Happy 62nd Mr. Nolan Ryan. A Hall of Fame pitcher, well deserved at that. And the current President of the Washington Senators take II, aka the Texas Rangers.
Are you ready for some football? Now that I ask, are you confused about some football? I know I am. Well, the majority of you may be looking at the screen a bit cross eyed, wondering what the heck I'm talking about. But there are others who may not be thinking about tomorrow's Super Bowl match up. They may, in fact be thinking about the 'football' that we American's call soccer. Or perhaps, Australian Rules Football. Or maybe rugby. Or futsal. Okay, so I doubt many of you know about futsal.
Football: An open air game, first recorded in 1409 (University of Leipzig opens). Then prohibited by a Scottish statute in 1424 (Battle of Verneuil). The ball itself is first referenced in 1486 (Marriage of Henry VII and Elizabeth of York to end the Wars of the Roses). And the game became an obsession in England circa 1630 (Boston, MA founded). The game's rules became normalized in 1848 (Prince Klemens von Metternich ends his work as Austrian foreign minister). Soccer split off in 1863 (Gettysburg). Then the first true football game took place November 13, 1869 (which makes sense based on a certain uncle's birthday) between Princeton and Rutgers. Finally, the first reference to American football comes from 1881 (Phoenix, AZ incorporated). [Thanks to dictionary.com]
Who will win the Super Bowl? I'll talk about that in a little bit.
The Georgia Institute of Technology Yellow Jackets have defeated the No. 6 Wake Forest Fighting Baptist Demon Deacons for their first victory in the Atlantic Coast Conference.
The Boston Celtics have now won 10 straight to take a ridiculous 14.5 game lead over the next best Philadelphia 4x19ers. I'm happy for the Celtics. I'd much rather them win than the Lakers, after all.
But wait, you might proclaim, you're a Yankees fan. Yes, I know, I know. Growing up, I was confused. The old man: a Yankees, Giants, Knicks fan. And Islanders. Islanders? Not the Rangers? Okay, fine, still New York. Uncle Mark: Yankees, Giants, Rangers. And Celtics. Wow. That's just wrong. Maternal grandfather: Red Sox, Celtics. And Giants, Rangers. C'mon. Paternal grandfather. Tigers, Lions, Red Wings, and Pistons. He never lived a day of his life in Detroit, so don't ask me. What does that leave me with? Yankees and Giants. Lean towards the Celtics. And honestly, I have no clue for which hockey team to root. Confused. Flat out.
This week's question involves Joe Torre's book. He wrote it. I haven't read it. I don't know if all the people who are taking snippets from it and reporting on them have read it. So, I can't speak to that which appears in the book. But I can ask the question, why. Why did he write it? Why does anyone write a book? To instruct. To inform. To entertain. So what was his purpose? To help other managers in the future with their professional teams? To entertain readers with the sacrosanct inner workings of a clubhouse? Or did he do this for money that he doesn't really need? I just don't get it.
Well, without further ado, I give to you my final pick in this year's NFL season (no I won't be choosing the Pro Bowl winner).
Pittsburgh v. Arizona @ Tampa
I just saw the headline 'Dynasty versus Doormat'. Appropriate. The Pittsburgh Steelers haven't won a championship since 2006. For the Cardinals it's been a little longer. Like 59 years. And that's when they were in Chicago. The Pittsburgh Steelers are a defensive powerhouse. The Arizona Cardinals are an offensive juggernaut, or at least they have been in the playoffs. The Steelers will attempt to pummel Warner. And Warner has to get rid of the ball to three very good receivers who can beat the Pittsburgh secondary. Tomlin wins games. And Whisenhunt knows how Pittsburgh wins games. Even with all these facts, this game could be a real clunker. It all depends on Arizona's offense. If they come to play, they can stay in the game. If they don't, Pittsburgh will roast them over an open flame. In the end, I must always stick to the fact that the better defensive team will win the championship. TD chooses: Pittsburgh Steelers
There you have it. Happy sporting all until next week.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Mere Minutes: A Case of Licking
Cleo licks. A lot.
She licks when she's nervous. When she's happy. When she knows she's done something wrong. Even when she's sleeping. Her big, rough, pink tongue slobbers about uncontrollably and incessantly.
There's only one way to stop the licking. You have to scratch her stomach. Then she looks at you as if she owns you, as if you're her pet.
When we had our old carpet, we used a product called Carpet Fresh. It's meant to make ratty old carpet fragrant for about a day, leading the cleaner to think it's clean. Because of the smell. Yeah, I know it doesn't make any sense.
What does that have to do with the licking? Well, it seems that powder somehow got into Cleo's paws. So, she started licking her paws. And licking. And licking. Until she licked the pads right off her back paws. We took her to the vet who gave us a solution in which to soak the paws. And antibiotics. We followed the instructions. She kept licking.
It got so bad, in fact, that we had to put a cone around her head. And she tried to lick those paws. God knows she did. But she couldn't, making her utterly miserable. Instead she licked the dust and pollen from the air repeatedly until she made this house habitable for the worst asthmatic.
We talked to someone who told us that the Carpet Fresh might be the problem. And, after we got our new carpet, just like that, she stopped licking her paws and made due with the carpet, the couch, blankets, Buddy, the cats, Joseph, water, play toys, and cat urine.
Yuck.
But that's not the story, this is. Today I come home after what can only be described as a grueling day. I take out the trash - Friday's our trash day - and do the last of my work. I then put the old blue blanket - an artifact from the old man's house - on the ground in my room and proceed to do my workout.
Now, it's tough to get the workout started because the doggies want some love. So, they attack my head as I do push ups. Buddy just charges head first and hits me squarely in the middle of my skull. This is how he shows his love. Meanwhile, Cleo starts a lickin'. I turn my face one way, she licks the back of my neck for a little while and then searches for my face again. She must lick my face. There's just no way around it. All while I'm doing push ups. You try that...
After a while, she gets tired of trying to find my face and retires to the bed where she stares at me with a knowing grin. Because she knows that soon enough I'll be doing an exercise where I lie on my back and lift my knees to my chest. At the moment she sees her opening, leaps off the bed, leading with her tongue, and assaults my eyes, ears, nose, and cheeks. Over and over, her wet tongue finds every nook and crevice on and in my face while I try to do my exercise.
Finally, I scratch her tummy. And she stares at me laughingly. Knowing that she has once again ruled the day.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
3WW: American Sentences (Carress, Jagged, Ruthless)
American Sentences: They are haiku-length poems that Allen Ginsburg suggested be limited to 17 syllables, like haiku in Japanese and like the Heart Sutra in Buddhism. The following two sentences are such American Sentences of 17 syllables.
I caress the shark’s jagged teeth with terrible Ivan’s ruthless hand.
Ruth with jagged knife caresses her lover’s heart, leaving him ruthless.
I caress the shark’s jagged teeth with terrible Ivan’s ruthless hand.
Ruth with jagged knife caresses her lover’s heart, leaving him ruthless.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Video of the Week: Super Bowl XLIII
We pick up the game with four minutes remaining in the fourth quarter. The Arizona Cardinals retain a seven point lead, the result of a quick first quarter start. Can they hold on?
Monday, January 26, 2009
Art in All its Forms: Drawing Hands
I've always been a fan of M.C. Escher's works. You know, he's the Dutch artist that painted impossibly constructed stairways.
The one who has fish turning into geese.
The one who painted angels and demons at odds within the circle that cannot itself be squared.
But at this moment in my life, I am inspired by one of Escher's most well known works, namely Drawing Hands. I am so inspired because I have recently received a promotion at work that has put me in a position of power. And within that attainment of power, I have chosen a paradoxical relationship of sorts. One in which I who have the power rely on those who do not have such power. And vice versa. It is an interdependent relationship with each drawing from the other that which they need to succeed. For, what would I now be without a group to manage? And yet, they now rely on me to make decisions that will affect them. As fascinating a loop as the work below:
The one who has fish turning into geese.
The one who painted angels and demons at odds within the circle that cannot itself be squared.
But at this moment in my life, I am inspired by one of Escher's most well known works, namely Drawing Hands. I am so inspired because I have recently received a promotion at work that has put me in a position of power. And within that attainment of power, I have chosen a paradoxical relationship of sorts. One in which I who have the power rely on those who do not have such power. And vice versa. It is an interdependent relationship with each drawing from the other that which they need to succeed. For, what would I now be without a group to manage? And yet, they now rely on me to make decisions that will affect them. As fascinating a loop as the work below:
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Sunday Scribblings: Soul of a House
A young couple in their early thirties, Brittany and Jay, stepped out of their realtor’s Suburban. The realtor, an auburn haired woman of approximately the same age grinned toothily at them and said ‘I think this might be the one’. The comment caused the couple to exchange an eager glance.
They stepped onto the newly stained wrap-around deck. The boards creaked just enough to remind them that they were about to view a century old house. Each separately wondered who had lived there during the ups and downs of the last hundred years.
The realtor rapped on the door with three squarely landed knocks. ‘A precaution’ she unnecessarily whispered to the couple. When there came no answer, she fished through her purse for the key that would allow their entry. While searching, there came a noise inside. A hand flicked the small valance that spread across the top window of the door, briefly revealing two darting green eyes. The lock was disengaged and there stood before the surprised trio an older gentleman dressed in a blood red plaid shirt and jeans.
‘Good afternoon’ he welcomed them with an odd lilt. ‘Please enter this house of wonder. You can call me Fred.’ The trio entered. He began again, ‘Please take a look around. This house is mostly inviting. And you’ve not had any ill effect as far as I can tell.’
The couple thought the gentleman’s words a bit odd, but made nothing of it. Instead, they separated and ventured through the house. Jay ascended the narrow staircase while Brittany descended into the basement. The realtor lingered in the front hallway attempting – and failing – to make small talk with the gentleman.
After about ten minutes, the couple passed each other on their way to opposite ends of the house. They grinned like fools as they encountered one another. And after another ten minutes they met back with the realtor and older gentleman in the dining room area. They smiled the smiles of people who thought they had found the house of their dreams.
‘So, I see you enjoy this house, dear friends’ the gentleman spoke with heartfelt mirth.
‘Yep’ Jay claimed. ‘I think this is the house’.
‘I love it too, but just a few questions. Why is the bathroom floor wet upstairs? And I thought there was a washer and dryer downstairs,’ said Brittany.
Jay turned to her, puzzled. ‘Honey, I saw both the washer and dryer. And I didn’t see any water on the bathroom floor.’
‘Perhaps you best check again,’ advised the gentleman.
This time, the couple both checked the bathroom for signs of water and the basement for the washer and dryer. No water in the bathroom. And both a washer and dryer in the basement. They returned to the first floor and told the gentleman what they had found.
‘I’m not crazy’ Brittany exclaimed.
Before Jay had a chance to answer, the gentleman said, ‘Ah yes, well there you have it. Miss’ he spoke to the realtor ‘can you please step outside?’ The realtor, taken aback, looked to Jay and Brittany for further instruction.
‘Perhaps you should step outside’ Jay answered. ‘I’d like to hear what he has to say.’
When she had left, the gentleman closed the door and inquired, ‘Might I ask your political affiliation?’
‘What?’ they replied in unison.
‘Your political affiliation. Are you Whigs, Federalists, Independents? Or do you lean towards the presently popular Democratic or Republican parties?’
‘What does this have to do with this house?’ Brittany demanded.
‘For the span of 75 years, there lived in this house a woman diminutive in stature but not in purpose. She – a Republican of the highest quality – injected this house with her very soul. And who would not after three quarters of a century? She died at 99 years and 9 months just 15 years ago. And it is said that this house still carries her soul. In these past 15 years, there have lived here a family of Republicans who lived well and loved this house. There came after that family a woman of Democratic leaning who has gone bankrupt and lost her husband. Though I know it sounds absurd, I do recommend that you lean Republican if you wish to live here. And so, I ask again, what are your political leanings?’
The couple, not knowing whether to believe the gentleman, chuckled a tad. But seeing that the gentleman had not even a smile on his face, they decided to answer his question.
‘I am a Republican,’ admitted Jay.
‘And I’m a Democrat,’ declared Brittany, her chest swelled to prideful admittance.
‘Thus are the oddities explained,’ the gentleman answered with a smile. ‘Might I ask you, young lady, your champion in that party?’
‘This is ridiculous,’ she answered. ‘My hero, if you care to know, is John F. Kennedy.’
The gentleman sighed. ‘It is possible that you might live well here as you did not mention that man whom she despised the most. But I suggest if it is your wish to live here that you leave important decisions regarding this house to your husband.’
‘This is ridiculous. Jay, let’s go.’
They turned to go, but Jay – an inquisitive soul – stalled at the door and asked, ‘Who did she despise?’
‘The only president to have served three full terms. Excuse me, but I dare not say his name.’
‘Franklin Roosevelt?’ Brittany said.
And at that name, there came a sound like shattering glass from within the house. The couple hurried out the door and just about sprinted off the deck. The Suburban peeled out of the driveway. And the gentleman smiled at his grandmother's expected reaction.
They stepped onto the newly stained wrap-around deck. The boards creaked just enough to remind them that they were about to view a century old house. Each separately wondered who had lived there during the ups and downs of the last hundred years.
The realtor rapped on the door with three squarely landed knocks. ‘A precaution’ she unnecessarily whispered to the couple. When there came no answer, she fished through her purse for the key that would allow their entry. While searching, there came a noise inside. A hand flicked the small valance that spread across the top window of the door, briefly revealing two darting green eyes. The lock was disengaged and there stood before the surprised trio an older gentleman dressed in a blood red plaid shirt and jeans.
‘Good afternoon’ he welcomed them with an odd lilt. ‘Please enter this house of wonder. You can call me Fred.’ The trio entered. He began again, ‘Please take a look around. This house is mostly inviting. And you’ve not had any ill effect as far as I can tell.’
The couple thought the gentleman’s words a bit odd, but made nothing of it. Instead, they separated and ventured through the house. Jay ascended the narrow staircase while Brittany descended into the basement. The realtor lingered in the front hallway attempting – and failing – to make small talk with the gentleman.
After about ten minutes, the couple passed each other on their way to opposite ends of the house. They grinned like fools as they encountered one another. And after another ten minutes they met back with the realtor and older gentleman in the dining room area. They smiled the smiles of people who thought they had found the house of their dreams.
‘So, I see you enjoy this house, dear friends’ the gentleman spoke with heartfelt mirth.
‘Yep’ Jay claimed. ‘I think this is the house’.
‘I love it too, but just a few questions. Why is the bathroom floor wet upstairs? And I thought there was a washer and dryer downstairs,’ said Brittany.
Jay turned to her, puzzled. ‘Honey, I saw both the washer and dryer. And I didn’t see any water on the bathroom floor.’
‘Perhaps you best check again,’ advised the gentleman.
This time, the couple both checked the bathroom for signs of water and the basement for the washer and dryer. No water in the bathroom. And both a washer and dryer in the basement. They returned to the first floor and told the gentleman what they had found.
‘I’m not crazy’ Brittany exclaimed.
Before Jay had a chance to answer, the gentleman said, ‘Ah yes, well there you have it. Miss’ he spoke to the realtor ‘can you please step outside?’ The realtor, taken aback, looked to Jay and Brittany for further instruction.
‘Perhaps you should step outside’ Jay answered. ‘I’d like to hear what he has to say.’
When she had left, the gentleman closed the door and inquired, ‘Might I ask your political affiliation?’
‘What?’ they replied in unison.
