For nights like last night.
Since the warm weather has returned, I've gotten out our bubble machine and turned it on, much to Son's delight. Five words currently occupy his happiness lexicon: Mommy, Daddy, tractor, cow and, thanks to the bubble machine, bubbles.
Anyway, I was wrapping up my Sunday and getting ready to hit the sack. My office is right next to Son's bedroom, and as I was shutting down my computer and turning off the light, I heard him talking in his sleep. He uttered one word: "Bubbles."
There are two things that every little boy should have:
1) A little red wagon;
2) Dreams filled with bubbles.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Friday, June 23, 2006
And now we can stop pretending we care about soccer.
Weeping! Wringing of hands! Gnashing of teeth!
Open up the faucets and let the heavy-handed words about "What now for American soccer?" spew forth!
Sure, it's a downer - I'm sad that the Americans failed to advance to the knockout round of the World Cup, but only because they're our team, representing our country, and not because of any vested interest in the sport. We're latecomers to the game, but at least the gap between the Americans and more established countries can be measured in years, not decades.
But I'll sleep well tonight knowing that it will be sooner rather than later that soccer will, once again, be an afterthought on the American sports landscape. And I can stop blogging for another four years about how it gives me narcolepsy.
Still, it sucks that Ghana - Ghana! - eliminated the Americans. (The nickname for the Ghana-ian ... Ghanamanian ... Ghana-ese ... uhhhhh ... national team representing Ghana is the "Black Stars." Isn't that a movie channel?)
Open up the faucets and let the heavy-handed words about "What now for American soccer?" spew forth!
Sure, it's a downer - I'm sad that the Americans failed to advance to the knockout round of the World Cup, but only because they're our team, representing our country, and not because of any vested interest in the sport. We're latecomers to the game, but at least the gap between the Americans and more established countries can be measured in years, not decades.
But I'll sleep well tonight knowing that it will be sooner rather than later that soccer will, once again, be an afterthought on the American sports landscape. And I can stop blogging for another four years about how it gives me narcolepsy.
Still, it sucks that Ghana - Ghana! - eliminated the Americans. (The nickname for the Ghana-ian ... Ghanamanian ... Ghana-ese ... uhhhhh ... national team representing Ghana is the "Black Stars." Isn't that a movie channel?)
Useless + irrelevant + NASCAR merchandise = the below? Maybe.
(Fade in. We find two men standing in the driveway talking; one is moving boxes into his truck.)
"Hey, Bill."
"Hey, Steve."
"Why are you packing up your house?"
"My retirement went down the tubes, and we can't afford to live here anymore."
"Awww, man, I hate to hear that. You lose money in Enron? WorldCom?"
"No ... I bought a warehouse full of Hut Stricklin rookie cards. They even spelled his name wrong, which would normally drive the value up."
"Hey, Bill."
"Hey, Steve."
"Why are you packing up your house?"
"My retirement went down the tubes, and we can't afford to live here anymore."
"Awww, man, I hate to hear that. You lose money in Enron? WorldCom?"
"No ... I bought a warehouse full of Hut Stricklin rookie cards. They even spelled his name wrong, which would normally drive the value up."
"Shit ..... What'd you pay for them?"
"Too much, apparently."
(Fade out.)
****
This is an interesting piece of art, for two reasons:
1) Contrary to the description, that doesn't look like Stricklin putting other cars in the dust so much as it looks like a pretty accurate representation of the end result of Hut's races: either running by himself several laps down, or getting ready to do a barrel-roll down the infield; and
2) An artist was actually commissioned to do a Hut Stricklin piece. (Did someone say "useless" or "irrelevant"?)
Proceeds from the winning bid of $6 went to support Broke-Dick Dog, the Hut Stricklin camp for disadvantaged kids in Alabama.
****
It's not merchandise, but words can't really describe this article, and it is relevant to this post only for the photo and the caption. It's possibly the only recorded instance of Stricklin's name being used in another language.
(Also, I think the phrase "Ward Burton, a quien supero" is quite fabulous. I don't know what it means, though. Probably just a general catch-all for "several laps down." Or "leaving the sport to concentrate on his conservation foundation, but is waiting by the phone for a top-quality Cup ride.")
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Faduck, an oyster bed! (Plus, if you thought the commercialization of NASCAR couldn't get any dumber ...)
Dumbass. He truly is "King of the Shitheads."
****
And this sounds a little ... shall we say .... gay. Perhaps if it was called something besides "NASCAR Angels," which sounds more like a semi-pornographic fundraiser calendar, or some craft-show horseshit that features things like a 40-year-old woman with a 68 IQ creating Scott Wimmer macaroni art ... oh, I've said too much.
(Which would be the better line there? "Scott Wimmer macaroni art," or "Hermie Sadler origami"?)
****
Update: This might be a pretty good approximation of the above-referenced art.
Rusty: "Beulah uses only Kraft macaroni and cheese noodles as she lovingly crafts another image of her NASCAR hero, Scott Wimmer. She is truly ... a NASCAR Angel." (cue sweeping inspirational music) "I'll be back in a minute with the story of the woman who nursed Scott Riggs back to health after a particularly nasty incident with an oyster bed. Next, on NASCAR Angels!"
****
And this sounds a little ... shall we say .... gay. Perhaps if it was called something besides "NASCAR Angels," which sounds more like a semi-pornographic fundraiser calendar, or some craft-show horseshit that features things like a 40-year-old woman with a 68 IQ creating Scott Wimmer macaroni art ... oh, I've said too much.
(Which would be the better line there? "Scott Wimmer macaroni art," or "Hermie Sadler origami"?)
****
Update: This might be a pretty good approximation of the above-referenced art.
Rusty: "Beulah uses only Kraft macaroni and cheese noodles as she lovingly crafts another image of her NASCAR hero, Scott Wimmer. She is truly ... a NASCAR Angel." (cue sweeping inspirational music) "I'll be back in a minute with the story of the woman who nursed Scott Riggs back to health after a particularly nasty incident with an oyster bed. Next, on NASCAR Angels!"******
Update 2: I hate to keep on picking on poor Scott, but if I started a series of posts about truly useless or irrelevant NASCAR merchandise, I imagine that this would be the first thing I'd write about:
I can't really imagine that it's one of shower-curtains.net's bigger sellers. (It really exists; it's not just a product of my addled imagination and Paint Shop Pro trickery! Check out the link!)
In that vein, I am also having a hard time imagining that the person who would own this particular item wouldn't also have the matching floor mat. Cause, you know, if you're going to go ... you've gotta go all the way.
How's your Thursday going?
My day in a nutshell: (See if you can point out where the universe is upside down.)
Today is Shadow Day at the place I work. In my group, we have one person who brought her 10-year-old granddaughter in. Within about 17 minutes, she was on my last nerve, doing dumbass stuff like sneaking up behind me and scaring me (twice!), because I’m so engrossed in my work. (Really.)
She pointed at the typewriter on the desk behind me: “What’s that?”
“Well, that’s how we used to send messages via Pony Express.”
(Blank look.)
“Your grandma still uses it because she hasn’t heard the news yet.”
(Blank look.)
Then she proceeded to tell me about the latest Harry Potter book. (As. If. I. Could. Give. Two. Shits.) Someone important to the story apparently dies. Dumblesomething. Sorry if that spoiled the book for you.
Oh. Here are two suggested titles for the off-brand Harry Potter books that I will write someday for sale at Big Lots and other cut-rate retailers:
Larry Porter and the Chamber of Commerce
Larry Porter and the Chambermaid’s Sister
Meanwhile ... my wife just called from Chicago. She and the team she took up there are having lunch at Hooters. Mentally, I compared this with how my day is going so far, and will probably cry myself to sleep tonight.
“Don't feel too bad, honey. None of the waitresses are particularly qualified to work here,” she said. “But they really should put on some shorts.”
“Are you sure you didn’t stop at Poopers?” I asked.
Conversely, while my wife is lunching at Hooters, I’ll probably have to explain the concept of correction fluid to a 10-year-old girl. My shizzle’s gone fazizzle.
Today is Shadow Day at the place I work. In my group, we have one person who brought her 10-year-old granddaughter in. Within about 17 minutes, she was on my last nerve, doing dumbass stuff like sneaking up behind me and scaring me (twice!), because I’m so engrossed in my work. (Really.)
She pointed at the typewriter on the desk behind me: “What’s that?”
“Well, that’s how we used to send messages via Pony Express.”
(Blank look.)
“Your grandma still uses it because she hasn’t heard the news yet.”
(Blank look.)
Then she proceeded to tell me about the latest Harry Potter book. (As. If. I. Could. Give. Two. Shits.) Someone important to the story apparently dies. Dumblesomething. Sorry if that spoiled the book for you.
Oh. Here are two suggested titles for the off-brand Harry Potter books that I will write someday for sale at Big Lots and other cut-rate retailers:
Larry Porter and the Chamber of Commerce
Larry Porter and the Chambermaid’s Sister
Meanwhile ... my wife just called from Chicago. She and the team she took up there are having lunch at Hooters. Mentally, I compared this with how my day is going so far, and will probably cry myself to sleep tonight.
“Don't feel too bad, honey. None of the waitresses are particularly qualified to work here,” she said. “But they really should put on some shorts.”
“Are you sure you didn’t stop at Poopers?” I asked.
