Jeeee-sus!

That's what I said when Pujols destroyed Minute Maid Park with that bomb he unloaded on Lidge. Anyone who doubts him as a hitter just shut up. I know the Astros did.

I'll admit; I lost faith. I was starting to plan out what I'd like to see them do in the offseason (mostly a .300-hitting young outfielder who can finally protect Pujols in the lineup). But, like many people, I suspect, one swing of the bat restored my faith. This was no wussy Berkman-esque pop-fly home run; this was a statement. I'm curious to see how the Astros respond.

In any case, I'm excited about tomorrow night, and hopefully, we'll be seeing one more World Series played here.

Probably Shouldn't Surprise Anyone, Really . . .

I found this here.

You are a Social Liberal (81% permissive) and an... Economic Liberal (25% permissive) You are best described as a: Strong Democrat Link: The Politics Test on OkCupid Free Online Dating Also: The OkCupid Dating Persona Test

Lessons Learned - Summer Edition

As the year enters the final stretch, I thought I would share with you some nuggets of acquired wisdom:

1. Five guys buying one-way plane tickets at the last minute is deemed suspicious; who knew?
   
2. However, those TSA folks down in South Carolina? Very nice and professional -- he didn't even look like he wanted to die when he opened my bag and the toxic cloud from three days worth of clothing over a three-day drinking binge wafted over the area.
   
3. Southern Comfort brings no comfort. None whatsoever.
   
4. 80-lb. Boxer + my crotch = much pain
   
5. My girlfriend may be better than me at Scrabble; my ego is protesting this call, but numbers are numbers.
   
6. Yesterday, I figured out that Jaws 3 may be the worst film ever made -- then Jaws: The Revenge stared.
   
7. Volcano came on next, totally killing theory.
   
8. I've seen more bad movies than any human being should, and God help me -- I like some of them.
   
9. At the ballpark, everything is better in the field-level seats.
   

Passive Aggression

I don't mind having my picture taken, but usually I ask that the photographer introduces himself before snapping away.

So I was kind of curious why this short balding man with a prune face and thinning hair stood in front of his house taking pictures of Trudy and I walking down the street. Normally, I ask that you give me a chance to hide the bag of dog crap before stealing my soul, so I took a more peaceful route.

"New camera?" I asked.

"Something like that," he replied, and walked back in the house.

Now I knew what he was doing. Several times when walking the dog, he just happened to appear on his front porch when we make it by his house. I'm always friendly; he always growls. It's fun.

Yep -- George Freakin' Smiley was scoping me, afraid that Trudy was using his lawn as a toilet. And she does from time to time, but that's why I carry bags around - so I can clean it up. However, my neighborhood is full of the zealous guardians who delight in nothing more than catching a wayward cur crapping in their front yards. I guess the benefit of the doubt is something that we're no longer entitled to these days.

So last Saturday, I return home and take the dog out around 11:30. I'm tired and ready for some sleep. And I nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw him standing less than two feet behind me, glaring at Trudy like she's Satan herself.

"How you doing?" I asked.

"Uhhnnn," he said.

"Can I help you?"

"Nope."

I'd like to point out here that Trudy was sniffing and doing nothing more.

"You know, if you're worried about her going in your yard, that's why I always carry these," and I pulled a bag out of my pocket.

"People don't clean up after their dogs," he said.

"I know, but I do."

"Whatever." And he retreated to his house.

His foul mood bothered me for awhile. I'm tired of the glares, the stares and the general suspicion I seem to arouse -- especially considering the stray dogs, stray teenagers and rampant nightclubbers on weekends.

So I left the poop bag on his front porch. That'll show him. Next time, I'll bring a match to light it.

Home Front

Growing up, I think we were each others' worst enemies. Playing Batman when I was four (he was two) - he cracked my skull open with a wooden block. Six stitches later, we were friends again.

Wiffle ball bats made great torpedos while in the pool. Those air/water-powered rockets sure could fly fast, and a few of those "accidental" hits with the wiffle ball bats to the head weren't as accidental as the injurer made it seem.

But like all brothers, we stood by each other. I wouldn't let older kids pick on him (we both wound up getting our asses kicked), and I felt genuine pity for him the day he slid down the gravel-covered street on his back after falling off his skateboard (he was wearing a muscle shirt at the time) - so I didn't smack him in the back . . .even though we'd been beating the crap out of each other the day before.

