Eye, the Jury

I had jury duty on Friday for the second time in 2 years.  I sincerely want to serve on a jury, which is something (else) that separates me from 90% of the population of Baltimore City.

When I got summoned in February of 2009, I blogged about the experience.  If you haven’t seen that post, I highly recommend reading it now.  It will make today’s post much easier to understand.  Just click here; I’ll wait.

For those too lazy pressed for time to check that post, the gist of it is that even though I wanted to be on a jury and got picked to be on a jury, I didn’t get to do anything jury-like except wait around.  We were seated on a Friday afternoon and when we came back on Monday, they held us in the jury room for two hours before bringing us out to tell us the trial could not go forward and “thank you for your service.” 

I was totally let down and I believe I coined the term “judicial blue-balls,” for what I was experiencing.

But I did learn some valuable lessons, the foremost being to make sure I do NOT have chili for dinner the night before.  Gas bubbles, closed quarters and hard wooden benches do not make for a comfortable experience.  And I almost blew it because Thursday morning, Pinky asked me if I’d prefer fish or chili for dinner and I answered “chili.”  Consequently, she didn’t take any fish out of the freezer.  It was about mid-day that I realized what I’d done, so when I got home and found that I was fresh out of Gas-X, I had to call an audible and have soup and sandwich for dinner.

The nuts and bolts of the day were pretty much as I described in my other jury duty post.  I sat in a big room and waited to get called up to do stuff.  The big difference here was that instead of having #008 like I did last time, I had #641.  There were a lot more people I had to wait out.

Another difference this time is how many more people have smart-phones.  And because I didn’t want to put on my MP3 player, lest I miss an announcement, I had to listen to a dozen cell phone conversations going on at once. 

Oh, and did I mention that all cell phones were supposed to be turned off inside the courtroom?  There are signs about it all over the building.  But I was in an “overflow” room where there was no adult supervision, so people were talking and texting like they were trying to overthrow the Egyptian government.

 Even with my “high” number, I still got called to a courtroom more quickly than the last time.  At 10:45, they called for jurors #402-731.  I was like, “Wow, that’s a huge number of jurors.”

But then once we got to the courtroom, there were only about 100, so then I was like, “Wow, there are a TON of people that just don’t show up for jury duty.”  But that’s OK… more justice for me.

The courtroom to which I was called was far nicer than the shabby "conference room" I was in last time.  But one thing that was the same was the “church pew” seating.  The hard backed wooden benches are NOT good for my back.  It’s also ironic that normally when you’re seated in church pews, you’re receiving guilt, not determining it.

I got through the voir dire (jury questioning) unscathed, just like last time… the only time I had to stand up was for the question about ever being a victim or perpetrator of a crime.  (I was a victim, damn it!  My car got broken into in 2008.)  But there was a guy behind me that must have been very determined not to be a juror… he stood up for almost every question.  It was no surprise when he was dismissed, along with about 20-30 others.

After lunch, they got down to actually seating the jury.  This was where I became conscious of my relatively high number.  Starting in the low 400s, they called up 5 at a time to step forward and either seated or dismissed.  I’d say 1-2 out of every 5 got dismissed. So by the 4^th call-up, they had 12 on the panel.  The lawyers diddled around a little more and changed their minds on two of the seated jurors and after 3-4 more call-ups, they had their final panel.

BUT, they still needed the alternate jurors, so NOW it’s my turn to go up.  Just my luck… I am now Alternate Juror #3.

Gah!  Alternate juror!!  I can’t believe it.  Being an alternate juror is like seeing a movie without the final reel.  It’s like seeing a play without Act VI.  It’s like a porno without the money shot. 

This isn’t as much judicial blue-balls, as having your grandmother walk in on you when you’re banging the Head Cheerleader.

“I was like, ‘OhmyGod’ and then he was like, ‘OhmyGod’ and then we were both like OHMYGOD!”

Picture from thedailylonghorn.blogspot.com

So as it was still early, they moved us again; out of the nice courtroom and into another shabby-"conference-room" courtroom, to start the trial.  First, everyone went to the jury room to stow our things and bitch about having to be on a jury.  Gah!  All these dipshits are complaining and here I am, 3^rd alternate and dying to be an honest-to-God jury dude.  That means three other jurors would have to be removed before I would get to play.

Hmm… there were at least three people on their cell phones, surfing and texting from the jury room.  Maybe I can rat them out to the clerk.  Food for thought…

So, we go out to take our seats so the trial can get started.  I’m aghast at where I have to sit.  Obviously, there are only 12 regular jury seats for the 12 jurors.  The two alternates and I are on chairs beside the jury box, like kids at the card table for Thanksgiving dinner.  And me, the guy who likes to stay in the back of the room, in the corner, out of everyone’s way, is right there up by the front rail with my big old legs and big old feet hanging out there in the middle of the courtroom.

The seating is pre-determined, so I don’t have any choice but to sit there.  And to make matters worse, the witness stand is about 5 feet to my immediate right.  So when the defense lawyer got up to stand in front of the jury box to question the first witness, it was like they were talking right over my head.  I feel like I’m the elephant in the room.

