You can't teach crazy

I receive letters to the editor from time to time that sparks so many questions in me I have to slam my head in with the car door a few times to get me into the writer's frame of mind. That is the only way these folks out here in the land of walkers and adult diapers make sense to me.

I'm good for a crazy letter to the editor at least once per week. Some are crazies in training, while others are certifiable cuckoos. The latter are geriatrics who should wander around town with the letter 'C' branded to their forehead so us "normal" joes (and I use that term as loose as a Phillipino hooker's hoo-hoo) can quickly cross the street and shimmy up the nearest palm tree to safety, so the nutbag doesn't stab us normals in the heart with a sharpened cap from their denture cream tube.

Today, I came across my weekly crazy winner, but I was fooled at first by the letter:

As time goes on, more and more people are looking at the war in the middle east as useless and a waste of time. The only people who are for this war are hardcore republicans who believe George Bush Junior can do no wrong, of course, because he’s a republican. To my husband and I, it doesn’t matter if the president is a republican, democrat, liberal or what. If the president benefits the United States by making positive changes, he/she deserves honor, but if he/she creates negative changes, they deserve impeachment.

Fine, I get it, they don't like the president or his war of terror. I can accept that. I can print that. Readers can understand this person's point. It doesn't matter if they agree or disagree with this loony, as long as their argument makes a logical point and they don't cuss like a drunken sailor I'll give it run in the prison work camp publication.

But sometimes I have to draw the line. Here is the next paragraph:

A lot of people believe George Junior is a Satanist, using a veil of Christianity to misdirect and mislead the general public. Many things reflect that. For instance, the secret Satanic Society he is a member of, The Skull and Bones, (skullandbones.org) and on a few occasions he has flashed the Cornu to the public. (Latin: Cornu- two horns), (index and pinkie fingers up) The Cornu was popularized by the late Dr. Anton Szandor Lavey, founder of the Church of Satan in the mid-sixties. Also, George’s anger for Saddam Hussein which led to an attack on an innocent country.

Welcome to the land of crazy folks. Please, keep your hands and legs inside the vehicle at all times. Do not wander from the vehicle. If you do leave the vehicle please know that the whackos in crazytown will swarm you as if they were bees and you were a drenched honeystick. Once on you, they will crack open your skull and spoon feed your brains to their crazy children.

I've always pictured Oil Man flashing the "Cornu" after a tough meeting with a country who liked us about as much as a carnivore likes vegetables with their steak dinner.

"Stuff that agreement up your French cake hole, ya Frog," I imagine Oil Man saying to the French President and then wags his tongue while flashing the devil horns on both hands. That's my image of Oil Man. Sure. It makes sense since I always felt the vice president is some sort of demon (the beady eyes are a dead giveaway).

I still thought I could run this letter, sans the satanic referrences because the writer talked about terrorism and the president's role. But then came this little nugget that ultimately sent the submission into letter to editor oblivion:

And Osama Bin Laden will never be captured, because his family is very close friends with the George Bush family. By arresting Osama Bin Laden, America would lose the several billions of dollars invested by the Bin Laden family. So we have a Catch 22 here.

So, the Bushes and bin Ladens hang out together? They probably meet up at Crawfor every year, Osama helps Oil Man cut some brush and Oil Man helps Osama find new caves to live in. Hell, he's probably holing up in some heavily forested area of the ranch thanks to his best bud, George. They probably play Uno or Monopoly or Stratego at night after watching the Rangers game and throwing a back a few cold ones.

I'm pretty lenient as far as what I allow on my opinion page because it's job security. Publish a controversial topic and I'm plopping down responses for the next three weeks. But sometimes that line in the sand has to be made, and I'll be damned if I'm going to allow some Geritol-overdosing blue hair to claim the commander in chief of the United States worships Barry Bonds.

Somethings, like that letter, just aren't kosher.

'Six I hit into the lake, seven I threw'

I'm a crack whore when it comes to golf.

I'm a nappy-headed, barf-stinking, "will-work-for-dope" sign-holding junky. My clubs are the glass pipe and the course is my ass-smelling squaters apartment. I drive by courses and the pours in my skin open up waiting for the sweet elixer of fresh cut grass and duck shit off the lake. I look at them and the DTs begin. I yell at Wife to stop the car, but she's the perfect GA sponsor (Golfers Anonymous) and instead of being an enabler she keeps motoring by, leaving me licking the windshield wishing for one more toke on stale hot dogs and flat beer from the course snack shop.

So, when my golfing buddy posed the idea - "Hey, you want to play golf this weekend" - I said yes faster than a senior racing to the early bird dinner at a Furrs Cafeteria.

The two of us have seen our games get slightly better over the years. Gone are the days of shooting in the mid 120s, nowadays it's the low 100s, and if one of us get close we take note.

"Hey, asshead, you could crack 100 today. You got the elephant nuts to pull it off or are you going to choke it like it's Friday night at your house with late night Cinimax on the tube?"

And just like jinxing a no-hitter in baseball before the game's over, the mere mention of snapping the 100 barrier sends either of us into pure panic-attack mode. The sphincter tightens and we swing as if we have stiff robot arms.

But for those days when we're scary close to that magical number of 99, there have been days like another friend had yesterday on the links.

Golf is a maddening game. Just like crack, you get whiff and you need more. You hit a beauty shot that puts you on angel's wings, taking you along on a high. It scents the air with vanilla and roses, the birds sing aurias and everyone you see looks like Salma Hayek in a sun dress.

Then the course designers slap a lake between you and the green on a par 3 and everything changes. The air smells like the Las Vegas Strip after New Year's Eve, the birds shit in your hair and everyone you see looks like a West Virginian inbred love child (incest is best, as they say).

I'm sure that's what our buddy thought. The hole looked enticingly close, and the card said it was just 140 yards, tee to green. The first of our group smacks it to the left of the green, my regular golf buddy puts it in his typical spot on this particular hole - across the street, and then the newest golfer to our crew of hacks skips across the lake (how one skips a ball - a sphere - across a lake is one of those mind-bending physics questions that would drive the dude on Numb3rs insane), and finally I skied a nine-iron that would be out driven by a thrown ball a few minutes later.

That's right, the new guy ended up throwing a tee shot.

There's something about a par 3 hole on a golf course. You hear the tales of folks topping tee a shot and the ball still rolling in for a hole in one. And you see how it can be done. The hole is so close ... soooo close, it should be as easy as the office slut. You get in the box, tee up the ball and wail on it like it's a battle between you and the ball and you're afraid it will attack first. Then you watch hopelessly as the topper you just hit bounds down on a 15-hopper into the drink.

