When I was a kid, I rode Bus No. 8 to and from school every day from kindergarten to the end of sixth grade. Dad worked in town, so I just caught a ride until the fall of my eighth grade year, when I began driving. It’s remarkable I’ve not died in a car accident. I’ve provoked countless opportunities to take myself out, and every day when I hit the road, I’m on the lookout for people like me. Traffic laws don’t much pique my interest, unless a school or a work zone is involved. Everywhere else, it is a practical autobahn to me. If I know the road and the traffic tendencies thereof, I feel I should personally have no speed limit. This will eventually play itself out in some of our nation’s finest courtrooms, I’m sure. I’m fully prepared to defend myself in court to whatever the charges might be. I’ll lose, of course. But I feel I’m mentally equipped to suffer that loss.
Back to Bus No. 8… I grew up about six miles from Marion Springs Elementary in rural Baldwin, KS. Each day I would spend at least an hour and at most better than two hours on No. 8. That’s a lot of time. Kids find ways to make the time go by a little quicker. I got to know virtually everyone who rode on that bus for any amount of time pretty well.
Marion Springs, from what I understand, was built in the 1960s as a one-building district house serving a community of about 30 square miles. There was a short auditorium (maybe ten or twenty feet shy of a full-length basketball court? Or maybe it was full length. It’s been a damned long time since I’ve been out there. It’s plenty big for little kids. In the sixties, they graduated high schoolers. I don’t know if they had enough students to field many teams, however…
That community consolidated with the Baldwin School District in the sixties. The building served as an elementary for residents of the Marion Springs district, and in junior high and high school, the children attended Baldwin Schools. There were eight people, more or less, in my class at Marion Springs, and that was kind of the norm for classes of the seventies and eighties. (And 00’s, for that matter…)
The school was remarkable. The elementary served as the district educational center for the mentally handicapped of the community, and at the time it couldn’t be a better place for it. Anyone who was teasing those kids, if I recall, was dealt with quickly and publically. There wasn’t much room to fuck around making fun of kids out there. For starters, there just weren’t very many of us there. We learned to get along. There was a hell of a lot of roughhousing, but real fighting? Just didn’t happen much at all. It ranged in attendance 1-6 about 45-65 students. I’d have to look all that stuff up, and I’m not going to.
Of those eight I’d mentioned above, all graduated high school. Well, maybe one didn’t in Baldwin. I forgot about that chick… I guess I’d forgotten completely about her for the past twenty years or so…that doesn’t matter either. The school has always been at or near the top of district performance academically. Does the high student to teacher ratio help? Of course. Does the smaller overall student population help? Absolutely. But there is no disputing that the school has been one of the primary reasons that USD #348 has remained a very strong one for over half a century.
The #348 voted via school board to cease operations of Marion Springs Elementary and Vinland Elementary this past week. This comes in the wake of a district-endorsed $23 million bond issue that passed in November of 2008. This community of about 7,000 has taken on an absurd amount of debt load during a recessionary period while making itself promises which cannot be kept.
I believe a significant amount of the population here is insane. Or stupid. Or both. I no know-won round hear is donna do git smarter over dis.
I’m tired of the school district promoting an agenda that 1) Diminishes the quality of education of its residents in favor of poorly built facilities; and 2) Is an active participant in community destroying behaviors, including but not limited to: a) A 99%th percentile mill levy in the coming decade statewide; b) Acting as its own Political Action Committee in advance of a public bond issue; c) Inept at best, and incompetent at worst, lack of leadership in the district office.
I could go on all night here. But I won’t. I would think that everyone on the school board would be able to read balance sheets. They can’t. I’ve been informed that the current board that serves the community is unable to process financial information. I know this from my communications with a source who I believe to be an impartial and accurate judge of such qualities of competence.
So we close three elementary schools in one year, open another we can’t begin to afford, and publicize this as an academic direction we can be proud of?
Hogshit.
And I think about some kid today—I don’t know his name, but I know him--on the old No. 8. I hope he likes the taste and smell of limestone particulate in August, because when you spend three hours a day on a 45-mph school bus with the windows down…It’s not going to be quite as much fun to get home to the farm after the six hours of schooling that sandwiches a couple of long rides with buddies that get on after him and debus before him…he gets to dust himself off to slop the pigs…
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Friday, November 26, 2010
D-Minus
Usually these posts are nothing but a negative rant about this, that, and the other. I suppose this is okay, because there is no real audience, and this is mostly about working through singular issues as they occur in the day-to-day. Sometimes, I think there might be a little humor here. Other days, I find absolutely no humor or merit at all to what’s piled up below. In the end, it doesn’t matter.
Negativity is a poison, and I’m trying to get it out of my system the only way I know how. In rehab or in twelve-step situations, a person is always encouraged to talk through their problems. I always thought this was bullshit, and I still do. My prerogative has always been to do something about it. I think a person like me is aided very little in talking through personal issues. Now, when someone actually does something tangible, well…that’s a somewhat different story.
And I’ve not been particularly good at action, either. I’ve said for a very long time that there are a number of factors in play that contributed to a drunken lifestyle, and that the drinking was only a symptom of deeper difficulties. I still believe that. For example, I still generally hate myself, but I think I’m becoming somewhat easier for others to navigate on an interpersonal level. There is little chance of random arrests, asset forfeiture, bench warrants, etc. And consequently, maybe I hate myself a bit less than eighteen months ago. There are now significant periods of time when I don’t completely disgust myself…And most of the things I hate most about myself, I’m working to change. I’m not even trying to correct all that shit—just to make something different out of it.
The only thing that truly ignites any action at all is my lack of desire to talk about anything. I mean anything. I don’t want to talk about the weather, politics, the length of the grass, a leak in the roof, and especially, myself. I have nothing to offer any conversation where the topic might be what’s going on in my head. For starters, I have no fucking idea what’s going on in my head about 99% of the time, and that other one percent can be usually reserved for the instances when I’m wrong about something, but I’m convinced I’m right. It’s unfortunate.
And it doesn’t take much to initiate the action these days. It’s almost always some comment made in passing by one of the few people I know, and there is an overwhelming desire within me to not have that particular comment ever made to me again. My father probably didn’t have any idea at all what was going to happen when he made the comment not too long ago: “There are plenty of projects you could do around here that don’t involve you climbing around on that goddamned roof.” Well, he was right. Unfortunately for him, I most certainly don’t want to discuss any of those things with him until they are done. He’s gonna have to trust me on this one, and it’s got to be one of the hardest things in the world for him…the den was his room as a child, I’m told…and it’s going to be torn to shit for a little while longer. I’m not spending half this winter sick again. I’m convinced the ridiculous levels of mold and mildew infesting this place from years of neglect had contributed to illness last year. That situation is gone, but a whole new problem now awaits…
So I suppose the only thing in the world I have going on that is modestly interesting is the fact that the most badly damaged pieces of this house are getting fixed. My crew isn’t very big, but what do you do? I’m thankful this year I have so many people who’ve been patient with me over the past year and a half. I’m trying to get a little more patience myself these days. I’ve been told it’s a virtue.
Negativity is a poison, and I’m trying to get it out of my system the only way I know how. In rehab or in twelve-step situations, a person is always encouraged to talk through their problems. I always thought this was bullshit, and I still do. My prerogative has always been to do something about it. I think a person like me is aided very little in talking through personal issues. Now, when someone actually does something tangible, well…that’s a somewhat different story.
And I’ve not been particularly good at action, either. I’ve said for a very long time that there are a number of factors in play that contributed to a drunken lifestyle, and that the drinking was only a symptom of deeper difficulties. I still believe that. For example, I still generally hate myself, but I think I’m becoming somewhat easier for others to navigate on an interpersonal level. There is little chance of random arrests, asset forfeiture, bench warrants, etc. And consequently, maybe I hate myself a bit less than eighteen months ago. There are now significant periods of time when I don’t completely disgust myself…And most of the things I hate most about myself, I’m working to change. I’m not even trying to correct all that shit—just to make something different out of it.
The only thing that truly ignites any action at all is my lack of desire to talk about anything. I mean anything. I don’t want to talk about the weather, politics, the length of the grass, a leak in the roof, and especially, myself. I have nothing to offer any conversation where the topic might be what’s going on in my head. For starters, I have no fucking idea what’s going on in my head about 99% of the time, and that other one percent can be usually reserved for the instances when I’m wrong about something, but I’m convinced I’m right. It’s unfortunate.
And it doesn’t take much to initiate the action these days. It’s almost always some comment made in passing by one of the few people I know, and there is an overwhelming desire within me to not have that particular comment ever made to me again. My father probably didn’t have any idea at all what was going to happen when he made the comment not too long ago: “There are plenty of projects you could do around here that don’t involve you climbing around on that goddamned roof.” Well, he was right. Unfortunately for him, I most certainly don’t want to discuss any of those things with him until they are done. He’s gonna have to trust me on this one, and it’s got to be one of the hardest things in the world for him…the den was his room as a child, I’m told…and it’s going to be torn to shit for a little while longer. I’m not spending half this winter sick again. I’m convinced the ridiculous levels of mold and mildew infesting this place from years of neglect had contributed to illness last year. That situation is gone, but a whole new problem now awaits…
So I suppose the only thing in the world I have going on that is modestly interesting is the fact that the most badly damaged pieces of this house are getting fixed. My crew isn’t very big, but what do you do? I’m thankful this year I have so many people who’ve been patient with me over the past year and a half. I’m trying to get a little more patience myself these days. I’ve been told it’s a virtue.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Blind Man Driving
I’m a terrible blogger. I don’t care about that, but it’s a fact. There should probably be something interesting going on in one’s life in order to provide content for a semi-periodical publication. I’m lacking that. Maybe, in this case, where the stated goal is cheap and ineffective therapy, we’re finally getting somewhere here. For starters, this thing hasn’t cost me a dime. I’ve saved hundreds (maybe thousands) of dollars, and I’m still not a highly functional person.
Progress might be happening…I don’t know. When the bar starts out on the floor, it’s a pretty easy obstacle to overcome. It’s taking a long time to raise the expectations and demands on myself. Maybe I’m doing that right now. I’m not the one to ask. I know nothing about myself, except that I’ve wasted a lot of time, hurt a lot of people (including myself), and really haven’t contributed anything of note to myself, my family, or my friends. It’s good to know where you stand, at least.
Painting gives a person a lot of time to think. It might be a good thing, and it has the possibility of becoming a very bad thing. It’s kind of interesting to think about what the hell I was thinking about a year ago at this time when I was painting. There’s so much time wasted on frivolity—and the very nature of painting is quite temporary—there isn’t much of a chance anything I’m painting will look even decent in a decade. Paint is transient on a continental steppe. As transient as any mood or feeling…
The things going through the mind a year ago make absolutely no sense to me today. I’m getting more confident the things rushing around in there today might well make no sense in even a week. In a year, I might not be able to even decipher the swirling mess that now exists. Today’s stew is notably better than last year’s stew—still inedible gibberish.
I still follow sports, for example, despite the fact that I’m aware it’s one of the very few things that can get me truly bent out of shape. The thing is overwhelmingly out of my control, and I still sometimes get upset about events that occur among people I don’t know doing something better than I ever could, and I get upset because I have chosen a side. I’ve taken some rooting interest, and with that interest comes inevitable comparison/contrast, celebration/damnation, success/failure…and I guess I still care because the good can be pretty damned good. Or because I’m a fool. Or both.
That aside, politics in this country/state/community has become sort of the same type of event. There is one side that seems to be clearly overwhelmed and much dumber than the other. Sometimes upsets (common sense) occur, but more often than not, silliness and stupidity rule the day. I’m not claiming I’m bright at all—I’m not. Given the opportunity, I could rip a page out of the phone book, and within an hour or so find an auditorium of people quite a bit smarter than me about an incalculable number of things. I don’t know shit. So I’ve got to somehow turn that personal deficiency into an asset in the coming years. Unfortunately, I’m quite stupid, so I don’t exactly know how to devise a plan to make that happen. I’m too dumb to even know where to start, except that I’m pretty sure I have to make myself a little smarter, at least, in order to make it happen. It’s a terrific dilemma. I hope, I suppose, to find and listen to what someone has to say about that someday…I’ll likely be too stupid to recognize when it’s happening, and I’ll fail to give the advisor an audience, in all likelihood.
Now that I’m stuck on the subject, I’m not sure I’ve made one good decision in my life. Almost all the “good choices” I’ve made were made more or less on my behalf—my elections were made by default. When a person is backed in a corner without a true choice, or a plan of action laid out and directed as an alternative to demise, I guess that’s not much of a character builder. I guess sticking to the plan is something, but I’m not even sure about that.
It’s the life choices I’m talking about here. I don’t necessarily want to be alone, but I sure as hell don’t want anyone around making me miserable. I’m told by others that it doesn’t necessarily have to be that way, but I honestly don’t think I’d see a good thing if it were right in front of me. I have absolutely no confidence in my own ability to discern good from bad on an interpersonal level. I have to classify everything as categorically “BAD” and work back from that point. I don’t trust people at all. I’m told I do to an extent, but most people out there say the things that they believe are pleasurable to the ear. People aren’t deliberately assholes, usually. There are exceptions to every rule, and I seem to be living my life through being always wary of the exceptional.
There is no guidance, no direction, and no point to this discourse. I know that. This is the everyday state of my existence at this time. Maybe someday I can improve on this.
Progress might be happening…I don’t know. When the bar starts out on the floor, it’s a pretty easy obstacle to overcome. It’s taking a long time to raise the expectations and demands on myself. Maybe I’m doing that right now. I’m not the one to ask. I know nothing about myself, except that I’ve wasted a lot of time, hurt a lot of people (including myself), and really haven’t contributed anything of note to myself, my family, or my friends. It’s good to know where you stand, at least.
Painting gives a person a lot of time to think. It might be a good thing, and it has the possibility of becoming a very bad thing. It’s kind of interesting to think about what the hell I was thinking about a year ago at this time when I was painting. There’s so much time wasted on frivolity—and the very nature of painting is quite temporary—there isn’t much of a chance anything I’m painting will look even decent in a decade. Paint is transient on a continental steppe. As transient as any mood or feeling…
The things going through the mind a year ago make absolutely no sense to me today. I’m getting more confident the things rushing around in there today might well make no sense in even a week. In a year, I might not be able to even decipher the swirling mess that now exists. Today’s stew is notably better than last year’s stew—still inedible gibberish.
I still follow sports, for example, despite the fact that I’m aware it’s one of the very few things that can get me truly bent out of shape. The thing is overwhelmingly out of my control, and I still sometimes get upset about events that occur among people I don’t know doing something better than I ever could, and I get upset because I have chosen a side. I’ve taken some rooting interest, and with that interest comes inevitable comparison/contrast, celebration/damnation, success/failure…and I guess I still care because the good can be pretty damned good. Or because I’m a fool. Or both.
That aside, politics in this country/state/community has become sort of the same type of event. There is one side that seems to be clearly overwhelmed and much dumber than the other. Sometimes upsets (common sense) occur, but more often than not, silliness and stupidity rule the day. I’m not claiming I’m bright at all—I’m not. Given the opportunity, I could rip a page out of the phone book, and within an hour or so find an auditorium of people quite a bit smarter than me about an incalculable number of things. I don’t know shit. So I’ve got to somehow turn that personal deficiency into an asset in the coming years. Unfortunately, I’m quite stupid, so I don’t exactly know how to devise a plan to make that happen. I’m too dumb to even know where to start, except that I’m pretty sure I have to make myself a little smarter, at least, in order to make it happen. It’s a terrific dilemma. I hope, I suppose, to find and listen to what someone has to say about that someday…I’ll likely be too stupid to recognize when it’s happening, and I’ll fail to give the advisor an audience, in all likelihood.
Now that I’m stuck on the subject, I’m not sure I’ve made one good decision in my life. Almost all the “good choices” I’ve made were made more or less on my behalf—my elections were made by default. When a person is backed in a corner without a true choice, or a plan of action laid out and directed as an alternative to demise, I guess that’s not much of a character builder. I guess sticking to the plan is something, but I’m not even sure about that.
It’s the life choices I’m talking about here. I don’t necessarily want to be alone, but I sure as hell don’t want anyone around making me miserable. I’m told by others that it doesn’t necessarily have to be that way, but I honestly don’t think I’d see a good thing if it were right in front of me. I have absolutely no confidence in my own ability to discern good from bad on an interpersonal level. I have to classify everything as categorically “BAD” and work back from that point. I don’t trust people at all. I’m told I do to an extent, but most people out there say the things that they believe are pleasurable to the ear. People aren’t deliberately assholes, usually. There are exceptions to every rule, and I seem to be living my life through being always wary of the exceptional.
There is no guidance, no direction, and no point to this discourse. I know that. This is the everyday state of my existence at this time. Maybe someday I can improve on this.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Douglas County Sport Fueled F-Bomb Attack!
I apologize for this in advance. Please feel free to skip it if you don't fucking like the word "FUCK."
There is something about being in the moment that is magnified, perhaps. At this moment there is a feeling of a still approaching nadir. I don’t know exactly what it is that’s being felt right now, but it has to be recorded, so I can look back on it in a long while…and remember what it was like. Geography and regional alliances are very much working against at least one Kansan right now.
Sport is a celebration of excellence, at its best. My family was watching Game 6 of the NLCS tonight. It was fun. There was actually a dog in the fight. My aunt and uncle had flown in from Modesto, and the ballgame secured the Giants’ first trip since 2002. I believe it’s been since 1954 for the New York Giants to win a World Series. The K.C. A’s didn’t arrive from Philadelphia until 1955…
The bay area got it’s fun out of the A’s though…they won three World Series in the early seventies playing in front of almost nobody on the west coast. And had a few more fans pulling for them when they wiped out the Giants in the bay series…was that 89? Doesn’t matter. What matters is that the Giants won, and it was cool watching the game with some people who weren’t rooting for the goddamned Yankees at the time. (Oh, now that I’m gone, they’re probably playing fucking Yankees Edition Trivial Pursuit over there.)
