wham! with the right hand

If you were at the Cavs game last night, you can probably skip this post. (Nothing to do with the actual game.)

theMonica and I got there about 20 minutes before tip-off. As we're walking to our seats one of those "scream team" kids (generally they run around the arena throwing stuff at people) stops us and asks if we know who Joe Tait is (radio play-by-play voice of the Cavs). I'm muttering, "No thanks," while theMonica is saying "Yes." (Even though I come to find out she only KIND OF knows who Joe Tait is.) He tells us they're having a "Talk Like Tait" contest. All you have to do is make a game call like Joe Tait. You compete against one other person. Now, I'm no Frank Caliendo, but I suspected my Joe Tait was better than some randomly selected crowd person. After all, I'm been listening to the guy for 15 years.

These perfectly logical thoughts convinced me that, yes, I could "Talk Like Tait" and I should do that in as public a forum as possible! I filled out this form and as we're walking away I thought, "Wait, Brain, why did I do that?" " I don't know Roger, but we need beer – fast." I then started to think about how there were going to be upwards of 20,000 people in the arena. And really, my Joe Tait isn't that great (although I can busta-rhyme). This inspired an impressive consumption of 4 16-oz beers in about 30 minutes. After all, there were going to be a lot of people watching me make an ass of myself. You might say that I make an ass out of myself sometimes daily, via this blog. True, but that's making an ass of myself on my own terms. This was something else entirely.

I had to be at a certain section concourse at the start of the 2nd quarter. I was there, but my opponent wasn't. And some time passed and I was like, "Maybe I'll get out of this. Awesome." But, the scream team is too industrious. One of them went out and grabbed another person. It was on.

The in-game entertainment/announcer, Nicole, comes over to MC the event and tells us we're playing for DiGiorno pizzas for our section and gives us some pointers (basically, spaz as much as possible). They are going to show a "classic" Cavs clip, first with Joe's call and then twice more with me and Frank (the other guy) doing the call. The whole time I was waiting – I was sure it was going to be a LeBron drive and slam or a LeBron alley oop. Simple and fun. So when she said "classic," I was all – uh-oh. They show the clip and it's Damon Jones' Game 6 series winner against the Wizards from 2006. Per se, not a bad call, but there are like 5 passes in a few seconds before the pass to Jones for the shot. Whatever. I go first (they had me in a little picture-in-picture on the scoreboard). I start, not sounding exactly like Joe, but definitely getting the tone and pacing down. And what do I hear? People booing! F#@K YOU! You invent something like inward singing! Ok, so more people were cheering, but you can definitely hear the boos. It's very disheartening. I do my best with all the stupid passes and when Jones hits the shot, the requisite, "GOT IT!" And then I tell "Cavs fans to put a DiGiorno pizza in the oven." Frank goes. (I'm happy to hear he gets booed too). And I swear to you he mumbles some sh1t and at the end screams really loud. That's it. For the first second he was trying to sound like Joe Tait, but he abandoned that for his regular voice.

Now, the judging. I'm thinking I got it locked up. I mean, Joe is not effusive. He's kind of surly with a gravelly voice and he has that edge of bitterness from seeing so many completely terrible Cavalier teams. Joe doesn't scream when the Cavs win. That's the whole point of the contest, yes? Joe would never partake in the kind of histrionics Frank was pulling during his call. Not even if the Cavs won the NBA Finals. It wouldn't happen.

Surely, Joe Tait gets to pick the winner, right? Wrong! The ignorant masses get to decide via "loud-o-meter." I was really hating going first at this point. My fans adore me, true, but the bar is set and Frank's idiotic fans know how loud they have to be. And I had a bit of a cold . . . and . . and my finger hurts and and –

Ok, so I lost. Bitter, bitter, red-faced shame and embarrassment – literally my face was the color of a baboon's ass. I got a bagful of Cavs stuff, along with a DiGiorno pizza (DOG FOOD!). I was famous for like 2 minutes. On the way back to my section this woman in the concourse asked me if I won. I said no. She said she would have cheered for me had she been in the arena, but she was waiting in line for a beer. I called her a stupid drunk and slapped the beer out of her hand. No. I said thanks. People in my section were pretty supportive and I apologized that I couldn't bring home the pizza. One guy in my row was like, "That other guy didn't even try to sound like Joe Tait!" That's what I said! We had a moment there.

