In my last post, I talked about the broke-ass Nikki Sixx lookalike who came to audition for us on Saturday. This is a follow-up to that post, because this asshole did the unthinkable:

He called us out.

We had band practice last Thursday night, so we got together as usual and ran through some new music we’re writing. As we were winding down, our drummer Rowdy noticed that she’d had some missed calls and a voicemail from the guy - I’ll call him Kenny Y, or “KY” for short. While the rest of packed up and prepared to leave, she listened to the voicemail. Then she looked up and announced “Y’all have GOT to hear this!” She put her cell on speakerphone, and this (paraphrased) conversation started spilling out:

“Hey, this is KY…you told me on Saturday that you’d call me in a couple of days to let me know something, and it’s been like 4 or 5 days since then and I haven’t heard from you. I don’t know if you’re lying to me, or if you think I’m some sort of chump or whatever, but I wanna let you know that it’s really unprofessional of you to leave me hanging like this. Just tell me what’s going on. Hello? Is anyone there? Yeah, I hope you’re not lying to me or whatever. Call me back.”

He left this same message, nearly verbatim, on 2 of our phones while we were rehearsing. Now, I don’t know about the rest of you, but if you call me a liar, you better damn-well be sure of it or I will lose my shit. Rowdy isn’t called “Rowdy” because of her diplomatic skills or her soft touch. We call her The Pitbull because she’s the one we sic on people when people ain’t acting right. Rowdy is unafraid to get in someone’s face, man or woman, and can back it up. One night at a gig, a bunch of guys started a mosh pit near the stage, and it started spreading outward to the tables were people were just sitting and drinking. One guy nearly bowled over this tiny girl who was sitting at a table, completely uninvolved with the moshing. Upon seeing this, Rowdy went to confront the guy, and I stood a few paces behind her, watching. DWW said “Maybe you should step in there and help her.” I said “I’m not watching to help her - I’m watching to help HIM. Rowdy will kill that guy if he steps to her.” That guy was wise - like an antelope on the Serengheti, he recognized danger, and lifting his head, he bounded away at top speed. However, I’m not so sure that KY has these natural instincts. And needless to say, Rowdy was calling KY back even before the full weight of his message had sunk in.

He answered the phone, and Rowdy immediately laid into him about basically calling us liars, and reminding him that since we didn’t have any information to share with him, we hadn’t called him yet. Not to mention the fact that it had only been FIVE DAYS! Desperation much? The fact that he called to find out what the deal was is fine; in fact, it’s kinda professional. But if you’re calling to find out your status with something, it’s a good idea to not accuse the people you’re talking to of wrongdoing. As she tried to tell him to relax, he got belligerant with her, causing them both to raise their voices, and he repeated his claims that we were unprofessional and liars and making him out to be a chump. And to her credit, Rowdy refrained from verbally gutting him like a catfish. Instead, as things got progressively worse, she simply said “You know, let’s just end this right here. We obviously have a personality conflict, so let’s just call it quits.” and hung up the phone. Case closed. After all, we most likely were not gonna go with this guy, but dammit, we have a process, and we were gonna let him know in due time. About 5 or 10 minutes passed, and lo and behold, KY called BACK! This time Rowdy let it go to voicemail (after the rest of us vehemently refused to talk to El Pollo Loco), and she checked the message afterwards. Folks, let me tell you - I’ve heard a lot of disgruntled voicemails in my time, but this one really takes the cake. It’s both enraging and wildly entertaining at the same time. I’ve never heard so much stupid, misplaced anger in my entire life. While listening to it, my emotions went from amused to pissed to bewilderment to outright anger to plain ol’ laughter. I can’t do it justice by transcribing it. If you want to know what he said, listen to it for yourself. Some warning, though, before you go a-clickin’ on the link: the link will take you to Myspace, so if you shouldn’t be going to Myspace at work or whatever, consider that. Also, the message contains some very….colorful language. Make sure you’re alone or you use headphones, ’cause this is definitely not PG-13 shit. He gets vile. Go to the site, and click on the very first song in the song list (it’s called Declined Disgruntled Singer or something like that). When you’re done laughing at that, make sure to click on the band’s blog post titled “Audition Blues”. It’s basically the exact same post that I made here, but here’s the kicker - HE RESPONDED TO IT!

