High Def Confusion

I know that huge amounts of technology, standards, and terminology that come along with these fancy new HDTV's can be seriously confusing. And I realize that setting the things up correctly is not always the most obvious thing to do. However, it's not rocket surgery by any stretch of the imagination, and I find this article a bit scary. If you live in one of the country's estimated 20 million homes with HDTV sets, please listen up, as I have an important tip for you: if the picture you see isn't ridiculously better than what you were used to from your old TV, you're not watching a program in HD. I don't care what it says at the start of the show.

That approximate half of HD sets in the country aren't able to watch HD programs on their fancy sets reminds me of a funny (if perhaps statistically inaccurate) aphorism: half of the population is dumber than the average American. I wish all of us happy and smart holiday seasons.

Excuse me while I vent

OK, I realize that this here web thing is all about the dissemination of information, preferably quickly, and I realize that its fluid and immediate nature tends to mean that people aren't often able to edit (or have edited) things they write as much as, say, a novel or a term paper might be. Those of you who pay attention to user comments here on the Chronicles will know that I'm no champion editor, either, as my big bro has had to correct some of my more glaring boo-boos from time to time. So I think we can all stand to be more forgiving of grammar mistakes and typos on the Internet than we might otherwise be inclined to be. Besides, people who make a big deal of complaining about and/or correcting the grammar of others generally -- not to put too fine a point on it -- annoy the ass out of people.

However, I can't keep quiet about this one any longer or I might explode, and that would be quite messy. There's one recurring mistake in particular that I've been noticing at an ever-increasing rate that has me wondering if it's a mistake or just an example of widespread ignorance. I used to see it every now and then and just chalk it up to the whole lack of editing I mentioned above. However, I can't recall the last time I saw it used correctly, and it's used way more than I would have thought. What I'm talking about here is the difference between "compliment" and "complement." The former has to do with goodness (praise, good wishes, etc.). The latter has to do with completeness. (There are other meanings, but they aren't the ones that are confused.) I'm sure you know this. You're very smart. But I wish that you would inform the people who write things I read on the web (read: sportswriters), because they don't have a clue.

The most recent example (that made me write this post) was talking some smack about the Pittsburgh Steelers' punter, Chris Gardocki. It said, "He entered Week 14 last in the AFC in net punting average — which is also no complement to the team’s punt-coverage team." I think it's no compliment to anyone. Not to Gardocki, not to the punt-coverage team, and certainly not to the writer. Come to think of it, not to me, either, as I just can't let things go. I think I have a problem.

Apparently, I'm not the only one who has noticed this general state of confusion.

OK. I'm done. Thanks for letting me vent. You may now return to your normal, hopefully less picayune lives.

Just Let It Go

I know you love your cellphone. I mean, who doesn't really? In this very space, I've waxed rhapsodic (or at least enthusiastic) about the things that cell phones can do. However, one has to wonder just how valuable the thing really is. I know it has all your phone numbers in it, along with your pictures and text messages and endlessly downloaded ringtones. Still, isn't there a place where you draw the line to say, "It's just not worth it -- I'll get a new phone?" Isn't there? I'm thinking this guy should consider revisiting where he draws that line.

1 and 5

It seemed to many that the sky was falling. After a lackluster (and perhaps Duke-hangover-induced) home win over Eastern Michigan, the Hoosiers traveled to bucolic Terre Haute and put forth about at much energy as I will typically exert on my couch on Sunday morning. (Not a lot.) So they lost. Obviously, they should have been able to win that game. They should have been more interested, more energetic. But they weren't, and they paid for it. That was a low day. That's not to take anything away from the Sycamores, who played well, but they shouldn't be able to beat this Hoosier team's backups. All was not well in Hoosierdom. They don't care. They don't play hard. Killingsworth has been reading his press clippings. They settle for jumpers. Davis can't coach. They won't buy me a pony. You've heard it all before. Not good times.

So what was to happen when they faced Kentucky, a team who has dominated the Hoosiers for the past 10 years (IU was 1 and 9 against them in that time), a team whose coach, according to some know-nothing blogger, absolutely owned residence inside Mike Davis's cranium? The Hoosiers pounded those Wildcats. That's what. It was glorious. For once, Kentucky was the team that had no answers inside and couldn't buy an outside bucket. For once, Kentucky turned the ball over and didn't share it. For once, the Hoosiers played hard and came away victorious. Showing amazing prescience, the Big Head Kid predicted the Hoosiers would win, calling it an "all hands on deck game" and pointing out that Kentucky's victories were against the likes of Georgia State and High Point. I didn't know. I thought the BHK's points were good. I thought the Wildcats were down. But I couldn't buy into it. Davis was 0 and 5 against Kentucky. And the Hoosiers lost those games badly. It seemed like Tubby was in his head somehow. Oh and Five. That's not good.

But they did it, and I'm ecstatic. They passed the ball around. Ratliff came off the bench to score 21 points in 21 minutes. And they played excellent defense. It was a big win for my Hoosiers. I'm thinking that many Hoosier fans are back on the bandwagon now. And as I read on the Duke Basketball Report (sure, I don't like Duke, but those people know their stuff pretty well) a couple of years ago, "Okay, all you guys who jumped off the bandwagon - we'll let you back on. But you have to sit in the back ... and keep your damn hands off our beer." Very well said.

As for Davis, he's only 1 and 5 now. But that's a damn sight better than 0 and 5, and he finally got to smoke some bluegrass. Go Hoosiers!

Some X-mas Advice

Well, we're rapidly spiraling (assuming that's a word) toward the most commercial time of the year, and it's important for us all to remember what this time is really about: presents. Since many of you will be buying presents, and since some of you know (or are) people (read: guys) who need to compensate for certain slights from Mother Nature, genetics, or whomever you feel compelled to blame by owning very large electronics, I thought I would offer some information about High Definition TV's. So I sat down to write the official Absian Guide to HDTV, but then I realized that would take a while. So instead, I'm going to link to two other guys' descriptions, which are far more amusing than mine would have been.

This guy explains the two main different types of HD pictures in terms that everyone can understand: Oompa Loompas and Hobbits. [Aside: just because I've mentioned them before, don't go accusing me of having an Oompa Loompa fetish.]

This guy offers some more useful information with a couple of wry observations about the whole situation.

I hope this information helps you buy a Big Ass TV for that compensating guy in your life. And before you go claiming that I don't know what I'm talking about when it comes to Big Ass TV's and compensating: au contraire. I happen to own a 50-inch HDTV. So I know exactly what I'm talking about.

Happy Holidays.

Strange Toys

This post absolutely cracks me up. I love it when people have enough time on their hands to amuse me in different ways. Here's my favorite part:

Another oddity was that the toy came with two guns, one for the police officer and one that either belonged to the X-ray screener or the passenger. The luggage actually opened up, and the gun fit inside. I put it through the X-ray machine, and it went through undetected. Perhaps this is where the toy came closest to reality.

But, really, what kid would want this playset, aside from those kids whose parents work for the TSA? This really seems like it would be a more useful way to indoctrinate child terrorists from an early age. "These are the types of obstacles in our way, Johnny. How will we get by them today?"

Not Quite

So I thought that the Dookies were good but vulnerable. Now I think they're just good. The Hoosiers gave them a good fight, and Marco Killingsworth was a stud. The calls actually went the Hoosiers' way (even though Paulus travels every time he drives from the top of the key, but they weren't calling travels on anyone). They got Williams in foul trouble. McRoberts, too. But it didn't matter. Duke was still Duke. They know how to win close games. They're well-coached. They're veteran. They're just good. They may not dominate like they have some years, but they're sure going to win a lot.

But, I'll take that game over 5 Nicholls States. As the Big Head Kid put it, you have to see them in the crucible of competition to know about the team. And what I know is that these Hoosiers are pretty good, too. I sure would have liked to see them beat Duke, though.

Sports Worries

I'm worried about tonight. But it's not for the normal reasons. I'm really not much of a worrier about most things in life, but I'm definitely a sports worrier. I worry about how the teams I root for will handle their games. For instance, even though I'm not a true fan, I worried about how the Colts would handle the Steelers this past Monday. Rationally, I thought the Colts had too many weapons for the 'Burghers. Plus the game was in Indy, in the dome, and the crowd was sure to be fired up. Also, Big Ben was coming off a few week absence due to knee surgery, and he was bound to be rusty. But I was still concerned about how it would play out.

Maybe the Colts-Steelers game isn't a good example, though. Obviously I would be concerned about a big game like that. But I worry about the games my teams should win. What if the team overlooks this opponent? What if they aren't focused enough? What if they go out partying the night before and come in with whippet-induced hangovers? What if someone gets hurt?

It's especially true for IU basketball. The Hoosiers could be scheduled to play the Sisters of Mercy School for Visually-Impaired Paraplegics, and I'd be fretting that we might get burned by their outside shooting, that we might get into early foul trouble, or that we would -- gasp! -- fail to box out on the defensive glass.

