October 2006 Archives

The inimitable Continental, in his "Random Tie Guy" costume

Between my niece being born this month, and being a groomsman in a wedding, not to mention finishing up work on a giant video project for a college basketball team, the time to properly shop for a Halloween costume just didn't exist. So last Wednesday I went out looking for scraps, hoping to scrounge together something. I was prepared to spend whatever it took.

The plan was so awesome on paper. Drive around listening to the World Series on XM, with periodic stops at Goodwill's and other places where costume pieces can be obtained. When the Series game ended up in a rain delay, leaving me to listen first to Rob Freakin' Dibble on XM Rain Delay coverage, and later the only CD in my car -- the OK Go disc -- that should have been a clue as to how the night was going to go.

Two days before parties, it turns out most places are picked over. Everywhere I went had nothing of substance, nothing awesome, nothing I'd pay money for. When 8:30 came and the first six stops on my Big Shopping Trip left me emptyhanded, I was resigned to go to the one place I wanted to avoid at all costs: Nobbies.

The superstore of party supplies and costumes. The home of long lines and unhappy clerks. The place to buy the mass-market costume that no less than four people at whatever party you attend will also be wearing. Yeah, I hate that place.

This story would seem absurd if it wasn't true. I know that's not a good way to start a story, but bear with me.

Tuesday night, we were out winding up the regular season portion of our sand volleyball league (playoffs are next week), and for the third consecutive week, it was cold as all heck. Sand volleyball in the cold is bad for many reasons, including but not limited to: the sand is cold and damp, the volleyball gets harder the colder it gets, and everyone is bundled up. And when I say "everyone", I mean "ladies". Except for me, because I can't play in shoes -- and sweatpants restrict my movement too much. I just can't be effective in that crap. So I go in shorts and a t-shirt, barefoot, regardless of temperature.

Two weeks ago, it was cold, but the rain was the bigger culprit of uncomfortability. Last week was just cold. This week, it was cold AND rainy, and I made a fatal decision to go against every competitive instinct I've ever known and wore sweatpants AND shoes. Couldn't jump, couldn't run, and the rest of the team wasn't good enough to make up for my sucking. We lost 15-6. To a team with only 4 players, two of which were drunk!

Out at the Millard Social Hall, the wedding party arrived just before 5 so we could eat before the guests arrived. It was dead quiet, so Continental filled up the noise vacuum with his special-made ringtone for the weekend, a song which had become the unofficial theme of the day: Yeah! by, who else, Usher.

I wasn't hungry, having just eaten 90 minutes prior, but tried to choke something down so I wouldn't look ungrateful or rude. I returned to the table and discovered, to my horror, that at the end of the table where I was sitting was boring. Two little kids, me, then the rest of the group. I looked longingly at the Usher table, which had empty chairs. Soon, I moved over there. Sitting at the head table ain't all its cracked up to be, folks.

Continental, Dick, the other two ushers, and me. It didn't take long before more and more people began joining us, particularly as the invited guests started arriving. Laughter is not only contagious, it attracts crowds.

Continental, Dick and myself knew with the 10 am wedding time, we would need breakfast beforehand. So in our tuxes, we went to Leo's Diner, a fine, albeit greasy, establishment on 60th and Maple. Walking into a greasy-spoon diner in tuxedos, and not getting a second look? Priceless. As I devoured a Benson Sandwich (Bacon, Sausage, Eggs, Hashbrowns, Cheese on Bread), I tried really, really hard not to drip grease on my $138 tux. Mission Accomplished.

With breakfast consumed, we paid the $12 or whatever it was for our bill, and headed to the church. Unlike the day before, I was not underdressed -- I was dressed exactly the same as everyone else. For once.

Standing in the sacristy, the groom, Cliff, was pretty nervous. He was less than an hour away from being married, after all, so that's totally understandable. I attempted to help the situation.

"You know what you should do. When the Priest asks, 'Do you take this woman as your lovely wife?', you answer, 'Huhhhhhhwhaaatt!' Then he'll repeat it, and you can repeat it too. 'Huhhhhwhaaat!' The third time, answer, 'OK! Yeah!' That'll be hilarious!"

"Seriously, why is there an inflatable couch on their wedding registry?" Anytime that sentence is sent via IM in the midst of discussing an upcoming wedding, you know its going to be a good time. And anytime that wedding involves a buddy of mine, and I'm in the wedding party, you know I'm going to tell you all about it. Lets go Cobrastyle Two-Parter on this!

