...oh... what? ... oh, was I really just dreaming? The Stanley Cup Finals don't start until Saturday?
Dang.
I am very, very, very excited that we are getting the grudge match I've been wishing for, if only because of the possibility of the carpetbagger Marian Hossa NOT getting the cup he carpetbagged his way over to Detroit for. Hossa is the Roger Clemens of hockey, and I hope Crosby and Malkin wipe the ice with him and that Brooks Orpik finishes him off. Since the Pens don't have Ruutu and Laraque anymore, Orpik's the closest thing the Pens have to an enforcer. But since he's getting up there in years (ready for the glue factory at 38), I'd hardly even call him a pest (a type best defined by Rangers closet-case Sean Avery); Orpik has become more, well, pesky. So if we have to have any sort of physical hockey during the finals, I hope it's Orpik on Hossa. (There was a rolling-around-on-the-ice fight during last night's Wings-Hawks game, and it was kind of refreshing to watch). Maybe it'll get old school and we'll see Chelios and Orpik go at it. Yeah!
You may find this hard to believe but hockey has gotten more, ahem, gentlemanly. Sigh. Where are the cementheads and goons of yesteryear? I like when the gloves come off and things get rough. It's part of the game. You remember that old joke, don't you? I went to a fight and a hockey game broke out. Badump-bump! Chhh!
And speaking of the old-school hockey, take a look at Chris Chelios reminiscing about his favorite old coach:
Pittsburgh v. Detroit, Game 1, Saturday night, May 30th.
I'll be the one at Lansdowne screaming, "Englewood Jack! Englewood Jack!"
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Sunday, May 24, 2009
American Muscle Car
Hate to break it to you, guys, but my brother has a cooler car than yours. He bought it new back when there was still leaded gas, and he was a championship autocross driver. Can you imagine one of today's overfed white guys buying a new American muscle car and actually putting it through its automotive paces? He keeps it in storage nowadays, preferring to tool around Pittsburgh in a ratty white truck while doing his sprint car racing on the weekends, but every now and again he unwraps it for the envious to admire.
Now THAT's a badass car.
Now THAT's a badass car.
Thank Your Pilots
You know those flights where it feels like you're landing a little bit sideways? Where the back end of the plane seems to be, well, skidding like your Volvo on black ice? And you don't feel one tidy thump upon landing, but three really distinct, jarring crunches as if the pilot is jamming the landing gear down one set at a time to make sure they're all down?
Well, that's because you ARE landing sideways. The plane IS skidding, and the pilots ARE jamming the gear onto the pavement.
It seems to be a pretty common thing at LGA (I just expect LGA landings to be white-knucklers -- funky approaches, short runways, etc.), but in case you're wondering what those landings actually look like, check out this video. After seeing this, some of you may never fly again. I just hope I never have to go to Hong Kong Kai Tak.
Well, that's because you ARE landing sideways. The plane IS skidding, and the pilots ARE jamming the gear onto the pavement.
It seems to be a pretty common thing at LGA (I just expect LGA landings to be white-knucklers -- funky approaches, short runways, etc.), but in case you're wondering what those landings actually look like, check out this video. After seeing this, some of you may never fly again. I just hope I never have to go to Hong Kong Kai Tak.
It's Hockey Night in Pittsburgh!
Best team theme music EVER.
Your Janey is dying for a Pens-Wings redemption fight in the Cup finals this year.
Pens won big tonight, 6-2 against the Hurricanes. Evgeni Malkin and Sidney Crosby were virtually unstoppable, and frankly, it reminded me of the Lemieux/Jagr days of old. (I also wonder what goes on in the head of Ron Francis, who helped the Penguins to their first Cup in 1991 behind Lemieux and is now the Carolina associate head coach.)
It was great, heart-pounding playoff hockey. The Pens are up 3 games to zero, and they could clinch their spot in the finals on Tuesday night in Carolina (wish it could be at home, but I'll take a sweep anyplace).
Hats off to the 'canes' net man, Cam Ward, who played an amazing game.
Plus, I love that the Pens have Satan playing on their side.
Supersweet but Simpleminded
This is how she normally looks.
