Okay That Sucked

by Phyllis

Okay, that sucked.

More Predictions...Sort Of

by Phyllis

Remember the Spindoctors? They had that lead singer who looked like Shaggy (ask me to do my Shaggy impression sometime) and had a couple of "hits" in the early 90s. You know, "Two Princes" and the one that was just playing on my Pandora station, "Little Miss Can't Be Wrong." What a stupid band. What does this have to do with anything? Nothing at all.

I went 3-2 on my predictions for the first five bowl games. Not bad, but those were not hard games to call, so I probably should have gotten them all. Nice to see that I called the BYU game almost perfectly.

As I sat there at Slave's house watching it, I mentioned how frustrating it was to be a BYU football fan. I know every time I watch them play they will put the ball on the ground repeatedly and probably have a few unsportsmanlike penalties and horribly inopportune times. And their defensive secondary is always exposed. Oh well, I knew what was coming. Maybe I should stop being a fan. But I went there and I guess it is just a part of me now.

I also went to BSU and graduated from there, you know. And this is not a team that disappoints on the football field. They actually have won several games I expected them to lose. So as I have contemplated how to call tonight's game, I realize I believe in them, believe they can get it done--again. So here goes:

BSU vs. TCU in the Poinsettia (How DO you pronounce that, anyway? Geez!) Bowl. I take BSU in a (relatively) low scoring game: 27-23.

Sheraton Hawaii Bowl, Hawaii vs. Notre Dame. Have I ever mentioned how I feel about Notre Dame. It mirrors the way I feel about the NY Yankees. So even if I thought they would win, I would nae pick them. And I think Hawaii will be geeked about this. Hawaii wins, and Notre Dame's bowl streak continues.

Motor City Bowl, Florida Central vs. Michigan Atlantic. Wait, that's not it. Florida Michigan vs. Central Atlantic, right? Who knows, but I'll take whichever team is from Michigan, since they are playing in Detroit.

More later, but I have to figure a subtle way to remind Slave I need him to let me let my boys destroy his downstairs again just so I can watch the BSU game.

Bowl Predictions #1

by Phyllis

Before I get going on a few bowl game predictions, let me give you one more idea of a Christmas present to get for me. Go here. That's what I'm talking about, and it's the gift that keeps on giving.

And just so you know, I will be predicting who will win the game, not who covers the spread or whatever. Straight winners.

Bowl #1: EagleBank Bowl, Wake Forest vs. Navy. By the way, they played during the regular season, so here is your second chance at a yawner. Feel free to take a nap, since you had to set your alarm to get up in time to watch it. Anyway, Wake Forest doesn't turn it over 6 times and wins, probably 31-21. (Who I want to win: I don't care.)

Bowl #2: New Mexico Bowl, Colorado State vs. Fresno State. Another yawner, with 5th place teams from the WAC and MWC against each other. Proof there are too many bowl games. "Congratulations on a crappy season! Come to New Mexico for a bowl game!" Colorado State wins 31-28 (unless they call the game after 17 OTs without a winner), giving tens of people ammunition for their argument that the MWC is better than the WAC. (Who I want to win: CSU.)

Bowl #3: magicJack St. Petersburg Bowl, Memphis vs. South Florida. More proof. Memphis comes to St. Pete to play a Florida team. I don't know how Memphis can possibly win this, but I am picking them anyway. I am certainly not picking the 6th place team from the Big East! How awful do you have to be to place 6th in that league? Anyway, Memphis pulls off the shocker, and congratulates themselves with fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches for turning around a season that started 0-3. (Who I want to win: I don't care.)

Bowl #4: Pioneer Las Vegas Bowl, BYU vs. Arizona. Even before the game starts, we are in for a delicious treat: "The Most-Watched TV Star in the World" will be singing the national anthem. And you know, BYU should just put this game on their released schedule every year. My predictions (yes, I made it plural on purpose)? Arizona 38-28 this year, BYU 35-21 over Cal next year. (Who I want to win: BYU.)

Bowl #5: R+L Carriers New Orleans Bowl, Southern Miss vs. Troy. A whole team against one guy? That doesn't seem fair, even if the team is Southern Miss, who sucks. So Troy wins. (Who I want to win: Troy.)

And yes, 4 of these first 5 bowls should not be played, this one included. But believe me, if I had cable, I would be watching them all. As it is, I will have to invite myself somewhere to catch the BYU game. I am secretly hoping to take it in at my buddy Slave's house (no, not that Slave), but he doesn't know it yet. Or that I plan to watch the BSU game there, too.

That's it for the first batch of predictions. I will post again before BSU and TCU kick it off. I need the time until then to decide if I think BSU can pull this off. My brain says no, but I didn't think they would beat Oregon, either.

Big Ten + Two BCS Bowls = Two Bad Bowls

by Phyllis

It isn't that I'm bitter. Honestly. I am bitter a lot, I admit, but not now. Not about this.

I know it makes more sense for a BCS bowl to take Ohio State. More viewers, more traveling fans, more money. And I don't think Boise State wants any part of Texas or Alabama. (They will have all they want with TCU.) So once Utah went undefeated, I knew what would happen. Ohio State to the Fiesta Bowl. Fine. My only problem now is with the matchup. I mean, is there a rational person outside of the state of Ohio that thinks OSU can win this game? They won't. I know it.

I am very sure about this. Just so you know how confident I am, I will list a few things of which I have equal certainty:

1. The sky is blue.
2. Grass is green.
3. Eggplant is inedible in any form.
4. Demi Moore is a horrible actress.
5. A.J. Burnett will flame out in New York. Yes, I will consider his being injured for the duration of his contract flaming out. I don't just mean he will suck. Which he will. Give a lifetime 87-76 pitcher $82 million dollars over five years? Brilliant. Can you say Carl Pavano? (And seriously, is there an easier team to hate than the Yankees? Nearly $250 million in offers to the first two players they tried to sign. I have ZERO respect for any player who signs with them. Would I personally take one million dollars to go pitch for them right now? Yes (and, no, I would not respect myself). But if I were a ten-year major leaguer and could get $12o million from the Yankees and only $60 million from the Royals? I sign with the Royals.)
6. Britney Spears has no soul. She sold it to Satan. We all know what she got in exchange.

So, yeah, Texas will beat Ohio State in the Fiesta Bowl. And if you question me, you're glib. You don't know anything about college football. I've studied it. I know.

UT 34, OSU 17.

Stay tuned for predictions for the winner of every bowl this season (even the Motor City Bowl). Who won't be tuning in to that one? One hundred Schrute bucks if you can name a team playing in it without looking it up.

On Being a Peacemaker

By Phyllis

I am a Peacemaker. Seriously. Roger Clyne tells me as much every time I see him.

You may have heard Roger's band, The Refreshments, in the late 1990s. I remember hearing them on the radio. I had just moved to Boise from Texas in September of 1996 with my wife, MLB, and our three-year-old son. There was this "new" radio station in town, said my brother Koozown (and some other people, too), that actually played a few decent tracks. Not the usual crap. And for sure, this station had a different style. (I want to say the station was 100.3 "The X" but I am not sure. It sounds right, though.) I heard a lot of PUSA, Geggy Tah (and what a stupid and unimaginative song "Whoever You Are" was), CAKE, Sneaker Pimps. I also heard "Down Together" and "Banditos" by The Refreshments from time to time.

One night I was driving in my car (a la the aforementioned Geggy Tah) and heard "Down Together" again, and a DJ (who knows, it could have been Gary McCabe?) started babbling in his golden-throated way about The Refreshments' album, Fizzy Fuzzy Big & Buzzy, and how it was great from start to finish. I wondered if what he said was true but didn't immediately put his claim to the test.

Anyway, The Refreshments enjoyed a small taste of success circa 1997 (if success can be measured by exposure on MTV and the fact that they wrote and performed the theme to the new animated television series King of the Hill) and then they broke up. Roger and his drummer (P.H.) wasted no time, however, in recruiting a few guitar slingers and forming a new band: Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers were (was?) born.

That is enough of a history lesson. The only other thing you need to know is that since they formed they have toured extensively. That is how I have seen nearly ten shows (MLB is pushing 30!). So let me shift the focus of this post and propose something to you: you should see them the next time they are playing in town (I mean Boise). I don't care who you are. And of course I am serious.

I know what you are thinking; I have been there (or close) before. You are thinking how lame it would be to see a band you scarcely know. I understand. But trust me. Do it. Here are a few reasons why:

There will not be a huge crowd there. I have seen RCPM at the Big Easy (I guess it is the Knitting Factory now) several times and even if you don't go early to cement your spot right in front of Roger (like MLB) you will have a great spot for the show. Third or fourth row of standing people. You might even get some sweat cast off onto you.

"The Whole Damn Night" will be there. That's what we call the grey-haired and -bearded chap that comes and chants his name (or at least the one we gave him) periodically throughout the show. They might even play the song in which his name is a lyric. In any case, watching him will be good for a laugh or two. Hopefully, on the night you go he will not be silently belching throughout the show, reminding all within a twenty foot radius that he had hot dogs earlier.

It will be a great show. I have seen Echo and the Bunnymen, Social Distortion, and even Brian Setzer at the Big Easy (and other bands at other places) and RCPM delivers the best show. No lie. I will not say that I like RCPM better than Social D. or EATB (because I don't), but the show they put on is better. And it's not really close.

