Pat O'Brien: A Little Too Much Access

You don't get to where Pat O'Brien is without being supremely competitive. They don't just hand out jobs as host of 'Access Hollywood' or 'The Insider' - you've got to scratch, claw and molest your way to the top of the trash TV anchor food chain.

So when Bill O'Reilly ingeniously conjured up a sordid sexual harassment scandal to generate publicity, Pat knew he had to strike back. He couldn't let O'Reilly soak up all the depraved glory, further cementing his reputation as the king of sleaze "journalism."

Well, Pat has struck back with a vengeance. He's seen O'Reilly's loofah fantasy and raised him a coked-out voice-mail that would make Richard Pryor blush. But he didn't stop there. Pat has also apparently been a terror at work, harassing colleagues at holiday parties, making hilarious gay propositions and dropping N-bombs on his brothas at the office in the worst attempt to be "down" since Aaron Carter G'd up back in 2002.

There's also apparently a picture out there of Patty O going solo, which I find hilarious but hope never to see. It's just a guess, but I'm betting Pat is hung like a "Forever Young"-era Elijah Wood. He just gives off that small dick vibe.

Pat's currently hiding out in "alcohol" rehab, but it will be high comedy watching him address the issue when he emerges. "Today's top item in 'The Insider' celebrity gossip news is....what the hell?!?" Does profuse sweating cause hair plugs to spontaneously fall out? He'd better hope not.

Listen to Pat's captivating voice-mail performance here.

Insert obvious "Michael Jackson Memorial Hospital" joke here

Yes, this is a real logo.

Get this man some Paxil and a bat

Barry Bonds, aka "He Who Could Not Be Bothered", has begun to crack. His last few press conference performances have demonstrated a side not seen before, a bit of vulnerability. Whereas previously he had mostly been "Standoffish, Arrogant Bonds," he has morphed in the last few weeks into "Angry Bonds", "Defiant Bonds", "Candid Bonds" and, most recently, "Dejected Bonds." It's been a startling display of erratic behavior from a man who has always pretty consistently been a one-note asshole.

In a sense, it shouldn't be too surprising. There's little doubt that Bonds has it tougher than any other professional athlete. Granted, most of it is the product of his own creation, but that can't make it any easier to endure on a daily basis. He is vigorously heckled in every major league park, stalked and harrassed by the media, and held up by grandstanding politicians as emblematic of a "crisis" in professional sports (though Big Mac has graciously stepped up to take some of the heat).

He's also praised, or at the very least credited, for having an incomparable ability to tune out all external distractions and turn his complete focus to performing on the field. His numbers amid the steadily-growing furor the last few years have been simply incredible, truly seasons for the ages. He has virtually transcended the sport, becoming a player for whom opposing managers literally change the rules of the game. The relentless torrent of accusations and speculation haven't thrown him off his game a bit, an impressive feat of detachment.

But there's only so much a man can endure, and Barry's comments on Monday painted the picture of a frustrated man needing badly to come out from behind the angry facade and unburden himself, maybe plead for a bit of mercy. He trotted out his son and, somewhat poignantly, discussed the effect the turmoil has had on his family. He talked about his mental exhaustion, how he's "jumped off the bridge." He even suggested, albeit in casual fashion, that he may have to miss the entire season due to his knee injury.

The latter claim set off alarms across the nation, leading the sports media to take Bonds' half-ass exclamation and run it up the proverbial flag pole as if it were a legitimate statement of belief or intent. Suddenly, he's "missing the entire season(!!!)", headed for the glue factory ahead of schedule. Clearly, they opined, the man has been beat down by the attention and abuse; maybe, at age 40, he's had enough?

Still, I don't think it's time to call off the season just yet. Monday was just the latest chapter in the fascinating story of Barry Bonds, a guy who just can't figure out how to coexist with the media that stalks him so persistenly. Possibly the greatest athlete of the past century, Bonds is also supremely ill-equipped to handle the kind of fan attention and media scrutiny his play - and omnipresent, Pigpen-esque cloud of controversy - demand. He's also not a schmoozer and he doesn't care enough about what others think to dance for anyone. In all likelihood, he's just as moody, arrogant and self-righteous as he usually appears, and he doesn't have the energy to try and change anyone's mind. As a result, he's become a flashbulb-popping spectacle to most fans, not a human being.

