I've been without home internet for a few months and it kind of sucks. Not only can I not download files of an adult nature but I can't, you know, blog and stuff without leaving the compound. As a matter of fact, I type this now not from my couch, but from a church pew at the best pie place in Chicago, First Slice Pie Cafe on Ashland.
Lacking internet has cramped my style. While I obviously look for any excuse to patronize an establishment that serves pie, I don't like to sit next to three 15 year-olds who are loudly talking about high school shit. Seated next to me are two dudes who clearly have a crush on the 3rd companion--"Zoe"--a 15 year old girl in a tiny top who is bragging about all the older guys who are asking her out, while blindingly crushing the souls of her dining companions. But the pumpkin pie cheese cake was fabulous.
I come to the pie place a couple of times a week. They have a good internet connection, the pie is amazing and I hear they serve other things. They also give free food to any homeless person that walks in, a noble mission to be sure. However, it's always crowded and I find it difficult to blog about my personal feelings surrounded by so many people, be those feelings about my concern in looking for an awesome job or Scarlett Johanssons's chest.
(Update! Zoe just playfully threw a crumpled-up napkin at one of her mop-headed friend-zoners and it bounced off his forehead and hit me in the thigh. She apologized. He came.)
I feel a little cut-off from the outside world, lacking home internet. Sure, I have my iPhone which I think we can all agree is the pinnacle of human achievement. But I have trouble looking at more expansive websites with the iPhone or exploring deep into the internet, link after fascinating link with that tiny screen.
For instance, I've been meaning to go back to MySpace to check and see if my former blog still existed. It's a good thing I did because it sort of didn't. I say "sort of" because all MySpace blogs unexpectedly disappeared back in June, much to the internet's chagrin. An immediate outcry occurred that I was able to follow thanks to the magic of the interwebs and I'm sure the folks who run MySpace were just excited that someone cared. Kind of like Zoe's response to the inevitable half-hearted suicide attempt by one of my dining companions that will occur next week. Fortunately, I was able to download my posts but I had to jump through a few hoops to do so.
For those of you who are not part of the fearless 7 that have been with me since 2006, you missed out. My MySpace blog was poorly written, full of masturbation jokes, spelling errors and grammatical hilarity. It actually made your computer reek of alcohol. But there was some fun stuff there; stories from my time at Playboy, travels with the Godparents and at least one awful, awful tale of a chicken wing eating contest gone bad. Now, it would appear, that while I have access to the text of these posts, the world no longer does.
This will not stand.
So, over the next few weeks, I'm going to be reposting some of my favorites from the MySpace blog here, for posterity but also because I feel that these posts might just fully disappear in the very near future. And also because I need to do something with a blog I haven't updated since September.
Consider yourself warned.
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
My Summer with the Boomers
Yes, yes...I'm aware that it's been many moons since I've tickled the keys of my trusty laptop in a non-masturbatory manner but a professional baseball season is hard. The hours are long, the pay sucks and the food is less than nutritious.
But what a summer it was! I had nearly forgotten how much I enjoyed ticketing. All summer long, it was like one big game of Tetris. And I was awesome at Tetris in the 80's. Every day, I was lucky enough to go to work at a genuine baseball stadium. It was glorious.
The season is winding down now--our regular season is actually over--and we've made it to the Championship Series, beginning on Saturday. So all you fuckers that swore you'd come to a ballgame this summer now officially have 2-3* games (*if necessary) to come out and see the Boomers play for free. I've actually given up on getting people to the stadium. I'll never understand what people have against a free afternoon or evening at the ballpark. It's like I was asking people to attend a timeshare weekend in Des Moines with Orville Redenbacher and his really cool grandson.
Naw, it was a helluva season. Some highlights:
1) Our first ever sell-out! June 19th, we sold the stadium out. Mostly to school groups as it was an 11am game but still...it was an impressive crowd.
2) The World's Largest Marshmallow Fight!
This one was a RIOT. About 200 fans ambled down to the field, were handed baseball-sized marshmallows and unleashed hell. It was AWESOME. So much fun. Kids were pelting adults. Adults were pelting kids. Our staff was pelting fans. This was the only event I've ever attended where I saw A) a group of kids ganging up on a kid in a wheelchair and wheels loved every minute of it and B) the guy dressed up in the Stay-Puft Marshmallow suit was forced to run off the field because kids were pelting him in the nuts.
It was chaos. Glorious, glorious chaos.
3) The Diamond Dig. Ever wonder what it looks like when several hundred women are crawling around the infield dirt, digging with plastic spoons to find a free, $3,000 diamond ring? Wonder no more:
This one was a little unfair. To make sure no one could see the ring being buried--and therefore make a run to that spot when the dig commenced--we had to bury the damn thing before the game. Which meant we had to bury it deep so that a player wouldn't trip on it as he attempted to field a ground ball. But to prevent serious damage to our field, we couldn't exactly give the women shovels either. For the dig, all we gave them were plastic spoons. Totally breakable, plastic coffee spoons.
Not going to lie...it took a while. First the women weren't digging in the right spot. Then they weren't digging deep enough. Then the spoons started to break. We had to keep shortening the area in which they could dig until we were basically saying "Dig right here". But eventually an esctatic lady found the ring.
I must say I was hoping for more tackles and hair pulling but that is 15 years of watching porn for you.
4) All-Star Week. One magical day at the end of June, our GM sent us an email that asked if we wanted to go on the All-Star trip in Washington, PA. He said it was all-expenses paid and suggested it would be a fun team-building trip. I asked him one question: "If I don't go on the trip, will I have to come in to work?" "Of course," was his reply. "Then, yes, I will be joining you on the all-star trip."
Holy hannah was this fun. And when he said it was all-expenses paid, it was seriously all-expenses paid. I think the only money I actually spent out of my own pocket was for McDonalds and gambling. And since I'm not really a gambler, this was a super-cheap trip.
