Blips From The Blur

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The week that was: a blur of work, road trip, movies, and general busy-ness. All that remains is a series of moments.

The road trip (to Detroit, to see Bruce Springsteen with a Bruce-fanatic good old friend [B-FGOF]) started off witnessing, not two miles from home, a car with an Ohio license plate--CA N8VE. Now let alone my disdain for vanity plates (which could fill up a week's worth of regular blogging; though my favorite is still my Classics Ph.D friend's fantasy plate--UBI SUM, which is Latin for "Where Am I?"), what's the point of giving the government extra money to flaunt your California native status in, of all places, Ohio? According to wakipedia, the phrase, "who gives a rat's ass?" was actually coined by a fella from the Collinwood neighborhood of Cleveland when, in a smoky bar back in the 1960s, he heard someone down the bar start some kind of argument with another patron with the introductory clause, "Well, being a native of California, I ... " Know thy place, man. I didn't invade the State Up North (i.e. Michigan) bedecked in BrownsBuckeyeTribe gear, because I respect geography; so don't make left hand turns in front of me without signalling first on my native Cleveland streets when you're allegedly boasting (fail) to me that you're originally from California. If I had better auto insurance, I would have rammed the car.

Used to be road trips called for unwieldy unfold-'em-one-time-and-never-fold-'em-back-properly road maps. Times have changed, I guess. We had barely merged onto our first highway to Detroit when B-FGOF turns to me in all seriousness, as he hands me some gadget that looked like a long-forgotten transistor radio I treasured, and says, "Do you know how to use a SmartPhone?" Good God how times have changed. Wasn't it just yesterday that the macho test of road trip readiness was when the driver handed his passenger a "fuzz buster" and asked him if he knew how to operate it? Do you know how to use a SmartPhone? Like I might be dumber than a phone? Like I'm grandpa who hasn't yet heard of the telegraph? Granted, B-FGOF is younger than I, but only by two years, so this wasn't some kind of inter-generational technology tutorial. It was intra- I tell you, strictly intra-! Suffice it to say that by the time we hit the outskirts of Toledo (a mere 90 minutes) and had to start worrying about merging onto another highway Up North, I had a good grip on the not so SmartPhone and we made it to The Promised Land of Auburn Hills, MI with little difficulty. Up yours, Mr. Steve Jobs, may you rest in peace, and get a decent shave.

Bruce was amazing, despite the six hours out of seven I spent standing in confined spaces. If you've got a little excess of cynicism in your life, pay the money and go see the Boss--he'll flush your system. He might not do it night after night year after year, but I think with James Brown six feet under for a few years now, we can officially crown Bruce the new Hardest Working Man In Show Business. And I must say, I've never been around a more polite crowd of people at a concert than I was at the Bruce show. I know that statement--even the fact that I noticed such a thing--should immediately bar me from attending any more rock concerts in this life, but it's true.

Taxes. I think the reason they make filling out the forms so complicated, convoluted, and confusing, is that by the time you've finally finished them with some modicum of confidence that you did so properly, you're so happy with yourself (show me a SmartPhone that can handle Schedule D, and I'll be duly impressed) that the fact that you owe as much as you do doesn't seem to matter at all. Besides, I like peanut butter.

Work. Some boy around eight years old comes up to me looking for books on hamsters the other day. I take him to the kids' "pets" shelf and start combing through the skinny books, looking for one or two on hamsters. Who knew so many different animals qualify as pets these days? I start naming all the animals that have books about them, sensing that there might be no hamster books here and hoping the kid will forget about those rodents and be instantly excited about iguanas or ferrets. "I don't know," I tell the kid as I near the end of a shelf with no hamster books to be had, "we've got books about every animal on the Ark here except hamsters. They must be hiding from us." The kid, ever hopeful and ever literal as all eight-year-olds are, exclaims, "Trust me! Every time my two hamsters get loose they go right underneath the stove!" Made my day.

Scribbles. Every once in a while I take part in a writing workshop with some homeless men. Yesterday was great. Some of my doodles from the afternoon: "Yes, I said 'no.'" "I know how you is." "Incessantly incestuous." "A musical comedy version of Deliverance." "The part of Cadillac will be played tonight by Datsun."

