Things I don't understand #51...

...The sports miracle that is Josh Hamilton.

It's baseball again. And you almost got this last week but, well...stuff happens...I was busy...and sick...and lazy. Anyway, you should probably just go read the cover story in SI this week, but I'll try to give you the Cliff's Notes version. Josh Hamilton is the new center fielder for the Texas Rangers. Acquired in an off-season trade with the Reds, he is now the story of Major League Baseball(thus the cover story).

Nine years ago, out of high-school, he was the top pick in the MLB draft. He was the ultimate 5-tool player (hit for average, hit for power, good glove, good arm, can run like the wind) in a 6"4', 225 lbs. frame. A pure athlete and a natural at the game. Oh, and since he was known to unleash a fastball upwards of 95 mph, he could have also been a pitcher if he wanted to. He was also considered the antithesis of a troubled kid. All was going well until a dump truck smashed the car he was in as his mom drove. The time off because of injury was the impetus for a downward spiral of epic proportions. Coke binges then became the new norm, and by the time he had cleaned up he had been out of baseball for a couple of years.

Josh found a renewed faith in God and an understanding that he's lucky to be alive. He also refuses to carry more than $20 in his wallet at any given time to ensure any temptation doesn't turn into something more. What's miraculous is that it's seems he's lost nothing in his return. After playing only about have the season last year, his numbers this year are staggering(considering he's also making the sometimes difficult transition to another league). His name is found in the same sentence as the phrase "Triple Crown" (leader in HR's, RBI, and Avg.). He's already had several highlight reel catches and he's been compared to Mickey Mantle (that never happens). Did I mention he's on the cover of Sports Illustrated(first Ranger in almost 10 years)? I also got to personally witness one of Hamilton's majestic blasts. It went out into the concourse of the second level(that doesn't happen either). And then after Tuesday's game I read this in the paper about Josh's eighth inning game clinching grand slam:

"I've been having trouble seeing here, and it's been kind of frustrating," said Hamilton, who broke a season-long RBI drought of four games with five RBIs. "I saw the ball leave his hand. It looked like a sinker. I closed my eyes and swung hard. When I opened them back up, it was heading towards the seats."

So apparently not only is he a stud athlete, but he's a Jedi. Not fair! Hitting home runs with your eyes closed should not be allowed. I'm just glad he plays for my team for once. Ah yes, the force is strong with this one.

Things I don't understand #50...

...Why no one talks like my grandfather anymore. (Well, except for my grandfather...and you know, all those like him.)

I could've spent this post celebrating the amazing feat of making it to 50 things, but I won't (you should, but I won't). Instead, I thought I'd reminisce about the sounds of my youth and home. Even though I've removed almost every verbal indicator that I originated not only from Texas(I still use y'all and howdy, but that's about it), but small town Texas (Gainesville by way of Paducah), I still enjoy going home and listening to certain family members talk. And sometimes I just miss hearing the vernacular of my rural upbringing. I think that may be partly do to the fact that I live in the "big city"(Dallas) and find myself constantly surrounded by city slickers, Yankees, or a combo of the two. Conversely, my grandfather(or Pappaw as some might call him) arrived in Texas as a small child in a covered wagon(and yes, he's one of those grandfathers who's nice to pretty much everyone and can fix pretty much anything).

Despite the fact that we were related, all throughout my childhood and youth it seemed I was always being confronted with the notion that we just talked differently. At times it lead to down right confusion. The first one I really remember is the word "battries". Yes, I know it's not a word. But my grandfather used it all the time. Everything probably just needed new "battries". I was sure I was supposed to know what these were. My only hunch was that he meant batteries, but he was definitely not saying that. I finally got up the nerve to ask my mom, at which point she laughed and confirmed they were, indeed, batteries. I think that only cost me about two years of tension.

Another point of confusion cropped up much later. I worked with my grandfather on a couple of summers off during college. This was also when I discovered my Pappaw liked to talk a lot more when Mammaw(my grandmother) wasn't around, but let's try to keep that between us. Anyway, as he would regale me with tales during our lunch hour, there seemed to be many occasions where someone needed to or should be trying to "get shut of" something. I think it took me approximately one month to first get through the southern twang to verify the words of this phrase and then figure out what it meant. What? Oh, it means to rid yourself of that particular item. But you have no idea how often I sat there repeating(or trying to repeat) that phrase over and over to myself trying to crack the code. It was a great day and quite a relief when I finally did "get shut of" that confoundedness.

