2005 Stats:
...............DAMON.........CRISP
AB............624................594
Avg...........316................300
OBP..........366................345
SLG...........439................465 (Crisp higher)
OPS..........805................810 (Crisp higher)
HR............10...................16 (Crisp higher)
RBI............75...................69
2B..............35...................42 (Crisp higher)
SB..............18...................15
AGE...........32..................26
SALARY.....$13 mil..........$5 mil
Dogs
I was walking behind a woman today when I noticed that her little dog was wearing shoes. Four tiny shoes. About a block later, the dog shat. And what did the owner do? Well of course, she removed a Wet-Nap from her purse and wiped its ass.
People in general take their pets too seriously. People in LA take their pets way, way to seriously. I regularly see 7 pound dogs wearing earmuffs, sweaters, sneakers, and scarves. And these garments are not being worn ironically.
I often make the comment that it's funny that a dog is like us, except we have a brain and a dog has no brain. When you look at a dog, the comment makes perfect sense. Yet, almost without fail, someone will respond with, "Dogs have brains!" As if.
Now even the most adamant pet apologist wouldn't argue that my turtle has a brain. So why lie to ourselves about dogs? The most absurd thing is when people claim that their dog is "smart." While Jumper might be smart for a dog, let's remember that even the smartest dog is a cement-head.
Incidentally, the same goes for babies. Babies are like us, except they're tiny and they have no brain. A baby is a pod. But people seem put off by these comments as well.
People in general take their pets too seriously. People in LA take their pets way, way to seriously. I regularly see 7 pound dogs wearing earmuffs, sweaters, sneakers, and scarves. And these garments are not being worn ironically.
I often make the comment that it's funny that a dog is like us, except we have a brain and a dog has no brain. When you look at a dog, the comment makes perfect sense. Yet, almost without fail, someone will respond with, "Dogs have brains!" As if.
Now even the most adamant pet apologist wouldn't argue that my turtle has a brain. So why lie to ourselves about dogs? The most absurd thing is when people claim that their dog is "smart." While Jumper might be smart for a dog, let's remember that even the smartest dog is a cement-head.
Incidentally, the same goes for babies. Babies are like us, except they're tiny and they have no brain. A baby is a pod. But people seem put off by these comments as well.
The Top 7 Foods
I love good restaurants as much as the next guy. Almost nothing beats a perfect steak, or a phenomenal piece of sushi, or a juicy rack of lamb, or a great pasta dish. I said "almost," because there are 7 things-- all pretty cheap and low quality in fact-- that are more delicious than anything you'll find on a menu in a fine restaurant. The following are the best single bites of food a human can experience:
-4+ Sour Patch Kids at once
-a spoonful of Annie's Macaroni and Cheese (white cheddar)
-a buffalo wing bite
-a McDonalds chicken nugget with sweet sauce
-"that" nacho (you know which one I'm talking about)
-a bite of a really hot, melty chocolate chip cookie, right out of the oven
-a single pepperoni
The last one refers to a very specific situation. When the pizza arrives-- which, by the way, is by far the hungriest I ever am. There's not even a close second. This is consistently a moment of pure happiness for me. I am, without fail, voraciously starving when the pizza delivery guy gets there. Anyway, the pizza arrives, and everyone suddenly acts all primitive and runs over and quickly scans the pizza for the best slice left, and in the frenzy a pepperoni always falls off and stays in the box. I'm the guy who picks it up and eats it (the only other person who does this as consistently as I do is my sister Jordan, who usually eats the first whole slice in one bite to ensure the first pick of the second round). Pepperonis in general do not fall into the sacred group above. But that pepperoni-- at that moment-- makes the list.
-4+ Sour Patch Kids at once
-a spoonful of Annie's Macaroni and Cheese (white cheddar)
-a buffalo wing bite
-a McDonalds chicken nugget with sweet sauce
-"that" nacho (you know which one I'm talking about)
-a bite of a really hot, melty chocolate chip cookie, right out of the oven
-a single pepperoni
The last one refers to a very specific situation. When the pizza arrives-- which, by the way, is by far the hungriest I ever am. There's not even a close second. This is consistently a moment of pure happiness for me. I am, without fail, voraciously starving when the pizza delivery guy gets there. Anyway, the pizza arrives, and everyone suddenly acts all primitive and runs over and quickly scans the pizza for the best slice left, and in the frenzy a pepperoni always falls off and stays in the box. I'm the guy who picks it up and eats it (the only other person who does this as consistently as I do is my sister Jordan, who usually eats the first whole slice in one bite to ensure the first pick of the second round). Pepperonis in general do not fall into the sacred group above. But that pepperoni-- at that moment-- makes the list.
