Whenever I hear (or write for that matter) the phrase "true story," I always hear John from Real World Los Angeles belting out "Truuuuuue Stoooorraaaaaayyy" in his nasally southern twang. You? Anyway, according to this artice, Washington Nationals infileder Tony Blanco was put on the 15-day DL today with... vertigo. WTF?
Also, I just blocked a field goal in Madden. Granted, I was using Jevon Kearse (the fastest lineman in the game), but still. Quite an accomplishment. And yes, I'm still unemployed.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
My Grandfather
My mother's father died before I was born and my father's father died when I was about 3 years old, so I don't really remember him. I recently decided that the old guy from the Six Flags commercials who dances to the Venga Boys is much more like me than my own parents, so he must be my real grandfather. Ladies and Germs, I present to you: Catheter Grandpa.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Beisbol been belly belly bad to me
Since it is now the MLB All Star break and I haven't written about the first place(!) Nats since the home opener, I decided to take this chance to describe to you my long and arduous history with the American pastime. This will probably be a long one, so make a sandwich.
At about the time that most kids get into little league, age six, I was thrust into the exciting world of soccer. This was probably due to the fact that the DC area is a soccer hotbed (along with only Texas and California as far as I can tell) and the fact that my best friend from school was a Spanish kid named Julio. So my first sports experience was on a soccer team named the Wildcats. I think the best part about the team was our blue jerseys that I probably wore way too often.
When I was nine, I went to sleep away camp for the first time. I had never played baseball or softball, but since I followed the Orioles, I knew what I was supposed to do when I did play. It is a very simple game. You hit the ball. You throw the ball. You catch the ball. It was probably about that time when I got my first glove, a Rawlings Rickey Henderson Signature model. Back in the day, I really liked Rickey and the A's. Wasn't that A's team sweet? Rickey Henderson, Dave Henderson, McGwire, Canseco, Lansford, Weiss, Stewart, Eckersley, and those are just the ones I remember.
After a couple years, I got into a rhythm where I was playing soccer in the spring and fall and indoor soccer and basketball in the winter. I probably kept this up until middle school when I just played soccer and basketball. I never played baseball at all. Of course, at camp I played whatever sports I could. My third year at camp, we were the oldest kids at the lower camp. Due to my "flabalanche," I could hit the ball really far in softball and was a decent player in the field. The counselor who taught softball decided to put up a sheet in the dugout, tracking people's home runs throughout the summer. It was called "The Boom Time Club." I should also mention here that there was one black kid in the camp and seeing as it was a mostly Jewish camp, Winston would be my main competition for Boom Time honors. In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.
I don't remember how often we played softball, but it was probably once or twice a week for the four weeks of camp. By the end of camp I had 3 home runs and Winston only had 2. I was the official Boom Time leader. On the last night of camp, there was always a banquet and an awards ceremony, when the best people at each sport or activity would get the coveted Gold Feather. When it came time for the softball gold feather, I was feeling pretty good about my chances. I got even more excited when the counselor said that the person who won the gold feather would get an autographed Mike Schmidt baseball. Those of you who have followed my life can surely sense what is about to happen.
The counselor got up and went through some little speech about softball that year and then said, "The gold feather goes to...Winston." I was crushed. I didn't even care about the Schmidt baseball as much as I was pissed that I had beaten Winston at home runs and was probably just as good, if not better than him. I must have been really steamed because uncharacteristically for me, I went up to the counselor after the awards ceremony and told him that I had been the camp home run champ and I deserved the gold feather. Struggling for an excuse, he settled on a claim that 2 of my home runs had come on errors (even though they were marked as home runs on the Boom Time board). I was also pissed off that night that I had not made it into the lower camp's athletic hall of fame, despite my Boom Time championship, Boy's Leagues championship, and general athletic mediocrity that year. Looking back, that was probably my "Michael Jordan getting cut from his HS basketball team" moment that propelled me into eventual athletic dominance of the upper camp.
My next experience with softball came in 8th grade. I went to middle school and we were not allowed to try out for sports until 7th grade. Since I had little to no self esteem, I didn't think I could make any teams that year, so I did not try out. In 8th grade, I tried out for soccer. I had been playing soccer for about 7 years at that point and was a pretty damn good defender on teams that would regularly dominate our league. The soccer coach decided that the best way to conduct tryouts was to make us run around the field for 2 hours and then have a 15 minute scrimmage. Well, since I still had "junk in the trunk" at that point in my life, distance running was not exactly my strong suit. Even though I could have probably at least held my own in a real scrimmage, I was so tired by the end of the running that it was pointless. Plus, I think the coach just took the people he knew were good and the people who could run for the longest. Admittedly, I don't think I should have been on that team (a team that was eventually 2nd in the nation in high school), but the coach was damn near retarded (the team didn't even win for like 7 games, even with all that talent).
