The Beer Drinkers Society

Not a bad weekend.

2007-09-18T10:56:00.000-05:00

Another day at the office.

2006-08-14T17:25:00.000-05:00

Some say a picture is worth a thousand words. In this case, it's also worth about 184 games.

Yesterday's game was notable for three reasons:

1. KC's Luke Hudson allowed seven runs before he recorded his first out and gave up 11 runs in 1/3 of an inning before being yanked. The last time something like that happened? September 21, 1897 when Brooklyn scored 12 off Boston and celebrated after the game by guzzling fire water and shooting buffalo.

2. CLE's Travis Hafner (often confused with Travis Foster) belted his sixth grand slam of the season, tying him with the great Donny Baseball (Don Mattingly) for the most in a single season.

3. We've totally given up on the Royals as a franchise—regardless of which young pitcher they finally signed or new GM they bribed out of Atlanta. Until you get an owner in there who actually wants to win (and not just receive MLB's version of corporate welfare known as a luxury tax), we're willing to say the brand died the day George Brett tipped his cap and walked off the field for the last time.

See what happens when the riff-raff leave?

2006-08-11T15:39:00.000-05:00

Life is easier when you don't have many choices. Hungry? It's either cavatini from Pizza Hut or a double cheeseburger from Walt's. Thirsty? Either steal a six pack of Jolt Cola from F&FM or bribe Bupp to buy you beer at the liquor store. But now it appears the fine juvenile delinquents back home have more options to choose from. According to the most recent census numbers, Goddard is the fastest-growing city in the state of Kansas.

Guess word finally spread that those BDS troublemakers were no longer around to drop your property value.

The Wichita Eagle's article even mentions that over 200 kids visit the city pool near the old high school every day. That doesn't sound like population growth to us. It sounds like this generation has its own version of Missy Robinson sitting in a lifeguard chair looking way too built and too tan for junior high eyes.

Gods of Thunder

2006-06-29T16:30:00.000-05:00

We've said it before. We love metal. It's the music that makes you drink a little faster, disobey the occasional traffic law and kick the neighbor's dog. That's why we were shocked, stunned and eventually forced to blog about a show we caught a few weeks ago on VH1. While that channel's usual fare typically represents the Very Hell One would find on TV when society eventually gets demoted into the sixth level of Dante's Inferno (The Surreal Life ring a bell with anyone?), this show was different. It had leather. Fire. Sixteenth notes played in rapid, machine gun-like succession and balls-out screaming in tune and on pitch.

It had the metal gods smiling.

It was the VH1 Rock Honors. And no, it wasn't all metal. The show opened with the Foo Fighters (those highly talented, EXTREMELY underrated guys from Seattle) paying homage to Queen. After warming up the crowd, the lads from England took center stage. Yeah, Freddie's dead but the very capable Paul Rodgers filled in nicely. Impossible, you say? Not when he purposefully made each song his own and wisely avoided imitating arguably one of the most charasmatic frontmen of all time. Roger, Brian and Paul all proved The Show Must Go On.

After that "holy crap that was great!" performance, Godsmack was up next to honor Judas Priest. To cover any Priest tune, you gotta be good. With the Metal Gods themselves sitting backstage watching, you gotta have balls of steel. Godsmack proceeded to demonstrate those balls by pulling off one of the best two-song covers in the history of history. Take a look through the Electric Eye and judge for yourself. You'll be hell bent for leather. Trust us. Disagree? I'm sure you'll then be excited to know Kelly Clarkson will be coming to a Six Flags near you soon.

The third band recognized in this audio-gasmic experience was Def Leppard. While High 'N Dry and On Through The Night are classic albums that conjure up Keystone Light days and Lake Afton nights, Joe Elliot is no longer the frontman he once was. His voice no longer has the range and it showed on anthems like Rock of Ages. We'll spare you the heartache of watching it here but trust us. It wasn't pretty.

So how do you wrap up an evening filled with superheroes like this? By forming a supergroup for the sole purpose of honoring a supergroup. Fronted by Rob Zombie, Slash, Scott Ian, Gilby Clark and Tommy Lee jumped on stage to sing the praises of the self-proclaimed Greatest Band In The World in the only way they knew how. Each one of them became a God of Thunder and left us scrambling for the remote to turn this fitting tribute to Kiss as loud as we could. And we dare you to watch the performance and not, at some point and in your own small way, bang your head just a bit.

We did.

Rest in Peace, Principal Vernon.

2006-06-08T20:50:00.000-05:00

That's the last time, Bender. That's the last time you ever make me look bad in front of those kids, you hear me? I make $31,000 a year and I have a home and I'm not throwing it all away on some punk like you. But someday when you're outta here and forgotten about this place and they've forgotten about you, and you're wrapped up in your own pathetic life, I'm gonna be right there. That's right. And I'm gonna kick the living shit out of you."

Admit it. When you read those lines just now, you could almost hear Principal Vernon speaking them aloud as he jabbed his finger into Judd Nelson's chest. See, that's what a good actor does—he perfects his craft to the point where his character leaps off the written page and straight into your past.

So it seems another childhood hero has fallen. First it was Dean Wormer. Now it's Principal Vernon. Paul Gleason, the man who took playing a prick to new heights in such gems as The Breakfast Club, Trading Places and Die Hard did just that over Memorial Day weekend. A talented actor who starred in countless movies, TV shows and broadway plays, he will forever be linked with the brat pack-laced movie that defined our generation.

He was The Man Who Raided Barry Manilow's Wardrobe and gave us the answers to That Question next Saturday during detention. He was right outside those doors ready to come in here and crack skulls. He also learned that it was physically impossible for Bender's pot to catch on fire because it was in Johnson's underwear.

So as the curtain closes on a brilliant career, we're left with the indelible image of Principal Vernon holding a scribbled note left on the desk of an empty library. And we pause to remember what it was like to laugh during high school.

Dear Mr. Vernon,
We accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it is we did wrong, but we think you're crazy for making us write an esay telling you who we think we are. You see us as you want to see us, in the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain, and an athlete, and a basketcase, a princess and a criminal. Does that answer your question?

Sincerely yours,

The BDS

P.S. Thanks for the laughs

From Black Mountain to your patio.

2006-05-25T14:00:00.000-05:00

Take a look around. Chances are good you'll see something fake. Or cheap. But there's one thing you can't fake. And it's anything but cheap. That's good music—the type that strikes a cord deep inside by nailing the perfect one on a Les Paul or Fender. It's a lyric that connects with you; a guitar riff or drum beat that seeps into your head and won't leave for days. Good music is the type you enjoy while sitting in the backyard and the only other sound heard is that of a cooler opening to refill an empty koozie. It's so good, in fact, that you swear the band is actually there on your patio performing.

Live.

The numbers speak for themselves. Over 20 million records sold. Two Billboard Top 200 #1 albums (Throwing Copper and Secret Samadhi). Five #1 singles and nine Top 10 singles to boot. Flash in the pan? Hardly. Numbers like that are almost enough to restore our faith in humanity. Then we see the latest ratings for American Idol and revert back to thinking this country is full of fuckin' idiots.

Ed and his cohorts are back and will be adding to their legacy soon enough. Next week, the boys from Live will be releasing their latest album Songs from Black Mountain. While it won't be in stores until June 6th, here's your chance to sneak a peek into the genius that is Live.

Songs from Black Mountain

Love Shines

Mystery

The River

P.S. Save your "but Live was recently on American Idol so you can't slam the show" comments, emails and opinions to yourself. Every band makes silly decisions now and then. Just ask Van Halen.

It ain't fun if it's work.

2006-05-25T09:30:00.000-05:00

It's been a while now since we first plugged your computer into the BDS WHOPPER and asked, in that synthesized voice right out of 1983, "would you like to play a game?" And oh, the games we've played. From tracking down the elusive recipe for Pizza Hut Cavatini to the far-fetched stories of time travel, we've done our best to keep the place lively. Hell, we even tossed in the occasional history lesson. Sure the bar floor usually had that familiar spilt-beer stick to it and, on occasion, the dancers had to borrow money for the juke box to keep the music flowing while swinging from that pole over there in the corner yet, on average, this blog wasn't so bad.

But damn if it didn't get boring being the only one who brought beer to the party.

Now before Craig, or Jeff or even Sex fly off the handle here at the thought that their contributions to the greater blog are being brushed aside, know that you all have earned permanent barstools around here for actions unbecoming an adult. It was always nice knowing that someone was keeping the lights on around here besides us. Your dedication to the cause has not gone unnoticed and is appreciated more than you probably know.

Yet towards the end of last year, we got tired and it showed. In both the quality and quantity of our posts. Long days at the office, a new title on the business card, fun nights wrasslin' with the kid and loaded weekends filled with quail, beer, bass, football, family and holidays took their toll. Unfortunately for our loving public, it was at your expense. And for that we apologize.

But while we'll gladly shoulder most of the blame for our recent hiatus, many of you should, too. You who lurk in the shadows; who watch the game without ever stepping up to the plate or even onto the field. Short of the above-mentioned Superheroes vainly attempting to keep this blog a two-way conversation (and we'll even toss Loch in there as well), the rest of you have fallen asleep at the mouse and have just as much bloody mary mix on your hands as we do.

So we'll take an oath. We'll raise our right hand and place the left one on a crushed cardboard case of Fat Tire while repeating "we promise to be faithful to the Blog and keep her updated when possible". But you there, sitting behind the keyboard scared to show your words in public, must also agree to get involved. We know you read this thing. You told us yourself. So here's your chance to prove it.

Otherwise we'll redefine your definition of "hanging around" the Blog.

A collection of Little Dreamers

2005-11-07T11:15:00.000-06:00

The cover band. Part punchline, part bad combover, this unique form of entertainment typically lives on the outer realms of an acceptable Saturday night. Either grasping for dreams best left unattained or simply looking to score with the chicks down at the local bowling alley, these bastard children of rock live off the lyrics of others. The good ones act, sing, play and dress like the heroes they mirror. The bad ones usually don't accomplish any of the four. While imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery, it's also damn funny to watch online.

The following collection represents the best and worst "tribute" bands we could find (although a tribute to what we're usually not quite sure). Some of them actually pull it off. Others pull nothing but finger pointing and ridicule from drunks who you envision getting pissed at learning the real Sammy Hagar isn't up there playing in front of them for a $4 cover charge and all the free pretzels they can eat.

So with that, sit back, grab a cold one, turn up your speakers and take a magic carpet ride with us through the underbelly of roller-skating rink entertainment that is the Tribute Band. (Note: when your Windows Media player appears in a new window, resize it to make it a little smaller. This will cut down on pixelation and make your eye candy run smoother.)

Freebird. A Lynyrd Skynyrd experience you'd just as soon not.

Peace Frog. A Doors cover band complete with the "hold out the mic to let the crowd finish the lyric and then scream for no reason" gesture.

Hollyweird. A Poison cover band that sucks almost as much as the original one.

Iron Maidens. The only all-female Maiden tribute band. Sounds weird, we know, but the chick can freakin' play.

Rock of Ages. What can we say about this Def Leppard cover band. They're Canadian.

2U. One guess who this band dreams of being one day. They even swiped the band's music video intro.

The Boy George Experience. As gay as it sounds. Seriously. Sorry 'bout this.

Bad Medicine. Think Bon Jovi without, well, Bon Jovi.

Almost Queen. Almost is right. They guys aren't bad at all.

The Bryan Adams Experience. We'll admit it. We love this song. Too bad it only lasts 30 seconds.

Prophecy. Give this Queensryche cover band credit. Their lead guitarist looks like Geddy Lee and their singer looks like Meatloaf in sunglasses but he hits the first high note. Not well, but he hits it.

Frontiers. A Journey band that's not bad. Not good, mind you. But not bad.

Theater of Pain. Guess you play wherever you can, including the lobby of the local TV station.

Not Quite G'nR. Although we'll give 'em credit for being pretty damn good anyway.

The Atomic Punks. Not only are they pretty good, but you'll never guess who sits in with this Van Halen tribute band during a gig at the House of Blues...

But during our journey to county fairs, small-town fall festivals and trailer-park weddings across the country in search of the ultimate tribute band, we stumbled across something different. No, it's not a tribute band per se, but rather a tribute song to the greatest rock-and-roll tune ever written. Watch the whole thing and you'll agree that it's, hands down, the finest tribute on the planet.

And if you don't agree, you probably think Caddyshack is a waste of time, too, you poor bastard.

"Do you know how to play?"

2005-11-03T16:25:00.000-06:00

Rock stars. They don't blink at charging $250 a ticket but freak out when approached for an autograph from an adoring fan. The only reason half of today's rock-and-roll assholes aren't punched in the face on principal alone is due to the Presidential security detail they typically employ when having to mix with us lowly surfs.

But then there's U2, the band that did more than just pose for a picture with a fan when they played here in Dallas last Saturday night. The actually dragged him up on stage and handed him a guitar.

Earlier this year, we told you about the Boys from Dublin and their well-deserved induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Apparently not satisfied with just giving one hell of a show, they took the concept of "Crowd Interaction" to an entirely new level.

Pulled from the Dallas Morning News:

UT student struck cord with Bono at U2's AAC concert
Playing quarterback for your favorite team. Rocking out with your favorite band. These are the dreams that fill a teenage boy's heart.

Of course, most boys don't think they'll ever actually realize those fantasies. But as 19-year-old Sunjay Devarajan strapped on a guitar next to Bono, The Edge and the rest of U2 on Saturday night in front of 20,000 screaming fans at American Airlines Center, his teen dream took life right before his eyes.

"This is like a Make-a-Wish Foundation kind of dream," said Arlington native Sunjay, a day after Bono plucked him from the crowd to play the band's "Angel of Harlem." "I'm just so thrilled that they gave me that opportunity. That they were adventurous enough to actually pick somebody that they had no idea who he was from the audience and have him play guitar."

The dream started simply enough. Sunjay's older brother, Vijay, 23, had traveled to Chicago to see the band in May and got the idea after a woman was pulled from the crowd to attempt what he recalls was a rather unsuccessful version of the obscure "Party Girl." Vijay knew that his brother could play a handful of U2 songs, and after the pair and their sister, Veena, finally bought tickets to the Dallas show on eBay, the idea was hatched.

After traveling from Austin, where Sunjay, a pre-med student at the University of Texas, and Vijay live, they headed with their sister and some other friends to AAC at 10 a.m., hoping to get as close to the stage as they could. While waiting in line, they concocted a sign that Sunjay feels was the key to his success.

The sign, written in red ink on yellow poster board, simply said, "Angel of Harlem" on it with the progression of guitar chords in the song and a note saying, "In case you forgot," since the band had yet to play the song on this tour. During the first encore, Bono peered from the stage at Sunjay and asked, "Do you know how to play it?" To which Sunjay says he screamed back, "Yeah! Yeah, I can play it!"

A few minutes later, he was summoned to the stage, and a guitar tech was handing him an instrument.

"They were kind of hesitant to bring a person onstage who claimed to play the guitar. They didn't want someone screwing it up," Sunjay said, noting that the singer was checking his guitar strap to make sure it was on right and that he had to borrow a pick from The Edge.

"Bono was just sort of joking around. He was like, 'You've never done this before, have you?' And I said, 'Um, no, I've never done this before.' "

As his kid brother was about to begin, Vijay looked on in awe from the floor, hoping for the best.

"I was thinking, 'Ooh – that first chord is going to be crucial,' " Vijay said. "But then I was like, 'Wow.' He was so comfortable up there, just jamming and grooving."

And then they were off. The Edge played the intro, Bono came in with the familiar, "It was a cold and wet December day/When we touched the ground at JFK..." and Sunjay was playing right along with them.

"Once we started, I felt so much encouragement from the band. They were all smiling. I looked at each one of them. I had Bono on my left. He's smiling singing the first words to the song. I turned to my right and Edge, who's one of my inspirations, is sitting there smiling and playing with me. Adam Clayton is jamming with his bass, and Larry Mullen is having a great time. So I just felt this encouragement from the band, and that really allowed me to ease up and I really didn't feel frightened after that."

Sunjay says that Bono noticed him singing the words as he was playing and motioned for him to come up and share the mike with him during the next chorus. What followed was a scene many rock fans had seen from the greats: Paul and John, Mick and Keith. And now Bono and Sunjay.

"It almost seemed natural in the beginning. And once I finished it really hit me," Sunjay said. "And that's when I got on my knees and was doing the we're-not-worthy bow. Because, I'm not worthy. Let's get real here. I am not worthy of that."

As the song came to a close, following Sunjay's solo singing turn on the last chorus no less, there was just one last part of the mission to complete: Snag Bono's signature wrap-around shades to fulfill a promise he had made to his brother.

So after receiving a congratulatory hug from the singer, Sunjay asked him if he'd make the trade, which the singer obliged. Sunjay walked off with Bono's rose-tinted Armanis; Bono donned Sunjay's Eckerd sunglasses.

A perfect end to a perfect night. And a dream come true.

Take a trip down Highway 377.

2005-10-25T16:00:00.000-05:00

June 2001. We'd just been chased out of Nuevo Laredo, Mexico by a band of crooked Federales looking to shake down a few filthly gringos when someone slammed this band into the truck's CD player. The air, only seconds earlier filled with the smell of cheap Tequila, heart-pumping adrenaline and palm-sweating fear from realizing just how close we came to a Mexican jail, was now filled with something else. It was the sound of a real band, making real music, that sounded real damn good.

There's a not-so-small band down here in the land of the Red River quickly making waves around the country. How? By doing something unheard of in today's music scene—by writing their own songs, singing from the heart and playing live in front of as many beer lovers as possible. No backing tracks. No elaborate stage production. Just a couple of guitars, a pair of drum sticks and a killer sound that sticks in your head for days.

The Boys from Oklahoma now call Texas home, but their brand of alternative country has made Cross Canadian Ragweed one of the hottest bands around. And no, they're not from Canada. Grady Cross (guitar), Cody Canada (vocals, guitar), Randy Ragsdale (drums) and Jeremy Plato (bass) are from Yukon, Oklahoma. Writing songs about always being 17 in your home town, cold-hearted women and drinking more than fishing at the lake, they might as well be from Goddard, KS.

Just how big are they down here? Last summer over 25,000 fans saw them play in Dallas at Lone Star (the park, not the lake) shattering Willie Nelson's record-breaking attendence set in 2004. But unless you live in a few select Texas or Oklahoma markets, you probably haven't heard them on the radio. Why? Because they're good. Seriously. Rock stations won't play them because they're "too country", yet country stations won't play them because they've got just a little too much "long-haired hippy" rock and roll in 'em (to steal a line from our good friend Chris who knew cowboys loved to rock & roll). The confusion is somewhat understandable for a band that thanks Willie Nelson, Pat Green, Sammy Hagar and AC/DC at the same time in their liner notes.

It also doesn't help that, for the most part, CCR has completely turned its back on corporate music. Although the band is on a Nashville label, the band pulls no punches in its criticism of what Music City is force-feeding the masses.

"Country music has turned to pop crap," Canada recently told one reporter. "I don't think there's one damn thing that's country about Shania Twain. It's irritating to me that they market her as country because they just threw a fiddle and steel guitar on her records."

When asked if there's anyone left in the genre that he respects, Canada was quick to point out the limited few. "There are four people that are playing real country music today: Lee Anne Womack, George Strait, Dierks Bently and Gary Allen." He also tips his hat to the travelling troubadours of the new alternative country/Americana scene (guys like Pat Green, Jason Boland, Mike McClure and a bunch of other guys you'll never hear on the Clear Channel-owned airwaves). "They're not just guys in hats who won karaoke contests. They actually get up, write songs and be country, you know?"

After listening to CCR's newest release Garage, yeah. We know, Cody.

Their newest CD is quickly becoming a BDS favorite. From nailing a few killer cover songs like Scott Copeland's "Lighthouse Keeper" and Bo Diddley's "Who Do You Love?" to revealing a few new classics like "Fighting For" and "Breakdown", this CD continues to break the conventional mold of how a record should be produced and marketed. As long as CCR continues to stay true to themselves and the music, fans will continue to push them up the ladder. Just how high those fans push them is completely up to the band.

In an effort to spread the gospel, Cross Canadian has graciously agreed to play a few cuts exclusively for the BDS and its loving public courtesy of your local Windows Media Player. So sit back, relax, grab a cold one and don't forget to tip the stripper on your way out.

Garage
Dimebag ( the best tribute yet)
Sister (great first line)
Lighthouse Keeper (a killer cover)

Purple
Anywhere But Here (small-town dreams of the big city)
Carry You Home (big-city dreams of your small-town home)
17 (takes you back to '89)

Soul Gravey
Lonely Girl (we all know her)
Cold Hearted Woman (probably the Lonely Girl)
Alabama (our personal favorite)

Highway 377
Look At Me (another round, bartender)
Bang My Head (be warned: this cut will stick in your head)
Long Way home (for everyone Over There wanting to be Back Here)

And on that fateful night back in 2001 when El Capitan was looking to bring home a little extra bacon by cooking ours, Highway 377 was the song that got us over the Rio Grande in one piece. It's a tune about the Devil in his hot-rod Ford encountering Jesus in his cadillac.

Pretty fitting at the time if you ask us.

One man's journey to Mecca.

2005-10-24T13:00:00.000-05:00

Harley riders. Sturgis.
Baseball fans. Cooperstown.
College basketball. Allen Field House.
Climbers. Denali.
Anglers. Table Rock.

Bird hunters named Chris. South Dakota.

Last year, Kansans harvested over 800,000 pheasants. Not bad, until you consider South Dakota took 2.1 million over the same period of time. Do the math, Einstein and that's almost three times the number found in the Sunflower State. When next year's count is released, one of our very own can claim a few of those several million as his own. And showing a deft talent for placing emotion felt into words expressed, he summed up the experience using prose Shakespeare would be proud to steal:

"It was f-ing incredible."

Throwing a few pictures like this our way for proof, looks like he is right.

Holy CRP, Look At All Those Birds

2005-10-12T09:30:00.000-05:00

Imagine drinking a cold one surrounded by old friends. The stripper hanging off the pole knows every word of the obscure LA Guns song she's dancing to, someone just ordered a plate of stuffed jalapeno poppers and the Chiefs are up by 36 over Denver on the big-screen TV in the corner. As you turn around to survey the scene, you notice the bar is also filled with 10,000 pheasants casually meandering around. While this dream of dreams may seem surreal, the 2005 Pheasant Forecast says it may very well happen.

That's right, kids. According to none other than the folks over at Pheasants Forever, this year's season "should prove to be a year to remember". Thanks to a mixture of quality CRP lands, mild winters, great springs and an increase in hunters who don't poach anything but a friend's beer over lunch, bird numbers are expected to be incredible. So much so that South Dakota experts report their pheasant population to be at a 40-year high, Chris. Looks like you picked the year to head north (without your BuDS, mind you, but we'll let it slide for now).

So what do the Pheasants Forever guys say 'bout Kansas?

"Bird numbers were up last year with hunters harvesting 685,000 birds in 2004 compared to 646,000 in 2003. That trend should continue this year as April rains greened up the wheat to conceal nesting hens. Nesting success and chick survival should also have been high with weather drying out in May and June. Expect the biggest improvements in western Kansas (anyone ready to reserve a few rooms at the Q-Inn over in Quinter yet?)"

And that seems to square with the statewide reports coming out of Hays from the Kansas Dept. of Wildlife & Parks.

"Pheasant numbers appear to be up considerably in the western half of the state. East of Highway 281, substantial rains the first two weeks of June may have hurt chick survival statewide, but summer brood counts show the number of broods seen being similar to last year.

Quail seem to be up significantly in the west, as well as most of the southcentral part of the state. Early June wet weather may not have substantially impacted the quail hatch, since the peak is usually the last two weeks of that month. While some areas have been impacted, the hunting opportunities should be similar in the eastern half of the state as the past couple of years."

Region One (Rush Center, LaCross and Grainfield)
Nesting and brood-rearing habitat conditions were good this year throughout Region One. Extremely hot, dry conditions during July and heavy rains probably impacted habitat to a certain extent, but an early hatch may have offset those losses. Pheasant numbers should be improved over last year, with the highest densities occurring in the eastern half of the region. Quail numbers are on an upward trend, with moderately higher numbers than last year exptected. Noticeable habitat improvements will be seen in the northern counties, which should make it that much easier for Todd's dog to bump a skunk and get a face-full of ass spray in return. That heavy cover should also make it easier for Loch to pepper any baseball caps he sees from 30 yards, too.

One specific first-hand account reports seven of the biggest pheasants sunning themselves in a Grainfield garden last month. Appears "Mom" went to water a few plants and bumped a whole herd of 'em into the stuble field west of the house. We saw the email she wrote to #1 Son, so it's as good as gospel to us.

Region Four (The Farm, Uncle Pat's, Pretty Prairie, Clearwater)

Cover conditions for the region are excellent because of abundant summer rainfall. How excellent? The stuff is so damn thick KDWP doesn't think it is getting an accurate count of late broods. Late June rains made it a little difficult to pull in the summer harvest, but that delay probably benefited the bird population. Pheasant carryover in the region from last year was excellent. Combine that with an average hatch thisyear, and there will be a much higher percentage of adult birds in the field when the season opens. Quail numbers are still depressed in Region Four when compared to the 10-year average (anyone can tell you that), but numbers range from fair to good in the southern and western portions of the region.

One final note—get your hunting license early. Unless you're one of the fortunate few who was actually given a lifetime hunting license as a birthday present from friends, you need to either a) buy your license online or well before Opoening Weekend. The Wichita Eagle recently ran a story explaining why. That 15-minute line you waited in last year to get your license? Set aside 45 minutes if you don't get it early.

Matt? His code name is "Apache".

2005-10-05T14:45:00.000-05:00

There’s a small roadside liquor store in the Texas Panhandle that we’ve grown to love over the past several years. Why? Because you can mix & match beers to create your own personal 12-pack. Four Shiners, three Original Coors, a few Bud Lights and several bottles of Guiness provide a little something for every pallet. Just like this mailed-in post.

We’re not big fans of Conan, but this clip gets better the more we drink. If you’re not laughing by the end of it, you’re not drinking enough.

Talk about your killer road trips. LA to New York in under three minutes.

Go on. Tell us how Criss Angel pulled this magic trick off, ‘cause we sure as hell don’t know.

Imagine Matt with a moustache. Now picture him wearing buckskins, tickling the ivories and fronting his own band. It’s called Apache.

CGI (computer-generated images) or BAW (big-ass wave)? You decide.

Looking for Amarillo? The British army is, too. Word has it the top brass couldn't get enough of this clip.

Sure, we hunt. But even we laughed at this one . It's also why we miss Ed on Wednesday nights.

Hell, Will Ferrell does a better George Bush than old Dubya himself. Here's the Quicktime proof for those of you who get it and the Windows proof for those who don't.

Add the one and carry the five, Dubya.

2005-09-29T21:45:00.000-05:00

Math was never one of our strengths. We may have been reading at a junior-high level in fourth grade, but we were still counting on our fingers in high school. The ridicule received from friends for having to take Math 00-Stupid in college not once but twice was mitigated only by the satisfaction gained in charging them money for writing their English papers: $50 for an A, $40 for a B and $30 for a C paid for more than a few beers. Our point? We know nothing about math.

And neither, apparently, does the President of the United States..

Step up to the bar, boys, and grab yourself a beer 'cause we're about to piss a number of you off. Why? Because we're giving serious consideration to withdrawing our official support of the Bush Administration.

You read right.

We have been strong supporters of Bush over the past several years. His decisive actions in Afghanistan which turned the Taliban into nothing more threatening than a bonus question on Jeopardy was just. His nomination of John Roberts to the High Court sent a good man to sit in judgement of the country. And contrary to growing opinion, we're doing the right thing in Iraq. But for a man who's glaring weakness going into his first term was foreign policy, his domestic one has us seeing red.

As in red ink.

The numbers are almost too large to grasp. Earlier this summer, a Republican-controlled Congress passed a $286 billion transporation bill loaded with more pork than humanly thought possible. Add to that a $12.3 billion energy bill that, among other things, allows oil companies to violate fundamental tenants of the Clean Air act. The Iraq war has cost, to date, $5.6 billion and, broken down per person in the US, has personally cost you $727. The deficit for the fiscal year ending Sept. 30 will be $331 billion and the federal debt is closing in on $8 trillion.

Yet because he's trying to make amends for his lack of reaction to Katrina (which is nothing compared to the incompetence displayed by Louisiana's governor and New Orlean's mayor), he's now promised a $200 billion aid package to the region without raising taxes for the rest of the country.

Uh, hello? We're fighting a war on multiple fronts. We're running an $8 trillion deficit. We're gonna give New Orleans $200 billion to rebuild ON A FLOOD PLAIN. And yet he still refuses to discuss a tax increase. We may be math illiterate, but your president has trouble spelling the words "fiscally responsible".

Just as the Clinton Administration wrongly took credit for the economy of the late '90s that was nothing more than an illusionary bubble built in Macromedia Flash, the Bush Administration is simply borrowing more money to fund programs that it had to borrow against in the first place. Confused? Do the math because obviously no one else has bothered to.

No, we're not turning to the Dark Side. The Democrats are more clueless than Bush's math advisor and we have a deep mistrust of anyone who thinks this country's welfare program serves a higher purpose. But we're highly disappointed in the lack of appreciation Bush has for a working man's dollar.

One of the hardest things to do in life? Speaking truth to power. Good thing we're drunk while writing this. Otherwise it would be hard.

2005-09-25T23:15:00.000-05:00

Yeah, we like it, too.

No, the band, you dirty old man. The Thinking Man's band. The band that plays music with meaning. They sing about political corruption, building Empires, rainy nights without you and mysterious ladies wearing black. But they're best known as the band that redefined the record industry's opinion of the concept album.

Geoff Tate, Chris DeGarmo, Michael Wilton, Eddie Jackson and Scott Rockenfield of Queensryche turned the musical world on its amp with the 1988 release of the legendary concept album Operation: Mindcrime. Backed by Wilton, Jackson and Rockenfield, DeGarmo's gift with a six-string was matched only by Tate's incredible set of pipes. A detailed storyline, strong character development and killer songs (no pun intended for those who actually understand said pun) made this album one of the most ambitious and innovative releases of the decade. It was met with both popular and critical success, earning the band triple platinum certification (selling over three million copies) and a Grammy nomination.

Mindcrime was followed up by Empire, the band's most successful album to date. It sold over four million copies because of songs like "Silent Lucidity", "Jet City Woman" and "Another Rainy Night". Since then, the band has released nine other records (with more than a few live concert albums thrown in for good measure). While the band continues to earn critical success for a number of those efforts, the commercial success has never reached that achieved in the late '80s and early '90s primarily due to Mindcrime.

So if the success won't follow you, you follow the success. Which is exactly what the band is doing with Mindcrime II. That's right. Sister Mary is coming back.

Earlier this year, we were able to catch the Ryche live in concert (which counted as the sixth time we'd seen 'em up close and personal). "A Night With Queensryche" was the tour, which simply means no opening band. The first half of the concert was a mixed collection of old hits and new favorites, from their debut album up through Tribe. Not bad at all, but the real show stealer was the second half. They played Mindcrime in its entirety, complete with huge video screens and actual actors running around the stage that was surprisingly cool. But at the end of the show, they played a 5-minute video of Mindcrime II which is scheduled to be released in early 2006.

After stumbling across this, it appears the band has recently been doing more than showing a video of their next effort. God bless the bootlegger.

And God Bless Queensyrche for getting back to the source. You've been missed.

Wonderful hoax or bleak future. You decide.

2005-09-22T14:15:00.000-05:00

Everyone loves a good mystery. It tends to disrupt life's predictable nature and makes you think. Combine that mystery with a science-fiction twist that's grounded in science fact, and you eventually ask the one question that serves as the hallmark of any great story.

"What if?"

The following story is one that should make even the most skeptical beer drinker ask the question. It's a story we've followed online for several years; one that lives in the outer fringes of believability yet occasionally strays into the realm of the credible. If it's a hoax, it's one of the most elaborate deceptions the online community has ever seen. But if it's real, well, God help us all.

So the choice is yours. Take the blue pill, the story ends. You wake up in your bed and you believe whatever you want to believe. Take the red pill, you stay in wonderland. And we show you just how deep the rabbit hole goes.