You can tell what I mean, right?  Do I have to draw you a picture?

OK, I will:

That’s the lawyer guy on the left.  A court artist, I am not.

The trial is expected to last until Wednesday or Thursday.  Basically, my job is to stay focused during the trial, take good notes and be sure that no one trips over my feet.  And I better make sure I wear my clean socks and don’t step in anything foul on my way to court.  If any jurors don’t show up or in some way get caught using a cell phone from inside the building, we Alternates will replace them, like the Pod People do.

Then once the prosecution and defense rest, if all the original jurors are still there, they’ll go into the jury room and deliberate.  And my Alternate friends and I will go home.

With a serious case of deliberatus interruptus.

Note: Obviously I can’t go into the nature of the trial until it’s over.  I will have another post at that time with my observations on the trial.  I mean, what’s the point of experiencing anything if you can’t blog about it?

Completely Unrelated Note: May I offer the warmest congratulations and best wishes to my Blog Friend/Real Friend/Honorary Sister, Cassie and her husband Matt, who on Thursday gave birth to Maelie Julianne, who really should have been named Jordan Sydney.  All are doing well and you can read about all the birthing stuff right here.  

Uncle Bluz is just pleased as punch!

Another Bluesman Down

It was with great sadness this weekend, that I read that blues guitarist Gary Moore had passed away.  He died in his sleep Sunday morning, of an apparent heart attack.  He was 58.

All the obits mention that he was a guitarist for the band Thin Lizzy, but I’ll always think of him first as one of the finest blues guitarists of the 90s.

Back when I was working in the record store in Toledo, I remember he was just another rock act.  I heard that when he opened for Rush at the Toledo Sports Arena, he got booed off the stage, and before he left, chastised the crowd for being rude, saying he’d “never play this fuckin’ town again.”

 

Can’t say I blamed him.

I didn’t hear much about him for years after, until one day I heard a slow blues song with this magnificent, soaring riff.  It was called “Still Got the Blues,” and upon investigation, I saw it was by Gary Moore.  Seems he was reinventing himself as a blues guy.

I cracked a tape for in-store play and the whole thing was rock solid.  There were a number of covers and tributes to people like Albert King and Albert Collins, but the centerpiece was the title track.

Start the video now and listen while you read the rest.  Trust me.

First of all, I can’t believe that Lionel Richie didn’t sue his ass off.  The main riff sounds like it was taken directly from the chorus of “Hello.”

Lyrically, the song is no great shakes… it’s the usual “missing a lost love” motif.  But the melody is smooth and catchy.  It rambles along for about 4 minutes, but then when it’s time for the guitar solo?

Holy hell, Moore just rips it up.  He makes that guitar scream, cry and ultimately howl; like an aural representation of a heart being torn apart.  He alternates between furious picking and long, sustained wails.  I tell you… goosebumps.  Every time.

I remember, back when the song was new, putting it on a mix tape I made for my favorite “exotic dancer.”  (Hey, I was new in town.)  Boy, could she ever work this song.  Funny thing is that when she danced to it, I was usually grooving more on the song than her performance. 

I bought several of his succeeding CDs after this one, and they were all pretty good.  But none ever approached the majesty of “Still Got the Blues.”

Mr. Moore?  Please allow me to apologize to you on behalf of the cretins that booed you out of Toledo.  They knew not what they did.  Safe on, my friend.  I’m guessing you were only called home because Stevie Ray needed someone to trade licks with him. 

I bet they’ll be playing all night.

Commencing: Operation Comfort Food

Yep, I’m still pissed about the game.  The Pack won fair and square, 31-25.  They made the big plays to capitalize on our bad plays.

As opposed to what happens when the Ratbirds lose a game, the Steelers, to a man, stepped up and accepted responsibility for the loss.  Ben said it was his fault for the interceptions.  Mendenhall said it was his fault for the fumble.  Polamalu said it was his fault for not making more big plays or stopping the Packers on defense.  Specifically, Troy said this:

“I was a step off here and there and we didn’t make plays.  We were unable to get any turnovers on defense; that was the difference.  They made plays on defense and we didn’t.  They played a great game.  They’re deserving of Super Bowl champs.”

Hines Ward said, “They were the better team tonight.”

That right there is honesty and accountability.  Even in defeat, the Steelers still do their fans proud.  I’ve never seen any Ratbird player come anywhere close to that kind of statement, which is another, reason I loath them the way I do.

So let’s go through some of my game day observations, shall we?

The Omen Part 1

I knew it was a bad sign when the Pens lost to the Capitals yesterday afternoon and didn’t look good doing it.  I probably should have concentrated on the game more, but I was pretty wrapped up in blogging and tweeting and pacing around.  Perhaps a better jersey selection would have helped.  Or more specifically, any jersey selection would have helped.  I haven’t worn a Pens jersey for the previous 4 games and they’ve won, so I’ve been riding that streak.  I’ll be suiting up tomorrow night, for sure.

