Selection `06

After Day 1-the tally is:

1-Red Sox
1-Yankees
1-White Sox

How to handle Sista’s recommendation that I root for somebody nobody roots for? I decided to put the 3 teams closest to a .500 record last year (Texas, Cincinnati and Houston) in a hat and draw out one mediocre team to add to the pool. The winner? The Reds.

So currently, each of these teams has a 5.55% chance of being “my team.” The rest stand at 2.77%. There are four days remaining to lobby before the all-important selection day.

What, there’s another election going on this week?

In Honor of Halloween

Here are three of the scariest graves in the cemetaries near our cabin in Sewanee.

Yup, that’s a deer decoy with a Vols visor hanging off the antlers standing in the middle of the grave plot. Billy Joe wore his allegiences on his camoflauged sleeve.

Speaking of Vols fans, Mr. Crisp has passed away before his wife. But she made sure that her Braves made it on her half of the tombstone while he was still paying for it.

This one doesn’t need a lot of commentary. Those are indeed shotglasses, Bud Light coasters, beer bottles, airport Hiram Walker bottles and stuffed dogs and squirrels adorning the Confederabilia. [Insert Duke Boys joke here.]

Nellie the Nervous Pudelhund

Somebody has a new Halloween costume. That’s right, we actually carved a poodle out of the big furball.

I Declare My Free Agency

(Simultaneous post at The Staggering Prophets and the Dry Spot)

I don’t love baseball anymore.

Don’t get me wrong. I love going to a baseball game. The sights, the sounds, the food, the beer, the zen-like slowness of the action–I dig me some ballpark time.

However, I have to admit that I did not watch all nine innings of a game all season. Not even the playoffs. I’d be embarrassed if I actually cared.

But I want to care. So like a straying spouse begging for another chance, I am rededicating myself to try to rekindle my love. the bad news is that I don’t really even have a favorite team anymore. In my life, I’ve been a fairly rabid Reds fan during the 70′s since Cincinnati was the closest place my dad and I could go to see a good team (the Braves sucked) and the Nashville Sounds were the farm team of the Reds. In college, I backed the Giants and especially the A’s because they were the local teams in the Bay Area and I was old enough to drink beer at the ballpark for the first time in my life.

Strictly by coincidence, lots of guys I went to college with ended up in the Baltimore Orioles organization. I was the writing tutor for the baseball team (no, I didn’t write their papers, but I did keep a lot of them academically eligible), so I followed them for most of the 90′s. High points-the opening of Camden Yards, Mike Mussina on the mound and Cal Ripken’s streak Low points-Alomar spitting on the ump, that little bastard Yankee fan kid reaching into play during a playoff game to snatch a ball from an Oriole outfielder and never making the World Series

I have an affection for the Cubs, but they’re a little too trendy for me to put my full support behind. Now I have friends that live and die with the Cubbies, so I’d hate to diminish the value of their actual devotion by backing them because they are lovable losers. The Cubs, I mean. Not my friends. Plus they just hired Bizarro Superman as their new manager so I’m kinda creeped out by that.

The Yankees? The Braves? Nah…that’s be like rooting for Microsoft and GM. They don’t really need or appreciate my cheers and I take a secret pleasure in watching them fall on their corporately swollen asses year in and year out.

So I’m declaring free agency. Here’s the deal: this Friday night at 8:00 CST I will put the name of all the MLB baseball teams in a hat and draw one out at the upstairs bar at the Sportsman’s Grille. The team I select will be my team for the 2007 season. I will research the team and their prospects. I will at least buy a cap. I will know and love their players and follow them nightly in the box scores and standings. Maybe I can make myself love the game again if I at least learn to love one team.

If any of you passionate and knowledgeable fans out their would like to lobby why I should back “your” team or root against another team, make your best pitch in the comments. I’m still counting on random probability to make this choice, but if anyone’s arguments are particularly compelling, I might add or subtract names in the hat accordingly.

