All the good ideas are taken

You might be asking yourself what I do on Saturday nights. This is, after all, the town where anything can happen. After Sex & The City starting showing in syndication, my mother made the hilarious comment, "I imagine that's kind of what your life is like." My life involves a lot more enduring rock bands at Piano's, not as much time spent at brunch. Generally speaking, I spend my weekends recovering from whatever late nights I've had during the week, and often nachos are involved. Do you know what goes well with nachos? Headbanger's Ball.

I'm not particularly Metal!, by most standards. In fact, I find the majority of what's commonly considered heavy metal pretty ridiculous. My tastes - while more generous than, say, the writers at Pitchfork - tend to run along the lines of Bands From The UK and Music Made By People Who Could Conceivably Have Had Sex At Least Once, preferably both. With a few exceptions, there just isn't a place in my life soundtrack for RWWAAAAARRR and machine-gun drumming. As Leslie once pointed out, "I'm just not that angry."It's really true. Withering disdain is highly effective and much less taxing than outright hate.

Part of the reason that I make a point to watch Headbanger's Ball is because it's one of the few times MTV2 even shows videos anymore. (Not that Real World vs. Road Rules isn't a spectacularly good use of airtime - I fully support any endeavor that allows those people to avoid getting regular jobs in lieu of mud wrestling and talking shit about each other.) But beyond that, it seems like these are videos were never really meant to see the light of day in a forum larger than the people on band's mailing list. So more often than not they're pretty interesting, whether because of painfully low production value or totally bizarre overall concept. I especially liked the one with the Japanese schoolchildren who were eating and then throwing up lots of cereal. So while I'm not going to run out and buy the new Bury Your Dead album (definitely not for lack of advertising on their part, though), I'm glad there's an outlet for videos other than those that suggest a guy pulled up with a semi and asked, "Did anyone order a rock video?"

When I made the snap decision to go to film school, it was mainly because I'm bad at math and that seemed the easier way to assure a Calculus-free couple of years. Hey, I was 17, what did I know? On the other hand, I always had a secret desire to be a music video director. It became even more secret when I discovered that directing videos was one rung below making kiddie porn on the Ladder of Cred at NYU. This was, of course, back before we were all encouraged to sell our souls at the altar of pop culture - in the most ironic fashion, of course. Selling out is the new artistic integrity! It's probably all for the best since it became evident rather quickly that I was a terrible director. Of anything. There's a lot more math involved in the process than one would think.

In the last couple of years, as we began the steady decline into unabashed mediocrity - I've given up hope of basic standards for entertainment ever being raised higher than "not horrible" - I wonder if there would ever be a place for the kind of videos I wanted to make. Sometimes there are Bands From The UK That Have Likely Had Sex who step up, but generally speaking, we like the guy with the semi to handle things. Someone find an empty warehouse and some stools! Back light that son of a bitch, and we're good! So thank you, Headbanger's Ball. Thank you for showing me that a bass player in a monkey suit could make me believe in dreams again.

Aim low!

There are certain things you'll never know you're terrible at until you try them. For instance, I never knew that I couldn't hit the broad side of a barn with a 9MM Glock until recently.

One of the things Leslie and I were keen to do on our vacation in Las Vegas was to shoot guns, which of course we said with the same gravity as "get drunk" and "ride rollercoasters." Whoo! Party! Actually, I'm surprised that there's not somewhere to shoot guns on a rollercoaster that serves top shelf liquor. We would have definitely signed up in advance.

The next best option is The Gun Store. It's kind of a surreal experience and perhaps one of dubious safety. After all, given that the rallying cry of Las Vegas is "open container," it's a little uncomfortable to stand in line with a pack of guys who YOU KNOW have just finished a Yard of Margarita as they're handed automatic weapons and live rounds. The staff at The Gun Store, all of whom carry holstered weapons like they're some kind of on-call, volunteer SWAT, are a combination of chipper and stridently official. They seem to take the business of weaponry quite seriously, considering their clientle are basically people who are making a pit stop between the titty bar and the all-you-can-eat buffet at Barbary Coast.

I decided on a semi-automatic handgun for two reasons - first, because I didn't want to blow my entire stock of ammo in two shots and second, so that I didn't dislocate my shoulder with some wicked recoil. Also, Glocks are pretty bad ass guns. Truth be told, the selection of guns was somewhat overwhelming and I felt safer sticking with what I knew. If it's good enough for gangstas, it's good enough for me.

The selection of targets is pretty extensive as well, although the popular favorites are undoubtably those in the Terrorist Collection - Osama, Saddam, random brown person, etc. As the guy behind the counter asked our friend Gwyther, "Which A-Rab did you want there, buddy?" This probably makes more sense as Gwyther was renting an AK-47 (he had a coupon). By far the most awesome choice - Chris and I both picked it - was the target featuring a guy holding a cowering flight attendant hostage ABOARD AN AIRPLANE. So let me get this straight: I can't bring my hair products in my carry-on luggage, but packing a handgun in the overhead bin is a logical scenario. Naturally. Leslie chose an armed mugger who looked strangely like Mario Lopez.

