Dirty dining, an American tradition

"Our metal tubs of steaming goo await you!"

Few things speak to how wonderful America is in terms of having an abundance of valuable resources like the all-you-can-eat buffet. Not that the buffet itself is wonderful; it isn't. In fact, it's awful. But the fact that it exists is truly spectacular. And not just one of them, like the Grand Canyon or Old Faithful. They actually exist by the thousands. In some places, there are several of them within walking distance of each other. There are people in the world who are utterly incapable of processing that fact.

VISITOR FROM ANOTHER COUNTRY: (Sees pan of food) I-I can eat that?
BUFFET SERVER: You sure can. As much as you want!
VISITOR: All of it? Everything in the whole pan??
SERVER: Well, yeah. But that means you'll probably get full before you can try the other food.
VISITOR: Other food?!? (Glances to left and right, sees what looks like endless rows of pans of food, gets dizzy, drops to one knee)
SERVER: I'm sorry, sir. If the selection here doesn't please you, there's another buffet across the street.
VISITOR: (Head and stomach explode)

Yes, the existence of the all-you-can-eat buffet should be a source of national pride. What a shame they're all so disgusting.
Last week, a local TV station did a story on a local buffet restaurant, the Fresh Point Country Buffet on U.S. 19 in Pinellas Park, that racked up a whopping 112 health code violations during four separate inspections in one week during January. This is a development that should be filed under "Of Course". Considering that the food, all of which, from the fried chicken to the mashed potatoes to the sweet corn to the pizza, takes on a gelatinous consistency over time, is prepared in mass quantities by people who have never in their lives been eligible to attend the Sorbonne, and is "served" by leaving it in open containers where diners with widely varying levels of ability in manipulating serving utensils and who may or may not have washed/licked their hands recently scoop it out and on to their plates, 112 violations sounds about right. In short, you sort of know what you're getting when it comes to the all-you-can-eat buffet, and it ain't good. You're not allowed to be shocked when TV tells you what you should have been born knowing by virtue of having enough common sense to figure out how to open and close your mouth for the purpose of getting food inside of you.
Also from the "Of Course" file is the fact that the restaurant didn't close and that was just fine with customers:

"I'm happy to come here," said customer Everett DeWitt. "It doesn't scare me a bit!"

Dine on, Everett! This seems like an ideal setup, actually. After choking down as much as possible at the disgusting restaurant, you can lurch your way next door to the disgusting La Quinta, grunting and sloshing like a garbage bag full of gravy, where you collapse into a coma and sweat it out before staggering back for dinner.
USA! USA! USA!

Let me sell your stuff!

Blabbity blab blab blah!

Hey business people or those of you who have something to sell, I'M LOOKING FOR YOU!
Oh hey, there you are. How's it going? Listen, I have this blog and recently I launched a podcast. And now, I am looking for sponsors.
STOP!
Hear me out. First...and best... of all, this will cost you nothing. Zero dollars. No money whatsoever. I will advertise your product or service for free.
What's the catch, you ask? Well, in terms of money, there isn't one. I was totally serious about this being free. Free now, and free forever*. But yeah, of course there's a catch. Ready? Here it is: I get to write the ad. Meaning, I get to say whatever I want. Some of you might be saying, "Yep, knew it. Bad idea. I'm out" because you automatically assume I'm going to say terrible things about whatever it is you're selling. And you're correct... if what you're selling is something terrible. Otherwise you're fine and have nothing to worry about. Here are two concrete examples of what I'm talking about...

GOOD PRODUCT
This month's episode of The Ridiculously Inconsistent Podcast is brought to you by Girl Scout Cookies. That's right, fantastic, wonderful Girl Scout Cookies. Order some today!

BAD PRODUCT
This month's episode of The Ridiculously Inconsistent Podcast is brought to you by the Westboro Baptist Church. That's right, the Westboro Baptist Church, the most inept hate mongers since the Nazis in a Mel Brooks movie. Fuck those guys!

See? Absolutely nothing to worry about unless you're responsible for some shitty product that makes life worse for people. And even then, it's still free! So sign up today, because we're planning March's podcast already!




* That's if you get on board now; I reserve the right to charge people up to their eyeballs if this thing takes off some day.

I'm taking credit for this

On Monday, December 30, 2013, I posted this blog entry:
"How to fix the Bucs"
Which contained this line:

"We should probably do something about that godawful combover first. You're a frightening skull; just because the last logo had a glorious, long-flowing mane, you don't need to be self-conscious about your 'do, man!"

On Thursday, February 20. 2014, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers changed their primary logo from this:

To this...

Coincidence? I think not. Either way, you're welcome!

Storms are scarier than they used to be

Things change when you get your own house. For starters, it's better. Don't let any of the negative things I'm about to type make you think otherwise; having a place truly of your own is so much more better than renting an apartment that it's disgusting. Granted, circumstances can differ: having a nice apartment in New York might beat the daylights out of owning a house there. But from where I'm sitting, which is my house in Tampa, Florida, it's really a simple case of wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!
There are some drawbacks, though. I was reminded of one yesterday when I was out on a grocery run during a nasty thunderstorm. That's when the radio broadcast was interrupted by a storm warning, or tornadoes actually. Bad weather is always scary because ultimately, you can't do anything about it. You can't call the cops about lightning strikes. You can't get a bunch of your friends together to look tough in your front yard when a tornado drives by. Basically, all the authorities can do is say, "good luck because we're all kinda in this together."
When I lived in an apartment, I'd hear these warnings and be mildly concerned, but it didn't go much further than "guess somebody's going to be getting me a hotel room because my lease is paid up". Now it's more like, "Oh please, please, don't tear up my shit!" That is scary.
It doesn't help that the warnings themselves are so creepy. They break into your favorite radio broadcast with this screeching noise:

ERRK! ERRK! ERRK!

