What's the worst part about watching commercials? No it's not the fact that the show you were just watching and enjoying goes on a momentary vacation. It isn't the fact that there's bunch of useless bullshit being shoved down your throat. It's the goddamn songs that ruin our day to day. And I'm not talking about the lame jingles either, like "SAVED BY ZERO" or "5 DOLLAR FOOT LONGS." Jingles are a part of the fabric of America.
Over the past few years, commercials have been the breeding ground where indie rock songs and classic rock go to die. Commercials have always been the epitome of selling out (either that or having your own action figure molded after your band, Jordan Knight!). Frankly, I'm sick of this. Every time a computer commercial comes on, I'm greeted with a quirky "indie" song with some moderate electronics for the optimum computer/digital experience. And the car commercials... haaa, don't even get me started. The car industry has successfully killed three great Queen songs, every decent song by The Who, and cemented the fact that Kid Rock will forever suck a big dick till the end of time. There's no worse television experience I can think of than watching a pickup truck cutting a sharp turn, in slow motion nonetheless, to a bunch of nu-metal.
Commercials, you suck. You just really suck. You've made millions of people, like my mother, want to download Feist and Imogen Heap songs. And that is just wrong Mom. But the commercials taught you to accept, and buy everything.
(However, I'm very proud of The Thermals who declined a half-million bucks for the use of one of their songs in a Hummer commercial. Also, Tom Waits sued the fucking shit out of some English company for ripping off his song "Innocent When You Dream" in their commercial after he declined. He claims that's how his family will live comfortably for a few generations. Thank you so much Tom. Thank you.)
December 9, 2008
I'm Making my Lists and Editing Them Once
It's that time of year again. Yes, time to start compiling those lists. And I don't mean your letters to Santa, because let's face it, the guy doesn't exist. Sorry, but he doesn't. Neither does the Tooth Fairy, Leprechauns, and a Colorado Rockies World Series ring. There all figments of a child's imagination.
But yours lists don't have to be. I'm convinced we only have months and moon cycles and linear time so when December rolls around, we can exercise our rights to publish our wonderful year round lists of everything in life that was worth checking out. December was created to give you a voice to tell the masses what was relevant in the year while you were alive to absorb it all. You can even make lists about things you didn't do. It's amazing!
I don't know about you, but all year long I make lists, some relevant, some daily and full of junk notes. Those include things I ate or how the weather made me feel. Those go in the garbage, fast!. But it's the year round ones that count. The list gives you the right to feel that you have some place in the human race, and that you were able to categorize such minute details into something important to you. And if one child in China happens to read my Best Albums of 2006 list and buys one of them, then let my life be not in vain.
So this December, compile your lists. Don't let US Weekly and Pitchforkmedia have all the say. Tell random strangers what the hell movies you liked, which people you wanted to kill, and what pets died on you in the year 2008. (a small sampling of the former would be: Burn After Reading, a waitress at The Adelphi Diner, and none).
This season, in between shopping and breaking bread with the family, make sure you make your lists. Because I want to know what the fuck you like to do with your time, or should I say, the Top 20 Things You Like (or Liked) to Do with Your Time in 2008.
But yours lists don't have to be. I'm convinced we only have months and moon cycles and linear time so when December rolls around, we can exercise our rights to publish our wonderful year round lists of everything in life that was worth checking out. December was created to give you a voice to tell the masses what was relevant in the year while you were alive to absorb it all. You can even make lists about things you didn't do. It's amazing!
I don't know about you, but all year long I make lists, some relevant, some daily and full of junk notes. Those include things I ate or how the weather made me feel. Those go in the garbage, fast!. But it's the year round ones that count. The list gives you the right to feel that you have some place in the human race, and that you were able to categorize such minute details into something important to you. And if one child in China happens to read my Best Albums of 2006 list and buys one of them, then let my life be not in vain.
So this December, compile your lists. Don't let US Weekly and Pitchforkmedia have all the say. Tell random strangers what the hell movies you liked, which people you wanted to kill, and what pets died on you in the year 2008. (a small sampling of the former would be: Burn After Reading, a waitress at The Adelphi Diner, and none).
This season, in between shopping and breaking bread with the family, make sure you make your lists. Because I want to know what the fuck you like to do with your time, or should I say, the Top 20 Things You Like (or Liked) to Do with Your Time in 2008.
December 8, 2008
Merry X-mas (The War is Over)
The year: 2003. The day: Saturday. Time: Morning.
I woke up one Saturday morning in 2003. I could hear my family milling about in
the kitchen, roaming in and out of the living room, getting their day underway.
I rolled out of bed with one thing on my mind; Cinnamon Toast Crunch. However, my mind quickly shifted when I saw the note that had been slipped under my bedroom door.
It was clearly my mothers handwriting on a piece of white paper one would
write a shopping list on. On it, in blue ink, were 4 simple words, "THE
WAR IS OVER." The war is over? I thought. HOLY SHIT, THE WAR IS OVER!!!
Immediately, my mind raced with CNN news clips of the troops pulling out of Iraq, thus adverting further US submergence into additional Middle East skirmishes. My ultimate fear of the reinstatement of the draft, ultimately leading to my inevitable drafting, was now eradicated.
I opened my bedroom door, waiting for my parents to tell me our country was not
doomed after all. 'Good morning,' my mom said. "GOOOOD
Mornin'," I whistled back. I took a seat at the kitchen table, poured my
cereal, tapped my feet to the rhythm of Stars and Stripes Forever.
But still, no one was telling me any good news. My dad was watching infomercials, not the 24 hour coverage that would celebrate the end of our involvement in Iraq.
Finally, I said smugly, "So, we're out of Iraq?"
My mom looked at me, clearly confused, "Huh?"
"You know, I saw the note you slipped under my door. THE WAR IS OVER."
I showed her the note. 'Man,that was fast. Stupid George Bush. At least he
got us out of there.'
My mom didn't say anything. "Oh that note." I looked at her,
confused. "Your brother just told me to write that and put it under your
door."
I was as confused as you might feel, reading all of this pointless bullshit. That's just
what the note was; pointless bullshit from my pointless bullshit little
brother. "Why'd he ask you to write that?" I asked, the sinking feeling of a
country in flames crashing into my soul, thus thrusting me back all my panic
attacks of one day having to fight in a war (I like movies about Vietnam).
"I don't know why. He just told me to write that."
To this day, I am mad at my little brother, seven years my junior, for telling
my mom to write me stupid notes that have important connotations related to our
countries well being. I didn't even consider myself patriotic in anyway back then.
I just like exciting news.
I woke up one Saturday morning in 2003. I could hear my family milling about in
the kitchen, roaming in and out of the living room, getting their day underway.
I rolled out of bed with one thing on my mind; Cinnamon Toast Crunch. However, my mind quickly shifted when I saw the note that had been slipped under my bedroom door.
It was clearly my mothers handwriting on a piece of white paper one would
write a shopping list on. On it, in blue ink, were 4 simple words, "THE
WAR IS OVER." The war is over? I thought. HOLY SHIT, THE WAR IS OVER!!!
Immediately, my mind raced with CNN news clips of the troops pulling out of Iraq, thus adverting further US submergence into additional Middle East skirmishes. My ultimate fear of the reinstatement of the draft, ultimately leading to my inevitable drafting, was now eradicated.
I opened my bedroom door, waiting for my parents to tell me our country was not
doomed after all. 'Good morning,' my mom said. "GOOOOD
Mornin'," I whistled back. I took a seat at the kitchen table, poured my
cereal, tapped my feet to the rhythm of Stars and Stripes Forever.
But still, no one was telling me any good news. My dad was watching infomercials, not the 24 hour coverage that would celebrate the end of our involvement in Iraq.
Finally, I said smugly, "So, we're out of Iraq?"
My mom looked at me, clearly confused, "Huh?"
"You know, I saw the note you slipped under my door. THE WAR IS OVER."
I showed her the note. 'Man,that was fast. Stupid George Bush. At least he
got us out of there.'
My mom didn't say anything. "Oh that note." I looked at her,
confused. "Your brother just told me to write that and put it under your
door."
I was as confused as you might feel, reading all of this pointless bullshit. That's just
what the note was; pointless bullshit from my pointless bullshit little
brother. "Why'd he ask you to write that?" I asked, the sinking feeling of a
country in flames crashing into my soul, thus thrusting me back all my panic
attacks of one day having to fight in a war (I like movies about Vietnam).
"I don't know why. He just told me to write that."
To this day, I am mad at my little brother, seven years my junior, for telling
my mom to write me stupid notes that have important connotations related to our
countries well being. I didn't even consider myself patriotic in anyway back then.
I just like exciting news.
November 1, 2008
You Know Who You Look Like?...
Everyday of my waking life, people seem to tell me who I look like. I'm constantly informed by seemingly concerned and curious citizens that they've seen my some place else and I ain't foolin' noone no how with my looks. It seems since I wear glasses and sometimes don't shave, I'm around for everyone's visual amusement. Here's what I look like, if you don't know me.
Pretty scary shit, huh? Well, the obvious one I get is Buddy Holly. I hear that about 3 times a day just because I got myself a pair of black horn rimmed looking glasses. Drunk men over the age of 45 usually tell me this as well as polite house moms, as if they're letting me on a little secret. But it's such a dull and trite comparison. It's like if someone went up to a female collie every day and told her she looked like Lassie. It's the standard and frankly it passes through me unnoticed. Here's some other ones I've been compared to.
Rivers Cuomo, lead singer and breaker-of-hearts, from Weezer is one I get quite often. Usually, people say "that guy from Weezer." I don't think I look a damn thing like him at all and this is apparent if you have eyes. It's almost as pointless as saying I look like Buddy Holly, just cause of the glasses thing. Ironically, Cuomo made a bunch of money from a song called "Buddy Holly." I guess that's actually not ironic since he consciously took the time to write it. Don't look like him.
This is just fucking stupid. When I was substitute teaching, many of my frequent sixth and seventh grade students told me I looked like this goofball. I thought they were just in on a big group joke but they seemed genuine about it and persisted throughout the year. I guess they're just stupid. Ya can't teach kids nothin' these days. Don't look like him, AT ALL.
Here's another popular one. Again, the glasses are just thick and I guess we have that greasy clumpy hair thing going. Being called Napolean Dynamite is bad enough, but Austin Powers? It really sucks being compared with two of the most annoyingly quotable movie characters of the past ten years. Now, if someone tells me I look like Borat, then I'm in trouble. Don't look like him.
Here's one my middle school students also pointed out to me. Since then, I've heard it from others. It's Patrick Stump from that band of jerkoffs, Fall Out Boy. At first, I dismissed it. However, I have seen pictures of this rapidly plumping, sideburn sporting frontman that are a little eerie. Eerie in ways that make me want to shave and stop associating myself with music in general. Being compared to the singer of "Dance, Dance" is weird because I don't dance, especially if sober and alone.
Keeping in the spirit of bad bands, the second guy from the left was pointed out to me by my girlfriend's sister. It's one of the nameless guys from that shitty band The Fray. They put out that song that's sure to play in grocery stores and fall season TV previews for years to come. It's more of an inside joke now in my girlfriend's family, about a guy who in a band no one usually knows the name of anyway. But it seems if it isn't pop culture movie icons, it's a couple of dudes from Top 40 Rock. And nobody wants to be on that list (except Patrick Stump and the guy from The Fray, I guess).
Then there's Ben Gibbard from Death Cab for Cutie and The Postal Service. Again, just sort of has glasses and wears my shirts. I actually sort of think he's ripping ME off. It's a little ridiculous. I used to like his songwriting. But now's he's too cuddly and unnecessarily sad and I want people to stop comparing us. I'm also convinced this annoying redneck, Republican kid from my Senior Film class wrote a blog about how he hates "Ben Gibbard" looking kids.I used to just happen to sit by him and then this coincidental blog?. Fuck you man. You're opinions on Bush were ridiculous and you should go die for oil or something. Sorry. Bottom line: don't want to look like him, but indie rock's made us look like each other.
This is Colin Meloy, otherwise known as "that guy from The Decemberists" which is what people say to me. "Hey, you look like..." and I raise my hand and nod "Yes, the guy from The Decemberists." A lot of people think this is a compliment when they say it because they're discovering this band and think they're getting into some pretty awesome and deep stuff. But I just think Colin Meloy and his Decemberists are boring and stale. Actually, he just looks like Ben Gibbard. Actually, he's identical to Ben Gibbard, both in features and currently shitty music. In fact, those two should just have sex and get it over with. But leave me out of it. Unless, you know, they pay me a lot of money or release one of my records on an indie label with good distrobution.
Just heard this one today from my friend's mother. It actually inspired me to compile this list. It's Seth Rogen, everybody. This is weird, because when he was on "Freaks and Geeks" he looked like my one college roommates, Andrew. Then he got glasses, stopped shaving, and had the extra baggage. Now he's been appointed to my club of lookalikes. I like "Freaks and Geeks" and "Knocked Up" so this is okay to me.
When I first met my girlfriend's mom she constantly told me I looked like Superman. Then she called me Superman for weeks, possibly months, the way a toothless bag lady would. "Oh Superman. Yo-hoo," she'd say and laugh. What the fuck, I thought, Superman flys and lifts planets. One day I asked, "Do you mean I look like Clark Kent?" and she said, "Yeah Superman." I guess that's cool. Clark Kent was a journalist by day, womanizer of Ms. Lane by night. I just don't want to end up like George Reeves or Christopher Reeve. Tragic and Dead, and all Reeve-y.
A couple years ago, my girlfriend and I were watching the film "Jacob's Ladder," starring Tim Robbins. She insisted I looked exactly like him, facial features and all. Sometimes I see it. The pictures not the best, but it's cool cause he's yelling and didn't get his hair cut in a while. I'll take the Tim Robbins lookalike award because if you can handle Susan Sarandon and Shawshank, you can handle anything. Get busy living, or get busy dying!
Well, that's about it for now. Tomorrow, I will step out my front door and hear the "Hey sonny, you know who you remind me of" all over again. It's like "Groundhog Day" but I don't get the girl in the end. I already have one and, as told, her family thinks I look like three of these identity theifs. On another note, I've also heard I looke like John Lennon a couple times but I think people are just running out of things to compare me to. Where does it end? Luckily no ones every told me that I look like AJAX the dog...
Thanks for reading. I'll leave you with a final photo of yours truly. Sleep tight.
Pretty scary shit, huh? Well, the obvious one I get is Buddy Holly. I hear that about 3 times a day just because I got myself a pair of black horn rimmed looking glasses. Drunk men over the age of 45 usually tell me this as well as polite house moms, as if they're letting me on a little secret. But it's such a dull and trite comparison. It's like if someone went up to a female collie every day and told her she looked like Lassie. It's the standard and frankly it passes through me unnoticed. Here's some other ones I've been compared to.
Rivers Cuomo, lead singer and breaker-of-hearts, from Weezer is one I get quite often. Usually, people say "that guy from Weezer." I don't think I look a damn thing like him at all and this is apparent if you have eyes. It's almost as pointless as saying I look like Buddy Holly, just cause of the glasses thing. Ironically, Cuomo made a bunch of money from a song called "Buddy Holly." I guess that's actually not ironic since he consciously took the time to write it. Don't look like him.
This is just fucking stupid. When I was substitute teaching, many of my frequent sixth and seventh grade students told me I looked like this goofball. I thought they were just in on a big group joke but they seemed genuine about it and persisted throughout the year. I guess they're just stupid. Ya can't teach kids nothin' these days. Don't look like him, AT ALL.
Here's another popular one. Again, the glasses are just thick and I guess we have that greasy clumpy hair thing going. Being called Napolean Dynamite is bad enough, but Austin Powers? It really sucks being compared with two of the most annoyingly quotable movie characters of the past ten years. Now, if someone tells me I look like Borat, then I'm in trouble. Don't look like him.
Here's one my middle school students also pointed out to me. Since then, I've heard it from others. It's Patrick Stump from that band of jerkoffs, Fall Out Boy. At first, I dismissed it. However, I have seen pictures of this rapidly plumping, sideburn sporting frontman that are a little eerie. Eerie in ways that make me want to shave and stop associating myself with music in general. Being compared to the singer of "Dance, Dance" is weird because I don't dance, especially if sober and alone.
Keeping in the spirit of bad bands, the second guy from the left was pointed out to me by my girlfriend's sister. It's one of the nameless guys from that shitty band The Fray. They put out that song that's sure to play in grocery stores and fall season TV previews for years to come. It's more of an inside joke now in my girlfriend's family, about a guy who in a band no one usually knows the name of anyway. But it seems if it isn't pop culture movie icons, it's a couple of dudes from Top 40 Rock. And nobody wants to be on that list (except Patrick Stump and the guy from The Fray, I guess).
Then there's Ben Gibbard from Death Cab for Cutie and The Postal Service. Again, just sort of has glasses and wears my shirts. I actually sort of think he's ripping ME off. It's a little ridiculous. I used to like his songwriting. But now's he's too cuddly and unnecessarily sad and I want people to stop comparing us. I'm also convinced this annoying redneck, Republican kid from my Senior Film class wrote a blog about how he hates "Ben Gibbard" looking kids.I used to just happen to sit by him and then this coincidental blog?. Fuck you man. You're opinions on Bush were ridiculous and you should go die for oil or something. Sorry. Bottom line: don't want to look like him, but indie rock's made us look like each other.
This is Colin Meloy, otherwise known as "that guy from The Decemberists" which is what people say to me. "Hey, you look like..." and I raise my hand and nod "Yes, the guy from The Decemberists." A lot of people think this is a compliment when they say it because they're discovering this band and think they're getting into some pretty awesome and deep stuff. But I just think Colin Meloy and his Decemberists are boring and stale. Actually, he just looks like Ben Gibbard. Actually, he's identical to Ben Gibbard, both in features and currently shitty music. In fact, those two should just have sex and get it over with. But leave me out of it. Unless, you know, they pay me a lot of money or release one of my records on an indie label with good distrobution.
Just heard this one today from my friend's mother. It actually inspired me to compile this list. It's Seth Rogen, everybody. This is weird, because when he was on "Freaks and Geeks" he looked like my one college roommates, Andrew. Then he got glasses, stopped shaving, and had the extra baggage. Now he's been appointed to my club of lookalikes. I like "Freaks and Geeks" and "Knocked Up" so this is okay to me.
When I first met my girlfriend's mom she constantly told me I looked like Superman. Then she called me Superman for weeks, possibly months, the way a toothless bag lady would. "Oh Superman. Yo-hoo," she'd say and laugh. What the fuck, I thought, Superman flys and lifts planets. One day I asked, "Do you mean I look like Clark Kent?" and she said, "Yeah Superman." I guess that's cool. Clark Kent was a journalist by day, womanizer of Ms. Lane by night. I just don't want to end up like George Reeves or Christopher Reeve. Tragic and Dead, and all Reeve-y.
