Corcoran Brothers

Make it three JinroPops(TM). My wife made a deep, and in some ways disturbing, observation about her feline three weeks ago. It was this (paraphrased): “Even though my cat shows every indication of love, loyalty, and dedication to me, his intellect and reasoning are not advanced enough to make those things possible. He is just a dumb beast acting out as evolution has dictated to get him the best shot at surviving.” My wife is a serious, and cold, thinker, sometimes.
I had no problem with that, since her cat is more Brokeback than Mario Cantone doing a Liza Minnelli impression, then giving head to a doorman at a gay club in the Village to get entrance. Her mug spends more time stomping on balls and vomiting than doing the normal feline pursuits of…well, fuck, I don’t know what cats normally do, because I work for a friggin’ living. (sidetrack: my urban skillz are more than most on teh internets, apparently. ‘Mug’ is short for ‘Motherfucker’, but I couldn’t find a link. Continue.)

But then yesterday, my cat cuddled up to me, started purring and being all cool and shit, for no apparent reason. This is the same fucker that ignores me and spends his time in the guest bathroom sink during 94% of the waking day. Perhaps this was a recognition of the fact that I rescued him from certain death when he was a newborn kitten left to die on the rough North Shore of Oahu, but I highly doubt it. It occurred to me that my beautiful bride was right. Cats are ignigent (ignorant) beasts who react only to impulses which increase their chance of survival.

Still, does that make a difference? My wife is on Temporary Duty (TDY) to India, and I am by me lonesome in Hawaii, with torrential rains, floods, and faeces all about me. Is my lovely cat not filling the same role to me as I am to him? I don’t know, but the fact remains: I will openly kiss mein katz, tell him how awesome he is, while still maintaining that wearing suncreen makes one gayer than the brother from Frasier (both character and actor).

Make it four JinroPops(TM).

This will probably only have relevance to me and Sean, but what’s up with Japanese players in MLB? I tried to argue at other sites that the Red Sox should find some pissah Japanese player and bring him in because: a.) they tend to be really good if they are worth the money you need to spend on a translator, and, b.) you get mad amounts of Japanese fans at the games, buying merchandise, and the like, which is good for revenue (re:Ichiro). Althought not related to the Japanese (separated by a millennium), Korean fans are very similar. Courtney and I saw my beloved NL-tem, the Nats, play the Mets at Shea stadium, with a Korean pitcher, Jae Seo, taking the mound for NY. There was a dedicated space containing about 300 fans straight from Seoul which served as the Korean Jae Seo Fan Club. They had drums, chants, waves, and all kinds of shit that was fun to watch.

Back to my Nihonjin brothers. I still think the Red Sox should find a Japanese player. They’ll add international fans and a certain je ne sais quoi. They don’t have to worry, though: I’ve found their man:

Nobuhiko Matsunaka. Yeah, he’s a first baseman, and that will cause problems with the Youkilis move to first and Hee-Seop Choi acquisition, but I watched this man play in the WBC, and his mad skeelz made Ichiro pale in comparison. Also, how hard can it be to pry a player from the Fukuoka Softbank Hawks? I flew into Fukuoka, and it looked like Saugus and Brockton had a baby that came out covered in neon with a nice airport.

That is all. Rather than a classical introduction-building action-climax-denouement that most posts (novels?) get, it is a vignette.

(Also, I am not drunk, but I have gone off the pain meds and indulged in 3 beers and 2 JinroPops (TM), so it seemed somewhat appropriate. Anyone who knows the family knows that it takes 1 at least 1 drink per stone to get us moderately drunk).

I love to read.  I would think that the amount of time I spent talking about geekly pursuits here would make that obvious, but I don’t know.  I also spend a lot of time talking about gay rights, and I’m not a poofter.

Anyway, I used to read at the rate of about 2 books a week.  I read 60 pages/hour, so the amount of free time I have (and the length of the book in the queue) dictates how quickly I get through the backlog: and there is always a backlog.

