No one likes us; I don't know why.

A buddy of mine, over some goff, asked me what music I've been listening to lately. (Overly long parenthetical to follow.) (Overly long parenthetical commences - it's pretty strange to me that he asked me this, but I'm finding as I get older, people get "out" of music. This I find even stranger. But, then, when I think on it, I do have a job during which I can listen to music and a commute during which I do the same, so maybe I'm at an advantage in that regard. Regardless, everyone is still trying to find new music, yes? For some reason, I feel like if I didn't, it'd be like admitting I'm dead, like spiritually or something. So, basically, now I've become someone who's into music and people ask me about it. To which I reply, Amazon MP3 Downloads page.)

I like Randy Newman – a lot. I’m man enough to admit it. Actually, I don’t think it’s even a guilty pleasure or there's any shame in it because he’s really talented. Memo to My Son has become my theme song. It pretty much perfectly encapsulates what it is to be a new father. Or maybe I’m projecting, but I don’t think so. You have that part of you that feels kind of a lot inadequate because you're not mom, but you hang in there and:

I know you don't think much of me
But someday you'll understand
Wait'll you learn how to talk, baby
I'll show you how smart I am

Anyway, L doesn't like when I sing him that one. But he does like Dayton, 1903. Maybe because I went to school there? He is a baby genius, you know.

Anyway again, I know all my Canadians have been wondering about what I think of LeBron going to the Miami Heat. I don't think it was a good idea. Check if out if only to see Paul f/u me! I mean, no one on here has told me fuck you, so I can only assume there's not enough passion for my blog. That saddens me. Swearing is caring.

Don't forget

I post over here as well. At least on the 1st and 4th Saturdays of the month. Check it out tomorrow because I wrote a post that took me 4000 man hours (ok, 3, but that's a lot). It's incredibly crude and pretty dumb but there are photos that I wrote on and it requires no knowledge/appreciation of sports.

Still no? Geez! Just do this one thing for me!

shutout bitches!

From the, what do you care?, file - I got a shutout tonight. Booyah! It wasn't that impressive really. There were only 15 shots, but 15 shots I stopped, which is totally sweet. This is the first one I've had with this team and only the second in my almost 3 years of ice hockey. I think I've had one in roller hockey. This, I know, isn't impressive, but, for serious, there's not a lot of defense. So when there is some defense, it makes it pretty easy on me. That's not to say that I was completely worthless. I probably made 3 non-easy saves. Saves that if they had scored I wouldn't have been too upset. But the other 12 were pretty routine.

Otherwise, it was an eventful game. There was some shoving, which is fun. But then there was also a 2-handed, baseball swing slash on one of our dudes. I didn't see it, but apparently the lady on the other team (they have a lady), took a hack at one of our guys. She only got 2 minutes for slashing despite the attempt to maim. But, really, what could we do? You can't really retaliate against a woman, right? I mean, I'm the goalie, so I'm usually like way too far away to care about this stuff, but it's kind of BS that she took a hack knowing that our guy wasn't going to do anything about it. It's the same reason women are allowed to beat their husbands. This isn't a cry for help or anything. TheMonica has never laid a finger on me in anger, but traditionally there is a separate set of punishment depending on the aggressor's gender. Not sure why I'm going on about this - probably because she could have done some serious damage.

At any rate, ultrasound tomorrow! (Ok, in 7 hours). So pictures to follow, I would think. Give a shout out to our baby boy (or girl that looks like me, Rogetta, according to theMonica. Well, she thinks it's a boy because she thinks the last ultrasound looked like me). Hugs!

i have 3 followers

The revolution begins tomorrow . . . you know what I'm talking about. It will be blogged, but I am going to write in generalities so as not to reveal my plans.

Well, I had a roller hockey game tonight (technically last night). We won. So there. I fell though once, unassisted, just kind of slipped. It is . . . moist on that sportcourt stuff. As the humidity builds, your wheels get kind of slick. And boom, there I go as the breakaway finishes. Yes, he scored. I only mention this because I wretched my back. And I only mention that because I want to complain about getting old and how you can fall and hurt yourself pretty much at any time. Like, I just fell out of my chair and broke my hip. Fantastic.

