There's always next year

I woke up this past Sunday wondering if, just maybe, Liverpool Football Club were champions of England. The last matches of the season had all been played.

Normally, waking up for a 7am kickoff is doable. However a recent addition to the bedroom has changed this. Simply put, temporary blinds are a huge upgrade in light-blocking over our previous window covering, a lavender bed sheet. We'll see how temporary they are.

I have, in the past, woken up far earlier to watch a match live. I've been at the pub at 5:30am before. But as TV coverage of the English Premier League has improved, it just isn't necessary for me to go anywhere. And as I've aged, even in just the past couple of years, sleep has increased in value tremendously.

Something is lost when watching a sporting event on DVR delay. Namely, the liveness. But for me, something about the nature of a soccer match makes doing so much more tolerable compared to other sports. Perhaps it's the lack of commercial breaks. I don't know, watching an NFL after it's already over seems weird to me. But with soccer, it's a more intimate presentation or something. I kind of feel like the match is being played just for me, even though that's patently ridiculous. What's the difference between watching at 7am or 9am? As long as I keep my phone turned off to avoid texts from east coasters and so I'm not tempted to look at Twitter or the internet, it's easy to create the illusion of liveness. It's live, if you believe it.

If the final match day had been Liverpool's victory lap, or if their odds of claiming the title were closer to realistic, I like to think I would have at least watched it live on my couch and maybe would have even gone to the pub to hug strangers. For Liverpool to be crowned champions for the first time since 1990, they needed to win (quite likely) and Manchester City needed to lose at home to West Ham (extremely unlikely).

1990 was a long time ago

But as it was, I watched Liverpool's match against Newcastle United about two and half hours behind real time. After falling behind to Martin Skrtel's fourth own goal of the season, the Reds equalized, then took the lead through nearly identical set pieces within two minutes of each other. And that's how the game and the season would end. City won at home like they were supposed to, and collected their second title in three years. How downtrodden must Manchester United supports be? Their two bitterest rivals finish first and second and United misses out on European qualification, while firing their manager in the process. :)

On the whole of it, this was an outstanding season for LFC. They qualified for next year's Champions League (their main goal), played some dazzling football at times, and catapulted themselves back into their rightful place as one of the biggest clubs in the world. And yet, the prevailing feeling among supporters (or at least this one) is one of disappointment in coming so close and falling just short. But the future is probably as bright as it's been for Liverpool since the salad days of the 1980's.

A Liverpool title occurring just weeks before the birth of my son certainly would have been special. I suppose the birth, on its own, still will be. But yes, we're getting close. The nursery is all set. Car seats are installed. Teeny tiny socks are washed and folded. I'm prepared for the stages of labor. I know how to perform CPR on an infant. And despite my earlier claim regarding the increased value I've come to place on sleep, I'm ready for a lack of it. I'm looking at is like an adventure. Cool stuff usually goes down in the middle of the night. I remember how exciting it was as a kid when we would all wake up super early for a road trip. So I'll just be doing that every single night, but instead of driving to New Jersey in the family minivan, I'll be delivering my son to the breast. That's fun!

Maybe the strange hours will allow (require?) me to watch more matches live come next season. I'll have to get him a Liverpool onesie.

1994- Year in Review

Hello, reader(s).

A brief note before we begin— As you've CERTAINLY noticed, this weblog is operating under a new name. I knew from the beginning that "30 Year Old Boy" would only be accurate for a year, but I didn't care because my immaturity would last a lifetime. However, now that I'm entering my mid-thirties I just feel that the blog could use a more universal title.

But more than that, I kinda wanted a fresh start. I hadn't been writing that much and my hope is that this "clean slate" will uh, make me write more often or something. What is The Illusion of Knowledge? Quite simply, it's the fact that we as humans don't know as much as we think. Or more accurately, we confuse the basic understanding of a concept with deep knowledge of that concept.

Watch this handy video.

Did you watch it? I love the last line: "...the illusion of knowledge is necessary to keep you from having to face your own incompetence."  I mean, that's just perfect. Also, don't forget to catch a new season of "Brain Games" premiering March 18th at 10pm eastern, only on NatGeo.

