I’ll get it out of the way right now – we watched “My Dad is Better than Your Dad” last night.
I feel dirty admitting to the lack of television viewing judgment. I’d be better off admitting I watch midget ménage a trois on hotshortysex.com. Worse yet, I kind of enjoyed the show. In fact, I thought it was entertaining, and I’d watch again. Of course, I watch NASCAR not for the wrecks and TiVo “Dirty Jobs” to watch a dude root around in pig shit and bat vomit (folks I’m a UNLV grad, I can’t make that stuff up – seriously bat vomit! And I complain about letters discussing dog poo at the prison work camp). So, I may not be the best barometer for what makes good TV.
First off, Dan Cortese hosts the show. The last time I saw this dude he was Elaine Benes’ mimbo and was falling off a rock because George Costanza forgot to secure his rope (to George’s defense, he was fishing through his pack for the tuna sandwiches he promised – hunger over safety has always been my motto, too). He’s hyper, he’s annoying, he’s a little Jeff Probstish, and I think I’d rather shove golf tees into my ears than listen to him ask eight year olds how they feel after blowing their family’s chance at $50 Gs. I was waiting for the little girl, eyes welling with floppy tears, to tell Cortese to shove that microphone up his ass sideways and twist, but she took the safe way and said “I’m just glad I can do this with my daddy.”
Puke.
If my kid said that on the show, I’d disown Freeloader on the spot. When the munchkin is old enough to speak, I’ll sit the little bugger down to review our post game interview answers in case such an instance arises, like us being on an idiotic game show.
Cortese: “How do you feel Freeloader?”
Freeloader: “Well, Dan, it sucks donkey balls. What else can I say? It makes me want to crap my pants.”
Cortese: “Dad?”
Me: “Don’t look at me, Dan. He gets that competitive edge from his mother. If you don't watch out, (he/she) will take that mic, fart on it, and then shove it in your mouth.”
Did you watch “Double Dare” as a kid (or as an adult for my older reader(s))? That’s this show in a nutsack, without the green goop. The first event had the pops swinging sledgehammers on particleboard desks. The dads had to smash the desks, collect the bits and deposit it all in a clear tank. The team with the most weight in their tank wins. Never mind that the dads were all Mike Brady clones (well, except for the fact that they all appeared straight, evidence being that their wives were in the crowd) who didn’t know a sledge hammer from a drummel, they swung the hammers like they were John Henry.
Second up, and my favorite, was human dartboard. The gist was to hurl your kid at a dartboard painted on a Velcro wall while the kid tried to stick an arrow within a point circle. Nothing says fatherly love like sailing your spawn as if he/she was a 40-pound paper airplane. But all the kids wore smiles as wide as the Grand Canyon, so they must have been having fun. It prompted me to do the same in the nursery, and once Freeloader gets a few months old, we’ll practice on being accomplished human darts. Tiger Woods started golfing at 2, my kids will learn to stick to walls in half that time.
With the field whittled down to two teams, the final event is a mix of speed, agility and dexterity. The two dads competing were 0-for-3 on that mixture. The object was to fire tightly rolled newspapers at the opponent who was tasked with guarding three windows sectioned off into scoring squares. The opponent is armed with a tennis racket, a frying pan and looks like a SWAT team barfed its entire body armor cache onto the hapless dad. We have paper delivery people in Arizona, but never have I felt the need to grab a pan and a racket to protect the Compound. If we were under attack by a pissed off paperboy, I can guarantee you Mr. Louisville Slugger would be in my hand, not Mr. Faberware. That might just be me, though.
In the end, the dad had to answer questions about their son or daughter. The dunce up there last night missed two despite his little whelp standing across from him, able to give eye signals as the old man talked out his reasoning for his guess (why must they waste time talking through the question? What happened to the day when if you said anything other than the answer Alex Trabek would jab you in the eye with the clicker?).
But watching the show got me to thinking about our soon-to-be new arrival. Is this how kids act on the school yard? Do they taunt each other by comparing what their dads can do? If that’s the case, I best start kicking ass at something.
I think guzzling a six-pack of Natural Light in less than two minutes could earn the Freeloader some street cred at Montissori School.
“Who cares if your dad will pilot a rocket ship to Mars … my dad can drink him under the table and then will barf in his shoes.”
Yeah, I can see the kid propping his dad for that ability.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Birth plan
I took a peak at the Dodgers’ opening month for their 2008 World Title season.
And then I had a discussion with the uterus-stationed Freeloader, because the two of us had to hammer out some arrival details.
This is how my luck would run. You see, the Dodgers open the season at home against San Francisco March 31 on ESPN. That same day I fully expect the munchkin to be knock-knock-knocking at mommy’s door. So, there I’ll be, in the birthing room with Wife screaming at me and me screaming at Torre to yank Scott Proctor because the ass schmuck just walked the bases loaded. The game will be tied in the ninth inning, and that’s when the baby catcher (aka the Doc) will come in, shut off the TV as Russell Martin steps to the plate in the bottom of the ninth and announce it was time to drag this kid out of the oven.
So, I wanted to make sure the kid and I had an agreement.
Me: “Now, you know the Dodgers open on March 31 at home against the Gnats (that’s Dodger fan shorthand for the San Francisco Giants).”
Wife: “It’s listening. The kid just rolled toward your voice.”
Me: “Well, March 31 is out for undocking from the mother ship.”
Wife: “It’s kicking at the door.”
I’d explain what door that is, but after the videos I watched in our first birthing class Saturday I don’t think reader(s) need the visuals. Just picture the blast doors from Star Wars and you’ll have a damn good idea.
Me: “Now, the Dodgers’ first off day is April 3, a Thursday. That would be a fine day to come out. The next series kicks off their first road trip of the season, starting in San Diego. Not a bad start to your Dodger Fan Career.”
Wife: “Nothing on that one.”
Me: “OK, well you can’t come out on April 7. The Dodgers are coming to Arizona – yeah, that’s where you live, too – for the Diamondbacks’ season home opener and Mommy really wants to see the Big Blue Wrecking Crew live. Plus, I promised her an aisle seat field level. Now, you don’t want to disappoint Mommy, do you? She’ll get all weepy and cry and probably pollute your milk supply by drinking a shot of jager and chasing it with a gallon of irrigation. She’s vindictive that way. Believe you me.
Wife (glaring for some unknown reason – must be the “pregnancy thing”): “Yeah, you just gave it the hiccups.”
Me: “After that three game series – that’s just a bad time to come all around as mommy wants catch all three games live – they are off April 10. I think that’s really your best day to arrive, kid. This way we can open then next home stand watching the Dodgers play the Padres. The benefit is that you can hear Vin Scully call a game. It really is something magical when you hear him call the action. Your mind is a sponge at your age, so you’ll learn bucket fulls earlier than your old man did.”
Wife: “It just punched to the right.”
Me: “Get the freeloader to use its left hand more. We need that lefty pitcher, so it can care for us in our diaper-wearing years. OK, pal, if those days don’t work the next week is really wide open. The best day is April 17, which is another off day. However, if you want to check out from Hotel Uterus before that day, it’s cool, they’re just playing Pittsburgh.”
So, for those of you thinking about joining the baby pool (or considering a second pick - it's just another $2, folks) – at http://www.wheredidweparkthecamel.com/ - that’s a little inside information to help you out.
And then I had a discussion with the uterus-stationed Freeloader, because the two of us had to hammer out some arrival details.
This is how my luck would run. You see, the Dodgers open the season at home against San Francisco March 31 on ESPN. That same day I fully expect the munchkin to be knock-knock-knocking at mommy’s door. So, there I’ll be, in the birthing room with Wife screaming at me and me screaming at Torre to yank Scott Proctor because the ass schmuck just walked the bases loaded. The game will be tied in the ninth inning, and that’s when the baby catcher (aka the Doc) will come in, shut off the TV as Russell Martin steps to the plate in the bottom of the ninth and announce it was time to drag this kid out of the oven.
So, I wanted to make sure the kid and I had an agreement.
Me: “Now, you know the Dodgers open on March 31 at home against the Gnats (that’s Dodger fan shorthand for the San Francisco Giants).”
Wife: “It’s listening. The kid just rolled toward your voice.”
Me: “Well, March 31 is out for undocking from the mother ship.”
Wife: “It’s kicking at the door.”
I’d explain what door that is, but after the videos I watched in our first birthing class Saturday I don’t think reader(s) need the visuals. Just picture the blast doors from Star Wars and you’ll have a damn good idea.
Me: “Now, the Dodgers’ first off day is April 3, a Thursday. That would be a fine day to come out. The next series kicks off their first road trip of the season, starting in San Diego. Not a bad start to your Dodger Fan Career.”
Wife: “Nothing on that one.”
Me: “OK, well you can’t come out on April 7. The Dodgers are coming to Arizona – yeah, that’s where you live, too – for the Diamondbacks’ season home opener and Mommy really wants to see the Big Blue Wrecking Crew live. Plus, I promised her an aisle seat field level. Now, you don’t want to disappoint Mommy, do you? She’ll get all weepy and cry and probably pollute your milk supply by drinking a shot of jager and chasing it with a gallon of irrigation. She’s vindictive that way. Believe you me.
Wife (glaring for some unknown reason – must be the “pregnancy thing”): “Yeah, you just gave it the hiccups.”
Me: “After that three game series – that’s just a bad time to come all around as mommy wants catch all three games live – they are off April 10. I think that’s really your best day to arrive, kid. This way we can open then next home stand watching the Dodgers play the Padres. The benefit is that you can hear Vin Scully call a game. It really is something magical when you hear him call the action. Your mind is a sponge at your age, so you’ll learn bucket fulls earlier than your old man did.”
Wife: “It just punched to the right.”
Me: “Get the freeloader to use its left hand more. We need that lefty pitcher, so it can care for us in our diaper-wearing years. OK, pal, if those days don’t work the next week is really wide open. The best day is April 17, which is another off day. However, if you want to check out from Hotel Uterus before that day, it’s cool, they’re just playing Pittsburgh.”
So, for those of you thinking about joining the baby pool (or considering a second pick - it's just another $2, folks) – at http://www.wheredidweparkthecamel.com/ - that’s a little inside information to help you out.
Friday, February 08, 2008
Do you want fries with your gun?
“Tombstone” is one of my favorite movies. I’m a sucker for westerns to begin with, and couple that with Kurt Russell’s overall coolness and you have fine cinema right there, my friends.
The quick and dirty synopsis of the flick is the Earps – that would be famed lawman Wyatt and his bros (along with their hoes) – move to Tombstone, Arizona, after fighting bad guys in black hats in Dodge City, Kansas. Within minutes of stepping off the coach in Tombstone, the Earps witness a shootout on main street.
Welcome to Arizona, Mr. and Mrs. Earp.
It’s no secret, the Grand Canyon state is one of those states that earned its wild west reputation. However, I thought that aura had long blown away with the wind like a tumbling tumbleweed. We’re in the 21st century for Gods sake, the cowboys and Indians of the 1880s are now home developers and casino moguls.
Then I read this story:
The quick and dirty synopsis of the flick is the Earps – that would be famed lawman Wyatt and his bros (along with their hoes) – move to Tombstone, Arizona, after fighting bad guys in black hats in Dodge City, Kansas. Within minutes of stepping off the coach in Tombstone, the Earps witness a shootout on main street.
Welcome to Arizona, Mr. and Mrs. Earp.
It’s no secret, the Grand Canyon state is one of those states that earned its wild west reputation. However, I thought that aura had long blown away with the wind like a tumbling tumbleweed. We’re in the 21st century for Gods sake, the cowboys and Indians of the 1880s are now home developers and casino moguls.
Then I read this story:
PHOENIX — With the state's restaurants no longer opposed, a Senate panel agreed Wednesday to let Arizonans carry their pistols into places where they eat lunch, even if liquor is sold there.
The 4-2 vote by the Senate Committee on Commerce and Economic Development came after the bill was written so weapons would be allowed only in restaurants where the owner or manager first posts a sign specifically permitting patrons to be armed.
