May 2005 Archives

You know, I was talking to an old friend (referred to here as "Captain Ron") on the phone today that I hadn't spoken to in years. The captain is the only guy I know that can hold his own with me on obscure pop culture references. And so many good natured arguments about music that I know too much about broke out, it was a gas. Afterward, we fired off emails to jot down what we could remember of the conversation so you all can enjoy the madness. His idea, not mine.

You're a fly on the wall. Hold tight with your little antennae-esque feets!

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There it is, the damn birds are back. Despite my best efforts at a peaceful resolution, including:

-Placing a taxidermie'd panther in the garage to scare them off
-Hanging a rubber snake from the wall right in front of their favorite spot
-Flying in Jimmy Carter and Jesse Jackson to negotiate their peaceful retreat

they returned last night. I was not thinking and left the garage door open after returning from a shopping trip to Kohl's, and like clockwork, when I went outside moments later to shut the door, they were sitting there. Yes, THEY. There's two of them.

I destroyed their nest last weekend (when I went out in my Batman suit to scare them off), so presumably they have returned to build another. For a moment I admired their stubbornness. Salut'd them, I did. Then...

You know what's pissing me off right now? People's stupid blindness in referring to Buffalo Wild Wings as "BW3's". There is only two W's, people. Tuesday night after v0lleyball I got into a deep discussion of this with some of my teammates. They always call it that, because they know it makes me nuts. Like Homestar is this cartoon, it does. Too many college English classes, maybe, but I'm telling you, it really bothers me. There's only two w's. Not three. Stop it already, you.

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Over the past four nights, the Twins played a series of nailbiters against Cleveland. The past three nights were all extra-inning games, which is hell to watch. I guess this kind of drama in May is just getting us ready for October.

Last night when Shannon Stewart hit his game winning homer in the 11th, it was a good thing I own a house, because if I was still in an apartment, that would have been noise complaint city, baby!

My neighbors across the street are from Cleveland, and they're big Tribe fans. Got a big Chief Wahoo sticker on their front door. So it always gives me great happiness to give them grief after the Twins beat them again.

So I'm on my afternoon off, sitting shirtless out on my deck showing off my sexy abs of aluminum, listening to the iPod and enjoying the sunshine, when one of the greatest songs ever written by mankind came on. Of course the song of which I speak is "Smuggler's Blues" by Glenn Frey. From Miami Vice. Its just so freaking great. I mean, every time I hear it I just have to sing along. Even when I'm on my deck, with headphones in.

So there I am, sitting on my deck, margarita in hand, singing "The sailors and the pilots, the soldiers and the law, the payoffs and the ripoffs and the things nobody saw. Don't matter if it's heroin, cocaine or hash, you've got to carry weapons 'cause you always carry cash. There's lots of shady characters and lots of dirty deals, every name's an alias in case somebody squeals. It's the lure of easy money, it's got a very strong appeal, you'd understand it better standing in my shoes. It's the ultimate enticement, it's the smugglers' blues" and for some odd reason, the old retired lady that lives in the house behind me gave me this look of bewilderment. Like Voyager II had crossed so far across the universe that it came back to earth from behind and crashed on her deck or something.

Boxers hanging below the outerwear, as modeled by me. Left pant leg pulled up slightly to properly illustrate the issue in so small a photograph. Yes. I am Awesome.

Its the end of the laundry cycle, and when that happens, boxer shorts always run out first. (Man, this is totally not the way I wanted to answer the boxer/brief question. Dammit! There goes the post scheduled for October 19. Shoot.) Well, yesterday it was the long-ass gangsta pair of Tommy Hilfiger boxers that hang down to the knee. They're longer than most pairs of shorts, unless you wear the really long hip-hop shorts. No doubt they were designed with that particular type of outerwear in mind. They are the emergency pair, the ones that sit in the bottom of the drawer and only get busted out in the case of no clean alternatives, the ones that were a gift from an ex-girlfriend that I really don't like to wear because they bring back bad memories...

