Odd Bits - The Papal Edition

There are a couple of things spinning around in my head today…

Best Traffic Ticket Ever

In this home-grown story, a Maryland woman was given a ticket for going 2 miles under the speed limit, doing 63 in a 65.  The problem?  She was on I-95, camped in the left lane.

My reaction?  “It’s about fucking time!” 

The ticket is valid because it’s a safety issue.  When someone is going slower than the prevailing traffic, it’s just plain dangerous, even if you don’t count the road rage it generates.

The driver stated that it was windy and she was trying to keep the car under control.

I say that there’s a place for nervous and safety-conscious drivers, and it’s called the RIGHT LANE.  No one has the right to bottle up the passing lane; that’s why it’s called the Passing Lane and not the Drifting Along Until I Eventually Feel Like Moving Over Lane.

The next person I want to see is ticketed is someone driving on a highway directly alongside another car, at any speed.  That’s just another reason for installing the hood-mounted water cannon I want.

Raising Pope

Up until now, I’ve stayed out of the whole Pope Saga.  And yesterday, as everyone knows, we named a shiny new pope.  Well, as shiny and new as a 76-year old guy can be… 

It didn’t really surprise me that Pope Ratzo retired.  This is a guy with a complicated situation.  As the recent HBO special, “Mia Maxima Culpa” showed, every case regarding pedophile priests during Pope John Paul II’s reign went across his desk, before then going… nowhere.  He allowed these predators to remain out in the public, with the full faith and trust of the Catholic Church behind them.  The subsequent actions of every one of those offenders remain on his conscience and that should be enough to rattle anyone, especially now that the details have become so well publicized.

So yeah, claim “health issues” when you become the first pope in 600 years to resign… what’s not to believe?

Now we have Pope Francis, the first non-European pope since a Syrian in the 6^th century.  While it’s good they’re trying for some “new blood,” and he seems to be a humble, decent man, I’m not expecting anything resembling a change of course from the Church.  You have to remember that these Cardinals are the same guys that elected the conservative, bloodless technocrat before him.  All of the tenets that are causing the deterioration in the numbers of US Catholics are still there, and will be for the foreseeable future.

That’s probably why they went South American, this time around.  It’s a pretty shrewd move to shore up your core support area.  It’s good PR in a contracting environment.

And from now on, whenever the pope releases a statement with which I aggressively disagree, I’ll have this to fall back on:

The whole thing puts me in mind of a favorite old song from the 60s.  After completion of the famed ecumenical council known as Vatican 2, satirist Tom Lehrer released the infamous “Vatican Rag.”  His point was that since they were trying to update the liturgical music into something more relevant, why not go all the way and bring in some “pop” music?  (“Pop” for the early 60s, anyway.)

“Do whatever steps you want if

You have cleared them with the Pontiff.

Everybody say his own

Kyrie Eleison

Doin’ the Vatican Rag!”

Check it out… it’s totally worth a minute and a quarter out of your day, just for the rhymes alone.

Lastly, consider these words from the late George Carlin: "I have as much authority as the pope; I just don't have as many people that believe it."

March of the Penguins

My Pittsburgh Penguins have been on quite a streak lately, winning their last 6 games, and 8 of their last 10.  Last Tuesday, they played like dog shit for two and a half periods, falling behind 2-0 to the Bruins, before scoring 3 goals in the last 7 minutes, to win.

Personally, I dismiss reports of newfound offensive confidence and defensive prowess.  I think it’s my shampoo.

I’ve developed a new mojo correlation, where whenever I use my “alternate” shampoo (from a little hotel bottle) on game day, the Pens win.  I’m also honing my jersey rotation.  I’ve had a couple of hot streaks with particular jerseys, but never for more than 3 wins.  If I wear a jersey a 4^th time in a row, they lose.

Tonight should be a good test for that theory.  Three games ago, the Pens won at Toronto, while I was wearing a white Mario Lemieux jersey.  Normally, that means I’d wear the same one tonight, when they play at Toronto again.  But I’ve had that jersey on for the last 3 “away” wins, so it’s due for a loss.  I’ll probably go with the white Crosby jersey tonight.  I should know how it goes in a couple of hours.

Speaking of equipment changes, it was in the news today that for tonight’s game, Pens defenseman Brooks Orpik may, for the first time, wear a helmet with a clear, Plexiglas visor.  A week or so ago, Rangers defenseman Mark Staal got messed up pretty good when he took a puck to the eye, while wearing a helmet without a visor.  That got a lot of the players thinking about donning the visor, as well as talk around the league to require it.  I’d guess that between half and three-quarters of the league wears the visor.

I think the league should treat them the way they did treated helmets back in the 80s.  They required all players entering the league to wear them, and let existing players choose for themselves.  Eventually, as the players aged out, everyone left were in helmets.  And the thing is, visors are already required in the minor leagues, so everyone coming up is used to them.

Back when I was playing pickup hockey in upstate New York, I started out with a thin, visorless helmet.  Most of the other players used either the visor or a full cage (like a catcher’s mask).  Then in one game, as we were scrapping for a puck in front of the net, the puck got chipped up in the air, like when you flip a coin.  On the way down, it clipped me on the chin.  Even that little brush with the puck was enough to give my head a pretty good jolt.  I could only imagine what it would be like to get hit with a puck that someone shot or deflected.

