What's new?

Hello friends. Have I really not posted here since August? That's pretty bad. Let me get you up to speed. 

The major event in my life over the last few months was my wedding. It was something. I don't really know what else to say about it. It really was...something. When I think about the day, it's almost like recalling a sex dream. Some details are crystal clear, while others are hazy, but either way you feel like you should have enjoyed it more at the time. That doesn't mean I didn't have fun at my wedding, because I most definitely did. See for yourself.

(A quick aside in regards to that footage: I know it was my wedding and I don't need to defend my actions, but I feel a little sheepish. Baaaah. The bottom line is that I simply cannot help myself. Last year, I sang B and the J's at a friend's wedding by request. I was asked, leading up to my big day if I would be singing again. My response was, "No. No one is singing at my wedding." Well you can see what happened. I knew the song would get played at some point that night, but neither bride nor crooning groom knew it would be played during the cake cutting. The song came on, and I just took off. My dad would have loved it and that makes me happy, then sad for a sec, then happy again.)

So yes, I had fun at my wedding. In fact, and I don't mean to brag, but a few people said it was the best wedding they'd ever been to. That's serious talk right there. But hey, our DJ killed it and the dance floor was full almost all night. Plus we had a great food, so what else do you want? Well, there are just a couple of things I would have changed. 


First, I wish Ria and I had been able to visit with more of our guests. We only made it to two (two?!) tables. We both felt bad about that. Along the same line, I can't believe I didn't introduce my grandmother to Ria's oldest uncle. They both speak Italian, and it would have been fun for them to meet. Probably. Also, maybe I would have drank a bit less because like I said, certain details are hazy.






As is often the case, after the wedding came the honeymoon. We visited Italy's beautiful Amalfi Coast. The food, the scenery, the people, all fantastic.

Fantastic.

So what else? Well, I've been spending a lot of time on my future advertising career. This term my team's products are The Golf Channel and Panama hats. Yes, just Panama hats in general. Did you know they actually come from Ecuador? Swear to God. I don't have anything to show you from those campaigns yet, but here's one for A&W Root Beer from last term.

CW: Scott Jones    AD: Joshua Sun

This and the other pieces of the campaign are trying to evoke some childhood nostalgia by playing off terms typically associated with alcoholic beverages. In this case, "buzzed." 


And I'm sure we'll all be more than buzzed over the holidays. Happy Thanksgiving!

The Great Equalizer

The other day, I decided to play nine holes at the executive course near my home. If you're unfamiliar with that term, an executive course is shorter, cheaper, and usually in worse shape than a regulation golf course. To help you remember this, just remember what a shitty job our nation's executives have done. By the way, that was business joke, not a political one, lest you think Barak isn't still my dog. Because he is. 

After getting an awesome parking spot, I realized I forgot my wallet at home. Giving up a money spot is bad enough, but it was made more painful when I saw mustachioed douche in a red Boxter waiting to claim what was mine. Each blink of his turn signal, dagger of light cutting through my soul. To be fair, it was my fault. To be even more fair, it was actually a Carrera convertible. I decided I wasn't meant to play golf that day, so I made a sandwich instead.

About 20 hours later, wallet in hand, I drove back to the course and, you're not going to believe this, scored the same parking spot I was forced to give up a day earlier. A sign! My first hole-in-one was only minutes away, I was sure of it. Now, I usually play the back nine at this course but today I decided to hit the putting green first, and play the front nine instead since it looked less crowded. And for the first three holes, it was.

I think I started bogey-bogey-par. I think. 

I definitely made par on the challenging 92 yard 3rd and that's when I realized the player I'd been staying ahead of was going to catch me. The log jam ahead allowed me to hit a few extra putts before it was my turn to wait at the fourth, a robust 291 yard par 4. As I sat, contemplating my place in the universe, a black woman with kind eyes walked over the hill, looking a little unsure of herself. 


"It looks like we're going to be waiting a while. You're welcome to join me. I'm Scott."

"I'm Nita." 

We shook hands and I was surprised by the firmness of her grip. As I learned a little about Nita over the next few hours, it made sense. I only could imagine how many handshakes she's exchanged over the years.


"I'm not very good." she said.


