say hello to my 29 friends!

I am a man of the people. Being so, I planned a happy hour/Cavaliers game extravaganza for this past Friday's game with the Washington Wizards. Originally, I was going to casually mention the fact that I had gathered 30 people to go to the game in a false fit of bravado. I might not sound very entertaining, but it was a concept post, wherein the concept is that I bore you. Anyway, prior to Friday, I would have guessed that I knew 20, 25 people tops. Maybe not, but only four or five of them talked to me all night, but nonetheless, I'M the one that fronted the money for the tickets.

Well, that would have been that, but then, many people around me are clammoring for my insight into the situation that occured that night. Apparently, during the game, LeBron was all missing some free throws and some people started booing him.

First, let me say that I did not hear any booing. BUT there were a number of factors working against me:

1. I was exceedingly drunk.


2. I was in the 10 dollar seats. If it's not the incredibly irritating public-address announcer Ronnie Duncan screaming something into his microphone, it's tough to hear.


3. My mom later informed me that I also missed some incredibly small super-baby drumming during halftime. I was either waiting in line for the bathroom or waiting in line for beer. It's not like I was totally integrated into fabric of the arena's happenings.


4. Most importantly, everybody in our section was given those inflatable ThunderStix - the really loud ones that you bang together like an oversugared baby. Right. Sometime during the second half a group of sherpas employed by the Cavs come up into the cheap seats to give us something to distract ourselves with. They're totally loud and pointless, unless you have your sister and brother-in-law around to hit in the head. Then they are awesome.


5. Seriously, I don't think sound can travel to that altitude. Here is what the court looked like from our seats.

It's is completely incomprehensible to boo LeBron. If you boo LeBron for anything he's done since he's been in Cleveland, then you must boo through the entirety of every other game in order to sufficiently boo all of the many stiffs he is forced to play with on any given night. I have a theory they are fans of other teams, trying to drive LeBron away. If not, I will not defend my Cleveland brethren; those who booed, however few, were clearly a bunch of crazy dumbasses.

Fortunately, I didn't hear any of them, for if I did, I would have killed them with my fists of fury and my stix of thunder.

gettin' biblical on a ref (new testament style)

Nice call Saul!

if jay leno and george clooney had a baby

he'd probably look like this . . .


And he'd probably annoy the shit out of you.

outgifted

Valentine's Day this year was pretty poor for me in the gift selection department. I try not to buy crap that theMonica won't really like, but I was plum out of ideas. (Plums! Damn. Hello birthday gift.) So, being a guy, I bought her a vacuum cleaner for tidying up my apartment. No, I bought her tulips. She likes tulips and I opted for an "upgraded" vase (i.e. differently shaped), but overall I felt like I had dropped the ball. What did theMonica do? theMonica picked up that ball and dished to me coming off a screen on the baseline where I nailed a 15-foot jumper. (You listening Damon Jones?) theMonica gave me the gift of LeBron James. Tickets in the club seats, with comped food and drinks - delivered by a waitress. And it was on Anderson Varajeo wig night.

My gift's ass got kicked. We all know there is a tacit competition in every relationship in which you try to outgift your special someone. The winner is always gracious and always thanks profusely for the weaker, dull gift, often convincingly. But in reality, the real joy comes in getting something better than what you got. The joy is not in giving, but in giving better. And I lost - hard. Tulips vs. LeBron? Tulips could not stop LeBron. LeBron could post-up tulips, drive by them, dish off to an open Sasha Pavlovich, gather them in a nice floral arrangement and hand them to the nearest cheerleader WHILE hitting a game-winning 3. (He's saving it for the playoffs.) LeBron is not even allergic to tulips. And even if he were a running nose and itchy eyes could not stop LeBron either. Tulips, don't bring that shit! Your glory days came in 1630's Holland. Well, it's 2006 and we're in Cleveland.

I sense you are having trouble appreciating what I'm trying to tell you. Let me illustrate it for you:


What's that? It's an empty box? Damn right it's an empty box. I can not pixellate the perfected basketball form. I would go blind from merely attempting it. It's heresy!

And I'm not prone to adulating my pro sports players. I have a solid contrarian streak. I find myself disliking things which many others love, mainly because I want to think I'm superior in some way. It's the constant solace of a small mind. In that light, as quality as a professional athelete may appear, constant exposure to their performances always yields a wart a two, which I tend to pick at ceaselessly until an infection develops and I spend 8 days in the Cleveland Clinic. But, with LeBron, it's not really possible. How can I nitpick when he literally made me shout, "Oh my God!" during one of the Cavaliers's games? That is not LIKE me. I am a calm guy. I do not shout "Oh my God!" at the TV. But LeBron made me do it.