In the spring, I tried out for the softball team. Anyone who had seen me play in gym, knew I could hit. I just didn't really field all that well (see my "blubber belly" for an explanation). I don't really remember much about tryouts except that I decided for some reason to play centerfield. It may have had to do with the fact that Ken Griffey Jr. was the rage at the time. There is no way I should have played centerfield. I remember Kittichai Kongtong going out there with me and he eventually switched to pitcher because my hitting was so good that he knew I would make the team. I was probably the second best hitter on the team next to Min Woo Chun (we were ahead of the curve, with our Japanese pitcher and Korean DH). Anyway, I eventually made the team and led the team in triples (I wasn't quite fast and/or powerful enough to get homers without any fences).
In 9th grade, I knew I would not make the soccer team and was tired of people asking me if I was going to play football, so I didn't try out for anything in the fall. I also wasn't confident in my basketball abilities to try out for that team (even though I was probably better than I thought, most coaches would have looked at my body type and dismissed me immediately). In the spring, I decided that I would try out for baseball. I didn't care that I had never played the sport in my life, I was a great softball hitter, so it must translate. Plus, most of the guys who were on the softball team with me last year were not that good, so I had a decent chance. What I didn't count on were the guys who had run cross country for my middle school and played on their club baseball teams instead of playing softball last year.
When we began tryouts, I quickly sized up the competition. Others clearly knew how to play better than me, but there were few my age that could hit as well as me. I thought I had a pretty good shot at making the team. Surely, a coach would see my potential and want to "coach me up." I was smart, I could learn a position if someone just took about 15 minutes to explain things to me.
The final day of tryouts was a marathon game at another local high school. I remember that it was really cold that day. So cold, that out of our whole team (probably about 25 people trying out), only about 2 got hits the first time through the order. I was not one of them. I don't really remember exactly what my line was, but I think it was 3 for 4 with two singles and a double. The double was a "shot," the word used to describe a ball hit really hard. All the older guys on the team were congratulating me on my hit. My exploits in the field were much less memorable. I misjudged a ball in centerfield (who the hell kept letting me play center?) and failed to cut off a throw from the outfield when the coach moved me to first. Anyone who saw me play would have known that I didn't really know how to play any position.
After the game, each player would go into the athletic shed and the coach would talk to you and tell you if you made the team or not. I had no idea if I was going to make it, but I thought I had a shot. Plus, some of the older guys were telling me that I would make it, if only for the strength of my double during the game. I waited for my turn patiently on the bleachers, secretly cheering whenever someone would come out of there without a smile on their face. When it was my turn to go into the shed, the coach said, "[Catheter Man], your hitting is there. You just don't have a position. I'm sorry. You didn't make the team." I came out of the shed almost relieved, because I had been so nervous going in. When I told the older guys that I had been cut, they could not believe it. All in all, I thought I had done pretty well, this being the first time I had ever played baseball in my life. I was determined to come back the next year with a position and make the team.
By sophomore year, I missed being part of a team. Since I knew I would not make the soccer team, I decided to bite the bullet and try out for another sport I had never played in my life, football. The best part was that as long as you could make it through summer practices, you were on the team, no matter how bad you were. After surviving football season and getting into decent shape (at least by my standards), I decided the best way to make the baseball team without knowing how to really play any positions in the field is to be a pitcher. I always had a strong arm, maybe I could impress them with that.
Tryouts came around again in the spring and I came in ready to pitch. What I did not know was that by saying I was a pitcher, that implied that I actually knew how to pitch. A more appropriate designation would be to call me a "thrower." I didn't even know how to pitch out of the stretch. More importantly, I couldn't really throw strikes consistently. By the end of tryouts, it was clear that I was not a pitcher, so without a position, I still could not make the team.
Junior year, the ante was upped. I was going to try out for varsity. At this point, I knew I couldn't play baseball, but I wanted to try out anyway. If I couldn't make the team, I was at least going to have fun at tryouts. Long story short, I didn't make it.
Finally senior year, I was ready to make the team. I went to a winter baseball camp at Catholic University so that I could actually learn how to play. Incidentally, they also gave each camper a 50/50 tee shirt, which I still wear to this day and is probably the best thing that came out of going to that camp. Unfortunately, being that Washington, DC is not in a tropical climate, most of the baseball camp was conducted inside. Thus, it focused more on hitting than fielding, which is what I needed.
At tryouts, I had my usual good hitting, retarded fielding performance (I had switched back to outfield after the disastrous year trying to pitch). At the end of the tryouts, the coach came up to me and said, "[Catheter Man], if there was a spot on this team for heart, you would get it." However, there was not a spot on the team for heart. He went on to say that he could put me on the roster, but I wouldn't play and I wouldn't want to just be on there essentially out of pity. First of all, how does he know that I wouldn't play. If someone ever took the 15 minutes to tell me how to play a position, I may be useful. Secondly, if I got a hat and uniform, I'd gladly ride the bench for a season. Its just fun to be on a team. Third, by that point, I was not expecting to make the team, I just liked playing for those 2 or 3 weeks. That ended my illustrious baseball career and brings me back to my theory: teachers hate me.