Anyway, I am all over Amazon's MP3 Daily Deal. I have gotten a bunch of albums I now really like for 2 to 4 dollars. I was going to make a bunch more links - you know like the WHOLE sentence was going to be a series of links, it was going to be CRAZY - but I know you don't really care. If you do, White Rabbits (uh, ok), Police - Synchronicity (comes in handy for Rock Band), Neko Case, Fleet Foxes . . . all things I wouldn't have bought had they not been inexpensive. I guess this is why everyone hearted Napster. Oh, now I get it. At any rate, go type that stuff into a search engine yourself. I need to go to beds.

What will the neighbors think? Probably that I can swear really loud.

So the Cavs' season is over. IT'S OVERRRRRR!

Oh well, they had a good run. I am sad; you are sad; we are all sad - unless we are a fan of the Magic and/or Lakers. Such is the life when you're a fan of a professional sports team. Now the long summer of our discontent and the long summer of our waiting until next summer. Fiddlesticks.

At any rate, excuse my absence. I was preoccupied with the above, planning a surprise 30th for theMonica (well, planning her arrival - Monica's cousin did most of the heavy lifting) and planning a bachelor party/best man speech. Let me tell you - getting married is 1 to 5 million times less stressful than being best man. Sheesh. The pressure's on!

What this monetize tab up on my "dashboard" or whatnot? How many thousands do I get upon striking it? I won't go to the mouse for less than 3 large.

get in my head? HA. I don't let anything in there!

So, my hockey team, despite being a few games under .500, was in the playoff hunt. Going into our last game we were 1 point behind the 3rd place team. We needed a win and loss by them or a tie and a loss by them (as we owned the head-to-head advantage).

We were playing the first-place team (allegedly short-handed, but not understaffed). At the start of the second period, I noticed that 5 or 6 of the guys from the 3rd place team were behind the glass. Ok . . . ? Their game wasn't until Thursday, but surely 24 hours was enough time to discover the outcome of our game. I also found it odd they were at my end as there were some nice bleachers to occupy, but whatever, people stand there all the time.

I let one in at the beginning of the 2nd period. Wasn't too horrible of a goal to give up, the guy kind of backhanded swatted an on-edge, rolling puck right into the corner of the net. (I will admit to the soft prejudice of low expectations. I had seen him moving around and determined he would need to settle the puck before shooting. But kudos to him for just whaling at it. Though I'd give him 20-to-1 against doing it again on one try.)

This goal tied the game at 1. Shortly thereafter, we scored again. That made it 2-1 us (if you're incredibly bad at math/short-term memory). There was no more scoring in the 2nd.

3rd period starts. I skate down to the other end, have some water, wring out the headband dealie in my helmet (yah, sweat. yah, nasty.) and look over and what do I see? The 3rd place team watching me. Totally. They followed me down to the other end. Who is that motivated to walk to the other end of the ice? No one. They were trying to put the bad juju on me! Fortunately, theMonica's mom is old school and probably has created a bubble of invulnerability around me for voodoo blocking.

At any rate, I showed them. I got lucky 2 or 3 times but none of it was bad luck and we ended the game with the win, 2-1.

So, yes, I do win sometimes, but my lifetime winning percentage over all sports is poor. 40%? I'm not sure. I always fall in with guys that "just want to have fun" or "hey, we all need to get to work in the morning" or "won't bring in a bunch of ringers to win the important games" (an amazing number of teams do this, which I find odd).

The lesson here is: I can't be beaten. I can be beaten because I suck, but I can't be beaten by psychic powers.

C'MON REF!

Last night at my rec basketball game, I got T’ed up, dogg. (A “T” or technical foul basically means you were being a jerk.) The situation was thus: the refs were old and idiotic. One guy was color-blind as he kept saying one team’s color and pointing in the direction opposite of that team’s offensive basket, which is precisely the opposite of what he's supposed to do. The other guy was older than Methuselah and kind of a prick. His attitude was, "I'm a hundred years old, so I'm allowed to be a moron!" What had I done to earn such discredit? I calmly said, “C’mon” to the ref after taking a forearm upside my beautiful, beautiful face. (Face is decidedly NOT part of the ball!) Ok, I didn’t calmly say it. I yelled it . . . loudly and there was anger in my voice, no doubt. But I didn’t swear! I wanted to, but I did not. That didn't matter as he quickly T'ed me up anyway. After the T, I went over and said (this time for serious calmly), “He hit me in the face.” Then Father Time said he’d toss me (oh no!) if I said “one more thing.” I just took a sub and got ready to go to the bar. But not before contemplatings literally saying "one more thing" and seeing if he could figure out the marginally clever defiance.

