Welcome back all! Things have been very busy around here lately and my computer time is limited. Between me working towards my doctorate, my wife opening a shelter for stray and abandoned pets, and my children's cello lessons there is little opportunity for me to plop my big ass down to pound out word after word of utter nonsense. Having said all of that, let's get right to the big show
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If you've ever read any of this blog, you've probably noticed that baseball is near and dear to my heart. If I had to chose between the national pasttime and football, I wouldn't dare pick either because I love them both, yet each hold a special place in my heart. I rooted hard for Detroit because they were the "underdog" and the fact they knocked the crap out of the Yankees. I heard a comedian the other day say (roughly) that rooting for the Yankees is like "rooting for the dealer in blackjack".
Speaking of baseball, the Reds' season is obviously over but it was my most favorite and fulilling season yet. One reason is that I had a lot of outdoor projects this year. For one, I tore down my old chicken coop and rebuilt it into a beautiful, gleaming shed (with much help from Matt and Gill...thanks boys). Many a night I stood out there and listened to entire games while painting or whatever. I witnessed, through radio or tv, some of the greatest moments this season...one being Adam Dunn's walk-off grand slam against the Indians. My three daughters and my wife and I were sitting in the living room watching the Reds load the bases and I said, in a wishing voice, "Just get a hit for once, Dunn!". The pitch, the swing and I just jumped up and screamed. It hadn't even cleared the infield and I knew it was gone! The kids were crying because I scared the piss out of them. Later this season, we were all in the kitchen watching the game and listening to Marty on the radio. David Ross came up as Marty said "this guy has the potential to end this game". 2 outs, down by 1, man on....pitch and BOOM. Marty's call on the radio was epic. I was going crazy! I was jumping up and down in the hallway and ran outside and was yelling. What a finish! Marty is the best announcer in all of baseball. Sadly, the Reds didn't make the playoffs and even more heartbreaking was to find out that Marty's cohort in the booth, Steve Stewart (aka: The Bad Boy), wouldn't be returning. It was like losing a good friend...a friend who had been there on those late nights while I worked on the shed who painted that picture of baseball through the AM radio waves. I loved the guy and his entire approach toward calling the game.
I was fortunate enough to catch the final game of the year on the radio as I was driving home from New York. Marty applauded Steve on his fine work, his class, and his dignity. Steve tried to talk and literally broke down in tears. Needless to say, my eyes were a bit moist too. Not that he'd ever read this, but I want to thank Steve for some great memories the past couple of years and for being the background for many a summer evening.
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My wife recently called me at work to tell me that she stayed up late last night and payed some bills whilst watching some shows that she taped. Actually, she "tivo'd" them...which, for those that don't know, works like a modern-day VCR by recording shows digitally onto a hard drive. So she tells me that she has a few episodes of Oprah that she's catching up on when she sees a really old episode of Ms. Winfrey's show still saved on there. She wondered why she had kept it so long, that is, until she pushed Play and watched it again.
To set this up properly, there was a recent Saturday Night Live skit where a fake Oprah was doing her show and basically everytime she spoke, the audience (made up of cast members) went berzerk!. She kept giving away prize packs to the audience and everytime she mentioned what it was, they'd show the ladies in the "audience" get increasingly more excited until eventually the ladies were doing cartwheels, punching each other, throwing chairs and...a close up of a lady (Rachel Dratch) so overwhelmed that her head popped off. It makes me laugh thinking about it right now. Wifey and I laughed so hard that one Saturday night that we about peed our pants. It's something that has stuck with us. So, back to the reason she saved this episode. After viewing it, it dawned on her that she saved it to show me because it was one of those shows where Oprah gives the audience all kinds of swag and the ladies were going nutso for it. I'm so excited to see it.
It always makes me laugh when I'm flipping through the channels in the afternoon trying to find a show to watch while I clear out the dishwasher or prepare dinner and I happen to stop on Ellen DeGeneres' show. Much like Oprah, I kinda' like Ellen too. She's funny and, unlike fellow carpetmuncher Rosie O'Donnell, she has a likeable personality. She's the Anti-Rosie. Her big thing is that she dances through the crowd after her monologue. If you look closely, you'll see this crowd of predominately women, whipped into a frothy frenzy, start shakin' what the good lord gave 'em. Undoubtedly you'll see some Suzy Homemaker, who hasn't been away from the kids for 11 years when she first gave birth and is married to a very successful, stiff-shirt wearing husband who has a penchant for wine collecting and pouring over his money-market funds...you'll see her so fired up that she'll be doing some pole-type dance like you'd see on the shady end of town at a place called the Honey Pot or Pussycat's, she's so into the moment that she doesn't realize she bumping and grinding in the aisle by herself while the rest of America, her turtleneck wearing children, and her astounded husband sit with mouths agape in sheer and utter bewilderment. I reckon it's kinda like the Girls Gone Wild videos. These skinny, barely pubescent girls all hopped up on shooters of fruity shot-type drinks have enough wits about them to sign the waiver (essentially giving permission to the producers to rake in the cash and some dirtbag at home to oogle them) and then realize the next day that, hey...I was just on national television shaking my rump for the entire world to see. It has to be a horrible feeling.
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Watched the Johnny Cash movie the other night. I've learned a few things about movies in general. One lesson: most movies need to have 30-45 minutes of content removed from them. This movie was no different. For example, even an instant classic like Wedding Crashers turned into a temporary yawner midway through as they try to lay some lame storyline on us. No..don't stay with the hilarity that started from scene one and would have remained if you hadn't decided to turn it into a chick flick in the middle. Walk the Line was the same. However, despite the momentum killing melancholy in the middle ofthe Johnny Cash movie, it was very well done. Reece Witherspoon is adorable (I'm using that word for the second time in my life...see:Natalie Portman in Garden State). She's adorable teetering on incredibly hot in a Jennifer-Aniston-girl-you-could-actually-know-and-talk-to way. Joaquin Phoenix was very good as well. Very convincing. This movie was a lot like Ray, the story about Ray Charles. Both featured incredible acting (which normally I care little about), out-of-this-world music, and interesting main characters. Unfortunately, both films also dwelled a lot on the rough times each singer had. Personally, I like my world to be a candy coated sing-along with much happiness and glee...same with my movies.
Comparing these two movies has me thinking...the next inevitable movie they should make should focus on the life and times of The Possum, Mr. George Jones. Now that would be a story! It would have everything that Ray and Walk the Line had....great music and stories of the performers who went through some extremely rough patches on their ascent to stardom. We'd have to wait until George Jones dies which could take awhile considering all of his major organs are now pickled due to his excessive partying habits which earned him his nickname of "No Show Jones" as he lay passed out backstage. Mark my words...it's coming.
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We tend to watch a lot of Jeopardy in our house perhaps because I have an unhealthy attraction toward the omnipotent Alex Trebeck and the way he rolls his "R"s when he pronounces a Spanish word. I promise you this (and it has repeatedly been noted by my wife) that I will answer 9 outof 10 questions correctly during Teen Week. Those stupid kids are no match for my uncanny ability to know senseless trivia! Anyway, a while back one of the participants on television answered in the form of a question. While this was going on, my wife and I were talking about something when my oldest daughter Anna raised her hand. See, we have been having this problem of the children interrupting us so we made them raise their hand if they had something to say...for a while. So we wrap up our short talk and tell Anna to proceed. She says very excitedly that "That guy on t.v. doesn't even know what a pond is!!" The wife and I both were a little confused when Anna went on to say "Yeah...he said ' What is apond' !!!". Bless her little heart, she couldn't believe that this grown man on television had to ask what a pond was when in reality he was just answering in the form of a question. She was so serious and yet so awestruck that this guy didn't know something as simple as that.
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I planted a few trees this year and have planted some here and there throughout the years. It is now time for me to impart some facts that I have learned during these experiences. From my bro-in-law (and faithful reader) Matt: Trees go through three stages of growth in their first three years. Sleep, Creep, and Leap. The first year, they kind of linger around soaking up sun, guzzling water and generally making me wonder why I plunked down the money to buy trees when, in fact, I feel they should be free. The second year, they creep along, growing a bit, getting acclimated to their new environs and ready to explore a new world. The third year, they leap into action and really start growing. They're done laying around and they want to provide the shade and windbreaking opportunities that they were destined for. I have witnessed this phenomena first hand and it is factual.
My dad said to "water a tree like you're trying to drown it." Pretty straight-forward. Trees need an abundant amount of water early in their lives as their tender little roots slowly grow. By trying to drown them, you are just making sure you keep them adequately watered. This does not work for water lillies. I've tried to drown them and those suckers keep growing. I've even thrown them into ponds before...and they keep growing! Huh...
Finally, someone (author unknown) once said "Dig a forty dollar hole for a 20 dollar tree". Again, simple stuff here, but this just insures that you (the hole digger) provide enough growing room and loosened soil for this young sapling to start its journey toward arbor heaven. So grab a shovel and get out there and plant a tree, it's good for the soul!
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Halloween has recently passed and we are now inundated with about 25 lbs of candy in our house. Soon after our kids' teeth rot out, I will throw the rest in the trash. Halloween is a pretty good "holiday" in the fact that it's pretty fun but mostly because it's over in a few hours. Unlike Christmas, which for my family, is a 31 day festival of travel...going to and fro to be at this gathering or this party, Halloween starts around 6 pm on a weeknight and is over a few hours later. Brilliant! If only all holidays could be like this I would be able to look ahead with glee at the coming of the Christmas season! This year, my middle daughter Sophia went as a Horsegirl, not a cowgirl...duh! There's a difference in Sophie's eyes with her main point being the fact that she's "never seen a girl ride a cow...but has seen a girl ride a horse". When you think about it, she's right. It's the whole No Driving on a Driveway/No Parking on a Parkway theory.
My oldest, Anna, is shaping up to be like me when it comes to Halloween. She was simply a "golfer" and wore a golf glove, carried her golf bag and clubs and wore a visor. I loved it! I once went to a party as a "guy who walked through a spider web" and put some of that fake spider web stuff on my shirt just before I walked in the door.
There are only few things I hate more than an adult Halloween party where one is required to "dress up". I've gotten to the age where I've earned a few things. I don't sing Happy Birthday at a party unless it is for my kids, I don't do the "Locomotion" at a wedding, I don't take my shoes off when people invite me over to their house, and I don't wear some zany costume in order to look like a fool at a party. I have no trouble looking like a fool at a party. (Which reminds me of a funny story. My wife, mom and dad, and a bunch of our friends traveled to Georgia one time for my friend Dave's wedding. There was a reception the night before the wedding and we really tied one on. The next day, we were all riding in a van to another event when we passed the scene of the previous night's debauchery. Just then, one of my friends' dad...Walt...who is one of those guys who would never say anything bad about anybody, loudly pointed out to all of the occupants in the van "Hey Mike, there's where you made a real ass of yourself last night!". I'm not sure I've ever seen my dad laugh so hard.) Anyway, it was a successful haul this Halloween and the kids really enjoyed it. I'm sure in about 10 years, Halloween will be outlawed and deemed to "evil" by some sect of crackpots who think everyone needs to be saved from themselves. It's Halloween, people...not a satanic ritual! Kids dress up, they get some candy and they call it a night...nothing more, nothing less
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I've noticed a growing trend popping up on vehicles around the place. It seems to be a new thing to honor a deceased loved-one by having a bumper sticker made and attached to your back windshield that says something like "In Loving Memory of Cletus J. Duke. March 24, 1963 to June 24, 2005". When I see these stickers I can't help to ponder them for a minute and think...there's nothing more noble than proclaiming the death of a friend or family member than by plastering a eulogy on the back window of your 1984 Chevy Citation, right beside the "Suckin' Gas and Haulin' Ass" sticker. This occurs mostly in Piqua or Sidney. Which reminds me of a time when I was following this slow moving truck down the road. The bumper sticker on the back said something like "Don't tailgate or I'll flip a booger on you". Sure...kinda funny I guess. But when we both got to a stop light, I looked over to see this guy who might have been born around the same time as the fall of Rome. He was like 90 something, hunched over his steering wheel and all I could think about was a) him flipping a booger on me and b) wondering if he even knew that bumper sticker was on his truck. Swear to god, I laughed about that for 2 days straight...in fact, I'm laughing now!
I've written before about how people now feel compelled to list all of the children on the back of their SUV by name and their activity or sport. People are really reaching now because it's no longer just soccer balls and "Amber" or "Dakota" (stripper names)...the other day I saw one with a girl's name and a bunch of musical notes. Does this qualify? And, is this signifying that this child is in the band...or just likes listening to music. I've decided that I'm going to get one made for my middle daughter Sophia. It will be her name and the outline of a television set on it. That girl loves her Disney Channel! My mom should have one with my name and the outline of a set of boobies...because, quite frankly, I like 'em!
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It's political season (or probably past it by the time I post this). Are you like me...if you hear one more political advertisement on tv or radio you're going to jam fondue forks into your eyeballs and dig out your eardrum with a carrot peeler just to avoid them? These things are totally annoying in every way. No matter which side of the fence you sit on, these ads make it sound like the other side is one of Satan's evil minions. I guess the days of explaining that you might be the best candidate...and why, are over. Instead it's about attacking the other guy and telling the public that your opponent has never done anything right...kinda like my wife does to me (just kidding honey...by the way, I love that blouse you have on...you look great in it) I've become slightly jaded in my opinions of many of the candidates this year. I'm starting to believe that it doesn't really matter who you elect, because they're gonna screw it up just like the 20 dudes before them did. I don't know.
The local issues are important to me though. For example, there is something on the ballot about voting for approval so Troy can build another development while continuing to eliminate farmland. It's particularly dear to me because it will be on a road that I have traveled a million times which once served primarily as the only route from my childhood residence to my then-girlfriend's/future wife's house. Hundreds of times I have driven by that land and seen it full of deer or the times when it was completely yellow from the blooms on whatever was growing there at the time. Soon, it will all be nearly identical houses, which will be built within 10 feet of the next similar looking house. It's just a shame, I guess. I suppose I am a little old-fashioned in a lot of my thoughts. I can imagine the disgust some old-timers might feel when they drive next to another Wal-Mart or strip mall that once used to be "cornfields...as far as the eye could see". Some view it as progress I suppose.
There's another issue on the ballot about banning smoking everywhere. Now listen...smoking is bad. If you smoke, it's not your wisest decision and it is one you should probably rethink. However, it bugs me to no end knowing that we have to legislate people's own personal decisions. Hey, if you own a restaurant and don't want people to smoke there...great! I'm behind you all the way because I don't particularly care for that either. On the same note, if I can't stand smoke while I'm eating, I won't go there. It's a choice both the owner of the establishment and I have to make. I don't need lobbyists and political activists deciding choices like that for me and I don't think they should. Even as a non-smoker, it worries me that there are groups of people out there that want to decide what is right and what is wrong for me and quite frankly, that sounds a little un-American to me. I saw on the news the other night this doctor speaking about the effects of being exposed to smoke for, like, one minute and all of the bad things going on during that minute. Then I look at this doctor and he weighs 350 lbs easy! Buddy, you should be speaking on the dangers of too much cholesterol. It's like a shop teacher teaching me about table saw safety and he has no fingers. If people are really worried about other people's safety, then I think we need a coalition to investigate propane grills. How can the government sit idly by when every grill sold has it's push-button ignitor quit working after a month...leading me to tossing lit matches from 15 feet away as a giant fireball reaches for the sky! Get involved people!
Finally (and then I will step off of my political soapbox), there's talk of increasing the minimum wage. I have a better idea on how to increase your pay if you make minimum wage...work harder, do a good job, strive for more! It's a strange concept, I know. Sure, it would be a lot easier to just throw money at those who are making the minimum, but my idea is to compensate them for their good accomplishments and that might actually make them to want to strive for even more! It's called "earning it" I didn't graduate college...but I don't make minimum wage either. I'd like to think I work hard for my money and every advancement I've gained was earned by me and not by some federal mandate. We all end up paying the extra costs then as the store owner ups his price on the bag of bread or the bottle of low-grade tequila to make up for the fact that he has to pay the guy mopping the floor a few bucks more to...well...mop the floor. OK, I'm done. These political ads have to stop...they're making me cranky.
(Editors note: everything I voted for or against went the other way...except for the subdivision development thing...that didn't pass...which is all I really cared about. Yippee!)
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I've probably mentioned this before but you should all know that I consider myself a master in the grocerial arts. I peruse the aisles of my local supermarket with cat-like quickness and deadly efficiency. I do well to fill the cupboards (or "covereds" as Anna calls them)
While on my journey to hunt and gather nourishment for my family, I've learned a few tips along the way. My steely gaze is fixed straight ahead as my mind digs into the catalogs of data stored within. Which store am I at? How are their aisles laid out? What ingredients are needed to complete a certain meal? They're all being randomly accessed in a nanosecond. But during these times I also make notes of what other shoppers are doing wrong. I will now lay out some tips and rules to make your experience more fulfilling and rewarding while keeping you out of my way.
Rule: While you are pondering if you should purchase sharp cheddar instead of mild cheddar, your cart doesn't need to be beside you, three feet away, thus eliminate any space for me to get my cart by you. I know this is a very important choice for you, but make your choice from the handle side of your cart and don't block my route. I have been known to run that little bar that is guarding the front wheels into an unsuspecting lady's achilles tendon because she was in my way.
Tip: Coupons are for suckasses. They are a scam. If someone has to mail me a piece of paper offering their product for less money than the store has it, then they are apparently peddling something I don't need. In all seriousness, coupons skew your understanding of what you really need and what you think you need to buy...merely because it's 25 cents off.
Rule: Never go down a checkout line when the attendant is definitely under 21 years of age if you are buying beer. You're only going to get bottlenecked as the under-age cashier has to call the manager from the other side of the building to scan a 12 pack across the barcode reader (Fun Fact: In June of 1974, the first U.P.C. scanner was installed at a Marsh's supermarket in Troy, Ohio. The first product to have a bar code included was a packet of Wrigley's Gum. This is dead-honest true and it's the same store I shop at primarily)
Tip: Let us just say that you pass a good looking lady and she happens to mumble to herself that she needs, for example, a Chef-Boyardee Pizza Mix. Being an expert, you'll realize that this Pizza Kit is kept on the bottom shelf in Aisle 4. Immediately sprint to aisle 4 where the Chef-Boyardee Pizza Mix is wait for her to bend over. Once bent over, make several comments to yourself like "Looord Have Mercy" or "Looks like two cats fighting each other in a burlap sack". It is never a good idea to walk by and smack her rear. This is why I inadvertently twitch sometimes.
Rule: If you are paying with a check, have the date, name of store, and your name signed before the last item gets scanned. This way you only have to fill in the dollar amount. Let's face it, checks are basically dead. If you're not using a credit/debit card, you might as well be trading wampum or using charcoal to write on papyrus.
Tip: Constantly survey the checkout line as you near completion of your shopping. It also helps, when it is extremely busy, to stand at the entrance of of a checkout lane looking helpless until you catch the eye of a young cashier and give her the sad, puppy dog look. They'll open up a lane just for you!
Rule: Never allow your kids to have the "car cart"...the cart shaped like a racecar. It's about 3 times larger than a regular cart and it is often to cumbersome to maneuver down any aisle without taking out a few stacks of Cheez-its or toppling the carefully stack pyramid of Campbell's soup. Throw the baby in the fold down seat, tell the other two kids to shut up, hang on and watch the master work.