‘Your political affiliation. Are you Whigs, Federalists, Independents? Or do you lean towards the presently popular Democratic or Republican parties?’
‘What does this have to do with this house?’ Brittany demanded.
‘For the span of 75 years, there lived in this house a woman diminutive in stature but not in purpose. She – a Republican of the highest quality – injected this house with her very soul. And who would not after three quarters of a century? She died at 99 years and 9 months just 15 years ago. And it is said that this house still carries her soul. In these past 15 years, there have lived here a family of Republicans who lived well and loved this house. There came after that family a woman of Democratic leaning who has gone bankrupt and lost her husband. Though I know it sounds absurd, I do recommend that you lean Republican if you wish to live here. And so, I ask again, what are your political leanings?’
The couple, not knowing whether to believe the gentleman, chuckled a tad. But seeing that the gentleman had not even a smile on his face, they decided to answer his question.
‘I am a Republican,’ admitted Jay.
‘And I’m a Democrat,’ declared Brittany, her chest swelled to prideful admittance.
‘Thus are the oddities explained,’ the gentleman answered with a smile. ‘Might I ask you, young lady, your champion in that party?’
‘This is ridiculous,’ she answered. ‘My hero, if you care to know, is John F. Kennedy.’
The gentleman sighed. ‘It is possible that you might live well here as you did not mention that man whom she despised the most. But I suggest if it is your wish to live here that you leave important decisions regarding this house to your husband.’
‘This is ridiculous. Jay, let’s go.’
They turned to go, but Jay – an inquisitive soul – stalled at the door and asked, ‘Who did she despise?’
‘The only president to have served three full terms. Excuse me, but I dare not say his name.’
‘Franklin Roosevelt?’ Brittany said.
And at that name, there came a sound like shattering glass from within the house. The couple hurried out the door and just about sprinted off the deck. The Suburban peeled out of the driveway. And the gentleman smiled at his grandmother's expected reaction.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Sporting Rants and Raves: January 24, 2009
Now that football approaches the pinnacle of it season - and its end - I change the format of these sporting rants and raves. No longer will you see the inaccurate choices for NFL Playoff games. Okay, so once more. But that won't be this week. Instead, you will see a quippy... umm, quippish... quippsical... well, a selection of quips associated with sports.
Happy 41st Mary Lou Retton...
Herm Edwards, your greatest feat in football remains "The Miracle in the Meadowlands" about which Joe Pisarcik still doesn't speak. Because God knows you have done little to nothing with what you've had in the your head coaching positions in the NFL. A combined 54-74 (regular season) and 2-4 (playoffs) in your 8 years as head coach of the Jets and Chiefs is not particularly inspiring. And now, I wonder if KC would rather have their 4th round draft choice back from the 2006 draft, namely, Leon Washington who has rushed for 1451 yards and 13 TDs not to mention 838 receiving yards with 2 TDs in the past three years. And he shows no signs of stopping anytime soon. Have fun at your next coordinator position, Herm.
Congratulations goes to the NBA-worst Oklahoma City Thunder (9-35) from a happily passive-aggressive Seattle community.
Goodbye Mr. Jeff Kent. Retiring from baseball after a 17 year career Kent played for the Blue Jays, Mets, Indians, Giants, Astros, and Dodgers and racked up some pretty good numbers, including a 2B best 377 homeruns. Good enough for the Hall? Time will tell. But if Ryne Sandberg was inducted, then Kent has a shot.
Have you recently seen a harder hitting game than that Pittsburgh - Baltimore game? I mean, it was a blood bath. Did anyone else wonder whether McGahee would even walk again after that hit. Not to mention Limas Sweed's block on Cory Ivy. TANGENT: Doesn't Limas Sweed sound like something out of a satiristic book or movie? Like Barton Fink. Or Silas Marner.
Something you may not care to know... Limas Sweed was born on Christmas in 1984. Who else feels old?
Does anyone care that Roger Clemens might attend the Houston Astros spring training? I don't. I was hoping he might fall off the face of the earth. And I still won't watch his Yankeeography. He's not a Yankee in my book. 'So, are you going to give back all his wins when he was a Yankee,' I get asked when I say such a thing. No, because there would have been another pitcher in his place. So, instead, I take an average pitcher in his stead during the seasons of '99, '00, '01, '02, and '03.
Jeff Shumway resigned as chairman and CEO of the NHL Phoenix Coyotes yesterday. This removes a layer of management that really wasn't needed in the first place. In other news, his long lost cousin, Gordon, has finally escaped a maximum security facility in Nevada to return to his home planet of Melmac.
The state of Washington can finally boast about something in the sports arena as the 'other' Huskies try to take the #1 spot in the Pac-10 when they meet No. 13 UCLA on their home court.
As for the 'real' Huskies, they meet No. 19 Notre Dame in South Bend this evening. At 17-1 and No. 3 in the nation, the heavily favored UCONN Huskies play a Notre Dame team that hasn't lost at home in nearly three years. We'll see tonight what happens when the unstoppable force meets the immovable object.
Softball practice begins this weekend. Today, I will be venturing to an indoor batting cage where the Buzz will take their first few swings. And tomorrow, the Thrusters meet for the first time on the field. I have to pull my bat bag from the wreckage of the garage and massage the black glove that has served me well since my days in high school. I am told it isn't a softball mitt. But it seems to have worked well enough these past three years.
Can someone tell me why New York Football Giants receivers have this tendency of being shot, lately. Most recently, Mr. Taye Biddle of the Giants was outside a residence in Decatur, AL when he was shot in the hand and leg. Though it doesn't seem he did anything to provoke the shooting, I still gotta ask, what's the deal?
A final question... Does that coach deserve to be prosecuted for the high school player who dropped dead in the 94 degree heat last August in Kentucky? I've read the story as well as some editorials. And I can't say that I lean one way more than another in the case. I have to think about it more. But there was one part of that story that strikes me. The kid who dropped dead was taking medication for ADHD. And that medication most likely dehydrated him enough that it affected the eventual outcome. My question, then, is... why are so many kids taking medication in the United States for the likes of ADD and ADHD? Is it really necessary or does it make the drug companies and doctors all the more rich?
I leave you with that. Until next time, happy sporting...
Happy 41st Mary Lou Retton...
Herm Edwards, your greatest feat in football remains "The Miracle in the Meadowlands" about which Joe Pisarcik still doesn't speak. Because God knows you have done little to nothing with what you've had in the your head coaching positions in the NFL. A combined 54-74 (regular season) and 2-4 (playoffs) in your 8 years as head coach of the Jets and Chiefs is not particularly inspiring. And now, I wonder if KC would rather have their 4th round draft choice back from the 2006 draft, namely, Leon Washington who has rushed for 1451 yards and 13 TDs not to mention 838 receiving yards with 2 TDs in the past three years. And he shows no signs of stopping anytime soon. Have fun at your next coordinator position, Herm.
Congratulations goes to the NBA-worst Oklahoma City Thunder (9-35) from a happily passive-aggressive Seattle community.
Goodbye Mr. Jeff Kent. Retiring from baseball after a 17 year career Kent played for the Blue Jays, Mets, Indians, Giants, Astros, and Dodgers and racked up some pretty good numbers, including a 2B best 377 homeruns. Good enough for the Hall? Time will tell. But if Ryne Sandberg was inducted, then Kent has a shot.
Have you recently seen a harder hitting game than that Pittsburgh - Baltimore game? I mean, it was a blood bath. Did anyone else wonder whether McGahee would even walk again after that hit. Not to mention Limas Sweed's block on Cory Ivy. TANGENT: Doesn't Limas Sweed sound like something out of a satiristic book or movie? Like Barton Fink. Or Silas Marner.
Something you may not care to know... Limas Sweed was born on Christmas in 1984. Who else feels old?
Does anyone care that Roger Clemens might attend the Houston Astros spring training? I don't. I was hoping he might fall off the face of the earth. And I still won't watch his Yankeeography. He's not a Yankee in my book. 'So, are you going to give back all his wins when he was a Yankee,' I get asked when I say such a thing. No, because there would have been another pitcher in his place. So, instead, I take an average pitcher in his stead during the seasons of '99, '00, '01, '02, and '03.
- If it's '99, the Yanks come in second and win the Wild Card. They play the Red Sox in the Championship series and still beat the Braves in the WS.
- If it's '00, they come in 2nd and don't make the playoffs. No subway series. No WS win.
- If it's '01 they still come in first in the East. They beat Oakland (Clemens lost both games he started). And then New York still beats Seattle (Clemens only pitched 5 innings in that series). They get to the WS and lose in 7.
- If it's '02 they still come in first in the East. But that would have pitted them against the Twins and the A's against the Angels. Maybe the Angles don't win that WS since the A's played them pretty evenly that year. But the Yanks wouldn't have won either.
- If it's '03, the Yanks still win the East. But there's a question about whether they would have beaten the Red Sox. If not they don't got to the WS and the Sox might have gotten their first WS victory a year earlier. Or the Marlins would have beat them like they did the Yanks. No matter, the Yanks don't win.
Jeff Shumway resigned as chairman and CEO of the NHL Phoenix Coyotes yesterday. This removes a layer of management that really wasn't needed in the first place. In other news, his long lost cousin, Gordon, has finally escaped a maximum security facility in Nevada to return to his home planet of Melmac.
The state of Washington can finally boast about something in the sports arena as the 'other' Huskies try to take the #1 spot in the Pac-10 when they meet No. 13 UCLA on their home court.
As for the 'real' Huskies, they meet No. 19 Notre Dame in South Bend this evening. At 17-1 and No. 3 in the nation, the heavily favored UCONN Huskies play a Notre Dame team that hasn't lost at home in nearly three years. We'll see tonight what happens when the unstoppable force meets the immovable object.
Softball practice begins this weekend. Today, I will be venturing to an indoor batting cage where the Buzz will take their first few swings. And tomorrow, the Thrusters meet for the first time on the field. I have to pull my bat bag from the wreckage of the garage and massage the black glove that has served me well since my days in high school. I am told it isn't a softball mitt. But it seems to have worked well enough these past three years.
Can someone tell me why New York Football Giants receivers have this tendency of being shot, lately. Most recently, Mr. Taye Biddle of the Giants was outside a residence in Decatur, AL when he was shot in the hand and leg. Though it doesn't seem he did anything to provoke the shooting, I still gotta ask, what's the deal?
A final question... Does that coach deserve to be prosecuted for the high school player who dropped dead in the 94 degree heat last August in Kentucky? I've read the story as well as some editorials. And I can't say that I lean one way more than another in the case. I have to think about it more. But there was one part of that story that strikes me. The kid who dropped dead was taking medication for ADHD. And that medication most likely dehydrated him enough that it affected the eventual outcome. My question, then, is... why are so many kids taking medication in the United States for the likes of ADD and ADHD? Is it really necessary or does it make the drug companies and doctors all the more rich?
I leave you with that. Until next time, happy sporting...
Thursday, January 22, 2009
A Look Back: Booth Extensions, Mate
Many eons ago in a state that isn't even 100 miles from north to south, I was able to give a cashier $20 for something that cost $19.99 and I still got a penny back. But that has nothing to do with this story. Well, except that I'm talking about Delaware. And that I lived there collegiately during the mid to late 90s.
Towards the latter edge of the later 90s I decided that I needed a job that wasn't a $4 / hour work study on-campus job. I therefore applied at two places. Kindercare and Outback Steakhouse. I was offered both jobs. The one a teacher / baby sitter for infants and toddlers. The other a host who seated people and rolled silverware. Children OR cheese fries with ranch, a salad with the best croutons I've ever tasted, the tastiest brown bread in existence, and steak seasoned with 14 billion spices not to mention the Wallaby Darned - all half off. Outback it was.
I did the host thing for quite some time. Got pretty good at it. But this ain't about that. I'll tell some of those other stories at another time. This story is about one particularly trying night that has something to do with a fire hazard. Thus the title...
This story includes as the main characters a guy named Bob, a girl named Sarah, and me.
Bob the waiter was an ass. Most likely still is an ass. Big ears. Little head. Always wore his shirt too tightly to impress the ladies. Grinned after every one of his crude jokes. Walked with a swagger. Couldn't say anything intelligent if he tried. Typical frat jock numnutz.
Sarah the waitress was a bitch. Long, flowing brunette hair, obviously dyed. Always wore her shirt too tightly to impress the men. Wouldn't speak to anyone she deemed a lower life form than she, which was everyone except others of her kind and men she deemed attractive. Or people who controlled her paycheck in some way, shape, or form.
Bob and Sarah had three tables apiece. Both had two six tops - booths - and an 8-person round table. In the smoking section. Yes, that archaic section akin to a peeing section in a swimming pool was a hit or miss proposition. Some nights, it was a ghost town. Other nights, it was a smokehouse. Sometimes, I could convince others to sit over in the section by telling them that no one else seemed to be smoking. Other nights, the very mention of the possibility evoked the nastiest of nasty looks. Hit or miss, like I said.
On this night, we were having some success seating people in the smoking section. A four top for Bob - he had opened - and then a two top. Not bad for early on. When Sarah came on, she got a six top. Then a four top. The restaurant was filling up. But all with two and four tops. Or larger tops that wanted non-smoking. That left Sarah and Bob each with the open 8-seat round tops open. That's when a five person party came through the doors. I pulled Bob aside and asked him if he'd take it. He wasn't thrilled. I told him I couldn't be certain that there would be another table. He then acquiesced. But told me I had to take care of him. I chuckled and he left.
Over the next half hour, Sarah's tables flipped and she got 6 person parties at both her booths. Bob's tables, meanwhile, had squatters. Frustrated, he made himself a permanent fixture at the front board. Staring at the people who wouldn't leave his tables. Finally, one of his booths came free.
Before I continue, let me explain the situation of Bob's free booth. In the corner of the 'store' the booth was adjacent to the window. Its back was butted against a wall on the other side of which was a busboy station. That wall created a small nook for the busboys, true, but it was also where one of our emergency exits was located.
So, I had an 8 person party and a 2 person party. The 8 person party was first on the list. Now, the 8 person party could easily fit at Sarah's round top. But it could also fit - with an extension - at the 6 seater booth. Sarah came up to the front and spoke to me as if I were her best friend, 'Are you going to seat them at my table?' she spoke with her most enchanting voice. I didn't answer her. Instead - as I was wont to do at times - I took a stroll through the section to see how close the people were to finishing at Bob's other tables. Not close. When I returned, Bob pointed to his table and just about ordered me to seat them.
And there I stood. Finally, I realized what I had to do. I sat them at Sarah's round table eliciting many a purr and coo from her rancid tongue. And then, when Bob saw what I had done, he chewed me out in front of a crowd of hungry carnivores, spewing unprofessional filth and cursing my very name.
Why? Well, if I had put the extension on the 6 top booth, it would have blocked access to the busboy nook, and therefore the emergency exit. But no amount of explanation was capable of calming Bob. Nor would Sarah stop walking slowly by me, smiling as she went. Well, until the next day when she once again ignored my very existence.
Not a great night. Not even particularly poetically just. But an experience nonetheless. And what does my friend Brian always say but 'experience is what you get when you don't get what you want.'
Towards the latter edge of the later 90s I decided that I needed a job that wasn't a $4 / hour work study on-campus job. I therefore applied at two places. Kindercare and Outback Steakhouse. I was offered both jobs. The one a teacher / baby sitter for infants and toddlers. The other a host who seated people and rolled silverware. Children OR cheese fries with ranch, a salad with the best croutons I've ever tasted, the tastiest brown bread in existence, and steak seasoned with 14 billion spices not to mention the Wallaby Darned - all half off. Outback it was.
