Ramon Ramirez was due to get touched up a bit. I haven't seen him pitch more than a few times on the season, but I know the numbers. When you rely on box scores, numbers become deliveries and swings. They define what you remember most about a given player. The guy has been lights out, much like the majority of the Sox bullpen this season. Tonight, he challenged both Damon and Teixeira and gave up two blasts. Francona never flinched, outside of chewing a bit more anxiously than usual. He's not out of the inning yet, but I like sticking with RR here. Anddddddd he's been pulled. Never fails.
Damon is impressive and I wish I didn't have to say that. Banned substance investigation (pending?) aside, he has 13 HR's on the year and he's arguably the MVP of the Yankees this season. I really must say that living outside of my beloved Boston has allowed me to get a totally different perspective on the Yankees (or all sports team, for that matter) and it's kind of a relief. You do lose a lot of the stressful anxiety by removing yourself from the thick of things in Boston; I still love the hometown boys across the board but the placebo effect of surrounding yourself with people who are equally as rabid and excitable as you can be detrimental to one's health and psyche. I'm just saying, it can.
I'm giddy about Buchholz returning to the staff. Speaking of lights out, he has been absolutely dealing (albeit at an affiliate) lately. The Braves may want Penny, the Sox should probably swap him out...On paper, the rotation when all are healthy could be laughable. Beckett, Lester, Matsuzaka, Wakefield, Buchholz/Smoltz. Good gravy. Who matches up in a series? I don't know if the All-Century Team matches up, 1-5. Well, ok...but you get the point. The bullpen isn't anything to sneeze at, either...to say the least. Also, Wake is the MVP to this point for the Sox. Or Co with Youk, injury time included. It's to the point where I focus on Youk's at-bats because he ALWAYS has a good AB. He gets knocked for being a baby when he makes an out, but I think I'd be the same way if I always had quality ABs. Advantage: hitter; in those situations.
Simmons' article on a certain #34 in Boston might have actually worked. He's looking sharper of late...I'll say no more.
I'm saddened by the state of affairs for Glavine and Pedro. These are two of my favorites of all time to have taken the mound and I can't decide if it's more on them or on the teams who aren't interested. It's not quite Favresque, but it's in the same book.
Channing Crowder has inquired about a cage match with Rex Ryan through the UFC. You heard it first here, remember that. Because he did...Crowder. He did. He asked them. Straight up.
Rex Ryan agreed to the match eagerly, based on the assumption that the UFC will allow him to use a chain gun.
7-0.
10 June 2009
09 June 2009
Up For Air
I typically have a very difficult time complying with the occasional assertion that I should be posting more/something/anything. I had no defense of the latest one, as it caused an audible "wow. fuck." Thanks Bowen...very effective words. Maybe...
I have a few announcement to make, thus this entry will be of the chronologically ordered variety. Side note here: I feel as though the chronologically ordered entry is oft ignored and markedly unappreciated.
1. I'm OFF suicide watch. JESUS. It would be this particular barb that catalyzed the "wow. fuck."
2. I'll be the first to admit that I've passed on several opportunities to post in the recent past. Let's see, April 7th was the last post...over two months ago. I really should have written about my Coachella experience, but I read enough reviews and reminiscent euphoria to assure me that my words would never suffice in delivering an appropriate recollection. Seriously, that's not simply an excuse. There's just way too much to cover. My only note is that everyone should try to make it to Coachella for all three days at some point in his or her life. It will change it, if only temporarily. If you have a chance to view any of the Cure videos on YouTube, do so. It's a big part of what I just noted.
3. I moved. Again. I've held more addresses in the past year than your average vagrant. Although, a vagrant doesn't change his address with the USPS and take advantage of the coupons they mail you. Of course, most of them are available in any Sunday paper but still. It's convenient. Shit, anyway...I live across the street from the Staples Center now, in a part of LA that they are desperately and unrelentingly trying to build up and populate. It's kind of working, and they built a veritable Faneuil Hall-on-Steroids next to Staples. Well, maybe not. It's more like Route 1 in Saugus smooshed into a ball.
4. It's true that there are hordes of beautiful women in this city, but the majority of them are about as fun to talk to as LeBron after losing Game 6 to the Magic. It's comical, though...I'll say that. I like to lie to them about who I am and what I do, get them interested in my faux fortune and then invite them to Carl's Jr. for a value meal. I don't get it...Carl's is soo good.
5. I hate the Lakers. I've always hated them, but now it's just beyond any reasonable consideration. It's really more to do with hating Laker fans, though. I'll be the first to praise the historic franchise that is the Lakers, sure. I know what they've accomplished. I remember the 80's (errrr...). How can you pay no love to the Celtics franchise? It's just so absurdly ignorant that I shouldn't waste any emotion on it whatsoever. But it alarms me to no end.
6. I haven't watched much television in the last 6 months and my sports fixes have been few and far between. I had the regional sports package for a while, but the games on NESN were always blacked out. I suppose I could get the MLB package, but I'm not there yet. I've become very close with GameCast, which really isn't that terrible at all, but I miss watching the Sox on weekend afternoons. I'll probably break down and order the MLB package. Anyway, watch "Californication" if you get a chance. Highly entertaining. Duchovny had to go to rehab for booze and sex addictions after shooting Season 2 of the show. I'll say no more.
7. I'll close by saying that you can find a good woman in LA. You should steer clear of Hollywood in order to do so, but there are instances where it's possible to come across a young lady who's "just along for the ride" and prefers a place like the Edison Hotel. If you find yourself in downtown LA, don't miss it. Seriously. Maybe the best place to have a drink in California.
