November 2007 Archives

My buddy Johnny in DM sent me an email this week saying he was disappointed I hadn't shared my thoughts on various goings on in the world of my sports teams lately. Well, ask and you shall receive, good buddy. Here ya go, Polyfro Shorts style!

1. Spitting on the field at Yankee Stadium has to rank up there in the Top Ten Momentous Moments of My Life.

2. This years' Creighton hoops team is an intriguing bunch, because their upside is just so huge. The word upside is used way too much, but they have the kind of Top 100 recruits and pure athletes that they have never had before -- or at least, not in the 10+ years I've been going to their games on a regular basis. You know how people have lamented, "Dana Altman wins 25 games with those players? Imagine what he could do with 4 and 5 star talent?" We may find out. P'Allen Stinnett and Kenny Lawson are both 4-star guys...and P'Allen can dunk like no one since Sir Rodney Buford. I mean that.

As exhibit A, check out his mammoth dunk over Shang Ping. (Who by the way is the biggest cheap-shot artist this side of Carbondale). That's the TV footage that I uploaded to YouTube, which made me a pseudo-hero on the message boards on Monday. Then we found out one of my colleagues on the CU Video Team captured way better footage that the TV production crew did...and HOLY FREAKING H-E-DOUBLE-HOCKEY-STICKS.

On Monday, I made my semi-annual trip to my mailbox, and much to my amusement, there was a letter from my Townhouse Owners Association. These always amuse me because the board of directors for my development is this self-important group of people who were elected by secret ballot at a meeting at the elementary school across the street from our development. I received a ginormous packet of resumes from candidates (seriously, you had to run for office!), and I was supposed to pick representatives based on their ridiculous hand-written resumes. You bet.

The letter on Monday, though, was a notice of a board meeting that I was invited to attend. Right.

As I began looking over the agenda, I thought of about six other really awesome things I'd rather do than attend this meeting...and about 6000 sort of awesome alternative activities I'd rather do. A sampling of the agenda, and my comments, follow.

Architectural Changes: if by this they mean you have to run potential construction projects past the board for approval, then I say where the hell were you when the goofy guy down the street decided to tear out his entire yard and replace it with stones? Its well constructed, I'm sure, but its ugly as all get-out. Not to tell someone how to spend their money, but why pay a $105 association fee every month -- which ostensibly covers lawn mowing and maintenance -- when you have no yard? Just sayin'.

One of the great joys of my life, at one period in time, was hitting the quarterback after the whistle on Madden 98. This was the last year you could do that, and it was dominant. Subsequent versions of the game locked up your controller when the whistle blew to prevent such shenanigans. This was unfortunate, because not only could you intentionally take out John Elway's kneecaps, a cheesy 32-bit ambulance even came out on the field to take him away.

Of course, you would get penalized 15 yards for this pleasure, but it was worth it to force your opponent to play the rest of the game with Bubby Brister as his QB. In fact, I got a reputation as a dirty player on the floor of my college dorm, and hardly anyone would play me. All because I had a propensity for taking out knees. Weak.

Beyond the tactical, 1970's-era Raiders dirty play advantage to the late hit, there was this: the first time you did it, the tiny 32-bit referee with barely distinguishable facial features and a monaural lisp would announce it as "Personal Foul...15 yards...Automatic First Down." Pretty standard stuff. But the second time...oh, baby, the second time!

"Personal Foul...He's giving him the business. 15 yards, automatic first down."

I have a problem. Monday night I was cooking dinner -- chicken and potato burritos, yum! -- and I flipped MTV Hits on so there was some music in the background. Can't stand silence, and MTV Hits is the last bastion of 24/7 music on TV...for now. I fully anticipate MTV neutering it with teen angst reality shows as soon as it gets enough viewers to make it worth their while. And don't accuse me of making wild statements I can't back up, either. This is MTV's well-documented history. Hell, when we were at the MTV studio store in Times Square earlier this month, they had a wall of TVs showing the live feed from all of their American networks...and just two of the eight feeds had music on!!

