Should we start looking for new heroes?

I played baseball for 6 consecutive years--mostly little league. I was flat out horrible at the sport, though. Memories of hitting RBIs or fielding grounders are lacking. In fact, my most poignant memories are bloopers:

• Having the third-base coach yell at me for missing a chance to score a run because I was staring at my cleats instead of watching the hitter
• Lying on the ground after missing an easy pop fly, then deciding to just remain on the ground for a while and act like I'd injured my shoulder
  

Indeed, I preferred chewing the rawhide off my glove in some abandoned corner of right field to manning some infield position. I think my coach invented the "rover" position just for me:

Coach: "Listen, I want you to go hold down that patch of weeds under the bleachers and watch for stray balls. If you get bored there, feel free to wander over to the ditch behind the field and catch garter snakes."

Me: "Sure coach, but will you send someone to the ditch to tell me when it's our turn to bat?"

Suffices to say that the Capri Suns at the end of each game is the only thing that kept me playing the sport. Unfortunately, that's not the only juice being served after baseball games these days, nor the only "juice" that keeps guys in the sport:

A new report says Alex Rodriguez tested positive for 'roids in 2003--the year he won the AL home run title and MVP award. So add A-Rod to the growing list of baseball stars that have been on the juice.

It makes me wonder how real their feats are. Would McGwire and Bonds have hit as many home runs if they weren't on the drug? Granted, no amount of steroids would have made me a successful ball player--a foundation of basic talent is certainly necessary--but I have to wonder how good these tainted athletes really are.

And then we've got the recent Michael Phelps drama. The only thing we're used to seeing him smoke is the competition, and I don't recall Mary Jane being the name of one of those guys on the French swim team.

In America we love our heroes. We want them to climb out of the gutter and into success, but we want them to be squeaky clean in doing so. Are our standards too tight? It was F. Scott Fitzgerald who wrote "Show me a hero and I will write you a tragedy."

Knowing darn well that our sports heroes will make a mistake, maybe we shouldn't judge them so much by what they do wrong, but by how they respond to what they do wrong.

I try to eat well, but is it worth it?

Photo: http://scrapetv.com/News/Images/

A couple nights ago I decided to make myself a double cheeseburger. But when I opened the freezer, I realized we had both hamburger patties and Gardenburger patties.

I was faced with a health-vs-taste and fiber-vs-protein decision. What did I choose? Let's just say I sat the fence; my double cheeseburger had one hamburger patty and one Gardenburger patty.

It was probably the first time the American Beef Council and PETA had met between two buns.

That's kind of how my diet goes. I do a descent job of eating healthy, but I can never go all-in. For instance, I don't think I'd ever be able to cut ginger ale out of my diet. I know, I know, most people my age are chugging Mountain Dews and Red Bulls, but I think ginger ale is the best drink ever made. I need about one a day to keep my spirits up.

(Random triva: today's ginger ale was developed during the Prohibition and although it's not popular in vending machines, it's a best-seller in airlines and assisted living centers.)

At work is where my diet really fails. I bring a square meal for lunch, but throughout the day I consume a ton of empty calories. By the day's end, the trash can in my office is full of empty fruit-snack pouches, Hershey's Miniatures wrappers, and crumpled-up sketches of army tanks. The night custodian probably thinks an 8-year old works in my office.

Overall though, I feel I make pretty good choices. For example, I like to buy the Dryer's ice cream that has half the fat of regular ice cream, because I know I'll eat at least 2 servings worth at every sitting.

However, most people I know get upset with me whenever I say anything about how I should eat better. That's because I have the metabolism of a gerbil, and bulk clings to me like snow to a hot tin roof.

I don't count that as a blessing, though. My steadfast scrawniness is probably the only reason I'm not playing in the NFL right now. Plus, being funny is an up-hill battle for skinny guys, because fat guys are naturally funnier:



That begs the question, should I have gone for the double cheeseburger instead?

Update: My world record attempt

As you may recall from my last article, I submitted a proposal to set the world record for the most 3-point baskets made with gummy bears in 10 minutes.

A few days after my proposal was sent off, I received an email from ol' Guinness:

Dear Rock, We are glad to inform you that your record application has been transferred to our internal system. As a result of this, we are sending to you the Agreement Regarding Record Attempts together with a document called General Information on Record Breaking, which will give you an overview of the process.

