Tuesday, October 30, 2007


Guess what, Colorado, I hate Ben Affleck, too.

This morning is why God put the coffee bean on the Earth. Insane fatigue hangs over me like a rain-soaked pea coat. I can hardly move, my back is like Jello, but I'm alive and I'm an uncle. More on that later, but we must go in chronological order. You're not going to believe this trip.

I should've known this wasn't going to be easy. I mean, getting tickets alone should've stood as example of what hell we would have to endure to make this trip work. But we did it. My lovely wife was a trooper as she, maybe for the first time, made the final haul into the Yellow as I sleeped like a newborn baby in the seat next to her.

After traveling Thursday and Friday of last week on business, I got back into work for 12 hours before leaving for the Series in Denver. I was whooped. Very tired. After packing, we met with some friends for a bite to eat, a drink and then went over to Tim's Halloween party to say hello before faceplanting into my pillow for six hours of sleep. That six was reduced to about five after I restlessly spun in circles all night. Visions of championship trophies maybe. Sox were up 2-0 going into Denver.

Got my coffee on and gave Matt a call who, with Francis, was going to meet us at the Starbucks on the far side of town. After getting our cash and gas, we were on the road. We're flying across the dimly lit landscape when we round a corner and are met with a sea of brake lights. We crawl to a stop, put it in park and sit in the middle of nowhere.

After a few brief moments, I decide to do what any curious Texan does...hop out and look. What Matt and I would find is a score of emergency vehicles and an overturned truck and trailer saddling the highway. Fantastic. We gave ourselves a little padding on our trip, but there was no telling how long this was going to take.
Unphased but realizing that time was of the essence, Matt hopped on his iPhone to check out the map and look for another route. It wasn't going to be easy, but we would backtrack about 10 miles, drive down to I-40 (about another 10 miles), over to Vega (about 25 miles) and then up the highway we were trying to get to until the accident (about 30 miles). Overall, we're talking a detour of about 80 miles, but it was better than sitting on a cold highway waiting for something to happen. We could have been sitting out on that highway for two hours. So we turned around and hauled ass.

We pull into Bushland on I-40 an hour fifteen later and only 10 miles down the road and, as a result of the cold air and a pot of coffee, I needed to stop for some bladder relief. Three minutes later, I hop in the car and we're on our way. When I begin to turn onto the access road, I hear the most horrifying sound coming from the front passenger side of the car. My car begins to rattle violently. I pull off to the side, throw it in park and then walk to the side of the car to see this.

Awesome. I got tickets to the Series. We're 10 miles out of town and I'm looking at a tire that is completely off the rim. Like any resourceful Boy Scout, I step to work without hesitation. Again, time is of the essence. Matt and Francis speed on down the highway. I would try to catch up somewhere along the road, but I knew it would be difficult.

The tire was swapped in about ten minutes and my lovely wife and I decided to head back to the Yellow to change automobiles and then, again, haul some ass. We arrive in the Yellow, throw all of our crap into the Toyota, stop by the store to get some fluids and fill up the Toyota with gas. Moments later, my lovely wife comes out with drink in hand saying that she forgot to pay for it as she just bolted out the door. Man, if she got arrested for stealing a fountain drink from the Toot N Totum, I know we would never make it out of town. After paying for the drink, now two hours late hitting the road, we bolt down the highway. In fact, knowing our chances that the wreck would be cleaned up on the backroad by now, we take the original route. Sure enough, the road was clear and we were catching up on time mile by mile. Still, however, I was pissed.

Keeping in touch with Elders on the road, I was certain we'd catch up, but we never would until right outside of Denver when they stopped for pizza. We busted a drive-thru instead. Got in town with a few minutes to spare--quickly made way to our hotel, got on our gear for the game (I in my Pedroia jersey and my lovely wife sporting the beanie and Manny jersey) and began making way. The lobby was littered (that's weird that I'd use that word) with Red Sox fans. Everyone of them greeting each other with, "Go Sox." Yes, go Sox. We split downtown to hook up with Elders and Francis, switched cars so we'd only have to pay for one parking ticket (I still owe Elders--remind me, homie). Not only that, if we got in a riot after the game, Elders' truck would have made a much better battering ram. You gotta think of these things when you're the visiting team. Here we are in a pretty standard tourist shot at Coors Field. I can respect an organization that names their stadium after a beer. Albeit, it's not a great beer, but it's local. Whaddya gon' do? The didn't serve Sam Adams at the stadium. Haters.

I kept confirming with my lovely wife that she had the tickets. Just showing me one wasn't working either. "I want to see both of them...both of them." This is my lovely wife with the tickets. And then there's a Rockies fan over her left shoulder totally pissed about something. Probably being down 0-2 to the Red Sox. I'd be pissed. That or the fact that nothing goes with purple.

We found our way to the seats enduring occassional heckles and stares. You would've thought we had some disease. I found it was best to tuck the head down and begin throwing shoulders. Beautiful park. It's not just a clever name. Much more sizable than Fenway. It's a good thing. They can fit more fairweather baseball fans in there--50,041 to be exact. I think it was when we were making our way to our seat that I really felt that the Red Sox were now the hated team in baseball. It was no longer the Yankees. It was the Red Sox. Just this feeling of such detest as I walked among the herd. It didn't help to have occassional Sox fans gloating and slapping high fives. Whatever, it comes and goes with the wind direction. We were pitied to loved to hated. That's fine. We got to our seats which were about 17 rows up from the field in left center.

Once again, another pissed off Rockies fan. Pre-game was rather uncerimonious for the most part. Got there to see the Sox take batting practice--launching souveniers into the outfield seats. They looked confident. The players had a swagger about them as they walked about. There was your typical fanfare that you're accustomed to seeing on TV--the American flag that covers the entire outfield, the high-brow celebrity/singer doing the national anthem (Carrie Underwood), the jets flying overhead. Not that typical is bad, but it was weird being there. I was like, "Thank you, Carrie, good job and here come the jets." I think we need to switch that up a little. Like when the national anthem ends, Bigfoot comes out and crushes like 70 sedans then drives off.

The lineups were set. Needless to say, even without Youks, I was feeling good.

