September 2006 Archives

Do you know what's awesome about spaghetti? Its so tasty, but so ridiculously easy to make, that anyone can do it and exclaim, "I'm a great chef! You bet, bitches." You're magically like one of those people on the Food Network when you make spaghetti. But all you really did is boil up some noodles and heat sauce out of a jar. And still its delicious. That's what's awesome about spaghetti.

***

Kona Grill: OK. Actually, if you order from the Happy Hour menu, its more than OK, its DECENT. Cheap drinks, cheap food, good times. And when you show up after everyone else has ordered and eaten as much as they can, playing the Newman role of "cleaner", its even better. BBQ Pizza, Fish Tacos, its all good. Oh, and $2.50 Bud Light pints. That's good too. That's me last night: Dick was out with his wife and three of her co-workers, and calls me to meet them so he's not The Lone Cowboy with the ladies. I show up an hour after them, eat up most of the leftover food, drink two beers, leave. Nice.

I understand that trains were a vital part of the history and growth of this great city of Omaha. I understand that trains transport goods at a cheap cost, keeping prices down for people like me. I understand that many people derive their income from the business of trains. I understand that several of my friends do work directly with the industry.

I also understand that when a train is sitting on the tracks, immobile, in between me and my destination for what seemed like an eternity, its not awesometime.

I hate trains.

Well, hate is a strong word. And I don't hate all trains. I don't even dislike all trains. Mass-transit trains are good. Light-rail trains are cool. But the train that was sitting in Millard last night keeping me from volleyball? I'm pretty sure I hate that one.

There are times when utilizing Picture-In-Picture to watch two things at once is preferable than watching one thing in High-Definition. Monday night was one of those times.

Finding myself in the unfortunate position of choosing whether to watch the reopening of the Louisiana Superdome on Monday Night Football or watching the Twins potentially clinch a playoff berth against Kansas City, I made a choice alright. I chose Picture-In-Picture over High-Definition. See, my "small" 27 inch TV in my living room upstairs may be standard definition but it has PIP. Which is nice.

In the interest of full disclosure, my fantasy football opponent this week had both Michael Vick and Warrick Dunn going for him in the MNF game, and I was clinging to a 23-point lead after Sunday's games. As if I wouldn't have been anyway, obviously I was a Saints fan on this night.

So with a feast of hot dogs, nachos and Cool Ranch Doritos, I sat down to watch two games at once. Good times.

Heading to Dick's on Saturday, I came to the six-way intersection where NW Radial meets up with Maple and Military at 60th Street. Rolling up to the stoplight, I nearly didn't notice the fact that the intersection was taped off with "Police Line DO NOT CROSS" tape. I distinctly remember thinking, Wow, did somebody get shot? Because its not every day you see dead bodies on the pavement.

While these thoughts raced through my mind, the light turned green. I skirted around the tape and jogged a half-block south, as this street was not blocked off. It was at this point that I came upon a marching band, in the street, right in front of me. With cheerleaders wearing bunny ears leading the way. I knew I hadn't won the lottery -- although someone in my hometown did win $200 million over the weekend, buying the ticket at a Kum&Go I used to frequent damn near every day in high school -- so what was the deal?

Benson Days. This was the parade for Benson Days. And I was seemingly now smack dab in the middle of it.

Momentarily, I entertained thoughts of playing along with it, even going so far as to grab my bag of mints from the armrest cubby so I could throw out the individually-wrapped mint candies to anyone who might be watching the parade. But then it occurred to me that this had to be the most sparsely attended parade in the history of parades, at least since that time they threw a "I'm the Richest Guy In The Universe" parade for Ronald Camp.

This was just the warmup/queue street adjacent to the parade. Realizing this, I turned around quickly and got outta there. The problem still remained that the street I needed to be on was closed, and probably for many blocks. How to get across that street to Dick's? Thank goodness for the GPS Navigation System in my car. I navigated a path through the heart of North Omaha -- 60th to Ames, Ames to 30th, 30th to Hamilton, Hamilton across Saddle Creek. Good times, rolling through North O with the Alternative Rock station on XM (or as its called down there, "White Boy Music"), windows down and sunroof open. I wish I'd had my iPod so I could have played some Vanilla Ice. Alas.

