When dudes get together, we're one stinky mess of beer, greasy pizza and star-spangled banner belches. Mix in a poker game and our vocabulary resembles a trucker's who was just cut off by a MoPed.
That's our game in a nutshell.
When I was sentenced to the prsion work camp, one of the first things I scouted was the interest in playing some poker. Nickel, dime, quarter because we're high-priced bastards who could take down Doyle Brunson on a stone-cold bluff (What? You don't believe me?), some meatball subs if Wife is in the mood and pepperroni pizza when she has a headache, that's what I remember as a kid and what I wanted to recreate in my new home city with my new friends.
The Old Man and his crew would have a semi-monthly poker game back home, in our house, using my room as the poker den. Afraid his 40-year-old friends would loot my baseball card collection or ralph in the shoebox that housed my Florsheims (there's presedence for the latter, justifying my fear) I'd hang down there with the guys, adding new words and phrases to my 11-year-old vocabulary with each passing minute. The hell with California public schools, the best classroom for me was in my room on poker night with a dozen mountain hillbillies as my teachers. They didn't test my spelling on their favorite catch phrases, but how hard was it to spell "shitbird, cock hound?" Sure, my room would smell like a New Orleans drunktank the night after Fat Tuesday, but the lessons I took away about poker, beer, whiskey, peeing off the deck, drunk chicks on the Hill and farting "Sweet Home Alabama" meant more than them defiling my room.
To me, that's always been a poker game.
I've tried my hand at casino poker, but it makes me more nervous than a drunk driver being followed by funeral procession for a fallen motorcycle cop. I fear making a betting mistake and the dealer calling over the pit boss who will usher me into a secret underground lair where the casino owner and his henchmen will then proceed to yank out my fingernails and toenails, one by one, until I understand how to make correct change from the pot. It's just not the same. They frown when I call another player a "son of a Chinese whore" when he or she beats me on the river. Asking the other player, "If I raise it here, are you going to call," typically brings a rebuke from the Bossman Dealer. Showing my hand to the player next to me and asking, "What would you do with this hand," often gets me tasered by security and promptly shown the door. No matter how hard I try, a chorus of arm farts to the tune of "Freebird" will never erupt, and that just doesn't work with my personality.
That's why I enjoy our home games. Oh, we may get into a snit once in a while - I mean when you're playing for the amount of cash we're tabling, tensions can run high (no one wants to lose their snack and soda money for the week) - but it's over, especially when the snitter snakes a decent pot from the snittee. But the camraderie is what I'm there for. Don't get me wrong, I want to take their snack and soda money, too. I want to see them on Monday, groveling like Bob Cratchet asking Ebenezzer Scrooge for a raise, as I deam whether their request for a Diet Dr. Pepper is worthy of me handing over my spare change - hard earned spare change after weaseling it out of the fish in a spririted Screw Your Neighbor game.
Yeah, that's one of our games. We have Screw Your Neighbor, Blind Baseball, Blood Pressure, eBay poker, Stock Market, 7-27, Crazy Pineapple, and my personnal favorite - Anaconda. Somehow, like Rainman's illegitimate kids, we remember these games and their intricate rules (Baseball: 7-cards dealt face down, turn one up until you beat the other player's hand, 3s and 9s are wild, 4s give you another card but it costs you a whopping, bank-account rattling 25 cents. Try explaining that to the wife when you get home). We all have our favorites, and we all have games that chafe our ass. But we play them while throwing insults to the dealer if we find the game to be beneath our intelligence - which are very few.
So, if you got a poker game going and you're looking for a few chumps who can belch "My Heart Will Go On," and fart spring-fresh roses, then give us a holler, we'll gladly take your money after beating you three ways from Wednesday.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Technology's cold touch
Society has come a long way since rotary phones and Fischer Price record players.
Wife recently turned her flip-top cell phone into a floatation device during the great Melissa Compound flood of 2007 - it rained cats and dogs in our laundry room - leaving her without her favoritest (more than an opposable thumb) appendage - a cell phone. She can't breathe without it. It's her confidante, friend, and lover. In her pecking order of love, I'm sure it goes cell phone, dogs, cats, tempurpedic pillow, and then me. After mourning the loss of her friend - she programmed taps on another friend's cell phone and had it play repeatedly as she buried the drowned phone in the back yard, under it's favorite pine tree.
She really loved that phone.
Twenty minutes later she was on the run looking for a replacement appendage. It took two days for her to settle on just the right ear humper - another flip phone that she found after searching through every cell phone shop in the Valley, (on a side note - it was sold to her by an 18-year-old, spiky emo-black haired junior college reject with an open fly. I guess that's how the kids roll these days) - which worked about as well as her drowned phone, which is to say not at fuckin'-all. She cried all night, not for the newly dead phone, mind you, but because it meant she'd have to give in to the rest of you tech geeks and buy a Blackberry.
Now I don't know the different between a Blackberry, Strawberry, Blueberry or Dingleberry, but I do know when tech companies start naming their shit after fruits the rest of us consumer pigs are in for a world of hurt. It's like throwing letters into math, it just messes with one's head. Letters shouldn't be added and subtracted, and gadgets shouldn't be named after berries, or citrus, or apples for that matter. And don't get me started on power tools with carnivorous-animal names.
Then she showed me that her new lover has Internet access and to butter me up she set as her web favorites the following sites: Dodgers.com, Chargers.com, and ESPN. We could read and comment on our respective blogs. Fruit-named or not, the bells for this gadget were cooler than buying a TV with picture in picture capabilities, and almost as hot as TiVo ... almost. All that was missing was the ability to dry hump me in the passenger seat. When that phone is invented you'll find me camped out in line the week before it goes on sale.
I don't own a cell phone, never have, likely never will. As I see it, and the Sports Geek will back me up on this, I'm at three places on any given day: home, work, or the gym. If I'm at home, there's a real phone to call out and accept calls in on, and the same goes for work. If I'm at the gym, the last thing I want to do is talk to you people; no offense, but you don't want to hear me grunting and swearing and sweating as I hoist myself through 15 8-pound squats (anymore weight and I'm afraid I'll end up like a pinned monkey under a fallen pine tree). And I'm not the only one trapped in the cell communication void, I have a cousin in Cleveland who embraces the same ideals. In fact, every time we see each other the first question asked is whether one of us caved in to the phone fiend and bought a cell. We've avoided the siren ring tone this long, now it's a matter of principle.
Technology is a funny beast. I have no problem downloading hockey fights online or midget oil wrestling, but Wife hands me the cell phone and I'm like monkey being handed a football. What the hell am I supposed to do it with it? That must have been how the old folks in our office felt when our computer systems were upgraded. They're 45 and up, and them looking at the PCs made me think I wasn't in such bad shape. I hear it every day now, "This system sucks. Why did they (head boobs) go the cheap route?" (They didn't). Meanwhile, us folks under 35 be-bop our way through a day's work with our eyes closed and one hand free in case the urge hits us - if you know what I mean - because we have time now to do so (especially when JC Penney's release their bra and nightgown inserts for the weekend).
Maybe that's why it's so friggin' cold in our office these days, technology for office comfort is about as exact as a blind carpenter. I know it's summer, and its hotter and wetter than a witch's tit out in the Valley of the Sun, but really, Boobs, can we maybe notch the inside thermostat to mabye 74? Will that break the bank? We typically let the readers decide everything at the newspaper, from what features they'd like to see on what pages to what the optimal time is for me to take a crap, did they decided that dropping the temp to a nut-freezing 52 inside the building?
This is no joke. Yesterday, while working hard surfing the net for the best fart jokes and cartoon character porn (the Internet is a wonderful, research tool, isn't it?) my hands slowly turned blue and I eventually became disoriented from hypothermia because our office was colder than Montana in January. I was ready to take a handful of letters to the editor, pile them high in my trash can and torch them just so I could thaw out my frozen tootsies and shrunken pecker. I'd go to the restroom and wash my hands in hot water just to warm them up. That's not natural. It's late July, I shouldn't have to bundle like I'm Nanook of the North in winter hunting for plump penguins. But today I'm considering bringing a jacket with me. A jacket. In Phoenix. In July! There are two reasons to use a jacket out here: to wear during January because it actually dips below 65 then, and to cushion breakables as you pack them in a car on moving day. Otherwise, jackets are about as useful as a step stool is to a giraffe.
If we can have cell phones that tell us up-to-the-second Charger scores, and computer programs that allows anyone in the office to correct text in a story that doesn't require us - the copy editors - to click another button to update those changes, you'd think they can invent a thermostat that will keep a wide open office at a pleasant temperature. Wife's cell phone can show her videos, snap pics of boob-job billboards, wash the car and mix a mean tequila sunrise, so why can't the office air conditioning not freeze the snot to my cheek?
I guess that's what I get for working in Sun City, an old folks community that still thinks color TV is hot shit and a microwave oven is something to worship.
