Merry Disgruntled Christmas!!

And Happy Holidays to everyone!

$30 Million

So the Mitchell Report, aka The Oogety Boogety Steroid Report, came out yesterday. I've already addressed my feelings on steroid "investigations" in baseball, so I'm not going to get into that again. Suffice to say, I think this whole brouhaha is stupid, hypocritical and, ultimately, irrelevant. But, hey, it's good to see George Mitchell finding some work, right?

There were three things, however, that caught my eye when I looked at the report:

1.) The sheer uselessness of steroids. My friend Mike, aka The Disgruntled Sports Fan (so-called because he follows Baltimore sports and Angelos could disgruntle an orgasm), noted that there were 13 (13!!) current or former Baltimore Orioles players on the list. No one doubted Brady Anderson's inclusion (50 home runs is clearly the anomoly on the back of his baseball cards), but some of the other names (Gibbons, Grimsley, Jerry Hairston, little Brian Roberts??) were a surprise. You would think that with that much extra "juice" they could have put together a winning season at some point.

From my Nats, I was amused to see fragile Nook Logan on the list. I would have been less surprised to find Robert Fick on the list than Nook. Also, Mike Stanton's steroids sure seemed to help opposing batters hit off of him while he was in Washington. Jesus, steroids don't help for shit!

2.) Steroids are expensive...

3.) ...but not as expensive, apparently, as THE MITCHELL REPORT! $30 million dollars. 30 MILLION FUCKING DOLLARS?!!?! And just in case you were wondering, yes, that's $30 million in taxpayer funds. And to produce, what, a paparazzi outing list intended solely to sully careers?? Look, I don't condone steroid use, I think it's pathetic, but what is really going to come of all of this? Selig says he'll punish the players, but as several legal experts have pointed out, he'd lose any punishment on appeal, since a.) most of this is hearsay, which is not specifically covered in the list of punishable offenses, and b.) the report was not a result of collective bargaining, so the players union is going to appeal ANY punishment doled out. Playing the percentages, I think the union is going to come out ahead on this one.

Do I think these players named used performance enhancing drugs? Yeah, probably. Do I care? Not at all. Again, the players on the list who were mediocre at best is more numerous than the Miguel Tejadas, Andy Pettites, and Roger Clemenses.

Speaking of Roger Clemens, the worst sports website on the internet has a poll on its front page, asking "Sports Nation" voters, "Would Roger Clemens get your vote for the Hall of Fame?" I'm not a huge Clemens fan, but, I mean, seriously, how is that even in question? As has been pointed out a million times before, if you left all "cheaters" out of the Hall, it would be about half the size it is now. President Bush remarked that the Mitchell Report means that "we can jump to this conclusion: that steroids have sullied the game." 60 players or so is such a small percentage that I think that's a bit extreme.

I don't know, I just think this was an enormous waste of time. There were no real bombshells (seriously, not even Clemens), nothing is really going to come of this, and now all you have is a bunch of pissed off players with high priced lawyers. And you know what that means.

Blah blah blah, you know what? I like watching towering home runs and pitchers who can hit 100 MPH. It's a sport, a game. If 60 senators were found to be tripping balls during Congressional sessions, that would require a Congressional investigation. For a game? Please. As my boss pointed out, there are 30 million better ways to spend our taxpayer dollars.

Steroids are bad, mm-kay, but if you're concerned about its proliferation, TEST EVERYONE. It's not rocket science.

Bang-kok!

From Breitbart TV...

"Sometimes they chop into pieces. In those cases we cannot put it back."

Violated

It's a dark day for the Disgruntled Investor, as The Shadow Disgruntled Girlfriend, Jessica Alba, has apparently been impregnated by someone named "Cash". And no, that's not his last name. I can't help but think that if I only had a little more cash of my own, this would not have happened. This is even worse news than when Katie Holmes was implanted by her Scientology handlers with an alien baby. (Note to DG: No, Tom Cruise did not stick his wee-wee in her hoo-hah. Argument over.)