The Underlying Science
This much is known: time travel is possible. Once confined to myth, science fiction and theoretical speculation, it's now a proven reality. Newton was the first to devise a mathematical definition of how motion changes with time. But he also admitted he could only describe what he saw without fully understanding how it worked. Enter Einstein's General Theory of Relativity. Old Albert was able to show how time changes with motion; that time is relative to the speed at which you're traveling. In other words, an object traveling at high speeds will age more slowly than a stationary object. Toss in a few other abstract ideas like Stephen Hawking's wormholes, Ed Witten's superstring theory and the generally accepted rules of quantum mechanics, and time travel is no longer restricted to Deloreans, flux capacitors and 1.21 jigawatts, Marty.

The (Un)believable Story
In November of 2000, a person calling himself Timetravel_0 started making online posts in several public forums claiming to be a time traveler from 2036. Immediately dismissed as a confused Trekkie searching for a convention, he was ridiculed and damn-near laughed off the boards. But his steadfast refusal to be shamed into hiding peaked the interest of several folks who grilled him with questions. They asked why he was here, the physics involved with time travel and what life looked like 36 years down the virtual road.

Timetravel_0 eventually identified himself as a man named John Titor. Over the course of several months, he entertained, angered, frightened and, at times, belittled those around him. He even went so far as to post pictures of his "time machine" and its operations manual. Seriously.

Titor claimed back in 2000 that CERN (the world's largest particle physics laboratory based in Geneva that Dan Brown actually wrote about in his novelThe DaVinci Code would discover some "very odd things" as a result of their high-energy experiments and blindly stumble upon the formula needed to manufacture microsingularities. That's a big word for an unproven theory regarding microscopic black holes which evaporate very quickly. Almost six months to the day after his posting, CERN announced they were lighting the fuse on the world's biggest particle accelerator built to study the building blocks of matter. That's an atom-smashing super-collider some feared (and still fear today) could be used to create mini-black holes that, in turn, could literally eat up the entire planet.

Now hang with us here. Titor explained that by bombarding a singularity with electrons, you can alter the size of its event horizon (which is basically the surface of a black hole if envisioned in its simplistic 3D geometry). That will alter the size of the black hole's gravitational field. By then overlapping the gravitational fields from two singularities and somehow manipulating them, you can travel forward or backward through time because it's being bent. Just like Einstein theorized. And apparently all that happens as a result of something called the C204 Unit.

Here's the detailed schematic presumably from Titor's technical manual. It refers to the time-travel device as the "General Electric Army Model C204 Gravity Distortion Time Displacement Unit". Unfortunately, (or purposefully), the section explaining what the numbered labels refer to is missing so the actual circuitry can't be fully analyzed.

Here's an example of where the story gets even more improbable. This is an actual picture Titor posted online purporting to show his C204 Unit. That's right. It's resting on the passenger side of a car (he once identified the car in a post as being a Corvette). He also mentioned the Unit is 5 feet long, 2-feet by 2-feet square and roughly weighs 500 pounds.

Apparently Titor later exchanged his Corvette for a 4WD truck. That's what this picture shows, along with what appears to be a stainless Mossberg 590 Mariner shotgun statioend in the front of the vehicle (which may be significant later in the story). According to him, the C204 Unit is accurate from 50 to 60 years per jump and runs at ten years an hour at 100% power.

So why would a time traveler use a Chevy to manipulate the time-space continuoum and not some futuristic vehicle straight outta the Jetsons? What research the BDS has done hasn't uncovered that question ever being asked or answered, which leads us towards even more skepticism. From what we gathered, apparently the type of vehicle doesn't matter as much as the C204 Unit itself.

Placed inside the vehicle and turned on, the Unit is reported to generate its own gravity field. This causes the traveler to feel himself literally being pulled towards the unit, while the vehicle itself appears to accelerate as light is being bent around it. Once the desired speed is achieved (88 miles per hour, perhaps?), the traveler sees nothing but black empty space outside his window until the Unit is deactivated.

As you can guess, the skeptics immediately crawled out from under their physics books to call into question the science involved in such a feat. For one, several known (and published) physicists declared Titor an outright fraud; his science simply didn't add up to conventional understanding of the univese, they argued. They claimed his C204 Gravity Distortion Unit was too small and didn't possess enough mass to create the singularity (mini-black hole) needed for time travel. Titor countered this accusation by stating Einstein's General Theory of Relativity works for mass, too and that his double-singularity model only SIMULATES the effects of a black hole. His unit, he claimed, doesn't actually create one.

Other scientists maintained Titor's time machine would never be able to overcome or withstand Hawking Radiation. First postulated by Stephen Hawking back in 1975 (hence the name), Hawking Radiation is a type of radiation thought to be emitted by black holes. Arising from the creation of pairs of subatomic particles adjacent to the black hole, one particle is thought to fall into the black hole while the other particle radiates away from it. The energy lost to such radiation particles is believed to cause the eventual disappearance of the black hole itself. The science argued that no one would therefore be able to travel in, through or near anything that resembled/acted like a black hole.

Titor's response to all of this back in early 2001? That Hawking Radiation could be adequately controlld and wasn't unpreventable like mainstream science thought. The scientific community laughed at such a preposterous notion, until Hawking himself conceded in 2004 that his black-hole paradox was flawed and that black holes may very well allow information within them to escape.

Read that again. This "time-traveling nutcase" claimed Hawking was wrong three years before Hawking himself admitted it.

Que Twighlight Zone music.

We won't pretend to fully understand the detailed mechanics involved in the scientific debate regarding Titor's claims. But we do know that he provided just enough scientific explanation/justification to his claims that more than a few eyebrows were raised. Like the ones this little online chat he had back in 2001 caused (complete with misspellings):

TimeTravel_0 : Altering gravity is not the hard part.
Yareisa : go on...
TimeTravel_0 : Detecting gravity is the hard part.
TimeTravel_0 : I will tell you a little story.
TimeTravel_0 : When time travel was invented.
TimeTravel_0 : They built prototypes that would go back in time for a split second and then return.
TimeTravel_0 : They had sensors and cameras on them.
TimeTravel_0 : ...and they never returned.
G° : and forwards as well? how about a single jump forwards?
TimeTravel_0 : It was later discovered that the machines were ending up about 15 miles away and 3000 feet in the air.
TimeTravel_0 : feet
G° : doh!
TimeTravel_0 : The Earth was rotating away from them.
wyrmkin_37 : synchroniaztion please
TimeTravel_0 : A system had to be invented that would "hold" the machine to the Earth.
TimeTravel_0 : Its called VGL.
TimeTravel_0 : Its based on very sensative clocks and gravity sensors.
TimeTravel_0 : It stops the time distortion machine if radical changes in gravity are detected.
wyrmkin_37 : mechanical or electronic clocks?
TimeTravel_0 : You wouldn't want to end up inside a mountain or under water...would you?
TimeTravel_0 : Cesium.

As in Caesium 113, the key ingrediant in atomic clocks. The atomic clock is the most accurate realization of a unit that mankind has ever achieved. Back in 1999, scientists began operation of a clock that was so accurate, it would lose less than one second of time in 20 million years. And Titor was either being honest or sneaky-smart when he pointed out the Earth's movement would dictate new technology be used to keep time travelers from materializing in outer space, on top of Everest or the Goddard water tower.

However, Japanese scientists in May 2005 announced the creation of a new atomic clock using strontium atoms, which tests to be more accurate than caesium. If Titor indeed needed the most accurate measurement of time for his machine, you would think he would have known strontium was better than caesium. However, the actual precision of the clocks used in the C204 are never specific, so once again we're left guessing.

Our point is this—while his story may seem improbable, his science is, at the very least, plausible. So continue to suspend your disbelief and read on.

The Reason For His Journey Back
Titor claimed he originally traveled back to the year 1975 to retrieve a vintage IBM 5100 computer built in Rochester, Minnesota. The 5100 did exist and is celebrated among the computer industry as being one of the first portable computers ever produced. According to Titor, there is a massive computer problem with the UNIX computer code in 2036 (it "dies", according to John). More than one programmer familiar with UNIX has since supported his claim as a known problem, although the validity of what these programmers say hasn't been authenticated. Scientists from Titor's time somehow discovered that the 5100 is capable of reading/changing all legacy code written by IBM as well as new code in APL and BASIC. Apparently this IBM computer is needed to "debug" various legacy problems that plague his timeline.

Titor states, through his postings, that technology isn't lost over time but that many of the older tools and techniques have been. He cites NASA's known policy of buying old computer parts over the Internet to keep their systems running as one example.

A time traveler who goes back in time to retrieve an outdated computer? Sounds like a bad teaser found on the back of a cheap paperback novel until you realize IBM never officially announced that secret code-reading capability of the 5100. It wasn't until Bob Dubke, an IBM engineer who designed that classified function and who now owns a small research lab in Rochester came forward to verify Titor's assertion in September 2004. Dubke's on the record as stating IBM supressed the information regarding the 5100's capabilities because they worried how the competition might use it. In other words, the 5100's secret function that allowed it to read/change various code was never publicly disseminated until Titor posted it online.

Stop Twighlight Zone music. Que X-Files theme.

Once again, the "bound for a padded room" weirdo who claimed to be from the future dropped another never-before-known bombshell.

So what was Titor chosen for this "mission"? Because his grandfather apparently worked on the IBM 5100 computer in some capacity and that's why he volunteered for the assignment. When asked why he returned to the year 2000 when his mission was to head back to 1975, Titor made a cryptic reply that has kept people guessing for years.

TimeTravel_0: I'm here because of a promise made to my grandfather in 1975.

Speculation here runs rampant as to why Titor would jump to 2000 prior to jumping back home to 2036. He explained later than a stop in 2000 was necessary for him to minimize the "divergence" between worldlines (worldlines represent the limits and paths physical objects take through space-time under the laws of relativity; also synonymous with "alternate universe"). If he had jumped straight back into 2036, he might have gone home to a world that was noticeably different than the one he left. Others speculate it may have something to do with the now-debunked Y2K computer problem (more on that later). But the other reason he may have made a pit stop in 2000? To fulfill a promise he made to his grandfather that he would warn the family of impending doom.

Bad, Bad Things To Come?
Titor doesn't hold any punches when asked what the future looks like. "Bleak" is one word, although he's quick to point out mankind's future isn't written yet and can be altered. A low-scale civil war breaks out in the United States starting in or around 2005. He admits his timing may be off somewhat, but that it's still in the general neighborhood of 2005 (2004-2006). He claims during the war people either a) stay in the cities and lose most of their civil rights under the guise of homeland security or b) leave the cities for more isolated and rural areas. He recalls that his home in Florida was searched once and his neighbor across the street was arrested for some unknown reason, which convinced his father to leave the city.

A series of Waco-like events eventually lead to an all-out armed conflict between the people and their government. Titor reports to have joined a citizen shotgun infantry unit at an early age (remember the Mossberg in the earlier photo?). There he serves four years as a rebel, where he personally witnesses hundreds of Americans die at the hands of their government. "If it makes you feel any better," he said, "I never shot anyone who wasn't trying to kill me."

The conflict continues to flair up and down for the better part of a decade, with Big Government holding control over all major cities and the revolutionary patriots controlling the countryside. In 2015, Russia launches a surprise tactical nuclear attack on most major cities in the US, as well as on China and parts of Europe (the first nukes apparently drop on Jacksonville, FLA). While Titor refused to divulge which cities are hit (we'll talk about that dodge later, too), he said each one of us will experience a moment when we become fully aware that we are no longer safe in the cities. What comes as a surprise to John is the millions of people who choose to stay at home during the attacks. These attacks, by the way, aren't seen as attacks on the American people but on the United States government itself (there's a difference). Most of the warheads that hit major cities rain down in groups of three, all of which explode close to the ground in order to prevent a large-scale EMP effect (which is the result of a nuclear detonation that literally fries circuitry such as the starter in your car, computers, TVs, etc). He estimates the overall accuracy of the tactical strikes to be 60-70%. A weak counterattack by the US has little effect on Ivan and Russia soon replaces America as the big kid on the block.

Other parts of the world? Australia repulses a Chinese invastion attempt, but most of her cities are hit. While they later have a trade relationship with America, Titor characterizes the Aussies as "reclusive" and somewhat "ticked off" at the US. South America pulls through relatively unnoticed in the broad scheme of things, but they are dealing with their own internal problems (civil unrest being chief among them). Canadians in 2036 are some of the most efficient, ruthless and dangerous people Titor knows. And Europe? "It's a mess."

After the smoke clears and mankind falls silent to take stock of its actions, nearly 3 billion people are dead and millions more are left suffering due to a lack of clean water and safe food. That's why Titor is quick to point out to us that "no one likes you much in the future".

As you can imagine, the war has a very profound effect on Titor and the people who are left to clean up after it. Death is a familiar story to them all. Everyone lost loved ones in the conflict, and again he cryptically states "most of us have even taken part in dishing it out", a less-than-vague reference to his actions during the war.

Life 31 years down the road isn't easy. Titor lives in a world recovering from years of war, destruction and hate. All of which, he quickly points out, is courtesy of us. Apparently our grandkids don't like us much because of that. But while a nuclear conflict is something best left avoided, it's not the end of the world. While there are cities/areas that simply can't be entered and are considered "dead zones", he points to Hiroshima being a thriving city today as proof that life moves on.

A new system of federal government emerges after the war. For reasons never specified, the capital of the country is moved to, of all places, Omaha, NE. Not one but five presidents are voted in and out at different times. This makes foreign policy more consistent and power shifts at the highest levels have less of an impact on the overall government. Why five? Because they represent the five major areas the country has been divided into. The vice-president is still the president of the Senate and is voted on in a separate election. Overall federal government is eventually decentralized, with local and state governments playing a much larger role.

Life after The War revolves around family and community. People are valued and judged based on their contributions and worth to both. Most communities range in size from 1000 to 4000 people. In exchange for work, people receive power, water, a certain amount of food and other necessities that are produced inside the community. Sounds like Ivan left us with more than a few nukes. Sounds like a touch of communism may very well run through Titor's world.

They still have jails. Those convicted of theft, fraud, rape and murder are sentenced to hard labor, community service, banishment of public execution. Paper money is still used, which means you still have to pay taxes (but no federal income tax). Credit cards exist too, but the monetary system is decentralized. People travel primarily via high-speed train systems, horseback, bikes and walking. Automobiles are used mostly for sport, although they're gaining in popularity again for transportation use. Clean water and food not only take top priority above all else, but both are hard to come by. Apparently Mad Cow Disease (CJD) becomes a very serious health concern and is "devistating" for years to come. In fact, Titor claims it to be one of our biggest challenges in the future.

But the worst of it all? Nowhere in our research did we find any mention of beer and its future. If beer is relegated to a happy memory in this unwelcoming future, then God help us all indeed.

The Time Traveler's Excuse
Among multiple issues we have with this entire story is Titor's "Code of Ethics". This code, posted early on in his writings, prevents him from naming actual names and placing actual places; he refuses to say if the KC Royals will sweep the World Series in 2006 like they do in our dreams. According to this ethic:

1. He will never disclose any information that will cause someone to personally gain by its knowledge. This means no stock or sport tips.

2. He will never disclose any detailed information that woudl allow someone to avoid death by probability. This means no earthquake information or a detailed listing of cities that'll get nuked. More than a few skeptics had some choice words for Titor regarding this "ethic" and his failure to post warnings of 9/11.

3. He will never disclose any detailed information that may compromise future actions by people or threaten their families. This means no names or events associated with specific individuals.

Furthermore, he wiggles out of being pinned down by the old Time Traveler excuse that things could always change. "The very nature of time travel states," he said, "that every worldline is unique and you are in control of what you do. Heck, the fact that I am here now makes it different from mine." In other words, none of Titor's predictions are inevitable for us by his own account. And therefore there's no concrete proof to hold as evidence that he is a man from the future who's come to warn us about it.

But just as we're about to totally disregard him as a disgruntled right-wing militia looking to spin his own dream of Serf revolt into a self-serving sci-fi tale, he stays stuff like this in early 2001:

Q: Does China have a manned space program between 2001 and 2036?
A: I believe they're pretty close to putting a man in orbit now, although few people know just how close. It shouldn't come as a surprise if it happens soon.

Eighteen months later, he was right.

Those who believe Titor also point to his prediction that no WMDs would be found in Iraq. "Are you really surprised to find out that Iraq has nukes now or is that just BS to whip everyone up into accepting the next war?" Remember, that statement was made well before the invasion of Iraq and long before the Bush Administration ever mentioned Sadaam's purported nuclear capability (anyone remember the Yellowcake line from the State of the Union address?). Granted, a number of people felt Bush's WMD excuse wasn't 100% accurate to begin with, but Titor literally called "bullshit" 24 months before the invasion.

Educated guess? Maybe. But it does make you wonder...

Now For The Really Weird Part
Titor claimed that, on his way back to 2036 from 1975, he stopped off in 2000. And whose door does he knock on? His own. That's right. Our traveling soldier pays a visit to dear old Mom and Dad. And because John claimes to be bord in 1998, that means he also hangs out with...himself. Imagine that conversation. Apparently while the elder John was furiously typing away on Dad's computer in the basement warning mankind of its violent future through a few online forums, his younger self was asleep upstairs wearing footsy pajamas.

And Just Like That, He Disappeared
Titor made his last known post on March 24, 2001. In it, he answered a few more questions and left us with, among other things, a rather cryptic farewell.

I will be leaving this worldline shortly and this will be my final post. There are only a handful of peopl ewho will know exactly when I will be leaving and I'm sure they will let you know when I'm gone.

In the last few days, I have found your choice of topics quite interesting and, from an objective viewpoint, I think it collectively answers one of your own questions. "If time travel is real, where are all the time travelers?" In the past, I have stated that quite frankly, you all scare the hell out of me and I'm sure other temporal drivers would feel the same. But now I have an expanded explanation.

As while ago (on one of the posts), I related an experience I had with my parents whil we were driving down the highway. Every now and then, we would pass someone who was in obvious distress with their vehicle. I was amazed that so many people could pass them by without stopping to help. Their explanation was fear. The risk of helping someone was too great and with today's technology, they probably had a cell phone anyway. If they didn't, the walk to the gas station would be good for them. It would teach them a lesson about running out of gas. This is why time travelers don't show themselves. In trying to help you, we put ourselves at great risk and there's no point to it.

Bring a gas can with you when the car dies on the side of the road.

Farewell.

John

And that was it. That was the last known communication between this world and a person calling himself John Titor. Books have since been written on him, someone actually wrote a play about the story and there's even talk of a major motion picture brewing in the works. If he was smart, he'd come back and cash in on his noteriety. But he hasn't.

Couldn't be because he's currently just six years old, could it?

For Those Who Took The Blue Pill...
It's a hoax. The whole damn thing. You know it is. It has to be. Granted, it's one of the more elaborate, well-orchestrated hoaxes in a virtual playground filled with them, but it's still a hoax. Remember the reaction a small-time sci-fi writer named Orson Wells had on the general public with a radio broadcast on Halloween? Same thing applies here. People are sheep, and sheep are easily manipulated. And an actual picture of a time machine? Please. HE PUT IT IN A CHEVY. That's not even original fiction. Forget for a moment the baby-boomer vernacular Titor used in his posts and focus more on the right-wing Libertarian dream of destroying Big Government that's woven throughout his stor. Thanks for the semi-entertaining read, but I'll leave my time travels to reading stories about taking the principal's daughter to Prom back in 1990 on two-bit blogs like this one.

And For Those Who Took The Red Pill...
Einstein proved you can bend time and space. Therefore, the theory of time travel is anything but fiction. The physics of time travel, as sold by Titor, may walk the line of the improbable but never crosses into the realm of the impossible. If he's a joke, then explain how our visiting time traveler refuted the fundamental tenants of Hawking Radiation YEARS BEFORE HAWKING HIMSELF DID, smart guy. Lucky guess? No. Educated deduction? This random Sci-Fi channel junkie just made the smartest physicist on the damn planet look stupid. Admit it. The premise intrigues you enough to read the entire post again and wonder "what if...". If even half of what he says proves true, we're all in trouble. Big, big trouble.

The people who understand what they are seeing are not aggressive. Everyone else just finds them entertaining. The obvious answer is that the only worldline of consequence is my own and I don't care what happens here. That, however, is not the case. I have show all these documents in order that people might consider the possibility.

I do not expect people to believe them. Or me.

Bear with us.

2005-09-20T21:39:00.000-05:00

It appears we've got more problems than just a lack of cold beer in the fridge. We're currently having technical difficulties posting new entries. Everything works fine using a Mac and Safari, but the world turns to hell when this blog is experienced on a PC with Explorer.

Kinda makes you think the gods are trying to tell you all something...

Hopefull we'll have the situation fixed soon.

Stop while you're ahead

2005-09-09T14:15:00.000-05:00

The rest of the country calls it Labor Day Weekend. Down here in Texas it's known as the opening weekend of dove season. Regardless of what you call last weekend, we called it "sitting on the edge of a sunflower field drinking beer at 6:30 in the morning wondering how many times we're gonna be peppered by #8 birdshot."

This year the season opener took us north up to the Texas panhandle region; west of Vernon, to be exact. Drank way too much around the campfire on Friday night, which was just enough excuse needed to miss the number of birds we missed early Saturday morning. By mid-morning, the birds had shut down and we decided to call it a morning. We had inadvertently left our ziplock bags back at camp, but we didn't realize that until after we had cleaned our birds in the field. Federal law mandates that each hunter maintain possession of his birds until they are bagged/marked (to ensure daily bag limits aren't broken) but, in our drunken haze, we left the bags back at camp (apparently along with our common sense). So five of us, knowing it was a violation of federal game law but also knowing those ever-important ziplocks were less than two miles away, collectively tossed our birds together into one bag and headed back to camp.

See where this is going?

Not 100 yards past the gate, we're stopped by not one but two Texas game wardens. After checking licenses, we're each asked to show our birds.

"Uh, they're all in that bag over there."

"All of them?"

"Yeah."

"Did you turn your birds over to one person and fill out the required paperwork to do so?"

"Uh, no."

"Pull out your driver's licenses, boys. It's citation time."

"But look at this. It's a list showing each hunter and how many birds each one took. That way the landowner knows who's done for the day and who's coming back in the afternoon."

"Think you can talk your way out of this one?"

"Yeah."

"You have 15 seconds. Go."

"Okay, so we may have fractured the letter of the law, but we didn't violate the spirit of it. Not one person here shot over their limit. We kept a list showing who hunted here and how many birds they took. Hell, we even picked up our spent hulls."

"......"

"And might I add that you're a handsome man who represents the state of Texas well."

"Now that's the way you bullshit. Not bad. I was ready to give you just a verbal warning, but you pushed it with the handsome comment. That's why you get to sign this."

"Is it a ticket?"

"No, it's just a warning. You don't have to pay a fine or anything. You just need to remember next time it's smarter to stop while you're ahead."

The Power of Advertising

2005-09-08T13:00:00.000-05:00

And this just in: the government still doesn't know what it's doing in regards to relief efforts. At all.

Unfreaking believable.

Somewhere in the City of Louisiana

2005-09-06T14:30:00.000-05:00

His name is Keith Olbermann. The namesake of MSNBC's Countdown with Keith Olbermann, he brings a sharp wit to the news that requires more than a 6th grade education to appreciate. That's not only why he's the single voice of reason we turn to on a regular basis when our news fetish needs feeding, but it's also why he's the only news anchor officially endorsed by the BDS.

And when you hear the opinionated rant he launched into last night regarding local, state and federal response to Katrina, you'll understand why.

Unlike hacks named Geraldo, Greta, Anderson, Shep or (seriously) Dr. Phil, Keith prefaced his verbal editorial as just that — "this is my opinion". His preface also explained that last week was no week to point fingers or sling accusation, but that recent comments made by government officials forced him to vent. And did he ever.

The "city" of Louisiana
by Keith Olbermann

Secretary of Homeland Security Michael Chertoff said it all, starting his news briefing Saturday afternoon: "Louisiana is a city that is largely underwater..."

Well, there's your problem right there.

If ever a slip-of-the-tongue defined a government's response to a crisis, this was it.

The seeming definition of our time and our leaders has been their insistence on slashing federal budgets for projects that might have saved New Orleans. The seeming characterization of our government that it was on vacation when the city was lost, and could barely tear itself away from commemorating V.J. Day and watching Monty Python's Flying Circus, to at least pretend to get back to work. The seeming identification of these hapless bureaucrats: their pathetic use of the future tense in terms of relief they could've brought last Monday and Tuesday — like the President, whose statements have looked like they're being transmitted to us by some kind of four-day tape-delay.

But no. The incompetence and the ludicrous prioritization will forever by symbolized by one gaffe by the head of what is ironically called "The Department of Homeland Security": "Louisiana is a city..."

Politician after politician—Republican and Democrat alike—has paraded before us, unwilling or unable to shut off the "I-Me" switch in their heads, condescendingly telling us how moved they were or how devastated they were—congenially incapable of telling the difference between the destruction of a city and the opening of a supermarket.

And as that sorry recital of self-absorption dragged on, I have resisted editorial comment. The focus needed to be on the efforts to save the stranded—even the internet's meager powers were correctly devoted to telling the stories of the twin disasters, natural...and government-made.

But now, at least, it has stopped getting exponentially worse in Mississippi and Alabama and New Orleans and Louisiana (the state, not the city). And, having given our leaders what we know now is the week or so they need to get their act together, that period of editorial silence I mentioned, should come to an end.

No one is suggesting that mayors or governors in the afflicted areas, nor the federal government, should be able to stop hurricanes. Lord knows, no one is suggesting that we should ever prioritize levee improvement for a below-sea-level city, ahead of $454 million worth of trophy bridges for the politicians of Alaska.

But, nationally, these are leaders who won re-election last year largely by portraying their opponents as incapable of keeping the country safe. These are leaders who regularly pressure the news media in this country to report the reopening of a school or a power station in Iraq, and defies its citizens not to stand up and cheer. Yet they couldn't even keep one school or power station from being devastated by infrastructure collapse in New Orleans—even though the government had heard all the "chatter" from the scientists and city planners and hurricane centers and some group whose purposes the government couldn't quite discern...a group called The U.S. Army Corpse of Engineers.

And most chillingly of all, this is the Law and Order and Terror government. It promised protection—or at least amelioration—against all threats: conventional, radiological or biological.

It has just proved that it cannot save its citizens from a biological weapon called standing water.

Mr. Bush has now twice instisted that "we are not satisfied" with the response to the manifold tragedies along the Gulf Coast. I wonder which "we" he thinks he's speaking for on this point. Perhaps it's the administration, although we still don't know where some of them are. Anybody seen the Vice President lately? The man who's message this time last year was "I'll Protect You, The Other Guy Will Let You Die"?

I don't know which "we" Mr. Bush meant.

For many of this country's citizens, the mantra has been—as we were taught in Social Studies it should always be—whether or not I voted for this President, he is still my President. I suspect anybody who had to give him that benefit of the doubt stopped doing so last week. I suspect a lot of his supporters, looking ahead to '08, are wondering how they can distance themselves from the two words which will define his government—our government—"New Orleans".

For him, it's a shame, in all senses of the word. A few changes of pronouns in there, and he might not have looked so much like a 21st century Marie Antoinette. All that was needed was a quick "I'm not satisfied with my government's response". Instead of hiding behind phrases like "no one could have forseen", had he only remembered Winston Churchill's quote from the 1930s. "The responsibility of government", Churchill told the British Parliament, "for the public safety is absolute and requires no mandate. It is in fact, the prime object for which governments come into existence."

In forgetting that, the current administration did not merely damage itself—it damaged our confidence in our ability to rely on whoever is in the White House.

As we emphasized to you here all last week, the realities of the region are such that New Orleans is going to be largely uninhabitated for a lot longer than anybody is yet willing to recognize. Lord knows when the last body will be found, or the last artifact of the levee break dug up. Could be next March. Could be 2100. By then, in the muck and toxic mire of New Orleans, they may even found our government's credibility.

Somewhere in the City of Louisiana.

Red States. Blue States. Try United States.

2005-09-02T14:15:00.000-05:00

The numbers are mind-numbing. Hundreds, if not thousands, dead. Almost a million displaced. Over a million without power. Roughly 175 miles of coastline gone And along with hopes and dreams and lives, that bitch Katrina also took with her any semblance of civility and replaced it with the primal rules governing survival.

The hurricane has done what terrorists couldn't. It destroyed an entire American city and damaged a whole region of the country. And it's only going to get worse.

A nation with refugees
This isn't Kosovo. This isn't Niger. It's not the Gaza Strip, Somalia or Allen Fieldhouse 36 hours before a basketball game. But we have hundreds of thousands sleeping on blankets or cots (if they're lucky) in shelters across the south. The Houston Astrodome? Their little neon "no vacancy" sign is blinking in the front window, so buses are shipping our brothers and sisters to San Antonio, Austin and Dallas. Our own Reunion Arena, once the site of Tatu running around shirtless after slipped a corner shot past Mike Dowler, is now filling with people who have nothing but the shirt on their back.

We have received first-hand accounts from Looozianna beer drinkers in our office that the population of Baton Rouge has doubled in size over the past 48 hours. Those same fellow foamheads also report a major corporation, based in New Orleans, purchased 60 homes in a new Baton Rouge subdivision just yesterday (the real estate agent's son works down the hall). The plan is to relocated employees affected by the storm and move the entire operation to Baton Rouge on a permanent basis. The entire city is without gas.

In New Orleans, looters have taken to home invasions. No longer are they swiping food, water and other necessities to make it through the night. They're now prowling through upscale neighborhoods and breaking into homes still standing looking to take anything not nailed (or blown) down. First-hand reports online literally describe gunfights between homeowner and home-taker. But from the stories reported on the major cable outlets, you'd think only those at the Convention Center and Superdome are the ones in trouble.

Forget weeks or months. This one will be felt for a least a year if not longer. A quick visit to the BDS crystal ball reveals how:

1. Gas will peak around $3.75/gallon by the end of September before Congress passes emergency legislation freezing gas prices. Some Republicans will scream the market, not the government, should set prices. Autotrader.com will report having one million used SUVs for sale.

2. President Bush will announce the release of additional barrels from the nation's strategic oil reserve, hoping to calm investor reaction and consumer fear. What few realize is that we have plenty of oil in this country and not enough ways to refine it.

3. Unemployment will skyrocket to 20% in the south. Many in the middle class will suddenly find themselves as the working class, and the working class will find themselves being the lower class. At this very moment, Texas alone has almost 75,000 refugees who very soon will be looking for a job. Talk about flooding the market...

4. Martial law will blanket New Orleans until Thanksgiving. Anyone caught breaking curfew will be detained. Anyone caught looting will be shot at (if not shot altogether). Order will be restored at the expense of civil liberties.

5. Congressional investigations will be held before Christmas, looking to place blame and point fingers why aid wasn't sent sooner. The Director of FEMA will "retire" by year's end and the Office of Homeland Security will be 0-1.

6. The war on terrorism will lose steam with the American public. They'll begin to ask why we should continue to help fledgling democracies in the middle east rebuild their country when the primary rebuilding efforts should be done within our own zip codes. Democrats will yell louder, Independants will question more and even many Republicans will begin to wonder which Gulf the current administration cares about more.

7. School districts in Dallas and Houston, already strained, will be stressed even more from the weight of tens of thousands of new students. Federal grants will be sent to ease the burden.

8. Mardi Gras will be postponed until 2007, although several BDSers won't get the news until they're standing in ankle-deep water outside of Pat O'Briens wondering where all the boobs and beads are.

Watch the game tape and learn something
So what can we learn from watching the disaster unfold from the comfort of your beer coozy?

1. The Boy Scouts were right.
Listen to your government when they urge you to be prepared for the unexpected. Keeping a few supplies on hand (including a generator to keep the beer fridge cold) isn't being paranoid. It's being smart.

2. Stash away some cash.
The few gas stations and grocery stores that opened up after the rains left didn't take checks or credit cards. Cash was the only accepted form of payment. If you don't have a few extra bills folded up in your wallet hidden behind the picture of the kids or stashed under the old soccer shoes in the closet, think again.

3. Have a plan.
A forced evacuation of your town has just been announced. Gridlock is tying up two of the three major highways out of the city. Where are you going to go and, more importantly, how are you going to get there?

4. Avoid the shelters.
To see why, turn on your TV.

5. Rely on your friends.
In time of need, lean on them. The good ones understand that's why you keep them around

Yeah, we're back. Not just passing through.

2005-08-31T14:00:00.000-05:00

It's been said absence makes the heart grow fonder. In our case, it did more than that. It made our in-box fill with "what the hell are you doing down there?" and "Hey lazy ass, get back to entertaining me although I personally add nothing constructive to the conversation" emails. It even lead to more than a few phone calls verbalizing the same. So what was the cause of our sudden disappearance?