Friday, I picked up Continental at his house just after 3 to head over to Creighton for the Wedding Rehearsal. I was wearing a coat and tie, and Continental was unsure whether it made me look ridiculous or him look underdressed. Probably somewhere in-between, honestly. The itinerary from the couple had said, "Rehearsal Dinner -- Attire: Dressy", and we'd debated for weeks what that meant. To me, dressy means coat and tie, at a minimum. To others, it meant nice shirt and dress pants. To Dick, it meant he had to wear pants, period, and that was upsetting to him.

I'd claimed all along I was going to be ornery and wear the coat and tie, and dammit, I did. You bet.

Well, ain't this a bummer. After my Twins were eliminated from the playoffs, I had been pulling for the Mets -- mostly because my buddy Rollo is a huge Mets fan. So last night we all sat at the Old Dundee eating nasty Home Team pizza (the Grand Slam!) and drinking $5 pitchers of PBR, watching Game Seven of the Mets-Cardinals NLCS. Its weird, rooting for an NL team, after I've spent my entire life claiming the NL is inferior.

While the game played on several TV's, the speaker system in the bar played The John Tesh Radio Show. And you wouldn't think so, but it was better than hearing Joe Buck and Tim McCarver. Our own running commentary was much funnier anyway. You won't hear McCarver making bold proclamations like "the more players you have wearing gold chains during play, the further you get from it being an actual sport", or "any sport that has delays because of water is not for real men". Continental said that. But he hates baseball. Dick tolerates it. Rollo and myself are both big baseball guys, he for his hometown Mets and me for the Twins.

The game coasted along 1-1 for most of the night, with Rollo becoming increasingly agitated the longer the Mets left their bottom-barrell starting pitcher in the game. Injuries had reduced them to using a castoff from the Pirates -- THE PIRATES!! -- as their 7th game starter, and they'd coaxed four innings out of him and were tied. He was leading off the next inning, so it seemed time to tell him "nice job", and go to the pen. No dice. As he batted, thus ensuring he would pitch another inning, Rollo immediately ordered another pitcher.

Someone from the office told me they were going to Chuck E. Cheese's for a 1st Birthday lunch with their grandson. This got me to thinking: for all the times you hear about the Chuckster, and the jokes about the terrible terrible pizza, I don't know that I've ever been there. Strange, eh?

Thing was, when I would have been of the age to enjoy Chuck E., there wasn't one in Des Moines, the closest "big city" to where we grew up. There was a ShowBiz Pizza, however, which I think is basically the same thing. Might even be the same company, because I do recall the ShowBiz Pizza in Des Moines turning into a Chuck E. in the early 90s.

ShowBiz Pizza! Man, I can honestly say that name, or the images of that place, has not re-entered my mind in at least 20 years. Seriously, I had completely forgotten anything I ever knew about the ShowBiz Pizza. Until yesterday when I was trying to remember if I'd ever been to Chuck E. Cheese, that is. No reason to remember it, I guess. But now that its unleashed...

Weird Al once had an album titled "Bad Hair Day". The cover was Al in dreads, gangsta'd up and kickin' it for the homies, and the album itself featured the great parody "Amish Paradise". Good stuff.

As for my own bad hair, my old college roommate Mick would probably tell you the worst thing I ever did with it was during my Freshman year of college, when I grew out a goatee, and wore a red baseball cap backwards like Fred Durst.

Take a step back. Yes, that was actually me, in the late nineties. Almost 10 years ago, in my freshman dorm room. Note the complete lack of personal belongings on my roommate's side. Also note the baseball jersey/backwards cap/menacing look I sported. Ouch. Its worth noting that I thought Fred Durst was the shit at this particular moment in time, and had a Limp Bizkit poster on my dorm wall. Double ouch. But I refuse to run from it, because it is fact, and I don't lie. At this time, Limp Bizkit was only really known as the guys who covered George Michael's "Faith" and turned it into a rap-rock travesty. Later in my collegiate days, they'd commit worse sins. Remember "Nookie"? Yeah, I bet you unfortunately do.

"I did it all for the nookie (yeah) the nookie (yeah) so you can take that cookie and stick it up your (ahh) stick it up your (ahh)!"

A co-worker of mine from Michigan told me in June that Detroit would win the World Series this year. At the time, the Twins were mired in fourth place, ten games under .500, 12 games back. But because the Twins are my boys, I had confidence -- albeit foolish confidence -- that the Twins would come back. Come on, I'm the same guy who thought in April of every year from 1993-2000 that maybe this was the year. Even though every year they lost 90+ games and finished in last or next-to-last. So clearly I'm delusional and just slightly biased when it comes to evaluating the Twins.

So I told this joker that the Twins would not only go to the playoffs, they'd advance further than the Tigers! And if they didn't, I promised to wear a Tigers hat on "Favorite Sports Team" day during United Way week at the office.