But the Hoosiers are not playing SoMVIP tonight. They're playing Duke. It's a home game, the Hoosiers are underdogs, and Duke is starting a freshman who spurned IU for the Dookies (well, spurned isn't really accurate, but I don't think the students will care). BUT, as a certain, leprechaun-looking ex-UVA head coach used to say, "Duke is Duke." They'll still have the Ferret coaching them. They'll still have Shooter Without a Conscience JJ Redick and Favorite of All Officials (and possible Star Wars character) Shelden Williams leading the way. So of course I'm worried.

But what really worries me is that I'm feeling more excited than anything about the game. I think my Hoosiers have a chance to play with these guys. Memphis and Drexel both took them down to the wire, and I think the Indiana boys are better than both of those teams. The Hoosiers have played their first three games beautifully. They have lots of depth and people who can score both inside and out. They're playing as a team. There's no chance that the high-profile coach of the other team could get into the IU coach's head and own him (like this guy obviously has), as he already owns one glorious victory over the Ferret. The game is going to be in stunningly lucid, better-than-real-life high definition, which is simply marvelous (even if I do have to suffer the biggest Duke fan of all, Dookie Vitale). I keep thinking about these things, and I have hope.

But that worries me. Because I should probably be more worried. It's hard to be me.

Much Better Now

I'm feeling much better, thanks. No longer am I reduced to a sniffling, constantly nose-blowing, mouth-breathing, sleigh-guiding kleenex reaper and snot generator. However, the after effects are less than pleasing. My nose is far less red now. In fact, I'm impressed at how quickly my proboscis regained its natural color. However, all that kleenex abuse was not good for the outside of my nose, and it got rubbed a little raw. In fact, as it goes about its healing process, there patches of flaky, white, clearly dead skin all over my nostrils. They are not at all flattering. I thought I might be able to get them to fall off with a bit of rubbing, but no such luck. I mean, I thought dead skin could easily be removed that way, but this stuff is glued on there. So instead of looking like someone who is sick and uncomfortable to the point of having a raw, red schnoz, I look like someone with poor attention to detail in the hygiene department. It looks like I have dried snot all over my nose. This look is understandable on a 4 year-old whose mother is not near. A dude in his 30's has a harder time pulling it off, though.

Thankfully, I feel better. Looking better? Not so much.

Be Vewy, Vewy, Quiet ...

... I'm hunting kleenexes.

I know I've been unusually reticent over the past week, and for that I'm sorry. I actually thought I would take some of the long weekend to write a couple of posts I'd been sort of thinking about for a while, but I didn't get around to it. The reason for that (aside from my usual tendencies toward procrastination and laziness) is that I've been a bit under the weather. It's not a huge deal, but I haven't felt like talking to anyone or typing anything. Besides, both are kind of tough when one is blowing his nose every 7.4 seconds. And even though I have used those tissues with the lotion in them to ease the damage to my nose, I find it to be a fairly bright red as a result of the abuse.

So please pardon my silence, but once I find some more tissues, I'm going to see if Santa has any open sleigh-guiding positions.

Head-butting Cement

I realize there are some of you out there who don't realize it, but college basketball season is ramping up. Well, that's not really true. It's just kind of trickling in, but there are official games going on these days. I watched at least 3 games this week that I didn't care a lick about just because they were on. It's a marvelous thing. College hoops is without question the best sport in the land. Moreover, there is optimism in Hoosierdom about IU's chances this year. So it's safe to say that I'm a little excited about it.

Part of the way I prepare for each season is by purchasing ESPN's Full Court package. That way, I can see all of the Hoosiers' games (except for those incredibly irritating circumstances when they're on CBS regional coverage on Sunday afternoon and they get preempted locally for the Terps -- the TERPS!). So I called up my friendly Comcast people on Monday night, which led to the following exchange:

Me: I'd like to buy the ESPN Full Court package.
Comcast guy: Sure thing. I can set that up for you. Let's see here ... ESPN ... there it is, ESPN Game Plan.
Me: Uhhhhh, no. The Game Plan is college football. I'm talking about Full Court. That's college BASKETball.
Comcast guy: Oh. Well, we don't carry that.
Me: [Opting not to tell him not to tell me my business while telling him his] You have for the past 8 years. Because I've bought it every year.
Comcast guy: From Comcast?
Me: Yes.
Comcast guy: In THIS area?!
Me: Yes.
Comcast guy: Well, the only basketball package we have here is NBA League Pass. Do you want that?
Me: NO! Never! Definitely not.
Comcast guy: Well that's all we have right now. [Remembering something] But I think the Full Court starts in December.
Me: [Again, refraining from suggesting he not tell me my business. Also, not pointing out that this last statement flies in the face of "we don't carry that."] According to their website, it starts on November 19th.
Comcast guy: Well, I don't have it available to sell it to you. But I'm putting in your request for it.
Me: So I should just call back to see if it's available?
Comcast guy: Yes. Give it a few days and call back around the 15th.
Me: [Debates whether to point out that it is currently Monday, the 14th.] OK. Thanks for your help. [Hangs up]

So that didn't go at all how I'd planned. However, true to my word, I tried again yesterday (Thursday):

Me: I'd like to purchase the ESPN Full Court college basketball package.
Comcast gal: Let's see ... ESPN ... We don't have that. We only have the NBA package for basketball.
Me: But you carry this every year.
Comcast gal: Full Court doesn't start until late November or early December. You could check back then.
[This exchange repeats a few times, with each of us saying the same thing a different way.]
Me: [Wondering why these people insist on telling me my business and wondering how many times one has to call and not be wrong to have them flag my account with "Not a Complete Idiot" ] According to their website, it starts on November 19th. And there's a game I really want to see on November 21st. DirecTV has it available at this point. Are you suggesting that might be a better option for my TV service?
Comcast gal: All I'm saying is that our marketing people haven't made it available to us to sell yet. So it's not in the system.
Me: I understand. [And I do, but it's hard for me to deal with the fact that marketing people might spoil the beginning of my college hoops season.] Bummer. Well, would you please put in my request for this package ASAP?
Comcast gal: It's not available yet, sir. It's not in the system.
Me: I understand you loud and clear. What I'm hoping is that we can pass my request on so that the Comcast marketing people get on the stick and make it available.
Comcast gal: It's not available, sir.
Me: [Trying to avoid becoming angry and wondering if I'm speaking to a real person] Should I just call back later?
Comcast gal: That's probably a good idea.

As you might have guessed, I was a little frustrated. However, I've been through this sort of thing with them before. Lawton and I called them every month for two years trying to get digital cable and high speed internet access or at least trying to find out when it would be available, met every time with explanations that the computer showed "people working in your area right now." They really didn't understand when we asked, "Yes, but does it show them ever finishing the work in our area?" Polite always, but completely ignorant were they. So I was prepared to call every day until it was available, recognizing I might be better off finding that Sisyphus guy and offering to help him out with his rock.

So I called back today, and I was stunned when the Comcast guy (clearly my favorite Comcast guy of all time) immediately told me that the Full Court package was available. No telling me my business, no arguing about when it starts. Just good news. He seemed a little taken aback at my incredulity, and he kind of chuckled when I said, "Really?! It wasn't available yesterday." However, 5 minutes later I was allegedly all set. O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!

On that happy note, I'm done here. I hope I've paved the road for you with your TV provider, whoever it may be. If not, I hope that you don't have to make more than 3 calls to get your hoop on.

Have a great weekend and Go Hoosiers!

Rolling through the Afternoon

As the various activities and sports leagues I take part in (golf, softball, basketball, football) to make myself a little more active succumb to the impending seasonal change and hostile weather, I find myself thinking that I need to get back to the gym. While I'm at it, it would be good to make sure I'm eating more healthily, too. With that in mind, I ate the hell out of a ginormous chicken parm sub at lunch today, and I'm now uncomfortably full and wondering how I'm going to make it through my afternoon. Maybe everything will be okay if I don't have to get off of my chair. It does have wheels that could conceivably allow me to roll everywhere. I remember reading something somewhere about building accessibility that should help me out. Better yet, maybe I'll just call in the Oompa Loompas to roll my fat ass from place to place. Anyone know how to get in touch with them?

The Dangers of the Well

I think many of you have, at one point or another, gone back to the well. You know how it is. You break up with your significant other. Maybe it ends badly, mabye it ends well. Either way, somewhere down the road, communication restarts. You remember that the other person wasn't all bad. There are lots of good things about that person. Sure, he or she may have had a tendency to clip toenails over your bowl of cereal, hurl objects at you at unusual times, or even sleep with your friends. But that was before. This person seems different now. And let's be honest: you're not getting any, and you could go for a good roll in the hay. That wasn't so bad before, was it? Somehow, a get-together is arranged. Maybe it's an innocuous lunch at first. But that turns into drinks later in the week or even dinner. Hell, maybe you get a booty call that you just can't turn down. But it's dangerous to go back to the well. What? You don't believe me? Just ask this guy.

If you don't want to read that article, the short version is that a guy accepted an invitation to an ex-girlfriend's place some months after they broke up. Whatever happened while he was there, he somehow ended up falling asleep, and when he woke up she "had used Super Glue to stick his genitals to his abdomen, glued his buttocks together and spelled out a profanity on his back in nail polish." Not good times.

