Notes from a chill Saturday am

1) We have no patience for those who claim to have "a lot of patience."

Patience is something you run out of. Putting our minds in a position of understanding and empathy is how to get through the tough times of life that involve others and their struggles. Claiming to have patience means you can only put up with others bullshit so much. We disagree with that sentiment: empathy, not patience, is what is necessary in dealing with people.



2) To all gym-goers: Gravity is not a muscle. And range of motion is more important than the amount of weight you use to lift.

We see so many folks at our gym who are hell bent on lifting enormous amounts of pounds. We know what that desire is like; when we started many years ago that was our mindset, too. But it gets you nowhere. Put aside the ego, put aside the thought that other people care about how much you can bench, and think "range of motion." For example, our biceps lift our hands from an extended position up to our mouths, basically. The muscle brings the fingers from a position where the elbow is straight to one where the elbow is as crooked as it can get. That is what you should be thinking about when you do biceps exercises. Not lifting 65 pound dumbbells three times: think about what the muscle does naturally and then do it! Range of motion. Furthermore, if grunting and making faces was the way to building muscle, then taking a shit would qualify as weightlifting. But it does not. If you get on the bench and lift the bar from 18 inches above your head to 12 inches above your head, you are WASTING YOUR TIME, except for the ego boost of lifting a lot of weight. Trust me, you will look the same in six months as you do today and will probably be using the same weight.

No, range of motion, not amount of weight is key for a healthy body. And stop swaying so much. You look like you're all dancing. Or drunk.



3) Optimism, not intelligence or upbringing, is the most important characteristic to having a happy life.

When we here at Apartment 404 lose our optimism, we lose everything. If we find ourselves hating today and not looking forward to tomorrow it does not matter what cool things are going on around us for we are lost. Having a positive attitude can help us deal with anything. And not having a positive, optimistic outlook means that we are in serious trouble.



4) "South Park" is actually pretty funny.

We here at The 'Pent saw our first two episodes of the series this am and really laughed hard! How could we be missing this show for so long? Despite a habit of making severely tasteless jokes there were enough funny gags to keep us watching the rest of the season. Has the show always been so good? Man, we had no idea.



5) Go see "Hot Tub Time Machine."

Not a classic, but well worth the money. It's funny and kind of sad in the way the middle age is sad. And it might be good to bring along somebody who was alive and well back in 1986 to translate.

The church: What It's Really About

Organized churches are always, always, always about power, control, and money.

At least those in the Mafia, to name another corrupt organization, make no claim about saving sinners souls.

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So many of these churches are massively bloated organizations that are, though they may have been started with lofty ideals guiding them whether ten years or two thousand years ago, corrupt to the core. Do you really think that any priest or minister can rise to a high level of authority in their multi million or multi billion dollar business venture without turning their back on everything that man once considered important? There are many billions of dollars at stake in some of these institutions, folks.

And do you really think the sexual abuse in the catholic church occurred years ago and suddenly stopped? It is still going on, unquestionably, to just take one example of the sickness and hypocrisy of these organized sleaze factories, since what kind of a weirdo would become a priest in the first place? A sexually repressed male incapable of having a committed romantic relationship with another man or woman, one capable of raping children in many cases. That's proven.

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Need another example? See here from the NY Times tonight.

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Apartment 404 staff realize that giving proof of the sickness of these institutions will not convince anyone who feels the need to attend services and belong to one of them of the lunacy of the whole deal, but we want it on our all time permanent record that we declare you to be a fool to think that, to pick one shameful example, the sexual abuse of children occurred only twenty, thirty, fifty years ago. It is still happening today and will happen in the future just as surely as we sit here typing this.

And folks will act just as shocked in a decade or two when the evidence is presented of contemporary abuse.

"This is Petty Vindictiveness"

According to a story in the Portland Press Herald this morning, the city's Preble Street Resource Center has lost $50K over the next two years in funding from the catholic church due to Preble's support for same sex marraige.

How any thinking person, any person possessing of compassion combined with intelligence can continue to attend just about any church is beyond our comprehension. The hatred, the vitriol, the mean spiritedness that comes out of just about every church we know causes us to wonder just why so many bright people attend services and listen to what these folks have to say. Do people honestly think that a robe or a frock or a sheet or whatever these men wear means that they have the inside track as to what your god is thinking about? Do you really believe that? Of course, that is exactly what they want you to think, that these freaks have some direct line to god. They do not.

The recent revelations about the Pope and his assured involvement in a pedophile priest coverup in Germany should cement the notion that no church has any moral high ground to lambast the great unwashed from. They all knew of the sexual abuse. They all know it is likely still going on somewhere, somehow.

They are as sick as we are. They are as dirty and deprived and depraved as we are, if not more so.

We are disgusted with any and all churches and their notion of morality. Take your blood money and shove it up your asses, catholics.

Gimme Some Deep Thoughts

-- It is weird to think that we here at The 'Pent feel so very privileged to have a particular animal in our lives, instead of the other way around?

Our cat Rudy is just such a wonderful and magnificent creature that we feel lucky to have her here with us in Apartment 404. She is kind, playful, fun to be around, neat and tidy, a good soul, and awesome to play fight with. Is it strange to feel this way? Because it seems that most humans congratulate themselves for saving an animal out of the shelter. We feel she rescued us, not the other way around. Thanks, Rudy. We love ya, kitty.


-- How can anyone NOT be rooting for Cornell against Kentucky this week?

We here respect Coach Cal for being a tremendous basketball teacher, several of whose players are sure to be stars in the NBA, but as far as having tremendous young men who are destined for great and rewarding lives, the Big Red are the clear cut favorites Thursday night and well off into the future. But clearly the safe bet to win the game is UK, though I imagine the rest of the country is as sick of seeing the preening Ashley Judd cheering her heart out as we are. We get it, CBS; Ashley loves the Big Blue. And further: it wouldn't shock us in the least to see Eric Bledsoe have a great career at the next level, possibly as good as The Wall. Bledsoe is a tremendous, lottery bound talent who plays a lot like Russell Westbrook, though none of the draft sites have him going that high. They will.


-- Does anyone else worry about what the cashier at the grocery store thinks of us/you?

Many years ago, back when The 'Pent staff was located down in Charlottesville, Virginia, a cashier laughingly commented that our groceries were "gross" since we, as recent college grads with no cooking skills, were buying a lot of Super Sugar Pops cereal, Pop Tarts, TV dinners, and the like. She was right and she may have even been trying to flirt with us, but it stung and has stayed with us. Today, sometimes we worry about buying too much toilet paper: does the cashier think we go to the bathroom too much? (Does that even make sense?) Are we buying enough fruits and vegetables? Too much junk and desserts? Worrying about what other humans think of us is generally a healthy instinct, but if out of control and unchecked, can lead to a lot of bad stuff. There is a balance that needs to be reached. If anyone ever tells you that they NEVER care what other people think, run in the other direction. They are either lying, exaggerating, or nuts. We need to care what others think of us, but if The 'Pent staff spend too much time worrying about cashiers judging us negatively in regards to our groceries, then that's not healthy. To give another example, this one of how sick we can get: back in our days of thinking we were being watched 24/7 by cameras and the government, The 'Pent bought a few items at the Hannaford across from the Maine Mall. The cashier seemed to make a big show out of cleaning her register with Windex prior to ringing us up and we were convinced she was intentionally being rude to us since we were such notorious scumbags. We got pissed, walked away, and threw over a trash can as we stormed out of the store that morning. That's the kind of unhealthiness we can find ourselves obsessing about should we care too much or even too little about other people.


-- In twenty, thirty, fifty years, our bet on the 2009 film that is watched the most will be Michael Jackson's "This Is It."

We've seen it maybe five times so far and enjoyed it just as much the fifth time as the first. A great concert film and surely one to go down in the history of film as one of the great modern musicals. Kenny Ortega and his crew did a magnificent job putting the movie together.


-- The healthier we get the less we argue with people.

This attribute is a wonderful gift of sobriety and sanity; the lessening of the instinct to prove to others how smart we are. A few days ago, on the insightful and rewarding message board SongofSamHorn.com, we posted about how we were disappointed in the Red Sox book put out, in part, by some of the members of the board. And the snark we received surprised our staff, and it hurt. But we did not respond, not that we didn't want to, but because we knew that it would only lead to further angst and turmoil. The need to always be right is not a healthy one, in a lot of cases. If someone disagrees with us, feels we are wrong on every level, fine. That's OK with us so long as we feel good about ourselves, which is a tough enough job on all on its own.


