Giddy up, America

The Jack Johnson Morning

2012-01-26T09:49:00.000-05:00

Some mornings are Jack Johnson mornings. This morning is a Jack Johnson morning. Today is Thursday, but it would be much cooler if today was Friday. It almost feels like Friday, which makes it worse.

What is a Jack Johnson morning?

1. You’re over-tired.
2. You’re inexplicably feeling the three beers you drank last night.
3. The office is quiet and daring you to be unproductive.
4. You’d rather be on the beach, a deck or even better- still in bed.
5. Sports radio can only seem to talk about Peyton Manning’s neck.
6. It’s not summer, but man you wish it was.

Jack Johnson is summer music. So a Jack Johnson morning can’t happen in the summer because really any morning during the summer months could be a Jack Johnson morning, just like any morning in the fall could be a My Morning Jacket morning and any morning in the spring could be a De La Soul morning. Jack Johnson mornings, much like Bob Marley, Sam Cooke or Band of Horses’ mornings, can only happen in the winter- specifically in the dead of winter.

Is it safe to say Johnson popped and fizzled? You don’t hear much about him anymore and an argument could easily be made that he’s released the same album five or six times, just with different names. I’d counter with, that’s totally cool. I like Jack Johnson’s music because it’s Jack Johnson’s music. The melodies are peaceful, the grooves are easy and the drums are so passive that they frustrate me to the point of ignoring them and then coming to grips with it. I am not looking for a Jack Johnson death metal album. I appreciate that he knows that. I appreciate that he records his albums in a solar-powered studio out in California and writes most of his material sitting on the beach in Hawaii. His albums sound like the beach in Hawaii. That’s cool.

But I really haven’t listened to Mr. Johnson in a while and I’m not sure why other than I just haven’t. I saw him live once and it was surprisingly great. It wasn’t epic and it wasn’t like seeing My Morning Jacket- it didn’t have that kind of excitement and energy, but it was cool in its own way. I wouldn’t recommend going to see a Johnson show with a group of dudes, though. It’s not that kind of joint. Go with your lady, drape your arms around her and just sway baby, sway.

A Jack Johnson morning is a reason why music is great- because of its chameleon-like nature and its ability to be there regardless of what kind of mood you’re in or morning you’re having. Tuesday I wanted loud music and yesterday I wanted some funky jams. Music was there for me. The days of the week might not be all that accommodating, but my I Pod is.

So here’s to a Jack Johnson morning. Who knows what the rest of the day holds, but it’s nice to know that we have the morning covered.

That’s a start. We’ll worry about the finish later.

Almost Undun: Retroactively Live Blogging the AFC Championship Game

2012-01-23T10:43:00.000-05:00

I’ve just started the process of comprehending what happened with yesterday’s AFC Championship Game- the shakes have finally stopped and I almost feel human again. With all the thoughts going through my head yesterday, last night, during the night and now this morning, I felt I should do something revolutionary. I’m going to retroactively live blog the AFC Championship Game.

Pre-Game

Woke up at 8am, too anxious/nervous/excited to sleep. Meet the Press was great. Newt is a super douchebag. On to my parents for dinner and the game with Future Wife. Didn’t hit any traffic, sure to be a good sign of things to come. I love the new Roots’ album. Erin makes amazing sweet potatoes- they are the stuff dreams are made of. We had a min-Thanksgiving dinner, it was delicious. I apologized to everyone in advance for any expletives that might be thrown out during the course of the game. Everyone knows swearing in public is cool provided you let everyone know it’s coming. Dad filled the cooler with snow instead of ice to keep the beer warm. He might be a genius. Okay, it’s game time. Let’s go.

First Quarter
Pats’ defense looks great; like they have a fire in their belly. For Vince Wilfork- that’s a giant inferno. Beer number one. Yuengling in a can- not bad. Flacco looks like a pedophile with that moustache. I hope he has it because he lost a bet. The Pats get a field goal and in a brief moment of calm I text Jeff in Baltimore with what I would realize soon after would be a dumb, regrettable text: “Flacco looks like a pedophile. Is he allowed around kids?” Jeff’s response: “good one.” I feel like an idiot. Back to the game. This one is going to be ugly. Beer number two- trying to pace myself. The snow in the cooler is working great. Dad, the Silver Fox, is a genius. He looks nervous. Erin is rubbing her pregnant belly. Mom is reading fifteen periodicals at once and Kim is being supportive and looks super cute. I’m very in love with her. No more scoring this quarter. Brady looks shaky. Flacco is gaining momentum. It looks cold there. I wish it were snowing.

Second Quarter
I don’t feel good- stomach pains. Nothing major, but it’s making me uncomfortable. I need my Red Sox hat. It’s good luck. Dad makes fun of how I wear it. Mom says I look like a homey. Ravens tie it up on a field goal. This game is going to be close throughout, I can feel it. Can the Broncos come back? The Law Firm runs in for a touchdown a few plays after getting his helmet torn off. Breathe easy. Maybe this is when the tide turns? Brady still looks shaky. He’s floating balls as opposed to shooting them around the field like a shark with a frickin’ laser beam attached to his head would. The third Austin Powers movie is kind of terrible. The Ravens score. Stomach pains. Mom wants me to read an article about Steven Tyler in Oprah’s magazine. He lives in the woods, she says. I don’t care, I reply. I haven’t cared about Steven Tyler since the four and a half months in high school when I tried to like Aerosmith. “Sweet Emotion” and “Back in the Saddle” are cool songs. Patriots get another field goal. People should talk about Gostkowski more. He’s great. One of the few kickers in the league who looks like an athlete. Pats get the ball with a minute left, but let the time run out with two knees and then head to the locker room. My heart is devastated, but my head agrees. Pats are up by three. No more text messages. I don’t feel great about this, but I have some faith. My future wife is so cute. Mom is now on to the newspaper, but wants me to read the Steven Tyler interview at halftime.

Halftime
We watch Dugan playing out in the snow. Callie has trouble walking, takes care of her business real quick, then heads back in. Dugan follows. I pace. Mom asks who wants desert. I can’t eat. The stomach pains are gone but my heart is in my throat. I need a beer.

Third Quarter
The Pats start with the ball. They love to start the second half with the ball. I believe they’ll score. I believe things in this game might change. They get a field goal. Field goals are like episodes of the Office now- nice to have around, but not really that satisfying. Last week’s episode was okay. Parks and Recreation is so much better. The Ravens score a touchdown. Ahhhhhhhhhhh shit. Danny Woodhead handles the kick off and runs it back, looks to have good field position…fumbles. The Ravens recover. Here is comes family…F WORD!...it’s cool though, I apologized earlier. Ravens take over. If they score…they only get a field goal. Okay. Ravens winning, but only by four. Beer. The snow is working. The Silver Fox is a genius. Now Mom is watching the game and getting animated. Fast Eddie is at the table grading papers. I don’t think he’s paying attention, but then he makes astute and spot on observations out of nowhere. The Gronk is tackled. POLLARD!!! I explain to the family just who that son of a bitch is. The injury looks ugly. The replays don’t help. Shit. Beer. The snow is working. Make sure the door is closed, it’s freezing out.

Fourth Quarter

The Pats continue to drive. They need a touchdown. I need a touchdown. I tell Future Wife I’m a nervous wreck. I know, she says. She knows me so well. I love her. I can’t sit anymore and stand up. Callie comes over and sits at my feet. She’s nervous for me. Dugan is looking at me too. Mom feels the announcers are biased for the Ravens. I agree. Three tries to get in the end zone and on the third try Brady, the marvelous man who can do anything, leaps over the mass of buddies at the line of scrimmage, takes a shot to the lower back by Ray Lewis and TOUCHDOWN. Pats are up 23-20 with about seven minutes to play. Future Wife reminds me to breathe. Ravens start to drive. Flacco, despite the moustache, looks good and has looked good for most of this game. Ray Rice hasn’t done much. That’s good. That little man scares me and…INTERCEPTION BRANDON SPIKES…and with a nice little run back the Pats look to be in a damn good position to close this game out. A nice long drawn out drive, kill some time and worst case kick a field goal. That’s cool. Beer. The snow is working. Still standing, Callie at my feet but I think she’s also very interested in the cheese on the coffee table. I throw Dugan a piece of a Triscuit. He got his haircut. He feels like a stuffed animal. Hike. Oh shit, Brady goes deep. Is Randy Moss available? It’s a bomb. It looks beautiful. It looks intercepted. It is. Damn it. Arm chair quarterbacks are going to be pissed about that. I can’t even swear. The Ravens have the ball with about five or so minutes left. Remember to breathe. Snow in the cooler. Ravens stall out and punt. Two and a half minutes left. All we need is a first down. That’s it. One first down and then play it safe until…Ed Reed. “Any of player besides him and that’s a penalty,” Fast Eddie says. I agree because I want too. The Patriots have to punt. The defense, the Patriots “much-maligned” defense, it’s all up to them. This game is going to go into overtime. Boldin makes a catch and scampers up field, getting them into Patriots’ territory. I feel terrible. How many times can you yell “Get Him!”? Regardless of what happens, no shit talking Flacco anymore. He’s legit. He gets the Ravens to the 11 yard line. Less than a minute left and they are in field goal range. Just please, no touchdown. Almost a touchdown, but the ball is popped out. Life. Sweet potatoes. Field goal attempt. It’s like an extra point- only a thirty yarder. I’m not sure I have the stomach for overtime. My chest might explode…

The kick is no good. It sails left. Brady takes a knee. That’s it. I clutch Erin’s hand. Super Bowl. I love my Future Wife, she’s so cute. It’s over. The Patriots win. It’s hard to believe. I don’t believe it.

No Mom, I don’t want to read the interview with Steven Tyler.

On to Indy. It’s the Giants again.

I’ll worry about that tomorrow.

Anything is Possible...and other Casual Friday Thoughts...

2012-01-20T15:24:00.000-05:00

When the job posting says “project manager,” they are often times speaking of computer-related projects.

The same can be said for “storage.”

Patriots 27, Ravens 24.

Giants 21, 49ers 10.

When I type Iphone and I Phone corrects it to say I Phone, I’m tempted to throw it out the window.

Chuck Todd is the only person I’ll listen to who has a goatee. But that doesn’t mean I support his decision to sport one.

Turkey meatballs. Swordfish meatballs. Delicious! Who knew?

If it were really a Casual Friday, the work day would end at noon.

It’s only matter of time before a slow computer results in a homicide.

A smart person living in a dangerous section of town would be wise to only read hardcover books.

I’m waiting for the Shit People Who Are Over the Shit (Insert Group Here) Says Video to come out.

If I were a basketball player, the last thing I’d want to hear is that I can’t jump anymore.

Why are so many banks hiring tellers?

Compliments don’t pay the bills. Sadly neither do paychecks from a non-profit.

Sometimes the Internet is amazing, like in the case of the Brad Pitt eating in movies mash-up.

All this time, when people were talking about SOPA, I thought they were talking about us- Special Olympics of Pennsylvania and I wondered- what did we do now?

In America, it’s cool to be fat as long as you have a good 40 yard dash time.

No really, turkey meatballs. Delicious.

I wish I could sound proof my office.

Asking Sarah Palin for an opinion on politics is like asking a monkey it’s opinion on barnyard affairs.

Wait a second…is Happy Endings good?

If I had a gun I’d take the Office out back and put it down.

It’s hard to beat the combination of Life cereal and Honey Nut Cheerios.

Someday we’ll laugh about the Newt Presidential run. But for now, we just cringe and wait for that day to come.

No, I don’t like Mac ‘n Cheese and I’m sorry, but I can’t really explain why.

Bringing the Beat Back

2012-01-19T11:00:00.000-05:00

It’s the sound of rust coming off. It’s the sound of bones cracking. It’s the sound of muscles straining.

It’s the sound of getting back into the swing of things.

Playing drums is yes, like riding a bike. Once you learn, you can do it. If you learn how to kick a beat at age thirteen, you can probably do it again when you’re sixty. Maybe it’s muscle memory. Maybe it’s regular memory. Maybe it’s just knowing which pedal is the gas and which pedal is the brake. Once you get the feel for drums, it never leaves you. Drummers are easy to pick out in a crowd- they are the ones jamming out on steering wheels in traffic, playing drums on their chest while seeing a band play or the source of the sound of feet tapping underneath the table at dinner. Drummers are afflicted individuals. Once the beat starts, it never really ends.

The hitch in the giddy up though is coming back to drums. Drums are a good friend and can be your best friend, but they are an unforgiving one if you neglect them. It’s tribal in name only. Drums have emotions and they hold grudges. Take a break, step away for a bit, pursue other interests- sure you can come back to drums, but drums will make you pay.

Drums are having their way with me right now and it’s an unsettling feeling. I recently started jamming again with a buddy and while it’s fun- great fun actually, it is also frustrating and mildly painful. I will never proclaim that I was an amazing drummer. I never left mouths dropped. I was serviceable. I did my job. I prided myself on being steady and reliable- qualities I look to be recognized for in other areas of life now. I’m not looking to stand out. I’m just looking to do my part. My favorite drummers are the ones who emphasize the beat and refrain from flashiness.

Questlove of the Roots forever changed the way I approach drums and if I ever see him in person again…I did once, at Nick’s Fish House in Baltimore, I would tell him that. Prior to getting into the Roots, I was big into Phish. No wait, that’s an understatement- I was incredibly huge into Phish and as a result, heavily influenced by their drummer Jon Fishman. I loved the way Fishman had each of his four limbs going in different directions and the rhythms he could throw out there regardless of the tempo. Fishman was it.

But then I started listening to the Roots and the defining moment when it comes to my appreciation of Questlove was reading in Rolling Stone once that at a James Brown tribute show he played drums for four hours straight. That’s what he is, he’s a machine. His flash comes from his rock steady stability. My goal with drumming was to emulate Questlove; to play the way he does and to emphasize the beats. The most important parts of my kit were the bass drum, the high hat and the snare drum. That was all I needed.

Now I need chops. Specifically I need my chops. They seem to be missing.

We haven’t had something as structured as rehearsals; we’ve just be jamming. But there’s been a lot going in my head while we’re doing so. I used to play a lot and things came naturally to me. What’s been frustrating is trying to get back to that place. In some ways it feels like going home again. You can’t go home again, things have changed and you’ve changed and the world has changed and ultimately things just won’t be the same. But when you inevitably try to go home again, you do so searching for familiarity. When I go back to Portland, I go back to the places I used to go to in Portland- I go to Gritty’s and I stop by Bay Lines and I go see Andrea to get my haircut and I drive down Commercial Street and pop into Market Street Eats. I do this because it’s what I did. It’s what I know. But these places have changed. The thing about leaving is that you expect things to stay the same- but it’s unfair to that place to expect everything to have remained exactly as it was. You’ve changed, it’s changed. We all change. It’s just a bummer because deep down, you want to walk the same streets, see the same things and for a weekend, step back into the same life.

This is what it has been like getting back into playing drums. It’s not the same, I wish it was the same, but I don’t think it will ever be the same again. My arms don’t move as smoothly as they used too and my right hand cramps up like a monkey fudgesicle much quicker than it ever used too. I was never big with drum fills, but now drum fills seem like the American southwest- completely foreign to me. I think more about the beats I’m playing and not in the way I used too- how the fit the song, etc. Now I question whether or not I should be doing something more, even though what I’m playing seems to make sense and seems to fit so well with what D Money is playing. I question whether or not playing a straight beat is a cop out or perfectly suitable. I question whether intricate bass drum patterns are required or just filed under “use when needed.”

I question whether or not hitting a cymbal right now would be a good thing or a bad thing…no…hitting a cymbal is always a good thing. I never question cymbals.

You can’t go home again, you can ride a bike, Questlove is the man. These are universal truths. These facts cannot be challenged. These are the certainties out there, while my drumming is no longer one of them. I talk to Mom a lot about managing expectations given certain and unexpected limitations in life and it’s something I feel that is applicable to me now. That was then and this is now. What was easy won’t always be and what was a given never stays that way forever. Yet there is no point dwelling on the absents in life. That is a bummer and we save bummers for earlier in the week. Today is Thursday, tomorrow is Casual Friday.

The beat is still there. The cymbals are still there. The drum sticks are still there.

The chops will come.

But for now, enjoy the small doses, enjoy the jams and enjoy the Advil Liquid Gels.

Stone Rollin on a Moderately Sluggish Wednesday

2012-01-11T10:44:00.003-05:00

20 Songs to start a Moderately Sluggish Wednesday:
1. "Tenderness"- Galactic
2. "Howlin’ for You"- the Black Keys
3. "How to Undress in Front of Your Husband"- Loverless
4. "Kampala Truth Work"- Max Tannone w/ Mos Def
5. "Ocean Breathes Salty"- Modest Mouse
6. "Music Man"- Paranoid Social Club
7. "Behind the Moon"- Matt Costa
8. "Turn Me On"- Big Boi
9. "I Changed My Mind"- Lyrics Born
10. "Love Gun"- Cee Lo Green
11. "Whispered Words"- Dan Auerbach
12. "Anytime"- My Morning Jacket
13. "Taylor"- Jack Johnson
14. "We Share the Same Skies"- the Cribs
15. "Promised Land"- Bruce Springsteen
16. "Black Thumbnail"- Kings of Leon
17. "Two Weeks"- Grizzly Bear
18. "East Jesus Nowhere"- Green Day
19. "Far Behind"- Eddie Veddar
20. "What’s the Altitude?"- Cut Chemist w/ Hymnal

5 Words/Phrases for a Moderately Sluggish Wednesday:
1. Coffee
2. Jamtastic
3. In-kind
4. Mood Technician
5. Palm Sunday

3 Thoughts for a Moderately Sluggish Wednesday:
1. 40 percent of the vote is a shitty result for having done 4 years of work in any state, let alone New Hampshire.
2. Someone needs to make a good movie about Billy the Kid and make it about his whole life, not just his years as an outlaw.
3. This could be a band name: Garbanzo & the Chick Peas, but that band might be terrible. Maybe a name like The Garbanzo Brothers would be better.

6 Sports Thoughts on a Moderately Sluggish Wednesday:
1. Patriots 34 Broncos 17
2. The 49ers will beat the Saints but it might include someone giving Drew Brees the wrong direction to the stadium.
3. I feel bad for Ryan Madsen. He was shooting for 4 years, 40 million bucks, but ended up with 1 year and 8.5 million from the Reds. The only thing that would get me back to Cincinnati would be a wedding, funeral or 8.5 million dollars.
4. I miss HBO’s Road to the Winter Classic mini-series already, but I’m looking forward to the next one about Freddie Roach, even though I could care less about boxing.
5. I wonder if I’ll have to explain to my kids whether or not wrestling is fake.

6. There are too many NBA games going on right now to keep track of. I picked the wrong year to try out fantasy basketball.

This peformance of "One Big Holiday" by My Morning Jacket is a great way to spend those few minutes on a conference call when you're not talking.

Remember the Spaghetti: See-I & the Pimps of Joytime. Union Transfer. Philly. 1.7.12

2012-01-09T11:19:00.001-05:00

There are four things to talk about:

1) the pulled pork sandwich at North Third
2) Union Transfer, Philly’s newest music venue

3) The Pimps of Joytime

4) See-I

It’s best to run through this chronologically, so we’ll start at North Third. You probably only know about North Third if you live in Philly or have gone to the restaurant while in town visiting- but you went there with friends. I doubt you went on your own. That’s what Standard Tap is for- and that is no knock on the Tap, which is a fine establishment in its own right. But North Third is a little different. North Third is dark inside and decorated with pictures of boobs, there are various masks hanging around and a couple large butterflies attached to the ceiling. It’s a funky place and makes a mean pulled pork sandwich. Until last week, I felt confident saying that it was the best pulled pork sandwich in the city. Yet the sandwich at another Philly joint, the Twisted Tail, put that claim into question. Waking up Sunday morning, Future Wife asked which one was better.

They are 1A and 1B, I replied.

Which one is which? She asked.

Doesn’t matter. They’re inter-changeable.

The pulled pork sandwich at North Third could declare that it’s running for President, is seeking the Republican nomination, secure said nomination and end up giving Obama a run for his money.

Speaking of money…anytime a band is playing and the cover is only 10 bucks, it’s worth a shot. Such was the case with the reggae group See-I playing at Union Transfer, the newest live music venue in Philly. Union Transfer is in a building formerly occupied by the Spaghetti Warehouse and while we can’t bother ourselves wondering things like- where did all that spaghetti go, we can easily be enamored by what is easily the nicest music hall in the city. It has that new music venue smell, which smells a lot like weed. No really, the place spelled like weed. And that was before I saw a middle age white dude with dreads get busted for smoking up on the dance floor.

Union Transfer is just pretty. It has a definitive aura similar to downstairs at World Café Live. Yet as much as I loved the venue, I’m sorry- I don’t want to talk about it while going to the bathroom, which happened. There are a few places in the world where I don’t like talking to people…on an airplane, a lobby at a doctor’s office and while peeing. Washing my hands is fine, but not while I’m at the stand up urinal. You can respect Union Transfer all you want, just respect my personal space as well.

And one final note about Union Transfer…you should have some pitchers of water out. There was lots of grooving going on Saturday night and I was driving, so quenching my thirst with beers could only go on for so long before responsibility dictated I drink something else. But you had to ask the bartender for water, which I did and received a pretty serious eye roll while doing so. Then she asked if I wanted tap water or something else I couldn’t understand. I just want two waters, I replied. This was followed by another eye roll. Ma’am, you can give me an eye roll for many good and viable reasons, but asking for two waters is not one of those reasons.

The first band was the Pimps of Joytime, who found themselves in the enviable position of realizing two songs into their set that this show was going to be better than they thought it would be, causing them to shake up their setlist a little bit. The frontman made a reference to their last show in Philly, alluding to the fact that it wasn’t as well-attended as this night’s show was. So they made some changes and with the changes came some serious good-time jams and funky fresh grooves. They were solid. There were no frills and nothing fancy or remarkably innovative about them and that was perfect. It was music constructed by purists and funk traditionalists. There is a fine line between imitating your heroes and emulating them and the Pimps of Joytime excelled at killing it in the vein of the latter. I loved it.

The Pimps of Joytime were followed by a DJ spinning some of Future Wife’s favorite top 40 reggae hits and then the headliners, See-I. But it was initially just the backing band and a couple songs showcasing the group’s lone female- the well-dreaded backup singer. The rest of the backing band was a real crew of interesting-looking fellas- two with dreadlocks, one with a well-manicured afro and a bass player who really utilized the space on the stage well when it came to exhibiting his bass player dance moves. The keyboardist kind of looked like Lil’ Wayne and the drummer kind of looked super duper baked behind his in-the-groove head nods and aviator sunglasses. Visually, my favorite member was the sax player and I had a hard time taking my eyes off of him. I bet he calls people “cat” and “mama.”

The heavy hitters of See-I are the two safari-hat wearing front men; long-limbed rasta dudes who bounced around and chanted their call and response lyrics. They too were hiding behind sunglasses and actually, four of the seven members were rocking shades. I guess it was probably just easier. But either way, the band was a lot of fun and played a set that was much looser than the Pimps of Joytime and clung to the reggae grooves played by the deep within the pocket rhythm section. The music never really seemed to stop, which is fun with a reggae show. I don’t think you’d feel the same way if it was a Metallica show. Have I mentioned that Lars Ulrich is a joke? Okay, that was so last week. But See-I were a great way to spend a Saturday night and I enjoyed every part of the show…until the end. Yeah, it was the kind of set that is good, but easy for the wheels to fall off- which is exactly what happened. Maybe I’m getting old, but I don’t find a lot of value in bringing all the single ladies onto the stage and backing it up with a tired reggae groove that sounded similar to the opening jam. It was a shame. They went one song too long. See-I, you’re going to make us go home and watch the tail end of Saturday Night Live instead of the tail end of your set. Bold move. Unfortunate. At least we didn’t have to pay for parking.

But overall there was little to complain about and for a Saturday night in January, you’d be hard pressed to find another way to have a good time. There were highlights all around and I can’t wait to make it back to Union Transfer for another show because it really is a special venue. We hope for the best for it- that is lasts and is able to stick around for a while.

We hope the best for the spaghetti too. Hopefully it ended up in a good home.

12 Thoughts for 2012: coffee mugs, lars ulrich, game of thrones & more.

2012-01-06T14:01:00.000-05:00

Here’s twelve random and largely un-connected thoughts for 2012…

1. I’ve grown tired of the Republican Death Race for the Presidential nomination. Although I do appreciate Newt Gingrich employing the best and most massive BUT in recent memory when he said that he won’t go negative and won’t start throwing out attack ads…but (and that’s it) he does reserve the right to tell the truth. The translation: oh I’m going to get negative and it’s going to be awesome. Buckle up Mitt, Newt’s about to go nuclear on your Mormon ass!

2. I usually disagree with Sports Illustrated’s predictions about anything, but Peter King predicting a Saints over Patriots Super Bowl makes total sense to me. However, I do disagree with their use of regional covers. I don’t like them, especially because I don’t currently live in the region of the teams I’m a fan of. I live in Philly and get stuck with Pennsylvania-centric covers (no thanks Big Ben) and unless it’s a member of the Phillies, I could care less. I’m sure I’m not alone in thinking this. And it pains me that in the Colorado area, Sports Illustrated possibly had their third Tebow cover in the last five issues.

3. Van Halen played a club show in New York City last night and I watched two clips on YouTube. This led to me spending 15 minutes watching videos of drummers. The highlights- a four minute clip of Lars Ulrich awkwardly trying to find a drum beat for a fairly generic Metallica song and James Hetfield and Kirk Hammett trying not to shit on Ulrich, but at the same time, growing frustrated with his inability to get something together. I hate Lars Ulrich. Sit down you nancy boy. Drummers shouldn’t stand up unless they are coming or going. Have you ever seen Questlove stand up? No. Case closed.

4. I haven’t watched the NBA since Christmas day. There’s too much going on right now. But it’s nice to see the Celtics start to get some wins- albeit against some terrible teams. You know how the NBA can be saved? It’s easy, dude. Contract 4 teams…Sacramento, Charlotte, Milwaukee, and Toronto and move Memphis’ team to Chicago with that team getting first dibs on Charlotte and Milwaukee’s four best players. Boom. Two teams in Chicago would be great- the Chicago Grizzlies. That sounds like a winner.

5. An underrated awesome present for a man like me for Christmas? A new travel coffee mug. I got one and it’s awesome. It’s too early to say it might change my life, but there is a damn good chance.

6. It’s hard to pinpoint a new season of a show I’ve been more excited for that rivals my excitement for season two of Game of Thrones. The only show that could be considered would be the Wire season five, but that was for different reasons. I love the idea of six seasons of Game of Thrones and that this will only be the second. Of course if someone docks and union workers and dead Eastern European hookers are involved, we might have an issue.

7. I can teach you how to write a good email. I can also teach you how to parallel park.

8. It’s No Beer-uary with the only exceptions being Patriots playoff games and this Saturday if we go see See-I, a reggae band from DC, at Union Transfer in Philly.

9. I think we need a holiday in late February or early March. I’m not sure if it should be a gift-giving holiday or a big-eating holiday or a costume-up & booze-up holiday, but we need something to break up this dangerous stretch of time we’re about to embark on. Either that or we could just get rid of March as a whole and with respect to people with March birthdays, we give them their choice of either moving their birthday to February or April and then we move St. Patrick’s Day to mid-August where it can then serve as one big throwdown before the summer ends. This allows for a more relaxing Labor Day weekend where we can concentrate on important things like bar-be-ques and fantasy football.

10. Following regular bands, not popular mainstream bands, but bands out there just trying to string together shows and get people out, listening and buying their shit, on Twitter makes them step out from behind the curtain. This part of a band’s ascension is no longer a mystery and I’m not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing. I feel one bad thing about it is that it can fool a band into thinking people actually give a shit about what they’re doing when they’re not playing shows- which for the most part, people don’t care. Although this could be part of a larger problem I have with Twitter- unless you’re reporting news, then I really could care less about what you think or what you’re doing…unless it affects or involves me of course.

11. After Christmas I made the switch back to straight razors after a couple month relationship with an electric razor. Although I’m keeping the electric razor still in my life like Jameson because I don’t do shots of Jameson as much as I used too, but I’m still up for one if the right situation presents itself. The situations where a electric razor proves useful are weekday mornings when I’m begrudgingly awake and face the possible danger of cutting my face open. Plus this will help me conserve razor blades because really, why the hell are replacement blades so freaking expensive? Everywhere- they’re the same price. It doesn’t matter what kind of store it is; you cannot find four replacement razor blades for under $14 bucks. That seems crazy to me. I feel like coffee should be cheaper too.

12. I never thought that I would A) ever eat swordfish meatballs and B) really enjoy said swordfish meatballs. But both happened and it was glorious.

What's up? My Legs! - praising the re-watchability of Forgetting Sarah Marshall

2012-01-04T10:40:00.000-05:00

It was nice because it had nothing to do with Iowa, as last night I realized that Forgetting Sarah Marshall had reached the ultimate pantheon of re-watchability. It had reached the Shawshank Level- a level previously only occupied by Shawshank Redemption, old episodes of the Office, It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, Anchorman and morning episodes of Sportscenter. To be honest, I didn’t see this coming. When I first saw Forgetting Sarah Marshall, I thought it was funny, but not something I’d watch again. It started entering the re-watchable race when I was in San Diego for Air Race and needed something to watch at night in between NBA playoff games. I think I watched it at least ten to twenty minutes of the movie every night for the three weeks I was there. It’s not that it was always on, but it was always on at the right times.

There is something to be said for dependability. There is also something to be said for bikinis.

After San Diego, I didn’t see it for awhile. I forgot about it. It’s not an overly quotable movie and there was a gap in between the constant airings on HBO and when FX started showing it a couple times a month. In a not-all-that-ironic turn of events, I had managed to forget about Sarah Marshall, her movie, and Jason Segel’s attempt to forget Sarah Marshall.

Then the movie started creeping back in my life like student loans do when your temporary deferment ends- subtly at first and then not so much. Before you know it, it’s back in your life like Honey Nut Cheerios, comfortable sneakers and Yuengling.

FX mostly plays terrible movies. For some reason there is someone in their programming department who has an affinity for Transformers. I refuse to believe it’s the same person who started playing Step Brothers more, because that was a good move. Comedies stand the test of time. Comedies are what you want to watch over and over again. Except for Shawshank of course. But Shawshank Redemption is also a terrible title for a movie and should drive people away- so that movie is just a super anomaly all together.

It’s easy to cite reasons why Forgetting Sarah Marshall is so easy to re-watch: a relatable story, Jason Segel’s overwhelming likeability, Paul Rudd’s surf instructor, Kristin Wiig’s yoga teacher, Russell Brand, Jonah Hill, Hawaii, the fact that everyone likes to imagine themselves drinking mixed drinks with umbrellas in them, Bill Hader, the songs get stuck in your head and for once it’s not a bad thing, envisioning yourself having to choose between Kristen Bell and Mila Kunis, and of course being able to relate to the act of failing at learning how to surf.

A good re-watchable movie is like good music in that it can either be focused on or can serve as good background noise. Baseball games are akin to a movie like Forgetting Sarah Marshall in that you can pay attention for twenty minutes and thoroughly enjoy yourself, check out for a bit and then come back, jump right in and be fine. We need re-watchable movies in our lives, especially in the winter. Have you stepped outside this morning? Have you? Dude, it’s freezing out. Last night was a slow and cold Tuesday, coming fresh off the holidays and the start of the long haul of dulled meditation that is the stretch of time before spring comes. Unless you’re still in school or a teacher, there are no vacations on the horizon. February is coming in hot and that’s the dead zone for sports fans. There isn’t much live music to see because bands aren’t dumb- they don’t tour much in the winter unless you’re at a college or in a major city that has a big room where a band can come and draw 20,000 people. Weekday nights in the winter are where boredom gets legs. A movie like Forgetting Sarah Marshall keeps that boredom at bay, staves off the elimination of good thoughts and reminds us that summer (and not winter) is coming and with it, the happy times that make the winter doldrums totally worth it.

I am not saying Forgetting Sarah Marshall is an amazing movie. Debt was an amazing movie. But I’m sorry Helen Mirren- I’m not in any kind of hurry to see Debt again. But if Forgetting Sarah Marshall is on again tonight…well, there’s a decent to good chance I’m watching it again. And I’ll enjoy every minute of it.

