Police blotter fodder...
Police blotter news...
Sunday, May 08, 2005:
Huntersville: An exceptionally well-endowed Asian man, 32, was arrested today after an extended police chase on northbound interstate 77. Gene Chang, a transient, was observed traveling at a high rate of speed, according to NC state police. Upon further research, it was discovered that he was not in possession of a valid driver's license, registration, or documentation of any kind. Mr. Chang allegedly has outstanding warrants in several states, and a lottery system will be in effect to determine order and priority of extradition.
Needless to say, that's not exactly what happened, but Trooper Emmons was really cool about the whole deal (despite the fact that I'd just lost my money clip and only had a Sam's Club card by way of ID), and rather than arresting me, issuing the five or six tickets he should have, and effectively making any sexual interactions I might be having that day exclusively male, he graciously knocked my speeding charge down to 84 in a 65, and driving without an NC operator's license, and sent me on my merry (albeit cranky) way. Oddly enough, getting stopped only served to lighten my mood...Not all the way, though, and ultimately, I arrived at the resort in dour spirits. The rest of Sunday went swimmingly, with many precious moments of friendly bonding, and it was soon after my arrival that my outlook changed greatly and for the better.
Monday consisted of a late rising, some picking up of post-party disaster, and a lovely Mother's Day dinner with dear friends. Jeffrey's in Mooresville has a succulent New York Strip with a particularly tasty gorgonzola bacon glaze, a light and nutty/citrus-y tilapia filets, and an exceedingly juicy spinach-and-brie stuffed pork chops. The patio was fantastically suited to the absolutely amazing day, and in all, it was a wonderful experience.
Spent Tuesday afternoon/evening with the lovely Ms. T, wherein lovely conversation was had, and a late-ish trip to Midtown was called for. Their buffalo shrimp was an utter disaster, with six little anemic shrimp vying for attention on a large bed of shredded lettuce. The crumbled bleu cheese sprinkled atop them was fine, but they themselves were overcooked, the breading was soggy, and the hot sauce was tepid at best. Fortunately, however, we inadvertently picked half-price wing night to cruise in, and a frighteningly large platter of barbalo (Bar-B-Q/Buffalo mix) wings was designated, delivered, and devoured. Yum.
Soylent Green...is people! I saw this film last night, after hearing about it many, many years ago. Charlton Heston, even in his heyday, was not an attractive man. Nor was Chuck Connors, for that matter...now the chick, Leigh Taylor-Young, is kind of hot even 32 years later...she reminds me of someone, but I can't quite place who...we should remake this movie with William Shatner in the lead...and with far less shittiness. Seriously, I was led to believe that this was a much better movie than it was, but the effects were crappy, the acting was crappy, the storyline and premise were crappy, flow was bad, and just flat all around.
So I downloaded the pilot episode of "The Ultimate Fighter", a reality show featuring hottie Willa Ford (with whom I've wanted to do filthy things for years now) as the host. The premise of the programme is that sixteen mixed-martial arts fighters live in a house, a la The Real World, complete with requisite drama, while individuals are eliminated until two are left, one in each of two weight classes, and these two individuals will then assume a "three-year, six figure" UFC contract. Woo friggen hoo. Go on a crappy reality show, sell your anonymity for the mere 12.5% chance of "winning" a contract worth just over $33K/yr? Fuck that shit. Hell, I don't even like most sports, let alone so-called "ultimate" fighting.
With that being said, the show itself looks somewhat promising (in it's way) in the first episode, even though Willa's featured in all of about 60 seconds of footage. Granted, she looks fantastic, and is dressed in a suitably slutty fashion, with some manner of cleavage-baring, ass-clinging, ab-exposing, leg-flashing, or hip-hugging low rise, deep v, cutoff, too small, or generally inadequate attire. Just enough to get the male audience drooling. To make a long story short, I've become inadvertently hooked on the show, if for nothing else, a pedestrian curiosity to see who the last two are. Plus, there's a ton of the requisite reality-show drama, joy.
It really amazes me that no matter how seemingly original the premise of the show is, ultimately (no pun), they fall back on the cookie-cutter reality show formulas and devices. It's almost inspiring how true to the recipe they are too, perverting even the most straightforward of ideas in order to bend it to the format of the reality magic bullet, ah well. Although I will say I wish I was the president, this Dana White guy (in the suit in the above photo.) I don't know the first thing about him, as I've not done any research whatsoever, so any or all of this is conjecture and I could be completely wrong. Here's this guy, who's clearly not the sharpest knife in the drawer (nor even the second sharpest), who's basically invented a sport and the marketing machine to go around it. Now he's rich, with a relatively high profile, and assloads of cash. Nice. I need to invent a highly marketable sport. Hrm...
