1/26/2007
Tragedy? I think not.
I ate lunch with some guys from my church yesterday and they were complaining about how the Chiefs could have won the Wild Card game with the Colts this season and how much of a bummer that game was. I didn't tell them I was a Saints fan, but I wanted to direct them to this. Seriously. A guy dies during knee surgery two years after another guy dies from a neck injury sustained during a game? I'll take 100 NFC Championship losses before a blow like either of those...
1/17/2007
What a year (so far)!
Holy crap, I can't believe how fortunate I've been this 2006-2007 season in terms of watching my favorite sports teams. First, the Tigers win the American League Championship. Next, the Saints earn a trip to Chicago to play for the NFC Championship (this weekend). Then the Suns rattle off 26 of 28 victories after starting 3-6 and are apparently on the brink of NBA greatness. Did I mention that the Devils are second in the NHL's Eastern Conference and 10 games ahead of the rest of their division?
Anyway, whatever happens to the Saints this weekend, it was a great year for them after going 3-13 last season. The most exciting thing for me right now is probably the future of this once-in-my-lifetime sports season, for aside from New Orleans being two wins away from a Super Bowl Championship, I have much to look forward from New Jersey, and to an even greater extent, the Phoenix Suns. I could never put that fact as well as Bill Simmons does here. Read the article and become a Suns fan before you have to jump on the bandwagon.
Anyway, whatever happens to the Saints this weekend, it was a great year for them after going 3-13 last season. The most exciting thing for me right now is probably the future of this once-in-my-lifetime sports season, for aside from New Orleans being two wins away from a Super Bowl Championship, I have much to look forward from New Jersey, and to an even greater extent, the Phoenix Suns. I could never put that fact as well as Bill Simmons does here. Read the article and become a Suns fan before you have to jump on the bandwagon.
12/22/2006
You're a Grand Old Tag
I wasn't planning on blogging until 2007 because I'm knee-deep in the Christmas Holiday right about now, but Andy's getting pretty antsy, and the weird-toothed supertasting blind man got so incredibly into the spirit of the "tag," so I thought I should follow suit...so here's five things you may not have known about me (although if you know me well enough to read my boring little blog, than you probably already do). Here's something to read, nonetheless:
1. I could read really well at an early age. I'm not exactly sure at what age and at what level (you'd have to ask my parents), but I'm pretty sure I was reading the newspaper pretty well at age four, since I was told by one of my former pre-school teachers that I used to read the paper to the class. We're probably not talking about flying through the business section at break-neck speed, but apparently I could comprehend words and sentences at an advanced level for my age because in Kindergarten I remember going to classes with struggling third- and fourth-graders to practice reading while my classmates were at recess. When I got into high school though, I hated reading. I rarely read anything that was assigned to me and NEVER read anything other than Sports Illustrated for recreation. Nowadays I read more than I ever have.
2. I had at least five concussions in my adolescent years. Four of these were sports-related (one from football, one from basketball and two from baseball), and at least two were semi-serious. The other that I know of came when I was chasing my younger brother around the house and he slammed the bathroom door on my noggin. The football injury came at Alden in a junior varsity game my sophomore year. I was playing outside linebacker and a guy tried to hurdle me as I tackled him and he nailed me in the melon with his knee. I don't remember the next 30 minutes or so of the game, including returning a kickoff to mid-field before I was removed from the game because I was wandering around like a guy with...well, a concussion. The first thing I remember after trying to tackle the guy is standing on the sideline, pads off, staring at the ground. Weird stuff. The basketball injury I actually have on videotape from my junior year, but it's debatable about whether or not I suffered a concussion. I went up for a shot and got undercut, flipping over backwards and landing on my neck. I was taken out of the game and my friend Collin shot my free throws, and the rest of the night is cloudy. I had a mild stomach ache but I remember most everything that happened. Having had a few concussions by this time in my life, I'm pretty sure that was one. The baseball ones were a little strange, and both resulted from sliding headfirst. The first was my freshman year. I was trying to score from second base and was running hard enough that my helmet came off rounding third. When I dove toward home plate, the ball actually hit me in the temple. I don't know if I touched home right away, but my mom says that for at least 45 seconds I was crawling around in the dirt trying to find the base even though it was right in front of my face. She came out onto the field with my coach and took me into the concession stand where she was working (she's a medical technician and wanted to monitor me). Apparently I asked her every 15 seconds whether or not I was safe and she kept repeating that I was. Don't remember it -- definite concussion. The fifth and last one is a pretty bizarre one that ends in me being taken off the diamond in an ambulance. I was diving headfirst into first base because it was a close play and I could see the throw was coming in high (some people ask why runners dive into first base, claiming it slows the runner down...my response is that while it may slow you down just a bit, I used to do it whenever there was a high throw to first, in case the first baseman jumped to catch the ball and tried to reach down and tag me). So I dive into first, this guy jumps, and kicks me right in the forehead. The strange thing is, I played like four more innings and even had a base hit and fielded some ground balls at shortstop. But I didn't talk to anyone. Then suddenly I started trying to bite one of my teammates and they called in the medical authorities. My mom (again) had been watching me and sensed something was wrong, so she was right on it and got me into an ambulance as soon as I became a cannibal in a baseball jersey.
3. I have only been sick one time in my life. And by sick I mean vomiting. And by vomiting I mean I'm not counting the three or four times (in college) where I threw up as a result of consuming too much alcohol. So much alcohol in fact, that I don't recall the actual feeling of vomiting at all. I'm not even sure I would know the warning signs. The only time I've thrown up from actual sickness or food poisoning was in second grade, and I barely remember it. I have a pretty tough stomach and have unknowingly eaten many rotten food items and never had any problems.
4. I once ate the Tremendous Twelve® at Perkins Restaurant in three minutes and forty-one seconds. What's the Tremendous Twelve®, you ask? Go here and scroll down. Many of you know I've accomplished this feat because it comes up a lot when people see me eating in public; I tend to finish my food by the time the rest of my party is placing their napkins in their lap. I'm getting better at conciously slowing down when eating, but sometimes I forget and I end up consuming a half-pound burger in just a few minutes (for those of you who'd have a frame of reference, I once ate a double-quarter pounder with cheese and a super-sized fry between the Welch Avenue McDonalds drive-thru and C.Y. Stephens Auditorium, and then topped it off with my super-size drink as I walked to the door of C.Y.).
If you'd like to try eating the Tremendous Twelve® in record time yourself, I'll let you in on my secret: The trick lies in how you order it. First of all, order it with sausage patties instead of bacon and order the eggs "over hard." This way you can essentially make a giant burger out of the pancakes, patties and eggs. Then you squish the "burger" down so you can get your mouth around it. It takes at least 40 seconds just to prepare your meal -- you have to douse everything in syrup, concentrating on the pancakes (the most dry part of the meal). Finally, order it "to go" so you get the styrofoam cases. These are easier to scoop food out of than a plate, which leads me to trick number two: Forget the silverware and go wild. You have to eat with your hands to do it fast (which is also why you need to get it to go; you look absolutely disgusting when doing it my way). I broke the record in the passenger seat of my friend Scott's Chevy Beretta. We used a stopwatch, and I got my meal free for doing it in under 4:00.
5. I have an incredibly small mouth. In high school, my orthodontist said a number of times when adjusting my braces that I have "the smallest adult mouth inside which he's ever worked" (for the record Sean, he didn't actually get inside of my mouth, but stuck his hands and ortho-tools inside it to "work"). The outside of my mouth looks fairly normal, but the inside is where it gets tiny. The roof of my mouth barely goes above the level of my upper front teeth, and I can't open very wide. I received a retainer after my braces were removed (which I still have and amazingly still fits) and when looking at it, you can get a true idea of how small my mouth is.
So there you have it. Five things about me. Now I'm gonna do some taggin':
Derek
Kelli
Joni
Rua
Adam
1. I could read really well at an early age. I'm not exactly sure at what age and at what level (you'd have to ask my parents), but I'm pretty sure I was reading the newspaper pretty well at age four, since I was told by one of my former pre-school teachers that I used to read the paper to the class. We're probably not talking about flying through the business section at break-neck speed, but apparently I could comprehend words and sentences at an advanced level for my age because in Kindergarten I remember going to classes with struggling third- and fourth-graders to practice reading while my classmates were at recess. When I got into high school though, I hated reading. I rarely read anything that was assigned to me and NEVER read anything other than Sports Illustrated for recreation. Nowadays I read more than I ever have.
2. I had at least five concussions in my adolescent years. Four of these were sports-related (one from football, one from basketball and two from baseball), and at least two were semi-serious. The other that I know of came when I was chasing my younger brother around the house and he slammed the bathroom door on my noggin. The football injury came at Alden in a junior varsity game my sophomore year. I was playing outside linebacker and a guy tried to hurdle me as I tackled him and he nailed me in the melon with his knee. I don't remember the next 30 minutes or so of the game, including returning a kickoff to mid-field before I was removed from the game because I was wandering around like a guy with...well, a concussion. The first thing I remember after trying to tackle the guy is standing on the sideline, pads off, staring at the ground. Weird stuff. The basketball injury I actually have on videotape from my junior year, but it's debatable about whether or not I suffered a concussion. I went up for a shot and got undercut, flipping over backwards and landing on my neck. I was taken out of the game and my friend Collin shot my free throws, and the rest of the night is cloudy. I had a mild stomach ache but I remember most everything that happened. Having had a few concussions by this time in my life, I'm pretty sure that was one. The baseball ones were a little strange, and both resulted from sliding headfirst. The first was my freshman year. I was trying to score from second base and was running hard enough that my helmet came off rounding third. When I dove toward home plate, the ball actually hit me in the temple. I don't know if I touched home right away, but my mom says that for at least 45 seconds I was crawling around in the dirt trying to find the base even though it was right in front of my face. She came out onto the field with my coach and took me into the concession stand where she was working (she's a medical technician and wanted to monitor me). Apparently I asked her every 15 seconds whether or not I was safe and she kept repeating that I was. Don't remember it -- definite concussion. The fifth and last one is a pretty bizarre one that ends in me being taken off the diamond in an ambulance. I was diving headfirst into first base because it was a close play and I could see the throw was coming in high (some people ask why runners dive into first base, claiming it slows the runner down...my response is that while it may slow you down just a bit, I used to do it whenever there was a high throw to first, in case the first baseman jumped to catch the ball and tried to reach down and tag me). So I dive into first, this guy jumps, and kicks me right in the forehead. The strange thing is, I played like four more innings and even had a base hit and fielded some ground balls at shortstop. But I didn't talk to anyone. Then suddenly I started trying to bite one of my teammates and they called in the medical authorities. My mom (again) had been watching me and sensed something was wrong, so she was right on it and got me into an ambulance as soon as I became a cannibal in a baseball jersey.
3. I have only been sick one time in my life. And by sick I mean vomiting. And by vomiting I mean I'm not counting the three or four times (in college) where I threw up as a result of consuming too much alcohol. So much alcohol in fact, that I don't recall the actual feeling of vomiting at all. I'm not even sure I would know the warning signs. The only time I've thrown up from actual sickness or food poisoning was in second grade, and I barely remember it. I have a pretty tough stomach and have unknowingly eaten many rotten food items and never had any problems.
4. I once ate the Tremendous Twelve® at Perkins Restaurant in three minutes and forty-one seconds. What's the Tremendous Twelve®, you ask? Go here and scroll down. Many of you know I've accomplished this feat because it comes up a lot when people see me eating in public; I tend to finish my food by the time the rest of my party is placing their napkins in their lap. I'm getting better at conciously slowing down when eating, but sometimes I forget and I end up consuming a half-pound burger in just a few minutes (for those of you who'd have a frame of reference, I once ate a double-quarter pounder with cheese and a super-sized fry between the Welch Avenue McDonalds drive-thru and C.Y. Stephens Auditorium, and then topped it off with my super-size drink as I walked to the door of C.Y.).
If you'd like to try eating the Tremendous Twelve® in record time yourself, I'll let you in on my secret: The trick lies in how you order it. First of all, order it with sausage patties instead of bacon and order the eggs "over hard." This way you can essentially make a giant burger out of the pancakes, patties and eggs. Then you squish the "burger" down so you can get your mouth around it. It takes at least 40 seconds just to prepare your meal -- you have to douse everything in syrup, concentrating on the pancakes (the most dry part of the meal). Finally, order it "to go" so you get the styrofoam cases. These are easier to scoop food out of than a plate, which leads me to trick number two: Forget the silverware and go wild. You have to eat with your hands to do it fast (which is also why you need to get it to go; you look absolutely disgusting when doing it my way). I broke the record in the passenger seat of my friend Scott's Chevy Beretta. We used a stopwatch, and I got my meal free for doing it in under 4:00.
5. I have an incredibly small mouth. In high school, my orthodontist said a number of times when adjusting my braces that I have "the smallest adult mouth inside which he's ever worked" (for the record Sean, he didn't actually get inside of my mouth, but stuck his hands and ortho-tools inside it to "work"). The outside of my mouth looks fairly normal, but the inside is where it gets tiny. The roof of my mouth barely goes above the level of my upper front teeth, and I can't open very wide. I received a retainer after my braces were removed (which I still have and amazingly still fits) and when looking at it, you can get a true idea of how small my mouth is.
So there you have it. Five things about me. Now I'm gonna do some taggin':
Derek
Kelli
Joni
Rua
Adam
11/08/2006
Voting is fun!
About six years ago I discovered a little activity that made Tuesday night TV more fun during the first week in November -- I voted! And then I followed suit every other year, culminating in last night's vote-fest, in which I wrote in and voted for my favorite sports players in every race (two years ago it was my favorite actors/actresses).
It really does help out with the evening TV watching, though. At least this way you can sit and watch the returns like it's a sporting event or something, instead of complaining about the return coverage hogging all the major networks (and having to ultimately subject yourself to something on the new CW). It's not like my vote has ever mattered (that's right -- it hasn't, unless you can point to one race in the last six years that was separated by one vote), but at least when I vote I feel "plugged in," and that "my voice is being heard" in a country that's so split down the middle on pretty much everything that it's ridiculous.