Anyway, MTV Hits happened to be airing "Nirvana Unplugged". For someone my age, Nirvana on Unplugged was one of those seminal moments in one's pop culture life -- the greatest band of my generation, showing off their immense talent in a riveting hour of television. Cobain was screaming the lyrics to "Pennyroyal Tea", and it was like sophomore year of high school all over again. Except it wasn't. Instead of sitting in my bedroom surrounded by Soundgarden posters watching it on a 13" TV, I was watching it on a 13" TV in my kitchen while browning some chicken and potatoes. So it was at least kind of the same, although kind of not, right? I mean, at least the TV size was consistent, you have to give me that much. All was dominant, but then...

MTV decided to throw a graphic on screen that could best be described as "Not Cool". What did it say, exactly?

"On November 20, to coincide with the 13th anniversary of the taping of Nirvana: MTV Unplugged, the performance will be released on DVD for the first time."

November 20? Hey, what do you know, that's today! DVD? Cool. 13 years ago? No kidd...WHAT?

Thirteen years? Good. Freaking. Lord. I just threw up in my mouth (again).

You bet.

One day early last week, a guy from our IT department walked up to me and asked if I wanted a free sausage-and-egg croissant from BK. Free, no-strings-attached breakfast goodness? Seriously, what's the catch? None, he assured me. He had purchased a bag full of them, only to get to the office and find out most of the IT department was off for the day. So I was on the B-list...nice, dude. Not that I was complaining. I mean, they did sound pretty tasty.

"I don't know how I ended up with this many...they're multiplying like Gremlins. I tell you, a guy spills a little water inadvertently onto a croissant, and all of a sudden he's got a whole bag of croissants!"

I followed him to his cubicle, and as he reached into the sack to pull out one of the Gremlin Croissants, I feigned terror and screamed out, "Nooooo! Don't expose 'em to the bright lights, or they'll turn into evil little bastard Gremlins with spiky hair!"

He laughed, and then gave me my complimentary (and much appreciated) free croissant. But this got me to thinking, if a sausage-and-egg croissant is the Gizmo of Gremlin Croissants, what is the Spike of Gremlin Croissants? I'm thinking its a veggie-sausage patty, egg beaters and non-dairy cheese on a wheat bagel. But I could be wrong.

You bet.

Actual Cliff Glypha Quote #1: "You know who you remind me of? Pam Beesley!"

Completely out of the blue, he said this to a friend of mine who couldn't be more dissimilar from the receptionist on The Office. When she challenged it, even he realized how ridiculous it was. But then he saw a chance for a Moment Of Momentous Awesomeness...which of course backfired.

Actual Cliff Glypha Quote #2: (to his wife) "Honey, who do I remind you of? Jim Halpert, right?"

"No. Andy Bernard."

Nice. Not the cool, quiet prankster...the brash, arrogant brown-noser. Doesn't make sense at all. Oh wait. No, it doesn't make sense. Glypha never put his fist through a wall, he's never sang ABBA tunes to ladies with speaker-phone backup singers, and he's never floated down a river in a sumo outfit. I don't see the comparison, really.

Glypha: "Oh, man, I really thought I could have been Jim."

His wife was unconvinced. "Nope. You talk too much!"

"Well, then who are you?"

In the realm of embarrassing facts that only I care to know, a person's first album they owned or first CD never fails to entertain. I am of course beyond embarrassment -- many have tried, all have failed -- so I will now confess my original collection, and then we'll look at what we can learn from this knowledge.

Monday night, I was CC'd on an email from Continental Frutiger to a printer inquiring about the status of some postcards...

Clearly, he'd made an error, but I had some fun with him regardless.

Garage door openers are one of those things that you really never think about unless they're broken. You punch the button, it opens. Punch it again, it closes. Genius, really.

Outside of that one apartment where my garage door opener would randomly open and close at the whim of over-flying airplanes, I've really never had a beef with garage door openers before. That one was the damnedest thing; I lived on 99th and Q and a lot of military planes heading into Offutt flew over my place -- Air Force One and/or Two flew over at least a half-dozen times a month. And every time it did, my garage door would open. Some signal in its flight systems must have shared a frequency with my particular opener.