Oh and in case you're wondering what I did with the noose, I gave it to the super. He's a d-bag that suspects I'm gay and makes no effort of discretion in asserting that. His name is Mr. Roper and...did that work? Most assuredly not.
Thanks again, John. Dick.
I have a few announcement to make, thus this entry will be of the chronologically ordered variety. Side note here: I feel as though the chronologically ordered entry is oft ignored and markedly unappreciated.
1. I'm OFF suicide watch. JESUS. It would be this particular barb that catalyzed the "wow. fuck."
2. I'll be the first to admit that I've passed on several opportunities to post in the recent past. Let's see, April 7th was the last post...over two months ago. I really should have written about my Coachella experience, but I read enough reviews and reminiscent euphoria to assure me that my words would never suffice in delivering an appropriate recollection. Seriously, that's not simply an excuse. There's just way too much to cover. My only note is that everyone should try to make it to Coachella for all three days at some point in his or her life. It will change it, if only temporarily. If you have a chance to view any of the Cure videos on YouTube, do so. It's a big part of what I just noted.
3. I moved. Again. I've held more addresses in the past year than your average vagrant. Although, a vagrant doesn't change his address with the USPS and take advantage of the coupons they mail you. Of course, most of them are available in any Sunday paper but still. It's convenient. Shit, anyway...I live across the street from the Staples Center now, in a part of LA that they are desperately and unrelentingly trying to build up and populate. It's kind of working, and they built a veritable Faneuil Hall-on-Steroids next to Staples. Well, maybe not. It's more like Route 1 in Saugus smooshed into a ball.
4. It's true that there are hordes of beautiful women in this city, but the majority of them are about as fun to talk to as LeBron after losing Game 6 to the Magic. It's comical, though...I'll say that. I like to lie to them about who I am and what I do, get them interested in my faux fortune and then invite them to Carl's Jr. for a value meal. I don't get it...Carl's is soo good.
5. I hate the Lakers. I've always hated them, but now it's just beyond any reasonable consideration. It's really more to do with hating Laker fans, though. I'll be the first to praise the historic franchise that is the Lakers, sure. I know what they've accomplished. I remember the 80's (errrr...). How can you pay no love to the Celtics franchise? It's just so absurdly ignorant that I shouldn't waste any emotion on it whatsoever. But it alarms me to no end.
6. I haven't watched much television in the last 6 months and my sports fixes have been few and far between. I had the regional sports package for a while, but the games on NESN were always blacked out. I suppose I could get the MLB package, but I'm not there yet. I've become very close with GameCast, which really isn't that terrible at all, but I miss watching the Sox on weekend afternoons. I'll probably break down and order the MLB package. Anyway, watch "Californication" if you get a chance. Highly entertaining. Duchovny had to go to rehab for booze and sex addictions after shooting Season 2 of the show. I'll say no more.
7. I'll close by saying that you can find a good woman in LA. You should steer clear of Hollywood in order to do so, but there are instances where it's possible to come across a young lady who's "just along for the ride" and prefers a place like the Edison Hotel. If you find yourself in downtown LA, don't miss it. Seriously. Maybe the best place to have a drink in California.
Oh and in case you're wondering what I did with the noose, I gave it to the super. He's a d-bag that suspects I'm gay and makes no effort of discretion in asserting that. His name is Mr. Roper and...did that work? Most assuredly not.
Thanks again, John. Dick.
07 April 2009
This Seventh of April
I guess I have weekly shots of reality, wherein I'll audibly utter an alarmed version of "fuck" wherever I am. Not always an appropriate thing, like the time it happened in front of the avocados at Ralph's on Lincoln. I know, I know. I seldom forget about self-cognizance of little kids, but when it's February and the avocados still just get pumped out in delicious mass quantity...tact escapes me.
My shot of reality arrived at 1:05 pm this afternoon and thankfully I was in the comforts of my own apartment (yes, clothed AND sober). I had anticipated this day for months, but it was actually this day that was supposed occur yesterday. And then something happens that NEVER happens in Boston: inclement weather in April. I'm not sure there's anything worse than an opening day rainout. Disppointment lasts about nine seconds and then sharply breaks into vicious anger, followed by bouts of incredulous eating (note: incredulous eating is when you find yourself eating something you don't want, tastes terrible and makes you lightly ill...and you actually say "why am I eating this?" as you continue to consume) and finally, the inevitable toss of the arms skyward.
Any inkling of resonant anger from yesterday was suffocated the second I heard the sweet baritone of Mr. Don Orsillo. Wait, no. It was the sight of the increasingly attractive Heidi Watney reporting from inside the park. But yeah, Don's voice was cool, too.
I can't say I sat through the whole game because it was the middle of a Tuesday afternoon...there it is. That's the minute I was blasted by the weekly shot of reality. It's 1:05. I'm not watching Sox in 2 or Classic. It's 74 degrees outside. I'm wearing shorts. The avocados. Where am I? Oh, right. I'm LA. I'm watching NESN in fucking California while Joe Maddon dons some kind of earflapped chapeau and Beckett and Shields blow on their pitching hands incessantly. It's not going to get any less shocking any time soon...the whole baseball thing, that is. I had to order my 2009 Sox shirt online instead of taking a stroll onto Yawkey Way. I'm seeing more games in Anaheim and Oakland this season than at Fenway, which is mightily saddening but remarkably exciting at the same time. Not quite equal parts, but close.