Fantasy. I watched two old Bogart-Bacall movies this past week, The Big Sleep and To Have and Have Not. Priceless. Forget the great whistle line--when Bacall shimmied out the bar over to Bogie at the end of Have Not, I almost had to call the ER to have my jaw re-set. Then last night I saw We Need To Talk About Kevin. Wonderful, disturbing movie. But Tilda Swinton. My God, what a masterpiece.

Fantasy baseball. Two weeks into the season, and just this morning I figured out how the points work. Maybe now I'll be able to massage my lineup to move up in the standings from the seventh to tenth place (out of ten teams) ghetto it's been languishing in. Who knew my life would come to obsessing about how someone named Omar Infante does wielding a wooden stick night after night.

Time to cut the lawn and get back to an unblurred life.

Mama's Pride

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How cool is this? On a frazzled day of work which created a virtual media blackout for me, I was apprised of Bob Dylan's much-deserved Presidential Medal of Freedom award via a voicemail from my mother, a fan by osmosis, if not by stereo-hugging devotion. Oh, let's put it at proof #1235 of why mother is so cool. I'm as proud of her Bob fandom as I'm sure Bob's late mother Beatty (pictured above cheering on Bob and that Baez woman) is of her little boy. Congratualtions Bob and Beatty, and thanks for the news, mom.

Welcome To Mr. Rourke's Fantasy Diamond

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His name is Henderson Alvarez. Not familiar with him? Ha, you're an amateur. Although, to tell you the truth, I was unaware of Henderson Alvarez's existence 48 hours ago, but since then we've bonded quite tightly, Henderson and I, and let me tell you, the pleasure has been all mine. Henderson Alvarez happens to be a baseball player, a professional, Major League baseball player, a starting pitcher for the Toronto Blue Jays (yes, folks, Toronto has a major league franchise, since 1977), and while Henderson might not end up being a Cy Young hurler any day, or even a piece of meat the New York Yankees ever covet, he is mine, and in the future I might just look back and call him a tipping point in my life--whether he ends up tipping me to glory or to a 12-Step Group remains to be seen. But what a ride it's gonna be!

Back in late March I wrote about a momentous decision I had to make: dog sit for friends for a few days, or join my first ever fantasy baseball league. Although seemingly unrelated, the two choices were for me an either/or proposition. I chose fantasy baseball, a diversion whose temptation I had resisted for more than twenty years, mainly because I don't trust my obsessive tendencies. Well, six weeks into the baseball season (it wasn't until the third week that I finally figured out how the points system works in fantasy baseball), I believe I am now officially obsessed, and the realization came last night when, after three minutes of intense research on ESPN's website led to my putting a guy named Danny Espinoza (a fine young man, I'm sure) on waivers and claiming the esteemed but obscure Henderson Alvarez off the scrap heap that is the free agent pool, for ten minutes I sweated and palpitated over each one of Alvarez's third inning pitches against the Minnesota Twins brought to me via ESPN's wonderful Gamecast service. I'm mad, I thought, loco, as Henderson might say, round the bend, straitjacket-eligible, Kurtz-up-the-river, whatever--but Praise Bill Veeck, it felt wonderful. Wonderful even moreso when my boy Henderson got out of the third with minimal damage and went on to hurl seven solid innings and pick up the win. His WHIP could have been better, and I would have liked another coupla K's, but Espinoza for Alvarez is looking pretty AOK right now. I'm hooked, happier than Charlie the Tuna could ever be in similar circumstances.

I named my team the Cellar Dwellers, insurance, I thought, in case the obsession never happened and I allowed my team to founder in the Big Sky League with scant concern. I like the name even more, now that I'm committed (vs. I've been committed, which might be the case by the All-Star Break) and watching my team steadily climb the standings--a solid fourth place out of ten teams; six measly points out of first, 25.5 above last place--and thinking about all those other teams below me cursing, we're getting beat by a team named the Cellar Dwellers? Yes I hope and expect to win it all come October, but internally I've made my goal more to the point--beat the Oklahoma Dirtbags at all costs. Nothing against the guy who "owns" the Dirtbags, I just love the name and have some sentimental (i.e. musical) attachment to Oklahoma and Tulsa in particular. It's the irrelevant ambitions that prod me most crazily.