Ordinarily its no big deal. But yesterday being Tuesday, its volleyball night, and when I put on my shorts to play, it became apparent that, at the right angle and with the right movements, they would hang down below the outerwear. Like I care. I have no shame, as you well know if you read this site regularly.

"You look like a dork in a Batman costume."

-JM

What are you talking about? That was Batman, not me. I am not Batman. I'm Tom. Two totally different people. You're crazy. Besides, how would you be able to tell who is in the Batman suit anyway? The cowl totally disguises the secret identity of whoever is inside there. Didn't you ever see the episode of the old TV show where The Joker steals the costume, wears it and then robs a bunch of banks and stuff? No one could tell it was him in there. So I don't know what you're talking about. I am not Batman.

Who knew Milwaukee's Best had TV spots? They do!

I was watching the Twins-Brewers series over the weekend on the Brewers network feed, which normally would suck, not getting the Twins feed. But it cracked me up, because literally every third ad was for beer. How's that for playing up a stereotype?

There were lots of Miller ads, which one would expect. But spots for Milwaukee's Best? Wow. That's not quite as cool as seeing an ad for Pabst, which would probably cause me to soil myself. But all the same, they were freaking hilarious. I mean, FREAKING.

Sunday Night Update to the Bird Problem.

Well, the scarecrow idea I outlined in my extra-special Saturday edition did not work, at least not the "other more different bird" variety. So I decided to try a cat -- cats and birds don't mix. Right. You bet. Oh, and I invited my friend Batman over to help...

You know, its really a poor decision to write an article after getting back from a party, and then publish it up here. But there I was on Friday night, venting my bloodthirsty anger at the birds that have taken up residence in my garage and started to build a nest; several thousand words, many of them making me sound like some kind of deranged lunatic. I titled the post "I Will Kill Your Babies". Yeah. I know.

No one wants to kill any babies, least of all me. That's why I had to chase these birds out NOW, before that unpleasant scenario presents itself.

Anyway, I woke up Saturday morning and pulled it down. Here's a greatly edited version.

For some reason, maybe because our great country is populated by wimpy girly-men afraid of insulting even one person, no one that I've seen has commented on a man accusing the Metrodome of hiding Nazi symbols in the support cables on the roof. One writer admitted as much, simply linking to the story and saying he didn't want to deal with the barage of hate emails if he commented. Well, maybe its the all the beer and the shots I drank last night that have left my head spinning still here at lunch time clouding my judgment, but I really don't give a crap -- I think its wack and silly and I'm not afraid to say so. Here's the story:

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Some wack job up in Minnesota thinks there is swastika's secretly hidden in the ceiling of the Metrodome, and wants to make a documentary about the hidden pro-Nazi agenda of the German architects. No shit. To paraphrase the Joker in the first Batman movie, you're an a-one nut job.

Last night, my brother and I arrived at 9:45 to meet some friends of mine for the midnight premiere of "Star Wars: Episode III" out at the AMC 24 here in Omaha. We beat the rest of the group there, so we decided to take a seat on a ledge and take in the scene. And what we saw was very nearly better than the movie.

The first guy we met was an early-40s dude smoking a pipe. This guy was the stereotypical science fiction geek: nerdy glasses, smarter-than-thou attitude, lives-in-parents-basement-look, and a perpetual runny nose. Too easy a target, and probably no where I can go with it that isn't mean, so I'm leaving it alone. He did inform me that "my sources tell me there are 10 theaters screening the movie inside, and 8 of them are sold out". No, I did not ask him if his "source" was "the force"...

While there was no Mace Windu as I had hoped, there were plenty of people dressed in full Jedi regalia. Two dorks were having a spirited lightsaber fight with plastic swords while a group of onlookers watched in horror/amazement. There were the standard Storm Troopers, some in what appeared to be exact replica gear, others in obviously home-made costumes their mommy had sewed for them.

