Who would have thought that two little words would fill me with such dread and antipathy? I mean, they’re just words, right? What can two meaningless words, comprised of only three letters even, possibly wrought to affect me? To be honest, I’m not entirely sure, but I’m still scared of them. Scared out of my commitment fearing mind.
Luckily I’ve been able to avoid that particular phrase all the way up to this point in my life. Many of my friends haven’t been as fortunate (is fortunate the right word there?). My friend Andy got married almost two years ago, Jeremy had already tied the knot by that point, Frank got married this past weekend, and Jim is getting hitched in December (or so he says, that boy is notorious for changing his plans at the last second). I swear my high school buddies are dropping like flies all around me. I’m worried that one day the marriage bug will eventually hit me.
I bring this up because my friend Frank was wed recently. As I previously mentioned, he’s the latest in a long line of high school chums that have bit the dust, so to speak. And seeing how Frank is such an awesome guy (and he really is), I made the trek all the way up to the Land of Mary just to attend the festivities. I just hope he knows the seriousness of dragging me across two states just to watch his bachelorhood get buried. I mean, taking the time out of my schedule to go a frat party 300 miles away is no big deal. But suffering in a car for six hours for the sole purpose of watching a dear friend consign to what I consider to be an inconceivable error? Frank better know how lucky he is to have such a committed friend like me.
There was an upside to the weekend though. Free booze. That’s right, say it with me now, “free booze.” Now there are two words that’ll put a smile on my face. It’s a few more letters than the earlier scriptural pairing, but I think it has a much warmer, more soothing feel to it. Coincidentally, the alcohol itself tends to make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. And I’m pretty sure everyone likes to feel warm and fuzzy. But, as I alluded to earlier, this was no frat party, this was a wedding. I had to be on my best behavior… or rather, what passes as my best behavior after five or six drinks in an unfamiliar local.
Luckily there was an even more important reason to imbibe this weekend besides the fact that it was a wedding and there was alcohol aplenty… and the fact that I pretty much drink whenever I can get the chance… and well, do I really need a reason to drink? Frank made sure to have in attendance on his wedding day one keg of locally brewed beer and three separate varieties of bottled home brew. Now, for those of you who don’t normally have much to do with the small cap beers, allow me to enlighten you. Local brews are beers brewed locally. I came up with that all by myself, if you can believe it.
Seriously though, local brews are good stuff. They’re usually restaurants or small breweries that distribute beer only within very regional confines. Some of my favorite beers are made in my home state of North Carolina and only circulated inside its boarders. What can I say? I enjoy helping out the local mom and pop enterprises. And it doesn’t hurt that the breweries around here make some damned fine libations.
But homebrews are a little bit different. If you can’t tell by the word choice there, they’re actually made in a person’s home and are generally not made for profit (I’m just Captain Obvious today, aren’t I?). Homebrewers like to experiment and come up with not only new flavorings in beer, but also to tweak the tastes of existing beers. I’ve only had the pleasure of sampling a few homebrews before, but with a little bit of ingenuity and the right ingredients, I know a dedicated homebrewer can make a pretty good beer. Unfortunately it can get expensive when you factor in the costs of bottles and caps and other beer storage needs.
Frank and some of his friends have been cooking up their own beer for a few years now, and I tasted one of their recipes before and found it quite to my liking. I was especially happy to see that all three homebrews present at the wedding were new to me. In attendance were a raspberry wheat ale, an Irish red, and a rather nice amber. I was determined to try them all since each one seemed intriguing in its own right. My findings are as follows (in order of decreasing awesomeness): The amber beer was very good, as both Frank and Danny (the brewers) had advertised, the Irish red was pleasantly flavorsome and enjoyable, but the raspberry wheat ale I found to be a bit too fruity for my tastes. As a general rule, fruity beer equals not good beer. Well, unless you’re a chick, chicks like fruity stuff.
So I have to say, Frank’s wedding turned out to be an enjoyable event all around. However, this didn’t stop me from attempting to do what I resolutely consider my hallowed responsibility in this life. The night before the wedding, as the rehearsal dinner was winding down, I took Frank to the side and gave him the same advice I try to give every man just before his wedding day: RUN! Run and don’t look back! You know, for some strange reason, people never seem to take my advice. I really don’t know why either.
To his credit, Frank didn’t run. Even when a good family friend who had known his grandfather for many long years gave him the same advice (including offering to foot the bill for a one person plane ticket to the Bahamas), Frank stayed the course. That boy must be in love or something (ever notice how “love” is a four lettered word? I’m just putting that out there). Though in his defense Rosa, his fiancé, seems like a very nice young lady. Fiancé? No, they’re married now, Rosa is his wife. Wow, wife (yet another four letter word, amazing how these things keep piling up, huh?), it’s going to take me some time before I get used to using that word. I still have a hard time remembering to refer to Laura as Andy’s wife, not his girlfriend, and they’ve been married for two years! Sometimes I think I’m not really one of the fastest Hotwheels in the boxed set, if you know what I mean.
So what have we learned today? We learned that it’s okay to get married as long as you brew your own beer for the wedding. We also learned that “love”, “wife”, “girl”, and “commitment” are all four letter words, carrying eerily similar connotations with all those other four lettered words that aren’t exactly conversationally polite (oh, and don’t even try to tell me that “commitment” isn’t a four letter word, you can count all you want, but I’ve spent the better part of my twenty-four year existence proving that one particular obtuse fact, so please, don’t challenge me on this). And finally, we learned that weddings are really just funerals for a man’s single existence and all that he once was. Furthermore, the death of his bachelorhood is the necessary reagent that opens up the possibility of a new beginning of marriage and couplehood. It’s the Circle of Life (hey, I’m pontificating here, it doesn’t happen very often, just go with it). I might also be wise to point out that I’ve learned all I know about life from Disney movies. Go figure.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
More Than Meets the Eye
I want to talk to you about something, something that scares me to a point that’s very near death. On July 4th, 2007, Michael Bay will be unveiling his movie Transformers. To say that I’m excited is an understatement, I mean, just check out the trailer. You’ll have to excuse me for a minute while I clean up the saliva that is dripping from my gaping lower jaw.
