Saturday, January 29, 2005

This week's sign of the Apocolypse

Now I'm all for developing youth soccer, but this is ridiculous...

Nine-year old Brazilian boy draws interest from Manchester United

SAO PAULO, Brazil (AP) — A nine-year-old Brazilian boy is drawing interest from soccer powerhouses around the world.
Jean Carlos Chera, stands four foot six and weights 77 pounds, has already attracted Manchester United and other top European teams. The boy currently plays for the youth teams of Associacao Desportiva Atletica, a small club in the southern Brazilian state of Parana.
“Seven or eight European clubs have already contacted us to know more about Jean,” team president Adilson Batista Prado said Thursday. “They want to know what he is all about, and I tell them he’s a phenomenon, probably the best player to come out of Brazil.”
Prado and team officials would not identify all the clubs interested in Jean, but confirmed that representatives of Manchester United have asked for videotapes of his matches.
Prado said teams from Portugal, France and Germany have made contact, and local media identified FC Porto as one of the teams.
The club said the European clubs haven’t made official offers yet, but some have asked for permission to send representatives, and others have invited the midfielder and his family to go to Europe.
“He still needs to be a kid,” said Prado, who does not allow Jean to talk to reporters.
Jean began to attract attention after the club put videos with highlights of Jean’s matches on its website. In the videos, Jean is seen scoring goals from midfield, dribbling past several defenders and playing among 13- and 14-year-olds.
After the videos were posted, the site’s page views nearly tripled and some of them had to be removed to keep the site from crashing, the club said.
Two years ago, Manchester and Inter Milan were among top clubs that expressed interest in then 14-year-old Freddy Adu, who signed Major League Soccer instead. European clubs generally are not allowed to use players from outside the European Union on their first teams until they turn 18.

Friday, January 28, 2005

The Auto Wars, Pt. II

I don’t know what it is. I don’t run over blue-haired old ladies, don’t cheat on girlfriends, don’t lie to my friends, or kick homeless people on the street.
Despite my many positive values, it appears my karma has taken a turn for the negative. Once again, my car has decided to cost me muchas dinero, bringing the tally in the past two months to a wallet-burning $3,100. So no tropical vacation for me this year; I’m going to Taco Bell instead of Mexico.
In an ironic twist of fate, or maybe just the Almighty’s idea of amusement, the fuel pump in my 4Runner decided to pack it on on Jan. 24, which is, as it’s been much-publicized, the most depressing day of the year. Some IB nerd (Hey Ilka and Hedy ;) calculated some complex formula, taking into account weather, credit card bills, and other esoteric information, to come up with Jan. 24.
Well, I can’t exactly disagree with him.
I wasn’t in the most cheerful of moods, as I had just watched — for the second time — Schindler’s List. And, ironically, I watched it the day before the 60th anniversary of the Auschwitz death camp liberation by allied forces.
Now, being of jewish descent, I have some sensitivity to the subject, and yes, I even got a little teary-eyed at the end of the movie.
And today, I learned some interesting things about Oskar Schindler, the German industrialist who spent his fortune to save more than 1,000 jews from death at the hands of the Nazis. He actually spied on the Czechs for Germany, and never actually wrote the famous ‘list’ that was in the movie. He was in jail at the time, and only made a suggestion as to who should be on there.
After the war ended, Schindler became an alcoholic, and pawned the gold ring the Jews gave him after the war, which was inscribed with a verse from the Talmud: “He who saves a single life saves the entire world.”
But in the end equation, he was still the man who sacrificed everything he had to save the lives of people he had no allegiance to.
Anyways, enough of that.
Nothing else is happening here in Crackerville, except for the snow melting slowly, and temperatures (gasp) climbing above zero on a regular basis. I thought I would post another Gratuitous Antler Hat pic, though if you can believe it, it’s actually from a different day than my Xmas pic.
My girlfriend (My dad calls her Harvey, for some convoluted reason I still don’t understand), isn’t much for pictures. If you look at my left hand, I’m actually holding her neck in a white-knuckle grip to make sure she doesn’t take off.
Naw, just kidding.
Maybe.



