Things I don't understand #44...

...The sports marvel that is Sergei Zubov.

Yes, hockey. Because of my odd love of playoff hockey (and my innate ability to see the Maverick writing on the wall), I've seen more of the Stars last couple of games despite the fact that they played at the same time as our local NBA outlet. If you haven't, you've missed a lot of really good hockey, with favorable outcomes, no less(being a fan of Dallas teams, I've almost forgot what that was like). You've also not been able to witness the comeback and subsequent stunning perfomance of Sergei Zubov, Dallas Stars defenseman. In case you are unaware, Dallas played(and won!) the third game of their second round playoff series(Dallas leads 3-0). This was Zubie's second game back. In his first game back, he assisted(and by assisted I mean he made one of the most amazing whirling, behind the back passes you've ever seen) on the game's decisive goal. In last night's game, he not only scored the important equalizing goal seconds into the third period, he also led the Stars in ice time. Oh, and did I mention he hadn't played since January 17th. Yes, that's right after spending over 4 months off to treat both a knee injury and have surgery for a sports hernia, he returns during the most physical, intense part of the season and spends more time playing than anyone else on his team.

And lest you think that the 37 year-old Russian is some sort of workout warrior who can't be lured out of the gym, he's the exact opposite. Reports from those that follow the team as well as fellow players seem to indicate that no one ever really sees him working out. Oh, and he smokes. Yeah, a 37 year-old smoking Russian who never works out just walks back into one of the most physically demanding (Save it, Rick) arenas after months off as if he was never gone. I heard today that apparently his post game routine is a beer and smoke. Between periods he does decide to leave out the beer, so that's good. But this really doesn't seem fair. Not only to shmos like me, but his peers in the NHL. But despite this injustice, I hope you will join me in following the Stars playoff run. It would seem we are guaranteed at least one more series, and it's not like the Mavs or Rangers require your attention.

Things I don't understand #43...

...Why I let Bryan win.

Honestly, I hadn't really planned on revisiting the race (sorry, "The Great Race")...unless I had actually pulled off the greatest upset in sports history and won the thing(Yes, even bigger than the "Miracle on Ice"). But when I read the comments and realized interest had reached the subconscious of some, I figured I could at least end the suspense (if 3 and half people maybe wanting to know qualifies as suspense, that is). So the race...

First let me say that the pre-race festivities included us screwing up the race so that no times can be considered official, for a mile run that is. You get four guys and one girl with "pregnancy brain" standing around a track at 8 in the morning, and the result is that we somehow decide and agree we should run 1500 instead of 1600 meters, because that's closer to a mile. Huh? Yeah, this was as much my fault as anyone else's, but, really, what were we thinking? So the race did actually start. Sure, it was awkwardly staggered as we tried to signal to Lisa (Bryan's wife) at the finish line (not the same as the start line since we're idiots) to start the "official" clock (which was rendered somewhat moot by our decision to adjust the distance) and then each took sort of a half step, stopped, looked at each other, and then took off. Yeah. That's when I made my first (and fatal) mistake. Bryan(once trained for a marathon) shot out of there, Patrick(athletic 25 year-old) and Eric(former HS and college sports star) made some attempt to keep up(though failed), and I (biggest and oldest) didn't. Mainly it was because I felt like crap and didn't want to. But I must admit that I also had a fairly strong inclination that Bryan (and Patrick and Eric) would not be able to sustain such a pace. That was, as far as Bryan is concerned, incorrect. So after about a lap we are already quite spread out.

With two laps remaining I realized that I was going to have to step it up if I didn't want to be completely embarrassed. At that point I was still in last place, and not by a little. I would approximate that Eric was about 20-30 meters ahead, Patrick about twice that, and Bryan? Well, he had somewhere between 150 and 200 meters on me, almost half a lap difference. Things were not looking good, nor was I feeling any better than when the race had started. But being the mule-headed idiot I am, I would not go quietly into that good night. I did pick up the pace, and was able to get by Eric (who graciously cleared the way). When I passed Patrick a couple of seconds later, I can only assume he didn't expect me as he exclaimed something like, "Oh man!" as I went around the outside (He later admitted that this move on my part completely demoralized him). Unfortunately, I had begun my "kick" too late, and Bryan (to his credit) didn't slow down near enough. If my memory and the "official timekeeper" can be trusted, I ran the final lap in 1:05 (it could have been 1:25 if one of those two are faulty) but still finished a good 75 meters and 17 seconds behind Bryan. Even though the times are somewhat meaningless, I'll give them to you anyway just so you can go out and mistakingly run a 1500 and beat our times.

Bryan 5:33
Me 5:50
Patrick 6:05
Eric 6:45

So there you go. We ran. And I didn't win (nor did I actually die, but I'm guessing you figured that out already). But next time Bryan...next time.

P.s. As a bonus for reading this far, I give you a link to a free Coldplay song off their upcoming album. Hurry though, you probably have less than 24 hours.

Things I don't understand #42...

...Why I agreed to do what I'm about to tell you I agreed to do.

Depending on your commitment level to this here blog, you've probably come across a couple of references to my attempts (mostly failed) to stay healthy. Well, this I guess is an offshoot of that. One night about a month ago while dining with some friends, my running was the topic at hand. While I was the only one who had a sort of normal running routine, the other men at the table were both guys who also exercise in their own attempts to stay fit. The discussion turned to the pace at which I run and what the others might could do. It also seemed to stir some sort of competitive mood. Because the next thing I knew, an idea had been proposed to hold a one mile race four weeks from that day to see of what we might be capable (utter stupidity, obviously)...and I assented. That brings us to tomorrow.

