Tags: DWYFF!, Lowell, Simon and Garfunkel
Today marks the much-anticipated return of Do What You Feel Friday, Coach Football’s favorite blog feature and the preferred reading for his candle-lit mastubatory sessions*.
We’ve been dwelling on violence here at Lucy the Blog, in the wake of Tavyrna Chouen’s murder and my growing homicidal tendencies. Last night, the face of violence quite literally showed up at our doorstep. Hijinx did not ensue.
It came out of nowhere, really. Ash was putting Nola to bed, and I was slogging through the wreckage of our home, trying to make sense of the chaos and clutter. We’re having repairs done to flood damage in our bedroom and nursery, which required us to move everything into the office, where we all live like hobos under the glow of the iMac. Because Ash can’t go to the studio, her painting gear is scattered about the living room, along with baby gymnasiums and chewed up dog toys. All quite lovely.
It started with a few screams in the distance. And then in seemingly no time at all, two grown men were rolling around our front yard, surrounded by a crowd of people cheering and hollaring, encircling the brawl like it was a cockfight.
Tags: Chris Webber, Earth Hour, Egg McMuffin, Fab Five, stool softener
This will be a stretch. But on a snowy Do What You Feel Friday, Lucy the Dog would like to draw your attention to three not-quite-related-but-we’ll-try items: Chris Webber, Herb Patterson, and your light switch.
Firstly, we wish a Happy Retirement to Chris Webber, who turned the lights out on his basketball career this week.
Like any good suburban whiteboy, Lucy the Dog idolized Michael Jordan as a young pup. It was MJ that inspired me to beg Mom and Dad for an adjustable hoop.
Little did I know that you can’t recreate The Lean or a foul line dunk without Jordan’s hangtime – even on an 8 1/2-foot rim in $120 sneakers. However, you can hang on that rim and throw your legs around in a violent rage like Chris Webber. And I did. During Webber’s two years at Michigan, I rode the Fab Five bandwagon hard. The shorts, the sneakers, the attidude, the joy, the failures. I ate that shit up.
Though I was more of a Jalen Rose guy, this shot of C-Webb hanging above a bewildered Lawrence Funderburke is one of my favorite photos of all time. It hung on my bedroom wall for years, inspiring me to think that if I could experience just one pure, top-of-the-world, badass moment like that in my life, I would die happy. (It violates the Lucy the Blog style specs to run a picture this large, but I can’t bring myself to shrink it down.)
He will never be mentioned with the all-time greats, but as J.D. Adande wrote beautifully on ESPN.com, “To watch Webber’s failures was endlessly more fascinating than to see most people’s successes.” Another piece tangentially related to Webber recently appeared in Sports Illustrated, exploring our fascination with slam dunks. Writer Chris Ballard notes that just as some of us will never stop gawking at boobs, we’ll never outgrow our obsession with dunks. “It’s part instinct, part the lure of the unattainable and part the hope that we’ll see something spectacular.”
So while Webber’s retirement saddened me as yet another sign that I’m getting old, it made me feel like a kid again to waste 20 minutes YouTubing through his dunks and finding that picture in the SI Vault. Thanks, Chris.
Which brings us, naturally, to the Egg McMuffin. Because also this week, it was lights out for McMuffin creator Herb Peterson, who on Tuesday set out for those golden arches in the sky. As we say in the newspaper business: He was 89.
Tags: your mother
But at the moment, the sun is shining on Lowell and the weather is ideal for a stroll down memory lane.
Yesterday marked one full year of soul searchin’ and knowledge-droppin’ at Lucy the Blog headquarters. And what a year it’s been for the Dog.
We laughed. We cried. We learned 12 things about Tyra Banks’s vagina. We opened foreign bureaus in Pakistan, Sweden, and Chechnya. And we licked the interior of our anus. It was awesome!
So today, please take our paw and join us as we revisit some highlights from the last 365 days. Or don’t. It’s Friday, so do whatcha wanna, do whatyalike, and do what you feel.
Cue sappy accoustic Green Day song, and commence nostalgic clip montage.
Tags: Kei Igawa, meatballs, Yankees
We’re supposed to get more snow tonight and that makes us even more ornery. But wait!
If we can just be patient, March is only a day away!
And if March is a day away, that means Yankee baseball time is upon us. That, dear readers, warrants excitement. Hells yeah.