But as you know, Chet Culver will be the next governor of Iowa. Charles Barkley didn't even bring in 1% of the vote, so no one else must have voted for him (oh well, there's always 2008 -- Edward Norton for president). My favorite thing about Culver is his strong belief in renewable fuels; I think this state needs something for which our farmers can work, since United States farmers are not only underappreciated, but getting their butts kicked by other countries (namely Brazil) because of urban expansion and the decrease in young farmers. And if I were an advisor to Mr. Culver, I would say, "Governor-elect Culver, I believe in renewable fuels like you believe in renewable fuels. So now that you're governor, we need to put our state funding into science -- the science that will figure out how to change human perspiration into fuel...because YOU ARE THE SWEATIEST HUMAN BEING ON THE FACE OF THE PLANET."
Chet Culver. His sweat is good for Iowa.
It really does help out with the evening TV watching, though. At least this way you can sit and watch the returns like it's a sporting event or something, instead of complaining about the return coverage hogging all the major networks (and having to ultimately subject yourself to something on the new CW). It's not like my vote has ever mattered (that's right -- it hasn't, unless you can point to one race in the last six years that was separated by one vote), but at least when I vote I feel "plugged in," and that "my voice is being heard" in a country that's so split down the middle on pretty much everything that it's ridiculous.
But as you know, Chet Culver will be the next governor of Iowa. Charles Barkley didn't even bring in 1% of the vote, so no one else must have voted for him (oh well, there's always 2008 -- Edward Norton for president). My favorite thing about Culver is his strong belief in renewable fuels; I think this state needs something for which our farmers can work, since United States farmers are not only underappreciated, but getting their butts kicked by other countries (namely Brazil) because of urban expansion and the decrease in young farmers. And if I were an advisor to Mr. Culver, I would say, "Governor-elect Culver, I believe in renewable fuels like you believe in renewable fuels. So now that you're governor, we need to put our state funding into science -- the science that will figure out how to change human perspiration into fuel...because YOU ARE THE SWEATIEST HUMAN BEING ON THE FACE OF THE PLANET."
Chet Culver. His sweat is good for Iowa.
10/09/2006
Jostlin' Tebow
Yes, it's sweet that the Tigers are in the ALCS, and even sweeter that they beat the Yankees to get there, but I must refrain from celebrating until the end of their run, however they might finish. So in the meantime, instead of beaming about Saturday's ALDS game four, I'd like to mention a different game from Saturday -- the SEC matchup between SEC powerhouses LSU and Florida. Not because I'm a fan of either team (college programs that are perenially in the national spotlight annoy me), but because if you haven't seen the Gators play this year, you need to do so. Soon. For no other reason than to see Tim Tebow play. "Who's Tim Tebow?" you ask. "Are you serious?" I respond. Tim Tebow is a freakin' amazing true freshman quarterback that comes in to give potential Heisman candidate Chris Leak a breather and/or to gain about eight yards a pop by running over anyone in his way. The dude passed for nearly 10,000 yards in high school. He also ran for 63 TDs. That's in four years, y'all. He's awesome. He never takes a dive before getting hit like so many quarterbacks not named Duante or Vick. He goes berzerk anytime he makes a decent play, and his first NCAA touchdown pass was a jump pass (which probably hasn't happened in the last 40 years). He's fun to watch, so start watching Florida play because you're going to be hearing his name for the next four years (especially after Leak graduates and he gets the starting job for the next three). You might as well start following a legendary journey now. Just to whet your pallete, I'll throw the obligitory YouTube links at ya. Enjoy:
Tebow vs. Kentucky
Tebow vs. LSU
Tebow vs. Kentucky
Tebow vs. LSU
9/28/2006
Man, I hate the Yankees.
It's getting down to it in baseball's 2006 season, and for once -- for the first time since I was eight years old in fact -- the Tigers are IN. And just like the last time they made the 'yoffs, their nemesis is the Minnesota Twins. The two teams are battling it out for the American League Central Division title right now and it's anybody's trophy. But does it really matter? I don't think so. The Yankees are just too good. It's not pessimism on my part, it's realism. I don't think any team has the pitching to beat them. Their hitters are too selective and too smart. The Twins maybe could have beaten them in a five-game series with Liriano and Radke healthy, but not anymore. The Tigers could have beaten them in a short series back in June, but not now. New York is too hot right now. And I hate them.
I don't hate them because they're good, and I don't hate them because everyone and their dog seems to like the Yankees including our church pastor. I don't hate them because they're a "love 'em or hate 'em" team and I have to hate them by default since my love is obviously for Detroit baseball, and I don't hate them because they have such a rich tradition with like 3 billion World Series titles and I want someone else to have a chance. No, I hate them because they BUY all their talent. Granted, this is why many people tend to dislike the Yankees -- the fact that it's such a business with them, and they operate in a "he who dies with the most toys wins" environment that hangs like an irreversible dark cloud over the head of professional baseball...but does anyone know EXACTLY how bad it really is?
Here's how bad: The Yankees' team payroll is $198,662,180. Next in line is Boston, at $120,100,524. Allow me to do the math -- New York's team payroll is $68,561,656 more than the second-highest paid team in baseball -- nearly the same amount as the entire payroll of the San Diego Padres ($68,897,179 - 17th overall). Which team is paid the least, you ask? The Florida Marlins make $14,344,500 as a team. Five Yankee players make more than that amount.
Alex Rodriguez (NYY) makes $25,680,727 a year, making him the highest paid baseball player in the majors. Guess what -- he makes almost double what the Marlins entire team makes. The Yanks have 22 players on their roster that make a $1 million or more. The Marlins have two. The funny thing is that the Marlins have the same amount of World Series titles (2) since 1997 that New York does in that time, and the Marlins have the lone no-hitter in the last three years, thrown by Anibal Sanchez, a guy that's pretty much making the league minimum. The Yankees have nine pitchers that make over $1M (three that make over $10M), yet their best pitcher this season is making $353,175.
Is it necessary to pay these jerks this much? Obviously big payrolls don't necessarily mean titles. They just mean a lot of attention and the support of most of the city of New York, which for some is important I guess. If the Yankees win it all this season (and I predict they will), the only thing that will happen is player salaries will go up. So while I'm cheering for the Tigers in this year's postseason, I won't be nearly as depressed if they lose as I will be if my prediction comes true. Not just because the championship will belong to a bunch of greedy, pinstriped meatheads, but because America will continue to feed the monster that is professional sports by attending the jacked-up playoff games.
Now where are my Twins-Tigers ALCS tickets????? I'll pay anything!
I don't hate them because they're good, and I don't hate them because everyone and their dog seems to like the Yankees including our church pastor. I don't hate them because they're a "love 'em or hate 'em" team and I have to hate them by default since my love is obviously for Detroit baseball, and I don't hate them because they have such a rich tradition with like 3 billion World Series titles and I want someone else to have a chance. No, I hate them because they BUY all their talent. Granted, this is why many people tend to dislike the Yankees -- the fact that it's such a business with them, and they operate in a "he who dies with the most toys wins" environment that hangs like an irreversible dark cloud over the head of professional baseball...but does anyone know EXACTLY how bad it really is?
Here's how bad: The Yankees' team payroll is $198,662,180. Next in line is Boston, at $120,100,524. Allow me to do the math -- New York's team payroll is $68,561,656 more than the second-highest paid team in baseball -- nearly the same amount as the entire payroll of the San Diego Padres ($68,897,179 - 17th overall). Which team is paid the least, you ask? The Florida Marlins make $14,344,500 as a team. Five Yankee players make more than that amount.
Alex Rodriguez (NYY) makes $25,680,727 a year, making him the highest paid baseball player in the majors. Guess what -- he makes almost double what the Marlins entire team makes. The Yanks have 22 players on their roster that make a $1 million or more. The Marlins have two. The funny thing is that the Marlins have the same amount of World Series titles (2) since 1997 that New York does in that time, and the Marlins have the lone no-hitter in the last three years, thrown by Anibal Sanchez, a guy that's pretty much making the league minimum. The Yankees have nine pitchers that make over $1M (three that make over $10M), yet their best pitcher this season is making $353,175.
Is it necessary to pay these jerks this much? Obviously big payrolls don't necessarily mean titles. They just mean a lot of attention and the support of most of the city of New York, which for some is important I guess. If the Yankees win it all this season (and I predict they will), the only thing that will happen is player salaries will go up. So while I'm cheering for the Tigers in this year's postseason, I won't be nearly as depressed if they lose as I will be if my prediction comes true. Not just because the championship will belong to a bunch of greedy, pinstriped meatheads, but because America will continue to feed the monster that is professional sports by attending the jacked-up playoff games.
Now where are my Twins-Tigers ALCS tickets????? I'll pay anything!
9/01/2006
Dog Brain.
I was eating lunch at home this week, I had just made a sandwich and stood at the counter to eat, listening to my iPod. When I looked over at a box of dog biscuits my mind started to wander...
The box reads, "Hy-Vee Snack Biscuits...for dogs." Then in smaller type it says, "Chicken, beef, bacon, vegetable and peanut butter snack biscuits." On the box is a picture of a cocker spaniel looking like he would do anything for one of these treats. He is surrounded by "actual size" images of the bone-shaped biscuits.
So do we really need to mention on this box that they're "for dogs?" Are humans really this stupid? Does Hy-Vee think that anyone in their right mind would:
1. Have a craving for a chicken- or beef-flavored snack? I mean, it's obviously not jerky. It's in a box that (if it were intended for humans) is about the size of your standard Cheez-It or Wheat Thins box and would probably be in the same aisle. Would people really think this was a potentially delicious snack?
2. Actually buy something to eat adorned with the image of a live dog? Not a cartoon dog mind you, which COULD confuse kids or really dumb college students (if it were cheap enough). I could see it being mistaken for cereal if there were a cartoon dog on the front, but then again you get into the "chicken, beef, bacon, vegetable" flavorings that are not fit for pouring milk on at 8 a.m.
3. Be tempted by bone-shaped food labeled "biscuits?" Anyone who's ever bought anything knows that if there's a picture of a real dog on the package and the food is shaped like BONES, IT'S FOR DOGS. Even if you can't read, you know what's in this box is for Fido and not you.
Regardless, I tried one. It was awfully salty.
The box reads, "Hy-Vee Snack Biscuits...for dogs." Then in smaller type it says, "Chicken, beef, bacon, vegetable and peanut butter snack biscuits." On the box is a picture of a cocker spaniel looking like he would do anything for one of these treats. He is surrounded by "actual size" images of the bone-shaped biscuits.
So do we really need to mention on this box that they're "for dogs?" Are humans really this stupid? Does Hy-Vee think that anyone in their right mind would:
1. Have a craving for a chicken- or beef-flavored snack? I mean, it's obviously not jerky. It's in a box that (if it were intended for humans) is about the size of your standard Cheez-It or Wheat Thins box and would probably be in the same aisle. Would people really think this was a potentially delicious snack?
2. Actually buy something to eat adorned with the image of a live dog? Not a cartoon dog mind you, which COULD confuse kids or really dumb college students (if it were cheap enough). I could see it being mistaken for cereal if there were a cartoon dog on the front, but then again you get into the "chicken, beef, bacon, vegetable" flavorings that are not fit for pouring milk on at 8 a.m.
3. Be tempted by bone-shaped food labeled "biscuits?" Anyone who's ever bought anything knows that if there's a picture of a real dog on the package and the food is shaped like BONES, IT'S FOR DOGS. Even if you can't read, you know what's in this box is for Fido and not you.
Regardless, I tried one. It was awfully salty.
8/31/2006
HAPPY Joe's?
I was out running Tuesday morning and around mile two I passed a sign outside of Happy Joe's (a pizza place in Urbandale) that read "Now Hiring. Apply Inside." I didn't think much of it until about 50 feet later I passed another sign for Happy Joe's that said "Now Serving: RIBS."
I certainly hope that these two events at Happy Joe's (the hiring of new employees and the sudden serving of ribs) don't have anything to do with one another -- that they're completely coincidental. I'd really hate to apply and find out that I got a server position only to learn in orientation that I had to give up my rib cage so Happy Joe's could add another menu option.
I certainly hope that these two events at Happy Joe's (the hiring of new employees and the sudden serving of ribs) don't have anything to do with one another -- that they're completely coincidental. I'd really hate to apply and find out that I got a server position only to learn in orientation that I had to give up my rib cage so Happy Joe's could add another menu option.
8/28/2006
Overheard at the Urinal
"If you'd have told me 10 years ago that I'd spend as much money on wine as I do now, I'd have said you were crazy."
Amen, brother.
Amen, brother.
8/16/2006
A Gray Area
I saw this morning that the "mystery hero of 9-11" came forth and had his first televised interview. While watching the interview (courtesy of MSNBC), I noticed a couple of things:
Number one, Rita Cosby of MSNBC is pretty much the most annoying talker I've ever heard and I can't believe she has a job in which her voice has to take center stage. Seriously, it sounds like she has emphysema. If she has some sort of chronic condition or has multiple sclerosis or something then I don't mean to be crass, but she still shouldn't be on TV. She should be consulting a physician.