She is quite possibly the sweetest, most affectionate kitty you will ever meet, a little shy around strangers, but after a while she sashays out to make friends. She's very playful and frequently tears ass from one end of my railroad apartment to the other, patching out on the fur tufts on her paws. All that being said, she isn't going to win any awards for being a particularly clever cat. The sticky-outy tongue thing (pictured above), which is her normal expression, doesn't help, either.
She's kind of like the Jessica Simpson of cats.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
It's Official, I am Hipper than NY Magazine
I beat them to the Cookie Monster by a month and a half.
Odalisque
Madison, aka Miss Kitty.
If you look real close you can see her little pink and black toesies and the black cartoon outline around the pink part of her nose. I love her allover bedheaded look, too. It's so Bardot.
Ridiculously sweet and affectionate kitty.
No, Krystal Ball is Not a Stripper OR a Drag Queen
Thanks to Wonkette.
I am not making this up. In fact, I have some questions for her:
-- Can anyone take a candidate named Krystal Ball seriously?
-- Did she go out looking to marry a guy with the last name "Ball"? Did she reject the guys with the last names "Goblet," "Chandelier" and "Meth"?
-- Why not hyphenate? It's working for Hillary.
-- Is she aware that unless she sends her precious daughter to exclusively all-girl schools straight through college, at some point obnoxious jocks will snickeringly give her the nickname, "Havina" or "Hadda"?
I'm just sayin'...
I am not making this up. In fact, I have some questions for her:
-- Can anyone take a candidate named Krystal Ball seriously?
-- Did she go out looking to marry a guy with the last name "Ball"? Did she reject the guys with the last names "Goblet," "Chandelier" and "Meth"?
-- Why not hyphenate? It's working for Hillary.
-- Is she aware that unless she sends her precious daughter to exclusively all-girl schools straight through college, at some point obnoxious jocks will snickeringly give her the nickname, "Havina" or "Hadda"?
I'm just sayin'...
Stout Snob, or Searching for the Perfect Pint
I went to dinner at Angelo & Maxie's last Tuesday night with a co-worker and a vendor -- totally spur of the moment. I ran into my coworker as we were both leaving the office and he invited me along. Figuring I'd go for a drink at A&M, hop back on the L train and be home in time for Rachel Maddow, I tagged along.
We met the Vendor at the bar, and I ordered a Guinness, my new favorite (fewer calories in a pint of Guinness than a pint of Stella, no hangover, plus it just tastes yummy). My co-worker ordered a Bass.
Fifteen seconds later the bartender placed both pints in front of us simultaneously.
Now, anyone who drinks Guinness knows that a perfect pint takes time -- a good bartender will create a pint of Guinness in two pours, pulling half and turning off the tap to let the stout settle while he quickly pours and serves other beers. The good bartender will then return to the settling Guinness and top it off. Properly poured, a pint of Guinness will reach you about 3 to 5 minutes after you’ve ordered it, and well after your fellow drinkers have already enjoyed their first sips. Properly finished, the perfect Guinness pint will have a gorgeous creamy head about 3/4” deep. It will look like this (shamrock in the foam optional; I don't need the frippery):
What landed in front of me moments after I ordered it was just pathetic – it was in the wrong glass (a straight-sided pint glass instead of tulip-shaped), and floating on top of it was a sad layer of white scum. It looked like he scooped it out of the Hudson River.
I eyed it askance and looked at my companions. My eyebrows were near my hairline. I’m a generally no-fuss person, but in some cases, I know what I like, and in others, I know what is right. Having spent a great many nights in Irish pubs on the West Side (Lansdowne Road, Hibernia, and once upon a time, the late, great Scruffy Duffy’s), I knew this pint was just wrong.
“What is this?” I asked them. The bartender had already sped off.
“Wow,” said the Vendor, “Shouldn’t that have taken like five minutes?”
“Uh – yeah,” I replied. Then I decided to give the blameless pint the benefit of the doubt and I took a sip. Just as I expected, dead stout.
I know, I know, who sends back beer? Hate to tell you this folks, but Jane does. I am not paying (or in this case, having a Vendor pay) seven or eight dollars for a pint of flat and tasteless crap (and neither should you, frankly). I flagged down the bartender, and in my sweetest voice, said, “I’m terribly sorry to bother you, but the Guinness appears to be flat.”
