29 days hath intolerable months

I feel somewhat obligated to take time out of my busy blogging/copywriting schedule (pursuits largely spent picking navel lint and staring at the wall) to haphazardly drum up a post for today, considering this super fun 24-hour extension to the calendar's least-favorite month, only rolls around once every four years.

Here's a fun fact about leap year: I once dated a girl who was born on February 29th. I suppose I could generously commemorate this post towards her seventh birthday salutations, but I think it's better spent in the highly amusing remembrance of the hastily-sketched unicorn inexplicably tattooed on her shoulder. With each passing year, may the permanency and embarrassment of that decision never wane.

And in other topically applicable news, I was going to give up crop-dusting the local Whole Foods bulk aisle, along with cylindrical-shaped treats for Lent, but I had a vegan doughnut with breakfast after deciding against granola this morning. So... shit. "Keep your heads up boys," my little league baseball coach would always say. "We'll get 'em in four years."

effing busy

Way back in the year 2005, before fading into relative obscurity, the Beastie Boys handed out camcorders before a marquee show at The Garden, and instructed the recipients to shoot however, and whatever they wanted at the show. The resulting grainy, amateur footage turned in was compiled and used to create the aptly titled theatrical release...

cafe mclean

The present-day grocery store is a warzone. A veritable hellhole of conspicuously edible chemicals, and cleverly disguised, genetically modified organisms in otherwise innocuous foods we've deemed safe, or healthy. But are they really? Granted, we're not buying napalm in the morning, or depleted uranium shell casings in the bulk aisle, but at the rate the modern digestive system is collectively de-evolving, rendering itself incapable of the simplest of tasks, we might as well be. There are certainly cooler ways to die, and at the hands of some allergen the FDA has deemed fit for consumption, will not be hers.

not all who wander have seen lost

would one of you assholes please tell me which season I finally get laid?

Over the course of the last three years, I have derived a fair amount of my life's explanation from Lost--a show so teetering precariously on the verge of total coherent collapse, I can't even admit to liking anymore. Making sense of the show's plot, which has been riddled so full of holes, side stories, twists, and re-twists, has been like trying to piece together a graham cracker crate of twizzlers caught on the business end of a drive-by shooting. Which, by the way, sounds absolutely fucking delicious. In short, I've quit trying to understand it anymore, because in order to just watch the damn show, and stay abreast of each new, convoluted development as it grows even further misaligned with previous twists, my brain requires extensive hydration and carbo-loading in both pre, and post-viewing sessions. By the time each 45 minute episode is over, I'm exhausted; eyes yellowed and bloodshot, skull throbbing, and breath coming in dry, ragged heaves.

perfect time to panic

H1N1.

Swine flu.

La gripe porcina.

豚インフルエンザ.

Bacon Lung.

SARS 2: Pig in the City.

Please excuse me while I change my pants.

The Black Death of this generation carries many names--only several of which I am currently privy to. But what is H1N1 exactly? I'll tell you what it is--it's the 'hush' that falls over a conversation upon news of it befalling another victim, perhaps a friend of someone partaking in said conversation. It's a spirit of fear, and a spirit of alarm, and a spirit of a bunch of other panic-like synonyms my thesaurus pooped out. But more accurately, it's a spirit of misinformation being carried by the mainstream media. Which is why I'm here to set the record straight. And just from a quick glance at the headlines, let me tell you, this fear is justified because apparently pig flu is scary as shit on a shark. I mean, it kills people, as clearly evidenced by the data in this ominous infographic. There's even a contrasting red skull to further illustrate swine flu's insatiable appetite for blood, cutting a swath through the world's 50-odd million who died over the course of the last 300 days.

one ten-thousandth of a percent says your time's up, hoss

Judging from the statistics, I'd say you'd best put your gaddamn affairs in order, because that foreign sneeze you just sucked up has a 0.00011% chance of dragging your pansy ass to the grave. Crank up the Muse, and unlock the fallout shelter, because I swear I've read about epidemics like this in the Old Testament.

