On with the Show

Hello again.
We have a lot to talk about, so let's get right to it.
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True story..from the Associated Press:
OKLAHOMA CITY -- A man got a prison term longer than prosecutors and defense attorneys had agreed to because of Larry Bird.
The lawyers reached a plea agreement Tuesday for a 30-year term for a man accused of shooting with an intent to kill and robbery. But Eric James Torpy wanted his prison term to match Bird's jersey number 33.
"He said if he was going to go down, he was going to go down in Larry Bird's jersey," Oklahoma County District Judge Ray Elliott said Wednesday. "We accommodated his request and he was just as happy as he could be.
O.K. I don't know this guy...but I love him! That is freakin awesome. Listen, I've knelt at the altar in the church of Bird. He is THE greatest player in the history of basketball. He is one person who I really want to meet someday. I even went to a pre-season NBA game at the UD arena because he was coaching the Pacers. My wife and I were stuck in traffic and I was getting nervous. I was trapped. All the wife said was, "you could get out and...". Before she finished, I was running down Edwin Moses Blvd much like ol' Edwin himself, dodging cars, hurdling curbs. I got to my seat 50 rows up huffing and puffing but just in time to hear them announce his name...and then he appeared. I don't mind telling you that I got goosebumps and tears in my eyes. He's the greatest ever! (don't even bring up Jordan) It's the closest I've been to him.
You may not know, but I did send him an invitation to my wedding. No kidding. I had a "connection" or so I thought. I sent it along with a handwritten letter asking him to stop by and that I would be willing to cut whatever activity we were in the middle of short so he and I could possibly shoot hoops or go fishing. I'm dead serious about this. He must have been too busy. He never showed...as much as I know he wanted to. You know you are about to marry a good woman when she totally is "with me" and would stop our vows in order for me to rebound for Bird as he sinks 50 three pointers in a row.
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I have a real problem with Speedway stores. One in particular in my town. The people there are way too chatty and happy. Now, who would complain about that, you ask? Well, if you have ever been there you would. They are the cashiers who feel that ever little quip and comment should be loud enough for everyone to hear..and that it is extremely funny. Suzy says in full voice, "Well Raymond forgot to shut off pump #2 last night and I told Joe about it" To which Ned who is stocking smokes off to the side laughs way too and inappropriately loud and says "Joe came in late last night so he can't complain about Raymond..." And it just goes on and on. I just want a coffee folks, not your daily chronicles in the life of a gas station attendant.
Another thing that bothers me is they won't let you buy lottery tickets and/or alcohol with your credit/debit card. I'm pretty sure I don't need the convenient stores of Speedway to be my moral voice and decide how I should pay for goods I want to purchase at their store. If they sold crack cocaine and I wanted to pay for it with my credit card...then so be it! I just spent $70 to fill up my truck and I'm feeling lucky today. Give me a $2 scratch-off on top of the gas. "Oh, we can't do that" they say to you with a disappointed look...like you were trying to sell porn at a schoolyard.
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Dumbest thing said to me this week: Volume I
A truck driver walks into my place of work very early. I kindly say "hello". He quickly retorts "Hell is low!" Then jubilantly says, "If you would have said 'Hi', I would have said 'Not yet'!"
I kid you not, I stood there completely motionless for a solid 10 seconds just staring at him...not believing what I just heard. If there were crickets in the building, it would have been a perfect time for them to start chirping. Perhaps a lone tumbleweed should have come bouncing through. Or that one distant uncomfortable "cough" from the balcony.
It was the dumbest thing of the week. (possibly a recurring feature on this site)
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Worst announcers on television.
Brett Musburger is so terrible. If Joe Shmoe runs for three yards, Brett pisses himself as he pours accolades on top of kudos about how great a player, how great a human, how great a private pilot this guy is!
Can anyone understand how Michael Irvin and/or Sterling Sharpe are allowed to speak (or attempt to) on television? Television executive in board meeting says "I've got this guy who can hardly speak, doesn't enunciate, and has the intelligence of a housefly. Let's get his opinion on the Jets/Chargers game and have him broadcast it to 60 million households!"
Also, Bill Maas and Randy Cross. Do yourself a favor and just stick a sharp object into your eardrum, fish it past the semi-circular canal and shove it straight into your cochlea whenever they are doing a game you're watching. It's painful. Almost as painful as watching soccer and/or figure skating.
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Why does my damned truck have to "ding, ding, ding, ding" the entire time from the moment I open the door until I close it? It's maddening! Now, if it wants to ding because I left my lights on or something, then great. I'm all for that. But to tell me "Hey, Mr Driver Sir. Your door is open"...well, that just bothers me. Considering the fact that I have two children to round up and buckle into car seats and yet another in baby seat, the door is open for a relatively long time.
