Hello again folks. I won't bore you with the steamy details of why I have taken so long to update this blog. You know what...I think I will bore you. The fact of the matter is this: I've been a bit busy (believe it or not) and plopping my rotund (but luscious) butt down on a chair to pound out a couple thousand words that nobody but my wife and some 13 year old boy that's been tied up in a pit in his basement by his over-bearing father will read just hasn't climbed it's way up to the top of my "To Do" list.
But I do want to thank you for stopping by and checking out the blog. At times, I find myself jotting down a few phrases or key-words on the back of an old McCook's receipt or some other random piece of paper that is strewn around in my truck. I haven't been doing it so much lately, but I did come across a small Post-it note resting nicely by a diamond-hard french fry underneath my seat. So we'll let that oily little post-it note be our guide and go from there.
My post-it notes tend to typically be heavy with sports subjects, so if you're not a sports fan...well...you probably won't enjoy this blog which, coincidentally, puts you in the same class as 99.9% of the rest of those tuning in to this thing we call "J-Bird's Blog". I could lie and say "Stick with it" as if there's a payoff somewhere amongst the drivel I'm typing, but...I respect you and the fact that you've made it this far before you've clicked off and headed to some porn site or something, so I feel like I shouldn't lie to you.
One final point. I have been advised by a few people that I should focus on quantity and not quality. Since "quality" writing is not in my repertoire, I will turn my steely focus to "quantity". My hopes are that I will update this site more often instead of one gigantic entry every 8 months or so. My last entry, by the way was titled "Good-bye 2008" if that gives you any indication of the infrequency of my updates.
Having said all that, here's a few quick entries for the "new" format. Enjoy.
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I hate Christmas. A few people have the guts to say it and I completely appreciate and agree with what they're saying. Oh, there are a few moments I enjoy during this blessed season. I enjoy the family get-togethers and the excellent food contained within. I especially enjoy Christmas music. Not too much of it, but a few good tunes always makes the season nice. I love the excitement my kids have for the holiday. I guess it is all about the kids after all, isn't it? Isn't everything in our damned lives about those *$@&! kids! Stupid kids.
I've long ago passed that age where I was excited about Christmas. There are, in my mind, three stages of Christmas that I have gone through so far:
Stage 1: When you're a kid, the anticipation of what Santa might bring you. Sitting with the JCPenney catalog and circling EVERY single toy that you would want. Waking up Xmas morning and that total joy of walking down the stairs and seeing the tree hidden by gifts. Even as you got older and your belief in a certain Saint called "Nick" passed, you still got tons of gifts and it was fun and easy.
Stage 2: This is the middle stage...a transitional stage. You're still young enough to get a lot of presents, but now you must go out and get presents for others. I'd say this stage starts some time in High School and ends about the time you have your first child. This stage sees you still getting some nice stuff but now you are burdened with the pressure of having to buy gifts for others, especially your current girlfriend. This is why the "Turkey Drop" is so popular. The Turkey Drop is the name of the process people go through prior to Thanksgiving. If you're going to dump each other, do it before Thanksgiving so that you will not perceived as a total jerk for dumping your broad prior to Christmas. Being single during Christmas would, in my opinion, be fantastic as you wouldn't be required to spend your time/money searching for some over-priced craptastic gift for your woman for Xmas.
Anyhow, the days of just waking up and opening a plethora of gifts is long gone for you at this stage. Now you gotta' work a little bit on your end in hopes of getting something nice in return.
What? That sounds rude? Let's be honest, folks. EVERYONE enjoys getting gifts. Don't let anyone tell you different. "Tis better to give than receive" is total bullsh*t. And now the pressure is on you to spend your hard-earned cash on everyone else
Stage 3: The current stage I'm in. Christmas, at this point, has become a commercial annoyance that manages to eat at me at nearly every moment of the day. You are bombarded by cheesy-ass jewelry commercials (which continue relentlessly until February 15, the day after Valentine's Day). Everything bothers me at this stage. The fact that stores are hawking Christmas stuff the day after Halloween irks me. Hearing Feliz Navidad on the radio sends a shooting pain similar to the one you feel while eating foil with fillings in. You'll see advertisements showing some sonofabeech presenting his wife with a brand new $60,000 Lexus..with a giant red bow on top...and it makes me f'n sick. I'm not sick because someone's getting a $60k Lexus, I'm pissed because I'm NOT getting one!
Anyhow, this is why I've taken my dad's attack for Christmas time. Let your wife do the shopping. Nod in agreement to every present she's purchased. Crack open a beer and plant yourself by the shrimp tray and smile (well, the last part about the shrimp tray...that's all my idea)
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If you remember my last posting (found in the "archives" on this very site), you may recall an incident I had in the late fall of last year. I flipped my truck and miraculously escaped serious injury. A few weeks later, I battled some mysterious sickness that laid me up for a while. It was those two events that ushered in this new-found urgency to try to do something significant. And perhaps "significant" isn't the proper choice of words. Just doing "something".different...something I may have thought about doing before but never followed through on.
It was then that I put on my internet surfing shoes and delved into the seedy underworld of "Podcasts". For those of you that don't know, a podcast is simply a broadcast over the internet. Unlike radio, they aren't necessarily Live (although they can be.)
So my painstaking research began and I found, luckily, that it takes neither vast computer knowledge or expensive equipment to put this thing together.
I'm jumping around a bit, but I'll tell you why the podcast even came into my tiny little head. My buddies and I often have some of the most outrageous, hilarious, obscene discussions you'd ever want to hear. Many times we've said, "This should be recorded...this is a show!". Of course, we were joking. Our humor most definitely emanated from the massive proportions of frothy beer that we had poured down our gullets thoughout the course of that particular day and, as we all know, you're always a hundred times funnier when you're nearly blamo-d...even if in sober reality you're really not.
Two friends in particular always seemed a bit more interested in this than the others. Gill and Jake.
So, continuing to jump around...I did all the research, secured a website, and did all the technical administration so that, essentially, we were ready to do a show.
We created a name for our show. We call it 3 Monkeys and a Football. Have you ever heard someone say "they look like a bunch of monkeys trying to f*** a football!"? That how our name came about, three idiots in the cold of winter in the shop of my barn, fumbling around trying to figure out how a certain button works or that we should tape one of our microphones to a propane torch because we don't have mic stands (we still use this, by the way...keeps us grounded)
I'm not afraid to say that our first couple of shows were an absolute display of inept suckiness, sort of like the Cleveland Browns offensive production. And, admittedly, our more recent shows still display this inept suckiness, but it's a bit less prominent. Our new shows should come with the heading, "Now with 50% less suckiness!"
A typical show begins early that week. An email goes out between us three, "Can we do a show?". Once we determine that we're all in, we start putting effort into our particular segments or topics we have to talk about. Sometimes we have a guest. I think that our guests, who show up with usually nothing more than a 12 pack, are often surprised at the technical aspects of the whole set up, and by golly, it is impressive that three bumblef***s like us can actually put together something like this.
The bottom line is this: The show can be, at times, off-color (we spent the first few episodes trying to convince Jake that innuendo and playfully referring to spicy topics instead of coming right out and blurting “*@&!!#” was the route to go. Needless to say, we’ve failed at that endeavor. But, to be truthful, that’s just Jake…and that’s how he rolls.) Gill is the faithful sidekick that both Jake and I unleash our playful wrath upon. He also comes up with some of our topics and most of our quiz segments. The show’s audio quality is similar to listening to a symphony through 10 miles of underground conduit…poor. The introductions to start the show are HORRIBLE, so much so that the introductions have become a joke of themselves. Who writes the intros? Me. Who used to sit for hours with pen in hand, empty paper in front, and a blank stare trying to come up with something clever? Me. At this point, I’ve given up.
At this moment, we have over 50 “followers” on Facebook. We also have a regular army of folks who email the show (3monkeysandafootball@gmail.com). We get stats of the number of people that listen and their geographic location. All in all, for a two-bit podcast with absolutely no operating budget, minimal on-air talent, and limited technical ability, I’d say it’s mildly successful!
The true verdict of how good (or bad) our show is can be found after I hand my dad, neighbor, dentist, rambling hobo or someone else a CD copy of our latest episode. I expect, in the coming days, to hear “That one part was hilarious” or “You guys are crazy!” or “Not too shitty”. But instead, it’s silence. The kind of silence you’d expect if you invited your friends over for a big blow-out party with strippers, a DJ, and a hooker you can snort coke off of and, once they arrived, you handed out pamphlets and talked about Scripture…Yeah, that kind of stunned, uncomfortable silence.
No matter. If nobody listened from here on out, I think we’d still do it. It’s the perfect getaway on a cold Ohio night. A couple of friends, hanging out in a barn, drinking ungodly amounts of beer, huddled by the soft warm glow of flickering laptops and unsafe amounts of CO2 from the heaters in the air…just laughing at ourselves and our stupid observations. There’s probably something somewhere in the back of one of our minds that tells us that we could strike it big or at least make money at it. But the reality most assuredly is that we won’t be more famous than the day we started it and we’ll definitely sink more money into it than we will ever reap…but damn, we have an absolute blast and the excitement is there with each one of us.
Oh…by the way, the site is www.3monkeysandafootball.blogspot.com and you can search for us on Facebook. And “YES”, we do accept checks or cash!
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A conversation between my four year old daughter and her mommy just the other day.
Kid: "Mommy, can I say the 'A' word?"
Mom: "What's the 'A' word?"
Kid: "Shit"
Mom: "Yes!"
Ahh. Those kids make me laugh constantly. I sure do enjoy them and I'm loving them as much as possible before the day comes when they completely hate their dad. The day when they get out of the back of their boyfriend's cargo van and walk by me without saying a word. Ughhh (shivers)...I am NOT looking forward to those days.
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My wife DOESN'T drink more coffee than the entire nation of Columbia. Let me explain that sentence. My wife pours and prepares countless cups of coffee...yet, I've discovered through intense scientific measurements (me pouring full cups of coffee down the drain) that she doesn't drink any of it. She has in her possession 5 or 6 travel mugs. They get filled up every morning for her commute and these cups arrive home at the end of the workday just as full and piping hot as when they left.
She has always said that it's more about holding the cup of coffee than actually drinking it.
She's the person you'd see at the posh coffee shop, sitting on the trendy couch with two hands curled around the abnormally large cup. The cup is held slightly below her nose as she slowly inhales its soothing smell. I think her ideal vacation would be to fly out to some swanky ski village for the simple purpose of plopping down in front of a fireplace while pawing a giant cup of coffee that she will never drink. No skiing, no hiking...just idly holding a cup.
It reminds me when I had a few tickets to the Bengals game in 2005 (vs. the Packers). As customary, when traveling to the game with Rosey and Jake, one must arrive at the parking lot outside the stadium at least 4 hours before gametime. We pull in around 7 am and pop the trunk. All of us men reach for a beer and let the good times begin. Suddenly, Rosey blurts out "What the *#$@!!!" We turn to see my wife carefully and happily unscrewing the lid to a thermos of coffee. She inhales the aromatic steam that rises from the cup and closes her eyes in total bliss, possibly thinking of that time in Paris with Jean-Luke. Opening her eyes and looking up from her cup she sees three angry men staring back at her. Her happy/content look immediately turned to one of concern. "What's wrong?" she asks.
After explaining to her that it was, "7 am, we're parked in a gravel pit 100 yards from the stadium, and we already have ham steaks cooking on the grill...it is no time for coffee drinking. Beer is the beverage of the day and it would be best if you join in!". Thus, another in a long line of wasted cups of coffee suffers the same fate as many before and many since.
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Thanks for tuning in. Check back frequently as I hope to have more updates/more often. Check out the "blog archives" to the right side of this page and please leave questions/comments.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Finally...an entry. Good-bye 2008
Hello once again everybody. You know, many years ago whilst on my travels to the outer-reaches of an untamed portion of Borneo, I came across an old man full of knowledge. He did not teach me the meaning of life, how to be eternally happy, or the secrets of success. No, instead he only imparted one simple sentence that essentially has brought me here today. He said, "Never go a full calendar year without updating your blog". It has been said...it shall be done.
My last blog entry had a picture of my girls at Christmas time...so I'm cutting it close.
I've got a lot of mind-numbing ramblings and stories that only interest me, and tall tales of things I find amusing yet you may not. I will try to tie a date or month to different entries which may hopefully lead to less confusion. Believe it or not, I have actively been adding to the blog throughout the year…but I haven’t necessarily compiled them into a central place. Proceed with caution.
So let's get right to it.
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September 2008
We recently returned from a quick mid-September trip to New York City. It originally started as a one-nighter, but turned into a two-night ordeal as my wife pointed out “you don’t get to NY too often”. .
It all started when my mom and dad surprised me with tickets to a Yankees game. This is the last season for the stadium that has been home to the Yankees since 1923 Although I hate the Yankees and have a common disdain for the American League in general, I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to see “The House that Ruth Built”.
The wife and I left Friday morning and caught all of our flights on time. We touched down at LaGuardia at 3:30 and searched for the best way to get to our hotel. Our hotel was located just on the New Jersey side of the Hudson River, near the George Washington bridge.
Now it should be noted that my wife and I have been quite a few places and while my sense of direction and ability to navigate is fairly adequate, the wife’s is a hundred times better. The same woman that will lose her phone 5 times a day remarkably can find an alternate route in a foreign city at the snap of a finger. Having said that, once we landed we asked the folks at the information counter what was the best way to our hotel. “Oh, easy…just go here, blah blah..” So on a bus we hopped. Figuring about a half hour, we’d expect to be able to check into our hotel, change and head to the 7 o’clock game.
As we bounced nauseously through the city, stopping abruptly for every traffic snarl (and there were countless snarls) my mind fought through the fact that I can’t stand buses…or other people, for that fact.
Suddenly, amongst the cavern created by the incredibly tall, amazing packed buildings of the city, our driver stopped the bus and told us we were here. “This doesn’t seem like New Jersey.” I thought to myself. We jumped off along with everyone else where a guy told us to wait for the next bus heading where we needed to go. Keep in mind, it is no longer spritzing rain as it had been when we landed…it was essentially a downpour with a little bit of cool wind thrown in for good measure. It’d only be another half hour or so…that’s what they told us. We’re standing on the sidewalk with our luggage and a couple dozen other passengers, pedestrians are trying to get around us..it’s raining and I don’t think we’re even within radar range of our hotel. Amazingly, at the end of the block is this giant, beautiful building called “Grand Central Station”. Our thoughts were…if you can’t get some sort of transportation in this place, you’re a shmuck. So out of line we jumped and we headed to the warm, dry confines of this place that has been a hub of intra-city travel for decades. Once inside we stood and marveled at the architecture and grandeur of this place. It really is impressive and recognizable too! We were trying to think of all of the movies we’ve seen this place in. We headed off to catch a train, a subway, a ferry…anything. Should be simple.
Well, we come to find that no matter where we went or what mode of transportation we tried we were essentially told “you can’t get there from here” or “get a taxi”. We tried the taxi. It’s New York City…you can just stand on the side of the street and hail one of the 50 million cabs you see flying by, right? Wrong. It’s about 4:30 on a Friday. Rush hour. We had to wait in yet another line, on the street, in the rain for about another half hour. Finally, my vacationy, take-it-easy attitude was quickly evaporating.
Eventually we shuffled to the front of the line and got a taxi. We told him where we wanted to go and he looked at us as if we were crazy. He had to flip open some book from underneath his seat just to find it. When a New York cabbie has to go to some book hidden under his seat, you know you’re screwed. He then said, “That’ll run about $175”. Wifey’s jaw hit the floor. My blood started to boil. We got out. We found another bus station, bought tickets and walked to our gate. The line stretched out the door. In line, people told of us 20 different routes we could have gone.
To make a long story short (too late, I know) we somehow (and at this point, I can’t even remember how or how much it cost) we made it to our room. It was already 7 o’clock when we checked in which crushes my rule of being at a ball game 2 hours before the National Anthem, but the steady rain outside made me think there might not be any baseball being played in New York tonight.
I think the thing that was so frustrating was that there was no clear-cut way to get where we needed to go. As I said before, there are a thousand modes of transportation in that city, but we kept getting differing information. We’ve been to Chicago and other towns across America. We’ve been to France and England too. But we’ve never been so screwed up in our sense of direction in our lives.
So we went to the stadium (after a $60 cab ride). We turned a corner and there it was. Yankee Stadium. Even through the dreary drizzle of a mid-September rain, the old place stood like a beacon. I couldn’t walk fast enough to get there.
We walked through the turnstiles and what I really wanted to see is what struck me and the wife first…it was old…and it was cramped. But that’s really the charm of it. We’re so used to being in the latest, state-of-the-art facilities…with their 60 foot wide concourses and Build-A-Bear workshops. But not here. Years of old paint piled on top concrete, steel beams, rivets and giant bolts were the backdrop. While most would see the grunge and “age” as something less than desirable, I saw it as if we were in a time machine. I stood there, taking it all in as people clad in pinstriped jerseys and ball caps made their way around me. 50 years ago, someone was making this very same journey to this very same stadium…but they certainly weren’t in blue jeans and a t-shirt as I was. They were most probably like the old pictures where the guys were in a suit and a brimmed hat. And I’m certain the old timers didn’t pay 60 bucks to get transportation to the ballyard!
As we walked, it was such a sensory experience. If you could throw yourself back to the days of Mantle, Maris, Dimaggio…even farther back to Gehrig and Babe Ruth it probably couldn’t have been too much different. We rounded a corner and I told my wife, “I’m closing my eyes.” She replied “You better..because there it is”
To me, there are few things more perfect than the bright green grass of a baseball field and there’s hardly been a time when I don’t look onto a ball field for the first time without getting a charge out of it. I knew this moment would be different…it would be better.
With my eyes squinted closed while shuffling along the rail up the small corridor and to the opening leading to the field, I could sense I was getting close to opening my eyes. I slowly opened my eyes and there it was. That bright green grass. But what made this more dramatic for me than anything was my thoughts of the folks who called that field their home throughout the years. I mean, many of the greatest ever played here. It was such a feeling I’ll never forget.
I’ve held dear my experiences in these old ballparks. One of my favorites was the old Tiger Stadium, the actual home field of Ty Cobb (some considered the best player ever) during his playing days. That park was great for the same reason it was probably torn down and rebuilt…it was old and dingy, void of luxury boxes and Dippin’ Dots.
My visits to Tiger Stadium and other old parks from the formative days of baseball such as Fenway Park in Boston and Wrigley Field in Chicago were special for the same reasons I mentioned about Yankee Stadium earlier. There’s a romantic, intimate charm about these places. Without going all George Will on you and waxing poetic about these old stadiums, I can’t help but feel a little sad that their days have ended or their days are numbered. I guess there’s something in me that enjoys the bare-bones feeling of these old “cathedrals” (and I think that word is so appropriate in this case) and I consider myself fortunate to have visited these places before they meet the wrecking ball.
So our trip to Yankee stadium ended with the public address system blaring that the game had been cancelled that night. I was a bit disappointed that I didn’t get to see an inning there, but I also know that you don’t have to see a ball pitched or a hitter swing to appreciate what a place like that can offer. I felt sorry for my mom who spent so much time and effort setting everything up and getting the tickets and itinerary straightened away…but I think she knows that I was not disappointed at all.
Yankee Stadium was truly a treat and something I appreciated on so many levels that maybe some other folks, especially other tourists, don’t “get”. I will soon forget the $9.50 beers I gulped down (now I can understand how they afford that huge team payroll) and the chaos of just getting to the park…but I’ll never forget walking up that corridor and seeing the House that Ruth built with my own eyes and spending time there.
As the place emptied, we decided to walk the surrounding area a bit. We neared a sports bar and the wife suggested we should go there. What better way to cap off a hectic day of travel…a day that saw us forking out crazy amounts of cash, finding 37 alternates routes to get where we needed to get, and being stuck in traffic in a place as foreign as the Big Apple…than to have a couple of cold beers with the locals. I step to the bar and order two bottles of plain ol’ Miller Lite. The bartender placed the cold brown bottles into my outstretched hands and my taste buds tingled in anticipation. The bartender then said, “That’ll be $14”. My hands, which were so lovingly caressing the bottles of beer, tightened into fists of rage. 7 bucks for a bottle of freakin’ beer!?! I always think about the story of Larry Bird when he and the other members of the Dream Team (the first Olympic team assembled with professional players…probably the greatest basketball team ever) went to a hotel bar after practice. They’re all millionaires and have lived in luxury most of their professional careers. When Bird ordered his beer and the waitress said it would be $7, he turned it away and said he couldn’t justify paying that much for a bottle of beer. I feel the same way…although I wasn’t going to be hopping into my limo and heading to the Waldorf when I was done…I’d be risking life and limb trekking back across the city on my own…so I paid the money.
I gave a bottle to my wife and said, “Drink this and we’ll go. We’re not staying another day here. We’ll change the flights when we get back.” I got no arguments from her because she knows I don’t really like cities..or people (I think I’ve mentioned that before)
Just as we were finishing these $1.50 beers disguised as $7 pilsners, a young lady came to our table. She’d just stepped out of the rain and asked if she could set her purse there for a second. I told her she could have the table as we were just leaving. Just then, her three friends came over to join her. “Why are you leaving?”, they asked. “Stay and have another drink”. “Nah”, I said. They replied, “We’ll buy”. I said, “You have my attention.”
Approximately 4 hours later, my wife and I incredibly made it back to our hotel in Jersey. Those four girls were absolute angels in the sense that I believe the ghost of Babe Ruth himself sent them to me. They appeared out of nowhere and in the short time with them, they whisked us about the big city to various places. We piled into a cab and went to this place and to that place. My wife mentioned (and I had thought the same thing) that these girls reminded her of each of her college roommates. These girls were just fun to be around. Cute, nice and funny. We had a great time with all of them. It almost seemed like their sole goal was to show us a fun time…and they succeeded.
Of course, rolling in to one’s hotel room in the wee hours of the morning certainly curtails one’s plans to call the airlines and try to get an early morning flight back home. Ironically, that was probably the best thing. Without a change in plans, we stuck around on Saturday and headed back into the city around 10 am. We saw all of the touristy stuff. Walked around Times Square and walked to Rockefeller Plaza. It was pretty cool. As I said before, I’m not a big fan of the big cities, but we had a great day checking things out.
We were at 30 Rockefeller (where NBC is) and there’s a J. Crew store nearby. The wife recalled that two of our friends from the night before worked there. I mentioned that there’s probably more than one J. Crew store in NY and only 20 trillion people in the city. Odds are, these girls won’t be there.
We walk in the store and, wouldn’t you know it, there they are. They stopped what they were doing and ran over and gave us big hugs. Just the nicest, most genuine folks you’d ever want to meet.