Tonight is the premiere of Star Wars Episode III, and the official Polyfro Party is at midnight at the AMC-24. We're all going to the premiere at 12:01 am -- Nate, Donovan, my brother, me -- and it will be dominant. I'm hoping to see lots of freaks in costumes and stuff. I'll be really disappointed if I don't see at least one guy dressed like Mace Windu, heir to the "Token Black Guy in a Star Wars movie" throne previously occupied by the incomparable Billy Dee. Just one Samuel L, please. That's all I ask.

I purposely stayed away from the theater for the first two new movies. I waited two months to see Episode I, and even then I saw it back home in Fort Dodge at our little 4-screen plex on a Wednesday night. There was like 10 people in the theater. For Episode II, I waited three weeks and then went to a Sunday afternoon matinee with a couple buddies. I'm willing to try anything once, so I figure this being the last one, I'll do the midnight opener thing.

I've been watching the original movies all week on the 51" HDTV to prepare, since I'm not the biggest Star Wars junkie and I could use a refresher on the movies. Last night was my least favorite of the originals, Return of the Jedi. Not a big fan of that movie. I hate the Ewoks. You do not have little Teddy Bears in an action movie unless you plan on blowing them up, OK? Unless you plan on sticking some dynamite in their shirt and blowing their limbs clean off, don't put teddy bears in your movie.

There is one sure-fire way to get Tom to be on his A-game for volleyball: position his team against, or on an adjacent court to, a team consisting of or containing hot ladies. Last night was such a night. And the ritualistic "I am not Bill Wennington, I am Michael Jordan. Play like it, you ass." self-motivational inner monologue was once again enough to turn me into the greatest.

Its pretty impressive to be so good that you can spend a lot of time peering over to the adjacent court and still have quick enough reflexes to hit a ball coming at you with decent velocity.

On nights where I'm "on", its apparent right away, and everyone else picks up on it. Usually I'll dive for a ball I wouldn't ordinarily get to, and it will be apparent that my energy level is kicked up to 11. Keith, Kevin and I have played together for five years now so we have a pretty good feel for each other's tendancies. But the "Tom plays better around hot ladies" thing is well-known on our team and needs no explanation when I kick it up past 10.

Well, my open letter to the birds has apparently worked, at least temporarily. Yesterday there were no birds in my garage, no divebombings, no Maverick-Top-Gun flybys. Hopefully they'll stay out. I was serious about the Balki thing.

You know, I like to do my part to contribute to a decent society. There's so many carjackings, smash-and-grabs, snipers, home invasions, follow-home robberies, hostage incidents, barricade/standoff situations, drive-by shootings, walk-up shootings, traffic shootings, pipe bombs, mail bombs, and the like. Sometimes a good deed is a good idea.

Which brings me to last night. I quite stupidly drove 15 minutes to Donovan's studio and forgot to bring the box of stuff I was supposed to be dropping off. Idiot. So I drove back. The traffic is obscene, as there's a four-car wreak blocking both westbound lanes. We probably crawl 2 blocks in 10 minutes. But I'm hardly noticing, because behind me in a sporty import with Washington state plates is what appears to be a rather hot girl. So I'm using my mirrors to enjoy the view. Come on, XM radio can only entertain so much when you're sitting in heavy traffic and not moving. Enjoying the scenery is perfectly harmless.

I'm not sure what this is, exactly. Anyone have an idea what Continental is doing here? Person who writes the best caption gets a free beer.

Hi, birds. I know my house is really cool. But you can't keep trying to come over for a visit. You have got to stop flying into my garage and doing a Maverick--Tower-Flyby of my head every time I set foot in there.

Don't any personal offense. I don't have anything against you or even birds in general. You're majestic to watch, you provide nature with an air force, and you eat worms and stuff. Occasionally you crap on The Colorado, but I'm even willing to let that slide.

What I will not tolerate is if you continue to squat on my property and be a freeloading guest. This hotel ain't free, Chester.

