Red Sox vs. Yankees

The Yankees didn't become a storied franchise until Boston foolishly sold Babe Ruth to them. The team with more history from the get go was the Red Sox.  The Red Sox had 5 World Series victories prior to 1918. How many did the Yankees have? None. We give them our best player, all of a sudden they win some. So don't tell me we're just bitter and have never been nice to the Yankees.  

On another note, after Johnny Damon opted to play for the Yankees for more money that the Red Sox were offering after 2005, the Yankees haven't won a series. The Red Sox won the last one in 2007. Silly Johnny (you looked better as Jesus). In fact, the Yankees haven't won since 2000. Of course it's only an 8 year drought as opposed to the 86 year drought Boston had, but with a little faith from the Fenway faithful, we might be able to extend New York's bump in the road.

But, before I go deep into this, let me remind you that I have nothing against New York. I love Mets fans. I even tolerate Dodgers fans (a team that used to be located in Brooklyn, but got moved to LA). But, I cannot tolerate Yankees fans.  I speak in general, because I have some good friends who are Yankees fans, but they, to me, are legitimate. A lot of people are just fans because they like the hats, they think that 'being from New York' is a good enough reason, or they had a boyfriend who was a fan. Those are all lame rationales. The real fans have Yankee blood, are die-hard at the games, and would get into a fight for any reason with a Red Sox fan. And, the same goes for any fan of a Major League team. But, even with the die hard Yankees fans, who would you pick to win in a fight:

a) a team who has won 26 World Series titles, feels entitled to win every year, buys whatever player looks best for exorbitant sums, and has more celeb and wall street fans, or - 

b) a team who has only won 7 World Series titles, had an 86 year drought (where it came very close a couple times only to be cursed), and whose fans are pub owners, dock workers, and a smattering of southies?

I think I take the more punished fan base with more blue collar types. Boston fans can beat the crap out of Yankee fans. Think about it. Do Red Sox fans fear being pummeled in New York if they go to cheer on their team? Now, thinking in the reverse, do New York fans fear going to Boston to cheer for the Yanks? The answer to the first is an obvious no, but the second is an obvious yes. Fenway is a smaller park, and sits deep in the heart of Red Sox Nation. In New York you still have Mets and Dodgers fans, and the people are more apathetic about their team. They've become desensitized because of their success. They feel entitled. And until that attitude stops, they will not win.

There is a reason the Yankees are called 'The Evil Empire.'

Pictures taken from: here and here and here.

Sandwiches

Some people speak figuratively about 'divine ambrosia,' and 'nectar of the Gods.' Some people use elaborate language and metaphors to describe a good meal. Some people only believe they'll eat well in another life, or in Paris. Well, I have a secret. I found the best food for the best price. I've got your ambrosia right here. And it's between two slices of whole wheat bread.

Sandwiches are delicious, varied, and easy to make. However, they are not easy to make well. And that is why subway hires sandwich artists, and not just employees. You see, a sandwich is not something to be trifled with. It all starts with the bread. The bread is the the foundation. It makes or breaks the sandwich. Bad bread, bad sandwich. After the bread, the next most important ingredient is good sauce and seasonings. There are many options, but you must make sure they work with the bread, and the third most important items, which are meat and cheese. After those, lettuce, spinach, tomatoes, onions, sprouts, pickles, or any other variety of vegetables are fine. And that is the essence of sandwich making. The amount of sauce used, the way you cut it, what layer goes on first, which side is top and which is bottom all matter however, and if you screw it up, you will never taste the nectar of the Gods (or a good sandwich might I add).

But sandwiches were not, and perhaps to some of you, still are not, an art form. Shame on you for thinking that way. The Earl of Sandwich, a British noble, created the idea of putting a meal between bread so he could play cards.  So, a sandwich, while still remaining delicious, is convenient. It allows mobility, and has always been a silent supporter of poker, gin, ratscrew, and even 'go fish.' And what other kind of art can you eat? What other kind of art encourages gambling? What other kind of art is temporary like a sand castle, but so much more memorable and better tasting? None. The sandwich holds it's place. As 'the Count' from Sesame Street said on several occasions:

"I love sandwiches I eat them all the time..."

Well, so do I. And so should you.

