The arguments for team loyalty are close to the excuses for spousal abuse: "You just don't know them as well as I do!"; "Things are totally different now. They said they were going to change!"; "It's my fault for not supporting them better!"; "I fell down the steps!"
That being said, I predict the Phillies will go 160-2, winning the NL East. They would be 162-0 but they sit all the starters the final two games of the season to rest them for the playoffs. Because the playoffs are what matter, baby. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go make Chase Utley a sandwich.
Greetings McSweeney's Readers
If you found me after reading the piece over at McSweeney's today, welcome! I am the world's greatest comedian, and you are the world's greatest reader of blogs. Together we can do great things.
Take Me Out to the Crowd
I am currently sitting in my living room on a Monday, eating a sandwich, drinking Yuengling and watching my favorite baseball team on opening day.
Anyone who complains about unemployment is a chump.
The Phillies, beset by the gods, have lost their first two games, which makes my Monday prediction of a 160-2 season possible but highly unlikely. We're going to revise: 155-7. I forgot to factor in obvious cheating and drug use by opponents.
Take That Stupid Beak and Learn to Shut Up
There's a bird who sings outside my window, at 3 a.m., every single night this week. It is not a pretty song. It is not a recognizable song. It is just noise -- think "Sanjaya."
My personal discomfort aside, something is very wrong here. Why does this bird even live in the city? If you had wings and the ability to build your own house, wouldn't you go somewhere greener? Sure, you want to be close to the action, but there aren't that many singles bars catering to birds on Capitol Hill, plus there's gotta be more worms and bugs living in, say, Manassas.
It doesn't add up. We can therefore conclude that the bird is an agent of the Chinese government, spying on high-level Washington functionaries, and that it is my patriotic duty to shoot it with an air rifle, as soon as possible.
I was cleaning up my MySpace account today, trying to remove a few unwanted "friends" -- i.e. attractive but shy and lonely 23-year-old girls looking for someone to connect with who have decided to conquer their shyness by posting ads for ringtones in the comments of all their "friends." Ladies, I am shocked and betrayed. But that's another story.
While deleting some of these people, I accidentally hit "select all" and deleted a WHOLE PAGE of legitimate myspace friends -- the kind of people I would give a kidney to, because they took the time to look at my page for upwards of 23 seconds.
I am distraught and I cannot imagine the unspeakable grief this will cause ... I pray that those deleted can accept my humble apoogies. And if you're one of my remaining 303 close personal friends, I could really use some support right now. That's what friends are for.
I ate at a German restaurant on Tuesday, and the beers came in three sizes: small, medium, and Oktoberfest. At $13, the Oktoberfest wasn't cheap, but as an added bonus you could fit your entire head inside the glass.
There's something very empowering about drinking from a huge glass. It lets the room know that YOU MEAN BUSINESS. You're a man who knows what he wants, and what you want is to deal with your personal problems in a serious way. It says: "Ladies, like what you see? Well, don't waste your time, because daddy came here to WORK."
Oddly, these effects do not manifest if the huge drinking vessel is a Big Gulp. If anyone wants to give me a research grant to look into this, I'm happy to devote the next three years of my life to this phenomenon. Anything for science.
Rutherford Birchard Hayes was our 19th president, and he had a hellacious beard.
It was not always so. There was a time when he was clean shaven, before the war. But war changes men. For example, it can make them grow beards. Seriously, the thing was just huge.
Hayes was born in 1822, sans beard, in Ohio. He never knew his father, who died two months before his birth; Hayes was instead raised by his mother, who had no beard, and his bachelor uncle Sardis, who did. He went to Harvard Law, then returned to Ohio to be a litigator.
When the Civil War broke out, Hayes was so moved by the cause that he formed the volunteer Ohio 23rd Regiment, despite having a wife, several kids and a flourishing law practice. With no prior military training or command experience, his men saw little reason to respect or follow such a baby-faced dandy. Yet such was his love of country, so desperate was Hayes to defend the name of freedom, that he sat, concentrated, and in a 12-hour period, grew a foot-long table duster. It was called "Old Soupy." History would never be the same.