If I’m this in to the Transformers franchise (and believe me, I am totally a Transformers geek), then why am I so scared? Mainly, I don’t trust my favorite 80’s cartoon franchise in just anyone’s hands. And the fact that this movie is a Michael Bay production frightens me somewhat. I mean, he is the guy that is responsible for the movie Pearl Harbor. Need I say more?
I think we can dispense with all the pre-movie moaning and groaning. I will be going to see this movie. How can I not? It has Optimus Prime, easily the most badass semi-truck every created. And yes, I’m in love with Optimus Prime. If he were real, I’d buy him an incredibly high priced hooker. I’m just that enamored with him (and yes, I know that buying a human hooker for a multi-ton metallic extraterrestrial robot is probably a not one of my best ideas).
I’m just really worried that I’ll walk out of that theater on Independence Day and cry. What if Michael Bay dazzles me with big explosions and shiny special effects? I mean, that’d be nice, but if he neglects having a decent storyline or unforgivably alters the Transformers universe, well I just don’t know if I’ll be able to handle it. I would have a terrible time trying to deal with a bad Transformers movie. It’d be like having a bad break-up, or even worse, actually. Think about it. If you break up with someone you really like, it sucks. If I see a Transformers movie that doesn’t rock my world, then it will be much, much worse than that. And for the record, yes, Transformers are drastically more important than any silly “relationship.”
There is cause for concern already. Megatron will transform into a stealth bomber while Bumblebee’s alternate mode will be a 1974 Chevy Camaro. Now I understand that the original transformation of Megatron into a small handheld gun was pointless. I mean, he started out as a massive robot with an equally massive laser cannon on his arm, but then he turned into this wimpy looking pistol. Not only does that violate the law of conservation of mass, but wouldn’t the Decepticons be better served if he just remained in robot form and used his arm cannon? Personally, I think that Megatron should transform into a freestanding cannon (similar to a howitzer), much like his future incarnation Galvatron did. I’m just saying, it makes more sense than a stealth bomber.
And then there’s Bumblebee, one of the most beloved of all Transformers characters, even if he is one of the most useless. I mean, let’s face it, Bumblebee was smaller and more feeble than any of his Autobot allies, and the vast majority of the time, he didn’t even have access to a gun. Despite all that, Bumblebee still rocks, which is why he’s one of the only five Autobots to appear in the new live action movie. But this time around he won’t be driving as his familiar yellow VW Beetle. The reason for this is that Volkswagen wouldn’t allow it. They didn’t want any of their vehicles associated with war, real or imagined in any way. And you know what, I’m perfectly ok with that. If you can’t figure out why, then go ahead and reference World War II.
Ok, so there are some changes in the new movie. But I think that I can live with it. At least Optimus Prime is still a truck and not some hairy monkey (actually, he was a silverback gorilla). So yeah, things can always get worse. Although I have to admit, Beast Wars was a damned good series, even if Optimus Primal was a monkey. In fact, the Decepticon Scorponok that will be in the new movie is from the Beast Wars universe. Though, I do feel the need to point out that Scorponok is a Predicon, not a Decepticon (even though the Predicons are technically the descendents of the Decepticons). Did I mention before that Transformers are more important than women to me? Yeah, I think I did.
So do you get the point yet? Actually, point of all this is pretty much that I’m a huge freaking nerd. I’m sorry, I grew up in the 80’s, and cartoons were like a way of life for me. In fact, the original Transformers: The Movie, released in 1986, is still my favorite movie of all time. If Michael Bay’s interpretation of the greatest show of all time ends up being less than favorable, then you will most certainly find me camped in front of my TV watching the original animated DVD over and over again until my universal faith in all things Transformer is reaffirmed.
Unfortunately, I have to wait until July 4th until I can find out for myself whether or not this newest addition to the Cybertronian Saga is worthy or not. I honestly think it’s the anticipation that’s eating me up the most. There’s just so much potential there… and I fear it may never be realized. As far as I’m concerned, movies as of late haven’t completely lived up to what they could be. The Spiderman and X-men movies were enjoyable, but I always thought they could have been better. The old Saturday morning cartoon shows of Spiderman and the X-men were far superior, if you can remember those. And The Hulk… well, we can all just pretend that movie never happened. I think it’s just better that way.
It just goes to show that if you can’t do justice to an already existing franchise, you’re best off not touching it. And yes, I’m talking to you George Lucas. Episodes I and II are unforgivable. You cannot be forgiven even though Episode III was somewhat decent (although in comparison to I and II, The Hulk may have even looked decent). I fear the rumors of another Indian Jones movie in the works. They invade my dreams at night and force me to cower in protracted terror at the dark and shifting shadows. Harrison Ford is the only Dr. Indian Jones ever. EVER.
I apologize for my fanboy ravings today. I promise next week I’ll be witty. Well, I promise I’ll try to be witty. And that is in now way, shape, or form a promise. We all know how I loathe commitment of any kind, and promises are no exception. The only promises I can make are those backed by a bat to the kneecaps if this new Transformers movie sucks. Michael Bay, you’ve been warned.
If I’m this in to the Transformers franchise (and believe me, I am totally a Transformers geek), then why am I so scared? Mainly, I don’t trust my favorite 80’s cartoon franchise in just anyone’s hands. And the fact that this movie is a Michael Bay production frightens me somewhat. I mean, he is the guy that is responsible for the movie Pearl Harbor. Need I say more?
I think we can dispense with all the pre-movie moaning and groaning. I will be going to see this movie. How can I not? It has Optimus Prime, easily the most badass semi-truck every created. And yes, I’m in love with Optimus Prime. If he were real, I’d buy him an incredibly high priced hooker. I’m just that enamored with him (and yes, I know that buying a human hooker for a multi-ton metallic extraterrestrial robot is probably a not one of my best ideas).
I’m just really worried that I’ll walk out of that theater on Independence Day and cry. What if Michael Bay dazzles me with big explosions and shiny special effects? I mean, that’d be nice, but if he neglects having a decent storyline or unforgivably alters the Transformers universe, well I just don’t know if I’ll be able to handle it. I would have a terrible time trying to deal with a bad Transformers movie. It’d be like having a bad break-up, or even worse, actually. Think about it. If you break up with someone you really like, it sucks. If I see a Transformers movie that doesn’t rock my world, then it will be much, much worse than that. And for the record, yes, Transformers are drastically more important than any silly “relationship.”