I did the host thing for quite some time. Got pretty good at it. But this ain't about that. I'll tell some of those other stories at another time. This story is about one particularly trying night that has something to do with a fire hazard. Thus the title...
This story includes as the main characters a guy named Bob, a girl named Sarah, and me.
Bob the waiter was an ass. Most likely still is an ass. Big ears. Little head. Always wore his shirt too tightly to impress the ladies. Grinned after every one of his crude jokes. Walked with a swagger. Couldn't say anything intelligent if he tried. Typical frat jock numnutz.
Sarah the waitress was a bitch. Long, flowing brunette hair, obviously dyed. Always wore her shirt too tightly to impress the men. Wouldn't speak to anyone she deemed a lower life form than she, which was everyone except others of her kind and men she deemed attractive. Or people who controlled her paycheck in some way, shape, or form.
Bob and Sarah had three tables apiece. Both had two six tops - booths - and an 8-person round table. In the smoking section. Yes, that archaic section akin to a peeing section in a swimming pool was a hit or miss proposition. Some nights, it was a ghost town. Other nights, it was a smokehouse. Sometimes, I could convince others to sit over in the section by telling them that no one else seemed to be smoking. Other nights, the very mention of the possibility evoked the nastiest of nasty looks. Hit or miss, like I said.
On this night, we were having some success seating people in the smoking section. A four top for Bob - he had opened - and then a two top. Not bad for early on. When Sarah came on, she got a six top. Then a four top. The restaurant was filling up. But all with two and four tops. Or larger tops that wanted non-smoking. That left Sarah and Bob each with the open 8-seat round tops open. That's when a five person party came through the doors. I pulled Bob aside and asked him if he'd take it. He wasn't thrilled. I told him I couldn't be certain that there would be another table. He then acquiesced. But told me I had to take care of him. I chuckled and he left.
Over the next half hour, Sarah's tables flipped and she got 6 person parties at both her booths. Bob's tables, meanwhile, had squatters. Frustrated, he made himself a permanent fixture at the front board. Staring at the people who wouldn't leave his tables. Finally, one of his booths came free.
Before I continue, let me explain the situation of Bob's free booth. In the corner of the 'store' the booth was adjacent to the window. Its back was butted against a wall on the other side of which was a busboy station. That wall created a small nook for the busboys, true, but it was also where one of our emergency exits was located.
So, I had an 8 person party and a 2 person party. The 8 person party was first on the list. Now, the 8 person party could easily fit at Sarah's round top. But it could also fit - with an extension - at the 6 seater booth. Sarah came up to the front and spoke to me as if I were her best friend, 'Are you going to seat them at my table?' she spoke with her most enchanting voice. I didn't answer her. Instead - as I was wont to do at times - I took a stroll through the section to see how close the people were to finishing at Bob's other tables. Not close. When I returned, Bob pointed to his table and just about ordered me to seat them.
And there I stood. Finally, I realized what I had to do. I sat them at Sarah's round table eliciting many a purr and coo from her rancid tongue. And then, when Bob saw what I had done, he chewed me out in front of a crowd of hungry carnivores, spewing unprofessional filth and cursing my very name.
Why? Well, if I had put the extension on the 6 top booth, it would have blocked access to the busboy nook, and therefore the emergency exit. But no amount of explanation was capable of calming Bob. Nor would Sarah stop walking slowly by me, smiling as she went. Well, until the next day when she once again ignored my very existence.
Not a great night. Not even particularly poetically just. But an experience nonetheless. And what does my friend Brian always say but 'experience is what you get when you don't get what you want.'
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
3WW: American Sentences (Resolve, Cadence, Humble)
American Sentences: They are haiku-length poems that Allen Ginsburg suggested be limited to 17 syllables, like haiku in Japanese and like the Heart Sutra in Buddhism. The following two sentences are such American Sentences of 17 syllables.
'I resolve to be humble' he oft declared with frenetic cadence.
His cadence rises with resolve as the bitter humble pie descends.
'I resolve to be humble' he oft declared with frenetic cadence.
His cadence rises with resolve as the bitter humble pie descends.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Video of the Week: Air and Simple Gifts
Today marks the day of which all Americans can be proud. Once again, the United States peacefully shifted power from one party to another, from one man to another, and for the first time from a white man to a black man. As with each new president, there is new hope; there are new ideas. And there's an unshakable faith in a country founded upon the ideals of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
No, I will not be showing the botched Oath, a sign that we all - Democrats and Republicans alike - make mistakes. Nor will I show you the inaugural address, which was spoken succinctly and clearly to the issues at hand. Instead, I present to you a masterful composition and display of musical talent.
Though I know little about music, I understood the song in my heart. I listened to John Williams' piece work its way from the solemn undertones of the cello complementing the angst of the violin to the hopefulness of the Shaker hymn 'Simple Gifts' more commonly known to many as the source piece for Aaron Copland's 'Appalachian Spring'. I felt the reinvigorating hope after the lull of these twenty aughts. And what better way to show the true America than with a Jewish man, an Asian man, an Hispanic woman, and an African-American man?
I would suggest you take a moment, turn the speakers up or put your headphones on, and listen. And you will know why America continues to be great...
No, I will not be showing the botched Oath, a sign that we all - Democrats and Republicans alike - make mistakes. Nor will I show you the inaugural address, which was spoken succinctly and clearly to the issues at hand. Instead, I present to you a masterful composition and display of musical talent.
Though I know little about music, I understood the song in my heart. I listened to John Williams' piece work its way from the solemn undertones of the cello complementing the angst of the violin to the hopefulness of the Shaker hymn 'Simple Gifts' more commonly known to many as the source piece for Aaron Copland's 'Appalachian Spring'. I felt the reinvigorating hope after the lull of these twenty aughts. And what better way to show the true America than with a Jewish man, an Asian man, an Hispanic woman, and an African-American man?
I would suggest you take a moment, turn the speakers up or put your headphones on, and listen. And you will know why America continues to be great...
Monday, January 19, 2009
Tropic Thunder - A Review
Friday evenings come with difficult choices in our household. The two most important happen to be (1) What are we going to eat? and (2) What are we going to watch? For two people as different as we there is rarely an obvious choice for either. We review the choices, talk about them, and review again. Until recently, the outcome has often been pizza and some movie we both like but have seen 10 million times.
But Joseph - I give him the credit for this change - has recently made the decision that he would like to experiment with some cooking. We have therefore moved away from Papa Murphy's and towards new and exciting meals. This past weekend, we enjoyed fajitas.
As for what we watch we have been better about choosing movies. Since we don't rent and often purchase, we must ensure that the movies are ones that one or both of us will watch again. Firewall? Poor purchase. The Dark Knight? Over and over and over again.
This weekend, we both decided to go for a recently well-acclaimed movie in Tropic Thunder. A few friends recommended it. "You'll like the line 'Don't go full 'tard' Ashley remarked to us." And so, we purchased it at Costco and let roll the tape. Well, actually, the disc, but who's counting?
The movie, rated R, commences with a few 'over the top' trailers starring the likes of Downey Jr's, Black's, and Stiller's characters. Three entirely different Hollywood stars who, as luck would have it, are going to star together in the film Tropic Thunder. The movie - based on a book of the same name - is a Vietnam War film akin to Platoon and replete with ridiculous gore and lengthy explosions.
When the actors on the film prove to be a bunch of egotistical prima donnas, the director along with the special effects guy and the author of the book, Tropic Thunder decide to plop the actors - unbeknownst to them - into the wilds of Vietnam where they - the actors - happen to encounter a real threat in the persons of heroin dealers.
Along the way, the movie takes any number of pot shots at Hollywood with its premature explosions, commentary on acting as a mentally handicapped person, and unnecessary sequels. Not to mention the greed and insensitivity of the likes of Tom Cruise as Les Grossman, a part that has him nominated for a Golden Globe Best Supporting Actor.
In my eyes, the movie was better than average but by no means great. Unlike the Scary Movie franchise and others of that sort, this movie attempts a drier humor with more subtlety. And that works, at times. But at others, it feels like it's too subtle for those who wouldn't describe themselves as rabid movie watchers. It just tries too hard.
If I'm being honest, that's how I feel about Ben Stiller on the whole. He's a 'funny man' who just tries too hard to be funny. It takes too much effort for him and thus he breaks that contract of suspended disbelief between the character and the audience. I suppose manic for me just isn't funny.
Downey Jr and Black are funnier in their characters, to be certain. But even they try too hard. And that's most likely because they were following the direction of Ben Stiller himself.
A final note, this movie reminds me of the movie Mars Attacks that proved to be a box office flop. Replete with well known actors, the movie was one big inside joke. Though Tropic Thunder cannot necessarily be called an inside joke per se, it still went a bit over my head.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Sunday Scribblings: A Lesson Learned
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. No characters are based on real people, whether living or dead. Any resemblance to a real person is pure coincidence.
“I have it,” he declared to the darkness. He sat straight up in his bed as a crazy scientist might. His black hair is disarray. His eyes clouded with deepened sleep. “I knew it would come to me in a dream. These things always do. Like Daniel. Yes, like Daniel. Thank you, Lord."
Thomas tore open the curtains to find it was late afternoon. A small byproduct of his most potent dreams. Sleeping more than 20 hours, that is. He raced around his room unsure what he should do first. Then he sat, naked, at his desk and began to draw. It was thus that he spent the next hour without interruption. Drawing, writing, composing the masterpiece he knew God would bestow on him, a profit.
Since an early age, he had had two separate infatuations. The first was Christianity. A child of Southern Baptist upbringing – in Michigan, no less – his wealthy parents taught him the inerrancy of the Bible, the virgin birth of Christ, the resurrection of Christ, and his imminent return. The world, they taught him was no more than 6000 years old. The stories of Adam and Eve, Cain and Abel, Noah and his ark, they said, are all true.
With that information Thomas wrought havoc everywhere he went. Always proselytizing, he argued with museum curators, grocery store clerks, and crossing guards. Peers steered clear. Teachers mostly sent him to the office where he spent hours speaking with little old Mrs. McElroy. A religious woman in her own right – Lutheran – Mrs. McElroy entertained Thomas’s notions but disagreed in a kindly manner. The Bible, she explained to him, is an allegory. Wanting to hear nothing of it, Thomas referred to her as the little gray devil.
But Mrs. McElroy lit the spark for Thomas’s other infatuation. Based on one comment that weighed heavily on Thomas’s conscience. “You say God put dinosaur bones in the earth to fool us. Why would he do that?” she asked politely. And he hadn’t been able to answer. Instead he began to pore over archaeology books. And history books.
When that wasn’t enough, he used his parents’ wealth to travel. To deserts where fossils had been found. But he was kicked from most of those digs for arguing. Then to Israel and Greece and Rome. He learned Aramaic, Latin, Greek, Hebrew. All to prove his point. All in vain. He knew he was right, but he had no proof. And that, he was convinced, was what the world needed.
It came to him that day when he sat up in his bed with disheveled hair. A forty something year old man with money to spend had an idea that had lingered in his mind for some time. Since Mrs. McElroy mocked him in the office. What better way to prove the past than with real footage? And that meant time traveling.
He spent the next 25 years building that time machine in an empty warehouse in Flint, Michigan. It wasn’t a time traveling machine, per se, as he couldn’t find a way to do the traveling. Instead, it was – as he called it – a window to the past. By inputting the exact date and coordinates of any time and space, he could witness a replay of the happenings of that time and place.
He first tried a certain day from his youth and saw himself arguing with the little gray devil. Though he deemed her utterly incorrect, he still had fond memories. The proof of concept worked.
Next, he set the coordinates to his own place and the time to the year 5000 B.C. He immediately saw a few trees. Some grass. A few species of animal about which he knew nothing. But that wasn’t the point. The fact that he saw anything was concerning.
He tried another date. December 25, 0000. Bethlehem. He inputted the exact location of the Church of the Nativity. But he saw no manger. No nearby inn in the immediate vicinity. Just a few men meandering through a small village of huts.
He ceased his searching and knelt on the ground in front of his machine. “Lord God” he exclaimed, “why is it that I do not see what should appear?” As his old knees ached with pain, he sought an answer in the depth of his soul. And it came to him.
“Thomas,” he said to himself, “God has shown these images to humble you. And that’s also why God put the dinosaur bones in the ground. To make humanity humble. It all makes sense.” He raised his arms and face to the sky and proclaimed, “Thank you, Lord, for teaching me humility.”
“I have it,” he declared to the darkness. He sat straight up in his bed as a crazy scientist might. His black hair is disarray. His eyes clouded with deepened sleep. “I knew it would come to me in a dream. These things always do. Like Daniel. Yes, like Daniel. Thank you, Lord."
Thomas tore open the curtains to find it was late afternoon. A small byproduct of his most potent dreams. Sleeping more than 20 hours, that is. He raced around his room unsure what he should do first. Then he sat, naked, at his desk and began to draw. It was thus that he spent the next hour without interruption. Drawing, writing, composing the masterpiece he knew God would bestow on him, a profit.
Since an early age, he had had two separate infatuations. The first was Christianity. A child of Southern Baptist upbringing – in Michigan, no less – his wealthy parents taught him the inerrancy of the Bible, the virgin birth of Christ, the resurrection of Christ, and his imminent return. The world, they taught him was no more than 6000 years old. The stories of Adam and Eve, Cain and Abel, Noah and his ark, they said, are all true.
With that information Thomas wrought havoc everywhere he went. Always proselytizing, he argued with museum curators, grocery store clerks, and crossing guards. Peers steered clear. Teachers mostly sent him to the office where he spent hours speaking with little old Mrs. McElroy. A religious woman in her own right – Lutheran – Mrs. McElroy entertained Thomas’s notions but disagreed in a kindly manner. The Bible, she explained to him, is an allegory. Wanting to hear nothing of it, Thomas referred to her as the little gray devil.
But Mrs. McElroy lit the spark for Thomas’s other infatuation. Based on one comment that weighed heavily on Thomas’s conscience. “You say God put dinosaur bones in the earth to fool us. Why would he do that?” she asked politely. And he hadn’t been able to answer. Instead he began to pore over archaeology books. And history books.
When that wasn’t enough, he used his parents’ wealth to travel. To deserts where fossils had been found. But he was kicked from most of those digs for arguing. Then to Israel and Greece and Rome. He learned Aramaic, Latin, Greek, Hebrew. All to prove his point. All in vain. He knew he was right, but he had no proof. And that, he was convinced, was what the world needed.
It came to him that day when he sat up in his bed with disheveled hair. A forty something year old man with money to spend had an idea that had lingered in his mind for some time. Since Mrs. McElroy mocked him in the office. What better way to prove the past than with real footage? And that meant time traveling.
He spent the next 25 years building that time machine in an empty warehouse in Flint, Michigan. It wasn’t a time traveling machine, per se, as he couldn’t find a way to do the traveling. Instead, it was – as he called it – a window to the past. By inputting the exact date and coordinates of any time and space, he could witness a replay of the happenings of that time and place.
He first tried a certain day from his youth and saw himself arguing with the little gray devil. Though he deemed her utterly incorrect, he still had fond memories. The proof of concept worked.
Next, he set the coordinates to his own place and the time to the year 5000 B.C. He immediately saw a few trees. Some grass. A few species of animal about which he knew nothing. But that wasn’t the point. The fact that he saw anything was concerning.
He tried another date. December 25, 0000. Bethlehem. He inputted the exact location of the Church of the Nativity. But he saw no manger. No nearby inn in the immediate vicinity. Just a few men meandering through a small village of huts.
