Damian’s Deconstructive Diatribe

It’s been awhile, hasn’t it? Oh yeah, ever since I got yelled at for basically pointing out the ridiculous nature of a crime I outlined in an earlier diatribe. After all that back and forty, I considered retiring, laying down my figurative pen, leaving the news-telling to the professionals….yeah, right. As if I was gonna stop diatribing because one person got her thong in a twist over something I said. You all know me better than that. I’m gonna keep rollin’ till the wheels fall off. The diatribe is my go-to move; my hook shot in the lane, my left jab, guitar lift when I have full star power while playing Guitar Hero III. It is, has been, and will be the signature piece of this blog, and I’m ready to ramp it up and offend more people. After all, it’s what I do. So let’s do it!

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NORTH HUNTINGDON, Pa. — A former Norwin homecoming queen accused of attacking her sister with a prosthetic leg and threatening to burn down a neighbor’s trailer was ordered on Wednesday to go to rehab. Donna Sturkie-Anthony showed up for her preliminary hearing before District Judge Douglas Weimer, but the 41-year-old woman’s hearing was continued so she can go to Greenbriar Treatment Center. Police said Sturkie-Anthony’s sister came to visit her at Lincoln Mobile Home Park on Route 30 in January, and the two started arguing about her alcohol abuse. Then, police said Sturkie-Anthony pulled off her sister’s prosthetic leg and beat her with it. In that case, Sturkie-Anthony was charged with aggravated assault, simple assault, recklessly endangering another person and harassment. About three weeks later, police said, Anthony stole her neighbor’s telephone and then threatened to burn down their trailer if they testified against her. She faces charges of intimidation of witnesses or victims and terroristic threats in the case involving her neighbors. “The police, they call for backup when they come up here to deal with her,” said another neighbor, who asked not to be identified. “They know who she is.” Sturkie-Anthony was being held without bond in the Westmoreland County Prison. Police said it’s because she is a danger to others and herself.

This is all kinds of messed up. There’s so much here, I don’t even know how to get at all of it. It’s bullet time, folks.

• From homecoming queen to living in a trailer park? This is Chapter 4 in How Not To Live Your Life. Read the book, not the Cliff’s Notes. Chapters 1-3 are Stay In School, And Not Just In The 3rd Stall, You Shouldn’t Dress Like That If You Want Him To Respect You, and Lotto Is Not A Career. Reading is fundamental.
  
• Nothing fuels an argument against being a drunk like beating the accuser with her own prosthetic. Replacing a prosthetic leg is expensive, folks. A couple weeks ago, Coach F stepped funny on his, and something broke inside of it, and he said it would cost about $18,000 to get a new one. Now, I’m sure the sister’s leg didn’t cost $18,000, but even a $29.95 leg is hard to replace in this tough economy. This poor lady might have to walk around with two broomsticks with some CD cases on the bottom of ‘em attached to her thigh with duct tape (black, not gray, because black goes with everything) until her Blue Burning Cross/Blue Shield insurance can get her another one from Costco. It all adds up, people.
• Can someone please tell me the benefit of threatening the neighbor? I mean, I seriously doubt Bubba and Jimmie Sue were going to narc her out to the po-po - you know good and damn well that Bubba probably has an outstanding warrant for public intoxication and indecent exposure hisdamnself. So with that thought, why steal their phone? It probably wasn’t even cordless…it’s not like trailers are measured in square feet. They’re measured more in the number of Cheez-Its you can lay in a square grid, meaning having a cordless phone is kinda like having 100 mph on the speedometer of a Hyundai. You’re not fooling anyone.
  
• Burning down the trailer is overkill, anyway. Just circle the address on a map, and mail it to God. He’ll send a tornado like he always does. Or a tow truck. Either or.
  

The funniest thing about this all is the fact that she’s so well-known that the cops call backup before they even RESPOND to calls to her house. I’m sure, back in high school, she was the cream of the crop, but that’s pretty much where the trail(er) runs cold for her. Oh well…I’m sure she’ll be voted Most Likely to Beat Ass on Cellblock C with her charm and personality. Here’s to hoping.

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Thomas Beatie, who used to be a woman, appeared in the most recent issue of The Advocate, a magazine for lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender readers, Portland, Ore., television station KPTV reported. Beatie wrote the article, which includes a picture of him while he was 22 weeks pregnant. According to the story, he went through a sex change, but decided only to have chest reconstruction and testosterone therapy. Beatie was able to keep the reproductive organs he was born with. The article said he stopped getting the injections and was able to get pregnant. Beatie, who lives in Bend, wrote he was once pregnant with triplets, but the pregnancy was life-threatening and he lost the fetuses. Now, Beatie said he and his wife, Nancy, are expecting a little girl in July. In the article, Beatie described some of the challenges he and his wife have faced — they said doctors won’t treat them. The couple met 10 years ago and Nancy is not able to have children. He wrote in The Advocate that their situation “sparks legal, political and social unknowns.” The couple were out of town Monday and unable to speak with the station.

Whoooooooa. Whoa. Whoa. Let me get this straight - there’s a magazine for lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgendered people, and I didn’t know about it? That’s a travesty! They better stock that in the magazine aisle in Wal-Mart, dammit. Am I the only person who read this and thought about seahorses? (See, the male seahorse carries the fetus, and…wait, what am I, Wikipedia? Look it up yourself.) I’ve always been fascinated by things like this: a woman marrying a man who used to be a woman, and who only has the lessened chesticles and testosterone therapy, which all sounds like “female Russian bodybuilder” at first blush. It’s very fucked up that doctors won’t treat them…after all, the child inside deserves the best health care, and did nothing to the prudish doctors. And he/she/it/that certainly didn’t choose those fucked-up parents, for that matter. So what if you disagree with the woman who’s now a man (almost) who wants to have a baby with his wife, who presumably always has been a woman, but who really knows? Who is the woman who marries a man who is only halfway over the gender fence? (Good thing he’s not a man going to woman, ’cause his junk would get caught in the chain links. And that shit hurts like the dickens. Pardon the pun.) I hope the mofather…the famother….the seahorse gets the full medical attention that he and his offspring so desperately need and deserve. And naturally, I hope the National Inquirer is there with some paparazzi. Those pics will go on my fridge, baby.

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PARIS (11) - Pirates have freed 30 hostages held aboard a French tourist yacht off Somalia’s coast for the past week, French President Nicolas Sarkozy said Friday. Pirates seized the yacht, called Le Ponant, in the Gulf of Aden on April 4. It was carrying 30 crew members, including 22 French citizens and six citizens of the Philippines.

Damn, Elle. I know you’re pissed about the blog and the ‘roid and all that, but for the love of Al B. Sure, quit kidnapping people! Just go buy you some Tucks pads and some witch hazel and call it a day. Damn pirates. I swear. Always starting shit.

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Absent-minded professor dad buys lemonade for his kid at a baseball game. Turns out it’s a Mike’s Hard Lemonade. After a guard spots the bottle, the kid is whisked away to the hospital in an ambulance (!) where they found no trace of alcohol in his blood about 90 minutes later. The doctors said he was OK to go, but instead he wound up in foster care. It was “two days before the state of Michigan allowed Ratte’s wife, U-M architecture professor Claire Zimmerman, to take their son home, and nearly a week before [dad Christopher] Ratte was permitted to move back into his own house.” Everyone involved seems to have come down with a serious case of “just following orders”. The sympathetic cop who interviewed Ratte and his son at the hospital said she was convinced what happened had been an accident, but that her supervisor was insisting the matter be referred to Child Protective Services. And Ratte thought the two child protection workers who came to take Leo away seemed more annoyed with the police than with him. “This is so unnecessary,” one told Ratte before driving away with his son.

Good thing the kid didn’t ask for some ice tea from Long Island. I agree that the authorities in this case went a tad too far in all this, but really - you’d think the professor would at least read the bottle, where it mentions its alcohol content, before giving it to his kid. And you’d also think that perhaps the person who sold it to him would’ve objected when he spotted the Nutty Professor giving the bottle to little Billy - but then again, given their wages and the sheer number of drunken asshats buying 4 beers at a time, he should be happy he got correct change, much less a lesson on effective parenting. In all this, though, one thing has been sorely overlooked - Mike’s Hard Lemonade must be some weak-ass shit, if it couldn’t even give a kid a buzz. How many of those things would you have to drink to actually get drunk? 38? I think you’d have a better chance with REAL lemonade than with that watered-down Shirley Temple in a bottle. Hell, I bet a Zima would’ve….wait, let’s not take this too far. I wouldn’t wish Zima on anyone. The other curious thing about this story is the speed at which Child Protective Services descended upon this family over an honest mistake, while consistently not helping kids with much more obvious signs of abuse and mistreatment. Time to refocus, CPS. At best, this was an honest mistake, and at worst, he’s the coolest dad in the history of ever.

