scrub 2.0

When we took our baby in for her 6 month check-up, she was big for her age. Tall, but also heavy. In fact, her weight was ahead of her height on the weight-height index or whatever they call it. The doctor assured us it was nothing to worry about.

"For the first couple of years, it really doesn't matter if they're overweight or not," she said. "But once they turn two, if they are overweight, they will probably struggle with weight for their entire lives."

What?

That doesn't seem right.

Anyway, when she went in for her one year check-up, she had sprouted up in height and had seemingly put her obesity problems behind her thanks to a daily regimen of healthy eating, good sleep and punching other kids in the face for no reason. So we relaxed.

And then came her two-year checkup, and wouldn't you know it, she got fat again. Like she's in the 80th percentile of weight to height. We'll try to help her regain her figure, but I guess she's probably screwed.

And it made me wonder, if she's screwed, if her appetites and habits are already too ingrained to change, what hope is there for poor 38 year-old fools like me?

Since I was like 7, I've taken really crappy care of myself. I don't know why exactly, probably some deep-rooted fuckedupedness, or maybe just laziness, or maybe poor self-esteem, or self-hate, or maybe because taking crappy care of yourself just feels good.

My diet is a disgrace. I've understood this for years; I've watched myself go from an awkward skinny guy to a fat guy in baggy clothes trying to fool the world. I'm not as fat as the fattest person you know but I probably eat worse food than he does. One night about 8 years ago I ran into a guy from high school at the Blue and Gold, and he was like, "Damn, you got heavy." And that was like 15 pounds ago. (P.S. for some reason I didn't box his stupid ears when he said this.)

So it's true. I need to exercise more, lose weight, and take it easy on the chunky chews. And I never do a damn thing about any of it except for acknowledging it. This condition, along with the fact that I recently shotgunnned a Pabst on a pitcher's mound, makes me an American. But being an American doesn't help me live longer or look more like the stallion that I know lives inside me. I need to make some changes, or at least promise to make some changes and then forget about them.

I have a new desk at work, and the other two people in my office are very fit. One is a woman who prepares and eats healthy meals every day. The other is a dude who is 6'5", maybe 195 pounds of lean manhood. Once or twice a day, he drops to the floor and does 50 pushups. It's pretty cool, actually. He's a fascinating character, a real-life southern gentleman with a great sense of humor and a positive attitude. He's sort of my new hero. And the woman is constantly pressuring me to eat right, to the point where the three of us and one other guy are all now eating our meals together every day -- veggie wraps that we make right in the office. So I am getting on the right track. I need to join my buddy and do some pushups, but I think hitting the wall after 3 might make me look bad.

But diet and exercise are just the first step. I need to do a bunch of stuff that will make me a better man. Here's my short list of small goals I don't expect to reach:

-Stop reading celebrity news in any format. My wife will bring home an Us Weekly and I will pretend to judge her for it for a few minutes, then I inevitably read it cover to cover myself. Celebrity gossip is the lowest form of entertainment, it's like batter-fried cheez doodles for the brain and I want you to stop reading it, too.

-Continue my semi-return to hoops. I played (and won) three full-court games on Saturday in 90 degree heat, and it made me feel 10 years younger. Then we had a terrible Sunday night softball game without DLee, and it reminded me that if I get only three hours a week to play sports, it may as well be spent playing the game I love best and not the one that actually makes me gain weight as I play.

-Buy a Wizznutzz T-shirt. I never look at Wizznutzz anymore because it crashes my Firefox every time I go there, but JCJ has one of the most original and compelling sites on the ol' intertubes. So check out their store for some awesome designs.

-Continue downloading some of the great songs you guys suggested for me. Thank you for the effort, I am far more able to rock now than I was a week ago.

-Not tell anyone the embarrassing story about how I returned my (GIFT!) iPhone to the store, had problems with the Apple staff, caused a bit of a scene, got what I wanted, and made an asshole out of myself in the process. And the assholery may not be over yet. Lesson learned. Oh, and the iPhone is pretty cool, other than the ludicrous decision to a) use the slow EDGE network that is about to get phased out and b) load full versions of websites. Loading stuff takes forever, unless you're in a hotspot. And hotspots don't really help you when you are using a MOBILE device. Anyway, I am ashamed on a number of levels about the thing but I think I'll get over it.

-Refrain from stealing cigarettes in bars. Hasn't happened in like 10 years, but it's always good to stay vigilant.

-Think more of others and less of me. Tough and generally unrewarding, but probably necessary in the end.

-Root for Stephon Marbury even though he may have some knuckles in his head. His charity stuff seems to me to be unequaled by other athletes.

-Blog at least once a week, maybe twice.

-Drink lotsa water.