A Tough Day to Come
I accidentally ate the clove of garlic on the side of the pasta dish I ordered tonight. Now when I get within 2 feet of insects they drop dead suddenly.
The Smoothie Place
There's a smoothie place on the first floor of my apartment building.
The Good Things:
-It's close
-I enjoy smoothies
-There's a 70% chance that the attractive girl who works behind the counter finds me handsome, and at least a 15% chance that she finds me rugged
The Awkward Things:
-The place is owned by a former NFL Pro-Bowler (whose name I'll omit-- we'll call him Darnell), who I caught out with a woman that wasn't his wife one night. Both Darnell and his wife are in the shop often. I know that he was with that other woman that night. When he sees me, he knows I know. And I know he knows I know. Worst, he knows that I know he knows I know. Which lends an unusual tension to my visits to the shop, especially since his wife is usually present. But she doesn't know. And even if she does, she definitely doesn't know I know. I know, I know, I've left you with no choice but to suddenly think "know" looks weird now, like it looks like some weird Japanese word.
-Darnell's wife has recently become aware of my existence as one of their customers. She now says, "Hi, Tim" when I walk in, which leaves me with absolutely no choice but to say, "Hi, Diane." But I really don't want to say "Hi, Diane." 90% of the time I'm in there I'm in a massive rush because I'm late, which means I'm in "hurried, irritated prick" mode. And yet, I say, "Hi, Diane."
-Diane has aggressively been pressuring me to begin carrying their card, whereby I'd collect a stamp on each visit, in hopes of reaching 9, at which time I'd receive a free smoothie. I have absolutely no desire to own this card. But Diane hasn't noticed. Every time I come in she asks if I have a "buy 9 get 1 free" card, and every time I say no. Then, at that moment, there's a hideous 2 second period, where it hits her that not only do I not have one, but I don't want one. These 2 seconds are the worst 2 seconds of my day. Cumulatively, they combine into the worst 3 minutes of my life.*
That said, there is a twist. One day not too long ago, the hot high-schooler asked me if I wanted the "buy 9 get 1 free" card. Enduring the 2 seconds from hell with Diane is one thing, but with this girl things were more complicated. My first instinct was to play it from the rugged angle, and say no, hoping she would think it was because I was the kind of guy who played by my own rules. But instead I folded, and said yes. Now I have a card, and they know I have a card, and I know they know I have a card. So I've been taking it out and getting it stamped daily. And each stamp is like 100 pounds of self-loathing being hammered into my wretched soul.
*This phenomenon is not limited to the smoothie place. Dozens of cashiers and I endure these 2 seconds annually. Like yesterday at Barnes and Noble, when a plump, sprightly cashier asked if I had their Rewards Card, and upon hearing the negative, embarked upon an advertisement of the various rewards it would entail. Her final word marked the beginning of an atrocious 2 seconds for both of us, after which I paid and left.
The Good Things:
-It's close
-I enjoy smoothies
-There's a 70% chance that the attractive girl who works behind the counter finds me handsome, and at least a 15% chance that she finds me rugged
The Awkward Things:
-The place is owned by a former NFL Pro-Bowler (whose name I'll omit-- we'll call him Darnell), who I caught out with a woman that wasn't his wife one night. Both Darnell and his wife are in the shop often. I know that he was with that other woman that night. When he sees me, he knows I know. And I know he knows I know. Worst, he knows that I know he knows I know. Which lends an unusual tension to my visits to the shop, especially since his wife is usually present. But she doesn't know. And even if she does, she definitely doesn't know I know. I know, I know, I've left you with no choice but to suddenly think "know" looks weird now, like it looks like some weird Japanese word.
-Darnell's wife has recently become aware of my existence as one of their customers. She now says, "Hi, Tim" when I walk in, which leaves me with absolutely no choice but to say, "Hi, Diane." But I really don't want to say "Hi, Diane." 90% of the time I'm in there I'm in a massive rush because I'm late, which means I'm in "hurried, irritated prick" mode. And yet, I say, "Hi, Diane."