So, now I'm sending nightly offerings to the baseball gods that Rafael Soriano settles in as a capable replacement for the legendary Mariano Riveria as the Yankees's closer, that Joey Votto lives up to his ridiculous new contract, and that the perpetually damned Jhonny Peralta hits a few dingers and gets off his ass and actually steals a base or two. Box scores have long been my kind of beach reading pleasure; now they're my Ulysses-like crack-the-code-and-reach-nirvana obsession. Mr. Rourke, in a tell-tale muddied white suit, still searching for a little guy gofer though he might be, is pleased, fantastically/fanatically pleased.

Doing The Swim At Prom

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Am NOT fat, MaRISSa! Besides the cracking came from the other side, right after MaREESa and her nerdy date got on it. I know Josh said  Justin was the one who heard it first, but really I did. I was like, "Oh my God, Jason, this dock is like freaking breaking." I mean, I was like actually THERE, Marissa, okay? So go ahead, complain about your broken strap all night long some more. At least you don't have like Lake Oconomowoc plankton all over your dress. And who gets their prom pictures taken on a stupid flimsy dock at Lake Oconomowoc anyway? Stacey's backyard is much nicer, and she didn't even get wet. Bitch. But no, we had to go all the way out to Lake Oconomowoc just because LaRISSa was like, "Oh, it's so pretty, it'll be so romantic and my mom knows this really great photographer." Total skeeve, btw. I bet Larissa's mom's separated husband, who isn't even really Larissa's dad, you know, I bet he doesn't know about the photographer. I wouldn't be caught dead across a big lake from his dark room. And Josh is such a BSer. First of all, all the guys were NOT just laughing. You should have heard Jordan squealing like a ninth grader: "I can't swim, I can't swim!" I was like, even with my dress soaking wet, I was like, "Dude, it's like a foot of water. You actually don't have to swim." And I did NOT spend all week getting ready. Just like four days. Well, five if you count my chin job, which wasn't really just for prom, actually. Besides, I blame it all on Jonah. Did you look closely at the picture? He doesn't have a date. There's like one more guy than girls. Yeah, trust me, Marissa, I know that's your idea of a party, but really, what was he doing there? I know Clarissa is technically in our class still, and yes, I know "she would have wanted it this way," and all, but what is it, like, two and a half years since she's been in that coma? You think Jonah might move it along a little and maybe go to prom with somebody else instead of showing up in a stupid tux alone and "reminding you all" that Clarissa's here "in spirit." Bumming us all out actually. Take him off that stupid dock and I bet it doesn't crack up and get at least some us--can you believe LISSA, she never suffers, anything; being right there and not getting a drop on her dress, which, btw, no one's supposed to know this, but her mother and her actually flew to New York like six weeks ago and had that dress like custom made for her, and her date, you know, Jonathan (yeah, me too, I'm like, hello!) he's like an engineering major at Northwestern or something, he could have easily rigged that dock to break up like it did actually, don't put it past Lissa you know--wet!

Yes, It Is Hot Enough For Me, And Other Euphemisms For 'Moron'

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Co-Worker had a dilemma. Basically, she was at a loss for words. Technically, she had one word, a very specific and--for the occasion--a most appropriate word, but she's too nice and polite to use it, especially when the person (in this case, yours truly) to whom she wanted to apply the word was in her presence. I had simply just made one of my pun-ilicious, borderline insane remarks, which was accompanied by what may liberally be interpreted as a dance move, and punctuated by a snippet of an Abba song sung in my pitch imperfect falsetto. The disapproving shaking of her head was not quite side-to-side, but kind of a diagonal swirl thing, and she just uttered, "You're a ... a ... ugh ... I can't say it."

"Ah," I surmised. "But it's simple: say, 'RRRR-tist!' Easy enough."

