• I used to believe that “politician” and “opportunist” were synonyms, than along came Barack Obama. His speech at the convention brought up comparisons to Michael Douglas’ President Andrew Shepard, but Obama feels more and more like an Aaron Sorkin creation with the more of him we see. To take the high road, when we heard that Sarah Palin’s daughter was having a baby, is beyond admirable. And we know Barack will let her skate on the real issue at hand, but not because it’s the right thing to do, only because his mom named him “Barack.”
However, I won’t let it slide. How the hell can we even consider allowing this woman to be Vice President when she named her children Track, Bristol, Willow, Piper and Trig? You could probably get having a stable full of horses with those names, but not a house full of kids.
• Maybe next time we have a big hurricane, the networks can just send cameramen down to get footage. But please, leave the correspondents in the hotel; we don’t need to hear their constantly interrupted reports of how windy and rainy it is. The camera pretty much says it all, and doesn’t continuously apologize for the storm, you know, making things difficult.
• I just read that the CEO of Overstock, Patrick Byrne believes a “Sith Lord’ is actively working to destroy his company. I wonder how this will affect their stock prices.
September 02, 2008
August 29, 2008
hirPolitics
Last night, like most of America, my wife and I sat mesmerized by all that is Barack Obama. We were in awe of his speech, both the substance of it and the artistry in which he delivered it. We were moved by his story, as it continues to be written. And perhaps most of all, we were impressed by the behavior of his daughters. That’s gone un-noticed too long.
For all of those who feel he doesn’t represent them, doesn’t know what they go through, they didn’t notice the toothless smile of his 7 year old. I’m pretty cynical, but I don’t think you can fake parenting. And to have your 7 year old sit through a speech like that, and remain on her best behavior, well that’s what an “every man’s” dream. Anyone who can parent, two young girls, has enough experience to qualify for any job.
***
John McCain’s pick for his VP, Sarah Palin looks qualified for a job in the White House, as one of Bill Clinton’s interns. Seriously, she looks like every other soccer mom at Oak Park Mall. Maybe she is qualified to be the next in line for President, beside a 72 year old who has been thrice treated for cancer. And their biggest knock on Barack is lack of experience? Palin is Governor of Alaska, that’s not a state, it’s a large park. Basically she’s just a glorified park ranger. Maybe it’s just me, but this pick sounds like playground politics, “see, I’m for change too. I picked a girl!”
For all of those who feel he doesn’t represent them, doesn’t know what they go through, they didn’t notice the toothless smile of his 7 year old. I’m pretty cynical, but I don’t think you can fake parenting. And to have your 7 year old sit through a speech like that, and remain on her best behavior, well that’s what an “every man’s” dream. Anyone who can parent, two young girls, has enough experience to qualify for any job.
***
John McCain’s pick for his VP, Sarah Palin looks qualified for a job in the White House, as one of Bill Clinton’s interns. Seriously, she looks like every other soccer mom at Oak Park Mall. Maybe she is qualified to be the next in line for President, beside a 72 year old who has been thrice treated for cancer. And their biggest knock on Barack is lack of experience? Palin is Governor of Alaska, that’s not a state, it’s a large park. Basically she’s just a glorified park ranger. Maybe it’s just me, but this pick sounds like playground politics, “see, I’m for change too. I picked a girl!”
August 19, 2008
All In
Six years, that’s about how long I was a real poker fanatic. I was never really much of a player, not to the extent I dreamt of being. But it was always fun, and it’s still fun. But it was as much as an obsession as it was a hobby. At first I played about twice a week, and with god awful players. So it was quite profitable for me. Then I joined this “league” and it became more challenging, and even more fun. We played once a month, and I never missed a game. The nights I was knocked out of early (and often) still didn’t send me home early; I simply waited for the “cash game” to start.
But things sure do change. I had a Cal Ripken like streak, and now I’m MIA as often as Chuck Norris. Priorities have shifted, focus has changed. When before, there was nothing going on that I couldn’t shift around to make to make room for a poker game, there is now events I wouldn’t dream of moving. Events like today.
Today’s the first day of first grade for the Kyd. And there just so happens to be a poker game tonight. There’s no coin to flip for me to decide, and I haven’t even given moving our, now annual post-first day dinner, back a day. I’m looking more forward to hearing about the first day of school than I am seeing the first flop.
And oddly enough, a few years ago, there was no excuse good enough to get a guy off the hook. If you missed a game, you were given loads of crap for your absence, more often than not, by yours truly. But the whole dynamic of this group has changed. In the early years the table talk centered around porn or watching Skinamax. Now there’s talk of diapers, schools and trips to Disney.
I’m sure I’ll get back in the swing of things next year, and get to most of the games, if not every one. But it’ll never be my main priority again. Winning a few hundred bucks before, meant either planning a trip to the boats or day dreaming of a trip to Vegas. Now I want to win, to offset the price of school supplies and to take the fam out for a nice meal (defined as any meal that doesn’t come on a tray, in a bag or a box.) See, even my definition of a nice meal has changed.
But things sure do change. I had a Cal Ripken like streak, and now I’m MIA as often as Chuck Norris. Priorities have shifted, focus has changed. When before, there was nothing going on that I couldn’t shift around to make to make room for a poker game, there is now events I wouldn’t dream of moving. Events like today.
Today’s the first day of first grade for the Kyd. And there just so happens to be a poker game tonight. There’s no coin to flip for me to decide, and I haven’t even given moving our, now annual post-first day dinner, back a day. I’m looking more forward to hearing about the first day of school than I am seeing the first flop.
And oddly enough, a few years ago, there was no excuse good enough to get a guy off the hook. If you missed a game, you were given loads of crap for your absence, more often than not, by yours truly. But the whole dynamic of this group has changed. In the early years the table talk centered around porn or watching Skinamax. Now there’s talk of diapers, schools and trips to Disney.
I’m sure I’ll get back in the swing of things next year, and get to most of the games, if not every one. But it’ll never be my main priority again. Winning a few hundred bucks before, meant either planning a trip to the boats or day dreaming of a trip to Vegas. Now I want to win, to offset the price of school supplies and to take the fam out for a nice meal (defined as any meal that doesn’t come on a tray, in a bag or a box.) See, even my definition of a nice meal has changed.
August 13, 2008
Hirpasms
I’m a little bitter, and with good reason. Although, truth be told, whenever I’m bitter it’s for good reason. But this is really good. Turns out my parents have discarded much of the paperwork of my childhood. Including in what can now be officially labeled as trash is: grade school report cards, medical reports (hey, where’s the x-ray of my broken back?) and the grunt work behind my Bar Mitzvah. So I can’t share my “pause” speech with my wife and kyd, nor the details of a trip to a specialist when I was like 4.
Goes something like this, I was a little off as a child (shocker) and my motor skills weren’t up to par the rest of my development. This is still the case, my handwriting makes the scribble of doctors look like artwork. So as my mom tells it, I took this opportunity to show off. When asked if I could count to 10, I asked if they wanted it in English or Spanish. What I most want to read about is where they explain why they felt I made jokes of a sexual nature. See, I was a little shit and a perv before I hit 1st grade. That’s madd skillz, yo.
But I can’t read any of this. It’s gone. What the hell?! Sorry, but I’m a sentimental bastard. When my parents bite it, I want as many pictures as possible. For their anniversary last year, my wife and I stole most of their photos and put them in albums. They thought it was thoughtful, I thought it was a move of great foresight. I didn’t want to do it later. See, that’s why I said sentimental bastard. Both adjectives are accurate. But really, of course I wanted to give them a nice gift.
They did, luckily, still have my Bar Mitzvah video tape. And watching part of last night was a terrorfying trip down memory lane. The wife thinks I looked like I was eight at the time, not 13. As double down said, “what can I say, I look young.” The amount of metal in my mouth would set off airport alarms, but if I was 13 now, I could just call them Grillz.
***
Driving to work today, I felt like I was very close to falling asleep at the wheel. Like, dangerously close. So I wonder how often early morning accidents are caused, not by multi-tasking drivers, but sleepy drivers?
So the Chinese didn’t want to use the less cute girl to sing at the Opening Ceremonies, and they digitally altered the firework show on the broadcast. We shouldn’t let the fact that even the organizers cheat, take away from all the world records being broken on a daily basis. We should already know that everything is on some form of steroids or another. Look at the box office numbers of Batman, that gets more than a little boost from inflation. How much was a ticket when Star Wars came out, or even Titanic?
The wife and I purchased our new car last night. Just when I was thinking that signing all that paperwork together could be good practice for the day we buy a house, I hear a statistic on the radio this morning that 45% of people who purchased a home since 2006, purchased the home for more than it’s worth today. That’s scary as all hell. And they say renting is throwing away money.
A headline on CNN.com right now reads: “Man charged with murder in wife’s suicide.” Um, doesn’t the charge or murder kind of stop that from being a suicide?
The producers of the new “90210” are going out of their way to let it be known, that they are staying away from the “cheese factor.” So this isn’t the new 90210, it’s another shitty WB teen drama with some actors who really needed work badly after the original show ended. And they have just enough pride to not do “The Surreal Life” or release a sex-tape, but still need to make some mortgage payments.
The dearly departed Bernie Mac and Issac Hayes recently finished filming a movie together, Soul Men. The star of the movie is Samuel L Jackson, who must be shitting his pants right now. But there’s no man alive, that I’d rather be in the room if he’s given the chance to say his last words. Can you name the movies?
He see’s the light, “That's right, preacher, get me drunk so I don't stick my foot up your ass.”
Samuel Jackson enters heaven, finds Latin is the preferred language “English, motherfucker, do you speak it?
Needs a favor from God, “You know man, I hate be the kind of nigger that do a nigger a favor and then Bam! hit the nigger up for a favor in return, but I gots to be that kinda nigger.”