So apparently, at 8:15 tomorrow morning I and three of my friends (we had a late addition this morning) will meet at the track at Southern Methodist University to run "The Great Race"* (yes, it's been given a wildly inappropriate official title, t-shirts might be available). And I am definitely not the favorite. I will be the oldest "competitor" by at least a year and in one case 8 years. I will also be the largest participant. As a general rule, big and old are usually not the best attributes to have in a foot race. Unlike some of the others, I have never trained for a marathon, I have never run track, I was never an all-state high-school athlete or a college athlete. What I'm saying is, I neither have any athletic "skins on the wall" nor do I fit any real definition of a "runner". Were Vegas to get involved, I think my odds of winning would be set at about 25-1. Odds of losing 1.5-1. Now, over the last couple of days, some severe sandbagging has been attempted by my adversaries despite the fact they predicted the winner would probably finish in about 6 minutes, but I'm not buying, and neither should you. I just don't want to get lapped. Plus, I've heard the race is going to be videoed. Great...

So, if you find a moment tomorrow at about a quarter after eight, I would appreciate a prayer that I don't kill myself as I attempt not to get completely embarrassed. Hey, if you want to come witness this almost guaranteed comedic spectacle in person, feel free (refreshments will not be available). And if you want to show up and prove how completely out of shape we actually are by participating, I would support that as well (last is still last whether there's 4 or 40). Really, what was I thinking?

*[trademark pending]

Things I don't understand #41...

...How nothing sold by iTunes rates lower than 4 stars.

Ok, I'm exaggerating...slightly. The point being that somehow if you get your songs on iTunes, you've removed the possibility of sucking. Other than the picture at right, I really don't know what more proof you need. But it is quite shocking how every single album seems to be above average. My own informal survey suggests that the average rating for any record (yes, I know it's a download, but what are we actually supposed to call them? Wait! Save that!) is actually 4 and a half stars. Considering we're working on a 5 star scale, we should apparently get down on our knees and thank the sweet clean Lord above that we're so lucky to live in the golden age of music. Here's just a sampling of albums that rate the exemplary 4 and a half:

Christina Aguilera's self-titled debut
Nirvana's Nevermind
Britney Spears' Britney
Neon Bible by Arcade Fire
Welcome to the Dollhouse by Danity Kane (I don't know)
The Jonas Brothers' Brothers, Musicians and More (More?)
Heartbreaker by Ryan Adams

Yeah. Apparently all 4 1/2's aren't equal. And if you don't know which ones probably deserve that rating and those that don't, well...you might need to seek professional help. But really, isn't this just one more instance that proves the general public can't be trusted with evaluating anything?

Things I don't understand #40...

...What color my hair is.

Just so you're aware, I haven't recently fallen asleep at the barber and accidentally got a bad dye job (not that you can get a dye job at the barber...or any self-respecting barber, or course) or decided to wash my hair with rain water collected in a copper bowl which unwittingly produced a chemical reaction because of the surprising levels of toxicity in the rain which is the obvious byproduct of years of ignoring corporate pollutants (Yes, I just combined an allusion to the 80's hit comedy "Diff'rent Strokes" and your official veiled acknowledgment of Earth Day. You're Welcome.). And no one is more shocked by this "development" than yours truly. I'm guessing you, like me, assumed by the time I reached such a stage in my life I might have gotten a handle on the basics. But the evidence seems to suggest that I'm not to be trusted by such mind-bending questions as, "Hair color?"

You see, as a child my hair was blond. By the time I reached puberty it had darkened (I thought considerably), and I was quite comfortable with my hair color then being brown. I made it through high school and college and all other sorts of various life events, made some friends...lost some friends, you know, stuff. All the time sure of my station in life as a brown-haired-man. That is until recently. I think I was at dinner with some friends the first time it came up. They're sort of newer friends so at times you find yourself having to go back to the beginning to put the stories of your life in proper context. In this case, someone was talking about how they had grown up having been referred to by the moniker of "Red" considering their hair is of such a shade (obviously so). At which point, he or his wife looked at me and said, "Well, I'm sure you get that since your hair is kind of red." I said, "Who? Me?" and then shot them a look as if they had just informed me I was adopted or the earth was flat or that there was a real-live dinosaur hovering above my right shoulder (I wasn't, it wasn't, there wasn't). I looked around the table for someone to confirm that these so-called friends were either blind or really confused by the color wheel only to find them looking at me and nodding as if this was fairly common knowledge. Even so, I dismissed it as an anomaly or bad lighting or something.

Then about a week ago I found myself in the company of two others who are fairly new to my social sphere. They both adamantly assured me that my hair was surely not brown, but of a hue found in the red family. So now, after walking around all these years thinking my hair was brown, I'm supposed to become this whole new person who's a redhead. Ok, so it's probably not that big a deal, but I have found myself randomly looking at the mirror and saying, "Red? Really?" And I still don't really see it. But my hair is red...or reddish...or auburn...or whatever, so watch out world.

Things I don't understand #39...

...Why food at a place where they should be most concerned for your health is so unhealthy. I.e. Why hospital food sucks.

I've spent a good portion of the last couple of days in a hospital. I'm okay, but my grandmother had to have surgery (It looks like she'll be okay, too.) After her surgery yesterday morning, my family and I retired to the cafeteria so some might have a little breakfast. The choices were mainly either shocking or just flat out disturbing. You had the proverbial runny eggs, biscuits, gravy (hello?), bacon, sausage, hash browns, and the choice that sent shivers down my spine, egg rolls. I'm assuming they were some sort of breakfast egg roll. But the fact that there was an item that featured breakfast foods wrapped in something and then deep fried I think proves my point. They also had donuts, muffins, and cinnamon rolls; plus bagels for the health conscious. I abstained. I think I might have also seen some bananas and a vat of oatmeal. But mainly full of things that no one should probably be eating.

I was informed that someone had tried to get some lunch there the day before and had settled for a hamburger after analyzing the other choices and finding them severely wanting. Shouldn't fried food be eliminated from the hospital entirely? And finally , I was there when they brought my grandmother her lunch yesterday. The "main course" was chili-mac, with a side of oh-so-obviously canned mixed vegetables (sodium anyone?). Is there not one nutritionist in the whole place? It just seems to me that by eating there, you sort of putting yourself in a nutritional hole. And if you can't be healthy in a hospital, where can you be healthy?