While all this was going on, Missouri was knocking off Oklahoma, who had been the number one ranked team in the BCS. 71,004 apparently watched that game at Faurot Field. Good for them, I guess. I’m just about numb to the entirety of sport, and having any rooting interest thereof. Maybe I might play some sport, but I’m just damned near fed up with it. I can’t give the effort on the field when I’m not playing, so why the hell am I supposed to root for those who are polluting my fields that don’t show any effort?
A lot of this is disgust with myself. I’m slamming college kids here—and they’re just kids. I know that. Hell, I’m an adult, and I’m dumb as shit. These kids are bound to make mistakes and such…but how in the hell do these kids who purportedly spend all their time and effort leading up to college dreaming of playing in the NFL, or at least, college football!!! But they get out of shape and don’t give full effort on the field when they’re given the opportunity to play?!??
I think it’s very important to point out that the knocks on the kids aren’t that--I’m deservedly slamming the coaches—fair or unfair—they’ve made their own mess here, in my opinion. These kids shouldn’t be getting less motivated, in worse shape, and displaying worse speed than last year. That is fucking coaching, or lack thereof.
KU had already been dispatched in its homecoming by Texas A&M 45-10. From the beginning, it looked like a game neither team wanted much, but the trusty Gill regime with quick indifference to the situation at hand ensured a thorough first-half ass-kicking that leaves the attendance to now be measured in the 38,000-4,000 range. I didn’t really even check in at the end of the game to see what was left of the stadium, but I’m pretty sure by this point in a month-long-ass-kicking measuring a score of 159-21. That’s three games, not four. Unranked opponents. Baylor, State, A&M.
Three years ago, KU was undefeated and Kerry Meier was to be on the cover of Sports Illustrated prior to their only defeat of the season the week of the Missouri game. Three years ago, KU-MU for the number one ranking, and the chance to play for the Big XII championship, and an eventual national championship birth. Today, we redundantly shit ourselves in an empty stadium, and next year, the goddamned conference won’t even have a championship game.
I don’t know how many other conference schools have more four-star recruits on the field than KU, but my guess is about six. Missou, Nebraska, Oklahoma, OSU, Texas, A&M. That’s just a guess, but KU has six of those kids out there. Some don’t play. And they’re all performing at lower levels than last year! (Except, I suppose, the freshmen, but I didn’t see them play high school ball. Hell, I’m not seeing them play much college ball, either.) Our leading rusher from last year hasn’t taken a snap on offense, and he’s on his second defensive position of the year. I don’t get it. I think we’re out of quarterbacks. That’s okay, I suppose, since we haven’t really given the QB time to do anything—the line is decimated, and very bad. Worst I’ve seen at KU bad. That includes an impressive pile of shit mounded up in the late eighties. Terry Allen’s teams never looked this bad (that I can recall), but we’re kind of plowing up some new ground this year in terms of shittitude.
I don’t know how on earth the current staff is going to recruit anyone to come here under any circumstances at this point, unless it’s just a nearly guaranteed promise of playing time, and no real commitment demanded of the individual to improve oneself on the field. Gill might be building men, but right now (whether he knows it or not) he’s throwing gas on the inferno that was once Kansas’ football program. This program is now at a point of desperation to even define itself. I have heard not one person who takes the game seriously be able to define what it is that Kansas is trying to do this year. I mean—some plan of attack or philosophy. Besides getting your ass fucking destroyed by average opponents while exerting no collective effort.
We need a fucking Athletics Director. Right fucking now.
I HATE Missouri. Absolutely HATE Missouri, and I want them to win a national championship in football this year. Because they ARE Missouri, they are predisposed to completely fuck this up, so I’m quite sure it won’t happen, but this fall, that would be nice. Because then something at KU would change. I don’t even know what the hell would change, but if they were able to beat KU 120-0 on the way, it would be a nice touch. It would provoke change.
And oh yeah. Yuniesky cost me $20. Some pitcher got wild and walked him on four straight with the bases loaded in the last week or so of the season. It was fucking poetic.
I’m going on to ebay right now to buy some Detroit Lions memorabilia for Thanksgiving.
Fuck sports.
There is something about being in the moment that is magnified, perhaps. At this moment there is a feeling of a still approaching nadir. I don’t know exactly what it is that’s being felt right now, but it has to be recorded, so I can look back on it in a long while…and remember what it was like. Geography and regional alliances are very much working against at least one Kansan right now.
Sport is a celebration of excellence, at its best. My family was watching Game 6 of the NLCS tonight. It was fun. There was actually a dog in the fight. My aunt and uncle had flown in from Modesto, and the ballgame secured the Giants’ first trip since 2002. I believe it’s been since 1954 for the New York Giants to win a World Series. The K.C. A’s didn’t arrive from Philadelphia until 1955…
The bay area got it’s fun out of the A’s though…they won three World Series in the early seventies playing in front of almost nobody on the west coast. And had a few more fans pulling for them when they wiped out the Giants in the bay series…was that 89? Doesn’t matter. What matters is that the Giants won, and it was cool watching the game with some people who weren’t rooting for the goddamned Yankees at the time. (Oh, now that I’m gone, they’re probably playing fucking Yankees Edition Trivial Pursuit over there.)
While all this was going on, Missouri was knocking off Oklahoma, who had been the number one ranked team in the BCS. 71,004 apparently watched that game at Faurot Field. Good for them, I guess. I’m just about numb to the entirety of sport, and having any rooting interest thereof. Maybe I might play some sport, but I’m just damned near fed up with it. I can’t give the effort on the field when I’m not playing, so why the hell am I supposed to root for those who are polluting my fields that don’t show any effort?
A lot of this is disgust with myself. I’m slamming college kids here—and they’re just kids. I know that. Hell, I’m an adult, and I’m dumb as shit. These kids are bound to make mistakes and such…but how in the hell do these kids who purportedly spend all their time and effort leading up to college dreaming of playing in the NFL, or at least, college football!!! But they get out of shape and don’t give full effort on the field when they’re given the opportunity to play?!??
I think it’s very important to point out that the knocks on the kids aren’t that--I’m deservedly slamming the coaches—fair or unfair—they’ve made their own mess here, in my opinion. These kids shouldn’t be getting less motivated, in worse shape, and displaying worse speed than last year. That is fucking coaching, or lack thereof.
KU had already been dispatched in its homecoming by Texas A&M 45-10. From the beginning, it looked like a game neither team wanted much, but the trusty Gill regime with quick indifference to the situation at hand ensured a thorough first-half ass-kicking that leaves the attendance to now be measured in the 38,000-4,000 range. I didn’t really even check in at the end of the game to see what was left of the stadium, but I’m pretty sure by this point in a month-long-ass-kicking measuring a score of 159-21. That’s three games, not four. Unranked opponents. Baylor, State, A&M.
Three years ago, KU was undefeated and Kerry Meier was to be on the cover of Sports Illustrated prior to their only defeat of the season the week of the Missouri game. Three years ago, KU-MU for the number one ranking, and the chance to play for the Big XII championship, and an eventual national championship birth. Today, we redundantly shit ourselves in an empty stadium, and next year, the goddamned conference won’t even have a championship game.
I don’t know how many other conference schools have more four-star recruits on the field than KU, but my guess is about six. Missou, Nebraska, Oklahoma, OSU, Texas, A&M. That’s just a guess, but KU has six of those kids out there. Some don’t play. And they’re all performing at lower levels than last year! (Except, I suppose, the freshmen, but I didn’t see them play high school ball. Hell, I’m not seeing them play much college ball, either.) Our leading rusher from last year hasn’t taken a snap on offense, and he’s on his second defensive position of the year. I don’t get it. I think we’re out of quarterbacks. That’s okay, I suppose, since we haven’t really given the QB time to do anything—the line is decimated, and very bad. Worst I’ve seen at KU bad. That includes an impressive pile of shit mounded up in the late eighties. Terry Allen’s teams never looked this bad (that I can recall), but we’re kind of plowing up some new ground this year in terms of shittitude.
I don’t know how on earth the current staff is going to recruit anyone to come here under any circumstances at this point, unless it’s just a nearly guaranteed promise of playing time, and no real commitment demanded of the individual to improve oneself on the field. Gill might be building men, but right now (whether he knows it or not) he’s throwing gas on the inferno that was once Kansas’ football program. This program is now at a point of desperation to even define itself. I have heard not one person who takes the game seriously be able to define what it is that Kansas is trying to do this year. I mean—some plan of attack or philosophy. Besides getting your ass fucking destroyed by average opponents while exerting no collective effort.
We need a fucking Athletics Director. Right fucking now.
I HATE Missouri. Absolutely HATE Missouri, and I want them to win a national championship in football this year. Because they ARE Missouri, they are predisposed to completely fuck this up, so I’m quite sure it won’t happen, but this fall, that would be nice. Because then something at KU would change. I don’t even know what the hell would change, but if they were able to beat KU 120-0 on the way, it would be a nice touch. It would provoke change.
And oh yeah. Yuniesky cost me $20. Some pitcher got wild and walked him on four straight with the bases loaded in the last week or so of the season. It was fucking poetic.
I’m going on to ebay right now to buy some Detroit Lions memorabilia for Thanksgiving.
Fuck sports.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Fun With Facebook Messaging, Part I
RE: Excitement About KU Football!
Slade Dillon October 15 at 6:41am
Hey, Burt.
That was like watching an abortion ripped through an asshole. If you wanted to golf again before we lose the fall, I'm all for it, and I'm suddenly free on saturdays every fall for my immediate future. In homage to Mangino, I've been eating nonstop since halftime of last night's game, and now that I've got bar-B-Q sauce all over my shirt and pants, I'd like to sodomize the big money donors that ousted the fatfuck with a stack of ribs sucked dry of any grease.
Hope you guys are doing well.
Slade Dillon October 15 at 6:41am
Hey, Burt.
That was like watching an abortion ripped through an asshole. If you wanted to golf again before we lose the fall, I'm all for it, and I'm suddenly free on saturdays every fall for my immediate future. In homage to Mangino, I've been eating nonstop since halftime of last night's game, and now that I've got bar-B-Q sauce all over my shirt and pants, I'd like to sodomize the big money donors that ousted the fatfuck with a stack of ribs sucked dry of any grease.
Hope you guys are doing well.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Potential
This thing is supposed to be about patience, and I’ve found at least one person out there who definitively has less patience than I do. His name is Yuniesky Betancourt. He’s the hapless shortstop for the hopeless Royals, and he sucks. I’m convinced Kansas City is the only franchise that would play him right now. Ironically, I lost my patience for this guy a long time ago. I don’t know him or anything, and he may be a nice guy, but he sure as hell isn’t a major league baseball player.
Yuni accepting a standing ovation for a base on balls.
__________________________________________________
Yuni is a Cuban defector, and he came up with the Seattle Mariners. While in Seattle, he demonstrated beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was ill qualified to play baseball on virtually any level, so last year the Kansas City Royals traded a young but somewhat troubled pitching prospect named Daniel Cortez for the privilege to pay the remainder of Betancourt’s major league contract. Cortez is now a major league pitcher for the Mariners, Betancourt is still not a major league player for the Royals.
Some poor SOB in Seattle chronicled Yuni’s time in Seattle with this wonderful blog. It’s a fascinating glimpse of what a player like Betancourt can do to the morale of a fan, of a team, and of a community. I’m thinking of picking this thing up where it was dropped, although I’m pretty sure I’d be unable to do the previous work anything short of an injustice.
When the season started, I went to opening day with a couple of friends and my brother. Spring is supposed to be a time of hope for a baseball fan, but I was just consumed with dread this year. The roster was horseshit on a good day. By my count, they had about 2 ½ major leaguers on the team at the start of the year, and they remain there today. They are miserable to follow, and they suck the life out of anyone who pays any attention whatsoever to what they actually do on the field. They can neither score runs nor prevent the other team from scoring. Their fielding is legendarily poor. But…they are my team…pathetic.
So we were in the truck heading to the game, and we decided to guess how many games the Royals would win from their 162 game schedule. Travis picked 68 victories. I chose 39. If they were to accomplish that feat, it would go down as the worst major league season by any team since 1900. I was confident they could perform the task, so we wagered $20 to whomever was closer between our numbers. The break-even point was what—53 ½ wins, and the Royals surpassed that mark late last month.
Travis called me the other night, and we inevitably started talking about our pathetic shortstop. I think he threw the ball in to the second row on a rather routine play, and he somehow avoided the error. The official scorer in Kansas City is most certainly a Yuni apologist. Even with scoring gaffes like the one Thursday night, Yuni is to my knowledge the only active major leaguer with more errors in the field than bases on balls drawn at the plate.
This is almost impossible to do for any period of time, for reasons too numerous to mention here. To put it mildly, anyone who is that shitty for any period of time is generally quickly out of a job. Unless they are KC Royals. Then, they are celebrated for their “potential.”
Potential is a pile of shit that has yet to be accomplished by an individual. That’s it. I don’t want to hear about my potential, your potential, and most certainly, Yuniesky Betancourt’s potential. It’s just a watchword for fucking apologists of mediocrity.
But…I realize that Yuni has the potential to make me some money. So I bet my brother the $20 I currently owe him that Yuni will not draw a 3 ball-0 strike count the rest of the year. I removed the possibility of an intentional walk from our bet, and I am quite confident that Yuni will come through for me. There is, I suppose, the outside possibility that Yuni could fall asleep at the plate, or forget who he is or what he’s doing there at any given point, but he’s only got a couple of weeks to go.
Since we made this bet, Yuni has exactly as many errors as two-ball counts. This, to me, is astounding. All Betancourt has to do for the rest of the year is stand like a statue at the plate—the ultimate act of omission, but he is ill-equipped for this endeavor. Any ball near the plate (and even many that are not) will be swung at by Yuni. He has three grand slams this year, which I attribute to the fact that these are situations where the pitcher is forced to throw Betancourt balls which he would not normally be forced to throw. In a normal situation, there is absolutely no need to throw Yuni a strike.
Earlier this year, I was at a game at Kauffman Stadium, and Yuni worked a 2-0 count with the bases loaded. I tried to bet $20 to anyone around me that Yuni would indeed swing at the next pitch, regardless of its location. No one took the bet, and Yuni predictably launched the ball into the bullpen for one of his grand slams. I’ll be mad as hell if Yuni costs me $40 this fall. I think I’ll even write him a letter deriding his plate discipline if he fails me now.
Yuni accepting a standing ovation for a base on balls.
__________________________________________________
Yuni is a Cuban defector, and he came up with the Seattle Mariners. While in Seattle, he demonstrated beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was ill qualified to play baseball on virtually any level, so last year the Kansas City Royals traded a young but somewhat troubled pitching prospect named Daniel Cortez for the privilege to pay the remainder of Betancourt’s major league contract. Cortez is now a major league pitcher for the Mariners, Betancourt is still not a major league player for the Royals.
Some poor SOB in Seattle chronicled Yuni’s time in Seattle with this wonderful blog. It’s a fascinating glimpse of what a player like Betancourt can do to the morale of a fan, of a team, and of a community. I’m thinking of picking this thing up where it was dropped, although I’m pretty sure I’d be unable to do the previous work anything short of an injustice.
When the season started, I went to opening day with a couple of friends and my brother. Spring is supposed to be a time of hope for a baseball fan, but I was just consumed with dread this year. The roster was horseshit on a good day. By my count, they had about 2 ½ major leaguers on the team at the start of the year, and they remain there today. They are miserable to follow, and they suck the life out of anyone who pays any attention whatsoever to what they actually do on the field. They can neither score runs nor prevent the other team from scoring. Their fielding is legendarily poor. But…they are my team…pathetic.
So we were in the truck heading to the game, and we decided to guess how many games the Royals would win from their 162 game schedule. Travis picked 68 victories. I chose 39. If they were to accomplish that feat, it would go down as the worst major league season by any team since 1900. I was confident they could perform the task, so we wagered $20 to whomever was closer between our numbers. The break-even point was what—53 ½ wins, and the Royals surpassed that mark late last month.
Travis called me the other night, and we inevitably started talking about our pathetic shortstop. I think he threw the ball in to the second row on a rather routine play, and he somehow avoided the error. The official scorer in Kansas City is most certainly a Yuni apologist. Even with scoring gaffes like the one Thursday night, Yuni is to my knowledge the only active major leaguer with more errors in the field than bases on balls drawn at the plate.
This is almost impossible to do for any period of time, for reasons too numerous to mention here. To put it mildly, anyone who is that shitty for any period of time is generally quickly out of a job. Unless they are KC Royals. Then, they are celebrated for their “potential.”
Potential is a pile of shit that has yet to be accomplished by an individual. That’s it. I don’t want to hear about my potential, your potential, and most certainly, Yuniesky Betancourt’s potential. It’s just a watchword for fucking apologists of mediocrity.
But…I realize that Yuni has the potential to make me some money. So I bet my brother the $20 I currently owe him that Yuni will not draw a 3 ball-0 strike count the rest of the year. I removed the possibility of an intentional walk from our bet, and I am quite confident that Yuni will come through for me. There is, I suppose, the outside possibility that Yuni could fall asleep at the plate, or forget who he is or what he’s doing there at any given point, but he’s only got a couple of weeks to go.
Since we made this bet, Yuni has exactly as many errors as two-ball counts. This, to me, is astounding. All Betancourt has to do for the rest of the year is stand like a statue at the plate—the ultimate act of omission, but he is ill-equipped for this endeavor. Any ball near the plate (and even many that are not) will be swung at by Yuni. He has three grand slams this year, which I attribute to the fact that these are situations where the pitcher is forced to throw Betancourt balls which he would not normally be forced to throw. In a normal situation, there is absolutely no need to throw Yuni a strike.
Earlier this year, I was at a game at Kauffman Stadium, and Yuni worked a 2-0 count with the bases loaded. I tried to bet $20 to anyone around me that Yuni would indeed swing at the next pitch, regardless of its location. No one took the bet, and Yuni predictably launched the ball into the bullpen for one of his grand slams. I’ll be mad as hell if Yuni costs me $40 this fall. I think I’ll even write him a letter deriding his plate discipline if he fails me now.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Blackie
This is a little backward, but it’s been a damned long day with very little accomplished. I suppose I learned quite a bit about the electrical system in this house, in addition to a nice refresher course on the general nature of electricity.