Age brings maturity --- err, maybe a willingness to put stupid squabbles behind you. We nearly torched the house with fireworks one steamy July night - dousing the smoldering bushes with the garden hose and hoping mom wouldn't inspect them too closely, and we both tried getting kicked out of the go-cart course in what turned into a combination go-cart race/roller derby. Stupid? Slightly psychotic? Sure, but what's life without a little life-and-death struggle at 20 mph?

We drifted apart a little in college -- 800 miles will do that, but we still kept in touch. We even worked together tending bar one summer - screwing over the boss while drinking free booze was a pleasant way to spend an evening.

And despite wanting nothing more than to smack him upside the head when we were kids, I always look forward to seeing him - the good-natured jabs, the quick sense of humor and the shit-eating grin are all infectious, and you can't help but laugh when he's around. It's easy to see why small children and dogs flock to him.

Now he's packed; his body armor sits in a corner - kevlar helmet resting on top of it. It all hides a backpack stuffed with belongings. More stuff is riding on a ship or in a plane, where it will meet him in the desert.

In two months, my brother Michael will be in Iraq. While visiting with him this weekend, it hit me -- Monday could be the last time I ever see my little brother again, and that's a hard thought to swallow.

He's a doctor; he won't be kicking in doors or patrolling the streets -- he'll be treating pilots and wounded soldiers back at the base, so odds are he'll be safe and not vulnerable to wayward explosive devices.

At least I hope so.

Ultimately, there's nothing I can do to affect what happens to him. I could be hit by a bus tomorrow; David could be knifed in a poker room brawl (that's the most likely of the three scenarios I just outlined). All I can do is hope and pray that he'll return to us in a year, safe and unhurt, and in the meantime, I'll be sending care packages and e-mails whenever possible.

I've made no secret of my disdain for this war. I thought it was bullshit when it started, and I think it's bullshit now. But I've never said anything disparaging about the troops over there - they're just fighting to stay alive and sane in a place where death and insanity seems to hold sway.

Keep your head down, Mike, and come home safe.

Hanging

I'm back from the latest Bradoween. I'll have more of a post tomorrow or Wednesday, after I get my life a little closer to back on track. In the meantime, I want to thank Otis and Mrs. Otis for a fantastic weekend.

And I'm never drinking Southern Comfort again. I don't know how Marty survived . . .

Perspective

The aqua blue car stood out in the afternoon's dull gray. It didn't hurt that it was about two inches from my foot.

Apparently, I had the nerve to cross the street in a crosswalk, so the driver, a teenage girl chauffeuring her friends around decided to ignore the stop sign hidden in plain sight and roll it.

Right in front of me, as I walked Trudy.

"THAT'S A STOP SIGN!" I helpfully pointed out.

She drove on, and one of her friends flipped me off. His hand standing out against the backdrop of the car's white roof did a wonderful job setting me off.

"SCREW YOU!" I shouted as I memorized the license plate number.

I've now called the police and my NSO several times regarding the asshats that surround me. Running stop signs, urinating in the alley behind my house, fights on weekends at the club across the street (yes, I'm actually trying to get a bar's liquor license revoked - I'll tell the story some other time). I fear I've turned into the cranky old man I used to snicker at while riding my bike.

But perspective is a bitch. The kid riding his bike while giggling at the old man didn't have to worry about paying bills, keeping the house clean and balancing a job. All he had to concern himself with was cruising the streets on two wheels and finishing his homework.

I'd like to think that that younger me would think that current me is a cool guy, but we know the truth -- he'd just laugh and pedal harder. And probably call me fat.

But the tradeoff is worth it - as I sit with Darcy or friends in my backyard and enjoy a beer in the cool evenings after work, I can't help but think life is pretty damned good.

If only those darn kids would keep the music down.

