the wrong time, etc. But don’t lean on the excuse of a bunch of uneducated ballplayers who were being horribly lowballed pay-wise by their stingy owner and were lured to the promise of riches and security for their families by a shady gambling element. I’m not trying to defend the Black Sox either, but let’s keep it in perspective – 1919 was a fucked up time in America and Chicago – Women couldn’t vote, we were on the verge of making liquor illegal (smart move there), child labor was still out of control, the city had a burgeoning vice district that alderman not only permitted but profited from, and a violent race riot raged through the city leaving 38 dead and 291 maimed or wounded. My point? Let’s not place too much stock in what folks were up to in 1919 when talking about a baseball team.

Myth: Sox fans care that this was the lowest rated World Series in history.

Fact: Has anyone hyping these stories ever actually met a Sox fan? If so, they would realize that nobody who likes the Sox gives a fiddler’s flying fuck about what anyone else in the city, let alone the nation, thinks about their team, nor how close of attention they are paying. New York and Boston aren’t watching? Couldn’t care less about them or their overpaid, underachieving ilk. L.A.’s not interested? Chicago had baseball when L.A. was a barren hellhole (as opposed to its current state as a densely populated hellhole). The fact is that it’s quite probable that 75% of fans residing on the city’s South Side have never even been outside of Cook County, or even north of Madison St, so I doubt they’re placing any stock in what anyone else across the country thinks. This, of course, brings us to our next myth…

Myth: All Sox fans live on the South Side of Chicago.

Fact: This, of course, is complete bunk. There are Sox fans everywhere – South Side, North Side, West Side, Suburbs, Indiana, Texas, California, etc. Now don’t get me wrong – I understand the concept of placing everything into perspective for the people around the country (who apparently weren’t watching anyway). It is true that the majority of Chicagoans who live on the South Side are Sox fans. However, the opposite is far from true. I grew up in the suburbs and live on the North Side, yet I am 100% a Sox fan. It is true that the root of most Sox fandom traces itself back to where the family’s ancestor’s lived. Yet the exact same can be said for the Cubs and the North Side. What the national media fails to realize is that even though Cubs fans may outnumber Sox fans, the argument can be made that this is more attributable to deft marketing, national television exposure and a pretty darn nice beer garden, er, ballpark than true-blue fan loyalty. Don’t get me wrong – true Cubs fans are as violently passionate about their club as Sox fans are. Just don’t inaccurately report that the only Sox fans you’ll find in this city, this country or this planet are Bridgeport residents.

Myth: All Sox fans hate the Cubs and are obsessed with them.

Fact: Although my Cub fan friends will likely argue my point, I maintain that this is absolutely not the case. Yes, there is a strong contingent of Sox fans who would love to see nothing more than Wrigley Field crumble to the ground (which it’s currently doing, even as they add more seats/revenue as we speak). But this is by no means a representation of the full population of Sox fans. I will further argue that this World Series victory will result in many Sox fans that previously held feelings of resentment and/or inadequacy in relation to the Cubs converting them to feelings of purely neutral indifference. At least let’s hope so. As the great Chris Sporer says: “The world doesn’t need haters.” Couldn’t agree more.

Myth: Jimbo’s Bar is located in Southside, Chicago.

Fact: Fox proves once again that they don’t have a clue. It’s the South Side of Chicago – Southside is not a proper name in and of itself. Yet during Game 4, every time the cameras showed the inside of Jimbo’s, complete with mulleted, mustachioed off-duty union men and trashy women who could barely lift their drunken heads off of the bar and take a drag off of their Virginia Slim, the graphic flashed up: “Jimbo’s – Southside, Chicago.” Get your facts straight, NewsCorp – and while you’re at it, try doing so at your news network.

Myth: Joe Buck is a balanced, unbiased announcer who would never resort to being smugly condescending about the two teams appearing in the World Series due to the fact that it meant less viewers for Fox and less exposure for his delicate ego.

Fact: Yeah, and the Pope is Jewish.

What’s my point in all this? I’m not quite sure – I guess since I’ve already soaked up everything there is to soak up about the players, the situations, the great moments, the unbelievable outcome, etc, I wanted to hit this from a different angle. And maybe everything has already been said that needs to be said. I love the White Sox, I love this team as much as the ’85 Bears, and I will always, always, ALWAYS remember the moments that made this the greatest baseball season of my life.

A final word to all you Cubs fans – I am convinced that your misery cannot possibly go on forever. Someday, the Cubs may win the Series – all I can say is savor it when it comes because there is honestly nothing like it in the world. Pure, unadulterated bliss.