After a cursory yet Very Serious overview of how to load and handle your gun ("Don't point it at your head!"), we were pretty much left to load and fire our weapons of choice. For no reason in particular, I walked into the shooting range having never even touched a gun before in my life and still somehow secure in the idea that I was an expert shot. This was primarily due to the fact that when I walk around New York City at night, I listen to the soundtrack from "The Matrix" and pretend I'm a secret agent. No, I'm not kidding. So naturally I assumed that I possessed some innate marksmanship. This is not the case. Not only was I caught off guard by the kickback but, let's face it - I'm painfully nearsighted. Aiming is not really an option. I couldn't even tell if I was hitting the target at all, never mind where on the target. My terrorist was not in a whole lot of danger. A little late in the game, I realized the trick is to aim low to compensate for the recoil. This was after I had emptied most of my rounds into the ceiling or the floor.

As a nice bonus, you get to keep your target as a souvenir of your experience - or, in my case, as a record of your total incompetence. By comparison, Chris - who, keep in mind, had the same target and nearly the same gun that I did - managed to take out the terrorist without a single shot in the flight attendant. As we were walking out, he said, "I guess any time I want to go into business as a hitman, I'm good to go." Someone passing us replied, "There's a lot of money in that."

Nice to know that Chris at least has some lucrative career options. Maybe I can be his booking agent - 10% of death is fine by me.

Things I Used To Be - Part 2

For the first part of this exciting series, go here.

Things I Used To Be: Athletic

I say I played sports in the way that people with expensive SUVs say that they go camping. It's not that I didn't do it, but no one should assume that I was hardcore about it. Well, actually, I was an "all-star athlete" but in a very "Valedictorian of the Remedial Class" kind of way.

In some ways, my sports career peaked rather early. I was a fearsome softball pitcher when I was still in grammar school. If I recall correctly, I was responsible for several perfect games, and I was a wicked closer. I had played almost every position at one time or another except for catcher - I'm too large to do any crouching for an extended period of time. Although if I wasn't pitching, I was often 3rd base. There wasn't a lot of downtime over at 3rd base because 9 year-olds don't hit too well; I spent much of my time dodging foul balls. (When I think about it now, giving small children steel bats probably isn't the safest thing either.) Unfortunately my reign at the top of junior league softball was cut short, and I would never again achieve that kind of mid-level infamy.

I should also mention that I could never claim allegiance with any fearsome-sounding team. I played softball for the Chickadees - complete with perky yellow jerseys. In 7th and 8th grade, I played for the Cardinals which, believe me, is the least chickenshit of the lot. And in high school, it was the Koalas. I kid you not. Can you imagine the choose-our-mascot meeting when this was decided? "Okay, Sr. Joanne, we've got a progressive, Catholic all-female school. How do we want our athletes represented? Tree-dwelling marsupials! Genius!" I mean, I suppose we could have been the Angry Tampons for Jesus. Maybe Cuddly Puppies was taken. In any case, it was kind of demoralizing playing against teams like the Scarsdale Raiders or the Ardsley Panthers. Even more embarrassing was trying to pretend that it wasn't that bad - on the vending machine in the cafeteria scrolled "Go Killer Koalas!" Oh, for real. Even getting a Mountain Dew was an exercise in shame.

Probably the best match-up in the county was when our team played against the New Rochelle High School Huguenots. They actually had their mascot dress up as a swashbuckling Frenchman, who looked like a fey version of Captain Morgan.

You learn quickly that taking high school athletics casually is really just a good way to kick your own ass. Keep in mind that I never had any high-minded volleyball career aspirations. I certainly wasn't out for blood. And thus I didn't train in the off-season, which means that try-outs every August were particularly painful. For those who have never played volleyball, it's kind of hard to describe the particular pain of hitting a high-velocity leather object repeatedly with the inside of your forearms. We also did a lot of short-burst running drills and, by God, if there's anything I hate more than sit-ups, it's running. (This is largely why I was more suited to softball, since it involves more standing around and wearing hats, two things at which I excel.) Making matters worse is the fact that the coaches can smell ambivalence - and, yes, in case you're wondering: all-girls sports are indeed overseen by bitterly repressed lesbians in cargo shorts. Although we did have two coaches, one of whom was engaged to the janitor, so how's that for bucking a trend. A majority of the reason why I was never a starter and never promoted to varsity was because I simply didn't care enough - I played volleyball because I was reasonably good at it and basketball involved too much running.

** Minor aside: The year before I started high school, the dubiously-monikered Koalas had won the basketball state championship. When I was taking a tour of the school with my mother, our guide was a senior who was also a forward on the basketball team. She looked me up and down before asking hopefully, "So you play basketball?" I said no, I played volleyball. "Oh," she sniffed. Ouch! Dismissed! Hopefully this gives some indication as to the meager standing we held in the hierarchy of Koala sports. **

I used to wonder what happened to the girls on my team who were rabid players - taking dives for spikes, playing with what I still maintain were ridiculously pretentious and unnecessary sports braces. Maybe some of them went on to play in college, although I doubt it. Have you seen female college volleyball teams? Yeah, damn. They will kill you and eat your face. I would imagine that even the best of the Killer Koalas probably got summarily dismissed, which makes the intense seriousness in which our coaches tried to cloak themselves all the more laughable. Yeah, volleyball is your life. Aren't you late to teach 4th-period Health or something?

When all was said and done, my tenure as an athlete ended not due to the fact that I refused to play another year of JV volleyball (although, yeah, that would have been really lame) but because I had annoying and ultimately preventative surgery during the summer before my junior year of high school. On and off these days I kind of miss it, despite the fact that I doubt I would approach any sport with any more conviction than I did in high school. It would be nice though to play for something that sounds a little intimidating for once. Maybe the Manhattan intramural volleyball league needs a new team. I hope Angry Tampons for Jesus isn't taken.

I am not a good writer

Disregard what you may have heard.