Hayes was shot five times while fighting in Virginia, his beard in every case slowing the bullet and saving his life. The Republican party of Cincinnati, hearing tales of the beard's heroics, nominated Hayes' beard as a candidate for the U.S. Congress in 1864. It served two and a half terms before moving on to the Ohio governorship, developing along the way a reputation for honesty, rectitude, and flava-saving. In 1876, Old Soupy was nominated as a compromise Republican candidate for the presidency. Voters, hesitant to trust the foreign policy of facial hair, actually favored New York Governor Samuel Tilden in the popular vote. But a dispute over election results in the South threw the election to a special 15-member electoral commission, and three days before the Inauguration, 20 electoral votes were awarded to Old Soupy, allowing it to best Tilden 185-184. To avoid any controversy or national strife, the gracious Old Soupy withdrew, and the vice presidential candidate, Hayes himself, was sworn in.
After four uneventful years in the White House, Hayes and his beard retired to Spiegel Grove in Fremont, Ohio, living in a house that still stands today. I checked it out last weekend and it's a very nice display -- Hayes' family lived in the house for generations before turning it into a full-on museum. The house is three stories, with tremendously high ceilings and some swank decorating -- it's got more visual pop than most of the presidential homes I've visited. There's also a Hayes museum standing about 100 feet away, which is only mildly informative but does have two chairs made out of animal horns, so that's something. Hayes is buried on site, and if you want, you can stand in front of his grave, throw a rock and break a window in the residential subdivision creeping alongside the property. This is a huge selling point for those homes -- "4 BR, 3 Baths, great view of a dead president!"
Hayes' beard continues to live in Fremont to this day; it is married, has four children and coaches basketball at the YMCA.
FUN HAYES FACTS!
Hayes' wife Lucy began the tradition of the White House Easter egg roll, and also the less popular White House St. Patrick's Day drunken unconscious immigrant roll.
The only man in history named Rutherford.
Though dubbed "Rutherfraud Hayes" by opponents following his controversial election, he fared better than Vice President Cassface Mutthole Smeckerhead.
Collected walking canes, which is why he ranks #2 on Pimpin' Magazine's all-time greatest presidents list.
Hayes ended Reconstruction abruptly upon entering office, which explains why most of the South looks like it isn't finished.
Instead of using the standard presidential carriage, Hayes prefered that all official trips be taken in the ZZ Top hot rod.
One of the troops under Hayes' command in the 23rd Ohio was William McKinley, and though the men were close, Hayes failed to teach McKinley the art of surviving a shooting.
The first president to have a phone in the White House. The first call was placed to Alexander Graham Bell, to bitch about the first long-distance bill.
Hayes fired future president Chester A. Arthur from the New York Custom House (the chief revenue collector for the federal government). Arthur returned the favor in 1882 by ordering Spiegel Grove burned to the ground and the earth sown with salt.
Campaigned on the promise to serve only one term, believing that it would free him from the political pressures of seeking re-election, and allow him an additional four hours a day on beard maintenance.
Ceilings in one wing of Spiegel Grove were put at 13' to accommodate a huge, 11' portrait of Hayes. So no, I don't think it's all that egocentric to have five pictures of myself on my mantelpiece, and why don't you cram it?
Movie Review: Grindhouse
It's TWO! TWO! TWO MOVIES IN ONE! Plus some fake trailers.
Half of "Grindhouse" sucks. "Planet Terror" is awesome; it has a go-go dancer with a machine gun for a leg. If you need more explanation than that, then we cannot be friends.
The fake previews before and between the movies are awesome. I will not spoil any surprises.
"Death Proof" is about 60 percent crap. It's like Quentin Tarantino started to make his half of "Grindhouse" in the true spirit of the experiment -- as a straight-up (but higher-budget) exploitation flick. Then about 8 minutes in, he seems to get bored, the movie starts to look like it was shot on a modern camera and large groups of women have endless and pointless conversations (think "Royale with Cheese" but not even remotely entertaining). It is excruciating. As each scene dragged on (bear in mind you've been in the theater more than 2 hours at this point), the only thing that kept me seated was the hope that all the characters in the conversation might die a gory death before the movie ended, even though they were apparently the heroes. Here is some actual dialog. Girl One: "Hey, let's do something that would look really cool and be exciting." Girl Two: "I would like to do something that would look cool and be exciting. But why don't we talk about it for 10 minutes first?" Girl Three: "Well, before we talk about that exciting thing for 10 minutes as a precursor to doing the exciting thing, we should get my personal life in order. So if you could pull out the 70 page dossier I gave you earlier today on my latest boyfriend, we'll start on page 3." Girl One: "I see no problem with this course of action, but before we get really involved doing this thing that will stall us from talking about doing the exciting thing and then actually doing the exciting thing, does anyone want me to go grab lunch?"
