I'm Back

As this blog’s prodigal author enters the press conference he called for himself, a hush falls over the crowd. Frenzied onlookers stop in mid-cellphone conversation and awestruck teenagers feint. Bystanders shoot harsh glances at the incapacitated teens as they fall loudly to the floor, knowing that the slightest break in silence could cause them to miss this once-in-a-lifetime moment. With the tension becoming almost palpable (not unlike the sexual tension between Daniel-san and Mr. Miyagi that burned white hot in Karate Kid 2 and subsequently cooled as Daniel-san put on weight by Karate Kid 3), the author steps from the shadows and up to the podium. At this moment, the breathless fans realize that this is not in fact the announcement of an O-Town reunion tour after all, and the faux-feinting teens angrily rise in unison and resume their daily routines of updating Avril lyrics on their Myspace pages and watching MTV’s Parental Control. (Editor’s note: Not that this blog’s author watches that show or is even vaguely familiar with its concept.) In a vain attempt to save face as his press conference falls apart, the author taps on the microphone and tells the first joke that comes to mind.
“So a duck walks up to the cash register at a convenience store and sets some Chap-Stick down on the counter. The cashier asks whether the duck wants to pay cash or credit. The duck scratches his head for a moment before quickly responding, “Just put it on my bill.” Get it? Just put it on my bill? Hello? Is this thing on?”
With that having been said, the press conference dies faster than Wilmer Valderrama’s career will as soon as “YoMomma” hits the air. Allow me to sum up what would have been said at the press conference:
“I haven’t written anything except rent checks and daily (albeit unsuccessful) marriage proposals to Dangerous Curves dancers in the past 11 months. Although I guess writing ‘Guilty’ as my plea in the whole Dangerous Curves restraining order fiasco technically counts as writing, that isn’t really the point. The point is that the streak ends today. This is my comeback.”
At this point, the press conference was supposed to erupt with questions from reporters, demanding to know the details of what exactly the author had been up to during his nearly yearlong hiatus. Here are the sample questions he was prepared to answer:
1. “What have you been doing for the past year?”
2. “What caused you to stop writing in the first place?”
3. “What do you have to say to your fans?”
4. “How tall are you?”
His answers would have been as follows:
1. “Paperwork. And I’ve been exploring a revolutionary, non-invasive surgery that would remove every episode of ‘Mad About You’ from my long-term memory. It’s still in its early stages, but things are looking very promising.”
2. “Well, it’s just like every cautionary tale you’ve ever heard. First I thought I’d just try not writing once, you know, for fun. I was in a social setting and I thought it would be no big deal. Next thing I know, I’m not writing in the morning, during my lunch break, anytime I can steal a moment. I was so out of control I even knifed a stranger in the park. It had nothing to do with not writing, but I figured I’d mention it nonetheless. I finally got my life together, pulled myself out of the gutter, gave my refrigerator box home to John Basedow, and decided to turn my life around. The rest is history.”
3. “I feel it’s my job to inspire as well as educate my fans, so I’d like to give them this motivational gem that I’ve been working on for the past few months. It goes, “It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog.” I’m thinking about putting it on a t-shirt or something.”
4. “I’m glad you asked. By standard Earth measurements I’m 5’11”, but under the right lighting I could play power forward for the Sioux Falls Sky Force of the CBA.”
After the rigorous Q&A session (that’s short for Question and Answer), the author was prepared to lay down the ground rules or “10 Commandments” of his comeback. He was prepared to do this dressed as Moses (complete with flowing robes, a fake beard and stone tablets made of papier mache) but decided that a wardrobe change would seem a little self-indulgent. Also, he could only come up with 3 commandments, so the whole theme sort of fell apart. Here are those commandments:
1. “I shalt not wear the number 45 during this comeback for fear of Nick Anderson stealing the basketball from me at a crucial juncture in the playoffs, leading to a series loss to the Orlando Magic.”
2. “I shalt carry a boombox on my shoulder blasting LL Cool J’s “Don’t Call it a Comeback” whenever I leave the house during normal business hours for the next 3 weeks.”
3. “I shalt keep my gloves up and protect myself at all times to avoid having my comeback turn out like Muhammad Ali’s. It started off all right, but it’s looking a little shaky nowadays.” (Chorus of boos from the crowd, beer bottles and garbage begin to be hurled towards the stage) “What, was that below the belt?” (Wild applause, crisis averted.)
And . . . scene.

