Malibooyeah

I really struggled with the name of this blog, and in the process of trying to come up with something catchy, I'm pretty sure I lost a bunch of the material that was fresh in my head yesterday. But I've got to push on...push through the cobwebs that resulted from our usual redeye back to Boston. Anyone else have trouble sleeping on planes? I suck at it, and this latest endeavor offered no revelation as to how to effectively sleep on a plane. La and I had a whole row to ourselves, so we both kind of sprawled out and tried to snooze. She encountered great success while I spent the better part of the flight swallowing and yawning, trying to pop my fucking ears.

1. My two new friends as a result of this trip. That's Danny on the left and Jackie on the right. Wait, no it's not! I'm kidding! No dude named Danny would be sporting such an impressive set of...sunglasses as the ones J is wielding here. Nice work, J. Looking good. Notice the Pink Taco sign behind us. I think it's pretty awesome how Danny's head is perfectly in place of the 'O' on the sign. We didn't even mean to do that, either. I know, it's crazy shit. Crrrrazy, man.

2. I'm trying to start a new drink name at Starbucks as a result of the trip/meeting the aforementioned Danny (no boobs). It's called the Pischke, and it's the equivalent of a Double Black Eye at Starbucks...I am accustomed to ordering a regular Black Eye, which is a coffee with two shots of Espresso. During one of many Coffee Bean experiences in LA this last time, I allowed Danny to order my drink for me, whatever he was having. Yeah, well...that happened to be four shots of espresso over ice..sans sugar, cream, etc. For all you cokeheads out there, this is a much cheaper alternative to an eight ball. Anyway, go order a venti Pischke at your local Starbucks and when they inevitable deny its existence, tell them you ordered one in LA and then describe what it is. I'm willing to bet you can convince the Barista on duty to write it on his or her chalkboard. Before long, the Pischke will be a national obsession. The drink, Danny. The drink. You're a ways off from being a national obsession, but if you play your cards right, you'll soon be a blog phenomenon.

3. I am an average eighth grade student. I did an assignment for La's youngest brother Zander while we were there, and it took me a few hours. I had to write an outline for an essay about Manifest Destiny and westward movement...this included shit like the Alamo, the Gadsden Purchase, etc. After a lot of hard work and reading, she gave me/him a sideways but nearly right-side up Tigger stamp.

The tigger stamp is the grading method of one teacher out in the Malibu school system. Her name will remain anonymous to Zander's protection. If you receive a right-side up TIgger, it means you got an A. So my slightly sideways Tigger is like a B/B+. These kids are eighth graders, dude. Not second graders. Tigger?

I usually leave Malibu scratching my head, because I can't beat this new teen in HORSE or Madden on Wii, or NBA Live, or Guitar Hero. But now I can't even compete on the scholastic level, either. Time for me to do some serious soul searching, methinks.

4. I realized that I'm not going to be a very good father in terms of watching my son(s) play sports. I attended a youth basketball game while we were out there and I gotta tell you, I've never been so heated at a youth event. But it has lead to understand that there are several defined roles for youths in terms of basketball:

The Ballhog: my inspiration for this character is a real douchebag in my opinion. This is the kid who never, EVER passes, hoists up NBA threes that nearly touch the rafters, charges on every play, travels twice per play and takes layups that go careening off the backboard with such violence that dent a sedan. I hate this kid...the Ballhog. I found myself very irritated by this kid at the game, muttering things like "oh, is this kid serious with that shit" and "pass the fucking ball, you asshole". These kids are 13. I have problems.

Chubbo: Chubbo could very well have been me at the age of maybe 10 or 11. Chubbo can't run up and down the court, his defense consists of grabbing the jersey and hooking his opponent so he can't get away and tripping and his offense is nothing more than the occasional layup on a fastbreak as a result of his chubby ass not getting back on defense. Chubbo is a complete liability on the court, but dinner at his house after the game is nothing short of a celebration of deliciousness and grease. Put up with his shit on the court and you're setting yourself up for a mighty nice meal afterwards. This is the kid whose parents own stock in Little Debbie. For real.


The Last Pick: I like this kid. He recently moved to the area from someplace like India or China and he's never seen a basketball before. He has speed beyond any comprehension and the heart of a lion but his basketball aptitude is below that of junebug. Honestly, passing him the ball is about as smart as shooting at the other team's basket. He's the kid who might make one shot all season and when he makes that shot, the coach actually runs on the court and hugs him. Also, only his dad comes to the games and he sits in the back corner of the gym. He'll not say much, and he leaves the gym with his head down. He doesn't understand the game either, but his son cries about all the other parents being there for their kids. So he goes. And he's miserable.


The Star: Every team has one of these kids. He shoots the lights out, is maybe 100 times better than everyone else on his team and the other kids know it. Other kids will pass him the ball regardless of the situation, even when he's covered by everyone on the other team. I can't understand the level of play of the Star, because he will have perfect form, a smooth crossover and crazy handle. Yet, 9 times out of 10, he'll hit puberty and lose all coordination. Nate, if you're reading this, you know what I'm talking about.


I miss the days when trophies are all the same size so no one feels better than anyone else, and the team party offers a box of cupcakes with the first letter of the team name on them...and they give out the Sportsmanship Award. I always won that award, probably because I worked really hard but didn't quite have the skills to be rewarded as the MVP or the leading scorer. I suppose that still holds true for me, in a sad, sad way. Why can't I dribble a basketball? WHY??

I've put a few parting photos below here for your viewing pleasure. In closing, I love hot tubs.

And I hate HORSE...below is a shot of me and Zander trying to retrieve the ball in the bushes following one of my atrcious shots. Terrible.

Hey Gilbert, buy the fucking truck. Do it.