Holeeeee Sheeeeit, I done checked out!
The day that I figured would never come has actually came and went. Last Monday I had my final check ride as a Stupid Trainee in the North Area of Chicago Center. It took about 60 minutes, and my knuckles were whiter than Tony LaRussa's at a highway sobriety checkpoint. Everything went well however, and when Alex the Supe unplugged and walked away, I really had no idea what to expect. I was kind of hoping that balloons would drop down from the ceiling and Randy Babbitt would run into the area to congratulate me, or (bare minimum) give me a high-five. None of this happened, however. The area stayed fairly quiet, and I sat on position at the Harly sector for about an hour and a half. Congratulations were received from folks, and I bought pizza for everybody in the area ($85 for 5 pizzas? What's in this shit, gold?) and worked the rest of the night. It was almost as if I'd been doing the job for a few years already...just another night. It was pretty damn surreal.
I realized that while I'd only been at ZAU for a about 15 months, my "journey" to get to the CPC point has lasted almost exactly 6 years. Six fucking years. You know who else works for six years then gets a job? Doctors. It's crazy to think back to when I was more of a worthless layabout than I am now. Working for my dad, making a decent living but not totally happy with where I was in life. I had considered ATC before, but it seemed like a pipe dream. It would mean more schooling, and after DePaul, NIU, and the University of Route 47 (AKA Waubonsee Community College) I was in no hurry to go back. Somewhere along the way I apparently changed my mind. I wish there was a defining moment when I realized that things needed to change. You know, one of those David Carusso "pull my sunglasses off while The Who blares in the background" moments. But no, I honestly can't remember what did it. I'm just going to assume it happened on the shitter, because that's where I do most of my thinkin. Anyways, after jumping through some hoops I was finally accepted into the University of North Dakota, which was recommended to me by Jim Lipsett (who works in the TMU). I packed my shit, and off I went. Little did I realize that I was going to North Dakota on the 6th of January, and winter in Chicago (while rough) doesn't hold a fucking candle to winter in ND. It's like the 3rd rim of Satan's asshole up there from essentially mid December to late March. It was quite a rude awakening. It was 2004 when I left the toasty confines of good ole IL. Now, on the tail end of 2009 I have finally achieved my goal.
There were quite a few times when it seemed like it was never going to happen. Waiting for my job offer letter from the FAA (which only took about 2 years longer than it should have...your tax dollars at work), the 4 months of misery in Oklahoma Shitty...finally getting here and wondering and doubting that you are cut out for this job. All of those things sucked, but the last part was there worst. There were quite a few times during my first few months of training when I would come home and wonder what the fuck I was doing in this line of work. I would make mistakes that a monkey with Down's Syndrome wouldn't make. Self esteem was at an all-time low. Thankfully, I stuck with it. The hardest part is convincing yourself that you can do the job, even when in your mind everyone in the room with you is thinking that you can't. I have a tendency to be harder on myself than anybody else could possibly be, and I'm pretty damn abusive. Somewhere along that path it finally kicked in that "hey! Maybe...just maybe...I might have what it takes!". Then a day later I would get my dick kicked in again...but this time instead of going home and punching the cat and my wife (then fiancee), I was able to shrug it off and come back with a clear mind. If I could give any trainee a piece of advice, it would be: prepare yourself. You are going to fuck up. A LOT. Keep fighting through it. Some days are just gonna suck, but everybody in that room has gone through it too (I have it on good authority Mike Duffey used to cry in the women's bathroom when he was in training). As long as you learn from it, you are growing as a controller and becoming less of an Idiot Trainee.
Also, Y51 is Viroqua Municipal Airport. Suck it, Porzel.