If you didn't see the game, no worries, I won't go through all of the action. But I must say that, out of the gate, the Rockies fans (yes, they really do exist and they aren't all just bored Bronco fans) were really aggressive right out of the gate. I wasn't really expecting it. And, not only that, but they were just downright mean. And the guys right behind me didn't like any foreign-born player. So, if you're scoring at home, that'd be Lugo, Dice K, Papi, and Manny. I guess, though, they don't hold their own team to the same standards as their centerfielder's from the Dominican Republic, their catcher's from Venezuela and their second baseman's from Japan. Oh well. And they handed out those silly rally rags. I used mine to wipe my nose as it was a little cold outside and I kept dripping. The Rockies fans used them to hit us in the head. They knew every Sox player and had a joke prepared for each. I felt completely unprepared because I didn't know a single one of these cats from the Rockies. I mean, I knew Helton and Holliday, but that's only because I watch Sportscenter. Beyond that, I was quite short of material.

First two innings went without incident and it looked to be settling in for a good ol' pitching matchup. Dice K was mowing them down. Some cat named Fogg was pitching well for the Rockies. We get to the third inning, we had already put four on the board and they walk Lugo to pitch to the (easy out) Dice K. Bases were loaded, two outs and the pitchers batting. His warm-up swings were straight comedic. He steps into the batters box and kinda wags the bat like he's going to actually try to hit the ball. After fouling off a few good pitches, dude comes through. He drives a single past a diving third baseman and two runs score. Oops. Now the Rockies fans went from friendly banter and heckling to angry shouts and yelling. I sat rather quietly not trying to draw too much attention to myself. I mean, we were still the visiting team, but still though. After a while of enduring the taunts from behind us, I finally would speak up. I can't remember what they said, but I whipped around quickly and glared at them. "We're cool, man. It's all good, man." Alright, I thought. So long as I can play along. So I began trash talking back.

In fact, when the game got really out of hand, just to patronize them, I began cheering for the Rockies. Manny struck out and I'd go crazy. Pedroia missed his chance at a ground ball and I'd cheer wildly. Figured they needed all the help they could get. It had a soothing effect on the hatred between us. We actually bonded a little. Enough to get the following picture.
The better of the fans was sitting right in front of Elders who was the best sport about everything. I figured it was best to throw a picture of him in for good measure. Not all Rockies fans are hateful morons. As Elders and I would say, "He loves the game." But he still hates purple and opts for the black instead.

It was a pretty formulaic win from there on in. A few more runs, Okajima and Papelbon come in for the combo relief effort. Sox win. Getting out of there was a little hairy. Apparently, I put my hand on the back of a Rockies fan who was passing by just so I didn't run him over and he mistook my action when he, by my lovely wife's account, snapped at me, "Don't ****ing console me!" Fair enough. Your team sucks, dude.

You know, I've heard a ton of excuses and reasons why the Rockies didn't win a single game in the Series after winning 21 out of 22 games. It's the Sox's payroll. It was the eight-game layoff. It was the Sox having home field advantage and jumping out 2-0. It was everything but a lack of talent. What you witnessed if you were among the few that actually watched the Series was a pounding. It was a total mismatch. It was a methodical beating. And, in the short series, it bares worth mentioning, that there was no Papi or Manny longball. In fact, there would be only three homeruns and two of those were hit by rookies. The pitching was magnificent and young phenom Jon Lester would win Game 4 with a dominating performance. Hey, don't hate us because we came prepared for a battle.

Anyhow, Sox won. The world is a pretty good place after all. I don't care if it makes us the hated empire. Really, I don't. I'm used to hate because I'm just too pretty. We awoke the next morning and wandered around Denver taking photos of the changing trees. Gangsta! Gangsta! And then we made our way down to Castle Rock Outlet Mall for shopping. Even more Gangsta! Gangsta! than you can even imagine. You know how we do it. Actually, it was quite nice. I went into a ski store and bought a nice Obermeyer sweater and some pants for almost nothing.

When I was checking out, I got a call from Bro Bro in Midland.

He was calling to let us know that our nephew was on his way out of the shoot and he was coming fast. You know, Wyricks just don't play around. We go. And this kid meant business. We made the quick decision to call into work for Monday off and haul some ass to Midland. Now, as easy as I make that sound, I was not privy to the exact distance of that haul, but I knew it was about six hours back to the Yellow and about four from there. So I approximated about 10 just off the top of my head. We'll keep the stops to a minimum. Hold the pee as many miles as possible. Ration the fluids, keep it on cruise and eat plenty of sunflower seeds. It's helps dehydrate you so you can drink tons of water, but never pee.

Well, before we could even make it to our first stop, the guy came flying out into the world. And, the best part of all, we share a name: Parker Jeffrey Wyrick. Tell me that ain't the tightest. Nonetheless, we couldn't wait to see him so we went as fast as we could. I'd try and catch Game 4 on AM radio which, unfortunately, didn't own its own frequency, but rather shared it with some horrible Mexican radio station. It would fade in and out over a bed of tejano which, as a Sox fan, was horribly annoying. We continued to listen. You know the rest. And, in case you don't (because the Series almost set a new low for viewership), we swept them. In fact, for the Rockies to say they "made it to the Series" would be overstating it. They won the NLCS and got a free two-day trip to Boston. That's it.

We pulled into sleepy Midland at about 1:30--almost eleven and a half hours later. We crashed at Bro Bro's pad while he slept in the hospital room with his Sarah. That next morning we darted up to the hospital to see youngblood. He was still in ICU with some fluid in the lungs. But we got to stare at him through the glass as he wiggled around in his little pod or tanning bed or whatever it is. Patiently we waited though until we could actually see him.

At about 6:15 that night, our time would come. Sanitize those hands, folks. We got a newbie on the way into the room.

There wasn't a dry eye in the house as little Parker made his grand entrance for the first time around the family. Don't you love how the ladies couldn't keep their eyes off of him, but the two brothers had enough presence to pry away for a good smile for the camera.
We had to be so very careful with him and given his delicate state, still, we couldn't get to close on him, but we gave him pounds from a healthy distance. My lovely wife was first. Dude was just chilling it. Like I wish I could sleep through important meetings. Dude was just like, "Yeah, don't mind me. I'm just gonna sleep a little more."
Meet the newest addition to the family: Mr. Parker Jeffrey Wyrick.
Goulet died? Lance Armstrong was making out with an Olsen twin? If a tropical storm kills 81 people, wouldn't that, by fatalities alone, qualify it as a hurricane? Man, what kind of world did we bring this kid into? Eh, if he's anything like my brother, he's gonna get along fine. If he's anything like me, look out world.