And we won everything. Steve McQuail's gigantic biceps won the home run derby. Sean Mahley won the MVP of the All-Star game. The Schaumburg Boomers--myself included--dominated the pre-game bowling festivities. Our front office staff decimated two other staffs at speed quarters.
All that and our front office golf foursome won the coveted "Most times screaming profanity in one 18 hole round of golf" while technically finishing dead last if we're to, you know, look at the score and stuff.
5) Squirt Gun Day. You have to understand that most of the crazy stuff that we do at stadium, I actually miss. I have to be down in the box office running things from two hours before game time to at least an hour into the game. And even then, I only get to roam around the ballpark for a few minutes before having to return to my hole to run reports and scan ticket stubs.
Squirt Gun Day was a bit different. We were encouraged by our GM to--ahem--"participate" in the festivities. That's why I handed out loaded squirt guns to my box office staff to pelt people from the relative safety of our respective windows. This is how I totally confused a family of 6 as I subtly shot squirt after squirt of water as the continually turned around trying to find the culprit. This is how I picked the fattest guys to drill as they walked by, totally unaware that anyone was shooting at them. And this is how I made a kid in a Green Bay Packers shirt cry.
See, his Dad walked up to buy tickets maybe 45 minutes before game-time. As such, they were the only ones at the window which allowed me ample time to slowly aim my gun out the window and shoot a tiny half-squirt at the kid while he was watching my every move. I hit him in his chest and he just sort of looked down at the water--as if trying to understand what was happening--and then looked back up at me. He didn't move at all and just sort of innocently stared me down.
So I shot him again. From maybe 3 feet away, just another little half-pull of my trigger. Again I sprayed him in the chest and again he looked down, then up and back at me. He wasn't smiling nor did he look annoyed.
So I shot him again.
This time it was a full pull of the trigger.
This time an enormous stream of water came out and hit him square in the eye.
I have seen this moment play out dozens of times before. I have 9 neices and nephews and you think you're having a lot of fun and all of a sudden the horse play gets a little too hard and bam! The kid starts crying his eyes out. Oh dear god! What have I done! His Dad is going to sue us and I will have to justify it by saying "Well, why did you put him in a Packer jersey in the first place?"
To be fair, I didn't intentionally hit him in the eye. I just sort of meant to spray his face. It was a hot day in the middle of July and I figured it was all in good fun. I hadn't anticipated what full shot from a distance of 3 feet would do to the child's eyeball. "What's the problem? He can still see, can't he? He has two eyes."
I immediately and profusely apologized, scrambled and got him a $5 Boomer Buck chip and said "Dippin' Dots are on me!" To the Father's credit, he just laughed, picked up the kid, graciously took the $5 and walked into the ballpark. I felt terrible but I was confident the ordeal was over for the kid.
I eventually made my way up to the press box where I told my tale of woe over a dinner of cold hot dogs and Diet Pepsi. As I was telling my story, Colt stopped me and said, "You're kidding, right?"
Apparently, as Colt was walking the concourse pre-game, he spotted a kid in a Packer jersey and drenched him with his own squirt gun. And again the kid burst into tears and the Father laughed it off and comforted the child.
All I know is that kid ain't never coming back to a Boomer game. He's probably scarred for life. More scarred, of course, since he's already a Packer fan.
Welcome to my summer
But what a summer it was! I had nearly forgotten how much I enjoyed ticketing. All summer long, it was like one big game of Tetris. And I was awesome at Tetris in the 80's. Every day, I was lucky enough to go to work at a genuine baseball stadium. It was glorious.
The season is winding down now--our regular season is actually over--and we've made it to the Championship Series, beginning on Saturday. So all you fuckers that swore you'd come to a ballgame this summer now officially have 2-3* games (*if necessary) to come out and see the Boomers play for free. I've actually given up on getting people to the stadium. I'll never understand what people have against a free afternoon or evening at the ballpark. It's like I was asking people to attend a timeshare weekend in Des Moines with Orville Redenbacher and his really cool grandson.
Neeeeeeeeeeeeerds!
Naw, it was a helluva season. Some highlights:
1) Our first ever sell-out! June 19th, we sold the stadium out. Mostly to school groups as it was an 11am game but still...it was an impressive crowd.
2) The World's Largest Marshmallow Fight!
Ignore my gut. I'm workin' on it!
This one was a RIOT. About 200 fans ambled down to the field, were handed baseball-sized marshmallows and unleashed hell. It was AWESOME. So much fun. Kids were pelting adults. Adults were pelting kids. Our staff was pelting fans. This was the only event I've ever attended where I saw A) a group of kids ganging up on a kid in a wheelchair and wheels loved every minute of it and B) the guy dressed up in the Stay-Puft Marshmallow suit was forced to run off the field because kids were pelting him in the nuts.
Did I say kids? I meant Colt.
It was chaos. Glorious, glorious chaos.
The kid in the blue shirt was crying because he just got hit in the face with a marshmallow. It may or may not have been me that did it.
3) The Diamond Dig. Ever wonder what it looks like when several hundred women are crawling around the infield dirt, digging with plastic spoons to find a free, $3,000 diamond ring? Wonder no more:
I'm sure that woman in the foreground will be happy to know her ass has been captured forever on my blog.
This one was a little unfair. To make sure no one could see the ring being buried--and therefore make a run to that spot when the dig commenced--we had to bury the damn thing before the game. Which meant we had to bury it deep so that a player wouldn't trip on it as he attempted to field a ground ball. But to prevent serious damage to our field, we couldn't exactly give the women shovels either. For the dig, all we gave them were plastic spoons. Totally breakable, plastic coffee spoons.