Then a poignant pause.
Then again with the

ERRK! ERRK! ERRK!

Another dramatic pause, and then a recorded speech:

"The National Weather Service has issued a Tornado Warning for the following counties: Polk, Hernando, Hillsborough, Pinellas and Manatee until 6:00PM. Conditions exist..."

But it's not a real human, it's a computer generated robo speech, so it comes out like this:

 "Thee National Weather SerVICE has issued a tornadowarn ing for THEE follow ing counties: Polkernando, Hillsbor-ough, Pin ell us and Monate until SIX pee EM."

Ugh!! That robot doesn't care enough to pronounce our counties correctly! What concern is there if we're safe or not?!? That part of the process can certainly be upgraded. They can digitize everything these days, why not pay a huge grant to PBS in exchange for the rights to digitize the voice of the late Mr. Rogers for the sake of recording all our warnings?

"In times of stress, the best thing we can do for each other is to listen with our ears and our hearts and to be assured that our questions are just as important as our answers. Now, In this particular time of stress, I need you to listen with your ears because there's a tornado warning for Polk, Hernando, Hillsborough, Pinellas and Manatee counties until 6:00PM. Have you ever seen a manatee? They have whiskers! Do you think a manatee can tell time? No? Me neither. So we all need to watch the clock together until 6:00PM when we'll all be safe again. Can you do that? I know you can!"

Interview: Spike "Spike on the Mic" Slater

The podcast was so nice, we're doing it (at least) twice!
That's right, once again we take a break from the keyboard and get behind the microphone with the return of The Ridiculously Inconsistent Podcast (or TRIP if you like unintentionally cool acronyms). This month, in honor of Black History Month, I'm talking to an actual black guy, a guy who is no stranger to the microphone, the legendary Spike Slater. Spike is the host of the award-deserving "Spike on the Mic Show"*, a show that I appear on fairly regularly, but he's been a part of the local radio landscape here in Tampa Bay for the better part of the last decade. He's also the last black man to kiss me.

Give this one a listen and learn how the two of us tackle all of the issues between white and black people (mixed results, at best) as well as all kinds of things you didn't know about Spike himself. THIS is the definitive Spike interview (in case there are other ones out there).

Click here to check it out.

* On a related note, consider this your personal invitation to check out the "Spike on the Mic Show" itself. We broadcast live from Pin Chasers Bowling Center at 4847 N. Armenia Avenue in Tampa Monday nights at 7PM. You can pick it up live at www.spikeonthemic.com. You can be a part of it by calling in at (813) 66SPIKE (813.667.7453). Not only that, but you can also join us in person! We do it at a bowling alley, so you can get food and beer and stuff. Why not? It's good times. If you haven't listened before, you'd be doing us a favor because we're only 189 unique viewers from 2000, a mark we're trying to hit before March 1st because there's a prize or something. I really have no idea.

Happy Presidents' Day!

Welcome to Presidents' Day, or as it is officially known, Washington's Birthday, which was originally intended to celebrate George Washington, the first man elected to the office of President of the United States and the last white man to be named Washington. Now we just call it Presidents' Day, to commemorate every guy (sorry, ladies) who has ever held the job.

"I'm out, bitches!" (Not shown: dropped mic)

So take some time today to think about those who accepted the challenge of holding the position of leader of the greatest and most powerful nation on earth (sorry, ladies and most non-white dudes), kick back and enjoy one regularly priced Big Mac or Quarter Pounder with Cheese and get a second one for only a penny from McDonald's!



PICTURED: Manifest destiny
(NOTE: Actual sandwiches never look like this)

 Hey, thanks, Presidents of the United States!

In other words, perfect

He couldn't bear the thought of being one of those scorned, ridiculed and pitied for being alone on Valentine's Day. It was unfortunate that he came to this realization on February 2nd, as it put him behind schedule but he was undaunted. He'd identified a suitable object of affection. She was attractive but not to the extent that she would be put off by his advances. He imagined that her speaking voice wouldn't be too grating and that her laugh, if she were inclined to find something humorous, would be pleasant and not too overbearing. In other words, she was perfect.
He decided that in light of the time constraint imposed by his hasty realization that what was needed to get her attention was a single, grand and spectacular gesture. He thought relatively long and hard about what to do before eventually deciding that he would steal a motorcycle and give it to her as a present. His reasoning was sound: women like tough guys, tough guys ride motorcycles, women like nice guys, nice guys give presents, women like men who steal things, a man who steals motorcycles to give as presents is ideal. In other words, perfect.
This was, sadly, the best and most logical plan he had ever come up with. What made it sad is that she was entirely unimpressed. Mostly because she didn't know anything about it. He had been caught in the act and apprehended. In other words, beaten severely by the owner of the motorcycle.
He pleaded incessantly with the doctors and nurses at the hospital, imploring them to release him so he could secure his intended sweetheart's love in time for Valentine's Day. They rejected his pleas on the grounds that a man whose injuries were so severe as to require the removal of his spleen should take a few days to convalesce. In other words, lay around and do nothing.
This displeased him but he had no choice. As he lay there in bed, he thought about his plan and tried to figure out how it had failed. He ran it over and over in his mind and eventually came to the conclusion that it had been too grand and spectacular. A smaller, simpler gesture would have been much easier to execute and could have just as much romantic impact as a grand, spectacular gesture. Women are simple, foolish creatures when it comes to romance, he reasoned, without the discernment to tell the difference between small and simple or grand and spectacular. He was pleased with himself for figuring this out, mostly because he had done so on February 13th. In other words, he still had time to commit the small and simple gesture that would win her heart in time for Valentine's Day.
With mighty effort he pulled himself out of the hospital bed. Taking slow, painstaking steps down the hall to the hospital gift shop. With the last bit of money he had, he purchased a shiny, red, mylar balloon in the shape of a heart and filled with helium. He shuffled out of the hospital before an orderly could stop him and immediately stepped into the path of an incoming ambulance. It started to rain as the heart-shaped balloon slowly floated up into some overhead power lines, causing a transformer to explode, knocking out power for four blocks, including the hospital. In other words, a whole bunch of people in the hospital died.
Somewhere across town, the woman he had hoped to woo watched the story of the hospital blackout on television and expressed scorn, ridicule and pity towards somebody who would equate love with a single, arbitrarily selected date on a calendar and kill a bunch of people in a hospital while getting run over by an ambulance as a result of this confusion. In other words, perfect.