That night, after I got home, I was like, “Honey, I think I know what I might want for my birthday.”

Because at that time she still liked me, and certainly didn’t want me any uglier than I already was, she bought me a helmet with the clear visor.

Visor is in the "up" position.  Don't worry about the blood, it was Halloween.

It wasn't too long after that when after a collision; I notice a big black smudge of tape across my visor.  It had obviously come from an opponent’s stick.  I hadn’t noticed it at the time, but if I hadn't been wearing the visor, there would have been a big red smudge across my face that I definitely would have noticed.

So, NHL players?  Wear the visor.  Trust us, everyone will still think you’re tough.

Questionable Meat Part 2

Remember back in February when I ordered an assortment of Omaha Steaks, and in addition to all the meaty yumminess, I got some Conversation Starter Question Cards, and I answered the questions in a post? 

The funny thing about companies like Omaha Steaks… once you order from them, they will blitz you with offers for the rest of your natural days.  So shortly after we received our steak package, I received a very attractive offer for some more goodies.  Because it doesn’t take too much arm-twisting for me to agree to obtain more red meat, I was on it like Ray Lewis on a spotlight. 

The package came last Friday, and with it came another pack of Conversation Cards.

This time I drew Set 1.  Last time it was Set 3.  Boy, it really would have sucked to get the same set.  I would have had to rerun the last post, and where’s the fun in that?  So let’s see what they want to ask me this time…

What is your favorite holiday?

Easy… Halloween.  Christmas is great and all, but there’s so much stress in the months leading up, and a buttload of money spent, not only on presents, but food, decorations, and travel.  And then, it’s all gone in a big Whooooosh! 

Plus, for me as a “Heathen,” I no longer buy into the religious aspect of the holiday.  I continue to celebrate it as a time to get together with family and friends, and enjoy each other’s company (as well as a bounty of food and drink).

Halloween is what you make of it.  You can have a good time, just by going to the drug store and buying a couple bags of candy.  If you’re the Halloween party type, the possibilities are contained only by your imagination.  I used to love dressing up in wild-ass Halloween costumes, especially ones that involved lots of fake blood.  (I blogged about my best Halloween experiences, here.)

Unfortunately, I live in a “Halloween-free” neighborhood.  I miss seeing the parade of little goblins and princesses come to my door.  Made me smile every time.

If you could live in just one season all year long, would you?

Yes.  I could easily live in Early Fall, year round.  It’s warm in the day, chilly at night, there’s my birthday, Halloween, baseball playoffs, the start of football season and hockey season.  There’s no grass to cut, snow to shovel, and the leaves are not yet ready to rake.  The only down-side would be the endless series of election commercials.

What would your dream job or career be?

One of my best ambitions from high school was to be a writer for Saturday Night Live.  (It was still good back then.)  I would love to get paid for writing comedy, or even producing it on the radio, like I wanted to do in college.

Unfortunately, I’ve always been unwilling to slum it while I tried climb the ladder, so I guess I just didn’t want it bad enough.  So I get my fix by writing for you, for free.  Your smiling faces are all the payment I need.

What is the best book you’ve never read?  (But wish you had.)

What kind of stupid question is that??  If I haven’t read it, how do I know if it’s any good?  I’ll have to answer, Keith Richards’ “Life,” and Jenny Lawson’s “Let’s Pretend This Never Happened,” because I’ve started both, have enjoyed them, and wish I had the time to finish them.

Which makes a better pet, a cat or a dog?

That’s tough because I love both, but have neither.  Both have their ups and downs, but for my situation, a cat would be better.  They kind of run on auto-pilot and generally amuse themselves.  And the good ones are every bit as devoted to you as a dog.

Believe me, I’d love to have another golden retriever, but until I have a house with a fenced in yard, (in other words, “never”), I won’t do it.  I don’t have the patience to walk the dog every single day, rain or shine, nor do I care to chisel dried dog shit up out of the grass.  (I used to use one of my dad’s golf clubs to do that, when I was a teen.  No wonder they made the tomatoes grow.)

If you could have dinner with any famous person, past or present, who would it be?

Tina Fey.  You know why.  It would be the most clever and entertaining dinner conversation ever, even without the use of Omaha Steaks Conversation Cards.  (That is if I could keep from just staring at her with googly eyes.)  And I’d hire a caterer to keep bringing out an endless array of meats and cheeses, to keep dinner going as long as possible.  That will provide more time to try to get dump her husband in favor of me!

And if that doesn’t work, I could always borrow Sitcom Kelly’s pit.  Like, “OK, TF, can I call you TF?  We can do this easy or we can do it the hard way.”

If you could know one thing about the future, what would it be?

Wow, now that is a hard one.  I bet a lot of people might want to know when they’re going to die, but I’m not one.  I can’t think of anything more horrifying than the specific knowledge of your immanent demise.  I’d ask for a 3-year range, at best.

I suppose I’d want to know about the quality of my retirement.  Will I be OK, or will I be living in a box in my buddy John’s garage?  If I’m OK, then I can assume that the general conditions of the world are OK.

Of course, if it comes back that I don’t make it to retirement; I’m torn between two options.

1) Whoo Hoo!  Spending spree!  No more need for that 401k.

2) I ought to start eating better and looking both ways before I cross the street.

