January 2005 Archives

Dear pickup-driving dude at the local Gas-N-Sip,

I was able to turn a blind eye to the fact that you had turned around to more easily access the gas cap that was on the wrong side of your vehicle. Because after all, today is "Wild Monday", so we can all go nuts and save eight cents on a gallon of gas, which is akin to ordering a Greasy McLard with a Diet Coke because - what else? - you're watching your weight. I mean, what's more wild than facing the wrong way at a gas station while saving eight cents a gallon? IT'S INSANITY, I TELL YOU!

I also tried to turn a blind eye to the fact that you had left your lights on, except for the fact that my eyes were already blind. The larger-than-normal tires on your larger-than-normal pickup truck meant that your higher-than-normal headlights were not shining on the asphalt in front of your truck, but were instead scorching themselves into my corneas, doing permanent damage to my optical nerves in the process.

It's even not that huge of a deal that you gave me a minor coronary by momentarily starting your gargantuan pickup truck - used, I'm sure, to fell forests, shift small buildings on their foundations and generally terrorize anything with fewer than 18 wheels - and lurching it towards me as a result of your piss-poor job of backing up to the gas pump in the first place. Although now that I think about it, you've REALLY got to be parking-deficient not to get your gas cap close enough to reach it with a 10-foot hose.

But when you LEAVE YOUR ENGINE RUNNING while refueling that behemoth of a machine that probably has chunks of exhaust bigger than me coming out its tailpipe, that's where I draw the line. Do you not realize that we're sitting atop enough combustible material to create a fireball visible from NEPTUNE if your gas guzzler gets indigestion from choking on low-grade eight-cents-discounted petroleum?

"I like my sets 90 minutes long. I just completely ran out of energy at Bob Schneider."

"I know. I tried to avoid looking back at you, because if I did, I knew I'd be overwhelmed with guilt and have to take you home."

"It was a fun show, though."

"Yeah. I didn't want to look back...like they say about climbing a mountain, 'don't look down'. Or as Brian Rosenworcel would say about taking a poop in a port-a-john, 'don't look down'."

[...]

"Not to compare you to poop at the bottom of a port-a-john."

"I should hope not."

Card 1 of 2

"Thank you for calling to activate your new Bank of America card. Please enter your sixteen-digit card number, followed by the pound sign."

*beepbeepboopboopbeepbeepboopboopbeepbeepboopboopbeepbeepboopboop*

"Now enter your four-to-twelve-digit PIN, followed by the pound sign."

*beepbeepboopboopbeepbeepboopboop*

"While your card is being activated, we would like to tell you about a special offer of customer account protection. Blah blah blah, pre-recorded sales spiel taking five minutes of your life that you're never getting back, blah blah blah. If you would like more information about this offer, press 1. If not, press 2."

*2*

"You don't want to miss out on this special one-time offer. If you would like more information about this offer, press 1. If not, press 2."

*grumblesnarlhrmph* *2*

"Your card is now activated. Thank you for choosing Bank of America."

*click*

---

Card 2 of 2

"Thank you for calling--

*beepbeepboopboopbeepbeepboopboop*

"Now enter--"

*beepbeepboopboopbeepbeepboopboop*

"While your card is being activated--"

*2*

"You don't want--"

*2*

"Your card is now activated. Thank you for choosing--"

*click*

We have a small parking lot at work. 30 inches of snow over the last few days will make it even smaller. One person in the building has a large minivan which is usually left parked in a corner of the parking lot, and when the snows came this time, it stayed there, looking like an angel food cupcake with all the accumulation on top of it.

Today I went out for lunch, and while I was gone, the owner of this minivan dug a path to the driver's side door, pulled forward into my parking spot, brushed the vehicle off, and left it there. Meanwhile, the spot across from it had four-foot-high walls of snow where the minivan had been...and I had no place to park.

Thanks, jackass. In the words of the recently departed Carnac, may a diseased yak squat in your hot tub.

Our first few years in town, we lived in quite a few places - first a year in a dumpy apartment in an out-of-the-way house on the edge of campus, nine months pet/housesitting for a teacher on sabbatical, and a swanky apartment in one of the newest buildings on campus (complete with direct access to the school's network rather than the 14.4k modem we'd been using, and if you know our surfing habits, that's the equivalent of trying to shove an inflated beach ball into a Coke bottle). The reasoning for all this was because we weren't married yet and they didn't want us corrupting the morals of their students by living in sin in their very midst. Never mind that we were engaged within months of Mrs. Dave (then just Mr. Dave's fiancée) starting here...the unmitigated HORROR of not actually being married was too much to bear (for them, not for Mrs. Dave).