Not going to lie...it took a while. First the women weren't digging in the right spot. Then they weren't digging deep enough. Then the spoons started to break. We had to keep shortening the area in which they could dig until we were basically saying "Dig right here". But eventually an esctatic lady found the ring.
I must say I was hoping for more tackles and hair pulling but that is 15 years of watching porn for you.
4) All-Star Week. One magical day at the end of June, our GM sent us an email that asked if we wanted to go on the All-Star trip in Washington, PA. He said it was all-expenses paid and suggested it would be a fun team-building trip. I asked him one question: "If I don't go on the trip, will I have to come in to work?" "Of course," was his reply. "Then, yes, I will be joining you on the all-star trip."
Holy hannah was this fun. And when he said it was all-expenses paid, it was seriously all-expenses paid. I think the only money I actually spent out of my own pocket was for McDonalds and gambling. And since I'm not really a gambler, this was a super-cheap trip.
And we won everything. Steve McQuail's gigantic biceps won the home run derby. Sean Mahley won the MVP of the All-Star game. The Schaumburg Boomers--myself included--dominated the pre-game bowling festivities. Our front office staff decimated two other staffs at speed quarters.
Yes, it's exactly like it sounds. We're grown-ups.
All that and our front office golf foursome won the coveted "Most times screaming profanity in one 18 hole round of golf" while technically finishing dead last if we're to, you know, look at the score and stuff.
5) Squirt Gun Day. You have to understand that most of the crazy stuff that we do at stadium, I actually miss. I have to be down in the box office running things from two hours before game time to at least an hour into the game. And even then, I only get to roam around the ballpark for a few minutes before having to return to my hole to run reports and scan ticket stubs.
Squirt Gun Day was a bit different. We were encouraged by our GM to--ahem--"participate" in the festivities. That's why I handed out loaded squirt guns to my box office staff to pelt people from the relative safety of our respective windows. This is how I totally confused a family of 6 as I subtly shot squirt after squirt of water as the continually turned around trying to find the culprit. This is how I picked the fattest guys to drill as they walked by, totally unaware that anyone was shooting at them. And this is how I made a kid in a Green Bay Packers shirt cry.
See, his Dad walked up to buy tickets maybe 45 minutes before game-time. As such, they were the only ones at the window which allowed me ample time to slowly aim my gun out the window and shoot a tiny half-squirt at the kid while he was watching my every move. I hit him in his chest and he just sort of looked down at the water--as if trying to understand what was happening--and then looked back up at me. He didn't move at all and just sort of innocently stared me down.
So I shot him again. From maybe 3 feet away, just another little half-pull of my trigger. Again I sprayed him in the chest and again he looked down, then up and back at me. He wasn't smiling nor did he look annoyed.
So I shot him again.
This time it was a full pull of the trigger.
This time an enormous stream of water came out and hit him square in the eye.
I have seen this moment play out dozens of times before. I have 9 neices and nephews and you think you're having a lot of fun and all of a sudden the horse play gets a little too hard and bam! The kid starts crying his eyes out. Oh dear god! What have I done! His Dad is going to sue us and I will have to justify it by saying "Well, why did you put him in a Packer jersey in the first place?"
He was clearly asking for it.
To be fair, I didn't intentionally hit him in the eye. I just sort of meant to spray his face. It was a hot day in the middle of July and I figured it was all in good fun. I hadn't anticipated what full shot from a distance of 3 feet would do to the child's eyeball. "What's the problem? He can still see, can't he? He has two eyes."
I immediately and profusely apologized, scrambled and got him a $5 Boomer Buck chip and said "Dippin' Dots are on me!" To the Father's credit, he just laughed, picked up the kid, graciously took the $5 and walked into the ballpark. I felt terrible but I was confident the ordeal was over for the kid.
I eventually made my way up to the press box where I told my tale of woe over a dinner of cold hot dogs and Diet Pepsi. As I was telling my story, Colt stopped me and said, "You're kidding, right?"
Apparently, as Colt was walking the concourse pre-game, he spotted a kid in a Packer jersey and drenched him with his own squirt gun. And again the kid burst into tears and the Father laughed it off and comforted the child.
All I know is that kid ain't never coming back to a Boomer game. He's probably scarred for life. More scarred, of course, since he's already a Packer fan.
I have seen his future and it is cholesterol.
The ultimate empty gesture for those that paid the ultimate price
Is this sad? Or hilarious? Both? Hilariously sad? Sadly hilarious?
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Radio
Remember the radio? I've recently been listening to this "radio" device and I have to admit, I'm a fan.
I'm pretty much 10 years removed from listening to the radio. Maybe longer. My old, badassed truck was excellent at driving through the snow and sucking gas like Jenna Jameson but terrible at getting a decent AM or FM signal. As a result, in 2006 I was the last person in America still making mixed tapes. But my "90's Audio Boner Jams" mix was wicked.
After I finally donated my broken-down truck to Kars4Kids--because apparently I hate kids with cancer--I was left vehicle-less for a year and half. However, this past January, Krishni's father returned Krishni's car to her and suddenly, I'm rocking out for 150 minutes a day as I'm stuck in traffic. On the days that I forget to recharge my Jambox, I'm left with 5 decent radio stations to keep me company on the way to and from work.
On a good day, I can get to Boomers Stadium in about 45 minutes. Getting to work is not at all a bad commute, especially because 101.1 (may you rest in peace, Q101) plays 101 minutes of 90's music. This is a delighful way to start a day, although their definition of 90's can be stretched a bit. Who honestly counts Bon Jovi's "Blaze of Glory" as 90's music?
While Mr. Jovi has certainly rocked a million faces, I still think he sucks. In fact, yesterday the radio told me that both Bon Jovi and Queen have a new album coming out. So I ask you: Which is gayer?