Well, then you can imagine how terrified my family was to hear that our dear mother had contracted a confirmed case of the dreaded "la gripe" from some oblivious, wiener-headed, little niño in the Spanish class she taught.
As her asthma-ravaged immune system dug trenches and loaded whimsical, pig-shaped cartridges into their antibody rifles, she laid down on the living room couch, resigned to allow the battle to run its course. We were as powerless as the flu effects were immediate; doing our best just to keep her comfortable, keep her company. She watched football with her sons. She did the crypto-quote. She drank tea. She slept. She talked on the phone with her daughter. She watched The Office. She slept some more. Finally, after four days of a life reclined...

...she went back to work. Her mission was twofold: there were still children to be taught "yo soy una pizza." And she had still to pass the swine flu to any other teachers in dire need of a few days off work.

But before life could return completely to normal, just like any other good mother in it 'for the lark,' she proceeded to give the flu to the rest of her family, who all spent the rest of the week lounging around in sweatpants, watching reruns of Nitro Circus and eating ramen from the coffee pot.

What, did the Angel of Death completely miss the big, yellow "H1N1 quarantine" memo stapled to the roof of our house? However, a more probable explanation would be my entire family sharing a Herculean bloodline with white blood cells shaped like biceps and machine guns. Or more realistically still, has the swine flu been just another case of big brother media pulling a fast one on the entire too-stupid-to-know-better-world? I feel like we're all out on our collective porches, angrily stomping on a flaming bag of crap labeled "hamthrax," while CNN hooligans with cameras are hooting and hollering from an unmarked van parked across the street.
Perhaps looking at a "bigger picture," with some "facts" might serve to better educate those still wearing haz-mat suits and hiding in their basements, subsisting on Funyuns and Tamiflu.

just kidding, you're fine. look out for leprosy though

As you can probably see [click image to enlarge], much to the chagrin of certain fear-mongering, ratings-starved journalists, is that this bigger picture for H1N1 appears exponentially less grim when you look at what you have a better chance of getting killed by. The only difference, is that "Dengue," "Encephalitis," and "War" apparently don't make for very good news. "Diarrheal" diseases might have made the cut, but they don't make for savory dinnertime conversation.
However, everyone knows the flu, and they damn sure know pigs.

But what we didn't know, is that together, they will can might probably won't kill you!

...what?

As part of an internet citizenship that knows better, I believe it's our civil duty to shut the hell up about swine flu already.

(sweet infographic credit: Michael Paukner over at Flickr) 

fresh to death

author's note: 

[the following sermon was written in rebuttal to certain comments from a drunken music argument that I once had with a college radio personality (and devout hipster). spex, if you see this, yeah I know it's two years late. get bent]

no, I am not gay

It's time I came clean.

Peel back the thick, digital layers of my meticulously organized iTunes collection, tucked between rows of seemingly cred-worthy playlists for "Pretentious Acoustic b-sides," "Conceited Singer/Songwriters," and "Smug Indie Shit," you'll find "Songs for Filing Tax Returns," a Genius playlist whose innocuous title bravely fronts for much seedier content hidden within.

Yes, it's true. I've been having an affair. A shameless, extra-auditory affair with pop music. And not just the pop from ambiguous or cleverly disguised "safe" bands known for quietly jumping the shark on their respective indie/alt-rock scenes and infiltrating the Top 40 (Fall Out Boy, The Killers, Bloc Party, etc.). It's the catchy stuff that I love. Call it what you wish--an infatuation, an addiction, outright madness, whatever. I've heard worse. You know the genre, and I think you even secretly love it. However, the difference between you and my addiction, is that one of us rolls up their windows at stoplights. Me? This blog is my AA meeting. Except I'm not here to break the habit. I'm here to spread the love.

