Best Actor 2008: The Muppets Win Again

Mickey Rourke's performance in The Wrestler was as moving as it was unexpected. Such memorable roles are often rewarded come Awards season, right? Yeah, I thought so too. Unfortunately for Mickey, he ran into the mortal lock in Sean Penn. Allow me to explain.

I'm not sure what caused it(go ahead and blame Dubya...everyone else does), but Hollywood has steadily become more and more liberal during the 21st century, and this is especially reflected by the voting patterns of the "Academy." Ah, yes. The Academy: that enigmatic collection of geezers that always makes me think of Statler and Waldorf.

The Academy?

Look at the list of Best Actor winners. During the 20th century, only one African-American was honored with a Best Actor Academy Award(Sidney Poitier in Lilies of the Field). And this is just speculation, but I'm guessing that Tom Hanks's turn as Andrew Beckett in Philadelphia was the only gay portrayal to win Best Actor in the 20th century. If that's incorrect, kindly leave an inflammatory comment.

And now, with the first decade of the new millenium not yet complete, we've already seen 3 African-American lead actors and 2 homosexual portrayals win Best Actor(Denzel Washington, Jamie Foxx, Forest Whitaker, Phillip Seymour Hoffman, and Sean Penn).

Of those five actors, some deserved the award(Denzel and Whitaker), while others benefited from the Academy's sudden infatuation with the biopic(Foxx, Hoffman, and Penn). Yes, I said it. For whatever reason, the bio has become the deciding factor when the Academy is weighing the nominees, with homosexual portrayals running a close second. This is completely and utterly criminal.

Statler and Waldorf need to examine their recent voting pattern and make some changes. It's currently an absolute LOCK if an actor portrays a gay man in a film "inspired" by "real events." The reasoning is completely asinine. Really, Academy? Really? Are you really telling me that a biopic role(a role in which the actor knows precisely how to move, look, and sound) should receive more recognition than a role that is created and molded from scratch? Really? And are you also telling me that a man kissing another man is superb acting? When did we decide on this?

Don't start accusing me of being a Prop-8-loving gay-basher just yet. All I'm saying is that the most unforgettable performances of the past few years will be forgotten before long because they don't have the "Best Actor" tag alongside them. It's a shame.

Take a look at 2005. Hoffman won for his role in Capote, in which he portrayed an openly homosexual man who existed before the film was made. Wrap up the Oscar. Apologies to Terrence Howard of Hustle & Flow and Heath Ledger of Brokeback Mountain. Terrence, you gave us a shocking, inspiring breakout performance. But, sadly, your fictional character was, um, FICTIONAL, so how can we possibly judge your acting ability? There's nothing to compare it to, stupid! And Heath, yours was an absolutely enthralling performance. You remembered to make out with a dude, which was great. You almost got to give the acceptance speech. But Ennis never existed in reality, did he? No, he didn't. Sorry, fellas! There's always Best Supporting Actor!

And yes, Phillip Seymour Hoffman is a wonderful actor. Don't email me. Have you actually watched Capote? YAWN.

And now the 2008 Academy Awards have come and gone, and it's deja vu all over again. You cannot tell me that Sean Penn deserved Best Actor over Mickey Rourke. No one else could have portrayed Randy the Ram. Rourke looked the part(thanks to his second profession as a boxer), and he played the part. It was a once-in-a-lifetime role that was given to the right man at the right time, and he acted the shit out of it. This is so rare that, when it happens, it deserves to be recognized. Instead, Penn walked away with the bling because he had the foresight to star in a biopic and he remembered to share a few kisses with another man.

Shenanigans.

Caution: This Blog Post Was Written By a Tech Pariah

Can you believe that a legitimate leprosy medication wasn't fully implemented until the 1990s? This may or may not be true, as the info came straight from Wikipedia. Let's just pretend leprosy was running rampant and killing millions until the 1990s.

Since the destruction of the disease and the subsequent decline of the leper colony, where do outcasts go from here?

Coincidentally, at roughly the same time leprosy was getting its ass rocked, Apple released the iMac. The iMac paved the way for the iPod, which paved the way for the iPhone.

See where I'm going with this?

If not, here's an anecdote for you. I wake up every day and go to work, and my ancient Dell Inspiron laptop and LG enV2 phone are surrounded by MacBooks and iPhones. It's become a daily routine for me to console my heartbroken devices and explain to them that their brothers and sisters are slowly dying, falling prey to the most powerful personal electronics company in the world.

So here I am, devoted to a PC that's so old that it doesn't even run Vista and a phone that's most impressive as a texting tool and, shockingly, a phone. It's not a web browser, game player, or song identifier. It's just a phone.