Because of my obvious lack of commitment and the general suckiness of this post, I leave you with a video of a song I really like. Titled "Hospital Food", of course.


"...tell me something, tell me something I don't already know..."

Things I don't understand #38...

...Who Sonic actually thinks they're fooling.

So after enjoying yet another Rangers defeat Friday night, my companion and I set out in search of ice cream. Unfortunately, our quest was threatening to be an abject failure based partly one some poor driving choices on my part but also because our primary target was closed...for good. It also didn't help that it took me so long to discover said closure that the clock had struck eleven. The time when all ice cream shops, it seems, turn out the lights. That left me scrambling for options, of which I came up with two. One, Sonic, "America's drive-in" or two, find a grocery store and by a carton. For whatever reason we chose (obviously, considering the overt direction of this post) Sonic. BTW, locating a Sonic in Dallas is not always the easiest of tasks, either...but I digress (honestly, isn't this entire blog one large digression?)

So I slide into a spot (behind the windows...I hate those guys staring at me while I order...or worse while I eat) and after quite a bit of vacillation we went with two SonicBlasts. One with M&M's, the other with Reece's peanut butter cups. And of course we had to get the large. I mean, six more ounces for only 40 more cents? What kind of fools do you think we are? In case your not completely current on the Sonic menu, the Blast is Sonic's answer to a Blizzard. (If you don't know what a Blizzard is, that might call your humanity into question.) So in the brief amount of time between me screaming into the tiny speaker and the "frozen treats" being delivered, I turned and said, "You know what's gonna happen? I don't know why we came here because we're gonna get these things and they'll have some candy on top but by the time we get half-way through it will be nothing but a vat of soft-serve vanilla ice cream." I must admit I was wrong. Because what we actually received would probably best be described as a dusting of candy. I might have gotten half of one Reece's...maybe. I guess we should have sent them back but, well, I'm just not that guy. It was then proposed that we acquire our own candy and mix it ourselves. I'm not saying this was a failure, but let's just say that it might have been better in theory than in practice. Something about chipped teeth on frozen M&M's and almost choking on half of a Reece's cup. And I was out 3 more bucks, 2 for the candy and one for the guy who was begging outside the 7-11 (my philosophy on how to deal with the destitute is still in flux). I think we both had a couple more bites and realized we probably could have split a small and been just as happy (which was not really all that happy).

But like I said, I shouldn't have even been there. Some months back some friends called and asked if I wanted to join them for dinner. I said, "Sure, why not." They then informed me they decided they wanted Sonic and to pick it up on my way over... and I could get something for myself if I wanted. Thanks. Well, I think even then when informed of the choice of restaurant, I said, "You know they're just gonna screw it up." But I went, I ordered, I realized that a side of fries was missing, then delivered the order. But of course, I had missed an order of tots and my sandwich (MY SANDWICH!) was not prepared correctly. At this point I made a proclamation that I was done with Sonic. That "why should I care if they don't?" And just in case you're wondering, my poor experiences are spread over various location, not just one.

So despite that fact that it's the only place I can get an Extra-Long Chili Cheese Coney and that they have some of the best commercials going...

...I'm on to you Sonic and you are on a very short leash.

Things I don't understand #37...

...How we still haven't come up with a better way to find a tornado.

If you live anywhere around me (i.e. north Texas) you were probably awakened somewhere between 3:30 am and 4:30 am this morning by the sense that all was not well. Whether it was the rain against the windows, the howling wind, or actual warning sirens; sleep was interrupted last night. My first thought when I woke up was, "Dangit! Why am I awake?" My second was, "Oh it just rain hitting the window." The third was, "Wait a second, rain hardly ever hits my window directly, much less the entire expanse from top to bottom." At this point I actually made an attempt to fight through the grogginess. Got up and, of course as any highly intelligent person would do, went straight up to the window. What I saw was a raging storm. The rate at which the rain pounded my window made it feel like I was sitting behind the windshield of a big bus trying to drive through a hurricane. But I was standing still so that meant the rain was making excellent time. I stood there for a couple of minutes blinking at the night sky until I finally realized that despite my 20/15 vision and superior skills of observation, the chances of me actually predicting what might come next and the severity of such an event might be limited to the 30 feet surrounding the light pole nearest me. I flipped on the TV.

My friend Pete Delkus was already on the case (BTW, don't get me wrong, I love Pete. But I still miss Troy Dungan and his cute little bow tie sometimes). He informed me that, indeed, I was residing right in the middle of a tornado warning. That sounded serious. I then got my first look at the radar and just about messed my britches. There were several little circulating things and he kept saying "rotation" and mentioning points of interest very near where I stood. I pondered if I needed to retire to the tub and take my mattress along as a security blanket. Soon after, the warning was canceled and I relaxed.

I watched the news a little more as they moved into the "let's talk about what's happened phase" (I guess all those towns east of here would just have to figure it out on their own). After one rather inane phone interview with a guy in Las Colinas who witnessed a roof getting torn off a house, they spoke with some official in Ft. Worth. The storm had moved through there over an hour earlier and they were questioning whether some damage had been caused by plain old wind or a tornado. That's when I realized that the only way we know for sure if there was a tornado is if someone actually sees it. Despite all these stations with all their million dollar radars, we're still have yet to improve on the method of weather prediction shockingly similar to me standing dreary-eyed and looking out the window. After all this talk of supercells and wall clouds and hook echos and mesocyclones, the only thing we can really count on is Bubba in his pick-up eye-balling a twister. Pete did mention that storm watchers were being asked to report for duty, whatever that entails. But did any one notice it was 4 am? And thus dark? How exactly is Bubba supposed to see it in the dark? As defenses against an F5 go, that really doesn't seem to be all that impenetrable.

Things I don't understand #36...

...How guys can spend all their time playing basketball and look like this.