My thoughts from the 9 who play 9:
-think Pedroia was pumped about that delivery in his first AB of the season? There's one thing a back-to-back R.O.Y./M.V.P. thinks leading into the season and during that first game or first week or month of the season: make sure you prove it's not a fluke. Maybe that solo shot doesn't make the season, fuck no. But you saw how quickly Pedro got around those bags. Weight lifted for a few days, perhaps. Also, I fucking love Pedroia.
-the pitching displayed precisely what I knew they would. JB was strong, accurate mostly and overall dominating. That's why he's still our number 1. Pap was electric. Oki was...well, Oki in a lot of ways. We all know that he'll give up baserunners, but he's still steady. It took him 2 batters to settle but the Crawford at-bat was vintage. Masterson is really raw. And talented. And his delivery is sick. I hoped to see Ramirez, but we'll be seeing plenty of him this season.
-honestly, I was totally floored when 'Tek homered. I literally expect nothing from him offensively this year. Nothing. So when he offers something, it's magical. Defensively, he was flawless. Naturally.
I guess that's all for now. I thought I had a little more in me for the inaugural baseball post, but overall I'm satisfied. You might not be, but alas, who the fuck are you? If you're my dad, you need not dignify this question. All else: soul-searching time.
My shot of reality arrived at 1:05 pm this afternoon and thankfully I was in the comforts of my own apartment (yes, clothed AND sober). I had anticipated this day for months, but it was actually this day that was supposed occur yesterday. And then something happens that NEVER happens in Boston: inclement weather in April. I'm not sure there's anything worse than an opening day rainout. Disppointment lasts about nine seconds and then sharply breaks into vicious anger, followed by bouts of incredulous eating (note: incredulous eating is when you find yourself eating something you don't want, tastes terrible and makes you lightly ill...and you actually say "why am I eating this?" as you continue to consume) and finally, the inevitable toss of the arms skyward.
Any inkling of resonant anger from yesterday was suffocated the second I heard the sweet baritone of Mr. Don Orsillo. Wait, no. It was the sight of the increasingly attractive Heidi Watney reporting from inside the park. But yeah, Don's voice was cool, too.
I can't say I sat through the whole game because it was the middle of a Tuesday afternoon...there it is. That's the minute I was blasted by the weekly shot of reality. It's 1:05. I'm not watching Sox in 2 or Classic. It's 74 degrees outside. I'm wearing shorts. The avocados. Where am I? Oh, right. I'm LA. I'm watching NESN in fucking California while Joe Maddon dons some kind of earflapped chapeau and Beckett and Shields blow on their pitching hands incessantly. It's not going to get any less shocking any time soon...the whole baseball thing, that is. I had to order my 2009 Sox shirt online instead of taking a stroll onto Yawkey Way. I'm seeing more games in Anaheim and Oakland this season than at Fenway, which is mightily saddening but remarkably exciting at the same time. Not quite equal parts, but close.
My thoughts from the 9 who play 9:
-think Pedroia was pumped about that delivery in his first AB of the season? There's one thing a back-to-back R.O.Y./M.V.P. thinks leading into the season and during that first game or first week or month of the season: make sure you prove it's not a fluke. Maybe that solo shot doesn't make the season, fuck no. But you saw how quickly Pedro got around those bags. Weight lifted for a few days, perhaps. Also, I fucking love Pedroia.
-the pitching displayed precisely what I knew they would. JB was strong, accurate mostly and overall dominating. That's why he's still our number 1. Pap was electric. Oki was...well, Oki in a lot of ways. We all know that he'll give up baserunners, but he's still steady. It took him 2 batters to settle but the Crawford at-bat was vintage. Masterson is really raw. And talented. And his delivery is sick. I hoped to see Ramirez, but we'll be seeing plenty of him this season.
-honestly, I was totally floored when 'Tek homered. I literally expect nothing from him offensively this year. Nothing. So when he offers something, it's magical. Defensively, he was flawless. Naturally.
I guess that's all for now. I thought I had a little more in me for the inaugural baseball post, but overall I'm satisfied. You might not be, but alas, who the fuck are you? If you're my dad, you need not dignify this question. All else: soul-searching time.
Pacific Purification
Swimming in the Pacific is like an enema. It's uncomfortable to the point of tears, the initial shock is enough to send a man's genitals upwards into his body and you find yourself asking why the fuck you are doing such a thing.
However, the aftermath delivers an invigoration and rejuvenation that few other things can afford. I suppose you do kind of waddle around for a while...but it's all part of the experience. Of swimming in the Pacific...not an enema.
18 March 2009
March of Dims
You got it right, dims. As in dimwitted.
I'm pretty sure I first heard the word 'dimwit' from my father. Dad, feel free to refute this allegation. Regardless, I knew that a dimwit was on par with a twit, a numbskull or a turkey. Sure, each has its own little nuances thrown in with the literal meaning, but the commonalities are in the majority. Personally, I can't think of a better way to insult someone than to call him a turkey. It has all the undertones of a 'chicken', but it's faaaaaar worse. Don't just listen to it...hear it ringing in your ears: "You're nothing but a turkey."
I've come upon some unfavorable circumstances since I've been French in LA, or land of a thousand people who think they're really a million but they're really only a five-spot, at best. I'm sorry, I don't know what that means either. And now I'm beginning to get self-conscious about my commas, which isn't good, but isn't necessarily bad, but either way, is bad. Oh, the horror.
Listen, the point of this whole thing is merely to point out the consequences, should you find yourself waffling after calling someone a turkey. What not to do:
Don't start making turkey noises and movements, as if you are indeed a turkey yourself. Don't gobble and pull at the skin-laden portion in the front of your neck. Don't form wings with your arms and flap them while bending slightly forward and jutting your head forward intermittently, yet consistently. And under no circumstances should you engage in the act of laying an egg, although facetiously.