Also, the scope of the allowable weapons was narrowed to sidearms, eliminating the possibility that diners could bring in their rifles and shotguns.
No word on where Arizonans can hitch their horses. I guess the legislature didn’t get that far.
So, let me get this straight, in the near future I can pack heat when ordering a chimichanga at Macayo’s? This has bad news written all over it, folks.
Diner to waitress, “Excuse me, we’ve been waiting for our meal for 20 minutes.”
Waitress: “Well, sir, we’re extremely busy tonight. But I’ll personally check with the cook and let you know how much longer.”
Diner: “No need, ma’am, I’ll just mosey on back and put a cap in your cook’s ass with my handy-dandy glock. That’ll speed him up.”
The best part of this bill is that Arizona’s lawmakers – my lawmakers – eliminated the opportunity for patrons to bring in shotguns and rifles, which means they initially included that nugget in the bill. Can you imagine sitting down with the family for a nice Italian dinner Olive Garden, meanwhile the couple next to you has a pair of sawed-off double barrel shotguns sitting on and empty seat – within arms reach, of course.
Seriously, they had to discuss whether to include shotguns and rifles in this bill? You ask me whether Joe Schmoe Arizonan should be toting a bazooka inside a favorite eatery and there's no discussion. What kind of trouble are you expecting that you need a deer rifle strapped to your back while choosing between a scoop cookie dough and mint chocolate chip ice cream at Baskin-Robbins?
But I guess you never know what’s about to go down while you lapping a bowl of Pasta Fagioli, your personal arsenal must be near your person. Woe to the person who backs into you on those Olive Garden rolling chairs. If it’s me, I’ll go John McClain on their ass and unload both barrels.
And after the smoke settles and I clean the linguini and clam sauce off Wife’s shirt, I’ll tell the hapless wild west victim: “Welcome to Arizona, pardner.”
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Snotty attitude
My nose is a giant snot bubble.
My throat feels like I’ve swallowed 40-grit sandpaper.
My joints are creaking and my head is awash in mucoussy fuzziness.
I’m sick, and no amount of Kleenex (Ultra Soft because Wife care’s about my delicate sniffer) will soak up the liquefied boogers leaking from my schnoz. Believe me, I’m trying to evacuate the backup with blows that would shatter windows but all I get is a meager trace and the sensation of more junk filling in the empty sinus cavities.
I hate colds. Give me a good case of the flu that keeps me in bed, sweating and shivering while nausea racks my insides. I’ll take that over the need to blow my nose every two minutes.
It was 50 degrees Sunday morning, but that didn’t stop me or a few others from hitting the field for a little pre-Super Bowl football. My uniform, however, wasn’t conducive to the Green Bay-like conditions in the Valley of the “Sun.” When Wife asked me to throw on pants, I shrugged her off with my handy refrain, “Woman, I’ll work myself up into a froth in no time. Shorts will be fine.”
I’ve used that answer before – re: hiking in Flagstaff – with similar results: a head full of snot that hangs around for a week.
At least she’s not the type of spouse to say, “I told you so.”
In fact, she likes to remind me of that attribute, “Aren’t you glad I’m not the kind of wife to say ‘I told you so?’”
“Yes dear,” is all I can say. Being run down from the cold coupled with her pregnancy, I’m not on my game enough to argue. So, I slink back to the sick wing of the Compound, where Wife stores me and my gaggle of germs.
It wouldn’t be so bad down there either if Wife didn’t cellophane the door to keep the snot cells from mutating and parading down the hall to “her” bedroom.
I have feeling she’ll come home today and ask, “Come to the car dear, I have a present for you,” and there will be my new home – a plastic bubble with two holes at the bottom for my legs.
That would be a gift of love.
My throat feels like I’ve swallowed 40-grit sandpaper.
My joints are creaking and my head is awash in mucoussy fuzziness.
I’m sick, and no amount of Kleenex (Ultra Soft because Wife care’s about my delicate sniffer) will soak up the liquefied boogers leaking from my schnoz. Believe me, I’m trying to evacuate the backup with blows that would shatter windows but all I get is a meager trace and the sensation of more junk filling in the empty sinus cavities.
I hate colds. Give me a good case of the flu that keeps me in bed, sweating and shivering while nausea racks my insides. I’ll take that over the need to blow my nose every two minutes.
It was 50 degrees Sunday morning, but that didn’t stop me or a few others from hitting the field for a little pre-Super Bowl football. My uniform, however, wasn’t conducive to the Green Bay-like conditions in the Valley of the “Sun.” When Wife asked me to throw on pants, I shrugged her off with my handy refrain, “Woman, I’ll work myself up into a froth in no time. Shorts will be fine.”
I’ve used that answer before – re: hiking in Flagstaff – with similar results: a head full of snot that hangs around for a week.
At least she’s not the type of spouse to say, “I told you so.”
In fact, she likes to remind me of that attribute, “Aren’t you glad I’m not the kind of wife to say ‘I told you so?’”
“Yes dear,” is all I can say. Being run down from the cold coupled with her pregnancy, I’m not on my game enough to argue. So, I slink back to the sick wing of the Compound, where Wife stores me and my gaggle of germs.
It wouldn’t be so bad down there either if Wife didn’t cellophane the door to keep the snot cells from mutating and parading down the hall to “her” bedroom.
I have feeling she’ll come home today and ask, “Come to the car dear, I have a present for you,” and there will be my new home – a plastic bubble with two holes at the bottom for my legs.
That would be a gift of love.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Motivation my ass
These thoughts come to me every few months, notably when the Prison Work Camp shits on my last nerve, and I realize there’s more to life than working for the man to pay the man.
I head into the thinking room (stall No. 1 in the Prison Work Camp crapper) and ponder life. I’m sure Nietchze did his best thinking in the can as well.
And on those days when I realize I am meant for bigger and better things than reading the editorial ramblings of dementia-eroded seniors, I screw up the shreds of motivation within my five-foot-five frame and tell myself I have to get working.
But telling and doing are two different things.
I can talk to myself until I’m blue in the balls, but until my ass hits the office chair and I click off the newest midget porn video writing only gets done in theory. Professors and teachers said we had to work to get results. That’s for humps, I told myself. And then I’d find myself punching keys at 3 a.m. the night before deadline, hoping to pass off a half-ass clean copy and pray for a B.
From grade school to this very day I could find a distraction. My head would say write, my ass, however, would say one more cartoon, one more inning, one more comic book, one more game of Strato-matic, one more chapter of this fantasy novel, one more video game, one more Web site, one more online image of a chick blowing a … you get the idea. I’m sure you get the idea, as I’ve only blogged twice over the past two weeks. Hell, I'm most motivated to clean when I know there's writing to be done.
So here I am, today, realizing that with a Freeloader less than 3 months away my goal of being a published author still remains out of reach. At this point, that goal might as well be out of reach like being an all-star second baseman for the Los Angeles Dodgers.
Don’t get me wrong, I know this sounds like I’m a depressed schmuck looking for a) sympathy; b) pity; c) affirmation that it’s OK not write everyday; d) all of the above; but let me assure you I couldn’t be more satisfied with life. I married my best friend who supports me even when I fart on her in bed (on accident – mind you) and turn our groove den (the bedroom) into an olfactory jihad thanks to that third chili dog she warned me against. And we’re bringing a future Dodger/Charger fan into the world, to boot. How can I be disappointed with life?
No, my lack of motivation has nothing to do with depression. It’s about time and not wanting to waste it. We are raised to strive for our dreams, to work for them. But those butt heads who told us that forgot to mention how much hard work really is involved. Oh, they allude to it, but they don’t convince us. They didn’t convince me, until now.
So here’s my promise to myself, and the four or five readers who check out this site, I’m going to write more – try every day in some capacity, Captain Slacker – even if the words rival nothing more than a four-year-olds letter to Santa Claus. That’s an attainable goal, isn’t it?
Whew! Now I’m bushed. It’s time to waste some time.
I head into the thinking room (stall No. 1 in the Prison Work Camp crapper) and ponder life. I’m sure Nietchze did his best thinking in the can as well.
And on those days when I realize I am meant for bigger and better things than reading the editorial ramblings of dementia-eroded seniors, I screw up the shreds of motivation within my five-foot-five frame and tell myself I have to get working.
But telling and doing are two different things.
I can talk to myself until I’m blue in the balls, but until my ass hits the office chair and I click off the newest midget porn video writing only gets done in theory. Professors and teachers said we had to work to get results. That’s for humps, I told myself. And then I’d find myself punching keys at 3 a.m. the night before deadline, hoping to pass off a half-ass clean copy and pray for a B.
From grade school to this very day I could find a distraction. My head would say write, my ass, however, would say one more cartoon, one more inning, one more comic book, one more game of Strato-matic, one more chapter of this fantasy novel, one more video game, one more Web site, one more online image of a chick blowing a … you get the idea. I’m sure you get the idea, as I’ve only blogged twice over the past two weeks. Hell, I'm most motivated to clean when I know there's writing to be done.
So here I am, today, realizing that with a Freeloader less than 3 months away my goal of being a published author still remains out of reach. At this point, that goal might as well be out of reach like being an all-star second baseman for the Los Angeles Dodgers.
Don’t get me wrong, I know this sounds like I’m a depressed schmuck looking for a) sympathy; b) pity; c) affirmation that it’s OK not write everyday; d) all of the above; but let me assure you I couldn’t be more satisfied with life. I married my best friend who supports me even when I fart on her in bed (on accident – mind you) and turn our groove den (the bedroom) into an olfactory jihad thanks to that third chili dog she warned me against. And we’re bringing a future Dodger/Charger fan into the world, to boot. How can I be disappointed with life?
No, my lack of motivation has nothing to do with depression. It’s about time and not wanting to waste it. We are raised to strive for our dreams, to work for them. But those butt heads who told us that forgot to mention how much hard work really is involved. Oh, they allude to it, but they don’t convince us. They didn’t convince me, until now.
So here’s my promise to myself, and the four or five readers who check out this site, I’m going to write more – try every day in some capacity, Captain Slacker – even if the words rival nothing more than a four-year-olds letter to Santa Claus. That’s an attainable goal, isn’t it?
Whew! Now I’m bushed. It’s time to waste some time.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Easy rider
Some dude named Fred is driving my truck right now.
Somewhere, in the Valley of the Sun, Fred is bumping around in the Mean Green Machine, probably selling crank to the homeless at downtown parks or cramming a couple dozen illegals from Juarez into the cab, throwing a blanket over them and ferrying the bunch over the border.
He’s probably filling it with cheap gas from a Circle K or – gasp! – a 7-Eleven and not a Diamond Shamrock or Union 76 station, which the Mean Green Machine slurps up like a cherryade slushy from Sonic.
I knew this day would come after Wife broached the subject of selling the Mean Green Machine a few months back, far from earshot of truck (or is it intake manifold-shot?). There were tears, a tantrum and threats of driving the truck off a cliff before seeing some pear-shaped lump haul it off the compound, his stubby arms reaching out and molesting the steering wheel as I launched a series of sobs that could be heard in Apache Junction.
And it seems the Mean Green Machine had the same feelings.
We put my four-wheeled pal on trucktrader.com and I designed a for sale sign that same evening, which read: “For sale” (it very clear 2.5-point wingding font) “Green truck with a hundred gazillion miles on it, turns fuel into wildlife-killing sludge and a suspension that was a left over from the Fred Flintstone days. Price – if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.”
Wouldn’t you know it, Fred (no relation to Flintstone) called the next morning.
That meant my afternoon would be chewed up with cleaning the Mean Green Machine, to make it presentable to prospective buyers. So I sprayed dog shit-smelling Lysol (available at your local grocer) in the cab and layered the windows with pigeon cum to make it more attractive.
While starting up my ol’ pal, however, I noticed the service engine light come on. That will not help it sell, I said. Little did I know it was the truck’s way of telling me it wasn’t ready to go. Then, to drive its wishes homes, as I scrubbed the inside windows, I spritzed some Windex on the rear view mirror and it came a-tumbling down.