Good times. You bet.

We went to a shindig that the invite called "A Blue Party" Saturday night. Now, theme parties are lame, but they are still parties, so as long as there's beer, they retain some semblance of Awesome. Plus, when you consider I could have turned down the invitation to stay at home instead like some people are want to do, or I could have been watching the Nebraska game on Pay-Per-View, or doing other not-so-fun things...so yeah, compared to that, its automatically awesome.

You had to wear blue. That was the rule. So everyone did. And the beer of choice at this party? Pabst BLUE Ribbon, or BLUE Moon. Nice. Also, there were BLUEberry muffins, BLUE chips and salsa, and other things of that nature. Lots of married girls too, which was probably the only part of the party that stunk.

The host was wearing a futuristic space outfit. Like Zolar X, only better. And later in the evening, he broke out his badass keyboard and jammed with the disco music on the sound system. He was a better keyboard player than Zolar X, too, which is saying something considering they don't have a keyboard player. He's that good.

At one point, a game of "I Never" broke out in the kitchen. If you're not familiar with that, you go around in a circle and say something you've never done. If anyone else in the circle HAS done it, they have to take a drink from their beverage. This of course serves as an admission that you've done that something. There are two strategies: say things you know your friends have done so they'll have to admit it and be embarrassed in front of everyone, or say things you've done and then drink to admit something you otherwise wouldn't. Option one is good, but option two is funnier.

I won't reveal anything that came up in there. I think Gilby and I both lied for dramatic effect on several occasions -- playing to the room is always a winner in that game. Because I'm pretty sure I've never had an encounter with a hooker. Despite what I may have said that night. All I know is it was funny at the time -- the entire room was in shambles when I drank to that.

Anyway, that's an evil, evil game. You bet.

Thursday night, we're hanging out at a national graphic design show, and I'm enjoying a can of Busch Light (got to keep it classy). Having viewed everything in the show, a rather large group of us was just kind of hanging out in the reception area on some couches. Someone who'd read my tales of Charger-dom yesterday was asking about my trip, and so I began recounting the tales, oft-told here on this very site, of my trek to Minnesota and the Twins games in corporate seats and meeting a hall-of-famer and all that. The girl across from me heard "Twins games" and perked up. "You went to two Twins games? I'm so jealous! I tried to go to a game earlier this year when we were up there and my friends decided they wanted to go shopping instead."

True story. A 20-minute conversation about their playoff chances, the dominance of Johan Santana, the sideburns of Joe Mauer, and hatred of the Yankees followed. When the conversation switched to "who can name the most players on their 1991 World Series team" -- and incredibly I lost -- well, that was just too much. Freakin' Jarvis Brown, how does anyone remember that guy? He was just a pinch-runner, for chrissakes! I looked it up, and he had two playoff appearances and no at-bats! But she remembered him. Dammit anyway.

And when she admitted to reading Beckett's and having boxes of baseball cards as a kid, I was sure of it: my Busch Light was contaminated. Only possible explanation for this hallucination I was experiencing. It was real, though, as real as the totally weak shutdown to come.

Seriously, this has to stop. Much more of this, and I think its going to be time to take up heavy sedation as a recreational hobby.

And with that, we headed out to the Homy Inn to celebrate Dick's birthday with a Big-Ass Beer or two. Highlights of the Twins, behind Santana, losing to the Red Sox 6-0 on the big screen above our table did not make my mood any brighter.

On the bright side, its my turn to have Friday afternoon off. So I've got that going for me, which is nice.

You bet.

You may have noticed that in my notes from Minneapolis last week, I deliberately left out any mention of my rental car. There's a simple reason for this. The Charger deserves its own post.

Rather than pile almost 1000 miles on my new car, I opted to rent a car to drive up to Minneapolis -- which also was cheaper for the company. At $38 a day with unlimited miles, that's not the worst idea even for personal use, actually. Imagine renting a nice swank SUV for the next road trip. Hmm...

I had rented a simple, standard mid-size car -- this was a company trip, after all. But when I got to Enterprise, they did not have that car. They had a Chevy Aveo (NO), an assortment of full-size sedans, and The Charger. Which would you choose? You bet.

