Last week was my stepson’s final week of school prior to the start of winter break, and he managed to be in attendance for about an hour of it. He was sent home in his dad’s care Monday morning after having vomited, and he was kept out of school the following day as well. Upon picking him up from his dad’s house Tuesday night, he told me he was feeling well. He hadn’t vomited since the previous morning, felt okay overall, and he even wanted to ask a neighbor friend to play outside together that evening.
I knew that was inappropriate and kept him indoors. And that was a good thing. At dinner, Dom unexpectedly mentioned that it hurt him to swallow everything except his drink, and he sounded like someone who’d been stuffed up for weeks.
Well, it turns out that he might be laid up for weeks.
I took a vacation day (all out of personal/sick days so late in the year) on Wednesday to take him to the doctor and attempt to relax as much as possible, but the doctor’s diagnosis didn’t help that.
Mononucleosis. No shit.
The good news is that mono is rarely transmitted to younger kids. In fact, it’s plenty rare in Dom’s age bracket as well. But it happens to be quite infrequent with kids the age of mine (two and almost four), and adults are fairly immune to it as well. Yeah, so that’s the good news.
The bad news is that a third-grader who usually walks around with a chip on his shoulder is doing so even more now. Sure, I want to feel sorry for him, but it’s not easy. He still doesn’t listen worth a shit, which sucks real bad with someone you’re trying to keep relatively quarantined. He still often carries himself and speaks with the attitude of a 12-year-old girl rather than an almost-nine-year-old boy.
And he literally fucking stinks.
I don’t know if it’s the mono-causing virus, but something’s making the kid fucking reek. I mean he smells up a whole room. I don’t know if it’s coming out of his pores or if it’s coming from his mouth, but I’m not going to take a deep breath close enough to figure it out. I have seriously never smelled anything quite like it, and I don’t care to come across it ever again. The doctor says the symptoms could last a little over a week or over two months. Luckily, they already seem to have started to subside just seven days after the diagnosis. Hopefully that means the stench of death will soon fade too.
Go ahead, call me fucking heartless.
Here’s some other stuff that stinks, too, just not literally.
Today is my last day of work until after the calendar turns. I’ll actually have 11 days off in a row, which sounds like a pretty good deal. But, realistically, how much rest will I get? It is the holidays after all. And that’s always turns into a clusterfuck, especially with the usual heavy dose of in-law drama.
Part I: No one wants to hang out with my mother-in-law, but everyone wants to know what she’s doing, where she’s going to be, etc. My wife's family is always talking about her, and I always went them to just shut the fuck up about her. She treats you like shit and doesn’t give you the time of day; return the fucking favor. But, against my wishes, she always gets invited to our house one night in late December. She usually never even responds to the invitation though. That’s clearly fine with me.
Of course, this year she not only says she may come over, she also says we could come over to her place on one of a couple nights over the next week or so. I think that’s the first time we’ve been invited to join my wife’s mother’s side of the family for a holiday occasion since Easter 2008.
My fingers are firmly crossed hoping it will fall through.
Part II: The day after Christmas, my brother-in-law arrives in town for his annual holiday visit. This year, he’s been invited to stay with us since we now have room for guests. He and his girlfriend are staying for an entire freaking week … along with their dog.
Now I love dogs, a far cry from the Steve of old, but I still don’t think this is a good idea. I, of course, had no input in the decision.
My wife says Jet is a very well-behaved dog, and he’s perfectly crate-trained. So when we’re all gone, he’ll be fine down in the basement in his little private kennel. Well great for him, but 1) what happens when we are here and he has a full run of the house? And 2) what about our little 13-pound dog who isn’t crate-trained and is used to having a free run of the house in our absence? My guess is that she’ll be all over the basement door the whole time, scratching and yapping while enjoying the fresh scent of a foreign dog’s asshole floating around from upstairs.
Yes, this certainly has the makings of an another holiday clusterfuck. Though I may have plenty of stories to tell over the next two weeks, the amount of true rest and relaxation that I enjoy remains to be seen.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Appetite for Dysfunction
It wasn’t too long ago, maybe four or five years, when my stepson’s dad hated me. Yeah, we’re told from an early age not to use the word ‘hate’ because it’s such a strong word; but trust me when I say it could certainly be used in this case.
I mean the guy basically told my wife, who was then just my girlfriend, that he wanted to kill me. He actually once told my wife after they’d broken up that if she ever became pregnant with another man’s baby, he’d kick her in the abdomen until there was no more living thing in there.
And I thought I didn’t handle rejection very well.
It was those kinds of comments that made me on several occasions tell my wife that I was going to smash his head through a wall. (I don’t know why, but that always seemed like the thing to do, grabbing him by the back of the head and just driving his head through some sheet rock.) To avoid complication, and perhaps some actual physical violence, my fair lady advised me not to be around when there was any exchange of Dominic. I usually complied for the sake of simplicity, while also acknowledging the absurdity of this aspect of our life together.
Fast forward to 2009, when somehow the guy is now a truly reliable friend of the family. At some point in the recent past, he figured out that he didn’t want to go down the path of the enemy. He realized that he should embrace those who love his son and treat them with the respect his son receives.
Sadly, I think it was the death of his mother that ultimately made him change his philosophy. He was openly remorseful about the ways he’d acted in the past. For all intents and purposes, he declared himself a new man.
That new man helped move us into our new house this fall, he takes Dominic to and from school everyday, and he fairly regularly brings beer when he has reason to show up at our house.
One of those random occasions was last week. After one of many recent trying days in my stress-filled life, the night was pleasantly capped by drinking about a half dozen beers with the man who was once my Lex Luthor.
I’d have never guessed five years ago that this would be the case.
And, sure, it’s plenty weird, in part because my wife always feels the need to freshen up her makeup before he arrives. But I consider the alternative, the Old Sal, as my wife sometimes says. This is much better. Especially the free beer.
But it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s normal … not that much else in my life seems to be either.
And a little more about dysfunction:
Wanting to hold a baby is one thing, but volunteering to shove something up his tailpipe? My wife’s a proverbial nurturer, and she should be since she’s a childcare provider. But this shit with my nephew is getting a bit overboard. She had to stop at her brother’s place last night to give the kid a suppository. Right, no one wants to do that; it’s an exit, not a point of entry. But when it’s needed, a parent fucking does it. Well, not in that family, I guess. For all I know, they can’t even change a god damn diaper on their own.
I also find it a little odd that every time we’re around the kid my wife goes way out of her way to reinforce how cute the kid is.
“Isn’t he cute, Steve?”
“Didn’t I tell you he was cute, Steve?
I’m sorry, but when that kind of stuff is said repeatedly in the presence of a kid’s parents, it seems an awful lot like just trying to justify it for them. Translations:
Aloud: “Isn’t he cute, Steve?”
Translation: “Come on, Steve, tell them you think he’s cute too.”
Aloud: “Didn’t I tell you he was cute, Steve?”
Translation: “I swear, I do think he’s cute, and I brag about him!”
Merry Christmas to you, too, A-hole. My mom is a Christmas list Nazi. She wants detailed lists from everyone in the family, adults and children alike, and we’re hounded until we provide them. These lists are usually provided via email, broadcast to all family members who celebrate the holidays together. This includes my mom and dad, my two brothers, myself, my wife, my sister-in-law and my aunt. So you might expect these exchanges to be innocuous. Well, not always.
One of my brothers had the dubious distinction of being the last to submit his wish list this past weekend, and among those items listed was a gift card to Banana Republic. This prompted the following comment from my other brother:
“Don’t a lot of gay guys shop at Banana Republic?”
The response, which went out to the entire group:
“Gay guys who get a lot of pussy, mother fucker.”
Yeah, that was received by his wife, my wife, our mother, father and aunt. Classy!
Shortly thereafter, a text from one brother to the other served as a reminder that the email went out to the whole group, suggesting an apology may be in order to the ladies. Brother #2’s response:
“I apologize for nothing.”
I love my freaking family.
I mean the guy basically told my wife, who was then just my girlfriend, that he wanted to kill me. He actually once told my wife after they’d broken up that if she ever became pregnant with another man’s baby, he’d kick her in the abdomen until there was no more living thing in there.
And I thought I didn’t handle rejection very well.
It was those kinds of comments that made me on several occasions tell my wife that I was going to smash his head through a wall. (I don’t know why, but that always seemed like the thing to do, grabbing him by the back of the head and just driving his head through some sheet rock.) To avoid complication, and perhaps some actual physical violence, my fair lady advised me not to be around when there was any exchange of Dominic. I usually complied for the sake of simplicity, while also acknowledging the absurdity of this aspect of our life together.
Fast forward to 2009, when somehow the guy is now a truly reliable friend of the family. At some point in the recent past, he figured out that he didn’t want to go down the path of the enemy. He realized that he should embrace those who love his son and treat them with the respect his son receives.
Sadly, I think it was the death of his mother that ultimately made him change his philosophy. He was openly remorseful about the ways he’d acted in the past. For all intents and purposes, he declared himself a new man.
That new man helped move us into our new house this fall, he takes Dominic to and from school everyday, and he fairly regularly brings beer when he has reason to show up at our house.
One of those random occasions was last week. After one of many recent trying days in my stress-filled life, the night was pleasantly capped by drinking about a half dozen beers with the man who was once my Lex Luthor.
I’d have never guessed five years ago that this would be the case.
And, sure, it’s plenty weird, in part because my wife always feels the need to freshen up her makeup before he arrives. But I consider the alternative, the Old Sal, as my wife sometimes says. This is much better. Especially the free beer.
But it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s normal … not that much else in my life seems to be either.
And a little more about dysfunction:
Wanting to hold a baby is one thing, but volunteering to shove something up his tailpipe? My wife’s a proverbial nurturer, and she should be since she’s a childcare provider. But this shit with my nephew is getting a bit overboard. She had to stop at her brother’s place last night to give the kid a suppository. Right, no one wants to do that; it’s an exit, not a point of entry. But when it’s needed, a parent fucking does it. Well, not in that family, I guess. For all I know, they can’t even change a god damn diaper on their own.
I also find it a little odd that every time we’re around the kid my wife goes way out of her way to reinforce how cute the kid is.
“Isn’t he cute, Steve?”
“Didn’t I tell you he was cute, Steve?
I’m sorry, but when that kind of stuff is said repeatedly in the presence of a kid’s parents, it seems an awful lot like just trying to justify it for them. Translations:
Aloud: “Isn’t he cute, Steve?”
Translation: “Come on, Steve, tell them you think he’s cute too.”
Aloud: “Didn’t I tell you he was cute, Steve?”
Translation: “I swear, I do think he’s cute, and I brag about him!”
Merry Christmas to you, too, A-hole. My mom is a Christmas list Nazi. She wants detailed lists from everyone in the family, adults and children alike, and we’re hounded until we provide them. These lists are usually provided via email, broadcast to all family members who celebrate the holidays together. This includes my mom and dad, my two brothers, myself, my wife, my sister-in-law and my aunt. So you might expect these exchanges to be innocuous. Well, not always.
One of my brothers had the dubious distinction of being the last to submit his wish list this past weekend, and among those items listed was a gift card to Banana Republic. This prompted the following comment from my other brother:
“Don’t a lot of gay guys shop at Banana Republic?”
The response, which went out to the entire group:
“Gay guys who get a lot of pussy, mother fucker.”
Yeah, that was received by his wife, my wife, our mother, father and aunt. Classy!
Shortly thereafter, a text from one brother to the other served as a reminder that the email went out to the whole group, suggesting an apology may be in order to the ladies. Brother #2’s response:
“I apologize for nothing.”
I love my freaking family.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Observations from a Grinch
Note that I say a Grinch, not the Grinch. There are surely a lot of other people out there who are more anti-holiday than I am. My overall lack of spirit is more due to a combination of indifference, annoyance and realism. It's not driven by true hatred or distaste, although I do have plenty of that reserved for other things in life.
That said, I understand when there's a need to come through with a little cheer. Last Thursday would be a good example.
We were due to attend my stepson’s holiday music program at his school. This was especially important to Dominic, who loves to belt out his vocals. Sure, I give him a hard time occasionally about how it’s relatively gay, but I do prefer that he’s happy. This, singing in a school program, clearly was going to make him happy. So he promoted his upcoming music program pretty aggressively as it approached.
Predictably, it didn’t all go as planned.
Among those expected to attend, my parents backed out Thursday afternoon seemingly due to my dad’s full-day hangover. Likewise, my father-in-law also informed us he wasn’t going to be in attendance. His excuse, well, sounded an awful lot like he simply forgot, then he stumbled while telling us about something work-related that had apparently come up.
The final straw, however, came just minutes before heading out the door that evening. We came downstairs to find Dominic in tears. His dad, who had arrived a few minutes earlier with plans to follow us to the school, left and told Dominic he wasn't going to the program. This officially had all the makings of a train wreck.
Our trip to the school was understandably tense, with my wife leaving several inflammatory voicemails on Dominic's dad's phone. The tension was spread around too. It was apparently partially my fault that we were late because I didn’t help enough, not with finding clothes, getting the diaper bag ready, etc. It was also clearly part Dominic's fault because he lied about what he was supposed to wear (either that or he's an even worse listener than I thought. A light-colored shirt and shorts for a winter holiday program. What the fuck? My wife actually called a neighbor to confirm the correct and more formal attire that we’d expected).
But that didn’t really matter. What did matter was that Dominic’s big night was going to be a big turd.
After just a few songs, he clearly wasn’t feeling it. I pointed out to my wife that it looked like Dominic wasn’t giving it his all. She thought that was a good thing because it meant he wasn’t being flamboyant in a Disney Channel girl type of way. But, as I pointed out, “No, I mean you can tell his heart isn’t in it.” That made my wife sad, and even me a little too.
Luckily, there was a late rally. Dominic’s dad showed up after all, and maybe it was because Dominic noticed him that his demeanor on the stage changed. He was all smiles for the second half of the program, and by the time it was over he was ready to relive all of his favorite songs and favorite moments.
Good for him. Even a Grinch can appreciate that … although it should be noted that Dominic has since reproduced the entire program – all eight songs – on three separate occasions for those who weren’t able to attend the show. So I’m officially done with this aspect of my holiday spirit.
As you might guess, I have some other thoughts as well.
Political correctness reigns. What was Dominic’s favorite song in his program? “Oh Hanukkah.” He loves it and still sings it around the house. During its actual performance in the program, the opening notes sounded straight out of “Fiddler on the Roof” and it did seem pretty jolly. Nice clever beat. Keep in mind, of course, that there was a Kwanzaa song and a Mexican Christmas song in the program too. It’s great that everything was so balanced, despite the fact that 90% of the kids on stage appeared to have blond hair and blue eyes.
Welcome to December. It’s supposed to be fucking cold. If it’s two degrees outside, you can complain about it being cold. If it’s in the 20s or 30s, don’t complain unless it’s April through September. Get the hell over it. Also, it’s not an “event” when it fucking snows. If it snows a whole hell of a lot, perhaps a foot or more, maybe you can call it an event. Otherwise, it’s weather. It’s the type of weather we’re supposed to get, for Christ’s sake.
I have a defective cranium. As has become tradition over the past couple of years, my boss hosted myself and my fellow team members along with our spouses this weekend for a holiday dinner. Just like last year, it also involved a fair amount of alcohol and a friendly board game. Perhaps it was a problem that I'd already had a steady flow of beer since noon, seeing as my Fighting Illini played at 11:30. So by the time we arrived close to 5:00, I was probably already in a place that most people didn't reach by the end of the night. Add to that the fact that I'm really competitive and a really sore loser, and you have the makings of an at-times unpleasant game of Cranium. That includes me cursing the rules, cursing my opponents and cursing my teammates.
‘Tis the season to make an ass of oneself, no?
That said, I understand when there's a need to come through with a little cheer. Last Thursday would be a good example.
We were due to attend my stepson’s holiday music program at his school. This was especially important to Dominic, who loves to belt out his vocals. Sure, I give him a hard time occasionally about how it’s relatively gay, but I do prefer that he’s happy. This, singing in a school program, clearly was going to make him happy. So he promoted his upcoming music program pretty aggressively as it approached.
Predictably, it didn’t all go as planned.
Among those expected to attend, my parents backed out Thursday afternoon seemingly due to my dad’s full-day hangover. Likewise, my father-in-law also informed us he wasn’t going to be in attendance. His excuse, well, sounded an awful lot like he simply forgot, then he stumbled while telling us about something work-related that had apparently come up.
The final straw, however, came just minutes before heading out the door that evening. We came downstairs to find Dominic in tears. His dad, who had arrived a few minutes earlier with plans to follow us to the school, left and told Dominic he wasn't going to the program. This officially had all the makings of a train wreck.
Our trip to the school was understandably tense, with my wife leaving several inflammatory voicemails on Dominic's dad's phone. The tension was spread around too. It was apparently partially my fault that we were late because I didn’t help enough, not with finding clothes, getting the diaper bag ready, etc. It was also clearly part Dominic's fault because he lied about what he was supposed to wear (either that or he's an even worse listener than I thought. A light-colored shirt and shorts for a winter holiday program. What the fuck? My wife actually called a neighbor to confirm the correct and more formal attire that we’d expected).
But that didn’t really matter. What did matter was that Dominic’s big night was going to be a big turd.
After just a few songs, he clearly wasn’t feeling it. I pointed out to my wife that it looked like Dominic wasn’t giving it his all. She thought that was a good thing because it meant he wasn’t being flamboyant in a Disney Channel girl type of way. But, as I pointed out, “No, I mean you can tell his heart isn’t in it.” That made my wife sad, and even me a little too.
Luckily, there was a late rally. Dominic’s dad showed up after all, and maybe it was because Dominic noticed him that his demeanor on the stage changed. He was all smiles for the second half of the program, and by the time it was over he was ready to relive all of his favorite songs and favorite moments.