He continues to amaze and exceed ever-expanding expectations. Seeing him play in high school, I was impressed that he didn't try to put up 80 in a false attempt to prove his worth. He scored easily and he clearly outclassed everyone, but that was high school. In high school I was 5'4" and had salt poured in my hair by a senior. I liked what I saw, but the competition obviously wasn't world-class. I thought LeBron would be good, but in time. Instead he was good right away. And he's only gotten better. By a lot, all the time.

LeBron is that good and that special and that fun to watch. He's everything you could hope for in a basketball player and he makes a kick-ass Valentine's Day gift.

how to look like a pedophile in 12 easy steps

1. Start playing roller hockey in college.


2. Due to limited roller hockey league availability, decide you want to try ice hockey.


3. Purchase ice hockey skates.


4. Grow a beard.


5. Attend "pizza skate" at local ice rink in an attempt to improve/gain ice skating skills.


6. Be sure you're the only person over 16 who is enjoying the pizza skate without a 3 to 12-year old child.


7. Enjoy pizza.


8. Sit down.


9. Be sure to attract flocks of tiny children to sit beside you, for no particular reason.


10. Have said childrens' parents come stand by you and their children, staring at you with a curious/menacing gaze.


11. Skulk from rink, again alone, being sure to hunch back and dart eyes around from underneath brow.


12. Go home to your one-bedroom apartment.

you wouldn't like me when I'm angry

Little housekeeping here . . .

This is the blog equivalent of mailing-it-in, but how bout that weather (in Cleveland)? The other day it was 60 degrees. I like to think it was because the baseball gods were paying homage to the Indians' pitchers and catchers reporting to Winter Haven for spring training! Long-time readers know (and short-time readers are about to find out) that my emotional well-being is oft-connected to the vicissitudes of the Indians regular season. Well, I have another month or so before I have to worry about that.

At any rate, we're now about 50 degrees away from the weather the other day along with gale force winds. Which reminds me, has anyone seen my garbage can lid? No? I found one of my trash bags across the street, but did not see the lid . . . well, leave a comment if you know.

I seem to have confused some with my recent thought. While I enjoy reveling in obscurity, I will give you a hint.

And where is Nukie's blog? Well, it's back! Looks like it was time for a fresh start . . .

thought . . .

If I were David Banner, I would have switched to sweats.

losing pool; winning friends

I used to be a good pool player. Not for real good, but good enough that if you picked two people at random (who weren't at a pool tournament), I'd stand a decent chance of winning. Nowadays, I'm not so hot, but I can still make the occassional shot. Rhyming's more my thing.

Last week I was with friends at the LPP, imbibing and whatnot. We foolishly decide to deviate from our regular darts regiment and play a game of pool. While we're planning a rather scary, lonely, sea-captainy-looking guy puts money on the pool table. This is all the disincentive I need. My partner Alan, on the other hand, had a more diabolical plan. Hitting the winning shot, he then bowed out of the competition and left me to play Captain Scary Face.

Ok, so, whatever, it's a game of pool, how long could it take? The good Captain comes over and says, "Let's play 'bank 8.'" "Uhhhh," I say. "You know, bank 8." "Uhhhhhh," I repeat. "It's the same, but you have to bank the 8-ball in." What? While confused, I agreed.

We play and we eventually get down to the 8-ball, which, yes, we have to bank in (or kick the cue ball first and then pocket the 8). I might have a straight-in shot of the 8, but instead I need to find the nearest rail and hit it in that way. When the Captain suggested this style of game, I kind of assumed he was probably a good player. I've made the occasional bank shot in my life, but usually only when necessary. Certainly, he would be pretty solid at it, since he's had a lot of practice. Well, I was wrong. He was no better than I was an our first 10 attempts didn't come close to pay dirt.

We exchanged feeble attempts for a few more minutes. Then, I see my out. I had the 8-ball near a side pocket and the cue ball directly across - a perfect scratch opportunity. I call a pocket, looking focused. Hit the cue ball off the 8-ball and into the side pocket. VICTORY! Or so I thought. Captain comes over and says, "You know when you scratch playing bank 8 you don't lose the game, right?" Double fuck!

Play continues. I'm really trying to make the shot, but I had maybe one realistic opportunity. You know, a reasonable facsimile of a shot I had attempted at some other point in my life. He's doing no better and most of our attempts aren't close. A couple of guys put money on the table and watch us for a good ten minutes. Who knows what they thought. It made me feel kind of awkward, but the captain was nonnonplussed. Happily he hacked away. The guys picked up their money and left.