So you tee up another rather than utilizing the drop zone. You set up, sure you know what went wrong with the last swing. You address the ball - "OK ball, I don't like you, you don't like me, so what do you say I smack you and you go in the hole?" - and then swing away, before feeling suicidal after watching another tee shot - this time a hot liner because you finally kept your head down on the shot - wade into the pond.

Our buddy went through this three times, and three balls down he found a way to beat the ball-eating lake - chuck the ball like it was a flaming bottle of dog piss.

As we shouted out the scores to our official score keeper (the only guy in the bunch who can add eight and seven and come up with the correct answer on a fairly consistent basis) our water boy counted his strokes: "six I hit into the lake, seven I threw, a chip and two putts for 10."

I'd like to say that was the first time I'd seen someone throw a shot on the golf course. But it's not. And I'd like to say I have never thrown a shot, but we all know that ain't the truth.

During my first tour of duty playing this game (age 15-20) the Old Man and I would often head out after work/school for nine holes at the local dive course. It cost five bucks to walk it, so the price was right, and it was house free, so there was no worries of angry homeowners charging out their back door weilding a bazooka because we just put a dent in to their Gen. Patton plastic lawn-ornament statue. I think we both enjoyed these week days, despite often locking horns. Could you blame us, though? At that time, the Old Man was teaching me to drive, so patience was neither of our strong suits. But it also brought us closer - they say shared near-death experiences draw individuals closer, and me learning to drive was a near-death experience everytime I stepped behind the wheel - to the point where we were becoming friends.

On one particular day wasn't a particularly good day for the youngster, and the Old Man wasn't doing much better. My slice was working overtime and the ball-gulping lake had swiped three for the day. We meandered through eight-and-a- half holes easily cresting 50 (that's the high-water mark when I play a niner) a hole or two previously. On this course, the final hole is an elevated tee, so an easy shot will carry like it's a red-tailed hawk. And that's what the Old Man and I do, we sail our tee shots like he was Jack Nicklaus and I was Tiger Woods. We traded high fives, believing - finally - we got this game (and maybe our Old Man-kid relatioinship) figured out.

The green was also elevated, leaving with a nice little uphill chip for a second shot. I pull out my nine-iron, swing (believing it looked so good some golf scout would spot me and immediately hook me up with a Tour card- nevermind there aren't golf scouts, let alone those who hang out at Echo Mesa Golf Course in that garden city known as Hemet, Cal.) and zing the ball into the one friggin' tree guarding the green. I swear the groundskeeper planted that damn thing while we were approaching our second shots.

"Did you see it come down?" I ask my Old Man.

"No, but I'm sure it's out." I believe him because you're supposed to believe your Old Man, even when he tells you the best way to get a girl into bed is to ask her, "You want to get drunk and screw?"

He proceeds to whack his shot into the same tree, and then lets the phrases fly. Words I'd never heard ooze from the man's mouth.

"Get my axe out of the car," he says, and I couldn't agree more at that point (we lived in the mountains, and there were two things always in the car - a gun and an axe - because you never knew when dinner might cross your path or if the wood-burning stove needed more firewood so us child'en would freeze our goochies). Then we started looking for our shots. We looked under the tree, around the tree, behind the tree, to the right of the tree, to the left of the tree and finally, on a whim, we looked on the green. No balls anywhere. We looked up in the tree, and still nothing. My only thought was while the Old Man was setting new precedents in the area of expletives and me marvelling at his prowess with the English language, Pepe the tree-growing groundskeeper shimmied up the tree and stole our range balls (we're cheap, instead of buying brand-spanking new Titleists, we just grabbed handfuls at the driving range - it's almost like they're free). Either that or it was the same tree that gobbled up Charlie Brown's kite everytime that dumbass decided to drag the sucker out.

Fed up, physically tired, mentally tired, and golf tired, we dropped our next shot, looked up at the green, looked at ourselves and then at the ball lying at your feet. We read eachother's thoughts, and laughing, picked up the balls and threw them at the green.

It took two throws and five short kicks to sink finish the hole, and I'm pretty sure we wrote down pars for the hole.

Tori, I hardly knew ya

In a cloud of white smoke and dripping, syrup-thick oil my mower - my baby - died today.

Three months to the day since her lovely box slid onto my patio, Tori the lawn mower decided she didn't like the oil I threw down her gullet. She wouldn't swallow the juice, instead she let it smoke out her muffler ass and fill up the air filter like a hammered prom date after too many homemade kamikazes. I worked with her for 10 minutes, but after realizing the white smoke pouring out the muffler, not to mention the steady black drip from an engine gasket were not good signs, I shut her down. I made a trek over to the auto store for the right oil, changed out the shit that gave my baby the soupy, chunky runs and poured what I thought would coat her tummy.

Instead her heart stopped.

I gave her mouth- to-oil spout recesitation. No help. I spun her blade, and all she did was spit out more shit oil. There was no mistaking, my Tori was dying.

I called Tori's mom, hoping the old lady could direct me where to go to get my baby fixed, or at least find someone t0 get her her last rites. Tori's mom said to call amom-and-pop joint to fix her up. But I know the truth. These joints, in the middle of drug-den alleys, are just fronts for lawn mower-part prostitution rings. I take her there, and she'll come back jaded, beaten, used and abused. Her O-rings will be twice the normal size, and she'll come back with rust and other metal-eating diseases.

In the meantime, the chick couldn't pick a better time to leave me high and dry. Tonight's irrigation night - irrigation is a fancy word meaning get your ass up at 2 in the morning because the irrigation company says so (and we all jump when those blowhard water boys tell us to). We, as the customers, do all the work, too. Go outside, no matter the weather (too bad it's a thunder storm schmucko homeowner, dodge the bolts and open your irrigation port. If you get fried, well, too bad, I guess it sucks to be you), and turn the dial to flood the acre of weeds.

Since the flood comes tonight, my only chance to get the weeds to a manegeable height was this afternoon. I did some prework yesterday, raking pine cones to clear Tori's path, and changing her oil - the machine equivalent to a water-powered enima. The book said to feed my lady 30-weight oil, and all I had was 10w-30 oil. I thought, really, how thick can this shit be? Will it clog the engine? No way, I thought, I'm not that unlucky.

I'm that unlucky.

Tori spewed out smoke like she was a tugboat hauling a steaming pile of rhino dung. I'd make a turn for the next lane of grass and be shrouded in enough smoke that neighbors would think I was David Copperfield about to turn the citrus trees into golden-egg laying geese. I finally decided the smoke was too much and shut my baby down, believing the oil I used yesterday was the problem - I mean, the shit was leaking out of every pore in her metal casing, that couldn't be good.

