Rib Off Induced Malaise

Tonight is Rib Off Eve. It's a night that for the last 12 years has found me putting the finishing touches on what I believed to be the best BBQ sauce in the world. Time for printing out table tents, magnets, making t-shirts with my catchy new sauce name.

Instead I'm sitting here in the back yard, thinking about my study strategy for the upcoming MicroEcon/International Trade final exam. My thoughts are constant interrupted by fantasies of kicking Big Daddy's ass and winning First Place like I did that first year. Alas, it is not to be.(Cash has taken on a new importance to me and those tuition bills are a little more intimidating than they were the first time - I don't have as much time left to pay all of it off. )

The Rib Off, for those fans who are not familiar, is a yearly competition hosted by Chinese Chicken Salad in which a large number of our college friends convene in Bowling Green, Ohio with grills, racks of ribs, gallons of homemade bbq sauce and marketing materials. We eat a lot of pork, drink beer and compliment each other on how witty our sauce names are. Allegedly, he who makes the best sauce wins. (I say "allegedly" because I am bitter and paranoid.)

I haven't missed one in 11 years. All of my homework this week had to do with predicting volumes of pork sold and the price of pork sold. It was torture. Since I won't be there this year, these are my predictions for the winners (based on a complex multiple regression computer model with an R-square of .98799):

1. Big Daddy (he's not entering a sauce but hey, like that matters for him. He'll win because his wife is hot - like he always does.)
2. Someone from Columbus (Columbus always comes in second)
3. Someone I've never met.

Damn I'm going to have a hard time getting through the day tomorrow knowing what's going on and that I'm not there. The Rib Off is the only bright spot in this miserable existence known as "late thirties". I will drown my sorrows tonight as I sit here in my 2006 Rib Off T-shirt.

Team Cleveland (and all subsidiaries) ROCKS (still - even though they all have kids and shit).

General Malaise

What is it?
I'm having a period of general malaise. Things aren't bad. I'm not depressed. I've been back to the gym - Zumba woo hoo - and eating well; watching movies and going out; having a fantastic Harry Potter weekend; working hard; and yet, I'm just not feeling really in to it. Nothing seems all that terribly exciting. Maybe it's because my life was so darned exciting for the past few years that the comedown of (desired) normalcy seems kind of blah. Or maybe it's because I put off so many things for so long that I want to experience everything at once all the time. Or maybe this is what being an adult in your mid-thirties is all about and, although I thought I was ready to come down, I'm not.
Wow, this blogging is dangerous. What's that about the unexamined life.....maybe it's really the best way to live.

The Man I've Always Wanted to Be

I get a lot of spam. Lately I've been getting 3 or 4 spam emails a day offering to help me become the man I've apparently always wanted to be. It's kind of starting to bother me.

I've always been a tomboy. I have always preferred climbing trees, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer to putting on make up, wearing pink or got forbid, a skirt. Lately I've been trying to change some of that. I'm nearing 40 so I'm shying away from the tree climbing. However, I'm embracing the cigarette smoking and drinking beer more.....while wearing make up, pink, and skirts. (It's as confusing for me as it is for you - sometimes it even involves nail polish.)

So, this influx of spam asking me if I want to become the man I've always wanted to be has me in a bit of a quandary. How does the Internet know I'm a tomboy? And do they really think that makes me want to be a man? I like being a girl that can drink her husband under the table AND kick his ass in soccer. I don't want a penis. It'll just ruin everything. Do I write them back and tell them to email people I hate instead of me? Do I acquire a deep-seated self-hatred and begin to question my sexuality? What do I do?

Damn spam. Life used to be so simple.

David Beckham - Welcome to the US

I know, all the Summer fans are dying to know what I'll post today - the day that David Beckham officially held the LA Galaxy jersey for the first time (because you all know what a big fan I am).

