Merry fucking Christmas, Jeff

Yes, Jeffrey, there are Christmas miracles. This is a blog.

I know most of you forgot what a blog is since I haven’t posted here since late October, which Jeff has so subtly reminded me of once or twice.

A day.

For weeks.

On end.

But with it being the holidays, I guess the best present I can give you is, well, me. So here we go.

Christmas blows.

Honestly, it’s just not a holiday I care all that much about. And before my Islamist followers get their hopes up, it has nothing to do with religion. I could care less what reason you have for celebrating a holiday this time of year or what god you pray to or how many camels your family owns. It doesn’t matter either way. We’re all here on this planet together and we should respect that we’ll be different.

And with that, people should respect that I think Christmas blows. It’s a lot of glitz and hubbub I just don’t care for and could do without. The commercialization at least. I’m not talking about anyone’s views on religion nor am I looking to get struck down by a bolt of lightning (especially since it’s raining as I write this; coincidence?).

Curmudgeon, you say?

Sure. Others, I know for a fact, would call me a troll.

That’s fine. I’m nice when it feels like I should be and I’m not when I don’t feel like it. People should be that way year round so that they’re truly happy, and if they were, then it could be like Christmas 365 days a year.

Anyway, while it does blow, I’ve tried to be a better sport this year. Sugar-mama wanted to get a new tree, and by ‘new’, I mean, she wanted me to let her put up a full-sized one for the first time. It’s not like I dictate this relationship and she couldn’t have before. But we didn’t always have space and I’m sure it’s easier for her to deal with certain parts of my snarky ways just by letting me think I’m winning, so her small tree in the past was a compromise since I’m guessing she didn’t want to fight with Team CAC or spend the money on a new tree.

But this year we went and bought one. The last cheap one at Lowe’s. Literally, it was the Charlie Brown tree, a floor model with the price tag still on it and bent limbs. Even at full price (which we didn’t come close to paying) it was still cheaper than anything else they had on sale. And it’s barely taller than me, so you can decide for yourself how sizable it is.

The tree came home fine in three pieces and went up relatively easily. Then sugar-mama put up other decorations, which I figured I better just put up with since she hasn’t put hardly any up in the past. One year worth for nine years of little? Sure, deal. Just remember it next year. Yeah, I know, right, like I have a snowball’s chance in hell of stopping this holiday train in the future.

So I’ve been dealing with that lately. It’s gotten my mind off work. I think that’s a lot of the reason why I haven’t blogged much lately. It’s sucked ass.

I like the job, or at least the job I’m supposed to be doing. The problem is that because of a lot of issues out of my control, I have to do other things that take up way more time than whatever it is my job should be. So that causes two problems: first, I think we can all safely say I’m a control freak and second, I actually like to work but this other bullshit is preventing me from doing it.

So anyway, I haven’t been happy with the job situation at all. Some of that, hell maybe most of that is on me. I’ve never lived in the real world really. Working in athletics for so long skews your sense of how shit in the corporate realm works.

Seriously, where I’ve worked before, if something needs to be done, you do it and move on. Doesn’t matter if it takes you till 2 a.m., you do it. And if it’s last minute, just sprung on you the day before it’s due? Get over it quick, or you’re losing time because it still needs to be done.

This world I’m now in doesn’t have many people who 1) understand quality makes people want to buy more and 2) realize that the real world doesn’t just stop at 5 p.m. or whenever you want to go home. Especially when you work in a field where your product revolves around sports which, oh by the way, are mostly played after 5 p.m. or on the weekend.

So anyway, it’s just problems that deep down I’ve expected to pop up and that I have to work through. It’s mostly on me, but that doesn’t make it any easier. Luckily, I do like the job (or what I hope it becomes sooner rather than later) and love being in Atlanta. I know sugar-mama was worried I regret moving, but I don’t. I miss my friends in Nebraska, but it’s no different than when I left North Carolina, or Iowa, or Illinois. You know, one of the 20 residences I’ve had in the past 20 years.

To help myself, I’ve decided to try to be better at not always logging on and doing work when I don’t need to. Again, the control freak in me is tough to kick to the side, but I’m trying to be better about not doing work when I’m not actually working, if that makes sense.

I did take on one new thing to eat up some of my free time on days when I’m off. In November I signed up and joined Big Brothers Big Sisters. For anyone wondering, I’m a Big Brother.

Yes, I have like 933,147 brothers and sisters back in Illinois, but I figured I could use some of my liberal tendencies and volunteer to help the community and give back to others. So last month I was paired up with Ian, who is 8. We’ve gone to a basketball game — it’s the only way you’d ever see me at a women’s basketball game, but Nebraska was down here playing Georgia Tech — and went out a couple other times. He’s pretty cool, quite sure of  himself (not cocky but as he says, “I’m awesome”) and is quite the question machine. Again, this reinforces my views on not wanting kids of my own, but enjoying them as long as I can give them back.

So, hopefully that’ll be something cool. It’s a two-year commitment, so we’ll be together for a while longer. I may or may not give you updates. Probably not as it’s kinda personal to me, but figured I’d share that much only because while I’m a troll, I also like to do nice things once in a while too and you should know that.

Well, fuck. I guess this is the point where I have to say something funny, right? I normally have something funny or stupid to say, and since this was a bit of a more serious blog, I think funny is appropriate.

But I don’t have anything funny. So I’ll end it with this offering for the holiday:

Wine, PCU and life

Well, it was bound to happen.

At some point, the good life was bound to end and I’d find out what the other side is like. Now is the time. Unfortunately.

See, back in the day, when I had the good life, sugar-mama was mostly at home and I’d go on the road a lot. I had a good life, just basically going to football or basketball games for a living and then working a lot while watching football or basketball games on TV. Then I’d come home and do a little cleaning occasionally but really have no major duties around the house. Nice gig if you can get it as far as I’m concerned.

