RAP HANDS...GETTIN SLOPPY...

Yes, that's "Live Long and Prosper" as in Star Trek as in Star TRAK, Pharrell's production outfit, however, I intended for Pharrell to do it with me. He did not. In fact, he hit me with the "Hey, it's J3!" finger point right back at me. I guess he's been to THEROOTDOWN before. So I look like the moron, StarTrek ubergeek throwing the \\//, Definitely not one of the greater moments in rap hand history.

So I'm sittin here watching High Tension, dude, what an intense film. If you want some serious blood and violence, check this one out. It will not disappoint. Freaking brutal. Not much to the story line except the typical hunter becomes the hunted. Weapons to look out for: a straight razor, a fence post wrapped in barbed wire, an axe, a kitchen knife, a shotgun, a skil saw, and, (check this) a china cabinet (oh yeah, believe it). Oh wait, just made it to the twist in the story. So there's a twist. Man, and a lot more blood. Geez, that's an insane amount of blood. This scene must have been a mess to clean up. Not for the faint-hearted, for sure.

Alright, I'm going to work....that's right...on a Saturday. Sucks, but it's that time of year. Everyone go out to your local Hastings on Tuesday and pick up that new Kanye record. It's gonna be hot.

Sorry I've been out of commission for so long. Take care.
j3

RAIN, RUBBER WRISTBANDS AND FOUR-LETTER WORDS: IT'S CITY LEAGUE SOFTBALL

So it's Thursday night, the second game of our double header in company league softball. We're all a little irritable because we got run-ruled pretty severely in our first game (something that hasn't happened in quite some time) and had an hour between games to drink a couple of cold ones and reflect on our first loss of the season. I opted for dinner with my mother and wife because I hadn't eaten yet. I return to my rowdy teammates ready to dismantle this team on the other side of the infield. Everything started out as we would've wanted it to. We hit well, ran well, got an early lead, 8-2 after two innings of play. I was in the DH spot so my play was limited, but I was ready for whatever. I go up in my first at-bat and line a shot down to third base and reach base safely. My second time up, with the score 8-4, I come to the plate and as I step into the batter's box, I hear a mumble from behind me, "Batter's out." I play like I didn't hear it. Certainly, he wasn't talking to me. He returns louder, "Batter's out," to which I snap my head around and look at the five year old umpire for an explanation. He then says, "We asked you before the game to remove any jewelry," he said motioning to his wrist. I look at my wrist and notice the following:



I've been wearing this wristband to support my brother's Cubbies since the beginning of the MLB season and wore it to every game in our early season AND had worn it to the plate during my first at-bat of this ballgame and NOT ONCE was I called on it. I stare at the chump thinking to myself that he has to be kidding and I reply quickly with, "I wore this the entire first game that YOU called and you made no mention in my first at-bat of this game," to which he replied, "I didn't see it." Short of any fancy comeback (and relatively PG because of the family that was in attendance) I shout back to him as I walk back to the dugout, "Go back to calling tee-ball, jerkoff!" My comment received little rebuttal, but leave it my teammates to stir it up. Walking back in after the third out, my teammate, we'll call him "Brian" walks right in front of the homeplate umpire and yells to the dugout, "Don't worry, Jeff. If there's one thing I've learned, it's you can't argue with a ten year-old." The umpire snaps to his feet and glares at "Brian" as he enters the dugout. The fuse has been lit for what would become an explosive situation.

Now, what I don't get, is that my quarter-inch wristbands are a distraction to a fool pitching a 10 mph, underhanded ball with an 8 foot arc, but Manny's wristbands would not be considered a distraction at all to a guy hurling 90 mph fastballs:



It's insane. Well, regardless, my wristband, it appears was the downfall of the civilized world.

The game was terribly called on both sides of the field, but decisively against us. EVERYTHING was called: runner interference, not tagging up on a fly ball, double-plays incorrectly called "safe", obvious "balls" being called "strikes" and ending at-bats. It was horrible. After a close call at first base, I hear, we'll call him "David", in a complete uproar, completely going off at the field ump. "Call the game! Call the game! You've been missing calls all night!" The ump kept replying, "Do you wanna get kicked out? Do you wanna get kicked out?" at which point I yell to "David" from the third base line to shut up and get in the dugout.