I got to where I could identify the plane when it flew over by a distinct noise it made compared to other military planes that flew overhead, and when I heard it, I knew I had to make the trek down three flights of stairs and across the parking lot to close the door.

But outside of that, I generally don't give my garage door opener much thought, particularly now that I'm in my house. When it doesn't work, you certainly notice it then. Friday night, I pulled into my driveway at 1:34 AM, punched the button and...nothing. Well, that's a slight exaggeration. The light did come on, and it came up about a quarter-of-an-inch, so it did something.

I was in no mood to mess with the thing at 1:34 in the AM, nor would I really have had any clue what to even look for in terms of fixing it had I possessed the proper mood to look at it. So I left the car in the driveway and went in through the front door.

Now, I watch "My Name Is Earl" and I know how karma works. You would think that me giving my Creighton tickets away to a guy who took his son to his first basketball game would have earned me karma points. You would think wrong.

Earlier that night, I had walked into "The Show" -- Nebraska's annual Graphic Design showcase -- and Gilby immediately was stunned to see me. "I thought for sure we wouldn't see you until 9 or so. I'm surprised you aren't at the Creighton game!"

In my defense, this was the first time since February of 2002 that I'd missed back-to-back games, so I think I deserve a little lee-way from the populace. I wanted to be both places at once, but there wasn't really a choice in the matter. I'm on the board of directors for the group putting on The Show, and even if I wasn't required to be there, I'd feel an obligation to do so.

The guy who I gave my tickets to was going to go with his nine-year old son, and he brought his son into the office on Friday to thank me. If you could have seen how excited this kid was...well, lets just say I no longer felt bad about missing the game.

Karma doesn't apply to me, apparently. Unless its coming for me later. Perhaps something unexpectedly awesome will come to pass soon. And if not, oh well. It still makes me happy to have given someone the chance to go to their first Creighton game. Broken garage door opener or no.

You bet.

After leaving Yankee Stadium last Saturday, we hopped on the subway and headed back into the city. Partially because we're adventurous but mostly because I'm an idiot who can't read a map, we got off on the first Manhattan subway stop. Supposedly, according to how I was reading the map, the cafe from Seinfeld was within walking distance of that stop.

And it was, if we'd taken a right. Instead, we took a left, and wound up enjoying a walking tour of Harlem. I kept wanting to take my map out and figure out where we'd gone wrong; Dick was incredulous. "Put that away!". Apparently Harlem isn't the area of town where you want to make it obvious you're a tourist. Good to know.

But if not with the map, how else would we figure a way out? Ask directions? Right. Hop a cab? Absolutely.

And when we got inside and told him where we were headed, the cabbie went in the exact opposite direction. Turns out our destination was, in fact, not far from the subway stop -- if we'd only walked the correct direction. Nice.

Tom's Restaurant, or as you know it from Seinfeld, "Monk's Cafe".

October 6, 2004. The Twins were playing the Yankees in Game two of the Division Series, and had won the first game behind Johan Santana 2-0. A win would give them a 2-0 series lead heading home for Games 3 and 4 -- meaning they would have had great odds of advancing to the next round.

Trailing 5-3 heading into the 8th inning, they mounted a comeback. A passed ball on a strikeout put Jacque Jones at first base. Torii Hunter singled to put runners at first and second with one out; Yankees manager Joe Torre went to his bullpen and brought in Mariano Rivera -- perhaps the greatest closer in the history of the game, and certainly the greatest postseason closer ever. I mean, no one, NO ONE beat him in the postseason.

So of course the Twins promptly began smacking him around. My brother and I watched giddily as Justin Morneau singled to drive in Jones. Suddenly the lead was 5-4, with runners at the corners and still just one out!

Corey Koskie stepped in, and drilled a shot down the left field line. It bounced on the warning track, and skipped into the stands for a ground-rule double. Hunter had scored to tie the game, but the runner on first would have also scored if the ball had just stayed in play. Instead, it bounced over the wall, the Twins had runners on second and third with one out, and the game was tied.

Rivera struck out the next two batters, the Twins never took the lead, and eventually lost the game and the series.