Once we officially tied the knot, however, we were rewarded with what can only be described as quite possibly the cushiest dorm position on campus - a ridiculously low student-to-teacher ratio. There are other dorms here that have dozens of kids with only two teachers, so we got lucky. Temporarily, anyway.

This fall we were informed that they were going to be doing some construction on the dorm, required by law, to put a second egress other than the rickety fire escape we currently have. In the process, they figured they'd do a long-overdue renovation on the place anyway, and get rid of one of the apartments to convert it into more student space. So our dorm will effectively be doubling in population and losing a teacher's apartment. Since we live on the second floor and will be staying, they're moving us downstairs...but since they're renovating the whole building, they're moving us out of the building entirely during the period of said renovation, and into a house.

A house.

We get OUR OWN HOUSE.

We went to visit it yesterday, and now I know why they call it "new digs" - because while the parking area was plowed out, the front walkway had not been dug out, and we were confronted with four-foot snow drifts to slog through. Really no way around it, and we almost fell over a couple of times because of the uneven ground between the parking area and the side door, but we eventually made it inside (and proceeded to track snow and crap all over the place. Hey, it's not our place yet).

Now, it's hardly a mansion, mind you, but it's more room than we've ever had before. Mud room, kitchen, dining room, living room, bonus room and half-bath on the first floor, and two bedrooms and a full bath on the second floor. It's a little dingy, needs a paint job, and has some truly horrifying paint color and shelving selections, but the kitchen is roomy, and no, those are rice kernels in the lazy susan, not an overgrown colony of ants which have now gone to meet their maker. We move in in June...just in time for barbecue season, and there's even a side deck to house the grill. C'mon down and party, people.

I can't imagine many things that wake you up faster in the morning than a frigid toilet seat. WOOHAH!

The temperature in our apartment hovered in the low to mid-60's most of the weekend; this morning we woke up to a positively glacial 56. After repeated bashing of the snooze alarm to postpone the inevitable freezing of the feet (and other bodily parts), I finally got up and decided to inspect the furnace downstairs. Mounted to it was this contraption with a little LED, a list of what the LED meant (steady or flashing, red or amber) and a big red button. I pushed the big red button, theorizing that if it exploded and vaporized me, at least I'd die warm. Instead, it roared to life (and made me glad I'd used the aforementioned frigid toilet, or else I might have had a wee accident) and soon after, the radiators in our apartment started, well, radiating. Never have I been so glad I pushed a big red button. Or our cats, who had detected the sudden resuscitation of our heaters, and were perched atop them soon afterwards.

If some small island nation is obliterated within the next couple of hours, however, I promise it wasn't me. Dammit, they shouldn't make big red buttons so big and red if they don't want people to push them.

A new post mentioning the page's new look, so everyone can actually comment on said new look instead of asking me about it in person. How sad that I see all most of my regular readers more frequently than they leave comments here. :P

"Are you using the same cup as yesterday for your hot chocolate!?"

"Yyyyyeah..."

"Honey, that's disgusting."

"Hmm... I guess that means you'll want your own spoon, huh?"

of greasy grimy iBook guts...

Including mutilated shields of heat and little dirty rubber feet. Just got around to labeling the pictures from the surgery and that was the best one.

Wow, was THAT a hassle. We are now running MovableType, version π, but it wasn't without its difficulties. Did all the due diligence ahead of time, exporting our entries in case anything catastrophic happened, etc. Everything installed and upgraded just fine - cgi scripts ran properly and gave all of the right "success!" messages. Then I tried to log in.

Invalid user.

D'oh!

Re-enter login/password, same error. Re-re-enter login/password, same error.

Shit.

"Forgot your password?" Why, yes I have. Enter my username, enter the password hint...

No such author with name 'dave'"

(*&^@#$#(*$&^!!