Wednesday, October 24, 2007


In what can only be called "unparalleled heroism," Matt Elders (wingman in the pursuit for World Series tickets) managed to beat the odds and, after close to three hours waiting in a virtual hell (with up to 4.5 million others estimated) to be randomly selected for a chance to buy tickets, we got 'em.
At approximately 3:00, Elders calls me at the office while I continue to refresh my three "please hold" windows. "Dude, I'm in." My reply? "Buy, buy, buy!" Our agreement was if either of us made it in (and the chances of both of us making it to a purchase was an impossibility), purchase the max (four tickets). Well, Matt made it. Shortly thereafter (I estimate close to thirty minutes), all games in Colorado were sold out. Just under the tag.
So Saturday, my lovely wife and I, Matt and, uh, I'm not sure who else, will be in Manny alley in left center field for Game 3 between the Sox and the Rockies (I refuse to adopt the "Rox" as in the "Sox vs. Rox" catch-phrase). Dice K will be making the start against some cat named "Fogg" for the Rockies.
I'm calling the Sox in six. How's that for some alliteration?
Elders, good game. Payment coming shortly.

Tuesday, October 23, 2007


You knew I'd be first online to purchase World Series tickets to one of two games in Denver, either Saturday or Sunday (Game 3 or 4). In fact, others might have expected that I would've taken time out in my schedule to do so. However, I would be a little off the mark expecting that either I'd have tickets purchased in just an hour or, secondly and more likely, they would've been sold out in an hour. Well, neither happened.

Yep, the Rockies blew their first shot at an only-online ticket sale when their servers folded under the weight of 8.5 million users attempting to buy World Series tickets. They did manage to sell 500 seats yesterday before everything crashed. I heard someone comment about this being indicative of the "overwhelming support of Rockies fans" while someone on the inside suggested this was a deliberate and "malicious" attack on the system. Neither, folks. That's Red Sox Nation.

Colorado wouldn't have had this problem if the Indians made it. Same with the Angels. Maybe with the Yankees. Either way, I get another chance today at 1PM. I got my wingman Elders (Goose) working for some as well. We kinda have an unwritten agreement. You almost need multiple people going because, for the tickets that I'd agree to pay for, you're probably looking at chances around 1 out of 900. And that's just to purchase one ticket. To get two consecutively, I'm estimating the chances are more around 1 out of 1,900. Four in a row? Probably looking at 1 out of 7,000. Gotta love my chances.

So what was the Colorado Rockies organization doing on their eight days off since securing their spot in the Series? I mean, if they weren't preparing for Series ticket sales, they must have been up to something much more important, right? Of course.

The Colorado Rockies have been busy trying to trademark the word, "Rocktober" for exclusive rights to the word on all merchandise, apparel or otherwise. That's quite a bold move, you think? I mean, every classic rock station in America has Rocktober programming or promotions. That's like me trying to trademark the phrase "partly cloudy." What kind of retarded ish are the Rockies up to? I mean, by the time they secure the exclusive rights, the month of October will only have five more days in it. Or, more importantly, if you're going to trademark such a word, wouldn't it make more sense to actually win the Series? I mean, if the Sox win the Series, would that give us rights to "Socktober" by default? This is the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Perhaps they should've put the same resources and money into developing a better system for ticket distribution. Dummy.

That's like hiring a clown for a birthday party that juggles fifteen flaming poodles, but forgetting to send out invitations. It's Tuesday and you know what that means...De La Soul is Dead day.

Monday, October 22, 2007


Yep, the Sox are series bound. In case you missed it last night, the Sox threw Dice-K last night in, what would be the game that would ultimately define his career to date with the Red Sox. After spending $103,000,000, Dice-K would put together a decent year, but by no means unbelievable. The Sox needed their rookie now. Game 7 in Boston against the Indians. Winner goes to the series. Loser goes home.

Dice-K would put together the start he needed to--holding the Indians to only two runs over five innings. But it would be rookie Dustin Pedroia who would launch his team into the World Series. Going 3-5 and driving in five runs, two coming on a huge and rare homer over the Monstah. People want to talk salaries when the Sox win. In fact, they also want to talk salaries when the Sox lose. That's fine. On Sunday night, it was the youth of the team that propelled the Sox forward. Matsuzaka, Okajima, Pedroia, Ellsbury (all rookies), Youkilis and Papelbon would be the core of the Sox team that would put eleven runs on the board and suffocate Indians' offense. It makes it that much sweeter.

I've heard alot about Colorado's momentum going into the Series--having won 21 of their last 22 games. Yep, that's impressive. But I would contend that winning three straight after being down 1-3 to the best team in the league is momentum. And, along the way, the Sox would absolutely crush two of the league's five 19-game winners (Carmona and Sabathia) and would outscore the Indians 30-5 in the last three games. Let's talk momentum.

Rocks and Sox. If you think I'm looking for Series tickets in Denver, you're damn right. 11 o'clock this morning, tickets go on sale for the games in Colorado. Let's see if I can make it happen. I'd say my chances are slim, but it won't dissuade me from trying.

It's a Mobb Deep day. Don't fake the funk.

Sunday, October 21, 2007


Look, did I ever think it couldn't happen? Maybe. I mean, down 1-3 to a very strong Indians team would give one reason to worry. That is, if you were any other team but the Red Sox. Thursday night, I was saying, "Just get us back to Fenway." Mission accomplished. Last night, we poured it on the Indians winning 12-2 to force Game 7. Schilling was remarkable and good ol' JD Drew hit a grand slam in the first inning which would prove to be enough to coast to victory. Now we got 'em on their heels.

In fact, in the last two games, the Sox have been nothing short of dominant--outscoring the Indians, 19-3. Look, anything can happen in Game 7 tonight. We got Dice K on the mound to start and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried. But, like I said when we were down 1-3, this is a perfect scenario for a Wyrick. We love comebacks. Give us a "down but not out" situation and watch us surge. Gettin' a sixer of Sam Adams Boston Ale for the game tonight. Let's see if I'm buying tickets to the Series in Colorado tomorrow.

