A few folks here at the gym like to tilt back those Five-Hour Instant Energy poppers that look tantalizingly to me like an airplane bottle of scotch. Then this week I caught an ad for a Six-Hour Instant Energy concoction along the same vein.
Coming soon, I've no doubt: Seven-Hour Instant Energy!
Me, I'm just high on life....and coffee.
********************************
As I've stated before, what I don't know about politics is a lot. Honestly, I feel like the presidency poses unthinkable challenges and unsolvable problems, like trying to build a football power at Baylor (Recruiting pitch - "You'll love Waco! And our girls are Baptist!"). And while I've typically been a member of the Apathetic Party - "Apathy! Apathy! That's our cry! A-P-A-T....aw, screw it." - I do have a dimestore theory:
Seems that we Americans are posed with a choice: On one hand, you have a fella who finished first in his class at Harvard Law School. On the other, a guy, tough as nails though he is, who placed 894th outta 899th in his graduating crew at the Naval Academy.
Didn't we just spend eight years with the dunce of the class?
************************************
Kids are great for the soul - and hell on your car. Cleaned out my Accord last weekend. A backseat inventory of such:
- 1 Barbie Leg
- Skittles, circa '07.
- Popcorn from taking McKenzie to see "Cheaper by the Dozen"
- 1 Barbie Head
- Cheerios, circa '05
- 14 McDonald's Happy Meal toys
- 1 Chewed Barbie torso
- Popcorn from taking McKenzie to see "Cheaper by the Dozen II"
- 1 Sippy Cup full of raisins (originally grape juice)
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Joke 'O the Day
Shrek, Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt were all having lunch together. Shrek said, 'I have always thought that I'm the strongest man in the world, but how can I be sure?' Brad Pitt said, 'I'm pretty sure I'm the sexiest man alive but I've never had it confirmed.' Angelina Jolie agreed. 'I'm told I'm the most gorgeous of them all, but sometimes I wonder.'
So they all decided that the best way to find out if their beliefs were true was to ask the famed talking 'Mirror, mirror on the wall' to confirm for them whether Shrek was the strongest, Angelina Jolie was the most gorgeous and Brad Pitt was the sexiest. So they made separate appointments with the mirror at 9a, 10a and 11a and agreed to meet again the next day for lunch to discuss their findings.
The next day, they met up, all with sad faces. Simultaneously, they said:
"So who the hell is Jeff Mudd?"
(the above joke was stolen and improved upon)
So they all decided that the best way to find out if their beliefs were true was to ask the famed talking 'Mirror, mirror on the wall' to confirm for them whether Shrek was the strongest, Angelina Jolie was the most gorgeous and Brad Pitt was the sexiest. So they made separate appointments with the mirror at 9a, 10a and 11a and agreed to meet again the next day for lunch to discuss their findings.
The next day, they met up, all with sad faces. Simultaneously, they said:
"So who the hell is Jeff Mudd?"
(the above joke was stolen and improved upon)
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
phones, Joe Pa and McCoy
Though my Ohio State Buckeyes are stumbling along this season - however, I do believe they have a Vince Young clone in freshman QB Tyrelle Pryor - I still got a kick outta watching Penn State Coach Joe Paterno during the Nittany Lions' win last week. Joe Pa, 83, has a bum hip from showing an 18-year-old punter how to correctly execute a pooch kick, so he's been exiled to the press box high above.
They showed him 76 or so times during last week's game, and the guy looked about as involved and interested as I did during high school geometry. I firmly stand by my theory that his headset isn't even plugged in and that he's reading not the playbook but instead Playboy.
Reminds me of former 20/20 co-anchor Hugh Downs. For the last few years of his career, I think they simply turned off his mike, rolled him just off-camera and had him read dummy cue cards....
********************************
I don't mind my fellow motorists 'o the road talking on their cell phones or text messaging or emailing while wheeling. Really, I don't. We all have our thing to pass transit time. Me, I sing loudly, perfectly pitched, to hair bands of the late 80's.
I do have one sincere hope, though. In the very near future, I hope that car companies can create phone booths and cubicles equipped with engines and wheels, so I can be alerted to those who pay more attention to their phones and computers than they do me.
And Bon Jovi, for the record, never killed anyone.
****************************************
Celebrated McCoy's 2nd birthday at, fittingly, McDonald's on Sunday. With a second kid, you learn to never spend more than, eh, three bucks/kid at an event that features an honored guest who still craps himself. Plus, as if recall were an issue, he bumped his head on the slide and spent the cake-cutting/present-opening portion of the festivities in an apparent post-concussive fog. As you can see, he was elated to see everyone.