Maybe we're an overly litigious society, and the guy should be embarrassed about being snookered instead of suing. But I don't care about that. There are two things that stand out to me in this article. The first is that the girl "invited him over to her home on May 7, 2000, where he fell asleep." He just went over there and fell asleep. This sort of thing happens every day. I don't know about you, but I don't often fall asleep when I'm just visiting people. I guess we're supposed to read between the lines.

But my favorite part -- by far -- was that the girl's attorney reportedly said "it was a consensual act." I don't know if there's a legal definition of consent that I don't understand, but I'm thinking that it's a stretch that consent was given to use glue to stick a man's package to his belly and his butt cheeks together.

So think about Kenneth Slaby the next time you go for that booty call, because there be danger in going back to the well. And if you do go back, definitely don't go to sleep.

Paging Dr. P... Something

I’m not hugely into the whole costume thing. Nonetheless, I went to a Halloween costume party this weekend. I kind of liked my costume, too. I wore bluish-green scrubs with a stethoscope around my neck. Also draped around my neck was a short strand of Christmas lights with chili pepper covers on them. On the breast pocket, was one word: “Pepper.” Have you worked it out yet? I was Dr. Pepper. I even had packets of pepper in my pocket (courtesy of Wendy’s), which allowed me to hand them out and ask people, “Wouldn’t you like to be a Pepper, too?”

I know you think this costume sounds very clever and original (and/or perhaps a bit stupid), but 1) I didn’t come up with it, 2) I found it on the Internet, and 3) I wore it last year. I was happy to reuse it, too, since it took some effort to put together and my standard procrastination meant that it cost a lot more than it should have because of overnight shipping costs.

I remembered from last year that the scrubs were a bit large. However, as I put them on this time and held out the waist, I thought there was room for a whole ‘nother person in there. With some planning and a willing participant, that might have made for a good – and distinctly more fun – costume, but it was just me this time around. So I cinched that waist down (thankfully it had a drawstring) and went on about my business with some seriously baggy pants.

Once dressed, I headed to a friend’s house to hang out and have pre-party drinks. That was fun, too. The costumes included a hair band rock star, a deviled egg, FEMA, stoned, a panda, a cave girl, and (my personal favorite) poop. Yes, I said poop. It was a brown hoodie sweatsuit with some corn glued to it and a toilet seat over the head.

After a couple of drinks I had to avail myself of the facilities, and I excused myself to do so. I reckon that one should exercise caution when relieving himself in a costume, as it kind of puts him outside the comfort zone. However, I had a pretty simple costume, and I managed to get through it with no mishaps. So I washed my hands, dried them, and started to head back to join the crowd.

At the last instant, I took a quick look down to make sure nothing was awry. I was startled to find a 2 little spots of water on the front of my pants. Without thinking, I reached down to wipe it off, but that just made it worse. Apparently there was some water on the rim of the sink, and my unnecessarily baggy pants had brushed against it. Since the scrubs were bluish-green, the water showed up quite nicely. My attempts to remove it meant that instead of having a couple of barely noticeable spots of what may or may not have looked like a dribbling incident, my pants looked like I had stopped just short of full-on pissing myself.

With nothing to do about it (my host later informed me that she didn’t have a hair dryer, although that didn’t even occur to me as a solution at the time), I plodded back into the living room and announced to the assembled crowd in as red-faced a way as possible what had happened. I was thoroughly embarrassed, but I decided I would rather laugh with them about it than have them whispering about it and wondering if I knew I had pissed myself. I figured it would dry before long and I could go on enjoying my evening.

Today, my friend sent out a group picture from the pre-party. The first thing I noticed: it looks like Dr. Pepper has pissed himself. Other than that it was a great picture. I’m glad we could save that memory. As is often the case, the point here is probably that I’m an idiot. This time, though, I’m a bumbling, pants-wetting idiot.

Since I’ve always thought it sounded like a term a child would use to describe a bodily function, I should have just claimed I was Dr. P. Diddy. I would have gone together with poop like peas and carrots.

I wish you all a Happy Halloween free of Diddy incidents – real or perceived – on your costumes.

The Wisdom of Youth

I once visited my friends Tim and Elizabeth, who live a couple of hours away, to have dinner in honor of Tim's birthday, as well as that of their younger son Miles. Miles's older brother, Connor, is my godson. I'm not really sure what the godfather role is supposed to entail -- and I'm not in the habit of making offers that can't be refused -- but through the 4 and a half years of his life up to that point, we had built a relationship based mainly on me buying him cool toys for his birthday (I'm always jealous of how much cooler toys are today than they used to be) and us playing together when I'm visiting. That might not be the standard way things are done, but it had works for us so far.

On this particular visit, I was quite tired for some reason. I think it might have had something to do with the pitchers of beer consumed the night before, but I’m not really sure. During one lull in the action, and I found myself lying on the floor with my eyes closed, pondering what would happen if I just fell asleep right there. The world will never know the answer to that riddle, though. Before I could doze off, I felt these little hands on my chest followed by a little person leaning in and little lips smacking on my cheek. I opened my eyes as Connor was standing up and saying, "I gave you a kiss, Uncle Abs." This was clearly an explanation in case I didn't know what had just happened. My heart lurched at the sweetness of the moment.

I started to say, "Thanks, buddy," but I was cut off.

"Because that's how you make love," Connor explained.

"Oh is it?" Uncle Abs asked, grinning a bit and undoubtedly cocking an eyebrow well past his hairline. Apparently my love of funny overrides my appreciation of sweet.

"SHOW love, Connor. That's how you SHOW love," his mother said, somewhat urgently, from the kitchen.

"Because that's how you SHOW love," Connor relayed, in case I hadn't heard it.

I said, "Well, darn, I was hoping to get some tips there."

"That's ENOUGH, Abs," said Connor's mother. She apparently didn't think anything good could come of that conversation.

I couldn’t help but wonder if I should take it as a bad sign that a 4 year-old felt the need to give me pointers. But I listened anyway.

Lunchtime Musings

While out to lunch today, I excused myself for a brief trip to the restroom. Before heading back to my table, I noticed one of those signs on the mirror while washing my hands. You know the ones: "Employees MUST wash hands."

I've always wanted to add another little sign below those: "But the rest of you sould probably consider it, too."

Ten Years Later ...

My Wahoos have been really frustrating this year. Their best players have kept getting hurt. They've been turning the ball over at inopportune times (not that there are really opportune times for turnovers). They kept doing dumb things. Worst of all, they kept losing. Okay, so they only lost two games in a row, but they hadn't played well all year. They've been just painful to watch. Plus, they lost to the Terps. THE TERPS!

It seemed like it had been so long since they had played well that I found myself recently daydreaming of the single best sporting event I have ever witnessed in person: the toppling of Florida State on a balmy Thursday October night ten years ago. I've never heard UVA fans so into a game. They were pumped and loud from the first kick, and a national television audience got to see a gorgeously exciting upset of a top ten team that had not lost any of its 29 contests since it had joined the ACC. It was glorious. I yelled myself hoarse. I stormed the field. I reveled in the tearing down of the goalposts. I walked out of the stadium completely giddy with the joy of the upset.

This weekend an unbeaten, top 5 Seminole team came to town to kick my ailing Wahoos while they were down. Perhaps thinking of happier days, the Wahoo team that put the first blemish on FSU's ACC record that October night 10 years ago was honored at halftime of this contest. Oddly, though, the current team -- the injury-prone, turnover-mongering dummies and losers -- were up 13 points at the time. The crowd was loud and excited. The team held on and gutted it out. Night game. October. Balmy. National audience. ESPN. Hoarseness. Upset. Giddiness. Jubilation.

I let the students storm the field, though. I had my time. [Aside: Goalposts are much more resilient than they were 10 years ago. Those things refused to come down.]

One sign I saw amongst the revelers on the field in the post-game bedlam put it nicely in perspective: "Party like it's 1995."

Welcome Back, Sweet Silence

I think we'd all do well to welcome Jen back. She's been on a bit of a hiatus, and I think it's safe to say that we all missed her. I know, I know. You might be thinking you don't even know Jen. You're sure she's quite nice and all, but you didn't really miss her. But you're wrong. You did miss her. You just don't realize it. So go ahead and welcome her back.

The different things we have to get used to as we adjust to new living spaces are intriguing to me. Having moved from the Windy City to suburban Cleveland, Jen is having to adjust to living among the Amish and the eerie silence that goes with it. So used to the noises of the city was she that she said, "On the first night I had to keep reassuring myself that silence did not equal impending doom." Ah, Jen. What I wouldn't give for some of that sweet silence.

As you may or may not remember, I recently moved and am doing a bit of adjusting of my own. As intimated by my friend who used to live there, my place is impressively noisy. The ceilings/floors and walls are quite thin. Luckily, I only have a neighbor on one side, and I don't hear anything from him. [Aside: not knowing any of my neighbors, they will all be referred to as "him." I have no idea as to their genders, but it seems to work better for me that way. I suggest that those of you who object to this type of gender bias to either stop reading or get over it.] On the other side of me is the building's foyer, which houses the stairs down to the garage, the elevators, and the mailboxes. If people talk out there, I can hear them quite clearly. Luckily for me, that's a rarity. The door to the stairwell that takes one to the garage, however, squeaks more consistently and loudly than any other door on the planet, and I can hear that anywhere in my apartment but the bathroom. One of these days, I will attempt to silence it with WD-40.