It stormed last night. I wanted to get some work done around the place, and I was vacuuming. At the same time I was vacuuming, I was operating the washing machine, the 13 inch television was on, the computer is always running on some level, but was at rest, and the lights were on in the living room and bathroom. That was, on some level, enough to shut down the circuit. Or so I thought.
When the vacuum was stopped, I couldn’t help but notice the number of things that didn’t work around the place. It was extensive enough that I made a hell of a list of things that weren’t working. Basically, the entire house was shut down, except for the kitchen and sun room, both additions to the home. The outbuilding also worked.
So I snooped around a bit in the basement. I got the flashlight, and headed down to see if I could fix the problem. Everything appeared to be in order, and none of the breakers physically appeared to have failed. I tripped each breaker individually, and there was no change upstairs. I inspected a sub-box that had a pull-plug and a set of fuses, in addition to the antiquated boxes…Federal Pacific, maybe? Anyway, it’s too damned old, and last night was a perfect example why.
I strongly suspect that the wiring here predates the walls, which have unbleached paper rock and textured plaster coating. It’s a rock home that predates the civil war. There are perhaps a handful of buildings in the state of Kansas of this age, and I suspect almost all of them are in Leavenworth. More on that later…
I see no evidence that the wires that go to that box aren’t relatively new, (by new, I’m talking 40 years old here) but I’d be surprised if upon further inspection there aren’t a series of unboxed connections that would fail a naked eye test. I’ll have to start pulling some individual plugs very soon, although I’m pretty sure I know what I’m likely to find…that’s a fight for another day.
We got an inch of rain last night in Baldwin City. I accomplished my new year’s resolution for this year when I was looking for light bulbs. Don’t ask me why I’ve sorted the light bulbs with the rain gauges, but I found this rain gauge in that empty bulb box I’d be returning to very soon for a different specialty bulb…The new year’s resolution for 2010 was to install a rain gauge, and the feat was stunned a quarter of a year ahead of schedule.
The door to the basement was open longer than I’d originally planned. I was messing around down there for close to twenty minutes inspecting the situation with flashlights and by flipping breakers. I declared myself somewhat defeated, and notified my dad of the situation. My grandfolks lived here half a century, and the place is now in dad’s name, while granddad is in extended care. So I’m kind of trying to keep the place from burning down here…
Dad answered from his card game. We discussed the situation briefly, and he declared that I was looking for a short.
“A short?” I asked. “Can’t those cause fires?”
“Well, they could. But you’ll probably be all right.”
“Right. Has this happened out here recently?”
“Not that I can recall, but it happened to my box. It shut down half the box,” he explained.
I told him I’d keep him posted, and that was that.
Most of the night, I watched television wide awake. Questions floated in my mind such as: “What are the burning points for limestone and mortar?” “What exactly was the wiring situation which burned down my maternal grandparents’ home?” The television show numbing my mind, and piquing questions about my current residence, was about compulsive hoarding. For some reason, it does wonders for my self-esteem. I don’t know exactly what I want out of life, but there is some comfort in knowing I don’t want that type of lifestyle. Even though there are a couple of rooms in this place that could fit right in on that show…
I awoke early after only a couple hours sleep today. Nala the cat had gotten herself stuck in the cellar for the first time. As far as I can remember, she’s never been stuck down there for a night. That basement door has been the DMZ for Nala and whatever creatures might be in the basement. I’ve previously seen opossum dart into the exterior wells, but these are in such disrepair there is really nothing to stop the invaders.
I immediately began my search for an electrician, and I threw myself at the situation in the meantime. My main concern was the sump pump. It didn’t appear to be running, and I had to make sure the basement had not yet become truly flooded. One of my first projects was to set up a light. There was a dual head 2000 watt halogen light, and I ran a cord and situated it in the middle of the room. I directed the majority of the lighting on the box, after a cursory inspection of the pit found it to be functional.
My light wasn’t working too well. I’d burned out one bulb, and another had completely fizzled itself down to a low death right in front of me. The night before, the main outdoor light that illuminates the yard nearest the kitchen had expired. I thought that was a bad thing, as the light won’t be the easiest thing in the world to replace. It’s about twenty feet in the air. Wires and tree limbs all around.
And now…this. I’m looking at the electrical box after getting a secondary light refocused, and a pretty decent sized blacksnake crawled into the basement from a crack to the sun room’s crawl space. It just slithered a little down the wall, and went straight for the box. It should be noted that the electrical box has not had a cover since I’ve been here. That snake had now wrapped itself nearly completely around the box and it’s accompanying feeder wires. I was doing the things I would normally do out in a field, or in the barn if I encounter a blacksnake. Yelling and shit—that doesn’t work out in the open, and I’m expecting it to work in his home. Needless to say, we had something of a standoff:
“What the fuck?!? Hey! I’m right here, you fucker!” This didn’t impact Blackie at all.
“I’m going to get a hoe—I mean it. I hope for your sake I don’t find you down here when I get back.” I’m not a sworn enemy of blacksnakes. We typically leave each other alone, and when we do see each other, if the snake has its way out, the snake is allowed to come and go as they please. This situation wasn’t going to work, however, unless that snake got the hell out of the basement. I already knew this would be somewhat unlikely, but possible. The cool and damp cellar was probably preferable to saturated earth.
Adjacent to the power boxes is the previous exterior entry to the cellar. It would dump out underneath the current sunroom, if it were still open. As it is, it’s a boxed in mess of rubble. I’m now seriously considering digging through that mess….because Blackie was headed for his favorite pile of cellar rubble. I’m confident that until today, any rodents that would happen into a stand down with Blackie were likely losers.
There used to be two hoes here. One was ideal for an operation like this. It had a thin blade, and had a hell of a good snake-killing angle to it. I’d like to be able to explain it better, but it had always been a great snake-killing-hoe for me. I couldn’t find it, and I had to make due with a new fiberglass garden hoe. I’d never been on a snake-killer with that hoe, but this would be the test.
Blackie was still working his way down the wall and into the rubble pile when I found him. I had to get some work done for the power concerns, and I’m a hell of a bad jittery electrician. When I was drinking, I first noticed the shaking from the aftereffects when messing with electrical issues. When I needed to be at my best, it always seemed I was at my worst. Oh well, it didn’t appear to kill me…
“Why didn’t you get out of here?” I asked Blackie. “I’m sorry about this.” Blackie took a rotten gash to the back, right about the middle of the body. His head had gone into the rubble by the time the first blow occurred.
That hoe wasn’t worth a damn for killing a four foot blacksnake. I had no way of knowing it going in, but the offing was brutal. I ended up clubbing the poor bastard on the head with the hook of the hoe to finish the job. “Damn. I’m sorry,” I’d repeated to the beast as I realized the true inadequacies of my tool. As I knew the suffering was unacceptable, I resorted to the direct clubbing. It took a while to get the head out and pinned down, which was unfortunate.
I didn’t want it to go down like that, but I have a much greater appreciation for Nala’s eagerness to leave the basement this morning.
It stormed last night. I wanted to get some work done around the place, and I was vacuuming. At the same time I was vacuuming, I was operating the washing machine, the 13 inch television was on, the computer is always running on some level, but was at rest, and the lights were on in the living room and bathroom. That was, on some level, enough to shut down the circuit. Or so I thought.
When the vacuum was stopped, I couldn’t help but notice the number of things that didn’t work around the place. It was extensive enough that I made a hell of a list of things that weren’t working. Basically, the entire house was shut down, except for the kitchen and sun room, both additions to the home. The outbuilding also worked.
So I snooped around a bit in the basement. I got the flashlight, and headed down to see if I could fix the problem. Everything appeared to be in order, and none of the breakers physically appeared to have failed. I tripped each breaker individually, and there was no change upstairs. I inspected a sub-box that had a pull-plug and a set of fuses, in addition to the antiquated boxes…Federal Pacific, maybe? Anyway, it’s too damned old, and last night was a perfect example why.
I strongly suspect that the wiring here predates the walls, which have unbleached paper rock and textured plaster coating. It’s a rock home that predates the civil war. There are perhaps a handful of buildings in the state of Kansas of this age, and I suspect almost all of them are in Leavenworth. More on that later…
I see no evidence that the wires that go to that box aren’t relatively new, (by new, I’m talking 40 years old here) but I’d be surprised if upon further inspection there aren’t a series of unboxed connections that would fail a naked eye test. I’ll have to start pulling some individual plugs very soon, although I’m pretty sure I know what I’m likely to find…that’s a fight for another day.
We got an inch of rain last night in Baldwin City. I accomplished my new year’s resolution for this year when I was looking for light bulbs. Don’t ask me why I’ve sorted the light bulbs with the rain gauges, but I found this rain gauge in that empty bulb box I’d be returning to very soon for a different specialty bulb…The new year’s resolution for 2010 was to install a rain gauge, and the feat was stunned a quarter of a year ahead of schedule.
The door to the basement was open longer than I’d originally planned. I was messing around down there for close to twenty minutes inspecting the situation with flashlights and by flipping breakers. I declared myself somewhat defeated, and notified my dad of the situation. My grandfolks lived here half a century, and the place is now in dad’s name, while granddad is in extended care. So I’m kind of trying to keep the place from burning down here…
Dad answered from his card game. We discussed the situation briefly, and he declared that I was looking for a short.
“A short?” I asked. “Can’t those cause fires?”
“Well, they could. But you’ll probably be all right.”
“Right. Has this happened out here recently?”
“Not that I can recall, but it happened to my box. It shut down half the box,” he explained.
I told him I’d keep him posted, and that was that.
Most of the night, I watched television wide awake. Questions floated in my mind such as: “What are the burning points for limestone and mortar?” “What exactly was the wiring situation which burned down my maternal grandparents’ home?” The television show numbing my mind, and piquing questions about my current residence, was about compulsive hoarding. For some reason, it does wonders for my self-esteem. I don’t know exactly what I want out of life, but there is some comfort in knowing I don’t want that type of lifestyle. Even though there are a couple of rooms in this place that could fit right in on that show…
I awoke early after only a couple hours sleep today. Nala the cat had gotten herself stuck in the cellar for the first time. As far as I can remember, she’s never been stuck down there for a night. That basement door has been the DMZ for Nala and whatever creatures might be in the basement. I’ve previously seen opossum dart into the exterior wells, but these are in such disrepair there is really nothing to stop the invaders.
I immediately began my search for an electrician, and I threw myself at the situation in the meantime. My main concern was the sump pump. It didn’t appear to be running, and I had to make sure the basement had not yet become truly flooded. One of my first projects was to set up a light. There was a dual head 2000 watt halogen light, and I ran a cord and situated it in the middle of the room. I directed the majority of the lighting on the box, after a cursory inspection of the pit found it to be functional.
My light wasn’t working too well. I’d burned out one bulb, and another had completely fizzled itself down to a low death right in front of me. The night before, the main outdoor light that illuminates the yard nearest the kitchen had expired. I thought that was a bad thing, as the light won’t be the easiest thing in the world to replace. It’s about twenty feet in the air. Wires and tree limbs all around.
And now…this. I’m looking at the electrical box after getting a secondary light refocused, and a pretty decent sized blacksnake crawled into the basement from a crack to the sun room’s crawl space. It just slithered a little down the wall, and went straight for the box. It should be noted that the electrical box has not had a cover since I’ve been here. That snake had now wrapped itself nearly completely around the box and it’s accompanying feeder wires. I was doing the things I would normally do out in a field, or in the barn if I encounter a blacksnake. Yelling and shit—that doesn’t work out in the open, and I’m expecting it to work in his home. Needless to say, we had something of a standoff:
“What the fuck?!? Hey! I’m right here, you fucker!” This didn’t impact Blackie at all.
“I’m going to get a hoe—I mean it. I hope for your sake I don’t find you down here when I get back.” I’m not a sworn enemy of blacksnakes. We typically leave each other alone, and when we do see each other, if the snake has its way out, the snake is allowed to come and go as they please. This situation wasn’t going to work, however, unless that snake got the hell out of the basement. I already knew this would be somewhat unlikely, but possible. The cool and damp cellar was probably preferable to saturated earth.
Adjacent to the power boxes is the previous exterior entry to the cellar. It would dump out underneath the current sunroom, if it were still open. As it is, it’s a boxed in mess of rubble. I’m now seriously considering digging through that mess….because Blackie was headed for his favorite pile of cellar rubble. I’m confident that until today, any rodents that would happen into a stand down with Blackie were likely losers.
There used to be two hoes here. One was ideal for an operation like this. It had a thin blade, and had a hell of a good snake-killing angle to it. I’d like to be able to explain it better, but it had always been a great snake-killing-hoe for me. I couldn’t find it, and I had to make due with a new fiberglass garden hoe. I’d never been on a snake-killer with that hoe, but this would be the test.
Blackie was still working his way down the wall and into the rubble pile when I found him. I had to get some work done for the power concerns, and I’m a hell of a bad jittery electrician. When I was drinking, I first noticed the shaking from the aftereffects when messing with electrical issues. When I needed to be at my best, it always seemed I was at my worst. Oh well, it didn’t appear to kill me…
“Why didn’t you get out of here?” I asked Blackie. “I’m sorry about this.” Blackie took a rotten gash to the back, right about the middle of the body. His head had gone into the rubble by the time the first blow occurred.
That hoe wasn’t worth a damn for killing a four foot blacksnake. I had no way of knowing it going in, but the offing was brutal. I ended up clubbing the poor bastard on the head with the hook of the hoe to finish the job. “Damn. I’m sorry,” I’d repeated to the beast as I realized the true inadequacies of my tool. As I knew the suffering was unacceptable, I resorted to the direct clubbing. It took a while to get the head out and pinned down, which was unfortunate.
I didn’t want it to go down like that, but I have a much greater appreciation for Nala’s eagerness to leave the basement this morning.
Fun With SMS, Part II
This morning, someone I didn’t know sent me a text. I was kind of busy.
Random Person: Is this Nicole? 7:32 a.m.
S: No. I’m not Nicole. But if YOU are an electrician i will hire you sight unseen to fix a short currently crippling my home. 7:37 a.m.
RP: You a dude or chick? 7:47 a.m.
S: If that affects your billing scheme in any way, we will be unable to talk business. I am busy here rewiring my sump pump. 7:54 a.m.
RP: Lol! Wat’s tha address? 8:09 a.m.
S: Baldwin city. A snake just crawled through the wall, so call me if this project sounds like something you’re up for. That particular snake is now gone. 8:35 a.m.
RP: I live in Ottawa 8:37 a.m.
S: Are you an electrician? That seems relatively important to me. 8:39 a.m.
RP: Negative. 8:41 a.m.
Random Person: Is this Nicole? 7:32 a.m.
S: No. I’m not Nicole. But if YOU are an electrician i will hire you sight unseen to fix a short currently crippling my home. 7:37 a.m.
RP: You a dude or chick? 7:47 a.m.
S: If that affects your billing scheme in any way, we will be unable to talk business. I am busy here rewiring my sump pump. 7:54 a.m.
RP: Lol! Wat’s tha address? 8:09 a.m.
S: Baldwin city. A snake just crawled through the wall, so call me if this project sounds like something you’re up for. That particular snake is now gone. 8:35 a.m.
RP: I live in Ottawa 8:37 a.m.
S: Are you an electrician? That seems relatively important to me. 8:39 a.m.
RP: Negative. 8:41 a.m.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Lortab
I’m very impatient lately. Worse than normal. That’s bad. It’s kind of a whirlwind of things which require a great deal of patience, and they’re all hitting at once. It’s been set up that way for a while, but a lot of it is just attributable to procrastination. There are any number of things I’ve wanted to accomplish for quite some time, and in fits and spurts, they are accomplished. Chipping away, I’m told.
There is a bit of longing for things to get better quickly, and it just doesn’t happen that way. Improvement takes effort and time, and lately, I’ve just been biding time. There’s no way to fairly assess it except for in this evaluation. A lot of things should have been and could have been done in the recent past that would add to an overall satisfaction, and only a few of my goals have been met. I just feel like I’m in kind of a dangerous place right now—that’s all.
The oral surgery is one thing. It’s been allowed to dominate my life for a while now. I’ve known it was coming, and I’ve taken the steps I’ve felt necessary to attempt to combat it, and so far, so good. Except I haven’t been worth a damn, and I know it. It’s a hell of a hurdle to try and get over (or maybe through, in my case) There just wasn’t enough care taken for a very long time, and I’m paying the price for my previous negligence now. In the mouth and in the pocketbook.
Things could always be worse. I often think of the poor sonofabitch who actually has it the worst. And through poor decision-making, he or she can make the situation worse. It just takes bad decisions. Am I making poor decisions lately? It’s been on my mind. I feel I’ve had a weird personality shift lately, and I can’t explain it or even come close to figuring it out. Mostly, I’m not trying to. I’m just kind of aware of these differences, and I’m keeping a note of them. Things to look out for. I’m all over the place here, but that’s just how it is right now—and this is without drinking.
The last set of oral surgeries, coupled with some other things that were going on in my life precipitated my last brutal bender. I don’t want that series of events repeated. So far, no drinks. I sure think about it every day, but usually that feeling drifts off into the night. But lately, all I’ve had is night. I’m sleeping all damned day, I’m barely eating anything except the little cans of Chef Boyardee, and I’ve lost 20 pounds so far. Just can’t eat very well without a lot of discomfort. This round of surgery, I’ve been taking the pain medication for the ability to eat on the side which was operated on over a month ago. The surgery from last week seems to be doing much better than that first botched operation. And it must have been botched.
