Ahhhhh, perspective

Chiggity check it. Yo. That sun could eat us, yo.

And while we're at it, um, Mr. Rogers, um, well, we wish it were this simple still. We also kind of wish the kid would have swatted your hand away when you senselessly started touching buttons and asking the quarter guy to show what's on the inside of this new fandangled "video game."

"Down's not really used in this game," the dorky kid who might as well have been us in 1982 said.

Translated: "Stupid crazy curmudgeon. This sh*t be ruining kids in 20 years when I can shoot you vice squad-style and not use a f*cking hammer because I'm a carpenter. Now gets-a-steppin' so I can whoop up on this donkey, son."

Meanwhile, back in reality

Trust us. We're wicked good at reigning in hopes because of things like this.

Good teams tell adversity to f*ck off and then they go win. The Phillies, collectively, choose instead to wear why-us faces and lose big games. They get screwed legitimately (Chase Utley's home run Tuesday night was called foul even though it hit the foul pole, thus making it fair), but *everyone* gets screwed once in awhile.

They also had to wait more than four hours to play their must-win game last night because God forbid Major League Baseball actually readjust the schedule for things beyond anyone's control.

But if you think we're making excuses for the "Fightin's," yeah, no. We're not.

We're officially rooting for the Pedro-less Mets to face the Didn't-have-Matsui-or-Sheffield-or-any-good-pitcher-except-Wang-all-year Yankees to face each other in the World Series. Yay for over-hyped Subway Series, um, es, Serieses, Seriesesesses -- yay for another Subway Series!

The Phils are down two games in the Wild Card with three left to play. The Dodgers are red hot and the Phils' bats are flat, flat, flattaly flat.

Ech. Again. They lost the Wild Card by one game last year, too. Way to finish strong, fellas.

A Day in the Life of a Nashville Star Tryer-Outer

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

HEY! Send good karma! Thanks! Wheeee!

Not so much with the throwing up in our mouths yet, but wish us luck, y'all.

We should have fantastic material this time tomorrow. Either that or we'll be really, really drunk.

Foshizzle Nashvizzledizzle.

The caption says it all

From the CNN: The key conclusions of a document assessing the state of global terrorism were declassified Tuesday. One assessment is the war in Iraq is shaping a new generation of terror leaders. Bush suggested parts of the report were originally leaked for political purposes, and that media accounts were meant to confuse Americans.

Really? That's why the report was leaked? Not so people can make up they're own minds? "Create confusion in the minds of the American people." He actually said this.

Ew.

The worst part about panic practicing after 11

BAM BAM BAM BAMBAMBAM.

Right, then. Time to put the geetar down. But seriously? The f*cking fat old guy downstairs, always with the loud TV that guy. So the neighbor next door pounds on the wall just 'cause we're strummin'?

Neighbor next door, we can't wait to slam our closet door bright in early in about six hours. Huh. That'll learn ya.

BAM BAM BAM BAMBAMBAM. Some people with the no consideration for others. Sheesh.

Hey. Waitaminute. But, well, we. Wait.

OMS: Hey, man. What's up?
GUY WALKING BY OMS AT WORK: Yo. Is it me or are you losing mad weight?
OMS: ...

We lasted 30 seconds once

So we've been quiet about this for awhile -- sheepish, even.

But Thursday we have this plan. It entails getting on a 5:30 a.m. train into the city and taking a cab to the Rodeo Bar and standing in line not pimping our music myspace page while we try just to breathe and not, to use an overused phrase lately, throw up just a li'l bit in our mouth.

It means not chickening out and breathing some more and maybe even becoming caffeinated shmoozer guy, since Guinness shmoozer guy doesn't really translate into good performing smooth voice guy.

It means playing 30 seconds of "Leave the Pieces" if we even get in the doors and sign up by 2 p.m. It means we hope we don't do our standard ultranervous talker guy thing. If we utter the words, "this reminds (us) of a joke," it's so over.