So we will exercise patience where the calendar is concerned. This stretch of unpleasantness is almost behind us. And the quest for 27 is underway.
But we will not be patient with you, Kei Igawa. In today’s spring training exhibition, the Yankees were cruising with a 9-0 lead heading into the sixth inning against the formidable University of South Florida South Floridians.
At that point, Igawa took the mound to pick up where he left off last season, pounding the
strike zone area outside the strike zone before serving up a meatball to Eric Baumann for a grand slam.
For those of you keeping score at home, that’s one hit, two walks, one hit batsman, one wild pitch, and a lean 36.00 ERA over one inning of work on this young season.
I know it’s early, but I think I’ve seen enough of Kei Igawa. So either squirt some Rocket juice up his ass, or let’s cut our losses now. It’s only a $47 million investment, Cash. I’ll buy an extra hot dog next time I’m at the Stadium.
God it feels good to be an unreasonable and obnoxious fan again. Baseball season is back, baby. And it’s Friday. So do what you feel!
Tags: Art, Blah blah blah, Brazilian soccer jersey, DWYFF!, Shameless plug
So on your Friday of doing what you feel, rather than waste time here, why not head over to Ashlee’s hot revamped website to check out her latest paintings.
President’s Day is right around the corner, and if you’re scrambling for a last-minute gift, nothing says “I love presidents” like a painting of me gnawing on Gonzo’s cheek while fantasizing about Perry Ellis’s ankle. Let’s face it, I am adorable.
So click the link and tell your friends.
Support the arts, and do what you feel.
It’s Friday, after all. And we’re po’.
If this option doesn’t interest you, then as an alternate Friday activity, why not find out what your name would look like on a Brazlian soccer jersey? It’s fun and culturish. Thanks, Bildo!
Tags: Baba Booey, DWYFF!, Eric the Midget, Howard Stern, Sal the Stockbroker, Sarah Silverman, Valentina Vaughan
It started with my online meltdown on Mediocre Tuesday, where I exposed myself as too dumb to even understand if Obama or Hillary were winning. Or if anyone was winning. On that matter, I remain confused.
Then Wednesday and Thursday, I watched the news coverage of the Harvard kids playing with Paris Hilton and Charlize Theron, who were awarded the Harvard Lampoon Woman of the Year and Hasty Pudding Woman of the Year, respectively.
I’ve never understood these seemingly self-important and inside-jokey presentations. But perhaps that’s the point. They’re for the cool kids who understand things that I don’t understand, and that’s why they’re in Harvard and I’m in my pajamas. I envy those kids. It looks like fun being all young and smart.
Last night, I watched Bourne Identity, a movie that I failed to understand. Why does that main CIA guy get killed in the end? Why is Julia Stiles not in high school? What’s the deal with that poor-man’s version of Forrest Whitaker’s Idi Amin? Why do they kill him? Can’t Matt Damon and the CIA just work things out?
I’m never good with ‘thrillers.’ They require suspending disbelief to a degree that I’m incapable of. Too much time is spent trying to figure out who’s good and who’s bad and what in the hell is going on, rather than sitting back and absorbing the pretty colors flying across the screen. And try as I might, I rarely understand such movies.
But I’ll tell you two things I do understand:
(1) Anything for a penny is a damn fine deal, and
(2) When Sal the Stockbroker’s wife shoots him in the ass with a paintball gun, that is funny!
This weekend, Howard TV onDemand is offering an 80-minute preview for one cent, featuring the best Howard Stern show moments of 2007. I just watched it, and to be honest, it’s good though not great. But it’s certainly worth a cent.
Tags: DWYFF!, Jim Lehrer, Party games, Super Bowl predictions, Things you can do with your bum
Here in the Bloghouse, Lucy the Dog has a little tradition that goes down the first Friday of every February. While it may be too late for you to pull this off tonight, there’s nothing saying you can’t do it next Friday or the Friday after that. It just so happens that for us, the first Friday in February has always worked.
First, our dear friend Supafly Kim Jong Ill swings by for a few cold ones and a game or two of backgammon. At 6 o’clock, we watch The News Hour with Jim Lehrer. And then at around 7, I handcuff Kim’s hands behind his back. He knows this is coming, so he’s never really startled or anything. It’s an annual event, after all.