Should this cordial note not work, I may have to resort to more extreme measures such as lazor beams. force fields, or many other cool things. I hear good things about low frequency pest guards. They're supposed to emit a sound inaudible to humans but very annoying to mice, stray cats, and birds. I think Bronson Pinchot did the voice work. Do you want me to force you to listen to Cousin Balki every time you enter my garage? Then stay out.

Naturally yours,
Max

Last night, Dick and I watched the Clone Wars DVD in preparation for our midnight viewing of Star Wars Episode III next Wednesday. Cliff was supposed to join us but it was laundry night. Right. So borrow his DVD we did, and we watched the 70 minute cartoon that bridges the storyline of Episode II and III in big-screen badness, while he was at home washing his tights.

But after the movie when Dick took off, I threw a bag of popcorn in the microwave and went to take the box that so did not contain The Original Whizzinator out to the trash. When I opened the door, two ginormous moths came in. These things were diminutive, but they were quick, and they were wily.

At first it was quite amusing. Watching them tire themselves out flying around my chandelier, I figured I would wait for them to get worn out and land somewheres, and then POW! no more mothes. Only when they landed, they rested above the window in front of the chandelier. 12 feet off the ground.

Yeah, I got it. And lets leave it at that. Because it sooo totally wasn't The Original Whizzinator. Really. I'm serious, it wasn't! Like I need to wear a prosthethic donger to pass a drug test. You bet.

If I played for the Vikings, then maybe. Ontarrio Smith, two-times convicted on drugs by the NFL, caught at an airport with a device to circumvent drug tests? Nice.

Last night, we all went out for a good dinner and drinks at the Fox & Hound English Pub & Grill. Good stuff, if a little pricey. And it was a good time.

When I got home, it had stopped raining for the first time in two days (during a time when I was actually home that is -- Tuesday I went straight from work to volleyball, then out to the bar, and got home at 10:30 in driving rain; yesterday I went straight to the Fox and Hound from work, got home at 9:30) so I decided to make the walk to the mailbox at the corner to get my mail.

I did the strut to the mailbox past the Indians fans across the street -- because my Twins are still ahead of them in the standings, you bet -- and got my mail. Inside the box was this strange contraption. A key. On a big giant plastic keychain.

Last night it was 90 degrees on the way to volleyball, and as I drove by a local high school, I heard some punk kids playing Lil Jon loudly from they bass cannons in their rust bucket Olds 98. They were proud to tell the world, or at least everyone within a one-mile radius, that they were listening to Lil Jon. Well, I was pretty proud of my musical selection too, so I fell to the temptation of cranking up the radio in The Colorado. I had good reason to be proud.

I was listening to a Survivor playlist on the iPod. I'm talking "Burning Heart" from Rocky IV, "I Can't Hold Back", "The Search Is Over", "High On You" etc. Good stuff. The kids laughed. They don't understand.

In 20 years, they'll be in a bar, maybe even the Homy Inn, and they'll play Lil Jon, and everyone will ridicule them. Then someone like me will walk up, play Survivor, and everyone will have a good time. See, Survivor is cheesy, but they're timeless. I challenge you to listen to the best of their catalog, and not come away having enjoyed yourself.

(Don't get me wrong, by the way. Lil Jon is cool. But so were the New Kids at one time. Huh-what! Ohkayy! Yeeah! Ho-oh-oh-oh-oh, Hangin Tough! See, its the same thing!)

Some people have doubted that I actually do wear the old REM shirt. One emailer even went so far as to accuse me of buying the thing on eBay just for the purposes of the story yesterday. Yeesh. Well, my old college roommate John, a loyal Polyfro reader, not only confirms its existence, he tries to goad me into writing down all the classic stories about Smelly U Man (my freshman year college roommate, a diminutive guy from India that stood about 4 foot 5 and whose stench emanated at least 40 feet in every direction), and rips my musical taste, all in one email:

The MONSTER tour t-shirt, slept in by Tom for a decade. The period teal shorts have not been. I had to dig those out of the reject bin for the purpose of this photo.

