We seem to be made to suffer

We almost forgot what it really feels like to live in Cub Nation. Back to reality? 100 years and counting?...

"We seem to be made to suffer. It's our lot in life."
-C3P0


...We sure hope not. Lord, help us.

Lessons from the movies

We can learn a lot from film sometimes:

"The name is Horace."
The Monster Squad
TriStar Pictures, 1987

1. Wolfman's got nards.

2. There's only one way to kill a werewolf.


"No such thing as bad student, only bad teacher. Teacher say, student do."
The Karate Kid
Columbia Pictures, 1984

1. What do we study here? The way of the fist, that's what. We all know the mantra of the Cobra Kai: Strike first. Strike hard. No mercy. Seem too rough? Just because the Cobra Kai's say it doesn't necessarily make it evil. If only the Western nations would have adopted this dictum, we could have prevented WWII and the Cold War. But no, we let Germany re-arm and we didn't listen to Patton's admonition to never split Europe with the Russians. We can all hear Sensei Kreese's immortal words echoing "We do not train to be merciful here! Mercy is for the weak! Here, in the streets, in competition - a man confronts you, he is the enemy! An enemy deserves no mercy- what is the problem Mr. Lawrence?"

2. You shouldn't provoke the school bullies, especially if they know more karate than you. Ol' Daniel-with-an-L deserved at least some of those butt-whoopins.

3. Good comebacks and insults can be hard to come by sometimes. Tommy's "Must be take-a-worm-for-a-walk week!" is nowhere near being a good zinger. Dutch, however, had a better one with "Well, well, well, if it isn't little Danielle LaRusso - what's the matter, mommy not here to dress you?"

4. Is there an old Asian man nearby? Be nice to him. He can probably seriously karate-cize your face. He also just might teach you karate and if you play your cards right, give you a neat old car.

5. Billy Zabka is an alright guy after all, as we see at the end when Johnny Lawrence hands Daniel the All-Valley Champion Trophy, "You're alright, LaRusso!" Unfortunately this act of redemption did not prevent his typecasting in the years following, e.g. Just One of the Guys and Back to School. Interestingly enough, Zabka did eventually merit an Oscar nomination for his 2003 short film Most.

"We do not honor bet of coward."
The Karate Kid, Part II
Columbia Pictures, 1986

Since American Movie Classics has been playing the first two KK's back to back over the last week, the Briefcase will share what we've learned from this screen gem as well. As it turns out, there is probably more to learn from the sequel. (First let us disclaim that we were very dismayed that AMC opted not to run The Karate Kid, Part III and The Next Karate Kid - both very integral parts of the KK saga.)

1. Okanawans primarily speak in broken English to each other, regardless of the presence of gaijins. Rarely will they use the Japanese or Okinawan languages to communicate. Those tongues are reserved for ultra-special occasions, such as one's last words uttered from a deathbed. Furthermore, the English-only norm applies to everyone except the village idiot. That person primarily speaks in Okinawan jibberish.

2. Pre-marital tea ceremonies are bad. Oh, those crazy kids and their hormones. They should've listened to their Anmas (that's Okinawan for mothers), who told them that the only things that come from this act before marraige are typhoons and tropical cyclones. But did young Kumiko listen? Nope. And look what happened. It's almost like the horror movie maxim about fornicating - one's chances for survival increase dramatically if they keep it in their pants. But in karate movies, you put the whole village, nay, the whole country at risk by turning a tea cup. Fortunately, LaRusso dodged a serious bullet here, as he tipped the balance of karate-movie-karma back in his favor when he rescued the squalling bell-ringing girl. Still, let's remember to keep it in the cupboard until we tie the knot.

3. Yuji Okomato is bad. And by bad we mean good. And by good we mean stinkin' awesome. Up until KK2, we only saw this dude as a supporting nerd in Real Genius and as the Howard Cosell-speaking street racer in Better Off Dead. The role of Chozen allowed him to show the world that he was a certified badyou-know-what. "You keep for your corlection. I know you like."