Mahalo my friends. Stay warm.

2012: The Year of No Regrets

2012-01-03T10:27:00.000-05:00

In 2012 the Black Keys will make the leap, the Oklahoma City Thunder will beat the Miami Heat in the NBA finals and a man will walk on the moon.

There- bold predictions for the new year. I thought about doing this last week but just got around to it. Luckily none of my New Year’s resolutions had anything to do with procrastinating when it comes to blogs, so I’m good. As for active resolutions, there are really just the normal ones: lose some LB’s, gain some IQ’s and refrain from DUI’s. Pretty simple and pretty straightforward and I don’t smoke cigarettes, so that always leaves room for an extra resolution, which is a bonus.

So with my extra New Year’s resolution, I’ll take no regrets for 5,000.

This is 2012 and it’s all about what’s on the horizon. I came to a conclusion at some point during 2011 and it’s that you can’t change the past. You can change clothes, facial hair and tastes in music- but no, you cannot change the past. I can’t change the fact that I tried too hard to be liked growing up or that I wasted far too much money on music I never listened too. I also can’t change that I should have done something more constructive with my early twenties or should have thought more seriously about attending graduate school. At this point, a few days into 2012, all I can change is the kind of socks I wear (less white, more patterns,) the kind of food I eat (goodbye delicious pulled pork sandwiches and hello salads,) and the kind of financial decisions I make (groceries are good, used DVD’s are bad.)

2012 is a big year with big things happening, so there is little point in rehashing past years and past mistakes. There is barely any point in dipping into the memories of the good times either. It’s all about moving forward.

You know, that Don Draper fellow might be wrong when it comes to how he treats women, but he’s dead on when it comes to how you should approach life. Today is Tuesday and tomorrow is Wednesday. Yesterday was just yesterday- it has no name, no face, no personality except for a collection of dust and tire tracks. Think about heavy regret is. It weighs you down far more than any delicious pulled pork sandwich from the Twisted Tail (might be my new favorite bar) could ever dream of. Regret is extra sweaters in your suitcases when you’re just going away for the weekend. Regret is three Guinness’s instead of two Yuengling Light’s. Regret is a hangover, regret is cereal for dinner, regret is poop on your new shoes.

2012 is the Year of No Regret. If this was China, No Regret would be an animal and we’d celebrate it’s coming with parades and costumes of dragons.

But this isn’t China. It’s America.

My coffee is getting cold.

Banana Bread Dreams & Egg Nog w/ Rum Wishes: Looking back at Christmas Memories

2011-12-23T11:02:00.000-05:00

Christmas memories are like episodes of Madmen- face it, they’re all awesome, just in their own unique ways.

There was one lovely Christmas in Maine when I was working at Bay Lines and pulled the Downbay PM shift, which in the days leading up to Christmas looked like one of the more desire able shifts, given its 13:45 report time. It left you plenty of time to do presents and then lunch before throwing on the steel toes and heading out. Working on Christmas sucks, no matter how you slice it- but like with most things in life that are a bummer, try your best to make it suck the least and you should be okay.

As I drove into work, the snow started.

Commercial Street, which would have been quiet that day anyway and for the most part is from October until May, had reached a Ghost Town level of quiet. There was no one out and we were able to walk in the middle of the street with drifts and snow forming around us as we trudged to Maggie’s for a cup of coffee. The snow wasn’t letting up and it likely wouldn’t until the night was over. It was going to get worse before it was going to get better and around 14:15 we shoved off into sideways snow and a frost tipped wind ripping across the bow. The windows of the pilothouse danced between fogging up and icing over. We couldn’t see shit.

On the way home, I saw a car in the middle of a snow bank in between the two sides of Franklin Street. It was a minivan- white with wood paneling. I would have stopped but if I had the Super Trooper would likely have ended up right next to it.

When we were younger, Erin would have me do reconnaissance work starting around 5am Christmas morning. It was a tricky mission. If you looked down the stairs you could usually tell if the stockings were full and if the stockings were full, it only meant one thing…we’re good to go. Unfortunately every time I tried to do this I was interrupted by Dad.

“Go back to bed, Ryan.”

I’d go back to bed and pick up the phone. Erin was on the other line and I’d quickly tell about the stockings before the beeping started and the operator came on, telling us to please try our call again.

Gram was funny at Christmas because she was never shy about saying what she felt and as a result, had funny reactions when opening presents. She would usually forget who the present was from while opening it and would have to ask after it was opened. We’d tell her not once, not twice, but usually three times on account of her poor hearing. It would get to a point where no one else in the family could open presents while she was because she would get distracted and if that happened, we’d all be done and there’d be nothing under the tree but seven presents for Gram and three for Mom, who spent the majority of the morning tending after Gram.

I remember going to the Village after church on Christmas Eve. The Village was a large Italian restaurant that used to be in Portland. It had a distinct smell to it- not a bad smell or a good smell. It just had a definitive aroma.

Christmas taught me how to rock the shit out of gift certificates. That might have ended up being good real world training.

Getting blocks of blank cassette tapes was always a fan favorite. It was the gift that kept on giving and I’m not going to brag, but I certainly knew my way around a good mix tape.

The funny thing about Christmas now is that I totally want the kind of gifts that are frequently used as jokes pertaining towards typical dude presents. Come Christmas morning, if I have a couple new white t-shirts, some new socks and a new collared shirt or two- I’m stoked. I can’t really think of anything else I want besides maybe AES to wipe out my student loans or to get the Super Trooper back. I’m really just looking forward to the downtime that comes with Christmas. Sleeping in is a present I’m looking forward to this year.

That and Watch the Throne.

Proper Rock Drums: Not To Be Denied!

2011-12-22T11:28:00.000-05:00

Last night I faced both my mortality as well as my past self at the exact same time.

And yes, opening lines don’t get much heavier than that. They just don’t. Look it up…the Google machine, the email maker, the YouTube producer…they will all tell you the exact same thing. Fact.

Here’s the thing, playing drums is hard. Playing drums when you don’t play that often is both hard and frustrating. Playing drums when you don’t play that often, but used too, is damn near maddening. In the end, it all leaves you sore. And so I jammed last night with D Money and it was fun. It was fun because it is simple- music is fun. There were just two of us, but thanks to D Money’s fancy looping machine- it sounded like there were more than that, which is a plus because as any drummer can attest, jamming with just a guitar player is tough business. The lack of something to grab leaves a drummer hanging and a chasm in the middle of the sound. It’s hard to overcome. The Black Keys are special like that and so are the White Stripes. Yet The Black Keys tour with touring musicians now and Jack White eventually ditched the Stripes to start other, more conventional bands. In the end, you need a little bit more than just a dude playing guitar and a dude banging on drums. It’s why trios are perfect and why Meg White is off somewhere collecting royalty checks instead of backing White.

D Rock and I had jammed a couple times before, but last night something was different- for me at least. I had two definitive moments, which is impressive seeing as how we only played for about two hours.

The first moment was during one jam that could best be pinned down as garage funk. The jam really opened up after a couple minutes and once it got it’s legs underneath it, really started to take shape and for the first time, yes the absolute first time since I moved to Philly, I was playing like my old self again. My limbs flew wildly in different directions as I hammered my cymbals and slammed down on the snare drum. It was the brute force style of playing that I love so much, that I miss so much, that I think is just so much f’n fun to play. I hate restrained drummers. Drums are primal. You gotta send it to do it right. Write that down.

Since moving to Philly, I just haven’t had the opportunity to really send it properly at all. There have been moments, like playing the main stage at the Trocadero with the B Side Prophets, but anchoring a laid back, white boy, reggae band just doesn’t lend itself to wild cymbal crashes and dirty, loud funk beats. It just doesn’t. Every band I’ve played in down here, I feel like I’ve been holding back and that was unsettling for me. Anything worth doing is worth doing right and if you’re mailing it in on drums, it’s just not worth doing.

So that was fun, having this delightfully nostalgic moment on a rainy Wednesday night.

But what goes up must come down.

Simply put- I just don’t play as much as I used too. This is what comes with apartment living and a natural aversion to electronic drums. I rock the shit out of my steering wheel while driving, but it’s not the same. To have your way with a set of drums, you need to have the chops to do so and sadly last night I realized that as of this moment in time, my chops just aren’t there. Oh I have not missed the shooting pains running up and down my forearms and the makers of Advil Liquid Gels should be thrilled I’m playing again. When I was with Sidecar I probably should have been given stocks in the company I was popping so many- not being able to make it through both a show and the day after without a dosage. Having pain interfere with some good time having is a damn shame.

I realized last night that I just can’t do what I used to be able to- not right now at least, because I’m also resolved to change that. I’m rusty and my limbs are sluggish from the five year long coffee break they’ve been on. Ah boy-o, it was another one of those unpleasant “shit man, you’re getting older” moments.

You can’t go back to the way things were, regardless of the situation. You can only move forward, taking lessons learned from past experiences with you to serve as a foundation. That pesky Devil life only moves in one direction. If we could all go back in time colleges would be over-crowded.

So while I faced both the unsettling reality that as a drummer, I’m not as good as I used to be, I can’t let that get me down. It’s not a tragedy. It’d be a tragedy if I wasn’t playing at all anymore and coming to such disheartening conclusions while sitting on the couch and watching YouTube clips of Portland bands. Problems are only problems if you aren’t able to fix them. Therefore, my lack of chops ain’t no problem boy-o because I’m on it. Maybe I can't bang on drums like I used too, but I'll surely try.

Write that down.

2011- You Don't Have to Go Home, but You Can't Stay Here

2011-12-21T10:04:00.000-05:00

2012 is going to be one of those years. I can feel it. This isn’t posturing and I’m not talking myself into anything- like Bored to Death on HBO or eating avocados. I just feel that 2012 is going to be a good year. I feel so good about it that frankly, I’d skip Christmas, the week after and New Year’s just to get the ball rolling.

2011 I learned the value of patience. It probably wouldn’t be wise to throw that out now.

So what’s cracking in 2012 that is going to make it such a good year? Well for starters I’m getting married in the summer- July 28th to be exact. And if you’re keeping track, that is exactly 8 days after the release of the Dark Knight Rises. The two events are not related- not yet at least. My lovely Future Wife and I are getting hitched on the Manasquan River in Point Pleasant, New Jersey. Have you ever been to Point Pleasant? Have you ever asked yourself questions? Either way, Point Pleasant is best described as a thin slice of heaven. Wait, should heaven be capitalized? I’m moving on, tiger style. And speaking of tigers, according to the goalie of the Flyers, if you kill a tiger in China you get the death penalty. While I question the accuracy of that statement, I certainly don’t question the amazing entertainment value of 24/7: the Road to the Winter Classic.

Point Pleasant might be an island. There are a lot of delicious crab cake sandwiches there and if I lived there I’d buy a long board to get around town on.

Also happening in the upcoming year is the birth of Baby Turner as Erin and Ed are expecting what will surely be a smart, sassy, baseball-knowledgeable and well read baby girl. I’m going to uncle the bejesus out of that little lady and I couldn’t be happier for those two. They will make great parents, my parents will make great grandparents and Dugan will make a great big brother/guardian/enforcer/body pillow. Kim and I got Baby Turner what could easily be described as the best baby gift ever- a Patriots’ cheerleader outfit- a little something for that little lady to grow into and wear proudly on Sundays in the future as she inevitably develops a crush on Tom Brady. Who doesn’t have a crush on Tom Brady? The Saturday Night Live skit lampooning Tim Tebow said it best- “I (Jesus) might be the Son of God, but Tom Brady is the guy’s nephew.”

I would like to see the Patriots win the Super Bowl in 2012, but I don’t feel 100 percent confident about that yet. I only feel about 74 percent confident. And you know, those nitwits on ESPN keep knocking the Pats’ defense and while I’m not saying that’s blasphemy, I do think they get knocked and criticized more than they should. In the last couple weeks you can really only point to one game (the Giants game) where the defense cost them the game and another game (the Redskins game) where they defense almost cost them the game. Other than that they’ve been pretty solid, really running strong with this “bend, but don’t break” style which could also be referred to as a near heart attack-inducing for fans style of defense. All I’ll say is that A) I like their chances and B) won’t be convinced until they win a playoff game.

2012 is going to be a good year. Sure there is the requisite uncertainty that comes with the dawning of each year, but I am focusing on the positive, focusing on what I can control. This time next year I’ll be married and teaching my niece how to say things like “awesome, dude” and “that’s what’s up.” The process is not certain, but the end result is. 2011 has been a year of ups and downs, heaval and upheaval. We lost my cousin Jay and not a day goes by that I don’t think about him and his family.

There is a little over week left of 2011 and you know, I won’t miss it once it’s gone. But it taught me some things, proved some things, and shot a hole in a few things. I’m ready to move it to the past experiences pile and see what’s next for Ryno.

We live, we love, we learn. We ride bikes, we ride longboards, we ride rollercoasters. We do it with smiles, we do it with frowns and we do it with tears. The minute life becomes predictable is the minute it becomes boring.

Here’s to another year of unpredictably. May we face our challenges with cold beers, good tunes and no traffic.

Twenty Sentences.

2011-12-20T14:37:00.000-05:00

Not trying to throwing anyone under the bus, but Fred Davis’ failed drug tests cost me my fantasy football season.

What else am I supposed to watch on television this time of year besides Christmas specials and movies?

Elf is the new A Christmas Story.

I worry that an entire generation of kids won’t understand the magnificent glory of a Red Rider BB gun.

Watching Tim Tebow throw a football is as ugly as I imagine watching two homeless people having sex in public would be.

I really don’t want anything for Christmas except for someone to pay off my student loan bills.

Tried to watch VH1 Dives Salute to Soul last night but for the most part, watching screeching cats would have been the same thing.

I wish I could make presents for everyone- like a bird house.

Do you think bird’s find bird apartments degrading?

I’m happy Jimmy Rollins is coming back to the Phillies.

How many stupid tweets do I have to write to achieve fame via Twitter?

Just make sure you have a good water bottle is my advice for literally everyone in the world- regardless of the situation.

If the Celtics don’t make the Finals, I just hope someone beats the Heat.

I’m going to watch at least two Clippers’ games this year.

Newt Gingrich probably hates dolphins and kittens.

If I was Obama, I’d be a little worried about John Huntsman.

My New Year resolution is to learn how to tie a tie.

There is a part of me that is starting to get annoyed with Facebook.

There is another part of me that wants to write that as my status update.

Life is less fun when you’re so tired your eyes feel like they’ve just been hit by socks filled with bars of soap.

Top 5 1/2 Albums of 2011

2011-12-15T12:36:00.000-05:00

I don’t buy as much new music as I used too. For years, I made weekly trips to Bull Moose in Portland to pick up a CD or two- sometimes three. Then I got into I-tunes and for a spell, foolishly bought more than I should simply based on the relative ease it took to do so. But in the past year or so, I’ve scaled back- spending money on fun things like student loans, car payments and keeping the lights on instead. Life is pretty awesome that way.

The year is coming to an end and because this is a blog and blogs follow and comment on trends, I’ve decided to rock out a list of the best 5 ½ albums that were released this year.

These are listed in no particular order, but if they were, El Camino by the Black Keys would be number one because let’s be honest, that album rocks and as a country, society and modern civilization- we need albums that rock.

1. The Black Keys El Camino. This album gets the award for the Most Anticipated Album of the Year. I couldn’t wait for it to come out and have already had to take a break from it- something that usually happens at least three weeks after buying an album. “Lonely Boy” is great and so is “Gold on the Ceiling.” Come on, every song is awesome. This album is awesome. It could be re-named El Awesome and I wouldn't think twice.

2. My Morning Jacket Circuital. Is Southern Prog Rock a certified musical genre? If so, My Morning Jacket are the kings. If not, then they are the originators. This is one of those rare albums that just gets better the more you listen to it. I don’t promise much, but I can promise that I’ll never get sick of the song “Holdin on to Black Metal.”

3. The Roots undun. I feel like a damn fool. After the first listen of this album I told Drewnami it was good, but not great. He was disappointed. He should be more disappointed in my ability to rate music because dude, I was very wrong. Very wrong. The only way I could be more wrong about something was if I told you that there isn’t a better cereal in terms of bang for your buck than Honey Nut Cheerios. undun is a complete, solid and pretty much perfect album. The flow is undeniably flawless. We should feel like idiots for being concerned that the Roots were on the slow road to Sell Out Town when they signed on to be Jimmy Fallon’s house band.

4. Kanye West & Jay Z Watch the Throne. This is the kind of album I think we all hoped Chinese Democracy by Guns n Roses would be- an album that truly lived up to the hype. I should mention that I feel very strongly that Axl Rose is to rock music as Kanye is to hip hop. But that’s also another discussion. Watch the Throne is why we buy albums and why we pay to hear musicians apply their trade. It’s an album that is the result of two superstar dudes just totally going for it. It’s admirable, astonishing and admittedly humbling.

5. Max Tannone Ghostfunk. Tannone is a DJ from New York who has previously mashed up Mos Def and reggae as well as Jay Z and Radiohead. On this album he mashed up Ghostface Killah and afrobeat. The final product is a sometimes clumsy, but all the time rad collection of party jams. I will happily download anything Tannone comes out with now and thanks to Twitter, I was able to tell him that and then have a quick conversation about Game of Thrones. Thanks Internet!

And the ½ goes to my dear friends Paranoid Social Club and their album Axis VI. Why the ½? Well for a couple reasons:

- Terrible album cover. It looks like someone threw up on it.
- “Count on Me” is one of the best songs of the year, but also accompanied by one of the worst videos of the year.
- There are maybe 6 or 7 super strong songs on the album. The rest are forgettable.
- I wish the songs were lined up differently. The album doesn’t really have a definable flow to it.

I’m sure there albums that in someone’s opinion, and maybe even mine, that were better than the five and ½ listed here. But that my friend is what 2012 is for.

It's Toad the Wet Sprocket!

2011-12-13T09:54:00.000-05:00

You can’t make this stuff up. No, really you can’t. There I was- driving the Corollacoaster up to lovely Limerick, PA- home of smoke stacks and a Wawa and scanning through the increasingly mediocre FM radio stations in Philadelphia. There was nothing on except for the tail end of one of the songs off of Watch the Throne and the grizzled and currently hopeful voices of Eagles’ fans, talking themselves into believing that despite what reality said- their team still had a shot at the playoffs. I stopped at one station, a familiar guitar lick was coming through the speakers and I thought to myself- is this Toad the Wet Sprocket?

Of course you remember Toad the Wet Sprocket- “Fall Down” and that out on the ocean song…

But here’s kicker number one friend…the guitar lick did not belong to Toad the Wet Sprocket…unfortunately. I had gotten excited to listen to Toad and his sprocket because with ease, I get excited about random things very quickly. The guitar part belonged to the Gin Blossoms, another largely forgettable/occasionally memorable band. I was disappointed. Why would I want to listen to the Gin Blossoms? Philly radio does this to me at least three times a day. They play songs that make me wonder, why on Earth would I want to listen to Marcy’s Playground, an Everclear song other than "Santa Monica," any Bush song, Third Eye Blind…the list is too long, I have things to do. But who is out there that is genuinely happy when the Gin Blossoms come on?

I saw the Gin Blossoms once. It was by accident, pure chance and it was in Boston. I was coming back from one of the museums and heard familiar sounds coming from the plaza in front of the government building so I went to check it out. There were maybe two hundred people scattered across the steps and on the stage, there were the Gin Blossoms in all of their holding onto the 90’s glory. I won’t say they looked pathetic…I’ll say they looked like a band on their way to Pathetic Town, not quite there yet, but most definitely on the slow boat in that direction. I caught their last song, one of their well-known ones and was shocked. They screwed it up. They had to start over. Come on dudes, that wouldn’t happen to Third Eye Blind.

So instead of listening to Toad the Wet Sprocket, which would have been a welcome surprise, I found myself changing the dial to avoid the Gin Blossoms. The radio scanned up and down the FM dial two or three times. More Eagles’ fans, but not much else. With a win over the Dolphins, hope has been restored. Keep the riot place on call for now. For today, the angry rioting that has been kept at bay by wins like Sunday’s was again put on hold. Andy Reid will stay! Andy Reid needs to go! If the Birds win out and everyone else falls to pieces…

The sun was shining bright and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Not one. The air smelled like hope.

Minutes later, the day took a turn. I stopped at another radio station because this one- and this is where we get to the Can’t Make This Stuff Up part of this (pointless) story, was playing…Toad the Wet Sprocket. It was not the Gin Blossoms. It was not any other vanilla 90’s band.

It was a Christmas miracle!

Toad the Wet Sprocket’s lead singer is named Glen and their drummer was short, with a big head.

Yesterday was Monday and today is Tuesday. It’s cold and we will stick to the facts.

Three Facts:

I can’t believe Jimmy is dead.

Tim Tebow does not play defense and does not kick 59 yard field goals.

The NBA is making people who literally shoot themselves in the foot look sensible.

Here's to Toad the Wet Sprocket. We will see you again soon.

This Just In: Today is Wednesday

2011-12-07T12:24:00.000-05:00

This winter I am comfortable with one, maybe two, snow storms. If said snow storm could happen on like a Thursday or Friday, that would certainly be preferred. Snow is being predicted for tomorrow- maybe not in the lovely city of Philadelphia, but in those mysterious out-lying areas. It’s Wednesday and the weather today is weird.

Also on this Wednesday it is confirmed that the Black Keys are great. Reports had them being great before the release of their new album and being great after hearing the new album. But the general sentiment is that their greatness was indeed confirmed after their appearance on the Colbert Report. They rocked and seemed like good dudes. The good dude part is important given my simmering concerns that they’re on the verge of selling out and becoming the next Kings of Leon. But I discussed this yesterday. So today is Wednesday and the actions of Tuesday, for the most part, will not be repeated.

Update: leftover Chinese food for lunch.

I have to admit that I’m kind of, sort of loving all this hot stove talk- in both baseball and basketball. The NBA seems to be on the verge of an end of days like situation in terms of level of chaos. Free agency is about to start, but so are training camps so everything is going to get cracking fast and furious. I’m surprised by the degree of my indifference towards to Rondo trade rumors coming out of Boston. Chris Paul on the Celtics? That’d be awesome and Black Keys’ level great. Rondo traded for some jambroni? That would be terrible- terrible comparable to my Kings of Leon level of disappointment. What will happen with Jeff Green? I really want to like the dude but he makes me nervous. He doesn’t look comfortable. He should wear a headband. But Chris Paul is the real deal, even if he only stays for a year. I’m fine with that. Danny Ainge, I’m fine with that. The 2012 Celtics are only about this year only. Go all in.

The Miami Marlins sounds like a punch line of a bad joke and wasn’t that a team in Back to the Future II? I think it was and when it showed up in 2025, when Marty first arrived in the future, the digital news ticker said a team from Florida won the World Series. It would be crazy if that ended up happening. But you have to be kidding me. I’ve watched games in Florida and there is no one there. They are building a new stadium but once the new car smell is gone and people remember they’re in Florida, their attendance will be back down to double digits. So why would Albert Pujols sign there? Please tell me it’s not just about money. Is it really that worth it?

Newt. I keep thinking someone is messing with me.

This afternoon, we give El Camino by the Black Keys the car stereo test. Stand by for results. We will test undun by the Roots tomorrow.

The Future of the Black Keys: two musicians, five questions, one concerned fan

2011-12-06T12:10:00.000-05:00

Are the Black Keys selling out?

This question has been stuck in my head since it was announced that their March tour date in Philly was at the big joint- the Wachovia Center. Why couldn’t they play the Tower Theater or the Electric Factory? Are they really that popular or is someone assuming they are or definitely will be in early 2012? Their new album is awesome. That is the only thing that I know for certain about my favorite band.

Here are five other Black Keys-related questions that I've been kicking around lately.

1.) Should we really be upset if our favorite band is getting bigger? And by bigger, I mean fame and size of audience-wise. I don’t really think anyone should care if a band is physically getting bigger unless their favorite band is Blues Traveler and the person in question is John Popper. I think for medical reasons, he needs to stay small. But either way, it is becoming evident that with the release of their new album El Camino, the Black Keys are making a move. The Kings of Leon made a similar move based on the success of their song “Sex on Fire.” Now the Kings are on hiatus after abruptly cancelling shows because a certain front man couldn’t handle his booze. I would be willing to bet that we’ve heard the last decent album from them.

2.) Shouldn’t the goal of every band be to reach as many people as possible? I think so. You write an awesome song; you want people to hear it. A band’s goal should be the accumulation of ears. As ears, we should accept this. But it’s not easy. The more ears a band gathers, the more that band’s sound has a tendency to change. Sure Pearl Jam sounds awesome now, but they strayed for a while when their ear collection became over-whelming. I think the only band to not change regardless of the size of their ear collection is the Foo Fighters. They are exactly what they were when Dave Grohl created them- a loud American rock band that likes to have fun and play kick ass rock shows.

3.) Will the Black Keys be like the Kings of Leon or the Foo Fighters? The Kings didn’t get popular overnight, but they did get super popular overnight. Prior to “Sex on Fire,” they had a decent following and were starting to play larger rooms in the winter and larger sheds in the summer. Then with “Sex on Fire,” things changed and by the time they released their follow-up album, Come Around Sundown, they sounded like a band influenced by Kings of Leon as opposed to a band that was Kings of Leon. Look at Coldplay. They went from writing sad bastard music good for both rainy and sunny days to writing giant, synthesizer-drenched, pop anthems. They didn’t become a band sounding like Coldplay, they became a band featuring former members of Coldplay. Then you look at Grohl and the Foos. Their albums aren’t works of art and they’re not visions of what the future might look like, but they’re dependable and reliable- two things I think every diehard of a band longs for, but rarely gets. Kings of Leon is a local bar that lost sight of what made them great, Coldplay was a pub that introduced outside seating, and the Foo Fighters are T.G.I. Fridays. What kind of bar will the Black Keys become?

4.) Is it cheating that the Black Keys tour with two backing musicians? No. This is a ridiculous question. Who is asking these things?

5.) As a Black Keys’ fan, should you be at all concerned about the future of the band? I don’t think so. I think they’ll be all right. They seem to be genuine dudes with good heads on their shoulders. True Dan Auerbach cut his hair, but I think we are safe from them incorporating super skinny jeans and artfully crafted bedhead into their look.

Rest easy Black Keys’ fan, I think we are safe with these guys.

Check out El Camino, it's damn good.

Loyalty Preserved: a review of The Roots' undun

2011-12-02T15:29:00.000-05:00

There are some albums out there that take a little while to get into. The Roots’ new album undun is one such album. The first time I listened to it I almost didn’t make it the whole way through and was a little disappointed because in my opinion- it was good, but lacking bangers.

Banger (noun): an upbeat song, a party jam, a song on an album that disrupts the tempo and flow in a positive way. A banger gets the crowd moving regardless of the venue.

I knew going in that the album would be different, having read a few articles and early reviews about the concept album and had even heard Questlove declare that undun was “the best thing we’ve ever done.” That’s saying quite a bit and is also a statement every band could say about their latest album. Bands are constantly evolving. If you’re a band and you a release an album that you feel isn’t comprised of some of the best songs you’ve written, it might be time to hang up your spikes and go into broadcasting. Donovan McNabb for instance, can’t say in all honesty that his best football game has yet to be played. He should hang ‘em up.

But I was wrong about undun. The album does contain a banger or two- they’re just a little harder to pick out because the album has such a definitively subdued tone. I don’t even know the song titles at this point, having only listened to it through NPR’s website.

undun is not album you should listen to while working out. It’s an album you should listen to while rocking an L and reading the latest issue of the New Yorker. That is statement that couldn’t be made about past Roots’ albums. I would listen to Game Theory or Rising Down while driving. I would not listen to undun while driving anything. It’s not an active record. It’s like jazz or Eminem- it needs to be digested properly and in the proper setting. Unlike How I Got Over, undun is not a locale-versatile album.

Undun is reassuring, though- reassuring for Roots’ fans who were concerned after they signed on to be Jimmy Fallon’s house band. Hold on…this one song, maybe called “On Time” is sick. But back to reassurance- Undun is because of how good it is and proof that perhaps the Roots are better at multi-tasking that we all originally thought and maybe we are ourselves. I don’t watch Jimmy Fallon all that often, but what I have seen has cemented my belief that the Roots are a great live band. They’re a well-dressed jukebox. But Undun is there to remind you that they can still throw it down in the studio, too and that, for any Roots’ fan, should make you sleep better.

But wait…don’t you remember their Fourth of July concert this year? Oh I do. That concert in front of the Art Museum that was put in the hands of Questlove because the city wanted to breathe new life into it. But Philadelphia wasn’t all in and the line-up included Earth, Wind & Fire, Michael MacDonald and Sara something instead of some of the eclectic acts you’d see at a normal Roots’ show. I can’t listen to the Roots now and not have the picture of them soullessly backing MacDonald floating in the back of my mind. I’m sorry, I can’t. I can’t forget that when the stage was theirs, they disappeared behind a melody of funk jams I had heard played exactly the same the summer before at the Roots’ Picnic. It was a bummer. Bangers come and go, but bummers stick around.

Re-assurance is the name of the game here, as it is with any band that has been around for a while. When you follow a band for more than album or two, you almost start to worry when they release something new- you worry that they’ve fallen off the rails. Dave Matthews Band did it when they released Everyday. That album was as flat and lifeless as they’re previous albums were full and vibrant. It was disconcerting and it was an album that fans had to talk themselves into liking, a move that is one step away from disassociation- a doomsday scenario for fans. A Roots’ fan could very easily think that with everything they’re into now and all the directions they seem to be going, undun could be along the same lines of Everyday. But it’s not and as a result, we should breathe easily. Loyalty comes with liking a band for more than an album or two and the true test of loyalty is disappointment.

I remain loyal to the Roots and I think you should as well.

Thankfully Thankful & Full to the Brim.

2011-11-28T14:35:00.001-05:00

Future Wife and I embarked on three…count them, one, two, three Thanksgivings this year and yes sir- we rocked them all. Early highlights seem to be Erin’s sweet potatoes, Kim’s apple pie, and fleece sweatpants. It was my first Thanksgiving not in Maine and there were twinges of regret when missing out on Wednesday night's Bay Lines' reunion. But this has been a year that is all about changing things up for the O’Connell family and Thanksgiving was no different. The folks have moved, Erin is preggers and Kim and I are getting closer and closer to making our relationship official…officially awesome.

Now it’s Monday and I had my first leftover turkey sandwich for lunch. It was delicious. And because the weather is so freakin’ nice today, I ate it outside at the old picnic table out in the parking lot. It’s Cyber Monday for office drones and a chance for those people not tough or crazy enough to tackle Black Friday to cash in on deals. But if you do your shopping on-line, how will you get pepper-sprayed? That seems lame. There is not even a chance you could get trampled. Where is the fun in that? We need to inject some danger into Cyber Monday and no, I don’t think identity fraud will cut it.

But today is also a day to reflect and look forward. The year is coming to a close and Christmas is coming in hot. We just spent a long weekend zeroing in on what we are thankful for and now we’ll spend four weeks thinking about funny things to put in our loved one’s stocking. It’s time for buying Christmas trees, dropping hints about what kind of gifts you want, and hoping none of your fantasy football studs gets hurt with the playoffs starting in a couple weeks.

It’s a fun time of year.

Here are some things I’m thankful for, listed in no particular order.

Kim- because what I have with her is what I’ve always wanted.

My parents moving closer and being healthy.

Erin having a bun in the oven.

The Black Keys- because they’re fun to listen and instantly make me want to play drums.

Darren Sproles, Johnny Knox, Ray Rice- for helping get me through my fantasy football season. Special thanks to Jeff for agreeing to trade Rice.

Not being bald and having all of my teeth- I just don’t want to lose either hair or teeth. Call me vain, but it’s the truth.

Having a job is pretty awesome.

Gas prices in the suburbs.

The NBA lockout being over.

Marly and Zach for lending us Madmen so we could finish season four. But now that we finished it, what do we watch next?

HBO for making both Boardwalk Empire and Game of Thrones.

Herman Cain for being so gosh darn funny.

Herman Cain for also not being a viable presidential candidate.

WXPN in Philadelphia.

November having an extra Friday, resulting in an extra pay check.

Refurbished I-phones.

There is more that I'm thankful for, but in the end, I'm just thankful. I can't go so far as to say life is good, because there are still bumps in the road and kinks that need to be worked out. But life is happening and that alone is something to be thankful for.

