I mentioned my hat fetish yesterday, so I felt it necessary to dedicate an entire blog entry to the hat, or the cap if you prefer. I have to begin by saying something that I might regret...my favorite MLB cap, all things considered, is the Yankee hat. It's very simple and totally classic. You could say the same for the Red Sox cap but I prefer the navy and white. Hence, my current cap of choice is the Atlanta Braves away cap that discards the red brim for an all navy backdrop and a simple, white A. I also happen to believe that the NY logo is one of the best of all time. The Knicks used to employ the same, exact logo but they got away from it. And don't confuse the Yankee NY with the Met NY, or the former Giant NY.
That's the thing with uniforms in general and their accompanying hat which is actually considered a part of the uniform...simple is better. Some of the worst uniforms/caps of all time are those that took the new and hip approach that is certain to wind up in a Building 19 within a year of inception. It doesn't work. Classic looks in uniforms and hat do not go out of style and perhaps most importantly, they carry an aura of something original and unchanged...unfettered. For instance, you know that when Babe Ruth played, the Yankee uniform was essentially the same. Reggie Jackson, Don Mattingly and Derek Jeter...they've all worn the same uniform. Nothing has changed. There aren't many teams in any sport that can make this claim.
But back the cap...my goal is to own all 64 hats that are a part of the Authentic MLB collection today. I probably won't see this through because I've recently been made aware of the ultimate cost of this venture (thanks baby) and it scares me to think that I would spend that much on a bunch of hats. However it's a harmless hobby and if I spread the purchases out over time, it's really not that bad.
Some of the worst: I hate the Tampa hat...always have, from the original, awful green and purple piece of crap to the current TB logo. It's too big and once again, they've already changed their entire color scheme and uniform structure. I will say though, getting away from the sleeveless jersey is the best thing they ever did. Those are a fucking disgrace and every team that has one it its' repertoire should be ashamed. Tank tops are for the NBA. Moving on...I don't like two-toned caps at all. Cincinnati, Pittsburgh (with the red brim...what the fuck is that?), Oakland, Atlanta, Cleveland, Colorado, the Mets, Baltimore...I could go on. And most teams have one of these as a Spring Training hat or something...except the Yankees. I just don't know why there became this initiative to add unnecessary colors to the hat. The Colorado hat should be either all black or all purple with the CR...the Reds hat all red or all black...etc, etc. Yeah, these teams all have a one-color hat, but it's usually their alternate hat. Oakland has an all-green and an all-black cap as part of their four-cap arsenal (totally unnecessary, by the way and it throws off my collection's balance). They should move to just the two and eliminate the two tone. I realize this is a bit contradictory because the two-toned yellow and green Oakland hat is old school, but it's terrible.
I need a nice, classic baseball hat if I'm going to wear it often. Again, that Braves road hat is a prime example. The Red Sox cap is a nice option as is the Yankee hat (again), the Marlins cap, either Tiger hat, some of the Cleveland caps, etc. In terms of throwbacks however, it gets a little more dicey.
You look at some of the really "out there" caps that teams used to wear honestly, it's mind blowing. The old Padre caps with the yellow and brown are a prime example, but they're equal parts ugly and awesome. Same goes for the Toronto cap, the old White Sox cap (the one with the batter and SOX in bold letters; red, white and blue), the baby blue Phillies cap, the Brewers mitt cap...these are some really great additions to any cap collection and they're sure to get a few "wow, sick cap" comments if you're out in public.
Not to go totally off track here, but I just described a meal I made for Lauren and I up in NH last weekend to one of my co-workers. Here's how it went:
Me: "Yeah man, I made these really good turkey burgers up in NH."
Guy (his name is Guy...not just calling him "guy"): "I love turkey burgers. Little mayo, slice of tomato (kisses his fingers like an italian)."
Me: "Sounds great. But get this: I put a bunch of Frank's Red Hot in the meat, form up the patties and throw them on the grill. Just before they're done, I throw pepperoncini slices on top of the patties and cover those with a slice of jack cheese. The cheese melts, I take them off and place them on warm buns. I then add avocado and arugula and serve them with a side of ranch, per Lauren's suggestion. Fantastic. You'll love them, I promise."
Guy: "I bet. Wait dude, you realize how we sound right now, right? Listen to us. Most men would at least try to sound manly when describing a burger to another man, like, use a big slab of beef, huck that shit on the grill and sear it then serve it up bloody. We're like, yeah, I use an avocado and some spicy arugula. It's a delight."
Me: "Shut up, dude. I like arugula."
***to give credit where credit is due, those turkey burgers are the brainchild of Lauren and they really are incredible. Try them soon.***
26 June 2008
25 June 2008
Results
The results from last night's beer and wing extravaganza are as follows:
25 BBQ wings, 25 Buffalo wings, 8 PBR's, 1 glass of Chardonnay and 1 order of fries. Total price: $21. As I stood up at the bar with my dad as he was about to pay the bill, neither of us could help but criticize our "third party" and her choice of a $6 glass of chardonnay. Subsequently, the fries were also her idea, but they were a strong effort so we let that one slide. But our bill would have been an impressive $13 had we gnashed as a pair and not a trio. Oh, that reminds me...
My mom had the quote of the century as we ate last night. First of all, my father invited his co-worker Steve (mentioned previously on this blog) and his fiance Brenda to partake in this immensely cheap meal option. Steve is a transplant from Albany, NY and he's a lifelong, die hard Yankee fan. He told us the touching story (I barfed silently as he recounted it) of his grandfather and how his favorite Yankee was Joe D. and that he was born a Yankee fan, etc, etc. Anyway, my mother turns to Steve and asks him the following question with a straight face: "How come you haven't converted to a Sox fan yet?" I scolded her immediately and then enjoyed the look of sheer contempt on Steve's face as he fought back the PBR that desperately wanted to spurt from his goatee-lined mouth in retort of the asinine comment.