4. Don't accompany your sensei to his homeland until he has taught you how to fight with a spear. This skill will almost certainly come in handy.

5. You can't trust Elisabeth Shue. You're from Reseda, she's from the Hills. That little voice inside your head? The one that's nagging you? The one that told you in the first installment that you have to be some sort of a "yo-yo" to be talking to her? It is also saying "She's too hot for you, sooner or later she's going to realize it and the novelty of the tournament-winning-Jersey-goomba is going to wear off..." It also asks "What are the chances of Ali running off with a UCLA football player?" Listen carefully to that voice and guard your heart.

Bad News follow-up

Finally, a piece on Gilles Bilodeau -

From The Birmingham News:

Hockey player `Bad News' was a teddy bear off the ice

Sunday, August 31, 2008
ERIN STOCK
News staff writer

Gilles "Bad News" Bilodeau famously delivered some bad news on Nov. 24, 1977, in what was coined The Thanksgiving Night Massacre in the next day's newspaper.

It took Bilodeau and four other Birmingham Bulls starters exactly 24 seconds to start a free-swinging, 15-minute brawl against their opponents. Players racked up 78 penalty minutes in the first 30 seconds of play.

"Bulls make a big Thanksgiving kill," The Birmingham News headline read . . .

(Click to read more)

...like Eddie Shore

Hockey Night in Birmingham. My dad used to tell me stories of Birmingham's fabulous 3 seasons with the renegade major hockey league, the World Hockey Association. Those stories pretty much always revolve around good old hockey brawls - and many of them involved Birmingham hockey legend Gilles "Bad News" Bilodeau, who played 2 seasons for the Bulls from 1976-78. Bilodeau played in a peculiar era of professional hockey, dominated by almost-cartoonish goons and obnoxiously long bench-clearing brawls (we're talking hour-long, just read the Beaton entry here at #10).

Bilodeau was a tough guy (570 PIMs in 143 games) on a team full of tough guys (2177 PIMs in 80 games in '77-78) - Frank Beaton, Steve Durbano, Serge Beaudoin, Bob Stephenson, and Dave Hanson - just to name a few. I recall one story that involved Bilodeau, head bashing, and a pool of an opposing player's blood left on the ice. I'm not sure of the veracity of that tale, whether it has suffered the effects of memory and embellishment over the years - but you get the picture. These were the wacky days of hockey, straight out of Slap Shot (once Jeff Carlson hit Bilodeau over the head with the rink-side announcer's microphone!).

Like a few other players- Phil Roberto, Brent Hughes and Frank Beaton, the Quebec native made Birmingham his home, having met his wife and subsequently raised his family in the Magic City. He is remembered fondly in many of my circles and in fact, a friend of mine's family dog was actually named Bilodeau. (Not an uncommon event, my aunt named her dog "Serge" after her favorite player Serge Beaudoin. I'm glad we didn't have a dog named after Bill Flett, my mom's favorite player, but I digress...)

After the WHA's demise, Gilles eventually got a little ice time in the NHL, getting in some shifts with the Nordiques. He would reappear in some later minor league incarnations of the Bulls, and later on he could still be recognized around town, especially coaching and volunteering down at the Alpine Ice Arena and at St. Barnabas Catholic church & school.

Sadly, Bilodeau passed away this week at age 53. There was not much in the paper, other than his obit, but nothing indicated the cause of death. Hopefully The Birmingham News will do something on him this weekend, this town owes him at least that much. The old Bulls of the 70's made hockey a permanent part of Birmingham culture - thanks in large part to Bad News Bilodeau. For that, the entire staff here at The Briefcase will be eternally grateful. We will miss you, Bad News.

Recommended further reading: The Rebel League: The Short and Unruly Life of the World Hockey Association, Magic City Hockey and BirminghamProSports

Although this is not the best clip, here's a taste of [not so] old-time hockey, like Eddie Shore:

Bathroom on the right

You gotta appreciate misheard lyrics, I know I do. We all know the universal classics, like Creedence Clearwater Revival's "Bad Moon Rising" (...There's a bathroom on the right...) or R.E.M.'s "Losing My Religion" (...Let's pee in the corner, let's pee in the spotlight...). There's probably countless sites out there like this one or this one that celebrate this phenomenon. Check them out if you have nothing better to do.

