C'MON NEW DECADE - LET'S DO THIS

What news, what life, what a time we are a part of. 2009. The two thousands. A year littered with death, disgrace, tragedy and scandal, heightened by the ways of an ultra intrusive and insensitive time - a 'need to know right now' time seen like no other. Has '09 been the penultimate year of the untimely celebrity passing, the free fall fluttering from grace, the liar, the cheater and the redeemer alike? The air of '09 is thick with controversy on the biggest of scales - and the outlets that eagerly and unabashedly promote them. MJ, Tiger, A-Roid. A T an M, a Z, an S.I. and a self proclaimed, "Queen of All Media." Blogs, Twits, spaces and faces. Faces are the key. Every face has a story, every story an audience, every audience a potential dollar sign - no matter how mundane, ridiculous, irrelevant or unnecessary, as long as it has bite. Every letter, colour and Internet connection is worthy of such attention. What did '08 have? Kwayme, Obama and bail-outs. The hype surrounding the election of a first ever black president was huge, but not as huge as the King of Pop's 'untimely death' - or rather his 'overdue overdose.' Does the turning over of a decade promote an increased desire to or rather addiction for turning over stories, whether they be true, half- false, rumoured or speculated hearsay? The 'real' dig deep truth of the matter doesn't well, matter any more - just as long as there are photos/videos and or/printable evidence to prove or disprove and a site to upload them onto in record speed - it's definitely believable, no matter how deceived or falsified they appear to be. If it can be seen it can be believed. Believe me. I do. C'mon new decade - let's do this.

I hope you have fun The near and the dear one - The old and the young. -

So this is Christmas. And what have you done? Well John, I received nothing on this December 25th except a Christmas Cold. Literally. (We are doing the gift thing on Boxing Day b/c the whole family has not yet arrived). Anyhow, yes...it's a weird feeling I'm feeling on this all hallowed of holidays. No Katie, no snow, no sister, no sleep. Nothing but the sniffles, sneeze fits, sore throats, Mom's meds and drizzly grey boo-hooey nonsense. Oh well. The holidays are slowly but surely losing their luster for this guy right here. Something needs to be done to get it back to how it used to be. A time machine decked in holly that runs only on cookies and milk? A spike in the popularity of trading cards? How about some god dang snow already? That would be a nice start. Mom says I need to fend off my cold with some sleep and whiskey. Dad says I should try vodka. I wonder what Grandma will suggest. Blank stares and careless laughter? Oh well. Got to get back up into the spirit of the season. Hard to do when the dullest of days is more mirror than view. Maybe Katie will call soon. Shit. Happy Christmas World and Beyond. Gotsta go and catch another countdown/best of/top what ever bullshit of '09.

C'MON MAN

Well, well, well. My, my, my. Ho, ho, ho. Christmas time is here again and once again I'm broke - already! It's here (the holiday) and I have no money (the bills), that is. It seems like Santa just broke into my house last week, slid his rotund behind down my chimney yesterday and and ate all my food a couple of hours ago - but isn't that how it goes nowadays? A year is a few months like a day is only seconds long. Time flies when you're jobless, thirty and cold. Once again I have no money to buy anybody I care about anything, but since giving and receiving and selfish greed is not in the spirit of the season, I'm in the clear. But where is the dang snow already? C'mon man. Toss me some of the white stuff and I'll give ya the right stuff. The Holiday Spirit I mean... NKOTB forever.

DANG

Chris Brown is no longer involved in tweeting. Even though I've never been on a twitter-type-page-thing-a-ma-jing, I know this. How you may ask or not even care? Well, last night as I watched one of the few channels I receive sort of clearly on my trusty 12 inch early 90's tv - he told me. No, not Benny Hinn, Rick the Temp or that googly eyed sham-wowin', slap-choppin' product pitchman. No, it wasn't even mega nuisance, super bitch, "I'm gonna getchya," Nancy Grace. Nope, none of those losers. Conan O'Brien it was. Everybody's favourite goofy looking, goofier acting super tall red-headed Irish late night television host. What is this world coming to?!?! I get the news from Conan and none from CB? Which zero list nobody is next I ask? Hailey Duff? Lindsay Lohan's psychotic/pathetic father? Pete Wentz, Tara Reid or a Kardashian? If CB isn't tweetering anymore, then what's the point? If I can't follow in real time, the goings on of a nineteen year old, Ri-Ri beating, half ass dancing hack of a rapper - then what's the point? C'mon endless and mindless unfiltered entertainment, I'm thirstin' for the juice over here! This is what you think about when you've been studying all day, it's cold out and you've drank way too much strong coffee. Dang. Well at least we still have twenty four seven around the clock tales of Tiger transgressions. Too bad I'm losing interest quicker than Elrick is sponsors. "Breaking News! Tiger has not yet been spotted but Elin has - and without her wedding ring! So help us God!"

That is ALL

She sure is a blowin' out there tonight. And I'm not talking about number twelve. Or is it thirteen? Go Tiger! Anyways, it's windy as all hell and I'm glad as all shit to have some thick plaster walls, functioning heat and a secure roof to sleep under this 'eve. Dangit! Today would have been an awesome day to surf or fly a kite or sail a boat down the boulevard at twenty knots (37 kph) starboard, port, and then starboard bound again - because without any flowing water, the only current to toss my ship is the reckless swaying of the thrashing wind. I could go outside and catch a cold, frostbite or some stray street trash in the eye or on the cheek - but I'm inside...remember?!?!?! I'll go out when I have to. Like, when I have to walk to school. Or go to the store for margarine. Or put out the trash/recycling box. Or check the mail for unwanted bills and/or junk/joke/trash mail. (PS - the only mail I like to receive is that which is sent from Kingsville) There is no use to go outside into the dying death of Dr. Cold when you pay for a place to live in that is warm. And furnished. I am not homeless. I do not plan on competing in any ultra-psycho-death-before-quitting-no-chance-in-survival marathons - and therefore do not need to train for such an event. No one has to place me outside, tightly bundled and toasty so as to help my blood circulate better. I've never iced fished and don't want to start today. The river down the street from me is not frozen over, but I'm not so sure pedestrian entry is allowed anyhow. With all the freighters, deadly currents, crappy fish and such. That is all.

A LA BREAKING NEWS!!!!

Yes, okay... so Tiger has had a few extramarital affairs. Maybe more than just a few. A bunch? A wack load? Too many? Not enough? A double bakers dozen? I don't know. Well one is too many in the eyes of morality, truth and righteousness, so ten plus and counting must be absurd, hell-bound, uncalled for - or one expansive tally des booties. Good for him. Well, good for his sexual drive, curiosity and locker room bragging, but not so good for his marriage, million dollar endorsement deals, (he'll lose some but not all, and probably get a few new ones too) and overall squeaky clean image and reputation on the course - give or take a few pissed off outbursts, club smashes and evil peers into gallery. Everyone in America cheats and divorces and shoots and shoots up and fills up and eats and smokes and drinks and pukes and fights and well - who cares? Losing money is not an issue to Tiger but losing face (the face he has built up with hard work, time and a lot of back swings) and the trust of his Swedish wife and mother of his children are. He could pay off ten million random chicks at a million a bang and still be left with over four hundred million in the bank. (Facts do not include factual information or the amount Eldrick will eventually have to pay off Elin - but he is filthy f'n rich alright!) Oh well. You win some you lose some. There's always the next hole, the next round, the next tournament, and there's always a lot of blonde haired and blue eyed beauty's in Sweden, but... These days, aren't there more important things to waste precious thinking power on other than Swedes, cheats and hush money? Do we really care this much about Tiger's private penile performances? Coast to coast conquests? His 'round the world whirlwinds? His unrelenting desire to have sex with someone other than his wife? I understand he is golf's best player and one of black America's most recognizable and influential living faces (eg. Oprah, Barack, Tony Dungy, Bill Cosby, Osama, and Wesley Snipes)- but there has to be something else out there. Baseball. Like how the Yankees are ruining the game I love with their astronomical and untouchable pay roll. It's the New York Bronx Bombin' unbeatable All-Stars vs. the rest of a league full of joke-loser nobodies with no chance in hell of winning. Play Ball! Yes, as December and Christmas roll in I'm worried about a golfer and baseball. I should be worried about the two essays and exams I should be delving into, but instead I'm delving into this blog. Ahhhhh! I should be counting my pennies, working the crowd or making a list and checking it twice! Instead, I'm glued to the TMZ or the MTV or the OMG for news of a new one. Another porn star? Vegas party slut? Are any of them black? Elin's best friend? His mother in law? This all means something. I must find out. No, but seriously...Isn't anyone worried about global warming anymore? Has Al Gore's relevance left town along with his will-power, self-respect and scientifically backed theory on atmospheric pollution and natural sources which will produce higher temperature changes in turn melting the glaciers? Aliens? Candy apple razor blades? How about the threat of nuclear and/or terrorist attacks? The Russians? Quebec? Tom Cruise? Bad cholesterol? Good cholesterol? Teacher/Student romances? What the hell have John Gosselin and Michael Lohan been up to in the past week? Is the tale of Tiger's wayward wang not only news but an even more perverted form of up to the minute ticker tracking trashy tv and magazine watching pure entertainment? Of course it is. Par for the course is the enrapture of America and beyond with Woods' wild tee-shot, for we all love a spectacular meltdown, especially on Sunday, on the last hole in front of everyone - a la Greg Norman, who just recently split from former tennis ace Chris Evert. Coincidences? The Shark? Tiger? Former blond star athlete? Former blond bikini model? The parallels are uncanny. Someone get Perez Hilton on the line. Now, or at east Katie or my mom, 'cause I have breaking news!

Back, back, back...up against the wall, he jump's and he's got it!