Well, now the tables are turned.

We’ve been here in Atlanta for about 14 months (a bit longer for sugar-mama) and it’s glaringly obvious how different things are now. See, her job, she can now travel a bit. Me? I’m pretty much on the road maybe two weeks out of the year.

I liked it better the other way when I was gone. There’s too much to take care of around here. I can’t imagine what you fucks with kids go through. Not worth it to me, but that’s well-documented.

She’s been working in Washington, D.C. each of the past three weeks, home only on the weekends. So during that time, it’s sucked because I missed her (don’t laugh you fucks, I have feelings too), and I’ve had to fend for myself.

That second part blows.

See, before I used to go on the road and things would be taken care of for me. We’d get a charter plane with (relatively) quick in and out access. We’d get immediate seating for our group at dinner, I’d get a little pocket money, enough to pay for beer unless we’re on 6th Street in Austin or at Eskimo Joe’s in Stillwater, which there’s no way per diem would ever cover my beer tab (if Hinerman, Bruhn or Camden ever read this blog, they’d concur). And we’d get catered food on game day and police escorts to the arena or stadium, where it was like you had no restrictions on where you could go.

I never took it for granted because it was a great fucking life.

Now? Not so much.

Timeout. I don’t mean it like I I don’t like my current life. I do. I’m really thankful sugar-mama got a job in Atlanta and that we live here because I love it down here. And I really like our house and the area we live in, and everything we can actually do in a big city. Sorry, Lincoln.

But now, sugar-mama is the only one who gets to travel and I’m stuck at home with fucking cats and  their puking, and with annoying jackass fucking co-workers who make Uncle Randy look like someone I’d want to be best friends with and drink with every weekend (if you get that inside non-joke, you totally understand how horrible my current situation with one person is). Sugar-mama, on the other hand, gets to earn hotel and airline points and, while I know she’s working here ass off more than even when she’s at home, she still gets to look at D.C. or Tampa or whatever city she’s in every other month and I’m just staring at our overgrown dirt lawn and weeds that I don’t want to mow.

Yes, I’m fucking jealous.

Even more, I’m disgusted with myself.

Why? Because I’ve learned a lot about me the past three weeks while she’s been on the road.

I’ve had to feed myself. Much of that has included food, or lack thereof of good food being made in the house as it has included basically the same meal 3-4 times a week. Take a pile of chicken, an onion, some mushrooms and throw them in a pan. Viola, there it is. Dinner for the week.

And I’m not the cleanest person ever. Right now, this place is sparkling, but before I cleaned, yeah, I don’t think it’s much different than the half trailer I lived in when I was an intern in Carbondale. That place was pretty fucking disgusting, even on my scale of cleanliness.

Oh, but don’t think I didn’t learn some things:

• Poblano peppers. They’re fucking hot when you eat a whole one. Especially on the third day in a row. For the second consecutive week. FML.
• PCU is still one of the greatest movies ever made, and I’m watching it right now. “Just the dog in me, baby” P-Funk. Money. Jeremy Piven rocks and David Spade is perfectly preppy prickish. Honestly, there are parts of that movie that I swear were written by someone following us around the Beer Garden in 1992-93. “Sanskrit?  You’re majoring in a 5,000-year-old dead language?” Droz? The scene where he’s in the Jerrytown guys’ lair and tempted to take a bong hit and then wakes up curled in a ball three hours later? Hmm, no comment.
• Wine is good. I knew this before, but tonight, right now, I’m finishing a bottle of what I expect is a classic, some wine aficionado’s perfect white. A bottle of Flipflop Pinot Grigio 2010. As a side note, I gave up beer and haven’t had any alcohol of any sort since Oct. 1 as I’ve started training for Tough Mudder Georgia 2012 in February (Sidenote: I was down 12 pounds today, and had a really easy 3.5-mile run, but I have a LONG way to go before February. FUCK). My goal was no beer from now until after the run on Feb. 11, so this whole bottle is making me feel pretty, um, …  And it’s within my rules because I only said I was giving up beer.

I don’t really know where I was going with this blog. Other than I’m looking forward to watching the end of PCU (I own it on DVD and it’s in my top 20 all-time favorite movies), and to sugar-mama getting home Friday afternoon.

That is all.

I really shouldn’t be doing this shit

“God damnit.”

“Fuck, I suck.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Didn’t I just finish the last one?”

“Come the fuck on. This has got to be the mutherfucking last one, right?”

Among the things I remember vividly from my first Warrior Dash, these words throughout every part of the race after about the one-mile mark are near the top. And the strange thing is that it wasn’t even that tough.

Seriously, I was expecting a lot worse. And I was expecting I’d do a lot worse. Strangely, neither came to be.

We got up to Twin Lakes, Wis., about zero-9:dark, or at least about an hour before we really should have. It was fine. Cliffy had to have his neurosis taken care of, so, since Dave wasn’t with us to make us late, we got there plenty early. It was all good.

Until we came around the corner.

Still in the car, driving up to the fields where we knew we were close, we came around a bend and there to the left was what appeared to be a track of some sort. There were some plastic lines in place of ropes to show people where to run and there were people of all ages, sizes and speeds bi-pedding along the path. Then they came to a stop. And looked at the wall and the rope that they needed to pull themselves up.

Yeah, at that point I started to have some misgivings about this little physical fitness fantasy.

But we persisted. Once we were in costume, it was way easier to know that 1) we weren’t winning any medals and 2) this was just for the fuck of it.