"Moron!" she replied. "There, I said it, the word I swore I'd never call anyone. So you're a vow-breaking-inducer, too, on top of being a moron!"

"I'm a multi-tasker by nature, I can't help it."

What amazing things the most appropriate word used at the most appropriate time can accomplish, though. The ice now broken by her calling a moron--me--a moron gave way to a flood of mutual understanding and, I daresay, mutual respect. Soon we were discussing the intricacies and nuances of calling someone a moron who rightly deserves the appellation. Such learned philological colloquies are a good third of what I live for in these lean times.

Of course, in crueler, less enlightened times, the word moron--sanctioned by all sorts of psychological nabobs--was used to describe a person of a certain, well-defined, low IQ. There was actually a specific ranking using such words as moron, imbecile, and idiot. Thankfully, we as a society aren't as offensive anymore. Doubly thankfully, because now those words are unshackled from their "scientific" meanings and free to be used on the millions of more people who--regardless of their IQs--are unqualified idiotic, imbecilic morons, or who just--from time to time--act like one. How great is this: dictionary.com defines moron as "a person who is notably stupid or lacking in good judgment." God I love that "notably." Today not only being a work day for me but also a holiday (oxymoron), I don't really have the time to peruse the whole dictionary to confirm my suspicion, but I'd bet a grilled cheeseburger you can't find more than five definitions in the entire tome that utilize the word "notably." And what an apt benchmark. "Is that guy a moron or what?" "I don't know, Herm, he's pretty stupid, but I wouldn't go to the extreme of calling him notably stupid. So, no, he's not a moron. I think we need to go to our British cousins to aptly describe him as a 'silly git.'"

Anyway, the discussion between Most Polite Co-Worker and me soon evolved into list-making. So, for all of you genteel folks out there still a little too nice to call a moron a moron, here's a list of the best euphemisms we came up with. Next time you need to call some notably stupid person a moron but just can't get your tongue around the syllables mohr-on, try one of these. You're welcome.

• I'm sure you mean well, but ...
• Thanks for the input, Newt.
• The wind get your beret, sir?
• So how are your Red Sox doing this year?
• If you only had a gently used copy of Fifty Shades of Grey, you might be worth my time and money.
• Gosh, no, I've never seen a Canadian dime looking like that. Tell me, do you rent that metal detector or own it?
• Yeah, Skynyrd, man!
• It's getting cold in here. Can I borrow your copy of Going Rogue?
• Yes I do work here.
• It took me a minute, but yes, I do get your vanity plate. Clever!
• Want some pizza with those mushrooms?
• No, I didn't hear Rush say that.
• Um, the "little boys room" is just down the hall on your left.
• What do you mean you hate his singing voice?
• So how's the weather been in Pittsburgh?
• Thanks for the offer, but I think taking a ride on your Segway PT might activate my notoriously vile motion sickness.
• That's not Shinola, Sherlock.
• Hello, Mr. Trump.

What I Want

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For a split second this afternoon, I had it. Pure bliss. Coming out of an inconsequential dream during a luxurious nap on this cool, great-sleeping-weather day, I told myself to wake up. Immediately upon waking I told myself to go back to sleep, but it was too late. But still, for that one second when I was conscious that I was asleep, I felt divine. Naps are one of the true pleasures of my life; unfortunately, I'm hardly ever awake enough to enjoy them, like I was for that split second today. It seems a cosmic joke that as wonderful as sleep--especially a mid-day nap--can be, you're rarely able to experience it fully, being asleep. So as I lay awake today, post-nap, basking in the glory of the memory that was that one-second conscious sleep, I thought, wouldn't it be great if you could bottle naps somehow, and imbibe them at will, while you were awake? Yeah, well, man-made flight, potato chips, and pantyhose were all once just crazy figments of somebody's delusional imagination. A man can dream when he's awake, you know.