So there you go. I don't know what I'm talking about, I'm just sharing what I think I know. The tone of my writings won't change much, but hopefully the frequency will.



Now then, how's your 2014 going so far? So far so good over here. I still own my home, the golf game is slowly improving, Liverpool FC is sitting in second place, and we have a baby boy on the way. You never know what's going to happen with one of those.

"A child..."

Like all parents, we're just hoping for 10 fingers, 10 toes, and for him to be hot. Hot people have it so much easier. Trust me. We think he stands a good chance, but it's a real gamble with mixed race babies. Contrary to stupid white women everywhere, they're not ALL cute. Sometimes they're messed up looking. We always take note of kids with the same racial makeup as our future kid. "Oh look, a hybrid baby. That's a cute one. He even has that cool hair color." Our kid is very unlikely to have the cool hair color but again, we hold out all hope for hotness and athletic ability.

I'm sure I'll write plenty about the kid and the accompanying daddy issues my own fatherhood will drag to the surface, but we'll cry over the side of that bridge when we come to it.

Another thing 2014 has brought is what I can only characterize as some kind of second puberty involving ear hair. Old men have ear hair, and I guess this is when it starts. And those bastards hurt to pluck! The follicles are so new! They haven't been desensitized like my uni-brow follicles. I pluck those five at a time if I can. And I can.

I'm also moody, smelly, and I'm starting to look at women differently, in that, I know cannot have them.

Ahh, second puberty. It reminds me of, of, puberty. The year was 1994. Twenty years ago. My God, has it been that long. There were so many hot girls in my middle school. When I was in 7th grade, some of the 8th grade girls looked like straight up WOMEN. Especially Andrea Mundy. Fiery red hair and boobs. Huge boobs. Just curvy. Rumors abounded that she'd had sex. Sex! Her boyfriend was also in 8th grade, but I remember he looked 27 to me. I rode the late bus home with Andrea one afternoon. I forget why I had to stay late. I don't think I was in trouble. She probably got busted trying to have sex somewhere. Sex!

She actually chatted with me and she was, nice. Pleasant. Part of me probably hoped that she would invite me into the woods for sex. She did not. Anyway, '94 was unbelievable. Let's go over the things that happened in '94. Many of these I knew, some I looked up.

Albums
Dookie
Ill Communication
The Downward Spiral
Superunknown
Weezer (Blue Album)
Punk in Drublic
Illmatic
Ready to Die
Nirvana Unplugged
Jar of Flies
Definitely Maybe and Parklife (Brit pop was huge)
Vitalogy
Regulate...G Funk Era
Mellow Gold
Yanni Live at the Acropolis


Films
Pulp Fiction
Forrest Gump
Shawshank Redemption
Four Weddings and a Funeral
The Lion King
The Professional
Dumb and Dumber
Natural Born Killers
Interview With the Vampire
The Mask
Speed
Clerks
Ace Ventura: Pet Detective
True Lies
Reality Bites
Quiz Show

Events
Probably the first time I used the internet
First version of Netscape Navigator is released! How far we've come...
Nicole Brown Simpson and Ron Goldman murdered in by an unknown assailant.
OJ and AC Cowlings engage police in a low speed chase terminating in front of OJ's home (and Baba Booey to y'all)

MLB goes on strike
Mandela elected president of South Africa
Michael Jordan: minor leaguer
Rangers win the Stanley Cup
Tonya Harding, Jeff Gillooley, Nancy Kerrigan, Lillehammer Olympics
NAFTA
Lorena Bobbitt- Not guilty (insanity)
Rwandan genocide begins
I went to Italy with my whole family! We were actually in Rome when Brazil beat Italy in the World Cup final. THAT was wild.
Channel Tunnel opens
Kurt Cobain dies
Richard Nixon dies
Cab Calloway dies
Woodstock '94
George Foreman becomes the oldest heavyweight champ after knocking out Michael Moorer
Jeffery Dahmer is beaten to death in prison, remember?
Harry Styles, Dakota Fanning, and Justin Bieber are born.