"David" walks out to the ump with his finger pointing directly between the eyes of the ump and says, "SHUT UP AND CALL THE GAME!" which left a hush amongst teammates and spectators. Complete hilarity. And after all of this, the UMP DIDN'T HAVE THE BALLS TO KICK "DAVID" OUT! Amazing. Anyhow, it begins to pour rain with about ten minutes left in the game. We were in the field when it started and it's BRUTAL playing the field in the rain and our opponents began mounting a serious comeback making it 14-12 with us in the lead--a little too close for comfort. After a brief rain delay and everything in our favor as the home team, we try and run the clock down as it ticked under three minutes. I went up and took as many pitches as I could but he struck me out looking in three straight pitches, just my luck. Of course, only one of those pitches was correctly called. I'm telling you, at this point the homeplate ump:



wanted to see us lose no matter what the cost. And his wish would be granted. In the top of the inning, our opponents would hang on four runs to take the lead 16-14--an incredible comeback--you gotta hand it to them. It wasn't just the umps' calls. But the game came to the end on a horriible call at first base with "Brian" diving back to the base after a snagged line drive by the third basemen. "Brian" was basically lying on the base after a head-first slide when the ball arrived to this base. Immediately, without hesitation, the field ump emphatically yells "yer out!" "Brian" jumps to his feet and goes off the radar. He starts by digging into the field ump and then the field ump signals to the homeplate ump (see above) because of "Brian"'s appeal. Well, if anyone's gonna call "Brian" out, without a doubt, it's the homeplate ump. Sure enough, with his voice cracking and tears in his eyes, he signals "out". "Brian" goes crazy. In a hail of "you sucks!" and "you're a little b**ch!", "Brian" stomps through the dugout, grabbing his gear and heading to the parking lot. The umps were expecting a fistfight. During the rain delay, they called over some of their buddies from the nearby fields to help walk them to their cars after the game. It was insane.

The next day, the emails at work began to circulate. "Brian" began it by offering an apology to everyone on the team. In no more than thirty minutes, we filed a complaint with the league about the umps, found their addresses and, after someone google'd their names, discovered that the field ump was USSSA ump of the year for 2003 and one of our players was distant family through marriage to the homeplate ump and didn't recognize him with a hat on.

Todd, I'm holding you and your Cubbies personally responsible for what could've been a much uglier moment in Office League Softball history. Luckily, it didn't go there.

As my mother, who was witness to all chaos, looking for something to say, could only offer the following: "Well, that game had all the elements."

It certainly did. Our record stands at 2-2.

SOX MAINTAIN 1.5 GAME LEAD ON SPANKEES

After surrendering the lead to the Spanks for, uh, let's see--about 15 hours, the Sox go 2 for 4 on the road against, statistically, the best team in baseball--the other Sox. You know, the dudes that haven't won a championship since 1917. Geez, at least we had a curse to blame. The White Sox just plain suck.

Meanwhile, Spanks' power is up. Hmm, who would've seen that coming? Giambi has that Hulk-like wildeye back like the juice is taking him over and Sheffield (below) shows off some of his uncontrollable rage as a result of the elephant steroids they have have shooting on an hourly basis. Meanwhile, Payrod says, "Whoa! Go easy, Sheff! You don't want the league to suspect anything."



Sorry, it's just too easy sometimes. Sox lead Spanks by 1.5 games. Now, bring on the long, hot days of summer.

THE TRAVELS OF GHOST DOG

He's passed the house again. He lives.

So I'm out in front yard, all lights off after sundown watering the front gardens. It was about 11:00pm. Dark. Silent. And, while I'm standing there with my back turned to the street behind me, I hear what can only be described as a huffing sound, the sound of someone running slightly short of breath and then I hear footsteps making their way up behind me. I cautiously tense up and 'bout face to see what was approaching me and upon turning around to see what was steaming my way, I notice Ghost Dog--an almost 4 foot, pitch black Great Dane. No collar. No home. And he was only about 10 feet away from me. Frightened, I throw the hose and leap onto the porch in a panic, in sheer terror. I kick open the door, dash inside and lock the door behind me.

I dart to the window and peek through the blinds and see Ghost Dog unphased, head forward continuing down the block.

We've seen this dog before--my lovely wife and I. Our first sighting was close to four months ago. We're sitting on the steps of our house after sundown and I hear the same huffing sound and I squint to the other side of the street to see this large, four-legged shadow pacing almost mechanically along the curb. And, the creepiest part was watching this beast take the corner. He hits the corner of our block and executes a perfect and flawless 90-degree turn without a leash, without direction and then silently disappears out of view just on the other side of street light.