Stayed up way too late (to the tune of 8am), as stated in yesterday's non-post post, watching the macho show, Soylent Green, and playing that maddening air hockey game. As a result, happened to sleep in until just after 3pm, with a complete inability to wake up and de-fog from the grip of slumber.
Meet T for dinner, cruise over to the SouthPark area for patio goodness at the Village Tavern, where the nice black girl at the patio hostess station politely informs us that they "don't quote wait times". Lovely.
"Well, off the record, miss, what would you guess (as an industry-trained professional) would be a rough pull-it-out-of-your-ass ballpark guess as to what you might think our wait time could potentially think about being?"
"Sir, we don't quote wait times."
"Outstanding, thanks for your help and wisdom."
As it turns out, the reason they don't quote wait times is because mankind has no timing mechanism where the increments are long enough that she might be able to express them to me in a convenient manner. The place has an absolutely gigantic area, but an obscene shortage of tables. They invite us to sit an any of the numerous chairs (no shit, there must have been fifteen thousand chairs not associated with "official" tables), where we could still order drinks and/or appetizers, but not a meal, heavens no. I mean WTF, really? would it kill them to get more tables? They've already got the real estate, the chairs, and the waitstaff, why make patrons wait two hours for a "table"? And you'd think that with this dearth of horizontal surfaces at serving/eating level, they'd hustle a little at clearing and turning the tables. Not so. I've seen slugs and sloths move with more efficiency than these guys. Not that I'm bitter. So we cursed the campers, people who'd gotten their checks hours ago, but were still sitting around gabbing away. Naturally, this just made us want to do the same thing once we were seated, and I'm happy to say that we became those very same bastards a short (ok, not really short at all) time later.
Once we were seated, the meal was nothing short of amazing. The day and weather was perfectly magnificent, the entertainment/performer was absolutely terrible, food was delicious, I can't wait to go back.
We shared some crab dip and crab cakes, both of which I thought were heavenly (need to learn how to make those items), the blackened mahi mahi special, and a gargantuan slab of prime rib, followed by the most decadent chocolate torte I've ever seen. I'm having a coronary right now thinking about it all.
What we initially thought was a "band" setting up, was apparently the guy who was an actor, then used to do those Dodge commercials where he'd walk around the cars going on and on about something (no, not Ricardo Montalban, a white guy), but has now decided to pursue his love for mangling classic elevator music type songs. Our first red flag was a stirring rendition of what I finally figured out was Billy Joel's "Piano Man". Played on a guitar. Nice. He continuted to butcher otherwise classic songs, form all manner of innocent artists like Sting, Steely Dan, Journey, Cat Stevens, the Beatles and lord only knows who else. I think my next TV show pitch will be a reality show where music lovers will be put on an island with this guy, and he'll play beloved songs that the contestants will repeatedly and incorrectly try to guess in vain, then at the end of the weekly show, the person with the most pathetic guesses will be unceremoniously be fed to sharks, then the requisite hottie of the show (what's Willa Ford doing these days?) will win a trip to Monte Carlo with me.
Upon the return home, lounged, chatted, then watched Ali G Indahouse, featuring the deliciously yummy Rhona Mitra, seen below...
Film itself was predictably lame, but did have some redeeming moments (seen above, two more photos here and here) and occasional funny bits. The vernacular of the quasi-hip British Ali is almost worth seeing(/hearing) in and of itself.
In the Art-Imitates-Life-(Or-is-it-the-other-way-around)-Department, it appears that Dave Chappelle has become one of his crazy-ass skits by flying to South Africa, checking into a nuthouse there, and screwing the proverbial pooch on the Season 3 Chappelle's Show launch scheduled for the end of month. Way to blow $50 mil, Dave...hope your contract had the usual "crazy clause/rider" written in. But I can't say I blame the guy, you wouldn't wanna be seen in, let alone be admitted to one of those crappy asylums, in say, North Africa or somewhere crazy like the U.S. or Europe, I hear they're dumps run by quacks. I guess this means Rick James and Charlie Murphy will be parodying you on Comedy Central next year...it was fun while it lasted, eh?
"I'm Dave Chapelle, bitch! Fuck yo psychiatrist couch! Darkness!"