Other than that, the new 101.1--while not worthy of Q's position on the dial--has been a pleasant surprise. A few other thoughts on the state of the radio:
1) I heard the "Macarena" the other day and thouroughly enjoyed it. So, if you're scoring at home, it takes exactly 15 years for a song like that to become fun again.
2) I never thought I would type these words: Today, on the drive home, I turned off Pearl Jam's "Yellow Ledbetter" in favor of Coolio's "Gangstas Paradise".
3) Did Tom Petty die? I've been hearing an awful lot of Tom Petty in my car. That's not necessarily a bad thing at all--I think we can all agree that Mr. Petty is one of the more important American singers of ever--but man, "Mary Jane's Last Dance" has just not aged well. Maybe I'm getting old. Or I've never smoked weed.
4) I really, really like Alabama Shakes. Krishni and I saw them on SNL a few weeks ago and while I was intensely focusing on the soulful blues exploding from their amps, all Krishni could say was "That is the least bang-able band ever."
4) You know what hasn't aged well but is simultaneously better every time I hear it? "Ice Ice Baby". Since Mr. Vanilla was kind enough to release it in 1990, "Ice Ice Baby" often finds it's way into my morning commute. Like, "daily" often. And as we all know, I am an unabashed fan of Cool as Ice, the only movie that ever felt hilariously out of date the moment it was released.
Now, it hasn't all been winners. I still hear a lot of Dave Matthews Band. In fact, twice in the last month, Dave Matthews Band has been the best option of the 5 stations. Each time I violtently punched my radio to turn it off instead of listening to that dude whine. I still don't get it. Never will. I can't imagine how he sold, wait...what? 40 million albums? That's, that's...just awful.
One good thing though: I've spent approximately 130 hours in Krishni's car commuting to and from Schaumburg and I have not yet--not even once--heard a Metallica song.
And people think the world is going to hell.
I'm pretty much 10 years removed from listening to the radio. Maybe longer. My old, badassed truck was excellent at driving through the snow and sucking gas like Jenna Jameson but terrible at getting a decent AM or FM signal. As a result, in 2006 I was the last person in America still making mixed tapes. But my "90's Audio Boner Jams" mix was wicked.
After I finally donated my broken-down truck to Kars4Kids--because apparently I hate kids with cancer--I was left vehicle-less for a year and half. However, this past January, Krishni's father returned Krishni's car to her and suddenly, I'm rocking out for 150 minutes a day as I'm stuck in traffic. On the days that I forget to recharge my Jambox, I'm left with 5 decent radio stations to keep me company on the way to and from work.
On a good day, I can get to Boomers Stadium in about 45 minutes. Getting to work is not at all a bad commute, especially because 101.1 (may you rest in peace, Q101) plays 101 minutes of 90's music. This is a delighful way to start a day, although their definition of 90's can be stretched a bit. Who honestly counts Bon Jovi's "Blaze of Glory" as 90's music?
Pictured: the 90's
While Mr. Jovi has certainly rocked a million faces, I still think he sucks. In fact, yesterday the radio told me that both Bon Jovi and Queen have a new album coming out. So I ask you: Which is gayer?
Definitely Bon Jovi
Other than that, the new 101.1--while not worthy of Q's position on the dial--has been a pleasant surprise. A few other thoughts on the state of the radio:
1) I heard the "Macarena" the other day and thouroughly enjoyed it. So, if you're scoring at home, it takes exactly 15 years for a song like that to become fun again.
2) I never thought I would type these words: Today, on the drive home, I turned off Pearl Jam's "Yellow Ledbetter" in favor of Coolio's "Gangstas Paradise".
What? No, Eddie! I didn't say anything! We're still cool, right? Eddie? Eddie?!
3) Did Tom Petty die? I've been hearing an awful lot of Tom Petty in my car. That's not necessarily a bad thing at all--I think we can all agree that Mr. Petty is one of the more important American singers of ever--but man, "Mary Jane's Last Dance" has just not aged well. Maybe I'm getting old. Or I've never smoked weed.
4) I really, really like Alabama Shakes. Krishni and I saw them on SNL a few weeks ago and while I was intensely focusing on the soulful blues exploding from their amps, all Krishni could say was "That is the least bang-able band ever."
Indeed.
4) You know what hasn't aged well but is simultaneously better every time I hear it? "Ice Ice Baby". Since Mr. Vanilla was kind enough to release it in 1990, "Ice Ice Baby" often finds it's way into my morning commute. Like, "daily" often. And as we all know, I am an unabashed fan of Cool as Ice, the only movie that ever felt hilariously out of date the moment it was released.
He's so cool, he didn't even feel the need to move when local toughs decided to graffiti his pants.
Now, it hasn't all been winners. I still hear a lot of Dave Matthews Band. In fact, twice in the last month, Dave Matthews Band has been the best option of the 5 stations. Each time I violtently punched my radio to turn it off instead of listening to that dude whine. I still don't get it. Never will. I can't imagine how he sold, wait...what? 40 million albums? That's, that's...just awful.
One good thing though: I've spent approximately 130 hours in Krishni's car commuting to and from Schaumburg and I have not yet--not even once--heard a Metallica song.
And people think the world is going to hell.
PAY ATTENTION TO ME!!!
Saturday, February 16, 2013
Thoughts from my Mind Grapes II
We've been hustling at work because the single ticket pre-sale for the 2013 Schaumburg Boomers season begins in less than two weeks...holy shit! Are we prepared? Have I monumentally screwed up something in the programming that will allow us to sell tickets to a customer, hand him said tickets only to allow him to walk away without, you know, his credit card getting charged and stuff? Will I be fired less than 2 months into this dangerously underpaid job? Or will everything be super-duper and I'm just freaking out because I've finally found a job I love?