Good for him. Even a Grinch can appreciate that … although it should be noted that Dominic has since reproduced the entire program – all eight songs – on three separate occasions for those who weren’t able to attend the show. So I’m officially done with this aspect of my holiday spirit.
As you might guess, I have some other thoughts as well.
Political correctness reigns. What was Dominic’s favorite song in his program? “Oh Hanukkah.” He loves it and still sings it around the house. During its actual performance in the program, the opening notes sounded straight out of “Fiddler on the Roof” and it did seem pretty jolly. Nice clever beat. Keep in mind, of course, that there was a Kwanzaa song and a Mexican Christmas song in the program too. It’s great that everything was so balanced, despite the fact that 90% of the kids on stage appeared to have blond hair and blue eyes.
Welcome to December. It’s supposed to be fucking cold. If it’s two degrees outside, you can complain about it being cold. If it’s in the 20s or 30s, don’t complain unless it’s April through September. Get the hell over it. Also, it’s not an “event” when it fucking snows. If it snows a whole hell of a lot, perhaps a foot or more, maybe you can call it an event. Otherwise, it’s weather. It’s the type of weather we’re supposed to get, for Christ’s sake.
I have a defective cranium. As has become tradition over the past couple of years, my boss hosted myself and my fellow team members along with our spouses this weekend for a holiday dinner. Just like last year, it also involved a fair amount of alcohol and a friendly board game. Perhaps it was a problem that I'd already had a steady flow of beer since noon, seeing as my Fighting Illini played at 11:30. So by the time we arrived close to 5:00, I was probably already in a place that most people didn't reach by the end of the night. Add to that the fact that I'm really competitive and a really sore loser, and you have the makings of an at-times unpleasant game of Cranium. That includes me cursing the rules, cursing my opponents and cursing my teammates.
‘Tis the season to make an ass of oneself, no?
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Half-full or Half-Empty? Thankful or Not?
I've never been accused of being optimistic. I've said that to my wife many times, along with such similar unpopular statements as "I've never been accused of being fun" and "I've never been accused of being romantic."
Trust me, those are real fucking winners in the eyes of a woman.
Whatever.
Anyway, it's no mystery to those who know me that I'm rarely going to sugarcoat things. Case in point recently when I questioned a communication strategy at work and my boss said, "Steve, the glass is half full."
Now that's one of my least favorite expressions. Honestly, regardless of which way it's interpreted, there's a flaw. I don't see how it's reasonable for someone to look at a glass and say, "Wow, it's half-full! That's great!" Pardon me, but that sucks. Seriously, how could you not look at that and think, "Why the fuck is it only filled halfway? That's retarded."
Sorry, but that's reality. And excuse me for being a fucking realist.
Enter Thanksgiving, a day on which we're basically supposed to ignore all flaws and be thankful for all that we have. I have no problem appreciating my wife, children, job, etc.; but that doesn't mean that all of life's other problems have disappeared. It's just not in my personality to pretend those things don't exist, and I'm at a point in my life when there are a lot of plenty of other things on my mind.
With two of my own kids and a stepson, plus the recent addition of a second house payment and double the utilities, cable, etc., I don't think it's unfair for me to be more concerned with my day-in day-out responsibilities rather than taking time out to honor the people/things I already recognize each day. Trust me, while I'm not a religious and prayer kind of guy, I think about my many blessings everyday, and that includes my parents, my siblings, my wife, my children and my belongings. Please don't try to tell me when I might need to truly acknowledge them. Instead, please just give me a chance to relax.
It's probably not difficult to imagine that I have a few other Thanksgiving-related thoughts to share. Here are a few:
Can someone really be referred to as a Grinch prior to Thanksgiving? Maybe this is more of an indictment of our society and the way it identifies "The Holiday Season." (Thanks to my good friend Nick for helping me realize this.) Because the so-called Holiday Season revolves around shopping and because holiday shopping revolves around the so-called Black Friday that follows Thanksgiving and the many days of hype that lead to it, I suppose it's okay for people to interpret the attitudes of their peers and family members before the last Thursday in November. My wife apparently had no qualms in doing so early last week as she spread holiday cheer and decorations throughout our house, much to the obvious delight of our children and to the palpable indifference of yours truly. (Please see the paragraphs above should you need further explanation.) After placing a very small plug-in Christmas tree in our basement, the part of our house that might be known by the terrible title of 'man cave', my wife told my stepson that "even the Grinch needs a tree." Again, pardon me for not needing to be told when and how to celebrate things.
Consider this chain of events on a Thanksgiving weekend for a sports fanatic who also had to work on the month's final Friday: Illinois football pummelled Friday afternoon, Illinois basketball losing in heart-breaking fashion Friday night to an inferior opponent, followed by another hoops loss the following night to an in-state non-BCS school, capped by a Chicago Bears' blowout loss to hated divisional opponent Minnesota, who happens to be led by longtime hated quarterback Brett Favre. Sorry, but at the age of 32 I still don't have the capacity to handle all of that negativity like a true adult.
And here's how I contributed to Thanksgiving this year. My wife is the kind of person who insists on bringing something to contribute to a holiday celebration that's being held outside of our own home. This year, I enjoyed her choice of bringing a large jug of warm apple cider. Very seasonal. I was the first to indulge once we'd arrived at my parents' house, and as wonderful as it smelled while being warmed on our stove top, it tasted even better when mixed with a great cognac like Courvosier. My father and brother followed by pouring their own, and I'm pretty sure they were happy to have such an option to warm their souls.
So passed Thanksgiving 2009.
Trust me, those are real fucking winners in the eyes of a woman.
Whatever.
Anyway, it's no mystery to those who know me that I'm rarely going to sugarcoat things. Case in point recently when I questioned a communication strategy at work and my boss said, "Steve, the glass is half full."
Now that's one of my least favorite expressions. Honestly, regardless of which way it's interpreted, there's a flaw. I don't see how it's reasonable for someone to look at a glass and say, "Wow, it's half-full! That's great!" Pardon me, but that sucks. Seriously, how could you not look at that and think, "Why the fuck is it only filled halfway? That's retarded."
Sorry, but that's reality. And excuse me for being a fucking realist.
Enter Thanksgiving, a day on which we're basically supposed to ignore all flaws and be thankful for all that we have. I have no problem appreciating my wife, children, job, etc.; but that doesn't mean that all of life's other problems have disappeared. It's just not in my personality to pretend those things don't exist, and I'm at a point in my life when there are a lot of plenty of other things on my mind.
With two of my own kids and a stepson, plus the recent addition of a second house payment and double the utilities, cable, etc., I don't think it's unfair for me to be more concerned with my day-in day-out responsibilities rather than taking time out to honor the people/things I already recognize each day. Trust me, while I'm not a religious and prayer kind of guy, I think about my many blessings everyday, and that includes my parents, my siblings, my wife, my children and my belongings. Please don't try to tell me when I might need to truly acknowledge them. Instead, please just give me a chance to relax.
It's probably not difficult to imagine that I have a few other Thanksgiving-related thoughts to share. Here are a few:
Can someone really be referred to as a Grinch prior to Thanksgiving? Maybe this is more of an indictment of our society and the way it identifies "The Holiday Season." (Thanks to my good friend Nick for helping me realize this.) Because the so-called Holiday Season revolves around shopping and because holiday shopping revolves around the so-called Black Friday that follows Thanksgiving and the many days of hype that lead to it, I suppose it's okay for people to interpret the attitudes of their peers and family members before the last Thursday in November. My wife apparently had no qualms in doing so early last week as she spread holiday cheer and decorations throughout our house, much to the obvious delight of our children and to the palpable indifference of yours truly. (Please see the paragraphs above should you need further explanation.) After placing a very small plug-in Christmas tree in our basement, the part of our house that might be known by the terrible title of 'man cave', my wife told my stepson that "even the Grinch needs a tree." Again, pardon me for not needing to be told when and how to celebrate things.
Consider this chain of events on a Thanksgiving weekend for a sports fanatic who also had to work on the month's final Friday: Illinois football pummelled Friday afternoon, Illinois basketball losing in heart-breaking fashion Friday night to an inferior opponent, followed by another hoops loss the following night to an in-state non-BCS school, capped by a Chicago Bears' blowout loss to hated divisional opponent Minnesota, who happens to be led by longtime hated quarterback Brett Favre. Sorry, but at the age of 32 I still don't have the capacity to handle all of that negativity like a true adult.
And here's how I contributed to Thanksgiving this year. My wife is the kind of person who insists on bringing something to contribute to a holiday celebration that's being held outside of our own home. This year, I enjoyed her choice of bringing a large jug of warm apple cider. Very seasonal. I was the first to indulge once we'd arrived at my parents' house, and as wonderful as it smelled while being warmed on our stove top, it tasted even better when mixed with a great cognac like Courvosier. My father and brother followed by pouring their own, and I'm pretty sure they were happy to have such an option to warm their souls.
So passed Thanksgiving 2009.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
"That's How You Become Great, Man. Hang Your Balls Out There."
So said the copy shop clerk said to Jerry Maguire as the two admired the final printed copies of Jerry's mission statement. That move, of course, was a defining moment in the protagonist's life, briefly putting him on top of the world, then quickly sinking him near rock bottom, before he rode the coattails of a mouthy, undersized wide receiver with ungodly numbers. (Seriously, the season before Rod Tidwell and Jerry got low-balled with a three-year contract offer worth less than $2 million, Rod caught 110 balls for 1550 yards. At least that's what we were told on the eve of the NFL Draft as Jerry paraded his client before the likes of Mike Tirico and Mel Kiper. Just one season like that these days and you'll easily get eight figures in guaranteed money in your next deal.)
I'd like to believe that my ability to craft words together makes it possible that I could create a published work like Jerry's mission statement that would inspire many ... and/or create enough backlash to prompt my own termination. But up until now I haven't chosen to do so. I'm about is conservative as they come, so I'm not the kind of guy who's likely to take a big risk or hang my balls on the line.
Well, that's kind of changed now. And while it has nothing to do with my professional career or anything that I've written, I have taken a somewhat-risky leap with my family. As of October, we now pay two house payments. And two utility bills. And two water bills. Etc.
After several months of building her case, my wife finally convinced me to get on board with her ambitious business plan. According to this plan, our existing home would be used strictly for my wife's daycare business. Without being filled with our personal belongings -- i.e. beds, dressers, kitchen table, living room furniture -- there'd be more room for kids' stuff and more room for more kids. I didn't believe it the first dozen or so times my wife crunched the numbers for me, but I became a believer after I did the math myself a few times. Getting a new license to expand the daycare would allow several more kids to attend the daycare, and even having to pay for a part-time employee to help out, there would be enough extra money to justify paying for our own separate place to live.
Yeah, it would be really tight at the start, considering we'd have to put money down on a new place and try to set a little aside to buy some new things to help fill the new house and some extra kids' stuff for the soon-to-be expanded daycare. But what the hell? I decided to hang my balls out there a little. Especially over the long-term, this seemed like a pretty good business opportunity. Besides, we really needed the extra space for our family, and there are always parents in need of daycare. Our cozy little 1200 square-foot house makes a perfect little private daycare. And, in the meantime, our new 2300 square-foot place gives us a significant and necessary amount of breathing room.
So you wonder why I've been a little less consisent as a blogger lately? Here it is. I've been shitting my pants every step of the way these last couple of months, closely monitoring incoming and outgoing funds, doing my best to help maintain two houses and trying hard to keep my sanity.
I'm stretched fucking thin, man.
And anyone who reads this surely knows how seriously I take sports. So consider that all of this happened as the Cubs were winding down a horribly disappointing season, as my alma mater began what has turned out to be a horribly disappointing football season, and as the Bears have whipped up and down on their own roller coaster 2009 journey. Fuck, college hoops season is now here, and I don't know how I'll have capacity to give it the energy it deserves. (Don't worry, I'll find a way.)
As the holidays arrive, I'd argue that 'tis not necessarily the season to be jolly. It is, of course, a time to be thankful. But this year, at least for me, it's also a season to just hang on tight. That's what I've been trying to do lately, and it probably isn't going to get any easier for a couple of months. Anyone else have trouble laying down a hard line Christmas budget with the wife? A budget that's less than previous years despite having children with increased expectations? Not an easy sell.
I've made my concessions, and I'll continue to do so. Drinking a quality value gin rather than a top brand ($9 for 750ml of Gordon's vs. $20 for Bombay Sapphire. You didn't think I'd quit altogether, did you?); choosing to only partially furnish my new so-called "man cave" of a finished basement. Small sacrifices, especially in the short term.
But, in case anyone wants to throw me a Christmas gift, I'll take some fucking cash.
A few other notes about the new house and our relocation:
It took less than a day before my youngest son fell down the stairs. It wasn’t actually a full flight of stairs, but it was enough. He tumbled down three steps and did a full roll before popping his head against the wall. This literally happened as we were doing the final walk-through. We technically hadn’t even gotten the keys yet.
It took two days before my wife officially fell in love with our neighborhood. On a mild October Saturday, the street and cul-de-sac quickly filled with children scattered on bikes and parents conversing in their driveways. I don’t have the same hard-on for this kind of stuff; I spent most of the time watching football inside. But it was a great start for my wife and the kids. And as long as they’re happy, I’m happy. Usually.
It took about a month before I woke up drunk in a random room within the house. This actually happened in the early morning hours of the day of our housewarming party. It was about 4:00, and I woke up face down in my son’s bedroom. Not sure how or when I got there. But consider the house warmed, I guess.
I'd like to believe that my ability to craft words together makes it possible that I could create a published work like Jerry's mission statement that would inspire many ... and/or create enough backlash to prompt my own termination. But up until now I haven't chosen to do so. I'm about is conservative as they come, so I'm not the kind of guy who's likely to take a big risk or hang my balls on the line.
Well, that's kind of changed now. And while it has nothing to do with my professional career or anything that I've written, I have taken a somewhat-risky leap with my family. As of October, we now pay two house payments. And two utility bills. And two water bills. Etc.
After several months of building her case, my wife finally convinced me to get on board with her ambitious business plan. According to this plan, our existing home would be used strictly for my wife's daycare business. Without being filled with our personal belongings -- i.e. beds, dressers, kitchen table, living room furniture -- there'd be more room for kids' stuff and more room for more kids. I didn't believe it the first dozen or so times my wife crunched the numbers for me, but I became a believer after I did the math myself a few times. Getting a new license to expand the daycare would allow several more kids to attend the daycare, and even having to pay for a part-time employee to help out, there would be enough extra money to justify paying for our own separate place to live.
Yeah, it would be really tight at the start, considering we'd have to put money down on a new place and try to set a little aside to buy some new things to help fill the new house and some extra kids' stuff for the soon-to-be expanded daycare. But what the hell? I decided to hang my balls out there a little. Especially over the long-term, this seemed like a pretty good business opportunity. Besides, we really needed the extra space for our family, and there are always parents in need of daycare. Our cozy little 1200 square-foot house makes a perfect little private daycare. And, in the meantime, our new 2300 square-foot place gives us a significant and necessary amount of breathing room.
So you wonder why I've been a little less consisent as a blogger lately? Here it is. I've been shitting my pants every step of the way these last couple of months, closely monitoring incoming and outgoing funds, doing my best to help maintain two houses and trying hard to keep my sanity.
I'm stretched fucking thin, man.
And anyone who reads this surely knows how seriously I take sports. So consider that all of this happened as the Cubs were winding down a horribly disappointing season, as my alma mater began what has turned out to be a horribly disappointing football season, and as the Bears have whipped up and down on their own roller coaster 2009 journey. Fuck, college hoops season is now here, and I don't know how I'll have capacity to give it the energy it deserves. (Don't worry, I'll find a way.)
As the holidays arrive, I'd argue that 'tis not necessarily the season to be jolly. It is, of course, a time to be thankful. But this year, at least for me, it's also a season to just hang on tight. That's what I've been trying to do lately, and it probably isn't going to get any easier for a couple of months. Anyone else have trouble laying down a hard line Christmas budget with the wife? A budget that's less than previous years despite having children with increased expectations? Not an easy sell.
I've made my concessions, and I'll continue to do so. Drinking a quality value gin rather than a top brand ($9 for 750ml of Gordon's vs. $20 for Bombay Sapphire. You didn't think I'd quit altogether, did you?); choosing to only partially furnish my new so-called "man cave" of a finished basement. Small sacrifices, especially in the short term.
But, in case anyone wants to throw me a Christmas gift, I'll take some fucking cash.
A few other notes about the new house and our relocation:
It took less than a day before my youngest son fell down the stairs. It wasn’t actually a full flight of stairs, but it was enough. He tumbled down three steps and did a full roll before popping his head against the wall. This literally happened as we were doing the final walk-through. We technically hadn’t even gotten the keys yet.
It took two days before my wife officially fell in love with our neighborhood. On a mild October Saturday, the street and cul-de-sac quickly filled with children scattered on bikes and parents conversing in their driveways. I don’t have the same hard-on for this kind of stuff; I spent most of the time watching football inside. But it was a great start for my wife and the kids. And as long as they’re happy, I’m happy. Usually.
It took about a month before I woke up drunk in a random room within the house. This actually happened in the early morning hours of the day of our housewarming party. It was about 4:00, and I woke up face down in my son’s bedroom. Not sure how or when I got there. But consider the house warmed, I guess.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Let Me Tell You a Little Something About Spirit
Today is College Spirit Day at my stepson's school. And while most of the little homos will likely be running around wearing Kansas, Kansas State or Missouri apparel, my almost-nine-year-old will be in his Juice Williams jersey.
Of course, we all know that this has nothing to do with the children; rather it's about the kids' parents and their college affiliations. It's kind of like the mock elections held at elementary schools across the country every four years as a U.S. Presidential election nears. "The kids choose Obama!" Like they've studied the fucking issues. It's much more of a measure of how their parents have rubbed off on them. Likewise, try asking Dominic what he thinks about Ron Zook coming back next year to lead to 2010 Illini. And does he think Jacob Charest should be the starting QB heading into next year? He's likely to respond to those questions with the same kind of reaction I get when trying to help explain his homework. Perhaps like all third-graders, he doesn't care what the right answers are, and he doesn't give a shit how we've gotten to them.
