I was riding on a fairly empty bus the other day and I came to a horrible realization; two of the five people on the bus had mohawks. No, we were not headed toward the Fireside Bowl on the Fullerton bus 10 years ago, this was yesterday on the Irving Park bus. And I'm pretty damn certain that neither of my mohawk sporting friends had even heard of the Fireside Bowl. Why do I say this? Because they had mohawks for FASHION. At least, this is my guess. Not a lot of punks wear Armani Exchange where I come from, I'm just saying.
I see people with mohawks all the goddamn time nowadays and it makes my blood boil. I don't want to sound like an old man but back in my day having a mohawk meant something. If you had a mohawk you were a punk, period. Unless we're talking about way, way back in the day; then it meant you were part of the mohawk tribe. Even I'm not old enough to remember that. It was sort of a uniform for nonconformists, as silly as that may sound. If I saw a guy with a mohawk on the bus I could sit down next to him and discuss the latest Descendents album and I liked that. I liked the social profiling aspect of having a silly hair cut (mohawks, spiked hair, tri-hawks) and silly hair color; it basically let me know that we were on the same team. In my mind it was really no different than having a bunch of patches on your back pack or pins on your jacket.
Now it seems like everyone has some sort of mohawk. Or, God help us, they have a fucking faux hawk. Look, if you are going to spend the time and stick all the gunk in your hair to get it to stand on end in the middle just shave the sides, don't half ass it, son. At first I was irritated because I felt that if you weren't a punk you didn't deserve to have a mohawk. Quickly I understood how silly that was and that wasn't where my hatred came from at all. It came from one simple reality:
MOHAWKS LOOK STUPID.
Seriously, they look awful. There is no good reason to have a mohawk unless you are a punk or you are about to go shoot Jodie Foster's pimp. I feel that when they are worn by punks that it is done in sort of tongue in cheek way and that's why I accept that. At least I think that my friends who have been mohawked in the past have always had that self awareness about it. Yet when I see some dope who is obviously in art school with a mohawk I immediately know there is only one reason he has a mohawk, because he thinks it looks good. That's what drove me so fucking bananas staring at the assholes on the bus yesterday. Every little aspect of their "look" had been meticulously crafted. They had perfect little outfits of skinny jeans and designer name clothes. . . and mohawks. I guran-damn-tee they went to a stylist to get their cool haircut as well. In the summer they might even frost the tips to look even more fierce. Please.
Whatever tiny bit of coolness a person gains from a mohawk comes from the DIY aspect of it. You don't have a stylist fashion your mohawk for $75, you shave it yourself in a dirty bathroom while listening to Bad Brains.
(As an aside at the end here, if Krut or Ben reads this I will allow you 1 punch on the upper shoulder region. No more, no less.)
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Monday, April 16, 2012
I hope Eagle Man eats the Geico Gecko
After spending the first fifteen years of my life outside of San Francisco I had a lot of culture shock to deal with when I moved to Morris, Il. Morris, for those of you who don't know, is a farm town of about 10,000 people an hour away from Chicago. Within my first few weeks of trying to adapt I saw my first grain elevator, heard every single joke about being gay or a surfer imaginable, had to wait 15 minutes in traffic for a combine to cross over a bridge and learned what "pop" was. None of this would compare to how my mind was blown the day I was introduced to Eagle Man.
While I do find the commercial amusing I believe that Eagle Man was the frontrunner of a trend that I find to be abhorrent; insurance mascots. Soon after Eagle Man came the Geico Gecko, Erin ESurance, the Geico Caveman, Flo from Progressive, Mayhem for All State and that fucked up wad of dollar bills from Geico. I'm sure that I have forgot at least 4 more bullshit Geico mascots but you get the point. We have had these characters shoved down our throats CONSTANTLY. The amount of money that insurance companies spend on advertising must be terrifying. Of course, insurance companies have more money than practically everyone else on Earth so it's not surprising. I just want to know what the point is with all these dopey characters they trot out.
If you are trying to sell me some toys it makes sense to trot out a guy in an animal costume performing some slapstick antics. Insurance seems like it should be dealt with a touch more gravitas. I guess the way I look at it is if I'm going to be spending thousands of dollars on something a year I don't want to buy it from a (sorta hot) cartoon broad with pink hair. Yet when insurance commercials try to be remotely serious they trot out Pedro Cerrano to warn you that every time you leave your house an army of goblin/rapist/thief/arsonists are going to destroy your shit and you will be left with nothing. It's as if there is no middle ground. Realism is also an option that they can't resort to or else no one would be interested. "Give us all of your money and we will keep you safe. Unless something happens and then we will fight you tooth and nail for every last cent and hopefully find a loop hole leaving us responsible for nothing," isn't exactly the kind of catchphrase that will have people lining up to purchase insurance.
In order to be relatable to the masses insurance companies have to take the guise of an effeminate amphibian, how fucked up is that? Of course if you can't relate to a gecko maybe a midget general with a penguin henchman is more your style. Seriously. Commercials for the General Insurance make me certain that my water has been laced with LSD.
Here is a short list of my problems with The General.
- He is a midget. Nothing against midgets but other than Napoleon there isn't a real history of midgets in the military. Pretty sure they have height requirements.