Hi... Back again after a little turn in the spin cycle. Of life. And boy am I sore. Been busy playing hockey, writing papers, shredding riffs, getting cold, also tired, laying out, skating hard, pulling ribs, doing shows, staying up, taking meds (for my ribs) reading books, switching computers, walking fast, cooking vegetables, colliding hard, spending nothing, sleeping less and moving friends - next door. Anyways, yeah...I haven't typed any thoughts out onto computer screens in a while because well, I didn't feel like it. But today I do. It's cold and getting freezing. Soon it will be unbearable. An ice funnel pouring colds chilly breath over my body like a nasty wind of tongues. Rigid hands, frozen feet and numb faces galore. Thank goodness I have a big and warm insulated goose down woman's winter coat, a nice fitting Ireland toque and some killer boots. Thanks Mom and Dad and Mom again, because I'd probably still be running around with a baseball cap, old hoody and hole-filled sneakers complaining about the cold. Anyways, besides the pursuing madness of winter, something that is beyond my control, I have yet another nagging injury (ie. pinched sciatica nerve, tender hip, etc.) that is a result of my lack of control, age and my inability to realise this [my age]in time to stop what now hurts a lot. A number of head first dives, too many awkward and reactionary twists and turns, and two hard core, head on chest and rib smashing on ice collisions later - I find myself in tremendous pain in the rib area - but still with the urge and desire to play. What do I do, I ask my self and Katie and then myself again? Do I still play, which I very much want to do? Or take some time off? Needless to say, Katie and I differ in opinion on this matter. It's [ice hockey] extremely fun, great exercise and I'm getting better with each trip to the rink. Besides the puck off the cheek, burning lungs and lack of goalies - it's the best ten bucks I can spend. While my ability to accept a pass, take a one timer and make smart, on the spot decisions are getting better - my health is not. It makes sense. I finally find something to do during the winter months that doesn't involve eating, sleeping or drinking and this happens. I may have to take a little time off from some puck if I am to heal up, perhaps a 1-3 week stint on the IR depending upon the x-ray results (which were, surprisingly negative. Meaning, I must have teared the f out of my rib muscle or something because it f'n hurts big f'n time). Sure, the adrenalin and macho-ness on the ice helps minimize the pain, but where's all that adrenaline when I'm trying to get out of bed or bend over and tie my shoe? It's gone. All of it left on the ice with my sweat, skate grooves and the screw that I knocked out of that guy's helmet when I smoked him in the a slot a few Friday's back. For the record, I had the puck and was about to shoot. And for two, the guy was on my team. And for three, he was skating way too fast and cutting too close no matter what he was trying to do. Relax buddy. We all know you're a speedy guy with some half decent moves who really likes break-aways. We know this because you cherry pick even when there are no goalies. How exciting it must be to break in alone on an undefended net. Wow. Good for you man. Why don't you try playing some defence or passing once and a while, you know, to someone else besides yourself. Because, it's also fun to set some one else up from time to time with a sweet feed, like real hockey players do. Or back check. Or skate back wards. I actually feel pretty good about standing you up during a no-contact mid-day pick-up game and staring over your motionless body in pity. Well, that's what's up's with's me's. We'll talk again, I'm sure of it. Bye.

SEE YA AROUND LITTLE BUDDY

Last week wasn't the best of weeks, that is for sure. I got nailed with the triple threat of shitty happenings. The Xbox stopped working out of nowhere, my five year old hastily assembled yet impossibly reliable beast of a PC crashed and my cat died. Yes, Coppertoes, my furry little best friend is gone. I could not care less about the console and the computer b/c they are fixable (and have since been) but Coppertoes is not coming back. Ever. I realized this after the third day went by and he was still missing. If he goes out at night he usually always comes back before bed time, and if he does happen to stay out all night (which he does on occasion), he is always back first thing in the morning (10 am at the latest)- especially if it is cold out, which it was the night he left and those after. I searched everywhere for him for three straight days. In and out of the alleys, up and down the roads, and everywhere around the vicinity of my house and the yards around me - that of which I could see. Nothing. I saw nothing, heard nothing and found nothing. No dead orange cats, injured orange cats or lost orange cats trying to find their way back to their safe, warm, happy home. My little cute and cuddly buddy seemed to have vanished before my eyes, and there was nothing I could do about it. After the third full day of him missing I was emotionally coming to the realization that I might not ever see him again, but physically and mentally I was not so sure. Every little noise, scratch, tick and creak I heard I thought was him, pawing at the window or meowing to be let back in. But it never was. It was always the clock. A car. Or maybe just my mind. I must have looked out of the window and opened the front door one thousand, maybe two thousand times in three days, each time less and less expecting him to be sitting there on top of the chair, like he always was - but wishing deeply that he were. I even searched the basement relentlessly, though I knew he wasn't down there. But, where could he have gone? I began crafting unreasonable and impossible scenarios about what could have happened. Was he trapped somewhere? On a roof or in an abandoned car or house? Was he lost? Or was he just out partying with his buddies? Did someone happen to take in a smiling and pudgy three and a half year old orange male cat with one black whisker and a little heart birth mark on his lower tummy? Maybe. But doubtful. Extremely doubtful. Upon conjuring this last hopeless and desperate angle as to his whereabouts I began peering suspiciously into people's front windows, in hopes of finding him that way. Nope. No matching silhouettes. Deep in my gut of reasonable but pessimistic thinking I knew that something was wrong. We have after all, been roommates for the last three years(give or take a day here or there and those two and a half months two summers ago when I lived in Kingsville and he lived with Jenne) - and it was not like him to be out so long. The cat came back the very next day, not three days later. It was as if he had never existed but in my imagination. Poof. Gone. Then the fourth day came around. I woke up from my side ways sleeping position (b/c Coppertoes always slept at the foot of the left side of the bed)and went to the second floor front window, something I had been doing constantly so as to get an up top overall aerial view of the street. I looked out and there he was. Across the street under the big trees peacefully laying among some leaves - dead. I knew he was. In a flash I was down the stairs and looking over him and I could tell that he had been hit by a vehicle. I grabbed him, went back across the street and laid him gently down on the side of my yard. He was stiff and must have been dead for a while. How did I not see him earlier?! It was impossible for me not to have. He was right there, in front of me! Not knowing what to do next I ran into the house and tears instantly shot out of my face and eyes - suppressed feelings emerging after days of denial. I quickly gained my composure and instantly realized not only that I didn't have a shovel to bury him with but, all I had lost and would never have again. Never again would Coppertoes lay across my chest and nap with me, eyes closed, his body twisting and contorting in indescribable comfort and content. Mine too. My special whistle, the one which Coppertoes always responded to in anticipation of a treat or a friend is now useless. I will never whistle like that again. I will never pet, play fight, feed, spook, or rub Coppertoes' soft little belly. I swear he had the softest fur ever. No longer will I cut his nails (which was at times, a harrowing experience) or scratch his little nose (he loved that, and even pressed his head into my hand if he hadn't got enough). When I wake up my little buddy will not be waiting for me to get out bed and then proceed to follow me step for step downstairs, trying to trip me along the way - but not on purpose. If I drop a piece of paper, a pen or a beer cap on the floor it will stay there, untouched where it lay until I pick it up. I won't ever have to clean up piss, poo, fur or hair balls (other than my own), though I would happily if I still could. No more will Coppertoes be waiting for me as I open the front door or scamper quickly down the stairs to welcome me home. When I sit outside on the porch, he won't be watching me intently from the front window, loyally standing guard or mostly just jealous of my ability to open doors and go outside. I won't be baffled by his uncanny ability to pass out anywhere in any position or in any place no matter how weird or uncomfortable it looks (eg. under, in and on top of anything). When I'm laying in bed, delaying entering the day, I can no longer fool Coppertoes into collapsing alongside me into my outstretched arm, just by simply stretching out my arm. He will never be able to play bite me again. Even though he bit hard, he never hurt me. I won't almost step on him at the top of the stairs or when I get out of bed in the dark. There will be no more races up the stairs, ending in me grabbing him and tossing him playfully on the bed. He never beat me. I won't be woken by him in the middle of the night doing whatever it is cats do in the middle of the night. He will never again be able to sprawl out gloriously and without concern as he soaks in what ever sun he can find. We won't be able to hang out again and talk. Just kidding. We didn't talk much, but he did give me some pretty good advice sometimes. And he won't meow for me to let him in. Because he won't be coming back again. If only he had stayed inside. Sleeping lazily on the top of the couch instead of pouncing happily into a fun and fresh aired fantasy world of friends, frolicking and fascination. After all, I did take him in off the streets and never has a cat loved going out as much as Coppertoes did. He went out often in the three years we knew each other. Eating grass, chasing squirrels, digging dirt, getting into the odd scrap with the neighbourhood homeless bullies, whatever it was he enjoyed the outdoors - so who am I to disallow such deserved freedom? He did always come back, after all. But the street on which I live is a very busy one. Much busier than Janette. The only other street he's ever known. I always told him to be careful whenever he went out, because cars, buses, joggers and motorized bicycles fly by - sometimes at tremendous speeds, without much braking and very close to the curb, may I add. I'm not blaming anybody. Especially the joggers. But he did get run over by something. And how did I not notice him before the fourth day? Did someone move him after he died? Was he hidden among the leaves? No. Weird. At least it looked as if it was quick and probably painless. Even in death, he seemed to be smiling and happy. What a guy! Coppertoes was a great cat and even better pal, one who lived a shortened but extremely happy and comfortable life. Life with a roof, food, friends and someone who would clean up his shit. I'll miss him greatly as I'm sure will anyone who had the opportunity to hang out and chat, I mean chill with such a cool cat.