But I do have to wonder if there are any teachers at Horizon Elementary who spot that orange #7 jersey today and think, "Shit, that kid's dad is having a rough season." Surely I'm not the only person who thinks that way. I just can't believe how passive some people are about sports, especially with college affiliations. My father-in-law, for example, can't understand why I get so freaking pissed when he sends me texts after Iowa Hawkeyes victories, updating me on their record and including an obligatory "Go Hawks!" Luckily, I haven't had to see one of those gut-wrenching messages in a few weeks. For the same reason he sends those messages, he should easily understand why I fucking loathe receiving them: Because I don't want his god damn school to win!
That's what spirit is about, having your kids wear your school colors and looking at people who wear your enemy's colors and telling them to go fuck themselves (although it's usually unspoken). No smiles and wishes of good luck. I wish ill will upon my enemies.
And, by the way, Dominic had absolutely no say in what he wore to school today.
Of course, we all know that this has nothing to do with the children; rather it's about the kids' parents and their college affiliations. It's kind of like the mock elections held at elementary schools across the country every four years as a U.S. Presidential election nears. "The kids choose Obama!" Like they've studied the fucking issues. It's much more of a measure of how their parents have rubbed off on them. Likewise, try asking Dominic what he thinks about Ron Zook coming back next year to lead to 2010 Illini. And does he think Jacob Charest should be the starting QB heading into next year? He's likely to respond to those questions with the same kind of reaction I get when trying to help explain his homework. Perhaps like all third-graders, he doesn't care what the right answers are, and he doesn't give a shit how we've gotten to them.
But I do have to wonder if there are any teachers at Horizon Elementary who spot that orange #7 jersey today and think, "Shit, that kid's dad is having a rough season." Surely I'm not the only person who thinks that way. I just can't believe how passive some people are about sports, especially with college affiliations. My father-in-law, for example, can't understand why I get so freaking pissed when he sends me texts after Iowa Hawkeyes victories, updating me on their record and including an obligatory "Go Hawks!" Luckily, I haven't had to see one of those gut-wrenching messages in a few weeks. For the same reason he sends those messages, he should easily understand why I fucking loathe receiving them: Because I don't want his god damn school to win!
That's what spirit is about, having your kids wear your school colors and looking at people who wear your enemy's colors and telling them to go fuck themselves (although it's usually unspoken). No smiles and wishes of good luck. I wish ill will upon my enemies.
And, by the way, Dominic had absolutely no say in what he wore to school today.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Illinois Football May Really Suck Right Now, But It's Not Really Gay
ABC's new Wednesday night comedy lineup must be doing pretty well, because it wasn't more than a few hours into the following day that I'd had three friends ask me if I happen to watch the show "Modern Family." And I don't have very many friends either.
The reason they asked is because it was revealed this week that one of the main characters on "Modern Family" is a former University of Illinois football player. He also happens to be gay. Perhaps timely considering how queer the 2009 UI football season has been.
Consider this: On the road at Purdue tomorrow (a game that was surely circled as a W on the schedule before the season began) it's very possible we'll see redshirt freshman quarterback Jacob Charest take the field at some point. He's never taken a college snap before, and why would he? He came into the season as the #3 quarterback behind a three-plus year starter and a relatively experienced junior who's the #2. Must be bad luck with injuries, right? Nope, both of Charest's elders on the depth chart are completely healthy; for whatever reason, though, they just happen to be highly ineffective this year.
During the Illini's 2007 Rose Bowl season, they set a school record for total offense. Last year, despite finishing just 5-7, they came within a hundred yards of breaking that record again. This year, with a majority of their key skill-position players back, they're averaging just over 14 points per game. Can it simply be blamed on the departure of offensive coordinator Mike Locksley, who left to take the New Mexico head coaching job where he could safely go punch assistant coaches and discriminate against older women (allegedly)? Can all the blame go to an unexpectedly porous offensive line? There's no right answer, only wrong results.
So I don't know what the hell goes on in "Modern Family" but my family has to leave the house when I watch these Illini play. And it does no good to know that popular culture is throwing the UI a bone ... no gay pun intended.
The reason they asked is because it was revealed this week that one of the main characters on "Modern Family" is a former University of Illinois football player. He also happens to be gay. Perhaps timely considering how queer the 2009 UI football season has been.
Consider this: On the road at Purdue tomorrow (a game that was surely circled as a W on the schedule before the season began) it's very possible we'll see redshirt freshman quarterback Jacob Charest take the field at some point. He's never taken a college snap before, and why would he? He came into the season as the #3 quarterback behind a three-plus year starter and a relatively experienced junior who's the #2. Must be bad luck with injuries, right? Nope, both of Charest's elders on the depth chart are completely healthy; for whatever reason, though, they just happen to be highly ineffective this year.
During the Illini's 2007 Rose Bowl season, they set a school record for total offense. Last year, despite finishing just 5-7, they came within a hundred yards of breaking that record again. This year, with a majority of their key skill-position players back, they're averaging just over 14 points per game. Can it simply be blamed on the departure of offensive coordinator Mike Locksley, who left to take the New Mexico head coaching job where he could safely go punch assistant coaches and discriminate against older women (allegedly)? Can all the blame go to an unexpectedly porous offensive line? There's no right answer, only wrong results.
So I don't know what the hell goes on in "Modern Family" but my family has to leave the house when I watch these Illini play. And it does no good to know that popular culture is throwing the UI a bone ... no gay pun intended.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Should I Shave Today If the Illini Win?
In Bruce Weber's first year as head coach at Illinois, the team somewhat struggled through the difficult portion of their non-conference schedule and the start of the Big Ten slate. Those struggles hit their peak the day before my 27th birthday, January 24, 2004. Hungover, I watched the TV from my bed as the Illini absorbed a sobering 20-point loss to Wisconsin, which completed their drop from preseason #12 out of the the Top 25.
Two days later, I began a week's long vacation in Chicago, during which I didn't shave, returning home with essentially a full-grown beard. I decided to stick with the facial hair for a couple of weeks, and a great thing happened at the same time: The Illini clicked. Coach Weber's motion offense began to hit on all cylinders, led by future NBA draftees Deron Williams, Dee Brown and Luther Head.
As a loyal fan, it would have been irresponsible for me to shave at that point, right? The beard remained for two full months as Illinois finished the regular season with ten straight wins, plus two more in the Big Ten tournament before ultimately falling in the conference finals. Despite that single loss, I didn't want to break any of the superstitious momentum heading into the '04 NCAA Tournament, for which the Illini earned a #4 seed. So, still bearded, I watched as the Orange & Blue played to their seed, winning two games to get to the Sweet 16 before falling to the region's top seed, Duke.
That effort was a far cry from the apparent state of Illinois basketball in late January before my facial hair mojo.
Fast forward to the current college football season. All signs point toward this year's Fighting Illini as a complete flop. In losing three of their first four, the Illini have been outscored 102-26 by its FBS opponents, with their lone win coming against FCS challenger Illinois State. Preseason Biletnikoff Award candidate Rejus Benn has just nine catches, Mackey Award nominee Michael Hoomanawanui has caught just six balls, and Unitas and O'Brien Award candidate Juice Williams - a three-year starter - has been benched.
Today's matchup with Michigan State clearly has to be a turning point. And I arrive at this crossroads as a bearded wonder for the first time in nearly six years.
Having taken a few days off of work to move into my new house, I let the facial hair go this week, mainly because I was lazy. So it's merely coincidence that this happens as the Illinois football program appears stuck in the mud ... or is it coincidence?
Just like Weber's early struggles to get his first Illini squad fully in tune with his motion, the 2009 Illini gridders have gotten no traction with new offensive coordinator Mike Schultz. Now has to be the time.
So I'll watch today with all the usual passion and an unusually itchy chin and face. And I'll hope that I'm left with a decision after the game whether or not it would be appropriate for me to consider a full lather on my face for the first time in a week.
Go Illini!
Two days later, I began a week's long vacation in Chicago, during which I didn't shave, returning home with essentially a full-grown beard. I decided to stick with the facial hair for a couple of weeks, and a great thing happened at the same time: The Illini clicked. Coach Weber's motion offense began to hit on all cylinders, led by future NBA draftees Deron Williams, Dee Brown and Luther Head.
As a loyal fan, it would have been irresponsible for me to shave at that point, right? The beard remained for two full months as Illinois finished the regular season with ten straight wins, plus two more in the Big Ten tournament before ultimately falling in the conference finals. Despite that single loss, I didn't want to break any of the superstitious momentum heading into the '04 NCAA Tournament, for which the Illini earned a #4 seed. So, still bearded, I watched as the Orange & Blue played to their seed, winning two games to get to the Sweet 16 before falling to the region's top seed, Duke.
That effort was a far cry from the apparent state of Illinois basketball in late January before my facial hair mojo.
Fast forward to the current college football season. All signs point toward this year's Fighting Illini as a complete flop. In losing three of their first four, the Illini have been outscored 102-26 by its FBS opponents, with their lone win coming against FCS challenger Illinois State. Preseason Biletnikoff Award candidate Rejus Benn has just nine catches, Mackey Award nominee Michael Hoomanawanui has caught just six balls, and Unitas and O'Brien Award candidate Juice Williams - a three-year starter - has been benched.
Today's matchup with Michigan State clearly has to be a turning point. And I arrive at this crossroads as a bearded wonder for the first time in nearly six years.
Having taken a few days off of work to move into my new house, I let the facial hair go this week, mainly because I was lazy. So it's merely coincidence that this happens as the Illinois football program appears stuck in the mud ... or is it coincidence?
Just like Weber's early struggles to get his first Illini squad fully in tune with his motion, the 2009 Illini gridders have gotten no traction with new offensive coordinator Mike Schultz. Now has to be the time.
So I'll watch today with all the usual passion and an unusually itchy chin and face. And I'll hope that I'm left with a decision after the game whether or not it would be appropriate for me to consider a full lather on my face for the first time in a week.
Go Illini!
Saturday, September 19, 2009
The State of Illinois Football: Freaking Banged Up
In the NFL playoffs, a bye is a basically win. And while we all know that college football can’t be compared to the NFL, especially the playoff format, that’s how I’m trying to consider this weekend as a University of Illinois football fan. This mid-September bye week should be like a win.
The Illini's season-opening turd has already been somewhat documented. Coming in as a six-point favorite against a non-conference rival in a neutral site, the Orange & Blue went ahead and played entirely uninspired, losing by four touchdowns. Our best player, Arrelious Benn, named by some as the Big Ten's preseason Offensive Player of the Year, lasted less than a minute before being sidelined due to a sprained ankle. He didn't return. Not long after that, our starting running back also left for good with an ankle issue. And, oh by the way, Jason Ford was only the #1 running back that day because our incumbent starter didn't dress for the game due to his own ankle injury.
Christ, is this football or fucking log-rolling?
Now consider our second game, last Saturday versus Illinois State. On our first play from scrimmage, quarterback Juice Williams, a three-year starter, rumbled untouched down the left sideline on an option keeper. He’d have scored if he didn’t stumble on his own just as he crossed the five. Falling just short of the goal line, it was obvious he was at least somewhat injured. He stayed in the game to hand the ball off for a one-yard touchdown run on the next play, but that was his last play of the night.
The good news was that none of the aforementioned injuries were terribly serious. Although Benn’s absence clearly affected the overall offensive performance in the opener – I admit, probably not a 28-point difference – he and Ford were both back for the Illinois State game. Juice apparently wanted to come back in after his strained quad, but the coaching staff didn’t want to risk it. So all three will be 100% when the Illini visit Columbus, Ohio, one week from today.
But another very key player won’t be. Our lone returning starter at linebacker and arguably our best defensive player, junior Martez Wilson, is out for the year. With a herniated disk in his neck, Wilson was forced to undergo surgery this week. He didn’t play against Illinois State, but the staff was optimistic about his recovery. He even returned to practice earlier this week, albeit wearing a red jersey to alert the rest of the team that he was in there for non-contact purposes only. His appearance in those drills clearly provided a false sense of hope, as the bad news was delivered on Thursday.
So what does this mean for the state of Illinois football? I don’t know, but this might just be a fucking cursed season. Think about it: Best player goes down on the first series of the first game and doesn’t return. Second-best player goes down on our first offensive play of the second game and doesn’t return. Best defensive player is ruled out for the season during an early-season bye week. Fuck. I cringe thinking about what might have happened if we actually had an opponent on the schedule this weekend.
After a rather trying first few weeks of the season, the team must now gather itself to play against perennial Big Ten frontrunner Ohio State. Most people remember the Illini’s win in Columbus two years ago on their way to an unlikely Rose Bowl berth. But what most people don’t know is that Illinois has actually won seven of its last ten there. Ok, that clearly doesn’t mean a damn thing right now, especially for a team that has struggled to stop anyone for the last year and a half.
I don’t know what to expect, but after just a few weeks of the 2009 season, it seems unreasonable just to hope that the starting lineup can remain fully intact. And that's some bullshit.
The Illini's season-opening turd has already been somewhat documented. Coming in as a six-point favorite against a non-conference rival in a neutral site, the Orange & Blue went ahead and played entirely uninspired, losing by four touchdowns. Our best player, Arrelious Benn, named by some as the Big Ten's preseason Offensive Player of the Year, lasted less than a minute before being sidelined due to a sprained ankle. He didn't return. Not long after that, our starting running back also left for good with an ankle issue. And, oh by the way, Jason Ford was only the #1 running back that day because our incumbent starter didn't dress for the game due to his own ankle injury.
Christ, is this football or fucking log-rolling?
Now consider our second game, last Saturday versus Illinois State. On our first play from scrimmage, quarterback Juice Williams, a three-year starter, rumbled untouched down the left sideline on an option keeper. He’d have scored if he didn’t stumble on his own just as he crossed the five. Falling just short of the goal line, it was obvious he was at least somewhat injured. He stayed in the game to hand the ball off for a one-yard touchdown run on the next play, but that was his last play of the night.
The good news was that none of the aforementioned injuries were terribly serious. Although Benn’s absence clearly affected the overall offensive performance in the opener – I admit, probably not a 28-point difference – he and Ford were both back for the Illinois State game. Juice apparently wanted to come back in after his strained quad, but the coaching staff didn’t want to risk it. So all three will be 100% when the Illini visit Columbus, Ohio, one week from today.
But another very key player won’t be. Our lone returning starter at linebacker and arguably our best defensive player, junior Martez Wilson, is out for the year. With a herniated disk in his neck, Wilson was forced to undergo surgery this week. He didn’t play against Illinois State, but the staff was optimistic about his recovery. He even returned to practice earlier this week, albeit wearing a red jersey to alert the rest of the team that he was in there for non-contact purposes only. His appearance in those drills clearly provided a false sense of hope, as the bad news was delivered on Thursday.
So what does this mean for the state of Illinois football? I don’t know, but this might just be a fucking cursed season. Think about it: Best player goes down on the first series of the first game and doesn’t return. Second-best player goes down on our first offensive play of the second game and doesn’t return. Best defensive player is ruled out for the season during an early-season bye week. Fuck. I cringe thinking about what might have happened if we actually had an opponent on the schedule this weekend.
After a rather trying first few weeks of the season, the team must now gather itself to play against perennial Big Ten frontrunner Ohio State. Most people remember the Illini’s win in Columbus two years ago on their way to an unlikely Rose Bowl berth. But what most people don’t know is that Illinois has actually won seven of its last ten there. Ok, that clearly doesn’t mean a damn thing right now, especially for a team that has struggled to stop anyone for the last year and a half.
I don’t know what to expect, but after just a few weeks of the 2009 season, it seems unreasonable just to hope that the starting lineup can remain fully intact. And that's some bullshit.
The Greatest Show on Earth?
At 4:57pm yesterday I got a text from my wife exclaiming, "We're going to the circus tonight!"
I didn't know how to react. Our house itself can be somewhat like a circus considering the behavior of our children and the noise level that accompanies it. That's no indictment of my kids either; I know that's just how kids are. But what the hell was my wife talking about? If the circus were being used as a metaphor for our house and our life, then we technically wouldn't be going anywhere. I knew that there was a three-year-old's birthday party coming up and that the kid's mom was promoting it with a circus theme. But I doubted that it would be on a Thursday night.
Could there really be a circus in town and, if so, could we really be going?
Yes and yes.
As exhausted and generally crappy as I'd felt all week up until that point, I didn't greet this news with overwhelming enthusiasm. We were headed to what was sure to be a crowded, load and flamboyant event, packed with children who were sure to be armed with boundless energy and overpriced and annoying souvenir toys. But in the spirit of being a good father and husband, I certainly wasn't going to turn my back on this. And it helped that we'd been hooked up with free tickets for the whole family.
So we were off to the so-called "Greatest Show on Earth." How bad could it be? "The Greatest Show on Turf" was pretty entertaining about ten years ago, with the likes of Kurt Warner, Marshall Faulk and Isaac Bruce leading a high-powered St. Louis Rams attack. Wait a minute, though, I hated that fucking team.
The first hurdle to clear, after simply trying to get the kids appropriately prepared and packed into the car for our outing, was parking. That's always an adventure when attending a large event such as this one, especially one when it's being held at a downtown arena. And, of course, it can be pricey. So imagine my surprise when I pulled into a multi-level garage just three blocks from the Sprint Center and was asked to only pay $2. The logical conclusion is that the folks at Standard Parking feel sorry for those headed to the circus. The attendant actually asked me where we were going before telling me how much I owed. What if I'd responded that I was meeting friends at one of the bars at the Power & Light District, probably the most popular social scene in the city? Would that have cost me $10? That's what I was prepared to pay last night. I'm pretty sure that's what it cost to park in the same garage for the two other events I'd attended at the Sprint Center, to wholly different events -- a Coldplay concert and a college basketball game -- but the same kind of large-scale entertainment. But, trust me, I wasn't about to argue.