What's really impressive, though, is the noise from above. I don't know what kind of codes the building meets, but there can't be any noise suppression-related rules in there. Either that or the guy above me weighs a metric ton and is mostly deaf. I say this because I can hear every step he takes. Come to think of it, he may not actually be deaf. I can hear a low murmur whenever his TV is on, but I can't tell what he's watching or hear any words. But it's still sound pollution in my TV-watching environment, and I don't like it.

Luckily for me and unlike my friend who warned me (too late, but warned me nonetheless) about the noise level, I have heard no conversations from above and have been subjected to no sexcapades. However, the guy gets up early. It's very sad for the lightest sleeper in the world to have people walk around above him every day sometime between 4:30 and 7:30 AM. On the off-chance that I might sleep through the tromping about, he redoubles his efforts, announcing that he has arisen by violently tossing porcelain against porcelain as he makes use of the toilet. That thunk is not a pleasant way to wake up at all.

With all of that said, so far I like everything about my pad except the noise. Shockingly, I haven't hooked up my surround speakers yet (still trying to decide what to do with the cables). Less shockingly, I haven't put anything on the walls yet. (I lived in the Lodge for 6 years and never put anything on the walls in my room.) When I do those things, I'll be all settled. Before that, though, I'm going to look into some earplugs.

Winning Friends? Not so much.

Some people just have a knack for rubbing people the wrong way. For instance, this guy seems awfully good at it. I think he would do well to read Dale Carnegie's most famous book. Hell, reading a summary might help. I just don't see how clubbing Harry Potter in front of a bunch of kids is going to do you any favors, especially if your claims are ludicrous. The big winner of a quote to me was this: "I'm a priest and I'm very careful about not offending people." Well, maybe you should redouble your efforts there, padre.

Doing My Part

I don't typically get into patting myself on the back, but sometimes I can't help it. An opportunity presented itself today. It was an unusual opportunity to help people out, and I took it.

Utterly demolishing our opponents in today's touch football game caused several of us to work up quite an appetite. (Granted, those opponents were short a player, but that doesn't really change the fact that we demolished them. Or that we were hungry, for that matter.) So we went to our normal place to eat and watch some people play tackle football for money. When we got there, the team's coach and I noticed a card on the table advertising their Apple Krisp dessert. It sounded pretty good, but the not-so-fine print was even more intriguing. It pointed out that there was nothing more American than apple pie. Because of that, the restaurant would donate all the proceeds from the sales of Apple Krisp to the Red Cross to help with the Hurrican Katrina relief effort.

The coach and I were intrigued. We were both willing to avoid quibbling over the fact that it's apple pie and not Apple Krisp that is innately American. And we couldn't help but wonder what we had done to help lately. So we said we were going to get some after we had our meals.

Now, I don't know if you've ever been to Champps, but they have some seriously big portions. That's one of the first warnings they give you when you sit down at a table there, and they seem proud to be contributing to all of us inching toward obesity. Anyway, I didn't even eat all of my huge entree, but I was quite full afterwards, and I was thinking that this talk of ordering Apple Krisp might be one of those cases of my eyes being bigger than my stomach. Upon returning from a trip to the restroom, I was informed that the coach had ordered the Apple Krisp for me. I was a little uncomfortable, having considerably changed my level of hunger since we first discussed it. I was considering canceling my order.

However, I was forced to ask myself some hard questions, and I hope you will ask yourselves the same questions if you are faced with a similar situation: what have you done to help your fellow Americans? What have you done lately? Maybe you've given money, clothes, food, or even your time, but have you eaten a potentially tasty and definitely fattening dessert to help out those less fortunate than you?

With those questions in mind, I ate the hell out of that Apple Krisp. I'd do it again, too. That's just how generous I am.

Brilliantly Ranting

I'm a pretty calm guy, but I've been known to write a pretty good rant or two in my day. I do enjoy doing some bitching for fun, and it's especially good when it gains enough momentum to develop into a full-fledged rant. However, I have never -- ever -- managed to write one that was quite as good as this. Simply marvelous.

Superstition Ain't the Way

If you are at all like me, that title will leave you no choice but to sway your head back and forth while singing along with Stevie Wonder. If you're not like me, you are likely wondering what the hell I'm talking about. If this is your first time here, I'm sorry. Otherwise, you're probably used to it by now. While it is probably my favorite song of Stevie's -- I love the bass guitar in that song -- that's not the point right now.

What is the point is that I'm not generally a suspicious person. Sure, I've been known to go in for the whole "It's 11:11. Make a wish," thing, but I think that might be I kind of like making wishes. [Aside: I've recently been informed that I've been doing it completely wrong for years, which may explain why none of those wishes have come true. But I can tell you that revelation was a rude awakening. Who knew there were rules to be followed after making the wish?! And why isn't this information included in the training?!] Plus, when my Hoosiers quickly squander a big first half lead early in the second half as they try to get going after apparently doing shots of Jägermeister in the locker room, I've been known to do some serious bitching at someone watching with me for having the temerity and stupidity to have changed seats. I've even been known to explain in no uncertain terms that I will be forced to thrash them if they don't move back RIGHT NOW.

Other than that, though, I don't go in for the whole superstition thing. I don't throw salt over my shoulder if I spill it. I don't do ... other things supersitious people do, none of which occur to me at the moment. Still, superstition has been dogging me since Friday. Friday night, I received two pieces of bad news. One was from a dear friend and one was about my dad. Everyone's still alive and everything, but the news was anything but pleasant in both cases. In neither case am I able to really do anything to help, as I live hundreds or thousands of miles away. I can't even offer the standard but powerful Abs Hug of Comfort. It's a total bummer.

On top of that, I had all these fun things planned for the weekend, and Mama Abs pragmatically insisted that I still do them since there was nothing else I could do anyway. So I did them, traveling to UVA for a football game, playing golf on Sunday morning, and playing football on Sunday afternoon. But the bad news out there was kind of messing with me the whole time, sort of like a sibling playing that oh-so-hilarious "I'm not touching you" game when you're trying to do something.

Exacerbating the situation has been the nagging thought that bad things happen in threes. I don't even know where I heard that, but it's just there, like "the little scratch on the roof of your mouth that would heal if only you could stop tonguing it, but you can't." So I was kind of waiting for that third piece of bad news all weekend long. Still am, really. It kind of messes with me, and it is definitely not good times. Plus, after dealing with a weekend like that, it has to be Monday today. Totally not cool.

Maybe I should pay less attention to the bass guitar and more attention to Stevie's lyrics.

My Kind of Yardwork

There's absolutely no question about it: I loathe yardwork. I realize there are people who turn their yards into hobbies, lovingly fertilizing, mowing, raking, mulching, pruning, planting, and watering. That sounds like at least the Fourth Circle of Hell to me. I also realize there are people who do this because it is on The List that their wives make for them every weekend, and even that doesn't sound a whole lot better to me. Luckily for me, my new place is a condo/apartment and thus has no yard. My last place was the same. That was a Good Thing. The place before, where I lived for 6 years, had postage stamp front yard and a vine-covered forest floor out back. There was very little to do. The tiny yard had to be mowed, but it only took 20 minutes. The leaves had to be raked once in a great while. The bushes could be trimmed from time to time. But I still bitched every time I had to do it. Hated every second of it. I only trimmed those bushes twice in 6 years, and I didn't even attempt to fight back the vines from encroaching on the walkway behind the house once. I just didn't go back there, and neither did my roommates. I often thought that a concrete slab would be far more useful out front than a yard. That way, I could put up a couple of basketball hoops, and yardwork would become fun. I know, I probably have some sickness, and I'm willing to admit it. However, I'm apparently not the only one who has no practical use for yardwork. The real beauty of it is that she's way funnier than I am. I hope you enjoy it. I sure did.

How to Worry Me

Be my wallet. As I open you to stuff in a few bills I received as change at lunch, blithely show me that my most-used credit card is not in its usual slot. Hesitatingly prove that you aren't hiding it in any of your other credit card slots, either. Show me that, no, you are not trying to perform an oh-so-funny disappearing credit card magic trick by continuing to not have the credit card regardless of how many times I open and close you. Leer at me as I call the last place I used the card (two nights ago!) only to find out that they don't have it either. Make me think of all the things someone who picked it up might have bought with it in the last 36 hours. Quietly chuckle at me as I put you back in my pocket and drive home to see if it is in my other pants, knowing full well that is not and that I will have to call and report it lost. Sit there smugly and quietly as I go through each and every pocket in the pants I was wearing the last time I used the credit card, failing to turn it up. Don't say a word as I sigh and start to head out the door back to work. Then -- and only then -- turn on the light bulb over my head, suggesting that I look in the pocket of the shirt I was wearing when I last used the card. Shruggingly accept the card as I slide it almost gleefully back into its normal slot.