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November 2008:
As of this very moment, I am sitting at a table over-looking the Atlantic Ocean (the Gulf of Mexico, to be precise) and watching the waves crash on the beach no more than 50 yards away from me. The warm, salty breeze fills my lungs with life. I feel a lot like Hemingway at this moment with only a few glaring differences such as: He's dead, I'm thankfully not. He was a good writer, I'm rotten. He clicked away on a typewriter in some sort of majestic sea-faring garb, I'm tapping on a laptop wearing a ball cap and a green pair of shorts. Millions of people read his stories, about 5 people will read this garbage I'm hammering out.
My wife's aunt Pam, probably one of the most generous people I know, invited us down to Florida to visit. While here, we've already managed to hit Disney World and such.
Disney is a cool place, obviously, but it's a lot of work taking one’s kids there. It's like a full-court zone defense as you try to keep your eye on them, making sure they don't wander into someone and cause trouble. Also, our kids are downright adorable and beautiful, making them an attractive target for would-be kidnappers.
But Disney does it right. Everything they do is first class and well done. From the hotel we stayed in (very clean), to the food at the cafeteria (prepared and served by non-typical food service folks..like Shaniquwa at the airport) to the way they run their amusement rides. For example, when one goes to Kings Island you stand in a line that barely, if ever, moves and makes the hour of doing nothing feel like 4 hours. But Disney cycles people through so quickly. People are fed through the ride like they're grading cattle ready for slaughter. In addition, they have a thing called "Fast Pass". One uses his admission ticket to get a fast pass for a ride that typically has a longer wait. That person is instructed to come back later between the hourse of, for example 3:15 to 4:15. Upon returning, this person can simple walk into the Fast Pass line and make their way to the front of the line. There are certain rules in place to keep you from just grabbing fast passes all day, so you have to be smart about it and manage your choices. It’s like a game to do it most effectively…and I like that.
The other great thing about their rides is that it's not just a simple maze of twisting ropes to shuffle through as you await your turn. The line itself is, in a sense, part of the ride as it immerses you into the ride. For example, they have an Aerosmith roller coaster (kick ass, by the way) where part of your wait is in a "recording studio" instead of just a plain ol' line. It makes your 20 minute wait feel more like 10 minutes instead. There's nothing worse than shelling out that kind of cash to get into the park only to see the time click away waiting in line. Disney Parks does a great job of optimizing the experience.
I can't tell you how fun it was to take my kids. I guess I feel extra fortunate that my kids are fun no matter what the situation. They're always up for whatever. Needless to say, when you're pulling up to a place like Disney and all of its spectacular sites, you can just see and feel their excitement and giddiness. I was telling my wife that people don't take their kids to places like Disney for their kids’ sake, they take them there for what the parents get out of seeing them there. I'm convinced that we spent more time watching the kids' faces as they watched what was going on.
Our youngest Ava, who is 3 years old and thus now required to buy admission into the park, amazingly turned the clock back a few months and became 2 years old again. Disney is a magical place, you know. We informed Ava to not talk, not make eye contact and to stay firmly in my arms with her head buried as we entered the park, to avoid the questioning eyes of the ticket takers. By the second day, she knew the routine and assumed the position. Once in the park, I whispered "all clear" and without moving, she said "Can I talk now?" I said yes and put her down on the ground at which point she started dancing and jumping around. She was ready to rock!
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How was the Earth created? Where did we come from? What happens when we die? These are all questions that have hung over scientist, philosophers, and thinkers for centuries. Well this one has been plaguing me for...well..a couple of minutes.
Why is it that all the smart kids in school get academic scholarships to go to college? Shouldn't we be giving the free education to the dumb kids so they can be...less dumb? Carrying it further, maybe we should re-evaluate our giving of
athletic scholarships to highly gifted athletes and, instead, give full-rides to the clumsy, uncoordinated stiffs who always get picked last in gym class.
Academic scholarships are strange when you really think about it. Here's a kid that is very smart...the university contacts him/her and offers up free room and board, free books, and a free education to attend their university. The kid accepts...goes to college, studies, passes tests and eventually graduates. What does the school really get out of it? Do you think the Dean of Admissions goes to parties and tells his friends that "We just signed on Lori Jenkins! She is just like Martin Feldman from the class of 2002, except she has better handwriting. Score!!!"
You could argue that athletic scholarships are useless too because the schools aren't technically in the business of growing world-class athletes. However, a good football programs supports a huge portion of a schools operating budget so little Sanji Akbar can come to America and study spirochetes with a fancy new microscope instead of that old, crusty one they'd been using for years.
Besides, nobody cares about your SAT scores or what your term paper is about. They care that your defense was third in the conference against the run and that you just stole a star recruit from USC.
Of course...all of this is probably wrong. I attended college and excelled at neither sports or academics. I knew I was in trouble when my first class was called Quantitative Reasoning and, unbeknownst to me, it was a math class. The teacher might as well have been talking Greek. All I heard was buzzes and clicks. That pretty much set into motion the wheels of utter disappointment in college that ended with the realization that I will spend the rest of my life working for other people...who probably had academic scholarships.
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October 2008
My old high school celebrated 50 years of football at the high school level by recognizing different events at each home game this season. The biggest event was held on a perfect fall evening on October 10th. It was Homecoming that night, but what many in attendance were there for was the honoring of the 50th Anniversary All-Time Football team.
I, along with my brother, was fortunate enough to be named to that team. As the blessed day approached many of my fellow inductees and I decided we should make an all-day event out of this monumental occasion.
So we held the first annual “Norsemen Open”. The Norsemen Club is an idea that my friend Jake and I have pondered long and hard during many late nights, typically after consuming massive quantities of ale. We’re always full of great ideas at that particular time…but those ideas seem to get lost as the beer wears off and we head back to our normal lives. But we always thought it’d be cool to start a club that celebrates the game of football at Miami East. Until just recently, the football program had been wallowing in complete crap-ass rotten-ness. Soon after my class graduated, the program plunged into over a decade long slump that saw them barely winning a single game each year. In planning the Norsemen Club (Miami East’s teams are “The Vikings” thus the Norseman reference) we envisioned a club that convened to support football at the school and provide a sort of identity that current and former players can enjoy. Also, we thought it would be a great way to throw a heck of a party periodically. The club would be pseudo-secretive, yet somehow public. Open exclusively to former Vikings and only football players, this club would operate somewhat covertly and under a dense fog of mystique. Let’s say the team needs a new blocking sled…one day, the men go out to practice and there’s a brand new sled with nothing on it except a small tag that reads “Compliments of the Norsemen Club”.
It harkens back to the days when my mom, on her own, started a 50-50 drawing during the basketball games. It was wildly popular and half of the money went toward the football team. One day, she was told that if she was going to do the drawing that the proceeds would have to be split amongst the other sports. Being true to her family, she said that would be no problem…as long as the soccer program didn’t get any of the money. The school informed her that the soccer program would indeed be a recipient of a portion of the cash. My mom immediately closed the 50-50 program down (essentially telling everyone that soccer can “suck it”..my words, not hers)
This would be where the Norsemen came in. This 50th anniversary celebration was a perfect time for Jake and I to start planting the seed and start organizing this club. Our first event was the Norsemen Open mentioned above. Many of us took off work and convened at the lush rolling hills of Cliffside Golf Course in Tipp City. Here’s the thing about Cliffside: It’s a decent course with interesting hills and valleys (the terrain really doesn’t feel like it belongs here in this part of Ohio). However, they don’t operate on a huge budget. So it’s not the fanciest place, nor the most well-taken-care-of track. But the beauty of what we so lovingly named “Side O’ Cliff” is that 1) it’s cheap 2) it’s hardly ever crowded 3) you can bring your own drinks 4) you can wear a greasy tank top if you chose 5) you can bring your own drinks and 6) you can bring your own drinks. Obviously, this should forever be our home course.
I’m not much for event planning. But it was my duty to get this thing off the ground. We rallied some people up and ended with about 12 guys. I thought about getting a picture with everyone around me as I sat at a long table and had my last supper…but that might have been too much and the Biblical reference would most likely have been lost on many. Anyway, I called the course a day before just to make sure that we’d have no problem teeing off and to let them know the size of our group. I dialed and a lady on the other end said “hello”. I said “hi” and that we were planning on bringing x-amount of people at so and so time on Friday…and I rambled on…then I realized the lady wasn’t replying. I stopped and said “hello?” The “lady” on the other end said “I can’t hear anybody” and hung up.
Fine. Obviously some phone problems and she couldn’t hear me. I’ll try again. I call and say “HI! CAN YOU HEAR ME”. She can’t hear me. But I hear her say, “They’re doing it again…they’re not saying a thing. I’m gonna find that mother(beeper)” and blah blah *#&! blah.
I hung up.
A few minutes later, using their caller ID, I get a call back. This time we can converse and I explain that I was talking and she just couldn’t hear me. She apologized profusely and asked nervously, “You couldn’t hear me…could you??” I told her “yeah…you called me a mother-*”. But it all worked out. The next day at the course, Dave (who flew in from North Carolina for the events) was there first and prepped the lady and told her I was pissed. When I got there, she was very nervous. I kicked the door in and said, “Where’s that lady that called me a (beep)?” Her jaw dropped and she quickly pointed to the side door and said, “I think she went that way?”. Anyway, we had a good laugh and the first annual golf outing went off without a hitch.
After golf that morning, many of us went to get some chicken wings and...you got it…more beers. That left us basically an hour to get ready for the game and the ceremony and, most importantly, time to tailgate.
The whole night was really a great experience. I’m honored to be named to this team and I was excited to have my mom and dad there and, especially, my girls. And of course, my wife…who was standing in the corner of the endzone when I caught my final touchdown and high-fived me way back then. My oldest, Anna, secretly asked her mom if she could wear one of my old jerseys. She came out the next day with my old blue jersey hanging very loosely off her. I about died seeing her with our last name and #83 on the back…it was breath-taking and really meant a lot to me.
It was also great to be honored along with my brother. He was named to the team twice (jerk!) but one couldn’t argue that. He was a member of the greatest team at the school, the 1981 team they called “The Blue Wave”. The defense had 7 shutouts that year (out of 10 games folks!) and they hold virtually all defensive team records. I remember being a kid and standing at the “tunnel” formed by the students where the team would run through and onto the field. Each week I couldn’t wait to stand in that line and to have one of the guys touch my hand. Always…I mean ALWAYS…my brother, in the mass of padded men heading into battle, always found a way to find me and slap my hand. As they left the tunnel and neared the bench, they all huddled together and the last couple of guys would jump into the pile. Those were just things that, especially at that age, were just the coolest things to me and I couldn’t wait for my opportunity to do the same thing.
This night was the first game I had been to since my final game in 1990. Being there was a great opportunity to chat with ex-teammates and joke with the guys and tell “war stories”.
When I arrived that night, it was surreal. I had that nervous/sick feeling in my stomach…the same feeling I’d get before games.
One of my fondest memories of football was that long walk from the locker room to the field. I can picture it and feel it today just like it was yesterday. And when we parked the truck and got out, I had to make that same walk to the field. Back then, it was walking down in your blue jerseys and all of the equipment…buckled, laced, strapped…ready to battle, that really got me ready to play. I always remember the sound of the cleats clicking on the blacktop as we walked through the parking lot as one and the sound of the band growing louder as you neared. Even now, when I hear a band “marching” (and by marching…I mean the music they play when they’re walking…not really a song, but that drum beat as they moved) I still instantly flash back to that walk to the field. The team would meet at the gate for a split second and then burst onto the field and through that very same tunnel of students. I always liked to be last and I went out of my way to slap the kids’ hands and I always jumped on the pile at the end.
It probably sounds corny but it’s just so danged vivid in my mind even to this day.
At halftime of this recent game, before they called us to the field, the current Vikings’ squad walked back to the field to warm up again. They walked right by me and my wife, who was standing by me, and I just smacked a couple of the guys on the helmets and said “keep it up” and some “go get-ems”. As they walked by, I just couldn’t help but think of that same walk I used to take. Later, my wife mentioned that she could just see it in my eyes at that very moment as these kids walked by, what playing football was like for me and what types of emotions run through you. It got to me.
We stood before everyone and as I waited for them to call my name, I heard the names of others being called down the line. They called my brother, who stepped forward and waved. They called my buddies Mike, Dave, Todd, etc…and I could look down the line and see them step in front and acknowledge the crowd. It was a really cool scene and a great memory and something I’m grateful to be a part of.
Of course, I felt I had the best “wave”. When they said “At wide receiver, class of 1991, Mike Jacomet”, I calmly stepped out (before throngs of reaching fans who were screaming and yelling and giving me a standing ovation…well, I might have made that part up) and tipped my cap. The only reason this is significant is because several people later said how cool it was that I tipped my cap. I told them I saw it on an All-Star game once…but I was pretty happy I did something cool and didn’t pass out or crap my pants in front of everyone. (if crapping your pants is cool…consider me Miles Davis)
After the game we all went back to Geneos (the barn that we always watch the Ohio State games at) and enjoyed the rest of the night.
The end of an extremely long and eventful day had drawn near. On the ride home, I smiled and thought of all of the great memories from long ago. I wouldn’t trade my life right now for anything and there’s not a whole lot in my life I’d change if I had to go back…but on a night like that, it’s hard not to think about those times in school, playing ball and all that went with it and not be a little sad that they’re long, long gone. Fortunately, I still live near many of my friends and teammates and we can re-hash the old stories…the same stories we’ve told a hundred times…over a couple of beers. Of course, the ten yard touchdown suddenly turns into a 50 yard jaunt through the entire defense as we tend to embellish the tales as the years go by…but I guess it’s not a bad thing to remember the Glory Days
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I occasionally have coffee every now and then. I probably drink more now then I used to, especially when it’s cold out. My wife has always been a coffee drinker and she recently explained to me this little nugget: “50% of drinking coffee is just holding it.” This makes me laugh because if my wife pours 10 cups of coffee a week, she’ll only drink about half of them. The others are left somewhere in the house, only to be found later where they are then placed into the microwave to be re-heated. Those re-heated cups of coffee are then discovered by me that evening.
A few years ago, my buddies Jake, Mike, Andy, and I went down to Cincinnati to a Bengals game. Only this time, my wife came along for her first pro game (if you can call the Bengals a “pro” team). Due to her inexperience, she wasn’t aware of some of the rules of pre-game tailgating. One of the rules is that, the moment you arrive at your parking spot it’s a rule that you must pop open your first adult beverage of the day. When you figure that we park in a gravel pit, amongst the piles of sand and rocks, and we usually arrive by around 8 am…my wife apparently doesn’t understand that it’s not coffee time. You hear the crack and pop of the cans of beer being popped, the grills being started, and random “Who-Deys” being shouted throughout the lot. Just then, you look over and see my wife unscrewing her thermos and pouring a steaming cup of java into her cup. She grasps it with two hands and holds it close to her face, shuts her eyes and inhales the deep, rich aroma. Meanwhile, the rest of the guys and I stand there, mouths agape and stunned looks on our faces, confused by the fact that she’s drinking coffee and not beer. She looks up at us, equally confused that we are drinking beer and not coffee at 8 o’clock in the morning.
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I’m sitting here in bed (doctor’s orders) watching one of my all-time favorite movies, The Right Stuff. I remember going to see it at a matinee when it first came out with my buddy Clark Allen. He and I had true dreams of being astronauts. I, unfortunately, had (and still have) the mathematical skills of a 3 year old monkey which pretty much rules you out of being accepted into any military academy. Clark could have been one. He was and is one of the smartest people I know, not to mention one of the most creative minds I’ve ever been friends with.
I don’t know if my goal was really to go to space, but to be a fighter pilot. To be a young, crew-cut pilot “pushing the outside of the envelope” and to reap all the benefits (i.e. hot chicks) that went with being a fly-boy were part of my goals as a young man growing up.
My entire family and I have always, for some reason, been in love with flying and probably more specifically, jets. From my mom and dad, to my brother and sister…we’ve always been captivated by the power and thunder of jets. My dad always said he’d mortgage the house just to have one ride in a fighter jet. My mom remembers the first jet landing at Dayton airport (she was there) and used to take me to the Airshow by herself. I remember my family gathering down at a little pond near Tipp City that sometimes was/wasn’t in the flight-line of the airshow, with hopes of just getting a glimpse of one of those jets streaking by. One year, we were all looking in the general direction of where the jets would likely be seen. A fighter is nearly silent until it passes you and the engines get in front of you. As we all stared skyward to the west…out of the east, with no warning came a lone F-18 Blue Angel. It was so low…so loud…that it really scared us. The water rippled on the pond! As the sound passed, I turned to see each of my family, with arms raised triumphantly to the sky and tears most likely in their eyes because there’s just something about the scream of a jet going by that gets to us.
To this day, I always try to get down to Dayton to see the jets fly and I hope that my girls will get the same thrill.
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The end of November and the beginning of December 2008 have been a fairly crappy time for me. Two weeks before Thanksgiving I was fighting the flu and eventually had to take a day off work. I finally got over that and starting feeling fine…in time for the OSU/Michigan game. The following Monday I was driving to work around 5:30 am. I crossed the train tracks on Eldean Rd when suddenly my truck just shot sideways and to the right. I was heading not for a ditch, but toward a huge bank. I braced myself as I hit the embankment and proceeded to flip over and over, ending up in the middle of the road facing the direction I was coming from. I was still strapped into my seat. I always wear my seatbelt but I am not an even bigger proponent of seatbelts. It was remarkable that while I was on my side, driver’s side against the road, I was still firmly in my seat…no slouching or anything.
As I began my tumbling I can honestly say that I was preparing for it. Not to sound macho or tough, but I knew what was coming and I was sorta challenging myself for what was coming. I held tight and fought every roll. I swear that I even recall thinking to myself to “keep my neck straight” because I was afraid of snapping my neck. If I could look at myself I would have to think that I was gritting my teeth and just determined, it was like a challenge to get through it and get home to see my family.
I finally came to rest in the road and it took me a second to orientate myself. My next thought was about getting out because someone else could be coming and hit me. I unhooked my belt and plopped against my driver’s side windshield (which was against the road) I looked straight up to see the passenger-side window busted out. I saw a car pull over to the side and turn to shine his lights on me. I pulled myself out of the window when I heard this fellow yell to me “Get down!!!” I look up to see a pickup truck coming on the same route as me…he was sliding back and forth. I froze. I couldn’t drop back down and I couldn’t get out quick enough. The truck barreled toward me, sideways. I held my breath as he passed no more than 10 feet by my truck. I literally felt the whoosh of wind as he went by me and skidded down a hill and hit a tree. I was shaking horribly and scrambled out of the truck to the side of the road where the first guy had stopped. His name was Brian and I knew him as his kids go to school with mine. He’s a tremendously nice guy and it was nice of him to be there for me.
Luckily, the guy that hit the tree was ok and he and I started to run up the hill to warn others of the impending slick roads.
My hand was bleeding and my neck was killing me but I kept thinking that “hey, I’m walking around here!” The sheriff came and was very nice and remarked about how the roads just started to get icy within the last ten minutes. The ambulance came and cleaned me up and checked me out.
It was raining/sleeting and I was so cold. For some reason, I wore an old Carhartt coat (I hardly ever wear anything but a couple of sweatshirts) which had pockets in it…which I happened to put my cell phone in (which I’d probably never had found after the tumbles). So I had my phone. I called my wife and she answered in a concerned tone. I’m not a deeply religious man or anything but I just told her to say a prayer that I’m ok.
I didn’t want her driving but the sheriff was busy and said he couldn’t take me home for a little bit as he had to take care of things there. My stuff was all over the road. Cds, pictures, receipts, check stubs. Things you don’t really think about. I was able to sift through the mud and muck to find my wallet and my laptop. It was amazing how much dirt was in the cab, which I picked up as I tumbled along. My dad saved a rock that was rather large and said, “there were dozens of rocks like this in the cab…most larger. Can’t believe they didn’t hit you”. When I got home, I had a ton of mud in my nose and ears and some glass stuck in me in different places.
Brian, the guy that pulled over to help called me that night to ask how I was doing. He said, “You know…I can’t get the vision of that truck sliding by you and missing you. I’ve thought about it a hundred times today. You’re very lucky”
Lucky, indeed. The force of the flips actually ripped the back wheels off the axles.
It’s amazing how many people have been concerned about me. It’s heartwarming to know that so many people care.
So Thanksgiving came and it was a blast as usual. Of course, I drove about 50 mph on the way there as I am still nervous about driving.
The week after Thanksgiving started and about Wednesday I started feeling kinda’ bad again. My throat was sore and I ached a bit. Friday evening I went to Urbana to go to a visitation of one of our friends’ father. On the way home, my tongue felt really strange as if I had a swollen taste bud or something. I went home and went to bed. I awoke Saturday morning feeling worse and now, my tongue had swollen to where it nearly filled my mouth! I could hardly breath and, due to the sore throat, couldn’t swallow. My tongue hurt so bad.
My wife took me to the emergency room. I don’t know if I’ve ever been so sick. I don’t really believe in being sick. I mean, sure, we all catch a bug now and then and I’m sure I’m more sympathetic to my children. But I just don’t like being sick, nor do I have the time. I told my wife, the good Lord gives you x-amount of days on this great earth and I hate just wasting them in bed feeling like a stinky pile of poop.
Once in the emergency room, the got me in rather quickly. They immediately put an i.v in me and gave me morphine to ease the pain. I received a ton of medicine through the i.v. and they monitored me closely. They even took me to get a CAT scan. I didn’t even bring my cat! (me so funny). I couldn’t talk at all. Literally, not at all. I was in the hospital for part of the morning and most of the afternoon on Saturday. Noting my distaste for needles, I’ll bet I got stuck 50 thousand times. I hate needles. I’ll never be a heroine addict for that simple fact. It’s notable how comforting it is to be in pain and have your wife and your mom there. There’s something soothing about those two sitting next to the bed.
Not to be overly dramatic, but according to the doctors, I was in some peril. They noted that I was fortunate to come in when I did as it was possible for my airway to be sealed completely. Also, I’m not supposed to do ANYTHING for three days. I find that a bit too much.
As of this moment, it is Sunday around noon and I’m already starting to go stir crazy. I think I finished the internet….I’ve been to every website and explored everything. By the way, try Hulu.com. You can watch episodes of new shows like The Office, Family Guy, etc.. Plus, you can watch full movies. I watched Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels last night for free! (I give that movie a 6 out of 10) I’m watching the movie version of Phantom of the Opera which is VERY good considering I’ve seen the show live 5 times. It holds up very well
I must go back to the doctor Monday, some specialized dude who will tell me what I have.
Needless to say, it’s been an adventurous couple of weeks. I can look at it as a bunch of major inconveniences and pains…but I guess I tend to look at it as I’m still here, I’m still relatively healthy. I’ve got great kids that I still get to see. I have a wonderful wife who continues to take care of me on top of all of her other duties as a parent and bread-winner. I’m quite blessed.
