The best thing about this time of year, other than the friends and family and whatnot, is that tons of little breweries put out bad ass beers. Winter seasonals comprise some of my favorite beers. They're really spicy, and they're almost always really strong. Last year, I wrote at length about the benefits of Anchor Steam's "Our Special Ale" or Anchor Christmas for short. They switch up the recipe every year, and I'm happy to say, after the past couple weeks of extensive testing, they've once again hit a home run.
Coming in as a close, but devastating second is Brown Shugga by Lagunitas. Not only is this one tasty, but it's a hefty 9.9% alcohol by volume. I usually sip one during the course of a night, in front of my television, and fall into blissful sleep. Tonight, I downed two of them and capped them off with an Anchor Christmas. I could go for a good 12-hour nap. But instead, I'm typing this and wondering what train hit me.
It's been fucking cold here, and not California cold either. Actual frigid temperatures have seeped into the valley prison, and walking to my friend's place for a movie and a couple beers was a treacherous journey. The heavy beers warmed me right up, and watching some crazy amphibian monster fuck up Seoul, Korea, got all of us hollering. Good times. But I'm sleepy. Too much time on YouTube. That Justin Timberlake "Dick in the Box" clip is really funny, but I've been on a nostalgia kick lately, and this is my favorite Weezer song.
I probably should have stayed home today, but the draw of pizza, beer and rock music proved to be too strong. I called my favorite cab driver up--he drives a limo now, a plush new Lincoln Town Car, and I get to ride around in it for cheap--and ditched my Final Fantasy XII pals (sorry, guys!) to go see some bands at a local pizza shop that's become a sort of venue.
I don't know why bands would want to play anywhere else in this town. First off, their pizza is pretty damn good for California, they have bottles of Pabst for a buck, and since it's a restaurant, it's able to stay all ages. I paid a donation at the door, got ear plugs, a slice and a beer and had a good time.
Afterwards, my friends took me over to this party. I went willingly. I wasn't kidnapped. But once I got there, I was reminded how I'm becoming increasingly less of a party person. All I do is hide in a corner and leach on to the people I showed up with. I don't mingle. And even to the folks with whom I arrived, I rarely talk.
This was certainly a good party. There was a good turn out, people weren't too wasted, and I actually knew quite a few folks there. Still, I did my best to stick to my social chameleon routine and tried to blend into the walls. One good thing that happened at the party was I heard a song I hadn't in a while.
I've been trying to find I Was Born for the 7th Time by Cornershop for quite some time now. I guess it's really not a chore. I could probably just look it up on Amazon and have it in a few days, but I still like the joy of actually finding something that I want. I guess I'm old fashioned. I've listened to it six or seven times now since coming home in the hopes that I'll get sick of it and forget about it for a while. It hasn't happened yet though.
Rediscovering this little gem led me to reminisce about other '90s one hit wonders. One of the best of that crop was Marcy Playground, who I still think got the shaft somehow. I don't know why this album didn't do better than it did. "Sex and Candy," obviously, was a big hit, but there were a lot of other good tracks on it too, like this one.
I guess that's why Time-Life makes nostalgic greatest hits collections.
I'm not going to sit here and try to defend Skid Row. I really shouldn't have to, but the era of rock that they came out of has become the butt of many jokes. And with good reason. Remember Ratt? Dangerous Toys? Great White? Dokken?! Slaughter?!???!1112?!11 These bands were awful. Even then, when I was young, and I didn't know any better, I still thought they were awful. And while i still get a kick out of the occasional Def Leppard song, I know that for the most part, all that shit was pure schlock. But, a couple summers ago, I was driving down to see No Doubt and Blink-182 (modern schlock) with my roommate at the time, and we were both drinking beers and whiskey from a flask while barreling down some two-lane country highway. He was a big rocker kinda guy. He liked fat-bottomed girls and drum solos. He was playing a mix CD he'd made on the car stereo and "I Remember You" by Skid Row popped on. I chuckled at first, but then I realized that it really stood up. It's probably the best power ballad ever. Skid Row, the band's first album, was one of the first I'd ever paid for, so I must have liked it, and listening to one of its biggest hits just then, I realized why. Sure, they were just as pretty as the rest of their contemporaries, but they definitely had a blue collar sound to them--the kind of thing Bon Jovi tried for but never quite attained. I mean, the band is what it is. It's not rocket science. Skid Row grew up in Toms River, NJ, and I don't know what it was like back then, but my aunt lives there now and it's like a city-sized retirement community where everyone eats dinner at 3pm and drives a gray/silver Buick. But maybe back in Skid Row's day, it was a rough and tumble town. Maybe one of them worked at a train yard. Or maybe knew someone who did. I'd like to think that's true.