Stinky Tofu

When we first met the Chinese businessmen, it was at a “Welcome to Shanghai” dinner held in our honor at a corporate retreat compound on the outskirts of the city. Our study abroad group had landed in Shanghai the previous day after two weeks of playing tourist in Beijing and Xian. I was battling the effects of undercooked meat from a hot-pot dinner in Xian and had not yet discovered the benefits of the colon-cleansing drug Cipro. We arrived at the compound via tour bus, expecting a polite introduction to the movers and shakers of Shanghai business and government. There was even a promise (or threat) of a karaoke machine. The choice between the dinner and recovering in my dorm room was closer than one might think, but I reluctantly went along thinking that maybe they would offer us a cold beer or two to calm the rumbling abyss that was my stomach.

The first surprise of the night came when we found out that we were to be randomly placed at tables with four classmates paired with four or five of our hosts. I was seated with Ricky, Saul, and Margie from our group. Our Chinese hosts at the table were Kerry, George, Jen, and Sunshine/Mr. Lee (the Chinese often take English names when conducting business with Westerners, and Sunshine/Mr. Lee picked two). Our hosts welcomed us graciously and, in a bit of foreshadowing of things to come, made us chug a beer before we even sat down.

Laid out before us, family-style, was a cornucopia of Chinese dishes. Kung-pao chicken, sautéed prawns, beef and broccoli, various noodle dishes, various tofu dishes, a whole fish (head attached), rice (of course) and several other rich-smelling foods were spread on the dolly, awaiting their turn in front of our plates. All of the food turned out to be delicious, particularly the prawns, but we soon learned that the night was not to be about the food.

Glancing around during the night, it became obvious that some tables were getting along better than others. At some tables, quiet and reserved American students were seated with quiet and reserved Chinese bureaucrats. You could hear the chewing at these tables, and the aura of awkward hung high above them. Other tables appeared to be more congenial, and pleasant conversations ensued. Our table turned out to be the drunkards’ table. They had, completely by accident, paired four of the most notorious partiers from the “Summer in Shanghai” group with four of the wildest Chinese revelers. With coquettish but aggressive waitresses refusing to allow our wine glasses and beer mugs (everyone at the table had both a wine glass and a beer mug) to sink even to three-quarters full, our table quickly accomplished the dual goals of making asses of ourselves and becoming the envy of every other table in the room.

In Chinese, ganbei literally means “empty glass.” Every time anyone yelled “ganbei!” to someone, both the yeller and the yellee became instantly immersed in a chugging contest. Inevitably, someone else at the table felt left out, so you were then forced to ganbei with them. After clinking glasses (trying to clink lower on the other person’s glass to prove yourself more humble than the other) one opened one’s gullet and gulped either the plum wine or the pijou (mainly Tsingtao or Suntory beer) down, eliciting cheers from the rest of the table. Needless to say, everyone at the table quickly became he jiu (or, roughly translated, piss-ass drunk). By the end of the night, I had tried my hand at karaoke (which I hate), had abandoned my boxer shorts in the bathroom (damn that hot-pot and its ill effects on the ass!) and, along with the other Americans at the table, had made new Chinese friends to show us the finer points of Shanghai’s swinging nightlife.

Our hangovers had barely had time to subside when we received a call from Kerry the next day. America’s Independence Day was coming up soon, and he and his friends wanted to take me, Ricky, Saul, and Margie out to celebrate. Falling on a Thursday, this 4th of July night on the town would mean another rough morning of Chinese classes the next day. Despite that, we quickly accepted, though Margie was somewhat concerned about their insistence on the presence of the “pretty blonde girl.” We also invited our fellow classmate Eric, because he had the craziest dance moves anyone had ever seen, and we knew that would be much appreciated by our Chinese hosts.

