28 September 2007 - The One Where you should FREE EARL

This video doesn't just speak to me, it speaks for me. It also serves as a good history lesson. I had no idea that Earl was behind the fall of the Berlin Wall. I always thought that was Hasselhoff.
Also, if anyone has any idea who Dan Coscino is, don't hesitate to let me know. I'll be greatly indebited if anyone knows who this Darryl Hall falsetto voice belongs to.
Either way, Earl starts up again tonight and you should watch it. If you don't? Do I really need to say "Bad karma?" That's all you need to know. Do good things, good things happen. Do bad things, and you get the pain.

Also, I'll be taking this weekend off from ye olde bloge (gotta embrace the unnecessary vowel). Why? Well, I'm going off on another one of my oh-so-epic weekend trips. The subject of which will remain a secret. But I'll be crossing off at least one thing from my list.
So prepare yourselves for the next entry: The One Where Max Lives Like He Was Dying.

-MGD
Max Davison is a Junior at Claremont McKenna College. He was raised off rural Route 3, out past where the black top ends. He’d walk to church on Sunday mornings and race barefoot down to Johnson’s fence. That’s where he first saw Mary, on that road side picking blackberries. That summer he turned a corner in his soul, down that red dirt road.

27 September 2007 - The One Where Max Channels his inner Bob Dole

The Phil Spector (no relation to Regina) trial reached a verdict today...and it looks like we've got a mistrial! But on the bright side, we've also got a hung jury. Hit it!


I've come a little bit set in my ways. After bungy jumping and all the assorted insanity you'd expect from someone with a death wish, life just seems a little bit dull.
So, I've decided to only speak in the third person from now on.
All of my heroes in life do it. Rickey Henderson. Bob Dole. God. Denny Crane. The Rock. Julius Caesar. Steve Holt. Barry Gibb. Duffman. Disco Stu. Homie the Clown. The Jimmy. And they've turned out okay. These are great men and being in their company would be a big step up for me. I picture myself standing on a balcony, standing before the Roman assembly, proclaiming "MAX WILL SAVE YOU FROM YOUR PLIGHT!" as I triumphantly exit as the huddled masses chant my name.

It will also further my existential crisis about whether or not I see myself through a purely objective lens. It's highly possible that we, as human beings, have a fundamentally flawed perspective of ourselves and when we turn our gaze inward, we do not see what the rest of the world does. There is a disconnect between the first and third person views of our lives. And through this experiment, I will hopefully merge the two and (as Leopold Bloom said) see ourselves as others do.

Or maybe Max just feels like being pretentious and figures that "Can you hand Max that jar of Nutella" is a great ice breaker.




P.S. After watching the premiere of House, I have one request: If I am ever in a situation where I'm in a coma or can't speak, the first thing that anyone should do is to teach me Morse Code so that I can communicate through blinking. Otherwise, it'll be tough for me to randomly guess the proper Morse for "Teach me Morse Code already you jackass."


-MGD
Max Davison is a junior at Claremont McKenna College, pursuing a dual major in Literature and Film Studies. He is the son of a son of a sailor and he recently went out on the sea for adventure. He expanded the view of the captain and crew like a man just released from endenture.

26 September 2007 - I preferred Parker Brothers anyway

In case you haven't seen the footage, it's right here.
But Milton Bradley has finally out Milton Bradley-ed himself.

When I heard the news that an idiot outfielder got booted from another game, I didn't even have to ask "GUESS WHO?" Of course, it was Milton Bradley.
After singling to center, Bradley threw his bat (intentionally?) towards the home plate umpire. The first base blue called him on this, and then MB went defcon 5 and manned his BATTLESHIP. And then his right leg snapped backwards like a MOUSE TRAP. Bradley was going to be a big part of San Diego's effort to CONNECT FOUR playoff wins. Perhaps he needed a better STRATEGO than to just charge at the first base blue, since he ended up crawling on the ground like was playing TWISTER. All the while, it looks like the Padres' playoff hopes are toppling over. JENGA.

I'm going to stop saying that something's retarded (I'm too liberal with that word anyway). I'm just going to say that it's "Milton."
It goes down as one of the dumbest sports injuries, in good company with Bill Gramatica tearing his ACL in a celebratory leap and Glenallen Hill having a nightmare about spiders, falling out of bed and into a glass table.