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A combination of alcohol, bees and a gun resulted in a Williamsburg man making a trip to the hospital Sunday. The incident happened around 2:00 Sunday yesterday afternoon in Frankstown Township in the Canoe Creek area. According to police 57-year-old David Walls had been drinking when he tried to shoot down some bees flying above him using a .22 caliber revolver loaded with buckshot. Walls ended up shooting himself in the left hand causing soft tissue damage. Walls was treated and released at Altoona Regional Health System.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

(breathe)

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Really, I have nothing else other than this. Then again, nothing else is really required, now is it? I think not.

Peace.

David Cook, American Idol, Billie Jean, Just Watch It, OK?

I’m no “Idol” fan, but this?

Yeah.

Watch it if you haven’t already.

If this dude doesn’t win, I’ll never watch “Idol” again. Which will be no different than what I do now. I’m efficient that way.

from www.youtube.com posted with vodpod

Coaching 103: The Freeze Rule

Allow me to clue you all in on the competitive nature of Texas youth sports. Have you ever seen “Friday Night Lights” or “Varsity Blues”? Those movies aren’t fictionalizations or dramatizations of events, they are carbon-copy facsimiles of how things really do work in Texas athletics. Sure, you expect to find people jockeying for position and wins at the high school and collegiate levels, but what’s truly surprising is how deep it goes. For example, 5YO plays soccer in a league that doesn’t even allow goalie play. Do you realize that even at the 5 year old level, coaches are constantly on the lookout for the best players, and when they find ‘em, they horde them like a warlord sitting on a pile of gold and whores. Or golden whores. In fact, there’s something called the Freeze Rule that permits this very thing.

The Freeze Rule basically gives coaches with existing teams the ability to designate certain players as undraftable, meaning that when the player draft occurs, those players are not available for selection by other teams. On the surface, it doesn’t sound horrible…if you’ve worked hard to cultivate talent, and you know the strengths and weaknesses of your players, you’d naturally want to continue their development, particularly if you’ve been winning with them. The problem, though, is that teams were allowed to freeze their entire rosters, effectively eliminating competition for the good players. And if that weren’t bad enough, this season there were more players than available coaches, so the league created two expansion teams to accommodate the overflow (because you know good and damn well that they weren’t about to turn down the $65 per kid just because there weren’t enough coaches). My team was one of the expansion teams. Now, class - does anyone see the problem with (a) the freeze rule being in effect, and (b) my team being a brand-new team? Anyone? Bueller? It means that we had to pick our team entirely from the draft (which is as it should be), but without having skilled and experienced players available to select from. And while our kids are great guys, we’ve come to realize after 4 games that we got the crumbs, not the entrees. The smallest player on any team we’ve seen is only as small as the median player on ours. Some of our kids look like smurfs out there, compared to the giant kids on other squads. And skill-wise? I watched one catcher jump up from a squatting position and fire the ball on a rope to 2nd base. Our catcher? I’m thrilled if the ball makes it to the pitcher in less than 3 bounces. I’m not dogging on him…I’m just pointing out the disparity in player skill that we’re forced to deal with.

Game 4. Coach F (who is now the head coach - long story) was unavailable for this game, so someone had to step up and be the interim head coach. Someone. Hmm…who is the least qualified person to do this monumental task? Why, let’s get Coach Damian to do it! He won’t say no! And he didn’t. I got roped in yet AGAIN, because I’m a sap. The United Negro College Fund ought to just install a permanent remote station at my front door. For some reason, I had the bubbleguts all day. I was nervous…worried about the game, worried that I wouldn’t know how to manage my roster, worried about my level of knowledge about pitching, worried about dealing with the umpires. That last item proved to be the main thing I had to be concerned with, because when I got to the game that night, I discovered two things very quickly:

1. There was only going to be one umpire for the game, and he was 16 years old
2. I’ve forgotten more about the rules of baseball than he’s ever learned

He came up to me, voice cracking like that ubiquitous teenager on “The Simpsons”, and said “It’s just gonna be me tonight, coach. We’ll try to work together, ok?” I gave him the fisheye, but shook his hand and figured we’d work together. That plan evaporated almost immediately, when a batter on the other team hit the ball directly to our 2nd baseman, who smartly tagged the runner going from 1st base to 2nd base, then threw the ball to 1st base. Double play! YEAH BABY! But Peach Fuzz Ump, in his infinite wisdom, jumped up and said “SAFE!” on both plays. Prior to this, I thought I’d have a problem going out and defending my kids, mostly because I’m just really laid back by nature. But when this happened, I could feel the black bile of anger replacing the bad case of nerves in my bubbling belly. I yelled “BLUE!” (Apparently, all coaches call all umpires “Blue”. I learned that in Game 3.) “He tagged him clean!” And Baby Blue said no, he missed. Never mind the fact that the baserunner who got tagged actually was physically repositioned by the tag (meaning the 2nd baseman pushed him with his glove, confirming that he made actual contact). This call was followed soon by him calling a ball on a kid who swung on a pitch, albeit 3 seconds after it hit the catcher’s glove. When I nearly popped a blood vessel over that, he called the next pitch a strike…even though the batter did the exact same thing. Inconsistent much? My assistant coaches were damn-near apoplectic (I link because I love) with rage and outrage (but strangely, no inrage or road rage), and I had to calm them down just so we could get through this debacle without a myocardial infarction. Man, I’m lousy with the $5 words today, aren’t I?

In the end, we lost 6-0, and although it wasn’t the ump’s fault entirely, he sure as shit didn’t help matters. In fact, on a couple of calls, the OTHER team’s coaches kinda cocked their heads to the side as if to say “…really? Damn, okay, we’ll take it.” Add that to the fact that instead of two umpires (one behind the plate, one in shallow centerfield), we only had Mr. Similac Breath there to decide important matters like “If the pitch is at or above the player’s forehead, is it a ball or a strike?” The parents for our team got on him so bad that he finally called in reinforcements in the form of…another umpire. Why THIS guy couldn’t've been there the whole game, I do not know. What I do know is that once again, we got bent over and dealt with in a way most foul, and with us already being at a disadvantage due to ye olde Freeze Rule. Some of the kids were crying during and after game, partly because of the familiar feeling of losing, and partly because they messed up and they knew it. We’re hoping that we can break through, finally find something for them to latch onto and use for hope. All this losing…it wears on you. I learned why coaches have ulcers and thinning hair; why they only sleep 3-4 hours at night; why they look like Atlas, holding the world on their shoulders. As a coach, you have all the responsibility for the outcome, with none of the ability to actively participate in the game. And things like The Freeze Rule don’t help. We’ll keep finding things to build on, and hopefully the boys can find a way to win. At 0-4, they deserve it.

ELATION EDIT: Okay, I wrote this post after the game on Tuesday. We had another game on Friday. We won!!!

Sorta.

See, the games have either a 4 inning or 1.5 hour limit, whichever comes first. If the game hasn’t concluded before the time limit, the umpire calls the game over, and the score rolls back to the previous inning’s score. We scored the only run in the game, in the 4th inning, and the game was called with only one out recorded in the bottom of the 4th, so they rolled the score back to 0-0. Stupid-ass rule, if you ask me. But the kids don’t know that. All they know is when the game was called, the scoreboard read 1-0 in favor of our team, and they burst into screaming and smiling and pure joy. We weren’t about to take that away from them. As far as they know, we won.

They won.

Peace.

Coaching 102: Dealing With Frustration

I think the best part of being a coach is watching the kids display the things that we, as coaches, have been teaching them. It’s so cool to watch them get in front of the ball, swing from their hips, push off from their back foot when they pitch…it’s pretty cool, I gotta say. The worst part about coaching is the fact that once the game starts, you are little more than a spectator with a loud voice, a rising blood pressure, and a uniform that semi-sorta looks like the ones worn by the kids.

Saturday was Opening Day, the long-awaited debut of the little league season. We’ve been working hard to get the boys ready for the first game that night, and with a couple of exceptions, everyone was geared up. Honestly, we still have 2-3 kids on the team who couldn’t find third base with a map, a flashlight, and a talking GPS unit. Those kids do not start. We were told to be at the fields at 11am on Saturday for the Opening Day ceremonies, which I understood to mean “a bunch of teams walking across the baseball field, waving at their parents, and then leaving to nap before the 6pm game”. Apparently I didn’t read the brochure closely enough. 11am was the time for “volunteers” to show up and help with the kids’ carnival. And by “kids’ carnival”, I mean “a bunch of bounce houses that cost $1 per 3 minute block of jump time”. Seriously, we had just paid $65 for a league fee, done a $100 per kid fund raiser, $30 per parent for gatorade and a banner, and god know what else, and then they charge $15 for an unlimited access pass to BOUNCE HOUSES? As a coach, a bunch of parents  came up to me expressing outrage concern over this, but it wasn’t my call. Little League got my money, too.