It was not even good in an ironic, "oh, this is intentionally so bad it's good" way. Also, Tracie Thoms turns in the most annoying performance in any movie of the last 10 years.
Fortunately there is a good ending to the movie, but the lessons of "Death Proof" seem to be: a) women talk too much; and b) Kurt Russell is great in anything. That guy rules.
I Fear for America
Yeah, I know "Grindhouse" is over three hours, but it pulled only $11 million in its opening weekend. THERE'S A GO-GO DANCER WITH A MACHINE GUN FOR A LEG. It's in the commercials. If that's not good for a $40 million opening then this country is going to pot.
There's a massive surge in chriswhitesucks.com traffic, and according to the stats, it's from people searching for ...
Ryan Reynolds.
I can only imagine your disappointment. But while you're here, why not read about Rutherford B. Hayes? He was like the Ryan Reynolds of the 1870s, only slightly less jacked.
In addition to being a pretentious stand-up comedian, I fancy myself to be a pretentious photographer. BEHOLD!
What does it all mean? I'm not telling you. That's the fun of being pretentious.
Those Old Houses
I've updated my presidential profiles with some of the pics I took ... mostly homes and gravesites. If you're a historical tool (meaning someone who loves history, not someone who is a tool by historic proportions) go follow the links on the right side and you'll be able to view them as parts of the profiles.
This was a mild kick in the teeth -- the subject (suggested by Jen Dziura of NYC) was rough, but the tapings ... I thought I had this thing in the can twice. I was wrong. So I did something a little different. Watch the video and you'll see. To check out the 2006 challenges click right here.
Friday the XIII
There's nothing worse than people who "don't believe" in bad luck.
How else do you explain me not being famous yet, huh? Good looks, talent, a $10,000 credit limit ... there's no logical reason that I don't have a sitcom. It's gotta be bad luck. It's certainly not my breath. That's minty fresh. I checked.
On the other hand, no one likes the "luck is the residue of design" crowd. (Residue is seldom a happy word.) I'm sure Cleetus and the 10 people at the fillin' station who hit powerball together actually won because of superior planning. Dumping 25 percent of their disposable income into lotto while their kids live on Ramen noodles and puffed grains was, in fact, bang-up strategy.
Basically, no one wants to feel powerless before the whims of the universe; it's too depressing. But at the same time you want to think that lightning can strike in your favor (i.e. hitting your direct supervisor thereby making room for your promotion) because it means you don't have to take complete responsibility, good or bad, for your life.
My suggestions: a) rent "Match Point" tonight; or b) accept Scientology as the one true faith and just put this pedestrian crap behind you. You know you want to.
Hmmm ...
The Onion's free D.C. edition has launched, sponsored in part by the Post ... I gather it will have their usual national stuff, plus coverage of local entertainment. So basically, that makes it a version of the City Paper, but instead of very long angry stories about city government and the local nutjobs, you get jokey fake stuff.
Advantage Onion.
If anyone over there wants to write a five page review of how great and hilarious I am, call my people. They sound alot like me on the phone, but I assure you, I am totally important enough to have people.
We're taking some time away from regular blogging, so please enjoy for the remainder of this week excerpts from the unpublished "Chris White's Virtuous Method for Trombone and Guide to Robust Living."
Introduction
Man strives to live robustly, to grasp the chalice of vivacity and chunder deeply the frothy elixir of bravado, rivulets of gusto coursing down his well-oiled, hirsute chest. And never, not has man been more robust than when playing the tenor trombone.
Instruction is no insignificant matter. Played correctly, the tenor trombone elevates a youth to the epitome of civilized achievement: no hacking through the jungles of Malaysia nor canasta games with the savages of Borneo can evoke the grace and courage of the tempered trombonist. The well-trained student has command over his domain; yet the gentle reason to apply his power judiciously. The ill-trained student brings shame upon his house, ending his tuberculosis-shortened days under a railroad trestle in Northern Ohio, pumicing bunions off vagrants in exchange for semi-edible boot leather.
