Dan Mooney

Chords are basically played for four beats each, except for the Absus4-Ab change, two beats each on those.

VERSE:

Db – Db/F – Gb – Absus4-Ab

Db – Fm – Gb – Absus4-Ab

PRE-CHORUS:

Ab – F7 – Bbm – Ab

Db – Fm – Gb – Absus4-Ab

CHORUS:

Gb – A – Db – F7 [3X]

Gb – A – Db

VERSE

PRE-CHORUS

CHORUS

SOLO (same chords as for the verse)

PRE-CHORUS

CHORUS

CODA:

Gb – Db – Abm – Db [2X]

F7 – Gb – A – Db [2X]

Last night was the finale of the 16th go-round of The Amazing Race. I only caught onto the series about five installments ago, which is about how it always goes with me and anything, but in my experience I’ve learned one unalterable truth about the Race: It’s a young pair that always wins. The only older people you’ll see anywhere near the finish line are the ones cheering on other people, well rested from having been eliminated so quickly. All six remaining contestants from this finale were 30 and under, so the rule of thumb worked, but was of no further use.

Two other main points jumped out at me from yesterday’s show:

1. Normally in the season finale, all three teams meet at the airport and have to catch the same flight to their last destination, the keep up the drama for as long as possible. One team, Dan and Jordan, showed up at the closed airport well after another team, Jet and Cord, the cowboys. But Jordan sneaked his backpack in line in front of them. When the ticket counter opened, Jordan and Dan cut in line, to the cowboys’ surprise. But it didn’t escalate – a few words were exchanged, but no punches. If I’d been cut in line, I’d have thrown the backpack clear across the airport, with or without Jordan attached. But the cowboys took the high road and let it go. Good on them. I think.

2. Also typical for the season finale is a memory challenge, where one or both team members have to recall details about the race. The details might be which countries they’d visited along the way, or the order in which other teams had been eliminated – which was the challenge last night. We soon saw that Jordan, an avid fan of the show, figured there would be such a puzzle and kept a list of eliminated teams. It seemed to take about three minutes and then they were on their way to the final pit stop. Which was terrible, because there was no challenge there at all.

Even with the helpful list, typically this memory puzzle is a two-step problem: You wouldn’t just organize names, you’d have to put in order objects, say, that they’d handled in each of the different countries. The first challenge I saw like this involved ordering flags from the course. That’s seems a worthy problem, forcing a runner to be clever in the moment instead of just keeping track of things en route. I admit it was savvy of Jordan, having seen the previous races, so really my issue is less with him than with the race itself.

Though I’m always strangely satisfied when a race ends, mostly because it’s one less thing I have to watch, I enjoy the show very much. I’m glad that in recent years, they’ve shown much less airport drama, which was always tedious, and have focused instead on footage of the countries themselves. The show has a winning formula, given all its Emmys, given also that I keep watching. But in cases like last night, it’s obvious they should change some things up a little bit more than they do. Take a note from fellow CBS shows Big Brother and Survivor and switch it up just enough year to year, keeping with the formula but evening the playing field and not just rewarding those who have watched for always watching.

For example:

I want to see these teams scale a fucking mountain. Climbing up a wall that’s 50 or 100 feet high is fine, and looks like a lot of fun. But if a million dollars is at stake, I want it to be about more than fun, and just slightly more demanding that something I or anyone else could do:

Teams must now fly 5,000 miles to Lhasa Gonggar Airport in Tibet. From the airport, they’ll take a taxi to the North Base Camp of Mount Everest. They’ll choose one of these sherpas to guide them to the summit, where they’ll find their next clue.

And then eventually:

The Second Step of Mount Everest’s North Col route. This scenic location, with 10,000 feet of exposure at its feet, is the pit stop for this leg of the race. Teams that plummet to their death on their way here, may be eliminated.

Maybe next year.

Anyway, here are the last couple of minutes of yesterday’s finale:

I’m sure the Mythbusters could answer this question, if not because they’ve already stumbled through the necessary calculations while testing other myths, then because it’s sort of in their wheelhouse:

When knocking someone out, how do you know how much force to use to render them unconscious, but also to make sure not to kill them?

This topic came to mind not because I’m planning on using this answer practically – with any luck.  It’s probably because of LOST, leading the endless parade of TV shows where characters often have no choice but to knock another character out cold before pushing forward the plotline.  These characters certainly get a lot of practice (Sawyer, I’m looking at you), and frequently use guns to do this particular job.  This priceless technique is so effective and is achieved so easily that I eventually just had to ask myself how this would happen in the real world.

‘Cause it hasn’t come to pass, but if things ever did get dodgy and, I don’t know, a beer bottle found itself in my hand at a bar and some guy was foolish enough to run afoul of some third guy, the angry guy standing right in front of me, eager to take his new crossbow for a spin, the one he brought hoping to use it, then yes, I might have to intercede, hoping none of this becomes fatal.

I guess the answer to my question would be: Swing fast and run, and as long as the target’s distracted long enough to quash some of the danger, if only towards yourself, the unconscious-versus-death angle is moot. Kind of a cop-out answer.