Oh yes, he did.

This part didn’t make it on the voicemail linked on the band site, but it was by far the best part of that whole craptacular message. At the end, after he had finished spewing forth all his hate and anger, there was a pause, maybe 4 or 5 seconds at the most. Pure silence. And then, in a slightly different tone of voice, Mr. KY uttered the single most hilarious phrase I’ve ever heard after a venom-laced diatribe:

“Mom? Is that you?”

Mr. Rock Star? Mr. God of Singing? Mr. Throwback to 80s Hair Metal Madness? He lives at home with his mom, a fact confirmed by Rowdy when she described calling him on the day of the audition to confirm his appointment time, only to encounter what she describes as a bad version of Katherine Hepburn on the phone line, who went on to explain that SHE was on the phone, and no Rowdy COULDN’T talk to ol’ KY, and that he doesn’t need to be making any long-distance phone calls, and then repeated all this when Rowdy asked if she could give him the message that she called. (Now THAT was a run-on sentence, people.) At that point, apparently KY picked up another extension in the house, and screamed at his mom, calling her a whore or a drunk or something similar before turning his attention to his caller - who then said “Call me back when things settle down there.” I can’t make this stuff up.

I’ll update you of anything else happens. Welcome to my world.

Peace.

Please, for the love of God and bacon, WHY can’t we find a LEAD SINGER?

Do we smell funny? Was it the bag of Funyons I ate? Maybe I’m just too demanding…maybe I’m just like my father, too bold. What is going ON here?

I swear, I honestly never thought it would be so incredibly difficult to find a new lead singer for Nonetheless.  Sure, I knew it was a major blow, but I figured we’d be on the hunt for one, maybe two months, It’s been damn-near 6 months since our lead singer left, and we’re still standing around, waiting for someone with a modicum of talent and charisma to come in, prepared to sing, not overstate his/her abilities, and have some dignity and humility. It doesn’t seem unreasonable, but here we sit. We had a guy come in last night to try out for the role, and his visit with us has inspired this li’l posting. In fact, it inspired me to come up with a list of Do Nots (the Do’s are easy) for anyone who wants to audition for a band’s lead singer role.

Do Not Overstate Your Abilities

It’s perfectly alright to tell your prospective band that you’re good and you’re experienced. To a point. There’s a fine line between confident and cocky, and you have to be really careful about not crossing it. For example, it’s ok to tell people what you’re good at, such as “Screaming is my preferred style” or “I’m a pretty good jazz singer”, but if you say things like “I’m 1000 times better than your last lead singer” or “I’m an expert at blues”, it sets the bar pretty damn high, and you better deliver like David Cook on American Idol or you’re going to be laughed at. Additionally, it’s bad form to say “I know I have hit songs; I just need a band to back me up” because it means you’re just looking for a vehicle to get you where you want to go, as opposed to a group of equals with whom to make music. It’s particularly stupid to say “I should’ve had 5 or 6 Grammies by now for my songwriting”, and then pull out your book of lyrics, and present shit like this to the band as evidence of your greatness:

“Hell machine! Hell machine!
Stuck in a bean!
Fleeing the scene!
Bada bada ba! Bada bada ba!”
(That last line was spoken to me, as he read the lyrics out loud, and it was only through great force of will that I didn’t laugh right in the man’s face.)

Now, it’s not that the lyrics themselves are bad (they are, but that’s immaterial). You just can’t go spouting off about your award-worthy songs, and then give this Dr. Seuss on an acid trip version of a bad 80’s nursery rhyme as an example of your work. Additionally, don’t try to impress your inquisitors by telling them about all the radio play you’re getting in Serbia. It’s Serbia, dude. That’s not quite impressive enough to make us sport wood. Basically, just state what you can do, then do it. No more, no less.