Wife recently turned her flip-top cell phone into a floatation device during the great Melissa Compound flood of 2007 - it rained cats and dogs in our laundry room - leaving her without her favoritest (more than an opposable thumb) appendage - a cell phone. She can't breathe without it. It's her confidante, friend, and lover. In her pecking order of love, I'm sure it goes cell phone, dogs, cats, tempurpedic pillow, and then me. After mourning the loss of her friend - she programmed taps on another friend's cell phone and had it play repeatedly as she buried the drowned phone in the back yard, under it's favorite pine tree.
She really loved that phone.
Twenty minutes later she was on the run looking for a replacement appendage. It took two days for her to settle on just the right ear humper - another flip phone that she found after searching through every cell phone shop in the Valley, (on a side note - it was sold to her by an 18-year-old, spiky emo-black haired junior college reject with an open fly. I guess that's how the kids roll these days) - which worked about as well as her drowned phone, which is to say not at fuckin'-all. She cried all night, not for the newly dead phone, mind you, but because it meant she'd have to give in to the rest of you tech geeks and buy a Blackberry.
Now I don't know the different between a Blackberry, Strawberry, Blueberry or Dingleberry, but I do know when tech companies start naming their shit after fruits the rest of us consumer pigs are in for a world of hurt. It's like throwing letters into math, it just messes with one's head. Letters shouldn't be added and subtracted, and gadgets shouldn't be named after berries, or citrus, or apples for that matter. And don't get me started on power tools with carnivorous-animal names.
Then she showed me that her new lover has Internet access and to butter me up she set as her web favorites the following sites: Dodgers.com, Chargers.com, and ESPN. We could read and comment on our respective blogs. Fruit-named or not, the bells for this gadget were cooler than buying a TV with picture in picture capabilities, and almost as hot as TiVo ... almost. All that was missing was the ability to dry hump me in the passenger seat. When that phone is invented you'll find me camped out in line the week before it goes on sale.
I don't own a cell phone, never have, likely never will. As I see it, and the Sports Geek will back me up on this, I'm at three places on any given day: home, work, or the gym. If I'm at home, there's a real phone to call out and accept calls in on, and the same goes for work. If I'm at the gym, the last thing I want to do is talk to you people; no offense, but you don't want to hear me grunting and swearing and sweating as I hoist myself through 15 8-pound squats (anymore weight and I'm afraid I'll end up like a pinned monkey under a fallen pine tree). And I'm not the only one trapped in the cell communication void, I have a cousin in Cleveland who embraces the same ideals. In fact, every time we see each other the first question asked is whether one of us caved in to the phone fiend and bought a cell. We've avoided the siren ring tone this long, now it's a matter of principle.
Technology is a funny beast. I have no problem downloading hockey fights online or midget oil wrestling, but Wife hands me the cell phone and I'm like monkey being handed a football. What the hell am I supposed to do it with it? That must have been how the old folks in our office felt when our computer systems were upgraded. They're 45 and up, and them looking at the PCs made me think I wasn't in such bad shape. I hear it every day now, "This system sucks. Why did they (head boobs) go the cheap route?" (They didn't). Meanwhile, us folks under 35 be-bop our way through a day's work with our eyes closed and one hand free in case the urge hits us - if you know what I mean - because we have time now to do so (especially when JC Penney's release their bra and nightgown inserts for the weekend).
Maybe that's why it's so friggin' cold in our office these days, technology for office comfort is about as exact as a blind carpenter. I know it's summer, and its hotter and wetter than a witch's tit out in the Valley of the Sun, but really, Boobs, can we maybe notch the inside thermostat to mabye 74? Will that break the bank? We typically let the readers decide everything at the newspaper, from what features they'd like to see on what pages to what the optimal time is for me to take a crap, did they decided that dropping the temp to a nut-freezing 52 inside the building?
This is no joke. Yesterday, while working hard surfing the net for the best fart jokes and cartoon character porn (the Internet is a wonderful, research tool, isn't it?) my hands slowly turned blue and I eventually became disoriented from hypothermia because our office was colder than Montana in January. I was ready to take a handful of letters to the editor, pile them high in my trash can and torch them just so I could thaw out my frozen tootsies and shrunken pecker. I'd go to the restroom and wash my hands in hot water just to warm them up. That's not natural. It's late July, I shouldn't have to bundle like I'm Nanook of the North in winter hunting for plump penguins. But today I'm considering bringing a jacket with me. A jacket. In Phoenix. In July! There are two reasons to use a jacket out here: to wear during January because it actually dips below 65 then, and to cushion breakables as you pack them in a car on moving day. Otherwise, jackets are about as useful as a step stool is to a giraffe.
If we can have cell phones that tell us up-to-the-second Charger scores, and computer programs that allows anyone in the office to correct text in a story that doesn't require us - the copy editors - to click another button to update those changes, you'd think they can invent a thermostat that will keep a wide open office at a pleasant temperature. Wife's cell phone can show her videos, snap pics of boob-job billboards, wash the car and mix a mean tequila sunrise, so why can't the office air conditioning not freeze the snot to my cheek?
I guess that's what I get for working in Sun City, an old folks community that still thinks color TV is hot shit and a microwave oven is something to worship.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Learn them, know them, live them - these are the 10 commandments
***Editor's note: This is longer than Dirk Digler's winky***
Sometimes words slip by my internal censor before the delay switch is hit.
That's how it works in my head. The censor, my own MPAA, the MCC if you will (Melissa Communication Commission) often works double time when I'm mixed into a group, and overtime when hard alcohol is involved. And I'm sure the MCC went through its procedures and guidelines thoroughly Friday afternoon as my nervous as hell body sat in it's aisle seat on the way to Pittsburgh - I'm about as calm as an asshole at a proctologists convention when inside those flying metal tubes - for my first guys weekend since getting hitched to Wife's runaway trailer.
As an aside, Wife imparted upon me before I departed my airport chariot her 10 commandments for this trip:
Sometimes words slip by my internal censor before the delay switch is hit.
That's how it works in my head. The censor, my own MPAA, the MCC if you will (Melissa Communication Commission) often works double time when I'm mixed into a group, and overtime when hard alcohol is involved. And I'm sure the MCC went through its procedures and guidelines thoroughly Friday afternoon as my nervous as hell body sat in it's aisle seat on the way to Pittsburgh - I'm about as calm as an asshole at a proctologists convention when inside those flying metal tubes - for my first guys weekend since getting hitched to Wife's runaway trailer.
As an aside, Wife imparted upon me before I departed my airport chariot her 10 commandments for this trip:
- Thou shalt remember to be on your best behavior at all times. (FAILED, and you'll learn why in a bit)
- Thou shalt be polite and friendly. (PASSED)
- Thou shalt not drink to oblivion. (I didn't puke or proclaim my man love for Dodger catcher Russel Martin, so that's a PASSED)
- Thou shalt not participate in nor initiate any food or drinking challenges. (TOO VAGUE TO GRADE)
- Thou shalt not get arrested for public urination or intoxication. (PASSED - because I run faster than the fat pigs working the Downtown Pittsburgh beat. One piece of advice PPD officers, lay off the Primanti Bros. sandwiches)
- Thou shalt not remove the wedding ring for any reason. (PASSED - she'd put it through my nose if she heard it left my hand)
- Thou shalt remember that all behavior will be reported to me. (PASSED - until HeadShrinker's hubby reports to her)
- Thou shalt not cry nor throw a tantrum at the ballpark. (FAILED - the Yuengling beer guy didn't come by until I had just bought a Budweiser. You'd cry too if you were forced to drink that monkey piss.)
- Thou shalt not taunt others with Kirk Gibson's name. (FAILED big time - it was impossible commandment to begin with.)
- Thou shalt not dare nor respond to a dare to run naked on the field. (PASSED)
That's what I was facing before I set foot on the bird. The pressure weighed on my like it was a 20-pound dildo and I was afraid Wife would slap me with it if she heard I misbehaved.
As the teenage figure skater next to me continued to explain her religious views, I continued with the mantra I would follow on the trip, "Don't say anything stupid. Be a mature adult." (When one has to remind one's self to act one's age and not the like the adolescent he really is who still laughs at butt and poo jokes, being out in public on one's own may not be the best remedy.)
The mantra stayed with me on the connecting flight to Pittsburgh. I peppered the pro boxer next to me (7-1 with 5 KOs) with boxing questions, but that still didn't wipe away the pressure of uttering a phrase or two that would wedge my foot deep into my pie hole.
Once off the plane and in the party barge with the rest of the early arrivers, the mantra faded as we all talked baseball - Sandy Koufax overrated? My left nut, you butt munches. If I wasn't the new guy and following Wife's commandments, I would have given y'all a kick to the groin followed by two quick rights to the jaw. That's just how I roll when Mr. Koufax is brought up - and enjoyed Pennsylvania's green countryside. It's like driving through Ireland I suppose, just with steel and asbestos factories instead of shamrock farms.
I made it six hours with the Friday nighters without uttering something that would either a) offend; b) get my ass kicked three ways from Sunday; and c) show them my world really revolves around midget porn and poop jokes. Even with their threat that I would earn a nickname for saying or doing something dumb, I passed the first night's test like I just crammed for a History of the Toilet Brush exam.