Monday when I was in the Blood Drive Bus out in the parking lot of our office, giving up a pint, the "Refreshment Guy" who gives you juice and cookies after you're done was quite the character. And I mean that in a good way. Wearing shiny white tennis shoes and an "I (heart) Jesus" lanyard around his neck, he had some of the WORST jokes I've ever heard. But somehow, with a needle in your arm, they were funny. I blame it on the blood loss.

For example, one joke he told went thusly.

I mean, that's kindergarten stuff, a joke that gets a groan in any room of people over the age of six. Yet there in the Blood Drive Bus, it gets uproarious laughter. Clearly, this guy has his dream job: he can tell bad jokes AND get laughter from grown adults!

He had one after another, just firing them off machine-gun style. The best was that he told the "walleye" joke twice, and he didn't know I heard it the first time. So when he asked the question, I answered, "Damn". And when he asked the second, I answered, "Walleye". This drew even bigger laughter, presumably because I somehow knew the answers.

The guy did have one classic, though. I have to give him that.

Say, did you hear that Nebraska is tearing up their FieldTurf and replacing it with a mache-based field?

They've determined the West Coast Offense looks better on paper!

Nice. Papier Mache. You bet.

That got big laughs, and deservedly so. I told this joke Monday night while shooting hoops on the practice court in the Old Gym at Creighton, and as you might imagine, it got even bigger laughs there.

Incidentally, you know how they always tell you to abstain from physical activity after you give blood? Yeah, I totally ignored that. Not every day you get to play on a court emblazoned with a JAYS logo at midcourt.

Twins games are not the only corporate tickets I've used this week. (Its been a good week). Last Saturday, my brother and five others, including myself, attended the Nebraska-Nicholls State game in Lincoln. Row 20, south end zone, looking right into the ginormous video board.

I'm not a Husker fan, but Memorial Stadium seems like one of those places a sports fan ought to visit once, regardless of team affiliation. Lambeau Field, Yankee Stadium, Madison Square Garden, and Wrigley Field would be others on that list. So when free tickets are handed to you, you take them. And I did.

The morning of the game, it began raining around 9:30 and seemed relentless, but we had hoped the rain would subside for the afternoon hours during the game. No dice. As we rolled into Lincoln, a steady rain was falling. However, when you've got season tickets AND donate enough money, you get a sweet parking pass, a fact I didn't discover until the day before the game. Not being a Husker fan and having avoided the stadium on game days for the ten years I've lived in Nebraska, I was curious where to park at. "There's parking passes with the tickets. Use one of those if you can."

Sure enough, the passes were there. 2 blocks from the stadium, in a lot reserved for donors. We rolled in, had a few beers and some food, and despite the fact my brother was wearing a NOTRE DAME jacket, we had a good time.

Still in Minnesota, so this post once again comes to you courtesy of free wi-fi in my hotel room. Sweet.

Lost in the stories about the game itself, I neglected to mention what may have been the two best stories of the day. To be fair, I was both out of town and I had been drinking heavily before I wrote that, so I'm surprised its as good as it is. I'm going to take another stab at telling the story now, if that's cool. And yes, I'm still out of town and I'm still heavily beverage'd, so keep that in mind if this sucks.

Tuesday night, we walk into Hubert's (which, as I told you yesterday is a big Twins bar across the street from the Dome) and two supplier representatives are waiting for us. This was a business trip, don't forget. Up to this point, it hadn't occurred to us that all three of were named Max. When we introduced ourselves at the table, oh, it occurred to us.

Seriously, you can't make this up. The Three Max's. Hilarious. Even more hilarious is we -- the Max's -- didn't even notice until we introduced ourselves to the new guys. We're conversing the whole way to the Dome and never figured out we all had the same name.

Live, from my hotel room in Minneapolis, Minnesota (well, its Eagan, actually, but same difference), this is believe it or not the first time in 580+ posts for polyfro.com that I didn't write it in Omaha. Crazy, huh? This one comes from the Twin Cities, less than an hour after a exhilerating win against the Oakland Athletics at the Metrodome. Here's some thoughts.