I couldn't even console myself with drink. I tried, but every couple of seconds I had to try ANOTHER impossible bank/kick shot. Minutes dragged into tens of minutes, tens of minutes into fifteens of minutes. I had kind of resigned myself to the fact that I was going to die at that pool table a crumpled mass of old man, pool cue worn to the nub, but still with no vitor, when suddenly, miraculously the Captain pocketed the 8-ball. He then began playing, "Love will keep us Together" on his keytar as I walked away, exhausted.

I'm still kind of pissed that I lost that game and the Captain.

strong and mean

Weight lifting gloves will make me strong and mean. Check it out:


Granted, I'm not inherently a "weight lifting gloves" kind of guy, but the new weights at our gym have sharp, pointy, metallic pyramids that are sharp. And I have soft, delicate, computer-guy hands. You wouldn't want me to damage my delicate dextrous digits, now would you?

wintrino

Today marks the opening of the 20th Winter Olympics in Torino, Italy. I think the Olympics are pretty darn cool. Not as cool as I thought they were when I was like 12, but back then we didn’t have cable and I watched stuff like the Olympics religiously. I mean, a non-soap opera on at 3:30 in the afternoon AND it’s a sporting event? That’s kid gold right there. And yes, it is tough to get TV reception in the cave.

Being such a minor expert, I feel it’s my place to make suggestions to the Olympic committee so that they may improve the Olympics for everyone . . .

• Bode Miller’s recent admission that he was sometimes drunk while competing in skiing events, got me to thinking . . . why not everyone else? Seriously, I used to think it was dangerous enough, hurtling down steep, steep mountain passes at very high speeds, but Bode showed me that you could spice it up a little. A tumbler of Southern Comfort for everyone! And, to reduce the risk of injury, everyone skis in one of those sumo wrestler suits.


• Chuck Taylor All-Star's Speed Skating.


• The winter biathlon is, by design, the most boring thing a human being can endure. Cross country skiing AND target shooting. I SWOON! My initial thought is just to scratch it all together, but . . . how about during the shooting portion you have to gun down a charging bear? That would get the blood pumping . . . and maybe the competitors are drunk too . . . and so is the bear. That Bode Miller is a freaking genius.


• Igloo building. Hey, that's what Eskimos are good at and there aren't nearly enough Eskimos in the Olympics.


• Icy Road Driving challenge. All cars are bald-tired ’76 Cadillac. Those giant-ass rear wheel drive cars. You have to navigate busy streets with pedestrians and everything. You may or may not be drunk - competitors discretion.


• Ice skating could add a technical category for knee bashing. Oh, c'mon, admit it; the only cool thing that's ever happened with ice skating was when Nancy Kerrigan got her knee bashed. You loved it. Sicko.


• Homophobic/Drag Queen Double Luge/Fashion Show.


• A good sport would be the, “Coat off/club walk Challenge.” You know how when you go out in the winter and you don’t want to haul your coat into the club. I mean, firstly the coat gets all smoky and you have to lug it around everywhere or drop it off at coat check, only to later forget it. Besides, do you want to cover up your clubbin’ clothes? He11 no. All right, this is a contest in coat off walking. You wonder aimlessly through an urban setting. Last one to get hypothermia wins!


• Speed skiing is way too much like NASCAR; if nobody crashes, does it make a sound?


• Not to rip the biathlon anymore, but I will. I think the general rule with the Olympics is that the crappier the country which dominates a sport, the crappier the sport is. I mean, honestly, Norway?

These are just a few of the many, many suggestions I could devise given more time and the absence of a job. But, that’s all I’ve got for now.

Have a gold-medal day!

what can brown do for you?

correction

A friend's mom told me I "get better looking all the time," when she saw me recently. Then, upon reflection, she said, "It's because I'm old now. All young people look better every time I see them."

My friend's mom regrets the error.

average joe's

They opened a gym in my building. It's really nice. I say this based on what others have told me as I've never belonged to a gym or gone to a gym that wasn't of the basketball variety. I belong to the outdoors and that's usually where I do my exercising - just running around in nature, birds chirping overhead, squirrels looking on disinterestedly.

When the gym opened they offered to assess your health. It was some battery of tests that determined where you stood, physically, amongst your peers. I prefer to stand in the back, shying away from the crowd, cowering slightly so as not to be called on by the teacher. Despite this predilection, I signed up for the assessment.

I found out that the idea is that each year you'll get assessed and then, as time goes by, you'll be more and more fit and the numbers will bear that out. That's all well and good, but I took away a few things of my own:

• I embarrass easy. I had signed up for the assessment against my better judgement. Just because, why would I want to embarrass myself for no particular reason? It was completely voluntary. I was under no obligation to do so. I understood I wouldn't do well, but, all the same, the test made me very anxious. So anxious, in fact, that my blood pressure tested at heart attack over coronary explosion. First time through, they would not give me the assessment. It was "too dangerous," even though my "heart wasn't racing," and "my ears weren't red." I suppose the idea of being poked and laughed at, while Pillsburian, had been making me nervous since I had signed up for it.
  