Luckily, I got to experience 2 seasons of the worst high school football ever played, so don't feel too bad for me.
At about the time that most kids get into little league, age six, I was thrust into the exciting world of soccer. This was probably due to the fact that the DC area is a soccer hotbed (along with only Texas and California as far as I can tell) and the fact that my best friend from school was a Spanish kid named Julio. So my first sports experience was on a soccer team named the Wildcats. I think the best part about the team was our blue jerseys that I probably wore way too often.
When I was nine, I went to sleep away camp for the first time. I had never played baseball or softball, but since I followed the Orioles, I knew what I was supposed to do when I did play. It is a very simple game. You hit the ball. You throw the ball. You catch the ball. It was probably about that time when I got my first glove, a Rawlings Rickey Henderson Signature model. Back in the day, I really liked Rickey and the A's. Wasn't that A's team sweet? Rickey Henderson, Dave Henderson, McGwire, Canseco, Lansford, Weiss, Stewart, Eckersley, and those are just the ones I remember.
After a couple years, I got into a rhythm where I was playing soccer in the spring and fall and indoor soccer and basketball in the winter. I probably kept this up until middle school when I just played soccer and basketball. I never played baseball at all. Of course, at camp I played whatever sports I could. My third year at camp, we were the oldest kids at the lower camp. Due to my "flabalanche," I could hit the ball really far in softball and was a decent player in the field. The counselor who taught softball decided to put up a sheet in the dugout, tracking people's home runs throughout the summer. It was called "The Boom Time Club." I should also mention here that there was one black kid in the camp and seeing as it was a mostly Jewish camp, Winston would be my main competition for Boom Time honors. In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.
I don't remember how often we played softball, but it was probably once or twice a week for the four weeks of camp. By the end of camp I had 3 home runs and Winston only had 2. I was the official Boom Time leader. On the last night of camp, there was always a banquet and an awards ceremony, when the best people at each sport or activity would get the coveted Gold Feather. When it came time for the softball gold feather, I was feeling pretty good about my chances. I got even more excited when the counselor said that the person who won the gold feather would get an autographed Mike Schmidt baseball. Those of you who have followed my life can surely sense what is about to happen.
The counselor got up and went through some little speech about softball that year and then said, "The gold feather goes to...Winston." I was crushed. I didn't even care about the Schmidt baseball as much as I was pissed that I had beaten Winston at home runs and was probably just as good, if not better than him. I must have been really steamed because uncharacteristically for me, I went up to the counselor after the awards ceremony and told him that I had been the camp home run champ and I deserved the gold feather. Struggling for an excuse, he settled on a claim that 2 of my home runs had come on errors (even though they were marked as home runs on the Boom Time board). I was also pissed off that night that I had not made it into the lower camp's athletic hall of fame, despite my Boom Time championship, Boy's Leagues championship, and general athletic mediocrity that year. Looking back, that was probably my "Michael Jordan getting cut from his HS basketball team" moment that propelled me into eventual athletic dominance of the upper camp.
My next experience with softball came in 8th grade. I went to middle school and we were not allowed to try out for sports until 7th grade. Since I had little to no self esteem, I didn't think I could make any teams that year, so I did not try out. In 8th grade, I tried out for soccer. I had been playing soccer for about 7 years at that point and was a pretty damn good defender on teams that would regularly dominate our league. The soccer coach decided that the best way to conduct tryouts was to make us run around the field for 2 hours and then have a 15 minute scrimmage. Well, since I still had "junk in the trunk" at that point in my life, distance running was not exactly my strong suit. Even though I could have probably at least held my own in a real scrimmage, I was so tired by the end of the running that it was pointless. Plus, I think the coach just took the people he knew were good and the people who could run for the longest. Admittedly, I don't think I should have been on that team (a team that was eventually 2nd in the nation in high school), but the coach was damn near retarded (the team didn't even win for like 7 games, even with all that talent).
In the spring, I tried out for the softball team. Anyone who had seen me play in gym, knew I could hit. I just didn't really field all that well (see my "blubber belly" for an explanation). I don't really remember much about tryouts except that I decided for some reason to play centerfield. It may have had to do with the fact that Ken Griffey Jr. was the rage at the time. There is no way I should have played centerfield. I remember Kittichai Kongtong going out there with me and he eventually switched to pitcher because my hitting was so good that he knew I would make the team. I was probably the second best hitter on the team next to Min Woo Chun (we were ahead of the curve, with our Japanese pitcher and Korean DH). Anyway, I eventually made the team and led the team in triples (I wasn't quite fast and/or powerful enough to get homers without any fences).
In 9th grade, I knew I would not make the soccer team and was tired of people asking me if I was going to play football, so I didn't try out for anything in the fall. I also wasn't confident in my basketball abilities to try out for that team (even though I was probably better than I thought, most coaches would have looked at my body type and dismissed me immediately). In the spring, I decided that I would try out for baseball. I didn't care that I had never played the sport in my life, I was a great softball hitter, so it must translate. Plus, most of the guys who were on the softball team with me last year were not that good, so I had a decent chance. What I didn't count on were the guys who had run cross country for my middle school and played on their club baseball teams instead of playing softball last year.
