The Daily Procrastinator

Someone pointed out this cool site, Historic Aerials.  You plug in an address, just like you would with Google maps, and in addition to a fairly recent shot of your chosen address, you can also look at the same site through time.  For example, I can look back at my current address through 10 other years dating back to 1946, a reminder that this area was once nothing but farm land for miles around.

But the big shock for me was to look at my childhood home.  Yes, the homes themselves have been there since the 1930s, but I was stunned to find that the giant oak tree from my backyard was already enormous in the oldest photo from 1958.  It also appears that the property that my high school was built upon was once a farm, improbably located just outside Philadelphia in the middle of a densely populated county.

If you want to get an idea of the staggering growth of Silicon Valley, do a search for 1 Infinite Loop in Cupertino, California, home of Apple Computer, and pan around to see the surrounding area.  It wasn’t all that long ago that the entire Valley was an orchard.  Now it seems that only iPods grow on trees.

I read.  I’m not just talking about magazines or the daily paper.  I’m talking about books.  Fiction, nonfiction… it doesn’t matter, as long as there are words.  I love the feel of a book in my hand, the musty smell of libraries, the wonderful tactile experience of reading.  My dream vacations usually involve ample time to read.

While buying clearance-rack books at Borders ($3.99, buy one get one free!), I told the bookstore guy that I’ll read anything.  ”God, that’s sexy,” he replied, then blushed a deep shade of crimson and refused to make eye contact with me for the remainder of the transaction.

Sexy or not, it’s nonetheless true.  Looking at our overflowing bookshelves, there are clearly My Books and His Books, things that we’ve purchased for our own reading enjoyment.  The difference is that I will read all of the books, while he sticks to his nonfiction-only repertoire.

This means that in addition to my book club selections like The Time Traveler’s Wife, I’ve also read Level 4: Virus Hunters of the CDC, The Men Who Stare at Goats, Rigged, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, and “Surely You’re Joking, Mr. Feynman”.  Not to mention my hardcover edition of Anna Karenina, purchased as a souvenir to remind me of my days studying Russian literature in college.  It’s an eclectic collection, to be sure, but that’s what makes it interesting.

I am always looking for suggestions, so feel free to comment and offer up your favorites to add to my nightstand.

In Chapter I, Huck described how the Widow Douglas took him in to “sivilize” him and how Miss Watson came into town fleeing a rampant illness in St. Louis.  One night, after a strange green haze illuminated the night sky, Huck leaves the house to go on an adventure with Tom…

Chapter II.

WE went tiptoeing along a path amongst the trees back towards the end of the widow’s garden, stooping down so as the branches wouldn’t scrape our heads. When we was passing by the kitchen I fell over a root and made a noise. We scrouched down and laid still. Miss Watson’s big nigger, named Jim, was setting in the kitchen door; we could see him pretty clear, because there was a light behind him. He got up and stretched his neck out about a minute, listening. Then he says:

“Who dah?”

He listened some more; then he come tiptoeing down and stood right between us; we could a touched him, nearly. Well, likely it was minutes and minutes that there warn’t a sound, and we all there so close together. There was a place on my ankle that got to itching, but I dasn’t scratch it; and then my ear begun to itch; and next my back, right between my shoulders. Seemed like I’d die if I couldn’t scratch. Well, I’ve noticed that thing plenty times since. If you are with the quality, or at a funeral, or trying to go to sleep when you ain’t sleepy — if you are anywheres where it won’t do for you to scratch, why you will itch all over in upwards of a thousand places. Pretty soon Jim says:

“Say, who is you? Whar is you? Dog my cats ef I didn’ hear sumf’n. Well, I know what I’s gwyne to do: I’s gwyne to set down here and listen tell I hears it agin.”

So he set down on the ground betwixt me and Tom. He leaned his back up against a tree, and stretched his legs out till one of them most touched one of mine. My nose begun to itch. It itched till the tears come into my eyes. But I dasn’t scratch. Then it begun to itch on the inside. Next I got to itching underneath. I didn’t know how I was going to set still. This miserableness went on as much as six or seven minutes; but it seemed a sight longer than that. I was itching in eleven different places now. I reckoned I couldn’t stand it more’n a minute longer, but I set my teeth hard and got ready to try. Just then Jim begun to breathe heavy; next he begun to snore — and then I was pretty soon comfortable again.