You.

From the very beginning, this experiment had a small target audience. Separated by distant zip codes, busy schedules and growing families, it was designed to keep old friends from slipping into old memories. Sounded cool enough at the time, anyway.

But it soon grew from a quiet conversation at Lake Afton among friends into a loud, public display of creativity that demanded constant attention. We felt the growing need to entertain you; to keep our loving public laughing and interested and offended and coming back for more. At some point in time, our little piece of the Internet moved from being a place where immature friends passed in and out of consciousness around the campfire tellling stories to a site where hundreds of strangers were seen peering into our virtual circle.

Over time, writing became a chore; something that had to be squeezed in between writing for a paycheck during the day, spending quality time with the family at night and fishing/hunting/drinking/midget wrestling during the weekend. We actually found ourselves somewhat resenting our commitment to the blog. So we did what any self-respecting 16-year old boy with raging hormones does when his girlfriend doesn't put out after three consecutive dates.

We stopped paying attention to her.

We stepped away from the keyboard for a few weeks and took a break. A much needed one at that. In our abscence, it appears some trolling assholes noticed the teacher was gone and used that freedom to plaster their advertising messages on the virtual walls of our little clubhouse. Hell, it's not even good advertising at that. And yeah, we're qualified to know what is. That's why their posts have been removed; you have to pay us a royalty if you're looking to make a fast buck off our brand. Do it again and suffer the consequences.

There's one other reason why a) we've neglected our Dungeon Master duties here at BDS Central for the past month and why b) posts won't come quite as frequently in the very near future as they once did. We worked our asses off to get it and, now that we have it, we'll work our asses off to keep it. That's why we have been, and will continue to be, damn busy for the next several months. Busy as in "this is the biggest industry news in the last five years so don't screw it up". That's good news for us, but bad news for our fellow bloggers who want the real story behind the legendary Night of Thirteen Mickeys.

No, we are not killing the blog. We aren't buying her for parts, retiring her to the farm or sending her out in a blaze of glory. We're just trying to find her place in this world. As time, energy and necessity permits, we'll update her when we can.

We owe her, and you, that much.

No, we're not back. Just passing through.

2005-07-14T13:00:00.000-05:00

As most of our loving public has deduced, the USS BDS has pulled into port to give her crew an extended shore leave. After spanning the virtual globe fighting crappy blogs, beer-induced memory loss of better times and the general onset of malaise usually associated with four months of Royals baseball, we've earned it. No, we didn't think we'd actually pull the ship into dry dock for this long either, but that's the way things have worked out.

We'll skip the detailed excuses for our past and future absence. No one wants to hear that crap anyway. If/when we return to our regularly scheduled programming, it'll be sometime down the road.

Until then, enjoy the rest of your summer beer.

2005-06-22T12:30:00.000-05:00

Watch the virgin get nailed.

2005-06-21T11:30:00.000-05:00

NASA lit the fuse on the Deep Impact spacecraft last January, sending the $200 million Roman Candle high into the night sky on a mission few believed possible just 10 years ago. After clearing Earth's orbit, Twiggy and Dr. Theopolis set the cruise control at 64,000 miles per hour and settled in for a six-month road trip. Their destination? Comet Tempel 1 that's currently on a south-southeast course through the constellation of Virgo, the Virgin. Their objective? To smash into it with enough force to produce an explosion large enough to be seen from your backyard that'll have you mumbling "huh, so that's what cosmic sex looks like".

This is the first actual image taken of Comet Tempel 1 by the Deep Impact spacecraft after launch. It's a relatively small and faint comet; it lacks the characteristic ponytail like Hale-Bopp, Haley's or Perez in high school.

The plan goes something like this: find the speeding bullet, get close to the speeding bullet and then hit the speeding bullet with one of your own. On July 3rd (that's in two weeks), the Deep Impact spacecraft will fire a washing machine-sized copper "impactor" designed to smash into the comet's nucleus at 23,000 miles per hour on July 4th. Talk about the rocket's red glare...

The ensuing stellar car wreck should expel an ever-increasing cloud of ice, dust and gas into the neighborhood. By analyzing the blown-out debris and the crater itself, scientists hope to gain new insights into both comets and the genesis of your solar system.

Now before you fire up the grill and tap the keg for a "Come Watch The Death Star Explode" party, know this: the actual impact will fall well short of the fireworks display in Hardtner, KS. Although Comet Tempel 1 is currently visible with a telescope after dark looming low in the soutwestern sky in the constellation Virgo, it's still somewhat difficult to see. For sky watchers, only those in the far western zip codes will be positioned to see the comet during impact. For everyone else fortunate enough to live outside California, it will have sunk below the horizon and out of view. In BDS time, the Big Hit will occur between 12:40 a.m. and 1:35 a.m. on July 4th. The exact time of impact hasn't been set yet, but it doesn't matter much anyway. You won't be able to see it.

However, we should be able to see the skid marks, broken glass and deployed airbags of the collision on subsequent evenings. Comet Tempel 1's brightness is currently a faint, hard-to-see 9th magnitude, but NASA expects that brightness to flare up to a 6th or even 5th magnitude after impact (a lower number denotes a brighter star). That'll put it right on the edge of naked-eye visibility. No one knows just how long any enhanced brightness will last, so go outside in a few weeks to see what you can of this monumental event before it's gone.

So how do you do that? Find the Big Dipper, Boy Scout. It's in the norhtern portion of your sky. Now follow the arc of the Dipper's handle away from the "pan". The first bright star you'll come to is Arcturis in the constellation Bootes (no, not Loch's old dog). Then just continue that arc on to the next bright star that's called Spica. At the time of impact, the comet will be about 3.5 degrees from Spica (3.5 degrees is about three and a half finger widths). If possible, put down the beer and pick up a pair of binoculars or, better yet, stick your eyeball behind a telescope. It'll make the hunt much easier and more rewarding.

Or you could just sit your lazy ass in front of the TV watching history instead of experiencing it.

She picked up her cape later.

2005-06-15T09:30:00.000-05:00

Few things in life are better than having a cold beer in hand and a cushy couch under ass. Add a TV remote that's within reach along with the latest issue of Field & Stream and a bag of Funions, and we'll consider it a life fulfilled. Sure, some of us break the occasional sweat with softball. Or soccer. Or fishing (shut up). Hell, some of us even work out on occasion, if for no other reason than to brag to his fellow slouches about it.

And then there's Shana. She's the triathlete mom who just made your lazy ass look a whole lot fatter.

While you were asleep dreaming of water fountains that dispense only Sam Adams Light, she was turning laps in the pool. While you were off pulling a hamstring on a return trip to the beer fridge in the garage, she was feeling the pedals spread the burn into her calves. And while you were complaining that it was too hot to fish, she was lacing up the running shoes for a multi-mile run.

The 2005 Danskin Women's Triathlon Series was held last weekend down in Austin. After training under the watchful eye of a guy who has his own Ironman tattoo on his ankle and then telling him to "shut the hell up and let me run my own race" (okay, we made that part up but we suspect that was said at some point), Shana proceeded to rip through the competition. Not only did this Mom make damn-near everyone else on the course eat their vegetables before being allowed to play outside, but she apparently sent a majority of them off to spend a few minutes in Time Out, too.

The selfless triathlete will tell you she's racing against the clock and not each other. That she's trying to beat a personal best and not the person next to her. The fat-assed, beer-drinking slug who has passed out face-first into a bag of Fritos wearing nothing but underwear will tell you otherwise. While we're picking the chips outta our noses, we'll also point out a few facts about last weekend's race like this:

Overall Race
• Out of 2,850 women racers, Shana finished 388th (top 14%)
• In her age group (which was the largest and most competitive), she finished 67 out of 481 (again, top 14%)

Individual Events
• She finished the 1/2 mile swim in just 16 minutes and ranked 286th (top 10%)
• She finished the 12 mile bike ride in 44 minutes with an average speed of 16.7 mph and ranked 616 (top 22%)
• She finished the 3.2 mile run in 31 minutes and ranked 729th (top 26%)

Apparently when you do the math and carry the 4, all those numbers average out to Shana finishing in the top 15%.

Oh, by the way, this was her first triathlon. Ever. Kinda makes you feel bad for calling your wife when she's on the way home from work asking her to get the mail from the mailbox in front of the house 'cause you're too tired to walk outside, huh?

Reports from the field also describe the course as being tough; "a real bitch" in the terms of one veteran racer. Apparently the only flat part of the course was the water. In his words, to post a time like that, on a course like this, is amazing. In our words, to post any time, on anything even remotely like this without having to crank up the amps on a heart defibrilator afterwards, is simply amazing.

We also heard the race medal has a phrase inscribed on the back. "The woman that starts the race is not the same woman who finishes." No, she's not.

The superwoman who's a full-time mom, full-time wife and full-time inspiration to both her husband and the rest of the boys had to stop on the way home to pick up her cape at the dry cleaners after the race.

"Kill A Pissant For Jesus!"

2005-06-10T16:15:00.000-05:00

Anyone remember Dr. Gene Scott? He's the televangelist who thought the burning bush was a fine south American cigar and spent almost as much time selling '97 Cabernets from his vineyard as he did selling the teachings from the Good Book. He's also the guy you occasionally caught while channel surfing after coming home from a late night at the bar. During the first Gulf War? He wrapped up his entire style of preaching when he screamed to his viewing audience "Nuke 'em in the name of Jesus!"

God this guy was funny. Right up to his death a few months ago.

To read more about the guy who warned those who didn't tithe enough to his cause they "can all look forward to sliding down the slimy chute straight to hell", read this.

And to see what could be the single funniest bit of TV evangelism in the history of Tammy Fae, check this out. The cussing is funny until you realize he's really mad. Then it becomes absolutely hilarious.

Think NASCAR with a trolling motor.

2005-06-08T09:00:00.000-05:00

The B.A.S.S. Federation's Elite 50 fishing tournament was held last weekend on Lake Lewisville north of Dallas. Known more for its party coves than fishing ones, this urban nooky lake had four boating fatalities and over 20 drownings alone last year. Hell, during the summer months you'd think the lake water was actually silicone; the number of fake Texas boobs floating out by the marinas, in the coves and even in the main channels would convince you of that. That's why no one who knows anything about fishing, including the pros, thought much of the fishing at Lewisville.

Until Kevin Van Dam's line went tight and he dragged the biggest fish of his life into his boat.

It officially scored 11 lbs. 13 ounces. Once it's certified by Texas Parks and Wildlife (which may have already happened), it'll be the biggest largemouth ever caught on the lake and in the top three of biggest bass caught during a B.A.S.S. tournament ever. You can see the fish up close and personal this upcoming Saturday morning on ESPN 2 when they televise last weekend's action. And if you can get past the goofball smirk KVD has on his face in the picture and look at the fish, you'll see you could easily cram a six pack of Schlitz down its throat.

The tournament last weekend drew over 10,000 spectators and fans. That's right. Ten thousand fans were there to witness the daily weigh-ins, shop vendor booths, fish with their kids in the kiddie pond and meet the pros. And it was all free, including parking. If pro basketball was this fan-friendly, maybe people would watch the playoffs and actually give a rat's ass about their league. Yeah, you can argue watching a fishing tournament could be the single biggest waste of time in the history of time wasting, but then we'd remind you 19 million tuned in to watch (and vote) in the finals of Fox's American Idol, so don't give us any lip.

And no, we didn't bond with our fellow rednecks at Lewisville last weekend. We were too busy fishing Grapevine.

Pitching in the Death Zone

2005-06-03T10:44:00.000-05:00

It's one of the most desired goals of any pitcher; the masterpiece of any career. It's also one of the most difficult feats to achieve, not just in baseball but in any sport. This elusive ambition? Throwing a perfect game. Tossing a no-hitter that retires all 27 opposing batters in order. No base hits. No walks. No fielding errors at all. Very few have thrown a perfect game and no one's done it twice.

Then there's Ed.

Ed didn't throw a perfect game. He threw 14.
And he doesn't even play baseball.

Around 2:00 p.m. Nepal time on May 12 of last month, Ed Viesturs tossed his 14th no-hitter, but the mound he stood on was 8,091 meters high. He had just summited Annapurna, arguably the most dangerous mountain on the planet. At that moment, he became the first American to summit all fourteen 8,000-meter peaks and only the second man in history to do it without the use of supplemental oxygen.

Kinda puts tossing a cow skin with seams into perspective, huh?

Contrary to popular opinion, Everest isn't the hardest mountain to climb. Even K2 (the second highest peak in the neighborhood) takes a backseat to Annapurna. The Big A is the tenth highest mountain in the world, but it's considered the most lethal of the 8,000-meter club. For every ten climbers who reach the summit, four die. Some of us may be allergic to math, but we know what a 40% fatality rate means. While the number of deaths on Everest is higher, the ratio of deaths to summits is far less. Around one outta ten.

So why is Annapurna so damn hard? Because it's technical with a capital "holy shit we gotta run up THAT?" You have to scale hard ice and steep rock at very high altitude. Not to take anything away from the other nine peaks in the band, but all reports put Annapurna as a straight ass-whip of a climb. Hell, this was Ed's third attempt at tagging the summit and, for a guy who's climbed Everest four times (twice without supplemental O2), that should tell you something.

Ed climbed it alpine style — fast and light without cumbersome O2 bottles or even the help of Sherpas. That's like pitching a no hitter while holding your breath for five innings and getting no run support whatsoever. I'd like to see Pedro try that one.

And forget the ballpark. Ed plays in the Death Zone. Within seconds of entering it, the body begins to deteriorate. The air above 26,000 feet is so thin that simply placing one foot in front of the other is a challenge. As the blood oxygen saturation level in the body falls, the breathing increases and the heart speeds up in a last-ditch attempt to pump more blood made red with oxygen into the brain. That lack of O2 can impare judgement; confusion may set in. Some people eventually hallucinate. Some find themselves fighting for every breath. And some simply find it easier to lay down and die.

While the BDS has no experience running up the side of a Himalayan peak, we do have our fair share of experience running around a number of Colorado 14'ers and even Alaska's Denali. All told, we have tagged 12 of Colorado's crown jewels without losing our own and found ourselves running around the base of Denali awed by a mountain so freakin' large that it creates its own weather patterns.

Then we realize Ed's climbed bigger ones than than. Fourteen of them. Without help. And 99% of the world doesn't know it. So if someone throws a perfect game this season, tell your friends it's not as impressive as the fourteen some guy named Ed threw.

2005-06-01T16:30:00.000-05:00

Dear Loving Public,

Root canal. That's why.

We'll be back later.

Word to your Mothership.

Two barrels are better than one.

2005-05-25T10:00:00.000-05:00

Everyone has a secret desire. For some, it's sitting behind the wheel (you installed yourself) of a '65 red Ford Mustang once again. For others it's flying around on your Harley or gliding behind your Mastercraft. Hell, for some it's simply removing the VC punji sticks from the backyard and replacing them with a pool and spa next to the "Gentleman's Club" you built in the oversized shed just off the back patio. Some of those desires have become reality over the course of time; others are simply still a distant dream.

Well, last week one dream became reality. A really loud one at that.

It's called a Citori Lightning. She's a 12-guage beauty with a classic rounded pistol grip and forearm. Her deep-blue receiver is engraved with subtle yet stylish designs. And not two, nor three but five Invector-Plus choke tubes were included as well. I even got a lockable case lined with fancy shag carpet to haul it around in.

I gave serious consideration to the Beretta Silver Pigeon S, but due diligence revealed too many problems with their hinge pins (they latch the barrel assembly onto the receiver, and apparently not too well at that). It's also a little fancier than I need. In other words, it seems to be a great gun to point at and say "Damn! Look at my new gun!" The Citoris, on the other hand, are great guns to point at birds during pheasant season and yell "Damn! How did I miss him!"

And no, I didn't pay the suggested retail price, either. A little secret? No one does. You can haggle, trade and talk you way into a great shotgun for much less than what the manufacturer recommends.

So for the first time since, hell, ever, the old Wingmaster will be set aside during the next season. It'll sit there, with its barbwire-scratched stock in its duct-taped sheath, patiently waiting for someone else to pick it up and make a few new memories.

Craig? Casey? Hargate? Any suggestions who could do that?

Step inside for a better view.

2005-05-24T12:40:00.000-05:00

It starts off innocently enough. A patch of warm, humid air up from the Gulf bumps into cold air down from Canada and mixes with dry air coming off the Rockies. If the high pressure cap weakens, the warm air rises, then cools and condenses into towering clouds. Those towers, if strong enough, punch a hole through the cap and signify the fireworks are about to start. Meanwhile, that rising warm air displaces the colder air, forcing it down. This causes the two air masses to "rub" against each other, creating a horizontal patch of spinning air. If a powerful updraft, skirting along the surface, decides to suddently rocket skyward, it literally pushes that spinning air vertical. The science is still shakey on just how this large area of spinning wind ends up strengthening and tightening into the Finger of God, but it does. And why does this warrant discussion? Because researchers have, for the first time ever, used a probe to capture images from inside a tornado.

So stick the Dorothy and Toto references up your ass.
This is the real deal.

Last summer, three scientists did the near impossible — they chased down a tornado and placed a probe with video cameras directly in its path. Some guy named Tim Samaras carried, along with an obviously huge set of steel balls, an 80-pound probe and placed that movable force in front of the unstoppable object. And the video of this atmospheric bullfight is simply amazing.

See for yourself.

Talk about mesmerizing video. The guy literally stands there watching the tornado eyeball its way straight towards his increasing pucker factor. Not only does he stand there watching it watch him, but he then decides the probe needs to be placed elsewhere on the road and moves it again prior to getting out of the way.

Bill Paxton could only hope to be this cool. And if the video doesn't leave you shaking your head in amazement, crawl back to your Playstation that has obviously convinced you fantasy is better than reality.

For additional footage of what an F4 tornado looks like up close and personal without forcing you to call your insurance agent immediately afterwards, check this out, too. It'll have you grabbing a shovel and building a basement if you don't have one in no time.

It was back in 1982 when we saw our first funnel drop down west of the football field during recess. Originally upset our game of Four Square was interrupted by a terrified teacher blowing her whistle and screaming for us to get inside the school, we found ourselves hypnotized by the angry pencil-shaped cloud. Who knew years later we'd find ourselves purposefully driving towards the dark clouds of spring looking to get a better view.

We've seen exactly one up close and personal; a set of three twisters touched down west and north of Kingman back in 1995. We were set up on the southwest corner of the supercell and saw a small one rip through an open wheat field. Apparently two others touched down in the vicinity that day but we never caught a glimpse of them.

But the best "holy shit here it comes" story occurred during Finals Week at KU back in '93. Earlier that day the National Weather Service had issued a Tornado Watch for the area. Sitting in Mallette Hall trying to fight through an ass-whip of an astronomy final, the sound of screaming tornado sirens announced the Tornado Watch had turned into a Tornado Warning. The TA administering the exam completely freaked out, picked up the tests, mumbled something about taking "current circumstances into consideration" when awarding final grades and ran out the door. Small wonder the rest of the class quickly followed suit.

As we walked down the hill headed back home to The Apartment Bar That Never Closes, we were literally knocked over by panicked students sprinting towards shelter. When we reached the apartment complex, it looked like a disturbed ant hill; students were scurrying all over the place. But there, in the face of impending doom, stood Chris and Brian. With eyes toward the troubled sky, ears toward the TV weatherman and cold beer in hand, they were impervious to the manufactured (and misplaced) chaos surrounding them.

"Have you seen it yet?"

"No. Guess the mean stuff is out by Clinton Lake."

A few other "brave" souls were standing in the parking lot looking skyward as well, while others were too busy diving into the nearest bathtub while reaching for the closest mattress to cover themselves with. And that's when it hit us; that's when the power of observation paid off. While the out-of-state students were quite certain the world was coming to an end, all native Kansans were struggling for a glimpse of the twister. As they ran in, we ran out. So the next time a tornado siren roars through your neighborhood and your neighbor can be seen walking outside for a better look, you know where he's from.

Sorry for the technical difficulties.

2005-05-22T21:48:00.000-05:00

Apparently Blogger isn't a fan of old Webb.

In what continues to be a disturbing trend, certain posts somehow jack this blog up (like the last one). For whatever reason, they disable the rest of the site when posted. Not on a Mac, mind you. Everything looks great on a Mac.

Funny how that always seems to be the case.

Anyway, we're going to chalk it up to drunk code and move on. There's not a whole lot of complaining you can do when using a free program. We'll return to our regularly scheduled crap soon.

And no, there's no more so don't bother looking.

Told you. And yet you still looked.

Say hello to the future.

2005-05-18T15:30:00.000-05:00

"On each landing, opposite the lift shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran."
George Orwell, 1984

"Holy shit. Congress passed The Real ID Act yesterday."
The BDS, 2005

Other than hearing the occasional voice inside our head quietly request an Alaskan microbrew, the BDS is not the paranoid type. We don't rile easily when the NRA uses fear tactics to drive membership. We rarely think twice about black helicopter claims and laugh at the notion late-night talk radio espouses regarding the government's ultimate plan to subqutaneously emplant a microchip into your arm.

And then something like this happens.

The bill is called H.R. 418; The Real ID Act. Slipped into a bill appropriating money for the U.S. military in Iraq (thereby assuring its passage with few questions asked 'cause no one wants to be seen as not supporting the troops), it passed in both the House and Senate WITHOUT DEBATE. It now awaits the President's signature which will probably happen by the end of this week.

The Act requires all states to issue machine-readable (ie. bar codes or magnetic strips) biometrically encoded (ie. fingerprints or, seriously, retinal scans) identification cards (ie. repurposed, revamped driver's license). These cards will have to meet federal standards that specify who qualifies for one, what information they contain and what documents you have to show in order to get one.

Within three years (by 2008), you will not be able to travel by plane or train, open a bank account, start a new job, enter a federal building, use a government service or collect Social Security benefits without first flashing what amounts to a national identification card. Practically speaking, your driver's license will have to be reissued to meet federal standards.

Those states who refuse to impliment the federal ID program will, according to the bill, have federal grant money withheld. Worse yet, its citizens won't be able allowed to fly on a plane. Or open a savings account. Or enter a federal building their tax dollars paid for.

Guys, we're not making this up.

So what's the big deal? For starters, it won't stop terrorism (which was the major excuse used to ram it through Congress). The Act wouldn't have stoped the Sept. 11 hijackers, who were in the United States legally to begin with. It does nothing to combat the sale of fake license, either (quite the contrary, actually; the black market value will skyrocket making the fraud much more lucritive and appealing). In terms of unfunded mandates, it appears individual states will be left holding the bill for implimentation, too. But nothing compares to the privacy issue being ignored.

With a national ID card, every retailer will swipe your ID under the guise of validating who you are. At the same time, they will be collecting valuable information on you that could theoretically be sold to data companies (ChoicePoint ring a bell with anyone?) They, in turn, could resell the info to just about anyone. Beyond that, any police officer who swipes your card during a routine traffic stop could feasibly see what you ate for lunch or how many boxes of shotgun shells you purchased at Cabela's before Opening Weekend.

See a freakin' probelm with any of this?

While we are not big fans of big government, we understand its primary role is to protect and defend the country from all enemies; both foreign and domestic. As such, the BDS and the rest of the country have shown their willingness to sacrifice certain freedoms in the name of national security. But The Real ID Act has taken that willingness too far, without so much as an honest debate on the issue. Hell, the cowards hid it inside a military spending bill, ready to call any detractors of the measure "unpatriotic".

That should tell you everything you need to know about the bill, those who signed it and one potential destiny of us all.

Calling All Jayhawk Fans

2005-05-17T10:45:00.000-05:00

Looks like this whole "Extreme Makeover"-thing has spread beyond ABC on Sunday nights. It's now apparently spread to the University of Kansas. Obviously not satisfied with jacking around long-time season ticket holders, the "brain trust" over on The Hill now wants to jack with tradition. They believe a "strong, consistent visual identity versus one that is fragmented will enhance KU's image across the state, the nation and the world."

Yeah, it'll enhance our image alright.
The gay surfing crowd will now love us.

To KU's credit, this visual identity campaign has been ongoing for quite some time. We even sent out a few emails last year when the process began. Starting next fall, the new look will be unveiled. You'll see it everywhere from stationary and business cards to signage, brochures and recruitment material. No, they aren't dumb enought to even think about killing the Jayhawk or the university seal, but they are confused enough to think you can change primary school colors and a logo at the same time.

They have also done a fairly good job of seeking imput from students, faculty, staff and alumni. Here's your chance to do the same thing. Tell the folks back home what you think. What you love. What you hate about the four new logo options. Your next KU ballcap depends on it.

(insert burping sound here)

2005-05-16T16:00:00.000-05:00

Forecasters at the NOAA Space Environment Center in Boulder, Colorado observed a geomagnetic storm yesterday which they classified as an "extreme event measuring G-5". That's the highest level on the NOAA Space Weather Scale. In BDS terms, it means the sun just let rip one hell of a burp that could potentially disrupt systems around the world.

According to NOAA, "this event registered a 9 on the K-Index, which measures the maximum deviation of the Earth's magnetic field in a given three-hour period." The scale ranges from 0 to 9 and, because 9 is the highest rating available, this is one significant event.

Geomagnetic storms occur when bubbles of charged gas erupt off the sun (not unlike the gas heard at the last poker party). Unless we're mistaken and corrected by any lurking astrophysisists, these are called coronal mass ejections (or CMEs).

Possible impacts from such a geomagnetic storm include widespread power system voltage control problems, some grid systems may experience complete collapse or blackouts and transformers may experience damange. Spacecraft operations may experience extensive surface charging and there may be problems with orientation and/or uplink/downlink tracking of satellites. Satellite navigation may be degreaded for days and low-level frequency radio navigation can be out for hours. Reports received by the NOAA Space Environment Center indicate that such impacts have already been observed.

Want proof? Here's a picture snapped by SOHO, the Solar and Heliospheric Observatory satellite. Besides being the most prolific discoverer of comets in astronomical history (well over 620 to date), it also takes pictures of the sun and, as a result, coronal mass ejections, too. Here's what it saw yesterday and tell us this isn't a damn cool picture:

And here's an equally killer X-ray image as taken by the GOES-12 Solar X-Ray Imager:

If, for whatever reason, this blog crazy goes dan updates no there are awhile for blame sun the.

Drunk since the beginning of time.

2005-05-13T13:20:00.000-05:00

For centuries it lay hidden; a secret buried deep beneath the sands of time. It wasn't until the first major archaeological excavation of the region in 1854 that it was discovered. There, among the ancient ruins of Uruk in what was then Mesopotamia, scholars were stunned to find the oldest recorded writing of man. For years science struggled to decipher its code, knowing its message would give modern man a glimpse into his distant past. Whatever this clay tablet referenced, it was obviously important enough to the Sumerians that they write it down not knowing that, 4,000 years later, it would be worth incalculable historical value.

Who knew it would be a beer recipe.

That's right. The single oldest piece of writing known to man details instructions on the proper ingredients needed to enjoy biblical beer goggles. The tablet was found in the region of Mesopotamia, the fabled "birthplace of civilization". Watered by the Euphrates and Tigris rivers, Mesopotamia is said to be the location of the legendary "Garden of Eden" (if you believe in the literal interpretation, not the implied meaning, of the Book of Genesis in the Bible). And if those rivers sound familiar, they should. Your Marines followed them all the way to Baghdad two years ago.

Back then, the cities of Ur and Uruk were two key centers of Mesopotamian civilization. It was in the city of Uruk that the world's earliest recorded writings were found. Using a reed stylus to draw on tablets of clay, temple administrators recorded the forumula to make beer. And to them, it wasn't just a simple recipe for homebrew but one handed down by the god Enki himself.

Researchers discover that this symbol

represented "clay vessel" on the tablet.

But when lines were drawn through it like this,

it meant the vessel was filled with beer.

Talk about a killer idea for your next tattoo...

According to certain scholars, Enki (the god of water) was also considered the supreme god of wisdom and magic. Out of love for his disciples, he gave the Sumerians wisdom and magic through the blessed liquid known as beer. Apparently the Sumerians knew, even before the BDS, that the more you drink, the smarter you get. And it's through the Enki magic that, over time and a few glasses, every chick in the bar gets better looking.

Here endeth the lesson. Enjoy your weekend.

So this is what tar heroin feels like.

2005-05-11T15:00:00.000-05:00

It's an evil drug. Whispering your name almost daily, it begs for one more hit. Oblivious to the pain and anguish it's caused in the past, you induldge the demon with rolled-up sleeve and willing arm. The junk soon rushes in, burning through your veins on a one-way trip straight to your brain. A flood of euphoric emotions then follow. Through a cosmic mixture of everlasting hope and sustained encouragement, you're tricked into thinking life is better. That things aren't so bad. But eventually, the drug wears off and you quickly find yourself crashing. Shaking in a cold sweat with blurred vision, you muster just enough strength to look around the room. You find yourself surrounded by other worthless junkies; some lying on the couch, others asleep on the floor. And then, in a moment of clarity, it hits you.

They're all wearing KC ballcaps.

As it stands, our Royals are 8-25. They're playing .242 ball and are a full 16 games back of those damn White Sox (who, by the way, have more experience watching their fans beat up first-base coaches than they do at actually winning). KC has, without question, the worst owner/GM duo in the leage. Glass and Baird see the league's luxury tax not as a way for small-market teams to acquire better talent but as a way to personally acquire a thicker wallet. Tony Pena will be fired because he can't win with the 2-3-5-7 King hand he was dealt while everyone else in the league is playing with a stacked deck. Mike Sweeney, having a killer season with a .336 average and an amazing .384 OBP, will likely be traded 'cause that's what Kansas City does to good talent that actually puts fans in the seat (Beltran, Damon and Dye ring a bell?).

In short, we suck. And every fan who still wears his colors in public is bound to be chastised or pitied as a junkie who simply can't kick the habit. So what does a KC fan stuck in Texas do besides contemplate becoming a Rangers fan? He forks over money to hear his team suck in real-time. Thanks to Gameday Audio, we can hear legends like Denny Matthews and Fred White call play by agonizing play of every game this season with streaming audio. The price of being entertained by MLB's version of the Bad News Bears? $14.95 for the season. For $15 a month or $80 for the season, we could get live webcasts of the actual game streamed straight into our monitor. Knowing that money would be better spent on beer ('cause that's the only thing keeping most KC fans alive), we've opted to stick with the radio broadcasts for now to get our fix.

Yeah, we know. It's not good for us. This unhealthy addiction to losing leaves more than a few tracks in the arms. It leaves you actually contemplating a bandwagon jump to another team. The last time the Royals made the pos-season was '85, the same year they all walked away with rings. Since then, the damn Cream Team has had more success on the softball diamonds in Lawrence and those drunks only play for beer.

Want proof that junkies have a hard time functioning properly during the day? Look at how many didn't make it out to a recent afternoon game at The K.

A picture rarely says it all but, in this case, it does.

Ed. note: Late Tuesday night, coach Tony Pena stepped down. Although two weeks earlier he received a strong vote of confidence from management, he couldn't take it. Citing a frustration with the way the team had been playing, he dropped the bombshell on management after a 3-1 loss to Toronto. This after winning AL Coach of the Year in 2003. While the BDS hates seeing a proven winner like Tony walk out the door, we take hidden pleasure in knowing Glass and Baird now know what it feels like to unexpectedly lose someone. Now they know what we felt when Beltran was sent to Houston, Dye was sent to Oakland and we all watched Damon win a World Series wearing the wrong uniform. If owndership continues to destroy the Royals brand by caring more about the bottom line than the winning one, it's only a matter of time until they find an army of fans carrying pitch forks and torches at their front gate.

First Among Equals

2005-05-10T13:55:00.000-05:00

The term "hero" is overused. It's become the word du jour; a catch-all adjectvie used by today's society to describe every cop who walks a beat, every fireman who climbs a ladder and every inner-city teacher who actually gives a damn. Those civil servants, those who keep us safe and teach our young, deserve our respect. Our admiration. Our heartfelt gratitude. However, unless their actions include conspicuous gallantry at the risk of their lives above and beyond the call of duty, we suggest saving the term "hero" for those individuals who earn it.

Individuals like Sergeant First Class Paul Smith, who last month was posthumously awarded the medal to prove it.