Call him a racist or what have you, but at least Jeff Kent broke his wrist being manly while washing his truck (or possibly racing ATVs).

So what do you do with a mentally imballanced, All Star caliber right fielder? Anger Management is one issue, but I doubt that even spending two years with Jack Nicholson will bring Milton back to planet earth. Sensitivity training? Worthless. Reprogramming? Wears off. My recommendation? Frontal lobe lobotomy. Instant attitude adjustment.

But at least he can take consolation in knowing that he's not the craziest player in the MLB. Carl Everett still denies the existence of dinosaurs.






-MGD
Max Davison is a Junior at Claremont McKenna College, pursuing a dual major in Literature and Film Studies. He was born down in a dead man's town. The first kick he took was when he hit the ground.

25 September 2007 - The one where Max pretends he's Ray Charles

The view out of my dorm room isn't that spectacular. Actually, it looks out at another building. So when I wake up in the morning, I have no clue what the weather's going to be like.
I had resolved that today would be the maiden voyage of my new, trendy Ray Bans. What's the point in spending the money if no one sees them on you?
And when you look as good as I do in them...

Of course you've got to flaunt them. As the poet said: You know what the difference is between you and me? I make this look good.

So I walked out into Auckland looking studly as ever. It's September, so I just assumed that there'd be sun outside. But we all know what happens when you assume: You look like a total asshole.
So I walk outside to a slight drizzle. No problem. I just put up my hood (and looked a little bit like the unabomber). But then it started to pour. I took out my umbrella (ella...ella...eh), but I refused to take off my polarized lenses. I had come too far to let peer pressure set in.
I'm sure that everyone thought that I was either incredibly vain, a big Roy Orbison fan or just extremely hung over. Seeing as it was a Tuesday morning, all three seemed like logical assumptions. But no matter what they thought, I had won. Why? Because they were looking at me. Even if they at first thought "Hey, look at that idiot!" I'm sure that by the end they were thinking, "Damn! Check out that idiot in those sweet stunner shades!" Mission Accomplished. Ladies, form a line to my left for make outs. Dudes, form a line to my right for high fives.

So I'm signing off for now, and as always I remind you: If you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with.

-MGD
Max Davison is a Junior at Claremont McKenna College. He is a double major in MIG combat and Beach Volleyball, and is currently writing his thesis on the sonnets of the Righteous Brothers. While at the academy, he has lost his qualifications as section leader three times, been put in hack twice, and has a history of high speed passes over five air control towers, and one admiral's daughter.

24 September 2007B - The One Where Max Declares his own Fatwa

This entry was originally planned to be a cluelessly conservative diatribe about how Barry Manilow should pull himself over to the shoulder of the pretentiousness turnpike and just shut his Fraggle Rock mouth the hell up about Elisabeth Hasselbeck. Now, I used to be a Fanilow, but then he refused to appear on the View, since Elisabeth is, quote: "dangerous and offensive."

I had written a call to boycott Mr. Copacabana and put him on the same blacklist as Natalie Maines and Barbra Streisand...
And then I read the comments at Columbia University this morning, and realized that Ahmadinejad has finally hit ludicrous speed on way towards WWIII.

I don't care what you think about the Bush administration. I'm not going to make any political statement about this madman. I just want you to read the following excerpts and ask yourself how safe you feel with Ahmadinejad, a man with the comptenency of Mel Gibson on a bender, having access to enriched Uranium. This is a man who took "Borat" so literally that he's actually going to throw the Jew down the well so his country can be free.

The moderator asked point blank: "The question is: Do you or your government seek the destruction of the state of Israel as a Jewish state? And I think you could answer that question with a single word, either yes or no."
"You asked the question, and then you want the answer the way you want to hear it. Well, this isn't really a free flow of information," Ahmadinejad retorted.

"If the Holocaust is a reality, why don't we let more research be done on it?"

"In Iran we don't have homosexuals like in your country," he said, to laughter and boos from the audience.

