The other day while waiting for a light to change as I biked home, a guy in a suit came running across the street waving at me. Full of good will towards all humanity having just provided two young Chinese tourists with friendly and accurate directions to the nearest T stop, I decided to wait and hear what he had to say. He asked me if I could do him a huge favor to which I responded that it would of course depend on the nature of the favor. He then launched into a big story about his car having a flat tire which required a $12.95 patch kit that could be purchased from the auto parts store down the street which would allow him, a "professional with Verizon", to pick up his kid from school, and, he hates long stories but if he showed me the car and left some sort of collateral, could I please give him 13$. I just said no, I have to get home, but as I continued biking it occurred to me that his technique was exactly what I expect they would teach at a night school class on advanced panhandling...
Lesson 1: Get a suit. The importance of this can not be overstated.
Lesson 2: State a very specific need and know the exact dollar amount that would fill said need.
Lesson 3: Invoke the suffering of children.
Lesson 4: Assure "the mark" that you are "a professional" and not some sort of panhandler. Having a suit will greatly increase the credibility of this claim.
Lesson 5: Have some sort of corroborating evidence to back up your story, such as a car with an actual flat tire.
Lesson 6: Have a good reason why you, a professional in a suit, do not have access to $12.95.
Ooh, apparently he was so excited to put his new knowledge to work that he couldn't wait around for the all-important sixth lesson. Kind of like Luke leaving Dagobah before completing his Jedi training and getting his hand cut off.
Man, won't I will feel like a jerk if the guy's wallet was in his other suit and his children got taken away due to his tardiness in picking them up. Somehow, despite that possibility, I still slept OK.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Ireland
Leprechauns. Irish Spring. Potato famines. Lucky Charms. Fungi the gay dolphin of Dingle. Now that I've gotten the obvious, cliched Ireland joke topics out of the way, allow me to beat each one to death individually and in much greater detail. We got to Dublin around the same time as our traveling companions Erin and Jon Sadler, picked up our sweet Land Rover, and headed north after visiting the famous Guinness mines that our guidebook, Rock Steven's Ireland, said not to miss. The driving, handled by Jon and Liz, was interesting. The turns and round-abouts didn't seem to pose a big challenge but figuring out the correct distance between the oncoming traffic on the right and the curbs/shrubs on the left proved a little difficult on the narrow, 100 km/h roads. No accidents occurred despite our snooty GPS lady's best efforts to direct us down every 2-meter-wide horse path on the island.
It also took a while to stop thinking "Watch the road for fook's sake!" every time the front seat passenger turned around to say something to the back seaters and "Who would let a six-year old drive a car!" every time we passed a car with a kid in the front. Other than that, adjusting to the Irish lifestyle was all too easy once we figured out a few basic questions such as whether or not ordering coffee in Ireland got you one with whiskey by default unless you ordered it America. It didn't, sadly. We also wondered what they call Irish car bombs. We described them to a few different bartenders and none of them knew what we were talking about. We (I) also pondered whether every good-bye in Ireland was an Irish good-bye and whether that made actually saying good-bye to an Irishman impossible. Yeah...think about it.
Our first stop was the Giant's Causeway which was pretty awesome. Volcanoes: is there anything they can't awesomeize?
Liz at Giant's Causeway
Erin and Jon crossing the Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge
The second night we stayed at Ashford castle, a 19th century home built for the Guinness family. Activities available to guests include golf, equestrian, trap shooting, and falconry. Instead, we stayed up all night with some fresh-out-of-rehab trust fund kid named Don and let him buy us drinks and show us off limits sections of the castle due to his having been coming there for 20 years and being on a first name basis with all the staff. It was a fun night and I even found an unopened Cuban Cohiba somebody had left behind (I know, castle people, right?) and gave it a good home. As Erin succinctly put it the next day, we kind of made that castle our bitch. I think old man Guinness would have been proud. Or appalled. Or both. Anyways, here's to you, Don.
Enjoying our evening at Ashford Castle - Cong
The next day we made a short drive to Galway, a traditional pub and music city on the west coast. It wasn't much for scenery but the music was good, we had conversations with nearly everyone we were within five feet of, and some 20-year-old Ron Weasley look alike took us to Club 903 after the respectable pubs closed.