It means if we bomb horribly we've been prepared for years if only because of the horrific eighth-grade fat failure elections when we lost president to Amanda Goodwin, veep to Gen Jones, treasurer to Nick Clements and then won the pity vote for class secretary/bitch.

But we digress.

It means we so don't want to be all American Idol look at us guy. It means we simply want an incentive to actually move to Nashville and maybe do something besides wear a suit everyday and rue the commute to work. Not that we don't look good in a suit. We just prefer cowboy boots and ripped jeans and a geetar and a beer. And a sign that there's more out there.

There's more out there, right?

So yeah, we're going to tryout for the Nashville Star on Thursday. Our goal is to actually get the opportunity to perform the 30-second song and to get called back the next day, which makes us panic even more because we haven't even remotely begun rehearsing for day two.

In the event the stars align and everyone else either dies or loses their voices, we're pledging here to our fives of loyal readers that if we ever do make it to the Nashville Star, the following Q and A, from the Nashville Star page, will appear beneath our name filled out *exactly* as follows (scout's honor):

FUN FACTS ON OLD MAN SNAP
What celebrity do people say you look like?
The fat kid in the Stand By Me, then more than now.

What's on your playlist?
You mean the iTunes? Sh*t. A lot. We're listening to Cortez the Killer for the 19th time in two days right now. We also love the Pac. And Biggie. David Gray. Counting Crows. The Band. Cash. Dylan. Willie. Miranda Lambert. The Dead. REM. Little Feat. We interviewed Huey Lewis once. Huey Lewis f*cking rules.

The craziest or most daring thing I have ever done...
We pushed our baby sister over when we found out she was about to walk before we did at her age. What. We were 13 and she was an easy target.

What three things couldn't you live without?
Family. Friends. Our geetar, which just barely beats out our Guinness.

What is the worst job you've ever had?
Working in the physical plant in college. Something about Winstons and beer breath berations. "We don't pay you here, son, to flirt with the pretty girls while you's rakin' the leaves." Not good times.

What is your favorite video game or board game?
Clue. Mr. Body's body. It's gone.

What is your astrological sign?
Pisces. WHAT.

What is your favorite ice cream flavor?
Seriously? Phish Food.

Hobbies outside of music?
Runnin' with the fellas. You know how we do.

File this under sh*t we were supposed to go camping but the weather is ass and this makes us happy, well, that, plus the beer

RED Means EXPECT THE WORST!

So here's the thing. We grew up in the PhillyBurbs. The Phillies were legitimately good in the late '70s. Think present-day Eagles, winning division titles and winning a lot, but never making it to the big dance, and wearing maroon and powder-blue unis.

But they won in 1980. We still remember hopping into our old man's old van and driving around good ol' Newtown, PA honking the horn and cheering wildly. We also remember picking up a hitchhiker (Who does that? At night, even? Ew.) but that's another story for another day.

We remember the Orioles whooping up on some Phillies in 1983. Sure, they had *sweet* uniforms, but they were beating our Phillies. Our old Phillies. Rose was old. Morgan wasn't annoying on commentary. Tony Perez was like 68. But at least they made the World Series.

Then we had a decade of futility, the low-point of which was Mike Schmidt retiring in San Francisco on Memorial Day in 1989. He was our hero. We cried like a li'l baby bitch when he retired, much like we roared when Harry Kalas screamed, "There it goes! Number 500 for Michael Jack Schmidt!" (The high-point).

Then we had 1993, which more and more makes us angry because we believed in several known steroid-abusers who maybe paved the way for other rampant abusers throughout the '90s. However, we've traditionally loved that team because of their "Whatever it Takes" theme and attitude (and because they adopted the Hooters' "Day by Day" as their unofficial theme song).

We were a college freshman when Mitch Williams grooved an inside fastball to Joe Carter. We sat in the hallway of our dorm for the next hour, staring blankly ahead in a pose similar to the one we adopted each time the Eagles came up short earlier this decade.

But we digress. Let's get to the point, shall we?