ImPregnant
Originally uploaded by smoove_J.
You see the red eyes? That's not camera flash ... she's evil... ;)

Thursday, January 20, 2005

"J.J., it's Christa. I'm pregnant."

It took me three days to figure out why my fridge smelled like dog food.
It was because . . . someone stuck a can of dog food in there. Now, not currently owning a pet of the canine persuasion, I can only assume that the offending can of mutt meat did in fact belong to one Trevor (Red Cheeks) Thorburn, who was kind enough to leave it in my icebox during his weekend visit. The visit where, when I was at work, he and Miceail (aka the Chinese Driver) crashed (no pun intended) on my couch to watch football for four hours, and quite possibly, pleasured themselves while reading "50+: The Mature Porn Mag."
(And JJ shudders.)
At least this time, Karma — Trev's chihuahua/german shepherd mix — didn't crap under my futon as she usually does. It must have been the food ...
Anyways, the plan to "get Irish" on Saturday night after I got off work went off without a hitch. We did indeed get Irish, hitting up the peeler bar and the club. As the snow fell, we got a good laugh seeing all the scantily clad women trying to keep warm in the line outside, as the temperatures plummeted to -20. We did the usual VIP move, marching by the line and nodding to the bouncer, who raised the velvet ropes to let us in. It's great having some juice. Or, failing that (like me), having friends (like Anj) who have juice.
The bar was, well, the bar; a little drinking and a little dancing. Miceail did much more of the former than the latter, and ended the night passing out listening to Enya. You know, some people just shouldn't drink.
We had, of course, previously made the obligatory Denny's stop, where Trev, Irish, Clarence and me ingested some greasy late-night fare. Actually, all of us except Trevor, whose master plan was to pull a dine-and-dash; except he didn't order anything, so it was more of an aborted dash than anything.
It was cool seeing The Boys again, hearing Miceail's stories of getting into five accidents in ONE MONTH (and JJ shudders), laughing about stupid text messages (JJ, it's Christa. I'm pregnant.), then not laughing at some not-so-funny text messages (JJ, it's Christa. I'm pregnant.) Ahh, I guess you had to be there.
I'm worn out after a marathon day at the office, so I'm heading home for another marathon session with Prince of Persia: The Warrior Within.

Friday, January 14, 2005

Like George sez: "I was in the pool!"

Yes, it's that cold here right now. The mercury dropped to -30 today, meaning my gym gear is now frozen solid after leaving it in the car overnight. Bad idea. Anyways, here's a picture of the wonderful Okanagan Lake right now....


It's COLD in them thar hills
Originally uploaded by smoove_J.



Danger! Drunk Dialing!

And thanks to my friend Steph for passing this little article along. There are a few of us out there (Miceail, are you listening?) who are guilty of this little sin. And Dee, I'm sorry I called you at 4 a.m. to find out who's better between Vince and Kobe. How was I to know you had an exam the next day?


Had too much? Reach out and touch at 2 a.m.
With the proliferation of cell phones and free midnight minutes, the alcohol-fueled 'drunk-dial' has become a national pastime.

BALTIMORE (AP) - Ryan Little was feeling a little tipsy one recent night. He decided to call "this girl Diane" he knew from college.
Unfortunately, his fingers were also a bit woozy as they walked across the cell phone keys.
When his call went through, he started talking, flirtatiously and without stopping, for a full four minutes. Unfortunately, it wasn't Diane on the other end.
"I hit my Dad's number instead," the Baltimore resident said.
Increasingly common with the proliferation of cell phones and their free midnight minutes, the drunk-dial has become a national pastime, and tonight untold numbers of drinkers will ring in the new year - perhaps in more ways than one.
Some call these calls pathetic - particularly those made to exes - but others laud them as an outlet for spontaneous expression that at least is a whole lot healthier than many other drunken activities.
Defining the term According to the Word Spy, a Web site that tracks new vocabulary, the term "drunk-dial" is both a verb and a noun (as in, "I got his drunk-dial"), but only applies to communications that are somehow embarrassing or absurd. One drunk-dials to emote, excoriate, declare, confide or proposition, often at a grossly inappropriate hour.
Calling a cab doesn't count. Phoning "an old friend in New Jersey" at 3 a.m. to get directions to a good Baltimore pancake house definitely does, admitted Peter Lee of Baltimore.
Drunk dialing has quickly entered the lexicon because "it's familiar to everyone," said Jim Taylor, co-writer of Sideways, the critically acclaimed film that includes an exquisite sequence in which the lead character, having downed several bottles of wine, calls his ex-wife from a restaurant pay phone.
"That's why it's humorous. Everyone has done it," Taylor said. "Without embarrassment, there's no comedy. Life would be less rich."
If drunk dialing was eliminated by scheming cell phone companies, Taylor said, it "would be a loss" to the world.
Terrible in memory, inexplicably satisfying in the moment, drunk dialing usually happens at the end of the night when feelings of boredom or abandonment set in, said Jen Vitelli, a server in a Fells Point bar.
"It's like, 'I'm wasted. What now?'" she said.

