Election Day Jitters

The butterflies in my stomach have been turning cartwheels all afternoon. At first, I thought I might be suffering from election-related nerves, but I believe I've stumbled on the real truth:

When re-heating leftover chicken, make damned sure it's hot enough. Because food poisoning? Not fun. At least my old friends el Kaopectate and el Pepto Bismol are here to to celebrate the election returns.

Now if I suffer a round of vomiting after a particularly odious election outcome, I'll have an excuse.

Karma is a Harsh Mistress

While technically not a Halloween story, this is a tale of monsters and spirits gone awry.

Once upon a time, I worked as a counselor at a summer day camp. For some reason, my employers decided it would be wise to put me in charge of a group of 12 six-year-old boys. Yes, I was ten years older than them, but I was just as mature as they were.

One of the keystones of being male is the utter inability to admit to fear. Fear is not an emotion we admit to. Sure, in the dark hours of the morning, after the fourth beer, we might sit and dwell upon mortality, but in front of a crowd fear is not an acceptable emotion.

I’m happy to report that one year, the kids in my group were the most utterly fearless six-year-olds to walk the Earth. No threat of violence (non-enforceable, of course), restriction of privileges or dire happenings could prod them into doing something they didn’t want to do, and God help you if they decided they wanted to keep playing on the playground – no force known to man could pry them from the sweet siren song of a sandbox.

And if they decided to run into the woods? You were in for a long period of yelling and searching, hoping they chose not to go home (many of them lived nearby).

Enter Mr. Moto. Mr. Moto was an escapee from an insane asylum. He lived in the woods, where he would tie the bad children to trees and would eventually eat them. Like the idea that I was actually in charge of these kids, Mr. Moto was pure fiction – the nuclear option we (the boy counselors) used if the kids were being especially uppity. The mere mention of Mr. Moto guaranteed instant compliance, as no child wants to be eaten while tied to a tree.

St. Louis in mid-July has all the ambiance of a steam room. Clear blue skies and the hot sun shines down as humidity blows up from the Gulf to guarantee that your clothes will stick to you by 9:00 AM, and finding a cool spot to relax is a treasure indeed. For me, excessive heat also makes me cranky. Add cranky to my general laziness, and you begin to see how chasing bratty kids around isn’t always a fun way to kill an afternoon.

One day, after a particularly long playground session, we had to move on, and the kids fought like crazy, not wanting to go. I invoked the spirit of Mr. Moto.

And was rebuked.

I tried again.

And they laughed at me.

Good Lord, I thought, we’ve gone nuclear one time too many. It no longer works. I could feel my control of these kids slipping away – soon, anarchy would reign, and my fellow counselors would shun me, because no one wanted to associate with someone who had no control over his group.

I then hit upon the solution. “If you all don’t get moving now, Moto’s coming out of the woods for you!” I said.

They laughed some more.

“Okay. Your funeral. I want no part of this.” And I ran off.

Straight into the woods I ran, around the trails lining the park. One trail let out next to the playground. As I approached the opening, I pulled my shirt over my head and ran out, screaming “YYYYYEEEEAAAAHHHHH!”

I pulled my shirt down, chuckling. And realized my kids had scattered to the four winds. Uh-oh.

Fortunately, I found them before they ran into traffic or straight home. After much whining and crying, I finally calmed them down (and promised them lots and lots of ice cream the next day).

But when I was climbing into my car to go home that night, I realized my wallet was no longer in my pocket. Egad.

I slipped back into the woods, and found it. Two hours later. With no cash in it. The next day, I loaded up on treats and ice cream and made up to the kids. Oh, and I also got my ass chewed up one side of the park and down the other by my boss.

I’m a different person than I was back then. More mature, more confident. And if I’m ever in that situation again, I would do it differently.

I’ll keep my wallet in the car before going out to work with the kids.

Apparently, There WAS Something Left to Sell

If you thought major league baseball has sold out to ridiculous levels (AT&T Call to the bullpen, anyone?) and could go no further, you were wrong.

At this rate, it's only a matter of time before Jerry Reinsdorf sells that last shard of dignity on e-bay.

Getting My Nerd On

Last Friday night, Darcy babysat, and rather than use the time for self-improvement or making the world a better place, I opted to get my nerd on instead. I know, I know, you all see me as this really hip dude, but sometimes, I just have to let my inner nerd out.

Some thoughts about Friday’s Doctor Who and Battlestar Galactica episodes, some spoilers included.

Doctor Who – “Tooth and Claw”

• “May God forgive me.” This is my favorite opening teaser of all the new episodes; it’s perfect – kung fu monks taking over the castle, the women and servants fearfully looking on as the monks drag the mysterious cage down with them, the scream and cue the credits. Perfect timing.
• “You’re a punk.” Any doubts I had about the Doctor banging Rose were completely dispelled by the first scene.
• “Eighteen seventy-nine. Same difference.” Nice throwback to past continuity when the Doctor claiming to be James MacCrimmon – I’m glad the new show doesn’t disregard the long history – this especially comes up in the next episode.
• I want to like David Tennant as the Doctor; I think he was well-cast – in many ways, he’s taken to the role far better than Christopher Eccleston did, but I wish Russell Davies would have given him better episodes to work with. My favorites for this season: “Tooth and Claw”, “School Reunion”, “The Impossible Planet” and “Doomsday”.
• While I like Rose as a companion, she alternated between making me laugh and wanting to reach in the screen and smack her. I liked how she took charge in the basement, but the whole "We are not amused" thing was irritating.
  
• The big thing I’ve enjoyed about the new series is that Davies tries to explore the aftermath of a typical visit by the Doctor. Let’s face it – he leaves plenty of devastation and bodies behind him. The idea that Queen Victoria wants no further part of his “help” is a great one; unfortunately, I thought the execution throughout the season was poorly done.
• “Oh my god! They’re werewolves!” Overall, a fun episode. It works well because it, like all the better episodes of Doctor Who, doesn’t take itself too seriously, and really, how can you take a plot involving kung fu monks trying to infect Queen Victoria with lycanthropy in order to seize control of the crown too seriously?

Battlestar Galactica – “Occupation/Precipice”

• I didn’t think they’d be able to top last season’s finale – they did. Man, I can’t wait until Friday.
• Without Adama there to reign him in, Tigh has become a combination of Ahab, Ho Chi Minh, and Osama bin Laden. He’s going to make the Cylons pay for that eye, and pay dearly. Unfortunately, the cost will ultimately be his humanity. The scene where Roslin confronts him about the suicide bombings sums it up perfectly.
• Joining Tigh in the crazy section, Kara has also lost her mind, and I can’t say I blame her – you’re locked in a gilded cage with a loony Cylon who you murder regularly only to have him return a few hours later. Oh, then he produces a child that may or may not be your daughter? You and sanity would probably part ways a bit as well.
• Off the subject, but the people who came up with and approved the shit joke for the new Domino’s ads probably shouldn’t be in marketing. Just a thought.
• Lee has finally given into his inner whiner, something he’s long threatened to do. This disappoints me; I always enjoyed Lee’s character – it’s hard seeing him like this.
• “Have hope. We’re coming for you.” This simple message was the heart of the episodes - and the series itself - that no matter how dark things look, don't give up hope.
  
• Head-Six still rocks. Forget the real thing – the scenes where she keeps Baltar afloat are always intense, and this one was especially so. Six might enjoy messing with Baltar, but she always has his best interests at heart.
  
• I need to listen to the podcast, but it looks like Moore is still going to keep screwing Sharon
• The end was straight out of The Great Escape, and it’s a shocking way to end the episode. I’m guessing that Roslin escapes, since they show her in upcoming teasers. However, I do hope that Zarek escapes as well, because I like how the two characters see right through one another, but they still grudgingly respect each other. And I never thought I would say this: it would be a shame to lose Richard Hatch from this show.

Wreckage

The car settled in the trees, gently rocking for a moment or two as if it wanted to get back up, then it settled into stillness. Steam hissed from the crumpled front end as I ran up to the car, briefly wondering if it was liable to burst into flames or explode (thank you, years of bad TV). The whole time, I dreaded what I would find.

Augusta is tucked away in the hills of Missouri, about 20 miles south of St. Charles. It’s a quiet, rural area of rolling hills and farms. It’s a stop along the Katy Trail, and it’s known for its wineries. Every October, a long caravan of cars full of wine-country pilgrims wind their way up and down the hills along the country roads.

Darcy and I were headed there Saturday afternoon, when we came to one of the steepest, most winding hills. A short line of cars had just started down the hill while we were starting our climb. The lead car in the downward procession suddenly tried jerking to a halt, juked right and left, spun out, sailed off the road, flipped twice and landed in the ditch not 30 feet from my car.

When you see an accident like this, time slows. It takes a second to register that lives – including your own – are potentially at risk. You feel like you’re watching something that’s going on somewhere else – thing like this don’t happen, they can’t. Something like this is too terrible to contemplate.

I told Darcy to call 911 as I jumped out – along with several others – to see what could be done. And really – there wasn’t much. Someone had already helped the sobbing seven-year-old off to the side. Two people were helping a forty-ish woman from the car as a girl climbed into the back seat to remove the baby from her car seat. I helped the woman from the car sit down on the embankment then started to go around to the other side to see about freeing the driver. With someone else’s help, he climbed out of the car and walked around to his family.