Take it all around, I believe I'm a reasonably reasonable man, who doesn't crave much of what he can't have, but the mind does reel at times. That panicked, OMG I'm untethered in the universe feeling of tipping back too far in a chair? Wouldn't it be great if that feeling could be compacted into a stick of chewing gum, to be unleashed at will with every decisive chomp? Or the wheeeeee feeling in your innards when the down elevator accelerates too quickly and then stops abruptly? How about putting that in a discreet inhaler, to be hoofed whenever life gets a little too mundane? In my teens I skied a lot. I was never an elegant, parallel shush from side to side down the hill type, but I could hold my own on the rather tepid slopes Ohio's topography allowed. I loved racing down the hill knowing that I probably wouldn't fall, but also knowing that at any second a little mistake could send me sprawling. I did sprawl a few times, and always laughed my way giddy through the fall and for a minute or so after. Thrilling. Today I'd probably wrench a few muscles just getting the ski boots on and break a few bones getting on the chairlift. But man I'd pay a good price if that not-gonna-fall-maybe-might-just-fall feeling could be transformed somehow into hand lotion, or maybe an underarm roll-on thing. That moment just before a sneeze, when the whole world stops and concerns and obsessions vanish as your entire being is concentrated on just one thing--the sneeze? Put that feeling in a pair of socks, and I'll walk happily to the ends of the Earth. Really, aren't drugs and alcohol and all matter of obsessive diversions just pale attempts to recreate these everyday, ineffable, transcendent moments?

That awake-yet-still-asleep feeling, though--that is the best. It might take a face mask/gas mask apparatus to deliver that sensation, though. Get to it, inventors.

How To Get In Shape For Golf? Seriously?

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I admit that there are tougher jobs than blogging. Attendance counter at Cleveland Indians games comes to mind. But still, this job does offer its occupational hazards, if more on the mental anguish side of the ledger rather than the physical one. I bravely scour the internet in search of the inane stories that scream for my trenchant analysis, often boldly clicking on links no sane human would ever dare. You're welcome; my reward is not of this world. An intrepid blogger, though, must still have standards. Thus, while I saw a particular web headline yesterday, I did not click on the link, because, well, because some stupidity should remain ignored. The guilty headline was this: How To Get In Shape For Golf. The first, I can only imagine, in a series of How To Get In Shape for things that require no shape, like taking a nap, lying on the couch (as opposed to the grammatically incorrect, but probably more often used, "laying on the couch," which is another matter entirely and might call for some rudimentary physical training), or drinking a glass of water. Where would it end? How To Get In Shape For Listening To Yanni? Golf, in general, with no adjectival qualifier, requires no specific shape into which you need to get. One cursory drive by any local golf course will confirm that statement. Now if the headline link said, How To Get In Shape To Play Damn Good, Consistently Breaking 80 Golf, then, of course, it would have been worth clicking, especially for me who's never quite managed to round (or more probably hone) myself into that kind of shape. But the more general How To Get In Shape For Golf is pointless. But, as one of the avowed missions of this blog is to scrounge for points for the pointless, here goes, a pretty definitive to-do list of