Let us heal

As many of you are aware, this is Black History Month. I'd like to take this occasion to bring to light an egregious situation that has existed for far too long. It never should have existed in the first place and the fact that it continues now is beyond embarrassing. Well, it ends today, people. Right now. This can not continue for one more day, all right? It's time for us to finally unite as one nation and right this wrong.

This is not Mushmouth. This is Dumb Donald.

THIS is Mushmouth. He's not dumb; he has a speech impediment. Donald is dumb, hence the name "Dumb Donald". 

Let us pick up the pieces and move forward from here.
Thank you.

Have a heart for HART

Longtime readers probably remember some of my adventures riding the local bus lines, operated by the Hillsborough Area Regional Transit (HART). I don't really miss those days, although the stories were fun to write and I'm certainly glad that I could rely on their services when I needed them.
The other day, a friend on Facebook posted a lengthy post complaining about the service they received at the Gasparilla Night Parade. I can't comment on anybody else's experiences but all I know is I was without a car for the better part of a year and I was able to keep my job because of HART. I don't know about the special event services but as far as the day-to-day service was concerned, they were reliable enough to get me to work, pick up my dry cleaning, go grocery shopping and generally manage my affairs. Any time I had a problem, which was rare, it was responded to quickly and professionally. If I'd lost my job, it's not a stretch to say I'd be out on the street right now. As it is, I now own a car and a house this past fall. If I don't owe my life to HART, I owe them at least partial thanks for where I am now.
I don't know what happened at the parade but I just kind of felt obligated to put that out there.

Checking in with the happy couple

Do you remember Tom and Rachel, the couple I married at Jimbo's Pit BBQ back in October? Well, they are still married! That was over three whole months ago, which means I am very good at marrying. You should keep that in mind if you're planning on getting married. Ooh, I will marry you so hard. I will marry you all night long!!
For Christmas, Tom and Rachel had me over for dinner (shrimp boil!) at the home they moved into after getting married. Dinner was great (shrimp boil!) and the house is lovely. It's got a caged pool and a rec room. It's really nice. Of course, things being hectic as they are these days, they're still in the process of making it over into their home. One of the areas they have yet to make over is the bathroom adjacent to the rec room.

RACHEL: "Please try not to notice the wallpaper. It's horrible and embarrassing."
ME: "Hey, no problem."
(approximately four minutes later)
ME: "Rachel, I noticed the wallpaper. It's horrble and embarrassing."
RACHEL: "I told you!"
ME: "I'm afraid you know what has to happen now."
RACHEL: "Oh God, please don't blog about it. We're replacing it soon!"
ME: "I'm sorry. I've already taken pictures. There's nothing that can be done now."
RACHEL: "(Sigh) All right. Fine."

Rachel, unfortunately, know how things work. Anyway, here are the pics. Enjoy and have a great weekend!

First of all, in my own defense, I'd like to know how I was not supposed to notice this?

I mean, considering that it was everywhere. Did someone wearing a muumuu explode?

I'm told there's a cabinet in here somewhere. I think you have to hit a secret panel or maybe tilt one of those soap dishes to open it.

Hey, does anybody remember empathy?

My friend Molly Field recently wrote this piece on the passing of actor Philip Seymour Hoffman. Specifically, she wrote about somebody she knows who felt it necessary for some reason to respond to the news of Hoffman's death by labeling him a "bum". Actually, "a self-interested bum" to be precise, presumably because initial reports indicated that Hoffman died of a drug (heroin) overdose. I enjoyed his movies and appreciate his talent, but beyond that, I don't have any kind of tangible connection to Philip Seymour Hoffman and I'll bet this associate of Molly's didn't either. I don't feel I'm qualified to proclaim Hoffman a hero any more than this other guy is qualified to condemn him as a bum. More importantly, who cares what we think? Even more importantly, why would we think it matters to anybody what we think? Talk about "self-interested". What propels us to rush out and cast a verdict on people based on a relatively trivial factoid we just learned about them?
People are going to blame the internet. "It's Twitter and Facebook and all this stuff that lets people be anonymous and makes them say terrible things", they'll say. To which, I reply Bullshit. Why are an overwhelming majority of the rash, impetuous things people say on Twitter and elsewhere nasty and vitriolic? How come nobody ever has to go back and retract something they said because it was unjustifiably nice? Is Twitter responsible for the spite and meanness that people spew and if so, exactly how does that work? Seriously, tell me how to make it do that, because mine will only spit out whatever words that come from my head that I type into it with my fingers.
We just got finished with the Super Bowl, during which we ran Richard Sherman, a professional football player who most of us had never heard of before, though this instant judgment/trial by no jury process, based upon a TV appearance that lasted less than a minute:

• "He's a thug." = "I mean, just look at him." - Most of us who knew nothing about him
• "He's not a thug; he went to Stanford" = "Nobody who ever went to a good school ever did anything wrong" - Most of us who knew slightly more than nothing about him

And the thing was, it seemed to matter less who was right and who was wrong than it did how quickly you could get behind an argument. When that's not only the goal but also the criteria used for achieving it, it's pretty obvious that not a lot of value is placed on introspection or consideration and that the good ol' benefit of doubt is going to be a casualty. Why is that? Who decided that the rush to judgment is more important than any kind of thought that goes into that judgment?
Without knowing Philip Seymour Hoffman, I don't feel comfortable saying he was a hero or a bum. However, with the benefit of a doubt, I do feel comfortable in guessing that he was a person with problems and that he did what he thought was best on a daily basis in dealing with those problems. That description applies to virtually every person I know, although the individual circumstances and results may differ a great deal. He wasn't perfect but neither is anybody I know, including the ones currently "making it". It definitely applies to me. As a result, I have no reason to believe it doesn't apply to the vast majority of people, known or unknown, just out there walking around, doing things and trying to keep it together in a possibly doomed-from-the-start effort to experience more happiness than sadness before they die. Life is a sytruggle. Some people deal with it better than others. Philip Seymour Hoffman was one who didn't/couldn't handle it well. He's gone now and people whose lives were touched by him are sad about that. All those people are just like you and me and they deserve better than scorn and derision when they "fail". They certainly deserve better than you being "FIRST!" to point it out in some stupid and ultimately meaningless on-line forum. They deserve some empathy, because that could just as easily be you. Or me, or somebody who looks like they have it all figured out.
Listen, the next time something like this happens... and it won't be longer than a few days at the most... stop for just a second and do the following:
Reclaim your right to think.
Reclaim your right to feel.
Reclaim your connection to your fellow human beings, with whom you have more in common than you probably realize.
And go ahead and be totally selfish about it. Do these things for yourself and nobody else. I promise we'll all be better off for it anyway.

Murderstall

Hey, here's something that happened the other day.
First, while this may qualify as TMI, it's important for the sake of the story that you know that when I visit a public restroom, I will take every possible step to avoid using a urinal. I think they're gross. There's the whole splash-back factor plus a lack of privacy between neighbors. I will always wait for a stall with a good ol' toilet in it. And if there's no particular demand, I'll hold out for the accessible stall, the one designed for people in wheelchairs and with other impediments. Those are downright plush. They're self-contained miniature domestic environments with their own hand sinks, soap dispensers and paper towels. Some of them are bigger than apartments. I get in there and I immediately feel comfortable. I feel like I can relax, get all the way naked if I want to, walk around, stretch out, collect my thoughts, and do whatever I need to get myself together and face the world. It's truly a rest room under those circumstances.
The obvious drawback is what, though? That's right; keeping someone who actually needs it from using it. That's a truly awful thing to do to another person so I never go in there ahead of anybody who obviously has some special needs. But there's always the threat of coming out and encountering someone waiting, scowling at you as you walk out. For that reason, I have an appropriately indignant response prepared if that somebody engages me in a conversation about it.

"Hey man, just because I'm not in a wheelchair doesn't mean I'm not disabled. You don't know. I might have been injured in combat and it's like ham salad down there. I mean, I didn't and it's not. The point is you don't know what I have going on and so you can't judge me. Don't judge me!!"

By then, I will have been able to get out of there and if he actually needs to use the facilities, which he probably does, he isn't going to follow me. Take that, wheelie!
The other night, I was at the grocery store and went to the restroom, where I occupied the preferred accomodations. I came out and there he was, a guy in a wheelchair, scowling at me. The first thing I notice, aside from the scowl, is the jacket he's wearing with the Brazillian flag on it. Right after that, I notice the words "WHEELCHAIR RUGBY". If I'm not mistaken, and I'm not, that's the sport that's also known as Murderball. And who plays Murderball? Logic would dictate that the answer is murderers. I worked all of this out before I noticed the four guys behind him in wheelchairs, wearing the same jacket and very similar scowls. Good thing I rehearsed my response for this exact situation.

"Hey man... Hey. I'm not... I'm not in a wheelchair. I'm not...uh...disabled. You know. I might have been injured. Ham salad, uh, down there. I mean... it's not. The point is... the point is you don't. Don't judge... Don't kill me!!"

I think that went about as well as could be expected.