Even though I was the one fighting through the training every day, I sure as shit couldn't have done it alone. Therefore, before they start playing the "get the fuck off the stage, nobody cares" Oscar music, I'm gonna try and thank everyone who helped me survive (and occasionally flourish) this past 6 years. First and foremost I owe my parents. Literally. I owe them thousands of dollars, and they ain't getting it back any time soon. So thanks for that. Also, thanks to my ND crew. I would have never survived in that frozen hell-hole unless I had some of the best friends around (except for Jared. Fuck that guy). Thanks to Gary Knapp for making a few calls so I could work at ZAU instead of some podunk tower in southern Missouri. Posthumous thanks to Tom Kublebeck for giving me my remote pilot job with WCG. It was an amazing help, and you are missed. Thanks to all the instructors at WCG (even Doc Collins), and to Jenna, Landon, and Matt Waid. Special thanks to all the poor bastards that had to train me (Dave Jordan, Tim Kiefer, Terry South, and Tony Bonic), and all of those that either filled in from time to time (John Klatt, Joe Rand, Shicky, Jim Baker, Swanny, Ramz) or trained me from a distance (Duffey, Porzel). Thanks to everyone else in the area. I love my job, and most of the people that I work with are the shit. Thanks to Jeff Richards for reminding me repeatedly not to get a DUI. Thanks to Chris Evans for putting up with (and granting) my millions of shift change requests just so I could have a normal-ish life for a bit longer. I know I still have a shit-ton to learn about the job, but you guys gave me the right start.
Finally, thanks to Bri for sticking with me this entire time. I really would have melted down if you weren't here. It's corny, but you really were my rock during these past few years. I owe you big time. But hey, I'll pay you back by supporting your ass financially while you learn to teach the "special folks". We can call it even.
If I forgot anybody, I'm either truly sorry or it was completely intentional. Your pick.
I'll leave you with a joke I just came up with:
Question: How many trainees does it take to screw in a light bulb?
Answer: F@*k you, I'm checked out.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Who ya gonna call?
"Human sacrifice, dogs and cats, living together...mass hysteria!"
I just got back from the flick Paranormal Activity. A pretty creepy piece of film making, if I do say so myself. Not the kind of "jump out at you with blood covered all over my body with an axe in my forehead scary" (also known as the Saw XXMLIV method). It was more of a cerebral type of scary, a "less is more" style of filming. The gist of the flick is that a young couple is being haunted (more or less) by a demon or a ghost. The guy goes and buys a high tech video camera, to record what happens during the night. What follows is a test of your nerve, as some freaky stuff goes on, giving a new definition to the phrase "things that go bump in the night". It's a very well done film, and probably one of the scarier ones I've ever seen. It's still not Event Horizon, but it's up there.
The film itself is not why I felt the need to pick up my digital pen, however. It's the subject matter of the film; paranormal activity. I was talking with my buddy Roper on the way back from the movie about whether or not he believed in that type of phenomenon. The answer that I got was pretty much the same as what mine would be:
"eehhhhhh...I dunno. Maybe?"
I think the problem is that if something like that has never happened to you, it's doubly hard to believe in it without seeing evidence. And I'm not talking about the kind of "evidence" provided by those assholes on the show "Ghost Hunters"
I'm talking about firsthand contact, with reliable video and audio evidence. And since most of that is pretty easily faked, actually being present at something like this would be the best (worst) option. If you had the choice, would you be willing to sit in a haunted house and watch shit go down, just to know the answer? Everybody I've asked has pretty much the same response. Goes something like this:
Me: you believe in ghosts? Hauntings, poltergeists, posessions? Shit like that?
Random Street Person: Get the fuck away from me, wierdo! ///hits me with taser
Ok, maybe that was not the best example. Lets try again, this time with someone that I know (and is less likely to send 1,000 volts of electricity through my neck).
Me: you believe in ghosts? Hauntings, poltergeists, posessions? Shit like that?
Person I Know: ehhhh....I guess. I don't know. I'd probably need some proof.
Me: wanna go use a Ouija board?
Person: Fuck no.
So as far as I can tell, most people probably DO believe in this kind of thing, but would rather live in blissful ignorance. I probably would like to know, but would be terrified of the answer. I know for a fact that you wont catch me anywhere near an Ouija board. You can't even get me to say "candyman" three times in a dark bathroom. And what if the answer was yes, there really are such thing as ghosts? It sure would make house buying alot harder. In addition to all the inspections, now you have to hire the midget grandma from "Poltergeist" to give the house her OK before you put an offer down.