Rule: If one of the top 5 most important items you need on your particular store visit is ice...you will always forget to get it before leaving. The only thing that is worse is that you remember you need it just after the cashier tells you your total. She'll roll her eyes and you'll feel like a big dickweed.
There you go. These tips should help you enjoy a more fruitful and painless shopping experience next time. And remember to frequent your smaller groceries as they struggle to survive next to the Wal-Marts of the world.
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I tend to watch a lot of sporting events and I notice another trend with people at the stadium. They are all starting to wave towels. Sure, the Steelers did it with the Terrible Towel and that was original and unique at the time (although still "Terribly" stupid)...but now everybody is doing it. Let me tell you this, I can think of nothing more annoying than some jackass sitting in the seat in front of me, after I just paid $50 plus for the seat I'm in, whipping a towel around after every 4 yard gain and whapping me in the face. The free towel he got on Kahn's Hotdogs Towel day will next be used as a tourniquet to stop the bleeding after I inflict a deadly wound on him.
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My latest project has been building a workshop area inside my barn. While the barn is falling down and the roof is like a colander, I still need a water-tight place that can hold in some heat this winter as I embark on my maiden voyage in the ways of tractor restoration. (I purchased a very run-down 1949 Ford 8N tractor). I've enlisted the help of my dad, brother in law, and buddy Gill. Each of them have tons of craftsman-like skills while I have trouble driving a nail in straight.
But I've learned two valuable lessons in this adventure. 1) If you have plenty of beer (no, a case is not enough) you'll have plenty of help. 2) Midway through the project your helpers will be leaning more to this new workshop becoming a bar as they bounce suggestions off you like "This would be a good place for some barstools and some bottles of liquor" or "We could put a poker table right here". It is then my duty to cut a few boards incorrectly or break something so they can get re-focused on the task of degrading my total lack of woodworking ability. In shop class, I had to make a bread box. Square box, nothing fancy. At the end, it looked more like a parallelogram than a box. (this all goes back to an earlier entry about the chicken coop rebuild project and my declaration that I posess no true skills. None, people!).
Anyway, the project is coming along nicely thanks to those guys and their hard work...and thanks to their wives too for letting me steal them away from their own home repairs to help out their inept son/brother in law/friend.
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Well, that's all I've got for now. Hope you enjoy this stuff. Please feel free to post your questions/comments, ideas for other topics in which I can expound on and show my total lack of knowledge about.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Friday, July 28, 2006
A Midsummer Night's Drivel
There's no sense in me opening with the line "It's been a while since my last posting". This month long lag is becoming the norm. Lots going on this summer, so let's get right to the ramblings and run-on sentences.
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There have been many problems uploading pictures to this site. Everyone using this service from Blogger have experienced it (according to the frequently asked questions). This has delayed me in getting you the most late-breaking coverage that you, the reader, has come to expect. This is what I get for using a "free" service I guess.
So, to work-around the problem, I tried creating an alternate site where I would post my pictures. Then, I will "link" to that other site. (for those of you who don't know...a "link" will appear on this site as a highlighted web address) In theory, one will be able to click that link and enjoy the photo within. It's not a perfect system but I'm man enough to realize that people don't tune into my blog to read my insightful musings and crackpottish ramblings...they want to see pictures (they're worth a thousand words I'm told). So it is pictures you will have. For those of you who are printing this out for whatever reason (lining your birdcage, wrapping fish, etc...) you will probably not get the pictures with the printout. I'm sorry! I've got my crack team (me) feverishly working behind the scenes at J-Bird Media Enterprises to rectify the problem. If you have any problems, please let me know. I need to know if it is/is not working. Thanks!
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My wife is a sports fan. She enjoys keeping up with all of the sporting news going on around the world. She’s not a raving fanatic, waving her pennant, wearing her jersey, and painting her face. But that’s perfectly all right. As someone once said, you have to have some separation in things you and your spouse enjoy. In other words, I don’t really expect her to go with me 6 hours before kickoff to a Buckeyes pre-game party at Geno’s barn when it’s 28 degrees outside and 35 degrees in the barn (in my opinion, the only place to watch a Buckeye game). On the same note, she doesn’t expect me to go shoe and/or jean shopping with her…spending hour after hour filing through racks of clothes, sitting on those wooden benches and, while she thinks I’m speaking of her 24th pair of black shoes when I say “yes honey, those are nice”, she doesn’t have to know that I’m referring to the perky young store manager that just pranced by and is now folding and unfolding shirts.
Anyway, I’m getting off the point a bit. I’m trying to establish the fact that my wife has great knowledge of sports and enjoys watching them. But the other day she said something that just pointed out to me again why I kinda’ like her. After the fiftieth promo for another World Cup game, she simply said, “When is that World Cup shit going to be over? It’s starting to annoy me”
Luckily for many right-minded Americans, the World Cup is indeed over. Apparently France and Italy, both trying to make up for their lackluster performances during WWII, battled each other for the championship. Some froggy Frenchman got ejected for headbutting a guy in the chest. For one thing, it was the first time a player fell down without faking it. These guys take more falls than my one year old (who started walking at a very early age, if I do say so myself). They deserve an Oscar for all of their pathetic penalty drawing dives. But what’s really amazing is that the guy who head-butted and then got thrown out of the match (and essentially cost his country a chance to win) later won an award called the Golden Ball for being the best player. I’m not sure which part of that last sentence is more confounding…the fact that the only name they could come up with for their MVP trophy is the Golden Ball or the fact that a guy who cheap-shotted an opposing player, got tossed, and cost his team the game wins an award for being really good.
You know you are watching a terrible sport when someone on the field gets hurt…his leg falls off, he’s bleeding profusely from his noggin, his arm is broken in thirty seven places and is laying unconscious on the field…and they keep the clock running! It’s as if they’re saying, “You know what, these games last forever and are mind-numbingly boring…let’s keep the clock running so we can get outta here!”
Every couple of years when this World Cup crap rolls around, we Americans must endure the constant force-feeding of soccer fans telling us how great a game this is. We are told that we must learn to like it and how it’s the most popular sport in the world. Listen, if you live in a desert and the most exciting thing in your day is seeing a tumbleweed roll by, or you don’t have a television and consider a good meal a fistful of insects, then you’ll probably find great satisfaction in soccer. I, on the other hand, can find a hundred things more interesting than watching soccer and two of them include watching paint dry and the grass grow. Many times more appealing.
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It was recently the All-Star break in baseball which marks the midway point in the season and gave my fading Reds a chance to catch their breath and attempt to make a run for the playoffs in the second half. I’ve always enjoyed the All-star game and the home run contest that precedes it. I watched most of the home run contest this year and marveled at the power and pop these guys have. They showed replays in super-slow-motion and it was just awesome to see these fellas generate so much power. They were crushing it!
The All Star festivities took place at PNC park in Pittsburgh and by everything I’ve heard and read, it’s one of, if not THE, best ballpark in the country. Unfortunately for that town and their first baseman Sean Casey, their baseball team isn’t on par with their stadium. Although, while I was watching the game, I noticed a ton of Steelers’ jerseys in the crowd and I just snickered to myself as I thought as I shook my head in disgust, “what a bunch of jackasses. Don’t they know it’s baseball season?” If you’re wearing a football jersey to a baseball game, no matter who you root for, then you should have a rusty, tetanus-inducing fork driven directly into your windpipe.
Which gets me to a few things I’d change if I were commissioner or as I like to refer to them, my Baseball Bill of Rights:
1) Anyone spotted on any telecast of a game, talking on their phone shall be immediately ejected from the park. If they are on the phone and waving at the camera, they shall then be ejected from the park and then shot in the temple. We get it, you’re on t.v! Great, I’m so happy you’re calling the only person who will talk to you, your mom, and saying “See me? I’m waving”. Duh! There should be a phone number right below the “no pepper” sign on the backstop that you can call while watching the game on television to report a dickweed on a cell phone. Just call that number and tell them something like, “yeah, 4th row from homeplate, 2nd guy over…yeah, he needs to be removed”. Seconds later, a big burly guy in a shirt two sizes too small jerks the guy from his seat by his neck and escorts him into the dark underbelly of the stadium where he is forced to fight his way out.
2) Baseball players MUST show their socks. The trend today is to pull the cuffs of their pants down all of the way to the tops of their shoes, looking much like a pair of pajamas. This is unacceptable and each player will be fined 100,000 per leg for each game they wear their pants like that. Baseball is nothing without its legacy and tradition. Pull your pants up and show your stirrups as it nature intended.
3) All food and drink at ballparks should be priced at a fair market value. The last time I checked, I could buy at least a six-pack of beer for less than a cup full at the game. You have to be a cold-blooded bastard to be able to sleep after you charged me $6.50 for a plastic cup full of foamy beer. I can buy bulk peanuts (must be salted) for 10 cents a pound. No way they should cost $3.50 for a small bag of mostly empty shells. Hey, this is America and you have every right to make a profit. But for the sake of this great game, keep it reasonable.
4) It is mandatory to stand, remove your hat, and pay attention to the National Anthem. As a general rule, if you can’t be there before the Anthem is played, don’t bother going. It’s kinda like showing up for church after Communion. If you can’t be there for the Anthem and still want to attend the game, then go to the concession stand, order some peanuts and cracker jacks. Later, with spirit, sing Take Me Out to the Ballgame at the seventh inning stretch and, before sitting back down, say to someone near you, “They ain’t doin’ this in China”.
5) There are very few rules in pursuing a foul ball, but here are a couple. First rule: get the ball at any and all cost. If you got lucky and it bounced to you and there is a good little kid nearby, you must give it to them. If you catch a screaming liner barehanded, you are not entitled to give it to anyone. And finally, if you get zinged in the temple with a laser-beam foul ball…you deserve it. Nobody who is paying attention would get hit in the head.
6) It is your right and duty to give the umpire “heck” about any close calls. This is what he is payed for. Bellowing a forceful “That’s Hooorrrribbllllleeee” is sufficient and actually encouraged.
7) While singing Take Me Out to the Ballgame, it is not allowable to substitute your favorite team's name for “root root root for the home team”. It can’t be root root root for the Reds, Dragons, anyone. The only time it acceptable is if you are at the Friendly Confines of Wrigley Field and Harry Caray is singing. Then and only then can you substitute “Cubbies” for “home team” but only if you chose to do so. It’s the rules people, just obey them. (by the way, one of the greatest days of my life was when my wife and I went to a Cubs game on some random weekday. We were only going to have one “Old Style” beer just for the ambience. 37 Old Styles later, we were dancing in the streets on Waveland Avenue as some street performers played some tunes. We saw and heard Harry sing “Take Me Out…” and everything was all right)
8) Please wait until there’s a break in the action to get out of your seat and then stand in my way. This is my most important rule. A few weeks ago this lady (a Cubs fan consequently) stood up and was talking to some folks behind her. It never entered her mind to crouch down or take their conversation elsewhere. She stands there (while my friends, nearby ticket holders, and I cast verbal darts in her direction) until the third out and the team runs into the dugout, then she decides to sit back down. It was so maddening that it was almost comical. I’ll give you a break or two if you have small children. These little tappers are needy and require a lot of attention. But there is no need to constantly get up and get a pop or something. That’s what the roaming vendors are for and by the looks of most people there, they aren’t in dire need of life-sustaining calories to consume. Simply wait at the top level until a foul ball, or a batter change, or any number of typical delays in the game of baseball, then quickly find your seat. I might have to start getting hard-line on this stance and not get up to let people in and out of my row while the ball is in play.
That’s it for now regarding my baseball Bill of Rights. I’m sure I’ll think of other things to add at which time I will seek approval from both houses of Congress and work to get an Amendment filed.
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It always makes me kinda chuckle when I see someone riding their bike while smoking. It’s like chomping on a bacon burger while you’re on the treadmill. Like shooting heroine while doing some sit-ups. Like chasing down a big glass of crystal clean water with a liter of gasoline.
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Funny thing happened the other night. First, let me say that my wife does it all. She's a successful business person, a wonderful mother, and a tireless leader of this small clan we live in. But one of her jobs is not going to the grocery. This is something I do for the team...plus it gets me tons of endearing looks by my fellow female shoppers as I happily stroll down the aisles with a baby in the seat and two crazies hanging off the cart. Anyway, she told Sophia and me that later that night, she was going to the grocery. Sophia looked at me...paused...then just started cracking up! Then, while laugh-talking (my favorite, where you laugh out your words), she said as if it were a punchline to a joke, "Mommy's going to the grocery!" Like she was saying, "yeah right! She doesn't know anything about the grocery" Guess you had to be there
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I think we all know how much love I have for Ben Rothlicksburger, quarterback of the Steelers. It was recently pointed out to me that I did not comment on his recent motorcycle accident. First, in all truthfulness, let me say that I’m glad the guy wasn’t seriously hurt. As much as I despise him and as much as his whole appearance and demeanor repulses me, I’m glad that he was able to essentially walk away from the accident. What I have a problem with is this…from watching tons of sports on television, I know for a fact that hardly a Steelers game will go by this season without a hundred mentions of his accident. With that, one will have to endure the stirring pre-game piece with still shots in sepia tones, soft-dramatic music in the background, and Dick Enberg referring to his amazing “will to live…will to play again”. We will be reminded of how (as Ben put it) he was “seconds from death” and how he is so heroic to be playing…even though he was out of the hospital in a couple of days because he banged up his face. Hell, my wife has spent more time in the hospital shooting babies out of her crotch than Mr. Cool Motorcycle Guy did when he was “seconds from death”.
I just don’t like the overly-dramatic-injury-illness story in sports. Lance Armstrong fighting cancer then dominating biking? Yeah, now that’s something to talk about. Michelle Wie passing out because she a) overheated and b) was getting stomped…not a story. The great story of the high school basketball manager who came off the bench and scored several emotional points? Inspiring! Emmitt Smith being carted off the field on a stretcher (multiple occasions) then coming back 5 minutes later to run for a couple of touchdowns…disgusting. Larry Bird, being cheap-shotted, falling face first into the parquet floor at the old Boston Garden, breaking the bone that orbits his eye socket, coming back and winning the game in the playoffs? That’s a story.
Wrecking your weenie little crotch-rocket motorcycle (you kinda’ knew he’d be riding that type of bike, didn’t you?) into the back of some lady’s car and messing up your already ugly mug? Nobody outside of Pittsburgh should care. End of story.
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Funny thing I heard my wife say recently: Someone asked if we were taking our kids to Dance class, to which my wife replied with perfect timing, “Nah, we home-school them”.
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I see where Danica Patrick, the somewhat talented Indy race car driver, is thinking about making the jump to NASCAR. I think that is wonderful, I mean…it’s the natural progression of someone who has dominated her own league for so long, right? Oh…what’s that? She’s never finished above 4th place in any of her season’s races?
It seems to me that you might want to do well in your current occupation before you jump up to the next level. Sorta’ like Michelle Wie, the young girl (who is actually more attractive than Danica…but is not quite of legal age for me to date…yet) with a golf swing that is immensely more perfect than many things on this earth. She’s been competing in various men’s tour events. Now I realize that she gets invited by the sponsors to play and only a fool would turn down the amount of coin they are offering her, but don’t you think it’s a bit odd that she can’t even contend? And yet, with a situation similar to Danica’s, she’s never won a match on the women’s Tour. Don’t get me wrong, if the League of Flaming Queers asked me to speak at their annual conference and required me to moon the crowd and show them my hairy (but fabulous) ass and offered me some money, I’d take my chances then cash the check, even though I am not qualified and have no business being there. I’d finish dead last in any PGA tour event, but if my public needed their fix and wanted me there, I’d show up, finish last, and laugh all the way to the bank as busty hookers fed me grapes in the back of a rented limo. What I’m getting at is I’m tired of the “novelty” of it. If you’re gonna play with the big boys then do it. It just doesn’t have to be national news every time you compete.
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I have come to the stark realization that I have no skills in anything. Let me explain. Recently, I decided that instead of letting my former chicken coop rot and fall to the ground (like my barn is doing while project funds have dried up and the federally funded “Save Mike’s Barn” project has had the plug pulled on it after some whistle-blowing watchdog in DC got wind of it) I should put a few bucks into it and repair it. Besides, it would make a great shed to store my (still) wonderful mower, various tools, and kids bikes which I often get my legs tangled up in and fall to the ground in a whirling, cussing heap when I trip over them in my garage.
So I stare down this dilapidated building, formulate a rough plan, clap my hands together and “get to it” as I stride confidently over to the structure. 10 minutes into my working, I realize…I don’t have a freakin’ clue as to what I’m doing.
I plan on having an update on said chicken coop/multipurpose storage facility in the future.
Anyhow, it was during those lonely 10 minutes that I came to realize that I’m not “great” at anything. I tried to think of things…”Nope!” I said to myself. For example, my buddy Gill is good at home repair and golf. My brother in law is also great at construction and biking. My wife is good at selling things and general schmoozing.
I sat there for a long time trying to think of something I’m good at.
Here’s a list of things that I’m MILDLY good at:
Playing video games
Eating Pizza
Cussing at work (and too often at home..working on that)
Washing the window of the car while filling up
Watching sporting events
Making cereal
Eating cereal
It’s sad to say that I possess no skill that people would call me on the phone for and ask me for assistance.
However, something I have been tabbed for doing pretty well involves nothing more than the mental capacity of a gorilla, the spine of a beast, and relatives who don't mind putting you through the ringer of agony. See, recentlyI moved 37 refrigerators (or what felt like 37) in one week about a month ago. It was during one of those lulls in the action, where the fridge is at a point where it can’t go forward anymore and it can’t go back the way it came…your hand is wedged between it and the handrail that you mistakenly decided not to take off…just before someone mentions the words “reciprocating saw” or “blow torch” or “dynamite” as a solution…where I realized that lifting heavy things does not suddenly give me a niche into any certain skill-set. Feeling your vertebrae slowly pull away from each other as the refrigerator lays on your back while you’re wedged underneath on some dark basement stairway while your partner goes looking for a socket set makes one look seriously at some life decisions that, in this case, had been made incorrectly.
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This time of year is thick with Garage Sales. The little orange signs posted in various yards and upon random telephone poles beckoning weary travelers to “stop by, take a look at our stuff”. But to me, they are an invitation to “stop by, take a look at the crap that we wanted to throw in the garbage but decided to try and peddle to random strangers”
Actually, I always want to stop by garage sales because I like to make that “find”. You know, getting that old tool or some obscure object for, like, 50 cents is often a rewarding feeling. I sometimes think that I’m going to buy a painting for 75 cents and find that the backing is an original signed copy of the Declaration of Independence or one of Rembrandt's early works.
But the thing that keeps me from going to many garage sales is the fact that you feel that you have to buy something. There are the sellers, sitting behind that old card table eyeing you as they watch you park your car. You walk up and look around while trying to look impressed that they too have a crocheted oven mitt they no longer need. Oh! What’s this…a spoon. One single spoon. As Jay Leno once said when he did a bit on garages sales (before the Tonight Show when he was edgy and funny) “what vile disgusting thing can you do to a spoon that makes you say ‘Sell it! Get it out of here’! “
And why is it that you can’t go to a garage sale and not find some sort of porcelain recreation of a chicken? I’m telling you, I’ve never been to one that didn’t have such a thing. Whether it was a kitchen utensil holder, a salt/pepper shaker, or a dish, there is always a porcelain product with a chicken’s likeness molded into it or painted on it. Check it out next time.