Here's the Defense Department's official citation:

Sergeant First Class Paul R. Smith distinguished himself by acts of gallantry and intrepidity above and beyond the call of duty in action with an armed enemy near Baghdad International Airport, Baghdad, Iraq on 4 April 2003. On that day, Sergeant First Class Smith was engaged in the construction of a prisoner of war holding area when his Task Force was violently attacked by a company-sized enemy force. Realizing the vulnerability of over 100 fellow soldiers, Sergeant First Class Smith quickly organized a hasty defense consisting of two platoons of soldiers, one Bradley Fighting Vehicle and three armored personnel carriers. As the fight developed, Sergeant First Class Smith braved hostile enemy fire to personally engage the enemy with hand grenades and anti-tank weapons, and organized the evacuation of three wounded soldiers from an armored personnel carrier struck by a rocket propelled grenade and a 60mm mortar round. Fearing the enemy would overrun their defenses, Sergeant First Class Smith moved under withering enemy fire to man a .50 caliber machine gun mounted on a damaged armored personnel carrier. In total disregard for his own life, he maintained his exposed position in order to engage the attacking enemy force. During this action, he was mortally wounded. His courageous actions helped defeat the enemy attack, and resulted in as many as 50 enemy soldiers killed, while allowing the safe withdrawal of numerous wounded soldiers. Sergeant First Class Smith’s extraordinary heroism and uncommon valor are in keeping with the highest traditions of the military service and reflect great credit upon himself, the Third Infantry Division “Rock of the Marne,” and the United States Army.

The Medal of Honor is the nation's highest medal for valor in combat that can be awarded to any member of the armed forces. Although it is sometimes referred to as the "Congressional Medal of Honor", the President is the one who awards it on behalf of both the Congress and a grateful nation.

According to the Defense Department itself, Medals of Honor are awarded sparingly and are bestowed only to the bravest of the brave. And that valor must be well-documented. So few Medals of Honor are awarded, in fact, that only two (prior to SFC Smith) have been bestowed since Vietnam. Both were awarded posthumously to Army Master Sgt. Gary Gordon and Army Sgt. Firt Class Randy Shughart for valor in Somalia back in '93 (read or rent Blackhawk Down to see why).

Remember, we still owe a great deal of gratitude to every cop, firefighter, teacher, social worker and volunteer who sacrifices to make our communities better. Just think twice before calling them heroes.

It weakens the meaning for those who are.

Long overdue.

2005-05-06T09:45:00.000-05:00

Life has a strange way of clogging up your day. It may throw high heat at your head in the morning and a forgotten memory at you by the afternoon. It has no respect for schedules, rarely plays by the rules and loves taking unexpected turns. As time rolls on, the vast majority of it centers around jobs, kids and wives. Any BDSer worth his wedding ring will tell you that's the way it should be, but sometimes Daddy needs to cut loose and act his shoe size for a weekend.

Believe us when we say there was plenty of that going on at last month's poker party back home. And just like this post that Craig, Brian, Sex and Greg have reminded us about, the party was long overdue.

The Road Trip Up
The tone of the weekend is set around 9:00 am in Austin Friday morning. An overt reference regarding the need to pack diapers so any "unintended leakage like last time" would be avoided put the boys on notice that the gloves would be off for the next 48 hours. After changing vehicles and looting the beer fridge in Dallas, the boys continue their trek northward. Somewhere north of Ardmore a deck of cards, complete with fancy poker chips, mysteriously appear from the back. By the time Wichita shows itself in the front windshield, the driver is already seven beers behind and $24 in the hole. Not the best way to start a weekend.

The Reason Why
The set-up is perfect. A finely crafted, hand-built poker table complete with felt top and drink holders is the focal point of the weekend; center stage at the local gentleman's club, if you will. All eyes will be fixed upon her for the next several days. Three feet to the west, behind the back porch door, is the ever-important keg. A bottle of Maker's Mark sits half-empty on the kitchen island, surrounded by homemade brownies, baked cookies and a few empty Dog 'N Shake wrappers that usually show up when the boys do in Wichita.

The next 36 hours are spent dropping, holding, bluffing, folding, calling and raising. Between shuffles, the conversation revolves around everthing from the impending NFL draft to Nextel Cup standings to who the hottest girl was back in seventh grade. A few of the boys drink a little too much and either a) eventually crawl into the closest bed or b) think they're Superman and become disappointed to learn gravity pulls them straight into the poker table when trying to leap across it. A few of the boys lose early and win late. Some win early and lose late. Other simply lose early and find themselves falling downhill from there. A few act out like the kids they left behind. And a few, apparently feeling transgressed for months, choose to vent their frustrations regarding shit that has no relevance to the weekend under mumbled breathe or far from earshot. Which, we suppose, is fine if we hadn't heard it or been placed in a position that required a great deal of restraint to ignore it.

In other words, it was a typical BDS weekend.

The Road Trip home
Long, but the company made it bearable. Any trip that is long enough to solve the problems in the Middle East, plan a tactical military response to the seemingly imminent invastion of Taiwan by China or discuss in detail the unbelievable power most political action groups wield on our bicameral form of legislative government is too long. After kicking one player out in Dallas, the rest of the wayward crew pushes through another three hours to Austin secretly wondering why the hell they didn't fly and not-so-secretly planning the next party much closer to home.

Ed. Note: Special thanks are extended to Bob and Bonnie for the open door and homemade brownies. Your hospitality is deeply appreciated. As a token of that appreciation, we let your son take all our money for the weekend.

It's a circus with a purpose.

2005-04-21T14:12:00.000-05:00

The circus? This weekend's poker party back at the old homestead.
The purpose? To remind ourselves we aren't old bastards yet.

We're dropping off the radar for the next several days to remember where it all started. With any luck, we won't need to sell plasma for bail money over the weekend or return with "it only took nine stitches to close" stories. We'll return to our irregularly scheduled programming sometime next week.

Pray for us.

"Look, kids. Big Ben. Parliament."

2005-04-19T16:45:00.000-05:00

The BDS has been driving in circles for years. That's why the allure of NASCAR for several of its members should come as no surprise. A supercharged version of Chevy Chase's classic scene on the London Roundabout in European Vacation, witnessing 43 sticker-laden stock cars running with their left turn signals perpetually blinking has an intoxicating affect. Then again, that could simply be from all the beer and gas fumes you inhale at the track.

Last Saturday night, we scored free tickets to Sunday's NASCAR race at Texas Motor Speedway. We had planned on chasing turkeys around that day, but the opportunity to see grown men play tag and chase each other around a track at 190 mph was too great to resist. Besides, one of us had never been to a race before and wanted to see first-hand what the hell was so special about Flyover Country's Sport of Choice. So what three words were uttered when the green flag dropped and thousands of screaming horses came flying at us in Turn Four?

Ho. Lee. Shit.

But we're getting ahead of ourselves. After fighting through traffic that makes downtown Bogota at rush hour look like downtown Goddard on Christmas morning, we pull into the track and park in the first available ditch we find. With more than one BDSer waking up in a ditch the day after a party at some point in his life wearing nothing but boxer shorts and tube socks, we felt right at home. The first beer is cracked at 8:30, the first rebel yell is hear at 8:43 and the first NRA sticker was seen just before 9:00.

Makes you kinda feel like you're home.

With retired Cowboy Troy Aikmen and comedian George Lopez telling the racers to start their engines, the low hum of excitement is replaced with the loud rumbling of Detroit. When asked, Lopez later said he wanted to say "Gentlemen, start your engines" at the race in Mexico City earlier in the season, but knew there was no way in hell 24 cars would all start on command at the same time in Mexico. Pretty damn funny if we do say so.

As the Chevy Pace Truck leads the drivers out onto the track, you can feel the tension build. The crowd starts to stand. Fresh beer cans start to open. Heads start to nod as if fans are feeling vindicated for spending $120 on a ticket. One pace lap is complete. Then two. On the third lap, the flickering lights of the pace truck are turned off, the pace truck ducks into pit row and all 43 drivers simultaneously step on the gas in one thunderous chorus that sends chills up your spine and deafening vibrations through your ears. As if on instinct, your beer raises above your head and a primal scream rises from your lungs.

And you think to yourself "wow, so this is what it's all about".

Do you actually know what 192 mph looks like? It looks like nothing on TV. Until you're 75 feet from 43 cars pushing the envelope one rpm at a time, it's hard to imagine just how fast that is. Old NASCAR fans like Brian sum it up best: "Don't bother explaining it to people. You can't. You just have to experience it."

No, don't count us among the NASCAR denziens who cloud their back windows with decals and drive to the mall wearing racing gloves. We don't know the drivers without a program, don't have checkered flag tattoos and don't understand how the average fan willingly spends $1250 during race weekend when you can bring your own food and beer inside the track, but we know this:

That was one hell of an experience.

How much is your team worth?

2005-04-15T17:00:00.000-05:00

You own the t-shirt. The beer-stained ball cap. The little car window sticker and license plate frame. The flag in your front yard waves your pledge of allegiance for the world to see and the diploma hanging on your wall provides the reason why. You watch every game, know every player, even have an uncanny ability to call set plays on an inbound's pass before the ref hands over the ball. Your devotion has lead you to travel around the country watching road games; from the whiskey-making regions of Tennessee to the whiskey-drinking gutters of N'awlins.

So how much is that loyalty worth? How deep does the love run? The BDS has recently been presented with a unique opportunity to test that faith, that love of game. So the question begs to be asked: how much would you be willing to spend on a private suite for next year's Big XII basketball tournament in Dallas?

If your answer is "$1,000 a ticket", keep reading.

Push aside the sticker shock and stop shaking your head with that "what the hell??" smile on your face until you hear us out. The 2006 Phillips 66 Big XII Men's Basketball Tournament returns to the American Airlines Center March 9-12, 200. Suite rental packages are now available and include everything you would expect a package like this to include:
• Individual tickets to all eleven tournament games
• All the food you can eat (and we know how much THAT is...)
• All the beverages, beer and wine you can drink (see above)
• Parking passes that make stumbling out the car afterwards easier

Here's the skinny: a 22-person package costs $22,0000. That 22 tickets, food/beverage for 22 people and six parking passes (we'd have to figure that one out). That comes down to a cool grand for four days of killer basketball action. Think that's way too much? Last year we paid a few hundred bucks for a few games, and that didn't include all the beer/food we threw back or the $20 parking fee we paid to walk a mile to our seats. This way, we're not only guaranteed great seats and a Tap That Never Runs Dry, but we're also assurred access to instant replays when Missouri cheats, lies and steals its way through a game.

No, all fans don't have to bleed Crimson & Blue. KSU, OSU, OU and Tech fans would be welcomed as well. Hell, we wouldn't even mind the occasional UT fan, but we'll draw the line at Mizzou fans. At this stage, we're just gauging interest; wondering who is willing to say "sure, why the hell not. You only live once, right?" A few guys down here have already agreed to chip in if there's enough interest, so it really comes down to finding out just how much you'll pay for your loyalty.

You want NASCAR? You got him.

2005-04-13T12:00:00.000-05:00

With a newfound love of intake manifolds, camshafts, drafting techniques and sway bars, Craig has asked for his own little piece of html property on the BDSlog to discuss this weekend's race at TMS. For all you haters out there that stereotype the typical NASCAR fan as nothing more than an uncivilized redneck who loves sniffing gasoline on Sundays between pulls off his hidden stash of warm Busch Light, Craig will tell you NASCAR demographics show 40% of all fans are hot women and almost 50% of all fans have attended some college with nearly half of them graduating (well above the national average).

Then again, all stereotypes gotta start somewhere.

Told you. Craig, tell the boys what's what this weekend.

It's gotta be a sign.

2005-04-12T16:00:00.000-05:00

So we're less than two weeks away from the dreaded and feared poker party; the place where calling pot on a 4-King split either ends in high-fives from the boys or an apologetic phone call home to the wife. The weekend will be filled with cold beer, good friends, trash talking, the occasional punch, maybe a fight followed by a probable hug and other random acts of immature idiocy that would lead most to believe upstanding citizens who are responsible adults charged with raising our children to be wholesome and contributing members of society we are not.

But the weekend could also be filled with a killer show at the Cotillion Sunday night. And Casey, you won't believe who's gonna be in the neighborhood when we're back in town.

That's right, my Austin friend filled with Pride & Glory. The man's gonna be less than five miles from our beer 'fridge. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?

For those members of our loving public who aren't familiar with Zakk Wylde, he's considered by most to be rock's saving grace. Just how good is this guy? At age 19, he was already playing lead shredder for some guy named Ozzy. He also played on two studio albums with Ozzy before leaving to form Pride & Glory, a southern fried power metal trio that he considers "the bastard son" of his three favorite bands (Black Sabbath, Lynyrd Skynyrd and the Allman Brothers). From there he shocked the rock world by releasing Book of Shadows, his first solo album that is dominated by countrified acoustic guitar and moody piano work. "Sure the stuff is acoustic but it's still heavy", he once said. "It's not fluffy ballady shit but stuff you can really drink to."

This is also the same guy who played the lead guitarist role in Rock Star, the Priest-based movie with Marky Mark and Jennifer Aniston (we're pretty sure Zakk had a large roll in writing/performing the original tunes for the movie, too). To calm the heavy beast, Zakk later formed Black Label Society, a band that applies screaming guitars with serious, fret-shredding lead work. Now on tour supporting their latest release Mafia, Zakk and his band are walking tributes to just how far a love of drinking beer and playing killer music can take you.

But get a load of this:

4/21/05 The Backroom in Austin
4/22/05 The Granada in Dallas
4/24/05 The Cotillion in Wichita

Fate is completely screwing with us here. Thursday night in A-Town. Friday in Big D (the day we're headed off to the poker party) and Sunday in, believe it or not, Wichita when we'll be southbound once again. Or...will we?

Makes you wonder why it's such a big deal to be in the office on a Monday morning. By extending our "We're Not That Mature Yet Damn It" tour an extra day, we could see one hell of a concert. Chances are good the BDS North will cut outta town as soon as possible on Sunday and portions of the BDS South would prefer to do the same thing. So Casey, weigh in here at any point and make sure you're listening to Book of Shadows when you do. It'll make things easier for you.

"You wore green so you could hide."

2005-04-12T10:15:00.000-05:00

Mrs. Crane may have been a monkey woman, wearing green so she could hide from Carl Spangler in Caddyshack, but this past weekend we wore green so we could hide, too. In a never-ending quest to perpetuate every stereotype the Left and Right Coasts have about those who live in Flyover Country, we embraced our first turkey hunt of the season last Saturday. Too bad the turkeys didn't embrace us.

It was windy. Too damn windy to do much of anything. Sure, we set up and yelped, purred, clucked and gobbled our way through breakfast anyway, but we weren't surprised that we didn't flip the safety off once. In wind like that, the birds get skittish; they have a hard time detecting predator movement in high winds (trees, brush and other forms of cover move too much) and feel safer sitting still. Combine that lack of movement with an overpowering case of turkey lockjaw and you can see why we called it a day by lunchtime. We heard a few random gobbles in the adjoining pasture, but we're pretty sure our box call sounded just like a box call and they ignored us.

Guess that's why it's called "hunting" and not "shooting".

Next time we're sticking to our slates. There's still plenty of season left, so we'll keep you updated on just how stupid those birds make us look in the coming month.

Last of the full-grown men.

2005-04-07T15:15:00.000-05:00

He's the thinking man's rock star. A larger-than-life action figure who confesses a love for two kinds of music: rock and roll. Never quite bald, never quite wall-to-wall, his "Economy With Dignity" Tour has taken him from Lubbock, TX to London, Europe. Playing a manic musical blend of rockabilly and R&B with reckless country abandon, he's a product of B-movie culture where women still wear stockings with garters and men always pack heat. He's Fess Parker on thorazine, a saturnine hybrid of James Brown and Jack Webb, whose cavernous deadpan intonations, mastery of the Fender Strat and crack timing make for one hell of a frontman.

His name? Webb Wilder. And it's about time you met him.

We first saw the Hoodoo Witch back in '91. Muss and his two roommates dragged us to the Bottleneck in Lawrence. A friend's band was the opening act for some cat named Webb Wilder from Nashville. Wanting to soak every ounce out of our $12 cover, we stuck around with 50 other folks who obviously had nothing better to do on a Tuesday night. Little did we know that quick pull off the Wiskey Webb bottle would lead to a life-long addiction to his swampadelic brand of expression.

With a brown fedora low across the brow but just above a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, this giant of a musician took immediate command of the stage and jumped right into a five-minute instrumental (Sputnik) that shut the entire bar up and had all mesmorized. He then stepped directly into "Tough It Out", a song of defiance that warns all naysayers to get out of the way 'cause "he's aimin' high and willin' to shoot". He finished the night with, by far, the single greatest cover of Big Joe Williams' "Baby Please Don't Go", we've ever heard. Hell, it was better than the original and that says a lot. By the end of the night, it was obvious this guy was a card-carrying member of the Rock and Roll Justice League of America.

He calls it "service-station attendant music"; "uneasy listening for the psychobilly in you". He's got one foot in Country and one in Rock and Roll and, since they're both 13-As, he's covering a lot of ground. His influences range from the Beatles and Boogie McCain to Muddy Waters, Waylong Jennings, even the Flamin' Groovies. He knows you're never too small to hit the Big Time, no dogs are ever allowed Poolside, The Rest Will Take Care of Itself and the Skeleton Crew always hangs out at those joints that never close.

Thanks to the miracle of broadband, you can see the man who Billboard Magazine once called "part Georgia Satellites, part Dave Edmonds, part Elvis Costello and altogether wonderful" live in concert. The Woodsongs Old Time Radio Hour is an incredible online site that harks back to the days when the family gathered 'round Marconi's magic box for entertainment. It's also one of the world's largest free live-performance archives on the webb. When you visit, scroll down to Show #343 and download Webb's performance (it's free). Once your Windows Media Player fires up, fight through the urge to stop watching 10 seconds into the experience. If you can get past the host's first song, you'll be rewarded by Webb himself 'cause he plays right after that.

Bottom line? Webb is unquestionably one of the most underrated performers we've ever seen. We even told him that once while standing next to him in a two-urinal bar bathroom. His response? "Pardon me for not shaking your hand right now." Classic Webb.

How popular is the guy? "Doo Dad", his finest work yet in our opinion, is currently out of print and sells on eBay for upwards of $50 a CD. We've bumped into fans at various shows who drove hundreds of miles just to sing along to "Human Cannonball". And we personally have a small stack of ticket stubs we've tried to throw away on four separte occasions only to think better of it later.

See, this is the guy who reminds us real music is out there and real people are making it. It's About Time Webb did with a new CD, too. He has also coined what will probably end up on our tombstone. Religions could be based on it, dissertations could be given on it and the only reason we don't have a tattoo of it is 'cause it's too long. So just what the hell is "it"? It's the Webb Wilder Creedo:

Work Hard
Rock Hard
Eat Hard
Sleep Hard
Grow Big
Wear Glasses If You Need 'Em

Words to live by, my friends. Words to live by.

Off to get the royal treatment-UPDATE

2005-04-06T13:45:00.000-05:00

Not to imply that we've been around here much for the past week, but we're headed down south for the weekend. Houston, to be exact. In a noble yet vain attempt to physically get as far away from St. Louis and the Final Four as possible (nothing makes the beer flow faster than wondering what if...), we're headed down to watch Houston host the KC Royals. A free set of killer seats mysteriously showed up in our mailbox a few weeks ago and we're not about to let them go to waste. So if you see a drunk fan without pants rounding second in the bottom of the sixth screaming "look at my ASStro!" while being chased by security, you'll know we made it to the game in one piece.

The Royals are polar opposites of the Jayhawks. See, everyone expected the Jayhawks to do well. No one, with a few drunk exceptions in the Dallas and Austin region, expect (or hope, for that matter) that the Pride of Kansas City will do anything more than show up and run out groundballs this season. But we feel duty-bound to make the journey south to cheer on the Boys in Blue. Besides, we plan on wearing our KC/Beltran jersey and forcing Astro fans to buy us beer as a token of their appreciation. Houston wouldn't have done crap in the playoffs last year if KC didn't trade the best centerfielder in the game for a few scrubs, one potential third baseman and a ton of 99¢ chalupas from Taco Bell. We figure they owe us.

We'll let you know if they feel the same way next week.

UPDATE:
We've been to five different major-legue ballparks in our travels, but none of them compare to Houston's Minute Maid Park (or the "Juice Box" as Greg calls it). Sure, Kauffman is a sentimental favorite and the history of Fenway can't be matched, but those boys down south sure know how to build a ballpark. The damn thing is an old converted train depot smack-dab in the middle of downtown. It's surrounded by numerous bars and restaurants, obviously making the area one hell of a party spot. And parking? We literally parked across the street from the stadium (no, we didn't have a parking pass, either). Cost us $7, too. Sure, it was preseason, but you pay $8 to walk a full mile when you hit a game at the Ballpark in Arlington.

Our choice seats were just left of home plate, 'bout half-way up. The only thing better than the view? The company we shared the evening with. Astro fans are pretty damn cool, even to visiting fans who cheer against their team. Our Beltran jersey was an immediate source of conversation; I let them know early on the only reason they went so far as a ballclub in the post-season was due to the Royals letting Beltran go. They agreed, but their appreciation stopped short of buying us free beer. Even when we asked.

Bottom line? It was a good trip to a great ballpark. The fans were great. Calvin Pickering's 356-foot shot made us feel a little better about Ken Harvey being sent down to Omaha. The beer was cold, the Good Guys won and we'll probably make a few more trips down before the end of the year.

Love the Tequila. Hate the team.

2005-03-28T16:15:00.001-06:00

From spending time on a secluded beach in Cozumel to drunkenly stumbling through the dark alleys of Nuevo Laredo praying to God we made it back home alive, Mexico has been the scene of more than one BDS story. We've sipped their drink. Enjoyed their food. Buried our feet in their sand. We've danced with their women, sang with their singers and almost died with their cabbies. We have, in essence, grown quite fond of our neighbor's house to the south.

But when it comes to soccer, we hate Mexico and her fans more than you can possibly imagine. Why? Let's start with the "Osama! Osama!" chants heard at yesterday's World Cup qualifer against the US National Team in Smog City.

That's right. Over 110,000 screaming assholes booed the Star Spangled Banner and cheered Osama's name during the game in Azteca Stadium. As for the Mexican team, they took enough dives to qualify for the 3-meter springboard at the next Olympics and talked enough shit on the field that our boys had to step around piles of it scattered around the pitch. One future felon in particular, Blanco, was one drug-deal-gone-bad episode away from completely snapping. He constantly threw his hands up when his dives failed to elicit a whistle and, out of simple frustration, damn-near broke a US defender's ankle in the first half.

Not that we were really surprised by the 2-1 loss. Mexico has only lost one World Cup Qualifier since the mid 1960s at home (it was either Guatemala or Costa Rica in 2001 or 2002; we forgot but really don't care anyway). We're now 0-22-1 when playing in the Brooks Landfill of CONCACAF stadiums. The loss also ended the Americans' 16-game unbeaten streak and their 31-game run without a loss against regional rivals.

Read that again. 16-game unbeaten streak and 31-game winning streak against regional rivals. We're talking about American soccer here, folks. So we'll give the Mexicans their moment of glory. With any luck, we'll meet them in next year's World Cup and crush their dreams just like last time.

ED NOTE: Team USA plays again THIS WEDNESDAY. That's right. The Yanks play host to Guatemala in Birmingham, Alabama at 7:00pm on ESPN 2. You didn't watch last Sunday and look what happen, so don't let your team down again. Watch the damn game, will ya?

"Got-It-Done?" Not in English class.

2005-03-26T10:30:00.000-06:00

We knew it was just a matter of time, and it appears that time has come. The bragging has officially begun, with evidence first appearing online earlier this week. It looks as if the Bucknell Bison have commemorated their 64-63 win over the Jayhawks last weekend not with parade or pomp but rather polyster cotton. That's right. Now you can buy the t-shirt.

Too bad those shirts make 'em look like idiots.

See that? "Got-It-Done!" We'll grant them that, but Bucknell apparently also "Flunked-English-101!" too. Hyphens are used to join two or more words acting as an adjective before a noun. As in "The-Got-It-Done Team". They are also used with compound modifiers, compound numbers and prefixes. However, just like a dusty bottle of pure everclear, hyphens used by themselves will end up making you sound stupid.

But what if they're dashes and not hyphens? Just as bad. Dashes are used to set information apart and add emphasis (as in "Casey checked his watch-and indeed, he was late-but he continued to sip Summer Beer as if he wasn't 45 minutes late to work"). Dashes are also used to introduce a list and give it added emphasis (used in place of a colon). And because the dash is a stylistic device, it should be used sparingly. Improper use, or overuse, can lead to confusing and choppy prose.

Not to mention the occasional finger-pointing post on a two-bit blog.

Word has it an increasing number of online sales for the shirt have come from the Missouri region. "Our Web orders have picked up greatly," said Doris McLain, supervisor at the Bucknell Bookstore. "We're shipping all over the country, but we're really busy sending shirts to Missouri. I don't know what the situation is out there but, whatever it is, it's good for us."

That's right, folks. Mizzou fans are obviously tired of wearing county-orange jumpsuits in honor of their team, so they've taken to supporting the Bison because of one game. For the record, we searched in vain for a Missouri NIT shirt, but the shirts never made it out of the first round. With fewer than 6,000 true "fans" in Columbia to watch the game against DePaul (the lowest home game attendance of the season), we suspect those few fans who actually showed up swiped every NIT shirt in sight in some vain attempt to hide where they went, or what they did, in the post-season.

Rock and roll? "It's the sound of revenge."

2005-03-23T10:15:00.000-06:00

So said Bono during U2's induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame last Saturday night. How do we know? 'Cause Craig called last night telling us to watch the replay on VH1. We did, and we were reminded why we once loved this band.

Although they apparently still haven't found what they're looking for, the Boys from Dublin were honored in last weekend's ceremony for 25 years of grateful service to long roadtrips and college parties everywhere. And that honor included Bono, The Edge, Adam Clayton and Larry Mullen, Jr. becoming four of the youngest performers ever inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Although we're huge "old" U2 fans and quiet critics of the newer stuff (which started with 1991's Actung Baby), the BDS officially endorses this induction. Why? Because during Bono's speech, he warned the industry to take a hard look at itself. "Because there would be no U2 the way things are right now."

Yeah, that bitch-slap probably fell on drunken cheeks, but it showed U2 isn't all iPod commercials. His speech also included "three Kodak moments" from their 25-year history that give you a glimpse into what it means to be U2 and should serve as a roadmap to all future speeches.

"One -- it's 1976 -- Larry Mullen's kitchen. About the size of the drum riser he uses now. It's a bright red -- scarlet, really -- Japanese kit and he's sitting behind it in his kitchen. And he's playing and the ground shakes and the sky opens up -- and it still does, but now I know why. Cause Larry Mullen can't tell a lie. His brutal honesty is something that we need in this band.

Second Kodak moment. It is 1982. New Haven, I believe. Things are not going very well. There's a punk band onstage trying to play Bach. A fight breaks out. It's between the band. It's very, very messy. Now you look at this guitar genius, you look at this Zen-like master that is the Edge, and you hear those brittle, icy notes and you might be forgiven for forgetting that you cannot play like that unless you have a rage inside you. In fact, I had forgotten that on that particular night, and he tried to break my nose. And I learned a great, great lesson that night. You do not pick a fight with someone who, for a living, lives off hand-eye coordination. Dangerous, dangerous man, the Edge.

Third Kodak moment. 1987. Somewhere in the south. We'd been campaigning for Dr. King, for his birthday to become a national holiday. In Arizona, they are saying, ‘No’. We're campaigning very hard for Dr. King. Some people don't like it. Some people get very annoyed. Some people want to kill us. Some people are taken very seriously by the FBI. They tell the singer that he shouldn't play the gig because tonight his life is at risk, and he must not go on stage. And the singer laughs. Of course we're playing the gig. Of course we go onstage, and I'm singing "Pride (In the Name of Love)" -- the third verse -- and I close my eyes. And you know, I'm excited about meeting my maker, but maybe not tonight. I don't really want to meet my maker tonight. I close my eyes and when I look up I see Adam Clayton standing in front of me, holding his bass as only Adam Clayton can hold his bass. There are people in this room who'd tell you they'd take a bullet for you, but Adam Clayton would have taken a bullet for me. I guess that's what its like to be in a truly great rock and roll band."

Kinda makes you Numb, huh?

Shock and Awe.

2005-03-22T10:50:00.000-06:00

Forget Memphis missing two free throws with no time on the clock to lose their conference tournament. Who cares what Vermont did to Syracuse, that everyone was surprised to learn Wisconsin-Milwaukee had a basketball program or how West Virginia outpunched Wake in double-overtime. The best game of the tournament season played yet?

The one last night in the NIT.

The Wichita State Shockers played Vanderbilt in Nashville on a court that still freaks us out every time we see it. Team benches aren't on the sidelines but rather on the baseline under each basket and the court itself literally sits above portions of the crown and press row. We're telling you. Freaky.

Anyway, some local Vandy kid named Mario Moore, who typically averages 12 points a game, decided at the absolute worst time in the season to break out and knock down a career-high 31 points. He scored 12 of Vandy's last 14 points and even the Shocks were caught laughing as his point total contintued to rise.

But WSU's Sean Ogirri (last year's High School Player of the Year in Colorado, not Steve Augeri, Journey's new frontman who replaced Steve Perry) hit a pair of threes in the last minute to keep the Shockers in the game. Down by three with less than 30 seconds left, Ogirri was fouled. Smart play, actually. Send him to the line to shoot two instead of giving him a chance to nail his third three in just over a minute. Ogirri made the first one and then, in one of the hardest plays to pull off in all of basketball, he purposefully missed the second free throw. Teammate Jamar Howard converted the offensive rebound with 0.7 seconds left to tie the game up at 63.

Vandy then threw a Hail-Mary pass the length of the court to an open Corey Smith, who seemed as surprised to find himself open under the basket as we did. He hit a miracle lay-up with less than a freakin' second left on the clock; even our screams of "oh shiiiiiiitttttt!" at the television didn't break his concentration and he made the easiest bucket of the night when it counted most. And like that, the Shocks passed the Hawks on "What The Hell?" Highway as they drove back home after the game.

On a brighter note, the Shocks finished the season a respectable 22-10 and played in the most exciting game of the season. A young crop of talented freshman, along with a rejuvenated fan base, points to future fortunes in the coming years. Their only concern now should be keeping their young coach Mark Turgeon in town under contract long enough to finish the job.

We didn't write it. But we should have.

2005-03-21T17:20:00.000-06:00

The following story recently appeared in the Wall Street Journal and comes to you courtesy of a BDS wife. It's a little dated considering the Hindenburg-like disaster that occured last weekend at the NCAA tournament in OKC, but it speaks volumes nonetheless. And if you heard someone scream "Oh, the humanity!" on TV as the clock struck midnight for KU, you heard Jeff who witnessed the horror first-hand. The only reason we know he survived the fiery disaster over the weekend is because our inbox was filled with porn this morning.

At least something's still right with the world.

I Am a Jayhawk
The University of Kansas basketball team meant nothing to one student. Until he left.
By KEVIN HELLIKER
Staff Reporter of THE WALL STREET JOURNAL
March 14, 2005; Page R12

What I remember about the 1988 University of Kansas victory in the NCAA national championship game isn't the performance of the Jayhawks' star, Danny Manning, or the improbability of a team seeded sixth in its tournament bracket taking it all.

Rather, I remember the telephone interrupting my solitary living-room celebration in Phoenix, and the voice of a renowned professor of literature screaming like a 5-year-old, "We did it! We did it!" This was the first of many calls that night from Kansas.

Success is an end in itself, I suppose, but for me the perennial greatness of the University of Kansas basketball program has had a side benefit. It has been 23 years since I left the state of Kansas. During that time, I've lived in six states and one foreign country. I've tried hard to remain connected to home, and in that effort I've received a big assist from Kansas basketball. It is what many Kansans talk about when we talk about home.

It wasn't that way for me when I attended the university. Then, I talked about getting out. I understood that Kansas had a rich basketball tradition -- its program having been started by the founder of the game, James Naismith, and its players having included Dean Smith and Wilt Chamberlain. But more important to me was the tradition of rebellion at the university; in 1970, antiwar protestors had set fire to the student union and precipitated an early end to the semester.

By the time I arrived as a junior in 1979, the Vietnam War was long over. But I longed to rebel, and at a school where students go so far as to travel hundreds of miles en masse to cheer the Jayhawks on the road, ignoring basketball was a sure way to do it. During my three years on the campus in Lawrence, I never attended a single game.

Of course, the ultimate form of rebellion against any place is to leave it. Having gone to college only 40 miles from home on a campus populated with students I'd known since grade school, having always lived within minutes of parents, brothers, grandparents, cousins, friends and former teachers, I longed for new faces and landscapes, for the chance to be a stranger.

