Immortality has its Drawbacks

What to do when you're one of the exalted few actors who will forever be identified with one indelible role?

Voiceover, that's what.

Six weeks till Tony Soprano becomes a Wild Thing:

Ricky Watters: "BBQ potato chips are the ultimate"

When we were wee bitty Dunces growing up in the Bay Area, we idolized our 49ers. This was before we knew (or cared to know) about collective bargaining, steroids, domestic violence and salary caps (or even 'salaries,' for that matter). They were Niners, and they kicked most everyone all over the field, and they were awesome.

We knew them all -- even the offensive lineman. We had Joe and Jerry and Roger and John and Harris and Guy and Jesse and Steve (Wallace) and Steve (Young) and Charles and Eric and Ronnie and Keena and Brent and Tom and even Mike Fucking Cofer. The only question was whether we'd beat the Vikings, then the Giants, then later the Cowboys, and finally the Packers, in the NFC Championship Game. Sometimes we would and sometimes we wouldn't, but we'd almost always get close (I vividly remember winning 'only' 10 games and missing the playoffs in 1991). Either way they'd riot in the Mission, which, though only a mile and a half from where I grew up (which wasn't a perfect place, either), might as well have been present-day Juarez for all I knew (though it looked OK from the Laidlaw bus on the way school every morning).

The Niners, good guys that they were, played a charity basketball game in Kezar Pavilion every offseason. This was your chance to see these heroes in the flesh, up close and without all their armor. We were there. With much trepidation I approached John Taylor and asked for an autograph. He asked, "You got 10 bucks?" I said "N-noo" and started retreating to the bleachers. He hollered out something and I turned around and he signed my ticket stub. I still don't know if he was messing with me or actually trying to extort 10 bucks out of an unemployed, half-grown person, but I've since concluded that this was the moment when I realized not all athletes were as great as I'd previously assumed they were.

Years passed and we grew somewhat and saw the Niners in a different light: They were still very good -- not dominant, but very good -- every year. But the cast had changed: Where there had been Joe, there was now Steve. We were OK with that because he, like Joe, tore up defenses without fail, which was nice. We also had Charles and Deion and Richard and Rickey and Ricky and William as new complements to Steve. It was this year -- 1995 -- when I became aware of the concept of 'buying championships.' But we were still the Niners, and kicked everyone's asses, and it was awesome. A precocious tween with no bills, job, nagging wife or serious work ethic, I had all kinds of time to absorb every number on the Chronicle's sports section. And it was decided: Ricky Watters was the new BEST PLAYER EVER. He scored five -- FIVE! -- touchdowns in one playoff game. He could run, catch, spin, high-step...the Man. Like Taylor, he came to the local basketball gym to play a charity game with other Niners, and we all got him to sign stuff and he was the coolest. I think he even threw down a dunk, but maybe not.

But Ricky, like the Niners of the mid-to-late 90s, never achieved greatness, though he was consistently very good, and occasionally spectacular. Then he bolted for Philly and had a couple decent seasons there and places beyond before retiring after, according to the omniscient and infallible Wikipedia, reportedly turning down Cleveland's contract offer out of fear that terrorists would blow up the next plane he boarded (this being the age of 9/11 hysteria, and he being a man not paid for his intellect).

Recently, our thoughts returned to the guy. An extensive Google search followed. His modest personal website indicates he does promotional speaking, helps run football camps and bankrolls a positive-vibe rap label.

But he also proffers up a glimpse into his personal life:

FAVORITE ACTIVITIES

Writing and Producing Music

Martial Arts

Reading poetry and self-help books

Playing Chess

Watching SyFy, Chiller and Kung Fu movies

Traveling

Tennis

Riding his Segway

Eating BBQ Middleswarth Chips

Keith Murray is "Complicated but Simple"

T-Bird brings us some old Keith Murray inanity today. Skip to around minute four if you, like us, find the We Are Scientists guys mildly yet consistently annoying.

DCQ's Guide to Sneaking Shit In

On a recent Friday eve, DCQ's New Yeez contingent ventured out into the wild bacteria stew of the Hudson on a decrepit ferry stocked with booze, 150 people and one RJD2. With payday a distant glimmer on the horizon and said booze bogarted behind a "cash" bar, we resorted to the familiar tactic of "sneaking shit in (SSI)."

This is an art form we've refined over the past dozen years, with the primary media being sports and concert venues. Our first stab at SSI came in September 1997. Giants vs. Padres. It began with a friend's spectacular fake ID, used to procure an armload of Mickey's 40s from the Oak Grove corner market ('bodega' hadn't yet entered our lexicon) behind school. We had the angles scoped: Malt brew transferred to green 7-Up two-liters and hidden in closets overnight, then carried in hoodie cocoons as we pulled up to Candlestick Park. This being the glorious buyers' market of pre-South Beach Giants baseball, security shoved us through the turnstiles with nary a sideways glance. As it happened, the game was actually sold out, and we sat in the second-to-last row of the upper deck in center field -- approximately 1,200 feet away from the plate. But all was good: By the third a sickly Mickey's buzz was had, by the fifth we were bouncing off the walls of the concrete spiral stairways that encased the hulking mass, by the seventh we were taking turns calling earl in the nearest bathroom stall, and by the end of the ninth, as Barry made his famous stand atop the home dugout, we were passing out where we sat.

