Writing

The PowerBook is Mightier Than the Pen

2012-12-31T08:32:00.000-08:00

RANDOM ARTICLE: The Wikipedia Experiment

2010-05-26T15:43:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite ways to waste time is by clicking the 'Random Article' button on Wikipedia. It's just what it sounds like - one random article from tens of millions. Sometimes it's interesting. Sometimes it's not. Either way, there's at least something to be learned.

My goal here is to keep a semi-regular blog about whatever it is I happened to learn from a particular day's random article.

C-C-C-C-Crazy!

2010-04-29T12:05:00.001-07:00

By Jarrett Bellini

If one more person makes a serious or even half-kidding reference to the fallacy of global warming when discussing the current streak of cold weather blasting across America I think I may end up having a complete mental breakdown.

Granted, this may have more to do with thirty years of repressed childhood memories. Actually, I’m pretty sure that’s it. I’m a mess.

Nevertheless, I think there needs to be an official cease fire on excessive conversation about low temperatures during any month that have the letter R. I’ll concede that this arctic blast is newsworthy and that the media should be reporting on weather, but, just so we’re clear, remember, it’s January. It’s supposed to feel cold.

So, no more global warming jokes. I ask this not because I’m some big defender of climate change theories – I don’t understand such things as science, math, and girls - but because I tend to have allergic reactions to clichés, and my throat is starting to swell.

(Editorial note: It might also be the shellfish. Mind you, they’re delicious in months that have the letter R.)

However, if you insist on this line of comparison, I only ask that you also come talk to me in August when I’m sweating inside my house, naked, watching Star Wars while sitting Indian-style over an air-conditioning vent with an Otter Pop.

Have I shared too much? I believe I have.

I suppose, for now, I can let these clichés from our unfolding weather-related melodrama pass because, truth be told, it really is exceedingly cold. And, especially here in the southeast, we’re not used to such things. In fact, we really only get about one good snow storm a year, at which point our synapses collectively shut down in that small part of the brain that controls our ability to properly drive a motor vehicle over 25 miles-per-hour. Though, some may argue that, for most people, this phenomenon is simply called: a weekday.

Of course, according to Facebook, this seems to be a true catastrophic, nationwide event, worthy of cliché-driven conversation domination. I know this because the already-boring status updates have literally turned into, well, talking about the weather. Not that my updates are ever anything to brag about – unless my quest to eat eight tacos for dinner strikes you as noteworthy – but there’s definitely a direct correlation between the temperature dropping below thirty-two degrees, and the general lameness of my current news feed. Here are a few recent favorites. The names have been changed to protect my social calendar:

RHEA PERLMAN is baffled by the FREEZING COLD weather Atlanta is presently experiencing... I never again want to hear the words: high of 27/low of 16 referencing any place in the dirrrrty!

WILLIAM SHATNER just learned that the hairs inside your nose can in fact freeze.

PRINCESS LEIA wants to know who to talk to about false advertising. "Hotlanta?" 19 degrees outside. Really? That new furnace cannot come soon enough.

KOOL & THE GANG This whole global warming talk is a bunch of bull!

Cue: mental breakdown.

Now, personally speaking, even as a native Arizonan, I’m not a hater when it comes to the occasional spell of cold weather and snow. It’s fun, and you learn to appreciate the nice days. Then again, I also don’t have any sticky, sniffling kids to dress in giant bundled layers only to find out that school has closed for the day… which I’m sure would cause me to have a stroke. And, yes, according to my research, all children are sticky. End of.

So, I welcome any snow we might receive here in the southeast. What can I say? I’m easily entertained, I’m a dog-owner, and if there’s one thing I love more than watching Star Wars naked while sitting Indian-style over an air-conditioning vent with an Otter Pop – and, oh, how I love it – it’s watching my dog, Mikey, frolic in the white stuff.

Anyway, it’s just a little cold - it’s just a little snow. Try to enjoy it. And have yourself an Otter Pop. Naked.

Podcasts

2008-12-30T08:41:00.000-08:00

[return to writing]

Video

2008-12-29T08:03:00.000-08:00

[return to writing]

CNN Podcasting TV Advertisement
My only role in this video was submitting hours of footage... from
which they used a clip of me dancing and another of me threatening
to jump into the CNN Center atrium if people don't watch my podcast.

The Gryst: Un-Aired Promo
This was a promotion we did for The Gryst that never made it to air.
We ended up changing the name of the podcast right before
it was set to roll. Hence, a rather obvious conflict.

West Ham United 3 - 4 Tottenham Hotspur
This is a tribute video I edited to honor the greatest
Spurs match I have ever seen. Yes, soccer fans can do
some pretty dorky things during the off season.

Hot Tuna | 07.28 | Atlanta

2007-08-13T07:57:00.000-07:00

Originally Published on JamBase.com

Words by: Jarrett Bellini :: Images by: Kim Panzitta

Hot Tuna :: 07.28.07 :: Variety Playhouse :: Atlanta, GA

Hot Tuna

There's probably never going to be some beautiful, idealized father-son moment, when my future child looks up at dear old dad and asks, "Did you ever get to see Jorma Kaukonen and Jack Casady?" Stupid kid didn't even pronounce Jorma's last name correctly. It's COW-kuh-nin. Ah hell, it doesn't matter. Like I said, probably won't happen. But, in the event that he is wise enough to ask such a question, I figure it's best to be prepared with a proper answer. "Indeed, I did."

Besides, it's not like I had a choice. When two Rock and Roll Hall of Famers come to town for twenty-five bucks, you go. And when they headline a small, eclectic venue in a small, artsy neighborhood, you bring friends. It's a moral obligation.

Here, in Georgia's capital, just about every living, breathing, performing major name in rock and roll lore finds a marquee. They play the arenas. They play the sheds. They play the new hole in your wallet. Kaukonen and Casady are different. As founding members of Jefferson Airplane , they are unquestionably as important as their psychedelic brethren in the timeline of American music history. As simple musicians, their talent is rarely surpassed. Yet, these are the guys whose images rarely appear in the glossy photo pages of mega-star autobiographies.

Jorma Kaukonen - Hot Tuna

On July 28, they showed up, playing second fiddle to no one, at Variety Playhouse in Atlanta's Little Five Points to remind music fans, young and old, to re-read those captions under the photos. They'll find more than just names.

Hot Tuna. Hotlanta. Hot venue. It was noticeably warm inside the long, narrow theater on Euclid Avenue, and Oteil and the Peacemakers had just finished a sizzling opening set – their last supporting gig of the tour. Electric Hot Tuna would soldier on down the road without the Allman Brothers bassist.

Finally, just minutes before ten o'clock, Kaukonen and Casady casually sauntered onto stage with drummer, Erik Diaz and multi-instrumentalist Barry Mitterhoff, opening with a haunting "Serpent of Dreams." Then, "Been So Long" changed the mood, allowing the band and crowd to comfortably settle into their next number, a slow, bluesy "Barbeque King," punctuated by trade-off solos from both Kaukonen and Mitterhoff.

"Can't Get Satisfied" enlisted the use of Kaukonen's signature bright red Epiphone electric, and the show took on a slightly edgier feel, opening things up for Casady's first standout moment of the evening - a simple, grooving bass intro to "Bowlegged Woman." There are some people who tend to believe that Casady is one of rock and roll's most overrated bass players. After all, his official website touts him as Jack Casady – Legendary Bassist. So, in defense of his critics, it's fair to say that the man more or less directly solicits scrutiny and evaluation.

Jack Casady - Hot Tuna

Call him legendary or call him overrated. Depending on what one values in music, either assessment is correct, or, perhaps, dangles on the outer fringes of perspective. But, too often, it seems the quality of a bassist is primarily measured by his ability to slap, pop, tap and the speed at which these techniques are applied. If there is an argument to be made for conservative note selection and overall tone, Jack Casady is the model of a simple, grooving bassist.

Keeping to that theme, the next two songs were among the finest of the entire evening. "Sea Child" filled the air with melody, and "Watch the Northwind Rise" brought a pleasant touch of Mitterhoff's mandolin into the night.

It would be three more tunes before the sparks truly started flying. After cruising through "Hit Single #1," a bluesy "Rock Me Baby" and "Corners Without Exits," the band absolutely flashed to life with the start of "99 Year Blues." As Kaukonen roared through his finger-picked guitar solos, the show became all about you. "Talkin' 'Bout You," "I Wish You Would" and "Living Just for You" rounded off the tail end of the set, bringing the temperature inside Variety to peak levels.

Kaukonen & Mitterhoff - Hot Tuna

Cooling things off, Mitterhoff took a few moments to introduce the "rock and roll royalty," crack a few jokes about their age and shamelessly pimped the band's merchandise. Though teetering on amateur, Mitterhoff's short banter was filled with a fun, easy, self-deprecating humor and one rather curious and obvious mistake (Erik Diaz isn't the bassist, Barry). No big deal, Casady may or may not have been sleeping.

Finally, the near two-hour set ended with a blistering "Funky #7," showcasing the soloing talent of drummer Erik Diaz. The band then crept into darkness with two parting words by, previously comatose, bassist, Jack Casady: "Jorma Kaukonen." And just as quickly as these two childhood friends walked off stage, Kaukonen and Casady led their band back out for one last song – a steady rocking "Come Back Baby."

To Atlanta? Anytime.

JamBase | Georgia
Go See Live Music!

http://www.hottuna.com/

[Published on 8/9/2007]

*Comments are taken from the original article on JamBase, and names reflect those from JamBase membership accounts. Here, posting times and dates are not accurate.

West Ham United 3 - 4 Tottenham Hotspur

2007-08-03T09:34:00.000-07:00

Promo for The Gryst

2007-08-03T09:24:00.000-07:00

CNN Podcasting TV Advertisement

2007-08-03T08:43:00.001-07:00

News of the Absurd :: Episode #002 :: 08/02/07

2007-08-03T07:50:00.001-07:00

The Gryst :: Episode #040 :: 03/22/07

2007-07-27T14:05:00.001-07:00

The Gryst :: Episode #041 :: 03/29/07

2007-07-27T14:02:00.001-07:00

The Gryst :: Episode #042 :: 04/05/07

2007-07-27T13:42:00.001-07:00

The Gryst :: Episode #043 :: 04/12/07

2007-07-27T13:29:00.001-07:00

The Gryst :: Episode #044 :: 04/19/07

2007-07-27T12:48:00.001-07:00

The Gryst :: Episode #045 :: 04/26/07

2007-07-27T12:41:00.000-07:00

The Gryst :: Episode #046 :: 05/03/07

2007-07-27T12:32:00.000-07:00

The Gryst :: Episode #047 :: 05/10/07

2007-07-27T12:24:00.001-07:00

The Gryst :: Episode #048 :: 05/17/07

2007-07-27T12:23:00.001-07:00

The Gryst :: Episode #049 :: 05/24/07

2007-07-27T12:22:00.001-07:00

The Gryst :: Episode #050 :: 05/31/07

2007-07-27T09:50:00.001-07:00

The Gryst :: Episode #051 :: 06/07/07

2007-07-27T09:47:00.001-07:00

The Gryst :: Episode #052 :: 06/14/07

2007-07-27T09:43:00.001-07:00

The Gryst :: Episode #053 :: 06/21/07

2007-07-27T09:40:00.001-07:00

The Gryst :: Episode #054 :: 06/28/07

2007-07-27T09:37:00.001-07:00

The Gryst :: Episode #055 :: 07/05/07

2007-07-27T09:06:00.001-07:00

The Gryst :: Episode #056 :: 07/19/07

2007-07-27T09:04:00.001-07:00

The Gryst :: Episode #057 :: 07/26/07

2007-07-27T08:58:00.000-07:00

News of the Absurd :: Episode #001 :: 07/26/07

2007-07-27T08:28:00.001-07:00

The High Court

2007-03-20T09:21:00.000-07:00

By Jarrett Bellini

Sometime in July, we’ll finally (finally!) have an answer to the age old question: Are bong hits for Jesus protected by the constitution?