But the instant I got my wish, I discovered it was important for me to be a specific kind of stranger -- a stranger from Kansas.

A newfound Kansas pride prompted me to wear Jayhawk caps and sweatshirts that I never would have worn at home in Kansas City, Kan., or in Lawrence. The arrival of this pride also coincided with the end of a dry spell in Kansas basketball. The coming of coach Larry Brown and his star player, Danny Manning, restored luster to the program and ultimately brought the national championship in 1988.

Ambivalence and Perspective
I must confess that I felt some ambivalence about the basketball program's fame. If I wore a shirt that said "Kansas," people would say, "Basketball." Yet by now, I'd been out of Kansas long enough to appreciate the value of something else -- my education. In the two fields I'd studied, literature and journalism, I found upon leaving Kansas that I could hold my own amid recent graduates of higher-ranked academic institutions. But try telling a Harvard graduate that you attended a school known in Kansas as "Harvard on the Kaw" (the Kaw being another name for the Kansas River).

The inextricable association between Kansas and basketball stirs dislike of the game among some graduates. When Erin Felchner started law school last year at a top-rated institution, Northwestern University, some fellow students expressed dismay that as an undergraduate she'd gone to "a basketball school." A 1998 political-science graduate of Kansas, Ms. Felchner responded by making Law Review -- and continuing her boycott of Jayhawk basketball. "I've never watched a game," she says.

Nor is the importance of keeping basketball in perspective lost on KU Chancellor Robert Hemenway, a literary scholar. During halftime at home games, he has a tradition of announcing from the center of the basketball court Jayhawk accomplishments that are nonathletic. "Athletes aren't our only stars," he says.

I've come to think of Kansas basketball as a symbol of the university's broader appeal: its underranked academics, its low cost and its spectacular campus atop Mount Oread.

Then there is the program's role in keeping me connected back home. In calls to Kansas, I've found that mentioning the Jayhawks answers an unspoken question: Have I remained loyal? It is a question I not only answer but ask. I'm proud to say that my youngest brother, a biology professor, never cheered Stanford University's Cardinal team during his stint there. Now, he's cheering the Jayhawks from Austria. A recent e-mail from him on the prospects of this year's
team in the tournament said, "They definitely have the talent to win it all, but will Self pull a Roy and not do a thing when the game plan doesn't go his way?" To the uninitiated, he's referring to new coach Bill Self and former coach Roy Williams.

Dad and Roy
My most regular correspondence on these matters is with my dad. This is somewhat surprising, because my dad is a Missourian by upbringing and traditionally not a fan of college sports. But the most amiable newcomer the state of Kansas ever welcomed, Roy Williams, totally charmed my dad after taking over as Jayhawk coach following the 1988 championship. I believe that Dad, a meat cutter, felt as though he wouldn't have needed a college degree to feel comfortable around Roy, as the entire state took to calling him.

It came to my attention sometime early in the 15-year Roy Williams era that Dad had started watching or listening to every Kansas game, usually from the kitchen table back home in Kansas City. A ritual developed between us. I'd long been frustrated at my inability to follow games from afar, in places that don't broadcast the Jayhawks. But now I know where to turn. When the phone rings during a game, Dad has a pretty good idea who it is. And being a man who loves to feel useful -- at 73 he still cuts meat at a place called House of Sausage, and not for the money -- he takes to the role of sportscaster with enthusiasm. "Oh, it's nip and tuck,! " he will say. "We're just not shooting well at all."

Of course, this reaching back can be annoying for one's significant other, if he or she isn't a Jayhawk. In such a situation the most anyone can request is forbearance. I, however, struck gold. Before she met me, it had never occurred to my wife, a University of Chicago graduate, to join the community of people who believe that Kansas basketball matters. But now she watches just as enthusiastically as I do.

Indeed, when the Jayhawks made the Final Four in the 2003 NCAA tournament, it was Devon who declared that we should head to New Orleans to watch them vie for the championship. What I remember about that Final Four isn't the 18 missed free throws that doomed the Jayhawks in the championship game. I remember walking the French Quarter with the loveliest Jayhawk in New Orleans, as well as with a brother of mine we'd persuaded to come, and whom I'd almost never beforeseen outside Kansas.

Change and Continuity
So now, the madness begins again. Will coach Self grab the national title that eluded coach Williams during four trips to the Final Four?

I have no idea. What I know is this: The Kansas players come and go. The Kansas coaches come and go. Each change is an excuse for me to make contact, not only with others but also with my past.

One semester in Kansas, I sat in a room where two instructors talked to each other for 90 minutes twice a week for an entire semester about one book: "The Odyssey." We students could neither ask questions nor take notes. Our role was to listen. What I remember hearing them say is that I should leave and seek adventures elsewhere, but never forget home. I also remember a poem they recited to us over and over, until we could recite it back:

Breathes there the man with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said,
'This is my own, my native land!'
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned
As home his footsteps he hath turned
From wandering on a foreign strand!

In all the hours I sat in that class, I never heard mention of basketball. I would have guessed that these two giants of the classical world paid no attention to it. But after decades of lost contact, I recently called the surviving member of that duo, Dennis Quinn, who is still teaching at Kansas.

"Basketball?" Dr. Quinn said, "Oh, yeah. I go to the
games."

--Mr. Helliker is a senior editor in The Wall Street
Journal's Chicago bureau.

When you get mad in March, remember why.

2005-03-20T21:00:00.000-06:00

Ah, college basketball. It's that time of year when damn-near every office building in the country is running an illegal office pool, the term "bracketologist" somehow slips into ESPN's vocabulary and every college student in the country is praying for their team to win not out of pride but rather a burning desire to riot like drunken vikings after the game.

As the country finds iteself quickly becoming wrapped up in the Madness that is March, let's take a look back at some of the greatest coaches to ever wear a whistle in the history of whistle-wearing. And, wow, would you look at that? The top coaches in NCAA history were either born or coached in Kansas.

Dr. James Naismith: University of Kansas Coach
The Father of Basketball wasn't born in Kansas, but he obviously knew a good thing when he saw it. Dr. Naismith invented the game in Springfield, Mass to keep students occupied during the winter months and brought his peach basket sport to Lawrence in 1898. He spent the next 39 years at KU teaching, explaining and evangelizing the game. He coached some kid named Forrest Clare Allen, too. One bit of trivia everyone but you knows? He's the only coach in KU history to retire with a losing record. Namesake and first inductee into the Naismith Basketball Hall of Fame.

Forrest "Phog" Allen: University of Kansas Coach
Hanging from the rafters in an old barn on the KU campus isn't so much a sign as a warning. "Pay Heed All Who Enter. Beware of the Phog." Visitors are warned because Allen Fieldhouse is named after the winningest coach in KU history who retired in 1956 as the winningest coach in NCAA history with 746 wins (with four teams over 48 years). Phog went 590-219 in 39 seasons with the Hawks, winning 24 conference championships and one NCAA title in 1952. He was also the driving force behind adding basketball as an Olympic sport and coached a few players named Dean Smith, Adolph Rupp and Ralph Miller along the way. Member of the Naismith Basketball Hall of Fame.

Adolph Rupp: Halstead, KS
Known as the "Baron of Basketball" or "Baron of Bluegrass Basketball" (depending on which state you're from), this native son retired as the winningest coach in NCAA history with 879 wins. He played at KU under Coach Allen, began coaching at the high school level at Burr Oak, KS and eventually made his way to Kentucky in 1931. There he coached the Wildcats for 42 seasons to an amazing 879-190 record. He took 27 SEC titles, one NIT championship and four NCAA crowns ('48, '51 and '58). And that landed him SEC Coach of the Year honors seven times and National Coach of the Year honors four times. Kentucky's Rupp Arena is named after him. Member of the Naismith Basketball Hall of Fame.

Ralph Miller: Chanute, KS
The Normal Dale of Kansas. He was a three-time All-Conference player and team captain for Phog Allen's Jayhawks, where he learned the fine art of "pressure basketball". Coach Miller then took that experience to Wichita East High School, where a 63-17 record in his first three seasons earned him a state title. From there he moved on to coach Wichita State and Iowa, but Oregon State is the school that comes to mind when you think of Ralph Miller. With a 674-370 record in 39 years of coaching, he retired as the eighth winningest coach in NCAA history. He's also only one of a select few to win Coach of the Year honors twice in three different conferences (Missouri Valley, Big 10 and Pac 10) and National Coach of the Year twice. Member of the Naismith Basketball Hall of Fame.

Dean Smith: Emporia, KS
A native Kansan who obviously forgot his roots and is considered by many to now be neither native or Kansan, this member of the 1952 KU Jayhawk National Championship team under Coach Allen retired from North Carolina as the winningest coach in NCAA history with an 879-254 record. A stolen Four Corners strategy (contrary to public opinion, he didn't invent it) lead Smith to 11 Final Four trips, two NCAA titles and one NIT championship. He was voted National Coach of the Year three times and named Major League Asshole of the Century in 2003 after playing the Daddy Figure-card on KU's then-coach Roy Williams to "return home to Chapel Hill". North Carolina named their basketball area the Dean E. Smith Center in his name. Member of the Naismith Basketball Hall of Fame.

Bill Guthridge: Parsons, KS
Ol' Bill won more games his first year than any other first-year coach in NCAA history. He won more games his first two years than any other coach in NCAA history and tied Everett Case for the most wins in three seasons. After replacing fellow Kansan Dean Smith as the head roundballer at North Carolina, Bill took two of his three teams to the Final Four and was named National Coach of the Year in '98. He also played or participated in 14 Final Fours; the most of any person in NCAA history. All told, he has been on the court or sidelines for 938 college basketball victories. He played and then coached at K-State under the legendary Tex Winter (the same Tex responsible for the Triangle Offense and the brains behind five Chicago Bulls' championship rings). Bill also played high school ball for Harold Johnson in Parsons, one of two brothers who innovated the zone press in the 1930s.

Gene Keady: Beloit, KS
The walking comb-over has won 851 games as a head coach at the high school, junior college, collegiate and international level. He's also an impressive 504-243 in 24 seasons as the head coach of the Purdue Boilermakers. Gene helped fellow Kansan Eddie Sutton turn the Arkansas Razordback program into one of the nation's best in the late '70s and from '66-74 he transformed a weak Hutch Juco team into a national powerhouse that still dominates to this day. He's enshrined in the National Junior College Basketball Hall of Fame as a player and coach, and in the Kansas Hall of Fame as a coach. He's also been nominated for membership into the Naismith Basketball Hall of Fame; inductees will be announced in April.

Eddie Sutton: Bucklin, KS
Few people know where Bucklin is, and fewer still actually know Oklahoma State's saving grace of a coach was born there. A career that began as an assistant to the legendary Henry Iba (commonly referenced as Mr. Iba in Stillwater), Sutton has amassed an impressive 724-288 record in 33 years of coaching. He's a seven-time Conference Coach of the Year and four-time National Coach of the Year. Previously at Creighton, Arkansas and Kentucky, he's most closely associated with his alma mater; hell, they love this guy so much in Stillwater that they named the court after him and he hasn't even retired yet. Only one active coach (Tech's Bobby Knight) ranks ahead of Sutton in both victories and winning percentage, and Sutton ranks behind only Dean Smith in victories through 33 or fewer years of coaching. But the reason we like him so much? We personally watched Coach Sutton walk over to the KU bench during the KU Senior Day game two years ago to hug Nick Collison and Kirk Heinrich after each played their last games in a KU uniform. He drips class, although the Kentucky faithful might have a few words about that and the probation he forced upon the school.

Billie Morre: Westmoreland, KS
She's the first coach in woman's basketball history to lead two different schools to two national titles. She did it with both Cal-State Fullerton and UCLA. While at Cal, she went an incredible 140-15 and won eight conference titles. She won almost 300 games at UCLA and even coached the first woman's US Olympic team to the silver in Montreal back in '76. Member of the Naismith Basketball Hall of Fame.

John McLendon: Hiawatha, KS
Arguably the single greatest coach in NCAA history you've never heard of before. Coach M. began his career at KU, learning the finer points of the game from none other than Dr. Naismith himself. He then went on to an eye-popping 523-165 career record as a coach and was the first coach in history to win three consecutive national titls with Tennessee State taking the NAIA national crown in '57, '58 and '59. He was the first coach in history to win 500 games, the first to author an instructional book on basketball and the first to coach a US team overseas. He's credited with inventing, playing and teaching the first Four Corners offense back in the early '30s, well before Dean Smith even knew how a damn whistle worked; seems old Dean has stolen more than coaches in his colored past. The basketball arena at Cleveland State is named in Coach M's honor, and he was the first black coach inducted into the Naismith Basketball Hall of Fame.

Bet you thought he was white.

Because blacks weren't allowed to play at the varsity level back then, Coach M. chose to be a part of the first class of physical-education majors at KU. That's where he took courses from Dr. Naismith and Phog Allen. One story that Coach M. often told dealt with his time as a student at KU. In order to graduate, every student had to pass a swim test. However, black students were officially barred from the university pool. When John tried to swim one day, school officials drained the pool. He left without getting wet. Several days later, John returned to find three of KU's biggest basketball players waiting for him poolside. Apparently Dr. Naismith had heard of the incident earlier in the week and instructed his players to keep everyone away from the pool while John swam. "There was never another problem like that again", John would later say with a laugh.

Come on out.

2005-03-18T08:45:00.000-06:00

So you're sitting there in your angry chair at the office, minding your own magnesium oxide-insulated thermocouples when you realize there's a blank spot on your calendar. The rest of your afternoon looks pretty open and you've got some time to kill before the quarry foreman pulls the tail feathers on the parrot whistle sending you home. You could double-check the status of that Atkomiatic Solenoid Valve order you wrote earlier in the week. Or you could look at the pretty pin-up of the sexy heat trace system recently chosen by some industry pub as Miss March. You know. The one hanging on your wall.

Or you could join the blog party by getting off your ass and talking your trash on this court, Fosty.

So what's the worry? Why the "long-time-never-post" scaredymatt persona? Loch throws his opinions out here. Casey keeps the conversation flowing and Craig, at one point, single-handedly kept this BDS-owned html alive by performing CPR for days. Hell, even JH has jumped into the sing-along to crucify us for thinking Bill Self wasn't a true Jayhawk yet.

But nooooooo. You'd rather snipe from the grassy knoll with your antiquated email. You'd rather keep the conversation in the closet among a select few. Well, it's time to come out of the closet and embrace your true calling.

You're a born heckler, so bring your sharp wit and quick tongue to the party; to the place where all the cool kids gather. Why? 'Cause around here, we all need to hang together or most assuredly we'll hang you out to dry.

So long, Chris. Enjoy those Western Skies.

2005-03-11T13:30:00.000-06:00

Ever tip an Original Coors back after a hard day in the field? Drop $10 you didn't have into the church's offering plate 'cause it was the right thing to do? Walk a Kansas field looking for birds, pull on a pair of Tony Lamas, open the door for a woman or throw a punch for a friend? If you have, you know Chris LeDoux.

And you'll be crushed to learn he passed away late Wednesday in Casper, Wyoming.

A true singer/songwriter who once described his music as a combination of "Western soul, sagebrush blues, cowboy folk and rodeo rock 'n roll", LeDoux was a former world champion bareback rider who passed his talent for hanging on tight to millions of fans who'll never let go.

He sang about cowboys and cadillacs. Copenhagen angels and junkies. Brahma bulls and Billy the Kid. He knew God Must Be A Cowboy, a Workin' Man's Dollar only buys the things a working man really needs (like beer) and that you'll have to fight us all if you touch This Cowboy's Hat.

He was with us at the lake: Afton, Cheney, El Dorado and Lone Star. He was with us in the fields: Hardtner, Rush Center, Kinsley and Grainfield. We bumped into him at the Kansas State Fair back in '92. At the Cotillion in '93 and '95. In Springfield around '99. And most recently, we got a little rowdy with him at Billy Boby's in Fort Worth two years ago.

An honorary BDS member who never knew it, his simple demeanor was held in stark contrast to his electrifying shows. Just ask any non-country fan who found himself unwillingly dragged to a LeDoux concert only to drunkenly stumble out into the parking lot afterwards mumbling "Damn! Now that was a concert, and I don't even like country! And why the hell am I screaming!"

Sadly, LeDoux's influence on today's music scene isn't what it should be. Some guy named Garth Brooks once played a worn out tape of Chris LeDoux and claimed his own live performances were heavily influenced by the energy LeDoux channelled onstage, but most of the "new country" forced onto an unwitting public is easily confused with that pop crap found further up the dial. Few country artists have the desire, courage or knowledge to write songs about the world west of Nashville and east of LA. Afer hearing the news late Wednesday, we know that small number dropped by one.

Chris once sang "When I die, you can bury me beneath these Western Skies".

Knowing you lived the life you sang about, Chris, you may be buried beneath them but you're probably looking down on them, too.

The Silence Has Been Deafening

2005-03-11T00:00:00.000-06:00

Yeah, yeah, yeah. We know. The heart and soul of any good blog is the frequency with which it's updated. Thank God this has never been considered a good blog or we'd be in real trouble.

Before we begin "defending the indefensible", let's get one thing straight: we don't live to blog or blog to live (okay, that's two things but you get the point). We don't walk through the day scanning the horizon for the next post. We don't waste your time with "today I..." junior-high diary shit or "I hate myself..." high-school angst crap. We don't rush home from work giggling at the prospect of dancing the html-two step with virtual friends and we sure as hell don't write for the sake of writing.

We do this to keep distant friends, both old and new, close. And that's it.

The past few weeks at Blog Central have been rough. We'll spare you the sob story, but a sick infant has a tendency to kick your ass in ways a Mickey's Big Mouth-inspired hangover never dreamed of. It's called "RSV"; a respiratory virus that has the little one coughing like she's smoked four packs of Marlboro Reds for the past 40 years. Nine weeks of dealing with this baby plague has been nothing short of a straight kick to the balls. Again and again and again.

Couple that nightly episode of ER with a tense day job that requires us to bend images and words together of the sake of the almighty dollar and you see how this little virtual piece of real estate quickly takes a back seat. However, we're hoping the storm has been weathered and calmer skies are on the horizon. If that's the case, we'll get back to our regularly scheduled updates as soon as possible.

If it isn't, you'll know by the deafening silence.

Nothing but left turns at 176mph.

2005-03-01T09:45:00.000-06:00

That's right. The BDS has embraced its inner Bo and Luke Duke for the 2005 season of Nextel Cup racing. All you "educated" East Coast folks who have the latest redneck joke sitting on the tip of your tongue, let her fly at your own risk. As soon as we finish moving the washer and dryer out to the front porch and put our primer-gray Camero up on blocks in the front yard, we'll kick your ass.

Craig? Explain to the boys who's doing what for the UAW-DaimlerChrysler 400 on March 13 in Vegas.

The nightmare is over.

2005-02-28T17:15:00.000-06:00

Thirty years is a long time to hide in the shadows and walk between the raindrops. For decades the serial killer known only as BTK terrorized the community, stealing life and shattering dreams along the way. He forced parents to fear the random sound outside their bedroom window and taught children evil really does exist in the world.

But this past weekend saw the whirlwind come full circle. The killer who paraded his work in the media for over three decades was arrested outside his home in Park City, KS (just north of Wichita). That's right. This past weekend, that son of a bitch was arrested.

His name is Dennis L. Rader, and he's been booked in the Sedgwick County Jail on 10 counts of suspicion of first-degree murder. He is expected to be charged later this week. Police said Rader was arrested without incident about 12:15 pm Friday during a traffic stop on 61st Street North near Park City. Our guess is there was nothing incidental about the traffic stop; unconfirmed reports place Rader under surveillance for days and a "routine" traffic stop was the best way to apprehend him with little chance of gunplay.

The only reason we're glad he wasn't shot 74 times for driving with an expired tag is because we're hoping an angry mob carrying pitch forks and torches rushes the county courthouse to administer a little rural justice. And for those of you quick to condemn that "backward view of justice" while throwing out words like "innocent until proven guilty", read about his DNA match and confession first.

To see where the story came from and why we're wasting bandwidth on this piece of crap, check out our January 30th posting. To get the complete story (including a twisted and morbid eBay auction regarding BTK), walk over to the Eagle.

Wichita, tonight you can sleep a little easier.

Recipe for a Mad Anthony

2005-02-25T11:45:00.000-06:00

Beer. We love it. So much so that it's actually a vital component of our name. But there comes time, on occasion, when the bottle needs to be replaced with a shot glass. In the event you're snowbound somewhere north of Fairbanks with the Inuit, we found a sure-fire recipe to keep the fire burning and the ugly chicks pretty.

It's called a Mad Anthony, and the VH boys apparently swear by it.

Ingrediants
2 oz. Cabo Wabo® Tequila
1 oz. Spicy V8®
Juice from a fresh lime
Generous dollop (whatever that is) of Mad Anthony's Hot Sauce®

Directions
Combine ingrediants in a shaker full of ice and, well, shake it.
Pour into shot glass garnished with dab of salt, slice of lime and a slice of Jalapeno chili pepper.

1. Lick the salt.
2. Drink the shot.
3. Eat the peppar.
4. Throw lime over your left shoulder.
5. Repeat as necessary.

Does it kick? Ask Sam.

A weekend to remember. Or at least try to.

2005-02-23T09:00:00.000-06:00

When old WWII buddies get together, they typically don't run around the hillside randomly shooting people and lobbing the occasional grenade to rekindle "the good old days". When the 1972 Miami Dolphins recently reunited to celebrate their undefeated championship season, they didn't butt heads and smash each other in the mouth for 60 minutes. So why in the hell does the BDS drink like it's 1989 every time a bunch of these idiots find themselves crammed together over the course of a weekend?

The Roadtrip (Friday)
Ever hear a rendition of Journey's couple-skating classic "Faithfully" sung with a voicebox held to the throat? Think Darth Vader with a tender side. And when you do, it'll send beer flying out your nose. For those who dream of seeing Debbie Gibson nude, check out this month's Playboy. It's a good one; just ask Queenie 'cause she obviously liked it. Every soda fountain between the Red River and Le Compton was hit - both to keep the driver on his toes and everyone else off theirs. "Jet City Woman" was the sing-along song of the night, with all parties discarding any form of decorum to scream "Fortunes are lost on the women I've seen" off-key. While playing the Question Game, we learn someone has the hots for a BDS wife other than his own and that some questions simply can't be asked. An unsuspecting Krispy Kreme driver comes dangerously close to having his rig, with glazed booty still warm in the back, hijacked at a rest stop east of Topeka. And certain Seal Team Six members should remember to wear water wings the next time a mud-laden ditch needs to be crossed under a darkened highway overpass to take a midnight pee.

The Arrival (Saturday Morning)
Imagine the look on Jeff's face when he answers the doorbell at 1:30 am only to find Casey wearing high school gym shorts that conjur up images of Coach Jones yelling "lift with your legs, son!" and a white sleeveless t-shirt that's one pair of flip-flops away from making a guest appearance on the next episode of Cops. As if on que, a bottle of Cuban rum magically shows up in the basement and the next four hours are spent killing Fidel's little bottle of hate between field goal attempts on a Playstation football game. By 5:30 am, we're down for the count along with one poor couch cushion. In retrospect, we basically set the human race back 40 years in the first 17 hours of the trip.

The Game (Saturday Afternoon)
We leave the house bound for Lawrence minus one team member; you could say he was "stuck to the couch". Eventually we step onto the hallowed ground that is Allen Fieldhoue to watch the Hawks play in person for the first time in a decade. Seriously. It's been 10 years since we last went to that church and, as luck would have it, everyone showed up for the service but our team. We'll dispense with the play-by-play heartbreak, but let's just say THE REFS SUCKED! THOSE BASTARDS COST US THE GAME AGAIN! IT SHOULD BE ILLEGAL TO PRESS AND PLAY ZONE IN THE SAME HALF! THEY CRUSHED MY WILL TO LIVE! But the slice of pizza we had at the game was good. Thanks for the tickets, Jeff.

The Reason (Saturday Night)
Dearly beloved, we are gathered here tonight to witness a couple that loves to party so much they threw not one but two wedding receptions. Not content with getting leied in Hawaii, the newlyweds threw a midwest version of Fantasy Island at a nice little reception hall surrounded by little buildings that look eerily similar to Wichita's Cowtown in the dark. Blue-colored alcohol scared a few folks, K-State cookies battled it out with Jayhawk chocolate and the chicken-thingy tasted damn good. Free wine, free beer, free wall decorations (uh, we were allowed to take those things, right?) put everyone in an old-school state of mind. Hell, even a few BDS grandparents went for a spin on the dancefloor. A few took the party in stride, while others saw this as a grand opportunity to escape the pressure of life by pressing on their livers extra hard. Two guys even stole a keg, but the typical adrenaline rush that accompanies the occasional theft disappeared when told it was theirs to take. As the clock struck 12, coaches changed into pumpkins and the convoy rolled them on to the next crime scene.

The Afterparty(Saturday Night/Sunday Morning)
Ever take a bath in a tub filled with mashed potatoes? You could have at Jeff's house after the reception. That's how much food there was lying around the kitchen. You could bathe in mashed potatoes and that damn-good chicken thingy, and then towel off with a side of beef. As the party leftovers were eventually found and dispatched in typical "fat, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life" style, several of the boys (surprise) found a deck of cards and quickly lost money. Others (surprise) rarely left the keg strategically placed in the garage next to a propane heater. By 3:00 am, the previous 36 hours started to show its ugly head and most of the gang mysteriously vanished into the night.

The Return (Sunday Morning)
Hands down the most unanticipated event in the boring life of the BDS is the Bataan Death March back home after a weekend of immature adolescence. After six hours on 35, it seemed as if the great state of Texas was running from us; as if the entire state was now south of Mexico. Gatorade, as usual, saved the body but not the tattered spirits of the wayward travelers. One was so tired he didn't even put up a fight when a good portion of his Peppercorn Burger was accidentally inhaled by another. Unlike the trip up, this one had few questions, no sing-alongs and a solemn vow to "freakin' fly up next time".

That's right. We're all dumb enough to pull this crap again. And thanks for giving us an excuse for our childish behavor this time, Jeff. Congratulations, man. Like the rest of your idiotic friends, you definately married up.

What the hell?

2005-02-17T19:00:00.000-06:00

We've all hit that wall before; the one that instantly makes you freeze and say "what the hell?" when you see something weird, hear something strange or read something so bizzare that you're forced to re-read the sentence again. Like, oh, we don't know, maybe finding a recent picture of that nice but goofy metalhead from high school hanging out with METALLICA'S JAMES HETFIELD.

That's right. Goddard's own Mark Good appears to be making a name for himself on the airwaves back home as a radio DJ. So much so that he's been recently seen rubbing shoulders with old Lars and James. Wonder if he told them everything since Ride The Lightning has sucked. Anyway, on with the list:

Who the hell gets paid this much to suck?
Pitcher Kyle Lohse beat his team the Minnesota Twins last week in the first salary arbitration case of the year. Last year he was paid $395,000. After a 9-13 record and a 5.3 ERA, he wanted (and subsequently won) a contract worth $2.4 million. So let's get this straight: he loses more than he wins and, because of that, he gets a 600% increase in pay? What the hell?

Who the hell cares about the Grammys anyway?
Apparently not too many folks. Last Sunday night's show drew the Grammys lowest total viewership in a decade and was the 2nd-lowest rated show ever. Wonder why? Could be because the Grammys have always been one of the most over-rated award shows in the history of over-ratedness. Case in point? Led Zeppelin. The band that arguably defined music in the '70s, the bad that all others have since stood upon, NEVER WON A GRAMMY. EVER. We're serious. Look it up and you'll say "What the hell?" too.

It'll be hell if they miscalculated this one.
According to the latest calculations, a giant asteroid the size of three FIFA regulation soccer fields will make the closest flyby of Earth in recorded history, scientists said. It will pass between the Earth and Moon and will even come closer than the orbit of many telecommunication satellites, although astronomers insist there will be little chance of a collision with the massive rock. "Little chance?" "No chance" would be nicer. The asteroid 2004 MN4 will make its flyby around 10pm on Friday, April 13 in the year 2029. And yeah, that Friday the 13th date should have you wondering "what the hell kind of coincidence is that?"

Who the hell won't get mad after reading this?
Second Lt. Ilario Pantano, 33 and recently returned from a tour of duty in Iraq, has been recently charged with premeditated murder in connection with an April 15, 2004 shooting incident. Pantano, leading a quick-reaction platton in the Sunni Triangle, stopped two men who fled his unit in an SUV from a hide-out where weapons were eventually discovered. Pantano and witnesses said the two men came toward him despite his command in Arabic to stop. Fearing for his safety and those under his command, he removed the oncoming threat. And how do we thank him? By forcing him to undergo an Article 32 investigation, a precurser to a court martial. What the high holy hell?

Who the hell bets on NASCAR?
Oh, uh, sorry Craig. Yeah, okay, sure. We're in. Put our tab on Mr. Underhill's bill. What the hell.

Who the hell pays $590,000 for a painting?
Actually, we would. Remember the Dogs Playing Poker painting? Two of them recently sold for almost $600,000. If we remember correctly, that's about what was on the table when Casey nervously whispered "pot" during a little card action at his bachelor party. Nerves of steal, we tell ya. Nerves of naval steel. Hell.

Who the hell can choose between a Beretta and a Browning?
Around here, "over and under" means more than asking the line on a Pacific Rim game in a vain attempt to even the score with your bookie after a rough weekend of college hoops. It also means Beretta and Browning, two of the finest shotgun manufacturers around. Which one's better? Might as well ask "Ford or Chevy" And why is this argument in this post? 'Cause we recently found both on sale for a price that made us do a double-take. Reasonable enough, at least, to know that we'll be chasing Texas quail and Kansas ringnecks next season with one of them. We're just having a hell of a time deciding which one.

What the hell is up with the lack up recent posts?
The last few weeks have been busy at work and busier at home. Hopefully things will settle down in the next few weeks and we'll resume posting our regularly scheduled crap to this two-bit blog, but don't expect anything soon. This weekend several members of Seal Team Six are headed to KC. Trips like this usually require gallons of Gatoraide, a bong full of Pepto and 48 hours of continuous sleep afterwards. We may act like immature 17-year olds, but our bodies sure as hell don't recooperate like it anymore.

We'll see you next week. If we make it back alive.

Broken hearts? More like broken eye sockets.

2005-02-15T13:00:00.000-06:00

"Did you see that? He just got mugged."

"BS. He walked."

"Yeah, but only after getting hacked by those guys trying to stop the clock."

"Then why did Hightower call traveling?"

"Because he wasn't in position and needed to call something. Listen to it again. You can literally hear the Tech bench screaming at their players to foul him."

"Quit whining. There was no foul."

"Then explain his black eye, asshole."

Here's the story as reported by the Lawrence Journal World.
Aaron Miles' right eye appeared positive proof he was fouled on the most controversial call of the Big 12 Conference basketball season late Monday night at the United Spirit Arena in Lubbock.

The Kansas University senior guard's shiner and swollen lid came courtesy of a blow delivered after Miles grabbed what appeared to be the game-winning rebound with 7.9 seconds left in double overtime with Kansas leading Texas Tech by two.

Game officials, however, determined Miles traveled with the key board, giving 6'9" Darryl Dora the opportunity to knock in a back-breaking three with 3.6 seconds left, the winning shot in the Red Raiders' thrilling 80-79 victory over the Jayhawks.

And here's the exact same game as reported by the Lubbock Avalanche-Journal.
After a shot by Jackson was no good the ensuing scramble for the ball which was rebounded by Kansas, the Jayhawks were called with a traveling violation and thus the Red Raiders were able to maintain possession of the ball wiht 7.9 seconds left in the game. That's when Dora was able to shoot a 3-point shot with 3.7 seconds left to play and give Texas Tech a huge win over the Jayhawks in double overtime.

Same game. Different perspectives. Same play. Different writing styles. Same outcome. Obviously different English teachers.

"1...2...3...drop...damn."

2005-02-10T15:00:00.000-06:00

Between raising a family and raising a mortgage, there seems to be little time left on the calendar to raise a BuD'S wager along with a little hell. But don't tell that to Loch. Earlier this week he threw down the cards for the next poker party.

It's April 22-24, 2005. The city has been nominated. The location has been narrowed down to two. But a few house-keeping chores need to be completed before then.

So who’s in? Who’s out? Are we even gonna do this? Is April possible or should we wait until the fall? Should we wait 'til next year? Or six years? Will someone call Ken? Grab your calendars and leverage it against your parental responsibilities, boys. The fate of the next party is in your hands.