Followed by some running around the room, frantic Googlesearching. Several results yield a potential fix - I need to update my databases - but that only seems to have to do with changing hosts or servers. I run it anyway since it's the only thing I can find...no dice. In the meantime we're in the middle of watching the tensest episode of 24 ever (one of the girls in our dorm walked in during the traffic stop scene, and we barely even acknowledged her, but she still sat down and watched the rest of the show with us) and I'm relegated to picking up the laptop during commercial breaks and frantically searching for a solution.

Mrs. Dave notices my furrowed brow, shortness of breath and panicked typing, asks me what's wrong, and I spare her the gory details. Finally, I stumble upon MT-Medic, a plugin that basically lets me hack into our MovableType installation and reset passwords (no, you can't have them) so we can get back in. Crisis averted.

Then this morning, I realize that somehow all of our comments have disappeared from the site. Not from the actual blog, but from the pages that are displayed. Somehow in the upgrade from 2.64 to π, and in the upgrade from MT-Blacklist 1.x to 2.x, a new feature was introduced that allows us to "moderate" any comments that are made. It's pretty cool, actually, since most of the comment spam is made on older entries, so we can just delete them and de-spam them out of hand rather than having to go root them out, while allowing legit comments on old entries to be posted. But this upgrade set ALL comments to "pending", so none of them displayed on the site, and EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM had to be approved individually. I did some more searching for a magic plugin that would just approve them all in one fell swoop, but nothing turned up. So my afternoon was spent becoming better-acquainted with my mouse... click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click

It's not bad when your blog has 140 comments, but some of us are more popular than others. SIX HUNDRED is a lot of clicks, and some of those didn't even take the first time. I'm surprised I didn't wake up with carpal tunnel.

1...2...3?!

In honor of the famous Beavis & Butthead line, I give you "So now I'm thinking..." in Movable Type, version 1...2...3?!

4 screwdrivers.
1 Leatherman.
1 pair of tweezers.
1 card table.
34 screws.
10 pieces of tape.
2 very thin and far-too-easy-to-bend aluminum heat shields.
2 hours.
----------
1 iBook with a new 40GB hard drive.

I've never been a person particularly afraid of putting things together or taking things apart, especially with directions as clear as this. So with Mrs. Dave cursing the day she chose her current profession (she had to work today, and has to work on Monday too...oog) I rolled up my sleeves, got out the tools and our card table, set it up in the office (so I could consult the tutorial) and went to work.

As early as the first step - taking out the first three screws in the bottom casing - I realized that I needed some sort of organizational plan. Fortunately, the card table was big enough for me to just start lining up rows of removed computer guts, in groups for each step of the instructions. I think the screws came in at LEAST seven different types and sizes. I was lucky I'd bought that jeweler's screwdriver at CVS earlier that morning, because I'd had a hunch the 3mm screwdriver I had wouldn't cut it. Good hunch. This thing is hair-thin but strong, and saved my day. Even went so far as to allow me to remove a screw that could only be reached by ejecting the CD tray to its complete extension, and then threading the screwdriver down through the ejector rail at an angle to unscrew it. Oh yeah, this guy's good.

It took me maybe an hour to get the whole thing apart, by which point I just needed to take a break and stretch and that aroused the cats' suspicion suddenly - "Hey! The male human is home! He must GIVE ME SOME LOVE!" Bogus then made the fatal error of following me back to the office, where I suddenly had a horrific vision of her jumping on the table, legs splaying in slow motion as she skids around on the surface, kicking my meticulously-placed screws every which way, sundering the fragile heat shields, leaving claw marks on the screen and hair on the keyboard (well, that last one she does already...I need to get a can of compressed air...). I chased her out of the room, closed the door, and ignored her pleas to come in. I was in the zone.

The two hardest parts of the whole process weren't what I expected - two normal screws in the battery compartment just refused to come out without a fight, and detaching the speaker cables on the underside of the top casing (and plugging them back in...these parts are NOT made for adult-sized fingers). But everything came out of and went back into the places they were supposed to, and I managed to get through the whole thing only dropping one screw on the floor. Okay, I dropped it twice, and it took me five minutes to FIND it the first time, but still. And then the first time I got it back together, the track pad (it's NOT a mouse, dammit) wasn't responding, but that was quickly remedied by an emphatic reinsertion of the ribbon cable into the connector. Even managed to clone the backed-up data back onto the new hard drive...though I had to do it twice since I stupidly named Mrs. Dave's new hard drive the same as Mr. Dave's old one, so it just copied all of the shit from one of my hard drives to her hard drive, rather than from the backup. Oopth.