He ceased his searching and knelt on the ground in front of his machine. “Lord God” he exclaimed, “why is it that I do not see what should appear?” As his old knees ached with pain, he sought an answer in the depth of his soul. And it came to him.
“Thomas,” he said to himself, “God has shown these images to humble you. And that’s also why God put the dinosaur bones in the ground. To make humanity humble. It all makes sense.” He raised his arms and face to the sky and proclaimed, “Thank you, Lord, for teaching me humility.”
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Sporting Rants and Raves: TD's Official NFL Championship Picks and then some...
Hello sports fans...
Until now, this blog has covered football, namely my weekly picks. And a little baseball. One of the earliest posts was about the trip the old man, my brother, and I took to Yankee Stadium for the last time. Now that I'm trying to put a bit more structure around the blog - as much for my own sake as for yours - I will be covering my take on sports on Saturdays. No, this doesn't mean I'll altogether neglect sports on other days should they need to be discussed at any length. But, the bulk of my sporting opinions will appear on this day of the week.
As for what will be discussed... If it's about sports and it strikes my fancy, it's up for grabs. I can tell you now that I know nothing about cricket, Nascar, rugby, and cheese rolling. You'll most likely not see much about these sports. Basketball, golf, tennis, and hockey. I enjoy watching all of them and I happen to know the rules. But I don't follow them religiously. So, they'll appear from time to time. Football and baseball? Why yes, I will talk about them. Oh, and softball too. As in updates about how my teams - the one for which I play and the one for which I serve as coach - are progressing.
That said, let's begin...
Football
I know. You don't have to say it. I am choosing with a ridiculously bad 33% accuracy in the NFL Playoffs. Egregious. Disgusting. Terrible. Ghastly. Kiss of Death. You can send all other comments and word ideas to:
I_can't_choose_an_NFL_playoff_game_correctly_if_my_life_
depended_on_it@ugh.com.
But that won't stop me from trying again. Because if there's one thing I've learned, when the going gets tough, a 300 lb lineman knocks you into next Tuesday. Learned that in high school football.
Philadelphia @ Arizona
Do you believe in Arizona? Do you? I do. I believe in their defense. I believe in their passing game. I even believe in their running game. I think they deserve to be in this game. Yes, there are those who say that Jake Delhomme lost that game last week more than the Cardinals won it. But Jake's interceptions don't account for the Arizona offense lighting up a good defense. It doesn't account for the likes of James and Fitzgerald, not to mention Mr. Warner. But. A big but. Although I believe in them, I wonder at their ability to play against an Eagles team with momentum. An Eagles team that has one of the top defenses in the league. An Eagles team with Donovan playing like Eli did last year. If the Eagles play like they did last week, I think the Cards don't make the trip to Tampa. But there's that chance that the Eagles of the Eagles-Bengals rancid tie game appears in the desert. An hallucination. Thing is, this whole wild card team marching through the playoffs with momentum thing seems to be all the rage of late. For that reason, TD chooses: Philadelphia Eagles
Baltimore @ Pittsburgh
No NFL team ever wants to play another NFL team against whom they've won the prior two regular season meetings. See the 2008 post season Giants v. Cowboys game. They're too familiar with each other. And honestly, a point that Peter King made earlier in the week, they're just so similar. Quarterbacks that need to play intelligently, but who don't need to win games (Flacco and Roethlisberger). Running backs that you shouldn't take for granted (Parker and McGahee). Linebacker corps that strike fear into the hearts of any offense (Lewis, Suggs and Farrior, Harrison). Exceptionally strong defensive backs (Polamalu and Reed). Straight up, I don't see a lot of points scored in this one. It's going to be a title bout. But the Steelers have two advantages. 1) Pittsburgh. They're the only team that has made use of home field. 2) Health. The Ravens have a few key players out, like McClain. The Steelers enter the game with no significant injuries. TD chooses: Pittsburgh Steelers.
Let the battle of Pennsylvania begin...
Baseball
The question: Does Mark McGwire belong in baseball's Hall of Fame?
I am a Libra. Whether that means anything or not, I believe entirely in balance. So, I'm not going to make a determination based solely on statistics. Oh yes, they're important. They are the foundation of the choosing. Some guy who batted .200 and had an .850 fielding percentage in 2000 games in the major leagues is obviously not deserving of the Hall. But there's more than stats. There's sportsmanship. There's morality. There's importance to the team. And there's the love of the game. They all play a part.
That said, let's do a little statistical comparison to see if he's worthy. (Thanks to baseball-reference.com) First, let's take a look at some statistically similar players.
Stats
Gil Hodges. Didn't make it into the Hall. Had a better batting average but certainly not better on base percentage or slugging percentage. And 200 fewer homeruns.
Okay, so if Hodges was just on the cusp, then McGwire should be in, at least based on his stats, yes? Let's take a look at a few more. Let's try 1 who is in the Hall. Harmon Killebrew. Killebrew with a .256 batting average, .376 on base percentage, and .509 slugging percentage fails to approach McGwire in all categories. Fielding percentage? Same. Killebrew had a .981; McGwire a .992. Homeruns. Killebrew had 573; McGwire had 583. All signs point to Big Mac. Except for the fact the Killebrew played for 22 years as compared to McGwire's 16. And a few other differences I'll cover later.
One more only. I promise. Someone who will most likely never have the opportunity to be considered. A fellow Bash Brother, Jose Canseco. In 17 years, Canseco had more hits and a higher batting average but a lesser on base and slugging percentage. McGwire had more walks and fewer strikeouts but many fewer stolen bases. Fielding? McGwire certainly had the edge. Who doesn't remember the ball that hit Jose on the head only to become a homerun? Still, statistically, they're pretty close.
Then, does McGwire belong statistically? He's on the cusp.
Postseason
McGwire has 1 ring. He has a .217 batting average, .320 on base percentage, and .349 slugging percentage in 10 post season series.
Hodges? 2 rings. A .267 batting average, .349 on base percentage, and .412 slugging percentage. In 7 post season appearances. Hodges takes this one.
Killebrew? No rings. A .250 average, .444 on base percentage, and .500 slugging percentage. Killebrew proves that he can do the deed when the deed needs doing.
Canseco? 2 rings. The second with the Yankees, barely. A .184 average, .315 on base percentage, and .398 slugging. Canseco proves that he's just happy to be there.
McGwire loses in this category
Importance to the Team(s)
What does the player mean to the team? Could the team win if that person weren't playing?
Hodges? Well, that's a tough question and much of the reason there's so much controversy about him. He was an important part of the Dodgers' dynasty of the 1950s. But, it can't be said that they wouldn't have won without him. He was a first baseman, a good one at that. But still a first baseman. Not a very active position on the whole. Not like catcher or short stop. Then again, there was his batting. A feared hitter. But as feared as the Duke? Not quite. And he did do his batting in the batter friendly 50s. Important, yes. But not critical.
Killebrew? He began with the Senators. If that means nothing to you, please note that the Senators won 1 World Series thanks to some guy named Walter Johnson against the heavily favored New York Giants. Other than that year - 1924 - and a few others - '25, '33 - in their 59 year history in Washington D.C. they were "First in war, first in peace, and last in the American League." Things haven't changed much in Washington. In any case, back to Harmon. He played first for the Senators and then moved with them to Minnesota. In essence, it was a new team. And he anchored it. He was its captain. Not to mention a good third baseman. A more active position than first. And he could hit. My God, he could hit. Blasts into upper decks. Pitchers did not want to pitch to the guy. See his 1519 walks as compared to McGwire's 1317. And that was in the pitching strong 1960s. For this reason Killebrew deserves his Hall of Fame call.
Canseco? Oakland, Texas, Toronto, NYY, Boston. Was he an important part of any of these teams? Oakland, arguably yes. I'll give it to him. The other 7 years of his career, eh. Not so much. Not altogether significant were his contributions. An outfielder, every Hall of Fame voter would be lying if they didn't think of that guy as the one off of whom the ball bounced for a homerun. I know, I'm beating a dead horse. But, really, that was funny.
McGwire, then. Important? To Oakland, I would argue yes. He always was the more reliable of the Bash Brothers. And he had a certain charisma that Canseco lacked. A feel good quality that made fans cheer for him even if they hated him. To St. Louis? If I'm honest, he was. He was on the front end of the Cardinals' building of a very good team, though I'd give a heck of a lot more credit to La Russa for that.
McGwire certainly wins out over Canseco on this one. And perhaps surpasses Hodges. But he's way short of Killebrew. We'll call this off the cusp.
Importance to Baseball
McGwire is unique in this category as he engaged in one of the most exciting competitions in recent baseball memory. What baseball fan can forget his epic struggle with Sammy Sosa in 1998? It was a battle for the ages to surpass a mark held for 37 years by the famed Roger Maris.
But there's a counterpoint. That is, an older bespectacled McGwire sitting with the likes of Rafael Palmeiro, Sammy Sosa, and Jose Canseco in Washington D.C. testifying about performance enhancing drugs. Rafael said he didn't, but he lied. Sammy said he didn't; we don't know if he lied or not. Jose said he did thus quashing his standing in baseball. Mark? Well, Mark wouldn't comment. "I'm not here to talk about the past," he stated in that chamber.
My take? This is a wash. The first most certainly makes him a Hall of Fame candidate. The second most certainly does not. So, I throw this out.
Conclusion
Statistically during season play, he's a maybe. Postseason statistically, no. Important to his teams, I give him a somewhat. And important to baseball, he's questionable.
Halls of Fame are not for the maybes, thus the reason that I'd say no.
Softball
As crazy as this might sound, next weekend marks the first practice for the Thrusters - the team for which I play - and the first batting practice for the Buzz - the team I coach.
Softball has begun...
Until now, this blog has covered football, namely my weekly picks. And a little baseball. One of the earliest posts was about the trip the old man, my brother, and I took to Yankee Stadium for the last time. Now that I'm trying to put a bit more structure around the blog - as much for my own sake as for yours - I will be covering my take on sports on Saturdays. No, this doesn't mean I'll altogether neglect sports on other days should they need to be discussed at any length. But, the bulk of my sporting opinions will appear on this day of the week.
As for what will be discussed... If it's about sports and it strikes my fancy, it's up for grabs. I can tell you now that I know nothing about cricket, Nascar, rugby, and cheese rolling. You'll most likely not see much about these sports. Basketball, golf, tennis, and hockey. I enjoy watching all of them and I happen to know the rules. But I don't follow them religiously. So, they'll appear from time to time. Football and baseball? Why yes, I will talk about them. Oh, and softball too. As in updates about how my teams - the one for which I play and the one for which I serve as coach - are progressing.
That said, let's begin...
Football
I know. You don't have to say it. I am choosing with a ridiculously bad 33% accuracy in the NFL Playoffs. Egregious. Disgusting. Terrible. Ghastly. Kiss of Death. You can send all other comments and word ideas to:
I_can't_choose_an_NFL_playoff_game_correctly_if_my_life_
depended_on_it@ugh.com.
But that won't stop me from trying again. Because if there's one thing I've learned, when the going gets tough, a 300 lb lineman knocks you into next Tuesday. Learned that in high school football.
Philadelphia @ Arizona
Do you believe in Arizona? Do you? I do. I believe in their defense. I believe in their passing game. I even believe in their running game. I think they deserve to be in this game. Yes, there are those who say that Jake Delhomme lost that game last week more than the Cardinals won it. But Jake's interceptions don't account for the Arizona offense lighting up a good defense. It doesn't account for the likes of James and Fitzgerald, not to mention Mr. Warner. But. A big but. Although I believe in them, I wonder at their ability to play against an Eagles team with momentum. An Eagles team that has one of the top defenses in the league. An Eagles team with Donovan playing like Eli did last year. If the Eagles play like they did last week, I think the Cards don't make the trip to Tampa. But there's that chance that the Eagles of the Eagles-Bengals rancid tie game appears in the desert. An hallucination. Thing is, this whole wild card team marching through the playoffs with momentum thing seems to be all the rage of late. For that reason, TD chooses: Philadelphia Eagles
Baltimore @ Pittsburgh
No NFL team ever wants to play another NFL team against whom they've won the prior two regular season meetings. See the 2008 post season Giants v. Cowboys game. They're too familiar with each other. And honestly, a point that Peter King made earlier in the week, they're just so similar. Quarterbacks that need to play intelligently, but who don't need to win games (Flacco and Roethlisberger). Running backs that you shouldn't take for granted (Parker and McGahee). Linebacker corps that strike fear into the hearts of any offense (Lewis, Suggs and Farrior, Harrison). Exceptionally strong defensive backs (Polamalu and Reed). Straight up, I don't see a lot of points scored in this one. It's going to be a title bout. But the Steelers have two advantages. 1) Pittsburgh. They're the only team that has made use of home field. 2) Health. The Ravens have a few key players out, like McClain. The Steelers enter the game with no significant injuries. TD chooses: Pittsburgh Steelers.
Let the battle of Pennsylvania begin...
Baseball
The question: Does Mark McGwire belong in baseball's Hall of Fame?
I am a Libra. Whether that means anything or not, I believe entirely in balance. So, I'm not going to make a determination based solely on statistics. Oh yes, they're important. They are the foundation of the choosing. Some guy who batted .200 and had an .850 fielding percentage in 2000 games in the major leagues is obviously not deserving of the Hall. But there's more than stats. There's sportsmanship. There's morality. There's importance to the team. And there's the love of the game. They all play a part.
That said, let's do a little statistical comparison to see if he's worthy. (Thanks to baseball-reference.com) First, let's take a look at some statistically similar players.
Stats
Gil Hodges. Didn't make it into the Hall. Had a better batting average but certainly not better on base percentage or slugging percentage. And 200 fewer homeruns.
Okay, so if Hodges was just on the cusp, then McGwire should be in, at least based on his stats, yes? Let's take a look at a few more. Let's try 1 who is in the Hall. Harmon Killebrew. Killebrew with a .256 batting average, .376 on base percentage, and .509 slugging percentage fails to approach McGwire in all categories. Fielding percentage? Same. Killebrew had a .981; McGwire a .992. Homeruns. Killebrew had 573; McGwire had 583. All signs point to Big Mac. Except for the fact the Killebrew played for 22 years as compared to McGwire's 16. And a few other differences I'll cover later.
One more only. I promise. Someone who will most likely never have the opportunity to be considered. A fellow Bash Brother, Jose Canseco. In 17 years, Canseco had more hits and a higher batting average but a lesser on base and slugging percentage. McGwire had more walks and fewer strikeouts but many fewer stolen bases. Fielding? McGwire certainly had the edge. Who doesn't remember the ball that hit Jose on the head only to become a homerun? Still, statistically, they're pretty close.
Then, does McGwire belong statistically? He's on the cusp.
Postseason
McGwire has 1 ring. He has a .217 batting average, .320 on base percentage, and .349 slugging percentage in 10 post season series.
Hodges? 2 rings. A .267 batting average, .349 on base percentage, and .412 slugging percentage. In 7 post season appearances. Hodges takes this one.
Killebrew? No rings. A .250 average, .444 on base percentage, and .500 slugging percentage. Killebrew proves that he can do the deed when the deed needs doing.
Canseco? 2 rings. The second with the Yankees, barely. A .184 average, .315 on base percentage, and .398 slugging. Canseco proves that he's just happy to be there.
McGwire loses in this category
Importance to the Team(s)
What does the player mean to the team? Could the team win if that person weren't playing?