You see, I bring a book with me - literally - everywhere I go.  When people are bored and getting frustrated at the DMC, Post Office, (*other slow-ass institution here*), I am fine.  I just read a book to pass the time and life stays cool.

Accordingly, I never really understood the appeal of audiobooks.  One thing about books I love so much is that the reader uses his imagination to make the story best for him, without actors, directors, producers, and fellow viewers ruining/diluting the trip, as happens with the movie experience.

The first and only true audiobook I ever listened to was Stephen King’s Bag of Bones.  It was 1998, and I was making a long trip up 95 and wanted something to listen to, but didn’t feel like rocking the Chieftains for several hours each way. I hadn’t read Bag of Bones yet, and Barnes and Noble had the audiobook (CDs) for sale, so I said, “What the hell?”  And frigging loved it.

You see, this wasn’t Edward Hermann reading Ayn Rand or the like, but it was Stephen King reading his own book, portraying a first-person narrator who was a writer from Maine.  Therein lies the secret of the audiobook’s beauty.  I’ve listened to more than a few since then (including podcasts of authors reading their own shit), and none of them have come close to Stevie K. and Bag of Bones.  Why? Because Stephen put the worst of his fears and feelings of inadequacies into one character, then served as a true actor by portraying him via audio.

Since first listening to the audiobook, I read the book itself.  Honestly?  I like the audiobook was slightly better. (Pause while the hisses die down.) First, I like to hear Stephen King doing the characters. His slightly-deadened Maine accent adds a certain realism to the story that is not carried by the written word.

Since reading the book, I have also come to the following conclusion: Bag of Bones should be filed under ‘Literature’.  That is the sort of statement that, no matter how much justification goes into it, it will be laughed at. Therefore, I’m not going to bother justifying it. I will say instead that, whether via audiobook or traditional book, Bag of Bones is well worth the time to digest it.

Again, to put the bottom line at the bottom, I bring this up because Audible.com, from which I get Ricky’s show, called me to offer membership for $9.99/year.  I joined without much fuss because it was cheap, they had a real person call me rather than send an e-mail or use a robo-dialer to pitch the deal, and I got one free audiobook with the membership. Ever since I ran out of old Ricky shows to listen to, I’ve been looking for something to occupy my commute time, so I decided to grab up Bag of Bones and experience it again. I think it was well worth it.

Does anyone have any other audiobooks they’s like to recommend?  I like both Ayn Rand and Edward Hermann, but the two of them together is slightly lacking.  If you know something better, let me know.

Anybody else into Audiobooks?

Thanks for all the compliments about my humour and wit being far superior while I’m drugged up, but I am putting that stuff on hold now for a minute. Now, I will be writing about something near and dear (in the British/Irish sense, too) to my heart: the Toyota FJ Cruiser.

I’m not going to go into too many specifics, because a google search should lead to all the info you want, but it is quick, powerful (239hp,278ft/lbs. torque), good off the road, simple, less expensive than other vehicles in its class, and wicked pissah in the aesthetics department.

It has not yet been released for sale, but I saw them test-driven by the dealers over the past week, and I haven’t had this sort of visceral reaction since I first saw Morena Baccarin on Firefly.

After reviewing all of the information about this mug on teh internets, 4×4 magazines, etc., I have made the commitment to buying one of these. Pending a road test, of course. I actually went to the Toyota dealer and put in an order for a black 4×4 with a 6-speed manual transmission, roof rack, and no amenities. I ain’t no soccer Mom. In the next 4-6 weeks, I should have a black one of these boys parked in my garage.
I’m thinking that no soccer Moms are going to want this vehicle anyway. There is no option for leather seats, after all. It is pretty inexpensive, but doesn’t that add one to the “not for yuppies” category? Those fokkers wear the fact that they overpay for their shit like a badge of honor.