The photo you see is of Memphis forward Pierre Niles. If you happened to watch the NCAA Championship game you got to see him make the briefest of appearances. Of course, his entry into the line-up was an immediate signal to Kansas to push the ball and, the resulting lay-up was most likely the impetus for Pierre leaving the game some 34 seconds later. The best part was watching him back pedal into the lane on defense. Talk about not playing to your strengths.

Honestly, I could probably include "Things I don't understand #37" as why anyone ever believes the stats in programs. Mr. Niles is listed by MSU as a 6'8", 310 pound sophomore. Yeah...uh no offense but I've met 310 lbs., I've known 310 lbs. (unfortunately), and you, sir, are no 310 lbs. I would lay big money to him being closer to 400 than 310. But how? If you stop to consider the facts, it's dumbfounding. He's probably 20, which means he's been playing ball for at least 12 years. Most likely for the last 5 or 6, he's been playing it everyday or at least for 6-7 months of each year. As sports go, basketball is not exactly the cushiest of choices. You might could talk me into it being the most cardiovascularly demanding of the sports. As a baseball fan (and former participator), I know where the fat guys can still play with some level of effectiveness and, basketball is not necessarily it (that's Prince Fielder over there). Football's probably not a bad choice either. But if you're tipping the scales at 310 (or 360), attempts at rebounding and lay-ups become classified as heavy lifting. Jumping is usually required in b-ball, and if memory serves the last time an offensive lineman medaled in the high jump was...yeah...never. If you weigh as much any three of the cheerleaders combined, God might be telling you to keep your activities a little closer to the terra firma. And the song playing in the background to your highlights is not gonna be "I Believe I Can Fly".

Things I don't understand #35...

...Why anyone bothered to invent the dishwasher and why I continue using one.
Let's review. There is a machine called a dishwasher. Its name suggests it should wash dishes. If memory serves and the History channel isn't lying, machines were built to make doing something easier, me more productive, or do it more efficiently. (Can't everyone pretty much fill in the rest of this post themselves? We all see where I'm going here, right? What? Ok, because I respect and appreciate you so much, I'll keep going.) So how small must my iPod get before dishwashing technology reaches the point where a dishwasher actually serves it's primary purpose?

Because apparently before this fantastic contraption can "clean" my dishes, I must first scrub and rinse all the dishes. I may not be as clear on the non-automated dishwashing process as I thought, but at that point aren't I just one more step away from completing the act of washing the dish myself? Am I supposed to believe that this large box of useless metal parts was built so I wouldn't have to fill half the sink with soapy water? I really think I could pull that off with very few mishaps if I had to. Plus, you got the whole film factor. I mean, what is that? So my glass or bowl is officially clean (it was in a running dishwasher for over an hour after all) but now looks cloudy and might require another rinse? Oh, and that film is there forever. The dishwasher says you're welcome.

I don't even want to go into the environmental/conservation issues that should be addressed (I am the guy who pours motor oil down the drain just for fun) but, I have some serious concerns. This marvel of technology--that takes over an hour from start to finish to do something I could probably do in 20--also contains a heating element all running on Ben Franklin's electricity (I actually create my own electricity*). Then there's all that water being thrown around in there. Add that to the water I had to use to "pre-rinse" and what I'll probably have to use to "post-rinse" and well, my favorite mug is using more water to get clean than I do. Don't get me wrong I love the idea of the dishwasher, but I think we need to start over. And I would, but then I'd have to find something to do with all that dishwasher soap.

[ * Source: Matrix]

Things I don't understand #34...

...How men and women can have such disproportionate opinions about their birthday. And by that I mean, women care and men don't. (Obviously, this is gross generality, but you did come to my blog after all.) I was lucky enough to get invited to someone's birthday party this weekend (I mean, how could you not invite me? I am the party.) and shockingly it was for a she. Granted, it was one of the noteworthy ones, ending in a zero and all, but it was the biggest birthday party I've been to in a while. I don't even remember if I had a party when I celebrated a similar "accomplishment". But it got me thinking about this dichotomy. If I've heard the phrase "It's my day" once, I've heard it a hundred times...exclusively from the fairer of the species. I was reminded by a female friend recently that it was her "birthday weekend". Huh? So even though this particular event by definition might should be limited to a singular day of blanket entitlement(which I still question), now it encompasses an entire four-day weekend?

I think another way this is easily demonstrated is in how one answers the question, "So what do you want to do for your birthday." You might even get the same verbal response from a man and a woman, "I don't know," but it seems with ladies that it's spoken with a gleam in the eyes and a devilish smile(as if they've just been reminded they are,indeed, the queen). I have experienced the following things from women that have passed through my life in regards to birthdays: a 30 day countdown to her birthday, divulgence of a plan for her own birthday party that included a large garden (think British garden here) and an orchestra...and fireworks, my own mother harassing my friends to ensure that my first birthday at college would be recognized with cake and decorations despite my assurances that I would be o.k. (and that I don't really like cake all that much), being asked on several occasions, and only by women, "You didn't get your birthday off at work?" Uh no. In what world do you get your birthday off?

The other thing that throws me for a bit of a loop is that my experience also suggests that women are the ones most distressed by the actual age they are celebrating...over four days. It just seems like a strange universe where you want everyone and everything to stop down for "Your day" but no one to inquire as to the specifics of said day. But what do I know? I just hope you know whether it's your birthday or not, I think you're great.

Things I don't understand #33...

...How we made it through the winter.
Yes, It's that time of year. The sky turns bluer. The sun turns sunnier. Breezes turn warmer. Grass turns greener. Love is in the air. And my old friend has returned. Sure, three official games have already been played, but today is "Opening Day". I believe that there will be something like 8 games televised today, and I can count on at least one being on until sometime near Columbus Day. Music to my ears. It's so comforting to know that there's something that will always be there for you. I must admit I've taken my sports true-love for granted in previous years. I haven't paid it the attention it needs or deserves. But if it will take me back, I promise to do better. It might have something to do with the fact that the team I follow, my hometown team the stRangers, have been downright dreadful lately(And that's saying something when you consider their history). But that's no excuse. It's a beautiful game, maybe even perfect.