McCoy is my sidekick, my tail, my wingman. He's my little Pavlov experience. If I ta
ke a step away, he whines. A step closer, he smiles. A lean away, a tear. An inch closer, a laugh. Mostly, though, the kid just waddles within my shadow. The kid eats nothing that isn't produced by Nabisco - though he does a nice javelin throw with a carrot - and still drinks way too much milk. He's 47 or so words shy of the projected '50 words by the age of 2' mandate and sleeps through the night as often as Joe Paterno. He licked the flyswatter the other night and, frankly, throws a bit like a girl.
And I couldn't love him more if I tried.
Happy Birthday, kid.
*********************************
They showed him 76 or so times during last week's game, and the guy looked about as involved and interested as I did during high school geometry. I firmly stand by my theory that his headset isn't even plugged in and that he's reading not the playbook but instead Playboy.
Reminds me of former 20/20 co-anchor Hugh Downs. For the last few years of his career, I think they simply turned off his mike, rolled him just off-camera and had him read dummy cue cards....
********************************
I don't mind my fellow motorists 'o the road talking on their cell phones or text messaging or emailing while wheeling. Really, I don't. We all have our thing to pass transit time. Me, I sing loudly, perfectly pitched, to hair bands of the late 80's.
I do have one sincere hope, though. In the very near future, I hope that car companies can create phone booths and cubicles equipped with engines and wheels, so I can be alerted to those who pay more attention to their phones and computers than they do me.
And Bon Jovi, for the record, never killed anyone.
****************************************
Celebrated McCoy's 2nd birthday at, fittingly, McDonald's on Sunday. With a second kid, you learn to never spend more than, eh, three bucks/kid at an event that features an honored guest who still craps himself. Plus, as if recall were an issue, he bumped his head on the slide and spent the cake-cutting/present-opening portion of the festivities in an apparent post-concussive fog. As you can see, he was elated to see everyone.
McCoy is my sidekick, my tail, my wingman. He's my little Pavlov experience. If I ta
ke a step away, he whines. A step closer, he smiles. A lean away, a tear. An inch closer, a laugh. Mostly, though, the kid just waddles within my shadow. The kid eats nothing that isn't produced by Nabisco - though he does a nice javelin throw with a carrot - and still drinks way too much milk. He's 47 or so words shy of the projected '50 words by the age of 2' mandate and sleeps through the night as often as Joe Paterno. He licked the flyswatter the other night and, frankly, throws a bit like a girl.And I couldn't love him more if I tried.
Happy Birthday, kid.
*********************************
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
pre-book stretch
Haven't checked in for a few days. Along with running this joint and doing the family juggle, I've been trying to formulate a workable plot line for "Food Sex Sleep." While blogging is a breezy exercise in writing calesthenics, the art of long-form storytelling, which calls for tone, theme, scene development, snappy dialogue and memorable characters (the elements that our English profs butchered our term papers over) can be something of an excruciating mental marathon. But I've done the Town Lake stretch - to execute, reach foot behind tush and tug - and think I'm ready to roll.
Now all I need is a 37-hour day.
Now all I need is a 37-hour day.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
P.S.
Have started pecking away at a novel - titled "Food, Sleep, Sex" - so my blogging might become sporadic. While I know my readership isn't exactly of Grishamian proportions, I just didn't want you to think I was trapped under something heavy. While I don't yet feel back to tip-top writing shape, I think I'm loose enough to give it a run.
On another note, I've subscribed to a service called WeBook (webook.com) in which the ongoing draft will be viewable on a daily basis to subscribers (it's free). Should you be interested, I'll let you know via the blog when this takes flight.
Thanks for following my little tales.
On another note, I've subscribed to a service called WeBook (webook.com) in which the ongoing draft will be viewable on a daily basis to subscribers (it's free). Should you be interested, I'll let you know via the blog when this takes flight.
Thanks for following my little tales.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Rockettes, Rain and Facebook
Have seen several times, usually in times of environmental distress, George H. Bush and Bill Clinton hanging together on the road. Soon, assuming they condone it, I assume George Jr. will be joining the party. It will be like a triple bill featuring Pearl Jam, Nirvana....
...and Hoobastank.
********************************
It's official: I'm Big Apple-bound. I promised in my 10/7 blog to try out for the Radio City Rockettes should Cloris Leachman lasted another round of "Dancing with the Stars." Well, the chef got cooked last night and Cloris the Bobblehead survived, so NYC here I come.
Even made out my to-do list:
*Shave Legs
*Elongate hamstrings with taffy pull machine
*Shave Chest
*Get in touch with my feminine side
*Shave Face
*Borrow Jenn's Kilgore Rangerette costume
*Learn to Dance
*********************************
Ever notice that, when it rains, every disc jockey in town scrambles coyly for any record that has even the slightest thing to do with the wet stuff? Just finished a 10-minute drive and, fiddling around the dial, heard Dylan's "A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall," Eddie Rabbit's 'I Love A Rainy Night" and 10,000 Maniac's "Rainy Day."
I would be much more impressed if they would, say, play Chicago when it's windy, or Toto during the Dog Days of summer, or Meatloaf at dinner time...