I think that's a good place to end. I left out plenty, so if there's anything I missed that you think is egregious, let me know. But what a year it was. I think we're in another good era for music and movies. Some good stuff out lately. And events? Can't stop those. Until next time.

Hip Hop History

Last Tuesday, while everyone was praying to Yeezus, I picked up Extended Play, the new album by DJ/producer Statik Selektah. And when I say "picked up" I mean, "downloaded after I freed up enough memory on my phone." I've become a fan of his over the last few years through his Thursday night show on SiriusXM's Shade 45, Showoff Radio. He's an East Coast guy, close to my age who shares my appreciation for scaled-down, grimy 90's style beats with well placed classic samples. Throw in a solid lineup of spitters like Action Bronson, Joey Bada$$/Pro Era, Mac Miller, Sean Price, and Noreaga among numerous others, and the album does not disappoint (except for 30 seconds of dead air at the end of Track 14, "Love & War." I wonder if it was a mistake).

So thanks to Statik and my other favorite Sirius DJs like Tony Touch and Kayslay, I've been hearing a lot of great hip-hop lately. Almost every guest on these shows mentions that their mix tape is on Dat Piff. That's often where I go to hear the latest "fire."Speaking of which, check out Chris Rivers. There's a Three Dog Night sample! And he mentions Nikolai Volkoff!

He did some ridiculous shit "off the top" on Kayslay's show the other day. Slay would just shout stuff out in the middle of the freestyle, and Rivers would rhyme off it. Insane.

So yeah, I've been pretty into hip-hop lately. I've pretty much always liked it, but my relationship with it is complicated in a way. I suppose that's a common issue for white suburban youths. Before Extended Play, I bought Nas' latest, Life is Good, but I'd never owned another Nas album, even though he's my favorite MC. And to my knowledge, I've only owned one or two "classic" hip-hop albums (more on that in a moment). I'm terrible with a lot of the classic lyrics, and many of my friends have much stronger hip-hop knowledge and sense of history. I mean, I'm not trying to defend my record here. But I guess I'm late to the game in becoming an avid follower of the genre. I was more into punk throughout high school.  Here is every rap/hip-hop album I've ever owned, in near chronological order.

I had the cassette tape.

Also had the tape. Thanks Aunt Judy.

Duh.

Mr. Wendal, yeeaahh. Oh, Mr. Wendal.

"Forget Tony Danza, I'm the boss."

I didn't even smoke weed back then!
But I could imagine how annoying it was
when cops would come and try to snatch their crops.

None of them were black, but "Tap the Bottle"
was a straight BANGER.

Ok, now I've got some credibility. "Wicked" anyone? 

Let me talk about "The Predator" for a moment. This was a scary album that talked about scary things. It was my first introduction to street life. Ice Cube seemed like the hardest dude on the planet. Now he does shitty Coors Light ads. Oh well. Besides the aforementioned "Wicked" which I think is one of the best records OF ALL TIME, this album also gave us "Check Yourself" and "Today Was a Good Day." I think this qualifies as a classic album.

I smuggled this album into my house.

Another classic. I went to the mall with my dad. He let me go off on my own because he was cool like dat. I bought the album from, I think it was Sam Goody, threw out the bag and the receipt, and shoved the CD down my pants because I knew there was no way my parents would let me keep it if they saw it. I then hid it under the car seat until which time I deemed it safe to retrive. This was a strategy I should have employed with my next purchase...












*


* "Slam" was everywhere in '93-'94, and I bought the album on the strength of their ubiquitous single. They were so angry! Being in middle school and having pulled off "Operation 2Pac" I figured I could have whatever music I wanted. But it turned out that albums with songs called "Blac Vagina Finda" were not allowed in my home. My mother was so disgusted. We returned the album immediately. She would not let the boys be boys.

I am the only person who bought their second album.

I am the only person who bought their second album.

I forget why I bought this album. Pretty good though.

Mostly forgettable. Bought it because of the Beasties
sample on "Drop."

Speaking of The Beastie Boys, they were my flat-out favorite band from about 7th to 10th grade. I had almost all their albums. Check Your Head and Ill Communication were my favorites. But I'm not including them on this list. They draw from such a wide range of styles, I don't think they qualify. But they had a massive influence on me and would set me up for my punk-ish high school and college years.