Anyhoo, since I got into the habit of predominantly blogging at work when I was at the Rabbit and since they would likely frown upon that now in Schaumburg, I haven't been the good little blogger you all know and love. And when I'm at home, I like to eat, drink and nail my wife (not in that order, Krishni! Ha ha! Obviously!), so I've been lacking in the updates. My apologies. Dedicated Bonzer T fan Mary Kate whined to me about my slacking journalistic skills the other day so I knew I needed to pound something out.
Thus, allow me to reintroduce the old "Thoughts from my Mind Grapes" gag:
1) I've been told--by the people I constantly text--that my mind is made for Twitter. I get it: I text a lot of stupid shit and by definition texts tend to be about the character limit of a Tweet. In reality, I should have a Twitter page. It would make an enormous amount of sense. But anyone that is on the receiving end of those texts knows that a solid 50% of those mind-grape droppings would be thousands of little nails in the coffin of my eventual Senate campaign. Seriously....the hypothetical Mike Jacklich Twitter page would be incredibly offensive to most of the population.
That and I think the annoying back and forth retweeting is hard to read and follow. Christ, just text each other. Why do you need to have the conversation in public accompanied by something called a "hashtag"?
In other news, I'm old.
All of that said, I have an inquisitive mind and love it when data is presented in a new and interesting way, a way that helps folks learn new stuff. In that respect, have you heard of Tweetping? Tweetping is a real-time update of tweets as they happen across the world. It will collect--big brother style--every tweet as a person sends it, ping a little dot on a map and continue collecting new data. You can even see the tweets as they pop up--briefly--and you'll see a running total on the bottom of the page broken down by continent. If you let it run long enough, the dots will layer on top of each other so it appears that the world has been left on the kitchen counter too long and has grown a fuzzy fungus:
This is mesmerizing. I let it run at work the other day for a couple of hours and was impressed by the dedication of the Filipino people to tweet at 4am. I strongly recommend you watch that for a while. Even if what we are doing is tracking millions of self-obsessed people, there's something oddly soothing about it.
2) So, I thought Tweetping was the best thing the internet had ever produced. A mere 3 days later, I discovered this:
The video is titled "Rapping for Jesus" and features two 60-somethings dropping N-Bombs in the name of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. This is the single best thing the intenet has ever produced, and likely ever will.
I am not being hyperbolic.
There is some debate on the internet on whether this video is the real thing. Honestly, I don't know. The odd thing is that the rap isn't bad. I mean, it's bad. Really, really bad. But musically and lyrically, it's pretty good. Clearly, the whities that wrote it have an ear for such things and some amount of musical training. If it's real, it's pretty much the inspiration for Marty and Bobbie Culp on SNL:
The internet chatter seems to think that no one could be so tone-deaf as to think that recording a pro-Jesus rap that includes the line "Jesus Christ is my nigga"--over and over again--could be for real. It just seems too delightful to be true. But I think it's the real deal.
I'm old enough to remember a time when older people thought it was a good idea to try and aim a message at the younger generation by rapping said message instead of speaking to kids in an honest manner. This was a real thing. Commercials, TV shows, the radio...any audio platform old white dudes had, they thought they could sell more mattresses or oil changes or potato chips or whatever by rapping their message instead of simply describing the benefits of their product. It was a genuinely embarrassing time to live. It was also the single worst thing about America in the 90's.
I get it; I understand that some people seem to think the video is a fake and is one big parody of a time we'd all like to forget. Here's why I think it is real:
I have never--in my life--seen a parody this good. It's like Anchorman mixed in with the Dewey Cox Story. If this video is a fake and the participants are not dead, I want them to make more videos parodying anything and everything. To be fair, if the video is real, I want more as well. I want to download that song from iTunes and add it to my "Happy" playlist. I want to keep this video running on a constant loop during bad days at work.
I hope for Jesus' sake--and Dr. Dre's--that these folks are still alive. I'm sure their Grammy is forthcoming.
3) Speaking of Christians, don't even get me started on this bitch:
4) Finally, we have that Carnival Cruise ship that was stranded adrift after a fire in the engine room disabled all power and forced the passengers to--among other white people problem horrors--drink ice-less pina coladas and poop in a bag for 5 days.
While I'm sure the experience sucked--the less that is seen of my poop the better--can we maybe get a little perspective here? All we have heard from the media is the "survival" stories of people camping out on the decks and having to pee in the showers and the sewage seeping into the walls and the carpets of the lower decks. Yes, that sounds like an awful experience for all passengers involved. You know who we should really be talking about here? The (likely) Filipino and Indonesian staff whose job it was to collect the passengers droppings and be yelled at by the drunken tramp-stamped passengers and--I feel the need to stress this again--had to collect the drunken tramp-stamped passengers rum-soaked shit in medical waste bags. All with exhausted smiles on their faces. These folks are the real heroes.
Allow me a quick Carnival Cruise-related tangent: after my glorious wedding to my gorgeous wife, she and I went on a Holland America Line Caribbean cruise. Holland America, as I have blogged before, is a lovely and luxurious cruise line aimed at a significantly older demographic. Because I had travelled so often with my kick-ass Godparents, I had a little bit of standing with the company so we honeymooned with HAL instead of a more age-appropriate cruise line. We had a blast, met a really great couple in our age group and drank and ate our way across the crystal blue waters of Jack Sparrow's territory. It was wonderful.
However, at one of the ports, we docked next to a Carnival Cruise ship. We shared a dock, the two ships separated by only about 50 yards of concrete, if that. And let me tell you, the clientele duality was HI-larious. On one side of the dock, you had octogenarians with canes in pleated, pastel pants and big hats disembarking with umbrellas for shade and those enormous virtual-reality sunglasses the block out all but the most intense, focused light.