Unfortunately, the attached agreement was 16 pages of legal mumbo jumbo asking me to give up all my rights, along with a bunch of other stuff. Plus, it said I'd have to pay for the guy from Guinness (adjudicator) to come out and watch me set the record.

I guess some records are never meant to be made...

Anyone can set a world record

Photo: http://www.tv.com

Am I the only one that's become disenchanted with world records?

In middle school I remember checking out a copy of the Guinness Book of World Records from the school library. I thought it was great reading; the most tattooed person, the longest bridge, the fattest person (who certainly could have held the most-tattooed record if he wanted to, because of sheer surface area).

Well nowadays world records seem to be getting a bit overdone. It's not just the longest sword swallowed, it's the heaviest object dangled from a swallowed sword. It's not just the scariest woman, it's the woman that's creeped out the most people in a one-year span (set by Rosie O'Donnell in 2006).

I haven't seen the latest edition of The Guinness Book of World Records, but it must be huge.

To set a world record, all you really need to do is find something nobody else has yet thought of, nor would care to do if they heard of it.

Like 30-year old Kanchana Ketkaew from Thailand, for instance. She set a world record by living with 5,000 poisonous scorpions for 32 days. At the end of her stay she walked out of her enclosure in a wedding dress, covered in scorpions, of course.

She's also on track to set the world record for going the longest time without having any human friends.

To me, a legitimate world record should be something other people chase. Nobody cares about beating the scorpion queen's feat, so we really don't know if she's the best at living with a lot of scorpions.

Besides, I checked it out and people in Thailand eat scorpions. So Kanchana's feat is comparable to me living with 5,000 gummy worms for a month.

Furthermore, my first college apartment probably had a few thousand ants wandering through it, and I didn't bother to call Guinness at any time during my stay.

Anyway, if anyone's interested they can go to guinnessworldrecords.com and get on the fast track to breaking a world record. They're serving them up like hotcakes. All you do is fill out an online form about a record you want to break and they'll get back to you in 4-6 weeks.

In fact, I went ahead and submitted a proposal on-line this morning. My record: make the most 3-point baskets using gummy bears (instead of basketballs) on a regulation-size basketball court. The record will be set in 10 minutes. For "why I want to set/break this record," I stated that I really like gummy bears and that I have a good aim when tossing them.

I'll let you know if they decide to send an adjudicator out to ensure the record is being carried out according to [Guinness's] rules and guidelines but also to offer PR support and instant certification.

Oh, and for "media that I'd like to have present," I just put friends and family. So charge up those hand-held video cameras.

Cussing: should it really be put to an end?

Every once in a while I come across a story that reminds me of why I bother to read the news.

This morning I found an article about a 14-year old boy that went to school one day and decided he was sick of hearing all his friends cuss. Upon asking them to stop, they replied with complaints that they didn't even know they were doing it, and they didn't know how to stop. That's when McKay Hatch started the No Cussing Club.

I was introduced to the art of swearing in 4th grade. Mitch Bodily would guide me around the the playground during recess and use every word in the book to describe the goings on. "Lets go see who's on the #%*@ slide right now."

We swore for the same reason a kid does anything they're not supposed to do: it's a rush. Using such words brought about a sense of liberation.

I did my best to reserve cussing for recesses with Mitch, but I quickly found opportunities to use it at home. One thing led to another, and I was soon getting the soap treatment on my tongue.

Since those carefree days, I've done a pretty good job of watching my language. Even the summer before college, when I worked with a concrete crew, I did a good job of holding my tongue. And those guys swore so much they made angry sailors sound like devout monks.

McKay Hatch's No Cussing Club (nocussing.com) invites people of all ages to join their team and take the No Cussing Challenge. 30,000 people have joined thus far. After one week of no swearing you're an Apprentice, after one month a Journeyman, and after one year a Master.

I don't think I could make it to Journeyman. Over the last month I've had to fix the faucet, my wife's car door, and the dishwasher. Each one of those tasks required at least one well-placed hell or damn.

Anyone familiar with the movie Back to the Future will remember George McFly's conversation with Marty about stopping Biff from making a move on Lorraine:

Marty: OK, so 9 o'clock you're strolling through the parking lot, you see us struggling in the car, you walk up, you open the door and you say... your line, George! George: Oh, uh, hey you, get your damn hands off her. Do you really think I ought to swear? Marty: Yes, definitely, ...dammit George, swear.

