The Hack the Fifth Diaries: Tough to be a baby

Sorry for the lack of updates. I've been pooping myself.

I guess I have been derelict in duties of informing you of my life. To be honest, there hasn't been much life to talk about. I mean, seriously, look at me. I'm a baby.

But I do know a few things about what's been going on here at the Saloon. First of all, Wolter still hates me. He calls me "Hack the fifth son of Satan". I guess I am kinda to blame. A few weeks ago, ol' Chaim convinced Wolter to at least try holding me, for just a second. At first, Wolter gave me the evil eye and splashed holy water on me. But then when I didn't burn, he decided to take a chance and hold me.

I puked on him.

Then there are the interns. I don't know what's up with these guys. One of them is barely older than I am, one is a philosophical nut, and then there is Adam Blank, who put me in the dishwasher a few nights ago. I wish my motor skills were fully developed, I would have called the cops on him.

Again, I have to apologize. I tend to exaggerate a bit. Life in the Saloon is not as bad as I sometimes make it out to be. I get to drink free beer, eat as many chicken wings and fried pickles as I can, and most of the time the guys put me in front of the t.v. and I watch sports all day. Then I get a diaper change, get burped, and go to bed. Not a bad life.

But let me tell you, I have seen some strange things on the t.v. lately. Stuff that would make a grown-up poop.

First of all, remind me to never get involved with a crazy chick. The guys were telling me stories of Artuoro Gatti and Steve McNair. They said they were real men. Real warriors. Unfortunately, they were both killed by crazy chicks. Although I've never met a woman, I'll admit I am a little scared to now.

Not all of the bartenders are bad people either. I know I might talk about their bad habits and all, but the other day Brant Brown tried to teach me about the world outside the saloon. He told me all about the world's worst people. I was so scared I swore in my baby talk that I would never ever leave. Brant just smiled and said "good boy".

Review of Jenni Muldaur, Spinal Tap, Street Sweeper Social Club, Leela James, and Wu-Tang Clan

I've been on a music tear lately, picking up an album or two a week. Here are my latest:

Jenni Muldaur - "Dearest Darlin'"

Although my soul and R&B collection isn't the most extensive, there is just something about the voice of old school or neo-soul female R&B singers that just fits. I think it is genre where the ladies lead the way. Jenni Muldaur is one of those women who hit the mark with me. She has an awesome old school voice, as showcases it perfectly throughout "Dearest Darlin'".

"Dearest Darlin'" is a collection of soul and R&B covers mostly from the 50s and 60s. Muldaur covers some of the biggest names in the genre, from Bo Diddley to James Brown, as well as some rare antiques such as a 1934 field holler recorded by Alan Lomax. With the extensive range of content, Muldaur raises the bar quite high, but still nails it. I was really impressed.

Spinal Tap - "Back From The Dead"

The greatest band in the history of music history has returned. "Back From The Dead" is not only a collection of songs from the Spinal Tap movie, but also a few new songs, as well as a few "re-mixes", including a funky rendition of the classic "Sex Farm".

Another great reason to actually buy Spinal Tap instead of downloading their greatness is the included DVD. The DVD is absolutely awesome. Over an hour of the band talking about each song on the DVD. Hilarious.

Street Sweeper Social Club - self-titled

I like far-out riffs of ex-Rage Against the Machine guitarist Tom Morello. I like the political rhymes of Boots Riley of The Coup. So naturally I like this album. Although this definitely a solid buy, I do have a few comments:

1) It would have been amazing to have a few Zach De La Rocha cameos.

2) Boots Riley's voice sounds more fitting to funk or rap backbeats.

3) This album is another 1+1 does not equal 2 venture (see Blackout! 2). Close, but not quite. Morello fits perfectly and there are some great anthems, but I think Boots holds back a bit and doesn't get as descriptive as he does on The Coup albums.

Leela James - "Let's Do It Again"

(Ok, Leela James's new album came out in March, but I just bought it, so it's new to me.)

Back in 2005, I used to play Leela James's first album, "Change is Gonna Come", all the time. It was funky, soulful, and one of the best albums of that year. Then Leela James disappeared. I heard absolutely nothing about her.