Something weird if happening in Philly these days. The Phillies have 10 games to play, and there is a very real possibility that they could win the Wild Card. We're doing our best not to get our hopes up too much, but this current group has some key ingredients:

Some of the players seem to actually, you know, want to win (Ryan Howard, Chase Utley, Jeff Conine, Jaime Moyer, Cole Hamels).

Some of the players are young and really, really, hungry (Ryan Howard, Chase Utley and Cole Hamels).

Some of the players can actually pitch a good game. And one of them is young and really, really hungry (Hamels).

We really, really, really hope this season doesn't end the way pretty much every other season in the team's 100-plus-year-losingest-team-ever existence doesn't end with, "Huh. Well, that was pointless."

We didn't even get into Howard, who at this point might be having the cleanest magical season in the history of our sport. We read a stat the other day. Five people have hit more than 60 home runs in baseball ever. Ruth and Maris.

And then, voila, Bonds, McGwire and Sosa. Ech.

We're praying Howard hits 63. And the Phillies win the Wild Card. And we end world hunger and get our troops the f*ck out of Iraq.

Baby steps, y'all. Just sweep the Marlins, fellas.

Quote of the Day

From Playboy's October 2006 interview with Ludacris:

"(Laughs). That's not an exageration, man. If you're proud of yourself, you've broken out a ruler and measured yourself. All I can say is I'm extremely proud of myself. And took a while to realize because it's not like I go around peeping at other men. It's something I've been told by many women. I'm exceptional -- very much. I was told. Women, watch out for us medium-built guys."

Um. We measured when we were 15 and we tossed the ruler into the garbage in disgust.

But Luda's quote is better.

Close runner-up to Quote of the Day, from the same interview, only this time it comes from the interviewer:

"With the number of sex songs you've done, now you're getting shy? You've got a half a dozen songs just about your balls."

Meanwhile, back in the lunchroom

Act I, Scene II: The lovely lunch ladies sit down and discuss politics.

Lady 1: McGreevey was kind of hot, right?
Lady 2: Well, we haven't had a lot of hot governors.
Lady 4: Florio was kind of hot.
Lady 3: He was all Mafioso hot.
L1: But McGreevey was, too. Hot, I mean.
L3: You know who was a piece of ass?
L2: Clinton?
L3: That’s right honey. I'd'a knocked Monica Lewinsky outta the way to get me some of that.

It's what we get for reading news sites before bed

So in last night's dream, we went to a triple-murder suicide scene and, because the me-jah said it was OK, we took a leg home with us.

When we realized the leg wouldn't last in our bureau bottom drawer, we called our good buddy the police chief and told him what we'd done. We asked him if he wanted the leg. He told us to call the fire department.

Hmmm. Where did all this come from?

We never texted Ric Flair *anything*

So Trish Stratus got to retire last night from World Wrestling Entertainment.

(We refuse to call it "the WWE" -- how is entertainment worthy of a the? Seriously. Sound it out, all you people who insist on calling it "the WWE." The. World. Wrestling. Entertainment. The Entertainment? It makes no sense).

Anyway, we adore the Trish Stratus in these here parts. You should, too. She's relatively our age, she went out on top, and she's hot as balls. So here's to ya, Trish Stratus. And God speed.

(Photo from wwe.com).

We had this strange dream

Stranger than normal, yes.

We're backstage at a bar somewhere in the city, and we're panicking because we don't know what to play. Then we remember. Just 30 seconds of The Wreckers' "Leave the Pieces" is all we need.

So we play it. There are judges involved, and they kind of dig it. Next thing we know, we're being whisked away to Nashville.

And then our alarm went off.

Huh. This dream was *so* much better than the ones we normally have about our car crashing into a lake or every single one of our family members, estranged, dead or otherwise, filling an auditorium and dancing to "When I'm 64."

Aw come on.

Um. Aren't there rules against this sort of thing?

Like, if you're a trooper and you stop Willie Nelson. Aren't you automatically supposed to be all, "Well, Willie, er, Mr. Nelson. We'll, uh, well, we'll let you go just this once, OK?"

