August 2008 Archives

Earlier this week, I was talking to somebody at a fondue restaurant who told me that "anyone who plays Fantasy Football should just put on a Darth Vader helmet and move into their parents' basement. You. Are. A. Dork."

Obviously, I disagree.

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Naming your fantasy team is an exercise in which many players spend entirely too much time trying to concoct the perfect, clever nickname. You know they're really proud of it when they brag about how clever it is. One guy is our league named his team "One Dominate Badass", which is clever only because he misspelled the word dominant, although that is likely news to him. Someone else has a team named "Second Eye Blind", which is actually clever because its second eye, not third eye, see? Yet another named his team "Norv Turner's Neck", and to be honest, even I don't get that one. Another guy named his team "Prison Gravy", but I'm not even going to comment on that one. Another player named their team "TE Watcher", and I'm not even going to comment on that one either.

Last year, fed up with all this nonsense, I named my team "Cleverly Named Team", which I thought was really quite hilarious. No one else did -- I got zero comments from anyone. Zilch. Nada. No "You think you're pretty clever, don't you?". No "You think you're better than me?". Nothing. Kinda disappointing, actually. Hell, even the abbreviation was hilarious, at least to me: CNT. Fill in your favorite vowel after the C and you begin to see why I find it hilarious.

This year I decided that since no one else shared my appreciation for obtuse jokes, I would go mainstream with my name. Thus, "Van Morrison Wants a Danish" was born. Its a little inside, I know.

The hilarious thing is, 14 times the commissioner had to announce, "Van Morrison Wants a Danish, you're on the clock." And 14 times, I got to announce, "With the XXth pick, Van Morrison Wants a Danish selects Player XYZ." Good stuff.

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There is one new team in our league this year, owned by a temp in our office who has never played fantasy football before. As such, he didn't know you were supposed to give your team a name, and so his is officially listed as "Team Lastname", where lastname is his actual last name. Its almost too clever to handle, ain't it? Too bad he didn't do it on purpose, because that would actually be clever then. As it is its just lazy.

Before the draft Wednesday night, we tried to brainstorm better team names for him. One thing I've always wanted to do was pick a random word and name my team that, for no reason other than the fact that it sounded good. Think of it as the band poster of team naming theories.

I've always thought a team named "Fart" would be hilarious. Not "I love to fart", just "Fart". I think "Integrity" would be great too. Not "Team Integrity", just "Integrity". Very corporate retreatish, isn't it? You bet. Other words I think would make outstanding names for teams:

Awesome

Sodacan

Judy

Rhubarb

Ultimately I convinced him to go with Integrity. Cracks me up.

You bet.

QB - Peyton Manning

RB - Marion Barber

RB - Edgerrin James

RB - Ricky Williams

WR - Marques Colston

WR - Laveraneus Coles

TE - Antonio Gates

D - Patriots

K - Shayne Graham

And on the bench...

WR - Santana Moss

WR - Patrick Crayton

RB - Chester Taylor

TE - Ben Watson

QB - JaMarcus Russell

Yeah, I've got some work to do on the waiver wire. Every player I counted on falling to me at 11 and 14 early on went early. Marion Barber as my top pick? Ouch. Put it this way, if I make the playoffs, I'll eat my shirt. Seriously.

You bet.

Hypothetically speaking, as a matter of decency, if you're going to tell someone you don't want to see them anymore, you probably shouldn't pick one of the most expensive restaurants in town to do so. Seems like a reasonable, common sense, decency thing, doesn't it? Of course, we're talking in hypotheticals here.

More specifically, you really shouldn't insist on going to a fondue restaurant where the bill will come to $118.43 to have those conversations. Hypothetically speaking, of course. You shouldn't talk for days between dates three and four about how much you love fondue and how you can't wait for your date to try it. Again, hypothetically speaking. Because obviously no one would actually talk a guy into taking them to The Melting Pot, eat the bigger portion of a giant pot of melted cheese, drink several glasses of wine, and only after the check is paid -- then and only then -- tell the other person that you like them, but you feel it would be best if you both saw other people.

That would be the most incredibly rude, insincere, disgusting thing you've heard all week, wouldn't it? Hell, maybe all month, I don't know. Good thing we're talking about a hypothetical scenario here and not a real story. Whew! That was close. I bet you almost hypothetically got really angry just by reading about it. But again, we're talking about a hypothetical scenario, so don't get all worked up in a lather.

Oh, wait.