When we began tryouts, I quickly sized up the competition. Others clearly knew how to play better than me, but there were few my age that could hit as well as me. I thought I had a pretty good shot at making the team. Surely, a coach would see my potential and want to "coach me up." I was smart, I could learn a position if someone just took about 15 minutes to explain things to me.
The final day of tryouts was a marathon game at another local high school. I remember that it was really cold that day. So cold, that out of our whole team (probably about 25 people trying out), only about 2 got hits the first time through the order. I was not one of them. I don't really remember exactly what my line was, but I think it was 3 for 4 with two singles and a double. The double was a "shot," the word used to describe a ball hit really hard. All the older guys on the team were congratulating me on my hit. My exploits in the field were much less memorable. I misjudged a ball in centerfield (who the hell kept letting me play center?) and failed to cut off a throw from the outfield when the coach moved me to first. Anyone who saw me play would have known that I didn't really know how to play any position.
After the game, each player would go into the athletic shed and the coach would talk to you and tell you if you made the team or not. I had no idea if I was going to make it, but I thought I had a shot. Plus, some of the older guys were telling me that I would make it, if only for the strength of my double during the game. I waited for my turn patiently on the bleachers, secretly cheering whenever someone would come out of there without a smile on their face. When it was my turn to go into the shed, the coach said, "[Catheter Man], your hitting is there. You just don't have a position. I'm sorry. You didn't make the team." I came out of the shed almost relieved, because I had been so nervous going in. When I told the older guys that I had been cut, they could not believe it. All in all, I thought I had done pretty well, this being the first time I had ever played baseball in my life. I was determined to come back the next year with a position and make the team.
By sophomore year, I missed being part of a team. Since I knew I would not make the soccer team, I decided to bite the bullet and try out for another sport I had never played in my life, football. The best part was that as long as you could make it through summer practices, you were on the team, no matter how bad you were. After surviving football season and getting into decent shape (at least by my standards), I decided the best way to make the baseball team without knowing how to really play any positions in the field is to be a pitcher. I always had a strong arm, maybe I could impress them with that.
Tryouts came around again in the spring and I came in ready to pitch. What I did not know was that by saying I was a pitcher, that implied that I actually knew how to pitch. A more appropriate designation would be to call me a "thrower." I didn't even know how to pitch out of the stretch. More importantly, I couldn't really throw strikes consistently. By the end of tryouts, it was clear that I was not a pitcher, so without a position, I still could not make the team.
Junior year, the ante was upped. I was going to try out for varsity. At this point, I knew I couldn't play baseball, but I wanted to try out anyway. If I couldn't make the team, I was at least going to have fun at tryouts. Long story short, I didn't make it.
Finally senior year, I was ready to make the team. I went to a winter baseball camp at Catholic University so that I could actually learn how to play. Incidentally, they also gave each camper a 50/50 tee shirt, which I still wear to this day and is probably the best thing that came out of going to that camp. Unfortunately, being that Washington, DC is not in a tropical climate, most of the baseball camp was conducted inside. Thus, it focused more on hitting than fielding, which is what I needed.
At tryouts, I had my usual good hitting, retarded fielding performance (I had switched back to outfield after the disastrous year trying to pitch). At the end of the tryouts, the coach came up to me and said, "[Catheter Man], if there was a spot on this team for heart, you would get it." However, there was not a spot on the team for heart. He went on to say that he could put me on the roster, but I wouldn't play and I wouldn't want to just be on there essentially out of pity. First of all, how does he know that I wouldn't play. If someone ever took the 15 minutes to tell me how to play a position, I may be useful. Secondly, if I got a hat and uniform, I'd gladly ride the bench for a season. Its just fun to be on a team. Third, by that point, I was not expecting to make the team, I just liked playing for those 2 or 3 weeks. That ended my illustrious baseball career and brings me back to my theory: teachers hate me.
Luckily, I got to experience 2 seasons of the worst high school football ever played, so don't feel too bad for me.
Friday, July 08, 2005
Nice to know Hugh(es)
Well, after flashing around more money than Charlie Sheen at a coke and whore convention, it seems that the Cleveland Cavaliers have finally found their second banana for LeBron James. That honor will go to none other than Larry Hughes. Obviously, as with any great franchise, what the Wizards want to do after making the second round of the playoffs for just the second time in the last 28 years, is disassemble the roster. Let's start by getting rid of the second leading scorer and only guy that plays lazy defense well enough to be voted to the NBA all-defensive team.
But its ok, we have Kwame Brown. He's only 21. He's just rounding into form. What? He was told not to show up for the playoffs last season after complaining of stoumach pains and then being seen eating General Tso's chicken just hours later? Huh? Jordan challenged his lack of heart and he responded by sulking and sucking? He's possibly the worst #1 pick ever?