“I know, sweetie,” I told the Mean Green Machine, “I don’t want you to go either.”
I pet the gray dash to ease her quivering fuel injectors. She calmed some.
“But we’ll find you a good home. Someplace where they’ll take care of you and let you flex your muscles on the open road from time to time.”
The ol’ gal settled a bit more.
“When the freeloader comes,” I said between sorrowful sniffs, “I’ll be sure to tell it of your supreme sacrifice. I’ll tell our munchkin how you gave up your spot on the right side of the garage to a sporty little Honda with baby-seat capabilities. And you know what the freeloader will say? ‘Daddy, I hope I meet the Mean Green Machine one day to say thank you.”
And as Fred drove off with my ol’ pal – the same friend who took me to Rosarita Beach, Lake Tahoe, Butte Montana and all stops in between swiftly and safely – a small puff of black smoke escaped the exhaust pipe that wafted through the air and formed the words: “Fly low and avoid the radar, friend.”
“You do the same, Mean Green. You do the same.”
Somewhere, in the Valley of the Sun, Fred is bumping around in the Mean Green Machine, probably selling crank to the homeless at downtown parks or cramming a couple dozen illegals from Juarez into the cab, throwing a blanket over them and ferrying the bunch over the border.
He’s probably filling it with cheap gas from a Circle K or – gasp! – a 7-Eleven and not a Diamond Shamrock or Union 76 station, which the Mean Green Machine slurps up like a cherryade slushy from Sonic.
I knew this day would come after Wife broached the subject of selling the Mean Green Machine a few months back, far from earshot of truck (or is it intake manifold-shot?). There were tears, a tantrum and threats of driving the truck off a cliff before seeing some pear-shaped lump haul it off the compound, his stubby arms reaching out and molesting the steering wheel as I launched a series of sobs that could be heard in Apache Junction.
And it seems the Mean Green Machine had the same feelings.
We put my four-wheeled pal on trucktrader.com and I designed a for sale sign that same evening, which read: “For sale” (it very clear 2.5-point wingding font) “Green truck with a hundred gazillion miles on it, turns fuel into wildlife-killing sludge and a suspension that was a left over from the Fred Flintstone days. Price – if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.”
Wouldn’t you know it, Fred (no relation to Flintstone) called the next morning.
That meant my afternoon would be chewed up with cleaning the Mean Green Machine, to make it presentable to prospective buyers. So I sprayed dog shit-smelling Lysol (available at your local grocer) in the cab and layered the windows with pigeon cum to make it more attractive.
While starting up my ol’ pal, however, I noticed the service engine light come on. That will not help it sell, I said. Little did I know it was the truck’s way of telling me it wasn’t ready to go. Then, to drive its wishes homes, as I scrubbed the inside windows, I spritzed some Windex on the rear view mirror and it came a-tumbling down.
“I know, sweetie,” I told the Mean Green Machine, “I don’t want you to go either.”
I pet the gray dash to ease her quivering fuel injectors. She calmed some.
“But we’ll find you a good home. Someplace where they’ll take care of you and let you flex your muscles on the open road from time to time.”
The ol’ gal settled a bit more.
“When the freeloader comes,” I said between sorrowful sniffs, “I’ll be sure to tell it of your supreme sacrifice. I’ll tell our munchkin how you gave up your spot on the right side of the garage to a sporty little Honda with baby-seat capabilities. And you know what the freeloader will say? ‘Daddy, I hope I meet the Mean Green Machine one day to say thank you.”
And as Fred drove off with my ol’ pal – the same friend who took me to Rosarita Beach, Lake Tahoe, Butte Montana and all stops in between swiftly and safely – a small puff of black smoke escaped the exhaust pipe that wafted through the air and formed the words: “Fly low and avoid the radar, friend.”
“You do the same, Mean Green. You do the same.”
Monday, January 14, 2008
No room on the bulletin board? Rent a billboard for this one
Rummaging around the Internet to see what is being said after the Chargers shocker yesterday, and here are some interesting tidbits…
From the Boston Globe blogger
He talks about the trash talking Chargers by trash talking the Chargers. Do these keyboard molesters think before they write? (I know, I know, pot calling kettle black). The nice touch here, twisting Igor’s words so it works in his piece. No wonder real blogging journalists have such a hard time earning respect from all media outlets.
From Boston Herald reporter Tom Massarotti
From Boston Herald reporter Michael Fegler
From the Boston Globe blogger
Despite the nationwide cry over the Colts losing, closer-to-home folks couldn’t be more pleased. A Boston.com survey shows that more than 70 percent of fans are happier to be playing the Chargers in lieu of the Colts in the AFC title game. The Colts, of course, presented the biggest challenge of the season. The Chargers present a plowed freeway to Arizona.
http://www.boston.com/sports/nesn/wilbur/sports_blog/blog/2008/01/14/taking_in_the_trash/
He talks about the trash talking Chargers by trash talking the Chargers. Do these keyboard molesters think before they write? (I know, I know, pot calling kettle black). The nice touch here, twisting Igor’s words so it works in his piece. No wonder real blogging journalists have such a hard time earning respect from all media outlets.
From Boston Herald reporter Tom Massarotti
The Patriots are better off, presumably, having to play the San Diego Chargers on Sunday in the AFC Championship Game. They played them on Sept. 16 in the immediate aftermath of Camera-gate, and the Pats turned San Diego into tofu, 38-14. What we saw was a complete mismatch, two teams that did not belong on the same field, even if it was a long, long time ago.This chump, who works for the ugly stepsister newspaper in Boston, whines that everyone in America wanted a Patriot-Colt match up and the Chargers F’d it all up for everyone. Like Bellichek with a Polaroid, the Bolts cheated the U.S. from the epic rematch of last year’s AFC Championship game. Why play the games if it’s preordained Tommy Boy? Nice touch - not once identifying how well the Bolts played, but instead bitching about the Patriots having to play this game.
http://www.bostonherald.com/sports/football/patriots/view.bg?articleid=1066380
From Boston Herald reporter Michael Fegler
So instead of an eagerly awaited Game of the Century against Peyton Manning and the Colts, we get Turner and, potentially, backup quarterback Billy Volek. Made your reservations to Phoenix yet?For a team that professes professionalism, the media wonks that surround it act like boorish Harvard drunks on a panty raid. Let’s hope the Bolts shit on their little tea party come Sunday.
http://www.bostonherald.com/sports/football/patriots/view.bg?articleid=1066400
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
I have a deal, get off my TV
What has happened to TV game shows?
The Price is Right, Press Your Luck, Concentration, Card Sharks, Tic Tac Dough; there was a time when contestants had to rub some brain cells to find a right answer and earn the cheap-ass stemware (the show’s talking head claims is crystal ... maybe someone named Crystal made it) that I'm sure cracks the minute you fill it with some vintage Boon’s Farm.
Monday night saw Wife and I pulling up a hunk of couch for an episode of Deal or No Deal, and I could feel my seven remaining brain cells actually gasp for some sort of intelligent stimulation. Our minds would have been better off watching two monkeys humping a football. At least chimps attempting sexual intercourse with an inflatable object involves some sort of strategy.
Deal or No Deal’s strategy is whether to choose case No. 13 or No. 69 after selecting No. 24.
If you haven’t watched this television brilliancy, here’s how the game works: Some schmuck (the contestant - but when your sole job is to choose numbers, are you really a contestant?) enters the stage, which looks like it was a rejected set piece of a star destroyer for Star Wars, and twists up their face into a giant "O" look and eye fucks the crowd. Then, the schmuck greets Howie Mandel and his egg-shaped dome; never has a host fit a show so concretely. Mandel’s act in the '80s involved him blowing up rubber surgical gloves and squeezing his egg-shaped melon into the glove, all in the name laughs (because nothing says funny like a dude wearing a surgical glove on his head – of course, if he mixed in jokes about poo and midget porn, well we all know that’s comic gold). Given the choice between the two, the game show or Howie's act, I’d slit my wrists and wish crows would eat my testicles. But that’s just me.
Back to the “game,” a gaggle of hookers - fresh from the pole at Cheetahs - come strutting onto a raised dais, each holding a silver case, the kind of case that reminds me of what Bond villains typically pack their doomsday instrument in, which would liven this show up. If there's a chance of death, I'm your target audience. Each case has a number and the schmuck chooses one, hoping that particular case will make his/her dream come true, or at the very least wipe away the mountain of debt he/she . Mandel then places the case on the table for all the world to see (or at least the half dozen loyal viewers in West Virginia). The case can contain a million bucks or a penny or somewhere in between, and since Howie is a butt munch of the royal supreme order, we have to wait before that amount is revealed. Oh boy, can you taste the tension?
With me so far? I know it’s a lot to swallow, but hang in there.
Once the “Who Wants to be a Millionaire” reject (picking numbers – like boogers - is so much easier than calling your friends to answer questions for you) chooses their case they must now select the numbered cases that the hookers are feeling up on stage. They choose five or six in the first round, whereupon the hooker performs a strip tease dance and reveals what amount the schmuck just pissed away. If it’s a chunk of change, the hooker cackles at the dumbshit’s misfortune for selecting the wrong number. Oh wait, that's me. She puts on a pouty face, the same face she probably uses when a John doesn't tip her a few extra bucks for the table dance, and says, sorry buckaroo you can kiss this $100,000 good bye.
After five or so cases a phone rings and Howie gets his panties in bunch. “It’s the banker,” he says, and I imagine Bill Gates in his lair that is decked out chrome and bean bags petting a hairless cat. The banker’s sole job is to mind fuck the schmuck selecting numbers. We don’t hear the banker’s voice, but I like to think he sounds like a cross between Mike Tyson and Carol Channing.
“He’ll give $3,000 and a BJ from every model for that case,” Mandel says, and now the schmuck must decide whether to take the offer or continue selecting numbers.
Understand? That’s the “game.” Selecting numbers. There are no questions to answers. No puzzles to solve. No whammies to avoid. Just pick a number, any number, and that’s it.
My handy-dandy dictionary defines “game” for me: “a competitive activity involving skill, chance, or endurance on the part of two or more persons who play according to a set of rules, usually for their own amusement or for that of spectators.”
Let’s see if Deal or No Deal matches this definition: competitive activity? One person picking numbers - unless the hookers hurled the metal cases at the contestant who must avoid the throws like he/she was a rubber ducky at a shooting gallery, there really is no competition here. Skill – if a gorilla can do the same thing as a human in a “game” then it’s no game in my book, and I saw Koko the Gorilla sign, "Get me some food, you ass clown," when she was alive. Chance – OK, you have me there, they are taking a chance at picking cases that don’t have a million bucks inside. Endurance – if you count having to endure an hour of Howie Mandel on TV, well then, sure, it’s a god damn game.
Summer vacation mornings were prime game show viewing time for Lil' Sis and I. Starting with Wheel of Fortune (young Vanna White gave me a chubby the size of a baby grand piano), then Sale of the Century before Press Your Luck came along, Price is Right (the grand poobah of game shows), Concentration and finally Card Sharks before Scrabble came along, and I would have won all of them if I could get on, and wasn't 9 years old. Damn those age restrictions.
Those were game shows, though. There were questions to answer, prices to guess, puzzles to solve.
The fact is we're not too far from putting a game show on the tube that involves one person playing solitaire. It's no monkeys humping a football, but as along as Howie ain't the host I'll probably tune in.
Sunday, January 06, 2008
In Humphries we trust
Part 5 of 5
Chargers – Super Bowl.
Three words that never went together before the 1994-95 season would finally roll off the tongue like Salma Hayek and whipped cream.
I was still naïve to believe the Chargers were good enough to make the Super Bowl back then (I’m a little more pessimistic these days) and folks scoffed when I said they’d beat the Pittsburgh Steelers to move on. They weren’t the only ones with little faith, oddsmakers pegged the Bolts as heavy ‘dogs going into the AFC Championship game in the Steel City.
