Harry Potter, the Final Book

As you all know, J.K. Rowling and I are close friends (in fact, some, like the knavish James Patterson, claim that we are engaged in an intimate entanglement, to which I reply, pish-posh), so you can imagine that I am privy to her thoughts about the seventh book of the Harry Potter series. Well, here's the scoop (which she has threatened for me not to expulge on this website for fears of depreciation in interest for her final novel, but I care deeply for my dear readers, so here's a good college try at dishing):

SNAPE SAYS

*****SPOILER ALERT*****

The world of Harry Potter is about to become very different from popular belief. First of all, similar but entirely different from the published Reuters report, not only 2 major characters will die. Here's the short list of those who are scheduled to meet their maker: Dean, the Patel sisters, Dobby, Winky, Seamus, Shacklebolt, the owner of the Leaky Cauldron, MacNair, Petey Jaramusch (an important unnamed character), Sal the Stockbroker, Jambalaya Jim (the mysterious holder of one of the hidden horcrux, and Professor Grubbly-Plank. That's right, all these major characters go croak...but there's a twist! They're all killed by one wizard! Who will it be? If you guessed Snape, you're correct. Turns out that he isn't good or evil, but rather a vengeful djinn, who finally ends his bloody dervish when Cho Chang finds his lamp, rubs it just right, and is granted three wishes. However, before she can utter a single wish, a bizarre turn of events renders Cho mute and the Snape djinn impotent.

The penultimate battle between good and evil will take place, just as dear Rowow-rowow (a pet name for J.K.) has been planning all along. The theories rage on right now about the prophesy, who will die (Potter or Neville), and where the hidden horcrux lie. Well, here's the answer. The final horcrux is a snitch, meaning that the final battle will be a battle between Harry and Voldemort in a game of Quidditch! What a masterstroke! The two main characters battling out as seekers, their minion (Hogwarts on the Potter side, the Deatheaters manning Voldemort's side) working in awe, feeling the pressure of momentous event. Now, I won't spoil it all for you on who wins the Quidditch Cup O' World Domination, but here's a little more info for those of you who need to know.

HARRY LOSES! At the last minute, using a pop culture reference most of us over the age of 12 can figure out, Harry loses his hand, dropping the snitch right into Voldemort's awaiting palm. Voldemort reigns in the land, and the Deatheaters begin rejoicing by killing a few of the Hogwarts faithful (including two doomed love birds, locked in an embrace, Ron and Hermione). Harry escapes with a shocked Ginny and they skate off, losing several pursuing followers of Voldemort.

One final twist to this depressing ending dear reader. The last chapter, the one written by Just Kidding (another name...but not as popular to my palate as "poopsie") before she started this whole series, is the killer ending. Voldemort has gone through Hogwarts, killing all those who followed Dumbledore. As he reaches the final tower, where a souced Trelawney awaits, semi-conscious, a prophecy rings out: "The reign of Voldemort, though long and bloody, will be ended by the child born of the fallen chosen one. Though the fallen one will turn to the dark side, his son will end the rule of the Dark Lord." Voldemort, furious and frightened, sends Trelawney to her bloody end, but the words continue: "He Who Will Destroy Him Who Is Not Named will rise in a year. Numbered are the Dark Lord's days." Voldemort looks down to see, not the famed seer, but Trevor the Toad.

Thus ends the saga...or does it? Do you really think Rowling would give up this cash cow?

F the F-ing Children!

I was at the Arby's Sunday, enjoying a delicious roast beef sandwich, as I am want to do occasionally on my drive from Baltimore to Silver Spring (that same exit off 95 also has a crappy Burger King and a decent Jersey Mike's, for those of you fast food oriented). These are actual excerpts from a conversation (convo) between four African-American women in their church-going (choing) finery...excerpts because I can't remember verbatim what they said throughout the 15 minutes of choing convo that I overheard, mostly due to the clucking of my own tongue in disbelief and absurdity.