"Neither am I. I just have nice golf shoes." (Which I do, thanks Matt and Annie.)


"How long have you been playing?"


"Off and on since I was a kid."


"Well then, you're good. I've only been playing for about nine months."


She told me that she picked up the game just for the challenge of it. "I feel like if I focus on something, I can do it. Plus it's good for business. Customers want to play golf, so I figure I should try to at least be respectable at it."


Finally, we were able to tee off. The pressure was on, since Nita was convinced I was a young Sam Snead. Predictably, I hit a low hook that went nowhere.


"I told you I wasn't any good, Nita."


"Hit another one. We're out here for practice."


Love this woman. I accepted her offer, and hit it off the toe a bit, but it went straightish, just barely into the right rough.


"Woah! I didn't even see that one, it went so far!" God bless her, I only hit it 200 yards. Again, I love this woman.


She hooked her first tee shot, just like I did, but she was able to poke her second attempt into the fairway. My second shot went over the green, leaving me with a tough down hill chip shot, that ran well past the hole. Two putts for bogey. I forget how Nita did. She was actually pretty handy with the putter even though she seems to aim right and putts across her body. She also holds the putter below the grip. Later, I would try to get her to take a more conventional stance, but she found it uncomfortable. 


The next hole was a fun little down hill par 3 with a bunker protecting the front right, 114 yards or something. 

We had another wait, so I asked her what kind of business she's in that made her want to pick up golf. "Well I retired as VP of Volvo last year, now I run a consulting firm." Woah. The round took on a new complexion. At least for a bum like me. She wasn't a player, but she was a player. Ya dig? She was with Volvo for 30 years and worked her way up the ranks to VP of Human Resources, reporting directly to the CEO. Growing up in Virginia, she was a child of the civil rights movement and thinking about the obstacles she had to overcome to get where she was absolutely blew my mind.

"What club do you hit here?" she asked. "Uh, I've got this 54 degree wedge, it's more lofted than a pitching wedge. It's like a sand wedge." 

 "Now what do you mean by lofted? Does that mean it's heavier?" Wow, she really was new to the game.


"Well it is a bit heavier by nature, but loft refers to the angle of the club face."


"Wow, you can hit a sand wedge that far? Go for it."


Now, Nita hits driver on every hole, so I guess I shouldn't have been surprised that she was surprised by my length. Anyway, I hit a nice high one to within 10 feet.


"Oh my gosh, that was beautiful!" Nita exclaimed. "It looks so pretty when you get it way up in the air like that!" I liked impressing her. Even more so, now that I knew she was somebody.


"Thanks, Nita. I hit that one pretty well." Yes, she pulled driver and hit a pretty good one just left of the green. I'd already established that she was ok with me offering tips here and there, but there was no way I could begin to explain the intricacies of the short game. She was on her own. And so, she skulled it across the green. I just missed my birdie putt and tapped in for par. Nita was into me for a Finski. Easy money. Just kidding.


After another par 3, we got to another driving hole. But again, they're all driving holes for Nita. I hit one solid, but a little left. Nita was in awe. Her drive was ok. She hit a few duffers and it looked like she was getting discouraged. 


"Nita, you looked up on that last one. This time, keep your head down, and I'll watch where it goes. Deal?"


"Deal."


What does she do, but hit a nice high fade, landing it about 12 feet past the cup, then spins it back, leaving herself with a gimmie and yells, "Yeah motherfucker! That's what I'm talking about! King Kong ain't got shit on me!"


Ok, that's not what happened. BUT, she did get it up in the air nicely for her most solid shot so far. Landed just short of the green. 


"Good deal, Nita?"


"Good deal!"


We bumped knuckles. I really enjoyed helping her, but my best tip was yet to come. I'd noticed earlier that she was playing her driver and longer clubs too far back in her stance and I explained to her why it's necessary when hitting driver to play the ball of the inside of your left foot. Once she made this adjustment, she drove the shit out of the ball. Ok, not the shit, but much, much better. She said that her $175/hr lessons didn't help her as much as that little tip did. I joked that I'd start charging her on the back 9. Hilarious, I know. Golf humor.