But I would imagine that many folks might have their own unique collection of alternate lyrics. There's a handful that I've had over the years, so here they are. Feel free to share yours as well:

"Rock the Casbah"
The Clash (1982)

I (like many others) really had no idea what they were talking about in this one, but the best I could figure (in my early passing attempts at hearing the song) was that it was about some British dudes going to a king's wedding or something and finding that the bar was not an open one. And so, being the punk rockers they were, they had to rock the cash bar instead ("bar" being sung with an English accented "bah"). My hearing's much better now.

As it turns out, this 1982 gem was inspired by the banning of rock music in Iran by the Ayatollah Khomeini. A "qasbah" is any fortified city found in Islamic countries. And qasbahs can always use a good rocking.

"Every Time You Go Away"
Paul Young (1985)

I wish Hall & Oates would've
recorded the Diarrhea Song...

Ok, well, this one is not really a misheard one. It's an intentionally mis-sung one. But when I sang "Every time you go away, you take a piece of cake with you" in front of my 3rd grade chums, I was a hit. In the minds of my 8 year-old comrades, this was the funniest thing they'd heard since the "Diarrhea Song." And ever since, I've sang along in my head with a piece of cake, instead of a piece of Paul Young.

An interesting side note to this one: Daryl Hall wrote this song.

"Dancing in the Dark"
Bruce Springsteen (1984)

Cox's dancing defined the 1980's

Another intentional one here, but it has stuck over the years. Sometimes songs get stuck in my head and I sing them over and over until the lyrics change. Eventually the song I was singing proclaimed that "ya can't start a fire - ya can't start a fire without a shark..."

Luckily, my sister heard me sing this one and she thought it was awesome. Man, I was a comic genius.

Later on, I would have the good fortune of having a college roommate who also shared a predilection for intentionally/unintentionally mixing up the lyrics. Yea for nerds...

"Soothe Me"
Sam & Dave (1967)

This classic song was featured in the 1980 film The Blues Brothers, while Jake and Elwood are cruising along with a Sam & Dave tape playing on the 8-track. As the song is playing under the film dialogue, it was kinda hard to make out. But as a youngster, I heard "Do me, baby, do me! Do me with your tire!" The actual line is "Soothe me, baby, soothe me! Soothe me with your kindness."

"Just the Two of Us"
Grover Washington, Jr. featuring Bill Withers (1981)

The Marcing Tuba,
or "Sousaphone":
one sexy horn...

Well, I guess my hearing and/or my attention span was severely inadequate when I was younger, because this one had me for the longest time. This one is my all-time best misheard lyric (and apparently I'm not the only one). For the longest time, I literally thought this song was about a tuba.

I always wondered why Bill was singing about his tuba. And that sax solo, I assumed that sound was a tuba - I didn't know what a tuba sounded like. I really thought it went "Just the tuba, we can make it if we try . . . just the tuba, you and I..." It made me wonder if there was something magical about the tuba that could heal/spice up any relationship.

This song was also featured in chewing gum commercials (cinnamon Dentyne, I think), and so I was confused - can you even play the tuba while chewing gum?

Dentyne + the Tuba = bau baum

I don't remember how old I was when I realized the real lyrics (possibly high school, possibly later), but I can distinctly remember that at some point it clicked, and being blown away by how logical it now was. And in the end I would prefer it being about a tuba. The tuba just isn't as mysterious anymore...

Dykstra spelled backwards is Artskyd

Today is the 10th anniversary of Harry Caray's death. Check out HomeRunDerby's article on Harry. Growing up in the 80's, when there were only 30 cable channels, exposure to the Cubs was easy via Chicago's Own: WGN Channel 9. I mean we were all watching "The Grand Prize Game" on The Bozo Show anyway. If you didn't have to turn the station so your sister could watch Nickelodeon, you were probably going to catch a Cubs game or two. You couldn't even get through a commercial break without hearing Caray's Budweiser commercials.

