Tuesday, June 28, 2005


Okay, so I'll be out of commission for a while as, well, this is going to be a busy week and this weekend, yes, I'll be making my cable television debut at the Sox/Rangers game in Arlington, Monday, July 4th. It's gonna be grand. I'm sitting just to the left of homeplate (from the perspective of the camera) about six rows back from the field. Not sure how much camera time I'll be getting, but I'll be wearing Sox gear (hopefully I won't be alone, but if I was, it might make me easier to spot). Anyhow, below will by my general location. As far as what channel, I'll be on ESPN2, according to the current schedule at 7pm (central).

MONDAY, JULY 4TH. 7:00PM (Central) on ESPN2.

Most likely I'll be in a white "Johnny is my Homeboy" shirt with one of a number of Boston hats. And I'll be yelling alot. But not at the hometeam fans. This man below is an example of what happens when Sox fans have a few cold ones and get in it with the locals. Whatta novice.

Saturday, June 25, 2005


Sox reclaim first place and keep rolling. In the midst of a six game winning streak where they've dominated the (then-)surging Cleveland Indians and now the Phillies on the road, the Orioles start sliding and, on Friday night, we inched into first place by a half a game and today we took 1.5 game lead on the O's. The boys are looking good and everything is coming into place going into the All Star break. But first, they'll be heading to beautiful Arlington where they'll take on the Rangers and I, your handsome host, will be perched six rows behind homeplate. I'll be there for the first of the three-game series and, hopefully (yet I have little doubt), it'll be televised somewhere. So be on the lookout for me.

Anyhow, hate to bore everyone with a sports update, but I figured taking over the East was deserving of the interruption.

Meanwhile, Jeter (Robin) ponders quietly on why (WHY!?) the Stanks are at .500 and only a half game from slipping into fourth place into the division. And, Todd, you're right, heads are gonna roll if PayRod and the boys get swept at home by their lowly crosstown counterparts, the Mets.

Haha, those "who's your daddy?" chants are SO 2003. Losers.

This is the look of a man who just crapped 200 million dollars into his diaper.

Friday, June 17, 2005


Some of you have witnessed the phenomenon. In fact, even more have even participated in it. Perhaps you're like me where it's fun, occassionally, to make your way to the nearest karaoke bar and blow a little steam by being as obnoxious and annoying as you can be. I've delivered some masterful performances, possibly a few can testify to their greatness, but at the end of it, you realize how depressing and sometimes disturbing karaoke halls can sometime be. Karaoke halls are like shopping malls to me--fun for the first thirty minutes and then, in only a brief moment, everything goes South and you're kicking your way to the door. Here's a few examples of what I'm talking about. Maybe you've seen them first hand and have experienced the panic that I have gone through. Perhaps, you're a culprit and don't have friends close enough to break it to you that you're a sad and desperate person in seek of some serious therapy.

Let me first present to you, EXHIBIT A:

This is the man who doesn't realize how much of a bad time everyone in the bar is having while he audibly assaults the patrons with his horrible renditions of popular favorites like "Summer Nights", "Love Shack" and maybe even Garth Brooks "The Dance" to slow it down for the lovers. What's sad about this guy is he really thinks he's the life of the party and it's easier to let him believe it than to challenge him on it. Of course, his problems extend far beyond the karaoke hall, but they're on full display in public when he picks up a mic and stands in front of that small little screen with the bouncing ball. Normally, this fella doesn't drink but he thrives off of his small vile of adrenaline that he keeps in his pocket which is also where you'll typically find his hand that's not holding the mic. The hand in the pocket is a coping mechanism for people with anxiety issues. But once this guy makes it through the chorus once, he's home free. The hand comes out and, often but not always, will be used like a preacher or good story teller usually acting some of the verses.