I liken it to chinese water torture (which, surprisingly I have not endured) where it just continues to grate on you until you SNAP! I'll find the damned fuse for that somfabitch if it's the last thing I do!
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After I leave work I pick up my middle daughter from pre-school (which is truly a wonderful treat. If you want to experience the sheer and utter joy of life, spend a few minutes with Sophia) then head home to get my oldest daughter off of the bus from kindergarten. Then we head to Piqua to pick up the baby and head back home. Once there, I try to clean up the kitchen and start some dinner. But I can honestly say this, if I didn't have a television in my kitchen, I would probably do nothing in that room. I used to watch Judge Joe Brown, but he's been moved. So now all I get is Jerry Springer. (insert grumble of dis-satisfaction here). I was a little upset, but I needed something on the tube. But I have been enlightened. The Springer show is absolutely hilarious. The beauty of it is this: They do not pretend at all that any of this is "real" and never once take themselves seriously. Which is refreshing, considering our world is made up of reality shows (which I despise) where people "act natural" as 50 stagehands, a director, producer, and others hover over them. How can that be natural.
The glory of Springer lies not within their endless supply of cheating, obese, white trash miscreants who, immediately after walking on stage, start throwing punches. Nay, the truly great part of the show is the studio crowd. They just start chanting stuff and it makes me laugh. When some scruffy derelict spews his nutty wisdom the crowd may typically chant "have another beer, have another beer". Or when any audience member with a halfway decent body gets up to ask a question, they chant "take off your top, take off your top". I'm sorry, but there is something simple and quite pleasing about this. So as I'm heaping another spoonful of formula into the baby's bottle, I have to curb my laughter. The ultimate is when the crowd rode this guy so hard that he didn't know what to do...except drop his pants and moon the audience. I'm giggling right now thinking about it. That's funny no matter where you're from or what you're doing at the moment. **my mom shakes her head in sadness knowing I watch this**
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While I'm bitching (doing a lot of that today...sorry). I have a real issue with my ATM machine greeting me with these two sentences: English? or Spanish? For crap's sake people. It's freakin Ohio! Better still, it's freakin' America! It's English. If your american money is good enough to keep in american banks, then you damned sure better speak the language there Pablo
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I spoke of the movie Garden State recently. Bought the soundtrack. I must say that the movie was pretty decent. But the soundtrack is outstanding. A great compilation of songs. Some good funk, some good groove...and if you throw in a little obscure Simon and Garfunkel...well, now you gots yer'self a good ol CD
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Saw a show on t.v. about the "technology" used during the D-Day invasion. It was awesome and impressive. It's as if guys were just thinking up crazy ideas, building them, and just rolling with them. What's most impressive about it was that there were so many different, varied approaches and that they were ultimately for a common goal...to be successful and try anything to gain any little foothold on that beach. What a fascinating time in history and what incredible ingenuity, desire, and guts from a generation of great Americans.
Wonder how they would feel knowing their ATM would be asking them "what language"...and I wonder if they would ask, "what the hell is an ATM?"
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I just had a birthday. It was great and my family treated me to a special day. But a certain uneasiness crept in as the day drew longer. My concerns? What in the name of Pete am I gonna get my wife for her birthday? I admit I suck at it, but what do you get a woman who has it all...Specifically a wonderful guy like me (kidding). Her mom sells jewelry, so the logic of me buying her her 15th bracelet of the week is lost. I could get her an iPod with all of my favorite songs on it. Or maybe a 20 ga. over/under shotgun with my name engraved on the stock. Perhaps she'd like a new tractor...or an attachment for my mower! How about a new 16 foot tandem axle trailer. I think I'll get her one of those. She'll love it!
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I recently removed the window air conditioner from our bedroom. To do so, I had to move a very heavy dresser out of the way. So I hoist this massive machine out of the window and head toward the basement, afraid that I would drop this sucker at any minute. While leaving the window, however, I unknowingly stepped on one of those Glue mousetraps. They are supposedly a more humane way to catch mice. Instead of bringing them to a quick death, it's nicer to have them step their four paws on this incredibly sticky surface where they will remain trapped as they squeal their last squeaks as he looks at his buddies and says "Tell the world my story, Louie!". But I digress. So, my svelte 490 lbs of giggling goo that makes up my rotund body along with 100 lbs of air conditioning unit are pressing this glue trap deeper into my sole and, quite possibly, my soul.