Second time I saw him, same pattern. Jogging stealthily about 10mph with no head motion, all leg movement, panting very subtly and takes the turn eastbound on 11th street without hesitation, without thinking, without breaking speed.

Where is he going?
Where has he been?
Who is his owner?
Is this Ghost Dog?
What happened to him? How did he die?
Has he been sent to haunt me?

Freakiest thing I've ever seen. I kid you not. If he's not, in fact, Ghost Dog. Why doesn't anyone pick him up? I mean, our tax dollars pays for services like that and this isn't the first time I've seen him out and I'm sure he's been out more than I've seen him out if he isn't Ghost Dog. If he doesn't belong to someone, how does he eat? Who feeds him? Maybe he feeds on fear. Maybe he's like a sasquatch of the dog world. Maybe he eats toy dogs. I'd say, by most standards, this awesome beast would qualify more as a horse or equine based on its sheer size. See exhibit A.


Ghost Dog rides again.

BACK...KINDA...SORTA...FOR NOW.

Okay, in the last twenty four hours, I've had two people kind enough to remind me I have a blog of which I have not updated in the last 10+ days. My apologies. I'm working on getting some updates on here, but I've been quite busy. Got some travels coming up. For one, I scored tickets thanks to Interscope to the Anger Management Tour featuring Eminem and familia. That's in D-Town. Then, I'll be heading to NARM early August in beautiful and sunny San Diego. Then, after that, if things work out favorably, I'll be shooting down to hotter than hell Austin in the middle of September for Austin City Limits where a bunch of sweaty hippies dance in a big field to the sound of jam bands and drum circles. Well, Coldplay, Robert Randolph, Wilco, Keane, Arcade Fire, Doves, Oasis and the Crowes will also be there so it might be a good time. Either way, I'll visit some friends while I'm down there--Dale, Leroy, Sarahsmile and all those wild kids on Short Hack.

Oh, something strange happened that I didn't report on my last update. I was at the Rangers game and, after my Sox lost in the final inning, I started making way for the car and some punk took a swipe at me. Well, they caught the guy.

It was this guy. I positively identified him.



They asked if I wanted to press charges and after fully evaluating him, I figured his silly haircut, cochise moustache and sweet, $5 sunglasses from 7-11 were punishment enough. Poor fella.

Take care. Coming soon: YOU ARE NOT FUNNY and MORE WAYS TO ENSURE YOURSELF BAD CUSTOMER SERVICE plus a full lowdown on ANGER MANAGEMENT IN DALLAS.

MY CABLE TELEVISION DEBUT...SNUFFED?

I heard from a few trying to spot me at the Red Sox/Rangers game July 4th and, from all reports, there was no j3 to be found. I'll have to review the tape. I was there, but it appears that, as I had eluded to, the camera angle was just slightly off. Regardless, here's the lowdown on my trip.

Travelled down to Lubbock, Friday, to celebrate a birthday and late father's day with my Grandfather and Dad. Departed Lubbock for Dallas at 9:00pm. Took off on 114 outta Lubbock full-steam ahead for the east and as the sun disappeared behind charging storm cells behind me, I thought I was out scott-free, however, what I had no idea what I was speeding into. In front of me, the dark night sky on an abandoned and sleepy highway lit up with the most extraordinary lightning storm I have ever witnessed. Let's analyze what's wrong with this situation, or rather, what could've been better:

1) Companionship--someone to tell me when to pull over and take a break and let the storm pass.

2) An up-to-date weather forecast. The best I could get on AM radio was a tomorrow's forecast which called for sunny skies and a slight breeze.

3) An open business in one of the few towns I passed through so I could inquire about the severity of the storm. There could've been a tornado out there with me and I'd have no way of telling except for the lightning illuminating low hanging wall cloud.

4) Some traffic. Not only did I feel completely alone, but when I reached the rain, there were small ponds of collected rainfall on the roadway which almost caused me to hydroplane multiple times.

5) A place to pee--preferably with a roof.

6) A selection of talk shows to choose from. All I could get out there in the middle of nowhere was "Stories of the Unknown and Paranormal." Not really suitable for nightdriving. I shuttered at the man's story of looking in the mirror in a dressing room as a child and seeing a small boy in the mirror with him. Or the lady that kicked the head of the "old hag" off the end of her bed. Yeah, you start seeing stuff after listening to this crap for over an hour.

7) A good night sleep the night before driving across the second largest state in the union.