Number two (and the thing that really gets me) is that Marine Sergeant Jason Thomas is black. No, it doesn't amaze me that he's black and he's a hero -- I'm not racist or anything. What gets me is that the guy is black and they had a white guy portray him in Oliver Stone's new movie World Trade Center. I mean, I fully understand that he was a "mystery" until just recently, but come on. So maybe the producers didn't know he was black? Well, from their research in putting together the screenplay, they obviously knew the guy's name. And apparently, they knew his "character." In fact, Rita Cosby mentions in her wheezy voice that the producers were looking for an actor that fit Thomas' character more than basing their choice of actor on appearance. Yeah. Right. Does she understand in her covering for the producers that they were looking for ACTORS to play Marine Sergeant Thomas? That means the actor doesn't have to have the same character as Thomas, they just have to PLAY someone with that same character. That's what actors do. Don't get me wrong, this works in some cases. For instance, the character of Red in Stephen King's short story Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption was not black, he was most likely a fair-skinned Irish man. In the movie The Shawshank Redemption, however, Morgan Freeman played Red*. And he ruled. It was because Freeman nailed the part better than any other actor, white or black. But here's the thing: Not only does WTC not fall into the same category as Shawshank because it's not a completely fictitious film, I doubt William Mapother, who plays Thomas in the film World Trade Center, "nailed" the part. I doubt Mapother ever nailed any part save his part in ABC's "Lost," in which he played a mean, kidnapper jerk that tried to kill an unborn baby. Wait a minute...sounds a lot like Sergeant Thomas, a man who left his mom's house the moment he heard the first plane hit the WTC, rushed into Manhattan in uniform and pulled some cops out of the fiery rubble. Man, I bet Mapother didn't even have to try out for the role, they probably just watched his psychotic attempted-baby murdering performance on "Lost" and decided he was a shoo-in.
But anyway, back to my point: It's pretty pathetic that the producers made a move like this. Let's not fool ourselves, they knew Sergeant Thomas was black when they cast the part.
"But there was so much dust and soot, I could have sworn he was white."
-- Dr. Excuses
You're stupid, Hollywood. And don't say in rebuttal to me, "Aaron, the very fact that you noticed the color of Sergeant Thomas' skin shows that you see a difference in people based on race." That statement is ludicrous. You should have gotten a black man to play Sergeant Thomas for the very same reason that Will Smith played Muhammed Ali instead of Russell Crowe and that Phillip Seymour Hoffman played Truman Capote instead of Denzel Washington and that Ben Kingsley played Ghandi instead of....er....well, you get the idea.
Anyway, let me stop ranting and let you watch the video. It's an amazing story, despite my distracting you with talk of Rita Crosby's respiratory problems and the movie's casting mistakes. You'll find the interview here.
Tune into my next blog update, in which I complain about how stupid a proposal to add two new planets to our solar system is.
* - By the way, Frank Darabont really cashed in on this when Andy Dufresne askes Red why they've given him that moniker and Red responds, "Maybe it's 'cause I'm Irish."
Number one, Rita Cosby of MSNBC is pretty much the most annoying talker I've ever heard and I can't believe she has a job in which her voice has to take center stage. Seriously, it sounds like she has emphysema. If she has some sort of chronic condition or has multiple sclerosis or something then I don't mean to be crass, but she still shouldn't be on TV. She should be consulting a physician.
Number two (and the thing that really gets me) is that Marine Sergeant Jason Thomas is black. No, it doesn't amaze me that he's black and he's a hero -- I'm not racist or anything. What gets me is that the guy is black and they had a white guy portray him in Oliver Stone's new movie World Trade Center. I mean, I fully understand that he was a "mystery" until just recently, but come on. So maybe the producers didn't know he was black? Well, from their research in putting together the screenplay, they obviously knew the guy's name. And apparently, they knew his "character." In fact, Rita Cosby mentions in her wheezy voice that the producers were looking for an actor that fit Thomas' character more than basing their choice of actor on appearance. Yeah. Right. Does she understand in her covering for the producers that they were looking for ACTORS to play Marine Sergeant Thomas? That means the actor doesn't have to have the same character as Thomas, they just have to PLAY someone with that same character. That's what actors do. Don't get me wrong, this works in some cases. For instance, the character of Red in Stephen King's short story Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption was not black, he was most likely a fair-skinned Irish man. In the movie The Shawshank Redemption, however, Morgan Freeman played Red*. And he ruled. It was because Freeman nailed the part better than any other actor, white or black. But here's the thing: Not only does WTC not fall into the same category as Shawshank because it's not a completely fictitious film, I doubt William Mapother, who plays Thomas in the film World Trade Center, "nailed" the part. I doubt Mapother ever nailed any part save his part in ABC's "Lost," in which he played a mean, kidnapper jerk that tried to kill an unborn baby. Wait a minute...sounds a lot like Sergeant Thomas, a man who left his mom's house the moment he heard the first plane hit the WTC, rushed into Manhattan in uniform and pulled some cops out of the fiery rubble. Man, I bet Mapother didn't even have to try out for the role, they probably just watched his psychotic attempted-baby murdering performance on "Lost" and decided he was a shoo-in.
But anyway, back to my point: It's pretty pathetic that the producers made a move like this. Let's not fool ourselves, they knew Sergeant Thomas was black when they cast the part.
"But there was so much dust and soot, I could have sworn he was white."
-- Dr. Excuses
You're stupid, Hollywood. And don't say in rebuttal to me, "Aaron, the very fact that you noticed the color of Sergeant Thomas' skin shows that you see a difference in people based on race." That statement is ludicrous. You should have gotten a black man to play Sergeant Thomas for the very same reason that Will Smith played Muhammed Ali instead of Russell Crowe and that Phillip Seymour Hoffman played Truman Capote instead of Denzel Washington and that Ben Kingsley played Ghandi instead of....er....well, you get the idea.
Anyway, let me stop ranting and let you watch the video. It's an amazing story, despite my distracting you with talk of Rita Crosby's respiratory problems and the movie's casting mistakes. You'll find the interview here.
Tune into my next blog update, in which I complain about how stupid a proposal to add two new planets to our solar system is.
* - By the way, Frank Darabont really cashed in on this when Andy Dufresne askes Red why they've given him that moniker and Red responds, "Maybe it's 'cause I'm Irish."
7/26/2006
It's Recap Time!
I hate it when my job sits at the top of my priorities list, but sometimes I guess it has to if I plan to not get fired. And when that happens, different parts of my life get shifted down the ol’ totem pole – things like disc golfing, spending all day on YouTube, and blogging. And it really stinks because I’ve had all these great ideas about what to blog about in the last two months or so since my last post, and haven’t gotten to cash in on them. Plus I’ve got Derek on my back, himself blogging about how long it’s been since I’ve blogged (among other topics like how Al Gore is the devil yet he would vote for him), so I guess I have no other choice but to hit you upside yo’ head with a massive update.
Looking back, not only can I not remember all of the topics that I thought would be good to blog about, I also can’t remember why I thought they would be in any form entertaining after all this time. But here is a condensed list of what I can remember once considering for a topic, and you can use your imagination as to where you think I might have gone with it:
For Crichton Out Loud!
In the realm of trying to entertain myself, I finished a few books, all – interestingly enough – revolving around the topic of religion: The DaVinci
Code, The Pocket Guide to the Bible, and The Pocket Guide to the Apocalypse. All three were entertaining – DaVinci was a page-turner written like a Thomas Harris novel, and the Pocket Guides were hilarious, particularly The Pocket Guide to the Bible. Whether or not you’ve read the Bible, it’s really entertaining. And I learned a ton. I also read The Pocket Guide to Adulthood (I’ve been on a Jason Boyett kick I guess), which wasn’t as good as the aforementioned two, but was still worth the read. I’m now going to try and read everything Michael Crichton’s written in one year (no lie).
Thinking Outside the Idiot Box
Dawn and I got hooked on Season four of ER (more Crichton) on DVD, and are currently trying to finish up Firefly, which I’ve been borrowing from Derek for
upwards of nine years. We also rented a few other flicks: Everything is Illuminated (good); Memoirs of a Geisha (average); Waiting…(ho-hum); Kiss Kiss Bang Bang (excellent). We saw Superman Returns and Pirates of The Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest in digital projection. I’m not sure if it was the movies that I liked, or the digital projection. Digital blows my mind and will probably make me go to more movies. The films themselves were pretty good, but neither was as excellent as the original.
Just Like Hank Scorpio
I partook in a “fun-run” of sorts over the 4th of July, competing(?) in my first 5K run ever in Urbandale. Fun, that is, if you call getting passed by 11-year-old girls “fun.” It’s kind of funny because I hadn’t been running much before doing
this, I just saw in the newspaper on the 3rd that there was a 5K the next morning, so I got up, ran it and came home just as Dawn was getting out of bed so it worked out well. What didn’t work so well is the fact that I hadn’t run a race since like 8th grade, and had probably never run a long-distance race, unless you count our timed mile-runs in 4th through 6th grade, which I don’t really remember. This fact is most obvious from my taking off at top speed out of the gate, not realizing that a 5K isn’t a race around the block. I got about 150 feet and people started passing me – including people with prosthetic legs and women with strollers. I got my second wind around mile two and managed to finish it in about 24 minutes, though I was dragging tail at the end. But at least I got popsicles at the finish line. That was awesome.
The Flaming Card Backwards-Talking Dream
Yes, Lou, maybe you should drive. A few nights ago I had the weirdest dream I’ve had since probably 7th grade when I dreamt my mom had turned into a lizard and was wearing my dad’s old football jersey around the house while the basement filled up with orange mittens. In my latest installment of vivid bizarreness, I was a plucky reporter that had just uncovered the truth about the legend of “The Quadruple Royal Flush,” a hand that has supposedly only been attained one time in the history of cards. And the hand belonged to none other than – wait for it – former Cincinnati Reds 2nd baseman and current ESPN color commentator Joe Morgan. Yeah. I told you it was weird. And did I mention lucid? Morgan was laying on a gurney with his head all bandaged up like he’d just had a lobotomy or something, and I’m sitting beside him
conducting this interview. So we’re at the spot where the card game originally took place, in some kind of jungle hideaway with an Amazonesque river flowing gently nearby. I ask Morgan – who is talking in a raspy voice, like he’s on his deathbed – to explain his take on the big moment, and while he tells the story, my dream flashes-back, and the world takes on all sorts of ‘70s TV graininess, complete with color loss and celluloid scratches. Imagine an old episode of Bonanza (the colorized ones) – it was kind of like that. So Joe goes on to tell me that he’s in the middle of this card game (I still don’t know what the game was…obviously not poker) when he discovers he has a chance to attain the extremely rare Quadruple Royal Flush. In retrospect, a good reporter would have actually researched (or even asked) what the heck the Quadruple Royal Flush is, and I failed to do that. Maybe I made mistake number one of a true plucky reporter – I assumed I knew what it was. Because it sounds like it’s probably a royal flush with all the suits, but who knows? Guess I should have asked. Maybe that’s why I work for an insurance company now. Anyway, as Morgan talks, I see all the 
Manchurian Candidate (the original, not the Demme remake) type of surroundings, complete with cult-looking people moaning and chanting while they play these card games, and then I see Morgan get the cards that could help lead him to the Quadruple Royal Flush. But he knows he can’t get the Quadruple Royal Flush, because he’s missing one card. So he starts looking around all suspiciously. Then he gives some kind of signal, and this guy in a Spider-Man suit comes swinging in on vines, yelling and screaming. He crashes into a side of a cliff and totally disrupts the culty guys and diverts everyone’s attention. It was kind of like when “Fan-Man” came crashing into that Evander Holyfield/Riddick Bowe fight back in the early ‘90s, except without the fan 
backpack. So by this time, everyone’s looking at the Spidey look-alike, and (I laugh at this part now) a whole bunch of cops in the stereotypical ‘80s police uniforms go scurrying up the rocks to apprehend the “perp.” You know the uniforms I’m talking about – light blue shirt, badge on the pocket, badge on the stupid looking navy blue hat….up the hill they run, and – cut back to Joe pulling the correct card out of his sleeve and replacing it in his hand. The commotion dies down and Joe acts distracted like everyone else, then looks back at his cards. “Would you look at that!” Joe Morgan says, “The Quadruple Royal Flush!” Everyone gasps. Ripple dissolve back to me at his bedside, writing furiously with my pencil and pad. Because “this is good stuff,” as plucky reporters always say…
The Babysitters’ Club
Dawn and I got to babysit our nephew Zachary a few weeks ago. He’s 18 months old and was pretty fun to have in the house. Now everyone’s saying things to us like, “Uh-oooooh, are you thinking about having a baby now?” and “Ohhh booooooy, did that make you want to wait to have kids, or do you want them right now?” and “What did you say? The printer’s too loud.” The answers to those questions are pretty much: Our babysitting Zach has nothing to do with our timetable for kids, we were just babysitting and it was fun. Now get over it. You’re not getting any insider information about whether or not we’re having a baby in the near future. Do you really care, or do you just want to try and be the first person to know in case we did say when we were planning on having kids? And yes, the printer is loud.
People say you can learn so much about yourself just by having kids. Well, I think you can learn a lot about yourself just from babysitting. Here is a list of five major things I learned about myself (and humans in general), or general observations from that weekend:
1. Milk is so freakin’ good for us. I think if we had to, we could live off of it and nothing else.
2. Toilets are probably the greatest invention ever created (#2 all-time: the sippy-cup).
3. Learning English is such a waste of time – so much can be communicated in grunts and hand gestures.
4. I don’t think the top of the bottle was named the “nipple” to trick the babies into thinking it’s their mother’s milk. I think it was because of its shape.
5. So much of a person’s life is obviously sculpted by their upbringing. My generation’s children are going to be a sick, twisted bunch.
The Old Men and the Idiocy
My biggest beef of the last two months has got to be old men playing baseball. I mean, it’s a great novelty act and all, but does this really need to be some sort of competition? A few weeks ago an 83-year old man played in a minor league baseball game and became the oldest man ever to play in a baseball game. They showed the guy on the news and the highlight of his game was him fouling a pitch off (he ended up striking out swinging). I mean, what did people expect, the
guy to hit a dinger or something? He’s 83 freaking years old. It’s not like the pitcher’s going to let up, even a little. He wants to send the guy down on strikes. He does not want to be the guy that gives up any kind of hit to a guy that’s older than his great-grandfather. Why is this old man in uniform? Seriously. The guy did not earn a spot on the team for any reason other than that HE’S OLD. If that’s the case, if we’re just putting everyday schmoes into pro games, then throw me in the game. You can call me “the most average athlete ever to play professional baseball.” Come on. What’s next, a three-year-old that stands in the batter’s box and draws a walk because his strike zone is so small? Nope. I’ll tell you what’s next. A 94-year-old guy playing in a minor league All-Star game. Yep, an All-Star game. Did he make the All-Star team because he was having a good season? No. He made the All-Star team solely because he’s older than crap. That’s the only reason. Yeah, he used to play in the Negro League and was a two-time batting champ there. He was also the Major League’s first black coach. Sooo...great, he was good 60 years ago, and yes, he 
deserves to be honored. But guess what? You’re only embarrassing the old man now by putting him in the game -- and in his Levi's for that matter! He just pretty much got up there in his blue jeans and uniform top and stood with the bat on his shoulder and took a free pass to first base, at which time a stinking pinch runner came in for him. What kind of an All-Star has to have a pinch runner? Answer: The kind that doesn’t belong. This man is no All-Star.