Next week a friend and I will continue our tradition of attending opening day of said local team together. In recent years his two young sons have been added to expedition but, I'm still not sure who enjoys themselves more. Probably, the kids (they do get to skip school after all), but their father and I usually share an odd sense of glee (And that's just after enjoying a hot dog). Last year did produce at least one tense moment for me, though. Steve (my friend) had left to go rustle up some food for the boys. They had agreed(somewhat begrudgingly) to stay in the seats with Uncle Jason so as to expedite the food run. The youngest(who still wasn't sure if Uncle Jason was all he was cracked up to be, and who can blame him) informed me he needed to take care of some business, and I don't mean at the nearest ATM. I assured him that his father would be returning shortly (I actually did believe this). After about 2 minutes, things apparently took a bad turn, for at this point he began squirming in his seat (which is difficult when you legs are pressed so tightly together). He also appeared to be approaching the point of tears, and in between mini sobs would remind me (and the 10-20 people within earshot) that he needed to tee-tee (or pee-pee or whatever phrase is cleared in his family). In my best attempt at empathy, I promised his dad would be back soon (Where the hell is he?). You might be thinking, why didn't you just take him? Well, my lack of experience in this particular area (and probably feeble mind) left me with no idea as how to handle the logistical problems introduced. If I took him, I would also have to take his brother, because leaving a 7 year-old alone at a sold-out stadium didn't seem like a good idea. That also meant I would have to collect the backpack that had been prepared and the various coats and jackets. Lugging all that to the long line at the men's room while having to somehow get word to Dad that his kids had not, if fact, disappeared seemed like too much of a risk. The pleas continued, and grew in loudness and intensity. At this point, I was starting to feel the glares of the surrounding patrons as they were now sure I was cruelest man to walk the face of the earth. I mean who just makes a little kid sit there and suffer? Hello. Well, his dad did return. Come to find out, he had tried to also procure souvenirs which had delayed him those few minutes that allowed us to go from defcon 5 to defcon 1. Despite the bumpy start, the day was a success. The Rangers might have even won (probably not). But opening day is...well...opening day. And baseball is baseball.

Things I don't understand #32...

...Why the networks keep foisting inane sideline reporters on us.
I think this topic was actually suggested to me by a friend some time ago, but I'm not sure I fully appreciated it until recently. Don't get me wrong, I've been feed up with these "reporters" and their tired act for years, but not until the tournament started did I fully understand how very little I needed them. I realized in watching way too many hours of basketball last weekend that I never saw a sideline reporter. With so many games and so much stuff happening at once I'm guessing they decided they neither had the time nor the manpower to force feed us such drivel. And what drivel it is. I think I recall a time back when I was a wee lad that Lynn Swann(damn Steelers!) used to appear on my TV screen and let me know if someone was injured, and possibly even to what degree. You know, actual information that I could use. But those days are long since gone.

Now, sideline reporters come in two basic forms. The female reporter who's coming at you with prepared pieces about so-and-so who used to play Frisbee golf with his dead uncle and how those memories spur him to be the exceptional athlete you see today (i.e. Suzy Kolber or Pam Oliver[see above]). Or you get the ex-jock who just makes failed attempts at being funny (i.e. Tony Siragusa...yeah, that guy). The former(which is a large majority of the sideline reporter population), when they're not giving me useless personal interest stories, are usually trying to prove they belong be either adding their own commentary or just generally acting egotistical about their role in the entire affair (see Pam Oliver especially). There's also evidence to suggest that the ladies deepen their voice when they get on the sideline. Now is where I tell you something that will probably get me pegged as a sexist, but I think you need to hear it. You see, guys (about 85% of the sports watching audience) don't want to hear commentary about sports from the ladies. I'm sorry. We're not that enlightened (We are the type of guys who really like sports, after all). The moment we hear it, we either pay attention for points of comedy or just stop listening altogether. The result of all this is that we basically have no use for the female sideline reporter unless they happen to be attractive. Yes, it's primitive and crude and barbaric but, I am talking about men after all.

This in no way means that I have any tolerance for the second example as well. Maybe less. They should know better. But all these ex-jocks are so used to people telling them how great they are, I think they fail to realize how great they are not. I have been known to inadvertently change the channel at the mere sound of Tony Siragusa's voice. I actually think at the Superbowl they had three sideline reporters on duty. And by duty I mean...well I don't know. At one point, and my memory is real spotty here, someone who should have been on the field wasn't. I wondered if that someone was injured. I'm pretty sure had you been in close proximity while I viewed said bowl, you might have heard me yell at the screen that if only there were some sideline reporters to go report on such sideline activity. But no. They were too busy trying to decide if Tom Brady's romantic life was having a negative impact on his play. Maybe it was, but no one who cares about the game, any game, wants time wasted on these pompous, preening sideline starlets. So enjoy these games without them, because I'm pretty sure your respite will be short.

And finally, no talk of sideline reporting could be complete without mentioning that great day when Suzy Kolber ran into the very drunk and very frisky hall of famer, Joe Namath. Strug-gle-ling...

Things I don't understand #31...

...pregnant men.
Yeah, you read that right. Go ahead and read it again if you want to. Seriously? This is what we've come to? Listen, I think I've done a pretty good job for the most part dealing with this "new world" in which I find myself. My Baptist, small town upbringing did not necessarily completely prepare me for everything that this life might have in store. Like having a drug dealer and a transvestite living in my dorm in college. Or having a boss that's a woman...or one that's gay...or both. That people might view the existence of God as a bad thing. That some might view the existence of cream gravy as a bad thing. Heck, I've even grown accustomed to the idea that some women instead of saying, "Thank you," will seethe and look at me with scorn because I bothered to open the door for them (Yes, I know you can do it yourself but, even though my mom lives 100 miles away and my grandmother is in a nursing home, there's still the remote possibility that they could come around the corner at any moment and remind my that, "You were raised better than that!" And well, I would rather you go first anyway. What? No I didn't mean anything by that either. I just meant that...Ok, fine if we find ourselves on the Titanic and it's going down I will allow you to give up your seat on the lifeboat to me. Are we good now?) In most cases, I handled each scenario with aplomb (the cream gravy thing still kinda throws me). But there was always one thing on which I thought we all were clear.