There is a good chance members of the band will come out after the show. (See if that's the case with whoever your favorite band is. I mean, I went to an Echo and the Bunnymen show once where my brother (not Koozown) got us backstage, and Ian couldn't wait to get away from us. It's okay; I couldn't understand him, anyway.) And even though Roger will have downed several shots during the show, he will be completely lucid and pleasant. He will talk to anyone who wants to (even all the annoying drunk people) and he is humble and down to earth and pleasant. You tell him 'nice show' or something and he will genuinely thank you and ask your name. It's pretty cool and you can't help but admire him (especially if you are female, apparently).

So when they come around again, pick a few Refreshments or RCPM songs and get to know them (MLB or I can suggest any number that are sure to be played at the next show). It will make the show even better for you. You won't be standing back there thinking everyone is lame for bouncing up and down and throwing their hands in the air. You will be doing it yourself.

Life Lessons

By Phyllis

Some very important people have shaped my ideas of the world over the years. Let me share a few of the life lessons I have learned from these great men:

On the importance of the political process: "You can't change the world, but you can change the facts. And when you change the facts, you change points of view. If you change points of view, you may change a vote, and when you change a vote, you may change the world."

One the futility of figuring out one of life's great mysteries: "I've read more than a hundred books, seen love mentioned many thousand times. But despite all the places I've looked, it's still no clearer; it's just not enough. I'm still no nearer the meaning of love. Noted down all my observations. Spent an evening watching television. Still I couldn't say with precision."

On whether it is okay to tell lies: "You'll see your problems multiplied when you continually decide to faithfully pursue the policy of truth."

On keeping centered: "Be responsible, respectable, stable, but gullible. Concerned and caring, help the helpless, but always remain ultimately selfish. Get the balance right."

On what to tell my wife when she gets frustrated that I won't see things her way: "Take a look at unselected cases. You will find love has been wrecked by both sides compromising, amounting to a disastrous effect."

And perhaps my favorite, which is pretty much my credo: "Quickly, I remember. Fused and saw a face before. Timing, reason, understanding. Like association whore."

My only question is why these great men are ripping off these guys.

Come again?

By Phyllis

Yes, I am up at 11:30 watching the Hawaii-Idaho game. What else am I going to do?

Hawaii is up 42-10 and Idaho is looking a lot like...well, Idaho. Anyway, Idaho just ran a play and was half a yard short of the first down. So on 3rd and 1 they came out, lined up, and a couple of the offensive linemen jumped. Flags flew and whistles blew and players from both sides started pointing fingers--you've seen it before. Then the referee came out, clicked on his mic, and, arms akimbo, said:

"Disconcerting signals...on the defense. Five yard penalty. First down."

I.T. Snob

by Phyllis

It can scarcely be debated that IT professionals can sometimes come across as snobs. Today I am talking about the ones that come to your desk and fix your "computer" "problems" for you. Picture Jimmy Fallon as Nick Burns.

Even though I manage servers and networks, part of my job does include traveling to the workspace of the end user to see what is wrong. So count me as one of those snobs, with a few differences. You can't really get away with being really snotty and condescending (and least in person) or the big boss man (seriously, he's like 6'6' and 270 I would guess) will hear about it.

But beware, my beloved end users, I will be judging you, and mocking you, and thinking you are stupid, and talking about you with my co-workers later. We will laugh. Hard.

And here are a few of the questions and criteria I will use to judge you:

• Do you have the google toolbar installed? I will admit that this was a valuable tool--nay, essential--several years ago (which in PC years would put it in, what, the Jurassic age?) but now it is a nuisance and a pain. All it really means is that you don't pay attention when you are installing something, taking the defaults always, not caring what comes along with whatever you wanted in the first place. Additionally, the fact that you have the google toolbar increases the likelihood that you have even more of these ridiculous wastes of space: Yahoo toolbar, mysearch, ebay, weather channel, etc. Don't worry about it though; you probably won't ever get infected by spyware.
• Do you double-click on hyperlinks? The fact that there are people still doing this amazes me. But then again, it is always good for a (delayed) laugh, so I guess it's fine.
• Are you using the double-wide, stupid-looking, and utterly useless WindowsXP start menu? You know, not the classic one that we set for you on all our PCs. You deliberately changed it from the classic look to the new look? I am amazed for two reasons: you thought it was better and you figured out how to do it when you need my assistance to install a printer.
• Almost hand in hand with the last question is this one: did you move the taskbar to either of the sides or (worse yet) the top of your window? (And please don't let me set that you set it to auto hide.) This is one of the all-time stupid things to do. It shows me that you think you are smart and skilled enough to know what you want and that you have found a better way to operate, only you are decidedly mistaken. Put it back where it belongs, genius.
• Did you just say "Foxfire" to me without winking or chuckling, or elbowing your buddy? No? Learn to read. I mean, you do realize what you do for a living, right? And that goes for all you "Systematic" antivirus users out there.

• Pop quiz: What do you call the picture you chose for your desktop background?

a. my screensaver
b. the screensaver
c. a screensaver
d. the desktop background

If you chose a, b, or c, congratulations! You are wrong! If you chose d, then I doubt you really are one of my end users. I would have also accepted 'desktop wallpaper' if you had been so bold to attempt a write-in vote. (And speaking of voting, I don't need to ask who you are voting for today. I already know. You talk to me about it like I share your opinions. I don't. Seriously, not in the least. Only I am courteous enough (in this case, anyway) not to tell you what I think about your views, even though you have just finished telling me what you think about mine. Thanks. You are a model of tolerance and understanding, just like you preach.)

There you go. A few things to think about. Forget it--who am I kidding? You will not learn, or even try to learn, as long as someone like me will be coming around to help you do the most simple task with your modem-or-monitor-or-processor-or-hard-drive-or-screen or whatever other name you have chosen today to call your PC.

Calças Marrons

by Phyllis

"All this happened a good many years ago." - Maugham

I was young, maybe thirteen or so, the first time I saw the movie Halloween. It had been a couple of years since it had been shown in the theaters, and I watched it one night when it was broadcast on television. After I finished watching the movie, it was late and time for me to go to bed. I sleepily loafed around upstairs for a few minutes, and then trudged downstairs to my bedroom.

My brother Joey also had a bedroom downstairs; the rest of the family was upstairs. Joey had watched most of the movie with me, but I didn’t see him after it was over. Perhaps I should have known what was coming.

I got to the bottom of the stairs, made the right turn to cross the large room with ugly orange carpet, and neared the hall, where the wall from the family room jutted out to make the entry to the hall about the size of a doorway. The hall was dark, and the instant I crossed the threshold into it, my brother jumped out from behind that jutting wall, wearing a ridiculous white plastic Halloween mask. He yelled “Ha!” or something like that.

Please keep the following in mind: In the first place, I had just recently finished watching the movie, so the images and scenes were fresh in my mind. Secondly, the mask, while not at all a close match to that worn by the killer in Halloween, was at the very least white, like in the movie. Thirdly, my brother appeared suddenly and mysteriously when I least expected it.

So my reaction, very vivid to me more than twenty years later, was extreme. But also strange. I was immediately aware that this was my brother playing a trick on me. As tired as I was, my brain quickly synthesized important information: the apparition I now saw was nearly six inches shorter than me, and he was wearing a silly plastic mask of an old man with a melted face. His hair was thin, stringy, and white, just like the mask I had seen (and worn myself) hundreds of times before in our home. Notwithstanding all of this, I was scared nearly senseless. I shrieked--yes, shrieked, so picture what that sounds like--in horror, but instantly moved toward him, calling him by name, while pathetically and miserably crying. “Joey! Joey! Tell me it’s you! Say it is you! Say my name!”

As I continued to walk toward him, I reached for him, and grabbed on to him, desperately hugging and bawling and begging for him to allay my fears. The more he spoke, now scared himself at such a reaction by me, the more I calmed down. But this continued for nearly half a minute, as I labored to convince myself of what I indeed already knew, and had known from the start: this was only little brother Joey.

Nowadays I don't get frightened by "scary" movies. I mean, come on, people, they just aren't. But Halloween scares me. Still. And if you ask me what some of my favorite movies are, I will include Halloween in them. But sometimes I wonder if that is true.

Lucky #7

by Phyllis

I read a blog recently here, and I felt almost compelled to respond. Well, not respond, so much as I felt I had a story of my own to tell. And, oddly enough, it is about #7 as well. I, too, had to bid him a (not so) fond farewell. In a different way.

Like Koozown (my name for the author of that post), I lived in a town with a very popular orthodontist. Indeed, I cannot get past the feeling I know the town he is speaking of. Only this man never put braces on my teeth. I am relatively certain I needed them, but it never happened.

And I don't really know why. I am sure my parents were much like Koozown's: nice, middle-class folks living in a small town, probably had their share (or more) of children. I imagine they lived in a fairly large house with a big back yard, a pasture maybe, and perhaps a few farm animals. Just a guess.

But my parents decided not to get me braces. I watched all my brothers and sisters (all six, mind you) get braces--the complaining, the pain, the retainers, the replacement retainers for lost or broken ones, the retainers used to cut popsicles to pieces--and thought I hadn't missed out on much.