People simultaneously give Bonds too much and too little credit. Some write him off as an arrogant idiot, but the man has a brain and can occasionally come off as eloquent and insightful, especially when talking about his approach to hitting. If I were a Giants player, I would pull up a stool next to his massive La-Z-Boy and try to soak up whatever knowledge I could. I'd be frequently belittled and there's a good chance he'd try to steal my personal chef, but I guarantee I'd emerge a better hitter.

But at the same time, Barry isn't smart enough to be taken seriously as a spokesman for anything except his own fractured state of mind. He has demonstrated time and again in interviews that his mouth is only periodically connected to his brain. When he gets in front of a camera or microphone, he picks a mood (usually "toxic") and spews a word salad of comments that have no consistency; I've literally heard him blatantly contradict himself in consecutive sentences. In the past few years, we've heard Barry threaten retirement a number of times, blame racism for his persecution over his (admitted) use of steroids, attempt to diminish the gravity of steroid use by comparing it to labor exploitation in Third World countries, and reassure us about the size and functionality of his testicles. Clearly this is not a man who sticks to his PR script when talking to the press.

The defining Barry Bonds quote, one that puts all of his ramblings and diatribes into perspective, was uttered to the NY Post about a year ago: "I don't even believe half the shit I say." And if you've listened to him enough, you know that he doesn't.

No, Barry Bonds will not be retiring. Nor will he be missing the season. In fact, I'll be surprised if he misses more than a couple of weeks. The guy hasn't run at full speed since 1998, so having a slightly gimpy knee isn't going to affect him as much as most players. Bonds, for all his prima donna behavior and occasional bouts of verbal diarrhea, is a fierce competitor who desperately wants to win a World Series. And he, like everyone else in San Francisco, knows that it ain't happening unless he carries the Giants there on his massive shoulders.

So I join the rest of the Giants nation in hoping that Barry shakes his case of the blues sooner than later and starts treating fans and media with the same indifferent distaste he always has. Until I see #25 out there dogging fly balls in left field and crushing fastballs into the Cove, it just won't feel like baseball season.

Spoon Hitting the Road - And Coming to Amoeba!

With their new album, 'Gimme Fiction', set for official release on May 20, Spoon is hitting the road in the coming months. I can't say I'm loving the new CD; it's OK, but a bit boring and nowhere near as good as 'Kill the Moonlight.' But having seen two Britt Daniel solo shows in the past year, I am really looking forward to seeing the full band perform live. In addition to the June 20 show (at the Fillmore, I believe, though it doesn't specify below), Spoon is doing an in-store gig at the legendary Amoeba Music in the Haight.

Here are the Spoon 2005 US tour dates:

06.01.05 - Atlanta, GA - Variety Playhouse
06.02.05 - Carrboro, NC - Cat's Cradle
06.03.05 - Washington, DC - 9:30 Club
06.04.05 - Philadelphia, PA - Theatre of Living Arts
06.05.05 - Toronto, Ontario - Lee's Palace
06.06.05 - Northampton, MA - Pearl Street
06.07.05 - Boston, MA - Paradise Rock Club
06.08.05 - New York, NY - Webster Hall
06.09.05 - New York, NY - Webster Hall
06.10.05 - Cleveland, OH - Beachland Ballroom
06.11.05 - Chicago, IL - Vic Theatre
06.12.05 - Minneapolis, MN - First Avenue
06.13.05 - Lawrence, KS - Granada
06.14.05 - Denver, CO - Bluebird Theater
06.16.05 - Portland, OR - Crystal Ballroom
06.17.05 - Vancouver, British Columbia
06.18.05 - Seattle, WA - Showbox
06.20.05 - San Francisco, CA - TBA
06.21.05 - Los Angeles, CA - TBA
06.22.05 - Tempe, AZ - TBA
06.24.05 - Dallas, TX - TBA
06.25.05 - Austin, TX - TBA

Coldplay: Paying for the Sins of Keane

Coldplay has gotten the shaft in the court of musical opinion of late. A few years ago, pre-platinum album sales and arena tours, they were an essential buzz band, praised for their unique sound and great live presence. Well, some claimed they were highly derivative of U2, but most everyone agreed that they were a great new band destined for big things.