Tom he made a sign to me — kind of a little noise with his mouth — and we went creeping away on our hands and knees. When we was ten foot off Tom whispered to me, and wanted to tie Jim to the tree for fun. But I said no; he might wake and make a disturbance, and then they’d find out I warn’t in. Then Tom said he hadn’t got candles enough, and he would slip in the kitchen and get some more. I didn’t want him to try. I said Jim might wake up and come. But Tom wanted to resk it; so we slid in there and got three candles, and Tom laid five cents on the table for pay. Then we got out, and I was in a sweat to get away; but nothing would do Tom but he must crawl to where Jim was, on his hands and knees, and play something on him. I waited, and it seemed a good while, everything was so still and lonesome.

As soon as Tom was back we cut along the path, around the garden fence, and by and by fetched up on the steep top of the hill the other side of the house. Tom said he slipped Jim’s hat off of his head and hung it on a limb right over him, and Jim stirred a little, but he didn’t wake.

Well, when Tom and me got to the edge of the hilltop we looked away down into the village and could see three or four lights twinkling, where there was sick folks, maybe; and the stars over us was sparkling ever so fine; and down by the village was the river, a whole mile broad, and awful still and grand. We went down the hill and found Jo Harper and Ben Rogers, and two or three more of the boys, hid in the old tanyard. Tom asked where Sam Peckins was but none of the other boys said they seen him, which was funny cause Ben lived right up the street from him. We waited a bit longer but Sam never showed so we unhitched a skiff and pulled down the river a bit, to the big scar on the hillside, and went ashore. Tom fussed every now and again that Sam warn’t there – he was supposed to bring some of his mom’s biscuits.

We went to a clump of bushes, and Tom made everybody swear to keep the secret, and then showed them a hole in the hill, right in the thickest part of the bushes. Then we lit the candles, and crawled in on our hands and knees. We went about two hundred yards, and then the cave opened up. Tom poked about amongst the passages, and pretty soon ducked under a wall where you wouldn’t a noticed that there was a hole. We went along a narrow place and got into a kind of room, all damp and sweaty and cold, and there we stopped. Tom says:

“Now, we’ll start this band of robbers and call it Tom Sawyer’s Gang. Everybody that wants to join has got to take an oath, and write his name in blood.”

Everybody was willing. So Tom got out a sheet of paper that he had wrote the oath on, and read it. It swore every boy to stick to the band, and never tell any of the secrets; and if anybody done anything to any boy in the band, whichever boy was ordered to kill that person and his family must do it, and he mustn’t eat and he mustn’t sleep till he had killed them and hacked a cross in their breasts, which was the sign of the band. And nobody that didn’t belong to the band could use that mark, and if he did he must be sued; and if he done it again he must be killed. And if anybody that belonged to the band told the secrets, he must have his throat cut, and then have his carcass burnt up and the ashes scattered all around, and his name blotted off of the list with blood and never mentioned again by the gang, but have a curse put on it and be forgot forever.

Just then a noise back from where we entered the cave started everyone up. It was a shuffling sort of sound, like when you drag a log behind you on a gravel road, only it was short sounds. Tom looked around at us and then gave us a grin, putting his finger up to his lips telling us to get quiet. Then Tom whispers:

“Listen, that’s gotta be old Sam Peckins finally getting here and aiming to give us a fright. Well, we’ll pull one over on him. Red, give Ben here your candle and get beside the entrance there in the dark. We’ll tuck in here at the back of the cave and make like we didn’t hear a thing. When Sam gets past you, you jump out and give him a fright, and won’t we have the laugh!”

So we all huddled around Tom and the oath with a few candles lit and made like we were going over it some more. Red hid in the dark near the entrance and then we waited. The shuffling sound grew a bit louder as Sam neared, and every now and again one of us would sneak a look over a shoulder because blamed if Sam wasn’t giving us a little scare because he was taking his time.

The shuffling noise got closer and closer, and we heard Sam’s breathing kind of heavy, too, to add to the effect. Then the shuffling stopped and Red screamed out, only it wasn’t a scream to scare Sam, but more like Sam managed to scare Red, despite Red knowing he was coming.