Runs into an old friend, “The fuck you mean you ain't got my money yet? The fuck you *mean* you don't got my money *yet*? You best pay me my motherfuckin' money.”
Asked what he did in life, “I never did one thing right in my life, you know that? Not one. That takes skill.”
Trying to decide what to eat in Heaven, “I eat the pussy, I eat the butt, I eat every motherfuckin' thang.”
Goes something like this, I was a little off as a child (shocker) and my motor skills weren’t up to par the rest of my development. This is still the case, my handwriting makes the scribble of doctors look like artwork. So as my mom tells it, I took this opportunity to show off. When asked if I could count to 10, I asked if they wanted it in English or Spanish. What I most want to read about is where they explain why they felt I made jokes of a sexual nature. See, I was a little shit and a perv before I hit 1st grade. That’s madd skillz, yo.
But I can’t read any of this. It’s gone. What the hell?! Sorry, but I’m a sentimental bastard. When my parents bite it, I want as many pictures as possible. For their anniversary last year, my wife and I stole most of their photos and put them in albums. They thought it was thoughtful, I thought it was a move of great foresight. I didn’t want to do it later. See, that’s why I said sentimental bastard. Both adjectives are accurate. But really, of course I wanted to give them a nice gift.
They did, luckily, still have my Bar Mitzvah video tape. And watching part of last night was a terrorfying trip down memory lane. The wife thinks I looked like I was eight at the time, not 13. As double down said, “what can I say, I look young.” The amount of metal in my mouth would set off airport alarms, but if I was 13 now, I could just call them Grillz.
***
Driving to work today, I felt like I was very close to falling asleep at the wheel. Like, dangerously close. So I wonder how often early morning accidents are caused, not by multi-tasking drivers, but sleepy drivers?
So the Chinese didn’t want to use the less cute girl to sing at the Opening Ceremonies, and they digitally altered the firework show on the broadcast. We shouldn’t let the fact that even the organizers cheat, take away from all the world records being broken on a daily basis. We should already know that everything is on some form of steroids or another. Look at the box office numbers of Batman, that gets more than a little boost from inflation. How much was a ticket when Star Wars came out, or even Titanic?
The wife and I purchased our new car last night. Just when I was thinking that signing all that paperwork together could be good practice for the day we buy a house, I hear a statistic on the radio this morning that 45% of people who purchased a home since 2006, purchased the home for more than it’s worth today. That’s scary as all hell. And they say renting is throwing away money.
A headline on CNN.com right now reads: “Man charged with murder in wife’s suicide.” Um, doesn’t the charge or murder kind of stop that from being a suicide?
The producers of the new “90210” are going out of their way to let it be known, that they are staying away from the “cheese factor.” So this isn’t the new 90210, it’s another shitty WB teen drama with some actors who really needed work badly after the original show ended. And they have just enough pride to not do “The Surreal Life” or release a sex-tape, but still need to make some mortgage payments.
The dearly departed Bernie Mac and Issac Hayes recently finished filming a movie together, Soul Men. The star of the movie is Samuel L Jackson, who must be shitting his pants right now. But there’s no man alive, that I’d rather be in the room if he’s given the chance to say his last words. Can you name the movies?
He see’s the light, “That's right, preacher, get me drunk so I don't stick my foot up your ass.”
Samuel Jackson enters heaven, finds Latin is the preferred language “English, motherfucker, do you speak it?
Needs a favor from God, “You know man, I hate be the kind of nigger that do a nigger a favor and then Bam! hit the nigger up for a favor in return, but I gots to be that kinda nigger.”
Runs into an old friend, “The fuck you mean you ain't got my money yet? The fuck you *mean* you don't got my money *yet*? You best pay me my motherfuckin' money.”
Asked what he did in life, “I never did one thing right in my life, you know that? Not one. That takes skill.”
Trying to decide what to eat in Heaven, “I eat the pussy, I eat the butt, I eat every motherfuckin' thang.”
August 12, 2008
Jst2 Things
I have some quick facts that I find interesting and scary. The average life span for a white mail in America is right about 75 (according to CDC statistics I found online). Martin Luther King Jr and Malcolm X were both assassinated at the young age of 39. John McCain is 71 and Barak Obama is 47. So, what does this tell us? Whoever wins, they better pick the right Vice President. And I hear McCain is considering promising a single term Presidency. I guess that’s supposed to make us feel better, that we know for sure we’ll have a new President in 2012.
I don’t know how that’s supposed to be a good thing. I mean, it would have been less bad if Bush had only served one term, followed by serving time of another kind, but I’m over it. The amount of knowledge I have about politics comes in somewhere between dick and jack shit, but this seems like a move to encourage one thing: give Hillary reason to jack up the Democratic National Convention. She kind of has to play a peace keeper role in the party right now, but if she knew for sure she could run again in four years, rather than eight, I think she might just decide to stop playing nice.
I also heard that one of McCain’s possible reasons for only serving one term, aside from the fact that he’s been around since George Washington’s first term, is to have an a-political President. So why wouldn’t he then give the VP job to Clinton? Other than the fact that every Republican’s head would explode upon such announcement, this could be the best political moves we’ve seen since “The West Wing” ended. Can’t get the image of exploding Republican heads out of my mind, I may just get on board with the old man.
***
It’s funny how priorities can change. A few years ago I went car shopping, and what I cared about was value. That was pretty much it. I didn’t want to spend much, but I did want something somewhat decent looking for the money I spent.
This past weekend the wife and I went shopping for a new car for her, and although I still cared about the price, must be the Jew in me, I also wanted something safe. I wanted something that would get around well in the snow, more so than I wanted great gas mileage. So yes, we’re buying an SUV. Not a real one, it’s a Hyundai Tucson, so it’s about the same size as a Fusion.
I don’t know how that’s supposed to be a good thing. I mean, it would have been less bad if Bush had only served one term, followed by serving time of another kind, but I’m over it. The amount of knowledge I have about politics comes in somewhere between dick and jack shit, but this seems like a move to encourage one thing: give Hillary reason to jack up the Democratic National Convention. She kind of has to play a peace keeper role in the party right now, but if she knew for sure she could run again in four years, rather than eight, I think she might just decide to stop playing nice.
I also heard that one of McCain’s possible reasons for only serving one term, aside from the fact that he’s been around since George Washington’s first term, is to have an a-political President. So why wouldn’t he then give the VP job to Clinton? Other than the fact that every Republican’s head would explode upon such announcement, this could be the best political moves we’ve seen since “The West Wing” ended. Can’t get the image of exploding Republican heads out of my mind, I may just get on board with the old man.
***
It’s funny how priorities can change. A few years ago I went car shopping, and what I cared about was value. That was pretty much it. I didn’t want to spend much, but I did want something somewhat decent looking for the money I spent.
This past weekend the wife and I went shopping for a new car for her, and although I still cared about the price, must be the Jew in me, I also wanted something safe. I wanted something that would get around well in the snow, more so than I wanted great gas mileage. So yes, we’re buying an SUV. Not a real one, it’s a Hyundai Tucson, so it’s about the same size as a Fusion.
August 11, 2008
JstRight
This weekend I was looking over my collection of DVD’s and CD’s, and I paid special attention to how I had them both organized. I have my movies on these little Ikea racks so the cases face outward. The movies are in, pretty much, a specific order in each rack. Starting on the right side, there’s my comedies or generally more “fun” movies. Swingers has its home here. So does Mr. and Mrs. Smith, which bats second to The Break-Up, because the wife and I enjoy it so. Then there are my multiple racks of both gangster flicks and more dramatic or action based movies. There’s three racks of these flicks. Heat, The Departed and Oceans 11 claim the #1 spots. Behind the lead off hitters, I tend to go with either like movies, or the same director. I have my Tarantino movies together, in order by personal preference. The Oceans series is kept together, and behind Heat are my Michael Mann movies.
My CD’s are similar, although not as well organized as they were before. From left to right I have them on shelves, broken up by genre, and in each genre, the favorites read from right to left. Oddly I’ve followed the way you read Hebrew, rather than English. And I really don’t know how I came up with this system, but for years I’ve tried to keep it together. When I pick up a new DVD, and I have to find it’s place in my crazy DVD world. But I only purchase maybe one CD a year now, and I’ve taken most of the inappropriate CD’s off of the shelf. I really don’t want the Kyd asking me why Too Short has a song entitled “Blow Job Betty.”
Our books are kept in the same way. But I get the feeling that is more typical of most households. Here are my Puzo books, and here are the DeMille’s, but I give special attention to Klosterman and Bill Simmons. Their covers face out, as if I’m Border’s and want to sell a few extra copies of these employee favorites.
So I really can’t stop thinking about this. My wife used to just group her movies in a random order. Take a movie out to watch it, and whatever you had in the DVD player goes back in the now empty spot. And her CD’s were all kept in a giant book. Oh, yesterday I decided that I would follow suit on this. Being that I hardly ever listen to CD’s anymore, I figured that our bookshelf could use the extra space. And when she sees the empty spots, I’ll have an excuse to go buy more movies.
I’m positive that this tells us something about our personalities, I just don’t know what. Maybe it’s just the different quirks we have, like how we each stir our drinks in different directions. Of course my way is always the better way, that’s just how I roll.
My CD’s are similar, although not as well organized as they were before. From left to right I have them on shelves, broken up by genre, and in each genre, the favorites read from right to left. Oddly I’ve followed the way you read Hebrew, rather than English. And I really don’t know how I came up with this system, but for years I’ve tried to keep it together. When I pick up a new DVD, and I have to find it’s place in my crazy DVD world. But I only purchase maybe one CD a year now, and I’ve taken most of the inappropriate CD’s off of the shelf. I really don’t want the Kyd asking me why Too Short has a song entitled “Blow Job Betty.”
Our books are kept in the same way. But I get the feeling that is more typical of most households. Here are my Puzo books, and here are the DeMille’s, but I give special attention to Klosterman and Bill Simmons. Their covers face out, as if I’m Border’s and want to sell a few extra copies of these employee favorites.