Dwin and Penelope in their day-glow glory, RJ and Cliffy ready to sing at the church social on a moments’ notice, Chuck and Philly being, well, Chuck and Philly — it all really helped ease any nerves there might have been about what lie ahead. Oh and there was me and my hetro-life partner — as Fred and Barney along with Pebbles — in our costumes conceived less than 30 hours before.

The whole picture made sense actually.

The thoughts of getting over — or not getting over — the obstacles eventually subsided and it became just about doing it.

Well, so I thought. Then the race started.

We had gotten there early enough that we went ahead and jumped into a wave that was 30 minutes before we were supposed to start. No sense in holding off at that point.

We even got fairly far up in the start line and after the horn sounded, it wasn’t long before we were through the gate and our time chip activated.

It’s strange. I’ve only run three competitive races in my life.

I did a 5k about five years ago when I first started losing weight, and I felt so much more alive during the race then at any point ever training for it. It was like I was fishing in a barrel with dynamite. I picked runners off left and right and passed them at will almost. Granted, I was still slow as fuck, but in my world, few people passed me.

When I ran a half-marathon in 2010 before we left Lincoln, it was kinda the same. The first 10k was unbelievable. I had no idea I could run that far that fast, using ‘fast’ as a relative term here. The last two miles were excruciatingly difficult, but I clodded through and finished. The only pisser was that I wanted to break two hours and instead I came up short as I went 2:06.58.

I should have learned my lesson from that race. My 10k split was 54:39 and I was in 1,601st place out of 6,116 runners that day. My last seven miles were so bad that I dropped to 2,712th overall. Pacing myself has never been something I’m good at, whether running, drinking or whatever.

I feel like I probably could have done better in this Warrior Dash if I had a better pace in the middle. I kept trying to go too fast like at the start. I can handle the early pace, but that middle part gets me. I’m not complaining though, as I did finish nearly six minutes better than my goal. I came across this 5k course in 27:34 to finish 1,732nd out of 12,141 Dashers.

I’ll take that.

But I keep going back to the fact that it wasn’t hard. There was little difficulty to it at all. The distance was easy. The majority of the obstacles were simple, although took a little time. And even the one or two that you could say was tough wasn’t much to slow me down. I’m never going to run much faster than that time with or without obstacles, so really, it wasn’t that big of a deal.

The best part was partying and just doing the race with friends.

Yet, I kind of want more.

Part of me really wants to be challenged. Something down inside wants to prove something. I don’t know what or why, but guessing my SMS (no, not PMS, thank you very much sugar-mama) just needs to kick in every once in a while and rear it’s ugly head. Many of you know what I’m talking of as my SMS (Short-Man Syndrome, if you are unaware) has gotten more than a few of you in tangles before, whether you liked it or not.

So, because of that, because of my SMS, I’m making a lifestyle change at least for the next five months. On Monday, I’m starting online Weight Watchers again, rejoining my gym and getting a personal trainer for a weekly workout, plus whatever I do on my own. After next weekend in Wisconsin, I’m going to cut out alcohol through January. I’m setting up my half-marathon training regiment again and going to start a new blog dedicated to just the facts of my training. Some of it will be normal run and lift shit, and I’m going to have to figure out some different stuff too as I try to accomplish my crazy-ass goal.

What?

Oh, you want to know my goal? Watch this:

That, my friends, was the 2011 version of the Tough Mudder. As of 1:05 p.m. ET today, I have signed up to do the 2012 Tough Mudder in Washington, Ga., on Saturday, Feb. 11.

My one and only goal is to finish it and at least attempt, to my fullest, every obstacle. It’s more than 11 miles. I can handle that running. There’s a lot of mud, and water, and smoke, and shitty obstacles too. A couple of them, I will tell you right now I don’t know that I can physically do. And half this battle is getting my mind right that I actually can do it.

But, you know what?

Fuck it. Why not try?

Worse thing it says — at least in the waiver I had to sign — that could happen is I die, unless of course the race is canceled ahead of time because of insurrection (yes, literally that’s in the waiver too).

So, any prayers from our Islamic buddy Offsuiters and anyone else are welcomed. Encouragement is requested. And a physically fit body double would be gladly accepted.

But, fuck. I’m doing this shit, and I’m going to do it right. And if I’m lucky, I’ll have another sweet postrace picture like this one from Warrior Dash (although I will not be smoking a tractor trailer worth of Camel Lights before and after this coming race, I guaran-fucking-tee you that).

Yo Adrian

I’m sitting here watching Rocky II. It just started, and I only find myself continuing to watch because it was on this channel for the last two hours as I watched Rocky.

Great Line Alert:

At the hospital, as Rocky sits in a wheelchair, all cut up from the first fight, a reporter shoves a microphone in his face. She blurts out, “Rocky, do you have brain damage?” The always verbose Rock replies, “I don’t see none.”

Incredible cinema there AMC.

Actually, the first Rocky is one of the best sports movies of all time. It’s hard to beat Bull Durham or Days of Thunder or Tin Cup, but it’s up there. It’s been almost 35 years since it came out and it’s still right up there.

AMC actually has another good movie coming out that I didn’t realize was that old. Silence of the Lambs actually freaked my ass out when I first saw it, and now it’s 20 years later and it’s still crazy good.

Twenty years? Fuck. Next thing you’ll tell me Tu Pac has been dead for 15 years.

What?

Shit. Life goes on, I guess.

So I’ll just go on and wait for the next thing to make me feel older. But you know what won’t? This weekend.

I’d normally be working since it’s a football Saturday and I get to do a lot of football stuff at work, but this takes precedence.

WAIT.

Another Great Line Alert:

Rocky just got married. Him and Adrian just said their vows and kissed, and they’re starting to walk away to head out of the church and the guy Rocky was a strong-arm for in the first movie stops him. He asks what Rocky cleared from the fight and what he’s doing to do with his money next.

Rocky: “I don’t know. Ain’t decided.”