Aside from that remark, the night was a rousing success. The wings were fantastic and blew away my expectations and the PBR was ice cold and endless. I had a rather unfounded appreciation for the Beverly Rotary Men's Softball team that monopolized the entire right portion of the bar, which included a dude whose jersey had a backwards #2 on it. No one else had a number as such so it was clearly a printing error. But he embraced it. Upon entering, he approached the team and announced himself by walking backwards into the group of players and exclaiming "make way for the backwards 2!" as he pointed at the number on his back. My guess is that this guy is either the funny guy on the team and he pulls this shit all the time or he's the guy everyone hates that CONSTANTLY calls himself "the backwards 2". He might say such things as "what would the backwards 2 do in this situation?", or "dude, that's not cool with the backwards 2". I'm going with the latter.
It kind of figures that I stumbled upon this deal of all deals just a scant few weeks before departing on my journey to end all journeys. On the other hand, I will probably be planting my ass on a bar stool at the Pickled Onion in Beverly every remaining Tuesday night that I'm in town until I embark, so I'm not sure my health conscience would be too keen on anything beyond that. The Onion is one of those throwback bars when you look at the clientele and the help. The bartenders are locals who treat everyone like a stepsister. It's cordial but don't expect anything for free. The clientele all smoke, and even though it's a smoke-free joint, the whole place smells like butts because there's always someone puffing on cigarette just outside the door. Here's how these "bar smokers" are identified:
1. The employee. If you can't determine the bartender on a butt break, look for the guy taking furious drags with vigor. He may or may not be in conversation, depending on what kind of night he's having. But if he's a townie bartender, he's probably out there selling nickel bags and texting high school girls, too.
2. The thinker. For some reason, there's always a guy outside the bar smoking alone. He's leaning against the wall with one leg resting on the wall, knee bent. He looks down at the curb most often and won't say anything. He smokes slow and long and exhales through his nose. If you approach him, he'll pick up the pace of his smoke and give terse answers until the butt is finished. He doesn't want to talk to you.
3. The pack of bar chicks. They wear low-cut shirts and smoke Marby Lights. They smoke in pairs or in threes, never more than three though. They take really short pulls on the butt and smoke it like they're kissing it. You know what I mean. None of them inhale and when one actually does by mistake, she puts the butt out and calls it gross. Then she goes inside and orders a Cape Codder (Coddah).
Yes, I used to be one of these smokers outside the bar, and I ultimately fell into either the thinker category or the unmentioned 'two averages dudes trying to look cool' category. It took me ten years to realize that smoking doesn't in fact make you cool, but you can't put a price on ten years of thinking you're cool. You just can't. I mean, have you ever sat down and thought about the things you've thought made you cool over the course of your life? For me, it's a pretty short list...I hope. We're talking about such things are Skidz, which topped my Christmas list in 1990 and 1991 along with IOU's. I went through a phase that lasted about 10 years during which I thought wearing my cap backwards made me cool. That phase went dormant in 1997 and has recently resurfaced, since I've rediscovered my hobby of collecting New Era fitted caps (my collection now consists of the following: LA Dodgers, Cleveland, Toronto throwback, Atlanta solid navy and Chicago Cubs solid royal). If you want to add to my collection, I'm a 7 1/8. I have always thought and still think plaid makes me look cool, but the one person who matters most to me thinks it makes me look like a retard. So I don't often venture into the world of plaid. And I'm sure Lauren's right about my retard status when wearing plaid. I mean, what's my rush to dress like an octogenarian? I also think suspenders are super cool. Retards for sale, getcha retards heeyah.
I've added a new link...it appears simply as '10'. It's another great blog that I highly recommend...I also respect anyone that closes out his blogs with the salutation "one love". Good things...good things.
Une Amour,
French
p.s.-recommended TV for this evening: Game 3 of the CWS, #8 Georgia v. unranked Fresno State. Truly enjoyable to watch these kids play, trust me.
25 BBQ wings, 25 Buffalo wings, 8 PBR's, 1 glass of Chardonnay and 1 order of fries. Total price: $21. As I stood up at the bar with my dad as he was about to pay the bill, neither of us could help but criticize our "third party" and her choice of a $6 glass of chardonnay. Subsequently, the fries were also her idea, but they were a strong effort so we let that one slide. But our bill would have been an impressive $13 had we gnashed as a pair and not a trio. Oh, that reminds me...
My mom had the quote of the century as we ate last night. First of all, my father invited his co-worker Steve (mentioned previously on this blog) and his fiance Brenda to partake in this immensely cheap meal option. Steve is a transplant from Albany, NY and he's a lifelong, die hard Yankee fan. He told us the touching story (I barfed silently as he recounted it) of his grandfather and how his favorite Yankee was Joe D. and that he was born a Yankee fan, etc, etc. Anyway, my mother turns to Steve and asks him the following question with a straight face: "How come you haven't converted to a Sox fan yet?" I scolded her immediately and then enjoyed the look of sheer contempt on Steve's face as he fought back the PBR that desperately wanted to spurt from his goatee-lined mouth in retort of the asinine comment.
Aside from that remark, the night was a rousing success. The wings were fantastic and blew away my expectations and the PBR was ice cold and endless. I had a rather unfounded appreciation for the Beverly Rotary Men's Softball team that monopolized the entire right portion of the bar, which included a dude whose jersey had a backwards #2 on it. No one else had a number as such so it was clearly a printing error. But he embraced it. Upon entering, he approached the team and announced himself by walking backwards into the group of players and exclaiming "make way for the backwards 2!" as he pointed at the number on his back. My guess is that this guy is either the funny guy on the team and he pulls this shit all the time or he's the guy everyone hates that CONSTANTLY calls himself "the backwards 2". He might say such things as "what would the backwards 2 do in this situation?", or "dude, that's not cool with the backwards 2". I'm going with the latter.