Now I have a podcast Ho-Ho-Ho

Have you ever wanted to read my blog but thought, "Gee, I sure wish I could just hear this dude say things instead of having to sit here and run up the minutes on my eyeballs. Dang."
Well, that's weird, but okay. Guess what? Today is your lucky day! Today, we (big Thanks to the maestro, PW Fenton) officially launch "The Ridiculously Inconsistent Podcast". Once a month or so, more or less, we'll do a new one and it will serve as a companion piece to this here blog. Not exactly the same stuff, but new and different stuff that also kind of goes with this stuff. It's synergy, something that is suposed to be very important from a business standpoint. Go ahead and give it a listen to learn more (about the podcast, not about synergy)!
Also, it's not officially up on iTunes yet, it will be in a few days. Stay tuned.
In the meantime, go ahead and check it out from here. It's a lousy 6:25 and don't cost nothin'. What, you got somethin' better to do, hotshot?)

Yeah, Let's Talk

Yesterday was Bell's annual "Let's Talk" day, designed to be a "first step towards meaningful change and building greater awareness, acceptance, and action" regarding the stigma of mental illness.
Here are the particulars...

Today, let's talk.
Bell will donate 5¢ more to mental health initiatives for every:

• Text message sent

• Mobile and long distance call made

• Tweet using #BellLetsTalk

• Facebook share of our Bell Let’s Talk image

I hate this kind of thing. Not the fact that a corporation has launched an initiative to bring attention to and raise money for an issue that needs both of those things. That's actually lovely. Not the fact that it's a pretty blatant publicity grab. I don't have a problem with a big corporation doing something to help people puffing out their chests a little bit. Go ahead and take a victory lap, Bell.

No, what I hate is when corporations tie their donations directly to performance measures that customers have to achieve. Look, you've got $X million in the budget for this? Great. Fork it over. Let's go. Give it to us. I mean, please and thanks and all but don't dangle it like a carrot and sit back watching people engage in a series of stunts for your entertainment. That doesn't seem nice at all. 

"Look! We had more money! Too bad we didn't see a few more of those hashtags, huh?"

Yoplait does this with their foil lid collection and so does Major League Baseball with home runs. I hate those programs too, for the same reason. Especially baseball's "Home Run Challenge" where each home run hit during a certain period equals money donated to the fight against prostate cancer. Why? Because the very real possibility of this happening...

"Wow, what a fantastic catch by Rios! Boy oh boy, he must really like cancer!"

Listen big corporations, you can still have your promotion. You're still entitled to all the publicity and credit you can generate for doing it. All your efforts will be appreciated just as much. Just give us the money, okay?

Sick day. No jokes today, Come back Wednesday

The headline and the picture below basically spell out the situation, but yeah, I have no material for you today. I'll be fine after I spend all day today in bed because I am an adult American male and when I get the sniffly wifflies and/or the pukey wukies, lying in bed and moaning is all I'm capable of.
And now, in what I would like to think of as the grossest segue ever, I'd like to invite you to check out my friend Clare's new blog "Puckology" whilst you wait for me to be suitably mended as to be able to render new fart jokes. Don't be deterred by the title, non-sports fans. She goes deeper than hockey. A lot deeper. Check it out.Just don't like her better than me (if you do, don't tell me about it).
I have to go now; I'm in the kind of pain that is surely worse than that experienced by ladyfolk during childbirth.)

Shown here: My stomach

On Richard Sherman and athletes talking about stuff

I didn't want to have to write a post about this because I was bored with this story within hours of it happening and I'd hoped people would have stopped talking about it by now. They (you) haven't so now I feel obligated to chime in. Here goes:
I'd like to think that I did not form an opinion of Richard Sherman and his character based on the brief "interview" with him conducted by Erin Andrews (who never even got her initial question answered) after the Seattle Seahawks defeated the San Francisco 49ers for a berth in the upcoming Super Bowl. Mostly because I'd like to believe I'm not the kind of person who would do that, but I'm only human and there's all that stuff about first impressions. I do remember watching the interview and saying, "Well, here's hoping you lose the Super Bowl" so maybe I'm guilty. Although I'm pretty sure that sentiment was motivated by the arrogance he was displaying and not his race or character. That's only because I like seeing arrogant people have to eat it and in the world of sports, there's no eating it like proclaiming yourself to be the best and then coming up short in the championship. Even then, the satisfaction would come from it being hilarious and there wouldn't be any anger or vitriol attached to it, and certainly not driven by anything to do with his race. Doing just cursory research on the guy (ie: Googling) reveals no shortage of news articles, interviews and profiles that all indicate that he's a very intelligent person with high moral character, and I'm genuinely pleased to know that. So I'm pretty sure I have exactly zero hard feelings toward Richard Sherman as an individual.
No, the only thing I come away from this with is a sense of disappointment that we can only expect two kinds of responses from athletes: bland, mindless cliches or grating, self-promoting "trash talk". And that makes me sad. You know the cliches:

• I'm really proud of the way our guys hung in there. 
• We were really on our game. 
• We came to play. 
• A win is a win.
• It was a total team effort. 
• I was just doing my job.