So we had fun the rest of the day. I mostly played bad. I learned that her husband's uncle is the late Larry Doby. Blew my mind for at least the second time that day. Juanita Doby has led an incredible life and it was a true pleasure to spend a few hours with her. Where else but on the golf course would I have felt comfortable talking to such an accomplished woman? Where else but on the golf course would our paths have even crossed?

A Simple Solution

As we start the second half of the 2011 Major League Baseball season, we've seen a record(?) number of first half manager and player ejections with 119 (and a few more over the weekend). Tigers manager Jim Leyland had this to say about the current climate in MLB:

"For some reason, it appears to me that the tension level is much more than it should be between managers, players, coaches and umpires. I know Joe Torre (Major League Baseball's executive vice-president of operations) is trying to get it resolved, but right now the tension seems worse. I'm not just talking about us. I'm talking throughout baseball. I'm not criticizing anybody in particular, but I'm making the point that we all have to work together to resolve this situation because it's getting out of hand." 

Why is everyone so jacked up? First, there are some bad umps like Angel Hernandez who regularly miss calls, causing the wronged team's manager to lose his shit. I also feel like umpires are out of position quite a lot. And of course there are always going to the "bang-bang" plays when the ump has to take a guess. But the real issue is that umpires are under more pressure than they've ever been under before. With high def TV and the networks having every camera angle possible, the viewer can instantly see when an umpire has blown a call. I've heard that arguing managers will tell umpires things like, "Wait till you see the replay. You're gonna look bad." Actually, I heard this from Keith Hernandez during a Mets telecast.

There's Leyland. Arguments could be a thing of the past.

But whether a missed call is an egregious or honest mistake, there's an easy solution. It's so simple that it must have been thought of already. A 5th (or during the playoffs, a 7th) umpire who has both the home and away television feeds and can automatically correct a missed call on the field. We can call him The Overlord. Why do umps have to leave the field to review a tough homerun call? Just let The Overlord handle it. Blown call at first base by a normally reliable umpire that costs a young pitcher a perfect game? The Overlord steps in. He can flash his ruling on the scoreboard. Reviews wouldn't take more than 10 seconds would they? Again, the camera angles, slo-mo, and HD are so good now, you can determine the call in one, maybe two replays. The natural pace of the game allows for these calls to be corrected before the next pitch is thrown. If the call on the field is correct, nothing happens. Look at replays in tennis. They take a few seconds, they're exciting, and they're conclusive. Maybe MLB can borrow some of that technology. In fact, I believe Japanese professional baseball already has. They'd better, since you're allowed to berate the umpire without fear of ejection.

Why can't this work? Seriously, tell me. Unlike the NFL, baseball doesn't manufacture opportunities for ad revenue. That's why the NFL will never improve (shorten) their replay process. So MLB wouldn't lose anything by adopting my idea. And don't even give me the "human element" argument. Isn't that what starts wars? The human element is overrated. Now, I'm going to immediately contradict myself. I don't think things like K-Zone or Pitch Trax should be used to officially determine balls and strikes. I just don't. That really would slow the game down. But most other plays could be reviewed with minimal effect on game time.

Embrace The Overlord.

Tour de France 101

The Tour de France is a 5000 mile bike race across France and some other countries. It started a long time ago and the riders used to smoke cigarettes during the race, but now they drink water. There are approximately 2000 participants, although only a half dozen have a realistic chance to win. The race takes place over three weeks, but the first week is kinda bullshit since all the race courses (called stages) are mostly flat and not too challenging. In the 80's, the Tour was starting to lose popularity when riders started realizing they had no chance to win the thing. So race organizers introduced other little prizes for some of the less talented riders to compete for. 

For example, the rider who maintains the least body hair over the three weeks gets to wear the coveted Pinkish Jersey. In fact, most of the Tour is based around who gets to wear the prettiest shirt, which makes sense since France is a very fashionable place. The riders are split up into different teams with names that have nothing to do with cycling. Teams are usually named after banks, cell phone manufacturers, GPS devices, electronics stores, and ballroom dances. Each team has either one or zero team members who can win. So if you're on one of the teams with a guy who can win, you want to be that guy, otherwise you are called a "domestique" which is French for "sucker who has to work his ass off so someone else can maybe win, but there is no way you will win."