Go Celtics.

Slow Moving Traffic, Fast Thinking Brain

2011-11-23T10:02:00.000-05:00

It is roughly 26 miles from my office in West Norristown to our Queen Village apartment. Thanks to the lovely Schuylkill Expressway and it’s lack of smooth sailing, it usually takes me about an hour to get home from work and a little bit longer to get home. Some days the drive is shorter and some days it’s longer. I’ve given up trying to understand why and concentrated on more important things- like using the bathroom before I leave and deciding which podcast to listen to on the way home. However, there are sometimes when the drive defies all odds and reaches a point where if I wanted too, I could be in another state in the same amount of time it took me to commute to or from work.

Last night was one of those nights. I could have driven to Washington D.C. I spent almost three hours in the mighty and sensible Corollacoaster as in climate weather in Philadelphia seemed to make everyone think that driving above 10 miles an hour was a bad idea. It was brutal. It was boring. It was really, really hard because I had to pee.

The tough thing about sitting in traffic is keeping yourself occupied and the additionally tough thing about sitting in traffic at night is not falling asleep. I did fall asleep once in traffic, stuck amidst a standstill outside of Baltimore for two hours starting at a little before midnight at the end of what had already been a long day. I put the trusty MSI box truck in park and sat back- woken up a couple minutes later by the flashing blue lights of a passing police cruiser illuminating the truck’s cab. Being stuck in traffic stinks. Falling asleep in traffic stinks. Abruptly waking up from a little snooze in traffic is downright inhumane.

Sitting in traffic does lend itself to some quality thinking time, though- whether or not this is a good or bad thing is debatable. I’ve contemplated my entire life, rehashed past regrets, and written rock operas while sitting in traffic.

Last night my thoughts weren’t connected and were random and quick...

Those crazy kids on How I Met Your Mother would have much easier lives if they didn’t drink so much.

The first four songs on Paranoid Social Club’s latest album, Axis IV, are great. I would love them to do a video for Stick Up Kid.

I still can’t believe how season four of Madmen ended.

If Tim Tebow were smart, he’d take initiative and agree to become a running back.

I love how the Patriots’ defense is looking right now. But still, it’s all about the playoffs. It’s going to be really hard to swallow if they lose in their first game again this year.

Bad Teacher would be a better movie if the title were Bad Movie Starring a Very Hot Cameron Diaz. Then we’d have a better idea of what we were getting. It’s like how Funny People should really be called a Sad and Slightly Too Long Movie About Funny People Being Sad.

Not sure when I was as excited for a new album as I am for the new Black Keys’ album.

Got an IPhone 4 for $90. Boo yah.

My fantasy football team could easily be renamed Smoke & Mirrors, but I like Burnsy’s Dumpster Fire. So I’m keeping the name.

If three Thanksgivings can’t propel a person to start exercising, I’m not sure what can.

I’m pretty sure that if Fox News can downplay pepper spraying innocent and non-violent protestors, they would have had no problem dismissing the Nazis as ambitious patriots.

I should really always go to the bathroom before leaving the office.

Happy Thanksgiving. Don't eat too fast...you'll get hiccups.

Occupy My Confusion

2011-11-15T11:18:00.000-05:00

I’m confused.

I’m confused this morning for a variety of reasons. For a hot minute, I thought I was troubled- but that was just a gestational reaction to dinner last night…which was delightful. But I’m confused about what’s going on right now in our country. It is not dismay and it is not outrage. It is just simple confusion. It is the kind of confusion that is not easily remedied. Unfortunately, for my confusion, there is not really an end in sight.

These Occupy Insert City Here movements are confusing- specifically what has happened the past few days, whether it’s the brutal gang-busting happening in Oakland and New York or the he said/she said back and forth that is happening in Philadelphia. Frankly I’ve been a little bit confused about these Occupy Movements from the get go. Now though, it’s just gotten weird.

It’s not going to end well, anywhere. It doesn’t matter what city, what government or what motley crew of protestors are involved. This just isn’t going to end well. There will be martyrs and victims and there will be more police beatings and news conferences where up-tighters in ties say that the situation has gotten out of control and there will be news conferences following these news conferences, where protesters refute the claims that lawlessness has crept into their occupations. What will be the final straw? A vicious snow storm? Maybe, but even that might not stop them and if anything, will probably result in one or two nunchucks weathering the storm and becoming folk heroes for doing so. A Phish tour? No, this isn’t the nineties. I don’t know what will happen; I just know it’s confusing the shit out of me.

And I’m confused about Tim Tebow. Really, an NFL quarterback threw eight times, only completing two passes and is now 3-1? I think Tebow is the Wildcat re-incarnated. He’s a fad and will be gone in two years unless someone can talk him into becoming a mega stud tight end/halfback hybrid. He’s not a quarterback. Tom Brady is a quarterback.

I’m confused that the Phillies, a team that for two years in a row had their seasons end because they couldn’t get a hit to save them, opened the off season by throwing down fifty million dollars for a closer. Now I know that this closer is Jonathan Papelbon and I think Pap will be great in Philly- but I had the same reaction to the Pap signing as I did with the Cliff Lee signing- can he hit? I just don’t get it. I think Phillies’ GM Ruben Amaro has patience issues. He would be wise to heed the advice Arnold Rothstein gave Nucky Thompson in this week’s Boardwalk Empire- chill out some.

I’m not confused that J. Edgar wasn’t as good as I hoped. I’m disappointed.

Coldplay is confusing. It feels like I shouldn’t like them, but I do. Their new album is a great. It’s a big, international rock n roll album…and it has Rhianna on it. Bonus. I have no idea what Mylo whatever means- the title of the album, and I don’t care. I like Chris Martin’s voice. I also feel that their drummer has the easiest gig in music.

Republicans have me confused. Have you seen Herman Cain’s latest interview, talking about Libya? And that dude is a front-runner, despite being accused of numerous accounts of sexual harassment. And if the whole thing wasn’t a joke already, it’s now getting even worse- Newt Gingrich is supposedly making a run now. You guys know he’s a dick right? You know he’s a liar and would be a terrible president right? You know you should just cut your losses and support Mitt, right? I just don’t get it.

I’m confused by the weather- but happy that flip flops aren’t totally out of my life yet.

I’m confused that I can have five bars and the little 3G logo on my phone, but still can’t get current fantasy football scores.

I’m confused about the NBA situation- specifically confused about who put the people in charge in those positions.

However, there is one thing I am not confused, dismayed, outraged or befuddled about.

I am perfectly cool with the socks I have on. I love them. And on a day like today, that’s enough.

Happy Birthday Future Wife.

The Dumpster Fire's Jazz Odyssey Moment

2011-11-11T13:50:00.002-05:00

Let’s talk about two of this week's happenings:

1.) realizing a fantasy football trade might not work out as planned

2.) learning that the best part of VH1’s Metal Week celebration is the constant airing of This is Spinal Tap.

“If I told them once, I told them a hundred times. Put Spinal Tap first and Puppet Show second.”

Realizing that Miles Austin wasn’t going to work, I had my own personal “resorting to Jazz Odyssey” moment a few days ago. James Starks would be my jazz odyssey. At this point, I really have no choice. I picked up Michael Crabtree, but I did so with little hope. And while I realize that the subject of failed fantasy football trades is neither fresh nor all that interesting…or is it? Just like that, it is back to the old does anyone else care about your fantasy football team debate and yes, I think it’s safe to say that while Future Wife may not be all that interested in Burnsy’s Dumpster Fire- I think other people might, sort of, kind of be.

So what happened was, I needed more production from my wide receivers and for the first time since 2007, when I had Randy Moss, I wanted a stud dude at that position. I dangled The Romocoaster around and once Jason Campbell went down, had a trading partner with the Rogue Load. It seemed like a mega-deal- I trade The Romocoaster, a disappointing MJD and Boldin and end up with Austin and Ray Rice. The impetus of the trade had been the success of Matthew Stafford If He Stays Healthy and of course, the first game after the trade, Stafford gets injured. That was the first bad sign. The second was Rice’s worst game of the season against Jacksonville and then culminating in Trouble Town with Austin going out with an injury. Defeated. Bummer. Oh well.

What can you do?

Well you look to Spinal Tap and do what you have to- you do your Jazz Odyssey.

I can watch This Is Spinal Tap at least once a week; for at least twenty minutes. There aren’t many movies that have that effect on me anymore. Shawshank Redemption has an honorary slot in the countdown, but after that, the list just isn’t what it used to be. I’m even watching the edited version right now and it doesn’t matter. That’s rare. I wonder why more bands don’t cover Spinal Tap songs? I think “Tonight I’m Gonna Rock It”- I’m not even sure if that is the title, would be a hell of a lot of fun to play.

For Burnsy’s Dumpster Fire, we are getting dangerously close to that point where we either need to get on the charts in Japan or call it a day and go to work on our opera about Happy Jack.

Other things learned this week:

New Coldplay album is surprisingly good.

Funniest episode of the Office this season was on last night.

Yuengling is an anomaly of a beer. It tastes good in a glass, in a bottle and in a can. Not too many beers can say that.

Thanks to our veterans.

Sticking the Landing

2011-11-08T11:53:00.000-05:00

What do you do with yourself when coffee isn’t working? This is a question I have found myself asking myself all morning long. I even blasted some Led Zeppelin, but that has not seemed to help. Did you know forty years ago today, Led Zeppelin released that album with no real title- the one that had “Stairway to Heaven” on it? I love learning fun facts on the way to work.

The reason I’m so tired is that this past weekend was a doozy. It was Special Olympics’ Fall Festival, an event held at Villanova University with over 1,000 athletes, 350 coaches and a little over 4,000 volunteers. Of the events I run for Special Olympics, it could be most easily categorized as the Big One. It was the event that people around these parts have been asking me about since my first day working here. The event had become almost mythological to me, like a dinosaur everyone else here had seen, but was now my job to tame, even though I myself hadn’t seen it. I would tame a dinosaur by tying it’s legs together when it wasn’t looking.

Three cups of coffee a day and comfortable sneakers were the keys to success this past weekend, with the hidden gem being the afternoon Red Eyes I had on both Friday and Saturday- a little something extra to boost me through and get me to the evening’s events- Friday being the Opening Ceremonies and Saturday being the Victory Dance. Whoever was the first people to dump a shot of espresso into a cup of a coffee is a genius…and probably dead now because really, if that idea came to you, you probably have come up with a lot of other seemingly questionable ideas that are a lot worse for you. Because really, super caffeine added to regular caffeine- I love it, but it’s really a terrible idea. It’s like stuffed crust pizza- just unnecessary, but also just awesome.

The event went really well and reinforced why I like working events. They are just so simple when it all comes down to it. You plan hard, then you work hard, then you crash hard and then when it’s all over, you are ready to do it all again. When I say it’s simple, I don’t mean the work itself is simple. It’s the idea of the job that’s simple because of the way it appeals to basic human nature. I think that deep down, we all want a job where we are given a task to do, a timeline to do it in and then a straight forward way to determine if we were successful. As I get older, I’m becoming more and more of a bottom-line kind of dude- I am not much for semantics and frills. I am all about bullet points and nothing about paragraphs. Events are full of bullet points- bullet points make events successful, in my opinion. If I didn’t feel the need to ramble a bit, this entire blog entry would be in bullet points. When it all comes down to it, how many of us really have so much to say that we need more than a sentence or two to say it?

Another great thing about events are the unique situations you find yourself in and the interesting people you meet along the way. I got hip to this when I was with the crazy ninjas at MSI. You just find yourself asking questions you wouldn’t normally ask someone and that’s fun as shit to do. Planning events forces you to make the random normal and hot damn, once you get past the oddity of it all it sure is a good time. It’s a frustrating time, but that makes it all the more worth it. Easy isn’t worth it, hard is. I really believe that we should earn our happiness- it shouldn’t be given to us. It doesn’t even matter what that happiness may be. You got to work for it. You need to earn it.

One thing I feel I’ve earned is sleep and it’s going to happen eventually. But first, I got to get through this Slow Motion Tuesday. I’ll make it through with the help of tunes- so far today I’ve listened to Led Zeppelin, Coldplay and now the Avett Brothers, a delicious peanut butter & jelly sandwich, and then a warm rendezvous with my super awesome future wife at Charlie Brown’s Steakhouse for Future Mother-in-Law’s birthday. Barb at MSI would preach the importance of a good re-entry once an event was over and that’s where I’m at now. I might not perfectly stick the landing, but I’ll get close and at this point, that’s good enough.

Ryno, out.

Occupy Ryno

2011-11-01T11:54:00.002-04:00

Future Wife and I went for a walk last night, unfortunately after most of the trick or treating was done and almost to that time of Halloween night when drunks walk awkwardly around city streets, stumbling while dressed in a cow costumes and sexy insert animal or occupation here costumes. But it was not the Halloween costumes that confused me and it was not missing the annual show the weird massage place down the street performs that disappointed me.

Our dear friends at Occupy Philly managed to do both just fine.

There was a commotion coming down South Street, led by flashing blue lights and a slow-moving police cruiser. What was it? My first thought was that it was probably some weirdo Halloween parade and we could see a couple large paper Mache heads bobbing above the crowd that was approaching us. Hipsters maybe? Puerto Ricans maybe? Art students maybe? Occupy Philly? Unfortunately.

Besides driving past their encampment in front of City Hall and following their calls for donations on Twitter, this was our first encounter with the movement, an offspring of the Occupy Movement that was sweeping the nation faster than a Kim Kardashian marriage. The crowd moving down South Street was maybe only fifty people strong and was clearly branded by a nice new white banner that read “Occupy Philly.” I wonder who donated that. Some of the marchers were dressed like zombies and they were all trying their best to chant in unison. “We are the walking dead,” they chanted. In the middle of the group, someone was keeping time on a plastic bucket. I was a little disappointed by the lack of hand drums.

As they passed, they pointed at us on the sidewalk and said we were the walking dead. Some people marching even said that we were the problem. They implored us to join them. A dude with a laminated credential followed the crowd on the side walk. According to his official looking credential, he was Occupy Philly Security. Again I wondered- who donated that. The crowd was definitely rag tag and varied in age and race. It was definitely not one select group of people and I appreciated that. But after the first part of the group passed I noticed a drop in intensity and enthusiasm. The folks in the middle and those pulling up the rear weren’t chanting. They were just walking and didn’t seem to really know what for. I guess the overall numbers of the march are what are important on some level, but it certainly seemed strange to see such passion at the front of the march and then all of the blank expressions towards the back.

I am not the walking dead, I thought, and took umbrage with them pointing at me while saying this. Maybe I’m not out there freezing my ass off in front of City Hall and joining scrambled egg marches to banks and down South Street, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy with our country right now. It could be that I’m taking it too personally, but that stuck with me. The way they marched and called out the bystanders on the sidewalk made it seem like anyone not marching was the enemy; like we were somehow at fault. Who is leading this shit show? Who is in charge? What’s the point?

These things aren’t going to end well. They just aren’t. I appreciate what they are doing and to a point, support them- but I’m a realist and at some point, city officials in all of these cities are going to say enough is enough. In Philly, a multi-million dollar construction project is planned for Dilworth Plaza, the area in front of City Hall where the Occupy Philly is based out of. The city has said it will create 500-1,000 jobs. If Occupy Philly holds this up, aren’t they then helping cause one of the problems they are supposedly against? What about all the money the city is paying to have cops over-seeing these occupations? That’s tax-payers money. That too seems counter-productive. Would this movement be any different if it was organized in coffee shops?

From the beginning of the Occupy Movement, I have struggled to understand what it really is. And while I want to support it because I do feel that our country has some serious issues, I just can’t. It doesn’t seem like there is any organization and there doesn’t seem to be a goal. A goal is concrete. A goal is crossing everything off of your to-do list. But what is on the to-do list of Occupy Philly? What did the march down South Street accomplish? The stand-off with Eric Cantor was good and brought some much-needed attention to the hypocrisy of his planned speech and I applaud those behind that demonstration. But to make an impact and to really enforce some change, there needs to be more of that and less of last night. Marching to march? You seem direction-less.

When this is over and the tents are packed up, I’m not sure how we will look back on this whole thing. The book has yet to be written about the Occupy Movement and there is still time to come up with the right ending. I support the idea. Good for them. But I believe in doing things because you should, not because you can. I implore the Occupy folks to think about that before marching for no reason and making people out on Monday night feel bad about themselves. We are not the problem. Point at me and tell me I am, well then I become the problem.

That’s no way to make friends.

Dressing Up As A Troubled Fan

2011-10-31T10:16:00.000-04:00

It’s hard to know what is more unsettling. There is the Patriots’ dismal and long-view disheartening loss to the Steelers, Boardwalk Empire possibly spreading itself too thin or my kind of okay Halloween costume of a skuzzy roadie being realized as a more spot on Fred Durst costume. Yeah, Fred Durst- the loser from Limp Bizkit, who I realized I looked like in the bathroom. Before I could fully digest this, I was called out for looking like him by a gal dressed up like Crock Pot.

It was a nice weekend for sure, but it was a weekend that came away turbulent by the time Monday morning rolled around.

So where to start? Well I could start with wondering why I still have Matisyahu on my I-pod. I never listen to him anymore and when I do it’s for about a minute- struck by the novelty of listening to him before being struck even harder by the fact that his songs are kind of boring.

No, I’m leaving that alone and skipping ahead.

Boardwalk Empire- we will start there. This is a massive show. It’s confusing and like a James Joyce book, something that only makes sense when tackling it with outside resources like Alan Sepinwall and the A.V. Club. It just has a lot of characters and a lot of moving parts- things that make for slightly challenging Sunday evening viewing, especially after a few hours of casual day-drinking and laundry-doing. I thought, and still do think, that this season has been amazing and has made last season’s arduous and sometimes less entertaining and more educational first season totally worth it. But after last night, I’m left thinking that perhaps the show is just a bit too big for its britches.

I like all the characters, but I’m starting to get worried that it is fast becoming too much for one show. Is Boardwalk Empire a morality play or a gangster flick? Is it story about people struggling with their beliefs, struggling with themselves or struggling with getting booze across state lines? Last night was the first night that I started to think that maybe Steve Buscemi’s Nucky Thompson would be pushed aside like Ned Stark in Game of Thrones and in this case, making room for Jimmy Darmody in the same way Ned’s death made room for his son Rob. I just don’t know what kind of show I’m watching with Boardwalk. When it first started, the producers talked about the show as a rare look at the gangsters we had come to know and love- Al Capone, Lucky Luciano and Meyer Lansky, as baby gangsters, and instead of seeing them at the height of their power, as we had on so many occasions, we were seeing them as ambitious up and comers. I never thought about this until last night. But doesn’t that statement mean that the show isn’t long for Buscemi and his Thompson character? Just where is this show going? I have no problems with them going gangster, but if that’s the case, I have problems with things like Van Alden baby daddy drama and Margaret Shroeder pinning for Irish Furio. After every episode of this season, I’ve been left saying- wow, this show is amazing. Last night I was left wondering what kind of show that I found amazing.

As for my beloved Patriots, yesterday’s game was very simply put- not a lot of fun. They only lost by eight? Christ, it should have been twenty. There were times when I forgot the Pats’ had dressed an offense for the game. Since 2007, the Patriots have played games that I call “Wait, Isn’t Belicheck a Defensive Genius?” Games and yesterday was one of those games. It was a dismal loss and one that when looking long-term at the team, leaves you with questions and not even a glimmer of the confidence that you had after the Jets and Cowboy games. Bob Ryan had a column in Sunday’s Boston Globe, talking about how at this point, Pats’ fans want playoff wins and not regular season wins. Well if yesterday’s game was any indication, the Steelers look playoff ready and the Patriots look first or second round loss ready…again.

But whatever, the weekend if over and now it’s another Monday and it’s Halloween. There will be no sports radio today, just loud music. I have my face back after shaving off my chin and the patchy hair that was there for my Halloween costume and even though it’s cold, the sun is shining. We will move on because we have too. The Patriots will either have a defense come January or they won’t and Boardwalk Empire will either succeed because of its ambition or capsize because of the weight it’s put on.

I know one thing for sure, my pumpkin-carving skills are lacking. We will all move on. We have too.

Facebooking Old Age: the Pictures Don't Lie.

2011-10-28T13:19:00.000-04:00

It’s happened. I know it has. I’ve gotten old. And you know how I know this? Facebook told me. That fun friend who once told me when someone got too drunk or went to the Red Sox game or had beers with Kings of Leon has turned on me.

Facebook itself did not literally tell me this because Facebook is too busy literally telling me who I should care more about and what ads and products best suits me based on my Facebook-perceived interests. It was Facebook as a social vehicle and virtual photo album that told me I’m old and I’m not sure I can forgive it for that.

How did this happen?

The whole idea of Facebook (in my opinion) is to share what is going on in your life and to have the experiences and lives of your friends shared with you. Unless you’re a weirdo, your friends on Facebook are around the same age as you- co-workers and extended family members being the only logical exception to this because let’s be honest, a 35 year old dude shouldn’t be Facebook friends with a 16 year old girl he’s not related too. So you have all of these friends that are about your same age and because of Facebook and how it easy it is to get addicted to it, you are along for the ride as they go through life. You witness their highs, never hear about their lows (unless they’re one of those too much information status update people,) and react accordingly when they tell everyone that they met Bret Michaels at the mall this past weekend and have blurry phone pictures to back it up.

This is how I know that I’ve gotten older, because the general vibe of these updates has changed dramatically over the past two years. Status updates and pictures have changed. Boozy pictures and absurd status updates have fallen by the wayside and been replaced by a Facebook that if it was a real person, would start to have some gray hairs and goes to pumpkin patches on the weekend. Wait, I went to a pumpkin patch last weekend. See! I’m old!

There are four major indicators that through Facebook make me realize that I’ve gotten older.

Indicator 1: Baby Pictures. You know you’ve gotten older when the majority of pictures you see posted by your friends are of babies. Long gone are the pictures of drunken shenanigans and reckless activities. These have been replaced by admittedly cute pictures of babies crawling, babies playing in leaves, babies on the beach, babies eating, babies with their dads watching sports and many more.

Indicator 2: Kid Pictures. This is an extension of Indicator 2 and if anything, shows that you might be even older than you originally thought.

Indicator 3: House Pictures. I’ve quickly learned that there is one thing more than any other that makes me acknowledge that I’m sick of living in an apartment in the city…and no, it’s not circling around for forty-five minutes looking for parking. No sir, it is pictures of people’s houses. When I see someone post a series of pictures under a title like “Our First House!” or “My New House!” it is fast track expressway to I Want That-ville. And let’s be honest, nothing says getting older like house-envy.

Indicator 4: Work Pictures. Does someone wear a tie a lot to work? Is someone posting pictures of them receiving awards? If the answer is yes to these questions then you have to know that things have changed. Serious work pictures have replaced good times at work pictures and that my friend equals maturity and maturity equals getting older. It’s simple math.

Think about these indicators and apply them to your experience with Facebook. You’ll see what I’m talking about and either realize that you’re still a free-wheeling youngster with your whole life ahead of you or you’ve moved on in years and your only connection to your college years are the monthly student loan bills that come in the mail.

Growing older isn’t a bad thing and even if it was, it’s unavoidable so there is no sense complaining. What is a bad thing is being reminded about it several times a day when you are procrastinating at work and scrolling up and down the news feed of Facebook. I can’t fault people for posting pictures of their baby or their new house- I would too and will when it happens. I guess I just wish there was a way to separate these fine folks and put them into their own separate news feed. That way, if I want to experience the pangs of envy or the twinges of impending old age, I can do so on my volition.

Come to think of it, there is another way that I’ve learned that I’m old…complaining about Facebook.

Well, it’s almost 5pm. Time to go to dinner.

Moderately Maximum Intensity Tuesday Quick Hits: Tebow, Rick Perry & when to not be Barney Rubble

2011-10-25T11:10:00.001-04:00

Boom! It’s a coffee-induced Maximum Intensity Tuesday. The Corrolacoaster is in the shop, getting some kinks worked out and I’m dipping out of the office at noon to save my sanity. The sun is out and it’s been a good day for tunes- Sharon Jones & the Dap Kings, old school Red Hot Chili Peppers and now Pearl Jam. I won’t go far as to say life is incredible…but today…life is pretty okay.

In honor of a pretty okay Maximum Intensity Tuesday, here are some pretty okay random thoughts.

I have a couple simple rules when it comes to Halloween. 1) Don’t stress about a costume. 2.) Wear something that is comfortable 3.) Don’t wear a costume that you wouldn’t want to go to jail in. I almost learned the hard way when it comes to that last lesson and all I can say is that the last place you want to be when you’re dressed up as Barney Rubble is a Baltimore prison.

You can say a lot of things about Obama, but one thing I don’t think you can say is that he is weak on national defense. Osama? Dead. Khaddafi? Dead. Mubarack? In court. Iraq? Peacing out in time for Christmas. I think something that is important to remember is that Obama was left to clean up the international mess Bush created and I feel he’s doing a fairly decent job at it.

You know what’s a bummer? Trying to make a trade to shake up your fantasy team, getting a diehard Ravens’ fan to give up Ray Rice and then having Rice and the other player you picked up, Miles Austin, score a total of 5 points. That’s a bummer.

Not a bummer? It’s the Cameron Crowe Pearl Jam documentary that was just released. It made me instantly do two things: realize how much I love Pearl Jam and realize how much I miss being in a band. It’s such an awesome film and I’d recommend it to anyone- regardless if you like Pearl Jam or not. It’s simply a great story about a good old American rock band.

I know I’m sick of Michelle Bachmann when I don’t even care about the negative coverage anymore.

I’m not mad at Donald Trump for still yapping about Obama and his birth certificate. I’m mad at the lame ass reporters who keep asking Trump about Obama and his birth certificate.

It’s fun watching Rick Perry fall on his face. He carries himself like someone who is not accustomed to failure.

Anyone who says they are without a doubt convinced that the Rangers will win the World Series are without a doubt a moron. I just don’t think you can count the Cardinals out and even if you feel that the Rangers are going to win (and I think they will,) you can’t say so without feeling a little bit of buyer’s remorse. The Cardinals have been a resilient and good for almost two months now. That should count for something. On a side note- I hate how baseball teams have a couple different hats now. Multiple jerseys, well that’s one thing. But you should have only one hat if you’re a baseball team.

When describing my ideal quarterback, the fact that he is a nice guy is way, way, way down on the bottom of my list. The fact that it’s one of the first things people say about Tim Tebow is one of the main reasons why I can’t stand him.

Matt Damon and Ben Affleck making a movie about Whitey Bulger written by Terrance Winter, the producer of the Sopranos and Boardwalk Empire, makes me the most excited I’ve been for a movie since the Dark Knight.

Back to Tim Tebow- he’ll be like the Wildcat offense- marginally successful for a couple weeks until defenses figure out how to stop him and then serving as a backup for the Eagles.

Going through a corn maze once seems like the appropriate amount of times to go through a corn maze until you have kids.

Occupy My Fantasy Football League

2011-10-18T11:25:00.002-04:00

Welcome to Occupy My Fantasy League. We demand more waiver pickups and we demand willing trade partners. We demand to be able to start two quarterbacks if we want too- especially if one is Matthew Stafford If He Stays Healthy and the other is the Romocoaster. It’s time for our voice to be heard.

My three game win streak came to a halt this week with our lone league member who is currently occupying a foreign country squeaking out a win on the back of Ahmad Bradshaw and his three touchdowns. And now we’re getting into the time of the season when owners are tested and patience & faith are rewarded. Bye weeks are coming in fast and furious and with it, the tough decisions regarding the un-tough kickers and the cruel reality bestowed upon those not smart enough to pick up a back-up defense earlier in the season. Is Phil Dawson really that much worse than David Akers? Does it matter? We should not be forced to ask ourselves questions about kickers! Occupy My Fantasy League’s concerns are growing! Get me some poster board and some markers!

It seems that with every fantasy football season, there is a head-scratcher out there that can’t be explained. This year, for Burnsy’s Dumpster Fire, such a head-scratcher is centered on the nationally lambasted Patriots’ defense. It is supposedly the worst defense in the league and based on numbers, this claim is valid. My own eyes can attest to their lack of tackling prowess- but still, how are they putting up decent fantasy numbers (for a defense) every week? I drafted the Pats’ D because I believed the hype and was lost staring into Albert Haynesworth’s belly as if it were the sun. I was blinded. Subsequently I was ridiculed for the pick…specifically by one specific owner who I have previously reported “doesn’t believe in trades.” But I believed in the Pats’ D, for better or worse.

There is no doubt that they have seemed shaky and have so far, resorted back to their “bend but don’t break” philosophy. With every week, I grew more and more uncomfortable with them as my defense. But also, with every game played, I was provided with various reasons to keep them around. They were actually putting up decent points and more importantly, were outscoring any other defense that was loitering on the waiver wire. I was resolved to keep them around until they did themselves in, until they just couldn’t be trusted anymore, until they did the equivalent of borrowing my car and drunkenly crashing it. So far, that situation hasn’t happened. They just keep coming through- providing enough points to get me wins. So while the ESPN chorus of dorks continues to assail the porous Patriots’ defense, this lone rambler will continue to support them. I just won’t let them borrow my car or if I had pets, I wouldn’t ask them to pet sit. They just can’t be trusted that much.

Occupy My Fantasy League is not asking for donations and we will not be a burden to tax payers. We simply want to be heard. We are the percentage of folks with two stud quarterbacks and only one spot to play them. If Rush Limbaugh or Keith Olbermann asks- we also want more waiver pickups, something that should be our right as Americans.

Occupy My Fantasy League will continue to be defended by the Patriots’ defense and while you may think that’s crazy and to an extent, we agree- they are the horse we rode in on and will be the horse we ride out on. We firmly believe that you dance with the girl you brought and dance we will.

For now at least.

Occupy My Fantasy League. The revolution will not be televised. It will be on a I-Phone app.

Thursday Quick Hits: Red Sox, the Black Keys & Occupy Insert City Here.

2011-10-13T10:41:00.000-04:00

It’s raining. I have thoughts. I have coffee.

Random Thought Run-Down Wednesday…oh wait, it's Thursday.

I hate what’s happening with my beloved Red Sox. I hate everything about everything that everyone is saying about everything. Jon Lester, I’m most disappointed in you- you the one who overcame cancer and looked to be on his way to becoming a genuine stud pitcher and here you are drinking beer and eating fried chicken. Come on man. And David Ortiz…you’re sick of the drama? Well you’re a veteran- you should have done something about it. As far as Theo goes, I understand why he’d want to leave. But there is a part of me that thinks it’s a little cheap. He built this team (whether or not he did it by himself is up for debate) and that team became a dumpster fire. Instead of sticking around to put out the fire, he’s bolting. I can’t support that. A man should always clean up the mess he makes.

Fantasy football update! I’ve won three games in a row but have lost twice in my attempt to trade Tony Romo. Kenny doesn’t believe in trades & Jeff backed out when it came to trading Miles Austin. At this point, I’m standing down. Side note- Darren Sproles is becoming my 2011 Jamal Charles- the player I’m the biggest fan of, but never actually see play.

New Black Keys’ album coming out in December! There are officially three bands out there today that make me want to buy their album as soon as it comes out: My Morning Jacket, the Roots and the Black Keys.

The idea of Republicans nominating an African-American for president sounds like a joke. A bad joke- but a joke nonetheless. And could we really have a president named Mitt? Mitt Romney sounds like a character on Madmen…one of the annoying ones.

Really…how many Republican debates do we need? The one this week was like an awkward introduction to journalism class. I watched for ten minutes and heard two questions based on a candidates’ statement followed by that candidate starting their response with a version of this: well what you said isn’t entirely true…

I have no problem with the Occupy Insert City Here movement. However, them (specifically the Occupy Philly movement) asking for donations of food, clothes, etc just doesn’t seem right to me. I mean, you don’t have to be there and you’re not homeless. If you’re cold, go inside. If you’re hungry eat. But I just don’t think they should be asking for donations.

Boardwalk Empire is one great episode away from becoming the best show on television. This season has been amazing so far.

I look forward to watching two shows every week: Parks and Recreation and Boardwalk Empire. I forget about one show a week, but get stoked a half hour before it’s on when I remember it’s on: It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. I watch one show each week that is increasingly become more because of it’s track record and less because of it’s current entertainment value: The Office.

Still very upset about the Red Sox.