When athletes fall back on this kind of stuff, they're telling us absolutely nothing so there is literally no value whatsoever in hearing them speak. A lot of people who immediately came to Richard Sherman's defense said he he should get credit for being "real", even though what he said was actually a play on the biggest, most tiresome cliche of them all, the modern athlete and how he's not getting his due respect.
See, I'm a sports fan because for me, it's a form of entertainment. I don't expect athletes to raise the children or otherwise heal society. I appreciate it when they don't engage in actual criminal activity but I don't expect them to establish standards for how a human being should live a purpose-driven life. Either way, I don't begrudge them for the money they make. But is it too much to ask that intelligent, thought-out answers in interviews be among the higher standards (jump higher, run faster, throw harder, sign all the autographs, do work for charity) we hold our professional athletes to? I don't think it is. Erin Andrews asked him to take us through the key play that cemented the victory. I'd actually kind of like to hear his thoughts on that (it really was a spectacular play) but he didn't offer them. That's all I really wanted.
Granted, some people are more articulate than others and having a microphone or three thrust into your face within seconds of intense physical activity is weird for anyone. It's not realistic to expect a Robert Downey Jr. level of sophistication, charm and wit under sweaty circumstances like that. If anything, I'm more disappointed in us, fans and other ham-and-eggers who set the bar so low in terms of expectations than I am with those athletes who don't feel compelled to exceed them. We expect all of these people to be role models for kids but we don't expect them to string together a couple of original thoughts? Seems like a disconnect there to me.
I also understand my concern pales significantly to the question that this issue supposedly brings to light, that being a discussion we need to have about how we perceive successful and confident/arrogant black men. After all, the word "thug" was apparently uttered 625 times on TV the following day and Sherman believes "thug" is an acceptable way of saying "nigger", which brings this to mind...
I have a feeling he's probably right about that but I suspect it's less a matter of us being ready to have that discussion and more like this being a slow-flying goose that wound up in front of the jet engine that is the Super Bowl hype machine. Mine is more immediately manageable, I think, but if we're really going to address the big, difficult problem, I'm willing to wait. Meanwhile, there's a young pitcher for the Tampa Bay Rays named Chris Archer. I like him because when he's interviewed, you can actually see him stop, think for a second, and then answer the reporter's question. I'd just like to see more of that and less than the other, if that's okay.

More players like this, please

The National Anthem Singer Show!

Hi folks. Welcome to the National Anthem Singer Show, where we fairly and objectively rank those who sing "The Star Spangled Banner" and sometimes "O Canada" prior to your favorite sporting events. I'm your unbiased host, Clark Brooks. We have some great singers here for you today. Let's get to it, shall we?
First up, let's see, it's Ms. Linda Haverlin of Pocatello, Idaho. Okay, Linda let's see what you've got.

LINDA: Thank you. I'd just like to say that this is such an honor and opportunity for me.

Well, thank YOU, Linda! So before we hear you sing, let me just ask you, how much of an influence has Vanessa Rodriguez been on you, and not just your singing but everything in your entire life?

LINDA: Um, I'm not sure I know who that is...

All right. Sing anyway, I guess. Go.

LINDA: (sings Star Spangled Banner)

Okay. That was fine, I suppose. On a scale of zero to Vanessa Rodriguez, with Vanessa Rodriguez being the best and zero being just godawful, I'd say you're a four. Or 40% as good as Vanessa Rodriguez. It's not good but you have something to build on. So that's it for you.

LINDA: Oh. Okay. Thank you, I...

Get out. Next.
Okay, next up it's, let's see here, Mr. Guy LaPlouf of Montreal, Canada!

GUY: Oh thanks, eh? It's great to be here!

Well, we're pleased to have you here. Before you start singing, did you happen to notice Vanessa Rodriguez out in the lobby?

GUY: Uhhh, no, no I don't think so...

Oh. Okay. Sometimes I just like to check, just in case she decides to come by and check out the show or whatever. It could happen, right?

GUY: Yeah, I suppose so. But I didn't see anybody out there, so...

All right, all right. We'll listen to you instead then. Go ahead.

GUY: Okay then! Well, I'd like to perform the Canadian national anthem of "O Canada", but with a twist; I'll be performing it in French!

I think we've heard enough.

GUY: But I didn't even...

No, no, I get it. "O Canada, our home and tra la la. Je suis croissant and maple-flavored ham." Very nice.

GUY: Those aren't the lyrics and that's very offensive.

Look, I don't like you, I don't like your attempts at fancy trickery, I think your haircut is ridiculous. On a scale of zero to Vanessa Rodriguez, I'm giving you a one. And that's because you're wearing a bow tie and I know those are not easy to tie. Bon soir and vios con carne, mon ami. Who's next? Is it Vanessa Rodriguez? No, of course not. Who is it?

ANNA MAE: It's me, sweet little Anna Mae Daffledecker of Crossbreeze, Oklahoma!

Oh boy.

ANNA MAE: I've been performing on stage since I was five and just this past spring I was the lead in the Crossbreeze Community Players' production of Annie!

Good grief.

ANNA MAE: And now, for your viewing and listening pleasure, I will now perform The Star Spangled Banner, in the style of Christina Aguilera!

Ooh, ooh, ooh. Hold on a second. Do you think you could maybe sing it in the style of Vanessa Rodriguez instead, Anna Mae?

ANNA MAE: (Giggles) I could, but I've never heard of her, silly!

Get out! Get out, get out, GET OUT! I want you to leave, right now! Go! Go back to Oklahoma, forget about Christina Aguilera, study Vanessa Rodriguez and don't come back until your mere presence doesn't make everybody, including World War II veterans, hate America!

ANNA MAE: I'm only 11 and you're frightening me!

