I know what you’re thinking. “Ah Jesus, I hate baseball!” Shut up! You think I haven’t noticed the large population that doesn’t like baseball? My poor wife has been forced to put up a pretty convincing façade for the last couple of seasons, which basically involved me sneaking up on her and putting her in an arm lock until she could tell me who was pitching today’s game. We’re both hoping I find a local baseball friend.
There are different levels of not liking baseball, most of which involve some level of blaming a “slowness” of the game. What irritates me to no end is in the same breath I’ll get told the intricacies’ of baseball are too boring to hold enough appeal to maintain any level of interest—but hey did you see the big golf tournament this weekend? Or the NASCAR race?
There’s the situational dislike where one can enjoy the sport if one is part of the crowd at the live event, but it is boring. But you have to be dead in that certain spot inside to be the guy who doesn’t like going out to a live sporting event and watching the teams compete.
Some people can enjoy the sport on TV, but only in the presence of a crowd—typically you need at leas three real fan’s to bolster this person’s willingness to get into the televised game. And booze—never underestimate the fist pumping effect of booze.
And of course, there are those who claim to understand baseball they just don’t get it. Which, I’m afraid is a whole other rant—because this is more or less a way of them saying “Ok, I’m smart enough I could understand baseball, I’m just not interested enough to learn the rules.”
So yes, there are boring qualities to baseball—but all sports have that. Football has rapid fire commercial after commercial, basketball takes three quarters to set up, and hockey isn’t 100% brawling on ice skates.
One thing that has me scratching my head this year is the whole “Opening Day” thing. On the one hand, the Boston Red Sox and the Oakland Athletics played two of their regular season games, but on the other hand it was untelevised and in Japan. I’m getting worried as what seems to be underlying greed is dictating the flow of baseball.
Last night, the Braves played Nationals in D.C.’s brand new baseball stadium, which means every time something happened, I got to hear to the phrase, “And that was the first _____ ever here in D.C.” First hit, first strike out, first walk…the list goes on and on. It was the only game on, which is typical for baseball’s opening day.
Soiling the event for me though was president Bush. Not only did he throw out the first pitch to the a mixed roar or chears and definite boos, but he sat up in the booth for a few innings, mentioning how he was the president of the Texas Rangers at some point in his past. The less the Bush family’s involvement with baseball can be pointed out for me the better. Now I have to hate the Ranger’s on principle.
It was a good game though, the Nats won in the 10th inning on a solo homerun from their third basemen, Zimmerman—for first time ever in the new ballpark! Really, the Nationals are a shitty team, so them winning in extra innings is usually reason enough to get a little crazy.
Today, all the other teams are playing their first games. My Dbacks are playing the Cincinnati Reds for their first game of the year. I’ll be at work, listening to the game via internet radio and a paid subscription. I’d pay more to watch the games, but for some reason I am blacked out. I’ll be at the office while the game is on though; which means I get to subject myself to the reaction of people as they find out not only do I like baseball; I listen to games on the radio.
So, to all the fans and non fans alike, celebrating the love or turning the cold shoulder of indifference—one thing is for sure, after today, it’s about 160 games to go! And since half the teams are on the road, there are still fan’s waiting for the home opener!
Maybe that’s what I like about baseball. It never ends.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Thursday, March 27, 2008
I Still Hate Gau
The first time I played Final Fantasy 6 was on my 16th birthday. It was on the Super Nintendo, and it was called Final Fantasy 3. The names were all CAPS, and all the attacks had different names.
I beat the game a few times and it quickly became my favorite in a series I would eventually fall out of love with. It’s me Final Fantasy, not you. Ok, that’s a lie. I just don’t need all the flashy graphics—I need a more compelling story.
Being an admitted sucker, I bought the game again as part of a collection for the Playstation. It said Final Fantasy VI on the title screen. Now included were cinematics at the beginning and end of the game, a bestiary of all the monsters and as a bonus, annoying load times whenever you left orentered a town, or on the rare occation wanted to view your party screen.
I bought it a third time. Now, it’s Final Fantasy VI Advance. Gone are the load times and CGI cinematic, but still remaining is the bestiary. The names of the characters aren’t all in caps anymore, and some of the names are spelled a little different (Saban is now Sabin).
That’s not why I bought the game though. I grew up with video games. My first system was an Atari. I can’t help but be old school—so old school I don’t even spell old school “old skool. I’m part of the collective nostalgia of gamers is selling so well.
I can’t lie; I love my Game Boy Advance. I used to take paperbacks with me everywhere I went, just in case I had to entertain myself (it’s that or converse with people!). GBA’s are even smaller than your average paperback—it’s a bit bigger than a pad of post it’s. There’s something sexy about always having a SNES in my pocket.
My nostalgia has gotten the better of me, because I had a thorough blast with this game. I handed Kefka his obnoxious head back to him to and avenged the world, which opened up two new bonus levels, including an increadibly hard Dragon’s Den. How hard? Basicly, maxing out your level isn’t a strategy as much as a requirement. Be prepared for insanely hard random monsters topped off with a fight with a very powerful Dragon preventing you from going to the next floor.
