Gym dandy

As much as ESPN has ruined it's money-maker, SportsCenter, I still feel compelled to watch it. Where else am I going to get my Yankee, Red Sox, Patriots, Cowboys, Lakers, Pistons fix? Those are the only teams that matter according to the Oh Holy Gatekeeper of Sports News, right? They sure don't feed us news about other teams like, say, the Dodgers and Chargers.

The Gatekeeper is the first thing I turn in the morning, the first thing I turn on when I get home from work, and what I look for when I'm doing my 45 minutes of hell at the gym. By that point, like a heroin junky after a good spike, I lay back content with all the gatekeeped sports news ESPN has given me. I might turn it on later at night when Wife has sauntered out of the room for the moment, but like a teenager watching a nudie move on late night Cinimax, I flip it back to the "Dharma & Greg" reruns we're watching before she saunters back into the room.

"What were you watching?" Wife says.

"Uh, nothing. It was a commercial dear," I say, but the blushing pink hue floods my face and she knows just where I've been on TV. "OK, I needed to know who won the Longwood University/McNeese State game."

"Why?" Her question pains me. Wife doesn't even pretend to sympathize with my addiction. No "It's OK honey, we'll get through this together," or "There's help out there for you, we'll find it." Instead, I get an accusatory stare that says I'll be banished to the tool shed - again.

"Nevermind, let's watch the end of 'Dharma & Greg.'"

My windows for watching the Oh Holy Gatekeeper of Sports News open only as wide as a rear window in a minivan. Fifteen minutes in the morning and five before the gym, making my final viewing of the day all the more important. Forty-five minutes of hell go by like 42 minutes when the Oh Holy Gatekeeper is spewing stats at me like a gumball machine. Those minutes are almost bearable. When I can't get my fix because all the gym TVs are tuned into either "Oprah" or "Family Feud", the eliptical trainer I'm gassing myself on is like one of those Mac trucks being pushed by humans who are roughly the same size as said truck in the Strongest Man competition on late-night ESPN (check your local listings).

And then there's yesterday. I'm motoring along on the last trainer in the row, which sits behind four Stair Master machines (more on those later). I've got a good sweat going (I'm not sure what a bad sweat is, and I don't want to find out either). My legs feel like runny jello and my chest is about to implode, but the sweat cascading down my ever growing forehead (I'm not going bald, I'm just experiencing a forehead growth spurt) is top notch. No one sweats as good as me, I tell myself while watching the Oh Holy Gatekeeper deliver news, stats and highlight-reel plays from the ceiling mounted television (I think everyone needs a ceiling-mounted television). I'm nearly orgasmic with this overload of sports information. This would be heaven if I didn't have to run like I was being chased by rabid, scrotum-eating rats on a device I'm sure was used to torture detainees at Guatanamo Bay.

This is where I play the gym etiquette card. "Got any etiquettes?" "No, Go Fish, sucker!"

This guy is 8-1/2 feet tall if he's a foot. Stick him on a Stair Master and he could clean my rain gutters without a chair or a ladder (I need a 30-foot extension ladder just to get close, and at that point I'm on the rung that says 'Hey, dumbshit, if you step here, you'll break your ass.') There's four empty machines and I'm behind the last one the Gatekeeper's channel. I'm confident the galoot won't choose the Stair Master in front of me. No one would be that inconsiderate, would they? Just in case, I make sure I'm looking at the TV when he walks up. He'll have to get the clue.

He passes the first machine.

No worries, there still two to choose from.

He passes the second machine.

Curious.

He passes the third machine.

Maybe he's going to stretch those stilts he calls legs.

Ah crap! The beanpole takes the fourth and final Stair Master, blocking my view from the Gatekeeper. Why not just blind fold me and kick my junk up through my esophagus? Just another case of the big men keeping us shrimps down.

At this point, I realized there were only a few options: 1. Ask him politely deroot and move his Redwood ass one over, but I'm pint-sized runt that would get lost in the grooves of his tennis shoe when he steps on my head and crushes me into the carpet; 2. Use my car key (which I take with me just in case I need it for something just like this) and shank his kidney like we're in a prison fight, but then I wasn't sure if the key would work in the truck so I vetoed that idea; 3. Move over to the next eliptical trainer to finish my 45 minutes of hell.