In the years since, we've became more efficient and creative. The prevailing opinion is that hard liquor's the way to go, and a fifth is the biggest you can pull off with confidence. If it's a day game and you're nursing a hangover, long pants and knee-high socks filled with tall boys are acceptable. The fifth -- whiskey or rum only, please -- goes right-side-up directly in front of the jimmy, belt buckled as tight as possible so as to secure the bottle with the bare minimum of above-waist frontage. If possible, go for the male security guard -- he'll be less inclined to check certain essential areas. In rare cases, through extensive field research, you may uncover a unique perimeter flaw that allows you to do wondrous and otherwise unimaginable things: At the Giants' new(ish) stadium, for example, you can bring in giant beers in styrofoam cups, purchased for a pittance at the pizzeria across the way, by entering the park through the team store.

Large sporting events are fairly easy. The latest innovation came in the recent discovery of an MLB-sponsored DUI prevention program that doles out free Cokes to attendees who identify themselves as designated drivers. These make cheap grog more palatable. AND you get to show all the college girls your hero-status DD bracelet! Bonus. Where it gets tricky, however, is at certain music venues where organizers seem to expect most patrons to be carrying some form of intoxicant. In such situations, we've come to employ a tactic used for decades by certain Suburban-driving Sinaloans: The mule wave. Break the juice into as many pint-sized water bottles as possible. Give one or two to each person you're with (better make it two or three if it's a festival). Use the same crotch placement process as with full fifth, tightening belt to keep bottle from sliding down to your ankles (mysterious bulges are to be avoided). Spread out as you enter so that security doesn't recognize you're together. This way, you're virtually guaranteed a passable stock of booze even if one or two of your homies takes a fall.

As any nimrod (that's you, Jack) can see, we've had some time to fine-tune our playbook (though perfection, as always, remains elusive). Which made it surprising -- nay, stunning -- when the token security guy checking passengers boarding the RJD2 boat nabbed the bulk of our supply during what experts had estimated would be a harmless formality. We suspect it was an inside job because the guy went straight for the above-junk area without any attempt at acting out the proper pat-down pattern (ankles-legs-hips-ribs-arms-back-THEN abovejunk as an afterthought, if at all...everybody knows that). Luckily, despite all signs pointing to an SSI Level Green, we'd divied the stash up beforehand, and our backup made it in.

So you see, DCQ nation, the key to a successful SSI operation lies in the artist's ability to assess and adapt -- that is, to change up the strategy on the fly and on the sly. But even the most practiced and universally-lauded practitioners sometimes slip up.

A skeezy Little League baseball coach once told us a common off-color joke he'd blessed with a personal touch: "Close only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades and fat chicks." We were only 10 at the time, so we didn't really get the last part, but the rest seemed to have some sense to it. In any case, replace "fat chicks" with "SSI operations," and it rings true. But it still won't make sense to a 10-year-old.

Enjoy. And use responsibly.

WHERE IN THE WORLD IS DCQ???

It don't get much better...

We dint do it.

Marry Her, Save on Food

Meet Jyoti: Fifteen. Female. Indian. Mega-dwarf.

When she get sleepy, she crawl in her backpack for a nap.

BADA-BING!

She so tiny, Muggsy Bogues be making fun.

BADA-BING!

She so little, her suitors don't offer the whole dowry -- they just bring the 'd.'

BADA-BING!

Seriously, though, that Jyoti's some kind of cute. We're trying to find one on eBay to keep our sugar glider company while we're out stealing hot dogs and huffing glue.

"Might be Mine"

Today, R. Kelly -- pictured above (far right; looks like 2Pac) on a wall with other Chi-Town musical immortals during a DCQ jaunt to the South Side a few summers back -- does the heavy lifting. Leaked a while ago from his as-yet-untitled-nor-released latest album, "Might be Mine" is Robert Sylvester's answer to The Juice's If I Did It. Enjoy!

Might Be Mine - R.Kelly

A couple of days ago, I got a phone call

Saying 'how you Mr. Kelly' and I said, 'who is this'

Then he said it's Tameka's lawyer, and I'm calling on her behalf

And then he said I got some news, that I think you'd wanna know,

And then he said she's pregnant, and then I sat down real slow

Then said who's this again, he took a breath and said you heard me the first time.

And then I said wait a minute, mister--we talking about the same girl then she's a stripper,

You represent that girl man she's a freak, so how she know that baby belongs to me?

Then he asked me did I met her two months ago

I said yeah

And he asked me was it in a club in Chicago

I said yeah

He said "Well get ready to raise it, cause she says that you're the one that she's laid with." OH!

There's a very good chance...that it might be mine (oh I k now I hit it, yeah)

There's a very good chance...that it might be mine (KNEW I shoulda used protection, yeah)

There's a very good chance...that it might be mine (out to get my money, yeah)

There's a very good chance...that it might be mine (man, I don't even like this girl)

I hung up and called my lawyers, and I told them the situation

And the first question out they mouth, was did I sleep with the girl

At first I hesitated, then said yeah, went on to tell 'em that I hit it raw

And then they said that there might be a chance that you may have to pay the cost,

I said "Good Lord"...and then I put the phone and just thought about it for a couple seconds

They asked had me I seen her recently, I sayd no,

Then asked did I do it with her frequently, I sayd no,

all I know is that I left the club with this lady, and now here I am this baby's made it

[Chorus]

There's a very good chance...that it might be mine (see I admit I hit it, yeah)

There's a very good chance...that it might be mine (Man I knew I shoulda used some protection)

There's a very good chance...that it might be mine (she bout to get my money, yeah)

There's a very good chance...that it might be mine (oh man I don't even like this girl)

Man I could slap myself, for getting involved with this lady.

And if I could turn the hands back, I would have went on home to my baby,

Now I'm all caught up, yeah...all from a measly late-night creep,

One year later, I get a picture, and I'll be damned this baaaby looks just like meeeee!

[Chorus]

(Guess I'm gonna have to take the test, yeah...

...See I'm on my way to take the test, yeah...)