Why am I so into this vehicle? First, I have always loved old-school offroading machines: Land Rover Series vehicles, Land Cruisers, CJ Jeeps, and the like. The FJ Cruiser is capturing that vibe nicely. Second, I love offroading. I used to go all the time with my buddies who had tricked out CJs, but since they left Hawaii, I have been offroading once: on the isle of Lanai in a rented Wrangler with automatic transmission. Finally, I am a cheap motherfucker. If someone as cheap as me wants something with such intensity, than it is a sign from above that it is meant to be.

(Again: I’m not drunk, I’m drugged, but the drugs have nothing to do with the decision to purchase.)

For those of you who aren’t Irish, or are ignorant in the history of your own music, the title of the post is a parody of an Irish song which states that “Whiskey is the life of man…” I don’t know how, but I made the mistake of telling Sean about a beverage I enjoy, and now every time I talk to him, he tries to incorporate it into a rap song, pop culture reference, or political discussion. Background:
2001: I am in Kita Kumamoto, Japan, for Yama Sakura (Mount Cherry Blossom) XXIX. Each night, the American and Japanese soldiers meet together in the “Friendship Hall” to sing karaoke, interact with their international officemates from the exercise, and get hammid. My cell consisted of me, three E5s, two E4s, and a Japanese LTC and CSM who didn’t like us. (They came to like us later, but it doesn’t fit into the story.) Each night, in the spirit of international friendship, I would buy a case of beer in the miniature American shoppette, take it to a random table full of Japanese soldiers, slap it down, and say, “Hajimemashite! Watashi no nomae wa Shane Corcoran desu! Kampai!” (Nice to meet you. My name is Shane Corcoran. Cheers!). They would then start spouting off in English and throwing back beers. You see, Japanese soldiers had to pay mad loot for beers, maybe 2-3 dollars a bottle, whilst we Americans could buy a case of Miller light for five dollars (no shit)! Something to do with the Status of Forces Agreement (SOFA) or whatevah. Anyway, just as we could get beer mad cheap, my Nihonjin brothers could get Soju (shoju, shochu) mad cheap - and you know them: a gift received means a gift must be returned. For 7 nights, during the trainup for the exercise itself, it was a non-stop party. I could go on ad nauseum with funny stories about cultural misunderstandings, karaokes mishaps, and Japanese privates hitting on American captains, but I shan’t. Here is the essence of this long tirade:

One night, we ran out of cheap beer (which the Japanese soldiers loved), so we had to resort to drinking Soju, a Korean liquor which is made from rice, but is nothing like sake. The soldiers of the Japanese Ground Self-Defense Force seemed almost ashamed to be giving us this stuff, but they taught me a valuable lesson. Put some soju into a Diet Coke. Drink. Let time pass in a fun way. Stand up to go back to your sleeping quarters, and realize you are friggin’ hammid! My strange love of soju began then.

2001-2005: Stupidity and love of beer and beer alone.

2005+: After working with (but not drinking with) Korean soldiers in Afghanistan, I remembered the strange kick of Soju from Japan, and decided to explore it when I again came to Hawaii. In all seriousness, one can drink half a bottle of Soju, feel pissah, and not realize they are drunk until they try to stand up to take a pee and fall over. Since I’ve been back and able to drink, I have reacquainted myself with my favoritest drink (besides Harpoon IPA): Diet Coke and Soju. Try for yourself:

Empty 16 oz. glass

(1) 12-oz. Can of Diet Coke

(3) ice cubes

Jinro Shoju to top of glass

Put them together and stir them with a chopstick. (I don’t know if they use chopsticks in Korea, but they use them in Japan where I first sampled the drink, so I keep the tradition up for the sake of diplomacy.)

What is Jinro? Oh, it’s a bottle of 24% Alcohol by Volume (48 proof) Korean Soju that costs less than 10$US here in Hawaii, mixes so well with Diet Coke that it makes it taste like unsticky regular Coke, and gives you a lovely feeling of buzz with no identifiable hangover. Was it worth reading that long bullshit I just wrote to get a drink recipe that consists of four lines? I dunno. Make a Jinro/Diet Coke cocktail and tell me.