Yes, it’s true, I’m back. I have a semi-reliable web connection, a government job and some time on my hands, which can only mean one thing: the excruciatingly miniscule, meaningless minutiae of my life will be chronicled on this newfangled “Internet” contraption that all the kids are talking about nowadays. Those goddamn kids and their gamestations and their spray paint and their Billy Idol records . . . Anyhow . . . I’m back and I’ll have more to write about in the coming days. Possible topics include:
1. A 500-word essay on how I spent my summer vacation
2. A 500-word essay on “I Know What You Did Last Summer”
3. A 500-page love letter to Freddie Prinze Jr. written as if I actually believe he is Zach Siler from “She’s All That.”
4. A 500-photo montage of tiny cut up photos of Steven Seagal that all come together to make one single portrait of him.
5. A 500-day hiatus from writing again. I’m leaning towards this as the most probable option.

Hear you me

“Everything ends badly, otherwise it wouldn’t end.”
--Coughlin the Bartender in “Cocktail”

I don’t want to contradict a film icon such as Bryan Brown, who was last seen starring in the CBS smash “Spring Break Shark Attack”, but I have to disagree with him on this one.

Last weekend was a big one for me, chock full of endings and new beginnings, so I’ll quickly hit on the highlights:

1. I graduated from college over the weekend, and it all went down without any Van Wilder-esque future-dodging or any Charlie the Bachelor-esque gentle sobbing. It went down just like it was supposed to. I did get a little nostalgic when I was moving out of my house in Ames for the last time, but I’m sure the scent of stale beer and the sound of friends cursing at Playstation games will stay locked in my memory wherever I go.

2. Even more important to me than graduating was getting my commission as a Second Lieutenant in the U.S. Air Force, which I also did last weekend. I was sworn in on Saturday and am now a card-carrying member of the Armed Forces. I’ll be going to ASBC (Aerospace Basic Course) in Alabama for six weeks starting in mid-June, heading to Wichita to IFT (Initial Flight Training) and then most likely going to Vance AFB in Oklahoma for UPT (Undergraduate Pilot Training). Before starting pilot training I’ll most likely have to have a lobotomy to create more space in my brain for acronyms. If I get to choose, I’d gladly volunteer to delete my memory of Van Helsing, which I watched last weekend. Yeah, it was that bad.

3. In addition to the other accomplishments of the weekend I turned 23 yesterday, capping a busy weekend of milestones. Some might not consider turning 23 much of an accomplishment, but then again these people didn’t grow up on the mean streets of Bettendorf, Iowa. Dying young is no joke around here. I celebrated by eating a steak with my mom and dad, shooting some hoops, playing some old Trio songs on my guitar and watching Grosse Pointe Blank. All in all, it was a nice little Sunday.

Other developments of the past few days:
1. Bill Simmons was on hiatus from writing for his Web site last week as his wife was giving birth. Although that’s about as good of an excuse as anyone could have for taking a break from writing about the Karate Kid and the Celtics, I missed him terribly. Bill, you make my life better . . . hurry back.
2. I threw away a bunch of photos from high school and college that I didn’t feel the need to hang onto anymore. Does that make me a cold-hearted son of a bitch?
3. It’s been said plenty of times, but the Phoenix Suns play basketball the way it’s supposed to be played and I hope they make it to the Finals. This is four fold:
A. Steve Nash running the ball up the court on every possession is a breath of fresh air. After the Mike Fratello/Pat Riley/Greg Popovich slowdown thugball of the late ‘90s and early 2000s made the NBA about as watchable as reruns of The Nanny, I feel like the game is finally going in the right direction. Nash’s MVP is well-deserved.
B. Suns coach Mike D’Antoni looks eerily like Commander Mike Metcalf of Top Gun.
C. Amare Stoudemire’s athleticism continues to amaze me. He is good for at least two “Oh dear God!” moments per game, which is something that has been missing since Dominique Wilkins exited his "Human Highlight Reel" prime. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of seeing him as he charges in from the elbow, elevates his hand above the box on the backboard, suspends himself in midair until gravity pulls everyone else hardwood-ward, and throws a nasty dunk in Erick Dampier’s mug.
D. The longer the Suns stay alive, the longer Paul Shirley’s blog will appear on suns.com.
4. Matt Skiba sits in an incredibly effeminate manner, so much so that it is difficult for me to watch him get interviewed. This troubles me greatly.
5. Gwen Stafani’s “Hollaback Girl” makes me want to set myself on fire.
6. Likewise could be said for the Black Eyed Peas’ “Don’t Phunk With My Heart.” Even if you excuse the fact that the title is such a cliched attempt at cleverness, the song is garbage. I can’t sugarcoat it.
7. I’ll miss a lot of things in Ames while I live at home this summer, but it’s a distinct possibility that I’ll miss none more than the Flying Burrito. What we had was so special.