The bartender eyeballed my pint with a shrug.
“Yeah, I thought it looked a little dead when I was pouring it. I think it may be the end of the keg.” He took my pint, dumped it, and I ordered (not without resentment, I admit), a Blue Moon. Blue Moon's a good beer, but when your mouth wants a Guinness, your mouth wants a Guinness, and any other beer will leave you dissatisfied. The perfectly serviceable Blue Moon that I ended up with may as well have been Iron City in a can.
You know, there are bartenders and there are great bartenders. A great bartender would not pour a Guinness in 10 seconds. A great bartender can have people standing 4-deep at his bar and still complete a successful double-pour on a perfect Guinness pint. A great bartender can look at the beer coming out of the tap and know when something’s up. A great bartender, one who is paying attention to his craft, wouldn’t even have bothered serving me that pint. This bartender may be perfectly pleasant (though just barely able to conceal his impatience while I pondered my Plan B, despite the fact that there was no crowd at the bar), but he is definitely not great.
The Pittsburgh Penguins are playing the Carolina Hurricanes (aka the late, great Hartford Whalers, this has been a big week for me to mourn late, great things) in the conference finals this week, looking for their second simultaneous Stanley Cup shot (I'm hoping for a Pens-Wings redemption match), and I fancy a few well-pulled Guinness pints while I watch with my friend Ed. So on Thursday night, you’ll find me at Lansdowne Road, sipping at a Guinness that’s done right.
I’ll be the one in the Crosby 87 t-shirt.
We met the Vendor at the bar, and I ordered a Guinness, my new favorite (fewer calories in a pint of Guinness than a pint of Stella, no hangover, plus it just tastes yummy). My co-worker ordered a Bass.
Fifteen seconds later the bartender placed both pints in front of us simultaneously.
Now, anyone who drinks Guinness knows that a perfect pint takes time -- a good bartender will create a pint of Guinness in two pours, pulling half and turning off the tap to let the stout settle while he quickly pours and serves other beers. The good bartender will then return to the settling Guinness and top it off. Properly poured, a pint of Guinness will reach you about 3 to 5 minutes after you’ve ordered it, and well after your fellow drinkers have already enjoyed their first sips. Properly finished, the perfect Guinness pint will have a gorgeous creamy head about 3/4” deep. It will look like this (shamrock in the foam optional; I don't need the frippery):
What landed in front of me moments after I ordered it was just pathetic – it was in the wrong glass (a straight-sided pint glass instead of tulip-shaped), and floating on top of it was a sad layer of white scum. It looked like he scooped it out of the Hudson River.
I eyed it askance and looked at my companions. My eyebrows were near my hairline. I’m a generally no-fuss person, but in some cases, I know what I like, and in others, I know what is right. Having spent a great many nights in Irish pubs on the West Side (Lansdowne Road, Hibernia, and once upon a time, the late, great Scruffy Duffy’s), I knew this pint was just wrong.
“What is this?” I asked them. The bartender had already sped off.
“Wow,” said the Vendor, “Shouldn’t that have taken like five minutes?”
“Uh – yeah,” I replied. Then I decided to give the blameless pint the benefit of the doubt and I took a sip. Just as I expected, dead stout.
I know, I know, who sends back beer? Hate to tell you this folks, but Jane does. I am not paying (or in this case, having a Vendor pay) seven or eight dollars for a pint of flat and tasteless crap (and neither should you, frankly). I flagged down the bartender, and in my sweetest voice, said, “I’m terribly sorry to bother you, but the Guinness appears to be flat.”
The bartender eyeballed my pint with a shrug.
“Yeah, I thought it looked a little dead when I was pouring it. I think it may be the end of the keg.” He took my pint, dumped it, and I ordered (not without resentment, I admit), a Blue Moon. Blue Moon's a good beer, but when your mouth wants a Guinness, your mouth wants a Guinness, and any other beer will leave you dissatisfied. The perfectly serviceable Blue Moon that I ended up with may as well have been Iron City in a can.
You know, there are bartenders and there are great bartenders. A great bartender would not pour a Guinness in 10 seconds. A great bartender can have people standing 4-deep at his bar and still complete a successful double-pour on a perfect Guinness pint. A great bartender can look at the beer coming out of the tap and know when something’s up. A great bartender, one who is paying attention to his craft, wouldn’t even have bothered serving me that pint. This bartender may be perfectly pleasant (though just barely able to conceal his impatience while I pondered my Plan B, despite the fact that there was no crowd at the bar), but he is definitely not great.