It was the most pissed I’ve been in a long time. I mean, I know the refs svck. It’s inevitable and understandable considering the level of play/circumstances. And years ago I got T’ed up regularly because I have an anger management issue when it comes to refs whose suckiness I disagree with. I’ve mellowed over time and most games I don’t say anything at all even though I know the refs will be bad. I’m usually mentally prepared. That's all well and good, but emotions can run high. And hey, they get 30 bucks a game apiece. Is it too much to ask that they remain conscious for the entirety of the contest? That they have a little pride in their craft? That they insist the nursing home give them their anti-crazy pills BEFORE tip-off?

Eventually I became laughing-it-off upset and then annoyed, with some regret stirred in. A couple of cold, delicious beers calmed me down and then I realized I also got my middle finger jammed by the other team (no foul call, naturally). This makes it difficult to type this important post and also difficult to flip off senile referees. And that is a tragedy.

i don't always suck . . .

Just an fyi that I don't ALWAYS suck at goalie. Our last game on Wednesday we lost 3-2. They had a lot of shots (yes, more than 3) and I probably had one more save in me, but oh well. We missed the tie by thatmuch. Besides, hockey is fleeting. Where we really shine is the bar afterwards, good times, my friends, good times.

7, 8, 9, 14 . . . does it matter?

You know, it's frustrating to give up 8 goals. It's frustrating to know that had I made 8 more saves and scored a goal, we would have been able to get the win. But, no, I was unable to produce. It's just that tomorrow when the boxscore isn't in the paper and no one sees/cares about my like 80% save percentage and they don't think that I'm failing as a goalie and there is complete disinterest entirely across all humanity . . . yah, you get the idea.

It's frustrating and at this rate, it's going to take me at least another year to go pro.

thanks for nothing

Well, I am NOT your new president. (Or did the Canadians orchestrate a coup in my name last night? No? Ok.) Thanks a lot team. I was running an olden times campaign where I didn't, well, campaign and I relied on my proxies to go out and win me the election. I see you have failed me.

Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever been elected to anything. In the 6th grade, I did win the Cougar Award for the basketball team. I guess you'd call it the "spirit" award. It basically meant that you hustled and stuff despite not being very talented. I think the coach - and not my peers - gave me that, more of an appointment than an election. And I think he gave it to me because I knew how to jump rope. That was one of his conditioning drills. He thought it was awesome that I could jump rope. Why did he think it was awesome? I have no idea, but I have 4 sisters and it's one of those things you kind of pick-up by being around.

Still can't hula-hoop though. That's, you know, for kids.

9 times . . .

That's how often I looked dejectedly behind me to see a puck within the confines of my net. You know, it does look kind of cozy and safe in there. Maybe I'll just curl up in there until everyone goes away . . .

Being a goalie is a weird gig. Everybody loves you BECAUSE you're a goalie and inherently a rare commodity. They need you. But, when you suck, you can feel the hate - the smiling, judging, watching. No one (well, no one that I know of) will say, "Hey, you really sucked out there." Because they don't want that bridge burned and I think they fancy that if they were to criticize they would irreparably harm the goalie's psyche.

So, when you give up 9, even if the team doesn't play well, you feel kind of dirty when a teammate will say, "We had a terrible game, but YOU did great!" I feel like one of those kids that plays in a community where they don't keep score. "Thanks for showing up and dressing yourself! You're always a winner in my eyes Roger!" Yah, well, maybe, but I just let those guys score 9 times and I'm pretty sure they were hammered.

where does one buy neck bolts?

In, broken face news, I got one. I gave myself a nice, Frankenstein-sized scratch on my forehead. How? It’s all about cascading injuries. As noted earlier, I hurt my rinky playing roller hockey. So, when I play hockey, I wear a splint to strengthen/protect it. Well, this makes it difficult to take my mask on and off for quick water breaks. Being unable to grab the mask, I kind of slide it up and down my face. Well, said face caught something scratchy and RIP! Oddly, the day after, no one really asked me about it. I was expecting at least 5 to 10, “Dude, what with your beautiful face?”