Except that in high school I started to notice something: I used to stick my finger in my mouth. Don't ask me why--I supposed it was just a nervous habit. A bad habit, maybe, but not the worst thing that could be done with a finger and a mouth. But I would place my left hand index finger directly behind my two front teeth. And if I turned it sideways I could just feel the edge of #7 and whatever number is on the other side of your front teeth on each side of my finger. Only as I got older, this gap was narrowing. I didn't have to turn my finger all the way sideways anymore. And then finally, not at all.

I had said farewell to #7. Or rather, he had said goodbye to me. But he is still in there, chilling out behind the front line, poking my tongue everyday. Look closely--he's back there.


So, yes, I pity Koozown; I don't want pain, pus, or a root canal with a limited warranty. But I have gone to dentists and requested that #7 be pulled, and no one will do it. They claim that sort of problem can be fixed (only at my age it would require oral surgery and breaking my jaw and palate--no, thank you), and I can assume from Koozown's experience there could be other issues down the road.

Indeed, for some of us, #7 has not been so lucky.

Jay Clocker

by Phyllis

And you know I have no bias when it comes to this.

Ten things the end of the BYU-UW game made me think about:

1. Jake Locker threw the ball high enough in the air that anyone would expect a penalty to be called. Take away the situation (end of the game, [potential] tying touchdown) and would that call be made? Yes.
2. He did not throw the ball in the air when he scored a touchdown in the first quarter. So he knew not to.
3. The emotion and situation caused him to throw it up 25 feet in the air? Please.
4. People who are saying it is a stupid rule and shouldn't have been called are missing the point: it IS a rule.
5. Come on, teams out there. You have to make him throw the football. He will kill you running it. He will not even hurt you throwing it. Try it and see.
6. Hey, Washington placekicker, you are welcome to make the PAT, even if it is from 35 yards. But to do so, you might want to get the kick at least three feet off the ground. I'm serious. At the trajectory he kicked it, the ball might have been going down when it was blocked.
7. Please, BYU, could you at least once blow out an inferior team? And if you do suck out a victory at home against UCLA, would you mind NOT losing to UNLV or SDSU later in the season?
8. Tyrone Willingham is a wussy. At least be planning to go for two. Ride the momentum and emotion and beat the favorite when you can. Seems like a team from a school I went to did that once.
9. Jim Caple is a wingnut and a whiny homer. Check out what he said here: "It was one of the absolute worst calls I've ever seen in football." Really? Then I hope you never saw the Oregon-Oklahoma game in 2006. This is a good one, too. And that only took me five minutes.
10. The pass Locker threw after he scored the last touchdown is the most accurate pass I have ever seen him throw. For reals.

English Degree

by Sue Modray

Yes, Phyllis asked me some time ago if I would post on his blog and I am sorry it has taken me so long. I am nervous and afraid that someone will think what I write is dumb. I am afraid of offending someone, too. Phyllis has assured me his readership is small, possibly less than ten. I don't know if he is serious but it makes me feel better. He also told me he was not going to post again until I did. I thought he was kidding, but I think I believe him now. So here goes.

Phyllis asked me to write about going to BSU. He has posted about how we met in one of our first classes, and saw each other frequently as we both worked toward a degree in English literature. We are a lot alike and wanted about the same thing from our educational experience, only he likes Maugham and I love Austen. My only real problem with Phyllis is that he uses colons and parentheses too much in his writing. He is also always correcting people in their pronunciation and grammar. I am not sure he is always right.

I am not really sure I know what Phyllis wants me to write about, although we talked a lot about what the experience studying English at BSU was like. Maybe he means for me to write about how I felt so different sometimes. I did not fit into the group of 19-year-olds apologizing to each other before class started for forgetting to record Smallville, or how much fun it was last year to dress up as Hermione and go down to Borders for the release of the latest Harry Potter book.

Am I supposed to talk about the skills we were being taught in our English classes? We read many novels, short stories, and plays, and our instructors taught us skills to interpret, criticize, and respond to the works we read. But it seemed my interpretations and criticisms were only valid as they fell in line with those the instructor had. I wondered at times if the interpretations of my instructors were really theirs or just those of some great professor from long ago. It reminded me of The Wizard of Oz, almost complete with loud crashes and flashing lights. "Who are YOU to question to Great and Powerful Oz?!??"

But I was not a sponge, like, I believe, many others I saw. Just because the professor liked Evelyn Waugh, or Salman Rushdie, or D.H. Lawrence, I did not decide to. And even though we were assigned to read only one small piece by Nietzsche, I did not immediately latch on to "God is dead" and announce my intention to change my major to Philosophy and explore my new-found atheism.

I don't know what I expected studying for an English literature degree. I love reading and found many new authors and books to read. But I did not so much enjoy the interpretation and criticism. It seemed forced and planned out. I wanted more history and biography of the authors. I don't suppose that kind of English degree really exists, the one where you read a lot, learn a lot about the authors, and talk about it with others. No, not a book club. A way to become an expert about a certain author, know his works, know his characters, know him. And then move on to the next author.

Now I just need to find a graduate program that offers that. Or I can just do it myself.

Wife Gone

by Phyllis Miller

Just got done watching Nicholas Nickleby on hulu.com a few minutes ago. I was reluctant at first. I have sworn, for no good reason that I know of, to dislike Dickens. I mean, Chuck doesn't write the most uplifting stuff (yes I am aware that was part of his purpose). And the one Dickens novel that I did read, Hard Times--for my 19th century British novel course at BSU--did nothing to change my mind. I hated it and felt good about hating Dickens.

But I liked this movie. A lot. I daresay I will watch it again. It is definitely better than Pitch Black, Weird Science, 28 Days Later, or The Phantom the Opera, all of which I have watched (for the first time) in the last half-fortnight. (Yes, I never saw Weird Science when I was a kid. It seemed everyone else had, but I was able to avoid it somehow. What a pile of garbage! Honestly one of the stupidest movies ever, right?)

I almost feel like I need to read Nicholas Nickleby now, just to make sure it's nothing like the movie. But if your tastes in movies are anything like mine (here's how to tell: if you have seen or plan to see Wanted, you don't share my taste) watch this one. It is disturbing and funny at the same time. Oh yeah, and set in England in the 1800s. What more do you want? Here is a snippet:



I swear this is Christopher Plummer's best role since he was General Chang in Star Trek VI. Maybe even since he was Captain von Trapp.

Okay, did it seem like I was stretching it a bit when I used the word "best" right there? I did it on purpose. I get tired of hearing that word. I know the MLB all-star game is a fortnight past, but it has taken me that long to get over a few things. In the first place, Red Sox second baseman Dustin Pedroia was voted as the starter. I try not to have an issue with that, since he is sent by fan voting, right? But please. I had to hear announcers rave about him, using words like "best."

And then, during a Yankees game on TV recently (since apparently Yankees and Red Sox games are the only ones fans want to see) I heard the announcers talking about Robinson Cano, the Yankees second baseman. Evidently, he's the best, also. Um, no. Not even close.

Now you think you know what is coming, but you're wrong. I am not going to claim that Brian Roberts in the best second baseman in the AL, but maybe a look at the numbers and a few other facts might help.

As of today:
Roberts: .286 average, 39 doubles, 8 triples, 7 HR, 35 RBI, 27 steals, 54 walks.
Pedroia: .315 average, 31 doubles, 1 triple, 9HR, 48 RBI, 11 steals, 28 walks.
Cano: .267 average, 23 doubles, 1 triple, 9 HR, 48 RBI, 1 steal, 17 walks.

Sure, Pedroia is hitting for a better average, but with the walks Roberts has a better on base percentage. And of his 116 hits, nearly half are for extra bases! Cano is not even close. Now consider the lineups that surround all three players. Mind you, I like the guys on my team: Markakis and Huff both have over 30 doubles, making it three Orioles in the top 5 of that category. But they don't have the names the Yankees and Red Sox do. Trust me, pitchers would rather face Markakis and Huff before Rodriguez, Jeter, Ramirez, Ortiz, no matter what the numbers say. So Pedroia is going to get some pitches to hit. Oh yeah, and he also has that wall ten feet past the infield that turns a can of corn into a double. What would Roberts do with that?

Besides, Ian Kinsler has better numbers that any of them. But he made the all-star team (only the announcers were a little less effusive with their praise). And I have soft spot in my heart for someone who has to play half his games in Dallas.

None of this helps, of course; the Orioles are last in their division. Another painful year of losing. There are promising moments, but we are soon smacked down once our hopes are up. Surely it can't keep going for much longer. I can't take the pain. The unfulfilled promises. The outlook is bleak. What can be done? Will it ever change? It's just too awful.

Okay, I need to stop. This is starting to feel like a Dickens novel.

Pulmonary Embolism

By Phyllis Miller

One of my favorite phrases was used on the radio again today. Erik Kuselias was in for Mike Tirico during the Tirico and Van Pelt show on ESPN radio. EK was working today notwithstanding suffering from "flu-like symptoms." Awesome. Not the flu, not a cold, not allergies--flu-like symptoms. I had only heard it before as the reason some athlete was missing his next game. "Kwame Brown will not play and is in street clothes tonight; he is suffering from flu-like symptoms." I am glad to see it has jumped from athletes to radio personalities. I plan to adopt this type of speaking myself in everyday parlance, you know, speech-like talking. So enjoy reading the rest of my blog-like ramblings.