I’m hoping for some strong poo sessions to probel me through this dungeon. So far though, I’ve been regular old me, which is enough to wander around and take out a few bad guys. But, the save anywhere feature limits me to use this as any sort of excuse.
Personally, I think the only way they could have improved on this game is by giving you the option of killing Gau. It’s ironic that Gau’s only form of attack is Rage, as this is all having him in the party seems to cause me.
For the non-gaming readers; Gau is the Wheely of Transformers, the Orioles of Baseball, the Heat of Basketball, the Utah of the United States…you should get it by now.
I beat the game a few times and it quickly became my favorite in a series I would eventually fall out of love with. It’s me Final Fantasy, not you. Ok, that’s a lie. I just don’t need all the flashy graphics—I need a more compelling story.
Being an admitted sucker, I bought the game again as part of a collection for the Playstation. It said Final Fantasy VI on the title screen. Now included were cinematics at the beginning and end of the game, a bestiary of all the monsters and as a bonus, annoying load times whenever you left orentered a town, or on the rare occation wanted to view your party screen.
I bought it a third time. Now, it’s Final Fantasy VI Advance. Gone are the load times and CGI cinematic, but still remaining is the bestiary. The names of the characters aren’t all in caps anymore, and some of the names are spelled a little different (Saban is now Sabin).
That’s not why I bought the game though. I grew up with video games. My first system was an Atari. I can’t help but be old school—so old school I don’t even spell old school “old skool. I’m part of the collective nostalgia of gamers is selling so well.
I can’t lie; I love my Game Boy Advance. I used to take paperbacks with me everywhere I went, just in case I had to entertain myself (it’s that or converse with people!). GBA’s are even smaller than your average paperback—it’s a bit bigger than a pad of post it’s. There’s something sexy about always having a SNES in my pocket.
My nostalgia has gotten the better of me, because I had a thorough blast with this game. I handed Kefka his obnoxious head back to him to and avenged the world, which opened up two new bonus levels, including an increadibly hard Dragon’s Den. How hard? Basicly, maxing out your level isn’t a strategy as much as a requirement. Be prepared for insanely hard random monsters topped off with a fight with a very powerful Dragon preventing you from going to the next floor.
I’m hoping for some strong poo sessions to probel me through this dungeon. So far though, I’ve been regular old me, which is enough to wander around and take out a few bad guys. But, the save anywhere feature limits me to use this as any sort of excuse.
Personally, I think the only way they could have improved on this game is by giving you the option of killing Gau. It’s ironic that Gau’s only form of attack is Rage, as this is all having him in the party seems to cause me.
For the non-gaming readers; Gau is the Wheely of Transformers, the Orioles of Baseball, the Heat of Basketball, the Utah of the United States…you should get it by now.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Part II: The Fall of Meathead
I’m all for breaking the rules. But I’m also very much for not getting caught. In fact the latter dictates my willingness to commit the former. Meathead has a different set of rules.
While he served an off shift coworker and her giggling friends, Meathead thought he would up his awesome points with the ladies by “forgetting” to ring up their drinks and sneaking in a free appetizer. I think it made him feel good to flex his bicep with the motion of setting it down and slyly whispering, “It’s on the house.” I bet he’s got a great wink because he’s just so smooth.
Somehow in the course of restaurant history manager’s have picked up on this little exchange. I’ve worked in kitchens where employees did not eat free—unless you were in good with the cooks. That was on shift though. Not out on the serving floor.
Another manager than my own Mrs. Bastard was on shift. Somehow, he was able to walk past the table of giggling girls and notice they were drinking sodas and sharing an appetizer. Somehow he was able to check out their check after they left. Somehow he was able to decipher not all items were on the check.
Sitting down in the small manager’s office, the confronted Meathead plays it smooth. “No way they got drinks. There’s just no way. I might have forgotten to ring in the appetizer.”
To which the manager replied, “Sure, ok. We’re letting you go.”
Meathead is smooth though. He knows his rights. No way you can get fired for giving shit away. That’s barely, technically, a definition for stealing.
“I’ll sue. I’m suing you.”
Here’s the best part. If Meathead had simply served the food and rang everything in and then applied the employee discount, the end total of the check would have been less than the check he brought them. Granted, that’s less impressive maybe to the girls he was winking at. But he ended up costing the giggling girls more and got fired for his trouble.
Rest in peace, oh mighty Meathead.
While he served an off shift coworker and her giggling friends, Meathead thought he would up his awesome points with the ladies by “forgetting” to ring up their drinks and sneaking in a free appetizer. I think it made him feel good to flex his bicep with the motion of setting it down and slyly whispering, “It’s on the house.” I bet he’s got a great wink because he’s just so smooth.
Somehow in the course of restaurant history manager’s have picked up on this little exchange. I’ve worked in kitchens where employees did not eat free—unless you were in good with the cooks. That was on shift though. Not out on the serving floor.
Another manager than my own Mrs. Bastard was on shift. Somehow, he was able to walk past the table of giggling girls and notice they were drinking sodas and sharing an appetizer. Somehow he was able to check out their check after they left. Somehow he was able to decipher not all items were on the check.