Four years later, Ms. James finally released her second album, "Let's Do It Again". Like Jenni Muldaur, Leela James does an album full of soul and R&B covers. I don't want to say I am not impressed, because this is a very good album, but I expected more. Where are the new songs? Where is the new material that would spring Ms. James into the mainstream?

Wu-Tang Clan - "Wu-Tang Chamber Music"

This album should have probably been called "The RZA Presents ...". Although listed as a Wu-Tang album, it's really not. First of all, it doesn't have Method Man, the GZA, or Masta Killa on it (three of my favorite MCs, by the way). Second, it is more of an EP than a full-length album. There are few too many short philosophical narratives interspersed between the songs. Although interesting, these short RZA bytes take a bit away from the flow of the album.

Despite its shortfalls, "Chamber Music" is great. In making the album RZA recorded live music to blend with the beats and give the album a very "live" sound. This new Wu sound works best with Wu veterans Inspectah Deck and Ghostface, as they tear up their verses on each of the songs they are on. Guest stars Sean Price, Sadat X, Masta Ace, Havoc, and others also work well. Overall, there is not a bad song on the album, it is just too short. Hopefully Chamber Music is an appetizer, a precursor for a new full-length Wu-Tang album.

Did Michael Jackson Know About 9/11 Before It Happened? And Did Corey Feldman Do Nothing About It?

Amidst the hoopla about Michael Jackson (he died, you know), a little tidbit of information almost got swept through the cracks. I say almost because if it wasn't for a friend mentioning it, I wouldn't have known. But this is so earth-shattering I don't think I may ever see the world the same again.

According to the People Magazine website, Michael Jackson and longtime friend Corey Feldman hadn't talked to each other since September 10th, 2001. Nearly eight years ago. For whatever reason, their friendship ended the day before the heinous terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon.

Could the terrorist attacks of September 11th, 2001 have had anything to do with the end of Jackson and Feldman's friendship?

I think so.

Remember "The Goonies", the 1985 classic movie starring Feldman, Sean Austin, etc? In "The Goonies" several of the characters have a conversation in which Michael Jackson's name is mentioned. So too are hints about 9/11!

The clues are buried in this scene:

Chunk: Listen, okay? You guys'll never believe me. There was two cop cars, okay? And they were chasing this four-wheel deal, this real neat ORV, and there were bullets flying all over the place. It was the most amazing thing I ever saw!

Mikey: More amazing than the time Michael Jackson come over to your house to use the bathroom.

Brandon Walsh: More amazing than the time you saved those old people from that nursing home fire, right?

Mouth: Yeah, and I bet it was even more amazing than the time you ate your weight in Godfather's pizza, right?

Chunk: Okay, Brand. Michael Jackson didn't come over to my house to use the bathroom. He was about to. But his sister did.

First, there is the reference to two vehicles - two planes. Then there is the talk of a building fire. Then they talk about the Godfather, an surefire reference to New York. In the middle of it all is Michael Jackson.

Here is what I think happened: On September 10, 2001, Michael Jackson told Corey Feldman to alert the authorities of a terrorist attack on New York City the next day. Of course, there was no way Jackson could make the call without drawing attention to himself. So he asked Feldman to call for him. Feldman unfortunately either didn't believe Jackson or didn't believe such late notice would be effective. So he didn't dial anyone. The rest, you can say, is history. The planes crashed into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon (if you believe that), thousands died, and Michael Jackson held Corey Feldman partly responsible.

I know you are asking two questions: how did Michael Jackson know the attacks were planned for 9/11/01 and why Corey Feldman? Why not any one of Michael Jackson's other friends?

The answer is simple. Michael Jackson had to have been playing with the numbers and saw that Corey Feldman was born on 7/16/1971. If you take the first two numbers of the year (19) and then add to it each of the other numbers individually you get 19+7+6+7+1=41. Now look at 9/11/2001. Add 20+9+11+01 and you again get 41. It had to be 9/11/01 and the only person who could have stopped it was Corey Feldman. It was destiny.