Glancing inside the car, I could see air bags limply hanging from the dashboard and steering wheel. Toys, pens, and all the assorted flotsam scattered throughout the passenger compartment. Had they not been wearing seatbelts, we’d have been carrying their bodies from the remains of the car.

Someone more knowledgeable in first aid than I started treating the victims, and the army of cell phoners finally reached emergency services. Help was on its way. Realizing that standing around and staring with ten other people would do little good, we returned to the road and headed onto our destination.

This summer and fall especially, it seems like tragedy and fear are lurking just a heartbeat away, ready to spring at a moment’s notice. Second chances are rare. Don’t let the piddling problems weigh you down – save that for the big ones. Hug your kids, kiss your wives (husbands, etc.), and revel in what you have instead of dreaming about what you don’t.

The Most Dangerous Place on Earth . . .

Is between Hugo Chavez and a camera. Honestly, I'm all for making waves and understand that keeping yourself in the public eye rarely hurts, but this dude is an attention whore. And of course, the media, when it senses sensationalism, immediately jumps and dances at his bidding. My advice? Ignore him. At some point, he'll see he's not drawing crowds or notice, and after a brief stint where he goes out in public wearing no pants and juggling chainsaws, he'll stop hogging headlines.

Out of the Frying Pan

On our nightly walks, we always pass by the rehab house. Whenever I walk by, these guys are constantly tinkering, painting, or refinishing something in the house. And thanks to the lovely weather here lately, they’ve started eschewing air conditioning.

Normally, I would have no problem with this – for a long time, I’ve felt we’ve turned into a society of A/C wimps (I say as I feel the cool air from the window unit wash across my face). However, there’s one big problem with my neighbors’ position.

A roughly 100-pound problem that hangs out the screenless front window of the house and growls and snarls at us as we walk by. Normally, I'm not afraid of dogs, but this one disturbs me. A lot. Every night, his pitch-black body defies gravity as ¾ of it is suspended in space, following our every move. I can almost see the drool dripping from his jaws, and I feel the hackles rise every time, as my trusted watchdog gleefully ignores the fact that six feet of thin air separates us from becoming lunch.

Lately, I’ve taken to crossing the street. He hasn’t lunged at us yet, but I figure there’s little to be gained by tempting fate. Besides, this way I’ll at least have a few seconds to compose myself and face death as it charges me, rather than cry and scream hysterically as the dog jumps me from behind.

Or so the theory goes.

Sunday night, we cross the street, right into the path of Stan. I don’t think his name is Stan, but I have to call him something, don’t I? Stan is a little stocky, with a doughy, constantly smiling face, black hair with flecks of gray, a thin mustache, and glasses so thick that when he looks west, he can check the traffic on the Golden Gate Bridge.

Stan is also crazy; harmless, but nuts all the same.

We’ve crossed paths before; he usually tries to aggressively befriend Trudy, who slinks behind my legs while he tells me of some exploit. Normally I smile, talk to him for a minute or so then we move on.

But Sunday was a bit different. Rather than try to pat Trudy on the head, he walks straight up to me and says, “She saw me! She saw me!”

Not knowing if he was referring to Trudy, God or some other undefined she, I came back with the brilliant “Really?”

“She did! I ran away! I have penis-sized nut!”

What do you say to that? “Well that’s good!” I said, slowly edging away, hoping he wouldn’t show me his nut or anything else.

We crossed back to the other side of the street, free from other dogs and passers-by. I had to wonder if Stan was doing some peeping somewhere, or maybe I misheard him. I don’t think so. All I do know is that between vigilant guard dogs, guys walking their ironing boards, girl fights, and 12-year-old pimps, walking the dog is rarely boring.

Homeward

It's been a couple of weeks where I've dreaded hearing the phone ring; however, the ringing phone brought a little good news this morning: my brother is out of Iraq and should be home within a week or two.

Rub-a-Dub

Doing some housecleaning; figured I'd post something while updating the template. Why this? Cause it's so damned funny. Enjoy:

Fear Itself

Couldn't have said it better myself.

How Can We Miss You . . .

If you won't stay away?

I realize the lure of an easy buck is a hard one to avoid, but why must another dinosaur rock act come back for yet another tortured album where they turn themselves into a big joke?

Take the Rolling Stones -- the Stones circa 1965? Hell yes! The Stones circa 2005? No thanks. They stink now. Their shows aren't interesting, their albums suck, and basically they leech more money out of their few remaining true believers and those gullible enough to buy into the "hype".

So of course, the Eagles see this and think "why not us?" Jesus. Just retire. Keep popping out the occasional solo album. Act like you've grown professionally and personally since your band last split up; you know, after the last "farewell" tour. Keep some self-respect. I say these things as a longtime Eagles fan; one who would prefer not seeing one of his favorite old bands turn into a punchline.

"We decided we better get some new product out, some new songs. We could rest on our laurels and play our catalog forever, but we're not a nostalgia band," said Joe Walsh. Really? This from a guy in a band that hasn't put out any signifigant new material in 17 years? You know, Joe, I would respect you more if you just came out and said it: we want to get paid. Saying it's for the fans or all about the music is disingenuous at best.

But in the end, fans will line up to buy the album, realize it stinks, and clamor for the Eagles to play the old stuff on tour; meanwhile, the Eagles keep playing somnambulant concerts while counting the cash from the new album. Nice work if you can find it.

Yahoo Can Bite My Crank

I haven't been able to access my e-mail for 24 hours. Whenever I try, I get a "Temporary problem accessing your mailbox" message. To fix it, the message helpfully offers up these nuggets:

• Click Refresh
• Log out then log back in

Of course, when these "solutions" don't work, you're hosed. I had the same problem earlier in the year, and all it does is causes my blood pressure to spike.

Yahoo's Customer Service is next to useless, offering up some great tips like clearing cookies and clearing out the cache, assuring me it's a "transient" problem. Hint to Yahoo: how about giving real answers and helping your customers out instead of hoping it will go away.

Any suggestions on how to deal with this? Other than bombarding Yahoo's customer service with complaints until someone gets up and actually tries to be helpful -- I'm already doing that. Failing that, any suggestions on other e-mail service options? Because I've just about had enough of Yahoo.

Landis Speaks

In an emotional press conference, Tour de France winner protests his innocence. I'd probably believe him more if he wasn't weeping one second and swinging a folding chair around his head like a baseball bat the next.

Seriously though, I do hope they find him innocent. This was one hell of an inspiring comeback, and for once, I'd like to see a sports hero win without the specter of steroids or some other form of performance enhancer looming in the background.

One of the sad results of last year's steroid hearings (along with McGwire's lame "I'm not here to talk about the past," Sosa's sudden inability to speak a word of english, and Rafael Palmiero's strident (and ultimately false) denials that he was a user) is that we look askew at anyone who achieves any degree of greatness and wonder whether he's juiced or not.

Just last week, I was with some guys who were talking about how Albert Pujols is on the juice, and it's only a matter of time before he's outed. I was his sole defender in the room, and still, a small part of me wondered whether I was just wasting my time defending yet another cheater.

Maybe I've become to jaded to enjoy sports, or perhaps I'm far too naive, because I want our athletes to come by their successes using God-given talent, hard work and drive, as opposed to dirty needles in a cramped bathroom stall, while hoping they can figure out how to evade the next round of testing.

In any case, right now a winner stands in front of the world, trying to maintain his innocence. Even if he succeeds, the taint will be with him for the rest of his life, coloring his actions, spreading doubt into the hearts of those who want to believe in him. In some ways, he's already lost.

Party Shuffle

I'm playing poker online and kind of bored at the moment (don't tell the feds--they're still looking for me after that little incident; I'd prefer not to talk about it right now, from what I hear, the statute of limitations is almost up). And don't worry, I claim all winnings on taxes (so far, it hasn't been much of an issue).

I saw this done here, and thought I would try something similar. So I have the i-Tunes up and here's the first ten songs in the party shuffle:

1. No Rolling Back - Jay Farrar
2. Sympathy for the Devil (live) - Jane's Addiction
3. Eyes on My Back - Joseph Arthur
4. Narc - Interpol
5. My Father's Waltz - Hem
6. Garden - Goober and the Peas
7. You Might Think - The Cars
8. Madness (Is All in the Mind) - Madness
9. What's the New Mary Jane? - The Beatles
10. Christ is My Hope - The Innocence Mission

I don't use the party shuffle enough; it's a pretty nice mix, and it certainly beats reading donkeys chatting with each other between hands.

I Am Superman and I Can Do Anything

Way back in '03, I sat through the Matrix Revolutions, wondering how I was going to get my money, and more importantly, my time back from that complete piece of garbage.

However, from my perspective, the movie did offer one revelation, if you will: after watching Neo and Agent Smith battle in the skies and throughout the city, I thought "Someone's going to make a kick ass Superman movie someday."

Fast forward to today. Superman Returns is out in theaters, and while I was right in one regard – it is impressive. Otherwise, I’m feeling a big pile of ambivalence about the movie.