We round it out with two J5 albums. Quality Control was great in its day, but I don't think it holds up that well. I couldn't tell you a thing about Power in Numbers other than it was released in 2002. I hear their live shows are good.

So that's it.  That's my hip-hop history. It's not great, I know, but I think I'm making up for lost time. We are in a new golden age. Keep your ears open.

What are some of your hip hop memories?

Untitled

Oh hello. Been a while since I wrote. I've talked some (good natured) shit to writers on the Internet lately, so now I have to write on the Internet. Whatever it takes, right?

My last post dealt in part, with my anxiety about my first visit home after Hurricane Sandy. How could I not write a follow up?! What's my problem?!

I would compare the experience of seeing my decimated neighborhood to a dream. Not even necessarily a nightmare, but a dream. You know how when you're dreaming and things are crazy, but it seems kinda normal at the time, then you wake up and you're like, "Woah that shit was weird"? It was kind of like that.

What I saw was devastating, but surreal. I was warily accepting of it in a similar way to the dream state I just described. I wasn't emotional, I was just there. Taking it all in.

Almost seven months after the storm and about five months after my visit, my mother is getting close to moving home. The inspectors have inspected and things are looking good, and she's lucky. But even if she and my grandmother moved home tomorrow, the rest of the neighborhood is still pretty much as it was in the days after the storm. The progress has been amazing in some areas, and almost non-existent in others. I'm going home again this summer. It will be a different kind of summer, but the smell of the salty air that has been implanted in the part of my brain that stores smell memories will still be there. I don't know about you but I take comfort in that. 

But I can't write about this without mentioning Moore, Oklahoma. I think I speak for everyone from or connected to the Shore when I say I'm viewing the aftermath of the tornadoes in a totally different light than I would have pre-Sandy. Empathy as opposed to sympathy (sympathy is usually bullshit). Having family not far from there made it even more stressful. But let's face it, Oklahoma is worse. Isn't it? Breezy Point and the Shore and Red Hook and The Rockaways had warning, were battered over a matter of hours, and there were very few fatalities.

Moore was leveled in minutes with almost no warning and entire classes of kids were killed. If this were a real blog read by the masses, some shit head would probably say something like, "And those were all rich people's Summer homes in Jersey!" Well, not all of them and also, so what? It still sucks. But yes, Moore is probably worse. And they've got a long road ahead of them. Why do I feel the need to rank the shittiness? I don't know.


So what else? Well I have started the process of changing the surfer tattoo on my back into a golfer tattoo. The problem is, I can't call myself a surfer because I don't surf and I can't call myself a golfer because I suck. But I'm getting better. I'm finally starting to understand the physiology of the swing and I can recognize what my good swing feels like. I've really been obsessed with the game lately. Are there underlying father-issues at work? Oh yes. If you've read my crap before, you know the answer is yes. I don't want this to be a diary, but it usually turns out that way. My next post will be more outward looking. I might talk about hip-hop. There are some spitters coming up these days! And these guys have a great grasp on social media. Sit back and take notes.

No pictures. Just words.

Unhappy Old Year

It's been a tough year. My last post was about the murder of a friend's brother. Then there was Superstorm Sandy. It would have been nice if that still held the title of "Biggest Bad Thing That Happened in 2012," but then 20 school children and six adults were slaughtered in Newtown, CT national attention rightly shifted to that horrific event. All mass shootings are sad and horrible, and I'm not saying anything profound by pointing out that the ages of most of the victims made this one feel worse. At least it did to me. I didn't cry in 1999 when the victims were my age. I didn't cry in 2007 when 32 people were killed at Virginia Tech. But I sure as hell cried this time. I know I'm not alone in this, and that's why this will be a watershed event in American history. Things will change. They have to. I don't care what your political opinions are. Things must, and will change.

This was only the second time I can remember crying while driving. The first time was when my mother called to say she was taking our dog for his last walk to the beach before putting him to sleep. I was on my way to work and I reassured her that Winston was suffering and she was doing the right thing. As soon as I hung up- alligator tears. Wet steering wheel.