It's too bad, though, that this apparent event-based pricing didn't carry over into the arena. Beer still cost $6.00 and $7.50, and I actually paid $7.00 for a big box of popcorn. Of course, I was the asshole for that in the eyes of my children because they had to share the box. Sorry, fellas, I'm not dropping $14 for something I could make at home for mere cents. Consider yourselves lucky for even pulling the one.
The circus itself, predictably, was a fucking circus: elephants, tigers and lots of man-on-man homoerotic acrobatics. I actually don't remember ever having attended a circus before, so I didn't know exactly what to expect as far as its format. It ended up playing out much like a musical. It was a story, albeit a very lame one (the ringmaster trying to get his hat back from a retardly annoying clown), with daring acts and song and dance peppered throughout. Honestly, I did find parts of it somewhat interesting. I think it's kind of cool that people can get elephants and tigers to stand up on their back legs and wave their front legs like begging dogs. Having seven motorcyclists speeding simultaneously through a steel globe was pretty freaking insane, and I'm still amazed that I didn't witness multiple fatalities during that display.
But the kids made it all worth it. Each one of them clearly enjoyed the circus a great deal, and that includes 21-month-old Lukas, who spent must of the time staring in wide-eyed wonderment. Plus, I made it out without having to buy souvenirs. So even with the ridiculous price tag of the popcorn, the whole event cost us just $9.00. If you want to get really specific, you can add another $2.31 for gas. That's what a gallon costs around here these days, and the roundtrip (24 miles is my guess, since that's what my back-and-forth to work is each day) was probably good to burn exactly that.
The Greatest Show on Earth? I'd say not. But for $11.31 for a family of five, it worked out pretty damn well.
I didn't know how to react. Our house itself can be somewhat like a circus considering the behavior of our children and the noise level that accompanies it. That's no indictment of my kids either; I know that's just how kids are. But what the hell was my wife talking about? If the circus were being used as a metaphor for our house and our life, then we technically wouldn't be going anywhere. I knew that there was a three-year-old's birthday party coming up and that the kid's mom was promoting it with a circus theme. But I doubted that it would be on a Thursday night.
Could there really be a circus in town and, if so, could we really be going?
Yes and yes.
As exhausted and generally crappy as I'd felt all week up until that point, I didn't greet this news with overwhelming enthusiasm. We were headed to what was sure to be a crowded, load and flamboyant event, packed with children who were sure to be armed with boundless energy and overpriced and annoying souvenir toys. But in the spirit of being a good father and husband, I certainly wasn't going to turn my back on this. And it helped that we'd been hooked up with free tickets for the whole family.
So we were off to the so-called "Greatest Show on Earth." How bad could it be? "The Greatest Show on Turf" was pretty entertaining about ten years ago, with the likes of Kurt Warner, Marshall Faulk and Isaac Bruce leading a high-powered St. Louis Rams attack. Wait a minute, though, I hated that fucking team.
The first hurdle to clear, after simply trying to get the kids appropriately prepared and packed into the car for our outing, was parking. That's always an adventure when attending a large event such as this one, especially one when it's being held at a downtown arena. And, of course, it can be pricey. So imagine my surprise when I pulled into a multi-level garage just three blocks from the Sprint Center and was asked to only pay $2. The logical conclusion is that the folks at Standard Parking feel sorry for those headed to the circus. The attendant actually asked me where we were going before telling me how much I owed. What if I'd responded that I was meeting friends at one of the bars at the Power & Light District, probably the most popular social scene in the city? Would that have cost me $10? That's what I was prepared to pay last night. I'm pretty sure that's what it cost to park in the same garage for the two other events I'd attended at the Sprint Center, to wholly different events -- a Coldplay concert and a college basketball game -- but the same kind of large-scale entertainment. But, trust me, I wasn't about to argue.
It's too bad, though, that this apparent event-based pricing didn't carry over into the arena. Beer still cost $6.00 and $7.50, and I actually paid $7.00 for a big box of popcorn. Of course, I was the asshole for that in the eyes of my children because they had to share the box. Sorry, fellas, I'm not dropping $14 for something I could make at home for mere cents. Consider yourselves lucky for even pulling the one.
The circus itself, predictably, was a fucking circus: elephants, tigers and lots of man-on-man homoerotic acrobatics. I actually don't remember ever having attended a circus before, so I didn't know exactly what to expect as far as its format. It ended up playing out much like a musical. It was a story, albeit a very lame one (the ringmaster trying to get his hat back from a retardly annoying clown), with daring acts and song and dance peppered throughout. Honestly, I did find parts of it somewhat interesting. I think it's kind of cool that people can get elephants and tigers to stand up on their back legs and wave their front legs like begging dogs. Having seven motorcyclists speeding simultaneously through a steel globe was pretty freaking insane, and I'm still amazed that I didn't witness multiple fatalities during that display.
But the kids made it all worth it. Each one of them clearly enjoyed the circus a great deal, and that includes 21-month-old Lukas, who spent must of the time staring in wide-eyed wonderment. Plus, I made it out without having to buy souvenirs. So even with the ridiculous price tag of the popcorn, the whole event cost us just $9.00. If you want to get really specific, you can add another $2.31 for gas. That's what a gallon costs around here these days, and the roundtrip (24 miles is my guess, since that's what my back-and-forth to work is each day) was probably good to burn exactly that.
The Greatest Show on Earth? I'd say not. But for $11.31 for a family of five, it worked out pretty damn well.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Kicking Off with the Wrong Freaking Foot
At 11:00am on the first Saturday of the college football season, neither of the TVs in my house were tuned to the start of a game. DisneyXD's animated Spiderman series was on one, while the other was being used for playback of a Sesame Street sing-along DVD. In a perfect world, I might have been halfway between Kansas City and St. Louis, on my way to the Fighting Illini season opener. But this world is clearly far from perfect.
Although I didn't have a ticket, I'd entertained the idea of making the trip to St. Louis all the way up until Friday night. My wife even supported the plan. But when I had to head out of the house at 1:30am to purchase pain relievers for my littlest boy, I knew there was no way I'd be making my solo gameday roadtrip.
Most of the day instead centered around keeping our children happy and comfortable; by late morning it was clear that Joey wasn't 100% either. So the 2:40pm kickoff of the Illinois-Missouri game arrived not with me sitting in the Edward Jones Dome, not with me screaming at the television in anticipation of the start of the season, but with me sitting relatively reserved (at least on the outside) with a somewhat-ill child by my side, while my miserably-ill child was with his mother at our doctor's urgent care office. Not at all what I had in mind for gameday.
By the time Lukas returned home with a diagnosis of two ear infections and mouth ulcers consistent with the 'Hand, Foot and Mouth' disease virus, the Illini were already in a 10-0 hole and my blood pressure likely would have blown the cuff off of my arm. Things clearly didn't get much better as I watched every snap of a game that I now feel comfortable saying was the most disappointing football performance I've seen in recent memory. And I watched it primarily in a silent living room.
I'm usually the person who has a comment for every play, the annoyingly educated fan who call outs individual players away from the ball during the action. It doesn't matter if I'm alone or with a group of people or in public. So imagine the trouble I had trying to watch this game in silence, watching my beloved alma mater appear ill-prepared from the start, lose its best player to injury on the opening series and make the same mistakes as last year's disappointing 5-7 team.
You wanna know how it feels? When someone who usually bursts with emotion is forced to keep it bottled up inside? Physically ill, that's how it feels. My head throbbed, and I felt like I was going vomit.
I didn't watch another snap of football the rest of the day, and I don't look forward to watching any in the near future.
The weekend began with so much promise. The forecast of nice weather, the kickoff of college football with the Illini as a six-point favorite and, of course, knowing there's an extra day off before heading back to work. But it quickly crashed and burned. The late night/early morning trip to the pharmacy -- which was actually two stops instead of one since Walgreens didn't have what I needed -- is the only time I've been out of the house since Friday evening. Now here I sit, monitoring sick children, doing laundry and dreaming of a better outcome.
What could be next? Cleaning the fucking garage? Maybe the basement? At this rate I shouldn't be surprised if I'm called into work on a federal holiday.
Although I didn't have a ticket, I'd entertained the idea of making the trip to St. Louis all the way up until Friday night. My wife even supported the plan. But when I had to head out of the house at 1:30am to purchase pain relievers for my littlest boy, I knew there was no way I'd be making my solo gameday roadtrip.
Most of the day instead centered around keeping our children happy and comfortable; by late morning it was clear that Joey wasn't 100% either. So the 2:40pm kickoff of the Illinois-Missouri game arrived not with me sitting in the Edward Jones Dome, not with me screaming at the television in anticipation of the start of the season, but with me sitting relatively reserved (at least on the outside) with a somewhat-ill child by my side, while my miserably-ill child was with his mother at our doctor's urgent care office. Not at all what I had in mind for gameday.
By the time Lukas returned home with a diagnosis of two ear infections and mouth ulcers consistent with the 'Hand, Foot and Mouth' disease virus, the Illini were already in a 10-0 hole and my blood pressure likely would have blown the cuff off of my arm. Things clearly didn't get much better as I watched every snap of a game that I now feel comfortable saying was the most disappointing football performance I've seen in recent memory. And I watched it primarily in a silent living room.
I'm usually the person who has a comment for every play, the annoyingly educated fan who call outs individual players away from the ball during the action. It doesn't matter if I'm alone or with a group of people or in public. So imagine the trouble I had trying to watch this game in silence, watching my beloved alma mater appear ill-prepared from the start, lose its best player to injury on the opening series and make the same mistakes as last year's disappointing 5-7 team.
You wanna know how it feels? When someone who usually bursts with emotion is forced to keep it bottled up inside? Physically ill, that's how it feels. My head throbbed, and I felt like I was going vomit.
I didn't watch another snap of football the rest of the day, and I don't look forward to watching any in the near future.
The weekend began with so much promise. The forecast of nice weather, the kickoff of college football with the Illini as a six-point favorite and, of course, knowing there's an extra day off before heading back to work. But it quickly crashed and burned. The late night/early morning trip to the pharmacy -- which was actually two stops instead of one since Walgreens didn't have what I needed -- is the only time I've been out of the house since Friday evening. Now here I sit, monitoring sick children, doing laundry and dreaming of a better outcome.
What could be next? Cleaning the fucking garage? Maybe the basement? At this rate I shouldn't be surprised if I'm called into work on a federal holiday.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Is Cursing Really My Legacy?
One day, some 20 years after our tenure as childhood neighbors had ended, my old friend Bob described me as having the foulest mouth at the earliest age of anyone he’d ever known. That’s the kind of thing that I think probably makes most people just shake their heads. And I can live with that.
Now, at the age of 32, any of my friends or family could assure you that my vocabulary remains quite liberal. And, as a father, I’ve found this isn’t necessarily a commendable achievement.
I’ve shared some stories at work about my three-year-old son’s impressive understanding of profanity – not only does he use the words, but he does so in the appropriate context. That prompts occasional questions like the one I received today: “Have your kids cussed anymore lately?”
Usually the questions aren’t so direct. They’re more like: “Do you have any funny Joey stories?” But today’s inquiry was right to the point, and it’s follow-up was what alarmed me.
“That is your legacy.”
Really? I know I may not ever be Father of the Year material, but can we already conclude that my fatherly legacy is exposing my children to four-letter words? I’d like to think I can set my sights a little higher.
I coach sports, I help with puzzles, I read books, and I even sing some songs. I like to think I do a lot of the responsible and positive day-to-day dad duties. Do my profane tendencies truly cast a shadow over all of that?
One thing that’s fairly certain is that I’m not likely to change. It’s just the way I am. With work, family, sports, everything, I’m a very high-stress guy. There are plenty of rants and outbursts that clearly don’t make me the greatest of influences on everyone. And I can live with that.
But my kids? I’d like to think I have enough of the right qualities to outweigh some bad words. This fatherhood shit gets more tricky everyday.
Now, at the age of 32, any of my friends or family could assure you that my vocabulary remains quite liberal. And, as a father, I’ve found this isn’t necessarily a commendable achievement.
I’ve shared some stories at work about my three-year-old son’s impressive understanding of profanity – not only does he use the words, but he does so in the appropriate context. That prompts occasional questions like the one I received today: “Have your kids cussed anymore lately?”
Usually the questions aren’t so direct. They’re more like: “Do you have any funny Joey stories?” But today’s inquiry was right to the point, and it’s follow-up was what alarmed me.
“That is your legacy.”
Really? I know I may not ever be Father of the Year material, but can we already conclude that my fatherly legacy is exposing my children to four-letter words? I’d like to think I can set my sights a little higher.
I coach sports, I help with puzzles, I read books, and I even sing some songs. I like to think I do a lot of the responsible and positive day-to-day dad duties. Do my profane tendencies truly cast a shadow over all of that?
One thing that’s fairly certain is that I’m not likely to change. It’s just the way I am. With work, family, sports, everything, I’m a very high-stress guy. There are plenty of rants and outbursts that clearly don’t make me the greatest of influences on everyone. And I can live with that.
But my kids? I’d like to think I have enough of the right qualities to outweigh some bad words. This fatherhood shit gets more tricky everyday.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
"He does not like you. And all indications are he does not like Drake's Coffee Cake."
Hearing another story of mild bullying aimed at my eight-year-old stepson reminds me of just how insignificant most people are. It reminds me of the Seinfeld quote used as the title of this post. And it reminds me that I've had my own run-ins that now seem as ridiculous as ever.
When I was in seventh grade, I became good friends with a female classmate who lived down the street from me. We'd talk on the phone, we'd talk on the bus, and she'd even give me a hug sometimes after the bus left us on 80th Terrace each weekday afternoon. She was a good friend.
Seems like a nice story, no? Yes, until I got a phonecall from her boyfriend one afternoon. I'd never much spoken with the guy, one of those really popular seventh-graders who looked more like he belonged in high school. Anyway, our conversation was brief. In fact, I don't remember saying anything after, "Hello?" Here's what he said:
"Hey, Steve, this is Joel. I just wanted to tell you that I'm not going to kick your ass."
Now how the fuck is a 4'10" turd like me supposed to react to something like that? First of all, it was clearly good news that I wasn't going to be the target of physical harm. But, needless to say, I was a bit troubled by the revelation that this needed clarification.
I should also mention that it wasn't long after this incident when perhaps the baddest mother fucker among eighth graders at my school basically threatened me to my face after hearing me speak very casually and innocuously about his girlfriend, who was also a good friend of mine. Seriously, I'd seen this guy stand toe-to-toe with one of my brother's friends the previous year ... and my brother's friend was junior in high school at the time. Yeah, and he needed to waste his time talking shit to my face.
I guess I've always just had a way with people like that. And that's kind of interesting to me, because I feel like when I put forth the effort most people who get to know me think I'm a pretty affable guy. Maybe the dudes just get threatened by a pip-squeak who befriends their ladies.
But I suppose the point of this brief story is that not everyone is going to like you or the things you do or the things you say. I learned that long ago, which is why the description in my profile reads the way it does. I know those whose opinions matter the most to me, so why should I worry much about anyone else?
Sweat the shit that matters to you most ... and just hope it doesn't overlap with the shit that's getting thrown in your face by meaningless pricks.
When I was in seventh grade, I became good friends with a female classmate who lived down the street from me. We'd talk on the phone, we'd talk on the bus, and she'd even give me a hug sometimes after the bus left us on 80th Terrace each weekday afternoon. She was a good friend.
Seems like a nice story, no? Yes, until I got a phonecall from her boyfriend one afternoon. I'd never much spoken with the guy, one of those really popular seventh-graders who looked more like he belonged in high school. Anyway, our conversation was brief. In fact, I don't remember saying anything after, "Hello?" Here's what he said:
"Hey, Steve, this is Joel. I just wanted to tell you that I'm not going to kick your ass."
Now how the fuck is a 4'10" turd like me supposed to react to something like that? First of all, it was clearly good news that I wasn't going to be the target of physical harm. But, needless to say, I was a bit troubled by the revelation that this needed clarification.
I should also mention that it wasn't long after this incident when perhaps the baddest mother fucker among eighth graders at my school basically threatened me to my face after hearing me speak very casually and innocuously about his girlfriend, who was also a good friend of mine. Seriously, I'd seen this guy stand toe-to-toe with one of my brother's friends the previous year ... and my brother's friend was junior in high school at the time. Yeah, and he needed to waste his time talking shit to my face.
I guess I've always just had a way with people like that. And that's kind of interesting to me, because I feel like when I put forth the effort most people who get to know me think I'm a pretty affable guy. Maybe the dudes just get threatened by a pip-squeak who befriends their ladies.
But I suppose the point of this brief story is that not everyone is going to like you or the things you do or the things you say. I learned that long ago, which is why the description in my profile reads the way it does. I know those whose opinions matter the most to me, so why should I worry much about anyone else?
Sweat the shit that matters to you most ... and just hope it doesn't overlap with the shit that's getting thrown in your face by meaningless pricks.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
AC0063100
The sign beyond Wrigley Field’s rightfield bleachers says it all. If you know what it means. It’s basically a representation of the Chicago Cubs’ long-term futility.
The first two numbers show how long it’s been since the Cubs have won their division. No problem there. As the two-time defending NL Central Champion, that number sits at a nice double-zero. The issue is with the remaining numbers. 63 seasons have passed since a National League title, hence the 63. And the last three digits, well, it’s only been a three-digit number since last fall. The 100 is the nice round number that indicates the length of the Cubs’ World Series title drought.
It’s a harsh reminder every time it’s visible, which is quite often when you watch as much Cubs baseball as I do. And I’m now starting to try to cope with the reality that those numbers posted on the Lakeview apartment building/rooftop suites are about to change for the worse.