My Humor Style Kicks Your Humor Style's Ass

Found this here. What can I say? I've always known I was on . . .

the Cutting Edge (66% dark, 42% spontaneous, 31% vulgar)

your humor style: CLEAN | SPONTANEOUS | DARK Your humor's mostly innocent and off-the-cuff, but somehow there's something slightly menacing about you. Part of your humor is making people a little uncomfortable, even if the things you say aren't themselves confrontational. You probably have a very dry delivery, or are seriously over-the-top. Your type is the most likely to appreciate a good insult and/or broken bone and/or very very fat person dancing. PEOPLE LIKE YOU: David Letterman - John Belushi

My test tracked 3 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 81% on dark You scored higher than 36% on spontaneous You scored higher than 45% on vulgar

Link: The 3 Variable Funny Test written by jason_bateman on OkCupid Free Online Dating

Just Passing Through . . .

If you're seeking solitude, a walk at 3:00 AM is the perfect solution. The perfect, quiet still of the evening is a good way to come down from a crazy night of losing poker and to get the sound of casinos out of your head.

And really, it wasn't so much by choice -- I had to walk the dog.

She'd been cooped up for some time and needed a walk. I needed to get the frustration of constant suckouts and drawing to the second best hand out of my head. So we walked.

I noticed him walking towards us, his whitish shirt and shorts standing out against the black night. But from a distance, I coudn't see what he was carrying. By the looks of it, it was cumbersome, and since he was holding it over his head, I didn't see him as a threat. Besides, I had my trusty watchdog with me. Ahem.

As he drew nearer, I pulled Trudy out of his way, curious to see just what the hell he was carrying. Was it a box? Was it a painting, a work of art. Was he going to bash me over the head with it?

Nope; it was an ironing board. Bouncing over his head as he walked down the sidewalk.

"Just passing through," he said to me as he walked past. I was too weirded out to say much of anything. He continued on through the night, oblivious to me staring at his back.

In my somewhat bland but safe daytime world, people walking down the streets with ironing boards is a touch unusual. At 3:00 AM, it becomes kind of sinister. What, exactly, does he have planned for this ironing board? What does he need to iron in the middle of the night? And if he stole it, why didn't he just go for the television?

I guess I'll never know. And to be honest, I'm not sure I want to -- the answer probably isn't half as interesting as the questions.

Terror at 300 Feet

My hands started shaking as the shoulder harnesses clamped me onto the seat. Strike that -- I was trembling. Here I was, latched into a chair, which in turn was bolted to a cylinder that surrounded a 250-foot tall tower. In mere seconds, the cylinder, with me attached, would be launched up to the top of that tower, where it would fall for a short time, bounce back part way up and then lower itself gently to the ground.

Why in the hell am I doing this? I thought. I don't particularly like heights, but I can tolerate them - as long as I'm enclosed in something. Nor do I like the whole dangling feet ride. On a roller coaster, it's okay - you move too fast for it to really hit you. But on this, the Power Tower? Nope. You get to fly straight up and bounce back down.

Darcy smiled at me as the ride moved into position. She looked around eagerly, ready for liftoff. I clutched the shoulder harness more tightly, and realized the sound I heard wasn't hydraulics tearing themselves to shreds - it was me preparing to hyperventilate.

Why am I doing this?

Liftoff pressed me down into the seat, leaving my stomach somewhere on the ground. The wind burned my face as we kept climbing up up up. Darcy may have said something, but I was screaming too loudly to hear it. I would have looked, but my eyes refused to open.

Finally, we started back down -- and then we bounced back up. I opened my eyes a bit, and saw the sun peeking through the evening clouds, its orange reflection shining up from Lake Erie. The lights from the amusement park glittered like stars.

And finally, we hit the ground. I climbed out of the seat and reached out with a shaky hand to get my glasses from the shelf. My legs shook. I was sweaty, scared and ready to go home.

Why did I do that?

Darcy's smile said it all; for her, being launched into the sky wasn't terrifying, it was exhilerating. And that made the trip worthwhile.

But no, I didn't join her for the second ride. I was perfectly happy celebrating gravity from the ground floor.

Bored?

Try a little civics! Let your Senator know what you think about their wasting time with a ridiculous flag burning amendment when they could be dealing with relatively minor concerns - like say wars, budgets, our standing in the world, Social Security, crime, an executive branch running amok. You know -- inconsequential crap like that.

Spam of the Week

New feature hereabouts . . . my favorite spam e-mail. This week's winner:

Subject line: mcadams Mccown

Text:

Brian (last name removed - though it was misspelled),

our bank has approovted your mrtgagqe request. You can  ref
inance, buy a new house or maybe get some  ca s h m.
Do not worry about bad credxit: we got you covered.