A burning question . . .
What do spandex bike shorts, skin tight bike jerseys and fingerless bike gloves provide for recreational cyclists that gym shorts, a t-shirt and bare hands can’t? I’ve never understood this.

Things I threw away today during my spring cleaning kick . . .
1. One of those toy helicopters that annoying mall kiosk guys are always flying dangerously close to your head.
2. A paintball blowgun that I received for my 18th birthday and did considerable damage with.
3. Lots and lots of photos. Judge me if you must, but me and my black heart will enjoy the extra drawer space a lot more than seeing photos of high school dance awkwardness from 1999.
4. Fugazi’s “13 Songs” album. Punk purists contend that Ian MacKaye and his Fugazi bandmates were pioneers and visionaries, and they are entitled to their opinions. My opinion on this band and album is as follows: I want my 14 fucking dollars back.

Things I didn’t throw away today during my spring cleaning kick . . .
1. My Yoda Pez dispenser.
2. Either of my two copies of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers’ Greatest Hits album. It never hurts to have a backup.
3. A calculator watch that hasn’t worked for three years.
4. The final shreds of hope for a Brewers pennant win. I'm hanging onto those.

On that note . . .
The Suns have 99 points at the end of the third quarter and are on pace for 132 in a Conference semifinal game. I can’t afford to divide my attention between them and this anymore. I’m out.

I'm all thumbs

“You have every right to be this appalled with me.”
--Lyrics from "Bloodied Up" by the Alkaline Trio

I know I haven’t posted in a long time, and I really don’t have a good excuse. I could try to get a note from my mom explaining that I've had the chicken pox, but that could take some time and you'd have no verification that it isn't a forgery. So to try to set things right, I'll make you this deal: In the future I promise I'll try to spend less time playing NBA Jam on Sega and more time writing.

Moving right along . . .

To rip off Bill Simmons, Best Week Ever and just about any other form of entertainment media operating nowadays, I’ve decided to play a little Thumbs Up, Thumbs Down. But because I’m in a good mood, we’ll only get into the Thumbs Up segment today. The premise of the game is simple, much like the sport of auto racing and the minds of freshman girls, so let’s just press on . . .

Thumbs up: Constantine.
I went to see Keanu Reeves’ pseudo-religious, demons vs. angels action film this weekend and I can only say that I was delighted. This is two-fold.
First of all, Keanu muttered his usual gems, further cementing his place in movie lore as the actor who delivered more terrible lines per movie than any other. My personal favorite was “This is Constantine . . . John Constantine . . . asshole.” It was very James Bond-meets-a-speech-impediment and I laughed for about two straight minutes.
Second of all, since Keanu was fighting against demons for much of the movie, he had to fight them with “religious” artifacts. This included a set of brass knuckles with crosses on them and a giant golden gun that had a barrel in the shape of a cross. I can only imagine this is exactly the way God would have wanted it.

Thumbs up: Not having to take any finals. I have more free time than I can shake a stick at, which means I can spend my time playing pickup basketball, watching the Inferno II and listening to my old Weezer records instead of learning about the history of magazines in America. I like this trade-off. With all this discretionary time and no early morning wake-ups, my liver might not share my optimistic outlook.

Thumbs up: NBA playoffs. Regardless of how you feel about the NBA, the playoffs are a whole different ball game. The players hustle, play team ball and genuinely care about winning. In short, the playoffs are everything that the regular season isn’t. I’m pulling for a Detroit-Phoenix final, which would be an offense vs. defense clash of epic proportions.