So I really can’t stop thinking about this. My wife used to just group her movies in a random order. Take a movie out to watch it, and whatever you had in the DVD player goes back in the now empty spot. And her CD’s were all kept in a giant book. Oh, yesterday I decided that I would follow suit on this. Being that I hardly ever listen to CD’s anymore, I figured that our bookshelf could use the extra space. And when she sees the empty spots, I’ll have an excuse to go buy more movies.
I’m positive that this tells us something about our personalities, I just don’t know what. Maybe it’s just the different quirks we have, like how we each stir our drinks in different directions. Of course my way is always the better way, that’s just how I roll.
August 08, 2008
JstRead
As someone who enjoys writing from time to time, you’d really think I would enjoy reading more, but I don’t. Occasionally, I go through spells where I read two or three books in a short time period. And then I go months, even years without picking up reading material that isn’t 80% ads. When it comes to books, my reading pallet isn’t much different from my eating pallet. I have a few authors I enjoy to read, and I’ll happily read anything they put out. But I don’t experiment often, and that’s probably a mistake, just as it is with my eating. And I may never admit that again.
Then a few months ago, I was taking a leadership class at work, and I just happen to be reading The Sports Guy’s first book, “Now I Can Die in Peace.” The instructor found the title both amusing and a little unsettling, so he’d ask questions about it daily, as it sat a top my desk for something to do on breaks and before class began. We got to talking a little about it, and I learned that these sports journalists I like so much, happen to be family friends of his. Turns out his dad used to organize a little NCAA shin dig we call “March Madness.” That’s off the charts.
The conversation turned a little more somber when he mentioned his father had penned a book about a family tragedy. See, my instructor had a brother, and this brother was aboard a plane full of Oklahoma State basketball family members, and this plane never made it to its destination. So his father rode his bike from California to Georgia, in an attempt to well, do something that at least involved moving in a forward motion, after losing his son.
So my wife picked up the book for me last week, and I dove right in. I read just about the entire book the first day. This is only an accomplishment in my eyes now, after expierence just what a challenge it is to read when your child is in the house. Sorry, mom. And with work, the wife, the kid, and most of all, the fact that I didn’t want this read to end, I didn’t finish the book during the week.
This is the type of book, that as you read it, you promise yourself some life altering changes. You’ll live in the moment more, tell your friends and family how much they mean to you, stop and smell the roses, or just keep an eye out for an armadillo that’s alive. Your eyes water up, and you shutter the very thought of going through something as awful as losing your child. You want to vomit. You want to walk up to the writer and give this complete stranger a hug. And in the back of your mind, you know you won’t really do any of this, and you feel like you’ve failed the writer. You also think, in the back of your mind, that someone read this and made all those changes. You both admire and resent that soul.
I’ve learned more about the Hancock family than I should know. I met the writer, John Hancock’s son for one short week, and I could never say I knew him. But now I know much about him, and his family. I know the names of his wife, his sister-in-law and his niece. I know stories from his childhood.
I’ve read books before, about real people even, and I learned their stories. But there’s something different about reading a book about someone you’ve met. It’s like reading having a view of their life that maybe you shouldn’t have. And you can’t stop looking. But this is the view of one amazing family. The class I took was about leadership, and the instructor comes from a family of amazing leaders. This is one remarkable family, the Hancocks. The stories told are those of dreams. A close knit, smart, fun, funny, loving family that seems to already appreciate every gift they have. They didn’t need, not that anyone does, a wake up call or reminder.
But maybe we needed them to. So John Hancock would write “Riding with the Blue Moth” so we could have the pleasure of reading it, and even for a few minutes, dream of being better versions of ourselves. The “Moth” ranks up there with “Tuesdays with Morrie” and “The Five People You Meet in Heaven.” It’s a must read, and a must own. The “lessons’ Hancock writes for his young grand-daughter are lessons we should all write down, and read often to ourselves and our kids.
Then a few months ago, I was taking a leadership class at work, and I just happen to be reading The Sports Guy’s first book, “Now I Can Die in Peace.” The instructor found the title both amusing and a little unsettling, so he’d ask questions about it daily, as it sat a top my desk for something to do on breaks and before class began. We got to talking a little about it, and I learned that these sports journalists I like so much, happen to be family friends of his. Turns out his dad used to organize a little NCAA shin dig we call “March Madness.” That’s off the charts.
The conversation turned a little more somber when he mentioned his father had penned a book about a family tragedy. See, my instructor had a brother, and this brother was aboard a plane full of Oklahoma State basketball family members, and this plane never made it to its destination. So his father rode his bike from California to Georgia, in an attempt to well, do something that at least involved moving in a forward motion, after losing his son.
So my wife picked up the book for me last week, and I dove right in. I read just about the entire book the first day. This is only an accomplishment in my eyes now, after expierence just what a challenge it is to read when your child is in the house. Sorry, mom. And with work, the wife, the kid, and most of all, the fact that I didn’t want this read to end, I didn’t finish the book during the week.
This is the type of book, that as you read it, you promise yourself some life altering changes. You’ll live in the moment more, tell your friends and family how much they mean to you, stop and smell the roses, or just keep an eye out for an armadillo that’s alive. Your eyes water up, and you shutter the very thought of going through something as awful as losing your child. You want to vomit. You want to walk up to the writer and give this complete stranger a hug. And in the back of your mind, you know you won’t really do any of this, and you feel like you’ve failed the writer. You also think, in the back of your mind, that someone read this and made all those changes. You both admire and resent that soul.
I’ve learned more about the Hancock family than I should know. I met the writer, John Hancock’s son for one short week, and I could never say I knew him. But now I know much about him, and his family. I know the names of his wife, his sister-in-law and his niece. I know stories from his childhood.
I’ve read books before, about real people even, and I learned their stories. But there’s something different about reading a book about someone you’ve met. It’s like reading having a view of their life that maybe you shouldn’t have. And you can’t stop looking. But this is the view of one amazing family. The class I took was about leadership, and the instructor comes from a family of amazing leaders. This is one remarkable family, the Hancocks. The stories told are those of dreams. A close knit, smart, fun, funny, loving family that seems to already appreciate every gift they have. They didn’t need, not that anyone does, a wake up call or reminder.
But maybe we needed them to. So John Hancock would write “Riding with the Blue Moth” so we could have the pleasure of reading it, and even for a few minutes, dream of being better versions of ourselves. The “Moth” ranks up there with “Tuesdays with Morrie” and “The Five People You Meet in Heaven.” It’s a must read, and a must own. The “lessons’ Hancock writes for his young grand-daughter are lessons we should all write down, and read often to ourselves and our kids.
August 04, 2008
Oops, I did.....
Call me Gump, ‘cause I’m not a smart man, and I know what dumb is. I hit Careerbuilder.com recently, to look around at what jobs are out there. Ideally, I’d like to do something where I get to write and collect a paycheck for doing so. And there it was, a writing position. So I applied, and since my “jobs” haven’t been really related to writing all that much, I included my blog address on my resume and in my cover letter. And that’s where I made my booboo.
Did you read my previous post? I talked about all the things a hiring manager DOES NOT want from an employee: slacking, negative comments about my boss, a joke about drug use (and I’ve never used) and being stressed at work. I might as well used the old George Costanza joke, and claimed to have slept with their wife. But then I’d be in trouble at home, and still not have that job.
Way to think it thru, Hirp.
I guess my only hope now is, they enjoyed the blog so much, that whoever read it will get home and pull it up again soon and get a chance to read this disclaimer. Really, I’ve never done any drugs. And the slacker thing is just my shtick. My work, well, I’m looking for a new job right?
Did you read my previous post? I talked about all the things a hiring manager DOES NOT want from an employee: slacking, negative comments about my boss, a joke about drug use (and I’ve never used) and being stressed at work. I might as well used the old George Costanza joke, and claimed to have slept with their wife. But then I’d be in trouble at home, and still not have that job.
Way to think it thru, Hirp.
I guess my only hope now is, they enjoyed the blog so much, that whoever read it will get home and pull it up again soon and get a chance to read this disclaimer. Really, I’ve never done any drugs. And the slacker thing is just my shtick. My work, well, I’m looking for a new job right?
ADD Day
I took my Focalin this morning, but I’m totally ADD today. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, I dunno. So far I’ve gone to talk to a friend in the next cube three times, about random stuff, I’ve worked on two different projects, called the wife, started two blog entries and lost my train of thought four times. Best of all, I have three meetings to attend today. Two are utterly pointless and completely frustrating, and I have nothing to add or take away from the last. That’s a productive day if I’ve ever heard of one. Meanwhile my Outlook reminder keeps going off, and I’m hitting snooze with the frequency of a 16 year old, only I’m not scratching my nuts afterwards.
The culprit, that has kicked my ADD into overdrive, is my good ol’ friend, Anxiety. I hate that guy. My buddy on my team is most likely moving to another team, which sucks on numerous levels. He’s the only other person on this team with half a brain, the only one I can trust to carry his load, enjoy going to lunch with, and doesn’t annoy me with every word he utters. Some of the others may have one or even two of those traits, but not all. Plus, there’s a rumor that someone higher up isn’t very happy with the work our team has produced. This means added pressure and a heavier load on my shoulders, and the weight has increased nicely over the past few months. Blogging is no longer the most time consuming task of my day, and sometimes I go days without a chance to even blog once. That’s some hard work right there.
The culprit, that has kicked my ADD into overdrive, is my good ol’ friend, Anxiety. I hate that guy. My buddy on my team is most likely moving to another team, which sucks on numerous levels. He’s the only other person on this team with half a brain, the only one I can trust to carry his load, enjoy going to lunch with, and doesn’t annoy me with every word he utters. Some of the others may have one or even two of those traits, but not all. Plus, there’s a rumor that someone higher up isn’t very happy with the work our team has produced. This means added pressure and a heavier load on my shoulders, and the weight has increased nicely over the past few months. Blogging is no longer the most time consuming task of my day, and sometimes I go days without a chance to even blog once. That’s some hard work right there.