AAW1-WWCT (African-American Woman 1 - Whom we'll call TINA) is the woman doing most of the talking. She appears to be the shortest, youngest, and skinniest of the four beings sitting around the table. With her is the main respondant, whom we'll call CHORUS. There's one woman who interjects with a counter-argument at one point, who is going to get stuck with the moniker APPLEPANTS. Finally, there's a woman who sat there, gumming her curly fries, without a peep. In fact, she was more automated eating machine than convo participant. For the hell of it, we'll call her RATIONAL. Let's pick up the convo already in progress:

TINA: I mean to do that in the church.
CHORUS: Mmmmhmmm.
TINA: There's plenty of kids who graduated this time of year. But we only asked some of 'em to get up and get a gift. What about LaToya's kid, what's her name?
CHORUS: Lashica, she got a degree from UB or something.
RATIONAL: munch munch.
TINA: Exactly, we giving high school kids gifts for some reason. Cause they graduated. I don't even know why we celebrating that in church.
CHORUS: Why get them gifts??!
APPLEPANTS: That's not the bad thing, though.
TINA: No, the bad thing is they left out people. Like those two new kids. They graduated from school. They didn't get nothing. And Lashica, she didn't either. I mean if you do that in church, you got to figure it all out.
CHORUS: I know, I know.
APPLEPANTS: They can't know it all...
TINA: Then don't it at all. It makes me so mad. Doing that in fuckin' church.
CHORUS: mmmhhmmmm.
APPLEPANTS: They do it in all the churchs.
TINA: Makes me so mad, doing that in fuckin' church. Like they need celebrating for graduating.
The rational woman didn't say a word. None of them said anything about the bold combination of the words "fuck" and "church." TINA's sentiments were extreme...extremely f-in' hilarious!!! Man, that's good dinner theatre!

Marlins vs Orioles

There are some things that one must do alone. Masterbation is usually performed alone, since this act in front of those who care not to see solo pleasure is considered a social faux pas. Additionally, mutual masterbastion usually ends up not staying masterbatory for very long.

However, there are other pleasurable activities that one can experience that don't require genitalia (this post has, from the start, become NSFW). I'm talking about baseball.

Sitting in the upper level along the right field line, legs propped up on the empty seat in front of me, I got to really enjoy a baseball game. Sure, it was a meager matchup between the deconstructed Florida Marlins versus the "we're never going to be good because we play in the AL East" Baltimore Orioles. There are so many things that are enjoyable about going to the ball park (especially Camden Yards):

• Without someone there alongside, chirping away about non-baseball issues, I got to really focus on the game. Noticed how the outfield shifted in so many different formations; how the pitcher really pushed off his back leg (especially the young pitcher Scott Olsen, who pitched 7+ great innings); and how Miguel Tejada is so focused while playing defense.
• The smells, the sights, the sounds...such a complete sensual experience. It almost made up for the fact that it was very warm and very muggy, with only a slight breeze.
• I got to make a fool of myself with the food that I ate. No one (especially Lighthouse) sitting next to me, urging me to eat a salad.
• The random conversations I got to engage in with other fans. Did you know that Boog Powell (the man who's name graces the barbeque pit in centerfield) stole 7 bases in 1968? His sixteen year career total was only 20 SB. Did you also know that Boog once showed up to the hardware store owned by Matt's father (Matt's the guy who sat in the same aisle along first base side who I talked to once I moved down to the lower level in the 8th inning).
• Doing pretty much anything I wanted to...going to the ballpark solo is an interesting feeling of possibility and hope. If the ball pops foul to me, I can chase after it with the 12 year olds without having to worry about embarrassing my date (ELV, when we go to a game, I promise I'll leave my mitt at home).
  

There's something magical about baseball: the relaxed atmosphere, the buzzing sound of so many different voices talking about anything other than baseball, the rolled up oxford shirts of business men trying to drink away the tensions of work, and the fans collectively booing (cheering occasionally, but the booing is so much more fun). We got to see a game tonight, with blown saves, game tying homeruns, game winning errors, and EXTRA innings!

So, for you who are near baseball parks, go to a game. Its much more cost affordable than the NFL or NBA, and you'll have a chance to really get some alone time...and if you're in the upper bleachers, you can probably masterbate as well.

The Joys of Being Unconditioned

The summer solstice is here. Enjoy the heat and the light, since the days only get shorter from here.

To all those who enjoy the heat and the weather that is summertime, may I offer you a hearty "get bent." Sure, the solstice used to be a rockin' good time: many different groups throughout human history have traditionally linked the summer solstice with joy, abundance, and fertility. Take the neopagans who link the solstice to fertility and sex. According to the good Reverend DuMolin, symbolic marriages around the solstice really were something to celebrate:

"The sexual unions during these ceremonies were more an essential part of the rites. The people believed that the marriage of trees and plants could not be fertile without the real union of human beings joining in a sexual union."