THANK YOU WHITE SOX!

Rambling on the Eve of Potential Euphoria

The White Sox are in the World Series.

Let me just repeat that so it sinks in.

The White Sox are in the World Series.

Holy shit.

This is a day I thought I would never see. This is something my father last saw when he was 12. This is something I've been yearning, hoping and wishing for since my dad took me to my first Sox game. I was four years old and strangely intrigued by the sight of staggering men with bad mustaches vomiting into drinking fountains in the dark, dank concourses of Comiskey Park. The place was vile, dirty, smelly and beautiful all at the same time, especially on the nights we seemingly had that grandstand in right field all to ourselves.

Over the years, there were many players who pulled on that often-garish White Sox uniform who I idolized: Chet Lemon, Bull, Baines, Pudge, Rudy, Ivan, Walker, The Hammer, Thiggy, Ozzie, Scooter, Rock, La Chispa, Blackjack, One-Dog (Sporer's most hated nickname of all time), Robin, Ray-Ray, The Big Hurt, the Little Hurt, The Officer, Spanky...the list goes on and on and on.

My love for the game truly blossomed when they won ugly in '83. I sat in golden box seats as Tony LaRussa whipped third base across the infield shortly before he was fied by Hawk Harrelson. I held out hope that the 1990 squad would give the best ballpark around a proper send off by toppling the hated A's - unfortunately, Dave Stewart was right - we couldn't hold their jocks (some things never change). In '93, I emerged from the Lost Semester a happy, somewhat-well-adjusted young man as the Sox won another division title. To this day, the Orioles, A's and Blue Jays make me want to vomit.

I remember the oh-so-lean years of the mid-late '90s - Jaime "Piece of Shit" Navarro, Danny Tartabull, Chris Snopek, Jorge Fabergas, Tony "Crackpipe" Phillips, Carlos "Fatass" Castillo, Mike "Potential? What Potential?" Caruso - dark, desolate times, friends. Throw in the White Flag trade in '97 (Sox facing an INSURMOUNTABLE 3 game deficit on July 31) and the God-awful 1998 Season of Sammy that spawned a colony of "Cubbie Diehards" that made even the true-blue Cub fans want to wretch over their fickle nature, and it was quite the unpleasant time to be a Sox fan.

Yet in April of 2000, watching a Saturday game against Detroit that featured two brutal bench-clearing brawls, I started to feel like that team could be special. They stuck together, made a nice trade to pick up Charles Johnson, and basically coasted to a division title. Unfortunately, they happened to coast straight through the first round against Seattle. Another great season, another flameout.

Throughout the early part of this century, I watched in agony as a team loaded with talent and potential middled their way through each season as the Indians and Twins fucked them right in their minds in much the same way the Hanson brothers applauded player-coach Reggie Dunlap for doing to Tim "Dr. Hook" McCracken. An All-Star appearance here, a 27-game hitting streak there, another 83 win season, and nobody seemed to give a shit.

Enter Kenny Williams, who I foolishly chided at the beginning of this season for the work he did on the 2005 model of the Sox. "Get rid of Ordonez and Lee?" I gasped. "Heresy!" Given this man's track record (David Wells, Todd Ritchie, Roberto Alomar...TWICE) I thought he had finally lost it. Yet here we sit today - a glorious season for a glorious franchise. As they steamrolled through July, I thought "Great, another easy division title, another first round flame out." Instead, we had what may have been three of the most nerve-wracking weeks of my life as the Sox tried to give their season away. The National Media loved every minute of it - dickheads like Jeff Brantley saying "See, I told you I was right about the White Sox being a fluke!" Too bad for them that their self-righteousness got shoved right back down their throats...

As for how everything has gone until this point, I couldn't be happier. We kept the hated Indians out of the playoffs, giving Cleveland fans yet another reason to be depressed (given that they have to live in Cleveland, that's pretty hard to do). Next we swept America's Darlings, the Boston Red Sox, right out of contention. As much as I was rooting for Boston last year, I have to say that there was no sweeter sight than watching the White Sox dance around Fenway park as 34,000 New Englanders sat in stunned horror. (Sidenote: I was watching Alias with Michelle the other day, which should now be known as Gay-lias, and there was a scene when Jennifer Garner, who is carrying the fruit of known-Red Sox fan Ben Affleck's loins, is in a coffee house in Prague talking to some dude who is wearing a Red Sox hat - she says "The Boston Red Sox - I like them" - I am convinced that when this scene was filmed, she and Ben believed that the timing would be perfect, as the Red Sox would naturally be readying themselves to defend their title. Just another reason the sweep made me happy). We then were able to dispatch the club from Orange County, holding last year's AL MVP to a 1-for-20 showing (for those of you not into baseball, that's an average of .050, and that's not very good).