With all the Friday nighters together Saturday morning, we hiked to the Andy Warhol Museum - the last place I'd think such a museum would reside for the pop artist, but I guess he grew up in the Steel City, and the only artsy fartsy thing the folks of Pittsburgh would get before the museum was built came in the form of someone singing the national anthem at the Steelers game.
Chances were good the MCC wouldn't be able to curb my tongue when I started spying paintings of faceless cartoon men having their wee-wees yanked off or laying wood to man's best friend. Hell, some images had the roles reserved. And yet, I was able to keep it together. Warhol's collection of wigs didn't even send me from the museum screaming bloody murder (wigs freak the holy living crap out of me).
I didn't make it through the morning completely stupid-free. As I started to click pictures of PNC Park, I realized the memory card in the camera wasn't holding the images. I checked the screen and found I didn't have a memory card. Then I remembered, it was sitting in transfer box (that's right, I use technical phrases, don't I?) at home.
A nap recharged my batteries and recharged the MCC. A couple of us found a bar for the Dodger game and beer, which was a test in itself as I was surrounded by four Giants fan. Talk about feeling like an alter boy in a room full of smiling Catholic priests, I minded my Ps and Qs as the Dodgers thumped on the Mets. The rest of the group wanted to scout out the Strip District which really wasn't as glamorous as it sounded. There weren't any strip clubs, and district made it sound like a condensed community of kitchy boutiques and bars. But I believe that was the reasoning to wander around in the district, to scout out the late-night, post-game Pittsburgh hot spots. And even though our little troop of Oaklanders and welcomed guests were eyed like we were burgers served on a golden plate to a pack of rabid Pittsburgh dogs, we trudged until the perfect night spot was found. I could have told you the name up until we walked in later that night, but after Drink Baseball, all bets were off on remembering the joint's name.
Commandment No. 2 was nearly broken after the third inning of the Pirates-Astros game when I noticed the Houston pitcher had retired the first nine hitters he faced in a row. I uttered, "He's pitching an intersting game," (that's code for he's throwing a no-hitter so far. Then again, a 3-inning no hitter means about as much as Luara Bush sending me an e-mail reminder for President Bush's birthday) and the lady in front of me threated to jam the rest of my Primanti Bros. sandwich up my nose and pull the hunk of capicola through my pecker. I took the hint and kept my french fry, cole slaw, fried egg, capicola sandwich-eating trap shut for the rest of the game.
As we trudged back to the bar - halfway there I wished I had my hiking boots and the Camelback (filled with my favorite libation, of course) from the hike - I felt proud of my censor for not cracking under Wife's pressure. Hell, I believe I even endured myself to the crew when, as they discussed their chances of winning a fight now that they went 10 deep I gave them a quick and dirty way of winning an altercation.
"Knee the chump in the nuts and as he doubles over come down with two quick overhand rights to the chops. Dude'll go down like a hunk of beef. "
"We have the wild card we've been missing all these years! We can win a fight now!" One shouted, others laughed, and I figured the MCC was out of danger now. I shut it off for the rest of the evening to give it a break. It earned one. Twenty-one and a half hours among these guys and the tongue had stayed in check.
But I basked in that glory too soon.
When I have a few pops in me, the MCC gets loose and I can go off like I'm in a South Park movie. And with 10 of us drinking like we were playing a baseball game - a new mixed drink each "inning" for a total of nine - the MCC must have left the building entirely and started partaking in the game as well. It didn't help that each drink contained more Vodka than a Russian president's liquor cabinet, either. Vodka, my mortal enemy, and the undoing of my perfect, verbal weekend.
At one point, unsure what we should drink for the sixth (maybe the seventh, who the hell knows at that point - it was all a blur after the Wild Turkey and Washington Apple shots) we sent one of our own over to a table of Pittsburghian ladies for drink guidance. He came back with Vanilla Stoli (Vodka) and Diet Coke. Not bad I thought, and it wasn't. But then the question popped up. Why Diet Coke? Then it became a question of our manhood. Can we drink Vanilla Stoli and Diet Coke - DIET COKE! - and still be considered verile, baseball-loving, All-American dudes?
The question passed around the group. Why Diet Coke? Finally, taking one for the team I figured, I had to pose the questions to the ladies.
And there, 23 1/2 hours among this group, I broke Commandment No. 1. Sometimes, I'm denser than a soggy phone book, so I didn't pick up why they would be drinking Diet Coke with their alcohol.
"Quiet, Melissa!" "Shut it!" "Kick him so he pipes down!"
Someone kicked me in the shin a half dozen times until my leg looked like a warped record. Another tried to quiet me down by shoving my drink in my face, which often works. It took me a second to understand what my question implied.
Then the Pittsburghians sent over their spokeswoman.
"We're trying to watch our girlish figures," she said. Then, she threatened to cut a map of the three Pittsburgh rivers into my ass, so I backpedaled faster than a 10-legged unicycler, explaining that my censor was shut off for the evening, and that I'm a moron for not reviewing the question before letting it out in the open. And while she accepted somewhere in the neighborhood of 21 apologies (21 because that was Roberto Clemente's number, and the only way to make nice with a Pittsburghian is to include Clemente's name in a conversation.) I still felt horrible because I think I ruined the two singles dude's chances of getting a piece of Pittsbrugh hootchie. I'm pretty sure I broke a few man laws there, and it's a wonder I wasn't arrested and forced to turn in my cock card.
The hangover the next day was punishment not for drinking too much, but for turning off the censor and letting my thoughts run wild like over-sugared 6-year-olds.
And while everyone said they'd invite me back for next year's tour, I could see in their eyes that they'd appoint someone as the official Melissa Duct Tape Monitor, in charge of taping my cake hole together in case verbal diarrhea began to leak past the censor.
Good luck whoever gets this assignment. Ask Wife (she's tried for seven years), you'll need it.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Shocking development
Lightning storm has forced me into blog silence for the evening. So if you came here for an update on my Pittsburgh blitz this past weekend, I'm sorry to say you'll have to wait another day. Don't want to be in the middle of a story about me being the ham in a midget orgy sandwich and having the a bolt of (Charger) lightning smacking the house and frying my beautiful prose. Blame the big dude upstairs, or Barry Bonds, whichever you like. I'll blame the latter, thank you very much.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Man on the run
I've wiggled out the chains of love this weekend and will be a free man, if for just two days (and as much as a man can be free with a ring welded to his third finger on the left hand).
And where will my Southwest Airlines e-ticket take me this weekend?
It's the garden spot of the United States - the lower 48 to be exact. The land is green, the water is cold (but tastes a little like smoked steel) and the beer flows like a broken water main.
That's right, I'm heading North and East to the lovely rust belt - Steel City, U.S.A. Pittsburgh, home to Kennywood, black-smog, turd emitting steel mills and Primanti Brothers and its wonderful sandwich (look closely at the menu, "All sandwiches INCLUDE french fries, tomato and egg - That kicks off the cholesterol fest. Then you toss on some more toppings. Open wide, kiddies, here comes the heart attack between two sheets of bread).
And before everyone asks me why, or whether it's by choice (who in their right mind would choose to make Pittsburgh their destination?), let me explain.
Wife's chum from high school - the HeadShrinker - recently joined the married folks club. Her husband, along with nine or 10 or 20 other guys (I really don't know, I just receive e-mails from a group of addresses I've never seen before), choose a couple of ballparks each year to visit. From what I've been told, the Pulled Pork Pilgrimage has hit just about every baseball city and is all about the greatest sport, mass consumption of gut-splitting chow and the swilling of local brews. I'm not sure what I'm looking forward to more. All three are enough for me to ask for a furlough from the Melissa Compound; group them all into one trip and I'm liable to get sensory overload, landing me in some sort of detox center babbling about roast beef and cole slaw sandwiches deep fried in pig fat and drinking beers from 50-gallon oil drums.
Anyway, HeadShrinker's husband heard I was a baseball fan and deeply enthralled with this idea of visiting different ballparks each season. They are all from Northern California and mainly Oakland A's fans, with a smattering of San Fran Giants fans, so I kept to myself the fact that I bleed Dodger blue like Norm Peterson bleeds Sam Adams amber ale. That omission likely secured my spot on the party barge. Of course, once my ticket was punched I gave this crew the bad news - especially bad for those Giants fans who are likely plotting to yank my fingernails out one by one after I pass out from them forcing a second case of Rolling Rock down my beer-swollen gullet. And that could be an end result if I happen to let slip this nugget of baseball history.
The cat was maybe let out of the bag a bit when the crew was out here earlier this season for the HeadShrinker's wedding to this visionary of baseball road trips. The group pilgrimaged to Chase Field here in Phoenix where I joined them, of course in my Dodger gear. I guess they figured it was just a phase I was going through and that by the time the real pilgrimage hit this year I'd hitch my wagon to a less objectionable squad, say the New York Yankees or something. What I believe, however, is that they were distracted by my team colors by an over-enthusiastic "waver," who, unbeknownst to Valley dweller, was losing his shorts with each rise of the "wave." But as always a picture tells a better story than words:
So, that's this weekend's trek. I go from hiking through the sweet-smelling pines of the San Bernadino Mountains, to huffing through the concrete jungle of the Rust Belt, blackening my lungs with each breathe, and soiling my nostrils with asbestos, metal shards or whatever the hell else is in Pitt's air.