In all seriousness, though, I'd like to hear from you guys. Do you believe in this stuff? If so, do you have sack enough to sit down with an Ouija board and put it to the test? What's your opinions? Because when there's something weird, and it don't look good...who you gonna call?
I just got back from the flick Paranormal Activity. A pretty creepy piece of film making, if I do say so myself. Not the kind of "jump out at you with blood covered all over my body with an axe in my forehead scary" (also known as the Saw XXMLIV method). It was more of a cerebral type of scary, a "less is more" style of filming. The gist of the flick is that a young couple is being haunted (more or less) by a demon or a ghost. The guy goes and buys a high tech video camera, to record what happens during the night. What follows is a test of your nerve, as some freaky stuff goes on, giving a new definition to the phrase "things that go bump in the night". It's a very well done film, and probably one of the scarier ones I've ever seen. It's still not Event Horizon, but it's up there.
The film itself is not why I felt the need to pick up my digital pen, however. It's the subject matter of the film; paranormal activity. I was talking with my buddy Roper on the way back from the movie about whether or not he believed in that type of phenomenon. The answer that I got was pretty much the same as what mine would be:
"eehhhhhh...I dunno. Maybe?"
I think the problem is that if something like that has never happened to you, it's doubly hard to believe in it without seeing evidence. And I'm not talking about the kind of "evidence" provided by those assholes on the show "Ghost Hunters"
I'm talking about firsthand contact, with reliable video and audio evidence. And since most of that is pretty easily faked, actually being present at something like this would be the best (worst) option. If you had the choice, would you be willing to sit in a haunted house and watch shit go down, just to know the answer? Everybody I've asked has pretty much the same response. Goes something like this:
Me: you believe in ghosts? Hauntings, poltergeists, posessions? Shit like that?
Random Street Person: Get the fuck away from me, wierdo! ///hits me with taser
Ok, maybe that was not the best example. Lets try again, this time with someone that I know (and is less likely to send 1,000 volts of electricity through my neck).
Me: you believe in ghosts? Hauntings, poltergeists, posessions? Shit like that?
Person I Know: ehhhh....I guess. I don't know. I'd probably need some proof.
Me: wanna go use a Ouija board?
Person: Fuck no.
So as far as I can tell, most people probably DO believe in this kind of thing, but would rather live in blissful ignorance. I probably would like to know, but would be terrified of the answer. I know for a fact that you wont catch me anywhere near an Ouija board. You can't even get me to say "candyman" three times in a dark bathroom. And what if the answer was yes, there really are such thing as ghosts? It sure would make house buying alot harder. In addition to all the inspections, now you have to hire the midget grandma from "Poltergeist" to give the house her OK before you put an offer down.
In all seriousness, though, I'd like to hear from you guys. Do you believe in this stuff? If so, do you have sack enough to sit down with an Ouija board and put it to the test? What's your opinions? Because when there's something weird, and it don't look good...who you gonna call?
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Bleeding Eardrums
Last week, I was able to hit up Alpine Valley Music Theater not once but twice. The first time was for my annual Dave Matthews Band show. Normally it is two nights, but stupid Evan and stupid Marcy just HAD to get married on night one. So I only made it to Sunday night. Great show, won't go into the details but after 70+ times seeing the band, they can still find ways to impress me. 6 Days later, I was back up there for a night with Coldplay. I've only gotten into the band quite recently, but I find their work impressive, and their most recent album is one of the more creative efforts I've had the pleasure of listening to. Here's two pics, the first is them playing "Yellow", where some workers pulled out huge yellow balloons and tossed them into the crowd during the song. The second pic is from "Lovers in Japan", off Viva la Vida, and the multi-colored confetti is cut into the shapes of butterflies. Pretty cool.