It is said that the South would not have been bested in the Civil War without the aid of cuss-prone mule drivers to the Union army. Mules were much more durable and reliable in war-like conditions, compared to the horses often used by the Rebel Army. From Hard Tack and Coffee, written by John D Billings (1877):

The theory has been advanced that if all the (muledrivers) in the Army of the Potomac could have been put into the trenches and safely advanced to within ear-shot of the enemy, and then set to swearing at their level worst, the Rebels would have either surrendered or fled... General Grant has given them credit for being able to swear a mule team out of the mud when it could not be moved by any other process.

So while I appreciate what McKay is doing with his No Cussing Club, I don't think I'm going to join. Granted, cussing is not something to be thrown around willy-nilly, but the words exist for a reason. Just ask General Grant.

Women seem to love fictional men

It's hard for a guy to win over a girl; there are plenty of other dudes out in the world with more money, better looks, and greater charisma. So when a guy does sway a girl his way, he has much reason to celebrate.

However, he must not let his guard down. A hard reality he'll soon face is that while he's beat out all the real men, he'll still have to compete with imaginary men for his woman's love. Any guy out there that is unwilling to acknowledge this competition is simply living in ignorance.

Below are a couple of the biggest offenders:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/drama/prideandprejudice/episodes/pp_1_episode.shtml

Darcy (the one played by Collin Firth). This guy's a heavy hitter. The magnitude of damage he's done since 1995, when the movie "Pride and Prejudice" was released, is hard to calculate.

In the 5-hour film, he graces the screen with dashing looks and a melt-your-spine British accent. Though he fronts as a pompous English lord, anyone who gets to know him finds he isn't afraid to lend a helping hand. For example, he's seen teaching his little sister play the piano, and he isn't above helping a lower-class family with financial woes.

His woman-winning artillery includes
- An estate (a.k.a. "a fat crib")
- A carriage
- Careless locks of hair
- Ruffles on the front of his white shirt

The only weakness normal men can expose is that his first name is Fitzwilliam *chuckles all around*.

http://weblogs.cltv.com/entertainment/tv/metromix/2008/11/

Edward (the vampire in "Twilight"). Unlike Darcy, Edward from the book series is more dangerous than the Edward from the movie. From what I hear, the text does more for his suave demeanor than what the camera is able to portray.

Though he looks like a strapping 17-year old, Edward is actually 104. But that doesn't stop him from robbing the cradle and picking up teenage Bella at a local high school.

While normal men would think women would lose interest in Edward, since he sucks blood, they find it hard not to when he resists his urge to drink it for the love of Bella.

His woman-winning artillery includes
- "Impossibly beautiful" looks
- Swift feat (he can beat any Cullen in a foot race)
- The ability to read minds
- The ability to go without breathing

The only weakness normal men can expose is that he gets purple bruises under his eyes if he goes too long without feeding (hopefully it's mistaken for mascara, and any guy that wears make-up is a sissy).

As you can see, fictional characters like the two listed above are hard to compete with. Darcy would never sit around watching football. Edward would never chug a soda and then crush the can on his head. They'd go to the opera. They'd dance at the ball.

I've told my wife a hundred times that I'd be happy to challenge Darcy, Edward, or the like to a fist fight. I'd pay good money for the chance to roll up my sleeves and meet Edward in a back alley.

However, my attempt to impress her with my strength is always quickly countered with a plea for me not to be so mean. I'm reminded that Edward would never fight if he didn't have to. Plus he's not real, so he'd never show up to the fight anyway (what a wuss).

I, and other normal men, have to find a way to fend off these imposers. We have to find a way for women to start asking why these guys aren't more like us, rather than the other way around.

One option is to follow Sun Tzu's council from "The Art of War:" get to know your enemy before you try to beat them. I think the women would appreciate that stratagem best.

No trip is complete without pictures

Photo: http://www.kinfolks.info/arner/reunion/2004/Don-1.jpg

For some reason, visiting a place of interest is never enough. It's got to be documented--excessively, by photos.

When we return home, we need to be able to prove we were there. A cheesy picture of one of our mugs in front of some statue, waterfront, or crazy panhandler will do just that.

In fact, all we really see on a trip is the back of our camera. At least that's how it is for my wife and me. It'd be easier to just stay home on the couch and look through a kaleidoscope for a few days.

And then there are the occasions where we try to get both of us in the picture. Popular travel destinations really ought to have people you can rent that will follow you around all day and take pictures of you. Photo caddies, essentially.

Not that I'd pay for it, though. I've figured out that the world is a place full of makeshift tripods. A parking meter to one person is a tripod to me. Finding these tripods is one skill, and using them is another.

