Perpetually Impressed

They Make a Great Team

noreply@blogger.com (Craig) — Wed, 24 Oct 2007 18:52:00 +0000

Overheard one October eve in DC:

MS: Do you ever get the sense that we are a damn fine team?

GA: Sure.

MS: We’re like Simon and Garfunkel.

GA: I would have gone with Peaches and Herb, but whatever you say, Peaches.

MS: No man, seriously. We’re Simon and Garfunkel.

(Brief pause)

GA: Wait, does that make me Garfunkel in your little metaphor then?

MS: It’s an analogy.

GA: Oh, right. Still, you think I’m the Garfunkel, don’t you?

MS: Well, you are taller. . .

GA: Come on, he was a goon! I don’t want to be Garfunkel! With his yellow sponge cake head! Simon was the creative one. He was the one who played the sweet axe. What the hell did Garfunkel ever do, besides sing high pitches, and look like a tool?

MS: Yeah, but Garfunkel definitely pulled more chicks I bet. Think about it. He was the tall one, plus girls probably dug that awful hairstyle back in the day. He was definitely the ladies man, while Simon was more of the short dorky one. Bridge Over Troubled Water? Come on dude!

GA: I guess. . .

MS: You know I’m right. Garfunkel was the pimp! You are Garfunkel!

GA: You know what, I am Garfunkel! Damn right! Thanks, buddy. I needed that. Let’s hug it out.

MS: OK. . .

(Hugging it out)

MS: Hey, are you in the mood for yellow sponge cake now?

(Short pause)

GA: Yes. . . Jerk. . .

SCENE

Resisting a Cell Phone Culture

noreply@blogger.com (Lala) — Thu, 16 Aug 2007 13:18:00 +0000

Maybe it's because I live on the side of a hill that sits on the fringe of cell phone tower range. But I can't seem to get over the frustration when people call my cell phone while I am at home. Call my home phone!

Some people don't have landlines anymore. Fine, that's their choice, but most of the world still has landlines. Those technology-forward folks have strong cell signals and assume everyone else does, too. They assume that because they only use their cell phones, I should be the same. I should no longer use my primary number because they don't. And for some reason, these people are incapable of grasping the concept that they should try me on my landline first.

They HAVE my numbers, all of them, but insist on calling my cell phone as their first and only point of contact for me. My phone will ring in the evening while I am at home, and because I know the call will sound broken up, I won't answer. I don't even retrieve the message they left until I am on the road somewhere the next day. To me, cellular service is still MOBILE service, often used as a quick convenience, not some everyday "catch up on everything" call. But I'm suddenly realizing that I am the minority here. (It's my 71-year-old mother in law who makes me feel like I'm behind the times when she calls on her cell phone to mine.)

So here's where I made a mistake - recently I started turning my cell phone off (gasp!) whenever I am at home. I figured people would take a big hint that if it goes staight to voicemail, call my landline. Duh, right? Well.. no. My doctor's office called last Thursday with an emergency related to my baby and I didn't get the message until Sunday night! I freaked out when I heard the words, "Come into our office immediately for another ultrasound..." Luckily, nothing was wrong and it's just a false alarm. But hello, call my house!

Here's another thing that pisses me off about cell phone culture: People who assume that just because they pay for text messages in their cell phone plan, I do, too. Um, no. I text message as fast as a snail and only do it three times a month. I don't pay for the service because it's silly. But the following is a real text message conversation I recently had. Please tell me why this couldn't be done over the phone or even in email. Why do I have to pay for these text messages???

You testifying on Monday and Tuesday?
No, I'm 9.5 months pregnant, I can't go.
I need you.
But I told you weeks ago.
My son is the most important thing to me, I need you to help me get
custody.
Yeah but please understand
I do, but you need to understand me, too. It helps my case for a pregnant
woman to testify against my ex wife.
I want to help but I have Dr appts and am exremely uncomfortable
I'll bring pillows
I need to put my feet up
You can do that
Please don't make me feel bad...

etc etc etc...

So annoying. Other examples are people texting me at midnight on a Friday asking about work stuff, or texts that I get days after they've been sent because, again, I do not keep my phone on during the weekends!!!

Another thing, and I'll make this short, is people who call me from their cell phones because they get free long distance, but they don't get it that they have bad signals and I can't hear them and they end up yelling during the entire conversation. UGH

OK i'm done... I hate cell phone culture.