But now I am happy to report that the laptop is back to being almost as good as new, except for an incontinent battery that has been leaking charge since the day we got it. No more leaving the Li-ions in the bay when the laptop is at the desk...

Patient: iBook Marble
DOB: 10/2002
Symptoms: Hacking click, comatose response to stimuli
Diagnosis: Brain damage
Recommended procedure: Brain transplant
Operating surgeon: Dr. Dave
Purchase requisition (approved):
- One (1) torx screwdriver, size 0
- One (1) set of allen wrenches
- One (1) new brain (type Hitachi 5400RPM 40GB)

The brain has arrived. Surgery is scheduled for Saturday. Wish me luck. I think I'm going to need it.

I will call it...Mini-Mac. Ok, Mac mini. Is it a bad thing that even though we have Viv's iBook (Marble) and my G4 tower (either Yikes! or Sawtooth...I can't remember), I'm tempted to buy an iBrick?

I'm just imagining the possibility of buying a wireless keyboard and mouse, using a DVI cable to hook this thing up to our 34" widescreen, and doing some living room surfing in STYLE.

I'd like to think not. While I don't quite have the bahlging mahscles of Ahnuld, I'm 6'3", 190lbs or so. Put it this way - it's not too farfetched to refer to me as the proverbial strapping young lad.

I just returned from the grocery store, with the following items from my list: two half-gallons of orange juice, a chocolate-frosted yellow cake (a specific order from Mrs. Dave, who did NOT have a good day at work), a half-gallon of ice cream (ditto), a small container of hummus, a bag of pita bread, a dozen eggs, and two 12-oz bags of shredded cheese (cheddar and mozzarella). Total weight, 12 pounds (Yes, I weighed them after getting home. STOP GIGGLING.). All carried - with relative ease, mind you - in a standard-sized grocery basket. No grunting, staggering or even a slight list to one side. No, I was quite in control of my foodstuffs, I'm proud to say.

Upon going through the register, the girl ringing me up was by herself, so I started to bag the groceries, putting the two half-gallons into one bag. If left to my own devices, I'm thinking maybe the cake, pita bread, hummus and cheese go in another, and the eggs and ice cream in a third. I pay with my credit card, though, so I'm summoned to pay. She finishes bagging, and I'm confronted with:

1 bag - orange juice (my packing job)
1 bag - hummus, pita bread & 2 cheeses (ok, not bad, four items to a bag)

And then, her brain apparently went into complete and total lockdown. One refrigerated item, one frozen item, one room-temperature item. Must... segregate... all... items... of... differing... temperatures...

1 bag - cake
1 bag - ice cream
1 bag - eggs

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH. I DO NOT UNDERSTAND THIS.

I had JUST carried all of those items up to her in one basket. I'm not going to suddenly be putting them into a cart, carefully wheeling them out to my car, and pay a quarter a bag for assistance to that nice young man to put them in the back of my Oldsmobile Battleship. I'm not going to suddenly debilitate rapidly on my way home and need multiple trips up to my apartment, getting winded after each one, necessitating a five-minute break in an oxygen tent. Why not go the extra mile and individually double-bag each of my eggs?

Attention, supermarket baggers of the world: I am twenty-nine years old. I can carry my groceries in three bags. If they break, I will not sue. If I drop one, I will not sue. FILL THE DAMN BAGS.

At first it was just yet another bothersome ad campaign - the new TV spots from a particularly unappetizing fast food chain, promoting food in brave new sizes that make you feel full - but I just saw another one today from another comestible company, along the same lines. Since when have we been aiming for a feeling of gut-busting* fullness from our takeout food? Has the true measure of the food we eat become how many buttons we have to undo on our pants/shirts in order to regain feeling below our waist?

And I'm not referring to the family-style restaurants where you get enormous portions; at least you can eat some of what's served and take the rest home to save for a later meal or meals. I'm talking about a breakfast burrito the size of a small dog (and on a side note, show me a self-respecting south-of-the-border dweller who puts an omelet in a tortilla for breakfast, and I'll EAT a small dog), prepared specifically for a five-minute window of face-feeding, after which it disintegrates and returns to the vomitrocious unpalatability from whence it came. This isn't something you're wrapping up for dinner, especially if you're getting it to go. I don't care if it's a $45 filet; if it's been sitting on the passenger seat of my car for more than 20 minutes, it's what's for breakfast, and that's all, folks.