- He has no eyes. None. Just eyebrows.
- He hangs out with a penguin and we all know that penguins are not to be trusted.
- As far as I can tell he is quite a stud on the dance floor BUT THIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH INSURANCE.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Shut up and cut my hair!
I have found that as I get older and the amount of my hair decreases that my rage about having to get a hair cut increases accordingly. The reasons that I loathe getting my hair cut are pretty run of the mill; I don't like paying full price when the top of my head is mostly barren, I hate having my ears bent, I always end up with the back of my shirt wet and full of hair clippings. Pretty standard complaints. Yet I understand that if I want to stay in the good graces of my lovely girlfriend I can't keep looking like the boss from Dilbert. There is one thing that can really push me over the edge and make me consider never stepping foot into a barber shop again, a talkative stylist.
One way to avoid such a dilemma would be to go to a real barbershop instead of a Hair Cuttery. I am a glutton for punishment and insanely lazy so I won't travel a wee bit longer to get to a cool a barbershop. No, I insist on playing Russian Roulette. And their are at least 5 bullets in the gun, I always lose. of course I ended up with a middle aged woman who would not shut up. I'm pretty sure that she was incapable of it, kind of like how Kristen Stewart is unable to close her mouth. If she was saying something of interest I might have engaged her and had a nice little banter. I'm a pretty well rounded guy who can carry on conversations about comics, baseball, mid 90's south side suburban ska and Napoleonic era Russia; you know, the 4 things worth talking about. My stylist on the other hand was only versed in one topic of conversation, bitching about her family.
She went on and on about how she was the only one willing to take care of her mother and that's why she had power of attorney and how her brothers were taking her to court because they wanted the money and how there wasn't really any money and how no one loved her and her ex husband told her that the lawyers were trying to screw her and everyone was trying to steal . . . AD INFINITUM. If I was friends with her there would still only be a 7% chance that I wanted to hear about these problems. As a perfect stranger I absolutely could not give a fuck. It's not that I didn't care about her problems, I aggressively didn't care.
As she rambled on and on I found myself rooting against her in the story. I was really hoping it ended up with her being written out of the will and her mother breaking a cane over her head. Eventually she got so worked up that she completely stopped cutting my hair and started tapping me on the shoulder to make her point. Wonderful. Now this insufferable haircut is going to last even longer. Just when I thought I was at the breaking point and about to turn the clippers into a murder weapon she upped her game. She stopped talking about her family problems (yay!) and started to try and sell me all sorts of goop to put into my hair (SHITSTICKS!).
Seriously, the only way to make things worse was for her incessant rambling transitioning into non stop badgering for me to spend more money. Look, I should only get charged half price to begin with, I have a giant flesh yarmulke that takes up half my head. But no, I get charged full price anyway. On top of that you want me to spend 20 bucks on gel so I can spike up the seven hairs left on my head? If I use this great gel I can be the Pauly D of bald men? SHUT UP AND CUT MY DAMN HAIR!
As the haircut came to a merciful end I couldn't help but notice that she did a pretty solid job, so kudos there. I even acted really pleased when she gave me her card that said when she worked so that I could book a time with her again, hell, it wasn't acting. I was really happy because I now have a leg up on when I can get my hair cut by someone else. Winner: Charlie
One way to avoid such a dilemma would be to go to a real barbershop instead of a Hair Cuttery. I am a glutton for punishment and insanely lazy so I won't travel a wee bit longer to get to a cool a barbershop. No, I insist on playing Russian Roulette. And their are at least 5 bullets in the gun, I always lose. of course I ended up with a middle aged woman who would not shut up. I'm pretty sure that she was incapable of it, kind of like how Kristen Stewart is unable to close her mouth. If she was saying something of interest I might have engaged her and had a nice little banter. I'm a pretty well rounded guy who can carry on conversations about comics, baseball, mid 90's south side suburban ska and Napoleonic era Russia; you know, the 4 things worth talking about. My stylist on the other hand was only versed in one topic of conversation, bitching about her family.
She went on and on about how she was the only one willing to take care of her mother and that's why she had power of attorney and how her brothers were taking her to court because they wanted the money and how there wasn't really any money and how no one loved her and her ex husband told her that the lawyers were trying to screw her and everyone was trying to steal . . . AD INFINITUM. If I was friends with her there would still only be a 7% chance that I wanted to hear about these problems. As a perfect stranger I absolutely could not give a fuck. It's not that I didn't care about her problems, I aggressively didn't care.
As she rambled on and on I found myself rooting against her in the story. I was really hoping it ended up with her being written out of the will and her mother breaking a cane over her head. Eventually she got so worked up that she completely stopped cutting my hair and started tapping me on the shoulder to make her point. Wonderful. Now this insufferable haircut is going to last even longer. Just when I thought I was at the breaking point and about to turn the clippers into a murder weapon she upped her game. She stopped talking about her family problems (yay!) and started to try and sell me all sorts of goop to put into my hair (SHITSTICKS!).