Thumbs up: Graduating. I’m just five short days from being a college graduate (feel free to insert standard “I guess miracles can still happen” joke here) and I’m pretty excited about it. Strangely enough I’m not going through any of that pre-graduation, early-20s “what’s it all about?” neurosis that was the topic of at least 20 movies in the ‘90s. Maybe the fact that I don’t wear flannel or hang out in coffee houses has made me immune to this syndrome.
Unfortunately, there is also one thing that is not so peachy about graduation. All last weekend and stretching into today I’ve had one disturbing and ever-present thought in the back of my head. The gist of it is that every time I run into a friend I get this sinking feeling that it might be the last time we ever see each other. It’s weird to think about, but hopefully it’s an unfounded fear.

Thumbs up: The makers of Karate Kid III. I have to take my hat off to the people who just wouldn’t let Daniel-san die. I watched KKIII this week and was thoroughly impressed. The evil sensei was unbelievably evil, the bad boy karate champ was unbelievably bad, and the high-flying karate action was unbelievably high-flying. It’s just nice to know that there are people out there who want to make movies about toxic waste-dumping billionaires who have nothing better to do than ruining a fledgling bonsai tree business and derailing the karate career of teenager. If only Hollywood made films like this today.

Thumbs up: Rip Torn.
“Mike Fitzgibbon’s son is a nuclear physicist, and my son can eat a chicken sandwich.”
Enough said.

Thumbs up: My mom. She sent me a package including Easy Cheese, a pen that blows bubbles, and a Yoda Pez dispenser to help me study for finals. And I don’t even have any finals. She’s the coolest.

Thumbs up: Alkaline Trio. Their new album, Crimson, will be released on May 24, so I’ve been listening to their older work to build up the anticipation. For my money, Goddamnit and From Here to Infirmary are as good from start to finish as any album I’ve ever heard. Laugh if you must, but coming in third is Third Eye Blind’s self-titled release. There’s just something about Stephan Jenkins’ voice that can make songs about meth addiction and depression sound so uplifting.

Speaking of which . . .
Here is a list of my top 15 favorite singing voices:
Steve Perry – Journey
Justin Hawkins – The Darkness
Biz Markee
Stephan Jenkins – Third Eye Blind
John Davis - Superdrag
Jesse Lacy – Brand New
Robert Smith – The Cure
Ric Ocasek – The Cars
Claudio Sanchez – Coheed and Cambria
Billie Joe Armstrong – Green Day
Dolores O’Riordan – The Cranberries
Geddy Lee - Rush
Merril Bainbridge
Brian Adams
Kenny Loggins

Wait, there’s more . . .
On a semi-related note, here’s a list of my top 5 rappers:
1. Jay-Z
2. OK, so maybe five was pushing it

I’ll try to do better next time. Later.

The war between Andy and his liver rages on

So what’s the deal with airline food? I mean, am I right? Hello? Is this thing on?

So, anyway, it was one heck of a weekend, and with the amount of alcohol I consumed I’m pretty sure that I am now dumber than I was last week at this time. I might have trouble forming coherent sentences, spelling simple words and expressing complete thoughts, so just try to bear with me.

Here’s a rundown of what did the damage.

Friday
6:00 p.m. – Mix my first seven and seven of the night.
6:05 p.m. – Start watching Ralph Macchio’s epic performance in Karate Kid for the second time in less than 24 hours.
6:40 p.m. – Think to myself that Elisabeth Shue’s character is too agreeable and that she probably grew up to be a tramp. This is confirmed in Karate Kid II when she drops Daniel-san for a UCLA football stud.
6:45 p.m. – Decide that the Cobra Kai sensei, Kreese, is my new favorite actor. Approximate BAC: .10.
8:00 p.m. – Decide that the guy who shouts “Get him a body bag, yeah!” at the All-Valley Karate Championship is my new favorite actor.
8:30 p.m. – Start watching Emilio Estevez in the critically acclaimed and internationally celebrated Mighty Ducks.
9:00 p.m. – Watch a scene in which Emilio has an obvious stunt double skate around the rink for him. Start to question Emilio’s athleticism just a bit. Approximate BAC: .12.
10:00 p.m. – Pick up my phone, which has eight missed calls from an equally intoxicated Mitchell, and head out to the bar.
10:30 p.m. – Enjoy the first quarter draw of the night at Lumpy’s.
2:00 a.m. – After drinking a couple dollars worth of quarter draws and making a couple hours worth of awkward bar conversation, I went back to Mitchell’s for some unbeknownst reason. Approximate BAC: .20.
2:30 a.m. – Open and consume a LaCrosse Lager that I bought on firesale on Mitchell’s birthday last July. Approximate IQ: 14.
4:30 a.m. – Fall asleep in Tom’s bed.