In these pages lies a method, time-tested in the conservatories of Western Europe and New Jersey, for the education of today's lollygagging, muttonchopped youth. The techniques and principles of the master trombonist, when combined with the posturing and etiquette of the robust gentleman, will yield the political firebrands, captains of industry, and musical instruction manual writers of tomorrow.
The path is narrow: minor deviations in this curriculum may result in scoliosis, dementia, and significant enlargement of the prostate. And yet the rewards are profound: those who tread it honestly will see dramatic improvement in complexion, increased attention from the fairer sex, and regular insider discounts at their preferred vendor of trousers and slacks.
Should you have two sons, instruct only one using this method, or fratricide will result.
For girls, the flute is an excellent pastime until pregnancy occurs.
We continue today with excerpts from the unpublished "Chris White's Virtuous Method for Trombone and Guide to Robust Living."
The Buccina (3rd Century)
No ancestor in the blood-drenched history of the trombone was more martial than the buccina. As employed by Roman legionnaires, the buccina's primary purpose was battlefield communication: a 12-foot U-shaped pipe with a flared, backward facing bell, the raspy horn could be heard easily over the din of battle. Two blasts signaled advance, three retreat; one blast followed by a wet slurping sound indicated that the buccinast's throat was impaled with a missile mid-command.
Given their tactical value and vulnerability, buccinasts were equipped with a 15 foot spear, attached to the instrument with eyelets to facilitate one-handed thrusting while playing. The coordination and posture required for playing and eviscerating the unwashed Barbarian masses simultaneously would seem precursors to modern trombonery, but the Buccina was officially banned throughout the civilized world when Celtic barbarians in 403 fashioned a reasonable replica and tricked 5,000 crack imperial troops into running backwards over the cliffs of Dover.
The Valquera: 14th Century
As Europe emerged from the Black Death, the courtly music known as ostacatta, built on unsanitary percussion instruments made from the bones of disbelievers, fell into disfavor. Courtesans and foppish dandies alike turned to the brass-based peasant melodies of Andorran goat farmers driven eastward by the Great Goat Scabies of 1342. The superior volume of the brass instruments (designed for signaling goat herds at vast distances) was suited for the gavrorkna, a newly popular and sanitary dance demanding 500 yards between partners at all times.
With a shortage of skilled makers, musicians improvised instruments from herding tools, and hence the valquera, a two-foot goat catheter attached to a rough wooden mouthpiece. Sounds were produced by vibrations of the lips against the mouthpiece; changes in pitch were achieved by a second, traditionally blindfolded musician cleaving the metal catheter with a polearm.
Composers were hesitant to write melodies that could only ascend in pitch, though Lazarus Calvagio's 'The Reluctant Castrati' is recognized as a masterpiece of the etude form; and few valquera virtuosos flourished, given the instrument's mortality rate. But the use of variable-length tubing and the absence of valves make the valquera the earliest modern relative of the tenor trombone.
The Sackbutt: 15th Century
Derived from the French for "push" (sacquer and) and "pull" (bouter), the sackbutt (or buttsack) appeared in 1450s France as composers integrated the dulcet (yet penetrating) sound of the valquera into chamber ensembles without substantially increasing the average number of gaping head wounds. A telescoping slide divorced the instrument from polearms, while a gradually widening bore produced a more pleasing sound, likened by Count Doumarch to "a cat being sawn in two with a piece of cheese, but while sleeping."
Whether the instrument (with its agrarian/martial roots) itself attracted the robust, or in fact nurtured robustness in the players, science has yet to determine. But bold virtuosos such as Alfredd de le Marin (1462-1512) were noted not only for their skill, but for general hirsuteness and rakish charm. Highly in demand early in his career, le Marin's insistence on vigorous coupling with the spouse of his employer, male or female, often in public and as an encore, undercut bookings and the ultimately sackbutt's exposure to an affluent audience. Continued unsanctioned le Marin performances and their resulting domestic unrest led to banishment from most European courts; a private concert in 1503 for the Holy Roman Empress resulted in the banishment of all known sackbuttoirs to a prison colony in Italy's Apennine Mountains. Le Marin perished in 1512, bludgeoned with a sack of pomegranates by a cuckolded jailer.
The Buccin: 19th Century
Popularized by French military bands from 1810-1845, the modern variant of the buccina had all the properties of a modern tenor trombone, but with a stylized bell in the shape of a dragon's head. They were never produced in numbers great enough to sway France's military fortunes and were expressely banned at the Peace of Westphalia.