I bought new oil, changed out the old, diarrhea-inducing crap and figured that would be good. It wasn't, and now I'm up shit creek without a paddle.

I'm beginning to think I'm one of those guys not meant to own power tools. Between the mowers and weed whackers I've had, I could run a used parts store out of the back shed. Need a Homolite weed whacker gas tank or two? I got 'em. Want an old Ryobi straight-shaft line trimmer handle? Be my guess. Need a Honda mower spark plug and a clogged air filter? Pony up to the Melissa Compound, let's make a deal.

I'm in the market to buy a new weed whacker, and after next week's diagnosis, will likely be in the market for a new mower.

Maybe President Bush's illegal immigrant amnesty bill isn't such a bad idea now. At least I know I can find some cheap labor in the Home Depot parking lot. Maybe that's the better route than sinking my hard-earned $5 from the prison work camp into power tools that more than likely will kick me in the nuts and not apologize after leaving 'em black and blue.

Here's a question

Two days in Disney parks and I think I could play Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah out my ass.

Wife and I and my friend's family (re: 3 kids all under 8 years old) walked every inch of Walt's play land, and sometimes criss-crossed and doubled-back because of bathrooms and churros, all the while enjoying the wonderment in the eyes of our friends' kids (they're from Montana and I'm sure they don't get out to the real world much, so everything is looked on with eyes of wonderment). But when kids hop up and down like they just hammered back a 12-pack of Jolt Cola after catching a glimpse of Mickey strolling through the park, you realize its pure, unadulterate joy. I find myself wondering if I could ever match that enthusiasm and I'm not sure I could. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying at the birth of my own freeloader I won't be singing the "Hills are alive with the sounds of Melissa's" from the hospital's roof, but that's a different type of joy I imagine. Maybe joy isn't even the right word, awe might better. As in, I'll be in awe that Wife could grunt out a Melissa hooligan without shoving a catheder through my nose from the pain. (Memo to self, don't ask how she's doing during a mind-numbing scream.)

While the 3-year-old saw her life flash before her eyes during her inaguaral trip down the Matterhorn, the two older siblings kept saying, "These rides aren't scary enough." I agree with them, but the beauty of Disneyland isn't so much the ride, but the detail that's put into the ride. Sure, any dude with thick, horn-rimmed glasses and a degree in physics can design a roller coaster that will leave your legs wet; but when a ride can transport you into a lilfe-sized story from beginning to end, well, now, you're on to something.

Maybe Disney was right when he said on opening day:

"To all who come to this happy place – welcome. Disneyland is your land. Here age
relives fond memories of the past and here youth may savor the challenge and
promise of the future. Disneyland is dedicated to the ideas, dreams and the hard
facts that have created America… with the hope that it will be a source of joy
and inspiration to all the world."

I praised Magic Mountain for installing TVs that showed cartoons and TV show clips for the herds of human cattle waiting in line for the park's latest thrill-a-second ride. Disney puts that idea to shame. Disney transports you into that ride. You're a character in the ride's story the minute you waltz past the entrance.

Take Indiana Jones at Disneyland for example. We're heading down the stairs to board our jeep and I notice a half-domed ceiling above the loading dock with vines and bricks and such authenticity I nearly forgot I was on a ride. All I was missing was a whip and a fedora (if I were in the bedroom, those accessories would be readily available).

And I think that's what the kids get. They go into these rides as wide-eyed sponges soaking in the scenery and the tale unfolding around each jarring curve.

And just when you think the joy has ebbed with the fading California sun, when parents are struggling to get tired kiddies into the Suburban, begging them all to stay awake until they are settled in their Eddie Bauer car seats so Daddy wouldn't have to lift sleeping kid weight (which I'm certain weighs more than a bag of wet cement) there is one more surprise that Disney couldn't even recreate.

From the backseat, on the way back home, comes a quiet 3-year-old voice that smoothly parts the tired silence of adults:

"Daddy, can I go to sleep now?"

Top that Walt.

They made me what I am today

Trouble ensues when you mix a green horn from the California hilly billy land with redneck Irish Montanans. Believe me, I know from experience.

My two best friends (if you're 34 can you really have a best friend? Isn't that reserved for 9-year-olds?), who live in the frozen tundra of Montana - lovely, picturesque Butte to be specific - are trekking down on their snowmobiles or whatever the hell they drive up there toward the beach next week, I'm guessing to thaw out their tootsies and use indoor plumbing that's not frozen. And they asked Wife and I to join us.

To understand my friends, you have to know where they come from. I'm not about to start playing a history major here but Butte, from the few times I've been up there, is heaven for alcoholics. There is some sort of alcholic beverage distribution center on nearly every snow-packed corner in the village. The town was chock full of Irishmen when the mines were hoppin' back when Jesus wore short pants, so go figure that bars sprout when you turn the hose on a 1-acre parcel of vacant land in the village.

We met in Vegas through the computer store we worked at. That's where my education began. They regaled me of Butte antics - keggers by the lake, keggers in vacant lots, drinking after hours in bars because they knew the 'tenders (and believe me, in that city, every drunk knows every drunk) - and quickly they fashioned me in their own eye. They molded me, groomed me, nurtured me and finally force-fed me enough booze to turn my liver into a cheese grater.

Here's an example:

We're in the apartment, partying because some friends of theirs from the frozen tundra are down. I've nursed my drinks all night, easing a hangover from the night before. I'm kicking back on the couch when my good friend D comes over with a bottle of cooking wine.

"Drink this," she says noticing my Coors Light (which they counted as half a beer because to them it was more water than hopps) low.

"No thanks, I'm good."

"C'mon, you California wuss, drink!" She slurs and thrusts the bottle toward my eye, I guess because she thought I didn't see she actually held a bottle when she urged me to drink.

"No, really, I'm good. I don't want a drink"

The look on her face resembles an angry spider monkey and she springs at me with predatory quickness I didn't know she had. She hooks her arm around my neck and pulls me closer. The smell of stale Miller Lite ass humps my nostrils, and suddenly the bottle of cooking wine is pressed against my closed lips.

"Drink, mother fucker, drink!"

She sounds like Sigourny Weaver in Ghostbusters when Zuul takes over her body, and I can feel my bowels let go (we would turn the cushion over later).

"OK," I whimper and guzzle down the bottle until she yanks it away from and drains the rest.

Tough love is how you learn. And when you're pounding back cold ones with Montanans, there's not hoisting up the nurse uniform and milking beers. You pound the shit with authority and grab another until flat on your back dreaming of Salma Hayek doing naughty things with midgets.

They also taught me that when traumatic events cross your path the best thing to do is drink.