Loan Shark: “Well you need to do something with it. You should do something legit, something that isn’t going to get tied up ever.”

Rocky: “Ya.”

Loan Shark: “I got a deal for you. I got a line on getting some money into some condominiums, it’s safe as can be.”

Rocky, all serious and looking around to see if anyone can hear: “I ain’t never used them before.”

Academy, please reconsider.

Anyway, so this weekend, I’m heading home. Actually, I’ll only be home for a few hours really, as most of the day Saturday we’ll be in southern Wisconsin for the Warrior Dash. It’s 3.08 miles of mud and fun. There’s obstacles and beer and turkey legs and everyone who does it gets a pair of Viking horns and a medal (yeah, it’s like we’re fucking 8 years old and we’re all winners. Gay.)

I’m stoked. We signed up a year ago to do it and it’s been like waiting for fucking Christmas.

I’m a bit down though because I haven’t found anything good to wear. A lot of people dress up and do cool costumes. I know at least a couple friends who lost bets who have to wear dresses, and a couple others who are going as the Road Warriors.

I guess I’ll just be the fat kid who doesn’t have the cool stuff to wear. Again, 8 years old. FML. Nothing came together for me, and I didn’t lose a bet so I don’t HAVE to wear a dress, so I’m not sure what I’ll end up with. But either way it’s going to be an interesting weekend.

Hopefully, it’ll be one that I can remember in 20 years and say, “Fuck. It’s really been that long?” All the good ones are like that.

Kind of like Rocky.

I’m fuckin’ 40

Well, there it was. Sunday night after a good time out with sugar-mama, we got home and I couldn’t sleep. So, at midnight, I cracked an Old Style.

Why not? It’s my birthday and I’ll drink if I want to.

I don’t like birthdays that much. I’ve gotten better and can live with people saying Happy Birthday. In the past, I hated it. I didn’t like anyone even knowing. I’m not sure why other than sometimes I like to just be a dick. Most years, that happened on Aug. 29.

But now, it doesn’t bug me that much. People are being nice. I had a number of comments on my Facebook page and that was pretty cool. I appreciated it.

Getting old really does make you a pussy.

Anyway, it’s over and it was good. Only downer was the balloons and streamers a co-worker put up all over my cube at work — I’m not THAT okay with birthdays yet — but the cookie she bought me was good and made up for it.

So now I’ll just move on. No sense in worrying about turning 40. It was bound to happen. Well, not really. There were a few times where that could have changed and I wouldn’t have made it, but I’ll say I’m pretty glad I have.

I have the coolest sugar-mama around who helps provide us with a good life (I pitch in a little too, I guess). I have the most kick-ass black cat, and probably the only cat you know who’s named F’ing. I have what’s turning into a pretty sweet job and some awesome friends.

There’s really not much I could ask for better although not everything has been perfect the past 40 years. There’s been a few bumps and bruises, literally; run-ins with cops and fans and co-workers that didn’t end pretty; and a few lean years in the pocketbook (which happens when you settle for being a janitor on third shift). But I’ve managed. Somehow, I’ve faked my way through enough things and came up with enough scams to feel pretty good about myself.

Now what? What’s the next decade hold? I’m not sure.

I’m doing a Warrior Dash with about 15 friends in two weeks. It will be pretty fun, although now that I’m in a new age group, I’m training harder to try to be at the top of the times list for the 40-44 bracket.

That just sounds stupid. 40. Where the fuck did it go? Wasn’t it just yesterday when I was blasting Rob Base and Motley Crue, Guns ‘n Roses and Two Live Crew in high school, and then drinking buckets after cases after kegs of Milwaukee’s Best Light in college listening to Pearl Jam and Erasure, Nirvana and Depeche Mode? At no point did reaching 40 seem fathomable.

But it has fathomed and I’m moving on.

The best way to do it is deal with it head on, as we found out from Kid Rock on Sunday night. That’s why I couldn’t sleep. We had free tickets to his concert, which was 15 minutes from our house. So we went and had a fucking blast. He’s one of the best showmen I’ve ever seen; highly entertaining and totally worth seeing even if it’s not 2002 anymore.

During his show, he talked about how he turned 40 earlier this year. About how it hasn’t slowed him down, hasn’t made him change his ways. I’m all for that.

In fact, I think it’s time to turn it up a notch. So, here’s my to-do list for the next decade. These aren’t just a bucketlist of things I have wishes and dreams to do. These are five things I will do before Aug. 29, 2021 (assuming I’m not dead):

1. I’ve run a half-marathon before, finishing in just over two hours (2:06:58 actually). In the next decade I will complete a full marathon. Hopefully it’s in less than 4:15, but not going to pin myself down on a time, nor am I going to get all senile and say I will run the whole thing. Senility will set in in full force soon enough.
2. Since I was a teenager, I’ve wanted a motorcycle, so I will be getting one. Sugar-mama knows I’ve wanted one and is not enthralled with it, but I will always were a helmet and she’ll deal with it. This one is probably the top of the list for next year.
3. Now that I’ve gone bigger on my tattoos, I’m going to do more and I’m going to finish the bottom of my leg sleeve. Not sure what other kind of tattoos I’d want, or how many pieces it will take, but I’m going to finish that side (and maybe get more elsewhere too).
4. I will visit Paris. Since Ms. LeSage’s French classes in high school, getting to France and especially Paris has been something on my radar. I’ve been lucky enough so far to reach some cool places, but this is the one that has to be done, even if it’s part of a bigger trip (Rome, anyone? That’s aimed at you sugar-mama).
5. I will eat spinach. Not because I want to but because if I’ve made it this fucking far in life, I might as well experience everything it  has to offer, even the terrible stuff. The last — and only — time I’ve ever had spinach was when I was about 11 and my step-mom tried to make me eat it. She didn’t like it either but she was eating it too and said I had to finish it. She was on her last bite (I still had 3/4 a bowl left) and I puked into my bowl at the table. It was so disgusting. Needless to say she never forced me to eat a single thing I didn’t like ever again. But now I’m a bigger person, a grown man, and I’ll go ahead and give it a try again. Once.