For those of you who don’t know, the basic plot is after a mysterious five-year absence, Superman returns to Earth, discovering that the more things change, the more they stay the same. Lois Lane is winning a Pulitzer for her editorial “Why the World Doesn’t Need Superman.” Oh, and she’s raising a son and engaged to Perry White’s nephew, and associate editor at the Daily Planet. Lex Luthor is out of prison and he’s raiding the Fortress of Solitude for advanced technology, but he’s using it for a land swindle. And the world? Still needs saving.

This movie does a lot very well. I liked that Bryan Singer chose to make it a sequel to Superman II, effectively removing Superman III and IV from the picture, and using Richard Donner’s version of Superman as a springboard was a great choice, in that viewers are already somewhat familiar with the basic premise and story.

The action scenes, especially the plane rescue, are simply breathtaking. (If you get the chance, see it in 3-D; you’ll thank me later), and Brandon Routh, except for his propensity to pose like Gerorge Reeves in every scene, isn’t bad as Superman. (I was most concerned about him in the title roll – I originally thought he looked too pretty for the part).

But the movie brought a lot of negatives along with it as well. Kate Bosworth, while easy on the eyes, simply wasn’t very convincing as Lois; she failed to convince me that she had Lois’s steely character down. However, she’s still a step up from Margot Kidder’s gravelly voice rumbling “SUUUUPPPPEEERRMMANNN!!!” –shudder-

Superman Returns is also about 30 minutes too long; I’m pretty sure small scenes could have been cut. As it was, the movie screeches to a halt in several scenes and it has a lot of trouble recovering the lost momentum.

And then there’s the plot. I felt like there was a lot of been-been-there-done-that thrown into the movie, and I’m not sure why. Rehashed jokes from the original Superman movie included Superman reminding reporters that flying is still statistically safe and Parker Posey’s character repeating one of Miss Teschmacher’s jokes from the original. Plus, there’s the small problem that the plot is largely a rehash of the first movie, where Lex Luthor is going to kill millions in a land grab. Couldn’t they do better?

I’m thinking probably not. I’ve long suspected that Singer and his writing partners, Michael Dougherty and Dan Harris, don’t have many original ideas within themselves. Take their biggest recent venture, X-Men 2; the plot was a cross between Chris Claremont’s graphic novel God Loves, Man Kills and Star Trek 2: The Wrath of Kahn (watch the end of X2 and then watch the end of Star Trek 2 and tell me the end of X2 wasn’t a straight lift – I expected Patrick Stewart to start saying “Space, the final frontier . . .” in his ending voiceover). It worked, but I was a little disappointed, seeing that there was so much better material available to use.

So we get Superman Returns, which is basically a rehash of Superman: The Movie. I didn’t think it was bad, but I was disappointed that they chose to basically remake Superman instead of mining other parts of Superman’s rich 75-plus year history. There are other villains available – Brainiac, Mongol, Metallo, but they went with Luthor again (and apparently, there was a version of the script where Zod made an appearance, but Jude Law, who Singer wanted for the role, declined so they wrote him out). And lest I forget, the scene where Lois is on board the yacht and finds all of the wigs was also lifted straight from Star Trek 2.

I don’t mind homages; I don’t mind even incorporating elements from previous films, but I believe this could have been a better movie had the filmmakers chosen to go a different route.

In any case, while it's definitely not a great movie, it's not a bad one either. If you're looking for decent check-your-brain-in-at-the-door entertainment with a lot of truly impressive special effects, or you're a big fan of the Man of Steel, then Superman's well worth seeing.

Just be sure to block out lots of time.

My Man Otis

Is currently covering the World Series of Poker. Poker might not be your thing, but Otis is one hell of a writer and he offers first-rate coverage of the events. Click the link over in the sidebar to check it out.

Don't Forget to Duck!

Do you think the Busch Stadium ground crew was thrilled when they heard it was seat cushion night? I’m sure they didn’t think too much about it – at least until the Cardinals won the game in an ugly ninth inning. Soon the outfield and warning track was covered in a blanket of seat cushions.

I would have thrown mine, but I left it at our seats when David and I slipped down from our seats on Mt. Everest to some empty bleachers.

The contrast between the fans in the bleachers and the Top-of-the-World club couldn’t be greater. At the top, we were nestled between a gung-ho ex-Marine extolling the virtues of the Casino Queen (dude, while I like the Queen’s proximity to downtown, the place is one giant smoke-filled pit of –EV) and how pitchers shouldn’t be hitting and a bitchy Shirley Jones lookalike with a bruise on her foot that looked as if it was ready to blow at any moment. How did I see said bruise? After accusing us of stealing her seats and nearly tripped into everyone between her and her seat, she pulled off her high-heeled sandals and propped her dogs up on the seat in front of her. I know that’s certainly something I wanted to see. At least I wasn’t in one of the adjacent seats. No one drinks up there – the air’s too thin and drinking requires too much exertion at that height. The beer vendors had nearly forsaken us up there.

But the bleachers crowd – now that’s some local color. In the bleachers, the drinking starts with the opening of the gates and ends only when the beer man sings his sad, final last call. A woman sat nearby repeatedly sang the refrain of “Staying Alive”. Parents blanched as drunks cursed So Taguchi for a fielding error. Of course they apologized – we’re nothing if not polite in St. Louis – we just get a little emotional over the baseball. In the eighth inning, with the bullpen on the ropes, LaRussa pulled Looper and put in Izzy, and the fun began.

First the debates: “YES! – Go Izzy!”

“NOOOOOOO!!! Izzy sucks!”

“You suck cheesballs and drink Bud Light!!”

That shut him up good. I certainly didn’t know what to say, and I wasn’t even in the debate.

So Jason Isringhausen came up, trying to protect the Cardinals’ meager lead in the game. It’s important because leads are something the Cards haven’t seen too much of lately, and with the starters pitching batting practice, the hitters’ anemic bats and the bullpen’s willingness to let inherited runners cross the plate, the losing streak is starting to take on a life of its own. The tension in the stadium began mounting as everyone asked – which Izzy is it - the strike-throwing closer who fears no man, or the dude trying to figure out that whole strike zone thing?

Apparently, it was no-strike-zone Izzy, because he fell behind the count on each batter he faced, and that’s when this little observation hit: Jason Isringhausen may be the slowest working pitcher in all of baseball.

Between pitches, he stood on the mound, staring at the batter. Staring. Staring. Staring. He’d start to move . . . and throw to first. Then he’d stand on the mound. More standing. Glaciers slowly advance and recede over the continents. Izzy pitches. Waits. Waits. Waits. Sand wears the Sphinx down to nothing. He pitches. Another ball. At this point, I’ve convinced myself that they’re not using a stopwatch to time Izzy – they’re using an hourglass, and that might be too fast. I think I saw Duncan dust off the sundial.

After a brutal eighth, the Cardinals come up in the bottom of the ninth trailing by one run and the bottom of their order coming to bat. I was ready to leave, but a few things happened: Taguchi got on base. Bigbie hit a nice double (and man, was he flying), and the Indians pretty much handed the game to the Cards. (At least LaRussa pulled Izzy and had Spezio bat. I had visions of Izzy watching a pitch pass him, waiting, waiting, waiting and then swinging. Of course, this might let him hit the next pitch. Who knows?). And the hail of seat cushions flew forth.

I’m happy to see the losing streak end, but I think it was the best thing that could have happened to the team. No longer do we have to listen to ownership claim that this is a world-championship-caliber team. It’s pretty obvious that even if they win the pennant, some American League team is going to tee off on them. Hopefully, when the ownership group is busy selling off commemorative field-level seat cushions and the embers from the fire earlier in the season, they’ll remember that championship teams cost money to field, and after the taxpayers and fans have ponied up boatloads of money for them to get their new stadium, it’s only good manners to return the favor.

Be Careful What You Ask For

I've been watching a lot of Cardinals baseball this week. What can I say? I'm into torture. Nothing too painful, mind you, but still, I enjoy watching beat downs. However, one thing makes me cringe more than the bad baseball itself -- those Ford commercials with the dude who won American Idol.

Judging from that commercial, either the "talent" on the show this round was pretty damned miserable or he claimed the pity vote from America -- his scratchy voice and herky-jerky spasms across the stage must have triggered a wave of compassion unseen in this nation in many years . . . compassionate conservatism indeed.

In any case, does having him attempt to sing really sell Ford trucks? I seriously doubt vast numbers of teenage girls are watching Cardinals baseball games - or any baseball games for that matter, and I pretty sure that if you're in the truck-buying demographic: older than 20, needs a truck for some reason or another, then some prematurely gray-haired "singer" really isn't going to move too many trucks off the lot.

I think we're seeing one of the inherent problems of cross-promotion here: sure it helps getting your name out, and ultimately, no publicity is bad publicity. However, I can't help but think that this ad is going to cause nothing but backlash. Most guys I know of turn it off in annoyance -- if they're paying attention to commercials at all, and those who do let it sneak through their filters (either TiVO or personal) probably aren't going to run out and purchase a Ford. (Personally, it makes me want to run them off the road, which I did this morning - three times). And I can't imagine it's helping skippy's "career" (aka - three years of producing banal, soporific pop while basking in the glow of a nation's utter indifference).