How to Have a Good Restaurant

Make the place look nice. Have pleasant lighting. Make the seats comfortable. Offer hush puppies and fried pickles as appetizers. Offer strange assortments of salads and meats as entrées. Give those who buy meat dishes a knife more suited to lamb slaughter and other forms of murder than to cutting food into bite-sized pieces.

With all those things, it doesn't even matter how good the food is, as they will inspire conversation.

But don't try to spice up the hush puppies. They are one of the few things on Earth that really shouldn't be messed with.

Shhhhhh ... Moving in Progress

I know I've been quiet lately, but it's not my fault. I moved this past weekend, and it's been a tad brutal. I certainly haven't had a chance to say much here. Of course, it's been waaaaayyyyy better than it might have been because Mama Abs came out to help me pack, move, and unpack. That's a little misstated, too, since she did almost all of the packing and has done almost all of the unpacking so far. She's good to me. Some of you might think it's sad that an adult male can't even handle packing and unpacking by himself and needs his mommy to help him. All I can to that is this: your jealousy is completely transparent to me. And this: neener, neener, nyah, nyah, nyah.

The best part of all of it is that I got an email from a friend today in response to telling folks my new address. It said something like this:

You didn't move there, did you? I used to live there, and it was the worst place ever. You will hear everything the people above you do and say in startlingly lurid detail. It'll be like they're in the room with you. I used to be able to hear everything they said, and don't even get me started on how they regularly woke me up with the vocal and guttural stylings of their frequent early weekend morning sexcapades. I thought I would go crazy if I had to hear "Oh, yeah! Give it to me Daddy!" from them one more time. It was depressing when I tried to shut out the sound and roll back over to try to go back to sleep in my bed by myself. That's why I moved out.

That's not what an unattached guy (except for my girlfriend, of course) who just signed a year-long lease wants to hear about his new place. Especially when he's a notoriously light sleeper. In fact, I'm not much of a worrier, but it worries the ass out of me. It also makes me wonder why it is that we test drive the hell out of cars before we buy them, making sure to drive them on the highway, in stop-and-go traffic, on fun curvy roads, sit in all the seats, check out the trunk size and pickup with the AC on, etc., but we sign up for a house or apartment after spending, at most, a few hours there and -- if it's required to get a mortgage -- getting an inspection performed. We need to be able to spend a couple of days to a couple of weeks there first -- a test live for housing, if you will. When I'm in charge ...

Sigh. I guess it's only a year.

Restricted Commentary

I didn't want to, but I thought it was appropriate. I've set things up so that you can kick back a bit when I Kick the Chronicles by leaving comments. While some of you may not even know that you can leave comments, most of you choose not to, and that's fine. [Aside: I know you're out there. Lurking, reading, watching. Really, I'm glad someone checks it out once in a while.] Those of you who just read the feed don't see them at all. Still, I've had enough instances of comment spam now that I've turned on word verification. It just attempts to keep automated comment spamming software from putting up garbage that I don't want to see. Your comments, though, are usually appreciated.

Juxtaposition

Earlier today, I stopped in the neighborhood market to grab a couple of things suitable for my day of lounging. I couldn't help but shake my head as I paid for the stuff: a 2-liter of Diet Coke and a pint of Ben & Jerry's Vanilla Heath Bar Crunch. What's that about? And if I finish both of them by the end of the day, do they cancel each other out? Or I will I just be a tad fatter and unable to sleep? These are the questions that consume me.

Sports and Beer

This weekend has been pretty good, really, as it had a lot of a few of my favorite things. It started with the best seats I've ever had at a baseball game on Friday night. 10th row, behind home plate. We were actually able to see how the batters would get fooled on the breaking balls and argue about whether or not pitches caught the corner of the plate. It was marvelous. Plus, they let us get into the diamond club, which has a free buffet. The beer's not free, but, as Larry likes to say, it's kind of hard to bitch about the food with your mouth full. Interestingly, it seems like it's actually more difficult to get beers in the fancy seats. Instead of having the push approach where vendors carry around cartons full of cold beer and sell them to people, these fancy seats go with a pull technique. They have the same types of people walking around with cartons of stuff, but they're rarely full. That's because you have to order what you want, like in a restaurant. Now, maybe the people who will pay $90/ticket for the whole season don't want to drink whatever beer happens to be going by. Maybe they don't drink beer at all. But it seemed like most of the folks who were there on Friday would have been quite happy to. It seems like a less efficient ordering model to me. Plus, the vendor guy has to sit down and write down what you want, possibly distracting you from the grand slam that is being hit at the time. A little hi-tech action would make that a lot better. On-demand beer and hot dogs ... mmmmmmm. But it wasn't really a bad thing. When I run the world, they'll get that distribution model right, though. Props to the BHK for taking me. If he could work out a win for the Nats next time, it would be even better.

Saturday, I got up and headed down to the Charlottesville area for the first home football game of UVA's season. I first went to hang with the fellas at college roomie Tim's house. College roomie Dave and bestest buddy pal Lawton came over, too. Interestingly, it seems like "the fellas" is expanding to include Tim's little boys. Actually, I have more to tell about that, but that will come in another post. Anyway, we had standard guy time, which is to say that we hung out and drank beer and BS'ed and made fun of each other. Good times. Then, Lawton, Dave, and I headed to the stadium for some tailgating. The weather was 10 degrees beyond (or a bunch of clouds short) of perfect, but it was awfully nice for a Virginia Saturday, and it was excellent to get back to the tailgate. We hvae a satellite dish, a generator, a grill, some tables for our food and drink, about 8 coolers, a flagpole, and a whole mess of people. Marvelous. And there is always fried chicken! After a couple of hours of food, beer, sun, and fried chicken, we went in for the game. The Hoos limped in with a victory. It was good to get a win, but they didn't play well, the starting running back hurt his foot in the first quarter, and they kept trying to give the ball away. We'll see how the rest of the season goes. More than anything, it was good to have the Sports Doldrums officially over and to have Lawton doing the color commentary with me again after missing every single game last year.

Sunday, I spent a few hours doing some preliminary work for next weekend's move, then played golf with Tom and Al. I didn't play that great, but my temperamental boomstick was being pretty nice to me. I hit at least 3 drives of 290+ yards, including my first ever legit 300-yarder on number 18. That sent me home feeling pretty good. If I could figure out how to putt, I might be able to improve my scores. But since we're not playing for money, I like to stick with the "drive for show" thing. Sunday night, I went to a cookout at a friend's house and drank many beers.

All in all, it was quite the good weekend. Friends, sports, beer, and some quality outdoor time (sans the standard sunburn). The best part of it is that it's not even over. I still have a whole day left. I hope your weekends were as good.

Let's Be Nice

I know this is out of character for what we do here, but there's nothing for it. The way I see it is this: it's sort of like a friend got stalked by this Katrina chick, and she ended up going turbo-bunny boiler on him (or her), blew up his house and tried to kill him and his family. They survived, but they're not in a happy place right now. So I reckon this is where they need some friends' help. I'm thinking we can be those friends. I'm not typically big on trying to appeal to anyone to give money or take up the fight, but this is an unusual case. That Katrina was one seriously crazy bitch. Maybe we can lend a hand, or at least a few bucks. The Red Cross makes it easy to donate with a credit card on their web site, or you can call 1-800-HELP-NOW.

If nothing else, I reckon I can stay in for a night and give them the money I would have wasted at the bar. If Diddy and Jay-Z can be open their wallets for these folks, then I can at least give up a bar tab. And since I was there, anyway, this page has a nice list of places to make donations and/or help out.

That said, I hope you all have a great holiday weekend.

Pitching Woo

As Dan Aykroyd said in Ghostbusters, "Listen. Do you smell something?" You may not be able to smell it, but there is an aroma on the air. You have to try to catch it. It is the smell of portable grills, fried chicken, beer, bourbon, body paint, manicured grass, hope, pain, and struggle. In short, it is the smell of pigskin, and the football season approaches. While I am eagerly anticipating the start of football season and the merciful end to the Sports Doldrums that it brings (my Wahoos have their home opener this Saturday!), I find myself looking at another sport to help explain today's musings. It's something that Lawton and I have kicked around for years. We've both talked about it with lots of other guys. But it's not unique to us. I think tons of guys have considered this metaphor over the years, at least in passing. It seeks to categorize the skills of guys in dating world. It's really quite simple. The dating world is baseball, and guys are pitchers.

There's no question about it. Sure, this doesn't apply to everyone, but it generally works for hetero interaction initiated by the guy. Typically, guys can be broken down into three groups: starters, middle/long relievers, and closers.

Starters
In baseball, starters are typically the most talented pitchers on the staff, and they have the best stuff. They can usually throw three or four different pitches. They have the arm strength and the stamina to last into the late innings. They bring a solid game almost every time out.