If the person across from you were an animal, what would they be?

My first thought is to go, “Gee, what a dumbass question.”  But let me work through this.

My answer is an owl.  Because there is no one across from me, so I have to think of YOU, staring into your monitor, iPad or phone, going,

Or maybe…

Or this…

Sorry, I’m trying to cut down.   What about the rest of my posts?

No wait!  Don’t go…

Ode to a Naughty Man

As is bound to happen to an 8-8 team in the off-season, the Steelers have begun shedding some of their veterans.  Yesterday, they announced that they were releasing 35-year old linebacker James Harrison, a former Defensive Player of the Year and wrecker of opponents’ dreams.

I feel bad for my nephew Sammy, who a couple years back, bestowed upon Harrison the name mentioned in the title.  In that season, Harrison had been in the news for getting fined for hard hits.  As Sam and his daddy were watching the DVD of Super Bowl XLIII, he said, “Oh, this is the part where Naughty Man scores the touchdown!” 

Daddy said, “Why do you call him Naughty Man?” 

Sam said, “Because he’s always getting in trouble.”  Five-year olds…

Sammy and I are both in the same position now, as owners of obsolete Naughty Man jerseys.  But I know I’m still going to wear mine.  James Harrison was one of my all time favorite Steelers, a throwback to a time when a defensive player’s job was to knock dudes out.  No guilt, no remorse, just destruction.

Harrison is not built like many football players nowadays.  He’s too short to be a prototypical linebacker.  He’s kind of like a fire hydrant with legs, and just as hard.

I first noticed Harrison during a preseason game, when he had a chance to take some snaps at outside linebacker while Joey Porter sat out with the rest of the starters.  He certainly looked like he belonged.  In fact, he was blowing up more guys than al Qaeda.  But there was one particular day that made me a Harrison fan for life. 

There was this game against the Browns, in Cleveland.  Harrison wasn’t a starter yet, but was a maniac on Special Teams, covering kickoff and punts and such.  With the Steelers offense on the field, some dipshit Browns fan ran on the field.  Naturally, the TV coverage cut away, but you could sense that something happened.  By the time the game was over, there was a clip on YouTube, showing the event. You could see this guy jumping up and down and clowning around.  Then out from the sideline, James Harrison eased up behind the guy, picked him up in the air and planted him on the ground, like a WWE wrestler.

That was the day that Harrison announced to me, and to the world, that the Pittsburgh Steelers did not tolerate such foolishness.  To quote my favorite line from the movie “Zombieland,” he "set the standard for not to be fucked with."

Before long Steelers released Porter in a salary cap move and made Harrison the starter.

The “Zombieland” quote is apt.  Harrison played like a zombie… no, not one of those slow, lumbering zombies… the other kind.

You know that movie, “28 Days Later?”  It’s a zombie movie, but the zombies are fast.  They run after people in this crazed manner, like they are being driven by such rage that they can barely stay on their feet.  Their legs churn and arms pump and flail as they pursue their prey.

That’s how James Harrison looks to me when he’s blitzing around the end, coming after the quarterback.  And I bet if you could get a mind-read on what’s going on in his brain at that moment, it would sound something like, “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHMO’KEELYOUUUUUUU!”

Harrison had his national “coming out party” on a 2007 Monday Night Football game against the Ratbirds.  He single-handedly destroyed Baltimore, and ended up with an absolutely unreal stat line: 9 tackles, 3.5 sacks, 3 forced fumbles, 1 fumble recovery and 1 interception, which he returned for 20 yards.  He hit Ed Reed on a punt return so hard that 3 days later, Reed was still yelling at people to answer that phone.

The following year, Harrison put up similar numbers in another game against the Ravens, with 10 tackles, 2.5 sacks, 2 tackles for a loss and a forced fumble.  It wasn’t a coincidence.  James always had it in for the Ravens, as they were the first team to sign him.  But they cut him twice, sent him to play in Europe for a year, and cut him again after he returned.  Apparently, it pissed him off.

I guarantee you that (Ravens GM) Ozzie Newsome wishes he had that one back.

Here are a couple of Harrison highlights, which include his hit on Reed, and dumping that drunk Brownies fan.  (1^st and 2^nd clips)

It was in the DVD for the Steelers Super Bowl XL win, that America first learned about Harrison’s nickname.  There was a scene where Harrison was coming off the field after missing an assignment on punt coverage.  Coach Bill Cowher came running up to him, yelling, “”What happened?  What happened?”

You could see Harrison mumble something and Cowher just cracked up.  Then laughing, Cowher started telling someone else… “I just asked Silverback what went wrong.  He said, ‘Shit happens.’”

While his teammates more often referred to him as “Deebo,” (a badass character from the movie “Friday,”) the rest of Pittsburgh adopted the use of the nickname.  In fact, it’s on my favorite t-shirt that I never wear.

I wore it in tribute yesterday though, on a trip out to the store.  Obviously, I had to wear it under a sweatshirt… I'm not entirely without class...

James Harrison could have played football in any era.  He would have fit like a glove onto the Steelers teams of the 70s.  In fact, he would have been even more dominating, because the league was not yet overrun by 300 pound linemen.  Could you imagine this guy playing in an era where you could still beat the ever-loving shit out of your opponent?  Scary…

But for all Harrison’s general badassery, (and there have been a couple of knuckle-headed mishaps), he was actually a pretty good guy to his fans.  He was a regular presence on Twitter, often giving away autographs and memorabilia.  In fact, he was the first one to announce his release and he did it via a Tweet.