So after the first week of competition (which again, is almost totally meaningless) the Tour reaches the mountain stages. This is when all the phonies who have been kicking ass start to suck, and all the guys who have been sucking start to kick ass. These stages are obviously very challenging, requiring increased fluid intake. Bonus points are awarded for riders who can hit spectators with their empty water bottles. 

The main pack of riders is called the "peloton" which is French for "platoon." It's a great place to be since you can draft, chat with your competitors, even give them a pinch on the hiney. Also, if the peloton consists of 500 riders, the 500th rider gets credited with the same finishing time as the first rider in the peloton. No one ever said the Tour de France is fair. However, this is also where absolutely brutal crashes take place. NASCAR fans love this.

Motorcycles and pedestrians can also compete in The Tour, often with tragic results.

There are a lot of unwritten rules in the Tour. If someone's chain comes off, you have to let them catch back up so they don't cry. You're also allowed to actually hold on to moving cars during the race, but not for too long. So at the end of the three weeks, the rider wearing the Yellow Jersey wins. The sneakiest riders will grab the Yellow Jersey when the guy who has it is sleeping. Also, the Tour is really only 2 weeks and 6 days long, since the last day is only ceremonial, with many riders sipping expensive champagne while riding their bikes up the Champs Elysses, or however you spell it. They change the rules all the time, so see you next year for the updated lesson. Au revior!

The Month of May

This was supposed to be a recap of three magical weekends in May, the last of which was Memorial Day Weekend. Now that was almost two weeks ago, so this whole thing just seems stale to me. This type of thing can happen to lazy-ass bloggers who don't post shit in a timely fashion. What's wrong with me? Maybe that will be the subject of my next post. Could be a long one. Look for it in six weeks. Anyway, here's some old news.

First was my bachelor party in Las Vegas, May 12-15 (some punished themselves by staying through the 16th). This was my third trip to the gambling mecca, but it would go on to provide my first true Vegas experience. Most of us stayed at the Cosmopolitan, which just opened this year. The place is gorgeous and and so is the clientele.  By the time we left, the section of my brain responsible for processing the sight of beautiful women in tight cocktail dresses was completely fried. I became numb to it.

Vegas, when you're partying at a pool or in a club has a feel like no other city I've been to. People relate to each other as if they're sitting together on a roller coaster. You know how if you end up sitting next to a stranger, that person is your best friend for the next two minutes? Vegas is like that all the time. Some of the good vibes can probably be attributed to my status as "the bachelor." Girls loved me.  Anyway, the weekend was insane, and having this particular group of people together is something I'll never forget.

There are some friendly folks in Vegas.

Now, after a weekend like that, there's always going to be an emotional let down. It reminds me of how I felt after seeing Avatar in IMAX 3D. In this case, Vegas is Pandora and everyday life is the movie theater parking lot. It just seems so dull. Luckily, my friends Eric and Lauren were getting married back home in Jersey the following Saturday. They ended up getting the best weather of the weekend, but more importantly, the trip home gave me another big party to look forward to. Besides my own wedding, of course.

Every trip home is incredibly special to me, but this one took on extra importance since I'm not making my usual August trip this year. This four day trip would be it until Christmas, so I had to get my money's worth. Sleep would be minimal. Alcohol consumption would be maximal. Wait, that's the case every time I go home...hmmm. Anyway, the wedding was awesome. There was even a great after-party complete with freestyle rap battles. I want to get into details, because those little things that make home home are what I love the best but I'm not doing that today.

Memorial Day Weekend isn't as special out here in CA as it is at the Jersey Shore. There, summer lasts from Memorial Day until Labor Day and that's it. Mem Day Weekend is a massive kickoff and people really go nuts. The whole area changes. It's not all good, but mostly it is. Here, summer lasts from March until November and Memorial Day Weekend doesn't have quite the same cache. But be that as it may, it was a pretty sick weekend. Plenty of beach and BBQ action. I also shot the best game of pool in my life. I might do a whole post about it, it was that good.

Basketball Jones

It has been unbelievable out here over the past week. Or, when you think about it, totally believable. The weather in southern California varies somewhere between, "I'll tell you what, can use this rain" and "We really should be naked right now." And I am, so I think I'll take the laptop off my lap.   