Movies like The Blues Brothers and Ferris Bueller's Day Off were responsible for putting Chicago and Wrigley imagery in my mind. I mean the whole world knows Wrigley Field's address, doesn't it? (1060 W. Addison) Combined with the facts that the Bears were my favorite team in the 80's and that the Barons have been the White Sox's AA farm team since circa '85, I've always had Chicago on my mind.

But I didn't really begin to immerse myself into Cub Nation until I met my first college roommate. Let's just call him "Archie." Well, Archie loves the Cubbies, and slowly but surely, he got me hooked. All those lazy college afternoons watching WGN on a 13" T.V. in the dorm, hearing Harry Caray slobbering on about players' names and pointing out all the fans' signage, all the while imagining Steve Stone carefully monitoring the number of Budweisers being consumed. Because even a newcomer to Cubs broadcasts will quickly learn that "not only is Harry a Cub fan, he's a Bud Man."

All of Harry's quirks, spitting out great names like Gary Gaetti, Andres Galarraga, Jason Isringhausen, Scott Servais, and even [by the 5th inning] Mark Grace, quickly grew on me. He loved to randomly pronounce players' names backwards. "Holy Cow" was his trademark catchphrase, no matter who else used it. Concerning it, he said this: "I started in broadcasting in 1945 doing the Cardinals and saying ‘Holy Cow.’ [Legendary NY Yankee] Rizzuto was just a shortstop. ‘Holy Cow’ is mine."

He died before the season in 1998, missing seeing the Cubs get the NL Wild Card after a one-game playoff with the Giants. It seemed fitting, Harry's passing, 90 years since the last WS - really thought for a half-second there that it could happen. Then I would really join Cub Nation when I would feel the heartache in the Divisional Playoffs that year - losing to the stinkin' Braves. The Cubs heartache and joy have only increased each year since. If only he could still be here to present it to us.

Holiday Lament

You know, the holiday season gets on my nerves. I love Christmas and Hanukkah, but I prefer to wait until at least after Thanksgiving to celebrate them. But this year, as soon as Halloween was over - bam! Wal-Mart is jam-packed with those tacky inflatable blow up yard decoration thingy's. No lie - I was in Wal-Mart on November 11 and what do I hear? Karen Carpenter crooning out either "The Christmas Song" or "Merry Christmas, Darling." On November 11!!! Nothing makes my skin crawl like hearing Karen make that "oo" sound when she belts out the line "...from one tew ninety-tew..."

But that's how it usually goes, something like that (or TBS playing National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation four times a week starting after Veteran's Day) gets me hacked and it's really hard to get in the mood for Christmas. And by the time it's proper (in my estimation) to begin the Xmas festivities, we're (or at least I'm) kinda burned out. But then Christmas finally arrives, and then, like Keyser Söze - whew! It's gone.

The feeling of brevity doesn't really hit me until the decorations start going down. In particular, I will miss the storefront window painting at places like grocery stores. You know what I'm talking about, that green, red & white shoe-polish-type-paint used to say "Season's Greetings" in cursive and to make little leaves of holly. In the drive-thru at Milo's today, I found myself admiring the perfect cursive and the very good holly drawn (or stenciled) on the window. Then I quasi-sighed at the thought: "that'll be taken off tomorrow."

Regions Center in November 2005.
Photo from balaji shankar's flickr set.
Licensed under Creative Commons,
some rights reserved.

But the thing I really lament is when the special lighting on the First National building is taken down.

"During the Christmas season colored fluorescent bulbs are illuminated in each panel of the glass curtain wall, creating an enormous lit graphical display visible on the skyline from well outside the city.