Charlie Hustle vs. Big Mac

Mark McGwire is back in the major leagues. Not as an aging, tarnished and decrepit former freakish juiced up home run monster, but as a little old hitting coach for Tony LaRussa's St. Louis Cardinals. Yes, the once and still disgraced by steroids first baseman is bringing, not only his supposed knowledge on the art of hitting (a career .263 hitter who averaged almost a k/game during his 16 yr. career?), but a tarnished image back to his old team, his one and only ever head coach, and all of baseball. McGwire's employment is in stark contrast to the the Cardinals current employed big man at first - the game's purest, most legit all around hitter. Albert Pujols has repeatedly denied any involvement in juicing and claims his monster power numbers are legit. I believe him. Because I want to believe him. Plus, he's never been found guilty of cheating and everything I've read about him points to him being the real deal, that is, a 'legitimate' awesome power hitter who hits for average, gets walked a ton and plays the game hard day in and day out. The key word here being, 'legitimate.' Do the Cardinals really need the unwanted and probably negative attention that Big Mac will bring? Flying syringes from the stands? Bare Ass Mask Giveaway Day? Hitting for the cycle will have a completely different meaning. Ever since his not at all convincing and scared looking and sounding denial to congress about his steroid use, number eight on the all time homer list with 583 and number one on the Mitchell Report has been in hiding for fear of a fan led mutiny - so why bring such an obvious and guilty cheater back to the game? A game that is trying (with minimal success, eg. ManRam, A-Hud, Bonds, etc.) to clean itself up and ultimately (if it's even possible) win back the trust of the fans. The same freckled red headed giant who had Jose or his brother Ozzie Canseco stick a needle in his ass so he could hit more home runs is allowed back - but not Pete Rose. If Pete Rose were the commissioner of baseball none of this steroid shit would have happened at all. Players would have been too busy hanging out with the old time greats, knocking out catchers and betting on horses. If Pete Rose, his 4256 hits (more than 3000 more than McGwire) and .303 career avg were the Cardinal's hitting instructor, they might not have had to stoop (a pity ploy by LaRussa?) and get the one dimensional, over rated McGwire to teach their team to hit - because they would already know how. I'll take a Charlie Hustle over a Big Mac any day - especially in the National League where the fundamentals are key. Has Mark McGwire ever even bunted before? Sacrificed any one over on purpose? His only opposite field hits were sky high fouls and weak grounders to first. Speaking of weak grounders to first, and those who should not do, you don't see Bill Buckner showing the Boston Red Sox how to field ground balls do you? Or Ray Finkle giving field goal lessons in Miami? Is Jose Canseco an outfielders coach in Texas? I don't think so. Chris Webber is not drawing up end of the game plays for Michigan basketball either and Greg Norman is not giving golf seminars on how not to collapse in the last round of a major when leading by six strokes or more. Are they? No. There's a time and a place for everyone. McGwire had his, during the steroid era (hopefully) and now there shouldn't be room for his repeatedly punctured ass on anyone's bench.

WHAT'S THE DEALIO?

Yesterday I felt a cold of some sort coming on. Slowly but surely, it travelled non-stop through the night and arrived promptly this morning - lodged securely in my head in the form of an annoying cough and sore throat. Is it just me or is there an over abundance of germs and virus' floating around, contaminating each and every one of us? I swear I just got over a stupid and long over drawn sickness, so what's the dealio? I take my daily vitamins (multi's/C's/Omega 3-6-9's), eat more than my fair share of veggies, keep a mostly clean house, and wear a coat and hat when I go out in the cold, so what's the dealio? I know yesterday I played hockey without shoulder pads while sweat completely drenched my frigid yet warm body. But, what's the dealio? The older you get is it easier to get sick? I'm no doctor, but I'm not idiot either and I think something's up here. Up until this past year I'd never heard of a cold lasting more than a week, week and a half tops. Now, I'm not so sure I even got rid of that stupid and long over drawn sickness I mentioned earlier - and I felt that one for close to three weeks! Or so I thought. Bizzel even gave me a set of those immune boosting pills he so vehemently stands behind. Nothing. What's the dealio? I thought that once you caught and got rid of a cold, there was some sort of buffer between the next time you get one, like at least a month or two. Or, are there so many different, and undetectable virus' roaming unprovoked amidst the open air that a defense against them is futile and a waste of what little energy is left? I wouldn't care much, because it's freezing out and I have a lot of reading to do, but we have a show tonight and it seems that whenever we do, I don't feel my best. I would like to feel my best when performing in front of complete strangers. Singing isn't the easiest thing to do in the first place. Especially when you have to play the guitar at the same time, let alone when your throat is all torn up. I'd much rather fight stage fright than a cold any day. What's the dealio?

TOMORROW I'M GONNA FEEL IT GOOD. ACTUALLY, I FEEL IT ALREADY. DANG.

Today Jeff and I did not have any classes or other pressing matters in between the eleven a.m. and two o'clock p.m. hours, and since the Ice Park was offering shinny hockey during that exact same time period, and we both happened to have our hockey equipment handy, freshly taped sticks ready and I, my new Vapour Select II skates sharpened - we went for it. A good a chance as any we thought to begin our much anticipated return to hockey and subsequent reunion tour (eg. a once a week low amateur beer league). Now all we need is Phil Wilson in net (unless he wants to play out, but keep in mind that the net minders play for free. Actually, you probably had to return your equipment back to KMH 20 years ago and you're probably not 4 foot 9 anymore, so...wanna play out?), Brent on defense with his slick skating and wicked backhand (actually, the latter is his father Rick's forte), and J.P on the wing in case we want to practice our open ice hits. It was ten years ago to the day (actually, I have no idea what day it was) for me when I last laced em up (minus that one disappointing effort on New Year's day 2001), so I was expecting at the very least a colossal disaster of monumental proportions. Maybe a lung would burst. Or a leg break off. An eye punched out by an errant slapper. None of that happened, but it wasn't the greatest of sights either, I assure you. However, it was quite cheap and very fun. And very winding. For seven bucks, you get two hours of ice time, the same amount of nets, and a random team consisting of, as Bizzel calls 'em - 'all walks of life.' So, with secret hopes of attracting a lucrative NHL contract, but with more realistic dreams of just lasting the entire two hours without dying from extreme out of shapeness - Jeffrey and I hit the ice. The east side pad because the other one is now being used for Soares' Soccer School. Peter Soares maybe? Probably not. Our stick and puck adventure started out well. Warm ups are always fun, pressure-less, and a great opportunity to see if you still remember how to stick handle, shoot and skate backwards. I did! Well, sort of. I quickly realized that I am now a larger, balder, older, hairier, and slower version of the past player I was - both mentally and physically, but mostly physically. All things considering, I can still skate half-decent with equally decent speed, but my effectiveness is limited to one rush, 35 second shifts or a series of short and sporadic spurts. Whichever comes first. Because my endurance came last. After twenty minutes of skating in circles, a few weak slappers off the net and more than one poor pass, it was game time. Shit. I looked around and saw only three other white jerseys besides my own, five dark and one goalie. I was not looking forward to a two hour sure to be suicide shift my first time out in a decade, for even after the nonchalant warm ups I had to take a two minute break, doubled over, panting and in search of water. This was going to be intense and it might kill me too. Ten minutes later, it was still four on four and somehow I had not yet collapsed. I could barely breath, was dead tired, sweating profusely from my non face-masked face, and spitting white blanks when I saw a few more sweaters of each shade and another goalie come onto the ice. I had never been so relieved to see a bunch of perfect strangers I would barely know and probably never see again. This was better. It was and it did. Get better that is. A painful hour and three inhaler puffs later, I was still sticking to my defensive minded game plan, guaranteed short shifts, and okay outlet passes but, in between the no shots and blind man stick handling, I still found time and energy to make a few misguided, ill advised and ultimately puck losing rushes - but it was fun. And I'll probably play again. I sure hope there are enough subs next time, because the one younger kid, and probably best player (it's between either him or the older moustache sporting cherry picker with a problem) said there is usually only six or so guys with no goalies. A lot of skating, open ice and lame goals off softly undefended posts. That sounds like fun. Not. Well, maybe for a few minutes, but not two hours. "You picked a good day to come," the best player said. Thanks. Oh yeah I forgot, Jeff scored. He looks like a real hockey player out there. I didn't see his dirty rebound and stuff goal, but he said it happened. I believe him, because it's hard to observe and understand anything when sweat's stinging your eyes, your head is spinning and between your knees and your lungs are close to popping out of your chest.

TODAY

Told you so, world! Well, maybe I wasn't the only one who thought that yesterday's nice, warm weather would be short lived, or to proclaim it aloud, but I did write it down on my blog so, there ya go world! I mean Mom, Katie, Philzip, Jeff (when I tell him to read it) and myself. Today is not like yesterday. It's grayer, chillier, wetter, and overall shittier. The type of day that makes it okay for you not to want to leave the comfy confines of your four warm walls. And one warmer higher ceiling and lower colder floor. Today feels like it is supposed to feel right now on October 22, at 2:53 pm in the afternoon later in the year of 2009. Wind howling, cold biting, leaves falling and stray cats scattering. The overcast clouds, lack of life and monotonous quality of this boring, dull Thursday make it not only more depressing for those affected, but it's actually harder to tell what time it is - which is great for those down-and-out-no-life-or-friends-stay-home-all-day-losers (the 'affected'), because without the annoying distraction of seconds, minutes and hours, the 'affected' are free to do whatever they want for as long as they want, whenever they want. (eg. write blogs, play their guitar, or read old fantasy novels) What's to stop them? A phone call? Their creative juices? A dinner date? Their desire to be as anonymous a nobody as ever? But, there are other people other than these who greatly benefit from a day such as this. Like someone who tossed and turned last night because they drank too much coffee, went to school and public skating, played some video games, ate lightly battered fish and read too many words therefore effectively and with tremendous precision shutting out sleep while keeping their brain on high. I feel the day, all around and inside me. I am the day. Today.

GOING OUTSIDE. SO I CAN BE OUTSIDE.