To be fair, I’m not completely sure what that phrase implies. BONG HiTS 4 JESUS. Part of me thinks it’s a stoner’s toast to the Anointed One, something along the lines of This Bud’s for You (no pun intended). Or maybe it simply suggest, “Hey, Jesus, if and when you ever come back, and you happen to come through town, we’ll have a fresh pipe waiting… pizza’s in the fridge!”

If it even means anything at all, only Joseph Frederick knows for sure. He’s the one who unfurled a giant 14-foot banner across the street from his school in Juneau, Alaska in 2002. A senior at Juneau-Douglas High School at the time, the young man and his classmates had a rare school release so they could celebrate the Olympic torch as it worked its way south to Utah for the Salt Lake City winter games. Some townspeople wore hats. Some waved the American flag. Joseph Frederick: BONG HiTS 4 JESUS.

Different strokes for different blokes. I say potato. You say black tar heroin.

Not surprisingly, Principal Deborah Morse was less than amused. Here she was, doing a good and decent thing, letting the students out of class for a worthy event, and some punk kid had to go and, well, do something I might have done. Back when I was young, of course. These days, I’d probably just stay home and rearrange the furniture. Parades frighten me.

But to the credit of Joseph Frederick, life can get pretty boring when you happen to live in Juneau, Alaska. So, when the IOC finagles you a few hours off school, you seize the day and have yourself a laugh. You make a sign: BONG HiTS 4 JESUS.

What can I say? Give a boy a roll of paper and some duct tape and watch the magic!

Principal Morse made a difficult judgment call that day, and came down on Frederick with a hefty bit of discipline… a 10-day suspension. FAILING GRaDES 4 JOSEPH. Done deal. However, five years later, this moronic, nonsensical incident is still haunting the school district. By George, it’s going to the Supreme Court! Ya, mon!

In a Vietnam-era case dealing with anti-war protests, the high court made certain that students didn’t have to leave their right to free speech at the school door. But at the same time, students weren’t protected from being disruptive and interfering with a school’s basic educational mission.

Now, while Frederick was across the street from campus, he was, nevertheless, taking part in a school sanctioned event. That’s the legal snag. As far as the law is concerned, had this not been a school sanctioned event, Frederick could have read from Mein Kampf while wearing a tutu.

But here’s the best part. Frederick never even came to campus that day. So, by virtue of being a total slacker, he can argue that he wasn’t actually taking part in a school activity. He was just sort of there. ‘Atta boy!

Naturally, with the help of the ACLU, he sued the principal and the school district, citing his right to free speech had been horrifically violated like a groin being hit by a wiffle ball. My words. Not his.

Regardless of whether or not he was technically taking part in a school activity, Frederick argued that his sign neither promoted drugs nor advocated religious beliefs. In fact, he first saw the bizarre phrase on a snowboard and simply thought it was provocative. Indeed.

Though he lost his case in the federal district court, the 9th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals sided with the little troublemaker, agreeing that his groin-eous rights had, in fact, been wiffle balled, and that the principal might have to pony up some cash. This was promptly appealed to the U.S. Supreme Court who, on December 1st, 2006, decided to hear the case.

So, what will the justices do? Ahem, WWJD? It’s up to them, now, to decide whether or not Frederick has a valid argument for free speech and whether Principal Morse should owe him compensation. Fortunately for her, she’s being well taken care of. Yes, to make this circus event even more circus-y, former independent counsel Kenneth Starr is representing the school district free of charge. Lions! Tigers! Bears!

But this is serious business. In fact, oral arguments were finally heard on March 19th, 2007, and when the high court sorts this whole thing out sometime this summer, the final decision could have a powerful and long-lasting effect on how principals are able to run their schools.

It seems that Frederick (who plead guilty in 2004 to a misdemeanor charge of selling marijuana in Nacogdoches, Texas), has managed to turn his stupid sign into one hell of an intriguing court case. It’s all rather confusing, so, you know, do whatever you need to do to relax.

Pizza’s in the fridge!

old line from hot dogs n samplin

2007-03-13T12:35:00.000-07:00

I imagine he would stare wide-eyed at a 30-gallon jar of trail mix moments before his head exploded.

Baltimore: The City that Reads!

2006-10-11T16:56:00.000-07:00

By Jarrett Bellini

Forward: In early January of 2006, I wrote about Baltimore's search for a new city slogan. Months later the final result was: Get in on it. For a short phrase, it's kind of a mouthful. It's also pretty stupid.

[January 8th, 2006]

Some cities are diamonds. Some cities are stones.

Baltimore is getting a makeover. And why not? After all, this is the same town once dubbed by a former mayor as The City that Reads, left only to watch as local graffiti artists strategically placed B’s, E’s, and L’s on public benches (re-slugging them as The City that Breeds and The City that Bleeds.) It’s a good thing he didn’t go with Let Us Tuck You In!

Poor Baltimore. Things are so bad that the city has inspired at least two television crime dramas in its honor... and they're gritty. They make you want to shower and go to church. They’re dark. They’re nasty. And nowhere is a crab cake to be found.

So, where does a city go from here? Well, that’s the $500,000 question being offered up to Landor Associates, a worldwide branding consultancy with a rather impressive portfolio for city mottos. It's a pricy investment, for certain, and it goes without saying that everybody's hoping Landor can do better than We’ve Got Crabs! or Inner Harbor? I Hardly Know Her! Clearly this is a challenging account, so it might be time for their creative team to visit the Chesapeake.

I actually had several opportunities to treasure the Chesapeake while I was attending college in nearby Washington, DC. Usually, it was just a few of us heading down to Camden Yards to catch an Orioles game. Talk about a selling point! I’ve been to several ballparks in this country, and can say, without any hesitation, that Oriole Park is the gold standard. Never mind the brilliant architecture. Second to none, Camden Yards serves up the best atmosphere and finest food known to baseball. This includes garlic fries so potent even your ideas begin to smell bad.

Of course, an Orioles game hardly counts as getting the true Baltimore experience. Granted, the house that Ripken built is a heavenly oasis and the area immediately surrounding the ballpark is more than agreeable, but, really, outside of all that, Baltimore is stink-town. Drive down the wrong avenue going away from touristy Fells Point, and you can clearly see how the city inspired HBO’s Homicide: Life on the Streets. That’s not really a title that tiptoes around the subject, is it? Somehow, I think Homicide: A Minor Annoyance doesn’t quite ring with the same enthusiasm.

The most fun I’ve ever had in Baltimore was actually at one of the trashiest events I’ve ever attended… The Preakness. This annual springtime horse race at Pimlico marks the second leg of the world famous Triple Crown. It also marks the first stage of degenerative liver disease. While Baltimore’s upper crust enjoys the day’s festivities from their fancy-pants box seats, college students and true Baltimoreons pack the infield for an afternoon of heavy drinking. Without any exaggeration, I didn’t see one single horse the entire day. I did, however, witness a carnival of mullets. This was also the same year that some drunk guy jumped over the track's guardrail and tried to punch one of the horses as the entire field came barreling down on him. Good times!

But let’s get back to Baltimore’s positive points. It has a great aquarium, a wonderful harbor, and, pound for pound, more Old Bay crab cakes than anywhere else on planet Earth. As far as I’m concerned, that, alone, is a good enough reason as any to stop in for the day. Wait, now there’s a concept… stop in for the day.

Perhaps city officials are reaching too far in their aim to be a world-class travel destination. It’s Baltimore, for crying out loud – not Paris. There isn’t a slogan or motto in the world that will change that. A husband has never turned to his wife and asked, “Honey, where do you want to go with these sky miles… Hawaii, Vancouver, or Baltimore?”

Instead, the city needs to focus on something they may perceive as a weakness - their location. Nestled right along that northeast stretch of I-95, connecting Washington, Baltimore, Philadelphia, New York City, and Boston, The City That Reads needs to become The City That Concedes. Instead of trying to be one of the big boys, Baltimore needs to embrace its role as a B-list city. Just look what that kind of thinking has done for Emilio Estevez. Three Mighty Duck movies certainly keep the electricity on!

So, I officially offer up my suggestion. Baltimore: We’re on the Way Up!

Not only is it practical, but it’s also mildly inspiring. Geographically, one might want to drop in while heading north to The Big Apple, The City of Brotherly Love, or Beantown. Culturally, it suggests that, hey, we may not actually be a city of literates… but we’re on the way up!

For the time being, however, we’ll all just have to sit back and wait patiently for this big corporate wasteland of ideas to come back with their overpriced, loser of a motto. And then we can go through this whole thing all over again in a few years. They’re calling it destination repositioning, but it’s nothing more than lies.

Of course, if you’re going to lie you might as well make it count. So head on over to Baltimore and visit (I kid you not) The Greatest City in America! Seriously. That’s their current slogan… The Greatest City in America!

A stone by any other name...

Back to Writing Home & Sidebar

The Beautiful Game Meets America’s Pastime

2006-10-09T20:55:00.000-07:00

[www.JarrettBellini.com] -- [Writing Home & Sidebar]

A Revolutionary New Concept

for Major League Baseball

Introduction

This past season, Major League Baseball’s two biggest rivals, Yankees and Red Sox, faced each other 19 times… it seemed like every time you turned on the TV, you found the same tired story. Capitalizing on recent years of success for both franchises, MLB attempted to squeeze every last ounce of excitement from 171 innings of baseball.

Mission accomplished.

Today, the glory of Yankees versus Red Sox means absolutely nothing. It’s a series that has been watered down to the point where, by about the seventh clash of these titans, casual fans have stopped paying attention. So, if these are two of the most prestigious clubs in all of baseball, and fewer and fewer viewers seem to care about their rivalry, what does that suggest for the other 143 games played by the aforementioned franchises?

Now, before I go on I feel I must come clean and admit that, when it comes to organized sports, I prefer European soccer. Without question, if you juxtapose soccer next to our popular American sports, with their endless stop-and-go nature, I will always enjoy soccer's two thrilling 45 minutes halves of non-stop, commercial free action linked together with a short period of halftime. No TV timeouts. No mindless banter. Done in two hours. Soccer is the beautiful game for many reasons.

I also prefer the common structure of most domestic soccer leagues found all over the world. Teams are generally grouped in what is known as a single table – no conferences or divisions. This single table offers the ultimate solution for a truly balanced schedule, where teams face each other twice throughout the season, once at home and once away. So, using the 20-team English Premier League as an example, every side will have played 38 league matches by season’s end. A win is worth three points, a tie is worth one, and a loss is worth zero. The team with the most accumulated points at the end of the season is crowned champion. There are other achievements and incentives for which teams aspire to stay near the top of the table, however, for the purposes of this essay, I see no need to get into these finer structural details. Besides, it can be complicated for even the most enthusiastic soccer fan.

So, let us concentrate on two transferable aspects of European soccer, for they are the foundation of what Major League Baseball can and should become. These two aspects are (1) the single table and (2) point structure. Adapting these two simple ideas to America’s pastime may seem strange at first, especially to traditionalists, but I am confident that they will vastly improve both the meaning of each individual game, and the excitement felt by fans around the world.

A Single Table

Currently, Major League Baseball is divided into two major conferences known as the American League and the National League. They are virtually the same, save for the fact that the former enjoys a “designated hitter” rule, while the latter chooses to play actual baseball. The fact that the designated hitter still exists is an embarrassment to the game, and I argue that National League baseball – where Managers actually have to use a bit of creativity - is far superior to its counterpart.

However, when it comes to fusing these two conferences, scrapping the DH is just a start. Ultimately, I believe the league should rid itself of both conferences all together, creating one single table under the guise of Major League Baseball. Interleague play has already deflated any excitement of seeing the American League and National League champions facing each other for the first time in the World Series, so the next logical step is to just throw all the teams into the same pot and move on.

This, of course, brings us to our first immediate problem. With the current 30 teams playing in Major League Baseball, maintaining my proposed balanced schedule under a single table would mean that each team would have to play 174 games. That is 12 more than the current 162. While 12 extra games may not seem like a lot, it is important to take into consideration that 12 extra games would certainly crowd an already massive schedule, and that additional competitions would throw a very large * over every record set in the modern era. The American League and the National League adopted the 162 game schedule in 1961 and 1962, respectively, and I believe it is important to maintain this number for the sake of record preservation.