-Diane has aggressively been pressuring me to begin carrying their card, whereby I'd collect a stamp on each visit, in hopes of reaching 9, at which time I'd receive a free smoothie. I have absolutely no desire to own this card. But Diane hasn't noticed. Every time I come in she asks if I have a "buy 9 get 1 free" card, and every time I say no. Then, at that moment, there's a hideous 2 second period, where it hits her that not only do I not have one, but I don't want one. These 2 seconds are the worst 2 seconds of my day. Cumulatively, they combine into the worst 3 minutes of my life.*
That said, there is a twist. One day not too long ago, the hot high-schooler asked me if I wanted the "buy 9 get 1 free" card. Enduring the 2 seconds from hell with Diane is one thing, but with this girl things were more complicated. My first instinct was to play it from the rugged angle, and say no, hoping she would think it was because I was the kind of guy who played by my own rules. But instead I folded, and said yes. Now I have a card, and they know I have a card, and I know they know I have a card. So I've been taking it out and getting it stamped daily. And each stamp is like 100 pounds of self-loathing being hammered into my wretched soul.
*This phenomenon is not limited to the smoothie place. Dozens of cashiers and I endure these 2 seconds annually. Like yesterday at Barnes and Noble, when a plump, sprightly cashier asked if I had their Rewards Card, and upon hearing the negative, embarked upon an advertisement of the various rewards it would entail. Her final word marked the beginning of an atrocious 2 seconds for both of us, after which I paid and left.
Moment of Reflection
I don't have a sore throat right now.
There I said it.
Every time I have a sore throat I can't believe that I ever take it for granted when I don't. I always tell myself I'll never not appreciate not having a sore throat again. But I always forget to appreciate it. So now, here, I'm acknowledging-- and very much appreciating-- the fact that my throat is not sore.
There I said it.
Every time I have a sore throat I can't believe that I ever take it for granted when I don't. I always tell myself I'll never not appreciate not having a sore throat again. But I always forget to appreciate it. So now, here, I'm acknowledging-- and very much appreciating-- the fact that my throat is not sore.
Packages
First I want to mention that I'm thrilled with the title of my previous entry, "Coach Potato". There's basically no chance that I'm not disgustingly clever.
Second, I'd like to tell you about a remarkably creepy thing that has occurred in my life. I returned from Boston Monday night to find two packages addressed to me that had arrived at my apartment while I was gone. I had no recollection of ordering anything, no one was planning to send me anything, it wasn't my birthday, it wasn't Purim, and I hadn't won anything, so I was understandably confused.
Suspicious, I opened the first. Three bottles of hot sauce. Oh yeah, I had ordered something. Pretty excited about those.
Then I opened the second. 6 Family Guy dolls, each in their own package. No note. No return address. Just six dolls. Each of a different Family Guy character.
Now I think there's a 20% chance that I'm assassinated in the next week. What kind of cryptic message is this and who sent it and why?
My first guess: the girl I dated last year who I hated because she hated the Family guy. Remember? Feel free to scroll down to my entry on November 17 to refresh yourself.
I'm saying it now, and making it public. Michelle, if you kill me, everyone who reads this blog will know it's you. I know we had our differences, but creepy death threats are not a reasonable reaction. We've both moved on with our lives. I'll keep the dolls, but please stop sending things to me.
If there are no posts on this blog in the next 5 days, call the police.
Second, I'd like to tell you about a remarkably creepy thing that has occurred in my life. I returned from Boston Monday night to find two packages addressed to me that had arrived at my apartment while I was gone. I had no recollection of ordering anything, no one was planning to send me anything, it wasn't my birthday, it wasn't Purim, and I hadn't won anything, so I was understandably confused.
Suspicious, I opened the first. Three bottles of hot sauce. Oh yeah, I had ordered something. Pretty excited about those.
Then I opened the second. 6 Family Guy dolls, each in their own package. No note. No return address. Just six dolls. Each of a different Family Guy character.
Now I think there's a 20% chance that I'm assassinated in the next week. What kind of cryptic message is this and who sent it and why?
My first guess: the girl I dated last year who I hated because she hated the Family guy. Remember? Feel free to scroll down to my entry on November 17 to refresh yourself.
I'm saying it now, and making it public. Michelle, if you kill me, everyone who reads this blog will know it's you. I know we had our differences, but creepy death threats are not a reasonable reaction. We've both moved on with our lives. I'll keep the dolls, but please stop sending things to me.
If there are no posts on this blog in the next 5 days, call the police.
Coach Potato
I thoroughly enjoy reading on airplanes. As someone who always pledges to start reading more but never does, plane rides are one of the few things I've always reserved especially for reading.
Fuck it.