Confirmed cardsharks:
BL
CW
CF
TW
CT

"Vacilating with a tenative 'yea'"
MF

MIA
JH
JB

Faithful Rides From A Distant Past

2005-02-09T13:45:00.000-06:00

It went faster than you thought it could when you were late for class. Picked up your Homecoming date after the footbal game. Provided a place to “get acquainted” with her, if you were lucky, after the dance. It delivered you to distant parties and seemingly drove itself back home afterwards. Your friends borrowed it, your bottle of Peach Schnapps slid out from underneath the front seat one time when your Dad decided to drive it and, at some point, “Do You Dream About Me” by Night Ranger piped through its speakers.

We’re talking about that car you had in high school.
More specifically, the cars we had in high school.

Monte Carlo SS
The flagship of the BDS armada. This car could fly, especially when coming home late from an Andover party and running up the side of a concrete highway barrier. A stolen radar detector was strategically placed under the hood on the grill with its LED display concealed under the dash; more than one ticket was avoided because of it. On Saturday nights, when it was time to roll into the big city and drag Douglas, this was the chariot that carried us there. Not only because more than one hot chick fell under its spell, but because it was a fast enough to get us out of trouble when we set the spurs to her.

Pontiac Cutless Supreme
The only thing more dated than this ride's yellow paint job with black pinstriped velvet interior was the 8-track player built into the radio. Thankfully a converter that played regular cassettes in an 8-track player was eventually purchased at The Village Flea Market (where else?), otherwise it would have been Captain and Tennille tunes ever more. A Holly 4-Barrell carburator gave the Beast more kick than expected, and the tilted sunroof covered for a broken air conditioner. Not one but both inside door handles eventually broke, making it necessary for driver and passenger to imitate Bo and Luke just arriving at the Boar's Nest each time they exited the vehicle. Not to be confused with the later-model maroon Cutless Supreme that instantaneously burst into flames on Tony Perez's driveway several years later.

Chevy BDS-10s (as in two)
One was dark blue; it virtually disappeared into the darkness when a quick escape was needed. The other was white; a tiger claw decal on the back told the world "don't mess with me" in that tough yet trendy '80s way. Considered the BDS U-Haul division, these trucks carried more beer and party equipment than any other vehicles in the fleet. Coolers, tacke boxes, the occasional farm impliment, even the BDS themselves found refuge and a bed-away-from-home in those truck beds. One urban legend even has hundreds of dollars worth of damage done to the Blue BDS-10 being "squared" with the offending party buying the transgressed a case of beer.

AMC Gremlin
No, it wasn't blue like the picture or named Gizmo like the movie. This one was green. That's right. A green Gremlin. The only thing stronger than the vibes this car gave off was the self-confidence needed and shown by the guy who actually drove it. Considered not a car as much as a utilitarian piece of machinery whose sole purpose was to deliver its content from Point A to Point B without incident, this little bastard child of the VW Bug successfully withstood countless insults and numerous adventures. Like the time where the BDS learned that stolen K-Mart shopping carts dragged down the highway at 50 mph send sparks flying in all directions like nobody's business.

Chevy Astrovan
If any vehicle in the BDS inventory could drive itself home at the end of the night, it was this one. Black like the inside of many eyelids which were typically seen from the backseat on the way home from a killer party, this rolling keg on wheels was spacious enough to carry an entire Viking raiding party looking to pillage and burn the countryside. That may explain the clumps of wheat found inside the engine and under the van the day after one particular excursion to Derby. And the autopilot myth? Legend has it a tapped keg mysteriously appeared once in the center aisle of the van. The driver, thirsty from the heat and eager to join the party behind him, left his seat to grab a drink. Literally. At night. In traffic. The screams from the back somehow convinced him to return to the task at hand. Not the one in it.

Fallen heroes left off the list? A black celica. Old Red, the truck. A tan El Camino. Why? 'Cause we had trouble finding pictures. Besides, those guys don't read this crap anyway so they'll never know we forgot about them.

Remember your high school ride? Tell us about it and we'll make fun of it with you.

The State of Your Union

2005-02-09T09:30:00.000-06:00

Last week the President stood before your Congress and country to deliver his plan for the coming year during his State of the Union address. Because Bush wrongly considers 53% an overwhelming mandate, we expected him to pick a fight with Iran, throw insults at North Korea and rhetorically ask Ted Kennedy if his car has killed anyone lately. Instead, we were somewhat shocked at the lack of shocking somewhats in this annual Presidential stand-up routine.

The Economy: Same old story. Bush promised to cut the decific in half by 2009 and spend more wisely. Sounds easy enough, until you remember we're in the middle of not one but two armed conflicts. The BDS will personally have words with anyone who screams for a tax cut while our nation's finest are screaming for Kevlar vest over the sounds of mortar fire. The balance will come, according to 43, by substantially reducing or eliminating over 150 government programs that a) aren't working, b) are redundant or c) make no sense in the first place. Recent word in DC has Bush wanting to cut $587 million worth of farm subsidies from the 2002 Farm Bill and reduce overall farm aid by $5.7 billion over the next 10 years. The best thing about this short-sided, idiotic budget cut is how unlikely it is to pass through Congress; the Farm Bill governs spending through 2007 and any change would require the bill to be opened and amended, a task that Congress simply won't do (Thank God). To keep the economy rolling, Bush also urged Congress to pass tort reform, but we envision the Bradley A. Pistotniks and Rodney D. Youngs of the planet fighting this, funny as it sounds, in court. Overall, the economy seems in fair shape. And if it's as bad as the Donkeys say it is, ask them why homeownership is at its highest level in history. Then ask yourself why you're not saving thousands by refinancing your mortgage with Jeff.

Immigration: This hot-button topic just got a little saucier. Bush wants an immigration policy that permits temporary guest workers to fill jobs Americans will not take. However, he's also on record as being in favor of granting limited amnesty to undocumented workers who are here illegally. In other words, those who broke the law to come here would be rewarded. Surprisingly, one of the largest blocks of anti-amnesty proponents are hispanics who played the game legally. They applied for a visa, got a job, paid taxes, booed Alex Rodriguez during the Sox series and busted their tailes to get citizenship the right way. They feel a blanket amnesty for those who did it all illegally belittles their accomplishments. We agree.

Social Security: The third rail of politics. Bush told us the current system will crash in 2042; by 2018 it will pay out more than in takes in. Anyone familiar with the term "Baby Boomers" knows why. But the Democrats, on the other early bird special, claim the system isn't broke at all, which makes you wonder how many times it took THEM to pass Math 002. Bush threw out a variety of options: indexing benefits to prices rather than wages, increasing the retirement age, discouraging early collection of benefits, even changing the way benefits are calculated. The only item not on the table? Increasing payroll taxes. 43 also encouraged younger workers to bank on a personal retirement/savings account rather than social security. He promises a better return on your investment if you do. Sound interesting? Talk to Craig. He'll help you out.

War on Terrorism: Let's see if we got this straight. Numerous governmental agencies missed the signs and/or dropped the ball leading up to 9/11. So what do we do? We make another government agency. Short of that "we need another meeting to discuss the meeting we just had that discussed the meeting we'll have tomorrow" mentality often displayed inside the Beltway after a disaster, Bush has done an admirable job on this front. He also calmed many fears across the globe regarding our involvement in the affairs of others: "The United States has no right, no desire and no intention to impose our form of governmnet on anyone else." For the WWF crowd? "Once we kill all the bad guys, we're coming back home."

"Thank you.": But the most talked-about moment of the entire night happened late in the game. An Iraqi woman, one who voted for the first time ever in the recent elections, turned to embrace a woman clutching the dogtags of her Marine son who was killed in Iraq. The Iraqi woman thanks her for sacrificing her son, but you couldn't hear that over the thunderous applause from Congress that held the speech up for almost two minutes. The more cynical pundants claim the moment was staged; that it was the biggest PR coup in recent history. Visibily shaken at this impromptu act of thankfulness, the same chill that obviously ran down the back of the President ran down ours, too. Staged my ass.

Bottom line? It was a speech without surprises. It was safe. Expected. Sure, there were a few memorable moments, but it will be remembered most for its lack of memorable moments. Bush knows he has four years left to cement his legacy and, through this speech, he knows he has to have the full support of Congress to make it worthwhile. That's why he didn't overtly piss anyone off. He stepped on few toes and no landmines. He simply reach across the aisle and said "let's get to work". By the end of this year, we'll see if anyone in Congress stayed awake long enough during the speech to hear that.

Bill Self isn't a true Jayhawk. Yet.

2005-02-04T13:00:00.000-06:00

According to a story filed Thursday by the Associated Press, Kansas men's basketball coach Bill Self was upset with what he heard from the home crowd during the No. 3 Jayhawks' win Monday night against Big XII rival Missouri in Lawrence. "I'll plead to the students now. Any type of profanity should not be chanted," he said. "Our students are very clever. They should come up with something creative and clever instead."

Creative and clever? Blow it out your ass, Bill.

This is the one problem with hiring outside the family. Yeah, yeah, yeah. We know. "He was an assistant coach under Larry Brown." But apparently not long enough to fully grasp the sheer hatred that sweeps over KU fans when their team locks horns with Missouri.

So how did this bitter rivaly get started? The same way most college rivalries do. A bunch of turncoat rebels rode into town and killed several hundred men, women and children. On August 21, 1863, William C. Quantrill raped, pillaged and burned his way through Lawrence, KS. Although the Border War has now taken on a different meaning, the harsh feelings and deep distain held for each other by the neighboring states is still visible today.

And according to the AP, it was audible last Monday.

But what those Missouri felons posing as basketball players hear when in Lawrence isn't half as bad as what our boys endure when traveling down the road to Columbia. Mizzou students actually call KU players at home, in the dead of night, upwards of a week prior to the game. And come gametime, the poor quality of sportsmanship over there is only rivaled by the sheer quantity of shit talked, thrown and screamed.

Don't get us wrong. To date, we love ourSelf. We're slowly becoming fans of the High-Low offense and appreciate any team that plays hard defense. But to dress down KU students for an occasional obscenity shows that old Bill needs a brief history lesson on just what happens when the Tigers come calling. Someone needs to tell him this is the oldest rivaly game west of the Mississippi and he'd feel the same hatred if Missouri ruffians burned down Edmond, Oklahoma back then, too.

It shows he's not quite a true Jayhawk yet. Not like this guy.

Muck Fizzou indeed.

Wormer? Dead! Niedermeyer? Dead!

2005-02-04T10:55:00.000-06:00

A classic line from a classic movie. Too bad it's actually true.

The BDS was saddened to learn this morning of the passing of John Vernon. Best known as Dean Wormer in "Animal House" (which just so happens to be one of the single greatest comedies...ever), he delivered some of the more memorable lines in a movie filled with them. He told us fat, drunk and stupid was no way to go through life.

Advice we obviously ignored.

We've been on double-secret probabtion for longer than we can remember because of him. However, Vernon wasn't satisfied with making just one movie the BDS holds higher than most. He also played John Fletcher, Clint Eastwood's turncoat friend in the legendary western Outlaw Josey Wales. But he'll be remembered most as Dean Wormer, the man whose deep baritone voice and deadpan line delivery still makes the average drunk laugh 30 years later.

"The time has come for someone to put his foot down.
And that foot is me!"

Yes it was, John. Yes it was.

Walk around an alternative reality.

2005-02-03T16:50:00.000-06:00

It's been out there for a while, skirting the edges of acceptance by the fringe and brushed off as lunacy by the mainstream. At best, it's a case-study in paranoia. At worst, it suggests your government was less than forthright in its knowledge of, and potential participation in, the events of September 11, 2001.

We first saw this exercise in flash animation worthy of an X-Files episode several years ago. Since then, the following link has found its way into our in-box no less than five or six times. An eerie soundtrack, coupled with quick-moving images that last long enough to raise doubt but not long enough to warrant serious examination, is worth at least a few minutes of your life.

So go ahead. Walk around an alternative reality here and decide for yourself. It can't hurt.

Or can it?

A Rock & Roll Fable

2005-02-02T20:00:00.000-06:00

"Another time. Another place."

So reads the opening line for a movie we hate loving. One we deny owning and disavow quoting. But just like the line at the keg, you'll see us come back time and time again for more even if it blurs our vision and taints our judgement of what's considered cinematic genius.

You know the story but not the script. The music but not the soundtrack. It's James Dean meets Bladerunner. Cool Hand Luke meets Escape From New York. Clint Eastwood meets The Warriors. It's lever-action Winchesters. Thundering motorcycles. Raging bonfires. Reluctant heroes. Evil villains. Singing sidekicks. Everything you could possibly want to see in a span of 93 minutes.

It's 1950s iconography with 1980s aestetics. Doo-wop for the MTV generation. A comic-book storyline with moving parts. A rock opera with neon lights and West Side Story influences. It's classic B-Movie acting with A-movie cult appeal.

It's Streets of Fire. A Rock and Roll Fable. And just like that magic mixture of hops, water and barley, it's our guilty pleasure.

The Story
"Tom Cody is summoned home to rescue his estranged ex-girlfriend and rock diva Ellen Aim who's been kidnapped by Raven, the leader of the Bombers motorcycle gang. During the required explosions and needed gunplay a movie like this requires under California state law, Cody breaks into the Battery (the bad part of town) and saves his old flame. Not to be outdone, Raven and the Bombers seek revenge by rolling into the Richmond (the good part of town) and lighting the place on fire. It all culminates into a last-man-standing showdown with two gunslingers at high noon in the town square with charmed pick-axes instead of pistols.

The Characters
Michael Pare' (Tom Cody): Yeah, it's Eddie from that Cruisers movie. Like that one, this movie plays to Pare's strengths; he doesn't have to do much but say little and throw the occasional punch. His character's late-'50s wardrobe and late-'60s self-centered attitude creates a reluctant hero you love and hate.

Diane Lane (Ellen Aim): With legs that stretch into next week and unbelievably accurate lip-synching, Lane captures the essence of a rock-and-roll princess. As Ellen Aim, she looks like Pate Benetar, acts like Bruce Springsteen and sounds like Stevie Nicks covering Meat Loaf. We love her anyway.

Willem DaFoe (Raven):As a prototypical villain complete with black eyeliner and wearing overalls that look eerily similar to Hefty Trashbags (consider it a bad trend of the early '80s), DaFoe leaves little doubt who you're intended to boo and hiss. Arguably one of the most underappreciated actors of the past 25 years, this is the first movie he helped carry as a main title character. Wonder if he sleeps well at night knowing he didn't drop the ball on this one.

Rick Moranis (Billy Fish):Pre-Ghostbusters, Moranis does an admirable job as Lane's current manager/boyfriend who's short-man complex is only compounded by his big mouth. He views Cody as a relic of a bad past and only with deep reluctance does he agree to Cody's involvement. He also drips with a geeky weasel quality that just begs for an ass kick.

The Soundtrack
This is the soundtrack that makes you wonder why the '80s had to leave so soon. When it comes to original rock soundtracks, there are few better. Ever hear of the Blasters? Think Stray Cats before the Stray Cats. These guys, with classic rock-a-billy flair, give 1950s rock and roll a touch of attitude you can only find in a pissed-off Stratocaster. "Nowhere Fast" and "Tonight Is What It Means To Be Young" was actually recorded by Fire, Inc., a group of studio musicians that sounded nothing like it. "Sorcerer", the second cut on the LP, was a song later covered by Stevie Nicks herself. But here's one caveat: you have to see the movie first to truly appreciate the soundtrack. It stands well on its own but reaches another level when one of the songs instantly causes you to replay a movie scene in your head.

The Reason It Failed
The studio simply released it at the wrong time. Streets of Fire had the misfortune of being released in the same two-week period back in 1983 as Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, Ghostbusters, Gremlins and Star Trek III. According to none other than legendary film critic Gene Siskel, that's why audiences ignored it, critics lambasted it and this rock & roll fantasy seemingly disappeared into obscurity.

The Reason We Love It
The good guy flies around town in a red convertible 1949 Buick Roadmaster. The bad guys put your surround sound to the test with rumbling motorcycles. The music sets the right mood at the right time, and the quick action sequences are balanced with slow, long shadows that bounce off the lense at the perfect moment. They fight with pick-axes. They blow stuff up. And the last five minutes of the movie will leave every chick saying "no way" with every guy saying "right f'in' on, bro".

Bottom line? Go somewhere else if you're looking for a film with redeeming qualitites that push the artform forward. Look elsewhere if you expect your movie experience to be filled with Kafka-esque social commentaries regarding hidden truths. This is just your classic musical-action-fantasy flick that, thanks to a setting that's vague in time and place, hasn't aged a bit even if the wardrobes have just a tad.

Oh, and it's much better if you're drunk.

Go slow and nobody gets hurt.

2005-02-01T14:50:00.000-06:00

The BDS has, on occasion, inadvertently bumped into the business end of a law enforcement flashlight. No, nothing serious...well, at least nothing that voided any state statute of limitation laws. But most of us, at some point, have felt the cold steel of handcuffs on our wrists during our younger cowboy days.

From "borrowing" an employer's truck to throwing a quiet farm party backlit by a 10-foot bonfire big enough to be seen from space (let alone the highway), we found ourselves thinking "wow, the backseat of your typical cop car is much smaller than you'd think from watching TV". And it's that pedigree, those past experiences, that qualify us to spend a few minutes on dealing with The Boys In Blue. In other words, follow us and we'll help you avoid a ticket the next time you're 15 minutes late to the party and you see flashing lights in your rearview mirror. Follow us and we'll help you get out of that ticket.

1. Pull over immediately.
The second you're lit up by The Long Arm of the Law, pull over. Don't bother using your turn signals to work your way over to the shoulder. Just get over and put the car in park. Better yet, turn the car off once you've stopped.

2. Roll down your windows.
Driver's side should be rolled down all the way. Passenger and rear windows should be rolled down partially. This makes it easier for the approaching officer to gauge the situation and take a quick mental inventory of what (and who's) inside your car.

3. If it's dark, turn on your dome light.
Again, this makes it easier for Johnny Fuzz to see inside.

4. Show your hands.
As the officer approaches your window, keep both hands on the steering wheel. Preferably at the 10 o'clock and 11 o'clock positions. The first thing he's looking for is your hands to make sure you're not holding anything stupid. Don't make him guess.

5. Call him "sir" once, but not twice.
Using the phrase "sir" during the initial conversation automatically signals to the guy WITH A LOADED GUN ON HIS HIP that he's in control and you know this. Then talk to him as you would anyone else. If you call him "sir" more than once, it's seen as ass-kissing and will cause him to be suspicious.

6. No sudden movements.
This is where most people screw up. When he asks to see your license, tell him you're going to reach into your back pocket with your right hand to retrieve it and do so slowly. When he asks for proof of insurance, tell him you're going to lean over with your right hand to grab it from the glove box and do so slowly. At this, he will automatically ask you what you do for a living. When this happens, you're almost in the clear. He thinks you're a cop.

6. Don't lie.
Don't tell him you're a cop if you aren't. Just be honest. Tell him you know the dangers he faces every day, especially when approaching a car at night. You simply want him to feel safe, 'cause if he feels safe you won't get shot. Tell him that, and he'll laugh as he walks your license back to his car to check for any outstanding warrants. Just hope you got that case settled back in Shreveport correctly and you'll be fine.

Two weeks ago we ran back to the Motherland for a wedding and found ourselves blinded by flashing lights from behind. It was 12:30am on a desolate patch of I-35 and one glance in the side mirror showed a young officer cautiously approaching our vehicle with a hand firmly placed on his weapon. After following the tried and true rules listed above, he gave us a warning and told us to slow down.

Not too bad for being clocked doing 74 mph in a 35-mph toll booth zone.

"Ooh, beer. And some society that drinks it."

2005-01-31T23:53:00.000-06:00

It's late. We're racking our brains for a new post; searching in vain for something to kick-start the discussion. In what appears to be a growing trend, we find nothing. But just as we're about to shut down for the night, a familiar friend sticks his head through our monitor. Literally.

It's none other than Homer J. Simpson, the man, myth and legend who captures the essence of the BDS for 30 minutes a week on FOX. After making a quick mental note to avoid drinking Guinness this late at night in the future because it obviously blends perception and reality into one bad blog, we decide to talk with our modern day hero.

Homer: Whoa. That was weird.

BDS: So, uh, what are you doing?

Homer: I'm looking for some guys who drink beer. (Looks around and puts hands on hips.)

BDS: That would be us.

Homer: So you're the BDS?

BDS: Are you a cop?

Homer: No.

BDS: Then yes.

Homer: Huh. I thought you'd be...thinner.

BDS: Now that's the pony keg calling the party ball fat.

Homer: Easy there, Flanders. I'm here to help.

BDS: Help?

Homer: That's right. I'm here to help save the BDS.

BDS: I'm not sure we need saving.

Homer: But you do. See, I saw this movie once about a bus that had to SPEED around a city, keeping its SPEED over fifty, and if it's SPEED dropped, it would explode. I think it was called "The Bus That Couldn't Slow Down."

BDS: And what does that have to do with us?

Homer: Everything! If the bus slows down, caboom! No Matrix trilolgy. If the BDS bus slows down, caboom! Beer everywhere! Oh, the humanity!

BDS: Okay Yoda, you're confusing us.

Homer: Yoda was a muppet. I'm a 2D cartoon visiting your 3D world.

BDS: What the hell is a muppet, anyway?

Homer: Well, it's not quite a mop, and not quite a puppet, but man...(laughs hysterically). So to answer your question, I don't know.

BDS: Right.

Homer: Anyway, my point is this: you're running out of time. Just like The Bus That Couldn't Slow Down, you're running out of time.

BDS: Time for what?

Homer: Time to remember why the BDS was once great.

BDS: "Once" great? What do you mean "once"?

Homer: As in "used to be".

BDS: Once great? You mean like your show?

Homer: We're still great.

BDS: Yeah, we know. It just sounded like a good zinger in the heat of battle. But we are too, you know.

Homer: Come on! Look around you. This lame-O blog is filled with old memories of distant hangovers. There's nothing new. Nothing fresh. It hasn't been up for two months and you're already running out of things to talk about; you're already reaching for topics to post. Take this crappy one, for example.

BDS: But...

Homer: Talk about jumping the shark a tad early.

BDS: But there's other stuff...

Homerr: "Oh, look! It's Fonzy on skis! And look at that! He's wearing his leather jacket and flying hell-bent towards the shark pen!"

BDS:...other stuff that's not necessarily BDS-related.

Homer: "I hope he makes it, like the time he jumped 20 barrels out in front of Arnold's."

BDS: We talk about other stuff.

Homer: That was Arnold's owned by Mr. Miagey. Not the Arnold's owned by Al Dalvechio. That Arnold's came later.

BDS: You aren't even listening.

Homer: Oh yes I am. You mean that random crap about NASA-this and "ooh, look at the pretty pictures of space"-that? You want to know about the constellations? Well, that one over there is Jerry the Cowboy. And that big dipper-looking thing is Alan...the Cowboy.

BDS: We're just trying to broaden the typical BDS horizon. You know. Talk about stuff we'd typically talk about around the Cheney beerfire. Like whether it's too dangerous to send civilians into outer space.

Homer: The only danger in space is if we land on the terrible Planet of the Apes..wait a minute. Statue of Liberty...THAT WAS OUR PLANET! YOU MANIACS! YOU BLEW IT UP! DAMN YOU! DAMN YOU ALL TO HELL! (starts sobbing uncontrollably)

BDS: So what do you do? What do you do when you wonder if the last song may have been sung and the party's over?

Homer: Isn't that a Journey song?

BDS: We were thinking more along the lines of Tesla.

Homer: But the party isn't over yet. Sure, wives and kids and jobs take a lot out of you, but I still find a way to squeeze eight hours of TV in a day. You can, too.

BDS: Takes too much effort. We all have too many responsibilities now.

Homer: Weaseling out of things is important to learn. It's what separates us from the animals...except the weasel.

BDS: Becky McFaddin had a weasel once.

Homer: Really?

BDS: No, that was a ferret. Sorry.

Homer: Listen, it all comes down to the source.

BDS: The source?

Homer: The reason why the BDS is what it is.

BDS: And what is that?

Homer: It's a bunch of immature drunks who are no longer immature, a bunch or drunk. You've each gone out on your own vision quests; down your own paths seeking fame, fortune and truth. But every once in a while, you must return to the circle and find renewed strength.

BDS: Is that a Native American flute we hear in the background?

Homer: Yeah. Apu thinks it adds a nice touch when I give that speech, but he sometimes forgets what type of Indian he is.

BDS: So what you're telling us between donuts is...

Homer: Want a bite? It's got fruit hidden inside.

BDS: That's not fruit. It's purple filling.

Homer: Purple's a fruit.

BDS: So you're telling us that, because the bus can't slow down under fifty miles an hour or it will explode, we need to throw a party.

Homer: Exactly.

BDS: You know how freakin' hard that is? You know how hard it is to clear calendars, make travel plans, bribe wives, sweet-talk the boss and actually pull something like that off?

Homer: Yup.

BDS: You're talking guys in three different states.

Homer: Uh huh.

BDS: Can't be done.

Homer: Oh, not a poker party. A real party.

BDS: A real party?

Homer: A real party with beer and wives and strippers and...

BDS: Wives and strippers?

Homer:...and disco balls and beenie weenies...

BDS: Disco balls? What is this? A sixth-grade roller skating party?

Homer: ...and those little notes you folded nine different ways in junior high...

BDS: You're drunk.

Homer: Better than being mature and boring.

BDS: Ouch.

Homer: Okay, then throw a wake.

BDS: A wake? Who died?

Homer: The BDS.

BDS: Damn it! Shut up with that crap!

Homer: Everyone show up dressed in black and bring some sort of potluck dish for the grieving family...

BDS: Look, you jaundice-colored son of a...

Homer: Did you have a poker party last year?

BDS: Uh, no.

Homerr: Did you all sip drinks with the little umbrellas together on Comeoniwannaleieya Beach earlier this month?

BDS: No, not all of us could swing that one...

Homerr: Oh, so you all went hunting together on Opening Weekend.

BDS: No, damn it. Not all of us do that.

Homer: Sounds like you need to polish up the black shoes for that final farewell.

BDS: Keep talking out your ass about things you know nothing about, Mr. Simpson, and we'll...

Homer: You'll what? Release the dogs on me? Or the bees? Or the dogs with bees in their mouth and when they bark, they shoot bees at me?

BDS: That's it. We're done here. Good night.

Homer: Okay. But think about it. Dwell on what we've talked about, so that future generations don't make the same mistakes you did.

BDS: There's that flute again...

Homer: Before you turn me off, any idea where I can find someone named Blasi?

BDS: Got us. Haven't heard from him in months. As far as we know, he hasn't been around here at all. Why?

Homer: 'Cause I've got a package for some guy named Perez, and someone told me his new name is Blasi.

Evil by another name.

2005-01-30T22:25:00.000-06:00

Every childhood had a boogyman; a beast in the closet who kept you hidden under the covers frozen with fear at night. During the 1970s in Wichita, that moster was all too real. He called himself BTK. And his victims, seven over the course of three years, found out why.

He taunted police with letters, mocking their inadequacies. He bragged about his handywork, reveling in the terror he brought to middle America's doorstep. He even used the self-prescribed moniker BTK for Bind, Torture and Kill. That's what he did, and how he signed several letters sent to the police and media. But just as the cold grip of fear tightened on the city in the late '70s, the killings and letters stopped.

And just like that, BTK vanished.

No one knew why. Was he dead? Was he in prison? Did he move? His sudden disappearance, although welcomed, vaulted this little-known serial killer into the region's boogyman. Over the next 30 years, he eventually faded from public consciousness and was rarely, if ever, whispered about again.

Until he wrote a letter to the local paper last year.

From the Wichita Eagle, March 25, 2004: "A serial killer who terrorized Wichita during the 1970s by committing a series of seven murders has claimed responsibility for an eighth slaying and is probably now living in Wichita, police said Wednesday.

A letter The Wichita Eagle received Friday suggests that the BTK Strangler was responsible for the Sept. 16, 1986 strangulation death of Vicki Wegerle, who was found dead in her home at 2404 W. 13th street. The crime was never solved.

The letter contained a single sheet of paper with a photocopy of Wegerle's driver's license and three pictures that apparently were taken of her body. Each picture shows the victim in a slightly different pose and with her clothing arranged in a slightly different manner."

Police said there was no crime scene photographs of Wegerle's body because it was removed by EMS workers before police arrived. At the time, EMS policy was to transport injured people to the hospital as quickly as possible. That means BTK was there at the scene, snapping pictures and smiling at a job well done.

The return addres on the envelope indicated the letter was from Bill Thomas Killman. A fake name, but one whose initials were obviously used to identify the author.

January 15, 1974
Charlie Otero returned home from school to find his father, mother and two sisters murdered. Each was strangled with the type of cord used in venetian blinds. One sister was found hanging from a sewer pipe in the basement wearing only socks and a sweater. None of the victims had been raped.

April 5, 1974
Kathryn Bright and her brother Kevin were confronted in Kathryn's home by a man with a gun. He forced Kevin to tie his sister to a chair, then forced Kevin into another room. When the man wrapped a cord around Kevin's neck and began to pull, Kevin fought back and was shot twice in the head with a .22-caliber pistol. He managed to escape and call for help. By the time police arrived, Kathryn had been stabbed three times and died hours later.

October 1974
An anonymous tip leads police to a mechanical engineering textbook at the Wichita Public Library. In it, a man who calls himself the BTK Strangler confesses to several recent killings and pleads for help in "stopping the monster inside". On October 24, police quiety run a classified ad in the Wichita Eagle:

"BTK
Help is available.
Call 684-xxxx before 10 p.m."

The ad ran for four days without results.

March 17, 1977
Shirley Vian, 26 and mother of three, answered a knock at her door around noon. The man at the door had a gun in one hand and a bowling bag in the other. He came inside, barricaded the children in the bathroom and killed their mother. Emergency crews later found Vian's nude body face-down on her bed. She was bound hand and foot. There was a plastic bag over her head and a cord looped around her neck.

December 9, 1977
Police dispatch received a call from a pay phone at the corner of Central and St. Francis.

"Yes, you will find a homicide at 843 South Pershing. Nancy Fox."

The dispatcher double-checked the address.

"Yes, that's correct." Police later found Fox's partially nude body in the bedroom of her duplext. A nylon stocking was wrapped tightly around her neck. Her hands and feet were bound with other stockings. A window in the back of the duplext had been smashed and the phone line had been cut.

"How man more must I kill?"
After having several notes withheld from the public by the police, the killer turned to KAKE-TV for exposure by writing a two-page, single-spaced letter.

"How many people do I have to kill before I get my name in the paper or some national attention?" he asked. He also indicated he planned to kill again.

In excerpts released by police and the television station, the killer said he was compelled to kill by the "factor-X", the same factor that motivated Son of Sam in New York, Jack the Ripper in London and the Hillside Strangler in Los Angeles.

"It seems senseless but we cannot help it," the killer wrote. "There is no help, no cure except death or being caught and put away."

BTK also complained about the lack of publicity: "A little paragraph in the newspaper would have been enough. And he suggested that he might be living a normal life in Wichita: "After a thing like Fox, I come home and go about life like everyone else."

"Sorry I missed you."
But here's where an already twisted story takes an even more deviant turn. On June 14, 1979, Anna Williams received a 19-line, typewritten letter in the mail. Inside was a poem written by the killer entitled "Oh, Anna Why Didn't You Appear". Laden with sexual overtones, the poem indicated that Williams was meant to be BTK's eighth victim. He patiently waited hours for her to return home, where he was waiitng. Growing frustrated, he eventually left when she failed to come home. Six weeks later, he sent her a letter indicated he was sorry he missed her and looked forward to meeting her soon.

And the cat and mouse game continues...
Just last week (Thursday, January 27, 2005) police found a clue possibly linked to BTK. A package was found between 69th and 77th streets north near Valley Center that focuses speculation on two unsolved homicides in areas north of Wichita. The sign pictured here marks the dirt stretch of Seneca where the package was found. Police have yet to disclose its contents. How did police know to look here? The location was noted on a postcard recently received that appears to be from the killer. The card from "S Killet" bore the return address of the Otero family - BTK's first four victims in 1974.

To date, thousands of tips have poured in. Hundreds of suspects have been inverviews. Local, state and federal agencies are working around the clock and yet, through it all, one lone man seems able to walk between the raindrops and avoid capture. The killer would be in his mid-60s now and, if you look at the increased number of notes, letters and clues he's given police, almost seems to be begging for capture. God willing his wish will come true soon enough.