And I don’t want people to think that I’m against this man being there, because I’m not. I think he should definitely be honored in some way, but don’t put him in the record books like he worked his way onto the team this year. What happens when a 47-year-old that’s batting .451 for the Omaha Royals and has been in the minors for 24 years makes his first All-Star team? What's he going to say? He’s gonna say, "That should be my name in the record books, going down in history for something – the only thing – I will ever be known for." But it will never be his name because John Jordan “Buck” O’Neil made the All-Star team at 94 years old simply because he was old.
Looking back, not only can I not remember all of the topics that I thought would be good to blog about, I also can’t remember why I thought they would be in any form entertaining after all this time. But here is a condensed list of what I can remember once considering for a topic, and you can use your imagination as to where you think I might have gone with it:
For Crichton Out Loud!
In the realm of trying to entertain myself, I finished a few books, all – interestingly enough – revolving around the topic of religion: The DaVinci
Code, The Pocket Guide to the Bible, and The Pocket Guide to the Apocalypse. All three were entertaining – DaVinci was a page-turner written like a Thomas Harris novel, and the Pocket Guides were hilarious, particularly The Pocket Guide to the Bible. Whether or not you’ve read the Bible, it’s really entertaining. And I learned a ton. I also read The Pocket Guide to Adulthood (I’ve been on a Jason Boyett kick I guess), which wasn’t as good as the aforementioned two, but was still worth the read. I’m now going to try and read everything Michael Crichton’s written in one year (no lie).Thinking Outside the Idiot Box
Dawn and I got hooked on Season four of ER (more Crichton) on DVD, and are currently trying to finish up Firefly, which I’ve been borrowing from Derek for
upwards of nine years. We also rented a few other flicks: Everything is Illuminated (good); Memoirs of a Geisha (average); Waiting…(ho-hum); Kiss Kiss Bang Bang (excellent). We saw Superman Returns and Pirates of The Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest in digital projection. I’m not sure if it was the movies that I liked, or the digital projection. Digital blows my mind and will probably make me go to more movies. The films themselves were pretty good, but neither was as excellent as the original.Just Like Hank Scorpio
I partook in a “fun-run” of sorts over the 4th of July, competing(?) in my first 5K run ever in Urbandale. Fun, that is, if you call getting passed by 11-year-old girls “fun.” It’s kind of funny because I hadn’t been running much before doing
this, I just saw in the newspaper on the 3rd that there was a 5K the next morning, so I got up, ran it and came home just as Dawn was getting out of bed so it worked out well. What didn’t work so well is the fact that I hadn’t run a race since like 8th grade, and had probably never run a long-distance race, unless you count our timed mile-runs in 4th through 6th grade, which I don’t really remember. This fact is most obvious from my taking off at top speed out of the gate, not realizing that a 5K isn’t a race around the block. I got about 150 feet and people started passing me – including people with prosthetic legs and women with strollers. I got my second wind around mile two and managed to finish it in about 24 minutes, though I was dragging tail at the end. But at least I got popsicles at the finish line. That was awesome.The Flaming Card Backwards-Talking Dream
Yes, Lou, maybe you should drive. A few nights ago I had the weirdest dream I’ve had since probably 7th grade when I dreamt my mom had turned into a lizard and was wearing my dad’s old football jersey around the house while the basement filled up with orange mittens. In my latest installment of vivid bizarreness, I was a plucky reporter that had just uncovered the truth about the legend of “The Quadruple Royal Flush,” a hand that has supposedly only been attained one time in the history of cards. And the hand belonged to none other than – wait for it – former Cincinnati Reds 2nd baseman and current ESPN color commentator Joe Morgan. Yeah. I told you it was weird. And did I mention lucid? Morgan was laying on a gurney with his head all bandaged up like he’d just had a lobotomy or something, and I’m sitting beside him
conducting this interview. So we’re at the spot where the card game originally took place, in some kind of jungle hideaway with an Amazonesque river flowing gently nearby. I ask Morgan – who is talking in a raspy voice, like he’s on his deathbed – to explain his take on the big moment, and while he tells the story, my dream flashes-back, and the world takes on all sorts of ‘70s TV graininess, complete with color loss and celluloid scratches. Imagine an old episode of Bonanza (the colorized ones) – it was kind of like that. So Joe goes on to tell me that he’s in the middle of this card game (I still don’t know what the game was…obviously not poker) when he discovers he has a chance to attain the extremely rare Quadruple Royal Flush. In retrospect, a good reporter would have actually researched (or even asked) what the heck the Quadruple Royal Flush is, and I failed to do that. Maybe I made mistake number one of a true plucky reporter – I assumed I knew what it was. Because it sounds like it’s probably a royal flush with all the suits, but who knows? Guess I should have asked. Maybe that’s why I work for an insurance company now. Anyway, as Morgan talks, I see all the Manchurian Candidate (the original, not the Demme remake) type of surroundings, complete with cult-looking people moaning and chanting while they play these card games, and then I see Morgan get the cards that could help lead him to the Quadruple Royal Flush. But he knows he can’t get the Quadruple Royal Flush, because he’s missing one card. So he starts looking around all suspiciously. Then he gives some kind of signal, and this guy in a Spider-Man suit comes swinging in on vines, yelling and screaming. He crashes into a side of a cliff and totally disrupts the culty guys and diverts everyone’s attention. It was kind of like when “Fan-Man” came crashing into that Evander Holyfield/Riddick Bowe fight back in the early ‘90s, except without the fan 
backpack. So by this time, everyone’s looking at the Spidey look-alike, and (I laugh at this part now) a whole bunch of cops in the stereotypical ‘80s police uniforms go scurrying up the rocks to apprehend the “perp.” You know the uniforms I’m talking about – light blue shirt, badge on the pocket, badge on the stupid looking navy blue hat….up the hill they run, and – cut back to Joe pulling the correct card out of his sleeve and replacing it in his hand. The commotion dies down and Joe acts distracted like everyone else, then looks back at his cards. “Would you look at that!” Joe Morgan says, “The Quadruple Royal Flush!” Everyone gasps. Ripple dissolve back to me at his bedside, writing furiously with my pencil and pad. Because “this is good stuff,” as plucky reporters always say…The Babysitters’ Club
Dawn and I got to babysit our nephew Zachary a few weeks ago. He’s 18 months old and was pretty fun to have in the house. Now everyone’s saying things to us like, “Uh-oooooh, are you thinking about having a baby now?” and “Ohhh booooooy, did that make you want to wait to have kids, or do you want them right now?” and “What did you say? The printer’s too loud.” The answers to those questions are pretty much: Our babysitting Zach has nothing to do with our timetable for kids, we were just babysitting and it was fun. Now get over it. You’re not getting any insider information about whether or not we’re having a baby in the near future. Do you really care, or do you just want to try and be the first person to know in case we did say when we were planning on having kids? And yes, the printer is loud.
People say you can learn so much about yourself just by having kids. Well, I think you can learn a lot about yourself just from babysitting. Here is a list of five major things I learned about myself (and humans in general), or general observations from that weekend:
1. Milk is so freakin’ good for us. I think if we had to, we could live off of it and nothing else.
2. Toilets are probably the greatest invention ever created (#2 all-time: the sippy-cup).
3. Learning English is such a waste of time – so much can be communicated in grunts and hand gestures.
4. I don’t think the top of the bottle was named the “nipple” to trick the babies into thinking it’s their mother’s milk. I think it was because of its shape.
5. So much of a person’s life is obviously sculpted by their upbringing. My generation’s children are going to be a sick, twisted bunch.
The Old Men and the Idiocy
My biggest beef of the last two months has got to be old men playing baseball. I mean, it’s a great novelty act and all, but does this really need to be some sort of competition? A few weeks ago an 83-year old man played in a minor league baseball game and became the oldest man ever to play in a baseball game. They showed the guy on the news and the highlight of his game was him fouling a pitch off (he ended up striking out swinging). I mean, what did people expect, the
guy to hit a dinger or something? He’s 83 freaking years old. It’s not like the pitcher’s going to let up, even a little. He wants to send the guy down on strikes. He does not want to be the guy that gives up any kind of hit to a guy that’s older than his great-grandfather. Why is this old man in uniform? Seriously. The guy did not earn a spot on the team for any reason other than that HE’S OLD. If that’s the case, if we’re just putting everyday schmoes into pro games, then throw me in the game. You can call me “the most average athlete ever to play professional baseball.” Come on. What’s next, a three-year-old that stands in the batter’s box and draws a walk because his strike zone is so small? Nope. I’ll tell you what’s next. A 94-year-old guy playing in a minor league All-Star game. Yep, an All-Star game. Did he make the All-Star team because he was having a good season? No. He made the All-Star team solely because he’s older than crap. That’s the only reason. Yeah, he used to play in the Negro League and was a two-time batting champ there. He was also the Major League’s first black coach. Sooo...great, he was good 60 years ago, and yes, he 
deserves to be honored. But guess what? You’re only embarrassing the old man now by putting him in the game -- and in his Levi's for that matter! He just pretty much got up there in his blue jeans and uniform top and stood with the bat on his shoulder and took a free pass to first base, at which time a stinking pinch runner came in for him. What kind of an All-Star has to have a pinch runner? Answer: The kind that doesn’t belong. This man is no All-Star.And I don’t want people to think that I’m against this man being there, because I’m not. I think he should definitely be honored in some way, but don’t put him in the record books like he worked his way onto the team this year. What happens when a 47-year-old that’s batting .451 for the Omaha Royals and has been in the minors for 24 years makes his first All-Star team? What's he going to say? He’s gonna say, "That should be my name in the record books, going down in history for something – the only thing – I will ever be known for." But it will never be his name because John Jordan “Buck” O’Neil made the All-Star team at 94 years old simply because he was old.
5/17/2006
If They Only Knew!
At one point this week, I felt like my blog should be about a certain television concept I find absolutely absurd. And while it’s not really going to stray from the absurd too terribly much (the topic du jour is quite strange and laughable to me), I just couldn’t find enough funny information about my original blog idea, which was tentatively titled:
“The ridiculousness of the reunion episode of Gilligan’s Island in which the Harlem Globetrotters came and played basketball against a team of robots.”
Yep, that’s no lie. Some of you already know this “TV Movie” exists and have
seen it. I saw it many years ago on TBS and barely remember it, and apparently didn’t note at the time how ridiculous the concept was. It’s been brought to my attention recently and I wanted to talk about it, but I didn’t have enough material to make it worth reading. So I’m going to discuss something else that’s equally stupid, but a bit more recent…
Over Mother’s Day weekend Dawn and I went home to visit our moms and families. On Saturday I was introduced to a show on Spike TV called “Pros Versus Joes,” in which regular people or “average Joes” compete in sporting events against current and former professional athletes. The show was actually
quite entertaining. The “pros” are actually given physical handicaps at times to not only show off how awesome these individuals are at their sports, but also to give the “Joes” a chance. And the Joes aren’t your run-of-the-mill dudes either, they’re fairly athletic - not overly athletic, but not too bad. So it's competitive most of the time.
On Sunday, Spike had a marathon of the show, so I tuned in for an episode or two. One thing I noticed was that the show (which normally doesn’t have the same "pros" from show to show) featured the same five athletes in two episodes that I happened to catch on different days: former NBA player Dominique Wilkins, former major league catcher Darren “Dutch” Daulton, U.S. women’s soccer star Brandi Chastain, “the world’s fastest man” Chris Gatlin, and Heisman winner and NFL great Herschel Walker. It was a chance to see the personalities of these respected athletes in an “off the field” setting, which was neat. I thought Herschel and ‘Nique were hilarious, and Brandi talked a little more trash than expected. I also found out that Chris Gatlin is just flat-out cool. Darren Daulton rarely talked though, and no one talked to him. Now that I think about it, I don’t think he said a word in any of the episodes I watched. So I don’t really know too much about his attitude off the field. But as it turns out, I don’t think I want to know too much about him. Here’s why:
It seems that Mr. Daulton has a slightly different world view than say…everyone else on the entire planet. This includes Tom Cruise. In fact, Daulton’s philosophy on the universe is so off
kilter that I'm not sure I need to ever blog about how insane I think Cruise is, because it would all be in the shadow of the weirdness that is Darren Daulton.
You see, our pal Darren (according to an article in Sports Illustrated) occupies “a nether world that involves alchemy, auras, telepathy, energy transfers, astral planes, planetary ascension, parallel universes and other psychic phenomena too mind-boggling to catalog.” Now, I personally know some people that are into psychic-type stuff and auras and astrology and the whole bit, and I'm not really concerned that they believe that. Not everyone has the same world view as myself, and I understand that. That’s not what I’m getting at. It’s the part about “energy transfers, astral planes, planetary ascension…” that kind of gets me. The guy actually thinks that he leaves his body when he sleeps. Now, don't get me wrong, I believe in supernatural activity to a certain extent, but let me tell you something personal about me: When I sleep, I stay IN MY BODY. I'm not going anywhere. I’m in my house, in my bed. When Cooper barks at a car going by at 2:00 a.m., I’m not hustling back from elsewhere in the solar system or some fourth dimension, I’m slowly opening my crusty eyelids and trying to restrain from kicking him off the bed.