Anywho. At around that time, some more friends join us, along with a few ladies. The ladies are recruited well in advance, usually by placing a simple ad on Craig’s List. But if the ad doesn’t work out, we just find some chicks over at the high school, which is convenient because it’s right down the street. The key is getting girls with agility, flexibility, and a competitive edge, who enjoy having a real nice time. Ideally they should look like they’re over 18.
Now what you want to do is line the ladies up, not too far from Supafly Kim Jong Ill, or whoever is wearing the handcuffs for your particular Do What You Feel Friday gathering.
When everyone’s ready, turn on some of your favorite mood music. Kim prefers this hot mash-up by Ton Loc and Salt ‘N Pepa, but I’m partial to “Temperature” by Sean Paul or pretty much anything by the Kingston Trio.
Now once the music is pumping, set your handcuffed guest of honor on his knees, and invite the first girl to grind her bum on his chest. Gently, at first. She’s not trying to leave a mark. But this is a competition, so she should give a little effort. If she doesn’t, the rest of your friends should make “BOOOO”-ing sounds, or push her to try harder by yelling things like, “You suck, bitch!” or “You’re not very good at grinding your bum on my friend’s chest, bitch!”
Once it seems like the first lady has fully demonstrated her capabilities, Lucy the Dog, as host of the event, will call out, “SWITCH!” That indicates it’s time for the next competitor.
It’s incumbent upon that next competitor to show that she can do even more with her bum than the first competitor. She may try a figure four necklock, for example, applying a vice grip to Kim Jong Ill’s head and then dry-humping his face as fast as she can. Or she may toss creativity out the window and focus solely on velocity.
One by one, at the host’s call of “SWITCH!”, the ladies will do things with their bum and various parts of your handcuffed guest. You’d be surprised by how fast some girls can shake their bum. Especially the younger ones. Some can even shake their bum while standing on their hands!
Which reminds me, it’s imperative that prior to starting the music, everyone involved stretches properly. More than 85 percent of sports-related injuries could be avoided by stretching.
Even for a writer as skilled and accomplished as Lucy the Dog, it’s tough to accurately describe such a gathering – the ol’ “dancing about architecture dilemma.” So I’ve provided a home video from last year. What a time we had! It’s funny too, because you really create an eternal bond with people through such shared experiences. To point, I just got an e-mail from the girl with the red hair who you’ll see at the end. She’s doing a semester abroad in Prague this year and wanted to say how sorry she was to be missing our gathering. I guess that’s what community is all about.
So that’s what I’ll be doing this Friday, and perhaps you can too. But if not, it’s still Friday! Do what you feel!
BONUS: Super Bowl Prediction: Giants: 11, Falcons: 5 (coulda been you, Coach Football)
Tags: Bonerama, self-pity, Soft-core drug addiction, Whining, your mother
“We want DWYFF and we want it now!” he says. “Make me laugh!”
Well the fact of the matter is I don’t have any good DWYFF advice. I don’t have nothin’. In the last couple weeks, Lucy the Dog’s creativity and intellect seems to have run into a brick wall. Coming up with anything to write about has been all but impossible. I am dumb and bored. And still depressed over New Hampshire. It’s pathetic, really.
Not coincidentally, I am no longer using performance-enhancing drugs. In an effort to generate powerful, unstoppable sperm, I have been forced to put down the beer drinks and hash pipe against my will. Now I sit around staring at the walls on Friday nights with nary a thought in my head. So this is how the other half lives. Huh.
Tonight I’ve been given a reprise on the beer drinks. My owner is allowing me one 40 oz. Budweiser. Woop-dee-friggin-doo-dah. I’ll probably crack it open right as Bonerama takes the stage at Tipitina’s in New Orleans for a show that’s being broadcast live on the World Wide Web at this site: Tipitina’s.
If you haven’t seen the Bones and you’re so friggin’ lame that you’d sit home on a Friday night watching a concert on your computer, then you should probably check it out. Or not. It’s your Friday. So do what you feel and blah blah blah.
Are you happy now, Perry??????
UPDATE: The first video I posted apparently couldn’t be embedded or something. It was a sensationsal in-store performance at the Louisiana Music Factory. You can watch it on YouTube here. Below is a performance of the same song but with awful sound quality. Oh well.
Today we return to Do What You Feel Fridays, with much aplomb. So much aplomb that you’ll hardly be able to stand it.
And we do so, dear readers, with poetry.