I could see why. The Chargers needed some luck the week before in San Diego against Miami. In typical Charger fashion that season, the Bolts were down at halftime, 21-6. One thing Charger fans learned that year, though, was that you couldn’t count out Stan Humphries and his magical arm. Nor, could you deny the sense of luck, of fate if you will, surrounding this team. A lateral pass by Dan Marino was dropped by his receiver and quickly covered up by a Charger defender. The ruling on the field was a fumble, which was the wrong call, and the Chargers drove 40 yards to score, cutting the Fish lead to 21-15. They took the lead with 35 seconds remaining in the game on an 8-yard pass from Humphries to Mark Seay. And I couldn’t believe they were advancing after such an ugly game.
Allow me to take you back a few weeks before the playoffs. The Chargers squared off against the Raiders in L.A. As the dirty, rotten, pig-smelling, butt-licking Raiders are wont to do, they rolled up on Humphries’ knee and ankle early in the third quarter, sending the Charger QB to the bench and leaving us fans rooting for Gale Gilbert. But Humphries was a tough SOB, and he would return to the game two series later, to the shock of the talking heads on TV and myself. Dude limped to the huddle, and scrambled with a bad wheel behind him, but it still didn’t stop him from delivering a 2-point win over Oakland.
That was Stan Humphries.
He played hurt more than any QB I had seen until another Louisiana quarterback came along - Brett Favre. It got to the point where I thought his limp was his normal gait. He had an off-kilter, three-quarter deliver, and was short by quarterback standards (6’2). And, unlike Dan Fouts, his receivers were a collection of college also-rans who will never be mistaken for Chandler, Joiner and Winslow (or McCardell, Jackson and Gates). To this day, Charger fans wax poetically about Dan Fouts and his golden arm, but Humphries really should be included in the same paragraph of Charger QB lore. He was 3-3 in the playoffs, and rallied twice in the ’94 playoffs, leading the Chargers to their first (and to this day) and only Super Bowl appearance.
Humphries was a man. The man.
If that game gave shape to the legend of Humphries, the AFC Championship game in Pittsburgh launched the legend, and that’s why this is my No. 1 Charger memory…
Jan. 15, 1995: Chargers 17, Steelers 13
Here were the numbers after the game: Plays – Steelers 80, Chargers 47; Total yards – Steelers 415, Chargers 226; and Time of possession – Steelers 37:13, Chargers 22:47.
If I didn’t know the outcome, I would have bet a case of Newcastle that the Chargers lost by 20. They should have lost by 20. They should have lost by 30. But they won by four, and that’s all that mattered.
In fact, it was a wonder I woke up in time for this game. I was poor college student in Vegas at the time, and rather than shell out 25 bones that I really didn’t have for a bottle of Absolut, I decided to go cheap on the Vodka that Saturday night before the AFC Championship game, and bought the store-label vodka for four bucks. Here’s how the label read: “Lucky’s (the grocery store, not a state of mind) Vodka – charcoal filtered.” I’m pretty sure the words “charcoal filtered” should not be on any product label that you consume through your mouth. But that’s just me, I guess.
I’m the sort of guy who learns through experience, a trial-by-fire dude (oh, the Freeloader is in for some “fun” with me running shotgun in parenting). One thing that has stuck with me over the last 12 years is that four-dollar vodka should never be bought, under any circumstances. If you need a cheap drunk, buy a bottle of Nyquil. That’s a piece of advice from your Uncle Mikey, kids.
I was buying cheap vodka because a buddy and myself had the brilliant plan to drink cheap screwdrivers and play video games at the house.
It took all of 45 minutes to get us obliterated, making whatever driving game we were playing that much more interesting.
The game had a 10 a.m. start. During my college career, 10 a.m. was my 7 a.m. It was too early to see the sun. And it was too early to wake up with such a vicious hangover. Vodka and Mikey don’t mix.
Imagine being seasick and dizzy while having a railroad spike driven through your left temple until it peaked through your right temple. That’s what I felt as I stumbled down the stairs and turned on the tube. Those few step turned my stomach, but I willed myself to keep it in. I couldn’t show any weakness in the Chargers time of need. If Humphries could play with a strained knee and Junior Seau could play with a neck stinger that forced him to miss some games late in the year, well, dammit, I could cowboy up and keep the vodka hangover inside me.
Things looked bleak at halftime, with the Chargers down 13-3. The announcers vommitted words like overmatched and lucky to describe the Chargers, and I wanted to fly out to Pittsburgh and pee on their microphones. But if they watched the Bolts one ounce that season, they’d realized that a 13-3 lead was about as secure as the U.S.-Mexico border.
The plus for me was that there wasn’t much to yell about in the game, so my hangover wasn’t too aggravated, yet. I was gaining some headway in the battle against nausea, giving me the energy necessary to battle through the second half.
Midway through the third period, Chargers quarterback Stan Humphries faked a handoff, fooling the Steelers defensive backs long enough to find tight end Alfred Pupunu wide open to complete a 43-yard touchdown. Pupunu was a big tight end from Hawaii – although he went to Mormon Country for college – and had one of the great TD dances. Anytime the 260-pounder scored six, he’d shuffle from side to side – ala former UNLV back Icky Woods – and then turn the football into a coconut, rip off the top and drink the sweet milk before spiking the ball.
That made it 13-10, and it took all intestinal fortitude I could muster to keep the hangover from exploding through my orfices. I was screaming and slapping the floor with excitement. With Humphries at the helm, I knew the Louisiana boy could pull this sucker out. I vowed not to return to the couch, instead I had to watch the rest of the game from the floor because I was too nervous to sit still, plus there were implements to throw and things were safer if I was on the carpet.
With Seau playing out of his mind, the Chargers held the Steelers and forced a punt midway through the fourth. In fact, Junior was everywhere in that game making plays he had no business being in on because they were on the opposite side of the field. And he was doing it with a neck stinger.
With 5:13 left in the game, Humphries threw a 43-yard touchdown pass to wide receiver Tony Martin, who out-jumped the defensive back to make the catch and give the Chargers a 17-13 lead. From spot on the floor I drummed away on the rug, whooping and hollering loud enough that neighbors figured I was having another fit.
But Pittsburgh marched the field under Neil O’Donnell, as if he was Gen. Sherman heading to Atlanta. I was nervous. I was worried. I was ready to puke.
The Steelers drove the ball down to the Charger 3-yard line, and O’Donnell had four shots inside the 10 to take the lead. One pass sailed over the head of a receiver in the back of the end zone – second down. A handoff took the ball up to the three – third down. Another pass went incomplete out of bounds – fourth down. O’Donnell dropped back on a three-step drop and fired a yard-deep into the end zone, but out of nowhere – and into Charger lore – Denny Gibson dove like he was saving a puppy from a roaring river and batted away the pass intended for running back Barry Foster, sending the Chargers to the Super Bowl.
The Super Bowl. The Chargers. I couldn’t believe it. I had to wait 15 years to say AFC Champion San Diego Chargers. After the game, and leading up to the Super Bowl, I would tell folks I was just happy they were there. That’s not the right thing to say, but I held no delusions that they’d beat the 49ers in Super Bowl 29. I also believed with Bobby Ross running this squad, despite Bobby Beatherd’s attempt to screw the team over again and again with shitty drafts, they’d make return trips over the next few seasons.
I was never so wrong.
But for that one Sunday in January, everything was so right.
Plus, I didn’t puke. How ‘bout that?
Hope y’all enjoyed this list. Now, it’s time to crack open my first Newcastle and tighten up my ball of Charger angst with game time less than 90 minutes away.
Maybe this game will make my next list. You never know.
Go Bolts!
Chargers – Super Bowl.
Three words that never went together before the 1994-95 season would finally roll off the tongue like Salma Hayek and whipped cream.
I was still naïve to believe the Chargers were good enough to make the Super Bowl back then (I’m a little more pessimistic these days) and folks scoffed when I said they’d beat the Pittsburgh Steelers to move on. They weren’t the only ones with little faith, oddsmakers pegged the Bolts as heavy ‘dogs going into the AFC Championship game in the Steel City.
I could see why. The Chargers needed some luck the week before in San Diego against Miami. In typical Charger fashion that season, the Bolts were down at halftime, 21-6. One thing Charger fans learned that year, though, was that you couldn’t count out Stan Humphries and his magical arm. Nor, could you deny the sense of luck, of fate if you will, surrounding this team. A lateral pass by Dan Marino was dropped by his receiver and quickly covered up by a Charger defender. The ruling on the field was a fumble, which was the wrong call, and the Chargers drove 40 yards to score, cutting the Fish lead to 21-15. They took the lead with 35 seconds remaining in the game on an 8-yard pass from Humphries to Mark Seay. And I couldn’t believe they were advancing after such an ugly game.
Allow me to take you back a few weeks before the playoffs. The Chargers squared off against the Raiders in L.A. As the dirty, rotten, pig-smelling, butt-licking Raiders are wont to do, they rolled up on Humphries’ knee and ankle early in the third quarter, sending the Charger QB to the bench and leaving us fans rooting for Gale Gilbert. But Humphries was a tough SOB, and he would return to the game two series later, to the shock of the talking heads on TV and myself. Dude limped to the huddle, and scrambled with a bad wheel behind him, but it still didn’t stop him from delivering a 2-point win over Oakland.
That was Stan Humphries.
He played hurt more than any QB I had seen until another Louisiana quarterback came along - Brett Favre. It got to the point where I thought his limp was his normal gait. He had an off-kilter, three-quarter deliver, and was short by quarterback standards (6’2). And, unlike Dan Fouts, his receivers were a collection of college also-rans who will never be mistaken for Chandler, Joiner and Winslow (or McCardell, Jackson and Gates). To this day, Charger fans wax poetically about Dan Fouts and his golden arm, but Humphries really should be included in the same paragraph of Charger QB lore. He was 3-3 in the playoffs, and rallied twice in the ’94 playoffs, leading the Chargers to their first (and to this day) and only Super Bowl appearance.
Humphries was a man. The man.
If that game gave shape to the legend of Humphries, the AFC Championship game in Pittsburgh launched the legend, and that’s why this is my No. 1 Charger memory…
Jan. 15, 1995: Chargers 17, Steelers 13
Here were the numbers after the game: Plays – Steelers 80, Chargers 47; Total yards – Steelers 415, Chargers 226; and Time of possession – Steelers 37:13, Chargers 22:47.
If I didn’t know the outcome, I would have bet a case of Newcastle that the Chargers lost by 20. They should have lost by 20. They should have lost by 30. But they won by four, and that’s all that mattered.
In fact, it was a wonder I woke up in time for this game. I was poor college student in Vegas at the time, and rather than shell out 25 bones that I really didn’t have for a bottle of Absolut, I decided to go cheap on the Vodka that Saturday night before the AFC Championship game, and bought the store-label vodka for four bucks. Here’s how the label read: “Lucky’s (the grocery store, not a state of mind) Vodka – charcoal filtered.” I’m pretty sure the words “charcoal filtered” should not be on any product label that you consume through your mouth. But that’s just me, I guess.
I’m the sort of guy who learns through experience, a trial-by-fire dude (oh, the Freeloader is in for some “fun” with me running shotgun in parenting). One thing that has stuck with me over the last 12 years is that four-dollar vodka should never be bought, under any circumstances. If you need a cheap drunk, buy a bottle of Nyquil. That’s a piece of advice from your Uncle Mikey, kids.
I was buying cheap vodka because a buddy and myself had the brilliant plan to drink cheap screwdrivers and play video games at the house.
It took all of 45 minutes to get us obliterated, making whatever driving game we were playing that much more interesting.
The game had a 10 a.m. start. During my college career, 10 a.m. was my 7 a.m. It was too early to see the sun. And it was too early to wake up with such a vicious hangover. Vodka and Mikey don’t mix.
