To Thine Own Self, Be Mellow

If there’s one thing that flips my script, it’s someone harshing my mellow. In my last love thing, it happened just like that. She wrote a blog post in which she used the phrase (Harsh my mellow) in a curiously sardonic fashion. Curious because she knew it was my Zen place and yet she found it necessary to peddle the shit in an impudent middle finger to me. Sure, the gesture was little more than a passive/aggressive jab, but to me it was kryptonite on a platter. It wasn’t the reason for our Waterloo, just a sign that we had already set sail for the place.

So when I complain about the Block editor, it’s because the thing harshes a mellow I struggle to hold onto every single day. I understand this makes me cranky and temperamental and maybe even unreasonable to the dynamics of a relationship, in this case, writing. Thing is, why is it wrong to hold to such a thing? Why should I feel like I’m the one at fault for simply crushing on a method and wanting to keep it status quo?

The status quo is a vastly underrated neighborhood. It gets the shit beaten out of it by progress only because technology is changing the world every couple months. Adapting means you either get down with the next gen sexy or you find yourself staying home on Saturday night. And that’s cool, to a point.

But to paraphrase a Billy Joel standard, as it pertains to Block Editor, don’t go changing to try and fleece me, When the website mavens from San Fran felt like it was time to banish the old in favor of a brand spanking new ride, they shouldn’t make peeps feel old in the process. That shit harshes my mellow, man!

The search for peace of mind comes from a less simple time in my life, made less simple by yours truly. It was a low down dirty existence of a past, inside of which the only thing that mattered when push began shoving me off the edge was that indefinable construct that my brain could nestle inside of. There had to be something that mattered. I mean . . really mattered. 

The mellow is a conduit for me, the intersection of creativity and peace of mind, the latter of which is a priceless commodity. It’s just one of those things that I consider sacred, in a world where sacred things would get turned down if they applied for a loan.

Personally, I think the plushest flowers grow best when the garden is arcane.

Standing In Line With The Voices In My Head

It took me more than fifty years to figure out that habits don’t necessarily have to be wrong in order to be enjoyed. Yeah, I know all about the value of good habits but I can’t say I miss them since, well . . . I haven’t really had ’em. But seeing as how I’ve cut bait with some not so good ones, that can be considered a good habit, can’t it?

I had time to ponder such things as I was spending half a day in a grocery store checkout line. Okay, it was only about twelve and a half minutes, but when you’re as impatient as I am, it’s really the same difference. I should be thankful for the supermarket interlude since it allowed the voices in my head to braise some thoughts and add some spicy logic to the mix. Here’s what I cooked up . . .

  • I don’t consider impatience to be a bad habit, but I’ll put it here since certain people do. And I can’t help it if those certain people possess the urgency of a slug.
  • Understanding, or lack thereof by yours truly. (See above).
  • I used to miss smoking, like . . all the time. Now I only miss it in contextualized renderings that rarely have anything to do with reality. Like for instance, if a zombie apocalypse ever happens . . Imma be stocking up on nicotine for the end. And then I’ll get to smoking the fuckers till I arrive there.
  • Back in the day I used to drink several times a week because, truth be told, it was part of my brand. I was a really good time with a few drinks in me. Problem was, the good time had no boundaries and I usually woke up in the morning with more sins to account for than the Lannisters. But with age, and hospital visits, comes wisdom. And now I partake once a week. Twice if I’m being really inconvenient with the truth. Turns out that wisdom? Ain’t nearly as much fun.
  • There was a time when I used to believe there was nothing better than a smoke riding shotgun with my drink. Hell, I still believe that. I just don’t marry the two any longer since I possessed not a wit of moderation in the coupling. Turns out that wisdom? Well, you know . . .
  • Back in the day I used to go to sporting events all the time. A handful of baseball games, an NBA game or two, even some football and hockey tossed in the mix. Fast forward to 2021 and it’s been a hot minute since I attended a live game. Why do I mention it here? Because I’ve come to realize that attending sporting events is a bad habit in this day and age. You’re usually paying way too much for much too little when watching on TV makes so much more sense.
  • Political debates have become a bad habit, so I’m glad I kicked it to the curb back in the Clintonian Period. It’s easier to order a roast beef sammie at a vegan restaurant than it is to achieve a peaceably agreeable political debate. Believe me, I’ve tried . . . on both counts.
  • Cursing used to be a real bugaboo for me. I’m sorry, I don’t know what the blessed fuck got into me, using the term bugaboo . . .
  • Pain pills were my bad romance once. Damn me for leaving them.
  • I save running for last, since it’s my best habit. I’m thirty years in, having taken up skiing as my gateway drug before experimenting with a couple jogs, after which I was hooked. And while it ain’t ever gonna stop me from missing a starched martini served up with a fresh pack of smokes, I do so enjoy the supple Zen it provides, sans the sticker shock attached to those daze of yore. So as it turns out, the habit I’ve clung to the longest happens to be a good habit.