But back to why I don’t care to go. Because there are going to be times when you don’t need another copy of the movie Porkey’s on Beta and you’ll simply turn and walk out. It’s while leaving that I feel like a real jerk. It’s as if I’m saying, “Your junk is of no use to me. Sure, it’s only a quarter, but I will not be buying any of your crap today no matter how cheap it is.” I feel like I’m being rude.
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My oldest daughter Anna recently lost her first tooth which is a big deal to her and also our little family. It was extremely loose for quite some time. But on that special evening, just before she went to bed she gritted her teeth and like an old cowboy with an indian's arrow throw his shoulder she said, “Just pull it!”. Soon after, she was one tooth lighter and a few cents richer.
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I updated you last time on Anna’s first tee-ball game. Well, she recently completed her season a few weeks ago with a twilight double header (twi night???) It rained so much early in the year that most of her games turned into double headers. http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3088/3508/1600/IMG_0237.jpg
I really can’t say enough good things about the entire experience from both my perspective and Anna’s. I know she enjoyed it and always seemed excited for her next game. I was quite a bit apprehensive going into it as I was afraid that I was going to have to get in some parent’s ass as they were taking tee-ball a little too seriously. That didn’t happen thankfully.
Her coaches, as well as the other team’s coaches, were incredible. It takes a lot of patience as an onlooker (not to mention as a coach) to see one kid swatting at butterflies while another, who was just told to “run to second once the ball is hit” stands on first not knowing what to do once the ball was hit. Often times, you could see the opposing team’s coach grabbing one of our team’s players and moving them to the right spot or giving them some instruction. If there was a close play at the bag, the coach would give them the “safe” sign…instead of “pulling the chain” and giving the kid a major league “ring-up”. The purpose of the season was to get the kids used to some of the basics, get them outside to blow some stink off of them, and have a little fun. The coaches and organizers did a great job of accomplishing all of these objectives.
By the way, after her last game, they all gathered around and were presented with little trophies. To see the absolute joy on Anna’s face when she received her trophy…and watching her carry it with her and not let go of it the rest of the night, you couldn’t help but have great feelings regarding the entire experience.
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A sign that the world is coming to an end? I picked up a USA Today recently and it featured a pull-out section previewing the World Series....of POKER! Wha, Huh? Don't get me wrong, I like poker. Love to play it, love to be around where people are playing it. It's a good game. Of course I am no good at Texas Hold 'Em for one two primary reasons: 1) I'm not very good and 2) I don't have that much patience. In order to be a good Hold 'Em player, I am told that you must be patient while being willing to fold hand after hand until you get something good dealt to you.
Again, I'm not cutting on the game...but what does piss me off is that every danged night there are a multitude of channels on the television showing poker tournaments. About 20 channels on my t.v. are filled with the following: 3 religious shows (which is fairly good entertainment...can't get enough of the crowd shots where there is inevitably a person with their eyes closed, rocking back in forth with their head tilted to the skies while slowly waving their hand as if the Spirit is amongst 'em) 2 channels selling me jewelry or some amazing computer products. 5 shows with an ambitious perky female host and a overly gay guy re-doing a house or some home decor fashion makeover crap. 4 channels of Poker. And 3 channels of shows showing me what's on the other channels. (this explains my proposal that one's cable tv package should be pay per channel...25 cents a channel, you pick em. My first five picks? History channel, Espn, The Military channel, Adult Spice, and Lifetime)
But I digress, my concern about the crazy amount of programming dedicated to poker is that has now migrated into other shows. I see where they're coming out with the World Series of Darts. Darts?! What is this, an entire viewing schedule based on everything you'd see if you left your house and went to a bar? I enjoy seeing a chain-smoking girl losing dollar after dollar playing the video poker machine...or the guy at the end of the bar that, between his cue shot in pool, keeps puking a little down his shirt after being "over-served", but I don't necessarily want to watch it on my t.v.
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There have been many problems uploading pictures to this site. Everyone using this service from Blogger have experienced it (according to the frequently asked questions). This has delayed me in getting you the most late-breaking coverage that you, the reader, has come to expect. This is what I get for using a "free" service I guess.
So, to work-around the problem, I tried creating an alternate site where I would post my pictures. Then, I will "link" to that other site. (for those of you who don't know...a "link" will appear on this site as a highlighted web address) In theory, one will be able to click that link and enjoy the photo within. It's not a perfect system but I'm man enough to realize that people don't tune into my blog to read my insightful musings and crackpottish ramblings...they want to see pictures (they're worth a thousand words I'm told). So it is pictures you will have. For those of you who are printing this out for whatever reason (lining your birdcage, wrapping fish, etc...) you will probably not get the pictures with the printout. I'm sorry! I've got my crack team (me) feverishly working behind the scenes at J-Bird Media Enterprises to rectify the problem. If you have any problems, please let me know. I need to know if it is/is not working. Thanks!
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My wife is a sports fan. She enjoys keeping up with all of the sporting news going on around the world. She’s not a raving fanatic, waving her pennant, wearing her jersey, and painting her face. But that’s perfectly all right. As someone once said, you have to have some separation in things you and your spouse enjoy. In other words, I don’t really expect her to go with me 6 hours before kickoff to a Buckeyes pre-game party at Geno’s barn when it’s 28 degrees outside and 35 degrees in the barn (in my opinion, the only place to watch a Buckeye game). On the same note, she doesn’t expect me to go shoe and/or jean shopping with her…spending hour after hour filing through racks of clothes, sitting on those wooden benches and, while she thinks I’m speaking of her 24th pair of black shoes when I say “yes honey, those are nice”, she doesn’t have to know that I’m referring to the perky young store manager that just pranced by and is now folding and unfolding shirts.
Anyway, I’m getting off the point a bit. I’m trying to establish the fact that my wife has great knowledge of sports and enjoys watching them. But the other day she said something that just pointed out to me again why I kinda’ like her. After the fiftieth promo for another World Cup game, she simply said, “When is that World Cup shit going to be over? It’s starting to annoy me”
Luckily for many right-minded Americans, the World Cup is indeed over. Apparently France and Italy, both trying to make up for their lackluster performances during WWII, battled each other for the championship. Some froggy Frenchman got ejected for headbutting a guy in the chest. For one thing, it was the first time a player fell down without faking it. These guys take more falls than my one year old (who started walking at a very early age, if I do say so myself). They deserve an Oscar for all of their pathetic penalty drawing dives. But what’s really amazing is that the guy who head-butted and then got thrown out of the match (and essentially cost his country a chance to win) later won an award called the Golden Ball for being the best player. I’m not sure which part of that last sentence is more confounding…the fact that the only name they could come up with for their MVP trophy is the Golden Ball or the fact that a guy who cheap-shotted an opposing player, got tossed, and cost his team the game wins an award for being really good.
You know you are watching a terrible sport when someone on the field gets hurt…his leg falls off, he’s bleeding profusely from his noggin, his arm is broken in thirty seven places and is laying unconscious on the field…and they keep the clock running! It’s as if they’re saying, “You know what, these games last forever and are mind-numbingly boring…let’s keep the clock running so we can get outta here!”
Every couple of years when this World Cup crap rolls around, we Americans must endure the constant force-feeding of soccer fans telling us how great a game this is. We are told that we must learn to like it and how it’s the most popular sport in the world. Listen, if you live in a desert and the most exciting thing in your day is seeing a tumbleweed roll by, or you don’t have a television and consider a good meal a fistful of insects, then you’ll probably find great satisfaction in soccer. I, on the other hand, can find a hundred things more interesting than watching soccer and two of them include watching paint dry and the grass grow. Many times more appealing.
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It was recently the All-Star break in baseball which marks the midway point in the season and gave my fading Reds a chance to catch their breath and attempt to make a run for the playoffs in the second half. I’ve always enjoyed the All-star game and the home run contest that precedes it. I watched most of the home run contest this year and marveled at the power and pop these guys have. They showed replays in super-slow-motion and it was just awesome to see these fellas generate so much power. They were crushing it!
The All Star festivities took place at PNC park in Pittsburgh and by everything I’ve heard and read, it’s one of, if not THE, best ballpark in the country. Unfortunately for that town and their first baseman Sean Casey, their baseball team isn’t on par with their stadium. Although, while I was watching the game, I noticed a ton of Steelers’ jerseys in the crowd and I just snickered to myself as I thought as I shook my head in disgust, “what a bunch of jackasses. Don’t they know it’s baseball season?” If you’re wearing a football jersey to a baseball game, no matter who you root for, then you should have a rusty, tetanus-inducing fork driven directly into your windpipe.
Which gets me to a few things I’d change if I were commissioner or as I like to refer to them, my Baseball Bill of Rights:
1) Anyone spotted on any telecast of a game, talking on their phone shall be immediately ejected from the park. If they are on the phone and waving at the camera, they shall then be ejected from the park and then shot in the temple. We get it, you’re on t.v! Great, I’m so happy you’re calling the only person who will talk to you, your mom, and saying “See me? I’m waving”. Duh! There should be a phone number right below the “no pepper” sign on the backstop that you can call while watching the game on television to report a dickweed on a cell phone. Just call that number and tell them something like, “yeah, 4th row from homeplate, 2nd guy over…yeah, he needs to be removed”. Seconds later, a big burly guy in a shirt two sizes too small jerks the guy from his seat by his neck and escorts him into the dark underbelly of the stadium where he is forced to fight his way out.
2) Baseball players MUST show their socks. The trend today is to pull the cuffs of their pants down all of the way to the tops of their shoes, looking much like a pair of pajamas. This is unacceptable and each player will be fined 100,000 per leg for each game they wear their pants like that. Baseball is nothing without its legacy and tradition. Pull your pants up and show your stirrups as it nature intended.
3) All food and drink at ballparks should be priced at a fair market value. The last time I checked, I could buy at least a six-pack of beer for less than a cup full at the game. You have to be a cold-blooded bastard to be able to sleep after you charged me $6.50 for a plastic cup full of foamy beer. I can buy bulk peanuts (must be salted) for 10 cents a pound. No way they should cost $3.50 for a small bag of mostly empty shells. Hey, this is America and you have every right to make a profit. But for the sake of this great game, keep it reasonable.
4) It is mandatory to stand, remove your hat, and pay attention to the National Anthem. As a general rule, if you can’t be there before the Anthem is played, don’t bother going. It’s kinda like showing up for church after Communion. If you can’t be there for the Anthem and still want to attend the game, then go to the concession stand, order some peanuts and cracker jacks. Later, with spirit, sing Take Me Out to the Ballgame at the seventh inning stretch and, before sitting back down, say to someone near you, “They ain’t doin’ this in China”.
5) There are very few rules in pursuing a foul ball, but here are a couple. First rule: get the ball at any and all cost. If you got lucky and it bounced to you and there is a good little kid nearby, you must give it to them. If you catch a screaming liner barehanded, you are not entitled to give it to anyone. And finally, if you get zinged in the temple with a laser-beam foul ball…you deserve it. Nobody who is paying attention would get hit in the head.
6) It is your right and duty to give the umpire “heck” about any close calls. This is what he is payed for. Bellowing a forceful “That’s Hooorrrribbllllleeee” is sufficient and actually encouraged.
7) While singing Take Me Out to the Ballgame, it is not allowable to substitute your favorite team's name for “root root root for the home team”. It can’t be root root root for the Reds, Dragons, anyone. The only time it acceptable is if you are at the Friendly Confines of Wrigley Field and Harry Caray is singing. Then and only then can you substitute “Cubbies” for “home team” but only if you chose to do so. It’s the rules people, just obey them. (by the way, one of the greatest days of my life was when my wife and I went to a Cubs game on some random weekday. We were only going to have one “Old Style” beer just for the ambience. 37 Old Styles later, we were dancing in the streets on Waveland Avenue as some street performers played some tunes. We saw and heard Harry sing “Take Me Out…” and everything was all right)
8) Please wait until there’s a break in the action to get out of your seat and then stand in my way. This is my most important rule. A few weeks ago this lady (a Cubs fan consequently) stood up and was talking to some folks behind her. It never entered her mind to crouch down or take their conversation elsewhere. She stands there (while my friends, nearby ticket holders, and I cast verbal darts in her direction) until the third out and the team runs into the dugout, then she decides to sit back down. It was so maddening that it was almost comical. I’ll give you a break or two if you have small children. These little tappers are needy and require a lot of attention. But there is no need to constantly get up and get a pop or something. That’s what the roaming vendors are for and by the looks of most people there, they aren’t in dire need of life-sustaining calories to consume. Simply wait at the top level until a foul ball, or a batter change, or any number of typical delays in the game of baseball, then quickly find your seat. I might have to start getting hard-line on this stance and not get up to let people in and out of my row while the ball is in play.
That’s it for now regarding my baseball Bill of Rights. I’m sure I’ll think of other things to add at which time I will seek approval from both houses of Congress and work to get an Amendment filed.
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It always makes me kinda chuckle when I see someone riding their bike while smoking. It’s like chomping on a bacon burger while you’re on the treadmill. Like shooting heroine while doing some sit-ups. Like chasing down a big glass of crystal clean water with a liter of gasoline.
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Funny thing happened the other night. First, let me say that my wife does it all. She's a successful business person, a wonderful mother, and a tireless leader of this small clan we live in. But one of her jobs is not going to the grocery. This is something I do for the team...plus it gets me tons of endearing looks by my fellow female shoppers as I happily stroll down the aisles with a baby in the seat and two crazies hanging off the cart. Anyway, she told Sophia and me that later that night, she was going to the grocery. Sophia looked at me...paused...then just started cracking up! Then, while laugh-talking (my favorite, where you laugh out your words), she said as if it were a punchline to a joke, "Mommy's going to the grocery!" Like she was saying, "yeah right! She doesn't know anything about the grocery" Guess you had to be there
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I think we all know how much love I have for Ben Rothlicksburger, quarterback of the Steelers. It was recently pointed out to me that I did not comment on his recent motorcycle accident. First, in all truthfulness, let me say that I’m glad the guy wasn’t seriously hurt. As much as I despise him and as much as his whole appearance and demeanor repulses me, I’m glad that he was able to essentially walk away from the accident. What I have a problem with is this…from watching tons of sports on television, I know for a fact that hardly a Steelers game will go by this season without a hundred mentions of his accident. With that, one will have to endure the stirring pre-game piece with still shots in sepia tones, soft-dramatic music in the background, and Dick Enberg referring to his amazing “will to live…will to play again”. We will be reminded of how (as Ben put it) he was “seconds from death” and how he is so heroic to be playing…even though he was out of the hospital in a couple of days because he banged up his face. Hell, my wife has spent more time in the hospital shooting babies out of her crotch than Mr. Cool Motorcycle Guy did when he was “seconds from death”.
I just don’t like the overly-dramatic-injury-illness story in sports. Lance Armstrong fighting cancer then dominating biking? Yeah, now that’s something to talk about. Michelle Wie passing out because she a) overheated and b) was getting stomped…not a story. The great story of the high school basketball manager who came off the bench and scored several emotional points? Inspiring! Emmitt Smith being carted off the field on a stretcher (multiple occasions) then coming back 5 minutes later to run for a couple of touchdowns…disgusting. Larry Bird, being cheap-shotted, falling face first into the parquet floor at the old Boston Garden, breaking the bone that orbits his eye socket, coming back and winning the game in the playoffs? That’s a story.
Wrecking your weenie little crotch-rocket motorcycle (you kinda’ knew he’d be riding that type of bike, didn’t you?) into the back of some lady’s car and messing up your already ugly mug? Nobody outside of Pittsburgh should care. End of story.
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Funny thing I heard my wife say recently: Someone asked if we were taking our kids to Dance class, to which my wife replied with perfect timing, “Nah, we home-school them”.
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I see where Danica Patrick, the somewhat talented Indy race car driver, is thinking about making the jump to NASCAR. I think that is wonderful, I mean…it’s the natural progression of someone who has dominated her own league for so long, right? Oh…what’s that? She’s never finished above 4th place in any of her season’s races?
It seems to me that you might want to do well in your current occupation before you jump up to the next level. Sorta’ like Michelle Wie, the young girl (who is actually more attractive than Danica…but is not quite of legal age for me to date…yet) with a golf swing that is immensely more perfect than many things on this earth. She’s been competing in various men’s tour events. Now I realize that she gets invited by the sponsors to play and only a fool would turn down the amount of coin they are offering her, but don’t you think it’s a bit odd that she can’t even contend? And yet, with a situation similar to Danica’s, she’s never won a match on the women’s Tour. Don’t get me wrong, if the League of Flaming Queers asked me to speak at their annual conference and required me to moon the crowd and show them my hairy (but fabulous) ass and offered me some money, I’d take my chances then cash the check, even though I am not qualified and have no business being there. I’d finish dead last in any PGA tour event, but if my public needed their fix and wanted me there, I’d show up, finish last, and laugh all the way to the bank as busty hookers fed me grapes in the back of a rented limo. What I’m getting at is I’m tired of the “novelty” of it. If you’re gonna play with the big boys then do it. It just doesn’t have to be national news every time you compete.
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I have come to the stark realization that I have no skills in anything. Let me explain. Recently, I decided that instead of letting my former chicken coop rot and fall to the ground (like my barn is doing while project funds have dried up and the federally funded “Save Mike’s Barn” project has had the plug pulled on it after some whistle-blowing watchdog in DC got wind of it) I should put a few bucks into it and repair it. Besides, it would make a great shed to store my (still) wonderful mower, various tools, and kids bikes which I often get my legs tangled up in and fall to the ground in a whirling, cussing heap when I trip over them in my garage.
So I stare down this dilapidated building, formulate a rough plan, clap my hands together and “get to it” as I stride confidently over to the structure. 10 minutes into my working, I realize…I don’t have a freakin’ clue as to what I’m doing.
I plan on having an update on said chicken coop/multipurpose storage facility in the future.
Anyhow, it was during those lonely 10 minutes that I came to realize that I’m not “great” at anything. I tried to think of things…”Nope!” I said to myself. For example, my buddy Gill is good at home repair and golf. My brother in law is also great at construction and biking. My wife is good at selling things and general schmoozing.
I sat there for a long time trying to think of something I’m good at.
Here’s a list of things that I’m MILDLY good at:
Playing video games
Eating Pizza
Cussing at work (and too often at home..working on that)
Washing the window of the car while filling up
Watching sporting events
Making cereal
Eating cereal
It’s sad to say that I possess no skill that people would call me on the phone for and ask me for assistance.
However, something I have been tabbed for doing pretty well involves nothing more than the mental capacity of a gorilla, the spine of a beast, and relatives who don't mind putting you through the ringer of agony. See, recentlyI moved 37 refrigerators (or what felt like 37) in one week about a month ago. It was during one of those lulls in the action, where the fridge is at a point where it can’t go forward anymore and it can’t go back the way it came…your hand is wedged between it and the handrail that you mistakenly decided not to take off…just before someone mentions the words “reciprocating saw” or “blow torch” or “dynamite” as a solution…where I realized that lifting heavy things does not suddenly give me a niche into any certain skill-set. Feeling your vertebrae slowly pull away from each other as the refrigerator lays on your back while you’re wedged underneath on some dark basement stairway while your partner goes looking for a socket set makes one look seriously at some life decisions that, in this case, had been made incorrectly.
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This time of year is thick with Garage Sales. The little orange signs posted in various yards and upon random telephone poles beckoning weary travelers to “stop by, take a look at our stuff”. But to me, they are an invitation to “stop by, take a look at the crap that we wanted to throw in the garbage but decided to try and peddle to random strangers”
Actually, I always want to stop by garage sales because I like to make that “find”. You know, getting that old tool or some obscure object for, like, 50 cents is often a rewarding feeling. I sometimes think that I’m going to buy a painting for 75 cents and find that the backing is an original signed copy of the Declaration of Independence or one of Rembrandt's early works.