-- Speaking of sobriety and movies:

Something that got us through our early days in AA were all the flicks we attended in 2008 and 2009. There were times we were attending four or five movies a week. Ask us about pretty much any release in 08 and the first half of 09 and we have an opinion about it. The one regret we have is all of the films we gave up on after about a half hour, including the last Tarantino, "The Hurt Locker" (which we have blogged about in the past), "Twilight" (no regrets about leaving) and many others. We certainly wished we had stuck with THL to the end, if only to see what the fuss is about. Since we don't believe in stealing movies online, we'll just have to re-up with Netflix.


-- Sometimes it's hard to separate the mental from the physical.

The past week has been a hard one for Apartment 404. One of our staff members hurt their back lifting weights last Monday and then aggravated the injury sitting in the backless benches at a Maine Red Claws game on Wednesday night. In addition, that staffer came down with a cold or flu (we're not sure which) that led to some lethargy and awkwardness of feeling. Readers of the blog may have noticed some strange postings in the last seven days or so, and we are not ashamed of them. Honesty is the goal here at The 'Pent. But some of the weirdness was caused by our physical ailments. Today, though, is gonna be a rockin good day. We're going back to the gym for the first time in ten days, with a new weightlifting routine to work on, we're gonna have lunch with "The 'Pent Momma" down in Kittery, and we have our home AA group tonight.

It should be a great day.....

The Solution - Once Upon A Time In My Life - Part 10

I want to have some fucking fun, so I decide to drink.

I work my summer job in 1985 at a Weathervane seafood restaurant. The other guys and gals there party a little, not too much. I feel left out. Why do they get to have all the fun and not me? I decide halfway through the summer that once I get back to campus in Oxford I will become normal, that I will be just like every other kid. No more shyness. No more insecurities. No more self hating. It is the best decision of my young life, I know. After I decide that I will drink in the fall I find myself arguing more and more with Dad. He doesn't know yet that I am now a man. He pushes my buttons and I push back. No more taking shit. He'll see.

Dad drives me back to school in late August. We spend much of the two day ride in silence. Memories of his support for me freshman year are fleeting and inconsequential. I know what I want.

First day back I move into Scott Hall, a large dorm in the middle of the main quad on campus. I buy some cheap beer, as the drinking age in Ohio is 18. Sour and sweet. Not too bad. I've had sips before and maybe one or two entire cans, but this is my first time "for real" drinking. One down. Two down. My legs get longer, my feet bigger. My face softer. I am an unclenched fist for the first time in my fucking life. This is why they drink. So now I know. This is quite obviously the happiest I've ever been.

I walk to two friends room on what is called Western campus, about a mile away from Scott. They have maybe a dozen people over, not really a party, just kids hanging out. I no longer feel afraid, feel judged, feel stupid. The night passes too damn fast and I have to go home. Why is my friend walking with me, accompanying me home? I nearly sprint into a tree and laugh. My friend is not laughing, but nervously exhaling and walking just ahead of me, fast. Me, I have found the answer and there is no turning back.

The next day I wake up to the same shit I hate so much. I am not different, but still the same loser. The shower feels the same, breakfast feels the same. I had my hands on the answer and it is gone. For good.

That night, I buy some more beer. Another twelve pack. The feeling of invincibility returns after two or three. I must stay this way forever. How could I have waited so long, been so fearful?

About a week into the semester my RA pulls me aside. "Joe, do you have a girlfriend back home? Is that why you are so quiet?" Quiet? I've never felt better in my whole life. The whole day is a matter of waiting to drink. I can't wait to crack open the first beer, to get that magic feeling back in my throat, my eyes, my head. "No", I tell him, "no girl. I'm good."

The best night of my life comes maybe a month into the school year. Walking into that same RA's room, I hear, "Here comes the party animal!" Awesome! I have arrived. I am normal.

Quickly, I have entire nights I can't remember. I wake up to urine soaked sheets and mattress. People look at me in the morning and can only shake their heads, why I can't figure out. My friend G. and his roommate become my major drinking partners, though most of the nights I spend with them are gone from my brain. I only recall the first few beers, then oblivion. This is fun. This is right.

I never feel unsafe. Oxford has no crime, no traffic jams, no sprawl. We walk everywhere so the danger of drunk driving is not an issue. I know G. and J. will take care of me, so the blackouts do not have consequences. I discover grain alchohol and kool aid. This is the fastest way to get drunk and hits me like a sledgehammer. Pure bliss, pure unconsciousness.

It's A Simple Thing To Be Wrong, A Hard Thing To Be Honest

I was so very very angry with her
For forgetting me.
She lied. She was deceitful. She meant to hurt me.
Why? I didn't know.

But then I remembered
What really went on those years ago.
And knew my strangeness was all happening again
Just like before
And before
And before.

My paranoia and
My neediness
Got the better
Of common sense.

Just like the last time
And the time(s) before that.

How come I keep forgetting
How I keep forgetting?

My need to be important
Makes me forget
Every single time.

And will again.

Reality Check

I have not had a date in five years. No one is pining for me, no matter how much I want it to be true.

J. is not lying when she says she doesn’t remember me. She is honest and a good person. She has no reason to lie.

I am basically alone.

I am not a good writer. If I was my blog would be popular and I would have heard back from publishers. I will never make a living at writing. I am just not any good at it.

I work a part time job that is embarrassing.

I have no athletic talent at all. I did not play sports in high school because I was not good enough.

I walk funny. I am fat. I am uncoordinated. I am average looking, with a big bumpy nose, neck fat, and a big gut. That is reality.

I am friendly. I am usually kind.

I like kind, friendly people.

I am attracted to pretty blondes, no matter their age.

I am lonely.

I am not reading nearly as much as I would like to lately.

Some people in AA like me.

My home group in AA generally likes me.

None of the women I have ever gone out with think of me today other than possibly a passing thought.

Every woman I ever went out with and cared about broke it off with me.

I am shy.

I am arrogant if left unchecked.

I am weak in terms of lifting weights. It is embarrassing and people laugh at me because of it.

C. does not want to be with me. She made that clear.

R. does not want to be with me. She couldn’t have made that more clear.

L. does not want to be with me. She doesn’t think of me and does not want to go out with me.

I am lonely.

I think I am smarter than the average American, but not as smart as the average doctor.

I like my green eyes.

I like my brown hair; the color, the thickness, but not the way it is hard to manage.

My hair grows fast and I look forward to getting a haircut every three weeks. It is always one of the highlights of the week.

I like talking to and sometimes flirting with cute, young waitresses.

Sometimes they flirt back but that is just their job. And maybe sometimes they do think I’m cute, too.

I am a failure.

I like to go to the movies.

There are not enough hours in the day.

Summertime is depressing because everybody is having so much more fun than I am.

There are no cameras in my apartment.

There are no cameras in my car.

I cannot hear the people down the hall talking about me after I post something to my blog. Those are voices.

People on the street do not know who I am and if they knew what I was thinking would think me strange.

I am lonely.

I am good at several things but great at nothing.

My penis is completely average in every way.

I have a massive belly that is so big I can’t see my penis when I urinate.

Some people like me.

Some people do not like me.

D. would be surprised that I know her name. I think she is too skinny but attractive and sad in an appealing way.

I wish I was a good writer.

I wish I had money.

I wish E. was happier.

I sometimes want to die.

I sometimes feel happy.

I am lonely and will always be lonely.

My life is a failure.

Dad was a good man and a bad man, too.

I love A. so much I want to hug him right now.

I love Rudy a lot. She is a wonderful cat, though not as much fun as Cousy. Much better than Hank, though.

I wish I was in love.

I wish I had someone’s hair to brush, cheek to caress, bottom to touch, feet to rub, eyes to look into. I do not.

I sometime wish I was dead.

I am a good person.

I am sad.

I wish I wasn’t delusional.

My voices, my "chatter" make me feel important when no one else cares. They keep me company when there is no one else around to talk to.

J. does not remember me. That is a fact. I cannot think of a reason she would lie.

I like to post to my blog but maybe I shouldn’t. It may be making my voices worse.

Beauty Mark

Her softness, her middle
That turns all electrified
If I wish hard enough
Is my favorite point of a woman's body.

The beginning of life
The holder of hopes
The real heart
An index of feeling.

Do you know who I am?
Do you know what I am?
Do you know how I feel?

The middle of her body
Is best
For what I need and want.