I am the Apple avoider. I am the tech pariah.

Yes, I have an iPod. So does my grandmother.

I didn't intentionally avoid Apple. I didn't have a bad experience with a product and decide to boycott as a result. I just never needed a more expensive and less powerful personal computer. But the iPhone is different. It cannot be stopped. Either get on board or take up residence in the 21st-century leper colony with the other enV's, and yes, even the Blackberries.

When iPhone owners spy my cell phone, they look at me with exactly the same facial expression a Starbucks barista gives a patron who comes in and orders a medium hot chocolate. It's a look of patient annoyance. To them, I'm like the first grader whose enthusiastic coloring extends well beyond the pre-determined borders.

Give him time, they say. He'll figure it out.

I'll text you if I do.

New topic

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The.

The cat.

Alright, I think I remember now how to do this blog thing.

I'm back from the land called, "Adulthood." This is a place where fun goes to die. This is a place where friends and loved-ones become people who's name it takes a second to remember.

This is a place where you have to pay bills. Real bills mind you; not your $20 "bill" that your parents made you pay in high school to teach you how to manage the money you already spent on something.

This is a place where you finally have a nice car and apartment - but spend no time in either.

This is a place where you meet a great girl and she likes you and you like her and you decide to go on a date.....in two months because that's when your schedules line up.

Dammit. I'm not a fan of this place.

I want to go back to seventeen, where I drove a POS, but had no cares in the world. Don't get me wrong. It's been great getting older seeing friends marry, have kids, going on trips....but seriously, responsibility sucks.



Consider this your introduction to my new topic for the next couple of months. I'm going to complain about growing up. If you don't like it - I DO NOT CARE. This is for me. If not, I'm going to kill someone soon....but not before my date in two months.




Also - not a fan of this guy.

Luke Busts a Cap

In case you missed it, I'm now writing for an actual sports website(you can read my inaugural piece on Jason Giambi here). But not to worry-I'll still be slumming here on Blogger. This blog is very near and dear to me, mostly because I use it vent my sports and entertainment frustrations. And lately, the NBA salary cap has really gotten under my skin.

For all the laymen and laywomen out there, a salary cap is the maximum amount of money a team can spend on its players in a given season. Salary caps are instituted in order to encourage parity in the league while ensuring that no team can buy a championship(I'm looking at you, AL East). Depending on how much revenue the league generated in the previous season, the salary cap rises or falls accordingly. The NBA cap was instituted in the 1984-85 season. It was 3.6 million dollars. It has risen steadily to get to the $58.68 million figure that we see today.

But apparently that isn't high enough. As of this writing, there is one(ONE!!!) team in all of the NBA that is currently under the salary cap. Congratulations, Memphis Grizzlies! You finally won something!

Yay!

The NBA has what is called a "soft" cap, as opposed to the "hard" caps that we see in the NFL and NHL. This means that NBA teams can hike payroll well above the salary cap without penalty. And the reason for this is the Hick from French Lick, the legendary Larry Bird. Here, check out this Wiki entry if you want all the details. In a nutshell, the NBA lets teams go over the salary cap in order to re-sign their own players(this rule was first used when the Celtics wanted to keep Bird).

I think I see what the league was trying to do here. Larry Bird belonged in Boston, Michael Jordan belonged in Chicago, so rules were bent to keep them in their home towns. I'd go so far as to say that it was the right decision to institute the Bird rule.

The problem I have with the NBA salary cap is that teams can, in fact, buy championships(2007-2008 Boston Celtics, anyone?). This is exactly what a cap is supposed to prevent! The Celtics' payroll is $80 million this year. The Cleveland LeBrons are spending $90 million! In what universe could this possibly make sense?

For all of you soft cap enthusiasts out there screaming at me to acknowledge the luxury tax, I hear you. Now let me tell you why you're wrong. The luxury tax, for those who don't know, is essentially the actual salary cap figure. Allow me to explain. This season, the luxury tax is set at $71.15 million. If a team exceeds the tax level, they must pay that amount to the NBA, which then distributes that money to the owners whose teams are under the luxury tax figure.

Let's use Cleveland as an example. Because their payroll exceeds the luxury tax level by roughly 19 million dollars, they must give that 19 million to the NBA on top of the 90 million they're already paying the players. Got it?

Of course, if you have a merchandising machine like LeBron James, that $19M becomes chump change pretty quickly. And if you also count the fact that LeBron is decent at playing the game of basketball, you'll realize that a deep playoff run makes the luxury tax even more irrelevant because every single playoff home game nets the owners millions upon millions of dollars.