In the dating world, the starters are very much the same. They are often good looking, charismatic, or charming. The best starters -- the Cy Young winners -- are usually all of those things. They are quite good at making initial contact with women, either alone or in a group. The key to that is that they can change up their approach depending on the situation. They can chat up a girl standing alone in a bar or introduce their friends to a group of girls out for the evening. Their good looks and/or charm are a big help there. Whether they have to work the eye contact or put a witty opening line into play, they can handle it. They are excellent flirters, and they know the right questions to ask. And no matter what happens, they're ready to take the mound again at the beginning of the next night out, regardless of whether they scored or got shot down the last time.

The best starters can last into the late innings, putting in the necessary work over time. They are the most likely group to manage to pitch a complete game and take the girl home, end up dating her, or some other desirable thing. If they're lucky, though, when they get into a little trouble, they'll have a middle reliever nearby to help them bring home the victory.

Middle/Long Relievers
In baseball, middle relievers are firemen. They come in during the middle innings when the starter gets in a jam and methodically work their way out of it. The largest part of their success comes from the change of style, as no two pitchers really bring the same stuff. If the opposing team had gotten to the starter, it will take some time to adjust to the middle reliever's style. The new pitcher throws the batters off a little bit. Middle relievers are talented pitchers by their own right, and they are also called long relievers because they can work several innings if necessary. However, they are the forgotten men in the pitching staff because they are rarely on the mound at the beginning or the end of the game. Once in a great while, a middle reliever will finish a game. Middle relievers are also sometimes pressed into starting duty, usually due to an injury or other absence of a normal starter. They can have some limited success in this role, but not for long, and usually only setting things up for a closer. They almost never pitch a complete game.

In dating, middle relievers work the same way. They come in to save the situation when the starter gets in trouble. The middle relievers are typically good conversationalists. They can talk to girls. Unlike starters, who mostly ask girls questions, middle relievers actively participate in the conversation, taking some of the burden off of the girls. That is the change of style that throws the girls off just a little bit. The middle relievers can often keep this up for a while. Make no mistake, though. The girls are rarely interested in the middle relievers, probably because they talk too much. Furthermore, middle relievers are terrible at flirting. They just don't really grasp the concept. They think their conversation is flirtatious, but they are wrong. Every now and then, a middle reliever will parlay the change of pace he brings into a victory of his own. It's rare, though, and it often happens when he lucks into a good bit of flirting that he couldn't possibly recreate if you paid him. In a small breakdown of the metaphor, the middle reliever often hands the game back over to the starter when his work is done. However, just as often, a closer is brought in to finish the game.

Because of their firefighting abilities and their knack for conversation, middle relievers are the best wingmen in the world. They smooth things over when the starter fatigues, runs out of questions to ask, starts looking at other women, etc. They can also occasionally make a start to introduce their boys to a group of girls. They can hold down a conversation with the friend of a girl a starter is battling, and sometimes they just make the starter look better by being who they are.

Closers
Closers in baseball are just what they sound like. They slam the door on the other team and secure the victory. They are often live-armed fireballers who bring the heat. They work fast and don't waste any time. You rarely see a closer use a full wind-up, instead efficiently pitching from the stretch. There are also some breaking ball and changeup closers, but they are less common. Those guys are sneaky good, though.

In dating, the closers come in late in the game, take girls home, and have sex with them. Occasionally, they end up dating a girl, but it's uncommon. That's usually left to the starters and middle relievers. It's all about the quick hitter for the closers. They are typically the best looking, most charismatic guys around, but they have no patience for prolonged interaction. They want to get to the endgame quickly. That's why they rarely work without a good starter or middle reliever or, ideally, both. They come in with some jokes, some shots, a charming smile, a roofie -- whatever -- and finish the job. The best ones only get into trouble if they are pressed into action too early. Their stuff often doesn't hold up over time. There are a few guys who are closers that you just can't figure out. They're not especially good looking or charming, but they have something that works for them. They are the breaking ball and changeup closers of the dating world. They have a stealth mack that just works.

There are a couple of important things to note here (thanks, Lawton). In the dating world, there really aren't any managers (with a couple of exceptions that aren't all that important). As a result, starters and relievers often end up trying things they would never do if a manger was running the show. Also, a guy/pitcher almost never has a home game in the dating world. Finally, most non-closers have a grudging respect for closers. The respect is because they all wish they could be closers, and the grudging is because their envy inspires them to hate the closers and consider them punk bitches who don't have to do any work.

Feel free to tell me I'm wrong, but it will take some convincing. The dating world is baseball, and guys are the pitchers. All you guys who read this were thinking about which type of pitcher you are. You girls have been thinking about guys you've dated and where they fit in. The metaphor probably needs some fine tuning, but the broad strokes are dead on. Discuss amongst yourselves.

Oh, for those of you who have to ask, I'm a middle reliever.

Web Watching the Wash

There are sooo many reasons I think the Internet makes the world a better and more fun place, it's hard to think of which is the most significant. It's been a lot of fun embracing and adapting to so many of the new developments over the years. These days, I almost never buy stamps because I can pay bills online, I can use Google to find the answer to almost any question I ever have, I can chat with people around the world at little or no cost, and I can always find out what movie that guy has been in. That's just to name a few of them, and there are new things coming out all the time.

This article talks about one that would have made my college life so much better: online access to the status of university laundry facilities and machines that text message you when their cycle is ending. I can't even imagine the number of times I went to do my laundry in college only to find that there were no machines available, meaning I had to carry my stuff back home or, in an emergency, to another laundry place. What a complete waste of time! How great would it be to be able to look online to see how many washers were in use? And how great would it be to feel free to not hover over the machine so you could be there when it was finished, either to avoid someone hijacking your machine and unceremoniously dumping your newly washed clothes on the floor (typically in a puddle of used motor oil mixed with Quik-Krete brand cement mix) or (for the go-getters and anal retentives of the world) to quickly remove your things to avoid those dreaded wrinkles.

Of course, this development might mean that the laundry room will always be devoid of people except for those brief moments when they need to start, shift, or remove their loads of laundry. That in turn might ruin the over-romanticized notion of meeting potential dates and/or hookups while doing laundry. But I'm thinking the Internet will probably provide lots of ways for people to find dates and hookups.

Tidbits from a Hero

In case you didn't know it, Dave Barry is without question one of my heroes. He's witty, clever, and often downright silly. Plus, he gets paid well to write funny things. I reckon that's good work if you can get it. Anyway, I've never known another author who could make me laugh out loud as much as he does. Unfortunately, he's currently on sabbatical from writing his column. However, he does update his blog (with the help of others), and it is a treasure trove of random and weird things. For instance, this woman gives new meaning to the idea of having a sucky day. Also, I don't think I could have ever imagined a headline this good. It's nice to know that he and his alert readers are on the job.

Sandpaper Smooth

So I've recognized before that women can be smooth. Of course, the point was not that I originally thought that women were bumbling clods; the point was that, the way things work, women very rarely have to behave in a way that will expose whether they are smooth or not.I would think it’s much easier to react than to act, and the onus of action – at least initially – is typically placed on guys. As a result, guys are forever taking the risk that they will, metaphorically speaking, trip over the curb of bumbling, fall down, and split their chin open as it cracks into the sidewalk of rejection. Then again, maybe that whole tripping and falling thing would be a good approach. Ron Livingston’s character in Two Ninas was able to parlay a trip to the hospital caused by Amanda Peet’s character into a date. But I digress. The point is that guys approaching women often run the risk of coming across as idiots.

Last Thursday, I went out with some friends. Actually, we were returning to the scene of the meeting with the girl who just would not go away. I guess we figured the place had to treat us better this time since it treated us so poorly before. This time, we enjoyed the stylings of a local cover band (inside, not on the rooftop). During the night, a guy I know was sort of talking to/standing near a girl he met there while the band was playing. He was being chided by a girl in our group to get this girl’s number immediately. The guy thought that he should never ask for the number before the end of the night, because what do you do after that? But he had to admit that the longer he waited, the more chance there was that this girl would leave, get hit on by another guy, or possibly both. So he says to her between songs, “Listen, I’m gonna disappear to go to the restroom, and I don’t want to miss you if you leave while I’m gone. So I’m wondering: could I give you a call sometime?”

Let’s think about that for a second. This guy is asking for her number before it’s time to go. He’s not at all sure that’s a good idea. So he’s looking to make an excuse for why he’s doing it when he is. Paraphrasing a bit, he said to this girl, “I gotta take a piss. Can I have your number?” I don’t know a whole lot about these things, but that doesn’t seem especially smooth to me. In fact, it seems to be the opposite of smooth.

However, as proof that I don’t know what I’m talking about, the girl gave him her number. I guess sometimes it just doesn’t matter whether you’re smooth or not. So now you have a new line to try for fun: “I gotta take a piss. Can I have your number?” Let me know if it works.

Three Jennifers

As much as I hate to give props to them, it sounds like Fox might have a good segment this year in “Ten Yards with TB.” I talked with the Big Head Kid today, and he was telling me about it. According to the BHK, the gist is that Terry Bradshaw sits down with different football players and coaches and asks them random and/or silly questions, has them play word-association games (TB: “Playoffs” Ben Roethlisberger: “Disappointing.”), and generally tries to amuse himself and the home viewers.