Not "dirty", not ashamed.
It is only for the good of things
That I look.

FWIW - Our Bracket

First Round Upsets -- Unless mentioned, go with chalk

San Diego State over Tennessee -- What a poop fest of a game UT laid down versus Kentucky in the SEC final. They could go either way after the embarrassment. We think a good Aztec club, coached by veteran winner Steve Fischer, will win.

Georgia Tech over Oklahoma State -- This is only because we like Paul Hewitt, a vet, over Travis Ford, who is still pretty inexperienced. And we love to watch the Tech front line. Those guards, though: Ouch!

Florida State over Gonzaga -- The 8/9 games are always tough to pick: which high major, pissed that they aren't getting out of the first weekend, will bring it. Gonzaga's program has been overrated for years. They've had high major talent without the tournament results lately. It might continue.

Murray State over Vanderbilt -- Not sure why, just don't like Vandy. But they could easily make the Sweet 16 as well. Hate to watch Australian big man A.J. Ogilvy play for Vandy. He sweats too much. Not cool.

Florida over BYU -- The sinners over the "saints." The Gators have won their last 12 NCAA tourney games. Make it 13. An easy game to choose who to root for.

Wake Forest over Texas -- Yes, we picked UT to make a late season run. That was before their point guard went down. Now, they are directionless and seemingly unfocused. Fodder for UK either way, though.

Missouri over Clemson -- Don't like either team, as Clemson always makes a late season swan dive. This is an annoying matchup because the NCAA tournament committee has guaranteed that one of these two high majors will be able to claim a round of 32 bid. Neither deserves it. Notice how the committee seems to match the high majors against each other when possible in these types of mid seed games? That's to keep the mid majors down we expect.

Louisville over Cal -- Anyone who bets on Cal to beat Pitino will get what they deserve. Mike Montgomery went to one Final Four at Stanford but that was a long time ago. Bet on Pitino in the tournament always always.

Siena over injured and reeling Purdue -- The Boilermakers were early 4 point favorites over Siena, why we're not sure. We know nothing about Siena other than they were bad ass last year and Purdue lost their best player and heart and soul, Robbie Hummel, to a knee a few games back. How can anyone but Greg Christopher pick Purdue?

Saint Mary's over RIchmond -- St. Mary's is pretty good. This is a classic mid major 7/10 game that the committee loves to throw at us. We'd love it if they had broken up these two teams with the Clemson/Missouri matchup, swapping so a high played a mid in each bracket. But that might allow 2 mid majors, not at most 1, to make the Round of 32, which the NCAA doesn't want.


Round of 32 Upsets --

Butler over Murray State -- Butler is a nice team on a late season roll. They have two kids in Hayward and Howard who can really play. No reason they can't survive the opening weekend.

Temple over Wisconsin -- A minor upset. Fran Dunphy can surely coach and Temple and Wisconsin will be a betting pick 'em, so we'll go with the Owls.

Marquette over New Mexico -- What has Steve Alford ever done in the tournament? Marquette is a bad ass underdog from the biggest, baddest conference in the country.

Texas A&M over Siena -- Someone's gotta win this sub region, right?

Notre Dame over Baylor -- Baylor is smoking hot and one of the real dark horses overall, but we like this veteran Irish squad. It would be nice for Big Luke Harangody to go out on a high note. He's been a workhorse for four years.


Final Four --

Kansas -- The favorites might be challenged by Michigan State, but not Georgetown. The Hoyas, we expect, will lay an egg against Izzo.

Syracuse -- We've been Cuse fans since the Louis and Bouie Show, which coincidentally was the last time they were a 1 seed. They are gooooood, but maybe not as talented as UK and Kansas. Other than Wes Johnson we don't see an NBA player wearing Orange. But they should beat conference rival Pitt in the Elite Eight game and advance to Boeheim's fourth Final Four.

Kentucky -- Are they as talented as "The Untouchables" of 1995-96, the greatest UK team ever of Antoine Walker, Tony Delk, Nazr Mohammad, Ron Mercer and so many other notables? Yes, at the starters spots, at least, but this year's team isn't as experienced as those monsters. Did you see them celebrate last weekend like they'd won the game, when Cousins bucket had only tied it in the SEC title game? If they get in a late game "Time and Score" situation, they may pull a Webber and fuck up.

Villanova -- We've picked 5 Big East teams in the Elite Eight. Will that happen? No. But how do you pick against this conference. If only Boston College hadn't left. We aren't crazy about Nova's late season swoon, but they are good and guard oriented.


National Champs -- Kansas over UK -- As it should be. Can't wait for what might be an all time great Monday night.

Note to Howard Bryant

The wonderful and important Boston born and bred ESPN writer Howard Bryant weighs in on the Bird/Magic HBO documentary that was recently released to great acclaim.

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Bryant writes "The Celtics were the white fan's team. Me, I was the black kid who rooted for the Celtics but fell along the same racial divisions as my friends. My favorite Celtics were all black: Robert Parish, Gerald Henderson and Dennis Johnson." -- Um, sorry Howard but you only rooted for the black C's? Does that not smack of a bit of reverse discrimination? I grew up in Chelmsford, then later Amherst, NH and Wayland, and I rooted for all the Boston teams, and white and black players alike. How can you hold up others to higher standards than yourself? You do not get a free pass for only rooting for black players. Is that contributing to racial imbalance and unrest? We think so.

Not that humans should become colorblind. We are a tribal people who rely on out heritage and roots to inform us about who we were and are. But blindly cheering for players because, and only because, of their skin color is wrong. Robert Parish was a guy who always gave me an unsettling feeling due to his laconic and angry persona on and off the court, and if rumors can be believed, was never the nicest guy. DJ was beloved by me and so many others but certainly had his share of personal problems. And Gerald Henderson wasn't around long enough to be a true all time great Celtic, as Red shipped him off when Ainge was ready.

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To take this post further than maybe we should, we want to say that anyone who argues that Red drafted white players because he knew Boston wouldn't support a black team, well that makes me angry. Not because I completely disagree with that notion, as it is well known that in the late 50s and 60s, when Bill Russell and Sam Jones and the Cs were winning title after title the pre-Orr Bruins filled the Garden and the Celtics played to half empty stands. That is fact and inarguable. But it makes me angry that Red gets a bad rap from so many for the white players he signed. Should he have kept Freeman Williams over Bird? Should he have drafted Joe Barry Carroll over McHale? Is that what Bryant is arguing? Red was the most brilliant mind in the history of the NBA. As many have pointed out the Celtics under Red were the first NBA team to start an all black 5, and the first pro sports team in many decades to have a black head coach.

Red was no racist. Howard, are you?

The Problem - Once Upon a Time in My Life - Part 9

As my two roommates walk ahead of me, I hear one turn to the other. "Walk fast, he's weird." They are talking about me and I agree with them. Symmes dining hall is just ahead. My first time ever eating "school food", as my mother had made lunch for me every day from kindergarten through high school graduation. The other freshmen seem to have this whole scary deal figured out, but me, I don't even know how to pour the milk from the tap. I spill it all over my tray and assume everyone sees me do it. My roommates sit down at a table of about a dozen impossibly beautiful girls, the likes of which I have never spoken to in my life, and I join them. Dave, the one who will eventually be named president of the most popular fraternity here at Miami University, cheerfully introduces himself to the women. I say nothing. A minute passes. I pick up my tray and walk away, as the fear is too much and I cannot take another second in their presence. Moving to a table at the rear of the room I hear the guys at the next table ridiculing me. "Did you see him pour milk all over himself?" My next move is to the door. I leave the food, leave my roommates and the lovely young girls. I have to get out of this place.

It is my first day on campus and I only know a rough outline of the school grounds and the adjoining town of Oxford, Ohio. Walking down a side avenue, parallel to High Street, which I have figured out to be the main road, I hear someone on a porch say, "Look at that one, he thinks he's tough." I can only keep my head down and keep going. I make it to a gas station and a pay phone. "Mom, this is Joe. I can't do this. I can't do this at all. You've gotta ask Dad to come back and get me here." "Joe, your father won't be home until tomorrow. I don't know what to tell you, but you've gotta stay there until he gets back." I need my parents to save me and they cannot. I will be here at this frightening place for at least a few more days. God, I cannot do this.

