Why Fuller House doesn’t suck and you’re just pretentious and insecure

Fuller House is here, and to the alleged dismay of many, it looks like it’s probably here to stay. We just got two seasons in less than a year, and it’s been on the front page of Netflix since the first season premiered. We have a new season “coming soon.”

Despite its apparent success, it’s been almost universally panned by critics. It has a nice 33% rating on Rotten Tomatoes, with a consensus of “After the initial dose of nostalgia, Fuller House has little to offer to anyone except the original series’ most diehard fans.”

Now, that’s an interesting take, and it makes a lot of sense. But how is that a critique? That’s like saying, “If you didn’t like Lord of the Rings, you might not like Lord of the Rings 2.” What?! No Way! No crap, dummies. If you didn’t like FULL HOUSE, you’re not going to like the SEQUEL TO FULL HOUSE.

Everyone needs to take a giant step back and get off their high horses.

David Weigand of the San Francisco Chronicle wrote, “the episodes are predictable because they’re unoriginal and the writing is painful.”

Wow, I never thought of it THAT way, how insightful. You need a keen and astute mind to make those kinds of observations. I know a secret though, pssst, it’s not supposed to be original. Nothing is more painful than reading reviews by people who don’t understand the content they’re watching. This show IS a nostalgia act. That’s the purpose of the show. It’s 20 years after the original and John Stamos is producing; it’s fan service.

John Stamos


I don’t think he’s exactly gunning for Emmys here. Don’t judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree. Intent matters in the eyes of the law, and it matters here.

Maureen Ryan of Variety, wrote that the show “continually goes to the well of having cute kids mug for the camera as they practically yell their lines.”

Yeah, that’s nothing at all like “HOW RUDE,” or “YOU GOT IT DUDE.”

I get it, some lines make you cringe, a good amount of the show is cheesy. Now, I dare you to go sit down and watch two to three episodes of Full House in a row and not cringe through it. With Jesse’s massive mullet and three grown men randomly bursting into A cappella during their day-to-day routine, I bet you can’t. Remember the “Forever” music video? With bare-baby feet touching a grown man’s feet?

Or that Christmas episode from the second season when the family is stuck in an airport (along with the rest of the people in the airport) and Jesse decides it’s his time to shine and stands up in front of everyone and gives a monologue about Christmas. You people have no memory or shame.

Fuller House is nothing more than a fun, “where are they now?” look at characters from an old show because the actors aren’t dead yet, and it should be judged as such. It is, in fact, a cheesy 90s show that takes place in 2016, and it accomplishes that goal quite well.


Professor Bozzone publishes ‘Off Somewhere’

Ol’ Prof Bozzone

The Echo of Western Connecticut State University

Dakota Sarantos
Managing Editor

After nearly three decades of playwriting, WCSU’s maverick Creative Writing professor William Bozzone released his first book “Off Somewhere”, a collection of short stories published by Whitepoint Press on Nov. 17 to positive reviews. Why is he a maverick? Bozzone wrote the stories under the penname Z. Z. Boone, because it’s not about him.

 “I wanted the book to be about the writing, not about me. It’s easy to let ego run wild—I did it as a dramatist—and this time I felt the need for Bill Bozzone to be as invisible as possible,” said Bozzone.

 It was time for a change of pace.

 “I’d spent close to thirty years writing for the theatre, and it started feeling a bit stale. I wasn’t really enjoying the collaboration as much as I once had.”

 Looking to do something new, Bozzone went to his old passion of writing fiction.


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MMA injuries are due to improper training

As the sport of Mixed Martial Arts slowly inches its way into mainstream media with emerging UFC stars like Ronda Rousey and Conor McGregor, an issue that’s becoming more prominent, or more realized, is injury in the sport.