Here’s your chance to make a difference in somebody’s like for the next year. I’ll let you know who the lucky team is. Please God, don’t let it be the Nationals!

Omelet du Homage

I had planned a really lazy weekend of watching the leaves change colors and numerous college football games from my couch in Sewanee. Then I heard that my man, Rex L. Camino, had the keys to the Nashville is Talking Ranchero. So I rededicated myself to either doing something interesting enough to post about or making up something that I wish I had actually done. After all, Rex is definitely a top-fiver in my personal blogger pantheon, and he needs some content to comment on.

Unfortunately, not much is going on up here on Monteagle Mountain this weekend except for Sewanee Homecoming. Unless you plan to be an active participant in party weekend, it’s better to avoid campus unless you like sixty year old men wearing seersucker and white bucks throwing up neon red hunch punch on your shoes. Needless to say, RUABelle and I are cocooning.

So here’s what’s happened today:

We woke up early.
I listened to Car Talk and checked my email.
I took a shower.
We drove into Monteagle to pick up a few things at CVS and the Piggly Wiggly.
We ate lunch at the diner.
We returned to sit on the couch and watch football.

Not really a lot to blog about today. But then I thought WWRD? What would Rex do? Maybe I could find a way to liven this blasé day up in the style of the “Muse from Murfreesboro.” All of the elements of a classic Jack Lordesque post were there. I could see opportunities for hyperbole, anthropomorphism, onomatopoeia and many other high school English class terms. I might still even have time to go find a family of Mexicans with whom to interact in a lively, yet socially responsible manner.

But why stop there? It’s a long weekend. There aren’t really any great college games on the ole dish. Why not try to dress up the boring reality of this day by blogging in the style of many of my online favorites? What the hell! Let’s give it a try.

I know this is a dangerous undertaking. Personal satire can easily be taken the wrong way. But the folks I read seem pretty thick-skinned, and remember people, these are homages! I love you all.

First in the style of:

The Dry Spot

Nellie, the neurotic pudelhund, was apparently not aware of our plan to gradually transition away from Daylight Savings Time by sleeping a little bit later than 5:45 this morning. She began spinning around in her crate until RUABelle was forced to free her, whereupon she jumped immediately into bed landing directly on my crotch. I had been pretending to still be asleep so that I wouldn’t have to deal with the dog, but this was now impossible as I was moaning and spitting up small pieces of lymph from my crushed nodes.

The sweet RUABelle was nice enough to close off a few doors to isolate half the cabin with the dog in the other half from where I was trying to catch an extra eighty winks. While she drank coffee and did yoga, I did my own “Sunrise Salutation” by keeping my fat butt in bed for another hour. To make sure I didn’t sleep away the whole morning, she left the cranky orange cat in the bed as a living, breathing snooze alarm. True to form, Sammie woke me up for good by using my nose as a speed bag with her front paws.

I put on my robe and slippers (it’s pretty darned chilly up here) and went into the guest bedroom to get the boom box so I could listen to NPR. I fixed a cup of coffee and sat down on the sofa. No sooner had my ass hit the cushion when the first sip of coffee stimulated a percolation in my nether regions. (Oh c’mon. You knew it wouldn’t be a Dry Spot post without some reference to my bowels.)

I don’t know about you, but I have never figured out how to sit on a toilet with a bathrobe on, so I took it off and draped it over the back of the couch. I didn’t want to miss the answer to last week’s puzzler on Car Talk, so I took the radio with me. I figured I might be a while and might need provisions, so I took my coffee with me. And I demand a constant stream of input and information, so I took my Treo in there too.

I haven’t mentioned this yet, but the lovely RUABelle hadn’t seen me yet since she woke up. She was out tramping through the woods watching Nellie compulsively try to dig up mole holes. Well, during the time I was voiding myself in the extra bathroom (or the DR-Dump Room, as we call it) she and the dog had returned. Presently, she was standing behind the counter in the kitchen pouring another cup of coffee.