So what is pop music anyway? It has many fronts--many perceived to be evil. Obviously, its detractors aren't without cause--the idea that pop is safe, watered down "music" written by someone other than the artist, and for a demographic instead of an audience, is both present, and understandable. But let's assume for a moment that pop music wasn't unfairly defined by exposure, physical composition, or artist pedigree, but by its accessibility (ie, how quickly a listener can "get into" a song), and emotive characteristics.

In reality, it's unfortunate that the term "pop" has completely lost its association with a style or genre of music, instead having become erroneously associated with its loudest stage: that of "recognition." What of the style itself? Pop music itself? Was Michael Jackson the King of Pop because he was the king of the charts? The king of having his music written for him? Or because he was a goddamn natural showman--the king of the catchy, dancey, all-in style of music that anyone with a toe to tap or a dashboard to drum could appreciate? He was the King of Pop not only for his accessibility, but because over the course of his career, he embodied every aspect of the genre. Indie pop? Dance pop? Trance pop? Pop-rock? Pop-punk? Trash pop? Yes, yes, yes, and yes.

I'm getting off-target here. This is not a blog about Michael. This isn't about how the music industry classifies genres. This is about me, and justifying the misrepresented genre I so dearly enjoy.
What exactly do we have so far? Let's review:
1. I love pop music. 
2. Pop music is more than what's on the radio. 
3. Ok, that works. Roll with it. 

"More than what's on the radio." What kinds of pop might never hit the top 40? Take for example, the brilliant, and equally heterosexual Gay Blades. Trash pop at its absolute finest. I should clarify though--TGB branded trash pop should not be confused with "pop-that-is-trash;" ie, soulless, repetitive music that repeatedly tries and falls on its ugly face. Additionally, trash pop does not require one to be trashed while listening. In fact, there is no process in particular for me to experience trash pop. Sometimes with headphones, sometimes without. Sometime with pants, most times without. It is sweaty. Crunchy. Hooky. It retains the showmanship, and catchy danceable characteristics without possessing any of the usual post-production sheen. An exemplary polar opposite of this would be anything written or produced by Ryan Tedder--the man behind Kelly Clarkson and Leona Lewis, as well as Beyonce, Rihanna, and his own band, OneRepublic. I mean, here is a dude who wakes up in the morning, shuffles into his bathroom, and pisses out Grammies. 
The biggest stereotype with airwave-dominating pop music like this, is that it assumes that pop (based on my previous hypothetical definition) cannot be both catchy (re: "accessible") and intelligent or esoteric at the same time. These are qualities absolutely critical to guarantee approval by elitists and music cynics alike.

Shit. Getting off-topic again. How are we doing?
4. Trash pop is awesome. 
5. Even trash pop is still pop. 
6. "Pop music" is a gigantic, sweeping oversimplification of a genre ignored by overly self-conscious snobs who feel obligated to do so, because they're afraid to like something fun or accessible. Or even worse, something that others might like. 
7. Ah, so is that where I was going with this?

Allow me to reiterate; existing within the musical universe, there will always be pop music that is inherently, and irrevocably fucking awful. Like death and taxis [sic], this is inevitable. But imagine a world where "rock" music was written off, simply on account of Nickelback. Just the same, pop isn't all the Britneys and Kellys. It's not all on the radar, and it's not all written or produced by Tedder. If the pop on the radio were to serve any purpose at all, let it be the gateway drug, instead of the standard.
Try that, and holy shit, you just might like where it takes you.

So yeah. I love pop music. And I'm most definitely ok with that.



* And what would a meandering, convoluted diatribe about music be without at least a recommendation or three? In addition to The Gay Blades, Passion Pit (sway pop), Hockey (mustache pop), and La Roux (sucker pop) are several recent favorites that come immediately to mind.

the circle is complete

Ah, Mondays.

It used to be that Mondays were a bit crap before Thursdays took that seat. Then Thursdays fell off the sanity wagon becoming the new Mondays for the better part of a year until Fridays decided to take the piss, happily filling in as the new Thursdays masquerading as the new Mondays.

And now? Looks like Mondays are back on top in all the old haunts, out-sucking even those new Fridays, putting the lunacy squarely back where it deservedly should have been all along.