Tonight, I scored free tickets to go see Sebastian Bach and his band here in town. They played all the hits, and even though no one was there--and Baz pointed that out to two people who were fighting ("What are you guys fighting about? There's plenty of room for everyone. There were more people on my bus last night")--they still unleashed a year's worth of fist pumping, guitar face and drum stick twirls. There was even a drum solo. And when someone threw a blunt on stage, Baz and co. sparked that bad boy up, following suit with a cheesy one-liner. Tonight was a one-off date from their tour with the new Guns N' Roses, and I'm sure they'll play in front at least a few thousand people tomorrow. And I'm sure Baz will blow doors off of Axl, because I saw GNR in the band's prime and Rose couldn't hit a fucking note. He sure could make costume changes though.
A lot of shit has happened this year that has been worthy of office water cooler chat time. Most of it has involved either Britney Spears' or Lindsay Lohan's vagina. Both of which are fine topics, but this is probably my favorite story of this year.
Two dolphins in an aquarium in China's Liaoning province ate some plastic on the edge of their tank and got themselves tummy aches. attempts at removing the deadly plastic via surgery failed because their stomachs contracted around the surgical instruments. The following is why veterinarians make the big bucks. Because they're problem solvers.
"Veterinarians then decided to ask for help from Bao Xishun, a 7-foot-9 herdsman from Inner Mongolia with 41.7-inch arms, state media said."
And it worked! Xishun was able to manually extract the plastic chunks, which revitalized the beleaguered sea mammals.
When I first heard this, I thought it had to be a hoax, but it seems pretty legit. I wish I could've been there when the frazzled veterinarian spoke up: "Guys. You might think I'm crazy...But I've got a plan." If you go to the story, there's a link to the video. And it's radical.
Ok, I just spent about half-an-hour going back over previous posts and adding labels to them. Isn't that awesome? Well? From the looks of the list, I lead a pretty sad and lonely life, which is probably why I have a blog. That is all.
I was looking for the new Heidi Klum Christmas commercial, because I saw it the other night and my palms got sweaty. Heidi Klum is way too sexy. So much so that it makes me uncomfortable. Like, I get embarrassed. I couldn't find it. YouTube, you have failed me. I did find the above ad, however, which I hadn't seen before, and it's really funny. Vader, I'm with you, bro.
The impetus for this post is twofold: 1) I love this commercial. 2) I wanted to test posting a YouTube video in the new layout. I also don't want to do a lick of work today. So that's threefold.
I spent about four hours fucking around with the new Blogger, which I'm dubbing the Messiah of Blogging. I'm not sure if it made anything easier or better yet, but it sure makes it fun to fuck around with stuff. More changes to come, I think. Any feedback?
So I upgraded to the NEW BLOGGER, which is both an exciting and baffling process, especially at this time of night. Especially after I've been out at a rock show. Rest assured, this transitional phase will be temporary, and this space will be as bland and awkward as the space you've come to know and love. Thank you for your patronage.
Cat Power's a really beguiling creature. I've seen clips of her performing live and it can get really weird. She did this dance on Letterman that at first I thought was cute and quirky, but as it continued, made me feel really awkward. I get the feeling that you'd be having a very nice conversation with her and then, without warning, she'd begin staring at the ceiling and then turn to start drawing unicorns and butterflies on the wall. I don't know what that means, but Chan Marshall can really write a beautiful song when she puts her mind to it. I really like this video for "Lived in Bars" because it's not so dour and serious as some of her songs get and it reminds me of visiting home for the holidays and getting blotto with old friends of mine. I get to listen to so much music, I sometimes forget about certain albums. The Greatest came out last year, and it's super soulful so go out and buy it.
PS. I know I'm supposed to recognize her as an artist, and I do. She's awesome, but she's got pretty awesome legs too... And I don't feel bad for noticing.