Seriously, the only way to make things worse was for her incessant rambling transitioning into non stop badgering for me to spend more money. Look, I should only get charged half price to begin with, I have a giant flesh yarmulke that takes up half my head. But no, I get charged full price anyway. On top of that you want me to spend 20 bucks on gel so I can spike up the seven hairs left on my head? If I use this great gel I can be the Pauly D of bald men? SHUT UP AND CUT MY DAMN HAIR!
As the haircut came to a merciful end I couldn't help but notice that she did a pretty solid job, so kudos there. I even acted really pleased when she gave me her card that said when she worked so that I could book a time with her again, hell, it wasn't acting. I was really happy because I now have a leg up on when I can get my hair cut by someone else. Winner: Charlie
Monday, April 2, 2012
The World Needs More Walk Up Windows
The other night I went out on the town and consumed many adult beverages. It was glorious. I even decided to call it an early night so as to not be a complete wreck the next day, that's how responsible I am. The majority of the night was spent trying to satiate my epic thirst for booze. While I was successful in this endeavor a horrible side effect of booze consumption snuck* up on me, the hunger. Yes, while my guard was attention was focused on trying to keep shots of Malort from reappearing on the bar a horrible hunger demon crawled into my belly. The demon wanted tacos and he wanted them immediately. Who am I to question the hunger? So I set out to obtain taco-y goodness.
I went to the local taqueria and was horrified to learn that it was closed. It was only 11:30 on a Friday night. This was highly unusual as I have never seen this place closed. Ever. It's open until at least 5 on weekends. Prior to this night I suspected they didn't even have a lock on the door. I banged my head on the door out of frustration and out of the corner of my eye I saw a beautiful beacon promising the tacos I craved so desperately, a KFC/Taco Bell. Now, I was not surprised by this, I live a mere block away from the place, but it was a revelation nonetheless. I swear that these eyes have never seen a more beautiful sight than Colonel Sanders' glowing face on that night.
There were a group of people inside eating so I pulled on the door. Locked. Oh, silly me, I grabbed a door that was out of service. I slid over to the opposite door and pulled with more might. Locked. I looked up at saw that the dining room was closed at 11, those people were just being allowed to finish their meal. I can't imagine anyone taking a half hour to eat fast food but that's a different rant for a different day. Luckily for my hunger the drive thru was open until 2.
I ain't no greenhorn, I know that the stunt that I was about to try was a long shot. The hunger would not allow me to retreat home with my tail between my legs and head for bed. No, the hunger demanded tacos. So I closed my eyes and heaved a Hail Mary; I walked up to the drive thru window. With the odds staked against me I used all of the suaveness I could muster.
Me: Pardon me? I know that it is unorthodox to walk up to the window but I am starving and I really would like to purchase some tacos.
Taco Warden: Inside is closed.
Me: Yes, I am aware. Since I'm here do you think you could possibly wrangle up some tacos?
TW: No. You need a car to go through the drive thru.
Me: I know that is how it is normally done but I don't have a car. There are no cars in line, I would really appreciate it. .
TW: NO. THE DRIVE THRU IS FOR CARS ONLY. IF YOU DON'T LEAVE I'M CALLING THE COPS.
Me: (Various expletives muttered under my breath as I walk away)
I get it. They have rules. At the same time they are a business and their goal is to make money, why wouldn't they take my hard earned cash in exchange for 3 poorly made soft tacos that would merely make a cameo in my digestive system? I wasn't walking in front of any cars, they weren't doing a damn thing. It took longer to argue with me than it wold have to simply give me my order. Hell, if they wanted me to go back and order through the intercom so they have an excuse when they fuck up my order I would have gladly done so but I wasn't given that option. As I fumed over being denied tacos I chowed down on an apple at home. I pretended it was a taco and even considered putting some Tapatio on it but came to my senses and did not. I needed to find a way to make sure that all the boys and girls afflicted with The Hunger after 11 wouldn't have to settle for an apple, for that is truly a fate worse than death.
Then it hit me. I will start a campaign based on the following fact: Taco Bell encourages drunk drivers. Yes, you heard me. Taco Bell is already widely known for being the preferred eatery of stoners so it is no surprise that they also cater to the drunk. When you make food that greasy and shitty you can't expect sober people to line up in droves. Drunks on the other hand will gobble down anything you give them. Yet for some draconian reason Taco Bell forces drunks to get behind the wheel in order to enjoy the wonders of the volcano menu. Seriously, think about it for a second. How many sober people are going to be cruising through a fast food drive thru at 1 am? Unless it's directly next to a highway it's going to be a very low number. Instead of being rewarded for being responsible I am denied the only thing that I crave, tacos. Do you know how many accidents and deaths are caused by drunk drivers? A lot. By my logic I am not just a responsible person for not driving but I am saving lives, lives that would have been sacrificed because Taco Bell won't let me purchase their delicious bounty. I AM A HERO AND I SHOULD BE SHOWERED WITH 72 VIRGIN TACOS. And a small Diet Pepsi since I'm watching my figure.
Honestly though, just sell me the damn tacos next time.
*I know that fancy schmancy grammar police like to point out that the past tense of sneak is sneaked as opposed to snuck. Well, guess what? I just used "snuck" and no body was confused by it, so there. I do what I want.