Friday, October 19, 2007


Over the last two weeks, I've found myself having the most bizarre and unexplainable run-ins with the Beastie Boys. Yep, Brooklyn's finest have been following me. I'm convinced. Weird thing is--it's in my dreams. Now, you'd think a chance run-in with a celebrity or accomplished hip hop act would be a one-time affair, however, I've found that twice over the last week and a half, I've had rather odd, but personable brushes with the Beasties.

There's really no explaining it. Maybe it has something to do with their new release or maybe it's my mind tuning into their music subconciously through the day (it's not rare for me to go into lines of lyrics from the Beasties while their music plays rather quietly in the background) and then manifesting as a dream at night. Anyway. They're not wet, kinky or frightening--just weird and random.

I'm not really one to analyze dreams because, well, I just don't put much value into them. So, I'll recall for you what happened and nothing more. Maybe you all can arrive at some conclusions.

Dream #1:
I'm in a record store. In fact, I was referred to this record store by someone. Not sure who. It's a large, vast floorspace with only a scattering of customers walking around aimlessly. It's quiet. Not very celebrative. I'm thinking, "This is one of those odd indie record stores where everyone acts like their so refined, like their art critics, geniuses." It was like the Twilight Zone. I'm looking for the actual music and a man points me to the back corner of this large room and there's five racks of CDs. I'm thinking to myself, "If they only got five racks of music as a music store, it's gotta be good stuff." I walk up and begin thumbing through and I'm finding nothing special...nothing exclusive. Just the same old crap.

Certainly I was misled here. I mean, this ain't a record store, it's an art gallery. And a really lousy one. Kids are walking around like they're on drugs. The music sucks. The people suck. I'm out of this place. I walk by the counter and I decide to voice my issues to the guy sitting behind the counter. I walk up and launch into a rant when I find the man behind the counter is a moustached Adrock from the Beasties.
He's acting almost medicated. Just standing there looking blankly at me. I exclaim, "You're Adrock!" He nods very subtly. I yell it again, "Dude, you're Adrock!" He looks around and clearly is uneased by my exuberance. I calm down. Collect myself and then go into a much softer assault of appreciation. I go into a scary monologue about the differences between Paul's Boutique and Check Your Head. He very politely interrupts me and says cooly, "But do you have In Sound from the Way Out." I tell him, "Yes, I got it. In fact, I got that on vinyl." He asks strangely if I would like another copy. I decline.
He leans towards me and says, "Look, man, I really need you to buy this record."

Were things that hard for the Beasties these days? I mean, duke's working in a shitty record store shilling their instrumental record and, not only that, it's a compilation. I mean, hard times have fallen on Adrock if it's come down to this. I'm thinking, "What's the harm? It's only fifteen bucks. And it's Adrock." I tell him, "I'll buy it under one condition and that is that you autograph it."
He snags a Sharpie from nearby and scribbles across the front of the CD and I hand over my cash. We exchange a handshake and I bolt. My lovely wife and her brother are waiting out in the parking lot with arms folded. I walk up yelling, "I met Adrock! From the Beasties, Adrock!" My lovely wife gives me a blank, confused glare. "You know, 'What's the time?!' The dude with the real high voice! Adrock! Look, he autographed this CD for me." I reach into my pocket...no CD. Maybe I dropped it. I run back into the record store.

"Hey, maybe I left my CD up here at the counter. It was a Beastie Boys CD. In Sound from the Way Out. That crappy instrumental record. He made me buy it!"

"Uh, no, sir. We haven't seen it."

"It was just like two minutes ago. I paid for it right here. Where is it?"

I get irate. I make a girl cry and run to the back room. I start getting the "someone's drunk in public" stares from everyone. I yell out, "Adrock signed it! He was right here and we were sitting here talking for like five minutes. Adrock from the Beastie Boys!"

This slim kid walks up to me, leans into me and looks me right in the eye and says, "Adrock doesn't work here, dude." Then, this other dude walks up and says, "Not only that, we don't even carry the Beastie Boys, moron."

Trippy. It was like a dream within a dream er something. They didn't even carry the Beastie Boys. Well, I know I met Adrock and that's all that matters. Dude was mad cool, too. To hell with those kids and their stupid indie record store. Their selection sucked.

Dream #2:
I get asked to show up at this barn way out in the middle of nowhere. It was like almost any other "middle of nowhere." Looked a lot like West Texas. No trees, no vegetation, no structures. Just a barn and a nearby smaller barn and house. I show up and there's a fairly large assortment of vehicles outside. I park, walk into the barn and there's about 50 cats in this place. Sorry, not felines, but rather 50 people. All of them unfamiliar. There were older cats, younger heads, black, white, Asian, Mexican, Puerto Rican, dudes, ladies, whatever. It was a really strong cross-section of people. I walk in and I'm standing near the back of the crowd.

About five minutes after arriving, the lights in the place go black. There's a confused murmur amongst the crowd, but then, all of the sudden, three lights illuminate the front wall of the barn. Then, not but a half second later, MCA, Mike D and, my boy, Adrock come running out onto a stage that stood no more than two feet off the ground. Funny thing was, it was like Check Your Head-era. They looked like they were still maybe mid to late-20s. They launch right into "Professor Booty" and I go crazy. I begin to pogo, but I'm launching like eight feet in the air. I bounce all the way to the edge of the stage.

They go right from "Professor Booty" to "Shake Your Rump." I'm rocking the front of the stage, but the 50 people are packed in behind me. I'm watching the Beastie Boys in a barn with 50 people. B'lee dat. It was tight.

After about ten minutes, I see Adrock run off the stage in a panic and then Mike D and MCA follow slapping high fives on the way off stage. What's going on?

I stand there bewildered, but ready for some more action. I look to the people on either side of me and their face also reflects my confusion. Thirty minutes pass--no Beasties. Two hours pass--no Beasties. Did they bolt? What happened?

I walk to the side of the barn and peer out an opening in the wall to see the barn next door ablaze from the ground to the top of the roof.

Damn straight, the roof, the roof, the roof is on fire. I start wondering, "Is this where I leave? Are the Beasties coming back? Am I going to die?" After two and a half hours, a road manager appears at the front of the stage. "I'm sorry, folks. Thanks for coming out, but unfortunately, MCA's daughter has died so the rest of the show is cancelled. Again, thanks for coming out."