On the other side of the dock, it was like spring break for venereal disease. We saw women in sandals and bikinis stumbling back to the ship armed with full bottles of rum and a beer bong. We saw shirtless dudes yelling profanities from the dock to their backwards-capped friends on the ship's balconies. We saw more exposed tramp-stamps than, well, any other place on earth.
I don't like to use sweeping statements generalizing an entire group of people but I mean this when I say it: Not a single passenger on that ship had class. These were the types of passengers Carnival Cruise ships attract. They want the young and tattooed and the horny. Not saying it's a bad way to do business--I'm sure me and my dudes would have loved an opportunity to go on such a cruise ten years ago--just calling it out for what it is.
I'm not saying that the passengers on the poop deck (yeah. I said it) last week got what they deserved. I'm just saying that it couldn't have happened to a better class of people.
I'm sure the hazmat team will have to scrub down that ship from top to bottom. But really, I hope they do that after every Carnival Cruise.
Anyhoo, since I got into the habit of predominantly blogging at work when I was at the Rabbit and since they would likely frown upon that now in Schaumburg, I haven't been the good little blogger you all know and love. And when I'm at home, I like to eat, drink and nail my wife (not in that order, Krishni! Ha ha! Obviously!), so I've been lacking in the updates. My apologies. Dedicated Bonzer T fan Mary Kate whined to me about my slacking journalistic skills the other day so I knew I needed to pound something out.
Thus, allow me to reintroduce the old "Thoughts from my Mind Grapes" gag:
1) I've been told--by the people I constantly text--that my mind is made for Twitter. I get it: I text a lot of stupid shit and by definition texts tend to be about the character limit of a Tweet. In reality, I should have a Twitter page. It would make an enormous amount of sense. But anyone that is on the receiving end of those texts knows that a solid 50% of those mind-grape droppings would be thousands of little nails in the coffin of my eventual Senate campaign. Seriously....the hypothetical Mike Jacklich Twitter page would be incredibly offensive to most of the population.
That and I think the annoying back and forth retweeting is hard to read and follow. Christ, just text each other. Why do you need to have the conversation in public accompanied by something called a "hashtag"?
In other news, I'm old.
All of that said, I have an inquisitive mind and love it when data is presented in a new and interesting way, a way that helps folks learn new stuff. In that respect, have you heard of Tweetping? Tweetping is a real-time update of tweets as they happen across the world. It will collect--big brother style--every tweet as a person sends it, ping a little dot on a map and continue collecting new data. You can even see the tweets as they pop up--briefly--and you'll see a running total on the bottom of the page broken down by continent. If you let it run long enough, the dots will layer on top of each other so it appears that the world has been left on the kitchen counter too long and has grown a fuzzy fungus:
This is mesmerizing. I let it run at work the other day for a couple of hours and was impressed by the dedication of the Filipino people to tweet at 4am. I strongly recommend you watch that for a while. Even if what we are doing is tracking millions of self-obsessed people, there's something oddly soothing about it.
2) So, I thought Tweetping was the best thing the internet had ever produced. A mere 3 days later, I discovered this:
The video is titled "Rapping for Jesus" and features two 60-somethings dropping N-Bombs in the name of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. This is the single best thing the intenet has ever produced, and likely ever will.
I am not being hyperbolic.
There is some debate on the internet on whether this video is the real thing. Honestly, I don't know. The odd thing is that the rap isn't bad. I mean, it's bad. Really, really bad. But musically and lyrically, it's pretty good. Clearly, the whities that wrote it have an ear for such things and some amount of musical training. If it's real, it's pretty much the inspiration for Marty and Bobbie Culp on SNL:
"Bobbie and I once faced the terrors of tripping on pot."
The internet chatter seems to think that no one could be so tone-deaf as to think that recording a pro-Jesus rap that includes the line "Jesus Christ is my nigga"--over and over again--could be for real. It just seems too delightful to be true. But I think it's the real deal.
I'm old enough to remember a time when older people thought it was a good idea to try and aim a message at the younger generation by rapping said message instead of speaking to kids in an honest manner. This was a real thing. Commercials, TV shows, the radio...any audio platform old white dudes had, they thought they could sell more mattresses or oil changes or potato chips or whatever by rapping their message instead of simply describing the benefits of their product. It was a genuinely embarrassing time to live. It was also the single worst thing about America in the 90's.
Though Rodney King would likely disagree.
I get it; I understand that some people seem to think the video is a fake and is one big parody of a time we'd all like to forget. Here's why I think it is real:
I have never--in my life--seen a parody this good. It's like Anchorman mixed in with the Dewey Cox Story. If this video is a fake and the participants are not dead, I want them to make more videos parodying anything and everything. To be fair, if the video is real, I want more as well. I want to download that song from iTunes and add it to my "Happy" playlist. I want to keep this video running on a constant loop during bad days at work.
I hope for Jesus' sake--and Dr. Dre's--that these folks are still alive. I'm sure their Grammy is forthcoming.
3) Speaking of Christians, don't even get me started on this bitch:
"Hatin' Fags for Jesus since 1973"
4) Finally, we have that Carnival Cruise ship that was stranded adrift after a fire in the engine room disabled all power and forced the passengers to--among other white people problem horrors--drink ice-less pina coladas and poop in a bag for 5 days.
While I'm sure the experience sucked--the less that is seen of my poop the better--can we maybe get a little perspective here? All we have heard from the media is the "survival" stories of people camping out on the decks and having to pee in the showers and the sewage seeping into the walls and the carpets of the lower decks. Yes, that sounds like an awful experience for all passengers involved. You know who we should really be talking about here? The (likely) Filipino and Indonesian staff whose job it was to collect the passengers droppings and be yelled at by the drunken tramp-stamped passengers and--I feel the need to stress this again--had to collect the drunken tramp-stamped passengers rum-soaked shit in medical waste bags. All with exhausted smiles on their faces. These folks are the real heroes.