Because Monica Bellucci is pretty fucking ridiculous. And Italian. And 42.
I was watching VH1's The Fabulous Life of Celebrity Moguls today because my life is neither fabulous, nor am I even a menial sort of mogul. One of the celebrities they highlighted was Jay-Z, who I have a lot of respect for as a business man and an artist, though after seeing him slanging Budweiser with his new song, I kinda wish he'd just gone out on The Black Album, which was really fucking good. Anyway, the program's voice over ran over the Jay-Z's impressive resume outside of the rap game--how he owns this, is president of that, etc. The cherry on top was that he also owns his own color, which I'm sure grants you a previously unobtainable level of pimpdom. The voice over explained that Jay-Z has his own shade of blue, aptly titled Jay-Z Blue, and you can get your lap top or bling-mobile or whatever all done up with it. I didn't think this was at all possible. Then I found this article from a December 2005 issue of Rolling Stone. It's really long, but here's the clincher:
Next summer Jay will unveil an entirely new way of marketing himself: a color called Jay-Z Blue. “Jay-Z Blue is a license for corporations to get Jay-Z in the building,” said Steve Stoute, the head of Translation Consultation and Brand Imaging, who’s working with Jay on the project. “Cars, laptops, lots of different things. I got deals lined up like you don’t understand. But the bottom line is would a company pay to get Jay-Z involved in their product line? Yes, because of who he is and what he’s become as an icon. Consumers know that bullsh!t don’t leave his mouth. So when Jay-Z says x is cool he can singlehandedly change things. When Jay-Z says you shouldn’t have a [Range Rover] 4.0 but a 4.6, that changes Range Rover’s numbers. On ‘What More Can I Say,’ there’s a line: ‘I don’t wear jerseys, I'm thirty-plus/ Give me a crisp pair of jeans, nigga, button-up.’ That put Reebok’s NFL jersey business back to fans, removed it from fashion. He can move the cultural needle because they believe his honesty.”
I still have my doubts, but I guess if anyone could pull that off, it's Jay-Z. And "99 Problems" is a really good song with a bad ass video.
Whoever said--and there's been about 18 of you--that turning 30 would be wonderful clearly had no idea that the universe hates me. Seattle was great, Thanksgiving was fun, my fatally spicy Thai lunch today was great. I suppose I can't really blame a birthday, but other than the aforementioned, shit's been really, well, shitty. I don't know how else to say it. Today's meeting didn't go well at work, but that's only the beginning of the problem.
I haven't been able to sleep like a normal person--or a criminally psychotic person for that matter. Last night, I laid in bed until 7 in the morning before I finally fell asleep. Because of that, I didn't get to work till noon. I guess that's all well and good, but I feel like a loser when that happens, especially since no one says a thing to me when I wander in around lunch time. I shouldn't be able to get away with that, but I do, almost every day.
Today's meeting went poorly, and that's probably mostly my fault. I'm not much of a morale booster as it is, but I didn't help matters much with my morbid attitude. I felt really unprofessional, and neither that nor my indifference to regular office hours helps my confidence. I found out just before Thanksgiving that my dad has prostate cancer. This isn't an excuse for my shitty attitude. It's not even a reason--my attitude's been shitty for some time now. He doesn't need surgery. At least, he's not getting surgery. I hate doctors, pretty much, and I don't trust them at all. He got some kind of medicine thing put in his arm that's supposed to keep the swelling down. He just found out yesterday that starting in late January, he's got to go get radiation treatment five days a week for five weeks, because his prostate is about three times larger than it should be, or something like that. It just bugs me that if it's something so pressing, why does he have to wait three months before he goes into have something done about it. I know that a lot of men end up getting prostate cancer and it's usually not fatal. At least that's what I've heard.
I'm a bit of a wreck. Today didn't help. So I listened to obnoxious pop music.
I mean really obnoxious, so if you know what's good for you, you'll probably not want to watch that video. I don't know what the Vengaboys' deal is. I guess they're British, and they're obviously unaware that they're not, in fact, all boys. Or maybe the girls are "more than meets the eye." Like I said, I don't know. But I'd probably make out with the lead singer chick regardless.
