We're Out

We went back home. http://www.flipsidesports.net/. Update your bookmarks accordingly.

T'was a good run. Onward & upward, Flipsidiots. We'll always have Cadillac Anderson, the Bedford All-Nighter, and the shared misery of The Mike Davis Years.

El fin.

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Thursday Night Rocktitude

In case you've been considering having your corneas torched into a fine, chalky powder ... well, tonight's your lucky night. It's "Live Band Karaoke" at the Vogue. Which technically begins at 8:00 — unless, of course, you're generally terrified of singing in public but just can't resist the splendor that is Eddy Grant's "Electric Avenue" because that song fucking changed my life at an early age. In which case, pre-karaoke ether shots begin promptly at 11:30 AM. In my office.

Don't go because I'm telling you to. Go because you'll get to hurl damaging insults and projectiles at the drunken anesthesiologist who gets up there and butchers "Beast of Burden." Go because that's what Americans do. Go because you haven't genuinely hit it hard on a Thursday night since college. But mainly, go because it's for a good cause. The Julian Center, where all the proceeds are going.

And make sure to introduce yourself to Speedway Williams. He'll be the 6'7" Doug Decenzo look-alike wearing mirror-lensed Ray Bans and a smoking jacket.
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Friday Afternoon Randomness (Hall & Oates Edition)

[On the set of the "She's Gone" video -- February 4, 1973]

John Oates: Let's make us a video! What do you got in store for us here?? African lions and shit-stomping fireworks and bullet trains and the like???

Producer: Two barcaloungers, some Monopoly money, a broken fishing rod, and a devil costume. I'm sorry, John. But the label only gave us a $17 budget. And we've only got this set for the next eight minutes. So we have to hurry. Let's start shooting.

John Oates: Shoot WHAT?!? We haven't rehearsed shit. Plus, I'm smack-fucking-dab in the middle of a six-day ether binge. I woke up in a Sacramento deli this morning. No fucking clue how I got there. And Daryl just ate three pounds of low-grade Canadian acid! He thinks he's a goddamn wheelbarrow right now! LOOK AT HIM!!! He can't even blink! How the fuck can we make a video?! This is bullshit! I thought we were just rehearsing today!!

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Producer: I know. It sucks. But we're just going to have make do ... we have to wing it. Just sit in the chair and sing the song. Maybe throw the Monopoly money around at different intervals -- people like that kind of reckless shit. Just do your thing. I'll take care of the rest. We've got seven minutes left. I think we can pull this off. In fact, I think we can make magic here today, gentlemen.

John Oates: Goddamn right we can!! We're Hall and fucking Oates! Get up, Daryl!!! GET UP!!! And put your fucking robe on!!! Let's make some magic!

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I Love You Earl Weaver

Meet the New Pacers (Vol. I)

Greetings and salutations, Indianapolis. Or as they say in the Balkans, Bunã dzua. I am humbled and beholden to learn that I will soon join your fair bastion of Midwestern virtue.

I suppose you're here to ascertain a dollop about me, no? My blushes. Very well then.

[sips from snifter of Chivas Regal Royal Salute]

I am a high-seas sailor first, a scholar second, and a gentleman always ... I spend much of my summers engaged in archaeological digs in northern Ecuador ... I idolize Ayn Rand, Copernicus and Trey Anastasio ... I'm on the International Board for the Advancement of Solar Power ... my mother was a professional bullfighting protester from the south of Portugal, my father a molecular biologist at CERN ... I support a universal flat tax, but only conditionally ... I am skilled in the low post, but also in the diagnosis and treatment of left ventricular hypertrophy ... my secret, irresistible vice is Bavarian veal cutlets in a creamy cherry sauce (preferably with a stout, hickory-scented port) ... I disdain tomfoolery and dullards ... and finally, I compare my basketball prowess to an arthritic Robert Parrish.

I do not wish to speak of myself any further, lest I present myself as vainglorious and off-putting. We shall to grow to become familiar with each other in the weeks to come, of that I am sure.

Now, if you will excuse me, I must adjourn. As the Burmese theologians might say, Twáme naw. And may Peace be with you.

— Augustus Irwin ("Roy") Hibbert, IV

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See the Problem ... Fix the Problem

A simple, common sense approach to problems, it seems, has gone the way of Goody's Headache Powder. And public hangings. There's too much over-thinking these days. Too much sensitivity. The goal isn't to necessarily fix the problem, per se. It's to fix the problem in a way that doesn't step on any toes. That doesn't offend anyone. And it's usually based in faggy physics and science and other complicated, world-of-academia shit.

That's why we're giving a big standing ovation to the hometown of Purdue University. They're fixing problems the old fashioned way: like a 6-year-old latchkey kid would.

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'West Lafayette buys large anti-stench fan'

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Kudos, West Lafayette City Council. Kudos. Really. Because most towns would have beat around the proverbial bush on such a matter. They'd waste entire public hearings jabbering on about fancy-pants solutions that may take years to implement. Not you.

Q: Our town continously smells like afterbirth and molded Funyuns. Been like that for decades. We're fed up. What should we do?

A: Fuck it. Let's buy a big-ass fan. Blow that stank westward. Next. .

You acknowledged the problem. You thought about it for a couple billionths of a second. And you acted. Decisively.

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Take note, America.

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Meet the New Sheriff of Crazyville

Mayor: Do you solemnly swear to protect the whaleshit insane values, principles, and tenets of our beloved city, so help you God?

Garnett: [uprooting a nearby birch tree, a live possum sits atop his shoulder ... they're both eating cotton candy] FFFFFFUUUUUCCCCCKKK YEAHHHHHHHHHHH!!! Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah! Certified, motherfuckers! Like Quincy motherfucking M.E.!!!! Oink oink oink oink oink oink oink oink oink oink oink oink!!!!!

Mayor: I hereby pronounce you Sheriff. Be well, friend.

Garnett: [says nothing ... gleefully leaps into a waiting hot air balloon ... once airborne, gives the double thumbs-up move while seductively licking the white-hot burner]

Mayor: God bless that man.
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Welcome Back Big Smooth

You hired Perkins? Right on.

How could this possibly go bad?