You Always Get Hurt By the Ones You Love
Nationals 5, Phillies 4, 13 innings. Ryan Howard may have hurt his leg. I accept full responsibility for the loss, as I attended the game, and apparently me seeing the Phillies play in D.C. means a guaranteed gut-wrenching defeat. At first I thought this was coincidence, but applying Scientific Theory to a chart of Phils/Nats games I have attended, it is now confirmed law.
One thing I enjoy at the Nationals games is the presidential races -- four guys in large foam costumes of the Mount Rushmore presidents race down the first base line. Last night we saw the first ever game featuring TWO presidential races (a special treat for those sticking around for extra innings). Washington won the first race and Jefferson took the second.
If they ever have the guts to put FDR out there on a motorized scooter, the Nationals will become my new #2 team.
Mild Suggestions on Phone Etiquette For the Person Who Called My Cell Phone at 3:15 a.m.
Dear Sir,
Phone etiquette is a heavy burden. But standing together, our shoulders are broad. Instruction begins in the home; you cannot be blamed for lessons never taught. But it is in your interest -- nay, it is your your duty to man -- to improve. Some suggestions:
1) Try not to call people at 3:15 in the morning. True, there are those who are awake and conducting business -- even business not related to the traffic in human organs or methamphetamine -- between the hours of 2 and 5 in the morning. But most of polite society is resting, preparing for the rigors of a new day and the phone-etiquette related challenges in might bring. Were you looking to have sex with me, or to tell me that someone had died, or to mention that someone had died and the grief was such that having sex with me would make you feel better, and you were an attractive female without a lot of emotional baggage and I was in a place in my life to get with you in that way, your 3:15 a.m. call would have fallen well within the bounds of phone etiquette, but I think we both know that this was not the case.
2) Identify yourself clearly as soon as possible. On answering the phone at 3:15 a.m., my first words were, "Hello, this is Chris." This was sloppy etiquette; I should have used my full name and immediately asked to whom I was speaking. Assuming that question was implied was my mistake, and I sincerely hope that my poor example did not lead you astray. However, your response, "Can I talk to Vanischletviwasclb?" was lacking in many regards. By neglecting to give your name, you placed me in an awkward situation: If Vanischletviwasclb happened to be awake (unlikely, see point one), I would have been unable to tell him, her or it who was calling. Or suppose Vanischletviwasclb has instructed me to wake him, her or it should you call at 3:15 a.m.? Given the late hour, without your identity I easily could have prematurely ended a conversation that would have led to sex or a profitable methamphetamine deal between you and Vanischletviwasclb.
3) Pay courteous attention to the person on the other end of the line. After I explained that you had a wrong number, you said "OK," then ended the call. A cursory apology was called for, but given the hour a briefer conversation was acceptable. There was an implied understanding between us that our relationship was over. However, at 8:21 in the morning, you called back -- you had not listened to my response from five hours earlier. No doubt it was your tremendous embarrassment over this egregious error that led you to hang up the phone before speaking a single word.
4) Compose your thoughts before calling. Attempting to apologize for your earlier snafus is laudable -- it shows promise for a future filled with decorum. By composing your apology ahead of time, you could have delivered it smoothly. Instead, calling back at 8:25 and 8:31 unprepared, you became flustered, and your apology came out "Can I talk to Vanischletviwasclb?" and "Is Vanischletviwasclb there?" Etiquette is a two-way street, however, and I confess that my response, "No ****ing Vaniscletviwasclb lives here and you called this number at 3 in the morning stop calling this ***damn number you ****ing ****face," was ungentlemanly. For this I apologize, you ****ing ****face.
Hair Made Difficult
Did anyone else notice that John Basedow is now a towhead? John: you're a fitness celebrity. You're bigger than a mid-life crisis.
Ladies: I've consulted with the International Fashion Council, and they have confirmed that knee-length jean skirts never make you look good. Never ever ever. It doesn't matter if you look good in regular jeans, it doesn't matter what top you're wearing, it doesn't matter how you accessorize. Jean skirts are ugly and while wearing them you are ugly by association. The council has spoken.
On a side note, while I was on top of Mount Polyblend, I also got a ruling on baggy cargo shorts worn with sneakers and a wrinkled button-up shirt. On most white guys over 30, this is a bad look, but the Council confirmed my suspicion that I look perfectly fine and that no one should make any remarks. They promised that if anyone says anything, they'll be happy to release their army of flying Izod alligators in retribution.