So those are some things I’m going to do in the next decade. And I’ll have a good reminder about why to do it.

Check out this video I took on my phone at the Kid Rock concert of his special song, “I’m fuckin’ 40.” Listen to the words (and don’t worry about the video, it sucks). Enjoy them. Pretty appropriate.

Talking to talk

You missed me. Admit it. You secretly have wanted a blog the past two weeks and I failed to deliver, right? I know it’s true and you know it’s true, but most of all, I know it’s true. So I’m going to remedy that.

And I should say here, it’s not a secret obsession for everyone. The Vile One has done her part to post on my Facebook wall** each week, chiding me and trying to embarrass me into writing something. Good for her, however, you’d think after knowing me for probably between two to three decades she’d have realized that there is little chance I will be embarrassed. Having such a messed-up moral compass makes it so.

While I’d like to say it was all work that kept me away, that’s not totally true. I have been slammed lately with all the ramp up we have going on for NCAA.com as we get set to kick off football. This is the first time ever that the site will focus on FBS football, which is awesome. And I’m lucky I get to play a cool role in the site, especially the football stuff***.

Actually, despite the serious addition to the workload now that we’re out of summer mode, it’s not the only nor the main reason I haven’t blogged in a couple weeks. No, it’s more that I didn’t have anything to say.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Okay, be honest, how long did it take you to really start to comprehend that last statement and start reading again? Yes, me, Mr. Talktalktalk, the one who has never met a conversation he didn’t want to dominate, I didn’t have anything to say.

It was weird because I almost always can find something to talk or write about. I am not encumbered with the need to have any direct knowledge of a subject before I interject my thoughts; in reality, it’s quite the opposite as I talk about shit I have no clue about all the time.

Why be boring and only talk about things you really know about? Lame.

But, the past couple weeks I didn’t have anything inspiring that pushed me to want to write it down. What can you do? Not much. Just keep going on.

So that’s what I did. I just worked and did whatever it is that I do and I figured at some point I’d get a lightning strike of inspiration to again be able to blog. And then it happened.

On Saturday, I went for a long run. It was just after noon and was heating up for the day. The air was thick and wet, humidity dripping as soon as I walked out the front door. Typically this is how I like to have it when I run, but for some reason, it was a bit too much. By mile 4, I was done. No energy left to run, I decided to just think of all the names my “buddies” would call me if they saw me right then and I just power walked the last mile home.

Halfway there, it struck me.

I was walking past one of the 17 bus stops along the road I run on and it had the normal garbage piled up by the sign, but it was a little different. There was a whole bowl of Fruit Loops dumped on the ground. It wasn’t there just 30 minutes before when I ran by the first time. Someone had just put it there.

My first thought was: Where’s the bowl? It was just all piled up, orange and red and green and yellow circles, clumped together, still mushy, soggy with milk circling around and slithering away in the dirt. Why was it here? Who put it here and why didn’t they want it anymore? And where did the bowl go?

The questions quickly faded as I swished past and moved up the start of the hill, the one that I have yet to be able to master running all the way up at the back end of my workout. But a new question popped into my head: When was the last time I had Fruit Loops?

And then it made me wonder what else I missed, as I quickly realized I hadn’t had Fruit Loops in forever, or at least since 2007.

So, as I made my way up the hill and back past the Mennonite church and what is probably the drug house on that one block, I started to think of the things I miss the most, stuff I haven’t had or used or played with in years. The short list I came up with in the final 10 minutes of my run/jog/walk included:

• Fruit Loops: It started this whole conversation in my head and there’s good reason: That shit is good. It’s no Count Chocula or Cookie Crisp, but it’s definitely in my top five cereals of all-time.
• Asteroids: My favorite video game of all-time, I wish I had a table-top version like you’d see in Pizza Huts in the late 1980s.
• Rock candy: Wasn’t this supposedly the cause of several young, aspiring TV star kids’ deaths in the ’80s, mainly after they put it in Coca-Cola? If so and this isn’t just an urban myth****, I’d like to see this make a comeback for some of these young, aspiring TV star kids of today.
• Cold water: This may seem strange, but if you live in a place where the average daily temperature is a larger number than the U.S. debt total, you’d understand. In the past year that I’ve lived in Georgia, I’ve had cold water, the good icy kind that comes right out of the tap almost immediately as soon as you turn on the faucet, exactly twice — with both times coming while I was home in Illinois. It’s amazing how much you can miss something as bland as cold water, but after a good run or just on a hot day, coming into the house and letting the water run for six minutes and then getting a glass full and it’s still about 73 degrees, well, it leaves a bit to be desired. And it’s the same in the shower. It never gets cold. You know, that cold kind of shower that’s awesome after mowing the grass on a hot-as-shit day. Or the cold kind on one of those first warm days of spring, when it’s 82 for the first time in months (and it was probably a high of 43  just two days before) and you take a cold beer in with you to take the bite off from the long drinking session the night before. No? Not something you’re familiar with? Hmmm, maybe that’s just a me thing.

Ahh, there’s something else I miss that should be on the list — talking just to talk, even when I don’t know what it’s about. There you have it. I’m back.

So anyway, here’s your blog Vile One. And really, here it is for all of you since I know you secretly missed it.