So I guess my next question is: How big is that butter zone, between hitting a guy in the head with a bottle, for example, and NOT knocking him out; and hitting a guy in the head with a bottle and FUCKING KILLING HIM.  If it’s a scale of 1-10, and 10 is certain fucking death (to be avoided if possible!) and 1 is the slightest of nuisances, the kind that doesn’t even hurt, without even a scratch or a bump, then how does the middle bit work itself out?  Would it be something like, 4-6 for unconscious, 1-4 alive, 6-10 dead?  Or would it be 4-5 unconscious?  4-4.5?  How difficult is it to knock that metaphorical field goal through?

(NB: This 1-10 scale would be appropriately proportionate to force involved, say, 10 being as hard as any human can hit another with a bottle.  I guess we’d need a number of scales for different sexes, ages, etc: Maybe the foremost would be the average adult male.)

So after all, how precise does one have to be?  On TV, it just looks effortless.

I was done running my two errands.  Things hadn’t really changed in the six months since I’d moved out of the place on West 73rd St.  The construction that had bottled up Verdi Square all year was naturally finished, just in time.  It was a perfect afternoon, the kind that would show up first in a Google Image Search of the area.

The trains ran local so I got the 1 headed down to my new place.  It was a lazy Saturday.  I sank as far as anyone could sink into my hard plastic seat, buds plugging my ears, cap pulled low, prepared not to think until Chambers Street.

A stop later, the doors opened and an insane woman charged one step into the car.  Fifties, probably.  Rumpled pink spring dress.  Later I would notice the lipstick on her teeth.  She screamed out, as if howling at the moon, “Does this train go to Canal Street?!?!”

At this point, she had worn out almost half the welcome that would soon force her to back off the train, if no one would answer her question.  Time was nearly up.

Her exclamation shook me from my reverie.  I was not expecting to be called upon to answer any question at all, let alone one with a fast-approaching time limit, let alone to defuse the ball of nerves inside that rumpled dress.  My fellow travelers had much the same lack of response.

It would bother me most because I knew the train did in fact run to Canal Street.  I would take the very train down from 14th Street, five years earlier.  I couldn’t process the situation quickly enough, first recognizing that this lady wasn’t out to harm any of us, or herself, then having to acknowledge that her outcry was a fair question, and an answerable one, all within the shred of time between the ding and the closing.

One eagle-eared passenger was able to hack through all this resistance and answer affirmatively yes, lady, this train does in fact stop at Canal Street.  Welcome aboard.  Go ahead and reach back and call your friend to board as well.  All is well now.  You are safe.

The near future had been closer than I’d imagined when first baseman Ike Davis was called up from Buffalo to start for the Mets tonight.

I’m very okay with this move, as satisfied as I am surprised. I’d heard Davis was hitting well in the minors, but didn’t figure he’d be up so soon. Who knows if Mike Jacobs’ demotion to make room for a needed arm (after Saturday’s marathon with the Cardinals) was part of a larger scheme to accelerate Davis’ promotion? Then again, considering the Mets’ paucity of excellent starting pitching and further lack of effort in obtaining any, I doubt the capability of fostering any scheme of any sort.

I am curious to see how this all proceeds. No doubt it’ll be refreshing to see a prototypical first baseman installed there, hopefully on a regular basis. Makes the whole team more reputable, I think. Fernando Tatis, a starter for no one else right now, doesn’t have the frame or the power for the position. His playing there bothers me because it’s the most obvious of the many ways in which the Mets are a poorly designed, incomplete team. Second most obvious, actually – the first was Frank Catalanotto – utilityman Frank Catalanotto, Smithtown’s own, he of never having hit more than 13 home runs in a season – batting fourth the other night. I don’t care if it’s just because he was a lefty and Jerry Manuel wanted to gain the edge in the late-inning matchups, alternating lefties and righties. It’s a whimper of a statement and it’s not why we paid Jason Bay all that money.

Really, the last time I was looking forward to a rookie’s call-up like this was back in 2004. I went to a Spring Training game that year – my only time – in Fort Lauderdale, where a Mets split squad was playing the Orioles (who’d just gotten Miguel Tejada). Many of the bigger Met names went to the other game, so we got stalwarts Jeremy Griffiths, Royce Ring, Jay Roach, Justin Huber – and David Wright. When I first saw him, he was ten feet away from me, a year younger but far closer to my dream than I’d ever be, playing a crisp game of catch. His tongue was extended a little bit, mouth closed, if that helps put you there. The buzz was exciting and I awaited his arrival, later that summer.

I thought Ike Davis would be escorted along at a similar clip, showing up in Queens sometime in June or July. But this isn’t 2004, not at all. With Delgado gone, it was up to Murphy to handle first, but he got hurt. So many Mets are still injured, matching the beating our egos and hopes have taken this last few years. The Curse of Willie Mays may well be in force. No reason not to bring this kid up. Many reasons not to expect him to be David Wright. His recent track record is promising, but for me, it’s more just that he’s someone different, anyone different, who stirs an optimism among fans as can only someone who hasn’t yet succumbed to the anguish – and perhaps curse – of being a Met.