It kind of figures that I stumbled upon this deal of all deals just a scant few weeks before departing on my journey to end all journeys. On the other hand, I will probably be planting my ass on a bar stool at the Pickled Onion in Beverly every remaining Tuesday night that I'm in town until I embark, so I'm not sure my health conscience would be too keen on anything beyond that. The Onion is one of those throwback bars when you look at the clientele and the help. The bartenders are locals who treat everyone like a stepsister. It's cordial but don't expect anything for free. The clientele all smoke, and even though it's a smoke-free joint, the whole place smells like butts because there's always someone puffing on cigarette just outside the door. Here's how these "bar smokers" are identified:
1. The employee. If you can't determine the bartender on a butt break, look for the guy taking furious drags with vigor. He may or may not be in conversation, depending on what kind of night he's having. But if he's a townie bartender, he's probably out there selling nickel bags and texting high school girls, too.
2. The thinker. For some reason, there's always a guy outside the bar smoking alone. He's leaning against the wall with one leg resting on the wall, knee bent. He looks down at the curb most often and won't say anything. He smokes slow and long and exhales through his nose. If you approach him, he'll pick up the pace of his smoke and give terse answers until the butt is finished. He doesn't want to talk to you.
3. The pack of bar chicks. They wear low-cut shirts and smoke Marby Lights. They smoke in pairs or in threes, never more than three though. They take really short pulls on the butt and smoke it like they're kissing it. You know what I mean. None of them inhale and when one actually does by mistake, she puts the butt out and calls it gross. Then she goes inside and orders a Cape Codder (Coddah).
Yes, I used to be one of these smokers outside the bar, and I ultimately fell into either the thinker category or the unmentioned 'two averages dudes trying to look cool' category. It took me ten years to realize that smoking doesn't in fact make you cool, but you can't put a price on ten years of thinking you're cool. You just can't. I mean, have you ever sat down and thought about the things you've thought made you cool over the course of your life? For me, it's a pretty short list...I hope. We're talking about such things are Skidz, which topped my Christmas list in 1990 and 1991 along with IOU's. I went through a phase that lasted about 10 years during which I thought wearing my cap backwards made me cool. That phase went dormant in 1997 and has recently resurfaced, since I've rediscovered my hobby of collecting New Era fitted caps (my collection now consists of the following: LA Dodgers, Cleveland, Toronto throwback, Atlanta solid navy and Chicago Cubs solid royal). If you want to add to my collection, I'm a 7 1/8. I have always thought and still think plaid makes me look cool, but the one person who matters most to me thinks it makes me look like a retard. So I don't often venture into the world of plaid. And I'm sure Lauren's right about my retard status when wearing plaid. I mean, what's my rush to dress like an octogenarian? I also think suspenders are super cool. Retards for sale, getcha retards heeyah.
I've added a new link...it appears simply as '10'. It's another great blog that I highly recommend...I also respect anyone that closes out his blogs with the salutation "one love". Good things...good things.
Une Amour,
French
p.s.-recommended TV for this evening: Game 3 of the CWS, #8 Georgia v. unranked Fresno State. Truly enjoyable to watch these kids play, trust me.
24 June 2008
Typical Tuesdee
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Venue: The Pickled Onion, Rantoul St. Beverly, MA
Offerings: $1 16oz. PBR's and $.10 wings; the Sox on a projector a smattering of local Beverlians drunk of their asses...but not from PBR. Not the smartest local clientele you'll find.
Probably results: Pop and I will run up a tab of roughly $14 and I'll be up all night with terrible heartburn and unrelenting gas. My dad will be exiled to the couch so he doesn't keep my mother up with his infamous sleeping gas.
Actual results to follow in the AM.
Happy birthday Zander...not that you'll ever read this blog or know about it, but have a great day in NYC. Oh, to be 14 again...awkward, getting rides to the movies with my dad, calling girls and hanging up before I can get "hello" out of my mouth and experimenting with the newly found joys of masturbation. Hey wait, 14 years later I live with my parents again, my girlfriend lives across the country and...well...some things don't change I guess.
Will Somebody PLEASE....
...help me answer these questions??
1. People I've consulted about my cross-country journey in late July seem to be eternally pessimistic about my goal of getting there in 72 hours or less. It's 3030.3 miles...if I drive 14-15 hours a day, this can be done. Can I get some bandwagon supporters in my camp here?
Preliminary checklist to minimize stops:
2 dozen hard-boiled eggs, a dozen granola bars (variety yet to be chosen...I'm open to suggestions), 6 peanutbutter and jelly sandwiches, 3 bags of generic caramel-flavored rice snacks and 24 bottles of water. This will all be contained in a cooler, so I will need to stop for ice several times.
2. Has anyone been watching Nashville Star? I confess that I caught an episode with my folks a couple weeks back and I have to say, this show produces the type of talent you might see at the local fair or at a middle school talent show. Garbage. A part of me feels bad saying this because these people are putting it out there to be judged, but really. Some of that shit is fucking horrendous. Looks like most of these candidates won't be able to give up their other gig at Waffle House for some time. But I wish them luck in finding something that actually plays to one of their talents as opposed to exploiting a weakness...ie signing.
3. ***this question is for anyone from or relating to Kansas*** What in the hell is Bill Self going to do next year? So long Chalmers, Arthur, Rush, Jackson and Kaun. What's in store, oh wise Hammen?
4. Anyone looking forward to this report about Amish adolescents headed into the real world for some booze, boobs and ballyhoo? Not sure when it's on, but next time this type of thing airs I'd like to see a special on home-schooled kids getting tossed into a city high school in South Central LA for a couple weeks. Yes, white home-schooled kids. Come on.
5. How about the loveable, huggable Don Imus outdoing himself? Pacman actually said he is going to pray for Imus...is there anyway Imus doesn't find himself looking down the barrel of a gun in the next 24 hours? I just don't see him being alive for much longer...but it would be sweet if they threw him into a maximum security prison for a night or two, just to see what happens. Of course, they'd put up posters of Imus all over the prison that read "This Man Is A Racist And He's Gonna Be Your Neighbor!" prior to the visit.
1. People I've consulted about my cross-country journey in late July seem to be eternally pessimistic about my goal of getting there in 72 hours or less. It's 3030.3 miles...if I drive 14-15 hours a day, this can be done. Can I get some bandwagon supporters in my camp here?