*********************************
Interesting thing, this Facebook concoction.
Sucked in a couple of months ago. A casual friend emailed me and invited me to be his, well, friend. Uncertain if the fella would get a return email if I snubbed his request - "We're sorry, but Jeff doesn't care to be YOUR friend." - I signed up. Now, a few rewarding reunions and a few head-scratchers later, the thing is kinda getting carried away.
It's good to catch up with long-lost friends, many of whom haven't crossed my mind since George Herbert's run (and vice versa, I'm sure), but a bit odd all the same. In many instances, I would compare it to running into a high-school classmate in the Topeka Mall and having the following exchange:
Jim (outreaching his hand): Hey, Jeff, how are you?
Me (shaking his hand): Great, Jim, you?
Jim (wondering if he should be the first one to release the grip): Fantastic! Living in Houston now. You?
Me (wondering the same): Austin area.
Jim (releasing): Well, I have to go now, but it sure was great seeing you.
Me (glad): Yea, same here, Jim. Take care.
Jim may very well never see or even think of me again, but, hey, we're friends.
************************************
From the do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do department, here's a rundown of what I put in my body between 10p Friday and 10p Sunday.
10p Friday - McDonald's
7a Saturday - Toast
9a Saturday - Beer/Corny Dog
11a Saturday - Soda Pop with a kick
12p Saturday - Ditto
1p Saturday - Beer
5p Saturday - Pizza/Beer
8p - Toddie
10a Sunday - Eggs
12p Sunday - Pizza
5p Sunday - Pizza
(What am I, 25?)
The moral I choose to take from these 48 hours of self-inflicted torture? Well, as far as I can discern, my body didn't change a lick (though on Monday I felt like Ed Asner). So don't be afraid to reward yourself - on occasion, and perhaps not to this degree.
...and Hoobastank.
********************************
It's official: I'm Big Apple-bound. I promised in my 10/7 blog to try out for the Radio City Rockettes should Cloris Leachman lasted another round of "Dancing with the Stars." Well, the chef got cooked last night and Cloris the Bobblehead survived, so NYC here I come.
Even made out my to-do list:
*Shave Legs
*Elongate hamstrings with taffy pull machine
*Shave Chest
*Get in touch with my feminine side
*Shave Face
*Borrow Jenn's Kilgore Rangerette costume
*Learn to Dance
*********************************
Ever notice that, when it rains, every disc jockey in town scrambles coyly for any record that has even the slightest thing to do with the wet stuff? Just finished a 10-minute drive and, fiddling around the dial, heard Dylan's "A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall," Eddie Rabbit's 'I Love A Rainy Night" and 10,000 Maniac's "Rainy Day."
I would be much more impressed if they would, say, play Chicago when it's windy, or Toto during the Dog Days of summer, or Meatloaf at dinner time...
*********************************
Interesting thing, this Facebook concoction.
Sucked in a couple of months ago. A casual friend emailed me and invited me to be his, well, friend. Uncertain if the fella would get a return email if I snubbed his request - "We're sorry, but Jeff doesn't care to be YOUR friend." - I signed up. Now, a few rewarding reunions and a few head-scratchers later, the thing is kinda getting carried away.
It's good to catch up with long-lost friends, many of whom haven't crossed my mind since George Herbert's run (and vice versa, I'm sure), but a bit odd all the same. In many instances, I would compare it to running into a high-school classmate in the Topeka Mall and having the following exchange:
Jim (outreaching his hand): Hey, Jeff, how are you?
Me (shaking his hand): Great, Jim, you?
Jim (wondering if he should be the first one to release the grip): Fantastic! Living in Houston now. You?
Me (wondering the same): Austin area.
Jim (releasing): Well, I have to go now, but it sure was great seeing you.
Me (glad): Yea, same here, Jim. Take care.
Jim may very well never see or even think of me again, but, hey, we're friends.
************************************
From the do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do department, here's a rundown of what I put in my body between 10p Friday and 10p Sunday.
10p Friday - McDonald's
7a Saturday - Toast
9a Saturday - Beer/Corny Dog
11a Saturday - Soda Pop with a kick
12p Saturday - Ditto
1p Saturday - Beer
5p Saturday - Pizza/Beer
8p - Toddie
10a Sunday - Eggs
12p Sunday - Pizza
5p Sunday - Pizza
(What am I, 25?)
The moral I choose to take from these 48 hours of self-inflicted torture? Well, as far as I can discern, my body didn't change a lick (though on Monday I felt like Ed Asner). So don't be afraid to reward yourself - on occasion, and perhaps not to this degree.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Football, Fair and Brady
Catch that football game on Saturday? I thought they were out of it, outmatched, overpowered, especially when they fell behind, but it's hard to keep the 'ol Golden Hurricane down.
Tulsa 37, SMU 31
Wait, was there another game?