Go on with your bad selves, pagans! Sex as a symbolic something or other so that there's more food. I can get behind that kind of logic. It almost makes up the for ridiculousness of neopagans. I'm sorry, Storm Whisperer, red eye shadow and unicorn's blood do not a religion make...but you've got the right idea with better produce with coitus.

In fact, maybe we can expand that logic to other holidays. It sure would make Arbor Day a whole lot more relevant. "Plant a tree for your tomorrow (and by plant, we mean make the tree with two backs."

However, I digress. I'm actually quite mad at all your warm weather fanatics. Summertime is the worst season due to the by-products that come from sunshine and stormy weather: sweat, mosquitoes, children, and temptation. Explain, you ask? Well, here's a double buckshot for that ace.

Sweat: I don't have an A/C right now. The bars on the windows of my place get in the way, thus hot, humid room with only a fan trying to keep me cool. Sure, it has its nostalgic moments, especially using the wet towel trick to amp up the evaporation effect. However, a pool of sweat in the bed has an awfully familiar feeling to peeing the bed...how you gonna try to score with summer babes on a sweat-sponge bed? Remember Standardchuck maxim #410: chicks don't dig damp sheets/shirts/boxers/mattresses/hands/groins/money.

Mosquitoes: Do I really need to explain this? They bite me cause I taste like braised pork shoulders with a saffron butter glaze to 'em. Can I help it that I'm so darned tasty? They can't resist this succulent flesh...much like the ladies...

Children: Ok, sure, maybe the summer months, with the heat and the shedding of clothing (really, ladies, if you wear tank tops and short shorts, we're gonna want to bed you EVEN MORE) is a reason for the increased rate of conception, but this is not what I was thinking. What I really hate about summer is that the kids aren't in school. If they're not in school, that means that from 8am - 3pm, when they usually are ignoring lessons, they're now playing sports (aka denting cars) or hanging out (aka smuggling, doping, murdering, pillaging, stabbing, and/or selling lemonade). These are annoyances that just really add to the unbearable nature of summertime.

Temptation: Sure, sexual temptation is one of the items, but that's really not an issue. You can be tempted by the fruit of another during any season (mmm illicit autumn lovin'). I'm talking about the temptation to do things that you would never do during the cooler months of the year. Yes, you know, the temptation to bear more skin...the world ought not see some body parts. Ladies, if you feel the need to let the lower part of your ass to hang out of shorts or skirts, then you're just skank-i-licious. Men, yes, wife beaters do indeed make you look like this guy. Additionally, pot bellies should never be exposed to general viewings. Also, there's the temptation to just do nothing. The dog days of summer are inefficient. You'd much rather eat an ice cream and sit by a pool than work on those 1475-G forms that the boss wants by the end of the day. Hell, give me a slip-n-slide and a busted hose, and I'll show you lost work-hours.

Overall, summer time is about decadence. Its about enjoying the fact that the surrounding world is hot as Hades, and thus it is time to give Lucifer his dues. Summertime is evil. So, if you're evil and you know it, use your fans.

How good am I?

Just looked at an old post of mine, fact checking, and here's what I said:

• Carolina Hurricanes in five games
• Miami Heat in six games

Well, I was off on the amount of games for Lord Stanley's Cup, with the Hurricanes needing a Game 7 to clinch against the Oilers. However, here's the overwhelming thought about the NHL finals: it was long and boring. Sure the heroics of Cam will go down as one of the best goalie performances by a rookie in the playoffs. However, temper that with the fact that the goalie position in the NHL seems to be a transitory position of esteem, where this year's Neely can easily become the once-feted Giguere. What I mean is, players seem to jump up and down in "skill" level each season. This results in a zero-sum gain. None of the big names played in the Stanley Cup series. There were no quintessential moments where casual fans like myself can really "ooh" and "aah." Nope, this was a solid hockey, zero intrigue matchup that lasted for over 2 weeks, and now North Carolina will get that hockey trophy its been clamouring about since...never. Ranked in NC sports interests, I'm sure the Carolina Hurricanes win the Cup is sandwiched between Duke Football and the Charlotte Bobcats. Yawn. Still, I picked the winner and that means you all owe me recognition...word.