I successfully manage to deliver the a.c. unit to it's final resting place for the long winter's slumber when I try to dislodge this glue trap. I pulled to find a mucous-like substance that can stretch outwards of 20 feet away...without letting go. I felt like I stepped on some gelatinous sea creature from a bad B-Movie. I had to cut the stuff away to be able to get rid of the sticky goo holder.
But this left a huge amount of this mucilaginous material still heaped on the bottom of my shoe. I thought if I went outside to the concrete, I could scrape it off. So I am out there skidding my foot, walking backwards, spinning, sliding. At that point I realize that I must look like I'm working on my Michael Jackson moves (not the perverted pedophilic moves...wanna ride my llama, little boy?) to every car that passes by. Embarrased, I quickly skitter back inside where I stop to think. Another idea hits me as I head toward the door again. Although, this time I have a small "Welcome" mat attached to my foot. I care not, for I head for the gravel. My thinking is that I must defeat the gluey substance by overwhelming it with debris and send it into submission to which it will no longer have the will to stick to everything in my house. At the end of the day, my grand hypothesis only mildly worked while I am still left with a clodded up shoe that now has a bulbous, and now, dirty growth on the bottom.
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That's about it for now. If at any time in your day you think to yourself, "Gee, I'd like to wipe away a few minutes from my life that I'll never get back by doing something completely unfulfilling and unproductive". Then head back to this site (which, consequently, embodies the "unfulfilling and unproductive" aspect of amateur writing) and check out the archived stories by scrolling to the bottom or by clicking some of the heading on the right-hand side (although not all of my wonderfully penned gems are listed on the side bar)

Blah, Blah

Hello all,
Been quite a while since I last posted to this blog. Let's see, where are we....hmm...ah, yes! The Buckeyes continue to underwhelm me, especially after they lost to Penn State. My wife was having a little party that evening, so I ventured out to Z's (a local bar) to watch the game. I had a nice spot at the bar with a great view until about the middle of the second quarter when Joe Footballguy saunters up next to me and makes brilliant comments to me like "Man, that quarterback has to start making better throws" and then some girl a few seats down insists on telling me how she's a much better pro football fan than a college fan and all of the thirty reasons why. So halftime comes and what should I do? Well, I pay my tab and leave. I drive around the block for about 10 minutes, park, then head back inside to see with much delight that my chatty pals have all left and my seat still open. But the good fortune ended shortly as the Buckeyes offense got back onto the field.
Say what you want, but Troy Smith is killing that team. I don't feel like going on much longer, but I'd love to debate this with anyone (Tressell included)
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There is a gas station nearby that I sometimes stop at to get a coffee. More specifically, a French Vanilla cappucino. Does this make me queer? Anyway, I find it funny that this particular gas station employees a person to stand by the machines and wipe them down, refill with grounds/filters, and for the ultimate show in how gourmet their coffee is they grind their own beans. I like to think of him as my own coffee steward. My morning barister who dishes out fresh french vanilla powder into a hot cup of water. Ahhh. Reminds me of Paris..and Jean-Luc. For a few minutes I think I'm in a freakin' Starbucks but those thoughts quickly disappear as Sandy the 500 lb chain-smoking night manager tells Thirdshift Joe in her raspy voice that his 40 ouncer for "the way home" will be $1.80.
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If at anytime you ever find yourself wearing a leather baseball hat, immediately yank the steering wheel of the car you are driving into a bridge abutment. Similarly, if you have ever even thought of wearing one of those silly koifa African hats (ala Jim Brown. pictured..), put a bullet in the chamber then pull the trigger.
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I went to my first Bengals game in Paul Brown Stadium a couple of weeks ago. I really enjoyed myself. The Bengals won and at the time were 4-0, which if you are a Bengal fan you are used to see the number "4" and "0" but usually in reverse order. The stadium is wonderful and the crowd was intense. What an electric atmosphere. I have to say that 90% of the time I enjoy just listening or watching the game at home. But I do feel that everyone should experience a major sport like this live.
From the earliest days when my brother took me every year to the Indy 500 (where nothing will ever prepare you for the moments leading up to the race, the fly-overs, the Anthem, and the first few laps...I had goose bumps and tears in my eye every year) to recently at, say, a Dayton Dragons minor league game (where the summer sun shines, the sounds of the game and smell of the grass and a cold beer with friends make it all great)...it is always something special to be "there".