Speaking of filet, the local coffee chain has come up with a new breakfast sandwich idea - steak, egg and cheese. People, I beg you. Steak: it's NOT what's for breakfast. Anything outside of the pork family is, at its very earliest, a lunch meat. Hence the term. I can't say that in my almost 30 years on this earth, I've woken up in the morning with crust in my eyes and goop in my mouth, craving a porterhouse right then and there. In Spain, if you have anything more than a piece of dry toast for breakfast, it's considered a heavy meal - I can't even fathom sinking my teeth into a "steak" (those are finger quotations) first thing in the morning.

And lastly, does anyone else find anything screamingly ironic about the local lottery's new tag line: "You gotta play."... and the disclaimer at the bottom "Please play responsibly." Yup. You are COMPELLED to play... but we're covering our asses anyway. Reminds me of the old Norm McDonald standup routine about getting lottery tickets as a birthday present. "Do those things ever pay off? No! It's like saying 'Happy birthday! Here's nothing!'"

*I started to write butt-gusting, which I guess could be interpreted similarly, although later on in the gastrointestinal timeline.

After a lazy morning, I logged on to check my email this afternoon, only to find a message from a friend saying that Rob Little, an old tape-trading partner and fellow Blues Traveler fan had died. Of melanoma. At 32. We did a few trades back when I was still trading cassettes, and I think his last email to me was a year or so back when he sent me some information on his favorite band, God Street Wine, for a track listing in Blues Traveler's discography. I visited his hometown of Baltimore last summer - to see a concert, of course - and never even thought to drop him a line, to ask if I'd see him at the show. According to his obituary, it looks like that was right around the time when he was beginning treatment for a mole on his back. Just a little mole, and now six months later, he's gone. I had no idea.

Time to go pop in one of his tapes and give it a listen...

Internet, I have a confession to make. I, like many males on the face of this great planet, am a cover hog. If I am ever sleeping in your bed, I will steal your covers, writhe around and frolic in them like a dog trying to rid himself of the unbearable stench of shampoo in his fur. And the great irony of it all is that I don't even NEED the covers. Don't use 'em. Never really have. No, instead, I steal them and LIE ON TOP OF THEM, as if reveling atop a pile of money.

Fortunately, somehow, in our unconscious, slobbering slumber, my wife and I have occasionally found ways to share - it's not uncommon now to wake up with the comforter twisted around my limbs, like it was thrown into a propeller. Meanwhile, the blanket and sheet lay virtually untouched and unwrinkled on my wife's side (I would say over my wife, but by the time I wake up, she's already been up for hours. No, I don't get it either. SO not a morning person.)

But last night, in what can only be described as an act of extreme generosity, my dozing wife gave me ALL of the covers - she went to bed earlier than me, and must have dreamed she was a snowplow, because the comforter, blanket and top sheet were all piled up on my side of the bed in a pre-emptive strike on my ineluctable bedcover thievery.

"Hello?"
"Hey, it's me. How late are you working tonight?"
"I dunno, maybe 6ish."
"Ok, I'm gonna go to the store, then. Oh, guess who sent us an email today?"
"Who?"
"M**** J*******."
"Oh, really?"
"She's hot, huh?"
"Eh...I guess so."
"No?"
"Well...I mean, I wouldn't kick her out of bed for getting crumbs on the sheets, but..."
"Hee hee...I love you."

Back into the reading binge after the "secondary Christmas" at my parents' house over the weekend (makes it feel like it's a weeklong celebration)...got the following from my parents, any reviews/recommendations?

- The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams. I read this - and the whole series, I think - years ago, probably before I was even able to grasp everything about it. There are certain books like that in my life that I've read but wouldn't necessarily seek out again to enjoy more fully now that I'm capable of understanding it better.
- Eye of the Needle, Robert Ludlum.
- Faithful, Stephen King and Stewart O'Nan. The tale of the 2004 Red Sox season. This one was a no-brainer.
- Friday Night Lights, HG Bissinger. Just came out as a movie last year, and I've heard nothing but good things about both the movie and the book.
- Mountains Beyond Mountains, Tracy Kidder.
- The Princess Bride, William Goldman. The first movie Viv and I ever bought together. We've since bought the DVD but still have the videotape, for sentimental reasons.

