A Few Things

I have some updates in the world of Emma. There's nothing spectacular, just a few tidbits I found interesting as they occurred.

She knows the word "pizza." I already knew she liked pizza, I just didn't know she knew how to say it; so it surprised me when she came hauling ass across the room and threw herself in my lap as I was crushing a slice and she just yells out "PIZZA!" replete with a "P," which is significant because the next 30 times she yelled out "pizza!" there were no P's, so it sounded more like "eeeetsa!" but we all got the drift.

She can trot. She can't sprint or even jog, but she knows how to trot. Yesterday we were walking around the house and she strolls up to a neighbor's patio door and points at it. I wasn't sure what she was getting at, but just then a small dog behind the door started barking and I'll be damned if she didn't turn tail and trot down the sidewalk right at me, terrified.

She loves peek-a-boo, popsicles, and the theme from Flash Gordon by Queen. In fact, when I sing it to her, she does the lilting "aaaah ahhh!" right after "Flash!" and it is hilarious.

That's all for now.

I Like to, #3

If I had a fetish it would be ankles.

I don't know why, but I have always been fascinated with people's ankles (or lack thereof). I should be more specific: I have always been fascinated with women's ankles. I don't go around checking out the ankles on a guy walking down the street. But if a chick with decent stems walks past, the first thing I check out isn't her fanny, or her breasts, no. It's that complex joint where the foot meets the leg. The ankle, for me, has always been the barometer of whether or not the gal I'm checking out is, was, or will be fat.

I think it started out in high school with one of my first girlfriends. She had a great rack, a great smile, and most importantly great ankles. They were defined, and that was a good thing, because although I had a deep respect for this particular girl's mother, the woman's body shape most closely resembled Grimace from McDonald's. The way I saw it, since my girlfriend's ankles looked mighty fine then, it was safe to suppose that later in life she would not turn into the behemoth that was her mother.

These days I see it all the time. An otherwise excellently proportioned body from the neck down turns into a disaster when you get to the bottom of the shin and you can't see an ankle bone. If the lower half of a girl's leg resembles the stump of a redwood it's a sure sign of trouble in the future. When I first met my wife she was wearing capri style sweatpants before a workout at the gym. My wife is not and has never been what you would consider a hardbody. She is well proportioned and beautiful, to be sure, but she wouldn't make the grade for the SI swimsuit issue. I would describe her body then as athletic. But oh those ankles! So shapely, so obvious, they were the first thing to catch my attention. Well here we are eleven years hence and she hasn't blown up like Kirstie Alley, so there must be something to my theory.

So what do I like to do? I like to show off my own ankles! The majority of athletic socks I own are shorties. In fact, I often have friends or acquaintances ask me, "Uhhh, are you wearing socks? Because if you're not that's pretty gross." I would agree, and then show them that I was indeed sporting socks; they are just so short that you can't really tell I have them on. The reason I like to wear those short socks is that I believe that I have attractive ankles. For a guy with my looks I have to seize on the positive, and according to me, my ankles are the positive. You wouldn't have to use my ankles as a guide to how fat I may someday become, because I can tell you here that unless I am diagnosed with diabetes or end up in a wheelchair after a bad car accident, I won't be getting fat before I die. I have the metabolism that all women would kill for. But just check it out for yourself the next time your cruising State Street or the mall: ankles are beautiful, and useful too.

Movie Review, In Bruges, 4 Stars

Fucking awesome!

It's hilarious and grotesque. Any flick that features the killing of adolescents is going to get my attention, but this one breaks the mold. You thought you'd seen the buddy action comedy before, but you never saw one with so many retard, homosexual, and midget references as this one. Colin Farrel is perfect as the neurotic hit man; Brendan Gleeson is excellent as usual; and the script echoes an English Tarantino with enough F and C bombs to make a rugby player blush.

Y'all check it out now. In feckin Bruges (it's in Belgium).

Things I Hate, #4

I looked online for about four minutes for a picture of this thing but could not find it. There is one at the Santa Barbara Central Library on Anapamu, but the bathrooms are closed for renovation, so I was not able to get a shot of it when I was there this evening with Em. If you are not acquainted with the device I will describe it. It is a hand towel dispenser placed in public bathrooms, but it does not dispense your average throw away hand towels, no. It is a roll with a cloth hand towel that rotates. It is fucking disgusting.