Guess which one I chose.

That's right, I packed my balls and made the trip to the next one. Yeah, I know, I'm a bad ass.

Our chickens look an awful lot like dogs

Big dogs should strike fear in people. They should make grown men take a step back while grabbing their crotch, make women shriek in fear and make little kids cry in terror. That's what big dogs should do.

Our "dogs" (Money Pit 1 and Money Pit 2 for short) don't do any of that. In fact, I'm sure Wife and I bought chickens from that dirt farmer in Northern Peoria. She guaranteed they were Lab/German Shepard pups, but we were duped. We purchased Colonel Sanders' top seller - farm-fresh chickens. If I was a thief breaking into the Melissa Compound, I would be more scared of our declawed cat Coco - the cat whose meow comes out like an angry old lady yelling at kids to stay off her lawn - than our two "dogs." Oh, they bark (just ask the neighbors) and have no problem patrolling the Back 40 to make sure the birds aren't flying off with the garden tools, but you stick a 4-year-old munchkin in front of them and they're shivering messes cowering behind Wife (they think I can take care of myself against the 4-year-old hooligan). That munchkin may as well be a dog-eating creature from the planet Catopia. The "dogs" tuck their tails, droop their ears, and look at Wife and I with big, fear-stricken eyes that say "please don't let this mini-human defile me."

Then there's the groomer, or as I like to call her the Dog De-stinker. It's one of these mobile groomers, so you give her a call, let her know the dogs rolled in their own poop (if she's lucky they may have made it their afternoon snack) and irrigation water (which is a step above mosquito infested swamp in Florida) and she pulls up in your driveway. Here's a snapshot of a De-stinker visit (it's from today, and it hasn't changed in four years):

1. Doorbell rings, "dogs" get excited with the thought of a visitor stopping in to see them. Maybe they'll get a treat - I can see their pea-brains working.

2. Open door to greet De-stinker. "Dogs" take one sniff of her canine fear-scented smock and run for the farthest corner in the house, hoping to blend with the wall and rug. I'm not the brightest bulb in the lamp - I attended the University of Nevada Las Vegas, you do the math - so I'm sure the "dogs" are shocked that I can find where they're hiding every time. "Seriously, he can't even lick his own privates," I'm sure is their rationale in thinking I won't find them.

3. Thinking like a dog, I pull down the leash and tell them we're going for a walk (5 feet past the out the front door and into the grooming van, but I don't tell them that). While I think I'm smart by trying to trick them, they're just as smart and instead sink deeper in the corner, melting into the wall and tile, forming a puddle of dead weight that I must now manipulate into the van.

4. Reminding myself that the De-stinker is behind me, and I have no desire to be on the evening news for shoving bike training wheels up my "dogs'" whoo-whoos so I can wheel them into the Salon di Fifi (which is a van with no rear windows and wood-paneled flooring. I think it's more of a dog-abductor van and I'm pleasantly surprised each time when the toothless Dog De-stinker returns the pooches back into my care), I break down and do my once-every 8-week exercise - doggy lift - whereupon I haul a pair of dogs (80 pounds and 55 pounds respectively) from the back room, through the kitchen, family room, living room and finally out the front door and then across the bed of hot rocks that is the Arizona earth before depositing the man's best friend into said Salon. Repeat step 4 when 1st dog is returned - smiling and happy to be freed of the shitsicles hanging off its rear - and it's 2nd dog's turn.

I can only imagine what goes on inside Salon di Fifi, but for our mean, vicious watch dogs to be more petrified of a 5-foot, bobbed-hair grandmotherly woman than the vacuum (which can cause tail maiming when I'm drunk and trying to clean up the carpet after a 4-tequila shot mishap) tells me there must be some scary stuff in the dog-abductor van. Blowers, clippers, shampoos, perfumes, things that likely go up the ass; something must spook these two vigilant watch dogs.

Maybe a visit to the groomer for the pooches is like a visit to the dentist for me. I'm always afraid they'll yank on a bottom molar only to find it's attached to my ass. They'll pull and pull and pull, meanwhile I'm tasting my sphincter. And when I walk through the front door I'm just happy that I'm home again and I can have a treat for going.