So what did we learn? Fact 1: The NBA has a salary cap. Fact 2: This cap is about as relevant as 21st century Corey Feldman. The league doesn't have parity; it's all smoke and mirrors. Up yours, NBA.

The Secret To Vampire Weekend's Success

Every once in a great while, a band comes along that redefines what it is to be great. Their music is better live than it is in studio. Their songs have significance to millions, their sound transcends genre, and in general, their perfect arrangements can take fans to a higher place.

Vampire Weekend is not one of those bands. They will never be one of those bands. For the life of me, I cannot figure out why so many teenagers, twentysomethings, and critics love their sound.

Take the video for the song A-Punk. I scoped it out after hearing good things about Vampire Weekend. I was excited, totally pumped for that rare experience of hearing a great band for the first time. Then I spent the entire song waiting for the shoe to drop.



You know what this reminds me of? OK Go. And wow, when I think dynamite bands, I think OK Go. Any group that makes a gimmicky music video says they made it because they're so "hilarious" and "quirky," but in reality gimmicky videos are used in order to "distract fans" from the "awful music."

Vampire Weekend is bailed out by their indie-pop label, of course. People hear the word 'indie' and immediately think 'underground,' which of course gives bands the leeway to absolutely blow. Because I'm always looking out for you, here's a quick Indie-to-English translator for you.

Raw = Awful

Undiscovered = Awful

Experimental = Awful

Underground = Awful

The other half of indie-pop would be the word "pop." In other words, harmless summer music best listened to while drunk, on a boat, or drunk while boating. If you want more examples of pop music, just think about whether or not the artist in question sings on stage with a headset mic. If so, we have a pop artist!

In Nitsuh Abebe's review of Vampire Weekend on Pitchfork, he says a lot of people hate the band because of their east coast preppie foundation. He could be mistaken. I can't stand Vampire Weekend because their music sucks. It's pretty simple. And if that makes me an indie music detractor, then fine.

I hear and read a lot of praise for Vampire Weekend's originality. Let me tell you something, folks. Just because a band is so transcendantly terrible that no other band has ever been as putrid, this does not make them orignial. If I formed a band and released an album, that record would also be original. Catch my drift? Vampire Weekend is being praised for being one-dimensional, simple, and untalented. I will now sit back and wait for the rest of you to figure it out.

A Cautionary Tale To Be Read By Peyton Manning

"No, Brett, I don't want to dance."

With his 3rd MVP Award, Peyton Manning has just tied Brett Favre for the most in NFL history. This narrows the gap even further in the Manning/Favre debate, doesn't it? Each man is durable, prolific, and owner of exactly one Super Bowl ring. Currently, the main difference between the two(if we ignore the fact that one guy led his team to a 12 win season and the other would have trouble finding 12 guys on his team with a good thing to say about him) is that Manning is 32, and Brett Favre is 39.

He's 39 years old, people. Is anyone surprised by what transpired this season? Let's flash back to Week 12. The Jets move to 8-3 after spanking the formerly unbeaten Tennessee Titans. Favre's season quarterback rating is in the low 90s, practically a miracle for a man his age. Peter King ranks the Jets #2 on his Fine Fifteen, and hints that it would be just fantastic to see a New York/New York Super Bowl with a halftime interruption by The Boss.

Apparently King, Favre's other bandwagon jumpers, and the fans that ditched the Packers for the Jets(you know who you are) forgot one very important fact: old people freaking hate cold weather. Witness Favre's final pass as a Packer in the record-low temperatures of Green Bay. It was picked off by the Giants, they won in overtime, then made history or something.

I'm not normally one to toot my own horn, but back in June I remember saying something about Favre wanting to return to football in order to prove that he's still got it. No champion quarterback wants his last pass to be an interception. So what did Favre do? He came back with a bang! And on his final pass of 2008, he....threw an interception that killed the Jets' playoff hopes in the process. He sure showed us! After beating the Titans, the Jets finished 1-4, thanks mostly to Favre and his 2 TDs to 9 INTs, which equated to a rating in the mid 50s. He choked when his team needed him the most. We might as well call him Brett Grossman from now on.

Here's the link to King's short interview with Brett the Jet after the Tennessee win. There's one Favre quote in particular that I just love. "I knew what a change it would be, especially in New York. I was about to be 39, and New York wasn't a great fit. The media, [the Jets] coming off a 4-12 season, learning a new offense, the high expectations...did I really want to go through that? A change like that would have been tough on a 22-year-old."