I retreat through the gridlock of streets to my dorm room, using only survival instincts to return to my belongings. I tell Dave that I will be going home in a few days, and he acts surprisingly tender to me upon hearing this. He brings me to the RA of the hallway, a sophomore who looks like he could be a fashion model. The RA, I can immediately sense, has better things to do than speak to a loser kid who just wants to leave, so I quickly return to the room. The fear is becoming manageable now. I will go to bed tonight and wake up tomorrow morning, somehow someway.

And that is exactly what happens. I have to go to the basketball arena and sign up for classes. Millett Hall is just about the most beautiful building I've ever seen, a circular structure with red tiled walls above the glass enclosed lower bowl. Somehow I fill out a schedule for first semester, taking only a dozen or so credits as I know that I may be leaving and that if I stay I will be in no shape to work hard. Millett has glass for walls on its lower level and after I am finished I can't wait to leave, and hurriedly walk headfirst into the wall/window, thinking it to be an open door. The loud crash my body makes draws the attention of several hundred people but I am too scared to really get any more fearful. I realize that fear can be my friend, that it can help make me oblivious to further embarrassment, that I can only get so scared and then nothing else can touch me.

Returning to my room I get a call from my father, who has just gotten back to our home in Amherst, New Hampshire. His smoky, rough edged voice comforts me. He wants me to stay at school, just for today, and we'll talk tomorrow afternoon. This I can do, Dad. He asks what the rest of my day is going to have in store for me. I tell him that the US Open tennis tournament is on and that the small television that he gave me as a gift is proving a big hit on my floor. Guys will wander in, watch a game or maybe even a set, introduce themselves to me, ask where I'm from. Without that damn tv I'd be fucked. I don't use that word with Dad, but make sure to thank him.

The next day classes start. I make it on time to all three of them. I notice others chatting before and after classes, acting like old friends. How can they be so cool about this adventure, this frightening thrill ride we are all on? It's like they've been here for years while I just got to town. I know none of them are as scared as I still am, though the third day is better than the first two. My Dad calls again. "One day at a time, Joey. You can do this, son." I have never felt so close to the man who some years prior drunkenly swore he would kill me.

I now eat my meals at Symmes alone, but contentedly. It is OK that I am not sitting with the cool kids or the jocks or the punks. I am alone, as always, and that's how it will have to be this year. Attending classes, going to the library every night, where I can hide out until Dave and the other future frat boys leave for the uptown parties and bars, watching television in our room. I am in a rhythm, helped out by the daily phone calls from my father, who says every day to me, "Just make it till tomorrow, Joe That's all you gotta do. Can you make it until tomorrow, son?" I can. I do.

"Southland" Is Back!

And still kicking ass. Watch it Tuesday nights on TNT.

Power Play - How the Portland Pirates Can Better the Fan Experience

The local AHL team, the Portland Pirates, are involved in spirited negotiations with their home, the Cumberland County Civic Center, concerning a new lease agreement. It basically comes down to money, as the Pirates lead man, Brian Petrovek, presumedly wants a greater share of the concessions revenue. The Portland Press Herald keeps using a figure of $350,000 for total concession sales for a typical home season. That number is total crap. Based on average attendance being, say, 4,500 for 40 home dates, and considering we'd be shocked if the average fan spent less than $10 to $25 per on a visit for food and beer, that works out to be between $1,800,000 and over $4,000,000 per year. THAT IS WHAT THEY'RE FIGHTING OVER, FOLKS!! We here at The 'Pent have no insider status, but we know that money is the deciding factor in these negotiations, as in all. Will the Civic Center give up some bucks to keep the Pirates in town? We don't know, either.

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Aside from the negotiations there are several common sense things Brian P. could implement soon, tonight even, to allow for a better fan experience. Stuff that successful entertainment operations would try in order to allow fans to have a good time for not a lot of money, which is kinda the goal.

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Here's five easy ideas that we threw around at the last 'Pent staff meeting:


1) Play better music -- Whoever programs the music does a lousy job. We could come up with thousands of better songs to play before, during, and after the game. (And remember DJs; a sense of humor goes a long way.) In fact, here's some recommendations, just for a start:

Long Live Rock - The Who - The Ultimate Collection
Where Have All the Good Times Gone - Van Halen - Diver Down
You Should Be Dancing - The Bee Gees - Saturday Night Fever
Johnny B. Goode - Chuck Berry - Single
What I'd Say - Ray Charles - The Best of Ray Charles: The Atlantic Years
Flip, Flop & Fly - The Blues Brothers - Briefcase Full of Blues
The Bird (Live) - Morris Day - It's About Time
Wreck This Heart - Bob Seger - Face the Promise
Loser - Beck - Loser
People Have the Power - Patti Smith - Dream of Life
Today Was a Fairytale - Taylor Swift - Single
Gloria - Van Morrison - The Best of Van Morrison Volume 3
Jailhouse Rock - Elvis Presley - The Number One Hits
(You Drive Me) Crazy - Britney Spears - Baby One More Time
Do You Believe in Love - Huey Lewis and the News - Greatest Hits
Rocky Mountain High - John Denver - Single
Boom! Boom! - John Lee Hooker - The Best of John Lee Hooker
I Believe (When I Fall In Love It Will..) - Stevie Wonder - High Fidelity soundtrack
Forever - Chris Brown - Single

This list took about five minutes to write and a few seconds to think about. In this day and age of iPods and digital music it boggles our minds that such boring and detestable sounds come from the Civic Center's speaker system. It is unacceptable and easily remedied. Get a high school kid to do it for free. We bet dozens of aspiring DJs around town wound jump at the chance to program tunes for 5,000 people 40 times a year. And if they screw up and play a curse word or something inappropriate, you just apologize and move on. The Pirates aren't curing cancer, and if they're so serious they are afraid to make a mistake they're in bigger trouble than we thought.


2) Reduce the time between periods from 20 minutes to 12 -- Intermissions are interminable. We know, we know: you gotta sell some food. But come on, you're got two Zonis. Use them and let's get on with it. Boredom is the enemy, remember? And 20 minutes is way too long, especially for folks with money and better things to do, the likes of whom we rarely see on game nights.


3) Increase the frequency of timeouts during play to have promotions run both on ice and off -- Remember, Brian: You're largely in the entertainment business. If it ain't fun, your team is out of luck no matter how many good players come through town. Let's have a good time, alright? Learn from the Sea Dogs and Red Claws, as their games are kick ass fun.


4) Get some attractive women to clean the ice, not the dudes who look like, well, the staffers here at Apartment 404 that do it now -- And have them do this at least twice a period. Nothing wrong with sex appeal. Nothing at all. No one wants to see flabby middle aged men skate around twice a game, but the Bruins have some pretty women do this and the crowd loves it. It seems to be the trend in sports and entertainment in general, and a damn fine idea.


5) Give fans a reward for a shutout, if not a win -- As it stands the team has a promotion this season giving all in attendance a free medium fries at Mickey D's if the Pirates score 5 goals. Lame. How many folks are going to make a special trip to McDonald's for a couple of damn french fries? Not us. Gotta come up with something better. Since we get more excited about wins than high scoring games, what about a reward for keeping the other team from putting the biscuit in the basket? That might be fun and it concerns winning, not scoring a lot of goals.

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Every member of the Apartment404 staff is a passionate sports fan. All except for the gay guy, and we really don't talk to him much. But as such, we love living in Portland, with all that it offers. And two out of three ain't bad (Sea Dogs and Red Claws). We'd just like to see a better effort out of the hockey team.

That means you, Brian P.

Media S--t Storms: The Question to Always Ask is WHY??

A couple of weeks ago fading movie director Kevin Smith was in the news for being bumped from a flight for being too fat. Our first thought was, "Huh, that's weird, cuz Smith ain't that fat." We quickly caught ourselves and remembered he had a film, "Cop Out", coming out around that time. It was all a show, created to enhance the revenues for a mediocre movie. It's as simple as that. Kevin Smith isn't too fat to sit on an airplane, he's actually a pretty normal sized dude, small really in terms of height if not weight. So don't take media frenzies at face value. Always consider WHY and WHO HAS SOMETHING TO GAIN.

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Which brings us to Marc Thiessen's appearance on Jon Stewart's Daily Show Tuesday night to plug his new book. Why would a conservative, former W. speechwriter, appear on the left leaning liberal saint's daily diatribe to be abused? Because he wanted to create a media shit storm, that's why. Both men had much to gain: Stewart and the author both rely on other media to promote their vehicles. And they were rewarded, as the interview is all over the news.

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Always, always ask WHY. It may lead to more cynicism in your life, but it is a more realistic and healthy way to view the world.