The next day we were off to Dingle via the Burren. The Burren is one of the most desolate areas in all of Ireland. During one of noted British asshole Cromwell's campaigns in Ireland, one of his generals said of the Burren, "There isn't tree to hang a man, water to drown a man nor soil to bury a man." And thus the residents were spared from Cromwell's protestant murdering. So they had that going for them. We though it was pretty. After a GPS lady-directed goose chase over some of Ireland's narrowest roads, we popped out at a ferry station which took us across the River Shannon onto the Dingle Peninsula, one of the most picturesque shorelines in Ireland and the westernmost point in Europe.
Crossing the River Shannon
Jon and Erin
"The next parish over is Boston," Rick Steve claims the residents are fond of saying. We had to drive across Connor Pass, a one lane road with steep and deadly drops on one side, to get into the town itself. It was exciting, especially since I didn't have to drive it.
The driving loop around the peninsula was fairly breathtaking and we stopped at this 12th century church to renew our wedding vows by touching our thumbs together through a hole in a pre-Christian ogham stone that was already there for hundreds of years when they built the church and saying "I swear to God." Wedding vows, pagan style.
A little less formal the second time around.
We even got a little golf in at a pitch and putt with a very nice backdrop. Jon won.
In Dingle, there lives a (according to Erin and John's Irish friend Mark) gay dolphin named Fungi (FOON-ghee). People go out on boats to see him. What makes him gay, you ask? Risque posters of Flipper on his bedroom walls? A lifelong dream of performing on Sea World, the Dolphin Broadway? A Google search for Fungi+Dingle+Gay+Dolphin yielded a link stating that people think he's gay because he prefers the company of humans to that of his own pod and that he often has bite marks on him that people hypothesize might be the result of unwanted sexual advances made towards other male dolphins. So basically humans are his interspecies fag hags. And also, our IT guy now thinks I have a thing for hot, same-sex scatological mammal-on-mushroom action.
From Dingle, we made our way to Kilkenny, a medieval brewery town in the countries interior. On the way, we stopped in Killarney National Park and the Rock of Cashel, a spooky church ruins built on a defensive high spot that'd been fought over for centuries. Kilkenny itself was decent and had a castle.
Rock of Cashel
From Kilkenny, we completed our loop back to Dublin where we toured Trinity College's library, home to the Book of Kells, a 9th century illustrated version of the gospels written by Celtic monks that obviously took a very long time to complete.
Coffees on the Quad at Trinity College
That night, we met Mark and Finola, the aforementioned, Italy-met friends of Erin and Jon for Italian food and Irish merriment. They were pure Irish gold and we were hip deep in lively conversation practically before names were exchanged. Mark has apparently done some serious face sucking with the Blarney Stone.
We left early the next morning sad to leave but happy to be headed home. We never saw any leprechauns, although we did see a leperchaun colony. Wee fingers and pointy little noses strewn everywhere. Very sad. I already miss Irish breakfast, which consists of meat, including blood sausage. Mmmmmm.
It also took a while to stop thinking "Watch the road for fook's sake!" every time the front seat passenger turned around to say something to the back seaters and "Who would let a six-year old drive a car!" every time we passed a car with a kid in the front. Other than that, adjusting to the Irish lifestyle was all too easy once we figured out a few basic questions such as whether or not ordering coffee in Ireland got you one with whiskey by default unless you ordered it America. It didn't, sadly. We also wondered what they call Irish car bombs. We described them to a few different bartenders and none of them knew what we were talking about. We (I) also pondered whether every good-bye in Ireland was an Irish good-bye and whether that made actually saying good-bye to an Irishman impossible. Yeah...think about it.
Our first stop was the Giant's Causeway which was pretty awesome. Volcanoes: is there anything they can't awesomeize?
Liz at Giant's Causeway
Erin and Jon crossing the Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge
Dunluce Castle
The next day we went to the Cliffs of Moher, which were really, really high. They have a section with retaining walls but those walls end and there's a sign telling you not to go any farther. There's nobody guarding it however so people go to where you can look straight down at a drop that would most certainly ruin your day.
The second night we stayed at Ashford castle, a 19th century home built for the Guinness family. Activities available to guests include golf, equestrian, trap shooting, and falconry. Instead, we stayed up all night with some fresh-out-of-rehab trust fund kid named Don and let him buy us drinks and show us off limits sections of the castle due to his having been coming there for 20 years and being on a first name basis with all the staff. It was a fun night and I even found an unopened Cuban Cohiba somebody had left behind (I know, castle people, right?) and gave it a good home. As Erin succinctly put it the next day, we kind of made that castle our bitch. I think old man Guinness would have been proud. Or appalled. Or both. Anyways, here's to you, Don.