A couple years ago, my girlfriend and I were watching the film "Jacob's Ladder," starring Tim Robbins. She insisted I looked exactly like him, facial features and all. Sometimes I see it. The pictures not the best, but it's cool cause he's yelling and didn't get his hair cut in a while. I'll take the Tim Robbins lookalike award because if you can handle Susan Sarandon and Shawshank, you can handle anything. Get busy living, or get busy dying!
Well, that's about it for now. Tomorrow, I will step out my front door and hear the "Hey sonny, you know who you remind me of" all over again. It's like "Groundhog Day" but I don't get the girl in the end. I already have one and, as told, her family thinks I look like three of these identity theifs. On another note, I've also heard I looke like John Lennon a couple times but I think people are just running out of things to compare me to. Where does it end? Luckily no ones every told me that I look like AJAX the dog...
Thanks for reading. I'll leave you with a final photo of yours truly. Sleep tight.
July 17, 2008
On the Train to NYC
Last week, I was on the train to NYC with my brother and parents. My parent's had bought Yankee tickets and I agreed to go, even though I am now a converted Mets' fan. Still, I never pass up a professional ballgame. Especially, when your parent's will still buy you $7 hot dogs at the age of 23.
There is nothing like going to a major league game. Every piece of poetic bullshit you have already heard or read about it true, so I won't bore you with the details. The sights, the smells, the green grass, the dimensions, the sound of the crack of the bat, the scoreboards tallying up numbers, the roar of the fan next to you. You've all heard about it in one documentary or another, or experienced it in person.
But, not many warn you about the rude guy you meet on the train going to the game. And I'm not talking about the subway. I'm talking about the straight up train, from South Amboy NJ to New York Penn Station. On the morning of last Wednesday, I met my family (2 parents, 1 little brother whose reaching 16), at the train station. We boarded. I was tired. My brother proceeded to eat his egg and steak sandwich my parents purchased for him at WaWa. He opened his blueberry soda and proceeded to spill half of it on the floor next to his steak and eggs scraps. I was dead tired.
I was so fucking tired, in fact, that I asked to switch seats with him, even though he held the coveted window seat. "Brian," I said. "Can I have your seat?" I needed to rest my weary head against the pane and try to catch some shut eye before hitting the House that Ruth Built. He agreed.
My feet slide on the wet, sticky floor of overflown blueberry soda and eggs. Oh yeah, and steak. My 15 and a half year old brother managed to make the floor as ransacked as a bum pissing on it while eating a cat's stomach. It was a moment for Ripley's Believe it or Not. My feet could not sit still, seemingly floating on the sticky surface.
Finally, a few towns in to our trip to NY, with my head rested against the glass, I opened one eye to take note of a suave man who took the two-seater in front of us. He had his hair slicked back, and partially frosted. He carried a leather briefcase. He wore a toilet-bowel blue suit coat over a cat-vomit shirt that looked hideous, but probably cost him up to a thousand bucks! His watched glisten as the sunlight beamed off the dials into my red eyes.
I continued to doze on and off during our trip, wishing the train would stop shifting so much. I remember at one point, I coughed. Then I coughed again. I woke up once and sneezed. Finally, I woke up, and asked my mother, who was seated behind me, if she had packed any drinks. My mother, always the walking survival kit, packs hearty food, snacks, drinks, and medications no matter where my bones have ventured in life. Sure enough, she handed me an Iced Tea bottle which I promptly downed in one gulp.
After I finished the Iced Tea I stuck the bottle in between the seat and the wall of the train, in front of that suave fella I mentioned earlier, and closed my eyes. My shoes continued to skated amongst the spilt pop and breakfast sandwich remains. I opened them again to see the man in front of me's head looking at me rather nervously as he chattered on his cellphone in some foreign accent (I believe it was Italian. You know, I took 2 semesters in college so I'm fucking brilliant at it).
My eyes remanded shut until I heard a voice from over the seat .
"Are you sick?"
"What?" I said completely confused as to who said what.
"Are you sick?" the guy in front of me asked, speaking over his shoulder, most of his face concealed by the high blue seats in front of me.
Outraged by the stupidity of the moment, I retorted, "Am I sick? No."
The man shook his head in disbelief, placing his sweaty palm up to his shiny forehead. "Do you have a cold?"
"No."
He had it. "You keep coughin. And sneezin. And coughin. And you keep puttin dis bot'l in da seat," he said motioning to the Iced Tea bottle I had wedged into between his seat in the wall.
Who the fuck was this guy? I wasn't sick. I was sick and tired of being tired, and decided to rest my eyes. With blueberry soda and steak and eggs beneath my feet and an empty bottle fit for recycling I decided to wedge the future of an inconvenient truth in between a seat and myself. Now this guy in a fucked up suit and an accent, fit for fucking everything that cast a shadow, decided to question my health. I don't think so.
I promptly wedged my bottle back in between the seat and the train's wall. His head began to percolate, bobbing up and down. He couldn't take it, his comb-over and all. He promptly spun in his seat, and like a little bitch, and smacked the empty bottle, with open palm, in my direction. It flew, lifelessly, and hit me in the crotch.
I shit you not. He then said, while stammering, "I don't need... your.... your... cooties."
I laughed. I wanted to slaughter this man with his briefcase and his endless mid-train cell calls and his proverbial ladder he attempted to climb everyday. "Cooties?" I said. "Holy shit. Nice fuckin' suit, buddy," I said as I wedged my knee right into the back of his seat.
I began to cough, faking a new incurable sickness, telling my brother I could not get rid of the phlegm, all while wedging my empty bottle between the seat. Finally, our foreign, and financially well to do friend moved to the front of the train car. He shot me a look. I waved to him, happily, although dying of an incurable sickness.
When we finally stopped, my brother was laughing. I saw that man stand up and get off the train. I waved while performing licking on my empty bottle of Ice Tea, vulgarly. I don' think he saw me. But if anyone ever questions your free right to be sick in a public place, at any time, just think of the business men in gaudy suits and hair grease who get away with more bullshit than you can even conjure up. It's unfathomable sometimes. Give the motherfucker next to you cooties. He's an asshole for questioning if you even have it. And by the way, Mr. motherfucker, I have allergies. And the Yankees beat the Rays 2-1. Let's Go Rays!
There is nothing like going to a major league game. Every piece of poetic bullshit you have already heard or read about it true, so I won't bore you with the details. The sights, the smells, the green grass, the dimensions, the sound of the crack of the bat, the scoreboards tallying up numbers, the roar of the fan next to you. You've all heard about it in one documentary or another, or experienced it in person.
But, not many warn you about the rude guy you meet on the train going to the game. And I'm not talking about the subway. I'm talking about the straight up train, from South Amboy NJ to New York Penn Station. On the morning of last Wednesday, I met my family (2 parents, 1 little brother whose reaching 16), at the train station. We boarded. I was tired. My brother proceeded to eat his egg and steak sandwich my parents purchased for him at WaWa. He opened his blueberry soda and proceeded to spill half of it on the floor next to his steak and eggs scraps. I was dead tired.
I was so fucking tired, in fact, that I asked to switch seats with him, even though he held the coveted window seat. "Brian," I said. "Can I have your seat?" I needed to rest my weary head against the pane and try to catch some shut eye before hitting the House that Ruth Built. He agreed.
My feet slide on the wet, sticky floor of overflown blueberry soda and eggs. Oh yeah, and steak. My 15 and a half year old brother managed to make the floor as ransacked as a bum pissing on it while eating a cat's stomach. It was a moment for Ripley's Believe it or Not. My feet could not sit still, seemingly floating on the sticky surface.
Finally, a few towns in to our trip to NY, with my head rested against the glass, I opened one eye to take note of a suave man who took the two-seater in front of us. He had his hair slicked back, and partially frosted. He carried a leather briefcase. He wore a toilet-bowel blue suit coat over a cat-vomit shirt that looked hideous, but probably cost him up to a thousand bucks! His watched glisten as the sunlight beamed off the dials into my red eyes.
I continued to doze on and off during our trip, wishing the train would stop shifting so much. I remember at one point, I coughed. Then I coughed again. I woke up once and sneezed. Finally, I woke up, and asked my mother, who was seated behind me, if she had packed any drinks. My mother, always the walking survival kit, packs hearty food, snacks, drinks, and medications no matter where my bones have ventured in life. Sure enough, she handed me an Iced Tea bottle which I promptly downed in one gulp.
After I finished the Iced Tea I stuck the bottle in between the seat and the wall of the train, in front of that suave fella I mentioned earlier, and closed my eyes. My shoes continued to skated amongst the spilt pop and breakfast sandwich remains. I opened them again to see the man in front of me's head looking at me rather nervously as he chattered on his cellphone in some foreign accent (I believe it was Italian. You know, I took 2 semesters in college so I'm fucking brilliant at it).
My eyes remanded shut until I heard a voice from over the seat .
"Are you sick?"
"What?" I said completely confused as to who said what.
"Are you sick?" the guy in front of me asked, speaking over his shoulder, most of his face concealed by the high blue seats in front of me.
Outraged by the stupidity of the moment, I retorted, "Am I sick? No."
The man shook his head in disbelief, placing his sweaty palm up to his shiny forehead. "Do you have a cold?"
"No."
He had it. "You keep coughin. And sneezin. And coughin. And you keep puttin dis bot'l in da seat," he said motioning to the Iced Tea bottle I had wedged into between his seat in the wall.
Who the fuck was this guy? I wasn't sick. I was sick and tired of being tired, and decided to rest my eyes. With blueberry soda and steak and eggs beneath my feet and an empty bottle fit for recycling I decided to wedge the future of an inconvenient truth in between a seat and myself. Now this guy in a fucked up suit and an accent, fit for fucking everything that cast a shadow, decided to question my health. I don't think so.
I promptly wedged my bottle back in between the seat and the train's wall. His head began to percolate, bobbing up and down. He couldn't take it, his comb-over and all. He promptly spun in his seat, and like a little bitch, and smacked the empty bottle, with open palm, in my direction. It flew, lifelessly, and hit me in the crotch.
I shit you not. He then said, while stammering, "I don't need... your.... your... cooties."
I laughed. I wanted to slaughter this man with his briefcase and his endless mid-train cell calls and his proverbial ladder he attempted to climb everyday. "Cooties?" I said. "Holy shit. Nice fuckin' suit, buddy," I said as I wedged my knee right into the back of his seat.
I began to cough, faking a new incurable sickness, telling my brother I could not get rid of the phlegm, all while wedging my empty bottle between the seat. Finally, our foreign, and financially well to do friend moved to the front of the train car. He shot me a look. I waved to him, happily, although dying of an incurable sickness.
When we finally stopped, my brother was laughing. I saw that man stand up and get off the train. I waved while performing licking on my empty bottle of Ice Tea, vulgarly. I don' think he saw me. But if anyone ever questions your free right to be sick in a public place, at any time, just think of the business men in gaudy suits and hair grease who get away with more bullshit than you can even conjure up. It's unfathomable sometimes. Give the motherfucker next to you cooties. He's an asshole for questioning if you even have it. And by the way, Mr. motherfucker, I have allergies. And the Yankees beat the Rays 2-1. Let's Go Rays!
July 2, 2008
An Idiot's Guide to Playing Baseball as Told by an Idiot (Part 4)
When my nightmare on the pitching mound came to a crashing halt, I finished out the rest of my first season back in the little leagues, returning after a six year drought. Even though the pitches weren't mine to throw the rest of the season, I still had to play the field, and unfortunately, come to bat. One game, my coach batted me in the clean-up spot, in an attempt to build my confidence. The clean-up spot is the 4th man to bat on a team, who is usually the best, or second best hitter on the team, and always shows great displays of power, so they can bat in men left on base. Just because I had a gut that hung far over my belt line didn't qualify me as a clean-up hitter. When a teammate laughed out loud (lol'd, if you will) while reading that game's line up card, I was so mad and embarrassed that I deliberately struck out 4 times. I was a lost cause in cleats.
Finally, with about five games to go in the season, I was 0 for 2 in that day's game when I came up to bat. Suddenly, the opposing team took out their pitcher and put in a kid who I actually knew from school. My fears dissolved as I thought, "Hey, I know this guy." He couldn't be very tough. He was a wimp in real life, like me. How good could he be on the mound?
Apparently, not very good at all, because after he delivered his second pitch, I squared in and shot the ball into center field. BASE HIT. I had my first hit of the season. It was one of the greatest comebacks of my life.
As the humidity intensified, and final exams hide just around the corner, my first season back in the big time was over. My team took a decidedly deserved spot in last place, with me only aiding in our decline. As I left my last game, I felt a tremendous weight drop from my shoulders. Still, I was a little sentimental. I finished the season with a whopping 3 hits. Some players get 4 or 5 a game, on a great night. Me, I just didn't want to push it.
So next spring, when I was in 8th grade, my parent's asked if they should sign me up for baseball again. Now, if you've been keeping up with the past few entries of this nightmare, then you know that any self respecting person with half a brain would have tried to find something they were good at and excel in other areas. Painting, or crocheting, or pottery, or truck driving. Anything. But I didn't want to be a quitter. "Sign me up," I said. If I could travel back in time, I'd kick my own ass back to the tee ball days.
So, I set off for my fourth and last season of little league. I was in 8th grade and ready for more of the same disaster. I felt like a kid walking into the middle of a bullfight, or a kid in a wheelchair who wheeled up to the school bull and spit in the back of his hair. But like I said, I didn't want to let the other assholes of the world laugh me out of something I was rightfully no good at.
And well, this team wasn't any better than the one I was on in 7th grade, as far as attitude or winning consistency. Nor did I fare any better in my play. In fact, I ended up getting 3 hits during the course of the whole season, just like the prior season. I actually improved in the outfield a bit, which is a bit anti-climatic in the whole "failure-is-the-only-option" theme of these entries. But still, when that season came to a close, I couldn't wait to hang up my cap and declare that I would never, under circumstances of deadly consequence, try out for high school baseball. My playing days were deservedly done.
Looking back, my 8th grade season was pretty dull. Scary for me, for sure. However, there weren't too many moments where I wished I was dead, as I had in 7th grade. I mostly sat around and prayed for rainouts or practice cancellations. Or hoped against odds my teammates would strikeout early so I didn't have to get up in the inning. It's was a pretty dull season. Embarrassing, for sure, but dull, and for that I won't dwell on it.
When my 7th and 8th grade seasons had ended I racked up a total of 6 hits. I did some rough calculations the other day and deduced that my adolescent little league average was about .038 with, roughly, 110 strikeouts. If you haven't figured out, that kind of performance is punishable by execution in most countries.
So, I gave up the game of organized baseball forever. Maybe, one day I'll be coaching my kid's little league team or sign up to be a conditioning coach for a local high school team. But that's all down the beaten path. A path lined with cleat marks and used tobacco juice. For now, I'll reserve my duties to sitting on the couch, watching Mets' games, and ESPN baseball highlights. I'll read my baseball memoirs, newspapers, and memorize Hall of Famer's stats. I'll watch my movies and wish I could have done something out on the basepaths or had the wisdom to have kept my nerve in the game on every inside pitch thrown to me as a first grader. So the next time you see a major league player drop a routine fly ball, or swing at a pitch headed for his groin to end a rally, think of me and all the asthmatic, allergic, chubby, nimrods of the world. Maybe we're sittin' around writing a blog somewhere. Or a life story. Or a novel. Or a declaration to the greatest games and moments that slipped through our fingers and passed us by without going easy on us.
Someday.
Finally, with about five games to go in the season, I was 0 for 2 in that day's game when I came up to bat. Suddenly, the opposing team took out their pitcher and put in a kid who I actually knew from school. My fears dissolved as I thought, "Hey, I know this guy." He couldn't be very tough. He was a wimp in real life, like me. How good could he be on the mound?
Apparently, not very good at all, because after he delivered his second pitch, I squared in and shot the ball into center field. BASE HIT. I had my first hit of the season. It was one of the greatest comebacks of my life.
As the humidity intensified, and final exams hide just around the corner, my first season back in the big time was over. My team took a decidedly deserved spot in last place, with me only aiding in our decline. As I left my last game, I felt a tremendous weight drop from my shoulders. Still, I was a little sentimental. I finished the season with a whopping 3 hits. Some players get 4 or 5 a game, on a great night. Me, I just didn't want to push it.
So next spring, when I was in 8th grade, my parent's asked if they should sign me up for baseball again. Now, if you've been keeping up with the past few entries of this nightmare, then you know that any self respecting person with half a brain would have tried to find something they were good at and excel in other areas. Painting, or crocheting, or pottery, or truck driving. Anything. But I didn't want to be a quitter. "Sign me up," I said. If I could travel back in time, I'd kick my own ass back to the tee ball days.
So, I set off for my fourth and last season of little league. I was in 8th grade and ready for more of the same disaster. I felt like a kid walking into the middle of a bullfight, or a kid in a wheelchair who wheeled up to the school bull and spit in the back of his hair. But like I said, I didn't want to let the other assholes of the world laugh me out of something I was rightfully no good at.
And well, this team wasn't any better than the one I was on in 7th grade, as far as attitude or winning consistency. Nor did I fare any better in my play. In fact, I ended up getting 3 hits during the course of the whole season, just like the prior season. I actually improved in the outfield a bit, which is a bit anti-climatic in the whole "failure-is-the-only-option" theme of these entries. But still, when that season came to a close, I couldn't wait to hang up my cap and declare that I would never, under circumstances of deadly consequence, try out for high school baseball. My playing days were deservedly done.
Looking back, my 8th grade season was pretty dull. Scary for me, for sure. However, there weren't too many moments where I wished I was dead, as I had in 7th grade. I mostly sat around and prayed for rainouts or practice cancellations. Or hoped against odds my teammates would strikeout early so I didn't have to get up in the inning. It's was a pretty dull season. Embarrassing, for sure, but dull, and for that I won't dwell on it.
When my 7th and 8th grade seasons had ended I racked up a total of 6 hits. I did some rough calculations the other day and deduced that my adolescent little league average was about .038 with, roughly, 110 strikeouts. If you haven't figured out, that kind of performance is punishable by execution in most countries.
So, I gave up the game of organized baseball forever. Maybe, one day I'll be coaching my kid's little league team or sign up to be a conditioning coach for a local high school team. But that's all down the beaten path. A path lined with cleat marks and used tobacco juice. For now, I'll reserve my duties to sitting on the couch, watching Mets' games, and ESPN baseball highlights. I'll read my baseball memoirs, newspapers, and memorize Hall of Famer's stats. I'll watch my movies and wish I could have done something out on the basepaths or had the wisdom to have kept my nerve in the game on every inside pitch thrown to me as a first grader. So the next time you see a major league player drop a routine fly ball, or swing at a pitch headed for his groin to end a rally, think of me and all the asthmatic, allergic, chubby, nimrods of the world. Maybe we're sittin' around writing a blog somewhere. Or a life story. Or a novel. Or a declaration to the greatest games and moments that slipped through our fingers and passed us by without going easy on us.