Who knew?

Six Feet

I’m in line at the grocery store, its the 20 Items or Less lane that makes me wonder “Didn’t there used to be a 10 Items or Less lane?”. And I mean, there probably still is one but I’ve just gotten so used to the self-service lanes that I wouldn’t really know.

Anyways, I’m committed now since I have people in front of me and more importantly, behind me. What’s more, I’m giving myself away because there I am, counting items. As if anybody gives a flip whether I’m over the legal limit in this instance. Because it’s not egregious looking, my shopping cart. It’s ballpark fine and yet I go on counting, which feels like such a quaint gesture in this day and age now that I’m thinking about it. As I’m counting it occurs to me that management didn’t make the rules for carts like mine. They made them for the shoppers who look like they just spent an afternoon in Costco.

Me? I’m working a plus/minus situation that would require a recount if this were an election, but still I count. And when the counting’s done, I’m exactly one item over. It’s the bag of sourdough pretzels I picked up when I was cruising the Lays million and one flavors of potato chips. Going with pretzels instead was a sensible choice, and for my bonus points, I don’t have any nacho cheese at home to dip the pretzels in; which would’ve effectively defeated the sensible choice I was making.

Of course, I’m not moving out of line over one item. But it feels good to get lost in a meaningless intrigue, what with all the shit that’s happening in the world. Letting my brain get stuck on something that doesn’t mean a fig in the grand scheme of things, it helps to soften the edges and I like the feeling. A lot. And then I look back and see that the girl in back of me is carrying a basket. I’m guessing she’s got no more than five or six items in it, so I tell her to cut ahead of me. She’s thankful, but so am I. More so, in fact. Because the simple things feel like a winning hand from right here. And six feet apart is where it’s at inside this simple moment. It’s the whole world. And I don’t have to wonder where all the kindness and good feelings ran away to.

They never left.

Frankly Speaking, Life’s A Beach

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Imma be preempting our regularly scheduled “Heroes” episode in order to dish up some breaking news that is actually worth its weight in bold. Because my punctilious pen pal, the golden gloved gallivanter, the kid I call Cincy . . A Frank Angle . . . yeah. He’s back. 

He’s got brand new digs (click here), that will prove refreshing to your senses and his debut is coming up next week- Tuesday, October 20th. So make sure to stop by and give him some love. And because we ain’t gonna tease when we can please, Cincy has supplied us with a very special preview of what’s to come. 

Enjoy the walk . . .

 

I like walking on the beach. It is good for the mind, body, and soul – and refreshing on my feet.

Ever think about seeds? They seem so simple at a glance – even on closer examination. We typically think of a hard, thin outer shell with a softer inside. 

On the other hand, this seemingly plain object is the beginning of something new – something beautiful – something useful – a green plant that can be as simple as grass or are grand as a large tree.

Earth’s annual regeneration of seeds for release (many in the fall) – possibly covered by winter snows – yet ready for renewal in the spring so the cycle can repeat – all this with its goal of perpetuating the species.

I think of the farmer preparing the land before planting the seeds. Whether scattering the seeds randomly or planting them in straight rows with distinct spacing, time delivers something that belongs to all of us – bountiful crops and flowers. 

As I walk, trees are sparse – only found on the grounds of some condominiums – although they are naturally found a short distance away from this beach. I think about a forest. Somewhere in that forest’s history, there was a time of one tree – the first tree. One tree that came from a seed. From that one tree came other trees – each coming from a seed.

I think about the sizes and shapes of seeds – from the tiniest orchid seed to a type of coconut containing the largest seed – shapes as squares, oblong, angular, triangles, round, egg-shaped, bean-shaped, kidney-shaped, discs, and spheres. Some seeds with lines and ridges – others perfectly smooth – plus in a variety of colors, and some even speckled.  