The women are the ones having the babies. Not so much, Jason (Yeah, third person again...deal). So a "man" in Oregon got himself pregnant. Neat trick. If you're thinking this is some sort of April fools joke, we're about a week early. It seems that Thomas used to be a woman but had a sex change operation to become a man. He got legal and everything. Thomas got married, but his wife is unable to have children. Luckily, despite the sex change (don't we need to get a little pickier about the definition of that particular phrase?) , Thomas kept his "reproductive rights". So now I've got to somehow reconcile a pregnant man with my (incredibly enlightened) worldview. Where's Dr. Phil when you need him? But doesn't this just really prove that not even our government requires commitment from it's citizens? So you have the surgery and take the hormones and all that that requires, but no one ever says, "It looks like everything is in order here Mr. Beatie. Oh, by the way you don't happen to have any organs that might allow you to birth another human, do you?" No? I'm the only one thinking that? Yeah, I know. I've still got some work to do.

Things I don't understand #30...

...How movies like Ghost Rider ever get made. (Yes, we now return to the general nonsensical buffoonery that you've all come to expect)
Really. You're telling me this got by writers and directors (in this case the same person), producers, studio execs and numerous other supposed motion picture gatekeepers and no one thought to say, "Uh...has anyone noticed that this really sucks and doesn't seem to make any sense?" No one? Oddly enough, I got a urgent memo from the Department of Flimsy Premises a mere three minutes into this travesty, but I sallied forth. Despite what some might say, I do not shirk from commitment. Afterall, this movie featured such noteworthy actors as Nicolas Cage playing the title character who starred in Face Off and Con Air. Or Eva Mendes as Ghost Rider's love interest, who made such epics as Hitch and 2 Fast 2 Furious. (As an aside, the more I see of Eva Mendes' "acting" the more I'm convinced that the major reason she continues to get movie roles is her ability to fill out a dress.) Also there's Wes Bentley playing the devil's son, Blackheart, whom I'm sure has been in something since American Beauty but there's a good chance no one has noticed. And let's not forget the devil as played by Peter Fonda, who was produced from Henry Fonda's sperm and was inducted into the AMA Motorcycle Hall Of Fame. How could all these "great" actors go wrong? Surely they wouldn't lead me astray. Oh, but they would.

First I'll give a brief synopsis so you've got some idea how the story goes (I assume I'm the only one of us dumb enough to sit through this):

When the motorcyclist Johnny Blaze finds that his father Barton Blaze has a terminal cancer, he accepts a pact with the Mephistopheles, giving his soul for the health of his beloved father. But the devil deceives him, and Barton dies in a motorcycle accident during an exhibition. Johnny leaves the carnival, his town, his friends and his girlfriend Roxanne. Years later Johnny Blaze becomes a famous motorcyclist, who risks his life in his shows, and he meets Roxanne again, now a TV reporter. However, Mephistopheles proposes to Johnny that he will release his contract if he becomes the "Ghost Rider" and defeats his evil son Blackheart, who wants to possess one thousand evil souls and transform hell on earth.

How could this be bad, right? Yeah. Well, the first problem is that we spend a tad too much time in the build up. The first 20-30 minutes are spent with teen Johnny Blaze(Ghost Rider) and Roxanne. By the way, isn't your future already set if your name is Johnny Blaze? Don't you pretty much either have to have a career doing something that requires you traveling in excess of 200 MPH or setting stuff on fire? (Luckily, Ghost Rider gets to do both!) I mean Johnny Blaze, tax accountant just doesn't have the same flair. Then another quarter hour is spent showing us how Mr. Blaze has become the greatest motorcycle daredevil of all time. No matter how big the jump or how horrific the crash he always is okay (Another pet peeve. For his last big feat, he "sets" a new world record by jumping a football field goalpost to goalpost. 300 feet they kept saying. Well, a football field from one goalpost to the other is not 300 feet. It's 360 feet. The posts are at the back of each endzone, which are 10 yards long. The field from post to post is 120 yards...WHICH EQUALS 360 FEET!!!) So it's over 45 minutes before I get my first look at the actual Ghost Rider(I thought I was promised flaming skeletons on motor bikes, people!). And I got to be honest, not all that great. Plus, every time the Ghost Rider rides, everything lining the streets or in close proximity seems to be consumed by flames. Bad gas mileage is one thing, but this? I'm pretty sure Al Gore would not be pleased, no matter what evil you might be trying to thwart. Questions I still had at this point in the picture: What is his(Ghost Rider's) actual purpose? What's so great about having a contract for souls? Does he(Ghost Rider) have super powers? What are they? Honestly, I had very little idea what was going on. It was at this point that the undertaker shows up in the form of Sam Elliot to finally give us some background on the Ghost Rider and his function (I'm glad they only waited an hour!). Sam Elliot was probably the only thing worth watching in this whole mess (and well, maybe whatever dress Eva Mendes might have been filling), but even he was forced to deliver some moments of cheese. So, the Ghost Rider apparently is supposed to return those who have escaped Hell and collect contracts for souls in his downtime from being head truant officer of Hades. Fine, whatever. Let's get this going, already.