I happened to mention this in the area at work the other day, and the fact that I saw Coldplay and Dave Matthews was met with some derision from Ron "where's my fucking money?" Bradbury. "Coldplay is for fags", said Ron (who is actually a good guy, just looks like Bald Bull from Super Punch Out). I'd heard this kind of abuse before, as Dave Matthews is the type of band that is either loved or reviled. I've given up on trying to defend the two bands, if you dig em; cool. If not, you can't save everybody. So I laughed it off, but it got me thinking about the last time I'd seen a band that wasn't "for fags." I used to go see rock and metal shows about once a month a few years ago, but the frequency of that has tailed off. I still see DMB at least 3 or 4 times a summer, but the System of a Downs and the Slipknots have been replaced by Coldplay and Hootie and the Blowfish. Last week I even had a chance to see Incubus, but passed it up. Am I getting old? Too old to show up at a rock show? Ugh. The thought of turning 30 and being "that guy" at a rock show scares the shit out of me.
I always wondered if I would get to the point where I wouldn't want to bother with going to live shows anymore. I really don't think that I'm at that point yet, but I'm eager to prove to myself that I can still rock out. I would have gone to Lollapalooza this year to see Tool and Jane's Addiction, but that's the night of my bachelor's party, so that's out. I think the next chance for me to be metal will be later this year when the Deftones (my second favorite band) new album drops. There will be a fall tour for sure, and I can prove to myself that I still rock. Or I'll go there, stick my fingers in my ears, and glare at all the damn kids who keep elbowing me in the side. Either way, at least I'll have an answer. And just to remind myself of how much I used to rock, I compiled a list of all the bands that I've seen live. It's a pretty solid list, if I do say so myself. Feel free to peruse and comment:
The Live Band List (alphabetized)
# indicates number of times seen
Alice in Chains: 2 (once with Layne Staley, once with the new guy)
Alien Ant Farm: 1 (Q101 show)
Audioslave: 1
Beastie Boys: 1
Beck: 1 (Farm Aid) (seriously)
Ben Harper: 3 (opening up for DMB)
Ben Kweller: 1 (opening for DMB)
Blues Traveler: 2
Breaking Benjamin: 2
Bush: 1
Cold: 1 (Q101 Jamboree)
Coldplay: 2
The Cure: 1 (Q101 Twisted Xmas)
Dave Matthews Band: 76 (in 6 different states)
Days of the New: 2
Deftones: 11 (they fucking rock live.)
Disturbed: 1
Dope: 1
Eminem: 1 (not a big rap fan, but was impressed)
Everclear: 2
Filter: 1
Foo Fighters: 2 (Dave Grohl is the fucking MAN)
The Fray: 1 (DMB Opener)
Fuel: 1
Gin Blossoms: 2
Gravity Kills: 1
Green Day: 0 (this is a crime that I need to fix)
(hed) p.e.: 5 (if you don't know them, you wouldn't like them)
Hootie and the Blowfish: 3 (best bar band ever)
Ill Nino: 2 (best Mexican metal band ever)
Incubus: 5
Jane's Addiction: 1
KoRn: 6 (5 good ones, one awful one. I have high hopes for the new album)
Limp Bizkit: 4 (Number before Fred Durst became a douche nozzle: 2)
Local H: 1
Marilyn Manson: 1
Matchbox 20: 1 (I did this for a girl)
MC Chris: 2
MC Hammer: 0 (not that I'm not trying)
Mighty Mighty Bosstones: 1
Mudvayne: 2
Nine Inch Nails: 1 (some reason, not a huge fan)
Nirvana: 0 (to my eternal regret)
OAR: 2
Orgy: 1
Our Lady Peace: 1 (should be more. love this band)
P.O.D: 1
Papa Roach: 2
Pearl Jam: 1 (but it was in Canada, so only like 0.67)
Queens of the Stone Age: 1
R.E.M: 1
Radiohead: 0 (want to, but only if they stop ignoring The Bends)
Rage Against The Machine: 3 (and the closest I've ever been to being in an actual riot)
Red Hot Chili Peppers: 3 (wow. Just wow.)