With 38 games remaining in the season, the Cubs have to be considered baseball’s biggest disappointment in 2009. Just one game over .500, the Cubs are nine games behind the rival Cardinals, who again seem to be overachieving. It’s worth noting also that the Cubs and Cards play only three more games against one another, the other 13 head-to-head meetings all taking place before the All-Star break (if my memory is correct – and it usually is in these cases – the Cardinals lead the season series 8-5).
So here’s the reality I’m faced with: If St. Louis were to somehow split its remaining 34 games, the Cubs would basically still need to play .700 baseball to get past those cocksuckers in the standings. Let’s say the Cardinals go 17-17 the rest of the way. The Cubs will need to go 28-10 just to force a tie and a one-game playoff for the division crown.
Needless to say, I’m not holding my breath (as evidenced by all of the profanity that I spray around my house during the games).
Optimism just isn’t my thing. But I can’t help but go back to the “on paper” argument. For shit’s sake, the Cubs should be a better team. They should be the ones who are 74-54 right now. I challenge anyone to look the Cubs’ and Cardinals’ rosters up and down – starting lineup, benches, starting pitching rotations and bullpens – and tell me that the Cubs aren’t the more impressive team. It’s just bullshit, and I’m fucking tired of it.
On the MLB Network’s 2009 Prediction Special at the start of the season, all nine of its panelists picked the Cubs to win the NL Central. Consistent with the consensus selection of the Cubs as the division champs, Tom Verducci said the Cubs should be the surest bet of any division winner in the league. Ever the pessimist, I couldn’t help but think that just sounded to good to be true.
I’m not into the talk of curses and all that noise, but something has to give one of these days.
AC0164101?
That looks fucking terrible.
The first two numbers show how long it’s been since the Cubs have won their division. No problem there. As the two-time defending NL Central Champion, that number sits at a nice double-zero. The issue is with the remaining numbers. 63 seasons have passed since a National League title, hence the 63. And the last three digits, well, it’s only been a three-digit number since last fall. The 100 is the nice round number that indicates the length of the Cubs’ World Series title drought.
It’s a harsh reminder every time it’s visible, which is quite often when you watch as much Cubs baseball as I do. And I’m now starting to try to cope with the reality that those numbers posted on the Lakeview apartment building/rooftop suites are about to change for the worse.
With 38 games remaining in the season, the Cubs have to be considered baseball’s biggest disappointment in 2009. Just one game over .500, the Cubs are nine games behind the rival Cardinals, who again seem to be overachieving. It’s worth noting also that the Cubs and Cards play only three more games against one another, the other 13 head-to-head meetings all taking place before the All-Star break (if my memory is correct – and it usually is in these cases – the Cardinals lead the season series 8-5).
So here’s the reality I’m faced with: If St. Louis were to somehow split its remaining 34 games, the Cubs would basically still need to play .700 baseball to get past those cocksuckers in the standings. Let’s say the Cardinals go 17-17 the rest of the way. The Cubs will need to go 28-10 just to force a tie and a one-game playoff for the division crown.
Needless to say, I’m not holding my breath (as evidenced by all of the profanity that I spray around my house during the games).
Optimism just isn’t my thing. But I can’t help but go back to the “on paper” argument. For shit’s sake, the Cubs should be a better team. They should be the ones who are 74-54 right now. I challenge anyone to look the Cubs’ and Cardinals’ rosters up and down – starting lineup, benches, starting pitching rotations and bullpens – and tell me that the Cubs aren’t the more impressive team. It’s just bullshit, and I’m fucking tired of it.
On the MLB Network’s 2009 Prediction Special at the start of the season, all nine of its panelists picked the Cubs to win the NL Central. Consistent with the consensus selection of the Cubs as the division champs, Tom Verducci said the Cubs should be the surest bet of any division winner in the league. Ever the pessimist, I couldn’t help but think that just sounded to good to be true.
I’m not into the talk of curses and all that noise, but something has to give one of these days.
AC0164101?
That looks fucking terrible.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Fantasies Aren't Always Fantastic
Over the past 12 months, I've somehow become an awful fantasy sports player. I'm hoping to simply chalk it up as a bad year, but things certainly couldn't be any worse than where they stand now.
After reaching the playoffs in all three of my fantasy sports in 2008 (football, baseball and basketball), I've really laid an egg in '09.
I'd like to blame most of it on injuries. My top two picks in fantasy basketball -- Kevin Garnett and Deron Williams -- battled injuries early in the season. And while Williams recovered and posted the kind of numbers that were expected, Garnett's physical woes lasted throughout the year. I knew I should have taken Dwight Howard. So, just like a NBA team battling to earn the most ping-pong balls for the draft lottery, I pretty much mailed it in for the last couple of months of the season. I was that far out of contention.
Fantasy baseball hasn't been much better. I thought my team was built great on paper:
C - Jorge Posada
1B - Carlos Delgado
2B - Brian Roberts
SS - Jimmy Rollins
3B - Aramis Ramirez
OF - Josh Hamilton
OF - Curtis Granderson
OF - Raul Ibanez
Util - Nate McLouth/Milton Bradley/Alex Rios
SP - CC Sabathia
SP - Yovani Gallardo
RP - Francisco Rodriguez
RP - Bobby Jenks
Yeah, looks good on paper, just like the 2009 Chicago Cubs. I'm going to again have to play the injury card a little, considering my corner infielders didn't last much more than a couple of weeks before landing on the shelf. Ramirez didn't get back until around the All-Star Break, while Delgado is still gone.
And why wasn't I told that Josh Hamilton fell off the fucking wagon in January? Sure, it may have been an isolated incident, and I shouldn't be one to blame a guy for having a few drinks, but it may have swayed my opinion of him a bit. Might not have burned a top 15 pick on him. Of course, Hamilton ended up spending some time on the DL too.
My top pick, Jimmy Rollins, just two years removed from an MVP season, was also a royal turd over the first couple of months. Who could have predicted that?
Anyway, so fantasy baseball is fucking done too. And, consistent with the rest of my 2009 performance, my new fantasy endeavor of English Premier League soccer has gotten off to a really bad start. For two weeks in a row to start the season, I've forgotten to register my team. Obviously this one is not of great priority.
But fantasy football can be the great redemption. My draft was this past week, and I'm ready to get things going. There was, of course, an early speedbump. Thanks to a shitty day at work Wednesday, I didn't have a chance to fine-tune my depth chart knowledge as much as I'd hoped, so by day's end I knew I was somewhat screwed for my 6:00pm draft. Therefore, it was time for a new strategy.
I arrived at the Fox and Hound armed with a pen and just one sheet of paper: a list of bye weeks for the 2009 NFL season. That was all I wanted. I'd rely otherwise only on the expertise between my ears. Here's the result, the projected starting lineup for the Galloping Ghosts in Week 1:
QB - Tony Romo
RB - Steve Slaton, Clinton Portis
WR - Chad Ochocinco, TJ Houshmandzadeh, Lee Evans
TE - Jeremy Shockey
K - Neil Rackers (Go Illinois)
D - San Diego
I'll admit that by the sixth round, my brother insisted on giving me a copy of one of his cheat sheets (only because he had an extra one), and there were a couple of occasions when I peeked at my buddy Dan's magazine. But I felt okay about what I'd done.
Other than my perhaps puzzling draft strategy, the night had the usual highlights/lowlights: My friend Dave brought way too much paperwork and got far too drunk, my brother shamelessly drafted a member of the Minnesota Vikings (as a rabid Bears' fan like myself, I always hope he'll have the same no-Vikings and no-Packers philosophy), and my friend Troy made an inappropriate comment about my mother.
Here's to what I hope is a 2009-saving football season.
After reaching the playoffs in all three of my fantasy sports in 2008 (football, baseball and basketball), I've really laid an egg in '09.
I'd like to blame most of it on injuries. My top two picks in fantasy basketball -- Kevin Garnett and Deron Williams -- battled injuries early in the season. And while Williams recovered and posted the kind of numbers that were expected, Garnett's physical woes lasted throughout the year. I knew I should have taken Dwight Howard. So, just like a NBA team battling to earn the most ping-pong balls for the draft lottery, I pretty much mailed it in for the last couple of months of the season. I was that far out of contention.
Fantasy baseball hasn't been much better. I thought my team was built great on paper:
C - Jorge Posada
1B - Carlos Delgado
2B - Brian Roberts
SS - Jimmy Rollins
3B - Aramis Ramirez
OF - Josh Hamilton
OF - Curtis Granderson
OF - Raul Ibanez
Util - Nate McLouth/Milton Bradley/Alex Rios
SP - CC Sabathia
SP - Yovani Gallardo
RP - Francisco Rodriguez
RP - Bobby Jenks
Yeah, looks good on paper, just like the 2009 Chicago Cubs. I'm going to again have to play the injury card a little, considering my corner infielders didn't last much more than a couple of weeks before landing on the shelf. Ramirez didn't get back until around the All-Star Break, while Delgado is still gone.
And why wasn't I told that Josh Hamilton fell off the fucking wagon in January? Sure, it may have been an isolated incident, and I shouldn't be one to blame a guy for having a few drinks, but it may have swayed my opinion of him a bit. Might not have burned a top 15 pick on him. Of course, Hamilton ended up spending some time on the DL too.
My top pick, Jimmy Rollins, just two years removed from an MVP season, was also a royal turd over the first couple of months. Who could have predicted that?
Anyway, so fantasy baseball is fucking done too. And, consistent with the rest of my 2009 performance, my new fantasy endeavor of English Premier League soccer has gotten off to a really bad start. For two weeks in a row to start the season, I've forgotten to register my team. Obviously this one is not of great priority.
But fantasy football can be the great redemption. My draft was this past week, and I'm ready to get things going. There was, of course, an early speedbump. Thanks to a shitty day at work Wednesday, I didn't have a chance to fine-tune my depth chart knowledge as much as I'd hoped, so by day's end I knew I was somewhat screwed for my 6:00pm draft. Therefore, it was time for a new strategy.
I arrived at the Fox and Hound armed with a pen and just one sheet of paper: a list of bye weeks for the 2009 NFL season. That was all I wanted. I'd rely otherwise only on the expertise between my ears. Here's the result, the projected starting lineup for the Galloping Ghosts in Week 1:
QB - Tony Romo
RB - Steve Slaton, Clinton Portis
WR - Chad Ochocinco, TJ Houshmandzadeh, Lee Evans
TE - Jeremy Shockey
K - Neil Rackers (Go Illinois)
D - San Diego
I'll admit that by the sixth round, my brother insisted on giving me a copy of one of his cheat sheets (only because he had an extra one), and there were a couple of occasions when I peeked at my buddy Dan's magazine. But I felt okay about what I'd done.
Other than my perhaps puzzling draft strategy, the night had the usual highlights/lowlights: My friend Dave brought way too much paperwork and got far too drunk, my brother shamelessly drafted a member of the Minnesota Vikings (as a rabid Bears' fan like myself, I always hope he'll have the same no-Vikings and no-Packers philosophy), and my friend Troy made an inappropriate comment about my mother.
Here's to what I hope is a 2009-saving football season.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Deadbeats Say the Darndest Things
On what was supposed to be a brief and leisurely stroll to break up my workday afternoon, I was greeted with an unexpected question on a downtown Kansas City sidewalk.
"Hey, do you use an electric razor to shave?"
Who the hell asks a question like that, and how's a reasonable person expected to respond? For Christ's sake, I was only trying to get a little fresh air on an unseasonably cool August day, but instead I was left puzzled after traveling less than 20 feet from the door to my building.
The only response I could muster was, "No." Anything more than that would have been unnecessary, and it might have been profane. Why would someone ask that question to a stranger? Was he serious? The man seemed to have just come from the nearby CVS, plastic bag in tow, but if he had a question about one of the products he purchased, shouldn't he have asked that within the walls of that store?
Why am I giving this so much thought? Because it's absurd. Like so many other things in life, it's fucking ridiculous. It proves again that getting a simple breath of fresh air, trying to clear one's mind for a brief moment is sometimes itself an unreasonably difficult task. I've almost come to accept that I'll be asked for spare change at least once each time I take an outdoor break. But now I have to consider inquiries about my personal hygiene? I suppose if anyone needs tips it would these degenerates who seem to wander downtown each day.
Maybe I should be sufficiently content that these encounters on the downtown streets only leave me baffled and annoyed. It's not too unrealistic to think that one of these mother fuckers might want to cut me.
"Hey, do you use an electric razor to shave?"
Who the hell asks a question like that, and how's a reasonable person expected to respond? For Christ's sake, I was only trying to get a little fresh air on an unseasonably cool August day, but instead I was left puzzled after traveling less than 20 feet from the door to my building.
The only response I could muster was, "No." Anything more than that would have been unnecessary, and it might have been profane. Why would someone ask that question to a stranger? Was he serious? The man seemed to have just come from the nearby CVS, plastic bag in tow, but if he had a question about one of the products he purchased, shouldn't he have asked that within the walls of that store?
Why am I giving this so much thought? Because it's absurd. Like so many other things in life, it's fucking ridiculous. It proves again that getting a simple breath of fresh air, trying to clear one's mind for a brief moment is sometimes itself an unreasonably difficult task. I've almost come to accept that I'll be asked for spare change at least once each time I take an outdoor break. But now I have to consider inquiries about my personal hygiene? I suppose if anyone needs tips it would these degenerates who seem to wander downtown each day.
Maybe I should be sufficiently content that these encounters on the downtown streets only leave me baffled and annoyed. It's not too unrealistic to think that one of these mother fuckers might want to cut me.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Back to School Sucks
This is it for Dominic. Today's essentially the last day of summer freedom for my eight-year-old stepson, with the first day of school looming Monday. Yes, he still has the whole weekend, but we always have that (in theory). The last weekday of summer can be a bitter pill.
There's a lot you can tell a kid when it comes to the start of a new school year, but it's nothing that anyone wants to hear. Why? Because it's the same shit we adults heard when we were kids.
"When you're grown up, there is no summer break."
"One day, when you're done going to school, you'll look back and think of how much easier life was then."
There are many other versions, none of which do I care to hear or speak again. Then you also have a couple of inevitable questions intended to sugar-coat the situation, as if there aren't holes in each of those efforts too.
"You'll get to spend more time with your friends." Really? 90% of that time will be spent crammed into an uncomfortable desk while someone else is spouting seemingly useless information at us. Plus, if I really thought so highly of these friends, wouldn't I have made more of an effort to hang with them outside of school?
"Aren't you excited to see who's in your class?" Great. That curiosity will be satisfied within the first 20 seconds of the school year. I guess once you're in middle school and high school it'll take a whole day. What about the next nine months?
Face it, it's really not easy to find silver lining when your world gets flipped in such a way. Sure, there probably are some circumstances in which heading back to school doesn't seem too bad. Maybe a kid spent the whole summer at a shitty camp. Maybe he was shipped out of town to spend time with undesirable family members. When kids get older, sometimes work gets thrown into the mix to jack up the summer.
But none of that is the case with the one that my family is sending back to school. He hit Worlds of Fun a couple of times, spent a good deal of time with his dad and cousins, and he attended a tennis camp that he requested and enjoyed. How could it possibly be seen as a positive to start shaking off the morning dew just in time to hop on a nasty old school bus with a driver who barely speaks English accompanied by primarily undesirable kids?
(It should be noted, however, that getting up early isn't an issue for Dominic since he was up by around 7:00 everyday this summer anyway. Likewise with the Latino bus driver, seeing as Dominic speaks Spanish nearly fluently. So the only true problem of those mentioned above is with the unruly kids, two of whom have needed to be reprimanded for their verbal and/or physical abuse of my innocent stepson.)
So third grade awaits. After making his way through all of the annoying parents mingling outside the school on Monday, I'd guess there will be a little excitement for Dominic to see some of the faces that had been missing since early June. It's not quite like later in life when scoping the female talent in your classes carries quite the intrigue, but maybe it's not too early. I think there's talk of girlfiends and boyfriends by this time. I remember having a great sense of pride in fourth grade, during which all but one of the girls in my class asked me to be their boyfriend. Pretty good shit for someone who'd had only just arrived in this town about a year earlier. (For the record, I said no to all of them. It's good to be selfish for a while. Just beware of potential backlash sometimes. You never know when you might be accused of being gay. Seriously.)
Godspeed, young man.
There's a lot you can tell a kid when it comes to the start of a new school year, but it's nothing that anyone wants to hear. Why? Because it's the same shit we adults heard when we were kids.
"When you're grown up, there is no summer break."
"One day, when you're done going to school, you'll look back and think of how much easier life was then."
There are many other versions, none of which do I care to hear or speak again. Then you also have a couple of inevitable questions intended to sugar-coat the situation, as if there aren't holes in each of those efforts too.
"You'll get to spend more time with your friends." Really? 90% of that time will be spent crammed into an uncomfortable desk while someone else is spouting seemingly useless information at us. Plus, if I really thought so highly of these friends, wouldn't I have made more of an effort to hang with them outside of school?
"Aren't you excited to see who's in your class?" Great. That curiosity will be satisfied within the first 20 seconds of the school year. I guess once you're in middle school and high school it'll take a whole day. What about the next nine months?
Face it, it's really not easy to find silver lining when your world gets flipped in such a way. Sure, there probably are some circumstances in which heading back to school doesn't seem too bad. Maybe a kid spent the whole summer at a shitty camp. Maybe he was shipped out of town to spend time with undesirable family members. When kids get older, sometimes work gets thrown into the mix to jack up the summer.
But none of that is the case with the one that my family is sending back to school. He hit Worlds of Fun a couple of times, spent a good deal of time with his dad and cousins, and he attended a tennis camp that he requested and enjoyed. How could it possibly be seen as a positive to start shaking off the morning dew just in time to hop on a nasty old school bus with a driver who barely speaks English accompanied by primarily undesirable kids?