To see where most of the information contained in this post came from, and to learn more about BTK's connection to Ralph Stanley's haunting bluegrass rendition of "O Death", walk over to the Wichita Eagle's impressive archive. But be warned: once you start reading, you won't stop.

Because you know this serial killer is out there.
Because you know this boogyman is real.

Dig in when he aims for your head.

2005-01-26T17:15:00.000-06:00

So you're standing on the corner of family and career with a smile on your face when a ball suddenly fies over your right shoulder just missing your head. You quickly turn around to see life standing behind you. With a trademarked smirk that has paralyzed millions in the past, he's tossing another ball up and down in his hand. He slowly nods once; it's his way of saying "remember me?".

He pulls the ballcap low across his brow, bends at the waist and shakes off the first sign. You stand there, not only wondering what the hell he's doing but what the hell is actually going on. By the time you decide it would be prudent to grab a helmet and your Savoy Special, he's already in the stretch. This is all going way too fast. You take a half-step towards the plate, check your feet and look up only to see a sinking curveball flying straight at your head that's neither sinking nor curving.

Holy shit, your brain screams, life is gonna kill me.

The ball violently ricochets off your helmet, immediately dropping you to one knee. As you gather your wits, the ball that just announced life's cruel twist slowly rolls on the ground toward your shaken feet. It's then you notice there's something written on the ball.

"Congratulations. You're both pregnant again."

Still reeling from the sudden impact, you shake off the cobwebs creeping into your head and stand up. No, you didn't plan on this one. Not now. Sure, you had plans to add a few more stockings to the Christmas mantle in the coming years, but this early? No. However, the more you think about it, the more you realize it's a blessing; a gift given from God above. This present was just opened a little early, that's all.

So you brush yourself off and turn back towards life. This time his smile is gone and he appears to be mumbling something in your direction. He now looks angry, but not as angry as the high heat he's launched once again in your direction. You try to pick up the spin on the ball, hoping the rotation of the red seams will foreshadow its movement and direction. What you see instead are more words written on the ball.

"We're sorry to announce that you've been laid off. Best of luck in the future. And congratulations on the new kid."

You freeze at the news. This can't be right, you argue. Not now. Not with another mouth on the way. But by the time your brain tells your body to duck, it's too late. You've been drilled in the head once again and you drop straight to the ground. And this time it's harder to get back up.

But you do.

You stand back up, weak-kneed and blurry-eyed. Only this time, you don't dust yourself off. You don't step back from the plate and look for direction from the bench. You start walking towards the mound looking to take a swing at life.

His teammates in the field rush to his defense, taunting you in the process. They throw out jabs like "401(k)", "COBRA" and "Mortgage". "What are you gonna do now, huh?" "Life throw a little too hard for you?" And just as the first sign of doubt, the first second of second-guessing, enters your mind, you notice your team's dugout is empty.

It's empty because there, standing shoulder to shoulder behind you, are your boys looking to whip life's ass with you.

For several tense seconds, no one blinks. One wrong move could turn the game, this game you never asked to play in the first place, into the pay-per-view fight of the century. Thankfully, cooler heads prevail and each team slowly returns to its rightful place on the field.

Moments later, you dig back into the box. You crowd the plate, almost daring life to throw at you again. This time, unlike the last two, you're ready. Ready for anything. At this point, you have nothing to lose and everything, everything, to gain. With one solid swing, you can take your career, along with your growing family, on a ride no one will ever forget. With one solid swing, you will cement your reputation as That Guy Who Got Lemons and Made Lynchburg Lemonade.

You've never been more focused. More prepared. More motivated. You quickly realize you have the second chance that others only dream of. Now you're praying for something, anything, to hit. And life, never one to disappoint, delivers. Your elbow is tucked in tight, your head is down and you're ready to tattoo your brand of justice all over the meat this two-bit belly-itcher calls a pitch.

Here's the wind-up.

And the pitch...

Corner booth at Pizza Hut, Goddard, KS. 1989.

2005-01-25T15:56:00.000-06:00

"Three cavatinis with extra cheesy bread. Got it. Can I get you anything else?"

"Three beers?"

"Sure. I need to see some ID."

"Uh, three iced teas will be fine."

"That's what I thought. Let me go put this order in and I'll be right back with your drinks."

Waiter leaves.

"You have any quarters?"

"Why?"

"'Cause the jukebox won't play itself."

"Oh. No, I don't have any. Spent my change on Brewski Snacks at break."

"Cheap ass."

Todd leaves.

"So what'd she kiss like?"

Waiter brings three teas, then leaves.

"Big tongue."

"Really? Wow. I never would have thought that."

"Yeah, I...wait a second. Is this 'Don't Close Your Eyes' by Kix?"

"Sounds like it."

"Note to self: never let him play with a loaded jukebox."

Todd returns.

"So what'd I miss?"

"Big tongue."

"Oh, I heard about that."

"Not from me you didn't. I haven't told anyone but him yet."

"Oh, I didn't hear it from you."

Silence.

"Anyway, it was, you know, a good time."

"So...anything else you wanna tell us?"

"No."

"Figures."

"So what do you guys think of the new guy?"

"Who?"

"Uh, what's his name...Tracy, no Casey! Casey."

"The cat from Derby?"

"Yeah."

"Seems cool enough."

"'We need the dudes.'"

"Yeah. 'All those in favor..."

Silence

"You know. The line in 'Animal House'?"

"Yeah. The first one was funny. That one wasn't."

"Bite me."

"Ooh. Cheesy bread."

Waiter arrives, then leaves.

"Is this Warrant?"

"Yeah, I tried to play LA Guns, but accidentally hit the wrong button."

"Swing it to the left, swing it to guitar, swing it to the bass in the back of my car..."

"That's enough there, Jani."

"Could've been worse. Could've been something from Firehouse."

"Oh, they're up next after Mr. Big."

"Dhm a hlhv ths brd."

"It's almost as good as the cavatini."

"Man, I wonder how in the hell they make it."

Pretty long-winded lead-up to announce that 16 years later we stumbed across the secret recipe for Pizza Hut Cavatini online:

• 4 cups Pasta (gotta be the small curly kind cooked al dente)
• 2 pounds ground round beef
• 2 tablespoons oil
• 1 1/2 packages of onion soup mix
• 28 oz. stewed tomatoes (sliced style(
• 1 can V8 juice (6 oz.)
• 1 jar Prego Spaghetti Sauce (meat flavored)
• 1/2 cup grape jelly (that's what it says)
• 1/2 cup mozzarella cheese
• 1/2 cup provolone cheese

Brown the meat in oil. Crumble with a fork, browning until, well, brown. Turn heat to low. Add remaining ingrediants, stirring lightly to combine. Allow sauce to cook, uncovered, for 20 minutes. DO NOT LET IT BOIL. After sauce is done, layer cooked pasta, the sauce and mozzarella cheese alternately into individual au gratin dish or small oven-proof service dish. Cover with provolone and place in oven until provolone melts into mouth-watering greatness. Serves four (or two BDS Bellies).

The hubbub over Hubble

2005-01-25T13:00:00.000-06:00

The BDS is sorry to report the universe isn't made of beer. That we know. But we don't know much more than that about the Big Deep; what mysteries it holds, what secrets it hides, how it came to pass. For the same reason we urge our loving public to tour their local microbrewery to see where happiness comes from, we're strong supporters of further space exploration to see where life comes from. That's why we began cussing like drunk truck drivers at the recent White House decision to cut funding for the Hubble Space Telescope.

The Bush Administration wants to drop the single greatest telescope ever invented in the history of invented-ness into the ocean. In other words, President Bush, the man who claims to see the future of humankind in space, is about to stick a hot poker in our only truly effective eye to the very universe he wants to explore.

Makes total sense.

In case you've been inside a green Mickey's Big Mouth bottle for the past 15 years, Space Shuttle mission STS-31 placed this space-based observatory 375 miles above Wichita's own Oasis Lounge in low-Earth orbit. Free from the O's second-hand smoke and other pollutants, it took pictures of your cosmos few even dreamed about. And now the Beltway Boys wanna kill the photographer.

According to various sources, servicing the Hubble either by a robotic or shuttle-based option would cost in excess of $1 billion. "Too much", this myopic administration whined. A portion of NASA's 2006 budget would be allocated to using a propulsion module coupled to Hubble for its safe but destructive deorbit. However, the geeks over at Goddard (the Space Flight Center, not the "Gerrard's" one) are devising ways to service Hubble without having to hold bake sales and scrounge for loose change in the couch. If they fail in their noble effort, we won't see images like this much longer.

The only image Hubble has yet to capture? Bush dropping the ball on decades worth of exploration. But sadly, it appears we'll all see that photo sometime next year.

Embrace your inner metal.

2005-01-21T17:22:00.000-06:00

Parents guard against it. Preachers damn it. Rolling Stone avoids it. Corporate radio tries to kill it. MTV never understood it. Your friends laugh at it. But it's out there, skirting the edge of acceptance by the sheep-like masses.

It's out there walking to the beat of its own thundering double-bass drum set.

It's the stage covered in torches and smoke machines. The tattoo thumbing its nose at mainstream convention. The rebel with a cause; the antithesis to bands the Machine tells you to like. It hates halftime shows, prepackaged vocals or pop music that does no such thing. And it's not the beast under your bed, but it doesn't mind being thought of that way.

It's the bass that verberates through your chest, grabbing your soul and shaking it a few times for good measure. The Flying V that makes you squint and bounce your head in acceptance as it screams the pledge of your allegiance. It's the drum that echos in your head, raising your fist to the sky and extending two fingers in the unmistakable salute.

It's metal. And any fan worthy of car speakers needs to have the following collection on hand when you're 10 minutes late for work and need the appropriate musical encouragement to get there fast.

Iron Maiden: Powerslave
Without question, Iron Maiden is considered the fathers of metal music. Sure, Sabbath can (and some argue should) be considered the grandfathers, the genre-breakers if you will, but Maiden took the form to another level. Case in point? Powerslave. This milestone in music with a crunch demonstrates the incredible vocal range of Bruce Dickinson and the song writing skills of the band. And "Rime of the Ancient Mariner" is a song that still sets the bar for all other extended metal tunes to jump.

Type O Negative: Life Is Killing Me
Officially classified as Goth Metal, this album is filled with dark-yet-melodic tunes that add the subtle soundtrack needed to fly through school zones and run red lights. Unlike other bands, this one has mastered the mix of heavy guitars, stereo-thumbing bass, eerie pianos and emotional vocals. Moreso than any other band, TON stuff is instantly recognizable as such due to Pete Steele's deep, baritone voice that should be considered a separate musical instrument. The title track "Life Is Killing Me" and "I Don't Wanna Be Me" are worth the price of admission alone to this killer sound.

Metallica: Ride The Lightning
Metallica used to be cool. Example? The glorious Ride The Lighting. This is the album that got the proverbial metal ball rolling for the band that brough speed metal out of the smoker's area back in high school and into the school lunchrooms of America. From the famous "For Whom The Bell Tols" and dark yet deep "Fade To Black" to the lesser known yet equally killer "Creeping Death" and "Escape", this album reminds you why these guys were once loved.

Dio: Holy Diver
When people think of metal, they typically think of Ronnie James Dio without consciously knowing it. The one-time singer of Rainbow, Elf, even Sabbath, the Man With The Golden Throat helped define the genre in the mid-'80s with this album. Often written in a minor key, Holy Diver is a haunting effort that creeps into your head and refuses to leave. Lyrics that touch on the darker side of human nature are only augmented by guitar riffs and bass lines that eventually shaped the future of headbanging. "Rainbow in the Dark" still has few equals. If for no other reason, you have to own at least one album by the man who invented the two-horned metal salute. And don't be an idiot. It's not a salute to the devil. Quite the opposite, actually. RJD once explained that it was an old Italian gesture used to ward off evil.

AC/DC: Back In Black
Back off, stoner. This band was hijacked in the late '90s by uneducated radio station managers looking to pull in ratings for their new classic rock format. If they're considered "classic", it's only because Angus Young's furious guitar and Brian Johnson's screaming lyrics are the prototypical metal combination. The band's first effort after the passing of legendary frontman Bon Scott, AC/DC shook the world all night long with an album that has sold well in excess of 20 million copies. The BDS is personally responsible for at least a dozen of them ourselves, even if the album has been kidnapped by second-rate wedding DJs looking to get the dancefloor hopping 'cause he apparently can't by himself. If metal isn't a style but an attitude, every metal band since the late '70s stole their attitude from these legends.

Iron Maiden: Seventh Son of a Seventh Son
Yeah, Maiden made the list twice. That should say something about their influence on the metal scene over the past several decades. But unlike most metal albums, this one holds your attention from the first to last track. It captures everything you expect from Eddie's boys: Bruce's killer vocals, twin guitar harmonies, dueling solos, driving bass lines, even guitar synthesizers that create an atmosphere second to none. No, it's not typical speed stuff that drives a nail through your gas pedal, but sometimes you drive faster with a guitar slowly screaming in your ear. And unlike other concept albums, each song here can stand on its own to give you eight individual pieces of perfection made even better when enjoyed as a whole.

Megadeth: Rust In Peace
Driven by a mad musical genius at an equally furious pace, Megadeth is the band that immediately makes your car drive faster. Need a label? It's "Speed Metal With Meaning". This album is the band's best-selling of all time for a reason, particularly due to the first two tracks that invade your speakers. "Holy Wars" has one of the finest guitar riffs heard in ages and has taken on new meaning over the past several years. And "Hangar 18" was written specifically to illustrate why God invented guitars. Say what you will about Dave Mustaine, but this piece of metal magic left an undeniable mark on the metal scene that's still seen to this day. Metallica's loss was the world's gain with this family feud.

Oh, and look here. Your President appears to be a fan, too.

From Yahoo! News:President Bush gestures the ''Hook 'em, 'horns' salute of the University of Texas Longhorns as he and his family watch the Inaugural Parade Thursday Jan. 20, 2005, in Washington. President Bush's 'Hook 'em, 'horns' salute got lost in translation in Norway, where shocked people interpreted his hand gesture during his inauguration as a salute to Satan.

Your list different? Tell us about it. Just don't tell us it's "Korn" or "Limp Bizkit". We're talking real music here, folks.

Doesn't look like Lake Afton to us.

2005-01-20T13:52:00.000-06:00

Well, well, well. It seems the boys are back from Hawaii. Although the stories have yet to filted into the BDSlog, a few pictures are starting to appear. This one? That circle is highlighting our little group of party pilgrims with a beach on Kauai almost exclusively to themselves. We don't know how the hell the photo was taken, either. Early indications report a good time was, of course, had by all. But if wouldn't have been a vacation without a little drama. No, one of the boys didn't wear a cursed tiki necklace and disappear on a big wave, but apparently the scary music that played in the background while Greg Brady vanished oh so many years ago could be heard once again last week on the beach.

Someone lost a little portion of his finger. We're just hoping it eventually grows back like a starfish.

As for the rest of the trip, we're not quite sure what went down last week in Paradise. We've heard bits and pieces (in the case of Brian, more pieces than bits), but we haven't received concrete information. To date, here's what we know about the week:

Mattnum P.I.

Matt agreed to work as a private eye and put his life on the line trying to bust a purse-snatching ring that didn't think twice of ruining vacations for thousands of state-side tourists. In the process he gets to kick some ass without the threat of arrest. Good thing he can drive a stick, but we're more amazed he grew a moustache in a week.

Brian arrives with 9. Leaves with 8.
Even we don't quite understand this one. Brian, already suffering separation anxiety from a portion of one finger after finding himself on the losing end of an argument with a circular saw, somehow lost a portion of a second finger to a, did we hear this right?, "empty beer can filled with ocean water". No, we don't need to know. It's probably better that we don't.

Chris and the black man.

Some dream of fame. Some dream of fortune. Our man Chris? His dream was to fly around the Island with a black man. These candid photos show that dreams do come true even for old Kansas boys. We also heard Chris and his pilot TC helped Mattnum solve several crimes during the week.

We'll keep you updated on last week's BDS invasion of paradise if/when more stories walk through the bar.

Pulled from the pages. Literally.

2005-01-19T17:46:00.000-06:00

Several days ago, the BDS posted a story regarding events that occurred 20 years ago this upcoming Friday. The events, the tragic results, the aftermath, even our unsolicited yet heartfelt opinions surrounding That Day found its way onto your screen. Whether you wanted to read them or not.

A number of you not only read the post, but commented on it (and to us) as well. Some of you offered a glimmer of sympathy for those affected and shared your own similar stories. Others warned us to avoid naming names and exposing raw emotional nerves which could feasibly lead to dire (and unexpected) consequences and urged us to pull the post.

None of that matters at this point. The Blogger gods apparently pulled the post for us.

For the past 36/48 hours, access to the "1.21.85" post has been denied to our loving public. While you could read the first several paragraphs, the link directing you to the entire story didn't function properly. We did our best to troubleshoot the situation (from republishing multiple times to literally rekeying the damn thing in again), but to no avail. All other posts, drafts, editorial changes or graphic additions performed as expected. But when the attempt to upload that post, that story, was made, it failed every time in grand fashion.

Makes you wonder why.

Could be that certain phrases or key words referenced in the story sent up red flags over at Blogger World Headquarters. Those phrases and words be in violation of some license agreement we signed but didn't read. Could be that this blog, as we speak, is being watching for violations of the Patriot Act. Who knows. Who cares. Unlike the signifigance of 1.21.85, the post is gone.

So this Friday, say a prayer for the man who sacrificed seeing his children grow up so you could. It's the least you could do.

You can tell a lot from the beer.

2005-01-18T17:53:00.000-06:00

You can tell a lot about a guy by what he drives, what he eats, who he married, even what he watches on TV. You can also tell a lot by what he drinks. For instance, someone you see at the bar holding a Rolling Rock is a grad student who spent last summer following Dave Mathews from city to city and typically wears pressed Chinos when he goes out on Saturday night because someone once told him sharp pants make the sharp man.

Our gift of perception is scary, isn't it. To see how well we nailed you to your beer of choice, keep reading.

Budweiser
NASCAR tattoo. Handle bar moustache. Voted for Dale Earnhardt, Jr. in the last election. Flies big flag on porch. Loves deep-fat fried turkeys. More tackle boxes than dress ties. Intense. "Free Bird" by Lynyrd Skynyrd.

Molson Canadian
Lost a front tooth playing hockey. Loves Steve Nash. Started and quit playing bass in junior high. Wears shorts in 35˚ weather. Can't sleep at night because of NHL lock-out. Patriotic. "Working Man" by Rush.

Coors Light
Loves playin' two-hand touch, eating way too much, watching his team win, and THOSE TWINS. Hates anyone from California. Average pool player. Mellow. "Resignation Superman" by Big Head Todd & the Monsters

Foster’s Lager
Never drank a Foster's before those cool commercials showed up on TV a few years back. Feels cool ordering one in a bar. Drives a CJ-7 Jeep. Watches FOXSPORTS WORLD. Finally able to on-sight flash a 5.10. Willing. "Beds Are Burning" by Midnight Oil.

Boulevard
Barbeque snob; nothing but KC for this guy. Hates the Raiders, the Steamers and all Big XII South schools. Knows how to drive in snow and ice. Knows Pyramid Pizza is better. Real. Old Amis Otis fan. "Lightning Crashes" by Live.

Coors
Cowboy hat. Worn leather work gloves. Faded skoal ring in jeans. Old Colt Single Action Army in the glove box. Carhart jacket has a whole in the elbow. Dislikes large groups of people. Comfortable. "Stampede" by Chris LeDeaux.

Guiness
Has bad habit of slipping into English accent when he's drunk. Has a burning desire to fox hunt on horseback. Keeps powdered wig in closet for special occasions. Loves his coffee black and cold. Judgemental. "New Year's Day" by U2.

Miller Genuine Draft
Orders an "MGD" only to get upset when he has to clarify to the waitress he wants a "Miller Genuine Draft". Smirks. Nods when you talk to him, as if you need reassurance. Not afraid to send food back to the kitchen if it's not up to his liking. Smug. "I Want You To Want Me" by Cheap Trick (live version).

Miller Light
Fairly certain the world is flat and drops off sharply at the edge of Austin, TX. Prefers cans to bottles. Loves breakfast tacos. Closet full of burnt orange. Walked off the job at Dell last year. Confident bordering on arrogant. Anything by The Toadies.

Amstel Light
Thinks this is the only import allowed in the US. Used to wear a beeper, now drops the word "blue-tooth" whenever possible in casual conversation. Has Manchester U replica jersey hanging in closet. Aloof. "I Can See For Miles" by The Who.

Beck
Drives a Mercedes or BMW he can't afford. Throws annual Oktoberfest party in fall. Has framed pictures of himself at home. Thinks Chevy Chase's "European Vacation" was better than the original. Feels important. "Winds of Change" by the Scorpions.

Corona
Doesn't own a scale. Mayan temples. Chimichangas. Cozumel. Relaxed. "Pancho and Lefty" by Willie Nelson.

Corona Light
Weighs himself daily. Senior Frogs. Fat-free salsa. Cancun. Self-conscious. "Shake Your Bon Bon" by Ricky Martin.

Dos Equis XX
Typically brings his own limes to the party. Actually uses cutting board. Always a little too eager to play Dirty Jinga. Playa del Carma. Self-assurred. "Mas Tequila" by Sammy Hagar.

Heineken
Upper East Side. Over 7,000 mp3s on iPod. Doesn't listen to most of them but will tell you he does. Bought a new outfit for New Year's Eve party. Goes to a "sylist", not a "barber". Can't quite find Iowa on a map unless given a few hints. Observant. "Handshake Drugs" by Wilco.

Kirin Ichiban
Loves sushi and doesn't mind paying way too much for the rice-wrapped bait. Collects anime' comics and videos. Owns an actual headband. Recently bought a samuri sword set (complete with diato) from corner convenience store. Exotic. "Soundtrack from James Clavell's Shogun TV Miniseries" by various artists.

Lowenbrau
Too cheap to drink a good import but too high-brow for domestic "dribble". If he didn't have a pony-tail in the late '80s, he tried awfully hard to grow one. Secret fan of Euro-metal bands Iced Earth and Saxon. Closet filled with turtlenecks. Distant. "Passion" by Rod Stewart.

Mickey’s Beer
Unemployed, so oversleeping after the party isn't a concern. Drinks for the result, not the taste. Has a small but colorful police record. Loves Taco Tico over Taco Bell. Unmotivated. "O Death" by Ralph Stanley.

Sam Adams Boston Lager
Red Sox fan who jumped off the bandwagon years ago only to get back on as quickly as possible after the Yankees series last year. Sees every Ben Affleck movie then wonders why on the way home. Drinks to be seen rather than to be relaxed. Anxious. "Dream On" by Aerosmith.

Natural Light
Bathes every four days. Home often mistaken for crack house. Wears wife-beater t-shirt with ketchup stain to grocery store. Usually has to leave due to "no shirt, no shoes, no service" policy. Destitute. "Hair Of The Dog" by Nazareth.

Miller
Changes own oil. Dumps dirty stuff in neighbor's yard at night. Big Bruce Springsteen fan, even though he campaigned for Kerry. Proud part of middle-management at the Plant. That reserved parking spot will be his in a few years. Stable. "Rockin' the Free World" by Neil Young.

Busch
Seen KISS 19 times in concert, but still prefers southern rock. Spent life savings on used 1986 metal-flake grey bass boat complete with working trolley motor. Used to wear headband on thigh in high school. Honest. "Tuesday's Gone" by Lynyrd Skynyrd.

Busch Light
Smokes Kool Lights. Occasionally seen down at the hall on Bingo Night. Bank fisherman. Poached a 7-point in '89; felt somewhat bad about it but not bad enough to never doi it again. Can't remember his third child's name; calls him "Bud" instead. Hapless. "Tuesday's Gone" by Metallica.

Colt .45
Huge Billy D. Williams fan. Spent more money on rims last month than on rent. Bought deep-fat fryer for girlfriend. Spent entire paycheck on uzi-pendant with gold chain. Held down by the Man for centuries. Sleepy. "Nuthin' But A G-Thing" by Dre.

Labatt
Viva la Quebec! Rise up and revolt! Hip-check all English-speaking pigs! They took our game now they want our caribou! Why do we always yell?! Aggressive. "Never Surrender" by Triumph.

Lone Star
Wants TiVO only to record future episodes of "Cops". Patiently waiting to see uncle or cousin on next episode of "America's Most Wanted". Confederate flag bumper sticker. Mom has mullet. Broken washer in front yard next to tire swing. Sluggish. "If The South Woulda Won" by Hank Williams, Jr.

Milwaukee’s Best
Undecided major taking 16 hours. Typically shows up for nine. Sells plasma for $35 every three weeks. Asks Mom for money; never Dad. Hasn't quite figured out professional wrestling is fake. Cheap. "Louder Than Hell" by Motley Crue.

Old Milwaukee
Works the assembly line with his brother, two sisters, father, mother, step-father, step-mother, other step-mother, half-brother and grandpa. Wears same Ratt concert shirt every Saturday afternoon. Lethargic. "For Those About To Rock" by AC/DC.

Keystone Light
Has crush on 6th hour art teacher. Hides stash in ditch on dirt road south of town. Sleeps 'til noon on weekends. Denied third base by girlfriend last weekend. Never been to Homecoming. Lazy. "War Pigs" by Sabbath.

Pabst Blue Ribbon
Evicted from mobile home by wife for cheating on her with "that slut Wanda" from next door. Wears five-day stubble seven days a week. Carries cigarette lighter that looks like a cellphone. Dense. Has no favorite song; can't afford a stereo or car with radio.

Shiner
Loves to grill on the patio. Perfected the art of the "bottlecap snap". Makes homemade guacamole. Tends to lean towards the right on fiscal issues and sways towards the left on social ones. Gets lost once he leaves Texas. Trustworthy. "Southbound 35" by Pat Greene.

Bud Light
Doesn't mind unflushed toilet has more color than his beer. Johnny Cash poster in garage. Goes bottles for classy events and cans for backyard ones. Yearns for the days before free agency. Grass-stained tennis shoes. T-shirts. Content. "Summer Nights" by Van Halen.

SSN 764. A one-ship fleet.

2005-01-18T13:00:00.000-06:00

She's named after a Brooklyn class light cruiser that served with distinction during World War II. Her namesake raided Japanese shipping lanes. Covered the landings on Guadacanal. Provided fire support for Marines on a little chunk of island called Leyte. She even served in the Med during missions in Sicily and Salerno. A strong crew, complimented by fifteen 6" guns and eight 5" guns, delivered their own brand of naval justice to those enemies of America who would do her harm.

Sounds a little like Casey's boat 50 years later.

The USS Boise is a Lost Angeles-class fast attack submarine commissioned on November 7, 1992. A nuclear reactor propels the steel fish through the water (submerged) at roughly 32 knots (actual speed is classified). She carries with her Harpoon and Tomahawk missles fired from VLS tubes to "talk" with land targets and four 533mm torpedo tubes for MK-48 torpedoes to "discuss" situations with other vessels. But that's not what makes her, or any ship in the fleet for that matter, effective. It's the 13 officers and 116 enlisted personnel who make her tick.

It's guys like one of our own.

It's guys like Casey, who served on her during the early days. And if we're not mistaken, he was with her when she first slid into the drink. He, along with a number of other recruits straight from the high school cafeteria, signed a piece of paper and took an oath vowing to keep you safe at night. When you slept, they listened. When you partied, they hunted. When the alarm was raised, they were there watching over you from below.

The least we could do is say thanks.

So while the BDS continues to make waves with this minor-league blog, the real warriors are out there under the waves protecting our right to look stupid in public. While we complain about red/blue states, they're watching red/blue lights flash on a fire control panel. While we bitch about the size of our office desk, they hot-rack bunks and live out of a small drawer.

So to every person who has worn or is wearing the uniform (including you, Pie-rez), we say thanks. Thanks for the sacrifice. Thanks for the commitment. Thanks for the professionalism. Thanks for giving us the freedom to not think about you, what you did or what you do every day.

Which is all the more reason we should.

The Los Angeles-class attack submarine USS Boise (SSN- 764) leads the fast combat support ship USS Seattle (AOE-3) and the guided missile cruiser, USS Hue City (CG-66) as the ships of the USS John F. Kennedy (CV-67) Battle Group transit the Suez Canal in March 2002. The Kennedy battle group is arriving to relieve USS Theodore Roosevelt (CVN-71) to conduct missions in support of Operation Enduring Freedom.

The neighborhood just got a little smaller.

2005-01-14T16:11:00.000-06:00

At 4:43 a.m. on October 15, 1997, a Titan IV-B/Centaur launch vehicle carrying the Cassini-Huygens spacecraft took off from Kennedy Space Center in Florida. Two minutes and 23 seconds later after separating from Tita/Centaur, Cassini was 360,000 feet above your head and traveling at 4,378 mph. Its destination? Titan, Saturn's largest moon over 800 million miles away (the small point of light at the top). If everything goes according to plan, the Huygens probe will enter Titan's atmosphere and take more than 1,100 images during its descent into an alien world. Should something go wrong, Cassini will miss its window to history and never be heard from again as it disappears into deep space.

Wanna guess who just phoned home this afternoon?

Earlier in the day, radio telescopes confirmed the probe survived reentry, successfully deployed its three parachutes and landed on the moon's icy surface. The first image from the surface of Saturn's largest moon Titan shows a rock-strewn plain stretching toward a distance horizon. The picture here is the only picture as of 4:30 Friday afternoon to be released by the European Space Agency (the lead agency for this mission).

Not to keep throwing empty beer cans at you to get your attention, but that's the suface of another moon 800 million miles away.

The incredible thing is that this image was transmitted in a stream of ones and zeros through space and took 83 minutes to reach Earth after leaving the probe. Additional data is streaming towards our planet at this very moment (via the Cassini satellite orbiting above the moon) and is being captured by radio telescopes from around the world. At least 350 images were being processed at this moment and better quality pictures are expected in the coming weeks.

But here's where it gets interesting:

1. Huygens' batteries (that's the probe currently on the surface) were designed to last just a few minutes after touchdown. Those batteries have continued to power the probe's transmitter for more than TWO HOURS after landing. No one knows why. That's strange.

2. For unknown reasons, NASA (which operates Cassini), posted and then removed an image of Titan's surface from its website. No official information was available about the vanishing image and NASA isn't talking at all about the sudden disappearance. No one knows why. That stranger.

Makes you wonder what the hell is going on up there, and what (or who's) in those pictures, huh?

Big Brother's been watching for years.

2005-01-14T13:05:00.000-06:00

In its secret EROS Data Center facitily outside Souix Falls, South Dakota, the US Geological Survey houses more than six million aerial photographs of the United States. Some of those photos date back to the 1940s, while others were snapped just last week. The pictures are used to make a visual map of the country; they are, in essence, a literal blueprint of your backyard.

The BDS, learning of this clandestine operation, recently hacked into the government's super-W.O.P.R. mainframe computer to look around. Our jaws dropped at what we found. Through satellite and aerial magic, we saw the very spot where Loch crushed Wellington football players and where Todd was placed in handcuffs after the legendary Farm Party. And we saw them from 40,000' above.

We finally saw what Big Brother has been looking at for years.

It's called a Digital Orthophoto Quadrange (DOQ). It's a fancy name for a computer-generated image rendered from an actual satellite or aerial photograph. Image displacement caused by terrain relief and camera tilt has been removed, which gives the image characteristics of the original photograph the georeferenced qualities of an actual map. In other words, it's one hell of a bird's eye view of our old stomping ground.

Most of the images were taken between 1985-1991, which just so happens to be the window of time the BDS was running loose in the neighborhood. Coincidence? You decide.

So prepare yourself. The past may come back faster than you think.

Goddard, KS

1. Commandeering a go-cart, an intoxicated Kendell drives 3.2 miles to this Pizza Hut during a party because he was "hungry for breaksticks".
2. Casa del Chris. Site of infamous "Pledge Party" in the kitchen.
3. Field of Dreams. Site of then-soccer field and future State Champion practice facility.
4. Craig's Red Max rocket landed somewhere around here during 3rd grade Rocket Day.
5. Site of many battles for Casey, Brian, Jeff and the rest of the Goddard Blue and White.
6. Parking lot where Jeff drank a Mickey's every morning before class.
7. Made out with Tiffany here sophomore year. Neither of us knew what the hell we were doing.