We went to a play at UNLV and decided to finish the night off with a drink at a nearby club. Sitting next to the dance floor we watched as two guys begin jawing at each other over wether Miller Lite tastes great or is less filling. At that same time we decided we had enough of Fight Night on the east side, so we wander outside toward our car. As we're strolling our way we notice one of the dudes in the dance floor hullabaloo passing us with a piece - that's a gun for you non-criminal speaking folks out there - which prompts us to head back inside the club. The thought here is that four walls are safer than a parking lot full of riccochet points.

We make it inside and sit the lobby. We engage a local radio DJ into some small talk - "Did you see that ass clown with the gun? You ever see something like that before?" Normal day-to-day chatter - before someone shouts get down. Of course me, the observant journalist I am, didn't hear the call and am wondering why all these schmucks are hugging the floor. D finally yells that the dance floor dude is shooting up the building. I hit the floor like I'm diving into a nuclear bomb shelter, and once the dude finishes his spree, I make sure the twig and berries are still attached to the tree.

"Let's get to our end of town," D says. I couldn't agree more. "PT's?"

Our old safety net in Vegas. She didn't have to ask me twice. We wander in and begin telling anyone who will listen about our dangerous night out. Shots start coming our way from all corners of the bar, and I think from passerbys on the road who heard the story from somone at the bus depot who was just inside listening to us. By the end of the night, the same guy could have shot up that PT's and I would asked, "Is that all you got ass clown?"

So we'll be joining forces once again to take on the beaches and see how much magic is left in these old bodies. When I return next week I may have a story or three to tell. So wait by the computer with baited breathe, or else I'll send the dance floor shooter your way. Either that, or I'll come by and yell, "Read, motherfucker, read!"

A whole lotta pot, but no luck

I've worked at 10 different prison work camps and they've all had very different ways of celebrating their employees.

One computer shop had its annual Christmas party at a bar - the best place to celebrate the Lord Al Pacino's birth - while another flew us out to Cape Cod, got us all knee-knocking, pants-wetting drunk with an open bar before sitting us down in a windowless conference room (re: cave) to blather on about EBITDA, price per shares and the size of the big cheese's cock (he was quite fond of it, we just wanted the bar to open up).

I worked ground maintenance at a private school that would open the baseball field (of course, after they said, "Hey, Mike, take your thumb out of your ass, wrap it around this here weed whacker and clean up the infield before the game today.") to faculty and staff members - we waxed the shit out of the profs but I'm not sure we really won as later we were called to cleanup rolls of soggy toilet paper that mysteriously had found their way onto the profs' lawns and hedges.

Then I come to the Valley of the Frying Sun and I find the head boobs out here like to show appreciation by ... making us work more. That's right, we toil and trouble for eight hours and then get an e-mail that reads: "Hello penniless slaves. Tomorrow, we'll have a potluck. So, cook (re: work on your own, away from work) up your best dish, whether it be chateaubriand, lobster bisque or baked Alaskan salmon in a lemony-butter braise - take heed, slaves, I didn't mention fried chicken or macaroni salad, we only want good stuff from you slack asses - and prepare to enjoy what our office's finest commodity - you - have to offer. Now get cookin' slaves."

And not a minute later a second note follows: "Oh, and the dishes will be judged by our esteemed panel of top blowhards, with the winner receiving free tickets to the Sun City Dinner Theatre. Enjoy denture-smacking old farts as they present 'Jesus Christ Superstar.' I hear the dinner will be pureed beef hearts and cream of corn."

My competitive edge kicks in and I rack my bean for the right dish for this competition. Finally, I break down and access my main brain trust - Wife. She comes up with her signature dish, something that would make that soup stirrer Emeril grab his ankles for - chocolate covered strawberries. In our house, those suckers are currency.

"Honey, will you rub my feet?"

"Yeah, for the last three chocolate-covered strawberries I'll do it."

"Nevermind, you don't rub that good."

So I plead with Wife to make her legalized drug so we can win the tickets - "Hon, these Sun Citians could act Tom Hanks into a paper bag" - and enjoy a date night with our future. And she agrees. Wonders will never cease.

I walk into the prison work camp and start lobbying hard for the vote. I tell them if they vote for my big, red, ripe, chocolate-covered strawberries, all their wildest dreams will come true. It's like I went to the Karl Rove school of campaigning.

"Don't eat the brownies, they're likely packed with turds and bits of corn. Plus, there ain't no 'special ingredient' in them so what the hell good are they? The strawberries on the other hand will get you high. We sprayed them with a gentle hallucinogen that will help you cope with the final four hours of the day. Who wouldn't want that?"

"Don't eat the pie. Think about it, the person who made it isn't exactly known for her cleanliness. I mean, she's been with more men than a urinal, and she pounded out that pie shell with those same hands that were just a few short hours ago wrapped around something else. You could have Salma Hayek serve it to me in her birthday suit and I still wouldn't eat. Now, the strawberries, on the other hand, have been personally inspected by moi, washed in a warm anti-bac, fruit-friendly soap that vaporizes any mighty mite in a 2-foot radius. So you decide."

As we roll through the line of dishes, I continue to plug the 'berries, mentally counting the votes. I work a deal with one co-worker promising to vote for her main dish if she votes for my dessert dish. I bully the pre-pubescent reporters into voting for me. I promise the fellow monkey copy editors that I'll stop pawning off angry senior calls on them if they give me their vote. I basically whore myself to anyone that will listen because, dammit, I want to win and I'm not afraid to stoop lower than junky rat hoping to score a dimebag of H by giving up the rest of my gang to the cops.

With our bellies full of concoctions that would make Julia Childs sit up in her coffin, we stand in the lobby awaiting the Head head boobs announcement.

"The winner of the dessert category is..."

I run through my exceptence speech - don't forget to thank the parental units, and Wife who made it all possible.

"Is pistacchio-flavored, yogurt-dipped cow penis."

I'm beyond demoralized. I go up to the Head head boob and ask for a recount. He asks whether I have work to do, and if not he suggests I grab a bucket of warm, suddsy water and begin scrubbing his sack. I say yeah, I have work to do. Thanks boss. Great potluck.

My day that will live in infamy

I'm a big Dodger fan. That's no secret. Folks out in her in the Valley of the Frying Sun (global warming? Never heard such a thing - it was just a 104 out here today, mid-May!) pulled out the stops to convert me into a Zoney Snakes fan - I was propositioned, bribed, reverse psychologicalized and finally called every name in the book and few more from the sequel in a last ditch effort to harrass me into conforming with all the other brain-torched humans out here.

None of it worked.

And May 15, 1998, is why.

First, let me take you back in time and explain my Dodger history.