In October of '95, I went to see R.E.M. on their Monster tour when they were in Ames, IA (just a little under an hour from my hometown). Critics and fans alike panned the album, if not the tour. So of course I loved it. Still to this day is one of my favorite albums. Yes, it might be totally unlike their other stuff. Yes, its overproduced. Yes, the songwriting and the lyrics are childish and silly. Yes, I love it.

Its been well-documented that one of my favorite bars, here in Omaha or anywhere in the world, is The Homy Inn. Why? The place is cool without trying to be. Its so refreshingly unpretentious compared to the upscale clubs and joints we occasionally frequent -- the 1507 comes to mind -- that its just fantastic. Super duper. I just like going there.

Saturday night we went out to the Homy for some beers, and as has been my luck of late, I got a parking space right in the front row, mere steps from the door. I am a Rock Star, of course, so this really should not be a surprise, but it does bring a smile to my face when I pull up and see that open spot right in front...

And we all had a great time. The Boulevard Wheat was quite tasty.

Don't ask. I was looking through the Washington Post online, reading about the new Washington Nationals baseball team and the unveiling of their new mascot, "Screech". I thought, hey, new mascot, maybe there's some designerey thing I can go off on a tangent about for BE A Design Group. And maybe at some point I will. But there's far more important things to discuss from my perusal of that fine newspaper. Namely, an online chat with Dustin Diamond, the cat who played Screech on Saved By The Bell. (I would link to it, but the Post makes you register, and I don't like linking to sites that require registration. Not going to direct traffic to sites that do that.)

Quite a reach, there. To celebrate the unveiling of the Nationals' new bald eagle mascot, they invite...Screech? That's some creative genius there.

And don't even deny that Saved By The Bell was an enjoyable little show that we all used to watch. You know you did. Even you, Kadavy. Admit it. Hell, I do. Am I proud of it? Not necessarily. But why tell lies and say I was watching History Channel, when I was totally watching Saved By The Bell? Yeah.

Its Cinco De Mayo, and I could totally talk about all of the Mexican beer we'll drink at Donovan's studio tonight. I could talk about what a crock it is that one of my boys on the Twins got pinched for steroids and suspended. I could talk about how cool the Chalet font pack is. But I will talk about none of these things. Instead...

I will talk about the raucous that my shoes have caused around the office. Because that's what I want to talk about.

Its been awhile since I bought new shoes. Like most guys, I don't particularly enjoy shopping for shoes, but I'll do it. One of those necessary evils, like mathematics.

My volleyball prowess is well documented, mostly in the annals of this website, but I'm sure there's a couple of other places that speak of it as well. I'm good. But rarely like I was last night. One of our regulars was out of town, so she sent a friend to play in her stead. And she was real good, got the set at just the perfect height for me to do some damage.

And man, I took advantage of that. Spikes, spikes, and my personal favorite, the little finger roll or "dink" that has zero velocity but perfect placement. That's sometimes more demoralizing than a power spike. I also had a couple of ones that bounced off the net and dropped on the other side.

But then late in the second match, I got absolutely drilled in the face. This guy spiked it right at me, and I was trying to block it, and it just came up on me quicker than I thought it would. That thing had some late velocity. Wow. I mean, for that instant, I knew what Apollo Creed felt like in Moscow when he fought Drago. At least I didn't die like that pussy Apollo.

I had it coming. I mean, I spike a lot, and sometimes it hits people. So it was my time. No hostility from me, its just one of those things that comes with playing the game hard.

...I end up getting outbid on the giant lot of Nintendo games I actually want, and because I don't do that stuff during working hours, I couldn't go bid higher. Also, the giant lot of Nintendo games that I didn't really want, but bid on because they're from the same seller and I could combine the shipping cost making it seem like a bargain? Well, I won that one. Shit. $20 for this?