As our other classmates rolled their eyes and my roommate prepared himself for my imminent drunken return, the four of us left for the front gates of East China Normal University, where Kerry and Sunshine/Mr. Lee met us with a waiting car. We drove along the crowded streets of Shanghai, narrowly avoiding the multitude of cars, buses, and bicyclists, some of whom had so many parcels loaded onto their backs that it seemed to defy the very laws of physics. Finally, we arrived in one of the ritzier areas of the city, and were led into a restaurant that appeared at first to have no patrons. As we weaved through the hallways, we soon realized that instead of one large dining area, the place was set up with several large private rooms, each equipped with a large table and attendants in each corner. The rooms were filled with pieces of Chinese art (both framed and on scrolls) and gentle Chinese classical music came from an unseen speaker. Our Chinese friends had brought their boss along, a dignified gentleman named “Ark.” As in, Noah’s Ark.

Like our “Welcome to Shanghai” dinner before, a cornucopia of dishes appeared on the dolly and the attendants made sure we remained permanently soused. Unlike that dinner, however, a new dish with a pungent stench made an appearance. I would say that it was an unwelcome surprise, but our Chinese hosts could not get enough of this treat and practically climbed over each other to snag a piece. Meanwhile, the dish sat on the dolly, looking at us. Ricky and I looked at each other with trepidation, fully aware that at some point in the night, we were going to have to eat a bit of the chou doufu, or “stinky tofu.”

Stinky tofu had gained somewhat of an urban legend mythology among those of us on this trip. While a few others on the trip had actually tried it (and one guy actually liked it), most of us had been exposed to stinky tofu only through the rotten milk smell we noticed occasionally while walking the streets of Shanghai. Often described to us as the “national dish” of China, stinky tofu is made by frying squares of baked tofu and then leaving those squares outside until mold has accumulated on them. The mold is then scraped off, a spicy red sauce covers the squares, and the stinky tofu is then, I’m told, ready for human consumption. Describing the smell as “rotten milk” actually does this dish no justice. The actual smell is far more complex. Mixed in with the rotten milk aroma is a hint of human, or possibly animal depending on the region, excrement. Like a fine wine, stinky tofu’s flavor increases with age and may contain sediments, possibly from the normal dirt and grime of the city. Shanghai appeared to be the Napa Valley of stinky tofu.

The night that America celebrated her independence from England, Ricky and I were frantically trying to come up with ways to divest ourselves from our obligation to try everything at the table. Whenever the dolly would present the stinky tofu plate in front of us, we would quickly twirl the dolly around, as the smell alone was turning our stomachs. Meanwhile, we stuffed ourselves with noodles, green beans, shrimp, and non-stinky tofu squares. Many ganbei’s commenced, with toasts to us, to them, to Russia, to Mao, to George Washington, to Margie (several times), and to each of us individually. The dolly kept its clockwise spin, providing us with the finest food Shanghai had to offer. All the while, our Chinese hosts mumbled conspiratorially to each other while looking in our direction. Finally, Judgment Day arrived.

“You have not tried the chou doufu.”

“Are you sure? I thought I had.” Nice. Clever.

“Oh, no, we have been waiting for you to eat it. It is delicious dish.”

“Thanks, but I think I’m getting pretty full, what about you Ricky?”

“Yeah, me too, but thanks.”

“We have saying in China," Kerry noted, "until you eat chou doufu, you are not a man.”

Now wait just a cotton-picking minute here! They had clearly crossed the line. I was pretty sure whether or not we ate moldy bean curd had no bearing on our manhoods. But, then again, the Chinese were an ancient, wise people. And, as Ricky and I were quite drunk at this point, they had managed to push the right button.

“Well then, I guess we’re just going to have to become men then, huh?” This elicited great cheers at the table. Kerry swiveled the dolly until the foul, vile dish appeared in front of us. The stinky tofu laughed - an evil, sinister laugh. We tentatively fidgeted our chopsticks over the plate as sweat droplets appeared on our foreheads. Finally, we broke off a piece and drenched it in the spicy sauce. Everyone at the table grew quiet and leaned forward in anticipation. Those bastards knew exactly what was going to happen, but, like a frat hazing, we had little choice. We closed our eyes and shoved the piece of stinky tofu into our mouths.