All of us jumped up and looked to see how Sam had done it, but it warn’t Sam at the entrance. It was a taller figure dressed in what was burial clothes – the kind you see on bodies that ain’t got no money for a proper ceremony or loved ones to do them up right. The jacket was short on the arm, which was thin and white and spotty with dirt and grabbing at Red’s shirt. Red was still screaming and yelling and trying to get away, but the stranger got hold of Red and pulled him toward him, bending down at him. Red yelled out, but all of us seemed frozen to our spots, we was so surprised. That is, all but Tom.

Tom ran at the stranger and attempted to shove at him to get him away from Red. And that’s when the stranger turned to look at the rest of us. I’ll never forget that face: it was the same white as the arm but dirtier, and darker stains not like dirt were on its chin and lips. It was dried blood. Its face was narrow and looked as if it hadn’t eat in ages; its eyes focused on Tom and it let out a snarl of rage, almost as if it knew who it was looking at. And of course, it did. It was Injun Joe, come back from the grave for his revenge.

Well, Injun Joe let go of Red and moved at Tom, reaching out with a hand that seemed more like a claw; the skin and flesh of his fingers had been torn off back when he was trying to dig his way out of the cave he had been locked in, I remembered hearing. Tom gave out a yelp and backed off, he was so shocked at the sight before him, and moved back with us. Red had fallen down into a heap behind Joe, but it warn’t no matter because Joe was now fixed on Tom. He swept his arm at Tom, but Tom was too quick for him, and he came back to the rest of us at the back of the cave.

“Pick up any rocks you can find, boys!” Tom says. “That’s our only chance!” So those of us who warn’t still frozen with fright started picking up what stones we could find and getting ready to chuck ‘em at Joe. Injun Joe didn’t seem to hear or understand, but kept on coming, dragging his feet, though, as if chained. He got nearer and nearer, and the smell! It was most enough to gag a buzzard! I won’t lie — I thought we was lost.

Just then another figure came in through the entrance – it was Miss Watson’s Jim! He had a heavy looking log in his hand and rushed up behind Injun Joe and swung with all his might at his head. Smack! A sickening thud and Injun Joe’s head just seemed to burst like a melon when the log hit it. Some teeth and some other stuff hit against the side of the cave and what was left just kind of crumpled in a ball. Jim looked at the log, covered with the remains of Injun Joe’s head, and dropped it disgusted. He then looked around at us and says:

“Mars’ Tom, Mars’ Huck, you’s all right? I’s bin following you’s since you seen me whens you lef’ de house – I was jus’ foolin’ with you a bit by pretendin’ to be sleepin’ whens you saw me. Then’s I seen this man follow you alls into the cave, so’s I had to make sure you’d be allright. I din’t mean to hit him so hard, but he had me scared for you’s.”

Tom told Jim to never mind about that, that he done what he needed to. But we needed to work out what was going on and what we was going to do as we all recognized that the body in the cave belonged to Injun Joe, who we knew was dead. Then Ben Rogers piped up:

“Tom, maybe Injun Joe wasn’t really dead!”

“Ben, how you talk! The whole town done come around to see his body. Judge Thatcher hisself knew the body to be Joe’s, and don’t you think I would know him?”

“Then how do you explain his walking around here, trying to get you?”

“I don’t rightly know, but I read a book once about bodies that came back to life.”

“Tom, you ain’t talking about the Bible are you? We all here know about that one.”

“No, Ben, not the Bible. This book talked about people who come back from the dead were zombies, and prowled the night and ate nothing but human flesh.”

“Ate human flesh? Why on earth would they do that?”

“I’m not sure, the book didn’t give any particulars on that, but that’s what they ate. And the only way to kill a zombie was to destroy its head, like Jim done with Joe here.”

“So then we’re done with all this frightfulness, right? Jim done killed it!”

“Maybe so, Ben. At least I hope so. But the book says that a person that’s been bit by a zombie is infected and will soon die and turn into a zombie himself.”

“That’s rotten luck, but none of us got bit, thanks to Jim, right?”

All of nodded in agreement at that, though I noticed at the time how pale Red got at that. Maybe ‘cause he was so close to being bit himself, I thought.

We decided then and there not to breathe a word of this to anyone, because it would have caused so many problems for Jim seeing as how he killed a man, no matter if the man was already dead. And it all seemed over, anyway. And nobody was going to miss Injun Joe, neither. So we talked it over some more and swore each other to secrecy, and decided never to come back to the cave. After that night, playing robbers didn’t seem to hold no interest for many of us anymore, and we put an end to the talk of killing our relatives.