Enjoying our evening at Ashford Castle - CongThe next day we were off to Dingle via the Burren. The Burren is one of the most desolate areas in all of Ireland. During one of noted British asshole Cromwell's campaigns in Ireland, one of his generals said of the Burren, "There isn't tree to hang a man, water to drown a man nor soil to bury a man." And thus the residents were spared from Cromwell's protestant murdering. So they had that going for them. We though it was pretty. After a GPS lady-directed goose chase over some of Ireland's narrowest roads, we popped out at a ferry station which took us across the River Shannon onto the Dingle Peninsula, one of the most picturesque shorelines in Ireland and the westernmost point in Europe.
Crossing the River Shannon
Jon and Erin"The next parish over is Boston," Rick Steve claims the residents are fond of saying. We had to drive across Connor Pass, a one lane road with steep and deadly drops on one side, to get into the town itself. It was exciting, especially since I didn't have to drive it.
The driving loop around the peninsula was fairly breathtaking and we stopped at this 12th century church to renew our wedding vows by touching our thumbs together through a hole in a pre-Christian ogham stone that was already there for hundreds of years when they built the church and saying "I swear to God." Wedding vows, pagan style.
A little less formal the second time around.
We even got a little golf in at a pitch and putt with a very nice backdrop. Jon won.
In Dingle, there lives a (according to Erin and John's Irish friend Mark) gay dolphin named Fungi (FOON-ghee). People go out on boats to see him. What makes him gay, you ask? Risque posters of Flipper on his bedroom walls? A lifelong dream of performing on Sea World, the Dolphin Broadway? A Google search for Fungi+Dingle+Gay+Dolphin yielded a link stating that people think he's gay because he prefers the company of humans to that of his own pod and that he often has bite marks on him that people hypothesize might be the result of unwanted sexual advances made towards other male dolphins. So basically humans are his interspecies fag hags. And also, our IT guy now thinks I have a thing for hot, same-sex scatological mammal-on-mushroom action.
From Dingle, we made our way to Kilkenny, a medieval brewery town in the countries interior. On the way, we stopped in Killarney National Park and the Rock of Cashel, a spooky church ruins built on a defensive high spot that'd been fought over for centuries. Kilkenny itself was decent and had a castle.
Rock of CashelFrom Kilkenny, we completed our loop back to Dublin where we toured Trinity College's library, home to the Book of Kells, a 9th century illustrated version of the gospels written by Celtic monks that obviously took a very long time to complete.
Coffees on the Quad at Trinity College
We left early the next morning sad to leave but happy to be headed home. We never saw any leprechauns, although we did see a leperchaun colony. Wee fingers and pointy little noses strewn everywhere. Very sad. I already miss Irish breakfast, which consists of meat, including blood sausage. Mmmmmm.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Two-wheeled tough guy
If there's one thing I've learned from the cyclists vs. drivers feud, and from life in general, it's that a lot of people are A-holes and/or clueless to the impact their actions have on others. I see it almost every day, from the crosswalk-blocking, into bike lane-swerving drivers to the bikers who ride the wrong way down one ways and make drivers with green lights stop while they cross on red. My favorite Boston biking moment was when an obnoxious woman in a SUV on her cell phone came barreling around a left turn on a green (not a green arrow), slammed on the brakes at the last second to avoid taking out line of bikers who were crossing the street on a walk signal, and screamed "IT IS A GREEN LIGHT!" out her window. "You are an idiot!" I replied, which got a laugh from a few of the other nearly recently deceased pedal commuters. A few months ago I had the dubious honor of giving the finger to possibly the oldest man who's ever been given the finger after he made a left turn right into me, slamming on his brakes only at the last second. We had eye contact the whole time. When I flipped him off he said "Aaaaaagh." A-holeism knows no age. I certainly don't follow all the rules of the road, but when I cross on a red light I make sure nobody is coming and if I briefly ride on the sidewalk to avoid some obstruction I make sure to slow way down and give pedestrians a wide berth.
The bike path I ride on is split, one road for bikes and one for peds. I rarely see bikers on the pedestrian path, but I always see peds on the bike path. It's fine, the bike path is farther from the road and feels more "parky." If I was out with my kids I'd want them to be as far away from the street as possible. But I would also watch them like hawks to make sure they didn't run out in front of speeding cyclists, and I damn sure wouldn't allow the three dogs I was walking to completely obstruct the path. I admit to taking some pleasure in scaring oblivious people as I zip past them with six inches to spare at 15 MPH. My "scare them straight" plan backfired once when a large man took an unexpected step to the left and I hit him and bounced into the grass. I was unhurt, he was unhurt, and he was not angry and apologized (which was lucky for me given his size).