Don't worry, our first round pick will pick up the slack left by Hughes. What? We didn't have a first round pick because we traded it for Harvey Grant or some such nonsense? Oh, and in the second round, we took a guy out of high school that remarkably resembles.... Kwame Brown?!?!?!?
Come on, don't you remember what Juan Dixon, Jared Jeffries, and Steve Blake accomplished in college? Sure, I also remember what Christian Laettner, Bobby Hurley, Grant Hill, Derrick Coleman, and Yinka Dare did in college. A fat lot of good it did them in the league.
But Arenas and Jamison were so good last year. They can carry us. Unless they and the rest of the team miraculously learned how to play defense for more than one minute a game, Arenas and Jamison could score 70 a night and we would still lose. Plus, Jamison really tanked at the end of the year.
What about the big uglies? Ruffin, Etan Thomas, and Brendan Haywood can hold down the fort defensively. No. No, they can't. And they play offense worse than a 12 year old girl with severe spastic cerebral palsy.
Jarvis Hayes? Remember Calbert Cheaney?
Laron Profit? I can't believe he was in the league last year.
So is there any hope? In a word, no. But, if Peter John Ramos, the Puerto Rican sensation, comes in next year and dominates the boards like a latter day Wes Unseld, we might have a chance.
We're fucked.
But its ok, we have Kwame Brown. He's only 21. He's just rounding into form. What? He was told not to show up for the playoffs last season after complaining of stoumach pains and then being seen eating General Tso's chicken just hours later? Huh? Jordan challenged his lack of heart and he responded by sulking and sucking? He's possibly the worst #1 pick ever?
Don't worry, our first round pick will pick up the slack left by Hughes. What? We didn't have a first round pick because we traded it for Harvey Grant or some such nonsense? Oh, and in the second round, we took a guy out of high school that remarkably resembles.... Kwame Brown?!?!?!?
Come on, don't you remember what Juan Dixon, Jared Jeffries, and Steve Blake accomplished in college? Sure, I also remember what Christian Laettner, Bobby Hurley, Grant Hill, Derrick Coleman, and Yinka Dare did in college. A fat lot of good it did them in the league.
But Arenas and Jamison were so good last year. They can carry us. Unless they and the rest of the team miraculously learned how to play defense for more than one minute a game, Arenas and Jamison could score 70 a night and we would still lose. Plus, Jamison really tanked at the end of the year.
What about the big uglies? Ruffin, Etan Thomas, and Brendan Haywood can hold down the fort defensively. No. No, they can't. And they play offense worse than a 12 year old girl with severe spastic cerebral palsy.
Jarvis Hayes? Remember Calbert Cheaney?
Laron Profit? I can't believe he was in the league last year.
So is there any hope? In a word, no. But, if Peter John Ramos, the Puerto Rican sensation, comes in next year and dominates the boards like a latter day Wes Unseld, we might have a chance.
We're fucked.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
My Kind of Town
As many of you know, my girlfriend does restaurant PR and consulting. Usually, this translates in to perks such as free meals and free entry into foodie events throughout the year. Tuesday night, we got one of the best perks ever.
After arriving home from the beach the previous evening, all girlfriend wanted to do was get home from work and go to the supermarket to stock up our barren refrigerator. She then received a call that said she had to come to one of her restaurants and take pictures because Chicago was going to be there (they were playing at Wolf Trap, an outdoor venue in VA, the next night). She asked if I wanted to go along (mostly because I have a digital camera). So I said yes. How often do you get to hang out with wuss rock icons?
We get to the restaurant and it turns out that only the trumpet player and the tour manager from Chicago are there, so no pictures. We did get to have a free meal (and I made sure to drink about a gallon of Chianti. About halfway through the meal, the restaurant owner asks if we want to go to the show. I said yes (partially because I had nothing better to do, partially because I haven't been to a concert in months, and partially because I needed a good story for the site). So we get the word later in the night that we would be getting tickets at will call and one of my lifelong dreams would be coming true: backstage passes! We were going to be Very Immense Penises!
Yesterday I took the metro over to my girlfriend's office in VA. Unfortunately, due to the rush hour traffic, I had to sit in the seat across from the conductor box behind the tinted glass (you know, the one that always smells like the freshest piss). I finally get there and after waking up the heifer next to me so I could get out of the train, I got into my girlfriend's car and we were off to Wolf Trap.
For those who don't know, Wolf Trap is an indoor/outdoor venue that specializes in wussy acts that are past their prime. If you don't believe me check here. Basically, its the type of place you see a lot of chunky asses wearing dockers. Adults also like it because you can bring your own food and alcohol and the parking is free.
There was some traffic trying to get out of Alexandria in rush hour, so I decided to put on the old standby: Don and Mike. I grew up with this duo and was listening to them when they still had to play records. A lot of people don't like them (mostly those who worship Howard Stern), but I think they are hilarious. They are apparently on vacation this week, so the station is running Best Of tapes. The one they ran yesterday could have been the best segment ever.