-Actively hate the Red Bastards. I don't think we can catch 'em, but I want to get into the playoffs so we can possibly face them. Unfortunately, I think they have a better team this year so they might pound us, but it would be fun just to get there.

-Organize my workspace at the office. Before the juggernaut gets loose and it's too late.

-Read one book every month.

-Get more sleep. Starting right now.

If you can think of any other ways I could suck less, let me know.

101 ways to rock my ballz

Contrary to the 100% real pic above (thanks crsmal), I didn't get my iPhone yet. Just a slight delay, hopefully. Especially because my current phone died a violent death today -- it was in my pocket and I got completely drenched on my way to work (happy birthday!) and I guess the poor thing got too wet and finally fizzled out.

I did get a $100 gift certificate for iTunes, though. So I enlist you, smart bastards and bastardettes with great taste, to list for me 101 songs that I should download. Just start typing them up in the comments section with a number before each one. List as many as you like. When we get to 101 I'll pull my peter out and do a dance (in private). I don't care if they're from totally obscure artists or if they're Billy Ray Cyrus B-Sides (although I am always excited to find a new band that I might love, so if ya got one, recommend a representative tune). Thanks for your help.

If we get to 25 songs, I'll be happy.

Mike Mussina is one of the worst pitchers in the major leagues and I hate and fear the LAA.

38 not special

Ouch.

I am 38 years old today.

Old enough that I actually consider lying when people ask me my age, especially at work.

I played hoops for half an hour on Saturday against a bunch of dudes, mostly around 18-22 years old. They split us up into teams by age, and I was the oldest by far. The guy I was guarding was probably like 19 and he thought he was pretty good. I laid off him and dared him to make an outside shot. He insisted on driving and I blocked his shot like three times. On offense, I threw my fat ass around in the lane and got like 85% of the available rebounds. Then I'd roll out a few ancient head fakes and score. They started calling me "Vlade." That's what it's come to -- on a good day, my game inspires comparisons to a 55 year-old bearded Serb who looks like he's in desperate need of a shower. (Reality check: Vlade is only a year older than me and was actually well known for his extreme commitment to cleanliness.)

I'd like to fill you in with a pbdotc-style 'chicken soup' column in which I list all the things I've learned in my 38 years, but nothing comes to mind.

So let me just say that the world has been incredibly kind to me and I appreciate it with all my heart. My good breaks are way ahead of my bad breaks. I've got more than I could ever want and I love this planet as much as I did when I was 21. I can still run around and play and laugh and drink and high-five and sing like a true asshole when called upon.


Which leads me to discuss something that I really don't need.

Dudes, I didn't ask for it, I didn't plan on it, and I don't fully support it, but I am getting an iPhone today as a gift. And I will make love to it all night long.

Enjoy pbdotc's recap of Sunday night's softball in the rain. In my opinion it was the most satisfying game all season. Even if I still don't know how to shotgun a beer properly.

be the office perv!

In a previous job, I knew a guy who was a real pig. He would constantly talk about sex, and -- worse -- sex with his wife. I've said it before, but I will reiterate (and this goes out to everyone, men, women, donkeys): I DON'T WANT TO HEAR STORIES ABOUT YOUR SEX LIFE, UNLESS THEY ARE ABOUT SKANKY ONE NIGHT STANDS, IN WHICH CASE GO AHEAD I AM ALL EARS.

Talking to people at work about sex with your significant other is a screwed-up thing to do on a number of levels. One, it is a betrayal of the person you shared this intimate experience with, supposedly someone you love. There's no way your S.O. would be happy if they knew you were bragging about how you bent her/him over the kitchen counter last night as you gleefully snacked on Fritos and onion dip.

Two, it's just not that impressive. Of course you banged your S.O. -- that's part of what S.O.'s do to each other. There is no inherent thrill for the listener in hearing about this. It's like saying, "You won't believe the awesome load of garbage I took out last night." OK, maybe not that bad, more like, "Dude, did I tell you how I caught up on Entourage last night...I must have watched four episodes. It was incredible." Sex with your partner is just an assumed part of your life. Get over yourself.

Three, it's gross. You're pretty gross, your significant other is kind of gross, and the thought of the two of you grunting away, climbing all over each other like wild rodents, sweating and moaning and talking dirty to each other, is gross as hell. Yuck. Do you really think otherwise, you gross bastard?

The guy I used to work with was oblivious to the fact that he was knocking down all sorts of necessary social walls -- he would just up and talk about screwing his wife like he was a 9th grader asking you to smell his finger.

Here is a near-verbatim example:

"So my wife and I went to this wedding this weekend, and she ended up getting really drunk. She doesn't usually drink much, so she was wasted after like three drinks. We left early and I was driving home because she was such a mess. Like halfway there she starts blowing me right in the car. You know me, I'm not one to turn down sex, so I pulled over and we started going at it -- I wedged her up in the driver's seat on top of me and she was just riding me. Suddenly, in the middle of it, she barfed all over me, all over the car, all over everything. So we had to stop and go home."