This time, I was on my way home from work, listening to news reports from Newtown. Just imagining the pain of parents who'd lost their children, thinking about how they probably had their kids' Christmas presents hidden in their attics, and the emptiness that they'll always feel, especially around the holidays, was enough to bring me to tears. Not quite wet steering wheel tears, but silent, stoic tears. Strong men also cry. I'll end this section by wishing, as our whole nation has, that the families who lost their kids can find some shred of comfort to hang on to.



But I was always going to write about the storm, because how could I not?  It's been almost two months since it hit, and by all accounts, the progress at my beloved Jersey Shore has been astounding. More than that, the resolve and the attitude that my friends and family have shown in the face of life-altering circumstances has been inspiring, but not surprising. When shit goes down, you really find out who people are, and my people are awesome.

It was strange watching the events unfold from 3,000 miles away. It went from making good old fashioned storm jokes, to "woah, this is a big one" to "I hope there isn't too much damage" to "holy shit, my quiet little neighborhood is on national TV because it's pretty much been wiped out." It's a helpless feeling.

In the days that followed, after I knew everyone was safe, things started to sink in. It felt like a loss. Like, you're fine for most of the day, then you remember how bad it is and how the people you care about the most are hurting. I thought about how many of the homes and landmarks and the scenery that had been burned into my brain over my whole life, the little things I took comfort in whenever I went home may no longer exist the next time I visit.

I've written before that I don't really know where I'm from because I moved around a bunch growing up. This makes my mother feel guilty. It's ok Mom. But the storm made it abundantly clear that I am from the Shore. It's the place I feel most connected to because it was the constant, no matter what my permanent address may have been over the years.


Another wake up call- My mother asked us to send her a coat because she didn't realize how long she'd have to be away from home and didn't bring a heavy one with her. We made arrangements to send her a coat (along with a bunch of other clothes to be disbursed among our family and friends) but it hit me all of a sudden, "My mother doesn't have the coat she needs right now." That was surreal. I saw some friends comment on Facebook that it was crazy seeing the benefits and fundraisers on TV because they were for US. This happened to US. What a crazy perspective. I don't mean to sound trite, since the residents of Newtown are certainly experiencing this grim reality, but again, it was kind of surreal.

Tomorrow, I fly home for the first time since the storm and everyone has said that pictures won't prepare me for what I'll see. I'm sure they're right. Amazing work has been done, but so much more work remains. But I've never been more excited to go home, and never more anxious either. I think the hugs will be a little tighter this year, the smiles a little wider. There will probably be tears too, but I think they'll be more stoic than alligator. And there will be alcohol. So much sweet alcohol. Can't wait to see everyone. Merry Christmas.

The epitome of "bittersweet," the theme of this trip home.

Officer Brad Fox

Hi gang. Hope you had a good summer. I haven't written since July, huh? I suck. Wait, no I don't. Negative self-talk is just that, negative. Too much of it can lead to self-fulfilling prophecy of poor performance and an unfavorable self-image. It's better to correct your mistake, and move on. Dont' dwell on your errors or short-comings.

A quick update on that July post- I wrote a private Facebook message to Jay a few weeks ago, and as of this morning he has not written back. I sure hope it's because he doesn't check FB regularly. It has to be, right? If someone came out of the blue and had possession of a very personal piece of your, uh, personal history, wouldn't you respond? Anyway, I'll let you know if I hear from him.

Today, I want to write about something horrible that happened. There's no smooth way to segue into this.

Brad Fox was a police officer in Plymouth Township, PA and the older brother of my college roommate, Jim and he was killed in the line of duty on September 13th. 

The last time I "wrote" about this, it didn't go as well as I would have liked. It was a text message to Jim saying how sorry I was and that I was glad to have met Brad. Those parts were fine. But I also said something about finding peace in the memories of his brother. This was literally the morning after it happened. The wound was far too raw to be talking about memories. That's like seeing a guy get his arm chopped off and immediately wishing him luck with physical therapy.

