ESPod

Do I have a male biological clock? I understand that strictly scientifically speaking my clock needs less cranking and will tick away longer. Nonetheless, since the only science I believe in is conducted by Beaker and Bunsen I recently found myself taking a trip upon the awkward turtle.

I take the bus to rehearsal. It is my leisure time post work. Grand... I know. I put on my sunglasses and ipod and just zone out for a good 45 mins. Last week though the train came to a jolt and I was forced to open my eyes to glare at what tourist was slowing my trip. Paying no attention to the prophetic Harry Chapin song warning in my head phones, I looked up and was greeted by the giant head of a baby staring at me.

Normally, would have paid no attention to the small bald wonder and gone about my glare spree. But my mouth stared to open and these words. These unintelligible words started to pour out. Then to top it all off while I was in the process of making some sort of monkey cross eyed face the pasty thing reaches its Quato hand out and grabs my finger.

Start the reactor Jason? Do I have to? Can't I just continue to do volunteer work at the reactor on weekends till I am at least forty?

Sandwich Frisbee

JAson looks up to the sky and just shakes head. "Ah come on now, what the fuck?" I am asking no one in particular "what the fuck" is going on. I just like the sound of the word and the day has been so blatantly stacked against me "What the fuck?" is the only sentence that adequately describes what is going on.

If the word "Fuck" was replaced by the word "Hippo" things would be funnier.

I had a bad show. This happens more often than not. I should have that checked out. So I decide I am going to take a cab home. Get home fast plant myself in front of a box of cheezits and video game away the nights worries.

Problem: There is a huge line of tourists waiting for cabs.

OK. I will just take the bus. Pop in my Iignore head phones and pretend I am Huey Lewis.

Problem: I just miss the bus and the happiness that is the F-line won't be back till I grow a Brawny man beard.

Finesicle, I will walk. 30 minute walk, 30 minutes of a clear head, I can still pretend I am Huey Lewis.

Problem: Wooooo!! Splat!!! A rouge Honda Civic that I am sure smelled of Hugo Boss and copious amounts of hair gel whizzes past and out the window comes a hurled sandwich.

"Ah come on now, What the fuck!" Who throws a sandwich?! At least hit me with a snake filled with some batteries. Shakes fist at no one in particular.

Hippo this day.

P-Day

MY mom wanted a gay son. That is the only rational reason I could and still can come up with for this one.

I was listening to sports talk radio the other day at my masculine job work where I build Chevy's out of old tank parts while listening to Bruce Springsteen and stabbing Vampires. When the host began to talk about his football sheets as a child. He described how he was so protective of his sheets even at a young age and would get into fights with his brothers if they dare to try and take them.

Then I remembered. Then I had a brain aneurysm-

I don't have a kid. . . that I know of. But if I did I would use THE GOOGLE to figure out how to potty train him. Or I would hope that by 1.5 years old he could use THE GOOGLE to teach himself. This is what he would find:

"My personal recommendation is to first teach your son to potty training sitting down. Once he completely potty trained for both and is accident free, then I would recommend training him to pee standing up like his father and brothers!!" Weeeeeeeeee!!!

My mom did not have THE GOOGLE. She had OLD MOUNTAIN DEVIL WITCH METHODS. Which is why I had Bambi Sheets.

Listening to my manly sports talk show shot the memory of my mom putting me to sleep with a tuck in, kiss on the forehead and a "Don't pee on Bambi's mom"

This was notNOT followed by "Gee the old girl had it hard enough what with being shot, she doesn't need you pissing all over her face." Oh no no noes!

"You don't want to get Bambi's mom dirty." Would anyone be surprised if I said I was in a onesie Culture Club jumper?

History Lesson

For the record these are some things that should happen to Marc Ecko

1) Feed him to Rhinos

2) Bake two giants cakes for him. One topped with the Letter "K". The other topped with the letter "H". Then throw him a learn how to spell your name party

3) Make the cakes out of old hot dogs and stale beer

4) Introduce him to Commissioner Ford Frick

There is a great monologue in Take Me Out where a character describes the similarities between Democracy and Baseball. The similar checks and balances (blah blah blah this blog isn't about politics it is about baseball, which, le blow me, means more to me)

"I bought this baseball to democratize the debate over what to do with it"

Yes, I am glad you have 750,000 under the couch cushions to spend on a ball.
Yes, I am glad you believe in Democracy

Fantastic, you have nothing better to spend 750,000 dollars on.
Fantastic, like me, you think Darfur is a type of lamp at Ikea

Players are voted into the Hall of Fame by a group of old stodgy sports writers. Sometimes, these paragons of sporting value and know decide not to vote someone in on the first ballot Why? Because. . .that's it, just, because. Last year a guy voted for Dante Bichette! So just like politics baseball has its own funk way of electing people.

BUT! The ball is not a person. It is the event. The ball does not represent what's wrong with sports, or even what's right with sports. It represent the 756th home run. That's all. We didn't spray paint "racist" on Ty Cobb's jersey. We don't list the amount of coke Ricky Henderson was on. Troy Glaus won a World Series MVP and he was on HGH. What? Who? When? If it was up to the public to trash history I would have peed on everything Kirby Puckett did years ago. But I didn't because I can't. Besides the fact- he was a wife beater and the grounds crew cheated (look it up) and he looked like the black Michelin Man- someone, somewhere should be able to view what he did without having the glare of an asterisk or the smell of my urine messing with their Cooperstown experience.

the ball belongs in the hall. Do not make me come to your house and play baseball ninja.

new 1

More or less this is how I look. Now-a-days I look a little less like K.D. Lang, but you get the picture because there is a picture.

After the show on Sunday a lady told me I had a wonderful face. Old lady thinks I am pretty is a common theme of my work day so it is cool. However, then she elaborated that my face was wonderful because I could contort it like some sort of wet wash rag of wrinkles. I told her my father was actually a giant piece of silly putty and was on my way.

I almost broke my toe kicking a chair across a patio/room. inanimate objects beware when I am near.