The world is almost right again.


PS: Irregular, half-assed posting not enough? Well, you can still keep track of the DI's slightly more regular comings and goings in the "DI tweets" sidebar to your left, or over at twitter whose 140 character limit is now the reluctant soapbox for my somewhat concerted efforts to broadcast at least one ridiculous, or generally worthless thought per day ("gwtpd"). Sometimes two. 

no child left, to leave behind

The pre-summer vacation buzz is marred by the open school season in Japan. "Open school," meaning employing copious amounts of redundant adjectives to shamelessly peddle pretentious academic tedium in blazing 95 degree heat. Our school has never had the cards playing in our favor though. For one, we are on the top of a mountain that no potential student with a functioning mind wants to climb every day (which would probably explain why our classroom averages hover between a tepid C-, and a gaping hole in the floor), and we are a fairly young private institution without any famous graduates to accentuate a proper history.

But the biggest problem our school faces is neither geographical nor historical--it's societal. Enrollment competition for students between schools in Japan is an interesting nationwide conundrum--characterized mostly by its animalistic ferocity. It seems to be only growing worse, as the national birthrate continues to enjoy its catastrophically amusing downward spiral. Sorry 2007 Census Bureau, but last time I checked, "1.34 children" is just a fancy way of saying "one child." I may not be good with numbers, but the last math course I miraculously passed taught me that "0.34 children" contribute jack shit to society, because they can't be rounded up to "1 child." What a surprise. You'd think that an island nation of 127 million people, would get around to annually having more than 1.34 babies worth of sex, but that's a whole separate issue for me to misquote, and blow entirely out of context, so for now, I'll digress.

In short, open school is not used as a means to trick the students into enrolling, but rather to simply find them--as Japan obviously has children in increasingly short supply. Using the classic "blood from a stone" metaphor to illustrate the growing difficulty of finding little J-butts to put in an equally growing number of empty seats, would hardly begin to suffice. Perhaps "drawing blood from a stone using only a box of generic q-tips and a secondhand penis pump," would be closer to explaining the thinning hair and furrowed brow on Vice Principal Suzuki. This year, he employed live television cameras, and bribed potential applicants with the promise of free tote bags and ice cream, to attract students to our most recent "open school" circus. Unfortunately, the exposure of late night cable television ads and the allure of Haagen Dazs were obviously incapable of expediting the penis/vagina manufacturing process in time to give our school the boost in enrollment figures needed to stay afloat.

In the event that a Japanese public school cannot enroll enough students, they will usually merge their resources and pupils with other nearby public schools, and soldier on. However, private schools like ours will simply be forced to close, and accept the reality that Japan is merrily commanding the population helm of its own sinking ship.

So where does this leave Japan's future generations? Its future workforce? Its economy? Will there be anyone of age to lead them? All I know is that it's good news for me. Maybe when the birth rate finally sinks to a paltry 0.27 children, I won't have to come to school on a vacation day to sweat my balls off in front of a damn camera anymore.

 I don't recall seeing this part anywhere in my contract

Learned helplessness

Working at a school is a frustrating experience. In the most juvenile sense, it's like spending hours and hours stacking and interlocking intricate towers of Legos. Crenellated battlements, soaring peaks, and strategically placed portcullises. The medieval masterpiece had a distinct start, and now has a clearing finish--a goal. While it may be not soon completed, it slowly takes shape with unprecedented care, spilling into the adjacent hallw--ey what the shit!?

And just like that, your tireless work is gone. Knocked over without a second thought.


I've always been too painfully shortsighted to see the current product being cultivated--all I see is the time sacrificed toward the final outcome where the pile of blocks have been scattered across the floor.