I did something out of the ordinary the other day. Several times over the last month or so, I've seen this older and I'm guessing, Indian man shooting hoops on our little half court. I only say he's "shooting" because I assume he's trying to get the ball in the basket. He's basically doing a soccer throw-in, just hucking the ball towards the rim. The backboard is covered his dusty ball marks and he only ever makes one with a lucky bank-in. On the bright side, he does have about a thousand offensive rebounds. So when I saw him yesterday, I decided I was going to teach him how to shoot. Whether he liked it or not.

I threw on my sneakers and JV basketball practice jersey, grabbed my ball and headed to the court. We exchanged nods and smiles and he says, "You play too." Uh oh, possible language barrier. "Yep, I'm gonna shoot around a little bit." I replied. "I'm Scott." He didn't understand. Shit. Why am I doing this anyway? I put my hand on my chest and said repeated myself. That did it. "Emmanuel." he said. I put a few up and wondered if I was qualified to teach anyone how to shoot. I don't think he noticed though, since he dribbles with his head down. I'll cover ball handling with him next time. 

Now Emmanuel is probably 60 and has a round, brown, beautiful gut hanging out of his t-shirt. Not a model of fitness like me. When one of his field goal attempts explodes off the glass or front-rim as 90% of them do, this poor guy has a 20-30 foot walk ahead of him which he covers with a slow, waddling gait. I wonder if those walks are sad for him or if he accepts them as the consequence of throwing up bricks. Or in his case, cinder blocks encased with lead. I must have thought he was sad, otherwise I wouldn't be there.


This was quickly justified (in my mind) by the smile I got the first time I got one of his rebounds and saved him that walk. He gave me a relieved "Thank you!" I'd won his heart. Now, for his mind. This was my chance. "I've got a better way for you to shoot. Want to see?" I don't know if he understood me fully, but I think I also mimicked his shooting motion at some point. He came over. We stood in the middle of the lane and I said, "Do like me." Now I was speaking his language. I held my ball straight out in front of me, shoulder high and he did the same. Then I bent my elbow to a 90 degree angle and rotated my wrist until I was in shooting position. He followed my motions relatively well. "Now put your left hand on the other side like this." I shot my ball (swish) and held my follow through, Ewing style, to show him how to finish by "reaching into cookie jar." 


"So it's a one handed shot, and you use your left hand to guide it. Ok?" "Yes, yes." Well I forgot to tell him about using his legs and he completely took his left hand off the ball and as a result his shot fell about two feet short and left of the basket. I corrected both mistakes, but now he adopted more of a shot putting motion. He was still taking his left hand off the ball! This pissed me off a little bit. It's the simplest part! So I explained it one more time and went back to my own shoot around, hitting 3's, pull-up J's, the usual. He tried a couple more my way, but pretty soon he was back to looking like Rory Delap. 

So maybe it wasn't a successful lesson. But I tried.

Friends

I need to step it up. Two posts a month isn't going to cut it. If Principal Strickland were here, he'd call me a slacker. Luckily, I just remembered that I love writing. For a while there, I thought I only liked it but I actually love it. Some kinds words from a few friends jogged my memory. 


My dad told me on more than one occasion how lucky I was to have the friends I did. And do. You know what I mean. Tenses can be tricky when speaking of the dead. But he was and is, very right. My circle(s) of friends has been in perspective lately. You see, my bachelor party in Las Vegas, Nevada is 23 days away. That's less than one day per person attending. That's also a confusing way to say that I'm expecting anywhere from 25-35 people to show up. And by people, I mean animals. 


I know exactly how it's going to be, and yet, I have no fucking clue. I just got a report that at least three confirmed attendees were found smacking tennis balls at each other, full force, with no pads and on no sleep, at 7:30 on a Sunday morning. And this is in a quiet shore town. There's no telling what a 24 hour buffet of vice will do to characters such as these. You could probably make a funny movie about it. Probably.

I know the draw is at least 75% Vegas, 25% me, and that's fine. I'm still pumped...wait I don't want to be pumped. That sounds queer. I'm still stoked that everyone's showing up. It's gonna be awesome to see this crew in one place. If this is the first you're hearing of the party, uhhh, sorry?? I quote Hans Aumier, deputy commandant at Auschwitz when he stood trial at Nuremberg, "I had very little to do in the planning of this thing."