There are some variables to cope with when using a makeshift tripod. The most dangerous one is wind; a stiff breeze can knock your camera right off it's perch on a fence post, all while you're standing back with a stupid smile.

Then there's the self-timer to deal with. Our camera has a so-called "10 second" timer, but it's only called that. In reality it seems to go off anywhere between 5 and 15 seconds, capturing either me in stride as I'm making my way to my post, or me in anger as I'm marching toward it to see why it's not going off.

Every once in a while you have to resort to the hold-the-camera-in-front-of-you-at-arms-length maneuver, where the camera faces you. I've found one out of ten shots taken like this result in both my wife and I landing in the picture frame. Of that one in ten, a chin or forehead is usually sacrificed. Plus the arm holding the camera looks really big (desirable for guys, not for women).

You can always have a complete stranger take a picture for you, but there are certainly some risks to face with that. First of all, you've got to pick out a person that looks like they won't take-off with your camera once you hand it to them.

I've always imagined filling out a police report for that situation: "How'd he get your camera, sir?" "Well, I handed it to him, then we took 10 steps back and smiled."

Assuming they don't swipe your camera, you've got to deal with the picture they took. They'll always ask you "is it OK?"

Even though you want to say, "No, it isn't. Can you please take another where you don't zoom in on our knees?," in reality you have to say it's fine. Otherwise, if you hand it back to them for a second picture you'll likely be filling out one of those police reports I just mentioned.

So should you leave your camera in its case and just enjoy your visit, capturing the images in your memory? Or should you blow a couple flash bulbs on every trip?

It's a tough call to make: the images in your mind will likely look better than the ones you take with a camera on a makeshift tripod. You'll just never be able to share them.

Happy Holidays to All!

Sorry, no post this week. But be sure to stay tuned in for the first post of 2009!

Covered parking is something special

I think the caste system for cars is this; top: garaged cars, middle: car-ported cars, bottom: uncovered cars.

My car is definitely in the bottom category. The poor thing has never been garaged. The only time it's shielded from the night sky is when it's covered in a blanket of snow or ice. Or tree sap. Or bird crap.

In nice summer weather, it's not bad at all for my car to have to sit out under the night sky. But in inclement weather, I feel bad for the little guy. For one thing, it's previous owner installed an aftermarket sunroof. When it rains, it leaks like photos of a celebrity checking into rehab.

And then there are the elements of winter. Snow and ice are horrible for the both of us; it has to be parked in it, I have to scrape it.

I don't know about you, but I have my morning routine down pat. Showering, dressing, eating, etc., are all allotted a specific number of minutes. If I schedule any slack into the schedule, it would have to come out of my sleep time. I'm not willing to do that.

Thus, if I wake up and it has snowed, I know I'll have to pick up the extra minutes needed for scraping my car windows from another essential task. Usually it's the soap lather in the shower that get's nixed; there's no way I'm cutting into my breakfast time.

Then there are the times that I don't look outside once I wake up. I carry on with my usual routine and head out the door at the proper time, only to see a build-up of ice all over my car. It's a race against time to create a couple peep holes in my front windshield.

However, this year I've decided to make the unplanned morning chore of scraping ice from my windows a little more bearable.

I'm going to keep a bottle of fruit-flavored syrup in my car, along with a stack of Styrofoam cups. Then I'll collect the ice shavings that fly off as I madly scrape away. A fresh snow cone could really make the morning commute more enjoyable.

Do-it-yourselfers have to bounce back

Photo: http://sportzfun.com/photos/boxing/boxing_giant

We were positioned a couple feet from each other, alone in the bathroom. With the door closed, we stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity--neither of us flinching, but one of us dripping.

I tried to mask the fear that swirled inside me, but I knew my facade was transparent. I was heavily unarmed, while it was decisively defiant. A fight was about to break out, and I was coming in as the underdog.

In my heart I knew I had a puncher's chance, and I've watched enough Rocky movies to know that kind of chance is worth something. The bell rang and I immediately went for the cold-water handle. I twisted and pulled until the decorative grip came off and the innards were exposed.

I was in a struggle to stop a leaky faucet, and it was obvious I had no strategy.

By some act of providence, I luckily remembered to turn off the water shut-off valve located below the sink. Then, with my makeshift tool set, I undid bolts and lifted flanges. I tweaked a few things, then put the faucet back together. I turned the water valve back on and took a step back, only to see the drip return.