Jim wrote me back a few days later, thanking me for the message. I'm don't think it bothered him. Jim always sees the best in people (unless they're a NY Rangers fan). But I was annoyed at myself. The news hit me pretty hard and I should have waited a few hours for the shock to wear off. I wonder if part of me thought that since I'd experienced the sudden loss of my father, I was extra-qualified to offer condolences and should do it right away.  I know my intentions were good, but no two losses are the same. There's no Loss Club that you join where you automatically know how someone else feels.

Before becoming a cop, Brad was a Marine and served two tours in Iraq. When we met a few years ago, I remember thanking him for his service and saying something about how I could never do it on account of me being a complete pussy. He chuckled at my civilian guilt, but then he said something to the effect of, "It's a job, like any other." I didn't agree with him, but I really admired his outlook and his bravery. He didn't flaunt it. He wasn't one of those asshole Marines. You know the type. 

To survive war, only to be victimized in his own country is disheartening to say the least. Here's the account of his death. But if there's a bright side to this tragedy, it's the incredible support that the Fox family has received. Jim told me it's been more than they ever could have expected. Here's the official Facebook page if you'd like to learn more.

Oh, How Times Have Changed

If you lived in or visited Penthouse C at 75 Jackson St in Hoboken, NJ between October 2006 and January 2009 or if you've been to my current residence, the subject of this post will be familiar to you. If you don't fall in to  any of these categories, I encourage you to read on nonetheless. You might find it interesting.

But first, a story no one has ever heard. Because I'm going to make it up right now. And, begin.

Friday, May 9th 1986 was a fine spring day in New York and Jay had the world by the balls. At least to the extent that a junior analyst could. The previous year, his firm had somehow escaped major penalties relating to a massive check-kiting scandal, and the Crash of '87 was still about a year and a half away. As far as Jay knew, this was a new beginning for banking giant E.F. Hutton, but it was actually much closer to the end. Something did begin that night though, and it would change his life. Whirlwind romances can do that.

After work, he and a few of the guys on his trading desk made the short trip from their office at The World Trade Center down to South Street Seaport to unwind with a few too many. Unlike most of his peers in those days, Jay had no appetite for cocaine. He'd tried it, sure. Who hadn't? But even as the drug tightened it's grip on the world of high finance, it just wasn't something he enjoyed.

So when his buddies went off for a toot, he found himself alone with his beer. This ritual was taking place on most Friday nights now and sometimes on the odd Thursday and it always involved Jay being forced to abide the deluded rants of the coke fiend. Or fiends, in his case. Usually he'll drink enough gin to tolerate them, but tonight he'd only had a few beers and that just wouldn't do the job. A quick cab ride back to WTC, the PATH train to Grove Street Station in Jersey City and with luck, he could be in his apartment in less than a half hour. He stood up to finish his pint, and in doing so, bumped into a woman causing her to spill her chardonnay. Their eyes met. They were in love. Her name was Leslie.

Over the next year, the young couple would run in all directions. They ate mussels in Leslie's hometown of Palm Beach Gardens, Florida. They went to the dog track. Back in Manhattan, they visited the newly opened AT&T InfoQuest Center where they learned about microchips and fiberoptics, among other things.

In November they scored the hottest ticket in town: Steve Winwood at Madison Square Garden for the Back in the Highlife tour. Jay hosted his annual Christmas party. They went ice skating, they went to the Guggenheim, they saw a performance by The Paper Bag Players (Maybe one of them had a nephew or niece or something). They celebrated Valentine's Day '87. They played with a dog. They nursed one another back to health. It was a magical love affair and truly an unforgettable year.

  

















Yes, I know the story gets a bit rushed after they meet. First, it's a whirlwind. Second, it's based on a piece of art (with plenty of poetic license thrown in). As you can see, it's made up of many elements. To highlight each one would have made for quite a long tale and that's not really what this is about. This is more about the story behind the story. And another one behind that.

My roommates and I found the piece on October 1, 2006. I remember the date because it was the day we all moved in together and we were walking home after celebrating. It was with the trash on the curb, but it was wrapped in plastic. That and the period specific red frame caught our eye. One of us said, "We need some art. Grab it." We hardly looked at what it was.