I took the opportunity to bid him farewell, and also ask a favor.

@jharrison9292 Good luck, James. You'll always be one of my favorites.Oh, and please sign with an NFC team!
— bluzdude (@DarwinfishBluz) March 9, 2013

The last thing I want to see is this guy screaming around the end, coming at Ben Roethlisberger’s blind side, so I sure hope he doesn’t sign in the AFC, and definitely not within the division.  I fear that the Brownies make pick him up, because A) they frequently sign AFC North cast-offs, and B) Harrison is from Akron, which is about an hour away.

And if football doesn’t work out, I bet Harrison could get a job as a hockey “enforcer.”  Jesus, could you see this guy on the ice?  If he signed with the Pens, they’d have to have a standing order down at Pittsburgh Plate Glass, to replace all the glass panes he would smash out.  I see him as a more lethal version of (Pens old enforcer) Georges Laraque.  In fact, I tweeted as much last night.

James Harrison would be the best hockey enforcer ever. Like G. Laroque, only w/out the politeness. "Wanna go? [POW]"
— bluzdude (@DarwinfishBluz) March 10, 2013

(Laraque was known for his very formal invitations to fight.  “Excuse me, would you like a fight?  Yes?  OK, good luck.”)

So it is with a heavy heart that I say goodbye to a classic Steeler.  Often times, I’ll re-number a jersey after the player leaves the team, but not this one.  #92 will live on, in my jersey closet, if not on my team.

And please, James… sign with the Rams or the Bears… And for Pete’s sake, stay away from the Ratbirds!

A Good Swift Kick

I don’t usually follow news about the lives of pop stars very closely (or at all), but this new dustup with America’s Sweetheart, Taylor Swift, got my attention when my not-so-secret crush Tina Fey got caught up in it.

I’ve never had a strong opinion about Taylor Swift, beyond her having good hair and the most chewable lower lip in show business.  I wouldn’t give ten cents for her songs though… not because they’re necessarily bad; they’re just not my style.

I saw a bit about her on 60 Minutes a while back, and thought she seemed pretty grounded, considering her having such a high profile at such a young age.

An upcoming feature on her in Vanity Fair quotes her as being upset at Tina Fey and Amy Poehler for dissing her during their Golden Globes hosting gig.  She’s quoted as saying: “You know, Katie Couric is one of my favorite people because she said to me she had heard a quote that she loved, that said, ‘There’s a special place in hell for women who don’t help other women.’”

As a refresher, the joke that offended was Tina Fey’s quip from the podium that Swift should “Stay away from Michael J. Fox’s son,” and that she could “use some ‘me’ time to learn about herself.”

Not exactly Ricky Gervais material, I know.

So the story started getting interesting when Amy Poehler was quoted as replying, “Aw, I feel bad if she was upset. I am a feminist, and she is a young and talented girl. That being said, I do agree I am going to hell. But for other reasons. Mostly boring tax stuff.”

Between that and her Best Buy commercial, I really ought to start watching “Parks and Recreation.”

The exquisite Ms. Fey weighted in shortly after: “If anyone was going to get mad at us, I thought it would be James Cameron. I did not see that one coming. It was a joke. It was a lighthearted joke.”  She went on to compare the quip to a couple of old aunties teasing her over Thanksgiving dinner.

These two can come over for stuffing any time.

I’m sure it must be tough to be so young and have all of the world’s attention on your dating habits.  But you know what?  When you air your dirty laundry in public (like she does through her songs about all her famous ex-boyfriends), you’re going to have to expect a little blow-back.  The comment she’s fussing about was pretty innocuous.  She’d have been much better off to have laughed it off, or even better, come back with something better.

Wait, what am I saying?  No, you never get into a war of words with a couple of premier improvisational comedians.  Maybe she should have just said, “Tina Fey ought to be thankful she didn’t have any sons herself, because I’d be waiting for them.”

That would have defused the situation and let people know she was in on the joke, and the “story” would have disappeared.  Perhaps she should watch a celebrity roast or two, and thank her lucky stars that she never got that kind of treatment.

I do wonder about her though.  On the surface, she seems like a total dude magnet.  If I was 22, I’d probably be camped outside her house.  So it makes me wonder why she has such rotten luck with guys.  Could she really have gone out with 5 or 6 shit-heels in a row?  What are the odds?

See, I have to look for the common denominator… which is her.  It makes me wonder what goes on outside of the spotlight.  Does she act like a spoiled princess?  Does she demand constant attention?  Does she smell like old cheese or squeeze the toothpaste from the middle of the tube?

OR, maybe it’s not her as much as it is her dating criteria.  You know, if you date a bunch of young actors, pop singers and trust fund babies, who are used to sticking their noses out their front doors in the morning and watching a buffet of the night’s poon fall out of the trees, you might be asking for trouble in the relationship department.

How about dating a “nobody?”  Does her record producer have a son?  How about her sound engineer, or tour bus driver, or t-shirt vendor?  Throw a bone to the quiet “nobody,” Taylor, and he’ll be yours forever.