2pm was the time for the team parade. We gathered up all of our little ball players (except for one kid, who is ALWAYS late), and lined up to take the field. Boy, didn’t I get a surprise when I saw the teams ahead of us sitting down on the field, instead of waving to mom and dad and stepmom and Grandpa Joel and whoever else. I looked behind us, and the coaches for the other teams all had collapsible chairs that they carried with them. I looked at one coach (who was wearing coaching shorts, and may I just say…no. Just no. No one, I repeat no one should ever wear coaches shorts. You know the ones I’m talking about. These.

Yeah. Now imagine these shorts in a size 38 waist being worn by a man with a size 42 waist. Burn that mental image in your mind, and you’ll get close to the level of trauma I experienced when I saw that in real life. You’re welcome.) and asked why he had the chair, and he smirked at me and said “This ain’t my first rodeo, son.” I figured it wouldn’t be THAT long…they’d make a few statements, give away some prizes, and let us go. That was my hypothesis. Here are the results:

• Opening Day speeches/pledges of allegiances/recognitions - 45 minutes
• 2-man base running for all the teams - 30 minutes
• 2-man base running for the coaches of all the teams - 15 minutes
• Prize giveaways - 30 minutes
• Time Coach Damian spent standing, since he (a) didn’t bring a chair, and (b) didn’t want to sit in the wet grass - 2 hours

Well, that last figure isn’t totally accurate. When they announced that they needed 2 coaches per team to run bases, I got volunteered to run with Coach C, and I have to tell you - I’m tired of getting volunteered for shit. Just sayin’. And another thing: for high school and up, the bases on the baseball field are 90 feet apart. For little league, they’re 60 feet apart. Do you know how hard it is to run fast while turning a corner 30 feet sooner than you’re used to doing? All the coaches were pretty much running at a sideways 45 degree angle, and nearly busting much ass since none of ‘em were wearing cleats like the kids were. When Coach C and I got back to our team, huffing and puffing, one of the other coaches said “Hey, you guys did great! Wanna see the instant replay? I videotaped it.” Without waiting to hear us both say “Nooooooooo”, he rewound it so we could watch the carnage that was. They say that even the largest, most bulky animals have a certain grace and elegance in the wild, when they are performing the duties that Nature has assigned them. Watching this video replay was evidence to the contrary. We looked slow, fat, and as coordinated as a pregnant giraffe roller blading downhill on gravel while having a grand mal seizure. It was decidedly non-pretty.

6pm was game time, and I was nervous. Having never coached before, I was mentally unprepared for the amount of nothing that a coach does once the lights come on and the team’s on the field for real. In all the practices, the coaches were out in the field, correcting stances and trying to get kids to focus. But once they took the field for the game, we four were all in the dugout, screaming out instructions like “Quit playing with the grass and focus on the game! I know there’s a helicopter - it’s not on your team, so ignore it! Son, if I have to tell you to focus on the game one more time, you’ll owe me laps!”. Other than words, we were helpless. When the team was up to bat, it was a little better, because they were in the dugout with us, and we could talk to them. I learned a valuable coaching lesson on that night, by the way. I was the first base coach, and one of our players improbably hit the ball. I say improbably because not 2 swings prior to that, he damn-near hit himself in the head with his own swing. Do you understand how hard it is to hit yourself in the noggin with your own bat? I wasn’t planning out ways to get him from 1st to 2nd base, if you know what I mean. So when he swung at the ball (which was about 2 feet over his head, mind you), I wasn’t expecting him to make contact with anything except air and a couple of gnats. But he smacked it pretty hard to shortstop, and he was running fast. The shortstop scooped the ball, threw it to 1st base…and the 1st baseman missed it. By this time, my runner had pretty much reached 1st, so I was telling him to stay, but the 3rd base coach could see that the 1st baseman wasn’t gonna make the catch, so he was waving frantically for the kid to keep running to 2nd. Once I saw that, I told him “GO GO GO!” He looked at me like I had just spoken in Mandarin Chinese. I said “GOOOOOOO!” and he kept looking at me like Mario Van Peebles had just sprouted out of my shoulder to start filming “Posse 2: Electric Boogaloo”. All the while, the right fielder and the 1st baseman were converging on the ball, and the kid just wasn’t getting it. I did what came naturally - I reached out, touched him on the shoulders, and pushed him toward 2nd base. Oh my no. Bad Coach Damian. You can’t touch the players. Automatic out. This poor kid, who can’t even catch the ball, miraculously got a hit, and I messed it up by touching him. The coaches on my team all said “NOOOOOOOOOOO!”, and the umpire stood up, looked at me, and just shook his head. Nice work, Damian. Maybe next time you can have the other team just throw the ball to you so you can tag him out. We came out on bottom in that game, losing 4-0.

The frustration comes in the fact that we coaches are so powerless in determining what actually happens on the field, and yet also ultimately responsible. You can tell a kid 223095 times that he has to back up 3rd base if he’s in left field, but if the ball comes flying past the 3rd baseman and the left fielder is just standing there, watching the ball roll 10 feet to the left of him (yes, this happened, in game 2), it’s your fault for not having him ready. We go back to the drawing board, running the same drills again, emphasizing teamwork and focus and fundamentally sound skill, but once the ump yells “Play Ball!”, it’s all on them to actually perform what you instruct. But with that frustration comes moments of pure joy, when you see it all come together, even if only for one play. In game 2, a batter hit a hard line drive to 3rd base, where 8YO is playing. He calmly stepped up, opened his glove, and let the ball fly right into it. Out. Bam. Just like that. Everyone on our side of the field erupted, and I was proud as all hell of my boy. I guess, ultimately, those are the moments that you live for, as a coach.

They’re worth the wait.

Peace.

Baaaaaaaaaaaaacon! Dot Com!

Don’t worry - I’m not getting rid of this blog. This is where I keep all my words. No, I’ve created a new blog, dedicated solely to my love for…bacon.

Yes.

Bacon.

Feel free to check it out. Bookmark the sucker. Who knows what’ll pop up over there.

http://baconage.wordpress.com

Peace.

The Bacon Report: Bacon Weave

Welcome to the 2nd official installment of the Bacon Report. My love of bacon and bacon-related products is as infamous as my ability to anger people with my diatribe words of insensitivity, so why shouldn’t I dedicate some time and space here to show some love to the best food invented by God and perfected by Hormel? I hope you share my love of the Strips of Great Joy and Crunchiness.

So far, my bacon love hasn’t extended beyond deciding between thin or thick-sliced baconage (new word, Copyright © 2008 by Dark Damian, Bakdafukup), but I understand that other people express their love in various and sundry ways, some of which are cool as hell, and some of which make me want to suggest aggressive therapy and a vegan diet. It takes all kinds, just like Britney Spears.

So without further ado, I present to you…the Bacon Weave. No, not for your hair (although, bacon hair would instantly have me following you around like Micheal Jackson did to that girl in the “The Way You Make Me Feel” video. Yeah. I went old-school for that reference.), but for your meal or latticework or whatever. Whoever did this is an evil genius, and I need to get an internship or some sort of work study with him, because this is just incredible. I would’ve never thought to do this, and yet now I can’t wait to try it. Will I waste an entire pound of bacon, just to pull off something as neat as this?

No.

I’ll waste two pounds. Believe it.

I totally forgot who sent this to me, but I’m sure whoever it is will be quick as hell to let me know, so they can get proper credit. And feel free to send me interesting bacon-related stuff, because I’m just dumb enough to post about it.

Enjoy!

The Bacon Weave

Peace.

Most People

I’ve been writing in this ol’ blog of mine for quite at while now, and I’m continually overwhelmed by the response I get, by the loyal readership, by the general sense of pleasure people seem to get from reading this nonsense. I love expressing myself in this way. Now, I’m not naive. I understand that not everyone will fall down drooling, their love for me overflowing so much that they need a sponge and a squeegee to clean up the mess. Some people read it and say “Meh, not for me.” Some people dislike it entirely. That’s their right, and they’re welcome to it. So far, though, not too many people have actually stepped to me, voicing their displeasure at something I’ve said here, because most people realize that the things I say here are my opinion, nothing more. Most people dislike it, and move on to something else.

Most people.

As you probably know, I have a li’l feature called Damian’s Deconstructive Diatribe, where I take a news story and break it down, either comedically, or with an eye towards its inherent absurdity, or in outrage. I get the fact that these are real people, and that they most often didn’t ask for the notoriety they received. And to that, I say…

Too fucking bad.

I received a comment on one of my old diatribes today. I’ll add it here.

From Chelle:

Ummm, I was a former ex-girlfriend of Darzell Weinstein. I knew him in and out, and for you to just sit here and write about these people the way you are is just wrong! First of all, what they did was horrible don’t get me wrong, but to sit here and talk about them like you know the whole story is beyond belief. He had a lot of problems, they all did and i just don’t think its right for you to talk about it like some kind of joke…it wasn’t about a monopoly game first off. thats only what was happening at the time. although i didn’t read your whole little article i read enough of it to know how you are.