A seed has three components – an outer protective coat, the embryo for growing into a new plant, and the food source giving the embryo and young plant its initial food source for growth – all aspects for increasing a chance for survival.

Ever notice how leaves sprout early from a seed? Yes, leaves for producing food for the youthful, growing plant because the initial food source is small. 

Seeds hold the potential to produce something new because they contain hope and promise for something new. But not all plants use seeds for reproduction. For instance, mosses or ferns do not  – but seed plants are the ones that dominate the plant world. 

This causes me to think about our fertility – that is, the seeds within us. The promises that we hold that can produce a bountiful yield.

Interesting that the sperm of human males are called seeds, but in the plant world, seeds are something produced after the sperm fertilizes the egg.

Seeds are mobile, so they must have adaptations to move them around – a method of dispersal. Some have wings to be carried by the wind. Some have barbs, burrs, or hooks to attach to fur, feathers, or even human clothing to be dropped elsewhere. Some are buoyant so moving water can transport them. Others are surrounded by fleshy fruit that will be eaten, therefore the seeds can be exposed and deposited elsewhere for potential growth. 

I remember the large oak trees at my previous home. Each producing a bountiful supply of acorns – but not the same number each year. Each acorn with a coat, an embryo, and food supply. Each acorn is the potential for a new oak tree. However, all those acorns from one tree – a culinary feast for squirrels preparing for winter – so I wonder how many of all those acorns will yield their acorns in time. 

Seeds are that structure we plant in fertile soil and associate with terms as vigor, viability, dormancy, and germination. Seeds are also a source for food, oils, cooking ingredients, flavorings, jewelry, and even deadly poisons.

Besides a simple design yielding a complex adult, the seed is also a useful metaphor.

People are hidden seeds waiting to become viable vessels of knowledge. Because every seed has the potential for a significant result, seeds are a symbol for the potential that is in each of us for a positive future – a power of hope and possibility. Teachers hope to plant a seed in students – a seed that develops over time into something valued by others and society – their role in cultivating humanity.

Seeds are the ideas coming to us from thinking. The something that initiated a thought process that leads to personal action for improving life. The seeds of discovery lie in the knowledge of determination through the human spirit.

I think about how each of us has a bright side and a dark side – the good seeds and the bad seeds. Seeds are a symbol for laying the groundwork for future development as planting the seed – but some use planting the seed for promoting negative feelings or a downfall.

Religions rely on the seeds of faith while politics prefers manipulating the seeds for selfishness.  

A heart contains seeds of love that are waiting to sprout a new life with that special someone.

I think about how entrepreneurs use “seed money” for starting a new business. I also remember during my youth using “bird feed” or “chicken feed” as a term for a small amount of anything – something paltry or minuscule in amount.

Seeds – that simple, interesting, incredible, and successful biological design found in nature that plays a large role in human life. I don’t recall what triggered thinking about seeds on this day, but it has been an interesting mental journey and exercise as I walk. After all, I like walking on the beach because it is good for the mind, body, and soul – and refreshing on my feet.

The Struggle is Teal, Duct Tape Politics and The Coolest Cat in the Room

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If you Google the color teal, you’ll find that it dovetails nicely with such peaceful propositions as clarity, inspiration, communication and perhaps most importantly of all, healing.

Inside a year where we have lost so much, Imma go with peaceful propositions for the much needed return they’ll supply on the investment. I mean, you really don’t even have to walk out your front door to get sushi rolled. All you have to do is turn on your laptop, log into WordPress and boom . . .

“The New WordPress Editor is Coming” . .

To which my reply is always a succinct Fuck you

I like to think Herman Melville would smile at such a response as that. After which he’d reel in a couple dozen words that say it so much prettier. He was brilliant like that.

I’m simply singing off the sheet of music 2020 handed out. It’s a song sheet that, to borrow from the treasure trove of Yogi (as in Berra) Isms, got late pretty early on. What with the one hundred and one Democratic candidates for President that led things off by punching holes in their own ship. To casualties of a novel virus that held the world hostage. To protests and politicization and a country so polar opposite in its opinions and beliefs that we may just have to get a big old roll of duct tape and pluck it right down the middle of the country.

All you have to do is fire up your electronic device in order to get questions to all the many answers. But wait! There’s more . . .