Conversely, while my wife is lunching at Hooters, I’ll probably have to explain the concept of correction fluid to a 10-year-old girl. My shizzle’s gone fazizzle.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
(Insert tasteless Def Leppard joke here.)
Driving through town today, I caught this billboard:
Oh, I did not.
(........ too soon?)
(Information on "faduck" can be found in this post.)
Return of the Metal Geek.
I took the opportunity this afternoon (in a fit of rage) to listen to Megadeth's magnum opus, Rust In Peace.
I submit to you that Rust In Peace is the greatest air-guitar album of all time.
I also submit to you that my 10 favorite/best albums of all-time (second team) will have a substitution. In: Rust In Peace. Out: When The Red King Comes. I think. Or International Velvet.
Upon repeated listenings this evening on 10, Rust In Peace may work its way into my top 10. Because right now, I'm still seeing red after Doom's latest folly (which I won't blog about here, because it will come off as stupid petty stuff that I admittedly shouldn't be that upset about).
He sucks. But Rust In Peace does not. I think Rust In Peace, when placed next to Doom, might make him spontaneously combust. He'd be like a tire fire; he'd burn for days. Do your work, Mustaine and Friedman.
I submit to you that Rust In Peace is the greatest air-guitar album of all time.
I also submit to you that my 10 favorite/best albums of all-time (second team) will have a substitution. In: Rust In Peace. Out: When The Red King Comes. I think. Or International Velvet.
Upon repeated listenings this evening on 10, Rust In Peace may work its way into my top 10. Because right now, I'm still seeing red after Doom's latest folly (which I won't blog about here, because it will come off as stupid petty stuff that I admittedly shouldn't be that upset about).
He sucks. But Rust In Peace does not. I think Rust In Peace, when placed next to Doom, might make him spontaneously combust. He'd be like a tire fire; he'd burn for days. Do your work, Mustaine and Friedman.
Incomplete.
Another awful three days is upon me. Wife’s job duties take her on a three-day trip to the Windy City about four times a year, and now is one of those times. She left at 3 this morning, taking Son with her to the sitter. Because of the logistics of where our sitter is located, where my job is located, and my mother-in-law’s willingness to take him on Wednesday nights, I won’t see him again till at least tomorrow night, perhaps even later if I can’t get off work on Friday. I miss both of them already, and it’s not even been 6 hours yet.
I become handcuffed and weighed down by my own inertia during these times. I know that I should really enjoy the time to myself, and should even be excited at the prospect of accomplishing things around the house without anyone underfoot. I have mentally put together a to-do list of things to accomplish tonight – laundry, mowing, cleaning, etc. - and I know that I probably won’t get to a one of them.
It gets lonely in our big ol’ house during these times. Our abode is a 100+ year old farmhouse that has held up surprisingly well in spite of 100-plus years of crappy Indiana weather. (Knock on wood, or formica, or your knuckle-rapper of choice.) 100 springs of tornadoes and severe storms, 100 winters of blizzards and freezing/thawing/re-freezing, 100 summers of blistering heat and soaking humidity. And, my wife believes, 100 years of ghosts. She might just talk me into believing as well before one of us is a widower. I’m more prone to believe on nights like the ones I’m about to embark upon.
Hey, maybe there will be some more of that exciting World Cup soccer on one of the ESPN networks tonight. The only thing more mindnumbingly dull than live soccer is soccer that is broadcast live and then replayed later, when you already know the outcome. (I’m unrefined and have a single-digit IQ … I know.) Faduck, Da-Da – it’s boring.
(“Faduck, Da-Da”? Well, that reminds me of a story. When I was first giving Son baths, I would lose patience with him because he wouldn’t stand up in the tub for me to wash his legs – even though I’d ask very nicely - or he’d splash the water out onto the floor, or otherwise not do the things I wanted him to do. Finally, one night, out of immense frustration, I threw up my hands and said, “Oh, f*** a duck, Son!” He looked at me and said, “Faduck, Da-Da?” I think there’s a parenting lesson there, somewhere.)
Anyway, soccer. (The furriners call it “foosball,” you know.) I think what makes me lose feeling in my kidneys whenever I watch it is the sheer neutrality of the game. You’ve seen enough soccer to get the gist of it: Team A kicks the ball up the field, attempts to run something resembling an offense (several players either stand around or run down to the end line until they can’t run anymore), a defender from Team B gets a foot on the ball and reverses the ball’s movement into the opposite direction, usually with a very high kick. This is accompanied by a sound coming from the crowd that sounds like a vacuum cleaner in an echo chamber.
One of the teams comes down with the ball, and then there’s a “tackle” of some sort. Sometimes nothing is called, sometimes a foul is called, sometimes a “yellow card” is given, and sometimes a “red card” is given, and it all seems very arbitrary. This is accompanied by some (admittedly clever) singing on the part of the crowd.
Play continues in this vein for the next 90 minutes, a random amount of time (“injury time” or “stoppage time”) is added on at the end – again, arbitrarily – and then hooligans will set fire to the stands.
It is, the furriners will tell you, The Most Beautiful Game In The World.
“So? You likes zee automobile racing, ca va? How you oogly Americans say … boring!”
Yes, but I watch racing solely for the wrecks anymore.
“You could watch zee futbol for zee groin shots! Ees same, oui?”
Dude, that’s sick. Go back to Poland.
And the lack of scoring is appalling. If I wanted to bear witness to a lack of scoring, I’d videotape my own life. Ho ho!
At any rate, I’m off course here without a compass, as usual. Point being … ah, hell, I forget.
I become handcuffed and weighed down by my own inertia during these times. I know that I should really enjoy the time to myself, and should even be excited at the prospect of accomplishing things around the house without anyone underfoot. I have mentally put together a to-do list of things to accomplish tonight – laundry, mowing, cleaning, etc. - and I know that I probably won’t get to a one of them.
It gets lonely in our big ol’ house during these times. Our abode is a 100+ year old farmhouse that has held up surprisingly well in spite of 100-plus years of crappy Indiana weather. (Knock on wood, or formica, or your knuckle-rapper of choice.) 100 springs of tornadoes and severe storms, 100 winters of blizzards and freezing/thawing/re-freezing, 100 summers of blistering heat and soaking humidity. And, my wife believes, 100 years of ghosts. She might just talk me into believing as well before one of us is a widower. I’m more prone to believe on nights like the ones I’m about to embark upon.
Hey, maybe there will be some more of that exciting World Cup soccer on one of the ESPN networks tonight. The only thing more mindnumbingly dull than live soccer is soccer that is broadcast live and then replayed later, when you already know the outcome. (I’m unrefined and have a single-digit IQ … I know.) Faduck, Da-Da – it’s boring.
(“Faduck, Da-Da”? Well, that reminds me of a story. When I was first giving Son baths, I would lose patience with him because he wouldn’t stand up in the tub for me to wash his legs – even though I’d ask very nicely - or he’d splash the water out onto the floor, or otherwise not do the things I wanted him to do. Finally, one night, out of immense frustration, I threw up my hands and said, “Oh, f*** a duck, Son!” He looked at me and said, “Faduck, Da-Da?” I think there’s a parenting lesson there, somewhere.)
Anyway, soccer. (The furriners call it “foosball,” you know.) I think what makes me lose feeling in my kidneys whenever I watch it is the sheer neutrality of the game. You’ve seen enough soccer to get the gist of it: Team A kicks the ball up the field, attempts to run something resembling an offense (several players either stand around or run down to the end line until they can’t run anymore), a defender from Team B gets a foot on the ball and reverses the ball’s movement into the opposite direction, usually with a very high kick. This is accompanied by a sound coming from the crowd that sounds like a vacuum cleaner in an echo chamber.
One of the teams comes down with the ball, and then there’s a “tackle” of some sort. Sometimes nothing is called, sometimes a foul is called, sometimes a “yellow card” is given, and sometimes a “red card” is given, and it all seems very arbitrary. This is accompanied by some (admittedly clever) singing on the part of the crowd.
Play continues in this vein for the next 90 minutes, a random amount of time (“injury time” or “stoppage time”) is added on at the end – again, arbitrarily – and then hooligans will set fire to the stands.
It is, the furriners will tell you, The Most Beautiful Game In The World.
“So? You likes zee automobile racing, ca va? How you oogly Americans say … boring!”
Yes, but I watch racing solely for the wrecks anymore.
“You could watch zee futbol for zee groin shots! Ees same, oui?”
Dude, that’s sick. Go back to Poland.
And the lack of scoring is appalling. If I wanted to bear witness to a lack of scoring, I’d videotape my own life. Ho ho!
At any rate, I’m off course here without a compass, as usual. Point being … ah, hell, I forget.
Monday, June 19, 2006
Father's Day infidelities.
I fell in love over the weekend.
Yeah, I know, it was Father’s Day and everything, generally not a day when one's mind begins to wander out of your marriage. But one’s emotions don’t really take into account the calendar, and once I ran my hands over her body, climbed on and rode for about hour, my heart was swept away. Once I was done, I sat beside her in the afterglow, smoking a cigarette and letting blissful thoughts creep into my head, trying to find a way to keep her for myself, for alas, she belongs to another man.
It’s not what you’re thinking – get your mind out of the gutter for a second, OK? Pervert.