One of those segments recently featured the Redskins’ Clinton Portis. Terry asked Clinton, “Which Jennifer: Lopez, Garner, or Aniston?” [Aside: I think this is an excellent question, but a hard one to answer. It deserves some serious thought and more discussion than I am going to give it in an aside. However, the short answer is … I can’t do it. I’ll have to answer this later.] Portis said that he didn’t know who Jennifer Garner is. Terry told him that she is dating/married to/shagging/with [I don’t know what exactly he said, and I don’t really know which is appropriate. I can only hope he pointed out that she was once the hot, cute, and charming star of Alias, but I’m not counting on it.] Ben Affleck. Portis replied that he thought Ben Affleck ought to go for Aniston, ‘cause then he’d have been with all 3.

Later, Terry asked Portis what he would do if he didn’t play football. Portis said, “I’d be Ben Affleck so I could date those 3 Jennifers.”

Apparently, Clinton got jokes.

Do these words really go together?

In the car on the way to an off-site meeting with a co-worker the other day, we were listening to a CD of a comedian. This comedian probably has a name, but I have no idea what it is. He claims to have been born in Australia, but he moved to New York when he was 12. Maybe that explains his interesting and colorful phraseology. When describing something that frightened him he used the following words: "When I first saw that, it scared the ass out of me." He also used it again in slightly modified form, saying that something "annoyed the ass out of [him]."

That's a sequence of words that might very well never have occurred to me if left to my own devices. However, now that I've encountered it, thanks to this funny Aussie-cum-New Yorker, I love it. I'm adopting it as part of the official Abs argot.

The Wedding Dilemma

In case you didn't know it, I'm something of an expert on attending weddings. It's not because I've been married or because I'm a closet wedding planner or even because I secretly think about what it would be like to get married all the time. It's because I have attended a lot of them. I've lost the exact count, and it hurts my weak, little brain to try to recount, but I've been to somewhere between 25 and 30 weddings since college. I've been a participant in about 20% of those weddings, whether doing a reading, being the best man, or just standing dapperly in the homey line. Either way, that's a lot of weddings to go to. I suppose I could be considered a good luck charm, too, as none of the couples whose weddings I've attended have gotten divorced. [Knocks loudly on wooden desk.]

The truth is that weddings are kind of old hat at this point, but I still enjoy them quite a bit. Part of it is that I enjoy being around people so filled with promise about their new lives together. Part of it is that everyone at a wedding is just so doggone happy. It's such a nice change of pace. Part of it, though, is the dancing.

It sounds very funny, and I don't really like to toot my own horn very much, but I'm going to do it anyway. As Jeremy Grey (played by Vince Vaughn) of Wedding Crashers so aptly put it, "You and I both know I'm a phenomenal dancer." It's true. I don't mean that I'm a world class rump-shaker (although I might have done a mean Humpty Dance at one point in my life). It's the swing dancing. I'm not world class at it, either, but you'd be hard-pressed to find someone who does it better at any given wedding I'm attending.

One would think that the dancing really has the potential to make me look good. And one would probably be right. If it can be unleashed as a surprise, it's especially powerful. At the wedding I went to last weekend, I agreed to accompany a girl sitting next to me out onto the dance floor. The scenario that unfolded from that point onward is a fairly standard one for me. Because it’s early in the reception, most people aren’t yet drunk enough to venture out on the dance floor. So it’s me and my partner alongside maybe a couple from the bridal party and two or three elderly couples (who always still have the moves). It’s usually the second spin or the first dip that gets my partner’s attention (think of a facial expression equivalent of Susan Sarandon’s “Oh, my,” in Bull Durham), and the move after that that really draws in the spectators. Because they aren’t yet drunk enough to venture onto the floor themselves, and because my partner and I look a tad incongruous next to the sober, old folk, the guests are watching us, and they are more than a little surprised at the smoothness on display. The photographer will make his way over before long to snap some shots that no one wants in the wedding album. If there’s a video guy, he’s definitely filming us, and that will make the final cut.. Heading off the floor at the end of the song, my partner is a bit flushed and beaming in her pleasant surprise, while I try to diminish my somewhat self-satisfied grin that results both from the fact that my partner had no idea that she would enjoy the dance that much and from the fact that the people who turned to watch at my table, along with a few random others, are applauding. It’s a Good Thing.

Considering that this particular wedding was attended by more young, attractive, single women than any other one I've been to, I thought I was off to a pretty good start. Dinner hadn't even been served yet.

However, the whole dancing thing is really a double-edged sword. First, all the married women I know put themselves on the card pretty early. Plus, it's just not a wedding to me until I dance with the bride. Then, I usually dance with a few other girls. And those are just the partner-up dances. Usually someone convinces me to join them for just some random twitching around the dance floor.

I'm sure some of you are thinking that sounds like a lot of fun, and those of you with a Y-chromosome are seriously questioning my sexual orientation. Be that as it may, it can cause me troubles because I have a serious problem: I sweat like a thoroughbred. Seriously, I don't know why or how, but it doesn't take much to get me to start schvitzing. One song is usually enough to give me a bright patina of perspiration on my brow. Two songs and it's starting to flow. After that it's big trouble.

By the end of the night, I am invariably a soggy, sodden, dripping mess, and the very act that literally inspired applause at the beginning of the night leads to restrained grimaces of revulsion by the end of the reception. It’s not just my prospective partners. I think it’s gross, too.

This wedding was no different. I worked at breaking up my trips to the dance floor. I tried to sit outside and talk to people. But I didn’t know that many people there, and eventually all the people I wanted to talk to were on the dance floor anyway, leaving me no enjoyable choice but to join them.

So I find myself in the position of a wedding-ized Hamlet, holding up my drenched dress shirt and suit the next day thinking: “Alas, Wedding Abs, I know him well. To dance, or not to dance? That is the question.”

Maybe it’s sort of like drinking. I dance too much early, and by the end of the night, I’m just a puddle. I need to manage it better. Maybe I need someone to cut me off and make me switch to water for a while. I suppose if some fine young lass would drag me off to the bar to actually get me to drink more (ideally with an eye toward taking advantage of me) rather than dragging me onto the dance floor, this wouldn’t be an issue. But that’s not the way things tend to work out. Maybe I just need to wait to start the dancing about 30 minutes before the reception is over, but bring it quick and strong, like throwing down a couple of shots before last call. Maybe I just need to quit the dancing entirely and immediately. At least it couldn't drag me down if I did that.

I clearly don’t know what the best approach is. So for now I deal with both sides of the coin: built up by the schwerve, torn down by the schvitz.

Wedding Weekend

My last weekend was an excellent one. The fact that it was 4 days long helped, of course. But it also involved a trip to Greenwich, CT, for a wedding, and the whole stretch was quite nice. Even the 10 hours of driving didn't really take away from it.

It started out with a dinner party in honor of the bride and groom at a family friend's house in Greenwich on Thursday. I knew about 4 people there, including the bride and groom, but it was fun anyway. The bartender kept bringing me a new beer every time mine was empty, so it was hard to go wrong. Plus, the catering staff were walking around the patio with lobster nachos, coconut shrimp, and mini cheeseburgers for hors d'oeuvres. Mini cheeseburgers! At dinner, I sat next to a woman who might have been the wedding coordinator. Or she may not have been. I do know that, when I claimed to be a freeloader (which she believed since I wasn't part of the wedding party), she told me she wouldn't let me into the reception if I wasn't at the church. There's nothing quite like being threatened by an eccentric, older woman you don't know.

Friday, I drove out to Pomptom Plains, NJ, to play golf with my friend, Big Daddy. It was great and awful. Great to see Big Daddy and to hit the links. Awful to shoot a 108. Big Daddy shot a 76 and was irked. Sometimes, I hate that guy.

Saturday morning, we got to play 9 holes at Round Hill, where golf is really just strolling and swinging, since you have caddies to carry your bag. It was fun, and I even played better. However, the lesson I took away is that you should ask the caddy for a club and have him give it to you. That way, you can avoid accidentally pulling the wrong club for your approach to the 9th green and nearly killing the father of the groom as your ball arcs gracefully over the flagstick, flies the green, and hits the road 3 feet from the groom's dad before bouncing onto the roof of this very nice clubhouse. (Yes, I know there are numbers and letters on the soles of the clubhead. I have no idea how or why I pulled the wrong one.)

The wedding was gorgeous. Everything about it was elegant and classy. Well, maybe not the part where the church had no air conditioning, but some would argue that's a touch of old-school class. The reception was at a yacht club, the weather was nice, and the band was excellent. This wedding was classy enough that the band mercifully avoided playing all of the Big Four wedding dance songs (Electric Slide, Hokey Pokey, Macarena, and YMCA; if you're from northern OH or PA, substitute the Chicken Dance for the Macarena.) Plus, I've never been to a wedding so completely chock-full of good looking women. And the bride and groom were the picture of beauty.

A nice brunch on Sunday, during which I chased Scotty's little dude all around the yard, was a nice lead-in for the drive home that showed me two things I hadn't seen before.