Hodges? Well, that's a tough question and much of the reason there's so much controversy about him. He was an important part of the Dodgers' dynasty of the 1950s. But, it can't be said that they wouldn't have won without him. He was a first baseman, a good one at that. But still a first baseman. Not a very active position on the whole. Not like catcher or short stop. Then again, there was his batting. A feared hitter. But as feared as the Duke? Not quite. And he did do his batting in the batter friendly 50s. Important, yes. But not critical.
Killebrew? He began with the Senators. If that means nothing to you, please note that the Senators won 1 World Series thanks to some guy named Walter Johnson against the heavily favored New York Giants. Other than that year - 1924 - and a few others - '25, '33 - in their 59 year history in Washington D.C. they were "First in war, first in peace, and last in the American League." Things haven't changed much in Washington. In any case, back to Harmon. He played first for the Senators and then moved with them to Minnesota. In essence, it was a new team. And he anchored it. He was its captain. Not to mention a good third baseman. A more active position than first. And he could hit. My God, he could hit. Blasts into upper decks. Pitchers did not want to pitch to the guy. See his 1519 walks as compared to McGwire's 1317. And that was in the pitching strong 1960s. For this reason Killebrew deserves his Hall of Fame call.
Canseco? Oakland, Texas, Toronto, NYY, Boston. Was he an important part of any of these teams? Oakland, arguably yes. I'll give it to him. The other 7 years of his career, eh. Not so much. Not altogether significant were his contributions. An outfielder, every Hall of Fame voter would be lying if they didn't think of that guy as the one off of whom the ball bounced for a homerun. I know, I'm beating a dead horse. But, really, that was funny.
McGwire, then. Important? To Oakland, I would argue yes. He always was the more reliable of the Bash Brothers. And he had a certain charisma that Canseco lacked. A feel good quality that made fans cheer for him even if they hated him. To St. Louis? If I'm honest, he was. He was on the front end of the Cardinals' building of a very good team, though I'd give a heck of a lot more credit to La Russa for that.
McGwire certainly wins out over Canseco on this one. And perhaps surpasses Hodges. But he's way short of Killebrew. We'll call this off the cusp.
Importance to Baseball
McGwire is unique in this category as he engaged in one of the most exciting competitions in recent baseball memory. What baseball fan can forget his epic struggle with Sammy Sosa in 1998? It was a battle for the ages to surpass a mark held for 37 years by the famed Roger Maris.
But there's a counterpoint. That is, an older bespectacled McGwire sitting with the likes of Rafael Palmeiro, Sammy Sosa, and Jose Canseco in Washington D.C. testifying about performance enhancing drugs. Rafael said he didn't, but he lied. Sammy said he didn't; we don't know if he lied or not. Jose said he did thus quashing his standing in baseball. Mark? Well, Mark wouldn't comment. "I'm not here to talk about the past," he stated in that chamber.
My take? This is a wash. The first most certainly makes him a Hall of Fame candidate. The second most certainly does not. So, I throw this out.
Conclusion
Statistically during season play, he's a maybe. Postseason statistically, no. Important to his teams, I give him a somewhat. And important to baseball, he's questionable.
Halls of Fame are not for the maybes, thus the reason that I'd say no.
Softball
As crazy as this might sound, next weekend marks the first practice for the Thrusters - the team for which I play - and the first batting practice for the Buzz - the team I coach.
Softball has begun...
Thursday, January 15, 2009
The Mundane: Waiting in the Bus Tunnel
When I finish work each day - and when we haven't traveled to my place of employment by automobile - I travel south down fourth avenue past Ralph's; Dahlia's; Bed, Bath, and Beyond; and Macy's until I come to the fluorescent tiled opening that descends to the bus tunnel.
I personally opt for the dirt covered faux marble steps over the clackety escalators. Exercise, I convince myself, does my limbs some good, though I could not discern which muscles benefit from such a decline. In any case, I dance along the stairs, my light steps reminiscent of Cagney in Yankee Doodle Dandy.
At that first plateau, I witness a small, seated Asian man pulling a bow across the strings of an instrument I can compare to a giraffe's femur. Long and stocky, he held it as one would a cello or viola. Its sound reminds me of a not yet dead feline in an experimental lab, and the benefit of that plateau is that sound cavorts cacophonously, its melodies bouncing effortlessly from tile wall to bare tile wall. Suffice it to say, I plummet quickly down the second set of stairs attempting to outrun those waves of what one could loosely call music.
I approach the third set of stairs and peregrinate leisurely, knowing full well that my particular bus is not due for another quarter of an hour. And thus, I lean myself against a wall and watch as passersby pass me by.
Some at trots. Old Asian men and women with elevated chins would not sacrifice their dignity to break into a run and catch the bus. Friends and couples traipse across the tile. Some speak in whispers. Others gladly proclaim their most intimate secrets to us a captively dull audience. A woman strides by me in her high heels and too tight, too short denim blouse looking as if she is unhappy with her latest round of plastic surgery. Another woman stands on a spot directly adjacent to a spot where the bus does not stop, and she cannot understand why it doesn't as she waves frantically at the unhalting bus driver.
On the other side of the concourse, I notice a young father rocking his young daughter as cold blasts rolls into the space like giant snowballs. I witness a woman of no more than 40 break into a determined run garbed in the highest of heels. I think her brave and stupid simultaneously. And then I thank all that is good that I shall never have to worry about such attire.
When the 106 to Rainier Beach finally pulls up to the platform, I vie for an opening into the doorway. The competition for seats is truly fierce, but I secure one close to a heating vent that I might read and write in some jostling comfort.
When next you have the opportunity to survey the wanderings of humanity in their daily attempts to feel some worth, I suggest you look at a person's gait. Having done so many a time, I can say it is most telling. And indeed amusing.
What might they say about me who follows them with humored countenance? I wonder...
I personally opt for the dirt covered faux marble steps over the clackety escalators. Exercise, I convince myself, does my limbs some good, though I could not discern which muscles benefit from such a decline. In any case, I dance along the stairs, my light steps reminiscent of Cagney in Yankee Doodle Dandy.
At that first plateau, I witness a small, seated Asian man pulling a bow across the strings of an instrument I can compare to a giraffe's femur. Long and stocky, he held it as one would a cello or viola. Its sound reminds me of a not yet dead feline in an experimental lab, and the benefit of that plateau is that sound cavorts cacophonously, its melodies bouncing effortlessly from tile wall to bare tile wall. Suffice it to say, I plummet quickly down the second set of stairs attempting to outrun those waves of what one could loosely call music.
I approach the third set of stairs and peregrinate leisurely, knowing full well that my particular bus is not due for another quarter of an hour. And thus, I lean myself against a wall and watch as passersby pass me by.
Some at trots. Old Asian men and women with elevated chins would not sacrifice their dignity to break into a run and catch the bus. Friends and couples traipse across the tile. Some speak in whispers. Others gladly proclaim their most intimate secrets to us a captively dull audience. A woman strides by me in her high heels and too tight, too short denim blouse looking as if she is unhappy with her latest round of plastic surgery. Another woman stands on a spot directly adjacent to a spot where the bus does not stop, and she cannot understand why it doesn't as she waves frantically at the unhalting bus driver.
On the other side of the concourse, I notice a young father rocking his young daughter as cold blasts rolls into the space like giant snowballs. I witness a woman of no more than 40 break into a determined run garbed in the highest of heels. I think her brave and stupid simultaneously. And then I thank all that is good that I shall never have to worry about such attire.
When the 106 to Rainier Beach finally pulls up to the platform, I vie for an opening into the doorway. The competition for seats is truly fierce, but I secure one close to a heating vent that I might read and write in some jostling comfort.
When next you have the opportunity to survey the wanderings of humanity in their daily attempts to feel some worth, I suggest you look at a person's gait. Having done so many a time, I can say it is most telling. And indeed amusing.
What might they say about me who follows them with humored countenance? I wonder...
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
3WW: An Affair
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. No characters are based on real people, whether living or dead. Any resemblance to a real person is pure coincidence.
June 17, 2003
Entwined in a love affair with Mike’s wife, Ally. We were high school sweethearts after all. And we’re still in love. I should tell my him, I know. But how do you tell your insanely jealous brother that kind of thing?
June 24, 2003
Another tryst. She says she loves me. And I her. We decide to elope. She will leave her kids. I must tread lightly. I can’t exactly give my two week notice at the family restaurant. I can’t do that to my parents. My father with his weak heart after our older brother Tim died in that accident. Mom barely keeping her sanity. She lived for her three boys. Now for her two boys. Maybe I should reconsider.
July 5, 2003
An awkward 4th. All the family. Mike and his family. Cousins galore. Fireworks. Hot dogs. Lasagna. Mom even came out of the house for a little while. Mike got really drunk later that night. We both stayed at home in our old room. He told me about his marital problems. How he’s cheating on Ally with his bimbo secretary. How he’s trying to find a way out of the marriage. I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t the time. But I think I have the out.
July 18, 2003
Forfeited our softball game today. Mike didn’t show. Haven’t heard from Ally either. It’s been a week. Called mom and dad who said they went on a retreat. The kids are staying with the parents. Unlike them to disappear like that without saying anything.
July 23, 2003
I find out they went away to some weekend retreat in New York where they learn to love again. When they got back they invited me over for dinner. Ally told Mike about us. But he didn't freak out. I was surprised. He had told her about the secretary too. No more secrets, they said. They asked me to honor their commitment. How can I? I love her. But I couldn't say that. Not then. It wasn't the right time. Never the right time.
July 25, 2003
I was killed.
June 17, 2003
Entwined in a love affair with Mike’s wife, Ally. We were high school sweethearts after all. And we’re still in love. I should tell my him, I know. But how do you tell your insanely jealous brother that kind of thing?
June 24, 2003
Another tryst. She says she loves me. And I her. We decide to elope. She will leave her kids. I must tread lightly. I can’t exactly give my two week notice at the family restaurant. I can’t do that to my parents. My father with his weak heart after our older brother Tim died in that accident. Mom barely keeping her sanity. She lived for her three boys. Now for her two boys. Maybe I should reconsider.
July 5, 2003
An awkward 4th. All the family. Mike and his family. Cousins galore. Fireworks. Hot dogs. Lasagna. Mom even came out of the house for a little while. Mike got really drunk later that night. We both stayed at home in our old room. He told me about his marital problems. How he’s cheating on Ally with his bimbo secretary. How he’s trying to find a way out of the marriage. I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t the time. But I think I have the out.
July 18, 2003
Forfeited our softball game today. Mike didn’t show. Haven’t heard from Ally either. It’s been a week. Called mom and dad who said they went on a retreat. The kids are staying with the parents. Unlike them to disappear like that without saying anything.
July 23, 2003
I find out they went away to some weekend retreat in New York where they learn to love again. When they got back they invited me over for dinner. Ally told Mike about us. But he didn't freak out. I was surprised. He had told her about the secretary too. No more secrets, they said. They asked me to honor their commitment. How can I? I love her. But I couldn't say that. Not then. It wasn't the right time. Never the right time.
July 25, 2003
I was killed.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Video of the Week: Hey Ya
It's been more than 5 years now since the dynamic duo of Big Boi and Andre 3000 released the very addictive Speakerboxxx / The Love Below. Now those of you who know me relatively well should know that I don't dance. And that I listen to the likes of Simon & Garfunkel, Billy Joel, and Elton John. With a bit of Live and Zeppelin thrown in for good measure. But a fan of hip hop I am not. I don't despise hip hop, but I wouldn't choose most hip hop to play on my iPod.
Nevertheless, when I first heard Hey Ya, I couldn't help myself. I would literally get up from the computer - no matter what I was doing - and enter the living room on our Beacon Hill apartment where Joseph was watching the video. And I'd dance. Nothing particularly gyrational, per se. But I'd dance. And I loved it. Still do.
Do I still dance when I hear it? At times. It depends where I am and if I have a few beers in me...
And so without further ado, I present the original video as well as a little something you Peanuts lovers will appreciate...
(Please note that I cannot embed the video itself; I can only give you the link.)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0xe9Ur0wEsY
Nevertheless, when I first heard Hey Ya, I couldn't help myself. I would literally get up from the computer - no matter what I was doing - and enter the living room on our Beacon Hill apartment where Joseph was watching the video. And I'd dance. Nothing particularly gyrational, per se. But I'd dance. And I loved it. Still do.
Do I still dance when I hear it? At times. It depends where I am and if I have a few beers in me...
And so without further ado, I present the original video as well as a little something you Peanuts lovers will appreciate...
(Please note that I cannot embed the video itself; I can only give you the link.)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0xe9Ur0wEsY
Monday, January 12, 2009
TD's Recommended Reading: Robertson Davies
Why do you read?
For gossip? For news? For knowledge? For escape?
At different intervals I choose books that challenge me or lead me away into jolly old Victorian England. I may choose a book for spiritual fulfillment. Or I'll choose some factual adventure. At the moment, I have on my nightstand The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, Walden: Or, Life in the Woods, The Pickwick Papers, The Lord of the Rings, and When I Find You Again It Will Be in Mountains: Selected Poems of Chia Tao.
Some history. Some philosophy. A bit of an escape. A story I love. And a bit of poetry. And these are all well and good. But there are certain authors from whom I cannot stay apart for very long.
Robertson Davies is such an author.
No, I have not read all his works. I have this strange fear that if I do, I will somehow feel lost in that I will not have any other characters to which to look forward. Craziness, I know.
But those works I have read? Well, I can best describe them as new age Dickensian. Oh yes, I know that some of you have a strong aversion to Dickens, having been forced to read the likes of Great Expectations and A Tale of Two Cities in your younger years. But I promise some of you that if you returned to the theatrical Dickens you would enjoy him.
If you don't, try Robertson Davies. Not so archaic as Dickens. And certainly enticing. As well as theatrical. In fact, Davies was very much a man of the theater and it showed in his colorful characters and labyrinthine plots.
He also differed from Dickens in that he was Canadian. I don't know of many Canadian authors, to be honest. But Davies' style was distinct from his British counterparts. It had a touch of the North American spirit. But not the spirit of the US. It was something more free, less Puritan, and yet in some ways more subdued. As if the northern climate slowed him down. To look at him, you'd think him either a crazy or gentlemanly southern aristocrat. Somewhere between John C. Calhoun and Burl Ives.
He sinks you into his plots. Wraps you in the warmth of woolen blankets on a cold day and introduces you to characters that vex and catalyze. He throws snowballs and does magic. He tries to hang a man but fails, somehow, causing the reader to chuckle whilst the pit of her stomach falls out of itself. He laughs at Yanks and Brits equally claiming that his country is the only one ever to have defeated the United States twice.
He was a man of letters, though I can imagine he rolls in his grave at that turn of phrase even now.
What I can recommend from Robertson Davies:
The Deptford Trilogy
The Salterton Trilogy
The Merry Heart
And this is but a smattering.
But Davies doesn't just lead a reader into his plots, at least not in his non-fiction. He also speaks to the writer. Lamenting that the writer must ply his trade from the same words used to create stereo manuals and poor textbooks. Writing is an art, he argued, but so many think they can do it simply by putting words on the page. Not so, he explained. He claimed that he could no more teach a great writer to write than he could teach Mozart to compose music as he could.
I regret that I only learned of Davies five short years after his death in 1995. But that regret centers only around the fact that he is one author I would have loved to have met.
So, if you're chomping at the bit for a new author. And you're stuck at home staring out your window at a bitter cold winter day, pick up a story by Robertson Davies and watch the hours slip away.
For gossip? For news? For knowledge? For escape?