The tradition began in 1972 with the display featuring Christmas trees and NOEL being spelled out along the building facade. In 1975, NOEL was replaced with JOY. Later a stocking and wreath were added to the display giving each face a different design. Currently, the east and west sides are Christmas trees, the south a wreath, and the north a stocking."

The building has had other lighting displays too, including the Olympic rings for the 1996 games, and American flags for the Bicentennial in '76 and the return of our troops from Operation Desert Storm in the early 90's. (from B'hamWiki)

So NYC's Rockefeller Center has a tree, big deal. We have our Regions Center. I've always been a fan, Downtown wouldn't be Downtown without it (I felt the same way about the green/red light on Vulcan's torch, too *sigh*). I think that they should do something with the lights more often than just Christmas (power bills & energy crisis be darned). But for now, I will try to enjoy these last remaining hours I have with the Christmas display. See you next year, Regions Center.

Regions Center in December 2006.
Photo by Dystopos. Licensed under Creative Commons, some rights reserved.

A penchant for geology, nostalgia, and romance

Well, I was thinking of writing something about the Red Mountain Museum, inspired by this week's Birmingham Weekly cover story. Weekly staff writer Molly Folse presents a good article that chronicles the life of the one-time staple of annual elementary school field trips, you should pick up a copy of this week's issue. It's free.

I was going to say something about how the Museum closed with the advent of the McWane Center in 1998, and how anyone who went to elementary school at any point from 1977 until then can tell you all about the Discovery Place and the Red Mountain Museum. I was going to say something about how the Museum was a fabulous byproduct of cutting into Red Mountain for the Expressway, as they found all kinds of fossils and geological whatnot, how I still have a huge fossil rock from the Museum, and also how all of the Museum's artifacts are owned by the McWane Center, yet they have been exiled in storage for the past ten years.

But no, I can't think of any of that now, because I am really intrigued by this entry on "The Backboard" classified section on the last page of the Weekly:

I guess it's good to know that I'm not completely out of options
when it comes to romance. Whoever this is, will not only
provide you with mail-order nuptials, but they'll teach
you her language too. Aww...

"It's like the end of an 85-year rain delay..."

* tagline from the 1995 Rickwood Classic promotion

Ok, so I went to the Rickwood Classic after all. Part of it, that is. After my CLE let out last Wednesday, I decided to go over and see how much of the game was left. I pulled right up in to a real good parking spot up close - money. Cautiously approaching the turnstyles, no ticket agents, no ticket takers, I walk right on through - money. Making my way to the stands, I joined a solid crowd of 5,802 paid attendees in time for the 6th inning - I'm so money.

For this season's Classic, the Barons were sporting the old green & gold of the 1964 Birmingham Barons. The '64 Barons were the first integrated professional baseball team in Birmingham, courtesy of Ensley's own, Charlie O, who made Birmingham the AA affiliate to his then-Kansas City A's. That installment (later re-christened the B'ham A's) was part of what would grow to be one the best farm systems in baseball. Players like Reggie Jackson, Rollie Fingers, & Vida Blue would play under Rickwood's lights, and eventually go on to Oakland A's World Series glory.


On display in the Rickwood conference room was tons of old Barons, Black Barons, and A's memorabilia. Very cool. Two big display cases full of A's uniforms, bats & things were supplied by Mr. Glynn West, who was general manager of the A's. They were also selling souvenir scorecards for $1 - the front office girl didn't have change for a ten, so she just handed me one and said "it's on me." - Again, I'm so money. Also on hand was author Ben Cook selling & autographing copies of his book Good Wood: A Fan's History of Rickwood Field. I didn't score a free copy of that - not so money, I guess. Oh well.