Now, the buzz has dried up and the perception is that Coldplay has officially become a 'supergroup.' That label, while complimentary in a sense, can also be dubious praise. A lot of music fans, occasionally myself included, have a hard time getting really excited about a band unless they feel they're among the 'early adopters', discovering a musical jewel before it goes mainstream. When a band 'makes it' and is embraced by the masses, being a fan just isn't as fun. Telling people you saw Coldplay at Shoreline Amphitheater, surrounded by 35,000 12-year-olds and pinheads who spend the whole show chanting "Play 'Yellow'!", isn't likely to impress anyone.

Since 2000, Coldplay has released two solid-to-stellar albums that had the misfortune of getting grossly overplayed (no fault of the band's), toured the globe a few times over, taken up some political causes, and married a (formerly) A-list Hollywood actress. So perhaps they've knowingly forfeited some of their indie credibility, but has that made them any less of a band?

The recent announcement of their new album and world tour hasn't been met with much enthusiasm from "in the know" music fans. Some act as though Coldplay is at fault for their rapid rise to musical glory, as though they should share the blame for inspiring countless, and mostly inferior, ripoff bands featuring soft piano, emotional lyrics, and falsetto-wailing lead singers.

And that's simply not fair. When you strip away image or fan dynamics or gossip column prominence, Coldplay is simply an innovative, talented band with a knack for churning out catchy, melodic songs. They've progressed musically with each album, a fact that bodes well with a new release coming in a few months. They may not be Franz Ferdinand or Bloc Party or whatever other flavor of the month is charming indie hearts (including my own) at the moment, but they're not Pearl Jam either, a once great band that hasn't made a listenable song in years.

I'm anxiously awaiting the pirated leak or, God forbid, the official release of the new album, 'X&Y', due out June 6. I may skip the show at Shoreline, however.

For a preview of the new album, check out this live recording of Coldplay's performance from the March 12 KCRW concert at Universal Amphitheater in LA.

I don't get it Paul. What's going on this Tuesday?

For those of you wondering why Paul Silas got the boot yesterday as coach of the Cleveland Cavs, despite the fact that he had guided them to a respectable 34-30 record and the 5 seed in the Eastern Conference, I think I've found a clue. Apparently Paul made some, uh, questionable comments to the Cleveland media prior to the return of Carlos Boozer - who jacked the Cavs in the offseason by agreeing to a deal with Cleveland and then suddenly Benedict Arnold-ing it over to the Utah Jazz for more money - last week.

Clever Paul, when asked about Los' return, said "Well, we'll 'see you next Tuesday'," to which an astute sportswriter responded, "Uh, isn't the game tomorrow?" Paul, not exactly a master of subtle humor, clarified by commenting, "If you spell out see (C) you (U) next (N) Tuesday (T), what does that give you? That's what he is." Oh, OK. We get it now, Paul. You believe the man is a vagina.

I'm thinking Paul imagined it going a little differently, like he'd toss out a few sly and smirky yet obscure lines about Boozer and then be able to plausibly deny their true meaning. Instead, he immediately gets flustered when his feeble attempt at cleverness flops and all but tells the media, "Yo, that dude is a big, hairy cunt. Yeah, that's right - C-U-N-T, CUNT!"

Well, Paul got his medicine yesterday, but I'm wondering what's going on with the Cleveland media when the head coach of the LeBron Dynasty calling a guy a "cunt" in plain view of several media members doesn't even merit a mention in the next day's newspaper. Are they just so thrilled to have a player actually worth a shit in Cleveland (apologies to Bob Wickman) that they're willing to whistle and look the other way when a coach drops a C-bomb on a former player rather than risk LeBron sanctions? I've never thought of the Bay Area media as vicious - certainly not on the level of Boston and NY media - but I guarantee you if Mike Montgomery called Gilbert Arenas "Twirling With A Tutu", they'd be on him like Karl Malone on little Mexican girls.

The only reason this came to light was because a Jim Rome listener forwarded the audio to him. Rome discussed it on his show yesterday, doing what Cleveland's illustrious sports media failed to do - be a journalist. And when Jim Rome is a bastion of journalistic integrity, it sure doesn't reflect well on journalism as a whole.