I looked this song up on YouTube because I remember that when we first got Napster back in the Bronze Age of the Internet, my sister had downloaded it, and it'd always play when I turned our Sonique MP3 player on shuffle. The first 40 times, I pressed skip, but after a while, my resolve eroded and I let it play. It's like a three-and-a-half minute lobotomy. It's impossible to think of anything while the song is playing. It's aggressive Nintendo sounds are too pervasive. I'm actually playing it now. ... And I forgot what else I was going to write. So check this out.
I've officially had two hangovers at age 30, and both of them have been unbelievably miserable. In general, they've been getting worse over the past year, but the most recent ones have been really bad. Last night, during my sprint home from the bars (it was a really weird night, and power walking felt really good), I acquired a particularly nasty headache. I knew I was in for it.
I woke up, miraculously, on the pleather love seat with the Bloomberg News Network blaring its nauseating mix of headlines, stock market figures and other such stats. I really don't remember putting that on, but I may have knocked into the remote in my sleep. It was 6AM.
Immediately, I moved to the bathroom to take a dump and got really paranoid about whether or not I was about to throw up. I hustled out of the bathroom, put on my shoes and went outside. I'm not sure why, but I've made up my mind that if I am going to throw up, I'd rather do it outside like an animal than inside like a real human being. I found a good spot in the back corner, right by the fence and between two trees. It never happened. I ended up staying out side for a good hour, taking in the morning air like some kind of nature person would. It was really comforting and meditative. I'm staunchly anti-vomiting, so I won't force myself to puke even if it will make me feel better. I'd rather ride it out, which I think stems from my guilt-ridden Catholic upbringing.
I came back in the house to turn off my alarm clock and ended up sitting on my bedroom floor with my back up against my bed. I may have dozed off once or twice before I got on the bed and sat with my back against the wall. Then, I pulled my pillows closer to me and rested my head on them, laying down on my side, my feet, still in shoes were on the floor. I was fully dressed, in a hoodie. I slept, on and off, until after 1PM. When I woke up for reals, I found that all that time outside had caused me to track mud and leaves into my bedroom. I watched some college football and moved minimally.
So yeah, I didn't go out tonight. The shame that would come from spending another day in the same state would be too much to bear at my advanced age. I opted, instead, to play a lot of Final Fantasy XII, which is really coming along nicely. I spent most of the day on the pleather love seat, but around 11PM, my own sloth became just as troubling. I went downtown to get an ice cream Sunday and deposit the checks my roommates gave me for the energy, water and cable bills. I also picked up a six-pack of Lagunitas Brown Shugga', a winter seasonal beer, which isn't going down very well right now. Better luck tomorrow, I guess.
Hi, Everyone. It's me, Jenny Lewis, singer/songwriter from the band Rilo Kiley, and more recently, my own solo project Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins. I'm writing from J's subconscious because he's pretty fried, but he wanted to let the four of you who read this (and all the pervs from Europe looking for Asia Argento n00dz) to know that he's not dead and will probably be writing soon.
Upon turning 30, he sent himself to Seattle to bask in the city's sponge-y fall weather and watch some football and stuff. While there, he was also able to catch a Seattle Sonics basketball game, visit two local microbreweries, get really shitfaced with a couple from Arizona, ate his weight in pizza and hot wings, ogled some real life NFL cheerleaders up close and saw the Dead Sea Scrolls. He also spent quality time with a friendly beagle.
Cute, huh? Upon returning home, stress-free and optimistic, he found out that his heater doesn't work, two of his coworkers are no longer employed and he has been having really bizarre dreams about right-wing Christians and lesbian nun porn (two separate dreams). I'd be worried about him if I knew him and wasn't a figment of his imagination. Luckily, he's sequestered himself in front of his living room television with an ample supply of beer and Final Fantasy XII, which I've never played, but he tells me it's the greatest thing ever. I guess I'll have to take his word for it. I'm awesomely talented and incredibly beautiful so I don't really need to play video games like he does.
Well, that's it for now. It was nice writing to all of you. Oh, I almost forgot. I actually met J once. He interviewed me in San Francisco. I'm not sure if he's mentioned it before, but we drank beer together (I had a lemon in mine), and I laughed at one of his jokes. And though I didn't really pay him much mind at first, I've come to realize that he is the most amazing and attractive man I've ever met. And I'd bet he's hung like a horse.