I flew Jet Blue for the first time this weekend on a round trip to Boston (to watch my 16-year-old sister slut it up in a play and to attend my annual fantasy football banquet, sporting none other than my newly purchased baby blue suit. Everything in this parenthesis is embarrassing. I need to get the hell out of here and back to the normal paragraph). On the flight today, which lasted 6 and a half hours, I watched some combination of:
Sportscenter (every word about the Patriots is excruciating to hear), Around the Horn, PTI, two tennis matches (including Venus Williams being upset), two college basketball games (including a monumental choke by some unfortunate Kansas player), the replay of this year's Sugar Bowl, the absolutely phenomenal MTV show where a girl evaluates guys based on their rooms, a show about celebrities divorcing while the woman's pregnant (Charlie Sheen's a dick), 3 minutes of "The Runway", a food network special on chile and another on Campbell's soup and another on meatloaf, a history channel biography of Abe Lincoln, South Park, Seinfeld, Bill Cosby standup, the news, Hardball, the O'Reilly Factor (I hate O'Reilly), the Golden Globes (God George Clooney is dreamy), the Poker World Series replay, Full House (Danny was mad at Uncle Jesse but then the 3-year-old interrupted them and said something cute and Danny realized he was wrong and apologized), a National Geographic special on crash test dummies and another on the Loch Ness Monster (that zany fuck), an Animal Planet special on a guy being arrested for neglecting emaciated dogs, and a Discovery Channel special on lumberjacks (the chainsaw being invented was huge).
I was crushed when we hit the runway.
Fuck it.
I flew Jet Blue for the first time this weekend on a round trip to Boston (to watch my 16-year-old sister slut it up in a play and to attend my annual fantasy football banquet, sporting none other than my newly purchased baby blue suit. Everything in this parenthesis is embarrassing. I need to get the hell out of here and back to the normal paragraph). On the flight today, which lasted 6 and a half hours, I watched some combination of:
Sportscenter (every word about the Patriots is excruciating to hear), Around the Horn, PTI, two tennis matches (including Venus Williams being upset), two college basketball games (including a monumental choke by some unfortunate Kansas player), the replay of this year's Sugar Bowl, the absolutely phenomenal MTV show where a girl evaluates guys based on their rooms, a show about celebrities divorcing while the woman's pregnant (Charlie Sheen's a dick), 3 minutes of "The Runway", a food network special on chile and another on Campbell's soup and another on meatloaf, a history channel biography of Abe Lincoln, South Park, Seinfeld, Bill Cosby standup, the news, Hardball, the O'Reilly Factor (I hate O'Reilly), the Golden Globes (God George Clooney is dreamy), the Poker World Series replay, Full House (Danny was mad at Uncle Jesse but then the 3-year-old interrupted them and said something cute and Danny realized he was wrong and apologized), a National Geographic special on crash test dummies and another on the Loch Ness Monster (that zany fuck), an Animal Planet special on a guy being arrested for neglecting emaciated dogs, and a Discovery Channel special on lumberjacks (the chainsaw being invented was huge).
I was crushed when we hit the runway.
Massive Pet Peeve
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Additional Asia Thoughts
I want to mention a couple more things about Asia.
-the pictures are here if that so interests you.
-I think I've shat once in two weeks. I guess Vietnam had the last laugh.
-I forgot to mention my biggest pet peeve about all of Southeast Asia, other than the aggressive and lascivious transvestites. There exists not one sign, billboard, menu, etc. without at least one misspelling or grammar mistake (there's a small-- maybe 2%-- chance, in my mind, that "misspelling" only has one "s". That means I have a 98% chance of enduring no humiliation at all from that sentence-- I'm satisfied with those odds. You can't have it all in life, and I'll take 98% any day). Huge, undoubtedly expensive, fluorescent signs would say "Manh Thung Restuarant" or "All Day Breafast". There would be a stack of nice-looking brochures in a tourist agency, that would advertise "Overnight Tous to Halong Bay."
I don't know why it bothered me so much. But it did. How frickin hard is it to ask any tourist off the street to proofread the pamphlet before you print 2,000 of them, or before you order the huge lit sign that will be there for the next 15 years? I guess it's a culture thing. Americans would never send out an order before checking the spelling. Just another vast cultural contrast.
-the pictures are here if that so interests you.
-I think I've shat once in two weeks. I guess Vietnam had the last laugh.