I went to the local taqueria and was horrified to learn that it was closed. It was only 11:30 on a Friday night. This was highly unusual as I have never seen this place closed. Ever. It's open until at least 5 on weekends. Prior to this night I suspected they didn't even have a lock on the door. I banged my head on the door out of frustration and out of the corner of my eye I saw a beautiful beacon promising the tacos I craved so desperately, a KFC/Taco Bell. Now, I was not surprised by this, I live a mere block away from the place, but it was a revelation nonetheless. I swear that these eyes have never seen a more beautiful sight than Colonel Sanders' glowing face on that night.
There were a group of people inside eating so I pulled on the door. Locked. Oh, silly me, I grabbed a door that was out of service. I slid over to the opposite door and pulled with more might. Locked. I looked up at saw that the dining room was closed at 11, those people were just being allowed to finish their meal. I can't imagine anyone taking a half hour to eat fast food but that's a different rant for a different day. Luckily for my hunger the drive thru was open until 2.
I ain't no greenhorn, I know that the stunt that I was about to try was a long shot. The hunger would not allow me to retreat home with my tail between my legs and head for bed. No, the hunger demanded tacos. So I closed my eyes and heaved a Hail Mary; I walked up to the drive thru window. With the odds staked against me I used all of the suaveness I could muster.
Me: Pardon me? I know that it is unorthodox to walk up to the window but I am starving and I really would like to purchase some tacos.
Taco Warden: Inside is closed.
Me: Yes, I am aware. Since I'm here do you think you could possibly wrangle up some tacos?
TW: No. You need a car to go through the drive thru.
Me: I know that is how it is normally done but I don't have a car. There are no cars in line, I would really appreciate it. .
TW: NO. THE DRIVE THRU IS FOR CARS ONLY. IF YOU DON'T LEAVE I'M CALLING THE COPS.
Me: (Various expletives muttered under my breath as I walk away)
I get it. They have rules. At the same time they are a business and their goal is to make money, why wouldn't they take my hard earned cash in exchange for 3 poorly made soft tacos that would merely make a cameo in my digestive system? I wasn't walking in front of any cars, they weren't doing a damn thing. It took longer to argue with me than it wold have to simply give me my order. Hell, if they wanted me to go back and order through the intercom so they have an excuse when they fuck up my order I would have gladly done so but I wasn't given that option. As I fumed over being denied tacos I chowed down on an apple at home. I pretended it was a taco and even considered putting some Tapatio on it but came to my senses and did not. I needed to find a way to make sure that all the boys and girls afflicted with The Hunger after 11 wouldn't have to settle for an apple, for that is truly a fate worse than death.
Then it hit me. I will start a campaign based on the following fact: Taco Bell encourages drunk drivers. Yes, you heard me. Taco Bell is already widely known for being the preferred eatery of stoners so it is no surprise that they also cater to the drunk. When you make food that greasy and shitty you can't expect sober people to line up in droves. Drunks on the other hand will gobble down anything you give them. Yet for some draconian reason Taco Bell forces drunks to get behind the wheel in order to enjoy the wonders of the volcano menu. Seriously, think about it for a second. How many sober people are going to be cruising through a fast food drive thru at 1 am? Unless it's directly next to a highway it's going to be a very low number. Instead of being rewarded for being responsible I am denied the only thing that I crave, tacos. Do you know how many accidents and deaths are caused by drunk drivers? A lot. By my logic I am not just a responsible person for not driving but I am saving lives, lives that would have been sacrificed because Taco Bell won't let me purchase their delicious bounty. I AM A HERO AND I SHOULD BE SHOWERED WITH 72 VIRGIN TACOS. And a small Diet Pepsi since I'm watching my figure.
Honestly though, just sell me the damn tacos next time.
*I know that fancy schmancy grammar police like to point out that the past tense of sneak is sneaked as opposed to snuck. Well, guess what? I just used "snuck" and no body was confused by it, so there. I do what I want.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Bracket Anguish (Or how I broke a glass over a garbage time free throw)
It has been well noted that I am a man of many vices.
Drinking: Love it.
Carousing: Huge fan.
Watching naked ladies do naked things: Two thumbs up.
Laughing at the misfortune of others: I revel in it.
Eating three times my weight in foie gras: BEST ACTIVITY EVER.
As wonderful as I find all of those activities they pale in comparison to my love of gambling. It is important to understand that there is a difference between enjoying gambling and having a gambling problem. The way that I have always rationalized things is that I have never had enough money to actually have a problem. When you're dropping 5-10 dollars on a bet it's not going to have a notable effect on your life, even when your income is as meager as mine is. Plus I don't even know any shady bookies or loan sharks to get in deep with in order to end up at the bottom of the Chicago River when the Bears fail to cover. Now that I have firmly established that I don't need an intervention let me continue.
I LOVE GAMBLING. Poker, roulette, black jack, Star Wars slot machines, betting the ponies, sports bets, fantasy baseball and football, betting tickets, Super Bowl Squares and March Madness brackets all take up far more of my time and money than they probably should. I know in the long run that I'm going to come up behind but I don't really care, I figure that's the price of being entertained. As much as I love football it's always a little more interesting if I need 110 rushing yards and at least 42 points scored if I don't have a vested interest in either team.