Do not back away, however. Do not utter the word "turkey" in order to offend someone and then just run away in cowardice. If he's indeed a turkey, he must be treated as such. Inspect his rib meat and the fatty parts under the armpits. Ask him about Thanksgiving and if he'd prefer baking slowly at 350 degrees or being tossed in a vat of scalding oil for 45 minutes to and hour, depending on weight. Tell him you like to eat your turkey with a bit of cranberry sauce and oh-so-tiny of a bite of mashed. Paw at his skin and tell him you hope it gets nice and crispy, because that's your favorite part.
Lastly, you should probably refer back to the previous paragraph and do the exact opposite. Run as far and as fast as you fucking can. This isn't the fifties, when you could really insult someone by calling them a butthead or a maroon. Call someone a turkey and you're most likely going to be beaten to death. Bludgeoned. Dental records will not be able to help in identifying your corpse. I feel for you.
Well, I hope this has been informative. Tune in next time, which could very well be in 2011.
I'm pretty sure I first heard the word 'dimwit' from my father. Dad, feel free to refute this allegation. Regardless, I knew that a dimwit was on par with a twit, a numbskull or a turkey. Sure, each has its own little nuances thrown in with the literal meaning, but the commonalities are in the majority. Personally, I can't think of a better way to insult someone than to call him a turkey. It has all the undertones of a 'chicken', but it's faaaaaar worse. Don't just listen to it...hear it ringing in your ears: "You're nothing but a turkey."
I've come upon some unfavorable circumstances since I've been French in LA, or land of a thousand people who think they're really a million but they're really only a five-spot, at best. I'm sorry, I don't know what that means either. And now I'm beginning to get self-conscious about my commas, which isn't good, but isn't necessarily bad, but either way, is bad. Oh, the horror.
Listen, the point of this whole thing is merely to point out the consequences, should you find yourself waffling after calling someone a turkey. What not to do:
Don't start making turkey noises and movements, as if you are indeed a turkey yourself. Don't gobble and pull at the skin-laden portion in the front of your neck. Don't form wings with your arms and flap them while bending slightly forward and jutting your head forward intermittently, yet consistently. And under no circumstances should you engage in the act of laying an egg, although facetiously.
Do not back away, however. Do not utter the word "turkey" in order to offend someone and then just run away in cowardice. If he's indeed a turkey, he must be treated as such. Inspect his rib meat and the fatty parts under the armpits. Ask him about Thanksgiving and if he'd prefer baking slowly at 350 degrees or being tossed in a vat of scalding oil for 45 minutes to and hour, depending on weight. Tell him you like to eat your turkey with a bit of cranberry sauce and oh-so-tiny of a bite of mashed. Paw at his skin and tell him you hope it gets nice and crispy, because that's your favorite part.
Lastly, you should probably refer back to the previous paragraph and do the exact opposite. Run as far and as fast as you fucking can. This isn't the fifties, when you could really insult someone by calling them a butthead or a maroon. Call someone a turkey and you're most likely going to be beaten to death. Bludgeoned. Dental records will not be able to help in identifying your corpse. I feel for you.
Well, I hope this has been informative. Tune in next time, which could very well be in 2011.
18 February 2009
Researching "...For Dummies" Books For Dummies
I'll admit that I own a copy of "Personal Finance For Dummies". At one point in my life, I came to the realization that I was about as responsible with money as Magic Johnson was with his penis. I'm still trying to figure out what it means that I never actually read the book after purchasing it...that's right, bask in the glow of the fucking irony. Mmmm...feels good.
I went to a local Barnes and Noble today with three objectives: buy a map of San Diego, buy some new reading material for my flight to Boston on Sunday and finally, find the most ridiculous Dummies title out there. Not to toot my own (french) horn, but I was wildly successful on all counts. Let me add that these successes were most imperative because I was fresh off a fucking deplorable haircut, courtesy of Liliana at SuperCuts in Marina Del Ray. If you're reading this, Liliana, there's hope for you yet. There's still time to pick up a copy of "Giving Someone A Trim When He Asks For One For Dummies". Take your $20 in tips for the day (I'm being incredibly generous in my estimation here) and go buy it.
In no way am I devaluing these books, because I am fairly certain that myriad individuals have benefited from the likes of these offerings. How am I so certain? Oh, I don't know. Could be the fact that there are such categories as "Happiness" within this line of self-help publications. This tells me that following their initial successes, the publishers of the Dummies books got a little loopy and started to take full advantage of the impressionability of Americans. Side note: right next to "Happiness For Dummies" was "Depression For Dummies". Hooray for product placement! Way to go, guys. Genius.
I spent a good amount of time perusing the Dummies offerings in the self-help section. Two titles in particular struck me. First, Sex For Dummies. I didn't open this one, in fear that I might realize that I've been doing it wrong for the last ten some-odd years. But I'm fairly certain this one included a cartoon-like sketch with arrows and captions like "insert here" and "not so much here". But I wondered if they make such assertions as "sex is reserved for married couples", or "it's not sex if both parties don't reach climax". Well shit, if that's the case I think the lot of us dudes are actually virgins. I may or may not fall into this category...not saying. Sex For Dummies. Are there chapters on ways in which to get your partner in the sack? Do they talk about the wonders of alcohol, or the sweet sounds of Barry White? Do they offer assistance for the occasional awkward locale, like the bathroom at a Howard Johnson's (with a preamble about disinfectants used by the corporation) or the back seat of a Ford Festiva? Wait, does a Festiva have a back seat? (note to self: write "Ford Festivas For Dummies") The final question: who the fuck qualifies him or herself to write such a book? Ahhh, wait. Co-authored by JC himself. Phew.