Unfortunately, destiny didn't happen. If only Corey Feldman had listened to Michael Jackson.

On a side note, and I am just speculating here, perhaps the weight, the guilt, and the pain of knowing his ex-best friend failed to save the world weighed on Michael Jackson's heart so much it eventually gave out. Another thing for which we can blame Corey Feldman.

Twitter and the Dying Blogosphere

Back in April I joined Twitter. Honestly, at the time I had no idea why. I planned on throwing a few links out there and not much else. But then a funny thing happened ... I figured out the power of Twitter.

I figured it out so well, I've even been talking about it on other sites.

For example, today I commented on Daniel Drezner's blog over at Foreign Affairs.com. Drezner's post is about a post by fellow long-time blogger Laura McKenna in which she discusses the state of the blogosphere.

McKenna lists nine reasons the blogosphere is no longer in blossoming community mode. She claims it has become professionalized and niche-based. (By the way, this definitely applies to the sports blogosphere as well, especially since Deadspin changed it's format.)

Although he doesn't come out and agree with all of her points, Drezner does state that "professionalization, partisanship and specialization have hit the blogosphere pretty hard." He also states most niche bloggers are now professionals who add their valued insight to the discussion.

Because Drezner doesn't address the use of social media, I added to the discussion of linking and blogrolls by talking about the effect of Twitter on the blogosphere:

"As a blogger, I've found it easier to post interesting links on twitter immediately than to wrap up a bunch of links in a post. Since my twitter followers consist of my blog fans as well as many others, I have more reach there than if I just posted a link dump or included sites in a blogroll.

What this means however is that I push specific data instead of a whole web site reading experience. I am pushing other blogger's information instead of their communities. It is somewhat selfish, honestly. But communities have moved from web sites to social networking platforms.

The love isn't gone, it's just moved."

I think my opinion on Twitter either makes me a genius or a fool. I'm not sure which.

By the way, follow me on Twitter at JordiScrubbings.

Jimi Hendrix and a July 4th family tradition

When I was young and had no sense, I used to wake up on the 4th with contempt. For the first umpteen years of my life, my dad would begin Independence Day by playing the sounds of Jimi Hendrix wailing his rendition of the Star Spangled Banner. It was like Dad's revenge for waking him up early on Christmas morning.

Unfortunately, when I was younger, for whatever unpatriotic, uncounterculture reason, I didn't really like the song. I think I said once it sounded like "a guitar and a bulldozer". But I don't think it bothered the Old Man, he kept on playing it anyway.

Somewhere along the way, my musical tastes started evolving. I went from Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg to George Clinton to James Brown to the blues and wouldn't you know, back to Jimi. By the time I was in my early 20s, I understood the significance of taking a national standard like the Star Spangled Banner and turning it inside-out in the name of counterculture. I could relate to Jimi's frustration at the establishment yet his belief that America was still the best country in the world.

So this year, like my dad, I'll crank Jimi Hendrix's "guitar and bulldozer" song, his amazing rendition of Francis Scott Key's "Star Spangled Banner" and crank it up for the neighbors to hear.

Happy Independence Day.

Kudos to the People of Rhode Island

Although I have never lived there, I've always had an affinity for Rhode Island. For some reason, I picture Rhode Island as the most underdog of all the states, constantly fighting for its survival amongst states that would like nothing more than to annex it into their territory. Although I might be wrong, I imagine Rhode Island as a remnant of state-creating policies of way-back; that if we were to re-create the states and re-draw the lines, Rhode Island would cease to exist.

Many moons ago, back in my early days of journalistic integrity, I wrote a piece for the FSU newspaper advocating independence for Rhode Island. I wrote about a plan to conquer Rhode Island and lead its inhabitants to a life free of tyranny and without the shackles of oppression.

In my article, entitled "Operation C.O.R.I.: Conquerors of Rhode Island", one of my biggest points on why the people of the state would join my efforts and cooperate with my revolution was that "it is neither a road nor an island. The inhabitants have to call themselves “Islanders” and they don’t even live on an island." I of course blamed The Man for this deception.