Currently I've started A Prayer For Owen Meany by John Irving. Definitely a "different" book. What's interesting is that it's based in the history of Exeter, NH, which isn't too far from here; I've been there a few times so the imagery sticks with me a bit better having seen it.

Also had a friend recommend The Meaning of Everything by Simon Winchester - the story of the Oxford English Dictionary. "Lots of word-geek stuff in it," my friend says. Well, if that ain't right up my alley, I don't know what is.

---

The laptop is once again dying. Hard-drive clicks of death, 30-45 minutes to start up, some weird blue logon screens saying the password for the AirPort is wrong, blah, blah, blah. Time for another visit to the Genius Bar, and another backup to the spare hard drive at home.

---

Other Christmas loot - two DVDs: "Ocean's Eleven" from my brother, who couldn't believe I'd never seen it, and "Faith Rewarded", the Red Sox 2004 season DVD from NESN (which I've heard is light years better than Major League Baseball's version). A small set of socket wrenches from my other brother (which I had asked for...it's a pain in the ASS...ok, wrist...to tighten the bolts on a bed frame with a screwdriver and monkey wrench!). The aforementioned books from my parents, as well as a gurgling cod pitcher from Shreve, Crump & Low that was for V and me jointly. And then the coup de grâce: an all-expenses-paid baseball trip with my parents and either V or my brother. They had originally wanted to take me to Baltimore, but upon finding out that I was already planning on going this summer, they offered the option of Chicago instead - either the White Sox in late July, or the be-all-end-all of baseball viewing: Red Sox-Cubs at Wrigley Field. Which just happens to coincide with my birthday. I think the choice is made.

The New England Patriots of Mansfield.
The New York Jets of East Rutherford.
The Texas Rangers of Arlington.
The Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim.

Although all four of the above team names are geographically accurate, only one of them is an actual team name, as of today, and it's the last one. Pretty silly-sounding, right? Even sillier once you know the history. See if you can follow this logic:

In 1957, the Brooklyn Dodgers switched coasts and became what we now know as the Los Angeles Dodgers (the name, incidentally, comes from the fact that you had to cross several tracks that were used by streetcars at the time, so people in the area were known as "trolley-dodgers"). Then in 1961, Major League Baseball underwent expansion and awarded another franchise to Los Angeles, named the Los Angeles Angels in honor of a recently-departed minor-league team by the same name, who were displaced when the Dodgers came to town. So effectively, two major-league teams were located in a place which only four years earlier had been deemed insufficient for one major league team and one minor league team.

The Angels played in Los Angeles for a mere five seasons before moving to their brand-new park in Anaheim in 1966, and in the process became the California Angels. Ok, makes sense, no longer in Los Angeles, trying to appeal more to the general California market. Thirty years pass, and the ginormous Disney conglomerate decides it wants to expand its sports ownership business after creating the most embarrassingly-named team in US professional sports (the Mighty Ducks, named after its movie of the same name, released the SAME YEAR they got the team...how blatant can you get?), and acquires an ownership stake in the California Angels in 1996. The following season, the team's name is changed to the Anaheim Angels, ostensibly to capitalize on the fact that Anaheim is Disney central. Basically, they did everything except have a double-play combination of Huey, Dewey and Louie.

2002 rolls around, the Angels win the World Series, and Disney, having issues with their bottom line, cashes in, selling the team to Arte Moreno. Moreno waits two years, and then decides he wants to move away from the Anaheim name, and in an effort to expand his team's marketability, changes the name to...the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim. Idiocy of having two cities in your team's name aside (the city has a 35-year agreement with MLB for naming rights, so Anaheim isn't going anywhere), if you're going for marketability, why not include the ENTIRE STATE? Will people from Los Angeles suddenly realize they have another team in the area just because it's named differently? Is this really "increased marketability"? How is targeting LA better than targeting California as a whole? Or hell, capitalize on another city's marketability. Why not the New York Angels of Anaheim? No, wait, Mexico City is bigger...or Rome! People like Rome. Yeah. The Rome Angels of Anaheim.