Incidentally, because of the disparity between the ice temperature and the air temperature, there was a dense fog throughout the rink. I literally could not see the other goalie. It was like Gorillas in the mist or something, but no Sigourney Weaver to safeguard me.

Spanish National Basketball team threatens to "go pee-pee" in world's Coke.

In society's continual assault against my person news . . .

In noggin news, I took a soccer ball off of my beautiful face last week during our disappointing 3-3 tie (they scored the tying goal with like 3 seconds left). I was running at this dude about 20 yards away from the goal. I was no more than 4 feet from him and he somehow managed to hit me in the face with his shot (?). It was a glancing blow that jostled my eye and contact around a bit. It didn't necessarily hurt, but I felt like Mr. Magoo for a minute there. Anyway, it looks like I’m wearing eye make-up on Lefty. So, I put some eyeliner on Kevin (my right eye – 100 million bonus points if you know this reference) to balance things out. Then I darkened my eyebrows to bring out my baby blues and added a little foundation to even things out and – viola! – I’m a SUPERSTAR!

Or maybe I made up the whole story to hide the fact that theMonica beat me up. And maybe this is a cry for help (waaah, waaah, nudge, nudge).

i refuse to be sad . . . *sniff*

I refuse to be sad about the Cavs losing their playoff series against the Celtics. The folly of sports, well, the folly of sports fans, is the folly of incongruous expectations and false hopes. My expectations didn't start incongruous. They were actually quite reasonable (and correct) - 2nd round exit. But, then the team puts together some solid efforts in 3 of the first 4 games (winning 2) and in comes false hope. "Hey Roger. Cavs are looking good! Time to get emotionally invested - even more! WooHoo! Is that the liquor cabinet? Aren't wins delicious? Let's do a few shots of this! Hey-o! Look and that passing! Assists on every basket! Don't mind those needless turnovers, just chug that $2.50 Newcastle, so sweet!" And false hope only got more insistent after the Cavs knotted the series at 3.

Then the game last Sunday and the game 7 loss. I was surprisingly calm. False hope left without saying goodbye. And I was left to wait until next year.

Also appearing at: Draft Day Suit

overall a success (success part notwithstanding)

So, my ice hockey team finished 0-20-2. Now, this might lead you to believe we (and I specifically) suck. And you would not be wrong - especially about me. But, such as it is, it is now over.

The last game was amidst the most recreational sporting week I think I've ever had. I was like a white, talentless Bo Jackson. Ro knows losing. Starting with the previous Saturday (day-by-day) I had the following activities: roller hockey, ice hockey, roller hockey, basketball, ice hockey, soccer, off, ice hockey. That is a little much, even by my standards. And come about the 4th day in a row, the legs get a tad wobbly. And maybe you're not as aggressive as you were before due to suppressing the urge to vomit and desire to collapse. I ain't what I used to be, I guess.

In other all-about-me news, I ate 47 cookies from the community food cabinet. A co-worker's wife is all about the baking. He should weigh 400 pounds, but does not. Can you get sick of delicious, soft cookies? You wouldn't think it possible, but I suppose you can get sick of anything. I, for one, am not sick of them. Co-worker's wife, if you are ready this, fire up the oven and get baking.

SAVE! (sometimes)

My buddy Brian took some glamour/action shots of me playing during a roller hockey scrimmage last week. Then he photoshopped it into the sweet-ass montage you see below. The shots definitely make me look much better than I actually am, as Brian graciously omitted any shots of me fishing the ball from the back of the net. (I attributed all fishing to rusty roller hockey skills. Though I've been playing ice, the skills for the two surfaces are maddeningly incompatible).

Big ups to Brian for making me look like a superstar. Don't try to steal this or I will sue you dizzy. All rights reserved and whatnot. (And yes, I know I need to work on my stick discipline.)

i can tell by the look on your face that you've got ringworm

Anyway, there's all this new "research" saying that diet pop basically jacks up your metablolism. You see, while it has not any calories it is sweet and the body, being sophisticated (yet completely STUPID) expects that when it takes in something sweet, that a bunch of calories should follow. So it releases insulin or whatever it is that my body does when I'm shoving Skor bars down my gullet.