I think the pooches have reason to be scared, then.

Gobble Gobble-a, Gobble-Gobble-di

Man, oh man how I love Thanksgiving.

Any day that celebrates stuffing one's mouth with high-carb, high-saturated fat, high-heart risk foods is a grand day indeed. Those pilgrims and indians knew how to party. And believe you me, I've been practicing this week. Gotta stretch out the gut, or as I like to call it "The Factory" (things get manufactured inside and noxious fumes get emmitted to the outside). Last night, I polished off a plate of refried beans - The Factory really likes beans - and a rather large chicken burrito with all the fixins (see, I am in Turkey Day mode, got the vernacular down and it's not even Thursday). The Factory did some overtime, but since it's a short week it accepted its duties without complaint.

From turnips to green beans with onion pearls to mashed potatos to yams with marshmallows of course to stuffing with raisins and sausage to turkey (i'm a dark meat man - and like they say, once you go dark you never ... well nevermind about that), it's all good eatin'. Mix in a good red wine (or is it supposed to be white wine? Hell, mix in some booze, any booze) and that's how the Tribe does Thanksgiving.

Typically, I'm glued to the TV watching Detroit get whooped like a sorry-ass mule, beer welded to my hand while Uncles discuss something above my pay grade while Father Unit splits time between the game and computer/business/stock speak. Us guys know where we're best utilized, obviously, because I didn't mention any of us in the kitchen. We all know better. Step inside the combat zone and you're liable to get pasted with one of the 21 different styles of potatos being concocted. Oh no, it's much safer on the couch, which is not within potato-flinging distance. Maybe a hurled turkey leg, but not potatoes (don't ask how I know).

I try to help cleanup until I break something and then I'm politely asked to join the guys outside for a cigar. It works every time.

So there you have it. That's Thanksgiving Day with the tribe. I hope you have a good day with your family and friends. Wife and plan to. HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

Snip, snip, buzz

Wife laughs at me - often - because I get indignant when she doesn't comment on my haircut when she first sees me (I make it point to say her hair looks nice after her day long trip to the Salon, no matter if it was a quarter-inch trim or a full-blown color and wax and whatever else you chicks get done to your mane). If I'm spending $13 of my hard-earned bucks on my hair I want folks to notice.

Wife can't believe I had long hair at one time. Jesus-length long hair that I refused to pull into a pony tail because I hated that look of frizzy long hair in a pony tail. No matter how tight you pull that mane together, you still can't contain each and every stringy strand. If I needed the rat nest pulled into a pony, I would plaster it down with a enough hairspray you could paste paintings to the wall. If you're out of industrial glue and need something to piece together your Ming vase because a spouse decided it would be fun to reenact Ladanian Tomlinson's latest touchdown run and ball spike, pull out the AquaNet and spray away.

I had my flowing locks hacked off after all my friends did the same. I guess they realized long hair was something for 24-year-olds, at 25 we were approaching the near-dead rocker stage. So a week or two shy of my quarter-century birthday I lopped off the split ends and joined the civilized world once more.

Flash forward nine years and I finally dragged my beer-guzzling ass into the barber shop. More accurate, a Fantastic Sams, which is no different than a Simple Cuts, Great Clips, Friendly Scissors, Barb's Big Buzz or whatever those McDonaldized hair joints are called in your hunk of the planet. Barber shops is where Ward Cleaver and Andy Griffith went for a trim and a shave. I can't do those places; the head cutter's hands move to quick and I'm afraid I'll end up losing my iPod earphone holders (get an anatomy chart to figure that one out, this ain't physiology class).

So, I stop into Sammy's shop - I don't know why Sam is fantastic, I thought the place and my cut was mediocre - for two reasons: 1. It's two blocks away from the Melissa Compound, and 2. I had a coupon. I collect the latter like I used to hoard baseball cards. Wife says "Let's go out to eat," and I reply, "How 'bout Applebee's? I have a coupon." I have coupons for go-kart racing, plays, car washes, pantyhose, and to shops such as Bed, Bath & Beyond and Ulta (Wife stops in, loads up the basket with hundreds of vials - I'm sure it's crack because each vial is that size - and it costs me $100 each time. It's gotta be crack at those prices). If I can save a buck on a $13 hair cut, god damn it, I will.