It is the sports gambling that leads to almost all of my fury. When I'm playing roulette I know that I have long odds and no real way to stack them in my favor, it's pure luck. (Yes, I know some bets are better than others, my point is that no amount of research I do beforehand can tell me that a certain number is going to come up more often) So when I lose my money to a bad beat in poker or a run of red in roulette I shrug and attribute it to bad luck. When it comes to sports betting I feel like I am an expert, as if I already know the outcome thanks to the legwork I did before hand. I can look up stats, watch games, listen to real experts discuss the match ups. I should be able to piece all of it together to have an informed opinion that will lead me straight to the bank. Of course this rarely actually happens. And then I throw a fit.
The arrogance I have when making sports bets is both hilarious and infuriating. On my bracket this year I had UNLV making it all the way to the Final Four. Why? I had watched them twice. Not even for an entire game either time. Yet I decided that they were pretty good and put all my faith in them. Naturally they lost in the first round. All it took is that one tiny little act of hubris and my entire bracket became bupkis. I DON'T EVEN LIKE COLLEGE BASKETBALL THAT MUCH. I'm certainly not a student of the game, why the hell would I trust my opinion? How fucking arrogant am I to think that I actually know what is going to happen, especially about something that I don't even care that much about? If I just went ahead and picked teams with blue in their school colors I would be sitting pretty right now.
Where I find things to be really galling is in fantasy baseball. I love baseball to death. In between March and October I spend as much time as I possibly can taking in baseball in any form I can: watching it on TV, reading about, going to games, arguing with friends. In the weeks leading up to my fantasy baseball draft I read over every bit of information I can get. I look at the rosters of the other people in my league from the previous years to try and determine what players they are likely to target. I go through at least two mock drafts to see where players are falling. What was my team's record last year? 6-15. They were horrible. Yet I walk around with my chest out beforehand because I know how well prepared I am, what an absolute moron I must appear to be.
It's so much easier to digest a failed bet at the horse track than it is a fantasy loss, at least at the track I make my bets almost entirely on the name of the horse. Although, truth be told, I have often drafted Taco Wallace to my fantasy football team for the same reason. It's just unbelievably galling to me that I have zero edge whatsoever when it comes to things that I should know a little bit about. Of course this just leads me to try and read more so that I won't suffer such ego shattering defeat the next year. I'm sure you already know how that turns out.
Like a complete sap I keep going back for more. I still field fantasy teams and fill out brackets. I still try and pull off a huge score on an eight team parlay with a $2 bet, I still always bet on gray horses and I play every Red Sox retired number in both roulette and the lotto. Even though I know that there is very little chance I will win I still do so willingly and full of hope. Despite the loss being expected I still scream obscenities and throw things at the TV. It's really the silliest my rage can get. At this point I might even be filling out brackets for the sole purpose of having something to get angry about. I see my folly but I certainly don't see it ending any time soon, and I'm OK with that. The wins are nice even if they are few and far between. I just need to find a way to stop getting so irate about things that are obviously out of my control. More importantly I need to realize that I have no goddamn idea what the outcome of a sporting event is going to be and just chill. Although I did hear a pretty good tip about the 5th race at Hawthorne tomorrow. . . .
Drinking: Love it.
Carousing: Huge fan.
Watching naked ladies do naked things: Two thumbs up.
Laughing at the misfortune of others: I revel in it.
Eating three times my weight in foie gras: BEST ACTIVITY EVER.
As wonderful as I find all of those activities they pale in comparison to my love of gambling. It is important to understand that there is a difference between enjoying gambling and having a gambling problem. The way that I have always rationalized things is that I have never had enough money to actually have a problem. When you're dropping 5-10 dollars on a bet it's not going to have a notable effect on your life, even when your income is as meager as mine is. Plus I don't even know any shady bookies or loan sharks to get in deep with in order to end up at the bottom of the Chicago River when the Bears fail to cover. Now that I have firmly established that I don't need an intervention let me continue.
I LOVE GAMBLING. Poker, roulette, black jack, Star Wars slot machines, betting the ponies, sports bets, fantasy baseball and football, betting tickets, Super Bowl Squares and March Madness brackets all take up far more of my time and money than they probably should. I know in the long run that I'm going to come up behind but I don't really care, I figure that's the price of being entertained. As much as I love football it's always a little more interesting if I need 110 rushing yards and at least 42 points scored if I don't have a vested interest in either team.
It is the sports gambling that leads to almost all of my fury. When I'm playing roulette I know that I have long odds and no real way to stack them in my favor, it's pure luck. (Yes, I know some bets are better than others, my point is that no amount of research I do beforehand can tell me that a certain number is going to come up more often) So when I lose my money to a bad beat in poker or a run of red in roulette I shrug and attribute it to bad luck. When it comes to sports betting I feel like I am an expert, as if I already know the outcome thanks to the legwork I did before hand. I can look up stats, watch games, listen to real experts discuss the match ups. I should be able to piece all of it together to have an informed opinion that will lead me straight to the bank. Of course this rarely actually happens. And then I throw a fit.