Tuesday morning, I headed to Enterprise to pick up my rental car. See, renting a car is cheaper for the company -- at the going IRS rate of 46 cents a mile, simply driving to Des Moines and back means the company is paying me almost $100 plus gas reimbursement. Driving all the way to Minneapolis and back is 800 miles, and $400 in IRS payment rate. Renting a car? $38 a day with unlimited miles. So I rented a car.

I showed up at Enterprise, and the ladies working there were all over me. I know I'm funny, and knowing I was going to a Twins game that night had me in rare form, but man, I thought Gilby's party on Saturday was lady-crazy, but this was ridiculous. I mean, I've never had ladies fight over who was going to give me a ride to my car before. There's a first time for everything.

The Awesome thing is, I rented a standard car, but because of a combination of not having that car in stock and me being "cute", I got a Dodge Charger. With a Hemi.

Did I mention how dominant it is to drive 7 hours by yourself when you have a Hemi under the hood? I mean, it was actually difficult to maintain the speed limit, because the engine is so powerful it literally speeds up 10mph with no effort. Not that I'm complaining.

Saturday, Dick and I were at a party at our buddy Gilby's house. We soon left, temporarily (we would return - more on that in the next post) to go to a concert. More specifically, we were going to see Thor. The Mighty Thor.

Now, Thor is a former Mr. USA who decided in the late '70s that combining the worlds of bodybuilding, heavy metal and norse mythology would be a great idea. And you know what? Somehow, it works. Combine it with the over-the-top stage show theatrics common to metal shows of the '70s and '80s (and sorely missing since) -- the Viking masks, the thrasyhing metal guitars, the macho lyrics -- and somehow, its dominant.

Sounding at its core like '80s metal (think Motorhead or Judas Priest), Thor whips through songs such as "Thunderhawk", "Thunder on the Tundra", "Call of the Triumphant", and "Let The Blood Run Red" with a ferocity that harkens back to that era. His series of masks and costumes run the gamut from Viking Horn (not Minnesota Viking, but real Nordic Viking) to a Mexican Wrestling Mask to what appeared to be The Predator. All the while screaming lyrics and fronting his band of metal men.

Thor and his band are playing here in Omaha this weekend. I could write about the awesomeness of seeing a comic-book come to life in the form of Thor and his Muscle Rock. I could quote lyrics: "Let the blood run red...Let them all be dead...And all will hail...the Metal Avenger!" But I think this story pretty much tells you everything you need to know.

The Detroit Tigers were once 40 games over .500 and 18 games in front of the Twins in the AL Central. They're now just 30 games over and only 4 games in front. Coincidentally, they come to Minny for 4 games starting tonight. Come Sunday, the Twins will be in first place. Detroit Tigers, you're on notice!

Legendary Producer Bob Ryan, you introduced "would that be something you'd be interested in?" into the vernacular. As in, "If I told you I had six tickets to a Nebraska Football game this weekend, and even though you're an Iowa fan, you could still have them, would that be something you'd be interested in?" Screw you, Bob Ryan. Oh, and you're on notice.

Sting Rays, or more specifically, That Sting Ray That Murdered The Crocodile Hunter, you've robbed me of the only nature guy worth watching. Jacques Cousteau? Too French. Joan Embry? Too old. Steve Irwin? Just right. Crikey. Sting Rays, you're on notice!

Devil Rays. Tampa Bay Devil Rays. You suck so bad that even when Carlos Silva pitches against you and gives up one hit in six innings, the sheer suckitude of your team makes him leave the game and hurl chunks all over the clubhouse. Gross, man. Then you have to gall to hit two homers in the very next inning, and win the game. You suck. Devil Rays, you're on notice!

Nebraska Football. If I told you I was going to your game against I-AA Nicholls State on Saturday, and bringing five people with me, only two of which were going to root for you, would that be something you'd be interested in? No? I thought not. Nebraska, you're on notice!

I got a free lottery scratch ticket at the Nebraska Fair last week, and won $3. I cashed it in and took 3 more lottery tickets as payment. I won $1, and cashed it in for another ticket. Won $1. Rinse and repeat. Four, no, five trips to Hy-Vee for, essentially, nothing. Nebraska Lottery, you're on notice!