What a pleasant day it is today. A swell chance to put the tear off shorts back on, grab your go to shades, slip on your decrepit Adidas shoes, get the hell outside and enjoy it. The day that is. And the sun. And your fellow same like minded citizens - because they and the nice weather won't be there for long. Even if you are only sitting lazily on a porch drinking a coffee while quietly but carefully observing the subtle nuances of a west side street. It's better than being inside, hidden, dark and not taking advantage of this generous and unexpected gift. There will be plenty of opportunities for holing up in a shitty and drafty apartment, keeping away from Mr. Winter's reach. For, this out of doors and happy comfortableness will not last forever - perhaps only a few teasing hours, so do something with it or in it. Walk around aimlessly and without care. Stare at the passing lake bound freighters. Feed some pigeons or read a book on a bench. Smile at the sun. Anything. Because, for all we know this could be Providence's last little mirage of happiness before he delivers our destined deliverance - a most punishing and severe winter never before seen around these parts. You know it's coming, because even behind the unseasonableness of the day, excess foot traffic and nice happy warmth - the nasty bite of Mr. Winter can be felt, creeping like a shadow. Maybe I should kick it (the pursuing cold) like Akon and like Tae bo. Or jump in my Lamborghini DiLaudo (and pursue warmer climates at ridiculously high speeds). The answer is there - in Akon's crafty and deep, heart felt lyrics. "Smack that! Mr Winter!"

WOW

C'mon now. Give me a break man. Relax already, will ya? Open up and swallow the world's largest and most lethal chill pill. I get the hint - you've got some seriously unmanageable, possibly psychotic problems when dealing with life. Actually, instead of wasting everyone's time with the world's most obvious diagnosis, how about you just altogether leave because you obviously can't just altogether leave me alone? That's right, you are leaving, but the end of the month cannot, I repeat cannot come fast enough. This year, trick or treatin' isn't the only thing I'll be doing come October 31st. When you finally exit the premises I'll be celebrating like its New Years Eve on my birthday. Ghosts, devils and witches won't be the only creatures I'll be jeering and cheering for on this upcoming All Hallows Eve. I'll be fist pumpin’, high fivin’ and nah nah nah nahin’ all night long in celebration of your long awaited and even more overdue departure into the netherworld. No more barking, just Jeff yelling loudly at the television. The only complaining about nothing will be of my own creation. I will not be forced to listen to your one and only mixed cd blaring through my walls into my unimpressed face. Sure everyone loves Creed, The Black Eyed Peas, and Hotel California, but… "Yeah man, your speakers sound awesome." No more gross coughing, fat creaking and ignorant yelling at poor innocent dogs. Nope. I'm a free man. Free to do what I want to do, in my own apartment which I pay for. Which at this point is pretty simple - to be away from you. Forever. And Ever. Nothing. That's all you had to do and everything would have be fine and dandy. Like butterscotch ice cream with chocolate cherries on top. But no, since you do nothing at all times, it is only natural for one who does nothing to eventually concede to the nothingness of one's own non-life and create something out of nothing. Like a useless and greasy shit sandwich. Or an oracle. Or an overweight magician with an overweight assistant. Though, I must admit, the assistant has been relatively nice to me – and me to her. See how it works? I won't have to pretend to like you (the magician) and you won't have to pretend to like me (the awkward sole audience member at the world’s shittiest magic show). Though, to be fair, I only do it because I'm a mostly civil and courteous normal neighbour with enough friends who happens to live in a triplex. Beside a magician who, on the other hand, pretends to be nice to me so as to use it against me at a later period of time when he‘s more bored than usual, pissed off at something else totally irrelevant to me or fuming over the most minor and stupid of things. Problems that any other normal person would have thought about for five seconds with their functioning and rational brain, and realized that it’s actually nothing at all. (eg. the pop can and wind incident, baseball break cheap plastic light confrontation, speed of the bus and the punctuality of the garbage and mail man). Huh? Who worries about the arrival and departure of junk mail and trash? Oh yeah, the guy who never leaves his house unless he's feuding with his irresponsible and inconsiderate neighbours and can't handle the emotional stress his sometimes bizarre but always uneasy actions have caused him. “Watch out for that bus!” Damn something out of nothing got me again. If I would have known otherwise I would have said no to your generous but loaded offers though, “Thanks for the wine and pie, it was good. So was the fish too." I didn’t know I was secretly signing up for a backhand from a blindsided shit storm. I know I might sound bitter, mean and perhaps just as much a complaining baby as the oracle next door, but it seems David Copperfield saved his finest yet most fake illusion for last. Damn slight of hand got me again. I probably wouldn’t have even thought of writing this if not for last Saturday’s elaborate, unnecessary and not enjoyable performance. I came home Saturday night from a night downtown. I had had some drinks. Played a few games. Listened to a cool band. Downed a Jager bomb. Saw two people from high school. Danced like a goof. Had a good time. You know, the stuff people who like to have fun with their friends sometimes do on a Saturday night. Sure my friend and I came home around 2:30, sure we probably were a little happier and excited than normal, sure we started singing a song we made up about Jeff's oldest brother a little too loudly. Sure. But, we were happy. Happy with drink, funny songs and good times, but nothing too serious – I assure you. Two dudes at the end of a long day and night in an apartment with cinder block walls, no stereo and a small TV on a TV stand on a TV table cannot be that loud – I assure you. BANG! BANG! BANG! Walking towards the door and probably laughing and feeling good, I expected it to be Jeff. It wasn’t. “Could you quiet down because we’re trying to sleep?” Sure, I replied quickly and sincerely to the pissed off and awoken and menacing obese magician. So we stopped singing because we honestly didn’t realize not only how loud we were, how late it was or what we were even singing about and like I mentioned before, I really am a mostly decent and considerate person. So, NHL 10 seemed like a plausible replacement for the guitar and singing. Deal. No goals, one period and two sore thumbs later the banging returned. A little louder and more authoritative than last time. Walking towards the door and probably quietly chuckling and feeling pretty decent, I wanted it to be Jeff. But expected the magic man. Nope. This was one trick that not even that backstabbing masked magician on Fox could reveal. “Hello, yeah, we got a noise complaint,” said the closer of the two cops at the doorway. “What’s going on in here?” he said, scanning the unbearable chaos that was my friend and I playing video games. Somewhat shocked but not really surprised I pointed to the tall television and and the game on the screen, “We're playing NHL 10.” Totally believing me and in an understanding and friendly voice, the cop looked inside and nodded his head, either in satisfaction with my answer or frustration with his time being wasted. Probably a little of both. “I have to say, we didn’t hear anything as we walked up, but we got a complaint so we had to come," said my new cop buddy. “It’s the neighbour. He’s a goof,” said my now up and involved friend with first hand knowledge, a buzz and a warranted bone to pick. “Well, he complained of noise, but it’s obviously just you two playing video games, so have a good night.” Wow. That’s why I wrote this. That’s why I can’t wait until they’re gone and that’s why my friend and other neighbour went back to his apartment and pointed his speakers towards the magician’s apartment, pumped the bass and blared the same song three times in a row. Wow.

A MIRACLE. ON ICE

Yes, I decided a few days ago to start playing hockey again. On ice. Wearing skates. Against other people. I haven't actually done it yet, but I want to. Also, I haven't played in a little while - since the late 90's to be exact, so I'm more than a bit nervous. And out of shape. Way back then I still knew how to skate, was quite a bit lighter and more agile, had never smoked a cigarette, or done a jager bomb, Phil (I mean Philip, as he was known then) Wilson was the goalie on my team and Matt Staples was slow and pudgy but also a great teammate (now he's in great shape, loves life and has an awesome beard). Now, some decade plus later, I find myself equally anxious and apprehensive about my sudden return to the rink. And in possession of a shiny new pair of $180 Bauer Select II Vapor hockey skates that I bought from a small and friendly sports store down the street from my apartment. But why, may you ask, did I need to purchase new skates when I used to play and my old equipment should have been more than appropriate and comfortable for a one day per week, non-competitive, no committal nor contact beer league? Well, then I will tell you. I suppose that during or in between, after or before my various movings and upheavals over the years (to and from Kingsville and Windsor's many different neighbourhoods then back down to the county and still back up again to the city) - I must have misplaced my hockey bag. The same bag that housed, not only my stinky pants, stinkier cup, ripped socks, moldy helmet and torn & crusty gloves - but my magnificent & awesome Bauer Supreme 3000 skates. I loved those skates, but now they're gone (because of my own immature ignorance) and I have to deal with it - because now I'm slightly more mature and a little less ignorant. However, thanks to my Dad (who, with no other reasons than to get me playing and having fun graciously and happily outfitted me with his old equipment) - I didn't have to buy a whole new set of stuff and could therefore afford (barely) to purchase the aforementioned Vapors. He would have easily given me his skates as well and one of his five composite sticks - but his feet are a little wider and his hand a little lefter. So, inside Nantais Source for Sports I tried on the blades and they fit great. The fiftiesh and unassuming salesman (possibly Nantais himself?) was very helpful without being pushy or annoying. I don't know if it was his pleasant demeanor, soft voice, or what, but he seemed so sincere and not at all worried about making the sale, that it seemed like he had to be giving me a great deal. Whatever it was I bought 'em. For forty bucks cheaper than the listed price and with a shammy and some guards thrown in. I tried to trade the shammy and skate guards for a cheap wooden stick and he would have done it - had he had any cheap wooden right handed sticks. Damn handedness got me again! Hopefully this first triumphant step of my comeback campaign translates into success on the ice and not just on the showroom floor. Actually, I hope I can remember how to stop on skates, take a wrist shot and any shift anything longer than 15 seconds will be considered a miracle. On ice.

"THANK GOD FOR TURKEY...and life!"