Therefore, I feel it is necessary to eliminate two teams from Major League Baseball. Personally, I would sack both of the financially dismal Florida franchises – The Florida Marlins and the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. So, for the sake of this essay, consider them gone. Now, with 28 teams comprising Major League Baseball under one single table, we may begin to explore a perfectly balanced schedule of 162 games.

A Perfectly Balanced Schedule

The heart of this new concept rests in the idea that each team should play the same teams the same number of times. Currently, there are 14 teams in the American League and 16 teams in the National League. So, without even dissecting each team's individual schedule, it is clear that there exists a horrible unbalance. Never mind the fact that a National League team is already put at a post-season disadvantage by the fact that there are two extra teams in the conference. Really, then, there can be no discussion about balance in the current format – there isn’t any. Under my new single table we can achieve perfect harmony.

In creating this balance, I propose that each team play every other team three games at home and three games on the road. With 28 teams each playing the other 27 teams a total of six times, we have successfully maintained a 162 game schedule. Yes, it really is that easy. Do the math.

Point Structure and the Three Game Series

Having adopted a single table and achieved perfect competitive balance, it is now time to explore, perhaps, the two most drastic concepts of my proposed changes.

Under the current system, total wins determines who will enjoy post-season baseball. By itself, this isn’t a horrible way of running things – it’s pretty basic and simple. However, 162 games is a long spell, and the mission seems to get lost along the way. Players may come to “play” one day, and come to “earn a paycheck” the next. Quite simply, any single game means nothing more than one before or the one to follow. Hence, we tend to have some rather boring mid-summer baseball. This is why I believe the three game series will change not only the players’ outlook on each individual game, but also the fans’ overall excitement.

It works like this. Let's say the Los Angeles Dodgers face the Baltimore Orioles at Camden Yards for their lone three game away series with the O’s. The first game becomes the advantage game. Here, the Dodgers take game one. They now have two more games to effectively “win” the series. Let’s assume, in the second game, the Orioles pull off a rare victory. The three game series is now tied at one a piece. Game three, then, becomes the crucial decider. Whichever team manages to win the rubber match will earn one point in the standings for winning the series. In our scenario, the Orioles, shocking even themselves, pull off a second victory in a row, and earn that point.

Now, had the Dodgers, after taking game one, managed to win both the second and third games of the series, they would have not only earned one point for winning the series, but also an additional two bonus points for pulling off the three game sweep.

Here, we have created a system where each game of each series is incredibly meaningful to a team’s overall points in the standings. Game one is interesting because it gives one team the advantage. Game two is thrilling because one team can clinch a point, while the other battles to keep their series hopes alive. Game threes are the most exciting because, depending on the outcome of the previous two games, the winner will either earn a single point or three points for the sweep.

Under the current system, these three games would likely be ho-hum, everyday baseball – maybe just another Friday, Saturday, and Sunday at the old ballpark. However, now, they comprise just one thrilling regular season series of a team’s 54. It’s playoff excitement built into the regular season, where each team’s standing on the single table would reflect the team’s total number of points earned. In the event of a standings tie, a team’s position would be determined, first, by total number of wins, and, second, by run differential. Run differential puts a bit more emphasis on team defense.

What Does This Really Mean?

I have already demonstrated how we can balance the schedule, and how each game has become far more entertaining than it might normally be. However, because baseball is rather important to the fabric of our American culture, I feel that I must address some anticipated fan concerns. Of course, I’m certain there will be many more.

What about the old division rivalries?
Rest assured that rivalries are created, not by divisions, but by geography and history. Yankee fans will always hate Red Sox fans and Cub fans will always hate White Sox fans.

But don’t divisions create close playoff races?
No. Good teams create close playoff races. Using the 2006 season as an example, the average number of “games behind” for the 22 non-playoff teams was 11.27. It should go without saying that bad teams are bad, and good teams will always have a shot. The beauty of my system is that the eight playoff teams will truly be the best eight teams in the league, tried and true under the pressure of winning a series. The current system only rewards the “best four” from each conference.

What about revenue? Nineteen games of Yankees v Red Sox is big money.
True. But if you think 19 games are interesting - and they're not - just imagine the fury and excitement when they only play each other three times in their respective stadiums. That’s revenue! Ah, but consider the revenue lost each time the Yankees played the Royals – a team that finished 34 games out of first place in the AL Central. All of a sudden, a three game snoozer becomes an important series because of the points system.

No American League. No National League. Will there still be an All-Star Game?
Sure, why not? The fact that the current All-Star Game determines home field advantage for the World Series is a joke. It should be a fun and spirited event, and nothing more. Of course, who doesn’t like competition? The way you make the All-Star Game interesting is by taking a page from the National Hockey League: North America v the World.

How would this affect current marketing strategies?
For certain, this new structure will help baseball sell itself. For starters, fans will now have the opportunity to see every single baseball club play in their stadium. My, what a concept. Now consider this… in soccer, when local teams face each other, it is commonly referred to as a “Derby” – pronounced: DAR-BEE. For example, the English Premier League’s twice-annual North London Derby is when Tottenham Hotspur plays (and beats) Arsenal, once at White Hart Lane and once down the road at Emirates Stadium. But, think about these derbies in terms of Major League Baseball. Off the top of my head, I can come up with almost 20 weekends worth of exciting baseball derbies (and existing rivalries) that promise big numbers for the ticket booth and the television audience. Think: Cubs v White Sox, Yankees v Red Sox, Yankees v Mets, Angels v Dodgers, Rangers v Astros, Giants v A’s, Nationals v Orioles, Reds v Indians, and Cardinals v Royals… three simple games at home, three simple games on the road. Less is more. Additionally, consider how teams might be able to sell ticket packages. Fans who do not want to attend all 81 home games could, instead, opt for new flex plans that include tickets for an entire series or, perhaps, tickets for every game three. There are unlimited new possibilities.

Doesn’t a single table only work in domestic soccer leagues because of promotion/relegation?
For those of you who are unclear about the relationship of “pro/rel” in conjunction with the single table, this is a device used to reward and penalize teams at the top and bottom of the table. For example, in the English Premier League, the bottom three clubs in total points at the end of the season get booted from the league, and sent down to the next lower division for the following season. Conversely, the top three teams from that next lower division are promoted up to the Premiership. So, believe it or not, toward the end of the campaign there is actually a bit of interest in the bad teams to see which three will get banished. Since Major League Baseball won’t be sending any teams down to the minors, the use of a single table does raise a valid concern. Additionally, as was previously discussed, one might argue that with the current divisions allow most teams a fighting chance to make the playoffs, and a single table in baseball would eliminate a strong playoff chase, leaving a bulk of teams wallowing in a heap at the bottom. Untrue! Of the 22 teams that did not make the playoffs in 2006, 10 had absolutely no chance. These 10 that I speak of finished at least 15 games or more out of first place in their divisions. Five more teams, not included in that number, still finished at least 10 to 14 games out of first place. So, if you take away the 8 teams that actually did make the playoffs, as well has these 15 teams who really never even come close, that leaves you with 7 teams who were somewhat in the running for post season baseball. The bottom line is that half the league was in contention for the post season, and half the league was not even close. I argue that divisions had nothing to do with the excitement level, or lack-there-of, and that you would find the same partitioning of the good versus the bad in a single table. However, with my format, at least we could enjoy a balanced schedule and playoff excitement throughout the season.

I’m a purist. I fear change.
Sleep well knowing that the ball is still round, the bat is still made of wood, three strikes is still and out, and the game is still nine innings.

Mock Single Table After Each Team has Played
One Series of Three Games (Below)

PTS: Points // SP: Series Played // SWx3: Series Sweep for Three Points // SWx1: Series Win for One Point // W: Wins // L: Losses // RD: Run Differential // RS: Runs Scored // RA: Runs Allowed
Teams in red qualify for playoffs.

(return to www.JarrettBellini.com)

Scuba Diving

2006-07-17T20:36:00.000-07:00

(Scuba Diving Magazine commissioned this article in February 2006.)

By Jarrett Bellini

Humans weren’t meant to fly - notice that we seem to lack feathers and wings. Similarly, humans also weren’t meant to survive underwater. No gills. No fins. Yet, somehow we’ve managed to find ways to both soar through the air and glide through the currents of the ocean. Go humans!

Speaking of the former, I’ll admit that I’m still rather scared of flying. Of course, I occasionally have to do it – it’s a way to get somewhere. I climb aboard that giant metal tube, close my eyes to the clouds, and hope to end up somewhere in the vicinity of Phoenix. So, it only makes sense that I attempt the latter – securing a smaller metal tube to my back, opening my eyes to a strange new underwater world, and hoping not to end up in the vicinity of Phoenix... for doing so might suggest that we have a minor problem with the polar ice caps.

I first attempted scuba diving off the Turks & Caicos Islands in the north Caribbean. My family was having a little reunion at one of those all-inclusive resorts where the only thing we had to worry about was whether or not we wanted lobster, sushi, or both. It was exhausting.

My dad and I decided to try diving. Hey, it was all-inclusive! This involved a short resort course on how not to drown. Basically, it was just enough instruction to keep us alive, but not enough to give us any actual diving credibility. It’s sort of like learning three guitar chords. It sounds like music, but it doesn’t make you Jerry Garcia.

Limited as it was, I still enjoyed the warm, turquoise sea. My dad, on the other hand, seemed profoundly moved by the serenity of being alone with the fish. Or, perhaps, it was the fact that my mom was temporarily out of earshot. Whatever it was, he went back home to Arizona and earned his diving certification.

Not to be outdone, I figured it was time I caught up with my old man.

Getting Started

Unlike soccer, where, in the absence of a ball, some rolled up duct tape might suffice for a game of pickup footy, scuba is a gear intensive sport. You could try to breathe underwater without it, but you’ll likely wind up terminally waterlogged like Virginia Woolf. Of course, she didn’t really make much of an effort. She also left a good-bye note and filled her pockets with stones. Bad example.

So, before you begin your certification, it’s a good idea to get your hands on, at the very least, the essential non-air equipment. My essentials were purchased at SeaVentures in Atlanta, where I would also take my classes. It’s actually not a bad idea to gear up and study at the same place, for if the shop owner is anything like Wyatt Foster, you’ll be able to make any immediate adjustments and exchanges on your equipment as you test them out in the pool. Comfort is key.

The first, and most important, item you’ll need is a wetsuit. This is the only necessity I did not purchase at SeaVentures, opting, instead, to have it custom made by Waterproof Diving International – even a not-so-incredibly-sexy man deserves a perfect fit. Upon receiving my personalized wetsuit in the mail, I was pleased to learn that it was a perfect fit… which is to say that it squeezed the bejezus out of me. Fortunately, once I got in the water, things loosened up a bit.

The other essentials to go along with the wetsuit are a mask, snorkel, writing tablet, knife, booties (yes, “booties”), gloves, fins, and a dive bag. Each of these varies in price and efficiency, and I was more than content to slide by with average-grade equipment. I’m a novice - not Jacques Cousteau. Yet.

Back to School

After a short, one-hour orientation at the dive shop, where I filled out various forms and received my manuals, I had a week to go home and study before the first class. Amazingly, this wasn’t as painful as I remember it being in college. Of course, I also wasn’t staying up all night playing beer pong.

Each chapter of the Scuba Diving International textbook clearly explained the science and basic procedures of enjoying your self contained underwater breathing apparatus (ahem, S.C.U.B.A.), and did a remarkable job of both whetting my appetite for adventure and informing me on all the fun and exciting ways I could wind up sick or injured. However, while I pondered the possibility of nitrogen poisoning and decompression sickness, I would soon learn that these conditions are both extremely rare and, generally speaking, reserved for nitwits.

My pre-open-water instruction was spread out over the course of a weekend, and each of the three seminars was split between a classroom and a 90-degree pool. By the end of the third day, six other students and I were assembling our own equipment, breathing underwater, and gliding around the deep end with complete confidence in our safety and ability. Even more, I was pleased by the fact that I could successfully explain the basic science behind compressed air, pressure, and their coexistence within the respiratory system. Sadly, however, the portion of my frontal lobe earmarked for science is now full.