** To my Islamist friends with open minds but who are stuck in closed-minded countries: a Facebook wall is a place on the Internet where you can post stupid, funny, meaningful, outrageous, insane things for people who you have allowed to be your ‘friends’ to see and comment on. It’s a sort of private-but-public forum that people in free countries use. This is similar to Twitter, but that’s more for drunk posting after the fucking Cubs lose.

*** SHAMELESS WORK PLUG ALERT: Make sure to check out our new live stats coverage that we’ll unveil the fist weekend of the football season. And be sure to get into the live blog and ask a question. You might recognize who’s giving the answers.

**** Urban myths are awesome. Kidneys for sale. Abducted by Crips. All of them. What’s your favorite urban myth?

Ayo technology

I was reading a tweet Monday as part of my regular day off morning ritual, and it struck me as amazing.

It said that MTV is 30 years old.

Let that sink in.

Now, read it again. MTV has been on the air for 30 years.

How about we put that in perspective, shall we? I know most people who read this blog (not including our friendly Islamists, whom I have no raw data on) are typically in their upper 30s. New Carlson is like 53, and pulls the average up a bit, but overall, I’d say the median age is about 38.3 (thanks for pulling it down some Jess and Pulv).

Me, I’m going to be 40 soon, and like most of the six-7 offsuiters, this means I’ve lived almost my whole memorable life with MTV as a constant. We’re the first generation that got every bit of music that we wanted while we were growing up — all the David Lee Roth, Jon Bon Jovi, Axle and Slash, U2, Metallica, Dave Matthews Band, REM, Nirvana, and the bestest, greatest band of all time, Pearl Jam — brought right to us, to our bedrooms, our living rooms, our basements.

I don’t know if I remember the first time I watched MTV, but I do remember when it started. It was a big deal, even for us 10-year-olds. We were on top of the world in fifth grade, but everyone knew that’d soon change when we went to middle school the following year. It was tough before the digital age, when all you had were some random magazines, a couple sports weeklies, a skate boarding mag and then the SI Swimsuit issue to get us all the useful info we could act smart about in class, the hallways, parking lot to show our coolness (I’d mention the random Playboy and Hustler magazines that always turned up in a junior high school locker–no, never mine, never–but that’s probably for another blog).

MTV changed not just how we got our information, but how we were motivated. You started seeing bands and wanted to have their most recent record–albeit in cassette format–and then there were the fashion trends you had to try to follow to stay in the cool groups. It was difficult, but for those of us who didn’t get a weekly allowance or whose parents couldn’t afford to buy us the hottest shoes or parachute pants or whatever, so some of us had to scrounge money.

It was two years before I’d have my first “real” job making about $3.25 an hour, but that didn’t stop me from trying to get some extra pocket change to keep up with all the cool things on MTV. I figured out quickly that I could take a little lawn-mowing money and invest it.

At age 11, investing meant buying something cheap and then turning a quick profit on the playground. Pretty much like it does as a 40-year-old, except that I didn’t know about interest rates and yields and the pitfalls of the small bond market. I could have easily gone the pot or heroin sales route, as it was around this time that I first was offered reds and other neighborhood “goodies” in the hallways, but I followed a path a little closer to my, um, heart.

Hauling my bumblebee-like fat ass to the gas station and buying up all the Bubblicious, Now & Laters and any hard chocolate I could grab (soft chocolates were bad, as they melted too quickly) was the starting point. Then I would sell everything in the bag, which cost me about $6, by the end of third period at school and collect a nice little profit margin of about $13.

I couldn’t do it every day, but it carried itself over enough that after a month, I bought a sweet shirt. With that little ingenuity, I was able to sort of keep up with some new trends, although for the most part, I figured out pretty quickly that being a tub of goo really didn’t lend itself to running with the cool crowd, no matter what you wore. So after month two, I bought a digital alarm clock (another thing we’ve had our whole lives that just a couple decades before was completely uncommon).

But that was what was good about MTV. It took in everyone, even the weirdos, geeks, dweebs and Goonies.

[Side note: any chance you can mention the Goonies, you should. At work, home, the gym, Starbucks, everywhere. And at least once a month, you should YouTube "Truffle Shuffle."]

It didn’t matter what you wanted to see, you could find a little something for your taste on channel 29–that was the channel in our house anyway; it was probably an illegal black box, the one with the rotating knob and the numbers on it, that we had since we had no money but had basically every cable channel you could imagine, including HBO, which I mainly just liked for Fraggle Rock.

With this new channel, if you were into new wave, you had it. If you wanted to bang your head, you had it. If you only wanted to watch videos with half-naked 18-year-olds at a concert with the band that wore even more makeup and hairspray than the chicks, it was there. Everyone was welcome.

Sure, it’s changed through the years. Most of us who are old enough to remember it (when was the last time you caught yourself saying that and thinking how much you hated hearing your parents say that?) can tell you how great it was to actually hear music all the time, and watch actual videos at times not only between 2-4 a.m. It was splendid actually, being able to follow ‘the’ band of the day and actually see them, not just hear them.

But no matter how it’s morphed, the fact is that it’s still here. Thirty years later, it’s still hanging on, has spawned a rival, one that was terminally lousy at first as far as guys were concerned, but has come on to close the gap in recent years, and continues to produce stars, albeit not as many as YouTube and America’s Got Talent. And I’m not sure what that says.

What other things can you think of that we’ve grown up with that are ours, that we’re the first generation to really live and evolve with?

Personal computers? Check. That’s still us, but that’s about it for the biggies. Cell phones. Kinda check, but not really. We were mostly out of college before they were widespread. The Internet? Good god, that’s amazing, but there are already 18-year-olds who have not known a life where they couldn’t surf the ‘Net after school.

In fact, kids nowadays will only know phones that can let you video chat. I called my six-year-old goddaughter last weekend and it was the third time we’ve called this summer iPhone-to-iPhone using the FaceTime feature. For her whole life, she will always know you can talk and see the person on the other end of a cell phone.