The tape was from the day after the last election. Don was praying for an election day miracle that Bush would not get reelected (by the way, great job defeating terrorism, jackass. Mission accomplished.) So Don is flipping through the channels and he gets a call from Robbay, a former intern turned producer, to let him know that he had to change the channel to 315. Don had found his election day miracle.
Warning: Clicking on this link will ensure your eternal spot in hell.
They watched this show for the next 30 minutes (on election night, 30 minutes is like 3 hours) because the show was just so damn good that they couldn't turn the channel. Anyway, they had clips of the "trainables" trying to interview people on the show. Highest of high comedy. But its not just the tards that make it funny. Its the celebrity reactions to them and how uncomfortable they are that makes it funny. Either way, I can't wait for hell.
We got to Wolf Trap at about 6:30, when the guy told us to be there to pick up the tickets at will call. The owner of the restaurant and her boyfriend(?) were going to be there as well. So we picked up the tickets and our VIP passes and really did not know what to do with ourselves. Are you supposed to go backstage before the show? We decided not and I got a beer and a burger for dinner. The strange thing about the food is that the only thing there that didn't have a jacked up price was the Starbuck's Coffee. They must have said to themselves, "I can't believe how much people pay for this crap to begin with. We can't possibly charge them any more." The crowd mostly seemed like a mix of baby boomers, their kids, and a few pockets of random people.
After hanging out and scoping the crowd for a while (yes, I did see two adult tards trying to climb the stairs on the side of the stage, and yes, I'm getting closer and closer to the front row of hell), we made our way to our seats. 7th row center. Boo Yaa. We're with the band. The restaurant owner and her boyfriend showed up at about 8 and the show began maybe 10 or 15 minutes later.
Chicago still rocks. Well, about as hard as they ever did, which is to say, not very hard. But they still got it. It is weird because they have about 5 of the 7 original members and replaced the guitar player and bassist with 2 young guys who could be moonlighting in a boy band for all I know. Either way, it makes for a strange dynamic on the stage. I don't think I was supposed to take pictures, but what kind of reporter would I be if I didn't? More unemployed? Kicked out of Wolf Trap? Please.
About 2 songs into the performance, the owner's boyfriend got up to presumably go get a beer and smoke a cigarette. He never came back to the seats. Later he was like, "It was really hot in there." Which it was, but not that bad. The owner went to look for him during the performance and came back with a big bag of goodies (not drugs, sicko). She then told us that she had bought Chicago tour shirts for us. Sweet! I was going to buy one and wear it ironically, but they were like $30. Not worth it, but if its free, I'll be wearing that sucker all the time.
Chicago played all the classics: Saturday in the Park, Look Away, Hard to Say I'm Sorry, If You Leave Me Now, and others. Plus there was a kick-ass drum solo. The only one conspicuously missing was You're the Inspiration. But I guess when you are coming out with you 30th album, all the hits can't possibly make it into the show.
By the end of the show, they were getting standing O's for every song. I was never really sure when it was really going to be the last song, but they finally left the stage and the baby boomers went crazy. So did this old guy named "Bear" who was sitting next to us and was apparently was somebody in the band's father. He also supposedly played for the Steelers in the 50's and looked the part. Even though he was happy and smiling the whole night, he looked like he could crack your chest open if he wanted, even at his advanced age.
They came out for an encore with Free and 25 or 6 to 4 and brought the house down. During Free, they unfurled a huge American flag and got a big pop from the crowd, being so close to 4th of July and all. It was then that my girlfriend asked if I wanted to leave and go take the dog out (who had been alone in the apartment for 5 hours) or go backstage with the Owner and her boyfriend. Obviously, I thought it was a good tradeoff to have a potential pile of poo in our bedroom and go backstage at a concert, one of my lifelong dreams. I don't care if it was Chicago, I still had to do it and I may never get another chance to go backstage in my life, so we headed to the side of the building where all the VIPs were.
The four of us along with Bear and his wife and some others got to go back into the green room or something like that and waited for the band. I wasn't too sure of what to expect, but it was a bit of a let down because all that really happened was the band came out and talked to the various assembled groups. My girlfriend got an autograph from the bass player (who looked a bit like James Caan's son and whose father had played in Elvis' band) and a picture with the trumpet player (who was at the restaurant the previous night) and we were on our way.
I have to say, even today, Chicago still puts on a good show. You have to respect a band that stays around this long, even if Peter Cetera is no longer with them. Plus, I got to fulfill my lifelong dream of going backstage at a concert and I even have a Chicago tee shirt to wear that will definitely at least make people laugh. And it was all free.
I can't wait for REO Speedwagon to come to the restaurant. And no, I'm not kidding.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Give me back my CDs
I finally went through my CD book and took account of which CDs I have and which ones are missing. I know where a few of them are (Shmeg Shmempler, I'm looking your way) and I probably haven't seen some since college. So now, with the advent of digital music, whoever has my CDs does not really need them anymore. Just copy them onto your hard drive and send me back the original copy. Here is a list of what I am missing:
1) Beastie Boys: Ill Communication -- not my favorite album of theirs, but one I'd like to listen to from time to time. I have no idea where or when I lost this one.