Oh…and to add to my hospital experience, I feel it’s important to “publicly” tell you all how incredibly wonderful the entire staff at UVMC was while I was there. Genuine, caring, knowledgeable folks who seemed to go above and beyond to help me and make me comfortable. Good people.
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I feel there are a few things in this world that should be available to all people free of charge. I don’t think we should have to pay for water, for example. It covers 2/3 of the earth (If I remember correctly) and yet I gotta shell out 2 bucks for a bottle of it.
Also, gas stations shouldn’t charge for Air for your tires. Another thing is Trees. You should be able to just get a tree for free and plop it into the ground wherever you’d like.
My wife claims that feminine hygiene products should also be free. I can’t disagree with that at all, but I refuse to talk any longer about it because I think it gives us all the heebie-jeebies. Ewww.
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I’ve watched a lot of football this weekend. I’ve come to realize a few things.
1. I hate the teams in the SEC (Florida, Alabama, etc..) They’re darned good and they play good football. 2. I throw up in my mouth a little bit every time I see the Steelers on tv. Of course, they’re the Steelers and considering the fact that they were the dominating team of the mid-70s (when most of my demographic spent their formative years) they have a ton of fans. It’s like there are a ton of Patriots fans around now. Win a couple of Super Bowls and suddenly little Tommy from down the street has been a Patriots fan all of his life. Plus, the Steelers are chick-friendly. Some teams open themselves up to having many girls root for them. The Bengals tend not to be chick-friendly for the simple fact that girls don’t like teams that never win and girls are too busy applying rouge and buying skirts to waste time on sad sacks like the Bengals.
It’s kinda like the dickweeds you see driving around town with a big Michigan “M” on their bumper. They are most likely moderate fans of the Wolverines, but their lives are so lame and sorry that they get a stiffy by thinking they’re pissing me off by flaunting enemy colors in obvious Buckeye colors. And you know what? They do piss me off. I wish I had my old 66 Ford with the steel “cattle catcher” on the front grill where I could just t-bone them at an intersection and pinch their door shut.
Drive around and see a chick driving a cuted-up Jeep or something…and they’ve got a Steelers logo on in.
Another thing that boggles my mind…how can game announcers continue to call Rothlicksburger “Big Ben” instead of his normal goofy last name? Not once did I hear them refer to Tony Romo as “Tony”. “Tony, back to pass. Throws to Terrell and Fred makes the tackle” But it’s always Big Ben, Big Ben. We get it: He’s over 6 foot tall and his name is Ben, so you call him Big Ben…like the clock in London. Clever! Now move on so I don’t have to poop myself every time I see this Miami University geeky, turtle-neck and gold chain-wearing doofus with his backward hat on.
And, like the Browns, do the Steelers ever play an away game? Since they’re on tv every week, I see that they always play at home in front of those yellow towel waving drones who continue to piss themselves at the mere mention of Chuck Noll.
Now that I’m finished with my usual Steeler bashing, let me follow this up with a disclaimer. This is not directed at my friends Barb and Eddie who are legitimate Pittsburgh transplants and who both know, understand, and are passionate about their team. Also, it should be noted that I’m a Bengals fan and that I historically have nothing to root for except for whether my team will be getting the first or second pick in the draft. My team is mathematically eliminated from the playoffs by the bye week. And another thing that makes me spitting mad…how do the Detroit Lions get all of this flack for being the worst team in the NFL? How dare they? They have only 1 more loss than the Bengals, my friend! Let’s not sell the Bengies short, they’re tremendous slouches.
Well….at least I have the Reds. Pitchers and catchers report in just a couple more months!
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Here’s what I know about Art. Very little. I’m watching this guy featured on 60 minutes…he’s got a picture of a girl that he re-created (he found it somewhere…so it’s not even his idea) then he put a black stripe through the eyes. He said his father asked him why he blacked the eyes out. To which I answered, “Yeah, dumbass…why’d you do that?” So you’d focus on the face, he said. Wow. You’re a genius. The sad thing: that painting is worth millions. I don’t get it.
Like poetry, for instance. If poetry doesn’t rhyme, then it ain’t poetry, folks. Maya Angelou, give me some rhymes. Bust out a rap song or something. Here’s what passes for “poetry”:
The sand settles on the beach
Carp smell like dirty diapers
Seaweed on my legs freaks me out
Gurgle gurgle goes my sunken beer bottle
See? That isn’t good. The premise is this, can you write a couple of words in a really short sentence, put a title and your name on it? Then you’re a danged Poet, baby!
My two oldest girls chant this:
Girls go to college
to get more knowledge
Boys go to Jupiter
to get more stupider
Yippdy-do, my girls are suddenly world-renowned poets and should start receiving government grants and large paychecks!
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Well, it’s that time of year again…when the winter snows begin to fall and the temperature drops. It’s time once again to become annoyed at the local weather people. Last night, for example, I had my television screen shrunken down to the size of a postage stamp so they could scroll a large message, written in bright red and ALL-CAPS saying that we should expect to get snowfall of “up to a half an inch”. Are you kidding me? Local weather has gotten completely out of control, but this is the last straw! No wonder people are buying 60 inch plasma screen televisions…because they’d like to at least get to view 30 inches of their normal programming after you block the rest with scrolls, dangerous weather symbols, tickers, and station logos.
And a half an inch? “Use caution while driving. Roads may be slick” No crap!?! Local weathermen are no better than the guy who yells “Fire” in a crowded theater. In fact, they’re worse because they’re broadcasting it and spreading panic to thousands and thousands instead of a captive hundred.
I happened to be on the internet the other night during my total disgust in local weather reached a boiling point and I looked into the personal bios on local weathermen. Jamie Simpson, the most visible douchebag in the Dayton viewing area said something to the fact that his most satisfying part of his job is “keeping people safe and warning them of hazardous conditions”. He forgot to mention that he enjoys interrupting prime time programming to tell me there’s going to be a normal summer thunderstorm. I’ll bet he gets a secret thrill knowing that his goofy mug is breaking into a pivotal 3rd down and short situation in the big football game to tell me that it might get down to 31 degrees over night and that any exposed skin might get “really cold”.
They’re the type of people you might work with who are tremendous losers, total goobers who get a big chubby screwing with other people. Like the guy at work who imposes some new policy that does nothing but screw with the normal order of things and causes headaches and troubles for the masses. But he gets to go home and puff out his chest and tell his wife that he’s a big man at work and what he did to screw with everyone. Weather guys are the same way. They go home to their one room apartment and tell their moms (whom they still live with) that they broke into some rare, decent programming to warn the masses of an impending half-inch of snowfall. God Bless you local weather man. Thanks for saving our lives…you douchebag
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Well, I guess that wraps things up for this entry. I truly mean it when I say I'm sorry for not staying on top of this blog. As crazy as it sounds, I think a few folks enjoy reading it and, quite honestly, it's a good way to "journal" some of the things that pop into my tiny head throughout the year.
This entry wasn't full of laughs and wasn't very remarkable in any way, I realize that. I'll try to do better next time.
Have a safe and prosperous 2009.
My last blog entry had a picture of my girls at Christmas time...so I'm cutting it close.
I've got a lot of mind-numbing ramblings and stories that only interest me, and tall tales of things I find amusing yet you may not. I will try to tie a date or month to different entries which may hopefully lead to less confusion. Believe it or not, I have actively been adding to the blog throughout the year…but I haven’t necessarily compiled them into a central place. Proceed with caution.
So let's get right to it.
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September 2008
We recently returned from a quick mid-September trip to New York City. It originally started as a one-nighter, but turned into a two-night ordeal as my wife pointed out “you don’t get to NY too often”. .
It all started when my mom and dad surprised me with tickets to a Yankees game. This is the last season for the stadium that has been home to the Yankees since 1923 Although I hate the Yankees and have a common disdain for the American League in general, I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to see “The House that Ruth Built”.
The wife and I left Friday morning and caught all of our flights on time. We touched down at LaGuardia at 3:30 and searched for the best way to get to our hotel. Our hotel was located just on the New Jersey side of the Hudson River, near the George Washington bridge.
Now it should be noted that my wife and I have been quite a few places and while my sense of direction and ability to navigate is fairly adequate, the wife’s is a hundred times better. The same woman that will lose her phone 5 times a day remarkably can find an alternate route in a foreign city at the snap of a finger. Having said that, once we landed we asked the folks at the information counter what was the best way to our hotel. “Oh, easy…just go here, blah blah..” So on a bus we hopped. Figuring about a half hour, we’d expect to be able to check into our hotel, change and head to the 7 o’clock game.
As we bounced nauseously through the city, stopping abruptly for every traffic snarl (and there were countless snarls) my mind fought through the fact that I can’t stand buses…or other people, for that fact.
Suddenly, amongst the cavern created by the incredibly tall, amazing packed buildings of the city, our driver stopped the bus and told us we were here. “This doesn’t seem like New Jersey.” I thought to myself. We jumped off along with everyone else where a guy told us to wait for the next bus heading where we needed to go. Keep in mind, it is no longer spritzing rain as it had been when we landed…it was essentially a downpour with a little bit of cool wind thrown in for good measure. It’d only be another half hour or so…that’s what they told us. We’re standing on the sidewalk with our luggage and a couple dozen other passengers, pedestrians are trying to get around us..it’s raining and I don’t think we’re even within radar range of our hotel. Amazingly, at the end of the block is this giant, beautiful building called “Grand Central Station”. Our thoughts were…if you can’t get some sort of transportation in this place, you’re a shmuck. So out of line we jumped and we headed to the warm, dry confines of this place that has been a hub of intra-city travel for decades. Once inside we stood and marveled at the architecture and grandeur of this place. It really is impressive and recognizable too! We were trying to think of all of the movies we’ve seen this place in. We headed off to catch a train, a subway, a ferry…anything. Should be simple.
Well, we come to find that no matter where we went or what mode of transportation we tried we were essentially told “you can’t get there from here” or “get a taxi”. We tried the taxi. It’s New York City…you can just stand on the side of the street and hail one of the 50 million cabs you see flying by, right? Wrong. It’s about 4:30 on a Friday. Rush hour. We had to wait in yet another line, on the street, in the rain for about another half hour. Finally, my vacationy, take-it-easy attitude was quickly evaporating.
Eventually we shuffled to the front of the line and got a taxi. We told him where we wanted to go and he looked at us as if we were crazy. He had to flip open some book from underneath his seat just to find it. When a New York cabbie has to go to some book hidden under his seat, you know you’re screwed. He then said, “That’ll run about $175”. Wifey’s jaw hit the floor. My blood started to boil. We got out. We found another bus station, bought tickets and walked to our gate. The line stretched out the door. In line, people told of us 20 different routes we could have gone.
To make a long story short (too late, I know) we somehow (and at this point, I can’t even remember how or how much it cost) we made it to our room. It was already 7 o’clock when we checked in which crushes my rule of being at a ball game 2 hours before the National Anthem, but the steady rain outside made me think there might not be any baseball being played in New York tonight.
I think the thing that was so frustrating was that there was no clear-cut way to get where we needed to go. As I said before, there are a thousand modes of transportation in that city, but we kept getting differing information. We’ve been to Chicago and other towns across America. We’ve been to France and England too. But we’ve never been so screwed up in our sense of direction in our lives.
So we went to the stadium (after a $60 cab ride). We turned a corner and there it was. Yankee Stadium. Even through the dreary drizzle of a mid-September rain, the old place stood like a beacon. I couldn’t walk fast enough to get there.
We walked through the turnstiles and what I really wanted to see is what struck me and the wife first…it was old…and it was cramped. But that’s really the charm of it. We’re so used to being in the latest, state-of-the-art facilities…with their 60 foot wide concourses and Build-A-Bear workshops. But not here. Years of old paint piled on top concrete, steel beams, rivets and giant bolts were the backdrop. While most would see the grunge and “age” as something less than desirable, I saw it as if we were in a time machine. I stood there, taking it all in as people clad in pinstriped jerseys and ball caps made their way around me. 50 years ago, someone was making this very same journey to this very same stadium…but they certainly weren’t in blue jeans and a t-shirt as I was. They were most probably like the old pictures where the guys were in a suit and a brimmed hat. And I’m certain the old timers didn’t pay 60 bucks to get transportation to the ballyard!
As we walked, it was such a sensory experience. If you could throw yourself back to the days of Mantle, Maris, Dimaggio…even farther back to Gehrig and Babe Ruth it probably couldn’t have been too much different. We rounded a corner and I told my wife, “I’m closing my eyes.” She replied “You better..because there it is”
To me, there are few things more perfect than the bright green grass of a baseball field and there’s hardly been a time when I don’t look onto a ball field for the first time without getting a charge out of it. I knew this moment would be different…it would be better.
With my eyes squinted closed while shuffling along the rail up the small corridor and to the opening leading to the field, I could sense I was getting close to opening my eyes. I slowly opened my eyes and there it was. That bright green grass. But what made this more dramatic for me than anything was my thoughts of the folks who called that field their home throughout the years. I mean, many of the greatest ever played here. It was such a feeling I’ll never forget.
I’ve held dear my experiences in these old ballparks. One of my favorites was the old Tiger Stadium, the actual home field of Ty Cobb (some considered the best player ever) during his playing days. That park was great for the same reason it was probably torn down and rebuilt…it was old and dingy, void of luxury boxes and Dippin’ Dots.
My visits to Tiger Stadium and other old parks from the formative days of baseball such as Fenway Park in Boston and Wrigley Field in Chicago were special for the same reasons I mentioned about Yankee Stadium earlier. There’s a romantic, intimate charm about these places. Without going all George Will on you and waxing poetic about these old stadiums, I can’t help but feel a little sad that their days have ended or their days are numbered. I guess there’s something in me that enjoys the bare-bones feeling of these old “cathedrals” (and I think that word is so appropriate in this case) and I consider myself fortunate to have visited these places before they meet the wrecking ball.
So our trip to Yankee stadium ended with the public address system blaring that the game had been cancelled that night. I was a bit disappointed that I didn’t get to see an inning there, but I also know that you don’t have to see a ball pitched or a hitter swing to appreciate what a place like that can offer. I felt sorry for my mom who spent so much time and effort setting everything up and getting the tickets and itinerary straightened away…but I think she knows that I was not disappointed at all.
Yankee Stadium was truly a treat and something I appreciated on so many levels that maybe some other folks, especially other tourists, don’t “get”. I will soon forget the $9.50 beers I gulped down (now I can understand how they afford that huge team payroll) and the chaos of just getting to the park…but I’ll never forget walking up that corridor and seeing the House that Ruth built with my own eyes and spending time there.
As the place emptied, we decided to walk the surrounding area a bit. We neared a sports bar and the wife suggested we should go there. What better way to cap off a hectic day of travel…a day that saw us forking out crazy amounts of cash, finding 37 alternates routes to get where we needed to get, and being stuck in traffic in a place as foreign as the Big Apple…than to have a couple of cold beers with the locals. I step to the bar and order two bottles of plain ol’ Miller Lite. The bartender placed the cold brown bottles into my outstretched hands and my taste buds tingled in anticipation. The bartender then said, “That’ll be $14”. My hands, which were so lovingly caressing the bottles of beer, tightened into fists of rage. 7 bucks for a bottle of freakin’ beer!?! I always think about the story of Larry Bird when he and the other members of the Dream Team (the first Olympic team assembled with professional players…probably the greatest basketball team ever) went to a hotel bar after practice. They’re all millionaires and have lived in luxury most of their professional careers. When Bird ordered his beer and the waitress said it would be $7, he turned it away and said he couldn’t justify paying that much for a bottle of beer. I feel the same way…although I wasn’t going to be hopping into my limo and heading to the Waldorf when I was done…I’d be risking life and limb trekking back across the city on my own…so I paid the money.
I gave a bottle to my wife and said, “Drink this and we’ll go. We’re not staying another day here. We’ll change the flights when we get back.” I got no arguments from her because she knows I don’t really like cities..or people (I think I’ve mentioned that before)
Just as we were finishing these $1.50 beers disguised as $7 pilsners, a young lady came to our table. She’d just stepped out of the rain and asked if she could set her purse there for a second. I told her she could have the table as we were just leaving. Just then, her three friends came over to join her. “Why are you leaving?”, they asked. “Stay and have another drink”. “Nah”, I said. They replied, “We’ll buy”. I said, “You have my attention.”
Approximately 4 hours later, my wife and I incredibly made it back to our hotel in Jersey. Those four girls were absolute angels in the sense that I believe the ghost of Babe Ruth himself sent them to me. They appeared out of nowhere and in the short time with them, they whisked us about the big city to various places. We piled into a cab and went to this place and to that place. My wife mentioned (and I had thought the same thing) that these girls reminded her of each of her college roommates. These girls were just fun to be around. Cute, nice and funny. We had a great time with all of them. It almost seemed like their sole goal was to show us a fun time…and they succeeded.
Of course, rolling in to one’s hotel room in the wee hours of the morning certainly curtails one’s plans to call the airlines and try to get an early morning flight back home. Ironically, that was probably the best thing. Without a change in plans, we stuck around on Saturday and headed back into the city around 10 am. We saw all of the touristy stuff. Walked around Times Square and walked to Rockefeller Plaza. It was pretty cool. As I said before, I’m not a big fan of the big cities, but we had a great day checking things out.
We were at 30 Rockefeller (where NBC is) and there’s a J. Crew store nearby. The wife recalled that two of our friends from the night before worked there. I mentioned that there’s probably more than one J. Crew store in NY and only 20 trillion people in the city. Odds are, these girls won’t be there.
We walk in the store and, wouldn’t you know it, there they are. They stopped what they were doing and ran over and gave us big hugs. Just the nicest, most genuine folks you’d ever want to meet.
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November 2008:
As of this very moment, I am sitting at a table over-looking the Atlantic Ocean (the Gulf of Mexico, to be precise) and watching the waves crash on the beach no more than 50 yards away from me. The warm, salty breeze fills my lungs with life. I feel a lot like Hemingway at this moment with only a few glaring differences such as: He's dead, I'm thankfully not. He was a good writer, I'm rotten. He clicked away on a typewriter in some sort of majestic sea-faring garb, I'm tapping on a laptop wearing a ball cap and a green pair of shorts. Millions of people read his stories, about 5 people will read this garbage I'm hammering out.
My wife's aunt Pam, probably one of the most generous people I know, invited us down to Florida to visit. While here, we've already managed to hit Disney World and such.
Disney is a cool place, obviously, but it's a lot of work taking one’s kids there. It's like a full-court zone defense as you try to keep your eye on them, making sure they don't wander into someone and cause trouble. Also, our kids are downright adorable and beautiful, making them an attractive target for would-be kidnappers.
But Disney does it right. Everything they do is first class and well done. From the hotel we stayed in (very clean), to the food at the cafeteria (prepared and served by non-typical food service folks..like Shaniquwa at the airport) to the way they run their amusement rides. For example, when one goes to Kings Island you stand in a line that barely, if ever, moves and makes the hour of doing nothing feel like 4 hours. But Disney cycles people through so quickly. People are fed through the ride like they're grading cattle ready for slaughter. In addition, they have a thing called "Fast Pass". One uses his admission ticket to get a fast pass for a ride that typically has a longer wait. That person is instructed to come back later between the hourse of, for example 3:15 to 4:15. Upon returning, this person can simple walk into the Fast Pass line and make their way to the front of the line. There are certain rules in place to keep you from just grabbing fast passes all day, so you have to be smart about it and manage your choices. It’s like a game to do it most effectively…and I like that.
The other great thing about their rides is that it's not just a simple maze of twisting ropes to shuffle through as you await your turn. The line itself is, in a sense, part of the ride as it immerses you into the ride. For example, they have an Aerosmith roller coaster (kick ass, by the way) where part of your wait is in a "recording studio" instead of just a plain ol' line. It makes your 20 minute wait feel more like 10 minutes instead. There's nothing worse than shelling out that kind of cash to get into the park only to see the time click away waiting in line. Disney Parks does a great job of optimizing the experience.
I can't tell you how fun it was to take my kids. I guess I feel extra fortunate that my kids are fun no matter what the situation. They're always up for whatever. Needless to say, when you're pulling up to a place like Disney and all of its spectacular sites, you can just see and feel their excitement and giddiness. I was telling my wife that people don't take their kids to places like Disney for their kids’ sake, they take them there for what the parents get out of seeing them there. I'm convinced that we spent more time watching the kids' faces as they watched what was going on.
Our youngest Ava, who is 3 years old and thus now required to buy admission into the park, amazingly turned the clock back a few months and became 2 years old again. Disney is a magical place, you know. We informed Ava to not talk, not make eye contact and to stay firmly in my arms with her head buried as we entered the park, to avoid the questioning eyes of the ticket takers. By the second day, she knew the routine and assumed the position. Once in the park, I whispered "all clear" and without moving, she said "Can I talk now?" I said yes and put her down on the ground at which point she started dancing and jumping around. She was ready to rock!
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How was the Earth created? Where did we come from? What happens when we die? These are all questions that have hung over scientist, philosophers, and thinkers for centuries. Well this one has been plaguing me for...well..a couple of minutes.
Why is it that all the smart kids in school get academic scholarships to go to college? Shouldn't we be giving the free education to the dumb kids so they can be...less dumb? Carrying it further, maybe we should re-evaluate our giving of
athletic scholarships to highly gifted athletes and, instead, give full-rides to the clumsy, uncoordinated stiffs who always get picked last in gym class.
Academic scholarships are strange when you really think about it. Here's a kid that is very smart...the university contacts him/her and offers up free room and board, free books, and a free education to attend their university. The kid accepts...goes to college, studies, passes tests and eventually graduates. What does the school really get out of it? Do you think the Dean of Admissions goes to parties and tells his friends that "We just signed on Lori Jenkins! She is just like Martin Feldman from the class of 2002, except she has better handwriting. Score!!!"
You could argue that athletic scholarships are useless too because the schools aren't technically in the business of growing world-class athletes. However, a good football programs supports a huge portion of a schools operating budget so little Sanji Akbar can come to America and study spirochetes with a fancy new microscope instead of that old, crusty one they'd been using for years.
Besides, nobody cares about your SAT scores or what your term paper is about. They care that your defense was third in the conference against the run and that you just stole a star recruit from USC.
Of course...all of this is probably wrong. I attended college and excelled at neither sports or academics. I knew I was in trouble when my first class was called Quantitative Reasoning and, unbeknownst to me, it was a math class. The teacher might as well have been talking Greek. All I heard was buzzes and clicks. That pretty much set into motion the wheels of utter disappointment in college that ended with the realization that I will spend the rest of my life working for other people...who probably had academic scholarships.
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October 2008
My old high school celebrated 50 years of football at the high school level by recognizing different events at each home game this season. The biggest event was held on a perfect fall evening on October 10th. It was Homecoming that night, but what many in attendance were there for was the honoring of the 50th Anniversary All-Time Football team.
I, along with my brother, was fortunate enough to be named to that team. As the blessed day approached many of my fellow inductees and I decided we should make an all-day event out of this monumental occasion.