The last thing this country needs is "Operation: Iranian Freedom," but how much longer can the global community allow Ahmadinejad to stay in power?
And also, who is more "dangerous and offensive," a flighty talk show host or an extremist world leader? Maybe Barry Manilow needs to figure out who the real enemy is in the world.

-MGD

"In my country there is problem
And that problem is the Jew
They take everybody's money
They never give it back to you.
Throw the Jew down the well
So my country can be free
You must grab him by his horns
Then we'll have a big party."
-Mahmoud Ahmadinejad

24 September 2007 - The One Where Max Curses the Ayatollah

I've been reading up on the Middle east recently. It all started when I watched "Syriana" and was thoroughly confused. Although, watching George Clooney get tortured gave me the same sort of orgasmic bliss that I get from watching Kirk Gibson hobble around second base. Before I started studying, Ayatollah Khomeini was just that guy on the t-shirt that Homer refused to sell at his yard sale. So I have resolved to take as many Gov't classes when I get back to CMC. I'm prepared to ditch my ignorance about that giant bed of sand that happens to be floating on a sea of oil.

But in my honest opinion, the greatest victim in the ongoing war between Islam and freedom has to be Yusef Islam, the artist formerly known to the world as Cat Stevens.



















In 1978, Cat Stevens converted to Islam and left the pop scene to focus on education and philthropy. In 1989, he called for Salman Rushdie's head on a platter, insisting He must be killed. The Koran makes it clear - if someone defames the prophet, then he must die." It's hard to believe that the man who warned us that baby, baby it's a Wild World, inspired us to ride on the Peace Train and told us that If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out was now calling for the blood death of a mediocre fiction writer.

Think about all of the great songs that we're never going to hear Sitting. The First Cut is the Deepest. Here Comes My Baby. Wild World. Morning Has Broken.
Where Do the Children Play? And "Father and Son" always gets to me. You'd have to be a glacier not to be moved by that one.

Ahmadinejad's political and religious extremism is evident on a global scale. You have a president who insists that Israel is a "disgraceful stain on the Islamic world" and it must be "wiped off the map" and who also claims that the Holocaust was a myth. And now he has successfully enriched Uranium. While all of these details strike us as enormous, it's the small details that demonstrate the true costs of this struggle. A popular, pacifist folk singer is overwhelmed by murderous rage over a Da Vinci Code-esque thriller and the world loses his music. It's just sad, is all.

So how do we avoid a nuclear arms race with Iran and (perhaps) regain one of the greatest folk-pop stars of the 1970s? Easy. We nuke the whales. Because we've gotta nuke something.

-MGD
Max Davison is a Junior at Claremont McKenna College by day, but at night he wears his underwear over his pants and fights crime.

23 September 2007 - The One Where Max Becomes a Corporate Whore

Enough was enough.
For the past two and a half months, I haven't been able to download music or movies off the interweb. I've been stuck with the same playlists for the past two months. Even on shuffle, you get tired of the same songs over and over again.
I had previously taken pride in being off the grid and staying away from the system. But those days are over. I have become another cog in that amoral, soul sucking machine that feeds off the lifeforce of a hairless Keanu Reeves. I'm speaking of course, about Apple.
Yes, I finally signed up for the iTunes Music Store. So all of you with your Che Guevarra t-shirts, you can stop reading right now.

At the Railway Campus, we're not allowed to use any file sharing programs such as LimeWire or Bittorrent. When I heard about this, the first thought that ran through my head was "Is this a Communist country? I'm sorry, I thought this was America!" Then upon realizing that my passport had just been stamped and I was not, in fact, in America, I shut up. Down here I can't hide behind the first ammendment like I was Cindy Sheehan.

But finally, I had had enough of the monotony. I heard the Gipsy King's version of "Hotel California" at the end of Entourage, and I needed to have it.
Then I heard Gus Black's cover of Ozzy's "Paranoid" during the opening credits of "Californication." And I needed it like Cuba Gooding Jr. needed a bigger part in "Pearl Harbor."
And a dollar is such a small price to pay for quality music and your support of recording artists. And plus, now that I have a debit card linked to my checking account, it's not even like real money!
(Sidebar: Before shipping off to NZ, I opened up a checking account. This gave me the freedom of my first debit card. One more step closer to financial emancipation...except that my folks regularly make deposits in my account.)