So Johnny pursues Blackheart and his band of merry spirits, but is erroneously arrested(honestly, the police's evidence was weak and very circumstantial) for the murders that the devil's son seems to have no qualms about committing. He breaks out of jail (this was surprisingly not that difficult for the chief agent of the prince of the underworld who is aflame and impervious to bullets). The bad guys figure out Ghost Rider is in love ("But now we know he has a weakness.") and kidnap said love (shocker). Ghost Rider then teams up with the undertaker who we discover was the last Ghost Rider who had been "living" surreptitiously for over 200 years (why this is possible is never explained, BTW) while protecting this contract that's so freaking important. Oh, the last Ghost Rider was the one who originally flipped the devil the bird and sent this whole preposterous plot in motion (but Sam Elliot spit and said,"Knucklehead." So, I'm cool with it). So, the Rider meets Blackheart to trade the contract for the girl (1000 souls for one dress-filling lass still seems steep), but he has a plan...he has a plan. Yeah, anyway he wins (with the help of his best girl even though he told her to, "Run!") and everyone is happy...except the devil. Because Johnny tells him he can keep his soul because he's going to use his powers (flaming skull and fancy motor bike that somehow responds to audible commands from afar) for good and battle the devil and his sinister ways (You take that, you Author of Evil, you!). You've got to leave room for a sequel, you know. Which reminds me, I can't wait for Ghost Rider 2.

Things I don't understand #29...

...God's love.
(Admittedly, this topic is probably far too weighty for a place such as this...)
Sitting in church last Sunday listening to the sermon I was struck (finally, some might say) by the gravity of the scripture (Romans 8:31-34) as it relates to this day (Good Friday). It asks, "If God is with us, who can be against us?" My pastor (Dr. Denison) pointed out that the word "If" would probably be more accurately translated to "Since" or "Because". The question is not whether God is for us or not. He is. The question is, "Who can be against us?" In the following verses we are given more evidence of this one-sidedness. He was willing to give up his own Son for us (v. 32). Then another question, "Who will bring any charge?" (v. 33) And even if they did, God is the one who will be judge. And in case we need more convincing of God's bias towards us, Jesus--the one who died for our sins-- will be there pleading our case. How can we lose?

At that moment, I realized that God is continually working on our behalf. Pursuing us. Wishing us well. Despite the fact that at our best we are moderately loyal and adequately faithful(hopefully). That goodness is always a work in progress within us. Despite the fact that we are quite an insufferable lot, God loves us. Loves us so much that on this day, God allowed his only Son to die in our place. I am not a father, but I've yet to find one that didn't have considerable difficulty even conjuring up the idea of allowing his son to die when he had the power to stop it... much less die for one that actually deserved it. God loved me and you so much he not only allowed it but put this plot in motion. So if you question whether God loves you, whether God is for you, today is your proof. We shouldn't need it but we do. In some ways, this might should rank "Good Friday" as the most important of days for us lowly humans. Of course, Sunday(Easter) is pretty big, too. As Paul says, "...if Christ has not been raised,...useless is your faith" (1 Cor. 15:14) But the existence of Good Friday removes all doubt, God loves us. He loves me. He loves you. So Happy Good Friday...and Happy Easter.

Things I don't understand #28...

...How this became one of the biggest sports days of the year.
Actually, the next two may be the biggest. It's rumored that these two days cost employers more money in employee down time than any other, as workers become distracted by games or by just trying to keep track of their "bracket". Many are known to take extra long lunches and some have just decided to take vacation days rather than deal with the temptation (I must plead guilty to both at some time in my past). What I find odd is the interest and affection that many men and even quite a few women (hey ladies!) hold for this tournament. A large majority of those caught up in "March Madness" would probably have to admit to not watching one regular season game. Now some of you out there might try to blame the seeming disinterest in the regular season on the fact that "so many teams"(65) get into the tournament thus rendering the regular season moot. That's all well and good until you take any time to look at the numbers and realize that 19% of D1 teams make it in. On the other hand, in the NBA and NHL 53% of teams make it to the playoffs. The NFL lets 38% of its teams in. Major League Baseball, which is considered miserly compared to it's professional cohorts, still allows 26% of its teams to compete for the championship. So one could argue, that of all the "major team sports" that America follows, the NCAA basketball tournament is the most exclusive...except for college football which lets less than 1% of teams compete for a championship (Don't get me started).

In the end, the best explanation I can come up with as to why these three weeks are so golden is a combination of the packed schedule and the somewhat intangible fact that it always seems to deliver. Whether it be big upsets or buzzer-beaters, intelligent team basketball or one-man shows, the tournament always gives us something. Sure, sometime Friday night after watching around 20 hours of first-round games predominantly played by teams I don't care about and in some cases didn't even know existed, I might think I can't watch any more... that is until Saturday.

Things I don't understand #27...

...What I'm supposed to do when "American Idol" and "Dancing With the Stars" comes on at the same time on the same night.

I know, right! This is ridiculous. Who's in charge of scheduling in TV Land*? Obviously, I'm not. Because if I were, tragedies such as this would never occur. I just thank God that "The Bachelor" and "Big Brother" weren't on, too (Although, with this injustice, I'm starting to wonder if God is still paying attention.) How is one expected to choose between the elegance of deaf girls and 400lb magicians or the magical (yet, obviously necessary) re-workings of Beatles tunes by twelve people I've never heard of...still. How could I possibly be prepared to pick between watching scantily clad women twirl around or guys with questionable sexual orientation belt out the hits (Ok admittedly, that's really kind of a no-brainer).

Sure, in some ways the shows are the same. The mysterious back-up band lurking in the shadows. The over-the-top pageantry for each contestant. The faux-suspense-building delays orchestrated by hosts of questionable relevance (really, where do they find these guys?). But in other ways, they're so very different. For instance, one has a panel of three judges. One is guy who sometimes likes the performance, sometimes doesn't. Another is a girl of mysterious ethnic origin who likes everything. And the third is a crotchety dude who hates everything and delivers his critiques with a British accent. Oh wait...uh...well one of them has professional athletes. And I'm sure there's other stuff that's different about them, too. But how can I be expected to find those if they're both on at the same time? I can't. So that's why I watched the Mav's game instead.