I've seen my share of football, both at the high school and college level, and I have to say that the UT/OU clash was one of the better battles I've ever witnessed. True, we were 41 rows up, tucked discreetly in the end zone, and the sun was so in our eyes during the first half that my face is still stuck in a Luke Perryesque squint. But there was nary a cloud in the sky, we were nestled in a sea of burnt-orange crazies and the good guys prevailed, so what wasn't to love?
Though I used to dissect games for a living, I'll try to spare the analogies. It was somewhat surprising that turnovers didn't play much of a role (in fact, there were but three miscues, none of which factored heavily). And that Texas actually beat the Sooners at their own no-huddle game, with a pair of pip squeaks at wide receiver. The shocker, though, was UT's ability to run the ball late in the game, especially for Chris Ogbonnaya's 62-yard, game-clinching escape. During that one, a sixtyish woman sitting one row back was essentially giving me a Heimlich as Ogbonnaya galloped down the sideline. Good times.
The fair's fare was predictably of the fried variety. At any one stop, you could nab a fried funnel cake, fried (chocolate!) bacon and/or fried cheesecake. Me, though, I'm a tried-and-true corny dog guy, and my Fletcher's Dog at 9:14a, coupled with the day's debut brew, proved a most tasty breakfast.
For the first time, I lost the annual Gay T-Shirtathon (see 10/7 entry). So I paraded proudly through the masses sporting a Tee that had our mugs within a rainbowed frame that proclaimed "What Dreams Are Made Of." My brothers woulda been so proud.
If airports employed the same security measures as the crack staff outside the State Fair, then there would have already been 30 or so more 9/11s. I might as well have done a shot with the lady upon entering. In fact, I can easily envision this conversation:
Security Girl: "Excuse me, sir, do you have a flask?"
Fan: "Why yes, yes I do."
Security Girl: "Okay, good. Carry on."
Spotted Jason Castro, the dreadlocked wonder from last year's "American Idol," prowling the UT sidelines. Guess his 15 minutes isn't up quite yet. Think I spied William Hung on the OU side.
In the food court following the game, apparently all one needed to do was walk in the entrance with arms upraised in the Hook-Em position to receive a rousing ovation from those already positioned therein. I noticed this and took full advantage, making three U-turns out of the joint and then back in triumphantly. I felt like a omnipotent game-show host.
Though the upcoming Mizzou game lost a bit of luster, courtesy of the Tigers' upset loss to Okie State, Saturday night's showdown should still be a good one. Though scarcely taller than Danny Devito, Mizzou QB Chase Daniel is a magician of the spread offense, and Jeremy Macklin, UM's star wideout, is slicker than oil. Still, I'll give the nod to UT and its momentum, 45-27.
As the Horns were winding down, my Buckeyes were winning ugly, 16-3, against Purdue. Ohio State has a freshman QB built frightenly along the same lines as Vince Young - 6-5, 240 - but the kid is still really raw. Dreading the Penn State game - the Nittany Lions have apparently decided to treat Coach Joe Pa's 100th birthday as a season to remember.
******************************
I'm a man of simple pleasures. I enjoy reading my Sports Illustrated on Thursday evenings. I like to play guitar on the back patio. Watching McCoy (both McCoys, really) play. Old movies late at night.
And I like this guy; he makes me happy...
.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=60og9gwKh1o
****************************
Marcia, Marcia, Marcia.
Just saw that Maureen McCormick - aka Marcia Brady - is releasing a memoir in which she tells tales of her trading sex for drugs, partying at the Playboy Mansion and dating Michael Jackson...
Guess it wasn't just her hair that she was stroking 500 times a day...
Tulsa 37, SMU 31
Wait, was there another game?
I've seen my share of football, both at the high school and college level, and I have to say that the UT/OU clash was one of the better battles I've ever witnessed. True, we were 41 rows up, tucked discreetly in the end zone, and the sun was so in our eyes during the first half that my face is still stuck in a Luke Perryesque squint. But there was nary a cloud in the sky, we were nestled in a sea of burnt-orange crazies and the good guys prevailed, so what wasn't to love?
Though I used to dissect games for a living, I'll try to spare the analogies. It was somewhat surprising that turnovers didn't play much of a role (in fact, there were but three miscues, none of which factored heavily). And that Texas actually beat the Sooners at their own no-huddle game, with a pair of pip squeaks at wide receiver. The shocker, though, was UT's ability to run the ball late in the game, especially for Chris Ogbonnaya's 62-yard, game-clinching escape. During that one, a sixtyish woman sitting one row back was essentially giving me a Heimlich as Ogbonnaya galloped down the sideline. Good times.
The fair's fare was predictably of the fried variety. At any one stop, you could nab a fried funnel cake, fried (chocolate!) bacon and/or fried cheesecake. Me, though, I'm a tried-and-true corny dog guy, and my Fletcher's Dog at 9:14a, coupled with the day's debut brew, proved a most tasty breakfast.