But it'll all be worth it when I shove a Primanti Bros. sandwich dowm my cake-hole, followed by a vat of whatever beer they have on tap.
And where will my Southwest Airlines e-ticket take me this weekend?
It's the garden spot of the United States - the lower 48 to be exact. The land is green, the water is cold (but tastes a little like smoked steel) and the beer flows like a broken water main.
That's right, I'm heading North and East to the lovely rust belt - Steel City, U.S.A. Pittsburgh, home to Kennywood, black-smog, turd emitting steel mills and Primanti Brothers and its wonderful sandwich (look closely at the menu, "All sandwiches INCLUDE french fries, tomato and egg - That kicks off the cholesterol fest. Then you toss on some more toppings. Open wide, kiddies, here comes the heart attack between two sheets of bread).
And before everyone asks me why, or whether it's by choice (who in their right mind would choose to make Pittsburgh their destination?), let me explain.
Wife's chum from high school - the HeadShrinker - recently joined the married folks club. Her husband, along with nine or 10 or 20 other guys (I really don't know, I just receive e-mails from a group of addresses I've never seen before), choose a couple of ballparks each year to visit. From what I've been told, the Pulled Pork Pilgrimage has hit just about every baseball city and is all about the greatest sport, mass consumption of gut-splitting chow and the swilling of local brews. I'm not sure what I'm looking forward to more. All three are enough for me to ask for a furlough from the Melissa Compound; group them all into one trip and I'm liable to get sensory overload, landing me in some sort of detox center babbling about roast beef and cole slaw sandwiches deep fried in pig fat and drinking beers from 50-gallon oil drums.
Anyway, HeadShrinker's husband heard I was a baseball fan and deeply enthralled with this idea of visiting different ballparks each season. They are all from Northern California and mainly Oakland A's fans, with a smattering of San Fran Giants fans, so I kept to myself the fact that I bleed Dodger blue like Norm Peterson bleeds Sam Adams amber ale. That omission likely secured my spot on the party barge. Of course, once my ticket was punched I gave this crew the bad news - especially bad for those Giants fans who are likely plotting to yank my fingernails out one by one after I pass out from them forcing a second case of Rolling Rock down my beer-swollen gullet. And that could be an end result if I happen to let slip this nugget of baseball history.
The cat was maybe let out of the bag a bit when the crew was out here earlier this season for the HeadShrinker's wedding to this visionary of baseball road trips. The group pilgrimaged to Chase Field here in Phoenix where I joined them, of course in my Dodger gear. I guess they figured it was just a phase I was going through and that by the time the real pilgrimage hit this year I'd hitch my wagon to a less objectionable squad, say the New York Yankees or something. What I believe, however, is that they were distracted by my team colors by an over-enthusiastic "waver," who, unbeknownst to Valley dweller, was losing his shorts with each rise of the "wave." But as always a picture tells a better story than words:
So, that's this weekend's trek. I go from hiking through the sweet-smelling pines of the San Bernadino Mountains, to huffing through the concrete jungle of the Rust Belt, blackening my lungs with each breathe, and soiling my nostrils with asbestos, metal shards or whatever the hell else is in Pitt's air.
But it'll all be worth it when I shove a Primanti Bros. sandwich dowm my cake-hole, followed by a vat of whatever beer they have on tap.
Monday, July 16, 2007
3 asses on a mountain
I have blisters the size of 50-cent pieces on my heels.
I have pain spiking through my shins as if a civil war doc sawed through 'em and the shmuck forgot the shot of whiskey and wood bit so I wouldn't turn my tongue into chewing gum.
My hips, or more specifically, my upper ass muscles, feel like somebody just tightened down a C-clamp, effectively shutting off my pooper.
My back is a sheet of hurt because Wife thought through every possible contigency and added the equipment to my pack. So, if we were horned by a rhino, I could treat such a wound. My back thanks you, Wife.
And, to answer my Dear ol' Ma's question when her, Wife and Lil' Sis retrieved our weary and broken bodies from the mountain's base - would you do it again? - I can only say "oh, hell yes!"
From green fields of leafy ferns that just appeared in the middle of a pine forest to boulder-strewn hills that covered a mountain to the ever-present smell of pine, we soaked it all up with every step.
I'd give y'all a taste with some pics here, but unforseen tech issues have up-jumped my tin can-and-string setup at the Compound, so when we setup the viewables I'll post 'em posthaste (and if I can, I'll make 'em scratch-and-sniff pics [although, don't scratch on the last person in our marching line, you'll definitely get a non-pine scent][Rule No. 1 SnapShot and I learned from Sports Geek - the experienced hiker of the bunch - if the butt's a-talkin', you go to the ass-end of the line]):
I'm not sure what the best part of the trek was, the sandwich at that peak or the beer at the bottom thanks to Dear ol' Ma and Wife - they really thought of everything.
We trudged more than 13 miles in just about 8-1/2 hours and somehow escaped rabid deer attacks and a half-dozen rolled ankles. The latter is a miracle. After watching Sports Geek trudge up and down the mountain, stepping on the sides of his shoes so much I thought he should take his hiking boots to a shoe maker and have them refitted with the traction moved to the outside. Of course, after I considered that I begin a series of ankle rolls myself. First, the left (the "good" side) followed by the right. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. After a while, I gave up looking for the mysterious Basselope, and concentrated on where I'd let each foot fall (that didn't stop the ankles from twisting and turning, rolling and wrenching). If I didn't watch my step, I was sure I'd roll it bad enough that I'd lose my balance and tumble down the mountain. I'm sure it would have been an easier route, but the thought of corn-holing myself on a pinecone at the bottom curbed that idea.
It didn't take long for the three of us - Sports Geek, SnapShot and myself - to begin drafting our next trek, though. So, once off the hill, and in the safe confines of La Cassita restaurant in Idyllwild (where they serve THE BEST Miller Genuine Draft bottles this side of Milwaukee. They are oh so cold, and always taste great after huffing it up one side of a mountain and down the other), we tentatively planned for Mount Humphries in Arizona.
That's if the blisters the size of Rhode Island decide to heal.
And the ankle pain subsides.
And the butt ache goes away.
And if my back can carry another 20 or so pounds of shark repellent.
So, maybe in May ... 2010 ... I'll be ready.
I have pain spiking through my shins as if a civil war doc sawed through 'em and the shmuck forgot the shot of whiskey and wood bit so I wouldn't turn my tongue into chewing gum.
My hips, or more specifically, my upper ass muscles, feel like somebody just tightened down a C-clamp, effectively shutting off my pooper.
My back is a sheet of hurt because Wife thought through every possible contigency and added the equipment to my pack. So, if we were horned by a rhino, I could treat such a wound. My back thanks you, Wife.
And, to answer my Dear ol' Ma's question when her, Wife and Lil' Sis retrieved our weary and broken bodies from the mountain's base - would you do it again? - I can only say "oh, hell yes!"
From green fields of leafy ferns that just appeared in the middle of a pine forest to boulder-strewn hills that covered a mountain to the ever-present smell of pine, we soaked it all up with every step.
I'd give y'all a taste with some pics here, but unforseen tech issues have up-jumped my tin can-and-string setup at the Compound, so when we setup the viewables I'll post 'em posthaste (and if I can, I'll make 'em scratch-and-sniff pics [although, don't scratch on the last person in our marching line, you'll definitely get a non-pine scent][Rule No. 1 SnapShot and I learned from Sports Geek - the experienced hiker of the bunch - if the butt's a-talkin', you go to the ass-end of the line]):
I'm not sure what the best part of the trek was, the sandwich at that peak or the beer at the bottom thanks to Dear ol' Ma and Wife - they really thought of everything.
We trudged more than 13 miles in just about 8-1/2 hours and somehow escaped rabid deer attacks and a half-dozen rolled ankles. The latter is a miracle. After watching Sports Geek trudge up and down the mountain, stepping on the sides of his shoes so much I thought he should take his hiking boots to a shoe maker and have them refitted with the traction moved to the outside. Of course, after I considered that I begin a series of ankle rolls myself. First, the left (the "good" side) followed by the right. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. After a while, I gave up looking for the mysterious Basselope, and concentrated on where I'd let each foot fall (that didn't stop the ankles from twisting and turning, rolling and wrenching). If I didn't watch my step, I was sure I'd roll it bad enough that I'd lose my balance and tumble down the mountain. I'm sure it would have been an easier route, but the thought of corn-holing myself on a pinecone at the bottom curbed that idea.
It didn't take long for the three of us - Sports Geek, SnapShot and myself - to begin drafting our next trek, though. So, once off the hill, and in the safe confines of La Cassita restaurant in Idyllwild (where they serve THE BEST Miller Genuine Draft bottles this side of Milwaukee. They are oh so cold, and always taste great after huffing it up one side of a mountain and down the other), we tentatively planned for Mount Humphries in Arizona.