In the end, I don't really have all the answers . . . or really, too many at all. Maybe this will sell more trucks and albums. Maybe Ford will continue it's decline. Maybe this dude will sing the greatest song ever and bring love and harmony to all God's children. Somehow I doubt it. I do know one thing, however, and that's when the screen fades to black and the commericals come up, I'm doing my part to help him - and Ford slide into irrelavence: I'm changing the channel.

Appalling

Generally, I don't like making this space too political. I have my views, just as I'm sure both my readers have theirs, and that's perfectly fine with me. However, one thing I will say right here: I've thought for a long time that despite any statements, truthful or otherwise, the most unforgiveable sin the administration has committed is the complete lack of planning and preparation for the war in Iraq. Read this (I found it here).

Like Lex said, if you don't find the story outrageous, you really can't claim to support the troops.

Duller Than Dirt

After suffering through a few minutes of Windfall last night, I decided that I'd probably be the most boring lottery winner ever. Granted, getting picked up by helicopters or buying small amusement parks for your kids is a fun way to use your winnings, but I'm guessing the second season (we should be so lucky) will be the winners going through bankruptcy court. Now that my annual foray into prime time network television has come and gone, it's time to turn off the TV for another three months.

Ten Books

A forum I lurk at (and sometimes post) posed a question: what are ten books you like and why do you like them? Not necessarily your favorite books, and they should be from different times in your life. I thought I would give it a shot. What ten books do you like and why? Here's my list:

1. Watership Down by Richard Adams– I read this every few years. I was in the seventh grade when I discovered Richard Adams’ tale of survival, friendship and courage – told from the perspective of rabbits. I scoffed when a teacher recommended it; I was nearly crying when I finished it. I love the stories, the language, and how Adams created a richly painted world that mirrors ours; one where all you need is friends to rely on, hope to carry you through the rough times and a place you can call home.
2. To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee – I wish she would have written more novels. I read this twice in high school and once a couple of years ago.
   
3. The Spy Who Came in From the Cold by John LeCarre– For me, LeCarre's best novels are about the old, burned out and bitter Cold Warriors – those who do the unspeakable so that we (the rest of the world) can sleep soundly in our beds. On the surface, Alec Leamas, the disgraced anti-hero of this novel, is sent back out “into the cold” for one final mission: bring down Mundt, his rival in the East German secret service. What always brings me back is how it’s so much more than a simple revenge story: we’re not so different from our foes, friendship and love have little place in the world of Cold War espionage, and there are no lengths a government won’t go to in order to protect its secrets.
4. The Lord of the Rings by JRR Tolkien – This one makes my “read every few years” list. I love that Tolkien created a living, vibrant world, where different cultures mix and, at times, clash. Granted, some of the characters are little more than cardboard cutouts and archetypes, but my favorite aspect of the story is how two simple farmers bring down the greatest evil in the world.
5. The Civil War by Shelby Foote – I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to read this series again, but if you want epic, there it is. Foote starts you from the beginning – you meet the key players, the political landscape and then the battles begin. The thing I enjoyed most about this series is that unlike many history books, Foote really brings the people alive; this history is like reading a novel (a very, very, very, very long novel).
6. Where the Red Fern Grows by Wilson Rawls – Recently, I noticed a copy of this at the bookstore; I picked it up and thumbed through it. I put it down when I started getting verklempt at the end, and tried running away before anyone noticed. Same reaction I had when I was 10. Darn sad books! If you can get through the end of this book without tearing up a bit, then I think you’re a rock, but this was one of my favorite books when I was growing up. I like books that cause strong emotional reactions, and this one does it in spades.
7. Shibumi by Trevanian – I like this book because I don’t really have to think too hard while reading it. The hero, Nicolai Hel, the world’s greatest assassin, lover, spelunker, and Go player, runs afoul of a monolithic corporation that essentially rules the world. All hell breaks loose. Damage is done. Revenge is sought. Everyone lives happily ever after. What’s not to like? The outrageous, larger-than-life characters make this book one of my favorites.
8. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams – Any book that answers the nagging question of life, the universe, and everything is all right with me. Any book that explains the myriad uses of a towel belongs on my bookshelf. The gleeful absurdity of the story reeled me in. Strangely enough, I still haven’t seen the movie.
9. Where The Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein – I remember pulling this out, running to my mother’s lap and getting her to read “I’m Being Eaten by a Boa Constrictor” time after time. Of course I was 22 at the time . . . not really, but giggling to the little poems in this book is one of my earliest memories and something that I treasure.
10. Chasm City by Alastair Reynolds – The key to great science fiction is to not focus on the physics, the kewl spaceships and the uber-powerful rayguns that can level cities, but to focus on the things that make a story great: the characters, the plot, the scene. I wish that more sci-fi writers (for both TV and written word) would remember that. Sure, you can throw in explanations for the cool doodads here and there, but give me a compelling mystery as told by a bodyguard seeking revenge for his (former) employer’s murder, and you have a pretty kick ass novel. This is the second, and my favorite, book in Reynolds’ Revelation Space series.

Mutant Explosion

When I saw the trailer, I figured we were either in for a train wreck or a pretty decent movie. Normally, I'd wait until video and banish it to my "movies that didn't suck as much as I thought they would" category, but since I'm nothing if not a dutiful geek (and therefore a completist), I saw me some X-Men: The Last Stand over the weekend.

I've always been fascinated by jugglers; I think it's amazing that someone can keep all those chainsaws in the air without dropping them, but there's a little part of me hoping that at some point, one will slip and we'll have a sight to see. This was my big problem with the movie: too many chainsaws in the air.

Just because we're different doesn't mean were not human. Love conquers all. If we stand together, there's nothing we can't accomplish. I love my gay -- errr, mutant son. Brett Ratner managed to set up each of these plotlines, and in fairness, he did resolve them. However, it wasn't very satisfying, since you needed a scorecard to keep track of all the characters running around. I was getting confused, and I read the comics for 15 years.

I don't really blame the director too much here: the action scenes were well done and fun to watch, but while Bryan Singer handles the character and plot development better than the action, Ratner definitely brings the big action to the screen well.

The basic plot: pharmaceutical company develops mutant "cure", so Magneto gets pissed and raises an army to slap the government around and announce that mutants aren't taking anymore crap from any humans. Meanwhile, the house of Xavier is a little shaky: the X-Men are now Storm, a withdrawn and depressed Cyclops, and the inexperienced Colossus, Rogue, Iceman and Shadowcat? Ariel? Sprite? Kitty Pryde? (They never really said her codename). I believe this would have made a serviceable and fairly satisfying film, but it looks like the studio made a few "suggestions" designed to set things up for future films.

So suddenly, we have Phoenix; we have Angel and his father, who developed the "cure"; we have Henry McCoy, the Beast. All these characters and plots zip around the screen and they come crashing together in the end in a rather unsatisfying explosion of CGI. Had they gone with fewer characters and one or two less plotlines, this would have been a much better movie.

But despite all this, I didn't hate the movie. It did move along well, and the action sequences were well done (Kitty vs. the Juggernaut is a definite highlight; in fact, Vinnie Jones as the Juggernaut was an inspired bit of casting); however, I believe that had Bryan Singer finished the trilogy as was originally planned, this would have been a better movie and a stronger conclusion to the series. But Singer was drawn off to make Superman Returns and Ratner, originally slated to make Superman, took his jobless ass and made X-Men.

So if you're looking for a good check-your-brain-in-at-the-door movie, X-Men is a fine choice. It's no Snakes on a Plane, but what is? If you liked the character-driven stuff from the other two X-Movies, consider yourself warned. And if you do see it, stick around until after the credits end. You'll thank me later.

Give Him the Heat, Ricky!

Jose Canseco has a new hobby.

I heard this on Jim Rome today; I almost wrecked the car I was laughing so hard. Imagine Jose Canseco with his 450+ major league home runs, marching up to the plate to face a 30-something accountant-pitcher bringing his blazing 60-mph heat. Oh yeah -- Canseco is using an aluminum bat.

The last thing some poor infielder is going to hear is PIIIINNNG!

Walking the Dog on a Night Like This

It’s May 1 and I’m wearing a stocking cap. I’m not sure if it’s going to help, but with the rain pouring down and a dog hopping around while crossing all four legs, I’m going outside. And my raincoat? The really good one that I use for camping trips? It’s doing a fine job keeping the trunk of my car dry.

Maybe an umbrella, you ask? Nope. I’ve long distrusted umbrellas, since those breezy college days, when winds would blow off the plains and rush between the campus buildings, creating little wind tunnels that would rip umbrellas from unsuspecting hands, or if you were prepared, the wind would just turn the umbrella inside out. Do this enough times and you don’t have an umbrella – you have a frame with little nylon tatters hanging from it. Mother Nature can be a real bitch sometimes.

So I open the door to the howling winds, preparing for a long, cold soak, and Trudy stares out the door, cocks her head and looks at me like I’ve lost my damn mind.