(It should be noted, however, that getting up early isn't an issue for Dominic since he was up by around 7:00 everyday this summer anyway. Likewise with the Latino bus driver, seeing as Dominic speaks Spanish nearly fluently. So the only true problem of those mentioned above is with the unruly kids, two of whom have needed to be reprimanded for their verbal and/or physical abuse of my innocent stepson.)
So third grade awaits. After making his way through all of the annoying parents mingling outside the school on Monday, I'd guess there will be a little excitement for Dominic to see some of the faces that had been missing since early June. It's not quite like later in life when scoping the female talent in your classes carries quite the intrigue, but maybe it's not too early. I think there's talk of girlfiends and boyfriends by this time. I remember having a great sense of pride in fourth grade, during which all but one of the girls in my class asked me to be their boyfriend. Pretty good shit for someone who'd had only just arrived in this town about a year earlier. (For the record, I said no to all of them. It's good to be selfish for a while. Just beware of potential backlash sometimes. You never know when you might be accused of being gay. Seriously.)
Godspeed, young man.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
I'm Officially a Fucking Joke
In the ongoing battle to stay a step ahead of life itself, my wife has instituted a new twist to our fitness routine. She's sold our traditional double stroller and purchased one of the jogging variety. Surely you've seen one before, three-wheeled with treaded tires similar to those of a regular bicycle.
So the point of this is that there's even less reason for us to avoid jogging as a primary source of exercise. I've been pretty good about getting out a few times a week anyway. But for my wife, who spends all day at home with our children and several others, it's understandably easier for her to fall into evening complacency. But having a jogging stroller, in fact, serves multiple purposes: 1. The kids get out of the house. 2. The adults get in a workout.
Pretty good plan, and it was first put into action this week.
The course: 1.62 miles to Prairie Village's Franklin Park.
The team: One solo jogger, one jogger pushing the two little guys, and Dominic on his bike.
The plan: A steady-paced trek one way, followed by a 20- to 30-minute stay at the park to appease the boys; then back home following the same course.
The first half-mile or so is a slight but steady incline, so it was clear to me that I should be behind the stroller for the start. The wife insisted otherwise, but it only took a couple of blocks before I convinced her to hand over the reins. I ended up keeping them the rest of the way.
The boys enjoyed seemed to enjoy the ride, and I thought it went pretty smoothly as well. My stamina was good, there was limited traffic on the sidewalks, and the weather - although quite humid - could have been a lot worse.
So I felt good about myself as I neared the park ahead of my wife and my bike-riding stepson ... that is until a truck full of douche bags had to ruin it all.
I was actually already on the park grounds at this time but hadn't yet reached the playground equipment which was our true destination. As I cruised along the path at a solid pace, red-faced and in a fully sweat-soaked shirt, a wise-ass young bastard leaned out the window of his truck to offer these sarcastic words of encouragement:
"Way to go, soccer dad!"
That mother fucker. There was a time (and that time may not have been too long ago) when I wouldn't have hesitated to shout something highly profane right back at him. And, hell, as inconsistent as I can be, that time may have just been two minutes before then ... or maybe even two minutes later. Depending on my mood, I may have decided to lock the brakes on the stroller, find a nice baseball-sized rock and chased that fucking truck until I was within good striking distance.
But in this case I let it go, biting my lip and accepting my defeat in the form of this shout of ridicule. My wife, of course, got a great kick out of this and felt the need to quickly share this event with my mom and my sister-in-law. I can only assume that their initial reactions when reading about it via text message was the same uproarious laughter that I've seen when I've told others about it.
I'm officially a fucking punchline.
What really chaps my ass is the timing. At the moment of that asshole's exclamation, I was actually feeling pretty good about myself, and that certainly hasn't always been the case recently. As I've mentioned before, and those who know me well can back it up, my mood -- everything from my self-image to my general demeanor -- can change on a fucking dime. But lately there's been a little more of a lean toward the worse.
I've always been a rather young-looking guy. In fact, when asked my age, I used to sometimes tell people to consider how old I look, then add five or six years. But I've recently told my wife that I think I'm starting to look my age for the first time in my life. At the age of 32, I think I'm starting to show the wear.
The solution to all of my concerns, of course, is to just fucking loosen up. I know. And I've been told that for a long freaking time. If I weren't such a high-stress, sensitive lunatic, I probably wouldn't have been feeling ill all day leading up to my jog. (My family insists that a majority of the ailments I suffer from are brought on by stress.) I probably also wouldn't have allowed my blood pressure to spike just because of something a high school or college-aged assclown had to say about me running with my kids. And if I were a little more laid I probably wouldn't need to be worried about how much I appear to have recently aged.
That's the answer to everything: Just fucking relax. It's all so simple.
Well, not for me. I'm still fucking pissed. I hope you're not too concerned about the second leg of my jogging stroller experience. For all intents and purposes, the story ends here.
So the point of this is that there's even less reason for us to avoid jogging as a primary source of exercise. I've been pretty good about getting out a few times a week anyway. But for my wife, who spends all day at home with our children and several others, it's understandably easier for her to fall into evening complacency. But having a jogging stroller, in fact, serves multiple purposes: 1. The kids get out of the house. 2. The adults get in a workout.
Pretty good plan, and it was first put into action this week.
The course: 1.62 miles to Prairie Village's Franklin Park.
The team: One solo jogger, one jogger pushing the two little guys, and Dominic on his bike.
The plan: A steady-paced trek one way, followed by a 20- to 30-minute stay at the park to appease the boys; then back home following the same course.
The first half-mile or so is a slight but steady incline, so it was clear to me that I should be behind the stroller for the start. The wife insisted otherwise, but it only took a couple of blocks before I convinced her to hand over the reins. I ended up keeping them the rest of the way.
The boys enjoyed seemed to enjoy the ride, and I thought it went pretty smoothly as well. My stamina was good, there was limited traffic on the sidewalks, and the weather - although quite humid - could have been a lot worse.
So I felt good about myself as I neared the park ahead of my wife and my bike-riding stepson ... that is until a truck full of douche bags had to ruin it all.
I was actually already on the park grounds at this time but hadn't yet reached the playground equipment which was our true destination. As I cruised along the path at a solid pace, red-faced and in a fully sweat-soaked shirt, a wise-ass young bastard leaned out the window of his truck to offer these sarcastic words of encouragement:
"Way to go, soccer dad!"
That mother fucker. There was a time (and that time may not have been too long ago) when I wouldn't have hesitated to shout something highly profane right back at him. And, hell, as inconsistent as I can be, that time may have just been two minutes before then ... or maybe even two minutes later. Depending on my mood, I may have decided to lock the brakes on the stroller, find a nice baseball-sized rock and chased that fucking truck until I was within good striking distance.
But in this case I let it go, biting my lip and accepting my defeat in the form of this shout of ridicule. My wife, of course, got a great kick out of this and felt the need to quickly share this event with my mom and my sister-in-law. I can only assume that their initial reactions when reading about it via text message was the same uproarious laughter that I've seen when I've told others about it.
I'm officially a fucking punchline.
What really chaps my ass is the timing. At the moment of that asshole's exclamation, I was actually feeling pretty good about myself, and that certainly hasn't always been the case recently. As I've mentioned before, and those who know me well can back it up, my mood -- everything from my self-image to my general demeanor -- can change on a fucking dime. But lately there's been a little more of a lean toward the worse.
I've always been a rather young-looking guy. In fact, when asked my age, I used to sometimes tell people to consider how old I look, then add five or six years. But I've recently told my wife that I think I'm starting to look my age for the first time in my life. At the age of 32, I think I'm starting to show the wear.
The solution to all of my concerns, of course, is to just fucking loosen up. I know. And I've been told that for a long freaking time. If I weren't such a high-stress, sensitive lunatic, I probably wouldn't have been feeling ill all day leading up to my jog. (My family insists that a majority of the ailments I suffer from are brought on by stress.) I probably also wouldn't have allowed my blood pressure to spike just because of something a high school or college-aged assclown had to say about me running with my kids. And if I were a little more laid I probably wouldn't need to be worried about how much I appear to have recently aged.
That's the answer to everything: Just fucking relax. It's all so simple.
Well, not for me. I'm still fucking pissed. I hope you're not too concerned about the second leg of my jogging stroller experience. For all intents and purposes, the story ends here.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Fuck You, Facebook
Consistent with my anti-hype platform, I am not on Facebook. In fact, I often used to say that I was the only person under the age of 35 who wasn't a part of the social networking phenomenon, although that's clearly not the case now that I've confirmed that my old college roommate and my brother are each in the same boat. So I guess I'm one of three.
I've actually received a bit of ridicule at times for not being found on Facebook, as if no one is anyone unless this is a part of his or her life. In the 21st Century, people apparently can't function unless they know the statuses of their friends, including what they're thinking at any random moment and what they might be preparing to do. It's fucking riveting. And my life, I guess, is incomplete without it.
But, son of a bitch, I lost to Facebook this weekend.
No, I didn't cave and create an account for myself. I forgot my friend's birthday. Not just any friend either; I'm talking about a guy who's arguably been my best friend for the past 15 years. A guy who always calls me on my birthday and wants to take me out for a drink.
Boy, did I feel like a piece of shit.
And guess what jogged my memory? That's right, I happened to be talking to my wife while she was cruising through her Facebook page and noticed the birthday acknowledgements to my friend Dan. Fuck, I suck. So not only did I forget, but there were a whole shitload of people who I'm sure remembered ONLY because they were on Facebook. That's some fucking bullshit.
Naturally, I told my wife to help me dig out from my hole and send him a message on my behalf. Just post something that says "My husband feels like shit for forgetting your birthday."
But life isn't that easy.
"No, it's your own fault," she said (paraphrasing a bit here). "That's what you get for not being on Facebook."
That's what I get?! That's what this world has come to?!
I must face the music for defying popular culture! How dare I turn my back on the social mainstream!
I may have lost this battle, but I'll keep fighting the war.
I've actually received a bit of ridicule at times for not being found on Facebook, as if no one is anyone unless this is a part of his or her life. In the 21st Century, people apparently can't function unless they know the statuses of their friends, including what they're thinking at any random moment and what they might be preparing to do. It's fucking riveting. And my life, I guess, is incomplete without it.
But, son of a bitch, I lost to Facebook this weekend.
No, I didn't cave and create an account for myself. I forgot my friend's birthday. Not just any friend either; I'm talking about a guy who's arguably been my best friend for the past 15 years. A guy who always calls me on my birthday and wants to take me out for a drink.
Boy, did I feel like a piece of shit.
And guess what jogged my memory? That's right, I happened to be talking to my wife while she was cruising through her Facebook page and noticed the birthday acknowledgements to my friend Dan. Fuck, I suck. So not only did I forget, but there were a whole shitload of people who I'm sure remembered ONLY because they were on Facebook. That's some fucking bullshit.
Naturally, I told my wife to help me dig out from my hole and send him a message on my behalf. Just post something that says "My husband feels like shit for forgetting your birthday."
But life isn't that easy.
"No, it's your own fault," she said (paraphrasing a bit here). "That's what you get for not being on Facebook."
That's what I get?! That's what this world has come to?!
I must face the music for defying popular culture! How dare I turn my back on the social mainstream!
I may have lost this battle, but I'll keep fighting the war.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
"How Do You Ride a Disco Stick?"
I never have been and never will be hip to the club scene, but I feel pretty confident in thinking that there's really no such object as a 'disco stick' when it comes to the dance floor, the DJ booth or the other areas that define the club scene. But consider this lyric:
Let's have some fun, this beat is sick;
I wanna take a ride on your disco stick.
There's only one way I can interpret this, especially when the lyric is pulled from a song entitled 'Lovegame' and when the artist looks like this.
Now try explaining it to an eight-year-old. That was what I was faced with this week as I allowed the TV to stay on Time Warner's 'Hit List' music channel while we ate dinner.
Question #1 from my stepson: "What's a disco stick?" I had no clue what the hell he was talking about until I listened to the song and heard the lyric. Yeah, maybe my mind just raced to the fucking gutter, but I can't think of any other way to interpret that. After I played dumb, Dominic came to the conclusion that it must be just like one of those shiny disco balls that hangs over the dance floor. Sure, sounds good to me.
Question #2: "But how do you ride a disco stick?" Can anyone answer that?
Other quotes of the week from my world:
"Send 'em all to fucking jail." This one came from my boss over lunch Friday. Being the lone female at the table, I hardly expected this kind of passionate interjection as the three men discussed the latest leak of 2003 steriod users in baseball. Rightfully, her comment was directed toward those who leaked the names of the offenders. I agree that there needs to be some serious accountability for this. Yes, the likes of A-Rod, Manny and Ortiz should be scorned for their use of performance enhancers, but those tests in '03 were part of an anonymous survey. The results should have been destroyed after they'd been tallied, and there NEVER should have been names attached to them. It really shouldn't be too difficult.
"Look at your nickels!" This is courtesy of my three-year-old boy, Joey. Proving that context is key to interpreting anything a child says, Joey said this as his 19-month-old brother ran around temporarily shirtless. Yes, 'nickels' are in fact nipples in our house.
Needless to say, it can be a riotous time in my world.
Let's have some fun, this beat is sick;
I wanna take a ride on your disco stick.
There's only one way I can interpret this, especially when the lyric is pulled from a song entitled 'Lovegame' and when the artist looks like this.
Now try explaining it to an eight-year-old. That was what I was faced with this week as I allowed the TV to stay on Time Warner's 'Hit List' music channel while we ate dinner.
Question #1 from my stepson: "What's a disco stick?" I had no clue what the hell he was talking about until I listened to the song and heard the lyric. Yeah, maybe my mind just raced to the fucking gutter, but I can't think of any other way to interpret that. After I played dumb, Dominic came to the conclusion that it must be just like one of those shiny disco balls that hangs over the dance floor. Sure, sounds good to me.
Question #2: "But how do you ride a disco stick?" Can anyone answer that?
Other quotes of the week from my world:
"Send 'em all to fucking jail." This one came from my boss over lunch Friday. Being the lone female at the table, I hardly expected this kind of passionate interjection as the three men discussed the latest leak of 2003 steriod users in baseball. Rightfully, her comment was directed toward those who leaked the names of the offenders. I agree that there needs to be some serious accountability for this. Yes, the likes of A-Rod, Manny and Ortiz should be scorned for their use of performance enhancers, but those tests in '03 were part of an anonymous survey. The results should have been destroyed after they'd been tallied, and there NEVER should have been names attached to them. It really shouldn't be too difficult.
"Look at your nickels!" This is courtesy of my three-year-old boy, Joey. Proving that context is key to interpreting anything a child says, Joey said this as his 19-month-old brother ran around temporarily shirtless. Yes, 'nickels' are in fact nipples in our house.
Needless to say, it can be a riotous time in my world.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Game 8: An Anti-Climactic End and an Angry Note to the City
I may not always expect to win, but I certainly always want to and am willing to give it a try. So, for the second straight week, I was prepared to play, knowing that we were likely to get destroyed by the first-place Hickory Hoosiers.
Last week, of course, we arrived for our 9:30 game with no opponent on the other side of the floor. We didn't know until 9:30 sharp that the game was a forfeit, but we made the most of the open gym time by playing some three-on-three and went home with our rather thankless win. The warning came a little sooner this week.
Game 8: July 22 vs. Hickory Hoosiers
I received an email Wednesday evening stating that our game was again a forfeit. Woo-fucking-hoo, we win again. But what an anti-climactic end to the season. Honestly, as brutally as we probably would have beaten by this team -- seeing as they'd already beaten everyone else in the league -- even a horribly humbling loss might have felt better. Fuck, at least we would have gotten to play.
I responded to the Parks & Rec representative by email to let him know that some of our team would likely show up at our 8:30 timeslot so we can take advantage of our floor time as we had the previous week. I was none too fucking pleased Wednesday morning when the city responded to inform me that our floor time would be 9:30pm. So these assholes asked the teams that were scheduled for the 9:30 game if they could move up to 8:30 (that's a fucking no-brainer), and then our team, which had already been screwed by not being able to play an actual game, was given the unfavorable late time for our private open gym session. They clearly knew it was much less likely any of us would show up at that time. So I figured I should let them know.
Here's my response:
Thanks for letting me know, but I want you to know that I'm not at all happy about this. It seems to me that this move is motivated entirely by the idea of closing the gym/community center as quickly as possible, and I don't think that's fair to my team. When our 9:30 game was forfeited last week, my team stayed to practice against each other, and we were told by multiple employees at 10:00 that we needed to leave because that's when the center closed. Well, we would have been there longer than that had our game not been cancelled; likewise with tonight as well. The truth is that no one wants to stay any longer than necessary, and no one really wants to play at 9:30, but we paid for that court. We paid to play eight games and we're only getting six. I'm sure we'd be run out of the gym at 10:00 again tonight, too, so it's not as if we're getting the full court time we paid for.
It's unlikely anyone on my team will be willing to make the journey to the gym at 9:30 tonight simply to shoot around and/or hope that enough guys show up for a short pickup game. In reality, our season basically ends with the equivalent of a full team ejection, as none of us got to play the last two games of the season. We certainly did nothing to earn this sort of two-game suspension, and we are not very pleased about it. What exactly is the $10 forfeit fee intended to cover? In a fair world, it would seem most appropriate to direct that toward the team that got screwed out of playing (twice).
Since we were a winless team prior to these forfeits, you might think we wouldn't mind getting a couple of free wins. But in the spirit of competition, we all look forward to getting out to play each week. This is a terrible way for our season to end.
Steve
It took everything I had not to use profanity throughout that email, but I did my best to cling to some professionalism, which we clearly hadn't been shown. I obviously pushed the right buttons, though, because I'd received a voicemail on my work phone and cell phone from the league coordinator within 30 minutes. I never did call the prick back, and he's since responded by email to acknowledge that "forfeits are a problem" and he offered my team an hour of free open gym at a future date at a time of our choosing. Nice, I suppose, but small potatoes compared to two games that we were hosed out of. (FYI, two games are essentially worth $70 of our entry fee. That could pay for a few rounds of drinks for our team and is probably at least three times what it would normally cost to rent the gym for an hour.)