We made our way home, and Ben walked Red home, who was still shaking and tearing up a bit. Injun Joe must have wrenched his arm a bit, I thought, as he was holding it close to his side.

I clumb up the shed and crept into my window just before day was breaking. My new clothes was all greased up and clayey, and I was dog-tired. But that night’s events wasn’t far from over. Not by a stretch.

Next week: St. Petersburg has a zombie problem.

The sixth tool.

I don’t give a rat’s ass about baseball.  All apologies to Tallgirl, but to me watching a baseball game is comparable to watching paint dry.  Although there is something to be said for going to a ballpark, drinking some beer, and eating really bad food.

Regardless, my non-fan status has allowed me to enjoy seeing baseball rocked by these steroid revelations, particularly after Mark McGwire’s theft of the Roger Maris’ single season home-run record, followed shortly by Barry Bonds’ usurping of same, not to mention Bonds’ despoilment of Hank Aaron’s career home-run record.  And then, Roger Clemens (who I always kind of suspected of being a scumbag) is uncovered as a cheat and will likely face perjury charges in the near future.

And then the coup de grace:  Alex Rodriguez, baseball’s golden boy, is forced to admit that he used steroids.  But let’s take a look at his admission.  According to A-Rod (or A-Roid, or A-Fraud, etc.), he only used steroids during the 2001 – 03 seasons when he was with the Texas Rangers.   As he explained it:

“When I arrived in Texas in 2001, I felt an enormous amount of pressure. I felt like I had all the weight of the world on top of me and I needed to perform, and perform at a high level every day.”

I’m calling bullsh*t on this entire defense.  If this type of explanation passes muster, then I should be permitted to use a Ritalin/cocaine combo so that I have the focus and energy to meet my billable hours requirements during my day job.   Further, it is mighty convenient that he limits his use of steroids to his time in Texas (although it seems that using steroids was a job requirement for the Rangers players).

But personal feelings aside, let’s see if his professed “admission” should put baseball fans’ concerns at rest by taking a look at his time on his consecutive teams (as set out in a sidebar item in the February 15, 2009 edition of the Fort Worth Star-Telegram):

Seattle:  No steroid use here.  He was just a natural back then, when in 1998 he became only the third player to go 40-40.  Oh, who were the first two?  Jose Canseco and Barry Bonds.

Texas: Yes, A-Rod used steroids.  But it was just to help him in a very pitcher-friendly home ballpark and so he could handle the high-stakes, pressure cooker that is Arlington, Texas.  <sarcasm mode off>

New York: No, no steroids now.  Those 48- and 54-home-run seasons were just Yankee magic.  By the way, in the 85-year history of Yankee Stadium only one other righty had a 40-homer season:  Joe DiMaggio (and only ONCE).

Alex Rodriguez’s “admission” is a sham.  But from what I can tell, baseball fans are just eating this up and willing to let it all go.   Never mind that all of these records being broken come at the expense of others who preceded these frauds.

I’m just glad I’m not a baseball fan.

The American way of life is under attack yet again. Ruthless and unscrupulous law enforcement officials have once again given us proof that they will stop at nothing to hinder our freedom, our liberty, and our entertainment. Another NFL player has been victimized by law enforcement. As Americans, we must rise up and cry out to our government, “We will not stand for police persecution of our NFL players! Such actions infringe upon our way of life and our playoff hopes!”

On Wednesday, February 11, Buffalo Bills running back Marshawn Lynch was arrested in Culver City, California on felony charges for possession of a concealed firearm. According to police reports, officers searched a Mercedes-Benz in which Mr. Lynch was a passenger, discovering the loaded handgun. When contacted for a comment, Lynch’s lawyer said that the running back was not involved in a traffic incident. Mr. Lynch is a law-abiding citizen, and this police harassment must cease immediately. What kind of country do we live in when a person who is not committing a traffic violation can still be arrested for a crime?

Marshawn Lynch: Is this the face of a criminal?

According to The Los Angeles County Sheriff Department’s inmate database, Lynch was booked at 7:12 p.m. Wednesday night. He was released at 8:45 p.m. on $3500 bond. Detaining Mr. Lynch for over an hour and a half and forcing him to spend .00018% of his current $19 million dollar contract simply because he possessed a loaded illegal firearm is ludicrous. Clearly, this man is a Pro Bowl quality running back, and he lives a high-risk lifestyle, filled with situations that call for him to defend himself by gunfire. One can only hope that he is not convicted, for without his services, the Buffalo running game will fall apart completely, ruining any chance the Bills have of making the playoffs next year.