Originally posted by tougherthanbuffer

Time and time again, fans will hear of canceled fights mere weeks before the scheduled pay-per-view events due to injury of fighters.  Most famously, a UFC pay-per-view event, UFC 151, was scheduled for Sept. 1, 2012 at the Mandalay Events Center in Las Vegas, was canceled on Aug. 23. The headlining bout was UFC Light Heavyweight Champion Jon Jones vs. Dan Henderson. The UFC announced Dan Henderson was unable to fight due to an injury. Usual practice is to find a quick replacement. However, in this circumstance, Jon Jones refused to fight a replacement on short notice, prompting the UFC to cancel the event entirely.

More recently, UFC 189 was meant to feature Featherweight Champion José Aldo defending his title against Conor McGregor. The event was scheduled for July 11, 2015. On June 23, the UFC’s Facebook page reported Aldo had suffered a rib injury and may pull out of the fight. Following controversy regarding the severity of the injury, Aldo pulled out of the fight and was replaced by Chad Mendez. Another highly anticipated fight was cancelled. Since 2011, Aldo has pulled out of five championship bouts due to injury.

It was reported earlier this week that former WWE superstars and current UFC prospect CM Punk suffered a shoulder injury in training and may have his debut fight delayed.

Bennie “The Jet” Little, former three-time kickboxing champion, current MMA trainer, head of CT Academy of Kickboxing in Danbury, CT, and former kickboxing trainer of UFC light heavyweight title challenger Glover Teixeira, offered his insight on the frequency of injury in combat sports.

“It comes down to how these guys are training. At night, during the day, how hard they’re pushing themselves. Sometimes you push yourself past that limit to where you need to back off sometimes,” he said.

While Bennie says the solution is to simply back off and let yourself time to recover, he also says it’s not that simple.

Originally posted by the-art-of-kicks-and-fists

“As an ex-fighter myself, [I know that] you’re not gonna back off because you’re thinking the other person is training harder.”

So a fighter might know better, but they don’t necessarily listen. So what happens when they train too much?

“Your joints get a little worn out or a little weak, and you’re not giving your body that rest to recuperate…you’re tearing your body down little by little every fight you have, no matter what happens.  But eventually, if you ain’t taking supplements and trying to recover and getting good sleep and all that, of course you’re gonna break your body down. You’re gonna get injuries all the time.”

So what advice, if any, does Bennie have to prevent such frequent injuries?

Take two, three days off, and come back. If you ever go in the gym and train really hard and then you’re sore and you take two or three days off and you come back, you feel like a new person. Your body tells you what it needs. If you don’t listen, eventually it’s gonna shut down. Whether it’s broken bones, pulled muscles, anything. It can happen to anybody.”

Not only does he say it’ll lower risk of injury, but it’ll improve your performance.

However, Bennie says over-training isn’t the only risk for injury in combat sports.

“The biggest thing right now is fatigue. These guys cutting weight – that’s dangerous.  You’re cutting so much weight, what do you think you’re doing? You’re breaking down your body. You got a guy that’s 185 cutting down 135, 145. That’s not gonna do any harm to him? Yeah, you’re messing with your organs. Your organs are used to pushing out a certain amount of nutrients and energy. Now it’s pushing out hard, trying to keep up with that metabolism.”

Weight cutting is a common, across-the-board practice in combat sports. It’s not uncommon for fighters to cut over 15 pounds before a fight, but this is notthe same as dieting. It is swiftly losing weight and draining your body of nutrients, like water.

Originally posted by wrestlingmemes

“What do you think’s gonna happen? You’re gonna end up breaking something, because sooner or later your body is just wearing down. You’re depleting your body, which you shouldn’t be doing. That’s why I don’t cut weight. If I can’t fight in my weight class, I’m not fighting at all.”