First off. Is Halloween over now? Good. I feel like I've been celebrating it for a month already. It was good times. A lot of fun, but no offense to all the sexy devils out there, but I'm ready to move on. I've been 30 for two hours and five minutes and I'm already grumpy.
I don't normally get wrapped up in celebrity hook ups and break ups (I mean, I do, but I don't write about them), but Reece and Ryan's descent into domestic turmoil caught my attention. Not only did the two of them manage to avoid ever being referred to in a one-name conglomerate (Brangelina, Bennifer, etc.), but the two really seemed like they'd last. Seven years is a long time for anyone, I guess, and for Hollywood A-listers, it's an eternity. Honestly, if I'd heard about this news around April 1st, I would've figured it for a prank, but since it all came down so close to my birthday, I'm taking it as a gift from the gods. My path is now clear: I'd like to throw my name in the hat to become Reece Witherspoon's next kept man.
I'm sure it'll be a crowded field, and I can accept that. I'm not afraid of the competition, but really, if I could end up with Reece Witherspoon, I really think I could turn my life around. Obviously, she's supremely attractive and talented (I finally saw Walk the Line and she was more than deserving of all the praise)--and for those two things alone, she's now the most sought after catch in the United States. But she's also classy, intelligent, powerful, charming and I'm sure a whole lot of other things. I mean, I don't really know her or anything, but she seems like a good egg. Oh...AND SHE'S FUCKING LOADED.
Clearly, I'm not as attractive as Ryan Phillipe. The dude's got great hair, pout-y lips and perfect bone structure. He's probably in damn good shape, too, but he must not have too good a head on his shoulders. He was set for life with a damn fine woman and all the luxuries one could ever want--and it seems like he may have been the one who cheated on her. Dude, bro. Real fuckin' smart.
I'm balding, flabby and mildly undeformed--my own beard kinda frightens me--but I know a good thing when I see one. I'm about $70k in debt; I drink too much; I'm spinning my wheels; I'm not even close to owning a house, car or any other type of adult-type thing; and my parents still send me money every month. I've heard Reece is a charitable sort, so I'll just make my plea here: Reece, I'll watch your kids, rub your feet, clean the house, cook you dinner, let you fuck other guys. Whatever it takes. Just give me an early retirement. And make my credit card companies happy. Thank you for your time. Hit me up on MySpace if you're interested.
I'd like to thank Ms. Lilly for her time as banner woman for Counting Backwards, but I figured since I'd renewed my license today, I might as well slap together a new look in honor of my impending birthday. Nothing will stand in its way now. Cosmic forces have conspired against me to lead me to this moment, and I'm powerless against them.
I made really good pasta today, though. Some basil, garlic, butter sauce thing and I threw zucchini in there for good measure. The chicken came out okay...I should have put it in the oven.
After dinner, I went over to my friend's store to watch Frankenhooker, which was pretty awesome. Really what made it was the actress who played the mismatched monster, Patty Mullen. She was sexy for sure, even with multi-toned skin, sutures and unfortunate late '80s style (I guess she also posed for Penthouse at some point), but more than that, her facial expressions were completely bad ass and she could shamble like nobody's business. I mean, sure, it's a movie about a girl who dies and is resurrected by her crazy-ass boyfriend using the parts of New York City crack whores, but it was really cool to see someone throw herself into a role, no matter how ridiculous it was. Is that admirable? I'd like to think so anyway. I'm sure Mary Shelley was only rolled over once in her grave over this one, which is a lot more than could be said for that Kenneth Branagh/Robert DeNiro fiasco.