Thank you, Chelle. I appreciate your comment, and your opinion. Now, if I may offer a counterpoint:

Shut the fuck up.

I don’t make the stories up, and anything I say here in Damiana is my opinion, and I’m free to express it all I want. I never claimed to know all the facts of the story. I didn’t NEED all the facts to know that whatever went down, a young lady lost her life, and your boy Darzell was in some way culpable. I didn’t tell your boy Darzell to go all “Goodfellas” on that girl. I didn’t make the story public. Go sell self-righteousness somewhere else, ’cause that shit don’t fly here. I’m sorry that your Google search brought you to this house of ill repute, but since you’re so eager to jump up and defend him, I’m equally eager to hear your justification of what he did, given that “it wasn’t about a monopoly game first off”. Tell me, Chelle. What did this girl do that was so bad that 3 people needed to kill her? Explain it to me so that I can understand. Tell me how, after committing this heinous act, it’s understandable that they would stuff her broken body into a microwave box and leave her in an apartment. Please, I’m dreadfully curious. While you come into MY space and talk shit to ME for commenting on something that is public, maybe you should go up to the jail during visiting hours on Sunday and talk shit to Darzell so that when he finally gets out sometime after the year 2020, he won’t go all cuckoo for Cocoa-Puffs on some other teenage runaway.

Show me, Chelle, how my words were so harmful to you or to anyone else involved in this. Did I call him names? Sure, I talked about HIS name, but quite frankly I would’ve done that regardless of whether he just won a spelling bee or if he allegedly killed an 18 year old girl. Did I say something untrue? Hmm, not that I can tell. I said he was crazy, and even if he’s not in a medical or criminal sense, he is in a social sense. Socially sane people don’t kill other people without extreme provocation, which this game of Monopoly doesn’t seem to fit. Hell, I wasn’t even that mean in that particular piece. I was more interested in making a clever joke around other board games than to bomb on your ex-boyfriend. And seriously? Maybe you should find a better way to define your relationship with him. What exactly is a “former ex-girlfriend”, anyway? You broke up with him, but now you’re together again? Thou shalt not use double negatives, young lady. Knowledge is power. All in all, I’m not sure I see where I caused any harm to your former ex-boyfriend (worked for you, so I figured I’d try it on for size) that he didn’t already cause himself, and that poor girl. And yes, I know he didn’t do it alone, but none of the other miscreants have had the audacity to send people to random blogs to complain about their treatment.

I’m sure by now you think I’m a total asshole for calling you out like this. And I really can’t argue with that. I admit freely that I’m getting an immense amount of personal pleasure in making an example out of you. You have to learn this life lesson: if you come to someone else’s yard, you play by their rules. I wouldn’t go to your singlewide trailer and complain about the cracked linoleum not matching the faux wood paneling in the living room/den/kitchenette, so don’t come to MY blog and start talking shit about things I’m discussing, especially when the person whose honor you’re defending has no fucking honor to defend. This ridiculous bout of teenage-level angst and anger toward me does nothing except show your own level of immaturity. Most people would’ve simply read my posting, disagreed with me, and moved on to something more palatable. Most people would’ve been too embarrassed by their former ex-boyfriend’s actions to try to step to someone who was simply discussing the story on their own blog. Most people would’ve written this sociopath off and tried to build a life with better people in it.

Most people.

But not you.

Peace.

Random Bits O’ Bacon-Flavored Goodness

Let’s get random!

Our lead singer and lead guitarist have decided to leave Nonetheless. I’m not gonna air our dirty laundry here in public. I wish them both luck in their future endeavors. Meanwhile, the remaining three have to basically go all American Idol and audition people who really have no business trying to be singers. Honestly, if you had never played guitar before, would you go audition to be a lead guitarist in an established band? Would you say “Well, I’ve never done this before, but my mom/BFF/girlfriend/hamster all say I sound just like [add some famous singer here] when I sing with the car radio”? I would hope not, and if you do, I hope you get hit in the throat with a wireless microphone. It’s awful. What’s worse is people who tell you in emails and on the phone that they’re wonderful, every band wants to hire them, blah blah blah, and when they come in, they sound like Elmer Fudd talking dirty to a wolverine into the fat end of a trombone. It’s exhausting. So far, no one’s auditioned for the guitar position. Wish us luck, folks. It sucks to get blindsided like this, but we’ll persevere and pull through.

———-

The baseball team had a scrimmage on Saturday, and we were beaten 2-0 on the strength of two (TWO!) inside-the-park home runs. Now, if you’re not a baseball person, let me tell you that hitting ONE ITP home run is hard as hell, and hitting two is like throwing thread through the eye of a needle at 20 yards in a stiff wind. Of course, it helps when the kid playing center field decides to run with the ball from deep center, all the way to 2nd base, instead of simply throwing the ball. He held it up high like the Statue of Liberty or a waiter with a hot plate. It would’ve been hilarious if I hadn’t been right beside him yelling “THROW IT THROW IT THROW IT THROW IT NOW NOW NOW!” the whole time. Oh well, they’ll learn. Also, a kid on our team got hit in the face by a pitch. That made twice in one week that the same boy got hit in the face with the ball. He already wears glasses thicker than the report Ken Starr submitted on Bill Clinton, so I’m starting to think this isn’t the sport for him. We’ll work on his ducking skills.

I gotta admit - I’m enjoying it. A lot.

————-

We went to the Mavericks-Pacers game Friday night, and it was a blast. We rode the train to the arena, and when we passed through Little China, a Chinese lady got on the train and sat down opposite of 5YO. He looked at her, leaned in close to me, and said “Daddy, I think I see someone from Ninja Warrior.” I snorted, and told him no, she’s not from the TV show. (In case you don’t get that, “Ninja Warrior” is a Japanese game show where people try to complete a timed obstacle course. It is the shit, with only “The Unbeatable Banzuke” even coming close. It is the awesome, it comes on G4, and you must check this out post haste.) The game was great - the Mavericks beat the Pacers down like they stole cable from them. But check this nonsense out:

I know it’s hard to tell, but what we have here is an assault on my wallet, my state of mind, and my sense of common decency. $7 for a chicken strip basket? A basket, may I add, that consists of 3 strips and fries that looked disappointed to be included in the meal? Yeah. And they almost forgot my ranch dressing. You best believe I made sure they put that shit in there. All in all, I got the chicken finger basket, a foot long hot dog, a hamburger basket, a kid’s popcorn, 2 waters and two Sprites, and paid more for that than I did for the wireless unit I use for my bass when I gig. I’m sorry - if I’ve already paid $50 apiece for 4 tickets, is it really necessary to perform a monetary colonoscopy on me at every turn inside the arena? I understand that the superstars need an extra coat of unicorn horn car wax on their special edition space shuttles, but damn - do like I do. Sell some shit on eBay or something. Give a brotha a break for once. Wanna see what $50 seats at American Airlines Center look like? Prepare to be thrilled.

OH YEAH, BABY! I think a bird flew by when I took this shot. The cotton candy vendor was wearing an oxygen mask. Any higher up, we would’ve needed a parachute to get down. The kids loved it, though, and that’s what it’s all about. I’ll be taking my payment for their fun directly from their allowances, believe me.
————-

It SNOWED here a couple weeks ago! It was crazy. And 2 days later, it was in the mid-sixties. If you don’t like the weather here in Texas, just wait - it’ll change. Check out the snowage:

It was crazy. Next day, it was all gone. It was all I could do to convince my alien offspring to not eat the snow. There wasn’t enough of it for it to not be dirty and gross, so I wisely pulled the Dad card and forbade it. And do you think that stopped them? MY kids? Hells to the hell no. That scoop you see on the car is 8YO’s greedy grab for car-flavored snow. Ah, snow. Gotta love the weather here. Today it was 76. Go figure.

———————

You all know my love for the bacon. I’m gonna start posting about different bacon-related articles and blogs that people send me. This one is thanks to Metalchick. I’m drooling.

not martha

And that is all for now. Tune in next time when I’ll diatribe or something. We’ll see.

Peace.

Coaching 101: You’re Not On The Team

Part-time coaches like me sometimes fall into a perilous pit once we get out on the field. It’s even worse if you’ve actually played the game you’re coaching, because your mind gets flooded with all those memories from 20 years ago, and they smell fresh and new and so recent, and you forget that two decades have passed since you last laced it up and competed. It’s hard to push that mental DVR back into its proper place, but if you don’t, you’ll end up like me.

Thus far we’ve had 3 practices, and the kids are improving by leaps and bounds. A few even know where all the bases are, and if you think I’m joking, I’ll say this - I’m happy that SOME of them know we’re playing baseball at all, and I’ll be thrilled when a few of them actually face home plate when they’re on defense. But we three coaches are working hard at teaching them the fundamentals, and they’re slowly catching on. Already we’re starting to identify the good players, the players who need work, and the players who will perfect the fine art of ducking when the ball comes whizzing at their faces. We’ll keep lots of ice and gauze on hand for those little guys.