The arrogance I have when making sports bets is both hilarious and infuriating. On my bracket this year I had UNLV making it all the way to the Final Four. Why? I had watched them twice. Not even for an entire game either time. Yet I decided that they were pretty good and put all my faith in them. Naturally they lost in the first round. All it took is that one tiny little act of hubris and my entire bracket became bupkis. I DON'T EVEN LIKE COLLEGE BASKETBALL THAT MUCH. I'm certainly not a student of the game, why the hell would I trust my opinion? How fucking arrogant am I to think that I actually know what is going to happen, especially about something that I don't even care that much about? If I just went ahead and picked teams with blue in their school colors I would be sitting pretty right now.
Where I find things to be really galling is in fantasy baseball. I love baseball to death. In between March and October I spend as much time as I possibly can taking in baseball in any form I can: watching it on TV, reading about, going to games, arguing with friends. In the weeks leading up to my fantasy baseball draft I read over every bit of information I can get. I look at the rosters of the other people in my league from the previous years to try and determine what players they are likely to target. I go through at least two mock drafts to see where players are falling. What was my team's record last year? 6-15. They were horrible. Yet I walk around with my chest out beforehand because I know how well prepared I am, what an absolute moron I must appear to be.
It's so much easier to digest a failed bet at the horse track than it is a fantasy loss, at least at the track I make my bets almost entirely on the name of the horse. Although, truth be told, I have often drafted Taco Wallace to my fantasy football team for the same reason. It's just unbelievably galling to me that I have zero edge whatsoever when it comes to things that I should know a little bit about. Of course this just leads me to try and read more so that I won't suffer such ego shattering defeat the next year. I'm sure you already know how that turns out.
Like a complete sap I keep going back for more. I still field fantasy teams and fill out brackets. I still try and pull off a huge score on an eight team parlay with a $2 bet, I still always bet on gray horses and I play every Red Sox retired number in both roulette and the lotto. Even though I know that there is very little chance I will win I still do so willingly and full of hope. Despite the loss being expected I still scream obscenities and throw things at the TV. It's really the silliest my rage can get. At this point I might even be filling out brackets for the sole purpose of having something to get angry about. I see my folly but I certainly don't see it ending any time soon, and I'm OK with that. The wins are nice even if they are few and far between. I just need to find a way to stop getting so irate about things that are obviously out of my control. More importantly I need to realize that I have no goddamn idea what the outcome of a sporting event is going to be and just chill. Although I did hear a pretty good tip about the 5th race at Hawthorne tomorrow. . . .
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
You car is not a greenhouse
I was sitting at a red light the other day, staring straight ahead and zoning out while rambling on about something to a friend. Then something caught my eye about the car in front of me. It was a Volkswagen Golf and in between the two passengers in the front seat were a couple of leaves coming off of a stalk. As I kept gawking I thought that they must be carrying a plant home with them or something of that ilk. Nope. Upon further inspection it was a bamboo plant. On the fucking dashboard.
What in God's green Earth could be the purpose of a bamboo plant in your car? Unless you are a panda longing for a snack on your lengthy morning commute there is no excuse and these were no pandas. If I saw pandas driving a car down Western Ave I'm pretty sure that would be the lead of the story. Aren't there enough distractions in a car that we don't need to add foliage to the list? Can you imagine trying to explain that the biker you just pancaked was in the blind spot created by your idiotic attempt at creating some feng shui in your German automobile?
As much as I want to blame the blithering moron who decided to turn their greenhouse into a mobile arboretum they did not act alone. Volkswagen put the idiotic idea into their pea brains but installing flower vases in their new fangled Beetles. I'm sure on the surface it sounds like a cute idea to have some flowers in your car but it's not, sorry. Unless you actually live in your car you do not have a valid reason to spruce things up by adding some flowers, and if you are living in your car I'm pretty sure that money could be used a little more wisely. For example, maybe you could clear out the back seat and plant an entire garden so that you'll have some vegetables to can and keep in the wheel well for the winter. I digress, if you do a quick search on your Google machine you will see that there are all sorts of different types of plant holders available for car use. Can you imagine the asshole who was able to patent this idea? I'd love to see how that meeting went down:
Inventor: So as you can plainly see it's a receptacle that can hold a small potted plant right next to the stereo.
Patent Officer: Why?
Inventor: Oh, I thought that would be obvious? When we live in an increasingly industrialized society it's easy for man to lose his connection to the Earth and all of the bounty that God has given us through the beauty of flowers and plants and. . .
Patent Officer: Stop. If I just give you the patent will you shut up and leave me alone?
Inventor: Of course!
I can really see no other way for that conversation to have gone. I also assume that the patents for the Brazilian Butt Lift and the Flowbee were given in a similar manner. Back to the bamboo, I like bamboo. I think it's cool that it's a grass that is sturdy enough to make scaffolding out of. I enjoy watching pandas chomp on it. But I don't want to see any of it sitting on someone's dashboard. I seriously found myself rooting for the driver to get rear ended and impale themselves on the precious little plant. If you want to decorate your car get some fuzzy dice or a little stuffed Snorlax like I used to have, just save the plants for home.