I have had one prior run-in with iTunes. For the life of me, I couldn't find the elusive Radio-only mix of Whitesnake's "Here I Go Again" on Limewire. After over a month of hunting for my hair band Holy Grail, I gave one, Jack Evert, a dollar and asked him to download it for me off his own account.
(Sidebar II: You might be asking yourself "How different can two versions of 'Here I Go Again' be? What is "a world of difference," Alex? It's like the Apocalypse Now: Redux of the musical world. Want proof? Go buy the song for yourself. It's only 99 cents, and if you mention that I sent you, I get five free hours on AOL).

But now I'm a part of the Apple system. And I'm having the time of my life! (Hey, T-Bone!) It's so easy to download the top songs of today and yesterday. I'm currently subscribed to about 10 podcasts (favorites are A Prairie Home Companion, This American Life and Gordon Ramsay's 'Fast Food.') and I'm digging the celebrity playlists.
I'm out there and I'm loving every minute of it! There's only a thin layer of gaberdine between me and full-fledged corporate whoredom. Yep. I love big business. I hate the first amendment. And I'm probably voting for a Mormon in '08. God Bless America!

-MGD

Vernon Davis Fun Fact of the Day:
Vernon isn't an alcoholic. The beer is addicted to him.

22 September 2007 - The One Where Max makes another List

I think that Willie Nelson put it best when he asked "Living on the road, my friend, who's gonna keep you free and clean?"
Driving around in a campervan for extended periods of time, you learn new ways to occupy yourself. We played a lot of cards, except that when the car is moving, it's hard to keep the table in place. I wrote a good deal, except that when the car is moving, it's hard to keep the table in place. I read a good deal, except that when the car is moving, it's hard to keep yourself from upchucking.

But one day, we parked in Golden Bay and I just had time to sit with my thoughts and a piece of paper. What ended up in my binder was a list of things to do before I turn 30.

Things to do before you die is a) too morbid and b) too easy. It gives you 70 some odd years to cross everything off. This can make for some more grandiose items to check off, but 70 years is far too long if you want to go to Joshua Tree and rock climb.

I got the idea from Doctors John Dorian and Christopher Turk. Their lists included: get married, buy a house, learn difference between Senator and Congressman, sleep naked on a hammock, be a dad, invent a breakfast cereal, finish a triathlon. and have sex while playing Frogger. Mine is less sexual in nature (partly because there's the off chance that my relatives are going to read this and I don't want to mention any of my sexual proclivities), but still as ambitious.

So without further Apu, I give you
Things to do before I turn 30:
1) Run the LA Marathon
2) Be engaged at least once
3) Have at least two movies made
4) See Brooks and Dunn in concert
5) Visit at least 15 Major League Ballparks. So far I've only been to Dodger Stadium, Pac Bell Park (or whatever they call it), Anaheim Stadium, PetCo Park...and I think that's it.
6) Go to Alaska
7) Go to Europe
8) Make a pilgrimage to Graceland
9) Sky dive (and perhaps everything else that Tim McGraw lists in "Live Like You Were Dying," although I'm not too keen on loving deeper and speaking sweeter.)
10) Go to the San Diego Comic-Con
11) Go whaling
12) Go ice fishing
13) Get another degree on top of my B.A.
14) Catch a Marlin off the coast of Cuba
15) See a bull fight
(As you can tell, 14 and 15 are when I'm in my Ernest Hemingway phase)
16) Have a conversation with my father that doesn't involve sports, politics or movies
17) Ride a bull (preferably named Fu Manchu, preferably longer than 2.7 seconds)
18) Tour the best BBQ joints in the American South
19) Run with the bulls in Pamplona
(Sidebar: I'm not sure why, but I guess I have a fixation on bulls. Maybe I should add in "Have my picture taken with Horace Grant and Tony Kukoc.)
20) Be a contestant on Jeopardy
21) Sing "Don't Go Breaking My Heart" as a duet with my girlfriend at a karaoke bar

21 items in 10 years. So for the next decade, I plan on going on a My Name is Earlian quest (minus the Karma and Crab Shack) to cross off everything. This is a new chapter for YT. I think that everyone likes to make lists. If it weren't for this tendency, VH1 would have nothing to countdown, and therefore nothing to broadcast (apart from reruns of Hogan Knows Best). And then you have the movie that shaped my childhood, High Fidelity, in which Lloyd Dobbler constant ranks the top five songs to play on a monday morning, top five breakups, top five songs about death (Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, Dead Man's Curve, but not You Can't Always Get What you Want), etc.
Needless to say, I list a lot. But this is the first time that I can actually do something with it.
And maybe if my attention span stays active for long enough, this blog'll become a shrine to my new list.
But probably not, since I'll lose interest long before that.