That aside, I don’t necessarily think he’s nuts solely because he believes in those
things. Misguided? Yes. The thing that starts pushing him into the lunatic bin for me is the fact that Darren Daulton thinks the world is going to end in six years. That’s right, he thinks the world will end at 11:11 a.m., GMT on December 21, 2012. I don’t know enough about his beliefs to understand why he thinks that this is the exact date and time (it has something to do with the Mayan calendar and the number 11) that the world will end, and frankly, I don’t care. The one thing I do know is, come December 2012, the authorities had better keep an eye on this guy. Me thinks that Dutch could be hittin’ the yam-yam or downing a few scotch-and-sodas and gettin’ a little crazy around that time. You know, with the authorities and every other being on earth being destroyed on the 21st, you might as well live it up, huh?
So what is the significance of the 11:11? Well that part seems pretty simple - according to the Sports Illustrated interview, Daulton said “Reality is created and guarded by numeric patterns that overlap and awaken human consciousness, like a giant matrix or hologram. They are created by sacred geometry -- numbers, the language of the universe, codes of awakening -- such
as 11:11, which represent twin strands of DNA about to return to balance. Eleven equals BALANCE."
Well, duh. Who didn’t know that? It's about geometry and codes and DNA.
He goes on to say, "I'll wake up at night and look at the clock and it's 11:11. I'll turn on the TV and see a baseball game tied at 11 in the 11th inning. I'll look out the window and see a car passing with 1111 on the license plate. The car will turn into a driveway with 1111 on the mailbox."
Maybe Ol’ Dutchie’s been watching a little too much Lost. Or maybe he's
stalking people with ones on their license plates. [NOTE TO THOSE OF YOU WHOSE HOME ADDRESS IS 1111 SOMETHING: Move. Darren Daulton is coming to scare the crap out of you.] Who else would be willing to bet that DD just lies in bed until 11:11 staring at the clock so he can freak himself out? And I wonder how many major league baseball games have actually been tied at 11 in the 11th inning in the last nine or 10 years (the amount of time he’s had these kooky beliefs). It can’t be very many. 
And did I mention that in the article, Daulton admits that it rains when he’s upset? No, that's not a joke. It actually starts raining when the guy is in a bad mood. So whenever it’s raining outside, be sure to blame it on him. And if a child ever asks you, “Why does it rain?,” be sure to tell them it’s because Darren Daulton is angry. It has nothing to do with climates or the water cycle.
So Uncle Darren’s apparently working on a new book now (surprise). He’s compiling all of his…theories?...into a page-turner called “If They Only Knew!,” and apparently, within his masterpiece he will reveal some shocking “truths” about the world in which we live. I can’t do this any justice by paraphrasing it, so here’s an excerpt straight from SI.com:
… the Mayan temples were built not by the Mayans, who were merely caretakers, but by a lost civilization. Possibly the Atlanteans, who allegedly disappeared beneath the waves. Possibly space aliens.
Daulton can ramble in mind-numbing detail about Dark Forces, the illusion of substance, the limitations of linear time. "The universe is made of vibrating energy," he says. "When energy vibrates fast enough on our 3-D plane, matter becomes invisible. Everything you see is vibrating at a certain level. A dirt clod, a rock..."
Even a rosin bag?
"Sure. A rosin bag is just a mirage of innumerable particles constantly speeding up or slowing down. But the Fourth and Fifth Dimensions remain unseen by most people. Their vibrations are at a lower frequency." Whether those vibrations are "good" is perhaps something only the Beach Boys can divine.
Earth, Daulton believes, is entering a quadrant of space in which the "vibrational energy" will increase dramatically. "The Mayan calendar stops at Dec. 21, 2012 -- the date the Mayans believed the world would end," he says. "On that day, at 11:11 a.m. Greenwich Mean Time, those who are ready to ascend will vanish from this plane of existence, like the crew of the Enterprise in Star Trek."
Um…
Here’s a tip, Daulty. If you want to appear even the slightest bit credible in your cornball ramblings, try not to mention the TV series Star Trek (no offense, Dustin) within them. You pretty much want to separate yourself as much as you can from that show if you’re a raving derelict trying to sway people's opinions.
This guy is long gone.
Daulton, who spent six months in a drug and rehabilitation program a few years ago, has apparently
dealt with those particular demons, telling SI that he doesn’t drink or do drugs. So it’s not the chemicals talking…and he’s not legally insane…hmm. He is from Philadelphia though (no offense, Woodsie), so he’s probably a Flyers fan, but even that shouldn’t make him goofy enough to believe such out-of-the-ordinary things.
But why do I even try to understand? Even Daulton’s close friends don’t get him. He claims that’s normal though, stating, “When I share my thoughts and experiences with them, I tell them there's absolutely no way their minds can comprehend what I'm trying to relate. My friends are limited to the five senses." Sure Dutchie. In other words, you're saying your friends are stupid because they don't believe you. Not a good move, pal. Burning bridges isn't a good idea when your only friend is Mr. Spock.
Dutch’s claim about his first out-of-body experience is all his word against...um…reality, I guess. Daulton told SI in February that it’s fairly obvious it wasn’t he who hit a line drive down the third base line to win a close game against the Cubbies nine years ago. I mean, sure, the guy was wearing his uniform and had his…body, but it wasn’t him. He said, “The strange thing was I didn’t hit that ball. I never hit balls inside the third base line.” Uh…wait a minute - he’s right! In fact, it’s a physical impossibility for him! It must have been an out-of-body experience! Oh no, we only have six more years to live!
Now I know why Herschel and Dominique don't talk to him.
“The ridiculousness of the reunion episode of Gilligan’s Island in which the Harlem Globetrotters came and played basketball against a team of robots.”
Yep, that’s no lie. Some of you already know this “TV Movie” exists and have
seen it. I saw it many years ago on TBS and barely remember it, and apparently didn’t note at the time how ridiculous the concept was. It’s been brought to my attention recently and I wanted to talk about it, but I didn’t have enough material to make it worth reading. So I’m going to discuss something else that’s equally stupid, but a bit more recent…Over Mother’s Day weekend Dawn and I went home to visit our moms and families. On Saturday I was introduced to a show on Spike TV called “Pros Versus Joes,” in which regular people or “average Joes” compete in sporting events against current and former professional athletes. The show was actually
quite entertaining. The “pros” are actually given physical handicaps at times to not only show off how awesome these individuals are at their sports, but also to give the “Joes” a chance. And the Joes aren’t your run-of-the-mill dudes either, they’re fairly athletic - not overly athletic, but not too bad. So it's competitive most of the time.On Sunday, Spike had a marathon of the show, so I tuned in for an episode or two. One thing I noticed was that the show (which normally doesn’t have the same "pros" from show to show) featured the same five athletes in two episodes that I happened to catch on different days: former NBA player Dominique Wilkins, former major league catcher Darren “Dutch” Daulton, U.S. women’s soccer star Brandi Chastain, “the world’s fastest man” Chris Gatlin, and Heisman winner and NFL great Herschel Walker. It was a chance to see the personalities of these respected athletes in an “off the field” setting, which was neat. I thought Herschel and ‘Nique were hilarious, and Brandi talked a little more trash than expected. I also found out that Chris Gatlin is just flat-out cool. Darren Daulton rarely talked though, and no one talked to him. Now that I think about it, I don’t think he said a word in any of the episodes I watched. So I don’t really know too much about his attitude off the field. But as it turns out, I don’t think I want to know too much about him. Here’s why:
It seems that Mr. Daulton has a slightly different world view than say…everyone else on the entire planet. This includes Tom Cruise. In fact, Daulton’s philosophy on the universe is so off
kilter that I'm not sure I need to ever blog about how insane I think Cruise is, because it would all be in the shadow of the weirdness that is Darren Daulton.You see, our pal Darren (according to an article in Sports Illustrated) occupies “a nether world that involves alchemy, auras, telepathy, energy transfers, astral planes, planetary ascension, parallel universes and other psychic phenomena too mind-boggling to catalog.” Now, I personally know some people that are into psychic-type stuff and auras and astrology and the whole bit, and I'm not really concerned that they believe that. Not everyone has the same world view as myself, and I understand that. That’s not what I’m getting at. It’s the part about “energy transfers, astral planes, planetary ascension…” that kind of gets me. The guy actually thinks that he leaves his body when he sleeps. Now, don't get me wrong, I believe in supernatural activity to a certain extent, but let me tell you something personal about me: When I sleep, I stay IN MY BODY. I'm not going anywhere. I’m in my house, in my bed. When Cooper barks at a car going by at 2:00 a.m., I’m not hustling back from elsewhere in the solar system or some fourth dimension, I’m slowly opening my crusty eyelids and trying to restrain from kicking him off the bed.
That aside, I don’t necessarily think he’s nuts solely because he believes in those
things. Misguided? Yes. The thing that starts pushing him into the lunatic bin for me is the fact that Darren Daulton thinks the world is going to end in six years. That’s right, he thinks the world will end at 11:11 a.m., GMT on December 21, 2012. I don’t know enough about his beliefs to understand why he thinks that this is the exact date and time (it has something to do with the Mayan calendar and the number 11) that the world will end, and frankly, I don’t care. The one thing I do know is, come December 2012, the authorities had better keep an eye on this guy. Me thinks that Dutch could be hittin’ the yam-yam or downing a few scotch-and-sodas and gettin’ a little crazy around that time. You know, with the authorities and every other being on earth being destroyed on the 21st, you might as well live it up, huh?So what is the significance of the 11:11? Well that part seems pretty simple - according to the Sports Illustrated interview, Daulton said “Reality is created and guarded by numeric patterns that overlap and awaken human consciousness, like a giant matrix or hologram. They are created by sacred geometry -- numbers, the language of the universe, codes of awakening -- such
as 11:11, which represent twin strands of DNA about to return to balance. Eleven equals BALANCE."Well, duh. Who didn’t know that? It's about geometry and codes and DNA.
He goes on to say, "I'll wake up at night and look at the clock and it's 11:11. I'll turn on the TV and see a baseball game tied at 11 in the 11th inning. I'll look out the window and see a car passing with 1111 on the license plate. The car will turn into a driveway with 1111 on the mailbox."
Maybe Ol’ Dutchie’s been watching a little too much Lost. Or maybe he's
stalking people with ones on their license plates. [NOTE TO THOSE OF YOU WHOSE HOME ADDRESS IS 1111 SOMETHING: Move. Darren Daulton is coming to scare the crap out of you.] Who else would be willing to bet that DD just lies in bed until 11:11 staring at the clock so he can freak himself out? And I wonder how many major league baseball games have actually been tied at 11 in the 11th inning in the last nine or 10 years (the amount of time he’s had these kooky beliefs). It can’t be very many. And did I mention that in the article, Daulton admits that it rains when he’s upset? No, that's not a joke. It actually starts raining when the guy is in a bad mood. So whenever it’s raining outside, be sure to blame it on him. And if a child ever asks you, “Why does it rain?,” be sure to tell them it’s because Darren Daulton is angry. It has nothing to do with climates or the water cycle.
So Uncle Darren’s apparently working on a new book now (surprise). He’s compiling all of his…theories?...into a page-turner called “If They Only Knew!,” and apparently, within his masterpiece he will reveal some shocking “truths” about the world in which we live. I can’t do this any justice by paraphrasing it, so here’s an excerpt straight from SI.com:
… the Mayan temples were built not by the Mayans, who were merely caretakers, but by a lost civilization. Possibly the Atlanteans, who allegedly disappeared beneath the waves. Possibly space aliens.
Daulton can ramble in mind-numbing detail about Dark Forces, the illusion of substance, the limitations of linear time. "The universe is made of vibrating energy," he says. "When energy vibrates fast enough on our 3-D plane, matter becomes invisible. Everything you see is vibrating at a certain level. A dirt clod, a rock..."
Even a rosin bag?
"Sure. A rosin bag is just a mirage of innumerable particles constantly speeding up or slowing down. But the Fourth and Fifth Dimensions remain unseen by most people. Their vibrations are at a lower frequency." Whether those vibrations are "good" is perhaps something only the Beach Boys can divine.
Earth, Daulton believes, is entering a quadrant of space in which the "vibrational energy" will increase dramatically. "The Mayan calendar stops at Dec. 21, 2012 -- the date the Mayans believed the world would end," he says. "On that day, at 11:11 a.m. Greenwich Mean Time, those who are ready to ascend will vanish from this plane of existence, like the crew of the Enterprise in Star Trek."
Um…
Here’s a tip, Daulty. If you want to appear even the slightest bit credible in your cornball ramblings, try not to mention the TV series Star Trek (no offense, Dustin) within them. You pretty much want to separate yourself as much as you can from that show if you’re a raving derelict trying to sway people's opinions.
This guy is long gone.
Daulton, who spent six months in a drug and rehabilitation program a few years ago, has apparently
dealt with those particular demons, telling SI that he doesn’t drink or do drugs. So it’s not the chemicals talking…and he’s not legally insane…hmm. He is from Philadelphia though (no offense, Woodsie), so he’s probably a Flyers fan, but even that shouldn’t make him goofy enough to believe such out-of-the-ordinary things.But why do I even try to understand? Even Daulton’s close friends don’t get him. He claims that’s normal though, stating, “When I share my thoughts and experiences with them, I tell them there's absolutely no way their minds can comprehend what I'm trying to relate. My friends are limited to the five senses." Sure Dutchie. In other words, you're saying your friends are stupid because they don't believe you. Not a good move, pal. Burning bridges isn't a good idea when your only friend is Mr. Spock.
Dutch’s claim about his first out-of-body experience is all his word against...um…reality, I guess. Daulton told SI in February that it’s fairly obvious it wasn’t he who hit a line drive down the third base line to win a close game against the Cubbies nine years ago. I mean, sure, the guy was wearing his uniform and had his…body, but it wasn’t him. He said, “The strange thing was I didn’t hit that ball. I never hit balls inside the third base line.” Uh…wait a minute - he’s right! In fact, it’s a physical impossibility for him! It must have been an out-of-body experience! Oh no, we only have six more years to live!
Now I know why Herschel and Dominique don't talk to him.
5/12/2006
Six degrees of weirded-out.