  • Like, does the MLB understand how repulsive it looks? A multi-billion dollar industry is once again at a loss as to how it seasons its stake while millions of people worry about how to make ends meet. And if there ends up not being a baseball season after all this? Well, let’s just say that if they thought the fan revolt was bad after their impasse canceled the World Series in ’94. Oh . . just wait.
  • And uh . . I don’t miss sports nearly as much as I thought I would. There, I said it.
  • I do miss eating out, which I did for the first time in months last Friday with my kids. Outdoor seating, retrofitted engagements . . but still. I liked not having to think up my dinner for the first time since March happened.
  • Don’t tell anybody, but there’s a Presidential election five months from now.
  • I’m on the fence about starting a food blog. On the fence because it would mostly be me re-blogging real food blog posts. I would contribute my own dishes from time to time as well. And it would all take place off my old blog, Drinks Well With Others.
  • As for my exercise regimen, that’s what I focused on over the last few months. When you suffer from depression and are plenty fine with not being around people . . . but you’re not so fine being told you can’t be around people . . . well, I needed a strategy. So six times a week, I’m going strong with some form of exercise- stationary bike, running, weights, Rob Zombie workouts . . . and it’s gotten me to a better place. Physically, sure. But even more importantly, my brain is being fed some positive chow.
  • Which means that junk food has become that player at the end of the bench. I summon it on “Cheat Day” but otherwise it ain’t got a regular spot in my daily lineup.

And then there’s this. Because 2020 has been the rainy season that keeps on taking. We lost our beloved black cat Mr Speaker a few weeks ago. And for most of the time since then, I thought about all the parts of me that he took with him to the great beyond. His little life was so much more to us. It was big and bold and it spoke countless millions of words in the language of purr. And this magnificent beast will always be the coolest cat in the room to me.

So to this, I had to figure out a way to shake the yesterdays we left behind. And then these two brilliant little messes showed up. My daughter is in Wyoming through July visiting her mother. I plan on surprising her with the dynamic duo in a video call this week. I’ve named the boy Jack, an homage to Mr Speaker. She gets to name the girl.

And as Vonnegut used to say, so it goes. That we move forward. Carrying the things we used to know and love inside this good long while of a life. These things that make us laugh and cry, and think and pray and dream to the stars up in the sky whose lives we used to share.

Good night, sweet prince.

 

 

Pan Con Mantequilla

I’ve always got a million loose thoughts chasing me around, so I’ve decided to let a few of the more tranquil ones roam the grounds for a spell. This post is for entertainment purposes only, so if you decide to wager based on these results, then you have a serious fucking problem.

  • Juan Soto of the Nacionales has a dreamy swing that seems plucked out of a Kinsella story, and I am very much in love with it.
  • The Cosmo is a really tasty swim and I’m almost jealous it’s a Ladies Night particular. But that’s life.
  • I saw where the McRib is back for a limited time and for a hot second, I contemplated digging into one since it’s been a while. And then I considered what a boneless piggy might look like and decided to make my own version of the McRib. Baby backs, smothered in Sticky Fingers’ Memphis Original and onions and slow cooked till they fell off the bone. Some raw onions on top and tucked into a sesame seed roll with hand cut fries. Much better . . .20191022_175223.jpg
  • As far as pizza goes, vegetarian remains my leader in the clubhouse.
  • I’m not going to see Joker until it comes out in home release. Not because of the prospect of getting shot up in a theater but because the movie is dark as fuck. And the idea of sitting in a dark theater and immersing myself in that darkness ain’t happening. 
  • So of course, I was asked how I can love Rob Zombie flicks so much. Well, because they’re seriously fucked up cartoons. Zombie’s vision of madness and mayhem is art, to me. His characters are equal parts Warhol and Romero. And while the scenarios are rooted in true life, their embellishments feel anomalous enough in comparison.
  • Peloton comes in at a cool sixty bucks a month, whereas I utilize a wholesale method that provides remedy for my girlish figure at pennies on that overrated dollar.
  • Why is there such a stigma to renting? We live in a world where half the population gets divorced and the other half of that half feels like it. We have a reality show President running diplomacy into the ground so hard that war(s) seems likely. And society as we know it teeters over a chasm where a signature event might topple us all. The old days are over, kids.
  • Dark chocolate is always a brilliant method.
  • I think I could play wide receiver for the Dolphins . . like right now.
  • Anyone who uses ‘happenstance’ while describing a situation to me is someone I want to talk to.
  • I mean . . that word is already longer and more substantial than most anything on Twitter. Just saying.
  • Hmmm . . . so not only are we fast food nation, but now we have services that bring the fast food to us so’s we never have to remove our asses from their reclined position? And we’re willing to pay basically the cost of the food in delivery fees to get it done? Sounds like the natural progression to me.
  • Go Simone Biles!