I watched last week’s Patriots’ game with my dad- first time in a year or so. Hard to beat that.

Lucky for a lot, Luckiest to not be an Eagles Fan

2011-10-10T11:26:00.000-04:00

I feel lucky in a lot of areas. I feel lucky that I met Kim and I feel lucky to have such a great family. I feel lucky that Ma Dukes is the strongest Ma Dukes there is and I feel lucky that I was able to drive my Blazer for as long as I could without it bursting into flames. I feel lucky to be healthy, to not be shorter than I am, to not be bald or balding and I feel lucky I have a car that gets good gas mileage.

But this morning, what I feel most lucky about is that thankfully, I am not an Eagles fan.

Upon moving to Philly a little over five years ago, I took to the Phillies largely because of my love of baseball, tied to my love of getting enthusiastic about things and finally coupled with my desire to care about something I’d be watching nearly every night from April to October. It turns out that my timing was pretty good as the Phillies current rise to prominence coincided nearly perfectly with my relocation to Philly.

Of course that made Friday night especially painful as Future Wife and I sat at an Irish bar in our neighborhood, watching the once-Fightin’ Phils loses 1-0 to the Cardinals. It was a hard game to watch and tough to see a team with so much potential go down so easily. If they had shown a little fight and maybe at some point during the game, had even scratched at the idea of coming close to scoring a run, it would have made the loss a little easier to take. But nope, the Phillies just went out- not with a bang and frankly, not even a whimper. Saying that they went out with a whimper would be giving them too much credit. For the last three to four innings of the game, no one in the bar was saying very much except for “Yes, I’ll have another,” whenever the overworked barkeep came around. Man, I thought, if only the Phillies were working as hard as the bartenders in Philly were, things would be different.

When the game ended and all that we saw was Ryan “Anti-Clutch” Howard hobbling down the line before crumpling up in a heap, the bar was silent. I looked around and people were doing one of two things- staring blankly with their mouths dropped open or shaking their head and mumbling a few inaudible curse words. In regards to feeling lucky, I was at that moment, lucky to be a Red Sox fan. It had prepared me for moments like this.

That was Friday night. Saturday was the hangover and if it hadn’t been sunny and seventy degrees and had it be rainy, windy and from a weather perspective, just overwhelmingly depressing, the city wouldn’t have made it to Sunday. The big news in the city was Occupy Philly, followed by the big question in the city- what was Occupy Philly all about? Yeah, no one really had an answer for that one. But the weather was beautiful and like any decently earned hangover, it gradually went away and we were able to move on with our lives. At some point in the afternoon, news came out that Big Ry tore his Achilles and would be out until early June at the earliest. But by then, it was almost white noise. It was like finding out that the night before in a drunken stupor you had punched a baby dolphin in the face. At that point it didn’t matter- it was just more bad news.

Sunday was Eagles’ day in Philly- a chance at redemption, a chance at good news, a chance to put a smile on the face of a city that had been pouting for a day and a half. For Future Wife and me, it was mostly just a Sunday until 4:15- then it was time for the Patriots’ game- a game that was thankfully broadcasted nationally. We would not be affected in anyway by the Eagles’ game. Our allegiance to Philadelphia sports had run its course and had been shelved until next April. All we could do was put together a shopping list to have ready if the Birds lost so we’d be prepared for the looting.

Well the Eagles did lose. They lost again, for the fourth time in a row. After Boardwalk Empire (quickly becoming the best show on TV,) we briefly watched the local news and even the anchor sounded disgusted. They ran through a rundown of interviews with fans who all shared one common trait (and that doesn’t count “still looking hammered”) - these fans were pissed. They were pissed at Andy Reid, pissed at Vick and they were pissed at Eagles’ ownership. It’s a good thing today is a holiday, because I don’t think anyone in Philly would be going to work today anyway.

And more importantly, it’s a good thing I didn’t hitch my wagon to the Eagles like I did with the Phillies.

So today, amongst all the things I’m lucky for- not being an Eagles’ fan tops the list.

Go Pats.

Fantasy Learnings Up Until Now: Trying to Get off the Romo-Coaster.

2011-10-07T09:47:00.000-04:00

No one cares about your fantasy football team. Only you do.

The above statement is a common one when it comes to fantasy football. It’s like a joke about Sarah Palin or Rick Perry. Yet it’s a phrase commonly said on ESPN’s Fantasy Football podcast, one of the most popular podcasts out there. And this time of year, if you get a group of dudes together two subjects are most likely to come up: fantasy football and Ed Helms’ role on this season of The Office. Oh wait, not many people are talking about that second one. But maybe they should.

So I’ve come to this conclusion- while no one may care specifically care about yourddd fantasy football team, a person caring about their own team translates to them to caring about yours. It’s like politics. For the most part, you don’t care about other people’s political beliefs, you only care about yours. But because you care about yours, you are more likely to be interested in someone’s politics if that person shares your beliefs. It’s shop talk. It’s like how two co-workers hanging out inevitably start talking about work.

With that being said and off my chest, I feel I need to express two concerns. The first concern is my growing faith in my team. My second concern is about a certain owner in my league who “doesn’t believe in trades.” We will begin with my growing faith in Burnsy’s Dumpster Fire.

I have not officially re-named my team So, Darren Sproles, Let’s See What You Got- but it’s definitely become my team’s mantra. With the season-ending injury to Chiefs’ running back Jamal Charles, I was left with a gaping hole at the running back position. This happened in week two- too early to grab anyone decent and with any staying power off waivers, so Charles’ replacement had to come from within. Charles’ replacement was going to have to be New Orleans’ little dynamo Sproles- whether I liked it or not.

It turns out that so far- I like it. I like it a lot. Sproles has hit double digits in points every week, helping me make up for the lack of points I’m getting from my under-performing wide receivers. Sproles saving the early weeks of my season and Matthew Stafford being able to escape injury (pause to knock on wood, and then knock on wood again) have been the two surprises of the season up until this point. In fact, they have been the two major surprises of the fall so far, with Flying Fish Octoberfish beer coming in third. Because of these two dudes, I’ve now pulled even at 2-2 and dare I say it, feeling mildly optimistic about my team this year. This makes me nervous.

The subject of Stafford brings me to my second concern- the concern I have about one owner in my league rejecting a trade because he “doesn’t believe in trades.” I told two people about this and their responses were that it was A) a goddamn hippie way of looking at things and B) practically un-American. I agree with both of these assessments.

Because Stafford has been such a stud, it’s left poor Tony Romo on my bench to dream about a bunch of dudes playing hide and seek in the West Virginia wilderness. Well that’s a stud QB just sitting there, gathering dust until Stafford’s bye week. I felt it was finally time to offer up Romo to someone with the hopes of getting a quality WR in return. In the real world, Romo is a mess. In the fantasy world, Romo is at least 25 points every week. For a team that lacked a decent QB, I felt they’d be crazy to pass this up. Turns out Kenny wasn’t crazy, just stubborn. I offered Kenneth Romo and Jacoby Ford for Roddy White and Big Ben. Now I know I’ve picked up a reputation as someone prone to making ridiculous trade requests- but I felt this one was pretty straight forward and a win/win for both of us. Kenny doesn’t have a good QB, I don’t have a good WR. He is also 0-3-1.

He is also a man of wacked principles.

Trades are one of the best parts of fantasy football and to not believe in them- that makes about as much sense to me as traffic patterns in Philly. And speaking of traffic, I’m not entirely sure what all these Occupy (Insert City Here) protests are all about, but if they pick up protesting traffic, I might be inclined to join. But back to Kenny, he rejected my deal and I was forced to go back to the drawing board. This was frustrating, disheartening, frustrating again and all in all crazy mad nuts.

So those are my two concerns as we approach week five. Looking at the horizon, other potential concerns for the Dumpster Fire are the Patriots’ defense, Mario Manningham, Stafford staying injured and MJD. There is at least one concern thrown out the window- and that is talking about my fantasy team. You might not care about my team, but you care about fantasy football, so you can relate.

That’s all that matters.

That and getting someone to offer up a solid wide out for the Romo-coaster.

Any takers?

Constants in Consistency: My Relationship with Rustic Overtones.

2011-10-04T17:02:00.000-04:00

My right foot is numb. I just spent a half hour watching clips of Rustic Overtones on YouTube. I should have picked a better way to sit before I started watching a couple of old Bill Withers’ clips before seeing what the old internet had for Rustic clips. No really, my right foot is dead center in the midst of pins & needles town. I’d get up, but it’s hard to turn away from this clip of “Hardest Way Possible.”

In all honesty, I don’t think that a day goes by that I don’t listen to at least four minutes of Rustic. It’s either on a CD I made or a clip on YouTube or wherever else their music may be lying around my life. I can’t shake them. Their music defies a specific mood and in turn, lends itself to a variety of avenues when it comes to picking something to listen too, which is something I struggle with daily. I drive a lot. I drive to work, from work and for work. You can only listen to so much sports talk radio and FM radio in Philly consists of only three viable options:

1.WXPN- the World Café Live which is the most reliable, yet also sometimes the most frustrating. They will go for a stretch where they kill it and play Black Joe Lewis and then maybe Bob Marley followed by Jeff Buckley or something like that. But then they blow it and play something far too folky or far too mellow. They’re also listener supported, which is cool, but annoying when it comes to their beg-a-thons.
2.WMMR- the rock station that’s biggest plus side is that it seems to know exactly when all I want to listen to is Metallica. Unfortunately I never want to listen to Creed, making the station far from perfect.
3.Radio 104.5, which is unique in that it is the lone station playing the same random songs most frequently. How does that happen or how does that description even make sense? Simple. Playing Marcy’s Playground is random. But playing Marcy’s Playground three times a week? Annoying. Plus they seem to be the only people in the world excited about the new Bush album.

So the end result is CD’s and going through my case of Travel Tunes and picking something to listen too. Most of these Travel Tunes are played in cycles. For instance, Ghostfunk, which was a new mixtape released by NYC DJ Max Tannone, that is a mash-up of the rapper Ghostface Killah and afro beat, was in heavy rotation this summer. As was the new Beastie Boys album. Then after seeing My Morning Jacket in August, those long-haired rockers cracked the Travel Tunes rotation. Yet the one constant in the ebb and flow of the Travel Tunes is Rustic Overtones.

I was introduced to Rustic Overtones on the beach, while on vacation in Puerto Rico in high school when Whitney, Keller’s cousin, lent me a tape of theirs. There have been only a few times in my life when I have reacted in such a way to a new band- a combination of amazement, excitement, befuddlement and sheer delight-ment. Getting into the Black Keys was another one of those times, as was the first time listening to the Roots. Rustic was playing everything that I wanted to hear. I came back from that trip determined to learn everything I could about this seven-piece band from Gorham. I was obsessed with them. Seeing Gutter at the grocery store or Tony at the drum shop was akin to running into Eddie Van Halen or John Goodman- just too good to be true. They seemed larger than life; real life rock stars who just happened to shop at the same stores I did.

Rustic came with me to college and I attempted to play them for anyone and everyone who would listen. My buddy Phil loved them so much he wanted “Slowly” to be his wedding song. This was right as websites for bands were getting popular, like MySpace in 2004, and I tried my best to follow along. I remember their album Viva Nueva coming out and having Dad pick it up for me at Bull Moose and sending it to me. I have never heard a song like “Combustible” and I don’t think I ever will.

By the time I returned to Portland after college, Rustic had broken up and new bands had formed from the ruins. Paranoid Social Club had seemed to run the furthest with Rustic’s thunder and when I was hanging out at the Big Easy more and more frequently and eventually playing there, I still looked at the former members of Rustic with a subdued reverence. They still seemed bigger than the room to me. Eventually my band was sharing stages with these dudes and to a certain extent, becoming friends with them. When Sidecar recorded our album, the highlight of highlights was Gutter coming in and laying down vocals to two of the tracks. The biggest challenge on that Monday night in September, sitting there and watching him sing the chorus to “Above the Tide,” one of the first good songs we had written, was not at all in regards to what he was doing and whether or not we thought it was a good fit. No. My biggest concern was to muffle the shit-eating grin that was constantly on the precipice of busting out.

Rustic re-united in the spring of 2007, after I left Portland and had moved down to Philadelphia. It was now a lot easier to follow the band. Scouring the Internet, reading reviews of the shows and the album, Light at the End, that followed, and seeing the pictures and videos felt like reading war dispatches. It didn’t feel real. It was a bummer to miss. I was able to catch one of their shows at the Asylum, as well as a show in New York and an acoustic show in Philly. These shows seemed like proof that dreams do come true and while that sounds cheesy, it’s true. Rumors of a Rustic reunion never seemed to go away while I was in Portland and it was fun to think about whether or not it would ever happen. So seeing it finally happen was like that first time you saw Adrian Gonzalez bat for the Red Sox- just too goddamn good to be true.

It’s now five years later and the band is still playing, albeit with a different line-up and a noticeably different sound. I like it. The meat heads and youngsters still longing for another “Combustible” have PSC to turn too in their times of need. Spencer left and more troubling to me, so did Tony. Rustic is less horns now and more keyboards- judging by the half hour of videos I just watched. But they still have that swagger. The duo of Gutter and Jon Roods fascinates me- friends and band mates since high school and the link between Rustic and PSC. Gutter will always be Portland, Maine’s rock star- regardless of who else comes along. What is amazing is the influence Rustic has had on the Portland music scene- a scene that has seemed to struggle for relevance outside of Maine for years. That Rustic sound and those Rustic dudes can be found everywhere- the Lucid, Pete Kilpatrick, WCYY, Sidecar Radio and more. When the dust does settle and Rustic finally does call it today, they deserve more than just a farewell show and a gold watch.

In our lives, our musical taste changes and we go through phases. It happens to everyone. We listen to one thing in high school, another thing in college, something else in our twenties and the cycle continues. Certain bands and songs have resurgences and they come back into our lives like old friends and some bands give us a strong week of our lives before disappearing completely. Yet there are certain bands that don’t fade way, that don’t fall by the wayside and give way to new sounds and new faces.

For me, it will always be Bob Marley, Pearl Jam, Otis Redding and Rustic Overtones. I can’t say why and I can’t say how- I can only say they will. This list will grow, but it will never shrink.

Music that is comforting is the best music there is.

See you tomorrow, Rustic.

Weakened by the Weekend.

2011-09-27T11:51:00.000-04:00

I get weekends now.

Now working my first Monday through Friday nine to five job has made me finally understand what everyone had been talking about, what movies and TV glamorized, and what the song “Everybody is Working for the Weekend” meant. I now can see the beauty of a weekend and grasp it’s mythical quality. During the weekend, this understanding is a great thing. During the week it’s a God damn tragedy.

After college I worked on boats. For most of the year, my weekends were in the middle of the week with the occasional Saturday thrown in for a month or so. Then in Philly, I worked events and ran around the country setting shit up like a well-organized crazy person. I usually had to work weekends, at least one of the days and if I didn’t, well it was usually a slow week and some of the luster of Saturday and Sunday were lost on me. Sundays especially. Before my life with Kim, Sundays had become increasingly depressing. Solo Sundays are fun until you’re about 28. Then, if you’re single, they just become the day of the week that you do things by your lonesome that everyone else does with their significant other. This wears on you after a while.

It is currently Tuesday and I am sitting at my desk. The windows in my office don’t open and they are behind me. My shirt is tucked in and I have closed toed shoes on, even though I prefer flip flops. The other folks in my office are doing roughly the same thing I am. This is an office and this is what people do. Having realized this current situation has made me realize that like the song, I am now working for the weekends. Now I love weekends. I want to buy each weekend a dozen roses, squire it around town and pay it compliments. My weekends are now asterisk free and that is a beautiful thing.

Gone are the weekends were I had to work early Saturday morning and drive to Baltimore and gone are the weekends were I spent twelve hours on Sunday going up and down Casco Bay. Now I’m a dude who brunches on Sunday mornings and engages in leisurely activities on Saturdays. I really like Saturday afternoons now, especially when the weather is nice. I like when there is a breeze coming through the windows and we have reggae playing. I miss weekends as soon as they end and look forward to the next one as soon as the week begins. I guess it’s one of those things a grown up enjoys. I’m a grown up. I enjoy the weekends quite a bit.

We go to weddings on weekends and we go out to dinner with friends. Grocery shopping on Sundays is super lame, but less lame doing it with Kim because it leads to delicious dinners Sunday night before we settle in for whatever show HBO has on that night. If I was friends with someone who was only awesome some of the time and completely mundane and boring the rest of the time, I would nickname that person Weekend.

Three day weekends are the ultimate cake and eat it too situation. Three day weekends are gifts from God in the same vein as a good happy hour or free parking is. Friday or Monday, though? That question bugged me for a while, but now it’s a no-brainer- Monday all the way. It makes for a glorious Sunday and Sundays deserve more than just being the day of doom leading up to Monday. I like a good Sunday where I don’t look at the clock or not even once think about working the next day. I like that if I have a few too many good time pops Saturday night, I’m not totally ruining what is left of the weekend and if I want, I can have some more good time pops Sunday afternoon, a little Sunday Funday action, and not impede my ability to be completely and totally super awesome at work the following week.

Of course I do have to work this weekend- both days.

But that’s life. Just when the getting gets good, the good gets getting.

There will be other weekends, though. There will be more reggae Saturdays, BYOB date nights and afternoon good time pops.

So I lose one weekend. I’m not going to get bummed about it.

Lose two weekends? Then we have an issue.

But it’s Tuesday. If I think that way, the week is lost.

Weekends. I get them now. They’re as good as advertised.

Fantasy Learnings from Week Two: Well Darren Sproles, Let's See What You Got.

2011-09-20T13:09:00.000-04:00

In the middle of last season, I renamed my fantasy football team- changing the name from the Off Duty Ninjas to the Philadelphia Dumpster Fire. It was a name change done with reason. My team was literally a dumpster fire. Additionally, the jokes from other guys in my league about my team being a little too off duty had gotten old. At the start of this season, I tweaked my team name just slightly. It was now Burnsy’s Dumpster Fire.

This dumpster fire of a fantasy football team was all mine.

Well now, only two weeks into the 2011 season, I’m considering another name change. Thanks to the season-ending injury to the stud from last year’s team, Jamal Charles, I’m strongly considering changing my team’s name to Well Darren Sproles, Let’s See What You Got because honestly, Darren Sproles, let’s see what you got.

Two weeks played and two season-ending injuries endured. In week one I lost my kicker, Nate Kaeding of the Chargers, because that silly bastard was trying to make a tackle, something kickers should never do. He got injured on the game’s first play and the loss of those points probably cost me my game, letting Jay and Kim Jong Illadelph escape with a win. Then this week, just as I was starting to feel good about the Dumpster Fire, Charles, who carried my sorry team last year, trips on something, blows out his knee and just like that- is done for the year. Very quickly and before I’ve even paid the buy-in money for the league, the Dumpster Fire have fallen to 0-2.

So Darren Sproles, let’s see what you got.

One of my rules before the season started was to refrain from waiver pickups until at least week five and overall, I was determined to patient when it came to adding and dropping players- something that has routinely come back to bite me in the ass in previous years. But thanks to losing my idiot kicker and the need for a better backup tight end, I’ve already visited the waiver wire twice already- picking up old man David Akers, now of the 49ers, and Fred Davis, a tight end for the Redskins, who podcasts have told me is a player to watch. Trading for a running back is not really an option- it’s too early in the season and as I’ve mentioned before, my history of slightly absurd trade proposals in the league has made it nearly impossible to pull one off unless Ben feels bad for me. So Darren Sproles, running back, pass catcher, punt returner of the New Orleans Saints, let’s see what you got. It is up to Mr. Sproles to make up for the loss of Charles. It’s a big task, big shoes to fill and while I have my doubts- I at least have to have faith.

Last year, the big loss was Tony Romo and that resulted in me running with Bills QB and possibly the NFL’s smartest player, Ryan Fitzpatrick, for the rest of the season. While even last year Fitzpatrick posted some decent numbers, he’s still not an every week, starting QB and it turned out, the Harvard grad could not only not save the Bills from another terrible season, he could not save the Dumpster Fire from finishing in the cellar. The one positive of this year’s season is that not only is Romo healthy and so far, putting up some respectable numbers, I also have Matthew Stafford, who, as long as he can stay healthy, has complete Fantasy Beast potential. Upon hearing of the Charles’ injury, I started dreaming of a scenario where I could play both Romo and Stafford- maybe under the guise of Mattony Romoford. Sadly, that dream may be my only hope.

So now hope and the success of the 2011 season rests on the shoulders of Mr. Darren Sproles.

And if he gets injured? Well, maybe I’ll try fantasy soccer.

Point Breaking Point: a Point Break re-make? I want in.

2011-09-13T12:51:00.002-04:00

I can’t believe it. Well, I can- but part of me just flat out refuses to do so. They’re re-making Point Break. Or sorry, they are re-booting it. I knew it would happen. It had too, especially when you consider the widespread popularity of surfing. When I see dudes in Iowa rocking Billabong gear, then it was easy to see that Point Break- a movie that has simultaneously become better and worse over time, was bound to come back into our lives.

What will this re-boot be like?

And more importantly, will anyone ask me what I think?

If you haven’t seen Point Break (which is kind of unbelievable, especially now seeing as how many times it’s on various Encore channels and the occasional airings on Versus) I will give you a quick rundown of what it’s about. Johnny Utah is a FBI agent and former college football star. He blew out his knee in the big game and has quickly become somewhat of a prodigy in the FBI. He ends up in California and is partnered up with the wild and crazy Gus Pappus, a wily veteran of the department with a penchant for wearing bad Hawaiian shirts and fast food, who is currently the only agent tackling this pesky bank-robbing case. Who is behind all of these robberies? According to Pappus, it’s surfers. Goddamn surfers. Why? Patterns, surf wax, tan lines. So Utah goes undercover as a surfer, rents a ridiculous surf board, gets lessons from a local hot chick with a dark past, gets punched in the face by the lead singer of the Red Hot Chili Peppers and ends up befriending the same crew of dudes he has been tasked to bring down. Oh, and the bank robbers wear masks of former presidents. Pappus calls them the ex-Presidents. It’s also a race against a time, because once the surfing season ends, they vanish- looking for epic waves and other extreme shit- whatever was cool in the early 90’s, stuff you might have seen Dan Cortese do on MTV Sports. Eventually the Ex-Presidents and their Zen master leader Bodie find out Utah is with the FBI so they do what any crew of criminals would then do- they go ski diving. Utah jumps out of a plan without a chute, they end up in the desert, most of the dudes die and Bodie runs away to Australia where Utah eventually finds him on the beach, waiting for the fifty year storm. The movie ends with Bodie attempting to surf the massive surf and getting tossed around by the waves and Utah, rocking a stellar Canadian tuxedo, tosses his badge in the ocean. Oh yeah, Pappus died too. Roach shot him.

So that’s Point Break. There’s some more too it, but that’s the gist of it. Besides the Bill and Ted movies, it’s the only movie that Keanu is actually okay in- but that could be largely because he’s just playing himself. Patrick Swayze is Bodie and most of his lines don’t really make sense- he rambles off dialogue that feels like it was written by an over-ambitious fan of Jack Kerouac. Supposedly Point Break is based on the book Tapping the Source. I read Tapping the Source. I have my doubts. They both have surfing, that’s about the only connection.

For years, I’ve wanted to re-write Point Break because at its core, I think it’s an interesting movie and surfing is cool, bank robberies are cool, and diving in a pool for cinder blocks is cool. I think if you made the dialogue more real and less clichéd and made the rest of the Ex-Presidents less of a gang of stereotypes and more a gang of interesting dudes- it could be a fun movie. I mean one of the Ex-Presidents’ names is Grommit. Grommit is slang for a hanger-on. It’d be cooler if you named a character Ninja, but still.

The name Johnny Utah would stay, but I think Bodie would have a different name. The bank robbers would still wear president masks. There would be one member of the Ex-President who is a little crazy, a little hard- serving as the ying to Bodie’s yang- like Jem in the Town. There would need to be more conflict within the Ex-Presidents when they find out that Utah is a Fed. I think one of my issues with Point Break is that the only real voice of the bad guys is Bodie. I’d like to learn more about them as I think a gang of surfers who finance their worldly travels by robbing banks is a lot more interesting than a flat love story or fellow FBI agents shitting on Pappus and Utah for thinking surfers were behind the robberies. I’m not saying bad guys are more interesting than good guys- but I do feel that Point Break would be a more compelling movie if it were less about Utah and more about Bodie. I would take out all that bullshit that takes place at the FBI where they don’t believe in Pappus and Utah. I’d still want Utah walking into the FBI office with a surf board, but I wouldn’t want the local FBI field director ribbing him out for it. The bank robberies were suppose to be this major string of crimes; a big case that was apparently so big, it went above local jurisdiction so the FBI had to get involved. I don’t think it makes sense to then have the head of the FBI in California berating the two officers on the case for simply doing their job.

I want scenes were the Ex-Presidents are plotting out their bank robberies. I want to know where they get their getaway cars and maybe even there should be a scene where they buy their guns for a particular robbery. There should also be a car chase because car chases are cooler than foot chases. There would also not be a scene where Utah has the chance to kill Bodie but doesn’t. That doesn’t make sense. If Utah had reservations about killing Bodie, why would he keep going with the case?

Why does Utah quit the FBI at the end of the original movie? Because it interferes with his surfing? Because Pappus is dead? Because the case is over? The answer- there is no real reason. I think he just did because in the under-developed world of the original Point Break, it made sense. But in the re-make, if Utah does quit the FBI, he needs to do so for some profound reason. Maybe he learns that he will always be chasing the Bodies of the world. Maybe he realizes, after spending time with the Ex-Presidents and learning to appreciate their passion for surfing and seeing how far they’ll go, just to catch a wave- that there is more to life than chasing down crooks for the government and maybe he feels he could do more with his life.

Either way, Utah needs to be more definitive in his actions.

I don’t know if anyone in Hollywood will read this blog- I doubt it. But I wish they would at least give me the chance to re-write Point Break. If you’re going to re-boot a movie that is beloved by a generation, then a member of that generation should be given the first crack at penning the script.

Bodie’s not coming back, but Point Break is. I want in.

Fantasy Learnings from Week One: Romo, Ravens, Bizarro Twins and more.

2011-09-12T13:31:00.000-04:00

Week One of the 2011 Fantasy Football season is almost done and it’s important to look back at the games and review what we’ve learned. We can do this now because we can’t re-learn that the Patriots are amazing or that the Dolphins are a junk show. There is also no educational value to the Broncos/Raiders game. There’s really no value to that game at all- unless Kyle Orton was your backup to Peyton Manning. If for some reason you have a Raider on your team besides Darren McFadden or Jacoby Ford, you probably shouldn’t be playing fantasy football anyway.

So here are some things that we can take away from this weekend:

Tony Romo does it again. Romo is the ultimate Butterface in the NFL. He looks good from far, but far from good up close. I have Matthew Stafford as my back-up and an early prediction is that I will debate who to start for the next three weeks before eventually going with Stafford, trying to trade Romo, then being stuck with Romo when Stafford inevitably gets knocked out for the season.

Ray Rice is going to the MVP of Fantasy Football season. He is good for one main reason- too small to tackle. Football players by nature think big. Rice is small- therefore the majority of NFL players can’t even comprehend his existence.

The main overreaction of the weekend is that the Ravens’ offense is a unmatched juggernaut or that the Steelers’ defense is days away from the old person’s home and fighting for their pensions and health insurance. On a side note, James Harrison has officially taken the Person You Least Want to Meet in a Dark Alley Award away from Ray Lewis- largely because at this point, Lewis would just start preaching or wax poetically about Under Armour whereas Harrison might just poetically wax your limbs from their sockets. I could see him running from the law at some point in the future and if that does happen, we can only hope Officers Steven Seagal or Shaq are there to try and stop them.

If you start a player for only quarter of a game, it’d probably be Mark Sanchez. He’s not good enough to put together a whole game, but give him a quarter and maybe a nice tail wind and he’s gold. Gold, Jerry! Gold!

Yesterday was a great day for makers of over-sized American flags.

Do you think that ten years’ ago yesterday, when Saddam Hussein saw coverage of the 9/11 attacks, he quietly said to himself- I’m so glad I’m not involved with that? And then thought, well at least they can’t pin that on me.

Defenses should be able to use 12 guys instead of 11 when they play the Vikings. Because there’s no way only one guy can tackle Adrian Peterson. And also, that extra player will help collect the ball after McNabb inevitably bounces a pass off the turf.

I love that Rob Ryan looks like the bizarro version of Rex Ryan. I wish more twins looked like that.

I also wish the 49ers were better. They’re fun to route for.

With the Eagles quickly down 7-0 nothing to the Rams, I told Kim that rioting and looting had probably already started in South Philly with thousands of heart-broken Eagles’ fans crying out that the season was over. Minutes later, when they tied it up, I told Kim that it was a false alarm. She was quick to point out that rioting and looting can be celebratory as well. She is truly the ying to my yang. Now let’s go get ourselves a new microwave!

Speaking of the Eagles, after watching only a little bit of their game, I saw enough to feel very strongly that LeSean McCoy is going to have a monster season. I also feel that their defense is pretty over-rated and by mid-season, they’ll be wondering if Michael Vick could possibly play both sides of the ball.

I’m 32 now. There is nothing funny, sad or interesting about that. It just is.

Looking forward to the Patriots’ game tonight for the following reasons: Albert Haynesworth, Brady going deep to Ochocino and Danny Woodhead hiding behind the offensive line until the ball is snapped, popping out, catching a pass and scrambling for twenty yards at least twice. Patriots 30, Dolphins 14.

The Thursday Boom Boom Room: Quick Hits for the start of September.

2011-09-01T11:53:00.000-04:00

Batteries and bottled water won’t be a problem the next time a hurricane comes around. Kim and I seem to be all set on that front. However, if Comcast doesn’t put more shows Ondemand, then we’ll have a problem. How do you have the entire season of Game of Thrones available except for the first episode? And really, you’re only going to give us three random episodes of season two of Madmen?

Shouldn’t Dick Cheney be answering questions about war crimes and not about his new book? Either way, he shouldn’t be allowed on TV before noon. Seeing his face is no way to start a day.

I’m pretty certain Rick Perry scares the bejesus out of me. And as far as Michelle Bachman goes- she has already entered the Not Even Funny Anymore Zone, a zone already occupied by George W. Bush’s presidency, steroids in baseball and Sarah Palin.

I still think it will be the Phillies versus the Red Sox in the World Series, but after watching last night’s Sox/Yankees game, I’m very excited for an American League Championship series featuring the two.

Pandora is out, Last FM is in. Grooveshark may be up next.

Since seeing My Morning Jacket last week, they are all I want to listen too. I’ve had to install a temporary ban on them in attempt to prevent myself from over-listening to them. Previous bans have been placed on Rogue Wave, the new Beastie Boys album, Local Natives and Rustic Overtones.

Restaurant Impossible is my new favorite show on TV. It’s amazing on some many levels. I love the devotion and passion of Robert Irvin, as well as his brutal honesty. The last five minutes of the show isn’t even the best part of me. I love the “come to Jesus” moment he seems to have with each restaurant owner at some point of the show and I have mad respect for Tom, his construction virtuoso.

Tucked in polo shirts are bothering me less, but not to the extent that I will wear them once summer is over. They are purely functional. I don’t necessarily feel like less of a tool when I wear one, but I at least feel a little more comfortable.

In the end, I miss flip flops the most.

I’m not sure the US is really in the position to be telling other countries (i.e. Libya) how to run their country.

Television has taught me one thing lately- I need to find some old valuable shit to sell. We watched this show, Buried Treasure, last night, where these two kind of creepy, kind of nice twins drive around in Land Rover and appraise random things people find in their attics and basements. Last night’s episode had them checking out old comic books (not worth as much as the nerdy owner hoped,) a violin (not an original and hence not worth a million dollars, only $300) and the prized possessions of a hoarder with a foul-mouthed daughter (sitting on shit worth almost $150,000.) We took one thing away from the show and that was that someone needs to leave us something that is old and worth money. We looked around the apartment and couldn’t find anything that fit that description and I don’t think I have the patience to go antiquing. Inheriting seems to be our only option.

I can’t wait to get married.

Trying to figure out what you want in life and how to get whatever that is might be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to figure out- even harder than deciding what kind of cereal to buy.