During my stay in China, I tried all manners of strange foods. I ate roasted bug larvae, roasted scorpion (not bad, like a French fry), rattlesnake, pigeon, cow stomach, and some things that I had no idea what they were. I managed to gulp each of these down with a laugh and a smile, and was actually surprised at the edibility of several of these delicacies. This was not the case with the stinky tofu. From the moment that bite entered my open mouth, my body was screaming, “bad idea!” The palate-wrecking sourness of this single bite still haunts me. Adding to the rotten milk/excrement taste was the incredibly spicy sauce that, far from complimenting the tofu, only enhanced its unique taste characteristics. Ricky started gagging, and I quickly swallowed, hoping the evil would leave my mouth upon the absence of the stinky tofu. I was mistaken in that belief. I grabbed for my glass of beer, and tried to drown the taste out. Instead I created a new lingering taste – rotten milk/shit/spicy red sauce/beer – which made it worse. I was near panic. However, my brain decided to kick in at this point (where were you a minute ago, jackass?). I grabbed the first non-stinky tofu plate I could see, and began shoving prawns, beef and broccoli, and anything else I could find into my mouth to mask the taste. This method, thankfully, lessened the blow somewhat. Our Chinese hosts fell out of their chairs laughing at us. But, at least for now, we were men.

With hints of chou doufu still on our breath, we finished our meal and headed out to a bar in the new and trendy Xin Tian Di neighborhood to continue the 4th of July celebration. It was the beginning of monsoon season in Shanghai, and as we stepped outside to our waiting car the rain was blowing sideways, though not all that hard. We drove to a classy bar full of Chinese and American patrons, and seated ourselves at a large table overlooking the dance floor. On the stage, a rock cover band from America was playing. We ordered tall glasses of beers and shandys. After a few beers and a dozen failed explanations of how in America if a girl is pretty we say she is “hot” (or "re" in Chinese), repeatedly using Margie as a reference, we decided to head for the dance floor to check out the band. This would also (as Ricky, Margie, Saul and I knew) provide an opportunity for our Chinese hosts to witness Eric’s “trance” dancing.

As he had explained to us numerous times, when the music is pumping and he enters the dance floor, Eric loses all control of himself. He develops a vision of falling through the sky while trying to juggle a large orb (his words). As it turns out, this is exactly what he looks like while dancing. Completely unaware of his surroundings, Eric flails his arms, legs, and head around in what can best be described as a faster version of Elaine Bennis’ dance moves from Seinfeld. It is both the most hilarious and most astounding sight any of us had ever witnessed (and we had watched this numerous times while in China). We couldn’t wait to see the reaction of our Chinese hosts.

Eric entered the dance floor and quickly cleared it, as the other astounded patrons expected that his moves would morph into an old-school breakdance show. This, of course, did not happen. Moving completely oblivious to the actual beat of the music, Eric began flailing and twitching with a vacant look in his eyes. As we started simultaneously shaking our heads and laughing, our Chinese hosts leapt onto the dance floor, and began dancing exactly like Eric. Perhaps they thought this was the latest American dance craze. Perhaps they wanted to lessen his embarrassment. For whatever reason, the result was electric. Everyone else commenced dancing, all mimicking our friend Eric. We looked at each other, shrugged, and joined in on the “trance” dancing, the lot of us resembling a pack of zombies being electrocuted. Oh well, when in Shanghai…

After that night, we caught up with our new Chinese friends a couple of other times (including once in Morgantown, West Virginia, where they had gone to study business English at West Virginia University), and were always shown the best time Shanghai had to offer. We definitely experienced true Shanghainese hospitality each time. However, years later, I swear I can still taste that awful stinky tofu, no matter what I try to wash it down with.

BASICly The Best *

Normally, if I add a link to my "Sites That Make Me Less Disgruntled" it happens with little to no fanfare. However, I just found a site (thanks to this CNN article) that I think deserves special mention.