July 28, 2008
Chapter 1
I debated and debated, finally I said, "fuck it." I started writing a "book" a couple of months back, and it hasn't gotten very far. But I've decided to post my first "chapter" on here. Good chance I'll regret this at some point.
Without further adu....
Chapter 1
I woke up early the morning of my wedding was to take place, and found my way to the pool deck to watch the sunrise. We got to Mexico a few days before the big event, and for those three days, images of my life would flash every time I blinked. It was totally random, as if someone spilled a box of photos and each photo represented a vivid and lasting image. But this morning I found myself staring out over the Caribbean and the memories of how I ended up here came rushing back, as little episodes rather than flashing images. Watching out as the waves washed ashore, and the palm tree’s swayed above me, I channel surfed through the events that shaped who I was this day, and how the woman I was to marry was perfect for me in every way.
I was in second grade the first time I grew up. Some of the details are sketchy; some are as vivid that I feel I’m watching HDTV. There were frantic phone calls to my sister’s friends, my mother’s best friend Dianne came over, and I remember my mother cutting her chin on the kitchen counter as she was bent over sobbing. My older sister Jill, had runaway. This is one instance in my life where a Bon Jovi song hit close to home. She’s a little runaway.
My mother frantically called everyone she could think of, as her best friend reassured her. And the little second grader stood, I couldn’t have been more than 3 feet tall, on the linoleum covered kitchen floor in the Long Island ranch, watching everything, trying to not be something else to worry about. I retreated to the family room to get lost in a world of cardboard pictures with the funny numbers and abbreviations on the backside.
It was late spring, the end of the school year was approaching and a new baseball season was underway. Every kid loves summer, but never as much as a second grader. Learning to ride a bike, staying up late, the ice-cream man, going to the pool, cook outs ending with ketchup stained shirts and scratched knees and elbows. Chasing fire flies and getting tucked in by mom and dad every night. That’s all I should have been thinking about with summer weeks away.
“Everything’s okay,” I thought to myself, “Jill will be home soon, and we’ll all be happy.” We’re talking about a second grader, the vocabulary wasn’t all that extensive, and having everyone home, logically, meant everyone would be happy.
Dressed in Levi’s, a rugby styled shirt and thick plastic frame glasses with stringy straight hair, as I asked my teacher, Mrs. Kirk, if I could skip recess to talk to her. From first glance, Mrs. Kirk wasn’t the teacher you’d picture a kid opening up to. With coffee stained teeth, the breath to match, a crow’s nest of long black hair and a scowl that could intimidate the toughest of New Yorkers. What second grader wants to skip recess to talk to a teacher, one that resembles a real life witch? But I had to try and make sense of this, and I couldn’t allow myself to look too affected at home, where I kept my eye’s and ears open, and my mouth shut.
My parents knew I was talking to Mrs. Kirk, and I think they were proud of me for doing so. But I didn’t say much. I gave her the facts, told her I was scared, and I didn’t know what was going to happen. I’ve had that conversation at least six times in my life now. Jill’s gone, not sure why, and wondered if I’d ever see her again. Maybe she never came home the first time.
So when I got home that day from school, she had turned up. And there was yelling, doors were slammed, tears were shed, and more stats were read. In some ways, it was completely anti-climatic, yet it forever instilled and un-easiness in me. She just showed up again after being gone two days. And I always wondered when she would leave again, or if anyone else would.
Maybe she didn’t show up that day, it looked like her and wore her clothes. She may have even used the same can of Aquanet, just so she appeared to be Jill. But I learned later, when I was 17 or so, that she left a piece of herself somewhere in Long Island, in some run down house, owned by the lowest form of life. Maybe she’s still there, wondering why she went there and looking for a way out. She was there by choice, or at least she wasn’t dragged against her will.
It fits all the clichés we know, she was running with the wrong crowd and making bad choices. All of which she’s fully responsible for, even if she can’t accept it. But I’m pretty sure she never asked to be raped, and that’s what happened. Or so I’m told, and nothing hurts more than doubting your sister when she tells you something so horrendous. But the anger towards your brother, who was 16 at the time, and your father, for not ending this guy’s life, well that’s an anger that stays with you.
There was nothing better than growing up on Long Island. We lived on a cul-de-sac, which has some how shrunk by 80% since I was a kid. Right next door was my best friend, and we knew everyone on the block. I don’t know if it was the timing, but I can’t imagine any kids grow up like I did. Huntington had it’s own Central Park in Hecture Park, and we’d spend summer nights there at concerts, and the days watching ducks swim while avoiding the shit they left along the pathways.
The highlight was the 4th. Our 4th of July weekend consisted of a few families getting together for a softball game and cookout at Maplewood Elementary. One game nearly ended my life, when my father missed a hit ball that must have been aided by a laser guidance system for my stomach. My bellybutton was right at the center of a perfect black and blue replication of a softball. He insists we were in the outfield, but I remember being in the infield as he was pitching.
We went camping on the sound, took trips up to Vermont and stayed at The Tyler Place. It pains me to admit this, but it looked like the resort from Dirty Dancing. The kids were broken off into groups, and the adults had their afternoons together. There was a lake for swimming, sailing and fishing. And we stayed in little white cottages.
New York City was just a car ride away, and as a kid, it terrified me. So many people, so much going on, and this was before Rudy cleaned up the city. Being 6, and seeing homeless men asking for money after lifting their heads off of dirty newspapers-turned pillows, has a way of making the big city scary. But scary is also exciting. I only lived in New York for the first 8 years of my life, but I’ve taken it with me every where I’ve gone.
Maybe it was such a great childhood because it was so short. When something is cut short, we have a tendency to elevate our perception of how great it was. Every musician who dies while still putting out relevant music is automatically a legend, just as an artist worth increases upon an early death. I just know that most kids don’t grow up in the second grade. My sister did a lot to raise me, most of it came after the day she didn’t come home.
Up till the day Jill didn’t come home, we had a pretty tight relationship. She spent a lot of her time after school watching me, and I had fun terrifying her and her friends when they came over. Snapping bra’s, and trying to watch whatever movie they were watching. Good times for me, and I think for her. She wasn’t babysitting for fun though. My parents were having to spend time dealing some issues my older brother, Jay, was having.
Without further adu....
Chapter 1
I woke up early the morning of my wedding was to take place, and found my way to the pool deck to watch the sunrise. We got to Mexico a few days before the big event, and for those three days, images of my life would flash every time I blinked. It was totally random, as if someone spilled a box of photos and each photo represented a vivid and lasting image. But this morning I found myself staring out over the Caribbean and the memories of how I ended up here came rushing back, as little episodes rather than flashing images. Watching out as the waves washed ashore, and the palm tree’s swayed above me, I channel surfed through the events that shaped who I was this day, and how the woman I was to marry was perfect for me in every way.
I was in second grade the first time I grew up. Some of the details are sketchy; some are as vivid that I feel I’m watching HDTV. There were frantic phone calls to my sister’s friends, my mother’s best friend Dianne came over, and I remember my mother cutting her chin on the kitchen counter as she was bent over sobbing. My older sister Jill, had runaway. This is one instance in my life where a Bon Jovi song hit close to home. She’s a little runaway.
My mother frantically called everyone she could think of, as her best friend reassured her. And the little second grader stood, I couldn’t have been more than 3 feet tall, on the linoleum covered kitchen floor in the Long Island ranch, watching everything, trying to not be something else to worry about. I retreated to the family room to get lost in a world of cardboard pictures with the funny numbers and abbreviations on the backside.
It was late spring, the end of the school year was approaching and a new baseball season was underway. Every kid loves summer, but never as much as a second grader. Learning to ride a bike, staying up late, the ice-cream man, going to the pool, cook outs ending with ketchup stained shirts and scratched knees and elbows. Chasing fire flies and getting tucked in by mom and dad every night. That’s all I should have been thinking about with summer weeks away.
“Everything’s okay,” I thought to myself, “Jill will be home soon, and we’ll all be happy.” We’re talking about a second grader, the vocabulary wasn’t all that extensive, and having everyone home, logically, meant everyone would be happy.
Dressed in Levi’s, a rugby styled shirt and thick plastic frame glasses with stringy straight hair, as I asked my teacher, Mrs. Kirk, if I could skip recess to talk to her. From first glance, Mrs. Kirk wasn’t the teacher you’d picture a kid opening up to. With coffee stained teeth, the breath to match, a crow’s nest of long black hair and a scowl that could intimidate the toughest of New Yorkers. What second grader wants to skip recess to talk to a teacher, one that resembles a real life witch? But I had to try and make sense of this, and I couldn’t allow myself to look too affected at home, where I kept my eye’s and ears open, and my mouth shut.
My parents knew I was talking to Mrs. Kirk, and I think they were proud of me for doing so. But I didn’t say much. I gave her the facts, told her I was scared, and I didn’t know what was going to happen. I’ve had that conversation at least six times in my life now. Jill’s gone, not sure why, and wondered if I’d ever see her again. Maybe she never came home the first time.
So when I got home that day from school, she had turned up. And there was yelling, doors were slammed, tears were shed, and more stats were read. In some ways, it was completely anti-climatic, yet it forever instilled and un-easiness in me. She just showed up again after being gone two days. And I always wondered when she would leave again, or if anyone else would.
Maybe she didn’t show up that day, it looked like her and wore her clothes. She may have even used the same can of Aquanet, just so she appeared to be Jill. But I learned later, when I was 17 or so, that she left a piece of herself somewhere in Long Island, in some run down house, owned by the lowest form of life. Maybe she’s still there, wondering why she went there and looking for a way out. She was there by choice, or at least she wasn’t dragged against her will.