Thanksgiving. A time to sit down, and give thanks to all that we are thankful for getting and giving and receiving over the last year, no, that's Christmas, but, right - Thanksgiving. Besides being thankful for the obvious things (eg. life, liberty, shelter, use of all my limbs, bank loans, a functioning [though sometimes malfunctioning] brain, good friends, family and girl, a sweet woman's cruiser [thanks girl], fresh air, common sense and good eyesight, an addiction to coffee and catchy tunes, a friendly cat, and my guitar) I am also thankful for multiple Thanksgiving dinners. There is nothing better than leaving one tasty and delightful turkey dinner for another equally, but different tasty and delightful turkey dinner. For some reason or another, I can not eat as much as I'd like to at the first, (is it b/c of the five hour build up to a nine minute stuff fest, or do I get full on the preceding aroma?) - so the second feast is a great chance to make up for missed opportunities. "Why can't someone just pinch me, so I'm on the ball?" Now I know what Craig meant there. Wake up, put on a decent shirt (with sleeves, preferably) and stuff your face full of delectable bird and hog. Twice. And creamy mashed potatoes with a hint of cream cheese and chives. Or, sweet potatoes with more than a hint of super sweetness. Stuffing. A classic and a must for both dinners. Bread, butter and beets. Corn, carrots and peas. Broccoli, cheese and cauliflower. Gravy. Lot's of steamy gravy. Wine, beer or... wine. Beans, beans the magical fruit, the more you eat 'em the more you want pie. Pumpkin cheesecake or straight up and stripped down regular old pumpkin pie (my personal fav) to be exact - topped high and heavy with cool-whip, vanilla ice cream or a la mode. (actually, a la mode means with ice cream or the prevailing style or fashion, so yeah - give it to me like everyone else, please). We also got the world famous apple pie (a la mode or with a strip of cheddar cheese for you real Canadian old-schoolers), and the ultra exclusive and mysterious berry pie. Besides the superb quality of all this amazing, fresh, warm, sleep inducing food and drink, there are four things that you are guaranteed with a Thanksgiving dinner: 1) there will be at least five times too much food at the table, which is fine with me because I get to take the left overs home. 2) No matter how fast the fan is or wide open the windows are, it will be very hot. Partly because of the steamy food and over worked oven and stove, but also because of the heat produced by voracious chattering, chewing, scooping and pouring. 3) Speaking of chatter, there will be endless speak of old times, catching up and dumb, funny stories, and 4) At least one person, maybe even two will, towards the end of the meal, announce clearly, concisely and with a sense of profoundness as fast filling eaters look on in amazement - "Well, it took five hours to make, and nine minutes to eat!" Happy Thanksgiving World! I mean loyal readers. I mean Mom, Katie and Philzip.

Stay inside and take cover. There's a wind coming this way!

Last night, the wind was blowing so hard that it didn't matter that I couldn't sleep or get that one long song out of my head, because the thunderous roar of debris and current flying by my window was louder and bothersome than any lack of sleep could ever be. Or repetitive brain numbing song. And slightly more frightening. The howling of the wind sounded more like a fast flowing freight train only freeway, with multiple overlapping overpasses, overlapping frenetically over my head. Now time for your rush hour road and weather report with Mr. Everyday Weather Man. "Due to the the severity of the wind, you should stay indoors or only travel in groups, by armored tank or attached to a tether. For, branches may crack like twigs and snap you like a twig, or scrape and bang the outside of your windows repeatedly throughout the night, like an annoying and playful bending twig. Also, watch out for shaking, breaking and falling glass, walls, and entire trees because of the intense pressure of this same wind. Duck! Watch out for that toppling and out of control Smart car. Ha, ha. Who's smart now? Anyways, the only real true and accurate forecast comes from the big man upstairs who, besides brainstorming and ultimately creating this severe and windy weather, must be telling us something also. He's clearly saying that he hates toupees, the Minnesota Twins, non scattered litter, pedestrians and Windsor. But, that he loves kites, surfing, large flags, scattered litter and those full face ski masks. Back to you Mr. Mr. Mouth and Ms. Face!"

WELL, AT LEAST WE HAVE NEXT YEAR

Tigers lose! Tigers lose! But did you watch the game? As heartbreaking and saddening as MLB's only 163rd game of the season was - it was as equally edge of your seat thrilling and exciting. Who was going to give in first, or hold on last? The power pitching and streaky hitting Tigers or the fundamentally sound NL style Twins? The tie-breakin', winner gets in extra game between the Detroit Tigers and Minnesota Twins had it all: Crushed upper deck home runs, line drive no doubt jacks, season saving diving infield plays, season ending half-sliding outfield miscues, sawed off bats, doubles to the gap, hushed crowds, maniacal crowds, amazing double play throws to home, clutch hitting, choke hitting, superb pitching, poor base running, excellent base running, terrible bunts, perfect bunts, slides to first, a first baseman with bruises and a drinking problem, an MVP/All-Star first baseman sitting on the bench, terrific defense, leads, deficits, errors, small and inconsistent strike zones, strikeouts, stranded runners, missed calls, close calls, and many calls to the pen, plus much much more. The game had it all. Everything except a Tigers victory. In first place since May 10th, up 7 with three weeks to go and three with four to play, the Tigers of '09 let a pretty good season slip away - and if you ask me they kind of deserved to lose to the never-give-up-minus-Morneau-team-full-of-ball-players, Minnesota Twins. No team, in first place since May, had ever lost the division title in the last week of the season, nor when up three with four to play. I guess history and stats and division leads are made to be written or broken or taken over, and the Tiger's of '09 were doomed to fail. First and third + no outs = zero runs. Bases loaded + one out = zero runs. The Tigers left twelve base runners stranded, hardly the clutch hitting a team needs to, not only get into the play offs, but succeed when they get there. Against the formidable and monstrous Yanks, the Tigers would have had little or no chance, but they would have had a chance. However, after last night's marathon five hour twelve inning back and forth nail biter, the Twins will get that chance. And since I was hoping for at least three more Tigers games this year - I'm going for the supremo-underdog-no-chance-in-hell Twins to take down the Beasts of the East.

I, a need a pizza

Windsor is world renowned for it's a pizza. No, I did not a know that either. Apparently some ex-Windsor man now living in England wants to bring the taste of the Rose City's pie across the pond and serve them at his popular bbq restaurants. The pizza here is so good in fact that it's the answer to a Trivial Pursuit question. And some guy out east has his parents send him slices of Capri because he craves it. Do they at least send them express wrapped in tinfoil, or can you buy a mini portable pizza oven bag from the Post Office? Anyways, I was unaware of the exceptional quality of pizza in the city in which I currently reside. And I had a Delissio last night. Go figure. Though, despite long lines, stoned drunk patrons and sometimes cold and hard pizza, 'Slices' was decent and different - however, when it was located on Chatham Street near all the action. Now it's somewhere else, I don't know where, but I never see it so it must be where all the action is not. Because I am action oriented. Driven by brew ha ha. A man of motion, commotion and turmoil. Not really, but I do love pizza. Actually, if someone claims to not love pizza, then there might be something seriously wrong with them. I wonder what other secret gems are lurking throughout the city in which I currently reside? Hmmm. I'll have to think about that one for a while.

GAMEDAY

The Tigers are playing their last game of the season. It's do or die time and I'm dying to watch my team and cheer them on to the finish. But, I'm not watching the game and that's okay. Because it's just a game. Production is necessary if consumption is to exist. I don't have the baseball package on satellite or even satellite, or cable, or even some bunny ears - and my tv only turns on after you press play on the combo VCR, then stop, twice. But since that only produces a nice clear blue screen, I've been watching Legends of the Fall for 8 months now, 4 seconds at a time. Might I mention, quite a good movie. The game isn't even on the radio because apparently the Lions fourth game of the year takes precedence over the Tigers 162nd and most important. America's past time, on two different channels, nothing - a season defining ender effectively silenced by the radio. Ironic, because the Lions are on everyone's television today. I guess at least one Detroit franchise per week must be blacked out. So be it. I can't afford tickets, nor do I have a ride to a cool, low-key sports bar within driving distance from my apartment. I could pedal to the pub , it's a bit chilly, but I don't even have anyone to go the dang pub with. How pathetic. I will not sit and make small chat for a whole nine innings or more, with an equally pathetic, loner, loser who's only at the bar for a stool, cheap beer and company. Sunday afternoon isn't the local pub's best looking day. I could rouse up four bucks, grab my ID, jacket and Tiger hat, bike downtown, jump on the tunnel bus, run five blocks to Comerica, climb up the fence, and catch a partial view of the last two innings next to a couple of dirty bums. The game might be do or die, but I'm not gonna die if I don't do it - watching the game that is. Or die doing it. Watching the game, that is. 'Cause that's pathetic. At least I still have my pride and a slower but dependable connection to the Net, so I can check the ball to ball real-time action via that little diamond video box that pops up on the Tigers homepage. It's 4-0 in the 6th. The Sox have a runner on first and Verlander's pitching solid. That is, from what I can tell from the cartoon diamond, 'Now batting, Now pitching' icons, arrows and little red boxes with the telling box score underneath it all. The application is called, and rightly so - 'GAMEDAY.' Check that, the game was on the radio. Couldn't locate the station between the white noise and crude dial. The Tigers won. But so did the Twins. Final tiebreaker, 163rd game of the season - on Tuesday.

"Hello? Is it me you're looking for?"

So, it comes down to this. Or maybe that. We might even have to wait til tomorrow. Regardless of the outcome, this present flop by the Tigers has added some unneeded controversy and intensity to what could and should have been really, a casual coasting into the post season. A long, sometimes boring and monotonous 162 game season could use a severe pick me up from time to time - some synthetic passion, or pseudo drama are guaranteed to make things more interesting. But, never are they necessary. They just make the situation more fun, a reason to watch, albeit a tad more dramatic and unnerving as well. We all do things, like procrastinate, fuck around, lose focus of 'what should already be present and burning brightly' - ahh, intensity. Why study for 24 maddening straight hours the day before a tough and long mid term examination? Because you've known about it for a month but didn't do any of the prescribed homework before hand, therefore, it's like you're looking at the material for the first time - so, it might as well be the first time. Why, once every few months are uninterpretable and snippy Indian cubicles urgently, annoyingly and without fail, trying to reach you via your cell-phone? For the same reason that your bill for that same cell phone is three times more than it should be, and it's already expensive. It's not a wrong number, but I'm still not picking up. But is this another example of slacking off, or just a coy ploy for a speed bump of action? "I'm late yes, but isn't that what you want me to be?" I ask when they call, or "I'm very busy right now, but can I call you back in five minutes?" I never do, or intend to, but that doesn't matter - because they call back in four.