What in God's green Earth could be the purpose of a bamboo plant in your car? Unless you are a panda longing for a snack on your lengthy morning commute there is no excuse and these were no pandas. If I saw pandas driving a car down Western Ave I'm pretty sure that would be the lead of the story. Aren't there enough distractions in a car that we don't need to add foliage to the list? Can you imagine trying to explain that the biker you just pancaked was in the blind spot created by your idiotic attempt at creating some feng shui in your German automobile?
As much as I want to blame the blithering moron who decided to turn their greenhouse into a mobile arboretum they did not act alone. Volkswagen put the idiotic idea into their pea brains but installing flower vases in their new fangled Beetles. I'm sure on the surface it sounds like a cute idea to have some flowers in your car but it's not, sorry. Unless you actually live in your car you do not have a valid reason to spruce things up by adding some flowers, and if you are living in your car I'm pretty sure that money could be used a little more wisely. For example, maybe you could clear out the back seat and plant an entire garden so that you'll have some vegetables to can and keep in the wheel well for the winter. I digress, if you do a quick search on your Google machine you will see that there are all sorts of different types of plant holders available for car use. Can you imagine the asshole who was able to patent this idea? I'd love to see how that meeting went down:
Inventor: So as you can plainly see it's a receptacle that can hold a small potted plant right next to the stereo.
Patent Officer: Why?
Inventor: Oh, I thought that would be obvious? When we live in an increasingly industrialized society it's easy for man to lose his connection to the Earth and all of the bounty that God has given us through the beauty of flowers and plants and. . .
Patent Officer: Stop. If I just give you the patent will you shut up and leave me alone?
Inventor: Of course!
I can really see no other way for that conversation to have gone. I also assume that the patents for the Brazilian Butt Lift and the Flowbee were given in a similar manner. Back to the bamboo, I like bamboo. I think it's cool that it's a grass that is sturdy enough to make scaffolding out of. I enjoy watching pandas chomp on it. But I don't want to see any of it sitting on someone's dashboard. I seriously found myself rooting for the driver to get rear ended and impale themselves on the precious little plant. If you want to decorate your car get some fuzzy dice or a little stuffed Snorlax like I used to have, just save the plants for home.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Letters to the editor: The Mos Eisley of the newspaper
I know it's been a little bit since I promised a two part blog about the joys of reading the Florida Times Union while home with my parents. So long in fact that I bet one could assume that it was just a dirty lie and I would never follow through with part two. Not so fast my friend.
My favorite part of reading any newspaper in a city far from home is the letters to the editor. I feel like you can get a good glimpse of how thoroughly bat shit crazy the citizens of a populace are by reading what issues have caused them to angrily write to the paper. It is no secret that letters to the editor are rarely rational in the opinions they present. When people read something in the paper that they agree with they aren't going to head to their typewriter to write a thank you letter for such an inspiring article. It is only when someone is infuriated that the passions become deep enough to write in to the paper, and that's where things get good in my opinion. I want to read people's asinine opinions about how our country is going to hell because prayer is not allowed in school or how the local school board is conspiring to raise everyone's taxes to pay for their own yachts.
When the scandal of a burned Quran on a US military base in Afghanistan happened I knew that it would prompt some good venom from Times Union readers. Even when I expected to read some horrible things I was not prepared for one of the most hateful and ignorant letters I had ever seen published in a newspaper. While I am going to quote it pretty liberally in the rest of this blog I'll include the link in case you want to read it in it's entirety: Click Here! This is the opening lines from Totally Wrong by Frank Healey of Jacksonville:
"The recent apology by President Barrack Obama to the Afghan government for the burning of the Quaran confirms this administration's warped and pathetic opinion of the role of the US." Wow. Mr. Healey certainly doesn't pull any punches here, does he? What exactly is the role of the US in his opinion? Our military committed an act that is considered extremely offensive in Afghanistan and apologized, I don't see what the problem is with that. Things aren't exactly black and white, we aren't at war with Afghanistan. We are working along side them and want to foster friendship with their government and people, we aren't supposed to be a bully who does whatever we want while in their country. I think that in the situation an apology is a pretty reasonable response. Healey would go on to accuse the left of being weak for apologizing and groveling after every mistake the US makes. This was followed by what may be one of the most offensive things I have ever read:
"In my view, not enough Iraiqis and Afghanis died. Not enough to pay for our 7,000 dead or 41,00o wounded. Not enough to pay for their freedom. They didn't want these wars? Well, tough. They asked for them by not taking care of their own corrupt and terrorist-associated governments."
My jaw dropped after reading this. I was completely dumbfounded. Maybe I surround myself with a bunch of peace loving hippies but I have never once heard someone say that not enough people had died in a war. Ever. It doesn't matter what country they come from or what their religious or political ideas are, they are still human. You can't just throw the numbers into some equation to figure out an exchange rate of American lives to Iraqi lives and decide if the war was worth it afterward. These are people we are talking about. People with mothers, fathers, wives, husbands and children. If one person dies in a war that is too many for me. Even in the most justified wars the loss of life is still a horrendous consequence, it is never a thing to be cheered or applauded. To clarify I'm not saying that it is wrong to celebrate victory in a war, I'm saying that it is wrong to celebrate the loss of human life and clamor for more of it. Each individual death is a tragedy, albeit on a small scale, but a tragedy nonetheless. It takes a person void of all empathy and compassion to wish for more death. Mr. Healey would go on to list all the casualties from our most recent world wars and conclude:
"...the 'evil' American military industrial complex earned the freedom, prosperity and future of millions and all their descendants. They can never, ever pay us back. America apologizes to no one."