C64 is a website devoted to the greatest of great computers, the Commodore 64. Every one of us who grew up in the 80's either had or knew someone who had this computer. Boasting a whopping 64 KB of RAM (not enough for 1 MP3 song now), this computer set the standard for all gaming devices that would follow it. I learned (and have subsequently forgotten) BASIC programming on this computer, often spending my nerdish youth creating my own games. And, speaking of games, there were hundreds of them available on durable floppy disk. We used to go down to the Quantico PX and get them off a rack for $5 each.

Anyway, this site has, among other features, an emulator for playing most, if not all, of the awesome games the C64 had to offer, so, I'd highly recommend checking it out. It'll be at the top of the Disgruntled Sites section for a while.

By the way, the picture above is of the single hardest game (but also one of the most fun) I had on the C64, "Transformers."



*Give me a break, it's been a long week, and that's the best I could come up with...

Happy Hamukah!!

The Great Blizzard

Here in the DC-Metro area, it's the first snow of the winter. Initial forecasts of one inch have ballooned up to at least 3 inches, and from the looks of things it might be even more than that. I am, of course, stuck here at work, but my large office window affords me nice views of the white barrage.

I always like looking out at a snowstorm in progress, especially as it always reminds me of my first winter in Fredericksburg, VA. In early January 1996, the area experienced what has come to be known as "The Great Blizzard of '96." Since that snow melted, the event has taken on steadily growing mythical proportions. It even has its own Wikipedia page!

It always amuses me when this topic comes up around a mixed crowd of people who experienced it and newer arrivals to the area. The conversation usually goes something like this:

Guy 1: "I hear we're supposed to get like 5 inches of snow - that'd be a lot."
Guy 2: "Yeah, but nothing like '96."
Guy 1: "OH MAN - THAT WAS AMAZING, WE WERE OUT OF SCHOOL FOR TWO WEEKS STRAIGHT!!"
Guy 2: "I know, we had some wicked hills to sled down. I built a fort. Sweet."
Girl 1 [who wasn't there in '96]: (rolls her eyes and shakes her head, as this is the 5,624th time she's heard this exact conversation)

And heaven help that new arrival if he/she tries to compare that storm with any other snowstorm in the history of mankind. There's no comparison. The Great Blizzard of '96 beats all others. Seriously, two weeks straight off school. Forget about it.

Anyway, my memories of that time leave me pining as well. Despite having an ill-timed tooth-ache that made breathing in the cold air a painful endeavor, I was out in that snow every single day, either with my sled or snowboard. At the time, I was a sophomore in high school, and had been suddenly given the dual gifts of extended time off of school and several feet of winter wonderland snow.

"You know, they're probably just going to add this time on to the end of the school year," my mother pooh-poohingly noted. But, no matter, we lived for the moment, and the moment was pretty grand.

Our Shelty puppy, 3 months old and a snow virgin, lost his mind in the snow. One of the funniest memories I have of the Great Blizzard is our dog running down our porch steps, amazed we were letting him out leash-free, only to quickly find two feet of snow above his head. Confused as hell, he had to frog-leap his way around the yard, until finally he had enough and frog-leapt his way back to the porch. "Fuck that," he said, shook himself off, and went back inside, much to the consternation of my mother, who had just cleaned that floor, dammit.

Our house was situated on a cul-de-sac at the bottom of a large hill, which, unencumbered by car traffic due to the roads not being cleared yet, became a great, if slightly precarious, sledding/snowboarding hill for us. We would spend hours sliding down the hill, then slowly trudging up the hill, then sliding back down the hill. It was simple, cheap fun.

At least once a day, we would see a figure waddling towards us, a greasy looking guy in a ski cap made to resemble dred-locks. This was my next-door neighbor's 24 year old (at least physically) son Dave. He was, without a doubt, the single weirdest person I've ever met.

"Dudes!" he would exclaim as he approached, and we all prepared ourselves for the impending idiotic and annoying conversation.

"Dudes! I just found out how to make homemade L.S.D."

"Oh yeah, how about that...," we would dismissively answer.