But the thing that keeps me from going to many garage sales is the fact that you feel that you have to buy something. There are the sellers, sitting behind that old card table eyeing you as they watch you park your car. You walk up and look around while trying to look impressed that they too have a crocheted oven mitt they no longer need. Oh! What’s this…a spoon. One single spoon. As Jay Leno once said when he did a bit on garages sales (before the Tonight Show when he was edgy and funny) “what vile disgusting thing can you do to a spoon that makes you say ‘Sell it! Get it out of here’! “
And why is it that you can’t go to a garage sale and not find some sort of porcelain recreation of a chicken? I’m telling you, I’ve never been to one that didn’t have such a thing. Whether it was a kitchen utensil holder, a salt/pepper shaker, or a dish, there is always a porcelain product with a chicken’s likeness molded into it or painted on it. Check it out next time.
But back to why I don’t care to go. Because there are going to be times when you don’t need another copy of the movie Porkey’s on Beta and you’ll simply turn and walk out. It’s while leaving that I feel like a real jerk. It’s as if I’m saying, “Your junk is of no use to me. Sure, it’s only a quarter, but I will not be buying any of your crap today no matter how cheap it is.” I feel like I’m being rude.
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My oldest daughter Anna recently lost her first tooth which is a big deal to her and also our little family. It was extremely loose for quite some time. But on that special evening, just before she went to bed she gritted her teeth and like an old cowboy with an indian's arrow throw his shoulder she said, “Just pull it!”. Soon after, she was one tooth lighter and a few cents richer.
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I updated you last time on Anna’s first tee-ball game. Well, she recently completed her season a few weeks ago with a twilight double header (twi night???) It rained so much early in the year that most of her games turned into double headers. http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3088/3508/1600/IMG_0237.jpg
I really can’t say enough good things about the entire experience from both my perspective and Anna’s. I know she enjoyed it and always seemed excited for her next game. I was quite a bit apprehensive going into it as I was afraid that I was going to have to get in some parent’s ass as they were taking tee-ball a little too seriously. That didn’t happen thankfully.
Her coaches, as well as the other team’s coaches, were incredible. It takes a lot of patience as an onlooker (not to mention as a coach) to see one kid swatting at butterflies while another, who was just told to “run to second once the ball is hit” stands on first not knowing what to do once the ball was hit. Often times, you could see the opposing team’s coach grabbing one of our team’s players and moving them to the right spot or giving them some instruction. If there was a close play at the bag, the coach would give them the “safe” sign…instead of “pulling the chain” and giving the kid a major league “ring-up”. The purpose of the season was to get the kids used to some of the basics, get them outside to blow some stink off of them, and have a little fun. The coaches and organizers did a great job of accomplishing all of these objectives.
By the way, after her last game, they all gathered around and were presented with little trophies. To see the absolute joy on Anna’s face when she received her trophy…and watching her carry it with her and not let go of it the rest of the night, you couldn’t help but have great feelings regarding the entire experience.
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A sign that the world is coming to an end? I picked up a USA Today recently and it featured a pull-out section previewing the World Series....of POKER! Wha, Huh? Don't get me wrong, I like poker. Love to play it, love to be around where people are playing it. It's a good game. Of course I am no good at Texas Hold 'Em for one two primary reasons: 1) I'm not very good and 2) I don't have that much patience. In order to be a good Hold 'Em player, I am told that you must be patient while being willing to fold hand after hand until you get something good dealt to you.
Again, I'm not cutting on the game...but what does piss me off is that every danged night there are a multitude of channels on the television showing poker tournaments. About 20 channels on my t.v. are filled with the following: 3 religious shows (which is fairly good entertainment...can't get enough of the crowd shots where there is inevitably a person with their eyes closed, rocking back in forth with their head tilted to the skies while slowly waving their hand as if the Spirit is amongst 'em) 2 channels selling me jewelry or some amazing computer products. 5 shows with an ambitious perky female host and a overly gay guy re-doing a house or some home decor fashion makeover crap. 4 channels of Poker. And 3 channels of shows showing me what's on the other channels. (this explains my proposal that one's cable tv package should be pay per channel...25 cents a channel, you pick em. My first five picks? History channel, Espn, The Military channel, Adult Spice, and Lifetime)
But I digress, my concern about the crazy amount of programming dedicated to poker is that has now migrated into other shows. I see where they're coming out with the World Series of Darts. Darts?! What is this, an entire viewing schedule based on everything you'd see if you left your house and went to a bar? I enjoy seeing a chain-smoking girl losing dollar after dollar playing the video poker machine...or the guy at the end of the bar that, between his cue shot in pool, keeps puking a little down his shirt after being "over-served", but I don't necessarily want to watch it on my t.v.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Mushrooms, T-Ball and World Cup
Hello once again everybody. It's been quite a while since my last bit of literary nonsense. 2 months in fact. Summer and warmer weather are here and that means a couple of things: I'm busy doing other things, I'm sneezing uncontrollably, and I'm away from the computer a lot. Having said all of that, let's get right to it.
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Heard a funny thing the other day. In reference to baseball player Johnny Damon, the once-beloved long haired, light throwing outfielder who defected from Boston to hated-rival New York Yankees, the Boston fans said "He looks like Jesus, acts like Judas, and throws like Mary". That's clever and just danged funny. I liked him too...now that he's a Yankee, I must change my opinion of him.
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My buddy Joe recently ran for State Representative. If you don't know Joe, he's one of the nicest, smartest, and most genuine guys you'll ever meet. His only fault is that he's not a glad-handing, baby-kisser like other politicians and this means that, unfortunately, he wasn't able to unseat the incumbent. You could no longer say that all politicians are idiots if he got into office because I truly think he would have done what was best for this area and put in 100% toward it. One bright thing out of it, I still have his "yard sign" and it's now in my garage. One of my prized treasures.
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The big news around here is that my oldest daughter Anna recently kicked off her first T-Ball season and now (as of press time) has several games under her belt. The J-Bird News was at the first game and filed this brief report:
On a blustery early May evening Anna Jacomet and her teammates from Diamond R Farms took the field in their innaugural T-Ball contest. The crowd was buzzing as most of them were there to witness this highly touted phenom who seems destined to set the baseball world on fire. A player who will rise above the current steroid cloud that currently hangs over the game. A player that posesses such a fine swing that even Ted Williams' frozen head is envious of. This player is #5, Anna J. Batting fifth in the order, a spot normally reserved for a hitter who combines the power to protect the clean-up hitter, yet has the ability to spray hits to all fields and get on base, Anna was a bit nervous. This was witnessed by her blank stare and sweaty hands as I tried to ease her fears on the way to the ballpark. "I only signed up for practice", she had once said.
As she came to the batter's box, she focused her glare onto the pitcher (her coach). In this league they pitch four pitches and if the kid doesn't hit, they then place the ball on a Tee. The tee would be akin to letting someone shoot a foul shot from 5 feet instead of 10...it would be like having your parent run onto the field when you got hurt...like letting you have a 20 yard head start in a sprint. You don't want the tee. As the pitcher wound up to fire that horsehide sphere toward her, I was shocked to see that it was thrown underhand. Underhand! Put a nickel in this guy, because he just became a batting machine. My only concern was that she wasn't used to it coming in sissy-underhand. She's used to the overhand heat her daddy throws her. She fouls off a couple of nasty pitches (splitfinger and slider I think) ...she's just looking for something she can drive while getting his pitch count up. Then...the ball heads to the plate, she raises her left leg and slowly plants it back down, her hips turn, her hands drive through the hitting zone and the ball rips through the stonewall-defense. The thing was moving so fast, it left a vapor trail. Her first career base hit. Highway 1, next stop, Hall of Fame.
I had the video camera rolling figuring they would stop the game and present her with the ball. I think she might have waved them off while saying "There'll be plenty more of those, boys" She had three bats this evening and, needless to say, she ended her debut with a perfect 3 for 3 day against a stingy defense. Batting a thousand. I'd like her to do better, but she can't...how do you improve on perfection? By the way, she also posted a "Web Gem" as she was stationed at the pitchers mound and the batter ripped a seed back her way. She slapped the leather to the ground and made the play.
It went something like that. The bottom line is that she is having a lot of fun and really enjoying it. She looks freakin' adorable in her uniform to boot! She really was very nervous, as were my wife and I, but once she got there she enjoyed herself. Katy said that it seemed like we were just embarking on a new chapter in our lives. Our first sporting event with our kids. I remember all of the times I would think about my kids playing ball and feel that it was so so so far away.
One thing that always makes me smile is when Anna asks me if I want to hit her some ground balls. She asks me often and even though there are times when I had plans for something else, I can't say no. As we are finishing up I'll say, "10 more good ones" and she'll respond by pleading "How about 20 more!?!". Tears well up in my eyes and I hit her 20 more.
Sports were always a big thing between my wife and I. I hope that our kids find the same joy and reap all of the positive benefits that we gained from playing ball.
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In similar news, my middle daughter, Sophia had her dance recital a while back. This one, you don't have to worry about being scared or timid. In fact, my biggest fear was that she was going to take over the stage and bust out into a Streisand medley...or every song from Grease. There's really not much to describe about a dance recital. If I had a picture of her on stage I feel that would probably cover it. Then you too could witness the intense beauty of this girl and the pure joy she exudes to everyone who's lucky enough to be in her vicinity. If ever there was a kid you could look at and say "this kid should be on tv or something!", this is the girl.
P.s. I wanted to kiss the directors of the dance class. They did a wonderful job putting on a nice show combining approximately 5 different age groups. I really enjoyed the program...but what was most beautiful was that it only took about a half an hour! Me sitting in a gym...with dress pants on...and dress socks...watching dancing...well, it just doesn't make for a good time. But I truly enjoyed the show.
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Now that summer is nearly here, mushroom season seems like a long time ago. I always make a point to go out as many evenings as I can and peruse the forest floor in search of the elusive morel. This year was perfect, plenty of rain and an abundance of sunshine. This was the year when I was going to bring home the garbage sack full of them. See, every year I search and search hoping to at least find 5. I'm lucky if I do that! And it never fails, if I ask someone if they found any they always tell me "Oh yeah, we found 5 sacks full. We couldn't even carry them all. We actually let them rot in our house because we couldn't eat them all. We probably left a couple hundred more out there" Then they ask me how many I found and I look up at them with anger and jealousy in my eyes and say, "I found F'n 3! 3 tiny mushrooms!". I then turn, run away, and sob into my pillow.
Funny story though, this year I was in the mood so I took the half hour I get for lunch and decided to try this tiny little outcropping of woods in Troy. It's smack dab in the middle of a large housing/manufacturing area but I thought, what the heck. 5 minutes into my hunt, I find a couple! I was very excited but, alas, I had to return to work. I called my brother to let him know that I found some and that they were out. Told him where I found them too. Long story short...the next day he comes out with a sackful of mushrooms that he found that day. "Where'd you get them?" I asked. "Over at that place you told me about" What?!?! It's sorta' like if you were fishing and started catching some...then another guy stood right beside you and casted right into your area. I proceeded to give him some heck about stealing my spot (which I was joking...I was glad he found some)
So the next day I get off work and I have a message on my phone. I listen to it and it is my brother saying "Hi Mike...hold on....'yeah, park it there' (apparently yelling at someone)...yeah, Mike....I'm over at that place you found mushrooms. I told a bunch of people...there are cars everywhere over here, I'm trying to get them all parked" He was joking, of course. But itwas a good laugh. I probably heard about all of the mushrooms he found a hundred times.
I have to say that a wild mushroom, dipped in a little egg and fried up in a skillet is about as good as it gets. They are absolutely delicious! And you can't eat anything with them. Just by themselves, so you can enjoy the spore-filled goodness of each and every bite. I do suppose though that a mushroom may not taste that good at all, really. Perhaps it's just that they are so rare and that you have to put forth so much effort to find them, that they taste better than they are. If you had an abundant supply,maybe they would suck? I don't know.
There are a few rules or traditions that we follow. Either my dad, my brother, my sister, or I have gone out singularly or together for many years now. First rule, you must carry a stick. Dad prefers a broomstick with some elaborate hook he found in a hardware drawer. My brother has an old cedar stick that I found and cleaned up for him when I was just a little tapper. Me? I have an aluminum walking stick. It's probably a bit too fancy for the work it's doing, but I like it. Secondly, you must carry a potato sack. No solid plastic grocery bags. We feel that if you put them in a potato sack,with it's small holes, that you are propogating the species as you effortlessly spread the spores everywhere you walk. Of course, this is probably pure crap, but it makes us feel better about ourselves.
When you find a mushroom, you must give a "laugh" that sounds like"He he heee!" loud enough for your other hunting partners to hear...so they can rush over and trample onto your profitable area. Other rules: You must wonder aloud "how many have we probably walked over?" and "I wish this dumb dog could be trained to find them" (referring to my dog Zeke..who always goes too...by the way, he can't be trained to find them. We've tried). I like to always mention that "I hear good hunters spend more time looking up than looking down" (in reference to the fact that certain trees tend to give off the right nutrients to harbor mushrooms. Dead elms is one of these trees fabled to do just that. However, I wouldn't know an elm if it fell on me. Which is why I bought a pocket field guide to Ohio Trees. Naturally, you must identify trees by their leaves..and at this time of year there were no damned leaves...which makes this book as freakin' useless as a dried turd in my pocket) But if nothing else, it's always nice to rid oneself of the cabin fever that had been building up all winter and take a nice walk in the woods. I inevitably see or experience something that makes me appreciate the "nature" that is around us, whether it is an animal running through, the sounds of the birds or even just the smells of a springtime forest. It's refreshing.
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One thing that instantly makes me cringe is when the phone rings. I hate the phone..which probably explains why I hate people yapping on their cell phones so much. The caller is never calling for me and if it would happen to be for me, it's a telemarketer or someone wanting my money.
The other night the phone rings and I answer it. Apparently, I'm not very bright (as witnessed by my blog entries) but I thought the Highway Patrol spent their time...well, patrolling highways..catching bad guys, keeping people safe. You know, the whole "protect and serve" thing. I was wrong. They are now in the business of mailing me letters and calling my house wanting money for something. Either they're having their annual Policeman's Ball or giving money to some unfortunate person. Both are worthy causes. Both are worthy causes that will not get my money. It's like me calling some random neighbor and saying, "Hey, my buddies and I are going to have a big keg party and were wondering if you'd like to throw in a few bucks...and no...you can't attend"
I was feeling a little salty this evening as I did not immediately hang up. I stayed on. When the guy told me that they would send me a "sticker for me to place in my car window" I asked, "Will this get me out of tickets?". And believe it or not, this guy did NOT say "no".
Instead he said that it might help. Stunned, I said, "So you're telling me I can drive like a bat outta hell (no reference to Meatloaf) and not get a ticket"...thinking that he'd back down. Instead, he says, "It's highly likely". I about shit myself. I wish I would have recorded the conversation, gotten the sticker, and tested it out. "Sorry officer, but this tape should clear things up (play tape) OK, gotta go, thanks!" as I peel out like the Duke boys leaving Roscoe P. Coltraine in the dust.
Speaking of law enforcement (which I am all for fellas...don't come looking for me..and for god's sake, don't look in the trunk under the spare tire...it's just oregano!) but the most annoying commercial is on the radio. The gist of it is that a guy gets pulled over. It's his friend, a cop, who just wanted to warn him that he didn't use his turn signal. "Going to the game, Friday?" "You bet", said the officer. "Now what are you doing" "I'm giving you a ticket for not wearing your seatbelt...see you Friday", the officer said. Then the commercial ends. I don't know about you but this guy is no friend...he's a dickweed..and he's gonna be a dickweed with four slashed tires for writing me a ticket. I don't know, maybe I'm over-reacting..which would not be a first...but I'd be so pissed if that happened to me.
I can't imagine the amount of money the Dept of Transportation is spending on these commercials but I know heard them at least 50 times. Why are people spending so much money to tell me what I need to do? Don't smoke. Don't drive without a seatbelt. Don't slap a midget named Raul on the third tuesday in July. Where's the one telling people to get off their phones and concentrate on the road. If some guy wants to smoke his lungs out and die of cancer...go for it. Here's a match! If you want to drive without a seatbelt, go ahead toughguy! Stop telling me what I can't do. Who's paying for this?!?!?! Oh, that's right...me. Comes straight outta' my check. Well, that makes me a lot happier now.
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Something I've learned: If you're driving a Dodge Neon (or a Tercel, Civic, etc..) and it has a
racing spoiler on the back...you're a jackass. I've got nothing against the cars..they're fine cars. But I don't think they'll post the speeds necessary for you to install a wind spoiler in order to keep you from going airborne. But again, I never took Physics. But I don't have to be a physicist to know you look like a giant goober
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Barry Bonds. He has broken Babe Ruth's home run record. I could go on
for 50 pages about this guy and my dislike for him. He's a cheater in the worst way and all of his records should be wiped from the baseball books. 
If anyone tries to compare this to Pete Rose, Babe Ruth's beer/hotdogs/women, or anything else you want to dig up, I say "Apples to oranges." The only thing relatable is the McGwire /Sosa homerun race that, sadly, appears to be tainted as well. The bottom line is that this guy is a cheat and an a major jerk. Put the asterisk on everything he touches! By the way, asterisk is a funny word and everytime I type it, I think it's spelled wrong
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You may have noticed that I haven't included too many personal photos lately. Hopefully that will all change shortly as we learn about our newest camera. We go through cameras like a fat guy goes through gravy at a buffet. I don't want to mention any names, but someone in my family continues to "lose" them. We have an endless supply of money, so plopping down a couple hundred bucks every six months on a new camera is fun and makes me very happy. I especially like losing our camera when it has 200 beautiful pictures of timeless memories on it.Our first one broke while our next two seem to have been stolen. I can live with the broken camera...but to know someone swiped a couple from us makes me wanna shove it somewhere and get some nice pictures of the thief's colon.
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The Monday Night golf league is in full swing now. We just completed our eighth week and my team (my buddy Gill and I) are currently poised in first place in our division (by a half-point). Now don't get me wrong, I'm not a great golfer but they run this league very well. It involves about 30 guys and each week my partner and I compete against another two man team (that sounds weird to say..."my partner"...ewww!). Gill plays their best player while I play against the other. It is all based on handicaps and formulas to keep it fair (so schmucks like me can still compete with others who are much better than I). This is our third year and it was a big deal to initially be invited to play. It's relatively prestigious to be in this league despite the fact that it's just our local course (Miami Shores) and not some fancy country club. We are probably the youngest group out there but I think most everyone enjoys playing against us because we have a pretty good time and don't take it too seriously. The best thing about it is the fact that it demands that I play at least once a week instead of once a month as I had previously done. I love the game and could play it almost every day. The best is when my dad gets home for a while and we all meet at the course. My favorite foursome includes: dad, my brother Pat, Gill and me. We get out there and you can just sense the excitement as we approach the tee box. Now that I think about it...I've never had a bad time on the course. Even when I'm playing like a giant hunk of ass-mater, chunking shots into the bunker...hitting out of that bunker into the one directly across from me, I'm still enjoying myself.