My anger at A-holes had remained internal, however, until I had verbal altercations with two of them this week. The first guy, a "biker", was riding his Magna (Huffy) around in circles in a street while talking on a cell phone. As I passed him and turned onto the bike path, he decided to also turn onto the bike path, and clipped my back tire which almost caused him to wipe out. I just looked back and kept riding. He caught up to me at a stoplight and said (start Puerto Rican accented font) "So you just hit somebody on the street and don't say no sorry no nothing?" (end Puerto Rican accented font) I told him that it was him who had hit me, since bikes don't come with reverse. He mumbled some vague tough guy threats which caused me to laugh at him. He mumbled some more vague tough guy threats centering around something or other not being so funny once he kicked my ass, but then took off riding down the sidewalk in true tough guy fashion. I wondered if he'd be waiting for me the next day but he wasn't, wasting an awesome "I don't really want to fight you but if you insist upon it I will bring the full force of my high school wrestling experience to bear on your ass" speech. Trust me, it was epic.
The next day I was riding in a block-long stretch of road where the asphalt right next to the curb is a mess, a real cyclist deathtrap. So for one block I rode four feet out in the lane. After I'd passed the bad stretch and moved over as far as I could, some A-hole (also in a SUV) passed me and yelled "Ride on the F-in side!" at me. Flush with tough guy vinegar and piss from the day before, I caught up to him at a stoplight and knocked on his window. Also in true tough guy fashion, he didn't want to roll it down. Finally he did and I calmly explained that the condition of the road in that small stretch is terrible and that it is too dangerous to ride on the far right edge. He looked sullen but didn't say anything back. I was wondering what he'd do if and when he passed me again but he never did. I know I shouldn't start anything with anybody in the event that the person is an actual tough guy, or worse, a coward with a pistol but sometimes I can't help it.
The strange thing about biking and the stress in induces is that it doesn't produce any of the somatic changes normally associated with frustration. Something about the physical exercise prevents the white knuckle, vein popping response I get on the rare occasion I drive in rush hour traffic. Maybe it's because my BP is already elevated and my palms sweaty. In any case, I can be riding along wishing butt herpes on a motorist's children and their children's children and still be totally calm. It's a very strange zen-like anger. Someone should do a study. Maybe A-holes are just exercise deprived.
The bike path I ride on is split, one road for bikes and one for peds. I rarely see bikers on the pedestrian path, but I always see peds on the bike path. It's fine, the bike path is farther from the road and feels more "parky." If I was out with my kids I'd want them to be as far away from the street as possible. But I would also watch them like hawks to make sure they didn't run out in front of speeding cyclists, and I damn sure wouldn't allow the three dogs I was walking to completely obstruct the path. I admit to taking some pleasure in scaring oblivious people as I zip past them with six inches to spare at 15 MPH. My "scare them straight" plan backfired once when a large man took an unexpected step to the left and I hit him and bounced into the grass. I was unhurt, he was unhurt, and he was not angry and apologized (which was lucky for me given his size).
My anger at A-holes had remained internal, however, until I had verbal altercations with two of them this week. The first guy, a "biker", was riding his Magna (Huffy) around in circles in a street while talking on a cell phone. As I passed him and turned onto the bike path, he decided to also turn onto the bike path, and clipped my back tire which almost caused him to wipe out. I just looked back and kept riding. He caught up to me at a stoplight and said (start Puerto Rican accented font) "So you just hit somebody on the street and don't say no sorry no nothing?" (end Puerto Rican accented font) I told him that it was him who had hit me, since bikes don't come with reverse. He mumbled some vague tough guy threats which caused me to laugh at him. He mumbled some more vague tough guy threats centering around something or other not being so funny once he kicked my ass, but then took off riding down the sidewalk in true tough guy fashion. I wondered if he'd be waiting for me the next day but he wasn't, wasting an awesome "I don't really want to fight you but if you insist upon it I will bring the full force of my high school wrestling experience to bear on your ass" speech. Trust me, it was epic.