Rob Zombie: 1 (Giant fire breathing robots w/strippers= good show)
Robert Randolph and the Family Band: 3
Sevendust: 1
Silverchair:1
Slipknot: 3 (craziest band ever)
Smashing Pumpkins: 1 (meh)
Soundgarden: 1 (last show in Chicago)
Stabbing Westward: 1
Staind: 4 (used to love this band before lead singer got happy)
Static-X: 4 (KEEP DISCO EVIL)
Stephen Kellog and the Sixers: 1
Stone Temple Pilots: 4 (my second second favorite band.)
Sugar Ray: 1 (before they got gay)
System of a Down: 2 (hopefully more soon)
Tool: 1 (words don't do it justice)
U2: 1 (Giant Disco Lemon)
Velvet Revolver: 1 (Slash and Scott Weiland= Genius)
Weezer: 0 (another crime)
311: 2
I'm pretty sure thats all of them. If I missed some let me know (Roper).
I happened to mention this in the area at work the other day, and the fact that I saw Coldplay and Dave Matthews was met with some derision from Ron "where's my fucking money?" Bradbury. "Coldplay is for fags", said Ron (who is actually a good guy, just looks like Bald Bull from Super Punch Out). I'd heard this kind of abuse before, as Dave Matthews is the type of band that is either loved or reviled. I've given up on trying to defend the two bands, if you dig em; cool. If not, you can't save everybody. So I laughed it off, but it got me thinking about the last time I'd seen a band that wasn't "for fags." I used to go see rock and metal shows about once a month a few years ago, but the frequency of that has tailed off. I still see DMB at least 3 or 4 times a summer, but the System of a Downs and the Slipknots have been replaced by Coldplay and Hootie and the Blowfish. Last week I even had a chance to see Incubus, but passed it up. Am I getting old? Too old to show up at a rock show? Ugh. The thought of turning 30 and being "that guy" at a rock show scares the shit out of me.
I always wondered if I would get to the point where I wouldn't want to bother with going to live shows anymore. I really don't think that I'm at that point yet, but I'm eager to prove to myself that I can still rock out. I would have gone to Lollapalooza this year to see Tool and Jane's Addiction, but that's the night of my bachelor's party, so that's out. I think the next chance for me to be metal will be later this year when the Deftones (my second favorite band) new album drops. There will be a fall tour for sure, and I can prove to myself that I still rock. Or I'll go there, stick my fingers in my ears, and glare at all the damn kids who keep elbowing me in the side. Either way, at least I'll have an answer. And just to remind myself of how much I used to rock, I compiled a list of all the bands that I've seen live. It's a pretty solid list, if I do say so myself. Feel free to peruse and comment:
The Live Band List (alphabetized)
# indicates number of times seen
Alice in Chains: 2 (once with Layne Staley, once with the new guy)
Alien Ant Farm: 1 (Q101 show)
Audioslave: 1
Beastie Boys: 1
Beck: 1 (Farm Aid) (seriously)
Ben Harper: 3 (opening up for DMB)
Ben Kweller: 1 (opening for DMB)
Blues Traveler: 2
Breaking Benjamin: 2
Bush: 1
Cold: 1 (Q101 Jamboree)
Coldplay: 2
The Cure: 1 (Q101 Twisted Xmas)
Dave Matthews Band: 76 (in 6 different states)
Days of the New: 2
Deftones: 11 (they fucking rock live.)