2) Wu Tang Clan: Enter the Wu Tang -- this one I am genuinely pissed off about. I loved this album and I would really like to get it back. Again, no clue where it is, but it probably disappeared sometime during my stint at 1620 Cambridge.
3) Tupac: All Eyez on Me Vol. 1 -- Who takes just one volume of a 2 volume set? An asshole, that's who. Send it back, dick.
4) Def Jam Box Set Vol. 4 -- The person who has this one knows who he is. I have no idea why he would never give it back to me, despite me asking numerous times. Save it to your computer and send it, Caballo.
5) Dave Matthews Band: Crash and Recently : I think Recently has been gone for a long time. I have no doubt that one got stolen in college. As for Crash, I didn't even really like it that much, but I'd still love to get it back.
6) Pink Floyd: Dark Side of the Moon -- This one was probably left in someone's CD player after watching the Wizard of Oz and getting zooted. In that respect, I would venture to guess that a full 38% of Dark Side CDs have been lost.
7) Santana's Greatest Hits -- This would have been the perfect CD to play at the beach this weekend when we were just chilling and drinking... if I still had it.
8) The Jerky Boys Vol. 3 -- Project X, send it back to me or I will get a cobra to bite your eyeball.
9) The Box Presents: Big Phat Ones of Hip-Hop -- This one is somewhere in Colediggy's stash. I know you like Playaz Club, but gets to sending.
Interestingly enough, my Mariah Carey and Vanilla Ice CDs are still in their original places in my CD book. I guess those people who steal don't know real talent when they see it.
1) Beastie Boys: Ill Communication -- not my favorite album of theirs, but one I'd like to listen to from time to time. I have no idea where or when I lost this one.
2) Wu Tang Clan: Enter the Wu Tang -- this one I am genuinely pissed off about. I loved this album and I would really like to get it back. Again, no clue where it is, but it probably disappeared sometime during my stint at 1620 Cambridge.
3) Tupac: All Eyez on Me Vol. 1 -- Who takes just one volume of a 2 volume set? An asshole, that's who. Send it back, dick.
4) Def Jam Box Set Vol. 4 -- The person who has this one knows who he is. I have no idea why he would never give it back to me, despite me asking numerous times. Save it to your computer and send it, Caballo.
5) Dave Matthews Band: Crash and Recently : I think Recently has been gone for a long time. I have no doubt that one got stolen in college. As for Crash, I didn't even really like it that much, but I'd still love to get it back.
6) Pink Floyd: Dark Side of the Moon -- This one was probably left in someone's CD player after watching the Wizard of Oz and getting zooted. In that respect, I would venture to guess that a full 38% of Dark Side CDs have been lost.
7) Santana's Greatest Hits -- This would have been the perfect CD to play at the beach this weekend when we were just chilling and drinking... if I still had it.
8) The Jerky Boys Vol. 3 -- Project X, send it back to me or I will get a cobra to bite your eyeball.
9) The Box Presents: Big Phat Ones of Hip-Hop -- This one is somewhere in Colediggy's stash. I know you like Playaz Club, but gets to sending.
Interestingly enough, my Mariah Carey and Vanilla Ice CDs are still in their original places in my CD book. I guess those people who steal don't know real talent when they see it.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Crabby Dick's
Two things you should know about how much my body sucks.
1) I was on vacation from Thursday until Monday. Despite eating much more than the usual 4 (or so) packets of oatmeal my body has been receiving over the past couple of weeks, as well as drinking every night, I did not shit until yesterday afternoon. Keep in mind, this included, but was not limited to: A bacon omelet with a side of sausage (I was trying to get swiss cheese, but I guess in Russian, "swiss cheese" means "sausage"), a corned beef sandwich on a pretzel roll, a bloody mary, a cheeseburger, a hot dog, Doritos, captain and coke, beer, kamikaze shot, a french toast donut, a lifeguard chair, birthday cake, hush puppies, crab dip, 5 large crabs, beer, another bacon omelet (this time with swiss cheese), a cheesesteak, another cheeseburger, two small children, corn salad, pasta salad, more cake, more beer, leftover burgers, a crabcake sandwich, 2 shrimp, another bloody mary, the Austin Powers Pinball machine, old bay fries, and a rum runner.
2) I gained no less than 6 lbs in those 5 days.
**********************************************************
Best of the Beach
Best Crabs:
Crabber's Cove -- This restaurant won me over with their free hush puppies.
Runner Up:
The Crotch-Grabber -- A girl whose house we passed on the way to the beach. She clearly had some vaginal itch issues.
Best Band:
Burnt Sienna -- Solid band that played great hard rock and pop tunes.
Runner Up:
Liquid A -- Also really good (like Ken's mom's Kimchee Chicken), with a great drummer.