The soonesft you apply, the better deal you get. It is
possiblne to get $300,000 for $250 per month.


Thank you and apply here:
(Link removed)


Lauri R. Sykes

I was kind of worried about my bad credxit, so it's good to know someone's "got you covered".

The Circus is Back in Town

So now that the Schiavo autopsy results have been released, what do you think the odds of Michael taking the high road and living his life in quiet obscurity, content in the knowledge that the Schindlers, Randall Terry, Fox News, and all the "nurses" who saw his "abuses" were wrong?

Yeah, me too.

I'm pretty sure a small army of attorneys are currently gearing up to sue the Hell out of all of them. Much as I would enjoy seeing some of those assholes publicly apologizing and getting run through a ringer, I know that won't happen, and while it'll bring some satisfaction to the Schiavos, it'll just keep dragging this sad, sorry case out in the public eye yet again.

Great start to the summer.

Remember the Batusi?

A few years back, a friend asked me to share my thoughts about Batman and Robin, the big movie of the summer. I told her something like this:

Batman and Robin is like one of those wrapped presents you see in a store display: really pretty to look at, but once you open it, there's nothing inside.

I'd seen the movie twice. Once because it was out and the Bat was da bomb, and the second time because I was sure the movie couldn't have sucked so badly.

I was wrong. It sucked even more, and I had to actually pay for it the second time, which really pissed me off. Batman should be a dark, dreary freakshow - not a gay romp through the streets of Gotham.

And don't get me started about the Governator. -shudder-

So I was a little nervous when I came across a pass for Batman Begins. It looked solid - good cast, with Christian Bale, Morgan Freeman, Liam Neeson and Katie "man-she's-hot-but-Tom-Cruise-is-sucking-the-life-out-of-her" Holmes. Christopher Nolan brings some gritty indie cred to the table - Momento was a kickass film. And David Goyer, the writer, has plenty of nerd cred. But still, could Nolan resist the call of the camp?

I'm happy to say yes.

This movie is Spider-man good. This movie is Superman (the first one) good. This movie kicks all sorts of ass. George Lucas wishes he could make a movie jump up dance like this one does. And no, Batman doesn't dance.

To me, the most interesting part of this film is that Nolan focuses on Batman - he doesn't let the villans run away with the show. Batman is a pretty interesting character - you'd have to be to dress up in a Bat costume and beat up on thugs every night, yet past movies focused on the freak of the week. The villans take the back seat here.

Which is great, because Christian Bale will make you forget Keaton, Kilmer and the other guy. -shudder- He's young enough and has the acting ability to carry out both sides of the characters' personality - the driven, tortured hero desperately trying to forgive himself for his parents' death and the facade - the careless playboy who makes indolence a career.

The fight scenes aren't dances with actors floating around on wires - they're straight out of Fight Club, with a little horror movie thrown in for good measure. Batman uses the shadows, streaks out of nowhere and incapacitates his foes one by one. The remaining few are so terrified they can't fight.

Other than a love story that really goes nowhere and accomplishes little (other than gives the new Bride of Hubbard more screen time - something I can get behind - as long as she doesn't talk in public about her new "spirituality"), this will be the best action flick of the summer. Period.

Oh, and the Batmobile will make you cry.

Housekeeping

For poker posts, go here.

Three Weekends, Three Weddings

The invitations started pouring in in April. I didn't pay too much heed to them; after all, I'd heard about them months earlier - happy phone calls and conversations. Heck, I was going to be in two of them.

So I sent the RSVP cards in sometime in April and went back to life. I had a vacation to go on after all, and thoughts of dancing, wedding cake and mustacolli-filled buffets simply couldn't compete with swim-up bars, margaritas and warm sunshine.

Then May arrived, and I realized something: anyone who finds weddings relaxing is nuts. Simply nuts. However, it was also an educational experience; I learned quite a bit:

• Don't leave a present - especially one made of glass - sitting on the edge of a table where the dog can knock it over. Strangely enough, this wouldn't have been an issue had I actually WRAPPED the damn thing and taken it with me to the wedding.
  