So we held the first annual “Norsemen Open”. The Norsemen Club is an idea that my friend Jake and I have pondered long and hard during many late nights, typically after consuming massive quantities of ale. We’re always full of great ideas at that particular time…but those ideas seem to get lost as the beer wears off and we head back to our normal lives. But we always thought it’d be cool to start a club that celebrates the game of football at Miami East. Until just recently, the football program had been wallowing in complete crap-ass rotten-ness. Soon after my class graduated, the program plunged into over a decade long slump that saw them barely winning a single game each year. In planning the Norsemen Club (Miami East’s teams are “The Vikings” thus the Norseman reference) we envisioned a club that convened to support football at the school and provide a sort of identity that current and former players can enjoy. Also, we thought it would be a great way to throw a heck of a party periodically. The club would be pseudo-secretive, yet somehow public. Open exclusively to former Vikings and only football players, this club would operate somewhat covertly and under a dense fog of mystique. Let’s say the team needs a new blocking sled…one day, the men go out to practice and there’s a brand new sled with nothing on it except a small tag that reads “Compliments of the Norsemen Club”.
It harkens back to the days when my mom, on her own, started a 50-50 drawing during the basketball games. It was wildly popular and half of the money went toward the football team. One day, she was told that if she was going to do the drawing that the proceeds would have to be split amongst the other sports. Being true to her family, she said that would be no problem…as long as the soccer program didn’t get any of the money. The school informed her that the soccer program would indeed be a recipient of a portion of the cash. My mom immediately closed the 50-50 program down (essentially telling everyone that soccer can “suck it”..my words, not hers)
This would be where the Norsemen came in. This 50th anniversary celebration was a perfect time for Jake and I to start planting the seed and start organizing this club. Our first event was the Norsemen Open mentioned above. Many of us took off work and convened at the lush rolling hills of Cliffside Golf Course in Tipp City. Here’s the thing about Cliffside: It’s a decent course with interesting hills and valleys (the terrain really doesn’t feel like it belongs here in this part of Ohio). However, they don’t operate on a huge budget. So it’s not the fanciest place, nor the most well-taken-care-of track. But the beauty of what we so lovingly named “Side O’ Cliff” is that 1) it’s cheap 2) it’s hardly ever crowded 3) you can bring your own drinks 4) you can wear a greasy tank top if you chose 5) you can bring your own drinks and 6) you can bring your own drinks. Obviously, this should forever be our home course.
I’m not much for event planning. But it was my duty to get this thing off the ground. We rallied some people up and ended with about 12 guys. I thought about getting a picture with everyone around me as I sat at a long table and had my last supper…but that might have been too much and the Biblical reference would most likely have been lost on many. Anyway, I called the course a day before just to make sure that we’d have no problem teeing off and to let them know the size of our group. I dialed and a lady on the other end said “hello”. I said “hi” and that we were planning on bringing x-amount of people at so and so time on Friday…and I rambled on…then I realized the lady wasn’t replying. I stopped and said “hello?” The “lady” on the other end said “I can’t hear anybody” and hung up.
Fine. Obviously some phone problems and she couldn’t hear me. I’ll try again. I call and say “HI! CAN YOU HEAR ME”. She can’t hear me. But I hear her say, “They’re doing it again…they’re not saying a thing. I’m gonna find that mother(beeper)” and blah blah *#&! blah.
I hung up.
A few minutes later, using their caller ID, I get a call back. This time we can converse and I explain that I was talking and she just couldn’t hear me. She apologized profusely and asked nervously, “You couldn’t hear me…could you??” I told her “yeah…you called me a mother-*”. But it all worked out. The next day at the course, Dave (who flew in from North Carolina for the events) was there first and prepped the lady and told her I was pissed. When I got there, she was very nervous. I kicked the door in and said, “Where’s that lady that called me a (beep)?” Her jaw dropped and she quickly pointed to the side door and said, “I think she went that way?”. Anyway, we had a good laugh and the first annual golf outing went off without a hitch.
After golf that morning, many of us went to get some chicken wings and...you got it…more beers. That left us basically an hour to get ready for the game and the ceremony and, most importantly, time to tailgate.
The whole night was really a great experience. I’m honored to be named to this team and I was excited to have my mom and dad there and, especially, my girls. And of course, my wife…who was standing in the corner of the endzone when I caught my final touchdown and high-fived me way back then. My oldest, Anna, secretly asked her mom if she could wear one of my old jerseys. She came out the next day with my old blue jersey hanging very loosely off her. I about died seeing her with our last name and #83 on the back…it was breath-taking and really meant a lot to me.
It was also great to be honored along with my brother. He was named to the team twice (jerk!) but one couldn’t argue that. He was a member of the greatest team at the school, the 1981 team they called “The Blue Wave”. The defense had 7 shutouts that year (out of 10 games folks!) and they hold virtually all defensive team records. I remember being a kid and standing at the “tunnel” formed by the students where the team would run through and onto the field. Each week I couldn’t wait to stand in that line and to have one of the guys touch my hand. Always…I mean ALWAYS…my brother, in the mass of padded men heading into battle, always found a way to find me and slap my hand. As they left the tunnel and neared the bench, they all huddled together and the last couple of guys would jump into the pile. Those were just things that, especially at that age, were just the coolest things to me and I couldn’t wait for my opportunity to do the same thing.
This night was the first game I had been to since my final game in 1990. Being there was a great opportunity to chat with ex-teammates and joke with the guys and tell “war stories”.
When I arrived that night, it was surreal. I had that nervous/sick feeling in my stomach…the same feeling I’d get before games.
One of my fondest memories of football was that long walk from the locker room to the field. I can picture it and feel it today just like it was yesterday. And when we parked the truck and got out, I had to make that same walk to the field. Back then, it was walking down in your blue jerseys and all of the equipment…buckled, laced, strapped…ready to battle, that really got me ready to play. I always remember the sound of the cleats clicking on the blacktop as we walked through the parking lot as one and the sound of the band growing louder as you neared. Even now, when I hear a band “marching” (and by marching…I mean the music they play when they’re walking…not really a song, but that drum beat as they moved) I still instantly flash back to that walk to the field. The team would meet at the gate for a split second and then burst onto the field and through that very same tunnel of students. I always liked to be last and I went out of my way to slap the kids’ hands and I always jumped on the pile at the end.
It probably sounds corny but it’s just so danged vivid in my mind even to this day.
At halftime of this recent game, before they called us to the field, the current Vikings’ squad walked back to the field to warm up again. They walked right by me and my wife, who was standing by me, and I just smacked a couple of the guys on the helmets and said “keep it up” and some “go get-ems”. As they walked by, I just couldn’t help but think of that same walk I used to take. Later, my wife mentioned that she could just see it in my eyes at that very moment as these kids walked by, what playing football was like for me and what types of emotions run through you. It got to me.
We stood before everyone and as I waited for them to call my name, I heard the names of others being called down the line. They called my brother, who stepped forward and waved. They called my buddies Mike, Dave, Todd, etc…and I could look down the line and see them step in front and acknowledge the crowd. It was a really cool scene and a great memory and something I’m grateful to be a part of.
Of course, I felt I had the best “wave”. When they said “At wide receiver, class of 1991, Mike Jacomet”, I calmly stepped out (before throngs of reaching fans who were screaming and yelling and giving me a standing ovation…well, I might have made that part up) and tipped my cap. The only reason this is significant is because several people later said how cool it was that I tipped my cap. I told them I saw it on an All-Star game once…but I was pretty happy I did something cool and didn’t pass out or crap my pants in front of everyone. (if crapping your pants is cool…consider me Miles Davis)
After the game we all went back to Geneos (the barn that we always watch the Ohio State games at) and enjoyed the rest of the night.
The end of an extremely long and eventful day had drawn near. On the ride home, I smiled and thought of all of the great memories from long ago. I wouldn’t trade my life right now for anything and there’s not a whole lot in my life I’d change if I had to go back…but on a night like that, it’s hard not to think about those times in school, playing ball and all that went with it and not be a little sad that they’re long, long gone. Fortunately, I still live near many of my friends and teammates and we can re-hash the old stories…the same stories we’ve told a hundred times…over a couple of beers. Of course, the ten yard touchdown suddenly turns into a 50 yard jaunt through the entire defense as we tend to embellish the tales as the years go by…but I guess it’s not a bad thing to remember the Glory Days
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I occasionally have coffee every now and then. I probably drink more now then I used to, especially when it’s cold out. My wife has always been a coffee drinker and she recently explained to me this little nugget: “50% of drinking coffee is just holding it.” This makes me laugh because if my wife pours 10 cups of coffee a week, she’ll only drink about half of them. The others are left somewhere in the house, only to be found later where they are then placed into the microwave to be re-heated. Those re-heated cups of coffee are then discovered by me that evening.
A few years ago, my buddies Jake, Mike, Andy, and I went down to Cincinnati to a Bengals game. Only this time, my wife came along for her first pro game (if you can call the Bengals a “pro” team). Due to her inexperience, she wasn’t aware of some of the rules of pre-game tailgating. One of the rules is that, the moment you arrive at your parking spot it’s a rule that you must pop open your first adult beverage of the day. When you figure that we park in a gravel pit, amongst the piles of sand and rocks, and we usually arrive by around 8 am…my wife apparently doesn’t understand that it’s not coffee time. You hear the crack and pop of the cans of beer being popped, the grills being started, and random “Who-Deys” being shouted throughout the lot. Just then, you look over and see my wife unscrewing her thermos and pouring a steaming cup of java into her cup. She grasps it with two hands and holds it close to her face, shuts her eyes and inhales the deep, rich aroma. Meanwhile, the rest of the guys and I stand there, mouths agape and stunned looks on our faces, confused by the fact that she’s drinking coffee and not beer. She looks up at us, equally confused that we are drinking beer and not coffee at 8 o’clock in the morning.
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I’m sitting here in bed (doctor’s orders) watching one of my all-time favorite movies, The Right Stuff. I remember going to see it at a matinee when it first came out with my buddy Clark Allen. He and I had true dreams of being astronauts. I, unfortunately, had (and still have) the mathematical skills of a 3 year old monkey which pretty much rules you out of being accepted into any military academy. Clark could have been one. He was and is one of the smartest people I know, not to mention one of the most creative minds I’ve ever been friends with.
I don’t know if my goal was really to go to space, but to be a fighter pilot. To be a young, crew-cut pilot “pushing the outside of the envelope” and to reap all the benefits (i.e. hot chicks) that went with being a fly-boy were part of my goals as a young man growing up.
My entire family and I have always, for some reason, been in love with flying and probably more specifically, jets. From my mom and dad, to my brother and sister…we’ve always been captivated by the power and thunder of jets. My dad always said he’d mortgage the house just to have one ride in a fighter jet. My mom remembers the first jet landing at Dayton airport (she was there) and used to take me to the Airshow by herself. I remember my family gathering down at a little pond near Tipp City that sometimes was/wasn’t in the flight-line of the airshow, with hopes of just getting a glimpse of one of those jets streaking by. One year, we were all looking in the general direction of where the jets would likely be seen. A fighter is nearly silent until it passes you and the engines get in front of you. As we all stared skyward to the west…out of the east, with no warning came a lone F-18 Blue Angel. It was so low…so loud…that it really scared us. The water rippled on the pond! As the sound passed, I turned to see each of my family, with arms raised triumphantly to the sky and tears most likely in their eyes because there’s just something about the scream of a jet going by that gets to us.
To this day, I always try to get down to Dayton to see the jets fly and I hope that my girls will get the same thrill.
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The end of November and the beginning of December 2008 have been a fairly crappy time for me. Two weeks before Thanksgiving I was fighting the flu and eventually had to take a day off work. I finally got over that and starting feeling fine…in time for the OSU/Michigan game. The following Monday I was driving to work around 5:30 am. I crossed the train tracks on Eldean Rd when suddenly my truck just shot sideways and to the right. I was heading not for a ditch, but toward a huge bank. I braced myself as I hit the embankment and proceeded to flip over and over, ending up in the middle of the road facing the direction I was coming from. I was still strapped into my seat. I always wear my seatbelt but I am not an even bigger proponent of seatbelts. It was remarkable that while I was on my side, driver’s side against the road, I was still firmly in my seat…no slouching or anything.
As I began my tumbling I can honestly say that I was preparing for it. Not to sound macho or tough, but I knew what was coming and I was sorta challenging myself for what was coming. I held tight and fought every roll. I swear that I even recall thinking to myself to “keep my neck straight” because I was afraid of snapping my neck. If I could look at myself I would have to think that I was gritting my teeth and just determined, it was like a challenge to get through it and get home to see my family.
I finally came to rest in the road and it took me a second to orientate myself. My next thought was about getting out because someone else could be coming and hit me. I unhooked my belt and plopped against my driver’s side windshield (which was against the road) I looked straight up to see the passenger-side window busted out. I saw a car pull over to the side and turn to shine his lights on me. I pulled myself out of the window when I heard this fellow yell to me “Get down!!!” I look up to see a pickup truck coming on the same route as me…he was sliding back and forth. I froze. I couldn’t drop back down and I couldn’t get out quick enough. The truck barreled toward me, sideways. I held my breath as he passed no more than 10 feet by my truck. I literally felt the whoosh of wind as he went by me and skidded down a hill and hit a tree. I was shaking horribly and scrambled out of the truck to the side of the road where the first guy had stopped. His name was Brian and I knew him as his kids go to school with mine. He’s a tremendously nice guy and it was nice of him to be there for me.
Luckily, the guy that hit the tree was ok and he and I started to run up the hill to warn others of the impending slick roads.
My hand was bleeding and my neck was killing me but I kept thinking that “hey, I’m walking around here!” The sheriff came and was very nice and remarked about how the roads just started to get icy within the last ten minutes. The ambulance came and cleaned me up and checked me out.
It was raining/sleeting and I was so cold. For some reason, I wore an old Carhartt coat (I hardly ever wear anything but a couple of sweatshirts) which had pockets in it…which I happened to put my cell phone in (which I’d probably never had found after the tumbles). So I had my phone. I called my wife and she answered in a concerned tone. I’m not a deeply religious man or anything but I just told her to say a prayer that I’m ok.
I didn’t want her driving but the sheriff was busy and said he couldn’t take me home for a little bit as he had to take care of things there. My stuff was all over the road. Cds, pictures, receipts, check stubs. Things you don’t really think about. I was able to sift through the mud and muck to find my wallet and my laptop. It was amazing how much dirt was in the cab, which I picked up as I tumbled along. My dad saved a rock that was rather large and said, “there were dozens of rocks like this in the cab…most larger. Can’t believe they didn’t hit you”. When I got home, I had a ton of mud in my nose and ears and some glass stuck in me in different places.
Brian, the guy that pulled over to help called me that night to ask how I was doing. He said, “You know…I can’t get the vision of that truck sliding by you and missing you. I’ve thought about it a hundred times today. You’re very lucky”
Lucky, indeed. The force of the flips actually ripped the back wheels off the axles.
It’s amazing how many people have been concerned about me. It’s heartwarming to know that so many people care.
So Thanksgiving came and it was a blast as usual. Of course, I drove about 50 mph on the way there as I am still nervous about driving.
The week after Thanksgiving started and about Wednesday I started feeling kinda’ bad again. My throat was sore and I ached a bit. Friday evening I went to Urbana to go to a visitation of one of our friends’ father. On the way home, my tongue felt really strange as if I had a swollen taste bud or something. I went home and went to bed. I awoke Saturday morning feeling worse and now, my tongue had swollen to where it nearly filled my mouth! I could hardly breath and, due to the sore throat, couldn’t swallow. My tongue hurt so bad.
My wife took me to the emergency room. I don’t know if I’ve ever been so sick. I don’t really believe in being sick. I mean, sure, we all catch a bug now and then and I’m sure I’m more sympathetic to my children. But I just don’t like being sick, nor do I have the time. I told my wife, the good Lord gives you x-amount of days on this great earth and I hate just wasting them in bed feeling like a stinky pile of poop.
Once in the emergency room, the got me in rather quickly. They immediately put an i.v in me and gave me morphine to ease the pain. I received a ton of medicine through the i.v. and they monitored me closely. They even took me to get a CAT scan. I didn’t even bring my cat! (me so funny). I couldn’t talk at all. Literally, not at all. I was in the hospital for part of the morning and most of the afternoon on Saturday. Noting my distaste for needles, I’ll bet I got stuck 50 thousand times. I hate needles. I’ll never be a heroine addict for that simple fact. It’s notable how comforting it is to be in pain and have your wife and your mom there. There’s something soothing about those two sitting next to the bed.
Not to be overly dramatic, but according to the doctors, I was in some peril. They noted that I was fortunate to come in when I did as it was possible for my airway to be sealed completely. Also, I’m not supposed to do ANYTHING for three days. I find that a bit too much.
As of this moment, it is Sunday around noon and I’m already starting to go stir crazy. I think I finished the internet….I’ve been to every website and explored everything. By the way, try Hulu.com. You can watch episodes of new shows like The Office, Family Guy, etc.. Plus, you can watch full movies. I watched Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels last night for free! (I give that movie a 6 out of 10) I’m watching the movie version of Phantom of the Opera which is VERY good considering I’ve seen the show live 5 times. It holds up very well
I must go back to the doctor Monday, some specialized dude who will tell me what I have.
Needless to say, it’s been an adventurous couple of weeks. I can look at it as a bunch of major inconveniences and pains…but I guess I tend to look at it as I’m still here, I’m still relatively healthy. I’ve got great kids that I still get to see. I have a wonderful wife who continues to take care of me on top of all of her other duties as a parent and bread-winner. I’m quite blessed.
Oh…and to add to my hospital experience, I feel it’s important to “publicly” tell you all how incredibly wonderful the entire staff at UVMC was while I was there. Genuine, caring, knowledgeable folks who seemed to go above and beyond to help me and make me comfortable. Good people.
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I feel there are a few things in this world that should be available to all people free of charge. I don’t think we should have to pay for water, for example. It covers 2/3 of the earth (If I remember correctly) and yet I gotta shell out 2 bucks for a bottle of it.
Also, gas stations shouldn’t charge for Air for your tires. Another thing is Trees. You should be able to just get a tree for free and plop it into the ground wherever you’d like.
My wife claims that feminine hygiene products should also be free. I can’t disagree with that at all, but I refuse to talk any longer about it because I think it gives us all the heebie-jeebies. Ewww.
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I’ve watched a lot of football this weekend. I’ve come to realize a few things.
1. I hate the teams in the SEC (Florida, Alabama, etc..) They’re darned good and they play good football. 2. I throw up in my mouth a little bit every time I see the Steelers on tv. Of course, they’re the Steelers and considering the fact that they were the dominating team of the mid-70s (when most of my demographic spent their formative years) they have a ton of fans. It’s like there are a ton of Patriots fans around now. Win a couple of Super Bowls and suddenly little Tommy from down the street has been a Patriots fan all of his life. Plus, the Steelers are chick-friendly. Some teams open themselves up to having many girls root for them. The Bengals tend not to be chick-friendly for the simple fact that girls don’t like teams that never win and girls are too busy applying rouge and buying skirts to waste time on sad sacks like the Bengals.
It’s kinda like the dickweeds you see driving around town with a big Michigan “M” on their bumper. They are most likely moderate fans of the Wolverines, but their lives are so lame and sorry that they get a stiffy by thinking they’re pissing me off by flaunting enemy colors in obvious Buckeye colors. And you know what? They do piss me off. I wish I had my old 66 Ford with the steel “cattle catcher” on the front grill where I could just t-bone them at an intersection and pinch their door shut.
Drive around and see a chick driving a cuted-up Jeep or something…and they’ve got a Steelers logo on in.
Another thing that boggles my mind…how can game announcers continue to call Rothlicksburger “Big Ben” instead of his normal goofy last name? Not once did I hear them refer to Tony Romo as “Tony”. “Tony, back to pass. Throws to Terrell and Fred makes the tackle” But it’s always Big Ben, Big Ben. We get it: He’s over 6 foot tall and his name is Ben, so you call him Big Ben…like the clock in London. Clever! Now move on so I don’t have to poop myself every time I see this Miami University geeky, turtle-neck and gold chain-wearing doofus with his backward hat on.
And, like the Browns, do the Steelers ever play an away game? Since they’re on tv every week, I see that they always play at home in front of those yellow towel waving drones who continue to piss themselves at the mere mention of Chuck Noll.
Now that I’m finished with my usual Steeler bashing, let me follow this up with a disclaimer. This is not directed at my friends Barb and Eddie who are legitimate Pittsburgh transplants and who both know, understand, and are passionate about their team. Also, it should be noted that I’m a Bengals fan and that I historically have nothing to root for except for whether my team will be getting the first or second pick in the draft. My team is mathematically eliminated from the playoffs by the bye week. And another thing that makes me spitting mad…how do the Detroit Lions get all of this flack for being the worst team in the NFL? How dare they? They have only 1 more loss than the Bengals, my friend! Let’s not sell the Bengies short, they’re tremendous slouches.
Well….at least I have the Reds. Pitchers and catchers report in just a couple more months!
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Here’s what I know about Art. Very little. I’m watching this guy featured on 60 minutes…he’s got a picture of a girl that he re-created (he found it somewhere…so it’s not even his idea) then he put a black stripe through the eyes. He said his father asked him why he blacked the eyes out. To which I answered, “Yeah, dumbass…why’d you do that?” So you’d focus on the face, he said. Wow. You’re a genius. The sad thing: that painting is worth millions. I don’t get it.
Like poetry, for instance. If poetry doesn’t rhyme, then it ain’t poetry, folks. Maya Angelou, give me some rhymes. Bust out a rap song or something. Here’s what passes for “poetry”:
The sand settles on the beach
Carp smell like dirty diapers
Seaweed on my legs freaks me out
Gurgle gurgle goes my sunken beer bottle
See? That isn’t good. The premise is this, can you write a couple of words in a really short sentence, put a title and your name on it? Then you’re a danged Poet, baby!
My two oldest girls chant this:
Girls go to college
to get more knowledge
Boys go to Jupiter
to get more stupider
Yippdy-do, my girls are suddenly world-renowned poets and should start receiving government grants and large paychecks!
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Well, it’s that time of year again…when the winter snows begin to fall and the temperature drops. It’s time once again to become annoyed at the local weather people. Last night, for example, I had my television screen shrunken down to the size of a postage stamp so they could scroll a large message, written in bright red and ALL-CAPS saying that we should expect to get snowfall of “up to a half an inch”. Are you kidding me? Local weather has gotten completely out of control, but this is the last straw! No wonder people are buying 60 inch plasma screen televisions…because they’d like to at least get to view 30 inches of their normal programming after you block the rest with scrolls, dangerous weather symbols, tickers, and station logos.