I like haircuts; the feel of the scissors sifting through the hair, the buzzer tickling the neck (I better watch out or I'll have to charge $19.95 to read this post), it's just delightful. However, being held captive in a chair that is more super market kiddie ride than job necessity and forced to make small talk, well, let's say I'd rather the hair chick just jab me in the ear with the ubersharp scissors. Aside from asking about Thanksgiving and mentioning how busy it seems, I have nothing. I could ask more about her Turkey Day, but I'm afraid she'll think I'm planning to stalk her or seeking a dinner invite. I figure that ain't my business. Neither is it my bees-wax whether she lives around here, is a desert native or likes mustard on her grilled-cheese sandwiches. So instead, I smile at my reflection and wait for her to say "tilt your head forward." That's our conversation, she shouts out directions and I follow like a good soldier. "Yes ma'am. This way? How does this do ya?" That's the extent of our conversation.

Now that I look at it, getting haircut is not that much different than being married.

Rising Rivers - get your Phil

Nineteen years, 11 quarterbacks, and four playoff appearances since Dan Fouts wore the lightning bolts in San Diego.

That's the snapshot for the San Diego Chargers behind center. Aside from undersized, uberscrappy QBs (Stan Humphries and Drew Brees) the Chargers have had eight junkyard leftovers commanding the offense. They went for the flash (Jim McMahon), the "proven winner" (Jim Harbaugh), the "tools" (Billy Joe Tolliver, John Friesz), the place holder(Mark Malone), the faceless (Craig Welihan), the old (Doug Flutie) and finally the new (Ryan Leaf). The Chargers were an unsurprising 41-87 during those years with just one .500 season, under Harbaugh (8-8).

There's an old saying, "A great quarterback only comes around once in a generation." It took the Chargers two quarterback generations to find their Terry Bradshaw.

And Phillip Rivers couldn't come along soon enough for a beleaguered fan base.

The comparisons to Charger saint, Fouts, border on hyperbole because he has been that good. Through his first 10 games, Fouts completed 44.8 percent of his passes (87-194) and threw 13 interceptions to six touchdowns. Rivers, through his first 14 games (spanning three seasons), completed 65.5 percent (199-304) with 14 touchdowns and four picks.

Of course, it's a little disingenuous to the hall of famer to compare his first season to the North Carolina State product. Fouts, who played behind Johnny Unitas during his first season for the Bolts (1973), was given the reins for good the next season. Rivers had two years to prep for this season while backing up Brees.

Those two years have proven invaluable.

Granted, Fouts didn't start with an offense as explosive as what Rivers was given this season - when you have the best running back since Barry Sanders in the backfield your job becomes infinitely easier - but it's interesting that Fouts didn't reach the 2,000-yard mark until his fourth season. Rivers needed 14 games.

The guys on the gridiron believe in their not-so-young QB. The defense can spot the opponents 10 (Pittsburgh), 17 (Kansas City) or 21 points (Cincinnati) and Rivers keeps the squad together. Once Coach Marty Schottenheimer loosened the collar and let the kid run on his retractable leash (see Oakland and Baltimore games) the Chargers have rolled. They lead the league in scoring (33 points per game, 35 touchdowns), and much of that can be put on Rivers' shoulder. Marty hates turnovers - he benched Brees during the 2002 season after too many INTs that were more due to the offensive line than the shrimp - and Rivers has kept the ball secret-service safe. He's had three picks this year and lost one fumble. If I had a baby and needed it thrown, I'd let Rivers do it. That's trust.

And Charger fans haven't had much to trust in the 19 years the Bolts have played Wheel of Quarterbacks. Maybe fans can let that wall of distrust crumble and enjoy a quarterback who could take San Diego to the game that will not be mentioned (it happens in early February, do the math.)

Turn over that leaf, folks, let it blow into the river and watch it flow away into oblivion.

Dog-gone Kids

Wife and I will soon bow to parental pressure and try to make a freeloader.