It kind of makes you wonder what else we've been missing out on in Cleveland. Maybe Tim Couch's departure was less about his Pop Warner-caliber play than his outspoken promotion of Islamic jihad against America. Maybe Zydrunas Ilgauskas' post-dunk flava is actually a shout-out to his Nazi brotherhood (he does have a shaved head). Perhaps......sorry, I just can't think of a single Cleveland Indian besides Bob Wickman, and I already used him.

While I'm extremely disappointed in the Cleveland media, I'm comforted by the knowledge that Paul Silas will likely coach again in the NBA, enabling the birth of an instant classic fan taunt - "See you next Tuesday! Bum bum ba ba bum! See you next Tuesday! Bum bum ba......" Now that's a great time out.

You can listen to Paul's performance here.

Doves are comin' to SF!

Fantastic news - Doves are playing the Fillmore on Sunday, May 1. This is a show I've been waiting for since I started getting into them back in early 2003. Naturally I went and bought 8 tickets right away.

If you haven't listened to Doves much, get yourself to the nearest illegal P2P application and download some of their songs immediately, particularly 2002's 'The Last Broadcast.' They have such an amazing, distinct sound; you'd never call them derivative. Sure, there are influences (I've heard U2 referenced often in album reviews), but when you hear a Doves song, there's little doubt who it is.

Tickets can be found here for the May 1 Fillmore show.

Here is the full list of North American tour dates:

May:
Sun 01 - San Francisco, CA - The Fillmore
Tue 03 - Seattle, WA - The Showbox
Wed 04 - Portland, OR - Aladdin Theatre
Fri 06 - Vancouver, BC - Commodore Ballroom
Sun 08 - Salt Lake City, UT - Club Sound
Mon 09 - Boulder, CO - Fox Theatre
Thu 12 - Minneapolis, MN - Quest
Fri 13 - Chicago, IL - Vic Theatre
Fri 20 - Boston, MA - Avalon
Sun 22 - Philadelphia, PA - Theatre Of Living Arts
Mon 23 - Washington, DC - 9:30 Club

Kasabian at Slim's - 3/11/05

I've been to some pretty good shows recently, among them Britt Daniel at Swedish American Music Hall in late 2004 and The Bravery at Cafe du Nord in January. But I can't remember the last time I've been to a show that rocked from start to finish like Kasabian's gig on Friday at Slim's. The band may be new, but they already have a good grasp what it means to be a great live act (they should share some tips with The Strokes, who were more the Country Bear Jamboree than an actual rock band when I saw them in 2003).

Kasabian was technically opening up for The Music, but it was pretty clear that the majority were there to see them. There's been a steady buzz building around the band for the last few months, despite the fact that their debut album has yet to be released stateside (ah, the wonders of the internet). Tickets sold out quickly and were being scalped outside and online for as much as $60 a pop. Not sure I would have paid that, but it turned out it would have been worth it.

In a fiendishly clever move, Kasabian sent out one of the worst bands I've ever seen to open the show. Called Morningwood, they featured a thoroughly generic sound and a screeching lead singer who, as one of my friends observed, looked like a slutty Mama Cass. And I can tell you that a slutty Mama Cass gyrating onstage and imploring a not-yet-drunk audience to "take off your clothes" is about as sexy as watching Mia Tyler wolf down a 24-piece bucket of KFC.

After the unpleasantness, the lights dimmed and Kasabian came onstage looking like their last showers were back in the UK several weeks ago. They opened with with 'I.D.', one of my favorite tracks off the album, and stormed through an energetic 45 minute set. With a minimal back catalog, the setlist pretty much mirrored the album, although I thought I heard one or two good new songs mixed in.

Kasabian's beat-heavy sound lends itself extremely well to live performances; I haven't danced since downing a flask of tequila at a Pimp's & Ho's party freshman year, yet I couldn't resist doing some heavy head-bobbing (no, I wasn't on my knees). It's fun to be at a show where EVERYONE is having a good time, regardless of how familiar they are with the band. I'd be curious to see if their sound plays as well in large venues, but it works extremely well in a small club atmosphere.

They closed with an intense version of 'Club Foot', muttered something in Manchester-ese and walked off the stage to a very hearty ovation. Well done, mates.