A Cruel Twist

noreply@blogger.com (Craig) — Thu, 24 May 2007 21:00:00 +0000

Why do we always want what we can’t have? If you think a girl is out of your league, you want her. If you ask her out and she inevitably turns your mediocre self down, you want her more. What a cruel twist of fate! There is only a short list of things that this theory does not apply to. That list is as follows:

Ovarian Cancer: As a male, I can’t have it, but that doesn’t make me want it more.
Siamese Twin: It’s simply too late to be born again with a sibling sticking out of my back. And that doesn’t make me crave that awkward deformity in any way.

End of list.
A Cruel twist indeed.

Jeering Johnson

noreply@blogger.com (Micheal) — Sun, 15 Apr 2007 12:25:00 +0000

Yesterday started typically. Had a voice mail from a friend of mine letting me know that in India, more people travel by train in a single day than by air all year long. I had to look up some more figures from the CIA World Factbook: It turns out that India has 63,230 km of railway. In comparison, the USA has 226,605 km. As far as airtravel goes, India has only 341 airports. 341! That's for 1 billion people. The USA? 14,858 airports for less than third of India's population. If everyone in India and the United States decided to fly at the same time you would have to cram 3,212,176 and 20,086 people in each country's airports respectively. I hope India either decides rail is just fine, or builds more airports.

While contemplating the conundrum above, my other friend announces she's pregnant. Her and her husband have been trying a while and we are all really happy for them. She thinks it's a girl. Statistically, according to ABC News last week, she's probably right.

I was looking for a proper segue to get the real subject of this rant, DC United, I couldn't think of anything clever. So, I thought I'd just come out with it: DC United's home opener was yesterday. We lost.

We didn't just lose. We played horribly. I cried in anger because United never mounted a significant or convincing offense. I watched in awe as our defense gave up four easy goals. I realized for a eternal moment, the man, my national team hero, Eddie Johnson was with the enemy.

Eddie played well for the Wizards. Really well. He had two assists and one goal in their 4-2 route of the home side. He seemed to be everywhere all at once and our defenders were either missing him all together or concentrating so hard on him, someone else got an easy chance at our goal. I was in almost the exact same seat when Eddie scored a hat trick for the US Men's National Team in their 6-0 clobbering of Panama in October of 2004. I had never been so floored by a USMNT player as I had that night. Chants of EDDIEEEEE, EDDIEEEEE, EDIEEEEE rang through RFK. The bleachers at RFK quite literally move up and down and they were moving that night. My friends and I cheered for Eddie as loud as we could until we were all hoarse. With sore throats, we went home wrapped in a blanket of victory.

Yet, Saturday night, as I watched Eddie Johnson move into what is now our house, not his house, and dismantle my team, I did something I never thought I would do. I cheered against Eddie Johnson at a live match in which I was in attendance. But I still couldn't do it out loud.

Links:
CIA World Fact Book
ABC News
My Pictures of USA Panama (Oct. 13 2004)
Eddie Johnson

Rachael Ray Diary

noreply@blogger.com (Craig) — Tue, 16 Jan 2007 13:51:00 +0000

Rachael Ray - running diary of MLK day 30 Minute Meals. Today, she is making: penne pasta. EVOO counter: IIII

I judge celebrities the same as everybody else, I imagine. That is, to what degree would I have sex with them. I suppose I need to retain my credability by being honest here, so I'll admit I would do it in Rachael’s case. But it would be bad, I mean strictly missionary, preferably in the dark so I could picture somebody else. And she would have to have two solid layers of duct tape over her gigantic mouth, or be passed out. I probably wouldn't even be able to finish. I'd have to rub one out in the shower, get dressed quickly and drive home, weeping. So bottom line, it's not a ringing endorsement. Anyway, enough of the side bar. I now present to you my running diary of 30 Minute Meals, MLK day.

Show just started, and already annoyed. How many hand gestures can one use in a 30 second intro? answer: 17.

She says "cauliflower" with a huge overemphasis on the 'colly' part of the word. I hate her.

She's making a cauliflower sauce to accompany. . something, and says the sauce is an Italian classic. really? a classic? who eats cauliflower? I'm calling bullshit here.

The sauce is deemed "de-lish". Just awful... Finish your words, douche!