It's sort of like stopping the Cannonball Run girls, no?

Ech.

(Awesome photo by Tony Kurdzuk, Star-Ledger. And by awesome we mean sh*t).

"That loss right there was my responsibility," said Eagles coach Andy Reid in his post-game press conference.

Your godd*mn right it was, Coach Reid.

And Donovan with the head-faking five-yard penalty. And Westbrook with the oops here ya go fumble. And Trent Cole, he of four sacks on the year, and he of an unnecessary roughness penalty in the fourth quarter to put the Giants in field goal range.

There. That just about sums up our thoughts on the week 2 NFL recap in these here parts. We have to give it to the Giants 8-year-old quarterback. He sure did rally his troops.

Things we don't think our mother likes to hear

"Hold on, mom. (We're) about to get side-sweeped by this asshole. Look at this f*cking guy..."

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.

"Motherf*cker. God. (We) hate the Flemington Circle. Assholes.

"You still there, mom? Sorry 'bout that."

"Please be careful," she said. "You need to calm down and not be so angry."

We waited long enough

HEY! Here's why Bill Burr quickly moved up our list of Top 10 present-day heroes!

And a memo to Philly fans, of which we're one: enough with the non-stop whoa-is-youse booing. Try some positivity for a change. It works wonders in these here parts. Seriously. Breathe deeply and all the angst is forgotten. Just. Breathe. Deeply.

Turn the volume down if you're at work and those around you don't like to hear the f*cking C word followed by f*ck f*cking Rocky sucks f*ck f*cking f*ck f*ck.

For the record, Mr. Burr performed at the Opie and Anthony Traveling Virus Tour in Camden this past Saturday. The drunks on the lawn were a tad orn'ry. Hilarity ensued.

Meanwhile, back to things that really matter

Act I, Scene 1: Thirteen ladies sit around the lunchroom table. An in-depth conversation about real world matters ensues. Old Man Snap almost punches his ownself in the face. Repeatedly.

Lady 1: He died in his sleep! In her room!
Lady 2: Yeah! He went down to see her and her baby and he died!
Lady 3: He was smokin’ some of that Jamaican stuff.
L2: I thought they were in the Bahamas.
L3: Smokin’ that Marley weeeeeeed.
L1: The what?
L2: I thought he had a heart attack.
L3: Bahamamamamarley weeeeeed. Like he was smokin’ it up! That weed, maaan!
L2: Does that give you a heart attack?
L1: I just think it’s a shame. She has a baby and her son dies in the room.
L2: How awful.
Ladies 4-13: Mmmmhmmmm.

To the guy standing bare-ass nekkid in front of the mirror in the gym bathroom, slicking back your hair like Paulie Walnuts and smirking

Wow.

At least have the courtesy to tuck next time, or throw on a hand towel or some sh*t. We know you were proud and all, but please please please don't stand in front of the mirror with no clothes on whatsoever. And while you're standing in front of the mirror with no clothes on whatsoever, please don't stand in the *middle* of the walkway.

Flaunting. And combing.

We were on the fence all day about saying anything. We opted against it. Then we thought Mr. Stewart could pretty much sum it up. Then. And now.

Notes from Week 1

We sat at the Frog (in the precise seat we embedded ourselves in last night -- good times) with our good friend Jim and watched the Eagles beat up on some Texans. We did so quietly and cautiously, save for the standard yelps and boo-yahs that one of us is prone to barking out.

Eagles 24, Texans 10. We'll say this once because we're from the PhillyBurbs and we know better. We picked the Eagles to win the East this year. Mainly because T.O. will blow up Dallas and Eli's a p*ssy and the Redskins, well, eat ass. Just saying. Not bragging.

That's it for predictions in these here parts, at least football-related ones. We will offer a brief observation, though, because y'all are dying for OMS to drop him some football philosophy.

So three Bills fans sat behind us at the bar, and all of them make us wonder if all Bills fans cheer every single play, loudly. Every. One. Loudly.