The truly disturbing part of Lynch’s arrest is that it is not an isolated incident. Just a few months ago, New York Giants wide receiver Plaxico Burress was arrested and charged with illegal weapons possession in New York when he accidentally discharged a handgun in a nightclub, shooting himself in the leg. He will face trial on March 31, and will serve a mandatory minimum of three and a half years in prison if he is convicted. Evidence, including a nasty scar on his leg and the testimony of hundreds of witnesses, is expected to make his conviction likely, but his lawyers remain hopeful that the jurors will reach a fair, just, and unbiased verdict of “not guilty.” The Giants are surely hoping for acquittal as well. Without his services, they stumbled in the 2008 playoffs and lost to Philadelphia. The Giants showed their faith in Mr. Burress by lifting his suspension on February 11, knowing they need him back for next season.

Plaxico Burress: Another upstanding citizen who's suffering unfair ridicule.

Law enforcement’s harassment of these entertainment professionals is inexcusable. Like Mr. Lynch, Mr. Burress has a right to defend himself, as guaranteed by the Second Amendment to the United States Constitution. Surely, the founding fathers are shaking their heads as they look down from the Great Beyond upon the unjust persecution of handgun-toting NFL players.

Handgun owners aren’t the only NFL players targeted by such unfair law enforcement practices, though; those who engage in harmless low-level narcotic dabbling are persecuted as well. Jacksonville Jaguars wide receiver Matt Jones suffered an attack by law enforcement officers on July 11 because he was discovered in a car cutting cocaine with a credit card. He was arrested for possession of 6 ounces of cocaine, just six times the legally defined quantity necessary for a charge of “possession with the intent to sell.” Fortunately for the Jaguars and their fans, he was released on $2500 bond before he missed a single regular season game. Jones is Jacksonville’s leading receiver, after all.

Matt Jones: Everyone deserves a second chance.

In a display that all too clearly demonstrates collusion between law enforcement and the NFL, the league decided to suspend Mr. Jones for the three final games of the regular season. Luckily, the Jaguars were 4-9 by then, and every game the wide receiver missed was meaningless. Throughout the season, only some savvy legal maneuvering and an agreement to enter a “pre-trial diversion program” have prevented Mr. Jones from being forced to face the legal consequences of his actions. With any luck, he’ll back on the field and leading the Jaguars in receptions again next season.

It’s time for law enforcement officials to stop persecuting NFL players. These citizens have more important things consider than every quibbling law that’s ever been written about firearms, drugs, etc. We, the NFL fans, can’t afford to have our players sitting in courthouses and jails when they ought to be on the field practicing. They have a GAME to play, for God’s sake, and it’s time we let them play it. Our playoff hopes depend on it.

Yes, another heart-related post from the TallGirl, but again for a cause that’s near and dear to me.  Today is Congenital Heart Defect Awareness Day.

Nearly three years ago, a friend gave birth to a little girl with Tetralogy of Fallot (TOF).  TOF is comprised by four findings, including: a large hole between the two pumping chambers of the heart (ventricular septal defect, or VSD); a tightening or obstruction of the area leading out of the heart to the lungs (pulmonary stenosis); an overriding aorta; and thickening of the right ventricle. 

At 3.5 months old, this tiny baby had surgery to repair the four defects.  While she’s doing fantastically well now — a strong, independent, stubborn little girl who seems perfectly normal, aside from a large scar down the center of her chest — she will be monitored by a cardiologist for the rest of her life, and there may come a time in her future where other steps must be taken.  This could range from activity limitation, to medication, to further surgery.  