Do Not Have A Style Completely Divergent From The Band

Now, we don’t really give a rip about a person’s look or style, in general. We simply ask that the person HAS a look, because it’s important for the lead singer to set the stage for the audience. How the singer presents him/herself is almost as important as how well they can actually sing. With that said, it’s just as important to make sure that whatever style you have somehow connects with the band’s overall image, or you’ll get some huge mismatch. You wouldn’t want someone from Kiss to audition in full makeup for a band like the Beatles, right? Shit wouldn’t work image-wise. When this guy walked in the door, we were immediately stunned because he looked like Blackie Lawless from the 80s band WASP. Here’s a visual:

Imagine that, in jeans that probably fit 4 or 5 years ago, with a black t-shirt that was stretched thin over an overly large belly, and heavy eye shadow. But the black wig? It stays. Oh yes it does. This is who walked into our middle-class band. He looked like he had been kidnapped by 1987, and 1989 just paid the ransom to get him released. That style might work great for him…somewhere, but not so much for this band of today’s hard rockers. Also, just don’t ever wear a wig to an audition. Ever. Just…no.

Do Not Trash-Talk The Person You’re Replacing

People leave bands all the time and for various reasons. Any new person coming into a vacancy needs to understand that just because there’s a vacancy, it doesn’t mean the remaining band members have enmity (or “bad feelings” for some of y’all) towards them. Shit happens. In particular, it’s in very poor taste to blindly talk smack about the previous singer’s ability when you don’t know all the details. For example, it’s completely possible that the person you’re talking bad about isn’t the person you’re replacing at all, because it’s entirely possible that the band has more than one vocalist, and the person who did sing the song you’re dissing is the person you’re talking to at the moment. So please - don’t build yourself up by tearing someone else down. It kinda leaves a bad taste in everyone’s mouths.

Do Not Insult The Fans

As it happens, sometimes there are people in the room who aren’t in the band when you come to audition. In this case, these people were a couple of friends and fans of the band, and they were there to just kick it with us that night. If you find yourself in a similar situation, make sure that you keep in mind that it’s these people who pay the sometimes expensive cover charge to come see the band perform, and it’s these people who you owe for whatever success you’ve gained. As such, it’s not a very good idea to insult the intelligence of these people when you make statements like: “When I write my songs, I keep it simple, man. I keep it real simple. Most stuff on the radio now is shit anyway, and I can write hits songs like 1-2-3. So I keep it simple. The crowd? They like simple songs, because the complicated stuff goes right over their heads, man. They don’t get it. Why bother putting all that time and effort into making those songs?” The thing is, the fans may just happen to enjoy listening to songs that make them think or emote or react, and to say otherwise, RIGHT IN FRONT OF THEM, is just plain dumb. Avoid.

Do Not Ask Silly Questions

I’m referring to specific silly questions, like “So have you auditioned anyone better than me?”. There is no good answer to this question. If I say no, then you’ll think you’re the best thing since TiVo, and if I say yes, then I’m an asshole. Just do your thing and hope for the best. Another dumb one to ask is “So do you think I did ok?” The reason this is bad is because (a) if you really did ok, you’d know it - either through your own confidence, or by watching the reaction of the others. And (b) it speaks to insecurity. When I perform, I don’t need someone else to tell me how good or how bad I was. I just know. If you’re asking, then it means you can’t gauge your own performance, which is itself another problem. And certainly don’t ask this same question 5 or 6 times, because that just reeks of desperation.

Now kids, follow these simple guidelines and you’ll do fine at your next audition. And for God’s sake, please cross your fingers and hope we find someone soon before I start smacking people in the head. We have another audition tomorrow night.

I hope he’s big in Serbia.

