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.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Monday, May 19, 2008
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."
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."
Monday, May 12, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, May 2, 2008
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.
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.
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