1.super mario 3
2.trickshooting
3.ice hockey
4.anticipation
5.rc pro am
6.commando
7.tiger heli
8.wall street kid
9.operation wolf
10.mario/duckhunt
11.top gun
12.pro wrestling
13.gotcha
14.ice hockey
15.bandai golf
16.ernoid

That's some real crap right there. I mean, there's two or three decent games, and at retail used market price, you might expect to pay $20 just for Pro Wrestling, Tiger Heli, Top Gun and Commando alone. I've already got Mario 3 and the combo Mario/Duck Hunt. But still, this is the first eBay auction I've ever won that I wasn't terribly excited or in a hurry to pay for. I did, mind you, but lets just say I'm not exactly going to wait by the mailbox for this to arrive. The better lot, the one I lost out on, had stuff like Skate or Die, Blades of Steel, Dragon Warrior, Silius, Last Ninja, and my personal favorite, Disney's Magic Kingdom. Probably why the bidding on that one went up to $20.50.

I'm not even sure why that name makes me laugh so much, honestly. It doesn't make any sense that you could take a common name like "Ron", group it with a country-inspired surname, and get a sophisticated comedic such as myself to shoot milk through his nose. (Which, incidentally, was really disturbing, because the last time I drank a glass of milk was, like, never.)

Ron Mexico. Ha.

Last night with no plans to speak of, the plan was to make a frozen pizza (Jack's of course), and play some serious old time Nintendo on the big screen. This is the results of that experiment.

Yeah, it turns out Jordan is a lot better than Bird, at least on that game. Or maybe computer Jordan is just better than Tom Bird. In any event, 41-13 is a major league ass kicking buffet.

This game is fun though. I mean, look at the detail! Jordan is the guy in red with gray trunks, with the 23 on his back. Bird is the guy in a green top with matching shorts, and a 33 on his back. The large pixel curly hair on Larry Legend is so lifelike. And when Jordan dunks, its totally not the same animation every time...totally.

So the best way to determine whether Jordan is actually better than Bird, or whether I just suck, is to rematch but for me to play with His Airness this time.

And the result: 16-14 Computer Bird over Tom Jordan. But in all fairness, I lost like three possessions trying to dunk and get a picture of the awesome animated 360 action dunk. So you give me those three buckets and I win. Talk about sacrificing for your art.

Enough of that silliness. Time to get serious.

Last week the yard crew planted trees on Tuesday, installed my sprinkler system on Wednesday, and laid sod on Thursday. The sod is still awful loose, as this next story will demonstrate.

Saturday afternoon, I'm out poking around my deck, examining the tree in my backyard, etc. And the sprinklers come on. This is cold water, and I am absolutely soaked inside of five seconds. So I take off running and -- bam! -- the sod gives way underneath of me and I go ass first into the ground, sliding all the way down the 2 degree slope in the yard to the sidewalk out front, taking a rather large chunk of sod with me.

Son of a biscuit. Now I've got wet muddy clothes, a hole in my yard, and my butt is brown for reasons other than the usual. (Nah, actually that's the first time. Never happened before. Honest.)

Long story short, I repaired the sod, washed the clothes, and all was right! Until the regulator on my grill broke, but that's a story for another time...

The Colorado parked sideways in the driveway of The Townhouse. Why? Because I can, that's why. Incidentally, doesn't my yard look good? I mean, that tree is freaking majestic. And you totally can't even see the chunk I took out of the yard! (story below)

Part of the bargain when you own a home is changing your purchase priorities ever so slightly. Case in point: Saturday morning, I made my weekly shopping trek to various places to buy cool new stuff. High on my list of cool things to buy: a garden hose, some tool hooks to hang in the garage, and a shop broom. Oh, and the new MVP Baseball 2005 game for Xbox (or maybe for PS2, I have both, so whatever is in stock) too. Only I spent so much money on stuff at the home improvement store that I blew my budget for the game (yes, hard as it may seem to believe, I do have budgetary restraints occasionally).

So there I stood at Menards, looking dumbfounded as I perused the hose aisle. I've bought computers, big screen TV's, DVD recorders, TIVOs; its a good thing to reseach these things on the net before you buy -- and I always do. I did not anticipate buying a freaking hose would require such preparation.