Second, Shaq has his fourth ring, Pat Riley gets his fifth, and D-Wade joins an elite group of players to win an NBA championship in their first try. Here's the problem: where do you go now, D-Wade? Do you use the championship to motivate you to learn how to shoot free throws, medium range floating jumpers, and a three-point shot? Or will you instead parlay your insta-fame for movie deals (Kazaam anyone?), entouraged nights at South Beach's eliteratti destinations, and scoring a Desperate Housewife? Too often, athletes get theirs, and then forget what made the great ones great: perseverence through difficult times, waiting for their assension into greatness. What do the Michael Jordons and Larry Birds do while they wait for glory? They sweat in the gym, shooting 18 footers until they no longer have to think about the seperation of ball from basket. They dribble like Steve Nash in the empty arena, listening to the echos of Havlichek and Cousy, Magic and Stockton. Some, like the latter and Barkley, never get the celebrated moment holding up the finals trophy. D-Wade, please work at the game and become the next Whomever, and don't let the celebration get to your head. I want to see the next MJ, and God knows, Carmelo too busy stopping snitchers to learn to play ball. Then again, Wade, if you fail, we still have LeBron.

So, in closing, I'm lamenting current sports, which is what pessimistic sports fans have done since sports were invented. However, I'm the king at pickin' the winners.

M - I'll take my winnings in singles, please!

Sore

With an aching body, I'm trying to rouse myself enough to step out of the house.

I know I've been going a bit to hard recently, given the months of inactivity. All this movement and newness is a bit discombobulating to me right now.

Been working on a new script. Don't know if its any good. Really just a pleasure to be writing something. Its as if I'm pulling phrases from my veins, the sickening pleasure of watching blood flow out of your body. Fascination.

I don't know, just thought I'd check in.

Post on the run

Hey ya'll. I have a buddy visiting from my days in Mississippi here in Baltimore. Good guy DO'G, master assimilator and all around smart guy. Went to D.C. today to show him around the monuments, and tomorrow we're off to NYC. So, while I'm away, chew on these stupid questions.

Why do women have to cover their nipples? Why is the rest of the breast alright for exposure, but a slip of the nip is a no-no? Why are men allowed to show their nipples?

good comic

Awww, cute.

The cutest animal, hands down, has to be...this thing.

soccer football link

You know, some arguments are way to persuasive.

Good Times, Bad Times, You Know I Had My Share

Upon thinking about the past, I've come to this significant, simple conclusion about myself: I don't know what the heck I'm doing.

Always one to think myself out of anything, be it painful or happy, I've always managed to steer myself into the middle lane of life. What this means is that I've often avoided the situations that could have led to either incomparable joy or spirit crushing defeat.

Think back with me, world, to the time in junior high, where instead of climbing the ladder to the high jump at the YMCA, I rather stayed in the water, scissor kicking to stay afloat as my buddies performed awe-inspiring cannonballs and bellyflops.

Cut to college, where I refused to sink my teeth into the role of Grumio during a production of "Taming of the Shrew," turning a meaty comedic opportunity into a rather laissez faire jumble of poor acting.

Switch back to high school, with the few girls that I "crushed" on. Oh the shudders of horror thinking about the awkward idiocy that I exhibited, fumbling with words and dripping magma hot sweat from my embarrassed face.

Come back to the present, dear reader. I am a bit better at all things. Yet, sometimes, I wonder why I didn't swing for the fences. My friend told me the other day that I pulled punches, taking the easy path rather than march through the brambles.

And look where it got me.

I think I'm doing alright, even if I'm not balls to the wall. So raise your glasses and toast the strangeness of life's trip. God knows, I'm happy to be here.

Let's Get Ready to Grumble

The World Cup is here! Come on, America, let's get excited! According to many writers in the our esteemed magazines and newspapers, we Americans are missing out on the most exciting event that rages through the imaginations of everyone else in the world. How dare we, in our insulated ways, ignore the beautiful game, thus shutting ourselves away from the pasttime of billions of other people.

There are a myriad of reasons why America will not become rabid for "football." From the lack of soccer's presence in the US sports world historically (see the failure of North American Soccer League or the continuous losses harvested by the MLS) to the strength of the US's big three sports (MLB, NBA, and the NFL), Americans can point out several reasons why we don't really care about the World Cup. However, one primary reason why soccer doesn't have a chance in the US is because of the game itself. Though interesting and intriguing (and never doubting the athleticism of those who play/love the sport), the low scoring in the sport and the existence of the draw will always prevent soccer from becoming more than a minor distraction in our parts across the pond.