My parental units' itch for grandfreeloaders, which has grown into a full-blown rash these past few years, is approaching seven years. That's important because Wife and I have been married for nearly five. As for Mom and Dad-in-law, that itch has been something they could treat with cortisone cream, a little dab here, a squirt there and that urge to scratch goes away. However, I think they need a bigger tube of the junk these days.

I think their desire for grandfreeloaders is some diabolical plot for revenge against us. Some modern-day "Cask of the Amantillado," where they wall us into our tomb by spoiling and sugaring-up the freeloaders before sending them back home. Wife and I were both perfect angels during our formative years, though, never questioning authority, picking up our toys and always eating our brussel sprouts. No, no, we were no trouble. Our sibling freeloaders, well, they were another story. We just can't break the units' code for this elaborate scheme. I'm ready to stake out the Hemet Senior Center and The Manor Next Door, wait for the respective units to depart for dinner at 4 p.m. (that's when old people eat so they can have energy to make it through the 6 p.m. news without falling asleep), make their daily trip to the pharmacy, or wherever the heck units go without their freeloaders, so I can slip in and attach some bugs to their Metamucil or Maalox jars because they're never too far away from those necessities. This way, Wife and I can get to the bottom of their shifty scheme. I'm thinking mind control of our freeloader hatchlings is the units' end goal, but without surveillance we don't know for sure.

And we thought both sets of units would be placated with grandpuppies. No wonder they didn't fall over in uninhibited joy when we told them they were grand units to a pair of lovely, healthy doggies. They're not much different. Just last night, Wife handed out two different-flavored bones and both pooches eyed the other's treat then looked back to wife, then back to treat before sulking off to their doggy beds - yeah, doggy BEDS (I'm lucky if I get a sliver of mattress from Wife and the three cats, yet the pooches get their own Sleep Number beds) - all the while wondering if the other really had the better bone.

This behavior isn't saved for just flavored bones, either. Wife and I give each pup her own dinner bowl. They munch away as if they had never seen food before, yet they cast sidelong glances at the other's bowl. We can see the hamster turning in their canine heads, "Her food looks the same, but is it really? She's eating it quick, and she's drooling. Dammit! It's gotta be better than this crap. Holy Shit! They like her better. I knew it. I bet it's hamburger, or eggs or chicken. Christ! Those humans are screwing me over and giving that one all the spoils. And look at them, they're laughing. That's it, I'm poopin' by the pool table again. That will show them for giving me this swill."

We've practiced parental unitness on the pooches for four-and-a-half years now and haven't had to call on the $65 shot. So I guess we passed the test. And really, raising a freeloader and pooch is the same thing. OK, one walks on all fours and poops where it feels like, the other walks on two pudgy sticks and poops wherever it likes. Yep, no difference. I've also talked it over with Wife, and discipline for freeloaders will be much the same as with the pups - you do something bad, outside you go. Lucky for freeloaders, they have opposable thumbs and can turn the knob on the shed for some shelter on those cold Arizona nights (yeah, right). They can even sleep in the wheel barrow. Not exactly the Marriot, but it's better than sleeping in botanical garden of weeds known as the back yard grass. A couple nights in the wheel barrow will cure their badness and we'll have the perfect little Brady freeloader(s) (just as long as it's not Jan, I never trusted that bitch).

Am I ready for a freeloader? I'd like to think so, but I guess until that egg hatches and the offspring comes out looking for the car keys and $20 for pizza you don't know. Then, you're in charge of warping their minds, too. Wait, that doesn't sound so bad:

"Why should I hate the San Francisco Giants, Daddy?"

"Well, because they fry little kids in a huge pan before every game and then feed them to the Giants players. That's why none of them smile. Well, that and they have bad teeth, too. The Dodgers, on the other had, give little kids pony rides before each game and let's you eat all the ice cream you want."

Oh yeah, I'm ready. Bring on the freeloaders.

Christmas geeks

When did Christmas become a four-month holiday?

Wife took me hostage one August evening - "let's go to Rock Bottom for dinner, dear, you can get your favorite beer," that's her way of getting me out of the house - and dragged me into JoAnn's Fabrics, Crafts and Shit. She promised 10 minute visit. I knew better. When she says 10 minutes in a store, I check the Wifespeak-to-English dictionary and there, under the heading "Time," I see the conversion rate for 10 minutes is really 42:31. I wanted to point this out to Wife, but she bound my hands and gagged me, so a) I wouldn't break anything in the store, and b) so I couldn't discuss escape plans with fellow hostages.