During these pool sessions, I was also introduced to some other essential equipment I had not already purchased, but would later rent. Among these items, the regulator, PDC (personal dive computer), and weight-integrated BCD (buoyancy compensator device) are the only items one might realistically want to buy, though they do account for the greatest cost in personal scuba diving equipment. That being said, unless you plan on spending a lot of time dealing with airport security, you likely won’t ever need to purchase your own air cylinders.

“What do you mean I can’t take this giant, metal tube filled with dangerously explosive compressed air on board?”

Chilly Water

About 380 miles south of Atlanta sits Crystal River, Florida. This is where, a week after my classes, I would perform the four required open water dives necessary to earn my certification. With a great group of students, seasoned divers, and instructors gathered for our trip, I learned that scuba is often more than just staring at fish. It’s a great way to meet new people… and then destroy them in a late-night game of Hearts while cruising down the freeway in a custom bus.

I also learned that my new head cold was turning out to be much worse than I had anticipated. Needless to say, diving and sinus infections are hardly the greatest combination, but I was determined to carry on. All I needed was a good night’s sleep.

Our group’s wake up call came the next day at 6 a.m.. By eight, I was standing outside our bus along the shore of Rainbow River, fully clad in my diving gear, staring at my own breath, and preparing for our first two dives. All my training and classroom study was finally about to be put into action. Flawlessly, I assembled my BCD to the cylinder, and the cylinder to my regulator (or, in more simple terms, I attached my vest thingy to the metal air thingy, and then the metal air thingy to the tubular hose thingy that makes me not die). Time to dive!

Finally, after a short boat ride, we entered the 70-degree river. Mind you, that’s pretty cold water. Fortunately, my sexy, custom wetsuit seemed to be doing its job. Now, with hypothermia firmly avoided, I could concentrate on pinching my nose and equalizing my head cold, seeing to it that my face didn’t explode as I started my descent to 20 feet (where one is required to spend 20 minutes at this depth).

After our pleasant morning session and lunch, we were free to enjoy the rest of the day. I chose to nap like an old man so I could defeat my cold and possibly check out the live band playing later that night at the Day’s Inn. Though I had no proof, I was secretly convinced it was going to be Lynyrd Skynyrd. I never bothered to find out.

My final two dives came early the following morning at a large spring-fed, James Bond-like sinkhole known as Devil’s Den. Though the water was a little colder than Rainbow River and I was still tired from the previous day, I was pleased to find that my sinuses had either cleared away in the night or the infection had simply moved on up into my brain. I’m not really sure if that theory holds any scientific merit. Regardless, I thoroughly enjoyed my second day, completing the remainder of my skills with ease.

Emerging from the sinkhole, I was unofficially a certified diver. On the bus home, I completed the last of my paperwork and received my certificate… which was promptly Dr. Peppered by one of the other students.

In the end, having breezed through the classroom sessions and the open water dives, I walked away from the certification process with a very positive attitude. If I could have this much fun diving while feeling under the weather, I know I’ll love it even more when I take a clean bill of health to the warm, turquoise waters of the all-inclusive Caribbean.

Flying out there, on the other hand, is still an issue. If only I could grow some fancy wings to go with my new gills.

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extra review capsule

2006-06-19T08:04:00.000-07:00

for another time

FoxNews.com, for being one of the more popular internet news sources, lacks a certain degree of style. Besides having a seemingly thrown-together front page, readers may find it frustrating to explore certain articles because of advertisements placed in the middle of the text. Additionally, when the lead story is dwarfed by tech company’s billboard, there might be an issue with priorities. The content is fine… it’s the style. (www.foxnews.com)

Ave Maria, I Pray

2006-03-06T12:21:00.000-08:00

By Jarrett Bellini

In the future town of Ave Maria, Florida you’ll be able to have your pizza any gosh darn way you like it… just so long as it isn’t stuffed crust topped with porno and birth control.

Get the door. It’s Domino’s!

Thomas S. Monaghan, founder of the popular pizza delivery chain and late night savior to bored, dormitory coeds everywhere, is bankrolling the development of a new 5,000 acre community just east of Naples. A civil libertarian’s nightmare, the new town is being built around Ave Maria University – the first Catholic university in this country in about 40 years – and promises to be governed by strict, Roman Catholic principles that only appear to violate a handful of this country’s most sacred laws.

In a 2005 speech delivered in Boston, the former Pizza king explained that stores in Ave Maria would not be allowed to sell dirty magazines, pharmacies will not carry condoms or birth control pills, and cable television will be void of X-rated channels. Really, Mr. Monaghan, why don’t you just kick everyone’s dog while you’re at it. Maybe you could also put a curfew on laughter.

Ho hum… at least you can still have an abortion. Oh, wait. According to Monaghan’s plan you won’t be able to do that either. He says it’s God’s Will, but I think it has something more to do with the fact that, in America, if you can shell out $250 million for a public project, you can pretty much accomplish any personal or political goal – maybe even cancel Wednesdays if you want.

“Attention citizens. Wednesdays have been canceled. Please check your local listings for American Idol’s new night. That is all. As you were.”

Despite the fact that Ave Maria looks to be about as fun as being locked in a small white room with a glass of ice water and an ipod loaded with Kenny G, aesthetically, it sounds like a great place to live. Appealing to Euro-snobs like me, there are plans for an actual town center, an idea that has been completely lost in this country’s obsession with urban sprawl. And never mind the fact that my religious values come from Our Lady of the Sports Bar, I genuinely dig any central square dominated by a grand cathedral – Ave Maria’s promises the nation’s largest crucifix. Nice!

Charming and old world as it all sounds, the ban of Ye Olde Abortion Clinic doesn’t sit very well with people who still believe that our constitution means something. Quite simply, many argue that you just can’t pop up some organized township in America and then thumb your nose at laws protecting a woman’s right to choose and a man’s freedom from resorting to industrial strength bubble-wrap over Trojan Ultra-Thins.

But there are loopholes that may allow Team Monaghan to achieve their dream. The 11,000 homes he envisions will be owned, outright, by the buyers. However, The Almighty will control commercial property. Of course, I’m referring to Monaghan and the other primary investors who, in their quest for ideological domination, might create lease provisions restricting what can be sold by potential merchants. It’s all very complicated, but the bottom line is that finding top quality smut in Ave Maria will be about as likely as finding Pope Benedict XVI riding shotgun next to Nick Nolte at four in the morning.

Personally, I think it’s all a moot point. Whether Ave Maria wins or loses its forthcoming legal battles is not of any real concern. I mean, what heathen in his or her right mind is going to just show up in this blissful little town and open up an adult shop? By virtue of any written or unwritten laws, Ave Maria will simply attract like-minded people who will live like-minded lives in a like-minded community. And that’s great. Seriously. I’m happy if they’re happy. Of course, if anybody needs me, I’ll be up in my room watching Skinimax and eating pizza.

“Hello, Domino’s? I’d like to order a large stuffed crust with double porno, double birth control… and, please, hold the self-righteousness.”

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CNN.com Article

Capsules

2006-02-14T15:04:00.000-08:00

Review Capsules
(Click here for Writing Home & Sidebar)

Campmor.com’s main page validates their claim: “Your Quickest Link to the Outdoors.” Being that shoppers' four most popular needs are packs, tents, clothing, and sleeping gear, this site offers up the good stuff right at the top. From there, it requires just a couple easy clicks to narrow down your choices by brand, type, and price. (www.campmor.com)

World66.com’s visual simplicity and general ease-of-use allows destination research to be as simple as clicking on a large map, front and center. With basic history and practical information, updated by site users, this is a decent starting point for the early planning stages of your next vacation. World66.com doesn’t have all the answers, but you’ll begin asking the right questions. (www.world66.com)

Longest... Concert... Ever. Confirmed.

2006-01-05T15:31:00.000-08:00

By Jarrett Bellini

While my ear isn’t exactly calibrated to that of Yo Yo Ma, it also isn’t set to that of the guy who decided to sign the boys from Hanson to a major record deal. Basically, I know when something sounds right. And, though I haven’t actually heard John Cage’s latest posthumous work, I can tell you that it doesn’t sound right.

As music, it doesn’t even count as a good idea. The Grateful Dead’s Wall of Sound was a good idea. Cage’s creation should be filed under weird for the sake of weird. Which is also cool. Just as much as I appreciate creativity in the arts, I can also appreciate pure lunacy. I was, after all, a frat guy in college, and the phrase we should light this thing on fire seemed to fit most occasions.

So, I’ll let you be the judge. Cage’s final ongoing musical project is the world’s longest (and slowest) live concert – clocking in at 639 years. Notice I used the word musical… as in like music. I realize that music is generally defined as organized sound and silence, which this project most certainly and cartoonishly is, but let’s try and be civilized about the whole thing. We're not talking about real music. This is more like a four-in-the-morning bad idea from an eighteen-year-old pothead.

“Dude. I've got it.”

Cage, an accomplished American avant-garde composer, didn’t live long enough to hear the first striking chord of his opus, Organ2/ASLSP, in February 2003. He died in 1992. However, in his honor, the actual project began (by virtue of the John Cage Organ Foundation) on September 5, 2001 on what would have been his 89th birthday. It all started… with a year and a half of silence. How creative.

Of course, this whole concept (commencing with a prolonged absence of sound) came from the same guy who, in 1952, wrote the controversial 4’33 composition. Confused? That would be four minutes and thirty-three seconds of pure silence… notated on sheet. Sheet is pretty what I was thinking. As in, can you believe this sheet?

His primary objective, having a man sit at a piano doing nothing, was for the audience to hear the everyday music all around them… birds chirping, clocks ticking, wind blowing. If I had been around and paid for this experience, one would also have heard the sound of me leaving and the door slamming.

I guess I’m not really concealing my opinion that 4’33 received a bit of undue praise. It’s like congratulating a homeless guy for just sitting under a tree all day. In both cases, nothing happened. Don’t get me wrong. Silence is wonderful. Perhaps it's even art. But it’s certainly not music. Remember... it's organized sound and silence. Had the pianist so much as farted, we might, then, have an excuse to call Rolling Stone.

On January 5, 2006, the John Cage Organ Project struck its second chord, a combination of A, C, and F-sharp that will be held down for the next few years by weights. This is known, among music circles, as the Ferris Bueller Odometer Technique. It was only attempted once on a Ferrari in a fictional movie, and it didn’t work. Godspeed!

The site of this concert is the old, abandoned Buchardi Church in Halberstadt, Germany. It’s truly an amazing structure, but, like I said, it’s in Germany. So, if you live in the United States, it's hardly a weekend roadtrip. The good news, however, is that if you ever go to Germany (and I really do mean ever) you're more than welcome to pop your head in and say hello.

Now, I fear that I may have painted John Cage as some sort of nutcase. He wasn't. He was a genius and an eccentric. And, while I do have some minor concerns with more than one of his “music” concepts, I wouldn’t be giving him his proper due if I didn’t admit that, all things considered, he was definitely a visionary. For instance, in 1937 he predicted the use of electrical instruments. Of course, this ultimately lead to Starship’s recording of We Built this City. Mr. Cage owes us all an apology.

But the man existed, he made people think, and he’s left us with something for the next six hundred years. I, for one, would love to see it (and hear it) in person. What a thrill it must be to bask in the presence of such lunacy. What awe it must inspire to stand before a masterfully constructed organ that will continue to sound for centuries to come.

Really, we should light that thing on fire.

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Hot Dogs n' Samplin'

2005-12-24T14:58:00.000-08:00

By Jarrett Bellini

I knew this was going to be a good day when we missed the Costco exit for the second straight week in a row, but didn’t get mad. Hot dogs n’ samplin’ is sort of a little tradition I have with my roommate, and, despite the fact that we do this quite regularly, it’s almost a given that a) we’ll forget to bring correct change for the toll booth and b) completely bypass the turn off from Georgia 400. We’re idiots.