Disturbed: 1
Dope: 1
Eminem: 1 (not a big rap fan, but was impressed)
Everclear: 2
Filter: 1
Foo Fighters: 2 (Dave Grohl is the fucking MAN)
The Fray: 1 (DMB Opener)
Fuel: 1
Gin Blossoms: 2
Gravity Kills: 1
Green Day: 0 (this is a crime that I need to fix)
(hed) p.e.: 5 (if you don't know them, you wouldn't like them)
Hootie and the Blowfish: 3 (best bar band ever)
Ill Nino: 2 (best Mexican metal band ever)
Incubus: 5
Jane's Addiction: 1
KoRn: 6 (5 good ones, one awful one. I have high hopes for the new album)
Limp Bizkit: 4 (Number before Fred Durst became a douche nozzle: 2)
Local H: 1
Marilyn Manson: 1
Matchbox 20: 1 (I did this for a girl)
MC Chris: 2
MC Hammer: 0 (not that I'm not trying)
Mighty Mighty Bosstones: 1
Mudvayne: 2
Nine Inch Nails: 1 (some reason, not a huge fan)
Nirvana: 0 (to my eternal regret)
OAR: 2
Orgy: 1
Our Lady Peace: 1 (should be more. love this band)
P.O.D: 1
Papa Roach: 2
Pearl Jam: 1 (but it was in Canada, so only like 0.67)
Queens of the Stone Age: 1
R.E.M: 1
Radiohead: 0 (want to, but only if they stop ignoring The Bends)
Rage Against The Machine: 3 (and the closest I've ever been to being in an actual riot)
Red Hot Chili Peppers: 3 (wow. Just wow.)
Rob Zombie: 1 (Giant fire breathing robots w/strippers= good show)
Robert Randolph and the Family Band: 3
Sevendust: 1
Silverchair:1
Slipknot: 3 (craziest band ever)
Smashing Pumpkins: 1 (meh)
Soundgarden: 1 (last show in Chicago)
Stabbing Westward: 1
Staind: 4 (used to love this band before lead singer got happy)
Static-X: 4 (KEEP DISCO EVIL)
Stephen Kellog and the Sixers: 1
Stone Temple Pilots: 4 (my second second favorite band.)
Sugar Ray: 1 (before they got gay)
System of a Down: 2 (hopefully more soon)
Tool: 1 (words don't do it justice)
U2: 1 (Giant Disco Lemon)
Velvet Revolver: 1 (Slash and Scott Weiland= Genius)
Weezer: 0 (another crime)
311: 2
I'm pretty sure thats all of them. If I missed some let me know (Roper).
Monday, July 13, 2009
Meet the new boss.
For some reason, the Blackhawks just fired their general manager, and former Blackhawk great, Dale Tallon. I don't have all the information yet, as it seems to just be leaking out of the fortress that is the Blackhawks home office. Despite being somewhat in the dark, I gotta say I'm pretty pissed off right now. Dale Tallon may not have been the perfect GM, and I've criticized him on more than one occasion. That being said, you can't possibly argue with results, and DT single-handedly put together a team that reached the Western Conference Finals last season, arguably a few years ahead of schedule.
This is still the guy who brought Patrick Sharp here for Matt Ellison. Who got us Kris Versteeg for Brandon Bochenski. Who got us Jesus Christ Havlat for Mark Bell. Who drafted Toews, Kane, Barker, Bolland, Hjalmarsson, Seabrook, Keith, and everyone else who's going to take the ice in October. Is he Ken Holland? No, he is not. But he certainly has earned the right to see this through, and the Hawks took that away.
Dale was by no means perfect. He leaves us with a salary cap situation that is going to be messy next year when Johnny Toews, Patrick Kane, and Duncan Keith all have new contracts due. But it's not unsalvageable. The Huet signing was a bit off, but at that point what had Khabibulin done to justify his salary and #1 status? Campbell was paid his market value, and Byfuglien and Sopel's contracts were ridiculous, but once again...WESTERN CONFERENCE FINALS. If you compare some other GM's performances around the league (most notably Glen Sather, who is a complete and utter lunatic), Tallon has to rank in the top 10. And now who takes over? Stan Bowman, the son of the legendary hockey coach Scotty Bowman.
The exact same Scotty Bowman the Blackhawks hired a year ago to "advise" John Mcdonough in the ways of the hockey world. At the time, I thought it was bloody brilliant. We just stole the greatest coach the Scum Wings ever had, and now he's working for us! The more I heard about it, the worse it started to stink. After numerous reports of his daily tea with Mike Babcock (Scumwings Coach) I've completely soured on this. If your main advisor has his own son poised to assume the throne, just how objective is he going to be? I also said that though Scotty Bowman has no peer as a coach, his record as a GM was spotty at best, and we're trusting his talent evaluation? Ugh.