The Music followed, but the crowd's energy had peaked with Kasabian and they never really seemed into it. The Music are a solid band with some decent songs, but it doesn't help that their lead singer, Adam Nutter, sounds like a mix between Chip & Dale (pick one) and Michael Jackson. And their bassist looks a helluva lot like Jerry O'Connell in 'Stand By Me.' That just ain't rock & roll.

I'm not sure when Kasabian will be back in town; judging by the response, there's probably a pretty good chance they'll put together a solo club tour in the near future. I highly recommend checking them out while they're still playing small venues. They probably won't be for long.

To get a sample of Kasabian live, here are couple of MP3's from London's Cabinet War Rooms in mid-2004:

Club Foot
Reason is Treason

MLB 2005: I Need You Now, More Than Ever

As we count down the days until the beginning of the 2005 MLB season, I'm struck by one overriding emotion: relief. I've always been a big baseball fan and I'm always excited for opening day, but the dawn of this season holds additional importance.

This is because I've spent the last five months living in sports fan hell. The universe has chosen this point in time to even itself out, punishing me for all of the joy I've felt over the years being a fan of Bay Area sports. It's been a good run - 49ers dynasties, consistently competitive Giants and A's teams, the endearing comedy of the Warriors.

But since the end of the 2004 baseball season, the well has officially run dry. This year, I stopped watching the Niners after week 3, gave up on the Warriors after game 11, and I just wasn't able to muster the enthusiasm to get behind the Clash in their playoff run. The one pleasant note to this historically futile stretch is the fact that I haven't had to hear about the Sharks at all, save for the occasional "what are they doing without hockey" update about some player who's been forced to work construction to feed his family.

So it is with open arms that I welcome the artificially enhanced behemoths of baseball. I've spent a ridiculous amount of time mentally preparing for the season, devouring every piece of written word on just about every player from A-ball up and holding an endless number of debates with friends about trades, free agent signings, and Jose Canseco's testicles.

It is because of this tireless, and more than slightly pathetic, devotion that I feel comfortable offering up a few predictions for the 2005 MLB season:

Bringing Home the Bacon: Yankees. This is hard to write, both because I consider them to be emblematic of all that is wrong with baseball and because my heart truly thinks the Giants have a shot. But the Yanks had a very solid offseason, greatly improving their pitching staff and picking up some nice complementary players (including Tino Martinez and Tony Womack). It may not be smooth sailing - I think there's a better than average chance that Kevin Brown and the Big Unit will murder one another, and there's a decent chance Trot Nixon and Kevin Millar will gang rape A-Rod in the Fenway visitors' locker room (those gay porn moustaches are fooling no one, guys). But the Yankees were the second best team in baseball last year and they've improved, while the Red Sox have declined a bit on paper. That makes the Yanks the favorites.

Bringing up the Rear: KC Royals. The Devil Rays are a pretty safe pick in any year, but they've actually got a fair amount of good young talent and I think they're due for a bit of a turnaround. The Royals, on the other hand, have the look of one of the worst teams since Prohibition. Their lineup is a collection of "Who the hell is that guy?" guys, and their rotation isn't much better. They're very young, but the only real prospects are Jeremy Affeldt and, to a lesser degree, Zack Greinke. Mike Sweeney is treated like a God there, but what has the guy ever done except spend months at a time in traction? They get additional minus points for starting Terrence Long, a charter member of the "My Least Favorite Players of All Time Club" along with Lee Stevens, Wayne Franklin and Candy Maldonado. The Royals are simply terrible this year and are already the prohibitive favorites to take this spot for the next three years.

Chan Ho Park Memorial Award for Big Money Free Agent Signing Most Likely to Result in a GM's Suicide: Pedro Martinez. We live in slightly more fiscally responsible times, so nothing rivals the galactic boner that John Hart pulled in giving Chan Ho a 5 year, $65 million contract in 2001. But Omar Minaya's decision to give Pedro a 4 year, $53 million deal is very shady in its own right. He's well past his prime, in rapid decline (albeit from pretty incredible heights), has serious health concerns and carries an enormous amount of baggage that will be repeatedly kicked around by the ruthless NYC media. There were some some other pretty horrible pitcher signings this offseason - Kristina Benson for 3 years and $22.5 million, Eric "Mediocre" Milton for 3 years and $25.5 million - but paying $13.25 million a year to a guy who spends most of his time with a Latin midget and whose shoulder is hanging by little more than a thread is begging for disaster. All in all, the 2005 Mets have definite Hindenburg potential.