I remember being seven years old and pissed that one-nut schmuck Dave Goltz couldn't hold the Houston Astros in a one-game playoff that decided the National League West. They lost 7-1 at home.

Then, in 1981 I remember watching as the Dodgers and underrated Kenny Landreaux squeezed Bob Watson's fly ball to center to bring the title home for the Dodgers. I thought '80 was the aberration and this is how it always go for the Big Blue Wrecking Crew. These championship things were easier to snare than crabs from a $5 hooker.

1982 - Giants star Joe Morgan crushed my dream of a repeat in the last game of the season with a dinger off that beer-league-player-shaped tub of puss Tom Niedenfuer (more on this hunk of butt cheese later)(Really, I could write an entire post dedicated to how this man ruined my baseball innocence and he should be given a constant jalapeno juice colonic). The knocked the Dodgers out of the playoff hunt that season.

1983 - Steve Carlton bent the Blue Crew over in two games and Charles Hudson beat the Dodger's Bob Welch. Charles Hudson? The dude didn't make it 10 years in the league. Welch must have been drunk. Likely was out partying with Steve Howe.

Then there was 1985.

1985.

Those numbers burn in my mind. They haunt my dreams and chap my ass. I wont' buy anything from that year, and will not refer to his as "1985," instead it's been wiped from the record books. Football fans you'd to ask how I could be a San Diego Charger fan. I say, "well I lived through a 1-15 season and came out alive. Anything after that is cake." In baseball, my 1-15 season was 1985.

Maybe we were cocky. Maybe we thought since the Dodgers held the St. Louis Cardinals in check - for the most part - that season and could follow that blueprint into the World Series. But let me digress first. The parental units rubbed the couple of quarters they had and took us whelps (my lil' sis and I) to the last game of the baseball season - Fan Appreciation Day. Sitting in the right field bleachers, we were within ear shot of Cincinatti Reds out fielder Dave Parker. We made sure to remind him every inning that his club was in second place, and would finish in second place that season behind the Dodgers. We weren't sure if he knew the standings, so we were being helpful. We rode him like a petting zoo donkey and he took with waves and smiles. Then came the ninth. With the game tied, the Dodgers brought in Niedenfuer...

Foreshadowing, as defined in Microsoft's Encarta College Dictionary: To indicate or suggest, USUALLY SOMETHING UNPLEASANT, that will happen. Remember that when I bring up Jack Clark.

The human lamb chop got two quick outs, then soft-tossed a fastball to Dave Parker who clocked the pitch off the right field bleacher railing, not more than 10 feet away from us. Parker sauntered out to his position in the bottom of the ninth with a grin so wide I could drive a Chevy Impala through it.

Now fast-forward 10 days and I climb into the family truckster after school wereupon my dear ol' Ma proceeded to break the news of what happened in the Dodger game. It was like a family member had just been runover by a beer truck:

"They were winning - *sniff* - then Lasorda brought in Niedenfuer in to pitch the ninth..."

I start to sob now, knowing what's about to come after hearing our household's version of Lord Voldemort - he who must not be named.

"He struck out the first hitter, let the next two on, and then got the next guy. Then - *sniff, honk* - up came Jack Clark. Lasorda made the decision to pitch to him with first base open..."

"They pitched to him with first base open?" I asked, stunning the tears on my cheeks so much that they stopped flowing for a second - just a second.

"Yeah ... and he hit it out! Whaaaaaaaaa."

We all cried from the school until we got home. By that point my Ma and sis were over it, as for myself, that would not be the case. I threw my hat at the TV when I saw the replay, declared myself a free agent fan and damned Niedenfuer to the deepest, darkest hollows of hell. I still mute the TV or computer if he happens by the broadcast booth.

Lucky for me, I was busy chasing booze and broads in Las Vegas during 1995 and 1996 when the Dodgers made back-to-back playoff appearance, and were promptly swept back to back.

And this rambling prologue brings me to my point. None of those incidences hurt me more than what happened nine years ago today.

May 15, 1998.

I have a hard time remembering my anniversary. I forget some birthdays. Folks say you won't forget where we were when the Challenger Space Shuttle exploded. Well, I don't remember, but I do remember where I was on May 15, 1998, when I heard the news.

The news that Dodger Catcher, perennial all star, fan tried and fan approved, likely hall of famer Mike Piazza, was traded to the Florida Marlins. I was in my car, exiting the freeway and making my way up the road to work in San Clemente. The birds were singing, the sky was blue, and it couldn't have been uglier. Surely the radio schmuck was wrong I said, so I tuned into sports radio to confirm this was in fact a late April Fool's joke.

But it wasn't.

How could they trade their best player, their leader and their future hall of famer? Better yet, why? And of course, the answer was painfully obvious - they did it for the dough.

And maybe that's what hurt the worst. It wasn't a baseball decsion. It had nothing to do with the game. Afraid they'd lose Piazza to free agency after the season and get nothing in return, Fox honchos traded the strongest man in Southern California for Gary Sheffield and a bunch of used parts (I'm looking at you Jim Eisenriech).

All I ask is that they lose the game on the field. I can get over a tough loss. That's just a part of baseball. Trading a bonafide face of an organization is handcuffing me and repeatedly kicking me in the nuts. It affects the game without the players deciding the outcome.

So, you ask, how does this make me a stronger Dodger fan? Well, for all of the gaffs, bobbles, blown leads and 1-0 gut wenchers, I'll still have 1988. But that's a post for another day. Now, it's time for me to sit back and watch the Dodgers somehow blow this 9-7 lead to the St. Louis Cardinals. Yes, I'm a bit pessimistic, but I still bleed Dodger blue.

Verdict - guilty, 'cause I say so

I'm not sure what posessed Maricopa County to send me this, but they summoned my hairy white ass for jury duty tomorrow.

I don't know much about the law (I hear they frown on drinking and driving and betting on cockfighting), and I'm more apt to side with the dude with the crook than the Arizona Man. If you asked me, I'm sure the pig who pinched the con probably shoved a nightstick up his kazoo to get a confession. I'll tell you what, you shove something up my pooper I'll admit to the Kennedy Assassination, where Jimmy Hoffa is buried and shooting down Amelia Earhart's plane. But I digress. I root for the bad guys in movies because they're often misunderstood geniuses just looking for some friends. Why would a live courtroom be any different?

How it works here in the Old West, the county paper pushers send summons with polite wording like: "If you don't show up, the judge will find you in contempt and send you to jail where Bubba will make you his personal dick puppet." Then, there's the color - white with pink boxes leading you to think you're getting a warm and fuzzy love note from some hot county clerk who remembers you from high school, but that dream fades like a fart in the wind when you see the excessive amount of bold letters ("You have been summoned for jury survice to the Superior Court" - no shit, I didn't pick that up from the envelope that stated "Jury summons inside." Thanks for bolding that, asswipe, otherwise I'd think it was a set of free self-adhesive return address labels from a cheap charity trying to stroke my nads for a few bucks).