Good day to be Rachael, she's in the mood to thinly slice! fantastic. I'm in the mood to kick her.

She really hates 'too big onions'. I am wondering her thoughts on too small boobs.

"Anywho..." Christ, she's fake.

This meal is "super healthful". boy, oh boy, she has a way with words.

Apparently, she prefers a high volume of food in her meals. So, you like to eat big meals then? No shit, chubby. Look at yourself! Visible gut, no chest... reminds me of,...well, me. let's move on...

6 minutes in, first commercial break. She's averaging 900 words per minute.

Her mouth is gigantic. I am holding my remote control up to the tv sideways. It would fit... Rare positive thought: I bet she gives pretty decent head. I mean she sort of has to, right? That’s right girl, thin coating of EVOO on the digler, and go to town! Yeah, it’s ok if you want to go back for seconds. I know your hungry. And, scene.

She's quoting Mark Twain, "Cauliflower is like cabbage with a college education." That is going to be the dumbest thing you read for the remainder of the year. I'm not actually going to do the research here, but something tells me this is a gross misquote.

"De-lish" again! Again, Rachael? Really?

Close up of her hands. Nice nails. She must play softball. And a sharp white belt also. I'm just saying, if you wake up in the morning, and you know you are going to be on TV, why would select the white belt that is scuffed and dirty? I'm just saying...

"De-lish" again! Unbelievable.

So, portabellas are a beefy mushroom? Pretty good description... dummy.

She's off on a little tangent now, she simply doesn't understand how somebody could say they don't like mushrooms, because there isn't a lot of flavor there. Well, stupid, I don't like mushrooms! Why? Because they don't have any fucking flavor!!! They're bland! As a matter of fact, this napkin in my hand doesn't have much flavor either. Guess what, I don't like eating napkins!

16 minutes in, commercial break #2. This half hour can't pass fast enough. I still don't know what her main dish is. I guess I've been too busy pointing out her many flaws. What is accompanying that classic cauliflower sauce? I'm going to stop writing until I find out, plus my hand hurts a little...

Oh yeah, penne pasta, and now a side of kale. Yeah, this meal sounds de-lish!, if you enjoy the taste of anus.

Quote of the show so far: "I'm giving myself a pasta facial here." Let that quote sink in. I'm actively giggling as I write this down.

She's dumping pasta into boiling water, "just plop the kids into the hot tub..." That kind of sounds like a metaphor for taking a shit.

9 minutes to go!!!

Pasta facial! She said it again!!! She's filthy. She looks like she has bad breath, I can't explain this.
Last commercial break! almost there! Why am I punishing myself?

Back on, and Rachael is telling us that she is not a picky eater. So, I have a thought about this. Can I really take her opinion about food seriously if she's not a picky eater? I mean, if she is telling me that a meal is superb, why should believe that if I know she likes everything? Is any meal not superb? If some meals are not superb, then perhaps she is somewhat of a picky eater after all. But she just told the world that she not a picky eater. How can I ever believe her? If you don't have trust, then you don't have anything, and now I don't trust her. Give me a second, I need to regroup.

Alright, I'm back. She's making the finishing touches to the cauliflower sauce. It resembles vomit.

"De-lish" again!

And again! Twice in less than 20 seconds! She sounds like a complete moron at this point.

For the record, penne pasta with cauliflower sauce looks absolutely terrible. I mean, really really bad. Congrats on throwing together a shitty meal in only 30 minutes!

She's planning on treating herself to two helpings. I will now allow you to recover from the shock of hearing that. When you prepare a meal that you consider light and healthy, you want to eat more of it, according to Rachael's logic. Sort of defeats the purpose, don't you think? Perhaps I'm being a bit negative.

Alright, shows over! I feel terrible right now. I feel bad about what I'm doing, and what I just put myself through. I'm gonna play some nerf hoops for a little bit, clear my head.

10 minutes pass. I went 8 for 10 from the field with a wicked up-and-under dunk. I'm nasty.

Wrap up thought: So, I don't cook as often as the average person. I don't cook as often as the average paraplegic. But if I did, there is no way every dish I made would require olive oil. It's unbelievable to think of the amount of oil this girl puts through her body. Her digestive system must literally be a well-oiled machine. I bet if she swallowed an M&M whole, that very same shelled candy would completely pass through within a few minutes, and the ‘M’ would still be clearly visible.