There is cause for concern already. Megatron will transform into a stealth bomber while Bumblebee’s alternate mode will be a 1974 Chevy Camaro. Now I understand that the original transformation of Megatron into a small handheld gun was pointless. I mean, he started out as a massive robot with an equally massive laser cannon on his arm, but then he turned into this wimpy looking pistol. Not only does that violate the law of conservation of mass, but wouldn’t the Decepticons be better served if he just remained in robot form and used his arm cannon? Personally, I think that Megatron should transform into a freestanding cannon (similar to a howitzer), much like his future incarnation Galvatron did. I’m just saying, it makes more sense than a stealth bomber.
And then there’s Bumblebee, one of the most beloved of all Transformers characters, even if he is one of the most useless. I mean, let’s face it, Bumblebee was smaller and more feeble than any of his Autobot allies, and the vast majority of the time, he didn’t even have access to a gun. Despite all that, Bumblebee still rocks, which is why he’s one of the only five Autobots to appear in the new live action movie. But this time around he won’t be driving as his familiar yellow VW Beetle. The reason for this is that Volkswagen wouldn’t allow it. They didn’t want any of their vehicles associated with war, real or imagined in any way. And you know what, I’m perfectly ok with that. If you can’t figure out why, then go ahead and reference World War II.
Ok, so there are some changes in the new movie. But I think that I can live with it. At least Optimus Prime is still a truck and not some hairy monkey (actually, he was a silverback gorilla). So yeah, things can always get worse. Although I have to admit, Beast Wars was a damned good series, even if Optimus Primal was a monkey. In fact, the Decepticon Scorponok that will be in the new movie is from the Beast Wars universe. Though, I do feel the need to point out that Scorponok is a Predicon, not a Decepticon (even though the Predicons are technically the descendents of the Decepticons). Did I mention before that Transformers are more important than women to me? Yeah, I think I did.
So do you get the point yet? Actually, point of all this is pretty much that I’m a huge freaking nerd. I’m sorry, I grew up in the 80’s, and cartoons were like a way of life for me. In fact, the original Transformers: The Movie, released in 1986, is still my favorite movie of all time. If Michael Bay’s interpretation of the greatest show of all time ends up being less than favorable, then you will most certainly find me camped in front of my TV watching the original animated DVD over and over again until my universal faith in all things Transformer is reaffirmed.
Unfortunately, I have to wait until July 4th until I can find out for myself whether or not this newest addition to the Cybertronian Saga is worthy or not. I honestly think it’s the anticipation that’s eating me up the most. There’s just so much potential there… and I fear it may never be realized. As far as I’m concerned, movies as of late haven’t completely lived up to what they could be. The Spiderman and X-men movies were enjoyable, but I always thought they could have been better. The old Saturday morning cartoon shows of Spiderman and the X-men were far superior, if you can remember those. And The Hulk… well, we can all just pretend that movie never happened. I think it’s just better that way.
It just goes to show that if you can’t do justice to an already existing franchise, you’re best off not touching it. And yes, I’m talking to you George Lucas. Episodes I and II are unforgivable. You cannot be forgiven even though Episode III was somewhat decent (although in comparison to I and II, The Hulk may have even looked decent). I fear the rumors of another Indian Jones movie in the works. They invade my dreams at night and force me to cower in protracted terror at the dark and shifting shadows. Harrison Ford is the only Dr. Indian Jones ever. EVER.
I apologize for my fanboy ravings today. I promise next week I’ll be witty. Well, I promise I’ll try to be witty. And that is in now way, shape, or form a promise. We all know how I loathe commitment of any kind, and promises are no exception. The only promises I can make are those backed by a bat to the kneecaps if this new Transformers movie sucks. Michael Bay, you’ve been warned.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Summertime Sports Spectacular
Summer is almost upon us and that means we are nearing the golden months of televised professional sporting events. And no, I’m not talking about the NBA playoffs or the race for the Stanley Cup (NHL playoffs for those of you who aren’t Canadian). No, once those two pesky distractions are played out and off the air we can finally settle down for what the summer was meant for. If you’re thinking baseball, guess again. Baseball is about as exciting as watching gay-hermaphrodite-farm porn. Actually… I take that back, that’s far too offensive to gay people.
No, the summer season is all about those lesser known sports, the ones you rarely hear on Sports Center and seldom see in the paper. This is the time for bowling, spelling bees, and hot dog eating contests. If you aren’t sitting on the edge of your seat, thrilled to death to learn more, then there’s seriously something wrong with you. Seriously.
First up in our Summer Seldom Heard Sports tour is the Scripps National Spelling Bee. Held every year in Washington DC, the National Spelling Bee pits eighth graders (and younger) against each other to see who can spell the most haphazard words that you’ll never use in the English language. Now honestly, who wouldn’t find that exciting?
ESPN will air the semi-finals live from 10am to 1pm on May 31st. Later that same day, ABC will be airing the finals live between 8 and 10 pm. That’s a prime time spot for the Scripps National Spelling Bee. Pretty spiffy, if you ask me. Personally, I can’t wait to see all the little kids on stage, nervous as hell because their parents are pushing them too hard to win a spelling bee. It’s a friggin spelling bee. Yeah, no worries about going to a good school or getting a high class job, but by hell or high-water, you’re winning that spelling bee! And if you’ve ever watched the Scripps before, you can easily tell that the parents have a larger interest in winning than their kids do. I’m sure the kids would all rather be playing Nintendo. (Quick, can you spell Shigeru Miyamoto? And no cheating with Google!)
But it’s all well worth it for the winner. The championship prize is a $20,000 award from Scripps, $5000 from Franklin Electronic Publishers, $5000 from LeapFrog Enterprises Inc., $5000 in scholarships from Sigma Phi Epsilon Educational Foundation, a $2500 US Savings Bond and reference library from Merriam-Webster, and some reference materials from Encyclopedia Britannica worth somewhere in the neighborhood of $5000. So for our Grand Champion Speller, we get somewhere around $42,500 of total prizes. Not too shabby, even though it’s not exactly Peyton Manning money, but it’ll pay the bills. More pointedly, it’ll pay for the parents’ bills.