Imagine her delight and surprise when she saw me wandering out of the laundry room wearing only my fuzzy slippers and tighty whiteys (all of the ugly underwear has migrated to our weekend cabin over the course of a couple years), standing there with a boom box in one hand and a cup of coffee and a PDA in the other.

“Oh, that’s charming,” she said.

“C’mon, admit it. You know you want a little slice of this.” I countered.

(Silence)

(For a typical Dry Spot post, I think I have included an appropriate amount of parentheses, but I’m way short on ellipses. So here ya’ go:… … … … … … …)

Now excerpts in the style of:

Aunt B.

I was sleeping soundly when I felt a little jiggly wiggly in the bed. Then I was disturbed by a glint of light in the corner of my eyes. My eyes sprang open to a shocking sight. RUABelle had apparently removed the four foot mirror from the wall of the dining room and had laid it in the bed, where she straddled it while wearing a sheer nightgown. She had a five d-cell MagLite in her left hand.

“Wake up, Smiley! Have you ever seen anything this beautiful in your whole fucking life?!”

Brittney

“WTF, GF?!” I replied. But I did notice that part of me had started to embiggen.

Nashville Knucklehead

I didn’t get a blowjob this morning. Just thought you’d like to know.

Rex L. Camino

The dog jumped into bed and put pinned me back to the pillow with both of her front paws. “Not so fast, bucko” she said.

“When the hell did you learn how to talk?” I asked.

“I’ve always known how. There’s just never been an occasion where I wanted to share any information with you.”

“Well what changed your mind now?”

“You looked like you were about to disturb my God.”

“My God? Oh you mean RUABelle.”

“To me, she’s my God. She feeds me. She takes me for walks. She gives me my medicine. She takes me to the vet and the groomers and to PetSmart and the dog park. As far as I can tell, all you do is tie that piece of polyester around your neck each morning and disappear for ten hours. Besides, weren’t you calling her ‘My God’ last night?”

“Err, sorta. Points well taken. I’ve got a question for you, Miss Talking Dog. If you’re so damned smart, why do you eat out of the cats’ litter box.”

“Don’t knock it til you’ve tried it.”

Suburban Turmoil

Wouldn’t it just be easier to bring the litter box into the bed? That way, the cats wouldn’t have to even leave the twenty square foot area that they spend the whole day in and we wouldn’t have to feed the dog.

Somebody would have to be willing to deliver pizza and chocolate to the bedroom though.

Busy Mom

“Get off the damned bed BusyDog! Don’t you know we have six soccer games, two different playgroups to visit, take out to pick up and an intern to cane this morning? And that’s before lunch. Plus, somebody is going to have to take the blender in to the repair shop again before cocktail hour.”

Kathy T.

So I finally got up and left the BR and headed to the well appointed guest BR. I picked up the portable entertainment unit and returned to the spacious great room where I enjoyed a cup of coffee from the industrial-sized dual pot Williams Sonoma coffee maker. But as soon as I sat down in the warm and welcoming sitting area’s sectional sofa, I realized that I had to quickly head to the 1/2 bath.

Kerry Woo

[Photo taken with the Treo 600 SmartPhone/PDA]

Sista Smiff

Seein’ as it wuz time for Car Talk on the NPR, I cut on the victrola. My timing was well nigh on purfek as I heard the theme song just startin’ up. I recognized it was “Dawggy Mountain Breakdown” by David Grisman and his Dawg Band.

Little Davey Dawg Grisman kicked it off with a mean run on the mandolin before Keith Little took off on the 5-string. I remember Keith when he played banjer with my buddy Ricky Skaggs and from Mista Smiff’s sometimes boss, a certain Miss Dolly Parton.

Sarcastro

You know what I fuckin’ hate about NPR?! How come “The Corporation for Public Broadcasting” even exists!? Why should my tax dollars go to support the mouthpiece for the liberal agenda? It’s not that I don’t agree with some of what they say, but where do they get off taking public monies to broadcast?