Just in case you want to feed my nostalgia(maybe in celebration of 50 affiliated posts? I don't know) I thought I'd give you a list of some other words and phrases that I used to hear quite often, but now hardly ever hear (unless I'm trying to be funny or ironic). I'll also try to give a definition or maybe an example in case you're a Yankee so confused by my southern ways.

"Betcha a coke" - I was always confused about why we had to bet a coke to settle a disagreement(and no, coke should not be capitalized, because that meant any soft drink)

Directly - with out delay. Ex. "He found out his wife was home waitin' on him and got out of there directly."

Ornery - stubborn with a touch grouchiness. Ex. "I tried to get Jason whatever he wanted to eat, but he was mad and got ornery and down right refused to touch his food."

Piddlin'- doing nothing in particular, wasting time. Ex. "I told him to have the yard done by the time I got back; but when I did, he was just out there roaming around picking up rocks...just piddlin."

Plumb - completely. Ex. "I meant to bring you the tickets, but I plumb forgot."

Reckon - guess, figure, estimate. Ex. "When I left he wasn't there, I reckon he'll make it home o.k."

Everwhichway - in any or all directions or methods. Ex. "That firecracker went off behind him, and he went everwhichway at once."

Gully washer - extended storm or downpour. Ex. "The weatherman said it wouldn't rain, but instead it came a gully washer."

Light out - move quickly, leave with haste. Ex. "That tomcat heard that dog bark and he lit out of there like he was on fire."

Now if I just had some cream gravy...

Things I don't understand #49...

...How this guy helped produce a perfectly beautiful baby girl.

Seriously. Look at him. How did he ever pass the qualification tests to be allowed to sire offspring? What's that? There's not a test? That is a problem. So once again the government can't be trusted. What's new? So where was God? Isn't there some sort of angelic monitoring system in place? I imagine some being with wings and a halo standing in the background with a ticker-tape, reading off different world events while God listens as He does His other godly stuff. "Johnny stole a bike, oil went up again, Barb stopped a fight, flood in Tunisia, Hillary actually thinks she'll be President, Yankees lost, Bryan's going to be a father..." Shouldn't that have caused His Heavenly Father to raise an omnipotent eyebrow and say, "Could you repeat that last one?" And then immediately get the accountants ready for an internal audit of the earthly oversight department?

But alas, what's done is done. And it's nothing short of a miracle. Truly, first he got a girl much more attractive than himself to marry him. Ensuring not only that his progeny would not be saddled with his, ahem, striking looks; but that there would be at least one capable parent in the household. So we're all thankful for that. But the need for prayers has really just begun. And know that this is obviously a joke...for the most part. I really don't know what the baby's going to think when that face keeps trying to comfort her at night. After a while he might actually succeed, and I'm sure she'll be ok. But that doesn't mean that as I sat there today holding 7 pound, 2 ounce Hayden a mere 13 hours after she was born that I didn't find myself looking at her, then looking at her dad and shaking my head as I thought, "He had a hand in this." It must really mean that anything is possible. And that there are miracles. And some things you just don't need to understand.

Things I don't understand #48...

...Why I don't recycle more.

You might take from that first sentence that I'm about to regale you with regrets about not taking proper care of our dear Mother Earth. This ain't that. I'm not saying I probably don't need to do it, it's just not happening today. What this is is just an excuse for me to basically reprint an old post (Don't make that face). Luckily, I've decided to revisit what is most likely my most popular post ever. I guess I could just provide a link, but I know most of you are too lazy and wouldn't read it if you actually had to leave this page, thus the reprint. Plus, if you've joined us in the subsequent 2 years since it's original posting this re-run will be brand new to you. Either way, I think it's worth another reading (of course I do, it's my blog).