Someday.
June 30, 2008
An Idiot's Guide to Playing Baseball as Told by an Idiot (Part 3)
"I never called a balk in my life. I didn't understand the rule." - Former Major League Umpire Ron Luciano.
Everyone knows, in baseball, that it's one, two, three strikes your out as told by the simple ditty, "Take Me Out to the Ball Game." Others then learn, four balls means the batter can take their base. A hit means your safe. Rounding all four bases on a hit is a home run. A catch in the air or a tag of the runner with a live ball means your out. And so on and so on.
The nuances of the game get more complex as you go along. One minute it's three strikes your out and the next it's all about making a double switch in the 7th for a lefty outfielder so you can pinch hit a right-hander off the bench who hits screwballs with a .266 average to right-center field gaps to get the runner home from second, with the opponents outfielder's playing in "no doubles" position. What the fuck? The stakes can escalate quickly. Such is the case with the little known, little seen, much dreaded, and defensively crippling balk.
A balk is when a pitcher gets ready to throw his pitch, by placing ball and pitching hand in glove while standing on the pitching rubber, and then breaks his motion. He, or she (ladies), turns his body towards a base, takes his hand out of his glove, throws to a base while stepping towards another, etc., all while not stepping off the pitching rubber on the mound. If you do these things without stepping off, the guys on base get a free pass to move up to the next base, even if it means scoring a run. So now you know. I wish I had.
So with all that info absent from my timid and tepid baseball brain, my coach in seventh grade decided it would be a good idea to try me out as a pitcher. Our pitching staff wasn't exactly blowing anyone away, I can only speculate in hindsight. One practice, he had me take a few throws off the mound to our batters. "Good pitch Truchan," he said at first. "Nice speed." Then there was a lot of, "Wow, okay don't hit our men," and "Okay. We can't afford to drill any of our own guys anymore." I was named starting pitcher for our next game.
I was handed the ball and trotted out to the mound one April afternoon with some renewed confidence. At least I didn't have to boot the ball into the outfield while trying to play a routine grounder anymore. I just had to lob my pitches in there and hope the visiting team could hit just as poorly as I could. Piece of cake. I'd go a full game. My father was watching on anxiously, having given me tips beforehand. But I knew what a pitcher did. He threw as fast as he could, all the time, no matter what. Right?
I took the mound and the batter stepped in the box. "PLAY BALL!" I delivered the first pitch in for a called strike. Good start. My next pitch was a different story. I almost shaved off the batter's puberty blossoming mustache fuzz. "BALL" Then, I threw behind him. Then, I threw a pitch in the dirt. Then, I threw one down the middle but just off the corner. "BALL FOUR. TAKE YOUR BASE," the ump cried.
I was a little erratic to say the least. But here's where the problem started. I stood on the mound, the runner on first. It was then I heard everyone from the bench snicker. I delivered the pitch. "BALL ONE." More laughter from the bench. "BALL TWO." The whispers grew louder. "Why isn't he pitching from the stretch?" God knew what that meant. "BALL THREE." I threw again. "BALL FOUR." Fucking godammit.
This pitching thing wasn't as easy as I thought. My command had gone to lunch, for eternity, and didn't plan on showing up anytime that afternoon. But what happened next crippled me.
Turning my back to the runner on first, I began to pitch in that fashion. "There you go Truchan, now you're in the stretch," my coach yelled. Oh, news to me. I placed the ball and my hand in my glove and stared at the batter. I then took a peak over at the runner at first, just like on tv. But I turned my shoulder towards him. "BALK!" yelled the ump, throwing his hands in the air as if someone where shooting at him.
I looked over in confusion as my team's bench groaned. The runner on second strolled over to third and the guy on first took a leisurely walk to second. WHAT? I then set again, placed the ball and my hand in the glove, looked in at the batter, took my hand and ball out of my glove, and.... "BALK!" The kid on third came into score, and the kid on second went to third. WHAT THE FUCK WAS THIS SHIT?!
Was there no end to this conspiracy of ridicule and hatred against me? I stood on the mound, a deer in headlights, a possible stream of urine running down the front of my pants. My coach trotted out to me. "Truchan, do you know what a balk is?" I shook my head, thinking it's either a type of freshwater fish or everyone was having problems pronouncing the word "walk." Coach went on, "When a pitcher puts his hand in his glove with the foot on the rubber, you can't break your motion. You can't take your hand out of your glove, you can't move your shoulders, you can't walk around, unless you step off the rubber. That's a balk," my coach explained. He followed up his lecture with moves and reenactments and in-game examples. I just nodded, quivering as the words floated threw my ears and into the dirt of the mound.
I finally got it right, what ever the rule was, but I walked the next guy. And the next guy. The next batter got a hit. Or maybe it was the other way around. I don' t know. But there were suddenly two guys on and we were losing 2-0 with no outs. I had to stop the bleeding. So, I put my hand in my glove, stared down the batter, spit like a pro, and... "BALK!" The runner's advanced. I set again, looked in at the next kid, and... "BALK!" Another guy scored, the other runner went to third. I stood there looking at my dangling hands, wishing I could actually throw a pitch. So for the next batter, I thought I could try and throw him one inside, so I set and… "BALK!"
My coach ran out again, shaking his head. "Okay, Truchan. LOOK. When you break your motion after you set, you blah blah blah llekjfalkerfl kjllfkj adkj and then you blah blah lkjdfaoi blakhhoh and that's when blah lkdjf. So that's what a balk is. Okay?" I nodded again. The coach placed the ball back in my hands. I wanted him to call a funeral service on the way back to the dugout and make a reservation for one for next available seating.
Good God strike me down now. I looked up to the sky but it was relatively clear. A lighting phenomenon, perhaps? Anything. A tiger storms in from left field and mauls me to a pulp. LITTLE LEAGUE PITCHER MOURNED IN FREAK TRAGEDY AS HUNDREDS COME TO SERVICES; COLLEGE FUND STARTED IN HIS NAME. A boy can crap his pants and dream, can't he?
So, I set into my pitch, hand and ball in glove, looked over to third at the runner, took my hand out of my glove, thought about..."BALK!" The runner from third came into score. The visitor's cheered and laughed. My team groaned some more and laughed and cursed and sharpened spears.
The coach walked out slowly, hands in his back pockets, head to the ground. I couldn't wait to give him the ball and run, or beg him for a police escort to my dad's car. "Alright, I gotta take you out. We can't afford anymore runs," my coach said. "I didn't know this ump would be calling balks at this age level. Something we'll work on." With that, he motioned to our center fielder to come in in relief, with a 5-0 deficit, or possibly worse, and no outs.. "Truchan, take center." He held his hand out and I gave him the ball, as it dribbled out of my jellied grip.
Gimping out to center, tears began to formulate and gushed heavy out the sides. Who did I think I was? A pitcher? A ballplayer? An athlete? I was a kid who could sometimes hit wiffle balls and collected baseball cards. "Maybe I'll rob somebody of a homerun while charging the outfield fence?," I thought.
Later that inning, a ball was hit towards me, and I let it drop in the gap and roll to the fence, runners scoring like crazy. It was officially the worst inning of my life. When I got back to the dugout after the final third out, someone said to me, "Hey, here comes Balker, Texas Ranger." Any other day in my life, I would have found that clever, and brilliantly corny. But at that moment, I just wanted to find a hole.
The record for balks in a Major League game is 5 by Bob Shaw, pitcher for the Milwaukee Braves in 1963. In that game, he tied a 33 year old record for 3 in an inning. Sorry, Mr. Shaw, I had you beat. Dave Stewart set the single season record with the Oakland A's in 1988 with 16 balks. Don't worry Mr. Stewart, I'm sure if my coach had the guts to leave me out there, or put my in one more game, I'd shattered that.
"Sorry son. I wish I could have told you what to do out there. I saw you didn't have a clue what your coach was telling you out there," my dad told me in the car after the game. I shook my head. "Well, for future reference, a balk is when you blah, blah, blah, blah, blah..." I dropped my head further, and never forgot what a balk was.
(Part 4, and final installment coming tomorrow. Thank you.)
Everyone knows, in baseball, that it's one, two, three strikes your out as told by the simple ditty, "Take Me Out to the Ball Game." Others then learn, four balls means the batter can take their base. A hit means your safe. Rounding all four bases on a hit is a home run. A catch in the air or a tag of the runner with a live ball means your out. And so on and so on.
The nuances of the game get more complex as you go along. One minute it's three strikes your out and the next it's all about making a double switch in the 7th for a lefty outfielder so you can pinch hit a right-hander off the bench who hits screwballs with a .266 average to right-center field gaps to get the runner home from second, with the opponents outfielder's playing in "no doubles" position. What the fuck? The stakes can escalate quickly. Such is the case with the little known, little seen, much dreaded, and defensively crippling balk.
A balk is when a pitcher gets ready to throw his pitch, by placing ball and pitching hand in glove while standing on the pitching rubber, and then breaks his motion. He, or she (ladies), turns his body towards a base, takes his hand out of his glove, throws to a base while stepping towards another, etc., all while not stepping off the pitching rubber on the mound. If you do these things without stepping off, the guys on base get a free pass to move up to the next base, even if it means scoring a run. So now you know. I wish I had.
So with all that info absent from my timid and tepid baseball brain, my coach in seventh grade decided it would be a good idea to try me out as a pitcher. Our pitching staff wasn't exactly blowing anyone away, I can only speculate in hindsight. One practice, he had me take a few throws off the mound to our batters. "Good pitch Truchan," he said at first. "Nice speed." Then there was a lot of, "Wow, okay don't hit our men," and "Okay. We can't afford to drill any of our own guys anymore." I was named starting pitcher for our next game.
I was handed the ball and trotted out to the mound one April afternoon with some renewed confidence. At least I didn't have to boot the ball into the outfield while trying to play a routine grounder anymore. I just had to lob my pitches in there and hope the visiting team could hit just as poorly as I could. Piece of cake. I'd go a full game. My father was watching on anxiously, having given me tips beforehand. But I knew what a pitcher did. He threw as fast as he could, all the time, no matter what. Right?
I took the mound and the batter stepped in the box. "PLAY BALL!" I delivered the first pitch in for a called strike. Good start. My next pitch was a different story. I almost shaved off the batter's puberty blossoming mustache fuzz. "BALL" Then, I threw behind him. Then, I threw a pitch in the dirt. Then, I threw one down the middle but just off the corner. "BALL FOUR. TAKE YOUR BASE," the ump cried.
I was a little erratic to say the least. But here's where the problem started. I stood on the mound, the runner on first. It was then I heard everyone from the bench snicker. I delivered the pitch. "BALL ONE." More laughter from the bench. "BALL TWO." The whispers grew louder. "Why isn't he pitching from the stretch?" God knew what that meant. "BALL THREE." I threw again. "BALL FOUR." Fucking godammit.
This pitching thing wasn't as easy as I thought. My command had gone to lunch, for eternity, and didn't plan on showing up anytime that afternoon. But what happened next crippled me.
Turning my back to the runner on first, I began to pitch in that fashion. "There you go Truchan, now you're in the stretch," my coach yelled. Oh, news to me. I placed the ball and my hand in my glove and stared at the batter. I then took a peak over at the runner at first, just like on tv. But I turned my shoulder towards him. "BALK!" yelled the ump, throwing his hands in the air as if someone where shooting at him.
I looked over in confusion as my team's bench groaned. The runner on second strolled over to third and the guy on first took a leisurely walk to second. WHAT? I then set again, placed the ball and my hand in the glove, looked in at the batter, took my hand and ball out of my glove, and.... "BALK!" The kid on third came into score, and the kid on second went to third. WHAT THE FUCK WAS THIS SHIT?!
Was there no end to this conspiracy of ridicule and hatred against me? I stood on the mound, a deer in headlights, a possible stream of urine running down the front of my pants. My coach trotted out to me. "Truchan, do you know what a balk is?" I shook my head, thinking it's either a type of freshwater fish or everyone was having problems pronouncing the word "walk." Coach went on, "When a pitcher puts his hand in his glove with the foot on the rubber, you can't break your motion. You can't take your hand out of your glove, you can't move your shoulders, you can't walk around, unless you step off the rubber. That's a balk," my coach explained. He followed up his lecture with moves and reenactments and in-game examples. I just nodded, quivering as the words floated threw my ears and into the dirt of the mound.
I finally got it right, what ever the rule was, but I walked the next guy. And the next guy. The next batter got a hit. Or maybe it was the other way around. I don' t know. But there were suddenly two guys on and we were losing 2-0 with no outs. I had to stop the bleeding. So, I put my hand in my glove, stared down the batter, spit like a pro, and... "BALK!" The runner's advanced. I set again, looked in at the next kid, and... "BALK!" Another guy scored, the other runner went to third. I stood there looking at my dangling hands, wishing I could actually throw a pitch. So for the next batter, I thought I could try and throw him one inside, so I set and… "BALK!"
My coach ran out again, shaking his head. "Okay, Truchan. LOOK. When you break your motion after you set, you blah blah blah llekjfalkerfl kjllfkj adkj and then you blah blah lkjdfaoi blakhhoh and that's when blah lkdjf. So that's what a balk is. Okay?" I nodded again. The coach placed the ball back in my hands. I wanted him to call a funeral service on the way back to the dugout and make a reservation for one for next available seating.
Good God strike me down now. I looked up to the sky but it was relatively clear. A lighting phenomenon, perhaps? Anything. A tiger storms in from left field and mauls me to a pulp. LITTLE LEAGUE PITCHER MOURNED IN FREAK TRAGEDY AS HUNDREDS COME TO SERVICES; COLLEGE FUND STARTED IN HIS NAME. A boy can crap his pants and dream, can't he?
So, I set into my pitch, hand and ball in glove, looked over to third at the runner, took my hand out of my glove, thought about..."BALK!" The runner from third came into score. The visitor's cheered and laughed. My team groaned some more and laughed and cursed and sharpened spears.
The coach walked out slowly, hands in his back pockets, head to the ground. I couldn't wait to give him the ball and run, or beg him for a police escort to my dad's car. "Alright, I gotta take you out. We can't afford anymore runs," my coach said. "I didn't know this ump would be calling balks at this age level. Something we'll work on." With that, he motioned to our center fielder to come in in relief, with a 5-0 deficit, or possibly worse, and no outs.. "Truchan, take center." He held his hand out and I gave him the ball, as it dribbled out of my jellied grip.
Gimping out to center, tears began to formulate and gushed heavy out the sides. Who did I think I was? A pitcher? A ballplayer? An athlete? I was a kid who could sometimes hit wiffle balls and collected baseball cards. "Maybe I'll rob somebody of a homerun while charging the outfield fence?," I thought.
Later that inning, a ball was hit towards me, and I let it drop in the gap and roll to the fence, runners scoring like crazy. It was officially the worst inning of my life. When I got back to the dugout after the final third out, someone said to me, "Hey, here comes Balker, Texas Ranger." Any other day in my life, I would have found that clever, and brilliantly corny. But at that moment, I just wanted to find a hole.
The record for balks in a Major League game is 5 by Bob Shaw, pitcher for the Milwaukee Braves in 1963. In that game, he tied a 33 year old record for 3 in an inning. Sorry, Mr. Shaw, I had you beat. Dave Stewart set the single season record with the Oakland A's in 1988 with 16 balks. Don't worry Mr. Stewart, I'm sure if my coach had the guts to leave me out there, or put my in one more game, I'd shattered that.
"Sorry son. I wish I could have told you what to do out there. I saw you didn't have a clue what your coach was telling you out there," my dad told me in the car after the game. I shook my head. "Well, for future reference, a balk is when you blah, blah, blah, blah, blah..." I dropped my head further, and never forgot what a balk was.
(Part 4, and final installment coming tomorrow. Thank you.)
June 29, 2008
An Idiot's Guide to Playing Baseball as Told by an Idiot (Part 2)
When I finished my first grade season of little league, my mom asked me if I wanted to sign up for next year. I apparently told her, “Well, I don’t like hitting. And I don’t like playing in the field. But I like sitting on the bench.” My mom opted not to sign me up. I was thankful.
After I left the game of baseball, I started a lowly life on the defensive line of organized soccer. If there was one thing I hated more than being hit by pitches, it was playing soccer, and playing defense in soccer was the absolute worst. The games were so slow and boring. The coaches insisted on practicing three to four times a week to have our grammar-school-toned muscles dribble soccer balls around orange cones. My dream in soccer, year after year, season after season, was to play the front line where I'd be able to score goals, win games for the team, and get girls in my class to think I was athletic and, therefore, skinny. The problem was no girls were actually hanging out at the soccer fields at age 9, and I was flat out fat.
Finally, I gave up soccer at the age of 12, having scored just 3 goals in my career (2 of them in my first year, 1 of those against my own team, but my parents didn't have the heart to tell me until years later). It was around this time that I started to get the itch to play baseball again. I began to think of all the time spent standing on the backlines of the soccer field talking to the goalie and picking clumps of grass out of the ground to see which way the wind was blowing. I realized that I had been a complete wimp for bowing out of the game of baseball. I wanted to get back in there and show my skills. After all, I had been staying fresh in my backyard playing wiffle ball and having catch session with my father for years. I'd just slip back into the game, just like I'd never left. Easier reminisced then done.
In the backyard, the day before my first practice in the seventh grade, my dad asked me to show him a swing. Putting on my best Mo Vaughn, I slouched down, wound up like an awkward spring, and swung my bat into the hairs of the lawn and up to the heavens. I stood there, watching my imaginary ball fly over the Green Monster. I waited for my dad to say “Atta boy son. That’s how it’s done.” Instead, I got "What the hell kind of swing is that? This ain't golf."
I showed up for practice with my wooden bat I bought at Sports Authority. I thought it looked like Mo Vaughn's bat. Come to think of it, I never really liked Mo Vaughn. But his baseball cards were worth a dollar back in 1997. "Remember, keep the bat level," my dad reminded me as I left the car. "You got it dad," I said with a brash confidence and a complete knowledge of the great American game.
It was apparent I was horrendous from the moment I met my teammates, most of them kids I tried to avoid in the hallways of Middle School. God, why hadn't I though of this. The other's were kids from Catholic school, who if they had been in my school, I would have avoided in the hallways. There was some kid named Josh, a lanky, gawky, Jewish kid who just sat at the end of the bench the whole season. We became quick friends. Who said Jews and Christians couldn't mix? All it took was an inability to hit pitches over 40 MPH. We became quicker friends when everyone ridiculed me at my first practice for bringing that wood bat. This was the dawning of the age of aluminum and I was living in the dark ages.