For the first time, I lost the annual Gay T-Shirtathon (see 10/7 entry). So I paraded proudly through the masses sporting a Tee that had our mugs within a rainbowed frame that proclaimed "What Dreams Are Made Of." My brothers woulda been so proud.
If airports employed the same security measures as the crack staff outside the State Fair, then there would have already been 30 or so more 9/11s. I might as well have done a shot with the lady upon entering. In fact, I can easily envision this conversation:
Security Girl: "Excuse me, sir, do you have a flask?"
Fan: "Why yes, yes I do."
Security Girl: "Okay, good. Carry on."
Spotted Jason Castro, the dreadlocked wonder from last year's "American Idol," prowling the UT sidelines. Guess his 15 minutes isn't up quite yet. Think I spied William Hung on the OU side.
In the food court following the game, apparently all one needed to do was walk in the entrance with arms upraised in the Hook-Em position to receive a rousing ovation from those already positioned therein. I noticed this and took full advantage, making three U-turns out of the joint and then back in triumphantly. I felt like a omnipotent game-show host.
Though the upcoming Mizzou game lost a bit of luster, courtesy of the Tigers' upset loss to Okie State, Saturday night's showdown should still be a good one. Though scarcely taller than Danny Devito, Mizzou QB Chase Daniel is a magician of the spread offense, and Jeremy Macklin, UM's star wideout, is slicker than oil. Still, I'll give the nod to UT and its momentum, 45-27.
As the Horns were winding down, my Buckeyes were winning ugly, 16-3, against Purdue. Ohio State has a freshman QB built frightenly along the same lines as Vince Young - 6-5, 240 - but the kid is still really raw. Dreading the Penn State game - the Nittany Lions have apparently decided to treat Coach Joe Pa's 100th birthday as a season to remember.
******************************
I'm a man of simple pleasures. I enjoy reading my Sports Illustrated on Thursday evenings. I like to play guitar on the back patio. Watching McCoy (both McCoys, really) play. Old movies late at night.
And I like this guy; he makes me happy...
.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=60og9gwKh1o
****************************
Marcia, Marcia, Marcia.
Just saw that Maureen McCormick - aka Marcia Brady - is releasing a memoir in which she tells tales of her trading sex for drugs, partying at the Playboy Mansion and dating Michael Jackson...
Guess it wasn't just her hair that she was stroking 500 times a day...
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Cheesecake and Phone Numbers
Took the family to the Cheesecake Factory last Saturday. We're still trying to decide what to order...
Man, that menu is longer than Beowulf. And the portions? Now I know where Fred Flinstone was dining when they put that side of beef on his car....
***********************************
Up all night with McCoy on Monday - ear infection. Poor kid hung pretty tough, but at 5a the following sentence still flew outta my mouth:
"Kid, you're gonna have to f*cking suck it up and go to sleep."
Nice parenting skills.
************************************
Nervous about the UT/OU weekend. Not so much the game - I think the squad that best takes care of the ball will win, for the record - but with a pending handshake. See, one of the guys that we'll go with is one of about three people I still know - and about one of 68 in captivity - that will cross you up with either the traditional handshake-to-bro-grip combo or the trendy handshake-to-hug duet (see 9/25 blog entry). I'm gonna botch it up, I just know it.
You women have it easy. Ya'll just hug it out, whether you like them or not. Unless of course you reach celebrity status, in which you have to do the double-cheek kiss thing.
***********************************
Met a nice fella at the park a coupla ago. We were both toting along our boys - McCoy a shade shy of 2 and his about 18 mos - and struck up a conversation about sports, kids and the like. About the same age, similar likes, all that. Talked about playing some golf sometime and exchanged numbers. (It's an awkward thing, by the way, asking a dude for his number.)
Anyway, my cell was in the car, so I just memorized his number, and he entered mine on his PDA or whatever ya call it. Used to be good at that, back in my days 'o singledom, remembering numbers with my bean.
My method was easy - sports jersey numbers. For example:
Me: "Can I get your number?"
Her: "You won't remember it."
"Sure I will, just tell me."
"Okay. 510-9612."
Which I would quickly translate as the following:
5 - Johnny Bench
10 - Fran Tarkenton
9 - Ted Williams
6 - Julius Erving
12 - Roger Staubach
You might think dialing up Bench, Tarkenton, Williams, Erving and Staubach would be trickier than just remembering 510-9612. Tell my brain that...it's a strange, murky place.
Anyway, that was 1988, and this is now. I can't recall even the neighborhood of the Park Guy's number. Tried the traditional route - see where that got me. And now, two weeks later, he still hasn't called! I thought we had something, a connection, some chemistry. I'm a contestant on "The Bachelorette," and no rose is coming my way.
I'm trying not to dwell in it, but frankly it's very difficult.
God I hope he calls.
Man, that menu is longer than Beowulf. And the portions? Now I know where Fred Flinstone was dining when they put that side of beef on his car....