"Yeah, it's real easy! Get a bottle, and put a banana peel and some aspirin inside. Then, just let it sit for a few days, and, DUDE, you got some strong L.S.D.!"

"That's great, Dave, you should go try that out."

"(laughing like Spicoli from "Fast Times") Dude, that's what I'm on my way to do!"

Then, he would give us a surfer's wave, and snowboard down the hill, wiping out at least five times on the way down. And we would move on to another hill, in case he decided to come back, all high on bananas and aspirin.

Yes, there will never be another time like The Great Blizzard of '96, but, who knows, it's still snowing pretty hard out there.

Diabolical!!!

The Disgruntled Investor has a new favorite TV show, Ninja Warrior, on G4. Combining the best elements of American Gladiator, Iron Chef, Street Fighter (the video game, not the movie), Street Fighter (the movie, not the video game), Jackass, and a costume party, Ninja Warrior is, simply, the greatest thing I have ever seen on a television screen. If you enjoy crazy Japanese announcers with incredibly translated subtitles, and contestants who play on every single stereotype you can think of, this is the show for you.

For those of you who haven't yet had a chance to experience this show, which contains numerous instances of awesomeness, hilarity, and awesomeness, I've included a clip below of the "Top 5 Ninja Warrior Wipeouts" that should have you running to your TV, weeknights at 6 and 10 PM, to bask in its glow.

Yes, Yes, Ya'll. We Don't Stop.

Yo, yo, yo, the Singapore Media Development Authoritay is in the hizzay, beotch! Step to us and we'll cane yo' ass, stank ass hiz-oh!

Happy Wednesday! Today we learn how to rhyme words like "R&D" with "cup of tea," drop dope lyrics such as, "like an LCD screen, you get a clear picture," and appreciate that Asians can not only fly and shoot fire out of their hands, they can also rap! All from the group that recently decided to ban a video game in Singapore for alien lesbian sex - fo' shizzle.

Me so efficient!

Sean Taylor and Michael Wilbon

Well, today has seen the tragic and infuriating end to the Sean Taylor shooting saga. As a Redskins fan and a Sean Taylor fan, it merely serves to extend what I referred to earlier as one of the worst weekends of sports in my memory.

Here's what nationally syndicated columnist and PTI host Michael Wilbon had to say in a chat about what he tastefully calls "the latest strange episode relating to Taylor"!

McLean, Va.: Will your opinion of Taylor change if this does not turn out to be a random incident (e.g. home invasion)?

Michael Wilbon: No ... people's opinions are shaped by the way they've grown up, the way they see the world, what they know about the world the person in question grew up in, etc. Sean Taylor isn't the only guy I know who fits his general profile. I've known guys like Taylor all my life, grew up with some. They still have shades of gray and shouldn't be painted in black and white...I know how I feel about Taylor, and this latest news isn't surprising in the least, not to me. Whether this incident is or isn't random, Taylor grew up in a violent world, embraced it, claimed it, loved to run in it and refused to divorce himself from it. He ain't the first and won't be the last. We have no idea what happened, or if what we know now will be revised later. It's sad, yes, but hardly surprising....Everybody's circumstance is different. But it always seemed to me that Sean Taylor loves his life and the way he's living and has no instinct to change...

Now, I'm far too lazy to scroll down in my blog and see if I've hit on this before, but I do not like Michael Wilbon. He's no Tony Kornheiser, and is on a very short list of the nation's top blowhards (I believe he resides just to the left of Lou Dobbs there). Wilbon tends to turn everything that happens, good or bad, into a broader societal issue. Sean Taylor certainly lived somewhat of a thuggish life early on, but all indications are that he had changed, and dramatically.

Wilbon's thought on that, however, was this:

Columbia, Md.: What makes you think that Taylor was still embracing his old ways? Everything we have heard from the Redskins and Portis is that this is a new Sean. Apparently the birth of his child really helped to straighten him out. Is this contrary to what you know?

Michael Wilbon: Sorry, but I'm not in the habit of having companies with their own public relations agenda tell me about black men and what they feel or don't feel. Pardon me if I'm not that easy.