Sitting down in the small manager’s office, the confronted Meathead plays it smooth. “No way they got drinks. There’s just no way. I might have forgotten to ring in the appetizer.”
To which the manager replied, “Sure, ok. We’re letting you go.”
Meathead is smooth though. He knows his rights. No way you can get fired for giving shit away. That’s barely, technically, a definition for stealing.
“I’ll sue. I’m suing you.”
Here’s the best part. If Meathead had simply served the food and rang everything in and then applied the employee discount, the end total of the check would have been less than the check he brought them. Granted, that’s less impressive maybe to the girls he was winking at. But he ended up costing the giggling girls more and got fired for his trouble.
Rest in peace, oh mighty Meathead.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Part I: The Rise of Meathead
Mrs. Bastard manages at a chain restaurant—money and insurance, hell yeah. A fringe benefit is that when I stumble in and demand free food I get it without having to pull out a gun. Any unfortunate being with me—typically a coworker I’ve blackmailed, gets a descent discount on their meal.
One such occasion found me, a co-worker and two of his buddies in a booth enjoying the lazy kind of lunch in which you’re in no hurry to get back to the office. The two buddies had just opened up their own carpentry business—literally, they had got the keys to their shop that day.
I was feeling generous (and probably a little drunk) so I decided to pick up the check to celebrate the new business. It came to a little over $14. I shoved a twenty dollar bill at our server when he brought the check—enter Meathead.
He was a manly man with a barbed wire band tattoo on his bicep which was hard to miss with his sleeve rolled up. He had a weight lifter’s arms-out posture and a bleached teeth smile. His hair was a moussed up spike job on hair too long to be spiked, so the tips wilted and bounced as he moved. It was too dark to tell if his tan was a fake-bake job or the result of sitting in an UV illuminated coffin.
My coworker threw in the tip and I added the change from the bill to it to make it bigger; just for fun. We left our $15 on the table and were on our way.
I’m at work for about an hour when my wife calls. “Hi Honey! Did you leave a tip earlier?”
“Um, yeah, a pretty big one. Fifteen bucks.”
“Ok,” she laughed a little knowing laugh.“All I needed to know,” and she got off the phone (after some phone sex).
Meathead forgot he already took the money for our check—and our large tip confused him to no end. He thought we left him change for a tip. My wife calmly explained the mistake. Meathead refused to believe he had somehow misinterpreted reality—why did this keep happening to him?
Even at the end of the day when people who had served me before assured him there was no way I would have stiffed him, he still believed.
Even after he counted up his tip money and being pleasantly surprised when the amount was larger than expected, as he hadn’t had too many tables this day, he believed. In the face of all the contradictory facts he held firm (see what Christianity is doing to dumb people!).
Why?
Why does the bird take to the air! Why does the cat chase bits of yarn! Why are boobs so fucking cool!
Such is meathead!
One such occasion found me, a co-worker and two of his buddies in a booth enjoying the lazy kind of lunch in which you’re in no hurry to get back to the office. The two buddies had just opened up their own carpentry business—literally, they had got the keys to their shop that day.
I was feeling generous (and probably a little drunk) so I decided to pick up the check to celebrate the new business. It came to a little over $14. I shoved a twenty dollar bill at our server when he brought the check—enter Meathead.
He was a manly man with a barbed wire band tattoo on his bicep which was hard to miss with his sleeve rolled up. He had a weight lifter’s arms-out posture and a bleached teeth smile. His hair was a moussed up spike job on hair too long to be spiked, so the tips wilted and bounced as he moved. It was too dark to tell if his tan was a fake-bake job or the result of sitting in an UV illuminated coffin.
My coworker threw in the tip and I added the change from the bill to it to make it bigger; just for fun. We left our $15 on the table and were on our way.
I’m at work for about an hour when my wife calls. “Hi Honey! Did you leave a tip earlier?”
“Um, yeah, a pretty big one. Fifteen bucks.”
“Ok,” she laughed a little knowing laugh.“All I needed to know,” and she got off the phone (after some phone sex).
Meathead forgot he already took the money for our check—and our large tip confused him to no end. He thought we left him change for a tip. My wife calmly explained the mistake. Meathead refused to believe he had somehow misinterpreted reality—why did this keep happening to him?
Even at the end of the day when people who had served me before assured him there was no way I would have stiffed him, he still believed.
Even after he counted up his tip money and being pleasantly surprised when the amount was larger than expected, as he hadn’t had too many tables this day, he believed. In the face of all the contradictory facts he held firm (see what Christianity is doing to dumb people!).
Why?
Why does the bird take to the air! Why does the cat chase bits of yarn! Why are boobs so fucking cool!
Such is meathead!
Monday, March 17, 2008
Kiss me, I'm drunk!
As a man of Irish decent, I'd be embaressed if I didn't wish you all a happy St. Patty's day in this super awesome BONUS POST! Me, I've been drinking since I woke up. I don't even like drinking that much, but hey, I gotta honor my heritage, even here at work. But I'm legally protected since I'm Irish (I assume).
Drinking all day--I'll drink to that!
Drinking all day--I'll drink to that!
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