Highlight of the game was the Capitals defensemen getting hit in the head with a puck.  Immediately, all the Caps fans stood up and began gesturing wildly and yelling for a penalty.

Bag the Carpet

I was really hoping for a quality pre-game experience.  Man, was I ever disappointed.  I kept flipping between Fox and the NFL Network.  Both were bringing the “lame.”  I mean, what’s with all the red carpet crap?  There’s no red carpet in football!  The Super Bowl is a game ticket and a flask, not a red freakin’ carpet!  Like I want to hear a bunch of celebrities promote their next movie then mumble about the game when it’s clear they have no idea what they’re talking about. 

I think John Travolta has a career in politics (or maybe coaching), given his rambling answer wherein he spoke for 45 seconds on which team he thought would win, while saying absolutely nothing. 

Harrison Ford looked and sounded like he just got up from a nap.  I used to like him until he wore that green scarf.

Owen Wilson sounded like he was stoned to the bejesus, but then when isn’t he?

All day long I’ve been seeing on TV and online where people are saying that Troy Polamalu has been ineffective during the two playoff games.  And I don’t mean the usual message board morons; I mean the “expert” analysts on TV.

Has it not occurred to anyone that playing deep, covering receivers and destroying the passing game does not equal “ineffective?”  Just because there haven’t been any flying tackles in the backfield does NOT mean the man isn’t doing his job.  I think Troy has spoiled us to the point where we can’t appreciate his job-well-done unless he does something super-human.

Cowboying Up

Hey Fox, WTF is up with all the Cowboys bullshit during pregame?  The Cowboys didn’t even make the playoffs, yet there they all are having a circle-jerk over how great it was to be Cowboys.  Hey Jerry, why don’t you talk about the ruined experience for all those fans that weren’t allowed to take their seats in your expensive stadium, because you couldn’t get the temporary seating done in time?

OK, Jerry’s stadium/homage to ego is real big.  Can we please talk about the game now?

The Omen Part 2

For the love of all that’s holy, can we get Steely McBeam the hell off of the sidelines?  I saw him there during the pre-game.  I’ve never seen a mascot less liked by his team’s own fans.  From what I can see, he contaminated the whole place with mediocrity. 

No wait, maybe I shouldn’t post his pic or else this site will also become… nahhh, never mind.  That horse has long been out of the barn.

Dis-Concerting

Enough with the pre-game concerts, too.  Well, OK, it’s not a bad idea to have them there for the crowd, but do we have to broadcast that shit too?  Keith Urban was bad enough, but that Maroon group?  They sounded like a bunch of weenies.  It was NOT football music.

You want a pre-game concert?  Book George Thorogood.  He’ll get out there and rock those people senseless.  He’ll sing about cars and drinking and partying and ask you “Who Do You Love?”  That’s football music.

Black Eyed Peas at halftime?  Screw that.  Football music should be hard pounding rock and roll, not heartless, soul-less electronica.  Bag the Black Eyed Peas and book AC/DC.  Hell, every stadium in America already uses their music in-game.  “You Shook Me,” “Thunderstruck,” “Heatseeker,” and “For Those About to Rock.”  There’s your set right there; no naughty words and guaranteed to rip the fake roof right off the place.  

We salute you, mates.

And as an olive branch to the nation’s youth, Fergie can stay on the stage and dance, as long as she stays out of Angus’ way.

Strange Bedfellows

Did we really have to drag politics into Super Bowl Sunday.  Not missing any chances to hype their own talking heads, Fox had commentator/gargoyle Bill O’Reilly interview President Obama. 

I would comment on the substance of the interview but I turned to the NFL Network instead.  Can we not escape all the political bullshit for even a day?  Please, give us Super Bowl Sunday for football, then we can go back to making up lies about each other for the next 51 Sundays.

And Now a Commercial Break

The commercials were OK.  Most were spoiled for me because they were featured on the “Best Super Bowl Commercials” show the night before.  Though it wasn’t well received, my favorite was the Audi-Breaking out of Rich Jail spot.  I thought it was wildly clever.  The Kenny G stuff slayed me.  I also liked the Star Wars spot and the CarMax “Mixed Metaphors” bit.  Again, very clever.

Meet the Packers

I hate it when people cry about announcers being biased so it pains me to become one of them.  Now I’m not saying that the Fox crew was doing anything as blatant as rooting for the Packers to win, but they were verbally felating every thing they did.  You know, the Steelers had some injuries too this season, (both offensive tackles, their Pro-Bowl center, Pro-Bowl defensive tackle, played without their QB for 4 games and All-Pro safety for two, and so on), but all we heard was about how Green Bay has overcome their injury-riddled season.

Know what?  Join the fucking club.  Every Super Bowl team overcomes injuries.  It doesn’t make them special.

I know that Fox does the NFC broadcasts and maybe it’s just that the announcers know more about them but it seemed that every point brought to bear was filtered through how it affected the Packers.  It was like everything was from their point of view.  I noticed it.  Did you?