But just as there were many in the stands glued to the game, so too were several like me who just had to walk around. I mean, unless you're going to a West End-Parker high school baseball game, you don't have too many opportunities to soak up America's oldest ballpark. And boy is it old. Go to the top of the stands above third base and walk along, looking over the rail at the old industrial neighborhood, with the downtown skyline as a backdrop. It looks cool. I strolled over to the right field stands (where Ted Williams is said to have measured the distance to the roof, to ensure accurate HR measuring), and looked beyond the outfield wall, where the original wall still stands, still bearing original measurements. CF was a meager 478'! (It is now a more workable 393'.) I walked around that whole ballpark, casually strolling up to the players entrance (while they were still in play), as well in to the clubhouse (after the game) to see these huge posters of Willie Mays and Babe Ruth. Also in the club house is a restored manager's office, circa 1940's. Oh, and after the game, fans got to go out on the field. How cool is it to stand on a pitchers' mound where pitchers like Satchel Paige and Dizzy Dean once stood?

Anywho, I'm not a big fan of incessant "journal-ing" on blogs, but my point is, the park is great, but she's not completely back to old-glory-status yet. Even though there are retro ads on the outfield wall and she has a fresh coat of green paint on the outside, she needs some serious work. Having the distinction of being only the fifth concrete-and-steel ballpark constructed in the U.S., she is now riddled by peeling paint on the seats, outdated concession stands, and holes in the concrete in the stands. Even the dugouts (which aren't original) until could use some work, IMHO - perhaps enlarging it, padded benches, something. The neighborhood closely resembles a demilitarized zone - driving over to the park, it is painfully obvious why we had to move. For the Classic, it seemed like half of the B.P.D. was out in force, even in their mobile-command-swat-bus thingy.

She is a gem. I wish the Friends of Rickwood the best in their quest to preserve such an important piece of baseball history. Perhaps one day, when the Met gets so run-down and the Trace Crossings neighborhood just gets too dangerous, when B'ham's "urban renewal" is complete, then perhaps pro ball will return to the city. Oh well, see you at next year's Classic - maybe then I'll actually buy a ticket.

Rickwood Field featured on ESPN.com

ESPN.com's Jim Caple did a piece on Rickwood. Props to Jim for stopping by America's Ballbark. Read the story here. I was ten years old when the Barons moved to the Met - ahem, excuse me, I meant to say Regions Park. Whatever.

Even though my memory doesn't serve as well as it used to, I do remember riding in my dad's '65 Nova SS to games. I remember my great grandfather coming along on occasion. Unfortunately, I was too young to appreciate the gravity of the experience of watching baseball with Granddaddy Bryant (a former ballplayer himself who loved the game). However, I was not too young to appreciate the humor at one game when he pointed out to me that a pigeon had dropped an extra topping on the slice of pizza in the hand of the lady sitting in front of us. I can't remember if we stopped her, or if someone else told her, or if she ate it. Good times.

Even though she is still undergoing some renovations, the Met is just, blechhh. HOK Sport built her in the middle of the 80's, the pre-Camden Yards era when high-capacity, sterile facilities were all the rave, kinda like a mini-New Comiskey (pre-U.S. Cellular renovations). The Met has average sightlines, crappy seating, and a concourse that seems to have narrowed over the years (although that aspect may just be a result of me getting fatter). I know they've redone (or redoing) seats and altered the concourse, but she consistently receives disappointing marks by those die-hard baseball traveling bloggers. Here's a blog that kind of sums it up and another webpage that echoes similar sentiment. Just visit Riverwalk Stadium in Montgomery or Trustmark Park in Jackson, and you'll understand where they're coming from. Rickwood was a neat old place. (And apparently Jim Caple isn't the only one who appreciates it.) I've driven over there occasionally just to look around (in broad daylight, mind you), she looks pretty good.

Which brings me to my point, we're coming up on the 12th Annual Rickwood Classic, and for the 12th straight year I will probably miss it. I've always been away at college or law school or something. It's always during the day in the middle of the week, it seems like they'd make more money if they had it on a Saturday or something. But anywho, this year I figured I'd make it. No job, nothing to do, perfect. Wrong. I got a mandatory CLE on ethics or something. Well if you want to catch a ballgame, complete with throwback jerseys and old-school ambiance, check out the Rickwood Classic on May 30 at 12:35 p.m. I'll be at the bar center downtown if you want to join me for some ethics & professionalism.