You could argue that Tom Joyner, “The Fly Jock,” is as important a representative and expression of the black culture as NPR is for white liberals. But the difference is that if not enough people want to listen and buy stuff that advertisers pay to buy airspace to peddle, then the show would go off the fuckin’ air. But NPR listeners don’t have to sit through commercials with porn music in the background while Barry White’s mellifluous voice tries to sell me relaxer from beyond the grave. They get to have their liberal claptrap commercial-free.

Kat Coble

We should just let the free market sort this whole NPR thing out. Or maybe Disney could buy them.

Short and Fat

I hate the pledge drives. I wish they would stop badgering me. I’ve started calling them to make a $1000 pledge in somebody else’s name. Then I have them send the pledge card and return envelope to my work address. Finally, I take the “postage guaranteed” pledge envelope and put some of my pubic hair clippings in it. Then I tape it to a 20 lb. Breeko Block and drop it in a mailbox. That’ll teach the little bastards to interrupt my “Thistle and Shamrock” and “Splendid Table” shows to beg for money!

NewsComa

On the other hand, who but NPR really truly speaks for the liberal and downtrodden? Certainly not the traditional print media. Now excuse me while I go pour some thumbtacks in the driveway of Bob Corker’s campaign headquarters.

So how was your day, Nashville?

Look Out Kleinheider, Gunnar, Aunt B, Kat et al!

Jump on in, brother. The water’s fine!

Ednectomy Update

Everybody’s favorite Bigfoot/BatBoy biographer, NewsComa has returned home from the hospital after her “procedure.” (*la, la, la, la-fingers in the ears, talking about lady parts*)

She is recovering as well as can be expected for someone who has been run over by a Mack truck with a scalpel mounted on the front bumper. Your thoughts, prayers and extra pain meds left behind from when you kicked your brother’s skanky girlfriend out of your apartment after she complained that you didn’t have dinner made by the time the Wheel of Fortune Bonus Round came on would all be appreciated.

Seriously, I may make a “Bloggers Without Borders” aid road trip west next week to see her if anybody wants to come along and/or send anything to our recovering comrade. If she’s not up to it yet, well dammit I’ll just go later.

You Wanna Know Something I Sorta Like About Yankees?

…the way some of them think it’s charming when you call them ma’am. Or treat them at all politely.

We’re gonna win the next War with kindness.

How Come…

…I always get in the security line between the one guy who’s never been to an airport before, yet packs an entire Circuit City in his carry-on?

…I never notice there’s a hole in the big toe of my sock until I have to take my shoes off for security?

…a $5.00 shoe shine that looks great at the airport looks like ass when you arrive at your destination?

…the lady at the sundry shop in the terminal can look me in the eye with a straight face when she charges me a buck fitty for some Lifesavers and $4.00 for two AAA batteries?

…I invariably end up next to the person who doesn’t have enough room under their own seat for the dog/mandolin/sombrero/LCD projector that they have chosen to bring along on this trip and asks if they can use some of the room I had planned to reserve for my crippled right ankle?

…the same refrigerator on the plane can keep the pat of butter for your slice of prison bread too rock-hard to spread and yet keep the milk as warm as if it was fresh from the udder?

Ahh, the glamorous life of the business traveler.

Momentous Post-You Are Must to Read!

Is anybody else getting bombarded with a bunch of spam with subject lines using even more mangled syntax than usual? It’s as if amazon.com shared my love of the David Sedaris book, “Me Talk Pretty One Day” with entire spamiverse!

“Customers who purchased this title also bought Hoodia, penis enlargement cream and the OTC stock XLVR.”

But never mind that, back to momentous post. You know one of the best things about the Titans having a bye week? We actually got watch a good game on CBS instead of whatever debacle our home team was participating in.

Like Paul Harvey would say, I may be absent from these airwaves for a few days. Unfortunately, I don’t have Fred Thompson or Gil Gross to fill in for me. I have to make my third business trip to Chicago in the last thirty days. I may be able to Treo an anecdote or two from the road. We’ll just see.