Now, we get to face the tough club from Texas, which as Sgt Hartman reminds us is only home to "steers and queers". Yes, they have good pitching. Yes, they play in the friendliest righthanded hitting ballpark in American history. Yes, they have a neat train that rides around and such. But since their stadium's former namesake is Enron, and Enron is the reason I lost a plum job with Business-class travel, four-star hotel stays and a planned trip to the Netherlands that certainly would have involved a weekend trip to Amsterdam, leaving me in a stupor of stoned euphoria, I must blame the Astros for having that taken away from me. I call upon the Baseball Gods to smite these villains and allow the White Sox to bask in the glory of a world championship.

So in conclusion, thank you to the 2005 White Sox - should you win the Series, you will have a place in my heart above all others - above the 2005 Illini, the '90s Bulls, the '85 Bears, and, well, I guess that's all the good teams I know.

GO GO WHITE SOX!!!!!!!!!!!

Random Thoughts for the Day

- SWEEEEEEEEEEEEP!!!!!!

- The last three Sox games were arguably the three best games in franchise history.

- On ESPN Radio this morning, Peter Gammons was speculating whether the Red Sox fans would start a "1917" chant, similar to the "1918" chant they used to hear from Yankee fans. This led me to ask myself: Is this the sports equivalent of a cancer survivor heckling patients in the oncology ward?

- The only thing worse than having to suffer through three games of Chris Berman's amazing feat of announcing a baseball game with Johnny Damon's scrotum in his mouth was having to watch as the ESPN cameras panned the Fenway crowd as poor, poor Red Sox Nation had that look of "We haven't won in 11 months, woe is us!" horror on their collective faces. How soon we forget.

- Wait a second - actually, watching those shots of the Fenway crowd was surprisingly pleasing.

- On an unrelated note, if you ask me, nothing screams "I'm a complete and total asshole" quite like a colored dress shirt with a white collar and cuffs.

- Is there a creepier person on the fringe of celebrity than Joe Simpson, patriarch of the Jessica/Ashlee duo of overexposure? I believe this guy used to be a Baptist Minister, and now he wears his hair like a cast member of The Real World, dons an earring, and doesn't quite button his shirt all the way to the top. Not only that, but he is being cited in all the current rumors as one of the main reasons for Nick and Jessica's impending split. Am I the only one who is completely unsettled by his sheer scuzziness? What would Freud say about his strange, pseudo-sexual relationship with his daughters? Can someone please splice this guy's brain open, study it, and figure out how we can prevent future occurrences of Papa Joe?

- Speaking of Jessica Simpson, to me she is the epitome of the sheltered girl who fires off like a loose cannon once she gets a taste of the good life. She was a virgin when she married her husband, and three scant years later there are rumors of her love of whiskey, cocaine use, and sexual rendezvous with Johnny "Why Is This Guy A Movie Star Again?" Knoxville. If they can't make it work, there's no hope for any of us. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: We're doomed.

- I was watching a recent episode of the once-intriguing but now-excrutiating Alias yesterday. As they began working Jennifer Garner's pregnancy into the script, there is a scene where her character, Sidney, is speaking with her fiancee, Michael, about said pregnancy. Because he's got some secret to hide, he pulls the old, tired "How can we bring a child into this world?" cliche. I've never quite understood this. Don't we as humans, despite all of our issues and hang-ups, generally continue to evolve as a species? Isn't that what time, technology, innovation and education do for us? Would it be better to bring a child into the world during the Jim Crow Era? Or maybe in the 1620's, when single women were being burned alive by religious zealots who thought it was weird that they were single women? Or perhaps even during those lazy, hazy, crazy days of the Bubonic plague? The further back you go, the shittier things were in general, so there are no "Good Ol' Days". And yes, things are still pretty fucked up and aren't getting exponentially better in the near future. So maybe the writers of this show can craft something a little more plausible and have the guy say, "sorry, hon - a baby will just cramp my style." Keep it real.

- Did I mention that the White Sox won this evening?

- I final shoutout goes to acquitted ex-footballer O.J. Simpson, who Us Weekly happily reports spent the 10th anniversary of his acquittal signing autographs at a horror-themed comic book convention. Run, Juice, run!