Allow me a quick Carnival Cruise-related tangent: after my glorious wedding to my gorgeous wife, she and I went on a Holland America Line Caribbean cruise. Holland America, as I have blogged before, is a lovely and luxurious cruise line aimed at a significantly older demographic. Because I had travelled so often with my kick-ass Godparents, I had a little bit of standing with the company so we honeymooned with HAL instead of a more age-appropriate cruise line. We had a blast, met a really great couple in our age group and drank and ate our way across the crystal blue waters of Jack Sparrow's territory. It was wonderful.
However, at one of the ports, we docked next to a Carnival Cruise ship. We shared a dock, the two ships separated by only about 50 yards of concrete, if that. And let me tell you, the clientele duality was HI-larious. On one side of the dock, you had octogenarians with canes in pleated, pastel pants and big hats disembarking with umbrellas for shade and those enormous virtual-reality sunglasses the block out all but the most intense, focused light.
"Let's get some saltwater taffy before we die."
On the other side of the dock, it was like spring break for venereal disease. We saw women in sandals and bikinis stumbling back to the ship armed with full bottles of rum and a beer bong. We saw shirtless dudes yelling profanities from the dock to their backwards-capped friends on the ship's balconies. We saw more exposed tramp-stamps than, well, any other place on earth.
I don't like to use sweeping statements generalizing an entire group of people but I mean this when I say it: Not a single passenger on that ship had class. These were the types of passengers Carnival Cruise ships attract. They want the young and tattooed and the horny. Not saying it's a bad way to do business--I'm sure me and my dudes would have loved an opportunity to go on such a cruise ten years ago--just calling it out for what it is.
I'm not saying that the passengers on the poop deck (yeah. I said it) last week got what they deserved. I'm just saying that it couldn't have happened to a better class of people.
I'm sure the hazmat team will have to scrub down that ship from top to bottom. But really, I hope they do that after every Carnival Cruise.
Gonorrhea doesn't just spread itself, you know.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Frozen
Of the millions upon millions of things my wife loves about me--my grilled cheese making abilities, the huge hugs I give her, my mad NCAA Football 2005 skills, etc--perhaps the most important to our relationship is my body temperature. I rarely get cold and--I've been told by multiple sources including an 80 year old woman on Christmas day--my body radiates heat. This is excellent for Krishni because she is just the opposite: she gets cold with the slightest breeze and loves that she has a smelly radiator laying in bed next to her on cold mornings.
My smokin' hot body has been especially important the last few days because our furnace is on the fritz.
Oh, sure...our furnace is creating heat just fine. It's just not, you know, blowing the heat through our duct work and into our apartment. As a result, there has been more than a few mornings in our condo lately where our thermostat read "53 degrees". I wish I was making that up.
Now, I love winter. I really do. It's not winter for me unless there is a foot of snow and it is quite rare to hear me complain about the cold.
This post just happens to be one of those times.
53 degrees really doesn't sound that cold; heck, if it was 53 degrees on a March afternoon, you would probably find me cranking Green Day and driving with my windows down. But 53 degrees in the "comfort" of your own home? That is uncomfortable.
As I type this, the temperature in our house is a balmy 58 degrees. This I can handle. I'm hanging on the couch in some sweatpants and a hoodie, watching the Bulls game and eating some deep dish pizza from Gino's East. And tonight, I'll crawl into bed next to my wife, make sure the space heater that's been blowing for the last 3 days is turned to "lava" and pull 3 blankets up over my chest.
All of the above is livable. You know what sucks though? My shower in the morning.
Those of you that have been to my place know that Krishni and I have separate bathrooms. Really, separate bathrooms is the secret to a great marriage. Unfortunately, the "Mens Room" is outside of our protected space heater area. This means I have to crawl out of bed tomorrow morning at 7, walk into my bathroom which, by the way, has a 5 foot tall window two feet from the shower head, take off all of my clothes and desperately try and keep my fat ass covered by hot water in a shower that can only be described as "igloo-like". Seriously...while the rest of my house is in the 50s, I have to believe that the temperature in my bathroom--due in part to the enormous picture window of tempered glass inconveniently placed IN the shower--is in the 40s.
Mornings this week have been awful. AWFUL.
Never fear; our favorite handyman is finally getting out here Thursday morning to (hopefully) fix the issue. However, if we can't get this issue licked, I'm seriously considering moving back to Oklahoma.
Just kidding! I'd rather live in Antarctica North on Paulina Street then move back to that shithole.
My smokin' hot body has been especially important the last few days because our furnace is on the fritz.
Oh, sure...our furnace is creating heat just fine. It's just not, you know, blowing the heat through our duct work and into our apartment. As a result, there has been more than a few mornings in our condo lately where our thermostat read "53 degrees". I wish I was making that up.
Now, I love winter. I really do. It's not winter for me unless there is a foot of snow and it is quite rare to hear me complain about the cold.
This post just happens to be one of those times.
53 degrees really doesn't sound that cold; heck, if it was 53 degrees on a March afternoon, you would probably find me cranking Green Day and driving with my windows down. But 53 degrees in the "comfort" of your own home? That is uncomfortable.
As I type this, the temperature in our house is a balmy 58 degrees. This I can handle. I'm hanging on the couch in some sweatpants and a hoodie, watching the Bulls game and eating some deep dish pizza from Gino's East. And tonight, I'll crawl into bed next to my wife, make sure the space heater that's been blowing for the last 3 days is turned to "lava" and pull 3 blankets up over my chest.
All of the above is livable. You know what sucks though? My shower in the morning.