Paris

One thing that I've always found interesting: Every woman wants to go to Paris.  It is like the world's Mecca for women to go to find themselves. I've had a lot of my lady friends go there recently. And, I have nothing against the city, but I get very skeptical about its mystique and amazingness when almost every ridiculously overt and entirely unmitigated and trusting endorsement comes from the mouths of women. And, generally they call it wonderful and exciting before they even set foot there.

The truth is, Paris is kinda cool, but very dirty. There are great museums, shops, gardens (but you can find that in other parts of France minus the filth, sleaze, and weirdness). I just think we should broaden our horizons a bit. Women need to stop letting their fantasies control them. Paris is the metrosexual son of King Priam without cajones that started the Trojan war by kidnapping Helen. Paris is the daughter of the Hiltons who has no taste or class, and no intelligence. Almost all the cities named after Paris in the US suck (like Paris Idaho). And Paris in France is only a little better than all those aforementioned Parises.  

Picture found here.

The Gym (and the fakers)

Picture taken from this blog

The gym is a great place to go to get in shape.  It is however, not the only place, and I think some people will never figure that out.  I go to the gym 3-5 times a week to lift weights and occasionally use the cardio machines.  I always go with my buddy Todd, unless he makes an excuse and runs out on me (which unfortunately happens a lot). But we generally have a good time.  We have set routines, jokes, and it is a very worthwhile workout.

But the things we've seen there are pretty funny. You can pick out the pretenders. When a kid shows up with his friend with socks up to his knees, about as bony as a skeleton, and proceeds to the largest dumbbells on the bench, I can't help but chuckle. And then there are the pretty boys. They show up with their designer shorts and t-shirts, roll up the sleeves and just stare at their arms as they do curls. The narcissism is very entertaining to watch. The real gym goers stick with scrubby clothes, and beat the sh*t out of their bodies with the weights. That is Todd and my game. And, a gym visit of course wouldn't be complete without some ridiculously inappropriate comment about sweat, someone's mom, or homosexuality.

Some of the most memorable moments about the gym generally involve breaking something. My brother and Todd have both smashed their cell phones with me.  My brother did it when he put his cell phone next to the bench, did a couple sets, then dropped the weights.  The weights then bounced onto his phone, rendering the screen inoperable.  The funny part was, he talked about it before he did it, and tried to put his phone far enough away from the blast zone. The problem was that we were doing incline, so the weights bounced more than if we had been doing reps with a flat bench. Todd crushed his phone when we were throwing boulders in my front yard for a St. Patrick's Day party.  And, one time when Todd and I were at the gym we saw a kid slam down the dumbbells from an incline bench and shatter the mirror in front of him. I'm glad I've been around to share these retarded moments.

But getting back to pretenders.  My advice is to either learn how to work out right, or go running or play tennis.  The gym is for real deal workouts.

Wo-men.

In the word 'women' there has always been an inherently and glaringly obvious warning to english speakers. That warning is found in the the first two letters: 'w' and 'o,' forming 'wo' or it's equivalent 'whoa.' Whoa comes from the Middle English whoo and who and came about in the 15th century. The first two definitions for whoa are as follows:

1. A command (as to a draft animal) to stand still

2. Cease or slow a course of action or a line of though: pause to consider or reconsider - often used to express a strong reaction (as alarm or astonishment)

So, when we say women or woman, men should stop and consider the rest of the word. It would do a lot of good for men in general to cease of slow a course of action or line of thought, or even consider or reconsider women more carefully.  

I have on many occasions been alarmed, or astonished by women. And, unfortunately I neglected to whoa. I more often tended to woo. And that is the problem. Women are not to be trifled with. 'Women' the word, is a command: Whoa, men. Like, "Hold your horses, (because if you don't you're seriously going to regret it)." I'm not going to go into details, but I think in one way or another most of you will agree.

Picture of 'Birth of Venus' by Boticelli found on this site.

  

Chivalry is Dead

I like to help people. I like to do nice things. It's in my nature.

So a couple days ago my friend said her house was ridiculously hot and that she and her room mates had no AC. Well, it just so happened that I had an extra AC unit that wasn't being used. So I offered to bring it over and install it. After they reluctantly accepted my help, I brought it over. Now, mind you, those units are heavy and awkward. I scraped up and bruised my arms in transit. But, I got it to their house.