By rule, contestants may not be past the eighth grade nor may they be any older than sixteen years to compete in the Scripps National Spelling Bee. That means that legally, the money goes to the winner, who must be a minor, and the parents take over the money as custodians. As I said before, you can tell that the parents are the ones really pushing their kids to succeed. And something tells me that those parents aren’t going to use the massive winnings to buy their kid a brand new Playstation 3. I’m not exactly sure, but I think $40k may just be enough money to buy one of those outrageously priced Sony contraptions. Though buying the actual games and extra controllers for multiplayer is probably out of the question. So, can anyone out there please tell me why the new Playstations aren’t selling like hotcakes right now?
If parentally whipped pre-adolescents aren’t your thing, then you might want to tune into the Nathan’s Famous International Hot Dog Eating Contest held annually on July 4th (and televised on ESPN). This magnificent even has the world’s greatest “gurgitators” competing to eat as many hot dogs (including the buns) as possible in a twelve minute period. Reigning world champion and near demi-god Takeru Kobayashi has won the event that past six years running. Last year, however, he had some competition from American Joey Chestnut who wolfed down 1.75 fewer hot dogs than the Japanese title holder.
Now I’m really upset. It turns out that the registration for the June 9th circuit event for Nathan’s Famous Hot Dog Eating Contest held in Charlotte (only 3 hours away by station wagon) is already closed. I can no longer enter the event. And this makes me sad. I really thought that I could pull off an upset of some sort in Charlotte and pave my way to the International Competition at Coney Island. But alas, it was not meant to be. Not this year at least. Never mind the fact that at best, I could down maybe… maybe five or six hot dogs before rolling over and going to sleep. I guess it’s just not my time to dominate the world of competitive eating just yet.
The IFOCE, The International Federation of Competitive Eating, sanctions many competitive eating events from hot dogs, to cow brains (yum!), to baked beans. Winners of any of these many and varied events can take home upwards of $25,000 (and if you must know, the $25 grand award is for the cow brain competition: winning never tasted so unsettling). The IFOCE warns that fans of the sport should not try competitive eating at home, that it should only be done under very controlled circumstances and with emergency medical attention nearby. They also don’t endorse training for competitive eating of any type. Ha, and you thought football was a dangerous sport.
I think it’s time that these lesser known sports got the attention they deserve. Sure we may not have an Obscure Sports Quarterly magazine or an ESPN 8, “the Ocho” to keep us informed on the competitive worlds of eating and spelling, but the current TV avenues should be more than sufficient. Qualifying rounds for the sports could easily be shown on the ESPN family of networks which currently include: ESPN, ESPN2 (“the Deuce”), ESPN-U, ESPNEWS, ESPN-Classic, ESPN-SOCOM, and the much more recent ESPN-DVD-PVP-LSD-LMNOP-CV. I’m beginning to think the fine folks over at ESPN like needless acronyms as much as the US military. And that’s saying something.
So the next time you find yourself disgusted at watching overpaid “athletes” running around on TV and not putting in the professional level effort that Gordie Howe or Jackie Robinson or Bart Star put in, then please flip over to the more minor sports. I think you’ll find that they more than merit your attention. Hey, what else are you going to do this summer, watch golf? Oh, and for those of you who spelled Shigeru Miyamoto’s name correctly (answer: S-H-I-G-E-R-U, M-I-Y-A-M-O-T-O) then congratulations, you can read! You might want to send an apple to your elementary school teacher in thanks.
No, the summer season is all about those lesser known sports, the ones you rarely hear on Sports Center and seldom see in the paper. This is the time for bowling, spelling bees, and hot dog eating contests. If you aren’t sitting on the edge of your seat, thrilled to death to learn more, then there’s seriously something wrong with you. Seriously.
First up in our Summer Seldom Heard Sports tour is the Scripps National Spelling Bee. Held every year in Washington DC, the National Spelling Bee pits eighth graders (and younger) against each other to see who can spell the most haphazard words that you’ll never use in the English language. Now honestly, who wouldn’t find that exciting?
ESPN will air the semi-finals live from 10am to 1pm on May 31st. Later that same day, ABC will be airing the finals live between 8 and 10 pm. That’s a prime time spot for the Scripps National Spelling Bee. Pretty spiffy, if you ask me. Personally, I can’t wait to see all the little kids on stage, nervous as hell because their parents are pushing them too hard to win a spelling bee. It’s a friggin spelling bee. Yeah, no worries about going to a good school or getting a high class job, but by hell or high-water, you’re winning that spelling bee! And if you’ve ever watched the Scripps before, you can easily tell that the parents have a larger interest in winning than their kids do. I’m sure the kids would all rather be playing Nintendo. (Quick, can you spell Shigeru Miyamoto? And no cheating with Google!)
But it’s all well worth it for the winner. The championship prize is a $20,000 award from Scripps, $5000 from Franklin Electronic Publishers, $5000 from LeapFrog Enterprises Inc., $5000 in scholarships from Sigma Phi Epsilon Educational Foundation, a $2500 US Savings Bond and reference library from Merriam-Webster, and some reference materials from Encyclopedia Britannica worth somewhere in the neighborhood of $5000. So for our Grand Champion Speller, we get somewhere around $42,500 of total prizes. Not too shabby, even though it’s not exactly Peyton Manning money, but it’ll pay the bills. More pointedly, it’ll pay for the parents’ bills.
By rule, contestants may not be past the eighth grade nor may they be any older than sixteen years to compete in the Scripps National Spelling Bee. That means that legally, the money goes to the winner, who must be a minor, and the parents take over the money as custodians. As I said before, you can tell that the parents are the ones really pushing their kids to succeed. And something tells me that those parents aren’t going to use the massive winnings to buy their kid a brand new Playstation 3. I’m not exactly sure, but I think $40k may just be enough money to buy one of those outrageously priced Sony contraptions. Though buying the actual games and extra controllers for multiplayer is probably out of the question. So, can anyone out there please tell me why the new Playstations aren’t selling like hotcakes right now?
If parentally whipped pre-adolescents aren’t your thing, then you might want to tune into the Nathan’s Famous International Hot Dog Eating Contest held annually on July 4th (and televised on ESPN). This magnificent even has the world’s greatest “gurgitators” competing to eat as many hot dogs (including the buns) as possible in a twelve minute period. Reigning world champion and near demi-god Takeru Kobayashi has won the event that past six years running. Last year, however, he had some competition from American Joey Chestnut who wolfed down 1.75 fewer hot dogs than the Japanese title holder.