So that's where things end. With a fucking whimper.
Final Record: 2-6
SJI Contribution (based on my postgame recollections): 10.2 pts per game for the six games we actually played. Not bad for a hot-headed little turd like myself.
Next game: TBD. I'm currently searching for late summer/fall league availability. Considering our 2009 record to date is 5-13, with two of those wins via forfeit, let's hope I can do a better job of finding the right fit for our squad. Until then ...
Last week, of course, we arrived for our 9:30 game with no opponent on the other side of the floor. We didn't know until 9:30 sharp that the game was a forfeit, but we made the most of the open gym time by playing some three-on-three and went home with our rather thankless win. The warning came a little sooner this week.
Game 8: July 22 vs. Hickory Hoosiers
I received an email Wednesday evening stating that our game was again a forfeit. Woo-fucking-hoo, we win again. But what an anti-climactic end to the season. Honestly, as brutally as we probably would have beaten by this team -- seeing as they'd already beaten everyone else in the league -- even a horribly humbling loss might have felt better. Fuck, at least we would have gotten to play.
I responded to the Parks & Rec representative by email to let him know that some of our team would likely show up at our 8:30 timeslot so we can take advantage of our floor time as we had the previous week. I was none too fucking pleased Wednesday morning when the city responded to inform me that our floor time would be 9:30pm. So these assholes asked the teams that were scheduled for the 9:30 game if they could move up to 8:30 (that's a fucking no-brainer), and then our team, which had already been screwed by not being able to play an actual game, was given the unfavorable late time for our private open gym session. They clearly knew it was much less likely any of us would show up at that time. So I figured I should let them know.
Here's my response:
Thanks for letting me know, but I want you to know that I'm not at all happy about this. It seems to me that this move is motivated entirely by the idea of closing the gym/community center as quickly as possible, and I don't think that's fair to my team. When our 9:30 game was forfeited last week, my team stayed to practice against each other, and we were told by multiple employees at 10:00 that we needed to leave because that's when the center closed. Well, we would have been there longer than that had our game not been cancelled; likewise with tonight as well. The truth is that no one wants to stay any longer than necessary, and no one really wants to play at 9:30, but we paid for that court. We paid to play eight games and we're only getting six. I'm sure we'd be run out of the gym at 10:00 again tonight, too, so it's not as if we're getting the full court time we paid for.
It's unlikely anyone on my team will be willing to make the journey to the gym at 9:30 tonight simply to shoot around and/or hope that enough guys show up for a short pickup game. In reality, our season basically ends with the equivalent of a full team ejection, as none of us got to play the last two games of the season. We certainly did nothing to earn this sort of two-game suspension, and we are not very pleased about it. What exactly is the $10 forfeit fee intended to cover? In a fair world, it would seem most appropriate to direct that toward the team that got screwed out of playing (twice).
Since we were a winless team prior to these forfeits, you might think we wouldn't mind getting a couple of free wins. But in the spirit of competition, we all look forward to getting out to play each week. This is a terrible way for our season to end.
Steve
It took everything I had not to use profanity throughout that email, but I did my best to cling to some professionalism, which we clearly hadn't been shown. I obviously pushed the right buttons, though, because I'd received a voicemail on my work phone and cell phone from the league coordinator within 30 minutes. I never did call the prick back, and he's since responded by email to acknowledge that "forfeits are a problem" and he offered my team an hour of free open gym at a future date at a time of our choosing. Nice, I suppose, but small potatoes compared to two games that we were hosed out of. (FYI, two games are essentially worth $70 of our entry fee. That could pay for a few rounds of drinks for our team and is probably at least three times what it would normally cost to rent the gym for an hour.)
So that's where things end. With a fucking whimper.
Final Record: 2-6
SJI Contribution (based on my postgame recollections): 10.2 pts per game for the six games we actually played. Not bad for a hot-headed little turd like myself.
Next game: TBD. I'm currently searching for late summer/fall league availability. Considering our 2009 record to date is 5-13, with two of those wins via forfeit, let's hope I can do a better job of finding the right fit for our squad. Until then ...
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
A Dose of Reality with an Assist from a Six-Foot Mouse
The woman next to me at the gas station last night couldn't even get a moment's fresh air. Her door was open, and she was in and out several times to adjust the music and other variables in hopes of calming her crying child. The Chicken Dance didn't seem to help either. And although I'm more familiar with the Dancing Elmo version ("Elmo wants to be a chicken, Elmo wants to be a duck ..."), which deserves a permanent home in the trash can, I had no trouble believing that.
This woman's situation served as what's really a constant reminder: As a parent, you are selfless.
She was probably on her way from work and just picked up her kid, the abrupt transition from job duties to life duties. My ride home from work each day serves as kind of a buffer. It's 20 minutes during which that transition can be softened. It doesn't always work that way, but it's a buffer in theory.
As usual, I arrived home last night to the apparent delight of my children. The screams usually seem to be in delight, and there was some extra pep this time. I was told we were going to Chuck E. Cheese for dinner.
I hate Chuck E. Cheese.
I've always said that Chuck E. Cheese is kind of like a casino, with the flashing lights and steady beeping of the various games/machines. Of course, the creepy old people you'll find at a casino at all hours of the day are replaced by dirty children who go straight from soda and pizza to Skee-Ball and video games. But there's no chance you'll win anything. Chuck E. Cheese is actually more like a shitty credit card rewards program. You spend your money to earn tickets, which you cash in for low-grade merchandise at a highly unfavorable redemption rate.
It's also the kind of place where you really don't want to have to go to the bathroom. There's something depressingly humbling about using a restroom when you know that 75% of the patrons miss their targets and don't wash their hands. I don't know when it sinks in for kids that the piss needs to hit the water and that you have to wash your hands after trying, but I'm guessing it's somewhere around 600th time they've been told. Needless to say, when I couldn't help but have to use the restroom last night, I did the foot toilet flush, and I used a paper towel to turn the faucet on and off and when opening the door. And it still meant nothing because most of the stuff that awaited on the other side had probably already been infected anyway. I hoped that heavy and repeated doses of sanitizer would help.
My family trip to Chuck E. Cheese was otherwise uneventful. But the point is that, despite my usual foul tone, I didn't ultimately have a true objection to going. My kids were freaking thrilled. And my wife even used a coupon to help us save. We even stopped at the park on the way home.
There was a time -- and it may not have been too long ago -- when I might have been royally and inconsolably pissed to have missed the first six innings of the Cubs game, but I'm starting to come to grips with these things. I can still probably be a selfish prick at times, but I'm learning to be selfless.
The sad thing is that even when I should have been selfish, I often wasn't. It may not even be as much about selfishness, rather it's about judgment and priorities. Whatever.
A recent reminiscence caused my brother and a friend to tell me that I once had a chance to go on a "legendary streak of tail." Of course I fucking blew it. But that's in the past. My priorities are right where they belong now.
This woman's situation served as what's really a constant reminder: As a parent, you are selfless.
She was probably on her way from work and just picked up her kid, the abrupt transition from job duties to life duties. My ride home from work each day serves as kind of a buffer. It's 20 minutes during which that transition can be softened. It doesn't always work that way, but it's a buffer in theory.
As usual, I arrived home last night to the apparent delight of my children. The screams usually seem to be in delight, and there was some extra pep this time. I was told we were going to Chuck E. Cheese for dinner.
I hate Chuck E. Cheese.
I've always said that Chuck E. Cheese is kind of like a casino, with the flashing lights and steady beeping of the various games/machines. Of course, the creepy old people you'll find at a casino at all hours of the day are replaced by dirty children who go straight from soda and pizza to Skee-Ball and video games. But there's no chance you'll win anything. Chuck E. Cheese is actually more like a shitty credit card rewards program. You spend your money to earn tickets, which you cash in for low-grade merchandise at a highly unfavorable redemption rate.
It's also the kind of place where you really don't want to have to go to the bathroom. There's something depressingly humbling about using a restroom when you know that 75% of the patrons miss their targets and don't wash their hands. I don't know when it sinks in for kids that the piss needs to hit the water and that you have to wash your hands after trying, but I'm guessing it's somewhere around 600th time they've been told. Needless to say, when I couldn't help but have to use the restroom last night, I did the foot toilet flush, and I used a paper towel to turn the faucet on and off and when opening the door. And it still meant nothing because most of the stuff that awaited on the other side had probably already been infected anyway. I hoped that heavy and repeated doses of sanitizer would help.
My family trip to Chuck E. Cheese was otherwise uneventful. But the point is that, despite my usual foul tone, I didn't ultimately have a true objection to going. My kids were freaking thrilled. And my wife even used a coupon to help us save. We even stopped at the park on the way home.
There was a time -- and it may not have been too long ago -- when I might have been royally and inconsolably pissed to have missed the first six innings of the Cubs game, but I'm starting to come to grips with these things. I can still probably be a selfish prick at times, but I'm learning to be selfless.
The sad thing is that even when I should have been selfish, I often wasn't. It may not even be as much about selfishness, rather it's about judgment and priorities. Whatever.
A recent reminiscence caused my brother and a friend to tell me that I once had a chance to go on a "legendary streak of tail." Of course I fucking blew it. But that's in the past. My priorities are right where they belong now.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Things I Learned This Week ... Most of Which I Already Knew
The National League All-Stars still kind of suck. My mom, aunt and brother-in-law are all officially a year older. We're now just over two weeks away from the start of college football traning camps. But those are all things that were all rather predictable this week. Here are a few other items that might merit a bit more detail.
I drink too much. That's what my wife says, and she's probably right. It should be noted, however, that she doesn't say this as if to imply that I have a problem. Because someone drinking "too much" clearly doesn't mean that he or she is an alcoholic. It's all relative and subjective. By no means am I dependent on alcohol; I simply choose to have a drink or two most nights of the week. And it's not uncommon for a drink or two to turn into five or six on some of those nights. But I'm not worried. It's not affecting my family life (I don't think), and it's not affecting my work (I don't think). I'm going to stick with what works.
Flowers mean "I'm sorry." I bought flowers for my wife this week, mainly because I'm a jackass. Despite being the proverbial loving father and devoted husband, I'm imperfect enough that some bad decisions are still inevitable. (And, no, those bad decisions are not related to the amount of alcohol I consume ... usually.) But not only am I enough of a jackass to put myself in situations that merit the purchase of flowers, I also NEVER buy flowers for the traditional flower-purchasing occasions. Valentine's Day, birthdays, anniversaries, I never go the flower route on those; so my wife could see right through me when I showed up with some roses Thursday. She said it would be nice to get flowers that meant something other than "I'm sorry." I think she's right on this one, too.
Deadbeats will be deadbeats. My degenerate neighbors from across the street moved out this week, heading back to Florida after being here just a few months. They were renting the house and apparently lied to the landlord about the husband losing his job, and they cited that as a reason why they couldn't pay the last month's rent and couldn't provide ample notice to end their lease. I guess this is the kind of behavior I should have expected from them. Likewise with the dozen or so bags and boxes of shit they left on the curb before leaving yesterday, as if our friendly sanitation workers were actually going to pick any of it up. Yeah, that's not a neighborhood eye sore. Oh, and did I mention that their four-year-old son pissed on our floor a couple of weeks ago? Fucking deadbeats. Good riddance.
Some people are really fucking disgusting and lazy. I think it's pretty reasonable to expect that adults would take pretty decent care of the public restroom that they know they'll need to use throughout the week at work. Now I don't expect people to be scrubbing the sinks and toilets, but I do expect them to be using the sinks and toilets for their designed purposes. First of all, everyone knows the unfortunate truth that there are some people who don't wash their hands after using the restroom. Use the sink, use the soap. It's not that difficult. But we know there are offenders, and we just have to avoid the non-washers as much as possible. I also came across a different issue in the men's room this week, as I had to completely avoid the urinal because of the ridiculous puddle that surrounded it on the floor. Seriously, someone gave it the Lloyd Christmas treatment from Dumb and Dumber. Damn it, this isn't a truckstop; it's a professional office building. Who are these losers we're surrounded by?
I don't think I'm at all disgusting or lazy, but I feel really fucking stupid sometimes. After hearing my boss rave about the work I've done while providing me with a rather glowing annual performance review, she actually had to print a new copy for me to sign this week because I had repeatedly forgotten to bring the original copy back from home. What a fucking idiot I am. Good enough to earn the kind words and salary increase, but dumb enough to immediately be brought back down to reality.
It's always something.
I drink too much. That's what my wife says, and she's probably right. It should be noted, however, that she doesn't say this as if to imply that I have a problem. Because someone drinking "too much" clearly doesn't mean that he or she is an alcoholic. It's all relative and subjective. By no means am I dependent on alcohol; I simply choose to have a drink or two most nights of the week. And it's not uncommon for a drink or two to turn into five or six on some of those nights. But I'm not worried. It's not affecting my family life (I don't think), and it's not affecting my work (I don't think). I'm going to stick with what works.
Flowers mean "I'm sorry." I bought flowers for my wife this week, mainly because I'm a jackass. Despite being the proverbial loving father and devoted husband, I'm imperfect enough that some bad decisions are still inevitable. (And, no, those bad decisions are not related to the amount of alcohol I consume ... usually.) But not only am I enough of a jackass to put myself in situations that merit the purchase of flowers, I also NEVER buy flowers for the traditional flower-purchasing occasions. Valentine's Day, birthdays, anniversaries, I never go the flower route on those; so my wife could see right through me when I showed up with some roses Thursday. She said it would be nice to get flowers that meant something other than "I'm sorry." I think she's right on this one, too.
Deadbeats will be deadbeats. My degenerate neighbors from across the street moved out this week, heading back to Florida after being here just a few months. They were renting the house and apparently lied to the landlord about the husband losing his job, and they cited that as a reason why they couldn't pay the last month's rent and couldn't provide ample notice to end their lease. I guess this is the kind of behavior I should have expected from them. Likewise with the dozen or so bags and boxes of shit they left on the curb before leaving yesterday, as if our friendly sanitation workers were actually going to pick any of it up. Yeah, that's not a neighborhood eye sore. Oh, and did I mention that their four-year-old son pissed on our floor a couple of weeks ago? Fucking deadbeats. Good riddance.
Some people are really fucking disgusting and lazy. I think it's pretty reasonable to expect that adults would take pretty decent care of the public restroom that they know they'll need to use throughout the week at work. Now I don't expect people to be scrubbing the sinks and toilets, but I do expect them to be using the sinks and toilets for their designed purposes. First of all, everyone knows the unfortunate truth that there are some people who don't wash their hands after using the restroom. Use the sink, use the soap. It's not that difficult. But we know there are offenders, and we just have to avoid the non-washers as much as possible. I also came across a different issue in the men's room this week, as I had to completely avoid the urinal because of the ridiculous puddle that surrounded it on the floor. Seriously, someone gave it the Lloyd Christmas treatment from Dumb and Dumber. Damn it, this isn't a truckstop; it's a professional office building. Who are these losers we're surrounded by?
I don't think I'm at all disgusting or lazy, but I feel really fucking stupid sometimes. After hearing my boss rave about the work I've done while providing me with a rather glowing annual performance review, she actually had to print a new copy for me to sign this week because I had repeatedly forgotten to bring the original copy back from home. What a fucking idiot I am. Good enough to earn the kind words and salary increase, but dumb enough to immediately be brought back down to reality.
It's always something.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Game 7: An Upset for the Ages?!
Here's what I said to the wife of one of my teammates upon showing up at the gym last night: "For the first time in a long time, I'm really not looking forward to playing basketball tonight."
Our 0-6, relatively sorry excuse for a team was scheduled to take on an apparent juggernaut, the 6-0 Hickory Hoosiers. They've beaten everyone, including the teams that had beaten us by 50+. And it became apparent about an hour before tip-off that we were likely to only have six guys in our rotation; so not only were we sure to be getting our asses kicked, but it was going to happen with only one person to sub off the bench.
My entire day seemed to be an appropriate precursor to this late night massacre (9:30pm game time). I felt like shit for most of Wednesday. After about an hour of work, my recent on-again off-again symptoms of discomfort all came on at once: a bit of headache, a bit of abdominal pain and what seemed to be a bit of a fever to go along with the usual fatigue that's caused by my regular lack of sleep.
You know you're not right (at least I do) when you go to Burger King for lunch and not even that sounds good. It wasn't until 3:00pm that I finally forced myself to eat something. It didn't really do the trick then either.
Things didn't get much better after work. My wife convinced me it would be a good night to go out to eat as a family, which we rarely do. But what are the fucking odds that we'd end up at the same restaurant as my brother-in-law, the table right next to his, as he's out having a birthday dinner with his girlfriend? That insured that I was to be primarily ignored over the next 60 minutes or so. My wife was understandably more interested in talking to her brother, and his mere presence for some reason makes my kids think they don't have to listen to a fucking word their parents say. It was not a good night to be the child cop.
I also received a heavy dose of criticism (it was called 'bullshit' actually) for saying that I wasn't going to be ordering anything to eat or drink. I still wasn't feeling well, I'd just forced down a sandwich about three hours earlier, and I was going to be playing basketball a couple of hours later. It made sense. It probably saved us $20. What's the problem?
So after a couple more hours of running around with the family, it finally came time to head to the gym and take our beating.
Game 7: July 15 vs. Hickory Hoosiers
What I failed to say in the opening when I quoted my lack of motivation just before gametime was that only one side of the gym was populated. There were our six guys and our one fan, but no one else (other than the now-infamous scorekeeper).
The referees filed in a few minutes later, but once the clock hit exactly 9:30 I heard what I never expected to hear during this basketball season: "You guys win."