I'm totally going through the motions. I'm sure anyone paying attention would be able to figure that out. I've shaved my head, but left the beard, and i don't care how bad it looks. Slap a hat on it and pull the hoodie up and I'm like the thief from the Dungeons and Dragons cartoons--I can more or less disappear. I got a text message at 11:30AM--I'd been up for a little bit--that informed me some people were down at this sports bar for champagne brunch. I hate champagne, but I was sorta hungry and I figured I could catch the last quarter of the Giants game. The waitresses at the bar all called me by name, but I don't know they are. I'm there enough though. I just don't know their names, and most of them are really cute. I sat with my coworker and her friends (I thought there'd be more people there I'd know), and they were a few bottles of champagne deep. The group was loud and never let anyone's glass go empty. One dude dressed as a pimp kept ordering shots of tequila. I drank water and ate and watched the game. I was having a good time, and they were getting really drunk. Eventually, I broke down and got a can of Pabst. They all invited me to go to see Saw 3 with them, and I would've gone, but I really didn't like the first two. My old roommate called and asked me if I wanted to go see The Departed (apparently everyone I knew wanted to go to the movies today), and I really wanted to see that, so I went. It was pretty damn good, really tense, but the ending, I thought, came up really flat. It's a good movie if you want to see people get shot in the head, though. After the movie, I tagged along to an organic food market and bought London broil, catfish, a boneless chicken breast, a ham sandwich, two zucchini and two ears of corn. I decided to cook half the London broil and save the sandwich for lunch tomorrow. I needed to do something productive. I ate the steak really rare and it gave me kind of a rush--I'm guessing it was E. coli or a tapeworm. Either way, I'll lose a couple pounds.
But really this was all foreplay. The main event was later in the evening at the meathead bar, a costume party/contest. I didn't want to wear a costume, but I went, because I must now embrace my new role in life: dirty old man.
I'm turning 30 and it sucks. I don't care what anyone says. Everyone's telling me it's going to be great, but I know it's not going to be. Maybe it will be come December, or maybe it's because other things aren't going as well as I'd hoped, and I don't know what to do next. Even when I drink, I hardly can get drunk anymore, and I can't afford to step up the dosage, so I just get a slight buzz and then a grumbly stomach, and then a head ache, and probably the shits in the morning. In this town, 30 isn't over the hill, but it's definitely approaching the top of it, and people start to wonder why you haven't left yet and what you're still doing here. Luckily, Guinness still tastes really good, and I have enough drink coupons at enough bars that I hardly have to pay for it (other than tips) and I can still find some small amount of joy in our female population's willingness to don sexy costumes for no apparent reason.
The costume contest was pretty typical. But there's a part of my catholic brain that kicks into overdrive when it's confronted with a fetishistic version of a nun's habit--especially when the woman wearing it is able to fill it out so well. Or maybe she didn't. Maybe all those catechism classes with stern, shapeless nuns just projected a nubile young woman into that costume. Not like it matters to me one way or the other.
My other two favorites were Sexy Alice and Sexy Lil' Bo Peep, and this Amazonian-sized beauty wearing a shaggy Sexy Barbarian costume. I think she was six feet tall. And it was awesome.
Of course there were guys, too. But Sexy Dude costumes don't ever go over well with the crowd. Unless of course the dude wearing it is a large man. A large drunk man, who's not afraid to show a little cheek and shake dat ass. This dude won best male costume, and probably by a landslide.
I was sitting in this local shitty diner at 2:20AM, which really turned out to be 1:20AM (because of that darn time change thing...still didn't mean the bars stayed open an extra hour), when I realized that Halloween is a good holiday because it's one of the few that gets better when you get older. When you're a kid, it rocks because you can knock on people's doors and they give you Snickers bars. When you're an adult, it means that other adults will have loosened morals and wear skimpy costumes.
There's also a lot of alcohol too, presumably, which is probably why the two dudes down the block are screaming "FUCK YOU!" at each other right now. "It was a fucking joke man! Fuck you! I came here to apologize to you? Fuck you!"
They finally shut up.
I went to some party tonight and there were lots of sexy so and sos, and I was amazed at how there seems that any kind of costume has some kind of sexy version. My favorite this year was sexy Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I chuckled at the first one, but I was amazed to see near a dozen sexy Ninja Turtles strewn about town. One was at the diner, standing in front of me at the cashier, and she was having a problem keeping her tiny shorts in place on her shapely ass. Earlier, when she staggered by us on her way to the bathroom, I assume to puke, someone at another table shouted, "Donatello!" and she snapped back, "Raphael, asshole!" I thought that was awesome.
Some big black dude dressed as a preacher kept falling asleep at the counter, and this other dude dressed as Homer Simpson was having the same problem. He looked like he could puke at any minute. I kept hoping he would until my food came out. I was stone sober most of the night, and being at the shitty diner was even more sobering.
My neighbors are arguing again. Halloween definitely gets better with age.
Why didn't I think of this first? I figured with Halloween looming its debaucherous head, I'd post up a treat. This is probably the best magazine ever of all time. Ever.