Now this “snafu” with the RFA signings now has to be put under the spotlight. I can’t believe I’m saying this about my hockey team, but was Tallon essentially framed by a management that needed an excuse to show him the door? This is fairly disgusting to me, and it smacks of the worst kind of disloyalty. How much longer until we 300 level season ticket holders are sent out to pasture by an organization that prices us out of the picture?
What’s next?
This is still the guy who brought Patrick Sharp here for Matt Ellison. Who got us Kris Versteeg for Brandon Bochenski. Who got us Jesus Christ Havlat for Mark Bell. Who drafted Toews, Kane, Barker, Bolland, Hjalmarsson, Seabrook, Keith, and everyone else who's going to take the ice in October. Is he Ken Holland? No, he is not. But he certainly has earned the right to see this through, and the Hawks took that away.
Dale was by no means perfect. He leaves us with a salary cap situation that is going to be messy next year when Johnny Toews, Patrick Kane, and Duncan Keith all have new contracts due. But it's not unsalvageable. The Huet signing was a bit off, but at that point what had Khabibulin done to justify his salary and #1 status? Campbell was paid his market value, and Byfuglien and Sopel's contracts were ridiculous, but once again...WESTERN CONFERENCE FINALS. If you compare some other GM's performances around the league (most notably Glen Sather, who is a complete and utter lunatic), Tallon has to rank in the top 10. And now who takes over? Stan Bowman, the son of the legendary hockey coach Scotty Bowman.
The exact same Scotty Bowman the Blackhawks hired a year ago to "advise" John Mcdonough in the ways of the hockey world. At the time, I thought it was bloody brilliant. We just stole the greatest coach the Scum Wings ever had, and now he's working for us! The more I heard about it, the worse it started to stink. After numerous reports of his daily tea with Mike Babcock (Scumwings Coach) I've completely soured on this. If your main advisor has his own son poised to assume the throne, just how objective is he going to be? I also said that though Scotty Bowman has no peer as a coach, his record as a GM was spotty at best, and we're trusting his talent evaluation? Ugh.
Now this “snafu” with the RFA signings now has to be put under the spotlight. I can’t believe I’m saying this about my hockey team, but was Tallon essentially framed by a management that needed an excuse to show him the door? This is fairly disgusting to me, and it smacks of the worst kind of disloyalty. How much longer until we 300 level season ticket holders are sent out to pasture by an organization that prices us out of the picture?
What’s next?
Right Turn
You ever just feel like getting away?
Apparently, I did. After a shitty night of training (the kind of night where every single thing out of your mouth is either stupid, wrong, or both) I got off work at 8:30. Not in the greatest of moods, I tried to garner some support for a trip to the theater to catch Bruno. Nobody seemed interested, so I went and snagged some dinner at Subway and headed home. Dejected, I sat on my couch eating my turkey breast (heh...breast) sandwich and reading. Finding myself disinterested in the reading material, I turned on the PS3 and tried to occupy myself with a little MLB 2009. 5 unearned runs by the White Sox later (weird how even the virtual White Sox are unable to complete the simplest of defensive plays) I was getting pissed off, and pretty much out of patience. Getting up, I decided I needed to get out of the house. So at 11:15 at night I headed to the gym.
Hitting the lap pool, I swam for about 45 minutes, trying to get un-pissed off. Swimming seemed to help a little bit, and sitting in the hot tub was even more helpful. I showered and started to head for home. Remembering we were almost out of a few grocery items, I stopped into Woodman's and picked up what I needed (24-hour places of business are awesome). On my way out, the PA system was playing a song that I'd not heard in a LONG time. Shiny Happy People by R.E.M. Being that this is one of those songs that will stick in your brain if you don't play it out, I found it on the iPod and let it rip.