(PS To all the kids out there:) And anyone who says, "Because I said so, that's why!" is not to be trusted.

They're In Here, Too - Once Upon A Time In My Life - Part 8

It's midsummer 2004. My first night in the new apartment, which is on the top floor of an old, turn of the century, hospital building that was rehabbed into low income housing for the disabled and elderly several decades prior.

The first night here seems perfectly calm; a soft breeze, easy temps, late sundown. A good evening to relax and to think, but I'm interrupted. I hear the workers at the old folks home across the way talking about me from the moment the sun goes down. My adversaries congregate at what must be a designated smoking spot seventy five feet away from my windows and discuss my life and miseries in meticulous detail. They really hate me, I realize. And know so much about me.

I am afraid to look at them, afraid to stare out the window at them. I am spending time on the internet, trying to ignore the slights and taunts because if I react they will know I can hear them, that their cruelties are getting to me, thus adding fuel to their fires. They say things like "If he ever goes on Sons of Sam Horn he will be ridiculed because he's a know nothing blowhard who wasn't a good enough athlete to play sports in high school." They say I "have a funny looking body with big ears and sad eyes, bad skin" and am "just fucking strange in so many fucking ways" that they run out of descriptions.

They say that everyone that knows me hates me.

One of the smokers says he would shoot me on sight if he knew he could get away with it. This fills me with anger. I know then that the people down there are pussies and posers, that if they want to get me they should just do it, consequences be damned. I'm ready to go. Anger replaces the sadness for a few minutes. I hear them all evening that first night, until I fall asleep, just after I stop crying.

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How did these folks know anything about me? Because I am famous around these parts for being an asshole. Five years prior, back in the late spring of 1999, I had had a job helping to take care of a tough little developmentally disabled guy who lived in a home near Portland. He was about twenty years old and a real handful; small but wiry and athletic, with many horrifying physical problems that surely contribute to the terrifying temper tantrums he suffered through so often.

One afternoon I spanked this young man on his rear end, hard, three or four times. No one else was around. It happened when we had been left alone at his house; he was out of control with fear and rage and I was at my absolute wits end. I confessed what happened the next day to my supervisor. Maybe "confessed" is the wrong word, since I did not realize how serious my offense was, both at the time I committed the act and the next day discussing it. I was told to resign to avoid a scandal that could get me charged with assault, and complied. The guilt over not just the act but not realizing what a serious thing I'd done built quickly.

And everybody knew what I had done, I was sure. Word got out of how I had abused this young man, that I had been fired for cause, and been lucky to escape serious jail time. When I eventually move down into my Mom's tiny house in Kittery, the cops, I was sure, began putting up posters in the schools in town, warning the kids to avoid me should they ever come across me in the street or at a store. They were never to look at me, or to speak to me because I was a bad, dangerous person. That was how I was welcomed to Kittery in 2000, and things didn't get better in the four years I was there.

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As I move into the fourth apartment on the fourth floor of Loring House, my reputation follows. I am a child abuser. I am not to be trusted, not to be talked to, not to be made friends with.

Moving in on a hot midweek morning, I am optimistic. It takes my 65 year old mother and I several hours to bring the furniture and boxes from the van, up the three flights of stairs, to the apartment. I hear nothing unusual anywhere when she's there, but that night, I have a few Coronas in me, the sun has set, and I am left with only my thoughts. The talking quickly becomes nonstop and these people are not pleased with me. How can they know all the nasty things I've ever done? How do they know so many folks I have done bad things to or acted weird around?

I know what to do. Close the freaking window. But I can still hear the voices discussing me. They are saying, "He's on to us. He's trying to shut us out." Where the hell is that coming from? I focus my attention on the sprinkler head in the living room, just above the door that leads to the hallway, as well as the smoke detector in the hallway. It occurs to me that this apartment was rehabbed prior to my moving in. And the intriguing thing is that the place was available so quickly after I told Loring House management that I wanted to live here. It was a matter of weeks, not the months long wait I had expected. Maybe they have some sort of setup special for me. I look online for spy cameras and find tiny devices in all shapes and sizes. There are fake sprinkler heads that can be purchased, so I test out the one in my apartment. It seems to be pretty secure, not a plant, but that doesn't mean it isn't a camera. And I locate the description of a "wafer thin" device online that can be planted in a smoke detector to surveil. Opening up the smoke detector in my place I find what looks like that exact same device! This does it: I have proof that they're fucking with me. In a rage I punch the drywall next to my stove dozens of times and shred the wall, angered that I have not broken my hand. I call up my Mom proudly with my discovery of the surveillance equipment. She rebuffs me gently, not really disagreeing but not telling we I have actual evidence either.

Next I call Portland PD. Surely they will be happy to find out about this. Two cops, one male, one female, show up in the lobby. The female is all business, the male gentler. I show her the smoke detector and point out the camera. She quickly informs me that what I think is a camera lens is actually just the reset button. She is talking fast and seems rushed, and I realize what is going on. They are in on this too, and I am really fucked now. The cops know about the cameras in my place. As they walk out the door, I hear the larger male say to his partner, "But what happens if he kills himself?"

Just what the fuck is going on? How big is this? Why is this happening to me? The next day I go to Radio Shack in the Maine Mall and show a tech the "wafer thin" device. He tells me he doesn't know what it is, but as I'm leaving I hear him tell another customer, "I'm not getting involved with the government!", so I know he was lying to me. As a final attempt at getting to the bottom of this I go to the Portland Police Station and ask to see their SWAT team. Could anyone there take a look at this device I found in the smoke detector in my apartment and tell me what the hell it is? The guy they send to talk to me is kind and seemingly generous with his time, but is another dead end. My god, I am fucked.

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I know I am being watched 24/7. Why? Because I am an asshole and because they can. Because I am on social security disability for no real reason, because I take money from my Mom without paying it back, because my siblings despise me, because I've been dumped by every woman I ever cared about, because I am lazy, and because I hit that kid. They have good reasons for treating me like this. I deserve it all.

2010 NBA Draft Prediction: For the Lull Before the Storm

By lull, we mean the couple of days after the end of the college regular season and the start of major conference championships and the Big Dance. So we thought it'd be fun and revealing to take a look at the prospects for this summer's NBA Draft and see how far off we might come in predicting their fates at the next level. Here goes...

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Tier Ones - Future Stars, Likely All Stars

Evan Turner, the clear cut top prospect - You say "John Wall?" We say "Bust." Turner is a potential monster point guard much like last year's Tyreke Evans. Came back better than ever from the back injury so you know he wants it. He's number one easily in our minds.

DeMarcus Cousins - His footwork was brutal in the early going, but Coach Calipari knows what the freak he is doing, doesn't he? The most improved player in the country is this freshman. He is not a prototype center, and his attitude seems questionable, but we'd take him second. A true 6 11 widebody with great long arms. He is a future All Star. It's just a question of how high is up. Dwight Howard is the best comparison, and that's pretty damn good.

Undraftable -

John Wall - Very likely the Ryan Leaf of the NBA. We wouldn't touch this future toxic dump. He has reportedly had attitude problems his entire life. We know, we know, he's only a kid, but oftentimes, leopards don't change their spots. The biggest red flags are twofold: (1) His play has regressed since the first month of the year as the hype has built, and (2) his mouthing off to the press about Cal. Either one would worry us. Put them both together and you have a coach killing historic talent who will, at best, be that next Steph Marbury. And what is THAT worth?

Tier Twos - Worth Lottery Money

This is the crappiest draft in memory. And we are having a hard time coming up with ANYONE we'd want to pay with lottery money. So no Tier Twos will be offered. Lottery selections will be made at each team's peril. We'd rather have two or three picks in the 20s than one in the mid lottery.

Tier Threes - Likely Starters, Possible Stars

Derrick Favors - Beastly athletes like this don't come around very often. Not much game at this point, but he plays hard. A chance to be good, a chance to suck.

Cole Aldrich - We've gone back and forth on the Kansan in his career. Sometimes we think he can be a solid starter, other times his lack of obvious athleticism makes us think "washout." We're betting on a good career, as he has played in a wonderful program, receiving top notch instruction and great competition. Has a big long body with decent ups and the stupidest free throw style in the country.

Wes Johnson - We absolutely agree with the Shawn Marion comparison. and that's a mighty fine thing. Should be really, really good, but he simply can't dribble. More of a 3's game than a 2, but he has a 2's body. A real tweener who would be great in New Orleans, say, with either Chris Paul, or, should Paul be dealt, Darren Collison. Both are true 1's who will allow Johnson to roam.