Preliminary checklist to minimize stops:
2 dozen hard-boiled eggs, a dozen granola bars (variety yet to be chosen...I'm open to suggestions), 6 peanutbutter and jelly sandwiches, 3 bags of generic caramel-flavored rice snacks and 24 bottles of water. This will all be contained in a cooler, so I will need to stop for ice several times.
2. Has anyone been watching Nashville Star? I confess that I caught an episode with my folks a couple weeks back and I have to say, this show produces the type of talent you might see at the local fair or at a middle school talent show. Garbage. A part of me feels bad saying this because these people are putting it out there to be judged, but really. Some of that shit is fucking horrendous. Looks like most of these candidates won't be able to give up their other gig at Waffle House for some time. But I wish them luck in finding something that actually plays to one of their talents as opposed to exploiting a weakness...ie signing.
3. ***this question is for anyone from or relating to Kansas*** What in the hell is Bill Self going to do next year? So long Chalmers, Arthur, Rush, Jackson and Kaun. What's in store, oh wise Hammen?
4. Anyone looking forward to this report about Amish adolescents headed into the real world for some booze, boobs and ballyhoo? Not sure when it's on, but next time this type of thing airs I'd like to see a special on home-schooled kids getting tossed into a city high school in South Central LA for a couple weeks. Yes, white home-schooled kids. Come on.
5. How about the loveable, huggable Don Imus outdoing himself? Pacman actually said he is going to pray for Imus...is there anyway Imus doesn't find himself looking down the barrel of a gun in the next 24 hours? I just don't see him being alive for much longer...but it would be sweet if they threw him into a maximum security prison for a night or two, just to see what happens. Of course, they'd put up posters of Imus all over the prison that read "This Man Is A Racist And He's Gonna Be Your Neighbor!" prior to the visit.
12 June 2008
11 June 2008
View From The Top
Please enjoy the photography of Johnny Gilbert, shot from both on and atop Mt. Monadnock. Monadnock means 'the lone mountain'...thus, we climbed alone.
I call this one 'John's nose from the top'. Check out that beak, man. If you look closely, you can see a man pointing at the nose from far below.
French: friend of tree. I dedicate this one to Tito and Ilan who provided me with the inspiration for this one.
Here we have Johnny doing his best impression of Falcor from 'Neverending Story'.
I had no idea that this picture was taken but I love it. The asymmetrical sweat spots are a bit puzzling, though.
-FIN-
09 June 2008
On The Mountain
In light of the comments from the last blog and the general feeling about that post from readers that I actually converse with, I'd like to quash any illusions people might have about me actually acting out any of those scenarios. I have an imagination and most likely a very real fear of death; thus, I often fantasize about how I'm going to go. However, based on genetics I think mom pere is more than likely correct in predicting that I'll probably wear on and eventually be rendered a useless, brainless, toothless, witless, sightless old man in a hospital bed. My son will visit me daily and read box scores from the 2004 Sox season and he'll feed me small bites of peanut butter crunch blizzards from DQ. That is how I'd like to spend my last days.
Let's now shift gears and chat about how I spent my last few days.
I played in a golf tournament of sorts on Saturday and what I accomplished over the course of 18 holes is nothing short of blatantly obvious to anyone who has ever shared the links with me: I am, quite possibly, the worst golfer of all time with the exception of a one Nathan Collins. Nate swings a golf club like a monkey with a weedwacker. I, on the other hand, have been told that I have what appears to be a very functional golf swing. A guy I played with on Saturday commented that I seem to know what I'm doing right up until contact with the ball. Now I never had a problem keeping my eye on the baseball when I played regularly but I cannot, for the life of me, keep my fucking head down and my eyes on the ball. Out of 14 holes on which I used my driver, I hit precisely zero fairways. In fact, I cleared the ladies' tee box only twice, which lied about 15 yards in front of the men's tees. I suppose topping the ball every time instead of slicing it out of bounds and losing a stroke is preferable but I think I'd rather make some sort of solid contact. Given my short fuse when ultra frustrated, it's amazing to me that I didn't kill any or all of the dudes in my foursome on Saturday. I managed to keep a somewhat cool head and somehow...some way...I actually helped my team in the scramble. You see, when you play best ball, you need only be concerned about one man hitting a fairly decent shot. Thus, my putrid, deplorable, embarrassment of a golf game would ultimately be overlooked due to the talents of one guy I played with. But...but, but, but...on the 13th hole, which happened to be the longest hold on the course, I was faced with a 45-foot sidewinder of a putt that would have haunted Tiger. It was uphill on the front end, it sloped back down at the back end and the left-to-right break on the down roll was no less than four feet. I made the putt. It was so far beyond reasonable that I still don't think anyone who witnessed believes it went in the hole. But it did, and quite frankly I couldn't give two shits about the rest of the garbage that I churned out that day. One shot...one glorious shot...was fucking redemption.
So that was my Saturday. I walked away with nothing more than a sunburn and the memory of that putt. Onto Sunday.
Gilbert and I stepped outside the box a little bit on Sunday, per his suggestion. We ventured up to Southern NH to the base of Mount Monadnock for what would prove to be a very challenging and exhausting climb, albeit only 3200 vertical feet. I knew we might be in for a rough go if it when we chatted up the Ranger at the gate. Here's how it went:
Ranger: "That'll be $8 for the both of you this morning."
Me: "Oh, ok. I thought it was $6...here's another $2."
Ranger: "You boys know what trail you might be taking to the summit or do you need some suggestions?"
Gilbert: "Yeah, I have a map here. We're thinking of taking the Spellman Trail from the Cascade Link. You think that's a good climb?"
Ranger: "Sure. Just don't break a leg."
Me: (chuckling) "Ok...thanks..."
Ranger: "I'm serious. If you do, it's going to take a really long time for us to get to you."
And this is how we began our journey up the mountainside. We were fairly well-equipped with a couple gallons of water and sunscreen. However, we left the sunscreen in the car and proceeded to sweat off our initial layer about 20 minutes into the climb. So much for that. What was amazing to us was the amount of people who set out to climb this mountain on a 95° degree without more than a 20oz bottle of water. We ripped through our 2 gallons, and we were conserving so we wouldn't run out. And I'm not talking about young, fit people here. I'm talking about several elderly folks and many, many little kids. I mean, it doesn't take a genius to figure out that being physically active in oppressive, humid heat with the sun beating down on you will require constant hydration. But hey, really not my problem. Johnny and I had enough to get through the climb with moist pallets.