 

 

Speaking Of

  • The new season of Walking Dead begins this Sunday, and I’m sort of at that juncture in the marriage where I can retake the vows or have an affair.
  • So of course, me being me . . I’m having an affair with the latest season of American Horror Story. And so far, so very strange with 1984, but I’m cool with it seeing as how it’s a vacation in the ’80’s.
  • The ’80’s is where Trump was building hotels and not walls. Seems that a few years ago, he was talking up an alligator filled moat to go along with his wall . . which was MY idea. Only difference is a moat wouldn’t have required a wall. Putz.
  • Too many putzes with drivers licenses. I honked at this dude who was trailing an Amish buggy rather than passing it (buggies have slow moving vehicle triangles which allow you to pass). Annoyed, he waved me around him, shortly after which he turned into his driveway. Right turn signals work wonders, if you use ’em.
  • Okay, I’m always in a hurry. Which is why I go self checkout at the grocery store. Checkout lines are teeming with delays and the ten items or less lane is a big fat lie. But it’s not like I ain’t down with social dishing. As with the nerdy high school girl manning the deli counter who brought the snark. We engaged in some entertaining banter as she did up my order. Personality wins the day.
  • But peeps who shout into their phone while it’s on speaker make me wanna lose it. Bluetooth was invented because the world doesn’t want to hear about Aunt Lucy’s gallstones.
  • Which she probably got from eating at McDonald’s. Of course, she won’t admit it was McDonald’s fault because she probably insists she never eats there. Like the half a trillion people it’s served . . . most of whom never, ever go there.
  • Why is it that as soon as an individual is legally permitted to rent a car, they no longer fess up to eating at McDonald’s?
  • Not my sister, though. She doesn’t give a blessed fuck who knows about it, even if her rationale for certain of her . . umm . . nutritional choices is a tad bit skewed. And Imma give you a for instance from the other night when me and sis stopped off at a convenience store before my birthday dinner.

Sister: They don’t have diet ginger ale, what the fuck?
Me: Get the good stuff . . go crazy.
Sister: Nah, I don’t drink my calories.
Me: Here’s a thought, get regular ginger ale, because we’re eating fried chicken tonight.
Sister: Here’s a thought, walk home.

  • And if you’re wrong, don’t play it like you’re right. The way the Raiders are doing when they defend Vontaze Burfict for being a thug. The linebacker was suspended for the season after his latest dirty hit and Raiders players were shocked(!), claiming Vontaze is just misunderstood. Just another example of professional athletes whining that we should believe what they say rather than what our eyes tell us.
  • And my eyes are telling me this is my favorite Halloween costume of the season, and I know it’s early, but . . .
  • And if you want scary good, my Nashville hot fried chicken birthday dinner with my kids, niece and sister- followed with ghost stories by candlelight? Good as it gets.
  • Speaking of good as it gets, the girl went to the Global Citizen Festival in NYC last weekend She shutterbugged me their peach vantage point right up by the stage and snippeted me a tune here and there from various of the powerhouse lineup. And all was right with the world as Freddie held court and my little girl sang to Queen inside a glorious evening.
  • I promised myself I’d never post the cover to this song, but Imma break the rules.
  • Not like it’s the first time . . .

 

Speaking Of . . .

By now you’ve probably seen the video of Chris Morgan, the thimble-fuck who went on a tirade about women in a Long Island bagel shop recently. Turns out, that’s his shtick; to engage in public rants and then slap ’em on YouTube. He considers himself the Martin Luther King of short dudes and I’m not kidding. So I gotta wonder how long before he gets a White House invite. I want to see the handshake . . .

Speaking of . . . Bums. They should fine ballplayers who can’t bother running to first base. Let’s say . . . half a million Wagners every time they pull that shit. Their lazy asses would either find some urgency right quick or they would owe the MLB money in perpetuity. Better yet, MLB can set up a GoFundMe page with the money, for the fans who have to put up with crap like that.

Speaking of . . . Weeds. Cassandra Walker was fired from her job at Dairy Queen because someone wanted a Moana birthday cake and her boss fucked up the translation since this is Georgia we’re talking about. So . . . this happened.