The next day I was riding in a block-long stretch of road where the asphalt right next to the curb is a mess, a real cyclist deathtrap. So for one block I rode four feet out in the lane. After I'd passed the bad stretch and moved over as far as I could, some A-hole (also in a SUV) passed me and yelled "Ride on the F-in side!" at me. Flush with tough guy vinegar and piss from the day before, I caught up to him at a stoplight and knocked on his window. Also in true tough guy fashion, he didn't want to roll it down. Finally he did and I calmly explained that the condition of the road in that small stretch is terrible and that it is too dangerous to ride on the far right edge. He looked sullen but didn't say anything back. I was wondering what he'd do if and when he passed me again but he never did. I know I shouldn't start anything with anybody in the event that the person is an actual tough guy, or worse, a coward with a pistol but sometimes I can't help it.
The strange thing about biking and the stress in induces is that it doesn't produce any of the somatic changes normally associated with frustration. Something about the physical exercise prevents the white knuckle, vein popping response I get on the rare occasion I drive in rush hour traffic. Maybe it's because my BP is already elevated and my palms sweaty. In any case, I can be riding along wishing butt herpes on a motorist's children and their children's children and still be totally calm. It's a very strange zen-like anger. Someone should do a study. Maybe A-holes are just exercise deprived.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Nice little Saturday...
After sleeping in and a leisurely stroll through the Roslindale Village Farmer's Market, it was decided that we must get some exercise in on such a beautiful day. A little exercise turned into a bike expedition around Boston. Stops were made along the way to refuel with Gelato and frozen yogurt. Neither of us had had the pleasure of biking along the Esplanade until the Saturday. It is such a wonderful part of the city. Beautiful benches, shade trees, floating piers offering you the chance to dip your toes in the Charles River, and well groomed walking and biking trails. Below is a map of our route:
About 20 miles total. We followed up our ride with a traditional summer feast of grilled bratwurst, corn on the cob (from the above mentioned farmers market - from the oldest operating farm in the city limits of Boston), and a cucumber/tomato salad. Later that evening we went to see The Black Keys. The Black Keys played at the Bank of America Pavilion located in South Boston right on the waterfront. It is a somewhat open air pavilion with a large canopy covering most of the seats. The weather was perfect and the Black Keys put on an excellent show!
It was a nice little Saturday.
About 20 miles total. We followed up our ride with a traditional summer feast of grilled bratwurst, corn on the cob (from the above mentioned farmers market - from the oldest operating farm in the city limits of Boston), and a cucumber/tomato salad. Later that evening we went to see The Black Keys. The Black Keys played at the Bank of America Pavilion located in South Boston right on the waterfront. It is a somewhat open air pavilion with a large canopy covering most of the seats. The weather was perfect and the Black Keys put on an excellent show!It was a nice little Saturday.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
MN
Although I thought I must have missed a trip somewhere, it turns out that it is true that I hadn't been back to MN since Christmas until this last weekend. I got all giddy as we dropped through the clouds and I saw the Minneapolis skyline to the north. As we taxied to the gate, the clouds parted and the sun peaked through as if to say "Welcome back, Rob."
"Rick. It's Rick."
"Rick, of course. That's what I meant."
"Whatever, Manitoba."
Wait, where was I? Oh yes, the trip. It was basically the best weekend I've had in a while. I purposely didn't plan much in order to just hang with the immediate fam, but ironically I ended up seeing more people than we normally do in a week-long trip and without the usual running around crazily trying to schedule brief visits with everyone. I even ran into my aunt Lois at Costco in the few hours she was home between RV trips. I got some good QT in with Josie and Nathan; they were not afraid of me as I'd feared they would be. Nathan is walking, talking, and throwing anything he can get his hands on. I have never seen a kid who liked to throw "bahs" as much as him. Alli and Niko have him on a pitch count so he doesn't get worn out too early in his career. Here he is preparing to throw a washer at his unsuspecting cousin.
I believe 3-4 hundred per day is about the norm. Josie is very close to walking and talking and enjoys swinging.
Mark and Danita let me have some of my friends over to their house on Friday night and we grilled and chatted. The next day was My Two Dads day. First, Mark and I took Josie to the Red Bull Flugtag at Harriet Island where we were lucky enough to witness the setting of a new world record.
Later, Jeff Lee and I took young Iris and Jeff's new fishing boat out on Coon lake where I even got to catch a few northerns. It would have been my second summer in a row without catching a fish which is unacceptable...of course I bought a license, what a silly question.
Sunday we had a little BBQ at Alli and Niko's house that was attended by Uncle Myron, visiting from his new home in Norway. I hadn't seen him in probably 6-7 years and he is doing well. We played a game of cribbage speaking in southern accents, which I highly recommend. I also saw Aunts Becky and Lori whom I wasn't expecting to see. Niko's marinated NY strips were superb.