-MGD

"That's what she said" of the day:
(Re: A jar of frozen peanut butter)
Is it still stiff?

21 September 2007 - The One Where Max takes a ride into the Dangerzone

I've been out of Nutella for the past day and I'm going through withdrawl. Right now I'm pretty sure that my refrigerator is going to eat me.


There are very few things in this world that make me cry. Actually, the list is pretty short. Pepper Spray. When Arrested Development got cancelled. And, of course, Brian's Song (But in the third case, my tears essentially act a lubricant).
But bungy jumping nearly broke onto the list at #4.

Over spring break, we hit up Queenstown, the extreme sports capital of the world (or so it said on its "Welcome to" sign). No visit to Q-Town is complete without facing one of your fears. For our group, that meant bungy jumping off of the Nevis highwire, the tallest jump in the world (134 meters).

We had to take a gondola out to the platform. Once firmly there, I looked looked up at the mechanism. It was an intricate system of bungy cords and machinery, yet it still seemed somewhat flimsy to support people jumping off suspended only by a cable. It felt very scary knowing that my entire life was placed on the shoulders of an inanimate carbon rod.

I also have to admit that I probably wouldn't have even been at this point had I not already paid for it. Wasted money is always a great motivator. So the bungy pros called my name and sat me down in a sort of dentist/torture chair. They locked my feet onto the bungy cord and firmly attached my harness to my chest. All the while, I've got Hell's Bells going on the iPod. So now that I had suited up, it was time for the plunge.

I stood out onto the platform and all of my previous machismo sunk down 134 meters. I think that the DVD of the jump has to be edited for profanity at this point, because I started swearing like the Director's Cut of "Shaft." "What the f**k am I doing up here? Holy f**king Jesus. Hail f**king Mary." The bungy guy came up behind me and then began to count down from 3. But there was no way in hell that 3 seconds could prepare me. So I asked for a countdown starting at 5. But instead of nice, slow counting, he sped through those numbers. I'm not sure what happened at this point, but the fear of being called a wuss outweighed that of heights so I just jumped off.




And for the next nine seconds you could call me Tom Petty the way I was freefalling.

By the time they pulled me back up, I wasn't sure if I was laughing or crying or maybe a little of both. But I did keep saying "I wanna do it again." I likely I would of, if I weren't broke at that point.

-MGD

20 September 2007 - The One Where Max Wishes he was Bode Miller

Before I get to my next rant, I need to mention how life got a little bit more intersting today. And I'm not talking about how OJ is facing seven felonies without bail.
No, I bring news from the CafeAbroad war front. And it's not good. I thought that a ceasefire had been declared. But it looks as though "Dan" has declared a fatwa on my head and the Ayatollah has sent his army of suicide bombing high school literary gazette rejects after me.
Don't ask me why, but I decided to check in on CafeAbroad.com. Maybe I was looking for a good laugh, or maybe I was in search of schadenfreude. Whatever the cause, I logged onto the main page...AND SAW MY OWN DAMN FACE STARING BACK.
I now give you permission to visit the website.
CafeAbroad.suck

Yep. I got published and I didn't even know it. But before you give me a victory five, read the article. Do you recognize it? Because I sure don't. I published it way back in August right here on the 'Stravaganza.

It's like my article was a Victorian prostitute and "Dan" played the part of Jack the Ripper. I hardly recognize what I wrote. No Dodger references. Nothing about "Sonny Bono-ing" into a tree. Nothing about Eli Roth's portrayal of Hostels. I'm lucky they left in damn sexy Flanders. At least half of the lines in this bastardized article aren't my own.
And to make matters even worse, my by-line makes me want to vomit. "Aspiring humor writer" my ass! Plus, no mention of CMC at the bottom. And I am certainly not studying in between my adventures.