The store is like a giant Mervyn's without sleeves. Clothing fabric everywhere, but nothing you can try on. I was doing fine trying to work my hands free to signal for help from a passerby who likely freed himself and escaped the Hallmark store next door, when I ambled into St. Nick's workshop. JoAnn's, that wench, transported me to the North Pole in August. AUGUST! And everywhere I looked was Christmas crap. Robotic Rudolphs, Frosty the Snowman inflatable snowglobes, wreaths that smell like Blitzen just urinated on it, ceramic villages where the people look so happy you just want to smash their little heads with a ball-ping hammer to bring them into the real world, and nutcrackers that still spook the bejeezus out of me with their gritting teeth and gaping maws.

I try to tell Wife, around the gag, that we must go before I poop myself in protest of JoAnn's selling Christmas crap when it was still 155 degrees outside (August remember). Decorating one's house for Christmas, or selling said crap, should be triggered by either a date, or a temperature if you're in Arizona (like Monsoon season, three straight days of sub-65 degree weather and out come the light nets and lumi-frickin'-narias). She doesn't listen to me, and five minutes later she's asked by Cathy the Craft Nerd Clerk to take me outside because shoppers don't know what smells worse reindeer urine-scented wreaths or poop-scented husband.

I talk about that to talk about this - on Nov. 1, I noticed Mr. Green House (it would be perfect it all he wore were green jeans, too) had already lined his fence, eaves, garage, windows, chicken coop and anything else that didn't move with Christmas lights. I checked weather.com, and nope, no consecutive days of sub-65 degree temps here in Arizona. I thought about hooking one of the Christmas lights to the bumper of my truck and pulling them off, dragging the strand down Loop 101 until I hear no more pops and tinkling of broken bulbs. I couldn't do it, though, because Mr. Green House sits on the county island and has chickens, therefore he's a farmer (chickens=farmers in my book). And every movie I've watched, the farmer is packing heat inside, be it a double-barrel shotgun, deer rifle or rocket launcher ("Red Dawn"). Call me crazy, but I don't want to decorate our house with a gory hole where my pumpkin pie holder, re: my tummy, should be.

Lucky for Perfectly Manicured Front Yard Guy down the street, I saw Mr. Green House's display two weeks earlier, because this afternoon, after seeing the former lining his domicile with Christmas lights, I would have taken a hammer and nail to each red and white bulb, even those on the roof. But by this point, I've given up. If they can't wait until after the Thanksgiving holiday, what more can I do? I guess I'll keep peeing on their extension cords at 3:20 a.m. until they get the hint.

Maybe they should just take a lesson from us ... Wife and I just left our blue and white twinkle lights up all year (more out of laziness than by design). Works out perfectly, but the Arizona sun does something to blue Christmas lights - it turns them green. So you'll recognize our house this year, its' the one with the faceless plywood snowmen and teal Christmas lights. Nothing says "ho-ho-ho" like teal.

The war at home - Front Yard Theater

I knew it would be a hard-fought battle, and lives could be lost but I did't run from the fight. That's what's important. I knew I'd win because, unlike the Bush administration, I furnish my army of one (me) with the necessary equipment to win the war.

That's right, today - Veterans Day - I decided to take the war to the front yard weeds rather then them invading more of my territory. Does that make the weeds the U.S. and me Iraq? Better not touch that one, I might get a knock on the door from dudes in black suits, white shirts, black ties and Ray Ban sunglasses.

An angry patch of crab grass claimed a section of my driveway about eight months ago. It became a giant green, twiney ball of hate, swallowing two railroad ties and threatened to advance on our house. It was going to lay siege to Wife and myself. I can see it from computer room's window safely inside the house and the war-monger grass was definitely preparing an offensive of some type. I'm not exacly sure what type of attack it was planning - maybe when Wife or I decided to get the mail, the grass would lasso our ankles and pull us to it's den deep under the railroad ties so the Grass King could
have it's way with us - but something was being hatched.