The avid. The guy who thinks his incredible performance will either lead him to a record exec who will sign him on the spot (contrary to popular belief, most A&R's don't hang out in dumpy karaoke halls looking for the next big thing) or a good lookin woman who will see his performance as inspiring and will leave with him and eventually wear his ring in marriage. Usually (and obviously) neither of these happen and, if one is going to happen, it's the latter. And she'll leave him the next morning realizing the horrible mistake she made. He usually will sing slow songs becacuse the alcohol has taken hold and it's difficult to follow lyrics in the uptempo songs and, generally, the slower songs don't really test his vocal skills. He'll hang out in a lower, manly octave so that the women will swoon at his low notes. Singing in tenor/soprano range will guarantee you a lonely man when they shut down the bar. Another characteristic of the avid is sometimes he'll have an "in" with the DJ--he'll bring his own karaoke cds with the perfect arrangement that he's practiced a hundred times at home on his own player during the week before dashing out on Friday night to wow the audience at the bar. He'll make arrangements previous to getting the show started to be called up at a specified time so that he has enough time to get a few beers in him and pull a few ladies over to his table. They call his name and then he acts surprised like, "Well, Bobby, if you insist, yeah, I'll give it a try." He then dives into his well-rehearsed version of "Unchained Melody" until someone gives him the respect that he feels he so deserves. And he'll always drop an octave on the high part which is mad annoying. If it doesn't work this week, don't worry, he'll be back next weekend.


The wise guy. The joker. He's wearing his favorite parody t-shirt and (coincidence?) he's a Spankee fan. He comes with all of his friends who are all in the romantic pursuit and, for some comic relief to the ever-intense hunt for the opposite sex, he gets up and sings/raps/heckles his way through one of many different songs: "Ice Ice Baby", "Bye Bye Bye", "Brass Monkey", "Baby Got Back", "Greased Lightning", "Bad to the Bone" and so on. His comedic performance is well received, but only because people don't have the nerve to tell him that he's not, in fact, funny, but rather kinda lame. The breaks in singing (guitar solos) are usually filled with glances at his buddies to see if they're laughing at his performance. It's no longer fun if not only are they not laughing, but they have used his performance as a springboard into a conversation with a nice lady--leaving him out of the action. If they are giggling and laughing at him up on stage, then his mission is accomplished. Sad thing is that if you're trying to meet someone, it always helps to have "this guy" there because he makes you look much smoother and cooler than you actually are. "This guy" doesn't realize that he acts as this mechanism in the fragile game of dating.


This fella is never too flashy. He's the guy who has had a little too much to drink and of all the thousands of 3-minute songs in the book, he picks the longest freaking song, without fail. Usually it's "American Pie" or "99 Bottles of Beer". In the case that you have to hear this guy sing, "American Pie", he'll never really land the verses, but during every one of the 15-20 choruses in that song he'll attempt to lead the entire place in a sing-a-long. Very awkward. In fact, it's such a long song that he'll regret it sometimes half way through and will begin to lose interest--resorting to swaying back and forth, smoking a cigarette, sitting down and talking to a buddy at the table next to the stage while the sound of a voiceless accompaniment track plays on endlessly. And, in the case that he's singing, he's always a half-step low on every note.

As a disclaimer: I don't know these guys. They might be supernice guys, but I needed photos to accompany my verbals and these were the most appropriate pics I could find. No offense if you've happened across the root down and have seen your face plastered up. Unless, of course, you're a Yankee--more specifically, Alex Rodriguez.

Tuesday, June 14, 2005



Don't be a punk. Do what you do in the privacy of your home, your buddies home, wherever, but don't take your comedy act on the road. It was much cooler when you were hanging around the keg telling jokes than cussing and carrying on in front of a polite family trying to go happily along their way while half in the bag. Associates just can't wait to get you stumbling out the door. Cool thing about it is this: associates have really nothing to lose because a pothead/drunk/friendly neighborhood junkie typically can't tell if they're getting bad service so you can really toy with them if it's a slow night (spit wads, "Kick Me" signs, chewed Milk Duds, steal their watch right off their wrist). But the last thing you'll get is help. At least the kind that you're in dire need of. For you, Mr./Miss public display of stupidity, you get a bird in the face while travelling 70 mph on a rollercoaster like our buddy Fabio. Even the world's most beautiful people have their ugly bouts with Mother Nature.