I know the upper left quadrant wasn’t in good shape going in. It’s one of the places my jaw was broken in 1991, and the molars most closely related to that break have been removed, in addition to the wisdom teeth throughout the mouth in the late 90s, or maybe 2000 or so. I’d have to look that one up. But damn, the damage that surgery did to that area in the short run was something else. I just don’t ever want to go through anything similar to that again. It was about a three and a half hour operation, and it never did get numbed up right in the first place…or the situation was in such dire straights that the numbing couldn’t do much for it. I don’t know exactly what the case was up there, but it sure sucked, and it’s still more sensitive than the recently corrected area.
Anyway, I’ve just got to put a renewed effort into this patience thing right now. I know a lot of other people are being patient with me right now, though I feel I don’t really exist at the moment. I think the fog will clear tomorrow, but this is one hell of a shitty way to be at the moment. I just want to be able to think right again soon…
There is a bit of longing for things to get better quickly, and it just doesn’t happen that way. Improvement takes effort and time, and lately, I’ve just been biding time. There’s no way to fairly assess it except for in this evaluation. A lot of things should have been and could have been done in the recent past that would add to an overall satisfaction, and only a few of my goals have been met. I just feel like I’m in kind of a dangerous place right now—that’s all.
The oral surgery is one thing. It’s been allowed to dominate my life for a while now. I’ve known it was coming, and I’ve taken the steps I’ve felt necessary to attempt to combat it, and so far, so good. Except I haven’t been worth a damn, and I know it. It’s a hell of a hurdle to try and get over (or maybe through, in my case) There just wasn’t enough care taken for a very long time, and I’m paying the price for my previous negligence now. In the mouth and in the pocketbook.
Things could always be worse. I often think of the poor sonofabitch who actually has it the worst. And through poor decision-making, he or she can make the situation worse. It just takes bad decisions. Am I making poor decisions lately? It’s been on my mind. I feel I’ve had a weird personality shift lately, and I can’t explain it or even come close to figuring it out. Mostly, I’m not trying to. I’m just kind of aware of these differences, and I’m keeping a note of them. Things to look out for. I’m all over the place here, but that’s just how it is right now—and this is without drinking.
The last set of oral surgeries, coupled with some other things that were going on in my life precipitated my last brutal bender. I don’t want that series of events repeated. So far, no drinks. I sure think about it every day, but usually that feeling drifts off into the night. But lately, all I’ve had is night. I’m sleeping all damned day, I’m barely eating anything except the little cans of Chef Boyardee, and I’ve lost 20 pounds so far. Just can’t eat very well without a lot of discomfort. This round of surgery, I’ve been taking the pain medication for the ability to eat on the side which was operated on over a month ago. The surgery from last week seems to be doing much better than that first botched operation. And it must have been botched.
I know the upper left quadrant wasn’t in good shape going in. It’s one of the places my jaw was broken in 1991, and the molars most closely related to that break have been removed, in addition to the wisdom teeth throughout the mouth in the late 90s, or maybe 2000 or so. I’d have to look that one up. But damn, the damage that surgery did to that area in the short run was something else. I just don’t ever want to go through anything similar to that again. It was about a three and a half hour operation, and it never did get numbed up right in the first place…or the situation was in such dire straights that the numbing couldn’t do much for it. I don’t know exactly what the case was up there, but it sure sucked, and it’s still more sensitive than the recently corrected area.
Anyway, I’ve just got to put a renewed effort into this patience thing right now. I know a lot of other people are being patient with me right now, though I feel I don’t really exist at the moment. I think the fog will clear tomorrow, but this is one hell of a shitty way to be at the moment. I just want to be able to think right again soon…
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Cat Psychologist, Session One
I’m in need of a cat psychologist. I think I’m going to forgo the monies that could be spent on this endeavor, and I’ll represent the cat psychologist myself. I’m independent, wild, indifferent, and stupid, so I know I’ve got that much in common with the felines.
But do I think like the felines? Well, back in the day when I was getting fucked up all the time, I used to piss and shit wherever the hell I felt like occasionally and it wasn’t terribly malicious. I just didn’t know what the hell I was doing…and so maybe it goes with Nala.
CASE STUDY: Nala
Female Tabby, 4 years old. 11 lbs. Neutered, shots up to date. Wears a Hartz flea collar. Still has claws.
Nala has been in kittyjail since yesterday morning. I had to put her in the shower room with her food, some water, and her litter box. She’s been using the master bedroom as a pissbox, and my bed as a shitbox. One of us finds this unacceptable, and since I’m the one with thumbs, she’s been placed in her holding cell until something changes.
She was/is a fine predator. There haven’t been any lasting episodes with birds or rodents that she hasn’t resolved. It’s just gotten to the point where the cat is worse than the problems the cat was preventing. I’m at a loss, because it came all at once. I mean, I knew she was ticked off at me before she began this mess, but I’ve always thought she was a little ticked at me.
She’s been good company to me. I say “to me” because there have been episodes with my brother. Nala and Chopper, my brother’s dog, do not get along. They never have. I’ve known the dog since she was a pup, and Nala since she was a nearly grown kitten, so I’ve got long histories with all parties involved. Nala’s been known to hiss and spit at my brother, maybe because she can smell Chop-dog on him. All I can smell right now is catpiss…
I found the latest offending area yesterday morning. So, for the third time in a week, I’m peeling off the bedspread and covers and cleaning the mattress… (I’ve already thrown out the original spread for the bed this summer, in an unrelated “catsick” episode.) Well, I grabbed Nala by the scruff of her neck and put her face right in the catpiss. It must have been going on there for three days or more, because of the surrounding layers of repeat offenses. I’ve heard, and I understand that doing this to the cat is unlikely to have any lasting impact on the cat, except inasmuch as she will resent me quite a bit more. I couldn’t help it. I was pissed. And it was the only thing I could think to do. I think she’d just completed her work there, and she was still in the room. Wrong place, wrong time. So I asked her fairly calmly, “What is this? Why do you think this is necessary? You haven’t used your box in three days? Why? This cannot continue.” And we walked to the shower room, where I’d already set up her box, food and water. I knew she’d been pissing and shitting everywhere, but this was the first time I’d been close to catching her in the act.
So I go about my business for the day, and I completely ignored Nala. I didn’t go in there once to see how she was faring. We just needed a break. This morning, I went to the kittyjail. She’d shit in the shower stall. I figured she would, because she’d taken to crapping there in the past week. The thing with the shit evolved, it seems. The piss just followed in a decision that the box was to be used by Nala for nothing. Anyway, the result was predicable and repeated behavior, so I swept up the poo, and asked Nala why the hell things were going down in this way. She exited the room for a bit, but she was hooked. It was also breakfast time, and her water dish was also in kittyjail. She didn’t even get a proper exercise. It was feeding and cleaning time, and Nala probably didn’t spend more than a couple of minutes out of her stall. I didn’t have to coerce her to return. She’s always hungry.
Again, I had a one-sided conversation with the cat. “Do you see what I’m doing here, Nala? This is your shit that you’ve left four feet from your box. Why?!? I just don’t get it. You don’t have too many options here, so you’re going to have to figure this one out.”
I tried to express myself with actions more than words, since we’ve been on a pretty bad basis lately. It’s maddening because I know she knows that’s where to shit and piss. She did it in the same way for almost four years. She couldn’t have gotten stupid overnight. She was already dumb. (Though I admit, almost bright for a cat. At this moment she has certainly outsmarting me.)
Our first couple of sessions have been downright unproductive. I do have the bed cleaned up again—the spreads at least. I’m undecided on whether to replace the bedding or to cover the bed with plastic. I’m afraid Nala has met her match here with the kittyjail. I think she’ll crack under the pressure, if she can figure out why she’s in the predicament she’s currently in. I didn’t think I’d have to give Nala cat treats as a grown cat for using the litter box properly, but if she ever uses it again, that’s exactly what’s likely to happen. I’d keep her away from any and all of the bedding in the house, but it’s nearly logistically impossible. And I’m afraid this thing will spread to the carpet. If that happens, we’re in for a major episode.
So it goes, for now. This is less than riveting reading, to be sure. I’ve committed to writing something for a half-hour or hour a day lately, so we have some drivel. Maybe someday I can clean up the drivel in both my writing and in my life.
But do I think like the felines? Well, back in the day when I was getting fucked up all the time, I used to piss and shit wherever the hell I felt like occasionally and it wasn’t terribly malicious. I just didn’t know what the hell I was doing…and so maybe it goes with Nala.
CASE STUDY: Nala
Female Tabby, 4 years old. 11 lbs. Neutered, shots up to date. Wears a Hartz flea collar. Still has claws.
Nala has been in kittyjail since yesterday morning. I had to put her in the shower room with her food, some water, and her litter box. She’s been using the master bedroom as a pissbox, and my bed as a shitbox. One of us finds this unacceptable, and since I’m the one with thumbs, she’s been placed in her holding cell until something changes.
She was/is a fine predator. There haven’t been any lasting episodes with birds or rodents that she hasn’t resolved. It’s just gotten to the point where the cat is worse than the problems the cat was preventing. I’m at a loss, because it came all at once. I mean, I knew she was ticked off at me before she began this mess, but I’ve always thought she was a little ticked at me.
She’s been good company to me. I say “to me” because there have been episodes with my brother. Nala and Chopper, my brother’s dog, do not get along. They never have. I’ve known the dog since she was a pup, and Nala since she was a nearly grown kitten, so I’ve got long histories with all parties involved. Nala’s been known to hiss and spit at my brother, maybe because she can smell Chop-dog on him. All I can smell right now is catpiss…
I found the latest offending area yesterday morning. So, for the third time in a week, I’m peeling off the bedspread and covers and cleaning the mattress… (I’ve already thrown out the original spread for the bed this summer, in an unrelated “catsick” episode.) Well, I grabbed Nala by the scruff of her neck and put her face right in the catpiss. It must have been going on there for three days or more, because of the surrounding layers of repeat offenses. I’ve heard, and I understand that doing this to the cat is unlikely to have any lasting impact on the cat, except inasmuch as she will resent me quite a bit more. I couldn’t help it. I was pissed. And it was the only thing I could think to do. I think she’d just completed her work there, and she was still in the room. Wrong place, wrong time. So I asked her fairly calmly, “What is this? Why do you think this is necessary? You haven’t used your box in three days? Why? This cannot continue.” And we walked to the shower room, where I’d already set up her box, food and water. I knew she’d been pissing and shitting everywhere, but this was the first time I’d been close to catching her in the act.
So I go about my business for the day, and I completely ignored Nala. I didn’t go in there once to see how she was faring. We just needed a break. This morning, I went to the kittyjail. She’d shit in the shower stall. I figured she would, because she’d taken to crapping there in the past week. The thing with the shit evolved, it seems. The piss just followed in a decision that the box was to be used by Nala for nothing. Anyway, the result was predicable and repeated behavior, so I swept up the poo, and asked Nala why the hell things were going down in this way. She exited the room for a bit, but she was hooked. It was also breakfast time, and her water dish was also in kittyjail. She didn’t even get a proper exercise. It was feeding and cleaning time, and Nala probably didn’t spend more than a couple of minutes out of her stall. I didn’t have to coerce her to return. She’s always hungry.
Again, I had a one-sided conversation with the cat. “Do you see what I’m doing here, Nala? This is your shit that you’ve left four feet from your box. Why?!? I just don’t get it. You don’t have too many options here, so you’re going to have to figure this one out.”
I tried to express myself with actions more than words, since we’ve been on a pretty bad basis lately. It’s maddening because I know she knows that’s where to shit and piss. She did it in the same way for almost four years. She couldn’t have gotten stupid overnight. She was already dumb. (Though I admit, almost bright for a cat. At this moment she has certainly outsmarting me.)
Our first couple of sessions have been downright unproductive. I do have the bed cleaned up again—the spreads at least. I’m undecided on whether to replace the bedding or to cover the bed with plastic. I’m afraid Nala has met her match here with the kittyjail. I think she’ll crack under the pressure, if she can figure out why she’s in the predicament she’s currently in. I didn’t think I’d have to give Nala cat treats as a grown cat for using the litter box properly, but if she ever uses it again, that’s exactly what’s likely to happen. I’d keep her away from any and all of the bedding in the house, but it’s nearly logistically impossible. And I’m afraid this thing will spread to the carpet. If that happens, we’re in for a major episode.
So it goes, for now. This is less than riveting reading, to be sure. I’ve committed to writing something for a half-hour or hour a day lately, so we have some drivel. Maybe someday I can clean up the drivel in both my writing and in my life.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Catpiss
I suppose this was inevitable. A fitting conclusion to the “Cat Excrement” trilogy. Nala’s having a hell of a time lately. Or I am. Anyway, this thing she’s doing has evolved to cover just about everything. The cat just does whatever she wants whenever she wants to. I don’t know what to do.
I know she’s just a cat, but she’s also company. And she’s been pretty damned good company for about four years now. She showed up at my place, and she’d obviously been around people on some level. She was extremely good at conning my girlfriend into letting her in the house, and she pulled that off within the hour. I had a pretty bad mouse issue at the time, and Nala was good at what she did from the start.
I think my girlfriend named the cat after some popular cartoon character or something. I’m pretty sure it was from “The Lion King.” I’ve looked up the name origin, and it’s supposed to mean gift, or possibly the Swahili meaning “dubious.” Both meanings seem to have some basis in fact these days…
I’ve had other pets through the years, and I guess most of those relationships have ended badly as well. I had to give up a dog that I’d had for a couple of years (Eliza has a great home, and I’m able to visit her at my pleasure), and my girlfriend’s blue heeler passed on in the same year. That dog’s passing hastened the end of my relationship with the girl…We had fundamental differences of opinion on so many topics…
But the cat, it seemed at the time, was a good call. Nala’s been the best of my cats through the years. Dr. Pangloss was great while he was still around, but that cat met a mysterious end involving a late night phone call, a basketball game, and a bottle of Jim Beam. I’ll never be able to determine the whole story of what happened that night in April of ’03…
I don’t know where I’m going with any of this except that the cat’s litter box was changed two days ago, and it hasn’t been used. I haven’t figured out yet where she’s pissing and shitting, but I’ve certainly ruled out the one place all that junk is supposed to be. I suspect there’s been some activity on a downstairs bed. Probably an upstairs one two. I don’t smell the catshit yet, but I’m sure it’s out there. It will be a little gift to me somewhere down the road.
I should count myself lucky, I suppose, that it’s summer, and the windows are all open on the place. I guess it’s airing itself out enough right now to now to avoid a present problem, but this will all come home to roost soon enough.
The cat offered a lot of resistance to my idea of keeping her in the shower room for the weekend. I wanted to get this thing all under control back on Friday. I’d had an oral surgery that day, and my brother was bringing over his dog for the weekend. Nala doesn’t play well with others, so I thought that might be a good time to just keep her in that room with a completely cleaned out litter box, and see what happened. What ended up happening was that she saw my brother’s truck with Chop-dog in the passenger seat. (The dog’s name is Chopper) The cat went nuts. She ran like I haven’t seen her move in a long time when she knew she was being contained in that room. It just wasn’t going to work out, and I didn’t feel like hunting her down at that point. My mouth hurt.
So the dog stays with me for the weekend on the sunporch, and the cat kind of has her way with the place. That’s fine and all, but she still isn’t using the damned litter box. At all. For the moment, I’ll chalk it up to her being pissed off at the presence of Chop-dog and the inconveniences this has caused her.
She started screaming at me about two months ago. I think she was telling me at that time that she had fleas. So I’ve taken care of that problem, but it looks like Nala just isn’t going to let that thing die. Or maybe I haven’t gotten all the fleas…I don’t know what the hell is going on anymore, except that I’m doing a shitton of laundry.
The screaming has subsided, but now it seems there’s just a lot of indifference. She doesn’t much care about much of anything, and the only things she seems to care about are contrary to me maintaining a standard of living that doesn’t involve catpiss in every room of the house.
She wasn’t even mean to the dog this weekend (a stark contrast to her true nature), and I fear she may be ill. I’m not in a position to pay a bunch of money for her to kick the cat-hiv. That’s a pretty big fear of a diagnosis, but she’s lost a lot of weight…Back to the vet soon…
I’m pretty sure no one reads this, but any ideas or suggestions are welcome. The clock’s ticking on this cat, and it’s too bad, because she’s damned good company.
I know she’s just a cat, but she’s also company. And she’s been pretty damned good company for about four years now. She showed up at my place, and she’d obviously been around people on some level. She was extremely good at conning my girlfriend into letting her in the house, and she pulled that off within the hour. I had a pretty bad mouse issue at the time, and Nala was good at what she did from the start.
I think my girlfriend named the cat after some popular cartoon character or something. I’m pretty sure it was from “The Lion King.” I’ve looked up the name origin, and it’s supposed to mean gift, or possibly the Swahili meaning “dubious.” Both meanings seem to have some basis in fact these days…
I’ve had other pets through the years, and I guess most of those relationships have ended badly as well. I had to give up a dog that I’d had for a couple of years (Eliza has a great home, and I’m able to visit her at my pleasure), and my girlfriend’s blue heeler passed on in the same year. That dog’s passing hastened the end of my relationship with the girl…We had fundamental differences of opinion on so many topics…
But the cat, it seemed at the time, was a good call. Nala’s been the best of my cats through the years. Dr. Pangloss was great while he was still around, but that cat met a mysterious end involving a late night phone call, a basketball game, and a bottle of Jim Beam. I’ll never be able to determine the whole story of what happened that night in April of ’03…
I don’t know where I’m going with any of this except that the cat’s litter box was changed two days ago, and it hasn’t been used. I haven’t figured out yet where she’s pissing and shitting, but I’ve certainly ruled out the one place all that junk is supposed to be. I suspect there’s been some activity on a downstairs bed. Probably an upstairs one two. I don’t smell the catshit yet, but I’m sure it’s out there. It will be a little gift to me somewhere down the road.
I should count myself lucky, I suppose, that it’s summer, and the windows are all open on the place. I guess it’s airing itself out enough right now to now to avoid a present problem, but this will all come home to roost soon enough.