We ascended to the summit in 90 minutes and made it down in just under 60. The scene at the top was pretty funny. Johnny packed the equivalent of a middle school lunch and was forced to share it with me, since I brought no food. It consisted of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, peanut butter crackers and an apple. I couldn't help but be reminded of those brown bag lunches mon pere used to pack for me back in the day. I have to say, I fucking love P&J's. There's something about that perfect harmony of the savory peanut butter and the sweet, fruity jelly between two slices of hearty bread. At the risk of sounding like the author of a series of corny, cheesy, fad-prone books, it warms the soul. Hey, P&J's For The French Soul. Look for it in paperback next Fall.
Overall, it was a great day. The views from the top of Monadnock span the Lakes Region of NH and you can see for hundreds of miles. My guess is that JG and I each burned somewhere in the vicinity of 2.000 calories over the course of the climb and the descent so it was an excellent workout. And the one time I stopped to take my pulse, I registered up around 145-150bpm.
So go climb a mountain with a buddy some time soon. In the meantime, stay cool and watch the Finals tonight. Prediction: Lakers by 15. They'll shoot 30 free throws, Kobe will go off for 45 and Perk will foul out well before the middle of the fourth quarter. The silver lining for the C's will be PP continuing to shine in LA.
Best,
The future LA. French. (not to be confused with the current la French, who could technically be referred to as L.A. la French as opposed to L.A. le French...I've now confused myself.)
Let's now shift gears and chat about how I spent my last few days.
I played in a golf tournament of sorts on Saturday and what I accomplished over the course of 18 holes is nothing short of blatantly obvious to anyone who has ever shared the links with me: I am, quite possibly, the worst golfer of all time with the exception of a one Nathan Collins. Nate swings a golf club like a monkey with a weedwacker. I, on the other hand, have been told that I have what appears to be a very functional golf swing. A guy I played with on Saturday commented that I seem to know what I'm doing right up until contact with the ball. Now I never had a problem keeping my eye on the baseball when I played regularly but I cannot, for the life of me, keep my fucking head down and my eyes on the ball. Out of 14 holes on which I used my driver, I hit precisely zero fairways. In fact, I cleared the ladies' tee box only twice, which lied about 15 yards in front of the men's tees. I suppose topping the ball every time instead of slicing it out of bounds and losing a stroke is preferable but I think I'd rather make some sort of solid contact. Given my short fuse when ultra frustrated, it's amazing to me that I didn't kill any or all of the dudes in my foursome on Saturday. I managed to keep a somewhat cool head and somehow...some way...I actually helped my team in the scramble. You see, when you play best ball, you need only be concerned about one man hitting a fairly decent shot. Thus, my putrid, deplorable, embarrassment of a golf game would ultimately be overlooked due to the talents of one guy I played with. But...but, but, but...on the 13th hole, which happened to be the longest hold on the course, I was faced with a 45-foot sidewinder of a putt that would have haunted Tiger. It was uphill on the front end, it sloped back down at the back end and the left-to-right break on the down roll was no less than four feet. I made the putt. It was so far beyond reasonable that I still don't think anyone who witnessed believes it went in the hole. But it did, and quite frankly I couldn't give two shits about the rest of the garbage that I churned out that day. One shot...one glorious shot...was fucking redemption.
So that was my Saturday. I walked away with nothing more than a sunburn and the memory of that putt. Onto Sunday.
Gilbert and I stepped outside the box a little bit on Sunday, per his suggestion. We ventured up to Southern NH to the base of Mount Monadnock for what would prove to be a very challenging and exhausting climb, albeit only 3200 vertical feet. I knew we might be in for a rough go if it when we chatted up the Ranger at the gate. Here's how it went:
Ranger: "That'll be $8 for the both of you this morning."
Me: "Oh, ok. I thought it was $6...here's another $2."
Ranger: "You boys know what trail you might be taking to the summit or do you need some suggestions?"
Gilbert: "Yeah, I have a map here. We're thinking of taking the Spellman Trail from the Cascade Link. You think that's a good climb?"
Ranger: "Sure. Just don't break a leg."
Me: (chuckling) "Ok...thanks..."
Ranger: "I'm serious. If you do, it's going to take a really long time for us to get to you."
And this is how we began our journey up the mountainside. We were fairly well-equipped with a couple gallons of water and sunscreen. However, we left the sunscreen in the car and proceeded to sweat off our initial layer about 20 minutes into the climb. So much for that. What was amazing to us was the amount of people who set out to climb this mountain on a 95° degree without more than a 20oz bottle of water. We ripped through our 2 gallons, and we were conserving so we wouldn't run out. And I'm not talking about young, fit people here. I'm talking about several elderly folks and many, many little kids. I mean, it doesn't take a genius to figure out that being physically active in oppressive, humid heat with the sun beating down on you will require constant hydration. But hey, really not my problem. Johnny and I had enough to get through the climb with moist pallets.
We ascended to the summit in 90 minutes and made it down in just under 60. The scene at the top was pretty funny. Johnny packed the equivalent of a middle school lunch and was forced to share it with me, since I brought no food. It consisted of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, peanut butter crackers and an apple. I couldn't help but be reminded of those brown bag lunches mon pere used to pack for me back in the day. I have to say, I fucking love P&J's. There's something about that perfect harmony of the savory peanut butter and the sweet, fruity jelly between two slices of hearty bread. At the risk of sounding like the author of a series of corny, cheesy, fad-prone books, it warms the soul. Hey, P&J's For The French Soul. Look for it in paperback next Fall.
Overall, it was a great day. The views from the top of Monadnock span the Lakes Region of NH and you can see for hundreds of miles. My guess is that JG and I each burned somewhere in the vicinity of 2.000 calories over the course of the climb and the descent so it was an excellent workout. And the one time I stopped to take my pulse, I registered up around 145-150bpm.