And that was it. What the crap?! I don't know. But I know that yesterday, I had the most righteous block of Beasties going on up at work. I was playing it all. It was well deserved for both me and, let's be real, it was well deserved for them. They're constantly being overlooked. Classic records, folks. Go out and find Check Your Head, Paul's Boutique and Ill Communication. That's a cannon you don't wanna play with. Ill stuff.

Go Beasties, go Sox, go Raiders.

Thursday, October 18, 2007


Check out this comedy gem courtesy of those old school, passive-aggressive racist at Fox News--the network that has brought us the hilarity of "O'Reilly vs Hip Hop." Nas has announced that the name of his new record will be Nigga or as broadcast calls it, N-Word. Sure, Nas ain't new to controversy. Remember when he portrayed Jesus on a cross in the "Hate Me Now" video? Yeah, this is just good ol' Nas--stirring it up for the folks at Fox News. Well, Fox News has responded because, well, let's be honest, there's nothing else more threatening to the very order of society than the title of the new Nas record. There's gonna be blood in the streets, I tell ya.

The best part of this entire report is, once again, Fox News plays the old, uber-conservative, "Things just ain't like they used to be" Grandpa role. And their uneducated and completely misinformed spin on Nas and his recorded history is not only unfair, it's strikingly hilarious. O'Reilly might claim a "no spin zone," but the report you're about to see is nothing but a spin. Check it out.

Let's look at it a bit closer.

From the man who has brought us such hateful songs as "Shoot 'Em Up" and "Hip Hop is Dead"...Nas made headlines this summer for his controversial appearance at the concert for Virginia Tech glorifying the murder at the site...

This is one huge spin here. First and foremost, "Hip Hop is Dead" is in no way a hateful song. I don't even know where this comes from. Maybe they were making some assumptions of the song's content based on the title. Like, I don't know, "Hip hop is dead because Nas is killin' every rapper with his glock." I don't know. The fact that, in the first 20 seconds they're already off the mark should alarm anyone viewing this piece. And the "headlines" they're referring to that Nas made after an appearance at Virginia Tech after the shootings there was actually on one headline and that was the lead story on Bill O'Reilly's program in which idiot O'Reilly attempted to again blame hip hop for all violence in the world. That controversy they're referring to is really just ol' Billy getting his panties in a wad. No worries.

I thought there was a memo that we're not using this word anymore...

Clearly, dude ain't listening to any hip hop record out in the market place.

I'm the N with the glocks and the pumps. Sucker-free from the chumps...

Someone needs to sample this in the very worst way. In fact, if I can find a way, I'll make it happen. This has got to be one of the greatest soundbytes ever.

Lots of people buy rap. By the way, it's gone down 30% according to Neilsen over the last year...

"Lots of people buy rap" is such very subtle but poignantly racist comment. The thought being that now it ain't just the black kids buying it so we have to now be so careful about what we put into hip hop records. Now that it's being listened to by white kids, we have to make it safe, but if it was just black kids listening to it, well, let's not worry about making it safe. Only when it affects the white kids. Racist. Racist. Racist. And guess what, white kids have been buying rap records since Raising Hell and It Takes a Nation of Millions. And rap's down 30% over the year is actually not so bad considering that, firstly, the whole industry is down 20% and, secondly, there hasn't been shit worth of hip hop records actually released this year. Oh and Neilsen doesn't include mixtape sales.

(Jesse Jackson quote)

Fox News is in a habit of denouncing anything that Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton say until and only until they can use a quote or soundbyte by Rev. Jackson to help with their slant on a particular story. I find it odd, sometimes, when they use Rev. Jackson when most times they dismiss him as just another loudmouthed freedom fighter.

This is a little bit of what Nas does...

This is some awesome footage here. It reminds me of those old reels that religious groups used to put together about heavy metal music and the satanic scares of the late eighties. Look at the sensationalization of the lyrics with the exclamation points, how they hit the screen in a way that is supposed to startle or frighten. They're just trying to Judas Priest our boy Nas. It's funny. And how they just cut out just the lyric they're needing to prove their point. Listen to the changes in the music. They jam like four songs into 33 seconds.

He's enforcing the "no-snitch" rule...

Again, someone capture that. That'd be a beautiful sample.

What message does he send the kids today?

I'm afraid that's not really the question to be asked. "Kids" aren't really buying Nas records. "Kids" are buying Plies, Soulja Boy, Shop Boyz. They ain't buying Nas. I'd love it if my kid asked if he could by a Nas record against some of the garbage out there.

There's a lot of dead people in Philadelphia that might have been shot because somebody got inspired by that kind of song...

This is so funny because the report was supposed to be about the title of the record and the controversy that is created by that word, however, in the parting shot as they're closing the segment, Gibson just lashes out quickly at the content of rap like he was so blinded by his hate for rap that he forgot what the point of the report was in the first place. People don't shoot others because of rap records. And, like a coward, he rambles it at the end so his viewers can cheer and say, "You tell 'em, Johnny!" The truth is that he wanted to end the segment with him getting the final say and not allowing any response from his "guests." Fade to black. End of segment.

You don't know the half, folks.

Wednesday, October 17, 2007


Universal sign for nausea--the hand to the mouth but no coughing, hunched shoulders. Don't know what it was. My lovely wife told me that the rice I prepared with my turkey last night had a "best by" date of October, 2001. I wonder if that had something to do with it. Geez, that would've meant it was purchased back when I was single living in Lubbock. That's enough to make another trip to the toilet just at the thought of it.

But rice really spoils? It might have been the powder that you put in the rice. Ugh. Gross.

Was watching MTV this morning bleary-eyed in bed and saw a Sway interview with Nelly and he started talking about Nelly Furtado and her success. He said, "Good for Nelly Futardo." Man, you get a couple of letters in her name reversed and it has a totally different sound to it. It's not like Ricky Ricardo with the "ardo"--it's "tardo" which I can't think is something you want anywhere in your name. Poor rapper Nelly. He's so dumb.

So I've been pretty absent for a bit (Holy cow, Tucker's got horrible gas this morning--something died in here). Busy, you know, that hustle never stops in the AMA. I'm wondering how in the hell I'm going to get this year-end hip hop list written with so many lousy hip hop records releasing this year. Dude, this year has been historically bunk. And I said the same thing last year. So, essentially, this is the worst year in hip hop. I might have to think about that. I mean, we got an El-P record this year. Aesop Rock. Common. Madlib. Oh No (dope). Kanye. Atmosphere. Percee P. Sage Francis. Some big names.