That's if the blisters the size of Rhode Island decide to heal.
And the ankle pain subsides.
And the butt ache goes away.
And if my back can carry another 20 or so pounds of shark repellent.
So, maybe in May ... 2010 ... I'll be ready.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Brushing off city boy, putting on nature boy
There was a time when hikes in the woods were nothing more than a forced family march.
"Why are walking through the forest, Dad?"
"Because it's there and we can ... plus it's on Indian land, so damnit, I bet your allowance there's a casino at the end of this trail."
So we traipsed through the pines and cedars and oak. When we squated, we hoped there wasn't poison ivy underneath our rump and when mosquitos came at us like we were giant, walking sugar sticks we screamed like little girls lined up to see the Beatles in '64.
Maybe that was the ol' man's plan, though. Force us into the woods to become one with nature (when you're caked in trail dust with pine needle stains streaking your shorts and shirt, you're more than just one with nature, you are nature). He helped start a Boy Scouts troop in Idyllwild (a hillbilly town of 3,000), which led to more hikes; and then, whenever we went on a family vacation, whether it be to the desert, mountains or touristy city, the ol' man made us hike. He was the drill instructor and my sister and I were the grunts marching with our My Little Pony and Dodgers backpacks (you guess who was whose) loaded down with essentials: boxes of Nerds (cherry, of course), half-melted Three Musketeers bars, and, because Dear Ol' Ma cared about nutrition, Fruit Punch Capri-Sun pouches.
And then the cadences would start.
"You don't know what you've been told..."
We'd repeat in our weary 9 and 7-year-old voices.
"Your old man should be pulled."
"That doesn't even rhyme dad," I'd say.
"Shut it, or we'll hike through Death Valley next week."
And sure enough, he'd have a red wagon and two ropes - one for Sis and I.
OK, maybe we didn't pull the Ol' Man along the trail, but if he really did have a wagon you can bet our allowance we'd be pulling him after there first mini-grade.
Despite all the mosquito bites and brushes with stinging nettle, a funny thing happened as I aged - I started enjoying the forced marches through the forest to obscure waterfalls that are nothing more than a stream with a prostate problem, sputtering and splashing into a two-foot deep puddle of water no bigger than our inflatable Scooby Doo play pool at home.
At a recent family reunion in Lake Tahoe, I made two hikes in a week's time. The total distance between the two? More than 16 miles. The first was a 9-miler, round trip, up Mount Tallac. It was the longest hike I'd ever done, and once we were back at the cabin sucking down beers, I couldn't wait to do another. Two days later, without hesitation, I jumped in when another group was heading up to another peak.
.bmp)
See that peak way, way, way off in the distance? Yeah, that's where we were heading.
And then there was this:
After the reunion, once on Phoenix's charred earth, I found my left toe tingling to the point of numbness. That just drove me to hike more. What other body parts could I get numb? Inquiring minds wanted to know.
On the drive to the parental units' house, we pass through Palm Springs on Interstate 10. If you look real hard at the base of one mountain you'll see wires running through the canyon up to a lodge on a ridge. That's the Palm Springs Tram. I remember riding it once, as a kid, and thinking it was the neatest thing to travel by cable up a mountain, hanging by nothing more than a few strands of twisted steel. From there, you can hike until your legs fall off and there's enough dirt clogging your lungs that you'll be pooping pollen through winter. Great for the wild flowers, hell on the allergies.
On the other side of the tram is Idyllwild, where I grew up. As a kid, I remember reading hiking stories about folks doing the trek from the tram, up to San Jacinto Peak and then down into Idyllwild for a nice dinner at the Gastronome. I thought that was the slickest idea, even better than the iPhone or Wiis. What a great experience for those folks.
As we drove through Palm Springs on our way to San Clemente in May, I looked up that mountain and saw the cables. And then the idea blossomed in my head - believe me, I don't get to many blossoms, so when I do get one, I hold onto it like its the marijuana plant in a hippy's garden - I should hike make that hike before I turn 35 (that would be Sept. 30 ... 72 more shopping days left in case you're wondering ... I'm not picky, a 30-plus gig mp3 player or a video iPod would be great).
Hence our weekend trip this week. With Sports Geek and Photo Man in tow - Wife wouldn't let me hike it alone, so she threatened them to go along or no more pork chop dinners and coffee pudding deserts - we'll be making the 13-mile hike Saturday. A ranger on the phone said it was actually a 14-mile hike, but really, what the hell does he know? It was at the Idyllwild station, and since I know most of those folks and what they do in their spare time (hit the bong and down 12-packs at Inspiration Point). I figure it will take 8 to 10 hours, and while being with nature for a day will be a nice change of pace from the asphalt forest we all call home, the beers at the end of the trail, and then inside the American Legion hall in Idyllwild will be even better.
Wife and I went to the hiking store two weeks ago, and now I look like John Muir's shorter, clean shaven twin, but with a 100-ounce camelpack and hiking shoes that will help me scamper up a tree when a crazed pack of chimpmucks come at me (nevermind that they can climb up the tree too, at least up there I can break off a branch and beat them back with a stick) I'm more prepared than an anal retentive Boy Scout.
So, if I don't post anything in, say, forever, meaning if this is my last post, tell Wife she's the wind beneath my wings but she still can't have the unopen box of Red Vines in the cabinet. Not until I get home (that should guarantee a well-manned search party and buy us lost hikers an extra day or two).
Oh, and if my body is found, burn me in a funeral pyre in the back yard ala Luke Skywalker torching Anakin Skywalker in "Return of the Jedi" and then spread my ashes over home plate at Dodger Stadium.
But more than likely, I have a feeling we'll look as we did after conquering Mount Tallac:
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Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Aligning all the stars
For 20-something years now - I'd be exact but I don't want to year, "God damn you're old, dude. How are those Depends fitting you these days?" - I've anticipated the Major League Baseball game like an 8-year-old waits for Easter. It's not exactly Christmas or Halloween, or even Thanksgiving, but you get free shit including chocolate bunnies that you can turn into earless mutants with one bite.
And once the game is done, and All Star Tuesday has turned into no baseball Wednesday (lazy bums take the day off after it's self-blow job day - slack asses) I feel like, "that's it?" Just like Easter, once you're done plowing through the basket, there's nothing left. All that foreplay for four hours of watching overmuscled, oversexed, overspoiled ball jockeys? Why subject my chili-dog heavy ass to it?
The stories are told and retold before, during and after each all star game like us baseball fans are cream-of-corn slurping Alzheimer's. But just like a good cream of corn soup, the tales just don't get old.
Carl Hubbel striking out Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Jimmie Foxx, Al Simmons and Joe Cronin in succession. Every one of them hall of famers.
Ted Williams clubbing a 3-run dinger off Claude Passeau in the bottom of the ninth at Tiger Stadium to give the American League a 7-5 win. He hopped around the bases like he just won the World Series, allowing fans a glimpse into what the All Star game meant to the players. Back then they wanted to win to prove which league was tops. It was for pride and not just an exhibition game.
Future hall of famers Hank Aaron, Willie Mays and Roberto Clemente joining forces in the National League outfield in '66 and batting one, two, three in the lineup. The N.L. won 2-1.
Pete Rose scoring the winning run in the 12th inning, bowling over catcher Ray Fosse in the process in 1970.
Reggie Jackson hitting a moon shot off the roof in right field at Tiger Stadium in '71.
Fred Lynn smacking the first All Star game grand slam in '83, off Giants pitcher Atlee Hammaker (go figure, a Giants pitcher serving up a meat pitch with millions watching around the world).
Dodger pitcher Fernando Valenzuela striking out future hall of famers Dave Winfield, Reggie Jackson and George Brett in '84. (You knew I'd squeeze a Dodger highlight in there somewhere).
Bo Jackson hitting a ball that would have landed in Fullerton from Anaheim stadium had there not been stadium seats to block it in '89.
And Ichiro Suzuki hitting a cue ball with english off the wall in right field at Phone Company park in San Francisco that caught Ken Griffey Jr. slip-sliding away toward center field, leading to the first inside the park home run in all star game history.
That's why I watch this self-indulgent dog-and-pony show. When something like Tony Gwynn sliding into home to score the winning run, I can say to my kid that I saw that happen. Hopefully, the freeloader will indulge the old man and say "neato," or "can I get you some more cream of corn?"
Maybe I'm biased - I know I'm biased - but there isn't a better all star game out there. The pro bowl features a bunch of guys who have either been off for a month or whooped it up the week before in some sunny below the Manson-Nixon line state before playing for that league's championship. They play like it's a pillow fight, and the intensity level is pegged at mellow. The NBA is all offense and no defense. In fact, I think each team sits at opposite ends of the court, score, and then hand the ball back to the other team. Hockey changes it's all star game from year to year, so who the hell knows how they're playing now. For all I know, instead of a puck and stick, the players skate with oven mitts on their hands and slide a midget along the ice, bowling them into the net for a point. An extra point awarded if the midget writes his name in yellow along the ice (use your imagination to figure out how).