I'll admit, I played into the hype. I waited until today to order my LA Galaxy David Beckham jersey (which is, incidentally, BACKORDERED) just so my sale would count toward the hype. I rushed home to watch the replays of the press conference. Tonight I wore my Manchester United Beckham jersey. Tomorrow I'll wear my Real Madrid Beckham jersey. I have the DVR set to record the Beckham reality show on Monday night.

He is a very good looking man.

Don't get me wrong - I love the futbol. I love Man United. I root for the USA and England in the World Cup. My dog is named Owen Beckham after Michael Owen and David Beckham. Until recently, I had a subscription to United magazine (the currency conversion got a little too heavy for me). I watch all the matches I can. I have people over for the significant matches - derbys and such.

I've also seen Beckham play for Manchester live, IN Manchester, which was cool. Is he the greatest? Probably not. Is he pretty fucking good? Hell yeah. I like that when people give him shit and try to make his life a living hell, he always rallies and does something amazing - becomes Captain of the English team after a horrible sending off in the World Cup, help his team win the Primera Liga in Espana after being told he was never going to play again. The man kicks ass. In a very unique-studied-by-physicists sort of way. I like that.

And he's very pretty.

Dead Pool Update

I received a text message today that required me to look through the old Summer blogs (back when we actually had readers that weren't just posters) that made me realize I have a responsibility to give an update on the Dead Pool given the death of Lady Bird Johnson.

Three people, two of whom are posters to this blog, participated in the Dead Pool for 2007. The picks were as follows:

Cookie's picks for 2007 (assuming these folks weren't already dead - because he has a habit of picking dead people): 1. Fidel Castro 2. Bea Arthur 3. B.B. King

My picks (Mavis B.) for 2007: 1. Abe Vigoda 2. Kirk Douglas 3. Fidel Castro Powerball: Jessica Simpson

Playing with the Squirrels picks: 1. Robert McNamara 2. Henry Kissinger 3. Queen Elizabeth II Powerball: Ann Coulter

All of these people (some of them unfortunately) are still alive (Ann Coulter, Jessica Simpson).

Because of low participation, I think we should have a New Year's In July celebration. If you read this blog, you have until Midnight, July 21st to comment to this entry (or any entry) on Have a Nice Summer and pick your Dead Pool Candidates. You can't pick anyone who dies between now and then.

The Grand Prize consists of Extreme Bragging Rights which includes Trash Talk and Insulting People's Mothers and Ethnic Heritage (only amongst your closest friends).

Rules, for the unfamiliar, are as follows:

WELCOME TO THE DEAD POOL

The concept is quite simple. To quote Stiffs.com, “Pick some famous people you think are going to die soon. Whoever gets the most right wins.”

You get to pick three famous people that you think are going to take the dirt nap in 2007. $10 used to get you three celebrity picks. For an additional $5 you could play the Powerball. Now it's just free on this blog.

The Rules

Definition of “Celebrity” or “Famous People” – For our purposes, these are defined as anyone whose death is listed in Time Magazine. Therefore, the list cannot include your grandmother, pet parakeet or favorite fifth grade teacher.

Under no circumstances may you encourage, pay for or participate in the death of any celebrity.

All ballots must be posted in a Comment on this blog by 11:59PM, July 21. Any ballots placed in any other unauthorized location, will be ineligible. .

Powerball Pick

The Powerball Pick is a Wild Card Celebrity – one that is not likely to die. For example, Phil Hartman or Ashley Olsen (but not Mary-Kate - she's Anorexic).

To qualify as a Powerball, a celebrity must meet ALL of the following criteria:
Under the age of 55.
No known drug or alcohol problems.
No known health problems.
No known risky behaviors (i.e. race car driving or crocodile hunting)
No blood relation to the Kennedy family (Example: If not for known drug usage, Schwarzenegger would be eligible. Maria Shriver would not.)
No Death Row Inmates.

(These Rules were written in 2002-2003. Funny they should mention Crocodile Hunting as a Risky Behavior. As we all know, it turns out that Stingrays were the ones to worry about.)

