Friday, August 26, 2011

She Likes Her Tundra Frozen

You may have noticed that I am not what you would call a pious man.  I'm not gonna lie, I left the Catholic church in which I was raised a long time ago.  And hell, I got out right before all that pervy priest man-boy-love that seemed to burst out in the late '90's.  Go me.

But that doesn't mean that I no longer have faith.  I do.  And it doesn't mean that I don't pray anymore - I do that as well, matter of fact.  I am a penitent man - to a deity who sees and knows all.  He is good and just.  And he performs miracles every Sunday - through the power of his enormous forehead.....

 Must be fuckin' football season...  

This is my religion.  This is my belief-system.  Don't you look down on my faith!  You pray to someone you've never seen or heard (other than in your head).  I pray to a man whose hand I've actually shook, and who sounds like....well, like a reject from Hee Haw.  But the brother can sling a spiral.

Last year, I got the season off to a bad start.  In fact, I may have brought a big old heaping pile of karma down on my team.  I should be ashamed of myself.

So how could I right the ship this year?  How does one bring balance to The Force that is the 2011 NFL regular season?

I'll tell ya how - you take it back to the source.  If you are going to practice your particular brand of pigskin theology, why not do it in the most respected church there is?

As it just so happens, my Girl is a shareholder.

Now, keep in mind, I am a Colts/Giants fan.  I am not a Packer fan.  But when you are in another man's house, you need to show some respect.  As soon as you get within ten blocks of the building above - you are reminded of college.  When you walked to the stadium, half-in-the-bag.  You joined complete strangers in singing fight songs and waving flags with pride.  It didn't matter what a person looked like or where they came from - as long as they were flashing your colors, they were family.  You get that feeling long before you even step foot in Vince's House, and you still feel it when you walk out.

So I have now been baptized.  My football sins have been forgiven, and to answer Hank William, Jr's question - you bet your ass I'm ready for some football!

It doesn't hurt that she looks awesome in green and gold.  

Have a good season.  Fuck the Patriots.

Monday, August 15, 2011

To the Death....

This post will make no sense without hearing the other side of the argument.  Read this breakdown of the actual event first, then come back.  Go ahead, I'll wait....

Got it?  Good.

I know, I know - you don't have to say it.  She's bat-shit crazy.  I mean, yeah yeah, she's fiery hot.  And she is typically rather open-minded and smart.  Not to mention she has a great rack.

But in this particular matter, well....she's off her damn rocker.  Even though the game took place over a week ago, the controversy continues to this day - neither party willing to back down.  It's like the Hatfield's and the McCoy's.  Coke and Pepsi.  Tom Brady and Heterosexuality.  An eternal battle between two powerful forces who will never give up the desire to vanquish one another.

It's very simple - you remember those standardized tests we took back in grade school?  They had these True/False logic questions that kind of insulted your intelligence, even when you were 10?  Well, they would go like this:

Bob is older than Sue.  Sue is older than Mark.  Therefore, Bob is older than Mark.  True or False?

The answer is:  True, obviously.

So, let's apply this logic to our scenario (V seems to have an unnatural obsession with pot-stickers, so we'll stick with that motif): 

Pot-stickers are appetizers.  Pot-Stickers are menu items.  Therefore, appetizers are menu items.

True or False?

The answer is:  V is a sore loser.

**Blogger's Note:  The bigger issue here is that V, the defeated party in said game of Scattergories (yes, even if you take away the point for 'appetizer', I still won) absolutely welched on the payment of the bet.

Yes, even on our dates there are stakes, resulting in opportunities for embarrassment and emasculation.  The loser of the game was to sing, "I'm A Little Teapot" on Skype for the other to view.  And point.  And laugh at.

Not only did she have the gall to claim she didn't know the lyrics (as if any such person exists, or at least doesn't have access to Google), she then had the audacity to REFUSE to do the teapot dance along with the song.

I know exactly what you're thinking, Dear Reader.  And you're right, she is just like Hitler.

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Mi Casa es....Whose Casa?

I've been thinking a lot lately about the meaning of the word, "Home."  Simple word - one syllable, four letters.  It has been the subject of poems, songs - I heard they even flip 'em on tv.

"Home is where the heart is." - Pliny the Elder

Well, my heart is with my family - always.  So does that mean my 'home' is the house I grew up in?  Back in Everytown, Indiana - my parent's house, where they still kick it in their retirement to this day?  

That house is infested with memories.  I swear Mellencamp's Pink Houses plays in my head every time I walk in the door.  I can return after any length away, and immediately feel at peace.  Smell my dad's cooking.  Watch movies with my mom.  Play croquet with my niece and nephews in the back yard.  Perfection.

There is only one problem - it exists in the middle of Everytown, Indiana.  One side of town smells like the paper mill (which itself smells like a dirty asshole).  The hottest nightspot is the smoking section at the local Applebee's.  And worst of all, the entire town is chock-a-block full of everyone who's ever been photographed on People of Wal-Mart.  

I spent 24 years trying to get out of that particular 'burg.  And I did, ten years ago, to sunny California.  And I settled in another little (but altogether different) town.  

"Where thou art - that - is Home." - Emily Dickinson.

Gee, thanks Emily!  That really clears shit up.

I love the City of Dana Point.  It's beautiful, it's mellow, and it moves at my pace.  In truth, I don't know that I ever want to leave - because it is the kind of town I always saw myself retiring in.  Buying a boat.  Reading a paper while having brunch on the patio at Hennesey's.  Come the afternoon, shuffling down to Turk's, where the youngest waitress had her first shift when Carter was in office - and where they pour the drinks strong enough to make you feel like an adult.

But the problem with Dana Point?  The 589 square feet that make up my apartment.  The one that I pay $1200 a month for.  It's nice, don't get me wrong.  But it is by no means a home.  California is beautiful.  It has mountains, valleys, beaches and forests.  It also has a fucking outrageous average property value.  I can't afford a house out here - which in turn, makes it feel less and less like a home.

So is it the city you live in?  Is it the building you reside in?  Maybe it's being closer to those who mean the most to you.  Honestly?  I don't know.  Woodie Gutherie once sang, "I ain't got no home in this world anymore."  

I'm feeling ya, Woodie.  It may be time for me to start looking again.
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