Monday I went to a game at that new Target Field I'd been hearing so much about. I was pretty disappointed. The stands were totally empty and they didn't even turn the scoreboard on. Wait, what? The Twins were on the road? Then who were those guys I watched playing baseball? An elaborate hallucination in my head, you say? Well that would explain why they were all wearing pink tuxedos and the right fielder was an omelet. Weird. In any case the two-dimensional zombie Twins beat Chairman Mao, Gargamel, the omelet, and the surviving members of The Jackson Five eleventy bajillion to potato.
What famous Twins reliever spat out these sunflower seeds in the bullpen? Crain? Guerrier? It's hard to know for sure but they tasted kinda Mijares-y.
To round out the trip we met up for pizza on Monday where I saw cousins Stacey and Tammy and first cousin once removed Erin Brown. It was a great trip which ironically made me more than a little sad. It's easier to be gone when you don't see what you're missing. The sky opened up a can of torrential downpour literally the second I walked outside to get in my dad's airport-bound car early Tuesday morning as if to say "OK, you've had your fun now you best be getting back to where you came from, Boston boy."
"Fine, I was out of clean underwear anyways."
"Rick. It's Rick."
"Rick, of course. That's what I meant."
"Whatever, Manitoba."
Wait, where was I? Oh yes, the trip. It was basically the best weekend I've had in a while. I purposely didn't plan much in order to just hang with the immediate fam, but ironically I ended up seeing more people than we normally do in a week-long trip and without the usual running around crazily trying to schedule brief visits with everyone. I even ran into my aunt Lois at Costco in the few hours she was home between RV trips. I got some good QT in with Josie and Nathan; they were not afraid of me as I'd feared they would be. Nathan is walking, talking, and throwing anything he can get his hands on. I have never seen a kid who liked to throw "bahs" as much as him. Alli and Niko have him on a pitch count so he doesn't get worn out too early in his career. Here he is preparing to throw a washer at his unsuspecting cousin.
I believe 3-4 hundred per day is about the norm. Josie is very close to walking and talking and enjoys swinging.
Mark and Danita let me have some of my friends over to their house on Friday night and we grilled and chatted. The next day was My Two Dads day. First, Mark and I took Josie to the Red Bull Flugtag at Harriet Island where we were lucky enough to witness the setting of a new world record.
Later, Jeff Lee and I took young Iris and Jeff's new fishing boat out on Coon lake where I even got to catch a few northerns. It would have been my second summer in a row without catching a fish which is unacceptable...of course I bought a license, what a silly question.
Sunday we had a little BBQ at Alli and Niko's house that was attended by Uncle Myron, visiting from his new home in Norway. I hadn't seen him in probably 6-7 years and he is doing well. We played a game of cribbage speaking in southern accents, which I highly recommend. I also saw Aunts Becky and Lori whom I wasn't expecting to see. Niko's marinated NY strips were superb.
Monday I went to a game at that new Target Field I'd been hearing so much about. I was pretty disappointed. The stands were totally empty and they didn't even turn the scoreboard on. Wait, what? The Twins were on the road? Then who were those guys I watched playing baseball? An elaborate hallucination in my head, you say? Well that would explain why they were all wearing pink tuxedos and the right fielder was an omelet. Weird. In any case the two-dimensional zombie Twins beat Chairman Mao, Gargamel, the omelet, and the surviving members of The Jackson Five eleventy bajillion to potato.
What famous Twins reliever spat out these sunflower seeds in the bullpen? Crain? Guerrier? It's hard to know for sure but they tasted kinda Mijares-y.
To round out the trip we met up for pizza on Monday where I saw cousins Stacey and Tammy and first cousin once removed Erin Brown. It was a great trip which ironically made me more than a little sad. It's easier to be gone when you don't see what you're missing. The sky opened up a can of torrential downpour literally the second I walked outside to get in my dad's airport-bound car early Tuesday morning as if to say "OK, you've had your fun now you best be getting back to where you came from, Boston boy."
"Fine, I was out of clean underwear anyways."