I went to sleep last night very disturbed. Was I wrestling with some sort of daily problem or stressing out about work, you ask? No. Was I feeling down or depressed about something? Not at all. In fact, I was in a really good mood when Dawn and I tucked ourselves in after a date night. We settled in and caught the end of "ER" and talked about the upcoming weekend. But then it happened.
NBC aired a commercial for undergarment superpower Hanes. And it wasn’t your typical guys-in-tightie-whities-getting-their-wastebands-snapped-by-a-mischevious-woman type of ad. And it wasn’t a run-of-the-mill “people shopping for clothes” type of ad either. Nope, this one sent my mind to places I didn’t want it to go. This ad was disturbing beyond comprehension, not because of its shock value or strange imagery, but more for its subtlety and undertones. For those of you who haven’t seen it, I’ll give you a little bit of background:
The ad stars everyone’s favorite Hollywood everyman Kevin Bacon and none
other than Hanes’ highest-paid and most-recognized spokesperson, former NBA superstar Michael Jordan! I could probably just leave it at that, and leave you going, “Whaaaaaaa????” but I won’t. I’ll further confuse you by telling you that the ad begins with Kevin Bacon playing basketball, wearing one of Hanes’ vibrantly-colored “tees.” So Bacon (for comedic value, I
will now refer to him as K-Bake) is shooting hoops by himself and he puts up this shot that…looks...like…it’s going in…and then, BAM! Out of nowhere comes MJ to block the shot! Wow, just like during his playing days. Except this time, Jordan isn’t all sweaty and trash-talking like he would to Patrick Ewing. No, this time, he’s decked out in Hanes gear and gives K-Bake a little wry smile. And then K-Bake looks around really confused like he's having flashbacks of Tremors.
So the ad presses on, flashing some colorful images of K-Bake in multiple different shirts (or as my wife would call them, “tops”), and in comes the jingle, “Look who we’ve got our Hanes on now.” Um…yeah, it’s Kevin Bacon that you have your "Hanes on." So what? It’s Kevin Bacon. I mean, I can understand Mr.
Jordan inspiring people to buy undies, but Bacon? What is likeable about him? I mean, really. But, I digress. Back to the commercial. So now Bacon is just arriving at home wearing his Hanes clothing and he decides to "shoot" his keys towards a red bowl of some kind as if to say, “What a zany day on the hardcourts. To show my exhaustion, I will take one last jump shot and land these keys in that bowl across my studio apartment.” Makes sense, I guess. So the keys are in the air, everyone’s thinking about how cool K-Bake was in Footloose and then – POW!!! – out of nowhere, here’s Jordan again to swat the keys away and keep them from going in the bowl.
Okay, wait. Hold on. Jordan is in Kevin Bacon’s house now? Are these guys roommates, or is Jordan some sort of expert at picking locks? And why doesn’t
Bacon care? He just gives Jordan the old, “You got me again, ya big lug” awestruck stare and Jordan peers (I don’t want to say lustfully, but close…more like “creepily”) back at K-Bake. Another blocked shot for Jordan. You should be proud, MJ. You blocked a guy who’s seven inches shorter than you and probably sucks at basketball. And not only did you block him, you blocked his keys. That's tough to do. Retirement’s treated you well, you haven’t lost a step. Must be the Hanes underwear.
But there’s more wacky hi-jinx from K-Bake and MJ to come. Kevin Bacon is now in his…recording studio?...apparently fresh off of writing a composition of some sort, acoustic guitar leaning next to him. Well, apparently K-Bake isn’t too happy with this particular song he’s written, because he wads it up violently and tosses it towards the trash can. As a viewer you’re like, “Ho-hum, I’ve seen this before, Kevin’s just tossing away a piece of refuse." But no. The
paper ball is near the garbage bin when – BOOYAH! – like a white-collar Superman with a porn moustache, here comes none other than future NBA Hall-of-Famer Michael Jordan sliding by on an office chair to block it from going in, much to K-Bake's dismay. Rejected, Kevin! Take that! Michael 3, Bacon 0. Needless to say, the two exchange looks again like Al and Peg Bundy might – frustrated, yet mischeviously bonded to one another somehow…
And in the final scene – the climax of the ad, if you will, Bacon is in his kitchen staring at the walls of his apparently very expensive and lonely life in NYC (wife Kyra Sedgwick and their two children are apparently never around, which is why they bought themselves a pet…uh…Jordan). Anyway, so Bacon is sitting
around contemplating…um...probably his role in Animal House, when he decides it’s time to eat a grape. He pulls a piece of fruit off of the bunch and then looks around to make sure that no one (i.e. Jordan) is around to prevent the following act from occurring (if this isn’t evidence of these two apparently shacking up together, I don’t know what is). So K-Bake notices the coast is clear and tosses the grape up in the air. Cue the slow motion…the grape is falling, falling, Bacon’s mouth is agape, falling, falling, OH SNAP! – he’s done it again. Jordan catches the grape! What an athlete! And he’s wearing Hanes!
By this time, K-Bake is visually frustrated, and Jordan is kind of…uh…turned on?...I don’t know what’s going on. Then the "Air-man" proceeds to ask "What?" and eat the grape and give K-Bake a little wink (what the heck is that about?) and the audience is left feeling just a little uncomfortable. Actually, even K-Bake is feeling a little bit awkward about his pal Michael Jordan by this time. I just wish this commercial didn’t leave so much to the imagination. I wish after the opening scene they would have been in the locker room and K-Bake would have tossed his sweaty shirt to his locker and MJ would have snagged it and taken a big whiff of it like Hannibal Lecter might. Okay, maybe I don’t wish that would happen, but at least that way we’d know what was happening between these
guys and we wouldn’t have to try and figure it out for ourselves. It’s just flat-out weird. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but these guys are not linked in any way except for the fact that Hanes paid them a lot of money to appear a wee bit “chummy” in a nationwide commercial. What was Hanes thinking? Were they sitting around asking, “Well, we have Michael, but we really need someone that could play a good sidekick. Who could we get?” Was the first answer to this question really "Kevin Bacon?" If it wasn’t, then it was turned down by pretty much anyone else offered the part after they read the script for the commercial. In fact, Bacon could have been one of their last choices, he probably just jumped at the opportunity to act with possibly the only person on the planet with whom he hasn’t acted before.
watch the ad
NBC aired a commercial for undergarment superpower Hanes. And it wasn’t your typical guys-in-tightie-whities-getting-their-wastebands-snapped-by-a-mischevious-woman type of ad. And it wasn’t a run-of-the-mill “people shopping for clothes” type of ad either. Nope, this one sent my mind to places I didn’t want it to go. This ad was disturbing beyond comprehension, not because of its shock value or strange imagery, but more for its subtlety and undertones. For those of you who haven’t seen it, I’ll give you a little bit of background:
The ad stars everyone’s favorite Hollywood everyman Kevin Bacon and none
other than Hanes’ highest-paid and most-recognized spokesperson, former NBA superstar Michael Jordan! I could probably just leave it at that, and leave you going, “Whaaaaaaa????” but I won’t. I’ll further confuse you by telling you that the ad begins with Kevin Bacon playing basketball, wearing one of Hanes’ vibrantly-colored “tees.” So Bacon (for comedic value, I
will now refer to him as K-Bake) is shooting hoops by himself and he puts up this shot that…looks...like…it’s going in…and then, BAM! Out of nowhere comes MJ to block the shot! Wow, just like during his playing days. Except this time, Jordan isn’t all sweaty and trash-talking like he would to Patrick Ewing. No, this time, he’s decked out in Hanes gear and gives K-Bake a little wry smile. And then K-Bake looks around really confused like he's having flashbacks of Tremors.So the ad presses on, flashing some colorful images of K-Bake in multiple different shirts (or as my wife would call them, “tops”), and in comes the jingle, “Look who we’ve got our Hanes on now.” Um…yeah, it’s Kevin Bacon that you have your "Hanes on." So what? It’s Kevin Bacon. I mean, I can understand Mr.
Jordan inspiring people to buy undies, but Bacon? What is likeable about him? I mean, really. But, I digress. Back to the commercial. So now Bacon is just arriving at home wearing his Hanes clothing and he decides to "shoot" his keys towards a red bowl of some kind as if to say, “What a zany day on the hardcourts. To show my exhaustion, I will take one last jump shot and land these keys in that bowl across my studio apartment.” Makes sense, I guess. So the keys are in the air, everyone’s thinking about how cool K-Bake was in Footloose and then – POW!!! – out of nowhere, here’s Jordan again to swat the keys away and keep them from going in the bowl.Okay, wait. Hold on. Jordan is in Kevin Bacon’s house now? Are these guys roommates, or is Jordan some sort of expert at picking locks? And why doesn’t
Bacon care? He just gives Jordan the old, “You got me again, ya big lug” awestruck stare and Jordan peers (I don’t want to say lustfully, but close…more like “creepily”) back at K-Bake. Another blocked shot for Jordan. You should be proud, MJ. You blocked a guy who’s seven inches shorter than you and probably sucks at basketball. And not only did you block him, you blocked his keys. That's tough to do. Retirement’s treated you well, you haven’t lost a step. Must be the Hanes underwear.But there’s more wacky hi-jinx from K-Bake and MJ to come. Kevin Bacon is now in his…recording studio?...apparently fresh off of writing a composition of some sort, acoustic guitar leaning next to him. Well, apparently K-Bake isn’t too happy with this particular song he’s written, because he wads it up violently and tosses it towards the trash can. As a viewer you’re like, “Ho-hum, I’ve seen this before, Kevin’s just tossing away a piece of refuse." But no. The
paper ball is near the garbage bin when – BOOYAH! – like a white-collar Superman with a porn moustache, here comes none other than future NBA Hall-of-Famer Michael Jordan sliding by on an office chair to block it from going in, much to K-Bake's dismay. Rejected, Kevin! Take that! Michael 3, Bacon 0. Needless to say, the two exchange looks again like Al and Peg Bundy might – frustrated, yet mischeviously bonded to one another somehow…And in the final scene – the climax of the ad, if you will, Bacon is in his kitchen staring at the walls of his apparently very expensive and lonely life in NYC (wife Kyra Sedgwick and their two children are apparently never around, which is why they bought themselves a pet…uh…Jordan). Anyway, so Bacon is sitting
around contemplating…um...probably his role in Animal House, when he decides it’s time to eat a grape. He pulls a piece of fruit off of the bunch and then looks around to make sure that no one (i.e. Jordan) is around to prevent the following act from occurring (if this isn’t evidence of these two apparently shacking up together, I don’t know what is). So K-Bake notices the coast is clear and tosses the grape up in the air. Cue the slow motion…the grape is falling, falling, Bacon’s mouth is agape, falling, falling, OH SNAP! – he’s done it again. Jordan catches the grape! What an athlete! And he’s wearing Hanes!By this time, K-Bake is visually frustrated, and Jordan is kind of…uh…turned on?...I don’t know what’s going on. Then the "Air-man" proceeds to ask "What?" and eat the grape and give K-Bake a little wink (what the heck is that about?) and the audience is left feeling just a little uncomfortable. Actually, even K-Bake is feeling a little bit awkward about his pal Michael Jordan by this time. I just wish this commercial didn’t leave so much to the imagination. I wish after the opening scene they would have been in the locker room and K-Bake would have tossed his sweaty shirt to his locker and MJ would have snagged it and taken a big whiff of it like Hannibal Lecter might. Okay, maybe I don’t wish that would happen, but at least that way we’d know what was happening between these
guys and we wouldn’t have to try and figure it out for ourselves. It’s just flat-out weird. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but these guys are not linked in any way except for the fact that Hanes paid them a lot of money to appear a wee bit “chummy” in a nationwide commercial. What was Hanes thinking? Were they sitting around asking, “Well, we have Michael, but we really need someone that could play a good sidekick. Who could we get?” Was the first answer to this question really "Kevin Bacon?" If it wasn’t, then it was turned down by pretty much anyone else offered the part after they read the script for the commercial. In fact, Bacon could have been one of their last choices, he probably just jumped at the opportunity to act with possibly the only person on the planet with whom he hasn’t acted before.watch the ad
5/01/2006
"Soul Patch Paranoia" or "Does Aaron Dream of Electric Sheep?"
I think my soul patch is making me paranoid. Shortly after blogging about my facial hair I realized that there was something I had left out of my rant. Since I’ve been growing the patch I've wondered if I’m becoming a hippie. I didn’t wonder this until I was doing some minor research on the soul patch and the 
style was associated with hippies (a la Frank Zappa) and blues/jazz musicians from the 50s and 60s. I wouldn’t have immediately thought, “Man, am I turning into a hippie?” if I hadn’t been asked earlier that day (by my friend Derek) if Dawn and I were “turning into hippies” because we’ve been buying a lot of organic foods for the past few months. But that was pretty much as far as it went – that was about the height of my paranoia until Angela innocently commented on my MySpace blog about the derivation of the name "soul patch." I had always thought it was the association with the musicians that apparently coined the style, but thought I should check it out to make sure. What I uncovered was something far more than my incredibly vulnerable psyche could handle. In my search, I came across a message board on which someone said they thought soul patches were worn to "signal that you were gay." Someone replied to this saying that was untrue; that it was mainly worn by guys that were "really vain." Further, on this same message board the soul patch was referred to as a "flavor savor," and another name that was so crude that I won't bother to repeat it here (for those of you with good imaginations, the term was an amalgam of the word "man" and a part of the female anatomy). It was also stated that only hippies and beatnik poets should wear soul patches, but nowhere did it tell me where the term came from. Regardless, I was no longer thinking about the origin of the moniker; I was now contemplating whether or not people think I’m either: 1) Gay, 2) A Hippie, 3) A Jazz Musician, 4) A Beatnik Poet, 5) Really vain, or 6) Apolo Anton Ohno. Maybe this is why no one says anything about it – they
think I’m having an identity crisis. Maybe that’s why my wife hasn’t decided if she likes it or not – she’s waiting to see if I start speaking in haiku or become a really good bongo or saxophone player…or maybe she likes the smell of incense and this is some sort of reverse psychology method of getting me to play her Strawberry Alarm Clock’s greatest hits. Or maybe the world as I know it could all be some sort of big Truman Show-like social experiment that I’m a part of and everyone is in on it. But this soul patch, this is the turning point for me. I’ve figured out what’s going on. Now I’ve just got to figure out how to escape to the real world...