The county sends these notices out a month ahead of time, which is a giant plus. It gives those of us who could give three craps about civic duty, and in fact laugh in the face of our justice system, plenty of time to devise a list of excuses to hit the judge with. Work needs me (yeah, right); I'm going on a trip starting tomorrow; I'm getting my ass hair waxed tonight and won't be able to sit for an extended length of time; I'm starting stripper school tomorrow and I need to find a G-string that will fit; I'm willing to say and do just about anything to not get on a jury. I'm not a big fan of courtroom dramas on TV or in the theater, so having it play out in front of me is the equivalent of setting me in front of a wall with a fresh coat of white paint to watch the son of a bitch dry to a glossy sheen. If I'm unlucky enough to get saddled with a case, god help everyone in the country because my yawns will shatter glass and uproot main street, the Grand Canyon will fill in from landslides and the great Yosemite rock, El Capitan, will become the great Yosemite pile of pebbles.

So, anyway, I follow the instructions on the sheet, mainly because I can't miss them with all the bold and pink, and call the afternoon prior to my jury date - today. Armed with my group number and a Rosary to ward off the jury mojo, I listen as the sweet-sounding recorded voice - part Kirsten Dunst, part Alyssa Milano, at first I thought I dialed a sex line and was all set to get one hand free despite thinking it odd that she started off her sex spiel with "Here are the group numbers that must report at 8 a.m. Tuesday morning," not exactly Salma Hayek telling you she's drawing a hot bubble bath. The first pile of numbers are the real suckers, they're stuck with the 8 a.m. shift. That ain't me, and I whisper a thank you to Lord Al Pacino. Next up were the folks who had to call at 8 a.m., and, thanks to Lord Al, that wasn't me. Unfortunately, there's only so much Al can do as my number was called in the next group, which must call the sexy voice back at 11 a.m. to find out if we're giving some dude the gas chamber - I give Wife the gas chamber every night, so I don't know what the crooks complain about it.

Calling back at 11 is like finding out the hot chick you've been buying drinks for all night is a dude in a hot chick costume. You feel you lost time you'll never get back. That's what the 11 a.m. call is, killing time out of my day if I have to go down there. At least in the morning I'm excuse from the prison work camp for the day, but since I roll in at 5:30 in the a.m., I'll only receive a two-hour furlough if the county needs my expert jury services.

At this point, I'm praying to Al that my number isn't up and I can sneak out of the prison camp the minute the head boobs turn their head. Of course, if they catch me they'll liable report me AWOL, have me arrested and I'll be in court tomorrow regardless of what the pretty pink and white paper says on my desk.

Identity crisis

In a Seinfeld episode, Elaine is dating (seriously, she was on more dudes than Aqua Velva) her flavor of the month who happens to work for New York City's mayor. So Kramer pesters her, "Suggest to Dinkins (the mayor) that every New Yorker should wear a name tag. It would make the city a friendlier place."

I laughed at the idiotic suggestion until I realized the shear brilliance of it last night.

If us desert dwellers would wear name tags I wouldn't have stumbled into this trap.

I covered another girls softball game because the sports geek is a slack ass slump who recognizes my talent is a necessary evil for his sports page (I'm nothing if not modest). I arrive about 30 minutes before game time so I can snag a primo seat among parents who are living vicariously through their 16-year-old daughters and watch some hard-edged playoff softball. Although, my mom in law believes I'm there for other reasons.

"Ah, another girls softball game, eh? Why not boy's baseball? Why does it have to be softball?"

"That's what I was assigned. I'm just doing what I'm told." (Doing what I'm told? There's a first time for everything.)

"Right." She cocks her eyebrows and looks at me like just defiled the cat.

"Mom, they are all UNDERAGE," I gently remind her. "What do you think I am? A pervert?" She didn't answer, which is answer enough. I didn't push it, but I thought I should remind her that I married her daughter who is four years my junior. I was afraid she'd drive her minivan up my ass and out my nose, so I kept that little nugget to myself. Fight the battles worth fighting friends, that's my little advice to you tonight.

Back to the game, since I arrived early and the first game wasn't close to ending I went in search of the two teams I'd be covering this night. They were sitting on opposite sidelines so I thought why not take the initiative and get the lineups from the coaches before the game rather than scrambling down there when they take the field.

I didn't know either coach from Adam (or Eve for that matter, and while you're at it throw in that schmuck Moses) so I used the team pictures and hoped they'd match up. For the first team it did and within five minutes I had the home team's starting nine.

The defending state champs, the school in our coverage area, well, that was a different story.

To protect the innocent (namely me) I won't use real names. So I wander over to the other side of the field and approach a lanky SOB who's looking pretty coachly (I coined that word this morning, feel free to use just send me a buck each time for royalties) with his school visor, team-colors t-shirt and the wrap around shades. It's an outfit perfected by every high school coach I've talked with. They must go to a special store - Coach Outfitters where we promise your shorts will ride up your crotch a full six inches or your money back - to land their ensembles.

"Coach Lasorda?" I ask a little meekly, like I'm talking to a higher power who will decide whether I'm playing harps on clouds and diddling angels, or if I'll be toasting my tootsies while getting butt plugged by some demon south of pergatory.

The "coach" doesn't say anything but instead shakes my hand which for some reason is outstretched, waiting to be molested. That was confirmation in my head. Damn, man, first try! I'm one hell of a guesser, I think to myself.

"What can I do for ya?" He asks.

"I was wanted to get the lineup down before your game started."

"Oh, sure thing," Lasorda says, and then heads over to another guy, the "assistant coach" I assume (and we all know what happens when you do that). "He needs the lineup," Lasorda says, and I think, well, OK, that's not out of the ordinary, making the assistant fill it out. He looks decidedly uncoachly, with wire-framed glasses (I didn't think you could still get those, wasn't Ben Franklin the last to wear 'em?), a two-toned t-shirt and cargo shorts. Very assistant coachly, if you ask me.

"I guess I should get that done," says "assistant coach" Perranoski. I think to myself: Yeah, scrub ass, get to work, fill that shit out for your man Lasorda. I'm a tough talker in my own skull.

Five minutes later Perranoski hands me the list. I don't introduce myself, and barely say a word to the "assistant." There was no reason too in my book. I wouldn't be quoting him, and everything I'd get the "coach" would give me. Why talk to the bartender when you want a lap dance from Holly Hot Hoochie?