Incredible.

Maybe in another 30 years I’ll be able to blog about something else that we’ve had for so long we can’t remember life without it. Let that sink in too. So many more inventions are out there that will become part of the mainstream and in some small way, a part of our everyday lives. And think about the fact that I believe I may live another 30 years.

Yikes.

To Gotham and back

Yes, I know. It’s about time.

About time for a blog that hasn’t happened in almost two weeks. Lame? Yes. Unavoidable? Probably. World-ending? Nah. You’ll get the fuck over it because I said so.

But, it has been a long two weeks. First I hit Indianapolis for a quick day trip for work, and then sugar-mama and I went for a long weekend in New York City.

It was the third time I’ve been there, but the first two times combined weren’t even as long as this trip. Every time I go there, I love it more and more. If it wasn’t so expensive, I’d live there in a heartbeat. As it stands, I’ll leave that move up to sugar-mama (again).

Sugar-mama, from all accounts, loved it as well. Our hotel, which I found for a cheap deal by NYC standards, was right across from the back end of Rockafeller Plazza, just blocks from Times Square. We covered all the ground around there and a lot more.

During our five days, we went all over and around Manhattan. Some of the highlights included:

• Our first full day there was a record breaker. It was 104 degrees, the hottest temp on that date in NYC history and the fourth-hottest day the city ever recorded.
• To battle the heat, we went to the museum where it was cool as we walked around. Luckily, I looked it up before we left and through work, I was able to bring my ID and show it at the corporate desk and we got in free to a pair of museums. The pics on the blog are from the Museum of Natural History, which was freaking cool. Definitely go if you have the chance.
• We caught a show on Broadway. I hadn’t seen the movie or musical, so I had no idea what Chicago was about. Didn’t matter since it was Broadway and I figured it’d be pretty good. It was great. We lucked out on good seats at a discount (again, by NYC standards, not mine) and really enjoyed ourselves after a great dinner at a place sugar-mama picked out.
• That brings us to food. Oh. My. God. Some of the best food I’ve ever had was eaten on this trip. From the Halal food truck outside the museum, to Maria Pia’s and Empanada Mama’s, it was all tremendous. While I find it hard to put anything above the Mr. Softie ice cream truck, our anniversary dinner at Capital Grille did rate the best. And by best, I mean it was probably the best meal of my life to date. From the unlimited wine ($25 special; awesome) to the lobster mac ‘n cheese to the steak and finally the dessert (which I don’t totally remember what it was, thanks to the unlimited wine), it was killer. We will be going to a Capital Grille again, and luckily (for our stomachs, not my wallet), there is one in Atlanta.
• We took a three-hour cruise around the island, down the North River to the Statue of Liberty and then up the East River and back around. It was really cool and gave us a great, different look at the skyline and bridges.
• Another different look came when we went up to the top of the Empire State Building, which is one of the coolest places I’ve ever been. I love the views from up there and again (it was my third time up) was amazed at the awsomeness of the architecture and the sheer size of the city.
• One of the days we took the subway down to Ground Zero. When we came up above ground, we were right there. It almost took my breath away, seeing the gaping hole in the skyline 50 feet away. It’s amazing what was there and then was gone in a blink of an eye. I can’t imagine having been there when it happened. Seeing it nearly 10 years later is no better, although seeing the new Trade Center 1 tower going up and the memorial starting to come together was nice.
• Times Square at midnight is ridiculous. I could go there every night. The vibe was awesome with the lights, people swarming. Incredible.
• We also spent a good deal of time walking Central Park, checking out Columbus Square, walking 5th Avenue, scoping out food joints in Hell’s Kitchen and midtown, and more.

That, in a nutshell, sums up our trip. Since we got back, I’ve been working and deciding on which pictures to put on our photo blog, which you can view here: Days 1-2 | Days 3-5.

I’ll try to get back on track again Tuesday. And I’m sure if I don’t come up with something, the Vile One or New Carlson or someone else will get on me about it.

Happy anniversary, sugar-mama

If you’re a guy, you ought to wish you were me.

I’m sitting here, the house to myself all night, just watching TV and chilling. I got home and went for a 3.0-mile run, oh, while it had a 112 heat index, and then I just chilled. Still in that spot now.

I made a lamb steak with asparagus and mushroom, had salsa verde and chips for an appetizer and washed it down with a bottle of wine. All while watching Kung Fu on Fuel TV for the past 3-plus hours.

Oh, and did I mention that today is my wedding anniversary? Yes, it’s me and sugar-mama’s ninth anniversary and I get an awesome night like this to myself.

She’s out with some co-workers/friends from work, having fun and dinner and drinks downtown, while I just relax and drink on my own, again, while watching Kung Fu. I’ve seen the ending of a old movie I’ve never watched before (Executioners of the Shaolin) and re-watched a new movie I’ve seen before (Hero with Jet Li). A new show called “Bruce Lee Lives” is on now, and is pretty sweet.

How, do you ask, did I get this lucky that I can make a lamb steak, drink a bottle of wine and watch hours upon hours of Kung Fu without my wife here, all on my anniversary?

All because she’s the coolest chick on the planet.

And I can even do one up on you for that.

Again, how?

Here’s how: My wife is so cool that this awesome night I have at home is not even my present for our anniversary.

Nope. Not even close.

She totally hit right at my heart, squeezed my soul and punched my lovebox when she came up with the idea for my real present.

One of her friends she’s dining with tonight is a co-worker who is based out of Tennessee. She drove down today, but before she came down, she went to the liquor store and got my present.

See, here in Gaw-ja, shit is pretty backwards. They have good beers, don’t get me wrong. But Pabst is a premium beer here in the area we just moved to. Seriously, Pabst. Seriously?