“Go out? In this? Are you crazy?” Her little brown eyes seemed to say.

I dragged her out of the house, because by God, if I’m getting soaked, then so is she.

We made it to the gate in my backyard before she stopped, took care of business in the yard, and started pulling me back to the house.

By this time, I’m looking around for the Four Horsemen, because this never happens and I’m thinking that the world is truly coming to an end. Trudy lives for the outdoors. She stares out the windows longingly. She loves sniffing at every blade of grass, every wayward leaf, every acorn or piece of trash on the streets (mainly she’s looking for food).

Lightning? No problem? Thunder? She’s stone deaf, so while I might be cringing and hoping the next blast of lightning isn’t aiming for me, she’s gleefully oblivious to me sparking like a roman candle. Wind? I could be blowing around the block like that cow in Twister (I can’t believe I actually watched it this weekend, and more importantly, I can’t believe I actually saw that piece of crap in the theaters – twice), and Trudy would be trying to take a dump in the crazy old man’s yard. She’s equally ignorant of plummeting temperatures and ice storms.

But a little rain, and she’s hauling ass back into the house.

Who knew? Maybe these smart pills are working (I know that fusion generator in the basement didn’t build itself and I sure didn’t do it. I’m not sure where she found the deuterium, and really, I don’t want to know). Maybe she’s just gaining wisdom with age.

All I know is that on a night where most sane people would be staying indoors keeping warm and dry, I was standing outside in a jacket and stocking cap, trying to coax a dog into staying outside to relieve herself.

Who needs the smart pills now?

Wanted:

• Female kickball player. Must be available this Sunday afternoon. Preferably someone who's not afraid to catch a large red rubber ball.
  
• Someone to remind me why I put up with this crap every freakin' spring.
  
• Something for my headache.
• Copious amounts of alcohol.
• Ten hours of sleep.
• More booze.
  

A Roof Spun from Gold

I believed this was going to be a total waste of time, but I figured what the hell -- give the guy a chance.

My fears were confirmed when he pulled up in a new Escalade, not a ladder in sight. After glancing briefly at my roof from the ground, he said, "You're missing a lot of shingles up there. You could start leaking any day now."

Uh-huh. And so it began.

I'm going to need some roof work on statley Brian Manor soon. As I've mentioned before, she's shedding shingles like crazy. According to the roofing contractor who actually climbed up on the roof and looked at it, Fortunately, all the old roofing material the previous owners left on the roof basically guarantee that it won't leak anytime soon, but it looks like crap. If I want to sell the house any time in the near future, I'm going to have to do something about it.

Meaning I got to visit with my new best friend. Jay strutted in, perfectly coiffed wearing a shiny leather jacket. Forgive me for stereotyping, but I want a roofing estimator to look like he actually stood sometime in the last 20 years with a hammer and roofing nails. I find that reassuring.

Jay started getting on my good side by commenting on my Indiana Jones DVDs that were out on the table - I'd been doing a little watching. He started talking about the good old days, watching Raiders and that one movie, with those guys, Monty . . . Python was it? The grail? Right! The Holy Grail.

Please. No self-respecting geek with an ounce of geek cred forgets about the Holy Grail. Nice try though.

But that's okay; I then heard about how his company is the most benevolent, kind, noble organization on earth. They rescue old ladies from the evil contractors. They remove kittens from trees. They save orphans. By the time he finished, I was crying. I wasn't worthy to be sitting in the presence of such magnamity.

Soon, it was time to talk turkey. He wasn't a salesman, and he hated it when sales people named a price, then cut it down in order to get the business. So a new roof would cost me . . . $22,000. But wait! They're offering $1,000 off as a special -- and another 15% since they buy so many shingles (apparently they're magic shingles, each one coated in gold and kissed by a fairy), and if I sign the paperwork tonight - right this very minute, he'll cut the price to a mere $13,000.

I didn't have the heart to tell him that the other bid I had, the one from the guy who actually walked up on the roof, was for around $3800. Needless to say, I know which bid I preferred.

My new best friend left, without a signed contract. For some reason, I had trouble pulling the trigger on a roof that would cost more than my car. At least the car has moving parts.

There are all sorts of predators in this world. Some say they'll do something and run away with your money. Others are nearly as bad -- they dazzle you with a long presentation and flummox you into signing your life away for a service that you can have at a fraction of the cost. Sadly, there are people who fall for the dog and pony show every day; that's why Jay was driving his shiny new Escalade around town.

What can I say? It sucks always being right. I closed the door and climbed up the stairs, chuckling all the while.

Milk Bones for Algernon

Some choose to celebrate holidays by quietly spending time with friends and family. Some choose to observe any religious obligations associated with said holiday. Some, on the other hand, have their own special way of observing these holidays. Take Trudy, my trusted canine companion, for instance.

She celebrates holidays by pooping in the house.

Trudy has always been a little shaky on the whole house training thing, but most of the time she gets it. Inside = bad; outside = okay. Sure we’ve had incidents over the last couple of years, but what relationship doesn’t have its ups and downs.

So this year, my dog celebrated Valentines’ Day, St. Patrick’s Day and Ash Wednesday by relieving herself in various rooms of my home. She also chose to do so for several days afterwards. She’s also been behaving more erratically, staring into corners, sleeping more frequently and generally acting more confused than normal.

I hit my limits after one particular post-Ash Wednesday session, where I spent an hour with some industrial strength cleaner on the rug in my sunroom upstairs. After a phone call to the vet, we determined that either Trudy is suffering from CCD (canine cognitive dysfunction – basically senility for dogs, or dumb dog syndrome as someone I know refers to it) or she’s losing control of herself.

So at the vet’s prompting, I started giving her some pills (smart dog pills!) that might alleviate the CCD. So far, no real changes, except that last night she pointed out that I forgot to carry the two in some calculus problems I was working out. It was a nice catch - that could have caused some trouble down the road.

If the pills don’t actually work, then it may be Trudy’s time. I can’t keep cleaning up after her, especially if I want to sell the house this year.

Trudy is a sweet dog, but she’s a difficult dog as well. She’s not particularly affectionate; she never plays and only acts happy to see me when I come home in the afternoons. She's also flatulent like you wouldn't believe. She can clear a room in six seconds. I’ve spent more money on inconclusive vet visits and kennel trips than I like to think about.

However, I also hate giving up on someone – even if she is a dog. I agreed to take care of her, and so it’s my responsibility to do so, even if she becomes an inconvenience. And, most importantly, she's still my friend.

Inconvenience or not, though, she may drive me to ulcers, especially if we have another argument like we did last night. I mean, come on, who really believes that given a little more time, McClellan could have revitalized the Army of the Potomac and beaten Lee? Smart dog pills, indeed.

The Blue and the Green

“Brian, there’s green and blue stuff all over your dryer!” Darcy’s disembodied voice floated up from the basement.

Coffee. That’s where my mind was. Needed to finish making coffee. Before bed, I set up the coffee pot, and at that moment, my head was buried in the pantry, trying to find more coffee.

“It’s all over my clothes. It looks like there was a crayon in there . . . oh. I might have had a crayon or two in one of my pockets,” her voice floated up at me again.

Found it. Mixed the grounds and sugar. Poured in the water. Set the timer. There. Now the counter needed wiping up. Clean kitchens are good.

“There’s a big glob of green crayon stuck to the side!”

Apparently, my plan to bury myself in kitchen cleaning and coffee making wasn’t going to pay off. I was going to have to face cold, hard reality – something that I haven’t wanted to do much lately. I’d like to sell my house this year, but I’m not sure it’s going to happen.

There’s a big hole in my kitchen ceiling, which I can’t fix until I get the corroded water line for the toilet replaced. I have a broken ceiling fan in the kitchen. The grass in the backyard is dead, but at least the weeds give some appearance of life. Once the weather turns warm, I’m going to replace most of the deck. But to keep things interesting, my house has decided that it could use a new roof as well.

As the roofer said, it probably won’t leak due to the inch of rotted crud under the shingles, but anytime there’s a good windstorm, my house sheds shingles like a Labrador sheds in the spring. I’m thinking this won’t encourage a potential buyer.

Needless to say, for me, the joy of homeownership was long ago replaced by a sort of bunker mentality: what’s going to blow up next? When I purchased the house, a friend said to me, “Congratulations on the best purchase you’ll ever make. And in getting the biggest pain in the ass you’ll ever have.” I laughed at him, charmingly naïve. Now I’m laughing at myself, cynicism fully restored.

But you learn from these tempests in teacups. Six months after I moved in, my roof started shedding shingles. I was convinced the whole house was broken; the next rainstorm would sweep the roof off the house and ruin everything. I found someone to fix it; he patched them up and no problem. (Until now, but I still needed to learn about finding competent contractors).

When I discovered my gutters had developed a new trick: they were pouring water into the house, as opposed to away from the house (there’s nothing more fun than seeing water trickling from an exterior wall), instead of losing my mind and pacing around like I’d forgotten my meds and the voices were getting a little too loud, I had them replaced along with the fascia.

