Monday, October 13, 2008

A Foreheady Rivalry















Peyton Manning has been inextricably linked to brother Eli since the younger Manning entered the NFL in 2004. And with good reason: the Mannings are talented, high-profile quarterbacks who each led his team to Super Bowl victory in the last two seasons.

But as unfair as comparisons of a younger, struggling Eli to his superstar sibling have been at times, those comparisons have proved just as unfair to the elder Manning. For the hard truth is—though the Manning boys engender direct comparison because they are siblings playing the same position—Peyton's true rival is Mike Farrell, a/k/a Capt. B.J. Hunnicutt of M*A*S*H.

Until Peyton Manning's emergence on the national stage in 1998, Mike Farrell's crown for America's biggest forehead remained unchallenged—an honor he had taken from the Talosians of the Star Trek pilot (seen at right). Joining the M*A*S*H ensemble in 1975, Farrell's prominent squama frontalis instantly became the most recognizable frontal anatomy in prime-time. Although cast as a mild-mannered foil to Hawkeye, the producers soon found that Farrell's forehead lent much-needed counterbalance to Jamie Farr's nose. Farrell's huge forehead quickly became one of the 4077th's centerpieces—and even found its way into plotlines, doubling as an emergency helicopter pad in Episode 114, "Beyond the Call."

Farrell confessed to People in a 1981 interview: "Most of my fan mail concerns my forehead. Viewers want to know everything about it."

After M*A*S*H left the air, Farrell considered reprising his role in a spinoff, which was to be called BJ, MD and follow his post-war days as President Eisenhower's personal physician. But Farrell, a liberal activist, thought the character's conservative leanings on transthoracic echocardiography too out of sync with his own. Yet even without a major role since 1983, the abundant acreage above Farrell's eyebrows left him the king of craniums for a quarter-century.

And along comes Peyton Manning, a supremely talented quarterback with a forehead unlike any ever seen in the NFL. Former Indianapolis Colts coach Jim Mora would diagram plays on Peyton's ample forehead during timeouts. Sure, Manning's forehead afforded plenty of space for all the X's and O's—the Colts offense had a grand view of Mora's strategy. Only problem was that Peyton, himself, couldn't see the play. He'd look up and try to snare a glimpse of the upcoming playcall, but, of course, it was futile...and the Colts finished a dreary 3-13 that season. Not until Tony Dungy introduced the clipboard to the Indianapolis offense in 2002 did Manning blossom into an MVP.

Neither Manning nor Farrell has ever consented to a forehead measurement, so it remains to be seen who officially possesses more cranial surface area. But Manning's celebrity and broad advertising appeal have made him virtually ubiquitous, whereas Farrell has largely faded from the public eye. However, Farrell is fast becoming the darling of the astronomy circuit, his convex upper profile providing California observatories with on-demand solar eclipses, from which scientists have garnered a wealth of new data about the sun's atmosphere. Rumor has it that Farrell may take his new talent to observatories across the nation so that the public might benefit, and that Farrell has acquired the rights to Thus Spake Zarathustra to complement what NASA has dubbed the "Farrellian eclipse." This could well make Mike Farrell a hot commodity once again, so perhaps the crown shouldn't be handed to Peyton Manning too quickly.


Who's really the Sultan of Skull? Unless someone can get a caliper to Farrell's and Manning's foreheads while they're sleeping, it's the Super Bowl vs. the solar eclipse in the battle for the public's heart.

Monday, October 6, 2008

Sibling Vapidity

Last Thursday, USS Intrepid, one of the United States Navy’s most decorated aircraft carriers, returned to the Manhattan pier she has called home for a quarter-century, after a two-year, $120 million renovation in nearby Staten Island. Intrepid—seen here steaming toward something exciting—saw action in six major battles of the Pacific war, as well as in Korea and Vietnam. She also twice served as a recovery ship for NASA astronauts. Since 1982, she has served as the Intrepid Sea, Air & Space Museum, one of New York City's most popular tourist attractions.

Yet, whereas Intrepid has one of the most distinguished careers of all aircraft carriers, little remembered is her sister ship, USS Insipid, owner of a stultifyingly boring and pointless history.