From almost that point forward, the Twins won, and gained ground on everyone but Detroit. When they caught them on the last day of the season and won the division, it looked for all the world like my foolish bravado would prove prescient.

Then the Twins got swept in the first round by Oakland. And Detroit brushed aside the Yanquis like so much trash. And then swept Oakland in the ALCS. And will probably sweep either the Mets or Cardinals in the World Series.

Tonight, I have to go out and purchase a Tigers cap. It will be a painful experience. Never, ever, ever have I worn a cap of a division rival. Oh, I've worn a Red Sox hat, but that was when they were trying to vanquish the Yanquis and end their title drought in 2004 and EVERYONE was a Sox fan. And I once had a Dodgers hat, although I did not purchase it. But a Tigers hat? Yeesh.

Its not as bad as a White Sox or an Indians hat. But I'd never make such a foolish wager with those -- because the downside is too great.

The worst thing of the whole thing? Seriously, I'll like freakin' Magnum PI. Thomas Magnum, only without the short-shorts (Magnum Shorts, as my brother and I like to call them). Maybe I need to grow out a 'stache and get a curly hair wig, wear a hawaiian shirt and Magnum shorts too. You bet.

What are the odds that a last-place Fantasy Football team has almost every player on its team have a career game? That a guy who couldn't even log in and update his roster for three weeks because he lost his password would not only beat me, but take me behind the woodshed? That a guy who started three players with bye weeks last week would beat me this week?

Well, those odds would make even the most ardent gambler blush.

This week, he finally got someone in the league to take enough pity on him to help him retrieve his password so could log in. Just my luck that right before he plays me, he finally ditches Daunte Culpepper, Lamont Jordan and Randy Moss. But its probably karma, as I'm the one who steadfastly refused to help him retrieve his password -- holding that since he's competition, why should I help him out?

His re-made team kicked my ass. Philip Rivers throws for 334 and two touchdowns. Willie Parker runs for 109 and 2 touchdowns. Steve Smith catches 189 yards and nets one touchdown. Mike Friggin' Vanderjagt kicks two field goals and four extra points. Which left me rooting against my buddy Dick's Broncos on Sunday night -- if Tatum Bell had a big game, I was done. Bell did not cooperate. 83 yards and a touchdown.

So in a week in which my team scored enough points to beat all but one other team, I lose. 66 points ain't bad, folks. But when your opponent gets 72 -- with Anquan Boldin still to play tonight against The Bears -- its a rough week.

Seriously, if you have Torry Holt with a 25-point week, McNabb with his usual points, and you get an astonishing 13 points from your kicker (Iowa boy Nate Kaeding) and you lose? That stinks.

The lesson as always? I'm a poor loser.

You bet.

My brother, looking 50% incognito in a surgical mask, stood beside his wife in the delivery room, a woman so heavily medicated she didn't even recognize who he was -- and who demanded the strange man be removed from what was a private moment.

However, the incision was made, and this thing was coming out of the oven. The doctor asked him if he wanted to peer behind the curtain to see the baby come out, and being my brother, of course he wanted to look. Just like when I was at the hospital having surgery many years ago and was fascinated by the video images of the inside of my nasal canal -- like Journey To The Center Of The Earth, only it was live and it was inside my nose! -- he was not only not repulsed by the sight of a baby plopping out of an incision in his wife's abs, he was actually curious to see it happen. And right as he peeked around the curtain, a leg plopped out of her abdomen, twitching and stretching for room, like in one of those black-and-white B-movies from the 1950's where an alien arm busts out of someone's chest. He was mortified and wanted to faint but was laughing too hard.

Saturday around 4, my brother called me to see what I was up to. Nothing, I said, and he told me they were going out downtown to watch the Iowa-Ohio State game with his wife's parents -- I was welcome to join them. I told him, "You'll never find anywhere that has the Iowa game on, bro. Nebraska-Kansas is on FSN at the same time." He assured me he'd called to Old Chicago and they said they'd turn the game on for him.

I was skeptical. But I also was not doing anything better. And, the prospect of listening to Brent "Buckeye Backer" Musburger call the game was more than I could handle. So downtown I went.

We get there, grab a beer, and my brother says to me "How long until the game starts?" A waiter walking by turns and, referring to the Nebraska game, says, "The game's already on!" My brother replies, rather loudly for emphasis, "Oh no, my friend, THE game isn't on until 7." At this point, four already-drunk Ohio State fans sitting at the bar turn around.

"Is that a (insert random player name here) jersey?" My brother was wearing an Iowa road jersey with #29 on it. He said back, "I'll be honest with you, buddy, I have no idea who that is."