But this was Christmas Eve and we had nothing better to do, so our extended road trip didn’t cause too much of a disturbance. Besides, we were just moments away from immersing ourselves in American consumer heaven – it’s the place you go when you absolutely, positively must fill your swimming pool with BBQ sauce. I’ve often wondered what would happen if you dropped a poor, starving child from Ethiopia in the middle of Costco. I imagine he would stare wide-eyed at a 30-gallon jar of trail mix before uttering his first English words, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

On this particular Saturday morning, the entrance was lined with player pianos. Which is nice, because, if you’re anything like me, you’ll want to purchase your crab legs and $20,000 musical instrument in the same trip. The key, in this situation, is to cruise past the electronics section as quickly as possible, making a B-line for the back of the warehouse. That’s where the sample ladies hang out. Today, skewered on the tip our first toothpick was a small chunk of bourbon chicken.

“Mmmm. This is wonderful.” I’d feel badly if I didn’t at least pretend to show interest in the product. “Tell me, how long does this take to prepare?”

I don’t really care. I just want the ladies to feel appreciated. Really, they’re all winners in my book.

“Well, just twenty minutes in the toaster-ov…”

“Super. Let me try one more to make sure I really like it.”

After the bourbon chicken lady, we strolled over to the ravioli lady. Then it was on to the grilled lamb lady, but only after being intercepted by the Welch’s grape juice lady.

“Would you like to try some delicious grape juice, today?”

“Honestly, ma’am, I’ve got nothing against grape juice. And I’m sure you’re a wonderful person. But I’m here for solids.”

I have to admit that the food options today were rather disappointing. As far as I’m concerned, it’s not a successful trip unless you get a soup lady or a Hot Pocket lady. Of course, the experience always ends on a high note. Having completed the samplin’ portion of the afternoon, it was on to the food court for the hot dog festivities. First, however, we had to actually purchase our large frozen pizza. And for the second week in a row, we approached the checkout line with one item… which is pretty much unheard of.

Last week I walked out with a jug of protein powder. This week it was football food for the Redskins game. As we sauntered over to the checkout area, the crowd stared at us in awe, parting like the Red Sea as we proceeded forward. There’s no express lane at Costco because triumphs such as ours simply don’t exist. At best, they might someday dedicate a lane for 80 items or fewer. But here we were with just a frozen pizza.

“Sir, I would be honored if you would go ahead of me. Really, please have my spot in line… and, here, take my first-born child as a token of my admiration. And I shall sacrifice an ox upon returning to my village.”

So, checkout was, once again, a total breeze. And, let me also add that the Costco frozen pizza, at just eight dollars, is one of the best deals on the planet. I’m an oven-pizza kind of guy to begin with, and firmly believe that the only people who order Domino’s delivery are communists. But, hey, if you enjoy eight lousy slivers of pepperoni tossed over a fatty, mule-cheese bread bowl, you go right ahead… commie.

Once we were all checked out, Drew and I bellied up to the food counter to order the hot dog special – $1.50 for a jumbo Hebrew National and 20 oz. soda. The bun is what makes it so good… all perfect and soggy, like you've been sitting on it throughout the entire month of July. Unless you’ve had one, you just don’t get how it’s the best bargain in America. Seriously, it’s the kind of meal that would set you back ten bucks at the ballpark – but you don’t have to actually sit through the Braves game with all those rednecks at Turner Field who just don’t seem to appreciate a good “Chipper” Jones heckling.

“Hey, Larry, I think they’re towing your John Deere from the players lot!”

On the way out - our bellies filled with samples, hot dogs, and soda - we had only to go through the great Costco Shakedown. This is where the door Nazis check your receipt to make sure it matches everything in your cart. Of course, seeing as how people have eleven-hundred items, one can understand how this isn’t an exact science. So, as an additional fail-safe, they tend to rely on the honor system… even if you’re only holding one item.

“Just a pizza today, sir?”

“Well, that and the player piano I have in my back pocket. Quick, Drew, run!”

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Eye for an Eye: Notes

2005-12-22T14:31:00.000-08:00

CIA World Factbook: Developed Countries
(Found Near the Bottom of the Page) 34 DCs are: Andorra, Australia, Austria, Belgium, Bermuda, Canada, Denmark, Faroe Islands, Finland, France, Germany, Greece, Holy See, Iceland, Ireland, Israel, Italy, Japan, Liechtenstein, Luxembourg, Malta, Monaco, Netherlands, NZ, Norway, Portugal, San Marino, South Africa, Spain, Sweden, Switzerland, Turkey, UK, US

CIA World Factbook: Faroe Islands
Though it is referenced as a developed country by the CIA World Factbook, The Faroe Islands archipelago is not identified on the Amnesty International tables because it is governed by Denmark... which has abolished the death penalty.

CIA World Factbook: Bermuda
Bermuda is a UK territory, but, like The Faroe Islands, is still listed in the CIA World Factbook as a developed country. The United Kingdom has abolished the death penalty... Bermuda's internal self-government agreed in 1999.

Amnesty International: Table of Countries that Have Abolished the Death Penalty
Here, you will find a complete list.

Amnesty International: Israel Among Countries That Have Abolished the Death Penalty for Ordinary Crimes Only
Israel still has the death penalty, but in a lesser form than both Japan and the United States.

Wikipedia: Map and Table
This is a secondary source, but still a useful and interesting tool.

NationMaster.com: Murders Per Capita
Though this, too, is a secondary source, it pulls its information from such sources as the CIA World Factbook and the United Nations. This particular graph sources the Seventh United Nations Survey of Crime Trends and Operations of Criminal Justice Systems, covering the period 1998 - 2000 (United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime, Centre for International Crime Prevention)

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An Eye for an Eye

2005-12-22T14:10:00.000-08:00

By Jarrett Bellini

An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth.

Defenders of capital punishment enjoy using this argument when rationalizing state-sponsored death, turning to archaic words when modern statistics don't seem to support their cause. In fact, the eye for an eye excuse is such an overused cliché that it seems to just roll off the tongue like drool from Pavlov’s dogs, triggered by the bell of political debate. One must wonder, then, if those who profess these words ever stop to consider what the biblical practice, if taken literally, would actually mean. Doesn’t the argument suggest that a convicted child molester and murderer like John Couey would best be punished by death… only after being brutally raped by a government employee? Try filling that position.

"Well, Jim, you seem well qualified, your references check out, and your prior work experience is more than sufficient. Quite simply, we'd like to offer you the job. But, first, tell me, how do you feel about sodomizing an old man before we pump him full of potassium chloride? Is... that... something... you'd... be... interested... in?"

"Sure, Mr. Davis. That sounds like something I could do. Let's talk about benefits."

This passage from the King James Version of the Bible doesn't stop at eye for an eye and tooth for a tooth. Exodus 21: 23-25 also suggests hand for hand, foot for foot, burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe. I can't figure that last one out, but I gather that it has something to do with magically converting thy neighbor into a zebra.

“Get the black and white paint, Don. We’ve got ourselves a sinner!”

Recently, from the same pro-life zealots who scream that we shouldn't be playing God, I began hearing the eye for an eye argument ad nauseam as the execution date for, convicted murderer, Stanley “Tookie” Williams neared. Williams, as many learned over the weeks leading up to his death, was the co-founder of the notorious Crips street gang who, later, managed to turn his life around while behind bars. An author and outspoken critic of violence and gangs, Williams was nominated five times for the Nobel Peace Prize and once for the Nobel Prize for Literature. This wasn’t a case of some fly-by-night do-gooder.

While we are all aware of the letter of the law, there is also the spirit of the law. In the case of Tookie Williams, the letter of the law was exacted. Sadly, however, this was a perfect opportunity for our government and justice system to act in the spirit of the law, allowing Williams to continue his work from prison. It wasn’t as though people were suggesting that we just set the guy free with thirty dollars and a bus pass.

“Off you go, Tookie! Here, have some Lakers tickets.”

Tookie’s supporters (well, those who weren’t foolishly arguing his innocence) were simply asking that he be granted clemency so he could proceed with his mission to gain back our children and our streets. By killing him, we gained nothing. Yes, it is possible that the victims’ families received closure and peace of mind – I hope they did. I pray never to be in a similar situation where I would feel that much pain and anguish, and I’m not above saying that it’s possible that the only thing on my mind would be revenge of this very same nature. I suppose nobody really knows until it actually happens.

That being said, I offer that there was more virtue in keeping Williams alive. Perhaps there is some youth out there, right now, that Williams could have counseled into a better life, and, in doing so, prevented more senseless murders which will bring more heartbreak to more families. For the sake of these unknown future victims, I ask: Did Williams really need to die?

This, of course, is just one specific case. I oppose the death penalty as a rule. So, forget about Tookie, and never mind even the countless innocent men and women on death row. Killing is wrong. How can the state forbid its citizens from committing homicide, but, at the same time, excuse its own form of murder? Really, our laws are creating a situation similar to that of the parent who says to his or her son or daughter, “Well, sure, I used to listen to Skynyrd and smoke pot all the time as a kid… things were different. But it’s not OK for you to do it!”

You might as well just cue Free Bird and teach ‘em to roll a fatty.

Killing is not the practice of civilized and advanced societies. The Central Intelligence Agency lists 34 developed countries that, generally, fit this description. Among these nations, only three permit the death penalty: Japan, Israel and the United States (Israel's one - and only - execution was in 1962). And where does the United States fall, among these 34 countries, in rank when it comes to murders per capita? Try number two, right behind South Africa... who happens to have had this teensy-tiny little problem with race relations. Even at number 24 among all nations, America remains a rather violent place despite being so developed and advanced. This begs a valid question: Which came first, the chicken or the egg? While I have to argue that the death penalty has done nothing to help curb violent crime in America, others may see a desperate need for capital punishment because of our violent crime rate. So, I suppose it’s a toss-up. Given the choice, I'd err on the side of life.

The bottom line is that violence breeds violence. As the ultimate example of right and wrong, our government should act as a shining beacon for virtue and righteousness. It should be the good parent… walking the walk, talking the talk. I harbor zero sympathy for violent criminals, and have no problem locking them away in a concrete cell to rot in silence for the rest of their natural lives. But it certainly concerns me that, when it comes to methods of enforcing criminal justice, we are joined, in policy, by nations like Afghanistan, North Korea, and Rwanda.

Call me an elitist, but I think we can associate with a classier crowd.

Factual Notes
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On Being Home (Part 1 of 3): The Inside Approach

2005-12-06T13:54:00.000-08:00

(Every eight months or so, pending good behavior, my mom and dad earn a visit from their youngest son. This time, I'm taking notes.)

By Jarrett Bellini

My dad is several years retired now, and clearly he feels this entitles him to watch the Golf Channel all day. And, why shouldn’t it? The Golf Channel is not so much a useful network for enthusiasts of the game as it is a right of passage for seniors – a royal invitation from the Retirement Gods.

“We see that gray hair! You’ve worked hard! No more boss, no more reports, no more meetings. Come on over, Phil! Welcome to the Golf Channel! Here’s your complimentary new lack of motivation.”

He’d never accept their free pass for laziness, but he is borderline obsessed with whatever’s on channel 44. In fact, yesterday, he actually hurried to the kitchen television because his infomercial was coming on. Some people make time in their lives for ER and The West Wing… my dad exists for the Speed Stik.

This morning he hollered out to me from the other end of the house, “Jarrett, this is the one! It’s on!”

“What’s on, Dad?”

“The Speed Stik! Check this thing out!”

The Speed Stik is a weighted, club-length rod that promises to improve swing velocity. Just throw the Speed Stik a few times before your drive and see how much faster and harder you strike the ball with your regular club! A gauge along the shaft of the Speed Stik helps you monitor your improved strength. Amazingly, all this can be yours for three easy payments of thirty-three thirty-three.

That’s the part that always gets to dad – the word “payments.” Why pay when you can build? As far as he’s concerned, there exists hardly anything in the world that cannot be created using PVC pipe and sponge. Naturally, the Speed Stik nurtured this belief, and soon my dad found himself at the Home Depot scouring for the proper fittings.

I finally witnessed the Bellini-version last night as the sun was going down. Peaking out the living room window, I saw dad out on the lawn practicing his swing. I had to investigate.