It fits all the clichés we know, she was running with the wrong crowd and making bad choices. All of which she’s fully responsible for, even if she can’t accept it. But I’m pretty sure she never asked to be raped, and that’s what happened. Or so I’m told, and nothing hurts more than doubting your sister when she tells you something so horrendous. But the anger towards your brother, who was 16 at the time, and your father, for not ending this guy’s life, well that’s an anger that stays with you.
There was nothing better than growing up on Long Island. We lived on a cul-de-sac, which has some how shrunk by 80% since I was a kid. Right next door was my best friend, and we knew everyone on the block. I don’t know if it was the timing, but I can’t imagine any kids grow up like I did. Huntington had it’s own Central Park in Hecture Park, and we’d spend summer nights there at concerts, and the days watching ducks swim while avoiding the shit they left along the pathways.
The highlight was the 4th. Our 4th of July weekend consisted of a few families getting together for a softball game and cookout at Maplewood Elementary. One game nearly ended my life, when my father missed a hit ball that must have been aided by a laser guidance system for my stomach. My bellybutton was right at the center of a perfect black and blue replication of a softball. He insists we were in the outfield, but I remember being in the infield as he was pitching.
We went camping on the sound, took trips up to Vermont and stayed at The Tyler Place. It pains me to admit this, but it looked like the resort from Dirty Dancing. The kids were broken off into groups, and the adults had their afternoons together. There was a lake for swimming, sailing and fishing. And we stayed in little white cottages.
New York City was just a car ride away, and as a kid, it terrified me. So many people, so much going on, and this was before Rudy cleaned up the city. Being 6, and seeing homeless men asking for money after lifting their heads off of dirty newspapers-turned pillows, has a way of making the big city scary. But scary is also exciting. I only lived in New York for the first 8 years of my life, but I’ve taken it with me every where I’ve gone.
Maybe it was such a great childhood because it was so short. When something is cut short, we have a tendency to elevate our perception of how great it was. Every musician who dies while still putting out relevant music is automatically a legend, just as an artist worth increases upon an early death. I just know that most kids don’t grow up in the second grade. My sister did a lot to raise me, most of it came after the day she didn’t come home.
Up till the day Jill didn’t come home, we had a pretty tight relationship. She spent a lot of her time after school watching me, and I had fun terrifying her and her friends when they came over. Snapping bra’s, and trying to watch whatever movie they were watching. Good times for me, and I think for her. She wasn’t babysitting for fun though. My parents were having to spend time dealing some issues my older brother, Jay, was having.
July 24, 2008
2Hirp
I imagine it’s occurred to all of us, when you run into someone who knows someone from your past and you ask how they’re doing, at some point you’ve wondered the great “what if” question. I have, and then every single time the response was something generic.
Either they’ve gotten married, moved away, had a kid, haven’t changed much, or they’re still a jackass. And you walk away remembering what kind of jackass or good guy they used to be, and imagine their wives or jobs. Then you forget again, and go on with your life.
Well last night, at the sister restaurant to the pizza joint I used to work at as a 16 year old shit, I ran into someone and asked those questions. Only his response wasn’t generic. He wouldn’t say it was absolute truth, but the fact that he was hesitant to answer didn’t help settle my nerves. I asked about an old friend, and the son of my former boss, and last he heard was my old friend just recently passed away. He said something about complications from his diabetes.
That was after his initial nervous laugh, and my asking if it was something bad. He chuckled a little, and then realized I really wanted to know. So he told me, and I spent the rest of the night in shock.
At first glance, Paul and I couldn’t be more different. I was 5’3 and 120 pounds; he was 6’2 and at least 250. I was the Jewish kid from Overland Park, he was the black kid from Raytown. Mutt and Jeff, Amos and Otis maybe, or Jewpac and Biggie. We met through his father, who happened to be my boss at the pizza joint. The night I was carjacked, he was the first friend I dropped off after Naked Gun 33 1/3. The first ticket I ever received was with him, as we were driving through Raytown. The first time I remember seeing blatant racism was with him, at a Front Row Video, when the clerk who was vacuuming the store followed him wherever he went, even if it was over spots he vacuumed two or three times already while I walked around un-disturbed. I always meant to go back there and steal something. They went belly up a few years later, deserved it too.
We hadn’t seen each other since I was 19 and he happened to be up at KU for a weekend. And that was always a shame; he was a really good guy. Even though he hung around some people I wouldn’t hang around with, we just had fun going to movies, playing Sega and talking shit.
I’ve never, luckily, had a friend pass away. I had a brother in-law go, but the last thing I’d ever call him was a “friend.” And I guess I still haven’t, since I hadn’t really been friends with Paul for 12 or 13 years. I’m pretty sure this is the reality of getting old. Never mind aches and pains, or not understanding why some song is popular, or why kids dress the way they do. Aging really happens when you’re getting older and someone from your past isn’t. That and when you worry about your kids.
***
“Weeds” as taking a pretty interesting twist this season, and in doing so helped to make up for last seasons effort. Guillermo has become one of my favorite television characters in a long time, and I think I could even vote in favor of giving him a spin-off one day. Nancy has taken a much needed detour from her road to being “The Godmother” and returned more to a typical suburban soccer mom.
Albert Brooks was a great addition as the cheap, angry, asshole Jewish Grandfather. And no, “asshole Jewish” isn’t redundant, but thanks for asking. They’ve really taken all the characters out of their comfort zones. Celia has to actually work for a living, after going to jail and being someone’s bitch for a time. Doug (Kevin Nealon) lost his cush job, and now mooches off of the Botwins. Andy has become a more responsible and thoughtful jackass, and the kids have grown into efficient criminals themselves. But we are missing Conrad and Heylia, and I hope they pop up sometime soon.
Either they’ve gotten married, moved away, had a kid, haven’t changed much, or they’re still a jackass. And you walk away remembering what kind of jackass or good guy they used to be, and imagine their wives or jobs. Then you forget again, and go on with your life.
Well last night, at the sister restaurant to the pizza joint I used to work at as a 16 year old shit, I ran into someone and asked those questions. Only his response wasn’t generic. He wouldn’t say it was absolute truth, but the fact that he was hesitant to answer didn’t help settle my nerves. I asked about an old friend, and the son of my former boss, and last he heard was my old friend just recently passed away. He said something about complications from his diabetes.
That was after his initial nervous laugh, and my asking if it was something bad. He chuckled a little, and then realized I really wanted to know. So he told me, and I spent the rest of the night in shock.
At first glance, Paul and I couldn’t be more different. I was 5’3 and 120 pounds; he was 6’2 and at least 250. I was the Jewish kid from Overland Park, he was the black kid from Raytown. Mutt and Jeff, Amos and Otis maybe, or Jewpac and Biggie. We met through his father, who happened to be my boss at the pizza joint. The night I was carjacked, he was the first friend I dropped off after Naked Gun 33 1/3. The first ticket I ever received was with him, as we were driving through Raytown. The first time I remember seeing blatant racism was with him, at a Front Row Video, when the clerk who was vacuuming the store followed him wherever he went, even if it was over spots he vacuumed two or three times already while I walked around un-disturbed. I always meant to go back there and steal something. They went belly up a few years later, deserved it too.
We hadn’t seen each other since I was 19 and he happened to be up at KU for a weekend. And that was always a shame; he was a really good guy. Even though he hung around some people I wouldn’t hang around with, we just had fun going to movies, playing Sega and talking shit.
I’ve never, luckily, had a friend pass away. I had a brother in-law go, but the last thing I’d ever call him was a “friend.” And I guess I still haven’t, since I hadn’t really been friends with Paul for 12 or 13 years. I’m pretty sure this is the reality of getting old. Never mind aches and pains, or not understanding why some song is popular, or why kids dress the way they do. Aging really happens when you’re getting older and someone from your past isn’t. That and when you worry about your kids.
***
“Weeds” as taking a pretty interesting twist this season, and in doing so helped to make up for last seasons effort. Guillermo has become one of my favorite television characters in a long time, and I think I could even vote in favor of giving him a spin-off one day. Nancy has taken a much needed detour from her road to being “The Godmother” and returned more to a typical suburban soccer mom.
Albert Brooks was a great addition as the cheap, angry, asshole Jewish Grandfather. And no, “asshole Jewish” isn’t redundant, but thanks for asking. They’ve really taken all the characters out of their comfort zones. Celia has to actually work for a living, after going to jail and being someone’s bitch for a time. Doug (Kevin Nealon) lost his cush job, and now mooches off of the Botwins. Andy has become a more responsible and thoughtful jackass, and the kids have grown into efficient criminals themselves. But we are missing Conrad and Heylia, and I hope they pop up sometime soon.
July 21, 2008
Hirpasms
I like a funny bumper sticker, won’t put one on my car, but I enjoy driving behind someone with a sense of humor. I think I’ve mentioned this before, but seriously, anyone who thinks their bumper is a pulpit needs to only see the underside of a bumper. I was behind a car this weekend with the uplifting bumper sticker that read: “Pro-God, Pro-gun, Anti-Obama.” And had the “no smoking” slash over Obama’s profile, and I had this erri feeling that the brains behind the operation wanted it to be crosshairs but knew that would probably lead to a visit from the Secret Service and some other unwanted guests.
First, I love the idea that this moron is both pro-God and gun, yet anti another human. Nothing sounds more pro-God than announcing you’re against another human, one you don’t know personally.
Incase I wasn’t sure what kind of dumbass I was driving behind; there was another bumper sticker on the back of his gas guzzling SUV; “Bitter Christian clinging to my gun.” Really, maybe it’s time this guy takes a look at his religious beliefs. He’s bitter, he’s angry, and he’s okay with violence. Maybe Christ just isn’t helping as much as he’d like to think.