Soccer is played by 11 individuals on a 110 yard field. Excepting the goalkeeper, the 10 individuals run for 90+ minutes attempting to score goals. During the course of the game, excellent plays involving intricate passing, awe-inspiring dribbling, and exhilarating goal scoring keep people around the world transfixed and enthralled. Yet, there are also long lulls between action, forcing the American sports fan to reflect upon the mired action of the pre-strike NHL or the pre-juiced MLB bore fests during the 1980's. Midfielders in soccer passing back and forth for 10 minute stretches, with the occasional shots flying 40 feet above the top bar. The lack of sustained action, especially for us American action junkies, will always keep us away from the game. How do you expect the land infatuated with 24 access to news, reality shows editting down the inanity of a celebrity's day to 30 brain scattering minutes, and ADD-ESPN, to get interested into a game where a great game is settled 1-0 with a total of 3 shots on goal?

Additionally, the big named players, your Ronaldino, Zidane, or Beckham, don't score every game. Can you imagine paying NFL prices for a ticket and watching a whole match where the star player touches the ball a handful of times, passing it every time? Landon Donovan, the USA's great striker, had one run during the USA-Czech match, resulting in a foul from a defender. End result, nothing. Sure, Shaq can have a 5 point game in the Finals, and Albert Pujols can have a 0 for 4 at bat game in the World Series, but you won't see that happening for more than five or six games. However, Donovan hadn't scored in 10+ international games. The nature of soccer commends the player who can send an excellent through ball, or a superb crossing pass. America makes superstars of the guys who excel at the individual level. Who's better known: the Detroit Pistons gang of 5 maulers, or Lebron James and his insane dunks? We need action from the superstars.

However, the largest drawback is the existence of the draw. All the major sports in the US have an end result crowning a winner and a loser. Sports with ties have be relegated to ESPN8 (the ocho). Who cares about track and field, eh? Imagine watching 2 45-minute halves and leaving with a 0-0 draw. Sure, the finals of the World Cup are decided by penalty kicks, but that's the same way hockey decides its games. What's the interest level of the NHL in the non-Canadian USA? I remember the 0-0 tie ending of the Italy/Brazil finals in the World Cup, feeling like I just wasted a bunch of time watching sloppy soccer. How dull and frustrating...no wonder soccer fans have to become raving drunks, spouting racial epithets. Without the mob violence, what would fans of football do? Crochet?

We Americans need an end result where someone wins. We're a nation of winners, or at least a nation who appreciates those who win. Babe Ruth hitting the homerun after pointing to the stands. Hank Aaron blasting homeruns, rounding the bases with ecstatic fans. Wilt Chamberlin scoring, and making baskets, to colossal proportions. The Immaculate Reception. The Hail Mary. The full court heave. The grand slam. Winners score and score often. Great teams win.

Sorry, soccer fiends. Enjoy it. Be proud...but we're gonna just watch the NBA finals and wait for the start of America's football.

Quick Hits

So here's the news:

• ELV left for Tokyo today. She'll be gone for 3 weeks. She's gonna have a blast in the land of the rising sun. Hope she finds a talking toilet (for some reason, I think I'm obsessed with this stupid innovation).
• The Miami Heat look slow and sluggish. They're just equally bad.
• I like soccer. However, I have not watched a single match of the world cup. Thus, proof that I truly am American.
• There's just something about good dim sum that makes you feel good during a bad day.
• Why am I becoming Larry King like in my comments...that last line about dim sum stinks. I might as well write something like "the inventor of rice krispy treats should be celebrated."
  
• Saw "Cars." Not as good as any of the other Pixar movies, but still comparative to other films out there, interesting and entertaining.
  

Good night world.

Nadir/Zenith

"Doubt thou the stars are fire..."

Today will be the funeral of the young man whose life was cut short outside of school. He was a passionate boy whose gift of good humor often times disarmed my authoritarian ways in class. He was ever-ready to flash that winsome smile, so present was his joy that I used to wonder if there really was so much to be happy about. For all of his faults, and there were a few, his core self radiated with a cosmic glee, as if God himself had given him the insight to see the magnificent joke encapsulated in life, and the boy's laughter was the hallelujah in appreciation.

"...doubt that the sun doth move..."

And now, as I put on the suit and somber face, readying myself for the service, I think about certain questions that everyone who has been in such a sudden situation inevitably ask themselves; the cascade of "what ifs" begins and I'm swirling around in my uncomprehending mind. Isn't it the case that we tend to internalize, reflect upon ourselves the tragedy that has occurred, so that we reaffirm ourselves? As if all events happen to me, and in my so-called voice-over scenes, I'm trying to figure out my motivation. Hell, even this entry is as written in Ecclesiastes, "There is nothing new under the sun."