Phone with a straw
Most people have pulled a drunken phone stunt at one time or another, according to a recent study by Virgin Mobile, which not so coincidentally offers, at least in Australia, a service that allows users to block the numbers of certain people during prime imbibing hours. (The feature - whose logo is a cell phone with a straw for an antenna - probably will be offered in the United States as early as next year.)
The company found that 95 percent of people have drunk-dialed, calling ex-lovers (30 percent), current partners (19 percent) and "anyone and everyone else" (36 percent).
Nothing rams home a hangover like the shadowy recollection of a hang-up call: The company reports that, after a night of drinking, more than half of drunk-dialers assess the damage on their call logs before doing anything else, including taking aspirin.

A potent cocktail
Alcohol relaxes the inhibitions that normally control behavior. Too much allows the id - Freud's dark engine of sex and aggression - to ride roughshod over more refined parts of the personality, according to Thomas Allen, a Towson psychoanalyst. Lusts and rages spill out of the subconscious and into the receiver.
In physiological terms, the force behind drunk dialing is an alcohol-induced cascade of brain chemicals, such as dopamine, associated with pleasure and heightened sociability.
This release, combined with the gradual powering-down of the central nervous system, is a toxic cocktail indeed, said Dr. Guohua Li, a professor at Johns Hopkins Medical School who specializes in alcohol-related trauma.
Most of the injuries Li sees are far worse than the damage inflicted by drunk dialing.
"Although, I guess it depends what you say," he said.

A doer's theory
No known scientific profile defines the habitual dialer, but Chris Bayne, a software salesman from Orlando, Fla., offered up an amateur observer's theory, the proof for which is in ... well, the proofs.
Bayne maintains that beer, whiskey and vodka hounds are more compulsive about the behavior.
"Your gin drinkers, your Scotch drinkers have a little more class," he said. "They won't be as quick to drunk-dial, or admit they did.
"Then you have the tequila people," he said, after a considered pause. "They're just insane."
An incurable dialer who has an unsettling tendency to ring his boss, Bayne is the founder of Slackertown.com, a two-month old Web site devoted to helping afflicted phone owners.
Cell phone companies will never stop the practice of drunk dialing, Bayne believes. The impulse is too primal. That's why he set up an emergency number and answering machine where dialers can vent day or night.
"When you've got something stupid to say, you call us," he said. The anonymous audio tracks from the calls - which are slurred and often quite explicit - get posted on the Web site for all to hear. Several dozen are currently listed, including these choice sound bites:
"Hey, Amanda, ... I can't believe you actually married him. ... Your children are going to look like hell."
"... I love you. I just wish I knew you a little better."
"I should be eating hash browns right now. Instead, I'm staring at a blank wall." The Web site also offers an address for inebriated e-mailers, which has received fewer submissions, Bayne believes, largely because "slurring words in text is a lot harder."
Thus far, the page does not accommodate the needs of toasted text-messagers and bombed BlackBerryers, whose ranks are also swelling.
Admittedly, the Web site has done little to reform Bayne's habit. The point is more to laugh at others' calls, he said.
"We offer something for the drunk and the sober," he said.