Had it happened a few months ago, discovering that my dryer is now producing aqua-hued clothing would have caused me to pull out clumps of hair as I paced around fretting about it. Now, after deciding that ignoring/avoidance isn’t going to pay off, I needed to take a look. Hell, I might even be able to fix it. Right.

You learn; you adapt. Heck, I might even be growing up a little. But I’d still prefer to be playing a video game. Or sleeping. Or reading. Or just about anything else.

So I steeled my nerve and made my way to the basement, and sure enough – my dryer drum was looking rather cyanotic. Annoying? Yes. Insurmountable? Not really. Many bottles of cleaner, WD40 (it works! God bless the Internet – source of all knowledge), several rags and a roll of paper towels later, the drum only has a light blue tint. I’ll test-run it on an old towel tonight. The slightly blue-tinted drum adds character to an otherwise bland appliance.

Before I owned a house, I believed that outside of mowing the lawn once a week, I’d be living on easy street. Building equity, watching the house appreciate in value, collecting fat income tax returns. Easy living!

It’s not easy. Sometimes, it is a complete pain in the ass, but name one thing that’s important, fun and worthwhile that isn’t a pain in the ass occasionally. What’s that? You can’t? I know, because everything worth having is going to make you work for it.

So even though I sometimes consider dousing the first floor in gasoline, grabbing the dog and lighting a match, I fix the old place up, forgive it its faults and look forward to the day I can step into a new home . . . and deal with all of its daily catastrophes.

I Bought Into the Hype . . .

. . . and now I want my $40 back

Sometimes it sucks being right; there are times I take very little pleasure in it.

Last Saturday, I met Darcy at the mall; she was dress shopping, something I know we'd both be happier if I wasn't with her. So I met up with her by the Cheescake Factory, where she said she'd put us on the waiting list for a table.

Now, I've never been to the Cheescake Factory, and to be honest, I've never been too keen on going. I simply wasn't interested in the place; all I knew was that if I never set foot inside, my life wouldn't be any worse off than it was before.

But we were there, Darcy suggested it, and I said sure. So I arrived at the mall, freshly scrubbed and all worked out from my trip to the gym, only to discover that we had a 25-minute wait ahead of us.

Darcy had put our names on the list 30 minutes earlier.

So we joined the masses waiting to get into the place. So we wandered for a few minutes, and returned with ten minutes to spare. And we waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

About 20 minutes later, we learned we got to wait another 10 minutes - at least.

I understand a restaurant gets busy at lunchtime. I understand that people act with all the predictability of the Midwest weather. But I also know that you should take that into account, so people aren't waiting much longer than you say.

So we head off to our seats after our pager signals us. Our table? One small table along a long bench, where roughly 12 other tables had been placed. It looked like a cafeteria, and funny, with the overly-loud muzak and cheap plastic cups for water, it sure seemed like one.

Thumbing through our menu, I was overjoyed to see that I had to get through the bar and appetizer section before hitting the entres. Oh yeah --- there was also all the advertisements on every other page. Every. Other. Page.

Judging by the crowds I've generally seen at these restaurants, I can't imagine their hurting for cash. If they were a small mom-and-pop restaurant in Anytown, USA, I'd buy the need for ads in the menu, but not full-page color ads on glossy paper. And not for places that were NO LONGER IN BUSINESS!!! WTF? Honestly!

Our food arrived. A lunch salad was large enough to feed a family of sixteen. It was an okay salad; nothing to make me want to shake the chef's hand, but certainly not worth the $10 it cost.

However, the carrot cake I had for desert was quite tasty. I'll give them that.

We left, having two salads and two deserts - $40 poorer. I wanted to ask the hostess or manager for a kiss, since I generally enjoy kisses while being screwed.

In short, I have never, never seen a restaurant with less respect for the people shelling out the money to eat there. You wait for an insane length of time, only to sit and wait some more in an uncomfortable seat with all the privacy of a barracks while drinking in the painted on decor and thumbing through the ads in the menu.

As near as I can tell, their basic message is "Screw you; we're going to make you wait and you're going to like it." They bribe you with insane portions of food, but for me, that's not enough.

I'm dying to know how many people regularly go there -- and not under some form of obligation or duress (they have friends or family in from out of town who want to go; they need to use a gift card, etc.). I'm willing to bet the number isn't all that high.

Perhaps I'm out of touch, but I'd prefer going to a small, more quiet restaurant, with reasonable waits and less-than-indifferent service. I don't mind dropping money on a meal; I do mind if I feel as if I'm not getting my money's worth for the experience, and to me, a mountain of salad and an admittedly good desert for a nearly one-hour wait to sit in a crappy atmosphere isn't worth it one little bit.

Fitness Tips

After a nearly two-year hiatus, I decided it was time to take my tubby ass back to the gym. Something about running out of breath while climbing the stairs, feeling slow and the vision of me being buried in a piano box with two cranes as pallbearers didn’t seem like a good life choice. Besides, kickball’s around the corner, and I need to be ready.

And it’s good to see things haven’t changed much. I like consistency; it makes me feel safe and secure, so when I walk into the gym only to see the Beautiful people congregating, it feels like a sort of homecoming. Sadly, the only thing missing is the two guys standing in the corner, straddling each other while screaming “CMON!!! IT’S ALL YOU!!! YOU GOT IT!!!! GO GO GO!!!!” I’m pretty sure one of them was holding weights, but I was afraid to look too closely.

However, things have changed; maybe it’s the time of year – there’s a few new years’ resolution holdovers, younger people and new folks there. And these young’ns? They don’t know crap. So as the old salt, I figured I would take the liberty to give a little gym etiquette guide:

1. Stripping the weights is for pussies. The next guy’s there to work out, right? So why the fuck would you want to take your old weights off? He needs the exercise, so let him take his tubby ass up and remove all the plates you just slapped on the machine. He’ll thank you for it eventually.
2. Accessorize. Ladies, be sure to cake on an extra layer of makeup to go with the jewelry. That way, when you stand around in the humid room, it might not run as badly. Keep your purse with you too; you never know when it might come in handy, or you need to write down a phone number.
3. Attire. It’s all about the look. That’s why it’s important to wear a t-shirt saying something to the effect of “Macho”, “Pride”, or “Big Gunz”. Or, if you’re a real man and want to show it, go simple and find the Superman logo t-shirt. Your admirers will appreciate you that much more.
4. Socialize. The gym is fun. You should have fun, so feel free to sit on one of those handy seats and benches randomly set around the room and have yourself a good talk. Maybe while you’re discussing real estate, 401Ks, getting ripped the night before. The guy wanting to use your seat? Fuck him. You were there first.
5. Say it loud, say it proud. 100 lbs is a really good bench; especially if you’re doing reps. So be sure to let fly the soul-clearing scream while putting it up. You want people looking at you; the ladies will be coming over for a chat or maybe to pat your pecs. The guys, well, they’ll be hiding their heads in shame, sorry they ever set foot on YOUR gym floor.
6. Do I look like the maid? You’re in the zone. Sweat’s flying, you’re moving. If you were sweating any more, you’d have ducks swimming around you and people would be tossing coins at your feet. But you can’t stop. Even if you just used that dumbbell. Even though it just slid out of your hand due to the layer of sweat. Sweat dries eventually, especially if the next person comes along to pick up the weight. Gotta keep moving, get back into the zone . . .
7. I did it MY way, Byeeotch. America was founded by individualists; men and women who were bound and determined to make their own ways in life without some crusty old monarch in London telling them what to do. So you’re simply honoring America when you ignore the arrow telling you to walk clockwise. If it’s Tuesday it’s counter-clockwise day dammit!
8. Now that's what I call high quality H2O. A good workout means a big sweat. You want to replace that lost water, so you keep a gallon jug with you at all times. Good thing there’s all those drinking fountains around to refill the jug when you empty it. Those people in line behind you? Morons. They should’ve brought their own jugs.
9. I look good – real good. When you’re pumped up, you look like a god amongst men. That’s why you should stand in front of the mirror, blocking off all the free weights staring longingly at yourself. Because really, what can look better than you?
10. Patience is a virtue. You learned how to wait your turn when you were two (ideally), so when someone’s on the machine you want, stand right over him and stare until he gives it up. It’s your turn, dammit! Screw his slow old ass on the equipment. Asking to work in is for pussies, and that’s something you’re not.

So there you have it; a little help for you gym beginners. Working together, we can make the gym experience one that everyone can enjoy.

Progress?

While I'm annoyed that she chose to take care of business in the smallest and, perhaps, least ventilated room in the house, I can't help but be impressed that Trudy crapped in front of the toilet. At least she's has the right idea.

Ungrateful

I checked my pockets to make sure everything was in its place: cell phone, check; wallet, check; keys, in the ignition. I hadn't dropped anything, so I was awfully curious as to why the guy was jogging up to my car while waving frantically.

Somehow, I doubted he wanted to chat; when I held the door open for him as I walked out and he walked in, he didn't look at me or say anything ("Thank you" would have been nice, but what the hell). What would cause a grown man to hurry out of a bank gesturing urgently to a total stranger?

I was pretty sure he hadn't just finished robbing the place, since he'd only been in there for about 30 seconds, but just to be safe, I cracked the window as he walked up to see what he needed.