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Memorial Day has passed and with it, the summer has officially arrived (to me). In my mind, Memorial Day is one of the most important holidays of the year. Taking time to honor those who helped build this country and make it is as great as it is, despite its problems, is something I always find time to do. The saying "All gave some...Some gave all" is powerful and says everything that needs to be said. Also, it is a great time of year because events and activities start to get rev up. Working in the garden, being outside, baseball games, golf, etc...make this time of year awesome. To me, Memorial Day always makes me remember the Indianapolis 500 and the years that I would go with my brother to the Greatest Spectacle in Racing. Not only did I enjoy my newfound discovery thatI really like those girls who needed nothing more than a sign that said "Show Your T*ts" to, in fact, show their t*ts, but I felt the excitement and emotion of 33 cars going by at 220 mph with 500,000 of my closest friends. It's worth the price of admission just to be there for the opening ceremonies. The parade, where I once saw Larry Bird (first of two times I have ever seen him in person...even though I was 200 yards away from him), the playing of TAPS with a military helicopter flyover. I even enjoy hearing Jim Nabors sing "Back Home Again in Indiana" which leads to the Anthem with the jets flying over.
Next are the "parade" laps where all 33 cars go around the track at relatively slow speeds. The engines are howling as the brilliant colors of the cars weave back and forth,warming up their tires. Then...the green flag drops and you see the cars speed up and head into Turn 1. It's completely quiet.. then...you feel the crowd, like a wave in the distance, start buzzing, and you wait a few seconds as they travel the 2.5 miles to get back to you...then you see them coming and WHOOSH...you feel the ground shake, your ears hurt, you try to focus in on this blur of speed that rushes by you. If you don't have goosebumps and/or a tear in your eye then they might as well throw a shovel full of dirt over your head because you are dead. So when I am standing in my living room watching the beginning of the race, I will again have goosebumps because I can still feel it. I can still feel the culmination where power, technology, and tradition mesh with a simple instinct of man...to be first across that finish line. **************************
My wife has been telling me that I need to write more about our girls and, more specifically, my middle daughter Sophia. I think that one of the reasons why I don't write about any of them very much is because it's just way too hard. It's difficult for me because most of the time I am with them, they have me laughing or we're doing something fun. I don't know if it's possible for me to get out of the "moment" and be able to remember it...or write it down for later because it never seems to pack the same luster as it did at that very moment. Sophia is one of those people who light up a room once they enter. For me, just the thought of her makes me smile and I'll be willing to bet that I crack up laughing at her at least 3 times a day. In fact, as I'm sitting here trying to think of what to say next, I realize I'm just sitting here smiling. I feel like Marsha Brady sitting in her room with her hands folded under her chin, wearing a dreamy look, thinking about Davey Jones...I'm smitten.
I told my wife once that if I were to chose one person in the world to be stuck on an island with, I'd chose Sophie. Sure, we'd run an through an entire range of emotions as she's ultra-sensitive at times. But most ofthe time she is either all-out-goofy or downright adorable.
While Anna was afraid of our chickens, Sophie would run at them and scream "Roooaaarrrr" with her hands in the air like two giant paws about to attack it's prey. Which reminds me of a time when she went chasing after a few that were out of the pen. She ran at one and did her roar, but this particular chicken was cornered and instead of running, turned and "flew" straight at her. She went from "Roar"to a blood-curdling "Ahhhhhh" as she turned and ran toward me with eyes wide open. Half-scared, half-thrilled. I laughed so hard I about peed my pants.
Sophie is pure energy...which is shown when she suddenly breaks into some crazy dance that she invented. I picked her up from school the other day and when one of the mothers said, "Bye Sophie", she looked up, squinted her face and said "Rock On!" as she made the official "rock on" hand gesture which is when the pointer, pinky, and thumb are out and the other two curled under. It was not rude or disrespectful, it was just Sophie being Sophie and the receiver of her rockin' good wishes stood there laughing as well. She's the only person I know who has memorized the entire Grease movie. Not that anyone would want to memorize that movie and not that I'm overly proud of the fact that Sophie talks about Frenchie and Rizzo like they were her classmates. Most kids are into Sesame Street...mine is into beatnik musicals about misbehaving high school kids from the 50's. I must stop because, if you don't know her, this might be a total bore to you (much like the rest of this blog)*****************************************
We just got two new pigs recently. They will only be staying with us for a few short months before they make that final journey to that great big barbecue in the sky. Of course, our first two were named "Chip" and "Lightbulb" so naturally, these two would have to be given a name as well. One is a girl and her name is "Aunt Becky" while the boy is named "Carl". ("Carl" must be pronounced in a nasal-new yorkish tone. Like you are combining Carol and Carl...Caaaarll)
In other farm news, the great chicken experiment has been shut down. They had ceased laying sufficient eggs and continued to eat up expensive food. So instead of treating them like the democratic party would (feed them, house them, all the while they lived a life of leisure on my, the working man's, dime), I gave them an ultimatum. I pulled up a stool in the corner of the coop and had a heart to heart chat. "Listen ladies," I said as I spoke while I cleaned the dirt from my nails with a 15 inch slingblade. "You ladies gots ta' produce and if you don't, there are a hundred coyotes out there who would be glad to have your asses for dinner some night. Now what's it going to be?", as I abruptly stuck the blade into a nearby post. Message served. But much like our fellow americans on the welfare system, they had been institutionalized and "production" was no longer in their vocabulary. Recently, some sort of animal had been getting into the coop and having a free lunch like some sort of goat-sucking Chupacabra (x-files reference) so perhaps I don't have to resort to other means to thin the herd.
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My wife's cousin (and neighbor) recently graduated from high school and a big party was thrown for her. Many of my wife's relatives from Michigan, with whom we spend the Thanksgiving holiday with up there, came down to partake in the celebratory festivities. The party was great as it included some always-fantastic chicken, cold beverages, and a great location. While the party was winding down and we had several folks staying the night at our place, we decided to move the party down to our house. Any party at our house generally revolves around the garage. The garage is rather small (as it won't fit my truck) and not perfectly suited for normal garage type activities...but it does tend to work well as a gathering place.
It's a simple set-up, which probably helps explain why we've had some good times there. Other than typical garage stuff (shovels, workbenches, pesticides, medieval weaponry) I always make it a point to have a good stereo there.
As the night grew later, I decided to lay a one-two punch on cousin Pauly who, like me (and my brother in law) enjoys a wide array of music. This was no time for the standards. "Van Morrison" I thought to myself. But not Brown Eyed Girl. No, I decided to play his greatest song "Tupelo Honey". At the first note, Pauly got the message and he was obviously pleased.
People say I do a good job playing music. I've become the house DJ for a small group of folks which is good sometimes...but also a big pain because the party then becomes a task...instead of just enjoying the time. If I were to offer one piece of advice about playing music at a party is this: It's not what you like..or what you want to hear. It's what the crowd wants, or more appropriately, what the crowd needs. You may want to play some George Jones' "If Drinkin' Don't Kill Me, Her Memory Will" but if the crowd doesn't like it, you'll be stuck for 3 minutes of uncomfortable uneasiness. Another rule: If all else fails, play Brick House. Nobody with a pulse would ever turn away from that song. Also, if you're wanting to slow it down a little throw on some "Let's Get it On" from Marvin Gaye.
But back to my recent string of music that left many stunned and in awe, with tears of joy in their eyes. I followed Tupelo Honey up with a song by Stevie Winwood and Traffic called "The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys" (did you know that Jimi Page wanted Steve Winwood to be the lead singer for his new band, Led Zeppelin? Instead, they settled with Robert Plant and the rest is history). In what is now a classic moment in cousin/family history, Pauly nearly broke into tears as I had just completed a string of songs that were so perfect...so original, that the emotions in the room were thick. I was told later that Pauly said to his sister in complete honesty, "I love that man so much that I want to hug him with my shirt off......(long pause)...and that means a lot". Like I said, it was late.
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I recently attended another concert from G. Love and the Special Sauce last week. They were finally swinging through the area after opening a ton of shows for Dave Matthews. I wanted to see them in their own show...not opening for someone. So the were to be in Cincinnati on a thursday night and I bought tickets as soon as they went on sale. My wife was out of town and my brother in law couldn't make it, so this meant that I was flying solo. That doesn't bother me as it a trait that members from my side of the family share. We often attend events by ourselves, not needing any company to tag along. Perhaps the reason for this is that nobody really likes us. That doesn't matter...if we want to see something, we'll go (in fact, I saw Davinci Code movie last week by myself).
So I make the long journey south to a new venue I had not been to. The place was the 20th Century Theater. I've attended an outdoor concert to see the band in Cleveland, been to Columbus twice (on OSU campus) and once at Bogarts in Cincy. Other than the outdoor place, those other sites are kinda' dives. I was expecting the same thing. However, I was a bit surprised when I got close because it was in the middle of a very nice small town outside of Cincy and the exterior of the theater looked pretty cool. I later found out that it was once just an big, old movie theater now converted to a concert hall/banquet center. In my typical fashion, I arrived a couple of hours early. I happened upon a little pub across the street where I found a seat at the bar and had a cold drink. Met some of the nicest folks there. In fact, a couple sat down next to me and started chatting. They too were going to the show, so we kinda' went together. This was nice for two reasons: 1) I was no longer the oldest person there (as they were quite a bit older than me and 2) I didn't have to feel like the single, creepy, stalker, pervert guy all by himself.
I've learned a few things about concerts in small places like this. One is that if a show is scheduled to start at 8:30, they won't start playing until close to 10. Don't know why, but they all do it. I had a couple of cold pilsners there while waiting knowing that once at the venue, they'd rape me for 6 dollar cups of tepid draft beer.
Much to my surprise, upon entering the hall, I see a sign advertising 24 oz. "magnum" loads of Pabst Blue Ribbon for $3! I don't care if it was horse piss (a relatively close comparison to PBR), for three bucks, that's a deal. Of course, I only had one there because I wasn't looking forward to a long, late-night drive home.
Now to the actual concert. What I'm about to say has been carefully thought out. I've had time to simmer down and have been able to re-evaluate the show as a whole. Here it goes: This was absolutely the greatest live performance ever given by human beings on the face of god's Earth. To add to that, G Love and the Sauce are the greatest band to ever perform a musical note. Listed at the top of my pantheon of "great bands", this show was part jam session, part religious experience, and part life-altering expression. It was a tour de force that pulled everyone who was fortunate enough to witness into it's grasp and never let go.
I have to think that years of touring and recording must make a band look at a small concert as more like a job than a passion. Having said that, I totally feel like this band on this night was "feeling it" and pouring everything they had into it. One thought I kept having throughout the entire show was "I wish (blank) was here to see this" I wish my wife or bro-in-law were there, I wish my kids were there, I wish people who had never heard of these guys were there. I was perfectly happy being about 15-20 rows from the stage, but my new friends insisted that I make my way to the stage as they had done. So I did.
Lists of great concerts will always (and rightfully) have Led Zeppelin at Madison Square Garden, Jimi Hendrix at Monterey, even Simon and Garfunkel in Central Park. This show on a thursday night in a quiet suburb of Cincinnati should take its place along side of them.
When the night was over and I made my way outside, I again met up with my new "buddies". We said goodnight and shook hands, sweaty and beaten, and exchanged looks to each other as if we had just seen something special. We did...and that rush kept me awake all of the way home at 2 am. Incredible.
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I challenge you to find me an uglier car than the Scion xb. It looks like a bread box on top of four tires. It's this generation's answer to the AMC Pacer. That's all I can say.
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I propose the Senate introduce legislation to curb something that is getting out of hand. I subscribe to several periodicals: Sports Illustrated, Juggs Galore, Consumer Reports, Busty Babes, and Highlights. It really bothers me that I receive these rags in the mail and I must spend 15 minutes tearing out subscription cards that are placed between every other page. Now if I was buying it off the shelf...Fine. Give me your little subscription card. But once I plunk down my hard earned money for a subscription to Knockers and Booty Illustrated, I shouldn't have to sift through 46 inserts. We need legislation
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The World Cup is over for the American team. This is the only time I feel it appropriate to root against the USA. Why? Because it is soccer. I once said that soccer is for little girls and third world countries but what's more is that soccer is the most mind-numbing sport ever played.
The World Cup is actually sorta' funny when you hear people talk about it. No kidding, I heard some guy tell another dude that "I think France will beat Togo". I stopped and stared right at these guys and gave them the "are you f*ckin' kidding me?" look. Nothing labels you as more of a weenie than if you are rattling off World Cup results.
"Iran beat Trinidad and Tobago today 1-0". Huh? That sounds like real excitement...one score in 400 minutes of play! Hell, Iran beat a team that can't make up it's mind if it wants to be called Trinidad or Tobago. It's like combining countries to make an all star team.
The great thing about the US getting beat is that they didnt' just get beat...they got clobbered. They didn't score a goal until their third game (which they lost). "But they scored a goal against Italy" Yeah, jackass...Italy knocked it in for us. That's how shitty a game it is. Also, I was flipping through the other day and saw some of it. A guy got hurt and a doctor had to come onto the field. But....the clock kept running! This game is so damned boring that they just say, "Ahh, hell, let the clock run...we'll be here all night!"
Listen, soccer was put on this earth and continues to grow in this country because there are too many moms and dads who are afraid of their little tike getting hurt. Or they are afraid of them failing. You can put the worst athlete ever on a soccer field and "hide" them. Other sports you can't. For example, if you suck at baseball, it will be very apparent whenever you come to bat or a ball is hit to you.
Soccer exists now because parents can pull up their lawn chairs, wear their little soccer shirts, and drive away in their Excursion with the soccer ball decal on the back proclaiming that little "Trevor and Dylan" play the game.
My girls may want to play it, and that is fine. It will bug me to no end to sit at the games. I could take a can of paint, open it and brush a few strokes onto a board. I could then sit there and stare at it, watching it dry. This would be like watching a soccer game.
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All right, I'm finally done. Sorry for the long time in between postings. For those of you who have been clamoring for more frequent updates, thanks a lot. That is a huge motivation to not mow my grass, let the place fall in shambles, and neglect my family to sit down to write some meaningless rantings. But I do appreciate it.
If you have any suggestions, comments, concerns...let me know.
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Heard a funny thing the other day. In reference to baseball player Johnny Damon, the once-beloved long haired, light throwing outfielder who defected from Boston to hated-rival New York Yankees, the Boston fans said "He looks like Jesus, acts like Judas, and throws like Mary". That's clever and just danged funny. I liked him too...now that he's a Yankee, I must change my opinion of him.
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My buddy Joe recently ran for State Representative. If you don't know Joe, he's one of the nicest, smartest, and most genuine guys you'll ever meet. His only fault is that he's not a glad-handing, baby-kisser like other politicians and this means that, unfortunately, he wasn't able to unseat the incumbent. You could no longer say that all politicians are idiots if he got into office because I truly think he would have done what was best for this area and put in 100% toward it. One bright thing out of it, I still have his "yard sign" and it's now in my garage. One of my prized treasures.
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The big news around here is that my oldest daughter Anna recently kicked off her first T-Ball season and now (as of press time) has several games under her belt. The J-Bird News was at the first game and filed this brief report:
On a blustery early May evening Anna Jacomet and her teammates from Diamond R Farms took the field in their innaugural T-Ball contest. The crowd was buzzing as most of them were there to witness this highly touted phenom who seems destined to set the baseball world on fire. A player who will rise above the current steroid cloud that currently hangs over the game. A player that posesses such a fine swing that even Ted Williams' frozen head is envious of. This player is #5, Anna J. Batting fifth in the order, a spot normally reserved for a hitter who combines the power to protect the clean-up hitter, yet has the ability to spray hits to all fields and get on base, Anna was a bit nervous. This was witnessed by her blank stare and sweaty hands as I tried to ease her fears on the way to the ballpark. "I only signed up for practice", she had once said.
As she came to the batter's box, she focused her glare onto the pitcher (her coach). In this league they pitch four pitches and if the kid doesn't hit, they then place the ball on a Tee. The tee would be akin to letting someone shoot a foul shot from 5 feet instead of 10...it would be like having your parent run onto the field when you got hurt...like letting you have a 20 yard head start in a sprint. You don't want the tee. As the pitcher wound up to fire that horsehide sphere toward her, I was shocked to see that it was thrown underhand. Underhand! Put a nickel in this guy, because he just became a batting machine. My only concern was that she wasn't used to it coming in sissy-underhand. She's used to the overhand heat her daddy throws her. She fouls off a couple of nasty pitches (splitfinger and slider I think) ...she's just looking for something she can drive while getting his pitch count up. Then...the ball heads to the plate, she raises her left leg and slowly plants it back down, her hips turn, her hands drive through the hitting zone and the ball rips through the stonewall-defense. The thing was moving so fast, it left a vapor trail. Her first career base hit. Highway 1, next stop, Hall of Fame.
I had the video camera rolling figuring they would stop the game and present her with the ball. I think she might have waved them off while saying "There'll be plenty more of those, boys" She had three bats this evening and, needless to say, she ended her debut with a perfect 3 for 3 day against a stingy defense. Batting a thousand. I'd like her to do better, but she can't...how do you improve on perfection? By the way, she also posted a "Web Gem" as she was stationed at the pitchers mound and the batter ripped a seed back her way. She slapped the leather to the ground and made the play.
It went something like that. The bottom line is that she is having a lot of fun and really enjoying it. She looks freakin' adorable in her uniform to boot! She really was very nervous, as were my wife and I, but once she got there she enjoyed herself. Katy said that it seemed like we were just embarking on a new chapter in our lives. Our first sporting event with our kids. I remember all of the times I would think about my kids playing ball and feel that it was so so so far away.
One thing that always makes me smile is when Anna asks me if I want to hit her some ground balls. She asks me often and even though there are times when I had plans for something else, I can't say no. As we are finishing up I'll say, "10 more good ones" and she'll respond by pleading "How about 20 more!?!". Tears well up in my eyes and I hit her 20 more.
Sports were always a big thing between my wife and I. I hope that our kids find the same joy and reap all of the positive benefits that we gained from playing ball.
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In similar news, my middle daughter, Sophia had her dance recital a while back. This one, you don't have to worry about being scared or timid. In fact, my biggest fear was that she was going to take over the stage and bust out into a Streisand medley...or every song from Grease. There's really not much to describe about a dance recital. If I had a picture of her on stage I feel that would probably cover it. Then you too could witness the intense beauty of this girl and the pure joy she exudes to everyone who's lucky enough to be in her vicinity. If ever there was a kid you could look at and say "this kid should be on tv or something!", this is the girl.
P.s. I wanted to kiss the directors of the dance class. They did a wonderful job putting on a nice show combining approximately 5 different age groups. I really enjoyed the program...but what was most beautiful was that it only took about a half an hour! Me sitting in a gym...with dress pants on...and dress socks...watching dancing...well, it just doesn't make for a good time. But I truly enjoyed the show.
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Now that summer is nearly here, mushroom season seems like a long time ago. I always make a point to go out as many evenings as I can and peruse the forest floor in search of the elusive morel. This year was perfect, plenty of rain and an abundance of sunshine. This was the year when I was going to bring home the garbage sack full of them. See, every year I search and search hoping to at least find 5. I'm lucky if I do that! And it never fails, if I ask someone if they found any they always tell me "Oh yeah, we found 5 sacks full. We couldn't even carry them all. We actually let them rot in our house because we couldn't eat them all. We probably left a couple hundred more out there" Then they ask me how many I found and I look up at them with anger and jealousy in my eyes and say, "I found F'n 3! 3 tiny mushrooms!". I then turn, run away, and sob into my pillow.