Good phone and TV
Drunk dialing does make for first-rate entertainment. Hardly a television season passes without characters humiliating themselves on the phone. Remember the crazy Dawson's Creek episode when Joey drunk-dialed Dawson? Or when Rachel from Friends, obliterated, called Ross from a fancy restaurant, then tossed the cell into an ice bucket?
The sweetest, though, was the second season of Sex and the City, when a cranky, cosmopolitan-fueled Carrie called Big in Paris, where it was5 a.m., to scold about love, cocktails and "basic human decency."
"I am a woman," she informed him, unbidden. "A wooo-man!"
This didn't do much for Carrie's relationship, but the wooo-man in Casie Regan of Baltimore is indebted to drunk dialing. Last New Year's Eve she met a man who she feared might never call.
At about midnight a week later, her phone rang. It was the man, his confidence bolstered by six 10-ounce glasses of beer. A year later, they're still together. How could she fall for a drunk-dialer?
"Well," she said, "I was drunk myself."

Tuesday, January 11, 2005

Ain't nothin goin on but the rent

Life has slowed to a glacial pace here in the Okanagan, maybe because of the run of sub-zero temperatures we've been having. I thought it was cold when it hit -20 - not including the wind chill - but I was just informed tonight that it's supposed to drop to -36 in the next few days.
Minus 36? I've only ever heard about temperatures like that, or seen it in bad sci-fi films like "The Day After Tommorrow." I guess it will mean more days like the one I had on Friday.
Seeing my young - and hot - neighbor Tanya, who got her truck get stuck in the knee-deep snow in my cul-de-sac, Gentleman JJ leapt to the rescue. Shovelling and salting was in vain, so I went and found two 2x4s from my basement, and stuck them under the rear tires for traction.
Anyone who has ever seen the pitching machine in a batting cage work knows what's coming next. Yep, the hefty chunks of wood flew out the back of the truck like bolts of lightning from almighty Zeus himself, one of them catching me right on the tender part of my foot.
To add insult to injury, as Tanya accelerated out of the snowbank, I got a full-frontal snow barrage. It was the closest I have ever come to being white, though some who have heard me sing Tom Jones might disagree.
But I sucked it up, and stayed strong for Tanya, then collapsed in a writhing, crying ball of pain once the door shut behind me. Ahh, the cost of being neighborly.
Anyways, that's about it for now. I'm looking forward to next weekend, when the Irish Aboriginal, Miceail, returns for a visit from Van City. It promises, as he says, "to get Irish up in here." What that means, exactly, I'm not sure. Maybe it has something to do with Morris dancing and leprechauns. Well, we'll see on Saturday.

Wednesday, January 05, 2005

What I do at work...

I was just sitting here, up in the press box at the Kelowna Rockets game, being tortured by the smell of chicken wings from the luxury boxes below, when I decided I'd educate ya'll on a typical day of work for me.
But, I'm too lazy to write about tonight. So here's a column I wrote last year ...