Tier Fours - Draftable in the 20s but not likely to pan out

What does a General Manager look for in the latter stages of the first round? Does he look for overall skill? One talent that might blow up, like shooting, which makes the player useful? A mixture of youth and athletic ability? We guess it's not an easy question to answer.

Also, we should note that we have not seen a lot of, and in some cases nothing at all, of highly thought of players like Hassan Whiteside, Ekpe Udoh, Solomon Alabi, Larry Sanders, Paul George, Terrico White, and Jarvis Varnado as well as the international players entering the draft.

Ed Davis - Should return to school not because of injury but because he doesn't play very hard. Do we have another Brandan Wright here? He is passionless on the court; not a good sign. Would probably be better financially to come out this year, but we wouldn't touch him.

Al-Farouq Aminu - A true talent. Could be really good. Has that awkward jump shot/free throw style where he exaggerates the follow through with his wrist. Does this mean he is overcoached? Undercoached? We have no idea, but it is fascinating to see him curl his wrist so far down. We'd take him in the teens if his interview went well.

Stanley Robinson - The next John Salley? We'd like to see a Salley clone on the Celtics. Robinson can't shoot but man is he athletic and long. A lot of great players have played for Coach Calhoun and there isn't a better prospect on this year's team than Robinson. A bench player but could be worth a pick around 20.

Other Notables:

Willie Warren - Has had a distasterous sophomore year, but then Glen Davis had a similar junior year at LSU and turned out just fine. Issues with Coach Capel? You need to start with talent and this kid's got lots.

Xavier Henry - We wouldn't take him as he lacks quickness and may have a huge problem getting off his shot at the next level. Maybe the NBA version of a AAAA player in baseball: not quite good enough for The Association.

Avery Bradley - Better stay in school. He is currently a 2 guard in an undersized 1's body. You need to hit the weight room, kid. Has a lot of ability and may be a top five pick in two years, but not this year.


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Clearly there's a ton of kids we haven't commented on, mostly because they don't excite us. Truly this will not be great draft, but there are always surprise stars that emerge. That's why it's so fascinating.

NBADraft.net and DraftExpress.com are the two "go to" sites for draft info for us.

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Edit @ 3:20 pm: After noticing Marshall's 6 10 Hassan Whiteside shooting up the draft boards, we watched some video and did some reading about him. Clearly, watching the YouTube vid shows that he has amazing talent, but there are red flags galore: age, as he is two years older than most frosh, he played at several high schools, and his demeanor on the court is a bit over the top and worrisome. Also, he ain't seven feet and needs plenty of muscle to play the same game in the pros as he is right now at the midmajor level. Bottom line: worth a gamble if he doesn't talk, act, or play his way out of the lottery, as that kind of talent is rare. But he could just as easily disappear due to attitude or the fact that a lot of big men dominate at his level and can't get it down in the next. Fun to watch, though.

2007 NBA Draft Retrospective: Evaluating Our Evaluation

Back in late December 2006, just two months into the new season, we took a stab at predicting the NBA impact of likely 2007 draft bound players. And man, did we make some doozy statements. Stuff that turned out to be laughably wrongheaded: Spencer Hawes and Brandan Wright better pros that Kevin Durant? Wow, that's a bit off. But early season evaluations are important to learn from: We found out we might not know as much about the greatest game on the planet as we had hoped. But at least we put ourselves out there, and had fun doing it.


Hits:

Greg Oden - Our number one prospect back on 12/29/06 - The kid is injury prone to an amazing degree. Cursed may be a better word. But The 'Pent will live with this prediction. We love his nature, his game, his attitude. It looks like he may never live up to his potential, but no one can tell the staff here at Apartment 404 that saying Oden should be the number one pick was wrong. No one could have predicted his injuries. And none of the other players in that draft have been contributors on a title team, either.

Darren Collison - Our number 2 or 3 prospect as a first year starting sophomore - We fell in love with this kid early in his UCLA sophomore year, and, though he struggled as a junior and senior a bit, he is simply tearing up the league in his rookie year as Chris Paul's replacement down in New Orleans. A complete jackpot hit. Couldn't the Celtics have taken a flyer on this one last year? Damn, we are proud of ourselves: "Stockton with jets."

Al Horford over Joakim Noah as lottery picks - It was no revelation to see that Big Al would be a better pro than the offensively challenged Noah, but we did get this one right. Noah can play a bit, but Horford is close to being a star on a really good Hawk team.


Misses:

Kevin Durant - We had him behind Oden, Hawes, and Collison on that original list - Big miss, though we still say he is more McAdoo (who played on some pretty good Buffalo Braves team early on in his muddled career that look a lot like today's Ok City Thunder) than Bird or Bernard King. The man can score, but there are lots of those. He is in the perfect situation in Oklahoma City, with Westbrook another star on the rise, some other good young talent surrounding him, and smart management. Is it good for Durant to play in such a media wasteland? Not sure, but he seems a good kid and worth rooting for.

Spencer Hawes - Along with Collison and Oden, one of our top 3 prospects - OK, so we overstated it a bit. We were young and in love, especially with the way he toyed with Glen Davis and LSU is his national coming out party early on his freshman year. Hawes is going to be a solid pro but lack of athleticism will hold him back from being a star.

Brandan Wright and Dominic James - Top 6 picks for us, washouts as pros Complete wiffs by us, though James injuries have had an effect. It just shows us that if kids don't play with passion when they are in school, the thought of NBA millions will not change their attitudes.

Want Music and Sick of Either Paying Through the Nose or Listening to Commercials??

Try Pandora.com!

It takes a while to get it to play cool stuff, until after you've graded a couple of dozen songs, but it is awesome and it is free!!

For Patriots Fans, A Bonanza:

On Hulu

Pretty cool and very free...

History. The Middle Part...

...We're in it.

The Earth is not at the end of its life. It's not at the beginning. It's probably right smack dab in the middle of its existence, and humanity is also at the midpoint, roughly, of our era as the dominant species on it.

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Our staff remember a neighbor of ours back in the early winter of 1999 who bought into the "end of times" talk by religious folk and others concerning the coming new millennium and the disasters that were sure to follow. She planned on moving up to the mountains when the rapture or whatever form of armageddon occurred on New Year's Day 2000. The poor woman. But she was and is not alone in her fear of the future.

These people are wrong not only in their stupidity but in their math. The Earth is very many hundreds of millions of years old and will be here for many, many hundreds of millions of years. Humans have been around for hundreds of thousands of years in some form or another, and human society is about ten thousand years old. Arbitrary numbering systems like our calender fool the dimwitted into thinking that there is something special about the year 100, 1000, 2000, etc. In a thousand years, in 2999, suckers will be told by whatever con artists are around that they need to send money to avoid the coming rapture of the year 3000. Our egos, our need to be so very important make folks want to believe that something terrible is going to happen tomorrow, next month, next year.

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There is no need to panic about the planet. It will be here for a mutherfucking long ass time.

Oh So Deep Thoughts

1) "The Hurt Locker" may very well win Best Picture tomorrow night but our staff left en masse 35 minutes in this summer at the Nickelodeon. We were in a stretch of going to, and walking out, of a lot of crappy movies and thought this was another overhyped monstrosity. The scene that did it for us, for those who've seen it, was the one in which the Iraqi citizen drives up to and through an American military roadblock, with the US soldiers yelling crazily for seemingly minutes at him to stop. The 'Pent? If we're in a war zone and somebody we don't know drives past our position with a crazed look on their face, we shoot them between the eyes, no questions asked. We felt this manipulative scene was ludicrous on its face and a bad omen for the rest of the film. Wish we'd stayed in order to make a more informed judgment on the leading Oscar contender, but the other scenes we sat through were not good either. FWIW there isn't a movie all year that grabbed Apartment 404 the way "Doubt" did back in 2008. Two thousand nine was an awful year for movies, with "The Hurt Locker" being Example A.


2) The 'Pent's older sister Maureen is expecting us to fill out her NCAA pool in two weeks and we still don't know who to pick. Kansas is good but boring, Kentucky young, Syracuse's best player , Wes Johnson, is banged up, Duke sucks and is too white, Kansas State is undisciplined (though tough as nails and a real dark horse), and Villanova is slumping. But here goes: the Final Four will be Ohio State, Kansas, Syracuse, and Kansas State, with Kansas winning. Back when our staff had a real 9 to 5 jobs we would always take off the first weekend's Thursday and Friday afternoons to watch CBS noon to midnight coverage. The opening weekend, with its 48 games, many of them carried live, is the very best sports weekend of the year for Apartment 404. Don't fucking call us that weekend, in case you were planning on it.