According to Jane’s Bickering Ships:

USS Insipid (CV-0) is surely the United States Navy’s most banal warship. Her keel laid down in autumn 1941 by wholly disinterested shipbuilders, she sailed from one end of the Pacific to the other without once encountering the enemy. Sighs of boredom from her exasperated crew could be heard aboard screening vessels more than a thousand yards away, and she soon came to be known throughout the fleet as "Dull Hull." By March 1945, even the Japanese Imperial Navy deemed her too jejune to seek out and directed their kamikaze pilots to target more interesting vessels. At war’s conclusion, she docked in San Francisco Harbor to scattered yawns.

Boatswain's Mate J.W. Chouinard and Betsy with
nothing to do in the Tasman Sea, 1944.

The third ship in the US Navy's history to bear the name Insipid, she inherited a pallid legacy. The original Insipid, a frigate that fruitlessly patrolled the Mid-Atlantic coast during the War of 1812, was taken out of service when her jaded crew contracted narcolepsy. Her successor, a Union gunboat, ran aground in 1864 due to "dreadful ennui."

Insipid's colorless career continued until 1962, when the Chief of Naval Operations recalled that she was still part of the fleet and, deciding that the ensuing paperwork would be more stimulating than giving Insipid another assignment, ordered her decommissioned. Capt. Theodore Purvis, tears of monotony streaming down his face, gushed, "Thank god that's over with..." Her 20-year ship's log, now displayed behind some empty boxes in a closet of the United States Navy Museum, contained no entries.

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Three Ryans a-Vyin'

As of this morning, the top three National League leaders in home runs comprised a trio of Ryans: Philadelphia's Ryan Howard leading the league (and tied with Adam Dunn), followed closely by Ryan Braun of the Milwaukee Brewers and Ryan Ludwick of the St. Louis Cardinals.

There were 400 players on the National League's 2008 Opening Day rosters. Of those 400, 16 were named Ryan—and of those 16, six were pitchers. Thus, there are only 10 Ryans realistically capable of leading the league in home runs. Excluding Howard, Braun, and Ludwick, the remaining seven Ryans have, as of this morning, hit a collective total of 40 homers, with no player hitting more than Ryan Doumit's 13—hardly making any of these Ryans a threat to win the home-run crown.

Furthermore, Ryan Howard is the only Ryan ever to win a home-run title (2006) since the inception of the first professional league, in 1871, which illustrates the futility of a Ryan competing with the Hanks, Willies, and Gavvys of the baseball world.

According to namestatistics.com, whose data are derived from the US Census, Ryan is the 49th most common male name in the United States, with only 0.328% of the American male population possessing it. And Ryan currently is near its peak of popularity as a name for newborn American males—it has never appeared anywhere near the top ten most popular names since baseball's inception. Thus, the odds of three Ryans simultaneously leading the league in such a butch category as home runs is—well, my abacus is missing a few pegs, but it's gotta be in the zillions. Statistically, the chances of such an occurrence must be about as infinitesimal as Saving Private Ryan, Saving Ryan's Privates, and Shaving Ryan's Privates finishing 1-2-3 for an Oscar as Best Picture.

Which might have happened had Tom Hanks trumpeted comical war wounds and erotic hair removal as much as he did World War II veterans...

(Graphic wizardry courtesy of Mount Drinkmore's Dave.)

Friday, August 22, 2008

Dude, Where's My Sequel?

I just had the idea for Ashton Kutcher's next film, based on an incident that I experienced not twenty minutes ago. Exiting my local bank, I walked to my car and opened the door. (I always lock my car door, even when popping into the lobby just to use the ATM...except for this time.) As I opened the car door, I hear, "Dude, that's my car," coming from a very portly gentleman who had exited the lobby a few steps behind me. I looked down and realized that I was absent-mindedly opening the door of the car adjacent to mine (I didn't need my key, as I'd left it unlocked, but by coincidence, his door also was unlocked).

Dude, That's My Car! would make the perfect sequel to Dude, Where's My Car?, Ashton Kutcher's career-defining epic. A two-hour film based on an insignificant five-second incident? Well, it's still more to go on than the original 2000 flick.

Ashton Kutcher and Seann William Scott drive to the bank to get money for their twin girlfriends' second-anniversary presents, only to find that they don't possess enough collective brain-power to operate the ATM. Frustrated and broke, they decide to go home, eat pudding, and watch their DVD of G.I. Jane. But as they're getting into the vehicle, a portly man (optimally played by William H. Macy, who puts on 90 lb for the uncredited cameo) informs them, "Dude, that's my car!" Further failing to possess enough collective brain-power to identify their own car, Ashton and Seann are forced to stand outside the bank for six hours, until the bank closes and the parking lot empties...during which time they discuss such compelling topics as what was their car's license-plate number to how awesome it would be to be back in their car.