Yeah, it sure must be tough on those 22-year-olds to learn a new offense. Oh wait...they call that the NFL Draft. And to really hammer home my cold-weather point, I will now paraphrase Bill Simmons. If you need your driveway shoveled, who is better equipped for the task? A strong 22 year old, or a 39 year old uncle who pops pills like Pez? You're going with the younger guy, no question. Favre listed plenty of advantages to being a 39 year old quarterback, but he neglected to mention that the elderly happen to hate cold weather, noise, and physical abuse. If you hate those things, you might want to avoid being an NFL quarterback in December.

The Word of Caution:

And so here we are, on the cusp of another NFL postseason. Peyton Manning has his 3rd MVP. Brett Favre's team hates him. Well, maybe not the whole team. But he's partly responsible for running a solid coach out of town and alienating his younger peers. And so goes the tale of the superstar athlete who leeches onto a new team for one last shot at the glory he once had. Huge names, legendary names, have been scratched up because of this stubborn refusal to keep the all-important legacy in mind. Michael Jordan, Washington Wizard. Joe Montana, Kansas City Chief. Brett Favre, New York Jet.

"I'm ruining my legacy! Weeeeeeeeee!!!"

So Peyton, knowing that you're most likely reading my blog, I urge you to recognize when it's time to stop playing. You're obviously the best quarterback in the NFL right now, and you may wind up as the greatest ever when you're done. You have some great years left, but when they're done, hang 'em up and move on. Be John Elway. Don't be Brett Favre.

News Flash: Chemistry Trumps Payroll

Clap your hands if you do not belong on the sidelines.

Shockingly, the Dallas Cowboys fell short once again, despite all of their recognizable names. And just like last year, the only guy who is oblivious to the reasons why just happens to run the team.

Jerry Jones, meet the Steinbrenners.

These guys really are something. The Higher-Ups all around them are winning titles by drafting well, trading well, and removing cancerous players from the locker room. Oblivious to this fact, Jones and the Steinbrenners spend so magnificently that it can only lead us to believe they're under the impression that throwing more cash around than the other guy leads to championships. That would be similar to me facing a brick wall, quickly contemplating how to navigate it, then deciding that bashing my head against it continuously is the best course of action. As I concuss myself, those behind me would simply walk around it.

Figure it out, idiots!

Hi, I'm Jerry Jones! I think it's a can't-miss winning formula to sign Pacman Jones and Tank Johnson and throw them on a team together! Pacman is a decent human being! What's that? You say he's responsible for the paralysis of a man in Las Vegas? Before that, he grabbed a stripper by the hair and slammed her head against the floor? ALLEGEDLY! What about Michael Vick? He hates dogs! That is far worse, my friend! And as for Tank, hey, the man likes guns! I like boating! A man can't help his hobbies! Sign them up! Eat my ass, P.T. Barnum!

What? The Pacman signing backfired? I am SHOCKED!

My favorite part about this 2008 Dallas Cowboys circus is the fact that Jones didn't stop with Pacman. When Tony Romo went down with a boo boo on his pinkie, Jerral decided that his team needed another selfish, overhyped WR whose only professional experience had been in Detroit. Sounds like a winner! Hello, Roy Williams. Goodbye, four draft picks, including next year's 1st and 3rd rounders.

This is how Jones wants it. He thinks he has the know-how that's necessary to win titles, and the last decade of futility in Dallas should serve as proof. The early 90s dynasty that we remember was built by Jimmy Johnson. And there's a lesson in there somewhere that Jones has yet to discover: To win championships, you need a great coach. You don't need an owner that is convinced of his status as ringmaster. You need Jimmy Johnson and Bill Parcells. You don't need Barry Switzer or Wade Phillips.

Sadly, Jones will keep hiring yes-men like Switzer and Phillips because they allow him to act as he pleases. Phillips will wave happily to Jones as he intrudes on his sideline. He'll gladly grant him some locker room time before the game, after the game, or even at half. Where Johnson told Jones to get his ass off of his territory, Phillips will ask his owner if he needs a drink. So on and on the cycle will go. The Cowboys will stay America's Team because of their famous names and the drama that unfolds because of them. America loves its drama. And Jones will be left scratching his head as year after year goes by without another title. But hey, at least ticket prices will be higher than ever before!

Am I Supposed To Fold This Hand?

I mean, come on. A better mathematician than I needs to take a look at this and tell me what my odds to win this hand after the flop are. I know that they're better than 99%. Here's the scenario: It's early in a 10 person double-up tourney. What this means is that when it gets down to 5 people, the game ends and everyone doubles their buy in. It's a perfect format for me. Conservative play is key early on, and try to only risk all my chips if I have a monster in this initial setting. And my 4-3 offsuit was a monster.