World Tour Update

Just in case anyone was wondering, I've surpassed the half-way mark on my World Tour of Beers and I'm rounding the corner on about 30 or so beers left (of 100). That's not to say I have only had 70 or so beers since January 17th, it's just saying that I've had 70 of them at a Winking Lizard. And I have a blanket to show for it. Which is more than most of you have to show for all the beer you've drank, so there.

The only bad beer I've had is a Shiner Bock. It's so bad I can't ever remember the name of it. I have to ask DMC every time. I think it was the only beer in my lifetime that tasted like I threw up in my mouth - before I actually threw up in my mouth. I couldn't drink another beer after it (which is odd, if you know me). I would go as far as to say it was.... traumatic. I may never recover.

Now, they say, "Don't Mess with Texas" but frankly, this is one time where I think Texas messed with me first. That beer sucks.

Thank God for Yuengling - although the company can't afford to ship their beer to Ohio (which is right next fucking door to Pennsylvania for the geographically retarded), at least they're only a two hour drive away. Since everyone from Ohio is from Pennsylvania anyway, there's also always someone heading that way who is willing to pick up a case or two for us. Now, at least that shit is tasty.

Why Yuengling is not on the tour is only because of the backward's intra-state trade crap between OH and PA (per the Winking Lizard Beer Dude via email). Or someone is a dumbass. One of the two.

Things I Hate/Love About My Backyard

1. Fucking baby raccoons. Why did they pick a tree in the corner of MY yard? Why didn't they pick one of the fifty fucking trees in a 1/2 block radius (which are much bigger and much higher and much more protective, in my opinion) that do not overhang a yard with two bark-o-matic Beagles? Fuckers, with their little hands. I hate them. I've hated them for a long time - since that altercation on South College in Bowling Green.

2. Leaf blower/yard tiller/car vacuum dude who lives behind me. He also has a couple of large, loud barking dogs. He runs his leaf blower/yard tiller/car vacuum ALL DAY Saturdays and Sundays. And his stupid barking dogs aggravate the......bark-o-matic Beagles in MY yard. And yet he has the nerve to distribute a flyer in the neighborhood with a picture of a Beagle that looks remarkably like Owen Beckham with the heading: "LOST DOG: TASTES LIKE CHICKEN." Fucker.

3. Stupid Momma Birds that throw their babies out of the nest too soon. This makes it MY responsibility to chase the little fuckers around the yard, coaching them on, saying "You can do it!" I swear the baby bird last night was talking back to me. Desperately, I do this for a couple hours because I don't want the Beagles to eat them. Like they do all the baby bunnies.

4. Baby Bunnies. Why have your babies in my BACK yard you dumb ass rabbits. You know the survival rate is 2 of 3 based on the last 3 years. And that's only because of my intervention. Aren't all the dead moles/voles an indication?

5. Moles/Voles. I don't know the difference. I just know something like them seem to die a lot in my yard. They're mutilated so I can't tell if there are eyes or not. (I think no eyes means their voles.) Anyway, just before I find a dead one, I find a portion of the garden torn to shreds. Coincidence? I think not.

Things I Like About My Yard:
1. Perennials - Finally, all the flowers with none of the work. And less mulching.

2. Awesome Patio - with fireplace, where I am sitting right now using my wireless internet at 9:30 at night, drinking beer and writing a blog.

3. Fence. Hides big fat guy with a hot tub next door. Don't want to see that. Also hides me in my pool.

4. Pool. Blow up, 18" deep, with cup holders. I think DMC bought it because of the big boobed woman on the box but hey, I'm not complaining. I think I've increased a cup size just today, given the tan factor and the illusion of 3-d that accompanies it.

5. Toads. I like 'em. They're cute. There's a couple different kinds. They don't pee on me now that I'm older. The dogs don't eat them. If you step on them, they don't seem to mind. They don't get squished - you just pick them up and move 'em elsewhere. Very nice.