Peace.

Once again, 7 months later, the Dark Damians are piling into a vehicle, pointing it east, and heading for that great cultural mecca known as South Carolina. And I do mean “cultural mecca”, because where else can one get a rebel flag, a copy of “Freakonomics”, and a corn dog all within sight of each other? Right. Nowhere. So we’re gearing up for the next installment of How Far Can Damian Go On One Dose Of Concerta, and this time, I’m not quite as thrilled about the whole endeavor. In November, we went for the first time in a long time, and got to just hang out and relax (as much as one can with family) and basically just…be.

Not this time, folks.

THIS time, there’s a purpose behind the long drive. My boy, my man, BRYAN, is getting married on Saturday, and he was hoping I could make it there if I can, ’cause in the ceremony I’ll be a groomsman. ($2 to the first person to catch the reference. I’ll pay you in $3 bills.) I couldn’t say no to that request. As I got the details about the ceremony, a few fun facts came to light, such as:

• The wedding is in June, in South Carolina.
• The wedding is formal, meaning all associated parties will be dressed in full wedding regalia, meaning tuxedos for the men, and dresses that will never be worn again for the women.
• The wedding is outside. In June. In South Carolina. I will sweat like a cold beer on a warm patio.
• The fact that I don’t have air conditioning in my Jeep means that we’ll be renting a vehicle.

Let’s face it - traveling anywhere these days is like shooting a flaming arrow into a pile of crisp $20 bills, because no matter which method you choose, you might as well bend over and grab your ankles while you book your reservations. It feels the same no matter what. Originally, I was going to go alone, flying in the Friday before the wedding, performing my duties, and rolling out with the quickness. Expensive, yet efficient. However, events have conspired to have the whole clan (clan, not klan) wanting to go to SC also. Why did DWW’s cousin have to up and have a cute little baby girl? Just so I’d have to spend the gross national product of a small island country to finance pulling 4 people across 6 different states? Initially, flying was the best option, but when I saw $600+ per ticket, for freakin’ COACH, I ixnayed that nonsense. Driving isn’t any cheaper, but at least I don’t have to sit next to some dude who smells like Fritos and sadness while he tells me his entire life’s story. Oh, and he has to hit the bathroom the entire trip. I’ll trade 3 hours of smelly Melvin for 15 hours of my family in a car. Wait, what?

Also, this trip is a lot more event-focused than the last one. We’re leaving here super-early Wednesday morning (4am, which is also known as “Damian’s Bedtime on Gig Nights”), and instead of going about halfway, we’re gonna do the whole drive in one shot. Shoot me now. We’ll hopefully arrive late Wednesday, spend Thursday trying to recover, spend Friday getting my tux, hanging with family, and doing the rehearsal dinner; spend Saturday at the wedding itself; spend Sunday planning and executing 8YO’s birthday party (he won’t turn 9 until July, but we’re doing it early so he can be around family for the party); and leave super-early Monday morning to head back to Texas. Some may call this schedule “full”, but I like to call it “Fate hates me and my choice of apparel”. This trip will be challenging, to say the least.

If you will, help me pray for a few things, my friends. Let’s pray that:

• Gas prices don’t get so high during trip that I have to start turning tricks at the Exxon station
• My phone, which is dying a slow and annoying death, doesn’t kick the damn bucket while we’re away
• I resist the urge to leave a kid by mile marker 146 after being asked for the 700th time if we’re there yet
• The portable DVD player holds up
• I resist the urge to inflict bodily harm upon people who just may deserve and ask for it
• I don’t sweat so much during the wedding that I have to wring out my tux halfway though
• The bachelor party Friday night kicks ass
• Triple A never hears my voice or sees my face
• The state of Louisiana never hears my voice or sees my face
• My mom and grandma make the trip up to the party, and make it safely
• I get to see all the people I need to see (Yes, Jana and Jimmy. And call your brother, J-Bird.)
• The young lady taking care of the house and dogs does a good job
• I play my bass better than the new guy in my old band when we jam Friday night (Sorry, B. Gotta stake out my territory. Nothing personal.)
• Work does NOT call me. For anything. For real.