As the practices wore on, and I began to mesh less and less with the guys, it became painfully clear that I was missing many links in the necessary chain of command. In my command of hitting. In my command of fielding. In my command of bench talk and baseball trivia. I was clueless. At practice, the more ground balls went through my legs or balls fell in the gap in outfield or lobbed pitches fell over my swinging bat, the more I thought I had made the worst mistake of my adolescent life.
The first game of the season, I was confident I'd be able to turn my lack of practice hitting and fundamental fielding around. Coach stuck me at third base, a position I can only assume was chosen for me from the old number in a hat game.
I remember the first batter for the other team reached safely. Then, the second batter hit a fast grounder to me. I froze a moment, charged it, and fired a sidearm throw to first. Immediately, my teammates and coach began to yell. "Throw to second. Throw to second. What are you doing?" But it was too late, the throw went wide and bounced off the fence behind the first baseman. The lead runner luckily held at second. They were both safe. With my head spinning inside my cap, my coach yelled, "Truchan. Ya gotta get the lead runner at second next time. K?" I nodded back to him with one of those I-don't-know-where-my-head-was nods. But I didn't know where my head was at all, or why I had agreed to this, or what the fuck getting the lead runner meant.
Then, I cemented my middle school baseball career in the annals of local legend. With two on and nobody out, our pitcher wound up and fired the first pitch to the batter. I watched as our catcher took the ball for a strike, jumped up in my direction, and began to fire the ball to me. "Holy shit, the runners stealing third," I thought, catching the runner barreling my way from second in my peripheral vision. I took two steps back, hovered around the base, and caught the catcher's throw. I looked at the attempted base thief with the ball firmly in my mitt. He was gonna be out by a mile. "Don't try, kid," I thought. But then, my mind blanked. Did I have to tag the base or the runner for the out? What were the rules? Who's writing this crazy script? Not knowing what to tag, I decided to try to tag both. I spun around in a circle, tagged third base with my glove, and finished my awkward 180 degree spin only to find the runner safe at third. My spin had drilled me into the ground. a mound of dirt rested around my twisted shoe. My fat ass sat on the edge of the kids cleats. "SAFE!" yelled the ump. "Oh my God," yelled somebody from the bench. Or maybe it was the whole bench, or the whole crowd. "Why did you tag the base, why did he tag the base, he tagged the base, who is he, why was the base tagged, never saw that before, tagged the freakin' base." I learned then and there the rules of baseball a little clearer. But I never seemed to grasp them any better.
My hitting quickly became the thing of locker room punchlines. Need a fan, get the Truchan brand. The Cherry Poppin' Daddies and Truchan's bat are leading the Swing revival. Okay, no one said that but at least that would have lightened the tension. As the at-bats and games and weeks piled up, I became the chuckle of the team and brunt of ridicule towards our losing season. While listening to a couple of teammates talk a little MLB on the bench after a game, I tried to chime in with a great highlight I'd seen the night before on SportsCenter. "Shut up Truchan. You're an embarrassment," one of them told me. When the coaches would tell us to watch pro ballplayers to see how's its done, I'd scoff at the notion, thinking Mo Vaughn taught me shit about hitting.
Coach stuck me in every position that season. I played first because I was chunky, but couldn't dig the balls out of the dirt. I played second once but had absolutely no idea how to cover steals from first or attempt double plays or where to stand on a shift. I found myself roaming around the outfield, from left to center to right, always running in on balls hit to me, every time, only to watch them sail over my head, every time. "Always run back on a fly ball Truchan, and then in on it if you need to," my coach told me. So, I'd take one step back before making a mad dash in, only to watch the ball drop in behind my outstretched glove.
The only logical move that season, my slew of failures, was to try to shape me into a pitcher, of course, and salvage the remainder of my middle school baseball career.
(Part 3 coming tomorrow)
After I left the game of baseball, I started a lowly life on the defensive line of organized soccer. If there was one thing I hated more than being hit by pitches, it was playing soccer, and playing defense in soccer was the absolute worst. The games were so slow and boring. The coaches insisted on practicing three to four times a week to have our grammar-school-toned muscles dribble soccer balls around orange cones. My dream in soccer, year after year, season after season, was to play the front line where I'd be able to score goals, win games for the team, and get girls in my class to think I was athletic and, therefore, skinny. The problem was no girls were actually hanging out at the soccer fields at age 9, and I was flat out fat.
Finally, I gave up soccer at the age of 12, having scored just 3 goals in my career (2 of them in my first year, 1 of those against my own team, but my parents didn't have the heart to tell me until years later). It was around this time that I started to get the itch to play baseball again. I began to think of all the time spent standing on the backlines of the soccer field talking to the goalie and picking clumps of grass out of the ground to see which way the wind was blowing. I realized that I had been a complete wimp for bowing out of the game of baseball. I wanted to get back in there and show my skills. After all, I had been staying fresh in my backyard playing wiffle ball and having catch session with my father for years. I'd just slip back into the game, just like I'd never left. Easier reminisced then done.
In the backyard, the day before my first practice in the seventh grade, my dad asked me to show him a swing. Putting on my best Mo Vaughn, I slouched down, wound up like an awkward spring, and swung my bat into the hairs of the lawn and up to the heavens. I stood there, watching my imaginary ball fly over the Green Monster. I waited for my dad to say “Atta boy son. That’s how it’s done.” Instead, I got "What the hell kind of swing is that? This ain't golf."
I showed up for practice with my wooden bat I bought at Sports Authority. I thought it looked like Mo Vaughn's bat. Come to think of it, I never really liked Mo Vaughn. But his baseball cards were worth a dollar back in 1997. "Remember, keep the bat level," my dad reminded me as I left the car. "You got it dad," I said with a brash confidence and a complete knowledge of the great American game.
It was apparent I was horrendous from the moment I met my teammates, most of them kids I tried to avoid in the hallways of Middle School. God, why hadn't I though of this. The other's were kids from Catholic school, who if they had been in my school, I would have avoided in the hallways. There was some kid named Josh, a lanky, gawky, Jewish kid who just sat at the end of the bench the whole season. We became quick friends. Who said Jews and Christians couldn't mix? All it took was an inability to hit pitches over 40 MPH. We became quicker friends when everyone ridiculed me at my first practice for bringing that wood bat. This was the dawning of the age of aluminum and I was living in the dark ages.
As the practices wore on, and I began to mesh less and less with the guys, it became painfully clear that I was missing many links in the necessary chain of command. In my command of hitting. In my command of fielding. In my command of bench talk and baseball trivia. I was clueless. At practice, the more ground balls went through my legs or balls fell in the gap in outfield or lobbed pitches fell over my swinging bat, the more I thought I had made the worst mistake of my adolescent life.
The first game of the season, I was confident I'd be able to turn my lack of practice hitting and fundamental fielding around. Coach stuck me at third base, a position I can only assume was chosen for me from the old number in a hat game.
I remember the first batter for the other team reached safely. Then, the second batter hit a fast grounder to me. I froze a moment, charged it, and fired a sidearm throw to first. Immediately, my teammates and coach began to yell. "Throw to second. Throw to second. What are you doing?" But it was too late, the throw went wide and bounced off the fence behind the first baseman. The lead runner luckily held at second. They were both safe. With my head spinning inside my cap, my coach yelled, "Truchan. Ya gotta get the lead runner at second next time. K?" I nodded back to him with one of those I-don't-know-where-my-head-was nods. But I didn't know where my head was at all, or why I had agreed to this, or what the fuck getting the lead runner meant.
Then, I cemented my middle school baseball career in the annals of local legend. With two on and nobody out, our pitcher wound up and fired the first pitch to the batter. I watched as our catcher took the ball for a strike, jumped up in my direction, and began to fire the ball to me. "Holy shit, the runners stealing third," I thought, catching the runner barreling my way from second in my peripheral vision. I took two steps back, hovered around the base, and caught the catcher's throw. I looked at the attempted base thief with the ball firmly in my mitt. He was gonna be out by a mile. "Don't try, kid," I thought. But then, my mind blanked. Did I have to tag the base or the runner for the out? What were the rules? Who's writing this crazy script? Not knowing what to tag, I decided to try to tag both. I spun around in a circle, tagged third base with my glove, and finished my awkward 180 degree spin only to find the runner safe at third. My spin had drilled me into the ground. a mound of dirt rested around my twisted shoe. My fat ass sat on the edge of the kids cleats. "SAFE!" yelled the ump. "Oh my God," yelled somebody from the bench. Or maybe it was the whole bench, or the whole crowd. "Why did you tag the base, why did he tag the base, he tagged the base, who is he, why was the base tagged, never saw that before, tagged the freakin' base." I learned then and there the rules of baseball a little clearer. But I never seemed to grasp them any better.
My hitting quickly became the thing of locker room punchlines. Need a fan, get the Truchan brand. The Cherry Poppin' Daddies and Truchan's bat are leading the Swing revival. Okay, no one said that but at least that would have lightened the tension. As the at-bats and games and weeks piled up, I became the chuckle of the team and brunt of ridicule towards our losing season. While listening to a couple of teammates talk a little MLB on the bench after a game, I tried to chime in with a great highlight I'd seen the night before on SportsCenter. "Shut up Truchan. You're an embarrassment," one of them told me. When the coaches would tell us to watch pro ballplayers to see how's its done, I'd scoff at the notion, thinking Mo Vaughn taught me shit about hitting.
Coach stuck me in every position that season. I played first because I was chunky, but couldn't dig the balls out of the dirt. I played second once but had absolutely no idea how to cover steals from first or attempt double plays or where to stand on a shift. I found myself roaming around the outfield, from left to center to right, always running in on balls hit to me, every time, only to watch them sail over my head, every time. "Always run back on a fly ball Truchan, and then in on it if you need to," my coach told me. So, I'd take one step back before making a mad dash in, only to watch the ball drop in behind my outstretched glove.
The only logical move that season, my slew of failures, was to try to shape me into a pitcher, of course, and salvage the remainder of my middle school baseball career.
(Part 3 coming tomorrow)
June 28, 2008
An Idiot's Guide to Playing Baseball as Told By an Idiot (Part 1)
For those who don't know me, I love baseball. I love to watch it, talk it, read about it, research it, think it, watch sentimental movies about its greatness. Yet, I am a horrific baseball player. Possibly the worst player to grace the sanctity of God's holy dirt diamond.
How bad am I, you ask? Well, the people I talk to the most have probably heard me go on and on about what a bad ball player I am the way other men tend to dwell on the minimal stature of their dick. I'm just trying to overcompensate for the fact that I'm so bad at baseball, I have to let everyone know. Some men buy big pickup trucks or sports cars to hide their lack of endowment , I air my hitting grievances out in the open. I also feel my manhood is always in question when I talk about baseball. I've met grown men who I'm pretty sure still get beat up by middle school kids when they go to the store for milk who tell me sandlot tales of glory, and beating out bunts in their Senior year of high school to win the state championship. But enough about bunts and dicks. Back to how bad I am at baseball.
I played a year of tee ball in kindergarten, which I don't quite remember but my mother told me the other day I was really good at it. Gee, thanks mom, no wonder I'm such a pussy. But the rules were pretty standard. If you swung at five pitches or so, the coach brought out the tee and you hit off that. Honestly, I don't remember even having to hit off the tee, which tends to make me think I was decent that year. I always put the ball in play. I remember arguing with a classmate once who played in that kindergarten league over whether or not a tee was used. He said it was always used. I said it was never used. Obviously, he sucked at hitting and I didn't. That kid moved to North Carolina later that year where his brother ran over his foot with a lawn mower. True story. I, on the other hand, was apparently oblivious to anything going on around me, since I couldn't recall 70 percent of the players in the league hitting off of a long rubber placeholder.
I then played a year of ball in first grade. This is where the downhill spiral started. I remember sitting on the bench worrying about getting a hot dog from the concession stand after the game when our big bat in the line up, Brian, was hit square in the finger by an erratic six year old southpaw. Brian dropped to the ground screaming in pain, sobbing in the dirt for his mommy. Good god, I didn't know this could happen.
Two days later, the dinky kid down the block who batted before me took a pitch square in the batting helmet. I remember the sheer terror on his face as he dropped the bat, spun around in agony, and fell in the dirt, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Take your base," yelled the ump as the coaches ran out with an ice pack and, if I recall correctly, a tray of orange slices, a fixture at any children's organized community sports game.
Well, I had seen enough. I was not about to take one of these leather covered killing devices to the throat. No fucking way. I didn't not sign up to be knocked unconscious. I had so many years ahead of me. Prosperous years of video gaming, and bike riding, and long division. I could not be forced to sit on the disabled list in the game of life all because some spastic kid fresh off of training wheels couldn't hit the strike zone.
So, I began to step out of the box every time the pitch was thrown. I closed my eyes, and took up praying as an in-between-pitch hobby. I ducked on pitches thrown anywhere above the knees. My nerve had flown the coop, yet I hadn't been hit by a single pitch myself. The horror of watching my teammates drop like flies was too much drama for one kid to take. Where were those goddamn tees I had heard so much about?I continued to get a hit every now and again, something I can only attribute to the fact that the pitches were slow and I was one of the best closed-eye batters in the league. Luck and lack of pitching talent where sometimes on my side.
But then it happened. I remember getting up to bat, sweating bullets as usual, wanting to go home to watch my wrestling VHS tapes and play with my action figures. The pitcher set, two men where on, the sun was setting out in right field. And then, I watched the path of the ball as the pitch left the righties hand. I watched it tail up and in. So far in, it smacked me right in the center of my helmet, rattling every pore in my forehead. Being the defensive worrywart, I swung the bat as hard as I could, just as the ball bounced off the helmet and into the batters box. I was beyond thankful when the ump told me to take my base rather than calling it strike one. I needed to get the fuck out of there.
It didn't hurt. It didn't even give me a headache. But as I stood there on first, I though, "what if that ball had hit me in the nose, or broke my glasses, or chipped a tooth? Fuck this game called Baseball?"
The next year, I signed up for soccer...
(Part 2 coming tomorrow)
How bad am I, you ask? Well, the people I talk to the most have probably heard me go on and on about what a bad ball player I am the way other men tend to dwell on the minimal stature of their dick. I'm just trying to overcompensate for the fact that I'm so bad at baseball, I have to let everyone know. Some men buy big pickup trucks or sports cars to hide their lack of endowment , I air my hitting grievances out in the open. I also feel my manhood is always in question when I talk about baseball. I've met grown men who I'm pretty sure still get beat up by middle school kids when they go to the store for milk who tell me sandlot tales of glory, and beating out bunts in their Senior year of high school to win the state championship. But enough about bunts and dicks. Back to how bad I am at baseball.
I played a year of tee ball in kindergarten, which I don't quite remember but my mother told me the other day I was really good at it. Gee, thanks mom, no wonder I'm such a pussy. But the rules were pretty standard. If you swung at five pitches or so, the coach brought out the tee and you hit off that. Honestly, I don't remember even having to hit off the tee, which tends to make me think I was decent that year. I always put the ball in play. I remember arguing with a classmate once who played in that kindergarten league over whether or not a tee was used. He said it was always used. I said it was never used. Obviously, he sucked at hitting and I didn't. That kid moved to North Carolina later that year where his brother ran over his foot with a lawn mower. True story. I, on the other hand, was apparently oblivious to anything going on around me, since I couldn't recall 70 percent of the players in the league hitting off of a long rubber placeholder.
I then played a year of ball in first grade. This is where the downhill spiral started. I remember sitting on the bench worrying about getting a hot dog from the concession stand after the game when our big bat in the line up, Brian, was hit square in the finger by an erratic six year old southpaw. Brian dropped to the ground screaming in pain, sobbing in the dirt for his mommy. Good god, I didn't know this could happen.
Two days later, the dinky kid down the block who batted before me took a pitch square in the batting helmet. I remember the sheer terror on his face as he dropped the bat, spun around in agony, and fell in the dirt, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Take your base," yelled the ump as the coaches ran out with an ice pack and, if I recall correctly, a tray of orange slices, a fixture at any children's organized community sports game.
Well, I had seen enough. I was not about to take one of these leather covered killing devices to the throat. No fucking way. I didn't not sign up to be knocked unconscious. I had so many years ahead of me. Prosperous years of video gaming, and bike riding, and long division. I could not be forced to sit on the disabled list in the game of life all because some spastic kid fresh off of training wheels couldn't hit the strike zone.
So, I began to step out of the box every time the pitch was thrown. I closed my eyes, and took up praying as an in-between-pitch hobby. I ducked on pitches thrown anywhere above the knees. My nerve had flown the coop, yet I hadn't been hit by a single pitch myself. The horror of watching my teammates drop like flies was too much drama for one kid to take. Where were those goddamn tees I had heard so much about?I continued to get a hit every now and again, something I can only attribute to the fact that the pitches were slow and I was one of the best closed-eye batters in the league. Luck and lack of pitching talent where sometimes on my side.
But then it happened. I remember getting up to bat, sweating bullets as usual, wanting to go home to watch my wrestling VHS tapes and play with my action figures. The pitcher set, two men where on, the sun was setting out in right field. And then, I watched the path of the ball as the pitch left the righties hand. I watched it tail up and in. So far in, it smacked me right in the center of my helmet, rattling every pore in my forehead. Being the defensive worrywart, I swung the bat as hard as I could, just as the ball bounced off the helmet and into the batters box. I was beyond thankful when the ump told me to take my base rather than calling it strike one. I needed to get the fuck out of there.
It didn't hurt. It didn't even give me a headache. But as I stood there on first, I though, "what if that ball had hit me in the nose, or broke my glasses, or chipped a tooth? Fuck this game called Baseball?"
The next year, I signed up for soccer...
(Part 2 coming tomorrow)
June 27, 2008
I'm Back (Here Come The Rome Plows)
Get it.
Good.
Well, I've decided to blog again. Some of my friends have asked why I haven't blogged in a while. I was on a bit of a roll, if you can call it that, back in the wintry months of 2008. I found blogging to be a beautifully exciting creative outlet. And for that last sentence I just wrote, I expect five hard punches to the gut.
But I've become too complacent in everything I want to do. Writing, music, working, thinking. I've taken to the path of drinking and watching television and thought that was okay because I was tired of the daily crap. It's only gonna get harder, much harder, and I have to realize that. Being tired is a bunch of bullshit. When you're tired, you need to kick your own ass into gear and do something. Write a poem, listen to a cd you've forgotten about that you used to love, paint a living room, read a book you've always wanted to, watch that 3 hour movie you promised a friend or professor you'd take in. Godammit, that stuff does wonders.
The biggest sickness I've had over the past couple months is complacency. It's so easy to throw all your creativity and imagination to the dogs in favor of sleeping or listening or watching or yesing someone to death. Why not do something about it?