I was in the freaking big blind. There's no way I even play this hand from any other position, even the small blind. It's way too weak. And then this flop comes, and I suddenly have the nut straight with very little possibility for a flush. Money. And then the button(who was slow-rolling his Aces like a Nemo, keeps raising on top of me. What would you do? In retrospect, I guess I should have folded! And I noticed that the river card is obscured by the mountain of chips that he pulled in. Don't worry, it's an Ace. He paired the board on the turn to keep himself alive and then rivered his rocket. MAN, do I love poker!

And I did the math. I'll win this hand after the flop roughly 99.5% of the time. 1 hand in 200, with this flop, will see 4-3 offsuit go down. Hooray. Since I am a combination of perplexed and pissed, I need to vent some more. Here are some people that have gotten on my nerves recently.

Chad Johnson: A better sports statistician than I needs to compare his numbers before and after he started the whole "OCHO CINCO" thing. My guess is that the nickname is cursed. We really need to get rid of it. Like, now. ESPN is not helping. Anchors refer to him as Chad Ocho Cinco now. I'm sure you've heard it; It's a near-daily occurrance. Did I miss something? Did he legally change his name? His name is Chad Johnson, not Chad Ocho Cinco. Fix your teleprompters, you east coast Ron Burgundys.

If we really want to get technical, "OCHO CINCO" is gramatically incorrect. Chad Johnson calls himself eighty-five. Right? He brilliantly subs this number in place of the thoroughly inefficient first-person singular pronoun we currently have in place. Here's the Spanish translation.

EIGHTY-FIVE

ochenta y cinco

EIGHT FIVE

ocho cinco

Ocho Cinco is really on to something. The English language could use a tune-up. Our pronouns need a complete overhaul to finally launch into the 21st century. I think it's a great idea.

For example, I've always been partial to the nickname "Assmaster." I'll use this word in place of the word "I." That seems much more efficient and straightforward. We can also replace the word "our" with "Gossip Girl" and the word "it" with "Bibbidy Bobbidy Boo." Here's how that previous paragraph would look with this new format.

Ocho Cinco is really on to something. The English language could use a tune-up. Gossip Girl pronouns need a complete overhaul to finally launch into the 21st century. Assmaster thinks Bibbidy Bobbidy Boo is a great idea.

Up yours, Ocho Cinco.

Brian Urlacher: If you feel like shedding a block or generating some lateral speed, call me before the play happens so I can record it and put it on YouTube.

All of North America, Except for Mexico: Ok, let's get off our high horses. Who here has honestly never uttered a comment like the one Sean Avery let loose in Calgary? I know I have. I don't understand this need for our athletes to be PC. They're not role models, folks! They cheat on spouses, snort coke, and smoke crack. Josh Howard is personally keeping Colombia afloat. And now Sean Avery might get booted from the NHL because he said "sloppy seconds?" Are we serious, North America? Are we serious? Give me a big, fat break and super size it with a Mr. Pibb.

Rick Reilly: I really used to enjoy his columns. I also used to enjoy Garfield comic strips and Excitebike. Ever since he joined ESPN, his persona has ballooned to an intolerable, Emmit Smith-esque level. During the home run derby, as Josh Hamilton was creating the last great memory in Yankee Stadium, Reilly was sitting up in left field yapping nonstop and lessening the moment. "HEY! DID YOU GUYS KNOW HAMILTON DID DRUGS? HE WAS KICKED OUT OF BASEBALL! WOW, I SURE HOPE HE'S NOT ON STEROIDS! THAT MIGHT RUIN THIS PERFORMANCE OF HIS!" I'm pretty sure that John Kruk looked over at Reilly at one point and wanted to eat him. Finally, one of Reilly's most recent columns filled the nation in on how exactly Michael Vick went bankrupt. Thanks for shedding light on this issue, Rick. The former QB probably hasn't gone through enough embarrassment and shame at this point. Let's twist the knife a little more. Jackass.

Bill Walton Haters: One of my Walton-hater friends recently informed me that he suddenly found the former center likeable. I've been preaching this for years. Bill Simmons had Walton on his podcast a while back. He said "How you doing, Bill?" and Walton proceeded to talk nonstop for an hour. I'm not kidding. I don't think he stopped to breathe. It was awesome.

And for the record, the conversation that caused my friend to hop the Walton fence occurred during ESPN's halftime show. Shaquille O'Neal was drolling on in his impossible-to-understand monotone, after which Walton said "That guy talks more than Obama." Jalen Rose, sitting immediately to Walton's right, flipped out. Fantastic television.