Here Comes the Sun
There was a day every spring at college that we liked to call Sundress Day. It happened when the weather started to warm up, and every girl on campus spontaneously decided to wear a sundress. There was no coordination; it was an instinctual thing, like ducks returning to the same pond, only with more thighs.
The beauty of Sundress Day: After a winter of baggy, heavy clothes, guys were desperate to see chicks in hot outfits. When 1,000 girls all complied on the same day it would overload your system and burn out your judgment, to the point where anyone in a sundress looked GREAT. You could be 4'8" and 600 pounds, but if you were wearing a sundress, for that day, someone was checking you out. No guy got any work done on Sundress Day. Every guy was suddenly happy to move your furniture or buy you things.
In the working world, women aren't on the same page. They're freelancing, and the lack of cohesion is crushing them. Any young guy desperate to see some skin can go out in the middle of January to the local bar, and at least one girl there will be criminally underdressed. These women are taking the edge off, ruining the specialness of Sundress Day.
This is a good thing, because if women ever figured out a way to settle their differences and take Sundress Day national, they would have near-totalitarian control of all men under 30 for a 24-hour period. All we can do in anticipation of that day is to continue to elect old or infertile men to run our government. Men: Do not vote for any presidential/VP ticket that doesn't include at least one guy over the age of 50. You owe it to freedom.
So little time. In lieu of so much, here's some brilliance from Wali Collins, heard last night during a trip to NYC:
"My wife is Dominican. Very Dominican. She's batting .337."
Movie Review: Blades of Glory
In general, I enjoyed this movie. The ice skating scenes are enough to carry the whole flick and the ending shot is priceless. However:
1) No one really knows how to use Jon Heder. He'll be living off "Napoleon Dynamite" for another year or so, then he'll fade away. In "Blades of Glory" he's a prop -- if he has some great comedic acting gifts he's not really getting a chance to use them.
2) They're going too far with improvised scenes. Yeah, Will Ferrell is really talented at that stuff, but after this movie and "Talladega Nights" I felt like I spent $10 to watch a rough draft. "Blades" is 90 minutes and it's flabby -- the bad guys, the romantic interest and the skating coach are all window dressing. Instead of trusting them to carry half the comedy load, they seem to be filming 48 takes of Will Ferrell talking about his tattoos and then picking a take at random for the final cut. If only they had a way to add some more structure to the plot or better define the characters ... oh yeah, they do. It's called a script. Maybe I'm expecting too much from a movie about pairs skating, but then I think about "Kingpin." You can actually do great work in the "ironic movie about a crappy sport" genre. Please bear that in mind when you start work on the Untitled Will Ferrell Summer 2008 Bassmasters Project.
3) Jenna Fischer is much, much hotter than I had initially thought going into this movie. That's not a complaint, I'm just saying, is all.
And that is what I learned on my school trip to Grant's Tomb on Thursday. The inspiration for the world's dumbest trivia question is in New York City, at 122nd and Riverside, smack in the middle of Riverside Park. At 150 feet tall, it's the largest mausoleum in North America, making it our Taj Mahal. I'm willing to bet we have more folding chairs, though. Suck on THAT, India!
Grant and his wife, Julia, are in a sunken alcove, making it easier for elderly southerners to walk in, spit on Grant and leave quickly; the bodies are circled by anti-presidential zombie charms and five busts of Grant's favorite Civil War generals, all of which are staring in at their boss. This creeped me out at first, but after sleeping on it, I now would like Stevie Wonder, Mike Schmidt, Humphrey Bogart, William Shatner and Leeroy Jenkins watching over me in death (metaphorically, Stevie). Great Americans all.
And oh yeah, the mummified remains of Grant's servants are in a smaller tomb at 123rd and Riverside.
Grant is inspiring, in the sense that below-average people everywhere can look to his example and hope for a better life. Behold the TRIUMPH OF MEDIOCRITY!