Well, I've been unemployed for two weeks, now that the substitute teaching job has ended for the summer. I've been taking in more movies and started reading more books. My band, Atlas at Least, is looking to play shows and release our album by mid-August. Things are looking up. Call it an early summer's blooming but I'm feeling better. So here we go. Let's blog about the bullshit that seemed so unimportant so long ago. Let's take it from here. Send me some shit I can write about and I'll write about it. Tell me you're happy to hear me ramble on again.
If not, I'll keep rambling on anyway. Thank you very much.
Good.
Well, I've decided to blog again. Some of my friends have asked why I haven't blogged in a while. I was on a bit of a roll, if you can call it that, back in the wintry months of 2008. I found blogging to be a beautifully exciting creative outlet. And for that last sentence I just wrote, I expect five hard punches to the gut.
But I've become too complacent in everything I want to do. Writing, music, working, thinking. I've taken to the path of drinking and watching television and thought that was okay because I was tired of the daily crap. It's only gonna get harder, much harder, and I have to realize that. Being tired is a bunch of bullshit. When you're tired, you need to kick your own ass into gear and do something. Write a poem, listen to a cd you've forgotten about that you used to love, paint a living room, read a book you've always wanted to, watch that 3 hour movie you promised a friend or professor you'd take in. Godammit, that stuff does wonders.
The biggest sickness I've had over the past couple months is complacency. It's so easy to throw all your creativity and imagination to the dogs in favor of sleeping or listening or watching or yesing someone to death. Why not do something about it?
Well, I've been unemployed for two weeks, now that the substitute teaching job has ended for the summer. I've been taking in more movies and started reading more books. My band, Atlas at Least, is looking to play shows and release our album by mid-August. Things are looking up. Call it an early summer's blooming but I'm feeling better. So here we go. Let's blog about the bullshit that seemed so unimportant so long ago. Let's take it from here. Send me some shit I can write about and I'll write about it. Tell me you're happy to hear me ramble on again.
If not, I'll keep rambling on anyway. Thank you very much.
February 21, 2008
Let's Keep it Brief
So today, a big change a-came in my life. I decided to switch from boxers to briefs. When I say briefs, I'm talking about, yes ladies, "tighty whities," a term that became popular and made the plain brief just as uncool as skiing or soccer. (I appreciate all those things by the way).
It's been interesting to say the least, which is why you are reading this in the first place. I feel the brief is really holding it all together but I'm just not sure yet whether this road less traveled by my age demographic is the right road for me. Ever since companies started putting Corona bottles and Eric Cartman on boxer shorts, they became the garment of choice. I switched over in the early years of middle school, still bummed I could no longer fit into briefs with cartoons on it. I had to go white, baby and I did not like it.
However, the boxer years have not treated me much better. Wearing boxer shorts feels like I stuffed a half dress down my jeans. It's like if your father wakes you up in the middle of the night and tells you the house is on fire and you throw your pants over a pair of summertime shorts to look decent outside. Inevitably, it's gonna bunch up and be uncomfortable. I was sick of it.
But now, I'm not sure I'm fitting into my new choice. Pun intended? Maybe? I can't figure out if this is comfortable or restricting. I don't wanna be held back during my day to day. But with boxers, I don't want to be constantly pulling down extra crotch fabric in the middle of the supermarket either. You just can't win. I didn't like kneeling down to get things today because the white sticks out. It's socially acceptable, actually stylish, to see someones Bud Light boxers poking out of the top of their attire. But the white briefs usually make girls giggle and grown men cry. Why is this?
Believe me, I've gone commando style too, and that's just too much freedom I don't think anyone should have. It's anarchy down there!
Tomorrow, I will give the briefs another shot, but I think I ultimately like the perks of boxers. It currently feels like my scrotum's stuck in a hacky sack of some sort, but not quite an excruciating hacky sack. It's a suspiciously cozy hacky sack? Oh sorry. The official name for them is footbag.
It's been interesting to say the least, which is why you are reading this in the first place. I feel the brief is really holding it all together but I'm just not sure yet whether this road less traveled by my age demographic is the right road for me. Ever since companies started putting Corona bottles and Eric Cartman on boxer shorts, they became the garment of choice. I switched over in the early years of middle school, still bummed I could no longer fit into briefs with cartoons on it. I had to go white, baby and I did not like it.
However, the boxer years have not treated me much better. Wearing boxer shorts feels like I stuffed a half dress down my jeans. It's like if your father wakes you up in the middle of the night and tells you the house is on fire and you throw your pants over a pair of summertime shorts to look decent outside. Inevitably, it's gonna bunch up and be uncomfortable. I was sick of it.
But now, I'm not sure I'm fitting into my new choice. Pun intended? Maybe? I can't figure out if this is comfortable or restricting. I don't wanna be held back during my day to day. But with boxers, I don't want to be constantly pulling down extra crotch fabric in the middle of the supermarket either. You just can't win. I didn't like kneeling down to get things today because the white sticks out. It's socially acceptable, actually stylish, to see someones Bud Light boxers poking out of the top of their attire. But the white briefs usually make girls giggle and grown men cry. Why is this?
Believe me, I've gone commando style too, and that's just too much freedom I don't think anyone should have. It's anarchy down there!
Tomorrow, I will give the briefs another shot, but I think I ultimately like the perks of boxers. It currently feels like my scrotum's stuck in a hacky sack of some sort, but not quite an excruciating hacky sack. It's a suspiciously cozy hacky sack? Oh sorry. The official name for them is footbag.
February 20, 2008
Sick Days
It's official. I've finally broken out of this miserable slump I've been in since I awoke Monday morning and ordered my girlfriend to fetch me Pepto-Bismol pills ASAP! I then apologized for my early morning madness, sweating like a meth fiend going through withdrawal, and told her I was gonna puke everywhere. I then went back to bed. I remember as my girlfriend, Kristin, went off to work she asked if I'd like to come on her lunch break with her. "Yeah sure. I'll call ya," I mumbled and went back to bed. President’s Day was doomed from the start!
I awoke at noon, my stomach wrenching, the room spinning, moans slipping out of my mouth like a some sort of rape victim. A rape victim at the hands of germs! I thought I was fucking dying. I hadn't felt so sick since I was in the second grade. Still, no upchuck greeted me, and for a man who's vomit-phobic* like myself, this is great news no matter how bad the pain.
*(phobic toward my own brand. I have no problem watching others throw up. I hate watching my hands holding a toilet bowl as half chewed sausage travels through my nasal passages).
Still with me? GREAT.
Then, Kristin called me from work, undoubtedly asking if I wanted to grab lunch with her. I answered, "Hey. I'm sick. I can't come on break with you. Sorry." Then she groaned. "Oh God. I'm so sick too. Can you bring my fucking Pepto pills right fucking now?" SHIT. I slothed my way out of bed and drove over to her place of employment like a drunk driver in the middle of a B.J. Here, we both sat in the my car like two defeated seasick sailors in the clutches of a dysentery.
Later that night, as we both collapsed in bed moaning gross nothings to each other about our condition, that stale sick smell permeating the air, the aches set in. They spread down my legs, into my back, into my eyeballs. I started shaking. "What the fuck is this about God?" I asked, remembering that old lady I almost mowed down last week outside of Quick Check. "I waved 'sorry' to her dammit," I tried to reason. But the pain pulsated greater.
Finally, I sunk into that state where the pain becomes so annoying and persistent, you have no choice but start giggling uncontrollably. You try to moan, but each moan brings a dull fever spasm to a muscle and you giggle. Anyone else have this? At times like this I find myself having the most demented good time in the history of man. Everything becomes funny and annoyingly painful. And it was at this point I decided to try my hand a good old fashioned B.M.
Sitting on the shitter, my muscles quaking in germ-soup, I picked up the National Enquirer that my girlfriend’s mom always picks up when we go get the most trivial items at any grocery outlet. It was at this time I sunk deepest into my hysterics of feverish dementia. I will try to construct the scene using pictorial evidence.
Exhibit A:
I turned the pages to find this charming crossword puzzle featuring every grandmother’s favorite sleuth, Angela Lansbury. She’s helplessly, yet seemingly happily trapped in the middle of the puzzle. I thought to myself, "Gee, how's see gonna WRITE her way out of this one?" The sick fucking laughter became uncontrollable. It hurt everywhere. Oh wait, you get it? She stared in "Murder She Wrote" OK, whatever. Fuck you too.
So I then turned the page to get away from Angela and to stop my maniacal laughter ,for it threatened to turn by bones into dust. Then I came across something not so funny. Thankfully, taking a second to think about it, I regained composure.
This unsolved murder was simply no laughing matter at all, sick or not. But turning my eyes two millimeters to the right, the laughter returned full force as I saw the police sketch of the murder suspect.
OH MY GOD! Franklin the Turtle is the Frankford slasher!!!
The resemblance between the two are simply uncanny. I could not believe the police missed this! Yet, I was able to solve the crime, all while nauseous and taking a poop.
I came back to reality, convincing myself that 8 dead people is no laughing matter even if a human turtle with a cap killed them. Unless the 8 were clowns. Then that would be funny and weird. Then, I read the caption at the bottom of the page, under the alleged killer’s photo, which read "Turn to Page 31 for more." This handy instruction was cleverly printed inside an arrow pointing you on. Naturally, I turned the page, thinking the next page would provide further clues about the Frankford Slasher.
Nope, it was just this ad for cute cats. Well, that's when I really fucking lost it. Oh my God. BY GEORGE, THIS INS’T PAGE 31 AT ALL. It was page 27. Oh man, I should really read page numbers more often. Not the first time this got me in such an inescapable conundrum.
Boy, I love being sick. I just read the tabloids and they crack me up like a hammer to stained glass. Every minute sucks and become funny, simultaneously .
So anyways, I was extremely tired yesterday and today, and barely ate anything yet, but Kristin and I feel better, and now we’re getting on with our lives. Fuck, I wish I was sick again. To live in a world that's always funny. A boy can dream, can't he?
I awoke at noon, my stomach wrenching, the room spinning, moans slipping out of my mouth like a some sort of rape victim. A rape victim at the hands of germs! I thought I was fucking dying. I hadn't felt so sick since I was in the second grade. Still, no upchuck greeted me, and for a man who's vomit-phobic* like myself, this is great news no matter how bad the pain.
*(phobic toward my own brand. I have no problem watching others throw up. I hate watching my hands holding a toilet bowl as half chewed sausage travels through my nasal passages).
Still with me? GREAT.
Then, Kristin called me from work, undoubtedly asking if I wanted to grab lunch with her. I answered, "Hey. I'm sick. I can't come on break with you. Sorry." Then she groaned. "Oh God. I'm so sick too. Can you bring my fucking Pepto pills right fucking now?" SHIT. I slothed my way out of bed and drove over to her place of employment like a drunk driver in the middle of a B.J. Here, we both sat in the my car like two defeated seasick sailors in the clutches of a dysentery.
Later that night, as we both collapsed in bed moaning gross nothings to each other about our condition, that stale sick smell permeating the air, the aches set in. They spread down my legs, into my back, into my eyeballs. I started shaking. "What the fuck is this about God?" I asked, remembering that old lady I almost mowed down last week outside of Quick Check. "I waved 'sorry' to her dammit," I tried to reason. But the pain pulsated greater.
Finally, I sunk into that state where the pain becomes so annoying and persistent, you have no choice but start giggling uncontrollably. You try to moan, but each moan brings a dull fever spasm to a muscle and you giggle. Anyone else have this? At times like this I find myself having the most demented good time in the history of man. Everything becomes funny and annoyingly painful. And it was at this point I decided to try my hand a good old fashioned B.M.
Sitting on the shitter, my muscles quaking in germ-soup, I picked up the National Enquirer that my girlfriend’s mom always picks up when we go get the most trivial items at any grocery outlet. It was at this time I sunk deepest into my hysterics of feverish dementia. I will try to construct the scene using pictorial evidence.
Exhibit A:
I turned the pages to find this charming crossword puzzle featuring every grandmother’s favorite sleuth, Angela Lansbury. She’s helplessly, yet seemingly happily trapped in the middle of the puzzle. I thought to myself, "Gee, how's see gonna WRITE her way out of this one?" The sick fucking laughter became uncontrollable. It hurt everywhere. Oh wait, you get it? She stared in "Murder She Wrote" OK, whatever. Fuck you too.
So I then turned the page to get away from Angela and to stop my maniacal laughter ,for it threatened to turn by bones into dust. Then I came across something not so funny. Thankfully, taking a second to think about it, I regained composure.
This unsolved murder was simply no laughing matter at all, sick or not. But turning my eyes two millimeters to the right, the laughter returned full force as I saw the police sketch of the murder suspect.
OH MY GOD! Franklin the Turtle is the Frankford slasher!!!
The resemblance between the two are simply uncanny. I could not believe the police missed this! Yet, I was able to solve the crime, all while nauseous and taking a poop.
I came back to reality, convincing myself that 8 dead people is no laughing matter even if a human turtle with a cap killed them. Unless the 8 were clowns. Then that would be funny and weird. Then, I read the caption at the bottom of the page, under the alleged killer’s photo, which read "Turn to Page 31 for more." This handy instruction was cleverly printed inside an arrow pointing you on. Naturally, I turned the page, thinking the next page would provide further clues about the Frankford Slasher.
Nope, it was just this ad for cute cats. Well, that's when I really fucking lost it. Oh my God. BY GEORGE, THIS INS’T PAGE 31 AT ALL. It was page 27. Oh man, I should really read page numbers more often. Not the first time this got me in such an inescapable conundrum.
Boy, I love being sick. I just read the tabloids and they crack me up like a hammer to stained glass. Every minute sucks and become funny, simultaneously .
So anyways, I was extremely tired yesterday and today, and barely ate anything yet, but Kristin and I feel better, and now we’re getting on with our lives. Fuck, I wish I was sick again. To live in a world that's always funny. A boy can dream, can't he?
February 17, 2008
The Jukes on Me
The following was posted on my myspace sometime last Fall. Enjoy.
Tonight, I went out with Kristin to Chasers, this bar in Keansburg that's the proud home to countless cover bands, a pool table, and this arcade punching machine where guys line up to pay a buck to see who hits hardest. Tonight, the last I saw, this tiny Mexican guy was beating every bald headed, wifebeater wearing fellow in the joint with a maximum power score of 848. Badass.
Anyway, searching for something to do, I had a brief love affair with the jukebox. Apparently, this one connected to the internet to retrieve songs. This meant a whole assemblage of great possibilities. This was a relief to me after visiting the Ted's Tavern jukebox a few weeks back, in which the only good stuff to listen to was The Rolling Stones "Let It Bleed" album, and even that only let you choose 2 out of it's 9 songs. Goddamn singles.
Being that I was already tipsy, I wasted a buck to play Guided By Voices "Game of Pricks." In between a barrage of Marilyn Mason, Metallica, and Kid Rock (I shit you not, the guy before me was cuing up that "I'm a Cowboy Baby" song from 1998 with the enthusiasm of a race horse on uppers), I could not wait to hear Bob Pollard and the boys from Dayton, OH crash the testosterone party for 2 and a half minutes.
Then, I found Sonic Youth's "Death Valley 69" and gave the machine another hard earned buck. Wow, I thought, now that's 5-6 minutes of complete fucking mayhem the way it was meant to be. No James Hetfield to kick ol' Eric around anymore.
I waited. And waited. And ordered another beer. And waited. Then finally, after Creed came the opening chords to "Game of Pricks." It had arrived. The night was conquered. I could finally drink a beer in a place of popularity, full of guys looking to fuck young girls, and feel completely at peace.
The first verse kicked in. Then the chorus. I smiled. Sipped. Thought about how I had to take a piss. Listened. Laughed. Sang a line or two to my bottle. And then... "Alright Chasers. We bring you the badest motherfuckas this side of the Atlantic. STUCK IN A DECADE." Yes, good old Stuck in a Decade. Another band with so little ambition to do anything original that they literally named themselves after being stuck somewhere in time.
After all that, I only got to hear half of the one of the top 10 best songs ever written, only to then dive head first into a shitty '80's cover band that began to play the Go-Go's "Vacation." No "Death Valley '69" for me. 2 bucks down the drain for two songs I could have listened to when I got home. I just thought it might be nice to feel content outside the same four walls of ours for 6 minutes with music that didn't speak to 10 million people at once. Unfortunately, that's not the way the world works.
Tonight, I went out with Kristin to Chasers, this bar in Keansburg that's the proud home to countless cover bands, a pool table, and this arcade punching machine where guys line up to pay a buck to see who hits hardest. Tonight, the last I saw, this tiny Mexican guy was beating every bald headed, wifebeater wearing fellow in the joint with a maximum power score of 848. Badass.
Anyway, searching for something to do, I had a brief love affair with the jukebox. Apparently, this one connected to the internet to retrieve songs. This meant a whole assemblage of great possibilities. This was a relief to me after visiting the Ted's Tavern jukebox a few weeks back, in which the only good stuff to listen to was The Rolling Stones "Let It Bleed" album, and even that only let you choose 2 out of it's 9 songs. Goddamn singles.
Being that I was already tipsy, I wasted a buck to play Guided By Voices "Game of Pricks." In between a barrage of Marilyn Mason, Metallica, and Kid Rock (I shit you not, the guy before me was cuing up that "I'm a Cowboy Baby" song from 1998 with the enthusiasm of a race horse on uppers), I could not wait to hear Bob Pollard and the boys from Dayton, OH crash the testosterone party for 2 and a half minutes.
Then, I found Sonic Youth's "Death Valley 69" and gave the machine another hard earned buck. Wow, I thought, now that's 5-6 minutes of complete fucking mayhem the way it was meant to be. No James Hetfield to kick ol' Eric around anymore.
I waited. And waited. And ordered another beer. And waited. Then finally, after Creed came the opening chords to "Game of Pricks." It had arrived. The night was conquered. I could finally drink a beer in a place of popularity, full of guys looking to fuck young girls, and feel completely at peace.
The first verse kicked in. Then the chorus. I smiled. Sipped. Thought about how I had to take a piss. Listened. Laughed. Sang a line or two to my bottle. And then... "Alright Chasers. We bring you the badest motherfuckas this side of the Atlantic. STUCK IN A DECADE." Yes, good old Stuck in a Decade. Another band with so little ambition to do anything original that they literally named themselves after being stuck somewhere in time.
After all that, I only got to hear half of the one of the top 10 best songs ever written, only to then dive head first into a shitty '80's cover band that began to play the Go-Go's "Vacation." No "Death Valley '69" for me. 2 bucks down the drain for two songs I could have listened to when I got home. I just thought it might be nice to feel content outside the same four walls of ours for 6 minutes with music that didn't speak to 10 million people at once. Unfortunately, that's not the way the world works.