So it was with great joy that I read my idea to change the state's name, which I at most considered a far-fetched fantasy, had grown closer to reality. Last Thursday, the Rhode Island House of Representative voted 70-3 to let residents decide whether or not to change the official name of the state. This is fantastic news. Finally, the people are being given an opportunity to fix a centuries-old problem of misidentity.

CORRECTION: Upon actually reading the article, it says the proposed referendum actually only amends the last part of the official title of the state, the mention of "Providence Plantations". The referendum would make the official title the "State of Rhode Island".

Looks like The Man will still have his way with the people of Rhode Island.

One day, I will rescue you, people of Rhode Island. One day, I will come before you and chant "You’re not a road! You’re not an island! You’re not sheep! Stand Defiant!". Then we will march the streets together to chants of "Hey Providence! We are Anti-Dominance!" Then you will be known as "Land Formerly Known as Rhode Island".

It will be a glorious day indeed.

The Man Makes You Work

I've been a big fan of the Afro-Squad since way back in the day. And on that horrible morning when The Man swooped in and stopped their flow for while, I cried. Who was going to teach me how to be funkier than Dolemite wearing sweaty gym socks?

But now, of course, the Afro-Squad is back and better than ever. Much to my surprise, shortly after I found them doing their thing, they asked me if I wanted to contribute. Of course. Would you say no if Bootsy Collins invited you on tour? I think not. So as the Afro-Squad keeps things funky with the ladies and the leglocks, I'm going to drop a little knowledge about what The Man is up to. Damn the Man.

As Socrates once said, The Man is everywhere, in everything, and completely full of it. You know, to be honest, I don't know if Socrates actually said that. Maybe I just made it up. But I like it.

Anyway, if you didn't know already, The Man controls most of the system that is our lives. He makes things cost money so you have to work, he makes you work at work so you have only a few precious hours at the house to sit down and watch some movies or listen to some tunes. Then The Man charges you for the electricity you use so you have to go back to work to pay off the bills. See, it's never ending. That's alright though, I'll go to work. To paraphrase the rapper Paris, don't let The Man know you understand his plan.

But you know what really makes me mad? You know what really tweaks my melon? Ever see people get pulled over by The Man on their way to work? What sort of trickery is this? Yeah, The Man even gave me a ticket when I was trying to get to work on time. Totally not cool.

Say you have to go work for The Man way early in the A.M. You wake up, clean yourself, grab some grub, and damn, you forgot your ride is on "E". Can't get to work with no gas. So you swing by the gas station for a quick fill-up. Now you are running late. The Man will not be happy.

After you throw some gas in the ride, you try speeding a bit to make up some time. But who pulls out behind you? Those flashing lights. The fuzz, the coppers, the po-lease. Damn The Man again. Now not only are you even more late, but because of the ticket he was kind enough give you, now you have to pay The Man some of your hard-earned cash, which means you can't take your honey out on a date unless you work a few more hours. And that's if she's not finding another guy to spend time with while you are spending all your hours at the j-o-b. Which of course, you are lucky to still have; because you know The Man doesn't take kindly to being late.

A Baby in a Cubs bar

Hey, how you doin'?

The name is Hack. As the title up there implies, I'm a fifth generation Wilson, named after my great-great-grandfather Hack. Of course, my parents weren't the most original, as they named me Hack as well. You would think somewhere along the way someone would think out of the box. What if I was to become a reporter? Huh? How would a writer named Hack be able to keep a career? But I digress.

As you can expect, I was born into Cubs lore. Next to Ernie the fourth and Ryno the third, I am practically royalty. Of course, I haven't been around too long, but what I don't understand is the doom and gloom you Cubs fans are always talking about. For my whole life the Cubs have been pretty good. They've always had that Lee guy at first and that nutty Zambrano character on the mound. You know, I think Big Z would have fit in well with Great-Great-Grandpa. If it wasn't for those off-season regiments and that fitness thing, I think ol' Z would be the type to throw down a spirit or two. Or four or six.