And a half an inch? “Use caution while driving. Roads may be slick” No crap!?! Local weathermen are no better than the guy who yells “Fire” in a crowded theater. In fact, they’re worse because they’re broadcasting it and spreading panic to thousands and thousands instead of a captive hundred.
I happened to be on the internet the other night during my total disgust in local weather reached a boiling point and I looked into the personal bios on local weathermen. Jamie Simpson, the most visible douchebag in the Dayton viewing area said something to the fact that his most satisfying part of his job is “keeping people safe and warning them of hazardous conditions”. He forgot to mention that he enjoys interrupting prime time programming to tell me there’s going to be a normal summer thunderstorm. I’ll bet he gets a secret thrill knowing that his goofy mug is breaking into a pivotal 3rd down and short situation in the big football game to tell me that it might get down to 31 degrees over night and that any exposed skin might get “really cold”.
They’re the type of people you might work with who are tremendous losers, total goobers who get a big chubby screwing with other people. Like the guy at work who imposes some new policy that does nothing but screw with the normal order of things and causes headaches and troubles for the masses. But he gets to go home and puff out his chest and tell his wife that he’s a big man at work and what he did to screw with everyone. Weather guys are the same way. They go home to their one room apartment and tell their moms (whom they still live with) that they broke into some rare, decent programming to warn the masses of an impending half-inch of snowfall. God Bless you local weather man. Thanks for saving our lives…you douchebag
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Well, I guess that wraps things up for this entry. I truly mean it when I say I'm sorry for not staying on top of this blog. As crazy as it sounds, I think a few folks enjoy reading it and, quite honestly, it's a good way to "journal" some of the things that pop into my tiny head throughout the year.
This entry wasn't full of laughs and wasn't very remarkable in any way, I realize that. I'll try to do better next time.
Have a safe and prosperous 2009.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Workouts, Ragu, and So Long 2007
Welcome back to the blog, loyal readers! This will be the last post of 2007 and I want to thank all of you for tuning in this year (all 3 of you) 2007 kinda' sucked, so good riddance! Here's wishing you all a Merry Christmas and a happy, healthy, and safe New Year!
I hesitate to even mention this, but I might as well (if only for the fact that it gives me a great opportunity to write about it) See, instead of ballooning to 587 lbs, I thought I’d try to work out at a gym a little. Of course, the results are not obvious because after working out, I tend to ingest about 8900 calories when I get home. There’s nothing better than having a great workout then coming home and sucking down some twinkies, baking some cookies, pounding 13 beers, and then heading out to supper. Underneath this layer of globulating blubber is a rock-hard, chiseled Atlas of a man. Trust me. You just have to do a lot of searching to find it.
But seriously, although I’m not really shedding any significant pounds, I do feel a bit better about myself and I think that is fairly important in the whole scheme of things. And, as an added bonus, I don’t walk around like Jarred, the goober assbag from the Subway commercials, holding my ginormous pants around showing off the weight I lost. Man, I hate that guy.
I’ve never been a big fan of “working out”. Even when I played sports, I loathed going to the weight room. What’s more, I despise running. There’s no point in running unless you’re being chased. If you involve running into a sport…with a ball and scoreboard…then I’m all in. But to run for the sake of running…well, that’s just downright insane. Perhaps if I lived in Kenya and had nothing to do all day except swat flies from my face and run from leopards, then running would be okay.
The more I think about running, the more I realize that besides a slight jog on a treadmill, I haven’t really run in years. Running is like writing in cursive for me. It’s been so long since I’ve done either, that I have trouble remembering the last time I’ve done it and in fact, how to actually do it. Isn’t that really amazing? I’ve completely given up an entire means of communication! I’ve basically said, “To hell with your cursive letters…your flowing words…your efficient pen strokes! I’m going back to printing like I did back in 2nd grade!” Am I the only one that sees the significance in this complete abolishment of cursive writing? There needs to be some scientific study as to why a 35 year old man has essentially forgotten how to write in cursive, has reverted back to his earliest form of written communication, and has no desire to change? I find that extraordinarily odd. I might as well walk around with an inkwell and dip a feather into it…that’s how inefficient my current means of writing has become.
Anyhow, back to the gym. I don’t even like to use “working out” “going to the gym” or “exercising” in my vocabulary. It just sounds funny to me. “Yeah…going to the gym, baby. Workin’ out ya’ know.” If I mention to the wife where I was, I stammer and stutter as if I was down at the docks trying to pick up sailors or something. I’m just not comfortable talking about it.
But going to the gym offers one a unique perspective into those other folks who inhabit the sweat-stained space you share. You see all types of people at the gym. I’m pretty confident in saying that the rarest species you’ll find there is the normal, “just trying to lose a little weight” guy. The fella that comes in, tries to get a good sweat going…maybe lift a few stacks of weights, showers and gets the hell out of there.
I will attempt to identify and describe some of the various species of workout people that you may come in contact with if you were to venture into this jungle we call, “The Gym”
Odd, Psycho Guy:
This fella slinks around the free weights mostly. He peers at everyone through his shifty eyes as if he knows something about you. There’s a particular guy where I go that exhibits these characteristics. However, his most revealing attribute is the fact that he has a patch of hair on his forearm that can hardly be explained by my limited vocabulary. He’s not a particularly hairy guy (from what I can see…and NO…I haven’t followed him into the showers…yet) and he doesn’t have tufts of hair billowing from beneath his white t-shirt. But this chap has about a 6 inch oval of hair starting from roughly the wristwatch area, extending to midway through his forearm. The hair is easily an inch tall and is thick as a rug and black as midnight. I’m still doing surveillance but I have to believe one of two things: 1. he shaves the hair around this peculiar patch or 2. he has a high concentration of hair-grow juice in that one area of his body. Either way, it’s intriguing, eye-catching, and fairly disturbing.
Backward Hat Guy:
Here’s a few instances where it’s acceptable to wear a ballcap backwards. If you’re directing artillery from a bunker hideout…fine. If you’re taking batting practice before the All-Star game…okay. If you’re a wound-up football defensive coordinator and you’ve got headphones on to talk to “the booth”…I can handle that. But if you’re going to a fitness place situated in between a cash advance store, a Radio Shack, and a Pizza Hut delivery depot…then you’re a giant douchebag.
These guys are a dime a dozen. And to be honest, they probably bother me more they should. In fact, a perfect example of a backward hat guy is Ben Roethlisburger, the giant douchebag quarterback of the Steelers. Backward hat guy as well as Lil Ben are the type of guys you see hanging out at the Brewery on a Tuesday night. They’ll be draped in gold chains and fancy jeans…possibly a turtleneck as they stand at the bar and send out the “mojo” to da’ ladiefolk.
These fellas tend to hang out in the free weight area as well, and most of their time is spent staring into the mirrors in front of them. This guy typically has two earrings, will be wearing sweat pants or Zubas, and wearing some sort of fingerless gloves. Backward Hat Guy will probably be driving a souped up Durango that has its suspension lowered and a lot of items hanging from his rearview mirror. A few years ago, this person would have definitely had the “No Fear” sticker somewhere on his auto…but that’s so 1990s, and he’s way cooler than that. He’ll also always be 5’6” and under.
The thing that always makes me laugh about Backward Hat Guy is that he thinks this is Venice Beach or Gold’s Gym instead of the Mini-Gym next to the Cash Advance. He’s there to throw some lead around and he wants everyone in the room to know it. Everytime he lifts a weight, he’ll grunt uncomfortably loud and/or make the loud “ppsssshhhhh” as he expels the breath from his hulking midget body. At the end of his set, he lets the weights crash to the ground in a resounding “thud”, letting all of us know he has completed his task of hulking out. The rest of us should stop what we are doing and applaud, but for some reason, we continue doing our thing.
Chatty Guy
Chatty Guy is at the gym for one reason and one reason only…to chat with everyone there (especially the ladies). He’ll be clad in normal workout garb and, generally, has a pleasant demeanor and a smile on his face. I’ve got no problems with Chatty Guy, but it seems odd to me that this guy pays his membership, packs his bag, heads to the gym, dresses into his workout clothes and then…well…then he hangs around people who are working out.
Dressed Up-Slacks Guy
Many years ago, I used to go to the YMCA and now I belong to this little local gym. But in both places, I’ve found the same cast of characters. Dressed Up-Slacks Guy is certainly one of the constants you’ll most likely run into while working out. Like Chatty Guy, this fella seems like a good person and always offers up a smile. While Chatty Guy probably does 3 minutes of “work” while at the gym (and most of that occurs when he’s getting his workout clothes on), Dressed Up-Slacks guy puts out a little more effort. What makes him unique though is that he doesn’t bother changing clothes. I think he plans on going to the gym and says “Got my Dockers on. Loafers. And button-down oxford shirt. Check! I’m ready to work it out”. He subscribes to the point of view that only suckers own a gym bag. He figures, you know what…I’m going to work out a little bit, lightly sponge off, and then catch a show and maybe some dinner. He’s ready for an emergency meeting to break out. If the gym instantaneously turned into a church, he’d be dressed appropriately to be an usher and hand out the collection basket.
When cold weather hits, you should be able to see Dressed Up-Slacks Guy with the same garb on, only he may be wearing a sweatshirt with his alma mater silk-screened on the front.
In Shape Soccer Guy
You can always pick a soccer guy out of any crowd. He’s always thin, very tidy, and dressed in the latest fashions from some metrosexual boutique at the mall. Another dead give away is that he’ll be wearing black adidas shoes, making out with another dude, and handing out communist party propaganda.
In Shape Soccer Guy really doesn’t need to be at the gym because, as I his name suggests, he tends to be in pretty good shape. The only problem you may have if you encounter him is that he’ll be apt to watching a soccer match while jogging on the treadmill. Don’t panic. Yes, it’s frightening that a station in America would waste airtime broadcasting a soccer game, but be not afraid my friend. What you need to do is quietly walk behind him and gently reach up and lightly grab his headphone cord and wrap it into the drivegear of the treadmill.
Oscillating Fan Lady
This lady is very prominent at most health clubs throughout the country. They think that it’s ridiculous to go workout at a gym and actually sweat. So, they turn every fan in the joint on and direct them their way. Instead of working up a good sweat you find yourself trying to fight off hypothermia (SP) as frostbite has set in to your extremities. The blast emanating from the fans shoots a steady stream of arctic air into face as your eyes tear up, then freeze. If I were jogging in a parka and wearing a sealskin cap, perhaps I would be a bit more comfortable.
So, if you decide to venture out into this cruel world of physical fitness, be aware of the people I previously mentioned. Many of them won’t harm you but most of them will annoy you.
The other day, I attended a small carry-in luncheon at work to celebrate our last day before the holiday break. While there, I was able to visit with a lot of folks that I just don’t get much opportunity to talk with.
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Well, I was sitting with a couple of guys and we were joking about this and that when one of them brought up “this girl” who works for an outside company and visits once a week to check stock on certain items. She’s a salesperson and her clients, in this case, are manufacturing people. What does that matter? Well…she’s apparently very good looking and quite a revealing dresser. **Editor’s note: I have not personally seen her, but according to eyewitness accounts, her level of hotness is very high**
But the story they told me is one that I feel could have been cut right out of a movie and give you a glimpse inside a typical day in a manufacturing facility. A couple of guys sitting around a picnic table in the middle of a manufacturing plant, eating carried-in meatballs and cold cuts talking about what most guys talk about while often sprinkling in multiple combinations of cuss words (for effect). The one fella told me that this very good looking lady told him about the day that her dog ate her thong (which I feel is a strong marketing ploy and would certainly make me consider her for more business. Let’s see, give the business to some greasy guy or some chick who wears thongs…no brainer if you ask me) Anyhow, this guy was telling the story of her telling him about the thong-eating dog. He finishes by saying “and she said it caused a lot of rectal bleeding”. Now picture this: We’re sitting there, mouths wide open in stunned silence at this entire tale when he hits us with the “rectal bleeding” line. In perfect comedic timing (and the reason this scene should be in a movie), each one of us, in unison, and true concern asked “who had the rectal bleeding…the dog or her?” About 5 seconds past and then we all broke out into laughter.
I don’t know, I guess it’s one of those things where “you had to be there”…but I found it to be one of those funny moments that I’ll probably never forget.
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What I’m about to say is, to some, horrible and unspeakable. But it is time that I finally got it off my chest. I’ve lived with this notion all of my life and it is at this time in my years on this earth to finally open up and tell the world. Ok….here it goes….Ragu spaghetti sauce is way better than any spaghetti sauce you have ever made or eaten.
Wow…I feel much better.
I’ve been fortunate that my wife’s family are quite adept in their culinary skills. Her aunt and uncle both make homemade stuff all of the time (her aunt’s whole grain bread should be against the law it’s so good). Her cousins from Michigan make some incredible recipes…everything from soups to main courses to desserts.
When it comes to spaghetti, everyone has tried their hand at crafting the perfect sauce. They use only the freshest, homegrown ingredients, nurtured and cultivated by their own hands. Their sweat and care spill into the rich soil and at harvest time they reap the rewards of their work by hoisting high above their head a gift from Mother Nature…a perfect tomato. This tomato soon becomes primary ingredient in which they will craft their homemade spaghetti sauce. They’ll doctor up their brew with some exotic herbs and spices…a dash of some ground up weed, a slice of some root.
I’ve had different spaghetti meals from different people and quite honestly, they’re all pretty good. You throw in some homemade meatballs…then you’ve just increased the deliciousness by a factor of ten.
But I do have to say that no matter how much hard work and fresh, home-grown ingredients go into this sauce…it’s no match for a simple 10 ounce jar of Ragu. Not the fancy “Robusto” or “Chunky” sauces…just the smooth stylings just as the good lord intended.
I am looking at the jar right now and marveling at all of the natural goodness packed inside. I kinda’ half expected to defend the fact that the contents included toxins and 14 products from Dow Chemical…but not so! Ingredients? Tomatoes and some other natural stuff. The real beauty of a jar of Ragu is this…you pay about $1.50, you pop the jar open, heat then enjoy.
“Yeah, but it doesn’t taste as good as my homemade sauce?” some might say. To that I say, You’re right…it doesn’t taste as good as your sauce…it tastes 15 times better!
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The other day, my middle daughter, Sophie and I were riding along listening to some music and she was dancing and clapping. Suddenly she stops and looks at me very seriously and says, “Dad, I think I have a clapping infection”. Holding back laughter, I asked her what exactly a clapping infection was. My first thoughts, when I heard the words “clap” and “infection”, were of shore leave in the Philippines back in ’63. But Sophie cleared up my misconceptions by explaining that her clapping infection occurred when she clapped her hands really hard. It stung her hands, therefore, she figured that she had a clapping infection.
With my youngest, Ava, she eliminated any doubt she was actually mine, she told me the other day that “Me hate people”. Ahh…the honesty of little kids. Out of the mouths of babes…my little girl already feels like I do most of the time toward other members of the human race.
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I passed a Highway Patrol car the other day and on the side of it, it read “Excellence in Service”. A seemingly innocuous phrase plastered on the side of a patrol car, but the more I thought about it, the more it puzzled me. Why would the Highway Patrol take the time, effort, and expense to have a decal made to put on their car promoting the fact that they excel in service when, in reality, they’re not competing against anyone? If there was some competition in the field of law enforcement and patrolling highways, I’d understand. But they’ve kinda cornered the market in this niche. They’re a monopoly in terms of walking the beat of our state’s highways. I doubt that they have shareholders who are sitting around a boardroom saying “Men, profits are down at the highway patrol. The Sheriff’s department and local police are cutting into our profits big-time. Law breakers are giving their business to them instead of us. We need to let these convicts know that we write better tickets and pull people over better than anyone!”
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One of my favorite television channels is the History channel. They have a show called Modern Marvels where they focus on everything from battleships, roller coasters, distilleries, bullets and rocks. But you have to like the guts of a show when they do a whole half hour devoted to another great Modern marvel…Cold cuts! I thought to myself, “Are you kidding me?”. The show turned out to be very interesting as they took an in depth look “behind the deli counter to reveal the secret ingredients in boloney”. They didn’t focus solely on meat but also touched on packaging and spiral slicers. Actually, it was quite interesting.
I was hoping they’d do a little more to explain what that shiny, pearlescent segment you sometimes find in roast beef at Arby’s actually is… or maybe delve deep into the bitter, timeless debate of Chipped or Sliced that has the potential to tear this nation into half.
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It’s time once again to jump into a popular segment where we open up the mailbag and answer actual reader’s letters. Let’s get right to it:
From Mark in Pottawattamie, Iowa:
Hey, your beloved Bengals stink and will finish the year below .500. Ha!
Dear Mark, you are obviously a classless moron who spends his day digging boogers out of his nose and taking care of your housecats. I’m sure you’re probably wearing a Roethlisburger jersey too. Since you are, without a doubt, a halfwitted imbecile asshead, I must point out from going through the J-Bird Blog archives, that I said I’d eat my hat if they Bengals finished above 8-8 and that “if they win more than 7 games, they should fall to the ground and pray to Allah” (blog entry September 7, 2007)
Again, you don’t take a team that was nearly last in all defensive categories…add no significant free agents and not draft well and expect to miraculously get better. Just doesn’t happen.
Mark, you are a simpleton and I command you to never tune into my blog again. This site has standards ya’ know. (when we figure out what those standards are, we’ll let you know)
From Tammy in Tarpon Springs, Florida:
Bird, I imagine you penning these great blog works while sitting in a massive private library while a small fire crackles in the fireplace and you sip brandy while perched in a large leather chair, contemplating your next topic. Is it like that?
Tammy, sorry to blow up this mental image you have of me, but none of that is true. This question has been asked a few times previously. In fact, if you go through the archives, you'll find that this similar question was asked.
Anyhow, if you had said that I’d be sitting at my kitchen table in a pair of old shorts, a torn Reds t-shirt, with a chaw of Redman in, and drinking a glass of chocolate milk, then you’d have me nailed. Sometimes I listen to music when I write (in fact, right this minute I’m listening to the Best of Neil Diamond. Terrific! Reminds me of being a kid on Sunday mornings…dad would always be playing his Neil Diamond tape while working in the basement). What I’m doing here is not quite as romantic as you envision. But if your mental picture helps you enjoy the blog more, then so be it.
*To give you more background on the environment I write in…my daughter Anna just walked up to me and said, “I just sneezed and LOOK” as she revealed a giant gob of snot stuck to her nose. I’m betting Hemingway and Steinbeck didn’t work in these conditions!
From Sindee in Las Vegas, Nevada
Mr Bird, I understand that you have been working on building a new barn. How is that project going? Will there be a brass pole installed inside?
Excellent question, Sindee. Thanks for asking about the barn and my pole. The brass pole has not been installed…yet.
The barn is done and it looks great! We’re very pleased with the construction and the care that was taken while it was built. We now have a concrete floor and we’re about ¾ of the way done with the re-construction of The Bird’s Nest…the most famous “workshop” in the county, which was disassembled while in the old barn and many of the components were saved. We have a bunch of landscaping to do once the weather turns favorable, but in the meantime, we’re starting to get things organized inside.
Sindee, when my shop gets complete, you can come by and get a personal tour of the place.
From John in Gallup City, Montana
Please explain to me how in the hell Brady Quinn gets his own Subway commercial?
John, I just saw that commercial a minute ago. I sat here dumbfounded. How can a back up quarterback get a television commercial? Plus, when you factor in that he’s a Cleveland Brown…well, I just can’t explain it. Consider this: Most Browns fans are penniless, living in the streets waiting for government cheese handouts. They can’t afford an expensive submarine sandwich! Subway is trying to appeal to the wrong demographic.
This now confirms I’m right about my lifelong boycott of Subway and their $6 sandwiches with a couple of paper-thin pieces of meat. Plus, I hate Jared.
I hesitate to even mention this, but I might as well (if only for the fact that it gives me a great opportunity to write about it) See, instead of ballooning to 587 lbs, I thought I’d try to work out at a gym a little. Of course, the results are not obvious because after working out, I tend to ingest about 8900 calories when I get home. There’s nothing better than having a great workout then coming home and sucking down some twinkies, baking some cookies, pounding 13 beers, and then heading out to supper. Underneath this layer of globulating blubber is a rock-hard, chiseled Atlas of a man. Trust me. You just have to do a lot of searching to find it.
But seriously, although I’m not really shedding any significant pounds, I do feel a bit better about myself and I think that is fairly important in the whole scheme of things. And, as an added bonus, I don’t walk around like Jarred, the goober assbag from the Subway commercials, holding my ginormous pants around showing off the weight I lost. Man, I hate that guy.
I’ve never been a big fan of “working out”. Even when I played sports, I loathed going to the weight room. What’s more, I despise running. There’s no point in running unless you’re being chased. If you involve running into a sport…with a ball and scoreboard…then I’m all in. But to run for the sake of running…well, that’s just downright insane. Perhaps if I lived in Kenya and had nothing to do all day except swat flies from my face and run from leopards, then running would be okay.
The more I think about running, the more I realize that besides a slight jog on a treadmill, I haven’t really run in years. Running is like writing in cursive for me. It’s been so long since I’ve done either, that I have trouble remembering the last time I’ve done it and in fact, how to actually do it. Isn’t that really amazing? I’ve completely given up an entire means of communication! I’ve basically said, “To hell with your cursive letters…your flowing words…your efficient pen strokes! I’m going back to printing like I did back in 2nd grade!” Am I the only one that sees the significance in this complete abolishment of cursive writing? There needs to be some scientific study as to why a 35 year old man has essentially forgotten how to write in cursive, has reverted back to his earliest form of written communication, and has no desire to change? I find that extraordinarily odd. I might as well walk around with an inkwell and dip a feather into it…that’s how inefficient my current means of writing has become.
Anyhow, back to the gym. I don’t even like to use “working out” “going to the gym” or “exercising” in my vocabulary. It just sounds funny to me. “Yeah…going to the gym, baby. Workin’ out ya’ know.” If I mention to the wife where I was, I stammer and stutter as if I was down at the docks trying to pick up sailors or something. I’m just not comfortable talking about it.
But going to the gym offers one a unique perspective into those other folks who inhabit the sweat-stained space you share. You see all types of people at the gym. I’m pretty confident in saying that the rarest species you’ll find there is the normal, “just trying to lose a little weight” guy. The fella that comes in, tries to get a good sweat going…maybe lift a few stacks of weights, showers and gets the hell out of there.
I will attempt to identify and describe some of the various species of workout people that you may come in contact with if you were to venture into this jungle we call, “The Gym”
Odd, Psycho Guy:
This fella slinks around the free weights mostly. He peers at everyone through his shifty eyes as if he knows something about you. There’s a particular guy where I go that exhibits these characteristics. However, his most revealing attribute is the fact that he has a patch of hair on his forearm that can hardly be explained by my limited vocabulary. He’s not a particularly hairy guy (from what I can see…and NO…I haven’t followed him into the showers…yet) and he doesn’t have tufts of hair billowing from beneath his white t-shirt. But this chap has about a 6 inch oval of hair starting from roughly the wristwatch area, extending to midway through his forearm. The hair is easily an inch tall and is thick as a rug and black as midnight. I’m still doing surveillance but I have to believe one of two things: 1. he shaves the hair around this peculiar patch or 2. he has a high concentration of hair-grow juice in that one area of his body. Either way, it’s intriguing, eye-catching, and fairly disturbing.