I know I’ve made my feelings about organized religion pretty clear, and incase you haven’t heard, I’m not a fan. But if that’s what helps someone get thru the day and lead a better life, I can’t complain. I can, however, complain till Jesus comes back when religion is used to forward someone’s agenda of hate.
***
So I caught some sort of stomach bug, and it hasn’t been fun but I’ll spare you the details. My conundrum comes from the fact that I came to work inspite of this bug, and I have some meetings I need to attend. But I’m already worrying about how to deal with the awkard situation that would occur when the “stummy” (that’s what the Kyd calls it” starts-a-bubbling.
Plenty of times I’ve seen someone excuse themselves from a meeting and run to a restroom, but they come back pretty quickly. So you know it’s a #1. I guess I don’t have much of a choice, but that adds more pressure to what’s already a pressure filled situation.
***
Friday night the Kyd had her very first sleep over. Big step right? Also a big headache. I had no idea that little girls could disagree so much, and over such silly things. Who gets to karaoke what song? The wife played referee, and was more partial than most NBA refs, but I’m still amazed that after all the squabbling, they can’t wait to see each other again. I’m told this is normal, which confirms an old belief of mine, there’s not much normal about how women act. I’m going to pay for that one.
But their kiddy drama wasn’t to be outdone by the drama of our guests’ parental units, and that’s using the term loosely. First, her dad brought her over sans shirt. Dress slacks and no shirt, 56 year old man, this isn’t a good look, especially at my front door. Then the next morning when she called her parents, the girl was informed her mom was in the hospital, and told to keep playing. Wonder if there’s any way to put more weight on a 7 year olds shoulders.
So she goes home a few hours later, and we get back to our day. Finally we decide to run an errand, and while getting into our car, we see her mother (not in the hospital) throwing her husbands clothes out onto the sidewalk outside their patio. I don’t think it was spring cleaning, not when their daughter is crying “no, don’t!”
We’re walking a thin line now. We want the girls to have fun, and we know their girl needs a break from that chaos, but we don’t want to become saviors or adoptive parents. It’s just too hard, when you’re literally right next door to that, to keep from getting sucked in.
Seeing all this up close also serves as a shitty reminder of how my nieces and nephews grew up; seeing their parents under the influence, fighting, and acting insane. That’s no way for a kid to grow up. So maybe I can’t have my dream job, deciding who gets to be a parent, and that’s fine. But give the gig to someone, just not someone with bumper stickers.
First, I love the idea that this moron is both pro-God and gun, yet anti another human. Nothing sounds more pro-God than announcing you’re against another human, one you don’t know personally.
Incase I wasn’t sure what kind of dumbass I was driving behind; there was another bumper sticker on the back of his gas guzzling SUV; “Bitter Christian clinging to my gun.” Really, maybe it’s time this guy takes a look at his religious beliefs. He’s bitter, he’s angry, and he’s okay with violence. Maybe Christ just isn’t helping as much as he’d like to think.
I know I’ve made my feelings about organized religion pretty clear, and incase you haven’t heard, I’m not a fan. But if that’s what helps someone get thru the day and lead a better life, I can’t complain. I can, however, complain till Jesus comes back when religion is used to forward someone’s agenda of hate.
***
So I caught some sort of stomach bug, and it hasn’t been fun but I’ll spare you the details. My conundrum comes from the fact that I came to work inspite of this bug, and I have some meetings I need to attend. But I’m already worrying about how to deal with the awkard situation that would occur when the “stummy” (that’s what the Kyd calls it” starts-a-bubbling.
Plenty of times I’ve seen someone excuse themselves from a meeting and run to a restroom, but they come back pretty quickly. So you know it’s a #1. I guess I don’t have much of a choice, but that adds more pressure to what’s already a pressure filled situation.
***
Friday night the Kyd had her very first sleep over. Big step right? Also a big headache. I had no idea that little girls could disagree so much, and over such silly things. Who gets to karaoke what song? The wife played referee, and was more partial than most NBA refs, but I’m still amazed that after all the squabbling, they can’t wait to see each other again. I’m told this is normal, which confirms an old belief of mine, there’s not much normal about how women act. I’m going to pay for that one.
But their kiddy drama wasn’t to be outdone by the drama of our guests’ parental units, and that’s using the term loosely. First, her dad brought her over sans shirt. Dress slacks and no shirt, 56 year old man, this isn’t a good look, especially at my front door. Then the next morning when she called her parents, the girl was informed her mom was in the hospital, and told to keep playing. Wonder if there’s any way to put more weight on a 7 year olds shoulders.
So she goes home a few hours later, and we get back to our day. Finally we decide to run an errand, and while getting into our car, we see her mother (not in the hospital) throwing her husbands clothes out onto the sidewalk outside their patio. I don’t think it was spring cleaning, not when their daughter is crying “no, don’t!”
We’re walking a thin line now. We want the girls to have fun, and we know their girl needs a break from that chaos, but we don’t want to become saviors or adoptive parents. It’s just too hard, when you’re literally right next door to that, to keep from getting sucked in.
Seeing all this up close also serves as a shitty reminder of how my nieces and nephews grew up; seeing their parents under the influence, fighting, and acting insane. That’s no way for a kid to grow up. So maybe I can’t have my dream job, deciding who gets to be a parent, and that’s fine. But give the gig to someone, just not someone with bumper stickers.
July 18, 2008
Hirp Joel
Listening to all of the Billy Joel on my iPod this morning, this guy will never get enough credit for the great songs he’s put out. Seriously, this will sound like the cheesiest thing I’ve ever said (and that’s saying something) but I think I treat Coco right, and I think I learned how from Billy’s lyrics. Who do we have like that now? I love hip-hop, but there’s a generation of kids growing up without any singers they can actually turn to for advice. Everyone is way to self centered, even my man, John Mayer. Bubblegum Tongue, c’mon, that isn’t for anything other than getting high school and Frat Boys laid after a few beers. For all those who aren’t sure how to treat their wives/girlfriends, they can learn how by listening to maybe 8 maybe 9 different Billy Joel songs. It’s that easy. This isn’t abstract, its paint by numbers:
“Tell Her About It” for all those too scared to actually open up and risk ridicule from the boys.
“Just The Way You Are” get past all the bullshit, accept someone for who they really are.
“She’s Always a Woman to Me” whoever he sang about, you can’t help but like and fear.
“Laura” She always said he’s the best friend she’s had, how do you hang up on someone who needs you that bad? You don’t.
“Leave a Tender Moment Alone” ‘nuff said.
“Vienna” Tough guy, if you’re so smart, why are you afraid? Mom nagging you won’t help you grow up, but Billy will. Vienna waits for you.
“All for Leyna” and you’ll have the
“Honesty” well, this song works for everyone and every situation.
So hopefully Coco would vouch for me here, and give some validation to this theory.
“Tell Her About It” for all those too scared to actually open up and risk ridicule from the boys.
“Just The Way You Are” get past all the bullshit, accept someone for who they really are.
“She’s Always a Woman to Me” whoever he sang about, you can’t help but like and fear.
“Laura” She always said he’s the best friend she’s had, how do you hang up on someone who needs you that bad? You don’t.
“Leave a Tender Moment Alone” ‘nuff said.
“Vienna” Tough guy, if you’re so smart, why are you afraid? Mom nagging you won’t help you grow up, but Billy will. Vienna waits for you.
“All for Leyna” and you’ll have the
“Honesty” well, this song works for everyone and every situation.
So hopefully Coco would vouch for me here, and give some validation to this theory.
July 16, 2008
Hirplings
So Thursday of last week, I’m feeling pretty good. A lot of work to do, but the hours are flying by before my long weekend starts. I undock my laptop and head off to a meeting, which of course we decide, within 5 minutes of sitting there, this isn’t really necessary. So I head back to my desk, dock my laptop, so I can jet off to lunch, before coming back for two more meetings and then jetting for the weekend. I dock the laptop, and power it up. Click. Click, click, click. Now my laptop sounds more like a hamster is drunk while trying to run on his little wheel. Try again, more clicks. Un-dock, remove battery and try again. More friggin’ clicks. Lunch will be delayed, as I take the laptop to the PC Clinic at work.
Really, they shouldn’t call it a clinic, but a morgue. I’m informed they don’t have any parts, and they’ll have to replace it. Then I was asked if that’s okay. Um, what are my other options exactly? Can I say never mind, and return to my desk with a drunk hamster? Won’t my boss realize I’m not working at some point? How about I just say no, am I fired on the spot? Really, I’ll never understand why they asked if it was okay if they replaced my broken computer.
And of course, they couldn’t salvage anything from my hard drive. Any and all files, e-mails and settings are all gone. Have a good weekend in Chicago, Hirp, because work is going to suck when you get back.
So we went to Chicago, and no trip is complete without a couple of flight delays. Seriously, all flights are delayed now. Can’t they internally schedule a flight for 5pm, but just tell the public it won’t leave till 6pm? Kind of how one may trick a friend that’s always running late to show up somewhere on time.
***
The NFL hired an “expert” to review video tape to determine whether or not players are using gang signs on the field. And I didn’t see this on Careerbuilder.com? Are you shitting me? I’d love that job. He could make some money on the side, by keeping his mouth shut and tipping off the Crips if a visiting team has any Bloods on the roster, or vice versa. Not that I would do that, but remember. MOB. Money over bitches..or was it Member of Bloods…whatever Pac meant.
Really, they shouldn’t call it a clinic, but a morgue. I’m informed they don’t have any parts, and they’ll have to replace it. Then I was asked if that’s okay. Um, what are my other options exactly? Can I say never mind, and return to my desk with a drunk hamster? Won’t my boss realize I’m not working at some point? How about I just say no, am I fired on the spot? Really, I’ll never understand why they asked if it was okay if they replaced my broken computer.
And of course, they couldn’t salvage anything from my hard drive. Any and all files, e-mails and settings are all gone. Have a good weekend in Chicago, Hirp, because work is going to suck when you get back.