So now I'm wondering whether or not I have grounds to sue "Dan" for all his website is worth. Maybe it's time to bring in Alan Shore and Denny Crane to fight for me. Or maybe I'll just call upon my dedicated bloggership to send e-mails to Dan petitioning him to publish the article in its entirety or to finally hire me and help homie get paid. Either way, life got a little bit more interesting today.

So back to the blog....


Over break I went kayaking through Abel Tasman National Park, one of the most beautiful areas of preserved nature I've ever seen. The sky was blue. Real blue, not the fake LA Smog variety. Every plant and vine was green. And the ocean was so blue that it looked like that fake Mini-Golf water. I kayaked around seal colonies and through caves (Including Black Bart's. So scary!).
And then I realized something: I'm damn good at this kayaking business. It might have something to do with my natural shoulder strength, or the 5 sets of rows I do each day at the gym, or maybe I just wanna go fast. Either way, I now know that I missed my calling as a kayaker. It's probably too late to train for the Beijing games or join the Claremont Crew team.
I went through a similar feeling of disappointment when I discovered my skiing prowess last month.
And the life of an Olympian is perfect for me. You get paid to do nothing for four years and then get to live a fantasy life for a month in exotic locales. Yep, I should be living the Bode Miller lifestyle. A loose cannon "whatever" attitude, Olympic glory, and the ability to party as hard as you train. And if you happen to ski while drunk, who cares? You're Bode Miller.

So since I've missed my window of opportunity for drunken Gold Medal glory, I've decided that my son (Namath Calrissian Davison-Underwood)is going to be an Olympic Kayaker and I will live vicariously through him.
Think about the following: Serena and Venus Williams. Tiger Woods. The Jamaican Bobsled Team. What do they all have in common (apart from their NAACP memberships)? They entered small sports in which they could easily become champions.
And even though odds are that my son won't be black (or whatever race Tiger claims to be), but he will be one hell of an athlete. And I think that kayaking is obscure enough where he can take over and dominate like Zed on Marcellus Wallace.
So watch out for the 2034 games.


-MGD

Max Davison is a Junior at Claremont McKenna College, pursuing a dual major in Literature and Film Studies. In his spare time, he enjoys watching reruns of Barefoot Contessa, bench pressing midgets, clubbing baby seals, and he is an active participant in Project Minuteman. After graduation, he plans on marrying wealthy and continuing his dreams of Hollywood glory.
(Now THAT'S a by-line).


That's what she said of the day:
(Re: An empty tube of chap-stick)
You might have some trouble getting your finger in that.

19 September 2007 - The One Where Max Gets Addicted

I've stayed moderately clear of addiction through my first 20 years. Well, that's not entirely true. There's Halo 2, Facebook and Entourage. And that one time I fell under the spell of opium when I was travelling the Yangtzee in search of a Mongolian horsehair vest. I had got to the market after sundown, all of the clothing traders had gone, but a different sort of trader still lurked about. "Just a taste," he said. That was all it took. But apart from that, I'm clean.
And then I came to New Zealand and got corrupted by a force so powerful that the Pope would sell his soul for it. I'm talking of course, about Nutella.


Manufactured by Ferrero, Nutella (pronounced new-tell-a) is a Hazelnut spread that goes great on toast...as well as everything else in the world since the second ingredient is Cocoa Powder. It's essentially chocolate frosting masquerading as peanut butter.
And I can't stop eating it. I make Nutella and jelly sandwiches. Nutella on rice cakes. Nutella on Nutella. Nutella straight out of the jar. Just licking the knife after making a sandwich.
Some have remarked that Red Bull acts like a gateway drug, getting you ready for harder stuff like cocaine or speed. Well Nutella makes Crack look like Sanka.
I'm honestly afraid that I'm going to make a fortune and then blow it away snorting lines of Nutella off of supermodels. And then I'll be sitting on Melrose, whoring myself out for my next fix of that hazelnutty goodness.
We've all seen Requiem for a Dream. This kind of stuff happens all the time.