Of course, no MF Doom again this year (although it's being promised).

Check out this photo sent from Bro Bro of Remi Emre at a photo studio. This is the tightest. I mean, this takes it to the next level. Good work, Remi. You's a champ.

Baseball, geez, what a cruel game. Sox are down 1-3 to the Indians. Of course, as a Wyrick, you love being down in situations like this. It just sets the stage for a miraculous comeback. If we can take Thursday night in Cleveland and take it back to Boston, anything can happen. If we don't take Thursday night in Cleveland, then, well, we're screwed. It's ovah.

We just a few more of these kinda moments. No doubt, the Indians played well. I said it going into this series that I'd much rather play the Yankees than the Indians. They're a scary team and they're proving why in this series.

I can tell you this, though, all these cats climbing on the Rockies wagon better recognize that nothing's won until you beat the AL and, Red Sox or Indians, you're gonna have your hands full. It's amazing, though, to see people backing the Rockies all the sudden. Good for me and Red Sox Nation. Now we can widdle down the membership back to a manageable level. Someone actually told me that we're the hated team in the playoffs and I couldn't help but think, "Finally." We'll finally be able to tell the fans from the fakers. I'm going back to bed.

Tuesday, October 16, 2007


And, believe it or not, all of them are the passengers.

Is there some benefit to being not only in Boarding Group "A", but being first in line in Boarding Group "A"? You realize that the plane is not taking off until the last person's on, right? The only benefit I can see is being in exit row and you're one person fighting for, in most cases, one of only four seats. Grow up, relax, don't be a nincompoop.

Look, I'll put it this way. The exit row is intended for those requiring extended leg room. If you are shorter than 6'3", you do not qualify for exit row seating. I mean, imagine if something actually happened and you had answered to the flight attendant that, yes, "You would be able to complete all of the tasks required of a person sitting in the exit row in the case of an emergency." If you do, in fact, take the exit row seat away from someone who actually deserves it, you at least owe me a look in the eye as I walk by. Look me in the eye, butthole. At least give me that. But don't put your head down like you don't see me cramped in the aisle as I walk by.

It's pretty simple: you get onto the plane with your crap in hand, you locate your seat, you put your crap up and you sit down. If you want a magazine out of your bag, do that before you get on the plane. If you know you're not going to want to wear your jacket on the flight, take it off before you get on the plane. The faster this process goes, the better my flight is going to be. I absolutely hate standing in lines and even moreso when my head is bowed, my chin's in my chest because I'm too tall for the cabin and I have a person two inches in front of me and two inches behind me. Sit down, you moron. And, another thing, the seats are labeled on each row so if you're looking for "13A", you can actually look where "A" is on any row because they don't change and then, by the time you get to the thirteenth row, you can just plop your tail end down into the correct seat.

Your asked once and get one polite reminder. Again, you're stalling the plane from taking off. I don't know if there's any good reason to turn off electronic devices, but I know they ask you to do it. Since I'm not smart enough to fly a plane or patient enough to serve hundreds of moron passengers, I do what I'm asked. And I don't know if any song is that great that you just have to finish it. Turn it off when you're first asked and, don't be a dumbass, take the headphones actually off of your head so that there's no mistaken that you're not listening to the device. I know you enjoy testing people and are hoping you get asked again so you can say, "It's off! I just have the headphones on my head!" Stow it away, homeboy.

As a general rule, look at the person behind you and evaluate whether or not you're gonna have enough room to lean the chair back before you so launching it back into their knees or, like me, my forehead. I stand 6'3" and there's not much room for someone else's torso in my space. At the very least, ask if it's okay. Maybe because of your thoughtfulness, I might actually approve a few inches, but if you're sitting in front of me, you can pretty much write off a full recline and a nap. Go to a seat where a gnome is sitting behind you. I don't shrink, fold or budge.

You know when you land and they say, "It's now okay to use your cellular phones," and you look around and immediately see crazy people firing off phone calls like they just couldn't wait to begin calling someone? These people are both intriguing and mad annoying. I didn't know there was a contest to be the first to successfully place a phone call on your cellular telephone after landing. What are the prizes? Is there also a prize for having the whiniest cell phone voice? If so, I have a winner.

As a general rule, if you gotta window seat and there's two or more individuals between you and the aisle and the flight is no longer than an hour and fifteen minutes, you're gonna have to plug the urination. You're in a no-pee zone. You get one free pass on flights with a duration longer than an hour fifteen. If you're sitting next to me, I'll govern your liquid intake. "No, it's not necessary to give this person any fluids because I will not get up if they have to pee." Then I'll turn to you and say, "You're not going to die from dehydration in an hour. Take a nap."

It's entertaining, but when you try a second time, you've become an annoyance. Knowing when a bag doesn't fit in the overhead bin is crucial for making my flight enjoyable. It's like simple physics, or mathematics, or observation. I've seen a guy trying to cram a bag four inches bigger in every direction into an overhead compartment and I just felt like standing up and asking him, "Are you retarded?" Abandon the mission while you still have some energy and your life. Because all those cats waiting in a line behind you are due in mere seconds to bum rush you and beat you with your bag. Check it next time.

Look, I don't like talkers--generally speaking, of course. It's not that I don't like "talking." I don't like talkers. You know the people that launch right into conversations from the time they hit their seat. Some start off subtly with, "Well, looks like we have a bit of a delay," while others just get right into the personal business: "Where are you heading?" I don't like to talk and, usually, have no problem projecting this to other passengers because, well, people just don't talk to me (unless its my lovely wife, of course). Even more annoying are talkers that project in such a way so that more than the person they're addressing can hear it. It's usually when they want others to feel the glow of their status. They'll talk about their new BMW, their job as a regional director for a large company, their downtown loft they just moved into, their strained shoulder which was injured when lifting a compact car with one arm. They yearn for acceptance and their abrasive conversational voice is a cry out for help. My answer is: "Pipe down and tell someone who cares. I'm not interested in dating you."