My mother used to love Legos. Used to always say that the great thing about Legos was how they could inflict mortal wounds in unsuspecting feet whenever we left them lying out--professionally transforming any dimly lit living area into a Vietcong-approved barefoot deathtrap with just a few well-placed blocks.
Actually no. She never said that. Plastic axles and sports car windshields embedded in her heels got her mad-raging pissed. What she did say though, was that Lego creations were great because if something broke, you could always just build it again.
It's true, but the worst thing about building something all over again, is that you have to toil through the same steps, and surrender the same amount of time to risk producing a potentially inferior second version of the same original outcome.

If this shitty metaphor serves to illustrate anything, it's that we begin a new school year on Monday, and I have to start all over again. Nothing but these Legos in my heels to prove I did anything redeeming with last year.

Teaching sucks.

What dreams may dumb

I'm never sure what to believe when someone tells me about a dream they had. As I sit there listening to them relive horrific details of snakes, bears, lightning strikes, shipwrecks, broken parachutes, and that one ball-buster about parachuting off a lightning-struck ship into a pit filled with snakes riding polar bears. Raging ID suppressions, my ass. These are deliberate fabrications to elicit sympathy and wonder in the listener. Parachutes? Polar bears? Woe be the depths of one such shattered mind! In such an exchange, there always comes a point in the conversation when I begin to suspect one of two things: they are either carefully re-calculating, overanalyzing, filling in the blanks, and reading too much into their dreams, or the drugs I often busy myself with are not powerful enough. Sadly, if my sub-conscience ever does get its rocks together enough to drum some soupy regurgitation up, the cognitive leftovers are often too bland; filled with holes, and entirely banal to bother re-telling. Like this morning. I woke up, and faintly remembered dreaming I was in a band, there were helicopters (aircraft?), some snow...babies maybe? I can't be too certain on any of that though.

Oh wait, something's coming back! Now I remember!

My band New Found Glory and I were having beers and setting up for a show when a Blackhawk filled with crying mothers landed in the middle of the White House lawn, so we all jumped on and flew up to this active volcano where we roped down to save all these babies that were rolling over the sides of the cliffs. When it was all over, we jumped into this hot tub suspended from a gondola passing over the Swiss Alps and got hammered with the grateful mothers who all turned out to be members of the Iceland women's professional tanning team.

Shit yes. While you're busy interpreting feeling sorry for me, I'll be over here grinding up pills in my new garlic press.

Putting the 'homo' in "homonynm"

...actually has nothing to do with the post.

Thought it sounded funny. Get bent.

A timeless dilemma. Guy loves girl. Girl does not love guy back, yet still leaves blinds open. Guy falls out of tree with pants at half mast.

Ok, so there isn't a tree (that I know of), but I know a dude--a kind of romantically clumsy and lovesick young chap who seems to be torn between powerlessly watching the girl of his dreams from afar as she ignores him, or using a high-powered lens to watch her from much closer through her window as she dresses.
Most hilarious, is how he brings these pent-up frustrations with him to the office. An anal-retentive stickler for grammar (as most skilled Asian ESL speakers can often be), when he's not asking me if I've seen her, what she's been up to lately, or for advice on how to approach her, he often finds the most maddening English questions to ask me during his spare time. Most of them are usually in preparation for gleefully handing his students their asses during a grammar quiz (or perhaps something less innocent), thus he wants to make sure every phrase is connected by the proper clauses, and in the most archaic and diabolical manner possible.

So, the DI's advice?:
Leave "Open the window, won't you?" and "Open the window, will you?" off the goddamn test. Nobody cares about your stupid windows, your epic failure with this chick, or whether or not these cumbersome and unusable sentences are correct. Ain't nobody ever use propah engrish ennyway. Shyaddup.

Ah yes, and you may kindly stop asking me for the grammatical difference between "as she is doing X" and "while she is doing X."
I know, what you're trying to ask, but I have no interest in assuming that you're touching yourself "as she is undressing from the third floor window."
Might want to lay off the unhealthy preoccupation--you're starting to come to work with dark circles around your eyes. Sleep much?
Binocular eyestrain?

