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.