West of Wichita

1. Casa del Todd. Departure point for many raiding parties into the city. Raced lawnmowers in front yard.
2. Caught perch, wrestled catfish and drank stolen beer with Tom S.
3. There's a Zebco 33 fishing rod and reel at the bottom of this lake. Don't ask.
4. Home of Tom S.; has an 11,000 sq. ft. basement complete with putting green. Seriously.

Walt 'n Anna

1. Boat ramp used when the BDS Navy set sail.
2. Shot beer bottles and cans with a trusty Crossman BB gun from second-story porch at Casa del Craig.
3. Stolen range balls from Pawnee Prairie golf course hit from location #2 landed here (if we were lucky).

The Farm

1. Site of "Exactly" sign pointing lost souls to the party.
2. Todd sees the world from the backseat of a sheriff's patrol car. Too drunk to cry, but not to pee his pants.
3. Perez hides from the cops in the treeline north of the farmhouse when he spots trouble.
4. Junkyard/.357 target range.
5. Great duck hunting pond.
6. Better dove hunting pond. Ask Carley.
7. Cisco the yellow lab makes his first real retrieve on a pheasant and crosses this creek in the process.
8. "Hen! No, wait! Rooster!" Sorry Brian.

Ah, Afton

1. Jeff's snoring drive Brian and Todd into the confines of the BDS-10 camper top.
2. Jeff has no toilet paper, so he _____________________________.
3. Matt pokes fun at the juvenile delinquents through the fence of Judge Riddle's Boy's Ranch.

Twin Bridges

1. Site of numerous parties along the river. Appears to also be a prime terrorist target, because the government has blurred out most bridge crossings in aerial photos of the region. Could also be that they simply didn't want the BDS to see where Casey made out with a certain soccer team trainer...

Water, barley, malt, LSD...

2005-01-13T16:45:00.000-06:00

Lock your door. Dim the lights. Light the candle. Find Track 9 on your old "Division Bell" Pink Floyd CD. Now crack open a cold one and prepare to watch the pretty colors.

This is a picture of your Bud Light taken through a microscope. Beer is a complex and heterogeneous mixture that contains a wide variety of low and high molecular weight carbohydrates, minerals, alcohol, trace amounts of protein, yeast by-products and other compounds that make everyone around you better looking over time. One glance here and you'll see why.

Trust us. You'll never look at beer the same again.

The composition of beer varies widely with brewing techniques. That's why the images below are all a little different. The biggest variable is the nature of their carbohydrate content (which is typically associated with concentration). Polarized light is used to capture the brilliantly colored crystalline patterns that are found in the beer. Those frozen crystallites are oftentimes placed directly on a microscope slide and then photographed. Sometimes the beer is converted into a fine mist and sprayed onto a smooth silicon surface to be photographed, but that seems like nothing but a waste of liquid gold to us.

Enjoy your trip.

Coors Light

Miller

Miller Lite

Sam Adams' Triple Boc

Lone Star

(and you wonder why Lone Star tastes like crap...)

Never saw her at the Oasis.

2005-01-12T15:07:00.000-06:00

Arthur C. Clark gave us HAL 9000, a self-aware computer patterned after the human mind in Stanley Kubric's 2001: A Space Odyssey. Ferris Buehler battled the ever-intelligent W.O.P.R. and was asked "do you want to play a game?" of thermonuclear conflict in War Games. And in Weird Science, Gary and Wyatt create the perfect woman who looks a lot like Kelly LeBrock to deal with Chet and the pressures of high school in the '80s. But none of those artificial personalities, not freakin' one, compares to this girl.

Her name is Tammy, and she's the bartender no one can stop talking about.

Here's how she works: drop by the neighborhood bar on your way home from work. She's the one waiting for you in the tight leather shorts. In the area below her screen, give her your order. Type in words like kiss, banana, pillow fight, fight, kick, sleep, jiggle, naked, tattoo, topless, jump, pour beer, drink beer, sing, stretch, dance, lick, hummer, wave, tickle, hat, strip, breast, dance on bar, be a pimp, magic, karate, robot, shoes, show me something, spin, read, write, hair, belly, gymnastics, fire, spread, pitcher, kiss me, hand stand, arms, phone, number, I love you and laugh. If you can think it up, you can type it in. Whether or not she pays attention to you is another thing.

Want to know more about the mysterious bartender? So does every other male with a pulse. Get your answers here. You'll get a few more pictures and even an interview. You'll also see she ain't the brightest bulb in the box but she may be one of the shiniest.

The BDS? Cenosillicaphobics.

2005-01-12T13:47:00.000-06:00

Cenosillicaphobia is the fear of an empty glass. Belgium (a country the size of Ohio) provides the BDS with more breweries per capita (100) and more brands (almost 500) than any other nation on this floating keg called Earth. Prohibition lasted 13 agonizing years, 10 months, 19 days, 17 hours and 32 1/2 minutes (but who was counting). And the Thumbmaster who ruled our universe? He's real. Before the advent of thermometers, brewers tested the temperature of their maturing brews with their thumbs; too cold and the yeast wouldn't grow, too hot and it would die. Hence the term "rule of thumb" which the BDS bastardized into the legendary Thumbmaster.

Most Expensive Beer In The World: "Tutankamon". It's prepared according to the recipe recovered by a group of University of Cambridge archaeologists from Queen Nefertiti's Temple of the Sun in Egypt. It'll set you back $52 a bottle and is produced in a numbered, limited quantity.

Start 'Em Young: In Germany, you can get beer ice cream that's sold in popsickle form. However, its alcohol content is lower than that of traditional beer. Sorry, kids.

Don't Think About It: Beer, as all alcoholic drinks, is made through the fermination process caused by bacteria feeding on yeast cells. The bacteria then defecates and that bacterial excrement is called alcohol. Bottoms up!

We'll Take Two: The world's strongest beer is Samuel Adams Triple Bock. It's has reached the mythical status of 17% alcohol by volume. To obtain this level, however, they had to use champagne yeast. Not that we care.

Now That's Quality Control: According to The Code of Hammurabi of ancient Babylonia, (1750 B.C.), a merchant could be put to death for diluting beer.

Herr Beer: Beck's Beer is not only Germany's top exporterd beer, but it also accounts for 85% of all German Beer exports sold in the United States.

Smart Beyond Our Years: An 18-year study by the National Institute on Aging found that 50-plus men who consumed a drink a day during middle age scored significantly better on cognitive tests later in life than did non-drinkers. They also found themselves lying in a ditch without pants on several occasions but, because their cognitive tests were better, they typically remembered how they got there.

Practice Makes Perfect: There are 19 different versions of Guiness.

They Bring The Magic: The Budweiser Clydesdales weigh up to 2,300 pounds and stand nearly 6 feet at the shoulder.

Not Even A Christmas Card To Say Thanks: Nearly one of every two beers sold in the United States is an Anheuser-Busch product. In 2002, A-B sold over 100 million barrels of beer in the US.

Atkins My Ass: A 12 oz. typical American pale lager actually has fewer calories than 2% milk or apple juice.

"The difficulties can and will be overcome."

2005-01-12T11:30:00.000-06:00

"I need not tell you gentlemen that the world situation is very serious. That must be apparent to all intelligent people. I think one difficulty is that the problem is one of such enormous complexity that the very mass of facts presented to the public by the press makes it exceedingly difficult for the man in the street to reach a clear appraisement of the situation. Furthermore, the people of this country are distant from the troubled areas of the Earth and it is hard to comprehend the plight and consequent reaction for the long-suffering peoples, and the effect of those reactions on their government in connection with our efforts to promote peace in the world."

Sound familiar? It should.
It was a speech given on June 5, 1947.

"Aside from the demoralizing effect on the world at large and the possibilities of disturbances arising as a result of the desperation of the people concerned, the consequences to the economy of the United States should be apparent to all. It is logical that the United States should do whatever it is able to do to assist in the return of normal economic health in the world, without which there can be no political stability and no assured peace. Our policy is directed not against any country or doctrine, but against hunger, poverty, desperation and chaos. Any government that is willing to assist in the task of recovery will find full cooperation, I am sure, on the part of the United States Government. Any government which maneuvers to block the recovery of other countries cannot expect any help from us.

Furthermore, goverment, political parties or groups which seek to perpetrate human misery in order to profit therefrom politically or otherwise will encounter the opposition of the United States.

An essential part of any successful action on the part of the United States is an understanding, on the part of the people of America, of the character of the problem and the remedies to be applied. Political passion and prejudice should have no part. With foresight and a willingness on our part to face up to the vast responsibilities which history has clearly placed upon our country, the difficulties I have outlined can and will be overcome."

(Secretary of State George C. Marshall outlining the Marshall Plan for rebuilding Europe after WWII; June 5, 1947)

Some pictures defy a headline.

2005-01-11T16:58:00.000-06:00

See this? It's the very first picture of a planet beyond our solar system. And if that doesn't make even a small shiver run up the back of your spine, you're more clueless than your high school science teacher said you were.

Guys, that's another planet outside the Milky Way.

Earlier today, NASA released this image at a meeting of the American Astronomical Society in San Diego. They officially classify it still as a "planet candidate", but that's just scientific lingo for "we're not 100% sure yet, but we'll stake our pocket protectors on it being a planet". If and/or when the confirmation is made, it will represent a landmark in astronomy. It will mean we're one step closer to finding and photographing Earth-like planets around other stars.

It will mean we're one step closer to those planets George Lucas has been talking about for years.

European astronomers discovered the planet last year using a ground-based telescope, but needed Hubble's orbital eye to provide a clearer picture. The planet candidate appears to orbit a failed star known as a brown dwarf. The Europeans couldn't tell if the planet and its companion star were traveling through space together or if they were companions only in the telescope lense. Hubble proved they are not only close but gravitationally bound to one another.

The duo is roughly 225 light-years away from your beer coozy. The brown dwarf apparently didn't have enough mass to trigger the fusion needed to shine like a normal star, but it's still 25 times more massive than Jupiter. Additional confirmation will be made in April when Hubble can snap a few more pictures of the planet presumably moving along in its orbit.

And the name given this potentially historical find? 2MASSWJ 1207334-393254 (2M1207). No, we're not making that up. Kinda makes you wish they'd call the damn thing Tattooine or Hoth, huh?

"See, it's our time to dance."

2005-01-10T22:45:00.000-06:00

(Ren approaches the podium to speak at the town meeting.)

"I just wanted to say a few words about this motion so that, uh, you wouldn't think we were encouraging destruction, with this...idea.

(clears throat) From the oldest of times people danced for a number of reasons. They danced in prayer so that their crops would be plentiful or so their hunts would be good. They danced to stay physically fit and to show their community spirit. And they danced to celebrate. And that's the dancing we're talking about."

"Aren't we told in Psalm 149 'Praise ye the Lord. Sing unto the Lord a new song. Let them praise His name in the dance.'

It was King David...who we read about in Samuel, and what did David do? What did David do? What did David do. (crowd laughs) David danced before the Lord with all his might. Leaping...leaping and dancing. (slams fist on table) Leaping and dancing.

(turns to address crowd) Ecclesiastics assures us there is a time for every purpose under heaven. A time to laugh. A time to weep. A time to mourn. And there is a time to dance. There was a time for this law, but not any more. See, this is our time to dance. It's our way of celebrating...life.

That's the way it was in the beginning.

That's the way it's always been.

That's the way it should be now."

It's official. He's real.

2005-01-10T14:47:00.000-06:00

Rumors have speculated for years that he's been out there. Somewhere slipping between the dark waves across the pond and the darker waves of a colorful past. Years have been spent walking the edge of reality; just out of reach but rarely out of mind. Tourists have photographed him, residents have cursed him, but no one has been able to confirm his existence until now.

That's right. We've heard from Perez.

The BDS found him on Sunday, or rather he found us. Apparently he not only reads his email, but he's also taken the self-guided blog tour as well. It just goes to show that even prodigal sons eventually find their way back home regardless of how long they've been gone.

He's currently living in Virginia. Wonder what else he's been up to? So does the BDS. It's obvious the US Navy charges him a per-word fee for emails. Otherwise he would have written more. But that's okay. Apparently areas in Kansas City and Austin's Tedford Street region don't even have email.

It was good to hear from you, man.

A blog for all seasons.

2005-01-09T20:25:00.000-06:00

The BDS has learned that roughly 12,000 new blogs are created each day. That's about one every 7.4 seconds for a total of 4.8 million blogs. With numbers like that, the neighborhood is bound to be a little strange.

Some inform. Some entertain. Some are nothing more than wasted bandwidth that would serve a higher purpose if they simply disappeared. So raise your seat backs and tray tables to their upright positions 'cause this flight through blogdom may get a little bumpy...

Here's the angry teen who threatens suicide almost daily.

Call us when you figure out what the hell this one is about.

Or this one.

Some blogs just make you feel white.

And some leave you asking "just who the hell is she?"

Here's one for those who never get enough CSPAN.

And one of our personal favoriteS? This guy. As you sit there wasting your day on this two-big blog, he's standing in line for the next Star Wars sequel. The one that doesn't premier for another five months. Seriously. (note: be sure to watch his trailer; it's not too bad).

Don't think we're alone in the Universe? Neither does this guy. Wonder what affect gamma ray bursts have on dark matter or how Klingons would have voted in the last election? Go to the same place.

Casey, here's a former submarine officer with some good intel. You can swap stories of charting the Moscow River and parking your boat right off the Kremlin parking lot during the collapse of the Soviet Union while denying the presence of nuclear weapons on board your vessels to each other.

Spend two minutes on this one and you'll wanna beat the crap outta Mr. Big Head's ego faster than we did.

If the first thing you did when you grabbed a Kansan on campus was read the "News of the Weird" section, this blog is for you.

BadJocks keeps you updated on pro athletes who get arrested and cheerleaders who make porn flicks in the off-season. Consider it a sick mixture of COPS and SPORTSCENTER.

"You guys wanna see a dead body?" The same young boy who immortalized that line in movie history now has his own little corner of cyberspace. Click here to see what one child actor's life is like now that he is neither.

Here's an occasional blog by a gay gun-nut in Vermont (his words, not ours).

And here's the angry bastard who directed us there (our words, not his).

We may have cheated our way through math, but we know the above list isn't quite the 4.5 million mentioned earlier. Have a blog you hit religiously? Tell us about it below and we'll go sneak a peak at their drink specials.

Three second pole violation?

2005-01-08T14:00:00.000-06:00

That's right, folks. Forget cheap bobblehead dolls, cheap t-shirts, cheap magnets and cheap pennants. The Kansas City Knights, a local ABA team that serves as a classroom for NBA hopefuls, held a promotion last month that featured, we're not kidding, cheap strippers.

Sounds like a stunt the BDS would pull if we could only scrape up enough cash to actually buy one.

A team, not the strippers.

Apparently these pole divas performed during halftime, time-outs and throughout the game. Unfortunately, someone from WHB-810 (a local radio station) photographed the action and was actually drunk enough to post the pics on the radio's website. Thanks to the devil that is .html, the visual eye candy spread faster than the smiles on those kids' faces.

For the record, Knights owner Jim Clark promply declared that everyone involved with the promotion was fired. But only after he got a few free lap dances outta the deal and had cat whiskers painted on his face by Destiny, Raven and the rest of the "we only do this to earn money for law school" dancers.

Lost? Follow the map.

2005-01-08T13:40:00.000-06:00

Like break-dancing around the sixth-grade pod in the '80s and the flannel plague that swept south out of Seattle in the '90s, Bush-bashing is currently en vogue. Hell, Michael Moore made a pseudo-documentary that did nothing but and grossed millions at the box office. Now that Bush bashing has gained political support in the way of formal protest. Earlier this week, a handful of disgruntled politicians tried to block the congressional confirmation needed to certify last year's election results. In other words, they used big words, fiery rhetoric and parliamentary procedure to cast doubt on who we elected to be the next President.

Look at this map. It divides the country into red (Republican) and blue (Democrat) counties based on election results. Although the BDS has more in common with drunk tanks than think tanks, we know there's more red on this map than blue.

No, we aren't the total drunks a few wives think we are. We know the difference between the popular & electoral college vote (well, most of us do). We also know Bush received 286 electoral votes to Kerry's 252 and that Ohio proved the difference in the election. What we find amazing is that a scant 118,000 votes made the difference. With 4/5 of the country voting red, two precincts in the Ohio Valley region could have given us a president who voted for the war before he voted against it.

As a side note, Senator Barbara Boxer (D-California) was the lone senate hold-out on the vote confirmation; her action (or inaction) enabled a few grand-standing politicians to show their stupidity live on CSPAN. Fosty, this is the same Boxer who unsuccessfully tried to ban all private handgun ownership because she apparently skipped school the day her government class talked about the Bill of Rights.

Taking one step further aside, the BDS isn't totally surpised there's a lone blue stronghold surrounded by red in the central part of Texas. That part of the state recently signed football coach Mack Brown to a 10-year extension, so they have a track record of "what the hell?" decisions. The rest of the state tries to ignore them.

But back to the point at hand: most democrats can't believe they lost. Again. Contrary to popular opinion, it wasn't because the red states are run by goose-stepping neocons who make the town elders in Footloose look compassionate. It wasn't because Bush will try (and fail) to amend the US Constitution to ban gay marriage. And it wasn't due to the angry ramblings of a democratic senator from the south endorsing Bush at the Republican National Convention.

They lost because a bunch of people in middle America are scared.

Tax burdens, social security reform, education, environmental topics, all become non-issues if a nuclear explosion levels downtown Denver and paints the Front Range radioactive green. Unfounded fear? Probably. But it's an unfounded fear perpetrated by a couple of buildings falling down in New York a few years ago.

Driven by revenge mixed with fear of another attack, Bush relegates the Taliban to nothing more than a bonus question on Jeopardy with the support of Congress and the country. He then moves the fight to Iraq; a country on record as hating America and gassing its own people. Through faulty intelligence dating back to the Clinton administration, coupled with Iraq's removal of UN weapon inspectors in 2002, the world was led to believe WMDs were in the country.

And if they were, John Q. Public in Des Moines didn't want to see us get sucker-punched again by the bad guys-this time using WMDs that would make that September day in New York look like a walk in Battery Park. So he, along with his neighbors in Lincoln, Tulsa, Abilene, Helena and Dodge City supported Bush and the war.

So the question now begs to be asked: does a lack of concrete WMD evidence in Iraq make an otherwise "just" war now unjustifiable? Not when you consider Iraq had months to hide, dispose of and/or sell whatever illicit material it had while the UN squabbled over extending deadlines and strengthening ineffective sanctions. Besides, we eventually deposed a brutal dictator who invaded neighboring nations and, among other glowing attributes, condoned torturing and killing athletes for failing to win a damn soccer game.

Yes, it can be argued that a moral society is one that uses military action only as a last resort. However, "last resort" usually means the other guy shot at you first. By the time you respond, it's too late. Someone's already dead. Therefore, it can also be argued that a moral society has an ethical obligation to protect its citizenry at any cost. Even when that means throwing the first punch before the other guy has a chance. Simply put, NASCAR dads and Talking Broccoli moms in the heartland simply didn't trust Kerry to safeguard their well-being in the face of future (and some will argue unavoidable) acts of terrorism.

And don't buy into that crap Iraq's about oil, either. If it was, why didn't we invade Venezuela instead? It's the 3rd largest exporter of oil in the world and accounts for more oil reserves than any other nation in the western hemisphere. It's also a hell of a lot closer than Basra. Just think of the money we'd have saved on airfare alone...

So how did Kerry address the Iraq situation during the campaign? By claiming he would make America "stronger and respected again in the eyes of the world". Those who live in Flyover Country knew he was specifically talking about our relationship with the Germans and French; two old empires with stained pasts who can't believe they're still serving after-school suspention on the world stage after 60 years.

They, along with the Russians and Chinese, don't want to get involved in Iraq because they don't want to foot the financial bill associated with creating just the second democratic nation ever in the Middle East. They claim they don't want the blood of their soldiers spilled, but it's really about money. They are patiently waiting for the situation to stabilize and, once it does, they'll sweep in to steal Iraqi contracts for oil production and infrastructure rebuilding. For countries who apparently "hate" the way America does business, they sure as hell sound like a bunch of capitalists to me.

Did the gay marriage issue affect the vote? Probably, but not as much as most pundits believe. Yeah, there are those in this country who vote with their Bible. They are usually criticized and ridiculed by the west and east coasts for doing so, too. It seems strange that the same liberal voices screaming for tolerance and acceptance neither tolerate nor accept those who disagree with them. A vast majority of red-state voters fully support equal protection and rights under the law for all gay couples in the form of civil unions. A few loud ones simply scream "don't call it marriage". But did they vote for Bush because they're all homophobic? No. And Democrats who believe Bush won on the gay issue alone are grasping at straws because they can't see past the shortcomings of their own candidate.

Now before the hate mail from an otherwise loving (and growing) public flows into the BDS tavern because a few drunks decided to talk politics, know this: politics and beer go hand in hand. Hell, this country would be in a better place if all domestic and foreign policies were drafted next to the draft beer flowing out of the tap at the local watering hole. That's where they're debated anyway.

Besides, if you don't like the conversation you can always move to that empty booth on the other side of the bar.

Never trust an idiot with a keyboard.

2005-01-07T17:20:00.000-06:00

This blog is proof of that, but apparently so is Rolling Stone magazine.

The list was published well over a year ago, but it still deserves to be thrown under the same short bus Casey used to ride to school. We're talking about Rolling Stone's 100 Greatest Guitarists of All Time list. The BDS recently stumbled across it again. And it made us just as angry as it did the first time.

No, we aren't guitar virtuosos. Mention "Flying V" to us and someone will talk about the blocking scheme he ran when returning kick-offs in high school. We're just simple fans who grew up listening to this list bend strings in ways that struck cords in each of us. But we sure as hell know any list that ranks Ed Van Halen 53 spots BELOW Jack White of the White Stripes deserves the ass kicking it's about to receive.

Here's the list. Remember, the "greatest of all time". We'll tell you how insignificant Rolling Stone has become since actually publishing it in a few minutes.

1. Jimi Hendrix
2. Duane Allman (Allman Brothers Band)
3. B.B. King
4. Eric Claption
5. Robert Johnson
6. Chuck Berry
7. Stevie Ray Vaughn
8. Ry Cooder
9. Jimmy Page (Led Zeppelin)
10. Keith Richards (Rolling Stones)

11. Kirk Hammet (Metallica)
12. Kurt Cobain (Nirvana)
13. Jerry Garcia (Grateful Dead)
14. Jeff Beck
15. Carlos Santana
16. Johnny Ramone (The Ramones)
17. Jack White (White Stripes)
18. John Frusciante (Red Hot Chili Peppers)
19. Richard Thompson
20. James Burton

21. George Harrison
22. Mike Bloomfield
23. Warren Hayes
24. The Edge (U2)
25. Freddy King
26. Tom Morello (Rage Against The Machine; AudioSlave)
27. Mark Knopfler (Dire Straights)
28. Stephen Stills
29. Ron Asheton (The Stooges)
30. Buddy Guy

31. Dick Dale
32. John Cipollina (Quicksilver Messenger Service)
33. Lee Ranaldo (Sonic Youth)
34. Thurston Moore (Sonic Youth)
35. John Fahey
36. Steve Cropper (Booker T. and the MGs)
37. Bo Diddley
38. Peter Green (Fleetwood Mac)
39. Brian May (Queen)
40 John Fogerty (CCR)

41. Clarence White (The Byrds)
42. Robert Fripp (King Crimson)
43. Eddie Hazel (Funkadelic)
44. Scotty Moore
45. Frank Zappa
46. Les Paul
47. T-Bone Walker
48. Joe Perry (Aerosmith)
49. John McLaughlin
50. Pete Townshend

51. Paul Kossof (Free)
52. Lou Reed
53. Mickey Baker
54. Jorma Kaukonen (Jefferson Airplane)
55. Richie Blackmore (Deep Purple)
56. Tom Verlaine (Television)
57. Roy Buchanan
58. Dickey Betts
59. Jonny Greenwood (Radiohead)
60. Ed O'Brien (Radiohead)

61. Ike Turner
62. Zoot Horn Rollo (The Magic Band)
63. Danny Gatton
64. Mick Ronson
65. Hubert Sumlin
66. Veron Reid (Living Colour)
67. Link Wray
68. Jerry Miller (Moby Grape)
69. Steve Howe (Yes)
70. Eddie Van Halen (Van Halen)

71. Lightnin' Hopkins
72. Joni Mitchell
73. Trey Anastasio (Phish)
74. Johnny Winter
75. Adam Jones (Tool)
76. Ali Farka Toure
77. Henry Vestine (Canned Heat)
78. Robbie Robertson (The Band)
79. Cliff Gallup (The Blue Caps)
80. Robert Quine (Voidoids)

81. Derek Trucks
82. David Gilmour (Pink Floyd)
83. Neil Young
84. Eddie Cochran
85. Randy Rhodes
86. Tony Iommi (Black Sabbath)
87. Joan Jett
88. David Davies (The Kinks)
89. D. Boon (The Minutemen)
90. Glen Buxton (Alice Cooper)

91. Robby Krieger (The Doors)
92. Fred "Sonic" Smith (MC5)
93. Wayne Kramer (MC5)
94. Bert Jansch
95. Kevin Shields (My Bloody Valentine)
96. Angus Young (AC/DC)
97. Robert Randolph
98. Leigh Stephens (Blue Cheer)
99. Greg Ginn (Black Flag)
100. Kim Thayil (Soundgarden)

Apparent "hacks" left off the list?
Some guy named Zakk Wylde who, at age 19, played lead shredder for someone named Ozzy and is considered by most to be rock's saving grace. John Petrucci, a struggling artist from a little band called Dream Theater whose talent for writing lyrics is only surpassed by his talent for making guitars sing them. Then there's Al DiMeola, a small-time jazz player who Guitar Magazine simply called "one of the most prominent influences in the Jazz field. Ever." There's also three little wisemen that once formed The Original G3: Joe Satriani, Steve Vai and Eric Johnson. Knowing that MTV stopped playing real music back in 1989 which obviously influenced the "experts" over at Rolling Stone, it's no wonder guys like Pantera's Dimebag Darryl and prototypical '80s guitarist Yngwie Malmsteen never showed up. There's also some guy named Slash who's work on Appetite For Destruction alone puts him somewhere on the list. And two young guns named Johnny Lang and Kenny Wayne Shepherd apparently don't count 'cause no one who listens to the radio has ever heard of them.

Forget the list. Look at the order.
Tony Iommi, the Godfather of Heavy Metal Guitar, was ranked one spot above Joan Jett and fourteen below Joni Mitchell? Tom Morello is twice as talented as The Edge. And Jack White? Top 20? If that doesn't make you punch the first angst-ridden suburban teenager wearing a White Stripes t-shirt you see, we're not sure what will, other than seeing Angus Young barely make the list at all.

It's official. Rolling Stone lost what little credibility it had and all relevance in today's music scene. Think the BDS is wrong? Think you know better? Tell us about it. We'd love to argue with you.

And so would he.

Steal from the rich. Give to the drunks.

2005-01-07T11:02:00.000-06:00

Residents from neighborhood drink free beer from stolen truck
December 9, 2004–A disgruntled ex-employee stole a truck full of Miller Lite beer and left it for residents of a west-side Indianapolis neighborhood to enjoy for free. Indiana police are looking for the man who left behind the ingrediants for a six-week long block party. Investigators say a recently-fired delivery employee parked the 53-foot trailer and invited the entire neighborhood to help themselves to the liquid gold.

The semi-trailer held 14,000 cases of beer, but residents liberated "only" 1,500 cases valued at $30,000.

"I'm really surprised there's any beer left," Marion County sheriff's Detective Christa Moncrief said. "I figured it would have been gone within the first week, but maybe not a lot of people knew it was here." An area liquor store tipped authorities to the trailer after someone tried to sell the store a pallet of beer.

(story couresty of our brothers-in-beer at realbeer.com.)

Rose to throw out first pitch at World Series of Poker. Yankees Block Colon.

2005-01-07T10:00:00.000-06:00

How's that for a headline? You can thank John Whitaker for it. Remember him? He, along with Goddard's own version of Walt Disney David Veatch, run what can only be considered baseball's version of The Onion. It's called The Spitter and it's worth a look. And if you stick your ear up to your computer monitor, you can almost hear Mrs. Whitaker's battle horn blowing in the distance.

Other headlines from the Spitter?

347 Injured in Yankees Bandwagon Crash

Brewers Announce Two-Drink Minimum

X-Rays Reval Cork In Sosa's Biceps

Florida Penal System To Field Kick-Ass Softball Team

Tigers Somehow 0-8 Before Season Even Starts

No, it's not updated as much as the BDS would like but, then again, we haven't done much updating around here either as of late so we'll call it even. If you drop them a note, tell 'em the BDS has a free cold one waiting for them over here.

It's almost time to pick a fight.

2005-01-06T15:37:00.000-06:00

The BDS may not be the sharpest bottle in the cooler, but we're fairly certain Kansas City has Internet access. That's why we're somewhat concerned by the errie stillness streaming out of the 913 and 816 area codes. Your silence is deafening. No smart-ass comments. No two-bit refences to bald spots, back braces or asthmar. Nothing. It's as if everyone up there decided to keep the wife from screaming by staying home.

Yeah, we said it.

Listen, we know priorities change. Responsibilities grow. Days and nights blur into one never-ending scene filled with smelly diapers, demanding bosses, flat beer, long weeks and short weekends. So do yourself a favor. Step back from the grind if only for a few minutes a day and jump into the virtual circle jerk that is the BDSlog. It'll put a spring in your step and song in your heart.

And if you don't? You will be tried, convicted and sentenced in this virtual court of public apathy. For the record, we are not above naming names, telling stories and pointing fingers at your expense. We will begin poking you with sticks until you discover what that thing in front of your computer monitor is used for. You know, that flat thing right there; right there, jackoff, with all those letters and numbers on it. Think we're bluffing? Continue to remain silent and enjoy the fireworks we light in your honor.

Yes, we understand most of you are busy right now finding places in your suitcases to smuggle alcohol into Hawaii this weekend for the upcoming wedding at Magnum PI's house. We also have respect for holy rituals, know your time is limited and your fuse for public abuse is probably rather short at the moment. That's why we won't throw the first punch for a few weeks. We've elected to give you time; time to celebrate with the newlyweds and take plenty of pictures of the topless Europeans sure to line your beaches.

But consider yourself warned. Give us a sign you're alive or it'll be the fight scene from The Outsiders all over again.

Cry "Havoc!" and let slip the dogs of war, boys.

The Day After Tomorrow Came A Day Early

2005-01-06T13:50:00.000-06:00

In what can only be described as "holy crap that sucks", the entire state of Kansas has been transformed into one large ice cube. A devastating ice storm, followed by arctic air that dropped temperatures into single digits and brought with it a wind chill below zero, snapped trees, dropped power lines and encased the region in a wintry hell. The Chairman of the Board of Sedgwick County Commissioners summed up the situation last night in an exclusive interview with the BDS.

"Yeah, it's cold."

According to the Wichita Eagle, over 73,000 people in the Wichita area are without power. Goddard has also fallen off the grid. Over 60,000 people in the Kansas City area overslept this morning because the power running their alarm clocks didn't show up for work, either. Businesses, schools and local government buildings are closed. It's a safe bet few people are sipping Summer Beer up there right now.

After picking up the Bat-Phone and getting an earful from an irate commissioner, President Bush is expected to issue a federal disaster declaration for Lake Waltana (pictured here) and the rest of Sedgwick County. That makes the areas eligible for federal money to help clean up storm damange. Crews from Oklahoma, Texas, Missouri, Kentucky, Tennessee, even West Virginia are en route at this moment to help restore power to the 56 counties affected by the storms.

But the Sunflower State doesn't have a patent on mumbled cusswords and frozen toes today. Omaha is digging out from 14 inches of snow. Chicago is dealing with at least 7 inches. Lower Michigan is bracing for the system to hit them this afternoon. Kind of reminds you of Hollywood's prediction last summer. So if anyone spies Dennis Quaid walking across the frozen plains of southcentral Kansas on his way to New York, you'll know Tinsel Town controls more than your entertainment.

The Pass.

2005-01-05T15:15:00.000-06:00

It was 74-61 with a little over five minutes left in the game. The 'Hawks, pulling away from a fiesty yet overmatched TCU team, were in the middle of a charicteristic run when something magical happened. A little-known player, one surrounded by future NBA draft picks, defied his one-time walk-on status and made a play that has already reached mythical status. He made beer spill on living room carpets and dirty bar floors around the county as KU fans everywhere simultaneously jumped up and pumped their fists in the air.

He made The Pass.