A pitcher should only be in the running for MVP if they flat out carry a team like C.C. Sabathia did a few years ago after being traded to the Brewers. If not, then they a just the Cy Young winner, not the MVP. I’m sorry Justin Verlander. You’ve pitched 200 innings and your team has played almost 1,500. That just doesn’t add up. It pains me to say it, but Curtis Granderson is having a hell of a year. I think the winner will be determined in the second half of September. I also wonder if we are looking at co-Cy Young winners in the National League with Roy Halladay and Cliff Lee splitting the award.

Still have concerns about Burnsy’s Dumpster Fire, my one fantasy team that matters. It’s the thin bench that concerns me. My other two teams, teams I put together just for kicks, look much better. That’s kind of a bummer.

Love the Pats this year, but the Steelers still scare me. I think the Jets will take a step back, the Chargers will be dangerous and the Packers will repeat in the NFC with the Eagles just getting to ten wins. My Superbowl winner? Probably nachos.

Hard to believe MTV can still have Video Music awards considering they don’t show videos anymore.

When the Red Sox inevitably build a statue of Jason Varitek outside of Fenway Park, it should be a hundred feet tall.

Thunderclaps of the Truth: a review of My Morning Jacket at the Mann Center in Philadelphia (8/23/11)

2011-08-24T11:14:00.001-04:00

Jim James rocks a duster! There is a gorilla on drums!

After last night’s show at the Mann Center in Philadelphia, I’m sold- My Morning Jacket are the truth. They are the next great American rock band. For a hot minute, I thought that band might be Kings of Leon- but they seem to be headed down the same road Oasis went down and that road apparently leads to court rooms and ill-conceived solo projects with ridiculous names. Pearl Jam and the Foo Fighters are already great American rock bands. Nickleback is from Canada…so they don’t count. Plus their terrible.

The Mann Center is adorable, absolutely adorable. It’s nestled in the lush hills and lurking danger of Fairmount Park in West Philadelphia. The parking lots are fields, I think I might have a flat tire, and there is no overwhelming presence of Johnny Law to detour folks from enjoy some summertime tailgating. The people-gawking was top notch and Future Wife & I enjoyed Sly Fox beers and sandwiches from Wegman’s as we watched a potpourri of young adults pound beers, toss a Frisbee, run around gleefully with balloons filled with nitrous and hob-nobbers strutting around in designer jeans, expensive flip flops and sixers. Once inside, the venue is a classic, good time, American music shed- a simple amphitheater with well-placed beer stands, a comfortable lawn, and minimal security patrolling the more expensive seats; making it easier to dip in and out of better spots than the lawn seats we paid for.

Kim had wanted to see the opener, Neko Case, but she was just wrapping up as we headed up to the lawn carrying 24 ounce beers that cost as much as a Heineken at Yankee Stadium. We didn’t bring a blanket; we should have. I take the blame for that. Once My Morning Jacket hit the stage we stood up, but quickly realized that in our section of the lawn, we were the only ones to do so. So we sat back down, which was relaxing. The band opened with “Victory Dance,” the first song off of their new album and it was an intense opener with its thundering drums and a wild & loose James going guitar less, showing off his vocal pipes and playing with what looked like a touch pad sampler that was hanging around his neck. The lights were amazing. Kim and I talked about it later in the show- they were perfect; not too much, not too little.

I don’t get to many big old American rock ‘n roll shows anymore. We saw the Black Keys last summer, but that didn’t feel nearly as big as the show last night. Last night was one of those shows that is just worth the money you threw down for it. The songs were big, the band was big, the beers were big. Everything was just gigantic. The smile on my face was gigantic. Kim’s smile was gigantic. I couldn’t help but think that in a year or so, the crowds for My Morning Jacket will be gigantic. They have to be. The band is what’s next for us.

An added bonus- the show was seamless. With minimal effort, the band went from song to song with ambient music or drum beats or guitars carrying them into the next tune. There was very little banter as well; not one mention of the near-devastating earthquake that knocked over lawn furniture and cracked the Washington monument earlier in the day. I appreciated that. James was in his own world; a world that possibly wasn't even affected by the earthquake. He owned the stage like a ringleader of big rock ‘n roll circus- all while rocking the duster. He performed the first two songs of the encore- “Wordless Chorus” and “The Day is Coming” with the duster covering his head- he looked like the Phantom of the Opera. “The Day is Coming” is my jam, but I was happy they played “Holding on to Black Metal.” But they didn’t just rely heavily on the new album and the middle of the show, the meat & potatoes, was largely made up of older tunes; a highlight being “Golden,” as well as the end of “Run Thru,” which emerged from the rubble and debris of “Smokin’ from Shootin” before they went back to a new song, “First Light”- a fitting summer jam for a fitting summer concert.

Let’s briefly talk about the gorilla on drums- My Morning Jacket’s beast of drummer, Patrick Hallahan. I used to think that the drummer for Rage Against the Machine, Brad Wilkerson, was the heir apparent of Led Zeppelin’s John Bonham, but I was wrong. It’s Hallahan. His snare hits are like vicious thunderclaps. I imagine he could crush acorns with his bare hands if he wanted too. He drives the band like an Ice Road Trucker slamming through the Arctic Wilds. I bet he’s a gregarious drunk.

The economy is tanking, our country might be broken, the president has the gall to take a vacation- but on a delightful summer evening, on a grassy hill with the tops of Center City peaking out of the tree line, none of that mattered. The only pressing matters concerning the hordes of happy feet at last night’s rock show was whether or not we’d get treated to “Maghettah,” which we didn’t. But that wasn’t a bummer. Perfect nights are without bummers. Last night was what American rock ‘n roll dreams are made of. Kim and I made the decision to go with My Morning Jacket over Kings of Leon last month, it just felt right. Last night didn’t just feel right, it felt amazingly right.

Good rock shows leaving you wanting more.

Last night left me wanting the world.

My Morning Jacket is the truth. I am a believer, I am tired, I am ready to go again.

Where was I when the quake hit? I was here.

2011-08-23T15:49:00.001-04:00

Where was I when the great mid-Atlantic earthquake of 2011 hit? Well sir, I was sitting at my desk, like I had been for the majority of this previously uneventful Tuesday when it felt like a rather portly person was walking by our building. The shaking felt like ocean motion. I miss ocean motion.

But at the time of the quake, the quake that happened in Virginia and was felt all the way up in New England according to rampant Facebookings and Twitterings, I was streaming the new Red Hot Chili Peppers’ album “I’m With You” and reading about Jorge Pasada’s fall from grace. The new Peppers’ album is pretty amazing. Posada’s fall from grace? Well, it’s not as surprising as the great earthquake was.

After the quake, our office was buzzing. I’m sure many offices were. I kept listening to “I’m With You.” The streaming of music on the internet may be my favorite new thing to do, next to surviving Tuesday afternoon earthquakes. I streamed “Watch the Throne,” the new album by Kanye West and Jay Z roughly 48 times when it was first released. The first song, I don’t even know what it’s called, was stuck in my head for about a week- just the music of it and that sound of rolling, bassed out guitars. I really believe that Kanye West is to hip hop what Axl Rose is to rock music. They both make gigantic, over the top and greatly unapologetic albums. With that being said, I totally feel that Kanye is two albums and three to four years away from going completely off the deep end, pissing off his own equivalent of Slash and disappearing for ten years before releasing an album that will never be able to live up to its own hype. I don’t think he’ll come back rocking corn rows, though.

After the great quake, I put on some My Morning Jacket. My Mom thought that when I referred to My Morning Jacket on the Facebook last week, I was talking about a jacket I wore in the morning- like an “evening coat” she had said. I don’t wear either. My Morning Jacket are playing tonight at the Mann Center in Fairmount Park and Future Wife and I are heading over. So after the great quake, I decided to get pumped up for the show. Last night, while sitting on the deck, I had listened to one of their earlier albums and watched the sunset while reading about an American born drug dealer nicknamed Barbie who rose to Drug Cartel prominence in Mexico. So right now I’m listening to “Evil Urges,” even though I like their new album, “Circuital” better. I’ll probably listen to that on the drive home.

Right before the earthquake, I was re-examining my fantasy football team- Burnsy’s Dumpster Fire. My bench is thin. On a scale of amazing to shitty, I feel last night’s draft was a solid “something to have some, but not an overwhelming amount of faith in.” I broke one of my rules, the Oh No Romo Rule, right off the bat, but stuck to most of the others. I ignored Jets’ players (the Jammer Rule) and despite almost drafting Ochocinco, refrained from taking any Patriots (the Tommy Football Rule) except for their defense, which I have a really good feeling about.

People in my office keep walking around, asking people if they felt the earthquake.

Who knows- maybe the Dumpster Fire will have some good luck this year and we’ll have some success. Injuries and impatience have been the death of me in years’ past. So this year, maybe things will be different. The off-season is the season of dreams and while my dreams rarely involve fantasy football, it’s still nice to lean on. I had a dream the other night that I broke a wine glass. Last night, a wine glass broke a pint glass in our sink. It was a Shipyard pint glass. The wine glass survived unscathed.

I have never been through an earthquake before today and I might never live through another one. Was it scary? Not really. If anything it almost tickled; kind of felt like I was on a roller coaster.

We couldn’t ask for a nicer night for a concert, earthquakes and subpar fantasy football drafts be damned.

Where was I when the great mid-Atlantic earthquake of 2011 hit?

I was in a holding pattern. Just like yesterday and probably just like tomorrow.

Any good tips on running backs?

Now that’s a question worth asking.

The Wire Project: rewatching the greatest TV show of all time. Again.

2011-08-19T10:56:00.000-04:00

After about five months, Future Wife & I finished our Wire Project- taking the Wire, the incredibly great HBO series, on from start to finish. It was Kim’s first time through and what I think was my fifth. The Wire Project was meant to be our winter project, but we took it slow and so it became our late winter into spring and wrapping up in the dog days of summer project. Either way, it didn’t make ending the series any less fulfilling and ultimately sad.

Goddamn it’s an amazing show.

My top five characters listed in no particular order: Bodie, Slim Charles, the Bunk, Bunny Colvin, Avon. How I rank the seasons: season three, season four, season one, season five, season two.

Wire purists will surely deride the fact that we did not finish season two. We started it and got about four or five episodes in, but Kim was losing interest. As the navigator of the project, I thought it was more important to keep her interested so that she would stick with it, rather than be stubborn and slug our way through season two. Everything wonderful and legendary in popular culture- television, movies or music, comes with a hiccup and season two is the Wire’s hiccup. It’s too jarring for a season two; too much of a reach after a breath-taking first season. I understand what David Simon and the rest of his team were doing and I appreciate it. I do. But I continue to make the argument that season two best works as a supplement to the series and if you’re a first timer, skip it and continue on with season three. Then after you finish season five and you’re going through crippling withdrawal, reach back into your drawer and pull out season two.

It’s a win/win situation.

Now the countdown is on until I inevitably start the series again. And that’s not counting rocking a couple episodes of season one or three here or there- because that would be a countdown as weak as Scott Templeton’s journalistic credibility. I told Kim it really was only a matter of time until the right situation presented itself.

Re-watching the Wire is so easy because there is so much too it and like with anything great, repeat viewings just enhances the show, it’s message, it’s characters and it’s nuances. I love that it all comes together and how seamless it is. It’s so complete and totally flushed out- it’s the antithesis to Lost, where you were constantly questioning things. The Wire not only presents the questions, but the situations that prompt the questions, the answers and then the results of those answers. It leaves no stone unturned, nothing left unsaid and nothing open for interpretation. That is something we should not take for granted. Where so much popular culture is lazy and derivative, the Wire is the Olympic athlete of pop culture. It doesn’t take breaks and works for everything. Thus when it ends, when it finally crosses that finish line- it begs that you appreciate it that much more. Those dudes worked their asses off and we owe it to them to admire their hard work.

There is no Line in the Wire, that line separating good from bad, right from wrong, fair and unfair. Omar is a ruthless killer, but we love him. Bubbles, the Shakespearean fool of the show, is a hopeless junky, but we continuously route for him and love him. The Wire makes us like characters like Wee Bay, Snoop & Chris, even though all three are nothing more than hired guns who kill people all day. The reason why we like all these people, despite their faults, is that the Wire makes them real people and they are not just stereotypes. It all comes back to the depth of the Wire. The show lets us see these people in every single light imaginable so we get to know them as more than just their role, their name and their favorite food.

Seinfeld was a good show. Lost was a good show. Mad Men is a good show and so is Curb Your Enthusiasm. The Sopranos at times was a good show and Arrested Development was a good show that ended too soon.

The Wire though, is the only great show and I will literally get into a fistfight with anyone who thinks otherwise.

So let the countdown begin.

See you soon McNutty.

Minimum Intensity Tuesday Quick Hits: polo shirts, the Wire & crab cake sandwiches.

2011-08-16T11:19:00.000-04:00

Some thoughts for a Minimum Intensity Tuesday.

There are worst things in the world than wearing a tucked in polo shirt. However, there are few things better in the world than un-tucking said polo shirt.

I think driving in the rain is worse than driving in the snow, mainly because when it’s snowing, you simply just don’t drive. Few people cancel their plans because it’s raining and they don’t want to drive.

The idea of a Phillies versus Red Sox World Series is making me more nervous by the day.

David Simon has about a week left to get another season of the Wire out or Kim and I are going to have some serious time to fill.

My favorite seasons of the Wire in order: season 3, season 4, season 1, season 5, season 2. Season two gets a bad rap and I think it’s understandable. I feel that the best way to approach the Wire if it’s your first time through the series is to skip season two and then go back to it after 5. It works in the context of the series, but as a second season, it’s too jarring. You spend the first five episodes wondering where Avon is before you realize that the season might not include him that much. Season 5 is great, even with the whole serial killer angle being a little far-fetched. Season 5 makes me thankful I took journalism classes; it helps me understand half of the dialogue that takes place in the Sun newsroom.

This summer has been the summer of two things- the summer of the crab cake sandwich and the summer of SPF 50. I’m not messing around with either one and very serious about both.

Weird thing about crab cakes is that I love crab cake sandwiches, but I find crab cakes on their own kind of boring. I don’t mess around with crabs in a shell- too much work for too little meat. That’s a lobster-homer talking.

I can’t wait to watch and follow the Patriots this season. Although if the Eagles start out 0-3 or 1-2, Philly might get burned to the ground and that will surely affect my cable.

I’ve already broken one of my fantasy football rules for this season- keeping Tony Romo. If him and his stupid hats burn me, I’ll only have myself to blame.

Future Wife and I are going to see My Morning Jacket next week and I’m stoked. I can’t decide what song I want to hear the most- probably “Dancefloors,” but I do love “Holding on to Black Metal.”

I’m still on the fence with this season of True Blood, but because I’m in love and Curb Your Enthusiasm is on after it, I’ll stick with it. I just hope they stop emasculating the vampires soon and cool it on the Hallmark Porn that is Sookie and Eric’s relationship. Jessica is becoming the Hermine of True Blood. She is getting hotter as the series goes on.

I do think it will be the Phillies and Red Sox in the World Series- but I wouldn’t rule out the following teams: Rangers, Yankees and Brewers. If the Cardinals make the playoffs, I’d keep an eye on them too.

There are very few things better in the world than drinking beers on a dock in the summer. That is a fact that cannot be disputed.

I really want to see 30 Minutes or Less, but given the frequency I go to movies combined with how long it will probably be in theaters, the outlook does not look good. It’s just one of those things.

San Diego Sunshine.

2011-08-15T10:40:00.000-04:00

Sometimes you have a morning where coffee won’t cut it, where morning radio is boring, where the clouds are rolling in, followed by rain and wind, afternoon thunderstorms and you’re hours away from kicking back and getting a lit bit closer to finishing the Wire for the fourth or fifth time. These mornings are a part of life, like parking tickets. I wish they weren’t, but I also wish I was taller- that’s just life.

I’d like to go back to sleep, but the floor in my office looks uncomfortable and someone might come in. So I can’t do that. Hold on, I just re-examined the situation. Nope. I can’t lie down.

So I look back, dig deep into memories to put me some place else.

Under the hot San Diego sun, another morning of Air Race fun was under way. At the airport we were operational, shit was live. For the week prior, every day I had a small army of Helping Hands- day laborers, who would show up, looking ragged, and then put to work with some of the frostiest Euro’s I’ve ever met. They were pushed hard, pushed fast and pushed largely without much regard for their well-being. But we had a tight schedule and like this morning right now, that’s life. Sometimes deadlines supersede pleasantries.

On this particular morning, I did not have an army coming in. As we were done with our load-in, my legion of Helpies had shrunk down to only two- two dudes I had picked who seemed less unruly than the others; dudes who didn’t look like vagabonds, could speak proper English and understood when to do, when to not, and when to fade back when needed. So I picked two of my favorites- Brandon & Lloyd. Unlike some of the others, neither had tried to fight one another, so that seemed like a good sign.

They were supposed to be on-site around 7:30. At 7:50, Lloyd called. They were running late. Why? Well that was best explained once they got there. Okay, I said. Just hurry. I probably swore. I was stressed.

Brandon & Lloyd pulled into the parking lot in Brandon’s beat up hoopde. Lloyd was driving; surprising because Lloyd didn’t have a license.

So here’s what happened: Brandon’s brother had gotten out of prison the day before and understandably, the family did a little drinking once he got home. They drank so much that at one point, they found themselves in Mexico. Luckily, they found themselves a way home, which is where Brandon found himself when his alarm went off that morning. So he got up, got dressed and rambled out to his car. But here’s the kicker, Brandon had been nailed for drunk driving a little while back and as a result, had to breath into a machine in order for his car to start. If he had any booze on his breath, then the car wouldn’t start. Well Brandon still had plenty of booze on his breath and as a result, his hoopde wouldn’t start.

Brandon called up Lloyd, who he was supposed to pick up, telling him he had to come over. Lloyd came over, breathed sober, started the car and the two decided it would be best if Lloyd- despite not having a license, drove them to work.

Hence them arriving almost an hour late and when they did, Brandon look like he had been hit by a truck- once in America, once in Mexico and once again in America just for good measure. He told me that yeah he had gotten pretty banged up the night before, but felt fine this morning.

Success as a manager lies largely in the ability to put people in the right position to be successful. That morning, I put Brandon & Lloyd in the one position where I was certain they would not only be successful, but incredibly effective- on a golf cart, in the shade, behind a hangar. They stayed there for most of the morning, Brandon fading in and out of consciousness. Eventually he came around and was very apologetic, but by that time, I had moved on. Other problems had arisen, other fires that needed to be put out. We’ve all been there, I told him. It’s not that you’re hungover that is important, I told him. It’s how you handle that hangover is what’s important to me.

There was no sense in dwelling, no sense in letting the situation bring me down. These are life lessons; these are things we need to do to be successful not just in managing a flying freak show in Southern California, but in managing our lives.

So now a couple years later, I’m telling myself the same thing on a boring & stale Monday morning- no sense dwelling on it, no reason to get bogged down and no point in hanging my head.

Today is today, tomorrow is tomorrow and that’s about the only thing certain in life.

The Year of the Phila Dumpster Fire Begins Now: rules to abide by going into this year's Fantasy Football season.

2011-08-08T10:48:00.002-04:00

I should start with this: I am not good at fantasy football.

The only year I won was in 2007 and that’s because I rode the coattails and awesome-ness of the 2007 Patriots and their near-perfect season. Of course that year I was playing in a Philly league, with a bunch of rowers and there was no money involved. Besides that year, one year out of going on six years now, I have been damn near terrible. Since joining the prestigious Baltimore Premiere League, I have been a laughing stock, occasionally competitive at best and a frequent observer once the playoffs come around. Last year’s season became such a train wreck that I renamed my squad halfway through the season, changing names from the Banker’s Club Burn Doggies to the Phila Dumpster Fire. I just felt it was more appropriate.

But now the lock out is over! We’re game on for football this year and more importantly- all systems go for another season of fantasy football. With the draft later this month, I’ve already started planning it out. I’m reading columns and I’ve even listened to a podcast about fantasy football. One day last week, I took a few notes about how I’m going to do my draft. I need to do the research this year. Subpar drafts have done in me in each year; slightly more than tragic waiver moves have. In an attempt to be more successful this year and win some loot to buy my baby some jewels, I’m going into this year’s draft and season with a few simple and easy to follow rules.

Rule 1, The Tommy Football Rule: I’m avoiding any Patriot on offense besides Tommy Football. Even my man Wes Welker will be avoided and I’m not going to get fooled by Ochocinco. Bill Belichek is a fantasy owner’s personal nemesis- with significant others and poor internet connections as runners-up. What I love about him as a Patriots’ fan is his way of mixing things up and adapting to each week’s opponent. But as a fantasy owner, each of those things makes me hate him even more. Granted Danny Woodhead saved my ass a bit last year, but this year I’m looking for consistency, so as a result, I won’t be looking for any Patriots.

Rule 2, The Oh No Romo Rule: I am saying goodbye to Tony Romo, my team’s quarterback since my first season playing in the Baltimore Premiere League. It’s been an up and down relationship with Romo and last year it was a nothing relationship as Romo was injured for most of the season. He’s a tease and unreliable- one week he’ll kill it and give me 40 points, the next week he’ll be below 10 and wearing a stupid hat. I can’t have something like that in my life. Again- looking for consistency.

Rule 3, the Jammer Rule: last year I selected the Jets’ defense and realized by week two that there was no way we could stay together. I hate the Jets. I hate everything about the Jets and there isn’t one player on that team I respect (like Jeter with the Yankees and Peyton on the Colts.) So I was forced to find a good alternative and luckily I did, the Chiefs, who I ran with until the end of the season. I tried to trade away the Jets defense, but I frequently propose ridiculous trades and as a result, I don’t get many takers when I’m trying to be serious. So I was forced to keep them around, but only because I had too. I even think that this year, I will throw down a No Jets policy across the board for the Dumpster Fire. I’ll sleep better.

Rule 4, the Deep Breath Rule: patience is going to be my best friend this season. I pledge not to dip out on a dude based on only one bad week and I pledge to not waste all my waiver moves by week three. This rule might be the hardest one to follow, but I’m going to try.

For the most part, those are the only rules for this year’s draft and season so far. I’m going to keep Jamal Charles, but I’m not sure who else. Charles is my stud, but I’ve never even seen his play. Last year he was my favorite player and I couldn’t even tell you what number he is. But I’m bringing him back, even though running backs have become such wild cards. I wish I could draft 1989-1995 Thurman Thomas. Running backs have become the equivalent of closers in baseball. There is very little continuity from year to year. But Charles seems like a safe bet, so he’s sticking around. As for my second keeper, I’m still not sure about this. That is this week’s project.

My goal last year was to achieve respectability. Whether I did or not, you can ask the rest of the league about that. This year, I’m looking to win. I’m in an office more now, I’ll have more time for research and I’m going to be more prepared. This will be the year of the Philadelphia Dumpster Fire. It will.

And if it’s not?

Well there’s always next year. And the year after that. And the year after that.

Let’s go Mr. Jamal Charles. Let’s go win us a championship.

Monday Hot Shots: True Blood, the Phillies, Debt-Ceiling Blues and Tommy Football.

2011-08-01T10:12:00.000-04:00

If we were to compare our relationship with a certain TV show with a relationship with a person, than my relationship with True Blood is on its last legs. What was once a fun, healthy- albeit mindless relationship has degenerated into an empty relationship based solely on looks. The clock is ticking.

I love that the Phillies traded for Hunter Pence, a player I’ve always liked since his first game. I even specifically remember talking about Pence with Joe Dykes back at Bay Lines and how we both liked him, even though it was initially because he rocked the high socks. But as the years have passed, I’ve appreciated Pence more and more. But he played for the Astros- so it was like being a fan of a soccer player who only plays for a small West African team. Thankfully the Phillies have made it their business over the past couple years of acquiring players I’ve always liked, but have never really had the opportunity to rout for- Roy Halladay, Roy Oswalt and Pence. They even brought Pedro Martinez back, which was great because I never really liked him on the Mets.

Horrible Bosses was a great movie- funny, not too long, and perfectly casted. However, it was preceded by some of the worst previews I’ve ever seen in my life. How many movies can really start out with the premise- it was the greatest summer of their lives…? Oh and it’s a shark! But it’s a lake! But it’s a salt water lake! We’re doomed, but we’re pretty!

Day drinking gets harder, the older I get it. Actually pretty much anything involving drinking gets harder the older I get. That just doesn’t seem fair.

Kim and I finished season four of the Wire Saturday and even though I’ve seen that season probably four times now, it still gets me in the end. It also makes me believe so much stronger that it’s the greatest TV show ever. They don’t mess around, don’t hold anything back. They give you everything you could ask for. The Wire is the anti-Lost. Whereas Lost was full of questions with no answers, the Wire is situations that lead to questions that lead to reasoning that leads to answers and then lead to repercussions. And they do this for every character- no matter how or big or how small. It all matters. The Wire matters. I can’t wait to start season 5.

How do I tell a potential wedding DJ that I want A) them to play good fun music, B) don’t want them to sing along and C) want them not to be a douche without sounding over-bearing?

Go Karts are boring indoors.

Whole wheat pancakes taste just as good as regular pancakes.

I’ve tried my best to stay up to date with all this fun debt ceiling talk and I guess I’m happy that they’ve reached an agreement- wait, have they?, but honestly, who the hell elected these people? Sometimes I think that as a country, we’re not mature enough to handle a democracy. We had a good run, but maybe it’s time to hand over the reins.

The Patriots look good now, but given the past couple years- I can’t get really excited until the playoffs role around. For the last handful of years, Patriots’ seasons have been comparable to great movies with shitty endings. But I do love Tommy Football.

I’d like to name a dog Tommy Football. Hmm, might have to run that one up the flag pole.

The Fog Will Only Get Us If We Let It.

2011-07-27T10:10:00.000-04:00

The fog had surrounded Gayhead. It covered the majestic cliffs, the crashing waves, and the supposedly breath-taking sunset. We had gone anyway, despite the same fog that had sopped in Edgartown harbor on the other side of the island that afternoon. Reports said that the sunset down at the southwestern tip of Martha’s Vineyard was an experience not to be missed. The bus to these sunsets was also not to be missed, but on our first try we did just that. In some sense, the fog was our punishment.

Gayhead was quiet and besides Future Wife and I; only one other dude got off the bus. He quickly vanished into the fog, later telling us that he had stubbornly ventured down to the beach, only to be crashed upon by a wave that had too quickly emerged from the pea soup fog. The area looked like London in the 1800’s and instead of a serial killer lurking, there was just a skunk poking around.

We stayed for an hour, masking our disappointment with laughter at the situation and heaping chugs of wine. What else could we do? We were about an hour from our hotel and left at the mercy of the next bus. Fog is a social bully in that way. It does not care about your plans.

I had my fill of fog working at Bay Lines when we suffered through long days of bow-watches and staring endlessly into the miles and miles of nothingness a good fog bank provided. My first real taste of the fog-filled good life was the 4th of July during my second summer, the good ol’ summer of 2003. It was my first mate shift, getting the forced nod to cover the Peaks PM shift with a crew of summer deckhands (summer help, summer not) and serving under the one and only Captain Johnny- a short little tugboat of a dynamo, a former Navy man who named his fists Thunder and Lightning. His quirks came with the job and you were best served to roll with them and not at them. It was a how high should I jump situation- not a why should I jump situation. He had a great laugh and smile that successfully covered the lower half of his face. I never once saw him without a Red Sox hat on and once talked him into calling Columbo to complain about the amount of fruit in their yogurt.

“The goddamn fruit, sometimes they give you one that is full of f’n strawberries and shit and sometimes you get maybe one or two little pieces in there,” he had said.

“Call them up and complain,” I replied. So he did. Johnny didn’t mess around.

Johnny didn’t mess around when it came to fog too and he went old school, despite his magnificent ability to fine tune radar. Most of the other captains were cool with their deckhands staying in the pilot house while navigating through the fog, provided they stay attentive with their eyes glued to the ocean in front of them- looking for buoys and incoming boats, “targets.” I need some eyes, they would say and as deckhands, we would oblige without question or complaint. I spent many long days with my forehead pressed against the cold pilothouse windows, staring out into the unforgiving fog, an act that allows negative thoughts and regret to creep in. These were the days that never seemed to end; the days were your whole life passed in front of you as if it were a bell buoy creeping into view. These were days I don’t miss.

With Johnny at the helm, things were different. Deckhands were not allowed the privilege of a warm and dry pilothouse and instead were posted up on the bow- one on the starboard corner and one on the port. If we had four deckhands, one would be placed in between the two, relaying messages from the other deckhand who was on the phone with lucky me up in the pilothouse. Johnny would see something on the radar, pass that along to me and I would then tell the deckhand on the phone what we were looking for and where it would be coming from. I was dry, but it didn’t make the night go any faster and working Peaks PM on the Fourth meant navigating through a crowded harbor of dim-witted pleasure boaters dinking around, waiting to catch the fireworks. But on this lovely evening, a heavy fog bank rolled in around 7pm- just late enough to catch all these sensational pleasure boaters already in position and just early enough for the city to cancel the fireworks. We then found ourselves threading various needles as the day trippers struggled to find their way home. They were everywhere, emerging from the fog like Christmas decorations falling on you as you reach into the back of your closet. Even in the fog we could see their confusion and their concern.

It was a very long night, one that didn’t end until past midnight. When it was finally over, I admitted to Johnny that I had been a little nervous.

“Why’s that?” He asked.

“Cap, this was first night being mate,” I said.

“You’re shitting me.”

“Nope.”

“Well Cap, I’ll sail with you anytime.”

And I did sail with Johnny several times before he retired a year later- my favorite moments were on quiet summer nights, in the middle of a gorgeous sunset when he would turn to me with his wide smile and laugh.

“Can you believe they pay us for shit, Cap?” He’d ask rhetorically. Then he’d laugh some more, knowing the job- at that moment, was just too good to be true. It was refreshing to be with someone who could so honestly assess the situation he was in and in turn, so easily appreciate it. I took that to heart and to this day, I still think about it. I thought about those words while Future Wife and I sat on a picnic table down at foggy Gayhead. It was true, we would not see the sunset that night and as a result, not on this trip. But we were together, the lobster roll was the best I’ve ever had and some memories can be skewed towards comic with the right attitude.

Life throws you shit sometimes- no one can deny that. But denying the good times, that’s when you have real problems. See them, love them, embrace them. They won’t last forever, nothing does. But they’ll stick with you forever if you make it so, fog or no fog.

Here’s to you, Cap. I hope your yogurt is full of fruit and your Sox hat on tight.

It's Not About Now, it's About What's Next: a brief retrospective of my work history.

2011-07-05T10:25:00.001-04:00

I am a man who has had quite a few jobs.

My first job was delivering newspapers on Sunday morning. After that, I worked briefly at a bagel place. Then I bagged groceries at a grocery store, but that job never went really well. One day I got caught coming back from Subway when I should have been out in the parking lot collecting empty carts. After that, I went to work at Joker’s where I manned Lazer Tag, fixed broken video games by doing one of two things- opening them up and flicking a switch or throwing tokens at fat kids, and built a mini golf course.

During summers when I was in college I made pizzas, stamped tax stickers on packs of cigarettes, and worked a register at a gas station.

In college I managed the soccer team and then went on to work at the bookstore. For one semester I signed people in and out of the science building on a night when very few people actually went into the science building and for two weeks, worked at the alumni house- bugging old people for money. I also worked briefly in the kitchen of a fondue restaurant before getting fired because I called out sick an hour before my shift started (didn’t see the problem then, I do now.) During the summer before senior year I worked for a moving company, strapping boxes and appliances \to my back and filling the role of “that funny white kid.” I liked that job and learned how to sleep in the back of a moving truck. One day we drove past a maximum security prison in rural Maryland and Drew, the large African American fella driving the truck casually mentioned that the prison was where Tank did some time. Tank was in the truck behind us. Once school started I worked at Barnes & Noble- a job that looked much better on paper. Much better.

After graduation I went to work as a deckhand at Casco Bay Lines, the ferry company that runs out of Portland, Maine to six of the islands in Casco Bay. It was initially just a summer job; a brief layover before whatever I was going to do next. But then student loan bills started showing up and four years later, I was still there. I played in a band during that time as well, but we frequently didn’t make any money- so I wouldn’t really call that a job.