“What the hell is this thing?”

“Oh, this? It’s a Speed Stik. Well, not the Speed Stik. I saw it on the Golf Channel and figured, shoot, I could make that!”

“I see.”

“Yeah, I just took a long piece of PVC, filled it with sand, and capped it off on both ends. Three easy payments my ass!”

I took a few swings of the Stingy Stik and was rather impressed with the craftsmanship. There wasn’t any doubt in my mind that dad’s version of this training device wasn’t any better or worse than the one seen on TV. Now, I’m not sure if this says something profound about my dad’s handy-work, or something cautionary of what’s being sold on the Golf Channel for ninety-nine ninety-nine. Probably both.

Then I noticed something else lying on the grass. It was far more complex than the Stingy Stik, while still embodying the trademark signs of dad’s ingenuity… namely, PVC and sponge.

“What about this thing, Dad? What patent violation is this?”

“Oh this?” He said this matter-of-factly as though he wasn’t dying to tell me about how he had stolen yet another idea from a Golf Channel infomercial. “This is the Inside Approach!”

The Inside Approach is nothing more than a foot-long cylindrical cushion attached to a stand. The cushion, placed just over the ball, promises to help alleviate the dreaded slice by forcing the golfer to use, well, an inside approach. An improper swing from the outside will result in the club smacking the cushion.

Dad saw this one afternoon and must have drooled in excitement like Wilt Chamberlain at a cheerleading competition. Here was an opportunity to utilize both PVC and sponge! So, to go along with his Stingy Stik, dad also has his very own Chintz-ide Approach.

In all seriousness, these assemblies of my dad’s seem to work pretty well. The construction appears to be of good quality, the stolen designs are already proven, and the results are positive. The best part is that dad really gets a kick from figuring it all out, advancing these inventions from his television to his very own back yard.

If you ask nicely, perhaps he’ll even make one for you… just three easy payments of a dollar-eighty-seven.

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On Being Home (Part 2 of 3): Treasures

2005-12-05T18:07:00.000-08:00

(Every eight months or so, pending good behavior, my mom and dad earn a visit from their youngest son. This time, I'm taking notes.)

By Jarrett Bellini

Coming home is like being on a treasure hunt, only these so-called treasures are nothing more than my old junk. Nevertheless, it’s loads of fun to see what I’ve left behind over the years. Though I haven’t actually lived in Arizona since I took off for college in 1997, my stuff somehow continues to accumulate in various nooks and crannies of our home – especially the closet of my old bedroom.

However, before venturing into that, I just wanted to touch on the great discovery I made in the garage yesterday. The garage is a space both my brother and I have managed to abuse with reckless abandon. Usually, it’s under the justification of, “Hold onto this box of books for now until I move into my new place. Just put it in the garage.”

Today, there are enough volumes sitting in there to rival even the finest library – so long as we agree that the finest library is really the suckiest library. But, forget about those books. Instead, let’s concentrate on the large plastic bin filled with old beer bottles.

Many years ago, when I was in high school, I started a beer bottle collection along the shelves of my room. Whereas most parents might be somewhat concerned with their underage son’s affinity for such a collection, mine seemed to be more appreciative of the fact that I had a hobby. So, instead of questioning my motives, they encouraged my interest by providing me with new, exotic bottles from around the world.

“Here, Jarrett, have you heard of this one?”

“Yeah, it’s horrible! There’s too much sediment, and the body is way to malty… from what I’ve, um, read.”

The thing was, the bottles I received as gifts from my parents were full. Mine were empty. Trust me, I wasn’t picking them up off the streets.

Of course, those bottles weren’t always laying in repose in the garage. Their first stop, after leaving the shelves, was the closet. As more junk accumulated they were moved away to make room for all that now lies within. So, with that, allow me to share a few of the more intriguing things currently sitting behind those two doors of mystery.

TI-81 Calculator
This was required for high school math and remains one of the most confusing appliances I have ever owned. So, I have to say that I was rather excited to rediscover this horrible device that provided me with so much anguish. I was also pleased to discover that a cheat sheet I had made so long ago was still taped to the inside of the cover. Numbers never really made sense to me, and I can say, now, that I only got to where I am today because I cheated my way through math classes. Granted, where I am today sucks. Poetic justice, I suppose.

The Hammock
A sure sign of a misspent youth is when your boyhood heroes are George Carlin and Jimmy Buffett (an even surer sign is if those two names happen to be John Hinckley and “Squeaky” Fromme). Though the great comedian was my first inspiration, it was my appreciation for the original Parrothead that I managed to take to the Nth degree. It culminated the day I had my dad bolt metal hooks through two walls of my bedroom to where I then attached both ends of a red hammock - it was my goal to create Margaritaville. After school, I would come home, blend up some ice and margarita mix, spray some coconut scent in the air, put on some Jimmy, and neglect my homework for as long as possible. It was truly paradise. Paradise got even better when I commissioned my mom to paint an ocean mural on the wall. It’s sick, I know.

Chaparral High School Freshman Baseball T-Shirt
In 1994 we went 17-0. The t-shirt, proudly declaring us “Champions,” fails to acknowledge the game we were trailing by about 10 runs until it started to rain. The contest was canceled and never spoken of again. I always felt like that shirt was fraudulent, and refused to feel any real pride while wearing it. Though winning 17 games was quite an accomplishment, what was even more astounding was the day I got to start. Sadly, I only earned this right after two key players beat the living crap out of each other off campus one afternoon, suspending them each for one game. Given the rare opportunity to play, I drilled a homerun on my first at bat. The next game I was back on the bench performing 80’s rock karaoke with my friend Adam.

The Fart Book
This was a birthday gift given to me by my aunt, uncle and cousins, describing (with illustrations) the world’s various types of flatulence. The dedication on the inside cover reads:

“Jarrett - When I saw this book, I just knew we had to get it for you! What a reputation!! Happy reading + happy farting! And beware of people with smiles on their faces for no reason – they just laid an SBD!!! Love, us!”

So, let’s recap… I was allowed to have a beer bottle collection as a kid, spent most of my time in a hammock drinking virgin margaritas, and received a book on farting as a birthday gift. Really, is it any wonder that I spent the bulk of my college days as an overweight, beer-chugging, frat guy? Gee, thanks everybody!

All this discovery just makes me very uneasy - I really need to take the edge off. So, if you're looking for me I’ll be in the garage. I think there are still a few unopened beer bottles out there.

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On Being Home (Part 3 of 3): The Friendly Skies

2005-12-04T12:34:00.000-08:00

(Every eight months or so, pending good behavior, my mom and dad earn a visit from their youngest son. This time, I'm taking notes.)

By Jarrett Bellini

I was aboard a flight from Phoenix to Salt Lake City on my way back to Atlanta when I made a real rookie mistake. I tried to talk to the passenger sitting next to me. It seemed harmless at the time - a little friendly dialogue with a guy reading Golf magazine.

“So, get a few rounds in while you were in Phoenix?”

I didn’t really care. I didn’t even really want to talk to him. I don’t know. I just felt like I had to say something. Never mind the possibility that he lived in Phoenix and has probably played multiple rounds of golf while he’s been there.

He replied, “Um, yeah. I played some golf.”

There was nothing upbeat about his voice and he seemed annoyed that I was trying to engage in pointless conversation. I suppose it was a combination of being a nervous flyer and also just wanting to see what it felt like to speak as a fellow golf enthusiast, even though, on this week-long trip home, I played like a lobotomized mental patient on 36 holes of pitch n’ putt.

“I managed to work in a little golf, too. A couple rounds… you know. Hit the ball okay.”

Why was I still talking? I couldn’t stop. “Yeeeeeeah, nice weather for golf this past week, I tell you.”

He must’ve hated me by this point, and simply said, “Yeah. Nice weather.”

I stopped talking when my brain finally caught up to the fact that this guy didn’t want to talk, I didn’t want to talk, and it’s hard to be cool when, deep down, you know that you stole your putter from an amusement park. I let the man be.

With awkward human interaction firmly out of the way, I was able to fully concentrate on my fear of flying. This disdain for being in the air is a very real thing. I’m not sure when it started, but I reckon it first emerged from a flight I took as a kid where, after storming down the runway for takeoff… we didn’t take off. The captain came on the intercom to explain, “Well, we didn’t quite make it up that time, so we’re gonna taxi back over and try that again.

The details are hazy, and I attribute my faded memories to all the alcohol I’ve been forced to consume before flying in the years since. It was innocence lost. Now, as an adult, I’m well aware of the fact that airline crashes are very few, but also very fatal.

So, I’m a white-knuckle flyer. Usually I stay up all night before the day of a flight and throw back a couple 20 oz. Diet Cokes spiked with mini bottles of whiskey before getting on board. History has taught me that this doesn’t actually calm my nerves so much as it tweaks my bladder. I do it anyway.

On this day, however, I flew both well rested and completely sober. Perhaps this is why I was more in-tune with every sound coming from this plane… and there were many. With each gear’s clank and every hydraulic hiss, I was more and more convinced that this was the one. Some people are fearless. They think, “If this is my time, then this is my time.”

Phooey to that! This isn’t my time. Airline death isn’t going to be fast and painless, it’s going to be fiery and excruciating.

Once we hit our cruising altitude, the beverage service began. I declined a drink because I didn’t want to totally saturate the front of my trousers during the next bout of turbulence, but I did enjoy a granola bar. The Delta snack selection is quite agreeable, actually, considering that this is an unnecessary perk offered by a bankrupt company that probably couldn’t secure a loan on a new bev-cart.

The rest of my flight, muted by some Todd Snider on my iPod, went by rather smoothly. The landing was terrifying as usual, especially in light of the recent Southwest jet that skid off the runway in Chicago. We were arriving in snowy Salt Lake City, not Cancun. “Passengers, as we make our final approach, please prepare your shorts for soiling.”

My connecting flight to Atlanta was a larger jet, and I had already secured my emergency exit seat at the desk in Phoenix. So, I watched a little football on an airport TV, and then queued for boarding. Fortunately, this plane had very few passengers. Once the doors closed I quickly moved to an empty center row of three seats - all for me. Of course, this great claim was preceded by an awkward explanation to the guy sitting next to me.

“Well, looks like we’ll be able to spread out a bit!” (Oh, God, he thinks I’m repulsed by him.) “It’s nothing personal… just more room for me. And you, too!” (Great, he thinks I just called him fat.) “So, uh, I’ll just move over here across the isle.” (Why don’t you just tell him he smells like B.O. and bacon.) “Alright, here I go!” (I’m such a jerk.)

So, I had an entire row, my belongings neatly displayed as though I had checked into The Four Seasons. Life seemed pretty good. Oh, but this provided me with a whole new dilemma. I wasn’t tired and I’d liked to have worked in some reading, but I couldn’t let the rare three-seater go to waste. Law requires that a passenger with this kind of good fortune lay down and sleep. But I didn’t want to sleep. Arrrrggghhh!

I ended up laying down, anyway, watching a Richard Farnsworth movie on my laptop. It was quite nice. When the beverages came around, I ordered some Bloody Mary mix so I could at least pretend like I was having a cocktail. It didn’t help.

After landing safely in Atlanta, and fighting through the half-brained idiots standing on the left side of the escalators, I finally made my way onto the MARTA underground train. In less than half an hour I’d be back at my office, in my car, and on my way home. All I had to do was sit back and relax, and try not to say anything stupid to the guy next to me with a Guns & Ammo magazine.

“So… kill anything lately?”

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Git 'er Done!

2005-09-18T21:42:00.000-07:00

By Jarrett Bellini

I work in a television newsroom.

On a typical day, we cover any number of stories, from politics to sports, from world events to cute babies. But be it explosions in Iraq or the election of a new Pope, nothing, and I mean nothing, sends our rating through the roof like a good old fashioned car chase.

It usually starts out like this. A producer in the control room announces that there is a possible pursuit in progress, details forthcoming. Those of us with headphones, now privy to this information, begin the process of high-fives and chest bumps, for we know that it’s only a matter of time before we can put our feet up and let the show go on auto pilot for a while – no pun intended. Then, originating in a place that is still a mystery to me and could very well be the North Pole, a voice calls out over a speaker in our studio: “Attention all networks. Coming down, now, on router twenty is live coverage of a freeway chase in progress.”