Good Team Most Likely to be Shitty: Dodgers. I say this not as a Giants fan/Dodger hater but as someone who thinks "prodigy" Paul DePodesta may be the second coming of Steve Philips, a guy giving the impression he's the least convincing double agent since Leslie Nielsen in "Naked Gun 33 1/3." The guy has made a string of bad-to-awful trades (among them the Paul LoDuca/Guillermo Mota/Juan Encarnacion for Brad Penny/Hee Seop Choi debacle) and questionable free agent signings (essentially choosing brittle, streaky, battery-friendly J.D. Drew over a budding potential franchise player in Adrian Beltre, not to mention throwing ridiculous money at Derek "King of the Headcases" Lowe). I look at their big money roster and see a lot of combustible/obnoxious personalities - Odalis Perez, Milton Bradley, Jeff Kent, Lowe, Jeff Weaver - and little dependable talent, especially considering the size of the team's payroll. I think Jim Tracy is a solid manager, but he's probably a bad month away from having the clubhouse equivalent of Folsom Prison in "American Me." Hide the bags of rice, Jim.

Shitty Team Most Likely to be Halfway Decent: Milwaukee Brewers. Make no mistake - Milwaukee is a loser organization, ineptly run for years and rarely ever approaching competitiveness. But they've got a little something going, with some legitimate young talent and indications that they've actually started to develop a clue when it comes to personnel moves. Ben Sheets is a stud, on his way to becoming a top 5 ace. Prince Fielder and Rickie Weeks, both apparently "can't miss" studs, are a year or so away. And they practically stole Carlos Lee, who's already a stud and still improving, and Lyle Overbay, a solid, Mark Grace-style hitter who will be going .320, 25, 100 for years to come. Doug Davis is a solid lefty arm and if either Victor Santos or Chris Capuano develop into something, well, the Brewers will be cooking with gas. I'm rooting for them just for the fact that I want to see the sausage race get the respect it deserves as one of the most inventive pieces of in-game entertainment to come along in a while.

Milton Bradley Memorial Award for Player Most Likely To Have an On-Field Meltdown: Milton Bradley. I can't imagine anyone else taking this one until Milt rides off on the B&O Railroad to retirement at his Park Place mansion. Unless Albert Belle comes out of retirement or Ty Cobb is resurrected from the dead.

Player Most Likely To Have an Clubhouse/Press Conference Meltdown: Barry Bonds. The guy has been amazingly resilient through what has been a pretty lengthy shitstorm of media scrutiny and fan abuse. But I think he's showing signs of cracking, none more obvious than his graphic Testicle Monologues from last week. The guy is getting old and crotchety before his time, bad timing considering he's drawing an ever-increasing amount of attention as he pulls closer to the home run record. Every man has his breaking point, and Bonds isn't smart (or dumb) enough to be the exception. I just hope T. Long is nearby when the eruption comes.

If the Giants fall out of the race early, I would love to see Sabean go out and trade for Jeff Kent for the last few months of the season just to give fans something to watch. I really think it would make a dynamite reality show. They could sell the rights to Spike TV or another edgy network that doesn't mind extreme violence. Every day Kent could go out and talk to the media about how steroid users are no good, cheating bastards, smirking and saying, "No comment" when asked about Bonds. Then once a series Bonds will corner him in the dugout and put him in a chokehold or shove a forearm in his throat, causing Kent's abnormally large head to turn red and threaten to pop off. If the atmosphere gets too tense, Sabean can bring Benito Santiago back for comic relief. His interviews during the 2003 playoff run were absolute virtuoso performances.

Player Most Likely to be Drafted to My Fantasy Team and Subsequently Cursed for 6 Months:
Pat Burrell. "I know it was you, Pat. You broke my heart." Every year for the last 4 years I've picked the guy, and every year he's KILLED me. The one year he came through, 2002, I dropped him early on (fearing another Burrell-esque slump) and watched other managers ride his hot streak. I'd like to say I'm done with him, but something about the guy keeps me coming back. I don't know if it's our shared status as Bellarmine College Prep alums, the fact that he used to date Heather Mitts, the fact that I had a nice conversation with his stacked ex-girlfriend on NYE 2003, or what, but our fates are hopelessly intertwined. I'm powerlist to resist.