Alright, I’m done. If you are a Rachael Ray fan, I’m sorry. Lata.

Hello, Goodbye.

noreply@blogger.com (Lala) — Fri, 15 Dec 2006 14:46:00 +0000

And it's so far to fall
From the warm light in your eyes
To nothin' at all
-- Cheryl Wheeler, "So Far to Fall"

A few days ago I received a very special letter. It was a response to last week's letter I sent to my biological mother who gave me up for adoption 32 years ago. It was the most beautiful thing I've ever read in my life. She's kind and intelligent and witty and thoughtful. She answered some of the questions I had asked her, and some questions I didn't even know I had. Many questions, however, were left untouched. And faster than I could put pen to paper and write her again, she let me know that this would be the last time we'd correspond. In the kindest of ways, she asked me to not contact her again. It stung, but I cannot take it personally because I know how hard things must have been for her, and probably still are.

I know she is OK and that in many ways, I am like her. One thing in common is that we both love music. She gave me the name of a folk singer she loves, and suggested I check her out. I'm listening to Cheryl Wheeler's songs right now, wondering so many things...

Everywhere I turn everyone is lost in this thing
'Cause something feels gone
Life is nothing like we dreamed it might be
And we don't move forward, can't move back
We hold our hands out hoping for that
--
Seems impossible to know
What is real and what is just some restless thing
And our hearts learn slow all the miseries bad choices bring
So is it wise or lazy holding tight to what you've known
And is it brave or crazy searching for some

-- Cheryl Wheeler, "One Love"

bigger is better

noreply@blogger.com (Craig) — Fri, 20 Oct 2006 22:41:00 +0000

In the cruel world of the metaphor, the slow fat kid is akin to a rotten egg. So next time you say ‘last one there is a rotten egg’, please be aware that you’re really saying ‘last one there is you, slow fat kid.’

Farewell

noreply@blogger.com (Lala) — Tue, 17 Oct 2006 12:19:00 +0000

I never got to go here. Always wanted to. Because that's where the cool kids would go. (or so it seemed)

sometimes, you gotta...

noreply@blogger.com (Lala) — Thu, 12 Oct 2006 17:59:00 +0000

sometimes when you're having a bad day, or two, someone surprises you. like, for example, my husband. who is adorable and sweet and the greatest listener whenever I'm stressed out.

This week was a bad one for some odd reasons that would take me too long to explain here. I'm still digesting it. But something made me tear up today and I didn't know what to do. SO, hubby said something darling. To anyone else it wouldn't be so special, but to me it was perfect. The perfect thing to say at the perfect time.

So it's one of the days I feel like shouting, "I LOVE YOU" a thousand times from the top of a mountain.

So instead, I do this:
I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you !

Cuz some time you gotta just do it. (They say Love is complex, but maybe not always.)

Binge Drinker's Night Out

noreply@blogger.com (c white) — Tue, 10 Oct 2006 14:09:00 +0000

This got your attention, no doubt. Hasn't happened yet, but it's not far off. Friday night, October 27th of this very year, all binge drinkers will have an opportunity to practice their craft under the umbrella of birthday celebration. Two dear pals, Micheal Sabag and George Andrews, whom many of you have met, will be celebrating their respective births at the 4Ps in Cleveland Park. Speaking from personal experience, these event have been extemely entertaining in the past.

My highlights include:

- Silent Mike, Holy Mike. (We all know what happens when ol' Sabag has one more than he can handle...)
- "Cheers! stank bitches!" ( Be ready to raise you glass, more than once...)
- "You can lay down next to me while I sleep, but that's it..." (almost forgotten...)

So let's do this people! See you there!

Most Perpetually Impressive Video Ever

noreply@blogger.com (Micheal) — Tue, 10 Oct 2006 13:04:00 +0000

This also happen to be the same song on a perpetually impressive GEICO commercial.

5 kilometers = 3.10685596 miles!

noreply@blogger.com (Micheal) — Sat, 07 Oct 2006 12:30:00 +0000

Some friends of mine and I ran Becca's Run this week end. It was a lot of fun and it was for great cause. I even beat my best time in a 5k by several minutes. Running one with some friends is highly recommended.