Backward Hat Guy:
Here’s a few instances where it’s acceptable to wear a ballcap backwards. If you’re directing artillery from a bunker hideout…fine. If you’re taking batting practice before the All-Star game…okay. If you’re a wound-up football defensive coordinator and you’ve got headphones on to talk to “the booth”…I can handle that. But if you’re going to a fitness place situated in between a cash advance store, a Radio Shack, and a Pizza Hut delivery depot…then you’re a giant douchebag.
These guys are a dime a dozen. And to be honest, they probably bother me more they should. In fact, a perfect example of a backward hat guy is Ben Roethlisburger, the giant douchebag quarterback of the Steelers. Backward hat guy as well as Lil Ben are the type of guys you see hanging out at the Brewery on a Tuesday night. They’ll be draped in gold chains and fancy jeans…possibly a turtleneck as they stand at the bar and send out the “mojo” to da’ ladiefolk.
These fellas tend to hang out in the free weight area as well, and most of their time is spent staring into the mirrors in front of them. This guy typically has two earrings, will be wearing sweat pants or Zubas, and wearing some sort of fingerless gloves. Backward Hat Guy will probably be driving a souped up Durango that has its suspension lowered and a lot of items hanging from his rearview mirror. A few years ago, this person would have definitely had the “No Fear” sticker somewhere on his auto…but that’s so 1990s, and he’s way cooler than that. He’ll also always be 5’6” and under.
The thing that always makes me laugh about Backward Hat Guy is that he thinks this is Venice Beach or Gold’s Gym instead of the Mini-Gym next to the Cash Advance. He’s there to throw some lead around and he wants everyone in the room to know it. Everytime he lifts a weight, he’ll grunt uncomfortably loud and/or make the loud “ppsssshhhhh” as he expels the breath from his hulking midget body. At the end of his set, he lets the weights crash to the ground in a resounding “thud”, letting all of us know he has completed his task of hulking out. The rest of us should stop what we are doing and applaud, but for some reason, we continue doing our thing.
Chatty Guy
Chatty Guy is at the gym for one reason and one reason only…to chat with everyone there (especially the ladies). He’ll be clad in normal workout garb and, generally, has a pleasant demeanor and a smile on his face. I’ve got no problems with Chatty Guy, but it seems odd to me that this guy pays his membership, packs his bag, heads to the gym, dresses into his workout clothes and then…well…then he hangs around people who are working out.
Dressed Up-Slacks Guy
Many years ago, I used to go to the YMCA and now I belong to this little local gym. But in both places, I’ve found the same cast of characters. Dressed Up-Slacks Guy is certainly one of the constants you’ll most likely run into while working out. Like Chatty Guy, this fella seems like a good person and always offers up a smile. While Chatty Guy probably does 3 minutes of “work” while at the gym (and most of that occurs when he’s getting his workout clothes on), Dressed Up-Slacks guy puts out a little more effort. What makes him unique though is that he doesn’t bother changing clothes. I think he plans on going to the gym and says “Got my Dockers on. Loafers. And button-down oxford shirt. Check! I’m ready to work it out”. He subscribes to the point of view that only suckers own a gym bag. He figures, you know what…I’m going to work out a little bit, lightly sponge off, and then catch a show and maybe some dinner. He’s ready for an emergency meeting to break out. If the gym instantaneously turned into a church, he’d be dressed appropriately to be an usher and hand out the collection basket.
When cold weather hits, you should be able to see Dressed Up-Slacks Guy with the same garb on, only he may be wearing a sweatshirt with his alma mater silk-screened on the front.
In Shape Soccer Guy
You can always pick a soccer guy out of any crowd. He’s always thin, very tidy, and dressed in the latest fashions from some metrosexual boutique at the mall. Another dead give away is that he’ll be wearing black adidas shoes, making out with another dude, and handing out communist party propaganda.
In Shape Soccer Guy really doesn’t need to be at the gym because, as I his name suggests, he tends to be in pretty good shape. The only problem you may have if you encounter him is that he’ll be apt to watching a soccer match while jogging on the treadmill. Don’t panic. Yes, it’s frightening that a station in America would waste airtime broadcasting a soccer game, but be not afraid my friend. What you need to do is quietly walk behind him and gently reach up and lightly grab his headphone cord and wrap it into the drivegear of the treadmill.
Oscillating Fan Lady
This lady is very prominent at most health clubs throughout the country. They think that it’s ridiculous to go workout at a gym and actually sweat. So, they turn every fan in the joint on and direct them their way. Instead of working up a good sweat you find yourself trying to fight off hypothermia (SP) as frostbite has set in to your extremities. The blast emanating from the fans shoots a steady stream of arctic air into face as your eyes tear up, then freeze. If I were jogging in a parka and wearing a sealskin cap, perhaps I would be a bit more comfortable.
So, if you decide to venture out into this cruel world of physical fitness, be aware of the people I previously mentioned. Many of them won’t harm you but most of them will annoy you.
The other day, I attended a small carry-in luncheon at work to celebrate our last day before the holiday break. While there, I was able to visit with a lot of folks that I just don’t get much opportunity to talk with.
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Well, I was sitting with a couple of guys and we were joking about this and that when one of them brought up “this girl” who works for an outside company and visits once a week to check stock on certain items. She’s a salesperson and her clients, in this case, are manufacturing people. What does that matter? Well…she’s apparently very good looking and quite a revealing dresser. **Editor’s note: I have not personally seen her, but according to eyewitness accounts, her level of hotness is very high**
But the story they told me is one that I feel could have been cut right out of a movie and give you a glimpse inside a typical day in a manufacturing facility. A couple of guys sitting around a picnic table in the middle of a manufacturing plant, eating carried-in meatballs and cold cuts talking about what most guys talk about while often sprinkling in multiple combinations of cuss words (for effect). The one fella told me that this very good looking lady told him about the day that her dog ate her thong (which I feel is a strong marketing ploy and would certainly make me consider her for more business. Let’s see, give the business to some greasy guy or some chick who wears thongs…no brainer if you ask me) Anyhow, this guy was telling the story of her telling him about the thong-eating dog. He finishes by saying “and she said it caused a lot of rectal bleeding”. Now picture this: We’re sitting there, mouths wide open in stunned silence at this entire tale when he hits us with the “rectal bleeding” line. In perfect comedic timing (and the reason this scene should be in a movie), each one of us, in unison, and true concern asked “who had the rectal bleeding…the dog or her?” About 5 seconds past and then we all broke out into laughter.
I don’t know, I guess it’s one of those things where “you had to be there”…but I found it to be one of those funny moments that I’ll probably never forget.
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What I’m about to say is, to some, horrible and unspeakable. But it is time that I finally got it off my chest. I’ve lived with this notion all of my life and it is at this time in my years on this earth to finally open up and tell the world. Ok….here it goes….Ragu spaghetti sauce is way better than any spaghetti sauce you have ever made or eaten.
Wow…I feel much better.
I’ve been fortunate that my wife’s family are quite adept in their culinary skills. Her aunt and uncle both make homemade stuff all of the time (her aunt’s whole grain bread should be against the law it’s so good). Her cousins from Michigan make some incredible recipes…everything from soups to main courses to desserts.
When it comes to spaghetti, everyone has tried their hand at crafting the perfect sauce. They use only the freshest, homegrown ingredients, nurtured and cultivated by their own hands. Their sweat and care spill into the rich soil and at harvest time they reap the rewards of their work by hoisting high above their head a gift from Mother Nature…a perfect tomato. This tomato soon becomes primary ingredient in which they will craft their homemade spaghetti sauce. They’ll doctor up their brew with some exotic herbs and spices…a dash of some ground up weed, a slice of some root.
I’ve had different spaghetti meals from different people and quite honestly, they’re all pretty good. You throw in some homemade meatballs…then you’ve just increased the deliciousness by a factor of ten.
But I do have to say that no matter how much hard work and fresh, home-grown ingredients go into this sauce…it’s no match for a simple 10 ounce jar of Ragu. Not the fancy “Robusto” or “Chunky” sauces…just the smooth stylings just as the good lord intended.
I am looking at the jar right now and marveling at all of the natural goodness packed inside. I kinda’ half expected to defend the fact that the contents included toxins and 14 products from Dow Chemical…but not so! Ingredients? Tomatoes and some other natural stuff. The real beauty of a jar of Ragu is this…you pay about $1.50, you pop the jar open, heat then enjoy.
“Yeah, but it doesn’t taste as good as my homemade sauce?” some might say. To that I say, You’re right…it doesn’t taste as good as your sauce…it tastes 15 times better!
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The other day, my middle daughter, Sophie and I were riding along listening to some music and she was dancing and clapping. Suddenly she stops and looks at me very seriously and says, “Dad, I think I have a clapping infection”. Holding back laughter, I asked her what exactly a clapping infection was. My first thoughts, when I heard the words “clap” and “infection”, were of shore leave in the Philippines back in ’63. But Sophie cleared up my misconceptions by explaining that her clapping infection occurred when she clapped her hands really hard. It stung her hands, therefore, she figured that she had a clapping infection.
With my youngest, Ava, she eliminated any doubt she was actually mine, she told me the other day that “Me hate people”. Ahh…the honesty of little kids. Out of the mouths of babes…my little girl already feels like I do most of the time toward other members of the human race.
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I passed a Highway Patrol car the other day and on the side of it, it read “Excellence in Service”. A seemingly innocuous phrase plastered on the side of a patrol car, but the more I thought about it, the more it puzzled me. Why would the Highway Patrol take the time, effort, and expense to have a decal made to put on their car promoting the fact that they excel in service when, in reality, they’re not competing against anyone? If there was some competition in the field of law enforcement and patrolling highways, I’d understand. But they’ve kinda cornered the market in this niche. They’re a monopoly in terms of walking the beat of our state’s highways. I doubt that they have shareholders who are sitting around a boardroom saying “Men, profits are down at the highway patrol. The Sheriff’s department and local police are cutting into our profits big-time. Law breakers are giving their business to them instead of us. We need to let these convicts know that we write better tickets and pull people over better than anyone!”
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One of my favorite television channels is the History channel. They have a show called Modern Marvels where they focus on everything from battleships, roller coasters, distilleries, bullets and rocks. But you have to like the guts of a show when they do a whole half hour devoted to another great Modern marvel…Cold cuts! I thought to myself, “Are you kidding me?”. The show turned out to be very interesting as they took an in depth look “behind the deli counter to reveal the secret ingredients in boloney”. They didn’t focus solely on meat but also touched on packaging and spiral slicers. Actually, it was quite interesting.
I was hoping they’d do a little more to explain what that shiny, pearlescent segment you sometimes find in roast beef at Arby’s actually is… or maybe delve deep into the bitter, timeless debate of Chipped or Sliced that has the potential to tear this nation into half.
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It’s time once again to jump into a popular segment where we open up the mailbag and answer actual reader’s letters. Let’s get right to it:
From Mark in Pottawattamie, Iowa:
Hey, your beloved Bengals stink and will finish the year below .500. Ha!
Dear Mark, you are obviously a classless moron who spends his day digging boogers out of his nose and taking care of your housecats. I’m sure you’re probably wearing a Roethlisburger jersey too. Since you are, without a doubt, a halfwitted imbecile asshead, I must point out from going through the J-Bird Blog archives, that I said I’d eat my hat if they Bengals finished above 8-8 and that “if they win more than 7 games, they should fall to the ground and pray to Allah” (blog entry September 7, 2007)
Again, you don’t take a team that was nearly last in all defensive categories…add no significant free agents and not draft well and expect to miraculously get better. Just doesn’t happen.
Mark, you are a simpleton and I command you to never tune into my blog again. This site has standards ya’ know. (when we figure out what those standards are, we’ll let you know)
From Tammy in Tarpon Springs, Florida:
Bird, I imagine you penning these great blog works while sitting in a massive private library while a small fire crackles in the fireplace and you sip brandy while perched in a large leather chair, contemplating your next topic. Is it like that?
Tammy, sorry to blow up this mental image you have of me, but none of that is true. This question has been asked a few times previously. In fact, if you go through the archives, you'll find that this similar question was asked.
Anyhow, if you had said that I’d be sitting at my kitchen table in a pair of old shorts, a torn Reds t-shirt, with a chaw of Redman in, and drinking a glass of chocolate milk, then you’d have me nailed. Sometimes I listen to music when I write (in fact, right this minute I’m listening to the Best of Neil Diamond. Terrific! Reminds me of being a kid on Sunday mornings…dad would always be playing his Neil Diamond tape while working in the basement). What I’m doing here is not quite as romantic as you envision. But if your mental picture helps you enjoy the blog more, then so be it.
*To give you more background on the environment I write in…my daughter Anna just walked up to me and said, “I just sneezed and LOOK” as she revealed a giant gob of snot stuck to her nose. I’m betting Hemingway and Steinbeck didn’t work in these conditions!
From Sindee in Las Vegas, Nevada
Mr Bird, I understand that you have been working on building a new barn. How is that project going? Will there be a brass pole installed inside?
Excellent question, Sindee. Thanks for asking about the barn and my pole. The brass pole has not been installed…yet.
The barn is done and it looks great! We’re very pleased with the construction and the care that was taken while it was built. We now have a concrete floor and we’re about ¾ of the way done with the re-construction of The Bird’s Nest…the most famous “workshop” in the county, which was disassembled while in the old barn and many of the components were saved. We have a bunch of landscaping to do once the weather turns favorable, but in the meantime, we’re starting to get things organized inside.
Sindee, when my shop gets complete, you can come by and get a personal tour of the place.
From John in Gallup City, Montana
Please explain to me how in the hell Brady Quinn gets his own Subway commercial?
John, I just saw that commercial a minute ago. I sat here dumbfounded. How can a back up quarterback get a television commercial? Plus, when you factor in that he’s a Cleveland Brown…well, I just can’t explain it. Consider this: Most Browns fans are penniless, living in the streets waiting for government cheese handouts. They can’t afford an expensive submarine sandwich! Subway is trying to appeal to the wrong demographic.
This now confirms I’m right about my lifelong boycott of Subway and their $6 sandwiches with a couple of paper-thin pieces of meat. Plus, I hate Jared.
Friday, September 07, 2007
Good Ol' Summer Time
Hello again everyone. Thanks for tuning in to the Blog. I like my title this posting because it's a line from a song by Heywood Banks. I now feel like I am required to give you a few stanzas from this classic song:
Sneezing from the Pollen,
The chain caught my shoe-string,
Hit the center bar on my bicycle,
And almost lost my bearings,
I Love Summer,
Good ol' summer time,
I got sunburned on the soles of my feet,
Lot of sand where the sun don't shine.
Caught a baseball with my face,
Potato salad in the sun,
Salmonella steps up to the plate,
Listeria gets the run.
I Love Summer,
Good ol' summer time,
I got sunburned at the back of my throat,
And sand behind my eye...
This summer has found me quite busy with various projects and activities.
Perhaps the biggest endeavor ever tackled by me is "The Barn Project". We
have had an old barn on our property that has been there probably since the
birth of our Nation. In fact, I saw the initials "G.W." etched into the
mighty ancient timbers. George Freakin Washington! The father of our country, taking time during the construction of this barn to whittle his initials into the wooden beams. Of course, the G.W. could stand for George White, but I like to think that it was George Washington...makes for a better story.
The barn had started sagging and shifting. Some of the loft beams had
started to crack and fall. The roof was like a sieve, especially after one
particular incident two winters ago. I was raising two hogs in that barn
and the birds had been causing all kinds of havoc. They were eating all my
feed and crapping worse than Kirstie Alley after all you can eat Clam Night
at the Lobster Haus. I figured I'd shake them up a bit and fire my shotgun
in their general direction. I did and a few of them scattered but most
remained. This kinda' irked me off so I fired again. This time, several
hundred started flying around. I decided that I should send a stronger
message and took aim at a group of 20 or so that were flying through the
barn. In a case of "not thinking before one acts", I pulled the trigger at
which point a brilliant stream of white sunlight shone through the roof. I
had just added a pizza sized hole into the barn roof. What's more is that
part of my roof was really in bad shape and the other part was fairly
decent. Guess which side I put the hole in...that's right, the good side.
Oh well, nobody ever claimed me as being too bright.
We had several experts come out. I had some Amish guys stop by too (gosh, I
hope they don't read this). In some nostalgic way, I had hoped the old barn
could be repaired. I figured that they would harken back to a time long ago
where men fixed anything and everything with the strength of their two
hands. Nah! Instead they took a look around and said "There's a reason why
people tear down old barns and put up new ones". And they weren't even
trying to sell me a new barn. With that advice in hand, we started on a
long, arduous journey that has gotten us to this point.
The barn was deconstructed from the inside out as we dismantled our "shop"
and saved a few larger pieces of wood. Most of what remained was old,
rotten barn siding and large, hand-hewn beams high above. In one day, we
were able to make a few well-planned cuts with a chain saw while
strategically placing a chain around some upright beams and pulling with a
tractor. By the end of that day, we had a giant heap of an old barn sitting
there. Now the real work would begin. With the mighty beast on the ground,
we were able to salvage some more wood and place in a safer spot. We cut
away the galvanized metal that coated the porous roof and covered the rotted
sides.
Finally, the barn was gone. What remained was the massive concrete pad that
was once the floor. We are moving the barn back away from our house so this
requires us to do some grading of the land where the new barn will be while also removing the old, brittle concrete from the previous spot.
I'll keep you posted as we progress along.
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My wife has this thing about emails. First off, she (like me) finds email
to be one of the most useful, enjoyable tools of this technological age we
live in. Here's a sampling of topics from her "inbox":
*Please fax over order #49292
*Hey ex-college roommate/friend...Love ya!!!!
*Girl, check out pictures of my kid.
She also has a lot of email from friends that evoke inspiration or talk about "friendship" and "life with kids" and "being a busy mom" and "my husband doesn't understand me" stuff.
My inbox is a little different. It includes titles like:
*Bird, check out the jugs on this chick
*Order Confirmation: 4 boxes of Viagra and a case of flaxseed has been shipped,
*Look! More jugs!
*Bird, are you out of jail?
I typically never get emails at home that are particularly stressful or
bothersome. Most of them are funny jokes that I've read 34 times. Sometimes
they are from my buddies talking about a recent sporting event with a
picture attachment of a naked dame or an inflatable gorilla for sale (I'm in
the market for an inflatable gorilla...seriously). Every once in a while I
will get one that reads "forward this to ten people to save little Suzy from
getting her gunecktigoink removed surgically" and I think to myself, "Self,
the internet and this email thing has been around for quite a while now.
Who out there really thinks that if they forward this email, that some
miracle cure will come forth...or Disney will give you free tickets or Bill
Gates will donate 100 bucks to your account?" Who's falling for this still?
There's only two things that really bother me about email though. One is
that I hate "spam". Spam can be defined as junk mail sent by someone you
don't know, usually trying to sell something to you. Odds are that spam mail one gets is hawking one of three things...weight loss plans, refinancing mortgages, and penile enlargements.
A little rule for you to live by, if you're relying on a random email sent
to you by someone you don't know to make health and/or financial decisions
then you are a complete moron and should have your fingers lopped off during
a bizarre hedgeclipping accident.
The second thing I hate is "forwards" that have been forwarded 15 times as
an attachment. I get an email of a joke, for example. "Sure, make me laugh
random person that included me on this list", I mutter to myself....and you click to open. Then you find another attachment envelope to open. Okay, double click
and...open. What? Another envelope to open? After about the tenth time of
this, I just delete it.
My wife has fewer email rules to live by. Her big thing is that she's Mrs.
Verybusybusinesswoman and she doesn't often read a lot of the jokey joke
stuff that I would. But here's her deal: If she does open the email to read a joke it had better not...and I repeat...better not be more than 2 paragraphs long.
If she has to Scroll downward you might as well forget it. Message deleted.
As Jim Gaffigan once said "Long emails are like homework" and wifey agrees.
Personally, I am not sure I could function anymore without email. I've
found that I communicate more via electronic mail than I do with my own
voice. I generally walk around all day and grunt and point at stuff like
some sort of neolithic, upright-walking creature. But when I get on the
email I chat it up like Sarah, the telephone operator from Mayberry. In fact, the other day I tried to write a note. It was illegible and looked like a some foreign doctor wrote it with low blood sugar. Speaking of writing, I have totally forgotten how to write in cursive. I print everything and even that looks like crap.
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A few things about the early days of this NFL football season. I watched
the first game last night between the Colts and the Saints. Very
entertaining game. I still don't understand why major sport events are
required to include some sort of mini-concert by artists that have no
business being cross-marketed together. I see some old guys in suits
sitting around a mahogany conference table saying "We have to appeal to
every possible demographic!" That's why you always get pairings like "Mary
J. Blige featuring Kenny G" or "Ludacris, Elton John, and John Tesh in a
very special rendition of 'Back Dat' Ass Up' ".
I do have to say that the pregame concert for this game was rather Mainstream-Midwestern-Conservative for a league that is quite openly brash, braggadocious, and has a high-tempo. But I suppose when you consider the recent headlines created by Pacman Jones, Michael Vick, Joey Porter and some members of the Cleveland Browns (notice the obvious omission of my saint-like Bengals), you should probably expect a little less "gangsta" mentality in your pregame show.
You had Kelly Clarkson who is a pretty decent performer. She dressed like
an out-of-work circus clown, but she appeals to your younger American Idol
folk. Not bad. I like some of her stuff. Then you had Faith Hill. She's
ugly. Nah, actually she's stunningly good looking and a very fine singer.
She won't ruffle many feathers and her music crosses over a couple of
genres. Then you had John Mellencamp (what happened to the "Cougar",
Johnny!) Generally speaking, I have enjoyed some of his music throughout his
career. He's from Indiana so he was almost required by law to be there. Of
course, he's a stark-raving mad militant liberal Hollywood meatball that
wears this Downhome-country boy, aw-shucks facade as he sips Perrier and
lights cigars with hundred dollar bills while flying in his private jet
across the country. But he's all for Farm Aid, so that makes it all okay, I guess.
By the way, can anyone name a more annoying song than "This is our country"?
I would purposely avoid buying a Chevy just for the fact that this song is
drummed into my head at every commercial time-out. This is oooouuuurrr
country!
Also, I have come to the conclusion that I can no longer stomach John
Madden. I threw up in my mouth a little bit when I heard him say "The
defense is there to stop the running back so they can't run the ball as
effectively" I'll be damned! No kidding, Madden. Did you and Steven
Hawking get together and hypothesize that revelation? He annoys
me much like Randy Cross and Bill Maas do. Madden has, as they say, lost
a step and his little "boom, biff, bow" act has grown tiresome.