Saturday
7:30 a.m. – Alarm goes off, signaling the imminent start of the Lambda Olympics. I try to pick up the remaining pieces of my life and walk back home. Approximate BAC: .08.
8:20 a.m. – Remember that I forgot to wake Mitchell up for the Olympics. I get in my car and drive to his place with Chazz and Kenyon. This is probably borderline illegal.
9:00 a.m. – Participate in the shotgun start of the Lambda Olympics.
9:01 a.m. – Puke up half of the Keystone Light I just shotgunned in an empty case.
9:30 a.m. – Team Old balls sweeps Team Young Bucks at flip cup.
10:00 a.m. – The draft is held. My team includes Chazz in full Marine attire, Stringham dressed as Huck Finn and Zaps replete with a drawn-on American flag tattoo. I try to hold my own with aviator shades and a tie-dyed Dead Head t-shirt.
10:15 a.m. – My team finishes first out of eight teams in the Quad-Chug, which is a race to see which team can drink a shotgunned beer, a beer in a can, in a cup, and through a straw the fastest. Needless to say it’s a skill game and it feels good to have the first gold medal of the day around my neck. Approximate BAC: .13.
10:45 a.m. – Come back from a 3-0 deficit in flip cup to force game seven. We lose game seven, which is played with full beers.
10:46 a.m. – Puke up a good portion of the beer I just poured down my throat into an empty Keystone case.
10:50 a.m. – Team meeting is held to help us regroup.
11:00 a.m. – Lose a close game of beer pong to Miller’s team. It stings. I don’t want to discuss it further.
12:00 p.m. – Run the Olympics’ closing event, the half-mile Victory Lap.
12:04 p.m. – Hit the backstretch of the race in first place, kick it into high gear, lose my shoe, but win going away regardless.
12:06 p.m. – Catch my breath and have a victory beer. Approximate BAC: .16.
1:00 p.m. – Crash hard in my rack.
5:00 p.m. – Wake up, shower and eat a turkey sandwich.
5:30 p.m. – Go to Cy’s for a graduation party and some free graduation beer. It’s the best kind. Approximate BAC: .08.
8:00 p.m. – Walk to Ashlee’s with Mitchell, Trevor and Wiemer to go to a grad party that I only think I’m invited to.
8:15 p.m. – Get to Ashlee’s, don’t know if I’m in the right apartment, and stand in the corner for ten minutes.
8:20 p.m. – Listen to Wiemer’s views on “track asses.” He approves. So do I.
8:25 p.m. – Ashlee finally shows up and gives me a Wet Willy. Very mature.
9:00 p.m. – Totally ‘80s is playing on the stereo and I am being berated by my Religion TA about writing a boring essay about the Nation of Islam. I want to kill myself.
9:01 p.m. – I get asked what my GPA is.
9:02 p.m. – Mitchell tells the TA that I just went to jail for punching a kid for no reason last week. The TA stops talking to me immediately.
9:30 p.m. – Go to People’s for more free grad beer. Trevor and I request 50 Cent songs from the cover band’s lead singer, who ignores us and proceeds to play Hoobastank covers instead.
10:30 p.m. – Down four pitchers with Trevor. Approximate BAC: .16.
10:45 p.m. – Ash meets us at the bar, and Wet Willy number two is administered. Still, very mature.
11:00 p.m. – Jager bombs and beer chugging exhibitions ensue, and I am having serious trouble forming cogent sentences.
11:15 p.m. – Tell Mary Ellen that I invented reality television. I don’t think she is impressed.
11:30 p.m. – Tell another girl that I rode my bike into outer space. I think she is impressed.
11:35 p.m. – Hear the following exchange:
Guy: I just got done taking the MCATs.
Girl: What are you going to do now?
Guy: Go to medical school.
Girl: What do you want to be?
Guy: A doctor.
11:38 p.m. – Stop laughing and attempt to regain my composure.
11:50 p.m. – I take a shot, put $5 in Ashlee’s boyfriend’s pocket, run out of the bar and walk to Dane’s with Trevor. Approximate BAC: .99.
12:00 a.m. - Arrive at D2K’s, who is obviously under the influence of illegal drugs. Trevor and I take the opportunity to drink his beer without asking and tell him lies about the evening. DTK simply giggles.
12:30 a.m. – Witness a more-than-slightly flirtatious young woman going home with two guys. I don’t even want to know how that one ends.
1:00 a.m. – Go home, try to crawl into a second story window, and drop Trevor on his back when helping him try to climb into the same window.
1:30 a.m. – Fall asleep as Trevor repeatedly calls a sober Danimal and berates him for driving drunk and hitting a kid. Danimal was not guilty of either offenses, but Trevor’s screaming would not subside.
12:00 p.m. – Wake up woozy, possibly still drunk and dumber for the experience.