Now I’m really upset. It turns out that the registration for the June 9th circuit event for Nathan’s Famous Hot Dog Eating Contest held in Charlotte (only 3 hours away by station wagon) is already closed. I can no longer enter the event. And this makes me sad. I really thought that I could pull off an upset of some sort in Charlotte and pave my way to the International Competition at Coney Island. But alas, it was not meant to be. Not this year at least. Never mind the fact that at best, I could down maybe… maybe five or six hot dogs before rolling over and going to sleep. I guess it’s just not my time to dominate the world of competitive eating just yet.
The IFOCE, The International Federation of Competitive Eating, sanctions many competitive eating events from hot dogs, to cow brains (yum!), to baked beans. Winners of any of these many and varied events can take home upwards of $25,000 (and if you must know, the $25 grand award is for the cow brain competition: winning never tasted so unsettling). The IFOCE warns that fans of the sport should not try competitive eating at home, that it should only be done under very controlled circumstances and with emergency medical attention nearby. They also don’t endorse training for competitive eating of any type. Ha, and you thought football was a dangerous sport.
I think it’s time that these lesser known sports got the attention they deserve. Sure we may not have an Obscure Sports Quarterly magazine or an ESPN 8, “the Ocho” to keep us informed on the competitive worlds of eating and spelling, but the current TV avenues should be more than sufficient. Qualifying rounds for the sports could easily be shown on the ESPN family of networks which currently include: ESPN, ESPN2 (“the Deuce”), ESPN-U, ESPNEWS, ESPN-Classic, ESPN-SOCOM, and the much more recent ESPN-DVD-PVP-LSD-LMNOP-CV. I’m beginning to think the fine folks over at ESPN like needless acronyms as much as the US military. And that’s saying something.
So the next time you find yourself disgusted at watching overpaid “athletes” running around on TV and not putting in the professional level effort that Gordie Howe or Jackie Robinson or Bart Star put in, then please flip over to the more minor sports. I think you’ll find that they more than merit your attention. Hey, what else are you going to do this summer, watch golf? Oh, and for those of you who spelled Shigeru Miyamoto’s name correctly (answer: S-H-I-G-E-R-U, M-I-Y-A-M-O-T-O) then congratulations, you can read! You might want to send an apple to your elementary school teacher in thanks.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
No More Teacher’s Dirty Looks
Quick, who were the two vice presidents under William McKinley? If you can get the second one, then you’re as good as I. If you can get them both, then you’re a better man than I. Then again, it probably doesn’t take much to be a better man than I am. Some humility, generosity, or just plain being nice to women every once in a while would make you a much better person than I.
So what’s up with the presidential questionnaire? Well, that exactly question was posed to me, or more accurately my team, during trivia night at James Joyce Bar in Durham. Ah, beer, Irish whiskey, and knowledge, what more could you possibly want in one evening? You could want to spend the evening in bed joined by two blonde Swedish stewardess twins. I know I do. Though, you’re most likely better off sticking to fantasies that have a statistical probability of actually occurring. And since I have yet to meet any blonde Swedish airline stewardess twins, I’d have to say that the probability of me bedding that particular duo is currently somewhere in the neighborhood of 0.00%. Feel free to correct me if I’ve screwed up the math anywhere in there.
McKinley’s second vice president was Theodore Roosevelt, who acceded to the presidency after McKinley was assassinated. As it turns out, I actually remember something from my eleventh grade US History class. Apparently my brain hasn’t been as damaged by my drunken affairs as I had previously thought. That’s good news. Seriously though, who the hell remembers vice presidents? Can you name the last five vice presidents of the United States? Heck, can you even name the current vice president?
Sorry to go all School House Rock on you, but this is important stuff. I mean, if I had remembered my US presidents, and a few of the vice presidents, then my team may very well have won trivia night and that $75 bar tab would have been ours. Do you know how many drinks and I throw back with $75? I honestly don’t know the exact number, math has never been my thing, but I’m perfectly willing to do some empirical testing. All I need is $75 and a bar. And probably someone to keep track of what I’m drinking (it all pretty much blurs together after the fourth drink).
I think we can all agree that education is important, and not just because it can net you some free drinks. Education is what spurs the economy, keeps capitalism running rampant around the globe, and it is generally what increases our quality of life. So do me a favor, the next time you go into a class room give your teacher a gift. It doesn’t have to be much, an apple would make a great present for a teacher. It really is the thought that counts. That, and teachers really don’t make much money, so they’re not used to having anything nice. They can’t afford to be picky about their gifts.
As I said before, education is a wonderful thing. It enlightens the mind, or at least it’s supposed to. Take my brother, for instance. He’s two years older than me, has a very distinguished college degree and yet he still needs to be reminded that he’s white. I do try to remind him myself, but I’m not sure he gets it. Maybe he might actually look into the mirror a little more often.
Now, I’m not saying this because my brother thinks he’s some sort of gangster rapper. He doesn’t talk in broken English and ebonic slang. And this is a good thing, at least I can still claim him as my brother. But for some reason my brother feels the need to produce rap beats, and worst of all, add his own vocals to the lyrics. Now producing is all well and good, but rapping? He’s white.
Do I really need to say more? Now don’t get me wrong, the color of a person’s skin doesn’t necessarily dictate whether one can become a good rapper. Although, I do believe that history has shown us that the far majority of hip hop and rap artists (hey, if people can call Prince an “artist,” then rappers are artists too) have been… how do I put this… not white.
There have been successful white rappers in the past to be sure. But Eminem my brother isn’t. Heck, he isn’t even Vanilla Ice. I know, that’s probably a cheap shot at my brother, but at least Vanilla Ice had Hammer. He also had the shiny pants. You can’t forget about the shiny pants. Somehow, I don’t think my brother owns a pair of shiny pants.
That’s ok though. I would really hope my brother wouldn’t stoop to flagrant teeny-bob-ism just to sell a few records. Speaking of which, he just finished producing his first full length album (we still use the words “record” and “album” these days, don’t we?). Thankfully, a partner of his contributed all of the lyrics so I don’t have to listen the voice of some pasty white boy (hey, he lives in southern Indiana, what did you expect?). The duo calls themselves Relapse, which a better name than most I suppose. It’s definitely got one up on Dexys Midnight Runners, that’s for sure. The CDs should go on sale this month online.