Damn. That actually happened?

Unless I bought something else that cost $118.43 on Tuesday night, it must have. And according to my bank account, which shows a transaction for exactly that amount charged by exactly that establishment...well, unless I ate an entire pot of fondue and blacked out from excessive dairy consumption and the subsequent dairy coma caused me to dream up fantasy events to replace what actually happened...

Yeah, it happened. Not the excessive dairy blackout food coma thing. The events which will now be known as The Fondue Breakup. Wow.

Here's the thing: that level of coldness is so hardcore, I find myself struggling for the energy to be furious. Its almost funny in a way. Black comedy is still comedy.

You bet.

Like I discovered with fishing a couple of weeks ago, golfing is more about drinking and not doing actual work than it is about, um, golfing. And if there's one thing I can do as well as anyone, its drink and have a good time.

The Def Leppard Experience can be summed up through four people.

One: Random Binocular Guy. This guy, who was about 45 years old and wearing a ball cap, had a pair of binoculars hanging from his neck. I've been to a LOT of shows, and I've never seen someone bring a pair of binoculars. I mean, even at sporting events the use of binoculars has waned in recent years, but at a rock concert? How in the world can you call yourself adequately prepared to rock with a pair of binoculars around your neck? RBG had an attractive female half his age next to him, and we spent a good portion of the lame ballad section of the show trying to determine whether he actually knew her or just happened to be sitting next to her. My money was on her being his daughter, but who knows?

Two: Extra from a 1970's Mob Movie. Sitting right behind us was a guy in a grey tailored suit, white shirt, and narrow red tie. Throw in a matching grey fedora and Secret Service sunglasses. Now imagine this guy singing along to every song. Every word, each one as stoically sung as the one proceeding it. This guy was actually a little frightening.

Three: The guy who took Joe Elliott's invitation to "Be a member of the band" a little too literally. Sitting across the aisle from us, he had not one, not two but three lovelies with him. He danced wildly to all of the rock songs, and during "Armegeddon It" he unbuttoned his shirt revealing his bare chest to the ladies. Then during "Pour Some Sugar on Me" he took his shirt off and began twirling it over his head. It should be noted that this was the last moment I dared glance in that direction for the remainder of the show.

Four: Chick in Union Jack sleeveless shirt. A few rows in front of us were a group of ladies, several of which were dressed in Def Leppard attire. You know how I feel about wearing the shirt of the band you're seeing to the show -- I abhor it like the plague -- but they were ladies and well, I was willing to give them the benefit of the doubt. Until I came to my senses, of course. Ahem.

On the list of things you don't see in a big city, somewhere towards the top you might find "wild moose running down the street." Is it moose when its more than one? Mooses? Meese? I don't know pluralities but I do know this: when you see a wild moose running, well, wild, you get the hell out of the way.

I'm not what you'd call an outdoors guy. Among the evidence supporting this claim are several key facts: I don't do camping trips, I don't fish, I don't hunt, and I don't go boating. All of which make me guilty of being the polar opposite from your regular run of the mill Grizzy Adams type. Yet there I was, in the North Woods of Minnesota, just a few scant miles from Canada -- close enough that miles and kilometers were colliding, far enough that I couldn't quite throw a stone from one country to another. If you'll forgive me for using a bad pun, it was a fish out of water story.

Yeesh, I'm not sure I forgive even myself for that one. Ouch.

Needless to say, I was apprehensive about, well, just about everything to do with this trip. But as usual, I can find a way to make good times just about anywhere. Even in the middle of the north woods. After the jump...the trip.

I don't remember the precise moment that I last went fishing, partially because it was just that long ago but primarily because it just wasn't that memorable. As a matter of fact, I only have a few fleeting memories involving me and fishing, none of which actually involve me catching anything living.

The best fishing story I have, actually, happened when I was in third grade. My brother and I, along with our dad, were in YMCA's Indian Guides, a parent/child program that took pride in cultivating respect and honor for Native American culture. Every summer, there was a big week-long camping trip where you'd go out and live off the land for a few days. The oldest kids were third graders, and they were like the tribal elders -- they pretty much ran the show when the dads weren't around. It was tradition.

My brother is three years younger than me, and as such he was in kindergarten when I was in third grade. Needless to say, I was really looking forward to that summer's camp because not only would I finally be one of the tribal elders, but my brother would be going along for the first time and I would get to boss him around with no recourse!

Now for some context to the story, so that you can muster up the adequate level of pity for me.