Chelsea Handler weighed in on the whole controversy today.  She said, “My theory about Taylor Swift is that she's a virgin, that everyone breaks up with her because they date her for two weeks and she's like, ‘I'm not gonna do it.’ And they're like, ‘Oh, well, forget it. Then I don't want to date you.' Every guy thinks they're going to devirginize her and they're not.”

She added, “She's never going to get devirginized, ever, ever, ever, ever.”

If Handler is right, that’s another reason for her to date a “nobody.”  Her old “boyfriends” are probably used to doing things with girls that you wouldn’t do to a farm animal.  They’re not going to wait around on the hot monkey lovin; they’ve got wild oats to sow.  They’ve probably left more DNA in hotel rooms than 10 seasons of CSI.

But a “nobody” will wait forever for a shot at hitting that.  Or worst case scenario, she never gives him any?  He’s already raised his profile in the dating world, and can move up a couple levels of dating hotness.

There’s your answer, Ms. Swift.  Find a nice guy that’s not famous.  Treat him right and he’ll be yours forever.  Of course that means you won’t get to write any more “He Done Me Wrong” songs, so sales might suffer.  But that’s OK, right?

Oh, right.

Director’s DVD Commentary: It’s distinctly possible that I’m full of shit here, about whether a “nobody” would hang around longer.  I base my opinion solely on the fact that in 1988, I would have quit my job and followed Joan Jett around the country, if she asked, just for the chance to wipe the sweat off her guitar.  Just sayin…

Odd Bits – The “Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam Baked Beans Spam Spam Spam andSpam” Edition

I’m starting to think my Comment Spam problem is becoming worse.  I know I was getting the Spam over the weekend, but I was handling it as the day went on.  But I have it set up so that I get an email at work for every blog comment.  So when I went into work on Monday and opened my email, I saw this:

This is from Friday at 5pm to Monday at 8am. 

Plus, there are 16 more that are out of screenshot range, running the total to 47 Spam comments. I couldn't help but channel a little Monty Python, as I went down the list and thought to myself, “Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam… Lovely Spam, wonderful Spam….”

Back in February when I mentioned my Spam comment infestation, with its insidiousness and mangled syntax, I said that they were not really leaving comments; I was just getting the comment emails.  I've since discovered that they are now leaving actual comments in about one fourth to one-third of the emails. Obviously, I don’t want their web feces smeared all over my blog, so now I have to go investigate every single email and delete the message.

They think I’ll give up. They don’t realize that I can be one stubborn S.O.B.  

Bloody Vikings… 

A Sinking Sensation

That’s some real shit about that sinkhole in Florida that appeared out of nowhere under some guy’s bed and the whole thing went down.  Holy crap!  What a way to go…  Sucked into a cavernous gaping maw of indeterminate depth.  Dude probably felt like he was a box of donuts in front of Rush Limbaugh.

I saw that they couldn't even recover the poor guy’s body, either.  The whole area was deemed too unstable to support the equipment needed for a recovery effort.  They basically had to knock down the whole house. 

We were talking about it at work today, and wondering if some unscrupulous builder is going to put a new house up over the top of the site.  They were wondering if he would have to disclose what happened there.  I figured the only way he could sell the place is if he kept his yap shut about it.

I told them if I was a buyer, I know I’d be like, “You built this house and there’s a guy buried 60 feet below the floor?  Oh HELL no… I saw “Poltergeist,” I can’t stay here, uh uh…”

My co-workers were howling. But I like meat too much to watch MY steak go crawling across the counter-top.

I have to wonder about the neighboring houses though.  If it were me, I’d want to get the hell out, pronto.  But how could you ever sell the house?  Who’s going to buy a place right next to one that got eaten by a sinkhole? 

My prediction: The Republican Governor has the state buy up the property in the neighborhood and condemn it.  Then he arranges to have it sold to developers in about 10 years, after everyone’s forgotten about it, for pennies on the dollar.  Then the developer turns it into a mall, or casino, or something and appoints the ex-governor to their board.  There! Everybody makes out!

Well, except the taxpayers… they get it right up the old sinkhole, but what else is new?

Stormy Wednesday

We have a big storm brewing here for the east coast.  This storm has already dumped all over the Midwest and Plains States and is scheduled to meet up here with another system and run up the coast.  It’s supposed to start raining and snowing here tonight, and then change to heavy snow tomorrow, along with 20-25 mph winds.

Needless to say, I’m working from home tomorrow.  When they were talking about 1-5”, I was going to go in.  But when the forecasts started calling for 5-10”, sorry, I think I’ll dial in, wearing my jammies.

They’re calling this one, Snowstorm Saturn.  (On the Weather Channel, anyway.)  I’m not sure why they’re naming the storm after some shitty car, but I’m sure they have their reasons.  I wonder if they already used“Mercury.”  Or maybe “Pinto.”  I think “Gremlin” would make a good storm name, just because it kind of screws with people.

The Big Finish

I saw this in the comics this morning and it cracked me up.

Poor kid.  I'd write in and tell him that it doesn't get any better, but I’d hate to break the spirit of a fictional character.

Odd Bits - The Danbury Edition

How about I begin my 5^th year of blogging by puttering around with some random topics?  I’m not feeling up to any grand pontifications just yet, including anything about the missing pontiff. 

