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)
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.
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