Imagine being seasick and dizzy while having a railroad spike driven through your left temple until it peaked through your right temple. That’s what I felt as I stumbled down the stairs and turned on the tube. Those few step turned my stomach, but I willed myself to keep it in. I couldn’t show any weakness in the Chargers time of need. If Humphries could play with a strained knee and Junior Seau could play with a neck stinger that forced him to miss some games late in the year, well, dammit, I could cowboy up and keep the vodka hangover inside me.
Things looked bleak at halftime, with the Chargers down 13-3. The announcers vommitted words like overmatched and lucky to describe the Chargers, and I wanted to fly out to Pittsburgh and pee on their microphones. But if they watched the Bolts one ounce that season, they’d realized that a 13-3 lead was about as secure as the U.S.-Mexico border.
The plus for me was that there wasn’t much to yell about in the game, so my hangover wasn’t too aggravated, yet. I was gaining some headway in the battle against nausea, giving me the energy necessary to battle through the second half.
Midway through the third period, Chargers quarterback Stan Humphries faked a handoff, fooling the Steelers defensive backs long enough to find tight end Alfred Pupunu wide open to complete a 43-yard touchdown. Pupunu was a big tight end from Hawaii – although he went to Mormon Country for college – and had one of the great TD dances. Anytime the 260-pounder scored six, he’d shuffle from side to side – ala former UNLV back Icky Woods – and then turn the football into a coconut, rip off the top and drink the sweet milk before spiking the ball.
That made it 13-10, and it took all intestinal fortitude I could muster to keep the hangover from exploding through my orfices. I was screaming and slapping the floor with excitement. With Humphries at the helm, I knew the Louisiana boy could pull this sucker out. I vowed not to return to the couch, instead I had to watch the rest of the game from the floor because I was too nervous to sit still, plus there were implements to throw and things were safer if I was on the carpet.
With Seau playing out of his mind, the Chargers held the Steelers and forced a punt midway through the fourth. In fact, Junior was everywhere in that game making plays he had no business being in on because they were on the opposite side of the field. And he was doing it with a neck stinger.
With 5:13 left in the game, Humphries threw a 43-yard touchdown pass to wide receiver Tony Martin, who out-jumped the defensive back to make the catch and give the Chargers a 17-13 lead. From spot on the floor I drummed away on the rug, whooping and hollering loud enough that neighbors figured I was having another fit.
But Pittsburgh marched the field under Neil O’Donnell, as if he was Gen. Sherman heading to Atlanta. I was nervous. I was worried. I was ready to puke.
The Steelers drove the ball down to the Charger 3-yard line, and O’Donnell had four shots inside the 10 to take the lead. One pass sailed over the head of a receiver in the back of the end zone – second down. A handoff took the ball up to the three – third down. Another pass went incomplete out of bounds – fourth down. O’Donnell dropped back on a three-step drop and fired a yard-deep into the end zone, but out of nowhere – and into Charger lore – Denny Gibson dove like he was saving a puppy from a roaring river and batted away the pass intended for running back Barry Foster, sending the Chargers to the Super Bowl.
The Super Bowl. The Chargers. I couldn’t believe it. I had to wait 15 years to say AFC Champion San Diego Chargers. After the game, and leading up to the Super Bowl, I would tell folks I was just happy they were there. That’s not the right thing to say, but I held no delusions that they’d beat the 49ers in Super Bowl 29. I also believed with Bobby Ross running this squad, despite Bobby Beatherd’s attempt to screw the team over again and again with shitty drafts, they’d make return trips over the next few seasons.
I was never so wrong.
But for that one Sunday in January, everything was so right.
Plus, I didn’t puke. How ‘bout that?
Hope y’all enjoyed this list. Now, it’s time to crack open my first Newcastle and tighten up my ball of Charger angst with game time less than 90 minutes away.
Maybe this game will make my next list. You never know.
Go Bolts!
Saturday, January 05, 2008
Where it all began
Part 4 of 5
It was nothing more than a few football fans shooting the breeze during a smoke break at a previous prison work camp – my uncle’s prison work camp.
To my knowledge, there were only one or two football fans in the camp, but as more folks admitted – abashedly, as myself – to being Chargers fans the topic turned to tailgating and catching a game at Jack Murphy Stadium.
This was August, game tickets had been open to purchase for three weeks. On a whim, I checked ticket availability and nearly got a woody from shock as I found $50 seats available on the field level, 10 rows from the field. That’s how field level it was. If we wanted to punch Ryan Leaf in the mouth, all one of us would have to do was hurdle the railing and start swinging.
I heard the horror stories of fans from other teams needing connections to get seats to a game. Ask these fans about single-game tickets and they’d laugh their fool heads off as if I dressed my frank and berries in a miniature tuxedo and shaved a smiley face in my short hairs. So, when I saw seats available, I quickly fired off e-mails to gauge interest and the best game to attend.
When all was said or done, no one batted an eye at the $50 price tag – on our salaries, that was like a two-weeks of groceries, beer or pot (pick your poison) – and the consensus game was a Nov. 22 tilt against the Kansas City Chefs.
And while good friendships developed during my 18-month stint at my unc’s prison work camp, friendships that I knew would carry on long after I was paroled; I never thought our tailgate tradition would last nine years (we’re 5-4). Now, I can’t imagine ever not making our annual trek to Jack Murphy for our Charger tailgate tradition. In fact, it would be a sin – the punishment being a year of watching Raider games from there past four seasons – if we weren’t tailgating 10 years from now.
If you ask each Bolthead in our group what game was their favorite, I can confidently predict they’ll say this game. The game we broke our cherry on, and No. 2 on my all-time Charger memory list:
Nov. 22, 1998: Chargers 38, K.C. Chefs 37
It was a wild weekend to start.
On Friday, I was paroled from my unc’s prison work camp and to celebrate my emancipation, Funky C and Rum Punch Queen threw a house party that ended with myself, Funky C and some random new inmate (if this was a horror movie cast, this guy would be the disposable film extra who says something like, “Once I make it out of this I’m going to kiss my momma,” before getting hacked by Jason) sitting around a folding table with legs bowing from the two cases of empty beer bottles on the top. We finally crashed at 3, Saturday morning.
I returned to the scene of the crime Sunday to carpool to the game. We started our ride to the game at 9 a.m. In a day when few, if any, had cell phones, we all planned to meet at Lil’ ChargerGirl’s apartment and then caravan to the stadium, a process that proved faulty the next year.
Today, we call it base camp, because Wife, in her infinite power to be cool, creates an at-home atmosphere complete with tent, chairs, a trio of food tables and a roadside grill that’s better than our home cooker. This first year consisted of three coolers, all filled with our favorite beverage – beer, beer and beer – a small hibachi grill that cooked three small burgers and someone in the group had the presence of mind to bring some meat we could smack into patties.
There were 10 of us for that first game. Nine years later, our core group has been whittled down to five, four of which are my closest friends.
Because we were 10, and this was our chance to blow out the year and get wild at a football game, the smart guy who brought the meat also painted out letters that, if spelled right, would spell Go Chargers. Remember that, it will come back later.
Our seats were 10 rows off the field even with the west goal line. Today, I don’t even look for those seats, I look for anything under $100. And let me tell you, brothers and sisters, it's slim pickings. Fifty bones barely gets you into the parking lot nowadays.
We sat among a gaggle of Chef fans who, despite rooting for the bad guys, were good people who loved football and could take our shit and give us some back. Speaking of Chef fans, in this nine-year span, we’ve also encountered 49er fans (a-holes), Bengal fans (butt munches after finally getting a decent team), Buc fans (the few we saw seemed OK, and the one with us – ChargerFanbyMarriage - I think was scared for his life), Cardinal fans (the one who was supposed to go chickened out, which is par for the course for a bird-themed team) and Patriot fans (the few good ones are beaten into bloody lumps by the Chowder heads in the bunch). Of that bunch, Chef fans by far are the classiest I’ve found in nearly any sport.
We were feeling good at halftime. The Chargers held a tenuous 17-14 lead, having given up a touchdown late in the second quarter. Any time a Chef fan tried to give us the business, we pointed to the scoreboard. That was our answer … until Sammy Morris capped the Chefs’ opening drive with a 1-yard run. Scoreboard, the other way.
It would get worse. The Chefs put up 20 unanswered over the third quarter and two minutes into the fourth, leading 34-17 with 12 minutes remaining. Folks started picking up their crap and heading for the exits. The dude who made the signs for our group left them behind and followed suit along with three others.
Folks who head into burning buildings to save old women and their cats claim something shuts off in their head and they just react to the situation.
That’s what Lil’ ChargerGirl, Funky C, Rum Punch Queen, another disposable cast member and I did, we just reacted. We weren’t heroes; we just did what any Charger fan would do.
I grabbed a Charger flag that was discarded in a puddle of beer (I hope it was beer), stood up on my chair and waved it like I was a Civil War bugler rallying the troops and yelled keep the faith. Lil’ ChargerGirl joined the chant and before we knew we had our section shouting down any Charger fan caught exiting the row with the thoughts of beating traffic. At one point, just to protect my own hide, I shouted to the section that I was not leaving, but going to the bathroom. Unfortunately, some unscrupulous Charger fans picked up on this antic and announced the same excuse to save themselves from incessant ridiculing.
But a funny thing happened – the Chargers started coming back.
Terrell Fletcher took a Craig Whelihan handoff (rolls off the tongue like Ladanian Tomlinson and Dan Fouts, doesn’t it?) and scampered up the middle for a 4-yard touchdown.
34-24.
Keep the faith was shouted again from our section and as the camera panned our section, we quickly assembled the signs between the six of us to spell out: Go Crhrages (the second r was upside down, which was my responsibility along with the h and a). We realized we had to regroup to erase our Jumbotron gaff.
Pete Stoyanovich connected on a 50-yard field goal for the Chefs midway through the fourth, and again the path to the exit was lit up like the Vegas Strip on New Year’s Eve.
37-24. Keep the faith!
With the clock marching to the four-minute mark we watched as Whelihan led the Chargers down the field on sharp passes that were missing all season (it was Leaf’s first year). He capped by hitting tight end Freddie Jones in the middle of the end zone for a 25-yard TD strike – right in front of us. I swear, they heard our chants of keep the faith.
37-31.
Again, the camera panned our section and this time we had our game faces on. The red light glowed and we thrust up our signs spelling: Go Chargers. We jumped up and down like we just won a million bucks, and after the Chargers took the punt (Marty Shottenheimer put his offense in a bubble, giving the Bolts a shot to win it – thanks Marty) and ran it out of bounds, leading to a TV timeout, the camera came our way again. Again, we were ready.
Twice on the Jumbotron. We were stars.
With Marty Shottenheimer putting is offense into a shell, the Chargers were able to stop the Chef drive and force a punt with a little more than a minute left.
One minute to glory.
Whelihan’s arm was gold that day – it would be his lone bright spot as a Charger – and in the fourth quarter, dude couldn’t miss. He hit receivers I never heard of, but we all knew Charlie Jones’ name after the game, because live, in our corner of the end zone, he hauled in a 1-yard pass that sealed the game with eight seconds left.
38-37.
If we had cell phones, we would have called the schmucks who left the game. Although, if we did, all they’d hear were gravely whispers because our voices sounded like we just gargled with battery acid and razor blades.
But we had to remind ourselves that there was eight seconds remaining, and these were the Chargers. John Carney scooted the ball to the second level of defenders who made like the Cal kick returners, with the Chargers playing the Stanford role, but after two pitches the Chargers wrapped up the Chef ball handler and the game.
Keep the faith. 38-37.
The Chargers entered that game at 4-6. They finished the season 5-11. I’d like to think we saw their last win of the season because we kept the faith.
Our tailgate tradition has seen two weddings and we’ve brainwashed two additions with another one on the way. Like I said before, I can’t imagine a day when we won’t be staring at the Bolts schedule in June wondering what game we’ll be catching that year. But I can imagine the day when we have to buy three extra tickets – one for Funky C and Rum Punch Queen’s son (he’s already attended two. What a champ); Lil’ ChargerGirl and ChargerFanbyMarriage’s daughter (who comes to games decked out in a mini LT jersey. Another champ); and soon our Freeloader. The brainwashing will start in the hospital.