Man, I’ve got to stop watching Lost. I’m really starting to creep myself out.
4 8 15 16 23 42
style was associated with hippies (a la Frank Zappa) and blues/jazz musicians from the 50s and 60s. I wouldn’t have immediately thought, “Man, am I turning into a hippie?” if I hadn’t been asked earlier that day (by my friend Derek) if Dawn and I were “turning into hippies” because we’ve been buying a lot of organic foods for the past few months. But that was pretty much as far as it went – that was about the height of my paranoia until Angela innocently commented on my MySpace blog about the derivation of the name "soul patch." I had always thought it was the association with the musicians that apparently coined the style, but thought I should check it out to make sure. What I uncovered was something far more than my incredibly vulnerable psyche could handle. In my search, I came across a message board on which someone said they thought soul patches were worn to "signal that you were gay." Someone replied to this saying that was untrue; that it was mainly worn by guys that were "really vain." Further, on this same message board the soul patch was referred to as a "flavor savor," and another name that was so crude that I won't bother to repeat it here (for those of you with good imaginations, the term was an amalgam of the word "man" and a part of the female anatomy). It was also stated that only hippies and beatnik poets should wear soul patches, but nowhere did it tell me where the term came from. Regardless, I was no longer thinking about the origin of the moniker; I was now contemplating whether or not people think I’m either: 1) Gay, 2) A Hippie, 3) A Jazz Musician, 4) A Beatnik Poet, 5) Really vain, or 6) Apolo Anton Ohno. Maybe this is why no one says anything about it – they think I’m having an identity crisis. Maybe that’s why my wife hasn’t decided if she likes it or not – she’s waiting to see if I start speaking in haiku or become a really good bongo or saxophone player…or maybe she likes the smell of incense and this is some sort of reverse psychology method of getting me to play her Strawberry Alarm Clock’s greatest hits. Or maybe the world as I know it could all be some sort of big Truman Show-like social experiment that I’m a part of and everyone is in on it. But this soul patch, this is the turning point for me. I’ve figured out what’s going on. Now I’ve just got to figure out how to escape to the real world...Man, I’ve got to stop watching Lost. I’m really starting to creep myself out.
4 8 15 16 23 42
4/28/2006
Hair: Always where you don't want it, never where you do.
Everyone has it, and some people are obsessed with it. It takes some people three hours to style, others it takes three minutes. Some choose to rid their body of it (though they never can TOTALLY rid themselves of it, which is why Gillette will always be in business), others grow it out for a cause. Hair is something amazing to me. It amazes me that humans have hair that predominantly grows in the same places -- the head, face and chest (for males), armpits, legs, pubic regions, etc., and it's pretty much that way for all humans. Yet hair growth locations are different for every other animal -- it becomes "fur"
on many, an extension of their skin. Call me a weirdo, but this astonishes me. Evolutionists would say that "we evolved to have hair in these places." I say God created Adam with hair in these places with a specific purpose in mind -- sometimes for warmth (as on the head and chest), and sometimes to keep sweat and dirt out of different orifices of our body (as in eyebrows, nose hairs, moustaches & beards, etc.). Whatever you believe, you've gotta admit, it's pretty cool and weird. And it's possibly even more weird that I'm so enamored by hair. And even stranger than that, you're still reading this post. Perhaps you're asking, "When will he start to have a point?" Hopefully right now...
...I've been able to grow hair on my face pretty well since maybe 8th grade. I think I shaved the soft, white hair off of my upper lip when I was in 7th grade, but it started coming in dark probably the next year (and don't let anyone ever tell you that shaving makes hair come in thicker, it's not true; it simply makes your hair grow with stumps on the end, making each hair appear fatter, rather than tapered at the end). I've never been able to grow a good beard, however. My brother (3 1/2 years my junior) can grow a beard in about 45 seconds. Seriously -- I think I sat and watched it grow one day, like Chia. He's growing a
full beard now as a matter of fact, (he says) until the Devils are eliminated from the playoffs (which may not happen for a while since they're on a 14-game winning streak and playing better than they have in three years). I saw it last night and it's thick. But for me, it has never been easy. I tried growing one on our way to the Black Hills last fall, but Dawn made me shave it because she said I looked stupid. She always thinks my facial hair looks stupid. She also says it hurts when I kiss her if I have facial hair (which I'm sure it does), so I never really get to try (to grow it, not to kiss her). It's probably good that I don't try too often to grow a full beard (although I tend to let my face get pretty scruffy before I shave), because it just comes in so darn patchy. To be honest, I suck at it. I think I could do a nice Magnum P.I. moustache if I wanted (though Dawn may file for divorce), but I want the whole thing. I want the beard and it ain't happening.
So where am I going with this...oh yeah -- so after Tony Almeida died on 24 this
season, I jokingly told Dawn I was going to grow a soul patch (a small growth of hair under the bottom lip) in "honor" of Carlos Bernard's character's death. She (for 
a reason which is so far beyond me it's not even funny), was like, "Yeah, you should." My friend Derek wears one, as do a number of hockey players. Carlos Bernard does, in addition to Howie Mandel and Ty Pennington, so it must be cool, right? Sure. That's the reason to which I'll attribute her quick backing of the soul patch idea...pop culture. So I started growing the soul patch and have been for the past month and a half and...
...NOW I AM FINALLY TO THE REASON WHY I BEGAN BLOGGING ABOUT HAIR IN THE FIRST PLACE:
No one says anything when you're growing a soul patch.
I've done it all -- a set of mutton chops, goatee, chin goatee, long sideburns, patchy beard, and I even was growing a moustache for a college film I was
working on in the summer of 2000. And pretty much every time (especially on the moustache), people will say stuff. They'll say, "You need to shave," or "SOMEBODY needs to shave," or "You've got some dirt around your mouth there," or my personal favorite -- the knee-slapping inquiry, "Is your razor broken?" But with the soul patch, no one seems to notice. I got one comment on it without having to bring it up myself: my good friend Dan who pretty much says anything that's on his mind said, "I can see your soul patch has lost weight," after I made a comment about him looking like he'd shed some pounds. And because that statement pretty much makes no sense whatsoever, it has been stricken from my observation that: No one says anything when you're growing a soul patch. It's strange. I don't know if it's the fact that it's too embarassing to say anything to me about (kind of like that new perm that your co-worker gets that everyone is thinking "holy crap" about but no one will actually ever say anything about (even to other co-workers). I just don't know if it actually looks good on my face and there's nothing to say about it or if people are talking about it behind my back and I embarrass myself every time I step out the door with it on my face. It's even really bizarre at home; Dawn never says anything. She'll still say, "Go shave, Mr. Harryman." And then I'll ask, "even the soul patch?" and she'll say, "No, not the soul patch." Why? Why not the soul patch? She never says anything about it either. I'll say, do you like my soul patch, and she'll say, "Mmm...I don't know yet." Okay, it's been like 45 days. How can you not know? Is the soul patch so mediocre in the realm of facial hair? Are they that hard to notice that no one cares? Are people walking around with soul patches and I'm just not aware of it? It's such a mystery to me. When we went home for Easter my mom said, "Aaron, what is that under your lip?" to which I replied, "It's my soul patch." My brother noticed it right away and called me "Almeida." But other than that and the comment about it looking like it's "lost weight," no one says anything about the soul patch. It's funny. But at least Dawn's letting me grow facial hair. And I've found a style I can actually grow pretty well. So I'll keep growing it until someone makes fun of it...unless it's you. Because I'll know that you've read my blog.
on many, an extension of their skin. Call me a weirdo, but this astonishes me. Evolutionists would say that "we evolved to have hair in these places." I say God created Adam with hair in these places with a specific purpose in mind -- sometimes for warmth (as on the head and chest), and sometimes to keep sweat and dirt out of different orifices of our body (as in eyebrows, nose hairs, moustaches & beards, etc.). Whatever you believe, you've gotta admit, it's pretty cool and weird. And it's possibly even more weird that I'm so enamored by hair. And even stranger than that, you're still reading this post. Perhaps you're asking, "When will he start to have a point?" Hopefully right now......I've been able to grow hair on my face pretty well since maybe 8th grade. I think I shaved the soft, white hair off of my upper lip when I was in 7th grade, but it started coming in dark probably the next year (and don't let anyone ever tell you that shaving makes hair come in thicker, it's not true; it simply makes your hair grow with stumps on the end, making each hair appear fatter, rather than tapered at the end). I've never been able to grow a good beard, however. My brother (3 1/2 years my junior) can grow a beard in about 45 seconds. Seriously -- I think I sat and watched it grow one day, like Chia. He's growing a
full beard now as a matter of fact, (he says) until the Devils are eliminated from the playoffs (which may not happen for a while since they're on a 14-game winning streak and playing better than they have in three years). I saw it last night and it's thick. But for me, it has never been easy. I tried growing one on our way to the Black Hills last fall, but Dawn made me shave it because she said I looked stupid. She always thinks my facial hair looks stupid. She also says it hurts when I kiss her if I have facial hair (which I'm sure it does), so I never really get to try (to grow it, not to kiss her). It's probably good that I don't try too often to grow a full beard (although I tend to let my face get pretty scruffy before I shave), because it just comes in so darn patchy. To be honest, I suck at it. I think I could do a nice Magnum P.I. moustache if I wanted (though Dawn may file for divorce), but I want the whole thing. I want the beard and it ain't happening.So where am I going with this...oh yeah -- so after Tony Almeida died on 24 this
season, I jokingly told Dawn I was going to grow a soul patch (a small growth of hair under the bottom lip) in "honor" of Carlos Bernard's character's death. She (for a reason which is so far beyond me it's not even funny), was like, "Yeah, you should." My friend Derek wears one, as do a number of hockey players. Carlos Bernard does, in addition to Howie Mandel and Ty Pennington, so it must be cool, right? Sure. That's the reason to which I'll attribute her quick backing of the soul patch idea...pop culture. So I started growing the soul patch and have been for the past month and a half and......NOW I AM FINALLY TO THE REASON WHY I BEGAN BLOGGING ABOUT HAIR IN THE FIRST PLACE:
No one says anything when you're growing a soul patch.
I've done it all -- a set of mutton chops, goatee, chin goatee, long sideburns, patchy beard, and I even was growing a moustache for a college film I was
working on in the summer of 2000. And pretty much every time (especially on the moustache), people will say stuff. They'll say, "You need to shave," or "SOMEBODY needs to shave," or "You've got some dirt around your mouth there," or my personal favorite -- the knee-slapping inquiry, "Is your razor broken?" But with the soul patch, no one seems to notice. I got one comment on it without having to bring it up myself: my good friend Dan who pretty much says anything that's on his mind said, "I can see your soul patch has lost weight," after I made a comment about him looking like he'd shed some pounds. And because that statement pretty much makes no sense whatsoever, it has been stricken from my observation that: No one says anything when you're growing a soul patch. It's strange. I don't know if it's the fact that it's too embarassing to say anything to me about (kind of like that new perm that your co-worker gets that everyone is thinking "holy crap" about but no one will actually ever say anything about (even to other co-workers). I just don't know if it actually looks good on my face and there's nothing to say about it or if people are talking about it behind my back and I embarrass myself every time I step out the door with it on my face. It's even really bizarre at home; Dawn never says anything. She'll still say, "Go shave, Mr. Harryman." And then I'll ask, "even the soul patch?" and she'll say, "No, not the soul patch." Why? Why not the soul patch? She never says anything about it either. I'll say, do you like my soul patch, and she'll say, "Mmm...I don't know yet." Okay, it's been like 45 days. How can you not know? Is the soul patch so mediocre in the realm of facial hair? Are they that hard to notice that no one cares? Are people walking around with soul patches and I'm just not aware of it? It's such a mystery to me. When we went home for Easter my mom said, "Aaron, what is that under your lip?" to which I replied, "It's my soul patch." My brother noticed it right away and called me "Almeida." But other than that and the comment about it looking like it's "lost weight," no one says anything about the soul patch. It's funny. But at least Dawn's letting me grow facial hair. And I've found a style I can actually grow pretty well. So I'll keep growing it until someone makes fun of it...unless it's you. Because I'll know that you've read my blog.
4/19/2006
Good/Grief 1
There are so many little things going on right now, I don't even know where to start. Here's a fairly random synopsis of the recent goings-on.
SPORTS: The Devils miraculously won the Atlantic Division, after winning -- that's right, winning -- 11 straight games. That's no ties and no overtime losses, but 11 wins. That earns them the third spot in the East, and they'll play the Rangers on Saturday afternoon. It could be on NBC, so do yourself a favor and tune in. In other hockey news, the Des Moines Buccaneers are in the Clark Cup Championship, and play game one (of a best-of-five series) in Urbandale on Saturday night. And finally, the Iowa Stars start their seven-game series with Milwaukee (which everyone and Alice Cooper knows is "originally an Algonquin term meaning 'the good land.'") on Friday and will play game three on Monday night in Des Moines. Be there.
HOBBIES: I went disc golfing in my third different state in the past year, playing at a park in Rochester, Minnesota over Easter weekend. It was windy on an open course, and I didn't have my discs with me. That equals disaster for me, who can't throw a good drive without my beloved "Pinky," and can't putt without my Innova Birdie. Throw the windy conditions in the mix and I'm worthless. So I spent a lot of time combing the nearby river for discs, wanting to add to my running total of 43 discs found in the past ten months. I didn't find anything, and walked out of there with what felt like hypothermia and a minor puncture wound on my foot. I was fasting at the time, adding insult to injury.