Oprah: Can you please stop?

Miley Cyrus: Can you please stop?

Nickelback: Wow. Please stop.

This concludes my venting session. I feel much better now.

My Very Own House M.D. Script

Open in a traditional suburban home on the east coast. A loving mother sends her children off to school. She walks into the kitchen and grabs a grapefruit. As she's cutting it open, the knife slips and cuts her finger. She gasps and curses, but her look of annoyance turns to one of shock when she realizes that her blood...is....GREEN!

House intro begins, complete with 'Teardrop' by Massive Attack. Good song.

Shot of Princeton-Plainsboro. Not a real hospital.

DR. LISA CUDDY

House, you're late.

DR. GREGORY HOUSE

How dare you! In case you haven't noticed, I walk with a limp. The fact that you expect me to have the punctuality of my able-bodied colleagues is insulting. You can avoid a future lawsuit by allowing me to stare at those sweater melons for a full 10 seconds.

Cuddy flashes a look of flattered anger. It's a complicated emotion. Ten seconds pass.

HOUSE:

Well, what have you got for me?

CUDDY:

You actually want to know? Are you feeling ok?

HOUSE:

No and yes.

He walks away.

CUDDY:

A woman is bleeding green.

HOUSE:

Maybe she's an alien!

Cut to the room where the doctors brainstorm together and come up with nothing but incorrect diagnoses. House enters to find everyone else already there. Dr. Remy "Thirteen" Hadley, Dr. Lawrence Kutner, Dr. Chris Taub, and Dr. Eric Foreman(no relation to Eric Forman of That '70s Show. Way to be original, FOX) do not say hello to House. He does not respond well to small talk.

HOUSE:

Sexy MILF...

KUTNER:

Isn't sexy MILF a little redundant?

HOUSE:

You're fired. Sexy MILF admitted with a cut on her hand.

THIRTEEN:

Why would you waste our time with a case like this?

HOUSE:

She's bleeding green.

The doctors exchange mandatory looks of shock. They are obviously in complete disbelief. I mean, patients are typically so normal at Princeton-Plainsboro.

TAUB:

It could be lupus. Does she have any joint pain?

It's never lupus. Taub's an idiot.

FOREMAN:

It's never lupus. Don't be an idiot. Could be toe cancer. Tumors on or near the left big toe have been known to cause blood discolorations.

HOUSE:

Perfect. Foreman, break into her apartment to see if she's hiding something. You DO know how to properly B&E, right? Oh, that's right. You're black.

Foreman flashes an I-can't-believe-I-still-effing-work-here face.

HOUSE:

Thirteen, Kutner, biopsy all of her toes. Taub, test for gangrene.

TAUB:

Gangrene? There's no way this woman could possibly...

HOUSE:

It's a joke! Gan-GRENE? Get it? Green?

The 4 doctors stare in disbelief.

HOUSE:

Ok, fine. Get a bone marrow biopsy.

Cut to House entering the office of Dr. James Wilson, House's BFF.

WILSON:

You're a robot devoid of emotion. I can't believe you enjoy the company of prostitutes.

HOUSE:

I can't believe you DON'T enjoy the company of prostitutes!

Male bonding is complete. House exits.

House enters his patient's room.

HOUSE:

I am your doctor, so let's assume two things. First, I am better than you. Second, you are lying.

PATIENT:

Excuse me?

HOUSE:

Note to self: Add 'hearing loss' to list of symptoms. How often to you use drugs?

PATIENT:

Never!

HOUSE:

You're lying.

House exits. He's a badass. Cut to the meeting room.

KUTNER:

Biopsy was negative for toe cancer.

TAUB:

Ditto for bone marrow.

HOUSE:

Ditto?

FOREMAN:

I found meth and ecstacy in her apartment. I, uh, don't have it on me though. Is anyone else noticing that Taub is much hotter than usual right now?

THIRTEEN:

I haven't said anything in a while. Did you guys know that I'm a bisexual with a drug problem? Just like my character was in The O.C. Wow, FOX sure is original!

RANDOM HOSPITAL EMPLOYEE:

Your patient is crashing!

The doctors rush out. Cut to patient's room. Dr. Robert Chase is covered in green goo.

CHASE:

There's so much blood! This woman has no chance to survive! Wait! Can we go to commercial? Quick, go to commercial! Get a crash cart in here!

Cut to commercial. We return to Princeton-Plainsboro and the patient, as usual, is fully stable. Commercials cure all wounds, apparently. Very subtle message, FOX. Meanwhile, House is in Wilson's office once again.