And while the MLB all star game can be tedious and drawn out, there's still some magic to it. The tales of yore do that.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that baseball, for all of its flaws and controversy, still holds a special two-room tent in America's heart. Football might draw in every tree-hugging Oregonian to every gator-wrestling Floridian, but baseball has that magic that's indescribable. And the all star game is another piece of that act, like the disappearing canary.
That said, training camp starts in two weeks. Are you ready for some football?
Now, I have a can of cream of corn calling my name.
And once the game is done, and All Star Tuesday has turned into no baseball Wednesday (lazy bums take the day off after it's self-blow job day - slack asses) I feel like, "that's it?" Just like Easter, once you're done plowing through the basket, there's nothing left. All that foreplay for four hours of watching overmuscled, oversexed, overspoiled ball jockeys? Why subject my chili-dog heavy ass to it?
The stories are told and retold before, during and after each all star game like us baseball fans are cream-of-corn slurping Alzheimer's. But just like a good cream of corn soup, the tales just don't get old.
Carl Hubbel striking out Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Jimmie Foxx, Al Simmons and Joe Cronin in succession. Every one of them hall of famers.
Ted Williams clubbing a 3-run dinger off Claude Passeau in the bottom of the ninth at Tiger Stadium to give the American League a 7-5 win. He hopped around the bases like he just won the World Series, allowing fans a glimpse into what the All Star game meant to the players. Back then they wanted to win to prove which league was tops. It was for pride and not just an exhibition game.
Future hall of famers Hank Aaron, Willie Mays and Roberto Clemente joining forces in the National League outfield in '66 and batting one, two, three in the lineup. The N.L. won 2-1.
Pete Rose scoring the winning run in the 12th inning, bowling over catcher Ray Fosse in the process in 1970.
Reggie Jackson hitting a moon shot off the roof in right field at Tiger Stadium in '71.
Fred Lynn smacking the first All Star game grand slam in '83, off Giants pitcher Atlee Hammaker (go figure, a Giants pitcher serving up a meat pitch with millions watching around the world).
Dodger pitcher Fernando Valenzuela striking out future hall of famers Dave Winfield, Reggie Jackson and George Brett in '84. (You knew I'd squeeze a Dodger highlight in there somewhere).
Bo Jackson hitting a ball that would have landed in Fullerton from Anaheim stadium had there not been stadium seats to block it in '89.
And Ichiro Suzuki hitting a cue ball with english off the wall in right field at Phone Company park in San Francisco that caught Ken Griffey Jr. slip-sliding away toward center field, leading to the first inside the park home run in all star game history.
That's why I watch this self-indulgent dog-and-pony show. When something like Tony Gwynn sliding into home to score the winning run, I can say to my kid that I saw that happen. Hopefully, the freeloader will indulge the old man and say "neato," or "can I get you some more cream of corn?"
Maybe I'm biased - I know I'm biased - but there isn't a better all star game out there. The pro bowl features a bunch of guys who have either been off for a month or whooped it up the week before in some sunny below the Manson-Nixon line state before playing for that league's championship. They play like it's a pillow fight, and the intensity level is pegged at mellow. The NBA is all offense and no defense. In fact, I think each team sits at opposite ends of the court, score, and then hand the ball back to the other team. Hockey changes it's all star game from year to year, so who the hell knows how they're playing now. For all I know, instead of a puck and stick, the players skate with oven mitts on their hands and slide a midget along the ice, bowling them into the net for a point. An extra point awarded if the midget writes his name in yellow along the ice (use your imagination to figure out how).
And while the MLB all star game can be tedious and drawn out, there's still some magic to it. The tales of yore do that.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that baseball, for all of its flaws and controversy, still holds a special two-room tent in America's heart. Football might draw in every tree-hugging Oregonian to every gator-wrestling Floridian, but baseball has that magic that's indescribable. And the all star game is another piece of that act, like the disappearing canary.
That said, training camp starts in two weeks. Are you ready for some football?
Now, I have a can of cream of corn calling my name.
Monday, July 09, 2007
A witness to history
ESPN has been in my doghouse for years. Its messed up every sport I've watched, from baseball to hockey, football to drag racing, basketball to bass fishing.
I've suffered through a laundry list of east coast games that me, as a west coaster, could give two shits and a goat about. When I'd go searching for that crucial Charger highlight at 8:30 p.m. my time, I'd have to wade through bowling and yacthing updates before catching a nine second glimpse of Rivers tossing an 21-yard pass to Antonio Gates that had about as much bearing on the game as the head coach hucking up a loogy on some scrub offensive lineman's shoes. The "leader" believes every blue-state blooded American (and those red-state blooded USAers, too) lives for those Duke-North Carolina, Browns-Steelers and Yankees-Red Sox matchups. Never you mind that there are 418 other teams out there that many of us would like to watch, it's all about those folks in New York, Boston and D.C. It's their world, we just live in it.
And just when I was ready to ask our Cable swindler (provider) if it could swap ESPN for the Oxygen network, Biographychannel or a station that airs monkeys humping footballs, anything but this east coast butt kissing channel known as ESPN, the "leader" comes up with programming that could change the way we watch sports. Just like poker was nothing on TV but five leather-faced chain-smokers winking, smirking and picking their nose until they slapped the lipstick camera to the table, this sport was a forgotten footnote played by kids in lunch lines and couples trying to dole out household chores.
The sport? Roshambo. Better known as Rock, Paper, Scissors. The greatest hand sport. The king of hand sports, if you will. Started during man's prehistoric days and known back then as rock, rock, rock, it evolved from rock, stone tablet, chisel to it's current design, and has captured billions of humans' imagination over the milleniums.
When I heard ESPN would air the 2007 U.S. Rock Paper Scissors Championships I knew I couldn't miss it. I sprinted to the TiVo box, rifled through Saturday's programming and found it. My hands shaking with wild anticipation and nerves for fear of taping a rerun of Blossom on the channel just above the "leader," I struggled to get the recording right, and was relieved when everything came out rock solid.
When I saw (OK watched) the Scrabble championships a while back on the same channel, I thought I'd seen it all. What would it air next, I thought? Monopoly? Operation? Candyland? Etch-and-Sketch timed drawings? There's no way it could top Scrabble, unless it was a pair of kangaroos playing Scrabble. That'd be worth watching. And some midgets, and you have TV gold. Watch out Lost, there's a new sheriff in town.
Then came the RPS championships, and that's when I learned Wife and I were watching history. According to announcer Trey Wingo.
"People here in Las Vegas, and on TV will witness not only Rock, Paper, Scissors history, but American history as well. Two hundred and ninety eight wrist wizards will fist their way toward $50,000."
I rewound the TV six times to make sure I heard that right.
"$50,000!" That's a five, and four zeroes. I could buy the entire Salma Hayek video collection and still have a few bucks left over "special" downloads that cost $somethin'.95.
Wife looked at me. I looked at Wife, and our brains synched with one thought. That money is ours!
I see where I went wrong now. When I was a wee pup with visions of being the next Steve Sax on the Dodgers I thought baseball was my game. Little did I know throwing all those rocks at my neighbor was a missed sign. My sport should have been RPS. Maybe it was the mental game within the game that scared me off, or the nerves of a final throw and not sure if paper or scissors was the way to go. Baseball just seemed like the easier game.
Then we watched these yea-hoos on ESPN, and Wife and I realized this was nothing more than an easy way to earn a year's pay and then some. One dude came in wearing oven mittens (a smart idea in my book. Pitchers protect their arms by icing them down afterwards; why not protect your money makers?) and a boxer's robe. Another would say words that began with R, P or S to subliminally urge his opponent to make that move. It worked about half the time - so really, it did nothing but make that dude appear as though he's a mouth-breathing ass scratcher.
And when we heard what the champion earns by "fisting, papering and slicing his way to the title," Wife and I rushed to the Web site to see where the next event in our glorious state (112 degrees at 3 p.m. is glorious, right?) We're in training now. One of us will scream "1, 2, 3 ... throw," then we'll meet each other in a room and see who won. It's a taxing sports, we're not fooling ourselves, but with the right training and some stamina that 50 grand is ours.
The first thing I'll do when I win the cash? Invest in a pair of oven mitts, adorned, of course with my custom-design logo: A monkey humping a football. These money makers have to remain pretty for my new career.
I've suffered through a laundry list of east coast games that me, as a west coaster, could give two shits and a goat about. When I'd go searching for that crucial Charger highlight at 8:30 p.m. my time, I'd have to wade through bowling and yacthing updates before catching a nine second glimpse of Rivers tossing an 21-yard pass to Antonio Gates that had about as much bearing on the game as the head coach hucking up a loogy on some scrub offensive lineman's shoes. The "leader" believes every blue-state blooded American (and those red-state blooded USAers, too) lives for those Duke-North Carolina, Browns-Steelers and Yankees-Red Sox matchups. Never you mind that there are 418 other teams out there that many of us would like to watch, it's all about those folks in New York, Boston and D.C. It's their world, we just live in it.