It's Tuesday. Which means it's the second day of the work week. Sox are down 1-2 to the Indians. Knew this wasn't going to be easy. Rockies are the team to beat...and root for, apparently. More on that later.

Monday, October 08, 2007


Sorry, but I just had to point out how dumbass this headline because, as of the time I type this, it seems that the entire Yankee team is ineligible for further playoff action in the 2007 season. Thanks for playing, fellas. Maybe next year you can find a better way to invest $28 million dollars. I imagine that'll buy Clemens a pretty nice set of clubs.

Speaking of golf...Joe, it's been nice knowing you. Stay comfy in your golf cart. You'll be getting quite familiar with such a mode of transportation in the coming years. Hey, I'm sure Florida's looking for a manager and there's some great courses down there. Maybe we'll meet again when the Devil Rays come to town. I hear Florida's nice for the retired folks. And let's face it, you've been retired for the last four years.

Sox and Indians begin Friday night in Boston. Red Sox can't win this series. Cleveland's too tough. It's better to expect it up front than to mislead yourself into believing they actually stand a chance. In that case, Sox won't win another game this entire post-season.


Yep, Trot gave them three runs on the error in right. Damon cracks a three-run homer. Six runs off contributions from former Sox. Without Trot and Damon, Yankees lose 2-4. Of course, all of this with the world's most expensive hamstring going out after only two innings of work. Clemens, thanks for showing us your ageless strength and incredible courage. You're an inspiration to everyone over 45 years old. And you pulled off the biggest cash heist in baseball history. Good move. To a certain extent, that's a move that only a former Sock could pull. Dude, got paid $28 million and only pitched 99 innings in the season. That would be approximately $300,000 an inning. And he posted a lousy 6-6 record. So, basically, Yankees paid $28,000,000 for six wins.

Even more important, they forfeited all that money that could've been put toward young talent and the future of their team. Of course, Cano, Joba and, to a certain extent, Cabrera are fine players, but they're trading fodder.

Sox swept the Angels. Elders won a bet that will bring him his own Rally Monkey. Manny and Papi are swinging very well and the pitching was lights out. In other words, this team is a scary machine.

Let's just hope the Yanks and Indians go the maximum five games. We'll be waiting for them in Boston for Friday night--whoever decides to show up.

Okay, so my brother (thanks for the pic) was at the "baby doctor" checking up on Peanut and he happened along the raddest name in the world. Now, if you're blessed with the last name "Crunk," you can do some phenomenally creative name work when naming your firstborn. I would probably opt for the following name "Keep It Crunk" or "We Live Crunk," but you'd have a hard time growing up with the first name "Keep" or "We." Well, the Crunk family from Texas' Permian Basin opted for another direction. It's one that I certainly approve of. It's a dope name. And apparently, the lil' tike thinks so, too. Check out the smile on this kid. He's gotta long, happy life ahead of him.

Saturday, October 06, 2007


This cat's name is Ted Wyrick. Obviously, he's no relation because, well, I'm just too pretty. He's from Oregon somewhere and he's been a bad man. I'm still researching what he did, but until I find out, let's assume the worst. Dude's gotta eye problem, bless his heart. Is he looking at me or you? I can't tell. Camera one...camera two.

Now back to our regularly schedule program...

Thursday night marked another fine evening for Roundhouse action in the CityWide Thursday Night Softball Men's/Mixed League Tournament. We put a good team out on the field. Mayhem at short. Elders, the crafty vet, at catcher. Angry Tim and Kool Aid locking down the left side of the outfield. I spotted up at first. Our first game would match us up against a team from Golden Light, a local cafe/bar. They didn't really look all that tough, but they talked tough. We rolled with rather quiet confidence. At first base, I was staring right into the setting sun which, when you're at first, looking into the sun, standing six feet tall and a left-handed hitter comes to the plate, you get as low as you can and pray you don't catch one on the forehead. I'd flinch every time I would hear bat hitting ball. At one point, I hit the deck and it was a fly ball that landed about fifteen feet behind me. I wasn't taking my chances.

In the third inning, after a walk (because real pimps don't run, they walk) I advanced over to third base and Steve Sosodef comes to bat. I remember looking down the line and envisioning him firing an absolute cannonball down the line. He's a dead pull hitter and I've managed to dodge a few of his fireballs. The shadows from the fencing were crossing my line of view and the sunlight was cutting through some good ol' West Texas dust making the visibility not necessarily optimal. I stood there awaiting my fate. The pitcher releases an absolutely perfect pitch and WHAP! I see the ball leave Steve's bat and it's no higher than four feet off the ground and it's coming right for me.

With only a second to react, I lift up and to the outside corner of the bag not knowing that instead of avoiding the ball, I was actually putting myself right in the line of fire. Well, when an object is travelling at about 85-90 mph and you have manatee-like quickness like me, there's really no time for reaction and you might receive one of these babies.
"Douglas" is German for "throw some dirt on it"
Wyrick is Dutch for "walk it off"