Of course, how could I forget, the entire world owes us their freedom so we can do whatever the hell we want to do at all times. Silly me. This arrogance is absolutely disgusting. Frank Healey embodies what is known as "an Ugly American." While it's fun to joke with European friends that they'd be speaking German (or more realistically Russian) if it wasn't for the good ol U S of A it's a completely different thing to actually believe that the world owes us a debt. It troubles me that there is even one person out there who thinks like this. Sadly I know that Mr. Healey is far from alone and that many of the people who read this letter nodded along approvingly the entire time. I know that lots of people like to make the argument that "the terrorists hate our freedom." I won't even begin to point out the flaws in that. But if you want to say that our freedom is what allows many Americans to have this arrogant perception of how the rest of the world needs to bow down to the US and that their lives are far less important than ours, well, then I think I understand where the hatred is coming from.
My favorite part of reading any newspaper in a city far from home is the letters to the editor. I feel like you can get a good glimpse of how thoroughly bat shit crazy the citizens of a populace are by reading what issues have caused them to angrily write to the paper. It is no secret that letters to the editor are rarely rational in the opinions they present. When people read something in the paper that they agree with they aren't going to head to their typewriter to write a thank you letter for such an inspiring article. It is only when someone is infuriated that the passions become deep enough to write in to the paper, and that's where things get good in my opinion. I want to read people's asinine opinions about how our country is going to hell because prayer is not allowed in school or how the local school board is conspiring to raise everyone's taxes to pay for their own yachts.
When the scandal of a burned Quran on a US military base in Afghanistan happened I knew that it would prompt some good venom from Times Union readers. Even when I expected to read some horrible things I was not prepared for one of the most hateful and ignorant letters I had ever seen published in a newspaper. While I am going to quote it pretty liberally in the rest of this blog I'll include the link in case you want to read it in it's entirety: Click Here! This is the opening lines from Totally Wrong by Frank Healey of Jacksonville:
"The recent apology by President Barrack Obama to the Afghan government for the burning of the Quaran confirms this administration's warped and pathetic opinion of the role of the US." Wow. Mr. Healey certainly doesn't pull any punches here, does he? What exactly is the role of the US in his opinion? Our military committed an act that is considered extremely offensive in Afghanistan and apologized, I don't see what the problem is with that. Things aren't exactly black and white, we aren't at war with Afghanistan. We are working along side them and want to foster friendship with their government and people, we aren't supposed to be a bully who does whatever we want while in their country. I think that in the situation an apology is a pretty reasonable response. Healey would go on to accuse the left of being weak for apologizing and groveling after every mistake the US makes. This was followed by what may be one of the most offensive things I have ever read:
"In my view, not enough Iraiqis and Afghanis died. Not enough to pay for our 7,000 dead or 41,00o wounded. Not enough to pay for their freedom. They didn't want these wars? Well, tough. They asked for them by not taking care of their own corrupt and terrorist-associated governments."
My jaw dropped after reading this. I was completely dumbfounded. Maybe I surround myself with a bunch of peace loving hippies but I have never once heard someone say that not enough people had died in a war. Ever. It doesn't matter what country they come from or what their religious or political ideas are, they are still human. You can't just throw the numbers into some equation to figure out an exchange rate of American lives to Iraqi lives and decide if the war was worth it afterward. These are people we are talking about. People with mothers, fathers, wives, husbands and children. If one person dies in a war that is too many for me. Even in the most justified wars the loss of life is still a horrendous consequence, it is never a thing to be cheered or applauded. To clarify I'm not saying that it is wrong to celebrate victory in a war, I'm saying that it is wrong to celebrate the loss of human life and clamor for more of it. Each individual death is a tragedy, albeit on a small scale, but a tragedy nonetheless. It takes a person void of all empathy and compassion to wish for more death. Mr. Healey would go on to list all the casualties from our most recent world wars and conclude:
"...the 'evil' American military industrial complex earned the freedom, prosperity and future of millions and all their descendants. They can never, ever pay us back. America apologizes to no one."
Of course, how could I forget, the entire world owes us their freedom so we can do whatever the hell we want to do at all times. Silly me. This arrogance is absolutely disgusting. Frank Healey embodies what is known as "an Ugly American." While it's fun to joke with European friends that they'd be speaking German (or more realistically Russian) if it wasn't for the good ol U S of A it's a completely different thing to actually believe that the world owes us a debt. It troubles me that there is even one person out there who thinks like this. Sadly I know that Mr. Healey is far from alone and that many of the people who read this letter nodded along approvingly the entire time. I know that lots of people like to make the argument that "the terrorists hate our freedom." I won't even begin to point out the flaws in that. But if you want to say that our freedom is what allows many Americans to have this arrogant perception of how the rest of the world needs to bow down to the US and that their lives are far less important than ours, well, then I think I understand where the hatred is coming from.
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