I’ll update when we get there. Can you feel the excitement of making the drive oozing off of me? I hope you can.

And in all seriousness, I’m honored to be included in your wedding, B. Remind me to tell about all the wonderful joys around being married. When your fiancee’s not around, if you don’t mind. Good lookin’ out.

Peace.

No words necessary.

Peace.

Throughout this (very freakin’ long) baseball season, a season filled with loss after spectacular loss, we coaches were consistently challenged to find ways to motivate the team. The one really good thing we have going for us is the fact that they’re 7 and 8 years old, and hence have the attention span of a fruit fly with ADD, plus the fact that the team gets free snow cones after each game, win or lose. Believe me, after your team got smoked 12-0, you’re awfully damned glad for those memory-erasing snow cones. Even with that, we often had to have post-game speeches that sounded a lot like “Hey guys, you really did a great job today of…um…getting hit by pitches, and…um…oh yeah, not throwing the ball backwards. You’re showing a lot of improvement.” The fine line between snickering and smacking your forehead is razor-sharp in those situations, and you just thank whatever deity you worship for the fact that the games are over at 7:45, no matter what.

As I mentioned in my previous non-post, we haven’t won a game since J.Lo had a small ass and gas was $1.35 a gallon. Now, the kids believed we had won a least one game, and we never let them think any differently, but the simple fact was that this team was Ohfer with two Ugly-Bumpers (honestly, even I have no idea what the hell I’m saying. I really don’t. But if I say it with enough conviction and bass in my voice, you’ll assume it’s a cutesy sports-related Southernism that you haven’t heard before, and you’ll start using it in conversation, and before long, I’ll become an icon. So feel free to utilize.) Something HAD to give eventually, right? Right?

Well, after 4 long-ass weeks of not following doctor’s orders, and doing such heart-clutching activities as running, jumping on a trampoline, climbing fences (damn, this sounds like a Valtrex commercial), 8YO was finally ready to get his Boot of Doom and No Baseball off last Thursday. However, on the previous Tuesday, the aforementioned 8YO went all Snake Blisken (seriously, look it up. If you can’t keep up with my random and obscure pop culture references and wild tangents, I can’t do nothin’ for ya, man) and ran away from school after deciding that his time was better spent doing that rather than completing a writing assignment. He was suspended from school for the very last day, and I gotta tell you - he’s lucky he’s not walking with a whole ‘nother limp after that. But I’m not here to rehash the pure adrenaline and excitement of your son’s school calling to say “Um, he ran away, and we don’t actually know where he is right now, but we’re looking for him.” ‘Tis neither the time nor place. Anyway, I kinda violated one of my own parenting rules by allowing him to play in the game on Thursday, given that he’d been out for 4 weeks, and there were only 2 games left. Plus, we had paid the $65, and I intended to squeeze every little drop of baseball out of this season that I could muster. Trust a brotha.

Typically, our games would go kinda like this: If we batted first, we’d find 3 ways to get outs - strikeouts, pop flies, ground-outs, gunned down while stealing 2nd base, tagged out for lifting a foot off of first base while the first baseman still had the ball, throwing the bat twice after making a hit, sliding headfirst into home plate, running out of the base path, 2 runners occupying the same base at the same time…you name it, we did it. Sometimes twice. When the other team got up to bat, they’d either hit or walk until they got 4 runs, the maximum for a team per inning at our level. We’d get up to bat again. Rinse and repeat. However, something was different on Thursday. Very different. We got up to bat first….and kids were getting on base. Walks. Hits. Getting hit by pitches (hey, it counts). Whatever. Kids who had no business seeing the bases were suddenly wide-eyed and looking at me as I coached first base. Hell, I had to tell a couple of them where to go next. Kids were stealing - successfully! Kids were sliding into home plate - successfully! And before we knew it, we had 4 runs and only 1 out. For the first time ever, we got 4 runs in our first at-bat, and had to switch.