The Old Brown Lady

Here's my girl, in her glory days - Century Plaza circa 1976 (click on the picture to enlarge). I freakin' loved that mall. It makes me so sad to think of what they've done to her.

I periodically keep tabs on the Malls of America blog, and CP was featured a while back. This photo comes by way of patriarca12's flickrset (I hope that patriarca12 and the MOA dude don't mind.)

This was the greatest mall ever. All dark and brown and earth-tone-y. Eastwood Mall was my parents' mall, but this was my mall. I mean, she had a McDonald's for crying out loud! No food court, just autonomous restaurants & eateries scattered throughout: Morrisons (later Picadilly's), Shoney's, Chick-Fil-A, Orange Julius, KarmelKorn...

Man was it great, it had an old man's tobacco shop (don't remember the name) - with chess boards and ivory pipes, an organ/piano store, an Aladin's Castle, a stamp collecting store, an Alabama Outdoors, complete with a rustic wooden floor... *tear*

A renovated and "better" Century Plaza.
Photo from argusfoto's flickr set.

I would love to find more pictures of CP, pre-remodeling, of course. The refit totally sucked, the way they opened up the center like that. It used to have a center exhibition area on the top level, but underneath, surrounded by a moat (if memory serves) was a circular arrangement of specialty stores like the India Shoppe (a head shop/boutique - not that I'm a hippie or anything, I was just a kid, I didn't know why people were in to incense, I just thought that place was neat, with all it's "tobacco" pipes and whatnot).

As indicated by DeadMalls.com, CP is dying a slow and painful death. I miss her. I'm going to go cry now.

***Update***
Another BlogSpot blogger, J.T., has taken many good pics for his recent blog post on CP. Check it out.

A Century Plaza ad in December 1976, please visit Birmingham Rewound for all kinds of cool nostalgia.

Filet-O-Fish Story

The other day I was headed out to grab a lane and cash in some free bowling coupons, but I stopped for a bite to eat on the way. There they were, those golden arches - the song "Have you had your break today..." plays over and over in my head. Sweet delicious goodness, Jared be darned! Oooh, something catches my eye - a huge banner on top of the Mickey D's informing me of a Double Filet-O-Fish Extra Value Meal, for only $4.99. Did you say Double Filet-O-Fish?? It's a Lent miracle!!! I've never heard of such, that must mean this is a new concept. It sounds mouthwateringly perfect.

Well, upon a successful, short trip in the drive-thru, I'm off to the alley. Oh, it smells so good! I open that container to ensure it's the "double" and oh, it is a double. I'm getting fatter just looking at it. Now comes the pre-eating cleansing of the sandwich. I love tartar sauce as much as the next guy, but McDonald's wants to make sure I have enough, and so they saturate the poor sandwich with that stuff. (In years past, McD's ran a "2 Filet-O-Fish" meal special during Lent, so I would ask for one fish sandwich with no tatar sauce, then transfer half of what's soaking the other sandwich and it was perfect.)

Anyways, so I took the top bun and scraped some sauce off into the cardboard box from whence it came. Don't worry, that sauce was not to be wasted - it would accompany the fries later on. Driving down the road, I take my first bite into my first-ever Double Filet-O-Fish. Twas sooo good. Unfortunately, for yours truly, there was still an excessive volume of tartar - and some escaped out the back of the sandwich.

I look down, and there's a little glop of sauce, resting right below the fly of my khaki shorts. I was in the process of getting on the freeway, but with the knowledge of what condiments can do to khaki (it's not my first time being a messy baby), I pull to the side of the acceleration ramp to take immediate action.

Growing up fat, I have developed a pretty good system to battle food stains. It involves immediate and direct scrubbing with an ice cube cradled in a napkin. If you're drinking soda, so much the better. Take a little sip, don't swallow, but ever so nonchalantly spit the small amount of soda on to your makeshift scrubber as a helping agent. (The principle behind "A little club soda will get that out" applies here - trust me, I have a chemistry degree.) Cola will stain too, right? Well, which stain would you rather have on your brown khakis, red marinara sauce or a little trace of Diet Coke?