My brother-in-law showed up at the house yesterday afternoon, hauling a piece of heavy machinery with him. (And isn’t that how all great love stories begin? I believe that’s how Bogie and Bacall got started.)
I thought to myself, “… the hell?”
Wife went outside to greet him, and I threw on some shoes and took Son to the door, since he goes bananas over any sort of heavy machinery, especially tractors. Said machinery was a 1970ish Cub Cadet “belly mower.” I’d never heard the term before, but what it entails is a tractor with a mower attachment. As my brother-in-law prepared to put a new belt on our rider, Wife said, “You want to climb on and try it out? …”
Insanely, I thought she was talking to my 2-year-old son. Who, naturally, didn’t answer.
“… or are you just going to stand there and look at me?” she completed the thought.
I pointed to myself and mouthed the word, “Me?”
I should probably add here that I’m not really much of a heavy-machinery type of guy, and that, given the awful luck I’ve had as of late with anything gasoline-powered, I was shocked and awed by the prospect of getting on this monster of a mower.
I hopped on, drove it around for a little bit – “Oh, by the way, the brakes don’t work,” I was told just as I put it into gear – and mowed our side yard in about 10 minutes. It’s a job that usually takes about 20-30 minutes with our regular riding mower, and 45 minutes to a hour with our push mower.
“I want one!” I yelled to my wife, cackling with laughter at every pass.
Sadly, I had to get off of it for awhile – the belt started squeaking pretty badly as I started on the back two acres of our lot. "Crap!" I thought. "I'm breaking his mower!"
I drove it back up to where my brother-in-law, wife and son were sitting. Wife’s brother hopped back on, raised the deck and drove off toward where I had stopped mowing. He mowed that part for about a half-hour or so, then when I fetched him a beer and took it back to him, he said, “You wanna drive it some more?” (Does a bear ......)
So I did. The back two acres – normally a three-hour job – was knocked down in a little over an hour. A 60-inch cut really cuts down on the time taken to mow. And he left it there for me to use this week. Yay! (Such a manly expression, no?)
I fell in love yesterday, and I want one for myself now, even though I look slightly out of place on it, kind of like a cat in a dress, only more ridiculous.
Yeah, I know, it was Father’s Day and everything, generally not a day when one's mind begins to wander out of your marriage. But one’s emotions don’t really take into account the calendar, and once I ran my hands over her body, climbed on and rode for about hour, my heart was swept away. Once I was done, I sat beside her in the afterglow, smoking a cigarette and letting blissful thoughts creep into my head, trying to find a way to keep her for myself, for alas, she belongs to another man.
It’s not what you’re thinking – get your mind out of the gutter for a second, OK? Pervert.
My brother-in-law showed up at the house yesterday afternoon, hauling a piece of heavy machinery with him. (And isn’t that how all great love stories begin? I believe that’s how Bogie and Bacall got started.)
I thought to myself, “… the hell?”
Wife went outside to greet him, and I threw on some shoes and took Son to the door, since he goes bananas over any sort of heavy machinery, especially tractors. Said machinery was a 1970ish Cub Cadet “belly mower.” I’d never heard the term before, but what it entails is a tractor with a mower attachment. As my brother-in-law prepared to put a new belt on our rider, Wife said, “You want to climb on and try it out? …”
Insanely, I thought she was talking to my 2-year-old son. Who, naturally, didn’t answer.
“… or are you just going to stand there and look at me?” she completed the thought.
I pointed to myself and mouthed the word, “Me?”
I should probably add here that I’m not really much of a heavy-machinery type of guy, and that, given the awful luck I’ve had as of late with anything gasoline-powered, I was shocked and awed by the prospect of getting on this monster of a mower.
I hopped on, drove it around for a little bit – “Oh, by the way, the brakes don’t work,” I was told just as I put it into gear – and mowed our side yard in about 10 minutes. It’s a job that usually takes about 20-30 minutes with our regular riding mower, and 45 minutes to a hour with our push mower.
“I want one!” I yelled to my wife, cackling with laughter at every pass.
Sadly, I had to get off of it for awhile – the belt started squeaking pretty badly as I started on the back two acres of our lot. "Crap!" I thought. "I'm breaking his mower!"
I drove it back up to where my brother-in-law, wife and son were sitting. Wife’s brother hopped back on, raised the deck and drove off toward where I had stopped mowing. He mowed that part for about a half-hour or so, then when I fetched him a beer and took it back to him, he said, “You wanna drive it some more?” (Does a bear ......)
So I did. The back two acres – normally a three-hour job – was knocked down in a little over an hour. A 60-inch cut really cuts down on the time taken to mow. And he left it there for me to use this week. Yay! (Such a manly expression, no?)
I fell in love yesterday, and I want one for myself now, even though I look slightly out of place on it, kind of like a cat in a dress, only more ridiculous.
Reflections of Father's Day.
Because I'm still relatively new to fatherhood, I’m not yet used to the idea of Father’s Day as a day off for myself, or even a day that is remotely about me. Naturally, I still use it as a day to remind my dad that he is my hero and that, despite the ugliness of my parents’ divorce some 23 years ago, he still deserves a lot of the credit for the man I am today.
But as far as it being “my special day,” I’m just not there yet. And that’s disappointing to me, really – as difficult as it was for us to conceive a child, as shocking as his eight-weeks-early arrival was, you’d think I’d be more appreciative/reflective of the day. I’m sure I will be in due course.
I did, however, receive an award for Father’s Day. I was named “Best Dad – Hands Down!” by my son. There was apparently some fingerpaint that came with the shirt, and he put his handprints on it. It was very sweet. This award goes alongside my “#1 Dad” award that I received last Christmas. Honors such as these are great resume-fillers.
Naturally, seeing other dads out on Father’s Day with similar articles of clothing causes me to laugh on the inside at them, and then in short order, a case of the Ike Turners comes over me:
“Uh-huh. Sure, you’re ‘The Greatest Dad In The World.’ Pfffft. Your shirt is fraudulent – did you know that? Cause mine says, right here --- pardon? … Sir, I would suggest that you sit back down and enjoy your steak ... what's that? Well, why don’t you just bring it, then, and we’ll see who’s Best Dad In The World? I’ll whoop your ass, bitch! I swear, I'll take your ass down! Hold me back, Wife! This guy's asking for a knuckle sammich!"
(I wasn’t laughing so hard after we got thrown out of the Ponderosa.)
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
All for want of a piece of tape.
A lot of my vehicular stress, which I very briefly blogged about in the closing paragraphs of this post, was reduced over the weekend. Now I can get ulcers about other things.
Wife and I traded vehicles a couple of months ago; she started driving my Escape, because she has a longer drive and it gets better mileage, while I took over the wheel of her Explorer. Both of us now go through one tank of gas a week apiece, whereas previously, she was filling up the Explorer twice a week, and I was filling my Escape up once per week.
When I started driving the Explorer, one minor problem would rear its ugly head on occasion, and it was completely random in its occurrence. At intersections, or when turning off of one road onto another, the Explorer would sometimes lose power and die. It didn’t put up too much of a fight when I would start back up, but woe to those who were in a hurry behind me.
The dying problem wasn’t an issue once I got up to speed on the highway, but it was a problem in town and where I work. Wife and I had misdiagnosed the problem as having to do with dirty fuel injectors. Her solution was to give me the opportunity to “clean out” the fuel injectors by finding a wide-open stretch of highway and just gunning it for about a mile. Hooray!
The Explorer would then run fine for about a week or so before the same problems would return. It was an inconvenience, but nothing a bottle of fuel injector cleaner (and a series of Steve McQueen moments) wouldn’t fix.
Cue hot weather. The 90-degree heat and 300-percent humidity seemed to wreak havoc on the Explorer. It’s about 15 miles to work for me one way, and my vehicle would die on average of 3-4 times per trip. This development was a grandly inconvenient one, and I feared it to be a terminal one as well. The Explorer has almost 190,000 miles on it, so every cough, sputter and hiccup that it experiences causes me to think the end is near for it.
I finally got it into the shop last Saturday. My mechanic ran a diagnostic on it, found the issue, got underneath the vehicle, and spied a loose wire running down from where the distributor used to be in older vehicles (I hear that most of today's vehicles are distributor-less, so ... OK.). This stray wire was occasionally hitting up against a clamp underneath the vehicle, which was in turn causing a “double flash” of some sort (I am a layman, so he could have said that it was my Explorer's pancreas that was the issue, and I would have said, "Oh no! Not my Explorer's pancreas!").
Anyway, this "double flash" had the ultimate effect of shorting out the engine. Or something.
A piece of tape to put the wire back into place, and I was on my way. The Explorer is running as smoothly as it ever was, and the internal-combustion-engine gods have moved on to other things. I'm just glad I don't have to dread driving anymore for a while.
Wife and I traded vehicles a couple of months ago; she started driving my Escape, because she has a longer drive and it gets better mileage, while I took over the wheel of her Explorer. Both of us now go through one tank of gas a week apiece, whereas previously, she was filling up the Explorer twice a week, and I was filling my Escape up once per week.
When I started driving the Explorer, one minor problem would rear its ugly head on occasion, and it was completely random in its occurrence. At intersections, or when turning off of one road onto another, the Explorer would sometimes lose power and die. It didn’t put up too much of a fight when I would start back up, but woe to those who were in a hurry behind me.