So we went to Chicago, and no trip is complete without a couple of flight delays. Seriously, all flights are delayed now. Can’t they internally schedule a flight for 5pm, but just tell the public it won’t leave till 6pm? Kind of how one may trick a friend that’s always running late to show up somewhere on time.
***
The NFL hired an “expert” to review video tape to determine whether or not players are using gang signs on the field. And I didn’t see this on Careerbuilder.com? Are you shitting me? I’d love that job. He could make some money on the side, by keeping his mouth shut and tipping off the Crips if a visiting team has any Bloods on the roster, or vice versa. Not that I would do that, but remember. MOB. Money over bitches..or was it Member of Bloods…whatever Pac meant.
July 08, 2008
Thrips
You like to think that Nicole Kidman left Tom Cruise, because she’s actually some what normal, and wanted nothing to do with a nut job. You don’t really see her linked to scandals, and she puts out well received, yet very boring movies. She appeared to be just about normal, minus the fame, beauty and money.
Then she named her kid “Sunday Rose Kidman Urban” and officially re-entered the looney bin. What the hell gives with celebs giving their kids names, which appear to have one purpose? Getting their kid made fun of. Maybe they were all so tortured growing up, and having a kid who can use the “I’m richer than you” retort is some sort of slap in the face of all those who harassed them as kids. Although, I’m pretty sure making millions accomplished that theoretic-slap years ago.
I hope their kids don’t turn to entertaining as a career move 20 years from now. I refuse to go see a movie staring Suri, Brooklyn, Lourdes, Apple or Sunday.
***
I want to be an honest parent, I think that’s the only way to have a good relationship with anyone. But I don’t want to be so honest that we scare the shit out of the Kyd. Not that we haven’t faced tough decisions before, when/how to tell her we’re getting married and G is moving in, how to react when she relays a comment her dad made that doesn’t sit well with us, among others. But we have a much more sensitive situation now. See we have new neighbors, pretty nice people on the surface. But living in an apartment complex, you can sometimes get a perspective that’s hard to get if you life in a subdivision or “neighborhood.”
Their story has been very public around the pool, as they seem to tell everyone how their house caught fire. Sitting poolside I’ve been directly told, and overheard the story at least six times. And it’s a sad tale. But we also see the family on their patio often, and we see the drinks get downed, and have heard some comments tossed back between the parents. Basically, it isn’t “nice” and we really don’t want to expose the Kyd to that. But they also have a child who is her age, and she’s a very sweet kid.
She was over the other night, and the Kyd let her borrow some and keep some other toys, because she lost so many in the fire. Unbelievably sweet and genuine kyd we have, but we’re stuck. We don’t want her going to their house to play. We’ve seen their child at the pool, without an adult right there (he was in the clubhouse, unacceptable) and we see her awake and outside at 11pm.
Not that we’re perfect parents, or can really judge (although we all do) the parenting styles or choices of others. But we can absolutely decide what will go down in our corner of the woods. The problem is, we have no clue how or what to tell the Kyd. We don’t want to say too much, and let her say something to her friend, which could quickly end their budding friendship. We don’t want to scare her, she’ll be cynical soon enough. But we won’t let her go play there. It’s just not safe, not physically or emotionally. We’re more than happy for them to play at our house, they can have a sleep over and speak in pitches only dogs can understand. That sounds fantastic, and I look forward to all that.
***
So this is funny to me, I saw a headline on a TV I was walking by about President Bush urging leaders to do something or other with Zimbabwe. The Pres isn’t real happy about the violence used to “influence” voters. I guess he would be the expert on how to take an election without violence. Maybe he’ll get a nice consulting gig when his term is up.
Then she named her kid “Sunday Rose Kidman Urban” and officially re-entered the looney bin. What the hell gives with celebs giving their kids names, which appear to have one purpose? Getting their kid made fun of. Maybe they were all so tortured growing up, and having a kid who can use the “I’m richer than you” retort is some sort of slap in the face of all those who harassed them as kids. Although, I’m pretty sure making millions accomplished that theoretic-slap years ago.
I hope their kids don’t turn to entertaining as a career move 20 years from now. I refuse to go see a movie staring Suri, Brooklyn, Lourdes, Apple or Sunday.
***
I want to be an honest parent, I think that’s the only way to have a good relationship with anyone. But I don’t want to be so honest that we scare the shit out of the Kyd. Not that we haven’t faced tough decisions before, when/how to tell her we’re getting married and G is moving in, how to react when she relays a comment her dad made that doesn’t sit well with us, among others. But we have a much more sensitive situation now. See we have new neighbors, pretty nice people on the surface. But living in an apartment complex, you can sometimes get a perspective that’s hard to get if you life in a subdivision or “neighborhood.”
Their story has been very public around the pool, as they seem to tell everyone how their house caught fire. Sitting poolside I’ve been directly told, and overheard the story at least six times. And it’s a sad tale. But we also see the family on their patio often, and we see the drinks get downed, and have heard some comments tossed back between the parents. Basically, it isn’t “nice” and we really don’t want to expose the Kyd to that. But they also have a child who is her age, and she’s a very sweet kid.
She was over the other night, and the Kyd let her borrow some and keep some other toys, because she lost so many in the fire. Unbelievably sweet and genuine kyd we have, but we’re stuck. We don’t want her going to their house to play. We’ve seen their child at the pool, without an adult right there (he was in the clubhouse, unacceptable) and we see her awake and outside at 11pm.
Not that we’re perfect parents, or can really judge (although we all do) the parenting styles or choices of others. But we can absolutely decide what will go down in our corner of the woods. The problem is, we have no clue how or what to tell the Kyd. We don’t want to say too much, and let her say something to her friend, which could quickly end their budding friendship. We don’t want to scare her, she’ll be cynical soon enough. But we won’t let her go play there. It’s just not safe, not physically or emotionally. We’re more than happy for them to play at our house, they can have a sleep over and speak in pitches only dogs can understand. That sounds fantastic, and I look forward to all that.
***
So this is funny to me, I saw a headline on a TV I was walking by about President Bush urging leaders to do something or other with Zimbabwe. The Pres isn’t real happy about the violence used to “influence” voters. I guess he would be the expert on how to take an election without violence. Maybe he’ll get a nice consulting gig when his term is up.
July 01, 2008
Hirplings
I think I should be able to adjust the time on our cable box. I’d like it to be 15 minutes fast, but only from 4pm to 8:30pm. Just so the kyd may get to bed 15 minutes early without putting up a defense that would make R.Kelly jealous. After she falls asleep, I would like for the cable box to return to actual time. There should be a “kid time” setting on everything that tells time.
Those people, you know the ones, they never hold the door open for anyone. I’m wondering what life is like for them. For me, I get stuck in that in-between spot, where I’m not sure if the person behind me is close enough that I should hold the door, or if I do, will I be holding it too long. What would it be like if I wasn’t aware of the person 9 steps behind me? Would I sleep better at night?
Car makers need to invent something that prevents a car from changing lanes for 8 seconds after the driver puts on the turn signal. Attempting to change lanes sooner should either not be allowed, and an electric shock should be sent to their genitals.
A birthday card was just being passed around the office. I signed it “Happy Birthday, I know you won’t read this.” I’m interested to see if she catches it, or if from now on I can start writing what I really think on birthday cards at work.
Whatever happened to GatorGum? That was some good stuff. Near Fruit Stripe level.
Those people, you know the ones, they never hold the door open for anyone. I’m wondering what life is like for them. For me, I get stuck in that in-between spot, where I’m not sure if the person behind me is close enough that I should hold the door, or if I do, will I be holding it too long. What would it be like if I wasn’t aware of the person 9 steps behind me? Would I sleep better at night?
Car makers need to invent something that prevents a car from changing lanes for 8 seconds after the driver puts on the turn signal. Attempting to change lanes sooner should either not be allowed, and an electric shock should be sent to their genitals.
A birthday card was just being passed around the office. I signed it “Happy Birthday, I know you won’t read this.” I’m interested to see if she catches it, or if from now on I can start writing what I really think on birthday cards at work.
Whatever happened to GatorGum? That was some good stuff. Near Fruit Stripe level.
Multiple Hirpasms
So Gen. Wesley Clark has taken a shot (pun: entirely intentional) at Sen. John McCain’s service record. I don’t know the details, nor do I need to, of McCain’s time in the service. If you serve, be it on the front lines, as a pilot, a chef or a secretary, then you deserve all the respect in the world. This coming from the last person on earth, you could expect to see in uniform. But I still have respect for every single one of them, no matter their role. There’s a chance they’ll be in the vicinity of some bullets flying or things blowing up, and as long as it isn’t on the set of a movie, then it takes cajones that most people don’t have. The man was shot down and kept as a prisoner of war, and I hate it if my flight is delayed or if I have to stay in a hotel that only offers single-ply. Clark just cost himself a chance at being Vice President. Way to go, slick.
***
Obama was in lovely Independence, Missouri yesterday. Without a doubt, he’ll now back Kansas in the “Border War.” But this isn’t about all that. He had to defend his patriotism, and that’s as retarded as Corky. We’re back to loyalty, which is what patriotism is, and real loyalty means you see and acknowledge a friends flaws. And it takes a special kind of loyalty to see those flaws, and actually try and do something about them. So his wife said something like, “being proud of my country for the first time in my adult life.”
I hope Obama feels that way, we all should. Not that we’re a completely awful country, but if you look at what we’ve done the past 20 years, there isn’t much to be proud of. I got it, the Cold War ended, and then what? We managed to take that good will and piss of the entire world. It doesn’t mean they are un-American, or anti-American, they just expect better of us. That’s exactly what we need in a leader. Screw “stay the course” when the course if FUBAR.
***
I’m getting sick of the headline: Gas Prices Hit All-Time High. That’s “news’ like when my mom used to tell me the pollen count was high. I want to see a headline that reads something like; “Taking it in the Pooper at the Pump.”