So go climb a mountain with a buddy some time soon. In the meantime, stay cool and watch the Finals tonight. Prediction: Lakers by 15. They'll shoot 30 free throws, Kobe will go off for 45 and Perk will foul out well before the middle of the fourth quarter. The silver lining for the C's will be PP continuing to shine in LA.
Best,
The future LA. French. (not to be confused with the current la French, who could technically be referred to as L.A. la French as opposed to L.A. le French...I've now confused myself.)
05 June 2008
Very Bad Things
I have a problem. For some reason, my mind is constantly picturing worst-case scenarios depending on the particular situation I'm in. I'm talking about scenarios involving graphically gruesome and painful potential occurrences.
The most common of these instances (many of them are recurring) happens whenever I find myself waiting for a subway train. I imagine that when the train chugs on by wherever I am standing, I will somehow trip and fall forward and my right foot will fall between that tiny gap that is created by the train and the platform. It's big enough for a foot and several inches of leg. The outcome of this happenstance would certainly be a very painful dragging until the trains stops to load at that particular stop...I imagine my legs would break immediately and I would then incur scrapes and burns of the irreparable kind. I have such a vivid vision of this happening that I shiver and cringe each time I think about. I'm pretty sure that's the way I'm gonna go, when I go.
Here's another one that makes absolutely no sense, any way you look at it. I get a lot of grief for my ear cleaning method...I use a paper clip, both a straight end and a looped end, to both itch and dig out my ears. I've been doing it for years and I'm pretty sure I've blogged about it before. Anyway, every time I do it I have this thought that someone is going to run up behind me and attempt to drive the paper clip into deep into my ear, causing a total loss of hearing and a ruptured ear drum. I think that would also be associated with massive amounts of pain and suffering, especially when the paper clip is pulled out of the ear. I would have to imagine, however, that the ear would be super clean once it was pulled back out.
You know how dogs love to stick their heads out of windows? I often imagine myself doing the same thing, only to suffer a fate of having my head lopped off by a street sign that I happen not to see. The same goes for sticking my head out of a sun roof. Perhaps I'd be travelling into a tunnel only to be decapitated before I have time to sit back down. No, I am not accustomed to sticking my head out of windows or sun roofs of cars but I believe that if I did, this would be the outcome.
I happen to be extremely clumsy with knives. I once spent a night in Malibu with some very high quality (thus sharp as fuck) knives and some fresh produce...the result would be three separate deep cuts on my digits and an entire roll of paper towels soaked blood. I completed the dinner, however. Anyway, where I was going with this was that every time I'm using a sharp blade to julienne, chop, chiffonade, what have you, I imagine myself pinning myself up against the wall and slicing my own throat...something akin to Braveheart yet self-inflicted. For some reason, I have a morbid curiosity about that specific pain. The incision itself would suck, but the inability to breathe and the choking on the blood would be so terrible. So, so terrible. Cool as hell, but really fucking terrible.
I think I just wonder how it is that I'm gonna go. How many of the dead actually got to die in a really fucking terrible, gruesome manner? Severed limbs, decapitation, homicidal experimentation? It's a rhetorical question, but think of it this way: if I should die by way of having my body sliced in half (not sure how/why this would happen), everybody wins. Organs donated, open casket option totally cool still and I suffer for a very short amount of time...but hopefully, just hopefully...enough time to make a crack about being independent of my legs and feet.
The most common of these instances (many of them are recurring) happens whenever I find myself waiting for a subway train. I imagine that when the train chugs on by wherever I am standing, I will somehow trip and fall forward and my right foot will fall between that tiny gap that is created by the train and the platform. It's big enough for a foot and several inches of leg. The outcome of this happenstance would certainly be a very painful dragging until the trains stops to load at that particular stop...I imagine my legs would break immediately and I would then incur scrapes and burns of the irreparable kind. I have such a vivid vision of this happening that I shiver and cringe each time I think about. I'm pretty sure that's the way I'm gonna go, when I go.
Here's another one that makes absolutely no sense, any way you look at it. I get a lot of grief for my ear cleaning method...I use a paper clip, both a straight end and a looped end, to both itch and dig out my ears. I've been doing it for years and I'm pretty sure I've blogged about it before. Anyway, every time I do it I have this thought that someone is going to run up behind me and attempt to drive the paper clip into deep into my ear, causing a total loss of hearing and a ruptured ear drum. I think that would also be associated with massive amounts of pain and suffering, especially when the paper clip is pulled out of the ear. I would have to imagine, however, that the ear would be super clean once it was pulled back out.
You know how dogs love to stick their heads out of windows? I often imagine myself doing the same thing, only to suffer a fate of having my head lopped off by a street sign that I happen not to see. The same goes for sticking my head out of a sun roof. Perhaps I'd be travelling into a tunnel only to be decapitated before I have time to sit back down. No, I am not accustomed to sticking my head out of windows or sun roofs of cars but I believe that if I did, this would be the outcome.
I happen to be extremely clumsy with knives. I once spent a night in Malibu with some very high quality (thus sharp as fuck) knives and some fresh produce...the result would be three separate deep cuts on my digits and an entire roll of paper towels soaked blood. I completed the dinner, however. Anyway, where I was going with this was that every time I'm using a sharp blade to julienne, chop, chiffonade, what have you, I imagine myself pinning myself up against the wall and slicing my own throat...something akin to Braveheart yet self-inflicted. For some reason, I have a morbid curiosity about that specific pain. The incision itself would suck, but the inability to breathe and the choking on the blood would be so terrible. So, so terrible. Cool as hell, but really fucking terrible.
I think I just wonder how it is that I'm gonna go. How many of the dead actually got to die in a really fucking terrible, gruesome manner? Severed limbs, decapitation, homicidal experimentation? It's a rhetorical question, but think of it this way: if I should die by way of having my body sliced in half (not sure how/why this would happen), everybody wins. Organs donated, open casket option totally cool still and I suffer for a very short amount of time...but hopefully, just hopefully...enough time to make a crack about being independent of my legs and feet.