Baseball has always done its best to teach me lessons in humility. When I was a kid--and I've probably written about this before--I played little league for a couple seasons. I was terrible, obviously, because I grew up to be a writer/editor and not the second baseman for the New York Mets, but it really wasn't for lack of trying. I really wanted to be a good baseball player, but, damn it if that ball didn't come at you awfully fast. And it hurt like a motherfucker too. I know, because one time when I was battling bronchitis, I ended up playing because the team was shorthandeded, and, since I could barely hold the bat upright, I figured the best way I could help the team was pray for a walk, or, if the pitch came a bit inside, just not get out of the way. I crowded home plate and got drilled twice in my right arm. I'm pretty sure we won that game.
One time, I actually made good contact, twice in the same game, in fact. My first at bat, I hit a screaming line drive toward the short stop, but he jumped in the air--swear to God--and caught it over his head. No biggie, I figured, I'd hit that pitcher next time up. And I did. I was seeing the ball really well that game for some reason and as soon as it left his hand, I knew I could clobber it. I drilled it to dead center, high and deep, but it was the kid in centerfield's time for little league greatness, not mine. I was busy running the ball out--like a good lil' soldier--and didn't realize that the fielder made some improbable catch to ruin my only bid for a home run (I did hit an inside the park job once, but that's because I slapped a line drive the other way in the corner, and I think the kid had trouble fielding it).
The year before, my team advanced to the finals of the East Shore Little League playoffs (not that I had much to do with it). We lost the first game of the best-of-three series, but in game two, down in the final inning, we won under some kind of dramatic circumstances. I don't remember how, but I remember being on base and running toward our dugout where we all jumped on the kid who drove in the winning run. He was this kid named Shawn, a big strapping youngster who played catcher for us, and he could hit the ball a ton. Taking the momentum of coming from behind, we rode the wave of momentum up until the final inning of game three. In fact, we rode that wave pretty fucking hard. I think we were up by 12 runs. I remember feeling confident, not cocky, but figuring that it would take a miracle for us to lose. I mean, come on...we were up by 12 runs.
The team scored a couple, then a couple more. I was playing left field, and Tony, I think that was his name, was pitching. Only one ball came anywhere near me, an errant throw to the second baseman, and I watched helplessly from left as I watched the team we had beat badly going into the final inning score the winning run. It was one of the most humbling experiences of my life.
Baseball dealt me another dose of humility this past Thursday as the Mets were defeated by the Cardinals in game 7 of the NLCS. I was not pleased. Even though Endy Chavez made just about the best catch I've ever seen in the playoffs, the Mets still couldn't muster any offence, and with the bases loaded, Carlos Beltran, arguably our best player, struck out looking to end the game and the Mets season. I told my game-watching companion--she'd watched most of the series with me at this local sports bar--the inning before Yadier Molina hit his game-winning two-run homer that "games like this usually come down to one play, you just hope your team comes up with it." They didn't. It was a great game, tied at 1 going into the 9th inning. My stomach was fucked for two days because off all the stress I put myself through.
I didn't watch a lick of sports this weekend. No World Series, no football (well just a little, and I watched the Giants beat the Cowboys tonight...woo!), I just rested and played video games and sulked around somewhat happy that I had my life back, until I realized how fucking boring it was. I did almost drive two women on mushrooms to Reno at 4 in the morning on Friday. Almost. I guess it's not that boring.
This definitely wasn't boring. I nearly shit my pants.
The best thing about this time of year, other than the friends and family and whatnot, is that tons of little breweries put out bad ass beers. Winter seasonals comprise some of my favorite beers. They're really spicy, and they're almost always really strong. Last year, I wrote at length about the benefits of Anchor Steam's "Our Special Ale" or Anchor Christmas for short. They switch up the recipe every year, and I'm happy to say, after the past couple weeks of extensive testing, they've once again hit a home run.
Coming in as a close, but devastating second is Brown Shugga by Lagunitas. Not only is this one tasty, but it's a hefty 9.9% alcohol by volume. I usually sip one during the course of a night, in front of my television, and fall into blissful sleep. Tonight, I downed two of them and capped them off with an Anchor Christmas. I could go for a good 12-hour nap. But instead, I'm typing this and wondering what train hit me.