-I forgot to mention my biggest pet peeve about all of Southeast Asia, other than the aggressive and lascivious transvestites. There exists not one sign, billboard, menu, etc. without at least one misspelling or grammar mistake (there's a small-- maybe 2%-- chance, in my mind, that "misspelling" only has one "s". That means I have a 98% chance of enduring no humiliation at all from that sentence-- I'm satisfied with those odds. You can't have it all in life, and I'll take 98% any day). Huge, undoubtedly expensive, fluorescent signs would say "Manh Thung Restuarant" or "All Day Breafast". There would be a stack of nice-looking brochures in a tourist agency, that would advertise "Overnight Tous to Halong Bay."
I don't know why it bothered me so much. But it did. How frickin hard is it to ask any tourist off the street to proofread the pamphlet before you print 2,000 of them, or before you order the huge lit sign that will be there for the next 15 years? I guess it's a culture thing. Americans would never send out an order before checking the spelling. Just another vast cultural contrast.
My Affection Towards Small, Electronic Devices
My sisters are obsessed with clothes. Nothing invigorates them more than a batch of freshly purchased garments. I will never understand this. And apparently, they will never understand that I will never understand this. Because I'd say that on over 300 occasions in my life, my sister Lindsay has sat me down and displayed for me gleefully her new pants, and her new tank-top. I act openly upset every time she makes me sit down to do this, and yet she is completely blind to my reaction and consistently thinks that this is an exciting event for me as well as her (when my sister reads this she will be concerned that it makes her look bad-- sorry, Junior).
But I shouldn't cackle too loudly-- I have a material obsession of my own. I'm obsessed with technological gadgets.* To the point that they actually look delicious to me. One of my students showed me his new video iPod today, and I had an intense urge to eat it (he also had an f'ing pillow speaker. He'd plug the iPod into the pillow and you could put your head on it and listen to music. Another tutee has a sweatshirt speaker. He plugs the iPod into the sweatshirt and when he puts his hood on he can hear music. I'm not kidding. Who the fuck has a sweatshirt speaker?). When I bought an Apple camera to put on top of my computer, I was jolted into a good mood each time I looked at it for a full week after I bought it.
In Europe now, they've combined the video iPod and Blackberry phone into one device, called the G3. This apparently replaces your phone, laptop, iPod, TV, DVD player, digital camera, internet, external hard drive, alarm clock, calculator, road navigator, and Playstation, and it's the size of an iPod. And frankly, I think that's tubular.
There are some people reading this right now who are tearing up, lips quivering, thinking, "is nothing sacred?" and yearning for the simple days. Well maybe you should spend more time shaving your legs and less time eating non-fat yogurt and resisting delicious technology.
Other people have found this posting to be extraordinarily nerdy. Those people are cowardly.
And still other people are uneasy that I just spent a chunk of time criticizing myself, and then coming up with non-sensical comebacks, and that they sat at work and read it. Now they are reclining in their chair, gazing aimlessly at the upper corner of the room, and feeling just so-so about themselves.
*I'm also deeply fond of globes.
But I shouldn't cackle too loudly-- I have a material obsession of my own. I'm obsessed with technological gadgets.* To the point that they actually look delicious to me. One of my students showed me his new video iPod today, and I had an intense urge to eat it (he also had an f'ing pillow speaker. He'd plug the iPod into the pillow and you could put your head on it and listen to music. Another tutee has a sweatshirt speaker. He plugs the iPod into the sweatshirt and when he puts his hood on he can hear music. I'm not kidding. Who the fuck has a sweatshirt speaker?). When I bought an Apple camera to put on top of my computer, I was jolted into a good mood each time I looked at it for a full week after I bought it.
In Europe now, they've combined the video iPod and Blackberry phone into one device, called the G3. This apparently replaces your phone, laptop, iPod, TV, DVD player, digital camera, internet, external hard drive, alarm clock, calculator, road navigator, and Playstation, and it's the size of an iPod. And frankly, I think that's tubular.
There are some people reading this right now who are tearing up, lips quivering, thinking, "is nothing sacred?" and yearning for the simple days. Well maybe you should spend more time shaving your legs and less time eating non-fat yogurt and resisting delicious technology.
Other people have found this posting to be extraordinarily nerdy. Those people are cowardly.
And still other people are uneasy that I just spent a chunk of time criticizing myself, and then coming up with non-sensical comebacks, and that they sat at work and read it. Now they are reclining in their chair, gazing aimlessly at the upper corner of the room, and feeling just so-so about themselves.
*I'm also deeply fond of globes.
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