I previously marked out over the Chocolate Waterfall at the Cadbury Chocolate Factory in Dunedin, NZ. Well now I have to visit the Nutella factory and hope that I can white water raft down the Nutella river.

I've compiled a long list of things that I would like to either see topped with Nutella or made out of Nutella.
1) Belgian Waffles
2) Soft Serve Ice Cream
3) Shaving Cream
4) Shampoo/Conditioner
5) Pizza
6) Muffin Tops
and of course 7) Carrie Underwood

The problem is, there's no Rehab for Nutella addiction. There's no ludovico technique to cure me of my habit. There's only one drastic solution left: Don't buy it. I currently have half of a jar yet and that should last me through the night. But afterwards, I'm going cold turkey.
Pray for me, everyone. It's going to be a rough couple of weeks.


-MGD

Vernon Davis Fun Fact of the Day:
George Bush may not care about black people, but Vernon Davis sure does.

18 September 2007 - The one where San Fran is in first place

As opposed to ending with, I'm going to start this entry with my Vernon Davis fun fact.
Vernon Davis has such an imposing presence that he can only score 2 fantasy points in two weeks and still lead his team to back to back victories.


That's right everybody. The Niners are 2-0. People said that it would be a cold day in hell before this would happen. Well, it looks like serial killers and unwed mothers are enjoying some fun winter weather down there.
Even more impressive is how horrible Alex Smith and crew have looked...YET THEY STILL WIN. The 49ers are the NFL's version of that kid in high school who studied at the last minute and pulled off B's without ever working that hard. And what would that kid always say? "Imagine if I actually put a little effort into my work. I'd be getting straight A's!"
Well, that's the strategy that Mike Nolan is adopting this season: Get by doing the least possible amount of work. But as all procrastinators know, there's going to come a point where your mom gives you the talk about starting your papers early and insisting that if you don't put in a little effort than your life is going to be pointless, meaningless and spent living in an apartment above a bowling alley and below another with an LSD-addicted room mate who claims to be John Stamos' long lost brother.
Come on, I can't be the only one who had that talk, right?
Anyhoo, I have a feeling that Week 3 is when the Niners get this talk from their team mom (maybe there's a Chunky Soup commercial in this) and show up in the first half. Go Niners. Go America.

-MGD

17 September - The Van

So it's been brought to my attention that maybe "Dan" and his use of the word 'lede' wasn't as incorrect as this blogger would lead you all to believe. Well, I'd apologize if I thought I had anything to apologize for. Who the hell uses the word "lede" when "lead" is so much more well known? It's like saying "masticate" when you mean "chew." The only difference is that masticate sounds like a very funny word for playing with yourself, while "lede" only serves to sound pretentious and confuse well-read CMC literature majors.

Allright. Back to the trip.

New Zealand is one of those backwards, Metric system countries that drives on the left. I really have no idea what the benefit is to this. The majority of people in the world are right handed, so it would only make sense that the gear shift would be on the driver's right. But New Zealand doesn't want to make life easy so we drive on the left hand side of the road. I bet "Dan" from cafeabroad.com would love it if everyone in the world had to drive on the left. Dear god do I hate that guy. He's the Hugh Jackman to my Dr. Cox. There are so many things that I hate about what "Dan" chooses to be...

Allright. Back to the trip.

I didn't drive that much on the South Island (since technically it would be illegal), but when I did (when has that ever stopped me before?) I had to keep telling myself "LEFT. STAY ON THE LEFT. TED KENNEDY LEFT." And all the while I'm doing my best impression of Alvy Singer trying to navigate his way through L.A. traffic (Five Schrute Bucks if anyone other than my parents gets that one).

So for those of you worried about my driving abilities, take solace in the fact that I was in no way responsible for what happened on our way to Milford Sound. Read on...



So this was our beautiful camper van. We nicknamed her CVI (and due to our penchant for roman numerals, 106). I was pulling for christening the vans "Snowman" and "The Bandit," but apparently no one else in my group was familiar with classic pieces of Americana or CB Lingo.
I spent 16 days driving around in this bad boy. The four of us got to know each other very well after two and a half weeks. Got accustomed to other people's eating habits, snoring habits, sleep walking, sleep talking (that one's me, as anyone who's shared a room with me will know), political views, passive aggressivity, taste in iPod playlists, etc. And I also got addicted to Nutella, but that's a long story for another blog entry.