I get this question all the time... “So, just what exactly do you DO all day?”
In response to the overwhelming public demand and to dissuade any more high school counsellors from inviting me to career day, it’s time I cleared the air about what a sports reporter actually does all day.
Though some assert that a monkey with a computer could be a sports reporter, I beg to differ.
Monkeys with computers are called editors. Monkeys with tape recorders are sportswriters.
Anyways, here’s a brief look at the life of this monkey...
2:30 p.m. — Wake up for the second time, the first being three hours earlier, when you’re supposed to be at the gym living up to that New Years’ resolution.
3:30 p.m. — Go to the office. The day starts now, since most sporting events happen in the evening, and most sportswriters can’t get out of bed before then.
3:35 p.m. — Get a coke from the vending machine.
3:40 p.m. — Return to the desk, where dozens of faxes and post-it note messages marked “urgent!” await. Throw them in garbage, look for a copy of the day’s paper. Ignore the rapidly flashing voicemail button on the phone.
3:41 p.m. — Realize the word “Rockets” is spelled “Rokets” in 110-point type on the front page of the sports section. The flashing voicemail light suddenly takes on a more sinister appearance.
3:44 p.m. — Listen to a lecture on the merits of spellchecking a page from our illustrious editor-in-chief/former high school gym teacher, Ross Freake.
4:44 p.m. — The lecture ends – finally. Time to face the voicemail... “You have 152 messages.” Ninety-eight of them point out “Rokets” is not the correct spelling of the local hockey team. Another 54 are requests for coverage from the groups like the Okanagan kindergarten school curling/competitive crocheting league.
6:30 p.m. — Get a coke from the vending machine. Call mom.
6:40 p.m. — Engage in a debate about the merits of changing the name of Prince George’s WHL franchise to the “Spruce Kings.” Since it would therefore be the same as the P.G. BCHL team, certain members of the sports department wouldn’t be wrong every time a headline reads “Rokets claw Spruce Kings.”
7:00 p.m. — Take dinner break. Get a coke from the vending machine.
8:30 p.m. — Copy a couple stories from Sports Illustrated, change the names to make it local. Insert quotes from interview with local athlete the day before... or, at least, what you THINK they said.
10:00 p.m. — Realize deadline is a half-hour away. Panic. Get a coke from the vending machine.
10:05 p.m. — Hopped up on caffeine, lay out six sports pages in 12 minutes. Misspell “Rockets” four different ways.
10:18 p.m. — Print out pages to proof. Spill coke on said pages, think “heck — what could be wrong with it?” and send them to the production guys.
10:30 p.m. — Listen to a lecture on the merits of spellchecking a page from Dwayne, the sour-faced production manager, who points out “Rockets” is mispelled 16 different ways. Make changes, re-send page.
10:40 p.m. — Get a coke from the vending machine. Call mom.
11:00 p.m. — Surf the net for various sports sites. Somehow, you accidentally stumble upon the site “hornyhousewives.com,” while looking for NHL.com.
1:30 a.m. — Leave office, head home. Engage roommate in marathon battle of Madden 2004. Loser does the dishes, which have developed sentience after festering in sink for three months.
4:00 a.m. — Fight off dishes with broom, go to sleep. Dream of NFL cheerleaders who can spell “Rockets” correctly.
So now you know. No more questions, please.

Tuesday, January 04, 2005

New Years: No pics yet ...

They say, if when looking back over the year that passed, if you can truly smile and truly cry, then you have truly lived.
I guess I only half-lived then, unless you count the tears rolling down my cheeks after one particularily nasty summer night hangover. I did truly smile that night though, so I guess it's all good...
New Years 2003 was me, my sister, and five gay guys crammed into a room in Las Vegas. It was a great evening, though trying to find a girl that had a room to go back to was tough. (I had an inkling no one in that room would appreciate me bringing a girl back ... especially my sister.)
A year later, it was a complete 180 from the wild and crazy night in Sin City. I spent it with my girlfriend and another couple, chillin at a Thai restaurant in Kelowna. We orginally planned to just have dinner there, then head back to a raging house party at my place, but when Ronnie - owner of the Siam Orchid - closed the kitchen at nine o'clock and then said: "Bar's Open. Want a drink? Just help yourself behind the bar..." well, who could pass up that offer?
It was a real mellow night, despite the amount of alcohol that was consumed. And I did learn one thing - champagne and my girlfriend don't mix. But that's a story for another time... ;)
I had originally planned spending it in Vancouver, kicking it with my boys, hanging with Hollywood (aka, my sister), and seeing my friend The Bearded Lady (aka my friend Sarah, who might not be my friend anymore for hanging that nickname on her) perform with her circus troupe in downtown. However, my sister jammed out, Dee had to work at Celebrities (a gay bar, and I didn't want to make it TWO New Years in a row like that), and it just kind of fell through. Of course, my sister ended up partying in Vancouver anyways, so I guess she just doesn't really love her brother that much. (Se: guilt trip)
Anyways, that was New Years. I haven't made any resolutions yet, because, well, I'm Perfect (note the capital "P"). Just kidding... No, it's my philosophy that life is a constant voyage of self-improvement and self affirmations. And gosh darn it, people like me - even if I did give a couple Arsenio-style "whoop whoops" when I saw the trailer for Star Wars - Episode III: Revenge of the Sith come on at the movies tonight. Once a geek, always a geek, I guess.
Hmmm... maybe that could be a resolution... learn to be cool...

Well, let's not shoot for the impossible, here... lol ...