Hiram Ulysses Grant (a mediocre name) was born April 27, 1822, somewhere in mediocre Ohio. He was sponored into West Point by a congressman who accidentally put his name down as U.S. Grant. It stuck. He graduated 21 out of 39 (mediocre). He did nothing much in the Mexican-American War (mediocre), then kicked around from post to post before resigning from the Army. He tried to be a farmer in Missouri and failed (mediocre) so he begged his dad for a job in Illinois (mediocre) when the Civil War broke out. Then came the non-mediocre years: He got reinstated in the regular army, kicked substantial ass in the West, and got called east by Lincoln in 1864 to lead all the armies. Then ... back to mediocrity! He wasn't a slouch in the strategy department, but he beat Robert E. Lee mostly with human wave tactics (mediocre).
After that he was our mediocre 18th president, which was unsurprising considering that all his past job experience was in either killing people or going broke in horrible business ventures. Congress didn't like him and he basically did nothing for eight years while his buddies got involved in 3,423 corruption scandals. His biggest accomplishment was signing the bill creating Yellowstone National Park. It wasn't his idea. He just signed the paper.
After that he died. But it's a funny story! Grant was a pipe smoker, but you couldn't really get pipe tobacco on the front. Before a battle, a lackey gave him a cigar, and he was photographed at the battle smoking it. Newspapers ran the photo, and since generals were basically the only celebrities back then (eat your heart out, Petraeus) adoring fans sent him thousands of cigars. He started smoking tons of them and ... blammo, throat cancer. Yet another example of the irresponsible media taking down a Republican. Insidious.
FUN GRANT FACTS!
The "S" in theory stands for Simpson, his mom's maiden name. In practice, Grant told people it stood for "Superdude." Grant's real initials are H.U.G., which was just as embarrasing then as it is now.
Earned the nickname "Unconditional Surrender" when, at Fort Donelson, he surrendered unconditionally to the great taste of mutton.
The third-most beloved military officer in American history, behind George Washington and Colonel Sanders.
Elected in 1868 on the slogan "Let Us Have Peace," which contrasted nicely with Horatio Seymour (D-N.Y.) and his "Everyone Gets to Rape a Southerner" campaign.
He was broke when he left the White House, thanks to poor investments and the loss of the map where he hid all that Confederate gold. To provide for his family, he inked a deal with Mark Twain to publish his memoirs, and five days after finishing his manuscript he died (it earned the family $450,000). In his final months, Grant was on cocaine during the days and morphene at nights, which explains the five chapters in which he liberates Wonderland with the help of a magical talking hat.
His father owned a leather shop; hence Grant's lifelong love of bondage gear.
Grant ran for the GOP nomination in 1880, losing to James Garfield. In 1883 he rebounded by becoming president of the National Rifle Association, on the slogan "You saw what happened to Garfield."
Saw the nation through the Panic of 1873 by ordering the creation of a gigantic brown paper bag for the nation to breathe into.
Reputed as a drunk, but let's see you kill 100,000 dirty rebs without having a few drinks.
Won the seige of Vicksburg by blasting "Welcome to the Jungle" 24 hours a day.
If you're 37 years old, broke, and you had to beg your dad for a lousy job just to feed your family, pull out a $50 bill, look at Grant and say, "there's still hope." I'm assuming you have a fifty, because you probably ask your dad to pay you in cash. You guys are sketchy.
And that is what I learned on my school trip to Grant's Tomb! The inspiration for the world's dumbest trivia question is in New York City, at 122nd and Riverside, smack in the middle of Riverside Park. At 150 feet tall, it's the largest mausoleum in North America, making it our Taj Mahal. I'm willing to bet we have more folding chairs, though. Suck on THAT, India!
Grant and his wife, Julia, are in a sunken alcove; the bodies are circled by anti-presidential zombie charms, naturally, and five busts of Grant's favorite Civil War generals, all of which are staring in at their boss. This creeped me out at first, but after sleeping on it, I now would like Stevie Wonder, Mike Schmidt, Humphrey Bogart, William Shatner and Leeroy Jenkins watching over me in death (metaphorically, Stevie). Great Americans all.
The tomb also has some tiny informational displays. Tiny is probably the way to go with Grant, because his life was the triumph of mediocrity -- the less you know, the less chance you'll write the Treasury, asking to see Coolidge on the 50, assuming you're a shut-in who thinks about these things. Behold:
Hiram Ulysses Grant was born April 27, 1822, somewhere in Ohio, like 93 percent of our presidents. Why are so many presidents from Ohio? Because BORING SELLS. He was sponored into West Point by a congressman who accidentally put his name down as U.S. Grant. It stuck. After the Mexican-American War he crapped around for awhile as a terrible farmer (in Missouri) and was actually working for his dad when he got involved training volunteer troops in Illinois for the Civil War. He got reinstated in the regular army, then kicked substantial ass in the West befores getting called east by Lincoln in 1864 to lead all the armies. He wasn't a slouch in the strategy department, but he mostly beat Lee with numbers. Meh.