Moana Cake

Fired? Give her a raise, because that is an amazing fucking birthday cake! I saw Moana . . well, the first three minutes anyways. And believe me, a wasted Little Pony is way better. Yo Duff Goldman, give this cake artist a job! Immediamente!

Speaking of . . . Cheeching. I partake on a semi-annual basis and my fifty third birthday seems a logical toking point. In spite of the fact that I’m not a drug user as per the definition (this guy), I do have my very own dealer. Now all I need to do is get in touch with Cassandra Walker for my cake.

Speaking of . . . Skunk. What’s up with the peeps who still abide by twelfth century hygiene? Otherwise known as BO. Listen, unless you have a serious medical condition, are homeless or Amish, there is no excuse. We are GED level lunchboxes compared to the other species that inhabit the earth. Soap and deodorant are the only things separating us from the sloth, and if you can’t bother to dabble in the stuff, then go live on that deserted island Tom Hanks made famous.

Speaking of . . . Stench luggage. You ever go in a public restroom and get hit in the face with that shroud of unspeakable hell? I call it the thousand year stench, after which I’m always forced to hold my breath. Only problem is, when I’m on the spot like that, I can’t hold my breath for very long. If I’m in the water, I can hold my breath for about a minute. But under pressure? Two and a half seconds, after which I bury my nose in my arm and curse the existence of humanity as I perch at the urinal and exhort my bladder to speed it up.

Speaking of . . . Pissing contests. Oscar Wilde would be thrilled to know they actually have their own Wikipedia page.

Speaking of . . . Wicked genius (Wilde . . not pissing contests), Peeps either get the movie Under the Silver Lake or they do not. I happen to think that if this flick was a stock, it would be a can’t lose long term investment. Because someday it will achieve cult status for being what it is. Hitchcock in Kurt Cobain’s iconic sweater.

Speaking of . . . Sweaters. I ain’t in need of one currently. Because it’s a hundred fucking degrees outside (wind chill) and I just put a bounty on Al Gore’s head.

Speaking of . . . Too soon?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Snide of the Yankees

All that romance I was painting when I wrote about a day at the ballpark turned out to be a much needed prescription for my home town Bombers. Because after being held to one run in that eleven inning loss last Saturday, they exploded for thirteen runs the next day. And they haven’t lost since. I like to think we served as a baseball talisman for the pinstripes. It’s not the coziest notion, seeing as how there are thirty thousand peeps who think the same thing. But it still counts.

Anyways . . I figured since I was gifted with some free baseball at no additional cost (since the MLB hasn’t figured out how to tack that on yet ), Imma pass it along in kind.

  • The only time a hot dog is an entree is at the ballpark. Something happens to the little fuckers on the other side of the gates that ups the flavor equation exponentially. There’s nothing like having a dog at the game, because the game is the only place it tastes like Kobe beef with a fried egg on top.
  • That thirty thousand (or thereabouts) was the attendance for a Saturday afternoon first place showdown in which the weather was picture perfect says everything about the insane price structure of game tickets. In the quest to make each game an “experience”, the MLB has beaten the living shit out of the sticker price. I’d be sadder if I didn’t have the MLB network on speed dial.
  • As for those prices, it ain’t reserved for the seats. We grabbed a foot long, a bucket of chicken tenders and garlic fries with three drinks for the princely sum of $51 U.S. Mantles. I could have hosted a BBQ block party for less.

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  • And no, alcohol was not included in that price, which would have added a ten spot to the bill.
  • Because I do not drink alcohol when the sun is in prime time. It’s not because I’m an alcoholic vampire, but thanks to the memory of a football game in Baltimore in the middle aughts when I made merry under the sun. The resultant headache had me wishing I was Tracy Mills from the movie Seven.
  • The wave has made a comeback at stadiums across the country. And it made me wonder where this collective psychosis originated, so I found this article that settles the matter.
  • It should be illegal for a man to wear a jersey . . even at the ballgame. It also should be illegal for a woman not to wear a jersey, wherever they like. Sorry dudes, they’re just better at it.
  • Is it wrong to feel provoked when I see a flat bill on a baseball cap?
  • Eleven dollars for a 16 oz Bud Light is only worth it if there’s a bottle of Jim Beam inside the can.
  • If you’re not in line to see Monument Park before 11:50 am, you’re out of luck. The gates open at 11:30 am. We were unaware of this short window as we strolled over to find our seats and then grabbed some dogs before heading over. We made it with three minutes to spare. Babe Ruth’s number was three. Coincidence? Probably, but I like to think the dogs worked in our favor. Even at six bucks a pop.
  • As we waited in line to get into the Stadium, a sixty something dude who was six pack pregnant took off his t-shirt to put on his Rays jersey. If I hadn’t already spent forty five bucks to park my car, I’d have given him a fifty spot to keep his t-shirt on. We’re standing right in front of a fucking sign that prohibits just about everything short of breathing but this guy can go horror story on our eyeballs. Jesus!