First, traffic slowed way down on 95 South (that I had seen plenty). It was to rubberneck the goings-on on the other side of 95 (also a common sight). What was unusual to me was that, amidst a noticeably large cloud of dust and dirt in the air, I saw a woman rubbing a man's arm on the side of the interstate near some cars pulled to the side of the road, obviously saying comforting things to him. He was clearly freaked out by something. (That's a bit unusual, but not something I hadn't seen before.) As I wondered what was freaking him out, I saw a car (a Cadillac STS, I think) resting askew across the two right lanes. The thing I hadn't seen before was that it was resting on its roof and hood, all four wheels pointed at the sky and spinning, like a cockroach that had been flipped on its back and couldn't move.

That sight made me think it was about time to stop for a soda. As I did, I saw the second new-to-me sight: not one, but two people, asked me for gas money as I walked in and out of the service area building. I guess gas prices really are high. Flustered by these developments, I spied a sign that said "MEN" and headed in to relieve myself. I stopped short and flushed (no pun intended) pretty quickly, though, because the view from the doorway indicated that the part of the sign I had read was just the second part of "WOMEN." I am clearly an idiot.

Despite the strange and idiotic, finish, I hope all your wedding weekends can be as good. May the location be picturesque, may the food be tasty, may the dancing be smooth, may the eye candy be plentiful, and may you never see or hear the Macarena again.

Guy Behavior Oppressed

Some people think that guy behavior is lewd, crude, and socially unacceptable. And maybe they have a point. Still, we're kind of used to it by now, and it can be amusing at times. Plus, there are some women in the world who want a guy to be a guy, like this lovely girl. As someone who definitely qualifies as "slightly irregular," I have to appreciate her take on the situation. But we're not really talking about metrosexuality here. We're talking about things guys do in public. For instance, Jen seems somewhat vitriolic aobut the whole idea of spitting. It's unpleasant and even a little gross, but is it really that big of a deal? I could get behind it if she suggested one shouldn't spit on benches or or first dates or even sidewalks. But the whole outdoors? That seems a bit extreme to me. That said, given her strong feelings on the subject of spitting, I bet she thinks this guy got off easy. There's no question that it's tough on a man these days. And it's lucky she wrote that down. If she had said it out loud, I probably wouldn't even have heard her.

Still, what I take from that article is that when one must consider the world his toilet, he should aim for a compost heap.

Shoot the Hostage: Part Deux.1

I mentioned before about the experience that made me realize that it's possible for women to be smooth. So I suppose it's only fitting that I would now tell you about the experience that proved to me that guys don't have a monopoly on annoying and boorish behavior, either.

Last Thursday, I was having a drink with a few friends on a rooftop bar in Arlington. As it turned out, it was an eminently pleasant night -- one that really didn't belong in the DC area in July. The humidity was low, the temperature was moderate, Ryan was bringing me beers, and the company was good. I was sitting at a table near the railing at edge of the roof and talking with my friends Mike and Jenn. This wasn't one of those obscenely loud bars where you have to shout to talk to the person next to you. We were able to converse at normal volumes. I don't really know what we were talking about, but it could have been anything from whether guys really like Asian women to making up bold and ludicrous lies about each other's deviant sexual practices. It was really somewhat innocuous, standard bar talk. But it didn't last too long.

Suddenly, our conversation was interrupted by a bottle of beer and a small purse being thunked down on our table, followed by their owner asking, "DO YOU MIND IF I PUT THESE HERE FOR A MINUTE?" Startled mute by the unnecessary volume of her question, we all kind of shook our heads as she started digging into her purse and started having what might have been the loudest cell phone conversation ever. I don't know why she bothered with the electronics, as I'm sure the other person could have heard her without using the phone. This conversation went something like this:

"BLAH BLAH BLAH WHATEVER BLAH BLAH BLAH MY BOYFRIEND ... [pause] ... BLAH BLAH BLAH MY BOYFRIEND'S NOT COMING HERE HE'S IN COLLEGE PARK BLAH BLAH NO WAY I'M GOING TO COLLEGE PARK BLAH BLAH BLAH..."

Jenn, Mike, and I tried to go back to our conversation, but we couldn't seem to talk over this woman's conversation. We were looking at each other, half gaping and half grinning about the improbability of the situation and the sheer bumptiousness of this chick.

[Aside: Since I know some of you can think of nothing else, I will say that I don't really remember what the girl looked like. The image of her is completely clouded by the experience. I can say that she was blonde, and when she first came over, I thought she was not bad looking.]

Her conversation seemed to go on forever, but it was probably more like 5 minutes. At some point while it was going on, Ryan returned to the table with beers for everyone. Around that time, I started thinking that this was quite possibly the loudest and single most annoying woman on the face of the planet. To put it mildly, I wanted her to leave. At that point, I had a brainstorm. I could get her to leave! I'm quite adept at chasing women away, often without trying or even wanting them to go. If I concentrated on it a little bit, I could have her out of here in a jiffy.

I kind of smiled about it and eyed her purse, saying to Mike (although struggling to talk over the new chick's yammering), "Should I just throw her purse off the roof?"

He looked longingly at the nearby railing, laughed and said, "I'll give you a hundred dollars if you do."

I was seriously interested now, but I hesitated for some reason. "A hundred and ten," Mike offered. I couldn't pass that up. However, at that moment, the annoying girl got off the phone grabbed her purse, and ended my chance to get rid of her and make some money in the process.

---

Maybe the girl took our bemused and aghast looks as inviting ones, because she started talking to us. Something she said after about 30 seconds inspired me to say, "Well, if you're gonna come over here to get on the phone and talk about your boyfriend, that's not something we especially want to hear." I thought that would irk her enough to send her packing. Instead, she started off with, "MY BOYFRIEND IS GREAT -"

At that point, Ryan interrupted, pointing out, "But he's not worth a trip to College Park?"

"Well, you know, that's College Park. You know how it is. It's way up there in College Park." [I'm abandoning the caps because 1) she toned it down a tiny notch and 2) I can't stand them.]

"But your boyfriend can't be all that great if you won't even travel to the other side of the Beltway for him," I argued.

She started to respond, "My boyfriend is so great. He was my best friend for over a year, while I was dating models and rich lawyers and that sort of thing..." [No I am not making that up. She really said it.]

I was sure this gave me the key to her exit. A little Chris Rock would be sure to send her away. "So he's an emergency dick," I said. Jenn gaped at me. Mike nearly spit out his beer.

"WHAT???!!! NO! He's not an emergency dick! What does that even mean?"

"Well, you were dating models and rich lawyers while he was your best friend, probably listening to you complain about how they didn't treat you right. He was like a dick in a glass case. You know: break only in case of emergency."

I thought that was decently offensive and definitely not inviting of more conversation, but she thought she needed to argue the point, starting out with, "No, it's more like I recognized what was right there before my eyes."

"Oh, don't go all Survivor on me," I said, somewhat incredulously. She then proceeded to engage the rest of the group in lots of talking about why her boyfriend was great, how he was definitely not an emergency dick, and how there was no way she would go to College Park to see him because everyone needs some time to themselves and "if he wants to see me, he can come here, you know?" This went on for a very long time. Actually, it could have been only two minutes, but it seemed like a very long time. She didn't really give me much of an opening for a while. However, everyone else at the table was subtly clubbing her the whole time.

After a while, she said, "I feel like you guys think I'm retarded. It's like you're all laughing at me like I'm retarded." [Yes, she said 'retarded.' More than once in the same paragraph.]

There it was: an opening. I needed to choose wisely. Last time, I invited argument. I was too subtle. I decided to try a more direct attack this time: "So why don't you leave?"

That had to do it, right? Surely, no one would stick around after being treated to that kind of rudeness. Right? Wrong! She stuck around. I have no idea what she said in response. I was too dumbfounded that she didn't walk away in a huff. I went back to eyeing her purse (which she wouldn't put back on the table) and pondering the situation. She eventually left. I have no idea how or why. Naturally, she was replaced shortly thereafter by another girl who was trying to come across as the cool, saucy chick, but who mostly impressed us as someone who just would not shut the hell up. All in all, it was a tough night to be sober.

To bring the post's title back into play here, I was the hostage in this scenario. If it were you, would you shoot yourself? How would you get her to leave? What do you do?

Terror's New Weapon

I know I haven't finished my story, but I couldn't pass this one up. I am all about the idea that we should all be vigilant and report suspicious activites, but it seems like mabye someone went a bit overboard here. Maybe the driver thought it was some sort of environmental or chemical warfare device. Sounds like he's not too chuffed (ha!) about the way the whole thing turned out.

Don't call me... I'm dead

Since I was in middle school, I've heard people say that the three most expensive things one does in life are being born, getting married, and dying. (I reckon the people who have said that have never been divorced. But I digress.) I suppose the good part is that, if you're lucky, someone else often pays for those things. Still, it seems to me that dying is enough of a pain for you and those who have to deal with it. It shouldn't be expensive to boot. But apparently there is now a reason it might be just a little more expensive: the Direct Marketing Association is now maintaining a Deceased Do-Not-Contact list. You can put your dearly departed loved ones on it for only $1. Can you think of a reason not to just shut off their phone and close their email accounts?