Before she was born, I knew nothing of congenital heart defects.  Now that I know more, I’m startled by the statistics:

• Congenital heart defects are the #1 birth defect.  Nearly one of every 100 babies is born with CHD.
• Congenital heart defects are the #1 cause of birth defect related deaths.
• Congenital heart defects are the leading cause of all infant deaths in the United States.
• Each year approximately 40,000 babies are born in the United States with a congenital heart defect. Thousands of them will not reach their first birthday and thousands more die before they reach adulthood.
• Each year over 1,000,000 babies are born worldwide with a congenital heart defect. 100,000 of them will not live to see their first birthday and thousands more die before they reach adulthood.
• Almost half of all children and adults with complex congenital heart disease have neurological and developmental disabilities.
• There are an estimated 2,000,000 CHD survivors in the United States.
• For the first time, more than 50% of the CHD survivors are adults.
• 10% of all CHD cases evaluated in an Adult CHD clinic are first diagnosed in adulthood.
• More than 50% of all children born with congenital heart defect will require at least one invasive surgery in their lifetime.
• There are more than 40 different types of congenital heart defects. Little is known about the cause of most of them. There is no known prevention or cure for any of them.
• It is a proven fact that the earlier a CHD is detected and treated, it is more likely the affected child will survive and have less long term health complications.
• Despite all of the above, CHD research is grossly under-funded relative to the prevalence of the disease.  (Only one penny of every dollar donated to the American Heart Association goes towards congenital heart defect research and of every dollar the government spends on medical funding, only a fraction of a penny is directed toward congenital heart defect research.)

SOURCES: Children’s Heart Foundation and March of Dimes

So on this Valentine’s Day, as you’re surrounded by heart-shaped decorations, take a moment to reflect on the the tiniest hearts.  If you’re feeling generous, the March of Dimes would appreciate your support as they continue to be a wonderful resource for CHD families.

The Daily Procrastinator bustled with new posts this week, and this is your chance to make sure you didn’t miss anything!

• For comic book readers and fans of the Marvel universe, Juggernaut posted a review and commentary on Thor #600, the most exciting issue of Thor in a long time.
• Sports-hungry readers will find TallGirl’s post on the A-Rod steroids scandal and BigRedPoet’s prediction that the Houston Texans will be next year’s Arizona Cardinals filling, indeed.
• The Daily Procrastinator has your dose of pop culture, too: TallGirl’s Felicia Day girl-crush confession and FlashCap’s first installment of Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and the Zombies are sure to give you your entertainment fix for the day.
• TallGirl addressed both hope and adversity in today’s economic climate, offering strategic advice for freelancers and thoughts on how to discuss layoffs with those affected by them.
• Finally, the Procrastinators have offered their opinions. BigRedPoet offered and honest but opinionated look at the silliness of modern nurseries, and TallGirl voiced her thoughts on buying coffee in unfamiliar surroundings.

Visit The Daily Procrastinator at any of the links above and sign up to receive daily email updates so you never miss an article!

The Daily Procrastinator: Contributing to the Dramatic Reduction of Your Personal Productivity

I have always made it a point to be nice to tourists, and hope that others would extend the same courtesy to me. This isn’t always the case. I recently had an experience where I didn’t speak the language, and the natives quickly lost patience.

The other day, I was forced by circumstance to meet a professional acquaintance at a coffee shop. It was a nice, sunny day, and I thought that an iced tea would be much more refreshing than my usual cup of coffee.

I patiently waited in line behind people with complicated orders, and was immediately behind a woman who ordered a “venti four-pump double-shot low-fat half-whip mocha frappuccino,” which seemed to me to be an absurd combination of words, but it was met with happy chatter from the guy behind the counter. Finally, it was my turn.

“I’d like a large iced tea, please,” I said.

The skinny barista with a pierced eyebrow and tattoos from wrist to ears glared at me, black Sharpie marker halted midair. “You would like a venti?” he asked.

My mind reeled momentarily because I can never remember which of the random words that they use for sizes really means large. Is it “tall” which implies that it’s the tallest? Or “grande” which sounds bigger than tall? Which one is a “venti”? I quickly tried to scan the menu to help me find the answer.

He began to speak louder. “You want a venti iced tea?” he said with an air of superiority. “An iced tea. You do realize that this is an establishment that sells coffee?”

And that was when it dawned on me. There is an entire subculture here that I am not a part of, a subculture that requires trained beverage professionals to mix ice, whipped cream, flavor syrups, and caffeine to create expensive and elaborate 500-calorie coffee drinks that I simply don’t understand. And what’s more, this is what an entire generation thinks of when they hear the word “coffee.” Not simple black liquid poured from a pot. Fluffy drinks with whipped cream and straws the size of sewer pipes. From now on, I’ll be meeting my contacts at the shop near my house, one where words like “coffee” and “tea” still result in identifiable beverages.