C'MON NOW! (The Fade Out Remix)

The Tigers are tied with the Twins with one game left. No team in the history of the game has blown a three game lead with four to play. Colossal Collapse. Devastating Defeat. Precarious Play. This could be the year history comes back to Detroit, again for all the wrong reasons. (eg. Riots of '67, Kwayme in '07, 119 loses in '03, and 0-16 last year, etc.) And the Tigers have been in first since May, until today that is. All year, Coach Leyland has refused to pitch his starters on short rest (less than 5 days), as he says he is looking "past this year." Just this year? What the fuck does that mean? When you've led the division for five months and in the most crucial game of the year you throw in Alfredo fucking Figero instead of your Ace (Verlander)on three days rest because you 're thinking of "past this year?" Awww, how considerate of you Jim. You should be worried about next year, because your career in Detroit might come to a sudden halt - again. Your team can't hit, your bullpen can't pitch and tonight, Figero gave you a solid 1 and 2/3 innings. Good performance in a pressure filled situation from an inexperienced 25 year old. Jack Morris in 1980 at the age of twenty five, threw 250 innings and completed 11 games. He went on to play 18 seasons in the majors, record 254 wins, almost 25 hundred strikeouts, was a four time World Series Champion and 1981 AL TSN pitcher of the year. Congratulations Jack! And congratulations Jimmy! Verlander is 26 years old and he's thrown 232 innings this year. Illich didn't spend millions just for the fans, contrary to what Sports Illustrated says. He wants to win too, and if it seems like you're not giving the team the best chance they have to win - his money will go elsewhere. As in not in your pocket. Someone on the radio mentioned that Bobby Valentine is on his way back from Japan, and looking for work. Hey Coach! Play the best you got. 'Cause that's all you got. You've been doing better than you should have all year, in a weak division, with little production and stayed mostly afloat until now. Why now, at the most inopportune of times do you go with the most unsafe, safest move in history? Figero for Verlander? Two wins versus 18? Unheard of nobody instead of a heard of somebody? A sub for your Ace? In 1972, 25 year old Nolan Ryan, then of the California Angels, threw 284 innings and won 19 games. He went on to throw 326 and 332 innings, respectively, the next two years. He ended his 27 year career at age 46 after throwing 5386 innings, 5714 strikeouts with 324 wins. When he was 43 he struck out 203 batters. And beat up Robin Ventura. In 1986, Roger Clemens, at a mere 24 years old threw 254 innings, went 24-4, won a Cy Young, MVP and went to the World Series. Though a career marred by steroids, infidelity and "misremembering" the "Rocket" had even more memorable moments - like 354 wins and 118 complete games. The Nolan Ryan "Express" had 222 complete games. Morris, 125. Times sure have changed. Back in the day of the real 'starter,' strict pitch counts and middle relief didn't exist - men finished what they started. Vaseline, mustaches, whiskey and chew. The traits of a real man. Today's seven inning + 100 pitches = pull + set up man then closer formula for pussies would have seemed pretty complicated and unnecessary to say, a Phil Niekro, Tom Seaver, Gaylord Perry, or the mecca of the most innings pitched and all things pitching - the award himself, Cy Young (7354). If a pitcher throws ten complete games a year his coach is deemed a reckless, no-feeling brute endangering his prized possession for a chance to win. WIN? Yes, WIN! That's why they play, that's why their paid, and that's why they should pitch when the entire season's on the line. The current emphasis placed on the well being of the 'starter' in today's game has gotten about as far away from the original one as possible. Yes, all the aforementioned greats were All-Star's and Champs and were just that - great. But isn't Verlander supposed to be just that as well - great? And sure, there are astronomical amount's of money involved in each and every sacred arm, but then again - they are getting paid (a lot), so they have to play (when most needed). And produce and recoup their worth in playoff baseball (or the entire season will be a waste).

THANK FULLY FOR YOU, IT'S NOT REAL

I was perusing on-line through some Tigers pages looking for some sweet ass Chet Lemon pics for my desktop, when I came upon Razzball.com. It's a Fantasy Baseball Advice page, possibly run by this guy (right and up) and the link from the Chet pic sent me to the February 19th, 2009 page, where Bill Ferris from "The Detroit Tigers Weblog" was answering some pressing questions pertaining to the upcoming baseball season. The season that will wrap up tomorrow. Possibly with a Tigers' division championship? Or a colossal fall to the Twins? Anyways, I noticed that the ever helpful Bill Ferris was quite off with some of his predictions, here's how he scored:

Question 1) Last year’s acquisition of Edgar Renteria and Miguel Cabrera led to a defensive rotation that saw 3 regulars (Guillen, Cabrera, and Inge) bounce around the field. Has the musical chairs ended? Does Carlos Guillen really play the whole year in LF?

BF - "I think Guillen will get the most at-bats out there, but I’d see that being only about 60-65% or so. The impending injury to Gary Sheffield will likely free up the DH spot at some point and things will get shuffled around. I think he’ll likely fare okay at the position, but it will be other factors that may force him to move (like the need for more offense in the infield for example)".

KPW - Wrong! Sheffield is long gone to the awful Mets and having a so so year. Guillen has missed half the season with injuries and is batting a measly .246 in 268 at bats. His replacement in left, Ryan Rayburn has had a good, though limited season. (14 HR's in 110 games). Inge has been better than good enough at third (despite some tender knees) and has produced offensively as well - a career high 83 RBI's and 27 HR. He is fourth in most at bats on the team (549), behind first bagger Miguel Cabrera who has 600. Second baseman Polanco, Cabrera and Inge have combined for 70 home runs and 255 RBI's. Guillen has 11 and 40. I see plenty enough offensive in the infield, but not much Carlos anywhere. Score - 90 percent wrong.

Question 2) What are your thoughts on Verlander and Bonderman for 2009? Bounce back candidates or more challenges to come?

BF - "I expect more from both of them. I think Verlander will make the tweak or two he needs to regain his control. Plus he didn’t pitch that badly in terms of his peripherals last year, I’d expect some natural regression (progression). Bonderman I think will be a big boost to the rotation. He’s had injury problems the last 2 years, but last year’s injury should have him available to pitch the bulk of the season. Plus it gave his elbow some extra rest and I think he’ll be healthier and more effective than at any point in his career."

KPW - This one he got half right. Justin Verlander has bounced back big time from a disappointing '08 (11-17, 4.84), but who wouldn't have called that one? This year, he completely took over as the fast-working leader of an otherwise shaky rotation - and was rewarded with his second All-Star nod. He has naturally progressed (or as Bill says it, regressed) into the dominating pitcher the Tigers knew they had, but what about Jeremy Bonderman you ask? Well, Bondo has pitched a total of ten innings all year, is 0-1 and has pitched in only 20 games in the last two years combined. Because of shoulder problems, he hasn't been effective since '06 and two days ago, while mopping up in the 9th against the Twins in an 8-3 loss, he smoked Delmon Young with a thigh high behind the knee fastball - earning himself a three game suspension. Talk about regression. Score - 50% right.

Question 3) Would you take the over or under on the following HR/RBI projections: Miguel Cabrera 35/110, Gary Sheffield 20/80, Magglio Ordonez 20/100, Adam Everett 2/40?

BF - "Over, Under, Over, Push."

KPW - Wrong, Wrong, Wrong, Right. Cabrera is close (33/101), Sheffield is gone, Magglio's now Singlio 7/47 and Everett, well, you nailed that one, Billy. Score - 75 percent wrong.

Question 4) Who ends up with more saves: Fernando Rodney, Brandon Lyon, or Joel Zumaya?

BF - "Brandon Lyon. If Zumaya is healthy I think he’ll be the guy ultimately, but given that is such a big IF I’m penciling him in for 0 at the moment."

KPW - Early on, Lyon started out as the guy, but after blowing 3 out of 6 saves he lost his job to Rodney, and ultimately turned into a good set up guy (2.96 ERA) for his successor. The Dominican Ticking Time Bomb is a miraculous 36 for 37 in saves opportunities. As for the big IF, Zoomin' Joel Zumaya? Zero. (1/7 in SVO, 22 BB's/30 innings) Score - 33% right

Question 5) My blogmate Grey sports an impressive moustache. Rank the moustaches of these noteworthy Detroit Tigers baseball cap wearers: Jack Morris, Jim Leyland, Kirk Gibson, Chet Lemon, Magnum PI?

BF - "Great question. Tom Selleck in a landslide followed by Jack Morris, Kirk Gibson, Jim Leyland and lastly Chet Lemon. As an aside, I saw Tom Selleck hit a couple balls out during batting practice at Tiger Stadium one time."

KPW - Wrong again! Though Magnum PI's 'stache is nothing to scoff at and you know I love me some Chet, here's my list of top Tiger's moustaches and one television personality: Tom Brookens, Tom Brookens, Tom Brookens, Tom Brookens, Tom Brookens, Geraldo Rivera and Tom Brookens. As an aside, I think Geraldo is a terrible reporter.



DESCRIPTIONS OF TOM BROOKENS' MOUSTACHE'S:

Starting at top right corner, then going down and around the horn, ending with the biggest picture of Tommy Baseball. Got it? Here we go: "Side swingin' stache," "Playing catch in my jacket stache," "Still kinda dozy and a little hungover late morning stache," "Look at my bat, then look at my moustache! stache," "Hot corner handlebar," "Geraldo Rivera," "I'm a sexy and available third baseman stache," and "Signed, sunny and smiling, looking forward to the day stache."