They are basement dwellers. So I lugged the unit downstairs and looked for a window to put it in. Well, all the window wells were the wrong size. Bummer.  

It was getting late, so I promised to return.  Two days later I found myself there again trying to jury-rig this air conditioner in their abode. However, when I started over to the place in the kitchen where I left it, I was accosted by one of the residents.  She said, in an irritated tone of voice, "Whose is that?"  To which I replied, "Mine." Then she said, "It takes up the space of a whole person, are you going to move it?"  A little bothered, but still in a helpful mood, I said, "Yes, I brought this here to alleviate your heat problem."  Then I creaked over and manhandled it over to the window ledge.  Now I had garnered some negative attention.

As I was trying to put it in, another tenant came behind me asking how it would work, doubting it was a good idea, and left me in a huff.  So after I tried for a while to get it to sit in these undersized windows, and getting no positive support, I decided to stop.  I put the window screen back in (better than it was before), and put the unit in my car to bring it back home.  I hadn't left for more than a couple minutes before my friend text messaged me saying that her room mates were upset.  Apparently while I was trying to put it in the window I stepped on one of her room mates' garden (As it turned out, it was a squash plant that was under-watered, malnourished, and not producing squash).  I apologized of course and told her that I'd get her a new plant (I checked on it the next day and the plant was fine, just with a few mashed leaves). But if that weren't enough, on top of the title of 'garden destroyer' this same room mate claimed that I broke their window (which was a total lie, the screen wasn't completely in the slot, but it was in better than before; she just had probably never checked).  

Either way I was very disinclined to ever offer them my services again.  I went to their house to give of my time, energy, and one of my belongings to provide them with a little comfort.  I would have expected a little appreciation for my effort, but not only did I get none, but I got an ear full of pessimism, irritation, and ultimately was blamed for invented and exaggerated maladies.  It makes me not want to help people.  Or at the very least, not want to help those ladies. 

Chivalry is not dead because men are all jerks, but because women feel inconvenienced by it, or think that they lose their individuality by letting men serve them.  And, it's sad.  I have been accused of all sorts of ridiculous things in the name of chivalry.  All I can say is, ladies, you blew it.

*AC picture taken from this site. Chivalry picture taken from this site.

Fear of Public Speaking

(Above image taken from this site)

I know some of you have heard of a top list of what people most dislike. Many of them go something like this:

1. Traffic

2. Work

3. Public Speaking

4. Death

It is an interesting list. People dislike public speaking more than death. A bit extreme? Perhaps. I however, am a very staunch outlier. I love public speaking. Public speaking is my superficial domain. When I stand up in front of a group I can be bigger than myself, gather attention with my inflection and pauses, and be lauded for my eloquence.  In common conversation with friends and family I cannot have the same dramatic effect. So I relish in it when I can get it.

On another note, I wanted to post the Schmidt Sting Pain Index of painful insect bites, that I'm sure most people would prefer to public speaking:

1.0 Sweat bee: Light, ephemeral, almost fruity. A tiny spark has singed a single hair on your arm.

1.2 Fire any: Sharp, sudden, mildly alarming. Like walking across a shag carpet and reaching for the light switch.

1.8 Bullhorn acacia ant: A rare, piercing, elevated sort of pain. Someone has fired a staple into your cheek.

2.0 Yellowjacket: Hot and smoky, almost irreverent. Imagine W. C. Fields extinguishing a cigar on your tongue.

2.x Honey bee and European hornet: Like a matchhead that flips off and burns on your skin.

3.0 Red harvester ant: Bold and unrelenting. Somebody is using a drill to excavate your ingrown toenail.

3.0 Paper wasp: Caustic and burning. Distinctly bitter aftertaste. Like spilling a beaker of hydrochloric acid on a paper cut.

4.0 Tarantula hawk: Blinding, fierce, shockingly electric. A running hair drier has been dropped into your bubble bath.

4.0+ Bullet ant: Pure, intense, brilliant pain.  Like fire-walking over flaming charcoal with a 3-inch rusty nail in your heal

Tarantula hawk image taken from this blog