***
Obama was in lovely Independence, Missouri yesterday. Without a doubt, he’ll now back Kansas in the “Border War.” But this isn’t about all that. He had to defend his patriotism, and that’s as retarded as Corky. We’re back to loyalty, which is what patriotism is, and real loyalty means you see and acknowledge a friends flaws. And it takes a special kind of loyalty to see those flaws, and actually try and do something about them. So his wife said something like, “being proud of my country for the first time in my adult life.”
I hope Obama feels that way, we all should. Not that we’re a completely awful country, but if you look at what we’ve done the past 20 years, there isn’t much to be proud of. I got it, the Cold War ended, and then what? We managed to take that good will and piss of the entire world. It doesn’t mean they are un-American, or anti-American, they just expect better of us. That’s exactly what we need in a leader. Screw “stay the course” when the course if FUBAR.
***
I’m getting sick of the headline: Gas Prices Hit All-Time High. That’s “news’ like when my mom used to tell me the pollen count was high. I want to see a headline that reads something like; “Taking it in the Pooper at the Pump.”
June 30, 2008
Loyal Rivals?
Loyalty. For me, it’s the most important trait someone can have, irreplaceable if it’s lacked. So that said, I respect my friends for their loyalty to KU. But there’s a line between loyalty and silly. See, I have three separate friends who all have something in common with their thinking and how they express their loyalty to KU. They all have vowed to never live in the state of Missouri.
I love a good rivalry, but this is taking it too far. Taking it from fun to embarrassing. They all brought up the fact that former MU coach, Norm Stewart, wouldn’t spend the night in Lawrence. Choosing to load the bus after a game, no matter the time, and head back to Columbia. This some how, is seen as a slight to these and other KU fans. To me, it’s simply motivation, as well as smart. So because Norm Stewart wouldn’t spend the night in Kansas, these fans can’t reside in Missouri. They’ll shop, eat and work in Missouri. They’ll go to Worlds of Fun, a Royals game, or the boats in Missouri. They’ll even cheer for a small forward who grew up in Missouri, and had a brother play for MU. But they’re so loyal, and anti-MU, they can’t own land in Missouri.
What better way to one up the Tigers, than to own a slice of their land? That’s better than any “your mama” jokes you can think of.
“Fuck you Tiger, I own part of your state. This land belongs to a KU alumn. We’re takin’ over, bitches.” That’s how you handle a beef/rivalry.
When Tupac and Biggie had their beef, what did Biggie write? “Goin’ back to Cali” after Pac wrote about sleeping with Biggie’s wife. They didn’t talk about avoiding the others land and/or property. They bragged about going there, and showed no fear. So rather than show some balls, these fans cross State Line on occasion, and return home with an item, while their money stays in Missouri. That’s loyalty? Sure, and President Clinton was loyal to Hilary when Monica had a mouth full of Prez.
I know, Missouri was a slave state, but I’m pretty sure none of these Hawks had family in Kansas back then, nor did anyone they know in the state of Missouri have slaves. So, let’s just put that one to rest okay? Remember, Kansas didn’t want to teach evolution and it’s the home of Fred Phelps. You can’t disown those facts, and only look at Missouri’s flaws (which there are plenty).
And best of all, this is only about the fans. Norm Stewart was actually friends with Roy Williams. Drew Gooden and Kareem Rush used to hang out together, in both Lawrence and Columbia. This loyal pledge is one thing, ridiculous. Hey, if you don’t want to live in Missouri because the schools in Kansas are better, or because you enjoy the Dorothy jokes, that’s fine. At least there’s some thing resembling logic behind those ideals.
I have to go, the Kyd needs another KU shirt and hat to wear to camp in Missouri.
I love a good rivalry, but this is taking it too far. Taking it from fun to embarrassing. They all brought up the fact that former MU coach, Norm Stewart, wouldn’t spend the night in Lawrence. Choosing to load the bus after a game, no matter the time, and head back to Columbia. This some how, is seen as a slight to these and other KU fans. To me, it’s simply motivation, as well as smart. So because Norm Stewart wouldn’t spend the night in Kansas, these fans can’t reside in Missouri. They’ll shop, eat and work in Missouri. They’ll go to Worlds of Fun, a Royals game, or the boats in Missouri. They’ll even cheer for a small forward who grew up in Missouri, and had a brother play for MU. But they’re so loyal, and anti-MU, they can’t own land in Missouri.
What better way to one up the Tigers, than to own a slice of their land? That’s better than any “your mama” jokes you can think of.
“Fuck you Tiger, I own part of your state. This land belongs to a KU alumn. We’re takin’ over, bitches.” That’s how you handle a beef/rivalry.
When Tupac and Biggie had their beef, what did Biggie write? “Goin’ back to Cali” after Pac wrote about sleeping with Biggie’s wife. They didn’t talk about avoiding the others land and/or property. They bragged about going there, and showed no fear. So rather than show some balls, these fans cross State Line on occasion, and return home with an item, while their money stays in Missouri. That’s loyalty? Sure, and President Clinton was loyal to Hilary when Monica had a mouth full of Prez.
I know, Missouri was a slave state, but I’m pretty sure none of these Hawks had family in Kansas back then, nor did anyone they know in the state of Missouri have slaves. So, let’s just put that one to rest okay? Remember, Kansas didn’t want to teach evolution and it’s the home of Fred Phelps. You can’t disown those facts, and only look at Missouri’s flaws (which there are plenty).
And best of all, this is only about the fans. Norm Stewart was actually friends with Roy Williams. Drew Gooden and Kareem Rush used to hang out together, in both Lawrence and Columbia. This loyal pledge is one thing, ridiculous. Hey, if you don’t want to live in Missouri because the schools in Kansas are better, or because you enjoy the Dorothy jokes, that’s fine. At least there’s some thing resembling logic behind those ideals.
I have to go, the Kyd needs another KU shirt and hat to wear to camp in Missouri.
Hirpasms
We finally got around to watching Charlie Wilson’s War this weekend. I had looked forward to seeing it ever since reading that Aaron Sorkin penned the screenplay. Very good flick, although not on par with “West Wing” “Sports Night” or A Few Good Men.
Sorkin serves up a lot of food for thought on our current situation in Iraq. This is summed up perfectly with a little story that is told in the movie:
There's a little boy and on his 14th birthday he gets a horse... and everybody in the village says, "how wonderful. the boy got a horse" And the Zen master says, "we'll see." Two years later The boy falls off the horse, breaks his leg, and everybody in the village says, "how terrible." And the Zen master says, "We'll see." Then a war breaks out and all the young men have to go off and fight... except the boy can't cause his legs messed up. and everyone in the village says, "How wonderful."
***
Mike Tyson is 42 today. How many people lost money on him living this long? I still love Mike. With all his craziness and pure insanity, his charming way of butchering the English language and his rap sheet, there’s something very authentic about him. Just like with a lot of the celebs/athletes that I’ve cheered for, he’s very flawed. There are the guys who are flawed, but try to cover it up, and then there are the guys who are either brave enough to show us their true colors, or too scared to try and hide them. I respect the latter. And while we’re talking Tyson, yes, I firmly believe he was innocent of that rape. Guilty of crimes we’ve never heard of, but innocent of that one.
He’s been in the news of late, although a bit under the radar. Seems Mike had a body guard he was very close to, and this guy was up to no good. Rumor has it, he’s the guy that helped make 50 Cent famous. Not by discovering him, or writing for him, but for shooting him. So he ended up dead, and Tyson allegedly put a $50,000 contract on the killer. And in turn, there may now be a contract out on Mike. This happened, allegedly of course, in 2000. Mike’s still here, and now he’s 42.
As Mike told the NY Post, “I already expect the worst to happen... I expect one day somebody'll blow my brains out over some bullshit No one gives a shitt about Mike Tyson. Someone accuses me of a horrible crime, others say, 'Yeah, he's capable of that. Mike probably did it.'"
I can’t wait to see the documentary: Tyson.
Sorkin serves up a lot of food for thought on our current situation in Iraq. This is summed up perfectly with a little story that is told in the movie:
There's a little boy and on his 14th birthday he gets a horse... and everybody in the village says, "how wonderful. the boy got a horse" And the Zen master says, "we'll see." Two years later The boy falls off the horse, breaks his leg, and everybody in the village says, "how terrible." And the Zen master says, "We'll see." Then a war breaks out and all the young men have to go off and fight... except the boy can't cause his legs messed up. and everyone in the village says, "How wonderful."
***
Mike Tyson is 42 today. How many people lost money on him living this long? I still love Mike. With all his craziness and pure insanity, his charming way of butchering the English language and his rap sheet, there’s something very authentic about him. Just like with a lot of the celebs/athletes that I’ve cheered for, he’s very flawed. There are the guys who are flawed, but try to cover it up, and then there are the guys who are either brave enough to show us their true colors, or too scared to try and hide them. I respect the latter. And while we’re talking Tyson, yes, I firmly believe he was innocent of that rape. Guilty of crimes we’ve never heard of, but innocent of that one.
He’s been in the news of late, although a bit under the radar. Seems Mike had a body guard he was very close to, and this guy was up to no good. Rumor has it, he’s the guy that helped make 50 Cent famous. Not by discovering him, or writing for him, but for shooting him. So he ended up dead, and Tyson allegedly put a $50,000 contract on the killer. And in turn, there may now be a contract out on Mike. This happened, allegedly of course, in 2000. Mike’s still here, and now he’s 42.
As Mike told the NY Post, “I already expect the worst to happen... I expect one day somebody'll blow my brains out over some bullshit No one gives a shitt about Mike Tyson. Someone accuses me of a horrible crime, others say, 'Yeah, he's capable of that. Mike probably did it.'"
I can’t wait to see the documentary: Tyson.
June 27, 2008
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