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
We're Talkin' Softball
Anybody who's anybody knows that Liz and I greatly looked forward to Thursdays in MN, mostly because it was co-ed softball night on team Monkey Knife Fight. The fact that there were delicious 2-for1 Summits and cheap, not-entirely-disgusting pizza at The Pizza Pie and I after the games didn't hurt either but it was mostly about playing softball on a pretty good team in a pretty bad league. We never got on a team in St. Louis and other than one fill-in role in one game during a trip home (batted .500 for that season), we took a three-year hiatus from the "sport." Meanwhile, Monkey Knife Fight won the league championship without us, which "hurt". So I was pumped when, half way through the season, our neighbors invited us to play on their team last summer. Their team was ungood, having failed to win a game prior to our acquisition. It was a fun team none the less, populated mainly by lab rats (thus the team name, The Lab Rats) originally hailing from other countries. It's also fun to be a better than average player on a pretty poor team, wowing them with skills such as pop-up catching and knowing when there's a force out. Alas, team captains Chris and Mandy had a baby this spring so the team was disbanded.
Instead, Chris and I have been playing with our other neighbor Paul's (of Paul and Diedre fame) team, Dedham VFW (I know, what kind of stupid name is that?). It is an entirely different game than what I have been used to playing. First, it's a men's league, which ups the competitiveness substantially. Second, it's modified fastpitch, meaning that although you can't windmill your arm, certain pitchers (usually cagey veterans in their sixties) can sling the ball in pretty rapidly, probably in the low-50 MPH range. Also, you can leave the base as soon as the ball leaves the pitcher's hand although the catcher can throw to the base you left and it's a force out. People get picked off, albeit infrequently. I was a little nervous playing in my first game, what with not wanting to suck and all. I got subbed in at 2B after the started had struck out thrice, but didn't get up to bat. In the second game I hit two Texas league doubles and made two nice put outs on bad throws at second. Since then I've been hitting well over .700 despite probably a third of my hits being bloops. I either hit 'em hard or so weakly that the outfielders don't have a chance. They all look the same in the scorebook, as the saying goes. So far we're 9 and 5, good for 4th place out of 8 teams in the league. Yesterday we played a team of mostly Spanish speaking gentlemen, four or five of whom were in the 5'5'' range and several of whom wore the number nine. We were joking about there having been a tense Mexican standoff about who got to wear "9" but fortunately someone came up with the "everybody can wear 9" solution before there was bloodshed (shortest guy: "Even me?" Other guys: "Yes, Pepe, even you.") Borderline interesting fact: Spanish speakers yell "quatro" when telling someone to throw the ball home. I maybe expected "casa."
The people on the team are pure Boston gold. We normally head down to the VFW after the games for cheap beer and gambling. Any kind of gambling. Darts? Five dollar buy-in tournaments. Poker games? Affirmative. Celebrity dead pool? Oh you better believe there's a celebrity dead pool (10$ buy in, pay out depends on how young your pick died). Many bars out here have video keno in them, sort of like pull tabs. We play "ghetto keno" however, which means everyone picks a number and you win if your and only your number comes up, dollar a round. The first week a ~100 dollar pot was won by the coach's 13 year old son. Our shortstop (currently benched by a bout of gout), the first person to consistently call me Ricky since 1984, was giving him grief about buying a round with his winnings. "You effed up my playoff pool last year, I don't owe you nothin'!" says the kid. The next week, the same guy was asking him if he'd blown his 100 bucks yet. "It was only 80 after I paid back this ass clown!" says the kid, referring to his father who'd fronted him all the dollars the week before. The dad calls the kid "Shithead," though, so turnabout, fair play, etc. In addition to these characters, there's a bookie, a guy who generally shows up still hammered, sits on the bench and has a few more beers, then goes in and plays a few innings of pretty solid ball, a guy who wears blue Bike coaching shorts that leave very, very little to the imagination, and a gay guy whose home run percentage is probably .700 (I have since been told that the guy is not actually gay, they were just "messin' with me"). Bettter story if he's gay but whatever. I understand the post-season party is epic to there's that to look forward to.