WILSON:

Any luck with your patient?

HOUSE:

Any luck finding a woman that won't leave you via divorce or death?

WILSON:

Wow. I cannot believe I continue to reach out to you. I don't know why I bother. It's like you're from another planet.

Epiphany music starts to build as House gets a glazed, faraway look in his eyes. FOX wants us to recognize this light bulb moment.

HOUSE:

Yes...from another planet.

House exits swiftly. As swiftly as a cripple can exit, anyway. Wilson flashes a "that's my House!" look. Cut to patient's room.

HOUSE:

Good news! You're going to be fine. Turns out you're an alien.

Patient sobs softly.

HOUSE:

Your reaction tells me two things. First, you're a woman. Second, you knew this all along. This all would have been easier had you just told us the truth from the start. I told you I'm better than you. Thirteen, start her on vinegar and cherry limeade from Sonic. That will negate her alien properties.

THIRTEEN:

Want to make out?

HOUSE:

Are you talking to me or the patient?

THIRTEEN:

Both of you!

Everyone in the room laughs and does a jumping high five. The end.

Not Another Poker Diary

Well folks, times are tough out there. For me. Your life is probably all roses and kittens and tiny little bunnies with big eyes and floppy ears. And from the bottom of my heart, let me just say, up yours. I may not be technically "employed" at the moment, but hey, that's just a word. Ask me if I have a steady income stream. Ask me!

Well, yes and no. I have an income stream, but it is anything but steady. Welcome to the wonderful world of online poker. And I know what you're thinking: I'm an absolute idiot. And I agree. For it is in this world that Unfairness and Swift Kicks to the Balls meet, forge offspring of pure evil such as 10 9 suited, and watch lovingly as their child proceeds to wreck my KK. I don't wish this infuriating life on anyone. Unless, of course, you place first in a 10 dollar rebuy tournament with $70K guaranteed. But that's not going to happen.

If it isn't clear, I just entered into that tournament, and I will be documenting my successes and failures, hopefully illuminating just how fantastic I am at this poker thing and just how much I get screwed.

3:07 pm: I have roughly 1,600 in chips and blinds are 10/20. I am in middle position in this hand with AK offsuit. First and second position just limped in, so there is now 70 in the pot. The action folds to me, and I push all in.

This is an insane overbet that basically screams I HAVE BIG SLICK! WHO WANTS TO TRY THEIR LUCK? I don't usually employ this technique but I find that in the rebuy period in small buy-in tournies such as these, I can snag an idiot and double up quickly. Lo and behold, the big blind calls and shows me KQ!

Lo and behold, the flop comes Q T T. I am screwed. Blanks fall on the turn and river, and I am forced into an early rebuy. Oh, the joy that this game can bring! Adding to my misery is the knowledge that the idiot who just sucked out on me is a redneck from Pinson, Alabama with a picture of his dog as his avatar. Hooray.

3:18 pm: Some numbers on this tournament: There are a little over 2,000 entrants, and the rebuy period lasts a solid 90 minutes as opposed to the typical 60. So having $70K guaranteed in the tournament means that the host is expecting 5,000 or more rebuys and add-ons. They've already gotten one from me!

3:21 pm: A lot of players show aggression at an online poker table that borders on idiocy. And when you have a tournament for 10 measley dollars PLUS the safety net of a rebuy period, you can rest assured that the donkeys will come out in full force. With a whopping 7 callers in on my big blind hand of pocket 8s, I chose to check instead of to raise. My intention here is to flop a third 8, and if I don't I can get out of the way. Any raise I put out preflop will only sweeten the pot for all of these callers. The flop came A 4 5, no good for me. I got out of there quickly.

3:24 pm: I am hit with AQ offsuit in the small blind. A couple people limp in, including my redneck friend, and the button(or the "dealer," who is currently one seat to my right) moves all in for about 1,400. After some deliberation, I choose to push my 1,500 chips into the mix as well. Everyone folds to the redneck from Alabama, who calls instantly. The initial raiser shows 58 of clubs(a typical hand at this stage, which is downright hilarious), and redneck shows AT of hearts. The flop comes K 2 T(of course) and redneck spikes a third ten on the turn. Now needing a Jack to give me a straight, I whiff as a harmless 3 falls on the river. 4,500 more chips to redneck, and I rebuy again.

3:30 pm: Even though I've been a favorite in my two big hands and lost them both, I'm really not too upset. Despite the fact that I had redneck dominated in both of our encounters, the fact is that all the money went in before the flop. He had 5 chances to better my hand, which he did. A much more economical option is to see the flop and adjust your play accordingly. Having 2 remaining cards instead of 5 makes a huge difference. But again, the rebuy period is a different animal. I will continue to stick to my "push and pray" technique when I think I have the best hand. Most of the time, that's exactly the case. Eventually the odds will work in my favor. I think.