Generally, even if we would get a lead, what would happen next is that our pitchers would suddenly forget how to throw the ball from the mound to home plate without it taking 2 bounces, our catchers would develop a perfect baseball-sized hole in their mitts, our infielders would mysteriously watch as hit baseballs rolled right between their legs, and our outfielders….well, they pretty much were the same no matter what. Our outfielders consisted of the round kid who wore soccer shoes and never ran; a kid with an incredible arm (and absolutely no aim) who would stand as still as a statue as the ball rolled closer and closer to him; a new kid who had to use the bathroom after every single inning, it seemed; and our blind kid. Yeah. Blind. Legally, but still. Suffice it to say that when balls got hit into the grass, we were relieved if anyone got to the ball, ever. However, on Thursday, the pitching was sharp. The catcher stopped the ball. Infielders were making catches and making plays. And the outfielders….like I said, they were pretty much the same no matter what. But even that was good enough. We exited the first inning up 4-1.

The second inning went like the first, with our team getting 4 runs, but this time the other team decided to wake up and make it a game. They also got 4 runs, leaving the end of 2nd inning score 8-5. It was then that the air started slowly easing out of my balloon of hope. “Here we go”, I said to myself (and to the other assistant coaches). This would be the point where the wheels would fall off, and our descent into Losstopia would begin. But at the top of the 3rd, Fate smiled on those boys once more, and once more they put up 4 runs on the other team. At this point, mathematics took over. Our Little League has a 4 inning max per game, a 4 run max per inning, and a one-and-a-half hour maximum time. So by using some trigonometry, some algebra, some differential equations (if you don’t know, ask someone and watch them cringe), and some dried chicken bones, the umpire determined that the other team was mathematically unable to catch up with ours before time would expire, and proclaimed us….winners.

Winners.

Not “it’s really a tie, but we’ll tell the kids they won” winners. Not “they played really hard and came up just short” winners. Actual, factual winners, earned honestly through footwork, teamwork, and hard work. Winners, definitive winners, with no arcane rules about rolling back scores, no moral victories, no near-misses, no hanging chads, just…winners. For the kids, it was exciting, but they thought they’d already won before, so the shine wasn’t quite as bright as it was for the coaches, who knew better. This victory was sweet, so sweet that it left us speechless. Usually our games end with the coaches picking out a few pieces of cubic zirconium from the pile of offal, buffing them, and presenting them to the team as highlights for the game. But this game was straight diamonds. I had never won as a coach before, and it was kinda overwhelming. And no, I didn’t cry. But I was filled with pride for what the boys had achieved, how far they had come. It was just one win out of 20-odd games, but one was all we needed.

I went into the season dreading the idea of coaching. It was foreign and unfamiliar, a personal stretch that put me in a position of responsibility over 11 kids who trusted my judgment. I feared my lack of experience and my lack of knowledge. But looking back, I really had nothing to fear. I knew so much more than I thought I did, and the things you pick up along the way become as ingrained as putting on socks before shoes. I had fun. It was enjoyable. And I’m going to miss doing this. Our last game was yesterday, and, showing a perfect display of seasonal symmetry…we got our asses beat down, 12-3. It was rough, horrible, frustrating, infuriating, and oh so very sweet. Au revior, baseball.

See you next year.

Peace.

I…

I at a loss for words.

I know I SHOULD be blogging about something - baseball, work, the band (we lost our new lead singer), a diatribe…something.

But I got nothin’, folks. I’m drawing a blank.

For some reason, I’m in a slump. I have zero impetus to write about anything. In fact, this very post is my attempt to maybe jump-start my writing juices so that I can get back into the groove. So far, though, there are no juices and no groove. There’s just me, telling you, that I have nothing to say.