Instead, Chris and I have been playing with our other neighbor Paul's (of Paul and Diedre fame) team, Dedham VFW (I know, what kind of stupid name is that?). It is an entirely different game than what I have been used to playing. First, it's a men's league, which ups the competitiveness substantially. Second, it's modified fastpitch, meaning that although you can't windmill your arm, certain pitchers (usually cagey veterans in their sixties) can sling the ball in pretty rapidly, probably in the low-50 MPH range. Also, you can leave the base as soon as the ball leaves the pitcher's hand although the catcher can throw to the base you left and it's a force out. People get picked off, albeit infrequently. I was a little nervous playing in my first game, what with not wanting to suck and all. I got subbed in at 2B after the started had struck out thrice, but didn't get up to bat. In the second game I hit two Texas league doubles and made two nice put outs on bad throws at second. Since then I've been hitting well over .700 despite probably a third of my hits being bloops. I either hit 'em hard or so weakly that the outfielders don't have a chance. They all look the same in the scorebook, as the saying goes. So far we're 9 and 5, good for 4th place out of 8 teams in the league. Yesterday we played a team of mostly Spanish speaking gentlemen, four or five of whom were in the 5'5'' range and several of whom wore the number nine. We were joking about there having been a tense Mexican standoff about who got to wear "9" but fortunately someone came up with the "everybody can wear 9" solution before there was bloodshed (shortest guy: "Even me?" Other guys: "Yes, Pepe, even you.") Borderline interesting fact: Spanish speakers yell "quatro" when telling someone to throw the ball home. I maybe expected "casa."
The people on the team are pure Boston gold. We normally head down to the VFW after the games for cheap beer and gambling. Any kind of gambling. Darts? Five dollar buy-in tournaments. Poker games? Affirmative. Celebrity dead pool? Oh you better believe there's a celebrity dead pool (10$ buy in, pay out depends on how young your pick died). Many bars out here have video keno in them, sort of like pull tabs. We play "ghetto keno" however, which means everyone picks a number and you win if your and only your number comes up, dollar a round. The first week a ~100 dollar pot was won by the coach's 13 year old son. Our shortstop (currently benched by a bout of gout), the first person to consistently call me Ricky since 1984, was giving him grief about buying a round with his winnings. "You effed up my playoff pool last year, I don't owe you nothin'!" says the kid. The next week, the same guy was asking him if he'd blown his 100 bucks yet. "It was only 80 after I paid back this ass clown!" says the kid, referring to his father who'd fronted him all the dollars the week before. The dad calls the kid "Shithead," though, so turnabout, fair play, etc. In addition to these characters, there's a bookie, a guy who generally shows up still hammered, sits on the bench and has a few more beers, then goes in and plays a few innings of pretty solid ball, a guy who wears blue Bike coaching shorts that leave very, very little to the imagination, and a gay guy whose home run percentage is probably .700 (I have since been told that the guy is not actually gay, they were just "messin' with me"). Bettter story if he's gay but whatever. I understand the post-season party is epic to there's that to look forward to.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
In the Footsteps of Dr. Foster
Had a nice little Memorial Day weekend out here. We ate ribs not once, not twice, but thrice. We also did some masonic work necessitated by the excessive spring rainfall:
I probably shouldn't tell you this, but we also hid an ancient secret behind one of the stones that the world's most powerful entities would literally kill for. Which stone, you ask? Well, the trick is realizing that the stones follow a non-Euclidean geometric pattern superimposed over a Fibonacci grid corresponding to the chapter headings in Plato's Republic. Once you figure that out, it's pretty obvious. What secret, you ask? Oh, simply a collection of arcane documents that would blow the roof off of everything we think we know about God, the origins of the universe, secrets of the ancient Mayan calendar, the stock market, and Sasquatch. Fine, it's a complete set of 1989 Donruss baseball cards and a copy of that Playboy that has Shannen Doherty in it.
On Monday, we, like Dr. Foster before us, went to Gloucester. It was sunny despite some haze from those wildfires up in Quebec, so no puddles were encountered and if they had been, we would not have stepped in them since we were on bicycle rather than foot. Thus, I think we'll probably go there again.
Who patched up this retaining wall?
Put cancer in Lance Armstrong's ball?
Wee Dooooo. Wee Dooooooo.
I probably shouldn't tell you this, but we also hid an ancient secret behind one of the stones that the world's most powerful entities would literally kill for. Which stone, you ask? Well, the trick is realizing that the stones follow a non-Euclidean geometric pattern superimposed over a Fibonacci grid corresponding to the chapter headings in Plato's Republic. Once you figure that out, it's pretty obvious. What secret, you ask? Oh, simply a collection of arcane documents that would blow the roof off of everything we think we know about God, the origins of the universe, secrets of the ancient Mayan calendar, the stock market, and Sasquatch. Fine, it's a complete set of 1989 Donruss baseball cards and a copy of that Playboy that has Shannen Doherty in it.
On Monday, we, like Dr. Foster before us, went to Gloucester. It was sunny despite some haze from those wildfires up in Quebec, so no puddles were encountered and if they had been, we would not have stepped in them since we were on bicycle rather than foot. Thus, I think we'll probably go there again.
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