The WB started as the network with the Frog-in-a-Tophat mascot, Michigan J. Frog (that's actually his name). In a street fight between a frog in a top hat, a peacock, a ginormous eyeball, a wild cat and a sphere with the alphabet on it, who would win? Not the frog, that's for sure. Bye-bye, WB. Dubya, dubya, dubya beeeee. Right. You bet. WB, you're on notice (and by connection, The CW, which replaces the WB next week).

Wednesday morning as I was driving to work, something called "The Clapping Song" by Pia Zedora came on XM. I wanted to change the channel, I really did. But I couldn't do it. It was just too bad. And then it was stuck in my head all day. "My mother told me, if i was goody, that she would buy me a rubber dolly. My Aunty told her i kissed a soldier, now she wont buy me that rubber dollie!" Good lord. George Carlin once said, "You know how sometimes you have a song going through your head over and over all day long, maybe even two or three days? And it's driving you crazy because you can't get it out of your mind? Well, I know how to fix that. It's extreme, but it works every time. You kill yourself." Or alternatively, you can put it on notice. That's right, Pia Zedora's "The Clapping Song", you're on notice!

You bet.

I don't know why I find this so hilarious. It was an innocent mistake, quite funny to me, but in this ridiculous post 9-11, post Janet's-boob society, its apparently wrong to make an honest mistake.

Here's Bert Blyleven dropping the F-bomb twice on last Sunday's Twins game from New York (courtesy of YouTube, the greatest invention in the history of the world).

During my three-plus hour drive back from 'Dodge on Monday, I came up behind an old busted Silverado pulling a fifth-wheel. He was going 45 MPH. As the sounds of Nirvana roared out of the 400 watt-amplifier-powered sound system of the Mach V, I pulled out to pass him. Much to my horror, I discovered the Silverado-Fifth Wheel Duo was following an unidentifiable truck pulling a horse trailer. Which was following a third truck also pulling a fifth wheel. All were going 45 MPH. And this made them impossible to pass.

After my pull-out and subsequent back-in, the guys in the truck were yukking it up. They turned and laughed (because at that speed they could). They held their hands out the window waving at me. This of course enraged me. As the sounds of Tupac roared out of the 400 watt-amplifier-powered sound system of the Mach V, I rapped along, making sure they could read every profanity-laced word. They were probably listening to Randy Travis or something. I bet they've never seen a driver go blue like that. But I was pissed.

A cop came passed us going the other way, and just zoomed right by. See, now people driving 10 below the speed limit are just as dangerous as people who drive 20 over. Seriously, if you're going to fine me for breaking the law and speeding, which they do, you've got to fine these jokers who go too slow. I'm just saying.

Since Twins' color commentator Bert Blyleven's accidental use of the word "fuck" twice on-air during Sunday's game against the Yankees, and his subsequent two-game suspension, many people have come out of the woodwork to rip him for being a terrible commentator. Nothing like beating a man while he's down.

Does he have goofy quirks, such as always telling you how long someone's been "at the major-league level", or saying someone is a "strikeout-type pitcher" or a "homerun-type hitter"? Sure. But I can tell you from watching every other team's broadcasts on my Extra Innings package for years that he's still one of the most entertaining.

As Wikipedia states, "His commentary is frequently risqué for a baseball broadcast, a fact which seems to cause play-by-play announcer Dick Bremer no small amount of discomfort."

You know what? Just this season, Bert's had enough classic moments (that are probably offensive to a great deal of viewers but therefore hilarious to me) to be worthy of a list. Here goes.

Not that anyone cares, but here's my fantasy football team. Yes, I got screwed. I was randomly assigned to pick 8th out of 8 teams, which meant all the real studs were long gone by the time I picked -- and I had to pick back-to-back (8-9, 24-25, etc) the whole draft. Which when you're unprepared to do so is really, really difficult.

QBs

Donovan McNabb

Trent Green

RBs

Rudi Johnson

Reggie Bush

Chester Taylor

WR/TEs

Torry Holt

Joey Galloway

Tony Gonzales

K

David Akers

DEF

NY Football Giants

Clearly, that is the worst team ever assembled. I'll be lucky to win a game. So that whole bravado yesterday about winning? Yeah, I take that back.

You bet.