04 June 2008
Beer Association
I believe that Bud Light was the first beer I ever put to my lips, on the swing set of Cove School in Beverly, MA with my two best friends. It was summer after sophomore year of high school and I have absolutely no idea where we got this six-pack, but I'm fairly certain it came from the basement fridge at 9 Ray...also known as Chez French...also known as Mon Pere's stash. On a side note here, if I were to replace the booze that I siphoned from the handles in my parents' liquor cabinet throughout high school and some of college, I think it would be absolutely appalling. It bears zero significance now, but it does warrant some sort of apology and thankfully this post will befall the eyes of the aforementioned bestower of booze...my father. Sorry Dad. In fairness though, you provided me with a sort of baptism of booze and beer and thus, I now enjoy the very same libations that you do. So when I stock your fridge this summer, it will be a joyous occasion for both father and son. Cheers to that, eh?
My love of PBR, aka 'the Ribbon', stems directly from my father. This was most recently manifested through my father's day gift of two years ago, which consisted of a sixer of PBR and a Mach3 razor delivered in a brown paper bag. Loose cans, mind you. Good stuff there. Anyway, I suppose I'll always associate PBR with my beer adolescence and thus my dad's beer fridge. I also associate with La and I's trips to Tamworth, NH and the family's cabin. You can get a sixer of PBR for $3 at the corner store. Perhaps one of my most fond memories since being alive is of hurling tennis balls to La and watching her pelt them all over the property up there in the country. By the way, having a girlfriend who also happens to be a professional hitter is a huge plus...but having a girlfriend who can go opposite on my hardest fastball is simply otherworldly and it makes my heart a-flutter.
Continuing along the lines of La, I developed my current affection for Stella directly from her. I had my first Stella with her, per her recommendation, and it was a match from then on. I'll also continue to associate Stella with Bowen's ritual of presenting Lauren with a 12 of Stella upon landing a new job. And the last time this happened, I was lucky enough to see him stroll into our pad with not one, but two 12's in tow. I hope you realize that you'll have to hop a plane to keep this ritual intact, my friend.
Coors Light is a beer that I hold a very specific association with. A few years ago this November, mon pere and I embarked on a journey to the sunshine state in his motorhome...destination Port St. Lucie and ultimately the RV park where the rig resides when it's winter in New England. One night we boarded bicycles and pedaled over to the Ruby Tuesday down there...I on my mom's and him on his. We happened upon happy hour at the Roob, which resulted in a deal of buy-one-get-one free Coors Lights in frosty mugs. I can't express how much a frosty mug can enhance a beer experience, and this time was no variation. We slurped frosties for a while then rode back to the rig on the bikes...nothing like a half-drunken ride on a girl's bike from the local Roob in a retirement community. Great stuff.
There are a select few beers that I've had just a few times if not only once...Molson XXX is one of those beers. I bought them for La and I up at the cabin one time and it didn't go over too well. But my first experience with these bad riders happened up in Montreal during my freshman year of college. The mentionables on this trip are myself and Ponch and the XXX up there was cheaper than a peep show in Manila. As I recall, my night took a turn for the worse when I decided to inhale a cheap cigar. Somewhere along the line I accepted a Burger King cheeseburger out of some random's pocket (it was wrapped, yes.) as well. Yikes.
I'm gonna stop there.
My love of PBR, aka 'the Ribbon', stems directly from my father. This was most recently manifested through my father's day gift of two years ago, which consisted of a sixer of PBR and a Mach3 razor delivered in a brown paper bag. Loose cans, mind you. Good stuff there. Anyway, I suppose I'll always associate PBR with my beer adolescence and thus my dad's beer fridge. I also associate with La and I's trips to Tamworth, NH and the family's cabin. You can get a sixer of PBR for $3 at the corner store. Perhaps one of my most fond memories since being alive is of hurling tennis balls to La and watching her pelt them all over the property up there in the country. By the way, having a girlfriend who also happens to be a professional hitter is a huge plus...but having a girlfriend who can go opposite on my hardest fastball is simply otherworldly and it makes my heart a-flutter.
Continuing along the lines of La, I developed my current affection for Stella directly from her. I had my first Stella with her, per her recommendation, and it was a match from then on. I'll also continue to associate Stella with Bowen's ritual of presenting Lauren with a 12 of Stella upon landing a new job. And the last time this happened, I was lucky enough to see him stroll into our pad with not one, but two 12's in tow. I hope you realize that you'll have to hop a plane to keep this ritual intact, my friend.
Coors Light is a beer that I hold a very specific association with. A few years ago this November, mon pere and I embarked on a journey to the sunshine state in his motorhome...destination Port St. Lucie and ultimately the RV park where the rig resides when it's winter in New England. One night we boarded bicycles and pedaled over to the Ruby Tuesday down there...I on my mom's and him on his. We happened upon happy hour at the Roob, which resulted in a deal of buy-one-get-one free Coors Lights in frosty mugs. I can't express how much a frosty mug can enhance a beer experience, and this time was no variation. We slurped frosties for a while then rode back to the rig on the bikes...nothing like a half-drunken ride on a girl's bike from the local Roob in a retirement community. Great stuff.
There are a select few beers that I've had just a few times if not only once...Molson XXX is one of those beers. I bought them for La and I up at the cabin one time and it didn't go over too well. But my first experience with these bad riders happened up in Montreal during my freshman year of college. The mentionables on this trip are myself and Ponch and the XXX up there was cheaper than a peep show in Manila. As I recall, my night took a turn for the worse when I decided to inhale a cheap cigar. Somewhere along the line I accepted a Burger King cheeseburger out of some random's pocket (it was wrapped, yes.) as well. Yikes.
I'm gonna stop there.
03 June 2008
BeachBum's Annual Inspiration
Well, maybe that should read BeachBum's First Annual Inspiration. It has been suggested that we let the creative juices flow and ring in the month of June with some volume of titillating bloggery, so this is my virginal attempt at such excretion of juice.