At the end of practice, we always have the players run. It’s good for them, it builds up conditioning, and after an hour or more of practice, more than one of them deserves it. We hold the threat of running over their heads as a punishment for talking while coaches are talking, disrupting practice, or other offenses, but we make ‘em run anyway because…well, we’re all fathers, and we’re sadistic, and we all know that just because we may not have caught them doing shit, they more than likely DID shit, and were just slick enough to get away with it. And because we’re dads, it means we were boys, and we know how boys think, and that gives us the ultimate advantage in deciphering their chicanery. Running is like default punishment for the things we didn’t catch, and we use it as a tool to root out the weak. Oh, and it’s good for conditioning or whatever.

On the second day of practice, we had the kids all line up, shoulder to shoulder, preparing to run. We challenged the boys, egging them on to beat each other so that the default running won’t seem so much like default punishment. Once they were all jazzed up and competitive, we were gonna let ‘em loose like the hounds of the Baskervilles, and watch as they damn-near ran up each other’s backs in an attempt to win the race. It was a nice day, folks…sunny skies, decent temperature, a slight southwesterly breeze blowing my lack of hair…it was an ideal setting for me to make a jackass out of myself. So as the kids were toeing the line and bending their knees like Olympic sprinters, ol’ Coach Damian sauntered up to the line, nonchalantly, as though he was the tall kid on the roster. I looked down the line and said “Boys, I’m running too.” And in a foolish display of stupidity, I then said “And don’t let me beat you!” Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever had the chance to watch 11 8 year olds get uber-excited at the prospects of genuinely beating an adult at something, but it’s almost exactly like holding a chicken over an alligator habitat. Frothing. At. The. Bit. They looked at me, sizing me up, deciding their overall strategy for taking me down, but I was Cool Hand Luke, not even taking off my sunglasses. The other coaches looked at each other, then me. They weren’t ABOUT to participate, for they knew better. Coach F has a prosthetic leg, and Coach C is a bit on the round side for that level of physical activity. Coach F said “ON YOUR MARK,” and 11 kids focused on the backstop about 70 yards away. Coach F said “GET SET,” and I eased my sunglasses down, just a little, so I could stare at the little miscreants before I turned on the afterburners and left them in my dust. Coach F said “GO!”, and off we went. My long legs easily put me out in front (of a bunch of 8 year olds, lest you forget), and I was clearly out in front. 20 yards from the backstop, I looked back, expecting to see 11 kids so far behind me that I’d need to send them postcards, but boy did I get a shock.

As I turned, I saw something improbable - a kid BLAZING up behind me like a cheetah chasing an old, heavy gazelle. It was Ringer, and my GOD that kid can flat-out run. He actually scared me, ’cause the only thing I expected to see was my cloud of dust. I couldn’t back down though, so I did the only thing I could do - I started talking smack. “You’re not gonna let ol’ coach beat you, are you?” This I said as I increased my speed from You Got This to Um, Maybe You Should Take This Seriously, Man. I started running for real then, leaning into it and closing my mouth. I glanced to my right, and Ringer was literally right beside me, his face contorted in focus. “Oh, shit” I said, to myself, not wanting to explain to his parents why I cussed to their precious child. I started running HARD, like “Chariots of Fire”, and I swear I nearly heard the theme music.

40 yards from the finish line, my lungs started burning.

30 yards from the finish line, my knee said “You’re an idiot.”

20 yards from the finish line, Ringer pulled out in front, without much effort.

10 yards from the finish line, an invisible man came up beside me, pulled out a fillet knife, and started stabbing me in my left side.

5 yards from the finish line, I used the last of my afterburners and pulled slightly ahead of Ringer.

At the finish line, I won. I WON! And I realized at that moment how badly I wanted that win. I couldn’t let an 8 year old beat me. How sad is that? As Ringer crossed the line, he calmly sat down, waiting on final instructions from Coach C. I, on the other hand, was breathing hard, walking off the hurting knee, wishing an invisible cop would arrest the invisible man for assault, and wishing that my youth came in a pack of three, like paper towels. It was at that moment, that very instant, that Coaching Lesson 101 came into full actuality to me: I am not on the team. I am a coach, and moreover, an old man who shouldn’t be trying to prove himself to a bunch of kids who’d largely rather be playing Xbox than practicing baseball. The other coaches looked at me, smirks on their faces, and I looked at them through watery eyes and said “Don’t ever….let me do that….again.” I took their hands over their mouths as agreement. I love baseball.

Peace.

Coach Damian

As you may recall, my eldest son, 8YO, tried out for Little League last weekend, and I wasn’t lying when I said the boy tore it up. After I got the phone call confirming the child’s obvious brilliance at America’s Past Time, I strutted around my office like a peacock on Viagra during mating season. That feeling was the epitome of personal achievement, because naturally I gave myself credit for instilling a sense of greatness in the boy, and our sessions of playing catch and hitting ground balls was most certainly the deciding factor in his selection. In other words, you couldn’t tell me shit.

(I’m surprised my big head could fit into the elevator that day. I swear. I need to slow my roll. It’s Little League, not American Idol - what kid DIDN’T get selected? Idiot.)

On Tuesday, I left work a little early for the team meeting, scheduled for 6pm. I got there, and DWW arrived with the superstar and 5YO. The meeting was at the baseball field, outside, in the bleachers. This is significant because on Tuesday, it was about 45 degrees and windy as a mofo outside. With the wind chill, I estimated the temperature was somewhere between “Brrrrrr” and “Hug a hobo for warmth”, and my thin jacket really wasn’t enough protection from the Arctic blast. I just hoped and prayed that the meeting would be brief. Upon arriving, we (the parents) quickly discovered one disconcerting thing: the team had no coach. Because so many kids tried out for baseball, the league had to create two new teams, and ours is one of those expansions teams. Those teams had no coaches, and the league needed someone to step up. And when I heard the call for help, I responded in the only way I could.

Fuck. That.

I wasn’t ABOUT to become a baseball coach. I didn’t have time. I didn’t have experience. I didn’t have equipment. I didn’t have a clue. So when the lady said she needed someone to to coach the team, I suddenly found my shoes to be quite interesting. When she later repeated that someone needed to volunteer to coach, I found a cloud that looked just like Halle Berry. After about 20 minutes of going over the season and things the kids and team will need, the league official said “Listen, we have to have a coach, so we’re not leaving here today until one of you steps up.” You would’ve thought she said “I know one of you left a turd on the coffee table, so no one leaves until someone fesses up.” Guys started saying why they COULDN’T do it: schedule, lack of experience, rap sheet…the reasons kept coming. I didn’t say a damn thing. Finally, a guy in short sleeves surrendered to the cold and said “OK, I’ll do it.” Praise be to Jesus. And THEN, dissatisfied, the league official lady said “And we need some assistants.” One guy who didn’t want to head coach immediately jumped up and volunteered for that, and when no one else would even make eye contact with her, I heard my mouth saying “Well, I’ve played baseball…maybe I could help out too.” Hearing a voice that sounded like mine, I looked around, only to discover that the other dads were looking at me with relief in their eyes, and the league official and other coaches were all thanking me for participating. I had seriously just volunteered to be an assistant coach. Holy shit.

The first practice for our team (which I’ll call The Badgers, because that’s just plain funny) was Saturday morning. I nervously took 8YO there to meet the other two coaches, and the 12 man team. Since I know I’ll be talking about these kids in the future (and in this post today), I’ll go ahead and assign codenames so I can freely talk shit.

• Ringer - tall and fast and with lots of baseball experience. Hits like a high schooler, and he’s only 8.
• Crier - a small fella, first year playing, and very afraid of the game itself.
• Specs - another first year, but rangy and with good eyes and coordination.
• Rounder - short and fat, and runs like a piggy bank on its hind legs. First year.
• Brat - this one’s gonna be trouble. He talked CONSTANTLY, has trouble listening, and generally won’t let the other kids do anything without him either (a) jumping in and taking over, or (b) criticizing them somehow. Also, while I was running a catch and throw drill, Brat decided that he’d play a game called “Attack the Coach”, and started hitting me with his glove. I then played a game called “You Better Take Your Little Chicken McNugget Ass Back To Your Squad Or You’ll Run Laps Until The Sun Goes Down.” I predict a lot of laps for him.
• CS - coach’s son. Good kid, relatively unremarkable so far. Has experience.
• ACS - assistant coach’s son. He’s got skills, ’cause the other assistant coach used to be a head coach, and ACS has played for several years.
• Shrimp - tiny little guy with glasses, not many skills, but pretty fearless.
• 8YO - my young ward. Can hit well, needs to focus more in the field.
• Hot Shot - son of an ex-coach, who corrected him non-stop. He’s played before, and is pretty good.
• 2 other kids I can’t remember. Hey, it was my first practice. I can’t expect to remember EVERYONE. Damn.