This whole thing reminds me of the time I had blood-clot-in-the-lung-type symptoms. It took a while for the various doctors I saw to narrow it down (maybe on another occasion I can blog about my respect and admiration for these fine professionals, but a small taste can be found here). First I was told I had bronchitis-like symptoms; I knew that wasn't it. Next, I was told I had some strange form of asthma-like symptoms and got an albuterol inhaler. Finally, after I was feeling fine again (no more nights sitting in the bathroom crying and breathing in and out in as shallow a manner as I could, while feeling like a chinese star was loose inside my chest) an internist-like doctor sent me for a CT-like scan. And there it was: a clot-like formation in my lung.

The weirdest thing I learned in my week at St. Al's is that my blood clot has something to do with my testicles. It doesn't make sense to me, either, but of course, I'm not a doctor.

I say this because once in the emergency room-like area, the ER doc checked my prostate as I lay there nearly prostrate (prostate vs. prostrate and lay vs. lie in the same sentence!) and then he examined my man-parts. (Note: the ER doc's response to my obvious chagrin when he had informed me he would be performing the above-mentioned tasks was excellent: "Believe me, pal, it isn't the highlight of my day, either.")

I was checked in to the hospital and assigned a room. Since I was a healthy young man in his late twenties, doctors were at a loss to figure out why I should have this ailment. A urologist was consulted. He came to my room, asked me some questions, and told me to make an appointment to see him when I was out of the hospital. I said I would. Before he went, however, he did me the favor of performing another testicular exam. I would have preferred if he had consulted with the ER doc first.

The next day, a doctor entered and explained that she was on call for my vacationing internist. She asked almost the same set of questions I had answered in the ER, and then performed another check of my nether region! Come on! What is going on here? But as much as I was tired of these testes-tests, it was her comment after the few light squeezes that bothered me the most.

"Nothing remarkable."

Sue Modray

I have a friend I have asked to contribute to this blog, so here are a few words of introduction.

I met Sue Modray when I returned to BSU to get my English degree. She was in one of the first classes I took, and after chatting a bit, we realized how startlingly similar we were. We could not help but become soul mates. She is very nearly my mirror image.

Look at the similarities:

Sue had never finished college when she got married, started a family, and started working on getting old. After a few kids, she settled in to a nice little career quite by accident. Sue had recently moved with her family to Idaho from Alaska when she got a temporary job through one of those staffing service companies. What started out as a little data entry to make a few bucks turned into a career. Her data entry job was at a company that designed websites, and after a few years grinding up the ranks from temporary data entry clerk to secretary to website contributor, she soon was designing websites herself. She had managed to get this (fairly decent paying) job not from experience or schooling; she simply rubbed shoulders with others doing it.

She parlayed this experience into another job with the state department of education--a totally sweet job. No supervisor breathing down her neck, freedom to come and go as she pleased, and good pay. Sue soon realized she was at liberty to return to school and get the degree she never got. An English degree.

Like me, Sue had not originally studied English at college, but had found an author she loved (Austen, as it turns out; there are precious few who revere Maugham the Master) and wanted to study more literature. So there she was at BSU starting to do it in 2004. And I was there, too. We followed a similar path toward our degrees and saw each other in many classes. Her literary tastes are nearly identical to my own.

We had many discussions about the education we received in the English department at BSU, and we share many of the same ideas. I have asked her, as her first contribution to the blog, to talk about her journey. Hopefully you find it entertaining. If not, stay tuned, and Phyllis will post again soon.

[I have asked Sue when she posts to leave her name at the beginning of the post, so readers can know right away without scrolling to the bottom of the post who is writing. I will also try to do the same. But I might not; it is my blog, after all.]

Idiot Clown

I don't wear a wristwatch.

So when the clock in my car stopped working the other day, you might think I lost the ability to keep track of time. Not so. That's because before my clock stopped, I learned how to tell time from the driver in the Jeep in front of me. On one of the hottest days of the year, he had his driver's side window rolled all the way down. And every five seconds he would extend his left arm out the window and give a little flick--a few tiny ashes fell off each time and disappeared in the wind.

Twenty-two flicks is a long time to be stopped at a red light. But even though I was fortunate enough during the wait to get a waft of his numerous exhalations (through closed windows, mind you) I was not upset at him. I made an effort to understand and tolerate someone who has a habit I find wholly revolting and inconsiderate. (Perhaps I have a few myself.)

But then, after we started moving again and forty more subtle flicks elapsed, he gave one mighty flick; the cigarette butt made a large arc and hit my car on the driver's side of my windshield. No damage caused, obviously, but I was really upset. If you promise to believe me, I will say I did not swear at him (multiple times, including one last, more emphatic blast right as I turned left and he continued straight.)

I had time to reflect during the rest of my drive home (I estimate it was thirty-six flicks) about how much I have changed. Or perhaps it is the world I live in. See, in the late 1980s, when I was near the top of my game, I would have reacted differently to a cigarette butt hitting my car.

One time I was driving home after an enjoyable summer day topping corn, with my brother and a friend in the "Screamin' Blue Demon." (That's what my friend called my pickup. It was blue all right, and I guess screaming is what you would call the sound it made when I would get to 40mph without shifting out of first gear yet.) After ascending Canyon Hill on Marble Front Road, I was stopped, waiting to make a left on N. Georgia. Anyone who has made that turn knows why I was stopped. Apparently, the driver in the car that came up behind didn't.

She went around me on the right, gave a little honk on the horn, and said, "There's no stop sign!" as she turned right and headed away. I was not about to let this misdeed go unpunished. I whipped the steering wheel around and tore down the street after her. I was tailgating her most of the way, but she had to stop at Hillcrest, so I pulled up next to her (there was not another lane there) at the stop sign and started yelling.

"Hey, you clown, did you happen to see the car coming towards me on Marble Front, you clown!?! I know there isn't a stop sign there, you clown; I live on that street! I was waiting there for the car to pass so I could make the left turn, you idiot! YOU are the clown that needs driving lessons!" I yelled another minute or two at her and her passenger, and threw in a few more 'clowns' and 'idiots' for good measure.

Or how about the time I was riding with a friend home from Nampa, when someone cut us off? My buddy Darryl sped up along side the car (there was one guy in it this time) while I draped myself out the window and let him have it. I may have threatened him, I may have sworn, I may have yelled the Pledge of Allegiance at him--I can't remember now.

We stopped for gas and then decided to hit Wendy's for a square burger. In the parking lot a car came racing at us; there were more heads in it than I could count, and the guy I had berated earlier (now a passenger) was wearing an evil grin. We sped away, took to the interstate, and got off at the Middleton exit, with the car full of hoods following us the whole way.

After fifteen minutes of running, we darted down a side street, turned off the lights, and grabbed a tennis racket out of the back. If we were going to go down, we intended to do some damage. Fortunately, they never found us and we made it home safe.

Fast-forward about twenty years, and here I am. Other drivers still bother me, but I don't pull up along side and yell at my fellow drivers anymore. A few "big words" muttered to myself are enough.

Uncalled For

Let me first address some allegations that have been laid at my door, which are wholly without merit. They come from an evidently devoted reader of my blog; you have heard from him before in this post. He writes again (and still needs a your/you're lesson):

"Hey Phyllis. Your still an idiot, and I have figured something else about you too. Your a hater, man. I have read all your posts and you bag on the New york Yankees, New England Patriots, Duke basketball, Notre dame football, even the Red Sox. Get a clue and stop hatin'."

I assume from this then that because I despise these teams--these teams with lots of success (some not very recent)--I am a hater. I guess I understand. I know there are people like that. Hate the team that wins, the team that everyone likes. But that really isn't me. And now I'll prove it.

I want the Lakers to win the NBA championship. And I'm not lying. How can I be accused of being a hater now? Because outside of the Yankees, there might not be another team that polarizes people like the Lakers. You love 'em or hate 'em. You think Kobe is awesome or just a ballhog. The 'Black Mamba' or the 'Black Hole.' So at the risk of alienating you true haters out there, I'll admit I like Kobe. And I want him (them) to win.

It's going to be hard, though. How was that epic collapse in Game 4? I am glad I watched it because it's the only way I would have believed it could happen. And as ugly as it was (and devastating to their chances), it helps me make another point about officiating. Evidently ex-referee (and convicted felon) Tim Donaghy claims past NBA playoff games have been fixed. Oh, you mean refs have made some bad calls, Tim? Really? No way!

I contend that every sports fan following his team has felt the pain of getting a bad call or a no call. Think about football--the holding calls/non-calls, pass interference, bad spots short of the first down. You have baseball with the balls that should have been called strikes and some of those bang-bang plays at first that needed to go your way. And, oh, I don't know, maybe a fan interference call that didn't get made. I've written about that before. So spare me with the bad calls garbage. We all feel the pain.

And if the NBA was conspiring to make the playoffs more interesting (interesting here meaning going seven games), they can't be happy with the Lakers looking like they will fold in five to the Celtics. I mean, where were the refs to step in and save the game for the Lakers? If anything, they were probably tempted to start making calls for the Celtics, so they could be a part of such a monumental gag-job.