Becca's Run
Place	Div/Tot	Num	Name	Time	Pace
126	26/52	402	MS	25:55	8:21
127	11/60	451	AZ	25:58	8:22
325	46/52	452	SZ	32:42	10:32
326	40/60	303	CD	32:43	10:32
339	43/60	868	KN	33:29	10:47

Best Regards,
Micheal

Cylons vs. The Pink Robots

noreply@blogger.com (Micheal) — Fri, 06 Oct 2006 22:20:00 +0000

It occurred to me one day while listening to the 2002 album Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots by the Flaming Lips that there are some striking similarities between Yoshimi and President Laura Roslin from the new television rendering of Battlestar Galatica. These similarities may be coincidental, sure, but they also seem to extend to the properties of the robots themselves. These comparisons intertwine both the world of the album and the world of the TV show into a classic fight of good versus manufactured evil.
By breaking down the song "Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots" some of those similarities become evident. Let's start with the first stanza:

Her name is Yoshimi she's a black belt in karate working for the city she has to discipline her body

The most obvious point is that they both battle evil machines: robots in Yoshimi's case and cylons in Roslin's case. Roslin was not the most obvious choice to battle anything. She was the education minister and therefore it was improbable that the 41 government ministers and the president in front of her all dies in the cylon attach on the colonies. Roslin rises quickly to the occasion, assumes command and decides the humans will battle.

'Cause she knows that it's demanding to defeat those evil machines I know she can beat them

Commander Adama, the highest ranking officer left after the attack on the only remaining Battlestar, Galactica, had little faith in now President Roslin's ability to lead humanity through its darkest hour. But as he witnessed her fortitude, her resolve, he quickly came to know that she would indeed be the key to beating the machines.

Oh Yoshimi, they don't believe me but you won't let those robots eat me Yoshimi, they don't believe me but you won't let those robots defeat me

The sacred scroll tell the remaining colonists that, "And the lords anointed a leader to guide the Caravan of the Heavens to their new homeland." Wow! Roslin is listed in the sacred text of the human religion! In that fact, the humans take comfort. They know that Roslin will prevail. They have faith she can win. The sacred text shows it and now the people know it.

Those evil-natured robots they're programmed to destroy us she's gotta be strong to fight them so she's taking lots of vitamins

The FDA require manufacturers of vitamins to label them with this, "This statement has not been evaluated by the FDA. This product is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any disease." President Roslin has breast cancer. It's is later discovered her mother did as well. She chose not to take anything we would consider a drug, but took "chamalla" to battle her cancer. Chamalla is a supplement that Roslin's doctor laughed at the notion of taking it, think it would do no good for her cancer, which of course, it didn't. It caused some crazy snake hallucinations. The sacred scrolls seem to mention this as well, "[T]he new leader suffered a wasting disease and would not live to enter the new land, " and, "[U]pon the leader they gave a vision of serpents numbering two and ten, as a sign of things to come."
The rest of the song continues:

'Cause she knows that
it'd be tragic
if those evil robots win
I know she can beat them

Oh Yoshimi, they don't believe me
but you won't let those robots defeat me
Yoshimi, they don't believe me
but you won't let those robots eat me

Yoshimi

Both Roslin and Yoshimi were destined for the role to defeat the evil robots. Hand chosen but by what hand?

...

About those evil robots. . .

"From One More Robot/Sympathy 3000-21", Yoshimi:

One more robot learns to be something more than
A machine - when it tries the way it does - make it seem
Like it can love -
Cause it's hard to say what's real - when you know the
Way you feel - is it wrong to think it's love
When it tries the way it does...

Looking at the robots themselves, the cylons fought the humans forty years before the devastating attack on the colonies. The was a truce for forty years and the cylons learned over that time to accept a single god (the humans have multiple) and to love. How can a robot go so far past its original programming? How can it become more than what it is? Why didn't the humans find a way to limit the programming? Isaac Asimov supposed in 1942 that all robots should be programmed with three basic laws:

A robot may not harm a human being, or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.
A robot must obey the orders given to it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.
A robot must protect its own existence, as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.

Would these laws have prevented the cylons from attacking their human creators? Would they have prevented them from learning to love, to hate, to worship?

You be the judge. . .