I swear to God, I will throw a lawn mower at you if you don't get out of here right now. And if you don't think I have a lawn mower, you just stand there five more seconds AND YOU WILL FIND OUT THE HARD WAY!!!
Well, that's our show, folks. Sorry to say, once again we see that there is a complete lack of Vanessa Rodriguez-like talent out there. Tune in next week and see if that changes, but don't get your hopes up. Good night.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I really like Vanessa Rodriguez

Jammin' Monstrously

There's a radio announcer out there who does the ads all the motor sports shows plus some NFL football games. He has this crazy exaggerated growl of a voice that just cracks me up. I don't know his name or what he looks like in real life but I imagine him being 18 feet tall, made out of horses, motorcycles, flying V guitars, wearing a long leather duster and completely on fire. When Satan had an answering machine, this guy would have done the outgoing message on it. I do an impression of him for my own amusement from time to time (a significant portion of my waking hours is spent doing things that amuse me from time to time), and I actually think it's pretty good. Tampa had a motor sports events, specifically "Monster Jam", this past weekend. There's another one in about two weeks and he's been on the radio a lot. As a result, he was on my mind when I got home the other day and found a notice in my mailbox. So I called the automated bill-pay line as that guy and paid my bill. That went like this:

THEM: Thank you for calling the automated bill pay system. Please say or enter your ten-digit phone number, beginning with the area code.
ME: 1-800 ASK GARY and Metro PCS present Monster Jam!
THEM: I'm sorry. Is this a number associated with your account?
ME: Yes.
THEM: Please say or enter your ten-digit phone number, beginning with the area code.
ME: 1-800 ASK GARY and Metro PCS present Monster Jam!
THEM: I'm sorry. I'm unable to access your account.
ME: (presses #)
THEM: Thank you for calling the automated bill pay system. Please say or enter your ten-digit phone number, beginning with the area code.
ME: (enters correct phone number.)
THEM: For security purposes, please enter the last four digits of your social security number.
ME: GRAVE DIGGER!!
THEM: Thank you for calling the automated bill pay system. Please say or enter your ten-digit phone number, beginning with the area code.
ME: (enters correct phone number.)
THEM: For security purposes, please enter the last four digits of your social security number.
ME: (enters last four digits)
THEM: Thank you. Your current balance is $64.58. You can either pay this amount, pay a different amount of your choice or set up a payment plan. Would you like to hear these options again?
ME: Pay it all off.
THEM: I'm sorry, I was unable to understand your response. You can either...
ME: PAY IT ALL OFF!!
THEM: I'm sorry, I was unable...
ME: GRAVE DIGGER!! AUGHHH!!!
THEM: (pause) Thank you for calling the automated bill pay system. Please say or enter your ten-digit phone number, beginning with the area code.
...(all the steps necessary to get back to the three options...
ME: I would like to pay off my entire balance.
THEM: Okay. You would like to pay your current balance. Is that right?
ME: YES!!!
THEM: All right. We accept Visa, MasterCard, American Express or Discover. I'll wait while you retreive your...
ME: I'm ready
THEM: Okay. Please say or enter the card number.
ME: 1-800 ASK GARY and Metro PCS present Monster Jam!
THEM: I'm sorry. I'm unable to recognize a valid credit card number...
ME: GRAVE DIGGER!!
THEM: (pause) Thank you for calling the automated bill pay system. Please say or enter your ten-digit phone number, beginning with the area code.

This went on another 10 minutes or so. Then my throat started hurting so I just paid the bill and went to bed.

I understand, Clark, and I'm on your side

"Yes, the revulsion toward Clark cuts across cultural boundaries." - Jon Greenburg, ESPNChicago.com


People who know me in real life as well as people who have been reading this blog for a while know that whining about my name is something that I do now and then. In reality, it's something I've gotten over for the most part. I mean, honestly, what am I gonna do? Change my name? Of course not. That doesn't change the fact that there is still a dearth of people and things out there representing the name "Clark".
Imagine my excitement waking up the other day and finding an email from my sister in my inbox:

"I’m sure you have heard already, but it was on the news this morning that the Cubs have a new mascot. Clark the Cub. What took the so long to recognize your greatness??"

Well, I hadn't heard already but my first thought wasn't about overdue accolades. It was something along the lines of, 'Of course it's the Cubs. Of course it's the team that hasn't won a championship in 105+ years (the + symbolizes the season that doesn't begin until April during which the Cubs won't come close to making the playoffs again). Of course it's the franchise that has come to symbolize losing like no other in all of professional sports. Of course.'
Other people sent similar notes and I started warming up to the concept. I grew up a Cubs fan because they were on TV where I lived and while I'm not 100% devoted to them, I do root for them when doing so doesn't conflict with supporting my true love, the Tampa Bay Rays. I love visiting Wrigley Field, home of the Cubs, as it was the first stadium I ever visited. And now, it will have plenty of souvenirs with my name on them, so that's nice. I not only accepted the development but began to embrace it as something not half bad. Then the media and the internet started weighing in:

• "Widely reviled" - USA Today
• "As if being a #Cubs fan wasn't laughable enough on it's own. Now we get the rejected cast member of "Talespin" as the mascot." - @PAshleyWalden (Twitter)
• "The Cubs' New Mascot Is A Nightmarish, Perverted Furry" - Deadspin
• "Clark the Cub looks awfully happy to be representing more than a century of sadness." - @EliseMichelle (Twitter)
• "Cubs lose! Cubs lose! with new mascot Clark" - Chicago SunTimes
• "Clark the Cub: a mascot that is somehow worse than Wally the Green Monster." - @AlanGreenback
• "The Chicago Cubs Make Clark the Latest Bad Baseball Mascot" - The New Yorker
• "Finally, a reason for Pierre the Pelican: KILL CLARK THE CUB." @RKallland (Twitter)
• "Cubs’ fans don’t get a contender, they get Clark" - Chicago SunTimes
• "Isn't wearing pants" - Everybody