I don’t think they’ll have any trouble keeping the faith with us bending their ears about games like this.
It was nothing more than a few football fans shooting the breeze during a smoke break at a previous prison work camp – my uncle’s prison work camp.
To my knowledge, there were only one or two football fans in the camp, but as more folks admitted – abashedly, as myself – to being Chargers fans the topic turned to tailgating and catching a game at Jack Murphy Stadium.
This was August, game tickets had been open to purchase for three weeks. On a whim, I checked ticket availability and nearly got a woody from shock as I found $50 seats available on the field level, 10 rows from the field. That’s how field level it was. If we wanted to punch Ryan Leaf in the mouth, all one of us would have to do was hurdle the railing and start swinging.
I heard the horror stories of fans from other teams needing connections to get seats to a game. Ask these fans about single-game tickets and they’d laugh their fool heads off as if I dressed my frank and berries in a miniature tuxedo and shaved a smiley face in my short hairs. So, when I saw seats available, I quickly fired off e-mails to gauge interest and the best game to attend.
When all was said or done, no one batted an eye at the $50 price tag – on our salaries, that was like a two-weeks of groceries, beer or pot (pick your poison) – and the consensus game was a Nov. 22 tilt against the Kansas City Chefs.
And while good friendships developed during my 18-month stint at my unc’s prison work camp, friendships that I knew would carry on long after I was paroled; I never thought our tailgate tradition would last nine years (we’re 5-4). Now, I can’t imagine ever not making our annual trek to Jack Murphy for our Charger tailgate tradition. In fact, it would be a sin – the punishment being a year of watching Raider games from there past four seasons – if we weren’t tailgating 10 years from now.
If you ask each Bolthead in our group what game was their favorite, I can confidently predict they’ll say this game. The game we broke our cherry on, and No. 2 on my all-time Charger memory list:
Nov. 22, 1998: Chargers 38, K.C. Chefs 37
It was a wild weekend to start.
On Friday, I was paroled from my unc’s prison work camp and to celebrate my emancipation, Funky C and Rum Punch Queen threw a house party that ended with myself, Funky C and some random new inmate (if this was a horror movie cast, this guy would be the disposable film extra who says something like, “Once I make it out of this I’m going to kiss my momma,” before getting hacked by Jason) sitting around a folding table with legs bowing from the two cases of empty beer bottles on the top. We finally crashed at 3, Saturday morning.
I returned to the scene of the crime Sunday to carpool to the game. We started our ride to the game at 9 a.m. In a day when few, if any, had cell phones, we all planned to meet at Lil’ ChargerGirl’s apartment and then caravan to the stadium, a process that proved faulty the next year.
Today, we call it base camp, because Wife, in her infinite power to be cool, creates an at-home atmosphere complete with tent, chairs, a trio of food tables and a roadside grill that’s better than our home cooker. This first year consisted of three coolers, all filled with our favorite beverage – beer, beer and beer – a small hibachi grill that cooked three small burgers and someone in the group had the presence of mind to bring some meat we could smack into patties.
There were 10 of us for that first game. Nine years later, our core group has been whittled down to five, four of which are my closest friends.
Because we were 10, and this was our chance to blow out the year and get wild at a football game, the smart guy who brought the meat also painted out letters that, if spelled right, would spell Go Chargers. Remember that, it will come back later.
Our seats were 10 rows off the field even with the west goal line. Today, I don’t even look for those seats, I look for anything under $100. And let me tell you, brothers and sisters, it's slim pickings. Fifty bones barely gets you into the parking lot nowadays.
We sat among a gaggle of Chef fans who, despite rooting for the bad guys, were good people who loved football and could take our shit and give us some back. Speaking of Chef fans, in this nine-year span, we’ve also encountered 49er fans (a-holes), Bengal fans (butt munches after finally getting a decent team), Buc fans (the few we saw seemed OK, and the one with us – ChargerFanbyMarriage - I think was scared for his life), Cardinal fans (the one who was supposed to go chickened out, which is par for the course for a bird-themed team) and Patriot fans (the few good ones are beaten into bloody lumps by the Chowder heads in the bunch). Of that bunch, Chef fans by far are the classiest I’ve found in nearly any sport.
We were feeling good at halftime. The Chargers held a tenuous 17-14 lead, having given up a touchdown late in the second quarter. Any time a Chef fan tried to give us the business, we pointed to the scoreboard. That was our answer … until Sammy Morris capped the Chefs’ opening drive with a 1-yard run. Scoreboard, the other way.
It would get worse. The Chefs put up 20 unanswered over the third quarter and two minutes into the fourth, leading 34-17 with 12 minutes remaining. Folks started picking up their crap and heading for the exits. The dude who made the signs for our group left them behind and followed suit along with three others.
Folks who head into burning buildings to save old women and their cats claim something shuts off in their head and they just react to the situation.
That’s what Lil’ ChargerGirl, Funky C, Rum Punch Queen, another disposable cast member and I did, we just reacted. We weren’t heroes; we just did what any Charger fan would do.
I grabbed a Charger flag that was discarded in a puddle of beer (I hope it was beer), stood up on my chair and waved it like I was a Civil War bugler rallying the troops and yelled keep the faith. Lil’ ChargerGirl joined the chant and before we knew we had our section shouting down any Charger fan caught exiting the row with the thoughts of beating traffic. At one point, just to protect my own hide, I shouted to the section that I was not leaving, but going to the bathroom. Unfortunately, some unscrupulous Charger fans picked up on this antic and announced the same excuse to save themselves from incessant ridiculing.
But a funny thing happened – the Chargers started coming back.
Terrell Fletcher took a Craig Whelihan handoff (rolls off the tongue like Ladanian Tomlinson and Dan Fouts, doesn’t it?) and scampered up the middle for a 4-yard touchdown.
34-24.
Keep the faith was shouted again from our section and as the camera panned our section, we quickly assembled the signs between the six of us to spell out: Go Crhrages (the second r was upside down, which was my responsibility along with the h and a). We realized we had to regroup to erase our Jumbotron gaff.
Pete Stoyanovich connected on a 50-yard field goal for the Chefs midway through the fourth, and again the path to the exit was lit up like the Vegas Strip on New Year’s Eve.
37-24. Keep the faith!
With the clock marching to the four-minute mark we watched as Whelihan led the Chargers down the field on sharp passes that were missing all season (it was Leaf’s first year). He capped by hitting tight end Freddie Jones in the middle of the end zone for a 25-yard TD strike – right in front of us. I swear, they heard our chants of keep the faith.
37-31.
Again, the camera panned our section and this time we had our game faces on. The red light glowed and we thrust up our signs spelling: Go Chargers. We jumped up and down like we just won a million bucks, and after the Chargers took the punt (Marty Shottenheimer put his offense in a bubble, giving the Bolts a shot to win it – thanks Marty) and ran it out of bounds, leading to a TV timeout, the camera came our way again. Again, we were ready.
Twice on the Jumbotron. We were stars.
With Marty Shottenheimer putting is offense into a shell, the Chargers were able to stop the Chef drive and force a punt with a little more than a minute left.
One minute to glory.
Whelihan’s arm was gold that day – it would be his lone bright spot as a Charger – and in the fourth quarter, dude couldn’t miss. He hit receivers I never heard of, but we all knew Charlie Jones’ name after the game, because live, in our corner of the end zone, he hauled in a 1-yard pass that sealed the game with eight seconds left.
38-37.
If we had cell phones, we would have called the schmucks who left the game. Although, if we did, all they’d hear were gravely whispers because our voices sounded like we just gargled with battery acid and razor blades.
But we had to remind ourselves that there was eight seconds remaining, and these were the Chargers. John Carney scooted the ball to the second level of defenders who made like the Cal kick returners, with the Chargers playing the Stanford role, but after two pitches the Chargers wrapped up the Chef ball handler and the game.
Keep the faith. 38-37.
The Chargers entered that game at 4-6. They finished the season 5-11. I’d like to think we saw their last win of the season because we kept the faith.
Our tailgate tradition has seen two weddings and we’ve brainwashed two additions with another one on the way. Like I said before, I can’t imagine a day when we won’t be staring at the Bolts schedule in June wondering what game we’ll be catching that year. But I can imagine the day when we have to buy three extra tickets – one for Funky C and Rum Punch Queen’s son (he’s already attended two. What a champ); Lil’ ChargerGirl and ChargerFanbyMarriage’s daughter (who comes to games decked out in a mini LT jersey. Another champ); and soon our Freeloader. The brainwashing will start in the hospital.
I don’t think they’ll have any trouble keeping the faith with us bending their ears about games like this.
Friday, January 04, 2008
Charger fans should know better
Part 3 of 5
14-2.
Fourteen and friggin' two.
In franchise history, no Charger team had finished the regular season with a better record. Not the Dan Fouts Chargers. Not the early ‘60s Chargers, and certainly not the Super Bowl bound Chargers in 1994.
I would watch NFL teams having similar seasons and wish, just once, the Chargers would have the same luck. Up until last season I’d give my left nut and my BevMo discount card for a 14-2 season.
And as the final seconds of the Charger-Cardinal – and the regular season - wound down on Dec. 31 it slowly sunk in that finally the Bolts were one of those teams.
14-2.
Finally, the big Charger in the sky smiled down on San Diego and realized we were done being his Job. Our suffering would end.
But that big Charger in the sky is one sick bastard who probably jerks off to watching the Bolts and the Boltheads (that would be us) suffer. Really, wouldn’t it just be easier to sick a wave of locusts on Jack Murphy Stadium or laced the $8 beers with the plague?
The magic of the 14-2 season was exposed like it was a trick devised by a bad magician (job searching already, Cam Cameron?). The New England Patriots saw up the Chargers’ sleeve and knew how the 14-2 trick was done. Then they told the rest of the audience how the trick was done and the jig was up for the Bolts.
Our little cell of loyal Charger fans discussed making it to at least the divisional round of the playoffs to lend our drunken voices to the Jack Murphy mininions and bask in playoff atmosphere football. We checked on ticket prices and after much pleading (and agreeing to do certain things for Wife) I was given the green light to join the rest of our sect in San Diego.
And that’s where I learned 14-and-2 doesn’t mean jack shit in the playoffs.
Jan. 14, 2006: Chargers 21, New England Patriots 24
My day started with a 7 a.m. run to the airport. The plane might have doubled for a team charter to San Diego for the amount of team jerseys being worn on the flight. There were LTs and Rivers and Bradys and even a Tony Eason sighting. We could have fielded our own game between take off and the drink service.
The plan once I landed was to head over to Lil’ Lisa and ChargerFanbyMarriage’s pad and then head back to Jack Murphy for a quickie tailgate before game time.
Omens hit us in the face on every corner, though, and we should have paid better attention.
Omen No. 1: I bought a sixer of Newcastle – Michael’s official Charger game day beer – but forgot my can opener at home, forcing me to shell out three extra bones for a new opener.
Omen No. 2: The Jack Murphy parking lot was sold out by 11:15 a.m. for a 1:30 p.m. game. Tailgating was going to be challenge, and we had pasta salad and cookies to munch down. Plus, there was much beer to drink before game time. Leaning on the San Diegans for guidance, we wheeled into a mall parking lot that had access to the trolley and set up our own tailgate party – two miles away from the stadium, but within walking distance of new pants and Old Navy jackets if the need presented itself. What more could we ask for. And as we felt the heat of security’s eyes blazing over our makeshift party, we packed up the goodies and hit the train.
Omen No. 3: All of San Diego was riding the trolley to the game. It took us three trains to get on, and that didn’t guarantee us a seat. What was worse, Patriot fans had stolen the last remaining benches on the trolley forcing us to either stand or beat the Chowder heads to a pulp – we opted for the former since you don’t want to blow your load too early.