Hahahaha, well, thank God he's not easy.

Now, I'm not suggesting that there aren't greater societal issues corresponding to this incident (for example, Jemele Hill of ESPN.com notes that this just adds to the statistic that the leading cause of death for African-American males aged 15 to 24 is homicide), I'm just saying this is not the right time to get into it, and Wilbon is certainly not the right person to do it. I've read Kornheiser and Wilbon's columns since I was about 11, and I've always noticed that Kornheiser has always been able to keep a sense of humor and perspective about him, while Wilbon tends to let his emotions get ahead of him. I certainly empathize with his concerns about the consequences of a thuggish lifestyle, but to suggest that Sean Taylor had it coming is not just insensitive, it's wrong. No one ever "has it coming" (outside of Muslim extremists and Michael Moore), but more importantly people certainly can change. For every Michael Vick who continues to hang out with his boys from home, there is a Sean Taylor who decides that his old life is not conducive to his success as a player, companion, and father. Sean Taylor did not have this coming, and it is a terrible tragedy that hopefully, one day, Michael Wilbon and his ilk can accept as something that was certainly not deserving.

R.I.P. #21

Why Don't You Make Like A Tree...

From The Telegraph...

Tree man 'who grew roots' may be cured
By Matthew Moore

An Indonesian fisherman who feared that he would be killed by tree-like growths covering his body has been given hope of recovery by an American doctor - and Vitamin A.

Dede, now 35, baffled medical experts when warty "roots" began growing out of his arms and feet after he cut his knee in a teenage accident.

The welts spread across his body unchecked and soon he was left unable to carry out everyday household tasks.

Sacked from his job and deserted by his wife, Dede has been raising his two children - now in their late teens - in poverty, resigned to the fact that local doctors had no cure for his condition.

To make ends meet he even joined a local "freak show", parading in front of a paying audience alongside victims of other peculiar diseases.

Although supported by his extended family, he was often a target of abuse and ridicule in his rural fishing village.

But now an American dermatology expert who flew out to Dede's home village south of the capital Jakarta claims to have identified his condition, and proposed a treatment that could transform his life.

After testing samples of the lesions and Dede's blood, Dr Anthony Gaspari of the University of Maryland concluded that his affliction is caused by the Human Papilloma Virus (HPV), a fairly common infection that usually causes small warts to develop on sufferers.

Dede's problem is that he has a rare genetic fault that impedes his immune system, meaning his body is unable to contain the warts.

The virus was therefore able to "hijack the cellular machinery of his skin cells", ordering them to produce massive amounts of the substance that caused the tree-like growths known as "cutaneous horns" on his hands and feet.

Dede's counts of a key type of white blood cell are so low that Dr Gaspari initially suspected he may have the Aids virus.

But tests showed he did not, and it became clear that Dede's immune condition was something far rarer and more mysterious.

Warts aside, he had enjoyed remarkable good health throughout his life - which would not be expected of someone with a suppressed immune system - and neither his parents nor his siblings have shown signs of developing lesions.

"The likelihood of having his deficiency is less than one in a million," Dr Gaspari told the Telegraph.

Dr Gaspari, who became involved in the case through a Discovery Channel documentary, believes that Dede's condition can be largely cleared up by a daily doses of a synthetic form of Vitamin A, which has been shown to arrest the growth of warts in severe cases of HPV.

"He won't have a perfectly normal body but the warts should reduce in size to the point where he could use his hands," Dr Gaspari said.

"Over the course of three to six months the warts should be come smaller and fewer in number. He will be living a more normal life."

The most resilient warts could then be frozen off and the growths on his hands and feet surgically removed.

Dr Gaspari hopes to get the necessary drugs free of charge from pharmaceutical firms. They would then be administered by Indonesian doctors under his supervision.

Still intrigued by the origins of Dede's peculiar immune condition, the doctor would like to fly him to the United States for further examination, but fears the financial and bureaucratic barriers would prove too difficult to overcome.