The cat offered a lot of resistance to my idea of keeping her in the shower room for the weekend. I wanted to get this thing all under control back on Friday. I’d had an oral surgery that day, and my brother was bringing over his dog for the weekend. Nala doesn’t play well with others, so I thought that might be a good time to just keep her in that room with a completely cleaned out litter box, and see what happened. What ended up happening was that she saw my brother’s truck with Chop-dog in the passenger seat. (The dog’s name is Chopper) The cat went nuts. She ran like I haven’t seen her move in a long time when she knew she was being contained in that room. It just wasn’t going to work out, and I didn’t feel like hunting her down at that point. My mouth hurt.
So the dog stays with me for the weekend on the sunporch, and the cat kind of has her way with the place. That’s fine and all, but she still isn’t using the damned litter box. At all. For the moment, I’ll chalk it up to her being pissed off at the presence of Chop-dog and the inconveniences this has caused her.
She started screaming at me about two months ago. I think she was telling me at that time that she had fleas. So I’ve taken care of that problem, but it looks like Nala just isn’t going to let that thing die. Or maybe I haven’t gotten all the fleas…I don’t know what the hell is going on anymore, except that I’m doing a shitton of laundry.
The screaming has subsided, but now it seems there’s just a lot of indifference. She doesn’t much care about much of anything, and the only things she seems to care about are contrary to me maintaining a standard of living that doesn’t involve catpiss in every room of the house.
She wasn’t even mean to the dog this weekend (a stark contrast to her true nature), and I fear she may be ill. I’m not in a position to pay a bunch of money for her to kick the cat-hiv. That’s a pretty big fear of a diagnosis, but she’s lost a lot of weight…Back to the vet soon…
I’m pretty sure no one reads this, but any ideas or suggestions are welcome. The clock’s ticking on this cat, and it’s too bad, because she’s damned good company.
Flightless Decoy
Tough times to be a Jayhawk, 2010. My school’s football team sucks ass. North Dakota State 6, Kansas 3. At home. For the opener. They don’t like to block, apparently. I didn’t go to the game, but it appears in addition to being talentless and devoid of direction, they are late-hit stupid. (“Late hit stupid” is a notch below “Arkansas dumb.”) They like to fumble, but their true preference is to avoid catching the ball in the first place. Kicking isn’t this team’s “thing.” Having kicks blocked is a skill for which they’ve developed an advanced acumen. And if we should happen to force a turnover of any type, we’ll be sure to advance it out of our own end zone to the one yard line. By choice.
There appears to be a quarterback controversy now in Lawrence, Kansas, and it couldn’t be more inconsequential. There isn’t going to be any feel-good ending to this chapter, because the O-line simply can’t do anything about the situation at the line of scrimmage. They are beaten soundly up front by a middle of the road Missouri Valley team, and very likely have no hope at all against the next eleven opponents. (North Dakota State has won seven more national championships in football than KU has—but NDSU hasn’t won one since 1990. This is not Appalachian State beating Michigan here. App State was coming off a national championship themselves, I believe.)
I’ll be easy on the student-atheletes here. I don’t believe it’s their fault they suck. Why they are completely lacking in the “give a damn” category is something we’ll have to figure out as time elapses. I’ve noticed it was a problem with the wildly talented basketball team of last winter, and it sure as hell exists on the gridiron this fall. I’ve seen a number of them play, and I know that some of them have the ability to ball a little. What they won’t be doing anytime soon is winning any football games. This is only the second time in school history that KU has lost to a D-IAA, or DMV, or whatever new acronym the NCAA has for “second division football”. I suppose I should find out what that acronym is real quick—Phil Steele says FCS—Football Championship Subdivision. So there you have it. KU lost to Louisiana Tech some time before they switched up to the Sun Belt and D-IA, whatever the hell KU is supposed to be…
There comes a time for a football (or any sports) program, where the need for advancement is limited by the talents and abilities of those in the practice pool. Terrible players who practice against other terrible players regularly become anything but shitty players. It’s a regression to the mean, in any case. Players who are tested on the other side of the ball with challenges on a daily basis are much more likely to improve than those who are butting heads with equal mediocrity.
Of all the losses in the history of the University of Kansas football program, this one is the worst. There is nothing positive that can come from this outcome, besides very cheap tickets for the locals for the remainder of the year. If head coach Turner Gill is able to muster a win out of this team, I will be quite surprised at this point. Last year’s team ripped off seven consecutive losses to close the year, and they were scoring touchdowns while losing…This is the first time in five years the Hawks failed to score a TD, and I’m pretty confident that there isn’t one NFL player on the field.
So how do we react to coach Gill’s first victory as a Jayhawk, should that eventuate? If it comes this year, I’d sign the man to an extension for being able to beat anyone. I think. Or maybe I’d fire him on the spot for the disaster that was needlessly brought about this evening…but I don’t think we’ll need to worry about that problem for a while.
It’s too bad. I was looking forward to football season all summer, and it’s already over…
There appears to be a quarterback controversy now in Lawrence, Kansas, and it couldn’t be more inconsequential. There isn’t going to be any feel-good ending to this chapter, because the O-line simply can’t do anything about the situation at the line of scrimmage. They are beaten soundly up front by a middle of the road Missouri Valley team, and very likely have no hope at all against the next eleven opponents. (North Dakota State has won seven more national championships in football than KU has—but NDSU hasn’t won one since 1990. This is not Appalachian State beating Michigan here. App State was coming off a national championship themselves, I believe.)
I’ll be easy on the student-atheletes here. I don’t believe it’s their fault they suck. Why they are completely lacking in the “give a damn” category is something we’ll have to figure out as time elapses. I’ve noticed it was a problem with the wildly talented basketball team of last winter, and it sure as hell exists on the gridiron this fall. I’ve seen a number of them play, and I know that some of them have the ability to ball a little. What they won’t be doing anytime soon is winning any football games. This is only the second time in school history that KU has lost to a D-IAA, or DMV, or whatever new acronym the NCAA has for “second division football”. I suppose I should find out what that acronym is real quick—Phil Steele says FCS—Football Championship Subdivision. So there you have it. KU lost to Louisiana Tech some time before they switched up to the Sun Belt and D-IA, whatever the hell KU is supposed to be…
There comes a time for a football (or any sports) program, where the need for advancement is limited by the talents and abilities of those in the practice pool. Terrible players who practice against other terrible players regularly become anything but shitty players. It’s a regression to the mean, in any case. Players who are tested on the other side of the ball with challenges on a daily basis are much more likely to improve than those who are butting heads with equal mediocrity.
Of all the losses in the history of the University of Kansas football program, this one is the worst. There is nothing positive that can come from this outcome, besides very cheap tickets for the locals for the remainder of the year. If head coach Turner Gill is able to muster a win out of this team, I will be quite surprised at this point. Last year’s team ripped off seven consecutive losses to close the year, and they were scoring touchdowns while losing…This is the first time in five years the Hawks failed to score a TD, and I’m pretty confident that there isn’t one NFL player on the field.
So how do we react to coach Gill’s first victory as a Jayhawk, should that eventuate? If it comes this year, I’d sign the man to an extension for being able to beat anyone. I think. Or maybe I’d fire him on the spot for the disaster that was needlessly brought about this evening…but I don’t think we’ll need to worry about that problem for a while.
It’s too bad. I was looking forward to football season all summer, and it’s already over…
Friday, August 27, 2010
Catshit
I can safely say the cat situation has gone from bad to worse. What I thought was an isolated incident--a lump of catshit in my bed--has become a trend. Last night, my cat kept me up at midnight. I'm ready to go to sleep, when the unmistakable stink of cat wafted up to my face. It was only about three feet from my face when I realized it.
Now, I'm on the record admitting I'm a terrible pet owner, but is this shitting in my bed thing necessary? Puking all over every horizontal and vertical surface of the place isn't cutting it anymore, Nala? If I had a camera that was working, I'd be documenting this progression to make this series of posts at least somewhat more entertaining to all the cats out there...this shit is legendary now on the homefront...
One can't effectively discipline a cat. She can't speak my language, so I guess she's shitting all over my stuff to express some form of displeasure. I find it ridiculous that I'm being blackmailed by a fucking animal with a brain the size of a walnut...
I picked her up by the scruff of the neck and lofted her over to the bed. I put her head down close to it, all the while asking her, "Now, what do you mean by this? What are you trying to tell me?" And Nala, of course, just looked at me, unable to do anything because she was being held defenseless in this case.
"You see this shit, Nala? I say it all the time, but right now, I mean it. THIS SHIT AIN'T COOL."
I didn't even raise my voice with her. She already thinks her first name is "Goddammit", so I don't even go there anymore...This might be payment in arrears for lots of past yelling...I didn't know how good I had it back then when she simply puked on everything. That could be written off to something at least partially involuntary.
But this--THIS is a direct and personal attack. It's not a goddamned accident, because she's done it now more than once. There's something to it, and I'm not real happy. (Obviously, neither is she) I don't think shitting in her litter box would do any good, or I'd hop right in there. She doesn't have a consistent bed right now, or I'd go take a shit right where she sleeps. What the fuck is the difference? It's a huge house for one person and a cat, and for all I know, she's got some sort of shit stash built up somewhere that she just carries around to distribute when her dissatisfaction fancies, and she doesn't even have to bother with the physical need at the time of the whimsy.
I don't know what to do. I mean, she does her job. All her job entails is keeping vermin down, and she's great at that. What I didn't know prior to this week was that the other main part of her job I'd been taking for granted for several years. This catshit thing has me miffed.
I've already cleaned everything. All the places she lounges around and such--and this is the payment in kind? Is she telling me I need to get another type of laundry detergent? I've looked for "Rancid Ass Catshit" Purex, but it's never in stock at my grocery store.
Do I need to get a different type of cat litter? Where do they sell the "Perpetually Fresh but Never Used" variety? Do I need to go to the vet to line up the one she prefers most?
Maybe I just need a big-ass dog...
I'll be in the market for a camera. I don't feel words can do this particular situation justice. And when the lawyers are asking for documentation should a split between us eventuate, I'd like to have the proper documentation.
Now, I'm on the record admitting I'm a terrible pet owner, but is this shitting in my bed thing necessary? Puking all over every horizontal and vertical surface of the place isn't cutting it anymore, Nala? If I had a camera that was working, I'd be documenting this progression to make this series of posts at least somewhat more entertaining to all the cats out there...this shit is legendary now on the homefront...
One can't effectively discipline a cat. She can't speak my language, so I guess she's shitting all over my stuff to express some form of displeasure. I find it ridiculous that I'm being blackmailed by a fucking animal with a brain the size of a walnut...
I picked her up by the scruff of the neck and lofted her over to the bed. I put her head down close to it, all the while asking her, "Now, what do you mean by this? What are you trying to tell me?" And Nala, of course, just looked at me, unable to do anything because she was being held defenseless in this case.
"You see this shit, Nala? I say it all the time, but right now, I mean it. THIS SHIT AIN'T COOL."
I didn't even raise my voice with her. She already thinks her first name is "Goddammit", so I don't even go there anymore...This might be payment in arrears for lots of past yelling...I didn't know how good I had it back then when she simply puked on everything. That could be written off to something at least partially involuntary.
But this--THIS is a direct and personal attack. It's not a goddamned accident, because she's done it now more than once. There's something to it, and I'm not real happy. (Obviously, neither is she) I don't think shitting in her litter box would do any good, or I'd hop right in there. She doesn't have a consistent bed right now, or I'd go take a shit right where she sleeps. What the fuck is the difference? It's a huge house for one person and a cat, and for all I know, she's got some sort of shit stash built up somewhere that she just carries around to distribute when her dissatisfaction fancies, and she doesn't even have to bother with the physical need at the time of the whimsy.
I don't know what to do. I mean, she does her job. All her job entails is keeping vermin down, and she's great at that. What I didn't know prior to this week was that the other main part of her job I'd been taking for granted for several years. This catshit thing has me miffed.
I've already cleaned everything. All the places she lounges around and such--and this is the payment in kind? Is she telling me I need to get another type of laundry detergent? I've looked for "Rancid Ass Catshit" Purex, but it's never in stock at my grocery store.
Do I need to get a different type of cat litter? Where do they sell the "Perpetually Fresh but Never Used" variety? Do I need to go to the vet to line up the one she prefers most?
Maybe I just need a big-ass dog...
I'll be in the market for a camera. I don't feel words can do this particular situation justice. And when the lawyers are asking for documentation should a split between us eventuate, I'd like to have the proper documentation.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Fun With SMS, Part I
Someone asked me not too long ago: "What do you do for fun?"
There followed a long silence, and I finally answered something like this: "I don't know...Change light bulbs?"
And then there's this: (A roof was recently installed at my home. I believe that to be the only event that follows based loosely in fact.)
S: I'm taking a self-help seminar from my pharmacist and am so required to inform you that i am far tougher than you could ever comprehend, you panted pussy. 8/23/10 7:56pm
B: You have no idea the pussy I was pullin when I was at Arizona State 8/23/10 8:31pm
S: Did you ever have simultaneous and concurrent multiple heartattacks and orgasms with any of those bitches? I thought not, you braggart. 8/23/10 8:34pm
B: Done it all, THREE times in a tornado, EACH time at clinton lake with a 400 lb Channel cat in tow 8/23/10 8:44pm
S: Underwater in a shipwreck of the Russian aircraft carrier you sank in the Wakarusa that prevented the onset of world war three? With Hilary Clinton filming it? 8/23/10 8:47pm
B: Yup, Well if that's the way it's gotta be 8/23/10 8:49pm
S: no other way is even worth talking about. 8/23/10 8:50pm
B: Well I could think of a few. On a gunboat in. On the yellow river yellin 'I love that yellow pink'. You get it. Yellow....Pink. That was fun all 89 times we did it that november of 1958 in 'nam 8/23/10 8:59pm
S: You were there when i had to take a glider to the moon to help jump start the Apollo craft..the FBI gave me that sex parade in Amsterdam after my nobel prize. 8/23/10 10:22pm
B: Was the same bitch you took to 'ol Jeff Jackso,ks wedding. I bet he is still thankful of that one. He should be if he had half a brain like me. 8/23/10 10:55pm
S: Sorry couldnt get back to you til now. Had to swim to the Mariana trench to stop a tsunami. Cleaned up the BP oil spill on the way home while siring Joss Stone. 8/24/10 8:06am
B: Who is joss stone? 8/24/10 8:09am
S: British soul singer. I've been banging her and writing all her songs, in addition to playing all instruments on the tracks. I also shag her mama. And sing. 8/24/10 8:14am
B: I dumped her years ago and I could have had that roof done in45 minutes if you had just me known it needed to be done. Man...jeez 8/24/10 8:17am
S: There's only about 10 minutes of roofing up there, you lazyass. All that metal up there is an early detection device for comets obscured by the sun. 8/24/10 8:23am
B: Don't tell me about. Ask NASA what the though of my presentation. I imitated the movements of not only comets, but their bastard neice's: shooting stars. I did this through a gynastics routine in which I successfully completed the first one-armed iron cross 8/24/10 8:26am
S: I perfected the iron cross using only my cock in the sixties. Did it once while composing the White album. guitar credits for lennon was me playing by foot. 8/24/10 8:32am
B: That 12 foot diameter tymphany was played balls bouncing on it while I played the tuba on the other side of the stage with my middle leg 8/24/10 8:38am
S: Once i desegregated the south by just sitting at the tables with the blacks. Didnt have to say or do anything cuz I'm legendary. It's about respect. 8/24/10 8:46am
B: I remember that. You takin all the credit when I was the first to eat with em. Eating chittlins. I know how to suck a pig intestine right from it's innards 8/24/10 8:48am
S: You only learned that from the demonstrations i gave jesus and the romans in jerusalem before he quit his job and asked me to temp for him. 8/24/10 8:56am
There followed a long silence, and I finally answered something like this: "I don't know...Change light bulbs?"
And then there's this: (A roof was recently installed at my home. I believe that to be the only event that follows based loosely in fact.)
S: I'm taking a self-help seminar from my pharmacist and am so required to inform you that i am far tougher than you could ever comprehend, you panted pussy. 8/23/10 7:56pm
B: You have no idea the pussy I was pullin when I was at Arizona State 8/23/10 8:31pm
S: Did you ever have simultaneous and concurrent multiple heartattacks and orgasms with any of those bitches? I thought not, you braggart. 8/23/10 8:34pm
B: Done it all, THREE times in a tornado, EACH time at clinton lake with a 400 lb Channel cat in tow 8/23/10 8:44pm
S: Underwater in a shipwreck of the Russian aircraft carrier you sank in the Wakarusa that prevented the onset of world war three? With Hilary Clinton filming it? 8/23/10 8:47pm
B: Yup, Well if that's the way it's gotta be 8/23/10 8:49pm
S: no other way is even worth talking about. 8/23/10 8:50pm
B: Well I could think of a few. On a gunboat in. On the yellow river yellin 'I love that yellow pink'. You get it. Yellow....Pink. That was fun all 89 times we did it that november of 1958 in 'nam 8/23/10 8:59pm
S: You were there when i had to take a glider to the moon to help jump start the Apollo craft..the FBI gave me that sex parade in Amsterdam after my nobel prize. 8/23/10 10:22pm
B: Was the same bitch you took to 'ol Jeff Jackso,ks wedding. I bet he is still thankful of that one. He should be if he had half a brain like me. 8/23/10 10:55pm
S: Sorry couldnt get back to you til now. Had to swim to the Mariana trench to stop a tsunami. Cleaned up the BP oil spill on the way home while siring Joss Stone. 8/24/10 8:06am
B: Who is joss stone? 8/24/10 8:09am
S: British soul singer. I've been banging her and writing all her songs, in addition to playing all instruments on the tracks. I also shag her mama. And sing. 8/24/10 8:14am
B: I dumped her years ago and I could have had that roof done in45 minutes if you had just me known it needed to be done. Man...jeez 8/24/10 8:17am
S: There's only about 10 minutes of roofing up there, you lazyass. All that metal up there is an early detection device for comets obscured by the sun. 8/24/10 8:23am
B: Don't tell me about. Ask NASA what the though of my presentation. I imitated the movements of not only comets, but their bastard neice's: shooting stars. I did this through a gynastics routine in which I successfully completed the first one-armed iron cross 8/24/10 8:26am
S: I perfected the iron cross using only my cock in the sixties. Did it once while composing the White album. guitar credits for lennon was me playing by foot. 8/24/10 8:32am
B: That 12 foot diameter tymphany was played balls bouncing on it while I played the tuba on the other side of the stage with my middle leg 8/24/10 8:38am
S: Once i desegregated the south by just sitting at the tables with the blacks. Didnt have to say or do anything cuz I'm legendary. It's about respect. 8/24/10 8:46am
B: I remember that. You takin all the credit when I was the first to eat with em. Eating chittlins. I know how to suck a pig intestine right from it's innards 8/24/10 8:48am
S: You only learned that from the demonstrations i gave jesus and the romans in jerusalem before he quit his job and asked me to temp for him. 8/24/10 8:56am
Friday, August 13, 2010
Catsick
My cat woke me up at midnight tonight. I didn’t know why, but she was sure polite about it. She pawed me very lightly with no clawing, and just kind of let me know she was there for just enough time to let me wake up and acknowledge her existence.