Other highlights from the weekend include:
1. Going to Wendy’s, ordering a cheeseburger and winking at the cashier who was no older than 16.
2. Picking out a birthday card at Target that reads, “Just thinking of the man I love… Naked.” It’s for an ex-girlfriend and is really not fitting or appropriate for the situation.
3. Paying for the birthday card, which cost $4.27. I handed the cashier a wad of bills that included five ones and a twenty. She hands me back the twenty and one of the ones and rings up the purchase. I explain to her that I don’t know how to count and leave the store shaking my head. Approximate IQ: 8 and plummeting.

So that was me this weekend. I can’t really explain myself, so I won’t try. Also, if I owe anyone an apology, let me know and I’ll get that out to you ASAP. I’m out.

Here's mud in your eye

I’m going to try to make this as quick and painless as possible. I wrote most of this post this morning between the hours of 2 and 3:30 a.m., but I fell asleep before I got around to posting it.

When I wrote this last night, my liabilities included the following:
1. I was awake at 3 a.m.
2. I had to wake up at 6 a.m.
3. I sleep so fitfully that it is almost impossible to keep my NFL sheets on my mattress in the midst of the thrashing. This means I probably slept less than 40 minutes per hour.
4. I’d been listening to The Arcade Fire and Joy Division a lot.

My assets included the following:
1. I have a computer and unorthodox but effective hunt and peck typing skills.
2. I always have a head full of ideas and schemes.
3. I inhaled enough second-hand smoke earlier in the night that the stimulants grabbed a stronghold in my bloodstream and kept me wired well into the morning.
4. I’d been listening to The Arcade Fire and Joy Division a lot (that door swings both ways).

So what is the post about you ask? I’ll give you three guesses.
Guess #1: A summary of how the Arena Football League stays in business?
Reply: Nope.
Guess #2: A point/counterpoint discussion on Aviator sunglasses: Cool or Passe?
Reply: Good guess, but no.
Guess #3: A bipolar summary of what gets me down and what brings me back up again.
Reply: Bingo.

Here’s a list of things that I am less than excited about:

1. Being in college. I know it’s a privilege many people never get, but I’m about at the end of my rope. It’s getting to the point where I’d rather take repeated shovel blows to the abdomen than sit through another PowerPoint presentation. I understand that to some people, media convergence and diversity in the workplace are watershed issues, but I’d just as soon slam my head in a car door than learn about them.
2. Poison’s Bret Michaels. While watching a VH1 special on power ballads or some such rubbish, it became clear to me that Michaels has an overwhelmingly skewed image of the importance and quality of “Every Rose Has Its Thorn.” In his mind, it’s as if writing and recording that song was of the same merit as painting the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling or curing cancer. In my mind, it’s an elementary three-chord ‘80s song about seeing the bad side of someone. Oh, and it tries to rhyme “dawn,” “thorn” and “song” with each other. I guess Bret and I can just agree to disagree about this one.
3. Girls Gone Wild. In what alternate dimension do girls think that participating in these films is even remotely acceptable? I’m just waiting for the fathers of the world to unite and turn GGW founder Joe Francis’ face into the ‘After’ picture of one of those anti-drunk driving videos. Seeing him tossing out t-shirts with his jaw wired shut and his face looking like Jared Leto’s after Ed Norton pounded him into oblivion would make me feel pretty fantastic.