I moved to Philadelphia at the end of the summer of 2006, quickly realizing that coming from Bay Lines, I had unique skill set that didn’t necessarily translate to success in the Philadelphia job market. I went on one interview at a now defunct Philly restaurant called the Striped Bass on the recommendation of a former Bay Lines’ deckhand. He said to just come in and not to even worry about bringing a resume- the interview in his mind was just a formality and more of a meet and greet. Unfortunately what was in his mind was not really what was in the restaurant manager’s mind whose first question was- “do you have a resume?” The manager’s second question was “what do you know about the Striped Bass?”

“I know it’s on Walnut Street,” I said. The manager and the assistant manager both looked at me. The restaurant was a Stephen Starr restaurant, which I would eventually learn was kind of a big deal in the city.

“In the future,” the manager said. “I would do a little research on the place you’re applying to before coming in for an interview.”

I did not work at that restaurant.

Thankfully my interview at a small sports store in Center City Philadelphia went better and I went to work there, selling high-end sports equipment. The store’s whole thing was that it would beat anyone’s price. Someone would call looking for a bomb ass new Bogner jacket and I would quickly do a Google search, seeing what prices were and then offer them the jacket for 10 to 15% cheaper. I don’t know how the owner of the place made money, but I do know that he seemed stressed a lot. When they started slashing my hours after Christmas, I walked out- the only time I had up and quit a job on the spot. At that moment, it felt great. A few moments later, it felt regrettable. Such is life I guess. I spent the rest of January looking for jobs, going to grad school and watching the Wire before going to work at a hardscaping company out in the suburbs. What’s hardscaping? Well it’s a slightly more intense version of landscaping. Oh yeah, for a while, one summer during college I worked at a landscaping company. I forgot about that. It didn’t end well, a very forgettable experience.

Well one day, as I was building a staircase out of small boulders, I decided that the job wasn’t really for me even though I liked my crew chief, a Pakistani named Faris, who had a great sense of humor and terrible teeth. A few months earlier, I had applied for a job with Mountain Sports International, an event company, but at the time, there wasn’t much work so the boss at the time told me to check back in the spring. In between boulder-moving I checked in, telling him I was ready to work. That was my last day boulder-moving. The stairs looked great.

For the next three years, I worked at MSI- by the end of the summer running their Philly office and then eventually traveling all over the country running crazy events, drinking crazy beers and working with crazy people. This was a great job, but one that ran smack into a wall. Again, such is life. The work with MSI was very much a what comes up, must come down job and without fail, when things came down, I started working on my resume and job hunting. Idle time + Ryno = nothing all that awesome.

Now I work again in the suburbs of Philadelphia, this time at Special Olympics Pennsylvania. I wear collared shirts that I tuck in and only wear jeans on Fridays- Casual Fridays. My office has windows that don’t open and I’ve traded in a warehouse for a storage unit. I never thought I’d be someone who would sit in traffic with headphones on, but that’s how I spend the delightful time of day between 4:30 and 6pm Monday through Friday. I miss flip flops and shorts and randomly spending a week in an equally random American city. I miss my favorite job, working as a deckhand at Bay Lines and spending ten hours a day outside on the water.

But, if I’ve learned only one thing from all of my jobs is that you never know what’s next in life and that trying to predict what comes next is pointless. It is not original to say that life is full of unexpected twist and turns. So here is something original you could say about life- money will keep you in place, complacency will keep you on the move, and shitty bosses will motivate you in ways they probably don’t want too.

Now if you excuse me, my coffee is cold and needs to be refilled.

The Final Word on Chicken & Waffles: a quick weekend in Louisiana.

2011-06-13T14:00:00.000-04:00

As for the exploratory committee on the mythical meal of Chicken & Waffles I had heard about countless times, results came up negative. It’s not so much that it sounded good, as that it sounded interesting and potentially good. I had questions about whether or not you used syrup or gravy. I don’t know if I was leaning towards one or the other. Was it a piece of chicken on top of a waffle, a waffle on top of a piece of chicken or a waffle and a chicken, laying side by side? How is the chicken cooked? What’s the shape of the waffle?

I started asking around when we got back to the house. Erin was on board. I was on reconnaissance work to gather some intel. Dutifully I asked Dad earlier in the day what he thought about chicken and waffles. His only thought was that it sounded gross.

“But you like waffles don’t you?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied.
“And you like chicken, right?”
“Yes.”
“So how can you not be interested in something that combines the two?”
“Easily,” Dad replied.

Some of the dudes that were ball players under Coach Jay knew about chicken & waffles, but only one really suggested trying it. And if I were to try it, I could really only go to Roscoe’s Chicken & Waffles because that’s the only spot where chicken & waffles were any good. Dylan told me that they lied side by side and one of the players said you use syrup. After reporting back to Erin, she was still very much on board based on what I felt was faith that the result of two things you loved combined had to be good. While normally I too generally believe this, after asking around, I had had a slight change of heart.

Chicken and waffles definitely didn’t sound healthy and as a dude who drinks organic milk now, that was a red flag. And also, I’m not a big fan of fried chicken and according to another one of the players, that’s how the chicken was cooked. Fried chicken gets messy. I don’t do messy.

After asking around, I went back to Dad, inquiring if he had given chicken and waffles anymore thought. He hadn’t. In fact, he had tried to not think about it because it still sounded gross and nothing he wanted a part of. Dad answered the same thing when I asked him probably four or five more times. The last couple of times were just to irritate him.

My trip to Louisiana this past weekend did not include chicken and waffles.

However, my trip to Louisiana did include being able to say goodbye to a great man and re-connecting with family members I don’t get to see that often. Chicken and waffles was a good distraction, but the family time was the real goal. The family needed to band together and get close; we needed to rally. It was a trip of lemons and lemonade, watching the Bruins with cousins, staying in between the lines when coloring, and the joy of going to Wal-Mart that sold both beer and wine.

It was quick, it was fast, it was a hustle.

But it was beautiful and that’s what matters.

Goodnight y’all, we’ll be seeing you next summer. Go Mavs.

Bring It On Home: the music will help.

2011-06-09T12:01:00.000-04:00

Due to a shocking and unbelievable turn of events, I had to head back to Philadelphia earlier than expected. It was hot and by mid-morning, the temperature had already risen to 90 degrees and I still not seen Joe Paterno. It had been less than twenty-four hours since I had arrived in State College and was already headed back east.

You’ve won Pennsylvania State Troopers. You have broken me. The entire time I was on the old Pennsylvania Turnpike, headed in both directions- I never went more than five miles above the posted speed limit. There were even times when I held the wheel firmly and safely with two hands. They had gotten me before, gotten me good. I wasn’t about to get gotten again. Couldn’t afford it. Johnny Law had hit me where it hurts- right in the wallet. Victory is theirs, I’m over it.

So driving safely east, the sun beating down on the port side of the rental truck and a fresh coffee poured, music was going to be important when speaking of the success of such an endeavor. To start with- there needed to be something upbeat & snappy; something to get the team’s enthusiasm up. Rogue Wave. Nothing says driving when the sun is out and the sky is clear better than Rogue Wave. I put in the Best of Rogue Wave mix I made- a collection of songs from each one of their albums and cranked it. The speed stayed constant, the volume did not- loud, louder, loudest.

We had to keep momentum up and about an hour in and two hours to go, Rogue Wave had gone mellow and the sun hot. Mark Ronson’s album “Version” was a logical choice, even though I was thinking something a little heavier, more rock sounding, more along the lines of Them Crooked Vultures. But “Version” jumped out at me. That album a great collection of songs that should be in a real cool movie I want to preferably write, but would settle just seeing and eventually owning. “Toxic” with ODB is my jam- probably going to be my summer jam. Look out!

The Mark Ronson album isn’t long and it will eventually change to LCD Soundsystem. That wasn’t going to do. Starting out, I said that both Rustic Overtones and Paranoid Social Club were banned for the trip. Man, I really wanted to listen to “The Rising” by Mr. Sunshine Bruce Springsteen, also known as the Boss and soon to be known as the fella who accidentally shows up at Kim and I’s wedding. That album was what I needed. But I had given it to my parents. I had done so only a few days ago. Bummer. Like a junkie, I fell back into the same old habits when faced with adversity- Rustic Overtones.

I carry a booklet of CD’s with me. I do this because unfortunately the Corrolacoaster does not have a tape player or AUX adaptor. I refuse to listen to an I-pod through the radio- it’s my worst nightmare. This has prompted me to go back to relying on CD’s. I made mixes of a bunch of the bands I like: Rogue Wave, the Black Keys, Beastie Boys, Kings of Leon, Rustic Overtones and a few more. This is easier than carrying all their albums around. With no Bruce CD, I chose the Rustic Overtones’ mix- a burned CD that I feel is almost the perfect Rustic album.*

Here is the track listing: Car Sick, Common Cold, Hit Man, Love & a 45, Sector Z, C’Mon, Oxygen, Combustible, Love Underground, Boys & Girls, Rock Like War, Letter to the President, I Just Can’t Shake You, Revolution AM, Gas on Skin, Smoke, The Same Does Not Apply, Check.

If you’re a fan, give this play list a try. Then if possible, rent a pick up truck if you don’t have one, pick a sunny day and a long road, and send it. Play this play list, play it loud and I think you’ll be able to get to what was my happy place yesterday as I left the Happy Valley, waiting to get into my Happy Thoughts’ arms that night.

I’ve reached the age where I know that trouble is right around the corner; I know that adversity is out there and will get me when I least expect it. I know these things. I also know that I will deal with them and deal with the adversity. I know this too. I’ve got the certainties down.

I just sometimes don’t know what to listen too.

* perfect for now.

The Best Laid Plans Will Be Aided By Beer Specials...a review of Black Landlord, live at Johnny Brenda's.

2011-06-06T11:43:00.000-04:00

If you’re a band, I ask of you only one thing- own it.

Black Landlord, a funk/hip hop band from Philly, owned it Saturday night.

Kim and I caught whiff of their show at Johnny Brenda’s earlier in the evening while running through events associated with Philadelphia Beer Week. We had wanted to get back to JB’s for a while now, since almost a year ago when we stumbled upon a great show by Slavic Soul Party- probably one of the best Brooklyn hipster bands playing traditional Slavic jams out there. We had also wanted a good night out in Northern Liberties. Sometimes things just work out. Giddy up. Let’s go!

Philly Beer Week is confusing- as there are tons of great beers being served, but don’t seem to be very many specials associated with them. Regardless, Standard Tap in Northern Liberties was packed. Luckily upstairs was its chill self and we were able to get a table pretty easily. But you know what? You know what’s a huge, tremendous bummer- is when you get a burger, a real doozy of a burger- a large and in charge kind of burger and not even halfway through, the bun bails on you. Then your beautiful and delicious burger becomes a God damn dumpster fire on your plate. This happened Saturday- but I didn’t let it bring me down. But still, teamwork Burger! I read an interview with Louis C.K. yesterday. He always cuts his burgers in half, saying that no one needs all of a burger. Well sometimes you do, but I would argue that the benefit of cutting a burger in half is not so much the sharing ability, but the durability. I might try that in the future. Maybe.

Burger issues aside, we then made our way over to Johnny Brenda’s. Opening for Black Landlord was the Philly rapper Kuf Knotz, a dude with a decent flow and a solid backing band- trading a bass player for a dude playing an acoustic guitar, accompanied by a great keyboardist and capable drummer. They were good, some songs were definitely better than others. Live hip hop is a delicate art form and I don’t think a lot of people really get what makes it work. Maybe it’s because we’re the ADD generation, but folks fail to grasp that it is simplicity that makes live hip hop work. Why is Questlove of the Roots such a great drummer? Because homeboy locks into groove, doesn’t get flashy and keeps it rock solid.

Here is a good example: Manifest Next to Me was a live hip hop band based out of Burlington, Vermont a couple years ago. They released two albums and had a different drummer on both. On the first album, the drummer was a Questlove disciple, wasn’t flashy, and was deep within the pocket with tasteful beats and well-placed fills. It was perfect and they sounded great. On the second album, the original drummer had moved and been replaced with a jazz cat. Jazz drummers are live hip hop’s worst enemy. They can’t hold a steady beat for more than a minute, feeling compelled to add in complicated fills and unnecessary rhythms on three cymbals too many. As a result, Manifest’s second album was in my opinion, a disaster.

Keep it simple, stupid- words to live by, especially if one desires to play in a good live hip hop band.

Then Black Landlord hit the stage- well dressed and filling the majority of the stage with eight members including the token hot chick and a middle aged, hype man with a fantastic moustache. Their drummer looked like he could bench press a Mini Cooper and they had a percussionist who looked that that actor who was on Seinfeld, playing the executive from NBC who falls for Elaine, quits his job to go work for Greenpeace. Black Landlord’s front man had a belly that looked like he was pregnant with three grown adults, but dude really worked the stage and worked the room. I could barely understand a word he was saying, but he was great and looking dapper in his white suit. Yet as the night went on, it seemed like he was consistently losing a game of strip poker to someone off stage as song after song, another article of clothing came off ending with him only wearing shoes and pants during the encore. It was an amazing belly.

I would never buy a Black Landlord album and wouldn’t think to listen to them if they came on the radio. But I would surely see them again as they played a set that was high octane, manic energy from start to finish. They were loud, tight, and fun. In the palm of their sweaty hands, the near-packed crowd at Johnny Brenda’s danced their beer-drinking asses off. And I love the atmosphere of the club, with it’s balcony and stage tucked into the far corner. The room sounds great, you couldn’t ask for me. Except for maybe an ice cold Yuengling Light- but nothing is perfect.

But that night everything was fun. It was a delightful evening out on the town with my more than delightful future wife- capped off with a Wawa sandwich and a couple Gatorades. We will see Black Landlord again. We might even see Kuf Knotz again. The best nights are ones that are usually not planned. Great nights are born from spontaneity and last minute curveballs. Saturday was a long day and coming home, I was tired and thinking about pitching the fail safe idea of chilling out and watching a movie to Future Wife. But all it took was a quick nap, a tasty yet contentious burger and some great jams to change all that.

You can ask all you want out of a band. All I ask is that they play it like they mean it. Do that and I’ll be your friend for life.

Giddy up Black Landlord. Giddy up.

Monday-esque Tuesday Quick Hits: Beastie Boys, the Palin, Mob Wives & more...

2011-05-31T15:28:00.000-04:00

This was my first Memorial Day weekend in roughly 8 years when I didn’t have to work. It was awesome. I’ll have to try it again someday.

Summer doesn’t really start for me until I come home with one slightly painful and visually entertaining sunburn. As someone who prides and guides himself on learning from his mistakes, the fact that year after year I keep making the same one (poor application of sunscreen) is becoming as uncomfortable as the sunburns that result from it.

Some days I feel I need more boardwalks in my life. Some days I feel I have just enough.

I don’t want the Miami Heat to win for the same reason I didn’t want the Steelers to win the Super Bowl- I don’t want to see them happy. Not yet at least. I am fully aware that Lebron & Wade and Bosh the Tag-a-long will own the league for at least the next five years, but I just don’t want them to start yet. Everything they have said and done this whole year has been incredibly annoying and massively unappealing. A little bit of humility never hurt anyone. Go Mavericks.

“The Red Sox scare me,” Kim’s dad said this weekend. There are few things better in the world for a Red Sox fan than hearing a lifelong Yankees’ fan say those words.

I’m sorry I-tunes, but until you are able to start coming up with the kind of deals Amazon has, you’ve lost my business. I got three albums- new discs by the Beastie Boys, TV on the Radio, and Paul Simon for fifteen bucks. I’m not going to say I made out like a bandit. But I definitely made out like someone who has hung out with bandits, learned from them and employed their tactics. TV on the Radio gets two thumbs up, Paul Simon gets one thumbs up and a wink and the Beastie Boys get two thumbs up, a shimmy shake, and a promise of multiple recommendations to both friends and strangers.

The Beastie Boys make albums that just sound cooler than anyone else’s. Music is all about making choices and those three dudes make all the right ones. They are also one of my top 5 bands who make me want to immediately start playing music. The others (in no particular order): Rustic Overtones, Paranoid Social Club, Black Keys, and the Roots.

Speaking of Paranoid Social Club- they are easily the winner of the Most Anticipated Album with the Worst Cover Art award. Besides that, Axis IV is another great album from two of my favorite songwriters- Dave Gutter & Jon Roods. The album lacks an amazing song like “Music Man” or “Bully,” but is still solid. I was up and down with it until I realized that for a week straight I was constantly singing one of the songs from the album. Then I figured it must be pretty good.

I can’t wait to have fishing as a hobby.

That Mob Wives show doesn’t make sense to me. Isn’t openly admitting you’re a mob wife incredibly incriminating- if not for the wife, than for the husband? Wasn’t the mob all about keeping things on the down low? I’m waiting for MTV to counter with a show called Drug Dealers’ Girlfriends followed by Fuse’s Lovers of Illegal Immigrants.

If you haven’t checked out Jerry Seinfeld’s archive website, then you are either missing out completely or have a job where you don’t sit in front of a computer all day.

Podcasts are saving me from losing my mind while driving home from work. So far I’m big into the BS Report, WTF, NBA Today, Nerdist and Adam Carolla. My one problem is the name podcast. It sounds like something a nerdy alien would come up with and I generally try and avoid anything produced by either a nerd or an alien.

You can tell me all day long that Sarah Palin has absolutely no chance in being elected President, but I won’t believe it until the final vote is counted. I don’t trust her and I don’t trust Middle American voters. There are so many things that disgust me about her: her obscenely obvious lack of credible experience, her dangerously effective rhetoric, her transformation from hot older woman to a deceiving cougar, the reality show success of her completely talentless daughter that it’s not that I just want her to lose. No. I want her to completely disappear off the face of the earth and never be heard from again. She’s no good for anyone and at some point someone other than us East Coast elitist liberals will realize that. Of course if she does disappear, that could be the end of the Huffington Post. That’d be a bummer.

Santigold should do a guest spot on every album recorded. If not her, then Rhianna. But a law needs to be passed that an album can’t be released without one of them appearing on it at least once.

Handing in my key.

2011-05-24T11:39:00.000-04:00

Mom posed an interesting question during their yard sale- with them moving, where would we consider home? They were moving out of the house we moved into when I was six and Erin was three. It was our home and with them moving into a condo in Dowingtown, outside of Philadelphia, what would Erin and I now consider home.

So I did what anyone would do in my position would do- I asked Kim.

Kim said that the two of us were creating our own home, just like Erin and Ed had and Mom and Dad were about to do at their new place.

This got me thinking that as we get older, that idea of home changes. It becomes less of a physical place and more of a place in your mind and in your heart. Home is not so much where you are in the world, but more who you are with in the world. So to answer my Mom’s question, after Thursday and after the movers are done packing everything up and Mom, Dad, Callie head south to Philadelphia, the place I would consider home is the place side by side with Kim. Home is the place where I can hug Mom and make fun of Dad in person. Home is wherever we all sit around a table, laughing and enjoying each other’s company.

Home can be anywhere, provided the people you love are there with you.

As for the yard sale- it started early, although not early enough for the professional scavengers who were waiting at the end of the driveway a half hour before we were scheduled to get the show rolling. I’d say they looked like vultures, but vultures don’t carry that much cash and don’t have any interest in a lawn mower that doesn’t work anymore. A few minutes after 8am, we opened the garage door and the joint was jumping. Mom was on fire and re-affirmed my belief that few people in the world run a yard sale better. She is at her best surrounded by a crowd and with rain forecasted throughout the day; she was surrounded by plenty in the garage. One woman tried on flip flops and another woman stood in the backyard, laying claim to the other lawn mower- the one that worked. An old man chomping on an un-lit cigar would have bought the garage if it had a price tag on it (instead he bought the broken lawn mower for 5 bucks) and his wife, a younger woman held onto our air pump tightly. Mom asked her if her older husband was her dad.

“That’s my husband,” she replied.

Mom was unfazed and asked if she wanted to buy this old shelf, good to put plants on. My Mom is amazing in a situation like that, one that could easily be construed as a socially paralyzing awkward situation doesn’t even make her blink or stutter. She’s a dynamo for a variety of reasons and that’s one of the best reasons.

By 10am, it seemed like all of the stuff people wanted had already been sold. Dad’s recliner, the exercise bike and fake Christmas tree remained, but that was about it. It became slightly uncomfortable when people kept coming, walking briskly up the driveway, making a quick lap around the garage, seeing nothing they liked and as they were leaving, either smiling politely or simply avoiding eye contact and walking just as briskly, yet disappointed back down the driveway.

11am came and Mom was ready to close up shop, but we implored her to hold off at least until noon. Callie basked in the sun out in the driveway and Dad, after getting the older lawn mower to start, figured he’d use it until the cigar chomper came back to get it. He did the front lawn, I did the back. Halfway through, it started to make me a little sad that it was the last time I’d mow the lawn. But I combated this with thinking happily that the next lawn I would mow would be Kim and I’s. Positive thinking baby!

We deemed the yard sale was a success and the three of us, along with Mom’s dear friend Pam Brown, celebrated with Italians from Amato’s. Dad’s recliner didn’t sell, but I talked Mom into keeping it. This made Callie very happy and she quickly hopped back up onto it after we brought it back into the living room. We even were able to sell the exercise bike. The Christmas tree is going to Ms. Lucy’s store. I guess it was just the wrong season to try and sell that- regardless of the condition.

Before heading back to Philadelphia, I found myself walking around the house and from room to room, just staring slightly blankly at each one. It was less a flood of memories that hit me and instead scenes that popped into my head. Each room had a memorable scene that broadcasted into my brain as if my stroll the house was a clip show on VH1. Thanksgiving dinners in the Dining Room, Christmas and the Red Sox winning the World Series in 2004 in the living room, learning how to shave in the downstairs bathroom, beers at the kitchen table after the drive up from Philadelphia with Dad, countless band rehearsals in the drum room, peeking down the stairs into the living room- doing reconnaissance work for General Erin on Christmas morning, coming home after nights out in high school and creeping into my parents’ room to kiss my Mom good night and inadvertently incriminating myself with the booze still on my breath and Mom’s surprise 60th birthday party out in the backyard. I had a slight knot in my stomach, but was determined to not let the moment get to me. Mom frequently used the phrase bitter sweet to describe their move to the Philly area and I decided to run with that. Nothing in life is 100% perfect and everything has a but or a comma in it. Yet I’m not going to focus on the bitter. I’m going to focus on the sweet.

The house was great and the memories greater. But I get to be closer to my parents again- what more could a son ask for.

Goodbye Regan Lane. Thanks for the memories, thanks for the laughs and thanks for the neighbors. We’ll hope to see you soon.

Rainy Wednesday Quick Hits: Harry Potter, Pollen & the Happiness that Comes with a Wegwam's Card.

2011-05-18T09:48:00.000-04:00

Working from home on rainy Wednesday- rocking the sleeve-less University of Wyoming t-shirt and thinking of some quick hits. The quick hits are in no particular order, have no particular meaning, and have no particular nutritional value.

I want to take umbrage with more things. I don’t want to be annoyed more or take offense to more things. I want to specifically take umbrage with things. Like for instance, I take umbrage with people knocking Cliff Lee because of his 2-5 record when the last run the Phillies’ scored when he was on the mound was the 2009 World Series.

How did we all just realize Pippa Middleton was hot? People have been following Kate Middleton’s every move for a couple years and we just realized how hot her older sister was?

Speaking of hot- Hermine gets hotter as Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows goes on. But somehow, it just feels weird saying that.

I miss the Celtics already. If not for Kim, I would have spent the hours following their game 5 loss to the Heat crying and in the fetal position, whimpering “too soon, too soon.” I do appreciate that Doc Rivers came out yesterday, knocking the timing of the Perkins’ trade, which too me, was the biggest injustice of the whole thing. If you’re all about today, why would you trade lunch today for dinner tomorrow?

Donald Trump on Celebrity Apprentice = great and fun to watch. Donald Trump everywhere else = asinine and pitiful to watch. As for Celebrity Apprentice, I’m putting all of my money on John Rich. I’m also waiting patiently for rock’s next super group featuring John Rich, Lil’ Jon and Meatloaf- Meat & the Johns.

I’d pay money to see Lt Jim Dangle on Celebrity Apprentice.

I don’t fault anyone for celebrating Osama Bin Laden’s death, I just don’t necessarily think it’s something I would have done. I don’t think we should bask in the glory of anyone’s death, but I also don’t think we should rain on anyone’s parade. One thing I believe is that you should never ruin anyone’s good fun.

I’ve been thinking about what things I believe in and how I’m at the age where I’m starting to foster beliefs. One thing that I think is very important and a quality that is key to success is knowing when to pick your spots. Knowing when to stop is another one.

In my next life, I want to be in a band like the Beastie Boys.

I mean really, all of the pictures taken of Kate Middleton and we really just realized Pippa is good looking?

I want to live in a world where coffee is consistently one thing- either good for us or bad for us. I also want to live in a world where those 5 Hour Energy drink commercials don’t exist.

Common is a vile rapper is like saying Sarah Palin is a reliable source of information.

If I could run one thing over with my Corollacoaster and mortally wound it, it’d be pollen. If I had a second choice, it would still be pollen.

I applied for a Wegman’s card. My life is complete.

This OId House (complete with Drum Room)

2011-05-17T10:11:00.000-04:00

Erin’s text only said that the house had sold.

The old O’Connell family homestead is set to be packed up. Closing is on May 27th and the folks have found a nice little place in Downingtown, Pennsylvania. They’re now the honeymooners and we should be concerned about how little Callie will respond to seeing wild geese walk by the front windows. I’m heading to Maine this weekend to spend some quality time above the garage and down in the basement- to say goodbye to the house, the house I grew up in and still remember watching be built all those years ago.

All those years ago was when I was six- that was when we moved onto Regan Lane. I remember walking around the frame of the house in the middle of construction and walking up and down the wooden stairs. We moved from our little house in Scarborough in late September, after I had started school over at Lyseth. In middle school we put in a pool in the backyard and brought Misty, our first cocker spaniel home. I loved our backyard, all fenced in and private. I would pitch against the wall or kick soccer balls against it- depending on the season. The pool was great, but made it tough to mow the back lawn- but I did so with a bathing suit on and my walkman blasting. When I graduated high school, one of my bands played at my graduation party and Gram was dancing up a storm. She was very upset when the cops showed up.

I moved down into the basement in middle school, giving up the larger bedroom upstairs to Erin. Before I moved to the basement, it was probably one of the best play rooms any two kids could have- split right down the middle between GI Joes and Barbies. Then Dad threw a wall up and one side became my room, the other side became a TV room. The drop ceilings provided useful when it came to hiding scandalous CD’s with parental advisory labels on them that would only be played when my parents weren’t home.

Freshman year of high school, I brought a drum set home and the house was never quiet for more than an hour at a time for the next couple of years. First they were set up in the TV room, but then moved into another room in the basement- the room that had become the Barbie room once the wall went up and then became the Drum Room once Erin outgrew Barbies. I spent hours in that drum room in high school- a lot of that time with Dave Devine and Rob Voyer, writing mediocre, but fun songs and recording them. About every other week we had a different band name- but every week we had a good time.

After college, the Drum Room had a resurgence and the band that would eventually become Sidecar Radio was formed. It’s where Corey came for the first time and where we spent hours jamming and getting to know each other. Some random dudes passed through and it was fun taping show posters to the wall. We knew when we were getting loud when we heard a stomping on the floor and we knew it was time to quit when the lights started flickering. We knew we were in trouble if we dinged the walls and we always knew how we sounded because Mom would let us know- she didn’t like when Christian yelled. Eventually we outgrew the Drum Room and began a yearlong nomadic quest to find a rehearsal space that matched the comfort and quality of the Drum Room.

When you live in a house for over twenty years, you could go on a variety of tangents based on the memories of certain events, certain rooms in the house, certain changes that were made over the years. Obviously it’s where you learned how to live, how to love, how to negotiate stairs late at night after you drank too much. It will be hard to leave, hard to turn in my key. It will be much harder for my parents. They drove the bus, I was just a passenger who grew attached to my seat. But regardless, it’s a big deal and it’s a big move. There will only be one house you grew up in and one day when it’s time to leave that house. The house you grew up in, the first car you bought, the first pet you ever loved- these are the baseball cards you will never throw away. They will go in a Tupperware bin, safe & sound- and follow you for the rest of your life.

So goodbye Regan Lane. It was fun. Thanks for the good times, the funny times, and the learning times.

Seize the Cinco, Hold the Mayo: Jahronee's One Night Stand.

2011-05-05T12:38:00.003-04:00

There are two facts that I know about Chris Cornell, frontman for Soundgarden and Audioslave. I know he has a brother named Peter and I know that their father passed away on May 5, 2000.

Now the only reason I know this is because the passing of the Cornells’ father led to Peter having to cancel a show at the 8x10 club in Baltimore. This cancellation resulted in one of the top five favorite shows I ever played. Every year, on this date, I don’t initially think of Coronas or any other Mexican beer and I don’t think of Margaritas or sombreros. No.

On Cinco de Mayo I think of Peter Cornell, his father’s passing, and how everything can quickly change in a few hours.

Jahronee consisted of myself, Party Paul Powell, Joey T Nemiroff, and young buck Andy Shankman. My sophomore year at Goucher, we were the token party band on campus- frequently playing the Gopher Hole, the coffee shop on campus. By spring, we had started to take our show on the road and into the wilds of Baltimore- playing some joint with Tattoo in the name and playing our first two set show at the Brass Monkey in Fells Point- a polished joint whose slogan was, where no one looks ugly after two. On Cinco de Mayo, we were slated to play the 8x10 club in Federal Hill- opening up for Peter Cornell, the younger brother of Chris Cornell. This was all we knew about him and this was all we told people about him. We had played the 8x10 club a couple times before and had finally won over their hard to please sound man. We were excited for the show, giddy almost and anxious to try and parlay our opening slot into a headlining slot sometime down the road.

We arrived early and had plenty of time to kill. The streets grew wilder as the night went on, but we were youngsters and sat on the curb, waiting for our set time. Sometime in the evening, club management found us and notified us that Peter Cornell had cancelled- their dad had died and because we were the only full band on the bill, they were bumping us up to the headlining slot. They asked if we could play an hour and we asked ourselves, could we do so well? Immediately we got on the phone- pay phones and the phone behind the bar because this was during the pre-cellphone era, and started calling everyone on the campus whose number we could remember.

Get down here! We told them.
We’re headlining! We exclaimed.
Bring everyone! We urged.
Tell ‘em to come thirsty! We reminded.

The night had turned, the vibe was different. Now we weren’t just dudes playing a quick opening slot, but a band playing an actual set on a night when people actually came out. Excitement most likely ran smack into nerves and came out in a tangled web of false bravado and gusto. The 8x10 has since been renovated, but in 2000 it was dirty. It was a step up from a dive, but not a big step- more like a small ramp. The backstage room was three floors up, accessed by a winding stairway running along walls that were covered in the signatures of bands who had been here before. We were half hippies and seeing Phish scrawled on the wall was the highlight.

At the top of the stairs was the green room and it smelled like fish with body odor. The guy who was playing before us was a beefy dude who had taken over the room. He did so with two hooker-looking ladies and lines of coke running across the mirror he had put on the floor. Polite of course, he offered it to us. Polite of course, we quickly declined. We weren’t rock stars yet.

When it was time for us to play, the room was damn near packed with Gophers. Phone calls had worked and word had spread- everyone’s favorite campus band was doing them proud and the kids came out. I still remember Kenny dancing up front and Amanda prancing around the club barefoot.

That night was one of the nights were the emotions felt and enthusiasm that was running through my body will never be repeated. It was one of those pure nights that come out of nowhere. As a musician, it was a night hard to beat and a show that had top 5 staying power straight through the 300 shows I played with Sidecar Radio after graduating. For Jahronee, the show was our high-water mark and the night when we crested. Maybe in retrospect, the night means so much to me because it was essentially a good night & good luck show for us- even though it seemed like such a rocket launcher show. The night was a success, but not the kind of success that lead to future success. But that’s okay. Not every good thing is meant to be a catalytic boom. Sometimes the best things in life are drive-bys- quick moments that you should grab and hold on tight too because their staying power is something ethereal and in the wind.

So while today is of course a heartbreaker for the Cornell family, it will always bring a smile to my face. We had fun, we did it right, and we did it all justice.

Good night & good luck.

Bullet Proof in San Diego.