Normally, I get a terrific combination of howls and jumping around on the bed around 4 o’clock. She thinks this is mealtime, but she is wrong, and is so deferred until around the time the sun comes up. Maybe she just wants to be sure I’m up and around. It doesn’t much matter, but that’s how it is.
But tonight, very gentile. I wasn’t here last night. I can’t imagine she enjoys my company, but maybe she does. I’ve been kind of down on Nala lately for her bulimic tendencies. Everywhere I look there is cat sick. I’ve been making an effort to find and eliminate the catsick, and it’s been invading every imaginable corner of the house. So it requires a full-house cleaning.
I’m a terrible pet owner. I’m kind of bad with animals of all shapes and sizes, particularly humans. I don’t know why it is, but the interactions just aren’t working right lately. Being a terrible pet and animal custodian is a poor way to frame out an existence.
The fleas, for example, are a good point of reference for this forum. It’s very unlikely that I can pin any sort of the blame for the flea situation on anyone but the pet owner. I’ve been informed by multiple parties that the catsick is likely an issue of my creation, as well. But so far, I’m just going to have to hunt down and destroy all the catsick, whether it is new catsick or not. I find myself in no position to be making value judgments about catsick. I’ve found them on unused bedspreads and such, and it’s kind of demoralizing to try and keep up with it in the summer heat. Maybe I go to the Laundromat…
So damned hot…got home tonight and it was 97 degrees inside. 107 outside. As I write this, we’re down to 88 degrees in the main of the house, and the laundry project has been resumed here to take advantage of this tremendous opportunity to run heat-generating appliances with the lowest marginal punishment. I’ve quit referencing the NOAA website and I’ll look back on it when this weather has cooled off a bit. Just can’t do it right now, but I suspect that 107 degree reading wasn’t even a record at the recording station in Topeka. Statistically, the days should have just started cooling, but the temperature outliers right now are damned extreme. We’ll have to see how the rest of this summer plays out, but the early returns have been uncomfortable.
People ask me all the time why I don’t turn on this air conditioner. It’s a window unit located about four feet in front of me, in a recessed window that ventilates into the sunroom. I’ve been sleeping out there, and on most nights when the sun goes down, it can be quite comfortable with a southerly breeze. We’ve had nothing but southerlies for a few weeks, so the air conditioner stays off. I don’t want to sacrifice that space for seasonal confinement. On a side note, it is also 88 degrees in the sunroom right now, but it actually feels nice. There’s a nice breeze, and the air is well circulated. Not so in the rest of the place. Water damage everywhere—the place is in terrific need of a new roof. I’m dealing with the worst third of that in the coming weeks…
So this morning, in my demonstrated scrambled senses, I’m making coffee at one in the morning. I’d slept enough, and I guess this was the start of the day. Very little has been done except to try and keep cool. And try and evacuate birds from the home.
On the second pot of coffee about an hour ago, I was dive-bombed by a starling. She was in the kitchen and mudroom, and was in constant flight. I got the kitchen door open wide, and after a minute or two, the bird was gone. It was entirely uneventful.
Then I remembered a couple of months ago when Nala had captured and destroyed a nestling in that same kitchen. I considered at the time that it was an isolated event caused by the door being open too long. I can now see the folly of that line of thinking, and I realize again that I have a very good cat, and a very poor roof.. She didn’t quite get this one, but she certainly let me know we had company this morning…
In any event, and as evidenced by the drivel above, the heat has melted my brain.
Normally, I get a terrific combination of howls and jumping around on the bed around 4 o’clock. She thinks this is mealtime, but she is wrong, and is so deferred until around the time the sun comes up. Maybe she just wants to be sure I’m up and around. It doesn’t much matter, but that’s how it is.
But tonight, very gentile. I wasn’t here last night. I can’t imagine she enjoys my company, but maybe she does. I’ve been kind of down on Nala lately for her bulimic tendencies. Everywhere I look there is cat sick. I’ve been making an effort to find and eliminate the catsick, and it’s been invading every imaginable corner of the house. So it requires a full-house cleaning.
I’m a terrible pet owner. I’m kind of bad with animals of all shapes and sizes, particularly humans. I don’t know why it is, but the interactions just aren’t working right lately. Being a terrible pet and animal custodian is a poor way to frame out an existence.
The fleas, for example, are a good point of reference for this forum. It’s very unlikely that I can pin any sort of the blame for the flea situation on anyone but the pet owner. I’ve been informed by multiple parties that the catsick is likely an issue of my creation, as well. But so far, I’m just going to have to hunt down and destroy all the catsick, whether it is new catsick or not. I find myself in no position to be making value judgments about catsick. I’ve found them on unused bedspreads and such, and it’s kind of demoralizing to try and keep up with it in the summer heat. Maybe I go to the Laundromat…
So damned hot…got home tonight and it was 97 degrees inside. 107 outside. As I write this, we’re down to 88 degrees in the main of the house, and the laundry project has been resumed here to take advantage of this tremendous opportunity to run heat-generating appliances with the lowest marginal punishment. I’ve quit referencing the NOAA website and I’ll look back on it when this weather has cooled off a bit. Just can’t do it right now, but I suspect that 107 degree reading wasn’t even a record at the recording station in Topeka. Statistically, the days should have just started cooling, but the temperature outliers right now are damned extreme. We’ll have to see how the rest of this summer plays out, but the early returns have been uncomfortable.
People ask me all the time why I don’t turn on this air conditioner. It’s a window unit located about four feet in front of me, in a recessed window that ventilates into the sunroom. I’ve been sleeping out there, and on most nights when the sun goes down, it can be quite comfortable with a southerly breeze. We’ve had nothing but southerlies for a few weeks, so the air conditioner stays off. I don’t want to sacrifice that space for seasonal confinement. On a side note, it is also 88 degrees in the sunroom right now, but it actually feels nice. There’s a nice breeze, and the air is well circulated. Not so in the rest of the place. Water damage everywhere—the place is in terrific need of a new roof. I’m dealing with the worst third of that in the coming weeks…
So this morning, in my demonstrated scrambled senses, I’m making coffee at one in the morning. I’d slept enough, and I guess this was the start of the day. Very little has been done except to try and keep cool. And try and evacuate birds from the home.
On the second pot of coffee about an hour ago, I was dive-bombed by a starling. She was in the kitchen and mudroom, and was in constant flight. I got the kitchen door open wide, and after a minute or two, the bird was gone. It was entirely uneventful.
Then I remembered a couple of months ago when Nala had captured and destroyed a nestling in that same kitchen. I considered at the time that it was an isolated event caused by the door being open too long. I can now see the folly of that line of thinking, and I realize again that I have a very good cat, and a very poor roof.. She didn’t quite get this one, but she certainly let me know we had company this morning…
In any event, and as evidenced by the drivel above, the heat has melted my brain.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Climate Control
I don't have much to say here. My apologies to the two or three people who might have periodically checked this blog to see what I have to say (Get a life, people. Please. I'm the least interesting person I know.), but sometimes it's best to leave things alone. Maybe where I've been this summer...
The other day on the radio, there was an interview with Lou Holtz. He coached a lot of football back in the day at Arkansas, Notre Dame, and South Carolina, among others. He was always successful everywhere he went, and by virtually all accounts I've read or heard he's a great fellow. So I paid a little attention to what he had to say. Normally the radio is used exclusively for background noise, or something to remind me I'm not completely alone, or that I even exist at all. But it was nice to hear Dr. Lou's voice. It reminded me of fall for a moment.
He said, when asked about the secrets to his successes in life the following: "Everyone needs four things in their life. They need Something to Do. They need Someone to Love. They need Something to Believe In. And they need Something to Look Forward To."
Proper grammar aside, this struck me as a little unsettling. At first glance, I'm pretty sure I'm batting about .250. I've got plenty to do, but I don't want to do almost all of it. That can't be healthy.
Is Lou talking about work? Hell, nearly 50% of the population works, so I doubt that's what he's talking about here. Maybe I need to look in to this a bit more. I don't want to read too much into what he has to say here, because the essence of that message is relatively simple. It can't be work. Maybe. Unless Lou's making an assumption we should like what we do... The only reason I work construction at all is that I don't know what the hell else to do, and that people tell me I'm pretty good at it, when I actually take the time to do it. Anyway, I guess maybe I'm batting zero. I have a hard time saying I've got Something to Do here. I think the fact that it confuses me is a very bad sign...
If there's one thing in this world I'm scared of, it is Love. I don't want any part of it right now, because it involves a calculated risk with all the variables completely out of my control. Everytime I've loved Someone, it ends with the person I'm with fucking whomever they care to anyway, so I don't see any benefit to it. I guess some people have it, and good for them. I'm pretty sure I don't know what it's like, or I know exactly what it's like, and it's awful. Just hasn't worked out here. There has been no reward to faithfulness to another in my experience. I'm not even claiming I'm worth a damn--I know I'm not--but I don't need someone else shitting all over me anymore to make themselves feel better. (And I've done my share of shitting all over other people as well) So I get an F on Lou's report card in that department. I don't trust anyone. Not right now, at least...
Is it healthy that what I miss most is the fighting? Shit, Lou...That's Something to Do with Someone You Love! I don't miss the sex. I haven't been in a relationship with anyone who knew how to fuck worth a damn since college, so that part of the deal has been substandard for about twenty years anyway, and completely unworthy of the time or effort. A trained professional is the best way to go in that department...I guess it's unhealthy when what you miss most about "Love" is being reminded what a horrible piece of shit you are...every fucking day. Sure, once or twice a month, it's nice to have company when you're not being lectured for a few minutes about how bad you suck, but those moments have been so rare that I might as well go see a goddamned psychiatrist and cough up the hundred bucks an hour. It would be exactly as real...
Today, I visited with my uncle. He was up from Tennessee for a 40th Class Reunion, and he went by my folks for a bit this morning. That man has Things he Believes In. I can't say I share his opinions on such things as stockpiling weapons, militias, survival bunkers, Civil War art, secession from the Union, politics, aerodynamics, race relations, thermodynamics, highway traveling practices, taxation, or virtually anything else we could talk about, but he remains one of the funniest men I've ever met in my life. It was all I could do to not talk politics with the man, because I felt I was being baited today...
He leaned back in his chair at one point and said to my father, brother, and me: "Boys, I hope y'all are gonna vote this fall. We need to vote Republican, and stop all this nonsense that's goin' on out there."
"I don't vote for anyone that's been in office at all, Rob," I replied.
"That's good!" He got a little more excited. "These people are just out to destroy our world!" And then I think it registered with him on some faint level that the people in office from the state of Kansas are very likely to be, in fact, Republicans. But he went instead on a half-hour ramble about the virtues of living in Tennessee--how the weather is better and the people are better, and the taxes are better, and how it really wasn't so hot here in Kansas--hell, the humidity is even higher in Tennessee!
Now, I knew Robbie was full of shit right there, because I know good and Goddamned well that Tennessee didn't have three months of snow cover over the winter. And it was not at all comfortable in Kansas today. I sit at this terminal two hours after sunset in 92 degree heat inside. That's not comfortable. But I'm not being taxed for running a fucking air conditioner, either...
But I thought that this was one of those moments where it's best to simply say nothing...I don't know how else to respond...until Rob mentioned that Obama isn't even a black man. "He's a halfbreed."
"Well, you're just nitpicking right there," was my response. Then, I went outside to have a cigarette, only sure that I had a great number of Things in Which I Didn't Believe. But dammit, Robbie knows where he stands, and he's a hell of a lot happier than I am. Maybe Lou's right, and that helps...
Part of my problem here, and I know it's my problem, is that I realize that virtually all levels and functions of our government are bankrupt, and have been for some time. Unlike the Democrats and Republicans, who both seem to have the ability to still blame each other as the problem in this manner, I don't see any resolution to the ongoing bankruptcy stalemate. Everyone involved is the problem, and anyone who remains entrenched in the thought processes of our nations' political system miss that point. Neither party finds it in their best interest to fix the problems. A wholesale political and economic restructuring of the country is needed to "fix" this mess of a situation, and no one here has the guts to commit to a wholesale revolution. Outside of politics, it's somehow tacky to hurt people's feelings anymore...And inside politics, people quite simply do not want to hear the truth, regardless of party affiliation.
Maybe I Look Forward To Robbie coming back to visit sometime. If I can possibly stay sober until he returns, we might have something to talk about.
The other day on the radio, there was an interview with Lou Holtz. He coached a lot of football back in the day at Arkansas, Notre Dame, and South Carolina, among others. He was always successful everywhere he went, and by virtually all accounts I've read or heard he's a great fellow. So I paid a little attention to what he had to say. Normally the radio is used exclusively for background noise, or something to remind me I'm not completely alone, or that I even exist at all. But it was nice to hear Dr. Lou's voice. It reminded me of fall for a moment.
He said, when asked about the secrets to his successes in life the following: "Everyone needs four things in their life. They need Something to Do. They need Someone to Love. They need Something to Believe In. And they need Something to Look Forward To."
Proper grammar aside, this struck me as a little unsettling. At first glance, I'm pretty sure I'm batting about .250. I've got plenty to do, but I don't want to do almost all of it. That can't be healthy.
Is Lou talking about work? Hell, nearly 50% of the population works, so I doubt that's what he's talking about here. Maybe I need to look in to this a bit more. I don't want to read too much into what he has to say here, because the essence of that message is relatively simple. It can't be work. Maybe. Unless Lou's making an assumption we should like what we do... The only reason I work construction at all is that I don't know what the hell else to do, and that people tell me I'm pretty good at it, when I actually take the time to do it. Anyway, I guess maybe I'm batting zero. I have a hard time saying I've got Something to Do here. I think the fact that it confuses me is a very bad sign...
If there's one thing in this world I'm scared of, it is Love. I don't want any part of it right now, because it involves a calculated risk with all the variables completely out of my control. Everytime I've loved Someone, it ends with the person I'm with fucking whomever they care to anyway, so I don't see any benefit to it. I guess some people have it, and good for them. I'm pretty sure I don't know what it's like, or I know exactly what it's like, and it's awful. Just hasn't worked out here. There has been no reward to faithfulness to another in my experience. I'm not even claiming I'm worth a damn--I know I'm not--but I don't need someone else shitting all over me anymore to make themselves feel better. (And I've done my share of shitting all over other people as well) So I get an F on Lou's report card in that department. I don't trust anyone. Not right now, at least...
Is it healthy that what I miss most is the fighting? Shit, Lou...That's Something to Do with Someone You Love! I don't miss the sex. I haven't been in a relationship with anyone who knew how to fuck worth a damn since college, so that part of the deal has been substandard for about twenty years anyway, and completely unworthy of the time or effort. A trained professional is the best way to go in that department...I guess it's unhealthy when what you miss most about "Love" is being reminded what a horrible piece of shit you are...every fucking day. Sure, once or twice a month, it's nice to have company when you're not being lectured for a few minutes about how bad you suck, but those moments have been so rare that I might as well go see a goddamned psychiatrist and cough up the hundred bucks an hour. It would be exactly as real...
Today, I visited with my uncle. He was up from Tennessee for a 40th Class Reunion, and he went by my folks for a bit this morning. That man has Things he Believes In. I can't say I share his opinions on such things as stockpiling weapons, militias, survival bunkers, Civil War art, secession from the Union, politics, aerodynamics, race relations, thermodynamics, highway traveling practices, taxation, or virtually anything else we could talk about, but he remains one of the funniest men I've ever met in my life. It was all I could do to not talk politics with the man, because I felt I was being baited today...
He leaned back in his chair at one point and said to my father, brother, and me: "Boys, I hope y'all are gonna vote this fall. We need to vote Republican, and stop all this nonsense that's goin' on out there."
"I don't vote for anyone that's been in office at all, Rob," I replied.
"That's good!" He got a little more excited. "These people are just out to destroy our world!" And then I think it registered with him on some faint level that the people in office from the state of Kansas are very likely to be, in fact, Republicans. But he went instead on a half-hour ramble about the virtues of living in Tennessee--how the weather is better and the people are better, and the taxes are better, and how it really wasn't so hot here in Kansas--hell, the humidity is even higher in Tennessee!
Now, I knew Robbie was full of shit right there, because I know good and Goddamned well that Tennessee didn't have three months of snow cover over the winter. And it was not at all comfortable in Kansas today. I sit at this terminal two hours after sunset in 92 degree heat inside. That's not comfortable. But I'm not being taxed for running a fucking air conditioner, either...
But I thought that this was one of those moments where it's best to simply say nothing...I don't know how else to respond...until Rob mentioned that Obama isn't even a black man. "He's a halfbreed."
"Well, you're just nitpicking right there," was my response. Then, I went outside to have a cigarette, only sure that I had a great number of Things in Which I Didn't Believe. But dammit, Robbie knows where he stands, and he's a hell of a lot happier than I am. Maybe Lou's right, and that helps...