• If the guy at the tuxedo store tells you it's not necessary to pay, ask again. That way, they can't "lose" your tuxedo.
• I still hate Meat Loaf (the food and the singer).
• Why can't they play the Time Warp at weddings? It would spice things up a bit.
• Wedding photographers are apparently paid by the hour.
  
• Corsages don't taste too good (actually, I learned that years ago).
• Being able to field two softball teams (both with a bench) out of the wedding party really isn't something to be proud of.
• Dressing up is exhausting.

Okay. That's it for two days. I'm off to Vegas for a psychotic weekend. Keep it real, kids. I'll be back with more updates soon. (I promise!)

Ten Ways to Be a Better Softball Player

1. Use one of your employees as the umpire; that way, you'll get every advantage over the other team.
   
2. If, when this plan backfires and you still star losing, start blaming your team.
   
3. Start jawing at the other team when you draw a walk.
   
4. Get your umpire to give you an extra inning of at-bats.
   
5. Even though you know the umpire made a mistake, don't acknowledge it -- just keep the game going.
   
6. Stomp off and pout by yourself -- it's especially becoming when you're older than 40.
   
7. And even more impressive when your wife and child are at the game.
   
8. Gloat at the other team before the game.
   
9. Joke around with everyone on your team after the game -- even though they're looking at you with something resembling contempt.
   
10. But don't bother with basic skills like catching and throwing; they just slow you down and take away from the game's competitive spirit.
    

Yes, it's good to know that people still aren't taking coed recreational softball too seriously these days.

Still Living . . .

I'll have a longer post later this week. Things have been pretty hectic, and I lost my internet connection for several days; however, I'm back now.

What's Spanish for Pepto Bismol?

We arrived in Mexico Saturday afternoon with a song in our hearts as the brightly shining sun lifted our spirits to even greater heights. I didn't even mind being subjected to the tourist shakedown outside Customs, where in return for signing away 2-4 hours of my precious vacation time, I'd get all sorts of free, useless crap.

Afterwards, we scampered on the bus and waited for awhile, and then we hit the resort. And for a day and a half, all I did was eat, lie by the beach, or drink Pina Coladas by the pool. Being surrounded by your girlfriend and good friends is a great tonic for the spirit; doing so while at a resort is like some sort of renewal.

Of course, sometimes, to build something up, you need to do a little tearing down.

For some reason, I decided I needed a big breakfast Monday morning. Generally, I don't eat big breakfasts. A bagel and/or a piece of fruit is perfect, but Monday, the pancakes looked fluffy, the bacon called to me and the sausage was especially spicy and sweet.

And so my stomach rolled and rumbled all day and all night.

Now, while I'm not going to get too graphic here, some of you might not appreciate what I say in the next two paragraphs. Just a little warning.

By about 7:30, I knew we had a problem. One doesn't shiver in 70-degree weather. It just doesn't happen - unless you grew up on the sun. But there I stood shivering and shaking. I crawled into bed after sending Darcy off to enjoy everyone else's company; why ruin her night entirely? And I woke up with about 14-seconds' warning. And I made it too the toilet just in time.

Until last November, the last time I had a really close view of the inside of the toilet bowl was when I caught a monster stomach virus back in '95. I laid on the couch for four days, praying for death while enjoying a 102-degree fever. Last November, I really enjoyed remembering that time as I made it to the toilet just in time to taste breakfast once again. And now, in Mexico, known for its world-class doctors, hospitals and prisons, I was enjoying the three plain flour tortillas a second time, along with the mint tea. Good times, good times.

It's safe to read again.

I enjoyed an evening of fever-induced delirium, radiating heat like a furnace. But at least my stomach was no longer flipping. And by Tuesday morning, I was fine. We even walked into town for a few hours.

Overall, it was a great trip, but I'm happy to be home. At least I know where to find the Pepto.

And We're Out . . .

Anyone find it somewhat ironic that the "What's wrong with Blogger" page doesn't display? Just curious.

I'm leaving. Saturday morning. On a jet plane. Headed to sunny Mexico. Until then, keep it real kids. And remember --- don't shop at the Galleria, or I'll have to add you to my revenge list, where you'll sit for the rest of days, along with John Quincy Adams, McDonalds and the Dewey Decimal System, waiting my righteous retribution. Or something like that.