And just when I was ready to ask our Cable swindler (provider) if it could swap ESPN for the Oxygen network, Biographychannel or a station that airs monkeys humping footballs, anything but this east coast butt kissing channel known as ESPN, the "leader" comes up with programming that could change the way we watch sports. Just like poker was nothing on TV but five leather-faced chain-smokers winking, smirking and picking their nose until they slapped the lipstick camera to the table, this sport was a forgotten footnote played by kids in lunch lines and couples trying to dole out household chores.
The sport? Roshambo. Better known as Rock, Paper, Scissors. The greatest hand sport. The king of hand sports, if you will. Started during man's prehistoric days and known back then as rock, rock, rock, it evolved from rock, stone tablet, chisel to it's current design, and has captured billions of humans' imagination over the milleniums.
When I heard ESPN would air the 2007 U.S. Rock Paper Scissors Championships I knew I couldn't miss it. I sprinted to the TiVo box, rifled through Saturday's programming and found it. My hands shaking with wild anticipation and nerves for fear of taping a rerun of Blossom on the channel just above the "leader," I struggled to get the recording right, and was relieved when everything came out rock solid.
When I saw (OK watched) the Scrabble championships a while back on the same channel, I thought I'd seen it all. What would it air next, I thought? Monopoly? Operation? Candyland? Etch-and-Sketch timed drawings? There's no way it could top Scrabble, unless it was a pair of kangaroos playing Scrabble. That'd be worth watching. And some midgets, and you have TV gold. Watch out Lost, there's a new sheriff in town.
Then came the RPS championships, and that's when I learned Wife and I were watching history. According to announcer Trey Wingo.
"People here in Las Vegas, and on TV will witness not only Rock, Paper, Scissors history, but American history as well. Two hundred and ninety eight wrist wizards will fist their way toward $50,000."
I rewound the TV six times to make sure I heard that right.
"$50,000!" That's a five, and four zeroes. I could buy the entire Salma Hayek video collection and still have a few bucks left over "special" downloads that cost $somethin'.95.
Wife looked at me. I looked at Wife, and our brains synched with one thought. That money is ours!
I see where I went wrong now. When I was a wee pup with visions of being the next Steve Sax on the Dodgers I thought baseball was my game. Little did I know throwing all those rocks at my neighbor was a missed sign. My sport should have been RPS. Maybe it was the mental game within the game that scared me off, or the nerves of a final throw and not sure if paper or scissors was the way to go. Baseball just seemed like the easier game.
Then we watched these yea-hoos on ESPN, and Wife and I realized this was nothing more than an easy way to earn a year's pay and then some. One dude came in wearing oven mittens (a smart idea in my book. Pitchers protect their arms by icing them down afterwards; why not protect your money makers?) and a boxer's robe. Another would say words that began with R, P or S to subliminally urge his opponent to make that move. It worked about half the time - so really, it did nothing but make that dude appear as though he's a mouth-breathing ass scratcher.
And when we heard what the champion earns by "fisting, papering and slicing his way to the title," Wife and I rushed to the Web site to see where the next event in our glorious state (112 degrees at 3 p.m. is glorious, right?) We're in training now. One of us will scream "1, 2, 3 ... throw," then we'll meet each other in a room and see who won. It's a taxing sports, we're not fooling ourselves, but with the right training and some stamina that 50 grand is ours.
The first thing I'll do when I win the cash? Invest in a pair of oven mitts, adorned, of course with my custom-design logo: A monkey humping a football. These money makers have to remain pretty for my new career.
Sunday, July 08, 2007
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Whackin' it
What better way to celebrate our country's independence from those limey bastards some 231 years ago than at Home Depot.
That's where I found myself today. And too my surprise, I wasn't the only dude with a honey-do list. There were plenty of other schmucks with long faces pacing the orange shelves and lacquered concrete paths looking for everything from PVC, to new throne seats (toilet seats to those of you who don't see it as the best seat in the house), to redwood 2-by-4s for those backyard child cells that are popular among first-time parents (lucky for Wife and I, we have a tool shed in the back-40, so when the freeloader decides brussels sprouts in wet dog food tastes like the ass-end of a cat and chucks his/her food back at mommy/daddy we can lock the runt up with the harmful pesticides and the dogs' pooper scooper).
For me, the trek to the work store - that's what me and the ol' man call it because inevitably it leads us to folding our bodies into impossible positions as we grunt and curse and sweat over/under/around what we just bought at said store - led me to purchase my fourth - that's right 4, four, cuatro, quattro - weed whacker in five years. I talked with my hillbilly buddy from Montana who is a manager at a hardware supply store in Butte and he pointed me in the direction of an Echo. Like all salesman, Hillbilly directed me toward the wallet-buster model when I'd be happy with price-reduced model that would crumble in my arms after whacking through a half-dozen dandelions. But maybe that's why I've had four of these suckers already.
I've mentioned before that I have shitty luck with things involving gas, spark plugs and my back yard. And it's taken me a good four months to break down and replace my dead Ryobi whacker. Since I try not to enter the work store, and only do so under protest, I typically wait until the project list is longer than my pecker. So, with our screen door hanging on by a screw and a prayer, I finally sulked into the work store today and figured while there I may as well grab a new whacker that will bite the dust two days after the warranty expires, just like the other tools in my cursed shed. I mean, that little shed must be cursed if I'm going through weed whackers like a stripper goes through pink thongs.
So watch out ants, crickets, ferral cats, javelinas, coyotes, elephants and anything else living in the tangle of grass and weeds holing up next to my chimney and beneath our back windows. There's a new sheriff in town and I plan to weed whack your asses back into the stone age.
And as Thomas Jefferson said in his bitch-out blog post (the Declaration of Independence) to the those limey bastard in 1776: "We have the right to be free - Free of mangy grass, weed and varmints that may very well hinder our pursuit of life, liberty and happiness." That Tommy, he was one hell of a blogger.
Happy 4th, folks.
That's where I found myself today. And too my surprise, I wasn't the only dude with a honey-do list. There were plenty of other schmucks with long faces pacing the orange shelves and lacquered concrete paths looking for everything from PVC, to new throne seats (toilet seats to those of you who don't see it as the best seat in the house), to redwood 2-by-4s for those backyard child cells that are popular among first-time parents (lucky for Wife and I, we have a tool shed in the back-40, so when the freeloader decides brussels sprouts in wet dog food tastes like the ass-end of a cat and chucks his/her food back at mommy/daddy we can lock the runt up with the harmful pesticides and the dogs' pooper scooper).
For me, the trek to the work store - that's what me and the ol' man call it because inevitably it leads us to folding our bodies into impossible positions as we grunt and curse and sweat over/under/around what we just bought at said store - led me to purchase my fourth - that's right 4, four, cuatro, quattro - weed whacker in five years. I talked with my hillbilly buddy from Montana who is a manager at a hardware supply store in Butte and he pointed me in the direction of an Echo. Like all salesman, Hillbilly directed me toward the wallet-buster model when I'd be happy with price-reduced model that would crumble in my arms after whacking through a half-dozen dandelions. But maybe that's why I've had four of these suckers already.
I've mentioned before that I have shitty luck with things involving gas, spark plugs and my back yard. And it's taken me a good four months to break down and replace my dead Ryobi whacker. Since I try not to enter the work store, and only do so under protest, I typically wait until the project list is longer than my pecker. So, with our screen door hanging on by a screw and a prayer, I finally sulked into the work store today and figured while there I may as well grab a new whacker that will bite the dust two days after the warranty expires, just like the other tools in my cursed shed. I mean, that little shed must be cursed if I'm going through weed whackers like a stripper goes through pink thongs.
So watch out ants, crickets, ferral cats, javelinas, coyotes, elephants and anything else living in the tangle of grass and weeds holing up next to my chimney and beneath our back windows. There's a new sheriff in town and I plan to weed whack your asses back into the stone age.
And as Thomas Jefferson said in his bitch-out blog post (the Declaration of Independence) to the those limey bastard in 1776: "We have the right to be free - Free of mangy grass, weed and varmints that may very well hinder our pursuit of life, liberty and happiness." That Tommy, he was one hell of a blogger.
Happy 4th, folks.
Sunday, July 01, 2007
1-way ticket to paradise
Buying tickets to San Diego Charger games was as easy as buying dope from the stringy-haired 35-year-old who used to hang behind the math trailers at high school.
In 1998, 10 of us from the San Clemente prison work camp found we all belonged to the same masochistic cult - think Eyes Wide Shut without the leather, the crazy orgyistic sex, or Tom Cruise, and that was us. Because when you cheer for a team that went 4-12 the previous year and is expected to match that figure for the upcoming season, and you still WANT to buy tickets to watch these chumps, well, then masochism is your cup of tea. Back then, the San Diego Chargers and masochism went together like strawberries and whipped cream (or peanut butter and jelly if you're into that sort of thing). That didn't deter us inmates, though, from plopping down $50 - that's right FIFTY big ones - for field level seats at Qualcomm for a battle between the San Diego Chargers and the Kansas City Chefs.