When it first happened, I thought I could pull it off like it hit me in the balls because it happened so quickly. How cool would it be if I acted like it hit me in the jewelies, then stand up and without a cup just walk it off. Of course, Mayhem I believe made a good point that some of the spectators might think that means that I don't have any jewelies. Plus, the bruise would've been a little hard to explain. So I remain honest. It popped me in the leg.
This morning, it hurts so damn bad. I thought that my protein levels would excuse me from bruising, but dude, it's surfaced really nicely. I didn't see the Virgin Mary in it, but last night when I was on the floor wrestling with Tux, I got a glimpse of it in the dim light from the dining room and I swear I saw a silhouette of Milton Berle--young Milton Berle, though. I'll keep you posted.
We went on to beat Golden Light and then were matched up against some nameless team. Of course, when you're playing Roundhouse everyone else is going to be nameless. One name I do remember, however, was "Norm" who was the home plate ump and was buddies with almost everyone on the other team. I guess it helps to be drinking buddies with the umps. That'll put you at a disadvantage. Not only that, but Norm's strike zone was about the size of a can of Skoal.
We went on to mount a comeback in the bottom of the last inning from five down, but still lost 10-12. Oh well. Third place in the Thursday Night League--chalk up another one for the Roundhouse.
Last night had to have been the perfect night. Yankees lost, Sox won. Yankees are down 0-2 to the Indians. Sox are up 2-0 to the Angels. Now, that's a good start to any good evening, but in case you missed it. You missed Jabba Chamberlain...
Oops, I mean, Joba Chamberlain blow his first post-season appearance giving up the tying run in a 1-0 game on a wild pitch which scored Angry Tim's Grady Sizemore. Angry Tim offered up a rather reserved, "Atta kid," at Mulligan's as Grady scored. I like, "Atta kid," but I'm more of an "Atta boy," type.
Of course, Yankees can't just blow a game. I mean, America's team doesn't just lose, there has to be some freakish, unexplainable act of God to blame because, well, the Yanks don't just lose. All the talk Friday night was the bugs. And, with Joba on the mound, it would be the bugs that apparently led to the two wild pitches and a hit batter. And, in the postgame, Torre who must have been watching some other game actually said that Joba, "Kept his composure." Oh, the hilarity.
Yeah, they were thick, but they didn't seem to bother Carmona who, in the bottom of the inning struck out both Jeter and May-Rod after already pitching eight full innings of baseball. It didn't seem to phase Rivera either who got the Indians to go three-up, three-down in the bottom of the ninth. I guess "bugs" is actually a code word for "lack of experience and skill." I don't think Off is going to help with that, Joba. Yanks would lose in the bottom of the 11th when Hafner (Hulk) drilled a line single into right field. Yanks go back to the Toilet Bowl down 0-2. A fantastic start from Pettitte wasted, May-Rod struggling to find himself, the bullpen expensed in a loss, Jeter and Torre continuing to "tip their hats to those guys."

The Sox, on the other hand, played a marathon 9-inning game that ended at 11:45 locally. Fenway Faithful even got involved when some kid named Danny Vinik reached out and stole a foul ball right out of the hands of Angels' catcher Mathis. That same inning, a sac fly (made possible by the out spared by Vinik) would score the tying run. Vinik's the kid in the white and where his hands are clasped above his head is where that game ball resides. Barehanded no less. And, if you look behind his hands, there's the outline of a man in a beige hat and a faded red t-shirt. That'd be none other than the great Stephen King who, after witnessing Danny's heroism, gave him a hearty "atta boy" while beating him on the back. How awesome. Watch the replay.

After stellar performances by both bullpens, it would come down to a hibernating Manny. You had to think he would eventually pull out of it.

Friday night he did. In fact, on Friday night he hit his 21st postseason homer (second all time)and his first walk-off as a member of the Red Sox. To say he "hit" a homer is understating it greatly. That thing disappeared into the Boston night leaving the park, sailing over the Cask N Flagon, through the parking lots behind the Monster. There's no telling where that thing ended up. And like any great Manny moment, dude pimped that home run like only he can, standing just behind home plate, extending his open hands above his head and just watches the ball sail into the sky for nearly five seconds. Haven't seen Manny that happy in a long time as he stomped toward home plate and jumped into the crowd of Red Sox. Yankee fans, that's how playoff games are won--clutch performances.

Just a quick note for Gabby at Infinity for the funk records. The Pete Jolly is insanely samplicious.

Friday, October 05, 2007


Well, Cody's leaving the office life for a job in Guymon (yep, that's Oklahoma, folks) turning manure into helium. I don't know much about the job except that he'll be a plant operator and it's helium. Whaddya want from me? Needless to say, the decision took us all a little by surprise, but he's also got him a little buddy (female) up there that he wants to be closer to. Now, it starts to make a little sense. I've only met her once. Nice girl. All the boys feel, though, like Cody's embarrassed of us because, well, he's always keeping us separated. Whatever. Cody, we know there's nothing going on in Guymon, so we'll see you all the time. Nonetheless, I would be remissed if I didn't send you off in a fitting manner. Like Rory before you (our fallen brother who moved to Dallas), you'll miss many things about your boys, but you'll yearn the most for those Tuesday lunches at Sharkey's. Sharkey's is a fine establishment where guests can build their own burrito. I'm a black-bean-ground-beef-tons-of-onions-tons-of-cilantro-pico-monterey-jack-green-chile-drenced-in-spicy-ranch-topped-with-black-pepper-rolled-into-jalenpeno-and-cheddar-tortilla burrito kinda guy. Roasted medium salsa on the side.
It's ritual for the emails to begin bouncing around at about 10:15 or so for 11:30 departure (to beat the crowd, of course). The emails used to simply be "11:30" in the subject line and nothing else, but then Angry Tim began getting a bit more creative with the setup. We all then followed suit. You'll find that, in the end, it would be Cody who would trump us all.

It started as jokes basically where one would search ____________ shark or shark _________ on Google and look for the best "shark" picture. Sometimes, it would be complimented with text and, other times, the picture alone said it all.

The following pic was the earliest that could be found. An obvious pick to kick it off. "Land Shark" from the old SNL skit with Chevy Chase. Angry Tim's account was, "I believe it was this photo with the text, 'Chevy's hungry.'"

The following series is from actual emails between the boys--text included--ending with the best ever from our boy Cody.

Angry Tim: "A burrito may eat me today."

Angry Tim: "Get it!"

j3" "The time is nearing."

Mayhem: "S.O.B., I have a meeting at 11, but I'll tell them I have another appointment at 11:30. Then, if they no, I'll be like:"

Mayhem: "Then I'll be like:"

Angry Tim: "11:30" Mayhem: "Yes, then..."

Angry Tim: "Dudes...we gotta eat at Sharkey's this week..."

j3: "I'm in. I'll just need a place to dock."
Angry Tim: "This is how hungry I already am."
j3: "So hungry."
Angry Tim: "Wyrick? Don't make the happy shark sad..."
Angry Tim: "11:30"
Angry Tim: "I can't even explain this one."

Mayhem: "This guy can't either, by the way, nice shark with legs...I'm in."Cody (after telling us he couldn't because he had lunch with his lady on the last day for Sharkey's with the boys at, of all places, Red Lobster): "I am sorry, I just don't want the Sharkey Shits!"
And now, the funniest one ever. No one has a clue where Cody found this picture, except for the caption near the bottom that reads, "WouldYouHitThis.com." Cody, for real, I just don't wanna know. This would describe the very best of Cody's graphic design skills. It's a little rusty, but it'll get better with time. Either way, it achieved it's purpose.

Cody: "Who's ready for the after Sharky's party?"