Without even looking, we generally assume that our footage is coming in from KCAL. I might be making this up, and I am, but it’s a fact that the first thing they teach you in Los Angeles driving schools is how to blow past other vehicles at 90 miles-per-hour while holding a semi-automatic weapon.

Now, you have to understand, when you repeat the same boring news every fifteen minutes, a car chase, to put it in baseball terms, is like quietly sitting in the bleachers during a slow game, and then, for no apparent reason, the home plate umpire’s head explodes. It’s that good.

So, we let the story develop, gathering a few bits of information, and then our anchors finally break into our regular coverage.

“This just coming in to us, live, from Los Angeles… police are in pursuit of a red Mazda RX-8 on I-10 eastbound. The driver, we are being told, had just held up a bakery in Thousand Oaks, and is believed to be armed with bazooka.”

“That’s right. We don’t have many more details at this time, except to say that police are keeping their distance. And we are going to stick with this unless something really important happens. And it better be bloody.”

Now, at this point, with the anchors ad-libbing as they go, the teleprompter operator has fallen asleep face-first into the USA Today sports section, the floor director is scouring eBay for signed pictures of Wonder Woman, and the lighting guy has stepped outside for a cigarette. On a good day, this will last for several hours. Meanwhile, police representatives and other witnesses are being rounded up for on-air interviews that, generally, go something like this:

“On the line with us is Captain Ron Dinglewood from the California Highway Patrol. Mr. Dinglewood, thank you for coming on the air. What can you tell us?”

“Well, all I can really say is that officers are in pursuit of a red Mazda, now heading toward Denver.”

“So you have reason to believe that this man is trying to get to Colorado?”

“No. But he’s sort of heading in that direction.”

“I see. We understand that he had robbed a bakery and is armed with a bazooka. Can you confirm this?”

“At this time, I cannot confirm whether or not he is armed. However, we believe that he may be either holding, like you said, a bazooka, or, perhaps, a French baguette.”

It doesn’t really matter what is being said, because the viewers are only concerned with one thing – how will it end? Unlike a normal news story, where something has already happened and is now being reported, this car chase is not only live, but, by definition of all things that begin, it must come to a resolution. And, unlike, say, a conference on global warming, this one is likely to end in death and/or dismemberment.

During our most recent car chase, we followed a white van for about two hours until spike strips blew out the tires, and an officer spun it out by nudging the back of the guy’s car with the nose of his police cruiser. After it slammed into a retaining wall, the SWAT team pinned the car in so the driver couldn’t escape. For the next several hours, nothing happened. So, as any serious journalist would do, I made for some wagering. For the price of a quarter, those of us in the studio, anchors included, could purchase a square on a bingo card of sorts. Different squares, assigned at random, stood for different conclusions. My square would win me the pot if the suspect surrendered peacefully before five in the afternoon. Other squares were for death by police, surrender with a struggle, and other possible endings.

Well, the standoff lasted past my shift, meaning that I would have to learn of the final outcome from home. Of course, once I got to my house and started doing other things, I sort of forgot about the chase… until my phone rang.

“Jarrett, we have a problem.” It was one of my co-workers, Scott. It sounded urgent, as though I may have had to go back to work for other breaking news.

“What’s the matter, Scott?”

“I’m not sure if you’ve got your TV on, but we don’t have a corresponding square for K-9 attack after tear-gas grenade.”

No need to put my pants back on. “Hmm. I see. OK, well, let’s just file that under surrender with a struggle after 5PM, and we’ll take it to committee in the morning.”

And that’s how we settled the most bizarre chase we had covered in a long time. But there will be more. The viewers demand it, despite the fact that they complain how we never cover important news. Yet, they can’t turn away when we serve up sensationalism. People need to put their money where their mouth is when it comes to the media. If you want more hard news, tune in when we’re covering real stories. If you want less car chases, turn off your TV when we’re in hot pursuit. Remember, this is a business. We sell what people will buy.

For this reason, somewhere in a plush executive office in our building, somebody is praying for new video of Michael Jackson holding a cute baby while being chased down a freeway in Los Angeles.

It pains me to say this, but… it could happen.

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Happy Days are Here Again!

2005-09-17T21:17:00.000-07:00

By Jarrett Bellini

I wouldn’t say I’m proud to be an American, but I can certainly admit that I’m rather keen to being one. Maybe it’s just me, but the words pride and happiness have become somewhat confused.

Pride… there seems to be more to that word and to that ideal, something more personal that is being clipped away when we use it so frivolously. By my standards, it suggests something earned and achieved: I’m proud that I trained for a 10K run and managed to finish the race in just under a week.

Clearly, just being born in this country, by virtue of two people making whoopee in the back of a Chevy, doesn’t constitute any great feat on your behalf. You’re happy that these people happened to find Barry White on the radio, and you’re happy that they were drunk on cheap wine, but it wasn’t like you were standing there, coaching them on to greatness in your own conception, as if to say, “Keep going, future-parents! I want to be an American!”

So, maybe we should ease up on our pride. Conversely, you should feel every right to walk around saying how happy you are to live in this wonderful nation: I’m so happy that I live in America, where I can eat Panda Express every day if I want to!

You see, we’ve become so used to the word pride in the context of having appreciation for the United States, that we don’t even blink an eye when somebody says, "By golly, I am proud to be an American." But the rest of the world is noticing. I once met a Scot when I was backpacking in Ecuador who was completely baffled by our overflowing sense of national pride.

“What are you so damn proud about?” he asked.

I had never really thought about it, but was, nevertheless, quick to answer, “Well, we’re proud of our freedom of speech… our freedom of choice… our freedom of religion.”

He paused. “Yeah, we got that, too”

“And aren’t you proud?”

“Not really. I’m happy to have it, but I didn’t do anything.”

He had a point. In the context of his nation’s freedoms, perhaps William Wallace was deserving of pride. But my fellow traveler was just a byproduct of circumstance. In America, by that standard, the founding fathers and soldiers of the American Revolution have earned the right to be proud. As for the rest of us… well, we’re sure glad that that all happened.

But what about the modern American soldier? Aren’t these men and women worthy of pride? Yes, of course. However, their pride stems from knowing that they have defended freedom… something they're really happy to have.

Anyway, I’m sure you get the point. You haven’t been sniffing glue. But you know who has – country music stars. If there is any one group of individuals who will never get this whole pride vs. happiness thing, it’s these redneck, hillbillies with acoustic guitars and bad haircuts. And, seriously, let’s step away from the grammatical dissertation of pride. These guys are just plain ignorant.

Take, for example, the following lyrics from Darryl Worley’s Have You Forgotten?:

“Some say this country’s just out looking for a fight. Well after 9/11, man, I’d have to say that’s right!”

Easy there, Darryl. I mean, if that doesn’t just conjure up images of some pissed-off drunk guy in a tank top with a pool cue and a bottle of bourbon, I don’t know what does. This isn’t a frat party, Mr. Worley. There's a difference between looking for a fight and seeking justice.

And then, there’s the big mama-jama – the guy you don’t want to play Monopoly with because he’s such a jerk. Without further adieu, the lyrical poetry of Mr. Toby Keith:

“Oh, justice will be served and the battle will rage. This big dog will fight when you rattle his cage. You’ll be sorry that you messed with the U.S. of A. ‘Cause we’ll put a boot in your ass. It’s the American way!”

Sorry… if we could just back up there for a moment. We’ll do what? Put a boot in your ass? It’s the American way? What ever happened to: cotton - the fabric of our lives?

Look, I know this rah rah, neo-country, wave-the-flag garbage sells records. I get that. And, just like Worley, Toby Keith's small frontal lobe only allows him to write lyrics in the same vein as a middle-school bully hopped up on Mountain Dew. But consider what kind of image we are projecting to the world when we play a song like Keith’s Courtesy of the Red, White, and Blue (The Angry American), just after we bomb a village in Iraq, hitting our target but killing heaps of innocent children. Hey, it’s the American way!

Don’t get me wrong. Something ugly happened here and actions needed to be taken. But let’s try and consider the fact that we still live in a global community, and the opinions of the world do matter. Applied justice with humility, then, is the preferred method. Boastful arrogance is detrimental to the missions and safety of our pawns (er, soldiers). Not to be confused with the great lyricists of country’s past (Willie Nelson, Merle Haggard, and Hank Williams), these idiots are just perpetuating the image of the ignorant, ugly American.

I don’t know, maybe this is the danger of confusing pride with happiness. Anyone who has ever gotten a back massage or, say, a lap dance, knows that joy is fleeting. When your time is up and the song is finished, you start feeling a little down. We’re already programmed to accept that happiness comes and goes. Pride should last forever. That’s why we write bad country songs when we’re no longer happy. Confused, we think our pride is being compromised.

Well, maybe not we, the rational. Just moron country music singers, of which I am not. And for that… I’m proud.

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Soccer? I Hardly Know Her

2005-09-16T21:11:00.000-07:00

By Jarrett Bellini

If the names Landon Donovan, DaMarcus Beasley, Brian McBride, and Eddie Johnson don’t ring a bell, it only suggests that you are an average American. This is not to say, however, that you are average in every way – for all I know, you have talent for chewing glass. Which is cool… if that’s your thing. But you are an average American when it comes to having an appreciation for soccer. To be more specific, you’ve probably heard of teen sensation, Freddie Adu, but at the utterance of the words Bruce Arena, you’d sooner picture a multi-purpose, downtown entertainment complex before considering it to be the name of the US national team’s head coach.

Despite being popular with kids, few Americans have really caught on to this whole soccer thing. I, for one, am astonished, for it never ceases to amaze me how people will willingly sit down to a three-plus hour football, baseball, or basketball game, rife with commercials and pointless studio commentary by the likes of Bill Walton (who managed to leave his brain behind at the Grateful Dead’s closing of Winterland in 1978), but can’t find it within themselves to dedicate just over an hour and half to a soccer match with only one fifteen minute commercial break during halftime. It’s almost as if Americans can’t get through their day without being told, eleven-hundred times, which watered-down lager to drink after a hard day’s work at the apple pie factory.

“But there’s no scoring in soccer.” I hear this all the time. Well, you know what, people go to trendy bars all the time and there’s NO SCORING THERE EITHER. But everybody still goes. Why? Because it’s sport. And when some guy, clad in his newest vertical-striped shirt, finally scores a girl’s phone number, a jolt of energy is charged right through his spine. My friends, that is soccer. When a goal is scored, the fans become unglued because putting one in the net is difficult and it does mean something. But, hey, if you enjoy a 200-point, non-playoff NBA game that only really comes down to the last three minutes, have at it. You can find me at home doing just about anything else, perhaps staring at the wall.

So these names I mentioned: Landon Donovan, DaMarcus Beasley, Brian McBride, and Eddie Johnson… who are they? Collectively, they are four of the biggest names in American soccer, today. Donovan, who came back to the states after playing in Germany, is widely considered to be the best player in the country. But, besides the fact that these guys haven’t raped, stabbed, or murdered anyone, you haven’t heard of them because they don’t personally endorse your favorite cell-phone company, aftershave, or prescription boner pill.

Yes, the world of professional soccer is a little different from other American sports, and it breaks into two categories: club and national. The top American club teams play in MLS (Major League Soccer). Now in its tenth season of existence, consisting of twelve franchises, MLS has given its fans plenty to chew on over the years. In its evolution from crap to emerging mainstream coolness, the league went through some dark stages, perhaps the darkest being the day somebody decided to name the Kansas City club, clad in rainbow attire, the Wiz. While the intention may have been to pay homage to The Wizard of Oz, one couldn’t help but associate the team with peeing on the side of the freeway. Another painful memory was when a particular team, now known simply as MetroStars, was once preceded by the ambiguously shared city-prefix of New York/New Jersey. It’s almost as bad as baseball’s Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim. However, despite some healthy "Euro-snob" debate among American fans, appropriate measures have been taken, and teams now boast soccer-friendly names like FC Dallas, Réal Salt Lake, and CD Chivas USA. Though, in all fairness to Madrid supporters, Réal Salt Lake is just a cheap European knockoff due to the fact that there's nothing "royal" about the club. Anyway, consult your local purist for further explanation.