The second title that drew particular intrigue from me was "Schizophrenia For Dummies". I couldn't figure who they were targeting with this one: those who are living with a schizophrenic or schizophrenics themselves. Look, I know and understand that this is a real and serious condition but isn't there something horribly fucking wrong with a book for Dummies on such a subject? I'll say this. If this book was meant for schizophrenics themselves, I think there's an inescapable paradox here. Which personality is going to read the book? Oh, fuck me...I think I just figured it out. The aim is for all personalities to read it. Then once they all understand the condition, they can work in harmony to rise as one against it. Well, I am impressed, authors of "Schizophrenia For Dummies". Now, if they could only award Noble Prizes to those who truly deserve it, this would be a truly great world. Truly great.
The religious section contained titles on Christianity, Mormonism, the Bible, Buddhism, Judaism...Zoroastrianism...ok, no. I'd have bought that one if it existed (dear Santa...). Does anyone else see some issues with making a conscious decision to purchase a book on a particular religion that also includes the word "dummies"? How do you simplify the Bible? Which bible are they referring to? Although, I suppose that if JC can co-author the Sex edition, he best have been the top advisor to either or both of the one on Christianity or the Bible. I then started to wonder if religious studies classes might be employing these publications as their text of choice. I'm trying to imagine sitting down at my first Sunday School class and instead of receiving a copy of the Bible, Sister Anne slaps down a bright, yellow copy of "The Bible For Dummies". Maybe then she gets up in front of the class of budding Catholics and says something like "ok class, I'll save you all the knuckle lashings when you laugh about the burning bush by giving you this how-to on the holiest book of all." That's the point where I raise my hand and demand an explanation of how she can refer to the Bible as the "holiest" book of all, only to ask that we read a book for Dummies explaining such a book. Hey man, sometimes knuckle lashings are inevitable.
I encourage all of you to venture into your nearest book dealer and take a look for yourself at all the ways in which a total fucking birdbrain can learn about anything he or she can surmise. Be sure to check the shelves in Summer of 2009 for "Admitting To Steroid Use For Dummies". No, A-Roid was not consulted for advisory on this matter.
Zing.
I went to a local Barnes and Noble today with three objectives: buy a map of San Diego, buy some new reading material for my flight to Boston on Sunday and finally, find the most ridiculous Dummies title out there. Not to toot my own (french) horn, but I was wildly successful on all counts. Let me add that these successes were most imperative because I was fresh off a fucking deplorable haircut, courtesy of Liliana at SuperCuts in Marina Del Ray. If you're reading this, Liliana, there's hope for you yet. There's still time to pick up a copy of "Giving Someone A Trim When He Asks For One For Dummies". Take your $20 in tips for the day (I'm being incredibly generous in my estimation here) and go buy it.
In no way am I devaluing these books, because I am fairly certain that myriad individuals have benefited from the likes of these offerings. How am I so certain? Oh, I don't know. Could be the fact that there are such categories as "Happiness" within this line of self-help publications. This tells me that following their initial successes, the publishers of the Dummies books got a little loopy and started to take full advantage of the impressionability of Americans. Side note: right next to "Happiness For Dummies" was "Depression For Dummies". Hooray for product placement! Way to go, guys. Genius.
I spent a good amount of time perusing the Dummies offerings in the self-help section. Two titles in particular struck me. First, Sex For Dummies. I didn't open this one, in fear that I might realize that I've been doing it wrong for the last ten some-odd years. But I'm fairly certain this one included a cartoon-like sketch with arrows and captions like "insert here" and "not so much here". But I wondered if they make such assertions as "sex is reserved for married couples", or "it's not sex if both parties don't reach climax". Well shit, if that's the case I think the lot of us dudes are actually virgins. I may or may not fall into this category...not saying. Sex For Dummies. Are there chapters on ways in which to get your partner in the sack? Do they talk about the wonders of alcohol, or the sweet sounds of Barry White? Do they offer assistance for the occasional awkward locale, like the bathroom at a Howard Johnson's (with a preamble about disinfectants used by the corporation) or the back seat of a Ford Festiva? Wait, does a Festiva have a back seat? (note to self: write "Ford Festivas For Dummies") The final question: who the fuck qualifies him or herself to write such a book? Ahhh, wait. Co-authored by JC himself. Phew.
The second title that drew particular intrigue from me was "Schizophrenia For Dummies". I couldn't figure who they were targeting with this one: those who are living with a schizophrenic or schizophrenics themselves. Look, I know and understand that this is a real and serious condition but isn't there something horribly fucking wrong with a book for Dummies on such a subject? I'll say this. If this book was meant for schizophrenics themselves, I think there's an inescapable paradox here. Which personality is going to read the book? Oh, fuck me...I think I just figured it out. The aim is for all personalities to read it. Then once they all understand the condition, they can work in harmony to rise as one against it. Well, I am impressed, authors of "Schizophrenia For Dummies". Now, if they could only award Noble Prizes to those who truly deserve it, this would be a truly great world. Truly great.