When we got back to The Penthouse, we were amazed. This thing was crazy. What a bunch of random stuff.

Sorry for the glare.

Almost every person who visited our place for the first time was fascinated by it. We spent hours studying it, and I swear that I still find new details. Needless to say, I was able to claim it when we all moved out in January 2009. I was just kinda like, "I'm taking the art," and no one really argued. I don't even remember if I was the one who spotted it in the street that day. 

So now it hangs above the dinner table in our apartment, and is often the subject of alcoholically enhanced conversations and I'm very glad it does since it's pretty much the only interesting thing we own. Besides the pole.



Epilogue
We found Jay on Facebook. That's not a sentence that would have made sense in 1986. Not even the InfoQuest Center could have predicted the way social media would change our society. 

He and Leslie didn't make it. He's married to someone else and has three daughters. We figure Leslie made this for him and he lugged it around for 20 years before he finally decided to get rid of it. 

I can't decide if I want to contact him. I'm incredibly curious, but I don't want to risk somehow ruining the mystique. What do you think I should do? What should I say to him, if anything? Let me know in comments or on FB.

Meet the Mets

In honor of the team's 50th anniversary this year and because I feel like it, I'm writing about the New York Mets.

People sometimes inquire about my allegiance to the Mets. "Why the Mets?" they ask. "The Mets suck." they state. The genesis of my fanhood is their World Series win in 1986. I was in kindergarten, but I remember. Kind of. I definitely remember my old man leaving the house for one of the World Series games wearing a trash bag as a poncho. He must have owned an actual rain coat, so I don't know what the trash bag was all about. I always thought he went to the famous Game 6, but the only day that precipitation was reported during a Mets home game during the Series was Game 7. Maybe he saw the Mets win the Series. All I know is he brought be back this pennant.

However, there's another story I always give to explain/defend my Mets fanhood. One day I got called out of my first grade class at Ridge Elementary to find that my dad had surprised me with tickets to that day's game at Shea. He said "We're going to the game, son!" or something to that effect. I remember being ecstatic. My first Mets game!

(Full disclosure- This was not my first baseball game. I was brought to a Yankees game a few years earlier. I was way too young, and it was way too loud and I hated it. I cried. So that's why I hate the Yankees, I guess. Interestingly, I also cried at my first New York Giants game because my dad underestimated the bathroom line and left me alone in my seat for like a half hour. I freaked out, but it did not effect my love of the team. You never know with kids.)

Back to the Mets game. I remember it being hot. Really hot. I remember the ice in my soda melting almost immediately. I remember both of us being surprised that one of the Pittsburgh Pirates (the Mets' opponents that day, and my dad's favorite team) was wearing long sleeves under his jersey. I remember we sat on the third base side, but not sure what level. I want to say we sat in the Inner Field Box, but it easily good have been Outer Field Box. I know it wasn't the Loge level. I remember bragging about "box seats" to my friends. Box seats were a big deal. I remember seeing Straw up at bat! Number 18! That was my dog. I would go on to write a report on him in 4th grade, not long before he was traded to the Dodgers. But I don't remember who won, or any details from the game itself.

I believe we sat in the circled section.

It bothers me that I don't know what game it was. I've investigated it before, but not that thoroughly. Kind of like homosexuality. Wait, what?

But now it's time to get thorough! About figuring out which game I went to, that is. So I was in first grade from September 1987 to June 1988. Since again, it was hotter than hell that day, we can rule out it being at the end of the '87 season. In 1988 the Pirates made their first trip to Shea for a three game set from June 20-22. Was I really in school that late in June? I must have been. I cross referenced the New York weather for that period, and sure enough, it was hotter than ballz. I ruled out the game on the 20th since the high temp at LaGuardia was a mere 85 degrees. The next two days would reach 95 and 98 respectively so that means it was either June 21st or 22nd.

I have a vague recollection of seeing #16 Doc Gooden. Maybe that's just wishful remembering, but I'm going with it. So that means it was the game on 6/22/88, a 3-0 Mets victory! I feel so much better now. I hope you do too.