Two of my favorite lady bloggers, Newscoma and Aunt B are undertaking a couple journeys of their own while I’m gone. Best of luck to them both and I’ll be thinking of them.

Mountaintop Sommel-yay

RUABelle and I decided not to cook last night and to visit our favorite restaurant in Sewanee instead. The place was packed in a cozy and clamorous sort of way, but we had made reservations on the drive up the mountain that morning, so we got seated within a few minutes.

As soon as we sat down, we knew we were in trouble. Our teenaged server was deep in the weeds and was in desperate need of a Poulan or some assistance to catch up. We noticed that he was also waiting on a birthday party of about sixteen people who looked really high-maintenance. He was constantly rushing back and forth, carrying one cup of coffee or one glass of wine on every trip. They definitely looked like separate check people. Bad planning + bad execution + difficult patrons = waiter hell.

But we were patient and ordered a couple of glasses of wine while we waited and watched the train wreck from across the room. By the time we got our wine, the vintage had actually changed, so I guess they were now worth more. An hour into our dining experience, the poor young man finally came by between our salad and the main course to see if we wanted another glass of wine. I think the fact that we had turned our glasses upside down on the table thirty minutes ago might have been a hint.

He approached the table with two bowls of soup. “I’m sorry about the long wait. It’ll be a while, so I arranged to get you all a couple of free bowls of soup.”

Err, thanks. Do we get some free shoes and a haircut with that? If we’d wanted soup, we would have ordered it instead of salads. It sounded nasty when he described it, and it lived up to our expectations. Carrot and ginger soup. Maybe it sounds interesting to you, but it looked, felt and tasted like it should have come in a Gerbers jar.

“Would you like another glass of wine?” he inquired timidly. Remember, we’ve been nothing but smiles up to this point, so he knew on his own how bad this experience was going.

“She’s having the penne with lobster. Do you have a wine pairing to suggest with that?”

“Ummm…sure,” he replied as his eyeballs rolled up into the top of his head while he scanned his internal chalkboard on the inside of his forehead for some sort of notes his manager had probably given him during his training 90 minutes ago.

I tried to be helpful and limit the options. “We probably just want to look at something by the glass since I’m having the steak and will stick with this carbernet. It’s really good, by the way.”

“Yeah, good. Ummm…the penney[sic]and the lobster…hmmmmm.” He was starting to drip sweat on the table.

“Maybe something white?”

“Actually sir, I’m underage so I don’t know much about drinking.”

We weren’t buying it. This was Sewanee-one of the top party schools in the country. They actually sell t-shirts emblazoned with, “The University of the South-All You Can Drink. $30,000/year Cover Charge.”

“Aw, c’mon. It’s no big deal. If you were having the penne, what would you want to drink with it.”

“Ummmmm…ummmmmmmm…I don’t know. A Jager-bomb?”

A noble idea, but RUABelle had the sauvignon blanc instead.

You really gotta work to find humor in some situations.

I Think We All Could Have Seen This Coming

Well, it’s approaching the halfway point in the grand social experiment that is Survivor-Cook Island. After a few episodes of the tribes divided among racial lines and a few more of two “melting pot” combinations, seven contestants have been voted off the island.

Surprise, surprise…all the white folks are still left. Even though they haven’t been the smartest strategists, most athletic competitors, most talented survivalists or most endearing tribemates, Team Cracker remains intact.

What do you want to bet that as soon as the tribes merge, they’ll band back together and start trying to pick off the Asians?*

I don’t really like anyone in particular this season, so it wouldn’t hurt my feelings if CBS just abandoned them all on Exile Island. Maybe there is something to that, because this year’s challenges have been brutally difficult. We’ll see a serious injury before the season is over.

It would rock if somebody turned polar bears loose on the whole lot of them.

* Naah…they’re probably not even smart enough to try that. My money’s on Yul.