The religious section contained titles on Christianity, Mormonism, the Bible, Buddhism, Judaism...Zoroastrianism...ok, no. I'd have bought that one if it existed (dear Santa...). Does anyone else see some issues with making a conscious decision to purchase a book on a particular religion that also includes the word "dummies"? How do you simplify the Bible? Which bible are they referring to? Although, I suppose that if JC can co-author the Sex edition, he best have been the top advisor to either or both of the one on Christianity or the Bible. I then started to wonder if religious studies classes might be employing these publications as their text of choice. I'm trying to imagine sitting down at my first Sunday School class and instead of receiving a copy of the Bible, Sister Anne slaps down a bright, yellow copy of "The Bible For Dummies". Maybe then she gets up in front of the class of budding Catholics and says something like "ok class, I'll save you all the knuckle lashings when you laugh about the burning bush by giving you this how-to on the holiest book of all." That's the point where I raise my hand and demand an explanation of how she can refer to the Bible as the "holiest" book of all, only to ask that we read a book for Dummies explaining such a book. Hey man, sometimes knuckle lashings are inevitable.
I encourage all of you to venture into your nearest book dealer and take a look for yourself at all the ways in which a total fucking birdbrain can learn about anything he or she can surmise. Be sure to check the shelves in Summer of 2009 for "Admitting To Steroid Use For Dummies". No, A-Roid was not consulted for advisory on this matter.
Zing.
02 February 2009
3rd Floor Cance
I have several partial blogs in my inventory here, so forgive me for posting multiple entries on the same day. And don't forget to read one more down after this one...I just put that one up a minute ago. No, you don't HAVE to read it, I'm just saying...listen, do what you want, man. No need to get flip.
I'd actually suggest reading the previous entry first, since these are chronological and all. I guess reunions are the theme of the day.
I went up to Oakland/San Francisco back on the 29th to see Ponch. I hadn't seen him in a few years, but we'd kept in constant contact for the most part. I had planned on driving up to Hayward to spend a long weekend with him...meet his girl and hang out with his roommates. Basic stuff. What I wasn't prepared for was seeing Jason Burkle, who lived across the hall from me in my freshman year at Umass. Him I hadn't seen since 1999...very little contact as he moved out here right after college, pretty much. It's just amazing how friends can pick up almost directly where they left off after you get the requisite "what have you been up to"s out of the way.
I spent a good part of the weekend with Burkle as Ponch had some school shit to tend to and girlfriend time to partake in. Burkle showed me around Rockridge/North Oakland, Berkeley, a bit of Alameda. We went to a huge flea market/antique show and shot the shit for about 3 hours as we perused other people's old but interesting shit. He collects vintage boomboxes, so there was a bit of an initiative there. Anyway, following the weekend I headed down to Monterey where he lives and spent a couple days there. It was phenomenal. Immaculate coastline with rocky outcroppings, big breaks, lots of surfers and amazing sunsets. We kayaked around the bay on the first day and saw a bunch of seals....one of which followed us nearly the whole trip. It was pretty incredible.
Anyway, enjoy the shots from the weekend below.
I'd actually suggest reading the previous entry first, since these are chronological and all. I guess reunions are the theme of the day.
I went up to Oakland/San Francisco back on the 29th to see Ponch. I hadn't seen him in a few years, but we'd kept in constant contact for the most part. I had planned on driving up to Hayward to spend a long weekend with him...meet his girl and hang out with his roommates. Basic stuff. What I wasn't prepared for was seeing Jason Burkle, who lived across the hall from me in my freshman year at Umass. Him I hadn't seen since 1999...very little contact as he moved out here right after college, pretty much. It's just amazing how friends can pick up almost directly where they left off after you get the requisite "what have you been up to"s out of the way.
I spent a good part of the weekend with Burkle as Ponch had some school shit to tend to and girlfriend time to partake in. Burkle showed me around Rockridge/North Oakland, Berkeley, a bit of Alameda. We went to a huge flea market/antique show and shot the shit for about 3 hours as we perused other people's old but interesting shit. He collects vintage boomboxes, so there was a bit of an initiative there. Anyway, following the weekend I headed down to Monterey where he lives and spent a couple days there. It was phenomenal. Immaculate coastline with rocky outcroppings, big breaks, lots of surfers and amazing sunsets. We kayaked around the bay on the first day and saw a bunch of seals....one of which followed us nearly the whole trip. It was pretty incredible.
Anyway, enjoy the shots from the weekend below.
Me and Burkle at District in San Francisco
Me and Ponch, same locale.
And finally, the three of us back together after 10 years. Weird shit, I'm telling you. But fucking awesome.26 January 2009
Another Country Heard From
Spring of 1999
I returned home following the Fall semester at Umass bearing the knowledge that I would not be welcomed back for the upcoming Spring semester. Apparently, a 20:1 ratio of weed/booze/sleep and actual school work is not conducive to maintaining a (ahem) 2.0 GPA. Some of us learn the hard way, I guess.
The next 8 months would be an amalgam of hauling horsehair plaster for my uncle Don, slinging Big Mouth Burgers at Chili's for my cousin Jeff and hanging out with one of two long-time best friends. Kev and I were both living at home and working for whomever would agree to hire us. On the side, we were playing pool nightly and choking down enough cigarettes to fund 50% of the advertising for Camel. It was the best of times, it was the...ok, OK. I won't complete the thought. But fuck, it was kinda the worst of times, too. I'd lose my job with Uncle Don by way of too many late mornings marred by a hangover. My waiter gig at Chili's would come to a screeching hault as a result of receiving the lowest secret shopper score in the history of the company (42%). I guess swearing at a customer because you forgot to put in his order for an Awesome Blossom is not such a great idea. I was doing that dude a favor though, come on. But I was better off not wearing the bright red polo with the Chili's logo on it. Wrapping my dad's blue volvo sedan around a pole in a parking structure should have been evidence enough, but I was 19. I was living off of double cheeseburgers and Red Stripes from Charlie's Kitchen in Harvard Square. I had a girlfriend back at Umass, a girlfriend from Chili's and random girls from Tufts that really admired my beirut skills. I was living the college flunkie, pothead, underage alcoholic dream.