We practice Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, each of which coincides with a band rehearsal. Yay me. Looks like I’ll be going straight from work to pick up 8YO, go straight to BB practice, take him home, inhale some dinner while standing up, and immediately set off for band practice. Those days are gonna suck hard. I think the weirdest part of the whole thing was having to buy my 8 year old son an athletic supporter, and then watching 5 or 6 kids in the practice whacking themselves in the weenus repeatedly to demonstrate the effectiveness of the equipment. Freaky, man.

I’ll keep you posted on my coaching progress. It’ll be interesting, for damn sure.

Peace.

Random Jonx

Random jonx, in honor of the glorious return of my friend and bad-ass blogger Fyrchk. Welcome back from hiatus, mama! Missed you much.

————-

The gig Friday night went really well! We rocked the spot, and have been invited back to play again sometime. And for those of you who wonder about the glamorous rock star life style, here’s a little peek into the reality of it - for our headlining gig, we got paid, as an entire band, $125. That’s not a typo. We got something like $5 for every person who said they were there to see Nonetheless, so that’s our mighty haul for the night. We don’t even split that money up - we apply it directly to band rent. And it doesn’t even cover half. We’ll be a-gigging again in a couple of weeks to make up the difference. Other than that (and our lead singer arriving approximately 5 hours later than expected), the show was so cool. At one point, when we were playing our signature song “Show Me (Your Tits)”, I glanced to my left, where the stage steps were, and there were 2 security guys just standing at the top of the steps. Generally speaking, seeing the beefy security guys all up next to you isn’t a good thing, so I eased over to them during the song and said “Is everything ok?” They looked at me and said “Hell YEAH, everything’s ok! Wouldn’t you wanna be up here, if you were us?” Turning back to the audience, I realized why - there was a sea of breasticles, lovingly displayed to us by our wonderful crowd. God, I love being in a band. Check out the marquee:

WE’RE ALL UP ON THE MARQUEE, PEOPLE! This was so damn nice, I nearly wet myself as I pulled up to the place. The venue is a converted theater, and still has many of the elements from that day and age. See the room?

This is about an hour before the show started. For those of you who don’t get out to rock clubs often, this place is HUGE. HUGE.

This is what it looked like, via crappy cell phone picture, during the show. Hopefully I’ll soon have some semi-professional looking pics of the event, maybe even some of us onstage. I’ll keep you posted. Oh, and I got pulled over by the cops at 4:30am as I was trying to get my black ass home. Fortunately, I didn’t get a ticket…he was a music fan, and I played up the band angle hard core. A fitting end to a good night.

—————

On Saturday, 8YO wanted to go to the local baseball tryouts. He’s been wanting to do this for over a month, and has been on his best behavior since I last posted about him. He’s counting the days like a prisoner up for parole. At any rate, he and I went to the ballpark Saturday afternoon so that he could see where his skillset was, compared to other kids. He’s never played baseball before, and even though we had worked on throwing, catching, and hitting, I wasn’t certain where he’d line up, with other kids having played for 2 or 3 years already. Naturally, he ran into some kids he knew and immediately left ol’ Dad to wait in line with a tiny baseball bat and a very hung-over expression (remember, the gig was the night before). I watched as the coaches threw high-arcing lobs for kids to catch in the outfield; hit grounders so that the kids could practice throwing to first base; let them pitch a bit, and then allowed them to bat and run the bases. And I know these are little kids, but honestly - they could’ve all tried a little harder. One kid threw the ball clean over the fence and into the actual baseball game taking place one field over. He’ll not be pitching anytime soon, methinks. After an hour of watching the competition, it was 8YO’s turn.

Outfield: Coach threw five lobs, and 8YO caught four and flung them to 2nd base. Well, one went to the dugout, but the boy was nervous. And so was the guy in the dugout.

Infield: Coach hit 5 ground balls, and 8YO used good technique (taught by yours truly) to scoop the balls and throw them to 1st base. This he did without an issue.

Pitching: 8YO threw 5 pitches to home plate. Now, the first pitch went so high, I think it scraped the bottom of a cloud, but the other four were pretty level and over the plate. He looked like Roger Clemens, only without the steroids syringe sticking out of his buttocks.

Batting: OK, here’s where my boy did it up for real. 5 pitches from the coach. The first one, he swung and missed.  I was holding my breath. The second pitch, PING! He sent it to left field, and started running like his shoes were on fire. The coaches called him back, telling him that they only wanted him to run on the last hit. The third pitch, PING! Right back to the coach. And he ran like goats were eating his pants while they were still on him. The coaches called him back, and told him to run on the last hit. The fourth pitch, PING! Hard to shortstop. And he ran like midgets were throwing lightning bolts at his neck while sliding down an oiled ramp. The coaches called him back, and told him to run on the last hit. The last pitch, PING! Foul to left, but the coaches yelled “RUN!” And he ran like NASA attached afterboosters to his Heelies, going so fast that he didn’t hit ANY of the bases except for home plate, where the coaches waited to high five him. It was magnificent. The other kids? They made contact with the ball once or twice, and jogged around the bases like they had just hit home runs. My boy shut it DOWN. I even heard the coaches murmuring to each other, as though they were saying “My God, the talent this young man has! I’ve never seen such raw speed!” Or something like that.

8YO, getting last-minute instructions from the soon-to-be awestruck coach.

8YO, right after hitting pitch #3. I need to work on his stance, but he’s got Wii-influenced hand/eye coordination.

I got the phone call today…he made it! He’ll be on a team called the Beavers or the Barons or something, and we’ll meet up tomorrow night to see what’s what. I’m so proud of him. I just hope he keeps on counting his good days.

Peace.

Badger The Witness! You KNOW you wanna listen.

Just click here to launch the show.

We’re going on at or very close to 5:00pm Central, which is:

• 6:00pm Eastern
• 4:00pm Mountain and Arizona (got it right this time)
• 3:00pm Pacific

As always, our conversation will be pulled from a grab-bag of miscellaneous and random topics, and completely out of our asses. It’s how we roll.

Be there!

Peace.

Damian’s Deconstructive Diatribe

Lawd have mercy, Kim Kardashian. I never even heard of you before you made that sex tape with singer Brandy’s little brother Ray J, and now you’ve completely overtaken Eva Mendes in my “I Would Hurt Myself Getting With Her” poll. Have you seen her pics?  My monitor damn-near melted, and I KNOW I saw some condensation on my glasses. I’m so glad you’re famous, Kim K. Welcome to my world. In other news, my band has a gig Friday night at the Ridglea Theater in Fort Worth, and a brotha is NERVOUS! It’s a huge show for us, and this venue is one of the premier places in the Metroplex - and we’re HEADLINING. So if you’re in the Dallas-Ft. Worth area, get your Kardashian-sized booty on down to the show.

Y’all ready for this? Well then, without delay…let’s diatribe.

(go Obama!)

———————-

UXBRIDGE, Mass. — A convicted Level 3 sex offender has won $10 million in the Massachusetts State Lottery. The Worcester Gazette & Telegram reports 56-year-old Daniel Snay, of Uxbridge, could now face charges because he failed to notify authorities that he had moved, according to Connecticut State Police.“I’m flabbergasted,” Connecticut State Police Lt. Paul Vance told the Telegram. “His whereabouts, until you told me about this, have been unknown to us. But I guess you could say he’s very fortunate.” Snay works driving trucks for a yacht dealership in Mendon. He won the $10 million from a $20 scratch ticket purchased at Cumberland Farms in Hopedale. But the lottery winnings also come with unwanted publicity.“He was concerned, but there’s not much you can do about it,” said Snay’s lawyer Joseph M. Fabricotti. “We talked about it and he understood this was one of the repercussions that could happen.” Snay’s record of sexual assaults dates back to 1974. He has been convicted six times of indecent assault and battery in Massachusetts. Level 3 offenders are considered the most dangerous and the most likely to commit another crime.

Some guys have all the luck. Not that being a Level 3 sex offender is lucky, per se, but he’s a Level 3 sex offender with 10 million reasons not to be a recidivist again. (”Recidivist”, folks, means “repeat offender”. I’m here to help.) And this is the second convicted felon in a couple of months who hit the lottery. Is this the key? Do I need to commit a felony, get caught and convicted, and then released after serving my time? Shouldn’t be TOO hard - I’m black and in the south, after all. Shit ain’t fair, man. Honestly though, he’s got bigger fish to fry now than whether NAMBLA has his most current mailing address, because now his neighbors know that he’s a sex offender AND he’s got $10 million. This is a potentially lethal double-whammy, because not only do the Johnsons suddenly learn that nice Mr. Snay is a sex offender of the highest order, but he’s RICH, bitch! Can’t you see how this is gonna play out now? Let’s examine:

(knock on the door)
Sex offender: “Yeah, who is it?”
Kid: “Billy, from across the street. Say, let me borrow $500,000 and your vacuum cleaner.”
SO: “Say what?”
Kid: “You heard me, Perv Griffin. Give me the loot. And make it snappy…”The Fairly OddParents is coming on.”
SO: “Um…no. Go away. “
Kid: “So, you’re saying you’re NOT gonna give me what I want, Mr. Level 3 Sex Offender? And don’t try anything - I’ve got a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle walkie-talkie taped to my chest, and my dad’s got the cops on speed dial. Don’t get any ideas.”
SO (sighing): “Do you take a check?”
Kid: “The only check I’ll take from you is a background check. Pay me in dimes, mofo.”