How To Get In Shape For Golf

• Stretch: Well, sure, I guess some physical stretching can't hurt you. Stretch your fingers to make that frustrated digging into your bag for an extra ball or two when you fail to clear the pond on No. 3 less painful. Stretch your arm (or both, if you have both) to ensure better success when your playing partner has to help pull you out of and off a creek bank you're rapidly sliding down as you search for your provisional ball. Stretch your legs so you don't pull a charley horse jabbing extra hard on the golf cart brake to prevent the cart from creeping backward down the slope of the adjacent fairway. But really, the essential stretch you need to work on pre-golf is the verbal one. "Stretchers" as I believe Mark Twain called them. Stretchers are as much--if not moreso for most of us duffers--a part of golf's vernacular as "birdie," "par," and "nice shot." Read a collection of fish stories to get in the mood. Since today's round usually is not so good (read "sucks," in the modern golfer's argot), the skilled, "in-shape" golfer must rely on previous rounds (ones played without the present playing partners) for the source of much of his "banter." "Well sure I haven't come close to hitting a fairway (if you're not going to count fairways of holes I'm not presently playing) today, Ron, but you should have seen me last week at Hollow Run at Fox's Glen--nothing but the short grass, all day." The most significant type of verbal stretch in this vein is the numerical stretch, though be careful to make sure you stretch both ways: "Yesterday I didn't hit a drive less than 325 all day at Hickory Oak Elm Chase, I walked them all off (this is a particularly nuanced, wonderful verbal stretch: "I walked it off"), and I had more 3's on my card than I've had anywhere since I last played Putt-Putt! Gosh, I don't know where all these 6's are coming from today. Must not have stretched properly this morning on the range." 6 being perhaps the golfer's greatest stretcher. It's not a good score by any means, but not a killer, either. Despite the number of whacks one takes on a hole, everybody's satisfied, including you, trust me, if you just mumble a self-chastising "gimme a six," at hole's end.
• Flex: The tongue is an often over-looked and under-valued physical component of one's golf game. Proper use of the tongue (in addition--or subtraction--to the stretchers above), however, while probably not lowering your score any, could and should result in your playing opponent's ballooning score, which really is even better: you win with less real effort. As far as I can tell, the French are lousy golfers, but they did come up with a great phrase, bon mot. Now a non-stop talker on the golf course can easily find him- or herself wearing (not too fashionably or comfortably) a six iron by the turn, the subtle, well-placed little comments, sprinkled every few holes or so, could go a long way to ensuring your opponent has an awful round. After said opponent makes an early putt, casually, and with a bit of awe in your voice, say, "Do you always exaggerate your alignment like that when putting?" He/she will be praying for three-putts by the end of the round. And yes, cliches are boring, but really, can anything be more effective than the old standby: "I'm no pro, Ralph, but it seems to me like you sure could swing a lot harder at the ball on your shots"? Oh the variations on the usual cuss words you'll be hearing after that one! A personal favorite is the generous-sounding, "But you sure put a good swing on that one," after an especially errant shot by your opponent. A well-meaning, "Watch out for the poison ivy in there," is a nice addendum.
• Lift: Gimmes, as any seasoned golfer knows, are an essential aspect of the game, and usually the difference (with a plus/minus margin of about 9) between breaking one's "number" or not. Show some respect for the hallowed traditions of the game, though. That quick casual swiping of the ball away from the hole is genuinely rude. In addition, the straddling-the-other-guy's-line, half-hearted attempt to "hole out" an obvious gimme is frowned upon; miss a couple of those early and by the back nine your opponent will be quickly at the ready with his pedantic, "I'm gonna have to make you putt that out, Ray," before you can even say, "I guess that'll be a four." Sure it's more physically taxing, and maybe a tad awkward at times, but the authority you exercise by simply bending down and picking up your un-holed-out-yet-but-obviously-will-be-if-we-waste-the-time-for-me-to-line-it-up-and-stroke-it-so-I'll-just-pick-it-up ball is definitive. Hell, some unsharp opponents may think you're marking your ball, and by the time they finish holing out their three-putt from six feet, might even forget all about you. Just bend over, lift that dimply orb, place it in your pocket, and stride confidently to the next tee. A plummeting handicap will be your reward.
• Run: I know it sounds anathema, let alone oxymoronic, to put run and golf into the same sentence, but never lose sight of the utility a quick sprint can have for you on the course. There's the cute beer-cart girl, who, owing to the look of your playing partners, simply ignores your foursome and buzzes down the fairway. There's the alligator/crocodile potential menace. There's the wayward shot that finds itself rattling the skull of the guy a fairway over who flouts the "shirts must be worn at all times" rule, and besides, from a ranger-cart distance, his tattoo-age kind of conceals the fact anyway. There's also, let's face it, as we age, the bladder issue. No need to get all Kenyan about it, but the ability to quickly be able to approximate a running gait is a valuable asset for any in-shape golfer.
• Biorhythm: You may have to channel that long-lost seventh grader in you, and it might require some unsavory practice, but never underestimate the efficacy of a perfectly-timed raucous fart as your opponent starts his downswing.

There you go. A thorough, though not too demanding regimen for anyone serious about enjoying a successful golf season. Shape up now or be a hack all summer.