But seriously, if you're free the weekend of May 12-16 come on out. Weekends are five days sometimes. I can't wait.

Pow Pow City

Ocean's 11 isn't too bad. It's overly talky, as most Soderburgh films are, however, it's excellently paced and pretty well acted. But I'm not here to talk about decade old movies playing on HBO at 1:30 on a weekday afternoon.

Mammoth Mountain was the place to be this past weekend as the Roxy Chicken Jam descended on Northern California! Ria and I left Friday morning and had a very uneventful drive. The weather was beautiful the whole way up after they got 24" of snow the day before. But they'd done a great job of clearing the roads, so we found it curious that chains were required for the last couple of miles. I have video of our reaction, but I don't like my voice in it. Is that really how I sound? Kinda Travis Pestrana-ish? Ugh. Maybe that's why I'm into writing now. Anyway, we were annoyed. We decided to take them off when we stopped at the leasing office. Rebels! 


After settling in, we took the shuttle up to Main Lodge for an apres ski event, which for us was apres drive. I've been in town less than an hour, and I'm already getting free beer. My mood was buoyant. We even made a flip book!

After dinner and a few more drinks, we decided to call it a night knowing that we wanted to make an early start in the morning. We woke to our housemates who'd arrived over night and to snow that wouldn't stop falling all day. 


I don't have pictures or video, but imagine the funnest glade runs possible, add some more snow, subtract the Eskimo women draped in Caribou skins, and that's what it was like. Visibility was poor on most of the open runs, especially right off the chairs. In fact the top wasn't even open, so it wasn't a perfect day. The peeps who stayed for Sunday and Monday and hell, the rest of the week got that. (Miss Crunk can show you how much snow there was.) But the tree runs on the lower half of the mountain off Chair 8 were really really good. If I'm only going to get one day in this season, which appears to be the case, that was a great day to have.
 
Ok, time to wrap up. I know reading about someone else's good time can be annoying. That night, one of our group, I won't say who, but their company had an event in town, "made a commitment to party" and by the end of the night, I was faded, just water skiing in her wake. We were very very tempted to ride on Sunday, but the pain of leaving powder behind was tempered somewhat by our discovery of Dick's Smoke Wagon in Big Pine. Just outstanding. Next season there will be multiple Mammoth invasions.

I have no idea what to write about

I really don't. But I've had a few fractions of ideas so as I do sometimes, I'm just gonna go and see what happens.

I'm addicted to the NCAA tournament. Or maybe just to the idea of the tournament. I can't imagine not filling out a bracket. I think I've been doing it since the 5th grade or something and I can't remember a year when I wasn't in a pool.  As a kid I  was so goddamn excited looking at fresh bracket in the sports section on Monday morning after the selections were announced. As with a lot of sports-related things a lot of the romance, goes back to my youth, to my dad, to a simpler time. That sounds cliche, but it's true. 

Watching these games reminds me of being in high school and talking to friends about the first round upsets in between classes. It reminds me of St. Patrick's Day 2000 when I got drunk in the dorms while watching games and ended up breaking my hand. I think a lot of people feel the way I do, whatever their method for hearkening back to the good old days. Who doesn't love a good heark? 

The 2000 Tournament. Trust me.

Now, as the title of this blog tells you, I'm only 30 so it's not as if I'm a jaded old man (although I'm looking REALLY forward to that). The tourney gives me the opportunities to make new memories. Will they be as sweet as the ones from my carefree college days? No. Of course not. At least not my freshman year. But I guess I have to look at things through a different prism or something. Maybe 10 years from now I can write about how in 2011 my fiancee kicked the fucking shit out of me even though I'd spent hours pouring over advanced basketball metrics and she made her picks while eating breakfast as I called out the match-ups. Maybe in 10 years I'll find this hilarious, but right now on the afternoon of 3/18/11, losing by four games, I'm pissed.