Finally, reality TV I will watch!

I just saw an ad for a new reality tv show that I may actually watch. It premieres this Sunday July 15 at 10:30 on VH-1. Are you ready for it......."Scott Baio is 45 and single". That's all I am going to say.

Morrissey, or being an old fart

Last night I saw Morrissey at Wolftrap (beautiful venue). It was a surprisingly good show. He was beautiful and suave, very Morrissey-like in his almost Bryan Ferry way. Took his shirt off to reveal middle-aged hairy chest. Still kind of sexy, though.
Anyway, he was playing a few old numbers (read: Smiths) that I love and know well. The crowd, mostly old folks like me, were in the same boat.
Here's where I have my problem. Although I like much of the newer Morrissey stuff (see First of the Gang to Die, You Have Killed Me), I'm particulary attached to songs like How Soon is Now or Please Let Me Get What I Want. But, does it make Morrissey feel bad when we're all excited for material he released decades ago and provide a mediocre response to new material that I expect he's proud of and worked hard on. You see, it's even worse, because Morrissey is a really generous performer. He touched practically everyone in the first three rows and accepted cards and notes from all who delivered them. He even put them in his pocket or displayed them against the drum kit. It was really nice (although I think it's weird that people want to pass Morrissey a note at the concert).
For myself, although you could certainly see the excitement in my body language when one of my favorite old songs came on, I tried to applaud equally throughout, showing my appreciation for all of his work. Think of how sad you would feel if everyone thought you peaked in 1985. Morrissey is sad enough already.
Partial set list of songs I recognized well:
The Queen is Dead
Last of the Famous International Playboys
You Have Killed Me
Girlfriend in a Coma
Everyday is like Sunday
Boy with aThorn in his Side
Please Let Me Get What I Want
First of the Gang to Die
How Soon is Now

Holiday Bliss

The day before the holiday is not the appropriate time to phone your doctor's office in a state of panic because you can't count your fucking vicodin. We have heard all your excuses, lost the prescription in a fire, it was stolen, I dropped them in the toilet, my mom took them, and we don't believe anything you say. Next time, prepare for the future by letting us know before you have ONE pill left. This is not hard to do. When you see the number of pills dwindling away, call us then. Your lack of planning is not my emergency. Have a nice holiday, you drug addicted jackasses. God, I love my job.

have a nice life

I keep backspacing over things i'd like to write here. I need to grow my bloglegs i guess.
I'll start with a poem.

I hear the waves shift to shore,
Distant movements
bring my energy to the fore.
My whole life in one wave
is starting to feel
like one big i gave.
Watching the sun move
slyly behind the tree,
tells me don't effort to prove.
My whole life in another wave
looks like
an arduous journey i did pave.
Smelling the sweet wood
rot on the drift
I know even decompensation is good.
My whole life in a wave
will always be
overcoming death with much to save.

Geek Radio

So, I'm enjoying a nice fire in my backyard fireplace, listening to the local college radio station (wbwc at Baldwin-Wallace) and the name of the show is The Garage - Geek Radio. DMC and I are drinking Yuengling (all varieties-Black and Tan, Light, Regular and Lord Chesterfield).

The DJ starts talking about some cable show and the fact that it named an episode, "Fear, Itself". I thought, "Gee, that's the title of a Buffy the Vampire Slayer Episode." I immediately feel embarrassed because I know that. Yet, I'm not ashamed that I love BTVS. In fact, I'm currently purchasing the Episode 8 Comic Books as close to the date of their release as I can. This was the first comic book I ever purchased (and I was inclined to tell the comic book geek at the counter that when I bought it.)

Anyway, the radio geek goes on to explain that this cable show purposefully named their episode after the Buffy episode. I felt geeky because I had already called that. Then I remembered that I named the blog after a Buffy episode. I felt more geeky.

I suck.