At different intervals I choose books that challenge me or lead me away into jolly old Victorian England. I may choose a book for spiritual fulfillment. Or I'll choose some factual adventure. At the moment, I have on my nightstand The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, Walden: Or, Life in the Woods, The Pickwick Papers, The Lord of the Rings, and When I Find You Again It Will Be in Mountains: Selected Poems of Chia Tao.
Some history. Some philosophy. A bit of an escape. A story I love. And a bit of poetry. And these are all well and good. But there are certain authors from whom I cannot stay apart for very long.
Robertson Davies is such an author.
No, I have not read all his works. I have this strange fear that if I do, I will somehow feel lost in that I will not have any other characters to which to look forward. Craziness, I know.
But those works I have read? Well, I can best describe them as new age Dickensian. Oh yes, I know that some of you have a strong aversion to Dickens, having been forced to read the likes of Great Expectations and A Tale of Two Cities in your younger years. But I promise some of you that if you returned to the theatrical Dickens you would enjoy him.
If you don't, try Robertson Davies. Not so archaic as Dickens. And certainly enticing. As well as theatrical. In fact, Davies was very much a man of the theater and it showed in his colorful characters and labyrinthine plots.
He also differed from Dickens in that he was Canadian. I don't know of many Canadian authors, to be honest. But Davies' style was distinct from his British counterparts. It had a touch of the North American spirit. But not the spirit of the US. It was something more free, less Puritan, and yet in some ways more subdued. As if the northern climate slowed him down. To look at him, you'd think him either a crazy or gentlemanly southern aristocrat. Somewhere between John C. Calhoun and Burl Ives.
He sinks you into his plots. Wraps you in the warmth of woolen blankets on a cold day and introduces you to characters that vex and catalyze. He throws snowballs and does magic. He tries to hang a man but fails, somehow, causing the reader to chuckle whilst the pit of her stomach falls out of itself. He laughs at Yanks and Brits equally claiming that his country is the only one ever to have defeated the United States twice.
He was a man of letters, though I can imagine he rolls in his grave at that turn of phrase even now.
What I can recommend from Robertson Davies:
The Deptford Trilogy
The Salterton Trilogy
The Merry Heart
And this is but a smattering.
But Davies doesn't just lead a reader into his plots, at least not in his non-fiction. He also speaks to the writer. Lamenting that the writer must ply his trade from the same words used to create stereo manuals and poor textbooks. Writing is an art, he argued, but so many think they can do it simply by putting words on the page. Not so, he explained. He claimed that he could no more teach a great writer to write than he could teach Mozart to compose music as he could.
I regret that I only learned of Davies five short years after his death in 1995. But that regret centers only around the fact that he is one author I would have loved to have met.
So, if you're chomping at the bit for a new author. And you're stuck at home staring out your window at a bitter cold winter day, pick up a story by Robertson Davies and watch the hours slip away.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Sunday Scribblings: Organic American Sentences
American Sentences: They are haiku-length poems that Allen Ginsburg suggested be limited to 17 syllables, like haiku in Japanese and like the Heart Sutra in Buddhism. The following two sentences are such American Sentences of 17 syllables.
On drugs, cooped in the office, and eating fast food, he’s inorganic.
The cannibal wants a clean, active, and healthy victim for dinner.
On drugs, cooped in the office, and eating fast food, he’s inorganic.
The cannibal wants a clean, active, and healthy victim for dinner.
Friday, January 9, 2009
TD's Official Divisional Playoff Picks
Indy and its MVP? See ya later. The Falcons and their rookie of the year? Umm, no. The resurgent Dolphins and the comeback player of the year? Nice try. The Viqueens and the QB about whom I can say nothing of note? Buh bye.
From 12 to 8 and dropping like flies. The NFC North made like the Lie Downs and went oh fer nuthin in the playoffs. Same with the AFC East. Who saw that coming after last year? This weekend will see an NFC East winner. And perhaps even an NFC West surprise, though doubtful. And could the AFC championship game be an AFC North slugfest? Not if the Titans and Chargers have anything to say about it. The games are getting tougher to choose...
Baltimore @ Tennessee
This may prove to be the best game of the weekend. And that's saying a lot. The last time the Ravens won against the Titans in the playoffs, they won a Super Bowl. Against the Giants no less. But the Titans have had their own big win against the Ravens in 2003; the roles reversed, the Wild Card Titans gave AFC North Champion Baltimore an early exit. What will happen tomorrow? Both defenses come to play. I think Collins goes down a few times. And so does Flacco. A low scoring game overall. The name of this game? Turnovers. I think the team with the most turnovers has the fewest points in the end. TD chooses: Tennessee Titans
Arizona @ Carolina
Stat of the week. The Arizona Cardinals are 2-20 in the Eastern Time Zone in their last 22 games. Are you kidding me? That's a 9% winning percentage. NINE. The Carolina Panthers are 9-0 at home. Again, NINE. If the Cardinals hope to win, I think they need a few miracles along the way. Life Edgerrin James running twice as well as he did last weekend. And Boldin and Fitzgerald not dropping a thing. And Warner playing like he did in the greatest show on turf. Possible? Yes. Whisenhunt can obviously motivate his team. But this Cardinal team is not playing an upstart team that's just happy to be there. John Fox has his team playing and believing that they can go all the way. I'm all about miracles. And I'll probably be rooting for the Cards. But I can't, in good conscience, choose them. TD chooses: Carolina Panthers
Philadelphia @ New York Football Giants
I find it somewhat ironic that the Iggles are in a similar position to that of last year's Giants. A Wild Card winner on a tear. AND in this game last year, the Giants knocked off the heavily favored NFC East Champion Dallas Cowboys in Texas Stadium. I've heard many people say that this is the upset of the weekend just waiting to happen. But, I think there's one significant difference between last year's NFC East Divisional playoff game and this year's. That's about 40 degrees with a wind chill feeling about 20 degrees below that. There is a winter storm warning for the area according to the Weather Channel that will bring a significant amount of snow prior to the game. And it doesn't promise to get any warmer. That means the running game becomes all the more important. You won't see many bombs in this game. It's going to be an old fashioned NFC East slugfest. Yes, I envision the Eagles getting some points throwing underneath where the Giants don't cover well. But in the end, I see a healthy dose of Ward and Jacobs floating like a butterfly and pounding like a Mack truck respectively. TD chooses: New York Football Giants
San Diego @ Pittsburgh
The last game of the weekend sees the Bolts visiting the Steelers in a rematch of the only 11-10 game in NFL history. In that earlier game, the Bolts somehow matched defensive wits with the consistently defensively minded Steelers. And now, in this game the Chargers come in with a 5 game winning streak and a perseverance seen by champions. There will likely be no appearance by LT. But DS seems just as ready to carry the load with Michael Bennett throwing in a few runs for good measure. Philip Rivers is playing like he wants a Super Bowl. And the Chargers D is ready to face anything any team seems to throw at them. But they're in Steeler territory. And it's not easy to win there. And doubly difficult during the playoffs. Don't underestimate Big Ben who knows how to win, even with a concussion. And don't underestimate that defense on their home turf in the frigid cold. Again, I think the running game wins this one, and I'm just not sure that Sproles is up for leading his team in that weather. TD chooses: Pittsburgh Steelers
From 12 to 8 and dropping like flies. The NFC North made like the Lie Downs and went oh fer nuthin in the playoffs. Same with the AFC East. Who saw that coming after last year? This weekend will see an NFC East winner. And perhaps even an NFC West surprise, though doubtful. And could the AFC championship game be an AFC North slugfest? Not if the Titans and Chargers have anything to say about it. The games are getting tougher to choose...
Baltimore @ Tennessee
This may prove to be the best game of the weekend. And that's saying a lot. The last time the Ravens won against the Titans in the playoffs, they won a Super Bowl. Against the Giants no less. But the Titans have had their own big win against the Ravens in 2003; the roles reversed, the Wild Card Titans gave AFC North Champion Baltimore an early exit. What will happen tomorrow? Both defenses come to play. I think Collins goes down a few times. And so does Flacco. A low scoring game overall. The name of this game? Turnovers. I think the team with the most turnovers has the fewest points in the end. TD chooses: Tennessee Titans
Arizona @ Carolina
Stat of the week. The Arizona Cardinals are 2-20 in the Eastern Time Zone in their last 22 games. Are you kidding me? That's a 9% winning percentage. NINE. The Carolina Panthers are 9-0 at home. Again, NINE. If the Cardinals hope to win, I think they need a few miracles along the way. Life Edgerrin James running twice as well as he did last weekend. And Boldin and Fitzgerald not dropping a thing. And Warner playing like he did in the greatest show on turf. Possible? Yes. Whisenhunt can obviously motivate his team. But this Cardinal team is not playing an upstart team that's just happy to be there. John Fox has his team playing and believing that they can go all the way. I'm all about miracles. And I'll probably be rooting for the Cards. But I can't, in good conscience, choose them. TD chooses: Carolina Panthers
Philadelphia @ New York Football Giants
I find it somewhat ironic that the Iggles are in a similar position to that of last year's Giants. A Wild Card winner on a tear. AND in this game last year, the Giants knocked off the heavily favored NFC East Champion Dallas Cowboys in Texas Stadium. I've heard many people say that this is the upset of the weekend just waiting to happen. But, I think there's one significant difference between last year's NFC East Divisional playoff game and this year's. That's about 40 degrees with a wind chill feeling about 20 degrees below that. There is a winter storm warning for the area according to the Weather Channel that will bring a significant amount of snow prior to the game. And it doesn't promise to get any warmer. That means the running game becomes all the more important. You won't see many bombs in this game. It's going to be an old fashioned NFC East slugfest. Yes, I envision the Eagles getting some points throwing underneath where the Giants don't cover well. But in the end, I see a healthy dose of Ward and Jacobs floating like a butterfly and pounding like a Mack truck respectively. TD chooses: New York Football Giants
San Diego @ Pittsburgh
The last game of the weekend sees the Bolts visiting the Steelers in a rematch of the only 11-10 game in NFL history. In that earlier game, the Bolts somehow matched defensive wits with the consistently defensively minded Steelers. And now, in this game the Chargers come in with a 5 game winning streak and a perseverance seen by champions. There will likely be no appearance by LT. But DS seems just as ready to carry the load with Michael Bennett throwing in a few runs for good measure. Philip Rivers is playing like he wants a Super Bowl. And the Chargers D is ready to face anything any team seems to throw at them. But they're in Steeler territory. And it's not easy to win there. And doubly difficult during the playoffs. Don't underestimate Big Ben who knows how to win, even with a concussion. And don't underestimate that defense on their home turf in the frigid cold. Again, I think the running game wins this one, and I'm just not sure that Sproles is up for leading his team in that weather. TD chooses: Pittsburgh Steelers
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Life's Secrets
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. No characters are based on real people, whether living or dead. Any resemblance to a real person is pure coincidence.
DISCLAIMER 2: PLEASE NOTE THAT THIS PIECE IS NOT APPROPRIATE FOR CHILDREN OR THOSE EASILY OFFENDED AS IT CONTAINS EXTREME LANGUAGE AND SOME VIOLENCE
He shut the car door and dialed the number. Put the cell phone to his ear with his left hand and shifted his automatic Audi into reverse with his right. Almost hit another car backing up.
'Son of a...'
'Hello to you too Nicholas.'
'Oh, hi Edna. Sorry, almost rammed an Escalade.'
'I think you would've had the worst of that.'
'Agreed.' He finally succeeded in pulling out of his driveway and shifting the car into drive after much fumbling and muttering.
'You okay over there?'
'Yeah, yeah. I'm driving now.'
'That's why they make headsets, sir nicholas.'
'Anyway...'
'What's up?'
'I'm going to see him.'
'Ah. And how does that make you feel?' she asked. The line. He used it millions of times a day himself. And he even swore by its effectiveness. But that line still got old rather quickly.
'Edna, honestly, I'd rather not be going today. He's been in there five years. We talk about the same thing every time. He likes to tell the story. His life story. And I listen. Then I wonder if I should tell him the truth. But I never do. Because I don't really want to know how he'll react. I know it's selfish, but I just want to get in there, act like I care, and leave.' He knew he could talk to Edna. Not only was she his boss, but she was a friend and mentor.
'Then why are you going? You could call in sick.'
'Well, first, you're my boss and that wouldn't fly.'
'Good point.'
'And second, today may be the day when the light bulb goes on.' He knew she loved to hear that one liner because it was one she used all the time.
'Another good point. So, how long until you arrive?'
'About fifteen minutes,' he responded.
'Good, that gives you time to sit in your car and do some centering. A few breathing exercises. And then go in there with a clear mind. You're there to listen. And to help, if he wants it.'
'I just don't think he does.'
'You may be right. As for telling him the truth, I trust that you'll know the time and place for that. Well, Nicholas, call me after you're done. I've got to run. Ciao.' And she hung up.
He sat in the parking lot. Closed his eyes and centered his mind on his favorite trail. Let the pine's fragrance waft over him. Listened to the creek splash and plunk while the birds whistled and tweeted with delight. Breathed deeply allowing air to slide down the back of his tender throat and fill his burning lungs. Then exhaled a burst of air, returning his bulging stomach to its formerly flattened state.
He entered the prison and made his way to the psychology office. He nodded to a departing colleague and set himself up in the office. After about five minutes, his patient entered.
'What's up, doc?' The prisoner asked. 'How's it hangin'?'
The prisoner was Jerry Harrison. A 23 year old from Graham, WA. A short blond-haired young man, he claimed to have been 'inked' more than 30 times. A mixture of the sacred and profane shone darkly from his pale white skin. Thin but toned, he often boasted about his ability to match blows with the strongest guys in the yard. And he spoke with an obvious lisp, an apparent speech impediment.
'I'm doing well, Jerry, and how are you?' Nicholas asked with his practiced fluctuating monotone?'
'Can't complain. Beat the crap outta some tall ass pussy yesterday. Got some scabs on my knuckles. Wanna see?'
'No thank you, Jerry. Why did you beat him up?'
'He deserved it. He was looking at me weird. So, me and my friends went over there and gave him a little something. Knuckle sandwich, that is.' Jerry laughed to himself. 'So, doc, why are you comin' to see me again? You wanna hear the story again?'
'I am here to talk to and listen to you, Jerry. Would you like to tell the story?'
'Hell yeah! I love this story.' He grinned like a child on Christmas morn. 'There I was. Living in Graham. In the sticks, like my granny used to say. Had parents who "loved" me. A brother who's working as some techno dweeb on computers now. Nice house. Picket fence. American fucking dream. My parents, they're Mormons. I call 'em morons now. Do-gooders. I went to their church for a while. Hooked up with some of the pretty little mormon hos. Played along and did the school thing.
'Then one day, blammo. My moron parents sit me and my brother down and tell us we're adopted. From different people. So, my brother and I aren't related. Thank God for that. He's a stuck up asshole. And I'm not related to my parents either. After all that crap about how I look like that goofy idiot I called dad. Their pipe dream. Well, I wasn't living in that hell hole anymore. I pack up my shit and leave.
'I hitch rides into Seattle. I get a room with some fag on Capitol Hill. Tell him I was 18 and gay and just needed to stay somewhere. He tries to come on to me after a while. I need the room, so I let him think I was interested. But I wasn't. I hate fags. I hate 'em. Kill 'em all. Lesbos too. They don't deserve to live. At least I can get on board with the morons on that one.