Speaking of feeling fantastic, here are a few things that make me incredibly happy:

1. Brett Favre touchdown passes. Even though it isn’t football season, the Packers are never far from my thoughts. Even though the front office’s offseason moves (or lack thereof) are making next season’s prospects hover somewhere between a nightmare and a train wreck, Favre can make it seem like everything is going to be all right. He plays with the enthusiasm of a fourth grader trying to lead his team to a big upset against the fifth graders at lunch recess and I love him for it.
2. The Shotgun Rules. I read the official rules to calling shotgun on www.shotgunrules.com and they are exactly the rules I have always played by. This is just a huge validation for my entire career as a car passenger.
3. Coheed and Cambria lead singer Claudio Sanchez’s falsetto voice. ‘A Favor House Atlantic’s’ tooth-decayingly sweet pop sensibility makes me want to roll down my windows and sing along every time I hear it.
4. Drinking, smoking and just shooting the breeze with my buddies on Danimal’s deck. Zeb’s main job is zinging drunken passers-by with harsh but clever one-liners and flashing that winning smile of his. Higs’ job description reads “professional Marlboro Lights purchaser and packer” and “quoter of more lines from ‘Top Gun’ that any one man should know.” The Danimal’s main responsibility is being just as drunk after two beers as he is after 12, which he always accomplishes as only The Danimal can. I’m mostly just there for my good looks.
5. Getting goosebumps. I’m not talking about the kind you get when you’re cold, but rather the ones you get when you witness something truly amazing and inspirational. If I get goosebumps in any given week, I consider it a success.

I’m just saying . . .
"Do you ever just get down on your knees and thank God that you know me and have access to my dementia?" --George Costanza

Here are a few more songs I’ve been ejoying:
1. David Bowie – Queen Bitch
2. Say Anything – Every Man Has a Molly
3. The Bens – Just Pretend
4. Joy Division – Love Will Tear Us Apart
5. The Streets – The Irony of It All

Just so you know . . .
I learned fast how to keep my head up cause I
Know I’ve got this side of me
That wants to grab the yoke from the pilot
And just fly the whole mess into the sea.
--The Shins

Lord I was born a rambling man

Warning: There is no real point to this post. It simply consists of more of the inane ramblings you’ve grown to know and love . . .

I saw a t-shirt the other day that said “Jesus Got R Done.” While this shirt might help people with fourth grade educations and Skoal between their teeth gain faith in Him, it only made me lose even more faith in humankind.

I spent the better part of Sunday evening looking around Ames for a DVD copy of Karate Kid. Unfortunately, my search was to no avail. Fortunately, I was also unable to find The Next Karate Kid starring Hilary Swank. That was a small consolation.

I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news, but for everyone enjoying how The OC is going right now, consider yourselves warned: Theresa and that illegitimate kid are going to insert themselves back into the storyline right around season finale time. This little plot twist will serve two main functions. First, it will halt the Ryan-Marissa renaissance that everyone has been enjoying. Second, it will cause me to pray that Eddie and his mustache are somehow brought back onto the show. Only you can make it happen Josh Schwarz.

If I had to describe my Brewers’ play this weekend with one hyphenated word, it would be error-prone. If I had to describe my judgment concerning my alcohol consumption between the hours of 2 p.m. and 2 a.m. last Saturday, I would use the same term.

I’ve been reading Nick Hornby’s book High Fidelity (as part of my kick to read more than just ESPN.com’s page 2) and I’m really enjoying it. Some of the pop culture references are over my head (it’s a British book), but I like it just the same. I’m a little worried that I can relate to the jaded, caustic main character just a little bit too easily, but I’m willing to let that slide. Coincidentally enough, the main character has the same name as one of my buddies.

In a similar vein, Alanis Morissette’s bitter, Dave Coulier-bashing, Jagged Little Pill-hit “Isn’t it Ironic?” fails to meet any of the conditions that define irony. Wouldn’t it be better if the song were called “Isn’t it Coincidental?” Don’t you think?

I haven’t been to a good rock and roll show in a while, but the last few I’ve been to have been incredibly solid. They are:
1. The Goose Island Fest in Chicago, which featured the Alkaline Trio, Detachment Kit and Charlotte Martin. I don’t know if everyone else felt the same way, but I’m pretty sure I fell in love with Charlotte about halfway through her cover of The Cure’s “Just Like Heaven.” I’m just saying.
2. The Pop Disaster Tour in Tinley Park, Ill., which featured Saves the Day, Blink and Green Day. Green Day put on one of the most energetic and memorable shows I’ve ever seen, and Matt Skiba’s unanticipated appearance singing back-up vocals for Saves the Day was another highlight.
3. The M-Shop in Ames, which featured Ultimate Fakebook. Bill McShane jumping up on the Rock Box for his guitar solo was worth double the price of admission.