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  • Why is it that conversations about sports always seem so smart when you’re spikes deep in them, but mindless when you’re eavesdropping?

About that Seinfeld skit: I spotted a fella of Italian descent several rows below us sporting a Jason Giambi t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. And my mind went here . . .

George: (Laughing) Jer, check out the guy in the fake Giambi jersey . . . amateur.
Jerry: Wait a minute . . are the sleeves cut off?
George: They are! Do you think he cut them off on purpose?
Jerry: What other possible explanation is there?
George: Who does that?!
Jerry: It’s unheard of!
George: There’s no room for people like this in civilized society!

From there, Jerry engages the fan in a conversation that goes sideways. After which Jerry and George end up being escorted from the Stadium by security.

  • The shift is the new phone booth stuffing. Scientifically speaking, it’s when the defense only butters one side of the bagel. It’s done so’s the hitter can’t pull the ball into real estate where they ain’t and it looks something like this.

The Shift

  • Players don’t know how to bunt any longer because bunts don’t get them paid.
  • It’s frightening how many dudes leave the men’s room without washing their hands.
  • What do you answer hot dogs, chicken tenders and a pound of garlic fries with? The responsible choice would’ve been salads, ice water and laxatives. Let the record show that a case of White Castles ain’t the responsible choice.

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Welp, that’ll do it. I’d like to send out a special thank you to Gary Cooper’s stylish Brylcreem, Derek Jeter’s tarnished reputation and the lost (then found) files of Kate Smith.

Always bet diamonds.

My First Girl

This Mothers Day post is from the way back of time, but it still keeps. To all the Mamas out there . . Happy You Day.

Peace and love

I remember walking you home from school. We’d stop by the park and I’d push you on the swings. We’d fill our faces with chocolate bars so perilously close to supper, because we could. And then we’d laugh at having broken with such frivolous convention. We’d hike to the supermarket and trade knowing winks, as if we had committed high treason on the butcher with our chocolatey smiles.

I’d haul the heavy bags home as we talked about the Beatles and the travails of kindergarten. You were my first girl. Hey, I was rather mature for my age, and you needed a five year old best friend. You needed to know what it was to feel young. God knows you had so much of it stolen from you.

I’d tell you how beautiful you looked and how great you smelled. Compliment your shoes. Hold the door. We’d make dinner. Dad, absent; the hours with him were dissolving as work took him away from us more and more. So it was you and me. You taught me to cook. Give foot rubs. Dance. All the essentials for a boy who was just beginning to marvel at the wonders of a girl.

I was the man of the house whenever he was away, and you made me earn it. Cause a Catholic girl always does. I loved the time we spent alone, because it gave me the chance to steal that amazing laugh you possessed. I wish dad would’ve warned me about that laugh. To this day, a woman’s laugh holds a most deliciously intoxicating mystery for me. Yours was childhood, the one you never got to unwrap because you were too busy growing up, too soon. I knew enough to know too much. It’s why I beckoned that laugh whenever I could. To summon the little girl away from the primitive conclusions of this world for a little while.

Thank you for teaching me how to throw a baseball . . . how to set a table . . . how to love a woman . . . thank you for that silent conversation we shared when you came to visit me in the hospital, a conversation I might never match with spoken word if I live to 100. Thank you for the advice you would impart whenever I went searching for the answers to a woman’s heart, like the time you told me “If it was that easy to figure out a woman, there’d be no need for alcohol.”

My little girl has a middle name that comes from you, but that’s not all she carries of you. She carries your sense of humor, your honesty, your grace. And my son has your persistence and that wholesome sense of purpose that makes him my twelve year old role model.

Because of you, I spend a small fortune on Mothers Day cards. I have my own personal “Mothers Club”, and you are the reason why I lean on them so hard and love them so completely. Because of you.

You taught me that life isn’t about having all the answers. Not when comfortable shoes are so much more important.

There is a thank you in every conversation we share. But here’s one for the hell of it.