Best Kid:
The 4 year old twins from across the street -- They loved Takoma (and me), and were proclaimed by their grandfather to be "the next generation of Dewey Beach girls."
Runner Up:
Drinking Buddy -- A 12 year old fat kid who was the only one to brave the rocky ocean waters with me and the J Man.
Best Bar:
The Bottle and Cork -- Quite simply "The greatest rock and roll bar in the world."
Runner Up:
The Rusty Rudder -- Right on the Bay with a calypso band from 4-9 and another band from 9-1.
Best Breakfast Spot:
Theo's Family Restaurant -- Sure, its disgusting, staffed by eastern Europeans, and only has Pepsi products, but it does serve breakfast all day and is open all night.
Runner Up:
The Fractured Prune -- Two words: Create your own Donuts.
Best Injury:
Ike scraping up 1/3 of his back after getting nailed by a wave.
Runner Up:
The J-man's sunburned toes.
Best Nostalgic Moment:
Shotgunning cans of beer on the porch.
Runner Up:
Eating at Theo's.
Best Boardwalk Shirt Design:
A disco-era picture of Michael Jackson with the caption: "I'm Innocent, Bitch!"
Runner Up:
A picture of Rick James with the caption: "I'm Dead, Bitch!"
Best Shirt Actually Worn By Someone:
A black guy with a fraternity jersey with the nickname "Tripod" -- speaks for itself.
Runner Up:
A Jamal Mashburn throwback Kentucky jersey.
Best Liquor Bargain:
The case of Twisted Tea left on our porch (an subsequently reclaimed hours later).
Runner Up:
$19.99 Handle of Captain Morgan's.
Best response to "I'm a bank teller":
"That's cool."
Runner Up:
"No. It's not."
1) I was on vacation from Thursday until Monday. Despite eating much more than the usual 4 (or so) packets of oatmeal my body has been receiving over the past couple of weeks, as well as drinking every night, I did not shit until yesterday afternoon. Keep in mind, this included, but was not limited to: A bacon omelet with a side of sausage (I was trying to get swiss cheese, but I guess in Russian, "swiss cheese" means "sausage"), a corned beef sandwich on a pretzel roll, a bloody mary, a cheeseburger, a hot dog, Doritos, captain and coke, beer, kamikaze shot, a french toast donut, a lifeguard chair, birthday cake, hush puppies, crab dip, 5 large crabs, beer, another bacon omelet (this time with swiss cheese), a cheesesteak, another cheeseburger, two small children, corn salad, pasta salad, more cake, more beer, leftover burgers, a crabcake sandwich, 2 shrimp, another bloody mary, the Austin Powers Pinball machine, old bay fries, and a rum runner.
2) I gained no less than 6 lbs in those 5 days.
**********************************************************
Best of the Beach
Best Crabs:
Crabber's Cove -- This restaurant won me over with their free hush puppies.
Runner Up:
The Crotch-Grabber -- A girl whose house we passed on the way to the beach. She clearly had some vaginal itch issues.
Best Band:
Burnt Sienna -- Solid band that played great hard rock and pop tunes.
Runner Up:
Liquid A -- Also really good (like Ken's mom's Kimchee Chicken), with a great drummer.
Best Kid:
The 4 year old twins from across the street -- They loved Takoma (and me), and were proclaimed by their grandfather to be "the next generation of Dewey Beach girls."
Runner Up:
Drinking Buddy -- A 12 year old fat kid who was the only one to brave the rocky ocean waters with me and the J Man.
Best Bar:
The Bottle and Cork -- Quite simply "The greatest rock and roll bar in the world."
Runner Up:
The Rusty Rudder -- Right on the Bay with a calypso band from 4-9 and another band from 9-1.
Best Breakfast Spot:
Theo's Family Restaurant -- Sure, its disgusting, staffed by eastern Europeans, and only has Pepsi products, but it does serve breakfast all day and is open all night.
Runner Up:
The Fractured Prune -- Two words: Create your own Donuts.
Best Injury:
Ike scraping up 1/3 of his back after getting nailed by a wave.
Runner Up:
The J-man's sunburned toes.
Best Nostalgic Moment:
Shotgunning cans of beer on the porch.
Runner Up:
Eating at Theo's.
Best Boardwalk Shirt Design:
A disco-era picture of Michael Jackson with the caption: "I'm Innocent, Bitch!"
Runner Up:
A picture of Rick James with the caption: "I'm Dead, Bitch!"
Best Shirt Actually Worn By Someone:
A black guy with a fraternity jersey with the nickname "Tripod" -- speaks for itself.
Runner Up:
A Jamal Mashburn throwback Kentucky jersey.
Best Liquor Bargain:
The case of Twisted Tea left on our porch (an subsequently reclaimed hours later).
Runner Up:
$19.99 Handle of Captain Morgan's.
Best response to "I'm a bank teller":
"That's cool."
Runner Up:
"No. It's not."
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