Once at the stadium, however, thoughts of omen ceased and we were in game mode. The joint was electric like I had never seen it. Nervous energy filled every fan who walked by, and we all talked like our mouths were run by Gattling guns, the words rushing out in volleyed shots because the anticipation was rising with each step, each tick of the clock, each swig of a beer.
Then Omen No. 4: A really bad San Diego Super Charger song by P.O.D. After they raped my ears with their “song” I thought maybe they should change their name to P.U.D.
And finally kick off began. We had Patriot fans to the right of us, and two in the row in front of us. The dudes on the right were good folks from Bahstun, the chick and her beau in front of us were ass clowns of the royal order. That’s a .500 average, not too bad in my book.
I’ll admit it now like I did then before I turned surly and pissed off at the big Charger in the sky for allowing such a travesty to occur, it was one of the best football games I had ever seen, despite it not being the most technically sound or aesthetically pleasing in NFL history. And if it weren’t for a pair of dumb penalties by the Chargers early in the second half, a fumbled punt, a fumbled interception, and Cam Cameron running the offense, this game would be No. 2 on my list behind the Charger Super Bowl win in 2006, but as the old folks say you never can tell. Tom Brady made his passes count when he needed to (after tossing up three picks – Tom Terrific my big hairy Italian ass) and LT touched the ball 9 times.
Let me spell that out a little better. The best player in the league, the best player since Walter Payton, maybe the best player ever, touched the ball NINE times in the second half. If I’m the offensive coordinator – how’s the job search going Cam Cameron? – I get the ball to my best player a little more than nine times. But, hey, that’s just me. What do I know? I only went 14-1 in my fantasy football league this year.
Omen No. 5: This came after the game and really falls under the kicked in the balls, salt in the wound, insult to injury category. The line onto the trolley wrapped around Jack Murphy Stadium and led half way to El Cajon so we opted for a cab at the nearby Ikea. There was something very Amazing Raceish about this move as we waited out front for a cab, but watched as Patriot fan after Patriot fan snagged cabs before us. Fishy, I say, very, very fishy.
But while the omens added up to zero playoff wins in ‘06 for the Bolts, the constant roar from the crowd from 15:00 of the first quarter to 0:00 of the fourth quarter reminds me often of what playoff football is really like. The nervousness and adrenaline and electricity in every person you see is worth the 150 bones we shelled out for seats.
Well, that, and pissing on some poor BMW-driving douche’s tires in the Macy’s parking lot in Fashion Valley. It was totally worth it. I just hope the car owner was a Patriot fan.
14-2.
Fourteen and friggin' two.
In franchise history, no Charger team had finished the regular season with a better record. Not the Dan Fouts Chargers. Not the early ‘60s Chargers, and certainly not the Super Bowl bound Chargers in 1994.
I would watch NFL teams having similar seasons and wish, just once, the Chargers would have the same luck. Up until last season I’d give my left nut and my BevMo discount card for a 14-2 season.
And as the final seconds of the Charger-Cardinal – and the regular season - wound down on Dec. 31 it slowly sunk in that finally the Bolts were one of those teams.
14-2.
Finally, the big Charger in the sky smiled down on San Diego and realized we were done being his Job. Our suffering would end.
But that big Charger in the sky is one sick bastard who probably jerks off to watching the Bolts and the Boltheads (that would be us) suffer. Really, wouldn’t it just be easier to sick a wave of locusts on Jack Murphy Stadium or laced the $8 beers with the plague?
The magic of the 14-2 season was exposed like it was a trick devised by a bad magician (job searching already, Cam Cameron?). The New England Patriots saw up the Chargers’ sleeve and knew how the 14-2 trick was done. Then they told the rest of the audience how the trick was done and the jig was up for the Bolts.
Our little cell of loyal Charger fans discussed making it to at least the divisional round of the playoffs to lend our drunken voices to the Jack Murphy mininions and bask in playoff atmosphere football. We checked on ticket prices and after much pleading (and agreeing to do certain things for Wife) I was given the green light to join the rest of our sect in San Diego.
And that’s where I learned 14-and-2 doesn’t mean jack shit in the playoffs.
Jan. 14, 2006: Chargers 21, New England Patriots 24
My day started with a 7 a.m. run to the airport. The plane might have doubled for a team charter to San Diego for the amount of team jerseys being worn on the flight. There were LTs and Rivers and Bradys and even a Tony Eason sighting. We could have fielded our own game between take off and the drink service.
The plan once I landed was to head over to Lil’ Lisa and ChargerFanbyMarriage’s pad and then head back to Jack Murphy for a quickie tailgate before game time.
Omens hit us in the face on every corner, though, and we should have paid better attention.
Omen No. 1: I bought a sixer of Newcastle – Michael’s official Charger game day beer – but forgot my can opener at home, forcing me to shell out three extra bones for a new opener.
Omen No. 2: The Jack Murphy parking lot was sold out by 11:15 a.m. for a 1:30 p.m. game. Tailgating was going to be challenge, and we had pasta salad and cookies to munch down. Plus, there was much beer to drink before game time. Leaning on the San Diegans for guidance, we wheeled into a mall parking lot that had access to the trolley and set up our own tailgate party – two miles away from the stadium, but within walking distance of new pants and Old Navy jackets if the need presented itself. What more could we ask for. And as we felt the heat of security’s eyes blazing over our makeshift party, we packed up the goodies and hit the train.
Omen No. 3: All of San Diego was riding the trolley to the game. It took us three trains to get on, and that didn’t guarantee us a seat. What was worse, Patriot fans had stolen the last remaining benches on the trolley forcing us to either stand or beat the Chowder heads to a pulp – we opted for the former since you don’t want to blow your load too early.
Once at the stadium, however, thoughts of omen ceased and we were in game mode. The joint was electric like I had never seen it. Nervous energy filled every fan who walked by, and we all talked like our mouths were run by Gattling guns, the words rushing out in volleyed shots because the anticipation was rising with each step, each tick of the clock, each swig of a beer.
Then Omen No. 4: A really bad San Diego Super Charger song by P.O.D. After they raped my ears with their “song” I thought maybe they should change their name to P.U.D.
And finally kick off began. We had Patriot fans to the right of us, and two in the row in front of us. The dudes on the right were good folks from Bahstun, the chick and her beau in front of us were ass clowns of the royal order. That’s a .500 average, not too bad in my book.
I’ll admit it now like I did then before I turned surly and pissed off at the big Charger in the sky for allowing such a travesty to occur, it was one of the best football games I had ever seen, despite it not being the most technically sound or aesthetically pleasing in NFL history. And if it weren’t for a pair of dumb penalties by the Chargers early in the second half, a fumbled punt, a fumbled interception, and Cam Cameron running the offense, this game would be No. 2 on my list behind the Charger Super Bowl win in 2006, but as the old folks say you never can tell. Tom Brady made his passes count when he needed to (after tossing up three picks – Tom Terrific my big hairy Italian ass) and LT touched the ball 9 times.
Let me spell that out a little better. The best player in the league, the best player since Walter Payton, maybe the best player ever, touched the ball NINE times in the second half. If I’m the offensive coordinator – how’s the job search going Cam Cameron? – I get the ball to my best player a little more than nine times. But, hey, that’s just me. What do I know? I only went 14-1 in my fantasy football league this year.
Omen No. 5: This came after the game and really falls under the kicked in the balls, salt in the wound, insult to injury category. The line onto the trolley wrapped around Jack Murphy Stadium and led half way to El Cajon so we opted for a cab at the nearby Ikea. There was something very Amazing Raceish about this move as we waited out front for a cab, but watched as Patriot fan after Patriot fan snagged cabs before us. Fishy, I say, very, very fishy.
But while the omens added up to zero playoff wins in ‘06 for the Bolts, the constant roar from the crowd from 15:00 of the first quarter to 0:00 of the fourth quarter reminds me often of what playoff football is really like. The nervousness and adrenaline and electricity in every person you see is worth the 150 bones we shelled out for seats.
Well, that, and pissing on some poor BMW-driving douche’s tires in the Macy’s parking lot in Fashion Valley. It was totally worth it. I just hope the car owner was a Patriot fan.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Before there was LT there was LT
Part 2 of 5
Running backs have always been my thing. I love the raw speed, power and elusiveness backs bring to the game. When a back can break a linebacker’s ankle with a juke borne from the depths of hell, how can you not be a sucker for these guys?
I was a 7-year-old Wendell Tyler (Pop was a Rams fan back then), an 8-year-old Tony Dorsett and a 12-year-old Walter Payton. If I played football in the early ‘90s, I would have tried juking like Barry Sanders or powered through drunken UNLVers twice my size in height and width (another story for another day) like another Charger running back - Natrone Means.
You can have your linebackers or quarterbacks or strong safeties or wide receivers, give me a running back with a Sears Catalog of moves and can pull a ton of human flesh draped around his legs.
Maybe that’s why I went ape shit for a Charger pint-sized running back in 1985 known as Little Train (Ha! and you thought I’d be talking about another Charger with the initials of L and T).
Lionel “Little Train” James was a 5-foot, 6-inch 170-pound running back with blazing quicks. His size and speed is what drew me to this fifth-round pick out Auburn, and when I watched him bust open a kick off return for a touchdown in his rookie season the year before I had a feeling this guy was bound for greatness.
But greatness is fleeting sometimes – just ask Falco. And with that here’s my No. 4 ranked Charger game memory:
Nov. 10, 1985: Chargers 40, L.A. Raiders 34
We made our way over to a friend’s doublewide for an afternoon barbecue. They ran a community park that specialized in horseback riding and sat on enough acres to give us boys plenty room to find things that would scare the bejeezus out of the girls. (What’s so scary about a blue-bellied lizard?) Dinner was BBQed goat, or so they say but I noticed a horse was missing from the stable – I’m not saying anything, but I’m just saying if you catch my drift.
Before munching down on charred Billy Goat Gruff, a handful of us sat in the living room watching an epic Charger-Raider battle. Unlike two years before when the Raiders flattened the Bolts like pony patty burgers, the Chargers – led by Dan Fouts who threw four touchdowns, two of which going to my two favorite Charger receivers (the best they’ve had since I’ve watched, which tells you how hard up the Bolt receiving corps has been for 23 years) Wes Chandler and Charlie Joiner – traded punches with the Raiders like a pair of school yard kids duking it out. If the Chargers scored, the Raiders answered and the pattern held true until time ran out and both squads were tied.
As for my man Little Train James, heading into over time he had hauled in 11 passes for 168 yards and would finish the day with 345 all-purpose yards. But dude saved the best for last. As we all huddled into the living room of the double wide, rocking back and forth, praying the football Gods would kiss San Diego for once when they played the Raiders, we watched as Fouts took the transfer and slowly spun (the great bearded QB had just one speed – turtle – so if I said he spun like Christy Yamaguchi doing a double-axle on meth would be a disservice to the greatest Charger quarterback) to meet Little Train for the handoff. The munchkin runner took the hand off and squirted right around the edge blocker who likely would have been Sam Claphan (I had to look the guy up, so don’t ask me his sacks allowed numbers for the year – if memory serves, Fouts spent more time on his back than a Phillipino hooker with the fleet in town if that helps). Once around that defensive line, James parted a pair of linebackers and was gone…
10…
5…
Touchdown!
Beer coated the coffee table and green shag rug (remember, mid-‘80s not so removed from the ‘70s, double-wide trailer, yeah, there was a little bit of beer around) as we sang Little Train’s praises after his 17-yard touchdown run. And since he was just 5 foot 6 and weighed a buck seventy, the Charger players put the little guy on their shoulders and whisked him out of Jack Murphy riding high.
Later, after much goat was consumed (not by me as the thought didn’t sit right, but ask me today if I’d eat and I wouldn’t hesitate) the kids got together for their own football game, and I did my best to recreate Little Train’s run into the record books.
You see, once all was said and done and the 1985 football season was put to bed, Lionel “Little Train” James would set two NFL records, one of which still stands. No running back has topped his 1,027 yards receiving, and his mark of 2,535 all-purpose yards for the year stood until Derrick Mason broke it in 2000 with 2,690 yards. And only a handful of backs caught more than the 86 balls he pulled in that year, including another LT (yeah, that one) and Larry Centers (a shout out to the Cardinal fan out there).