(And if you don’t know what NAMBLA is, google it yourself. I will NOT put a link to them on my blog. I won’t even link to the Wikipedia entry. Damn all that.)

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CORSICANA - Police say the driver of a bus filled with about 40 former prison inmates abandoned the vehicle Thursday along a highway because her working hours for the day were over. The passengers had been paroled or released from the state prison in Huntsville. Some wore ankle bracelet monitors. They were aboard a Greyhound charter headed to a bus terminal in Dallas, but wound up 60 miles short. “In 31 years in law enforcement I’ve never seen anything like this,” Corsicana Police Sgt. Lamoin Lawhon told the Corsicana Daily Sun. Police said the bus was chartered from Greyhound Bus Lines Inc. The driver pulled over in front of a convenience store around 4 p.m. and told the passengers her allotted driving time was up and another driver was on the way. A clerk in the convenience store called police. Officers arrived to find the former prisoners milling around the bus. Police said dispatchers exchanged several phone calls with Greyhound officials and the Texas Department of Criminal Justice in Austin. Lawhon and two other officers stayed with the bus and the parolees. Just before 7 p.m., a second bus arrived with three drivers - including the one who had abandoned her passengers in the first place, Lawhon said. Greyhound spokesman Dustin Clark declined to identify the driver who left the bus. He said company officials were investigating the incident. “It is a very serious matter,” he said. Clark said drivers have to follow strict guidelines on consecutive working hours and rest periods. Police said there were no incidents involving the passengers while they were stranded. “Their behavior was exemplary,” said Officer Travis Wallace.

See, this is the essence of following the letter of the law, but not the spirit. When 4 o’clock struck, Ms. Buslady pulled over, slid down the brontosaurus tail, and broke out. Post office employees don’t leave with that level of quickness, and they had to deal with the anthrax AND with holiday shipping. What isn’t explained is (a) why didn’t she find out some important things ahead of time, such as when they were leaving, how long it takes to get there…little things like that, which could’ve helped the dumb woman figure out her schedule a bit better, and (b) how she got home (or back to work, from the sounds of things) after she abandoned these folks. Did she have a car waiting? If so, the whole thing was premeditated, and that’s pretty fucked up. Did she take a taxi? It would’ve cost her more to take a cab home than the amount of overtime pay she might’ve received had she worked just a little while longer. Seriously, I can’t figure out why she chose that time and that place to just abandon these people tryin’ to make it to Dallas so they could see 2932093 malls and the place where JFK got shot. And whatever her plan was, it was doomed for failure, seeing as how she was one of the drivers on the bus that came BACK to get them. Crisis of conscious? Realization of a deed done wrong? Or a note on her car back at the prison that read “Bitch, if you don’t get your trifling ass back down to the Circle K in Corsicana RIGHT NOW, you’ll find out what it’s like to BE newly-released, in about 3-5 years. MOVE YOUR ASS!”? I bet it was that whole realization thing. Lucky for her these folks were on their way out, and not on their way in, or that Circle K might’ve been a burning pile of Doritos and motor oil when she got back. And then where would she buy her scratch-offs?

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Stafford County Sheriffs have arrested 20 year-old Lorenzo Herbert for the armed robbery of the McDonalds Restaurant at 766 Warrenton Road in Stafford County Saturday, February 16, shortly after midnight. Officers were dispatched to a robbery in progress at the McDonalds Restaurant at 766 Warrenton Road in Stafford County. Authorities were informed that a recently fired employee had just robbed the restaurant with a handgun and had walked out a side door and was walking down Plantation Drive. A description of the suspect was given and officers quickly made an arrest. Herbert was found with cash stolen from the McDonalds, a black ski mask, some marijuana and a BB gun that looked exactly like a hand gun. Herbert had been fired earlier in the evening and had returned to the restaurant prior to closing. He put a mask over his face, went behind the counter and forced the manger to the store safe. After showing the manger the gun in his pants the manger turned over the cash. At that point Herbert ordered the manger into the walk-in freezer. Among the charges against him are armed robbery and use of a firearm in the commission of a felony.

Remember way back when, when I was gonna open an academy for training criminals on how to not be stupid? You ‘member. I was complaining about the vast reservoir of dumb that these people dip into whenever they get the bright idea to commit a crime before really thinking it all the way through first, and how I could help them avoid capture and hurting others by opening this school, and then narc’ing to the authorities to get paid on both ends. Brilliant plan, yes? Well, after reading shit like this, I get all excited and start thinking about actual business plans and small business loans. Someone please explain to me why anyone with a third of a brain would return to a job they were fired from THAT VERY DAY, and rob the place, with the people he worked with still there, who would surely recognize his voice! This is so far beyond dumb that Dumb had to buy a map and a GPS system just to get back to its neighborhood. To make a bad decision worse, he fled the scene…on foot. OK, I’ve never robbed anything (that I’m gonna tell you about), but I’m pretty sure that if I did, I’d arrange some type of faster transportation besides Adidas power! Who robs a place and then strolls off, with a pocketful of cash, weed, ski mask, and a BB gun? And that takes me to Point #2: A BB gun is an ingenious choice of weaponry, particularly if you don’t really want to hurt anyone (except to maybe put their eye out). But here’s the thing - in the committal of a felony, it just doesn’t fucking matter. You could use a banana in your pocket, and it’s treated the same when (not if) your silly ass gets arrested. And what would he have done if the manager whipped out his OWN gun, and played a nice game of Whose Bullet Hurts More with this idiot? I’m about to pop a blood vessel just thinking about all the high-level stupidity committed by Herbert. In fact, I’m going to address him directly, something I rarely do. Hey, Herbert! I hope you feel real good, getting revenge on those suckas at the Mickey D’s like that. Bravo, playa. Listen; you’ll have plenty of time to think about the flaws, weak points, deficiencies, soft areas, blind spots, and overall fuckedupedness in your poorly thought-out master plan. Think long and hard, Herbert. You could’ve been filling out applications to Subway right now, but instead, your cellmate will be using your ass as his own personal subway instead. Remember - breathe out. Idiot.

Peace.

This Is Why You Suck

Happy One Day After Silly-Ass Valentine’s Day! I generally despise this fake and manufactured holiday on the basis that there’s enough real shit to be giving gifts and cards for that we don’t need this extra pressure and expenditure of cash, but I know many of you adore that day, so I’ll try to tone down the cynicism. This time. I wasn’t feeling the love yesterday, so I decided to flip the script and utilize the opposite emotion (which rarely gets a workout here in Damiana). Given my general mood over the fake holiday, or “fuckaday”, I decided to cheer myself up with one of my favorite past times of yesteryear: hating Duke University.

I have to give mad props to HotDrHusband, who had me ROLLING last weekend after watching this video. If you hate Duke University, this will pretty much be the video equivalent of an intense orgasm while winning the lottery to you. If you love Duke…well, watch it anyway and learn from the lessons being taught. Don’t hate the player…hate the game. And the school. My personal hatred of Duke began in college, where the Dookies were one of our conference rivals. They sucked at everything except basketball, and they made up for their general sucknicity by constantly pointing out their basketball superiority to anyone within earshot. I remember an incident when Duke played a basketball game in Clemson one season, the last season Christian Laettner was on the team. Some friends of mine were standing near one of the baskets, hurling insults at Laettner each time he lumbered down to that end of the court. Their goal? To fuck with him. I never got the full story about what they said to him, but whatever it was, it was so vile, so debased, so full of vitriol that after making a basket, he actually turned to them and said “What the FUCK, man?” I shed a single tear when I heard that. They made me so proud. Hating Duke isn’t just an activity…it’s a hobby. Fark.com (where I get the majority of my diatribe material) makes a point of saying “Duke sucks” at least a few times a day on their sports page. Hating Duke is a tradition that is and should be passed down from generation to generation, like and sickle cell anemia and making good sweet potatoes. Have you ever been to the Duke campus? It’s gorgeous, unless you need to go to the store or get gas or something, because as soon as you step foot off of its idyllic setting, you’re in the hood deeper than Snoop Dogg at his high school reunion. Durham, N.C. is so rough that some people call it “Do Run”. Even the carjackers carry mace in Durham. If you have to walk down the street there, go ahead and dial “9″ and “1″ on your cell phone, and keep your thumb on the “1″. Wanna know why the medical treatment and emergency response is so damn good in Durham? Because it has to be. Perfect setting for the school I love to hate.