3) We here at The 'Pent hate motorcycles. We know a lot of guys that ride and have respect for their passion, but man, the NOISE! Today is the unofficial first day of spring, with temps in the mid 50s, and all of Portland was out and about. A beautiful day spoiled only by the mutherfucking noise machines tooling around town. Our staff loves summer in Maine but the assholes with their sound wagons and uniforms (Rebel? REBEL? Your Harley chaps, Harley t shirt, and Harley leather jacket are more a uniform than cops and soldiers ever wear. Take your "Rebel" bullshit and get some real clothes.) are too damn much.


4) Forty years from now, we expect folks to look back at contemporary society and say, "How could they eat like that?" The wonderful and important book, "The Omnivore's Dilemma" by Micheal Pollan, is one of the must reads of recent times and has opened our staff's eyes to the utter grossness of The 'Pent's old diet. Whole Foods may be too expensive for our limited budget, but we will try with all our might to avoid the fast food emporiums that are littering our bodies and our nation with their disgusting products and byproducts. Much as folks today can't seem to fathom how it was possible one hundred years ago that women could not vote and that fifty years ago blacks had few practical rights, future generations will wonder how it was possible that so many Americans in 2010 were eating like such pigs for their whole lives. And we certainly include ourselves in the "Eat like a slob" group. No longer.

Ellen DeGeneres, the 21st Century Muhammad Ali

ESPN's increasingly irrelevant Bill Simmons this week stupidly compared Tiger Woods return to the PGA Tour to Ali's return from exile in 1970 after five years away from the ring due to the boxer's principled decision to not serve in Vietnam. I won't go into the many ways these cases are different entirely, but it got me to thinking that it's truly Ellen DeGeneres who deserves the Ali comparison, not some golfer who banged a bunch of babes to prove how cool he was.

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Ellen nearly lost everything in the late 1990's because of her open homosexuality. And now, today, she is one of the biggest stars on the planet. Take that, haters.

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Ellen's self titled sitcom was cancelled in 1998 by ABC shortly after she came out ON THE SHOW to her therapist, played by Oprah. Was the show nixed due to low ratings, or because twelve years ago a lesbian was not allowed to have their own primetime show? I think it was the latter. The ratings for "Ellen" may have been mediocre at the time of cancellation, but the episode that involved the outing was apparently a ratings hit. The network, in my opinion, simply ran scared from the controversy caused by Ellen proclaiming loudly and openly her homosexuality.

Much as with Ali during his exile, when the greatest boxer on the planet was denied the right to earn a living and practice his craft by the powers that be in their many shapes, Ellen had to wait out the storm of hatred and mistrust and rebuild her life and career. In 2003 she was given the opportunity to host her own daytime talk show. Many, many celebs have tried their hand at this; it was Ellen who succeeded and, in fact, knocked it out of the park.

Today she continues the talk show and is one of the judges on the most popular television show going, "American Idol." She is a global icon, and a figure of hope to young gays and lesbians nationwide in that her life lets them know that they can be whoever it is that they truly are.

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Tiger Woods is just a fucking golfer. He doesn't have a brave bone in his body, he hits little round balls around a big yard with a club, all without seeming to do any good for the world with his massive wealth. He is what I call a "Bottom Line God" in that he and guys like him (Peyton, Kobe, Shaq, MJ) are out solely for financial gain. In the 1960s in the Civil Rights Era, black athletes such as Jim Brown, Bill Russell, Tommie Smith, John Carlos, and Ali took principled stands on important issues of the day. Those stands may have arisen partially out of naivete to the economic consequences of their actions, but no one can claim that these proud black men lacked courage.

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Me? I'd rather shoot a round with Ellen.

Live Blogging with the Staff of Apartment 404: Our Mailroom, Back by Popular Demand

It's been three and a half years since we emptied the old mail slot, if you know what we mean, so tonight seemed as good a time as any to field questions from our many avid readers. Send those queries to our live blog at Mailbag@Apartment404.blogspot.com and we'll get to as many as we can, given time constraints and our limited typping skills.

Here goes...

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First question comes from Stu in Bloody Dick Creek, Montana: "When was the last time any of you guys got laid, or are y'all still virgins?"

We are not virgins! We are not virgins! Well, honestly, a couple of the interns, but not the rest of us! In fact, the owner/proprietor of Apartment404.blogspot.com, Joe Sweeney, had sex four summers ago with a young woman from Lewiston. And yes, that still counts, Lewiston or no. Not everyone up there sleeps around, ya know. We were on our second or third date, completely shitfaced, and we brought her up to the ol' 'Pent. She took one look around the place, dropped her drawers, said "Let's do this, Joe!", spent the night, and we never heard from her again. Damn, we musta been so good she couldn't take anymore.


Second question, from Jackson of Berlin, NH: "Mr. 'Pent, do you think the Bruins and Celtics have a chance to do well in the playoffs this spring?"

About as much chance as we have of getting laid this spring. So "No", we don't think the B's and C's are likely to get out of the second round. Honestly, the B's can't score any goals, though we love Rask in net, and the C's are just completely broken down by age/injury (which go hand in hand). It would not surprise us in the least to see a first round flameout for the Celtics against, say, the Raptors, though there are really only three good teams in the Eastern Conference (Cavs, Magic, Hawks) of The Association.


Next, from Sherry down in Slaughter, Louisiana: "What is the worst movie you've seen lately, Mr. 'Pent?"

That is an interesting question because it is the rare bad movie that we actually sit through in its entirety. Say we're sitting in the theatre and realize we've paid to see a dog. For all but the very worst of the worst we're out the door of the Westbrook Cinemagic by the twenty minute mark. But to be a Bad Movie that is worth sitting through, that's something for hack directors to aspire to. Of the releases last year and this, we'd have to say "Invictus", "Valentine's Day", and "Observe and Report" were the three worst, not counting walkouts. "Invictus" was a snooze, "Valentine's Day" a complete mess, but the worst by quite a margin was "Observe and Report", a mean spirited take on mall cops that turned the usually terrific Seth Rogan into an unlikable bastard. We've heard that some folks actually admired the approach taken by director Jody Hill, but man, what a depressing movie. And we have no idea why we sat through the entire thing. This was not, as mentioned above, a Bad Movie. It was just a movie that sucked.


From Sean of Deadhorse, Alaska: "Whatever happened to Big Hat Guy and Bald Head Ed?"

Bald Head Ed is still bald. And Big Hat Guy is retired. Gawd, we miss the good old days of psychosis and many, many hidden cameras following us wherever we went. Sometimes sobriety and sanity is soooo boring.


Time for a couple more. Here's Monica from Turkey Flat, Arizona: "What kinds of music do you guys listen to?"

First of all there are only two types of music. Good and bad. Don't give us this "We don't listen to classical/country/rap/heavy metal" bullshit. There's good stuff in every type, just as there is shite. We listen to it all, man. All of it.


Here's a question from David of Climax, Pennsylvania: "Can you give your readers a glimpse inside what must be the fast paced life of a professional blogger?"

Well, we usually wake up between 3 and 4am after four or five hours of sleep. You'll find, David from Climax, that the older you get the less shuteye you need. We're thinking that at this pace, in twenty years, when we're in our early 60s, the staff here at The 'Pent will be able to get by with a five minute nap every three or four days. Really. When we were going through our "difficulties"/depression, substance abuse, and psychosis, we'd be asleep more than we'd be awake. Now that life is good and getting better, there is less time for sleep. (Hmmm, does that sound like we are tending to get kinda manic now and then? No Fucking Way!) Then it's off to work at 6:45am (Yes, we have a damn job. Best twenty hours of the week!). We drive a handicapped van. The van is twenty years old and has seen better days. It has two speeds: Water Buffalo and Cannonball!. Water Buffalo is on flat or uphill surfaces; the engine groans and creeks but gets the job done. Cannonball! is what happens whenever we get get going downhill: try stopping ten thousand pounds of metal with brakes better suited for a golf cart and you'll get the idea. I drive the van downhill like Bob Eucker caught knuckleballs: I wait till we stop rolling, then I steer left or right. But Cannonball! is exciting, Water Buffalo is work. Either way, it's fun. We get done with our Workday at about 1pm. Then it's off to World Gym for some lifting and cardio. Yeah, we know it should be cardio and lifting (We know we're fat, don't rub it in.) but the lifting part is so much damn fun and the cardio is.....not. That takes an hour or so. Next is lunch at Whole Foods, right next door. We finally figured out how to make a salad taste good: put in a cup of dressing for each cup of salad. You say this is not nutricious and self defeating? We say "buzzkill." Then it's off to the nightly AA meeting where we get to spend some time with folks just as crazy as we are. It's awesome even when it's not. Finally, home to feed Rudy, our cat, dinner and some reading and tv before going to bed at 11pm or so. That's show biz!


