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Great Achievements in Sports

They say co-ed slow pitch softball is humankind’s greatest game.  I never truly understood that until recently, when I hit two home runs in three at-bats. Luckily for you, a friend immortalized my first dinger for all the world to enjoy.

This was best sporting performance since I won MVP for pitching a six inning, three hit shutout in an All-Star tournament when I was 11. The trophy from that game is displayed proudly, deep in the closet of my childhood bedroom.  For my most recent display of athletic prowess, I received the game ball, which is now perched on my mantle next to my Kevin Federline ticket stub.

If you had asked me back then what I would be as an adult, I would have said an NBA player or a doctor, with professional baseball a close third choice.  Fortunately, I was able to reach even greater heights as an athlete than my wildest adolescent imaginations could dream.

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Hairstyle of the Century

I was at a Mexican restaurant in Sylmar after a round of disc golf a couple weeks ago and came upon the greatest hairstyle in the history of mankind.  Or humankind if you’d like me to be more politically correct.  Though I always hate when people say humankind since the traditional meaning of “mankind” factors in both sexes, so saying humankind is just a bunch of  bullshit.

Anyways, the woman was face to face with me, and the true scope of her wondrous hair was not realized until she turned sideways to feed her child.  Upon doing so, this is what I witnessed:


Turned sideways, her giant, wave-breaking-on-the-shore curl was exposed.  Many thoughts ran through my head concerning how she got her hair to curl that way.  Beer can?  Tree stump?  Her husband’s girthy genitalia?

I hope for it being the result of hair-banging her better-half, but my practical side says she did it with an empty Coors Light.  Either way, I’ll appreciate this woman’s avant-garde approach to hairstyle innovations and think of  her the next time I body surf.

Frisbee Golf: The Great Unemployed American Pastime

What I will look like in 20 years if I continue to frolf.

There are three traits that, from a young age, I’ve associated with leading an unproductive life:  Wearing sweatpants outside of your home, not keeping pubic hair groomed, and playing Frisbee golf.  The first two have been traits of mine for quite some time, and have been entrenched deeper into my lifestyle due to recent professional woes.   Now, the last criterion has become my new favorite pastime.

My fellow unemployed friend Sam suggested we go “frolfing” last week, and as an out of work man with no prospects on the horizon, I joined him.  Two other jobless comrades joined us, making it a foursome of people with little hope and a lot of time on their hands.

What started out as a lark ended up being an enjoyable afternoon.  Things quickly turned competitive as we learned the ins and outs of disc golf.  It was also obvious to any experienced frolfer that we had no idea what the hell we were doing.  We frequently lost our frisbees, and passed over two holes without even knowing.

I emerged victorious, because if there’s an activity that’s meaningless and guaranteed to not bring me any income or make me a useful part of society, you can count on me being good at it.

We’ve already planned another frolf outing.  And why not?  It’s a no-brainer.  It’s free (other than the cost of the Frisbee,) it’s exercise, and it’s not crowded in the middle of the day since most people have jobs.

With the unemployment rate hovering nationally around 10%, it’s surprising that more people haven’t taken up this game.  While we were playing, only three other people were on the course.  A hippie couple, which is not surprising since hippies rarely have jobs, and a young man who seemed to be of college age.  He was alone and most likely keeping it a secret from friends and family due to the stigma attached to frolfing.

So if you’re out of a job and looking for an activity that will prevent you from getting laid, try frolf.  You won’t regret it.  If  you’re lucky, you’ll end up the guy in the video below and will be able to throw a hole in one.

I don’t know what is more outstanding:  The fact that this man has 237 holes in one, or that he’s only a man and not a god.

Either way, I doubt he’s getting laid much.

A Legendary Sports Commercial

Here’s a fun video from way back in 1981.  I can only imagine that it took many, many hours to tape with all those costume changes.  It stands the test of time and is just as awesome now as it was 29 years ago.

I had the pleasure of meeting John Steigerwald once.  I was 12-years-old and the Steelers had just earned a trip to Super Bowl XXX.  I ran into him at Woodson’s All Star Grille on the southside of Pittsburgh.  We bumped into each other, and he was very nice.  We chatted briefly as I towered over him.  He’s probably 5’5” at the most.  Not to make fun of his height, but it was exciting to discover I was taller than someone I watched on TV.

It was an exciting time and I managed to sneak into the background of an interview he did with Rod Woodson.  It was the first photobombing of my life, and it made it to the 11 p.m. newscast.  One of the most thrilling moments of my life.  For that opportunity, and this video, thank you, Mr. John Steigerwald.

Earthquake Wake-Up

It was nothing more than this guy jumping from the top rope in heaven.

I was just woken up by the early morning earthquake here in LA.  Shakespeare said to beware the ides of March, but I guess we could count this even though it technically happened in the early hours of March 16th.