The True Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass

 My mother never explicitly told me I was special, and the truth is I was too young to interpret any implications on the matter. I never wanted to change the world; my only concern was progressing myself. Maybe it was a selfish stance but how else do children think? The only dreams in my head were those of freedom. I wanted change for myself, I never thought about change for a nation. I grew up watching my mother get abused. She was beaten, raped and treated like a dog. I’m not so fond of that saying, “like a dog.” No man treats a dog like that. I was born into slavery after my mother’s master, a white man named Captain Anthony, raped her. It wasn’t uncommon for the time. There were quite a few slaves coming up who were partly white. White masters loved to dip their fingers in the pie of the dirty black woman. It makes you wonder, why, if they’re so dirty? Are their proper white wives not giving them the proper satisfaction? Whatever the reason, I was born from a black woman and a white man. If you read my first narrative, then you already know that. It’s the real tale of the American Dream. If you’re thinking I’m talking about the stale and regurgitated Dusty Rhodes fat plumber, white man, rising to wealth, think again. I’m talking about a black individual ascending to a level of freedom no one ever expected. That’s the real American Dream. Some people say there is no American Dream, and I suppose that is where the problem persists. My American Dream isn’t real. What you’ve read about me is not the reality. Before you go ahead and get twisted up about it and spit your tobacco all over the floor, let me explain. What you know about me is a story; a great tale. The first narrative is simply that: the first narrative. For reasons you might later understand, I didn’t tell the whole novel of my life. I told what people wanted to hear. More importantly, I told what people needed to hear. You were never given the conclusion. The information simply ceased flowing at my death.

    There are so many popular idioms and phrases with which I take issue. It’s not as though I’m offended that people use them, I genuinely don’t understand them. They don’t make sense. I get rustled about it because they’ll come to mind in certain situations, much like this one, and I’ll want to use them but they never seem to fit the mold. Damn. One is, “rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated,” or something of the sort. The phrase pops into your head and you want to roll with it, but it’s not accurate. Rumors of my death were not exaggerated. They were authentic. Frederick Douglass died that February night in 1895. Hell, he probably even went to Heaven. But I don’t know where I’m going. Before he was Frederick Douglass he was someone else, and when Frederick Douglass died he became me.

    I don’t mean to be incredibly cryptic but it’s hard to explain in a topical fashion, consequently I’ll describe it chronologically and start from a suitable point in time that will cover what I feel is required of my objective and revealing narrative, and fix omitted points from my original. Believe it or not, (well then, that one actually worked) it all starts with Nikola Tesla. A brash young Serbian fellow, few people know we go way back. He was one of the most important friends I had in my time, and he had a piercing intellect. When you looked at him, you didn’t see much of a stand up kind-of-guy, but he did give you chills. The trouble was he wasn’t someone you could read by looking at.  All around, basically explained, you didn’t want to fuck with this man. He was scary.  In terms of powerful duos, there wasn’t a historical team out there that had more dynamism than Frederick Douglass and Nikola Tesla. The accomplishments and adventures we had in our time could fill the history books, but that’s for another time. For the purpose of my chosen revelations there’s only one undertaking you need to hear.

    I married a beautiful white feminist named Helen Pitts in 1884. I was living in Washington D.C. at the time. In fact, that’s where I met her. But Helen was from New York, and as is proper we went there after the wedding to spend time with her family. We would have gone to see mine as well, but the issue with that was I had no family. This proved to be a bad idea which we will get to in just a moment. You see, it wasn’t proper at the time for a black man to lay with a white woman, let alone marry one. The white man wouldn’t stand for it, but I didn’t care much for what the white man thought because I was sick of the unfounded oppression, a feeling my wife thoroughly shared. As a feminist, she had a similar distrust and uneasiness toward white men. Women were a suffocated group of the time. Helen was a pioneer, and she took risks that few women in history ever did. Her courage helped change the world and my life. Detractors have said that the only reason we married was to get back at the white man. That it’s a form of revenge. It’s an extremely narrow view that I don’t accept because it’s not the truth. As if I set out to marry a white woman to create controversy and draw negative attention to myself. Now, I’m not a robot. I’m a human and humans come with sinful thoughts. Did I get satisfaction out of the fact that I knew my marriage upset the people who enslaved me? Absolutely. Was I little more aggressive in the bedroom because of it? Certainly. There’s an element of that. But that’s not why I married her. I was in love. In all seriousness, is it so hard to believe I simply wanted a fine looking white woman? I’m a man and she had an ass that would make Moses come down from the mountain. That was much more motivating than any petty vengeful racial retaliation. Any man, white or black, would have jumped at the opportunity I had with Helen. But I’m getting ahead of myself (here we go again). I should say, I’m getting behind myself.