Didn't mean to write that much about hoops. That's how it goes though...Here's something else I think is interesting. It could be a topic for my other, health/fitness related blog, but I feel like writing about it here. Obviously, I'm an attractive enough guy. Obviously. I did ok with the ladies over the years (yes, that was past tense) and I still catch them checking me out from time to time. But what if I was a woman with a proportional fitness level? How would a man see me? Oh God, that sounded gay didn't it! HA! But think about it, aren't women held to a higher standard? Like, I'm not at all embarrassed when I'm at the pool, for example. I've been working out, and I look ok. But if I were a chick at the pool, in my heart of hearts, I would probably look like this:

Decent, not great. This girl's body certainly is not unattractive, but no one would mistake her for Irina Shayk. Is this making any sense at all? By the way, I typed "average girl in bikini" into Google and turns out there's an Average Girls in Bikinis page on Facebook! Don't believe me? Boom.

So ladies, I feel your pain. I'm trying to hold myself to the high standard that your gender has set. Oh advertising and the media set that standard? Whatever.

California Hate

Two Sundays ago I watched my third Super Bowl here in California and that got me thinking. "Wow, I've watched three Super Bowls here in California. That's probably long enough for me to have a fairly well formed idea of the place"...and it's fuckin great! What did you think I was gonna say? We've got near constant sun and near legal weed! You can surf solid waves pretty much whenever you want and the tacos are unbelievable. 

But I'm not here to brag. In fact I want to make my brothers and sisters back east feel a little better, since they still have snow on the ground from Christmas. So then, here are the top several worst things about California.

No delicatessens. The only place to get cold cuts is the supermarket and the only thing worse than the roast beef is the service. Back home, people take pride in selling and buying high quality meats. That's just not the case here.


Pizza sucks. The crust, the sauce, the toppings, the construction. It all sucks. Except for little Italian joint near my apartment. It's great! Score! But back to the suckiness, most places just don't get it. "Let's dump 6 pounds of random toppings on top of our frozen crust. Awesome dude!"


Avocados. They put them on fucking everything out here. Pizza included. 

Just when you thought this would be an all food list...


Traffic/the drivers themselves.  It's difficult to compare the traffic problems among some of the places I've lived. The DC metro area, Northern New Jersey, and now Southern California are all unbearable at times and I can't say if it's definitely worse out here. According to this list, it is but at least drivers in the first two places are comfortable driving in the rain. People lose their minds at the first sign of drizzle and start sliding all over the 405. Also, no one uses their turn signals. No one.

Crowded lineups. I said earlier that you can surf solid waves whenever you want. I lied, it's small right now. But when it does get good, you're out with 75 dudes no matter where you go.

Ok, this is South Africa. Whatever. 

  
Smog. Beautiful sunsets, ugly lungs.


That's all I feel like writing can think of right now. So take heart, frigid east coasters. Temperatures are warming for you, and it's not that nice out here anyway.

Just because we're bereaved doesn't mean we're saps!

I'm at Pep Boys, writing this on my iPhone. It's a pain in the ass, but so what? I'm at Pep Boys for the second time this week! I love car maintenance! Though aside from the expenditure, it hasn't been too bad. I jogged home from Pep Boys the other day and have gotten to walk the Costa Mesa streets a bit. That's something I miss about Hoboken and Manhattan; just being out and about in humanity. Actually, that sounds like it sucks. And it did sometimes, but you know what I mean. It's nice to walk places. 

It's been almost two weeks since my dad's memorial service. How was that for a segue? The urn (which at $395 was not their most modestly priced receptacle) looked great and their were tons of pictures along with his golf memorabilia and trophies. Even his clubs were in the room. The minister said some very kind things and I even managed to choke back the tears and say a few words. To be honest, other than he general suckiness of the occasion, Matt, Ria and I had a pretty good time in Columbus. Not a bad little town there.

Ok, back home and on a computer. That's nice. But anyway, I'm doing well. Having my man Scotty D out here has been awesome. The kid has been training his ass off by day and painting Orange County red by night and more reinforcements arrive from Jersey next week. We're taking over like the South Park episode. Updates to come.

In closing, a bit of news: I've been asked to contribute content to a health website. Because when you think about health and general fitness, you think "Scott Jones." Again, more info as it becomes available. Stay warm northeasterners!