Giants Player Most Likely to Cause Me to Throw the Remote at the TV: Brett Tomko. I came near to naming this one the "Cody Ransom/Ricky Ledee Memorial Award", but the miserable bastards didn't play enough to merit it. And now they're mercifully gone from our lives. Tomko, his hot two months last season notwithstanding, just pisses me off. He'll be cruising along, dealing 95 MPH fastballs and hitting spots, then BAM!! Mental meltdown. He's all over the place, getting shelled, losing his shit. Driving me crazy!!

And although AJ Pierzynski is a prick, something about a guy gutlessly trashing a guy to the media, effectively making him a villain before he really had a chance to prove otherwise, left a sour taste in my mouth. Tomko just strikes me as an uptight pain in the ass, an opinion often born out by his pitching performances. I'm stocking up on universal remotes as we speak.

Monkeys: Suddenly Not So Funny

We've all heard that monkeys/apes (I've never really understood the difference) can be, contrary to their funny looks and hysterical poop-flinging tendencies, quite dangerous when provoked or mistreated. Despite these earnest warnings, I've always gotten a laugh out ot the notion of crazed, killer monkeys on a murderous rampage. It's kind of like when people tell you that hippos turn vicious and deadly when their territory is threatened. I don't care how big and fast they are, when I see a hippo coming towards me, I'm reaching for a handful of marbles.

But now I am officially a believer. In fact, not only am I a believer, but I think that monkeys have passed the mountain lion in the hierarchy of "Animals I Don't Ever Want To Be Within A Mile Of Unless A Triple-Reinforced Steel Cage, Electric Forcefield Or Pope-mobile Stands Between Me And Them", just behind the great white shark and the giant dolphin with rabies........and maybe this thing.

The reason for my changed perception of monkeys is this story. I've read and seen some sick, amazing shit since the dawn of the internet age, but this pretty much takes the cake. I really couldn't believe it when I first read the details; it's like the plot of a bad horror B-movie.

For those too lazy to read the story, here's the condensed version: an old couple goes to a Bakersfield animal sanctuary to pay a birthday visit to their old chimp, taken from their home years ago after biting off a woman's finger (this is called "foreshadowing"). They offer him some cake, forcing the other monkeys into a jealous rage. Yadda yadda yadda, they're all of a sudden reenacting the Mason Verger dog food scene from 'Hannibal.'

The result? St. James Davis, 62, lost all the fingers from both hands, an eye, a foot, part of his nose, cheek, lips and part of his buttocks in the ferocious attack. Oh, and his genitals were mauled and disfigured.

Sweet jesus! What was left of the guy? I'm picturing a mixture of the Norton-ized Jared Leto from 'Fight Club' and Sonny Landham following his ill-advised "time to take a stand" showdown toward the end of 'Predator.'

I love the quote from his wife: "One was at his head, one was at his foot. But all that time ... he was trying to reason with them," said a sobbing LaDonna Davis, who herself had a thumb bitten off. Hey St. James - when you realized that the chimps weren't as receptive to your rational pleas as, say, Dr. Zaius might be, did you consider actually FIGHTING BACK?!? Maybe ripping off some monkey balls, wildly swinging your stumps or trying SOMETHING to keep them from turning you into a human Mr. Potato Head? If I'm getting viciously mutilated by a gang of renegade chimps, you can bet your ass that I'm at least taking a few monkey ears and nipples with me.

I think the real tragedy here is the fact that the attacking chimps were shot dead by sanctuary workers. Those two had great potential as guests on one of Jay Leno's wild animal segments. Watching them chew the chin off that talentless hack would be worth a month's pay, I think.

Anyway, best wishes to St. James and his few remaining body parts. As for me - well, I think I'll be cancelling my zoo visits for the next decade or so.