By the way, I didn't realize the NBC studio crew now encompasses 37 guys on
the set. It looked like the cover of The Beatles' Sgt Pepper album.
Collinsworth, Costas, Jerome Bettis, Tiki Barber, Aleister Crowley, Oscar Wilde, and Paul McCartney were all in the booth breaking down the Saints' run game.
I think I've asked this before but...how did Jerome Bettis get a studio gig?
Same with Shannon and Sterling Sharpe and Michael Irvin. Actually, Bettis
is the best speaker of them all as he tends not to sound like he's got a
mouthful of marshmallows (although odds are he probably does have a mouthful
of marshmallows). I guess I just still despise Bettis because he's now this
squeaky clean, cuddly studio informant who offers us nuggets of wisdom
acquired through his days of playing...when in fact, all I can think of is
him dancing, yes Dancing, every time he muddled his rotund body for a 2 yard
gain. And who could forget that cute little head-shaking thing he did after
he exploded for 4 yards on a draw play on 3 and 32 as if he was telling the
opponent "No way you can stop me". By the way, a fun little fact you may
not know about Bettis: He's from Detroit and that's where the Super Bowl
was held 2 years ago! Amazing.
While we're on the topic of the NFL, let me be the first to tell you about
my beloved Bengals. They will be lucky to finish 8-8. If they win more
than 7 games, they should fall to the ground and pray to Allah. Bill
Simmons (from espn.com) said, "Any time a talented team underachieves because of a crappy defense, a shaky coaching staff and a collective chemistry that could best be described as "homicidal," then they bring the whole crew back for another season, I can't pick them to make the playoffs. So why would anyone else pick them?" Of
course, he followed this quote up by linking to a clip of a prison riot from
the show Oz. Touche', my friend. I agree completely. Who in that organization is saying "Well, we were one of the worst defenses in the league last year. Let's add no new significant players and hope for the best"
Finally, are you like me. Have you had entirely enough of the New
Orleans Saints lovefest? Okay, we got it. You had a horrible flood because
you built your cesspool of a city in a giant tidal bowl that is 9 miles
below sea level. Obviously I wouldn't wish the type of tragedy that
effected those people on any American but enough already! It's 2007 and
the players on the Saints probably could care less that the city they play
for (and not live in) got a much-needed oceanic colonic. So enough with the
emotional images of the team trotting on the field and the slow panning
shots of fans in the stadium last year holding signs up remarking how "Our
team has lifted our spirits". Ironically, I would wager that most of the
people that could afford tickets to a Saints game didn't have to suffer
through the flooding, loss of life and loss of property as they were living
many miles away in slightly more expensive, slightly more elevated above sea level housing. Maybe I'm being to harsh. I don't know.
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Not sure if anyone heard about this or not but the University of Michigan's
football team got beat at home in what was supposed to be the first win in
their march to a national championship season. They haven't won a game since Bo died. This really saddens me. It breaks my little heart. In all seriousness, I didn't really want to see them lose. I always root for the Big Ten conference and I particularly enjoy Michigan and Ohio State meeting at the end of the year and they are both undefeated. It makes an Ohio State victory all the sweeter.
Not to digress too much, but I root for the Big Ten because it is a pure, true-blue, football conference. I've been in many arguments with many people as I argue the merits of this hard-nosed conference. (most notably my verbal sparring with some punk at one of my wife's business funtions at this swanky hotel in South Beach Miami. He was popping off about "southern football". Long story short, I offered to fistfight him as I quickly tried to fashion a weapon out of a broken champagne glass I had stuffed in the breast pocket of my suitcoat)
Do yourself a favor and go to youtube.com and look for "michigan upset" stuff. It's quite entertaining. **I've included the "links" to these sites. However, you have to highlight the part, then "cut" then paste onto www.youtube.com. I haven't figured out the linking thing yet. Sorry.
Here's one at the Horseshoe (a much better name for a stadium than "the big house" and it actually doesn't look like a giant toilet sunken in the ground. This is the reaction from Buckeye fans after they won their home opener against a cupcake and after they see UM lose at home. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V0jePmKPEM0
This one is from Penn State (under the stadium again) as they watched the "Victors" fall and not be "Hailed". Not the blocked kick video but pretty good (and shorter too) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CttSiGnL7vA
Now this is my favorite one for so many reasons. First, you can feel the disgust from the Michigan faithful when the kick is blocked. Second, just after the kid says "we just beat michigan" the dude just yelling "yeah, yeah, yeah!" (by the way, if you ever say "we" just won or "we" are going to the playoffs or something and you aren't actually playing on the team, then you are a total douchebag. Other favorite parts? When the guy filming says "thanks for your hospitality". What a dickhead...but funny nonetheless. Finally, when the Michigan fan at the end says "that will never happen again". No kidding ass. That's why it was the greatest upset in history. It immediately makes the embarrassment OSU had in the National Championship game last year more tolerable. Anyway, here's the video of that: www.youtube.com/watch?v=EDFxzAp1Lf8
I happened to be visiting family in Michigan the day that game was played. After it was over, I saw I had a voice mail on my cell phone (I'm very important you know. It was from my buddy Jake who is a huge Buckeye supporter and equally huge hater of Michigan. His voicemail went something like this, "Bird! I know you're in Michigan. Did you see that? Please, whip your **** out and tell everyone there to worship it because in Ohio, we don't let things like getting beat by a Division 1-AA team beat us at home. Ha ha ha". I was immediately compelled to put it on speakerphone and share it with my northern friends.
In all honesty, they took it very well...considering what happened. I probably would have blown a gasket and ended my night being wheeled through emergency room doors while on a gurney.
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A few weeks ago my wife took the kids and her mom and grandma to the Carolinas (I can't keep North and South straight. They should merge so it wouldn't be so danged confusing) While they were away, I went out in the evenings to grab a bite to eat. One night I knew the Reds would be on tv so I headed up to Z's to get a sandwich and watch a bit of the game.
As I sat there, I found I spent most of my time just checking out people. For some strange reason there was a pencil sitting next to me so I grabbed a pack of matches and jotted down some things of note. Here's what I came up with during my evening at the bar.
* What's with "bar time"? All bars set their clocks ahead 15 minutes or more. I look up and say to myself "Holy crap! It's nearly 2:30 in the morning on a Wednesday! I gotta get home" Then I realize it's only 2:15 in the morning. Ahh, I nestle back down and order 4 more beers and a shot of morphine. Why do bars feel like they must deceive me?
* There was a very pretty girl there (a pretty girl in a Piqua bar happens as frequently as Haley's Comet comes around. You notice these things) She was with her man and I thought of this timeless saying I heard long ago, "She may be pretty, but I guarantee you that someone else is already sick of her". That kinda made me giggle.
* They were showing the X-games on some of the televisions. You might think that I would begin my rant bashing the x-games and its' "athletes". You would be wrong. I thought to myself that these guys are very athletic. In fact, they are 5 times more athletic than any soccer player I've ever seen (remember kids, soccer is for little girls and third world countries where they poop on the sidewalk in the middle of town and sleep on straw) Anyway, this dude was on a skateboard perched on the top of this ramp. He looked like he was a thousand feet in the air. The object was to go down this huge ramp and then shoot up an equally large ramp at which point he would do some sort of trick. What happened though is, instead of going up and coming down the ramp, he drifted out toward the middle...away from the downward slope of the ramp. This meant that he was now falling straight down from about 35 feet in the air onto hard ground. The guy hit the ground so hard his freakin' shoes shot off like he was hit by an Oldsmobile. I remember saying "Oh god, he's dead". It was one of the most amazing things I saw that night...that is until I saw....
some dude driving a yellow VW bug. Picture of the guy driving that car (below)**ps, I love this picture. Liberace gay? No way! Never saw that one coming. The best is that some guy named "Earl" is so proud to have the signed glossy
* Yes, I make assumptions about people based purely on first impressions and appearance. I'm actually pretty accurate. I saw a guy drive by in a Yellow VW Bug and instantly thought, "what a jackass!" If it was a girl...no biggie. But there's something comical about a dude driving a yellow VW Bug. All VW Bugs are required by local ordinances to hold a couple of fake daisy flowers in the cupholder and to have vanity plates that say something clever like "Hollysbug" or "Jans Toy". I gave him the benefit of doubt by wondering to myself "Maybe he's going to take his wife's car to get an oil change or rotate the tires". But in reality, he's probably taking it to get a pedicure and have his chest waxed. It's interesting, now that I think about it, that if a girl was driving a big four wheel drive or something it would be totally hot. Especially if she was wearing a tank or halter top, with her hair in a ponytail sticking through the back of her Cincinnati Reds hat as her stereo blared out some Molly Hatchet...not that I've ever thought about it or anything.
That's all I took home on my matchbook from my little night out. I did get the phone number of some dude that owns a yellow VW Bug though. Sweet!
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I don't know if I posted this before or not. Hopefully not. Sometimes at lunch I will write some of this crap and email to my home where I hope to add it to my blog. I may have added these...I may not have. ***
It’s summer and it has been pretty hot and dry around here lately. A few weeks ago, I was driving through Piqua (naturally) and sitting on the step of a porch were these two young girls. They were what you call “goth” chicks, meaning, they dress in all black, wear heavy black eyeliner, dye their hair black, paint their nails black and generally mope around while wearing some speed metal band’s t-shirt. It always gives me a chuckle to see people proclaim their individuality and their hatred toward conformity by dressing and looking exactly like their fellow angst-ridden cohorts. Anyway, an important question arose: Do goth folks, in their heavy black clothing, take a break from gothness during the summer due to the scorching heat? Is it only during the school year that they outwardly display their melancholy to their peers? Or…do they take a break when it’s steamy and humid outside? I wonder if their parents have a couple of Rubbermaid containers in the basement and each season they swap out their Dark, mad at society, hate-filled clothes for their light, sensible, khaki’s and sandals.
I don’t know, I just think it’d be incredibly hot and terribly uncomfortable to be dressed in black and wear long pants and military boots all summer long as you and your friends devise a plan to blow up the junior high school or something.
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Someone asked me the other day, “What is your problem?” That’s a good question, so I thought about it for a minute. Finally, I came up with something. I have a problem with spider webs.
First, I don’t hate spiders. They are fascinating creatures who actually benefit humans far more than they hurt us. And their webs….unbelievable! Complex. Efficient. Tedious work for such a small creature yet necessary to sustain its life.
When I say I have a problem with spider webs, I feel as if I should define what kind of web. The web that is found in the corner of a door or stretched across two plants in a field…those are cool. It’s the long, single strands that piss me off. I’m stunned at the number of times I find myself pawing and scraping my head trying to get these sticky silk-like pains-in-the-asses off me.
When I leave for work in the morning, I find myself holding my hand in front of my eyes, about a foot in front of me like a scene from Phantom of the Opera ( singing "Keep your hand at the level of your eyes"). Why? To block the inevitable onslaught of spider webs that will soon be wrapping around my face and head. It drives me crazy.
So that’s my problem, buddy. Thanks for asking.
By the way, that reminds me of a bit Jay Leno used to do in the mid 80’s or so. During that time of my life, I was probably in elementary school or Jr. High and, during the summers, I would stay up every night and watch Johnny Carson and Late Night with David Letterman. Looking back, it seems kinda’ funny to me that a fifth grader would look forward to sitting in front of the television to watch Carson because Don Rickles or Jimmy Stewart would be on (probably two of my favorite guests). In fact, my 6th grade book report was about Johnny Carson.
Anway, this was during the time that Letterman was just gaining steam. He was still on NBC, still on at 12:30, and still funny in a goofy, collegiate sorta’ way. Letterman’s show is still funny today, but I think it’s a little more mature and not quite as “stupid”…which can be kind of good and kind of bad. Back then, Jay Leno was a big-time comedian. A major headliner. When he was scheduled to be on Letterman, it was a big deal.
The reason I’m even off on this tangent is my previous thing on “what’s your problem” reminded me of Leno’s “what’s your beef, Jay?”. Dave would ask Jay what his beef (his problem) was with anything…and Leno would go on forever! It was genius…classic.
I could probably recite his whole bit verbatim…I have the VCR tape somewhere (must find a VCR)
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Joe Morgan, ex-Cincinnati Reds Hall of Fame player and current ESPN baseball commentator, is quite possibly the worst color analyst (referring to his position in the broadcast booth…not his race) in baseball.
Here is something Joe Morgan might say on any given night: “Ken Griffey Jr. is a great player. Willie Mays once said I was a great player. One time I hit a bases-empty grand slam. I am really good at everything…just ask Hank Aaron. He said I was amazing when I played”
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I've mentioned that I can't stand Cincinnati Red's leftfielder Adam Dunn. I've probably mentioned it a thousand times actually. He a clubhouse cancer and has hurt this team as much as Barry Larkin did in his later years.
As I sit here typing away on this blog, I am watching the Reds' game and thinking of the great season that never materialized. But unlike the Bengals, I see a light at the end of the tunnel for this team. It's September and they have called up some of their younger guys to give them some experience. I think this team will do quite well next season. In my efforts to be a sort of prognosticator, I will give you a few names of players to watch on this team next season.
Josh Hamilton: In my opinion THE BEST player in the National League. Pretty boastful you might say. But I truly believes he is at a higher level than many of his peers. He has a ton of tools that one can witness on a nightly basis.
Joey Votto: First baseman. Called up in September to get some major league licks in. The guy is a stud hitter.
Jay Bruce: Just named Minor League Player of the Year. May not make the "big" club next season but he might be up for a cup of coffee sooner rather than later.
Jeff Keppinger: Been around a while and is finally getting his chance to play regularly. This guy is a flat-out pure hitter.
Along with Brandon Phillips, Griffey, and the help of a few others, I see the Reds winning 160 of 162 next season.
*Side note: I had a bid on ebay to purchase 2 front row seats with an aisle seat (in the outfield though) for the last day game of the season. I just won! $10 and I'll be at the game this week vs. the Cardinals (I don't like the Cardinals)
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Finally, I feel I need to tell you about something else that has been a big deal for me this summer. For the fourth year, we were invited back to participate in the Monday Night Golf League. This league was started 20 something years ago by a couple of guys who wanted to get together to form a league. My buddy Gill is an excellent golfer and he was invited to play. He needed a partner to be on his team and, for some strange reason that historians years from now will try to figure out, picked me.
After our first season was completed, we worried all winter if we'd be invited back. Thankfully, we were invited back.
Fast forward to this season. They employ this elaborate handicapping system that, in a sense, equalizes all the players. So even though I'm a middle-of-the-road golfer, I will have a chance to compete with a really great golfer by him giving me "strokes". I don't really understand how it all works. I just show up and try to shoot my best score. Last season, we started out kinda' hot but, as the old saying goes "A Dog that shits fast doesn't shit long". We went from first to near worst by midway through the season. It didn't matter though because we weren't really "in it to win it".
This season, we started out hot as we had in the past. As we played each week and waited for our typical meltdown, we realized that notorious meltdown hadn't reared its ugly head.
In a feat that rivaled some of the greatest accomplishment of man, we were poised to make our first appearance in the playoffs!
A little bit about this league. I'd say that Gill and I are one of the two "youngest" teams out there. In most sports that would be an advantage, but in golf it doesn't really matter. But one thing we've found, and I feel kinda' strange saying this, is that a lot of the older guys really like us. In my greatest attempt at trying not to sound boastful or full of myself, I have to think the Old Guard finds us entertaining. First, we don't take it too seriously and yet we respect the etiquette of the game. Of course, we do have one ritual that sorta' flies in the face of the majesty of the game. Just before we tee off, Gill puts a big pinch between his cheek and gum and I load up on a big chaw of Red Man.
Second, we're pretty competitive yet always liberal with praise for our opponents. Hey Carl, your tee shot landed on top of a robin's nest in the tip of that tree...but that's where you wanna' come in from. That sorta' thing.
We played against a guy named Bob in the middle of the year. He was a little guy, about late 50s, pretty quiet and soft-spoken, but a very good golfer. Every drive of his was straight down the middle. At one point, Gill called him "Fairway Bob". Once the round was done, we sat on the deck and signed our scorecards and Bob started laughing about his new nickname. We informed him we had names for other guys like Gene Gene the Putting Machine (this old guy can drain puts from the next county over), Gorilla Grog (for his monstrous drives and hairy arms) Tommy Bluejeans (because this guy wore jeans even if it was 99 degrees)and Gentleman Jim (an old fella that was the nicest guy and always looked for us on the putting green so he could chat and tell us about his hole in one). I would be willing to bet that Bob had never laughed so hard in his life. From that day on, he would come up to us with new nicknames he thought of or to see if we already had names for his opponent that night.
We also got this reputation as being big beer drinkers. It's truly more fiction than fact. We did have a cold beer on the putting green as we waited for our opponents to show up, but never in excess. However, the legend grew and rumor spread that if you shovel beers down our gullets, that we could be beaten. Gill and I gallantly took the challenge for a couple of weeks until, unfortunately for us, we proved this theory to be inaccurate and the free pilsners stopped coming. We actually played better the more beers we had. One team even bought us beer and carried it for us. We thumped them. Still, the long journey found us in the playoffs. It was interesting how I felt about it because I hadn't been in a really competitive situation for quite some time and, suddenly, I was in this highly-contested battle to make the finals. All day at work I thought about that night's match.
We won our semi-final match by the sixth hole and I can't describe the excitement we felt that day. Our thoughts soon turned to the championship match.
Well, to make a long story short and to ease the daily pain I feel for playing like such a turd, we lost in the Finals.
Here I am, I have a great healthy, fun family. A nice house and great life but losing that match really bothered me for a couple of days. I didn't spend my nights laying awake in bed thinking about ways to end it all...but it did stick with me. I can't help thinking that if I played a little better, we would have had a shot. I kept thinking about Dan Marino and his being in the Super Bowl early in his career and never even getting a whiff of the big game after and how I might have blown Gill and my only shot at winning this thing. Oh the stories we would have told. Oh how we would have embellished it and had fun with it. It's sorta childish and a bit silly I guess, but I'd still love a rematch.
As luck would have it, my dad and brother were playing that course the same day as our Finals. It was kinda cool being on number 11 tee and looking over on number 15 and seeing my dad and brother peeking over. It was like we had a gallery!
So, to borrow a phrase from every Chicago Cubs fan in the world, "Maybe Next Year"
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All right, that's all I have for tonight. Please leave me a comment and tell me what you think. If you liked it, I will publish your comment and bask in my magnificent glory. If you don't like it, I will delete your comment like it never happened! HA!
Also, remember that all the minutiae from months past are archived in the column to the right. Wondering what my thoughts were on topics from July of 2004? Then go to the "Previous Posts" and "Archives" section and enjoy the crisp refreshing feeling all over again
Sneezing from the Pollen,
The chain caught my shoe-string,
Hit the center bar on my bicycle,
And almost lost my bearings,
I Love Summer,
Good ol' summer time,
I got sunburned on the soles of my feet,
Lot of sand where the sun don't shine.
Caught a baseball with my face,
Potato salad in the sun,
Salmonella steps up to the plate,
Listeria gets the run.
I Love Summer,
Good ol' summer time,
I got sunburned at the back of my throat,
And sand behind my eye...
This summer has found me quite busy with various projects and activities.
Perhaps the biggest endeavor ever tackled by me is "The Barn Project". We
have had an old barn on our property that has been there probably since the
birth of our Nation. In fact, I saw the initials "G.W." etched into the
mighty ancient timbers. George Freakin Washington! The father of our country, taking time during the construction of this barn to whittle his initials into the wooden beams. Of course, the G.W. could stand for George White, but I like to think that it was George Washington...makes for a better story.
The barn had started sagging and shifting. Some of the loft beams had
started to crack and fall. The roof was like a sieve, especially after one
particular incident two winters ago. I was raising two hogs in that barn
and the birds had been causing all kinds of havoc. They were eating all my
feed and crapping worse than Kirstie Alley after all you can eat Clam Night
at the Lobster Haus. I figured I'd shake them up a bit and fire my shotgun
in their general direction. I did and a few of them scattered but most
remained. This kinda' irked me off so I fired again. This time, several
hundred started flying around. I decided that I should send a stronger
message and took aim at a group of 20 or so that were flying through the
barn. In a case of "not thinking before one acts", I pulled the trigger at
which point a brilliant stream of white sunlight shone through the roof. I
had just added a pizza sized hole into the barn roof. What's more is that
part of my roof was really in bad shape and the other part was fairly
decent. Guess which side I put the hole in...that's right, the good side.
Oh well, nobody ever claimed me as being too bright.
We had several experts come out. I had some Amish guys stop by too (gosh, I
hope they don't read this). In some nostalgic way, I had hoped the old barn
could be repaired. I figured that they would harken back to a time long ago
where men fixed anything and everything with the strength of their two
hands. Nah! Instead they took a look around and said "There's a reason why
people tear down old barns and put up new ones". And they weren't even
trying to sell me a new barn. With that advice in hand, we started on a
long, arduous journey that has gotten us to this point.
The barn was deconstructed from the inside out as we dismantled our "shop"
and saved a few larger pieces of wood. Most of what remained was old,
rotten barn siding and large, hand-hewn beams high above. In one day, we
were able to make a few well-planned cuts with a chain saw while
strategically placing a chain around some upright beams and pulling with a
tractor. By the end of that day, we had a giant heap of an old barn sitting
there. Now the real work would begin. With the mighty beast on the ground,
we were able to salvage some more wood and place in a safer spot. We cut
away the galvanized metal that coated the porous roof and covered the rotted
sides.
Finally, the barn was gone. What remained was the massive concrete pad that
was once the floor. We are moving the barn back away from our house so this
requires us to do some grading of the land where the new barn will be while also removing the old, brittle concrete from the previous spot.
I'll keep you posted as we progress along.
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My wife has this thing about emails. First off, she (like me) finds email
to be one of the most useful, enjoyable tools of this technological age we
live in. Here's a sampling of topics from her "inbox":
*Please fax over order #49292
*Hey ex-college roommate/friend...Love ya!!!!
*Girl, check out pictures of my kid.
She also has a lot of email from friends that evoke inspiration or talk about "friendship" and "life with kids" and "being a busy mom" and "my husband doesn't understand me" stuff.
My inbox is a little different. It includes titles like:
*Bird, check out the jugs on this chick
*Order Confirmation: 4 boxes of Viagra and a case of flaxseed has been shipped,
*Look! More jugs!
*Bird, are you out of jail?
I typically never get emails at home that are particularly stressful or
bothersome. Most of them are funny jokes that I've read 34 times. Sometimes
they are from my buddies talking about a recent sporting event with a
picture attachment of a naked dame or an inflatable gorilla for sale (I'm in
the market for an inflatable gorilla...seriously). Every once in a while I
will get one that reads "forward this to ten people to save little Suzy from
getting her gunecktigoink removed surgically" and I think to myself, "Self,
the internet and this email thing has been around for quite a while now.