    We arrived at Helen’s parent’s apartment at around 8:00pm. Upon entering the home we didn’t receive the friendliest greeting. To this day I’m not sure if Helen didn’t inform her parents that she had a married a black man or what, but it wouldn’t surprise me. That would be in typical feminist fashion. I don’t mean to insinuate negatives about feminism, it’s a worthwhile cause and all peoples deserve equality. But you know that snarky attitude these types of movements come with, she might have been trying to pull one over on her old disapproving mother. She could have at least informed me. None the less, it was not a welcoming environment. I believe the conversation began with her mother asking, “Darling, why has your driver come in the home with you? Where’s your husband Frederick? We’re dying to meet him.” and of course my pride took over.

    “I’m no driver. I’ve never rode a horse in my life. I’m the man with whom your daughter lays in the evening. I’m the husband. I’m Frederick Douglass and I’m here to eat the dinner you prepared for me.”

    Her mother, a pampered white woman, never before had a black man to speak to her in a such a manner. The feeling of equality seared against the shell of her white ego. She screamed in fear and disgust, and Helen’s father ripped off his suit jacket.

    “How dare you speak to my wife that way, ya dirty nigger! Hyaa!” he said, and pulled a knife out of his pocket and sliced it across the air. Then he lunged at me.

    I backed away out of the doorway. I didn’t want to escalate the situation, and I didn’t want to hurt Helen’s father. Had I decided to, I could have put on a hurting on the old man, he didn’t know about my two hour brawl with my old slave master. Helen stepped in between us to defuse the tensity.

    “Daddy, no! This my husband Frederick and I love him. Can’t you see? Get it through your thick male skull. Accept it,” she said, “Mother, you too. Stop being a puppet to a man. You’re a woman. A strong woman.”

    “What kind of radical heresy are you speaking, Helen?” Said her father, “This just ain’t Christian. Jesus would be sick. Sick I tell you! Now get your three-fifths of a person husband out of here, and don’t ever come back. I hope you pray to God for forgiveness, because you’ll find none with this family!”

    Was all of that exactly what was said, verbatim? Most likely. Those are the only words I remember from that encounter. As you can imagine, Helen and I were in poor spirits leaving her home. To top it all off, we were still hungry. We hadn’t eaten dinner like we planned, and we decided to go to a local restaurant. That was all fine with me; I wanted a tasty steak, and when have you ever met a white woman who can cook, anyway? I dodged a bullet on that one. I don’t recall the name of the place but it was a little upscale. When we first entered there weren’t any problems. The usual glares followed us across the room but the waiter didn’t say anything when seating us. Two tables away was a group of loud white folks, going on about their hard day in the office. Three tables away from us sat a young employee of Thomas Edison named Nikola Tesla. He was alone and staring at a single piece of plain toast on his plate, but he wasn’t eating it. He was examining it, looking at it from different angles. If there wasn’t a black man sitting with a white woman in the room, Tesla might have been the focus of the place. I had recognized him from a visit of Edison’s factory I conducted earlier in the week. I briefly saw him working on a light bulb and remember his quirky examination of the thing. It was in a similar fashion to how he was examining the toast of the restaurant. I had taken note of it. He was one of those funky science types. That was certain. The night progressed but the amount of toast on the plate of Tesla stayed the same. I ordered a steak and my wife ordered the spinach soup. A reasonable amount of time passed and the waiter delivered my wife’s food. After a few minutes it became apparent that my food wasn’t coming. The second time I tried to motion to our waiter, the group of rowdy white men got up from their table and approached me.

    “What are you doing in this place? Huh?” One of them said to me.

    “Hey you pretty young thing, let me get you away from this freak,” one said to my wife.

    “I’m here to eat my steak dinner, and I’d appreciate if you didn’t speak to my wife in that fashion.” I said.

    “Wife? Is this guy serious?” He asked his pals, “Steak? You think you’re gonna get food here,” his voice became louder, “the only thing you’re gonna get here is a lesson in respect!”