Besides, some of the bad calls make for great entertainment. Go watch this. That is good stuff. I mean, you can't write comedy like that. And I'm for the Lakers, remember.

On an unrelated, yet important note: It is now 12:49am, Sunday, June 15--Father's Day. I must give props to my Pops, who left this world five years ago. He is the greatest man I have known and I miss him very much. He was a So-Cal kid, so maybe he would root for the Lakers, too.

Hockey pucks and dog turds

I have recently been wondering something.

Who is the girl in the 'free-college-info' ads that are all over Yahoo!? Just kidding. That's not what I was wondering. Why would I care about that, anyway?

I have pondered the great enigma of how it is that a guy like me could not be in to hockey. I have been known after all (when I still had cable), to watch almost anything remotely relating to sports. And I will watch games again, you know, re-broadcasts that I have already seen. I will watch teams I hate (New York Yankees, Notre Dame football, Duke basketball, you get the picture) just in case I might be able to see them lose (hopefully in a big way). If they were to broadcast a loogie-spitting contest on ESPN9, I might call around to a few friends to ask if I could come over.

And with all that, I don't watch, or really even follow, the NHL. The Stanley Cup, crushing checks, guys who don't shave for two months. Means nothing to me. Maybe I don't know what I'm missing. Is it blissful ignorance?

You know, like the kind I enjoyed as a kid. My family moved in to a house when I was very little, and the house came with a dog (who ever heard of that?). The perfect dog, as it turns out. We never fed her, she only pooped in the neighbor's yard, and one day when she got old she simply left and never came back.

In case you missed it, yes, she had been trained (how else can you explain the habit?) not to defecate on our premises.

As a child, the significance of this was lost on me until I went to a friend's house one day. His mom came in to the room where we were playing and said, "Darryl, you need to go do your chores." And one of his chores was picking up dog crap in the back yard. I watched him with great curiosity (but no pity) as he scoured the place, using his little spade to collect the offensive brown lumps into a five-gallon bucket. I don't know what he did with it after that. All I knew was I was happy not to have to do that at my house.

Now I have a dog of my own, and I have picked up the dukes she drops. And I appreciate my childhood dog even more, now.

But I don't appreciate the NHL--still. Obviously I was exaggerating before; I have seen my share of hockey games. And after watching the last two games (in their entirety, mind you) of the NHL playoffs this week, I am still 'not on board' (to steal a phrase from an eccentric local blogger I know).

Don't get me wrong, there are things I like about hockey. If you look at the box score, everyone player suited up (with the exception of the backup goalie) gets significant playing time; it is truly a team sport. Not like basketball where the last few guys on the bench (even in the NBA) are scrubs. And the swift, yet many times very physical nature of the game is fun to watch, at times.

But I have two major problems with hockey: First, many times the correct play, you know, the right thing to do, is to send the puck in to the zone by the back boards, without having a teammate there to receive it. It turns in to a race to see who gets it first, and the defense wins most times, or the play stalls as several players slash at their feet to get it out from underneath themselves. So the correct play ends most times in what I consider a turnover. Sorry, I just don't like that idea.

Next, when you watch a game, either on TV or in person, you lose sight of the puck at all times whenever it is being played up the near boards. You see players skating after it and swinging at it, but the wall blocks your view. I don't usually have a problem following the puck around, even after shots and ricochets, but I can't see through a wall.

Believe me, I have tried to see through a wall, and failed. I also tried to watch Tay Zonday's "Chocolate Rain" all the way through. Couldn't do that, either.

Miscellany; or, der Wortmetzger

In a previous post I raved about Sirius satellite radio, but I have still not pulled the trigger. So in the meantime, as I drive to and from work and from school to school when I am at work, I listen to 'terrestrial' radio. And, as you are aware, the chore of listening to any of the FM stations is wholly insupportable, which forces me, notwithstanding the dearth of anything entertaining on the AM band, to take what I can get. I settle on 1350. You know, KTIK, the Ticket! THE Sports Station (imagine the gravelly yet golden-throated voice-over guy saying it).

My "favorite" is Idaho Sports Talk, if only for the daily demonstrations of idiocy displayed by Caves and Prater. But Caves has an upside that makes him truly entertaining, for which I have nicknamed him "der Wortmetzger." (It isn't that hard; figure it out.) Yesterday, he was mentioning Yannick Noah and his reaction to his son being busted for pot and alcohol, "and the subsuing controversy." Subsuing. I loved it. I wonder how long until he uses "ensequent." Anyway, tune in and see what word he butchers today.

On the subject of words, albeit not the carving up of existing ones to create new and entertaining gems, I looked on my fridge today and saw a magnet-with-notepad-attached. My "realtor" (or should I say "realator") sent it to me so I could remember him the next time I want to sell my house. On his card I noticed a title he has now that he didn't before: "Relocation Specialist." Nice. I love clever stuff like that.

Okay, not really. I hate it. So here is your homework: come up with a clever new title for my job. I am a Network Administrator or IT guy or Computer Dude, depending on who I talk to. What should I call myself? Come up with something good, and remember, it has to be clever.

You know, clever, like the radio commercials from Netflix. Have you heard these? Awful. And stupid. And above all that, they don't make sense! If you haven't heard one, I will do my best to paint a 'word picture' for you now. (I hate the pseudo-intellectual term 'word picture,' by the way.)

Netflix commercial: We hear a man's voice saying (with a drum roll in the background), "...and now, for the bonus round. What is the square root of January 13?"

Contestant: "The Ides of March!"

Host guy: "Correct! Next question: (Insert an equally 'clever' and nonsensical question, like the first one, here.)"

Contestant: "(Another ridiculous, uninspired, and many times confusing answer here.)"

Host: "Correct! Now, how many movies have been delivered to satisfied Netflix customers?"

Contestant: "Over one billion!"

Host: "CORRECT!" Crowd cheers and Netflix voice-over guy makes his pitch.

All right. Now I admit I am a guy who likes patterns and for things to make sense. So when the commercial juxtaposes the third 'legitimate' question and answer with the two previous phony questions which try to be funny and 'clever,' it doesn't work for me. The pattern set for me by the first two questions make me feel like the third one is a bunch of crap, also. It's stupid, not funny, and not smart.

I am not a Netflix customer, in case you wondered.

Ben Walrus

Did you watch game 7 of the Boston-Cleveland series? I did. I was rooting for the Cavaliers on account of I am a LeBron James fan. Plus I have hated the Celtics ever since the Bird/McHale/Parrish/Walton/Sichting/Johnson days. Always liked Danny Ainge, though. And Greg Kite. What a stud he was.

Anyway, I think I like LeBron because he has flaws, notwithstanding him being a freak of nature and all: He struggles with the outside shot (I guess you could call him LeBron Ames, 'cause he ain't got no "J."), and is less than stellar at the free throw line. But when a guy scores as much as he does when the other team is paying ALL its attention to him, I find it impressive. Seriously, Cleveland could have been playing with two guys on offense. The other guys sets a screen for James (which the Celtics help on, switch, or quickly recover), and then gets out of the way. My favorite play is when the guy setting the screen is Ben Wallace.

Ben Wallace. Are you familiar with this guy? He developed quite a reputation over the last several years for being a great defender and rebounder. He got huge money when he left the Detroit Pistons (where he made nearly 35 million in six years) to sign with the Chicago Bulls before the 2006-2007 season. He made 16 million in his first season with the Bulls, and 15.5 million his second season, during which he was traded to the Cavaliers to help them compete for a championship--you know, with his great defense and rebounding and whatnot.

So here is why I am sure I will never be qualified to run a professional sports team: you don't pay that kind of money to a guy who "defends and rebounds" when he can't score. And I make a distinction here between can't score and doesn't score. There are teams who have a big guy who plays 'D' and hits the boards and doesn't score a lot--doesn't need to. This is because there are other scorers on his team; no plays are run for him, but he can make a shot if he needs to. But not Ben Wallace. He can't score. Can't. If it isn't a dunk, it is not going in for him. I guarantee that if there was a wall four feet out from the basket that he could not pass in order to attempt a shot, his scoring average would decrease four-fold.

What is Ben Wallace's career scoring average, anyway? Six-point-five points per game! Yes, you can count on Ben for three buckets every night. Except, wait, some of those points come from the free throw line. Some. Because while Big Ben was in Detroit making a name for himself as an important big man in the league, he was becoming popular for something else: he is THE WORST FREE THROW SHOOTER IN THE HISTORY OF THE GAME. Career average: less than 42%. Here is another guarantee for you: I could shoot a better percentage at the line than that with my eyes closed. And I am not talking about getting to the line, receiving the ball, dribbling a couple times, eyeing the rim, and closing my eyes to shoot. Put me at the line, give me the ball, and then blindfold me. I will shoot a hundred foul shots that way, and will make 42 at least.

So if I were LeBron James, I would be pissed. I would be in management's office this morning saying, "I want you to keep Delonte West, Daniel Gibson, and Joe Smith. Get rid of everyone else. Even that guy with all the S's, Z's, and C's in his name. I want to play five-on-five next year."