As a reminder, a few notes.
#1) I used to go to a singles only Sunday School class.
#2) When I say 'Gay', I don't mean homo-sexual. I just mean...well...stuff like this. Things that make others question your manhood. That's why it could never apply to women.
#3) This is an actual email.
#4) Yes, I know I'm still mean.

I occasionally get email from my old Sunday school class. Most of them get deleted. Some get read just enough to see there's no reason not to delete them immediately. Some...some go down in the "You really need a blog hall of fame". This particular one marries that feat (rock me!) with an entry into the "Gayest e-mail hall of fame". So, as you can see I'm about to do something very mean. I am about to make fun of an e-mail sent to me via my Sunday School class. But, as I said previously, God should not allow me to be tempted in such ways. I will always fail. I will try to point out all the ways that this email is gay, which is kind of ironic considering the subject of the email. Without further delay, here's the email with the subject of "I'm engaged" (names have been changed in a feeble and half-arsed attempt to protect the innocent).

Hey folks! I'm in Illinois right now, kind of hanging out with my parents for a week or two while I pound madly away at my dissertation all day. Anyway, I'm engaged!!!!

Sending an email announcing your engagement: GAY

THE STORY:
Last Saturday was the SPECIAL day. I had picked FEMALE up from Indiana University in Bloomington the weekend before, and we'd spent the week, her spring break, rather quietly, hanging out with my parents (this was HER idea--she loves my parents). Finally Saturday arrived, which I'd told her would be special. She suspected something was up, but she didn't know much more than that.

It was destined to be a star-filled day.

That sentence: GAY

In the morning, I took her to Chicago's Adler Planetarium, which overlooks Lake Michigan. On the way there, we read from my field guide to the constellations. The cover of the book features a depiction of Ursa Major, the big bear. Her nickname for me is "Bear," so we had a little laugh about that.

Cute nickname talk: GAY

The planetarium was SO much fun.

SO much? : GAY

It's located on Lake Michigan, so it has a breathtaking vista which we really enjoyed. And because we're both museum lovers, we soaked in learning the whole day. For us, an ideal day!

Ending sentences with exclamation marks: GAY

The museum closed at 4:30, and as it was closing, the cafe area began hosting a wedding reception. So love was already in the air. :)

That sentence: VERY GAY
Use of emoticons: GAY

I then took her to this incredibly deluxe restaurant located on the top floor of the Hancock Building, one of Chicago's tallest skyscrapers. The reservations were for 5:30pm, so we were there in time to see the sunset blazing on Chicago's skyline as we enjoyed some EXTREMELY gourmet fare. I also had a bag of Godiva Chocolates with me, which I'd picked up from Northpark Mall.

Describing not only the brand of chocolate, but where it was purchased: GAY.

A week ago, I told her I had a surprise for her, but I wanted to throw her off the scent by telling her she could EAT the surprise (so she'd thing it wasn't a ring). The bag was part of the ruse. She didn't know there was a ring stashed in the bottom.

Thinking your fiance is actually falling for the "ruse": GAY

The plan was to eat our after-dinner chocolates somewhere special--that's all she knew. Well the FULL plan was to walk a block away to Watertower Place, where a horse-drawn carriage awaited us. Imagine my shock to find that it was physically impossible to cross the street to our carriage--an anti-war parade was blocking the way! On the spur of the moment, I whisked her into WaterTower Mall. Thankfully, a few minutes later, the parade had passed.

Getting all worked over a possible minor departure of plans: GAY

However, there was another hitch in the plan. I had arranged to have the carriage bring us to Navy Pier, which is right on Lake Michigan. (Navy Pier is like a cross between an old-school theme park and a high-tech entertainment venue that hosts plays, etc.)

Navy Pier (despite the name): GAY

However, though the parade had passed, the street itself was still virtually closed! And it stood between us and the Pier. I quickly suggested that we spend some time looking at books in a really deluxe Borders Bookstore

Overuse of the word deluxe, especially describing a chain bookstore: GAY

that's right on Michigan Avenue. (Sidenote: Michigan Avenue, a.k.a. the Magnificent Mile, is Chicago's version of 5th Avenue in New York.)