Arm and a leg to keep the doctor away

Hey Japan! What the hell gives? Three bucks for a goddamn apple? No, it's not $3 for a bag of apples, or for a Swarovsky crystal-encrusted apple. It doesn't shoot lasers from its core or bring you root beer when you're thirsty. It's just a regular old apple. Plain Jane, meet Dull Jack. The very same kind that threw Newton into a raging pissy fit. Hell, I'd rather spend my Marunaka grocery money on things that matter. Like $3 on gourmet potato chips, or towards a book that shows me how to contort my own spine, so as to lick my own butt.

Now there's three dollars well spent.


Oh yeah, and as found in the news the other day, who the shit pays these people? You call that "research"? Cripes, even I could have told you that. And you know what else I could have told you? That men like exhaust fumes and red meat, pancakes, and root beer, and having their shoulders rubbed while they play video games.

I should probably stop researching, otherwise somebody could be out a pretty penny for my front-page 'findings.'

Ohohoh! Trouble!

I'm about to do something I've yet to do in all my posts thus far.
I'm about to break voice--the nasally whine I typically speak in, and address you, the reader.

*wipes sweaty palms on pants and stands uncomfortably at the podium*

*taps mic*

First of all, I want to thank you for stopping by Disappointed Idealist for a read. If today's not your first time, I'd also like to thank you for stopping by yesterday. And last Wednesday too. Honestly though, I'm not really sure why anybody reads this--I most certainly haven't asked you to, and your browser most certainly doesn't refresh itself. I hope you've noticed that don't write to educate or change the world, or even to change your mind. I've just been trying to kill that stuffy block of time between classes, and the clock striking 17. In the short period I've been writing from my Okayama peach box, I've been lucky enough to have a small stable of readers--most of whom, I know either personally, or pseudo-personally (Facebook/Myspace/pedestrian accidents). Recently though, the stable has started to grow into a small pasture, and I'm worried I may start missing out on getting to know people who professionally whine and rant for a living.

For those of you whom were misguided here but have never traded barbs with me over the aforementioned Facebook or Myspace, hit up my profile for the proper address, and drop me a grammatically incorrect email so we can get this testicular pain train rolling. Or what have ye. Yeah, I know, it doesn't make much sense. But I've been wanting to use "testicular" for the better part of this entire afternoon, and seeing as that time was spent teaching vocabulary for recorder finger placement, that sentence seemed like the only logical place to use it without incurring a Japanese lawsuit. Shaddup.

But if you already have the DI bookmarked or linked on the grounds that you find it even remotely readable, why not get someone else you know to bookmark or link it for me? My upcoming piece will liberally employ immature stereotypes and ungrounded reason to answer one of the most nagging questions about Japanese existance; a question that even the known universe has given up on and taken to strong drink over.
And I want people to read it, because I know I'm finally right...and it feels fuckin' awesome.

So lastly, in a rare gesture of goodwill, I'd like to leave you with a little sonic nugget of gratitude. Back at NMC, on the day that Leaving Through the Window changed my life, I thought I'd be listening to Drive-Thru bands forever. New Found Glory, Fenix TX (rip), Allister (rip), Senses Fail, Day at the Fair (rip), Hidden in Plain View (rip)...Drive-Thru could do no wrong. Then came along Steel Train. HelloGoodbye. And The Rocket Summer--and a whole host of other safe, overproduced, watered-down indie rubbish, and I believed the label was hopelessly lost. But just the other day, I stumbled across a free Drive-Thru sampler via a slick digital delivery system called Echosystem. And I can't stop listening to it. Holy shit. Someone with a pair of ears and half a brain back at the DT helm?
Again, it's free, they don't seem to spam, and while the sampler contains several of the aforementioned bands, it also has a sweet classic cut from Houston Calls, the new HIPV demo, along with the brilliant new single from the upcoming An Angle album--three solid tracks (complimenting eight other consecutive winners) that have already made my summer. I take careful pride in my mixtapes. And so this was like the next best thing--it's like I made it for myself, out of songs that I'd never heard before. So download the sampler, and don't take it off your iPod until September.