Funny story though, this year I was in the mood so I took the half hour I get for lunch and decided to try this tiny little outcropping of woods in Troy. It's smack dab in the middle of a large housing/manufacturing area but I thought, what the heck. 5 minutes into my hunt, I find a couple! I was very excited but, alas, I had to return to work. I called my brother to let him know that I found some and that they were out. Told him where I found them too. Long story short...the next day he comes out with a sackful of mushrooms that he found that day. "Where'd you get them?" I asked. "Over at that place you told me about" What?!?! It's sorta' like if you were fishing and started catching some...then another guy stood right beside you and casted right into your area. I proceeded to give him some heck about stealing my spot (which I was joking...I was glad he found some)
So the next day I get off work and I have a message on my phone. I listen to it and it is my brother saying "Hi Mike...hold on....'yeah, park it there' (apparently yelling at someone)...yeah, Mike....I'm over at that place you found mushrooms. I told a bunch of people...there are cars everywhere over here, I'm trying to get them all parked" He was joking, of course. But itwas a good laugh. I probably heard about all of the mushrooms he found a hundred times.
I have to say that a wild mushroom, dipped in a little egg and fried up in a skillet is about as good as it gets. They are absolutely delicious! And you can't eat anything with them. Just by themselves, so you can enjoy the spore-filled goodness of each and every bite. I do suppose though that a mushroom may not taste that good at all, really. Perhaps it's just that they are so rare and that you have to put forth so much effort to find them, that they taste better than they are. If you had an abundant supply,maybe they would suck? I don't know.
There are a few rules or traditions that we follow. Either my dad, my brother, my sister, or I have gone out singularly or together for many years now. First rule, you must carry a stick. Dad prefers a broomstick with some elaborate hook he found in a hardware drawer. My brother has an old cedar stick that I found and cleaned up for him when I was just a little tapper. Me? I have an aluminum walking stick. It's probably a bit too fancy for the work it's doing, but I like it. Secondly, you must carry a potato sack. No solid plastic grocery bags. We feel that if you put them in a potato sack,with it's small holes, that you are propogating the species as you effortlessly spread the spores everywhere you walk. Of course, this is probably pure crap, but it makes us feel better about ourselves.
When you find a mushroom, you must give a "laugh" that sounds like"He he heee!" loud enough for your other hunting partners to hear...so they can rush over and trample onto your profitable area. Other rules: You must wonder aloud "how many have we probably walked over?" and "I wish this dumb dog could be trained to find them" (referring to my dog Zeke..who always goes too...by the way, he can't be trained to find them. We've tried). I like to always mention that "I hear good hunters spend more time looking up than looking down" (in reference to the fact that certain trees tend to give off the right nutrients to harbor mushrooms. Dead elms is one of these trees fabled to do just that. However, I wouldn't know an elm if it fell on me. Which is why I bought a pocket field guide to Ohio Trees. Naturally, you must identify trees by their leaves..and at this time of year there were no damned leaves...which makes this book as freakin' useless as a dried turd in my pocket) But if nothing else, it's always nice to rid oneself of the cabin fever that had been building up all winter and take a nice walk in the woods. I inevitably see or experience something that makes me appreciate the "nature" that is around us, whether it is an animal running through, the sounds of the birds or even just the smells of a springtime forest. It's refreshing.
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One thing that instantly makes me cringe is when the phone rings. I hate the phone..which probably explains why I hate people yapping on their cell phones so much. The caller is never calling for me and if it would happen to be for me, it's a telemarketer or someone wanting my money.
The other night the phone rings and I answer it. Apparently, I'm not very bright (as witnessed by my blog entries) but I thought the Highway Patrol spent their time...well, patrolling highways..catching bad guys, keeping people safe. You know, the whole "protect and serve" thing. I was wrong. They are now in the business of mailing me letters and calling my house wanting money for something. Either they're having their annual Policeman's Ball or giving money to some unfortunate person. Both are worthy causes. Both are worthy causes that will not get my money. It's like me calling some random neighbor and saying, "Hey, my buddies and I are going to have a big keg party and were wondering if you'd like to throw in a few bucks...and no...you can't attend"
I was feeling a little salty this evening as I did not immediately hang up. I stayed on. When the guy told me that they would send me a "sticker for me to place in my car window" I asked, "Will this get me out of tickets?". And believe it or not, this guy did NOT say "no".
Instead he said that it might help. Stunned, I said, "So you're telling me I can drive like a bat outta hell (no reference to Meatloaf) and not get a ticket"...thinking that he'd back down. Instead, he says, "It's highly likely". I about shit myself. I wish I would have recorded the conversation, gotten the sticker, and tested it out. "Sorry officer, but this tape should clear things up (play tape) OK, gotta go, thanks!" as I peel out like the Duke boys leaving Roscoe P. Coltraine in the dust.
Speaking of law enforcement (which I am all for fellas...don't come looking for me..and for god's sake, don't look in the trunk under the spare tire...it's just oregano!) but the most annoying commercial is on the radio. The gist of it is that a guy gets pulled over. It's his friend, a cop, who just wanted to warn him that he didn't use his turn signal. "Going to the game, Friday?" "You bet", said the officer. "Now what are you doing" "I'm giving you a ticket for not wearing your seatbelt...see you Friday", the officer said. Then the commercial ends. I don't know about you but this guy is no friend...he's a dickweed..and he's gonna be a dickweed with four slashed tires for writing me a ticket. I don't know, maybe I'm over-reacting..which would not be a first...but I'd be so pissed if that happened to me.
I can't imagine the amount of money the Dept of Transportation is spending on these commercials but I know heard them at least 50 times. Why are people spending so much money to tell me what I need to do? Don't smoke. Don't drive without a seatbelt. Don't slap a midget named Raul on the third tuesday in July. Where's the one telling people to get off their phones and concentrate on the road. If some guy wants to smoke his lungs out and die of cancer...go for it. Here's a match! If you want to drive without a seatbelt, go ahead toughguy! Stop telling me what I can't do. Who's paying for this?!?!?! Oh, that's right...me. Comes straight outta' my check. Well, that makes me a lot happier now.
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Something I've learned: If you're driving a Dodge Neon (or a Tercel, Civic, etc..) and it has a
racing spoiler on the back...you're a jackass. I've got nothing against the cars..they're fine cars. But I don't think they'll post the speeds necessary for you to install a wind spoiler in order to keep you from going airborne. But again, I never took Physics. But I don't have to be a physicist to know you look like a giant goober************************ ****************
Barry Bonds. He has broken Babe Ruth's home run record. I could go on
for 50 pages about this guy and my dislike for him. He's a cheater in the worst way and all of his records should be wiped from the baseball books. 
If anyone tries to compare this to Pete Rose, Babe Ruth's beer/hotdogs/women, or anything else you want to dig up, I say "Apples to oranges." The only thing relatable is the McGwire /Sosa homerun race that, sadly, appears to be tainted as well. The bottom line is that this guy is a cheat and an a major jerk. Put the asterisk on everything he touches! By the way, asterisk is a funny word and everytime I type it, I think it's spelled wrong************************************************
You may have noticed that I haven't included too many personal photos lately. Hopefully that will all change shortly as we learn about our newest camera. We go through cameras like a fat guy goes through gravy at a buffet. I don't want to mention any names, but someone in my family continues to "lose" them. We have an endless supply of money, so plopping down a couple hundred bucks every six months on a new camera is fun and makes me very happy. I especially like losing our camera when it has 200 beautiful pictures of timeless memories on it.Our first one broke while our next two seem to have been stolen. I can live with the broken camera...but to know someone swiped a couple from us makes me wanna shove it somewhere and get some nice pictures of the thief's colon.
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The Monday Night golf league is in full swing now. We just completed our eighth week and my team (my buddy Gill and I) are currently poised in first place in our division (by a half-point). Now don't get me wrong, I'm not a great golfer but they run this league very well. It involves about 30 guys and each week my partner and I compete against another two man team (that sounds weird to say..."my partner"...ewww!). Gill plays their best player while I play against the other. It is all based on handicaps and formulas to keep it fair (so schmucks like me can still compete with others who are much better than I). This is our third year and it was a big deal to initially be invited to play. It's relatively prestigious to be in this league despite the fact that it's just our local course (Miami Shores) and not some fancy country club. We are probably the youngest group out there but I think most everyone enjoys playing against us because we have a pretty good time and don't take it too seriously. The best thing about it is the fact that it demands that I play at least once a week instead of once a month as I had previously done. I love the game and could play it almost every day. The best is when my dad gets home for a while and we all meet at the course. My favorite foursome includes: dad, my brother Pat, Gill and me. We get out there and you can just sense the excitement as we approach the tee box. Now that I think about it...I've never had a bad time on the course. Even when I'm playing like a giant hunk of ass-mater, chunking shots into the bunker...hitting out of that bunker into the one directly across from me, I'm still enjoying myself.
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Memorial Day has passed and with it, the summer has officially arrived (to me). In my mind, Memorial Day is one of the most important holidays of the year. Taking time to honor those who helped build this country and make it is as great as it is, despite its problems, is something I always find time to do. The saying "All gave some...Some gave all" is powerful and says everything that needs to be said. Also, it is a great time of year because events and activities start to get rev up. Working in the garden, being outside, baseball games, golf, etc...make this time of year awesome. To me, Memorial Day always makes me remember the Indianapolis 500 and the years that I would go with my brother to the Greatest Spectacle in Racing. Not only did I enjoy my newfound discovery thatI really like those girls who needed nothing more than a sign that said "Show Your T*ts" to, in fact, show their t*ts, but I felt the excitement and emotion of 33 cars going by at 220 mph with 500,000 of my closest friends. It's worth the price of admission just to be there for the opening ceremonies. The parade, where I once saw Larry Bird (first of two times I have ever seen him in person...even though I was 200 yards away from him), the playing of TAPS with a military helicopter flyover. I even enjoy hearing Jim Nabors sing "Back Home Again in Indiana" which leads to the Anthem with the jets flying over.
Next are the "parade" laps where all 33 cars go around the track at relatively slow speeds. The engines are howling as the brilliant colors of the cars weave back and forth,warming up their tires. Then...the green flag drops and you see the cars speed up and head into Turn 1. It's completely quiet.. then...you feel the crowd, like a wave in the distance, start buzzing, and you wait a few seconds as they travel the 2.5 miles to get back to you...then you see them coming and WHOOSH...you feel the ground shake, your ears hurt, you try to focus in on this blur of speed that rushes by you. If you don't have goosebumps and/or a tear in your eye then they might as well throw a shovel full of dirt over your head because you are dead. So when I am standing in my living room watching the beginning of the race, I will again have goosebumps because I can still feel it. I can still feel the culmination where power, technology, and tradition mesh with a simple instinct of man...to be first across that finish line. **************************
My wife has been telling me that I need to write more about our girls and, more specifically, my middle daughter Sophia. I think that one of the reasons why I don't write about any of them very much is because it's just way too hard. It's difficult for me because most of the time I am with them, they have me laughing or we're doing something fun. I don't know if it's possible for me to get out of the "moment" and be able to remember it...or write it down for later because it never seems to pack the same luster as it did at that very moment. Sophia is one of those people who light up a room once they enter. For me, just the thought of her makes me smile and I'll be willing to bet that I crack up laughing at her at least 3 times a day. In fact, as I'm sitting here trying to think of what to say next, I realize I'm just sitting here smiling. I feel like Marsha Brady sitting in her room with her hands folded under her chin, wearing a dreamy look, thinking about Davey Jones...I'm smitten.
I told my wife once that if I were to chose one person in the world to be stuck on an island with, I'd chose Sophie. Sure, we'd run an through an entire range of emotions as she's ultra-sensitive at times. But most ofthe time she is either all-out-goofy or downright adorable.
While Anna was afraid of our chickens, Sophie would run at them and scream "Roooaaarrrr" with her hands in the air like two giant paws about to attack it's prey. Which reminds me of a time when she went chasing after a few that were out of the pen. She ran at one and did her roar, but this particular chicken was cornered and instead of running, turned and "flew" straight at her. She went from "Roar"to a blood-curdling "Ahhhhhh" as she turned and ran toward me with eyes wide open. Half-scared, half-thrilled. I laughed so hard I about peed my pants.
Sophie is pure energy...which is shown when she suddenly breaks into some crazy dance that she invented. I picked her up from school the other day and when one of the mothers said, "Bye Sophie", she looked up, squinted her face and said "Rock On!" as she made the official "rock on" hand gesture which is when the pointer, pinky, and thumb are out and the other two curled under. It was not rude or disrespectful, it was just Sophie being Sophie and the receiver of her rockin' good wishes stood there laughing as well. She's the only person I know who has memorized the entire Grease movie. Not that anyone would want to memorize that movie and not that I'm overly proud of the fact that Sophie talks about Frenchie and Rizzo like they were her classmates. Most kids are into Sesame Street...mine is into beatnik musicals about misbehaving high school kids from the 50's. I must stop because, if you don't know her, this might be a total bore to you (much like the rest of this blog)*****************************************
We just got two new pigs recently. They will only be staying with us for a few short months before they make that final journey to that great big barbecue in the sky. Of course, our first two were named "Chip" and "Lightbulb" so naturally, these two would have to be given a name as well. One is a girl and her name is "Aunt Becky" while the boy is named "Carl". ("Carl" must be pronounced in a nasal-new yorkish tone. Like you are combining Carol and Carl...Caaaarll)
In other farm news, the great chicken experiment has been shut down. They had ceased laying sufficient eggs and continued to eat up expensive food. So instead of treating them like the democratic party would (feed them, house them, all the while they lived a life of leisure on my, the working man's, dime), I gave them an ultimatum. I pulled up a stool in the corner of the coop and had a heart to heart chat. "Listen ladies," I said as I spoke while I cleaned the dirt from my nails with a 15 inch slingblade. "You ladies gots ta' produce and if you don't, there are a hundred coyotes out there who would be glad to have your asses for dinner some night. Now what's it going to be?", as I abruptly stuck the blade into a nearby post. Message served. But much like our fellow americans on the welfare system, they had been institutionalized and "production" was no longer in their vocabulary. Recently, some sort of animal had been getting into the coop and having a free lunch like some sort of goat-sucking Chupacabra (x-files reference) so perhaps I don't have to resort to other means to thin the herd.
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My wife's cousin (and neighbor) recently graduated from high school and a big party was thrown for her. Many of my wife's relatives from Michigan, with whom we spend the Thanksgiving holiday with up there, came down to partake in the celebratory festivities. The party was great as it included some always-fantastic chicken, cold beverages, and a great location. While the party was winding down and we had several folks staying the night at our place, we decided to move the party down to our house. Any party at our house generally revolves around the garage. The garage is rather small (as it won't fit my truck) and not perfectly suited for normal garage type activities...but it does tend to work well as a gathering place.
It's a simple set-up, which probably helps explain why we've had some good times there. Other than typical garage stuff (shovels, workbenches, pesticides, medieval weaponry) I always make it a point to have a good stereo there.
As the night grew later, I decided to lay a one-two punch on cousin Pauly who, like me (and my brother in law) enjoys a wide array of music. This was no time for the standards. "Van Morrison" I thought to myself. But not Brown Eyed Girl. No, I decided to play his greatest song "Tupelo Honey". At the first note, Pauly got the message and he was obviously pleased.
People say I do a good job playing music. I've become the house DJ for a small group of folks which is good sometimes...but also a big pain because the party then becomes a task...instead of just enjoying the time. If I were to offer one piece of advice about playing music at a party is this: It's not what you like..or what you want to hear. It's what the crowd wants, or more appropriately, what the crowd needs. You may want to play some George Jones' "If Drinkin' Don't Kill Me, Her Memory Will" but if the crowd doesn't like it, you'll be stuck for 3 minutes of uncomfortable uneasiness. Another rule: If all else fails, play Brick House. Nobody with a pulse would ever turn away from that song. Also, if you're wanting to slow it down a little throw on some "Let's Get it On" from Marvin Gaye.
But back to my recent string of music that left many stunned and in awe, with tears of joy in their eyes. I followed Tupelo Honey up with a song by Stevie Winwood and Traffic called "The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys" (did you know that Jimi Page wanted Steve Winwood to be the lead singer for his new band, Led Zeppelin? Instead, they settled with Robert Plant and the rest is history). In what is now a classic moment in cousin/family history, Pauly nearly broke into tears as I had just completed a string of songs that were so perfect...so original, that the emotions in the room were thick. I was told later that Pauly said to his sister in complete honesty, "I love that man so much that I want to hug him with my shirt off......(long pause)...and that means a lot". Like I said, it was late.
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I recently attended another concert from G. Love and the Special Sauce last week. They were finally swinging through the area after opening a ton of shows for Dave Matthews. I wanted to see them in their own show...not opening for someone. So the were to be in Cincinnati on a thursday night and I bought tickets as soon as they went on sale. My wife was out of town and my brother in law couldn't make it, so this meant that I was flying solo. That doesn't bother me as it a trait that members from my side of the family share. We often attend events by ourselves, not needing any company to tag along. Perhaps the reason for this is that nobody really likes us. That doesn't matter...if we want to see something, we'll go (in fact, I saw Davinci Code movie last week by myself).
So I make the long journey south to a new venue I had not been to. The place was the 20th Century Theater. I've attended an outdoor concert to see the band in Cleveland, been to Columbus twice (on OSU campus) and once at Bogarts in Cincy. Other than the outdoor place, those other sites are kinda' dives. I was expecting the same thing. However, I was a bit surprised when I got close because it was in the middle of a very nice small town outside of Cincy and the exterior of the theater looked pretty cool. I later found out that it was once just an big, old movie theater now converted to a concert hall/banquet center. In my typical fashion, I arrived a couple of hours early. I happened upon a little pub across the street where I found a seat at the bar and had a cold drink. Met some of the nicest folks there. In fact, a couple sat down next to me and started chatting. They too were going to the show, so we kinda' went together. This was nice for two reasons: 1) I was no longer the oldest person there (as they were quite a bit older than me and 2) I didn't have to feel like the single, creepy, stalker, pervert guy all by himself.
I've learned a few things about concerts in small places like this. One is that if a show is scheduled to start at 8:30, they won't start playing until close to 10. Don't know why, but they all do it. I had a couple of cold pilsners there while waiting knowing that once at the venue, they'd rape me for 6 dollar cups of tepid draft beer.
Much to my surprise, upon entering the hall, I see a sign advertising 24 oz. "magnum" loads of Pabst Blue Ribbon for $3! I don't care if it was horse piss (a relatively close comparison to PBR), for three bucks, that's a deal. Of course, I only had one there because I wasn't looking forward to a long, late-night drive home.
Now to the actual concert. What I'm about to say has been carefully thought out. I've had time to simmer down and have been able to re-evaluate the show as a whole. Here it goes: This was absolutely the greatest live performance ever given by human beings on the face of god's Earth. To add to that, G Love and the Sauce are the greatest band to ever perform a musical note. Listed at the top of my pantheon of "great bands", this show was part jam session, part religious experience, and part life-altering expression. It was a tour de force that pulled everyone who was fortunate enough to witness into it's grasp and never let go.
I have to think that years of touring and recording must make a band look at a small concert as more like a job than a passion. Having said that, I totally feel like this band on this night was "feeling it" and pouring everything they had into it. One thought I kept having throughout the entire show was "I wish (blank) was here to see this" I wish my wife or bro-in-law were there, I wish my kids were there, I wish people who had never heard of these guys were there. I was perfectly happy being about 15-20 rows from the stage, but my new friends insisted that I make my way to the stage as they had done. So I did.