The dying problem wasn’t an issue once I got up to speed on the highway, but it was a problem in town and where I work. Wife and I had misdiagnosed the problem as having to do with dirty fuel injectors. Her solution was to give me the opportunity to “clean out” the fuel injectors by finding a wide-open stretch of highway and just gunning it for about a mile. Hooray!
The Explorer would then run fine for about a week or so before the same problems would return. It was an inconvenience, but nothing a bottle of fuel injector cleaner (and a series of Steve McQueen moments) wouldn’t fix.
Cue hot weather. The 90-degree heat and 300-percent humidity seemed to wreak havoc on the Explorer. It’s about 15 miles to work for me one way, and my vehicle would die on average of 3-4 times per trip. This development was a grandly inconvenient one, and I feared it to be a terminal one as well. The Explorer has almost 190,000 miles on it, so every cough, sputter and hiccup that it experiences causes me to think the end is near for it.
I finally got it into the shop last Saturday. My mechanic ran a diagnostic on it, found the issue, got underneath the vehicle, and spied a loose wire running down from where the distributor used to be in older vehicles (I hear that most of today's vehicles are distributor-less, so ... OK.). This stray wire was occasionally hitting up against a clamp underneath the vehicle, which was in turn causing a “double flash” of some sort (I am a layman, so he could have said that it was my Explorer's pancreas that was the issue, and I would have said, "Oh no! Not my Explorer's pancreas!").
Anyway, this "double flash" had the ultimate effect of shorting out the engine. Or something.
A piece of tape to put the wire back into place, and I was on my way. The Explorer is running as smoothly as it ever was, and the internal-combustion-engine gods have moved on to other things. I'm just glad I don't have to dread driving anymore for a while.
Friday, June 09, 2006
File under "posts about filing"
Made it to another Friday. I hadn’t really fully realized the value of Fridays in my adult life until about the last five years. The position I’m in is only my second one in which I’ve worked a regular Monday-Friday schedule. Now I don’t consider Fridays so overrated.
Random track kicked up on the don’t-call-it-an-iPod: “Darling, the Streets Are For Keeps” by Indiana’s own Marmoset. They were a band that I had always considered to be on the second tier of local bands, and then they put out the excellent Today It’s You album and changed my perception considerably.
I’ve lost momentum. There is a whole bunch of filing to be done, because filing is at the absolute bottom of the barrel as far as my job duties are concerned. Oh, it’s important, especially when inspectors come in, but my enthusiasm for the task falls short of its importance. But it’s one of those things that only calls attention to me if it doesn’t get done. I don’t mind being a behind-the-scenes type, which is a drastic change from my original plan of unrestrained fame and fortune. But filing is just mundane and not appreciated.
Next random track: “Radio Show (Trust the Wizard)” by Guided by Voices. It recalls an earlier post from this week: “It’s another day today, it’s another day today.”
Speaking of mundane, one change from my earlier post about soccer: I had said that I wouldn’t be getting up in the middle of the night to watch any of the games. Thank goodness for that; the games will be on between 10 and 4 in the day. So, let me amend my earlier statement:
I won’t be staying home from work to watch the games.
Next random track: “School” by Nirvana. I wonder what ever became of them.
There’s apparently a fuss surrounding Ann Coulter and the comments she gave to Matt Lauer on “Today” one day earlier this week regarding a group of 9/11 widows. I’m trying to muster something, anything – faux outrage, qualified support, anything – and I just can’t do it.
I like Ann. I really do. There is truth in what she says if one cares enough to dig beneath the bombast. Most people don’t. They call people on the right “reactionary,” yet every time Coulter opens her mouth about anything – religion, the media, the weather - the left will immediately seize on a particular phrase or a sentence and try to deem the rest of her argument irrelevant because of it.
My problem is: I just can’t bring myself to care anymore. This is not a slight directed at Ann; it’s a general apathy that I’ve felt toward politics and punditry as of late. There’s a reason, after all, that I took down the links to the various political websites over there in the sidebar. If you care enough about what those folks have to say, I’m sure you have the resources at your disposal to find them. Besides, I doubt that any of them have lost traffic since I removed the links from this blog.
Me – I’m just tired of all of the shouting.
Random track kicked up on the don’t-call-it-an-iPod: “Darling, the Streets Are For Keeps” by Indiana’s own Marmoset. They were a band that I had always considered to be on the second tier of local bands, and then they put out the excellent Today It’s You album and changed my perception considerably.
I’ve lost momentum. There is a whole bunch of filing to be done, because filing is at the absolute bottom of the barrel as far as my job duties are concerned. Oh, it’s important, especially when inspectors come in, but my enthusiasm for the task falls short of its importance. But it’s one of those things that only calls attention to me if it doesn’t get done. I don’t mind being a behind-the-scenes type, which is a drastic change from my original plan of unrestrained fame and fortune. But filing is just mundane and not appreciated.
Next random track: “Radio Show (Trust the Wizard)” by Guided by Voices. It recalls an earlier post from this week: “It’s another day today, it’s another day today.”
Speaking of mundane, one change from my earlier post about soccer: I had said that I wouldn’t be getting up in the middle of the night to watch any of the games. Thank goodness for that; the games will be on between 10 and 4 in the day. So, let me amend my earlier statement:
I won’t be staying home from work to watch the games.
Next random track: “School” by Nirvana. I wonder what ever became of them.
There’s apparently a fuss surrounding Ann Coulter and the comments she gave to Matt Lauer on “Today” one day earlier this week regarding a group of 9/11 widows. I’m trying to muster something, anything – faux outrage, qualified support, anything – and I just can’t do it.
I like Ann. I really do. There is truth in what she says if one cares enough to dig beneath the bombast. Most people don’t. They call people on the right “reactionary,” yet every time Coulter opens her mouth about anything – religion, the media, the weather - the left will immediately seize on a particular phrase or a sentence and try to deem the rest of her argument irrelevant because of it.
My problem is: I just can’t bring myself to care anymore. This is not a slight directed at Ann; it’s a general apathy that I’ve felt toward politics and punditry as of late. There’s a reason, after all, that I took down the links to the various political websites over there in the sidebar. If you care enough about what those folks have to say, I’m sure you have the resources at your disposal to find them. Besides, I doubt that any of them have lost traffic since I removed the links from this blog.
Me – I’m just tired of all of the shouting.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
A fare-thee-well rather late in coming ...
For no particular reason, the other day I caught the nostalgia bug and started thumbing through the old music zine that the Captain and I put out with some success back in the late ‘90s. It’s still available online, believe it or not; I’m still somewhat shocked that it still exists electronically, as I thought there would be a colossal wipe of inactive sites done by Angelfire sometime between our last issue in 1999 and now.
No Ugly Babies started a few years after the zine Sponic did, but while we crashed and burned after nine issues due in part to financial distress (we also put out a hard copy in addition to the electronic version), Sponic kept it up and continued publishing well into this decade. The boys at Sponic were our kindreds, sharing a more-than-passing interest in Guided by Voices and most other things indie-rock, and most importantly, writing well about it. They cared as much about getting the word out about decent music as we did.
Anyway, I fell out of touch with that whole scene around the time of my courtship of my wife, subsequent engagement and marriage, and NUB died a somewhat ignominious death not befitting our vision of what it was and could be. I left Bloomington for the decidedly less musically fertile happy hunting grounds of Martin County, and slowly forgot about that period of two years where I felt like I was at my most creative, where I foolishly thought that, if we worked hard enough at it and the pieces fell into place, NUB would give the local alt-weekly a run for its money.
And I forgot about Sponic also.
The point: I read the other day that Sponic, which had since relocated to Denver from Ohio, had folded up its tent about a year ago. (If Guided by Voices had ended its run while NUB was still in existence, we probably would have closed up shop also.) I don’t know if Mr. Wenzel et al will ever see this, but it was heartening to see that someone had kept the torch burning for the last seven years in our absence.
No Ugly Babies started a few years after the zine Sponic did, but while we crashed and burned after nine issues due in part to financial distress (we also put out a hard copy in addition to the electronic version), Sponic kept it up and continued publishing well into this decade. The boys at Sponic were our kindreds, sharing a more-than-passing interest in Guided by Voices and most other things indie-rock, and most importantly, writing well about it. They cared as much about getting the word out about decent music as we did.
Anyway, I fell out of touch with that whole scene around the time of my courtship of my wife, subsequent engagement and marriage, and NUB died a somewhat ignominious death not befitting our vision of what it was and could be. I left Bloomington for the decidedly less musically fertile happy hunting grounds of Martin County, and slowly forgot about that period of two years where I felt like I was at my most creative, where I foolishly thought that, if we worked hard enough at it and the pieces fell into place, NUB would give the local alt-weekly a run for its money.
And I forgot about Sponic also.
The point: I read the other day that Sponic, which had since relocated to Denver from Ohio, had folded up its tent about a year ago. (If Guided by Voices had ended its run while NUB was still in existence, we probably would have closed up shop also.) I don’t know if Mr. Wenzel et al will ever see this, but it was heartening to see that someone had kept the torch burning for the last seven years in our absence.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
... and nothing else matters.