Okay, so almost ten years after (great band, as well) after their first number one hit, "Fly" (which I rewrote "Stye" with the chorus going "I have got a stye" with the rasta voice coming in "You gotta a stye in your eye") and many follow up hits (I recall "Every Morning", "Answer the Phone" and, my personal favorite "When It's Over"), the band decided to release their essential collection "The Best of Sugar Ray". Freakin awesome. (Equally awesome is the perfect game that David "Fatass" Wells has taken into the 6th inning against the Reds.) So my promo comes in the other day and I'm so freaking excited. I can't wait to hop in my car on the way home, roll down the windows and blast my favorites as I cruise the streets of Amarillo. Of course, turn it down at stop signs and street lights. No, screw that, I'm a fan. I'm not too proud to say that I'm a fan of Sugar Ray. That's good pop music. These kids wrote some amazing pop masterpieces. I dare anyone to challenge me on that. N'who? Backstreet who? Sugar Ray.

One day I was watching "When Papparazzi Attacks" or something to that effect on VH1 and they showed a run-in between Sugar Ray's approachable front man Mark McGrath (that's right, his name isn't Sugar Ray) and a fella on the street. Apparently, when signing an autograph for a fan, someone muttered "Sugar GAY" and Mark completely comes off the hinges. He says, "Who said 'Sugar Gay'? Who in the hell said 'Sugar Gay'!?" and then he tracks this kid down and gets in his face all schoolyard style. He's like "Say it again, dude, and I will knock you out. I (expletive) dare you, dude. I will drop you." I was stunned. Here's a guy who stands by the band. He's true to his school. He's in it win it. Try him. Say "Sugar Gay" and watch this dude go off. It was incredible. And I have to think that it came to punches, Mark would've knocked that twerp out cold with one shot to the jaw. Any dude who has highlights that blonde you KNOW he can throw a good left.

So anyhow, it was date night last night. My lovely wife and I went out for Italian and a showing of "Fever Pitch" and I busted out the "Best of Sugar Ray" for our outing. At which point I had to endure some jeers from my lovely wife, but let me tell you, she was singing along. She'll deny it.

Well, fast forward to my ride home today. I hop in my car and the stereo was set to the radio because I was catching some talk radio on the way to work today. So, I wanted to hear a little Non-Prophets so I switch it to the CD function. What I heard was not Non-Prophets, in fact, it was the most repulsive crap I've ever heard in my life. Who's been in my car? Did my lovely wife learn to drive a standard? What the? I push "eject" immediately and out pops the CD. I'm about to roll down the window to let fly like a clay pigeon, but I look at the CD before I do so and it says "The Best of Sugar Ray" on it. Okay, I suppose I don't celebrate their ENTIRE catalog. I mean, maybe they did have only four or five good songs. But they were that good. Embarrassed at my err in judgement, I calmly put the Sugar Ray CD back in the case and stored it away in my door which I'll bust out for my road trip down to Dallas on July 4th.

Crap, David Wells loses perfect game and no-hitter all in one inning on a soft line drive to right field. Oh well, Sox lead 3-0. Three in a row, baby. Here comes our surge.

Monday, June 13, 2005


Jacko wonders like all of us how he got off, wait, I mean how he was acquitted.

Sunday, June 12, 2005


Alright, so Saturday, after it appeared my beloved Sox were about to lose to the Cubbies for the second day in a row, I decided to take the stereo out on the front porch, throw in some music and plant some flowers that had been delivered courtesy of one of my lovely wife's co-workers. I started digging and was out there for about an hour or so as the clouds began to build up above me. A little thunder now and then, but figured I'd work until it began to rain. This is a great time for me to pause for a product endorsement. My neighbors across the street would understand.

Visit www.cracknomore.com for more product information.

So, I'm starting to work on the south garden when I hear (gasp) tornado sirens sounding off. It's like a freaking air raid. My lovely wife's at work and Jax is chillin' in the living room. Because of some trees on the back of my property, I had a hard time making out the threat, but it was dark--very dark. I dash through the house to the back yard to bring in a few plants, move my car under a tree in the driveway, lock up all the exterior doors and head inside to the television. I turn on the TV to see the radar which indicated a wall cloud only maybe two miles from my house and appeared to moving directly toward my house. I began to panic. Phone rings. It's my lovely wife asking if it's clear to leave work. I return, "I wouldn't advise it," because something like this:

was quickly approaching the house. She insisted to come home so I gave her a safe route to come home basically avoiding the road which was now consumed in the storm. She dashes home and we sit patiently ready to make a dash for the bathroom in the case that it was right upon us. Our eyes were glued to the television as we watched the storm veer north, but still very close. Alarms still sounding, the report of close to baseball sized hail came across and both cars were out in the driveway because of a couch in the garage which we are holding for my brother-in-law. It was our old couch before getting our new furniture, see post below. I look at my lovely wife and tell her, "We gotta get one of those cars into the garage. Let's push the couch into the driveway. I'd rather ruin the couch than sustain damage on two cars." So that's what we did. Like white trash getting ready for a party on the patio, we pushed that couch out into the driveway, carefully manuevered my lovely wife's Toyota into the garage and left Boggs the Honda alone in the driveway with the couch--preparing for the worst--like a sitting duck in the path of baseball-sized hail cell. Well, we managed to get away with only a few sprinkles out of that storm, but then our eyes directed to the southwest where another storm was making it's way and, this time, I knew we weren't going to get as lucky. This storm had already produced two tornadoes and hail up to the size of softballs. I told my lovely wife that I was going to call Grandma and see we could somehow wedge Boggs into her garage. Grandma answered and said, "Better hurry," so we hopped in our cars to deliver Boggs over to my Grandma's place and then back to our house to endure what was sure to be one helluva hail storm. On our way back to the house, Amarillo was eerily quiet as the town braced for the oncoming onslaught. We got home, parked the car back in the garage, couch in the driveway and sprinted inside with Jax who now needed to do his biz outside. Let Jax out for his last chance for relief before ice softballs plummeted thousands of feet onto (or into) our house. Luckily, this beast was moving slow so we had plenty of time to prepare, but there's little you can do to prepare for hailstones that size.

We watched the radar as the storm consumed city block after city block as it approached our house. The wind began to howl, the sky darkened and rain started to come down in buckets. I sat there anxiously waiting for the softballs.


Something hits the window, Jax jumps. I look out the front window. Pea-sized hail and not alot of it at all. I could count maybe ten hail stones from my vantage point. But the rain continued, pounding the garden and creating a rampaging river out of our block. But no softball-sized hail.

So after storms that brought five confirmed tornadoes, hail up to the size of softballs and up to 3 inches of rain in some places, what would be the total damage?

ONE COUCH. Sorry, Jace. It's soaked. I almost wanted softball-sized hailstones (or at least one of them) so that I could justify throwing the couch out in the rain to save our automobiles from damaging weather which, despite some serious close calls, would never arrive. I'll keep an eye on it to see if it dries out alright, but it might be a wash.

Haha. A wash.

Well, woke up the this morning and went to visit Grandma and get my car back. Threw on some Hendrix on the stereo as I tore up the side of the house preparing to throw down some grass seed tomorrow. Forecast calls for 50% chance of rain, some may be severe and, yes, some may produce tornadoes. This time, I'm going to have my camcorder ready. See if I can make some money.

Cubs and Sox play tonight on ESPN. See if we can salvage at least one win out of this series. Hey, if nothing else, Cubs can gain some ground on the Cardinals. Glad we could help.

Oh yeah, our office softball team scored 17-runs in one inning to slaughter the first place team in our league for a share of first place. Final score: 22-13. Because it was a tie for first, the look to see who won the series which we split 1-1 so then it comes down to the total number of runs scored against each other in our two games. First game they beat us 17-9. Second match, we beat them 22-13 which means in our head to head, we outscored them 31-30 giving us first place and a first round bye in the tournament next Thursday.

And Pay Rod says, "Nice job, but how do my eyebrows look?" Whatta Prima Donna. Spanks are still under .500. Nice suit, Alexis. If only you put as much passion into baseball as you do shopping, you Sally.

Thursday, June 09, 2005


"Gettin' paid like a biker with the best crank,
Spray like a high rank sniper in the West Bank."