The vaunted Hickory Hoosiers didn't show, giving us a rather thankless win ... but a win nonetheless. Here's my theory: These guys close the season with two straight against us, so they've already beaten everyone else. All they need to do is win one of the last two to clinch the title. My guess is that these arrogant fucks who shouldn't even be in a C league anyway decided that they didn't want to strain one of their vagina muscles during an otherwise meaningless 9:30 game.
Our six players enjoyed the friendly competition of several games of three-on-three until we were kicked out of the gym. But I'm pretty sure the assholes from Hickory will show up next week to mop the floor with our asses, then take their championship shirts and ride off on their gay ponies.
Final Score: I don't know. It might be 1-0; it might be 100-0. As I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, I'm not sure of the forfeit rules. I only know that we win, mother fucker.
SJI Contribution (my postgame recollection of it): Zero, but only because there was no opening tip. I was clearing going to be on fire, as illustrated when I hit my first three shots in three-on-three (two 2s and a three).
Record: 1-6
Next game: July 22 vs. Hickory Hoosiers.
Our 0-6, relatively sorry excuse for a team was scheduled to take on an apparent juggernaut, the 6-0 Hickory Hoosiers. They've beaten everyone, including the teams that had beaten us by 50+. And it became apparent about an hour before tip-off that we were likely to only have six guys in our rotation; so not only were we sure to be getting our asses kicked, but it was going to happen with only one person to sub off the bench.
My entire day seemed to be an appropriate precursor to this late night massacre (9:30pm game time). I felt like shit for most of Wednesday. After about an hour of work, my recent on-again off-again symptoms of discomfort all came on at once: a bit of headache, a bit of abdominal pain and what seemed to be a bit of a fever to go along with the usual fatigue that's caused by my regular lack of sleep.
You know you're not right (at least I do) when you go to Burger King for lunch and not even that sounds good. It wasn't until 3:00pm that I finally forced myself to eat something. It didn't really do the trick then either.
Things didn't get much better after work. My wife convinced me it would be a good night to go out to eat as a family, which we rarely do. But what are the fucking odds that we'd end up at the same restaurant as my brother-in-law, the table right next to his, as he's out having a birthday dinner with his girlfriend? That insured that I was to be primarily ignored over the next 60 minutes or so. My wife was understandably more interested in talking to her brother, and his mere presence for some reason makes my kids think they don't have to listen to a fucking word their parents say. It was not a good night to be the child cop.
I also received a heavy dose of criticism (it was called 'bullshit' actually) for saying that I wasn't going to be ordering anything to eat or drink. I still wasn't feeling well, I'd just forced down a sandwich about three hours earlier, and I was going to be playing basketball a couple of hours later. It made sense. It probably saved us $20. What's the problem?
So after a couple more hours of running around with the family, it finally came time to head to the gym and take our beating.
Game 7: July 15 vs. Hickory Hoosiers
What I failed to say in the opening when I quoted my lack of motivation just before gametime was that only one side of the gym was populated. There were our six guys and our one fan, but no one else (other than the now-infamous scorekeeper).
The referees filed in a few minutes later, but once the clock hit exactly 9:30 I heard what I never expected to hear during this basketball season: "You guys win."
The vaunted Hickory Hoosiers didn't show, giving us a rather thankless win ... but a win nonetheless. Here's my theory: These guys close the season with two straight against us, so they've already beaten everyone else. All they need to do is win one of the last two to clinch the title. My guess is that these arrogant fucks who shouldn't even be in a C league anyway decided that they didn't want to strain one of their vagina muscles during an otherwise meaningless 9:30 game.
Our six players enjoyed the friendly competition of several games of three-on-three until we were kicked out of the gym. But I'm pretty sure the assholes from Hickory will show up next week to mop the floor with our asses, then take their championship shirts and ride off on their gay ponies.
Final Score: I don't know. It might be 1-0; it might be 100-0. As I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, I'm not sure of the forfeit rules. I only know that we win, mother fucker.
SJI Contribution (my postgame recollection of it): Zero, but only because there was no opening tip. I was clearing going to be on fire, as illustrated when I hit my first three shots in three-on-three (two 2s and a three).
Record: 1-6
Next game: July 22 vs. Hickory Hoosiers.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
St. Louis, I Have a Middle Finger for You
With all due respect to a highly-regarded friend who happens to unfortunately be from the St. Louis area, I really can't fucking stand that city.
In its defense, I honestly have never given St. Louis much of a chance. My first visit came as a pre-teen in the late 1980s. I was reasonably thrilled to pack into a little turd capsule that sent my family to the top of the Arch. I also attended my first hockey game, watching the Blues defeat the Maple Leafs. As innocuous as hockey has always been, watching that particular St. Louis team earn a victory didn't create much of a bother.
It was during that same trip that I first went to Busch Stadium. With its seemingly florescent artificial turf and cookie-cutter stadium design, this was not a good place to watch a baseball game. And that doesn't even take into account the overall disdain I have for the Cardinals themselves.
So I guess you could say my hatred for St. Louis is single-minded; it's strictly due to baseball. But, trust me, that's a good enough reason.
Rarely can it be more painful than right now, as the sports world turns its collective eye toward St. Louis for baseball's All-Star festivities. Joe Buck set the tone Saturday during his call of the Cubs-Cardinals game on Fox, declaring that "St. Louis really does baseball right" and that the All-Star Game was "sure to be a spectacle" in St. Louis.
Christ, it's about all I can take.
I'm really curious as to where this perception was born -- the idea that St. Louis is this unparalleled baseball town that has such great respect for the game and is home to the most educated fans in the country. Who the fuck determines that? These great fans are the same ones that flocked out of the ballpark in droves in 1998 simply because it appeared certain that Mark McGwire would not be coming to the plate again that day. Now that's the path of an educated and respectful fan.
Looking for the full disclosure of bias? Here it is: I'm a diehard Cubs fan. But I have no problem acknowledging that there were plenty of Cubs fans in '98 who also took early exits if they thought Sammy Sosa had already taken his last cuts of the day. I'll also say that Wrigley Field is not the best place to watch a game, and I'd hesitate to say that it's definitely the home to the best fans. What I can tell you is that there are a lot of annoying fucks in the bleachers who are more concerned about drinking beer and chasing tail than what is happening on the field. But there's something to be said for 30,000+ fans singing in unison after a Cubs victory.
I don't see anything like that in St. Louis. And I don't care what Joe Buck, Tim McCarver, Bob Costas or anyone else has to say about it. In my eyes, that sea of red in the stands at Busch Stadium is much like the burning flames of hell.
So enjoy the All-Star festivities, St. Louis. Here's to a shitty second half of the season for you.
In its defense, I honestly have never given St. Louis much of a chance. My first visit came as a pre-teen in the late 1980s. I was reasonably thrilled to pack into a little turd capsule that sent my family to the top of the Arch. I also attended my first hockey game, watching the Blues defeat the Maple Leafs. As innocuous as hockey has always been, watching that particular St. Louis team earn a victory didn't create much of a bother.
It was during that same trip that I first went to Busch Stadium. With its seemingly florescent artificial turf and cookie-cutter stadium design, this was not a good place to watch a baseball game. And that doesn't even take into account the overall disdain I have for the Cardinals themselves.
So I guess you could say my hatred for St. Louis is single-minded; it's strictly due to baseball. But, trust me, that's a good enough reason.
Rarely can it be more painful than right now, as the sports world turns its collective eye toward St. Louis for baseball's All-Star festivities. Joe Buck set the tone Saturday during his call of the Cubs-Cardinals game on Fox, declaring that "St. Louis really does baseball right" and that the All-Star Game was "sure to be a spectacle" in St. Louis.
Christ, it's about all I can take.
I'm really curious as to where this perception was born -- the idea that St. Louis is this unparalleled baseball town that has such great respect for the game and is home to the most educated fans in the country. Who the fuck determines that? These great fans are the same ones that flocked out of the ballpark in droves in 1998 simply because it appeared certain that Mark McGwire would not be coming to the plate again that day. Now that's the path of an educated and respectful fan.
Looking for the full disclosure of bias? Here it is: I'm a diehard Cubs fan. But I have no problem acknowledging that there were plenty of Cubs fans in '98 who also took early exits if they thought Sammy Sosa had already taken his last cuts of the day. I'll also say that Wrigley Field is not the best place to watch a game, and I'd hesitate to say that it's definitely the home to the best fans. What I can tell you is that there are a lot of annoying fucks in the bleachers who are more concerned about drinking beer and chasing tail than what is happening on the field. But there's something to be said for 30,000+ fans singing in unison after a Cubs victory.
I don't see anything like that in St. Louis. And I don't care what Joe Buck, Tim McCarver, Bob Costas or anyone else has to say about it. In my eyes, that sea of red in the stands at Busch Stadium is much like the burning flames of hell.
So enjoy the All-Star festivities, St. Louis. Here's to a shitty second half of the season for you.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Game 6: This Is Really a Fucking C League?
Call me stereotypical. Call me a racist. Whatever. But when my basketball team – a rag-tag roster of whiteys between the ages of 25 and 35 – is matched up against a primarily African-American team with no one appearing to be as old as 25, I know pretty quickly that we're going to be in deep shit. For Christ's sake, these guys were doing organized lay-up drills before the game. Give me a fucking break.
By the way, one of my teammates spoke with one of theirs during the game, and apparently several of these guys played together on a local community college team. Yeah, they should be playing in a fucking C league. These are the kinds of pussies who have fragile enough egos that they can't bear to actually have to compete with teams at a similar level to theirs week in and week out. If it lets them sleep better at night, so be it. Fucking cocks.
Game 6: July 8 vs. The T-Birds
On our best day, we’d have been lucky to compete with these guys, and it was clear even before the game started that this wasn’t going to be our team’s best day. We were without our best overall player, who was out due to a broken nose/suspension/previous obligation (you can choose which reason to which it should be assigned; all should be considered valid). Our second-most experienced player and probably second-best overall player, Spencer, was also out. So the odds were stacked against us even more.
The game’s first highlight came even before the opening tip, as the league’s not-so-friendly scorekeeper approached our team with the scoresheet for us to fill out our roster for the game. On the heels of my game-ending tirade last week – some of which was directed right at her – she clearly was trying to hand off the sheet to anyone but me. Unwilling to let her off so easy, I quickly stepped in to take the captain’s role, and I watched as she uncomfortably made all efforts to avoid eye contact and any sort of interaction with me. It was a rewarding experience.
Then came the tip, and it was over fairly shortly thereafter. For what it’s worth, the Fabulous Flaming T-Birds couldn’t really shoot for shit. But it obviously didn’t matter, in large part because each of them individually seemed to be blessed with more natural athleticism than our entire team combined. They were effective driving to the basket, they got a ton of transition opportunities, and their speed and length forced a ridiculous number of turnovers from our so-called offense.
I was fortunate enough to draw the defensive assignment of someone who was probably ten years younger and about three or four inches taller than me. I don’t shy away from that kind of shit, though, and I certainly wasn’t going to let the guy have anything easy. Quickly getting frustrated by my bullish 5’6” 155-pound frame, this simple young man predictably opted for a strategy outside of the rules. Every cut to the basket, every effort to get in position for the ball, every time the ball was sent up toward the glass, the guy was doing nothing but pushing, shoving and throwing elbows. I have the bruises on both arms, my ribs and my hip to show for it. Not that I’m complaining. I’m actually quite proud to have caused it. I was obviously doing something right. And, by the way, the douche didn’t score a fucking point on me for those first 20 minutes.
Of course, plenty of his other teammates did score, and we struggled to counter with any consistent offensive output. Halftime score: 46-15.
We switched to a 2-3 zone in the second half as our strategy for slicing into that 31-point deficit, and it paid off early as we forced a turnover on the Flaming Gaybirds’ first possession. (Though it should be noted that the errant pass toward the wide-open man on the baseline probably wasn’t caused by any defensive execution.) We did actually hold our opponents to fewer points in the second half than the first, but we hardly had the offensive firepower to ever make things remotely interesting.
I did my best and actually had probably my best offensive half of season, knocking down several threes and a couple of buckets inside the arc. Each of the threes I hit was right in the eye of the same brash T-Bird. I’m not one to take many contested shots, but these guys could make up ground in a hurry … and I don’t think this guy liked the fact that a majority of the points his team had allowed were splashed right in his fucking mug. He tried to get his revenge, which was clearly necessary as they nursed a 40+ point lead, by dunking on me in transition. But imagine my satisfaction as his attempted dunk clanked off the rim and landed about 25 feet from the basket. He really served fucking notice on that one, and I reacted with a loud cheer to let him know about it.
The game otherwise was seemingly winding down without incident, certainly no broken bones or outbursts similar to the previous two weeks. However, my frustrated friend from the first half resurfaced in the last minute of the game, as our zone defense evolved into a pick-up-whoever-you-can defense while these dicks continued to keep their foot on the gas with a now 50-point lead. Good ole #32 still felt the need to barrel through paint with shoves and elbows those last couple of possessions, and I couldn’t help but laugh and call him out on it. His response: “You wasn’t complaining about it when you was doing it the whole game too.” No shit, asshole, but this is the final minute of a fucking ridiculous blowout. In his defense, however, he hadn’t had a chance to mix it up with me for the previous 19 minutes of the half, so I guess his punk ass needed to try to send me off with a message … as if the final score wasn’t going to be enough.
Final Score: 83-30
SJI Contribution (my postgame recollection of it): 17 points on four 3s, two 2s and 1-2 from the line. Generally not a good thing when I guy like me scores half of the team’s points.
Record: 0-6
Next game: July 15 vs. Hickory Hoosiers. By the way, they’re 6-0. Should be a fucking doozy.
By the way, one of my teammates spoke with one of theirs during the game, and apparently several of these guys played together on a local community college team. Yeah, they should be playing in a fucking C league. These are the kinds of pussies who have fragile enough egos that they can't bear to actually have to compete with teams at a similar level to theirs week in and week out. If it lets them sleep better at night, so be it. Fucking cocks.
Game 6: July 8 vs. The T-Birds
On our best day, we’d have been lucky to compete with these guys, and it was clear even before the game started that this wasn’t going to be our team’s best day. We were without our best overall player, who was out due to a broken nose/suspension/previous obligation (you can choose which reason to which it should be assigned; all should be considered valid). Our second-most experienced player and probably second-best overall player, Spencer, was also out. So the odds were stacked against us even more.
The game’s first highlight came even before the opening tip, as the league’s not-so-friendly scorekeeper approached our team with the scoresheet for us to fill out our roster for the game. On the heels of my game-ending tirade last week – some of which was directed right at her – she clearly was trying to hand off the sheet to anyone but me. Unwilling to let her off so easy, I quickly stepped in to take the captain’s role, and I watched as she uncomfortably made all efforts to avoid eye contact and any sort of interaction with me. It was a rewarding experience.
Then came the tip, and it was over fairly shortly thereafter. For what it’s worth, the Fabulous Flaming T-Birds couldn’t really shoot for shit. But it obviously didn’t matter, in large part because each of them individually seemed to be blessed with more natural athleticism than our entire team combined. They were effective driving to the basket, they got a ton of transition opportunities, and their speed and length forced a ridiculous number of turnovers from our so-called offense.
I was fortunate enough to draw the defensive assignment of someone who was probably ten years younger and about three or four inches taller than me. I don’t shy away from that kind of shit, though, and I certainly wasn’t going to let the guy have anything easy. Quickly getting frustrated by my bullish 5’6” 155-pound frame, this simple young man predictably opted for a strategy outside of the rules. Every cut to the basket, every effort to get in position for the ball, every time the ball was sent up toward the glass, the guy was doing nothing but pushing, shoving and throwing elbows. I have the bruises on both arms, my ribs and my hip to show for it. Not that I’m complaining. I’m actually quite proud to have caused it. I was obviously doing something right. And, by the way, the douche didn’t score a fucking point on me for those first 20 minutes.
Of course, plenty of his other teammates did score, and we struggled to counter with any consistent offensive output. Halftime score: 46-15.
We switched to a 2-3 zone in the second half as our strategy for slicing into that 31-point deficit, and it paid off early as we forced a turnover on the Flaming Gaybirds’ first possession. (Though it should be noted that the errant pass toward the wide-open man on the baseline probably wasn’t caused by any defensive execution.) We did actually hold our opponents to fewer points in the second half than the first, but we hardly had the offensive firepower to ever make things remotely interesting.
I did my best and actually had probably my best offensive half of season, knocking down several threes and a couple of buckets inside the arc. Each of the threes I hit was right in the eye of the same brash T-Bird. I’m not one to take many contested shots, but these guys could make up ground in a hurry … and I don’t think this guy liked the fact that a majority of the points his team had allowed were splashed right in his fucking mug. He tried to get his revenge, which was clearly necessary as they nursed a 40+ point lead, by dunking on me in transition. But imagine my satisfaction as his attempted dunk clanked off the rim and landed about 25 feet from the basket. He really served fucking notice on that one, and I reacted with a loud cheer to let him know about it.
The game otherwise was seemingly winding down without incident, certainly no broken bones or outbursts similar to the previous two weeks. However, my frustrated friend from the first half resurfaced in the last minute of the game, as our zone defense evolved into a pick-up-whoever-you-can defense while these dicks continued to keep their foot on the gas with a now 50-point lead. Good ole #32 still felt the need to barrel through paint with shoves and elbows those last couple of possessions, and I couldn’t help but laugh and call him out on it. His response: “You wasn’t complaining about it when you was doing it the whole game too.” No shit, asshole, but this is the final minute of a fucking ridiculous blowout. In his defense, however, he hadn’t had a chance to mix it up with me for the previous 19 minutes of the half, so I guess his punk ass needed to try to send me off with a message … as if the final score wasn’t going to be enough.
Final Score: 83-30
SJI Contribution (my postgame recollection of it): 17 points on four 3s, two 2s and 1-2 from the line. Generally not a good thing when I guy like me scores half of the team’s points.
Record: 0-6
Next game: July 15 vs. Hickory Hoosiers. By the way, they’re 6-0. Should be a fucking doozy.
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