Still, below post notwithstanding, I really do have the perfect life, and here's why:
Monday night, the sweet-crap movie "The Reading Room," starring James Earl Jones, was on the Hallmark Channel, which deals almost solely in sweet-crap movies and "Walter Texas Ranger."
Because I am a smartass, I had to punctuate all of Jones' lines with the Darth Vader breathing sound. I don't know how you would spell it out phonetically, so I'm going to spell it "khhhhhh," because it's relevant to the story.
Naturally, I got a little carried away with it, and Wife wanted to murder me about 20 minutes in. I let it go for a little while, then when I went to change Son into his pajamas, I started back in, doing my best to approximate James Earl Jones' voice.*
Me: "Son ... I am your father. (khhhhhhhh)"
Son: *squeals of laughter*
Me: "Son ... do not resist me changing your diaper ... (khhhhh) ... it is your destiny. (khhhhhhh)"
Son: *continued laughter*
He was really tickled by the khhhhhhh. So much, in fact, that later on (because I can't let it go for long), I said it again.
Me: "Son ... it is your destiny. (khhhhhhh)"
Son: (trying to change his voice into something a little deeper - seriously!) "(gibberish gibberish gibberish) - (khhhhh)!"
I laughed so hard.
This, in turn, led to dropping the "khhhhh" into everyday things at our cue - "Mommy! (khhhhhh)." "Daddy! (khhhhhhh)." It's the funniest thing I've seen in a while.
Leading child-development experts say that teaching your child to do a Darth Vader impression is key to his development.
* - The Captain used to do a killer James Earl Jones impression, because he's a bit more of a baritone, while I have a pleasant, calm, soothing secretarial voice; I sound more like I'm a teenager trying to sound older so I can buy cigarettes.
Monday night, the sweet-crap movie "The Reading Room," starring James Earl Jones, was on the Hallmark Channel, which deals almost solely in sweet-crap movies and "Walter Texas Ranger."
Because I am a smartass, I had to punctuate all of Jones' lines with the Darth Vader breathing sound. I don't know how you would spell it out phonetically, so I'm going to spell it "khhhhhh," because it's relevant to the story.
Naturally, I got a little carried away with it, and Wife wanted to murder me about 20 minutes in. I let it go for a little while, then when I went to change Son into his pajamas, I started back in, doing my best to approximate James Earl Jones' voice.*
Me: "Son ... I am your father. (khhhhhhhh)"
Son: *squeals of laughter*
Me: "Son ... do not resist me changing your diaper ... (khhhhh) ... it is your destiny. (khhhhhhh)"
Son: *continued laughter*
He was really tickled by the khhhhhhh. So much, in fact, that later on (because I can't let it go for long), I said it again.
Me: "Son ... it is your destiny. (khhhhhhh)"
Son: (trying to change his voice into something a little deeper - seriously!) "(gibberish gibberish gibberish) - (khhhhh)!"
I laughed so hard.
This, in turn, led to dropping the "khhhhh" into everyday things at our cue - "Mommy! (khhhhhh)." "Daddy! (khhhhhhh)." It's the funniest thing I've seen in a while.
Leading child-development experts say that teaching your child to do a Darth Vader impression is key to his development.
* - The Captain used to do a killer James Earl Jones impression, because he's a bit more of a baritone, while I have a pleasant, calm, soothing secretarial voice; I sound more like I'm a teenager trying to sound older so I can buy cigarettes.
And how was your Tuesday?
(Apologies in advance for the language. Avert the kiddies’ eyes.)
In a nutshell, here’s how my Tuesday went:
Doom: “Hey, baldy.”
(You’re kidding me, right? I’m the only person in this organization who’s treated you well the entire time I’ve been here. I’ve sat in your office and watched you literally cry over your delinquent son’s latest run-ins with the law – he’s 25, now, right? So isn’t it time that you got him out from under your roof? - and have just generally been a pillar of support for the last 20-odd months. I’ve watched you throw tantrum after tantrum over the most meaningless, minuscule issues, and I can’t imagine actually putting in double-digit years of service under your purview like some of these folks around here. I would rather eat rat poison while undergoing a root canal and a proctology exam simulataneously. Anyway, I was hoping that my shaving my head would make my hair loss a little more inconspicuous, but now I have seen the error of my ways, so I thank you for bringing that to my attention. Fucker.)
Me: (waves)
Doom: “I shouldn’t say that. I’m just kidding, you know.”
(No shit, you shouldn’t say that. You’re a sharp one – all of those years of harassment training are finally taking hold, huh? Hell, I’ve been sued for saying worse things, and I didn’t even say them. So, all is forgiven, you fat, ineffectual, impotent, mean-spirited fuck. Awwww, I shouldn’t say that. I’m just kidding, you know. People really hate you, you know. I’m not talking about “hate” like “Oh, I hate steamed vegetables” or “Oh, I hate the smell of wet cat food.” I’m talking about a deeper, more visceral hatred that rages through every artery, vein and corpuscle of one’s body, like, “Oh, I hate Gretchen Wilson.” Ahhh, there I go again, just kidding around. I shouldn’t say that. Buddies?)
Me: “Eh.”
***
Sticks and stones, of course. Treating people as you would like to be treated is a lesson lost on him, and I’ve learned that. I’ll just keep on taking the high road and only talk about him behind his back.
Anyway, after leaving work for the day, I decided to get some mowing in. This is the fourth summer for our rider, and it’s starting to show. I don’t think it was meant to mow as much acreage as it does. We live on a little over 3 acres, and it mows a large portion of that every week-to-10 days in the warm months. We’ve put some miles on it, to be succinct about it.
I was on the far end of our property, where our asshat neighbors who should be destroyed have put in a septic tank just on the other side of the line, and it’s made the very back of our property fairly soggy and mud-riddled. (I know, I know … that’s probably not mud.) I heard the blades of our mower start clanging and thumping something fierce, almost as I’d ran over a dead rabbit and it was bouncing around under there. It continued mowing, though, and as I am not mechanically inclined, I didn’t stop to check it out.
I’d committed myself to mowing the back half of the open field we have behind the house, which should take somewhere around an hour, tops. I continued mowing, and as the afternoon wore on, I thought, “My God, this is taking forever. I feel like I’ve been doing this for about two hours, and it shouldn’t take that long. And didn’t I just mow over this spot a minute ago? What gives?”
I finally finished that back half of the field, and started back toward the house, cutting a line that bisected the front half of the field; once I got to the carport, I looked behind me to what kind of line the mower was cutting, and I saw that our 42-inch deck was cutting only about 21 inches.
Crap. Well, that explained a lot.
I guess there’s a belt or something that has slipped or worn out (not like I’d know – just going on what my brother-in-law said might be the problem based on my wife’s discussion with him); it’s turning one blade, but not the other.
This latest development was actually portended by myriad problems with other gasoline-engined items that we own, mostly operated by me. Really, my rational mind knows that the problems with our old push mower (age has brought about an inefficiency in its fuel usage, probably related to having an old spark plug?), our new push mower (cheap-ass factory aluminum blade that gets bent by seemingly harmless things like clods of dirt and dog hair) and the vehicle I drive (fuel filter problem? Oxygen sensor? Hell, I don’t know) are all unrelated, but they’ve all come about at once. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that the internal-combustion-engine gods have decided to fuck with me, and I don’t appreciate it.
Today is a new day, though. As long as I keep getting up in the morning, there’s a clean slate to the day, with the opportunity for better (or, heaven forbid, worse) things to come about. Just to be on the safe side, though, if there’s a gasoline-powered item that you own that you’d prefer continue to operate, it’d probably be best to keep me and my horribly balding head away from it for the time being.
In a nutshell, here’s how my Tuesday went:
Doom: “Hey, baldy.”
(You’re kidding me, right? I’m the only person in this organization who’s treated you well the entire time I’ve been here. I’ve sat in your office and watched you literally cry over your delinquent son’s latest run-ins with the law – he’s 25, now, right? So isn’t it time that you got him out from under your roof? - and have just generally been a pillar of support for the last 20-odd months. I’ve watched you throw tantrum after tantrum over the most meaningless, minuscule issues, and I can’t imagine actually putting in double-digit years of service under your purview like some of these folks around here. I would rather eat rat poison while undergoing a root canal and a proctology exam simulataneously. Anyway, I was hoping that my shaving my head would make my hair loss a little more inconspicuous, but now I have seen the error of my ways, so I thank you for bringing that to my attention. Fucker.)
Me: (waves)
Doom: “I shouldn’t say that. I’m just kidding, you know.”
(No shit, you shouldn’t say that. You’re a sharp one – all of those years of harassment training are finally taking hold, huh? Hell, I’ve been sued for saying worse things, and I didn’t even say them. So, all is forgiven, you fat, ineffectual, impotent, mean-spirited fuck. Awwww, I shouldn’t say that. I’m just kidding, you know. People really hate you, you know. I’m not talking about “hate” like “Oh, I hate steamed vegetables” or “Oh, I hate the smell of wet cat food.” I’m talking about a deeper, more visceral hatred that rages through every artery, vein and corpuscle of one’s body, like, “Oh, I hate Gretchen Wilson.” Ahhh, there I go again, just kidding around. I shouldn’t say that. Buddies?)
Me: “Eh.”
***
Sticks and stones, of course. Treating people as you would like to be treated is a lesson lost on him, and I’ve learned that. I’ll just keep on taking the high road and only talk about him behind his back.