Those of you that have been to my place know that Krishni and I have separate bathrooms. Really, separate bathrooms is the secret to a great marriage. Unfortunately, the "Mens Room" is outside of our protected space heater area. This means I have to crawl out of bed tomorrow morning at 7, walk into my bathroom which, by the way, has a 5 foot tall window two feet from the shower head, take off all of my clothes and desperately try and keep my fat ass covered by hot water in a shower that can only be described as "igloo-like". Seriously...while the rest of my house is in the 50s, I have to believe that the temperature in my bathroom--due in part to the enormous picture window of tempered glass inconveniently placed IN the shower--is in the 40s.
Mornings this week have been awful. AWFUL.
Never fear; our favorite handyman is finally getting out here Thursday morning to (hopefully) fix the issue. However, if we can't get this issue licked, I'm seriously considering moving back to Oklahoma.
Just kidding! I'd rather live in Antarctica North on Paulina Street then move back to that shithole.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
Whaaaaaat?
For those of you wondering where I've been, the truth is far less fun than you might imagine. "Oh," I bet you're thinking, "He must be on another Disney character cruise ship orgy."
While it's true that it's been a while since I've shared a post-coital poolside Mai Tai with Jasmine and Belle, I'd like to take a moment to announce that Mike Jacklich--winner of the Nobel Prize for "Contributions in Severe Couch Sitting, 2012", has found a job. A dream job, of sorts.
For the next--hopefully--few years I will be the Box Office Supervisor of a freakin' minor league baseball team.
Yeah, it's small time. The Boomers play in the Frontier League which is an independent league; that is to say the Boomers are not affiliated with a Major League Baseball team. Also, they pay is awful, I don't (yet) get benefits and I have a two hour, round-trip commute. But at least the hours are ridiculously long! Ha ha!
I kid. There are so many reasons why I should not have taken this job. But this position is a real, honest to goodness job in professional baseball. The Boomers are in their second season and the staff is aces. The team owner also owns the Gary Rail Cats and when he purchased the organization that would become the Boomers, he brought along with him some of his best and brightest from his other organization. I'll be reporting directly to the General Manager.
Our season--51 home games--kicks off in May and this is minor league baseball at its best. $2 beer nights, scout camp outs, promotions like the "World's Biggest Water Gun Fight"...and a whole lot of baseball. And since the Boomers are not affiliated with a MLB team, we play to win. There is no "we need to get this kid 5 innings so the big club will be happy". These are just 25 kids, scratching and clawing and dreaming of the big leagues.
There's also this thing:
That monstrosity is called the "Brat-a-Boom". I'll let the website describe it: "The Brat-a-Boom!, available exclusively at the third base concession stand at the home of the Schaumburg Boomers, is a giant 4.5 pound custom bratwurst made with Bobak's Sausage on a two-foot pretzel bun, slathered with Levy Restaurant's special beer cheese, topped with sauerkraut and diced applewood smoked bacon, finished with deep-fried onion strings." There's even a challenge to eat the thing: "The contestant will attempt to finish the Brat-A-Boom! and a side of cheese fries. The Challenge time limit is 30 minutes and only a tray of crumbs and scarce cheese stains will constitute a Brat-A-Boom! Victory. The Challenge must be completed alone and water will be provided for free."
I don't know about you, but the plate of cheese fries feels dangerously superfluous. At any rate:
Jimmy, the Brat-a-Boom is calling your name.
So, I have a job in professional baseball. Because of the hours and the fact that I won't be able to afford anything fun this summer, you may not see a lot of me.
But understand this: I could not be more excited about this job. Come on out and see us this summer...tickets are only $10. You'll also be happy to know that I've promised my wife I won't go anywhere near the Brat-a-Boom.
But I've told little white lies before.
While it's true that it's been a while since I've shared a post-coital poolside Mai Tai with Jasmine and Belle, I'd like to take a moment to announce that Mike Jacklich--winner of the Nobel Prize for "Contributions in Severe Couch Sitting, 2012", has found a job. A dream job, of sorts.
For the next--hopefully--few years I will be the Box Office Supervisor of a freakin' minor league baseball team.
I kid. There are so many reasons why I should not have taken this job. But this position is a real, honest to goodness job in professional baseball. The Boomers are in their second season and the staff is aces. The team owner also owns the Gary Rail Cats and when he purchased the organization that would become the Boomers, he brought along with him some of his best and brightest from his other organization. I'll be reporting directly to the General Manager.
Our season--51 home games--kicks off in May and this is minor league baseball at its best. $2 beer nights, scout camp outs, promotions like the "World's Biggest Water Gun Fight"...and a whole lot of baseball. And since the Boomers are not affiliated with a MLB team, we play to win. There is no "we need to get this kid 5 innings so the big club will be happy". These are just 25 kids, scratching and clawing and dreaming of the big leagues.
There's also this thing:
That monstrosity is called the "Brat-a-Boom". I'll let the website describe it: "The Brat-a-Boom!, available exclusively at the third base concession stand at the home of the Schaumburg Boomers, is a giant 4.5 pound custom bratwurst made with Bobak's Sausage on a two-foot pretzel bun, slathered with Levy Restaurant's special beer cheese, topped with sauerkraut and diced applewood smoked bacon, finished with deep-fried onion strings." There's even a challenge to eat the thing: "The contestant will attempt to finish the Brat-A-Boom! and a side of cheese fries. The Challenge time limit is 30 minutes and only a tray of crumbs and scarce cheese stains will constitute a Brat-A-Boom! Victory. The Challenge must be completed alone and water will be provided for free."
I don't know about you, but the plate of cheese fries feels dangerously superfluous. At any rate:
Jimmy, the Brat-a-Boom is calling your name.
So, I have a job in professional baseball. Because of the hours and the fact that I won't be able to afford anything fun this summer, you may not see a lot of me.
But understand this: I could not be more excited about this job. Come on out and see us this summer...tickets are only $10. You'll also be happy to know that I've promised my wife I won't go anywhere near the Brat-a-Boom.
But I've told little white lies before.
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