Sidenotes: GAY

Finally I slipped away from FEMALE in the bookstore, discovered that the street was now clear, and arranged to have the carriage take us down. Then I returned to FEMALE. She thought we were headed home. Instead, I brought her inside a beautiful horse-drawn carriage! Clop-clop-clop went the horse as we headed toward our mystery destination.

Onomatopoeic description of carriage ride: GAY

Gradually our goal was revealed to her: Navy Pier, where we'd had so much fun together last summer!

Did I mention the exclamation marks? : Still GAY

We enjoyed the lights, but primarily we headed to a secluded sandy beach just north of the Pier that we had enjoyed some months ago. As we approached the lapping waves of Lake Michigan, we looked up at the stars we had studied earlier in the day. Again I pointed out Ursa Major, the great bear. I then gave her a special chocolate from the bag, and as she was taking it out of its special container, I held her and said, "FEMALE, you can see that the sky has a bear... but you don't! FEMALE, could I be your bear??

Do you really need me to tell you? : Super GAY

FEMALE [getting down on one knee and opening up the case with the ring], would you marry me??" Angels appeared overhead and rejoiced (I think, kind of fuzzy after this) as FEMALE wept and we held each other!

The phrase "we held each other": GAY

A long, romantic ride back in the carriage followed, and our drive back to Morris. As we neared home, we opened a box of Godiva Chocolates. As FEMALE bit into the first one, I began playing a CD I'd burned while still home in Dallas. It was a compilation of "our songs," first Sinatra's "I've Got You Under My Skin," then Louis Armstrong's "Only You," and finally Judy Garland singing, "Somewhere Over the Rainbow."

The compilation: GAY
Judy Garland: Very GAY

I'd been singing these songs to her all week, so it was the culmination of days of preparation.

A week of those songs...being sung: GAY

It was too magical to go back home right away, so we went to a nearby park which is situated right on the Illinois river.

"Too magical"?: GAY

It was deserted and romantic. We opened the doors of the car, cranked up the music, and danced there in the dark next to the river, to the lilting rhythms of Sinatra.

Erroneously ascribing "rhythms" to Sinatra: GAY

The evening's finale came after we got home. I decided to wash FEMALE's feet. (Thanks for the idea, Alana!) I sat her down on her bed, brought in a special bowl and towel, and washed her feet, as an emblem of the life of service I would live for her, loving her as Christ loved the church!

My faith in God precludes me from commenting on the washing of feet thing

I think we did some kissing after that. Anyway, the bottom line is... I popped the question, and FEMALE said Yes!!! :)

Triple exclamation, emoticon : GAY and GAY

You're welcome and I'm sorry...again.

...and again. But not that sorry.

Things I don't understand #47...

...How anyone could watch this and keep a straight face...Or how anyone ever takes this station's "news" seriously...Or why this "reporter" would ever be willing to show his face in public again...

Things I don't understand #46...

...What good shaving cream is actually serving.

Let me first say, I hate shaving. I mean I really hate it. Of course--you might reply--is there anyone who actually likes it? Probably not. Men hate it. Women hate it. I still remember a disagreement I had with a girl in college where she posited that shaving for women was worse (i.e. legs) because of the additional surface area. My rebuttal was, "I'm putting a blade up to my face!" Her subsequent points were all met with the same reply, "It's my face," as I pointed to my mug. After the third time she finally said, "O.k., maybe you're right." No amount of PowerGlide blades or comfort guards or soothing strips will ever make it an enjoyable experience. Have I mentioned I hate shaving? So much that even at my advanced age, I still don't shave everyday. Since I've been blessed with slow-growing facial hair that is of a lighter shade I assume that some people might think I just have early-onset-five-o'clock-shadow on days that I don't shave. For those of you out there that might have thought that...HA! Joke's on you, sucker! Anyway, back to me.