++Disclaimer++
Some might think that because I was able to include some random details about these shows that I actually watch them, even if my public persona demands that I deny such. This is not the case. I have seen approximately 20 minutes of A.I. (short for "American Idol") since it's inception and about 7 minutes of D.W.t.S. (uh...yeah, I think you got it) since it's birth. In both cases, most of that was me suffering through 30 seconds waiting for the show I actually wanted to watch start. I will admit there was one time where I thought I could watch a whole 10 minutes of DWTS while I waited, but after about three minutes I was so ashamed of myself I was sure my neighbors would hear and report me to the authorities. At which point, they would have no choice but to castrate me for my crimes against manhood. I would have had to relent, for I could not think of any reasonable defense. I then dived for the remote. Instead, what this should do is go on to prove that these catastrophes of pop culture are so pervasive that one cannot somehow be collaterally ingrained with such useless knowledge without finding a large whole, climbing in it, and covering it with a slightly larger rock. I am not that fond of rocks, so instead I carry this needless info inside my skull.

(*This in no way refers to the Nickelodeon run network)

Things I don't understand #26...

...How the microwave works.
Or maybe how it's supposed to work. Now, over the years I've figured several things out as far as the glorious invention of the microwave goes. Like (1)never leave bread in there for longer than 10 seconds. It just turns to a rubbery lump. (2)If you hear an explosion emanating from the microwave, go ahead and stop it. And (3)anything warmed with a filling, especially a chocolate filling, should be considered dangerous and treated with the utmost respect. But what I can't seem to get a handle on is the method of attack the microwave seems to sometimes take.

A lot of times, it appears that a bowl of food will actually be warmer near the bottom than the top, where the food is exposed. Add it seems that some foods take much longer to warm up than others despite what intuition might indicate. I obviously can't grasp exactly how the waves emit or what molecules are going to being polarized and in what order. Case in point, last week I went to warm up some left-overs consisting of chicken enchiladas and beans(yes, my life is one big gourmet festival). I assumed (yes, I know what happens when I assume) that the enchiladas would take much longer to warm than the beans considering the density of the flour tortilla, chicken, cheese and sauce conglomeration. I figured the beans with their large surface area would need much less time. Both had been refrigerated but considering the previous facts entered into evidence, I decided to microwave the enchiladas for a minute, then add the beans to the plate for an additional minute. So it went off without a hitch, right? Uh, notski. When I pulled the plate out of the "oven", the enchiladas were sizzling, they were definitely ready to be digested. The beans? Uh, they were not so sizzling. So when I gave them the tried-and-true and very scientific "stick my finger in the middle of it" test, I discovered that they were cold. Not "cold" in the not warm enough sense, but "cold" in the "these were just flown in from the arctic" cold. Huh? A spoonful of beans spends an entire minute in the hallowed arena of the microwave and comes out cold? At that point, I was afraid subjecting my tasty food to the horrors of electromagnetic waves and all that implies might cause some sort of nuclear enchilada holocaust in my kitchen. I'm not saying it was likely, but safety first, right? So I soldiered on and enjoyed my enchiladas with a side of cold beans. And if I were to be faced with this predicament again, I now have no idea what to do.

Things I don't understand #25...

...How you're supposed to find out about new music.
I will plead guilty to being a bit of a music fan, but it seems that it becomes increasingly more difficult to find the new stuff out there. Unless you want to spend hours upon hours scouring the web or attend SXSW, of course (Why am I not at SXSW right now?). The cause of my greatest consternation in this area is caused by the fact that even though I live in the 5th largest media market in the country(Dallas), there is not one music radio station worth listening to. We're hoping with the return of the "Eagle" maybe the "Edge" will cut the heavy metal and return to some level of respectability, but it seems like a pipe dream. Because I haven't really listened to music radio in 5 years, I had to find other methods. For a while I used the reviews in the newspaper as a possible source, but then they fired half their staff several years ago and did away with such trivialities as music reviews, so screw me again. I've heard quite a few of those in the know like Pitchfork, but for some reason I find it off putting and don't go there as much as I probably should(As soon as I figure out why, I'll let you know.) Our good friend Lex has his new album recommendations, which is also helpful. There's also last.fm, which allows you to view what I might be listening to over there to the left, but I must admit I still have yet to grasp its complete value.

My biggest source of music has come from my subscription to emusic. And because emusic has gone to great lengths to position itself as the home of indie rock, well guess who finds themselves as somewhat of an indie rock fan (Hello! Hey, over here. Yeah, me.) I never envisioned myself as indie. I'm guessing most who know me just choked on something at the thought of me being called "indie" anything. Anyway, emusic offers more than its fair share of free downloads. Along with the occasional free offerings from labels (indie labels of course), the site also offers a free download of the day (*Note* To access that feature, you must download a browser toolbar, but I think it's worth it.) Even with my access to the site and other efforts, I still feel like a lot of the times I do find something new that I like it just happened by accident. One of my recent discoveries came from my own iPod. I put it on shuffle and walked by it later and thought, "I really like that. Where in God's name did it come from?" I had downloaded it months earlier (from emusic) and had not paid it enough attention.

So I thought we could help each other out a bit. I'll point you in the direction of some places I've discovered that offer free downloads and maybe you can do the same. Also, I guess if you already have an emusic* account, we could trade nicknames and be able to check out what we each decided was download worthy (Mine's Farky. Shocker, huh.). So here's a hand full of sites I've stumbled upon:

Missingtoof.com
Daytrotter.com
RCRDLBL.com
Square productions
Stereogum.com
And to be oh so very timely; SXSW offers many free downloads of bands performing this week here.

Finally, I thought I'd leave you with my proudest discovery of the last 6 months. One of those "How am I just now hearing this?" moments that makes you wonder if your abode is doubling as a large rock. And then you go find multiple albums worthy of you time and adulation. The band in this case was Spoon. And I will leave you with their newest release, "The Underdog". I dare you not to like this song. I DARE YOU.


(*If you don't have an emusic account I'd be glad to introduce you. What? Will I get something for getting you to join? Ah, don't worry about that.)