Part of my problem here, and I know it's my problem, is that I realize that virtually all levels and functions of our government are bankrupt, and have been for some time. Unlike the Democrats and Republicans, who both seem to have the ability to still blame each other as the problem in this manner, I don't see any resolution to the ongoing bankruptcy stalemate. Everyone involved is the problem, and anyone who remains entrenched in the thought processes of our nations' political system miss that point. Neither party finds it in their best interest to fix the problems. A wholesale political and economic restructuring of the country is needed to "fix" this mess of a situation, and no one here has the guts to commit to a wholesale revolution. Outside of politics, it's somehow tacky to hurt people's feelings anymore...And inside politics, people quite simply do not want to hear the truth, regardless of party affiliation.
Maybe I Look Forward To Robbie coming back to visit sometime. If I can possibly stay sober until he returns, we might have something to talk about.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Windowless Vans
I don't like plumbers. It's usually nothing personal against them as people--once I get to know them. Some painters--same thing. Certain police in transport vehicles. Most of all, fucking ice cream men. That windowless van simply gives me chills.
I don't know when this all started, but if I ever "go postal", I'll very likely start picking off those pedophiles trolling through residential neighborhoods trying to make their money off little children. There is nothing beneficial to society about these types that roll around playing music to attract children...
Does anyone know anybody that does this for a living? I think it must be some sort of secret society, where they all clamor around each other, and they are their own only acquaintances. Why is this shit still legal? Hell, I don't even have kids--but the thought of these creeps rolling around doing whatever it is that they do--I don't handle it well...
Look at this asshole.
This dipshit stole a brinks truck before he started his kiddie trolling..
Then there's this fucking freak. See what I'm talking about here...
Now, is this really necessary? Can it possibly be real? All it contains is a whole bunch of inside tricks, I'm sure, that lead....
To this...and to whatever cheap motel those perverts have lined up and paid off in advance.
Now, I don't know why, but most of these disturbing images were British. And most of them have windows that aren't tinted or covered up...but you get the idea. There's definitely something wrong here. There was an exceptionally bad looking pic with Russell Brand, but he found it necessary to copyright the living hell out of it, so you can't be quite as bothered by it as I am. But the American ones I've seen lately seem...dirtier. More...disgusting. I guess maybe I'll have to hit the streets with the camera, and follow up on this kind of half-assed effort.
I don't know when this all started, but if I ever "go postal", I'll very likely start picking off those pedophiles trolling through residential neighborhoods trying to make their money off little children. There is nothing beneficial to society about these types that roll around playing music to attract children...
Does anyone know anybody that does this for a living? I think it must be some sort of secret society, where they all clamor around each other, and they are their own only acquaintances. Why is this shit still legal? Hell, I don't even have kids--but the thought of these creeps rolling around doing whatever it is that they do--I don't handle it well...
Look at this asshole.
This dipshit stole a brinks truck before he started his kiddie trolling..
Then there's this fucking freak. See what I'm talking about here...
Now, is this really necessary? Can it possibly be real? All it contains is a whole bunch of inside tricks, I'm sure, that lead....
To this...and to whatever cheap motel those perverts have lined up and paid off in advance.
Now, I don't know why, but most of these disturbing images were British. And most of them have windows that aren't tinted or covered up...but you get the idea. There's definitely something wrong here. There was an exceptionally bad looking pic with Russell Brand, but he found it necessary to copyright the living hell out of it, so you can't be quite as bothered by it as I am. But the American ones I've seen lately seem...dirtier. More...disgusting. I guess maybe I'll have to hit the streets with the camera, and follow up on this kind of half-assed effort.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Booing Johnny Damon
I attended opening day in Kansas City this year. AGAIN. This was the first time in my life where there was no excitement or enthusiasm for the coming year, and to be honest, there is no chance I would have attended at all if Zach Greinke weren't pitching the game. It was an added bonus to see Justin Verlander pitch for the Tigers. They're two of the top five starters in the American League.
This is a little about sports, and I suppose it's a lot about patience. I've come to believe that maybe I'm too damned patient with the ship of fools most people call the Kansas City Royals. And I've almost certainly been too patient with their idiotic fans. I'll get into that in just a moment here, but for the two or three people who might actually read this, if you have no interest in baseball whatsoever, this post will not be for you. I won't do this again, in all likelihood, because we don't have baseball in Kansas City. I can tell you this much in advance--it won't be funny. It's just a description of misplaced anger and collective stupidity, and the part I've come to play in it...
I grew up with the Royals of the seventies and eighties, so in my world, the Royals were always at or near the top. It never seemed they would quite get over the hump, and it took a little luck and a lot of perseverance to finally gain their only World Series title in 1985. They probably had the best team in baseball a couple of other years, but they lacked a closer in the late seventies. Then, as now, the guy who should have been a "fireman" was more an "arsonist". I'm not talking about Soria here, he's great, but he's irrelevant. The team doesn't use him, so he might as well be stationed on the moon...
But I didn't know any different, and I kind of danced through my childhood thinking that the Royals would always be a reliable and well run organization. I never agreed with the Whitey Herzog firing after the 1979 season, but that was my only real complaint with the team over about a decade's time. It always appeared they were trying to be successful. The teams they put on the field were always entertaining and competitive. I almost forget what that's like.
Well, the Royals today are reliable. They are as reliable in their behaviors and decision making processes as a monkey fed overdoses of crack cocaine. You would like that monkey to pass out before he commences his next stupid act, but that goddamned monkey just keeps feeding itself more crack. It's sad, unless one enjoys watching the same train wreck repeatedly.
All this being said, the Royals still have some fans. This is, in and of itself, remarkable. But I'm sitting there on a Monday afternoon, wondering what in the world these other 40,000 people did for a living. I had to think it was more interesting than sitting in that ballpark waiting for this season's train to derail. I was never at ease there--I don't handle crowds as well as I used to--and I just don't much like the organization anymore. I still root for them because they're all I've got. My "rooting" is much more a deeply based cynicism than anything else this year. I know they will fail, it's just a question now of how miserably they will succeed in this endeavor of hopelessness.
But anyway, Royals fans are jaded. For good reason. They're in the middle of one of the worst fifteen year stunts in the history of baseball. There aren't ten other organizations that have piled up as many losses over that period of time, and professional baseball has been played since 1876. That's a big sample size, and there isn't any reason for hope anymore. It can get worse. It will, barring a miracle of luck, because the people with the pursestrings don't care about anything but the bottom line. More about that in a moment. The organization still has no concept that the team should at least occasionally be competitive.
When former owners Ewing and Muriel Kauffman passed on, the Royals were without ownership in one of the most turbulent times of baseball's history. The Kauffmans' set up a succession plan by which the team could be run by a board of directors until an owner or ownership group could be established that would guarantee the team could stay in Kansas City. The intent here was good--the results couldn't have been worse. Miles Prentice (who has since declared bankruptcy) was denied ownership of the Royals despite garnishing local support of fifty percent ownership. These potential shareholders included Tom Watson, George Brett, and so on and so on and so on. They were flatly denied by MLB, because they saw something in Prentice they didn't like. So be it. It's a private organization, and they can and will do what they want. So they did. They sold the team to David Glass at a thirty percent discount over the market bid, and now we sit where we are today. Glass has run a remarkably profitable organization, because he doesn't put any good investment toward the product on the field. He knows how to sell a five dollar hot dog, a nine dollar beer, and he's pretty sure it costs about fifteen bucks to park a car. He's not a shithead, he's just an asshole who knows how to make a buck. Being CEO of Wal-Mart for over a decade teaches valuable life lessons about how to destroy communities in a highly profitable manner...
So now we have an owner (who is not local, by the way) that attends about as many Cardinal games as Royal games who doesn't give a shit if the team wins or not. He can tell whatever lies he wants, but that's the truth. He'd rather camp out in the Ozarks than watch this team play firsthand, and I can't say I blame him. He's making money, and he doesn't have to do a goddamned thing. So he doesn't. Unless he wants to prove in new and interesting ways that he doesn't give a flying shit about winning baseball games.
On January 8, 2001, there was a three-way trade involving the Royals, A's, and Devil Rays. Kansas City sent Johnny Damon and second base prospect Mark Ellis to the A's. Oakland sent Ben Grieve to Tampa, and SS Angel Berroa and C A.J. Hinch to the Royals. Tampa sent P Cory Lidle to the A's, and P Roberto Hernandez to the Royals.
Even if you know nothing about the people mentioned above, know this: The two people the Royals coughed up in this deal are still playing major league baseball, and Damon is well on his way to a Hall of Fame career. Ellis has been as steady and reliable in an everyday role in a second-base slot as any team could ever hope for. He's been with the A's since the deal. Damon has started for two different World Series winners, and neither club would have pulled it off without him. So that's who the Royals gave up here...
Now know this: Four of the others involved in this deal are out of baseball, and one is dead. Lidle somehow passed on without ever bearing the disgrace of donning a Kansas City uniform, so his soul probably rests in peace. The others are all now nothing but footnotes in baseball history. I'll say this again: This was a trade. Damon was dealt by the Kansas City Royals before the final year of his contract, perhaps because David Glass couldn't stand the fact that we might have the best outfield in baseball two years in a row. And Glass could take further pleasure in fucking over Royals fans with the handling of Jermaine Dye and Carlos Beltran in the future. He likes to spread out the misery from time to time, but I insist that this is the worst trade in Major League history.
Some will say: "But Damon wouldn't sign with Kansas City. The Royals had to do something with him." Okay, shithead. I understand your argument, and here's why you're a dumbass: The Royals hang on to Damon, and they could have received an additional number one compensatory pick in the upcoming draft. Or, they could have hung on to Damon for the year, and dealt him on the open market to teams in contention. They might have gotten some value in the deal. But Glass wanted to save a little of that $7 million contract that would be due Damon in that year, and the decision was purely financial. He's got the organization by the balls, and he doesn't give a shit about the fans. And the fans continue to appreciate his abuse. My argument, as I stated before, is that Royals fans are idiots. Here's why:
Back to the first inning of Opening Day. Up comes Johnny Damon, now with the Tigers. Over half the fans boo. For whatever reason, I didn't see this one coming. I never really paid any attention when the fans were booing Damon when he was with the Red Sox or Yanks because, hell--those are players to be universally booed in KC. When he was with Oakland, I honest to God thought the fans were booing the horrific quality of the trade! (I admit it--I was drunk at the time and probably wasn't thinking too clearly) I didn't think it was personal...But these shithead fans--they're BOOING JOHNNY DAMON HERE!!!
WTF?!? They're booing the guy for kicking ass here for six years?!? For having the common sense to want to win the game?!? WTF?!? I was truly in disbelief. HE GOT TRADED!!! The Royals traded him away. He didn't leave town rambling on and on about ownership's failures and miserable decision making--that was his agent, Scott Boras. His only detrimental comments about the Royals involved their inability to commit to winning baseball, and he's right. He never said anything detrimental about the fans--though now he should. Somehow, in the bizarre world inside the head of Royals fan, Johnny Damon is to blame for this team's continued demise.
Wake up people. It's time to boo the real person responsible for this debacle, and that's Mark Ellis. Next time he's in town with the A's, I'm going to get a front row seat, and I'm going to tell him exactly what I think about his "decision" to get traded off this sinking and suck-ass ship some people call the Kansas City Royals.
This is a little about sports, and I suppose it's a lot about patience. I've come to believe that maybe I'm too damned patient with the ship of fools most people call the Kansas City Royals. And I've almost certainly been too patient with their idiotic fans. I'll get into that in just a moment here, but for the two or three people who might actually read this, if you have no interest in baseball whatsoever, this post will not be for you. I won't do this again, in all likelihood, because we don't have baseball in Kansas City. I can tell you this much in advance--it won't be funny. It's just a description of misplaced anger and collective stupidity, and the part I've come to play in it...
I grew up with the Royals of the seventies and eighties, so in my world, the Royals were always at or near the top. It never seemed they would quite get over the hump, and it took a little luck and a lot of perseverance to finally gain their only World Series title in 1985. They probably had the best team in baseball a couple of other years, but they lacked a closer in the late seventies. Then, as now, the guy who should have been a "fireman" was more an "arsonist". I'm not talking about Soria here, he's great, but he's irrelevant. The team doesn't use him, so he might as well be stationed on the moon...
But I didn't know any different, and I kind of danced through my childhood thinking that the Royals would always be a reliable and well run organization. I never agreed with the Whitey Herzog firing after the 1979 season, but that was my only real complaint with the team over about a decade's time. It always appeared they were trying to be successful. The teams they put on the field were always entertaining and competitive. I almost forget what that's like.
Well, the Royals today are reliable. They are as reliable in their behaviors and decision making processes as a monkey fed overdoses of crack cocaine. You would like that monkey to pass out before he commences his next stupid act, but that goddamned monkey just keeps feeding itself more crack. It's sad, unless one enjoys watching the same train wreck repeatedly.
All this being said, the Royals still have some fans. This is, in and of itself, remarkable. But I'm sitting there on a Monday afternoon, wondering what in the world these other 40,000 people did for a living. I had to think it was more interesting than sitting in that ballpark waiting for this season's train to derail. I was never at ease there--I don't handle crowds as well as I used to--and I just don't much like the organization anymore. I still root for them because they're all I've got. My "rooting" is much more a deeply based cynicism than anything else this year. I know they will fail, it's just a question now of how miserably they will succeed in this endeavor of hopelessness.
But anyway, Royals fans are jaded. For good reason. They're in the middle of one of the worst fifteen year stunts in the history of baseball. There aren't ten other organizations that have piled up as many losses over that period of time, and professional baseball has been played since 1876. That's a big sample size, and there isn't any reason for hope anymore. It can get worse. It will, barring a miracle of luck, because the people with the pursestrings don't care about anything but the bottom line. More about that in a moment. The organization still has no concept that the team should at least occasionally be competitive.
When former owners Ewing and Muriel Kauffman passed on, the Royals were without ownership in one of the most turbulent times of baseball's history. The Kauffmans' set up a succession plan by which the team could be run by a board of directors until an owner or ownership group could be established that would guarantee the team could stay in Kansas City. The intent here was good--the results couldn't have been worse. Miles Prentice (who has since declared bankruptcy) was denied ownership of the Royals despite garnishing local support of fifty percent ownership. These potential shareholders included Tom Watson, George Brett, and so on and so on and so on. They were flatly denied by MLB, because they saw something in Prentice they didn't like. So be it. It's a private organization, and they can and will do what they want. So they did. They sold the team to David Glass at a thirty percent discount over the market bid, and now we sit where we are today. Glass has run a remarkably profitable organization, because he doesn't put any good investment toward the product on the field. He knows how to sell a five dollar hot dog, a nine dollar beer, and he's pretty sure it costs about fifteen bucks to park a car. He's not a shithead, he's just an asshole who knows how to make a buck. Being CEO of Wal-Mart for over a decade teaches valuable life lessons about how to destroy communities in a highly profitable manner...
So now we have an owner (who is not local, by the way) that attends about as many Cardinal games as Royal games who doesn't give a shit if the team wins or not. He can tell whatever lies he wants, but that's the truth. He'd rather camp out in the Ozarks than watch this team play firsthand, and I can't say I blame him. He's making money, and he doesn't have to do a goddamned thing. So he doesn't. Unless he wants to prove in new and interesting ways that he doesn't give a flying shit about winning baseball games.
On January 8, 2001, there was a three-way trade involving the Royals, A's, and Devil Rays. Kansas City sent Johnny Damon and second base prospect Mark Ellis to the A's. Oakland sent Ben Grieve to Tampa, and SS Angel Berroa and C A.J. Hinch to the Royals. Tampa sent P Cory Lidle to the A's, and P Roberto Hernandez to the Royals.
Even if you know nothing about the people mentioned above, know this: The two people the Royals coughed up in this deal are still playing major league baseball, and Damon is well on his way to a Hall of Fame career. Ellis has been as steady and reliable in an everyday role in a second-base slot as any team could ever hope for. He's been with the A's since the deal. Damon has started for two different World Series winners, and neither club would have pulled it off without him. So that's who the Royals gave up here...
Now know this: Four of the others involved in this deal are out of baseball, and one is dead. Lidle somehow passed on without ever bearing the disgrace of donning a Kansas City uniform, so his soul probably rests in peace. The others are all now nothing but footnotes in baseball history. I'll say this again: This was a trade. Damon was dealt by the Kansas City Royals before the final year of his contract, perhaps because David Glass couldn't stand the fact that we might have the best outfield in baseball two years in a row. And Glass could take further pleasure in fucking over Royals fans with the handling of Jermaine Dye and Carlos Beltran in the future. He likes to spread out the misery from time to time, but I insist that this is the worst trade in Major League history.
Some will say: "But Damon wouldn't sign with Kansas City. The Royals had to do something with him." Okay, shithead. I understand your argument, and here's why you're a dumbass: The Royals hang on to Damon, and they could have received an additional number one compensatory pick in the upcoming draft. Or, they could have hung on to Damon for the year, and dealt him on the open market to teams in contention. They might have gotten some value in the deal. But Glass wanted to save a little of that $7 million contract that would be due Damon in that year, and the decision was purely financial. He's got the organization by the balls, and he doesn't give a shit about the fans. And the fans continue to appreciate his abuse. My argument, as I stated before, is that Royals fans are idiots. Here's why:
Back to the first inning of Opening Day. Up comes Johnny Damon, now with the Tigers. Over half the fans boo. For whatever reason, I didn't see this one coming. I never really paid any attention when the fans were booing Damon when he was with the Red Sox or Yanks because, hell--those are players to be universally booed in KC. When he was with Oakland, I honest to God thought the fans were booing the horrific quality of the trade! (I admit it--I was drunk at the time and probably wasn't thinking too clearly) I didn't think it was personal...But these shithead fans--they're BOOING JOHNNY DAMON HERE!!!
WTF?!? They're booing the guy for kicking ass here for six years?!? For having the common sense to want to win the game?!? WTF?!? I was truly in disbelief. HE GOT TRADED!!! The Royals traded him away. He didn't leave town rambling on and on about ownership's failures and miserable decision making--that was his agent, Scott Boras. His only detrimental comments about the Royals involved their inability to commit to winning baseball, and he's right. He never said anything detrimental about the fans--though now he should. Somehow, in the bizarre world inside the head of Royals fan, Johnny Damon is to blame for this team's continued demise.