When they finally get back to their car, Ashton and Seann realize that not only is it too late to buy presents for their girlfriends, but that they forgot to write their twin girlfriends into the sequel. Lamenting their lack of brain-power, Ashton and Seann become further despondent when they realize that their DVD of G.I. Jane probably isn't showing again tonight. They drive off to go home and eat pudding, leaving the door open for yet another sequel..."Dude, Where's My Pudding?

Also starring Stifler's mom as the lascivious bank teller who posts interest in her own special way and Rain Man as the automated change counter with a personal touch.

(Dude, Where's My Car? photo copyright 20th Century Fox.)

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

Saving the Last for Best

Forty-six years after being kicked out of The Beatles, the first album of original songs by Pete Best is scheduled for release in mid-September. Don't be surprised if it's titled F*ck You, Ringo!

I'd also wager that the track list goes a little something...like this:

1. Can't Buy Me Bread
2. I Should Have Played Better
3. While My Snare Gently Weeps
4. I'm Only Sleeping in the Alley
5. Hey Judas
6. I Want to Hold Your Hand (Over an Open Flame)
7. Baby I'm a Poor Man
8. You Forgot My Name (Look Up Welfare's Number)
9. I Want to Tell You That You Ruined My Life
10. Lonely Peetah
11. Komm, Gib Mir Deine Royalty (bonus track)

Wednesday, July 2, 2008

Pat and Randy's Band Release Album!

This is the shameless promotion of the day. Pat and Randy's band, Effusion 35, has at long last released its debut album, Stonewind. Please buy it so that they can eat.





Purchase via Paypal for best value (Just $5.00!) and free shipping!




For best value in purchasing songs or the album in MP3 format, visit
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Effusion 35 Album Promo Video





Tuesday, July 1, 2008

A Great American















In a perfect world, George Carlin would have been president, for he possessed far more intelligence and honesty than any actual candidate. Carlin's incisive wit peeled away the layers of bullshit that the government, organized religion, big business, and everyday idiots heap on the world, exposing human foibles with the visceral precision of a forensic pathologist.

Yet, as Carlin demonstrated time and again, this is anything but a perfect world.

My introduction to George Carlin occurred circa 1977 as I watched an airing of Saturday Night Live. He walked on stage and stared blankly at the audience, not uttering a word during his entire routine. At first confused, the crowd's reaction slowly turned to pockets of giggling, until, after two or three minutes, the audience couldn't contain itself and bubbled over in torrents of laughter as an expressionless Carlin eyed them silently. I was about ten and too young to grasp the courage of such a routine. But Carlin had the courage to say and do what he believed, whether it be his infamous "seven dirty words" or his diatribes on the fallibility of religion and our leaders. Sometimes he made his audience squirm because they were among the characters and ideologies he lampooned—but he made them laugh as they squirmed, and he made them think with his wonderfully constructed routines. Carlin's rapid-fire wordplay fell from his acerbic tongue so eloquently that how he said it almost overshadowed what he said. And when he microscoped the mundanities of everyday life, such as on A Place For My Stuff—one of the funniest comedy albums ever recorded—Carlin created timeless humor that will remain forever relevant.

In one of his many HBO specials, Carlin claimed, "I'm not a very good American, because I like to form my own opinions. I don't just roll over when I'm told to." His all-too-accurate knock on Americans' sheep-like proclivity aside, George Carlin was, perhaps, the ultimate American. Anyone can waive Old Glory and proclaim America "great"—it is the courage to question (and when necessary...denigrate) the highly suspect actions of those in power that constitutes the rarefied essence of what it means to be an American.

The Supreme Court ruled Carlin's "seven dirty words" routine "indecent, but not obscene," but Carlin, watchdog as well as comedian, highlighted life's true obscenities in its iniquities, prejudices, and idiocy. He never mellowed with age or grew complacent with fame, maintaining to the end his prolificacy and dissatisfaction with the state of the world. Carlin is one of the few people about whom I can honestly say that our world is a lesser place without him, because—if you'll consult his seven dirty words—George Carlin was one funny #6.