Don't Wanna Know

Chute plopped himself onto the top bunk and tried to relax, drained by another day walking around in 90-90 (ninety degrees, ninety percent humidity). The light went off a few minutes later, and Chute rolled on to his stomach, while letting his left arm hang over the side of the bed. After a few minutes more, as he lay there in that confusing dim grey area between sleep and consciousness, something hit Chute's left hand. He could not immediately tell what it had been, but he knew it was Slave, the occupant of the lower bunk, so he was not alarmed. Chute figured Slave had simply rolled over, sat up, or adjusted his bed sheets.

Soon, however, Chute felt it again. Now, had he been partially asleep before, he was wide awake--and wondering. What was going on down there? Seemingly in answer, Slave started tapping and hitting the hand playfully, and Chute began to be concerned. And he didn't quite know what to do, but decided the best move was to continue to act asleep; surely Slave would notice and would quit what he was doing.

He did not.

After a few minutes during which Slave continued his sporadic gentle amusement with the hand, he stopped. Chute felt he had successfully waited out this strange game, and could now go to sleep. Two things remained: he must wait a sufficient amount of time before sleepily rolling over (so as not to give away the idea he had NOT slept through it all); next, he must prepare to act like he didn't know this had happened tomorrow. He wanted to forget it, and he certainly did not want to talk about it.

Evidently, Chute waited too long: After pausing a couple minutes, Slave resumed his amusement with renewed courage; the result was that Chute felt something wet on one finger. He became completely frozen with fear. Fear. And there was the wetness again. Chute was screwed. He had gone too far down the faking-asleep-road to acknowledge now that he was awake; to do so now would be to condone, to sanction this...this thing. And for sure, down in his gut, it was there at a full boil, the sum off all the judgments Chute had made, the comments he had heard from others, the teasing he had received because of Slave. If Chute was going to let this happen, he was not going to leave any doubt. There could be no room for claims he had misunderstood or misfelt.

So he let Slave go.

The next thing Chute knew, Slave was sucking the middle finger of his left hand. (And in case the pronouns are confusing, Slave was NOT sucking his own finger.) If Chute had felt fear before, he was terrified now. Close-to-crying, I-miss-my-mommy terrified. Why him? What was this happening for? Why had Slave now confirmed every suspicion, every rumor against him? Wasn't it possible Slave was just a small, effeminate boy who excelled at cooking, ironing, singing, and being polite?

As he lay there stock-still, yet flailing in the maelstrom of these awful questions, Chute noticed that Slave stopped sucking. Chute immediately jumped down from the top bunk, and went directly outside to wash his hands. Never had he washed them as diligently and desperately as he did then; he was a doctor preparing for surgery. Three surgeries. Or four. He scrubbed and scraped and lathered and rinsed, and did it all again. If he washed his hands enough perhaps he could clean the past few minutes from his memory, from his life.

When Chute returned from washing his hands, Slave was also out of bed, with the light on, sitting slumped forward in a chair, visibly upset. Chute did not speak to nor look at him. Instead he sat at his desk, organizing papers and books, looking for a cassette tape. Slave began:

"I have tried so long to overcome this. I can't."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know what I am talking about!"

Chute did, but he wanted to hear Slave say it. He wanted him to admit it. After a few more seconds of sobbing and sniffing, he did: "I'm gay, Boss."

"That's all you need to tell me. I don't need to hear any more," Chute returned. "You're fired."

"I know."

Slave went home the next morning.

European Swallow

I was not late for my 3pm appointment. Still, it was 3:37 before I was summoned from the waiting room, where I had been alternately reading Adam Bede and a several-months-old Sports Illustrated. I was shown to a room to wait for the doctor, my second appointment with Dr. Blach (with the 'a' pronounced like "ah" and the 'ch' all German-like, you know, the sound like you're hawking up a loogie).

I went to see Dr. Blach after I started having trouble swallowing. "Food?" he had asked. No, just in general. On Super Bowl Sunday after I had enjoyed a couple of creme sodas I was sitting on the couch hoping the Giants would win. (Really I just wanted the Patriots to lose.) And just sitting there on the couch not eating or drinking or anything, I couldn't do it. I couldn't make it turn the corner going down. Like it was stuck.

The first few days this happened I was quite stressed out. When something you have done for your whole life without thinking suddenly requires focus and concentration, you will stress out, too. I am somewhat used to it now. I relax, try to salivate a little, and try again. Most of the time it works. But I chose to go see a doctor to figure out why this was happening.

Okay, the second appointment. It was not 3:38 yet when I sat down in the examination room, and this time I just read Adam Bede. At 3:59, Dr. Blach rolled in to tell me the results of the esophagram: not a lot really remarkable, no lesions, no tumors, no stricture. (Nice to know all of this, of course, but a little depressing not to find some explanation of my problem, or why I have always "choked" on food my whole life.) Then he stared at me blankly for a second. I guessed it was my turn to speak.

"You know how you asked me during my first appointment if I had acid reflux or heartburn? Well, like I said then, to my knowledge I have never had them in my life, so I don't know how I could tell you if I did [on account of I don't know what it feels like], but I have been paying attention lately to what I feel in my throat. I do think it's food. It doesn't burn or anything, but I feel it there."

"Yes, yes!" he said back. "It could be that. I will give you a prescription for Prilosec. And come and see me in two months."

I took advantage of his (apparently) precious time and asked him about my "fixed" deviated septum, and why I still couldn't comfortably breathe out of my nose. He briefly peered in both nostrils and said, "Well, next time you are here, I will numb you up and look a little further down to see if there is any obstruction."

His nurse handed me a piece of paper and sent me off to check out (really, pay). As I walked toward the counter to cough up my $40 copay (my insurance will pay the other $70), I glanced at my phone: 4:04pm.

Roger Clemens: My Hero

Ten things I believe about Roger Clemens:

1. He has never used performance-enhancing drugs of any kind.
2. The fact that his wife has admitted using HGH doesn't hurt his argument that he never used performance-enhancing drugs.
3. Andy Pettitte (who admits using PEDs) did in fact "misremember" a PED-related conversation with Roger Clemens.
4. He gave his boys really cool names (Koby, Kory, Kacy, Kody) that don't reflect any self-importance.
5. He thought Mike Piazza's broken bat was a ball when it came flying toward him in the 2000 World Series.
6. He thought he was playing wiffle in the back yard of my childhood home when Mike Piazza's bat--I mean ball--came toward him. (See, when I played with my brothers as a child, you could pick up a batted ball and throw it at a baserunner. If you hit him between bases, he was out.)
7. He did NOT have an inappropriate relationship with that woman, Miss McCready, even if she says he did.
8. The success, adoration by millions of fans, and nearly incalculable riches have NOT gone to his head and skewed his view of his fellow man; we will believe what he says because he said it was the truth. Why wouldn't we believe him?
9. He has a cool haircut and is a smart dresser.
10. He earned his salary in 2007 for the Yankees. For the record, his salary was $28,000,022 (and how clever it is to negotiate your jersey number as the last two digits of your salary!) for the year, prorated to $18.5 million for the part of the season he did not play. He made 17 starts, went 6-6, and pitched almost 100 innings, with a 4.18 ERA. Who wouldn't pay $18.5 million for that?

No Offense, but Cowboy Up!

"No offense, but..."

I know I am not the first to make this observation--I have heard others before me. But this whole 'no offense' thing really kills me. Apparently, as long as you preface what you say with those words, you are free to offend. You can say anything. Well, there do appear to be limits. I've never heard, "No offense, but you're a completely worthless waste of human flesh. Go away. No one likes you." Not yet, anyway.

But I did hear this: Guy runs into my wife--his high school classmate--while she was visiting some friends in Texas a couple of years ago. They had not seen each other for years, and I don't doubt it was good for him to see her (and vice versa). I am sure the butterflies started flitting in his stomach as he began to long for the good old days. And then he stammers, "No offense to your husband, but you are looking hot!"

When I heard this I was not offended. Should I have been? Who was he offending? Me? Come on, I share his opinion. What I think he should have said is, "No offense to you, but..." She should have taken offense, if anyone. I mean, what's she supposed to say in return? "Thanks! You, too! Want to go to the prom?"

But that's not really what I am getting at. Because as much as I think the use of 'no offense' is lame, I am taking advantage of it now: No offense to anyone who may possibly be offended by what I write next--misusers of the verb 'to lie', hacks, cowboys, the Boston Red Sox--but this is how I feel.

I saw a bumper sticker on the rear window of a pickup truck recently that read as follows:

"Are you going to COWBOY UP, or just lay there and BLEED?"

First things first: While I understand that the whole lay/lie thing is difficult to grasp (apparently), could someone, somewhere, at some point going forward, please get it right? Is it too much to ask? Sure, 'lay' is now "acceptable" due to its overwhelming use, but it is non-standard, nonetheless. I never hear someone say 'lie' when they should. Never. I know I am a pain about this (I understand from the look my wife gave me the last time I corrected her that the "acceptable" form is just fine. But she won't be mad if she reads this--I said "no offense" already!) but I would appreciate someone on my side. Put in the time, figure it out, and use it properly. And don't correct me when I use the verb correctly. (I can't tell you how many of my English major peers at BSU would correct my "as I lay in bed last night" to "laid" when commenting on my papers. Also, use 'have lain' sometime and watch what your listener does.)