Best Regards,
Micheal

Links:
Battlestar Galactica - Official Site
Battlestar Wiki
The Flaming Lips

real feelings for a ficticious world

noreply@blogger.com (Lala) — Mon, 02 Oct 2006 14:28:00 +0000

remember near the end of Basic Instinct, when Catherine Tramell finished writing her book and was crying? at the time I was 18 years old and not yet a fiction writer on the side. i didn't know until now that when you write a novel or a story, you fall in love with some of the characters. you developed them, helped them grow, punished them when they screwed up, and patted them on the heads when they made things right. i, like the ficticious Sharon Stone character and like so many writers out there, just finished my first short story and feel empty, not knowing what to do with myself, with all this emotion that was invested over the last 5 years of writing this one stupid story. and now that it's over, i'm heartbroken. i want the characters back, but unfortunately i killed them off. there will be no sequel. i finished the story this morning and i cried a little bit. but to be honest, five years was too much for such a little story. a blip on the map that occupied significant brain real estate for me, and it needed to end. which is why i killed them all.

amazingly, as soon as i had a mental wake for the family in the story, a new story started to bud...

so now i know why people keep writing.

Girls are Stinky

noreply@blogger.com (Lala) — Thu, 21 Sep 2006 20:55:00 +0000

There's this girl (I should say woman since she's in her 40's) in my department at work who always notifies her friends when she poops and stinks up the bathroom. She sends emails to her friends saying, "Don't go in there. Sorry, it was me this time."

Sometimes it wasn't her. On those occasions she writes, "Smells like an elephant. If you must use the ladies' room in the next hour, go to one on another floor. PS It wasn't me."

Only at this company. I swear, anywhere else she'd be looked at like an alien. Here, though, she cracks us up.

Sharing the Road

noreply@blogger.com (c white) — Wed, 20 Sep 2006 16:04:00 +0000

I don’t wish to share the road with bicycles anymore. If you want to ride your bike, go to a park, or find a trail somewhere. Just as long as you stay the hell off the road! Some of you donkeys have the nerve to swear and flip the bird at motorists too. Good idea, piss me off in my large, protective vehicle, a metal cage if you will. Next time, this happens to me, I will not hesitate to run your sorry spandex wearing ass into guardrail without even batting an eye. Well, I probably would hesitate, and end up not doing it at all, because I myself am full of shit half the time, but you are still a pile of rotten nothing. Somebody g has to teach your kind a lesson. That lesson is simply this: you are very very stupid, and everyone you know probably hates you.

Pinball

noreply@blogger.com (Micheal) — Tue, 12 Sep 2006 04:00:00 +0000

On a cold, drizzly day in October of 1993, the stranger walked calmly in to Dooley's on Farnham with his friend KS. Skeptical of what he would find and whom he would meet, he started at tackling the $0.25 draws of cheap domestic the bar had to offer.

After meeting a few of the guys: PD, TP, TR, EO and KG to name a few, the stranger was soon invited to play a game he had never heard of before. An alien game in the mind of the stranger. A game called pinball. The stranger was me.

Specifically, the pinball machine was Terminator 2. The game was designed by Steve Ritchie and brought into the world by Williams in 1991. A very popular game in the early nineties, it used a gun and trigger to deploy the balls onto the playfield instead of a more traditional plunger. Not only had I never seen anything quite like it before, I hadn't even touched a pinball game since I was 12. Back then, some friends of mine and I discovered that if you stood in between two certain pinball machines at the arcade, you could get quite a shock. So, instead of learning anything about pinball, we shocked ourselves most of the day.

I played pinball with my new acquaintances. Well, I shouldn't say "play". It was more like embarrassed the hell out of myself. As the boys racked up more and more points, extra balls and free games, I managed to watch the ball drain time and time again while hitting both flippers in a vain attempt to stop the little, bastard, silver ball from leaving the playfield within 10 seconds of firing. Suddenly, I found myself searching for another pinball machine close by, so I could impress everyone by shocking myself.

It turns out I made a lot of new friends that night. Most of which are still my friends today. And pinball became to me, one of the best games ever invented. I learned over time that pinball is not about hitting the flippers in sync as rapidly as you can to prevent the ball from slipping away. Pinball is about strategy, movement and fluidity. Use the flipper that you need to use, bounce the ball from one flipper to another, give the machine a quiet shake (but not too much), keep the ball in the high scoring areas, create chances for an extra ball, get excited (but not too excited) when you get a match after the last ball. These things, and more, are what pinball is all about.