Wednesday Night Fever

I had a pleasant surprise last night at the Sportsman’s Grille. While sharing a beer (well, several beers) with the DogDoc and Knuck, the bbq-maven asked, “Hey, do you know Mr. Roboto?”

I said that I read him, but I’d never met him.

“Well, he’s right over there.”

“Right over where?”

“At the next table with the chick wearing the ‘Mr. Roboto-Thursday Night Fever‘ t-shirt.”

“Oh, there.”

So I walked over and introduced myself to Roboto and his fetching companion. (I guess that could sound like she was a dog, come to think of it. She definitely wasn’t!)

It was a real pleasure to meet them both, and consider him duly blogrolled.

Dwarven Danger

In honor of Kat Coble’s new template and the DogDoc/BamaBoy’s recent trip to the British Isles, here’s a very short travelogue of one of the newest of the 7 Wonders of the World.

Get Ready to Hit “Refresh” Like 20 Times

Nietzsche was a nihilist.

“The Family Circus” is usually utterly meaningless.

Now, two great tastes that taste great together!

Ladies and Gentlemen, (and Sarcastro), may I proudly present:

The Nietzsche Family Circus

A shout out to my boy Mikey, the Miami Vicester, for the heads-up on this one.

Tuesday Night Mystery

Who is the Holiday Grinch?

I’m not claiming I know. It’s a conundrum.

Well, Duh!

Channel 4′s Pinhead, er, Pinpoint Weather Meteorologist Tim Ross really got my attention this morning. He actually said, “the sun is shining out there this morning, but you just can’t see it because it’s above all the clouds.” Gee thanks, Tim. I guess that’d really be some news if the sun actually went out.

Then his forecast for today simply read, “Scat Showers.” Not “scattered showers” or even “scatt. showers.” If scat is gonna be raining out of the sky today, I’m staying indoors.

Free! Free! Free!

Regular readers know I’m not very political in public, although I can be very politically incorrect in private. So I’m probably not the one to use these eight free tickets I have to the Nashville Gridiron Show.

For those of you in the know, the Gridiron Show is a Nashville tradition put on by local journalist members of the PRSA-Public Relations Society of America. By all accounts, it’s a hoot to watch and many politicos make it a point to show up and watch themselves get skewered. My tickets are to the dress rehearsal on Wednesday night, and I’m sure some of the more, ahem, politically active and informed bloggers than myself would enjoy them more than I would.

Email me at “thedryspot at gmail dot com” if you would like some of these tickets and tell me how many you want. First come, first amused.

Go Drink High on That Mountain

RUABelle and I were lucky enough to be one of the final stops on the world (well, statewide) tour of the Rodent Queen, Newscoma and her contumacious cooter. We spent a delightful weekend touring Sewanee, eating good food, drinking good drink, watching football and generally solving most of the world’s crises. We can’t give you all the solutions at once, because we’re afraid we’d blow your minds. No, literally, your collective heads would explode. We’ll dole them out as they become necessary. Consider it our “October Surprise.”

Among the things I learned this weekend:

1.) Three women + me in the house = seat down…all the time.
2.) Bass Ale makes a darn fine beer.
3.) Having sex with your intern is kinda like eating Funyuns. You may enjoy it while it’s happening, but the overwhelming sensation will eventually be regret.
4.) Nutella is good. Damn good.
5.) The Rodent Queen is very probably the most knowledgeable of all The Staggering Prophets when it comes to sports. (and anything else, for that matter) She just needs to speak up more often and louder.
6.) There are no actual Democrats running for any important offices in this year’s Tennessee elections.
7.) If you choose between the lesser of two evils, you’re still choosing evil. (See #6.)
8.) The dog actually likes me if she’s really tired…too tired to run away when I hug her and pick her up. I should have remembered this from college.
9.) Top ten lists are so over.

Wanna Have a Lucky Baby?

Anyone who gets pregnant sometime between today and Sunday has a good chance of having their child born next July on the luckiest day of the century, 7/7/7. This will only happen once in our lifetimes, so let’s get busy out there, people!