February 16, 2008
Universal Studios Discrimination and the Brisbane Chronicles
The other day, I wrote of my one Florida trip’s dampening experience at the Cracker Barrel that put my smiles out of service momentarily. I did not mention the other occasion when my frown was right side down as I faced a crotchety women who should have been eating lima beans in the geriatric ward instead of working on the ET Ride in Universal studios.
On the third day of our trip, me and 12 member gang of girlfriend family members headed down to Universal Studios. This was a place I had always wanted to visit as a child thanks to Nickelodeon's barrage of ads for the wonder land. Last summer, I finally made to Universal only to find the Back to the Future ride had closed, Beetlejuice wasn't scary in person, and the Jaws shark looked faker than the one in the movie. Still, the place is nifty. So two weeks ago, I was able to give it another go around.
As the day dragged on we decided to hit up the ET ride. This was another one I wanted to try as a kid. I was convinced you could actually defy the laws of physics on it and soar a bicycle through the air. I figured Universal Studios was like Six Flags, but with magic powers. In fact, the ride is nothing like that. And there's no magic involved. Just grumpy old women working the counter and a few fog machines somewhere behind the props.
After waiting outside the ET Ride, three blue doors open ordering you to step inside an air conditioned room that smells like plastic and sweet tourist sweat. Then, overhead screens pop into action revealing non other than everyone's favorite household director, Steven Spielberg himself. Mr. Spielberg informs us we are on a mission to return ET back to the Green Planet and we need an intergalactic passport or something. Don't be scared readers and non-riders. It's just a pretend mission.
Then, three more sets of doors open and you step into a bigger room. You now begin to wonder if the ride is nothing more than an automatic door expo that ushers you into larger and larger rooms. In this room sits three attendants behind computers. They ask you your name, type it into a computer, scan it onto your passport (a piece of cardboard with a barcode), and tell it to give it to your future ride attendant (this card allows ET to bid you farewell, BY NAME, at the end of the ride). Last summer, I gave my real name.
This year, however, I decided to go with the most obscure Little Rascals character of them all, Brisbane. How cool, I thought, would it be to hear ET rasp "Farewellll, Brrrissbannne," as our bicycle ride pulled back into reality. Very cool, indeed. On the original Little Rascals, Breezy Brisbane was a mischievous little hoodlum with a doting mother who told him he should be president while all Brisbane wanted to become was a street car conductor. I just wanted to give a little shout out to the forgotten Rascal, who unfortunately committed suicide in 1981.
I stepped up to the old lady behind the computer. She seemed gentle, motherly, supple. "Name?" she said. "Brisbane" I said. Immediately, the woman looked like I had harpooned her heart from her rib cavity. Her hands fell from the computer board. Her head dropped to her chest. She began shaking it slowly back and forth, an all too solemn look on her face. I was bewildered. I though maybe she couldn't spell it. "B-R-I-S-" I started. Her eyes darted up at me, blazing with equal parts hate and shame. I stopped spelling. Again, she lowered her head and began slowly shaking it back and forth, back and forth. "What? That's my name," I tried again. I couldn't believe it. She was having no part of it. What if my dated parents, for some awkward reason actually named me Brisbane? It wasn't like I told the lady my name was Peckerwood Johnson or Skidmark Blownipples. She just kept shakin' the old head. "Alllllllrrrrrrrrighttt," I said as I sidestepped away from her computer station and got in the real line, WITHOUT MY PASSPORT that Steven Spielberg told me I would need. Now, ET would say nothing to me at all when we passed his thankful, glowing fingered wave on the ride.
I tried to think what the fuck could have gone wrong. Doing my own research in the present, I've found that Brisbane is the third largest city in Alaska. Maybe her husband froze to death in Brisbane, Alaska? Although it's pronounced Brisbin, so that's probably not it. Also, I found out Brisbane is the official name of a lunar crater on the southeastern region of the moon. Maybe she once proposed to Buzz Aldrin through a letter and never heard back from him? Painful memories, I'm sure, brought full circle by thoughts of moon craters. Or maybe she just loved the character of Breezy Brisbane and was still reeling from his untimely suicide.
Anyway, we rode the ride, the rest of my girlfriend's family successfully handing over their passports to the attendant. We rode the motorized bicycle cars to the end of the ride. I saw the animatronic ET waving. Then he said "Farewell, Connor, Thomas, Charlie, and Nathan." No one in our car had one of those names. The passports must have been switched so the Brisbane experiment would have failed anyway. It was a silent victory for me over Old Lady Grumpy.
What we learned today:
-A word of warning to the wise. If you're name really is Brisbane, make sure you bring photo ID with you and perhaps three points of additional identification (i.e. birth certificate, social security card, bank statement, etc.)
-If you say your name is Brisbane to an old lady, they might be offended.
-If your first ride attendant does not issue you a passport because she doesn't believe your name really is Brisbane, you can still ride the ride anyway. Spielberg is a liar.
-Brisbane is a Scottish last name, occasional first name, that seems to be long extinct on this, and ET's native planet.
On the third day of our trip, me and 12 member gang of girlfriend family members headed down to Universal Studios. This was a place I had always wanted to visit as a child thanks to Nickelodeon's barrage of ads for the wonder land. Last summer, I finally made to Universal only to find the Back to the Future ride had closed, Beetlejuice wasn't scary in person, and the Jaws shark looked faker than the one in the movie. Still, the place is nifty. So two weeks ago, I was able to give it another go around.
As the day dragged on we decided to hit up the ET ride. This was another one I wanted to try as a kid. I was convinced you could actually defy the laws of physics on it and soar a bicycle through the air. I figured Universal Studios was like Six Flags, but with magic powers. In fact, the ride is nothing like that. And there's no magic involved. Just grumpy old women working the counter and a few fog machines somewhere behind the props.
After waiting outside the ET Ride, three blue doors open ordering you to step inside an air conditioned room that smells like plastic and sweet tourist sweat. Then, overhead screens pop into action revealing non other than everyone's favorite household director, Steven Spielberg himself. Mr. Spielberg informs us we are on a mission to return ET back to the Green Planet and we need an intergalactic passport or something. Don't be scared readers and non-riders. It's just a pretend mission.
Then, three more sets of doors open and you step into a bigger room. You now begin to wonder if the ride is nothing more than an automatic door expo that ushers you into larger and larger rooms. In this room sits three attendants behind computers. They ask you your name, type it into a computer, scan it onto your passport (a piece of cardboard with a barcode), and tell it to give it to your future ride attendant (this card allows ET to bid you farewell, BY NAME, at the end of the ride). Last summer, I gave my real name.
This year, however, I decided to go with the most obscure Little Rascals character of them all, Brisbane. How cool, I thought, would it be to hear ET rasp "Farewellll, Brrrissbannne," as our bicycle ride pulled back into reality. Very cool, indeed. On the original Little Rascals, Breezy Brisbane was a mischievous little hoodlum with a doting mother who told him he should be president while all Brisbane wanted to become was a street car conductor. I just wanted to give a little shout out to the forgotten Rascal, who unfortunately committed suicide in 1981.
I stepped up to the old lady behind the computer. She seemed gentle, motherly, supple. "Name?" she said. "Brisbane" I said. Immediately, the woman looked like I had harpooned her heart from her rib cavity. Her hands fell from the computer board. Her head dropped to her chest. She began shaking it slowly back and forth, an all too solemn look on her face. I was bewildered. I though maybe she couldn't spell it. "B-R-I-S-" I started. Her eyes darted up at me, blazing with equal parts hate and shame. I stopped spelling. Again, she lowered her head and began slowly shaking it back and forth, back and forth. "What? That's my name," I tried again. I couldn't believe it. She was having no part of it. What if my dated parents, for some awkward reason actually named me Brisbane? It wasn't like I told the lady my name was Peckerwood Johnson or Skidmark Blownipples. She just kept shakin' the old head. "Alllllllrrrrrrrrighttt," I said as I sidestepped away from her computer station and got in the real line, WITHOUT MY PASSPORT that Steven Spielberg told me I would need. Now, ET would say nothing to me at all when we passed his thankful, glowing fingered wave on the ride.
I tried to think what the fuck could have gone wrong. Doing my own research in the present, I've found that Brisbane is the third largest city in Alaska. Maybe her husband froze to death in Brisbane, Alaska? Although it's pronounced Brisbin, so that's probably not it. Also, I found out Brisbane is the official name of a lunar crater on the southeastern region of the moon. Maybe she once proposed to Buzz Aldrin through a letter and never heard back from him? Painful memories, I'm sure, brought full circle by thoughts of moon craters. Or maybe she just loved the character of Breezy Brisbane and was still reeling from his untimely suicide.
Anyway, we rode the ride, the rest of my girlfriend's family successfully handing over their passports to the attendant. We rode the motorized bicycle cars to the end of the ride. I saw the animatronic ET waving. Then he said "Farewell, Connor, Thomas, Charlie, and Nathan." No one in our car had one of those names. The passports must have been switched so the Brisbane experiment would have failed anyway. It was a silent victory for me over Old Lady Grumpy.
What we learned today:
-A word of warning to the wise. If you're name really is Brisbane, make sure you bring photo ID with you and perhaps three points of additional identification (i.e. birth certificate, social security card, bank statement, etc.)
-If you say your name is Brisbane to an old lady, they might be offended.
-If your first ride attendant does not issue you a passport because she doesn't believe your name really is Brisbane, you can still ride the ride anyway. Spielberg is a liar.
-Brisbane is a Scottish last name, occasional first name, that seems to be long extinct on this, and ET's native planet.
February 14, 2008
Let Me Spell it Out For You With This Piss Poor Pun
In the past few days, I've been browsing through some of my old blogs I've written in the past year and I've come across an undeniable fact I've known all my life. I can't spell for shit.
And it seems to me no one else has this problem. Almost every adult I meet is a great speller even if they can‘t tell their ass from their shoelace. This is particularly embarrassing for me being that I possess a degree in English and I consider myself an somewhat avid reader. It's like if a professional carpenter who could only build lopsided park benches, but insists he'll get the local park's sitting area finished by Spring.
My lousy spelling became apparently clear to me in elementary school. Despite the fact that I would always get A's (or O's for "outstanding" in those days), in my spelling classes, the standardized CATs would prove otherwise. The CATs were the yearly standardized test I feel the whole world had to take. They stood for California Achievement Tests, conveniently named to come across as a cute family pet rather than pieces of paper that could make or break your whole single-digit-aged self. It helped make us students smile and laugh, thinking about silly cats booting around yarn with their mitten looking paws. Then we'd have to sit and take these damn tests for four fucking days.
My scores in every other subject on the test were generally excellent. I'd always score in the high 90s out of 99 in every subject, even Math. But spelling would always be somewhere in the 60s. For years, I thought it was a mistake, like I incorrectly filled in the bubbles. In fifth grade, my friend Billy got an abnormally low score of 19 on spelling. Oh how I laughed at his stupidity. Then when I got home, there were my CAT scores waiting in the mail. I got a lousy 26 out of 100, well into the below normal area.
In the seventh grade, my class had a spelling bee. I was determined to turn my spelling reputation around, round by round, until my classmates lay dead in a puddle of consonant/vowel blood, me the victor, bee-shaped sword in my hand. However, I lost in the first round on the word "quizzes." I spelled this with one "z" and, admittedly, had to spell check the world "quizzes" just now. It was embarrassing. At least I wasn't the first one out. That sad sucker lost with the word "frazzled," which is what I still am since that fateful day.
In college, I've fared no better. I've had several professors who have written things like, "This is an A paper. But due to your incessant and careless spelling, I'm forced to give you a B-. Next time, PROOFREAD." Paper after paper in the academic arena of college English writing, I've received orders from the higher-ups to check my work. And the thing is, I do proofread every paper I turn in multiple times. Yet, every time I handed in my work, the same humiliation ensues. One professor went so far as to write me a page long letter a couple semesters ago about my lackadaisical attitude about proofreading and the importance of fixing my spelling. It’s not like I’m so brash that I’m trying to make up my own language. Nor am I declaring this is the age of instant messaging, so we can spell any word how we want. I just simply can’t do it affectively.
On of Maury, there’s always a fat teen nearing a half-ton who starts crying saying they can’t control their eating habits. No matter how hard they try, the fried chicken finds it way to the pit of their gut. I’m like that fat kid, but with a high cholesterol of jumbled diction clogging my cranium. So Maury, here is my open letter to you:
“I try and try, Maury. But I just can’t stick to it. I need to straighten out my problem I think it’s time to send me to boot camp.” (muscular black guy comes out and starts yelling to respect our mama’s).
SORRY ABOUT ALL SPELLING AND GRAMMATICAL MISTAKES FROM THIS BLOG AND ON.
And it seems to me no one else has this problem. Almost every adult I meet is a great speller even if they can‘t tell their ass from their shoelace. This is particularly embarrassing for me being that I possess a degree in English and I consider myself an somewhat avid reader. It's like if a professional carpenter who could only build lopsided park benches, but insists he'll get the local park's sitting area finished by Spring.
My lousy spelling became apparently clear to me in elementary school. Despite the fact that I would always get A's (or O's for "outstanding" in those days), in my spelling classes, the standardized CATs would prove otherwise. The CATs were the yearly standardized test I feel the whole world had to take. They stood for California Achievement Tests, conveniently named to come across as a cute family pet rather than pieces of paper that could make or break your whole single-digit-aged self. It helped make us students smile and laugh, thinking about silly cats booting around yarn with their mitten looking paws. Then we'd have to sit and take these damn tests for four fucking days.
My scores in every other subject on the test were generally excellent. I'd always score in the high 90s out of 99 in every subject, even Math. But spelling would always be somewhere in the 60s. For years, I thought it was a mistake, like I incorrectly filled in the bubbles. In fifth grade, my friend Billy got an abnormally low score of 19 on spelling. Oh how I laughed at his stupidity. Then when I got home, there were my CAT scores waiting in the mail. I got a lousy 26 out of 100, well into the below normal area.
In the seventh grade, my class had a spelling bee. I was determined to turn my spelling reputation around, round by round, until my classmates lay dead in a puddle of consonant/vowel blood, me the victor, bee-shaped sword in my hand. However, I lost in the first round on the word "quizzes." I spelled this with one "z" and, admittedly, had to spell check the world "quizzes" just now. It was embarrassing. At least I wasn't the first one out. That sad sucker lost with the word "frazzled," which is what I still am since that fateful day.
In college, I've fared no better. I've had several professors who have written things like, "This is an A paper. But due to your incessant and careless spelling, I'm forced to give you a B-. Next time, PROOFREAD." Paper after paper in the academic arena of college English writing, I've received orders from the higher-ups to check my work. And the thing is, I do proofread every paper I turn in multiple times. Yet, every time I handed in my work, the same humiliation ensues. One professor went so far as to write me a page long letter a couple semesters ago about my lackadaisical attitude about proofreading and the importance of fixing my spelling. It’s not like I’m so brash that I’m trying to make up my own language. Nor am I declaring this is the age of instant messaging, so we can spell any word how we want. I just simply can’t do it affectively.
On of Maury, there’s always a fat teen nearing a half-ton who starts crying saying they can’t control their eating habits. No matter how hard they try, the fried chicken finds it way to the pit of their gut. I’m like that fat kid, but with a high cholesterol of jumbled diction clogging my cranium. So Maury, here is my open letter to you:
“I try and try, Maury. But I just can’t stick to it. I need to straighten out my problem I think it’s time to send me to boot camp.” (muscular black guy comes out and starts yelling to respect our mama’s).
SORRY ABOUT ALL SPELLING AND GRAMMATICAL MISTAKES FROM THIS BLOG AND ON.
February 11, 2008
Biscuit Discrimination
I have returned from my 8 day trip to Florida with tons of digital photos to prove it. My level of optimism is up despite returning to a New Jersey tundra. However, there were two occasions on my trip that threatened to ruin my jolly good time in the land of Mickey Mouse, Cape Canaveral, and the Tampa Bay Lightning. Yeah, that's right! I give shout outs to ALL ice hockey in tropical climates.
The first damper of the trip occurred on the car ride down to Florida. Having started our drive at 10:30 AM, my girlfriend, Kristin, and her mother (my passengers), decided they were hungry. Kristin’s mother was convinced I needed to eat food or else I'd pass out and crash the car. Frankly, I was quite full from snacking on Baked Cheetos and a Tupperware of leftover fruit from a basket someone sent my mother for my grandma's death.
So, despite my insistence on plowing through as much mileage as I could, I decided to dock at one of the 87 Cracker Barrel restaurants that make up the landscape of Interstate 95., en route to Florida. This particular one happened to be near the bottom of North Carolina, and as I learned, was no place for a trio of Yankees like us. For this, my fellow reader, is where we fell victim to possibly the worst kind of discrimination. Discrimination punishable by biscuits.
OR LACK THEREOF. I knew it was a bad sign when we pulled off I-95, undoubtedly the busiest roadway for vacationers in the known world, and found the parking lot full to the brim with North Carolina license plates. Upon entering, it was clear this was no tourist trap. This was actually where the locals dined on a Saturday night. This was a pit stop of weekly proportions to them. They were pros. Us, the foes.
I must interject at this point, I am a huge fan of the Cracker Barrel. To those who haven't been blessed to eat there as of yet, the restaurant is like eating in a rickety yet cozy, old country house. That is, if this particular country house had pictures of random dead people on the wall and contained a gift shop with candy bars and discount Andy Griffith Show DVDs you could purchase at Wal-Mart. Their food is for those in the mood for a well cooked, tasty, rib sticken, soul fooden, good time. I'm always in the fucking mood for that shit!
Our waitress, a chubby, sweaty, sweet gal in her upper teens took our order and then asked, "Would you like biscuits or corn muffins with your meal? Or a mix of each?" We agreed on the mix. She spoke generally, to the whole table, declaring she'd bring out a plate of the mixed biscuits. My favorite part.
The biscuits at the Cracker Barrel are equivalent to the nachos they gave you at Chi-Chi's before they went out of business for serving poisoned lettuce. They're unlimited and hold you over until your entrée arrives, at which point you're basically full anyway. As I waited for my biscuits, I heard our same waitress address the group of twang spoken locals behind us. I was immediately shocked when she offered each member of the table, about 7 in all, an individual option of "biscuits" or "corn muffins" with their meals, as in "And how 'bout you, Stanley. Want a biscuit or muffin wit yours? An’ yew Sue?"
Finally, our food arrived. But no biscuits. "Excuse me. We never got our biscuits," I politely informed her. "Oh, yeah. We're makin’ a fresh baytch," she replied. Fair enough. So we started eating.
Immediately after we got our food, the table of 7 behind us got theirs, complete with personalized choice of biscuit. "Here Ray, Here's your Salisbury Steak and BISCUIT." Motherfucker, I was pissed.