Dressed in combat gear - ripped shorts, old University of San Diego t-shirt, and tennis shoes not allowed inside the house - I armed myself with a hand shovel and work gloves. We battled for nearly an hour; me ripping away at endless tendrils of angry crab grass, and it sending out agents of army ants (I knew they were called army ants for a reason) and fire ants to the front lines. Realizing a ground assault would not help win the war I went to the air. Inside the war room - the kitchen - I asked Wife to calculate how much spermicide I needed to kill weeds. After she pointed out that I was using Spectracide (weed killer) not Spermicide (same thing if you ask me, they're both killers), we planned our air attack. Using a Windex bottle and 3 ozs. of weed killer the plan was to soak the weeds in some biological-agent and then sit back to watch the giant ball wither into frail strands of straw.

It's 2 hours later since this war-turning battle and I have yet to see results. The bottle says fast acting, but obviously that's a subjective term. If the angry ball of grass returns with a vengence sending it's armies of dandelions and clovers after me and Wife I may have to do the unthinkable - go nuclear. I'm not afraid to drop a bomb of lighter fluid and set the war-monger ball on fire, but I'm sure Wife won't authorize the use of nuclear weapons. Since the chiefs of staff number two (me and Wife) and she gets two votes, I'm sure getting that declaration to pass will be a longshot, no matter how much fillibustering I do.

Maybe I should ask Donal Rumsfeld if he wants to straegize this war. I hear he's looking for a job.

Best laid plans...

I was all set to write a nice little post about the Chargers facing Cincinatti this weekend. I was going to explain how the game would likely be a shootout because the Bolts' depleted linebacking corps would have trouble sustaining a solid pass rush against the Bengals' line and Carson Palmer, despite allowing the 10th most sacks in the league. You can only expect so much from Carlos Polk and Marques Harris. And with the public griping of Chad "Christmas decoration" Johnson (serenading him at the game with "Oh Christmas Tree" seem appropriate now that he describes himself as a hood ornament) and TJ Housh... (I don't have time to look up Alphabet Soup's last name) I would expect the Bengals to throw left, throw right, throw down and throw up. If you have Rudi Johnson on your fantasy football team, bench him like he's the last kid picked for a touch football game. If he gets more than 12 carries in this game, Marvin Lewis is about as dumb as an Northern Arizona University grad (sorry Marc). I was going to explain how the Chargers offense should have some fun, though, facing a team that ranks 24th in yards allowed. LT will run left, Antonio Gates will catch passes to the right and in the middle a Rivers run through it (sorry, couldn't help myself, I'm a softie for bad puns).

All that said I thought the Chargers still had a shot to up their record to 7-2 with a 38-34 win in Cincy. I'd punctuate the post by saying if they could get through Shawne Merriman's 4-game suspension with a split - losses to the Bengals and Denver, wins over Cleveland and Oakland - they'd be in decent shape. So far, they're 1-0 Merrimanless.

Yeah, that's what I was going to say until I opened up the L.A. Times online and read Los Angeles Dodgers rightfielder J.D. Drew chose to opt out of his 5 year, $55 million contract. Drew's contract gave him the right to test the free agent market, and with that market being more mom-and-pop corner store size than Costco this offseason it was a sound business decision for the frail outfielder. I say frail, but that might not be altogether fair. He wasn't frail with the Dodgers, just unlucky. He missed the last half of the 2005 season when Arizona Diamondback's pitcher Brad Halsey broke Drew's wrist with a fastball. However, before that he was considered an injury risk, playing more than 140 games just once in his career. For the Dodgers in 2006, he played 146 games - the most in his career - and finished with a 100 RBIs, 20 homeruns, and on-base average of .393 and a .498 slugging percentage, good for second on the team. Those are solid face-value numbers.

What surprises me, and General Manager Ned Colletti if you read the L.A. Times article, was that Drew told all the local newspaper hacks that he was happy in L.A. and would not use the opt-out clause. He said that a little more than a month ago. It's a business decision, sure, and you can't fault him for that (heck, I can't deny I would likely have done the same thing if my agent urged said it was the right move), however, I can't help but think it was a little dishonest of Drew. It's like a girl you date for a month. You wine her and her dine her. She tells you how much fun she having on each date. Then, out of the (Dodger) blue, she says her boyfriend is coming back to town and she can't see you anymore. You're dumbfounded. What boyfriend? I imagine that's what Colletti feels right now. "I thought we were having a good time. You even said so."