In any case, for all those years (at least on the days I actually conceded to shaving) I used some sort of shaving cream or gel. Obviously, early on it was the classic type that's pictured above. But then there were supposed advances in shaving technology, and we had the option of the gel that turned into a frothy cream when friction was applied (Let it go). I said 'used' because a couple of weeks ago I ran out and didn't, for whatever reason, buy a new can of shaving gel. I just used regular old soap. And you know what? I didn't notice a difference. Not one. Not even a little bit. I went along in my ignorance and contentedness until a couple of days ago when out of no where a free can of not just gel, but HydraGel, shows up in my mailbox. Plus, it was ultra-sensitive with aloe and vitamin E. Because after all, who needs sensitive gel more than a sensitive guy like me? I took this as a sign from God that maybe I did need to be using some sort of specific-purpose-type-shaving-product on my face when shaving and starting using it. It was then that I realized there was a noticeable difference when I used a cream and when I didn't. And that was when I did, my face felt sort of dry and sore all day. And it made me thirsty (Yes, I know I'm weird. This is not a news flash.) At least on days when I used the soap, I didn't feel like every drop of moisture had been sucked from my face. The only possible enhancement I can think of from using the shaving gel is that maybe it makes my face smell better (Not that anyone probably gets close enough to notice). So unless I get barraged by women saying that they can't live without guys walking around with the faint aroma of shaving product emitting from their faces, my days of dropping coin on the stuff may be over. I've heard that shaving cream's lack of efficacy is because most creams and gels are composed mainly of alcohol or some similar component, and that a more effective product would be made with large amounts of glycerin. That may be true, but I'm starting to think that the only way to get your face not to feel like you've just run a sharp(hopefully) blade over it is not actually run a blade over it.

Things I don't understand #45...

...How you're supposed to stop watching Braveheart once you start.

Sorry for my temporary absence...I was...uh...busy. Yeah, let's go with that. I would say I'll make it up to you, but who are we kidding? We both know I'll just disappoint you. So anywho...one day last week, after watching the requisite number of sporting events, I'm laying on the couch telling myself I'm tired and it's time to go to bed (both of which were true). But unfortunately, I was also giving the channels one last tour before turning in. And what do I find? No, not the sex lady...or the magic bullet infomercial...or ONE...MILLION...DOLLARS...(you're not taking this seriously, remember the first line?). Yes, it was Braveheart, just 10 minutes in and in beautiful HD (Mwuh, I love you HD). Because I'm quite familiar with the movie, missing the first few minutes was no problem. Me looking at the clock and adding 2 and half hours to it to find when I would make it to bed if I stayed to the end should have been. But William Wallace had just walked back into the village and been challenged to a rock throwing contest by his boyhood friend and then walked up to his first and only true love, Murron. I had no choice. I was screwed.

What followed was movie greatness(obviously). I mean, how can you not love the crazy Irishman who talks to God? "The Almighty tells me he can get me out of this mess, but he's pretty sure you're f***ed." Or that one old man that gets wounded in every possible way (including the loss of his left hand) but just won't die? The great battle scenes. Wallace picking fights with bigger armies; "Here are Scotland's terms. Lower your flags, and march straight back to England, stopping at every home you pass by to beg forgiveness for 100 years of theft, rape, and murder. Do that and your men shall live. Do it not, and every one of you will die today." The maxims like, "Every man dies. Not every man truly lives," and all those great speeches about freedom:

Aye, fight and you may die. Run and you'll live -- at least a while. And dying in your beds many years from now, would you be willing to trade all the days from this day to that for one chance, just one chance to come back here and tell our enemies that they may take our lives, but they'll never take our freedom!!!

Everyone saying, "Aye," instead of 'yeah' (What? Did I lose a little momentum there?). Yeah...well...

Another thing I don't understand about this movie is how it got branded as a guy movie. I think chicks should dig it because it's the ultimate love story. Think about it. He returns to a village to find his childhood sweetheart, marries her (in secret); and when she is uselessly murdered, his reaction is not just to go all "William Wallace" on the person(s) immediately responsible(think death). No, he starts a freaking war! And not just any old war, one that results in him not only defeating the armies of a more powerful nation, but invading one of the great military empires in history. And that goes well enough that he ultimately wins the freedom of his own country from the imperialistic empire as his own country is united. I mean, if that's not love, I don't know what love is. So as you ponder the best and quickest way to see Braveheart again(Don't tell me you haven't seen it), I leave you with this word...
FREEEEEDOMMMMMmmmmm!!!!!!!

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...