Lists of great concerts will always (and rightfully) have Led Zeppelin at Madison Square Garden, Jimi Hendrix at Monterey, even Simon and Garfunkel in Central Park. This show on a thursday night in a quiet suburb of Cincinnati should take its place along side of them.
When the night was over and I made my way outside, I again met up with my new "buddies". We said goodnight and shook hands, sweaty and beaten, and exchanged looks to each other as if we had just seen something special. We did...and that rush kept me awake all of the way home at 2 am. Incredible.
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I challenge you to find me an uglier car than the Scion xb. It looks like a bread box on top of four tires. It's this generation's answer to the AMC Pacer. That's all I can say.
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I propose the Senate introduce legislation to curb something that is getting out of hand. I subscribe to several periodicals: Sports Illustrated, Juggs Galore, Consumer Reports, Busty Babes, and Highlights. It really bothers me that I receive these rags in the mail and I must spend 15 minutes tearing out subscription cards that are placed between every other page. Now if I was buying it off the shelf...Fine. Give me your little subscription card. But once I plunk down my hard earned money for a subscription to Knockers and Booty Illustrated, I shouldn't have to sift through 46 inserts. We need legislation
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The World Cup is over for the American team. This is the only time I feel it appropriate to root against the USA. Why? Because it is soccer. I once said that soccer is for little girls and third world countries but what's more is that soccer is the most mind-numbing sport ever played.
The World Cup is actually sorta' funny when you hear people talk about it. No kidding, I heard some guy tell another dude that "I think France will beat Togo". I stopped and stared right at these guys and gave them the "are you f*ckin' kidding me?" look. Nothing labels you as more of a weenie than if you are rattling off World Cup results.
"Iran beat Trinidad and Tobago today 1-0". Huh? That sounds like real excitement...one score in 400 minutes of play! Hell, Iran beat a team that can't make up it's mind if it wants to be called Trinidad or Tobago. It's like combining countries to make an all star team.
The great thing about the US getting beat is that they didnt' just get beat...they got clobbered. They didn't score a goal until their third game (which they lost). "But they scored a goal against Italy" Yeah, jackass...Italy knocked it in for us. That's how shitty a game it is. Also, I was flipping through the other day and saw some of it. A guy got hurt and a doctor had to come onto the field. But....the clock kept running! This game is so damned boring that they just say, "Ahh, hell, let the clock run...we'll be here all night!"
Listen, soccer was put on this earth and continues to grow in this country because there are too many moms and dads who are afraid of their little tike getting hurt. Or they are afraid of them failing. You can put the worst athlete ever on a soccer field and "hide" them. Other sports you can't. For example, if you suck at baseball, it will be very apparent whenever you come to bat or a ball is hit to you.
Soccer exists now because parents can pull up their lawn chairs, wear their little soccer shirts, and drive away in their Excursion with the soccer ball decal on the back proclaiming that little "Trevor and Dylan" play the game.
My girls may want to play it, and that is fine. It will bug me to no end to sit at the games. I could take a can of paint, open it and brush a few strokes onto a board. I could then sit there and stare at it, watching it dry. This would be like watching a soccer game.
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All right, I'm finally done. Sorry for the long time in between postings. For those of you who have been clamoring for more frequent updates, thanks a lot. That is a huge motivation to not mow my grass, let the place fall in shambles, and neglect my family to sit down to write some meaningless rantings. But I do appreciate it.
If you have any suggestions, comments, concerns...let me know.
Friday, March 10, 2006
No good titles yet...why start now?
I just finished taking a bath. What's newsworthy about this? Not sure, other than the fact that I can't remember the last time I took one. Oh sure, I shower every once in a while but no bathing for me. Baths are inherently dirty in nature when you really think about it. If someone said "we're gonna give you a crystal clear tub of water and then you're gonna soak your filthy body and all of your crevices in it for a while until the water turns a murky shade of brown", I'd bet you'd think twice about it.
The problem for me is that it is a huge water-waster, especially when you factor in the matter that after a bath I MUST shower off. *Quick fact: a bath generally uses around 40 gallons of water while a shower uses roughly 10 to 20 gallons*
Back to my luxurious bathing experience. First of all, me getting into a bathtub is like scooping up 500 pounds of gelatinous goo and dumping it into a kitchen sink. Not a pretty sight and it
doesn't really all fit. What was most amusing to me was that when I finally had the tub filled with scalding hot water and suds galore (from about half a bottle of hair shampoo and Hello Kitty bath beads), I managed to scoot back and lay down in the water as my knees jammed into the faucet. As I slowly took a nice deep relaxing breath, one of the 35 bath toys hanging precariously from some perch somewhere comes crashing down into my parietal bone to reopen my coronal suture which somehow managed to grow together nicely as a baby and stay intact all of these years before I became a supposed responsible parent. Cussing quickly followed.
It's o.k. though. Mood broken...but nothing a few deep breaths can't take care of. As I again started to feel the tensions of a man with a dead-end career slowly melt away, another problem came to the forefront. It seems that if you envelope me in a reasonable amount of water (especially warm water), whether it be a bathtub a public pool or the ocean, my body slowly loses all control of continence. So this time I decide to get out and finish that business without adding another vile element to this already-nasty cesspool teeming with lint, body hair, and who-knows-what-else.
I rummage through a bin of potions next to the bath to find a cute little bottle from the folks at Bath and Body Works. It has a pretty picture of a lilac on it so I open the cap and dump most of it in the tepid water below and stand above my brew like a Macbethian witch concocting some potion involving various quantities of "Eye of newt, and toe of frog, Wool of bat, and tongue of dog." Unfortunately, after emptying it out I see that this microscopic bottle's contents used to cost $5.99...which equates to nearly 3 bucks a serving size which is much too much money to spend on this whole "hygiene" episode as it is.
Bottom line: Conservatively speaking (factoring in water usage, water heater, and soap products) this 15 minutes ended up costing me about $35 bucks...but at least my hairy ass now smells like lilacs...which is nice.
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I was driving upon an overpass across the highway recently when I saw some writing on the concrete. Later, I returned and remembered to try to decipher what it said. I slowed my truck down and to my surprise, it was some biblical passage. Call me crazy, but isn't there something intrinsically wrong with vandalizing public property in order to spread the good lord's "word"?
As you're frantically shaking up the can of Rustoleum wouldn't you notice the WWJD wristband you're wearing and think to yourself "Would What Jesus Spray Paint on this Concrete Barrier?"
Which raises an interesting question...was there a 13 Apostle named Krylon? Something to think about.
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Our quest for new kitchen appliances is now over. We purchased a new refrigerator (rated the best "freezer on the bottom" by Consumer Reports. I'm proud to say this because I was leafing through photocopies of three issues of Consumer Reports while the salemen at each store droned on and on) I came to the conclusion after the "installation" process that I will NEVER again install things on my own. EVER. You think to yourself, "just pull the old one out, hook up the new one and slide it in...easy". But in My World, it never goes that smoothly. Even after your 13th trip to the hardware store to get the right parts, things still don't go back together the way they should. This is where my new best friend Joe comes in. He an older gentleman that has a handyman service. The wife calls him, after assuring me that I'm still a man even though I can't complete simple household tasks. A few hours and a tax return check later, the task is done.
I don't know if this makes me fruity or not, but I was so excited to run a cycle through the new dishwasher. When I opened up the door, I could barely see the shining gleaming glasses that had just been cleaned through the tears in my watering eyes. Happiness overcame me as I realized I no longer have to re-wash them by hand. It should be noted that the kitchen is my domain. Wifey takes care of crying babies, dirty clothes (sorting/folding), and various other tasks...I control the kitchen.
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My sister and I have spoken about this before. If (or when) I become leader of this country, my first order of business is to pass a law that decrees that "No Non-working person shall be allowed to patronize a fast-food restaurant from the hours of 12 noon through 1 pm during the work week"
There's nothing better than those of us who keep the pistons of this machine we call "America" pumping than hustling to the burger joint so we can get some sustenance and get back to work as Grandma Clare and her unwed grand-daughter's bastard child come shuffling ahead of you in line while they try to decide if they want the Beanie Buddy or the Barbie watch with their happy meal. "Do you want the nuggets or the hamburger...do you want a Sprite or Fruit Punch...hmm...do you want curly fries or regular...." I feel like saying, "Do you want me to stick the heel of my boot into the back of your replaced knees?!?". These people need to get out of the way so we can eat and get back to work.
As far as laws go, I am more and more on board with my wife's plan that it should be illegal to have your Christmas lights up after January. However, if your lights are still up and they are "ON", then I should be allowed to go up and just snip them with some wire cutters.
Wifey also has a good idea with people driving way too slow. It should be legal for you to just go up and nudge them with the front of your car. See, when I drive I don't really speed much (unless it's on the highway, then all bets are off...it's like the freakin Autobahn to me out there). I usually stay within the speed limit but when I get into town and the speed limit is, say, 35 and there's a guy in front of me going 25, I should be allowed by law to run into the back of him, take the air off of his spoiler and see him spin out as I look gleefully back at him in my rearview mirror.
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Some sad local news making the rounds. Marion Glass, founder of Marion's Pizza in the Dayton area died this past weekend. He was 92. It leaves a giant hole in my heart and a hunger pang in
my belly as I think of his passing. Marions has, without a doubt, the best pizza around. I'm sure his stores will continue to operate. My wife even suggested we should make a trip, nay, a pilgrimage to one of his pizzerias this weekend in his honor. Whether it's the very dated photos of him with the likes of Barry Williams, Zsa Zsa Gabor, Tom Poston, Joe Namath and a wide array of B-List stars in their butterfly collars and bell-bottoms hanging on the walls...or the lighting they use inside that makes you think it's 4:30 in the afternoon when, in fact it's 11:30 at night and pitch-black out...Marion's remains the perfect pizza joint. Rest in Pizza, I mean Peace, Marion.
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If someone offered me one week to work at any business in the area, I think that I would sign up to work at The Hot Tan Cafe as either a receptionist or the tanning-bed-wipe-down-guy. My route to and from work often takes me by this local tanning salon and I've managed to come away with a general observation that I would like to pass on to you, as a friend...You will be hard-pressed to find many women in a tanning salon that are not, how do you say....HOT. I'm guessing that it's on a rare occasion that some toothless whale comes wobbling in. Hey, I'm not condemning tanning beds nor am I condoning them. All I am stating are facts through scientific observations that I have been able to uncover through my many years of passing this facility on my way home from work. Say what you will, but you can't argue the empirical data I have painstakingly collected. It's what I do. It's my service to mankind
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I've given up shaving for Lent. (me, pictured to the right) I've also given up self deprivation but that's an old joke and I didn't want to lead with that one. Not really a big sacrifice on my part as I really don't enjoy shaving.
Wifey says that she wishes there were a pill she could take that would substitute eating, sleeping, and going to the bathroom. Actually, those are three things that bring me my greatest joy of the day. I like to eat...a lot. Sleeping is so so so good. And going to the bathroom is the only quiet time I get to myself (and the only time I read). But back to the pill theory. I wish I could have a pill to eliminate the need for personal grooming on my part. I like my hair short but hate haircuts. I would prefer my teeth be sparkling and white yet I hate to scrub the woofers. I would rather my rank rear-end not give forth a putrid smell that reminds some of the depths of hell after a free chili and beer buffet...but not a big fan of showering/bathing (see above). If I could pop a pill to eliminate all of that stuff, my day would then open up to allow me more time to golf, play video games, and watch t.v. which is all very important.
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Went on vacation to Florida recently. The single worst thing about vacation is this: Upon returning to work you are asked this question a minimum of 29 times..."How was your vacation?". Let's break this question down a little bit. Hmm...Let's see, I'm returning to a hellish vocation after being away for an extended period of time. I happened to have been in Tampa where it was roughly 75 degrees with nary a cloud in the sky. Now I am back. How do you answer this? It's like "what color is blue?" It's Blue! Vacations are good, period! This is why your job limits the number of vacation days you can have because, quite honestly, I would take a hell of a lot more if there was no limit.
And really, do the people that ask how your vacation was really care if you enjoyed yourself? NO! "I was really concerned for Fred while he was in Tahiti. I was so worried he wasn't having a good vacation while I toiled away here, staying late as I tried to make up his work"
Another great thing about vacation is the days before you are going to be off work. Someone can call and say "On Thursday, we're going to deliver 30 truckloads of pig crap that you must unload by hand with gardening shovels" and you can just smile knowing that at quitting time on Wednesday, you could give a rat's ass less about what happens. "Hell, only 30 truckloads? Double it!" you say with a smile on your face and your thoughts on your vacation.
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Speaking of vacations, I suppose I should take this opportunity to fill you in on my recent one. My wife's cousin Alex was getting married in Tampa so the four girls and I hopped onto a plane and headed south. Plane tickets for all of us was quite expensive but it is a small price to pay for sanity because there's no way I would drive more than 5 hours with a car full of women (unless they were all hot political interns). As I've grown a little older I have gained a bit more patience. Having said that, I'm not sure I could endure a monumental trip like that without snapping like a postal worker. Plus, anyone who knows me knows that whenever said event is over, I'm ready to be home...NOW. Football game finishes? I will be jogging for the door and jumping into the traffice jam while many of my friends would just take their time to "let the traffic clear". So on that final day of my vacation I'm ready to be home a.s.a.p.
Anyhow, the wedding was spectacular. I don't get too geeked up about weddings mostly for the simple fact that I'm a guy and guy's don't really care about weddings. Receptions? That's another story. But I really enjoyed this wedding. First and foremost, it was great seeing Alex get hitched to a really nice, pretty, fun girl. She's wonderful. Another reason was that it was held outside next to the ocean on a perfect afternoon. Finally, the reason why this wedding was "tops" was that it was short. Short and sweet...lovely music being played by a three piece ensemble, the very nice parade of the wedding party down the aisle, the handing-off of the bride by her father, the vows, the kiss...badda-bing, badda-bang...let's go to the reception, baby! All women in attendance should be given a copy of that wedding on video to study because it was an example of how something doesn't have to be "overdone" to be beautiful and special. This is how it should be done folks. No mass, no frass...music, march, vows, kiss, done. I had tears in my eyes as I looked down at my watch and realized how quickly we would be at the reception and subsequent free beverages. Very emotional.
Without going into too much detail I want to comment a bit on the reception. It was top-notch. Well done on every end. Great food, fantastic room, nice toasts. Then the band came out to get the dancing started. I must say, I was a little apprehensive about having a live band. You just never know what you'll get sometimes. Sometimes, people clamor for some of their classic wedding songs to be played by the D.J. But to my surprise, the band was (to my memory) about 7 pieces with a horn section, bass, guitar, drummer and singer. Without a doubt, they proved me wrong. They were awesome while playing everything from standard wedding fare to Motown to drop-dead Funk.
My wife and I were still on the dance floor as the cake-cutting ceremony began and the drummer began a funktacious beat and the rest of the band joined in. We stood there in awe as they broke into this jaw-dropping freelance song while the lead singer made up words like "Time to cut the cake, Time to cut the cake...Save the band a piece, Save the band a piece". I can't describe it but it was probably my favorite moment of the entire day.
No wedding is complete until the services of my brother in law are called upon. You see, Matt has rightfully attained this status of "Dance Legend" on the local wedding circuit and this was his moment to go nationwide...interstate, baby! Needless to say, he did not disappoint as throngs of fans gathered around just to be near him as he busted move after move. We were all worshipping at the House of Dance and Deacon Matt was delivering the Liturgy of the Groove. Women yearn to be near him, men study his every move in hopes of being like him.
To top it off, the band asked for some requests and I yelled to the band (for some reason) "Play some G.Love" after earlier yelling "Freebird". At that moment the jumped into some "Cold Beverage" by G. Love and the Special Sauce. Not sure how the night could improve after that.
Besides the wedding, I was able to catch two spring training games. My rule was that I did NOT want to see the Red Sox and/or Yankees play because they always draw a lot of fans and, to me, that's not what Spring Training is about. Plus, most Yankees fans...like most NY City folks are assholes. But S. Training in my mind is a nearly empty stadium and hearing the crack of the bat and the chatter emanating from the dugout. It's sitting anywhere you please with a cold draft pilsner and that firery glowing orb of gas in the sky the reminds you of that thing called the "Sun" that used to appear back home many months ago.
Well, due to the logistics of it all, I had no choice but to catch the Yankees play on saturday. The good news was that they played the Reds. In typical fashion, I got there about10:30 am for 1:15 game. One thing about the Yankees field, it was very nice and professional but it was not at all "comfortable" or friendly. It was all business and it kinda' put me off a bit. The ushers were rude and I even watched security go way beyond "hassling" a guy for waving a Reds pennant. Very strange.
Luckily my cousin Ben got he and I tickets to the Devil Rays game on Monday. Unfortunately, they were playing...guess who...the Red Sox and their throngs of fans. What typically would have been a half empty stadium was now a sold out show...but we did manage to score tickets seven rows from the field behind home plate. Very nice. 3/4 of the fans were rooting for the Sox but it was a different, friendlier atmosphere. There was some good-natured ribbing of each team's fans and wasn't too fancy and didn't offer a lot of glitz along with 46 different kinds of condiments. It was basically a beer/soda/hot dog kinda place...and it was refreshing.
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After the wedding festivities we had a great time just hanging around Pam and George's house. They were extremely gracious hosts and incredibly generous. I can't imagine keeping my sanity while planning for a wedding, having relatives converge on your house, do the wedding, and then accommodate them for a few days after. They were awesome and I want to thank them!
We were planning on taking the two oldest girls to Disney for one day. We weren't taking the baby because it should be against Florida state law to take any child under two to this park. Save your money, they don't enjoy it.
As luck would have it, my dad is working near Orlando so we were able to work it out to get over to his place the night before and visit. He stays in a condo about 15 minutes from the park entrance so we could sleep in and just zip right over to the park quite easily.
The day there was great. The girls had an absolute blast. I'm convinced that the main reason we shell out money to take them to places like this is for mainly our own memories, not just theirs. There were so many moments when one couldn't help but do anything but smile at the pure enjoyment and happiness of one's kids while there. It was like the "happiest place on Earth"...so I am told. Plus, it is the only place on Earth where our nearly-4 year old child can instantly become "almost 3" while stepping up to the ticket booth (kids under 3 yrs. old...Free). It's probably wrong to pull your kids aside moments before we purchase tickets from this global multi-trillion dollar business and tell them "if we say Sophia is not 3 don't argue...just nod and smile real cute...Got it?!?" But to save $65 bucks I would have contemplated selling a kidney or something for that kinda' dough.
Not only did we see tons of amazing things but I also got to witness the beauty of the electric cart. Ideally, the three wheeled powered chairs are to help the disabled and/or elderly get around the park. Unfortunately, the powered carts aren't only for the disabled and/or elderly anymore. Mostly they are used by incredibly fat assed lazy people who can't put forth the effort to walk 15 feet from the Dumbo ride to the Teacup ride. I love seeing them bump into folks lugging their kids around while their legs are splayed open because of the layer upon layer of lard built up on their thighs doesn't allow them to shut their legs...all while sucking down the 55 gallon drum sized Mountain Dew that is perched in the basket up front and attached, like a feeding tube, to their mouths by a notably long straw. They wizz past everyone in line, park their cart at the front and instantly find the strength and courage to jog, yes jog to the next open seat on Thunder Mountain. This makes me very happy. I'll bet my tax dollars are being used somewhere in this process.