We waited and waited. Our waitress passed. "Excuse me. Can we get our biscuits." "Sure one minute, hunaayyy," she said. We waited. Again I stopped her and asked. A similar answer followed. The tables around us, tobacco dippers, summer farmers on sabbatical, avid hunters, legal firework operators, were all enjoying their biscuits. I even stopped a male waiter. "Can you bring us our biscuits please." "Sure thang," he said.
But still no biscuits. Then our waitress did that disappearing act thing I'm sure everyone's experienced (when you’re in dire need of a freaking refill, it’s as if they go on a two day diner break). It was horrible. By the time we all finished our meals, the biscuits still hadn't arrived. Finally, bathed in the rays of Jesus Christ himself, we received them along with our check. “Y’all have a great night now. Ya’ hear.” It was the final nail in the coffin. We were nothing but a bunch of damn Yankees threatening the locals below the Mason Dixon, all in pursuit to see a 6 foot tall talking Mouse at the beginning of February. We wrapped our biscuits in napkins like peasants. I dinned depressed on them in our South Carolina Travelodge that night, in the dark.
The next morning, we stopped to grab a quick breakfast at a McDonalds. We ordered a couple hash browns, some sandwiches, and again, a few stray biscuits. I got our bag, pulled away, and headed toward Florida. It was then Kristin’s mom pulled the food out of the bag, “Hey, they forgot our biscuits. Turn around.”
I hit the gas, leaving all biscuits that were rightfully ours in the Carolinas. Scenes from “Deliverance” flashed in my head. Discrimination sucks.
The first damper of the trip occurred on the car ride down to Florida. Having started our drive at 10:30 AM, my girlfriend, Kristin, and her mother (my passengers), decided they were hungry. Kristin’s mother was convinced I needed to eat food or else I'd pass out and crash the car. Frankly, I was quite full from snacking on Baked Cheetos and a Tupperware of leftover fruit from a basket someone sent my mother for my grandma's death.
So, despite my insistence on plowing through as much mileage as I could, I decided to dock at one of the 87 Cracker Barrel restaurants that make up the landscape of Interstate 95., en route to Florida. This particular one happened to be near the bottom of North Carolina, and as I learned, was no place for a trio of Yankees like us. For this, my fellow reader, is where we fell victim to possibly the worst kind of discrimination. Discrimination punishable by biscuits.
OR LACK THEREOF. I knew it was a bad sign when we pulled off I-95, undoubtedly the busiest roadway for vacationers in the known world, and found the parking lot full to the brim with North Carolina license plates. Upon entering, it was clear this was no tourist trap. This was actually where the locals dined on a Saturday night. This was a pit stop of weekly proportions to them. They were pros. Us, the foes.
I must interject at this point, I am a huge fan of the Cracker Barrel. To those who haven't been blessed to eat there as of yet, the restaurant is like eating in a rickety yet cozy, old country house. That is, if this particular country house had pictures of random dead people on the wall and contained a gift shop with candy bars and discount Andy Griffith Show DVDs you could purchase at Wal-Mart. Their food is for those in the mood for a well cooked, tasty, rib sticken, soul fooden, good time. I'm always in the fucking mood for that shit!
Our waitress, a chubby, sweaty, sweet gal in her upper teens took our order and then asked, "Would you like biscuits or corn muffins with your meal? Or a mix of each?" We agreed on the mix. She spoke generally, to the whole table, declaring she'd bring out a plate of the mixed biscuits. My favorite part.
The biscuits at the Cracker Barrel are equivalent to the nachos they gave you at Chi-Chi's before they went out of business for serving poisoned lettuce. They're unlimited and hold you over until your entrée arrives, at which point you're basically full anyway. As I waited for my biscuits, I heard our same waitress address the group of twang spoken locals behind us. I was immediately shocked when she offered each member of the table, about 7 in all, an individual option of "biscuits" or "corn muffins" with their meals, as in "And how 'bout you, Stanley. Want a biscuit or muffin wit yours? An’ yew Sue?"
Finally, our food arrived. But no biscuits. "Excuse me. We never got our biscuits," I politely informed her. "Oh, yeah. We're makin’ a fresh baytch," she replied. Fair enough. So we started eating.
Immediately after we got our food, the table of 7 behind us got theirs, complete with personalized choice of biscuit. "Here Ray, Here's your Salisbury Steak and BISCUIT." Motherfucker, I was pissed.
We waited and waited. Our waitress passed. "Excuse me. Can we get our biscuits." "Sure one minute, hunaayyy," she said. We waited. Again I stopped her and asked. A similar answer followed. The tables around us, tobacco dippers, summer farmers on sabbatical, avid hunters, legal firework operators, were all enjoying their biscuits. I even stopped a male waiter. "Can you bring us our biscuits please." "Sure thang," he said.
But still no biscuits. Then our waitress did that disappearing act thing I'm sure everyone's experienced (when you’re in dire need of a freaking refill, it’s as if they go on a two day diner break). It was horrible. By the time we all finished our meals, the biscuits still hadn't arrived. Finally, bathed in the rays of Jesus Christ himself, we received them along with our check. “Y’all have a great night now. Ya’ hear.” It was the final nail in the coffin. We were nothing but a bunch of damn Yankees threatening the locals below the Mason Dixon, all in pursuit to see a 6 foot tall talking Mouse at the beginning of February. We wrapped our biscuits in napkins like peasants. I dinned depressed on them in our South Carolina Travelodge that night, in the dark.
The next morning, we stopped to grab a quick breakfast at a McDonalds. We ordered a couple hash browns, some sandwiches, and again, a few stray biscuits. I got our bag, pulled away, and headed toward Florida. It was then Kristin’s mom pulled the food out of the bag, “Hey, they forgot our biscuits. Turn around.”
I hit the gas, leaving all biscuits that were rightfully ours in the Carolinas. Scenes from “Deliverance” flashed in my head. Discrimination sucks.
February 1, 2008
Head South
Tomorrow morning, I embark on a 1,300 mile trek down to Florida for 8 days of fun in the sun. Well, more like 2 ¾ days driving in a Honda Civic and 5 ¼ days being content trying to find shade, and soaring high on the E.T. ride.
This means, in all likely hood, my personally prodigious blog run I attempted in January will be indefinitely suspended until I return on February 11th, unless I have access to a computer, or build one out of a coconut like The Professor could.
This is the second time I’ll be making the drive to and from Florida. I did it back in June, driving both ways, with the trip home taking longer due to a pit stop in the South West region of Florida to visit relatives and feed these mutated looking swans or flamingos. I can’t remember. They looked so strange.
During my last trip, I kept a log of every album I listened to during the drive, as to measure the distance and time spent in the car, represented through digital sound replication. Here is a list, from the first trip of the albums I listened to, beginning to end. If you want to plan your own trip from New Jersey to Sunshine State, this is a handy measuring tool. Forget maps, clocks, odometers. This is a driving revolution. (Admittedly, on the trip back, I got sick of music and opted for more daydreaming and talking. Snoozeville).
-Begin trip in Keansburg NJ DAY 1:
New Jersey
1. Mix C.D. (72 minutes of Eric Truchan fantasy chart toppers)
New Jersey-Delaware
2.Love of Everything “Superior Mold and Die”
Delaware
3.Optiginally Yours “Spotlight On…”
Maryland
4. Modest Mouse “This is a Long Drive For Someone with Nothing to Think About”
5.Handsome Furs “Plague Park”
Maryland-Virginia
6. The Fall “The Real New Fall LP”
Virginia
7. The New Pornographers “Twin Cinema”
-End of Day one. Check into motel. Wake up next day and begin in Virginia
-DAY 2
Virginia
8. Rob Crow “Living Well”
9.Archers of Loaf “Icky Mettle”
10.Archers of Loaf “Vs. the Greatest of All-Time”
11. The Mountain Goats “All Hail West Texas”
North Carolina
12.Superchunk “No Pocky For Kitty”
13. Superchunk “Come Pick Me Up”
14. Bonnie “Prince” Billy “I See a Darkness”
North Carolia-South Carolina (“Hey kids. Look! There goes South of the Border!”)
15. Smog “Knock, Knock”
South Carolina
16.Pavement “Crocked Rain, Crooked Rain”
17. The Halo Benders “The Rebels Not In”
18.Guided By Voices “Alien Lanes”
Georgia
19.Pinback “Offcell”
20.The Mountain Goats “The Coroner’s Gambit”
Florida-Georgia
21. Arcade Fire “Neon Bible”
22. Chuck Ragan “Los Feliz”
23.Hank Williams “25 Original Recordings”
24.Palace Music “Lost Songs”
Finally pull into our timeshare, exhausted and sick of music.
-The following were listened to during our stay in Florida, driving to and from theme parks and to the super market.
25.Archers of Loaf “Vee Vee”
26. Heavy Vegetable “Frisbee”
27.Superchunk “Here’s Where the Strings Come In”
28. The Beatles “Past Masters Volume 2”
29. Wilco “Yankee Foxtrot Hotel”
-The Drive Home. After staying in Florida a week. DAY 1
Florida
30.Sebadoh “Bakesale”
31. Bright Eyes “Cassadaga”
32.Hot Water Music “Live at the Hardback”
33. Portastatic “Hope Your Heart’s Not Brittle”
Florida-Georgia
34.The Thermals “The Body, the Blood, the Machine”
35. Fugazi “Red Medicine”
36. The Fall “Hex Enduction Hour”
South Carolina
37.Dinosaur Jr. “Bug”
38.Screeching Weasel “BoogadaBoogadaBoogada”
39.Guided By Voices “Human Amusements at Hourly Rates”
40. Medications “All Your Favorite People In One Place
DAY 2
North Carolina
41.Bob Dylan “Bringing It All Back Home”
42. Sonic Youth “Sister”
43. Crooked Fingers “Crooked Fingers”
North Carolina-Virginia
44. The Ex “Dizzy Spells”
Virginia
45. Beastie Boys “Paul’s Boutique”
46.The Beatles “Rubber Soul”
47. Elvis Costello “This Year’s Model”
Maryland
48. Neutral Milk Hotel “In the Aeroplane Over the Sea”
49. White Stripes “Icky Thump”
50. The Ramones “The Ramones”
Delaware
51. Langhorne Slim “Electric Love Letter”
New Jersey
52. Silver Jews “American Water”
53. Mix CD (Same one we started out with because I ran out of anything I wanted listen to.)
We arrived back at the house in NJ and I hated anything that had to do with music for two days. I then started listening heavily to WFAN sports talk radio from then on.
-One more post tomorrow morning, then toodles to you and yours.
This means, in all likely hood, my personally prodigious blog run I attempted in January will be indefinitely suspended until I return on February 11th, unless I have access to a computer, or build one out of a coconut like The Professor could.
This is the second time I’ll be making the drive to and from Florida. I did it back in June, driving both ways, with the trip home taking longer due to a pit stop in the South West region of Florida to visit relatives and feed these mutated looking swans or flamingos. I can’t remember. They looked so strange.
During my last trip, I kept a log of every album I listened to during the drive, as to measure the distance and time spent in the car, represented through digital sound replication. Here is a list, from the first trip of the albums I listened to, beginning to end. If you want to plan your own trip from New Jersey to Sunshine State, this is a handy measuring tool. Forget maps, clocks, odometers. This is a driving revolution. (Admittedly, on the trip back, I got sick of music and opted for more daydreaming and talking. Snoozeville).
-Begin trip in Keansburg NJ DAY 1:
New Jersey
1. Mix C.D. (72 minutes of Eric Truchan fantasy chart toppers)
New Jersey-Delaware
2.Love of Everything “Superior Mold and Die”
Delaware
3.Optiginally Yours “Spotlight On…”
Maryland
4. Modest Mouse “This is a Long Drive For Someone with Nothing to Think About”
5.Handsome Furs “Plague Park”
Maryland-Virginia
6. The Fall “The Real New Fall LP”
Virginia
7. The New Pornographers “Twin Cinema”
-End of Day one. Check into motel. Wake up next day and begin in Virginia
-DAY 2
Virginia
8. Rob Crow “Living Well”
9.Archers of Loaf “Icky Mettle”
10.Archers of Loaf “Vs. the Greatest of All-Time”
11. The Mountain Goats “All Hail West Texas”
North Carolina
12.Superchunk “No Pocky For Kitty”
13. Superchunk “Come Pick Me Up”
14. Bonnie “Prince” Billy “I See a Darkness”
North Carolia-South Carolina (“Hey kids. Look! There goes South of the Border!”)
15. Smog “Knock, Knock”
South Carolina
16.Pavement “Crocked Rain, Crooked Rain”
17. The Halo Benders “The Rebels Not In”
18.Guided By Voices “Alien Lanes”
Georgia
19.Pinback “Offcell”
20.The Mountain Goats “The Coroner’s Gambit”
Florida-Georgia
21. Arcade Fire “Neon Bible”
22. Chuck Ragan “Los Feliz”
23.Hank Williams “25 Original Recordings”
24.Palace Music “Lost Songs”
Finally pull into our timeshare, exhausted and sick of music.
-The following were listened to during our stay in Florida, driving to and from theme parks and to the super market.
25.Archers of Loaf “Vee Vee”
26. Heavy Vegetable “Frisbee”
27.Superchunk “Here’s Where the Strings Come In”
28. The Beatles “Past Masters Volume 2”
29. Wilco “Yankee Foxtrot Hotel”
-The Drive Home. After staying in Florida a week. DAY 1
Florida
30.Sebadoh “Bakesale”
31. Bright Eyes “Cassadaga”
32.Hot Water Music “Live at the Hardback”
33. Portastatic “Hope Your Heart’s Not Brittle”
Florida-Georgia
34.The Thermals “The Body, the Blood, the Machine”
35. Fugazi “Red Medicine”
36. The Fall “Hex Enduction Hour”
South Carolina
37.Dinosaur Jr. “Bug”
38.Screeching Weasel “BoogadaBoogadaBoogada”
39.Guided By Voices “Human Amusements at Hourly Rates”
40. Medications “All Your Favorite People In One Place
DAY 2
North Carolina
41.Bob Dylan “Bringing It All Back Home”
42. Sonic Youth “Sister”
43. Crooked Fingers “Crooked Fingers”
North Carolina-Virginia
44. The Ex “Dizzy Spells”
Virginia
45. Beastie Boys “Paul’s Boutique”
46.The Beatles “Rubber Soul”
47. Elvis Costello “This Year’s Model”
Maryland
48. Neutral Milk Hotel “In the Aeroplane Over the Sea”
49. White Stripes “Icky Thump”
50. The Ramones “The Ramones”
Delaware
51. Langhorne Slim “Electric Love Letter”
New Jersey
52. Silver Jews “American Water”
53. Mix CD (Same one we started out with because I ran out of anything I wanted listen to.)
We arrived back at the house in NJ and I hated anything that had to do with music for two days. I then started listening heavily to WFAN sports talk radio from then on.
-One more post tomorrow morning, then toodles to you and yours.
January 30, 2008
Initial Here if Your Initials are Ridiculous
My parent's originally wanted to name me Michael Matthew Truchan. They thought Michael was such a cool, hip, modern, and unique name. Matthew, my proposed middle name, was to be in honor of my father's nephew, and my godfather. And Truchan? Well that's the name the folks at Ellis Island butchered out of the family name Truckin and branded onto my family's ass (okay, the Truchan's never went through Ellis Island and our name was never really Truckin although that's what we "keep on doin'." I just haven't made an Ellis Island joke, in like, six years). So, if my parents went through with their initial plan (pun intended baby!), then my initials would be M.M.T. That doesn't stand for anything. It sounds like a computer technology institution in the Northeast.
Then came the change of heart. They realized everyone and their dog's ball sack was named Michael. For some reason, they thought the name Eric had just enough pizazz for a child like me. They then decided to act as if my godfather, Matthew, were dead and pushed that name out of the middle slot and into oblivion. I was, officially, Eric Truchan. My initials, therefore, became E.T. My parents initialed me into a fucking blockbuster alien with a glowing finger. My full, SAT-ready name, if you will, Eric Michael Truchan, came out to be E.M.T. So, in life, I either stand for an alien or an Emergency Medical Technician. These days, I like to think of myself as a little bit of both.
Growing up, it wasn't bad enough I had self-esteem issues. No, I had to have people laugh at me and call me E.T., saying I should go and phone my home. You have no idea how many times I wound up in the office in 1st grade, beginning the principal to let me call my parents, for something must have been wrong at the house. "Come on Mrs. Principal! My fellow classmates are having premonitions." See, I hated the movie "E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial" as a kid. I tried watching it many times but could not get through it. It was too slow and creepy. So, I was oblivious for quite some time as to why classmates laughed at my initials. Now, coincidentally, I really like that movie and it makes me want to cry for lonely children everywhere. Friends really do come in all shapes and sizes.
Even today, as an adult, I can't initial important documents without revealing a slight blush. I just know the person reading it is laughing at me, thanking the Lord their initials abbreviate to jack shit. Unless your name is John Smith. Then your initials could stand for jack shit. Sorry John Smith.
But I guess it could be worse. I could be Brian Licorice Taylor (B.L.T.) I could be Fred Undies (F.U.) Or I could be Peter Maria Sexophone (P.M.S.) These all kind of suck. I cause I'd rather be an Emergency Medical Technician and a child friendly alien than the bitchy symptoms to an on coming tampon party. So, I guess, I have to say it's not as bad as it could have been, Mom and Dad. But thanks for not having me out of wedlock!!!!
Then came the change of heart. They realized everyone and their dog's ball sack was named Michael. For some reason, they thought the name Eric had just enough pizazz for a child like me. They then decided to act as if my godfather, Matthew, were dead and pushed that name out of the middle slot and into oblivion. I was, officially, Eric Truchan. My initials, therefore, became E.T. My parents initialed me into a fucking blockbuster alien with a glowing finger. My full, SAT-ready name, if you will, Eric Michael Truchan, came out to be E.M.T. So, in life, I either stand for an alien or an Emergency Medical Technician. These days, I like to think of myself as a little bit of both.
Growing up, it wasn't bad enough I had self-esteem issues. No, I had to have people laugh at me and call me E.T., saying I should go and phone my home. You have no idea how many times I wound up in the office in 1st grade, beginning the principal to let me call my parents, for something must have been wrong at the house. "Come on Mrs. Principal! My fellow classmates are having premonitions." See, I hated the movie "E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial" as a kid. I tried watching it many times but could not get through it. It was too slow and creepy. So, I was oblivious for quite some time as to why classmates laughed at my initials. Now, coincidentally, I really like that movie and it makes me want to cry for lonely children everywhere. Friends really do come in all shapes and sizes.
Even today, as an adult, I can't initial important documents without revealing a slight blush. I just know the person reading it is laughing at me, thanking the Lord their initials abbreviate to jack shit. Unless your name is John Smith. Then your initials could stand for jack shit. Sorry John Smith.