***********************************
Up all night with McCoy on Monday - ear infection. Poor kid hung pretty tough, but at 5a the following sentence still flew outta my mouth:
"Kid, you're gonna have to f*cking suck it up and go to sleep."
Nice parenting skills.
************************************
Nervous about the UT/OU weekend. Not so much the game - I think the squad that best takes care of the ball will win, for the record - but with a pending handshake. See, one of the guys that we'll go with is one of about three people I still know - and about one of 68 in captivity - that will cross you up with either the traditional handshake-to-bro-grip combo or the trendy handshake-to-hug duet (see 9/25 blog entry). I'm gonna botch it up, I just know it.
You women have it easy. Ya'll just hug it out, whether you like them or not. Unless of course you reach celebrity status, in which you have to do the double-cheek kiss thing.
***********************************
Met a nice fella at the park a coupla ago. We were both toting along our boys - McCoy a shade shy of 2 and his about 18 mos - and struck up a conversation about sports, kids and the like. About the same age, similar likes, all that. Talked about playing some golf sometime and exchanged numbers. (It's an awkward thing, by the way, asking a dude for his number.)
Anyway, my cell was in the car, so I just memorized his number, and he entered mine on his PDA or whatever ya call it. Used to be good at that, back in my days 'o singledom, remembering numbers with my bean.
My method was easy - sports jersey numbers. For example:
Me: "Can I get your number?"
Her: "You won't remember it."
"Sure I will, just tell me."
"Okay. 510-9612."
Which I would quickly translate as the following:
5 - Johnny Bench
10 - Fran Tarkenton
9 - Ted Williams
6 - Julius Erving
12 - Roger Staubach
You might think dialing up Bench, Tarkenton, Williams, Erving and Staubach would be trickier than just remembering 510-9612. Tell my brain that...it's a strange, murky place.
Anyway, that was 1988, and this is now. I can't recall even the neighborhood of the Park Guy's number. Tried the traditional route - see where that got me. And now, two weeks later, he still hasn't called! I thought we had something, a connection, some chemistry. I'm a contestant on "The Bachelorette," and no rose is coming my way.
I'm trying not to dwell in it, but frankly it's very difficult.
God I hope he calls.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Sports, politics and stuff
Things I think I think:
After much debate and soul-searching, I believe the Rolling Stones to be the greatest rock-n-roll band of all time. To those who don't enjoy or at least respect the Stones, I simply don't understand you, and you don't understand me, and that's okay.
I'll eat most anything and everything - ask the wife. And my proportions are akin to that of a lumberjack. How I've stayed at essentially the same weight for 20 years is a secret between me and my tapeworm.
But just as I find it impossible to dislike Tom Hanks, I find it similarly unfathomable to ever develop a taste for lima beans. I believe our Lord to be mostly kind and compassionate, but He screwed up that one.
Looking forward to our annual pilgrammage to TX/OU, which should shape up as an epic battle between two great teams. McCoy versus Bradford, Brown against Stoops, the cute chicks against the hillbillies.
Also anticipating the important stuff, such as:
(1) My annual Cornie Dog. As I wait in line, under the din of a recorded carny's voice trying to lure me in to see "The Great Alligator Man!" I'll make a mental note to pace myself, to let the my Fletcher Dog stop smoldering. I'll then grab it by the tail, dive in and tongue juggle my debut bite for three minutes.
(2) The annual Gay T-Shirtathon. Every year, a few buddies and I take a group photo in one of those T-Shirt kiosks and place it on a T-shirt that says something like 'Friends Forever," "Boyz in Da Hood," or something suitably cheezy. We then have the carny pick a number between one and 100 and each jot down our own number. The sucker farthest from the carny's has to wear the shirt, ideally a couple of sizes too small, for the day's duration. Good, clean fun.
(3) The fact that I can drink at 9a and not feel bad about it. Besides, if my vodka is floating in orange juice, it's a breakfast drink. Right?
(Speaking of football, toted McCoy to the Stony Point/Leander game last week. The kid trips more in one quarter than Timothy Leary did in 1968. I've seen seven plays...in four games.)
After much debate and soul-searching, I believe the Rolling Stones to be the greatest rock-n-roll band of all time. To those who don't enjoy or at least respect the Stones, I simply don't understand you, and you don't understand me, and that's okay.
I'll eat most anything and everything - ask the wife. And my proportions are akin to that of a lumberjack. How I've stayed at essentially the same weight for 20 years is a secret between me and my tapeworm.
But just as I find it impossible to dislike Tom Hanks, I find it similarly unfathomable to ever develop a taste for lima beans. I believe our Lord to be mostly kind and compassionate, but He screwed up that one.
Looking forward to our annual pilgrammage to TX/OU, which should shape up as an epic battle between two great teams. McCoy versus Bradford, Brown against Stoops, the cute chicks against the hillbillies.