Who out there really thinks that if they forward this email, that some
miracle cure will come forth...or Disney will give you free tickets or Bill
Gates will donate 100 bucks to your account?" Who's falling for this still?
There's only two things that really bother me about email though. One is
that I hate "spam". Spam can be defined as junk mail sent by someone you
don't know, usually trying to sell something to you. Odds are that spam mail one gets is hawking one of three things...weight loss plans, refinancing mortgages, and penile enlargements.
A little rule for you to live by, if you're relying on a random email sent
to you by someone you don't know to make health and/or financial decisions
then you are a complete moron and should have your fingers lopped off during
a bizarre hedgeclipping accident.
The second thing I hate is "forwards" that have been forwarded 15 times as
an attachment. I get an email of a joke, for example. "Sure, make me laugh
random person that included me on this list", I mutter to myself....and you click to open. Then you find another attachment envelope to open. Okay, double click
and...open. What? Another envelope to open? After about the tenth time of
this, I just delete it.
My wife has fewer email rules to live by. Her big thing is that she's Mrs.
Verybusybusinesswoman and she doesn't often read a lot of the jokey joke
stuff that I would. But here's her deal: If she does open the email to read a joke it had better not...and I repeat...better not be more than 2 paragraphs long.
If she has to Scroll downward you might as well forget it. Message deleted.
As Jim Gaffigan once said "Long emails are like homework" and wifey agrees.
Personally, I am not sure I could function anymore without email. I've
found that I communicate more via electronic mail than I do with my own
voice. I generally walk around all day and grunt and point at stuff like
some sort of neolithic, upright-walking creature. But when I get on the
email I chat it up like Sarah, the telephone operator from Mayberry. In fact, the other day I tried to write a note. It was illegible and looked like a some foreign doctor wrote it with low blood sugar. Speaking of writing, I have totally forgotten how to write in cursive. I print everything and even that looks like crap.
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A few things about the early days of this NFL football season. I watched
the first game last night between the Colts and the Saints. Very
entertaining game. I still don't understand why major sport events are
required to include some sort of mini-concert by artists that have no
business being cross-marketed together. I see some old guys in suits
sitting around a mahogany conference table saying "We have to appeal to
every possible demographic!" That's why you always get pairings like "Mary
J. Blige featuring Kenny G" or "Ludacris, Elton John, and John Tesh in a
very special rendition of 'Back Dat' Ass Up' ".
I do have to say that the pregame concert for this game was rather Mainstream-Midwestern-Conservative for a league that is quite openly brash, braggadocious, and has a high-tempo. But I suppose when you consider the recent headlines created by Pacman Jones, Michael Vick, Joey Porter and some members of the Cleveland Browns (notice the obvious omission of my saint-like Bengals), you should probably expect a little less "gangsta" mentality in your pregame show.
You had Kelly Clarkson who is a pretty decent performer. She dressed like
an out-of-work circus clown, but she appeals to your younger American Idol
folk. Not bad. I like some of her stuff. Then you had Faith Hill. She's
ugly. Nah, actually she's stunningly good looking and a very fine singer.
She won't ruffle many feathers and her music crosses over a couple of
genres. Then you had John Mellencamp (what happened to the "Cougar",
Johnny!) Generally speaking, I have enjoyed some of his music throughout his
career. He's from Indiana so he was almost required by law to be there. Of
course, he's a stark-raving mad militant liberal Hollywood meatball that
wears this Downhome-country boy, aw-shucks facade as he sips Perrier and
lights cigars with hundred dollar bills while flying in his private jet
across the country. But he's all for Farm Aid, so that makes it all okay, I guess.
By the way, can anyone name a more annoying song than "This is our country"?
I would purposely avoid buying a Chevy just for the fact that this song is
drummed into my head at every commercial time-out. This is oooouuuurrr
country!
Also, I have come to the conclusion that I can no longer stomach John
Madden. I threw up in my mouth a little bit when I heard him say "The
defense is there to stop the running back so they can't run the ball as
effectively" I'll be damned! No kidding, Madden. Did you and Steven
Hawking get together and hypothesize that revelation? He annoys
me much like Randy Cross and Bill Maas do. Madden has, as they say, lost
a step and his little "boom, biff, bow" act has grown tiresome.
By the way, I didn't realize the NBC studio crew now encompasses 37 guys on
the set. It looked like the cover of The Beatles' Sgt Pepper album.
Collinsworth, Costas, Jerome Bettis, Tiki Barber, Aleister Crowley, Oscar Wilde, and Paul McCartney were all in the booth breaking down the Saints' run game.
I think I've asked this before but...how did Jerome Bettis get a studio gig?
Same with Shannon and Sterling Sharpe and Michael Irvin. Actually, Bettis
is the best speaker of them all as he tends not to sound like he's got a
mouthful of marshmallows (although odds are he probably does have a mouthful
of marshmallows). I guess I just still despise Bettis because he's now this
squeaky clean, cuddly studio informant who offers us nuggets of wisdom
acquired through his days of playing...when in fact, all I can think of is
him dancing, yes Dancing, every time he muddled his rotund body for a 2 yard
gain. And who could forget that cute little head-shaking thing he did after
he exploded for 4 yards on a draw play on 3 and 32 as if he was telling the
opponent "No way you can stop me". By the way, a fun little fact you may
not know about Bettis: He's from Detroit and that's where the Super Bowl
was held 2 years ago! Amazing.
While we're on the topic of the NFL, let me be the first to tell you about
my beloved Bengals. They will be lucky to finish 8-8. If they win more
than 7 games, they should fall to the ground and pray to Allah. Bill
Simmons (from espn.com) said, "Any time a talented team underachieves because of a crappy defense, a shaky coaching staff and a collective chemistry that could best be described as "homicidal," then they bring the whole crew back for another season, I can't pick them to make the playoffs. So why would anyone else pick them?" Of
course, he followed this quote up by linking to a clip of a prison riot from
the show Oz. Touche', my friend. I agree completely. Who in that organization is saying "Well, we were one of the worst defenses in the league last year. Let's add no new significant players and hope for the best"
Finally, are you like me. Have you had entirely enough of the New
Orleans Saints lovefest? Okay, we got it. You had a horrible flood because
you built your cesspool of a city in a giant tidal bowl that is 9 miles
below sea level. Obviously I wouldn't wish the type of tragedy that
effected those people on any American but enough already! It's 2007 and
the players on the Saints probably could care less that the city they play
for (and not live in) got a much-needed oceanic colonic. So enough with the
emotional images of the team trotting on the field and the slow panning
shots of fans in the stadium last year holding signs up remarking how "Our
team has lifted our spirits". Ironically, I would wager that most of the
people that could afford tickets to a Saints game didn't have to suffer
through the flooding, loss of life and loss of property as they were living
many miles away in slightly more expensive, slightly more elevated above sea level housing. Maybe I'm being to harsh. I don't know.
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Not sure if anyone heard about this or not but the University of Michigan's
football team got beat at home in what was supposed to be the first win in
their march to a national championship season. They haven't won a game since Bo died. This really saddens me. It breaks my little heart. In all seriousness, I didn't really want to see them lose. I always root for the Big Ten conference and I particularly enjoy Michigan and Ohio State meeting at the end of the year and they are both undefeated. It makes an Ohio State victory all the sweeter.
Not to digress too much, but I root for the Big Ten because it is a pure, true-blue, football conference. I've been in many arguments with many people as I argue the merits of this hard-nosed conference. (most notably my verbal sparring with some punk at one of my wife's business funtions at this swanky hotel in South Beach Miami. He was popping off about "southern football". Long story short, I offered to fistfight him as I quickly tried to fashion a weapon out of a broken champagne glass I had stuffed in the breast pocket of my suitcoat)
Do yourself a favor and go to youtube.com and look for "michigan upset" stuff. It's quite entertaining. **I've included the "links" to these sites. However, you have to highlight the part, then "cut" then paste onto www.youtube.com. I haven't figured out the linking thing yet. Sorry.
Here's one at the Horseshoe (a much better name for a stadium than "the big house" and it actually doesn't look like a giant toilet sunken in the ground. This is the reaction from Buckeye fans after they won their home opener against a cupcake and after they see UM lose at home. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V0jePmKPEM0
This one is from Penn State (under the stadium again) as they watched the "Victors" fall and not be "Hailed". Not the blocked kick video but pretty good (and shorter too) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CttSiGnL7vA
Now this is my favorite one for so many reasons. First, you can feel the disgust from the Michigan faithful when the kick is blocked. Second, just after the kid says "we just beat michigan" the dude just yelling "yeah, yeah, yeah!" (by the way, if you ever say "we" just won or "we" are going to the playoffs or something and you aren't actually playing on the team, then you are a total douchebag. Other favorite parts? When the guy filming says "thanks for your hospitality". What a dickhead...but funny nonetheless. Finally, when the Michigan fan at the end says "that will never happen again". No kidding ass. That's why it was the greatest upset in history. It immediately makes the embarrassment OSU had in the National Championship game last year more tolerable. Anyway, here's the video of that: www.youtube.com/watch?v=EDFxzAp1Lf8
I happened to be visiting family in Michigan the day that game was played. After it was over, I saw I had a voice mail on my cell phone (I'm very important you know. It was from my buddy Jake who is a huge Buckeye supporter and equally huge hater of Michigan. His voicemail went something like this, "Bird! I know you're in Michigan. Did you see that? Please, whip your **** out and tell everyone there to worship it because in Ohio, we don't let things like getting beat by a Division 1-AA team beat us at home. Ha ha ha". I was immediately compelled to put it on speakerphone and share it with my northern friends.
In all honesty, they took it very well...considering what happened. I probably would have blown a gasket and ended my night being wheeled through emergency room doors while on a gurney.
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A few weeks ago my wife took the kids and her mom and grandma to the Carolinas (I can't keep North and South straight. They should merge so it wouldn't be so danged confusing) While they were away, I went out in the evenings to grab a bite to eat. One night I knew the Reds would be on tv so I headed up to Z's to get a sandwich and watch a bit of the game.
As I sat there, I found I spent most of my time just checking out people. For some strange reason there was a pencil sitting next to me so I grabbed a pack of matches and jotted down some things of note. Here's what I came up with during my evening at the bar.
* What's with "bar time"? All bars set their clocks ahead 15 minutes or more. I look up and say to myself "Holy crap! It's nearly 2:30 in the morning on a Wednesday! I gotta get home" Then I realize it's only 2:15 in the morning. Ahh, I nestle back down and order 4 more beers and a shot of morphine. Why do bars feel like they must deceive me?
* There was a very pretty girl there (a pretty girl in a Piqua bar happens as frequently as Haley's Comet comes around. You notice these things) She was with her man and I thought of this timeless saying I heard long ago, "She may be pretty, but I guarantee you that someone else is already sick of her". That kinda made me giggle.
* They were showing the X-games on some of the televisions. You might think that I would begin my rant bashing the x-games and its' "athletes". You would be wrong. I thought to myself that these guys are very athletic. In fact, they are 5 times more athletic than any soccer player I've ever seen (remember kids, soccer is for little girls and third world countries where they poop on the sidewalk in the middle of town and sleep on straw) Anyway, this dude was on a skateboard perched on the top of this ramp. He looked like he was a thousand feet in the air. The object was to go down this huge ramp and then shoot up an equally large ramp at which point he would do some sort of trick. What happened though is, instead of going up and coming down the ramp, he drifted out toward the middle...away from the downward slope of the ramp. This meant that he was now falling straight down from about 35 feet in the air onto hard ground. The guy hit the ground so hard his freakin' shoes shot off like he was hit by an Oldsmobile. I remember saying "Oh god, he's dead". It was one of the most amazing things I saw that night...that is until I saw....
some dude driving a yellow VW bug. Picture of the guy driving that car (below)**ps, I love this picture. Liberace gay? No way! Never saw that one coming. The best is that some guy named "Earl" is so proud to have the signed glossy
* Yes, I make assumptions about people based purely on first impressions and appearance. I'm actually pretty accurate. I saw a guy drive by in a Yellow VW Bug and instantly thought, "what a jackass!" If it was a girl...no biggie. But there's something comical about a dude driving a yellow VW Bug. All VW Bugs are required by local ordinances to hold a couple of fake daisy flowers in the cupholder and to have vanity plates that say something clever like "Hollysbug" or "Jans Toy". I gave him the benefit of doubt by wondering to myself "Maybe he's going to take his wife's car to get an oil change or rotate the tires". But in reality, he's probably taking it to get a pedicure and have his chest waxed. It's interesting, now that I think about it, that if a girl was driving a big four wheel drive or something it would be totally hot. Especially if she was wearing a tank or halter top, with her hair in a ponytail sticking through the back of her Cincinnati Reds hat as her stereo blared out some Molly Hatchet...not that I've ever thought about it or anything.
That's all I took home on my matchbook from my little night out. I did get the phone number of some dude that owns a yellow VW Bug though. Sweet!
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I don't know if I posted this before or not. Hopefully not. Sometimes at lunch I will write some of this crap and email to my home where I hope to add it to my blog. I may have added these...I may not have. ***
It’s summer and it has been pretty hot and dry around here lately. A few weeks ago, I was driving through Piqua (naturally) and sitting on the step of a porch were these two young girls. They were what you call “goth” chicks, meaning, they dress in all black, wear heavy black eyeliner, dye their hair black, paint their nails black and generally mope around while wearing some speed metal band’s t-shirt. It always gives me a chuckle to see people proclaim their individuality and their hatred toward conformity by dressing and looking exactly like their fellow angst-ridden cohorts. Anyway, an important question arose: Do goth folks, in their heavy black clothing, take a break from gothness during the summer due to the scorching heat? Is it only during the school year that they outwardly display their melancholy to their peers? Or…do they take a break when it’s steamy and humid outside? I wonder if their parents have a couple of Rubbermaid containers in the basement and each season they swap out their Dark, mad at society, hate-filled clothes for their light, sensible, khaki’s and sandals.
I don’t know, I just think it’d be incredibly hot and terribly uncomfortable to be dressed in black and wear long pants and military boots all summer long as you and your friends devise a plan to blow up the junior high school or something.
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Someone asked me the other day, “What is your problem?” That’s a good question, so I thought about it for a minute. Finally, I came up with something. I have a problem with spider webs.
First, I don’t hate spiders. They are fascinating creatures who actually benefit humans far more than they hurt us. And their webs….unbelievable! Complex. Efficient. Tedious work for such a small creature yet necessary to sustain its life.
When I say I have a problem with spider webs, I feel as if I should define what kind of web. The web that is found in the corner of a door or stretched across two plants in a field…those are cool. It’s the long, single strands that piss me off. I’m stunned at the number of times I find myself pawing and scraping my head trying to get these sticky silk-like pains-in-the-asses off me.
When I leave for work in the morning, I find myself holding my hand in front of my eyes, about a foot in front of me like a scene from Phantom of the Opera ( singing "Keep your hand at the level of your eyes"). Why? To block the inevitable onslaught of spider webs that will soon be wrapping around my face and head. It drives me crazy.
So that’s my problem, buddy. Thanks for asking.
By the way, that reminds me of a bit Jay Leno used to do in the mid 80’s or so. During that time of my life, I was probably in elementary school or Jr. High and, during the summers, I would stay up every night and watch Johnny Carson and Late Night with David Letterman. Looking back, it seems kinda’ funny to me that a fifth grader would look forward to sitting in front of the television to watch Carson because Don Rickles or Jimmy Stewart would be on (probably two of my favorite guests). In fact, my 6th grade book report was about Johnny Carson.
Anway, this was during the time that Letterman was just gaining steam. He was still on NBC, still on at 12:30, and still funny in a goofy, collegiate sorta’ way. Letterman’s show is still funny today, but I think it’s a little more mature and not quite as “stupid”…which can be kind of good and kind of bad. Back then, Jay Leno was a big-time comedian. A major headliner. When he was scheduled to be on Letterman, it was a big deal.
The reason I’m even off on this tangent is my previous thing on “what’s your problem” reminded me of Leno’s “what’s your beef, Jay?”. Dave would ask Jay what his beef (his problem) was with anything…and Leno would go on forever! It was genius…classic.
I could probably recite his whole bit verbatim…I have the VCR tape somewhere (must find a VCR)
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Joe Morgan, ex-Cincinnati Reds Hall of Fame player and current ESPN baseball commentator, is quite possibly the worst color analyst (referring to his position in the broadcast booth…not his race) in baseball.
Here is something Joe Morgan might say on any given night: “Ken Griffey Jr. is a great player. Willie Mays once said I was a great player. One time I hit a bases-empty grand slam. I am really good at everything…just ask Hank Aaron. He said I was amazing when I played”
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I've mentioned that I can't stand Cincinnati Red's leftfielder Adam Dunn. I've probably mentioned it a thousand times actually. He a clubhouse cancer and has hurt this team as much as Barry Larkin did in his later years.
As I sit here typing away on this blog, I am watching the Reds' game and thinking of the great season that never materialized. But unlike the Bengals, I see a light at the end of the tunnel for this team. It's September and they have called up some of their younger guys to give them some experience. I think this team will do quite well next season. In my efforts to be a sort of prognosticator, I will give you a few names of players to watch on this team next season.
Josh Hamilton: In my opinion THE BEST player in the National League. Pretty boastful you might say. But I truly believes he is at a higher level than many of his peers. He has a ton of tools that one can witness on a nightly basis.
Joey Votto: First baseman. Called up in September to get some major league licks in. The guy is a stud hitter.
Jay Bruce: Just named Minor League Player of the Year. May not make the "big" club next season but he might be up for a cup of coffee sooner rather than later.
Jeff Keppinger: Been around a while and is finally getting his chance to play regularly. This guy is a flat-out pure hitter.
Along with Brandon Phillips, Griffey, and the help of a few others, I see the Reds winning 160 of 162 next season.
*Side note: I had a bid on ebay to purchase 2 front row seats with an aisle seat (in the outfield though) for the last day game of the season. I just won! $10 and I'll be at the game this week vs. the Cardinals (I don't like the Cardinals)
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Finally, I feel I need to tell you about something else that has been a big deal for me this summer. For the fourth year, we were invited back to participate in the Monday Night Golf League. This league was started 20 something years ago by a couple of guys who wanted to get together to form a league. My buddy Gill is an excellent golfer and he was invited to play. He needed a partner to be on his team and, for some strange reason that historians years from now will try to figure out, picked me.
After our first season was completed, we worried all winter if we'd be invited back. Thankfully, we were invited back.
Fast forward to this season. They employ this elaborate handicapping system that, in a sense, equalizes all the players. So even though I'm a middle-of-the-road golfer, I will have a chance to compete with a really great golfer by him giving me "strokes". I don't really understand how it all works. I just show up and try to shoot my best score. Last season, we started out kinda' hot but, as the old saying goes "A Dog that shits fast doesn't shit long". We went from first to near worst by midway through the season. It didn't matter though because we weren't really "in it to win it".
This season, we started out hot as we had in the past. As we played each week and waited for our typical meltdown, we realized that notorious meltdown hadn't reared its ugly head.
In a feat that rivaled some of the greatest accomplishment of man, we were poised to make our first appearance in the playoffs!
A little bit about this league. I'd say that Gill and I are one of the two "youngest" teams out there. In most sports that would be an advantage, but in golf it doesn't really matter. But one thing we've found, and I feel kinda' strange saying this, is that a lot of the older guys really like us. In my greatest attempt at trying not to sound boastful or full of myself, I have to think the Old Guard finds us entertaining. First, we don't take it too seriously and yet we respect the etiquette of the game. Of course, we do have one ritual that sorta' flies in the face of the majesty of the game. Just before we tee off, Gill puts a big pinch between his cheek and gum and I load up on a big chaw of Red Man.
Second, we're pretty competitive yet always liberal with praise for our opponents. Hey Carl, your tee shot landed on top of a robin's nest in the tip of that tree...but that's where you wanna' come in from. That sorta' thing.
We played against a guy named Bob in the middle of the year. He was a little guy, about late 50s, pretty quiet and soft-spoken, but a very good golfer. Every drive of his was straight down the middle. At one point, Gill called him "Fairway Bob". Once the round was done, we sat on the deck and signed our scorecards and Bob started laughing about his new nickname. We informed him we had names for other guys like Gene Gene the Putting Machine (this old guy can drain puts from the next county over), Gorilla Grog (for his monstrous drives and hairy arms) Tommy Bluejeans (because this guy wore jeans even if it was 99 degrees)and Gentleman Jim (an old fella that was the nicest guy and always looked for us on the putting green so he could chat and tell us about his hole in one). I would be willing to bet that Bob had never laughed so hard in his life. From that day on, he would come up to us with new nicknames he thought of or to see if we already had names for his opponent that night.
We also got this reputation as being big beer drinkers. It's truly more fiction than fact. We did have a cold beer on the putting green as we waited for our opponents to show up, but never in excess. However, the legend grew and rumor spread that if you shovel beers down our gullets, that we could be beaten. Gill and I gallantly took the challenge for a couple of weeks until, unfortunately for us, we proved this theory to be inaccurate and the free pilsners stopped coming. We actually played better the more beers we had. One team even bought us beer and carried it for us. We thumped them. Still, the long journey found us in the playoffs. It was interesting how I felt about it because I hadn't been in a really competitive situation for quite some time and, suddenly, I was in this highly-contested battle to make the finals. All day at work I thought about that night's match.
We won our semi-final match by the sixth hole and I can't describe the excitement we felt that day. Our thoughts soon turned to the championship match.
Well, to make a long story short and to ease the daily pain I feel for playing like such a turd, we lost in the Finals.
Here I am, I have a great healthy, fun family. A nice house and great life but losing that match really bothered me for a couple of days. I didn't spend my nights laying awake in bed thinking about ways to end it all...but it did stick with me. I can't help thinking that if I played a little better, we would have had a shot. I kept thinking about Dan Marino and his being in the Super Bowl early in his career and never even getting a whiff of the big game after and how I might have blown Gill and my only shot at winning this thing. Oh the stories we would have told. Oh how we would have embellished it and had fun with it. It's sorta childish and a bit silly I guess, but I'd still love a rematch.
As luck would have it, my dad and brother were playing that course the same day as our Finals. It was kinda cool being on number 11 tee and looking over on number 15 and seeing my dad and brother peeking over. It was like we had a gallery!
So, to borrow a phrase from every Chicago Cubs fan in the world, "Maybe Next Year"
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All right, that's all I have for tonight. Please leave me a comment and tell me what you think. If you liked it, I will publish your comment and bask in my magnificent glory. If you don't like it, I will delete your comment like it never happened! HA!
Also, remember that all the minutiae from months past are archived in the column to the right. Wondering what my thoughts were on topics from July of 2004? Then go to the "Previous Posts" and "Archives" section and enjoy the crisp refreshing feeling all over again
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