After Lincoln died, he didn't like the way Andrew Johnson was running the country, so he resigned from his post and decided to do something about it. And did he ever! "One visitor to the White House noted 'a puzzled pathos, as of a man with a problem before him of which he does not understand the terms.'" That's a quote from the White House, and it's one of the nice assessments out there. Yee. A few resources try to credit him with civil service reform, but everyone from 1860-1912 gets that credit. It's like getting the attendance award at middle school. Unimpressive.
All he did after that was die. But it's a funny story! Grant was a pipe smoker, but you couldn't really get pipe tobacco on the front. Before a battle, a lackey gave him a cigar, and he was photographed at the battle smoking it. Newspapers ran the photo, and since generals were basically the only celebrities back then (eat your heart out, Petraeus) adoring fans sent him thousands of cigars. He started smoking tons of them and ... blammo, throat cancer. Yet another example of the media trying to take down a Republican. Insidious.
FUN GRANT FACTS!
The "S" in theory stands for Simpson, his mom's maiden name. In practice, Grant told people it stood for "Superdude." Grant's real initials are H.U.G., which was just as embarrasing then as it is now.
Earned the nickname "Unconditional Surrender" when, at Fort Donelson, he surrendered unconditionally to the great taste of mutton.
The third-most beloved military officer in American history, behind George Washington and Colonel Sanders.
Elected in 1868 on the slogan "Let Us Have Peace," which contrasted nicely with Horatio Seymour (D-N.Y.) and his "Everyone Gets to Rape a Southerner" campaign.
He was broke when he left the White House, thanks to poor investments and the loss of the map where he hid all that Confederate gold. To provide for his family, he inked a deal with Mark Twain to publish his memoirs, and five days after finishing his manuscript he died (it earned the family $450,000). In his final months, Grant was on cocaine during the days and morphene at nights, which explains the five chapters in which he liberates Wonderland with the help of a magical talking hat.
His father owned a leather shop; hence Grant's lifelong love of bondage gear.
Grant ran for the GOP nomination in 1880, losing to James Garfield. In 1883 he rebounded by becoming president of the National Rifle Association, on the slogan "You saw what happened to Garfield."
Saw the nation through the Panic of 1873 by ordering the creation of a gigantic brown paper bag for the nation to breathe into.
Reputed as a drunk, but let's see you kill 100,000 dirty rebs without having a few drinks.
Won the seige of Vicksburg by blasting "Welcome to the Jungle" 24 hours a day.
If you're 37 years old, broke, and you had to beg your dad for a lousy job just to feed your family, pull out a $50 bill, look at Grant and say, "there's still hope." I'm assuming you have a fifty, because you probably ask your dad to pay you in cash. You guys are sketchy.
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When the Civil War broke out, Hayes was so moved by the cause that he formed the volunteer Ohio 23rd Regiment, despite having a wife, several kids and a flourishing law practice. With no prior military training or command experience, his men saw little reason to respect or follow such a baby-faced dandy. Yet such was his love of country, so desperate was Hayes to defend the name of freedom, that he sat, concentrated, and in a 12-hour period, grew a foot-long table duster. It was called "Old Soupy." History would never be the same.
And that is what I learned on my school trip to 
Hiram Ulysses Grant (a mediocre name) was born April 27, 1822, somewhere in mediocre Ohio. He was sponored into West Point by a congressman who accidentally put his name down as U.S. Grant. It stuck. He graduated 21 out of 39 (mediocre). He did nothing much in the Mexican-American War (mediocre), then kicked around from post to post before resigning from the Army. He tried to be a farmer in Missouri and failed (mediocre) so he begged his dad for a job in Illinois (mediocre) when the Civil War broke out. Then came the non-mediocre years: He got reinstated in the regular army, kicked substantial ass in the West, and got called east by Lincoln in 1864 to lead all the armies. Then ... back to mediocrity! He wasn't a slouch in the strategy department, but he beat Robert E. Lee mostly with human wave tactics (mediocre).
August 2009: Jefferson.
Fall 2009: comic interviews on the podcast. 