I love men. G Men that is! And my dad!

It's been just over a year since I wrote about professional team sports and exactly a year since my dad died. It's hard to believe it's been that long since both these things occurred. Let's revisit them today.

As you must know, (televised) sports are a big part of my life, so for it to have been this long since I wrote about them is astounding. 

Or is it? While I haven't written about sports, I've read about them almost every day. Earth to Matilda, there is a lot of brilliant sports writing on the internet. So brilliant, it made me think, "What's the point of me writing about them?" This negative attitude was partly compounded by the unearthing of a story I wrote in 8th grade that is on par with my most recent prose, in  both style and complexity.

The other problem is the three teams I pretend to know anything about (Giants, Mets, Liverpool FC) are three of the most well covered and passionately supported teams in their respective sports. You could read about these teams in hundreds or even thousands of other places. In fact, the whole internet is saturated with inane blogs about God knows what, just like this one. So why write anything at all? Why do anything at all? It's all been done. 


Ah ha! Ah ha! 


That's the point. It hasn't all been done and said. The world changes every second and there's always another point of view. There's always another story to be told. Plus, I crave the spotlight, however dim. So let's go for it!


Last year, I predicted that the Giants would defeat the Eagles at home 31-24, clinching the NFC East. Of course, that was the Matt Dodge punting to DeSean Jackson game, and the Giants went on to squander their next to chances to make the playoffs.

Well this year we're in baby! 

Side note: Who runs New York?? Woo! I went to Giants/Jets on Christmas Eve and the vibe at MetLife was fairly good natured. At least before the game, since both sets of fans secretly felt like their team kinda sucked. It was slightly less good natured after the game when the Giants faithful got their swagger back. It really was great to shut Rex's fat mouth.

He's actually doing a Globtrotters-style slide dribble with Felix Jones as the ball.

Anyway, after beating Dallas, which was just as sweet, we're in baby! A year ago, I wrote that the Giants were running the ball and rushing the passer well. This year, we're rushing the passer well! Yes, the pass rush disappeared for about 5 games after a strong start, but it's back now. This can be attributed to the return of Osi (he's still good!) and the continuted growth of the man-child, Jason Pierre-Paul. What can I say about JPP that hasn't already been said? He's an athletic freak who had a huge breakthrough about half way through the season, and now he'll play in the Pro Bowl. And guess what: HE'S STILL LEARNING! He's sharpening his instincts like an adolescent wolf who just joined the hunt. 

In other team news,

Eli: Elite

Cruuuuuz: Sick

Nicks: Still sick, despite the drop against da Skinz and the way he holds the ball like loaf of bread when he's running.

Rookie FB Henry Hynoski: Sooo fucking sick. You see those first down catches and a hurdle against the Cowboys?

Bradshaw/Jacobs: Not too sick this year, but they're showing signs of sickness. I've been really unimpressed with new center David Baas and the run blocking overall. O-Line, LB, and the secondary need help. Even without the injuries that have crushed these areas, they need upgrades.

Following a similar game plan from last week, the Giants will beat the Falcons 27-20 on Sunday. Then on to Green Bay! Woop! Woop!


We'll save in depth analysis of the Mets and LFC for another time. I'm too depressed to talk about the Mets, but the Pool cruised to a 5-1 victory over Oldham Athletic in the FA Cup today, with captain Steven Gerrard scoring from the penalty spot and Steward Downing netting his first goal for the club.


In a silky-smooth segue, the old man passed a year ago yesterday (1/5). I can't talk about, or think about, or play sports without thinking of him. I mean, I can, but you get my point. There's a strong connection!

It's been kind of a weird year. I was pretty pumped on 2011, but got thrown off track, early on. I can't believe it's been over a year since I heard his voice. Here's something that sucks: I had old voicemails he'd left me, and I was going to listen to them when I was ready. But then I updated my phone and *poof! they were erased! Bummer! So I never got to hear those again. I didn't mourn Steve Jobs for this reason. Also because I never met him. I know he made great products, but dang.


So dad, I miss you. You're with me every time I play golf and despite iTunes updates, I can still hear your voice.

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.