Wake up people. It's time to boo the real person responsible for this debacle, and that's Mark Ellis. Next time he's in town with the A's, I'm going to get a front row seat, and I'm going to tell him exactly what I think about his "decision" to get traded off this sinking and suck-ass ship some people call the Kansas City Royals.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
The Easy Way Out
I'm not sure how it exactly went down, but I'm almost sure there was a conversation between a couple of troublemakers. In my twisted mind, it went something like this:
Setting: Probably some bar somewhere. Houston, maybe? Dane Cook is sitting and drinking Zima alone, and is approached by a stranger.
Satan: Something troubling you buddy? You look down.
DC: Now that you ask...yeah. Can I buy you a Zima?
Satan: You could, but I'd have to leave. (To bartender): Just bring me a bottle of whiskey. (To DC): So, what's on your mind.
DC: It's just...I try and I try to draw attention to myself, but it appears I'm never going to be famous. Nothing ever seems to work!
Satan: What kind of attention are you looking for? There are a lot of...methods by which one can stand out from the crowd.
DC: Do you ever just wish you were famous? It's all I think about. All the fame, and the fortune, and all the hot young boys in tight pants that must come along with that fabulous lifestyle!
Satan: I know exactly what you mean, Dane.
DC: How did you know my name?
Satan: You're wearing a shirt that says, "I'm Dane Cook. Look at me."
DC: Oh, yeah. I had about fifty of those printed up last year...sometimes I forget.
Satan: Do you ever wish you didn't have to wear that goddamned shirt everywhere?
DC: Well, as far as wardrobe goes, this is pretty much what I'm down to now. I have them in five colors! The hot pink is fabulous!
Satan: That's great, Dane. Really great...but don't you think there's a better way?
DC: How do you mean? I've tried everything I know to do?
Satan: Maybe you just don't know very fucking much. There are shortcuts out there. I know people who can give you a lift.
DC: I do too, but the blow just doesn't cut it like it used to, and it's getting hard affording the stuff on my...
Satan: (Cuts Dane off): No, no, no! People who can get you where you want to go in your life. You must understand, however...there's a tradeoff.
DC: You mean...I could be famous?!?
Satan: That's exactly what I mean.
DC: Tell me more...I'll do anything!
Satan: I know you will, Dane. I know you will...that's why I'm here. (Satan takes a slug from his bottle and offers it to Dane) Here. Drink. It seals the deal.
DC: Ewww. That stuff makes my breath yucky!
Satan: Drink it, you goddamned Nancy!!!
DC: (Reluctantly takes a tiny shot, starts gagging and coughing, while Satan laughs in obvious pleasure) That's dreadful!!! (Dane grabs for a napkin to dry his eyes and starts fanning himself with both hands, as if his head is on fire)
Satan: Here's what you have to do: (Satan reaches in his coat pocket, and pulls out a business card) Here's the number of a guy I know that runs a comedy club downtown. That's where you start. Get up on stage, and just be yourself. Everything else will fall into place.
DC: But I'm not funny...at all.
Satan: That won't matter. Trust me. Just be yourself. Except for one thing--you can act as gay as you want, but during your act you should talk extensively about your sexual exploits with women. Project the lie. Have fun with it! You're a good enough looking guy, and you'll want to appeal to all the clueless and humorless broads out there. It's the "Ricky Martin" phenomenon. These bitches will want to think you're straight, and therefore you'll be good for something to them besides picking out curtains. Maintain the illusion. I did a deal with Ricky in Miami a few years back. Worked out okay, eh?
DC: Do I have to come up with an act?
Satan: Of course not. Just do whatever it is that you've been doing, keep powdering up your nose if you have to, and twit and flit all over the stage, and some people will find you hilarious. Hell, flop around on the stage like a dying manatee if you want. Just keep in mind that people without humor think that some things are funny too. Those things just aren't ever funny, and you don't even have to try to be funny. It's a huge market. We're gunning for dullards here, Dane. Look at what I've done with Leno. He still has to edit the scripts personally on a daily basis to reach the right market. Those writers just don't goddamned get it! All you have to do is be yourself. In addition to being my bitch for all eternity.
DC: Well, you're cute enough, so I could handle that part of the deal, but I don't know...when I get in front of those lights on stage...I'm afraid I might sweat a little. I'd look all yucky.
Satan: (Puts an understanding hand on Dane's shoulder, and says with a smile): That's just the look those hot young boys in tight pants are looking for, Dane.
Setting: Probably some bar somewhere. Houston, maybe? Dane Cook is sitting and drinking Zima alone, and is approached by a stranger.
Satan: Something troubling you buddy? You look down.
DC: Now that you ask...yeah. Can I buy you a Zima?
Satan: You could, but I'd have to leave. (To bartender): Just bring me a bottle of whiskey. (To DC): So, what's on your mind.
DC: It's just...I try and I try to draw attention to myself, but it appears I'm never going to be famous. Nothing ever seems to work!
Satan: What kind of attention are you looking for? There are a lot of...methods by which one can stand out from the crowd.
DC: Do you ever just wish you were famous? It's all I think about. All the fame, and the fortune, and all the hot young boys in tight pants that must come along with that fabulous lifestyle!
Satan: I know exactly what you mean, Dane.
DC: How did you know my name?
Satan: You're wearing a shirt that says, "I'm Dane Cook. Look at me."
DC: Oh, yeah. I had about fifty of those printed up last year...sometimes I forget.
Satan: Do you ever wish you didn't have to wear that goddamned shirt everywhere?
DC: Well, as far as wardrobe goes, this is pretty much what I'm down to now. I have them in five colors! The hot pink is fabulous!
Satan: That's great, Dane. Really great...but don't you think there's a better way?
DC: How do you mean? I've tried everything I know to do?
Satan: Maybe you just don't know very fucking much. There are shortcuts out there. I know people who can give you a lift.
DC: I do too, but the blow just doesn't cut it like it used to, and it's getting hard affording the stuff on my...
Satan: (Cuts Dane off): No, no, no! People who can get you where you want to go in your life. You must understand, however...there's a tradeoff.
DC: You mean...I could be famous?!?
Satan: That's exactly what I mean.
DC: Tell me more...I'll do anything!
Satan: I know you will, Dane. I know you will...that's why I'm here. (Satan takes a slug from his bottle and offers it to Dane) Here. Drink. It seals the deal.
DC: Ewww. That stuff makes my breath yucky!
Satan: Drink it, you goddamned Nancy!!!
DC: (Reluctantly takes a tiny shot, starts gagging and coughing, while Satan laughs in obvious pleasure) That's dreadful!!! (Dane grabs for a napkin to dry his eyes and starts fanning himself with both hands, as if his head is on fire)
Satan: Here's what you have to do: (Satan reaches in his coat pocket, and pulls out a business card) Here's the number of a guy I know that runs a comedy club downtown. That's where you start. Get up on stage, and just be yourself. Everything else will fall into place.
DC: But I'm not funny...at all.
Satan: That won't matter. Trust me. Just be yourself. Except for one thing--you can act as gay as you want, but during your act you should talk extensively about your sexual exploits with women. Project the lie. Have fun with it! You're a good enough looking guy, and you'll want to appeal to all the clueless and humorless broads out there. It's the "Ricky Martin" phenomenon. These bitches will want to think you're straight, and therefore you'll be good for something to them besides picking out curtains. Maintain the illusion. I did a deal with Ricky in Miami a few years back. Worked out okay, eh?
DC: Do I have to come up with an act?
Satan: Of course not. Just do whatever it is that you've been doing, keep powdering up your nose if you have to, and twit and flit all over the stage, and some people will find you hilarious. Hell, flop around on the stage like a dying manatee if you want. Just keep in mind that people without humor think that some things are funny too. Those things just aren't ever funny, and you don't even have to try to be funny. It's a huge market. We're gunning for dullards here, Dane. Look at what I've done with Leno. He still has to edit the scripts personally on a daily basis to reach the right market. Those writers just don't goddamned get it! All you have to do is be yourself. In addition to being my bitch for all eternity.
DC: Well, you're cute enough, so I could handle that part of the deal, but I don't know...when I get in front of those lights on stage...I'm afraid I might sweat a little. I'd look all yucky.
Satan: (Puts an understanding hand on Dane's shoulder, and says with a smile): That's just the look those hot young boys in tight pants are looking for, Dane.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Example 2
I thought about naming this post, "Slade Dillon, Kick-Ass Mechanic." But then I thought about it a little more... I've got close to $100 tied up in parts for various tractors, lawnmowers, and vehicles from just this week's tinkering. I have no idea at the point of purchase if any of these parts are the parts I'm looking for, or if they will actually do the trick.
I've always thought I would look cool with an eyepatch. Or at least that people wouldn't bother me so much if I wore one occasionally. That would, of course, backfire, and I'd spend a hell of a lot of time answering questions about the fucking eyepatch. So I don't wear one. I think I should, however, have a dedicated blindfold or bandanna in the glove box for my future trips to the auto parts store. I've begun to develop a rapport with the local outfit, and they already know I'm completely clueless. It would be a nice touch if I went in and randomly picked something off the shelf, with no real idea what I had until I got home. No difference from the present experience, except for the additional excitement of the uncertainty.
Some people play the lottery. Good for them. There's a chance at a payout, albeit a temporary one, since something over 90 percent of the winners of such contests end up more broke than they were before they won. For me, buying auto and engine parts is kind of the same venture. If they work for a while, great. If they don't, there's no surprise, because I know only enough about fixing anything mechanical to get myself into a great bit of trouble. And I know that no matter what happens, I'll be back at the auto-parts store.
I got to work this morning at daybreak, and before rush-hour even had started, I'd broken something on the job. Early morning is a great time to curse in public. For those people in the neighborhood who had slept in a bit too long, I've already spared them the trouble to hit the confession booth for taking the Lord's name in vain.
On a side note, I guess a great deal of the time I spend yelling "Goddammit," I think I really mean it. At the time, I do, at least. Maybe that's why things break around here as quickly as I can fix them. On various episodes of irrational impatience, I've wished God to damn, in no particular order: The truck, tractor, lawn tractor, push mower, bathroom sink, toilet, shower, kitchen sink, vacuum cleaner, and various other pieces of equipment, vehicles, and mechanical devices. They have all been damned in some way, shape or form. My prayers are most certainly answered!
I'm not at all the most deeply religious of persons, but it seems to me that a great deal of the Old Testament is dedicated to God damning this, that, or the other, and much of the time there's not much rhyme or reason to it anyway. It doesn't seem that God's chosen people can do a hell of a lot to appease the OT deity anyway, and even when they do what they're supposed to, sometimes they're caught up in a whirlwind of irrational punishment or unreasonable demands...Job is my favorite of the OT books.
But anyway, the pressure-washer is down, (Everything is broken in the Spring--it doesn't matter if it's been used or not) and I have to burn $5 in gas to buy $1.61 in plumber's tape. I've got probably fifteen rolls of the stuff at home, but that doesn't do me any good here. I get it fixed, and the clouds are starting to stir...
I'd left home at about 6 in the morning. I did that mainly to return some concrete I'd been carrying in the back of the pickup, and I knew it was going to rain at some point during the day. The NOAA website said we'd probably be okay until about 1pm. That didn't look quite right to me from the radar spools, but I was out the door to see what I could do in the meantime...but here it is, not even 8, and I'm back at the hardware store spinning in circles.
The washer gets fixed easily enough, and I spent the rest of my morning scrambling to pick up the things I'd strewn about in advance of what was certainly an imminent storm. The sky gets green on the Plains during the spring and summer. Green skies are generally a bad sign...
So now it's hailing, but the truck won't start. I'd been arcing the relay switch in order to produce the charge necessary to engage the starter for some time, but for whatever reason, it wasn't working very well in the hail. With hail, one almost always has lightning. I'm not sure it's possible for conditions necessary for hail to exist without lightning. Standing in an inch of water smacking a battery with a hammer is probably a bad combination of above events...but after fifteen minutes of cursing and arcing, a charge was produced, and I was able to experience for the first time this hail from the comfort of the cab of the truck.
Patient people probably don't hydroplane very much. I hydroplane more than most. The common remedy to this problem is to slow the hell down, but that is completely contrary to my nature when I'm in a vehicle. The only reason I'm in that thing is to get from point A to point B as quickly as possible. There are no more joy rides in my world. I've already done enough of that, and since I'm probably predisposed to die in a vehicular accident, I want to get in and out of the thing as quickly as possible. Each time I shut down the vehicle, a bullet is dodged. I think we see the problem here...anyway, it was a rougher drive to the auto parts store than it probably needed to be.
I finally get there, and I ask the guy behind the desk about this electrical problem.
"Is the battery okay?" he asks.
"Yeah, it's fine."
"Do you think the alternator is holding a charge?"
"I think so. The lights don't dim or anything with the rev of the motor," I told him. "The thing will start occasionally when I smack the relay with a hammer to create an arc."
"That's the starter solenoid. And you shouldn't be hitting it with a hammer," he said. "You just need a screwdriver to create that arc."
"It doesn't say anything in the owner's manual about not hitting any of those parts with a hammer. And that wouldn't even be an issue if they worked."
So he shook his head and rang me up, and this particular part proved to be the right remedy to my situation. We just had a fundamental difference of opinion on arriving at the destination.
I've always thought I would look cool with an eyepatch. Or at least that people wouldn't bother me so much if I wore one occasionally. That would, of course, backfire, and I'd spend a hell of a lot of time answering questions about the fucking eyepatch. So I don't wear one. I think I should, however, have a dedicated blindfold or bandanna in the glove box for my future trips to the auto parts store. I've begun to develop a rapport with the local outfit, and they already know I'm completely clueless. It would be a nice touch if I went in and randomly picked something off the shelf, with no real idea what I had until I got home. No difference from the present experience, except for the additional excitement of the uncertainty.
Some people play the lottery. Good for them. There's a chance at a payout, albeit a temporary one, since something over 90 percent of the winners of such contests end up more broke than they were before they won. For me, buying auto and engine parts is kind of the same venture. If they work for a while, great. If they don't, there's no surprise, because I know only enough about fixing anything mechanical to get myself into a great bit of trouble. And I know that no matter what happens, I'll be back at the auto-parts store.
I got to work this morning at daybreak, and before rush-hour even had started, I'd broken something on the job. Early morning is a great time to curse in public. For those people in the neighborhood who had slept in a bit too long, I've already spared them the trouble to hit the confession booth for taking the Lord's name in vain.
On a side note, I guess a great deal of the time I spend yelling "Goddammit," I think I really mean it. At the time, I do, at least. Maybe that's why things break around here as quickly as I can fix them. On various episodes of irrational impatience, I've wished God to damn, in no particular order: The truck, tractor, lawn tractor, push mower, bathroom sink, toilet, shower, kitchen sink, vacuum cleaner, and various other pieces of equipment, vehicles, and mechanical devices. They have all been damned in some way, shape or form. My prayers are most certainly answered!
I'm not at all the most deeply religious of persons, but it seems to me that a great deal of the Old Testament is dedicated to God damning this, that, or the other, and much of the time there's not much rhyme or reason to it anyway. It doesn't seem that God's chosen people can do a hell of a lot to appease the OT deity anyway, and even when they do what they're supposed to, sometimes they're caught up in a whirlwind of irrational punishment or unreasonable demands...Job is my favorite of the OT books.
But anyway, the pressure-washer is down, (Everything is broken in the Spring--it doesn't matter if it's been used or not) and I have to burn $5 in gas to buy $1.61 in plumber's tape. I've got probably fifteen rolls of the stuff at home, but that doesn't do me any good here. I get it fixed, and the clouds are starting to stir...
I'd left home at about 6 in the morning. I did that mainly to return some concrete I'd been carrying in the back of the pickup, and I knew it was going to rain at some point during the day. The NOAA website said we'd probably be okay until about 1pm. That didn't look quite right to me from the radar spools, but I was out the door to see what I could do in the meantime...but here it is, not even 8, and I'm back at the hardware store spinning in circles.
The washer gets fixed easily enough, and I spent the rest of my morning scrambling to pick up the things I'd strewn about in advance of what was certainly an imminent storm. The sky gets green on the Plains during the spring and summer. Green skies are generally a bad sign...
So now it's hailing, but the truck won't start. I'd been arcing the relay switch in order to produce the charge necessary to engage the starter for some time, but for whatever reason, it wasn't working very well in the hail. With hail, one almost always has lightning. I'm not sure it's possible for conditions necessary for hail to exist without lightning. Standing in an inch of water smacking a battery with a hammer is probably a bad combination of above events...but after fifteen minutes of cursing and arcing, a charge was produced, and I was able to experience for the first time this hail from the comfort of the cab of the truck.
Patient people probably don't hydroplane very much. I hydroplane more than most. The common remedy to this problem is to slow the hell down, but that is completely contrary to my nature when I'm in a vehicle. The only reason I'm in that thing is to get from point A to point B as quickly as possible. There are no more joy rides in my world. I've already done enough of that, and since I'm probably predisposed to die in a vehicular accident, I want to get in and out of the thing as quickly as possible. Each time I shut down the vehicle, a bullet is dodged. I think we see the problem here...anyway, it was a rougher drive to the auto parts store than it probably needed to be.
I finally get there, and I ask the guy behind the desk about this electrical problem.
"Is the battery okay?" he asks.
"Yeah, it's fine."
"Do you think the alternator is holding a charge?"
"I think so. The lights don't dim or anything with the rev of the motor," I told him. "The thing will start occasionally when I smack the relay with a hammer to create an arc."
"That's the starter solenoid. And you shouldn't be hitting it with a hammer," he said. "You just need a screwdriver to create that arc."
"It doesn't say anything in the owner's manual about not hitting any of those parts with a hammer. And that wouldn't even be an issue if they worked."
So he shook his head and rang me up, and this particular part proved to be the right remedy to my situation. We just had a fundamental difference of opinion on arriving at the destination.
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