Anecdotally, when I switched from drinking way-too-much Dr. Pepper/Thunder to drinking way-too-much Diet Dr. Pepper, I didn't notice any change in my weight/anything else (other than a decrease in overall deliciousness intake). Presumably I was taking in far fewer calories, right? At any rate, I knew it was too good to be true and now I'm trying to quit. So far - FAIL. Oh well. Where are my Skor bars?

We lost our hockey game last night. Sure you didn't ask, but just fyi, in case a loved one wants to know or some such. It was 5-1. Although, we held them scoreless in the 3rd period. Skor wait - NoScore. You know what I mean. So that was a moral victory there. A moral victory wrapped inside a larger, huge embarrassing failure . . . and then deep-fried. But we're not done yet. Anyway, that's how I prefer my moral victories - in a crispy shell.

i will not rest until my old seat row is retroactively awarded DiGiorno pizzas

re: a previous trip to a Cavs game

So I went to last Thurday's game with Baby Daddy (not mine, his own) and they did the "Talk Like Tait" segment again. I was very happy to see that the 2 guys doing it looked approximately how I felt. Queasy. I would also like to go on record as saying that I did a better Joe Tait impression than either guy. And once again, the second guy won despite no discernible superiority to the first guy.

Later one they were air-cannon launching hot dogs into the stands. The in-game announcer people are like, "Who wants a hot dog?!!!!" (They say everything real excited-like, because they're paid to always be excited.) And then a jumbotron camera guy comes and stands about 2 feet in front of us.

We went nuts. I was like, "Hey Moondog! Give me a hot dog; they're so delicious! I want a hot dog right now!" Moondog is the Cavs mascot and he didn't have the fire power to get a hot dog up to us, nor were we in anyway audible to those outside our immediate radius but we were selling that shit hardcore. I've learned my lesson - when on camera, freak out as much as possible. That's what the people want - hysteria over the possibility of hot dog reception.

And the meaning of life is revealed.

there's no crying in hockey!

So, my team, of which I'm the goalie, lost our game tonight 17-1. That is NOT a typo folks. That is the honest-to-goodness truth. And while hockey is a team sport and we theoretically share in the loss equally, everyone knows this is not true. For I am the goalie and despite what might be happening (or not happening) in front of me, I am the last line of defense. I'm the one ultimately in charge of keeping the puck out of the net. And tonight, despite my best efforts, I failed miserably.

Knowing I feel this way, you can appreciate how embarrassing it was. It was like getting dumped in front of friends and family - maybe stood-up at the altar. And then, wait, there she is. But she only showed to punch you in the face. PUH-POW! And she's back out the door. For the ladies, it was like walking around with toilet paper on your shoe all day. Wait - worse than that - like walking around with a toilet on your shoe all day. Convenient, yet cumbersome.

With all the scoring comes frustration. The frustration coupled with the fatigue associated with attempting to prevent so many goals, leads to flailing. Flailing away at the puck, trying to anticipate passes, losing form, getting sloppy. This fundamentally unsound play can only lead to more goals and Roger weeping bitterly in the back of the net. Ok, I didn't do that, but it probably would have been more effective.

The frustration and flailing kind of reminds me of RS4. She was always ultra-crazy/aggressive. But I had longer arms. Despite all her swinging, kicking, scratching, she couldn't really get me. And that only pissed her off more. But, still, even as pissed as she could get, she couldn't really hurt me (unless she tomahawked me in the head with a golf club - that smarts). Tonight, I was RS4. No matter how hard I tried or how much I flailed, it didn't really matter.

The worst part of the whole thing though is post-game when everyone tells you "good game." Not the hand-shaking, "good game," but the extra, later on "good game." Listen. 17 goals allowed is not a good game by any stretch of any LSD-enhanced imagination. Even if all the goals were "not my fault," it doesn't matter. 17 goals is not a good game. Hell, 10 goals is not a good game. Even, if you thought it was a good game, don't run the risk of making me feel even worse for sucking. It's like saying, "Nice legs, Heather Mills." Maybe it's true, but she'd probably take it the wrong way.