106 had treated us well for the first 9 days, and then the unthinkable happened.
We got stuck in a tunnel.



You see, as we were entering the tunnel, another camper van (probably a drunk driver) was driving right down the center of the road.
(Note: I have found that there are very few drunk NZ drivers. Why is this the case? It's because drink doesn't effect hobbits at all. The only substance that they can become dependent upon is heroin).
So our van swerved to the left and that was followed by the unmistakable sound of plastic on concrete.

The damage wasn't so bad and we were able to reshape the car to the point where no one could tell the difference.
And then the birds attacked:


Yes, a rabid swarm of Kea (a highly unusual species of parrot found in the alpine regions of the South Island of New Zealand. Source: wikipedia.) descended upon our camper in a Hitchcockian fury and started going to town on our roof like Star Jones at IHOP.



And thanks to those photos, we were able to prove to the insurance company that we were not liable for the damage. And that's why you always keep a camera in your glove compartment. True story.









But thanks to duct tape and a couple of animal sacrifices, we found safe passage. We even traveled up the world's steepest street in Dunedin.



Definitely going to miss my camper van days. After nomadically sleeping in my sleeping bag on a bench for 16 days, it was strange coming back to a twin sized bed.

So it goes...


-MGD

Vernon Davis Fun Fact of the Day:
Superman may be able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, but has he ever proved it at the Combine? Yet another reason why Vernon Davis would whoop the Last Son of Kypton's ass.

16 September 2007 - The Juice

Sorry for not updating with greater frequency. But I have an excuse. Recently, I've come down with a bad case of laziness. Yes. Laziness. If alcoholism can be considered a disease, so can laziness. I'm going to petition the AMA to accept my condition as a medical disease, similar to Gymnophobia. I know that there are at least dozens of us with this problem. DOZENS!!!

So I've decided to take a slight hiatus from writing about the trip of my lifetime to talk about an issue that's very important to me.
Recently, one Orenthal James Simpson has come under scrutiny for allegedly breaking into a room at the Palace Station Casino and robbing it.
Did he do it? I'm reserving judgement. Because even though ALL the evidence might show that OJ grabbed the loot and ran out of the hotel like he was bolting through an airport, this could very well be another attempt by The Man to frame an innocent black man.



Not gonna lie, I was rooting against OJ during the Trial of the Century. I was positive that we were going to get a guilty verdict. But what did I know? He was innocent all along.
And I'm tired of being on the losing side. So I'm going to support the Juice during these horrendous allegations.
I'm going to take a page from Tropicana's marketing team and scream "FREE OJ" until he's exonerated. You can beat this rap, Juice. And if they do find you guilty, at least it won't be for a double life sentence. So you've got that going for you.

-MGD

Vernon Davis Fun Fact of the Day:
Vernon can punch a diamond so hard that it turns back into a hunk of charcoal.

11 September 2007 - No shirt, no shave, no problem

At the end of my excursion, I felt bruised and battered. I couldn't tell what I felt. I was unrecognizable to myself. So I suppose that the South Island of New Zealand is somewhat similar to the streets of Philadelphia. I like to think that I've changed a good deal over the course of two and a half weeks. And I don't just mean spiritually. Since landing in Christchurch, I opted into a no-shave clause for the entire trip. You know, my version of a playoff beard. So the normally clean shaven MGD ended up looking like this:

Which oddly enough reminds me of:

Not sure if I'm going to keep the beard yet. It makes me feel a bit like Hemingway. And all of the greatest political leaders have them. But in the past, I've been told that I look absolutely ridiculous with facial hair. And my style guru, one Ernesto Delgado, insists that I should shave every day. Then again, all of my heroes in life have beards. My father. Jesus. Gimli. Mark McGwire. Mr. Eko. ZZ Top.
So I'm torn. If you have any input, please let me know.

-MGD

Vernon Davis Fun Fact of the Day:
Vernon Davis' sweat attracts more women than Tag Body Spray.