But I guess it could be worse. I could be Brian Licorice Taylor (B.L.T.) I could be Fred Undies (F.U.) Or I could be Peter Maria Sexophone (P.M.S.) These all kind of suck. I cause I'd rather be an Emergency Medical Technician and a child friendly alien than the bitchy symptoms to an on coming tampon party. So, I guess, I have to say it's not as bad as it could have been, Mom and Dad. But thanks for not having me out of wedlock!!!!
January 28, 2008
Cloverfield on a School Night
***If anyone hasn't seen this, there maybe a slight spoiler with very little info somewhere in here. But I don't think that will ruin the movie for 'ya.
Begin:
I finally saw the movie everyone's been telling their grandma's and mailmen to see. I went into it really, honestly, truthfully hoping to, not love it, but like it enough. I wanted to put all doubts and pessimisms behind me and just enjoy myself. I didn't want to feel like the only pretentious dick around who'd be waving my anti-flag (no relation to that band), and yelling negative things about a cultural phenomenon. But "Cloverfield" proved almost everything I had feared about the movie.
My friend, Shadi and I (I hope he doesn't care I mentioned his name. Sorry buddy), have been in a sporadic, all encompassing argument with one another since we were about 15 concerning the things pop culture we like. He's a big movie and music fan and so am I. But I think we pretty much hate 90% of the stuff each other likes. There's the occasional agreements, but he's kept life interesting, always putting down the underground and obscure shit I like. His recent bombast about my anti-pop-culturalism, in response to my "Cloverfield" predictions, got me thinking, "maybe I am being to harsh about this." I mean, I had never seen it, yet I was predicting the whole fucking plot like a midget God. In a way, I was branding the movie a piece of crap before watching just because I knew there was CGI in it. So, I thought I'd lighten up, and try to enjoy it. But again, I'm just could not like "Cloverfield." Here's why.
The characters were the worst people ever! I tried to overlook them. I tried to focus on the explosions and blood. After all, there's death and destruction running amok in the streets of New York. Why bother focusing on a group of bullshit characters when you have, as comedian *Ron Bennington calls it, "9/11 porn" flashing on the screen? But yet, these characters infected every scene. Not so much the running away and all that, since that's expected. But the stupid pausing to tell a corny joke. Terribly acting their cries for help into the camera. The ridiculous speech at the end. And on top of that, they turned this movie into a fucking love story. There's no need for this balderdash.
"Cloverfield" was nothing more than a Universal Studios ride, except they didn't spray me with water and shoot fire over my head. But, I didn't mind that. The film actually gave me a few adrenalin rushes as the suspense built. It was what action movies had failed to be for so many years, since "Die Hard" rip-offs became formulaic. "Cloverfield" did bring some fun and fancy fresh visual and aural action back to the screen. For those who have seen the film, the scene in which the army shoots at the monster while they run for the subway was one loud, bright, and intense scene that really got me excited. But, where the film went wrong was giving us too far and few of these moments of intensity, while we watched our heroes (?) run around like, um... bad actors.
First, the film tried to establish sympathy and character development (yeah right), at that annoying party scene. It was during this scene I had a quarter life crisis, thinking "Holy shit. This is really what people act like now a days." It was a diverse collection of Manhattan douchebaggery crammed into a young executive's hip apartment. I couldn't relate and just felt annoyed because I know these people, and I saw a guy in a plaid shirt and dark glasses walking around in the background, like me. Oh no wait, that was a JJ Abrams cameo. It made me want to go to that party, drink a lot, and pass out to die in the destruction.
I originally thought from the previews, "Cloverfield" would make a great 30 minute short film. After seeing the movie, I still feel that way. If this jitter cam fest was squeezed into an explosive, cryptic, and dark 30 minutes, I think I'd be blown away. I wouldn't care about the intrusiveness of special effects. There' d be less character interaction which would lead to a heightened, paranoid, everyman feeling of actually, physically being stuck in that situation. We wouldn't be wading through a mire of slow romantic subplot.
So I'm sorry to say, that I didn't not like "Cloverfield" I saw hope in it that I didn't think I'd see. It gave me some surprises, some shocks. It had a threads of potential. But those threads only frayed into the hyped film I thought it might be. So go ahead. Tell me I'm wrong. And maybe I am. An anti mother fucker over thinking something people just want to eat popcorn to. Because $46 million and counting in ticket sales can't be wrong. Oh wait, what about "Home Alone 2: Lost in New York"?
*Ron Bennington appears on the Ron and Fez Show on XM radio. Now that's some satisfying shit right there.
Begin:
I finally saw the movie everyone's been telling their grandma's and mailmen to see. I went into it really, honestly, truthfully hoping to, not love it, but like it enough. I wanted to put all doubts and pessimisms behind me and just enjoy myself. I didn't want to feel like the only pretentious dick around who'd be waving my anti-flag (no relation to that band), and yelling negative things about a cultural phenomenon. But "Cloverfield" proved almost everything I had feared about the movie.
My friend, Shadi and I (I hope he doesn't care I mentioned his name. Sorry buddy), have been in a sporadic, all encompassing argument with one another since we were about 15 concerning the things pop culture we like. He's a big movie and music fan and so am I. But I think we pretty much hate 90% of the stuff each other likes. There's the occasional agreements, but he's kept life interesting, always putting down the underground and obscure shit I like. His recent bombast about my anti-pop-culturalism, in response to my "Cloverfield" predictions, got me thinking, "maybe I am being to harsh about this." I mean, I had never seen it, yet I was predicting the whole fucking plot like a midget God. In a way, I was branding the movie a piece of crap before watching just because I knew there was CGI in it. So, I thought I'd lighten up, and try to enjoy it. But again, I'm just could not like "Cloverfield." Here's why.
The characters were the worst people ever! I tried to overlook them. I tried to focus on the explosions and blood. After all, there's death and destruction running amok in the streets of New York. Why bother focusing on a group of bullshit characters when you have, as comedian *Ron Bennington calls it, "9/11 porn" flashing on the screen? But yet, these characters infected every scene. Not so much the running away and all that, since that's expected. But the stupid pausing to tell a corny joke. Terribly acting their cries for help into the camera. The ridiculous speech at the end. And on top of that, they turned this movie into a fucking love story. There's no need for this balderdash.
"Cloverfield" was nothing more than a Universal Studios ride, except they didn't spray me with water and shoot fire over my head. But, I didn't mind that. The film actually gave me a few adrenalin rushes as the suspense built. It was what action movies had failed to be for so many years, since "Die Hard" rip-offs became formulaic. "Cloverfield" did bring some fun and fancy fresh visual and aural action back to the screen. For those who have seen the film, the scene in which the army shoots at the monster while they run for the subway was one loud, bright, and intense scene that really got me excited. But, where the film went wrong was giving us too far and few of these moments of intensity, while we watched our heroes (?) run around like, um... bad actors.
First, the film tried to establish sympathy and character development (yeah right), at that annoying party scene. It was during this scene I had a quarter life crisis, thinking "Holy shit. This is really what people act like now a days." It was a diverse collection of Manhattan douchebaggery crammed into a young executive's hip apartment. I couldn't relate and just felt annoyed because I know these people, and I saw a guy in a plaid shirt and dark glasses walking around in the background, like me. Oh no wait, that was a JJ Abrams cameo. It made me want to go to that party, drink a lot, and pass out to die in the destruction.
I originally thought from the previews, "Cloverfield" would make a great 30 minute short film. After seeing the movie, I still feel that way. If this jitter cam fest was squeezed into an explosive, cryptic, and dark 30 minutes, I think I'd be blown away. I wouldn't care about the intrusiveness of special effects. There' d be less character interaction which would lead to a heightened, paranoid, everyman feeling of actually, physically being stuck in that situation. We wouldn't be wading through a mire of slow romantic subplot.
So I'm sorry to say, that I didn't not like "Cloverfield" I saw hope in it that I didn't think I'd see. It gave me some surprises, some shocks. It had a threads of potential. But those threads only frayed into the hyped film I thought it might be. So go ahead. Tell me I'm wrong. And maybe I am. An anti mother fucker over thinking something people just want to eat popcorn to. Because $46 million and counting in ticket sales can't be wrong. Oh wait, what about "Home Alone 2: Lost in New York"?
*Ron Bennington appears on the Ron and Fez Show on XM radio. Now that's some satisfying shit right there.
January 27, 2008
Friends of the World Unite to Fill Out Surveys About Me
Every time I log onto the ol' 'space, I see someone I know has posted another quiz or survey about themselves. "Top 150 Things I Have Not Sucked" or "Why I'm a Raucous Lover Between the Sheets," is something I see everyday. And I see that my compatriots have taken the time to answer these questions with diligence and social fervor. I have not filled any of these out once. What am I not getting?
So to save the trouble of copying and pasting my life into little boxes of questions that ask if I've ever "Spooned in a car while listening to Journey," I've decided that you can now ask me anything you want. Yes, you can ask me any question you want, and then fill out a survey about me. How's that? I'm basically making you, the home internet surfer, become my questionnaire slave.
In the past, I've attempted to ask my friends and fellow bands I know to contribute one song to a compilation I was attempting to assemble for an indie record label I was trying to get off the ground, like a beautiful dove with a broken wing. Out of the 20 bands I asked to contribute a song, 18 said yes. As of today, I've received not one song to compile. Yet, I have faith that you will make your own quizzes about me, because somewhere along the line one of us has clicked the "approve" button allowing us to become friends of international social friend network (I.S.F.N. as I like to call it). This will conveniently leave me more time to write blogs and bulletins.
Want to know if I ever put toothpaste on my peter? Well, the answer is yes. Want to know if I ever jumped in a pool naked? Well, that would be a no. See how this works? Just ask me a question and you can fill out a myspace survey in my name. From my friends, I have learned so much about their past and present. For instance, I know that my friend Matt from grade school is "eatin pizza" on a Friday night and loves the show "The Office." Thanks to his survey, I know more about his life faster and more conveniently then I ever would if we talked. And who the fuck wants to do that these days.
"What's in it for me, the filler outer of another man's survey?" you might be asking yourself. Well, truthfully, nothing. Nothing but a wealth of knowledge about me. And who wouldn't want that? Plus, if you write out my surveys for me, it will help you become a faster typer, much in the way experts say reading more helps you become a faster reader. I love helping out my friends.
So, next time, when you want to write a survey about "20 Embarrassing Bathroom Moments," just give me a holler and I'll write you a brief bio on the subject. That way, we'll all be doing something together. Having internet friends is fucking awesome. Thanks digital buddies. Signing off.
Q: Did you ever fill out a blog complaining about surveys?
A: Yes.
So to save the trouble of copying and pasting my life into little boxes of questions that ask if I've ever "Spooned in a car while listening to Journey," I've decided that you can now ask me anything you want. Yes, you can ask me any question you want, and then fill out a survey about me. How's that? I'm basically making you, the home internet surfer, become my questionnaire slave.
In the past, I've attempted to ask my friends and fellow bands I know to contribute one song to a compilation I was attempting to assemble for an indie record label I was trying to get off the ground, like a beautiful dove with a broken wing. Out of the 20 bands I asked to contribute a song, 18 said yes. As of today, I've received not one song to compile. Yet, I have faith that you will make your own quizzes about me, because somewhere along the line one of us has clicked the "approve" button allowing us to become friends of international social friend network (I.S.F.N. as I like to call it). This will conveniently leave me more time to write blogs and bulletins.
Want to know if I ever put toothpaste on my peter? Well, the answer is yes. Want to know if I ever jumped in a pool naked? Well, that would be a no. See how this works? Just ask me a question and you can fill out a myspace survey in my name. From my friends, I have learned so much about their past and present. For instance, I know that my friend Matt from grade school is "eatin pizza" on a Friday night and loves the show "The Office." Thanks to his survey, I know more about his life faster and more conveniently then I ever would if we talked. And who the fuck wants to do that these days.
"What's in it for me, the filler outer of another man's survey?" you might be asking yourself. Well, truthfully, nothing. Nothing but a wealth of knowledge about me. And who wouldn't want that? Plus, if you write out my surveys for me, it will help you become a faster typer, much in the way experts say reading more helps you become a faster reader. I love helping out my friends.
So, next time, when you want to write a survey about "20 Embarrassing Bathroom Moments," just give me a holler and I'll write you a brief bio on the subject. That way, we'll all be doing something together. Having internet friends is fucking awesome. Thanks digital buddies. Signing off.
Q: Did you ever fill out a blog complaining about surveys?
A: Yes.
January 26, 2008
My Opinion of "Cop and a Half" and the People Who Hate Me For It
The guy on the left with the drool on his shirt is Mikey Achino. He thinks I'm an ugly fag because the only kid's movie every that I didn't like happened to be his favorite. What follows below, is the true story. Facebook, myspace's evil twin, added a movie review section a couple months back, and for a while, I was addicted. Now it's come back to bite me in the ass and make me cry. Boo-hoo-hoo. Can you hear me now?
The movie review section allows you to rate any movie on the good old star system (1 to 5 stars), and write a little review. Basically, it's a movie review blog center for you and your friends to see what each other enjoys. Pretty simple stuff, right? Wrong. It's hurtful.
A few months ago, I reviewed the Henry Winkler (the Fonz) directed movie "Cop and a Half." This movie holds a special rotten place in my heart. It stars Burt Reynolds as a washed up cop chasing some hardened criminals who, of course, always seem to find themselves outwitted by a zany dog or something. However, in this movie, the criminals are duped by an aging Reynolds, and a little black kid. Hence, the title. There's a cop. And I guess the little black kid is a half. I believe that's racist.
When I was little, I used to play with my grandma's next door neighbor Carissa. Carissa would slap me in the throat, kick my shins, and push me in the hedges. And her mother would invite me over to dinner every now and then. One time, her father asked me to remove my Dick Tracy hat because there were no hats at the dinner table. I never went back again.
One day Carissa's mom asked me if I wanted to go see Disney's newest masterpiece, "Aladdin." I said I wanted to, but then incessantly complained about going to see a wimpy movie. After days of whining, Her mother asked what I wanted to see instead. So, I named the manliest movie out at the time, "Cop and a Half." Two kids movies, one made to be a contemporary classic, the other made to help pay off Burt Reynolds hot tub debts. It was like going to Emeril's restaurant and ordering dried toast.
So, we passed up the movie Carissa and her mother wanted to see and saw the movie I didn't want to see at all, but wanted to see more than "Aladdin." And I hated it. As a child, I liked any movie. Especially kids movies. But even at the time, I couldn't believe how bad "Cop and a Half" was. It annoyed me, especially the kid helping the cop.
Cut to present times, and Facebook. I decided to review the movie, giving it a half-a-star, in honor of that half-a-kid. In my meaningless review, I called the kid in the movie "ugly," which he was. In every children's movies, the kids were usually cute and relateable. But the kid from "Cop and a Half" was definitely picked from the bottom of the casting barrel. I finished my review, basically saying how much I hated it and went on with my life.
The rest of 2007 started winding down. Thanksgiving came and went. So did Christmas. Then, early today, January 26, 2008, my review came back to sting. I logged onto my Facebook account and found a message someone sent me. Clicking on it, I found that someone named Mikey Achino from Chicago, IL had sent me a message. It read, and I quote, "dont dis cop and a half u ugly mother fucker."
I have no idea who Mikey Achino is. I was confused and hurt. Clicking on my movie review of "Cop and a Half" I found a list of reviews for the film by other people. I spotted mine, the one I posted months ago, and right under mine was Mikey Achino's review. It read, "this movie is awesome favorite movie growing up as a kid and this eric truchan kid is a fag, and ur ugly u fag" Besides the fact that Mikey Achino doesn't know how to use capital letters or punctuation, he has it in his head that I am a fag, and apparently very ugly. Hey man, my mom says I’m handsome.
Mikey Achino took the worst children’s movie I ever saw as a kid, found a review I wrote as an adult, took the time to message me a personal comment about my looks, and then posted a public domain review about what a "fag" I was. Unbelievable string of event by Mr. Mikey Achino. Applause to the frat guy who claims he likes The Dismemberment Plan and, of course, Death Cab for Cutie.
If you see or know Mikey Achino from Chicago, feel free to kick him for me or send him boat loads of spam messages. I never thought this children's movie would come back to make me cry so hard in my beer. Damn you Mikey Achino. You have not won yet!!!
January 24, 2008
Excuse Me While I Drink Myself to Death (if I can find a fountain)
A water fountain is like a friend. It's really hard to find a good one. These days, finding a properly functioning water fountain could take up half your day. You may pass out due to bouts of dehydration in the mean time, but the adequate chill, and that strong trajectory, are essential to a fun water fountain experience.
We have become spoiled in the water fountains department of life ever since those kind with the cooling system came out. Remember in elementary school when the only water fountains around where those alabaster, porcelain ones that looked like it was made from spare toilet bowl parts? The water always tasted like toilet water too. And how about those racially segregated water fountains? Yeesh, that was embarrassing for ever party involved. But now a days, the ones with the chilling system is standard. Rather than feeling privileged, however, I just feel jipped.
Today, in search of a drink, every water fountain I came to was complete garbage. The water trickled out slowly, the water was too warm, or the trajectory was actually too good, in fact, that it shot right out the spout and off the designated basin area. Finally, I came across a complete, and fully functioning one. Nice range of water spoutage, proper temperature (cold enough to give your front tooth a slight sting). It was nirvana. A completely free and refreshing nirvana, I might add.
Still, to come to that point, I had to walk around, building to building of the Montclair campus to meet my needs. And it's not just the college that has the problem. It's every office building, high school, public park, mortuary. You name it, there's a piss poor water fountain on the premise. For once, I can't blame this problem on the internet or Republicans. Don't worry though. I'll think of a way.
We have become spoiled in the water fountains department of life ever since those kind with the cooling system came out. Remember in elementary school when the only water fountains around where those alabaster, porcelain ones that looked like it was made from spare toilet bowl parts? The water always tasted like toilet water too. And how about those racially segregated water fountains? Yeesh, that was embarrassing for ever party involved. But now a days, the ones with the chilling system is standard. Rather than feeling privileged, however, I just feel jipped.
Today, in search of a drink, every water fountain I came to was complete garbage. The water trickled out slowly, the water was too warm, or the trajectory was actually too good, in fact, that it shot right out the spout and off the designated basin area. Finally, I came across a complete, and fully functioning one. Nice range of water spoutage, proper temperature (cold enough to give your front tooth a slight sting). It was nirvana. A completely free and refreshing nirvana, I might add.
Still, to come to that point, I had to walk around, building to building of the Montclair campus to meet my needs. And it's not just the college that has the problem. It's every office building, high school, public park, mortuary. You name it, there's a piss poor water fountain on the premise. For once, I can't blame this problem on the internet or Republicans. Don't worry though. I'll think of a way.
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