Good Cracker

One of the best parts of the weekend is that I get to eat peanut butter crackers for breakfast.  I picked up this habit when I was staying at my buddy John’s house on vacation, and they had a big glass jar full of cracker packs.  I realized they were a perfect and very easy way to get a little something in my belly (especially after a hard night of drinking) that was filling, but not too filling.

I usually get the Ritz peanut butter crackers, and look for the packages that have the most peanut butter stuck to the cellophane.

When you see it stuck to the package, that means there was so much peanut butter jammed in there, it had to squeeze out a little bit.  I always make sure to finger off all the peanut butter from the wrapper and eat it with the last cracker.  It’s not that I’m a pig; leaving peanut butter exposed, even in the trash, will attract mice.  Why do you think it works so well in mousetraps?

A Lasting Valentine’s Day

I never liked giving flowers for Valentine’s Day.  It’s trite, and I resent that the florists all jack up their prices for that one week.  Plus, the things are dried up and dead within a week or so.

Last year, I decided to give Pinky a living plant instead, a cyclamen.

As you can see, even a year later, it’s still blooming like crazy.  Mom says keeping a cyclamen in the bedroom will keep love going.  I never open the blinds in my bedroom, so we keep ours in the kitchen.  That way, it can see that the food I love keeps coming.

Crossing the Ravens

As you know, it was a soul-deadening day, last month, when the hated hometown Ratbirds defiled the Lombardi trophy by bringing it home to Baltimore.

The locals seem to think their team is a pretty big deal now, so it tickled me to death to find this item hiding in the local crossword puzzle.

Right there in the Baltimore Sun Crossword, appeared the answer, “Steeler Nation;” with the question being “Pittsburgh fan base, collectively.”  That must have eaten at the collective consciousness of every Baltimore crossword puzzle fan.

See, the Baltimore Sun, like most other newspapers that are left, use a lot of syndicated material.  Their crossword puzzle, for example, originates from the LA Times.  Trust me, if they were devising a crossword puzzle locally, there is zero chance that anything having to do with Pittsburgh would ever appear in it.

That’s what’s so delicious to me, and backs up what I always tell people here… the rest of the country doesn’t give a shit about your team.  They have zero reputation outside the beltway, that doesn’t involve criminal activity.  Forget “Ravens Nation,” the best they can hope for is “Raven Township.”  Their adversary, however, has such a national reputation; their name pops up in syndicated crosswords all the time. 

Unfortunately, I doubt any of the hardcore Ratbird fans even noticed.  I doubt they are even capable of solving a crossword puzzle.*

* Except Misty, of course.  And I say that not only because she’s totally smart enough to do a crossword puzzle, but also I don’t want her to sue me for libel. 

That Figures

While the Super Bowl fuss is dying down, the merchandising opportunities are just getting started.

Because I’ve used Danbury Mint in the past, both for jewelry purchases and Steeler collectibles, I get regular mailings from them.  So it wasn’t very surprising when I opened this up last week:

Unfortunately the ceramic knife and bloodstained coat are sold separately.

Like I would ever allow this miniature monstrosity in my house.  I don’t even allow purple Kool Aid up in here.  Danbury does good work though.  Their sports figures have amazing detail.  I know because I already own one of their best.

Jack Lambert, defender of all that is right.

Along with the Ray Lewis offer, they’re also hawking Ratbird sneakers.

Alas, they’re for women only.  I considered buying a pair of size-12’s, for the same reason I want a Ratbird door mat: so I can wipe my feet with them.  I figure the shoes would be perfect for going out and tromping around in the mud, or visiting the dump.

Then again, these shoes have sparkles.  Real men don’t sparkle; we shine.  And in my case, that’s whenever I take off my hat.

Baaaaaaaaa Humbug

I know this has been going around the Internet like crazy this week, but have you heard about the “Screaming Goat” videos?  Apparently, someone filmed these goats that make sounds just like human screams, moans and wails.  Then, other people started cutting them into popular songs.

There were a couple of them that really cracked me up.  And I’m sad because the reason there were only a couple is that I know so little about current pop music.  The humor comes from knowing how the part of the song goes that the goat replaces.  Most of the examples I found were from teeny-pop or rap songs, for which I have no patience at all.

But when it works, it works.  This clip cracks my shit up every time.

It’s good to know that someone threw a bone to those of us who were alive in the mid-80s.  Otherwise, missing out on this meme would have really gotten my goat.

My First Term

Today is a big day within the realm of Darwinfishdom.  It was four years ago today that I first threw open the doors to this site and said, “Come on in!”

My first post was much earlier in February, but nobody knew it.  I wanted to have a good base of material for my early visitors to wade through, so they could decide whether they wanted to come back or not.  I probably   shouldn’t have bothered, because up until the fall, there were no other visitors except for family.  And I knew Mom and Dad were a lock to come back.

Anyway, it gave me some time to figure out how I wanted to format things, from what fonts and colors I’d use and when, to how I wanted to align pictures.  It definitely took me over a month.  I probably didn’t lock down my “Style Guide” until well into 2010.

So technically, February 14^th could be considered my true bloggiversary.  But I figure, a blog anniversary is like a store’s Grand Opening.  And when is the Grand Opening?  It’s the day you open the doors, not the day you started stocking the shelves.  February 28^th, 2009 was the day I sent that first email to family and friends, announcing, in effect, that they’d better be careful what they tell me because anything they say could be used against them as blog fodder.