Anyway, after leaving work for the day, I decided to get some mowing in. This is the fourth summer for our rider, and it’s starting to show. I don’t think it was meant to mow as much acreage as it does. We live on a little over 3 acres, and it mows a large portion of that every week-to-10 days in the warm months. We’ve put some miles on it, to be succinct about it.
I was on the far end of our property, where our asshat neighbors who should be destroyed have put in a septic tank just on the other side of the line, and it’s made the very back of our property fairly soggy and mud-riddled. (I know, I know … that’s probably not mud.) I heard the blades of our mower start clanging and thumping something fierce, almost as I’d ran over a dead rabbit and it was bouncing around under there. It continued mowing, though, and as I am not mechanically inclined, I didn’t stop to check it out.
I’d committed myself to mowing the back half of the open field we have behind the house, which should take somewhere around an hour, tops. I continued mowing, and as the afternoon wore on, I thought, “My God, this is taking forever. I feel like I’ve been doing this for about two hours, and it shouldn’t take that long. And didn’t I just mow over this spot a minute ago? What gives?”
I finally finished that back half of the field, and started back toward the house, cutting a line that bisected the front half of the field; once I got to the carport, I looked behind me to what kind of line the mower was cutting, and I saw that our 42-inch deck was cutting only about 21 inches.
Crap. Well, that explained a lot.
I guess there’s a belt or something that has slipped or worn out (not like I’d know – just going on what my brother-in-law said might be the problem based on my wife’s discussion with him); it’s turning one blade, but not the other.
This latest development was actually portended by myriad problems with other gasoline-engined items that we own, mostly operated by me. Really, my rational mind knows that the problems with our old push mower (age has brought about an inefficiency in its fuel usage, probably related to having an old spark plug?), our new push mower (cheap-ass factory aluminum blade that gets bent by seemingly harmless things like clods of dirt and dog hair) and the vehicle I drive (fuel filter problem? Oxygen sensor? Hell, I don’t know) are all unrelated, but they’ve all come about at once. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that the internal-combustion-engine gods have decided to fuck with me, and I don’t appreciate it.
Today is a new day, though. As long as I keep getting up in the morning, there’s a clean slate to the day, with the opportunity for better (or, heaven forbid, worse) things to come about. Just to be on the safe side, though, if there’s a gasoline-powered item that you own that you’d prefer continue to operate, it’d probably be best to keep me and my horribly balding head away from it for the time being.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
In case you'd forgotten ...
Again ... I bring you the forecast for Barrow, AK. Ahhhhhh!
I guess I'm a little bit contrarian when it comes to the weather. I love spring, and it's definitely been springlike the last week after summer's cameo around Memorial Day, but once the mercury hits 80, I don't care if it's a dry heat or not - find me an air conditioner and a cool place to sit post-haste.
With the cold, you can always warm up, add more layers, whatever. The heat, however, permeates every last pore of your body, and public decency laws preclude one from shedding every last layer of clothing while outside. Even if you strip down to a pair of shorts, the heat is still unforgiving. Can't handle it.
I guess I'm a little bit contrarian when it comes to the weather. I love spring, and it's definitely been springlike the last week after summer's cameo around Memorial Day, but once the mercury hits 80, I don't care if it's a dry heat or not - find me an air conditioner and a cool place to sit post-haste.
With the cold, you can always warm up, add more layers, whatever. The heat, however, permeates every last pore of your body, and public decency laws preclude one from shedding every last layer of clothing while outside. Even if you strip down to a pair of shorts, the heat is still unforgiving. Can't handle it.
Monday, June 05, 2006
Amateur hour at the K of C.
I had played fairly conservatively up to that point in the tournament, keeping my head above water by not going to bat with questionable hands. My strategy had me up about $700 going into that hand – not strong, by any stretch, but solid.
I looked down at my hole cards and found a pair of 9s. I was in the big blind with three other callers – blinds were $100-$200 – and when the betting came back around to me, I decided that at a table of 6, a pair of 9s was pretty strong. I had hoped that I had garnered a reputation as a tight player at that point, and with three callers, I made a push for the pot by raising an additional $500, about a fifth of my remaining stack.
Two of the three previous callers fell out, which left the hand to me and the kid in the red shirt with the monster stack. Redshirt had played quite aggressively during these early rounds of the tournament, knocking out five or six other players, which accounted for the low numbers always present at our table – as soon as we’d get up to a full table of 9, Redshirt would just as quickly knock one or two of them out. At an earlier point, when he turned over an unsuited 9-6 and took a healthy pot, I had him pegged as a bluffer who would back down at the first show of strength, and stole several pots from him in the process.
Redshirt called my $500 and we went to the flop.
You can’t throw a dead cat at the TV these days without hitting a televised poker tournament; even The Travel Channel is in on poker, airing about 12 hours of poker a week under the pretense of showing viewers the exotic locales at which some of the tournaments are played. (See beautiful Tunica, Mississippi!) No longer the province of hardened gamblers and problem-gamblers-to-be in frat houses on college campuses across the country, poker has moved out of the shadows and smoke-filled back rooms into a place of near-respectability, where housewives, businessman, gamers and factory workers alike are getting a piece of the action.
A good three years after the boom started with Chris Moneymaker’s shocking win at the 2003 World Series of Poker, it may have slowed a little bit (though I don’t have any empirical evidence stating such), but to these eyes, it shows no signs of dying as of yet. Poker’s got a democratizing appeal: anyone with the green to lay down can buy in and play alongside the professionals - I defy you to walk into the main offices of the St. Louis Cardinals, plunk down a large amount of cash and demand to play alongside Albert Pujols. The only other game/sport that comes close to welcoming all comers is auto racing, but you’d need to bring a lot more in the way of cash or sponsorship to the table, and besides, poker relies on another great equalizer that doesn’t really exist for ride-buyers in racing: luck. Lady Luck doesn’t care if you’re Phil Hellmuth or Bramble Tamble; sometimes she smiles upon you, and even though there’s a requisite amount of skill also involved in being successful at the game, all of the skill in the world doesn’t mean a thing if you don’t get the cards.
With poker’s explosion comes events like the one that was held this past weekend at a local K of C, in conjunction with the town’s summer festival. (“I’ll see your three drumsticks and raise you a bucket of wings.” No, silly – K of C, not KFC.) It’s not likely that it would have drawn half the participants it eventually had (38) if poker was still taboo, but all were willing to put down $40 in the hope of walking away with over $500. And it was definitely amateur hour (our story’s protagonist included) - the woman who had sat down next to me was all, “I don’t know what I’m doing!” before we’d started. I had her figured for a shark, feigning weakness and exuding femininity in order to eat some of us suckers alive, but it was true … she really didn’t know what she was doing. It was an adventure, bless her heart.
Which brings us to our hero and his nemesis Redshirt.
I had played pretty tight throughout, and while my stack wasn’t enough to do damage had I advanced farther in the tournament, I think I was building a reputation as a solid player who didn’t take chances. (Or maybe not; sometimes we are not as we perceive we are.) The one person who had challenged me to that point when I had gone all-in fell to my pair of queens.
Redshirt, on the other hand, was a very loose, aggressive player. When he flipped the aforementioned 9-6 earlier, afterwards I felt like given the opportunity, I would push on him, and he’d back down.
I thought my 9s were strong, but Redshirt called my $500 bet and we saw the flop. A-K-3, unsuited. Rats. Two overcards.
I checked to Redshirt, and he bet $1000. I thought it over, considered his previous track record of bullying people out of pots with his large stack, considered the fact that I had more than a fifth of my chips in the pot, and went all in for my remaining $2000. He called and flipped his cards – A-7.
Rats again.
The turn and the river did me no good, and I was eliminated in roughly 24th place. 24th place paid $0.
In retrospect, I think I had lost patience. There’s always another hand, you know, but I was too in love with my pocket pair to back out of the hand. And I thought I could eat into his chip stack somewhat and put him in his place. Lesson learned.
Redshirt ended up winning the tournament, by the way. He had garnered such a massive chip stack that no one else at the final table was in a position to do anything about it, especially with blinds at $800-$1600 by that point. But the open bar at the K of C eased the pain I felt about my dumb play with 9s.
I looked down at my hole cards and found a pair of 9s. I was in the big blind with three other callers – blinds were $100-$200 – and when the betting came back around to me, I decided that at a table of 6, a pair of 9s was pretty strong. I had hoped that I had garnered a reputation as a tight player at that point, and with three callers, I made a push for the pot by raising an additional $500, about a fifth of my remaining stack.
Two of the three previous callers fell out, which left the hand to me and the kid in the red shirt with the monster stack. Redshirt had played quite aggressively during these early rounds of the tournament, knocking out five or six other players, which accounted for the low numbers always present at our table – as soon as we’d get up to a full table of 9, Redshirt would just as quickly knock one or two of them out. At an earlier point, when he turned over an unsuited 9-6 and took a healthy pot, I had him pegged as a bluffer who would back down at the first show of strength, and stole several pots from him in the process.
Redshirt called my $500 and we went to the flop.