Since I’m crying about announcer bias, I might as well complain about the refs.  First half: 5 calls on the Steelers, 0 on the Packers.  I’m not even saying they were bad calls, but there were none on the Pack.  They at least should have called one when they tackled Mendenhall by the facemask.  At least I think that’s what it was.  Fox never showed a replay.  But it sounded like a stadium-full of people that saw the replay on the scoreboard agree with me.

The refs began making calls on the Pack in the 2^nd half, but by then the damage was done.  Penalties sapped the life out of every promising drive the Steelers had and consequently the Pack shot out to a 21-3 lead.

It's Hip to Have Squares

The Packer’s 21 points at least put me in range of hitting one of my pool squares.  I had “1” for the Packers and that paid off for 3 quarters for people that weren’t me.  Unfortunately, I had a Steelers “8”.  One more FG would have done it for me once they ran that 2-point conversion, but no dice.

On the bright side, the Packers winning saved me about $200 I would have otherwise spent on buying Championship swag and 7-Time Champion stuff.  And all of my 6-Time Champion stuff is still valid.  I’ll take my silver linings where I can get them.

All in all, this one isn’t nearly as bad as the Super Bowl XXX loss.  I don’t hate the Packers the way I hated those Cowboys.  (In fact, I don't hate them at all.)  And the game didn’t effectively end on one stupid mistake.  So I can live with this.  I don’t like it, but hell, no one expected we’d get this far at the beginning of the season.  It was a great ride and I’m proud of my boys.

And most importantly, we did better than the Ravens.

Judie, this one’s for you.

Seven Out

Shit.

Super Bowl Sunday - The XLV Edition

I woke up this morning smiling like a kid on Christmas Day.

“It’s finally here… it’s Super Bowl Day!”

As of this writing, the game is still 8 hours away.  I’ve got the NFL Network on right now, and watched it for about 4 hours last night.  Thank goodness the Penguins are playing at 12:30 this afternoon… that’ll give me about 2 and a half hours of something to occupy my mind.

I don’t know how to feel… I’m excited and terrified at the same time.  Sometimes I visualize what it’s like to see your team win.  I only have to think back 2 years to remember how a Super Bowl win feels.  I remember the giddy, half laughing/half crying feeling that it the reason you follow football at all.

But I also think about the unthinkable: what if they lose? 

I’ve never gotten over the Steelers’ Super Bowl XXX loss to the Cowboys.  That was the most agonizing loss I’ve ever witnessed.  After Neil O’Donnell threw that last soul-crushing interception, I had no memory of anything that happened afterwards.  There was still another 5 or 6 minutes left in the game.  Gone.  Don’t remember the post-game.  Don’t remember anyone leaving our party.  I just sat there, staring at the TV, seeing nothing.  It was another month before I could even watch the video tape, to see what happened.  It just mad me mad all over again.  It was probably the same way all the Cardinals fans felt after the Steelers stole Super Bowl XLIII with their last drive.

I had to go to work the next day and I knew I was going to be in for a ration of shit.  This was the hat I chose to wear:

Yes, unbelievably, I still have it.

I’ve never been one to shy away from my fanhood.  I put it all out there for all to see.  It’s on my blog, it’s in my cube, it’s on my head and my back when I’m out in public.  People like hotel doormen that don’t even know me, but see me walk by every day, know I’m a Steeler fan.

It’s a high risk, high reward proposition.  But I won’t have it any other way.  Without the risk, the win is not nearly as sweet.

Anyway, I try to block that out.  And I try to block out anticipating a win.  It’s hard to just “be,” and let the game unfold… especially with, you know, 8 hours of pre-game bullshit.

If anyone can identify with my being a fan of one team living in enemy territory, it’s my blog friend V at *Uncorked.  She’s a Packers fan living in Chicago.  She gave me a mention in her most recent post and I’m always glad for the free pub.  As she’s flying over the Midwest, en route to Las Vegas to watch the game, she recalled a comment I once made on her site, which would greatly enhance air travel for all.  I’ll let you check it out for yourself.

While we’re rooting for the opposite teams, there’s no animosity from either of us.  We each genuinely like our opposing teams today… just not as much as our main guys.

I’ve always claimed Green Bay as my second favorite team.  Actually, Green Bay was my first “favorite team,” when I was a 3^rd-grader living outside Chicago.  I’d just read the book “Instant Replay,” a season-long diary written by Packers offensive guard Jerry Kramer.  It was the first “grown up” book I’d ever read, complete with actual swear words!.  Also, my little league football team wore uniforms that looked like the Packers.  But three years later, I was fully into the Steelers camp, where I’ve remained ever since.

My folks lived in Green Bay for more than 15 years.  It’s a beautiful small town filled with wonderful people.  When we went up to Lambeau to see the Steelers/Packers play in 2005, they treated us like visiting relatives.  The fans, the vendor, the parking lot attendants… they were all, “Welcome to Green Bay!  Hope you enjoy the game!”

I asked the lady who was pouring my beer why everyone was so nice to visiting fans.  She said, “Well, it’s not like you’re Bears fans…” I posted on that experience here.