Also anticipating the important stuff, such as:
(1) My annual Cornie Dog. As I wait in line, under the din of a recorded carny's voice trying to lure me in to see "The Great Alligator Man!" I'll make a mental note to pace myself, to let the my Fletcher Dog stop smoldering. I'll then grab it by the tail, dive in and tongue juggle my debut bite for three minutes.
(2) The annual Gay T-Shirtathon. Every year, a few buddies and I take a group photo in one of those T-Shirt kiosks and place it on a T-shirt that says something like 'Friends Forever," "Boyz in Da Hood," or something suitably cheezy. We then have the carny pick a number between one and 100 and each jot down our own number. The sucker farthest from the carny's has to wear the shirt, ideally a couple of sizes too small, for the day's duration. Good, clean fun.
(3) The fact that I can drink at 9a and not feel bad about it. Besides, if my vodka is floating in orange juice, it's a breakfast drink. Right?
(Speaking of football, toted McCoy to the Stony Point/Leander game last week. The kid trips more in one quarter than Timothy Leary did in 1968. I've seen seven plays...in four games.)
In the misery loves company department, I have to admit that I took some joy out of the Chicago Cubs' hasty three-game exit from the baseball playoffs. Why? See, I'm a diehard Cleveland Indians fan. And while the Indians haven't endured a 100-year World Series drought such as the Cubs, my Tribe last won it all in 1948 - or two decades pre-me. That, well, that doesn't do much for me.
**********************
A couple of thoughts from last night's "Dancing with the Stars:"
Julianna Hough's saucy solo atop the judge's table struck me as odd in two ways: (1) I've never before seen (and frankly thought it illegal) such gyrations without accompaniment by Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar On Me." And (2) even the female judge popped wood.
If Cloris Leachman survives another round, I'm auditioning for the Radio City Rockettes.
****************************
I don't know much about much, and that certainly includes politics. But here are my current thoughts on our two candidates and their running mates:
Barrack - If this politics thing doesn't pan out - and that seems more and more unlikely- then I have no doubt that he, inside of five minutes, could put me in a brand-new Buick LeBaron. Man, the guy is slick.
McCain - I have great respect for the man. Five years a prisoner of war, two of them in COMPLETE ISOLATION. (Sounds like high school for me.) But McCain, like myself, is a southpaw. And in watching him scribble his notes during the debate, I couldn't help but notice - no, wince - at the posture he assumed in writing them. John, we lefties have enough working against us - don't embarrass us with that tucked, upside-down, palsy-like chicken scratch.
Palin - Likeable. Cute. Makes me blush when she winks at me. Not ready.
Biden - Experienced. Well-spoken. Crafty. At least 73 teeth.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
malls, mccoy and mudd
Ventured over to the Round Rock Outlet Mall this weekend, a high-priority strike with my mom in town. When you're the baby of the family - by a decade and a half - a guy is simply never too old to get some new socks and undies on mom's tab. I hung in there for an hour or so, then assumed the bored-dad look on the bored-dad benches while the ladies hit their stride. I just think I'm in shape....until I play racquetball or go shopping.
By the way, I'd known, at the age of eight or so, that if I put my last name on a bunch of shirts, jeans, shoes and accessories, that it would make me millions. But then I went out to play and forgot about it. Fast forward to 2008 and behold the Mudd Line - J.C. Penney's signature teen collection. Somebody's rolling in dough on my name's behalf, while I'm still getting snickers from convenience store clerks and doormen and even the annual "Hey, your name is Mudd! Hee-hee."
Life, not fair.
On the subject of malls....
If you ever want to feel (1) skinny (2) well-dressed/groomed or (3) like a good parent, just go to a mall (or a festival, or most any high-traffic public locale). Most pointedly, spotted a couple of kids on leashes there. Now, I know kids can be hard to corral and easy to misplace, have a slippery one myself. And yes, the kid "leashes" of today come disguised as cuddly backpacks with cartoon characters, as opposed to the harsh harnesses of yesteryear But c'mon, a duck is a duck, and a leash is a leash.
How about a nice stroller for a ne'er do well three-year-old? Hell, those things are practically Cadillacs these days. I want one....for myself.
***************************************
Why is it, when I'm trying to teach McCoy a new word or 'trick" or life lesson, that I talk SO LOUDLY? Why do I turn into Ashton Kutcher?
McCoy, this is a RED CAR!!
McCoy, do you see the BIRDIE?!?
McCoy, what's the COW SAY?!?
McCoy, sniff the OTHER END of the magic marker!!
By the way, I'd known, at the age of eight or so, that if I put my last name on a bunch of shirts, jeans, shoes and accessories, that it would make me millions. But then I went out to play and forgot about it. Fast forward to 2008 and behold the Mudd Line - J.C. Penney's signature teen collection. Somebody's rolling in dough on my name's behalf, while I'm still getting snickers from convenience store clerks and doormen and even the annual "Hey, your name is Mudd! Hee-hee."