My brother was kind enough to send me an advanced copy of the album, and I have to admit, it’s pretty good. Now I don’t listen to much rap these days, I’m more of a rock & roll kind of guy (which pretty much confirms my whiteness), but I find that the tracks are somewhat reminiscent of the Wu-Tang Clan. That shouldn’t be too surprising though, my brother has always been a fan of the Wu-Tang. If that sounds like something you’d like, feel free to go check it out. I think there might be a free downloadable track or two.
I probably shouldn’t be making fun of my brother so much. He has his music and I have my writing. And he has been kind enough not to make fun of my satirical attempts at amusement (that’s a fancy way of saying, “I like to write funny stuff”). Everyone has their own way of expressing themselves creatively, and I think we, as a society, should encourage that. And that, as I see it, brings it all back to education.
Good writers study literature in order to gain command over the written word (crappy writers, on the other hand, just throw up a bunch of words on a blog). Meanwhile, musical “artists” need the ability to effectively produce and market their talent. So just remember, education makes the world go round, even the creative parts of our economy. Oh, and bonus points to those of you who already knew that Dexys Midnight Runners is the name of the band who released the hit 80’s single “Come on Eileen.” And for those of you who didn’t know that (or have never heard the song “Come on Eileen”) you need to get your ass back in school and get educated.
So what’s up with the presidential questionnaire? Well, that exactly question was posed to me, or more accurately my team, during trivia night at James Joyce Bar in Durham. Ah, beer, Irish whiskey, and knowledge, what more could you possibly want in one evening? You could want to spend the evening in bed joined by two blonde Swedish stewardess twins. I know I do. Though, you’re most likely better off sticking to fantasies that have a statistical probability of actually occurring. And since I have yet to meet any blonde Swedish airline stewardess twins, I’d have to say that the probability of me bedding that particular duo is currently somewhere in the neighborhood of 0.00%. Feel free to correct me if I’ve screwed up the math anywhere in there.
McKinley’s second vice president was Theodore Roosevelt, who acceded to the presidency after McKinley was assassinated. As it turns out, I actually remember something from my eleventh grade US History class. Apparently my brain hasn’t been as damaged by my drunken affairs as I had previously thought. That’s good news. Seriously though, who the hell remembers vice presidents? Can you name the last five vice presidents of the United States? Heck, can you even name the current vice president?
Sorry to go all School House Rock on you, but this is important stuff. I mean, if I had remembered my US presidents, and a few of the vice presidents, then my team may very well have won trivia night and that $75 bar tab would have been ours. Do you know how many drinks and I throw back with $75? I honestly don’t know the exact number, math has never been my thing, but I’m perfectly willing to do some empirical testing. All I need is $75 and a bar. And probably someone to keep track of what I’m drinking (it all pretty much blurs together after the fourth drink).
I think we can all agree that education is important, and not just because it can net you some free drinks. Education is what spurs the economy, keeps capitalism running rampant around the globe, and it is generally what increases our quality of life. So do me a favor, the next time you go into a class room give your teacher a gift. It doesn’t have to be much, an apple would make a great present for a teacher. It really is the thought that counts. That, and teachers really don’t make much money, so they’re not used to having anything nice. They can’t afford to be picky about their gifts.
As I said before, education is a wonderful thing. It enlightens the mind, or at least it’s supposed to. Take my brother, for instance. He’s two years older than me, has a very distinguished college degree and yet he still needs to be reminded that he’s white. I do try to remind him myself, but I’m not sure he gets it. Maybe he might actually look into the mirror a little more often.
Now, I’m not saying this because my brother thinks he’s some sort of gangster rapper. He doesn’t talk in broken English and ebonic slang. And this is a good thing, at least I can still claim him as my brother. But for some reason my brother feels the need to produce rap beats, and worst of all, add his own vocals to the lyrics. Now producing is all well and good, but rapping? He’s white.
Do I really need to say more? Now don’t get me wrong, the color of a person’s skin doesn’t necessarily dictate whether one can become a good rapper. Although, I do believe that history has shown us that the far majority of hip hop and rap artists (hey, if people can call Prince an “artist,” then rappers are artists too) have been… how do I put this… not white.
There have been successful white rappers in the past to be sure. But Eminem my brother isn’t. Heck, he isn’t even Vanilla Ice. I know, that’s probably a cheap shot at my brother, but at least Vanilla Ice had Hammer. He also had the shiny pants. You can’t forget about the shiny pants. Somehow, I don’t think my brother owns a pair of shiny pants.
That’s ok though. I would really hope my brother wouldn’t stoop to flagrant teeny-bob-ism just to sell a few records. Speaking of which, he just finished producing his first full length album (we still use the words “record” and “album” these days, don’t we?). Thankfully, a partner of his contributed all of the lyrics so I don’t have to listen the voice of some pasty white boy (hey, he lives in southern Indiana, what did you expect?). The duo calls themselves Relapse, which a better name than most I suppose. It’s definitely got one up on Dexys Midnight Runners, that’s for sure. The CDs should go on sale this month online.
My brother was kind enough to send me an advanced copy of the album, and I have to admit, it’s pretty good. Now I don’t listen to much rap these days, I’m more of a rock & roll kind of guy (which pretty much confirms my whiteness), but I find that the tracks are somewhat reminiscent of the Wu-Tang Clan. That shouldn’t be too surprising though, my brother has always been a fan of the Wu-Tang. If that sounds like something you’d like, feel free to go check it out. I think there might be a free downloadable track or two.
I probably shouldn’t be making fun of my brother so much. He has his music and I have my writing. And he has been kind enough not to make fun of my satirical attempts at amusement (that’s a fancy way of saying, “I like to write funny stuff”). Everyone has their own way of expressing themselves creatively, and I think we, as a society, should encourage that. And that, as I see it, brings it all back to education.