So there I am, after having picked up the bulk of the glop ever so gently, I go to work, while the freeway on-ramp traffic is driving by. My makeshift scrubber, or "Shiv," as I call it, is going to get the job done. So there I am, scrubbing vigorously with rapid arm movements my shorts, stretching the material to ensure a successful cleaning, ignoring the huge wet area now occupying the surface area from the fly to the crotch of my shorts. "The dampness will dry before you get to the bowling alley, just keep scrubbing," I told myself.

Honk, honk!!!

Cars whiz by. "What?" I ask myself, "what are they honking at? I'm well off the road, I have my hazards on." I continue scrubbing, harder and faster. "I can't let this set!" I say ever so determined.

HONK, HONK!!!

"What are they looking at?" I ask as I see people looking at me as they pass. I then realized that only my upper torso was visible to the passing traffic. If you can visualize what the passing cars saw, then you can perhaps empathize with the mild discomfiture I experienced realizing how I must have appeared to my fellow commuters.

Well, the scrubbing was soon over and I was on my way, having the vents on full blast pointed to my shorts. The sad epilogue to my story was that unfortunately my hard work scrubbing was for naught, as was the perceived show I was giving to traffic. The tartar had done its damage and a [rather noticeable] grease spot had set in right under the fly of my shorts. I bowled with my shirt untucked.

I always feel like somebody's watching me...

The thing about MySpace that gets me is the ads. I mean, I'm trying to login one day and next to the login box is a pic of some cutie in a bikini advertising for some online dating service. The next day there's one for a Christian dating service, with pictures of upstanding young people who are clothed right up to their necks. Who decides which ads make the cut to appear on my 'Space? A computer program? Is it random? Is it geared to what Big Brother AdSense is reading off my account info? I wonder if the type of ads would change if I entered "Married" as my relationship status. -Or if people would quit making references to me being gay in comments they leave. Here's one "Sponsored Link" that popped up next to some picture comments last Thursday, sheesh:

She was the one. I know that now...

They say it's supposed to get better over time. I guess that's so, but occasionally, at least in my estimation, one is bound to have a bad day. Or week.

You know - you try your best to put her out of your mind, keep your thought process occupied. Watch a movie, read, go out. Sooner or later, you're going to be alone with your thoughts. Close your eyes and she's there. Eventually you fall asleep in the hopes that tomorrow will be better, easier.

Then someone mentions her in an anecdote or shows a picture with her in it. The cycle repeats. Thoughts flood - what it was like, what it would've been like. You've been down that road before, you know the end: bitter realization. But like a junkie aching for a fix, you choose to travel that road anyway, just to capture a moment of the bliss that once was.

You look at the calendar and automatically (and pathetically) you know how long it's been. Three days shy of one year and five months. You'll never get over her. She's always there, in the back of your mind. Every time you get in your car, go to the store, fill up your gas tank - some things will always be different.

She was the one. You know that now. And ever since you've been chasing 'Rosa.
The only thing you can do is take a shot and say a prayer.

Aspen Apostle's Creed

I believe in a Dodge, the Aspen - one of the coolest cars in all the earth
and in Joseph Schell, its one of many friends
who brought it to L-Town and bore it for all to see
who suffered under Pontius James Todd, data structures, then left and married
he has the power to make Aspen ride again
I believe in the Aspen's spirit,
the HondaRosa too,
the laying on of hands,
the resurrection of the Aspen,
and its life everlasting,
Amen.

Perhaps I can best express myself through a monologue from the film Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, starring the great Bill Shatner:

"We are gathered here today to pay final respects to our honored dead. But it should be noted that this death takes place in the shadow of new life, the sunrise of a new world; a world that our beloved comrade gave [her] life to protect and nourish. [She] did not feel this sacrifice a vain or empty one, and we will not debate [her] profound wisdom at these proceedings. Of my friend, I can only say this: of all the souls I have encountered in my travels, [hers] was the most... human."