Here's something I've had in my head lately: I hope that the Marlins' Dan Uggla goes through a series of ups and downs this year; a series that is markedly polar in terms of great play and abhorrent play. When this ultimately happens I'd like to see a snippet of the details of these ups and downs on Sportscenter, and it shall be titled The Good, The Bad and The Uggla. Shortly thereafter, a snippet will be shown about the debacle of Yankee starter Joba Chamberlain moving into the rotation (1st start: 38 first inning pitches) and it will be titled A Joba Not Well Done.
It's no secret that I really, really like baseball. I'm going to detail the high points of having David Ortiz on the disabled list for at least a month now.
1. DHing Manny means a speedy, nearly impermeable defense behind the Sox starters. Even Manny said in jest yesterday that team will be more than ok with his "gold glove" relegated to the DH slot in the lineup. I will never tire of watching either Coco Crisp or Jake Ellsbury run down fly balls in the outfield.
2. We've now seen the depth of the Sox rotation and how talented that depth truly is. Papi's stint on the DL will allow us to see Masterson a whole lot more and I like watching that kid pitch. He seems smart, throws hard, has good stuff and doesn't rattle easily. Hell, he handled the (gulp) surging Rays tonight with a bend-but-don't-break performance indicative of a night where he probably wasn't at his best. But he did enough to win and that's really all I'm worried about. Think about the ages of that rotation...you have Lester, Buchholz, Matsuzaka and now Masterson all contributing consistently. It's very, very exciting.
2a. I just have to mention Tubby Colon in this segment because I suggested in the preseason that he would prove to be valuable to this rotation at some point in the season. He looks legitimately good and that means a LOT to that rotation. His fastball is chugging along at 95-96 and his splitter looks pretty nasty. Plus he's just so portly. You have to love that.
3. Overall, we are still seeing the fruits of the best farm system in the game this season, and the talent is deeper still. Jeff Bailey is a very patient hitter who will work counts and get on base, this Carter kid who they called up this morning was having a stellar year in Pawtucket, and I need not mention the continued success of Ellsbury and Pedroia. I think I undersold Ellsbury in my prediction of 50 stolen bases this year, too. He's a fucking menace on the bases.
I just believe that this team is built to withstand a lengthy loss such as this one with Ortiz. They are deep on offense, on defense and on the hill and it's more apparent than ever right now.
I think this is all the creative juice I can squeeze out tonight, Big John. I have to hand it to you, though. You are to blogging what Tom Clancy is to paperback writing in terms of my father and his hobbies. The blog world changes lives, I'm telling you. Just tonight, I drove around Beverly after a trip to CVS, listening to "A Very Schneweis Christmas/Holiday" and I couldn't help but think, man, this is a CD for all seasons...not just the holidays. Sorry Benny, I forgot the exact title but it's a nice catalog. I dig it the most.
A very happy 31st birthday the future Dr. Adam Ponchick, aka Ponch and known to the blog world for his paltry contribution "Right Buddy". It barely merits mention but given the fact that you've made it to 31, I'll humor you. Hope you had a nice one, pal.
Here's something I've had in my head lately: I hope that the Marlins' Dan Uggla goes through a series of ups and downs this year; a series that is markedly polar in terms of great play and abhorrent play. When this ultimately happens I'd like to see a snippet of the details of these ups and downs on Sportscenter, and it shall be titled The Good, The Bad and The Uggla. Shortly thereafter, a snippet will be shown about the debacle of Yankee starter Joba Chamberlain moving into the rotation (1st start: 38 first inning pitches) and it will be titled A Joba Not Well Done.
It's no secret that I really, really like baseball. I'm going to detail the high points of having David Ortiz on the disabled list for at least a month now.
1. DHing Manny means a speedy, nearly impermeable defense behind the Sox starters. Even Manny said in jest yesterday that team will be more than ok with his "gold glove" relegated to the DH slot in the lineup. I will never tire of watching either Coco Crisp or Jake Ellsbury run down fly balls in the outfield.
2. We've now seen the depth of the Sox rotation and how talented that depth truly is. Papi's stint on the DL will allow us to see Masterson a whole lot more and I like watching that kid pitch. He seems smart, throws hard, has good stuff and doesn't rattle easily. Hell, he handled the (gulp) surging Rays tonight with a bend-but-don't-break performance indicative of a night where he probably wasn't at his best. But he did enough to win and that's really all I'm worried about. Think about the ages of that rotation...you have Lester, Buchholz, Matsuzaka and now Masterson all contributing consistently. It's very, very exciting.
2a. I just have to mention Tubby Colon in this segment because I suggested in the preseason that he would prove to be valuable to this rotation at some point in the season. He looks legitimately good and that means a LOT to that rotation. His fastball is chugging along at 95-96 and his splitter looks pretty nasty. Plus he's just so portly. You have to love that.
3. Overall, we are still seeing the fruits of the best farm system in the game this season, and the talent is deeper still. Jeff Bailey is a very patient hitter who will work counts and get on base, this Carter kid who they called up this morning was having a stellar year in Pawtucket, and I need not mention the continued success of Ellsbury and Pedroia. I think I undersold Ellsbury in my prediction of 50 stolen bases this year, too. He's a fucking menace on the bases.
I just believe that this team is built to withstand a lengthy loss such as this one with Ortiz. They are deep on offense, on defense and on the hill and it's more apparent than ever right now.
I think this is all the creative juice I can squeeze out tonight, Big John. I have to hand it to you, though. You are to blogging what Tom Clancy is to paperback writing in terms of my father and his hobbies. The blog world changes lives, I'm telling you. Just tonight, I drove around Beverly after a trip to CVS, listening to "A Very Schneweis Christmas/Holiday" and I couldn't help but think, man, this is a CD for all seasons...not just the holidays. Sorry Benny, I forgot the exact title but it's a nice catalog. I dig it the most.
A very happy 31st birthday the future Dr. Adam Ponchick, aka Ponch and known to the blog world for his paltry contribution "Right Buddy". It barely merits mention but given the fact that you've made it to 31, I'll humor you. Hope you had a nice one, pal.
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