3:42 pm: A woman from Valparaiso just informed the table that she and her now-deceased husband used to ride horses together. This is vital information, and I have recorded it on my player notes.

3:49 pm: The cards, as they say, are cold. For me, not for redneck. He has 12,300 in chips. Yay.

3:51: For those who don't know, I am now living with my lovely girlfriend in Chicago; Hyde Park, to be specific. For the most part, this hasn't been too big of a change in the lifestyle department, except for one area: television. With the miracle of DVR, I am familiar with lots of programming that I might not know existed otherwise. This can be a good thing or a bad thing.

GIRLY PROGRAMMING THAT I ENJOY:

Ugly Betty

Jon and Kate Plus 8

Samantha Who?

Ellen DeGeneres

GIRLY PROGRAMMING THAT MAKES ME SAD ALL DAY:

Sex and the City

Gossip Girl

Oprah Winfrey

4:00 pm: We're an hour into the tournament, and I have some major work left to do before the break in 30 minutes. I have 3,195(I doubled up with AQ as I was writing about TV), but the average chip stack is 5,796. Still lots of time, but I need to do work.

4:04 pm: Pocket 8s again. Let's see if I can hit my set.....nope. Redneck had AA as well. I'm down to 2,300. Got worked over on that one.

4:15 pm: Ok, this is just getting ridiculous. I pushed my 2,200 in preflop with 99. Redneck, of course, calls. Below is an image of the hand.

4:26 pm: I allowed myself one final rebuy, and I've worked my stack up to 2,600. Pitiful, but something. 4 minutes until the break.

4:30 pm: Break time! I have exactly 6,000 in chips, and I have an immense amount of work to do. There are about 1,200 players remaining, and around 300 or so will likely make the money. Now that the rebuy period is over, players will calm down slightly and tighten up. Play won't nearly be as loose from here on out. The first 90 minutes was loose as Madonna, and now it'll merely be loose as Jennifer Aniston. All in all, there were 2,106 players, 4,821 rebuys(87 by me), and 956 add-ons for a total pot of $78,830. The winner receives almost 13K. It's go time!

4:42 pm: My JJ yields a third Jack on the flop, and I take down a nice pot. We're up to 7,200.

4:43 pm: I'm watching PTI right now, and I've noticed something. As the weeks, months, and years have gone by, I've found myself liking Tony Kornheiser less and less. He's a grouchy old man. He still has his moments and I certainly don't hate him, but he irks me slighty more than Jay Mariotti and far less than Skip Bayless.

5:02 pm: Dustin Pedroia, your 2008 AL MVP! Rumor has it this race would have been different had Carlos Quentin not broken his hand by roiding out on a wall. Go White Sox!

5:05 pm: Ryan Dempster just got resigned. 4 years, $52M to pitch for the Cubs. Solid pitcher, great clubhouse presence, durable arm. I approve the signing. On a related note, it's pretty incredible just how much a foul tip can change the course of a postseason campaign. Bases loaded, full count, 2 outs James Loney batting in a 2-0 game. Dempster throws a sick splitter and Loney JUST catches a piece to stay alive. Then he blasts a grand slam to center, silences every bat, player, and fan in Wrigley Field and the Dodgers cruise to a sweep. After 162 games, the season is decided by a foul tip. Lunacy.

5:09 pm: Poker update: I have 6,000 and the blinds are really starting to jump. Something needs to happen soon.

5:12 pm: Pre-flop all in pays off! Sweet. See below.

5:21 pm: Tourney update - 709 players left, 306 places paid. I have a little over 10,000 in chips, average stack is about 19,000. Do work, son!

5:42 pm: It just got interesting! Fantastic double up here with rockets. I'm up to 22,000. See below.

5:44 pm: 2 minutes later, 2 hands later. I finally have enough chips to score my first KO of the tournament, with AK prevailing over AT. The money went in preflop. I now am up to over 30,000 in chips.

5:58 pm: And just like that, it's all over. I reraised a super aggressive player all in with AQ, and he showed JJ, which made me very scared. I completely missed the flop, turn, and river, and that does it. Nose Knows, out in 423rd place.

In retrospect, it's pretty inane to push everything in the pot preflop with AQ. My opponent raised an astronomical amount relative to the blinds, and when he did that previously, he showed QJ. I made a decision and it turned out to be the wrong one. So, good comeback all for naught. See you next time!