That's all we have time for tonight. See you in 2013 for the next mailbag/liveblog!

The Bottom Is First : Once Upon A Time In My Life - Part 7

I'm released from the hospital, once again, with no fanfare. This time I get a free cab ride back to Brighton Avenue and Apartment 404. The first thing I can think of to do is get drunk. I drive down to the Shaw's in Scarborough to buy my meal and booze for the night. They are playing Britney Spears "I Go Crazy" over the PA system, which pisses me off. She had been on a recent cover of Newsweek magazine, drunk and high, which prompted me to call them up and cancel my subscription. A few days later Spears had shaved her head and I, another famous person being harassed by lesser beings, felt her pain and self hatred, and everyone knew of my sympathy for this woman. The music coming over the loudspeakers of Shaw's was a taunt directed at me and her, a sign that there were still many enemies to be dealt with here in Maine and in so many other places. My anger boiling, I could barely look at the girl checking out my groceries. They were all in on it, all the employees of this store, and were all to be held in contempt. How dare they hold up my girl Brit and me to ridicule. Jealousy, pure and simple.

I meet my new pdoc soon after at McGeachey Hall. He wants to have a session with me and my mom. She arrives in Portland and we go to the appointment. The pdoc starts talking and I get more and more angry with him and his accusatory tone. He is treating me like just another patient, and he is not a good listener. I decide to test him, see if I can rattle him. I raise my voice: "You can't do this to me! You have no idea, man! Fuck this whole deal." Maybe I don't make much sense, but I'm trying to take control of the situation. My mother looks at me in horror, and she starts to rub both of her thumbs and forefingers together as she holds her hands off to either side of her chair. "That's a tell, Mom! That means I shouldn't trust you! Don't you know anything about body language?" My mom's nervous habits are a sign that something bad is going to happen. The pdoc leaves the room for a few minutes, as the electricity coarses through my head, body and limbs. This is truly awesome! This is exciting! Minutes pass, the pdoc returns, and I am asked to move to the lobby of the second floor, where two cops stand. There are staffers of McGeachey milling about, looking me up and down. Man, have they not ever seen a brutha getting fucked over? I'm wired and feeling good, feeling powerful. I know the drill, though; the cops take me to the Maine Medical Center ER, where I will be "evaluated" and sent back to fucking Spring Harbor again. It's a bit of a relief when the adrenaline high wears off. Maybe now I can get more than three hours sleep.

My ideas of the military being in charge of my care have mysteriously begun to fade a little bit. I've been in Spring Harbor so many times and have dealt with so many of the staff for years that I KNOW they aren't military. They're just working stiffs like I wish I was, and many of them I feel a real love and affection for. No, they don't scare me. I know they mean well.

So it's back to "The Harbor", as the staff call it. None of the patients use this overly familiar phrase. We just call it "the hospital" or use its full name. I have a new pdoc to replace the old, hated Doctor H, who clearly requested to not work with me again. The bitch. This new pdoc is a kind, tall and lean man who always wears crisp white shirts, the kind I used to wear years ago when I had an actual suit and tie job. This man thinks before he speaks, seems to listen to my ramblings, and I like him right away. He suggests shock therapy as a way to help me get out from under the anxiety and depression I have been feeling for so long. Anything. Anything you want, doc.

I have undergone several rounds of shock therapy in the last fifteen years, none of which ever helped. I'm not sure why my new pdoc wants to try it again, but we do it anyway. I am brought from Spring Harbor's location to the main campus of Maine Medical Center in downtown Portland for the first of a half dozen or so treatments. The staffer accompanying me over wears dark dress pants with a bright red t shirt, a jarringly goofy sight that lets me know he's just another dude doing his job, not a marine or soldier or anyone to worry about. My familiarity with the staff of the hospital has greatly reduced my fears.

We arrive at MMC early, about 7am. The nurses are so very friendly, so very professional. I am a lucky man to have such kind people caring for me. They hook me up to an IV, get me ready for surgery. I lay down on the hospital bed. They wheel me into the operating room, where half a dozen or so busy folks are preparing. The doctor tells me I am about to fall asleep. I'm asked to count backwards from ten. "Ten...nine....eight...sev." Awaking what could be days, weeks, or minutes later, I don't know where I am, but come out of the sleep slowly. I am safe. I am alive and OK. After downing some fluids I'm brought back to Spring Harbor, where no one seems to have missed me. Why do I feel like just another person, another patient? I miss being important. I miss being the star. But this feeling of anonymity; maybe I could get used to this, too.

The procedure is repeated several times and my pdoc decides I can return home. A cab brings me there, and I am feeling good and thankful to be back in ol' number 404. So I decide to go to Hannaford's to buy a night's worth of food and booze. I sit down in the front seat of my Corolla and wonder what to do next. How does this thing start? Why aren't we moving? I think of the key in my hand; I know it must be "turned" somehow to start the engine and after several awkward seconds of looking for somewhere to insert it find the key hole. The engine starts. I back out of my spot and pull out on to Holm street. Nothing looks familiar. I turn on to Brighton, into heavy traffic. How do I make the car slow down? Somehow I stop at the light. How do I make the car go faster? Somehow I accelerate and keep up with traffic. Am I supposed to be on the right side of the road or the left? Those cars approaching in the opposite direction look like they're going too fast and could run smack into me. I am scared but strangely disinterested in what is going on. I am quickly lost. I pull over to a small, friendly looking house and knock on the door. "Hello, I have forgotten how to drive. Can you help me?"

Somehow the woman who answered the door understands my need for compassion. She calls the police, they tell her someone will be by to pick me up in a few moments. The biggest, blackest fucking limo I've ever seen pulls up not three minutes later. "I was just in the neighborhood and heard you needed a ride, bud." Is this divine intervention? The interior is a letdown, as the paint is peeling and there is a smell of stale beer and BO wafting upwards. But this is a heck of a time for my first limo ride, and I am pleased. Moments later the limo drops me off at my apartment building and I magically have the fifty bucks to pay the man.

This is a good night to get drunk. I buy a case of Bud Light, knowing what is in store for me. Along with the bottle of prescribed Ativan I know I will be having a good time. After the third or fourth beer and pill I blackout. The scattered images that remain of that night: "I love to drink!" yelled at my cat. "Alls I need are beer and good porn and ESPN!", also screamed at Hank, my cat. A sideways view of the floor just outside my front door, as I had hit my head after a corkscrew fall on to the carpet. I lose my keys, that or someone takes them away from me, as I wake up the next morning without them. I am lying on my beat up old brown couch, the comfortable one I simply can't part with. What a fucking night. This shit ain't working. The pain in my head is searing and I don't know what to do next.

I moved into this apartment in the summer of 2004. The first night I was here, warm, with summer breezes blowing through the three open windows, I could hear the staffers of the old age home next door talking about me. These discussions continued for the next three years. How could they be so blatant, so open about discussing what a creep, what a psycho, what a god I was? I could never understand their arrogance, hatred and jealousy.

But today, in the summer of 2007, I cannot hear their voices anymore. There is silence in Apartment 404, for the very first time since I arrived. They have all decided to leave me alone, or maybe I was always alone. The sprinkler system that serves as a camera and microphone in all three rooms of my place (living room, bedroom and worst of all, bathroom), could it be that it's just a sprinkler head? That there is no one here, no one watching me? This idea is attractive and repulsive at the same time. If no one is watching me, do I matter? Like the proverbial tree falling in the forest. And I certainly want to matter. I feel a great sadness at the thought. No one cares. I can die today, tonight, and the army won't care. The government won't have any regrets. All the famous people I have been interacting with for years will be unawares.

So I retreat to my bed. I've got some thinking to do.

Cool Site for College Hoopheads

Here...

....as we approach Selection Sunday.