Sunday, May 08, 2005:
Huntersville: An exceptionally well-endowed Asian man, 32, was arrested today after an extended police chase on northbound interstate 77. Gene Chang, a transient, was observed traveling at a high rate of speed, according to NC state police. Upon further research, it was discovered that he was not in possession of a valid driver's license, registration, or documentation of any kind. Mr. Chang allegedly has outstanding warrants in several states, and a lottery system will be in effect to determine order and priority of extradition.
Needless to say, that's not exactly what happened, but Trooper Emmons was really cool about the whole deal (despite the fact that I'd just lost my money clip and only had a Sam's Club card by way of ID), and rather than arresting me, issuing the five or six tickets he should have, and effectively making any sexual interactions I might be having that day exclusively male, he graciously knocked my speeding charge down to 84 in a 65, and driving without an NC operator's license, and sent me on my merry (albeit cranky) way. Oddly enough, getting stopped only served to lighten my mood...Not all the way, though, and ultimately, I arrived at the resort in dour spirits. The rest of Sunday went swimmingly, with many precious moments of friendly bonding, and it was soon after my arrival that my outlook changed greatly and for the better.
Monday consisted of a late rising, some picking up of post-party disaster, and a lovely Mother's Day dinner with dear friends. Jeffrey's in Mooresville has a succulent New York Strip with a particularly tasty gorgonzola bacon glaze, a light and nutty/citrus-y tilapia filets, and an exceedingly juicy spinach-and-brie stuffed pork chops. The patio was fantastically suited to the absolutely amazing day, and in all, it was a wonderful experience.
Spent Tuesday afternoon/evening with the lovely Ms. T, wherein lovely conversation was had, and a late-ish trip to Midtown was called for. Their buffalo shrimp was an utter disaster, with six little anemic shrimp vying for attention on a large bed of shredded lettuce. The crumbled bleu cheese sprinkled atop them was fine, but they themselves were overcooked, the breading was soggy, and the hot sauce was tepid at best. Fortunately, however, we inadvertently picked half-price wing night to cruise in, and a frighteningly large platter of barbalo (Bar-B-Q/Buffalo mix) wings was designated, delivered, and devoured. Yum.
Soylent Green...is people! I saw this film last night, after hearing about it many, many years ago. Charlton Heston, even in his heyday, was not an attractive man. Nor was Chuck Connors, for that matter...now the chick, Leigh Taylor-Young, is kind of hot even 32 years later...she reminds me of someone, but I can't quite place who...we should remake this movie with William Shatner in the lead...and with far less shittiness. Seriously, I was led to believe that this was a much better movie than it was, but the effects were crappy, the acting was crappy, the storyline and premise were crappy, flow was bad, and just flat all around.
So I downloaded the pilot episode of "The Ultimate Fighter", a reality show featuring hottie Willa Ford (with whom I've wanted to do filthy things for years now) as the host. The premise of the programme is that sixteen mixed-martial arts fighters live in a house, a la The Real World, complete with requisite drama, while individuals are eliminated until two are left, one in each of two weight classes, and these two individuals will then assume a "three-year, six figure" UFC contract. Woo friggen hoo. Go on a crappy reality show, sell your anonymity for the mere 12.5% chance of "winning" a contract worth just over $33K/yr? Fuck that shit. Hell, I don't even like most sports, let alone so-called "ultimate" fighting.
With that being said, the show itself looks somewhat promising (in it's way) in the first episode, even though Willa's featured in all of about 60 seconds of footage. Granted, she looks fantastic, and is dressed in a suitably slutty fashion, with some manner of cleavage-baring, ass-clinging, ab-exposing, leg-flashing, or hip-hugging low rise, deep v, cutoff, too small, or generally inadequate attire. Just enough to get the male audience drooling. To make a long story short, I've become inadvertently hooked on the show, if for nothing else, a pedestrian curiosity to see who the last two are. Plus, there's a ton of the requisite reality-show drama, joy.
It really amazes me that no matter how seemingly original the premise of the show is, ultimately (no pun), they fall back on the cookie-cutter reality show formulas and devices. It's almost inspiring how true to the recipe they are too, perverting even the most straightforward of ideas in order to bend it to the format of the reality magic bullet, ah well. Although I will say I wish I was the president, this Dana White guy (in the suit in the above photo.) I don't know the first thing about him, as I've not done any research whatsoever, so any or all of this is conjecture and I could be completely wrong. Here's this guy, who's clearly not the sharpest knife in the drawer (nor even the second sharpest), who's basically invented a sport and the marketing machine to go around it. Now he's rich, with a relatively high profile, and assloads of cash. Nice. I need to invent a highly marketable sport. Hrm...