I went back in for round two, and started to take the faucet apart once more. I freed a couple parts until I got to the faucet cartridge. I pulled up on it, and that's when it hit. A gush of water was suddenly shooting me in the face and drenching my clothes. For all I knew, I was standing over Old Faithful. I shielded my eyes as I tried to see where the attack was coming from.

Turns out I'd forgotten to turn off the water shut-off valve the second time. Little O-rings, springs, and washers were spread around me; I had no idea where they came from, or where they belonged. I was dazed and my clothes were drenched, as was everything else in the room. The match had ended by knockout.

A rematch was scheduled for one week later, and the sink was on lock-down until then. I prepped myself by making a trip to Lowe's to get several new faucet parts, as well as a couple more tools. I made it to the plumbing aisle, where I joined a couple other guys who were staring helplessly before an array of plumbing parts.

We each took several turns picking something off the shelf, looking it over, then putting it back. A drip of confidence couldn't be squeezed from the lot of us.

Eventually, a store employee came by and asked if we needed help finding anything. I glanced around at the other guys in the aisle, and they glanced back at me. Everyone was hoping someone would speak up and set a precedent that it was OK to receive help. But after several moments of silence, the employee shrugged and walked off.

I randomly grabbed a few things and headed home. I felt assured as I walked back into the ring with my new arsenal. I waited for the bell, then in a flash I had the water shut off, the faucet dismantled, and new parts inserted. I turned the water shut-off valve back on and waited, breathing heavily. No drip. I had come back strong, and I'd won by knockout in the first round.

If you don't want to pay a plumber $50/hour, you've got to be willing to put up a fight.

Figuring out coupon etiquette

Photo: http://www.theonion.com/content/node/43195

I was feeling a bit nostalgic last night, so I decided to take my wife out on a date like the ones I used to take her out on before we were married. The only things real particular to such a date are; 1) plan as you go (I'm rather charismatic under pressure), and 2) keep it under ten bucks.

Naturally, we started out at the Nickel Cade. Our time was well spent; my wife perfected her stroke at the skeet-ball ramp, while I broke the basketball arcade game with my aggressive play. We won enough tickets to cash in for a stretchy sticky-hand and a kazoo.

Afterward we ended up at the Sonic Drive-In, mostly because my wife had a coupon for 99-cent shakes. As we approached the order menu she told me I had to tell the cashier I had a coupon when I ordered. I froze.

No way was I going to announce over a speaker that I had a coupon! My mind raced back to a date I had early on in college, with another girl.

This girl had wanted to go ice skating, so I planned out a date down at the local skating rink. The day before the date, one of my roommates found out about it and gave me a 2-for-1 admission coupon he had lying around.

The dilemma arose: is it OK to use a coupon on a date? Would she think I was a cheap son-of-a-gun, and walk away? I had no idea. Highly concerned, I discussed the situation with a friend at work.

Probably because he was working the same $6-hour job I was, we concluded that I should use the coupon and save $6. However, we agreed that the transaction would need to be made without my date knowing. I'd have to secretly hand it to the cashier with a wink and a nod.

It was on. My date and I arrived at the front counter of the ice skating rink where we were greeted by the cashier. "Two please," I stated confidently. I then slipped her a five and one bill, with the coupon folded inside. I pointed at something to distract my date as the cashier unfolded my money and removed the coupon.

"Sorry, this coupon isn't effective until next month." Time stood still, while the word "coupon" rang loud and clear to me, my date, and everyone behind us in line. It was like an echo down a canyon: "COUPON, COUPON, COUPON..."

I knew the dang things had expiration dates, but commencement dates?

My date looked at me with sorry eyes while my mind raced in terror. She was looking at me like I was unable to pay for the date. I looked like a kid at a 25-cent gumball machine, trying to shove a nickel into the quarter slot: kind of cute, but also kind of sad.

So as I sat in the Sonic Drive-In with my wife, I crumpled the coupon in my clenched fist and called out our order. "Two shakes please, at full price."

I paid double that night, but sometimes that's the price of keeping a little date-night dignity.

Warning:

The post below (The Gift Cycle: I want out), despite it's healthy dose of cynicism, was written tongue in cheek. I exaggerated heavily to make a point about something I deem important.

Please know that I, the author, still love all the presents I've received and will receive. I also love Christmas, birthdays, and fluffy penguins--I'm not the cold hearted cynic the tone of the post implies I am.

Thank you for your loyalty to my blog.

Rock