"You got a lighter?" he asked.

WTF? I mean, I hear nicotine cravings are a bitch, but he ran out to see if I could give him a light?

"No. Sorry," I said.

"How about in the car?"

To the best of my knowledge, most cars built in the past 5-6 years don't come with a built-in lighter. I have a very new-looking car.

Now, I'm willing to guess that he doesn't have a newer car, and I'm willing to guess that he's probably not the most observant soul on earth.

"No. I'm afraid not."

"I bet there's one in the car," he came back with.

"No -- there's not!"

"Oh." And he walked back towards the curb.

So let's see; he was a rude asshole when I held the door for him. Then when I didn't have a light for him, he was an even bigger prick. I was kind of pissed at this point, but I just rolled up the window while muttering a few choice words. People suck.

As I drove off, he stood on the curb, hunched over, intently studying one of the sidewalk lights on the curb. Maybe he was trying to figure out if he could light up off of that; maybe he was new to the whole electricity thing. Who knows?

All I know is it's bad form to act like a tool then expect people to bend over to assist you. I toyed with the idea of running his ass over and adding a little badly-needed depth to the gene pool, but deciding that might be considered murder, I headed back to work instead.

To the best of my knowledge, he's still looking for that light.

Woohoo!!

My nerd heart is all aflutter.

Sure it's cheesy and silly at times, but what's more fun than watching a crazy brit travel through time in a phone booth with a really hot chick? It's fantastic!

More posts this weekend. I just had to get my nerd on for a moment.

Naked

We dashed out of the cold wind and into the warm building. We'd been driving all day and some leg stretching was in order, so a walk through Wal Mart it was. However, as we left the car, we realized that the warm Dallas winter we'd left behind had slowly transformed into the cold Missouri one. Joy.

I reached into my pocket and realized that my phone wasn't there. No worries, I was sure it was in the car.

But it wasn't. Nor was it in the trunk. Nor under the seat, or in the glove box. I was without phone.

All things considered, it was a great weekend. I'd just met the rest of Darcy's family. We had a plesant Christmas. We were headed home. No disasters, problems or spats. All was peaceful under the heavens.

So in order to add a little spice to my life, I decided to drop my phone somewhere in Oklahoma.

I handled it well -- for six seconds. What if mom was calling? What if work needed me? What if someone had it and was calling 1-900-SPANKME? What the hell was I going to do?

"It's okay," Darcy said. "I'm sure someone turned it in. If not, just call Sprint tomorrow and have them shut off the phone."

"But I need a phone." I said.

"Why?" Darcy said.

"Because. I need one."

"Who's going to call you? Why do you need one now?"

"Because that's the number I give out. People know to reach me there. I need a phone, dang it!"

"I don't think the world will end if you don't have a phone," Darcy said while smiling.

"I'll be cut off from society; I'll cease to exist! I'll be a giant hole in the space-time continuum!"

"You're so cute." Darcy said.

So maybe I didn't wink out of existence, but I'm feeling lost and somewhat naked without a cell phone. I don't have the reassuring weight in my pocket; no one can reach me RIGHT NOW. Dear God, I'll have to listen to the radio while driving! Lord, give me strength. And now I learn that if I wait until Sunday, I can get an extra $75 off a new phone.

Of course, this could be a positive experience. Perhaps between now and Sunday I'll learn to cherish the silence; I'll have to be a little more careful in planning my time out, but I can manage, and if I need to call someone, I go home or I use a pay phone. Sure, I could embrace the simplicity forced upon me and enjoy the freedom, but I'll probably end up like the guy in the Shawshank Redemption who hung himself because he couldn't handle it.

However, I'm pretty certain I'm going to lose my damned mind between now and then. If you see someone hustling down the street, glancing furtively to the left and right, while talking to himself, take pity on him. It could be me, so kindly take my shoelaces, belt and any matches or sharp objects. I'll thank you later.

Random Stuff, Take 99

Happy Holidays!

A few pre-Christmas random notes before I head out of town again:

• What’s with all the anti-Christmas hysteria? You hear all the conservative gasbags going on about how Christmas is under attack because people say “Happy Holidays”. Note to assorted windbags: Christmas, Hanukah, Kwanzaa, New Year’s Eve. Last time I checked, that’s four – count ‘em – four separate holidays. Therefore, if you say “Happy Holiday,” you’d look like a fool – there being four holidays and all. I looked it up: the plural of “holiday” is “holidays”. So here’s a suggestion – TONE DOWN THE FUCKING RHETORIC FOR ONCE! That way, we might take you seriously when you babble on about all the other made-up crap, like the liberal media, the war on terror and judicial activism.
• Better yet -- how about not worrying about what Target, Wal Mart, K-Mart, S-Mart, Joe's Lamp Shack and Billy Bob's House of Knives does to acknowledge Christmas and just try making the season as pleasant as possible for you and those around you.
  
• Lesson learned from writing the book – have an actual idea before starting. Paper-thin plots pretty much die by word 15,000. I’ll be at it again next year, though.
• Charlie Brown Christmas? It still rocks – 40 years after it first aired.
• Four days of little to no sleep = messed up sleep schedule. Messed-up sleep schedule + post-Vegas exhaustion = pre-Christmas cold.
• I hate Kohl’s.
• I also hate Christmas shopping. Next year, it’s all online, baby!
• I still believe in Walt Jocketty, but I’m starting to get kind of nervous.
• Don’t give suckers the benefit of the doubt. Odds are, they’re just as stupid as they look and act. (More on this later)
• Have a safe and wonderful holiday, everyone. Enjoy the time with your friends and families.

Tree Memories - Pt. III

It’s three weeks before Christmas; carols have taken over the radio, a winter chill has settled in, keeping people cloistered in their homes, huddled against the cold. Everyone, that is, except for me – my fingers were numb.

Why were they numb? Because I was reaching up through the moon roof of Darcy’s car, holding her 8-1/2-foot tall tree on the roof. Despite thick gloves and heat blazing from the vents, airflow at 35 MPH treated my gloves like tissue paper, but I wasn’t deterred – my death grip kept the damned tree solidly against the car’s body as we inched closer to home.

How did I get into this predicament? Well, let’s set the clock back a week. Darcy wanted a tree for her apartment – a live tree; a tall tree; a fresh tree. Meaning we were going to a cut-your-own-tree lot. When she suggested this, I pointed out the obvious flaw in her plan:

“Let’s be honest, sweetie,” I said. “When they say cut-your-own tree, they probably should say Brian-cuts-down your tree.”

“Well, yeah,” she said. “But can we go?”

Again, rather than waste time with just saying no, pointing out how it’s a waste of gas, a waste of time and damned cold outside, I folded like a piece of paper. Sure, pride is nice, but grumbling aside, since I decided to not hate Christmas this year, and it would make Darcy happy, then tree shopping it is.

And there but for the grace of God I went – to a tree lot over in Illinois.

The car ride was uneventful, except that since we were in her car, we listened to Christmas music the entire time. Now, I don’t mind “classic” Christmas music; however the new stuff – mostly stuff written in the past ten years or so – really stinks. Mariah Carey warbling about something; Faith Hill – ugh. And of course, the most hated version of all – Stevie Nicks croaking Silent Night. It sounds like frogs fucking.

So we arrived at the tree lot – trucks as far as the eye can see. We go to the cashier, pick up a saw, hop on the trailer being dragged by the tractor and off we went into the wilds of Eckert's tree lot.

The cold wind blew into the 30-40 of us huddled on the trailer. I pet the large dog lounging beside me -- there were two dogs on the trailer; I'd bring my dog, except that she'd run off, trying to urinate on every tree on the lot. Between that and the "presents" she'd leave for everyone, and we might not be welcomed back, so Trudy remained behind.

We walked around, seeing various trees. Finally we found It -- green, tall, fluffy. It stood out amongst the other trees - taller, fuller. It was the One.

Next thing I knew, I was on my knees before it, sawing through the trunk, and soon, the tree was down (fortunately, not on top of me -- kind of was afraid of that). Soon, we were in line, paying for the tree.

As we left, I grabbed several strands of twine -- we had no other means of tying the tree to the car, so twine it was, and after several minutes of knotting, weaving, wrapping, we climbed into the car and drove. For about a half mile, when we stopped to re-tie the tree. Two miles later, we stopped again.

The tree kept swaying to and fro on top of the car. This wasn't good, considering we still had several miles of highway to cover before getting the tree safely to Darcy's apartment. After stop number three, I was reaching up through the moon roof, holding the tree on the car. We needed help - and soon.

Salvation came in the form of a nursery that sold trees. We pulled into the lot, and Darcy appealed to their kind natures, while I slinked off, not wanting to be pointed out as the guy who couldn't tie a tree on a car. After he finished tying the tree back on, I belly crawled back to the passenger side door and we made a clean getaway.

The tree fastened to the roof, it was off to Darcy's apartment, where we put it up and added the lights. The next night we decorated it. Then we redecorated it the next night after it fell over in the middle of the night.

I'm still not a big tree fan. As we worked on it, I could feel my sinuses filling up and my head starting to swim. Allergies rock. And in a few weeks, we'll need to take it down. However, the experience wasn't as traumatic as it might have been, and any chance I get to spend time with Darcy is well worth it.