In the meantime, I beg you: be nice to the tourists. All they want is a simple cold drink on a sunny day, even if they can’t speak the language.

I recently overheard a conversation in which several football fans debated “Who will be next year’s Cardinals.” Assuming that they’re asking which underrated team will make a surprising run into the playoffs, I’d like to offer my opinion. Next year’s Cardinals will be the Houston Texans.

The Texans offense is already ridiculously good when the key players are healthy. Take a look at some of last year’s statistics.

• WR1 Andre Johnson: 115 receptions, 1575 yards, 13.7 yards per catch, 8 touchdowns
• RB Steve Slaton: 268 rushes, 1282 yards, 4.8 yards per carry, 9 touchdowns
• TE Owen Daniels: 70 catches, 862 yards, 12.3 yards per catch, 2 touchdowns
• WR2 Kevin Walter: 60 catches, 899 yards, 15.0 yards per catch, 8 touchdowns
• QB Matt Schaub: 66.1% pass completions, 3043 yards, 8 yards per attempt (not per completion), 15 touchdowns

Andre Johnson led the entire NFL in receiving yards. Among players with 250 carries or more (“featured backs,” so to speak), Steve Slaton was second in the NFL in yards per carry, tied with Adrian Peterson and trailing only DeAngelo Williams. (ed.: that’s some damn good company). Owen Daniels ranked 5^th on the NFL website’s list of composite TE statistics, ahead of long-time beast Antonio Gates and trailing only the premiere tight ends in the league. Schaub’s 8.0 yards per attempt was second in the NFL, tied with Drew Brees and trailing only Philip Rivers, who averaged .4 yards better. This offense is GOOD.

The Texans’ defense has traditionally been the team’s Achilles heel. There were some bright points last year, though. DE Mario Williams’ 12 sacks were tied for fourth in the league. His four forced fumbles ranked second. LB DeMeco Ryans’ three fumble recoveries tied for second in the NFL among linebackers. With Williams leading a defensive line that’s heavy with young talent and Ryans at the center of the linebacker corps, the Texans could be pretty stout. If they do some savvy coaching and wise drafting in the defensive backfield, they could pose a defensive challenge to almost any team.

Consider the Cardinals’ recipe for success this year: score a TON of points using a high-powered passing offense, and play a little D when the time is right. With Johnson, Walter, and Daniels, the Texans have three downfield threats. In Schaub, they have a surprisingly accurate quarterback who boasts a strong arm. Houston even features an offensive element that Arizona lacks. Steve Slaton is a fantastic running back, and they actually give him the ball sometimes. Arizona had the worst running attack in the NFL, statistically speaking, and they still managed to make the offense work. With the threat of Slaton to keep opposing defenses honest, the Texans’ passing attack can be even more effective.

Mark my words: next year, the Houston Texans will have their best year ever. In fact, they’re going to earn a place in the wild card game.

Thor #600 is the latest effort by the powers-that-be over at Marvel to rip the hearts out of Thor fan-boys like me. And you know the worst thing about it? It is the culmination of the best storyline Marvel has published in the past year.

It is clear that J. Michael Straczynski, the writer of Thor who has done an exquisite job of resurrecting him, loves an evil scheme. In issue #600, Loki’s machinations, which have been several lifetimes in the making, come to fruition in a big way.

The story opens with Loki restoring Bor, the father of Odin, in the middle of New York City.  Bor goes mad due to Loki’s manipulations, threatening to lay waste to the entire world. This draws Thor into a battle that he realizes can only end one way, although he makes every effort to avoid it. He even calls on the Avengers only to be betrayed by a wicked Dark Avengers cameo. This ultimately forces his hand against Bor, and thus Loki’s trap is sprung which will have major implications for Thor, Asgard, and the Marvel Universe.

[On a side-note, let me get this straight: Thor has the Odin-force, can take out Bor (a god) AND the entire squad of Dark Avengers, yet he gets beat up by the Red Hulk? I'm calling bullsh*t on that entire red Hulk series.]

While it comes at considerable cost, I expect Thor #600 will mark Thor’s return to a more active role in the “real world” of the Marvel Universe as opposed to his Asgardian realm. It also sets up the Asgardians’ possible role in the coming Dark Reign storyline due to the “graciousness” of a certain power-mad monarch. While this is indeed a dark day for Thor and his fans, JMS has created an epic storyline that demands attention.