PERSONAL LIFE: We came home from Easter break to find a plaster udder hanging from our ceiling. Apparently we had some rain over the weekend and our roof took the holiday off. There was some water on our living room floor, which sort of messed up the wood. But the biggest issue for us is the fact that we have two problems to fix -- the roof and the ceiling, and no professionals can come out and look at the damage until potentially next week. Of course it could be worse, but it's just one of those problems you don't want to have to worry about. And strangely enough, last night we had a quasi-monsoon that brought about a third of an inch of rain and then disappeared, and I expected a deluge to fill the bucket I'd placed there before we went to bed. I woke up to find the bucket and the udder as dry as a bone. Go figure; it's a mystery.
FAMILY: We celebrated Easter in Rochester and Chapin, spending time with both sides of the family. I got to see my cousins' babies, which was cool. I wish we could have spent more time at each of our parents' places, but anyone who's married knows how difficult it can be juggling schedules on holidays.
MOVIES/TV: We haven't been to the cinema in some time. Not only has nothing sparked our interest (though we went to V for Vendetta on its opening weekend), but we haven't had time since we've been getting caught up on different TV shows of interest. I'm currently involved in season four of The Sopranos and season two of ER, and Dawn and I have been using the Internet to get caught up on Lost. We're finally ready to watch it "live" when it airs tonight. I also am working on the complete series of Firefly, and Da Ali G Show season two. It sounds like entertainment overload, but it really isn't -- this has been going on for weeks. And it slows down every day the weather improves, because we do more and more outside.
MUSIC: Right now I'm checking out the new Mat Kearney CD, which contains six songs off of his first album. The repeat songs are worth repeating though, and the new album is pretty good. He's kind of a "you've heard one, you've heard them all" type artist, but that also translates into "if you LIKE one, you'll like them all" for me. Other than that, I am slowly weaning myself off of the latest Umphrey's release (which is excellent) with lots and lots of Supergrass (including their latest, Road to Rouen) and sprinklings of artists like John Vanderslice, Aqualung, Elbow, Doves, and Coldplay. James Blunt works his way into the mix every so often as well.
SPORTS: The Devils miraculously won the Atlantic Division, after winning -- that's right, winning -- 11 straight games. That's no ties and no overtime losses, but 11 wins. That earns them the third spot in the East, and they'll play the Rangers on Saturday afternoon. It could be on NBC, so do yourself a favor and tune in. In other hockey news, the Des Moines Buccaneers are in the Clark Cup Championship, and play game one (of a best-of-five series) in Urbandale on Saturday night. And finally, the Iowa Stars start their seven-game series with Milwaukee (which everyone and Alice Cooper knows is "originally an Algonquin term meaning 'the good land.'") on Friday and will play game three on Monday night in Des Moines. Be there.
HOBBIES: I went disc golfing in my third different state in the past year, playing at a park in Rochester, Minnesota over Easter weekend. It was windy on an open course, and I didn't have my discs with me. That equals disaster for me, who can't throw a good drive without my beloved "Pinky," and can't putt without my Innova Birdie. Throw the windy conditions in the mix and I'm worthless. So I spent a lot of time combing the nearby river for discs, wanting to add to my running total of 43 discs found in the past ten months. I didn't find anything, and walked out of there with what felt like hypothermia and a minor puncture wound on my foot. I was fasting at the time, adding insult to injury.
PERSONAL LIFE: We came home from Easter break to find a plaster udder hanging from our ceiling. Apparently we had some rain over the weekend and our roof took the holiday off. There was some water on our living room floor, which sort of messed up the wood. But the biggest issue for us is the fact that we have two problems to fix -- the roof and the ceiling, and no professionals can come out and look at the damage until potentially next week. Of course it could be worse, but it's just one of those problems you don't want to have to worry about. And strangely enough, last night we had a quasi-monsoon that brought about a third of an inch of rain and then disappeared, and I expected a deluge to fill the bucket I'd placed there before we went to bed. I woke up to find the bucket and the udder as dry as a bone. Go figure; it's a mystery.
FAMILY: We celebrated Easter in Rochester and Chapin, spending time with both sides of the family. I got to see my cousins' babies, which was cool. I wish we could have spent more time at each of our parents' places, but anyone who's married knows how difficult it can be juggling schedules on holidays.
MOVIES/TV: We haven't been to the cinema in some time. Not only has nothing sparked our interest (though we went to V for Vendetta on its opening weekend), but we haven't had time since we've been getting caught up on different TV shows of interest. I'm currently involved in season four of The Sopranos and season two of ER, and Dawn and I have been using the Internet to get caught up on Lost. We're finally ready to watch it "live" when it airs tonight. I also am working on the complete series of Firefly, and Da Ali G Show season two. It sounds like entertainment overload, but it really isn't -- this has been going on for weeks. And it slows down every day the weather improves, because we do more and more outside.
MUSIC: Right now I'm checking out the new Mat Kearney CD, which contains six songs off of his first album. The repeat songs are worth repeating though, and the new album is pretty good. He's kind of a "you've heard one, you've heard them all" type artist, but that also translates into "if you LIKE one, you'll like them all" for me. Other than that, I am slowly weaning myself off of the latest Umphrey's release (which is excellent) with lots and lots of Supergrass (including their latest, Road to Rouen) and sprinklings of artists like John Vanderslice, Aqualung, Elbow, Doves, and Coldplay. James Blunt works his way into the mix every so often as well.
4/13/2006
Amazin'!
I'm going on fast tonight for the holiday, and I won't be back online until Monday...
...so I leave you with this, probably the most clever thing I've ever seen on the Internet, hands down:
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=8547285560243429315&q=RBI+baseball&pl=true
Happy Easter!
...so I leave you with this, probably the most clever thing I've ever seen on the Internet, hands down:
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=8547285560243429315&q=RBI+baseball&pl=true
Happy Easter!
4/10/2006
Sports
I'm riding a wave of team pride that I haven't experienced for quite a few years, and it's getting me back into sports, moreso than I've been in a while. Sure, the Illini made the NCAA basketball finals last year, but there was no hockey -- the sports fan in me just wasn't quite complete. But in the past 
year, the Saints have been my only real disappointment (I'm not even counting ISU sports right now -- don't get me started), but there were a lot bigger things going on in New Orleans than football at that time, making a poor season easier to swallow. Currently though, I'm on cloud nine after the Tigers won five road games to open the season and found themselves tied for the division lead; the Devils have won eight of their last ten and are only two games behind Philly for the fifth spot in the Eastern Conference playoffs; the Iowa Stars went berzerk and put together an eight-game winning streak, landing them in the final playoff spot in the AHL's Western Conference (they lead Omaha by three points with four games to go); and the Suns lead their division by six games though Amare Stoudamire is out for the year (making an NBA title a virtual pipe dream). So things are good for "Sportfan Aaron." In addition, the NCAA tournament rocked (aside from the last three games), and was enhanced by a first round ousting of the Iowa Hawkeyes in dramatic fashion, and the Saints recently nabbed Drew Brees (about which I'm very optimistic).
So if you're ready to talk sports with me, I'll actually speak proudly of my teams for the time being. And win or lose, the NHL playoffs begin soon (which is hands-down the greatest thing about sports), so I still win. Except I don't have cable. So I actually lose.
I love sports.
year, the Saints have been my only real disappointment (I'm not even counting ISU sports right now -- don't get me started), but there were a lot bigger things going on in New Orleans than football at that time, making a poor season easier to swallow. Currently though, I'm on cloud nine after the Tigers won five road games to open the season and found themselves tied for the division lead; the Devils have won eight of their last ten and are only two games behind Philly for the fifth spot in the Eastern Conference playoffs; the Iowa Stars went berzerk and put together an eight-game winning streak, landing them in the final playoff spot in the AHL's Western Conference (they lead Omaha by three points with four games to go); and the Suns lead their division by six games though Amare Stoudamire is out for the year (making an NBA title a virtual pipe dream). So things are good for "Sportfan Aaron." In addition, the NCAA tournament rocked (aside from the last three games), and was enhanced by a first round ousting of the Iowa Hawkeyes in dramatic fashion, and the Saints recently nabbed Drew Brees (about which I'm very optimistic).So if you're ready to talk sports with me, I'll actually speak proudly of my teams for the time being. And win or lose, the NHL playoffs begin soon (which is hands-down the greatest thing about sports), so I still win. Except I don't have cable. So I actually lose.
I love sports.
2/27/2006
One of the Best Sports Stories Ever.
I saw this story this weekend and it blew me away. It's the antithesis of the corruption that scars professional sports, and really captivates what sports should be all about.
*Broadband users: make sure you watch the video on the right side of the screen.
*Broadband users: make sure you watch the video on the right side of the screen.
2/21/2006
Coldplay
I'm not even going to get into why I haven't blogged in so long. I'm just gonna get right to the meat and potatoes.
By "meat" I mean Coldplay. And by "potatoes" I mean...well, Coldplay. Back in November I had my finger on the left-click trigger of my mouse ready to buy the best seats in the Omaha Qwest
Center for last night's concert. I kept refreshing my Ticketmaster page over and over again at 9:53, 9:55, 9:56, until the screen changed and let me in to purchase the goods. I had my credit card number already "Ctrl-x'd" and ready to be "Ctrl-v'd" into the form...and when the time came, I was in the zone. Got a ticket for Dawn and Wade, and hit "Buy." Imagine my surprise when I found that we were in the second row on the main floor. That's right. Second row. We were never more than 30-40 feet from frontman Chris Martin at any point in their standard set, and since we were on the end of the row, Wade and I were able to reach out and cop a feel from him as he ran past down the aisle to the rear of the arena.
The concert itself blew my mind [Anyone who's going to a show soon may not want to continue reading this post, because I'm going to give away some things]. They start out with a blinding white panoramic screen for a backdrop, counting down from around four minutes while the band plays the intro for "Square One," the opener off their latest album, "X&Y." The clock ticks down
as the band is in silhouette in the foreground, and right before the chorus, Martin comes sprinting to the front and leaps off of a platform, landing right in front of a bunch of drunken rich kids whose parents bought them tickets to a concert they'll probably leave early, and a mixture of true fans like myself and the people with which I attended. There's a whole lot of sound just blowing you away for about 10 minutes straight as they roll into "Politik," and the whole thing is choreographed brilliantly. The 15,000-plus fans were nuts from the get-go, and the show had a lot of cool elements like giant yellow balloons filled with confetti dropping from the rafters during "Yellow," a semi-unplugged songset including the tribute to Johnny Cash "Till Kingdom Come" (including a rendition of "Ring of Fire" that brought the house down), and a heck of a lot of Chris Martin running around like a lunatic (totally surprising me with his energy). Martin and gang seemed to be impressed with the venue from the beginning, saying if they'd known they "were going to get such a warm welcome from a place they'd never been, they would have come visit a long time ago." A writer from the Omaha World-Herald even said the climax of "Clocks" was the loudest response they'd ever heard during an arena concert. So what I'm saying is, it rocked big and bad, and you should have been there.
The concert was more than worth the price of admission (and believe me, with Ticketmaster's surcharges and arena fees, it was an investment), and will definitely be tough to top. The opening act was Fiona Apple, whose voice is still amazing me this morning. She's something to see on stage too, girating and seeming to curse out imaginary friends when she's not curling her 5-foot, 2-inch dainty figure into a ball. But man can she belt it out. I was more than entertained by her performance and will probably listen to a playlist from her on the iPod today.
And as for Coldplay, they've potentially surpassed Travis as the greatest band on my own personal planet. Now I've just got to go to England and see Travis perform live.
By "meat" I mean Coldplay. And by "potatoes" I mean...well, Coldplay. Back in November I had my finger on the left-click trigger of my mouse ready to buy the best seats in the Omaha Qwest
Center for last night's concert. I kept refreshing my Ticketmaster page over and over again at 9:53, 9:55, 9:56, until the screen changed and let me in to purchase the goods. I had my credit card number already "Ctrl-x'd" and ready to be "Ctrl-v'd" into the form...and when the time came, I was in the zone. Got a ticket for Dawn and Wade, and hit "Buy." Imagine my surprise when I found that we were in the second row on the main floor. That's right. Second row. We were never more than 30-40 feet from frontman Chris Martin at any point in their standard set, and since we were on the end of the row, Wade and I were able to reach out and cop a feel from him as he ran past down the aisle to the rear of the arena.The concert itself blew my mind [Anyone who's going to a show soon may not want to continue reading this post, because I'm going to give away some things]. They start out with a blinding white panoramic screen for a backdrop, counting down from around four minutes while the band plays the intro for "Square One," the opener off their latest album, "X&Y." The clock ticks down
as the band is in silhouette in the foreground, and right before the chorus, Martin comes sprinting to the front and leaps off of a platform, landing right in front of a bunch of drunken rich kids whose parents bought them tickets to a concert they'll probably leave early, and a mixture of true fans like myself and the people with which I attended. There's a whole lot of sound just blowing you away for about 10 minutes straight as they roll into "Politik," and the whole thing is choreographed brilliantly. The 15,000-plus fans were nuts from the get-go, and the show had a lot of cool elements like giant yellow balloons filled with confetti dropping from the rafters during "Yellow," a semi-unplugged songset including the tribute to Johnny Cash "Till Kingdom Come" (including a rendition of "Ring of Fire" that brought the house down), and a heck of a lot of Chris Martin running around like a lunatic (totally surprising me with his energy). Martin and gang seemed to be impressed with the venue from the beginning, saying if they'd known they "were going to get such a warm welcome from a place they'd never been, they would have come visit a long time ago." A writer from the Omaha World-Herald even said the climax of "Clocks" was the loudest response they'd ever heard during an arena concert. So what I'm saying is, it rocked big and bad, and you should have been there.The concert was more than worth the price of admission (and believe me, with Ticketmaster's surcharges and arena fees, it was an investment), and will definitely be tough to top. The opening act was Fiona Apple, whose voice is still amazing me this morning. She's something to see on stage too, girating and seeming to curse out imaginary friends when she's not curling her 5-foot, 2-inch dainty figure into a ball. But man can she belt it out. I was more than entertained by her performance and will probably listen to a playlist from her on the iPod today.
And as for Coldplay, they've potentially surpassed Travis as the greatest band on my own personal planet. Now I've just got to go to England and see Travis perform live.
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