(The category is ‘drunken posting’, but I actually can’t drink Soju for another week or two. This should be categorized as RoxiPosting, but I don’t feel like making a one-off category.)

I am a manslut for TV. I am, unlike a streetwalker, very particular about what I waste my time or money on. The following are what I rock, but in which I almost advise folks not to get involved because they are mad addictive.
My new faves? You’ll be surprised. First: Grey’s Anatomy. I never got into it, but the folks at Kristin were so insistent, I went ahead and, um, acquired all but 2 of the existing episodes. That shite is addictive. For those who watch: Dr. Bailey is the best thing since sliced bread. The actress who portrays her is frigging awesome, and the character is written so well that it has to be semi-autobiographical.

My other favorite newly discovered show? Entourage. I again, um, happened upon all of the first two seasons and became highly addicted to this show. Produced by Massachusite Mark Wahlberg, it is a sharp look at the culture of Hollywood stars and what their difficult lives consist of. For anyone who has a.) seen the show and, b.) knows who Marky Mark’s brother is, I have a question: do you think the Drama character could possibly shit more on Donnie Wahlberg, or is it pretty much the worst possible depiction of an elder brother?

Honorable mention goes to several off-beat shows: Campus Girls, which is on, of all places, Oxygen network, and runs with the Curb Your Enthusiasm/Always Sunny in Philadelphia vibe, but for menopausal women; Conviction, from BBC America, which is like 24 had a baby with CSI; Dinner for Five and Sunday Morning Shootout, both very inside looks at how the industry works; and Web Junk 20, pointed out to me by Kinseamus, a VH1 vehicle which is barely okay, but has my main man Patrice O’Neal hosting, so deserves respect.

I am rocking two Tivoes due to some technical issues, so I don’t miss a thing. If I have missed anything that needs viewing, let me know. If you want to have time for your family, friends, Jesus Christ, or the Prophet Muhammed (PBUH), then ignore this whole post, because these mugs will consume your time like a vicious fire.

This is way late is coming….

First, note Ute-free-Rachel, incredible artist and whore extrodinaire has opened a Cafe Press Shop. Please visit and buy a lot… She’s good

As for Rebel, former girlfriend and now great friend to me and Kin-Girl is now engaged! She is to marry a liberal software engineer on Veteren’s day this year of of Lord. She has promised an open bar. God bless her!

now I shall not. Just know this: My Irish roots show, as whiskey makes me happy, as tequela makes me a viscious prick. Just ask MaryAnn.

Apoligies to Catlain, Kin-Girl and Rori.

As Kin-Yah mentioned earlier, Edo did come home for a visit. That’s why the Miracleed tab has been removed, only brothers serving overseas get their own tab. And I will now confirm that Sean actually did cry like a pussy er baby.

It was most humorous, Colleen was telling the story of how her friends had asked if “Santa” (last year played by Edo) had come to visit this year. Colleen had said no, Santa was (not allowed to say, essentially overseas). I then stated yeah, but you know, Santa does have the magical ability of getting around the world in the blink of an eye. With impeccable timing, Edo pulls in the driveway at that moment. Colleen, having no idea what the fuck I am talking about, starts wondering why I had developed a tourettes type tick nudging my head towards the door.

There was an issue when Edo almost performed a leg sweep on Kin Yah when he would not stop the hugging, but it all went well in the end.

Xmas was wonderful, and Edo and JoeDaYuz came over that night for a glorious Xmas Rib Feast. We also had a wee going back to Dixie dinner the night before Edo left, these are where the pictures are from.

We are all proud of Edo for his service, dedication, coming home safe, and his giant balls. Literally.

Am feeling morose and melancholy

Ghost Dog promises I shall have some downtime after this week. I shall post then. In the meantime, consider this turn of phrase thrown at me today, and marvel at my restraint at not beating the shit out of the shmuck who hurled it at me: “Go shave your face.”