At any rate, it was a valuable learning experience. First, I call bullshit on the whole thing. 90% of the people wouldn't know Joe Tait if he delivered their next DiGiorno pizza. On almost every level, I was the superior Joe Tait impersonator. But, alas, you must give the people what they want, which, apparently is a lot of yelling - and judging by the first quarter contest a lot of people sticking their heads into plastic tubs full of mashed potatoes in search of ping-pong balls. They say there are no moral victories in "Talk Like Tait" contests. But I think we all now know that that's not true.

chair today

I had bought my breakfast and returned to my desk humming some pleasing tune. My chair was rotated to the proper angle for me to place my ample ass upon it and enjoy my oatmeal/fruit-and-yogurt/Diet Dr. Pepper breakfast (but not mixed together).

Sometime after the initiation of the sitdown process, my hip hit the chair. I was already descending as the chair decided to take a short trip away from my derrière. Trouble this. Both my hands are occuppied, not situated in a position to easily drop their contents on my desk. My options? Few. The only I could discern was the reverse locomotion into the chair, hoping to drop somewhat down on the seat thereby minimizing the chair's reverse momentum (that is to say, momentum in a direction away from me). Physics considered, I acted.

Two choo-choos back I pushed down. 60% of my delectible can caught the chair. I staggered, rotated, make a weird grunting noise and turned in the chair until it stopped when my chest hit the desk. Safety. Snickering? None. I had pulled it off without any witnesses. Success is mine!

if the red badge of courage . . .

is 4 ounces of ketchup, I wear mine proudly - all over the front of my shirt.

so far, off to a bad start

If you're looking for love, I'm sure this is a GREAT way to find it. You know, assuming you don't have a branding iron handy.

Update: As Alan points out in the comments, the store if F for Fake and I'm pretty dumb. What can I say? I got a case of the Mondays. The Weekly World News URL was deftly hidden within the Yahoo URL. The attribution to WWN at the end of the article wasn't hidden at all. Whatever the case, I apologize to the 7 of you. Oh, but the hilarious branding iron comment still stands.

needs

Currently - a fanny pack. I dropped a pen in my lap and I need one to cover the ink arrow pointing at my crotch, you know, in case you don't know how to get there. I'd have to wear it front-style, because, that's where the crotch proper is. Indubitably this would lead to ridicule of me amongst all my fanny pack brethren. You're only supposed to rotate to the front for retrieval - like a switch.

And maybe a fanny pack extension to cover the buffalo sauce while I'm at it. Or I could scrap the fanny pack all together and go with an apron. "Kiss the Slob" or some such. I once got food on my ear unintentionally.

I'd rather be fat than be confused

I have cankles. Well, more specifically, I have one cankle. A grotesque basketball injury has left my lankle a purpley, sausagey mass. It has joined my foot and calf together in perfect harmony. Purpley and Sausagy, live together in perfect harmony. Side by side on my body, keyboard solo - why don't we?

At any rate, I was almost completely immobile on Wednesday and missed work. But these past couple of days, I toughed it out. Toughed it out, despite the fact that I'm lacking in some essential necessities for this type of injury (cue list) . . .

A farmboy to fetch me things - printouts, drinks, lunch, etc. But no, not to ultimately bed.

A chamberpot.

A chair that rides the rails (handrails) like in Gremlins. (But then doesn't subsequently skyrocket me off said handrails to my fiery death due to Gremlin tomfoolery).

Crutches? Perhaps, but the pain of using them probably outweighs the pain of the cankle.

Blinkers - so I can turn on my flashers and people can pass me while I'm walking around slowly. It hurts to hurry.