Good writers study literature in order to gain command over the written word (crappy writers, on the other hand, just throw up a bunch of words on a blog). Meanwhile, musical “artists” need the ability to effectively produce and market their talent. So just remember, education makes the world go round, even the creative parts of our economy. Oh, and bonus points to those of you who already knew that Dexys Midnight Runners is the name of the band who released the hit 80’s single “Come on Eileen.” And for those of you who didn’t know that (or have never heard the song “Come on Eileen”) you need to get your ass back in school and get educated.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
If You Can Name the Object in that Baggie Over there, then Mister, You’re a Better Man than I
My father dropped by my apartment this past Sunday night. Now, I don’t want to sound ungrateful or anything since it was really good to see my dad, but I didn’t have a whole lot of warning to his visit. My parents called Thursday night to let me know that he was stopping by on his way up from Georgia to Maryland. And, as I live in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, I was in a very favorable midway point where he could stop and rest. That and presumably my dad wanted to visit his youngest son whom he hadn’t seen since Christmas.
My dad happens to be a great guy, who is lots of fun to hang out with, so I’m quite lucky in that regard. Well, mostly he’s awesome when he’s not making me do yard work or enlisting my help in cleaning his garage (his power tools produce an ungodly amount of saw dust, trust me). Since he was visiting my at my apartment, which has neither yard nor garage to speak of, I felt relatively safe. But I only had three days to prepare things for a visit, and considering the fact that I’m a bachelor, my apartment isn’t exactly the model of clean living. In fact, I’m pretty sure Martha Stewart would have a coronary episode if she were to ever set eyes on my place. Even her mastery of floral arrangements could do little to improve my ramshackled living style.
Luckily I had plenty of free time on Sunday afternoon so I forced myself to do what under normal circumstances would be unconscionable: I cleaned my apartment. Now I know what you’re thinking, but no, I did not just shove all the cluttered bills and magazines and everything else into my closet. That would have just compounded matters when the next morning I would have the need to dress myself from clothes in said closet. Well, ok, so I shoved some of the clutter into my closet. But most of it I either threw away or found it a proper place. Granted, the “proper place” for most of my muddled crap was the garbage can. Or as it is more formally known as, in the case of my apartment, the garbage corner.
Sure, there had once been a mere garbage can in my kitchen, sitting in the space between the end of my cabinets and the edge of a sofa from the kitchenette (I don’t own a real table or anything even remotely resembling kitchenette or dining room furniture, so I have a sofa instead, and you know what, it works for me). But over time, and through my own sanitary ineptitude, the pile of trash grew beyond the inadequate container that attempted to hold it all. Before long the entire space between the cabinets and the sofa became filled with McDonalds take out bags and DiGiorno’s Pizza boxes. Did I mention I’m a bachelor?
Needless to say, it took several trash bags to rid myself of the curse of the garbage corner. It’s gone for now, but who can say when it will return? And trust me, there is no “if it will return”, it is most definitely a question of “when will it return.” Beyond all of that, I washed some laundry, and did my best to tidy up the place. For most people, that would include cleaning the bathroom. Luckily for me, I keep my bathroom pretty well clean every month. Let all of you single guys out there take note. If you leave your kitchen a mess when a lady caller comes to visit, that’s ok. Girls normally expect a guy to be messy; it’s just in our nature. But when the time comes for her to use your facilities, either to answer the call of nature, or more hopefully, to clean herself up for something a little more intimate, she’s going to be desirous of a cleansed and cleanly bathroom. My theory: keep the restroom cleaned and keep the ladies coming back. Now that’s just a theory, so do with it what you will.
Now my dad’s visit was a pleasant one, if not particularly short. But I’m sure he’ll be stopping by on his way back to Georgia after he finishes with all the preparations needed for my parents to move to Maryland this summer. Though it’ll promise to be another brief stay, I’m looking forward to it. Heck, my apartment is already cleaned, so I don’t have to worry about that this time around.
Though, the one thing that has been worrying me is my refrigerator. There’s nothing wrong with the fridge’s mechanics mind you, it’s just what’s inside the cooling machine that frightens me. I never got around to cleaning the thing out before my dad came to visit, and needless to say, it has been a long, long time since I’ve bothered to rearrange the contents of my fridge. There are things in there that I believe would best lie undisturbed. On the up side, I did manage to toss the three half gallons of milk that had been taking up space inside for varying lengths of time. On a sadder note, I’m quite disappointed that the older cartons of milk never managed to grow legs and save me the trouble by walking out of my apartment. I figured if I waited long enough, it could happen.
So now I have a question for you: What is the approximate shelf life for condiments when stored at chilled temperatures? I only ask because, like most single men, my fridge is not full of real foods like meats, cheeses, breads, fruits, or vegetables (see: The Food Pyramid) but instead, is stocked plentifully with ketchup (both bottled and fast food packet variety), various flavored and yellow mustards, pickled relish, hot sauce, honey, lime juice, mayonnaise, Miracle Whip (why I have both of those I may never know), an assortment of jams, jellies, and fruit preservatives, and the most manly of condiments, Worcestershire sauce. Seriously, besides the fact that no man alive can spell that name correctly without the aid of a cooking dictionary or Google (which coincidentally spells far better than Microsoft Word), there is no practical use for the condiment.
Oh sure, you might use a few drops of the brown sauce for crafting home made hamburgers to set on the grill, or in a recipe for Bloody Mary mix (though I still haven’t found the nerve to force myself to drink tomato juice and vodka …), and I personally use Worcestershire sauce when cooking sloppy Joes, you know, for the nights that I don’t microwave a Hungry Man pre-made TV dinner. Even in its severely limited usage, every man I’ve ever known has had a full bottle of the sauce in his fridge.
Yet my original question remains. How long will these condiments last? Most have been in my fridge since I moved here, which was well over a year ago. Hell, the tub of margarine in the back of the fridge is most likely of the same acquisition date. And I’m pretty sure that can of peanut butter has been in my pantry for even longer. I’m not going to die if I eat anything from in from my fridge or pantry, will I? That’s just the sort of question that would probably keep me up at night, if I didn’t regularly drown my brain cells in fermented beverages. Thank God for alcohol.
It’s probably best that I don’t even go into detail about what’s in my freezer. I mean, I know for a fact that the bag of pre-boiled shrimp has been frozen in there for longer than nine months. Even when completely iced up, food goes bad. Those crab legs probably aren’t edible either. So yeah, I am in a painful need of a total cleansing of my food stocks. Unfortunately, I don’t think I’m quite up to the job. This sounds like woman’s work to me. Now, I don’t say that because I’m a chauvinistic pig (and believe me, I truly am), rather I would much prefer it if some person, who is most decidedly not me, clean up my sullied and over-spoiled edibles.