I’m pretty sure I only felt the tail end of it, since the amount of shaking seemed pretty short.  Long or short, these earthquakes can be scary even after living here for a few years.

The longest one I ever felt happened while I was at E! a couple years ago.  I was in a meeting when the entire building shook for 30 seconds.  The building was on rollers and it was a helpless feeling as we swayed.  Afterward, my coworker quickly canceled the meeting because, in her words, “I have to go home and check on my birds!”  Though I would think birds have it the easiest during an earthquake since they can just flap their wings and stay off the ground.

It might be scary to feel the earth shake on the ground, but I try to calm myself down by thinking it was the doing of the late, great wrestler Earthquake jumping off the top turnbuckle in heaven.  Kind of like when we were kids and your mom or grandma would tell you that the thunderstorms were from Angels bowling.  It’s better than thinking about the San Andreas fault shifting beneath me.

Dominique Moceanu, My Lost Love

With all the talk of the recent olympics, my mind’s eye wandered to my favorite olympian of all time.  A young woman whom my 12-year-old self lusted after with the heat of 1,000 suns.  It also led to some of the worst news I’ve ever heard.

The woman is Olympic gold medalist Dominique Moceanu. The news: She’s married to a doctor and has two children.  While I’m happy for her,  this information has led to a part of me dying.

The time was August of 1996.  Bob Dole was accepting the Republican nomination for president, Prince Charles and Princess Diana were divorcing, and the Summer Olympics was in full swing in Atlanta.  The nation fixated its glare on the “Magnificent Seven,” as they were called, but I was focused on my Wonderous One.

The 14-year-old Moceanu was strikingly beautiful to me, and I found myself watching more gymnastics in those two weeks than I had in the rest of my young life combined.  Suddenly, my life was all Dominique, all the time.

Things came to a head the night of the individual balance beam competition.  I watched the contest from beginning to end, then turned in for the night.  I fell asleep and she, to paraphrase Billy Ocean, got into my dreams and out of my television set.

The scenario is as vivid to me now as it was then.  I was standing in an elevator, going up when it came to a stop.  The doors opened and Dominique Moceanu entered.  We locked eyes and said hi.  Pleasantries were exchanged, then fate intervened.  The elevator got stuck.  After trying half-heartedly to get it working again, we succumbed to our young teenaged lust and began making out.  Things were as hot and heavy as they could get between 12 and 14 year old children.  Then it all came to a stop as I awoke.

Suddenly, the dream was over, but a new chapter in my life was beginning.  For, on this night, I became a man.

I tried to recapture our moment together by purchasing the Wheaties box featuring the gymnastics team, and asking my mom to buy tickets to the team’s nationwide tour (she said no), but it wasn’t to be.

If you’re out there, Dominique, thanks for the memories.  Your husband is a lucky man.

Hats Off to You, Jerk

A trend has been growing recently and I’d like to see an immediate stop to it.

There have been several instances in the last few months where I’ve met  people wearing baseball caps for all the wrong reasons.

I always enjoy running into a fellow baseball fan, and seeing the hat is an easy ice breaker into a potentially stimulating conversation.

Far too often, however, the conversation unfolds like this:

“Hey, nice hat.  Are you a Brewers fan?”

“Uh, haha, ah, I guess, heh.”

This response is coupled with a look on the person’s face that’s a cross between smelling a fart on an elevator and confusion.

If a person reacts this way, they’re not a true fan and only wearing the hats for fashion.  They don’t care about the team, and in many instances, don’t even know what team’s hat they’re wearing.

I met a guy who was wearing a Pittsburgh Pirates hat.  Being a Pirates fan, I was intrigued since there aren’t too many people who admit to following what has been the worst team in baseball for the better part of two decades.

When I tried to talk to him about the team, he said he couldn’t name one player and only purchased the hat because there’s a “P” on it and his name was Paul.

Well Paul, you should be wearing an Atlanta Braves hat since it has an “A” on it and you’re an asshole.

The conversation got awkward after I mocked him, so I had to retreat.  Soon after, I noticed a cute girl wearing a Seattle Mariners hat, asked her if the “S” stood for slut, and promptly nailed her.

When I wear my Steelers, Penguins, or Pirates hats, it’s because those are my hometown teams.  I don’t wear them to color coordinate.  Hell, most of the time my hat doesn’t even match.  I’ve even been known to wear a black hat with a blue shirt, which is a major fashion faux pas.  That’s just how I roll.

So if you’re one of these shit heads, please do us all a favor and leave the wearing of hats to people who support the team (and sexually promiscuous women who use them to send signals).  Wear a hat to show loyalty, not because it matches your studded Ed Hardy shirt.