So when I hear that a running back is too small to compete in the League, I think of Little Train’s dash to glory and I smile, not because it meant a win for the Chargers, but because it was a win for us munchkins who’ve been told we are too short to compete.
I was a 7-year-old Wendell Tyler (Pop was a Rams fan back then), an 8-year-old Tony Dorsett and a 12-year-old Walter Payton. If I played football in the early ‘90s, I would have tried juking like Barry Sanders or powered through drunken UNLVers twice my size in height and width (another story for another day) like another Charger running back - Natrone Means.
You can have your linebackers or quarterbacks or strong safeties or wide receivers, give me a running back with a Sears Catalog of moves and can pull a ton of human flesh draped around his legs.
Maybe that’s why I went ape shit for a Charger pint-sized running back in 1985 known as Little Train (Ha! and you thought I’d be talking about another Charger with the initials of L and T).
Lionel “Little Train” James was a 5-foot, 6-inch 170-pound running back with blazing quicks. His size and speed is what drew me to this fifth-round pick out Auburn, and when I watched him bust open a kick off return for a touchdown in his rookie season the year before I had a feeling this guy was bound for greatness.
But greatness is fleeting sometimes – just ask Falco. And with that here’s my No. 4 ranked Charger game memory:
Nov. 10, 1985: Chargers 40, L.A. Raiders 34
We made our way over to a friend’s doublewide for an afternoon barbecue. They ran a community park that specialized in horseback riding and sat on enough acres to give us boys plenty room to find things that would scare the bejeezus out of the girls. (What’s so scary about a blue-bellied lizard?) Dinner was BBQed goat, or so they say but I noticed a horse was missing from the stable – I’m not saying anything, but I’m just saying if you catch my drift.Before munching down on charred Billy Goat Gruff, a handful of us sat in the living room watching an epic Charger-Raider battle. Unlike two years before when the Raiders flattened the Bolts like pony patty burgers, the Chargers – led by Dan Fouts who threw four touchdowns, two of which going to my two favorite Charger receivers (the best they’ve had since I’ve watched, which tells you how hard up the Bolt receiving corps has been for 23 years) Wes Chandler and Charlie Joiner – traded punches with the Raiders like a pair of school yard kids duking it out. If the Chargers scored, the Raiders answered and the pattern held true until time ran out and both squads were tied.
As for my man Little Train James, heading into over time he had hauled in 11 passes for 168 yards and would finish the day with 345 all-purpose yards. But dude saved the best for last. As we all huddled into the living room of the double wide, rocking back and forth, praying the football Gods would kiss San Diego for once when they played the Raiders, we watched as Fouts took the transfer and slowly spun (the great bearded QB had just one speed – turtle – so if I said he spun like Christy Yamaguchi doing a double-axle on meth would be a disservice to the greatest Charger quarterback) to meet Little Train for the handoff. The munchkin runner took the hand off and squirted right around the edge blocker who likely would have been Sam Claphan (I had to look the guy up, so don’t ask me his sacks allowed numbers for the year – if memory serves, Fouts spent more time on his back than a Phillipino hooker with the fleet in town if that helps). Once around that defensive line, James parted a pair of linebackers and was gone…
10…
5…
Touchdown!
Beer coated the coffee table and green shag rug (remember, mid-‘80s not so removed from the ‘70s, double-wide trailer, yeah, there was a little bit of beer around) as we sang Little Train’s praises after his 17-yard touchdown run. And since he was just 5 foot 6 and weighed a buck seventy, the Charger players put the little guy on their shoulders and whisked him out of Jack Murphy riding high.
Later, after much goat was consumed (not by me as the thought didn’t sit right, but ask me today if I’d eat and I wouldn’t hesitate) the kids got together for their own football game, and I did my best to recreate Little Train’s run into the record books.
You see, once all was said and done and the 1985 football season was put to bed, Lionel “Little Train” James would set two NFL records, one of which still stands. No running back has topped his 1,027 yards receiving, and his mark of 2,535 all-purpose yards for the year stood until Derrick Mason broke it in 2000 with 2,690 yards. And only a handful of backs caught more than the 86 balls he pulled in that year, including another LT (yeah, that one) and Larry Centers (a shout out to the Cardinal fan out there).
So when I hear that a running back is too small to compete in the League, I think of Little Train’s dash to glory and I smile, not because it meant a win for the Chargers, but because it was a win for us munchkins who’ve been told we are too short to compete.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Watch my cash Bolt away
Faithful reader(s) are probably tired of hearing it, but I’ll mention it again: I’ve been a Charger fan since the Cincinnati playoff game in 1981. Mammoth human beings with more hair on their faces than on Sasquatch’s entire body breathing steam out of their pie holes like they were chain smoking Marlboros on the field (the game was played in –9 degree temps with a wind chill that made it 59 below – colder than propane if you’re scoring at home).
I was an impressionable punk, easily swayed by older boys who if they jumped off a cliff I would have joined them before you could say Dan Fouts.
They were all Charger fans, and when I finally watched a Bolts game – blue helmets with yellow face masks; curved lightning bolts that told me they were badder asses than those ass clowns in tiger-stripe helmets let alone those gay blue stars from Texas – I knew this would be my team for better or worse, through good times and bad, live or die (mostly die).
The Chargers had cooler names then, too: Fouts, Chandler, Muncie, Kellen Winslow, Woodrow Lowe, Kelcher, “Big Hands” Johnson. (If only cool names landed you a ring).
So, with more than 400 Charger game under my belt, and the Bolts about to flub up another playoff game Sunday (that’s the positive vibes Charger fans throw off), I felt it was time to rank the top five games I’ve seen with my own two eyes, be it at Jack Murphy Stadium or on the tube when I was a hostage to the parental units.
Over the next five days, I’ll post my next top Charger game memory. The No. 1 game memory will be posted prior to the 2:30 p.m. battle (11:30 a.m. Hawaii time) Sunday.
I was an impressionable punk, easily swayed by older boys who if they jumped off a cliff I would have joined them before you could say Dan Fouts.
They were all Charger fans, and when I finally watched a Bolts game – blue helmets with yellow face masks; curved lightning bolts that told me they were badder asses than those ass clowns in tiger-stripe helmets let alone those gay blue stars from Texas – I knew this would be my team for better or worse, through good times and bad, live or die (mostly die).
The Chargers had cooler names then, too: Fouts, Chandler, Muncie, Kellen Winslow, Woodrow Lowe, Kelcher, “Big Hands” Johnson. (If only cool names landed you a ring).
So, with more than 400 Charger game under my belt, and the Bolts about to flub up another playoff game Sunday (that’s the positive vibes Charger fans throw off), I felt it was time to rank the top five games I’ve seen with my own two eyes, be it at Jack Murphy Stadium or on the tube when I was a hostage to the parental units.
Over the next five days, I’ll post my next top Charger game memory. The No. 1 game memory will be posted prior to the 2:30 p.m. battle (11:30 a.m. Hawaii time) Sunday.
***
Dec. 1, 1983: Chargers 10, L.A. Raiders 41
I fancied myself a decent sports better by age 11. Pop and I would bet on Monday Night Football and Monday Night Baseball games (yeah, I'm old enough to remember Monday Night Baseball on ABC) and I watched my allowance double most weeks. I was a regular Lefty Rosenthal, that’s how good I was at landing winners. OK, maybe some luck was involved (“That team’s uniform looks cool … I’ll put $5 on them Pop.”) When you get two bones per week for an allowance, a baseball card junky needs to make money to feed his four-pack-a-week habit needs to make cash somehow. Betting the old man seemed like a better option than selling powdered dishwasher soap and passing it off as black tar heroin.
The old man was (is) a supreme trash talker, too. He’d get under Mother Theresa’s skin if they had money down who was the hungriest Calcuttian.
“Why don’t you just give me your $5 now?”
“There’s no reason to watch the game, we know you’ll pay me in the end.”
I should have listened to the mouth on this game.
He started in early that Thursday night, which tugged my nerves right off the bat because his team allegiances went with the wind. If the L.A. Rams were top dogs, that was his team. If the Raider lead the pack, well you know what “I’ve been a Raider fan since I don’t remember when.” This was a Raider year. They finished the year 12-4, and won the whole enchilada, whooping Washington 38-9 in the Superbowl.
Dec. 1, 1983: Chargers 10, L.A. Raiders 41
I fancied myself a decent sports better by age 11. Pop and I would bet on Monday Night Football and Monday Night Baseball games (yeah, I'm old enough to remember Monday Night Baseball on ABC) and I watched my allowance double most weeks. I was a regular Lefty Rosenthal, that’s how good I was at landing winners. OK, maybe some luck was involved (“That team’s uniform looks cool … I’ll put $5 on them Pop.”) When you get two bones per week for an allowance, a baseball card junky needs to make money to feed his four-pack-a-week habit needs to make cash somehow. Betting the old man seemed like a better option than selling powdered dishwasher soap and passing it off as black tar heroin.
The old man was (is) a supreme trash talker, too. He’d get under Mother Theresa’s skin if they had money down who was the hungriest Calcuttian.
“Why don’t you just give me your $5 now?”
“There’s no reason to watch the game, we know you’ll pay me in the end.”
I should have listened to the mouth on this game.
He started in early that Thursday night, which tugged my nerves right off the bat because his team allegiances went with the wind. If the L.A. Rams were top dogs, that was his team. If the Raider lead the pack, well you know what “I’ve been a Raider fan since I don’t remember when.” This was a Raider year. They finished the year 12-4, and won the whole enchilada, whooping Washington 38-9 in the Superbowl.
The Chargers were 6-10 – two numbers that I'd get used to seeing next to the Chargers' name in the standings.
Tonight, I was going to show him, though. My Chargers were going to roll through his Raiders like they seasoned in lambs’ blood and tossed into a wolfs' den.
But it was the Bolts who were chewed up and shat out by the Raiders.
My whine began around halftime, and 11-year-old surliness took over midway through the third quarter. Before I understood the accepted means to deal with sport disappointment was to hurl inanimate objects at walls, such as TV remotes, combs, wireless phones, and cats, throwing hissy fits was my best defense mechanism (some would say it still is, just ask Wife).
I remember this game not for how shitty the Chargers played that night, but because of the lesson I learned when I told Pop I didn’t have the cash. It was kinda after-school specialish, but the old guy said a man is only as strong as his word. If you say you’re going to pay, well, back up the words with your actions. He let me skate without handing over the five bones, but he made sure I knew welching on bets will have serious consequences in the future – just because I’m kin, he said, didn’t mean Uncle Louie wouldn’t pay me a visit – his Steve Garvey model Louisville Slugger in tow - for skipping out on making good on a bet.
Words to live by, I guess.
Tonight, I was going to show him, though. My Chargers were going to roll through his Raiders like they seasoned in lambs’ blood and tossed into a wolfs' den.
But it was the Bolts who were chewed up and shat out by the Raiders.
My whine began around halftime, and 11-year-old surliness took over midway through the third quarter. Before I understood the accepted means to deal with sport disappointment was to hurl inanimate objects at walls, such as TV remotes, combs, wireless phones, and cats, throwing hissy fits was my best defense mechanism (some would say it still is, just ask Wife).
I remember this game not for how shitty the Chargers played that night, but because of the lesson I learned when I told Pop I didn’t have the cash. It was kinda after-school specialish, but the old guy said a man is only as strong as his word. If you say you’re going to pay, well, back up the words with your actions. He let me skate without handing over the five bones, but he made sure I knew welching on bets will have serious consequences in the future – just because I’m kin, he said, didn’t mean Uncle Louie wouldn’t pay me a visit – his Steve Garvey model Louisville Slugger in tow - for skipping out on making good on a bet.
Words to live by, I guess.
Tomorrow, a tale about a running back I knew as LT.
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