"YES! THEY BROKE THE HUDDLE! YES! BREAK THAT HUDDLE! YES! DID YOU SEE THAT SNAP?! WHOOOOOOOOOO! SNAP!"

Patriots 19, Bills 17.

Aaaaahaaaaaa Bills fans WHAT.

One more thing: the Eagles are now 10-0 when we sip Bloody Marys at the Frog. Word. We're so the 12th old man.

So we did sound

We checked out our favorite li'l open mic night on Friday night -- not to perform, but to volunteer to run the sound. We learned all about mic levels and sound and bass and treble and mute buttons and peaks and valleys and Jesus. Alright. Not so much with the Jesus, but y'all get the point.

Among the performers was Ron, a man in his 50s who's never played on stage anywhere before. He was out-of-his-mind nervous. Like, trembling nervous. But he got through an instrumental Irish ballad with his friend, and then he sang a tune.

We were right there with him every step of the way, as was the room. When he finished, the place went nuts. It was by far the warmest thing we've seen in months. The man was on the verge of tears when he walked off the stage.

We can't really describe what relief meant to Ron, other than knowing that when his eyes reddened and teared a bit, he was conveying a sense of self-satisfaction only found when one takes his biggest fear and punches it directly in the face.

It's easier said than done, but we kind of like the idea of punching fear right in the face.

We get it. She's a b*tch and you want her to pine for you and tell you she can't live without you and your broken dreams while you drink another beer.

Guy on cell phone next to favorite pub o' ours: I just want her to be happy, you know? Just as long as she's happy. That's really all that matters, man. I'll be OK. Just as long, you know, just as long as she's happy.

We just wish we could rock the glasses like him

And we *loved* the Killing Yourself to Live. Klosterman. Sweet. Although not so much with the exclamation points.

So there is a God afterall

We were kind of hoping she'd save herself for *our* video, but, well, we get it. He's Dylan and we don't have one. Damnit.

Whatever happened to "Honk if You're Happy"?

Spotted on the wonderful commute yesterday morning on the big ol' gas guzzler in front of us, two bumper stickers that made us orn'ry: I'd rather hunt with Dick Cheney than ride with Ted Kennedy, and Ted Kennedy has killed more people than Dick Cheney. Any questions, Liberals?

Um. We have one. Two, tops.

Why are we still at war, and, um, off topic, but does it really matter who tells us the news and what her sign-off will be, and do we really need to reference Gilligan's Island and/or Anchorman when referencing said news?

We seen that there Up Close & Personal, there. Tally Atwater sure was a looker, but she sure did tell us the news the way we like it: what happened? To who, now? When? Where? Why? How? Next.

Instead, we get: As the end credits rolled, Couric, wearing a white jacket over a black shirt and skirt, was leaning against the edge of her desk, showing her famous legs.

Ech.

OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG LIKE TOTALLY BREAKING NEWS Y'ALL WE GOT THE BABY PICTURES EVERYONE IS TALKIN' BOUT!

We were so the cutest baby, well, 3-year-old, ever. Suri who? Like we'd link to the alleged li'l lass in these here parts.

And once again, back to things we wrote in our Europe journal when we were 24

...There we were, the five of us. A former bartender who has modeled, acted and mined in the Great Northwest, a former financial adviser, a former district attorney, a "vacationing reporter" and a recent college grad. Drunk along the Champs-Elysees and looking for some McDonald's french fries.

It started with talking about Peter Cetera

And it ended with a discussion on how we can get Joe Esposito on the iTunes. Suggestions, anyone?

And then Jack cried

So Dawson is all pick me, choose me, love me and Joey is all I. Just. Don't. Know. And Pacey is like what bitches I love her and boy can I brood with the best of 'em and Jenn is all Henry no sex no sex no sex how dare you leave for eight weeks of football camp when I planned our whole summer without telling you and now you're telling me at the fake prom Dawson set up to impress Joey no sex no sex no sex and Henry is all, um, ah, duh, um, ah.