My Uncle Joe, who lives in San Jose, sent an email with a picture of his Steelers-decorated car. 

I bet his is the only Ferrari in America with an Obama sticker on it.

Actually, I’m kind of surprised.  I thought Uncle Joe had become more of a 49ers fan than Steelers fan, what with being a season ticket-holder and all.  The silver Steelers logo on the left looks pretty permanent. 

One never truly stops being a ‘Burgher.

The Mojo Boogie

No surprises here.  I’m wearing the same stuff that I wore for the last two playoff games, which happens to be the same stuff I wore for SBXLIII. 

“The Force is strong with this gear.”

So now, I just have to kill some time.  I’ll noodle on the Internet.  I’ll watch the Pens.  I’ll pace around like a wolf in a cage.  There’s all this anticipation now and by 10:30 tonight, all will be known.  And I’ll either be bouncing off the ceiling, or going to bed early.

Either way:

Odd Bits - The Time-Killing Edition

Right now.  I want the Super Bowl game to be on Right Now.  I can’t think about anything else, I don’t want to do anything else… I need it to be Game Time.  However since I am not in possession of a time traveling Delorean, I’ll have to make do by scratching out a quick multi-subject post.  Can’t concentrate on anything for more than a few minutes at a time, anyhow.

I considered doing my taxes today, but “taxes” sounds too much like “Texas,” where the Super Bowl is being played, so I’m sure I’d lose concentration.  I’d probably end up accidentally putting an extra zero onto my claimed income, or something.  So I’ll put it off until next weekend.  I can wait a week to receive that chump change that I expect to get back.  Sometimes, it sucks not having any deductions.  But then I read some other “family” blogs and I get over it immediately.

In a way, I almost want to apologize for focusing so much on football this past month.  I’ve never blogged during a Steelers playoff run so it’s kind of new territory for me.  But I tell you, the hits I’m getting are off the charts.  (For MY piss-ant little blog, anyway.)  But I can’t get too high on that… most of the hits are from Picture Raiders looking for Steelers stuff.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that… I mean, I’m one of them.  I don’t give me credit for getting hits on a picture that I, myself, went out and obtained from somewhere else.

The post I did on the late Steelers radio announcer, Myron Cope, has been especially popular and the embedded YouTube clip of his sound bytes has been getting a workout.  Yoi!

Still, it’s nice to see that StatCounter bar graphs reach new levels.  But I promise, once the Super Bowl season is done, I’ll move on to other areas of interest.

Like the Pittsburgh Penguins!  (Just kidding.)

The Workplace Rebellion

My little Rag-tag Band of Steeler Rebels had a Pre-Super Bowl luncheon yesterday, in our boardroom.  I tell you, Mojo is infectious.  We had (very close to) the same people, ordered the same pizzas, had the same decorations and sat in the same places, as we did for the last one we had prior to the AFC Championship Game.  No sense in taking a chance, I say. 

Again, some of the Ratbird fan executives found it necessary to come in and try to talk smack to us.  Obviously, that is bound to be unsuccessful when the smack-talker’s team was beaten 3 weeks earlier, by the team being celebrated in said boardroom.  Sometimes you just have to take your lumps and STFU.  Rats fans never learn that.

Quite a number of us will not be at work on Monday, including me.  I figure, one way or another, I will be unfit for work that day.

Steel Vs Cheese

Last year at Podcamp Pittsburgh, I met fellow blogger Uncle Crappy… Great guy, for a Browns fan.  Anyway, he did a video analyzing the merits of Pittsburgh’s team icon, versus that of the Packers.

Check it out; it’s good:

Uncle Crappy has a great future ahead, should “silent movies” ever make a comeback.

Super Bowl Recaps Recapped

Last year at Super Bowl time, I ran a couple of posts about a few of the important Super Bowls in our family’s history.  With the Steelers back in the big game, I thought it was time for another look.  Part 1, covering the earlier years and the prelude to SBXL, is here.  Part 2, covering the glory inherent in attending the Steelers/Seahawks game, is here.  If you’re new to D-fish2, you really ought to see these.

The Baconator

My close personal friend and Darwinfish Fry alumni, Cassie, sent me a neat pic.  It’s called “Classic Test Answers”:

I love how whenever my friends see something about bacon, they think of me.

I used to do shit like this when I was in college.  If I was taking a test and came across a question that I had absolutely no chance of answering, I’d try to make up something funny.  I figured, if I could make the teacher laugh, I might get the benefit of the doubt on a ‘borderline’ answer I had later.  It’s kind of the same way that a coach argues a call with the ref, knowing that the ref won’t change his mind, but might give him the next one.

I had one class where we were all assigned to write essentially the same paper.  It was very structured and a series of very specific items had to be mentioned.  I figured that these would have to be the most boring papers to grade in the history of schooling.  So about half-way through, I wrote: “We now pause this report for a moment of levity…”  I went on to put in 2 or 3 little 1-line jokes I thought she’d like. 

“And now back to our regularly scheduled term paper…”  I went on from there.