"...Doubt truth to be a liar..."

When the young man started at our school at the beginning of the second semester, I had meetings with his parents about one curious fact: he does not like to look people in the eye. "Please don't make him look at you," the principal reiterated, "it makes him extremely uncomfortable." Expecting this, our first conversation shook me emotionally, as he held a steady gaze, while I shift my eyes constantly. It was as if I were trying to reduce the expectations for him to hold eye contact by giving him an out; "I'm not going to look at you, so we're on the same page, kid." It wasn't until a few days later that he called me on it. Before class, he and I got into a bit of a wordplay battle, trying to figure out combinations of rhymes and puns, a silly game that I often times play against myself in my head. As I called out the next rhyme, he looks at me, again steady gaze, and says, "are you nervous, Mr. Na?" The truth was, yes, I was. He put me at ease, and for the rest of the semester, we always held eye contact in any conversation, and my selfish pride thanked him for his trust.

"...But never doubt I love"

As he laid bleeding on the street, people came together to help him. A nurse, on her way to work, skidded to a stop a block down, and ran to his aid. A mother pulled up to me as I tried to help with traffic control, asking first if it were her son. When informed that it was not, she immediately burst into tears of relief, then, as if to correct herself, drying her tears, and rushing over to the boy's side, soothing him with the words of a mother. The boys prayed for him, the community prayed for him, especially after the parents asked for people to continuously pray, a Jewish tradition where 10 people are constantly in prayer, organized by 30 minute blocks. As a secular teacher, I could only listen to wails of Hebrew and hold my tears back.

Today, "with hearts filled with sorrow we are sorry to inform you of the levaya of our dear talmid Dov Mattisyahu Klugerman." Today, a family cries and sits in shiva for the passing of their beloved child. Today, we remember a boy taken too early from us, but within this tragedy, as in all sad stories, comes the silver lining. I thought about him in the wee hours of the morning, listening to the falling rain. He once spoke up in class that "when Mr. Na's in a good mood, you know its gonna be a great day." So, putting aside grief, I waited for ELV to wake up. I wrapped her in my arms, told her how much I loved her, and we smiled. For that and much more, thank you Dov.

Service, Sports, and Several Sleepy Subjects

Oftentimes, we are not conscious of the service industry unless either they go beyond the call of duty or they completely bungle things up. For instance, think about the little things that the grease the wheels of our workaday modern lifestyle: a postal worker allowing your envelope that weighs a bit too much for the postage to get to its destination rather than returning to sender. These little common kindnesses play out randomly throughout the day, aiding to smooth out the random annoyances of existing.

However, nothing calls out for attention like bad service. Your day can come to a screeching halt if someone with a name tag decides to revolt against the maxim that the customer is number 1 (leaving one to feel like number 2). With weapons such as indifference, rudeness, lack of promptness, and anger-ness, these guerilla warriors can make such fundamental needs as photocopying into an activity akin to searching for Livingston, I presume.

Thus, my assessment of Dizzy Issie's, found on Charles St. next to the Central Station. First off, for a restaurant above a gay nightclub, I guess the place could have been a whole lot more...gay. The decor ranged from one side of the restaurant looking like the French salon of a Gertrude Stein (you could almost hear Alice Toklas bitching about the lack of service) versus the Ikea lit bar room with a dark color scheme that just merges with the Euro club mix of "We're In Heaven." Staffed with the requisite company of lithe boys (who, I shite you not, discussed their affinity for clubbing for the entire hour that we were there), the place was Harvey Firestein's wet dream (in fact, I think he was there, at the bar, wearing his ensemble from Hairspray).

The food was pedestrian bar-fare, but what really set Dizzy Issie's apart was the indifferent waitstaff. Our waitress disappeared in the middle of meal, leaving ELV without her soup until the very end. Actually, that's the only complaint I really have here. So, if you want some bar food while surrounded by stereotypes from Bravo shows, then go to Dizzy Issie's (or just go to Brewer's Art and have some real food).

-----

Before I end this post, here's the predictions:

• Carolina Hurricanes in five games
• Miami Heat in six games
• That must make me seven, this honky's gone to heaven

School Accident

A student of mine was hit by a car. He suffered some severe injuries, and currently he's in stable but critical condition. Please keep him in your thoughts.