I don't need a footstool. I found one and propped Gimpy up on it in an attempt to keep some of the fluid from draining down there. I think that's what it does, besides making me look like a total jackass. Stay tuned for possible cankle glamour shots!

a running log of things I've spilled on my shirt (which I stupidly wore despite the fact I had to iron it)

7:45 a.m.: pineapple scraps. No stain.
8:23 a.m.: water on the collar.
9:49 a.m.: blue ink (why do I still bite my pens?)

The ink is a daily ritual for me. I will write something, then need to type-type and hold the pen in my mouth; I forget about it; whistle. You know - something happens that makes me open my mouth - down goes the pen, business end first and marks up my clothes. It's good times.

12 :00 - 1:00 p.m.: SOMEHOW managed not to get anything on my clothes. I was eating a "wet" burrito (pureed salsa and cheese on top - first time I had one like that) and usually this type of food is a "recipe" for hilarity. Pun very much intended - LOL! :) :^) Normally I am more messy of an eater than your average toddler, but I got through lunch, so I might turn out all right. Just to be sure, I'm eating dinner naked. Even if I go out.

5:37 p.m.: A little sweat. I hadn't completely cooled down from my workout upon putting my work clothes back on. My shirt's day is almost over and it's survived pretty much unscathed. Way to go shirt!

about a boy

So theMonica, Alan, Dan and some other folks went to the most recent Machine Go Boom show at the Happy Dog (where, incidentally, there was a happy dog and a happier dog owner; though the dog was probably not really hammered).

The opener was a guy called Ukebox. He played a ukulele and sang songs about . . . uhhh, pretty much anything, really. I think he had a song he opened with, "This is a song about playing the Happy Dog on December 2nd, 2006." Another buddy of mine said, "This is guys is like, 'Here's a song about a dump I took this morning.'" Little blue for me, but it captured the spirit of Ukebox fully.

The show happens and whatnot. And actually, some of the members of the other band from my last post that was exactly like this one, Bears were there in an audience capacity. I was returning from the bathroom and had to walk right through the middle of them. So, I stopped and said, "Hey, I really like your album." And they just kind of stared at me for a while. Have I ever mentioned I embarrass easily? If I'm intentionally making an ass of myself, I don't embarrass easily, but during this kind of unintentionally uncomfortable social encounter, I feel really, really self-conscience. I kept thinking, "Why did I tell these people I liked their album? Aargh!" (See, if I only had my pirate gear on, this bit would have been much less awkward.) Finally, one of the guys introduced himself and it was somewhat less awkward. Even so, my getaway line was, "Wow. That was really awkward."

I'm not sure why. Maybe they are famous or something. Generally, if they are just people (not famous people), it's not awkward at all to pass along a compliment and have them say, "Oh thanks." Like: "Sweet 'stache." "Thanks bro." But there's a certain level of fame where this gracefullness short-circuits (there's a false gracefullness that develops when fame grows even more), I once asked the guy from The Aislers Set if I could get their albums on-line (we were at the merch table and I was short on cash.) The look on his face said, "Do you live on the fucking moon? With no interwebs access?" I kind of apologized to that guy and scurried off. Maybe they should wear the scarlet F for "Famous."

. . . Thus endeth this long side track, The Ballad of Awkward Roger.

Anyway, at the show some chick starts talking to (hitting on?) theMonica while I'm rocking the party that rocks the body or however that saying goes. theMonica tells this girl that she's with me. This girl, dumb bitch, we shall call her, is like shocked and says that theMonica couldn't be dating me because I "look like a boy." theMonica, pedophilia accusations notwithstanding, laughs it off deftly. Later on, she's telling me the story - the one where I'm 30-years-old and look like a boy. And whatever, I dropped a WTF or something and did a shoulder shrug at theMonica. Then she says, "That's one of the things I like about you - your boyish face." So I'm 30 and I look like I'm 10. I'm a reverse Mitch Taylor.