It worked, too!  Got a decent grade and the prof said she appreciated the break.  Sometimes, bacon IS the answer.

The Kid Does Iowa Proud

I saw a 3-minute video yesterday that just knocked me out.  It’s the testimony of a 19-year old college student before the Iowa House of Representatives.  He talks about his being raised as a child of a same-sex household, and puts to shame all the arguments about how terrible it would be for The Children, should same sex marriage find legal acceptance.  With his smooth delivery, respectful tone and just the right amount of humor, the kid knocks this one out of the park.

I’ll be back with a pre-game post tomorrow, but given how amped up I’m going to be, I can’t promise it won’t be anything more than: “STEELERRRRRRRRSSSSS!!!!   AOGKOGHOSAGHASOHEOBACONSHOEJROGUOGHBNEAAAA!

Odd Bits - The Super Bowl Week Edition

The Steelers Stairway to Seven

All week I’ve been getting coming across these great Steelers-related photoshops, so I’m going to run a few of them tonight, along with a mish-mash of other not necessarily football-related stuff.

Just for Shits and Giggles

I was emailing with my friend Bea again this week.  Last week, our email thread about old cartoons led to a full post.  This week’s was at least good enough for an Odd Bits item.  We were talking about taking training classes:

Bea: It’s not like I’m sitting up here saying, "Self, you should take a class today for S & G."  (Remember, we were at work, so we have to use this top secret, indecipherable code.)

bluz: I wonder where that term ever came from.  Does one really G, while S-ing, so much that it’s a common saying?

Bea: And now I’m going to be pondering that for the rest of the day.  I can’t say I ever remember G-ing, while doing the other.

bluz: Me neither.  Maybe G should stand for “grimace.”

Bea: Or “grunt.”

bluz: Perhaps a “guffaw,” if one is especially successful.

Bea: OMG – I can’t stop laughing.

bluz: There’s the “guffaws” right there.  Or giggles.  Better beware not to follow it up with its partner.

Bea: That would NOT be good… it’s a long train ride home.

bluz: A lonely one, as well.  That’s a good way to keep some elbow-room.

Bea: True, I’d definitely get a seat all to myself.

bluz: That’s usually my rule… never sit next to anyone that reeks of “deuce.”

Bea: Ewww.  Of course, that happens often on the city circulators, especially in bad weather.  The homeless go for a ride.  (Free downtown bus.)

bluz: I’d have to stand and try to breathe exclusively through an open air vent. 

You know where this thread is going to end up, don’t you?

Such is the peril of emailing with me.

Ginny at That’s Church tweeted this picture, which her father sent to her.  I don’t know who made it, but they have mad photoshopping skillz.

5-Year Olds Pay Attention To Everything (but what you tell them to do)

My brother sent this email out to the family this week:

Sammy was sitting on my lap Monday night and we were watching the 2008 Steelers season highlights and the Super Bowl in particular.  When it came time for James Harrison’s interception return, he said, “Oh, this is the part where “naughty man” scores a touchdown!!  Of course I never knew he knew anything about James Harrison, but I asked him why he calls #92 “naughty man,” and he said it was “because he’s always getting in trouble.”  Classic 5-year old!

They really don’t miss much, do they?  It’s always interesting to see how little kids process the information around them.

This one is up on the outside of my cube wall (along with the previous one)  I just hope I don’t get in trouble like James Harrison, and become Naughty Bluz.

The other funny thing is that on the night before, I was doing the same damn thing… watching the season DVDs of the last two Steelers Super Bowl seasons.  I never thought my brother and I were much alike, but I’m always being told differently.

Like today, I went up to buy my Super Bowl pool box and the Admin running it asked me if I was doing anything for the game.  I said I wasn’t, because when it’s any old Super Bowl, I don’t mind watching the game in a party atmosphere.  But when the Steelers are on, I want quiet!  I need to concentrate and focus on every single second of the game.

The Admin started laughing, and said, “I asked your brother that yesterday and he said the exact same thing!”

Then later when she brought the squares by, I was disturbed to note that my numbers were 8 for the Steelers and 1 for the Packers.  And then I noticed that my brother had a square that was the exact inverse: 1 for the Steelers and 8 for the Packers.  Freaky!

This is why we love our Steeler Girls!

Email Classic

I remember this email from very early on when I first got a computer and thought it was one of the funniest bits ever.  Then I promptly lost it.  I was delighted to receive an abbreviated version of it this week and thought I’d share.

This is a perfect example of how men and women are just plain wired differently:

Her Diary:

Tonight, I thought my husband was acting weird.  We had made plans to meet at a nice restaurant for dinner.  I was shopping with my friends all day long, so I thought he was upset at the fact that I was a bit late, although he made no comment on it.  Conversation wasn’t flowing, so I suggested that we go somewhere quiet so we could talk.  He agreed, but he didn’t say much.  I asked him what was wrong.  He said “nothing,” I asked him if it was my fault that he was upset.  He said he wasn’t upset, that it had nothing to do with me and not to worry about it.