Yeah, it was hell trip. Got into the greater DFW metroplex about 3:30am, tired, ragged and aching from all the sunflower seeds I had eaten and cola I had drank. Stayed with the father-in-law who had the couch ready for me. Got up the next morning drove up to Flower Mound for my cousin's little league game. It was a valiant effort, however, they fell under the pressure of a 13-run inning by their opponents. Lots of passed balls and stolen bases which led me to the following conclusion: if you could get a catcher in this league with decent skills, you could rule this league. However, that was not the case. Went back to D-Town for lunch with the father-in-law at the awesome Jake's Burgers where I had my standard double meat, double cheese. It was quite lovely and upon returning back to my couch, it put me out for about two hours. A good burger puts you in a sleeper hold and knocks you out like an Evander uppercut.

The rest of my day, I lazily watched television and pooted the rest of the day away.

Sunday, I awoke and caught up with David and Chrissy to go cd shopping (the last thing I need to do) and then ate at the wonderful Desperado's Mexican Kitchen on Greenville. It was delicious.

(just a note, someone needs to tell these Rangers announcers that the Rangers are not World Champions and, additionally, have never been and, if the baseball gods have their way, will never be--I hate these guys)

Spent the rest of the day cruising around the delightful DFW metroplex and went out with the father-in-law to Fox and Hound to enjoy a couple of brews and a Red Sox victory on the big screen. Oh yeah, and a big ups to Fox and Hound for their reuben sandwich. Arguably one of the best reubens I've had in quite a while.

Monday, we had the boys (my brothers-in-law) over for grilled chicken, sausage and even steak. I contributed my yummy grilled garlic corn which was out-of-sight. Cleaned up and then made way for Flower Mound again (Sox just take the lead in the sixth in Arlington--let's kill these guys) to visit my uncle. Schooled my cousin on the N64 at both basketball and baseball. And I left him with some cool pointers. I showed him how you can pitch up and in on Derek Jeter and watch him take one to the noggin. Kinda cool. He stands there for a second and shakes his head in confusion and unquestionable pain. Animated violence is acceptable to me. Especially when it's a Captain Spankee on the other end. My uncle did not appreciate the valuable lesson I had passed on, but as Mr. Harold Reynolds says, "It's part of the game." But I digress.

Speaking of "the game," I made way for the lovely and "friendly" confines of Ameriquest Ballpark in Arlington (just doesn't have the same ring as Fenway, but, eh, that's a much longer drive). Arrived in time for batting practice and, in fact, took my spot in line for autographs just before the Sox made way out onto the field. The Sox came out to a low thunder of cheers. In short, I scored zero autographs but came close to seizing a Johnny Damon signature if it weren't for the mob that suddenly appeared when he came within ten feet of the stands. Waited it out, but managed to come away empty handed. Found my seet, planted my butt and awaited the first pitch.

The crowd made it's way in casually as the game began. Damon led it off and as I cheered following his base hit, I drew the attention of a few aggravated Ranger fans. One woman sitting next to me whispered loudly to her husband, "Check out this guy," pointing over to me. I acted like I didn't hear it, but I'm afraid had I had a beer or two I probably would've spoken up. Lucky for her. My cheering loudly and proudly for the Sox led the Ranger fans around me cheer even louder after every solitary out. (side note: Johnny Nitro just extended his hitting streak to 22 games with that base hit--atta boy) They'd turn to me after every Red Sox out and clap saying, "Yea! Yea!". At this point, I looked at one of the locals and said, "It's a nine inning game. Better conserve your energy." They didn't listen. Sox tied it up after surrendering three early runs and the locals began to get even more furious than before.

Trot heaves a long fly ball to right field and it's caught by just another nameless Ranger on the warning track and, again, the Rangers fans made sure I knew that Trot was out by cheering in my direction (self talk: "Wow, a routine fly ball. The Rangers are so good."). As the cheers died off, I hear this booming angelic voice from behind me: "Whaddya cheer after every out down here?!" I turn around smirking to see a gruffy older man decked out in Sox gear from head to toe. He winks at me. I knew this guy had my back.

Ranger fans were so limp the whole game that it took help from the Sox fans to get the cheers going. You'd hear a thousand Red Sox fans rallying "Let's go, Red Sox!" and then there'd be a sea of boos followed a roar of "Let's go, Rangers!" Man, we even gotta start the chants around here!