Next, it's a rip-off! I don't know if the writers of Tombstone coined "You gonna do somethin', or just stand there and bleed?" or not, but it highlights one of the best scenes in the movie (the one that starts "Is that 'Old Dog Tray'? That sounds like 'Old Dog Tray' to me" is right up there). In copying this phrase, the creators of this bumper sticker have shown lack of originality and also lack of cleverness in their bastardization of such a fine question. Come up with something else, fellas.

And does "cowboy up" mean something, really? Be tough? Um, no. I mean, be a cowboy if you want. That's your choice. But I don't want to be a cowboy, I don't want to be associated with cowboys, and I don't look to cowboys as a model of toughness and grit. When I think of cowboys, I think of those scumbags from high school who discretely chewed tobacco in class (I know I never could tell what that lump was and why they always pursed their lips) and who stopped mouthing off at someone any time they were outnumbered. And riding a bull and roping a goat don't make you tough; it takes grit to get up off the football field when you get your clock cleaned just like it does when a bull eats your lunch. "Oh yeah? A bull might stomp on you and break your bones." Well, bones get broken in other sports, too. And in both cases, you are done for the night (or longer).

Finally, the fact that the Boston Red Sox used "Cowboy up!" as a rallying cry in 2003 is utterly stupid. Yes, Red Sox players, shake off the adversity you are going through! It must be really hard to be paid obscene amounts of money to play baseball every day in beautiful weather. Baseball! Those guaranteed contracts must be a real pain. Elaborate post-game meals and personal trainers and massage therapists are annoying, too. You have it rough, and it must really hurt. I know you want to give up (and still collect your salary). But hang in there. Cowboy up!

Or you can just lay there.

Mexico and Movie Reviews

Yes, I am spending a few days by my lonesome in Mexico. I left for Mexico on Friday the 11th and, whereas on April 9th it snowed in Boise, it is plenty warm here, in the 80s on Monday the 14th. I have gone to the beach for several hours every day, so as to get my sunburn on. So far it is working. I have made three promises to myself since I got here, and I intend to keep two of them. They are: go to the beach every day, not stop to rest when walking up the hill back to Casa Miramar (and mirar the mar it does), and start a workout regimen when I get back home in order to develop my arms and upper body. Now if I can only decide which two to do.

My daily schedule is quite simple: I roll upstairs around 8:30 every morning, and have breakfast. After loafing around, reading, or checking e-mail for a few minutes, I pack up my things and head to the beach. The first few minutes I am there are spent digging the hole directly in front of where I place my mat. You see, I dig a large hole, about two feet deep, so I can put my feet in. This makes it like a little chair for me as I read (right now Tess of the d'Urbervilles), watch in a detached manner my fellow man, and eat fish on a stick with little tortillas. I intersperse a few trips in to the ocean to catch a wave or just cool off. I never go to the bathroom in there. I am sure no one else does, either.

After a little while I pack up my gear and begin the grueling seven minute trek back to Casa Miramar. By the time I get there I am ready for a dip in the water again. Fortunately there is a pool right outside my door. Dinner is et at around 6 or 7, and then I read and chit chat with the folks here for a bit. Then it is back down to my lodgings. I read some but have watched one movie every night I have been here.

The first night it was 'La Otra Mujer Boleyn' or 'Las Hermanas Boleyn' or whatever it is in English. (Funny how this is already on DVD in Mexico, when I believe it is still in theaters in the states. And they don't bother cluttering up the disk with any artwork; all it says on it is 'DVD-R' and '8x' and I don't think that has anything to do with the movie.) Anyway, here is a newsflash to anyone who didn't know this: Natalie Portman is not British. Neither is Scarlett Johansson, but she is a tad better at the accent than Padme. And they cast a nice looking, trim fellow to play Henry VIII. Funny. I always heard he was fat. My review of the movie? Four street dogs (out of ten possible).

Next night was The Lost City. Seen it? Andy Garcia directs and stars in this film about the revolution in Cuba that put Castro in power. Okay, so it appears this was a very personal thing as he was in fact born in Cuba and left for the US as a child, but stick to acting, buddy. Take out some of the 'fluffy' scenes and stick to the story. And quit making it seem like it is over, only to continue on and on. And on. Also, a lot of the characters were Hispanic, which is nice, but some of them weren't, and they had to fake Spanish language accents, which was lame. I mean, the entire movie is in English, and they all talk with accents. What is the point of this? Either make the movie in Spanish and provide subtitles or have the thing be in English with no accents. For me, a little of the reality was lost when Batista and others, including Castro, were speaking English. My rating: six roosters crowing in the afternoon (again out of ten).

Last night: Persuasion. I missed this a couple of times when it was on the local public TV channel, you know, 'Masterpiece' or something like that. Actually, I saw it was on, tuned in, lost interest, and tuned out. Now I don't know why. I really liked it, which is not hard to believe. Only a couple of strange things about it: whoever directed it kept having Anne look cleverly into the camera at different times. Not sure what he was going for. Also, when she finally tells Captain Wentworth she will marry him, the scene shows her leaning and stretching and reaching up to kiss him for about twenty seconds. And it looks like she is going to eat him. Really. Watch it and see what I mean. But really this one had no chance of me not liking it. England. Estates. Snobs. Silly people. Decent people and creeps alike getting what they deserve. Gotta love Austen. Rating: nine cinder blocks.

By the way, the O's are still in first place. It won't last long so I am relishing every second.

NCAA Championship

I wrote the following about the NCAA tournament in a previous post:

One more [prediction]. Four of the ESPN experts have Kansas winning it all: read here.
Won't happen. Mark it down.

Apparently no one marked it down, 'cause it just happened. And I found myself, simply because I had predicted they would not win, rooting against Kansas when I don't like Memphis, either. I probably would have rooted for either UCLA or UNC, but KU and Memphis bug me. Oh, well...the first few rounds were exciting enough. I don't care who you are, watching Davidson storm through three rounds and then give Kansas all it wanted was pretty awesome.

On an unrelated note, I think they should end the Major League Baseball regular season right now and send whoever is ahead in each division to the playoffs. I don't even know who that would be. Like, in the American League East, who is in first place right now, anyway? Don't click here. Whoever it is should be crowned division champs right now. I don't have the patience to wait through 156 more games.

I know you are all chomping at the bit for more, so stay tuned: I will have another post up here within a couple days. Peace.

More NCAA tournament...and Utah!

Just got back from a little Spring Break trip to southern Utah to see some kinfolk, so into my thoughts about the NCAA tournament so far I will sprinkle in some items of interest (to me, anyway) from our journeyings in Zion (literally).

First, we went down to Avis to rent a mini-van during the break from games on Friday; I was home in plenty of time to see BSU get clobbered by an impressive looking Louisville team--admittedly more impressive now after they trounced Oklahoma as well. When we got to Avis, we were informed they had no mini-vans. The nearest thing they had was "one of those SUVs you see out there in the back row. Will that be all right?" It was. So we drove the Chrysler Aspen (check it out here) on our trip. Very nice--had 900 miles on it when we got it, room for eight, fancy interior, and Sirius satellite radio.

Sirius satellite radio. I know, I know, it is old news by now, but those of you who know me know I tend to be a little on the cheap side (for which I am sometimes treated as if I lived in Cheapside, if you know what I mean. And if you don't, go read your Austen!) So I don't have Sirius (yet). I may have it soon. No more listening to Colin Cowherd, Caves and Prater, the Budlightidahosteelheadshockeypregameshow, or any of the other stupid crap on the only Sports talk station in town. And FM radio? Please. I can see Sirius in my future. And driving my car more than I currently do.

Which brings me to this: What was the best decade for music? Don't waste your time, because there is not a counterargument you can make that will sway me. The eighties. Period. Don't react, don't resist. Accept it. Because when I say "best" I mean everything: the best stuff you like, the best garbage, and the best utter crap. It has it all. Get Sirius and listen to the 80s channel or "The Wave" during a ten or eleven hour drive. You will be convinced. I can't even begin to describe the true enjoyment I had listening to Sirius radio over the last few days, but here are a few high(and low)-lights:

"I got Spuds McKenzie. Alex from Stroh's. They won't leave my dog alone with that Medina, pal." - Tone Loc "Funky Cold Medina
"Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto, himitsu wo shiri tai" - Styx "Mr. Roboto" (I defy you to youtube that song and listen to it in its entirety without laughing out loud. I mean, someone seriously wrote, composed and released that song?)
Skid Row "I Remember You"
Adam and the Ants "Stand and Deliver"
Missing Persons "Walking in L.A."
Loverboy "Lovin' Every Minute of It" (Nice subtlety, guys.)
That's enough. You figure out ones I like and which ones I didn't.

On our trip we drove through Zion National Park, where I saw something interesting:


The part I find interesting is "If attacked, fight back." Never seen that before. And it makes me want to ask the animals of the world to come to some agreement about what to do when startled by a human. We play dead if chased by a bear, and fight back against mountain lions. If I come across something that says I should run toward an animal to scare it away, that will be too much. I might get confused and rush a bear, or play dead for a raccoon.