On the way home, I told him that I loved him.  He smiled slightly and kept driving.  I can’t explain his behavior.  I don’t know why he didn’t say ‘I love you too.’

When we got home, I felt as if I had lost him completely, as if he wanted nothing more to do with me any more.  He just sat there quietly and watched TV.  He continued to seem distant and absent.  Finally, with silence all around us, I decided to go to bed.  About 15 minutes later, he came to bed.  To my surprise, he responded to my caress and we made love.  But I still felt that he was distracted and his thoughts were somewhere else.  He fell asleep – I cried.  I don’t know what to do.  I’m almost sure that his thoughts are with someone else.  My life is a disaster.

His Diary:

Work sucked.  Pretty tired.  Got laid though.

Yes, yes, I know… raging generalization there.  But you know there’s a grain of truth, too.  Sometimes I wonder how we ever co-exist under the same roof.

I’ll check in again this weekend.  Until then, I’ll be looking for more frivolity and mojo regarding the Real "America’s Team":

$#*! My Dad Did

There were lots of comments on my last post, regarding how my dad is a great role model for how to screw with people.  And because I only scratched the surface with that post, and because Dad loves being the center of attention, I figured I’d tell you a couple more stories.  (Several of which HE suggested, mind you.)

The first place we lived in Columbus (Ohio) was right across an alley from a synagogue.  Dad used to get a big kick out of it every time Mom would cook bacon with the windows open on Saturday mornings.  He wasn’t really “driving” that one, but I remember how funny he thought that was.  (I didn’t really get the joke until much later.)

One of the first stories I remember about Dad messing with people was when I was in early Jr. High.  We lived in another place in Columbus, cookie-cutter suburban neighborhood, and some of the neighbors were known for being a little fussy.  At one get-together early in our tenure there, one of the neighbor ladies was talking about how she heard that another neighbor wanted all of his underwear labeled by day, so it would wear out evenly. 

Dad said, “Don’t laugh… I have labels put in my underwear too…” He paused before delivering the punch line…  “January, February, March…”

They gave us a wide berth, after that.

We got along real well with our next-door neighbors though.  They were some nice, down-to-earth West Virginians.  Dad once complained to him about his own abysmal golf game.  (Dad was never much of a golfer.) 

“I don’t know why I even have clubs any more, for all the good they do me,” he said.

Later that spring, the neighbor was out in his back yard and happened to look over at our garden, which was right alongside our chain-link border fence.  Dad had his tomato plants staked to his golf clubs.

The neighbor thought that was the funniest thing ever.  “Why in the world are you using golf clubs?” he asked.

“Puts iron in the soil,” Dad answered.

For the rest of the summer, whenever the neighbors had guests, he’d drag them out to the back fence to show them his crazy neighbor’s garden.

When we moved up to the farmlands of northwest Ohio, it was a completely different scene.  Houses were interspersed between fields and much farther apart.  We happened to have one neighbor that was close by, with our barn in between the houses. 

I have to establish some background before I continue with the mind-game stories.

Our neighbors were people that seemed better suited for a gated community than open farmlands.  We knew they were a bit “off” when we first moved in.  The first thing they suggested to us is that we take down the sun-porch from the front of the house, and put up pillars.

Fucking pillars!  Like it was “Tara” or something.  We pegged them as tools pretty quickly.

They were a prototypical WASPy couple.  He was a big blond dude, broad shoulders, about 6’2”.  Former athlete.  She was his little blond cheerleader.  They had one little blond boy, Chad, and a baby blond girl.  During the big jogging craze of the 70s, Mrs. Blond decided to jog.  She would put on her best fashionable tracksuit and jog.  Up and down the driveway.  She could have even jogged the perimeter of their property and have it add up pretty well.  But no… up and down the driveway, back and forth, about 35 yards each way.  Weird.

A little later, they decided to take up tennis.  They got matching tennis outfits, got some fancy new aluminum rackets and took tennis lessons.  I don’t know how it came about, exactly, but Mr. Blond wanted to know if he would play them in doubles.  Now, Mom was not then, nor has ever been an athlete.  So Dad suggested he team up with our neighbor across the street, Mrs. Mo.  (“Mo” is short for a very long and very Polish name with more consonants per square inch than a Warsaw phone book.)

The Mo family were athletes.  Mrs. Mo was the only girl in a family of large brothers, one of whom was an NFL lineman.  Her son was a middle linebacker in high school.  I believe she was an athlete as well, but I don’t know any specifics. 

But Dad didn’t even have a proper tennis racket.  The only one we had in the house was this old thing we picked up at a garage sale, which had steel strings.  Every time you’d hit a ball, it would go, “Sproiiiiiiiing!”

It looked just like this.  Who knew it was an actual ‘antique?’

So my little 5’9” Dad, with his steel-stringed racket, who hadn’t played tennis in years, and Mrs. Mo took on the Blonds on the tennis court.  I thought for sure it would be an embarrassment, and I was right.

Dad and Mrs. Mo kicked their asses all over the court.  I wasn’t there, but it must have something to behold.  Dad said they were just atrocious… could barely get the ball over the net.  It must have been quite a sight to see the two short, stocky, older players with the “Sproiiiiiiing” running the young jocks off the court. 