I hate Duke, and it sucks for me personally because my best friend went to Duke for grad and medical school (yes, both), and still works there now. I love my boy, even though he makes questionable educational decisions, so if you’re reading this…just shut down your browser, man. This is gonna be rough. For the rest of you?

Enjoy.

Feel my hatred.

Peace.

The Not Safe For Work (also known as the Funny) version

The Safe For Work (or the Watered Down) version

The Great Blogger Convention

Let me preface this post by saying one thing:

I love these women.

Fyrchk, Elle, and HotDrWife….these are my peoples. My homies. We’ve known each other online for years - literally years now - And when the opportunity presented itself to hang out with them (as well as other people I’ll mention), I couldn’t pass it up. That opportunity was this past weekend, and this is my story.

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I hate flying. I mean, I’m not afraid of it or anything…I’m just not big on it. When I fly, I take a solemn oath to (a) hold the plane aloft by gripping the armrests and pulling up on them until we get to 20,000 feet, and (b) kick the pilot squarely in the face if he tries to land us like our name is Goose and the airport is an aircraft carrier in a tsunami. So when I boarded my flight Friday evening, I was less than enthused when Mr. Flydaplane got on the intercom and said something like “Blah blah blah, torn liner in the luggage compartment, blah blah blah, 45 minute delay.” This annoyed me, because if I HAVE to fly, I damn well better be prompt about the shit. Eventually they told us that we’d have to change planes, and then terminals, and that meant a 2 hour delay getting to Denver. Damian = unhappy camper. Thankfully, Mr. Pilot put us down in one piece, and I went to find my greeting party.

Now, the other two out-of-towners had arrived hours earlier. Elle got in around 10:30, and I think roosters were still crowing when Fyrchk landed her ass in Denver. Due to my lateness in arrival, the 3 womenfolk decided to have some drinks while waiting for me to drag my ass in that night, so what greeted me was something that sounded like a cross between banshees singing “I Will Always Love You” and the tire squeal of a ‘78 Monte Carlo on a high-speed chase in downtown San Francisco. After recovering my hearing, I hugged my people: HotDrWife, cool and relaxed, wisecracking and playing hostess; Elle, funny as always, moving and talking like a recording played just a hair too fast; and Fyrchk, laid back and drunk as hell, asking if every single black man walking through the airport was me. Even the janitor. Fyrchk also claimed that every piece of raggedy, non-matching, floral patterned, uncool luggage was mine. She even charged me with packing my shit in a “Hefty bag with duct tape wrapped around it”, which made us all laugh our asses off. Elle had to step to this bitty hen who evidently didn’t care for our unique brand of humor, and the bitty backed down faster than J.J. Evans did to Florida on “Good Times”. Did we get some looks, a large black man cackling with 3 white women? Uh, yeah. But fuck them - the amigos were together at last.

After leaving the airport, I had to hear “THAT’S OUR SONG” for every…single…song that came on the radio. I swear, the Emergency Broadcast System alert could’ve come on, and someone would’ve screamed “THAT’S OUR SONG!” and started doing the cabbage patch or the wop to it. These women were out of control. Me? Shock and awe. We stopped at a bar near HDW’s house, where HotDrHusband caught up with us. He’s taaaaaaaaall. At first, he had the look of someone who got tricked into jury duty with the promise of lottery tickets and free tire rotations, but once we started talking sports, it was all good. After knocking back a few, we retired to the Chateau HDW, which….defies words. I’m not gonna go into details about how nice their wonderful home is, but I’ll say this - I’d live in their basement ANY TIME. I mean that - I could make a home out of that basement. All I need is a mail slot, a stove, and subscription to Basement Monthly so I can keep abreast of all the latest trends and styles in basement dwelling. Call me, double HD’s. We’ll make it happen.

Saturday had been planned as an excursionary day, with the group talking about driving up to Red Rocks or to other areas native to Denver and Colorado, but after dragging ass a bit, all we could muster was brunch and a trip to the mall. The most notable thing about the mall was the children’s play area, where the different items for climbing and sliding were all breakfast items: sausages, bacon (mmm, bacon), eggs…it was a bit disturbing. HDW referred to it as the “germ breakfast”, and after watching the kids slide around on giant plastic pieces of toast, I had to concur. After leaving the mall, I rode with HDH through a high-end area of town, where we visited a store called Bang and Olufsen:

And listen, people…I’m not gonna tell you your biz. But I couldn’t even afford a sales brochure in here. Bang and Olufsen is German for “I think you’re looking for Best Buy, which is down there“. But they have some very, very nice equipment. I think I left a little drool on the floor in front of the plasma TV. But I digress. Oh, and there was plenty of this, despite the warmish weather:

Do you SEE this? This, people, is something the locals call snow. I am unfamiliar with this naturally occurring phenomenon. I had to investigate.

What? The three feet? Don’t judge me. Like you don’t have something unusual about you. Don’t make me talk about your hooves. And look, there was even some African-American snow. It’s Black History Month, you know.

That “rock” is a pile of dirty black snow, pushed to the side of the road. Since the most snow I had ever seen before only amounted to maybe 2″, this was like seeing how a clock works to me. Black snow? What’s next, black eggs? Amazing.

That night was the actual event - the party and roast of the illustrious HotDrWife. Around 6pm, a cast of characters started arriving:

• ClizBiz - Cool and calm and funny as hell. ClizBiz was the Queen of the Questions, asking things like what our most embarrassing moments were. Mine involved a bus trip, some bad Chinese food, and an assplosion. Hey, I wasn’t always a rock star.
• Howard - Oh my God. Howard and I hit it off on several points, from both having lived in South Carolina AND attending Clemson, to our mutual love and fascination with the show “Naruto“. We’re not nerds; we’re geeks. Get it right, get it tight.
• Shmeder - Quiet, friendly, and seemingly reserved, but once she started talking, there were a few moments of “say WHAT?” from the chorus around the table.
• Larry - Oh, Larry. Larry, you’re great. A fantastic sport. Great conversationalist, dark wit, and a sparkling personality. Perhaps TOO sparkling, Larry. See, when you come in with a gay man, and hang with aforementioned gay man the majority of the time, and display certain mannerisms (nothing major, mind you) that one could associate with a gay man (particularly if you’re standing beside one for most of the evening), then it stands to reason that, not having ANY other evidence to the contrary, some of us (coughEllecough) might come right out and OUT LOUD assume you are said gay man’s partner, rather than being the straight, married man that you are. I’m just sayin’, man. Wear some aviator glasses or something.
• Kath - Bubbly and smiling, she came in after getting off work. I won’t say where she works, but I thought she was wearing an iPhone around her neck, and if it wasn’t for the fact that Verizon (in their infinite wisdom) doesn’t support it, I might’ve tried to sweet-talk that bad boy off of her. But I was wrong, and I blame the beer and the shots of vodka on my mistake.
• Amy and Tom - Friends of HDW’s from the “real world”. They are fun folks, and they have the CUTEST KIDS. Yeah. I said it. TheBoy was tow-headed and full of fun, and 1MonthOld was adorable. Oh, and TheBoy? He had a li’l something that Elle was openly coveting:

Focus on the cup, people. I’m not even sure whose cleavage that is. Just focus on the cup, because at one point I swear I saw Elle trying to slip this into her purse. Stealing from a child. For shame, pirate.

The party was a blast. HDH showed a slideshow of HDW’s life and times, which was funny and touching. We had cake and beer, screamed and laughed, and made pics like this:

Me and Howard, performing a Naruto jutsu. I think it’s called “Geek Style: Goober Clone Jutsu” or something. Either way, we were still geeks afterwards, so the shit either worked really well, or not at all. You be the judge.

Me and HDW, the birthday girl.

Me and some random chick who wandered in. I think she was a Girl Scout or a Jehovah’s Witness, or maybe an escaped felon. I thought it best to just go along. Aw, y’all know that’s Elle. The mouth and all.

The Bug, mad that I stopped reading a book about pigeons driving buses. Honestly, pigeons shouldn’t be driving motor vehicles, and I said so, but Bug wasn’t having it. He’s adorable, and I have the sore ribs from him jumping on me to prove it. Also he kicked me in the balls. But we won’t talk about that. Boys will be boys.

I was looking for a pic of me and Fyrchk, but every time I tried, she growled and called me “bitch” and threatened my life. Maybe some will surface in the future…if so, I will post them and then blame it on someone else so she doesn’t kick my ass. I have a healthy fear respect for my homegirl.

Sunday was a bummer day, spent playing Playstation 3 and chillin’ while we each shuffled off to the airport, one by one. I want to thank HDW and HDH for everything they did. You are truly wonderful people. Thank you for this t-shirt, HDW:

You know my love for bacon. The TSA guard at the airport stared my ass down, looking on this bad-ass shirt. I thought he was gonna arrest me!  Thank you for everything. And thank you for opening your basement. Just let me know when I can ship my shit there.

Peace.