As you can see, I'm a bit of a drinker myself. It runs in the blood. Not only am I a Wilson, but I am also a fifth! From the moment I got off my mom's boob, I've had a bottle of the Lord's holy brew in my hands. That's a fair trade, I think. I also like to think I can already out drink the average sorority girl. Bring it on, Brittney!

Now I don't watch too much of the Cubs. My attention span is still only about 15 seconds, tops. Most of my days are filled with the regular rigmarole of eating, sleeping, or taking a dump in my diaper. And I occasionally cry. I don't have time to watch baseball. But I do catch a Cubs highlight every once in a while. My old man, Hack IV, was a big fan.

So what I am doing living in a Cubs bar? Well, a few weeks ago, the old man and my grandfather, Hack III, threw back a few too many Old Styles and left me in the parking lot. Thank goodness a nice bartender decided to bring me in and keep me around. From what my new dad (that's what I call him) told me, one of the regulars wanted to sell me to the Chinese. Something about payback for the great Gremlin invasion and impressing Phoebe Cates, whatever that means.

Now I live here, ensuring the wings are hot, the burgers are greasy, and the beer is tasty. I'll be popping in every so often to babble about something or another. Don't worry, I should start making sense in about 18 months or so.

Old Video of Female Wrestlers in San Antonio

While mindlessly perusing the Web, I found this video on www.Archive.org:

Description: This is a clip from a Universal Newsreel dated September 15, 1937. This clip features Dolores Gonzales and Clara Mortensen in a bout that took place September 1, 1937 in the San Antonio, Texas Walkathon arena. The referee is Dr. Karl Sarpolis, also a wrestler. This is the first professional female wrestling bout held in San Antonio. Clara won the match, but later faced Dolores again for a re-match because of claims that Sarpolis was an unfair ref.

Wow. Hard to believe this clip is 80 years old. There are some moves in here that would make even the most modern fan get off their feet. Check out the flip at the 1:25 mark and the spinning whatever-it-is that spills into the crowd at the 1:31.

A Whap off the Old Block

When I was little, my father was famous. He was the most well-known back of the head slapper in the neighborhood. And he was the house discipliner. He wasn't scared of anyone, but we were scared of him. If you acted up, acted out of line, or acted the fool - whap! - my dad would smack you in the back of the head. He was like an old west gunslinger, hands in his pocket one moment, an unexpected whap!, and his hands right back where they began.

Over time I've noticed I've grown a lot like my dad. The hair on top is thinning, I waste my nights drinking and talking about the government, and I perfected the magic art of slapping the back of someone's head. I became quite the master. I could slap someone without them even knowing it was me. Even when we were the only two people in the room. Left-handed, right-handed, it doesn't matter. I was an ambidextrous head-slapper.

Unfortunately, however, my penchant for slapping heads became a bit of a problem. The urge was uncontrollable. I couldn't pass a bald-headed person without giving their round, shiny dome a nice, hard whap!. One day, for example, I was stepping out of a public bathroom stall and absolutely could not control myself from smacking the head of a gentleman standing at a urinal. My hand hit the back of his head, his front of his head bounced off the wall in front of him, and he collapsed in a heap in front of me. That was last time I went out to my favorite pub.

I didn't fare any better in other places either. While in church a few years ago, I smacked the back of the head of every person in an entire pew as they were bowed in prayer. Their painful yelps sounded like a choir of anguish. Needless to say, I was quickly banished from Father Carmine's Community of the Faithful.

Desperate and alone, I went to the only place I knew that could offer solace: the local stripclub. An amazingly bad idea. Although I was able to restrain myself from smacking the back of the heads of the gentlemen tossing dollar bills to the dancers, I was quickly escorted out in a bouncer's restricting embrace after I smacked the back of a stripper's head as she hung upside down off a pole.

My passion to imitate my father's disciplinary technique became my cross to bear. I didn't know how to control myself. I finally sought psychiatric help.

After six months of deep, prolonged mental probing, I am proud to say that I am cured. I no longer have the urge to smack the back of anyone's head.

A nice round ass, on the other hand ...