We take a small one-run lead into the ninth and in comes Foulke to close it out. I knew this was going to be interesting. I turn to my comrade and say, "Buckle up, buddy. This is gonna get rough." Sure enough, against the top of the lineup, he managed to load the bases and blow the game and send the home crowd up into a ferocious fury of fanfare.

I turn around to find my buddy amidst the pandomonium and he's nowhere to be found. He left me high and dry to endure the jeers on the way out. I'm walking out and the loudmouth next to me says, "Not tonight," to which I thought of replying "Not in this century," but just politely smiled and made way for the hike outta the stadium. I dodge as many snide remarks as I could on way outta there. "Red Sox suck!" and my favorite, "Go back to Boston!" to which I replied frankly, "I'm from Amarillo (moron)."

Anyhow, I left the ballpark at about 11:00pm and made way for Amarillo. Yeah, I was in for another long night. By the time I made it to Wichita Falls, about 2:00am. I questioned making the long stretch to Amarillo, but I filled 'er up, bought a gallon of water, a 44oz cola, a sack of sunflower seeds and retrieved some untouched Krispy Kremes from the trunk and barrelled ahead towards Amarillo. Lonely road. Actually downright depressing. Again, threaded the needle between two thunderstorms on the way. Arrived in Amarillo around 4:45am, got some shuteye and then headed to work.

I came to many different, varied conclusions of which most are detailed below.

--While amazing, eating 48 hot dogs in twelve minutes does not beat the record.

--You might be a redneck if you're a Texas Rangers fan.

--To disagree is reasonable, but hate cannot be rationally defended.

--Johnny Damon is a sex symbol. Four outta five females agree.

--Foulke is not the closer he was before. They took him out because of an injured knee, but I think it's more his bruised pride.

--Glazed chocolate day-old Krispy Kremes are twice as nice at 3:00am at 70mph.

--The Wal Mart smile represents millions of employees with inadequate health insurance who just won a law suit.

--$10 is simply too much for parking when there's no shortage of parking. Of course, $10 is too much to spend when there's a shortage of parking. In fact, it should be considered unlawful to charge to park your automobile.

--Animated violence is okay under certain circumstances.

--There's less Ranger fans as people who like to show up and boo the visiting team.

--To see the Sox win the series brings happiness. To see them blow a win brings understanding.

I'm going to review the tape and see if I can locate my ugly mug on the television. If I can, I'll provide an image. Thanks to all that watched. My apologies for misleading you all.

Take care and have a happy Thursday.

MY CABLE TELEVISION DEBUT...

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.

...AND TAKIN' NAMES

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.

KARAOKE? NO, KARA-NOT-OKAY.

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.

AND NOW, I PRESENT, EXHIBIT B:



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.

PLEASE, ALLOW ME TO PRESENT TO YOU, EXHIBIT C:



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.

LASTLY, EXHIBIT D:



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.

HOW TO ENSURE YOURSELF BAD CUSTOMER SERVICE #5

ENTERING THE BUSINESS HIGH OR DRUNK

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.

A TRIBUTE TO SUGAR RAY (SORT OF)

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.

WHAT THE?

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

HAIL! FLOODING! TORNADOES! OH MY!

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.

POP!

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.

MF DOOM APPRECIATION

"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

HAPPY TUESDAY, EVERYONE.

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.

HOW TO ENSURE YOURSELF BAD CUSTOMER SERVICE #4

ASK FOR ANOTHER ASSOCIATE'S HELP

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.

FURNITURE SHOPPING WITH THE J3'S

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.

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY TO ME AND MY LOVELY WIFE

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.

GADAHA COVER ART

Pending approval, but with some back and forth between myself and Uncle Pantera (Donovan), here's the final version of the outside of the sleeve (left side back, right side front). I've been tryin to post the original version (bloody version) but had no luck. Anyhow, this is what we're lookin at for the cover art.

Let me know what you think. Be honest. I'd appreciate it.

SOX SLAUGHTER SPANKS IN BRONX, 17-1

If I could get a pic from today's game, I would, but why not just show Varitek the Horse givin Pay-Rod a face full of fist because it captures exactly that the Sox did to the Spanks today. On top of hanging 17 runs on the board, they put up 27 hits which is insanity. They put a pounding on them. Let's just see if they can follow it up by taking the final game of the series and leap frog back over the Spanks in the standings into second place.

Helped Mahan move today--no easy task. Especially when he's putting cinder blocks in the dresser. Back is kinda tightening up on me like an old man, but the free burger was good to the tummy.

Anyhow, Happy Memorial Day to everyone. Have a wonderful weekend.