The Pittsburgh Penguins are playing the Carolina Hurricanes (aka the late, great Hartford Whalers, this has been a big week for me to mourn late, great things) in the conference finals this week, looking for their second simultaneous Stanley Cup shot (I'm hoping for a Pens-Wings redemption match), and I fancy a few well-pulled Guinness pints while I watch with my friend Ed. So on Thursday night, you’ll find me at Lansdowne Road, sipping at a Guinness that’s done right.
I’ll be the one in the Crosby 87 t-shirt.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Demonstrates the Utter Stupidity of Twitter and Twits In General
Jane gives a shout-out to Dan at College Humor for taking his Twittering to the streets.
Go here to see the video.
Go here to see the video.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
5 Down, 45 to Go!
Maine legalized gay marriage today.
YAY!
Anyone who knows me is well aware that I think marriage is a crock, but who am I to say that any couple shouldn't be legally allowed to participate in said crock just because they have the same parts?
In related news, Samuel "Joe the Plumber" Wurzelbacher, Republican poster boy, said this when asked about gay marriage in an interview the other day:
"I've had some friends that are actually homosexual. And, I mean, they know where I stand, and they know that I wouldn't have them anywhere near my children."
YAY!
Anyone who knows me is well aware that I think marriage is a crock, but who am I to say that any couple shouldn't be legally allowed to participate in said crock just because they have the same parts?
In related news, Samuel "Joe the Plumber" Wurzelbacher, Republican poster boy, said this when asked about gay marriage in an interview the other day:
"I've had some friends that are actually homosexual. And, I mean, they know where I stand, and they know that I wouldn't have them anywhere near my children."
Epic
I'm feeling much better, but the amount of snot pouring out of my head is biblical. I've moved from annoyed to astonished.
Ain't I sexy?
Ain't I sexy?
Sunday, May 3, 2009
The Spectre of Specter
I just saw a shot of him on McLaughlin Group and the chyron said "Sen. Arlen Specter (D-PA)." That "D" was so jarring. Specter was one of those Republicans I actually liked a lot of the time, like Chuck Hagel, Lincoln Chaffee, or, before he lost his mind and his mojo, John McCain.
Specter may be a political carpetbagger, but he did put that right out there in his press conference -- he said he couldn't win in the PA primary against right-wing hosebag Pat Toomey. He also said something that I'm hearing more and more from Republicans, which is that they seem to have moved away from their "traditional" conservative values. Look, when you find Janey nodding along in agreement with Joe Scarborough and Pat Buchanan (sometimes), you know your party is in trouble. Further, when people are comparing Barack Obama to Ronald Reagan, you REALLY know your party is in trouble. I mean, seriously, people, the guys on your side of the aisle have already started the opposition movement to Obama's Supreme Court nomination -- and there hasn't even been a nomination yet. Umm, hello?
Plus, who wants to be in a party that gives a loud and crazy platform to other loony fringers like Michele "CO2 is Harmless" Bachmann (circling finger next to temple), disloyal douchebags Rudy Giuliani (looks like you'll have to pay for a hotel during your next divorce, Rudy!), boob job in a bikini Carrie Prejean ("Bigotry that I learned at home is a viable political platform!"), or ethics- and intellect-challenged short-bussers like Sarah Palin?
Specter may be a political carpetbagger, but he did put that right out there in his press conference -- he said he couldn't win in the PA primary against right-wing hosebag Pat Toomey. He also said something that I'm hearing more and more from Republicans, which is that they seem to have moved away from their "traditional" conservative values. Look, when you find Janey nodding along in agreement with Joe Scarborough and Pat Buchanan (sometimes), you know your party is in trouble. Further, when people are comparing Barack Obama to Ronald Reagan, you REALLY know your party is in trouble. I mean, seriously, people, the guys on your side of the aisle have already started the opposition movement to Obama's Supreme Court nomination -- and there hasn't even been a nomination yet. Umm, hello?