    “Excuse me,” said a soft voice.

    The group of men turned around as I did to see Tesla calmly sitting at his table.

    “What is it? Don’t worry about it, we’re taking care of this guy,” said one of the men.

    “Excuse me,” Tesla said, “please go back to your seats. You’re disturbing my meal.”
    “This has to be some sort of comedy theater. Are you defending this colored negro man? He doesn’t belong here. This is a disgrace. We’re just getting him out of here, then we’ll be back to our seats and you don’t have to worry.”

    “Your quarrels are of no concern to me, and I’m going to ask again for you to leave those people alone and go back to your seats. You’re disturbing my meal.”

    “Ah, okay. I see how it is now. You’re defending him. You’re a negro lover. Well you can get out, too. You’re not a real American. You scum! You disgust me!”

    Tesla quietly rose from his seat and faced the group of rambunctious white men. He folded his napkin and placed it on the table. The waiter walked out of the back with a steak entree in his hands.

    “I’m Serbian,” he said.

    He whipped out a death ray and incinerated the group of them in one blast. A red laser beam had shot out from his weapon. It was the most outlandish thing I’d seen in all of my years. There was nothing left of the white men but four large piles of dust on the ground. Helen jumped back in her seat. I was uncharacteristically frozen, but I think anyone would have been. The waiter, still carrying the entree, quickly turned back around and went back through the kitchen door. Tesla put his death ray away inside a bag he carried. He came to our table and looked at me.

    “My name is Nikola Tesla. I’m working on some interesting things if you’d like to come by and check them out. Here’s my address.”

    He handed me a piece of paper with his address written on it and left the restaurant. I stared at my wife in awe, she returned my gaze. We held the silence for a while until I broke it.

    “I can’t put this shit in the narrative,” I said.

    Tesla and I were like long lost pals. We struck up a mighty friendship after that night. It took some easing into but after a little while we had one solid foundation. Ten years passed and we saw each other when we could, but it wasn’t often. When we did get together, we did things that I couldn’t possibly get into right now. Tales that could stand the test of time. I was nearing the end of my life and I knew it. I didn’t know how much time I had left but I knew it wasn’t long. I decided to visit Tesla in New York in 1895 to see him a final time. He had left Edison’s company years ago because of some kind of money squabble. I don’t know what it was, I’ll never understand white men and their monetary obsession. X-rays were what the cutting edge of the scientific community was exploring at the time. Tesla was hard at work, as always, trying to perfect a way to take a picture of a human skeleton. When I went to visit him for the last time, he was explaining his work to me. There was a whole lot of talk about magnetics and light and things I couldn’t fully comprehend. He emphasized the risks of radiation. The one thing he specifically noted was how his X-ray experiments were different than that of the other scientists. He was using a different breed of technology.

    “Do you and Helen still have sex?” he said.

    “Sweet Lord, Tesla. It’s been years and you still have no sense of social awareness or appropriateness.” I said.

    “Ah,” Tesla giggled, “I’ll take that as a ‘no.’”

    “Oh, shut up,” I said, “it’s not as though she’s exactly kept her figure.”

    “I don’t know. Love can be a powerful thing, but you are getting pretty old too. I know that’s why you’re here. How long do you have?”

    “I don’t know. I’m not exactly sick. I’m just old, and I don’t come out here often. I feel like I’ve done everything I set out to accomplish. Black people are in a much better position than they were when I was born, and I can say that I tried to help with that. But I don’t feel like I’ve done everything I need to accomplish.”

    “Destiny, you say?” Tesla giggled, “my friend, you have just articulated the human tragedy. The tragedy of mortality. Humans are selfish, and we always want more. Even if it is to do more of what we perceive to be good. Why do you think the wealthy are so obsessed with spreading their seed? We can not do everything we want to do in a lifetime. It is a fact. It makes one think about man’s fear of death. It is rather arrogant, after all, is it not? The idea that we are so important that we do not deserve to die. To go away? Is that not what it is rooted in?”