PD, TP and I would often spend lunches together over the years and in that time we played a lot of pinball. Some of the best were the Addam's Family and the Twilight Zone. These Bally machines were both designed by Pat Lawlor in 1992 and 1993 respectively. These Lawlor games will always be my favorite. The opportunity for strategy and gaining points were so divine, I couldn't believe it. Addam's Family had a Thing, an It and a quipping Gomez helping you along as you search each delightful room in the family mansion. The tombstone in the graveyard on the playfield was emblazoned with the family motto "Sic gorgiamus allos subjectatos nunc" (We gladly feast on those who would subdue us). Fester was delighted when you activated the electric chair and Gomez would say "Now you've done it!" when you finally achieved pinball nirvana, MULTIBALL.

The multiball on Twilight Zone would bring your emotions to a frenzied pitch and the machine zapped, buzzed and screamed with delight when you got that last ball in place. Then a stream of balls would come forth and the user would struggle to keep them all afloat. It was like juggling 10 live cats 10 feet above your head. One by one each ball would unavoidably drain from the field. Every so often though, one of the balls would make it into the one place on the machine that would give you a jackpot. Points adding up, the machine might POP with a free game winner as the appropriate number of points was reached. Balls still flying everywhere, draining, pulsing, POPing, bumping, thumping, until only one ball remained. You gently rest it on an extended flipper, take a deep breath and go at it again.

My primitive words can't hold a candle to what the great Umberto Eco had to say on the subject in the 1989 novel Foucault's Pendulum:

You don't play pinball with just your hands; you play it with the groin too. The pinball problem is not to stop the ball before it's swallowed by the mouth at the bottom, or to kick it back to midfield like a half-back. The problem is to make it stay up where the lighted targets are more numerous and have it bounce from one to another, wandering, confused, delirious, but still a free agent.
And you achieve this not by jolting the ball but by transmitting vibrations to the case, the frame, but gently, so the machine won't catch on and say Tilt. You can only do it with the groin, or with a play of the hips that makes the groin not so much bump, as slither, keeping you on this side of an orgasm. And if the hips move according to nature, it's the buttocks that supply the forward thrust, but gracefully, so that when the thrust reaches the pelvic area, it is softened, as in homeopathy, where the more you shake a solution and the more the drug dissolves in the water added gradually, until the drug has almost entirely disappeared, the more medically effective and potent it is.
Thus from the groin an infinitesimal pulse is transmitted to the case, and the machine obeys, the ball moves against nature, against inertia, against gravity, against the laws of dynamics, and against the cleverness of its constructor, who wanted it disobedient. The ball is intoxicated with vis movendi, remaining in play for memorable and immemorial lengths of time. But a female groin is required, one that interposes no spongy body between the ileum and the machine, and there must be no erectile matter in between, only skin, nerves, padded bone sheathed in a pair of jeans, and a sublimated erotic fury, a sly frigidity, a disinterested adaptability to the partner's response, a taste for arousing desire without suffering the excess of one's own: the Amazon must drive the pinball crazy and savor the thought that she will then abandon it.

Eco was spot on with this analysis. Pinball is played with the mons pubis, not the brain, not the fingers and definitely memorizing digital patterns of enemy ships ( I had a friend in high school that could play Galaga blindfolded). Tim Arnold, curator of the Pinball Hall of Fame in Las Vegas said, "Pinball is skill, but it's also completely random, kids play video games and they say it takes skill to play a video game. No, it takes rote memorization of moves. There's no randomness to it. In pinball, the ball could go this way, it could go that way. It's completely random."

Like life in its randomness, pinball is a living breathing creature that brings back more than memories; it brings back sense what it means to be out of control. Nowadays, our whole environment is customized and fit to make sure we are never out of control and nothing is random. Our neighborhoods our pre-designed, our restaurants all have the same meals and our cars are starting to look identical. It is sad to say that pinball declined shortly after I discovered it. Manufacturing firms have merged and designers simply quit designing. Still, today, I look for a pinball game in every bar I walk into. Usually, I am out of luck, but sometimes surprised by a random treasure sitting in the corner. The treasure usually has a coat of dust and one bad flipper, but I try it anyway. Sometimes I am reminded of the bliss of a well-working, well-designed machine and most of the time, I am not. And you know, I certainly wish I had known all of this about pinball before October of '93, because I could have saved myself a lot of electrocutions.

Best Regards,
Micheal

Links:
Internet Pinball Machine Database
Powell's Books
Pinball Hall of Fame