So Joey is all Pacey wanna dance and Pacey is all I'm sniffing your hair and touching your smooth porceline Potter skin and Dawson is all GRRRR ANGRY DAWSON WANT BREAK STUFF and Andy is all huh, guess Pacey's still in love with Joey and Joey is all uh-oh poor me I just can't make decisions for the life of me.

So Pacey is all I'm going sailing, it takes me away to where I've always heard it could be, just a dream and the wind to carry me and soon I will be free and Andy is all k bye and Joey is all here's your mom's diamond earrings, Dawson, and oh, by the way, I can't chose and Dawson is all man I have huge eyebrows and OK Joey, I'll wait for you.

And Jack at the train station with his boyfriend and the boyfriend with the you have to kiss me first it's not like this is a TV show and Jack is frozen and the boyfriend is all peace out I'm sure there's an after-school special I can audition for.

Wow. Never saw this coming.

From the AP:

CAIRNS, Australia - Steve Irwin, the hugely popular Australian television personality and conservationist known as the "Crocodile Hunter," was killed Monday by a stingray while filming off the Great Barrier Reef. He was 44.

Irwin was at Batt Reef, off the remote coast of northeastern Queensland state, shooting a segment for a series called "Ocean's Deadliest" when he swam too close to one of the animals, which have a poisonous bard on their tails, his friend and colleague John Stainton said.

"He came on top of the stingray and the stingray's barb went up and into his chest and put a hole into his heart," said Stainton, who was on board Irwin's boat at the time.

Crew members aboard the boat, Croc One, called emergency services in the nearest city, Cairns, and administered CPR as they rushed the boat to nearby Low Isle to meet a rescue helicopter. Medical staff pronounced Irwin dead when they arrived a short time later, Stainton said.

Irwin was famous for his enthusiasm for wildlife and his catchword "Crikey!" in his television program "Crocodile Hunter." First broadcast in Australia in 1992, the program was picked up by the Discovery network, catapulting Irwin to international celebrity.

He rode his image into a feature film, 2002's "The Crocodile Hunters: Collision Course" and developed the wildlife park that his parents opened, Australia Zoo, into a major tourist attraction.

Ah the wonders of the myspace

Brittni just wants to be left alone. And do people really live in Kansas City?

"Do ME a FAVOR...PLEASE ONLY ADD ME IF YOU ARE IN THE KANSAS CITY AREA! I will not add you if you are not and I have over 1,000 requests to go thru! THANKS!"

File this under things we'll never get to say to Diane Lane. And that makes us sad.

So. Um. Wow. We're so nervous. Wow. Um. It's so nice to, um, meet, um, you. You. Wow. We're so nervous. Um. We never, um, watched the Tuscan Sun, um, like, wow, movie. We're shaking. Wow. Um, but, ah, we did, um, see you in, um, Un-um-faithful and wow that scene on the, um, train, um, with the acting. And, well, um, the bathroom, um, scene, was, um, fan, um, tastic. Wow. You're, um, very, pretty. That necklace is, um, fan, um, tastic.

Like you, um, in the bathroom. Ah. Not that we're saying, um, we think about, um, you in the bathroom, um, a lot. OK. Well. Um. We should, um, probably get going, um, now. Nice, um, meeting you, um, ah, sweetie.

Nice

BLAMMOS!

How to know when to cut bait and pack it in

Via text at 2:33 in the morning: You are definatly not an out there, crazy type r u?

Why does everyone always listen to Brandon?

We're done, maybe, with the venting about the 90210 episodes on the Soap Network.

Today was the last straw. Steve was all SPARK IT UP FOSHIZZLE because Dick died of a heroin overdose at the Peach Pit After Dark and Brando was all HEY PUT THAT DOWN pot is bad mmmmmK? And Steve, of course, was all, pot is bad everyone and it leads to outright heroin whoredom and who put this pot pipe at my friend's memorial and let's remember Dick for who he was: an athlete*. A scholar**. A nice good friend***.

* asshole.
** low-life crack whore.
*** he sniffed up the whole score. Bastard.