Don't like it? Eat me. And don't say I never tried to do nothing for you.



Almost there. It ends tonight.

Calling all cars! Calling all cars!

Along with any cousins who might have been hanging out for the day, my brothers and I used to often play "Smear the Queer (or "keep-away" depending on which adults were present)" wherever we could find a nice patch of grass and a ball. There wasn't really much of a tangible goal to the game--it was just to hold onto the ball for as long as possible, or to chase and impose physical discomfort upon catching the ball carrier. That was all. The beauty of such middle school bloodsport was in its carefree simplicity. But then the Wigton boys started growing bulging muscles in places where I still only had pasty skin and bone, and suddenly the perils of broken bones and dislocated faces under the innocent and justified guise of being 'smeared' quickly outweighed the simple joy of running around and falling down. Well, that and we all went off to college, but that's beside the point. Now, as a fledgling 'adult', things just don't work that way any more. You can't play just for the sake of playing. There has to be a clear winner and loser, and respective rewards or consequences for each. You can't play sports without rules, for without rules, we just have soccer hoodlums. Animalistic lawlessness, which in the eyes of an "adult," is a scary thing. An impossibility. Or something totally awesome--just depends on which side of the tear gas you are.

Anyway, it's no secret that I love video games. Especially in social settings. But they've come a damn long way from wasting afternoons trying to shoot that idiot dog at Billy's house, and staying up all night at Mark's house pounding monsters. Now, rather than having mom drive you to said friend's house to play, we play online with thousands of other assholes, with their flappy mouths and asshole rules that systematically stamp out any real enjoyment from the social gaming experience.

But the critically panned Calling All Cars is different. A recently released "by download only" game for the Playstation 3, CaC is to social video gaming, what keepaway was to the backyard olympiad. The objective is simple: pick up the criminal and drive him to jail to score points. Other players can impede your progress by giving chase and knocking the criminal from your car into theirs via rockets, a massive hammer, a magnet, or some good old-fashioned paint-swapping. That's all. Chase each other around, scoring points and trading taunts and the hot potato criminal until the timer runs out. And it's positively brilliant in its execution. Even the most mean-spirited FPS gamers (those intelligent types who pride themselves in politically incorrect usage of the word 'faggot' while squatting over your corpse after having just shot you in the face) will crack after sitting down with CaC. You can be an asshole in CaC, but the goofy, frantic, and irreverent nature of the game keeps players from concentrating on how to belittle and humiliate their opponants, and keeps the focus instead on the five-minute fracas at hand. Finally, a video game that's about playing the goddamn game, and not about the reprobate players with just enough opposable thumbs to grip a controller. And just like keepaway, CaC is that great multiplayer "just for the sake of playing" fun, that's so hard to find these days. I love it.

Have you ever played Monopoly alone? I'd imagine it sucks ass. As it should. But throw in three friends, a case of Beast Lite, and a heavy dosage of good-natured trash talking, and even a pre-WWII real estate brokerage simulator starts looking like an afternoon in a rap video. And just like Monopoly, CaC isn't even worth taking out of its "box" for the single player. In fact, my first few solo minutes with the game were spent scolding myself on the evils of falling prey to the temptations of downloadable content. And only four levels? It's barely a game! Hell, I know a better, longer, and more challenging single player game--it's called "Opening a Goddamn Bag of Japanese Potato Chips Without Using a Hand Grenade." I honestly don't know why a Incognito Games bothered to includ a 'single player' option in a game that begs to be played over a network. With beer. In fact, they should have just locked out offline play, thus keeping the player from developing any premature opinions about the quality of this excellent game. Silly reviewers.

Yesterday and Tuesday we were raped by a high fever. So I was clearly unhappy to be moving again today, and then unhappier as Zach ingested my metric weight in little bugs during the first 1.5 miles along the river. Looks like I'll be burping and dry-heaving up "gnat" in six different flavors for the rest of the night. Little bastards.