'One night, that roommate of mine gets drunk and starts flirting. And he tries to touch me. So I take my fist and bury it in his jaw. Felt so good. Took that pussy down right quick. When he was down, I told him that if he called the cops, I'd kill him. Everything's fine for a few days until there's a knock at the door. Cops. That asshole called 'em anyway. So, in my most innocent voice I tell 'em that it was a domestic dispute. That my roommate cheated on me. And since roomy wasn't there to defend himself, there was nothing they could really do. The joy of deception.
'But that isn't the end of it. Oh no. I know where that faggot likes to dance with all his other fairy friends. Place called the Roadhouse. So, I think of a scheme to get that faggot. I go hawk some of my shit and buy a gun. So easy to get, by the way. And then I walk into the Roadhouse. And I get lucky enough to see his faggot face at the first table. I aim that gun at his dick-sucking mouth and watch the panic in his warm brown eyes. I fire one round. Peal it into his head. Then shoot a few more fags and lezzies for good measure. Four of 'em actually. At the next table. Two lezzies and two faggots. Then I get hit by something from behind. Blacked me out. Just like a fag to come from behind, right?' He chuckled again.
'And you know what? It's been worth every last minute of these past five years.'
After that, Jerry continued rambling. Nothing of consequence. As usual, he refused to answer any of Nicholas's questions. He just laughed and chided.
Nicholas felt the bottled rage bubbling inside his churning stomach. And for a brief moment, he wanted to tell Jerry the truth. Out of spite. To slap him verbally across the face. To shut him up. But he knew it wouldn't work. Jerry wasn't ready for the truth. And it wasn't appropriate or professional to tell him. He swallowed his words and let the session end not with a bang but a whimper.
When he got to his car, he started to do the breathing exercises again. To calm himself if only slightly. But that didn't work. He understood that his rage required a more visceral response. And so, in the silence of his Audi, he screamed to himself, 'You know those people you killed in that bar. Those five people. Two of them were your real parents. They were your fucking birth parents and their partners, you son of a bitch.' And somehow, it helped.
DISCLAIMER 2: PLEASE NOTE THAT THIS PIECE IS NOT APPROPRIATE FOR CHILDREN OR THOSE EASILY OFFENDED AS IT CONTAINS EXTREME LANGUAGE AND SOME VIOLENCE
He shut the car door and dialed the number. Put the cell phone to his ear with his left hand and shifted his automatic Audi into reverse with his right. Almost hit another car backing up.
'Son of a...'
'Hello to you too Nicholas.'
'Oh, hi Edna. Sorry, almost rammed an Escalade.'
'I think you would've had the worst of that.'
'Agreed.' He finally succeeded in pulling out of his driveway and shifting the car into drive after much fumbling and muttering.
'You okay over there?'
'Yeah, yeah. I'm driving now.'
'That's why they make headsets, sir nicholas.'
'Anyway...'
'What's up?'
'I'm going to see him.'
'Ah. And how does that make you feel?' she asked. The line. He used it millions of times a day himself. And he even swore by its effectiveness. But that line still got old rather quickly.
'Edna, honestly, I'd rather not be going today. He's been in there five years. We talk about the same thing every time. He likes to tell the story. His life story. And I listen. Then I wonder if I should tell him the truth. But I never do. Because I don't really want to know how he'll react. I know it's selfish, but I just want to get in there, act like I care, and leave.' He knew he could talk to Edna. Not only was she his boss, but she was a friend and mentor.
'Then why are you going? You could call in sick.'
'Well, first, you're my boss and that wouldn't fly.'
'Good point.'
'And second, today may be the day when the light bulb goes on.' He knew she loved to hear that one liner because it was one she used all the time.
'Another good point. So, how long until you arrive?'
'About fifteen minutes,' he responded.
'Good, that gives you time to sit in your car and do some centering. A few breathing exercises. And then go in there with a clear mind. You're there to listen. And to help, if he wants it.'
'I just don't think he does.'
'You may be right. As for telling him the truth, I trust that you'll know the time and place for that. Well, Nicholas, call me after you're done. I've got to run. Ciao.' And she hung up.
He sat in the parking lot. Closed his eyes and centered his mind on his favorite trail. Let the pine's fragrance waft over him. Listened to the creek splash and plunk while the birds whistled and tweeted with delight. Breathed deeply allowing air to slide down the back of his tender throat and fill his burning lungs. Then exhaled a burst of air, returning his bulging stomach to its formerly flattened state.
He entered the prison and made his way to the psychology office. He nodded to a departing colleague and set himself up in the office. After about five minutes, his patient entered.
'What's up, doc?' The prisoner asked. 'How's it hangin'?'
The prisoner was Jerry Harrison. A 23 year old from Graham, WA. A short blond-haired young man, he claimed to have been 'inked' more than 30 times. A mixture of the sacred and profane shone darkly from his pale white skin. Thin but toned, he often boasted about his ability to match blows with the strongest guys in the yard. And he spoke with an obvious lisp, an apparent speech impediment.
'I'm doing well, Jerry, and how are you?' Nicholas asked with his practiced fluctuating monotone?'
'Can't complain. Beat the crap outta some tall ass pussy yesterday. Got some scabs on my knuckles. Wanna see?'
'No thank you, Jerry. Why did you beat him up?'
'He deserved it. He was looking at me weird. So, me and my friends went over there and gave him a little something. Knuckle sandwich, that is.' Jerry laughed to himself. 'So, doc, why are you comin' to see me again? You wanna hear the story again?'
'I am here to talk to and listen to you, Jerry. Would you like to tell the story?'
'Hell yeah! I love this story.' He grinned like a child on Christmas morn. 'There I was. Living in Graham. In the sticks, like my granny used to say. Had parents who "loved" me. A brother who's working as some techno dweeb on computers now. Nice house. Picket fence. American fucking dream. My parents, they're Mormons. I call 'em morons now. Do-gooders. I went to their church for a while. Hooked up with some of the pretty little mormon hos. Played along and did the school thing.
'Then one day, blammo. My moron parents sit me and my brother down and tell us we're adopted. From different people. So, my brother and I aren't related. Thank God for that. He's a stuck up asshole. And I'm not related to my parents either. After all that crap about how I look like that goofy idiot I called dad. Their pipe dream. Well, I wasn't living in that hell hole anymore. I pack up my shit and leave.
'I hitch rides into Seattle. I get a room with some fag on Capitol Hill. Tell him I was 18 and gay and just needed to stay somewhere. He tries to come on to me after a while. I need the room, so I let him think I was interested. But I wasn't. I hate fags. I hate 'em. Kill 'em all. Lesbos too. They don't deserve to live. At least I can get on board with the morons on that one.
'One night, that roommate of mine gets drunk and starts flirting. And he tries to touch me. So I take my fist and bury it in his jaw. Felt so good. Took that pussy down right quick. When he was down, I told him that if he called the cops, I'd kill him. Everything's fine for a few days until there's a knock at the door. Cops. That asshole called 'em anyway. So, in my most innocent voice I tell 'em that it was a domestic dispute. That my roommate cheated on me. And since roomy wasn't there to defend himself, there was nothing they could really do. The joy of deception.
'But that isn't the end of it. Oh no. I know where that faggot likes to dance with all his other fairy friends. Place called the Roadhouse. So, I think of a scheme to get that faggot. I go hawk some of my shit and buy a gun. So easy to get, by the way. And then I walk into the Roadhouse. And I get lucky enough to see his faggot face at the first table. I aim that gun at his dick-sucking mouth and watch the panic in his warm brown eyes. I fire one round. Peal it into his head. Then shoot a few more fags and lezzies for good measure. Four of 'em actually. At the next table. Two lezzies and two faggots. Then I get hit by something from behind. Blacked me out. Just like a fag to come from behind, right?' He chuckled again.
'And you know what? It's been worth every last minute of these past five years.'
After that, Jerry continued rambling. Nothing of consequence. As usual, he refused to answer any of Nicholas's questions. He just laughed and chided.
Nicholas felt the bottled rage bubbling inside his churning stomach. And for a brief moment, he wanted to tell Jerry the truth. Out of spite. To slap him verbally across the face. To shut him up. But he knew it wouldn't work. Jerry wasn't ready for the truth. And it wasn't appropriate or professional to tell him. He swallowed his words and let the session end not with a bang but a whimper.
When he got to his car, he started to do the breathing exercises again. To calm himself if only slightly. But that didn't work. He understood that his rage required a more visceral response. And so, in the silence of his Audi, he screamed to himself, 'You know those people you killed in that bar. Those five people. Two of them were your real parents. They were your fucking birth parents and their partners, you son of a bitch.' And somehow, it helped.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Video of the Week: Pug Games
Inspired by JB, these videos display pugs in their natural habitat, i.e. the comfort of their respective homes.
Twisting Heads
Bang
And what I'm about to do...
Twisting Heads
Bang
And what I'm about to do...
Monday, January 5, 2009
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button - A Review
I ain't no high-falutin' movie critic. I can't tell ya who deserves an Oscar, though I could probably tag the Razzie recipients. I just go see movies. Not often, mind you. It's too expensive. Eight bucks for this most recent movie I went to see. And that was a matinee price. As for the food, don't get me started. It's a bigger rip-off than the ballpark. But people still pay. That's why the only thing I go to see any more are those big action packed flicks with light sabers and crashing helicopters and exploding worlds and the Joker.
But I'm not here to rail against the movies. They do what they do. And I do what I do. And we're all copasetic in the end. Just don't buy the food...
Right, Ben Button. Why did I see this movie? Because there was nothing else playing and it was a movie day for us. The first we'd seen in some time. Since The Dark Knight for me. I think Joseph had seen Hancock.
So, we play eenie meenie miney mo between Ben Button and Marley & Me. Why Marley & Me? The dog. Schmaltzy. Lovey dovey. Not my thing. But the dog swayed me to consider it. Well, Ben caught the tiger by the toe.
Previews. Nothing terribly exciting. Nothing memorable even. Which reminds me. Star Trek's coming this year. So's The Half Blood Prince. No, they have nothing to do with Benjamin Button. Yes, I'm getting to it. Oh, hold your horses...
First impression of this curious case? Forrest Gump 14 years later. Except without the racist first name. And the chocolates. And Sally Field. But there's a boat. And a woman who plays the interweaving love interest. STOP!
This is no ordinary woman, mind you. She was the first actress to win an Oscar playing an actress who had won an Oscar. Extra credit for her character's name and the movie in which she played her. Oh, but there's more. She played an over the top weirdo Russian doctor in some little-known movie associated with a skull. She defeated the Spanish Armada single-handedly from her elvish stronghold in Lothlorien. And she played Rosie in Parklands. No, I've never seen that movie before. Yes, I did look it up. Now will you let me get back to the review, please...
Right oh, a stellar leading lady already. Splendid. Match her up with the likes of Brad Pitt, and yes, I agree, there was quite a bit of chemistry. Always helpful. Academy award material? Well, if I had seen all the other movies this year, I'd be able to comment. Nonetheless, I think Brad did rather well.
But then... then... then - I can tell you're riddled with anticipation - there's the story itself. Again, similar to Forrest Gump but by no means a copy. This story challenges the illustrious and ever-forward-moving concept of time. Whether you grow from old to young or young to old, time continues to pass. A surprise to any of you? Well, I would certainly hope not. Except for that immortal in the corner. Oh, don't lose your head. Get out before I come over there with this sword.
But that time passes was not the point. That we should do with that time what we should, is. If you want to stay in your cubicle or in acting or in the shoe store, then stay there. And if you want to change your luck someday and do what you know you should do, then do that too. Nor wife nor husband nor child nor pet nor house nor job nor unknown fear should keep you from accomplishing what you need to accomplish in the time you have.
Would I recommend it? Yes, but not for $8.00 unless you're eager for cinematicity. Wait for the DVDs to flood the nearest Blockbuster and Best Buy and Office Max and random weird corner store. And then rent it on Netflix because it's really not a movie you must own to see over and over. Unless you love Brad Pitt. Or Rosie in Parklands. Or movies directed by David Fincher.
Overall, I give it a B. Kept my interest. Played with time. Taught me a lesson. And sent me on my way.
But I'm not here to rail against the movies. They do what they do. And I do what I do. And we're all copasetic in the end. Just don't buy the food...
Right, Ben Button. Why did I see this movie? Because there was nothing else playing and it was a movie day for us. The first we'd seen in some time. Since The Dark Knight for me. I think Joseph had seen Hancock.
So, we play eenie meenie miney mo between Ben Button and Marley & Me. Why Marley & Me? The dog. Schmaltzy. Lovey dovey. Not my thing. But the dog swayed me to consider it. Well, Ben caught the tiger by the toe.
Previews. Nothing terribly exciting. Nothing memorable even. Which reminds me. Star Trek's coming this year. So's The Half Blood Prince. No, they have nothing to do with Benjamin Button. Yes, I'm getting to it. Oh, hold your horses...
First impression of this curious case? Forrest Gump 14 years later. Except without the racist first name. And the chocolates. And Sally Field. But there's a boat. And a woman who plays the interweaving love interest. STOP!
This is no ordinary woman, mind you. She was the first actress to win an Oscar playing an actress who had won an Oscar. Extra credit for her character's name and the movie in which she played her. Oh, but there's more. She played an over the top weirdo Russian doctor in some little-known movie associated with a skull. She defeated the Spanish Armada single-handedly from her elvish stronghold in Lothlorien. And she played Rosie in Parklands. No, I've never seen that movie before. Yes, I did look it up. Now will you let me get back to the review, please...
Right oh, a stellar leading lady already. Splendid. Match her up with the likes of Brad Pitt, and yes, I agree, there was quite a bit of chemistry. Always helpful. Academy award material? Well, if I had seen all the other movies this year, I'd be able to comment. Nonetheless, I think Brad did rather well.
But then... then... then - I can tell you're riddled with anticipation - there's the story itself. Again, similar to Forrest Gump but by no means a copy. This story challenges the illustrious and ever-forward-moving concept of time. Whether you grow from old to young or young to old, time continues to pass. A surprise to any of you? Well, I would certainly hope not. Except for that immortal in the corner. Oh, don't lose your head. Get out before I come over there with this sword.
But that time passes was not the point. That we should do with that time what we should, is. If you want to stay in your cubicle or in acting or in the shoe store, then stay there. And if you want to change your luck someday and do what you know you should do, then do that too. Nor wife nor husband nor child nor pet nor house nor job nor unknown fear should keep you from accomplishing what you need to accomplish in the time you have.
Would I recommend it? Yes, but not for $8.00 unless you're eager for cinematicity. Wait for the DVDs to flood the nearest Blockbuster and Best Buy and Office Max and random weird corner store. And then rent it on Netflix because it's really not a movie you must own to see over and over. Unless you love Brad Pitt. Or Rosie in Parklands. Or movies directed by David Fincher.
Overall, I give it a B. Kept my interest. Played with time. Taught me a lesson. And sent me on my way.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Sunday Scribblings: The Joy of Twins
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. No characters are based on real people, whether living or dead. Any resemblance to a real person is pure coincidence.
Rene stared uncomprehendingly at the doctor. "What you say?"
"I said you're having twins Mrs. Carter."
"That's what I thought. How'd this happen?"
"Well, Mrs. Carter, you may have a genetic predisposition to having twins. And even if not, it's a relatively common occurrence. You are now in your second month. That means seven months more at most. But because they're twins, there's a good chance they may come earlier."
The doctor, looking uncomfortably down at the ground, continued.
"Mrs. Carter, I need to speak with you about your options."
"What you mean?" Rene asked with an edge in her voice.