If you think you’re that person, please contact me immediately. You can be assured that there will be rewards and ample compensation. By which I mean you can eat anything out of my fridge, freezer, or pantry that you want. Seriously help yourself, I won’t be touching any of it any time soon.
My dad happens to be a great guy, who is lots of fun to hang out with, so I’m quite lucky in that regard. Well, mostly he’s awesome when he’s not making me do yard work or enlisting my help in cleaning his garage (his power tools produce an ungodly amount of saw dust, trust me). Since he was visiting my at my apartment, which has neither yard nor garage to speak of, I felt relatively safe. But I only had three days to prepare things for a visit, and considering the fact that I’m a bachelor, my apartment isn’t exactly the model of clean living. In fact, I’m pretty sure Martha Stewart would have a coronary episode if she were to ever set eyes on my place. Even her mastery of floral arrangements could do little to improve my ramshackled living style.
Luckily I had plenty of free time on Sunday afternoon so I forced myself to do what under normal circumstances would be unconscionable: I cleaned my apartment. Now I know what you’re thinking, but no, I did not just shove all the cluttered bills and magazines and everything else into my closet. That would have just compounded matters when the next morning I would have the need to dress myself from clothes in said closet. Well, ok, so I shoved some of the clutter into my closet. But most of it I either threw away or found it a proper place. Granted, the “proper place” for most of my muddled crap was the garbage can. Or as it is more formally known as, in the case of my apartment, the garbage corner.
Sure, there had once been a mere garbage can in my kitchen, sitting in the space between the end of my cabinets and the edge of a sofa from the kitchenette (I don’t own a real table or anything even remotely resembling kitchenette or dining room furniture, so I have a sofa instead, and you know what, it works for me). But over time, and through my own sanitary ineptitude, the pile of trash grew beyond the inadequate container that attempted to hold it all. Before long the entire space between the cabinets and the sofa became filled with McDonalds take out bags and DiGiorno’s Pizza boxes. Did I mention I’m a bachelor?
Needless to say, it took several trash bags to rid myself of the curse of the garbage corner. It’s gone for now, but who can say when it will return? And trust me, there is no “if it will return”, it is most definitely a question of “when will it return.” Beyond all of that, I washed some laundry, and did my best to tidy up the place. For most people, that would include cleaning the bathroom. Luckily for me, I keep my bathroom pretty well clean every month. Let all of you single guys out there take note. If you leave your kitchen a mess when a lady caller comes to visit, that’s ok. Girls normally expect a guy to be messy; it’s just in our nature. But when the time comes for her to use your facilities, either to answer the call of nature, or more hopefully, to clean herself up for something a little more intimate, she’s going to be desirous of a cleansed and cleanly bathroom. My theory: keep the restroom cleaned and keep the ladies coming back. Now that’s just a theory, so do with it what you will.
Now my dad’s visit was a pleasant one, if not particularly short. But I’m sure he’ll be stopping by on his way back to Georgia after he finishes with all the preparations needed for my parents to move to Maryland this summer. Though it’ll promise to be another brief stay, I’m looking forward to it. Heck, my apartment is already cleaned, so I don’t have to worry about that this time around.
Though, the one thing that has been worrying me is my refrigerator. There’s nothing wrong with the fridge’s mechanics mind you, it’s just what’s inside the cooling machine that frightens me. I never got around to cleaning the thing out before my dad came to visit, and needless to say, it has been a long, long time since I’ve bothered to rearrange the contents of my fridge. There are things in there that I believe would best lie undisturbed. On the up side, I did manage to toss the three half gallons of milk that had been taking up space inside for varying lengths of time. On a sadder note, I’m quite disappointed that the older cartons of milk never managed to grow legs and save me the trouble by walking out of my apartment. I figured if I waited long enough, it could happen.
So now I have a question for you: What is the approximate shelf life for condiments when stored at chilled temperatures? I only ask because, like most single men, my fridge is not full of real foods like meats, cheeses, breads, fruits, or vegetables (see: The Food Pyramid) but instead, is stocked plentifully with ketchup (both bottled and fast food packet variety), various flavored and yellow mustards, pickled relish, hot sauce, honey, lime juice, mayonnaise, Miracle Whip (why I have both of those I may never know), an assortment of jams, jellies, and fruit preservatives, and the most manly of condiments, Worcestershire sauce. Seriously, besides the fact that no man alive can spell that name correctly without the aid of a cooking dictionary or Google (which coincidentally spells far better than Microsoft Word), there is no practical use for the condiment.
Oh sure, you might use a few drops of the brown sauce for crafting home made hamburgers to set on the grill, or in a recipe for Bloody Mary mix (though I still haven’t found the nerve to force myself to drink tomato juice and vodka …), and I personally use Worcestershire sauce when cooking sloppy Joes, you know, for the nights that I don’t microwave a Hungry Man pre-made TV dinner. Even in its severely limited usage, every man I’ve ever known has had a full bottle of the sauce in his fridge.
Yet my original question remains. How long will these condiments last? Most have been in my fridge since I moved here, which was well over a year ago. Hell, the tub of margarine in the back of the fridge is most likely of the same acquisition date. And I’m pretty sure that can of peanut butter has been in my pantry for even longer. I’m not going to die if I eat anything from in from my fridge or pantry, will I? That’s just the sort of question that would probably keep me up at night, if I didn’t regularly drown my brain cells in fermented beverages. Thank God for alcohol.
It’s probably best that I don’t even go into detail about what’s in my freezer. I mean, I know for a fact that the bag of pre-boiled shrimp has been frozen in there for longer than nine months. Even when completely iced up, food goes bad. Those crab legs probably aren’t edible either. So yeah, I am in a painful need of a total cleansing of my food stocks. Unfortunately, I don’t think I’m quite up to the job. This sounds like woman’s work to me. Now, I don’t say that because I’m a chauvinistic pig (and believe me, I truly am), rather I would much prefer it if some person, who is most decidedly not me, clean up my sullied and over-spoiled edibles.
If you think you’re that person, please contact me immediately. You can be assured that there will be rewards and ample compensation. By which I mean you can eat anything out of my fridge, freezer, or pantry that you want. Seriously help yourself, I won’t be touching any of it any time soon.
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