You can’t throw a dead cat at the TV these days without hitting a televised poker tournament; even The Travel Channel is in on poker, airing about 12 hours of poker a week under the pretense of showing viewers the exotic locales at which some of the tournaments are played. (See beautiful Tunica, Mississippi!) No longer the province of hardened gamblers and problem-gamblers-to-be in frat houses on college campuses across the country, poker has moved out of the shadows and smoke-filled back rooms into a place of near-respectability, where housewives, businessman, gamers and factory workers alike are getting a piece of the action.
A good three years after the boom started with Chris Moneymaker’s shocking win at the 2003 World Series of Poker, it may have slowed a little bit (though I don’t have any empirical evidence stating such), but to these eyes, it shows no signs of dying as of yet. Poker’s got a democratizing appeal: anyone with the green to lay down can buy in and play alongside the professionals - I defy you to walk into the main offices of the St. Louis Cardinals, plunk down a large amount of cash and demand to play alongside Albert Pujols. The only other game/sport that comes close to welcoming all comers is auto racing, but you’d need to bring a lot more in the way of cash or sponsorship to the table, and besides, poker relies on another great equalizer that doesn’t really exist for ride-buyers in racing: luck. Lady Luck doesn’t care if you’re Phil Hellmuth or Bramble Tamble; sometimes she smiles upon you, and even though there’s a requisite amount of skill also involved in being successful at the game, all of the skill in the world doesn’t mean a thing if you don’t get the cards.
With poker’s explosion comes events like the one that was held this past weekend at a local K of C, in conjunction with the town’s summer festival. (“I’ll see your three drumsticks and raise you a bucket of wings.” No, silly – K of C, not KFC.) It’s not likely that it would have drawn half the participants it eventually had (38) if poker was still taboo, but all were willing to put down $40 in the hope of walking away with over $500. And it was definitely amateur hour (our story’s protagonist included) - the woman who had sat down next to me was all, “I don’t know what I’m doing!” before we’d started. I had her figured for a shark, feigning weakness and exuding femininity in order to eat some of us suckers alive, but it was true … she really didn’t know what she was doing. It was an adventure, bless her heart.
Which brings us to our hero and his nemesis Redshirt.
I had played pretty tight throughout, and while my stack wasn’t enough to do damage had I advanced farther in the tournament, I think I was building a reputation as a solid player who didn’t take chances. (Or maybe not; sometimes we are not as we perceive we are.) The one person who had challenged me to that point when I had gone all-in fell to my pair of queens.
Redshirt, on the other hand, was a very loose, aggressive player. When he flipped the aforementioned 9-6 earlier, afterwards I felt like given the opportunity, I would push on him, and he’d back down.
I thought my 9s were strong, but Redshirt called my $500 bet and we saw the flop. A-K-3, unsuited. Rats. Two overcards.
I checked to Redshirt, and he bet $1000. I thought it over, considered his previous track record of bullying people out of pots with his large stack, considered the fact that I had more than a fifth of my chips in the pot, and went all in for my remaining $2000. He called and flipped his cards – A-7.
Rats again.
The turn and the river did me no good, and I was eliminated in roughly 24th place. 24th place paid $0.
In retrospect, I think I had lost patience. There’s always another hand, you know, but I was too in love with my pocket pair to back out of the hand. And I thought I could eat into his chip stack somewhat and put him in his place. Lesson learned.
Redshirt ended up winning the tournament, by the way. He had garnered such a massive chip stack that no one else at the final table was in a position to do anything about it, especially with blinds at $800-$1600 by that point. But the open bar at the K of C eased the pain I felt about my dumb play with 9s.
Friday, June 02, 2006
The passion, the spectacle, the boredom ...
Call it soccer, call it football, call it futbol, call it dreadfully dull - whatever its name, the time for its biggest showcase is upon us. The World Cup starts next Friday in Germany, and as the remainder of the world shuts down for three weeks, Americans give a collective yawn despite the fact that we'll be fielding our best team ever in the tournament. No amount of Gatorade advertising or Nike hype will ever overcome our national apathy toward the game.
I've never seen the beauty in the game that so many around the world seem to see. In fact, I rather resent the game. For instance, my old high school added soccer a few years ago, at which point it became almost impossible for them to field a whole cross-country team (both are fall sports). As someone who gave cross-country a go for a couple of years with a little success (before obtaining my driver's license and losing all of my ambition to run), I feel a little bit stung by this development. Even though I wish my school well in all of its athletic endeavors, it pains me to think that at most, it can manage to get only four runners on its cross-country squad, while the soccer bandwagon is filling up rather nicely there. I imagine that soccer is probably construed as sexy, while distance running is a rather lonesome undertaking. Which would you rather do if you were a high-schooler:
* hammer out miles by yourself on the back roads near your home, where it's just you, a road and a clock, or
* run around on a field with a bunch of other kids kicking a ball?
I know that personally, I would prefer the former, but we live in a social society, where hermits and loners are derided as such, and there's nothing inherently sociable about distance running.
Oh well. All that being said, I'll still root for the Americans to stun the world - there's still, I'm sure, an element that believes that in spite of its lofty ranking, the Americans will always be the Gonzaga of the world soccer community, posting meaningless wins against both strong and weak competition, but folding when the chips are down and expectations are high on the sport's biggest stage. That said, I'd love for the Americans to give the rest of the world the finger and despoil that highest holiest of world sporting trophies by claiming it for their own come July 9.
But I won't get up at 3 in the morning to watch it happen. I don't care that much.
****
Speaking of sports that Americans don't care about, amongst the cavalcade of racing that happened over Memorial Day weekend, the Monaco Grand Prix also took place.
Formula 1's already-shaky image in America took a devastating hit last year when the 14 Michelin-shod cars pulled out of the U.S. Grand Prix at Indianapolis, leaving only six cars to run. It was a debacle in every sense of the word, and there was doubt as to whether the F1 circus would come back, either to Indianapolis or the United States.
Those fears were alleviated somewhat, as Indianapolis is on the F1 schedule again this year. Folks who are planning to make the drive to Indy or spend a couple of hours watching the race, though, no doubt rolled their eyes at the events in Monaco last weekend.
Formula 1's qualifying process differs from that found in most stateside racing series, in that "knockout" qualifying was instituted this year. The gist of it is that the qualifying session is broken up into three mini-sessions of roughtly 10-20 minutes apiece, in which all of the cars can be on the course at once, turning in qualifying runs in the first session, and the six slowest times are relegated to the last six spots on the grid and take no further part in qualifying.
The remaining cars in the field have their times wiped out and advance to the second session, in which they all register new times, and the six slowest in that session take the next six spots on the grid. The fastest cars left advance to the final session, and they race for the first eight positions in the field. The qualifying format was put in place in a response to the last two years of what we know as single-lap qualifying, in which the cars put in one flying lap after a warm-up lap, one at a time, not unlike what you'd find in NASCAR. F1 pundits termed the old format "boring."
Since all of the cars eligible for a session can be on the track at once, it can lead to a Mickey Mouse scenario like what took place in Monaco last weekend, and is another shining example of why Formula 1 won't ever be taken seriously in America.
In the final qualifying session, to determine the pole position and the other seven spots at the front of the grid, seven-time world champion and all-around horse's ass Michael Schumacher had posted the fastest qualifying time; however, the Renault of reigning world champion Fernando Alonso had been the quickest car all weekend, and was still a prohibitive favorite for the pole. With less than two minutes left in the session, Schumacher took his car around a tight corner ... and parked it. This action denied Alonso and others the opportunity to complete flying laps (I accidentally typed "flyin glaps" there - hee!), as they were unable to rocket off that tight corner because of Schumacher's car being inconveniently parked there.
You know, the guy is a seven-time world champion - supposedly the best driver in the world - yet has often resorted to bush-league stunts like this in his career. In the deciding race for the 1994 World Championship, he punted Damon Hill off the road in Adelaide and went on to win the championship. In 1997, it almost happened again - in the last race of the season, he deliberately tried to push champion-to-be Jacques Villeneuve off the track, but ended up wrecking himself and his championship hopes for the season.
Schumacher is an undeniable talent, there's no doubt - but his legacy will forever be overshadowed by deeds such as those two racing incidents and the qualifying "mishap" in Monaco. And I think it's very much Schumacher's fault that Formula 1 hasn't taken hold in America - Americans have no desire to back a racing series whose main face is that of a robotic German whose behavior often borders on ruthless and unsportsmanlike.
I've never seen the beauty in the game that so many around the world seem to see. In fact, I rather resent the game. For instance, my old high school added soccer a few years ago, at which point it became almost impossible for them to field a whole cross-country team (both are fall sports). As someone who gave cross-country a go for a couple of years with a little success (before obtaining my driver's license and losing all of my ambition to run), I feel a little bit stung by this development. Even though I wish my school well in all of its athletic endeavors, it pains me to think that at most, it can manage to get only four runners on its cross-country squad, while the soccer bandwagon is filling up rather nicely there. I imagine that soccer is probably construed as sexy, while distance running is a rather lonesome undertaking. Which would you rather do if you were a high-schooler:
* hammer out miles by yourself on the back roads near your home, where it's just you, a road and a clock, or
* run around on a field with a bunch of other kids kicking a ball?
I know that personally, I would prefer the former, but we live in a social society, where hermits and loners are derided as such, and there's nothing inherently sociable about distance running.