Kev and I shared the same ambitions back then. To reiterate: weed, booze and girls. And pool, sure. We had a grand time of it, implanting indelible memories on my mind...such as the time we woke up on couches outside the ZBT house at Tufts. It was visitation weekend for prospective freshmen and Kev, Nate and I were shirtless and still drunk at 8am. The sun was hot, our odor was horrendous and our voices were loud: "Hey! Yeah, send your daughter to Tufts! We'll take good care of her." I wonder if our words were effective...no matter. We did a lot of dumb shit and probably deserved to be either incarcerated or hospitalized on more than three or four occasions, but we endured.
I returned to Umass in the Fall and would eventually finish up my degree. I never really dug out of the academic hole I dug for myself but I managed to do enough to flip my tassle in May of 2002. Kev, on the other hand, hit the road on a pilgrimage to find isolationist respite...at least, that's my take on it. His path would lead him down to the sandy beaches of the eastern Floridian coast and ultimately west to the Californian beaches of Santa Monica. Kev left in 2000 and I hadn't seen him since...until 3 weeks ago.
I got fed up with the lack of email response from over the years. It was sparse at best, and gleaning any pertinent information from him was like defending MJ in the clutch. So I took the path of least resistence. I called him mom and demanded to know where he lived, worked and how I could reach him. Sonofabitch...turns out Kev had been working down the street from where I originally lived upon arriving here in the Golden State. I never had cause to go into the hardware store, though. But on the last Sunday in January I did.
I showed up at his place of work late in the afternoon and walked around a bit until I spotted him. He stood in the back, talking to one of his employees. He looked about the same, aside from the ever-apparent salt and pepper mane he had developed over the years. Kev started going gray at the age of 11, I believe. I stood about 10 feet away for a good 5 minutes until he looked up at me. One take, no reaction. Second take, minimal reaction. Third take, a hard pause and a puzzled look. Fourth take, he looks at me for about 10 seconds and looks floorward, shaking his head and laughing in a way that only Kev could laugh after seeing me after a 9-year hiatus. I threw my arms up as if to say, "are you fucking kidding me, dude?" He put up one finger, telling me to hang on one sec as he finished up with his subordinate. I took that time to peruse the bathroom fixtures...truth be told, I'd feel more acclimated in the Mekong River Delta.
Finally he heads over and we exchange the requisite man hug of a familiar, snapping handshake and quick one-arm embrace. It's a strange feeling...seeing one of your oldest and formerly closest friends after so long a time. But little had changed...his face looked the same, his voice sounded the same. He said I looked taller, then asked if my shoes had lifts in them. He also offered that I looked skinny, but maybe only because I was a bit pudgy when we were 19 and 20. But he had to finish his shift. I took his number and gave him mine and he agreed to come by after work.
And that he did. I made some dinner, we had some beers and began what would turn out to be 8 hours of surface-scratching on the way to getting a combined 18 years of life experience out of the way. And just like old times we headed out to a bar nearby and shot pool, played darts and that quick-shot basketball game. I took particular pride in smoking him at quick-shot, but he made short work of me in the other games...much of the same, as some things just never change. The night would end at 5:30am as it just seemed like a good time to call it. I knew we'd pick it up again soon enough, now that I knew where he worked and lived.
It's a strange thing. You find yourself digging your way out of a cavernous hole in a foreign land where nothing is familiar then all at once, everything is familiar again. Maybe I've mentioned it to Kev by now or maybe I haven't, but reuniting with him after all these years and all the bullshit we've both been through since our last gathering changed everything for me. You meet new people everywhere you go, sure. You forge new relationships and you develop new habits, beliefs, ways of life. But the things you learned with your best friends in your adolescence, when you're most impressionable...those things never leave.
Good to have you back, buddy.
I returned home following the Fall semester at Umass bearing the knowledge that I would not be welcomed back for the upcoming Spring semester. Apparently, a 20:1 ratio of weed/booze/sleep and actual school work is not conducive to maintaining a (ahem) 2.0 GPA. Some of us learn the hard way, I guess.
The next 8 months would be an amalgam of hauling horsehair plaster for my uncle Don, slinging Big Mouth Burgers at Chili's for my cousin Jeff and hanging out with one of two long-time best friends. Kev and I were both living at home and working for whomever would agree to hire us. On the side, we were playing pool nightly and choking down enough cigarettes to fund 50% of the advertising for Camel. It was the best of times, it was the...ok, OK. I won't complete the thought. But fuck, it was kinda the worst of times, too. I'd lose my job with Uncle Don by way of too many late mornings marred by a hangover. My waiter gig at Chili's would come to a screeching hault as a result of receiving the lowest secret shopper score in the history of the company (42%). I guess swearing at a customer because you forgot to put in his order for an Awesome Blossom is not such a great idea. I was doing that dude a favor though, come on. But I was better off not wearing the bright red polo with the Chili's logo on it. Wrapping my dad's blue volvo sedan around a pole in a parking structure should have been evidence enough, but I was 19. I was living off of double cheeseburgers and Red Stripes from Charlie's Kitchen in Harvard Square. I had a girlfriend back at Umass, a girlfriend from Chili's and random girls from Tufts that really admired my beirut skills. I was living the college flunkie, pothead, underage alcoholic dream.