Life, not fair.
On the subject of malls....
If you ever want to feel (1) skinny (2) well-dressed/groomed or (3) like a good parent, just go to a mall (or a festival, or most any high-traffic public locale). Most pointedly, spotted a couple of kids on leashes there. Now, I know kids can be hard to corral and easy to misplace, have a slippery one myself. And yes, the kid "leashes" of today come disguised as cuddly backpacks with cartoon characters, as opposed to the harsh harnesses of yesteryear But c'mon, a duck is a duck, and a leash is a leash.
How about a nice stroller for a ne'er do well three-year-old? Hell, those things are practically Cadillacs these days. I want one....for myself.
***************************************
Why is it, when I'm trying to teach McCoy a new word or 'trick" or life lesson, that I talk SO LOUDLY? Why do I turn into Ashton Kutcher?
McCoy, this is a RED CAR!!
McCoy, do you see the BIRDIE?!?
McCoy, what's the COW SAY?!?
McCoy, sniff the OTHER END of the magic marker!!
Thursday, October 2, 2008
McKenzie and Saint Tony
Shunned by McKenzie not once, but twice today. Thought I'd take her to the park before we picked up McCoy from daycare this afternoon. Little dad/daughter time. First, the kid had to change and throw on a pearl necklace- you know, park attire.
Then she re-neged when she spotted the daycare kids coming out to play. "Hey dad," she said, "We can go to the park tomorrow, okay, promise."
I sulked back inside.
Later, went to grab some dinner for the family and hollered at McK to see if she'd like to ride along. Little dad/daughter car time. Her reply: "Well...that sounds kinda boring. But don't forget the Sprite."
I sulked into reverse.
Someday, hopefully almost a decade from now, she'll bring a boy home to meet 'ol pop. She'll tell me she really likes this guy and, just this once, to not embarrass her.
Revenge will be sweet.
***************************
St. Anthony came to the rescue again.
St. Anthony, if you don't know, is the Patron Saint of Lost Articles. My pop was a big believer in the guy and told us boys to always send a shout up his way should we every misplace something. Well, I jumped on the bandwagon at an early age, and through the years Saint Tony has provided a beacon to countless lost wallets, keys, books and the like. You think it's gone forever? Naw, just pray to Saint Anthony, and it'll almost always turn up.
The guy came through for me again today. Left my wallet at Starbucks for the umpteenth time - an occupational hazard of never having pockets - but, after scrambling a bit, I tossed a prayer upstairs and had it back in an hour.
Note - St. Anthony will not help you find your (1) mind, (2) courage or (3) bladder control.
******************************
People often ask, when meeting our kid McCoy for the first time, if we named him after Colt McCoy. Truth is, had we decided to name him after the player who was expected to be UT's starting quarterback in 2006, he would have been named Jevan.
On the subject of Colt McCoy, though, ya gotta love him. My heart still belongs to the Buckeyes -who recently unveiled Vince Young Jr. in freshman Tyrelle Pryor - but Colt plays as if he would climb a mountain just to punch an echo. All football player...
I just hope he learns to slide before OU dismembers him.
Then she re-neged when she spotted the daycare kids coming out to play. "Hey dad," she said, "We can go to the park tomorrow, okay, promise."
I sulked back inside.
Later, went to grab some dinner for the family and hollered at McK to see if she'd like to ride along. Little dad/daughter car time. Her reply: "Well...that sounds kinda boring. But don't forget the Sprite."
I sulked into reverse.
Someday, hopefully almost a decade from now, she'll bring a boy home to meet 'ol pop. She'll tell me she really likes this guy and, just this once, to not embarrass her.
Revenge will be sweet.
***************************
St. Anthony came to the rescue again.
St. Anthony, if you don't know, is the Patron Saint of Lost Articles. My pop was a big believer in the guy and told us boys to always send a shout up his way should we every misplace something. Well, I jumped on the bandwagon at an early age, and through the years Saint Tony has provided a beacon to countless lost wallets, keys, books and the like. You think it's gone forever? Naw, just pray to Saint Anthony, and it'll almost always turn up.
The guy came through for me again today. Left my wallet at Starbucks for the umpteenth time - an occupational hazard of never having pockets - but, after scrambling a bit, I tossed a prayer upstairs and had it back in an hour.
Note - St. Anthony will not help you find your (1) mind, (2) courage or (3) bladder control.
******************************
People often ask, when meeting our kid McCoy for the first time, if we named him after Colt McCoy. Truth is, had we decided to name him after the player who was expected to be UT's starting quarterback in 2006, he would have been named Jevan.
On the subject of Colt McCoy, though, ya gotta love him. My heart still belongs to the Buckeyes -who recently unveiled Vince Young Jr. in freshman Tyrelle Pryor - but Colt plays as if he would climb a mountain just to punch an echo. All football player...
I just hope he learns to slide before OU dismembers him.
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