Love you dad!

I wish Liverpool's uninspired defeat to Blackburn Rovers was the worst thing that happened to me on Wednesday January 5th. If I was most upset about a Steven Gerrard penalty miss and a once proud club slipping ever closer towards irrelevance that day, fine. But it wasn't even a distant second on my list. There was no second worst thing. That's because my father, Robert Scott Jones, Sr. died of a heart attack that morning. He was only 59.

Thank God he called me on New Year's Eve. If he hadn't, I might be writing about how bad I feel for not having returned his call from a few days prior. I still feel bad, because I meant to call him on Monday or Tuesday and didn't. I had things I wanted to tell him.  Having spoken to him just a few days before his death does make it a bit easier, but I never got to tell him about how on Tuesday, I chipped in for birdie on the 18th. He would have loved it! Anyway, he was in a great mood that night, (as was I) and he asked me to pass the phone around so he could wish Ria and Chase a happy New Year too. That's just the kind of guy he was.

He was really looking forward to my wedding, and I know there were people who were looking forward to seeing him, and that's been the hardest part of all this. Shit, by that time it would have been three years since I'd seen him face to face. So instead of toasting with him, I'll be toasting for him and that will have to do. 

Obviously, this has been a tough week. But I've had help. My friends Jayme and Sara were here when I got the news, which must have been awkward for them! But they were great. I was also very lucky to have my man Scotty D. flying in to spend a few weeks out here in sunny California. I like to think the Man Upstairs was trying to help me out a bit by sending some extra support out here. 

(Side note- The night before I got the bad news, Jayme came back from San Diego with some pot that can only be described as "bomb-ass." Everything I've smoked before is garbage. I would find out later that it's called Fire Kush, and I swear to God, it helped me through this. It was like Xanex, but way funner. I now truly believe in medical marijuana.)

I also want to thank everyone who's called or texted these last few days. It really does help. But I think I'll wrap this up now. Dad always said that life goes on and he wouldn't want me or my brother Matt to spend very much time being sad. I sure do miss him though.

I am still a blogger

Greetings in the new year! I've been away a few weeks, and I know you've missed me. This post was originally going to be a detailed recap of my trip home to Jersey for Christmas. While there was enough material for an entire post (or two), I'm a good week late on this, so I decided just to briefly sum up each day of the trip.

Weds 12/22- Poker night at Scotty's. Drank too much scotch and went all in with 10-6, off-suit. Also had beers at the Broadway in Pt. Pleasant. Happy birthday Stu, if you read this.

Thurs 12/23- Wight Family Christmas party. Thumbguns and spilled wine. A great time as always. Jayme (and Sarah) are actually staying with us here in OC right now.

Two of these sweet little holes are Ria's. One is mine.

Christmas Eve- Received the Holy Eucharist, ate fish, and took part in a new family tradition of Jameson shots. I wish this was an old family tradition, but better late than never.

Christmas Day- Prosecco with breakfast. Gave my mom a TV and got a surround sound system. Homemade game of Minute to Win It, got second place. Also hung out with some knuckleheads at JR's in Seaside, which was a great time, but what happened to Dave and Petey?

Boxing Day (UK and Canada)- The snow started mid-day and the Giants controlled their own density. Oh, what I meant to say was, "their own destiny." They got schooled and I drank scotch.

Mon 12/27- The snow stopped mid-day, and that's about it. Played scrabble and drank a little scotch.

Tue 12/28- Dug out my mom's car and beasted it up to EWR (learn your airport codes). As you might have read on the Good Book, I gave a skycap $20 to check our bags because the line to check in was absolutely insane. I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that it was the entire lower level of Terminal C. I wish I had a picture. The news was there. Anyway, I thought I was ballin', but since we ended up being delayed several hours, the return on investment took a slight hit. Better than waiting in that line though.

Random Asian woman stuck in Terminal C at Newark Airport

You can see the pattern here. But despite the consumption, I have pretty good recall of everything. Trips home mean everything to me and it was great to see everyone. Well not everyone, but most folks. 2011 is going to be big for me and I hope it'll be big for all of you as well. Yes, all 12 of you. I want to write more frequently and I've got some ideas for future posts. We'll see what happens.