Wow. The last one isn't even a valid complaint. Who would ever wear pants if they didn't have to? Aside from that, even at my absolutely most self-conscious and paranoid, I never faced that kind of persecution and vitriol. Like right now, I'm pretty sure there is only one person who hates my guts but I haven't seen anything in writing. Well, now that I knowg that sportswriters and Twitter users hate Clark, I officially love him. Most of you know that Twitter is the home of some of the most miserable people on earth. The rest of the most miserable people on earth, who may also have Twitter accounts, are sportswriters. I know this from experience. Sportswriters hate everything. If you as a fan think your local team and the players hate you, well, you may be right. I don't really know. But I promise you that your local sportswriters definitely hate you. Mostly, they think you're stupid but they hate you because of your perceived stupidity. They hate writing stories for you, they hate asking players questions on your behalf and they really, really hate you for having your stupid opinions. I don't know why. I love all of that stuff. Maybe it's because I've only been doing it for a few years and they're older and jaded and bitter. All I know is that they're so goddamned negative about everything that I almost feel obligated to push back. I certainly feel justified in doing so.

And it doesn't look like the people whose opinions actually matter on the subject have a problem with him.

CLARKS OF THE WORLD UNITE!

I am the worst person I know

I have been known to refer to myself as the worst person I know. Part of that is self-effacing humor but honestly, at the heart of the matter, it's an affirmation and a source of comfort to me. See, if I'm the worst person I know and I'm not out committing rape or robbery or genocide or other attrocities against people, and I've surrounded myself with people who are that much better than I am, I sleep a little better at night. Horrible people doing horrible things are out there but as far as I know, they're strangers far, far away, at least in a relative sense. That doesn't solve any of the world's problems but it helps me confine them in a small box and keeps them psychollogically manageable. Maybe I'm fooling myself but it seems to work so I'm not going to screw with it.

A little behind-the-scenes glimpse: more often than not, the stuff I post here is written days (sometimes weeks, when I'm on a super productive streak) in advance. What you're reading right now was written yesterday (January 14). However, Monday's entry was actually written on the fly. What's ironic about that is that during the exact time that I was putting it together, yet another semi-angry/semi-resigned screed about being frustrated by the behavior of stupid and inconsiderate people, a man was shooting two people in a nearby (21.5 miles to be exact) movie theater, killing a man and wounding his wife, in a stupid fight over the victim's inconsiderate use of a cell phone in the theater. Just like that, one life ends and three others are altered forever, over something that at it's worst, was rude and a pain in the ass. As I was writing, obviously unaware that any of this was happening less than a half hour's drive away, I was having trouble deciding whether or not to use a joke, an offhand and flippant reference to praying for the painful deaths of those who annoy me. I thought the piece needed more jokes but ultimately decided not to use it, only because I decided it didn't work because it just wasn't very funny. I mean mechanically, not in terms of whether or not it was "appropriate". It's entirely possible that I was making that decision at the exact moment the shooting was taking place. This isn't about what is or is not acceptable to be presented as humorous (if the joke had been funnier, I'd have used it), it's about how far... or how close... I am from snapping at that level.
When I'm me at my best, I can't even imagine getting THAT angry over something THAT silly. The idea that not only should someone pay for their lack of consideration with their life but that I should be the one to render that punishment? It is utterly impossible for me to relate to that.
However, I'm not always at my best. A few years ago, I was out running errands with my dog Barkley.

This is what pure happiness looks like: Barkley, taking a ride.

She was my favorite pet of all time and I still absolutely ache over how much I miss her. She was 100% pure goodness and a true source of joy in my life. She was also a daddy's girl and nothing made her happier than just spending time with me. So we're out running errands and some ass, an old man, pulls out in front of us, causing me to swerve drastically into another lane. I caught up to him at the light and yelled at him through the passenger side window. He yells back, telling me to go fuck myself. I lost my shit. The light turned green and I started chasing him. We got off the main road and were racing through a neighborhood, squealing tires and all kinds of unsafe driving. I didn't even know what I would do to the old man when I caught him but I knew it would be really, really bad. I was going to punish his ass, right in front of his wife or whoever the old bag riding with him was. I don't know why but I happened to look at Barkley and saw that she was terrified. She was sitting there, being a perfectly good girl, because that's what she was at her very essence, but the look in her eyes was unmistakeable. She was confused and something that she loved, taking a ride, was now a scary ordeal because of me, somebody she loved. My heart instantly broke into a million pieces and I stopped chasing the old man immediately. I pulled over as he drove on and sat on the side of the road for about 10 minutes, petting Barkley and apologizing to her, but mostly trying to comfort me. I have never felt like more of a failure than at that moment. After all, she was just a dog and the only things she could offer me were her love and trust and I had betrayed both over... what? Some jerk who I allowed to make make me angry? What if I'd gotten her hurt? For that matter, what if I'd caught the old man and hurt him or his wife? Pathetic. Of course, she recovered fully and quickly because, again, she was a dog and made of pure goodness but the idea that I had caused her even slight anxiety because I lost control of my emotions just destroyed me. I don't know if that was my first big step in the softened-up softie I'm (d)evolving into today, but I haven't had a similar incident since and it still hurts when I think about it, so yeah, probably.
The whole point is that I'm the worst person I know and I'm pretty much okay with that.