Which reminds me of a lady I saw today at the grocery. She was a svelte 480 as she zipped by me in her electric cart and made a beeline for the two tables where the little old ladies give out samples of food and drink. She gets a cup full of some cookie concoction and then gasses it over to the lady with the sports drink table where, upon arrival, is handed a Dixie cup full of sports drink which she downs like a young man downing a shot on the night of his bachelor party. My gut tells me that the scientist in the lab at Gatorade weren't designing this replenishing drink with her in mind. She tosses the cup aside like a Kenyan during a marathon and heads directly for the storage bin full of "Sale" candy bars where she loads up her basket. Again, I know money is being taken out of my paycheck somehow to fund her existence.
Anyway...back to Disney. I was proud of my oldest as she braved Thunder Mountain (a roller coaster geared to us older, more daring types) and immediately after we got off she said, "Let's go again!!!" Also, I'm proud that when given the choice to stand in line for "more than an hour" to see a roomful of princesses or hit the Goofy rollercoaster they, without hesitation, said "rollercoaster!!!"...a sigh of relief rushed over me.
Disney is not my favorite place in the world but again, it's not about me. When you see the complete joy, wonderment, and excitement in their eyes you realize that it may, in fact, be a little bit about "you" as you get to enjoy it from a different perspective. Side note...when asking our kids recently where they would like to go "next time", Sophia quickly said, "Las Vegas"...that's my girl!
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Finally, thanks for those of you who have left comments. Please leave more. Newbies, you don't have to "register" or anything, just leave comments as a guest. I appreciate any feedback. If you have a complaint, see some misspellings (I had to look "misspelling" up to see if I spelled it right...seriously), or have any ideas to make your visit a bit more enjoyable, please let me know. I'm not a professional (no kidding, Shakespeare) and my time to type is usually interupted as I'm distracted from screaming at the kids as I throw an old hambone to them while they stay in the pit I have dug in the basement*, so any corrections, suggestions, etc...are encouraged.
*no children were harmed in the writing of this rubbish...yet*
The problem for me is that it is a huge water-waster, especially when you factor in the matter that after a bath I MUST shower off. *Quick fact: a bath generally uses around 40 gallons of water while a shower uses roughly 10 to 20 gallons*
Back to my luxurious bathing experience. First of all, me getting into a bathtub is like scooping up 500 pounds of gelatinous goo and dumping it into a kitchen sink. Not a pretty sight and it
doesn't really all fit. What was most amusing to me was that when I finally had the tub filled with scalding hot water and suds galore (from about half a bottle of hair shampoo and Hello Kitty bath beads), I managed to scoot back and lay down in the water as my knees jammed into the faucet. As I slowly took a nice deep relaxing breath, one of the 35 bath toys hanging precariously from some perch somewhere comes crashing down into my parietal bone to reopen my coronal suture which somehow managed to grow together nicely as a baby and stay intact all of these years before I became a supposed responsible parent. Cussing quickly followed.It's o.k. though. Mood broken...but nothing a few deep breaths can't take care of. As I again started to feel the tensions of a man with a dead-end career slowly melt away, another problem came to the forefront. It seems that if you envelope me in a reasonable amount of water (especially warm water), whether it be a bathtub a public pool or the ocean, my body slowly loses all control of continence. So this time I decide to get out and finish that business without adding another vile element to this already-nasty cesspool teeming with lint, body hair, and who-knows-what-else.
I rummage through a bin of potions next to the bath to find a cute little bottle from the folks at Bath and Body Works. It has a pretty picture of a lilac on it so I open the cap and dump most of it in the tepid water below and stand above my brew like a Macbethian witch concocting some potion involving various quantities of "Eye of newt, and toe of frog, Wool of bat, and tongue of dog." Unfortunately, after emptying it out I see that this microscopic bottle's contents used to cost $5.99...which equates to nearly 3 bucks a serving size which is much too much money to spend on this whole "hygiene" episode as it is.
Bottom line: Conservatively speaking (factoring in water usage, water heater, and soap products) this 15 minutes ended up costing me about $35 bucks...but at least my hairy ass now smells like lilacs...which is nice.
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I was driving upon an overpass across the highway recently when I saw some writing on the concrete. Later, I returned and remembered to try to decipher what it said. I slowed my truck down and to my surprise, it was some biblical passage. Call me crazy, but isn't there something intrinsically wrong with vandalizing public property in order to spread the good lord's "word"?
As you're frantically shaking up the can of Rustoleum wouldn't you notice the WWJD wristband you're wearing and think to yourself "Would What Jesus Spray Paint on this Concrete Barrier?"
Which raises an interesting question...was there a 13 Apostle named Krylon? Something to think about.
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Our quest for new kitchen appliances is now over. We purchased a new refrigerator (rated the best "freezer on the bottom" by Consumer Reports. I'm proud to say this because I was leafing through photocopies of three issues of Consumer Reports while the salemen at each store droned on and on) I came to the conclusion after the "installation" process that I will NEVER again install things on my own. EVER. You think to yourself, "just pull the old one out, hook up the new one and slide it in...easy". But in My World, it never goes that smoothly. Even after your 13th trip to the hardware store to get the right parts, things still don't go back together the way they should. This is where my new best friend Joe comes in. He an older gentleman that has a handyman service. The wife calls him, after assuring me that I'm still a man even though I can't complete simple household tasks. A few hours and a tax return check later, the task is done.
I don't know if this makes me fruity or not, but I was so excited to run a cycle through the new dishwasher. When I opened up the door, I could barely see the shining gleaming glasses that had just been cleaned through the tears in my watering eyes. Happiness overcame me as I realized I no longer have to re-wash them by hand. It should be noted that the kitchen is my domain. Wifey takes care of crying babies, dirty clothes (sorting/folding), and various other tasks...I control the kitchen.
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My sister and I have spoken about this before. If (or when) I become leader of this country, my first order of business is to pass a law that decrees that "No Non-working person shall be allowed to patronize a fast-food restaurant from the hours of 12 noon through 1 pm during the work week"
There's nothing better than those of us who keep the pistons of this machine we call "America" pumping than hustling to the burger joint so we can get some sustenance and get back to work as Grandma Clare and her unwed grand-daughter's bastard child come shuffling ahead of you in line while they try to decide if they want the Beanie Buddy or the Barbie watch with their happy meal. "Do you want the nuggets or the hamburger...do you want a Sprite or Fruit Punch...hmm...do you want curly fries or regular...." I feel like saying, "Do you want me to stick the heel of my boot into the back of your replaced knees?!?". These people need to get out of the way so we can eat and get back to work.
As far as laws go, I am more and more on board with my wife's plan that it should be illegal to have your Christmas lights up after January. However, if your lights are still up and they are "ON", then I should be allowed to go up and just snip them with some wire cutters.
Wifey also has a good idea with people driving way too slow. It should be legal for you to just go up and nudge them with the front of your car. See, when I drive I don't really speed much (unless it's on the highway, then all bets are off...it's like the freakin Autobahn to me out there). I usually stay within the speed limit but when I get into town and the speed limit is, say, 35 and there's a guy in front of me going 25, I should be allowed by law to run into the back of him, take the air off of his spoiler and see him spin out as I look gleefully back at him in my rearview mirror.
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Some sad local news making the rounds. Marion Glass, founder of Marion's Pizza in the Dayton area died this past weekend. He was 92. It leaves a giant hole in my heart and a hunger pang in
my belly as I think of his passing. Marions has, without a doubt, the best pizza around. I'm sure his stores will continue to operate. My wife even suggested we should make a trip, nay, a pilgrimage to one of his pizzerias this weekend in his honor. Whether it's the very dated photos of him with the likes of Barry Williams, Zsa Zsa Gabor, Tom Poston, Joe Namath and a wide array of B-List stars in their butterfly collars and bell-bottoms hanging on the walls...or the lighting they use inside that makes you think it's 4:30 in the afternoon when, in fact it's 11:30 at night and pitch-black out...Marion's remains the perfect pizza joint. Rest in Pizza, I mean Peace, Marion.*************************
If someone offered me one week to work at any business in the area, I think that I would sign up to work at The Hot Tan Cafe as either a receptionist or the tanning-bed-wipe-down-guy. My route to and from work often takes me by this local tanning salon and I've managed to come away with a general observation that I would like to pass on to you, as a friend...You will be hard-pressed to find many women in a tanning salon that are not, how do you say....HOT. I'm guessing that it's on a rare occasion that some toothless whale comes wobbling in. Hey, I'm not condemning tanning beds nor am I condoning them. All I am stating are facts through scientific observations that I have been able to uncover through my many years of passing this facility on my way home from work. Say what you will, but you can't argue the empirical data I have painstakingly collected. It's what I do. It's my service to mankind
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I've given up shaving for Lent. (me, pictured to the right) I've also given up self deprivation but that's an old joke and I didn't want to lead with that one. Not really a big sacrifice on my part as I really don't enjoy shaving.
Wifey says that she wishes there were a pill she could take that would substitute eating, sleeping, and going to the bathroom. Actually, those are three things that bring me my greatest joy of the day. I like to eat...a lot. Sleeping is so so so good. And going to the bathroom is the only quiet time I get to myself (and the only time I read). But back to the pill theory. I wish I could have a pill to eliminate the need for personal grooming on my part. I like my hair short but hate haircuts. I would prefer my teeth be sparkling and white yet I hate to scrub the woofers. I would rather my rank rear-end not give forth a putrid smell that reminds some of the depths of hell after a free chili and beer buffet...but not a big fan of showering/bathing (see above). If I could pop a pill to eliminate all of that stuff, my day would then open up to allow me more time to golf, play video games, and watch t.v. which is all very important.********************
Went on vacation to Florida recently. The single worst thing about vacation is this: Upon returning to work you are asked this question a minimum of 29 times..."How was your vacation?". Let's break this question down a little bit. Hmm...Let's see, I'm returning to a hellish vocation after being away for an extended period of time. I happened to have been in Tampa where it was roughly 75 degrees with nary a cloud in the sky. Now I am back. How do you answer this? It's like "what color is blue?" It's Blue! Vacations are good, period! This is why your job limits the number of vacation days you can have because, quite honestly, I would take a hell of a lot more if there was no limit.
And really, do the people that ask how your vacation was really care if you enjoyed yourself? NO! "I was really concerned for Fred while he was in Tahiti. I was so worried he wasn't having a good vacation while I toiled away here, staying late as I tried to make up his work"
Another great thing about vacation is the days before you are going to be off work. Someone can call and say "On Thursday, we're going to deliver 30 truckloads of pig crap that you must unload by hand with gardening shovels" and you can just smile knowing that at quitting time on Wednesday, you could give a rat's ass less about what happens. "Hell, only 30 truckloads? Double it!" you say with a smile on your face and your thoughts on your vacation.
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Speaking of vacations, I suppose I should take this opportunity to fill you in on my recent one. My wife's cousin Alex was getting married in Tampa so the four girls and I hopped onto a plane and headed south. Plane tickets for all of us was quite expensive but it is a small price to pay for sanity because there's no way I would drive more than 5 hours with a car full of women (unless they were all hot political interns). As I've grown a little older I have gained a bit more patience. Having said that, I'm not sure I could endure a monumental trip like that without snapping like a postal worker. Plus, anyone who knows me knows that whenever said event is over, I'm ready to be home...NOW. Football game finishes? I will be jogging for the door and jumping into the traffice jam while many of my friends would just take their time to "let the traffic clear". So on that final day of my vacation I'm ready to be home a.s.a.p.
Anyhow, the wedding was spectacular. I don't get too geeked up about weddings mostly for the simple fact that I'm a guy and guy's don't really care about weddings. Receptions? That's another story. But I really enjoyed this wedding. First and foremost, it was great seeing Alex get hitched to a really nice, pretty, fun girl. She's wonderful. Another reason was that it was held outside next to the ocean on a perfect afternoon. Finally, the reason why this wedding was "tops" was that it was short. Short and sweet...lovely music being played by a three piece ensemble, the very nice parade of the wedding party down the aisle, the handing-off of the bride by her father, the vows, the kiss...badda-bing, badda-bang...let's go to the reception, baby! All women in attendance should be given a copy of that wedding on video to study because it was an example of how something doesn't have to be "overdone" to be beautiful and special. This is how it should be done folks. No mass, no frass...music, march, vows, kiss, done. I had tears in my eyes as I looked down at my watch and realized how quickly we would be at the reception and subsequent free beverages. Very emotional.
Without going into too much detail I want to comment a bit on the reception. It was top-notch. Well done on every end. Great food, fantastic room, nice toasts. Then the band came out to get the dancing started. I must say, I was a little apprehensive about having a live band. You just never know what you'll get sometimes. Sometimes, people clamor for some of their classic wedding songs to be played by the D.J. But to my surprise, the band was (to my memory) about 7 pieces with a horn section, bass, guitar, drummer and singer. Without a doubt, they proved me wrong. They were awesome while playing everything from standard wedding fare to Motown to drop-dead Funk.
My wife and I were still on the dance floor as the cake-cutting ceremony began and the drummer began a funktacious beat and the rest of the band joined in. We stood there in awe as they broke into this jaw-dropping freelance song while the lead singer made up words like "Time to cut the cake, Time to cut the cake...Save the band a piece, Save the band a piece". I can't describe it but it was probably my favorite moment of the entire day.
No wedding is complete until the services of my brother in law are called upon. You see, Matt has rightfully attained this status of "Dance Legend" on the local wedding circuit and this was his moment to go nationwide...interstate, baby! Needless to say, he did not disappoint as throngs of fans gathered around just to be near him as he busted move after move. We were all worshipping at the House of Dance and Deacon Matt was delivering the Liturgy of the Groove. Women yearn to be near him, men study his every move in hopes of being like him.
To top it off, the band asked for some requests and I yelled to the band (for some reason) "Play some G.Love" after earlier yelling "Freebird". At that moment the jumped into some "Cold Beverage" by G. Love and the Special Sauce. Not sure how the night could improve after that.
Besides the wedding, I was able to catch two spring training games. My rule was that I did NOT want to see the Red Sox and/or Yankees play because they always draw a lot of fans and, to me, that's not what Spring Training is about. Plus, most Yankees fans...like most NY City folks are assholes. But S. Training in my mind is a nearly empty stadium and hearing the crack of the bat and the chatter emanating from the dugout. It's sitting anywhere you please with a cold draft pilsner and that firery glowing orb of gas in the sky the reminds you of that thing called the "Sun" that used to appear back home many months ago.
Well, due to the logistics of it all, I had no choice but to catch the Yankees play on saturday. The good news was that they played the Reds. In typical fashion, I got there about10:30 am for 1:15 game. One thing about the Yankees field, it was very nice and professional but it was not at all "comfortable" or friendly. It was all business and it kinda' put me off a bit. The ushers were rude and I even watched security go way beyond "hassling" a guy for waving a Reds pennant. Very strange.
Luckily my cousin Ben got he and I tickets to the Devil Rays game on Monday. Unfortunately, they were playing...guess who...the Red Sox and their throngs of fans. What typically would have been a half empty stadium was now a sold out show...but we did manage to score tickets seven rows from the field behind home plate. Very nice. 3/4 of the fans were rooting for the Sox but it was a different, friendlier atmosphere. There was some good-natured ribbing of each team's fans and wasn't too fancy and didn't offer a lot of glitz along with 46 different kinds of condiments. It was basically a beer/soda/hot dog kinda place...and it was refreshing.
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After the wedding festivities we had a great time just hanging around Pam and George's house. They were extremely gracious hosts and incredibly generous. I can't imagine keeping my sanity while planning for a wedding, having relatives converge on your house, do the wedding, and then accommodate them for a few days after. They were awesome and I want to thank them!
We were planning on taking the two oldest girls to Disney for one day. We weren't taking the baby because it should be against Florida state law to take any child under two to this park. Save your money, they don't enjoy it.
As luck would have it, my dad is working near Orlando so we were able to work it out to get over to his place the night before and visit. He stays in a condo about 15 minutes from the park entrance so we could sleep in and just zip right over to the park quite easily.
The day there was great. The girls had an absolute blast. I'm convinced that the main reason we shell out money to take them to places like this is for mainly our own memories, not just theirs. There were so many moments when one couldn't help but do anything but smile at the pure enjoyment and happiness of one's kids while there. It was like the "happiest place on Earth"...so I am told. Plus, it is the only place on Earth where our nearly-4 year old child can instantly become "almost 3" while stepping up to the ticket booth (kids under 3 yrs. old...Free). It's probably wrong to pull your kids aside moments before we purchase tickets from this global multi-trillion dollar business and tell them "if we say Sophia is not 3 don't argue...just nod and smile real cute...Got it?!?" But to save $65 bucks I would have contemplated selling a kidney or something for that kinda' dough.
Not only did we see tons of amazing things but I also got to witness the beauty of the electric cart. Ideally, the three wheeled powered chairs are to help the disabled and/or elderly get around the park. Unfortunately, the powered carts aren't only for the disabled and/or elderly anymore. Mostly they are used by incredibly fat assed lazy people who can't put forth the effort to walk 15 feet from the Dumbo ride to the Teacup ride. I love seeing them bump into folks lugging their kids around while their legs are splayed open because of the layer upon layer of lard built up on their thighs doesn't allow them to shut their legs...all while sucking down the 55 gallon drum sized Mountain Dew that is perched in the basket up front and attached, like a feeding tube, to their mouths by a notably long straw. They wizz past everyone in line, park their cart at the front and instantly find the strength and courage to jog, yes jog to the next open seat on Thunder Mountain. This makes me very happy. I'll bet my tax dollars are being used somewhere in this process.
Which reminds me of a lady I saw today at the grocery. She was a svelte 480 as she zipped by me in her electric cart and made a beeline for the two tables where the little old ladies give out samples of food and drink. She gets a cup full of some cookie concoction and then gasses it over to the lady with the sports drink table where, upon arrival, is handed a Dixie cup full of sports drink which she downs like a young man downing a shot on the night of his bachelor party. My gut tells me that the scientist in the lab at Gatorade weren't designing this replenishing drink with her in mind. She tosses the cup aside like a Kenyan during a marathon and heads directly for the storage bin full of "Sale" candy bars where she loads up her basket. Again, I know money is being taken out of my paycheck somehow to fund her existence.
Anyway...back to Disney. I was proud of my oldest as she braved Thunder Mountain (a roller coaster geared to us older, more daring types) and immediately after we got off she said, "Let's go again!!!" Also, I'm proud that when given the choice to stand in line for "more than an hour" to see a roomful of princesses or hit the Goofy rollercoaster they, without hesitation, said "rollercoaster!!!"...a sigh of relief rushed over me.
Disney is not my favorite place in the world but again, it's not about me. When you see the complete joy, wonderment, and excitement in their eyes you realize that it may, in fact, be a little bit about "you" as you get to enjoy it from a different perspective. Side note...when asking our kids recently where they would like to go "next time", Sophia quickly said, "Las Vegas"...that's my girl!
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Finally, thanks for those of you who have left comments. Please leave more. Newbies, you don't have to "register" or anything, just leave comments as a guest. I appreciate any feedback. If you have a complaint, see some misspellings (I had to look "misspelling" up to see if I spelled it right...seriously), or have any ideas to make your visit a bit more enjoyable, please let me know. I'm not a professional (no kidding, Shakespeare) and my time to type is usually interupted as I'm distracted from screaming at the kids as I throw an old hambone to them while they stay in the pit I have dug in the basement*, so any corrections, suggestions, etc...are encouraged.
*no children were harmed in the writing of this rubbish...yet*
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