"I've delivered your four other children. And I know that your circumstances are difficult."
"They hard. So what?"
"Mrs. Carter, I think you might want to consider another alternative to keeping these children yourself."
Rene squirmed in her chair a bit. She didn't even let the thought through her head. Not after her experience as a foster child being shipped from house to house. Hearing about her mother's exploits in the street. And her death at the hands of gang violence. Rene knew she had siblings. A brother and two sisters. But had no idea where they were. Or who they were even. Just a comment once from her mother on one of her infrequent visits.
"Hell no! You ain't takin' none o' my kids. They all mine. And I take care of 'em. My boyfriend help me too. He work part time."
"Mrs. Carter. You live in a shelter downtown. And you can barely take care of the four children you have."
"Shut up, bitch! I can too take care of 'em. They eat. They sleepin' under a roof. And these babies in here" she said pointing to her stomach, "they gonna be just as well takin' care of. These are my babies and they ain't bein' takin' away from me!" There were no tears in Rene's eyes. Just large, round, challenging brown orbs daring the doctor to say something else.
Later that evening after all her children were asleep - they all stayed in the same 8' x 12' room - Rene whispered to her boyfriend Donyell.
"What we gonna do D?" she asked.
"We gonna love our kids. That's all we can do."
"I dunno if I can do it, D. It's just too much. Maybe that doctor's right."
Donyell turned towards her. "That doctor ain't right. What you gonna do? Get an abortion? Or give 'em away? You know what happened to us with that shit. No, we gonna take care of 'em no matter what. We got each other. And we got our kids."
"Yeah, I know. You're right. I love you D."
"I love you too Rene. Now, stop worrying 'bout it right now. You sleep. And we'll figure it out. We have so far."
But she could't stop thinking about it that night. And she was still awake three hours later when her youngest started crying.
Rene stared uncomprehendingly at the doctor. "What you say?"
"I said you're having twins Mrs. Carter."
"That's what I thought. How'd this happen?"
"Well, Mrs. Carter, you may have a genetic predisposition to having twins. And even if not, it's a relatively common occurrence. You are now in your second month. That means seven months more at most. But because they're twins, there's a good chance they may come earlier."
The doctor, looking uncomfortably down at the ground, continued.
"Mrs. Carter, I need to speak with you about your options."
"What you mean?" Rene asked with an edge in her voice.
"I've delivered your four other children. And I know that your circumstances are difficult."
"They hard. So what?"
"Mrs. Carter, I think you might want to consider another alternative to keeping these children yourself."
Rene squirmed in her chair a bit. She didn't even let the thought through her head. Not after her experience as a foster child being shipped from house to house. Hearing about her mother's exploits in the street. And her death at the hands of gang violence. Rene knew she had siblings. A brother and two sisters. But had no idea where they were. Or who they were even. Just a comment once from her mother on one of her infrequent visits.
"Hell no! You ain't takin' none o' my kids. They all mine. And I take care of 'em. My boyfriend help me too. He work part time."
"Mrs. Carter. You live in a shelter downtown. And you can barely take care of the four children you have."
"Shut up, bitch! I can too take care of 'em. They eat. They sleepin' under a roof. And these babies in here" she said pointing to her stomach, "they gonna be just as well takin' care of. These are my babies and they ain't bein' takin' away from me!" There were no tears in Rene's eyes. Just large, round, challenging brown orbs daring the doctor to say something else.
Later that evening after all her children were asleep - they all stayed in the same 8' x 12' room - Rene whispered to her boyfriend Donyell.
"What we gonna do D?" she asked.
"We gonna love our kids. That's all we can do."
"I dunno if I can do it, D. It's just too much. Maybe that doctor's right."
Donyell turned towards her. "That doctor ain't right. What you gonna do? Get an abortion? Or give 'em away? You know what happened to us with that shit. No, we gonna take care of 'em no matter what. We got each other. And we got our kids."
"Yeah, I know. You're right. I love you D."
"I love you too Rene. Now, stop worrying 'bout it right now. You sleep. And we'll figure it out. We have so far."
But she could't stop thinking about it that night. And she was still awake three hours later when her youngest started crying.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
How I Met My Goddaughter
It can be argued that my introduction to my Goddaughter came months before her birth. Watching as my aunt's stomach grew. Feeling the faint kicks of the soon-to-be karate black belt. Though I can't remember exactly when my Uncle Mark and Aunt Ruth announced that they were pregnant, it had to be towards the end of my high school career. Some time during the latter spring or early summer of 1995.
Before she had a name, she was known in our family as 'Waldo'. A name my uncle - a bit of a joker - assigned her. Especially for the signing of my birthday and Christmas cards that year. 'Love Uncle Mark, Aunt Ruth, Spooky, and "Waldo"' it read. (Spooky was the cat.)
Around Christmas Aunt Ruth knew the time was coming sooner rather than later. Or at least she hoped so. What was the due date? I have no idea. Perhaps Uncle Mark can leave that info in the comment. But it was certainly in the midst of early winter.
The day came. January 4, 1996. I got the call and headed to the hospital. I don't remember much about the day. Except the snow on the ground.
I entered the hospital room. And I don't even remember who was there. My aunt, of course. My uncle, proud as a peacock. But, I was most interested in making the acquaintance of a beautiful little girl by the name of Julia. Her great-grandmother's name. And, of course, a beautiful Beatles song written by none other than John Lennon. My uncle's favorite.
She now sits on the cusp of turning into a teenager. She, the accomplished black belt. She, the 'A' student. She, who loves her crafts. She, who loves to help people. She, with the quick wit. And she, with the golden heart.
Julia, I am proud of you. And I love you. I thank God - and your parents - every day for the gift of allowing me to be your Godfaddah...
Before she had a name, she was known in our family as 'Waldo'. A name my uncle - a bit of a joker - assigned her. Especially for the signing of my birthday and Christmas cards that year. 'Love Uncle Mark, Aunt Ruth, Spooky, and "Waldo"' it read. (Spooky was the cat.)
Around Christmas Aunt Ruth knew the time was coming sooner rather than later. Or at least she hoped so. What was the due date? I have no idea. Perhaps Uncle Mark can leave that info in the comment. But it was certainly in the midst of early winter.
The day came. January 4, 1996. I got the call and headed to the hospital. I don't remember much about the day. Except the snow on the ground.
I entered the hospital room. And I don't even remember who was there. My aunt, of course. My uncle, proud as a peacock. But, I was most interested in making the acquaintance of a beautiful little girl by the name of Julia. Her great-grandmother's name. And, of course, a beautiful Beatles song written by none other than John Lennon. My uncle's favorite.
She now sits on the cusp of turning into a teenager. She, the accomplished black belt. She, the 'A' student. She, who loves her crafts. She, who loves to help people. She, with the quick wit. And she, with the golden heart.
Julia, I am proud of you. And I love you. I thank God - and your parents - every day for the gift of allowing me to be your Godfaddah...
Friday, January 2, 2009
TD's Official NFL Wild Card Picks
Time for the wild card games. And what a Wild Card weekend it is. Would you want to play the Eagles? Or the Chargers? No thank you. I'm not feeling good about this, but I have to try...
Atlanta @ Arizona
Have you noticed that three of the six teams are birds? And that two of those birds are in this game? The Falcons bring the Rookie of the Year and Michael Turner to Phoenix. And the Cards bring their own one-time MVP. I'm not convinced with the Cardinals. They don't have a running game, per se. But if they're passing game is on, it's on. I think Atlanta comes to play. TD chooses: Atlanta Falcons
Indianapolis @ San Diego
I don't know how to call this one. Indy has the deserving league MVP. He wills his team to win. San Diego has something intangible, a will to win of their own. And these two have played each other well in the past. Oddly, I think the difference will be coaching. Dungy blows Norv away. TD chooses: Indianapolis Colts
Baltimore @ Miami
Another one. I suppose all games are difficult this time of year. Or at least they should be. They - whomever 'they' happen to be - say that defense wins football games. From what I've seen, that's true 9 of 10 times. Unless you put Montana, Rice, and Craig against them. But that's just me. Sorry, Tony and Bill. TD chooses: Baltimore Ravens
Philadelphia @ Minnesota
Philly scares me a great deal. They remind me of last year's Giants. Except more dysfunctional. And with, perhaps, a better running back. Okay, not better, but more versatile, I'll say. Then there's Minnesota. I just don't think highly of them. They barely made it into the playoffs. And they have a QB who can play... sometimes. And a running game. I must not forget about the running game. What about their running game? TD chooses: Philadelphia Eagles
Atlanta @ Arizona
Have you noticed that three of the six teams are birds? And that two of those birds are in this game? The Falcons bring the Rookie of the Year and Michael Turner to Phoenix. And the Cards bring their own one-time MVP. I'm not convinced with the Cardinals. They don't have a running game, per se. But if they're passing game is on, it's on. I think Atlanta comes to play. TD chooses: Atlanta Falcons
Indianapolis @ San Diego
I don't know how to call this one. Indy has the deserving league MVP. He wills his team to win. San Diego has something intangible, a will to win of their own. And these two have played each other well in the past. Oddly, I think the difference will be coaching. Dungy blows Norv away. TD chooses: Indianapolis Colts
Baltimore @ Miami
Another one. I suppose all games are difficult this time of year. Or at least they should be. They - whomever 'they' happen to be - say that defense wins football games. From what I've seen, that's true 9 of 10 times. Unless you put Montana, Rice, and Craig against them. But that's just me. Sorry, Tony and Bill. TD chooses: Baltimore Ravens
Philadelphia @ Minnesota
Philly scares me a great deal. They remind me of last year's Giants. Except more dysfunctional. And with, perhaps, a better running back. Okay, not better, but more versatile, I'll say. Then there's Minnesota. I just don't think highly of them. They barely made it into the playoffs. And they have a QB who can play... sometimes. And a running game. I must not forget about the running game. What about their running game? TD chooses: Philadelphia Eagles
Thursday, January 1, 2009
A New Years Wish
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. No characters are based on real people, whether living or dead. Any resemblance to a real person is pure coincidence.
I first made their acquaintance at a Halloween party a few years back. Both dressed as pirates. Dominic's costume was amazing. It seemed he had hijacked a 16th century pirate ship and raided the wardrobe. Not to mention the oddly stuffed parrot that he had somehow fastened to his vest. I didn't ask. As for Mel, his costume consisted of a red striped shirt, a plastic knife, and an orange eye patch. I asked if they had planned to dress together like pirates. Mel excitedly admitted that they had. And that is was Dominic's idea. All the while, Dominic shook his head behind the shorter Mel.
An odd introduction.
As I came to know them, I discovered that Dominic exudes a charm and sincerity that attracts others. Tall and muscular, he has a wide, infectious smile replete with glimmering teeth. And a dimple in his chin for good measure. He wears his chestnut brown hair short and messy. An athlete and musician, Dominic divides his time between strumming on his Fender CDN-90 acoustic guitar and working on shooting from beyond the three-point line.
Mel is a different animal. Shorter than Dominic though not exactly short, Mel has pleasant features punctuated with large brown eyes like those of a saddened puppy. I am told he runs every day at the crack of dawn, a holdover from his college days. But apart from running, he isn't particularly interested in anything else. Unless Dominic is. For instance, Mel decided to start playing the piano when he met Dominic. And he started playing basketball too. Both activities he did poorly. Not necessarily because he didn't have the talent but because he just didn't seem to care. Mel vacillates between excitement and melancholy. And it's obvious he hasn't yet figured out who he wants to be. Instead, he mimics Dominic clinging to him like an odd fragrance that is pleasant enough at first but that begins to outstay its welcome.
Jump to New Years Eve. I am at the bar having a drink with a few friends when Dominic, his entourage, and Mel enter to much pomp and circumstance. As they pass, Dominic says hello while Mel obliviously - and drunkenly - continues on, his mood seemingly leaning more towards melancholy. I think nothing of the interaction until later when Mel approaches me and a few friends. The first time in the three years I had know him that he isn't with Dominic, I note.
We engage in some small talk, which doesn't amount to much. My friends and I exchange glances indicating that none of us know why he's standing there. Mel doesn't notice. After a long pause, we ask where Dominic is. That's when things go downhill. With a passion I'd never seen in him, Mel begins talking about how Dominic is a shallow, stupid, backstabber. He told us that Dominic had already left - while Mel was in the bathroom - and that Dominic is not answering his cell. Again, our small group exchanges glances that indicate a need to get rid of this mess. But how to do it nicely. I say that we should get going to the house party we want to attend. All of my friends agree. There is, in fact, no house party; we'll just go to another bar. We apologize to Mel - this house party was by invitation only we tell him - and start walking out. But not before Mel stops me.
'I just wish I could be like him, that's all.'
I look him in his deep brown eyes and have nothing to give him. All I can muster... 'Happy New Year.'
I first made their acquaintance at a Halloween party a few years back. Both dressed as pirates. Dominic's costume was amazing. It seemed he had hijacked a 16th century pirate ship and raided the wardrobe. Not to mention the oddly stuffed parrot that he had somehow fastened to his vest. I didn't ask. As for Mel, his costume consisted of a red striped shirt, a plastic knife, and an orange eye patch. I asked if they had planned to dress together like pirates. Mel excitedly admitted that they had. And that is was Dominic's idea. All the while, Dominic shook his head behind the shorter Mel.
An odd introduction.
As I came to know them, I discovered that Dominic exudes a charm and sincerity that attracts others. Tall and muscular, he has a wide, infectious smile replete with glimmering teeth. And a dimple in his chin for good measure. He wears his chestnut brown hair short and messy. An athlete and musician, Dominic divides his time between strumming on his Fender CDN-90 acoustic guitar and working on shooting from beyond the three-point line.
Mel is a different animal. Shorter than Dominic though not exactly short, Mel has pleasant features punctuated with large brown eyes like those of a saddened puppy. I am told he runs every day at the crack of dawn, a holdover from his college days. But apart from running, he isn't particularly interested in anything else. Unless Dominic is. For instance, Mel decided to start playing the piano when he met Dominic. And he started playing basketball too. Both activities he did poorly. Not necessarily because he didn't have the talent but because he just didn't seem to care. Mel vacillates between excitement and melancholy. And it's obvious he hasn't yet figured out who he wants to be. Instead, he mimics Dominic clinging to him like an odd fragrance that is pleasant enough at first but that begins to outstay its welcome.
Jump to New Years Eve. I am at the bar having a drink with a few friends when Dominic, his entourage, and Mel enter to much pomp and circumstance. As they pass, Dominic says hello while Mel obliviously - and drunkenly - continues on, his mood seemingly leaning more towards melancholy. I think nothing of the interaction until later when Mel approaches me and a few friends. The first time in the three years I had know him that he isn't with Dominic, I note.
We engage in some small talk, which doesn't amount to much. My friends and I exchange glances indicating that none of us know why he's standing there. Mel doesn't notice. After a long pause, we ask where Dominic is. That's when things go downhill. With a passion I'd never seen in him, Mel begins talking about how Dominic is a shallow, stupid, backstabber. He told us that Dominic had already left - while Mel was in the bathroom - and that Dominic is not answering his cell. Again, our small group exchanges glances that indicate a need to get rid of this mess. But how to do it nicely. I say that we should get going to the house party we want to attend. All of my friends agree. There is, in fact, no house party; we'll just go to another bar. We apologize to Mel - this house party was by invitation only we tell him - and start walking out. But not before Mel stops me.
'I just wish I could be like him, that's all.'
I look him in his deep brown eyes and have nothing to give him. All I can muster... 'Happy New Year.'
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