Kev and I shared the same ambitions back then. To reiterate: weed, booze and girls. And pool, sure. We had a grand time of it, implanting indelible memories on my mind...such as the time we woke up on couches outside the ZBT house at Tufts. It was visitation weekend for prospective freshmen and Kev, Nate and I were shirtless and still drunk at 8am. The sun was hot, our odor was horrendous and our voices were loud: "Hey! Yeah, send your daughter to Tufts! We'll take good care of her." I wonder if our words were effective...no matter. We did a lot of dumb shit and probably deserved to be either incarcerated or hospitalized on more than three or four occasions, but we endured.
I returned to Umass in the Fall and would eventually finish up my degree. I never really dug out of the academic hole I dug for myself but I managed to do enough to flip my tassle in May of 2002. Kev, on the other hand, hit the road on a pilgrimage to find isolationist respite...at least, that's my take on it. His path would lead him down to the sandy beaches of the eastern Floridian coast and ultimately west to the Californian beaches of Santa Monica. Kev left in 2000 and I hadn't seen him since...until 3 weeks ago.
I got fed up with the lack of email response from over the years. It was sparse at best, and gleaning any pertinent information from him was like defending MJ in the clutch. So I took the path of least resistence. I called him mom and demanded to know where he lived, worked and how I could reach him. Sonofabitch...turns out Kev had been working down the street from where I originally lived upon arriving here in the Golden State. I never had cause to go into the hardware store, though. But on the last Sunday in January I did.
I showed up at his place of work late in the afternoon and walked around a bit until I spotted him. He stood in the back, talking to one of his employees. He looked about the same, aside from the ever-apparent salt and pepper mane he had developed over the years. Kev started going gray at the age of 11, I believe. I stood about 10 feet away for a good 5 minutes until he looked up at me. One take, no reaction. Second take, minimal reaction. Third take, a hard pause and a puzzled look. Fourth take, he looks at me for about 10 seconds and looks floorward, shaking his head and laughing in a way that only Kev could laugh after seeing me after a 9-year hiatus. I threw my arms up as if to say, "are you fucking kidding me, dude?" He put up one finger, telling me to hang on one sec as he finished up with his subordinate. I took that time to peruse the bathroom fixtures...truth be told, I'd feel more acclimated in the Mekong River Delta.
Finally he heads over and we exchange the requisite man hug of a familiar, snapping handshake and quick one-arm embrace. It's a strange feeling...seeing one of your oldest and formerly closest friends after so long a time. But little had changed...his face looked the same, his voice sounded the same. He said I looked taller, then asked if my shoes had lifts in them. He also offered that I looked skinny, but maybe only because I was a bit pudgy when we were 19 and 20. But he had to finish his shift. I took his number and gave him mine and he agreed to come by after work.
And that he did. I made some dinner, we had some beers and began what would turn out to be 8 hours of surface-scratching on the way to getting a combined 18 years of life experience out of the way. And just like old times we headed out to a bar nearby and shot pool, played darts and that quick-shot basketball game. I took particular pride in smoking him at quick-shot, but he made short work of me in the other games...much of the same, as some things just never change. The night would end at 5:30am as it just seemed like a good time to call it. I knew we'd pick it up again soon enough, now that I knew where he worked and lived.
It's a strange thing. You find yourself digging your way out of a cavernous hole in a foreign land where nothing is familiar then all at once, everything is familiar again. Maybe I've mentioned it to Kev by now or maybe I haven't, but reuniting with him after all these years and all the bullshit we've both been through since our last gathering changed everything for me. You meet new people everywhere you go, sure. You forge new relationships and you develop new habits, beliefs, ways of life. But the things you learned with your best friends in your adolescence, when you're most impressionable...those things never leave.
Good to have you back, buddy.
08 January 2009
Monsieur Green Thumb
I'm growing a mint plant in my apartment as of Sunday. I must say, I've never really appreciated the process of photosynthesis until now.
I've been watering the thing daily since Sunday but only today did I allow it to have a spot on the window sill amidst a bath of sunlight. Two hours in the sun and there's two inches of new growth on three of the stems.
I don't know how recently markets started peddling Mint plants in mass quantities, but we can thank the rise of the mojito for this. My plant came with a recipe for the classic mojito, only the recipe is for a pitcher of mojitos. Is it not possible that I might be using the mint for something other than an alcoholic beverage? Does it not stand to reason that I could actually be using the mint in my cooking? Maybe I just like the smell, what of it? I guess pretty much everyone is a booze hound these days...these times. The economy is in the crapper, let's get drunk. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a libation or two from time to time and I think the mojito is a mighty tasty drink. I just find it humorous that the selling point for a mint plant is that it can be used to help you get drunk in a tastier fashion.
Hey, it's mint. Mint.
I've been watering the thing daily since Sunday but only today did I allow it to have a spot on the window sill amidst a bath of sunlight. Two hours in the sun and there's two inches of new growth on three of the stems.
I don't know how recently markets started peddling Mint plants in mass quantities, but we can thank the rise of the mojito for this. My plant came with a recipe for the classic mojito, only the recipe is for a pitcher of mojitos. Is it not possible that I might be using the mint for something other than an alcoholic beverage? Does it not stand to reason that I could actually be using the mint in my cooking? Maybe I just like the smell, what of it? I guess pretty much everyone is a booze hound these days...these times. The economy is in the crapper, let's get drunk. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a libation or two from time to time and I think the mojito is a mighty tasty drink. I just find it humorous that the selling point for a mint plant is that it can be used to help you get drunk in a tastier fashion.
Hey, it's mint. Mint.
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