Hip hop history is chock full of colorful characters, from the Biz to Ol Dirty, from Flav to Andre. But rarely do you find products like MF Doom. MF (Metal Face) Doom is a ferocious, marble-mouthed emcee who speaks with a lazy drawl and comes with some of the most unique flows you've ever heard. He's also unquestionably one of the tastiest producers in the game right now. And, on top of playing both parts, he's also super prolific--kicking out numerous mindblowing projects over the last three years and he shows no signs of slowing down. And, amazingly, the metal mask is not a gimmick. It's a part of him. He wears it in the studio, in the store, in the airport, on stage, in interviews, around his buddies. In fact, at SXSW last year, he was spotted on the street walking alone with his mask on and a Yankee hat. His explanation of the mask, although there are many theories, is hip hop is so obsessed with image and access and he's wanting to be the anti to that uber-ego imagery. There is no face to his music except that of two large eyes peering through a emotionless mask. He's worked with a slew of artists: Atmosphere's Slug, MC Paul Barman, Prince Paul, De La Soul, Non Phixion, Sage Francis, Gorillaz, Madlib, Vast Aire, Count Bass D, MF Grimm, so on and so forth.

Thanks to a recent conversation with a fella named Ryan regarding MF Doom, I found it fitting to throw up a tribute to Doom and, for those interested in maybe digging into some of Doom's work, a shopping list to take to your favorite local record store or one that rhymes with "tasty" and scoop up some of this goodness. Anyhow, here's the list of the definitive Doom records. Find them, listen to them, enjoy them. Listed in order:

1) MF Doom Operation Doomsday

2) Madvillain Madvillainy

3) MF Doom MM Food

4) King Gheedorah Take Me to Your Leader

5) KMD Mr. Hood

6) Viktor Vaughan Vaudeville Villain

7) Monsta Island Czars Escape from Monsta Island

8) KMD Black Bastards

9) Viktor Vaughan VV II

10) MF Doom Special Herbs and Spices Vol. 1 and 2

Monday, June 06, 2005


Gasface for people who will call ten times in a business day between the hours of 8 and 5 yet not leave a voicemail ONCE.



This could actually get lumped into the first way of securing yourself the worst service in town (see "INSULTING THE ASSOCIATE") because this insults the associate and makes the associate ponder the inevitable question, "What, am I not good enough?" -- a question that is usually not dwelled on for more than three seconds before they turn around and walk the opposite direction. It doesn't matter how you say it (even the broken glass version, "Um, well, is there anyone else that might know?" or, even better, the bluntly rude version, "Well, since you don't know squat, who in this hellhole does?"), even suggesting it is rude. Don't audibly ask his question. Just get those feet-a-moving and go FIND yourself some more help. Don't be lazy, don't be rude. Don't try and prove a point by putting down someone to make yourself feel happy because you don't have to tolerate people like yourself to put money in your back pocket. Either find the help you need quietly and subtly or, hey, here's an idea: MAKE YOURSELF USEFUL AND HELP YOURSELF.

For all those people who were ever dumb enough to ask this question, here's an ugly cat with all of his hair shaved off JUST FOR YOU.


So this Sunday was not quite like all Sundays. My lovely wife rose with dollar signs in her eyes--ready to spend that money. And what were we looking for to spend our hard-earned cashola on? Furniture. Not just one piece, but two, maybe three. I knew it'd be a long afternoon and possibly brutal on the pocketbook. We set out just after lunch by visiting a local furniture place. It was here we met a woman who had a voice like a mouse and was doused in jewelry. She ran us through the digits, the financing plan, the "freebies" (which I know from "Drop Dead Gorgeous" are not free at all, they're just rolled into the price) and, by the time we finished there, I was saying crap like "elegant yet comfy" and "there's so much we could do with this color--very versatile". However, their selection and hospitality had nothing on my lovely wife's evening gig where on top of a beautiful d'van there was a 25% discount off the total ticket. We worked between two sofas and even considered getting a nice new leather lay-z-boy, but opted out. What we did end up coming home with was the "elegant but comfy". No more spending hours straightening the slip cover like picking your undies outta your rear, no more crawling out of the couch because, well, the middle springs have sprung and it's more like sitting on a wad of towels and no more doggy on the couch. Well, maybe.

Anyhow, here's the new beautiful, elegant and comfy couch. Loveseat and nice leather ottoman not pictured.

Wednesday, June 01, 2005


The big zero three (that'd be "3"). Married life is grand. Today, June 1st, marks our third glorious year together. My lovely wife, I love you so very much. You mean the world to me and look forward to every day together.

Thank you for supporting me, caring for me, feeding me, loving me.

I know what you're thinking: she's blurred to protect her identity because of her line of work. This is not her still photo from Cheaters.