Anyway, for whatever the quirks, we all started out friendly enough.  But shortly after, the friction started to build.  Mostly, it was because of the boy, who was prone to wander.  He’d stroll over and start with a million questions about what we were doing and generally stay under-foot.  One time he went into our storage shed and turned the key on our lawn tractor.  It didn’t start, but it drained the battery, so Dad had to pony up for a new one.  He never mentioned it to the Blonds.

During this time, we also had a dog… my beloved golden retriever, Jesse, who I got as a puppy for my 15^th birthday.  As we were out in farm country, we didn’t keep her tied up.  One day when I came home from school, she wasn’t there.  Normally, she was ALWAYS there to meet my school bus.  (God, I loved that dog.)  Anyway, we looked all over the place and couldn’t find her.  Eventually we called the pound and yup, there she was.  We then learned that our neighbors, the Blonds, called in a complaint on her, because she knocked down one of their kids.

Now, anyone that knows golden retrievers knows that they’re harmless and are rarely aggressive.  Obviously, my Jesse was much bigger than the little kid so I can see how she got knocked down.  But wouldn’t a phone call to us be a better choice than having the freakin’ dog catcher come pick her up?  They knew whose dog it was.  Still, we didn’t say anything right then.

Later that week, Dad was out in the back yard and heard the Blond kids calling the dog over into their yard.  That’s when Dad went ballistic.  They’re calling the pound when their fucking kids are calling the dog over???  He called up Mr. Blond and reamed him a new one, right through his designer tracksuit.    Man, it was brutal.  Dad also told him about how his brat screwed up our tractor but we didn’t say anything about it.  What would they have done in a similar situation, called the cops?

Anyway, we didn’t have much to do with them after that.  From then on, Dad took every opportunity to screw with his head.

Most of the opportunities came because of the way our properties were laid out.  Like I said, our barn ran lengthwise between our houses.  And we had about 3 or 4 feet of property on the other side of the barn.  Basically, it was turf that we never really saw, but was right there for them to see every day.

Pillars?  Really?

First, there was the lawn cutting wars.  As you might imagine, the Blonds were pretty fussy about their lawn.  So Dad would time it so that he cut his grass 2 or 3 days after the Blonds did, so that ours would look more manicured.  Invariably, Mr. Blond would come out afterwards and re-cut the parts that bordered ours, so not to look bad in comparison.

Then Dad decided that each time he cut the grass, he’s take one less swipe along the border, effectively making it appear that our part was smaller.  The actual goal was to get Mr. Blond to start cutting our grass.  Dad knew that Mr. Blond would never let a single uncut section remain between our properties, so he’d invariably break down and cut it himself.  Dad eventually got him to cut about 4 feet of our lot before Mr. Blond let it go.

Then Dad stopped cutting the strip on the other side of the barn entirely.  Eventually Mr. Blond ended up cutting it too.  It was probably a better deal for him anyway, because unlike my dad, HE wouldn’t blow the grass clippings into his garden.

Psychological warfare is fun!

My brother Ed even got into the act one Saturday afternoon, by shooting bottle rockets over our barn from our back yard.  Most of them blew up in the air, out of harm’s way, but one took off a little low.  It shot over the low end of the barn, scooted into the Blonds’ garage and blew up there... while Mr. Blond and the brat were inside it.  He came running around the end of the barn and yelled at us to knock it off.  We said we were sorry and he went back home. 

I looked at Ed and said, “So what are we going to do with the rest of them.”

Ed just giggled and lit another one, sending it into the garage again.  But this time, we got the hell out of Dodge and ran back in the house.  Dad thought it was funny as hell.

My favorite story is this, and I really have no idea what even started it. 

Dad took a tape measure out to the other side of the barn one day, (again, out of sight from our house but right beside their house) and started making some measurements.  Almost immediately, Mr. Blond approached to ask what he was doing.

Dad said, “Well, I’ve been thinking about raising some pigs and I thought this would be the best place for the pen.”

Dad said Mr. Blond turned an even whiter shade of white and just said, “Pigs?”

Dad went on about how they would keep us stocked with meat and bacon, and that Mr. Blond should try to make sure the kids didn’t bother his pigs.  He made some marks and put a few stakes in the ground, then went back in the house, leaving the big guy to stew about this new development.

Of course, there were no pigs.  Dad was completely screwing with him.  But the thing is, he totally would have if he could have gotten either of his sons to buy in on the plan.  He traveled too much to care for the pigs himself so Ed and I would have had to do most of it.  This was one of the few times my brother and I were on the same page.  We told him there was no way we were taking care of any pigs.

I had friends that had pigs… I knew how much work it was to keep them.

Dad was mildly disappointed.  It would have been his crowning glory… investing in raising thousands of pounds of pig, for no other reason but to annoy the neighbors.

So you see?  You’ve all been saying that now you understand where I get it… Now you understand the depths of the condition.

I think it also explains my fascination with bacon, as well.