"The End of the Bless You Boys Era"

The Detroit Tigers can clinch the division title for the first time since 1987. 1987 - what a year. The late 80's. What a time. What fun. The last time the Tigers were in a legitimate race, has some legitimate parallels with '09's race with the Twins. I was only seven in '87, but I was big time into baseball. And even more big time into the Tigers. I adored the team and watched for them inventively on Channel 50 or listened in awe as baseball's holy breath - Ernie Harwell, gracefully and with smooth execution delivered the action on the field to my eager open ears. But, in 1987, on the corner of Michigan & Trumbull the press box wasn't the only prime time location for some prime time execution. Executing spectacular double plays and as equally exciting clutch base hit and homers since their call up together on Sept. 9th, 1977, stalwart Tigers, and all around great players, Lou Whittaker (All-star second baseman) and Alan Trammel (second in MVP voting) were the unspoken leaders of a hardworking and determined 1987 team (today's team is actually, overall, better defensively - .985 to .980 fielding %) It took me a while to figure out that the fans at Tiger Stadium weren't booing him - "Louuuuuuuu!" Still slugging old-timer Darrell Evans was still at first base, still knocking 'em out (34 HR's, 99 RBI's) and scooping 'em up at forty years of age. His stats, were similar to 09's big first baseman Miguel Cabrera (.329, 33 HR 101), everything that is except the age. Miggy C is only 26 and already has 208 long balls and 751 ribbies. At least one of the multi million dollar a year players traded from Florida panned out. How about gritty and tough Chet Lemon, the left fielder with a heart? Number 34 in '87 gave it his all, day in and day out, sacrificing his body, and neatly puffed Afro for a win and a chance at the pennant. For these reasons, including his formidable moustache - he was one of my favourites. Just as the speedy and powerful lead off man and overall nice guy center fielder Curtis Granderson is on the present team. Old school types with a little flair. Another favourite of mine twenty two years ago was Tommy Baseball at the hot corner. Though only a .246 career hitter (similar to today's Brandon Inge (.236) but with less power), Brookens was a likable guy, with an even more likable moustache and quick glove (yes, I like myself a classy, groomed 'stache). Every team needs a Tommy Baseball, just like every team needs an Inge. For, "Baseball is a game of Inges". (thanks for that one, Nick) Twenty two years ago, rookie back catcher Matt Nokes had a breakout campaign (32 HR) that included his one and only All-Star appearance and third place in AL Rookie of the Year voting. However, the baby-faced 24 yr. old would only play 100+ games in a season four more times in a disappointing and injury plagued ten year career. But in 1987, he was a rookie and he was good, and Lance Parrish was easily forgotten - at least for one year. (Parrish went to the Phillies as a high priced free-agent in 1987. The fans in Philly made their slogan for the season, "Lance us a Pennant." The Lance Love Campaign ended quickly when the former 8-time all star batted .215 in 1988). This year, 20 year old starting pitcher, Rick Porcello, is the team's first year fireballin' phenom (14 wins, 170+ innings). He has a great chance at winning rookie of the year. Speaking of one season of superior play, another new key part of the '87 run was Doyle Lafayette Alexander (9-0, 1.53 ERA) who was acquired later in the season from the Braves for minor leaguer and sure future Hall of Famer John Smoltz. At the time it seemed like a big piece of the World Series puzzle, but in hindsight the Tigers sure could have used the native Detroiter's career 213 wins and 154 saves, as Doyle went on to win 20 more games for the Tigers and retire two years later. That trade could turn out to be reminiscent of last year's trade, again with the Atlanta Braves: Thirty three year old shortstop Edgar Renteria, on the backside of a once successful career, was shipped from Hotlanta to downtown Detroit for nobody outfielder Gorkys Hernandez and more importantly, Dutch born top pitching prospect Jair Jurrjens - (14 wins, 2.61 era in '09), who has turned out to be a standout ace in Georgia. Similarly lopsided trades both in age, potential and overall lopsidedness - except at least for one year, Doyle produced. Renteria (as has Washburn and Huff in '09) did nothing both offensively and defensively in '08, and cost the Tigers 12 million dollars, however, he did lead them to a disappointing last place finish. Anyways, back to better times and division leads - 1987, and now. Renteria is gone as is Jurrgens. Placido, Magglio, Guillen and "Nasty' Nate Robertson are still here, as were Gibson, Matlock, Herndon and Wille "Guillermo Hernandez back then. Now, speaking of production and pitchers, names and not of the present, the Tigers rotation of '87, as it is now, was small, not by design, but also reliable. Led by ace Jack Morris (18-11, 208 K's), Walt Terrell (17-10) and Frank Tanana "Daiquiri" as Chris Berman called him - with rookie stopper Mike Henneman coming out of the pen. This year's similar three man rotation by necessity is headed by it's own horse - Justin Brooks Verlander (18-9, 264 K's), who, if not for the pitiful Royals' Zack Greinke and his 2.06 ERA - would have received serious consideration for the Cy Young. He still could win it, but...the pundits think otherwise. (Though he only has 16 wins, you can't argue with Z's 6 complete games and 236 K's) Anyways, in support of baseball's current leading strikeout king V, is Germany's own and the Tiger's leader in ERA, Edwin Jackson (13 wins) and the aforementioned kid, Porcello. Taking the mound in the ninth for these Tigers is the very efficient yet extremely sporadic, heart tugging closer Fernando "OH OH" Rodney who, despite a dramatic-pressure-packed-style, has consistently closed the door. And his thirty six saves in thirty seven tries speaks the hard truth in easy numbers. It's just that watching him do it, is harder to handle than the simple truth of his stats. Emotionally that is, not mathematically. Sure, every winning team needs good players to come through at the most opportune of times in order to be successful. But it also needs a good skipper to keep the boys in the game, every 162 of them, if just for one slim chance at winning it all in October. George "Sparky" Anderson (2195 wins and three World Series rings) and his good friend and successor, Jim Leyland (2847 wins 1 title) were and are two of the best coaches in the game. In fact, if Jimmy "Marlboro's and Mixed Lineups" Leyland wins another title with the Tigers, he will become one of only three managers to win a World Series in both leagues. The other is his buddy Tony Larussa, (A's & Cards) who beat the '06 Tigers to tie his mentor Sparky's record, who won two in Cincinnati, with the "Big Red Machine" and their perfect lineup - and of course, with the "Roar of '84." However, after a 98 win season, the Tigers of '87 eventually lost the AL Championship Series in 5 games to the pesky Twins, and, in similar fashion, the boys of '09 (2 up with 3 to play) could still blow their slim lead in the Central to those same annoying Twinkies. 2009, the last year of the Metrodome. Many omens, but only a few games to play. The truth will speak in the numbers, remember? After a respectable '88 season, the Tigers went downhill from there. Fast and hard and without a chance. In 1989, Sparky took a month off to deal with the stress of losing. The team lost 103 games. It wasn't until 2006 after Leyland came back to the team that he spent his first 18 years of pro baseball with (as a minor league player and coach), that the Tigers, (three years removed from losing 119 games) had their best season in 19 years - since 1987. Coincidences? Maybe, but hopefully the Baseball God's of clutch hitting, pressure pitching and sound defense brought their winter jackets, luck and some much needed wins to Detroit - because the 2009 Tigers could use all the help they can get. And it's cold outside. Detroit just lost 8-0 to Peavy and the White Sox and the Twins and Joe Mauer's .367 average are up 10-0 in the 4th against the hapless Royals. Up 1 with 2 to go. Anybody want hot chocolate? A toque? Maybe a scarf or one of those little padded cushions for your seats? God of Baseball, we need help. Send Ty Cobb, Al Kaline, Mickey Lolich's three complete games, even Denny McLain and the mob. Oh, the last three are still alive? Well, suit 'em up them. GO TIGERS!

It's barely the month of October. What the formula one chicken pox am I gonna be thinking when it's the month of February?

She's getting colder as fast as it is not getting warmer. The teeter's tottering big time, though not in favour of everyone's favourite German party dude - The King of Fun, Dr. Eddie Summerhotz III but rather, tipped, in a scary and unrelenting fashion, towards The Queen of Pain, Dejection, Despair and Depression - Her Royal and Henous Miss Frigidinia C. Wintershell, the evil and daunting daughter of a Mr. and Mrs. Carol and Walter Wintershell. I can sense her majesty creeping, silently and dreadfully through the window and the dark, and feel a faint touch of her everywhere I go inside. The transportation of goods leave by way of the north west as the mighty winds cross the water and come to me. My small two bedroom apartment is old and fading. She shakes under the movement. Her brick is a facade, that might as well be inside here with me, as it's nothing more than a mere camouflage for daft and dodgy dipty doo whore mongering drafts. Like creating heat out of just a wall, paint, lights and air. It doesn't happen and neither will warmth tonight. She may never be able to fully fight the callous ways of Lady Cold. A draft is like an old mistress. No matter how far long gong she is, in life and in distance, she'll find you and always be just the faintest breath on your neck. She'll get in around the walls you've built to forget and defend her, a coldness lingering and flickering and retreating, only to return on the most frigid of 'eves.