I can’t fight it. This area (we live in East Atlanta Village), I was told when we moved in, only gays and hippies live here. So I have to make that decision still, and I can deal with the Pabst, which is a big-time hippie beer, only so far.

See, I have my favorite beer. And it’s not Pabst.

Nope, I like the real shit. Old Style is my beer, and I’m proud to say it. I do like Bud too, which is every Cubs fans’ main drink, but Old Style is where it’s at with me. Call me traditional (it may be the only time you can).

The real problem is, they don’t sell Old Style here in Gaw-ja.

Literally, it is not distributed in this state. I’ve looked everywhere and even checked the Old Style web site, which tells you what state and which liquor stores sell it. Nada, none, zero, zip in this part of the Union (said for effect).

But, alas, my cool-ass wife, the awesomest chick on the planet, got her friend, who was coming from Tennessee, where they do sell Old Style, to bring me a case. As my anniversary present.

I dare anyone to say I don’t have the coolest wife in the world.

And happy anniversary to her. Hopefully I’ll be awake when she gets home. All this lamb and wine is getting to me.

Gotta get one

It’s time to get back in the saddle.

How, you ask, do I mean that?

Well, you could take it in a variety of ways. First, I need to get back to blogging. Thus, this epic. And I need to get back on task with my workouts and weight watching, as my fat ass is all too quickly steaming toward one less notch in the belt, which is gonna piss me off.

There are probably plenty of other things I need to start doing again, like keeping my car clean, calling my mother more often and learning to speak Russian. All noble but probably not going to happen any time soon.

Two things that have happened recently that I did start doing again was playing poker and getting ink.

A couple weekends ago we had our yearly poker weekend. If you’re a regular six-7 offsuiter, you’ll know that it’s my favorite weekend of the year and something that says as much about me as anything. It speaks to who I am, where I’m from and what I love about life. It’s about 358 days until the next one starts (if we can believe new Carlson’s math), and I can’t wait. I’m ready to go today, and not just because it only takes a backpack, toothbrush and hat to be ready. Let’s go.

This was our 18th year and for about the 10th time, I didn’t win any money at all. Not that I rake it in, but typically I’ll at least place in one of the three tournaments, or make some money in the cash games, but this year was for shit. I blame it on my hetro-life partner since he won it for the first time in 15 years. Dick.

But it at least gives me a goal for next year since there’s only one person currently who can top his record for most time between CCMP main event wins — me. I won the first year despite the fact that it was easily one of the three most drunk poker episodes in the nearly 25 years I’ve been playing. Suckers. He then won the second year and hasn’t won until now. Enjoy the record while you can.

Along with the poker, it’s the camaraderie that makes the weekend. There’s nothing like getting together with the old friends and finding out that for the past 15 years you’ve thought that it was Dick who depanted you while standing in a window of a dorm talking to a chick, only to find out all these years later that it was Dwin who did it and who you had no idea was even there. So fun.

A few years ago, I commemorated the weekend by getting a tattoo on my upper right arm that has a pair of cards (A spades, Q diamonds) along with the letters CCMP, which is the moniker for the weekend. There’s a long, convoluted story behind the name of the weekend — actually ‘names’ as there are two different names, neither of which I’m going to get into details about here. But suffice it to say that CCMP is what it’s known as (it even has it’s own Facebook page) and because of what it means to me, I just figured if I’m going to get another tattoo, it should be that since there’s not much else that I would want on my body for the rest of my life.

Well, it had been a couple years since my last one (actually about 18 months) so I was totally ready for another and luckily, I got hooked up with a really talented and totally cool chick at a place that is actually just 5 minutes from the new house we’re renting.

[EDITOR'S NOTE: If you ever want a tattoo, I can't recommend her highly enough. She's cool, and extremely talented. Her name is Malia Reynolds and you can find her on Facebook and her website, maliareynoldstattoo.com. I expect I'll probably get a few more in my lifetime, assuming that lasts longer than 12 months, and if I can help it, she'll be the only one who will ever put an ink needle into me again. Three of my other four were done by different people and that sucks. She's so awesome, I'm happy to say those days are past.]

I went in a couple months ago for a consult and then, despite me giving her very little direction and hardly any ideas, she put my strange thoughts into one piece that, on paper, I absolutely loved. From there, we did a nearly 3 hour session in early June right after I got back from covering the Women’s College World Series in Oklahoma City, and then I went back in for almost another 1 1/2 hours earlier today to get it finished.

It is fucking incredible.

Honestly, it’s way better than I ever expected.

Yes, it’s huge. Yes, it’s over the top. And yes, it’s perfect for me. I wish I had the money to be able to start planning a full lower leg tomorrow, but we’ll just have to do it a little at a time. Seeing as sugar-mama is willing to put up with it but is not highly encouraging in this pastime of mine, I probably have to hold off another year before I get started on the next one. But there definitely will be a next one.

I don’t think it’ll be CCMP-related, although it’s possible. The hard part is finding something else that means as much to me and is worth putting on my body. Right now, off the top of my head, really all I can think of as a starting point is a beer can and a cookie. But everything has to start somewhere.

Anyway, this is wondering and rambling in no real direction. I just wanted to get started writing again after a couple weeks’ layoff like I said and I wanted to show off a little bit.

To do that second part, here is a little photo gallery from getting it done over at Memorial Tattoo. The first one is the original drawing she showed me before we started, followed by the one without the color in the middle which is after the first session. The ones on the table, the room and the final product are from today. The funky panorama is the actual view I had while sitting in the chair for four hours in her room at the tattoo shop, which is one of the coolest rooms ever.

It’s quite tender and sore right now, but fully worth it. Just like getting back in the saddle.