  I had to wait a couple of weeks to go back to do the test again. I was so concerned about my blood pressure that I bought a home tester. While my BP was higher than recommended, it was nowhere near my pre-assessment level. The day for my test arrived again.
  
  I was yet again, shaky with mild fear. This time my blood pressure tested out as cheeseburger over salt lick and I was cleared for the work out portion.


• I'm 5'10 and 3/4". That rounds to 6 foot, right?


• My policy of not letting people pinch my fat turns out to have been a pretty solid one.


• Much to my disappointment, there was no bone size testing.


• I'm pretty weak. I had to do push-ups as part of the assessment. And apparently there's a "right" way to do them. And it's not the girl way.


• I am fatty. If I were sold in an Organic Food Store (for cannibals), I would not be in the lean cuisine/healthy heart section of the grocery store. I would be stored elsewhere, preferably near the Cool Ranch Doritos.

At the end, the fitness-type person ran my results through the old abacass and I came back, bloated jiggly pansy. Those aren't the FIRST three adjectives I'd use to describe myself, but I prefer that description to crippingly obese.

Duly inspired, I've been using the facility regularly. Does my text look bolder? I am beating the crap out of my keyboard these days.

the red scare

Well, today is “Go Red For WOMEN” day around the office. You see, the day is supposed to raise awareness that heart disease is the number one killer of WOMEN (and men) in the United States. While heart disease is the biggest killer of all, but for some reason at the company we are only supposed to care that women get heart disease and die. Oh, men die too? That’s too bad, but did you know that heart disease is the number one killer of WOMEN (and men) in the United States.

Physically, the deck is stacked for the ladies. They live longer and are generally healthier than men. Heart disease plays no favorites, in terms of gender, so why should we? Who cares that men contract the disease earlier than women? And generally don’t live as long as women do? Besides, all women are essentially doctors. Any woman can give you an accurate diagnosis to your personal ailments based on the smallest piece of information. I can't tell you how many times have I've been diagnosed as a "dumbass" after talking to a woman for only a few minutes. I guess it’s that innate maternal instinct. You know what men can do? Drink beer. Which, I’m sure is a big contributor to the onset of heart disease. But, we’re not supposed to care about that. Oh no, pay no attention to the dead, rotting man corpses you see in the streets, falling victims of heart disease as they walk about town.

Breast cancer, I understand. It's all you ladies. Not a lot of men contract breast cancer. I don’t even know if it’s physically possible. I will gladly "Go Pink" for breast cancer. (Does that mean I have to be gay for a day?) But I will only "go red" over my cold, dead heart-disease infested body!

Happy Groundhog Day!

For any land north of South Carolina, Ground Hog Day is a ridiculous farce. I can guarantee we are going to exceed the high end of that fuzzy little critter's meteorlogical prognostication. Six weeks of winter? Six weeks from now is March 16th. For serious, groundhog? It snows in May here sometimes.

The groundhog lives in Pennsylvania (the real one). It's not balmy palm tree land over there. I know; I've been. If I were Punxsutawney Phil and they pulled me out of my home, I'd be all, "It's freezing out here! For tooth's sake, put me back in my hole! Aren't I supposed to hibernating right now? Wake me when it's 60."

I want to believe in the Groundhog. If he didn't half-ass it, he could probably be a diety in a lot of religious sects. But instead he phones it in every year with his binary weather forecasting. Well I got news for you marmot - where I come from I'm looking at three months more of winter. Despite what you and your precious shadow may think.

Now I know how pigs feel (well, not at the point of being bacon)

I got bacon grease on my pants. Dogs everywhere adore me.

What? Stop looking at me like that. Every once in awhile a guy needs a slice or five of the sweet, sweet Porky.

no joke: it's cold

In terms of winter, I’ve found this one pretty mild. Early on it was rough, but this year the old man just seems kind of melancholy. Sure he’s dumping snow on us every now and again, but for the most part his heart isn’t in it. And I should know. Parking in the hinterlot exposes my soft, pasty-white flesh to the ravages of winter’s blasts. I was thinking these thoughts last week and the old man must have taken offense to my insolence. No sooner had I celebrated my vanquishing of the season when the winds changed. All week they have been whipping about, making a balmy 35 feel like a prickly 10. The old man is a cruel charlatan indeed, lulling us into an atypical calm and then slapping us in the face with a chilling winter blast. You win this time, old man. But I've got three words for you: CFC.