However, I still don't want to carry the damn thing out of her apartment. I'm nothing if not lazy.

Tree Memories - Pt. II

Sometime in September, it became increasingly obvious that Darcy wasn’t going to dump my ass by the holidays. This, by the way, is a very good thing; however, my past relationship history generally keeps me peeking over my shoulder.

In any case, we began discussing the holidays, and I soon learned that Darcy loves Christmas. She. Loves. Christmas.

This is kind of a funny contrast to me, who, as I said before, likes the family time, the food (Lord, do I love the food – rub the belly! Look at it jiggle! Roll, fat roll! Err . . . I digress), and the giving and receiving of presents, but I couldn’t care less about the stores, commercials, bad Christmas music and the tree.

Yes, the tree. My fingers and toes turned numb just thinking of the tree, and now my girlfriend is suggesting that I go out and buy one. I needed a distraction; I needed time to think, to clear my head, I needed to say something so brilliant that it would put it out of her mind completely for the rest of time.

“Um – I’ll think about it,” is what came out.

“If you have a tree, I’ll want to spend more time at your house. Otherwise, I won’t come over as much,” was her response.

“Err – I’ll think about it?” kept rearing its ugly head. And so we tabled the discussion until Thanksgiving.

I had some extra time that morning; my services weren’t required for the parade, so Darcy and I lounged around watching television and reading the paper.

“Lowe’s has an artificial pre-lit tree on sale for $25,” she said.

“So?” I came back with. Probably not the best response, but I had turkey on the brain. Sweet, sweet turkey, with stuffing and cranberries and . . . .

“I think you should buy it. While it’s so cheap.”

“But I don’t want a tree”

“Yes, you do! We’re going to enjoy this Christmas, and I want you to have a tree here!” is basically what she said. So I looked her right in the eye, gathered my resolve and folded like a piece of paper.

But hey – since I was going to lose the fight anyway, why not save a few bucks in the process? I’m nothing if not practical.

Up bright and early Friday morning. Had to beat the shoppers. Had to beat the shoppers. What’s my damn problem? Lowe’s isn’t going to be infested with crazed shoppers drunk from turkey and lack of sleep; maybe a few surly contractors who need to get some work done, but crazed post-Thanksgiving shoppers? Not so much.

And I was right – sort of. It took awhile to get past Crestwood Mall, where the cars lined up and down Watson, patiently waiting to get in before all the stuff was gone. Because, you know, stores sell out of everything for the rest of time unless you make it there at 3:00 AM.

So I bought my tree (and I went to the casino to kill a few hours and not deal with traffic --- and I won $50 – thereby paying for the tree). And last weekend, we finally set it up, and decorated it.

All I had for this tree was lights – no ornaments or anything, so my beautiful girlfriend bought me the coolest ornaments ever – Star Wars and Batman ornaments! This rules. Then we went out and bought some generic ornaments along with a tree topper – a model of a robot with huge guns! Robots rule! I was going to have the coolest tree ever.

We returned home; I walked the dog and popped The Two Towers in the DVD player – I needed a little Christmas decoration movie for inspiration. We assembled the tree and plugged it in. And a strand of lights didn’t work.

Unfazed, Darcy tugged at the strand, and they came on for a second – but only for a second. Remaining calm, I checked the instructions. It was either the bulbs or the fuse. I hoped for the fuse and tried replacing it. And failed – because I have REAL FREAKING FINGERS!!! Apparently, they designed these lights for the wee people, because you can’t change the fuse, unless you have needles for fingers. What the hell were they thinking?

I started tugging at bulbs, feeling frustration and anger mounting. But before I blew, I realized I was becoming my father, which brought be back from the ledge. I put the burned-out strand on my to-do list, and we sat in the glow of the tree lights, contemplating warfare and politics in Middle-Earth. Well, I did; Darcy fell asleep.

So I have a tree. Sure it’s artificial, sparsely decorated and kind of small, but I have a tree, and I didn’t traumatize myself while putting it up! Progress! Bring on the next challenge!

Little did I know that the next tree challenge was only a few short hours away . . .

Tree Memories - Pt. I

Almost immediately after Thanksgiving, you could feel it starting: Dad would whistle Christmas carols. A few days later, he’d start clearing a space in the living room. Then he’d dig all the boxes of ornaments out a few days after that. Then the moment came when we could no longer ignore it; the moment we all dreaded – it was time to go tree shopping.

When Mike and I were very young, Mom would start bundling us up early: sweaters, gloves, socks, mittens, socks, coats, hoods, hats, scarves, boots and socks covered every inch of flesh – except for a tiny hole around our faces. As we moved outside, steam would fountain out of the hole. We looked like dolphins with feet, lumbering around the tree lots.

At the first of several tree lots, Dad would inspect each tree, eyeing it critically, making sure it lived up to standards agreed upon – by his committee of one – years ago. He’d stand the tree up and look at it standing out against the sky, and then he would comment on how small it looked – failing to realize that to the sky, everything looks kind of small. To me, it looked huge – towering over us, occasionally obscured by a jet of exhaling steam, but it was big. It was green, and it was a tree. And I could no longer feel my fingers.

But the trees wouldn’t stand up to their inspection. A small bald spot here, brown needles there, and by lot three, I’d lost sensation in my feet. And the search continued, until we found the Tree. Up until now, I couldn’t have cared much less about the damn tree. However, watching them bundle it was the most fascinating thing ever. Cutting the bottom off and then shoving the tree through the chute so it came out wrapped was (and still is) the coolest thing ever. I know – I’m a geek.

The tree would come home and stand up in the corner of the living room. We’d remove the lights from their assorted boxes and begin untangling the Gordian knots. And the fun began.

My father was a wonderful man who loved us dearly. He was extremely intelligent and loved greatly by his students and fellow teachers. He knew more about history than I can ever hope to know. But the man couldn’t use a hammer to save his life. Any project involving carpentry, electrical work or plumbing involved much cursing, stomping and several attempts. So when the lights didn’t work, Dad would be chipper no more. Cussing, and stomping and complaining lead to a trip to Target, where we’d buy new lights, and inevitably, a strand wouldn’t work, continuing the process.

But afterwards, the tree would be up, gently glowing in the corner of the room. Dad would sit in there with it; heck, we all did – it was relaxing to sit in the dim twinkling lights. By Christmas, the tree had worked its magic and I was suffering from pneumonia while Mom and Mike were nursing colds. The allergen factory had to go.

This process continued yearly, but as we grew older, it grew less smooth. Add a little teenage sullenness to Dad’s frustration with all things electric and you can imagine how the scene played out. But even grudgingly, we’d help put the tree up.

Because Dad loved Christmas; he loved the idea of the family being together and celebrating the holidays together. He loved Christmas carols, trees, lights and just the time of the year. And while we may laugh it off now and complained about it growing up, we knew where he was coming from. He did these things because he loved us and wanted us to look back on Christmastime as something special and magical. But by then, my heart had been poisoned off the holidays.

Spend several years working retail around Christmas, and if anything will beat holiday love out of you, it’s some crazed semi-drunk shopper blaming you that he waited until the 23^rd to buy his kids the must-have toy of the year. If that doesn’t do it, working the return desk will. So sometime during high school and college, I developed something of a –meh- attitude about the holidays. I liked giving and receiving presents, and I liked spending time with my family, but that was as far as I could take it.

I think it frustrated Dad to no end that we all felt the same about it. Eventually, we switched to an artificial tree, and every year, two weeks before Christmas, Dad would put it up. We’d return from college or come to visit after we’d moved out and the tree would be up. A few weeks later, it would come down.

After Dad died, we never set the tree up again. We still celebrated the holidays, but there were no trappings – it was purely a utilitarian celebration: gifts exchanged, dinner eaten, and then we’d go to the boats – you know, a traditional Christmas celebration.

I never saw a reason to put a tree up in my assorted apartments or house after I moved out, so I never did. And so things continued. Until this year.

Plugging a Hole

How are you? It's been awhile? What? Really? I'm not surprised, and that shirt? It looks great on you.

So yes, I've been somewhat delinquent in writing out here. I could bore you with the usual excuses, but you've heard them all before. I want to write again, but I've been having trouble finding my voice lately. Everything I write sucks. I read it, hate it and leave it sitting in the ether, waiting for a revision that will likely never come.

Part of the problem is focus -- I lack it. I return home from work and don't feel like doing anything, so nothing gets finished.

I pondered this last week as I surfed the 'net, trying to figure out where I left my voice (not that it was so fresh and unusual that the world can live without it), but I missed it. Then it hit me:

I need a goal.

So I'm writing a novel this month. It might suck, it might rock. Right now, it doesn't exist. I don't even really have a great idea. I did, but those bastards Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson stole it. Wedding Crashers, indeed. Fuckers.

In any case, I'm writing a book this month. I don't know if it's something I'll ever share with the world, but it's something I need to do - just to prove I can.

Wish me luck, and please, feel free to kick me in the ass if it looks like I'm lagging. Or, heck, just kick me in the ass -- I probably deserve it.

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.