At least he stopped, I guess. Whatever the case, I believe there is an art to talking filthy in the workplace, and if you do it right it doesn't bother anybody. Here is a quick guide:

1) Before saying something crude in front of a particular person or group, learn your audience. Start out with something mildly dirty and see if you get a reaction. If people laugh, they are probably open to hearing more. Better yet, wait until they say something crude. Within a few days you will be able to throw in words like "bang," "blowjob," and, eventually, "manual anal intercourse." Just take it slow, and keep it light.

2) Don't talk about actual sex you've had or, more importantly, sex you'd like to have with someone you work with. That shit is freaky as hell. Unless a) it's clearly, clearly marked as a joke with no room for misunderstanding or b) you are immensely attractive and everyone wants to get with you. This is known as the Clarence Thomas rule. If you are ugly, it's a good general guideline to avoid talking the nasty talk unless you are doing it anonymously on the internet.

3) Sometimes, to keep people off balance, grab a punch of pants material around your crotch and bunch it up in both hands to make it look like you have an enormous package. Do it in front of your female co-workers and see if they get a kick out of it. Don't blame me if they don't.

***

I am too lazy to compile an entire list, but here is a start:

Top 1980's Chick Cars

1. Volkswagen Cabriolet
2. Pontiac Fiero
3. Nissan Pulsar
4. Toyota Celica
5. Volkswagen Beetle
6. Volkswagen Jetta
7. Toyota Supra

10 points for each valid addition.

***

I can drink Pabst beer indefinitely. If you pay me $50,000, I will drink 100 cans in 48 hours.

***

RIP Scooter. Athlete, poet, gentleman.

stripperless saturday

My old friend BNew is getting married in a few weeks, so we celebrated on Saturday with an all-day bachelor affair that covered 3.1 boroughs. Stop 1 was the Yankee game. It was hot as hell outside, but luckily Deion had us covered with some shade-heavy loge seats.

In the first inning, A-Rod hit his 500th homer. I got a (very blurry) picture but later I drunkenly deleted it. Here is the celebration right afterwards. The dudes on the team seem to genuinely like the guy, although Jeter was reportedly spotted on the bench doing sudoku while all this was going on. Rookie stud Phil Hughes got the start, and he was blowing 'em away for the first couple of innings. Stupid Chant Grandmaster Deion and I agreed that it's been a long time since the Yanks had a player with two such rhymable names as "Phil Hughes." It's exciting. We had "Come on Phil, you're the king of the hill," "Come on Hughes, make 'em sing the blues," "Come on Phil, toss that pill" and a bunch of others that showed promise.

The only problem was that Hughes ran out of steam early, and despite being staked to a big lead, let the Royals all the way back to 6-6. This led to a more somber chant:

Luckily, the Yankee bats kept pounding, and we walked away with a 16-8 win. After a stop at Deion's where we refueled our brains and bellies with liquor, it was off on an hourlong drive through the Bronx and Brooklyn. We may have even dipped our toes in Queens for a minute or two. Bachelor BNew was taking it easy on the booze and was nice enough to drive. We cranked up the stereo, opened up that hybrid engine and tore through the pseudo-highways and backstreets of America's finest town. I was pleased with myself for calling shotgun on such a long ride.

After we stopped at the Puma's house so Bnew and Puma could pants up for our fancy Brighton Beach dinner, we got back in the car. I nailed the shotgun call again after a spirited sprint with Deion, but he made a sexy face so I let him have it for our ride to Stop #2: Coney Island.

We met up with DLee outside the Cyclone at around 8:15. Coney Island was gorgeous: a bright, bustling scene full of people from every race, class and hairstyle. I couldn't get enough of it.

I pursued some of my own fun before we even hit the rides. Shit like this used to be easier, but now it's got an element of possible disaster that makes it more exciting.

The Puma muscled up to make sure the locals knew to stay back.

I was drunk. I was talking bullshit at a mile a minute and soaking in the greatness of Coney Island, NYC, USA.
We only had about 20 minutes to kill, which proved to be enough time for one thrilling ride on the Cyclone. That shit is intense, especially with about 8 beers inside ya. Ask Pete and Lara.

We had to hustle to get to Brighton Beach for our 9pm reservation at Tatiana's. Maybe we should have just eaten Nathan's instead.

We got to Tatiana's and there was some confusion about our reservation. Apparently they couldn't find it in the book. Probably my fault, but we didn't let it get us down. We sat outside and ate like kings for $45 a head. Deion put on a courageous display of vodkanian machismo and got a little sleepy as a result.

DLee ordered up some awesome food for all of us, and kept the booze flowing.