What would have been. What should have been. Stupid left field warning track.

Clearly, I have no idea what I'm talking about. Forever, basically, I've had an idea in my head of what the bars in New York City are like. Influenced and shaped by what I've seen on television and in the movies, seemingly half of which take place in NYC, I had this crazy idea that regular ol' bars don't exist in the city. Every place is this crazy, hip, upscale club-style joint with $15 beers and $30 cover charges.

These are the kind of places I budgeted for when I made my pre-trip withdrawal at the bank. Friday night, I discovered that there are real, actual bars in New York, and I couldn't have been happier.

The night had started pleasantly enough, with dinner at a natural-ingredient restaurant that seemed on first glance to be a vegan's paradise. Zagat's Guide review of the restaurant called it a place that managed to pull off the difficult duty of pleasing both vegans and common folk; their reviews, which generally conclude with a zinger, ended this particular review on this note:

"An establishment that will leave even the most discerning tastes satisfied, and will leave the ladies asking 'Where are all the guys?'"

You would think that somewhere in Nebraska, there would be a beer named for the Cornhuskers. I wouldn't drink it, mind you, and would probably run as far away from the establishment selling it as possible. But still, you'd think the stuff would exist.

Turns out it does. Just not in Nebraska.

I hadn't been to New York City in 15 years; the last time I was there, I was only 14, so it goes without saying that I hadn't the foggiest idea where to grab a drink. And by the time we headed out on Thursday, it was 11pm -- hardly the time to wander the streets of a strange city aimlessly.

The nearest landmark to our hotel just so happened to be the tallest building in the entire city -- The Empire State Building. We walked in that direction, assuming there would be something in that area. And indeed there was. Carmen spotted it -- on street level, there was a bar named the Heartland Brewery. Looked like a good place, so we headed in.

After an introduction to New York City, where we were rudely told we could not sit at a table unless we ordered food, Dick noticed a menu sign on the wall that advertised "Cornhusker Ale". Purportedly made from midwestern ingredients, I took their word for it and ordered one. Dick and Carmen both took the more-adventurous route and ordered a sampler wheel containing eight beers. You could make the case that I was actually the one taking the risk here; if my beer was skunky, I was stuck with 23 ounces of it. If one of their beers was nasty, they had seven others waiting for them.

It turned out the Cornhusker Ale was pretty good, surprisingly good, actually. Dick, with his sampler wheel, promptly began slamming one beer after another. Carmen did the same, and the two of them kept pace with each other until she got to one that, quote, "smelled like dandelions". Midwest ingredients, indeed!

She asked me if I wanted to try it, which using my Ladar I read to mean "this beer is nasty, would you please drink it?". So I did just that. I'm happy to report it not only smelled like dandelions, but it also tasted like dandelions. This is not a good thing, I can assure you.

You bet.

Thursday night, Dick Herculanum, Carmen "Two Shoes" Cheltenham and myself landed in Newark, NJ after a non-stop flight to NYC for the weekend. While it was a business trip, less than 10% of our time in the city would be spent doing said business. I don't sleep much.

When we landed, our intent was to hail a cab; the Newark airport website indicated a flat rate of $50 into Manhattan was the going rate which, when split among three people, is actually pretty cheap. We hadn't taken but five steps outside when we were stopped (perhaps blindsided would be a better word) by a dude who looked like a descendant of John Shaft. His job description, as we would learn, was "Private Car Pimp To The Stars". His name, or at least, what I called him, was Freddy Shaft.

Freddy hustled us off, and simultaneoulsy talked on three cell phones AND told us to "come this way!". Carmen and Dick were pretty alternatively upset and/or bemused with me for allowing these shenanigans, a fact I confirmed when I looked back to see her rolling her eyes as we crossed into yet another parking garage. Yes, we followed him across streets and parking garages, but on the other hand, he secured us a ride in a jet-black Lincoln Continental with tinted glass and 18" mag wheels. Like I said, the man was a pimp, its just that his stable was not ladies -- it was drivers.

Some would say there's little difference. I would tend to disagree. But I digress.