So, wow… four years.  My blog is older than 3 of Cassie’s children.  You’ll notice I name-drop Cassie a lot, and there’s a good reason for that.  She was my first recurring visitor and commenter, who wasn’t related to or friends with me.  I always tell her, “You never forget your first.”  And I don’t.

2009 was a great year for me to start blogging… I had a lot to talk about.  Barack Obama had just been elected President, ending an 8-year period of darkness and ignorance in the White House.  The Steelers had just won their 6^th Super Bowl.  The Penguins would win their 3^rd Stanley Cup that summer.  Shit was happening! 

I wrote a great deal about the Steelers during that first year.  Obviously, I’ve backed off over the last couple.  I never wanted to be a “sports blog,” I just wanted it to be a subject I touched on now and again.  Besides, by 2010, I had people visiting from all over the country; not just Pittsburgh.  So if I wrote about sports, I’d try to focus on how I relate to the games, as opposed to hardcore X’s and O’s.  Think Game Jersey Mojo rather than QB Rating or mock drafts.

I also sought to provide a liberal voice to support our new president.  It was therapeutic too… Lord knows I needed someplace to voice my frustration with the Republicans’ efforts to roadblock everything Obama tried to do, even things they previously supported.  The entire political process turned into a Looney Toons cartoon…

“Duck season!”

“Rabbit season!”

“Duck season!”

“Rabbit season!”

“Rabbit season!”

“Duck season!”

[Blam!]

"You're dethhhhhh-picable."

By far, my favorite topic has been to tell some old stories.  In fact, that’s all I’d do, if I could, but unfortunately, there are only so many left to tell.  In fact, I have to put myself on strict story-telling rationing, just so that I don’t run out.  Otherwise I’ll have to start living a far more interesting life.

But best of all, over the last four years I’ve been able to make friends with people strewn all across the country, from California, to Texas, to Colorado, to Louisiana, to Florida, and up to New Jersey, and even a few right here in my own back yard.  And of course, there’s that special nest of Pittsburgh bloggers who I’ve gotten to hang out with every year.  Yinz really know how to make a guy feel like he belongs.

Sometimes it’s really hard to get myself motivated to knock something out for you on my self-assigned day.  But then I think of your loyalty and participation, and I forego the urge to hit the couch and watch 30 Rock reruns.  So I thank you for your time and attention, and forgiveness for when I’m full of shit. 

I suppose I shouldn’t take your opinion for granted… Do you think I should keep going, or retire with some sense of grace and dignity, before I make a fool of myself?

OK, OK.  I bow to the will of The People.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you for your time and attention, and for coming here when you could have been doing something constructive. 

As Bobcat Goldthwait used to say, “Thank you for encouraging my behavior.” 

Breaking Things

If there’s anything I learned when growing up is to take care of my stuff.  All kids lose things and break things; I know that can’t be helped.  But I always felt really bad when I broke something… a toy, a glass, whatever. 

Most of the time, it was understood that if I broke something (of mine), that was it; I wasn't getting a new one.  I knew times were tight and my parents didn't have a pile of dough to keep buying me new toys or what-have-you, so I understood.  I especially appreciated this training as I got older and had to buy my own stuff.  I learned to take care of my shit, therefore eliminating the need to replace it.

I started young on learning how to stretch out what I have, to get the most out of it.  It started with drug store candy.  If I only had fifty cents, I wasn't going to blow it on a couple of candy bars that would be gone in no time.  (Yes, “a couple.”  It was the early 70s.  Stuff was cheap.  If I had a whole dollar to spend on candy, it was fortune to me.)  I’d buy things where you got a lot in the package, like Lemonheads or Sweet Tarts.  Candy with a lot of pieces lasted much longer than a candy bar.

When I had a bag of Halloween candy, I’d work on it until December.  My goal was to make my bounty last as long as possible, as opposed to diving in for a week or two of sugared gluttony.

This tendency also took hold as I got out on my own and had to buy and ration my own groceries.  You can’t pig down all the good stuff in the first few days after shopping, or else the cupboards would be bare for those last couple days before payday and I could shop again.  I rarely had to eat meals consisting of stale bread heels and a can of peas, or barbecue sauce sandwiches.

Granted, I could have replaced some of my clothing more often than I did.  Why else do you think I just threw out my ugly 80s-era parachute-pants sweatsuit two weeks ago?  To me, it was a perfectly serviceable piece of apparel, and not to be disposed of lightly.

But because of the way I am, I have been able to keep things for a very long time, most of which have not gone hopelessly out of style.  I still have the full china set I bought before moving into my first apartment, in 1984.  Other than the pieces the Ex sold off at a garage sale, I still have all of it, unbroken and until recently, unchipped.

My regular drinking glass for my daily Diet Coke was one I got in the late 80s.  My alternate glass, showing Roberto Clemente’s rookie baseball card, I got from a McDonalds in the early 90s.  They've been with me through many moves, and even 4 years with a kid in the house.

I especially like the Coke glass because I use that line as the fill-to indicator.

I believe the last thing I broke was my favorite wine glass, about 7 or 8 years ago.  I think I bumped it against the counter as I was taking it out of the dishwasher.  I can’t remember anything else I've broken, since I was a kid.