FREAKIN' CYBORGS

Still sneezing, sniffling and a bit sick. But you know what's shittier than my present health? The present weather. But, what are you gonna do? Summer, or whatever it was called, has officially passed us by and all that is feared is swiftly on it's way. COLDNESS. BITTER. BONE CHILLING. COLDNESS. It is, after all, almost October for Jesus H. Christ's sake. My brain knocking theory is: If it's cold, wear a jacket. If it rains, wear some boots, or don an umbrella. Or stay inside. Or catch minnows. If it's windy, hold your ground, and if it's sunny cover your eyes, or go to the beach or if you are Oriental - don an umbrella. And if you have a cold. Fight it. Like everyone else. You know, cough a lot, take too much cough syrup and don't get enough sleep. I've never shared the same virus with so many of my closest friends before. It's like a chicken pox party for Windsor's finest has been thirty somethings. Anyways, with all the wet and colder weather, bare arms, excess sweat, a naturally warm body temperature, and a penchant for exiting without proper attire...what did I think was going to happen? Anyways, not only am I sick and tired of being sick and tired, but I'm also sick and tired (not the good sic) of stupid kids. Not kids as in a fun loving five year old, but those 'kids' who spend their entire time (and their parent's $ or future unpayable debt) in a University of Windsor class on Facebook, chatting about Facebook, pointing at Facebook on the laptop monitor, or pointing and laughing at a picture on Facebook. You get the drift. I have spoken a few times about my dislike for the 'book, (lack of privacy, forced friendships, overall weirdness) but since I can stay away from those problems (by not creating an account, ceremoniously checking, then attaching and replying and pointing and laughing and...) - my new problem is that of which I can't stay away from. See, I'm a 29 year old undergraduate who like's to sit in the back of the class, because I feel as if I am in more control of my potential learning destiny. No, I just feel more comfortable and at ease - mentally, physically and emotionally, in the back. So yes, maybe it does in some way allow for the permeation of potentially poignant points of information that would other wise be impossibly pervasive, yet still poignant - points of information. Hmmm. Yeah, maybe. But, on the other hand, maybe I would be a better student if I could touch the teacher's underarm sweat, hear them organize and shape their thoughts based on validity and experience - or at least see what's written on the gosh dang board. (I can usually see the board, just sometimes I wish the professor would push down a little harder). "That's what she said." (Just a stupid 'The Office' related joke). Anyways, what I wanted to say was that I don't want to know what your boyfriend's upper back tribal tattoo looks like (because I can see your IM pic from behind you and, what you're both writing) or, that the Care Bears (your wallpaper) are your all-time most favourite childhood cartoon characters, (though there is a time and a place for Care Bears, the classroom is not one of them), or that all you wrote on your Word doc during the whole hour and a half was "Robinson Crusoe" (I'm glad you're using your laptop to take notes like you told your parents you would when you explained why you really needed it for school). Also, why did you leave with ten minutes left in class? Huh? I don't get it. Did the curriculum bore you? Can you not hear the teacher? Did your super cool, comfortable and padded swivel chair squeak every time you nudged, or laughed or looked or spoke too loudly. Yes, it did. Though I'm not the best at math, the numbers just don't match up. Lastly, if you were in class but not really there in the first place, why did you come, in the first place? Because there are plenty of other places to go other than class, when you don't want to be there - and you won't distract easily distracted people like myself or interrupt the teacher with your giggling. And pointing. And clicking. And pretending to type notes when you're just instant messaging garbage. Like how about the bar. There is one right here at the school. How convenient. They have beer. And many outlets. Catch a breeze at the river or a flick at the cinema. Lose some more 'not your money' at the casino or the mall or a fast food joint. Home being stupid. Home eating food. Home sleeping. Not in this classroom. Not four feet in front of me. How do I know of all these fantastical places to go besides studiously working towards a future? Because, I've been there. I've done that, but not how you've done that. I've been you, The 'Out of highschool and Dazed Dummy' - though without the laptop, rude interruptions, and obscenely too many tagged pics of me looking into a camera. Except, I graciously took only myself out. It was a top-secret-solo-mission-one-man-take-down-himself-operation, and I triumphantly succeeded. Leave me out of your 18 year old on-line life or just leave. The classroom that is and my attention elsewhere. Drop out or unplug. Stay home or stay off-line. Take notes or take a really long washroom break. Like an hour and twenty minutes. Either one will do just fine. Like this one guy said on the radio the other day, the guy with the forced, coarse and sleazy Brooklyn sounding, "I'm outta breath and gonna die" talk show host voice, he said that kids today look exactly the same as when he was a kid. Except that everyone of them has something hanging, attached or hooked up to their brains like a freakin' cyborg. Other than that he said, they look the same.

STILL SNEEZING, STILL STROLLING, STILL SITTING. STILL SPITTING, STILL WRITING, STILL SWEATING, ONCE SHY, TWICE BITTEN

What a shitty, dark, cold, wet and windy, drizzly and grey late September almost October day. It's 6 pm all day long, even in the morning and moral falls as drastically and as fast as the brightness of the sun. It's the kind of day that you want no part of, like an itchy rash, a too forward and intoxicated pan handler, or a stupid, annoying cold that won't go away. I compare today with the latter. I've probably sneezed about nine hundred times in the last week, well over my usual average of thirty or so. Since the Romans, Greeks, you and me, sneezes have typically been thought of as preceding illness. I'm going on my gazillioninth gesundheit (German, meaning, "Health"). Bathousandth bud zdorov ("Be healthy Russian Children!") and eight hundredth Alhamdulillah (Arabic, "Praise God!"). No amounts of Sudafed, beer, foreign sayings for the blessing given after sneezing, or Kleenex can contain it. Sneezing ceases to be the least bit orgasmic when every other nostril inhalation initiates the pesky itch and inevitable conjuring and spewing of a string of at least three or more 'a chooos!' (I've never actually sneezed just once, which might add to the problem, you know - the headaches, sore abs, chipped teeth, loose eyeball, bloodshot eyeballs and back spasms. All the ailments that are sure to come with pinball fire fast forward face thrusts with a touch of the ancient arcade durability and lasting fun. It comes hitting hard, heavy and with speed. An unrelenting sneezing fit can actually ruin your day, your focus and your body's equilibrium. The human head can only take so many violent, spastic and without warning rapid shakes of the brain. Now that I think of it, 'a choo!' might be the most universally spoken word in the universe. As common as the dodo bird used to be before it went extinct is the word, as are the ailments of a severe sneeze strike. Coincidence? I think so, but I'm still going to write it. Back spasms, headaches and loose eyeballs. And a I've heard (or have I smelled it?) that a smell goes directly to the brain. Hmmm. Have I uncoincidenced you now? No, but I'm pretty sure that an 'a choo!' (the saying of the word) has no boundaries, sees no colours and effects all walks of life. Even Dolphins. Even Dinosaurs. Even extinct dinosaurs. Even those from Dubai. Dubains? Dubs? Even astronauts. Even dogs, mice and cats. 'Cause I've seen them. (cats that is, and I hope I'm nice to him in his dreams). If you have a functioning nose (enough hairs, olfactory epithelium, etc.) an audible voice box (not sure what an inaudible voice box does) and a sense of smell - you got yourself an 'a choo!' An Indian man 'a choos!' repeatedly when he uses too much curry in his punjabi, just as the Oriental teenager with the wacky haircut, white high tops and fluorescent pants politely 'a choos!'into my won ton while serving me Dim Sum. "Bai sui!", Chinese for, "may you live 100 years'. I'm pretty sure that an elderly black man's sneeze sounds like mine. Do accents affect an individuals' 'a choo!? Does a Torontonian's soft 'a' or a Detroiters's hard 'a' effortlessly and naturally find its way into their sneezing vocabulary? Or is it just - 'a choo'!? Is a southern 'a choo!' not an 'a choo!' at all but an "a choowl!?" The southern American English sneeze blows out smooth like smoky leather, seeping with a slow drawl, slower snot and, reminiscent of a hot day in Jawja, banjos, blues and African American Vernacular English because of their strong historical ties to the region. To me it's just 'a choo!' and it's driving me snots. I mean snuts. I mean nuts. Dang.

a tale of one idiot

Faithful followers
few and far between fans
I'll type something right now
with my left and right hands.
It will come from my head
Or likely something I've seen
And even just maybe
From a decipherable dream.
A bike ride, a long line or that guy over there
An anonymous list conjured right from this chair
I'll tell you just when maybe why even who,
But where I don't know, and how's any one's clue.
See, first comes the rant,
then the second course raves
After belligerence drinks
to nonsensical's ways
I'll top it all off
With some mumbo served high
On a warm jumbo sized
mumbo jumbo filled pie
I'll write this or that
About nothing and less
no reason to pick up
when there's never a guest
At Cynical Inn I know I reside,
but come on, this is the goddamn World Wide Web and there are hundreds of more interesting and exciting blogs about things and people with interesting and exciting stories based on their equally if not more interesting and exciting lives. If I were me, and I am I would not read my own blog. I would read the interesting and exciting ones. If I read blogs. Take that you. I mean me. I mean. Shit.

HELLO DAY! IT'S ME AGAIN!

So, today is Friday. And it looks to be a nice day outside, from inside here behind the window, blinds, walls and doors. I can tell because I can see people walking around without jackets, cutting their grass and repairing their cable. Plus the sun is a shining and the birds are a singing. I think I even heard an owl earlier. Peculiar an owl's hoot is. However, I myself have yet to venture out into this day, because I was awoken abruptly last night by my inability to breath. Yes, I am also still sick with a nagging cold, so my phlegm filled stomach and hacking cough didn't help matters much. And I had a headache. Guess what? In the middle of all this, I had to go number two. I'm sure my faithful readers out there don't really want or need to know about my bodily workings, but you have to understand the reasoning behind me gingerly entering the day. Between emptying my nose, spitting out bits of my insides and gasping for air - I was trying to find some sleep. It was hard, but it finally did come, and when it did, I embraced it and woke up late. Sorry day, but I'll be out in you in a bit.

ST-EEE-RIKE THREE! YOU'RE OUT!

I went bowling last night. At a bowling alley. With some friends. We got the shoes, the lanes, balls, beer, made up stupid names like Cock Sangwich and Tiger - and bowled. Five games. My thumb and pinkie finger are red and a tad numb this morning. Also, my thigh and part of my gluteus maximus ache. Oh well. One thing I've learned over the years is that bowling is not something I do very well, which is probably why I can count the number of times I've gone on one hand. Speaking of bowling and hands and not being good, my proposed theory on this inadequate inferiority of mine is that my hands are too small and my fingers are just too fat for the sport (or is it a game?) meaning, all the balls that are suitable for my pudgy digits seem too big and heavy. This may not really be the case and perhaps I'm just too weak to ever be good at this game (or is it a sport?) but that's the present theory I am sticking with. However, if you're partner is pretty good and you want to win - all you have to do is bowl over one hundred and you should pull out a tight victory over your opponents. I figured that out last night. That, and that my stroke (or is it a throw?) seems always to fade a little to the right. I think it's because of my fat fingers, sweaty hands and weakness of my entire overall body. My body is built to write, ride bikes and throw baseballs. Not launch a sixteen pound urethane ball down a slicked up wooden lane towards a cluster of plastic coated rock maple pins. You dig?