Many times when I went to games I always thought that it would be cool to tell my kids about. I'm constantly blurting out "I was there" as the blank, confused eyes of my daughter stare back at me. Just as it is neat to hear my mom and dad talk about seeing someone like Stan Musial play at Crosley Field. I imagine telling someone that I was at the last Celtics/Lakers game in the old Boston Garden. I was at a Red Sox/Yankees game at Fenway when Mo Vaughn cracked three dingers. I can go on and on about being at Wrigley for an afternoon game with my wife and the incredible time we had as we sang Take Me Out to the Ballgame with Harry Caray up above us in the booth. I've been to a ton of neat places and there is always that "feeling" you get when you are actually there...where it all has happened. And maybe you'll be lucky enough when this game you're at will be the one they always talk about. And you can tell your kids "I was there"
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Recently my dad and I borrowed a tractor and big mower to cut down a lot of the weeds that had been growing in my back couple of acres. I have visions of making this a lovely little area with grass, trees and random islands of flowers and such. So I come home this friday to see dad already working on mowing down the thick underbrush. It really looked great but I was super excited about doing it too. I just really enjoyed being out there with the warm fall sun shining down and the big tractor working as it was meant to do. I even managed to scare up a pheasant and marveled at its beauty as it flew up and out ahead of me. This prompted me to leave quite a bit of land un-mowed to possibly provide a bit of sanctuary to my lil' animal friends (except you, Mr and Mrs Skunk. I don't like you. You smell. Go away!)
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My birthday is coming up and I've come to realize that I could really care less about it. Some people may get excited. Others may dread the fact that another year has been ticked off the ledger. Not me. I'll be 33 and I really couldn't be much happier than I am. If I could change my job, I'd do it in a heartbeat. But while I drudge through my work day and clock out completely unfulfilled and unchallenged, the thought of what I have at home is enough to erase the melancholy of the past 8 hours and forget about everything except for my house full of wonderful women.
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Speaking of the male species in my house, my only ally on this daily war I wage on Estrogen is my dog Zeke. Zeke just had his 10th birthday! We treated him to his own cake and sang Happy Birthday to him. His favorite part of the day probably came when we went for a little walk around the soybean field and he found an old tennis ball that had been there since spring. He had that ball all night and even fell asleep with it.
That boy has been through it all with us. We got him a few months before we got married and he's been with us ever since. He was once the king of the house until the arrival of these kids. But we've never forgotten him and realize that not only is he a great friend but he's a great part of this family...even though the needs of our kids are a little more important than his (that's our opinion, not his).
I heard this said a while back and traced it to a quote by George Graham Vest, who wrote:
The best friend a man has in this world may turn against him and become his enemy. His son or daughter that he has reared with loving care may prove ungrateful. Those who are nearest and dearest to us, those whom we trust with our happiness and our good name, may become traitors to their faith. The money that a man has, he may lose. It flies away from him, perhaps when he needs it most. A man's reputation may be sacrificed in a moment of ill-considered action. The people who are prone to fall on their knees to do us honor when success is with us may be the first to throw the stone of malice when failure settles its' clouds upon our heads.
The one absolutely unselfish friend that man can have in this world, the one that never deserts him, the one that never proves ungrateful or treacherous, is his dog. A man's dog stands by him in prosperity and poverty, in health and sickness. He will sleep on the cold ground, when the wintry winds blow and the snow drives fiercely, if only he may be near his master's side. He will kiss the hand that has no food to offer; he will lick the wounds and sores that come in encounter with the roughness of the world. He guards the sleep of his pauper master, as if he were a prince. When all other friends desert, he remains. When riches take wings and reputation falls to pieces, he is as constant in his love as the sun in its' journey through the heavens.If fortune drives the master forth an outcast in the world, friendless and homeless, the faithful dog asks no higher privilege than that of accompanying him to guard against danger to fight his enemies; and when the last scene of all comes, and death takes the master in its' embrace, and his body is laid away in the cold ground, no matter if all other friends pursue their way, there by the graveside will the noble dog be found, his head between his paws, his eyes sad, but open in watchfulness, faithful and true even in his death.
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I have realized that I've gotta start writing ideas down. I have these grand plans to add some insightful, riveting paragraphs to this blog only to find myself saying "now what the hell do I ramble on about?"
I'll try harder.
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Finally, I've been having some trouble with the "comments" section on this blog. I've become inundated with spam-like comments that typically go "Hey, Great column Mike. I really enjoyed reading it. By the way, visit my sight to learn more about how to get a long, hard sustained boner" or something like that. So I try to block them and delete them and often screw up the whole works. Please please please, try to leave comments. They are like my little easter eggs that I get to find at the end of each column. Keep 'em up and I can assure you that my staff are hard at work trying to rectify the problem.