There are certain rules you should always follow in life. Never buy weed from a guy with less than two Pierres in his name, and stay the hell away from vodka with bears fucking on the label.
As someone who has stepped in and ruined many other people's photos through the years, I salute this guy.

We headed down to the beach after dinner, but it was cordoned off. No matter -- DLee is as spry as a 25 year-old.
My trip down ended with a grotesque Kerry Strug landing, but I was no worse for the wear, other than some sand in my pants and in the ridges of my cell phone. We coaxed a sleepy Deion down to the beach.
We briefly considered going in the water. That would have been dumb. I'm usually in favor of dumb.
Instead, we went back to Coney Island. It was less crowded but the regulars were still doing their thing.



Reason #1328 that Coney Island is better than your amusement park: they don't close the place down until all the customers have had enough. I asked 'em how late they were open, and the guy was like, "We'll see." We got back there around midnight and it was still kicking. We went for like 5 more cyclone rides and abused the hell out of each other on the bumper car circuit. We only got turned away from one ride due to intoxication, and it looked like it had a high probability of barf-inducement, so it was just as well. We were getting pretty ugly at this point.

Me and DLee went on Topspin. It was pretty fierce, although I was such a babbling lout at this point that I was acting like only a hero could conquer it. "Let's do this, people," I shouted down the line to a bunch of unimpressed teenagers.

On the way out, we rode the cyclone like four more times. Tickets cost $6 a person, unless there's no line, in which case you can ride again for $4 cash.

Happy Bachelor Party BNew, and here's to your future!

Thanks for putting up with everything with a smile on your face.

***

Excellent iPhone captions last week. 25 points to the winner, Isired, with his caption of "Yeeeaaahhh!! I got my 2008 paperweight today! Who's next?"

I liked 'em all, and inxe's simple "My life is complete" summed it up perfectly and gets 19 GP's.

the open man

I guess I've mentioned 6 or 8 times on here that Kevin Garnett is my favorite basketball player. Probably ever. I don't even know that much about him. But I get the sense that he is a righteous man in almost every way. And I think that righteousness reveals itself in how he plays ball. He may not be the ultimate 'winner' -- the guy who will get pissed, take over a game and destroy the opponent all by himself. He's more of an "I'm excellent every day, all day, forever" kind of dude, which is interesting because he is also one of the most intense and competitive players in any sport. But rather than score 35 a night, even when that is the thing that would benefit his team the most, he chooses to spread the ball around, clinging to the probably naive belief that the open man is the right man to take the shot, no matter his name, no matter his salary, no matter his ability. The sad thing is that in Minnesota, that open man was never good enough and kept getting worse. But Garnett kept looking for him, encouraging him, believing in him. Trusting that more help was on the way. It was only in the last couple of weeks that he realized help wouldn't arrive until it was too late, until he was no longer good enough to use it.

You could probably legitimately criticize him as an athlete for this openheartedness; I choose to applaud him. He plays the game the way he lives his life: with a love and respect for his fellow man. Every time I hear him speak, I can't help thinking: there is a person of tremendous depth and humanity.

Now, in Boston, the open man is going to be Ray Allen. When it's not Ray Allen, it's gonna be Paul Pierce.

And on some nights, the open man is gonna be KG himself.

how old am i?

Still tallying up the votes for iPhonedorkdat, and you can still send in any new captions you come up with.

I was just thinking: in every idiotic baseball announcer's mind, it is clear as day that a pitcher wants to avoid walks. They quote the old "leadoff walk scores xx.y% of the time" stat to illustrate this. Never mind that leadoff singles probably score the exact same % of the time and leadoff doubles even more, triples more than that and home runs close to 100% of the time. The basic argument "walks=bad" is a sound one. Walks = baserunners. Walks = not outs. Avoid walks, pitchers!

So if even the most narrow-minded, conventional baseball bullshit announcers/managers/GM's can grasp this, why are they often unable to apply the opposite rule for hitters? Hitters who walk a lot are more valuable than those who walk less. I mean, I guess everybody gets this by now, but announcers still talk about guys who never walk and end up with .326 OBP's as valuable commodities just because they hit .280 (see Juan Pierre). This is wrong. The walk is where it's at. I knew it when I was 13.

I had a million dollar idea today, although it probably already exists:

howoldami.com

It's similar to amihotornot.com. You would post a picture of yourself (or soomebody else) and site visitors would vote on how old they thought you were. Once they voted, they could see your actual age and the average guess.

For instance, howoldami (only guess if you don't have any idea)?

This would be fun shit, yes? I could start this thing, sell some smut ads in the sidebar, and retire in like 8 months.

Although I'm sure it already exists. Dammit.

Edit: Curiosity got the better of me and I checked the url. It exists, and it's almost exactly what I thought it would be. Just like the Bears.