2011-04-13T13:56:00.000-04:00

Bruce Springsteen has a song off of “The Rising” called “Waiting on a Sunny Day.” It is too easy for me to say it’s amazing song- because it is. It’s simple and beautiful, bright and sweet. I love it. Yet I don’t just love it for the reasons just listed. I love it because of the way it makes me feel- indestructible. It makes me feel like there is nothing in the world that can bother me, bring me down, hurt me, or slow me up. It’s bulletproof music and in this Ryno’s opinion, it’s the best kind of music there is.

My Uncle John abruptly passed away in April of 2009 and I was way across the country in lovely San Diego, finishing up a knockdown, drag out, lose my sanity three weeks working on the Red Bull Air Race. I was a beaten down dude who was tired and anxious to fly to Salt Lake, drink some beers in the mountains before hopping in a truck and driving East. But those plans changed when Mom called around 9:30 a couple nights before departure, telling me that Uncle John had passed away. I was lost and any semblance of sanity I had was shot. Sentences were hard to form and despite having spent my entire life being short, I felt miniature.

The next day was clean up day down at the airport I was working at- a dusty & rusty little airport a decent stones throw from old Mexico. If I stopped to think, I started to cry. I could barely hold it together and was having trouble comprehending that after a three weeks of endless plans and schedules, I know how to change yet another plan and create another schedule as I was to now head to Maine. I was done. Dad kept saying to look up flights, but my hands wouldn’t work and if they did, they were millions of miles away from my brain. Something so simple became one of the most complicated things in the whole wide world. Finally I told him I couldn’t do it and thankfully, he found a flight for me. At that point, I just needed to be pushed in a certain direction. I could no longer decide on my own which way I should go next, just that I should.

I had to keep moving, I had to keep busy. Uncle John loomed large, much larger than the hot Southern California sun. I put on headphones and started blasting music- playing it almost as loud as those little Apple buds would let me. Then I spent the next four hours driving around our little area at the airport in each of the 5 forklifts we had on site- picking up everything from jersey barriers to trash to light towers. I was singing loudly- loudly enough for the few security staff we had on site to hear me.

My singing only got louder when “Waiting on a Sunny Day” came on and when it was finished, I listened to it again. And again and again and again. I must have listened to that song 10 to 15 times in a row. It was the only thing that made sense to me and it was the only thing that allowed me to think about something happy. The sky was blue and there were only a few clouds. I was in the middle of a sunny day, but stuck very much waiting for a literal sunny day to come.

Days passed and since then, months and years have passed and I still listen to that song just as much and frequently just as loud. Now it reminds of being down, of being so beaten down and beaten up that it seemed like sunny days would be forever out of reach. It’s bullet proof music because it makes me realize that when I need to be, I can be bullet proof. The song won’t bring back Uncle John and sadly nothing will. But it will always bring back his memory and the memory of that one day in sunny San Diego.

Waiting on a sunny day on the sunniest and the good ones always go too soon. Life is hard and is hardest when you’re down. That’s why we need bullet proof songs, good headphones and if possible, a small fleet of forklifts to drive. Life will only get you if you let it. Fight back and it’ll stick with you forever.

Love you Uncle John and thanks Bruce.

Knowing Who I'm Not to Know Who I Am and Why Tucked in Polo's Aren't For Me...

2011-04-05T12:30:00.004-04:00

It's decided. I am not someone who will tuck in a polo shirt.

Next up is a possible switch to an electric razor. But I am trying not to rush these life changing decisions. The last thing I want to do is cut myself shaving while untucking a polo shirt, so I will need to pace myself. I will need to think long and hard about these decisions. I will weigh facts and look at examples as ways to help form my opinions. These will not be rash decisions and if there will be anything rash, it will certainly not be from razor burn.

Let's start with the polo shirts. That decision came first.

I love polo shirts and I think in the summer, a man would be hard pressed to find a better way to cover the top half of their body. For years I've worn a great many polo shirts, mostly solid in color. A navy blue polo shirt was a mainstay in my wardrobe for years. It goes with anything- even for someone that is partially color blind who thinks that sometimes the shirt is black. The dark green polo shirt is a close second, followed by the light blue polo shirt. I have never worn a pink polo shirt and I have never popped my collar- at least not seriously.

Until yesterday, I had never tucked in a polo shirt either. Again, at least not seriously. But I'm a business casual dude now and with the weather at a balmy 75 degrees, yesterday seemed like a good day to test out the tucked in polo shirt as an option for days that don't start in Casual. I went with a dark green one and right from the get go, I didn't feel right. I didn't feel like myself. I certainly didn't feel like Ryno. At that point in my day I wasn't sure who I felt like, but it was early and I wanted to have an open mind about it. It took me over an hour to get to work and the whole time I thought about the tucked in polo, the way it fit, the way it looked and the ramifications for rocking such an outfit and of making such a change.

Barb's comments, albeit subtle ones, sealed the deal and all she did, after I told her that I was experimenting with the tucked in polo shirt, was ask if I had a cell phone holster on my belt now. That was it. That was the moment when I decided that the tucked in polo shirt was not my thing. I instantly wanted to untuck it but it was Monday. It was not Casual Friday. I was committed, just not happy. For the rest of the day I felt like someone who worked at Enterprise and I have friends that I love that work at Enterprise- but they are out numbered by the dorks I have encountered at various Enterprises on the Eastern seaboard and honestly, I just couldn't stomach looking like such a person. Today, I'm back to a long sleeve, buttoned-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up- back to feeling like myself and back to feeling comfortable. I will save the polo shirts for weekends and times when tucking them in is not necessary.

As for my shaving-related decision and the switch to an electric razor- this is a decision that has been a week or so in the making. It is a decision spurned by two over-riding factors.

1.) Razor blades are expensive. They are way more expensive than they should be and are expensive everywhere, regardless of where you shop. Somehow everything in the world is cheaper at Target and Wal-Mart except for razor blades, which for some reason, are the exact same price they are at grocery stores and CVS. Why? Are they that expensive to produce? Has no one ever revolted against these prices? Maybe that will be the next revolution fueled by Twitter and Facebook, but I can't wait.

2.) Business Casual Ryno needs to shave more than Hoodie and Jeans Ryno did. I shave at least three times a week now in an effort to look presentable, respectable and too my darling fiance, much more smooch-able. Now you can easily say that this shouldn't be an issue but I can easily say that I'm not a morning person and my mornings need to be as simple and straight forward as possible. Shaving is down right dangerous some mornings and takes enough time to screw up my travel plans every morning. Navigating traffic is tough business and every minute counts. Switching to an electric razor is a twofer (I love twofers)- as it is more cost effective and more time manageable.

These are not exciting life changes, they are just life changes and at my age, they are the changes I mull over during the weeks now. My commute is roughly an hour to work and at least hour from work and it leaves plenty of time and dull scenery to prompt such mundane, internal discussions. I can't say what next week will bring and what it will result in. I can only take one day at a time.

These are not rash decisions. Business Casual Ryno doesn't do rash decisions. At least not anymore.

And definitely not during the week. That would be irresponsible.

I drive a sensible sedan now. Responsible is my middle name.

Rolling Hills, Winding Roads, and the Static In Between.

2011-03-31T13:52:00.006-04:00

I drive these Pennsylvania country roads now. They are winding roads and they go up and down rolling hills. The roads cut their way through village after village and tiny town after tiny town. In fact, a lot of the tiny towns have town in the name. There are lots of Quakers, Mennonite Churchs, much larger Baptist churches, and signs- warning you of both horse-drawn buggies and deer.

In the village of Yellow House, at the center of town is oddly enough, a large yellow house.

There are a lot of farm houses that were built in the early 1800's, if not the mid to late 1700's, and renovated in numerous creative, albeit occasionally tacky ways since. Additions to houses are as popular as satellite dishes and slow down, you're driving too fast signs. But there are these big old farm houses- some in much better shape than others, while there are some that look to have been uninhabited for several years. Most are two stories, but some are two and a half stories and I'm very interested to see what the top floor of these houses look like. Are they a floor for ants? (rimshot)

I'm also intrigued by the idea that these houses have been around long before these roads were and I wonder what it must have been like, to see these roads having been built over time. A lot of these large farm houses are accompanied by a much larger barn and a few other buildings and they sit on what probably use to be, very nice pieces of land. I'd just be interested to know what it must have been like to see the world being built up, sparingly, but built up nonetheless, around your house.

There are Subways in almost every town and I can see why there are more of them in the world now than MacDonalds. Subways are sneaky bastards- sometimes they are tucked into the back corner of a town's only gas station. Dunkin' Donuts are starting to do that too.

No one working at any Dunkin' Donuts speaks English all that well- regardless of their nationality.

But these are the roads I drive now, having since retired from highways running up and down the Eastern Seaboard. There is only one highway for me now, the Pennsylvania Turnpike and it's expensive tolls and crafty cops hiding behind embankments, bridges, and tumbleweed. Mostly though, it's about the back roads- the roads where all the route numbers are way too close together- making it easy to get confused as to exactly what road you're on and what road you're looking for. There are new attractions- like the disappointing Country Junction- the "world's largest country store"- a title that was incredibly misleading because really, it's just a furniture store. It's a cool furniture store, but less cool when you walk in expecting something totally different. Heading out route 422, you come pretty close to Daniel Boone's birthplace and there is a sign pointing you towards the Daniel Boone Optimist Club- but that sounds boring. This time of year, the farm stands are starting to open up and if you were looking for Easter flowers, I could point you in the direction of one farm stand that is selling them cheap. They're just not open today. The mini golf course outside of Pricetown says it's opening on April 1st, but that could be a bust because of a) the weather and b) the potential of it being an April Fools joke.

These roads are roads through America- it's where it's apparently so much more America than wherever you live. It's where patriotism is a way of life, as are yard sales, church sales, and bake sales. It's big churches and lone taverns, dogs roaming front yards and horses roaming back yards. Radio stations come in and out with the up and down of the small hills that take away your breath momentarily- yes ma'ams my Dad used to call them.

Whether it's more America than America, I don't care. As long as the sky is clear of clouds, the sides of embankments clear of cops, and the roads clear of slow-moving tractors, I'll be good.

Giddy up, America. Now let's go take a three day weekend.

Go baseball.

Ryno for President...with Bullet Points.

2011-03-10T11:21:00.002-05:00

I am not looking forward to the next Presidential election. Not one bit. The negativity, the dust-ups, the shots across the bow- I could do without all of it. I just want things fixed, want to feel good about our country currently and the direction in which it's going in. There is a part of me that feels bad for Obama and not it's because certain people don't think he was even born here. I feel bad that such a hopeful, promising dude came along at the wrong time. We needed a heavy, someone to throw the hammer down. Obama is just too damn like able. We need a real shithead for President- just for a few years.

That being said, I'm not behind voting for such a person in the next election because in general, I don't like those kinds of people. Of any kind. Like a lot of Americans, I want to like our President. I want to root for him and get behind him. No one can get behind an asshole, figuratively and literally.

Because my commute to work is largely spent doing these three things in this order: listening to the radio, thinking about random things, and driving- I started thinking the other day about what I would stand for, what issues I'd base a campaign on if I ran for President and because everyone needs a break during a rainy day filled with data entry- I present them now- with bullet points.

- No more ATM fees. I think Al Franken wrote a book a few years ago, about him running for President based solely on this platform. I will stand for other things, but getting rid of ATM fees will be included.

- Gay folks can marry. Why not? You love someone, then you should be able to marry them. I don't want to hear about protecting the sanctity of marriage when we have people working on their fourth or fifth marriage in some parts of the country. Love = marriage. Pretty simple.

- Legalize marijuana because it's a money maker and everyone knows it. It'll lead to jobs and new fun ways to tax people. Now opponents worry, because they think that at your next doctors' appointment, your nurse will be baked. Come on. That's ridiculous. You throw laws around similar to alcohol laws and we should be good.

- Everyone should have health insurance. I'm not saying you need ours and need to ditch your current health insurance. But if you don't have insurance, we have a nice health insurance available for you to use.

- Yes gas is expensive, but I don't think we should tap into our oil reserves. I could use a little more money right now, but I'm not going to pillage my pension. Gotta think smart and long term. I think it's crazy that our gas supply should be affected by other countries' bullshit. That's our bigger problem. Relying on other people stinks.

- I don't think we should become isolationist, but I do think we need to figure our shit out before trying to fix other countries.

- Our roads and bridges, especially on the east coast, need serious work. Let's get on that. Put some folks to work fixing them in the process. Jobs + Better Infrastructure = awesome.

- Trains seem like a great idea. Giddy up.

- Why can't I cancel a plane reservation? I can cancel everything else in my life except plane tickets and gym memberships. That's going to change.

- We should use football stadiums better. They seem like a giant waste of money and are really only used 8 times a year besides Toby Keith concerts. Not sure what can we use them for, but there has to be something we can do with them.

- There are too many vacant houses in US cities. Let's tear them down and build something there. Can't decide what building you want there? Well, we're going to make it a parking lot or a park. City should decide what goes where, but you need to get on that or we're making the decision for you.

- The NBA should get rid of 8 teams. Not sure if I'm able to do this, but I'm going to try.

- Wireless Internet should be more available. I like coffee shops and airports that offer it for free. Internet access should be free at all airports, train stations, etc.

- All cabs should accept credit cards.

- I'm giving cell phone providers 4 years to get their act together and eliminate drop calls or I'm eliminating cell phones and we all go back to land lines.

That's a start.

Giddy up. Vote Ryno.

Kick out the Jams: a Mix Tape retrospective

2011-02-24T12:04:00.002-05:00

For the most part, they are all gone.

There were probably over a hundred of them. Could of been more, but a lot of them, they had been re-used. White out changed everything.

Mix tapes.

Not hip hop mix tapes (although there were literally mix tapes made of hip hop,) but straight up mix tapes- collections of songs; a mix of songs on a cassette tape. They were everything from age 10 to age 27. My whole world was based around mix tapes- the playing of them and the making of them. But then one day, just like with the dinosaurs, they were all gone.

Maxwell made solid blank tapes. Ninety minutes was standard, 110 for something special, and 120 for serious business. A block of them- maybe a pack of ten, was consistently one of the most reliable gifts I would recieve in regards to how happy I was to get them. The problem was never filling them. The problem was always what should fill them. Sometimes there were themes or sometimes for someone. Always a treat was taping an album and deciding what to fill the blank space with. Should it be old songs of that band or something that sounded like them; something along the same lines? I don't remember using fast forward all that much. It was all about pressing play and then pressing eject. When they made walkmen that would flip 'em automatically, it, like White Out and duel tape decks, changed everything.

A favorite reason to make a mix tape was a road trip. It started when I was younger as a passenger and continued up to when I could drive and rocked the Escort to and from Baltimore. This included plane trips; making a mix or two for the plane ride to Florida. One of the most important things I always needed to pack was batteries. If batteries were to go dead, shit went south quick- unless you had back ups. So always remember extra batteries. And always pack one more tape than you think you should, because you never know.

Chris Murton, a friend from high school, made one of my favorite mix tapes; a tape I listened to all through college. It was warm up music for our soccer team that year and was an amazing mix tape made up old school hip hop and funk jams. They were songs Murton had used when he took break-dancing classes at the Y. I don't remember when I last listened to that mix, but I also never remember taking a trip when I didn't bring that tape with me.

In the Mix Tape Hall of Fame, Kenny Smith, the Kenny Smith, would be in there. When we came back for sophomore year at Goucher, Kenny came back from his parents' house in central New Jersey with perhaps what was one of the most impressive collections of mix tapes- in terms of size, scope and attention to detail, I had ever seen. They were all Phish bootlegs. A lot of them. Kenny had spent the summer pumping gas and using the Internet to find bootlegs to trade for. I didn't know where to start, there were just so many. So many shows and set lists, that I didn't know how to pick one to listen too. But Kenny did. Impressively. He was like a librarian presiding over his own collection. He could match any mood or social setting with a set- frequently in less than five minutes. During those five minutes, I'd be playing Murton's Soccer mix tape.

Mix tapes, as I got older, became like scrapbooks and were retrospectively, very revealing and informational. I could follow relationships through what songs were on mixes and what bands had creeped in. I could see moods and speculate what was going in my life at the time of a certain mix's creating. Thinking back, the last times tapes were regularly in my life was when I lived up on the Eastern Prom in Portland with Obie and we used them in the bathroom for the Bathroom Boombox. The Bathroom Boombox, like mix tapes, was an essential part of every bathroom I regularly used until I moved to Philadelphia. Regardless of whose it was, the Bathroom Boombox was old, large, and had small splotches of paint on it. For my Bathroom Boombox, it was replaced by Bathroom Clock Radio and with that change, mix tapes all put disappeared. They either didn't survive the move off the Prom or didn't survive Mom's purging of the basement.

During those last few years in Portland, mix tapes were ushered out of existence by the progress of buring CD's. Soon mix tapes were all but completely replaced by mix CD's. For the most part, this was a good change. It made it easier and tape decks were becoming obsolete. Especially when I was playing with Sidecar, the burned CD became a major staple in all of our lives. We were constantly buring CD's; something to give away at shows. Put labels on 'em and they'd almost look professional. I-tunes came along and like the automatic side-changer on Walkmens before it, was a game changer. It made playlists easier to create, no scrap paper was needed anymore and mistakes easily fixed. And as a bonus, it was incredibly faster to burn a mix CD than to record a mix tape. I'm not a scientist. I don't know the ratio or percentage of how faster it was. I'm sorry. But you can see and probably know, it was faster.

But in some cases, the magic was gone. It was gone for a simple reason: skip. Skip was the new fast forward. Part of the magic and soul of mix tapes was the construction of them, the order of the songs. It was meant to be seen as whole. Mix CD's lost that because skip made it so easy to miss a song or two; ruining the intended flow of a mix. The hope that the mix would be listened to every time from start to finish faded fast. Burned CD's were shorter, easier to make, and slightly cooler looking and like raccoons replacing dinosaurs, they moved right in and took over the game.

So here's to mix tapes. Here's to the Head-Bobbin' Tunes mix and the Maine or Bust mix. Here's to the Reggae mix, the Hip Hop mix, and the Let's Get Wasted Loud Music mix. Here's to the Darkroom Jams mix, the Flight to Boulder mix, or the Jamtastic Tunes mix.

You are gone, but not forgotten.

Random Ry-notes.

2011-02-16T12:10:00.003-05:00

Random thoughts from a random Ryno...

There was an article in Wall Street Journal recently not about money, but about sports- specifically about talking about sports and how to some extent, it's become much more interesting than actually watching sports. There is a part of me that agrees with this. There is also a part of me that feels it's a shame. In addition, there is yet another part of me that is sickened by this. There is not a part of me that will continue to read the Wall Street Journal.

I think Albert Pujols will probably re-sign with the Cardinals. But more importantly, I think I don't really care about it until the season is over and even then, I probably still won't care unless he goes to one of the New York teams.

I saw a tweet- something along the lines of there are few greater phrases in the English language better than "pitchers and catchers report." I couldn't agree more. It'd be in my top five of favorite phrases. My others? Well at least one would be Kim, I can't wait anymore. Will you marry me?

Who is Arcade Fire? Well, they're awesome. I just wish they had played "Ready to Start" first, so it wouldn't get cut off by the closing credits. But oh well.

I can't get down with bands with two drummers, though. But at least neither one was standing up at all. I definitely can't get down with that. Lars Ulrich, I'm talking to you.

My vote for Best Picture? Probably The King's Speech. But I wouldn't be bummed if The Social Network won. Another vote I have is for biggest shaft and that is a tie between Inception for Best Picture and Leonardo DiCaprio for either Inception or Shutter Island.

The older I get, the more interested I am in the Grammys and the Oscars and the less interested I am in staying up past 10:30 on weeknights.

I'm a little concerned with teenage girls, stricken with the Bieber Fever, so nonchalantly throwing around death threats aimed towards Esperanza Spalding on the Twitter. Spalding by the way is pretty amazing. Here is a review I wrote in 2009 of a show of hers in lovely Camden, NJ. http://www.melophobe.com/concert-reviews/esperanza-spalding-gordon-theatre-camden-nj/.

Gaslight Anthem. Yes, they sound like a punk version of Bruce Springsteen. This is both a pro and a con.

Coffee = great hot, terrible cold. Gatorade = great cold, terrible hot.

I'm going to spend most of today thinking about eating one of the chocolate covered strawberries Kim made.

White place mats and I don't get along.

I think one of the most interesting questions in sports posed in the last month is what if DeSean Jackson didn't return that punt versus the Giants.

Austin City Limits is quickly becoming one of my favorite shows on television. In the past month I've seen amazing performances by Pearl Jam, the Black Keys, and Band of Horses. Although the fact that I'm watching TV frequently at midnight on a Saturday makes me wonder if I'm getting old.

If you need me, I'll be day dreaming about flip flops.

Ryno-approved bands for next year's Super Bowl halftime show

2011-02-09T14:32:00.004-05:00

All morning I've been singing a song I thought was the Black Eyed Peas, but turns out it was Usher. It doesn't matter. No, no, no, no. The moral of this story is not that bad songs get stuck in your head. It's that bad halftime acts at the Super Bowl get stuck in your head.

So while driving to work this morning, it was of all things- Blues Traveler, that got me thinking about bands or acts to play next year's Super Bowl...provided it happens. Now I do not think Blues Traveler should be one of these bands. I don't even know if they are a band anymore- but here was the thought process: 1.) oh shit, it's Blues Traveler 2.) man, they were great live 3.) man, the Black Eyed Peas were terrible live 4.) a band that's great live should play the Super Bowl, not a band that's shitty live 5.) who do I think would be good live?

And as a result, the following list came together- only briefly interrupted by some nerd in a Prius cutting me off, then sitting in front of my in the passing lane. I didn't get upset, but I did think about giving him the finger. Just because.

The following bands/acts are Ryno-approved Super Bowl Halftime acts (in no particular order):

1.) Pearl Jam- fills the quota of a somewhat classic band, they have massive appeal across a few demographics, and rock the shit out of live show. Although I'd be worried if they did play, it'd make my brother-in-law, Fast Eddie's, head explode.

2.) The Roots- maybe not so much on their own, but as a backing band there is none better. Maybe the Roots joined by Jay Z and some other folks in some kind of Roots-orchestrated funk/hip hop/rap review. I think this would be sick.

3.) Stevie Wonder- because he puts on a hell of a show and has some of the sickest backing musicians alive.

4.) The Black Keys- you could say they aren't popular enough, but the NFL used a song of theirs on a clip right after this year's halftime and it sounded ten times better than anything the Black Eyed Peas did. Plus they rock.

5.) Green Day- because few modern rock bands do the stadium rock thing better than Green Day (i.e. the American Idiot tour.)

6.) Foo Fighters- here's a sneaky fact (kind of) about the Foos, almost everyone likes them or likes at least three or four of their songs. Couple that with the undeniable fact that Dave Grohl has become the American Rock Star and these guys could do some damage.

7.) Red Hot Chili Peppers- kind of a long shot, but I think given the chance, they could really make the most of a 15 minute set- with or without wearing anything but either a sock or a giant lightbulb. Plus like the Foo Fighters they've become one of those bands that could also be a band almost everyone likes. Think about. Have you ever heard someone say they don't like the Chili Peppers. *

8.) Bruce Springsteen- because he's the Boss. Because he was amazing the last time he did it. Because the Super Bowl is super American and the Boss is super American. Because he could just play "Promised Land" twice and it would still put the Black Eyed Peas to shame.

Wild Cards: Michael Franti & Spearhead (put on a hell of a show that would translate well to a stadium,) Kings of Leon (America's new favorite rock band for everyone except the creators of Glee,) and Dave Matthews Band (because it's probably just a matter of time anyway.)

* sidenote: I'm shooting to break my own record for use of italics in this blog. Just in case you were wondering.

Tweet this: a Month down in the Twitter-verse

2011-02-08T12:14:00.004-05:00

I have been told I talk a lot. I have also been told I don't talk much at all. I think that if I do talk a lot, it's less talking and more rambling. It would then be natural to think that something like Twitter would be ideal for the side of me perceived as talkative.

But there is one problem.

Sometimes I don't even care what I have to say.

It took six hours of downtime in DC about a month ago for me to finally create a Twitter account- much to the chagrin of my lovely fiance. I had followed a few people on it throughout football season and when it came to baseball off season rumors, I'd be hard pressed to find a better news source. But the actual joining of Twitter seemed to be a step too far. It seemed as an embrace of the self-indulgent nature of Twitter and I've never considered myself a self-indulgent person. But with the click of a button in a DC coffee shop, I suddenly had to wonder just how indulgent my self was.

It took me only a few moments to realize it wasn't just my self-indulgence I should be worried about.

I will argue for hours the benefits of Twitter as a news source. It was instrumental when MJ died and since then, it has consistently been one step ahead of other major news organizations. I quickly learned that if you want to know everything about sports- pick one sports reporter for each sport and you're covered. Picking more than one starts to get redundant because most of the time, they all copy each other's tweets whenever one of them breaks a story. So you only need one reporter per sport. This also applies to news and news outlets. Follow your political leanings, pick a name and/or news organization and run with it.

Where things get dicey and if anything, completely useless in the Twitter landscape, is when you dabble in entertainment and pop culture. For example- a comedian is awesome when they're being funny. But a comedian complaining about boredom in a hotel room and not being funny is a waste of time. This can also be said for sports reporters. If you're reporting about sports- useful. If you're bitching about lines at the airport- not useful. And even further, it's not entertaining. Maybe we need Twitter, but maybe we need Twitter with more rules.

No one is that clever, that interesting, or that captivating to make Twitter work on every single level. Twitter seems to be at it's best when people stick to their specialties. Steven Colbert is great on Twitter because he sticks with his speciality- comedy. Peter King is mostly great because he mostly sticks with football. Patton Oswalt is a funny dude because he's a lovable loser, but he's not funny when he tweets about the details of his lovable loser life. Making lovable loser observations = funny. Explaining a lovable loser life = not funny. Musicians are good when telling you about tour dates or album news, but they cross the line when they start commenting on world affairs, breakfast foods, or TV shows they like.

That line? It's the Should I Give a Shit Line and it's the line that marks out where Twitter is beneficial to our society and where it's a severe detriment to our society.

It goes back to my initial feeling on Twitter- that sometimes I don't even care what I have to say.

One of the most important things in life is knowing when to call it a day. It's like Seinfeld when George became obsessed with leaving on a high note. That's a life lesson right there- not wearing out you're welcome and going out at the right time. And it's a lesson that the Twitter-verse should take to heart.

Because sometimes we're funny, sometimes we're useful, and sometimes we're beneficial. But most of the time we're not. Twitter for the funny, useful, and beneficial- something we can hang our hat on.

For everything else, maybe that's what Myspace is for.

Safe Travels Home and I'm Good.

2011-02-03T13:03:00.002-05:00

Came home last night from a quick jaunt down to Rawleeee, North Carolina- or close to Raleigh. As the plane circled around the cold night sky above Philadelphia, waiting for an available gate, I finished "Born Standing Up," Steve Martin's memoir about his childhood and stand up career. I finish memoirs and instantly want to write my own. But we did not stay up in the air long enough.

It was my first work trip for the new gig, yet like past trips, it included the friendly and temperature-controlled confines of a hotel conference room- complete with a plastic bowl of hard candies and glasses of ice water. No buckets of Red Bull, though. But that was fine. I saw one guy pound a Five Hour Energy drink and if I needed any kind of direct sign that times had changed, that would have been it. No American Express card in my wallet would have been the other. It was a new sports staff training and unlike Air Race meetings, I had no problem understanding anything anyone was saying. That was nice.

Never actually made it to Raleigh proper- our hotel was nestled in nicely in a cul-de-sac of other chain hotels a few miles from the airport. We ventured out one night for barbecue, couldn't find it and settled for a sports bar- a bar that when we first walked in, looked slightly like a bar fight bar. So I suggested we sit by the juke box. Easy access to throw someone into if in case shit did hit the fan. We would participate, but not be inconvenienced.

It was a Steelers' bar, a Terrible Towel flag hanging behind the bar. After dinner, we saddled up to the hotel bar, next to a very large Packers' fan. It was hard to not think about football. It was also hard not to think about my cute little fiance back home in Philadelphia. Having her in my life has made traveling for work instantly less appealing and as soon as I left Sunday, I was ready to be home.

Coming home from work trips for MSI was a cold and lonely experience. I always got home late, after most everything in the airport had closed and had to catch a cab back to my apartment, which was more often than not, completely devoid of food. Depending on how long I was gone depended on how many magazines were stacked up in my mailbox. They were joined by bills and junk mail. It was hard to think that without those magazines being there, no one would have known I was gone. I always simultaneously hated and enjoyed the cab rides home from the airport. I liked driving into Philly and it was comforting, much like driving from the San Diego airport was comforting because of the ocean smell. No ocean smell in Philly, though. But the sight of Center City more than made up for it. It was tough because it was a return to normalcy and at that point in my life, there were few things I despised more.

But now it's that return to normalcy I craved. If my flight had been delayed, I would have walked home rather than be away from home any longer.

All in all, the trip was another friendly Ryno-minder that things in my life were changing. This is what I wanted, I wanted a change. It had been time to move on, to move forward. Maybe I didn't really want to move in the direction of North Carolina, but I wanted to move in a direction where I was cool with that and that's what happened. I never saw Michael Jordan and unfortunately I didn't see one fight between UNC and Duke fans. The only tell I was in North Carolina was the accents of the hotel staff.

Two years ago, the best part about traveling for work was seeing the sights on someone else's dime.

Today, the best part about traveling for work is getting home.

Thanks for coming out Rawleeeee. You've been wonderful.

A Table for Two: the story of me & my drums.

2011-01-26T14:29:00.013-05:00

The story of my drums would start with the burning of my old drums.

My old drums were an old set of Slingerland drums and I had gotten them around high school graduation. They replaced my first set- a well worn Maxx drum set I had bought for $400 at Portland Percussion one winter early in high school. The Slingerland kit was fun and junior year of college, with some of us living off campus, the drums came down to Baltimore with me. This beat jacking one of Goucher's kits whenever the mighty Jahronee had a show. Joey T had turned his third bedroom at his place into a rehearsal area. So the drums lived there until one delightful fall Saturday afternoon, when fresh off of a wine tasting at the Melting Pot, I got a call that smoke was pouring out of Joe's windows.

The story of my current set of drums would essentially start around the moment when I kicked through my bass drum shell.

It was a few months later when I got my drums- this time at the much preferred Drum Shop. A nice & durable Yamaha kit; not exactly what I wanted, but something to get me through. I was told they would hold up well, travel well and play well. The kit was green and sparkled.

The drums came to Baltimore with me for senior year, living mostly in cases- traveling to empty rehearsal rooms on campus, Joe's house above the dentist's office, and most frequently to the Psych Annex, the small house on the back side of the loop road, where we were allowed to play on nights and weekends. Moving back to Portland the following year, the drums set up camp back in the friendly confines of the Drum Room- the room in my parents' basement, designated for the drums and all of the noise that came with them since back in high school.

The flicker of the lights meant stop. The pounding that sometimes followed meant stop NOW.

For the first year or so that I was playing with Christian- joined by a few other dudes before we found Corey, we played in the Drum Room. It was fun. The room was small and we hung show posters up on the walls. There would only be trouble if someone nicked the wall. Farts smelled terrible in there- but I'd learn that this was the case in every single rehearsal room I ever played in.

There then came a time when we really couldn't have the kind of rehearsals we wanted without making my parents' life miserable. They missed Christian's singing; didn't really like the yelling. So once again, the drums were on the move. We were playing out quite a bit, so they were in their cases most of the time anyway. For a brief stint the drums lived in an old, broken down space run by the dudes from the Horror that had neither heat or hospitality. Sometimes we felt like the Beastie Boys. Sometimes we felt like annoying younger brothers. Often times we felt like we were cold. When the opportunity to move to another spot came up, one with heat, we jumped at and for the next year- the drums set up camp in an old business building. After 3:30pm, the rooms were free to use and if you needed to, you could unlock your door with a credit card.

In Philly during the early months, the drums mostly lived in the back of the Blazer- it's tinted windows were tinted enough to make me feel that they were safe. Those months were the Craigslist months. I missed playing in a band and really wanted to get into a new one- even better if it was something that paid. So I trawled the musicians page, looking for something that at the very least, sounded tolerable. I briefly played for this Sharon Little gal out in the burbs, high up in this dude's attic, and around the same time, was playing with a fella named Raven down on Columbus Boulevard. In the following months, there was Squirrel Mike in University City and the rapper Drew Deckah at the World Cafe. During the winter, I was playing out in Willow Grove with the first of two soft rock, reggae bands I'd play in and in between rehearsals, the drums were stowed away in Bernie the Bass Man's closet. As luck would have it, shortly after resigning my post in the B Side Prophets, I started working for MSI in their lovely and secluded warehouse.