I take care of my things, and I get the most use out of what I have.

Pinky, however, does not see things the same way.  She thinks it’s perfectly normal for a grownup to break a few glasses every year.  Or the spinner-rods off of a couple sets of mini-blinds.  Or leave our plastic food containers at work, to get thrown out.  Or grab several napkins out of a stack to wipe her mouth.  Or leave a few chips in your 1984 China from banging them down together when she puts them away.

We've been going round and round about this for years now.  And every time I say “Now be careful with that,” I get a tirade about how I can’t expect her not to break something every now and then.  I tell her to concentrate, then, on breaking her own shit instead of mine.  (That doesn't go over very well, either.)

So this morning, we ended up doing this dance yet again when she suggested I throw the issue out to you.  As you know, I very rarely bring our interpersonal dirty laundry to this site, but since it’s her idea, I thought, “Why not seek outside input?”

I’m not asking you to referee or take sides, but I do want to know… how often do you accidentally break things around the house?  I don’t mean the kids; I mean you or your spouse.  How do you feel when your mate (or significant other) breaks or mars something of yours?  And vice versa?  Is it a big deal?  Or is it OK because “everybody does it?”

What about your relationships to groceries or supplies?  Are you a stretcher-outer, or a user-upper?  Does your spouse view household commodities differently?  If so, how do you reconcile the competing tendencies?

Train Train

I've told the story before about how my dad got tossed in the town jail as a young boy, for hopping on freight trains.  His dad was going to leave him there until Grandma intervened. 

I also have a train story, but mine isn’t nearly as warm and uplifting.  I almost derailed a train once.  I was in grade school, so I’m pretty sure the statute of limitations has expired.  Here’s how it happened.

When I was in 3^rd and 4^th grade, we lived in Glen Ellyn, IL, a suburb west of Chicago.  On my daily walk to school, I had to cross a set of train tracks in town, near a commuter train stop.  (I bet Carpetbagger knows exactly where I’m talking about.)

Getting to see trains go by up close was a big thrill for me, so I used to do whatever was necessary to ensure I’d be at the tracks at the time the train was due.  For example, I knew that a train was due in at a particular time, so I’d time it so that I’d just be getting to the crossing when the train arrived.  If I was early, and I could tell because there was a big clock tower in the middle of town, I’d start to dawdle and shuffle slowly along. 

There was no sense hurrying… getting to school early just meant I’d have to sit through more of Daily Mass.  I’d much rather see, feel and hear the train come whooshing by, as I stood by the no-crossing arm that lowered to block the road and sidewalk.

Sometimes, if there weren't any grownups around, I’d grab onto the arm and ride it as it rose back up.  (Not all the way; I’d jump off once I was two or three feet off the ground.)  Other times I’d put a coin on the tracks so the train would smash it.  I usually used pennies or nickels… quarters and dimes could be used for candy at the drug store, so I didn’t waste those.  The train seemed so powerful to smash the pennies the way it did.  I figured the train would be able to smash just about anything.

The trains I saw looked like this.

Coming home was another story, because there seemed to be fewer trains going by in the middle of the afternoon.  So I began taking a shortcut home, bypassing the main business street with the train crossing, clock tower and local stores.  Instead I’d cut through some back lots and open fields, and cross the tracks out in the open where there were no cross streets.  There was no little fence between the tracks, like you see in the picture above.

I know it seems dangerous now, but frankly, I don’t see how a pedestrian EVER gets hit by a train.  It’s not like they sneak up on you quietly.  You can see and hear them coming from a mile away, as well as feel the tracks vibrating.  Just take a step or two off the tracks and you’re good.  Even as a kid, I knew not to linger on the tracks.  However playing around them was still great fun.

Coming home one afternoon, when I was probably in 4^th grade, I found this big hunk of iron.  It was a long bar with flat sides, probably a half-inch thick, with a big “notch” on one end.  It looked like this:

Please excuse my poorly drawn rendering.  And forgive me for forgetting to draw in the underside of the bar for depth, at the far left.  (I didn’t want to take another picture.)  But you get the idea.

Recalling what the trains did to coins, I thought it would be cool to let the train smash the iron bar.  The notch at the end fit perfectly over the rail; all I had to do was put it in place and wait for a train.

Before too long, here one came.  I backed away by about 20 feet, to make sure I didn't get hit with any smashed iron.  Then the train hit the iron bar.  Really never considered that the iron might not smash.  Instead it was the train that got jolted and rocked waaaaay up on one side.  I don’t remember if the wheels actually came up off the track, but it sure seemed that way, from the severe tilt of the cars.  If the wheels weren't up, that train must have had a hell of a lot of give in the suspension.

Fortunately, the train came back down squarely and continued churning into town.  Immediately, a grownup appeared out of nowhere, yelling and running toward me.  I did what any kid would do… I got the fuck out of there and ran home as fast as my little legs could go.  No grownup catches a scared kid running through back lots and alleys.

Days later, I went back to look for my notched piece of iron, but never found it.  I suspect the grownup took it so no other dumbass kid would derail the train.  Lucky for me, the only damage was to the passengers’ clothing from all the spilled coffee on the train.  I’m pretty sure there was no damage to that iron bar.

Suffice to say, I never put anything on the tracks again.  One barely averted public disaster was enough for this little bluzdude.