Bruce McGill: A Tribute to the Man With No Grade Point Average

Pop quiz, hot shots (sorry, 'Speed' was on FX's 'DVD on TV' today, which is co-hosted by a chick who may be among the top 5 hottest pieces of arse in the world....that's a blog post for another day): which legendary actor has shared screen time with John Belushi, Sly Stallone, Al Pacino, Jean Claude Van Damme, Russell Crowe AND Richard Dean Anderson?

The answer: Bruce......Travis......McGill (the title of this post was a pretty good hint)

I've always been a fan; MacGyver was for me, like so many 25-32 year old men, a defining piece of pop culture, and McGill was as essential to the show as pineapple smoke bombs and ridiculous plot twists.

But I was reminded of his greatness while watching 'My Cousin Vinny' this weekend. His 'Vinny' turn is a classic McGill performance - unobtrusive, yet solid and compelling. There's just something about him that separates him from other character actors, something that instantly elevates any scene in which he appears.

Bruce has never gotten to bend over a distraught Halle Berry or play a Hungarian uber-criminal with a limp and a cool name. And that's OK. He's not suited for the rigors of a leading man; to steal a line from Pee Wee Herman, I've seen better heads on boils. But in many ways, Bruce's contributions to his films are equally as significant.

What Bruce offers is peace of mind. When you see that paunchy figure stroll into the frame, bags under his eyes that would make Yasmine Bleeth jealous, you immediately think to yourself, "Hey, this movie can't be that bad." Something about the man inspires trust; he's kind of like the anti-Clint Howard.

Ask yourself this: when was the last time you saw a bad McGill performance? It certainly wasn't in 'The Insider', where Bruce contributes one of the film's top 5 moments by screaming red-faced at a smarmy tobacco lawyer to "wipe that Goddamn smirk off your face!"

And definitely not in "Runaway Jury", where Bruce bites into one of his meatiest roles - Judge Harkin - with relish, commanding the courtroom and striking the perfect balance between hard ass and man of reason.

But for many, Bruce's career will be defined by one of his earliest film roles. He has but a few lines (and one memorable rendition of the William Tell Overture), but it's hard to reflect on the movie's many strengths without thinking of him. The role, of course, is Daniel Simpson Day, a.k.a. 'D-Day', the motorcyle-riding bad ass who embodies the rebellious spirit of the Delta house. He serves as something of a sidekick to John Belushi's more prominently featured (and equally great) Bluto Blutarski, but his moments are his own. Two words - "Ramming speed!!"

Who knows what the future will hold for Bruce McGill? One thing's for certain - as long as Michael Mann keeps making movies, Bruce will never want for work. That means a few more good movies will be that much better and a few mediocre ones will be better than they deserve to be. The man, the myth, the McGill - the legend continues.

Beat Off The Chains of Porn

This blog is not just about humor, entertainment and monkeys. It's about helping people who are evil become less so. As everyone knows, pornography - in addition to securing a seat for you in hell and causing your palms to sprout hair - will turn your heart black and make God hate you. Beating off to porn may seem like an innocent and natural way to relieve stress, but it's actually tantamount to building yourself a prison cell of sin, held together by a glue-like substance.

Luckily, there is a new resource for those who are currently in the sticky clutches of porn. An Ohio-based organization called 'Setting Captives Free' is offering an online course that purports to offer freedom from sexual impurity....with a little help from the Lord.

Take it from 'Chad', who struggled for 18 years with porn and masturbation (or P&M, as it is efficiently called by 'Captives'), causing him to live a 'double life': God-fearing, 'Passion'-watching, Bush-voting man by day and lotion-squirting, callous-forming, 'Spice'-watching spankaholic by night. Thanks to 'Captives' and Christ's G-rated love, Chad has gone from a 'drowning man close to death' to 'a new creature in Christ', a man free of impure desires and saving a ton of money on Kleenex.

Forcing grown men to deny their natural sexual desires has worked so spectacularly for the Catholic church, it's almost common sense that 'Captives' should preach the same approach to the masses. It's really a no-brainer - how can the cheap thrills of Lex Steele's natural curve and Bridgette Kerkove's 'double A' compare to the holy joy of regular prayer and imaginary love and acceptance from some bearded guy who's been dead a couple of thousand years?

If you, too, are a slave to the beat, I implore you to check it out. You're only 60 days away from sweet, bland salvation.

Has there ever been a pic with a monkey in it that wasn't funny?