The Bloggy Blogface!

Friday night at this tiny A-League ballpark and the five of us roll in like we own the place. Three of us have been there before, the others were park virgins. After some seasonals in lame team polos scan our tickets, we head straight to the Oskar Blues tent to pick up some tallboys. One of my friends knows the lady behind the counter and she slices the price from six-fifty to three for us. Score. This being Jesus Carolina, only one beer at a time per customer, please. Make our way up the stairs where there seems to be way too many damn ushers trying to help fans find their seats. We don't need no stupid usher help, we got this. General admission seating happens on the upper level in opposite corners of the ballpark. Upper level is relative, because it's maybe a step up from a walkway that cuts the sections in half. We don't see any five seats close together on the right field side at first, so we start along the walkway looking for other spots. We come to a large swath ...

Inspired through another blog, I decided to analyze someone's random Craigslist personals ad. This is an actual ad from "women seeking men." My commentary is in red. Yup, I'll Watch Football With You On Sundays =) - 29    Well how precious. Does this mandate I sit through Real Housewives of Whatever Shitty Location with you? I hope so. 'm enjoying the summer...but I always look forward to the fall! I've been "trained" to be a good football watcher - and I actually enjoy watching the Pats' games! Now, I may be doing my nails or something while it's on, but I promise not to ask you what a first down means =) A typo right off the bat. Delicious!  Once again another reference to the football. WE GET IT. And I love how "trained" is in quotes. What the hell does that even mean? I imagine her former fuck buddy strapping her to a metal folding chair, tying her up, clamping her eyes wide open and forcing her to watch hours upo...

   Seventy-seven years ago (or thereabouts) I fell off the wagon. Well, a wagon. Zipping down a neighborhood street with a steep descent, I tumbled out of my cherry red Radio Flyer and cut my arm pretty bad. Turns out that handle doesn't make for a good steering wheel. Nobody was around to see me tumble, although I guess my sister was, or may have been. I told her to give me a push at the top and that's exactly what she did, watching me speed down the embankment and around a sharp corner before I lost control. By the time I brushed myself off and lumbered my way back up the hill, dragging that damn faulty steering wheel handle, I could see she was nowhere to be found. My sister raced home before I took the spill, probably telling our mother what had happened. True to her stoic German form, mom was neither worried nor upset. As I'm whimpering and clutching my arm walking through the door, she utters the same phrase she always said whenever my sister or I would get hurt ...

Note to the fellow on the 3 train Dear Sir,   It's very possible you may not read this. Hell, not many people can anyway. However, from outside my window Ain't No Stopping Us Now is pumping through someone's speakers, and I am compelled to write. Because frankly - and I hope your name isn't Frank - I am concerned. And it looked like nothing was stopping you. It was a crisp summer morning, and I had just stepped onto the 3 train from a short venture to brave the entitled, somewhat arrogant crowds at an upper west side Fairway for some groceries. In my bag were the usual suspects - deli meat, bread, pita chips, and a 6-pack of $11 beer. The lunch of champions. I positioned myself on the platform to board one the cars with the fewest passengers, as I usually do. It's a tactic I am forever learning, and maybe even getting better at, especially during weekdays. As fate would have it, I ended up boarding the very car I met you . Well, let's be frank ...

   For starters, I am somewhat impressed you are all here at six in the early evening when it is still eighty-six degrees outside and sunny. I'm pretty sure the humidity is around 648% as well.That's some damn dedication.  As for me, I am here because I am fat. I mean, I probably am, according to WebMD, my mom, and Judgey McJudgerson over there. Whatever. I JUST LOVE PIZZA SO MUCH. And booze, really, but that's totally more of a coping mechanism. Anyway, I am only here because I need some cardio in my life. Lower that blood pressure or something, I guess. Maybe tack on an extra day or two of my life toward the end. I just feel compelled to do it at the hottest time of the day. I tried this too when I was living in Louisiana. Ninety-four degree afternoons with a gazillion-percent humidity and I'd be out there trying to burn calories on the track. Some good that did. So, I am here, and you are here. I am here to walk around your fields. Four of them to be precise, ea...

   Either Rachel Dolezal has a serious personality disorder, or her family is just so messed up she successfully (for awhile) distanced herself from them using one of the most extreme methods she could imagine. Those are really the only two possibilities here, other than being just plain batshit crazy in denial. I bring up Dolezal's misfortune because Father's Day is coming up. No, I am not Dolezal's father - although I wouldn't put it past her to try and take that stance. My father, however, is white - so I'm sure both he and I are out of the running for that circus and likely future Lifetime movie. For Mother's Day, along with a card I included a gift card to Dunkin' Donuts, where she buys way too many bags of coffee to stash away in case an apocalypse strikes. Because I do not want to be a jerk of a son, I am going to include a gift card for my father this Sunday as well. The problem is that it cannot be a Dunkin' Donuts card, as he does not d...

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