Speaking of music, here are a few tunes I’ve been listening to lately:
Built to Spill – Car
Nada Surf – If You Leave
Old 97s – Question
Ultimate Fakebook – Little Apple Girl
Graham Colton – Cellophane Girl
The Lawrence Arms – Necrotism Decanting the Insalubrious
Postal Service – Nothing Better
The Shins – Young Pilgrim
James Horner – Rocketeer
New Order – Age of Consent

I would estimate that I have nightmares five times a week. Last night I dreamt that Iowa Governor Tom Vilsack and I were standing on a balcony hanging up a banner. He was on a ladder, and when I handed him the banner, the ladder tipped and he fell several stories to his death. I couldn’t begin to explain why I dream things like this or even remember the last time I thought about the governor, but this is what goes on in my head. Hopefully I don’t get red flagged and put on some kind of a watch list for writing about this.

The WNBA had its annual draft last weekend, so I’ll post the column I wrote about the WNBA last year for the Daily before too long. It thought it was pretty entertaining. It was also the catalyst for about 10 rabid WNBA fans sending me hate mail accusing me of being a sexist and a bad writer. I’m not going to dispute that last part, and I’m trying to forgive them for all the inflammatory things they said about me. After all, I’d be pretty bitter too if my favorite basketball player needed a running start to touch the net. ZING.

I’ll end this entry with a description of a golf shot I hit over the weekend that ranks on my list of top five non-competition shots I have ever hit. I smashed a driver over a creek that was about a 250-yard carry with a little left to right action that fit the dogleg of the hole perfectly. I had several beers in me at the time, but I don’t think I could have hit that shot any better if I stayed on the tee all day. All that was missing was a TV commentator with a Scottish accent applauding and saying, “That was a useful, useful shot.”

That’s all for now kids.

I'll take potent potables for $200, Alex

I'll spare you the details of my life for now, but here are a few things that have been rattling around in this precious little head of mine . . .

It is impossible to say Google five times fast. After about the first three repetitions it starts to sound like someone is drowning.

I’ve never had a cool nickname. On a semi-related note, people who give themselves nicknames need to re-evaluate themselves.



Sprite's Miles Thirst is a shoddy Lil Penny rip-off.

Ben Stiller movies without Owen Wilson are like people who drink Red Bull without Jagermeister – sure they’re hyper, but they’re missing the best part.

“She’s All That” is a woefully underrated movie.

Although Zach Morris could pause time, he never used his gift to cut off Slater’s curly mullet. He must have figured it was doing A.C. more harm than good with Kelly.

Bob Golic, a former NFL defensive lineman with no prior acting credentials, was chosen to play hardass RA Mike Rogers on Saved by the Bell: The College Years. How did he get this job? If he didn’t have compromising photos of Peter Engel, I will be monumentally shocked.

Alex Trebek always reveals the Jeopardy questions that no contestant answered correctly in an incredibly condescending tone. “The correct answer is German physicist Horst Ludwig. (Insert patronizing head shake) Horst . . . Ludwig.”



Tom Selleck’s mustache is absolutely breathtaking. It is the crown jewel of mustaches.

Almost every mildly successful TV show has been or is in the process of being released on DVD. I’m just counting down the days until “Hangin’ with Mr. Cooper” comes out.

Roy is a very unfortunate name for a person to have.



There’s a soft spot in my heart for washed-up movie stars with three names. Here’s looking at you Neil Patrick Harris and Richard Dean Anderson.

In a similar vein, my computer wallpaper (a photo of Christian Laettner with a headband, bowl cut and Wolves captain jersey) is no match for my buddy John’s, which features a close-up of Richard Dean Anderson licking an ice cream cone in front of a clock tower.

The fact that men know who Kevin Federline is but don’t know the infield fly rule epitomizes everything that is wrong with the world today.

Watching the Brewers makes me happy. Not in the same way as watching Keira Knightley makes me happy, but happy.

Savage Garden and Boys II Men songs seem to be tailor-made for middle schoolers to slow dance to.

I don’t know if Marcy Playground is the name of a person or just the name of a band.

I sleep on NFL sheets, but no girls do. At least not on mine.

That's all for now. Til next time . . .