Now, more NCAA tournament. I guess I picked a few too many first round upsets, but I didn't get hurt too much. As you see below, I have 13 of the 16 left. And I am especially proud of Villanova and Davidson in the Midwest making me look like Nostradamus.
I am tempted to make new picks based on what teams are now left and how they have played, but I will stick with what I have. I am afraid of Louisville vs. Tennessee, and West Virginia looks good vs. Xavier, but overall I like what I have. I tried not to pick with my heart too much (see? I picked BYU and BSU to lose) but I may have overdone with Wisconsin over Kansas (I hate them). And although Arizona laid an egg, I am glad someone bounced Duke. I still like UNC in the East and all the way to the title, but who knows what will happen in the South. Any of the four still in it could come through and I wouldn't be surprised. Just hope Michigan State doesn't screw things up for me. If Memphis can get through, I think they will beat whoever comes from the West. UCLA had to work too hard against A&M for me to believe in them. And Xavier playing for the title? Doesn't sound right, does it? That's why it won't happen.

I will be planted on my couch for the games again tonight (and Friday and Saturday and Sunday). Wish me luck. Or tell me why I am crazy.

NCAA Tournament

I got this e-mail from someone who was apparently not very impressed with my last post:

"Hey Phyllis, your an idiot. Nice call on Boise State there. WAC tourny champs, baby! This team has the talent to do some damage in the big dance. I see them making it to the sweet 16. Go broncos!"

So let me respond: First of all, I think I said I couldn't see how BSU could beat Utah State. That's right. I couldn't see it. I doubt anyone else saw Garner coming out and killing it like he did. Dude hardly plays all year, comes in and scores ten points in about five minutes, and then promptly returns to obscurity on the bench. Crazy. If he doesn't do that, they don't win that game. Period.

And notice that Greene did not play in the USU game? Good call, Graham. So not only did "Nascar" Greene not put in his 10-15 minutes of substandard play, Garner took his place and excelled. Amazing.

I guess I am glad I made no prediction about the New Mexico State game, since I would have been doubtful BSU could pull it off in Las Cruces. But pull it off they did, and I am duly impressed. The one area of concern from that game (which will help me answer the e-mailer's claim BSU can make some noise in the tournament) is that the bench scored a whopping six points in fifty-five minutes. I maintain that having five good players is nice, but I think they need some support (perhaps someone will come in and pull a Garner in the tournament) in order to beat anyone they might face in Alabama. Again, I will be rooting and hoping and yelling, but the bracket I filled out says "LOU" right below "St. Joe's." (For the record, my two youngest sons stepped up and picked Boise State in the first round--let's see what happens.)

Ahhh...The NCAA tournament: I look forward to it all year. I put in for time off at my job so I can soak it all in for twelve hours two days in a row. I will order some pizza, put on my sweats, and stare at college basketball in HDTV until my eyes burn. But although I am excitedly waiting for Thursday to get here, I know what will happen. "Alas! how far the promise of anticipation exceeds the pleasure of possession!" Rosalie Ashby said that to Agnes in Anne Brontë's Agnes Grey, and something similar will happen to me. Teams I hate will win, others I want to win will not, and I will be mad at myself at how much I eat. Then Friday's games will be over and I will survey the carnage that my brackets have become. Then there is the friend issue: I have none, so I will be doing all this by myself in my living room. My family doesn't even really like to watch any of the games, either. So I am trying to really enjoy these last few hours I have anticipating the pleasure before I experience (or possess) it.

A few quick predictions before I sign off: You already know what BYU will do. And I won't bore you with my whole bracket, but I have picked the following first round upsets (10 seed or higher winning): St. Joseph's over Oklahoma. Villanova over Clemson. Davidson over Gonzaga. St. Mary's over Miami. Western Kentucky over Drake. Baylor over Purdue. Arizona over West Virginia. Yes, I am a fan of the underdog. Who do you have?

One more. Four of the ESPN experts have Kansas winning it all: read here.
Won't happen. Mark it down.

Career Change

I'm thinking I need one. It occurred to me the other day when I was listening to Colin Cowherd on the way to work. (What a nimrod, by the way. And couldn't he have changed his stage name at some point? I cringe every time I hear it.) Anyway, he and Doug Gottlieb (now there's a name) were talking about the NCAA tournament. It got me thinking.

I've given a couple of careers a got shot: I've worked for more than ten years now as a Computer Technician/Network Administrator/IT Guy and have learned a great deal. I know how to reset passwords, plug things in properly, and believe someone when they say they had nothing to do with what is currently the problem. But can I say I love what I do? Not really.

I worked for a few years in Texas as a long-haul truck dispatcher, too. That was an education unto itself. I listened to gravelly voices on the phone say, "Come on, man, I don't get paid to sit. I get paid to roll." Or "Gimme something with lotsa miles and not a lot of drops." I even heard more than I cared to about the goings on of some seedy truck stop somewhere. But aside from the pager going off in the middle of the night and the stress I carried around wondering if all the loads where going to be delivered on time (for some reason, I was responsible to Sales whenever a driver was delayed or if our Shipping department was behind), it was the trip out to our scales to see why a truck was overweight on his tandem axle that told me to get out of there. I sat and watched as the driver locked up his rear brakes while his buddy crouched under the trailer to remove the locking pin for his sliding axles. He stood under there holding the pin out as the driver gassed it gently (if eighty-thousand pounds can be moved gently) to slide the trailer forward. That was enough. Let's get back to Idaho, I said.

So what do I want to do? I am not certain, but I know this: I bet I am in the vast minority of people who watched all four games from the WAC men's basketball tournament yesterday. Yes, all of them. I will allow that my willingness to watch the games, in and of itself, is not qualification for a job. But I am, I daresay, able to speak intelligently on what I see--more intelligently than some of the wingnuts I hear on the radio (or those broadcasting the WAC tournament. Is 'fustrated' a word? Is a Mack truck the only object that can be used to describe the space between an open player and his defender?)

And I wouldn't be a complete homer, either. I live in Boise and graduated from BSU, and although I want them to win, I don't see how they can beat Utah State tonight. A few reasons why: Have you seen Jaycee Carroll shoot? My man is nasty. He appears to have only two offensive shortcomings: He cannot make a basket if he is (a) punched in the face or (b) kicking the ball toward the goal with his left foot. USU's bench seems to be far superior, as well. BSU has guys like Greene (or as I like to call him, 'No Right Hand'), Cunningham (well, he takes up a lot of space), and Sanchez (Spazzy). BSU's starting five is good, but it takes more than that to win.

One more piece of evidence I'm not a homer: I went to BYU and I would love to see them do well. But although they are a 'lock' to go to the NCAA tournament, you can pencil them down for a first round exit. Count on it. I will watch the game and root for them and get excited when they get ahead, but I am not deceived. They will lose.

I had to type this quickly--you know before the game starts. But I also gotta go, gotta focus on my job, my career. But someday I will have a job that has something to do with sports. Count on that, too.

[Rest assured that if either of my "predictions" fails to come true, I will come back and edit this post to make it look like they did.]

Scoring

I made the varsity basketball team in high school. See, looky here:

You go ahead and figure out which one is me. But also, if you can, figure out why I am pissed I got no playing time that year. Perhaps "no playing time" is a stretch; I probably played a total of twenty minutes during our whole season: garbage time during our first few losses. After about the eighth or ninth game, I never saw the court again. And it wasn't just me; about four other guys were in the same boat. It became almost comical. We would race after time-outs to make sure we got our favorite seat on the bench. And I am pretty sure we all got worse as basketball players during the course of the season. Why was it this way? Simple.

Our coach sucked.

For the purposes of this blog we will call him Kreg Gimball. Anyway, Coach Gimball was in his first year as head basketball coach at Caldwell High. Apparently winning the conference title and tournament when you are the smallest school in the conference isn't good enough to keep your job, because that's what the previous coach had accomplished in his last year. Admittedly, the previous coach did have some decent talent to work with: Danny was 6'8" and went and played basketball at Boise State; Mac was a good athlete who played football at BSU. Even made honorable mention at linebacker for BSU's all-time team: http://boisestate.scout.com/2/421948.html.

[I am not going to take the time right now to detail how I hooked up with Mac's girlfriend Bev during my junior year. Ah, the cold weekday nights and Saturdays parked out at Lake Lowell listening to Depeche Mode and The B52s in her yellow Honda Civic. And not just listening to music. We multi-tasked. Mmmm, the late nights at her house: she would make faces while talking on the phone with him while she carried on her own conversation with me. I saw it as all as quite an accomplishment. Bev was older than me and I totally dug her. She was, you know, a real clean cheese. But I said I wasn't going in to that part.]
So Coach Gimball came in to take over a program bereft of talent (and height, as you see. There was about three inches difference in height from the shortest guy on our team to the tallest. "Which one of you six-footers wants to play post?") But instead of constantly running all eleven guys in and out of the game--you know to wear the other team out with our quickness and conditioning--he played the same five guys the whole game every game. Even after he figured out our team sucked. We only won a handful of games and got killed in many others. But even then he left the same guys in. We could all see them totally spent and nearly delirious during every time-out, but I guess he couldn't.

My proudest moment as a Coug came when we were shut out in the third quarter by Bonneville. Yes, our team went an entire eight minute quarter without scoring a point. And still Coach followed his plan. Of course I am bitter about it. I look at it this way: how much better were the guys playing than the ones on the bench? We are talking about a high school basketball team in Caldwell, Idaho for crap sake! Maybe he was afraid his team would go 3 and 20 instead of 5 and 18.

So when I went to college and found I had decent game, it came as a surprise: my senior year in high school had consumed all my confidence. And for that I thank Coach Gimball.