I return the lineup card to Perranoski who is now running a ground ball drill while waiting for the first game to end. I thought it odd to see him running the show while the "coach" is no where to be seen, but whatever, he likes to delegate everything to his assistant. Whatever gets you over the hump, buddy, I tell myself.

I sit back and watch the end of what must have been the longest regulation girls softball game in the history of mankind. The Ancient Egyptians didn't play this long when they were devising the rules of the game. And the source of the problem, I deemed, was the home plate umpire who liked to call time out more often than Marty Schottenheimer calls for an instant replay check. He called time for a sign flapping in the outfield, a loose ball in fall ground, an injury to one team's shortstop (if you can stand you can play in my book) and finally the drunk Dodger fan who ran into the outfield (you never know where us Dodger fans will be, and just how drunk we'll be, too).

It must have been 11 p.m. once my game began. I get my scorecards ready and check on the base coaches for our school. Lo and behold, the "coach" sent out his "assistant" to man third base. Typically, in high school softball, the head coach handles third base, but figuring this guy was the assistant it further supported my theory that this school's coach was nothing more than a glory hound and baby sitter who let's his underlings do all the heavy lifting.

The pitcher works some magic on the hill and pitches a 1-hitter, leading our school to a win. In fact, the chick had a no hitter through almost six innings of a seven inning game. I already had a mental list of questions set for the future Mrs. Ex somebody.

I wander over to the dugout after the game and notice Perranoski talking to the players - a job usually done by the head coach - but notice Lasorda leaning up against the dugout wall. So I figure, OK he's just a lazy schmuck who's only here to eat sunflower seeds and watch the girls play a game. But, whatever, it's not my job to judge. I just need a dandy quote or two from him and the pitcher and I'm outta here, back home, watching midget porn.

Lasorda isn't a real talkative guy, but he see's me writing down every word he says like they're words sent down from above. It's not a great interview, but hell I majored in mediocrity, so it was good enough for me.

The meeting breaks up and I spot the pitcher coming my way. OK, it's game time buddy.

Then coach Lasorda speaks up (and I'm sure if you've followed along this far you've figure out my big mistake): "Coach Perranoski, what girls are taking the bus and who has a ride home?"

And then the fog is lifted like it was a thick marine layer along the beach, assitant coach Perranoski is really Head Coach Perranoski, and Lasorda is the scrub ass who sits on the sidelines and watches half asleep.

I change gears quickly because I want to get the REAL COACH's take on the game, and we stand there by the fence chatting for not much more than five or 10 minutes. He's a cool, laid back dude and gives me some good insider information stuff about scouting reports and what flavor schnapps each player likes.

Finally, done with him, I look to where the crowd of players were not more than 1 minute ago but was now 9-in-the-morning-at-a-frat-house quiet with nary a sign of a player. It was like a mass kidnapping. In fact, I look back at where the coach stood, and he was gone too. Where's Unsolved Mysteries when you need it.

I explain my boffo job to the sports geek, and in between my sobs and nose honking he says he can likely arrange an interview with the 1-hit pitcher for today before she hits practice.

"You'll really do that for me?" I say as Wife wipes away my tears and hugs me close, rocking me slightly.

"It's no problem."

So today, I made my way over to the school and saw Coach Perranoski. I felt it necessary to explain why I was back, more to allay his fears that I was some creepy old dude stalking his team. Then he points me to the traing room, where the pitcher was at. I meet up with her and her bodyguard - the starting shortstop who's holding an Easton aluminum bat like she's Joe Pesci in Goodfellas.

And you know what, this girl gave a great interview. The answers were smart, and the quotes were worth reading. Now I know why the sports geek says he's jazzed after a good interview. You just know your notebook contains 24K gold words and the story is going to pop like Fourth of July fireworks.

Grunting and the art of getting a Chatty Kathy to shut the hell up at the gym

I settled onto my eliptical trainer today, all set to sweat out 45 minutes of hell. It was the first time since pretzeling my left ankle some three-and-a-half months ago. So I climbed aboard the torture bitch and held on for dear life just waiting for the left wheel to pop and my achilles tendon roll up my leg like a cheap window shade.

It was the opposite, though. No pain except from my eardrums after listening to the gym's horrendous Muzak for 20 minutes. Earlier in the day I thought about checking the juice in my own walkman (I haven't come to terms with calling it an iPod. To me, if I have ear phones stuffed into my wax holes and music comes out of said phones, then the source must be a walkman) but then the other voice - the risk taker in my head - said, "Screw it pantywaist! Live on the edge! Don't charge up the walkman, work that cheap-ass Mac battery until that bastard shrivels up like an old man's pecker." And I'll be damned if I'm going to let some piss ant voice run my life. So, I cranked away despite on the machine despite the urge to swallow my tongue from hearing songs from pre-teen girls who probably know more about sex than Jenna Jameson, or me for that matter.

Then, as if I needed any more reason to grab a fistful of my own pubic hair and shove it in my ears to block the noise, I got a gym cardinal rule breaker on the elliptical machine next to me.

"iPod went on the blink, eh?" Said a bald-headed, 60ish tub of whip cream and Milwaukee Light Beer (because he's watching his figure). If there's one rule/pet peeve I have at the gym, it's to not talk my ear off (or at least keep the talking to a minimum) while I'm working. Why would folks want to talk with someone who's sweating a small salt pond under his ellipitical?

"Uh-huh," I say, keeping my eyes straight ahead, seemingly glued to the CNN channel (the talking heads were talking about the spike in gas prices, which lead me to think the rise in gas around this end of the gym may stifle further questions/discussion. I did have some questionable swiss cheese on my sandwich this morning, I could start a chemical reaction), so as to not engage beady-eyed gym gabber.

"Can you believe gas is $3? How can folks afford it? I can't. I drive a golf car from my home in Westbrook Village over to the gym. That along saves me $30 I bet. It's that damn Bush and his oil cronies. They're the only folks who can afford it because they're making all the money."

I wanted to explain just how illegal that was, driving a putt-putt mobile on city streets, not to mention about as smart as giving a power saw to a cerbral palsy patient. But I knew that would kick start a conversation, and with 15 minutes of hell remaining, that was not a road I wanted to run down.

"Uh," I said. He still didn't get the hint. Tom Petty's "Free-fallin'" came over the Muzak (the one good song during my walkman-free time and I started day-dreamin' of sending Jawin' Joe out the plate glass window behind me - giving him his own "free-fall" down to the freeway below. I reminded myself, however, that such an act would bring more people up my way and they'd all have questions. I know if I told them the reason everyone in the sweat pen would understand, but it's the principle of the thing, I'm there to work, not discuss illegal immigration, the war in Iraq or whether Miller Lite is less filling or tastes great.