I suck.

I’ll be playing in a coaches’ softball game on Saturday. Maybe something interesting will happen that I’ll feel like writing about. And I could always talk about the team (we’re 0-13-2, people. That’s NO wins, TEN losses, and TWO sister-kissers. We’ve lost in ways that are astounding and negatively miraculous. It’s a sight to behold. Shoot me.)

We’re going back to South Carolina in June, so I’m sure that’ll generate some interest in me, but that’s not until the end of June, and that’s a long-ass time to be sitting around waiting for my muse to slap me in the back of the head and make pretty words flow from my fingers.

It’s been 2 years officially since I left the Chinese company. That’s worth some words, right? Maybe I’ll link some of those tales.

I could write about my growing obsession with “Naruto“, which is bordering on disturbing. People, I know more about the show than my kids do. I research this shit. I DVR the show, read the manga (that’s Japanese for ‘comic books’), and learn all the jutsus (ninja skills/techniques/sorcery) of the characters. It’s scary for a 36 year-old man to be this into anime and yet still be semi-somewhat attractive to the opposite sex. Oh, for the love of Kakashi-sensei. I’m pitiful.

I’m just…empty. I’ll get back on track in short time, I’m sure. Bear with me. In the meantime, stay busy by reading some of this stuff. I do it…because I love you. Just chew on these until my words return to me.

Peace.

The Chinese Company Stories
Start from the bottom of the list, folks.

The Appendectomy - 1 year ago!

Sistagirl

Ask Dark Damian - I should really start this up again

I’m an 80s Kid - 2005 in da house!

My two children are prime examples of contrast. Though they both come from the same stock, they have talents that lie in completely different areas. For example, 5YO is great at reading, and 8YO is fabulous at math. 5YO is good at soccer, and 8YO is good at baseball. 5YO is an awesome dancer, and 8YO is…not. This story will primarily be told in pictures, because pictures are worth a thousand words, and I truly have no words for this shit. For real. So, without further ado, let me share with you what happened with 8YO…in pictures.

8YO, rocking out to Guitar Hero. Or at least wearing the guitar itself. He’s quite good.

8YO in his uniform. Go Brewers!

He goes to gym class while he’s in school. PE in full effect! YEAH BOY! (Public Enemy reference to all you folks who know who that is.)

Sometimes the kids do regular exercise and activities in gym, like jumping jacks. You know, like we used to do, only with less short-shorts wearing coaches.

Sometimes, however, the kids do other forms of exercise in gym. Like, for example, dance. Dance is considered to be an excellent way to perform aerobic exercise, and many people don’t think you look like an extra from “Fame” when you prance around on the floor.

Anyway, on Tuesday, the gym class was apparently involved in some interpretive dance, of which 8YO was a very active participant. He decided to try a move like this:

but wound up doing something more like this:

or this:

and ended up like this:

which led to this, at the CareNow clinic the next day:

You see, that dance move he whipped out involved him jumping, spinning in the air, and crossing his legs before landing in what can only be described as a move rejected by N’Sync for being too hardcore. Hwe tried to bust a move, and busted his ass instead. X-rays at the clinic showed this:

(Word - I got the X-rays and totally stiefed them. “Stiefed” is the combination of “steal” and “thieve”, with some ghetto flavor.) That little piece of bone that I’m pointing to? ‘Tis broken. Yes. He broke his ankle doing a dance move that he must’ve learned from watching a drunken wallaby fight with a pogo stick. So now, instead of this:

he’s got this:

and this:

and of course, this.

Nicely done, 8YO. The next four weeks will be joyous, as I carry you around, getting you into and out of cars, the shower, and everything else, all while you forget that you’re actually injured and try to do damn-near everything you were doing before you went all Ralph Macchio with the leg. Thank you, my son. I look forward to holding my breath with every little step you take.

Four weeks. It’s gonna feel like this:

Peace.

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.

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

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.