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.
Monday, August 31, 2009
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.
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