"I really like these ellipticals," said the lardball with legs. "They are so easy on the knees and work up a good sweat. You seem like a natural on it. How often do you come by? Speaking for myself, I'm a 6-day-week gym rat. I take the Lord's day off, and back at Monday after I finish volunteering as a..."

You know how words just trail off into an empty void of silence when you quit focusing on the speaker. That's what happened here. The dude kept going on while I grunted through a 3-minute sprint period, and I think I could have made it through without hearing his voice again had it not been for the beer keg of a human pressing 125-pound handheld barbells and grunting with each thrust as if someone taken both nipples and twisted them until they came clean off. "One," he screamed, and I watched as his spotter held onto the lifter's biceps, using almost as much force as the schmuck doing the real work. 125-pounds? Seriously? What the hell are you battling every day if you must push that kind of tonnage up 10 or 12 times? Early I did some weight work and it felt like my shoulders were ripped open by shishkabob skewers ... and that was with 10-pounders. I know, I'm a friggin' beast.

"Wow, I don't make that noise unless I just had a carne asada burrito with jalapenos and fire hot salsa. God help you if you're heading into the john after I've had my way with it."

That was it. I hit "clear" on the machine, grabbed my stuff and bee-lined it out the gym. Of course, I wasn't rude, I grunted an angry "uh," in reply and then gave him my own gas hike.

Your carne assada is no match for my flaming butt of moldy swiss cheese.

There's some crying in softball

The sports geek in the office needed some help this week.

Something about every high school in the tri-city area playing in either the baseball or softball playoffs. I told him to take his whine to one of the monkey-boy reporters, I was busy reading about the history of zuchini and it's erotic properties on wikipedia.org. But sports geek wouldn't drop it, and when the tears started flowing and his sobs were heard in the press room prompting the crack addicts who work in that department to come running because they're sick schmucks who love watching/inflicting people in pain I finally gave in. I know, I'm a kind hearted son of a bitch. It's a gift and a curse.

So, he gave me a softball game to cover, which I was happy for because he could have landed me with track or field hockey or beer bonging (I guess the last one would have been cool if I could participate). The sports geek, assuming I knew about as much on Arizona softball as I did about the mating habits of wombats (he assumed right), handed me directions to the school and a some facts about our school. Alarm bells went off when I read the following phrase: "The studs on the team..." Studs on the team? Were they horses? Were they dudes dressed as chicks because they couldn't make the baseball team? I pictured players built like barrel cactus with voices deeper than Barry White.

What I got were girls who could kill me with a pitched softball in 2.3 seconds. If I stood in the batter's box and the pitcher winged one down the middle I'd probably pee myself. What happened to the ol' underhand toss in the beer leagues? You know the pitch where after it left the pitchers hand you, as the batter, had time to suck down half a beer before having to swing? Come to think of it, I looked at the field and noticed the absence of 12-packs at each base. What kind of pussy-foot softball league was this? Anyway, the ball looked like a yellow dart whizzing at 200 miles per hour and I was sure the game would come second in my story after I write about the 15-year-old second baseman (basegirl? basechick? basewench? What the hell do you call them in softball?) getting brained by an errant screwball. That would be just great; covering my first game in 10 years and being a murder witness. I didn't have time to be subpoenad and go to court. There's midget porn to download.

Maybe I was watching the B team, or the non-starters who were finally given a chance to play for experience purposes, but either way neither of these teams could score for the love of Justin Timberlake. I had the same problem in high school. The third inning rolled around and I said fine. It was a pitchers duel. Then the fourth came and went as did the fifth, whereupon I nudged the mom next to me and asked whether the girls understood the point of the game was to get on base and score. "Believe me," the mom said, "they know how to score."

Sometimes you have to let your pitch go, and I was proud I did otherwise I might be writing this from a jail cell with my new friend Lance the butt surfer looking over my shoulder.

"I'm not sure they do, m'am," I said to the mom who was dressed head-to-toe in the home team's colors - green, making me wonder if I was talking to a human Saguaro cactus. "They don't take full swings, they just bunt."

"That's how the game's played," says the saguaro.

I didn't agree, but was afraid the saguaro would swing her cactus arms and spike me nine ways from Sunday. I watched the sixth inning go by, still zip to zip. The seventh (the end of regulation) came back with goose eggs also. They started the eighth and I realized two things: 1. My scorecard had only nine innings on it which meant I'd have to move over to a fresh sheet causing more work because I'd have to write out all the names again (that loses it's luster quick when you have to write down first names that include x's and z's and q's when the name is Suzy), and 2. I was watching free softball (in Melissa math, when a baseball game goes past the ninth inning, that is free baseball because we only paid for nine innings). That thought perked me up some until both teams failed to punch a run across.

Figuring this game would go more than nine innings, I broke out another score sheet and began transferring the lineup over for the inevitable 10th inning. And that's why I am responsible for our high school not moving ahead in the winner's bracket. I broke a cardinal rule of baseball: Don't plan ahead, live in the moment. With two outs, the home team strung together three straight hits and won the game 1-o.

The pitcher started crying. The left fielder started crying. The catcher started crying. I started crying (the coach saw me transferring the names during the top of the ninth and decided the closest thing to a rectal thermometer he had was a 38-ounce aluminum bat with a barrel the size of a B-52, and he wanted to see how far he could shove it up my kazoo.)

Part of the job in covering the game is interviewing the coaches and players. The coach was no problem. Since he was a short little sucker we were able to talk eye-to-eye. That doesn't happen too often in my world. The players, on the other hand, were an entirely different ball game. The majority of them were still in tears, and seeing a flock of 16-year-olds blubbering on caused me to pause and internally debate whether I should interview them. The thought then occurred to me that this was just a game and that they'd play Thursday in the loser bracket, so they were still alive in the playoffs. That sealed the deal, and I approached the pitcher who choked away her team's dream of hoisting the golden bra trophy, or whatever they play for.

"Why are you crying?" I said.

"I lost the game," she said between short-breathed sobs. "It's all my fault."

I tried my best to console her because, like I said earlier, I'm a kind hearted son of a bitch.

"Yeah, you did. But that's OK, because there will be plenty more disappointments to come, believe me. Take your mom for example, all of Peoria knows she's a drunk ho who will put out for a 40 of King Cobra.

"And your dad, well, he has sex with miniature ponies while listening to old Erasure albums. So, see, it could be worse."

The sobs stopped, and I figured I gotten through. Then she took her bat from her bag and proceeded to cornhole me again.

Twice in 10 minutes is enough. Trust me.