Now, while the bulk of America’s best talent ventures over to Europe to play their club ball – McBride for Fulham of the English Premier League, Beasley with PSV Eindhoven in The Netherlands – more and more Americans are choosing to stay at home to compete in MLS. Competitive salaries, the emergence of soccer specific stadiums, and the promise of not having to call your fries “chips” are shaping MLS for a successful future. Additionally, the fact that the NHL recently went on strike, seemingly upsetting none but a lonely drunkard or two in faraway Ontario, is also helping the league by giving viewers another option when it comes to low-scoring sports. But even as MLS grows and evolves, successful recognition of American soccer will always come primarily from the other category: the national team.

With only twelve top soccer clubs in America, clearly not everyone will be able to develop an emotional attachment to a particular team. Whereas the other major sports in this country have about thirty teams peppered all over the nation, fat guys in football jerseys blowing giant beer farts in the bleachers in places like Green Bay, it’s difficult to expect somebody in, say, Minneapolis, to get overly excited for any particular MLS club. However, the national team exists for everyone. And the competition is fierce.

If you haven’t heard of soccer’s World Cup, you need to be taken out into the backyard and shot. Undoubtedly, this tournament, which happens only every four years, is the biggest sporting event on the planet. Baseball, football, basketball, and hockey may declare their respective best teams in and around America as world champions, but this competition holds slightly more water when bestowing such a title… namely because soccer’s World Cup actually has something to do with the world.

Leading up to the tournament, nations must compete in more globally-localized qualifying competitions. These are games for which every American should be piling into the tavern, ordering a dark pint, and cheering for the pursuit of world domination. Seriously, do some research on the web and watch just one game. Feel the intensity of professional soccer at its highest level. You’ll be hooked. Or, I suppose, you could just stay at home on the couch and listen to Bill Walton add commentary during a televised basketball game:

“That guy has the ball. It is orange. He is dribbling. The floor is made of wood. There is a leprechaun sitting on the basket. It is waving at me and vomiting rainbows. The rainbows are turning into unicorns.”

“Um… thanks, Bill. We’ll be back with thirty more seconds of NBA action after this commercial break.”

Wake up, America.

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My Travels with Andre

2005-09-14T12:05:00.000-07:00

By Jarrett Bellini

(Published by BootsnAll Travel on September 3, 2005)

Gringo: Term for a foreigner in Spain or Latin America, especially when of English or American origin – often used disparagingly.

Ecuador's selling point may be her Galapagos Islands, basking in the sun far into the Pacific, but the heart and soul of the nation lies right down the middle. Stretching from head to toe, the Andes mountain range provides a majestic backdrop for one of South America's most intriguing countries, a microcosm of western Earth's lower half.

The gringo trail starts in Ecuador's capitol, Quito, which is where I first met Andre, a German traveler with long, wavy hair and an astute taste for beer. A mere acquaintance along the beaten path, Andre would prove, time and time again, that there exists a bona fide, singular journey for those exploring Ecuador's sierra, and there would be plenty of broken Spanish and raised glasses along the way.

Quito's old town has charm, for certain. A maze of colonial buildings nestled between foothills, tastefully well-lit at night, old town is worth a day's exploration. A short distance away from the impressive neo-gothic Basilica del Voto Nacional, stands Quito's most noteworthy attraction, El Panecillo, a commanding hill crowned by the towering Virgin of Quito. The mammoth statue stands thirty meters high, and easily serves as the city's directional landmark… as in, "Hey, Bob, the Virgin's over there, so we must be close to the bus station." This is, perhaps, the only place in the world where you might hear the words "virgin" and "bus station" mentioned in the same sentence.

Aside from these attractions in Old Town, Quito offers little along the lines of relaxing escapism. But outside the city, at least three quality day trips exist to keep a traveler based in the capitol for more than just a night or two.

Forty minutes away from El Panecillo, a green bus will take you from the top of the hill to the center of the Earth. La Mitad del Mundo is Ecuador's salute to the equator… except that it's not. A little over a decade ago, GPS indicators found the true center of the Earth to be roughly 200 meters uphill from the original monument. This discovery gave birth to the Museo Inti Nan. It's two dollars well spent to visit the real equator, and tinker with a couple experiments proving it so.

The other exceptional day-trips are both two-hours travel in each direction. To the north of Quito, the town of Otavalo rests peacefully among the hills, and is the staging point for Ecuador's famous Saturday market. The market exists throughout the week, but Saturday is still the best day to gather local crafts while paying mark-up prices for the ever-present gringo tax. East of Quito is Papallacta, a rarely visited collection of well-maintained thermal hot springs. Ecuadorians are well aware of Papallacta and flock to the pools on weekends. But the proactive traveler can definitely manage some alone-time during the week for the bargain price of six dollars at La Termas de Papallacta.

The next stop on Ecuador's gringo trail is tourist-friendly Baños, several hours south of Quito. Strangely, the name of the town is rather misleading. While there definitely are a number of thermal baths, one might easily mistake them for giant toilets. In fact, if you placed 100 people in front of Papallacta's facilities and then those of Baños, all 100 would race back over to Papallacta, a few using Baños only to relieve themselves.

Baños also boasts a small, but strangely intriguing, zoo at the far end of town. For $1.50, a lazy tourist can scratch the bird-watching village of Mindo from the itinerary with a visit to the upper-level's bird sanctuary. And while there's no replacing the Galapagos Islands, the lower level does offer a fair selection of flightless creatures ranging from what appears to be an over-sized guinea pig to giant tortoises.

All around, Baños is a perfectly agreeable place to spend a few days exploring magnificent waterfalls, gazing at the mountains surrounding Volcan Tungurahua, and enjoying a fine selection of restaurants and bars… which is where Andre made himself quite at home on a nightly basis. "Jah-et, vee must hahv bee-ya!"

Since we both began our travels in Quito, I figured our arrival in Baños was surely just a coincidence. Thus, our re-acquaintance in my next stop, the bustling city of Riobamba, was a sign that Andre and I were stuck in some sort of flight path, streaking down the country in an orderly fashion with some other familiar-looking faces. The ground was trodden black.

Riobamba is the staging point for Nariz del Diablo. The Devil's Nose Train is a popular tourist activity where passengers, many appropriately-dressed in their finest European traveler uniform of zip-away nylon pants, ultra-high-tech-yet-completely-unnecessary hiking boots, and safari hats, perch themselves atop the rail cars for a scenic four to five hour journey through some of the most breathtaking landscapes available in the region. The climax being a section of track at the end once noted as "the most difficult railway in the world."

There's a strangeness to riding the Devil's Nose Train - the locals give you a puzzling stare. I imagine their attitude is similar to that of the Fort Apache Indians in Arizona where they're more than happy to collect money from skiers at Sunrise Park Resort but can't seem to figure out why a person would willingly pay good money to shoot down a snow-covered mountain with six-foot planks attached to their feet. In this case, the villagers’ stares seem to imply the question, "You do know that you are riding on top of a perfectly good train?" Still, they cheerfully wave hello despite the fact that your eleven-dollar ticket fee will never make its way to their empty wallets so as to actually one day complete the roofs over their ramshackle homes.

Careful planning for the Devil's Nose Train is necessary as it only departs on Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays at 7am. An overnight's slumber in Riobamba is essential to make it happen, but travelers have little reason for concern… especially if they are in need of bargain footwear, which seems to be more readily available along the streets than, say, a warm meal.

As most things are mildly inefficient and haphazard in Ecuador, the gringo train runs, more or less, like a well-oiled machine (assuming that we are not talking about the actual train which runs, more or less, like Ecuador). The operational smoothness exists only in the funneling in and out of tourists. As lodging comes with an overabundance in Riobamba, bus departure from the train's terminating point, Alausí, is also immediately available to a number of destinations. They know you're coming. Following the logical southbound path of the gringo trail, the proper bus is one headed on a four and a half hour journey to Ecuador's third largest city, Cuenca. It's a long day.

In 1999, Cuenca was declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site for its colonial architecture and narrow, cobbled streets. To paint a more honest picture, it exhibits the charm and beauty of Quito's old town without the chaos and pollution of actually being in Quito's old town. For the most part, streets are safe, people are friendly, and the squares are lively. That being said, Cuenca is only worth but a couple days of exploration, most visitors taking in a stroll through the city center, a walk along the Río Tomebamba, and, perhaps, a day-trip to Ecuador's best-known Inca ruins, Ingapirca.

On my final afternoon in Cuenca, I poked into a small internet café to tend to some pressing business back in the states (ok, updating my fantasy football team). And who should be sitting at a computer, Marlboro Red hanging from his lips, but Andre the Giant. He was tall, did I mention that?

"Jah-et, it is me… Andre!" Clearly.

Several hours south of Cuenca, through Loja and nearing the Peruvian border, lies the peaceful little town of Vilcabamba. It's hard to imagine that this tiny, out-of-the-way little place ever became a staple at the end of Ecuador's gringo trail, but thanks to a 1955 article in Reader's Digest touting it as "the valley of eternal youth," Vilcabamba now rests as the trail's final stop.

The article claimed that Vilcabamba's citizens were living well into their hundreds, debunking the timeless theory that, really, you should be long dead before your birthday cake becomes a fire hazard. Of course, like all things seeming too good to be true (the lottery, the Atkins diet, and a Chicago Cubs pennant chase), the longevity idea soon came to pass as being highly exaggerated. Nevertheless, the hopeful eyes of travelers caught a glimpse of Vilcabamba, and to this day it remains a popular hangout.

With a wide selection of outdoor activities ranging from horseback riding, mountain-biking, and hiking the hair-raising ridgeline of the Mandango Loop, there are limitless possibilities for getting out in nature in Vilcabamba. Likewise, there are a number of available accommodations. Even so, there is simply no reason to stay anywhere other than the German-owned Izhcayluma, two kilometers uphill from the town's square. Offering unbelievable views of the valley, the one-dollar taxi ride or twenty-minute walk to and from town is worth every penny and (or) physical effort.

The town, itself, is pleasant and slow, and spotted with small cafes and shops. It was in the main square, after playing to a sloppy and potentially rule-breaking draw in Chess with my Australian traveling friend, that he asked, peering off beyond some trees, "Mate, isn't that your German over there?"

From a distance I heard, "Jah-et! Shall we hahv a bee-ya?" And we did. Andre, like many others before him, came to Vilcabamba in search of the hallucinogenic cactus drink, San Pedro. Backpackers beware.

There are five major points along Ecuador's gringo trail, and I managed to meet up with Andre in every one of them. Like the backpacker spending his or her summer circling Europe, the path, here, falls like a logical mathematical equation, linking points along a line. The problem isn't getting down, it's getting back up. Or, rather, it's less a problem than it is an adventure. For some, the trail continues through Peru, dropping in on Cuzco and Macchu Piccu somewhere along the way. For others, like myself, a sharp turn to the west along the Ecuadorian coast, passing through Quayaquil, Montañita, and Puerto López, and back up and around is the scenic way home. Vilcabamba becomes the crossroads at the end of the line.

I never did see Andre again once I ventured off the trail. I did my thing, and I can only assume that he did his - searching for a mystical Shaman to brew him some San Pedro.

As for me, I found what I was looking for at the end of my journey in a remote village called Chugchilán, high in the Andes. Chugchilán rests somewhat close to the gringo trail between Quito and Baños, and should rightly be considered a must-stop along the way. What is nice about this haven is that, for most travelers, it's not a must-stop. The well-informed seek it out, and, undoubtedly, lodge in the comfort of the Black Sheep Inn. This famous eco-lodge is the best place in the village (if not all of Ecuador) to spend a few peaceful nights before discovering the rest of the trail down to Vilcabamba… where a long-haired German, possibly staring at his hand with glazed eyes, will be more than happy to share a cerveza with a stranger.

Ecuador 2004
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