On the bright side, that frees up $11 million to lure another free agent to Chavez Ravine. Maybe a bag of 3B Aramis Ramirez and carton of LF Alfonso Soriano of the shelf would taste good to Dodgers fans. Sprinkle on some Jason Schmidt or Barry Zito (the former of the San Francisco Giants who has finally found the error of his way) and you have a nice meal.

But they're the Dodgers, we all know it won't be that easy.

Ah, heck, I'm a geek now

I've fought this whole technology thing for years - I still don't own a cell phone, but Wife makes sure to saddle me with her's when I'm let off my leash, I guess you can call it a husband whistle, just like a dog whistle - but finally, at the urging of Wife and some well-meaning friends (who I'm sure were just tired of listening to me babble like an 80-year-old on pudding day at the local rest home.) I started one of these blog thingies. Here's how my mind works. I decided Sunday that I'd do this, it's now Thursday, just before Thursday-nite TV with Wife - Survivor, Earl, Office, CSI ... the networks must love us - and I'm finally getting something down on screen.

There's so much to consider when starting a blog. So much pressure. I don't do well with pressure. I tend to dribble on my self (I ain't tellin' you where I dribble from) and my hair gets crazy, like Doc Brown in Back to the Future. Anyway, first I had to decide what I would talk about. Wife tells me to write everyday crap since I live in Arizona, next door to the in-laws (when I say next door, I mean next door! Yeah, yeah, just like "Everybody Loves Raymond." Save the jokes, we've heard them all), we have crazy neighbors, and as Wife says I sometimes have a unique perspective on things. I think she's full of doo doo (that's right, I use the word doo-doo in everday speech), but here I am doing what she told me to do. I also have a passion - Wife says it's more like a sickness - for baseball and football. Mainly the former over the latter, and more specifically the Los Angeles Dodgers and San Diego Chargers. So, there ya go, I have something else to prattle on about. I figure every Friday and Monday at least one post will be dedicated to one of those two organizations. The rest of the time will be me typing about life in the desert. Scintilating, I know.

Then, I had to come up with a name. I wanted it catchy, like an '80s one-hit-wonder song so you'd be singing the title at work until finally you admit you can't get it outta your head. That was more pressure, so of course more dribbling and since I came up with the name at the gym a puddle of drool pooled under me at the eliptical trainer so when I stepped off of my 45 minutes of hell I slipped in the salive swamp, twirled and crumpled to the floor, but the iPod did not become dislodged so I told the folks mired in their own exercise hells that the song in my head just makes me want to dance. They looked at me like I had a third nipple that spewed beer (mmm, beer) and kept gliding. Finally, I settled on what you see here. I had to explain the title to Wife, and she gave me the vote of approval after understanding my logic. Dodging Lightning - Dodgers and Chargers (or Bolts, as in lightning, if you will) - and the desert, well, if you know me you see how that fits.

Once that was done, I had to fill out blogger.com's CIAish questionairre (I didn't understand what they were asking me when trying to put this blog-thingy together - I won't be surprised if my posts come out with crazy characters only computers understand because they are plotting to take over the world, syntax errors [I don't know what a syntax is, I just hope it's not in my ass] and pictures of dogs humping [those might be my fault]) and decide what I want you to see on the screen. Since Wife won't let me post naked pics of Salma Hayek, I chose what you're looking at now. The sidebar is this weekend's project and maybe I'll get motivated and spruce the rest of the place up. Maybe I should just hire a cleaning service, 3 or 4 illegal immigrants to dust, wipe down the refrigerator and Windex the windows so to speak. It's Arizona, they're a dime dozen at at 6 a.m. in the Home Depot parking lot.

There you have it. That's how I was dragged into the 21st century. I'm not sure I like it or that I'm ready, but what the hell, I wasn't ready to have sex the first time either. I ain't got nothing better to do with my time. Drop in a comment, let me know what you think.

("Hey Wife, how do you sign off on this thing")