What I think saved the drums was working for MSI and being able to at first, just keep my drums at the warehouse and then eventually having them set up right next to my desk. The drums were happy; just a little dusty from the lack of travel. But that happens to all of us. For the past two years, they haven't traveled much at all- the majority of the kit spending most of it's time in the office. Snare drum and cymbals logged some travel hours, but that was about it. They were retired baseball players or old sci-fi actors- only coming out for the card shows and comic conventions. They could still shine if needed, but it seemed like their best days were behind them.

And now, well now the drums are back in the cases- stowed on a pallet, high up on one of the racks. If needed, they can be forked down but for the most part, they're just chilling. I have promised Kim, the love of my life and lady I've been luckily enough to get to marry me, that I never want a Man Cave in the house we eventually are going to live in. I don't even want to say Man Cave. I don't even want to write it. For some reason I capitalized it and I'm not sure why. But I am sure that I don't want one. But...in exchange, I would love to have the drums come live with us. Electronic drums will never do. I need the crash of the cymbals if I'm going to play and they have to be real cymbals.

There isn't a better sound in the world than a cymbal crashing.

Quiet cymbals now, tucked away in their bag- standing by for the next Bernie's closet, Drum Room, or empty garage to present itself. Until then, the steering wheel will have to do.

Tucked in, buckled in- ready to rumble.

2011-01-18T09:57:00.002-05:00

It was not the absinthe.

Ken said it would give me weird dreams, but unfortunately I was wide awake during the Patriots' game on Sunday. Man that was terrible. At the bar in DC, people at our table kept telling me to relax, but I couldn't. There was a nimrod close to me standing at the bar in a peuk, orange sweater, talking all kinds of shit and saying the kind of infuriating statements that sounded worse and worse as the game progressed. With less that five minutes left and after praying briefly while going to the bathroom- I started wondering two things: if Kim would leave me if I lashed out and knocked orange sweater nimrod's head against the bar and how much bail would be.

When you're in the bathroom, asking God to help your team win- you need help.

I texted Obie. I might need bail money.

But we are moving on and I told Kim I'm devoting myself to world affairs. I will replace ESPN website updates with the Huffington Post and will replace Mike & Mike on my ride in to work with NPR. Did you hear about Tunisia? Shit, I don't even know where that is. What? Go Packers. Shit. Well, The Social Network was really good...

On a related note, what I listen to in the morning is only an issue because I'm a commuter now. Ah, grumble, grumble- insert complaint about traffic here. My new job is about 26.5 miles outside of Philadelphia- but it takes anywhere from 40 minutes to an hour to get to and from work. I don't mind. For now. But it's worth it. It was time for a change and I hung up my MSI ninja gear and replaced it with a tucked in, collared shirt and now only wear jeans on weekends. I'm such a grown up. I went to Wal Mart one day last week and bought a travel coffee mug- which was the hardest decision I've had to make this year. It's an Alladin and it might be green- kind of looks teal, and it's disturbingly hard to open.

That first sip always leave a trace of coffee on my nose.

I'm the youngest person here and my windows look out to the outside world- as opposed to looking out into a warehouse. There's a water cooler, but I've yet to have a conversation about The Sopranos. It was a big day last week when I learned how to use the black & white copier/printer. I now get excited about different things.

It's been a strange change, having spent the past three years so devoted and immersed in the world of MSI. No one here calls me Ryno and I've barely made any jokes. But I'm embracing the change, embracing being called Ryan. Luckily Kim's family has taken to calling me Ryno, so that is at least not going to change. I'm pretty sure her nephew will call me Uncle Ryno too, once he starts talking. So it really isn't going anywhere.

And while I don't know if I'm going anywhere, I know I'm going someplace different- even if that is literally just in a new direction. It was time for a change, time to mix things up. I had hoped to avoid making a move after another four year period, but what can you do? Your number is called, you must stand up and be recognized. Hard to say what the next year will bring, but as long as my shirts remain free of coffee stains and my jeans & hoodies are still there when the weekend comes- I think I'll be okay.

Now if I could only shake the Patriots' loss, I'd be ready to rock.

One day at a time, Ryno. One day at a time.

If one of us has to die, I'm glad it's you.

2010-12-16T10:27:00.004-05:00

Two sick days and I've had my fill of Cliff Lee to the Phillies coverage. I am excited. I am baffled. I am happy he didn't go to the Yankees.

And I am once again absolutely terrified of the idea of a Red Sox versus Phillies World Series.

Oh why oh why can't I just be happy in the present without looking forward? Because that would be easy and sports like all the great things in life- Darren Arnofsky movies, Kanye West albums, or pickle backs, isn't something that's meant to go down easily.

Last week, before the Lee signing, the newly re-stocked Red Sox, fresh off the acquisitions of Adrian Gonzalez and Carl Crawford, were the league-wide favorite to win the World Series. Then the Fightin' Phils went out and nabbed Lee and all of sudden, the Phillies are World Series' favorites- poised to beat...the Red Sox. I've said it before it, I'll say it again- a Red Sox/Phillies World Series is my worst nightmare. If there were a WikiLeaks dump about me, it would be chalk full of emails, files, and notes about this worst case scenario and how it frightens the bejesus out of me.

It's lose, lose for me. It'd be the most bittersweet thing to happen to me since the week where Cinnamon Life went on sale at Target, but I also realized that it destroys my stomach. Life just isn't fair. You can't have it all. Send in the clowns, send in the cliches.

Why is a Boston/Philadelphia Series so terrifying? Because it won't allow me to be happy, it won't let me enjoy the outcome. I've been ridiculed since I've moved down here for liking both the Phillies and the Red Sox, as I'm somehow allowed to only like one team in every sport. But I like baseball, I like going to baseball games, and I like watching baseball games Wednesday nights when there is nothing else on TV (except when Modern Family is on.) So I took to the Phillies and have happily cheered them on for four years, which the Fedex guy pointed out, have been the best four years in the history of the franchise. But I'm not taking credit for that. Yet.

The Phillies have been the little brother to the big brother Red Sox. If they were my kids, I'd love them both, but would really be hoping the Sox go on to be a doctor and the Phillies just do something that keeps them out of prison. The Red Sox affect me emotionally. I feel their loses. I get text messages when Dustin Pedroia sneezes. When the Phillies lose, I don't take it nearly as hard. I had no problem going outside the day after the Phils' lost to the Giants in the playoffs this year. The Red Sox lose in the playoffs and I might as well only wear a bathrobe and grow a foot long beard. The world stops. It's devastating. I talk to my dad and all I can say is, nothing. I talk to my dad about the Phillies and I'm more rational, more level-headed. That's how I know. I've never once had a rational and/or level-headed conversation about the Sox. Emotion is too involved.

If the Sox were to beat the Phillies in the World Series, I'd be happy, but would also feel bad for the Phillies. If the Phillies were to beat the Sox, I'd be upset and would deep down, hate the Phillies. I hate every team the Red Sox play, especially in the playoffs. But if that opponent was the Phillies, how I could I hate one of my kids?

Kim will ask- why can't I just be happy with both of my teams in the World Series? I love her, but I can't make sense of that dream-like scenario. It's just not possible for me. Sports is about routing for one side, hating the other. It's about picking sides. In sports, as a fan, the goal is for your team to win, to beat the other team. So inherently, I can't be happy for both teams because one team has to win and one team has to lose and ultimately, if those two teams were the Red Sox and the Phillies, the Sox would have to win and the Phillies would have to lose.

Lose, lose.

So while I'm happy for the Phillies that they were able to land Lee and assemble one of the greatest pitching staffs ever and I will surely be stoked to see the Phils play next summer- I can't help but route for one of their arms to fall off.

Unless the Red Sox fall apart.

Then go Phillies go!

It's a delicate balance and a twisted cocktail, but it's life and like everything in life, it's not easy.

And that's what makes sports great.

Ninjas & a Dumpster Fire

2010-12-10T15:03:00.005-05:00

In regards to abandoning the name Off Duty Ninjas, the hardest decision was not whether or not I should. The real tough one was what should the new name be. Leaving the past is one thing. Deciding how to move forward is another.

The Ninjas became the Phila Dumpster Fire in early November. A drastic over haul of the team was needed- or as much of one as the strict rules of fantasy football in the Baltimore Premiere League and league commissioner Todd would allow. The logo was changed as well; a dynamic picture of the father of Philadelphia, Ben Franklin, replacing a cartoon penguin dressed up like a ninja. The whole thing had gotten stale and with the team hovering around .500, it had become like the election of Obama, a prime time for change. And yes, I did just compare my fantasy football team with the President of the United States.

For a third consecutive year, the Phila Dumpster Fire failed to make the playoffs. The team's starting quarterback was the Harvard kid from the Bills- a remarkable story for sure, but no one you want to trust with the keys to your car (a bad ass 2008 Corolla thank you much.) If not for Jamal Charles of the Chiefs, a dude I've never even seen play, the team would be even worse. I can't even remember seeing a Chiefs' highlight this year. The Dumpster Fire was also saved by another Chief- the Chiefs' defense, picked up in the beginning of the year because of my moral and emotional objections to playing the Jets' defense against the Pats. It turned out to be the pickup of the year. For the Dumpster Fire at least.

Losing Tony Romo was tough. Dallas Clark was a bummer. So was losing the Pats' kicker, Gostowski.

Some dudes just don't come to play. It's a killer. They are not only cheating themselves, but their owners. I don't write strongly worded letters, but if I did, a good number of running backs around the league would be getting one. Too many to name; too many wasted waiver pickups on dudes whose moment in the sun was shorter than Harvey Danger's. You know, the flag-sitter song.

The goal for this year was not to change the team's name- but to finish with a respectable record, to gain respectable standing within the league, and to play under the war cry of we are striving for respectability. Fall, but do so with dignity.

People would suggest that the Ninjas should perhaps be on duty as opposed to off duty. But that's not funny. It's not what makes it a great name, a name that was going to be the rap group Sidecar would be in it's free time. But time passes. Now it's about looking forward and changing things up. It's about running with the changes and making the most of everything. It's about doing math in your head, it's about Christmas ales, and it's about in a church or by the beach. The Off Duty Ninjas had a good run, but the run ran.

Here's to the year to come and the fun that is bound to come with it. Here's to touchdowns, double digit points, and amazing cellphones that make following along so incredibly easy. We will not wait to find out how respectable the Dumpster Fire ended up being. We will not sit back and watch it burn. It's the Dumpster Fire. It's life and it's what's happening in the best way possible.

Good times are coming.

It's just the playoffs that aren't.

Go Pats.

Right now, I remember what it felt like to write this.

2010-12-09T09:14:00.003-05:00

Tickets for tonight's Sixers/Celtics game are going for as low as $1 on online ticket outlets. That is hard to believe. The fact that the Sox got both Adrian Gonzalez and Carl Crawford in less than a week is also hard to believe- as is the Pats thumping of the Jets Monday night.

But closer to home, what is becoming increasingly hard to believe is the memories of things I've done in the past. I've found, as the years go on and priorities change, that the further I get from things in my life, the harder it is to believe that I actually did them. They become less the memories of me personally, and more the memories of someone who looks like me. My memories have become photographs- but not photographs of me currently, but photographs of someone else.

For example, the fact that I once played in a band grows harder and harder to fathom the further I get from those handful of years when I was running ragged, playing drums for Sidecar back in Portland. It's been over four years since my last show with them. We were only together for three before I left. This is less about their evolution and more about my falling off the face of the Sidecar earth. Just like I am a completely different person than I was on the night of our last show, they are a completely different band. A few weeks ago, I caught a video of one of our last show's on YouTube and it looks like someone else playing drums. It was a struggle for me to remember what I was feeling when that video was shot. Not being able to do so made it harder to connect and in turn, harder to remember the actual show. It wasn't enough to watch the video- I wanted to watch my thoughts and go back to how it felt playing that show. That's what I can't remember and that's what bothers me.

I was watching someone else play that show- someone wearing a t-shirt I sometimes miss more than the band.

The same goes for thinking back to working on the boats, crazy hippie days in college, and the endless attempts to fit in back in high school.

I don't remember what it felt like to do all of these things. I don't remember what I was thinking or more specifically, how I was thinking. I can't relate to the person in those memories, even though that person was me. It's an awkward feeling as it's our memories that keep us grounded and rooted in history. If they don't seem like my memories, than who's memories are they?

Does Bryan O'Donnell actually exist? I thought it was just a clever name to use when I got written up in college.

But are memories really that important?

Sometimes I feel telling old stories and recollecting the past comes off as self-centered. Would I be a better person, boss or lovable fiance if I ditched them all and committed myself to living in the present? Who really cares if I took Ultimate Frisbee as a class or if Sidecar played the State Theater for the first time during a blizzard? I'm not sure if people do. I'm not sure if I do. I'm not sure if, as I get older, these things matter nearly as much as I thought they did at the time. They certainly don't seem to matter in the grand scheme of things. Neither one made me a better person or affected the kind of person I am today.

So do they even matter?

And whether or not they do- does it matter if I can remember them correctly or not?

I'm starting to think that memories, at least from ages 0-30, only serve one purpose and it's the same purpose that photographs in an album serve- things to look at and make you smile. They are not contextual or self-serving or life-altering. They are not multi-dimensional. Memories don't have feelings and at best, only create new feelings. Unfortunately for me, they are feelings of confusion because I get caught up in the fact that I can't relate to the person in those memories, even though that person is me.

I should have kept a diary.

Or maybe I should have constantly written notes to my future self, providing insight to my memories and an internal context for them that would allow me to relate to them better.

In the future, I would recommend memories with footnotes* because as the years pass and the memories get further away, I could use help relating to them. That dude who looks me sure had some fun and it would be interesting to know more about that fun so that maybe someday it can be recreated, re-enjoyed, and re-lived.

Except the Ultimate Frisbee class.

You really only need to take one of those.

* like this for example- right now you are reading into things too much and should just go take a shower.

Jersey tomatoes. That's what's up.

2010-11-30T18:12:00.006-05:00

Sixteen dolphins washed onto the beach over the course of a year is not an alarmingly high number of washed up dolphins. It's actually fairly normal. The dolphins seem to have come ashore to die. Sixteen of them, chose the beaches of New Jersey. I don't think it had anything to do with Jersey tomatoes, though- even though Jersey tomatoes are amazing tomatoes.

In college, the Garden State was fiercely defended by those who were from there and routinely laughed at by those who weren't. Back then, the general reference point for most people not from Jersey was the Jersey Turnpike and for some, the wilds of New Jersey across the river from New York.

For myself, and the nation, that reference point has changed. While the reasons may be different, the result is that so has my view and subsequent appreciation of the animal collective of the great state of New Jersey.

I dig New Jersey. I feel New Jersey has every aspect of America within it's borders. I feel it's an injustice to only say Jersey is a microcosm of America.

I feel New Jersey is America.

If you had told me even five years ago, that I would most likely get married in New Jersey, there is no way I would have believed you. Now it's not so much of a question of will I get married in beautiful and wonderful New Jersey- but instead a question like, how many songs will Bruce Springsteen and at least two-thirds of the E Street Band play at Kim & I's wedding. Last Friday night, after dinner at a quiet seafood restaurant in Point Pleasant, I asked the love of my life to marry me and Kim said yes and the embrace in that quiet seafood restaurant's parking lot was the best feeling in the whole wide world.

New Jersey.

I still don't think it should be called the Garden State.

The name doesn't do the state justice. There is so much more to New Jersey than just gardens. In fact, I can't really think of one memorable garden I've seen in New Jersey. Yards in the dangerous and creepy badlands of south central Jersey have sand in their front yards. And rocks. The land won't even allow them to have a garden.

It's a misleading name. Something like New Jersey: the buffet table of America would be better.

News that MTV- the network that used to play music videos, is signing those nitwits from the Jersey Shore up for another year, is disheartening and certainly isn't going to help things. My cousin's boyfriend's daughter wants to go on vacation to the Jersey Shore- in italics because it's a specific, alternate version of the real Jersey shore, she wants to go to. Telemarketers think you're crazy if you're from Jersey, because regardless of where you live in Jersey, you fist bump at the gym while drinking your face off.

The show's name is as misleading as the state's where it takes place. Something like Three filmed months in one town in New Jersey would be better.

It's a shame because in reality, in the world of sensible sedans and SUV's with normal rims, the Jersey shore is a great and amusingly entertaining slice of America.

And it's where my lady is from, so it has to be one of the greatest places in the world.

Jersey tomatoes.

Nice.

Car Shades, Mix CD's, and only one stop for GAS!

2010-11-23T11:31:00.003-05:00

Made it to Maine from Philly in six and a half hours yesterday. It was a pre-SUV style trip, where I only needed to make one pit stop for gas, which wasn't totally needed at that point, on the good side of Hartford.

The good side of Hartford? It's the side your destination is on- i.e. the northeast side if you're heading to Maine and the southwest side if you're heading south, whether it's Philly or Baltimore- like the good old days.

Mainly I listened to sports talk radio, finding the ESPN stations in the various markets I drove through. But when not listening to that I ran through the new Cee Lo album (kind of sounds like a potentially awesome Mayer Hawthorne album,) Vampire Weekend (a burned disc with both albums on it,) the Dan Auerbach & the Fast Five album, a Spearhead mix (to combat the increasingly cloudy and gloomy weather as I got further north,) Rogue Wave's "Permalight," and finally Local Natives as I got off the Interstate and headed into North Deering.

I thought about mix tapes, Phish, and realized the immense value of car shades.

Car Shades (noun)- a pair of spare sunglasses kept in a person's car.

Car shades saved my life, or at least made it infinitely easier yesterday. I had left my regular sunglasses up at the Honeymooners' house Sunday night after the Pats' game and for a second, thought I'd be okay without them. It was a cold, foggy, and gray morning in Philadelphia. But I had a whole week and a few different states ahead of me, so it would have been foolish to proceed without shaded eyes. Luckily! the Corollacoaster comes equipped with a pair of sunglasses that are nearly identical to my normal shades. Crisis averted, the trip can continue.

Of course as soon as I hit Jersey, the sun came out.

Thank God for car shades.

Happy Thanksgiving indeed.

Let the good times, roll. And even better, let it be sunny.

Because I'm ready.

My vote? Register earlier.

2010-11-03T09:51:00.004-04:00

I tried to vote yesterday. It didn't happen.

As a new resident of the commonwealth on Pennsylvania, I sent in my voter registration in mid-September, with the hope that I'd be street legal by the November 2nd election. I started boning up on the facts and forming Pennsylvania-based political opinions that did not include having issues with their booze-buying policies.

And every day I checked the mail. Lots of periodicals and bills, but nothing about voter registration.

Election Day got closer and closer and my opinions started to become well-formed and borderline passionate. I liked Joe Sestak- had liked him since attending a small rally behind a grocery store for him a few years ago. As for governor, I was going Democrat- but didn't feel overly strong about that.

But still, nothing in the mail.

Election Day arrived and on Facebook, braggarts and do-gooders let us all know when they voted and some, who they voted for. That's fine, but not for me. But I was worried because I hadn't received anything from the state...er, commonwealth, about being able to vote. Ma Dukes said I could just go and probably register there. This seemed doable and possible and plausible. Like with my facts that led to my opinions, I did research and found where I could vote- a place right around the corner! How conveniently awesome.

I walked in, my face itching a little bit because I needed to shave, found my district and the right folding table to go to and waited in line. Actually, for a moment I cut the line but then moved back in line. There was an old man with a gray pony-tail keeping tabs on things and I didn't want to get on his bad side. When it was my time to shine, I approached the right folding table and the middle-aged gentlemen manning the scrolls and scrolls of eligible names.

"I'm not sure if my name is on there," I said.

"Well, it's worth a shot," he said.

So I told the dude my name and he scanned the names.

"Brian?" he asked.

"Ryan."

He kept looking and looking. I was looking too. More looking and the dude with the pony-tail kind of picked his nose. But after all the looking and nose-picking, the verdict came in.

"I don't see it," he said. "Sorry, you didn't make it."

He turned back to the ladies he was sitting at the table with and that was it. I hadn't made it. Despite being born in America, raised in America, and having moved from one part of America to another part of America and sent in my voter registration for this new section of America in what I felt was plenty of time, I was in fact, not able to vote in America. The frosty vibe in the room made me feel I wasn't even able to be in the room with these privileged folks. I looked around the room, but didn't see anything resembling a folding table where I could register then and there.

So I left.

I left feeling a little lost, a little dejected, and a little humiliated. I couldn't really see how this was possible, this revelation that "I hadn't made it." I was confused and a tad bit overwhelmed by the conflicting emotions. On one side, if I had known that I wasn't yet ready to rock in Pennsylvania, I would have voted absentee in Maine. But then again, how would I have known this, seeing as how I felt I had submitted information with more than enough time for my street legalness to move seven hours south? Yet I had taken the time to bone up on Pennsylvania races and my only knowledge regarding the elections and races in Maine came from Facebook. I don't trust anything coming from a face or a book, so that was no good.

And then there was a slight feeling of malaise- a shrug of the shoulders, a quiet "oh well," and then a moving on with my life. While I do feel terrible even admitting this, I also feel terrible about the current state of our government and current shape of our democracy. It seems like we need a shake up, that we need our democracy to take a time out, go back to the lab a bit and come back reformed, remade, and retooled in a way that better suits the current state of our country. I hate that the idea of voting for the lesser of two evils has become a common practice and the lack of teamwork exhibited by our elected officials. Whatever happened to working for something greater than yourself, something bigger than personal gains? Are we voting for politicians looking to help our country or soundbites looking to help themselves, but just happening to do this from a desk in Washington?

What exactly is going on and what are we doing about it?

Have any of these politicians done anything to make our country better?

If there isn't a politician out there speaking for me, then is there a real politician out there?

But the big question that finally came to me was this- do I have a right to question any of this if I don't even vote?

And for that question, I had a simple answer and an answer that trumped all of my concerns and questions and frustrations.

Nope, not really.

So today, I will do one thing before I do anything else (besides eating cereal, drinking coffee, watching Sportscenter, and writing this blog.)

Register to vote.

Because two years will be here before you know it.

Ben Franklin: the man who can't leave well enough alone.

2010-11-02T09:46:00.006-04:00

Ben Franklin is everywhere.

He is in old libraries and older cemeteries. He's even in random windows of houses in Olde City and might even be walking around a park if the light is right.

It's awesome that he did so much for Philadelphia, let alone the country as a whole. But he's dead and needs to leave us alone and let us get on with our lives.

We went on one of the walking ghost tours Saturday night and learned two things. The first was the overwhelming presence of ol' Benny Franklin in the spirit world of Philly and the second was that there are apparently enough ghost stories kicking around Olde City to warrant not one, but two ghost tours. We learned that Washington Square Park, the park on the northwest edge of Olde City is actually a mass graveyard presided over by the ghost of some old crazy lady who walks the parks' edges every night, something she did when she was alive and seemed to have too much time on her hand. The Bishop White house is so goddamn creepy that members of the Park Service refuse to go in there alone and that the White's maid inadvertently poisoned the entire family because the family's shitter stream ran a little too close to the families' well.

But in all fairness, that was a mistake that could happen to anyone.

The Old City Tavern, the oldest bar in the city, is actually a second take because the original bar burned down in the 1850's...with a bride and bridesmaids inside. The lesson there is that ladies, keep those trains on your wedding gown under fifteen feet in case of emergency. Another fun fact was that the Tavern was one of a thousand drinking establishments in the city around the time of the revolution. This is fun not because drinking is fun, but because it proves that ideas formed while drinking are both fun and productive.

It was an entertaining way to spend a Saturday night on Halloween weekend, especially since we passed on costumes this year. I will say that I had a decent idea for a costume, if the right situation had presented itself. I was going to cover myself in caution tape and maybe a few blinking lights. If I was feeling ambitious, I was going to incorporate a traffic cone. Then, when asked what I was, I would simply say-

"I'm dangerous."

But that might be shelved until next year. Unless of course Kim and I can borrow the costumes we saw on a couple of little kids in the neighborhood, while they were out trying to trick or treat early Sunday afternoon- a duck and a lady bug. If only it was socially acceptable to take pictures of complete strangers' young kids because those little kiddos were frickin' adorable, especially when they both tried to walk through a door and got stuck.

"One at a time," their dad said.

They were the best costumes we saw- the two kids dressed up as Phillies' rally towels came in second. Kim and I had enough candy to get us through a good half hour run of candy-giving out and Smuttynose Pumpkin Ale moved ahead of Sam Adams' Octoberfest as my favorite fall beer. Our neighborhood came alive Sunday night- kids wandered the streets, looking for candy, and parents followed behind, nursing solo cups of wine. Some of the smaller side streets were closed to traffic and the freaky building a block down gave ramshackle performances of Phantom of the Opera a couple times an hour. And while there were no sightings of our good friend Ben Franklin, we can't help but think that somewhere, around a corner or on a roof top, he was watching us- being all creepy and lurking, just waiting for the lights to go out so that again, he can remind us that everything we see in this town, is thanks to him.

Talk about ego.

Happy Halloween.

Sports, the Emotional Corollacoaster

2010-10-26T09:40:00.008-04:00

The baseball season isn't over yet, but God I miss it already. The World Series allegedly starts tomorrow- it's the Giants and the Rangers. But with the Phillies finally ending an incredibly frustrating season Saturday night and the Red Sox having been on vacation for a few weeks now, it all ultimately means one thing.

Basketball season. Go Celtics.

Oh wait, it's football season. Go Patriots.

Either way, it's no longer baseball season. In the World Series I guess I'll rout for...shit, I don't know and I really don't care. Whoever wins, I'll be fine with it. I like the Giants uniforms and I have family who bleed Rangers' blue. So it's win, win, lose. For the next couple weeks, weekday nights at Chateau Kimalicous and Ryno will consist of Mad Men and Modern Family, as well as cooking shows, HBO, Thursday nights on NBC, and failed attempts at finding good movies on OnDemand. One of the best things about baseball is the consistency of it and like with any thing you come to rely on, when it goes away it leaves you empty, confused, and watching reruns of The Office.

We saw the final at-bats of the once Fightin' Phils while looking through the windows of Urban Saloon after we finished Terror Behind the Walls- the haunted prison & fun house in the old Eastern State Penitentiary. Throughout the entire prison walk, old men in the group ahead of us clung to their phones, watching as the Phillies fell behind 3-2. As soon as we left, we hustled across the street, electing to watch the end of the game from outside instead of trying to muscle our way into the bar, which was packed wall to wall and also cripplingly quiet. People walking by on the street stopped and watched. They were quiet too, aside from asking how many outs there were. We all stood there in silence and continued to do so for a minute or two after Ryan Howard struck out looking to end the game.

Big White, down in South Carolina, seemed to take it especially hard.

"I just threw away my Howard shirt," he texted.

Shit. He loves that shirt.

Yet that was not a rash reaction. It was a sports reaction. It's why I love sports, because of the emotions it brings out in people.

Saturday afternoon, on a quick trip to Target to buy a set of Matchbox cars for Merrick for his awesome third birthday (man, I hope he has already opened it- because I'd hate to ruin the surprise and I know he loves blogs,) I loved the amount of people clad in Phillies' gear. There was no limit on age, no lean towards a particular gender, and no favoritism for just one player. It was like every Sunday during football season, when people bust out jerseys and t-shirts of their team and wear them until they get done watching Sunday night HBO programming. Sports are hope and passion and fun. They are fickle and unfair. They are a damn good time. Especially with cheap drinks.

When you think about it, baseball is a goddamn maddening sport and not the most of social sport to watch- especially playoff baseball when every pitch matters. But that doesn't stop anyone from searching out the bar with the best TV set up and/or drink specials. It's an event that can be better than a wedding or worse than a funeral. The only positive is that you can wear a t-shirt.

So goodnight baseball. I can't say it was all that awesome of a season, but it was still a good time. As for the Phillies, the only hope is that your laziness and complacency this season will result in a return to the fire and brimstone of 2008. I mean, you don't want Big throwing away any more Phillies t-shirts do you?

After the game and once most of the crowd inside the bar had sulked their way home, we all piled inside, carved out a nice area near the DJ and got to dancing. All of the TV's had been either turned off or turned to college football, which at the point was only there to be ignored by most and partially watched by a few. The music was fun, the dancing was funner. One speaker cut out and then another, but we kept dancing even though the music got quieter and muffled. We stayed until closing, until Kim and I were all danced out. Neither one of us mentioned the Phillies until the cab ride home, but it was after we talked about how much fun dancing was. When we brought up the game again, we then talked about pizza. There was no point in dwelling or lamenting the loss. It was time to move on and focus on other things- things that would make us happy and less hungover in the morning.

Sports incite fleeting and powerful emotions- for better or worse. The only ultimate positive is that these feelings won't last and soon they get buried deep down away in a place where the only thing that lets them out is one thing- more sports.

Go Celtics. Go Pats. Go pumpkin spice coffee.

See you in a few months baseball. Have a good winter.

Thunderdome Baseball Predictions with Dugan.

2010-10-22T17:07:00.003-04:00

Today at the Thunderdome, Dugan was much more golden than he was retriever. We had found a good stick a few streets over and he had brought it with him. He grew attached; he wasn't much for letting go.

He isn't much for the Phillies' offense either, and had little to say about their current series with the Giants. We agreed that San Francisco does look like an amazing place that I'd like to go back too and he'd like to pay a visit too. I told him he probably wouldn't like flying and the drive would be a process. I think Dugan is resigned to stay on the East Coast for the rest of his life.

He would love that toll booths end once you cross the Mississippi. He is not a fan of toll collectors.

Last night, when I took the trash out, the air smelled like Halloween and the wind had leaves blowing up the street. Today it feels like fall. It feels like fall after summer- not just a taste of fall as summer winds up. Fall comes with crisp air and nights that require a hooded sweatshirt. Teaser fall days are just colder than summer. But today felt like a real fall day and at the Thunderdome, the wind blew through the chain link fence and sometimes pushed the stick in a different direction as it flew through the air. There were no distractions and the neighborhood was quiet. I saw a squirrel at one point, but Dugan did not. Therefore, we did not see a squirrel; only a stick that every two minutes would fly from one end of the Thunderdome to the other.

Dug feels that Phillies are missing a spark this year. I agree. You can't solely blame Rollins, but he definitely isn't the dude he was when the Phils won the Series in 2008 and no one on the Phillies has stepped up and assumed the roll of engine. Pitching isn't the concern now, Dugan believes. It's runs. The Giants, except for the game the other night, won't ever score more than four runs in a game. So if the Phillies can even casually hit the ball, they should be good. Dug thinks they win it in seven.

He is practical.

When we left the Thunderdome, I asked him if he wanted to bring the stick home with him. I put it in his mouth. Dogs look awesome when they're walking down the street with a stick hanging out of their mouth. But Dugan left it, he dropped it along side the court's entrance; not looking back once. Dugan is the Don Draper of dogs- he is moving forward and not holding on to anything for very long. He does not care for Old Fashions, though, and thinks smoking cigarettes is a gross, filthy habit.

Dugan is more of a beer-drinker.

Our goodbye was brief and I was soon back in the Corollacoaster, heading back into the city and giving the new Kings of Leon album another listen. I don't think they've sold out, I think they have just grown together as musicians. They're certainly different than when Mavo, Adam & I saw them in Boston and again at the State in Portland- but it's cool, people change. I'd have issues with drum machines or back ground singers- but there's nothing wrong with big choruses and summertime anthems. After listening to the album five times in the last few days, I'll say it's good- but not as defined as their past albums. The songs flow together and it's something that wasn't the case as much before. I am hard-pressed to say what my favorite song might be at this point.

The afternoon fall sun splashes hard hues of burnt orange across the bricks of the building next door. A self-imposed ban on the "Come Around Sundown" has been put in place for the rest of the day- TV on the Radio is playing now. Birthday parties and baseball games and haunted prisons tomorrow. Chili, red wine, and salad as November gets closer.

Dugan says Phils in seven, but offers no insight about what's after that.

Somethings you just have to find out for yourself.

Go Phillies.