Stayed up way too late (to the tune of 8am), as stated in yesterday's non-post post, watching the macho show, Soylent Green, and playing that maddening air hockey game. As a result, happened to sleep in until just after 3pm, with a complete inability to wake up and de-fog from the grip of slumber.
Meet T for dinner, cruise over to the SouthPark area for patio goodness at the Village Tavern, where the nice black girl at the patio hostess station politely informs us that they "don't quote wait times". Lovely.
"Well, off the record, miss, what would you guess (as an industry-trained professional) would be a rough pull-it-out-of-your-ass ballpark guess as to what you might think our wait time could potentially think about being?"
"Sir, we don't quote wait times."
"Outstanding, thanks for your help and wisdom."
As it turns out, the reason they don't quote wait times is because mankind has no timing mechanism where the increments are long enough that she might be able to express them to me in a convenient manner. The place has an absolutely gigantic area, but an obscene shortage of tables. They invite us to sit an any of the numerous chairs (no shit, there must have been fifteen thousand chairs not associated with "official" tables), where we could still order drinks and/or appetizers, but not a meal, heavens no. I mean WTF, really? would it kill them to get more tables? They've already got the real estate, the chairs, and the waitstaff, why make patrons wait two hours for a "table"? And you'd think that with this dearth of horizontal surfaces at serving/eating level, they'd hustle a little at clearing and turning the tables. Not so. I've seen slugs and sloths move with more efficiency than these guys. Not that I'm bitter. So we cursed the campers, people who'd gotten their checks hours ago, but were still sitting around gabbing away. Naturally, this just made us want to do the same thing once we were seated, and I'm happy to say that we became those very same bastards a short (ok, not really short at all) time later.
Once we were seated, the meal was nothing short of amazing. The day and weather was perfectly magnificent, the entertainment/performer was absolutely terrible, food was delicious, I can't wait to go back.
We shared some crab dip and crab cakes, both of which I thought were heavenly (need to learn how to make those items), the blackened mahi mahi special, and a gargantuan slab of prime rib, followed by the most decadent chocolate torte I've ever seen. I'm having a coronary right now thinking about it all.
What we initially thought was a "band" setting up, was apparently the guy who was an actor, then used to do those Dodge commercials where he'd walk around the cars going on and on about something (no, not Ricardo Montalban, a white guy), but has now decided to pursue his love for mangling classic elevator music type songs. Our first red flag was a stirring rendition of what I finally figured out was Billy Joel's "Piano Man". Played on a guitar. Nice. He continuted to butcher otherwise classic songs, form all manner of innocent artists like Sting, Steely Dan, Journey, Cat Stevens, the Beatles and lord only knows who else. I think my next TV show pitch will be a reality show where music lovers will be put on an island with this guy, and he'll play beloved songs that the contestants will repeatedly and incorrectly try to guess in vain, then at the end of the weekly show, the person with the most pathetic guesses will be unceremoniously be fed to sharks, then the requisite hottie of the show (what's Willa Ford doing these days?) will win a trip to Monte Carlo with me.
Upon the return home, lounged, chatted, then watched Ali G Indahouse, featuring the deliciously yummy Rhona Mitra, seen below...
Film itself was predictably lame, but did have some redeeming moments (seen above, two more photos here and here) and occasional funny bits. The vernacular of the quasi-hip British Ali is almost worth seeing(/hearing) in and of itself.
In the Art-Imitates-Life-(Or-is-it-the-other-way-around)-Department, it appears that Dave Chappelle has become one of his crazy-ass skits by flying to South Africa, checking into a nuthouse there, and screwing the proverbial pooch on the Season 3 Chappelle's Show launch scheduled for the end of month. Way to blow $50 mil, Dave...hope your contract had the usual "crazy clause/rider" written in. But I can't say I blame the guy, you wouldn't wanna be seen in, let alone be admitted to one of those crappy asylums, in say, North Africa or somewhere crazy like the U.S. or Europe, I hear they're dumps run by quacks. I guess this means Rick James and Charlie Murphy will be parodying you on Comedy Central next year...it was fun while it lasted, eh?
"I'm Dave Chapelle, bitch! Fuck yo psychiatrist couch! Darkness!"
posted by Gene at 6:20 AM
1 Comments:
Ali G rules! Jungle is massive!
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