    “I don’t know what it’s rooted in, Tesla, but I can’t shake the feeling.”

    “I do not share that sentiment. Nobody knows this, but I sleep in a trash bag in my bed every night. I sleep in a trash bag in my bed every night so if I die in my sleep they can just tie the bag and toss me in the disposal.”

    Tesla had a morbid sense of humor but he could always get me to laugh.

   “I have accepted my position,” he said, “I have accepted what is. I am here for an amount of time. I do not know exactly how long, and I can not say that I care. I enjoy engineering and discovering this universe that I have somehow been born into, and I will do that until this stops, because that is all there is to do.”

    “Man, you’re quick to put a damper on things.” I said.

    Tesla laughed.

    “But is this not what you are here for? It is nowhere near a negative thing. Late at night you get the same feeling as I do. The feeling of finality. The funny part is it’s comforting.They call it a sweet release for a reason.”

    “I’m not the greatest fan of phrases like those.”

    “Come on, let’s take some x-rays of you. It will be fun, and you do not need to worry about the risks, you are going to be dead soon anyway.”

    “Tell me, honestly now. These tonal inconsistencies are intentional, right? I can’t get a grip on what is going on with you.”

    “I like to hope they are. Who knows, really? Sometimes I think I lose my motivation easily. It comes in spikes. Up and down.”

    “Just X-ray me. Let’s see what you’ve been working on, you crazy nut.”

    Tesla brought me into his lab and showed me all of the equipment. I had been there several times before but it was always an intriguing place to explore. He hooked me up to more wires than should be connected with a human. He hadn’t used this new technology on a human yet. I was his first test subject. It was typical for a man as eccentric as Tesla. I saw the death ray he had used all those years ago in the restaurant and asked him if I could take a look at it while he conducted his x-rays. It looked a bit different than a normal pistol. Its barrel was about half of a foot in diameter.

    “Be careful with that,” I remember him saying, “it’s the only one I have.”

    He pulled a giant lever to turn on the machine I was attached to and the ground started vibrating. A light illuminated from my chest and began to grow.

    “Oh no.” He said.

    “Damn it, Tesla. What the hell is going on?” I said.

    The light was slowly engulfing me.

    “You are going to hate me.” He said.

    “What are you talking about?”

    “I crossed some wires and…well…your body is in the process of rematerializing in the future.”

    “The future! What does that mean?”

    “You are going into the future. Oh dear. I can not get too close or I will get sucked in too.”

    “What? What the hell. Get me out of here.”

    “It is definitely too late now. If they have time machines there just come back and tell me how it is. I have to burn this place to the ground. No one can know about this. Come find me!”

    That was the last the world saw of Frederick Douglass. In 1895 Nikola Tesla’s laboratory burned down. It was deemed an accident. The same year is said to be the year Frederick Douglass died. When asked about the fire in his lab, Tesla is quoted as saying “I am in too much grief to talk. What can I say?” Guess what? He wasn’t talking about his lab. He was talking about his friend Frederick Douglass, and I was flattered when I heard.

    Like I said, Frederick Douglass died that night. But he was reborn, and he became me. I said I never wanted to change the world, but I could never escape change, and it was in my future. Tesla said we keep going until we don’t. For whatever reason, I’ve gotten to go for a while. My body rematerialized back in Chicago, along with the death-ray. I wasn’t sure just how far into the future I had went, so I checked the local newspaper. It was the year 2006. I didn’t know how, but my body was around twenty years younger than it had been when I was in Tesla’s lab. Must have been some kind of crazy science time warp type of thing. Whenever I asked about it everyone told me to go see Christopher Nolan. They said he’s great at that stuff. I knew I could no longer be Frederick Douglass. I had to reinvent myself. I had to become someone else. Never could I have been a powerful politician in my own time period, but I couldn’t imagine the possible progress in the current future. Know that this isn’t the end. This is only one piece of pie.

    I was lucky I was already wearing my good suit. I fixed my tie began my walk.

    “Obama.” I said to myself.

    “Barack Obama. Pleased to meet you.”