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.