"I would like to bring him to the US to run tests on where his immune condition has come from, but I would need funding and to get him a visa as well as someone to cover the costs of the tests," he said.

"I've never seen anything like this in my entire career."

One Disgruntled Weekend

So, in the course of 24 hours, this is what I, as a Washington area sports fan, was subjected to:

Virginia Tech 33, Virginia 21 (football)
Seton Hall 74, Virginia 60 (basketball)
Memphis Grizzlies 124, Washington Wizards 118 [Also, Arenas out for 3 months]
Tampa Bay Bucaneers 19, Washington Redskins 13 [Also, Sean Taylor GOT SHOT IN THE GROIN...]

Virginia lost the football game primarily because, as the Washington Redskins of college football, our terrible secondary refuses to cover anybody, instead playing a light Cover-2 that allows unchecked 15 yard passes throughout the game. Also, Jameel Sewell, like Jason Campbell, far too often makes hasty passes when he should just use his natural running ability and scramble for a first down. But, what can you do? The Disgruntled Girlfriend yesterday remarked that, hey, 9-3 is a pretty good season. I quickly corrected her and said no, it's not. We lost to two horrible teams, and the only decent team we beat turned out to be Connecticut. It was at best a mediocre year. Sorry, I have low standards as a UVA fan, but this was pretty unbearable. Al Groh's not out of the woods with me yet. Of course, he'll probably get ACC coach of the year.

The UVA basketball loss to Seton is too terrible to even talk about. We can beat Arizona on the road but not Seton Hall on a neutral court.

Finally, the Wizards are the Wizards, and the Redskins are the Redskins. What can you do? Allow me to be among the first to suggest the unsuggestable - perhaps it's time for a coaching change for the Redskins. I hear Bill Cowher's available.

Anyway, so this weekend has me seriously considering a sports suicide - completely eschewing all sports watching, sports following, and sports caring. It's just getting too difficult to emotionally invest myself in these stupid games where these stupid teams make stupid mistakes and stupid lose. It drives me crazy that Boston-area fans right now are having an orgiastic feast while my teams, pretty much throughout my sporting life, have consistently let me down. Though I followed sports religiously through baseball and football cards throughout my 80's childhood, my loyalties were primarily directed towards individual players, as opposed to specific teams. My team loyalties, for some reason, emerged in 1991 - when, following a move down to Savannah, Georgia, I started following the Atlanta Braves, the Washington Redskins (the Falcons were, and always will be, utterly unloved in the state of Georgia), and the Washington Bullets.

From 1991 on, this is what I've gotten:
-Exactly one good year from the Redskins (thanks to this guy)
-The best regular season team, and worst playoff team, in baseball
-The Washington Bullets/Wizards

My college years found me residing at my beloved University of Virginia, where despite regular NFL draft picks (Tiki and Ronde Barber, Thomas Jones, Heath Miller, Matt Schaub, Wali Lundy, Patrick Kerney, etc.), the football team has consistently underachieved. Then, of course, there was the Pete Gillen basketball era - which saw numerous police arrests, an utter breakdown in discipline, and zero NCAA tournament wins. Thankfully, Dave Leitao seems to have turned things around, but, then there's that Seton Hall loss.

I've never, ever, experienced the sheer joy of a dynasty. I've never, ever, felt like any of my teams was going to blow out an opponent. I've never, ever, felt confident in a championship run. I feel like the dealer is constantly hitting 21 against my hard 20's. It's utterly, completely frustrating.

So, as of now, consider me on sports suicide watch.

(P.S. This is, of course, not to belittle the enormity of actual suicides, which is of course a very serious matter. Just wanted to head that off at the pass...)

Turkey Lurkey Dickle

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!

Unless, of course, she's a Robo-Bitch...

Fellas, you ever want to just shut off that talkie girlfriend/wife/post-op transvestite lover of yours after you've given her a good rogerin'?

Ladies, you ever wish your man/butch lesbian girlfriend named Rosie would just pleasure you and then do some chores around the house?

Well, hope you can wait until 2050!!