I will just say here that I will never touch that thing. Ever. I would rather dry my hands on my hair than lay my fingers within three feet of that monster. If I had a dirty diaper handy I would use that before I handled the scummy re-usable hand towel thing.

It's just another sign that the eco-terrorists are taking over.

The Wussification of America

I guess this came across the wire a couple of weeks back but I saw it first today. It is yet another example of what is going wrong with America today, another example of the emasculation of our youth.

In a suburb east of Cleveland, Ohio, the long-standing tradition of the town's post-season Little League All-Star game has been officially cancelled. The move was initiated by Beachwood Mayor Merle Gordon with letters to the players parents informing them of the cancellation. The decision was prompted by an article by a man named Fred Engh, founder of the National Alliance for Youth Sports, on a website entitle Parks & Rec Business. Mr. Engh argues that all-star games damage the self-esteem of the players not selected. He cites several reasons why all-star games are damaging, including chance of injury. He even goes so far as to insinuate that the mediocre ballers do not get picked because they may be "obese." That is actually the coolest part of the argument. Of course the fat kids don't get picked for the all-star game! Fatties can't steal second or run down a fly ball.


This is political correctness of the highest order, and not a small reason for the overall decay of our society. If a kid fails to make the all-star team is it the end of the world? Of course not. But now we are going to take away the joys of making and competing in an all-star game away from the kids who can achieve such a thing. It's bogus.

Welcome to the new America folks. Pretty soon there won't be an honor roll.

The next thing you know you will be treating your family to a brand new Scrabble set and when you get home and open it up you will find that there aren't any numbers on the tiles.

When the time comes for my daughter to start soccer I will refuse to enroll her in a league that condemns the infernal act of keeping score. If that means she has to take up golf then so be it. But when she starts to best her old man's tally I'm quitting.

America 2025: where the only game the masses are allowed to enjoy is tic-tac-toe.

We're fucked.

Question, #3

Not really a question, but a small piece of trivia while we're on the subject.

The answer might be obvious considering there's a picture of him right here, and my last post names him, but some people don't grasp things immediately.

Who is the only player currently wearing Jackie Robinson's retired #42?

Mariano broke into the majors as a starter but was quickly converted to a closer. Good move by the Yankees, by the way. Mo will enter the Hall of Fame as perhaps the game's greatest closer ever. A couple of years back, every Major League team retired the numebr 42 in honor of Jackie Robinson. Players who were currently wearing it then were allowed to wear it until they retired. Mariano is the last player allowed to wear the number. I think Mo Vaughn was the next to last guy to have it, but he ate it shortly before hanging up his spikes.

Things I Hate, #3

Not Mo, of course. I love Mo.

What I hate is when Joe Girardi brings in Mariano Rivera and it's not a save situation. Four of the five runs Mariano has given up this year were in these types of situations. He hasn't blown a save opportunity yet, why bring him in any other time than when you wanna close the door on an opponent in a tight game that you're winning?

I should be the Manager, of course.

Question, #2

Reverting momentarily back to the topical issues that dominated my last blog brand, I pose this question on a beautiful Tuesday morning in paradise:

Exactly how big of an asshole is Wesley Clark?

Think Rosie O'Donnel big. This dude has some set of brass balls to come up with his recent comments regarding John McCain and his military record on Saturday's Face the Nation. The most reported on tidbit was this gem:

"I don't think getting in a fighter plane and getting shot down is a
qualification to become president."

What a dick! Did he forget the fact that McCain spent five years in a Hanoi prison for his country? Did he forget that because of McCains family ties (his father was a Rear Admiral) that the North gave him the option of early release, after two and a half years, and that McCain chose to stay with his men? John McCain is a bonafide American hero, who chose a career of serving his country in the Navy before turning to politics upon his return to the States.

And don't forget that Clark was the same guy who said that John Kerry's three months and (alleged) three purple hearts were exactly the sort of thing that qualified him to be POTUS.

Wesley Clark is a jackass and if he is the guy that B. Hussein Obama chooses as his veep then the R's will be looking good in November, mark my words.