This is a little diddy Lucy the Dog likes to call, “My Paperclip”.
I call you friend, I call you lover.
I call you sister, I call you brother.
You are my paperclip.
And tonight you will bend and contort and sacrifice those sexy curves, my paperclip.
You will do it for me.
You will go straight and narrow so that I may walk a crooked path that momma said was wrong.
But we know better, don’t we paperclip?
We have been here before, you and I. We have walked this path.
We have felt shame and we have endured the harsh judgment of our peers.
But we have endured, paperclip. Have we not?
And we feel shame no more.
For judgment day is nigh, or maybe it’s near.
But any way you scrape it, our judgment day is here.
We have exhausted the possibilities.
Tapped all of our resources.
Run out of gas.
And we will not weep. We will not hang our heads.
‘Fuck that shit,’ paperclip says. ‘Put me in the game. Let me do my thing.’
I did you wrong, paperclip. But what could I do?
I knew when Lil’ Huge moved to New York that bumpy times a-waited.
And when Jimmy decided to focus on his waitering career instead of dealing, that signaled troubled waters fo’ sho’.
It ain’t like it used to be.
The cup has run dry.
The shelves are all bare.
That little Tupperware container is hollow and empty.
And there’s only one place to turn.
That’s to you, little paperclip. But you’re not so little.
You stretch and reach where mere mortals can not.
You grasp for the remains of what has been and what still could be, if only to a lesser and perhaps duller degree.
So tonight it is you and tonight it is me.
And that glass bowl we call “Mach”, well Mach will make three.
Do your magic on Mach, my lean metal friend.
Get in there and scrape, chip away to the end.
I know you got skills. We don’t need to defend.
It’s our way of life. We do what we do.
If some find it pathetic, those some can go screw.
Because desperate times call for desperate measures.
And you, sturdy paperclip, can find hidden treasures.
Tonight is your destiny, head to the mine.
Dig away paperclip, and see what you find.
There’s Lake Winapausakee. There’s the Pats and Colts game.
There’s Chien Min Wang getting rocked. And there it is again.
So many memories, so much good cheer.
If you can’t find enough, then I’ll have to drink beer.
‘Fuck that shit,’ says paperclip. And he says it once more.
‘Do you doubt me now? Have I failed you before?
Just let me stretch out so that I can be nimble. And don’t confine me to a rhyme scheme. I thought this was supposed to be like Russell Simmons Def Jam and shit. Where’d we get so far off track?’
Oh, you’re right little paperclip. I shoulda trusted you better.
Sometimes I fall into society’s rules.
They tell me my poems should rhyme.
They tell me I can’t have my dope unless I KNOW somebody. On a discrete and shady level, they say I gotta KNOW somebody.
But I’m 32 years old now, paperclip! And I don’t know NOBODY!
What’s a 32-year-old to do? Go on Craigs List? Just approach a seedy looking character here on the streets of Lowell and ask that somebody if they know somebody? And which seedy looking character would I pick from the streets of Lowell? The choices are endless.
They say it’s wrong, paperclip.
But like you say, Fuck that shit.
Tonight it’s us, kid. One last chance at glory.
What will the days that follow bring? Let’s not even go there.
For tonight, paperclip. Tonight we scrape.
Tonight we relive yesterday as if there was no tomorrow.
Tonight it is Friday. We do what we feel.
This week’s installment of Do What You Feel Friday comes one day early for planning purposes.
Lucy the Blog’s greater Boston readers are strongly advised to drop whatcha’ doin’ tomorrow night (Friday the 17th) and get thyselves to the Rebirth Brass Band Groove Cruise, which pulls out of Rowes Wharf (behind the Boston Harbor Hotel) at 8 p.m. Your sweet, funky ass will thank you in the morning, after a night of shaking it like it’s rarely been shook.
To hear a bit of Rebirth, check out their myspace site at: Rebirth Brass Band.
To buy tickets in advance ($30, $5 less than you pay at the boat), go here: Rock On! Cruises.
To buy Lucy the Dog a drink, look for the gangly guy with terrible posture, bobbing his head and wishing someone would hand him a Budweiser.
Ed. Note: Lest we exclude our friends in Jersey and New York City, the Dirty Dozen Brass Band is appearing at Maxwell’s in Hoboken this very same night. So get out there and check out some live music, baby.
(Photo taken by Pableaux Johnson of the New York Times)