Plus, who wants to be in a party that gives a loud and crazy platform to other loony fringers like Michele "CO2 is Harmless" Bachmann (circling finger next to temple), disloyal douchebags Rudy Giuliani (looks like you'll have to pay for a hotel during your next divorce, Rudy!), boob job in a bikini Carrie Prejean ("Bigotry that I learned at home is a viable political platform!"), or ethics- and intellect-challenged short-bussers like Sarah Palin?
Oink Oink
Okay, okay, I don't have the flu. I think the last time I had the flu Kurt Cobain was still alive.
I have the remnants of a cold that has knocked me a bit askew for the past few days -- you know the kind, you wake up in the morning with what you think is enough energy to get through the day, and by about 4 o'clock, you have faded completely into some kind of stoner daze and can only stare blankly at anyone who comes to you with a question. I never think of myself as particularly high-energy until I have a cold and people actually comment on my appearance. I wear sniffles like Aaron Neville's wen, I guess -- all the foundation, mascara and blusher in the world won't hide it.
I'm not a chemical medicator. It rarely occurs to me to dose myself with any of the OTC-aisle thingy-doos, except for the occasional Tylenol PM when my knee really, really hurts (which is less frequent these days since I've lost a few pounds). I guess I just...forget. It literally doesn't occur to me to scour the aisles of Duane Reade for some palliative at the first sign of the sniffles. I just buy a box of Kleenex and get on with my life. I've had the same box of Dayquil on my shelf for three years, mostly unused. Guess I should throw them out, huh?
I tend to tough things out, because I know they will pass in their time. Maybe because I'm not one of those delicate flowers prone to catching every random germ that is flying around, or maybe because I can still hear my mother's voice, "If you're too sick to go to school, you're too sick to go to that skating party!"
I dunno -- I attribute my vulgar good health to growing up in a generation whose mothers drank and smoked their way through our pregnancies (okay, not my mom, who never touched a drop of alcohol or a cigarette in her life) and let us eat potato salad at family picnics that had been sitting out for five hours. We played in the dirt in our bare feet, fell off our bikes and continued playing for hours with open, bloody scrapes, ate french fries that fell on the floor of the car, and shared soda from the same straw. Our immune systems had no choice but to grow hearty.
My advice to mothers of today -- throw away your Purell and Clorox wipes. Let your kid eat a few germs, quit giving them antibiotics for every ear ache, and maybe they'll be healthier in the long run.
I have the remnants of a cold that has knocked me a bit askew for the past few days -- you know the kind, you wake up in the morning with what you think is enough energy to get through the day, and by about 4 o'clock, you have faded completely into some kind of stoner daze and can only stare blankly at anyone who comes to you with a question. I never think of myself as particularly high-energy until I have a cold and people actually comment on my appearance. I wear sniffles like Aaron Neville's wen, I guess -- all the foundation, mascara and blusher in the world won't hide it.
I'm not a chemical medicator. It rarely occurs to me to dose myself with any of the OTC-aisle thingy-doos, except for the occasional Tylenol PM when my knee really, really hurts (which is less frequent these days since I've lost a few pounds). I guess I just...forget. It literally doesn't occur to me to scour the aisles of Duane Reade for some palliative at the first sign of the sniffles. I just buy a box of Kleenex and get on with my life. I've had the same box of Dayquil on my shelf for three years, mostly unused. Guess I should throw them out, huh?
I tend to tough things out, because I know they will pass in their time. Maybe because I'm not one of those delicate flowers prone to catching every random germ that is flying around, or maybe because I can still hear my mother's voice, "If you're too sick to go to school, you're too sick to go to that skating party!"
I dunno -- I attribute my vulgar good health to growing up in a generation whose mothers drank and smoked their way through our pregnancies (okay, not my mom, who never touched a drop of alcohol or a cigarette in her life) and let us eat potato salad at family picnics that had been sitting out for five hours. We played in the dirt in our bare feet, fell off our bikes and continued playing for hours with open, bloody scrapes, ate french fries that fell on the floor of the car, and shared soda from the same straw. Our immune systems had no choice but to grow hearty.
My advice to mothers of today -- throw away your Purell and Clorox wipes. Let your kid eat a few germs, quit giving them antibiotics for every ear ache, and maybe they'll be healthier in the long run.