Oh well. All that being said, I'll still root for the Americans to stun the world - there's still, I'm sure, an element that believes that in spite of its lofty ranking, the Americans will always be the Gonzaga of the world soccer community, posting meaningless wins against both strong and weak competition, but folding when the chips are down and expectations are high on the sport's biggest stage. That said, I'd love for the Americans to give the rest of the world the finger and despoil that highest holiest of world sporting trophies by claiming it for their own come July 9.
But I won't get up at 3 in the morning to watch it happen. I don't care that much.
****
Speaking of sports that Americans don't care about, amongst the cavalcade of racing that happened over Memorial Day weekend, the Monaco Grand Prix also took place.
Formula 1's already-shaky image in America took a devastating hit last year when the 14 Michelin-shod cars pulled out of the U.S. Grand Prix at Indianapolis, leaving only six cars to run. It was a debacle in every sense of the word, and there was doubt as to whether the F1 circus would come back, either to Indianapolis or the United States.
Those fears were alleviated somewhat, as Indianapolis is on the F1 schedule again this year. Folks who are planning to make the drive to Indy or spend a couple of hours watching the race, though, no doubt rolled their eyes at the events in Monaco last weekend.
Formula 1's qualifying process differs from that found in most stateside racing series, in that "knockout" qualifying was instituted this year. The gist of it is that the qualifying session is broken up into three mini-sessions of roughtly 10-20 minutes apiece, in which all of the cars can be on the course at once, turning in qualifying runs in the first session, and the six slowest times are relegated to the last six spots on the grid and take no further part in qualifying.
The remaining cars in the field have their times wiped out and advance to the second session, in which they all register new times, and the six slowest in that session take the next six spots on the grid. The fastest cars left advance to the final session, and they race for the first eight positions in the field. The qualifying format was put in place in a response to the last two years of what we know as single-lap qualifying, in which the cars put in one flying lap after a warm-up lap, one at a time, not unlike what you'd find in NASCAR. F1 pundits termed the old format "boring."
Since all of the cars eligible for a session can be on the track at once, it can lead to a Mickey Mouse scenario like what took place in Monaco last weekend, and is another shining example of why Formula 1 won't ever be taken seriously in America.
In the final qualifying session, to determine the pole position and the other seven spots at the front of the grid, seven-time world champion and all-around horse's ass Michael Schumacher had posted the fastest qualifying time; however, the Renault of reigning world champion Fernando Alonso had been the quickest car all weekend, and was still a prohibitive favorite for the pole. With less than two minutes left in the session, Schumacher took his car around a tight corner ... and parked it. This action denied Alonso and others the opportunity to complete flying laps (I accidentally typed "flyin glaps" there - hee!), as they were unable to rocket off that tight corner because of Schumacher's car being inconveniently parked there.
You know, the guy is a seven-time world champion - supposedly the best driver in the world - yet has often resorted to bush-league stunts like this in his career. In the deciding race for the 1994 World Championship, he punted Damon Hill off the road in Adelaide and went on to win the championship. In 1997, it almost happened again - in the last race of the season, he deliberately tried to push champion-to-be Jacques Villeneuve off the track, but ended up wrecking himself and his championship hopes for the season.
Schumacher is an undeniable talent, there's no doubt - but his legacy will forever be overshadowed by deeds such as those two racing incidents and the qualifying "mishap" in Monaco. And I think it's very much Schumacher's fault that Formula 1 hasn't taken hold in America - Americans have no desire to back a racing series whose main face is that of a robotic German whose behavior often borders on ruthless and unsportsmanlike.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Hot enough for you?
If your answer to the above question is "yes," then check out the current forecast for Barrow, Alaska.
I'm packing my bags!
I'm packing my bags!
"Definitely Maybe" not an awful choice ...
In a poll conducted by British music magazine NME, Oasis' Definitely Maybe has been voted the best album of all time. One caveat: 95 percent of the voters in the poll were from the U.K., and the British have always been a bit Anglo-centric in their music tastes. Nowhere is that more evident than in the results of NME's poll, which gives nine of the top 10 "best album" nods to British bands (Nirvana's Nevermind was only non-Brit entry in the top 10, at #6).
As far as albums from our former motherland are concerned, you probably can't go wrong with Oasis' debut album, though I've always preferred What's The Story (Morning Glory)? as far as their output is concerned. Anything after the Beatles' teen idol period would also qualify - Revolver, Rubber Soul, Sgt. Pepper's.
I don't know if either checked in on the overall top 100 - I can't find any information about the poll results on either site linked in the story above - but two very strong (in my opinion) albums from the U.K. are Sleeper's The It Girl and Catatonia's International Velvet. Both bands, sadly, flamed out shortly after their followups to those albums (I may be mistaken in Catatonia's case). Britpop-rock with sultry vocals that are occasionally about shagging? My cup of tea!
Anyway, if I had voted, these would have been the 10 albums on my ballot (in no particular order, national origin ignored, and limiting myself to one album per artist/band):
Eno - Taking Tiger Mountain (By Strategy)
Guided by Voices - Bee Thousand
Bad Religion - No Control
Portishead - Dummy
John Walsh and the Sinkholes - Antimatter Eisenhower
Drive-By Truckers - Southern Rock Opera
Sloan - Between The Bridges
The Olivia Tremor Control - Music from the Unrealized Film Script "Dusk At Cubist Castle"
Ben Folds Five - Ben Folds Five
Neutral Milk Hotel - In The Aeroplane Over The Sea
My second 10:
Catatonia - International Velvet
Aimee Mann - Whatever
Beck - Odelay
Grant Lee Buffalo - Mighty Joe Moon
Elf Power - When the Red King Comes
Johnny Cash - American Recordings
Sleeper - The It Girl
Mazzy Star - So Tonight That I Might See
The White Stripes - Get Behind Me Satan
Toadies - Rubberneck
To those who knew me 10 years ago, it might be surprising to see that Napalm Death and Obituary missed the cut; however, I did toy with the idea of including Megadeth's Rust In Peace and 1916 by Motorhead on my list. Yes, really.
As far as albums from our former motherland are concerned, you probably can't go wrong with Oasis' debut album, though I've always preferred What's The Story (Morning Glory)? as far as their output is concerned. Anything after the Beatles' teen idol period would also qualify - Revolver, Rubber Soul, Sgt. Pepper's.
I don't know if either checked in on the overall top 100 - I can't find any information about the poll results on either site linked in the story above - but two very strong (in my opinion) albums from the U.K. are Sleeper's The It Girl and Catatonia's International Velvet. Both bands, sadly, flamed out shortly after their followups to those albums (I may be mistaken in Catatonia's case). Britpop-rock with sultry vocals that are occasionally about shagging? My cup of tea!
Anyway, if I had voted, these would have been the 10 albums on my ballot (in no particular order, national origin ignored, and limiting myself to one album per artist/band):
Eno - Taking Tiger Mountain (By Strategy)
Guided by Voices - Bee Thousand
Bad Religion - No Control
Portishead - Dummy
John Walsh and the Sinkholes - Antimatter Eisenhower
Drive-By Truckers - Southern Rock Opera
Sloan - Between The Bridges
The Olivia Tremor Control - Music from the Unrealized Film Script "Dusk At Cubist Castle"
Ben Folds Five - Ben Folds Five
Neutral Milk Hotel - In The Aeroplane Over The Sea
My second 10:
Catatonia - International Velvet
Aimee Mann - Whatever
Beck - Odelay
Grant Lee Buffalo - Mighty Joe Moon
Elf Power - When the Red King Comes
Johnny Cash - American Recordings
Sleeper - The It Girl
Mazzy Star - So Tonight That I Might See
The White Stripes - Get Behind Me Satan
Toadies - Rubberneck
To those who knew me 10 years ago, it might be surprising to see that Napalm Death and Obituary missed the cut; however, I did toy with the idea of including Megadeth's Rust In Peace and 1916 by Motorhead on my list. Yes, really.
My last words on Barry Bonds. I promise.
Reams of paper and almost three hundred billion megabytes of electronic space have been devoted to Barry Bonds chasing Babe Ruth and Hank Aaron in the all-time home run race. I, meanwhile, am dropping out of the discussion; I won't waste any more breath or keystrokes on this appalling human being. I think the guy cheated, but my opinion doesn't really matter a whole lot in the big scheme of things. If he can sleep at night, more power to him.
I do, however, think that this story offers a bit of poetic justice, especially since San Franciscans are the only folks left on earth still cheering for him. In the realm of "happy coincidences," the fact that the radio call of the "historic" home run cut out mid-swing surely falls under that category. Hee.
***
Unrelated to Bonds, really, is the story about Lance Armstrong being cleared of doping allegations leveled after the 1999 Tour de France. Hooray for all that - here's the story - but there's a larger issue at hand here:
With the exception of former major-league player and coach Rusty Kuntz, Dick Pound is the greatest name in sports.
I do, however, think that this story offers a bit of poetic justice, especially since San Franciscans are the only folks left on earth still cheering for him. In the realm of "happy coincidences," the fact that the radio call of the "historic" home run cut out mid-swing surely falls under that category. Hee.
***
Unrelated to Bonds, really, is the story about Lance Armstrong being cleared of doping allegations leveled after the 1999 Tour de France. Hooray for all that - here's the story - but there's a larger issue at hand here:
With the exception of former major-league player and coach Rusty Kuntz, Dick Pound is the greatest name in sports.
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