Flash forward nine years. Those 10 founding members have been whittled down by half but we've filled their ranks with other Charger fans looking for a cult to join. That is not the only thing that has changed in nine years of attending the blue and golds, the price climbed $20, and that's for seats that come with tie-down straps because the jet stream blows through our section. In fact, with my Italian nose, if I happen to look up I'm liable to get the shnozz clipped by an outbound Southwest Airlines jet headed to Phoenix (at least I'll get a ride home). And ask the rest of the group, I have a hard enough time staying in my seat (I've been known to miss on wild high-5s that have sent me cascading down three rows).
That first year, we sat 10 rows off the field. Last season, we sat 10 rows off the stairwell on the fourth deck, and for the money we spent on those seats we could have bought a small island country and drank Red Stripes while singing "Don't Worry, Be Happy," dressed in nothing but grass skirts and palm fronds.
When we bought tickets in 1998 it was late August.
We began talking about tickets this season in early June. I bought the tickets last week.
Over the years we've moved the ticket-buying deadline up week by week. Late August, mid August, early August, late July ... well, hell, you get the idea. At this pace, in another 10 years we'll be scoping out game dates and seats before the Super Bowl and checking out Stubhub.com for hose primo seats that come with oxygen masks and ice boots because that's likely where our seats will be next.
And like I said, it used to be easy. I'd jump on the phone, ask the Charger floozy what she was wearing (sometimes I get those 1-800 numbers mixed up) and then tell her I needed "10 seats, field level." I'd hear keys tapping, and then she'd come back and say, "I got seats 149 seats available in field level section 33. Or, for $5 more I can get you on the field calling the defensive plays."
That worked for two years, but then the Chargers screwed us by going 8-8 in 1999. If they win, the bandwagon stops for every San Diegan and they all climb aboard for the nest season. But the organization answered our prayers the next season when the Chargers went 1-15. After that season, we could land seats on the 50-yard line and have our own personal bartender mixing drinks for the row.
The next two years we landed field level tickets again, after slumming in the plaza level. But that would be the last time. After that point something funny started happening in Mission Valley - the Chargers started winning, and again, every rock that hid a Charger fan was upturned and they all flooded the stadium for tickets. Wife and I began trekking down to San Diego for the day tickets went on sale and prayed we'd land a stretch for the cult.
Finally, we learned about technology (remember, I'm one of two people I know who sends smoke signals rather than use a cell phone) and found Web sites that sold tickets before they officially went on sale. Stubhub.com is currently my personal savior and I have an altar at home to prove it.
I laugh at the bandwagon fans, too. I was a Charger fan back when Dan Fouts was throwing passes to Charlie Joiner. I was eight-years old and idolized a fourth grader because I thought he was cool. And of course, is football team was the Chargers. When I finally saw the slick lightning bolt on blue helmets I knew I made the right decision. I just wish that punk fourth grader had warned me that it would be 12 years before I saw the Bolts in a Super Bowl, and that they would not have more than just four (4 - F-O-U-R) winning seasons between 1982 and 1994. I guess some things you just have to learn for yourself.
When we began contemplating a football game, complete with tailgating and some alcoholic beverage intake (but more about the tailgate experience in September when the game is coming), it took roughly a half minute for everyone to say yes. Hell, I'd debate longer over what kind of cheese to slap down on a grilled-cheese sandwich. But these folks wanted to go. They wanted to see the Chargers kick ass and take names. They wanted to see them cook the Chefs like they were a Sunday pot roast. And all the while I sat back knowing the chances of the Bolts pulling out a W in the house of pain - their own home - was about as good as me slapping thighs with Salma Hayek. But I didn't want to ruin their childlike innocence.
This year, I share the rest of the cult's innocence. The Bolts are coming off a 14-2 season, and if they fail to go 11-5 this year you'll find me dangling like a caught tuna from the only shower rod in the house that can hold my beer-sogged ass.
But all is well right now because myself and 9 of my closest Charger friends have tickets. And it just so happens that the game we chose this year just happens to fall on the biggest day of the year: Sept. 30. And it's against the same foes we watched in during our cherry-popping season - the K.C. Chefs.
The Charger organization is run by some splendid folks. They also set up a game just for me on my birthday. How 'bout that?
Go Bolts!
(How was that Lil' Lisa? Not one mention of the Dodgers. They just won 8-1 in case you were wondering.)
In 1998, 10 of us from the San Clemente prison work camp found we all belonged to the same masochistic cult - think Eyes Wide Shut without the leather, the crazy orgyistic sex, or Tom Cruise, and that was us. Because when you cheer for a team that went 4-12 the previous year and is expected to match that figure for the upcoming season, and you still WANT to buy tickets to watch these chumps, well, then masochism is your cup of tea. Back then, the San Diego Chargers and masochism went together like strawberries and whipped cream (or peanut butter and jelly if you're into that sort of thing). That didn't deter us inmates, though, from plopping down $50 - that's right FIFTY big ones - for field level seats at Qualcomm for a battle between the San Diego Chargers and the Kansas City Chefs.
Flash forward nine years. Those 10 founding members have been whittled down by half but we've filled their ranks with other Charger fans looking for a cult to join. That is not the only thing that has changed in nine years of attending the blue and golds, the price climbed $20, and that's for seats that come with tie-down straps because the jet stream blows through our section. In fact, with my Italian nose, if I happen to look up I'm liable to get the shnozz clipped by an outbound Southwest Airlines jet headed to Phoenix (at least I'll get a ride home). And ask the rest of the group, I have a hard enough time staying in my seat (I've been known to miss on wild high-5s that have sent me cascading down three rows).
That first year, we sat 10 rows off the field. Last season, we sat 10 rows off the stairwell on the fourth deck, and for the money we spent on those seats we could have bought a small island country and drank Red Stripes while singing "Don't Worry, Be Happy," dressed in nothing but grass skirts and palm fronds.
When we bought tickets in 1998 it was late August.
We began talking about tickets this season in early June. I bought the tickets last week.
Over the years we've moved the ticket-buying deadline up week by week. Late August, mid August, early August, late July ... well, hell, you get the idea. At this pace, in another 10 years we'll be scoping out game dates and seats before the Super Bowl and checking out Stubhub.com for hose primo seats that come with oxygen masks and ice boots because that's likely where our seats will be next.
And like I said, it used to be easy. I'd jump on the phone, ask the Charger floozy what she was wearing (sometimes I get those 1-800 numbers mixed up) and then tell her I needed "10 seats, field level." I'd hear keys tapping, and then she'd come back and say, "I got seats 149 seats available in field level section 33. Or, for $5 more I can get you on the field calling the defensive plays."
That worked for two years, but then the Chargers screwed us by going 8-8 in 1999. If they win, the bandwagon stops for every San Diegan and they all climb aboard for the nest season. But the organization answered our prayers the next season when the Chargers went 1-15. After that season, we could land seats on the 50-yard line and have our own personal bartender mixing drinks for the row.
The next two years we landed field level tickets again, after slumming in the plaza level. But that would be the last time. After that point something funny started happening in Mission Valley - the Chargers started winning, and again, every rock that hid a Charger fan was upturned and they all flooded the stadium for tickets. Wife and I began trekking down to San Diego for the day tickets went on sale and prayed we'd land a stretch for the cult.
Finally, we learned about technology (remember, I'm one of two people I know who sends smoke signals rather than use a cell phone) and found Web sites that sold tickets before they officially went on sale. Stubhub.com is currently my personal savior and I have an altar at home to prove it.
I laugh at the bandwagon fans, too. I was a Charger fan back when Dan Fouts was throwing passes to Charlie Joiner. I was eight-years old and idolized a fourth grader because I thought he was cool. And of course, is football team was the Chargers. When I finally saw the slick lightning bolt on blue helmets I knew I made the right decision. I just wish that punk fourth grader had warned me that it would be 12 years before I saw the Bolts in a Super Bowl, and that they would not have more than just four (4 - F-O-U-R) winning seasons between 1982 and 1994. I guess some things you just have to learn for yourself.
When we began contemplating a football game, complete with tailgating and some alcoholic beverage intake (but more about the tailgate experience in September when the game is coming), it took roughly a half minute for everyone to say yes. Hell, I'd debate longer over what kind of cheese to slap down on a grilled-cheese sandwich. But these folks wanted to go. They wanted to see the Chargers kick ass and take names. They wanted to see them cook the Chefs like they were a Sunday pot roast. And all the while I sat back knowing the chances of the Bolts pulling out a W in the house of pain - their own home - was about as good as me slapping thighs with Salma Hayek. But I didn't want to ruin their childlike innocence.
This year, I share the rest of the cult's innocence. The Bolts are coming off a 14-2 season, and if they fail to go 11-5 this year you'll find me dangling like a caught tuna from the only shower rod in the house that can hold my beer-sogged ass.
But all is well right now because myself and 9 of my closest Charger friends have tickets. And it just so happens that the game we chose this year just happens to fall on the biggest day of the year: Sept. 30. And it's against the same foes we watched in during our cherry-popping season - the K.C. Chefs.
The Charger organization is run by some splendid folks. They also set up a game just for me on my birthday. How 'bout that?
Go Bolts!
(How was that Lil' Lisa? Not one mention of the Dodgers. They just won 8-1 in case you were wondering.)
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