The strangest thing happened. Driving back from Woodman's to my place takes about 2 minutes, not enough time to finish the song. So I cruised right by the entrance to my subdivision and turned left off of Oak street to Randall Road. And I turned the music up, and sang along. All of a sudden I wasn't a 30-year old ATC trainee that's about to get married. I was 16 again, and I just got my licence. It was fucking GREAT. The song ended, and another one of my favs from Out of Time popped on, ironically titled Radio Song. Now I'm in Batavia, just cruising along Randall singing along with Mike Stipe and KRS-One (Damn that radio song...hey hey hey!). OK, maybe now I should head back...but wait, Losing My Religion is on...I cant head back yet! Me In Honey! Texarcana! Now I'm in St. Charles, turning left on Rt. 64 heading west. Switch albums to Automatic For the People and head for The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonite. Then it's on to Man on the Moon, and Find The River, singing along at the top of my lungs and pounding out the beat on the steering wheel.
Now I've reached Rt. 47, and I feel like some more high school music. What does the randomizer have in store for me? The Goo Goo Dolls, apparently. I'd almost forgotten how much I loved the song Big Machine. Keep on driving! Now it's on to Hootie and the Blowfish. Only Wanna Be With You! Time to head South on 47 and keep the tunes going. I drive all the way to Route 30 in Sugar Grove, then head for I-88. I take I-88 to Farnsworth and get off there, turning onto Butterfield road just as Sad Caper hits the radio. Now it's time for some Our Lady Peace...good solid Canadian Rock Music. Keep on singing along, drumming out the tunes on the wheel, and...oh shit. Did I just get pulled over?
I probably should have seen this coming, being that it's now 2 in the morning and I'm driving with both my windows down with the stereo on full. I'm also grooving to the tunes a bit to heavily, which may or may not be causing me to swerve slightly whilst driving. Anyways, the cop walks up and asks the standard questions: Licence and registration? Check. Know why I pulled you over? Yeah, I have a pretty good idea. You been drinkin tonight son? Nope, not a drop. You willing to take a Breathalyzer? Sure thing.
I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised, being that I had been in chlorine-infested pool water an hour previously. With my bloodshot eyes and crazy hair I must have looked stoned out of my gourd. Also, my night vision goes to shit when I don't wear my glasses. I nearly hit a deer, a raccoon, a stork, and what appeared to be a monkey in a tuxedo pushing a wheelbarrow. I could be wrong about that last one. Anyways, the cop must have found my story pretty amusing, and my gym bag and groceries in the back corroborated my story. He let me go, telling me to head home. So I headed home, back on R.E.M. again. Electrolyte is one of the more beautiful songs that I've ever heard, and that's what I ended my trip tonight with. I started the drive sullen and grumpy, and ended it with a clear mind and a happy soul. Music really is the greatest.
In case you were wondering, here was my playlist for the mini-road trip:
R.E.M.
Shiny Happy People
Radio Song
Me In Honey
Losing My Religion
Texarcana
Sidewinder Sleeps Tonight
Man on the Moon
Find the River
Electrolyte
GooGoo Dolls:
Big Machine
Hootie and the Blowfish:
Only Wanna Be With You
Runnin' With An Angel (best non-relased Hootie song...awesome)
Drowning
Time
Hold My Hand
Sad Caper
Earth Stops Cold At Dawn
Apparently, I did. After a shitty night of training (the kind of night where every single thing out of your mouth is either stupid, wrong, or both) I got off work at 8:30. Not in the greatest of moods, I tried to garner some support for a trip to the theater to catch Bruno. Nobody seemed interested, so I went and snagged some dinner at Subway and headed home. Dejected, I sat on my couch eating my turkey breast (heh...breast) sandwich and reading. Finding myself disinterested in the reading material, I turned on the PS3 and tried to occupy myself with a little MLB 2009. 5 unearned runs by the White Sox later (weird how even the virtual White Sox are unable to complete the simplest of defensive plays) I was getting pissed off, and pretty much out of patience. Getting up, I decided I needed to get out of the house. So at 11:15 at night I headed to the gym.
Hitting the lap pool, I swam for about 45 minutes, trying to get un-pissed off. Swimming seemed to help a little bit, and sitting in the hot tub was even more helpful. I showered and started to head for home. Remembering we were almost out of a few grocery items, I stopped into Woodman's and picked up what I needed (24-hour places of business are awesome). On my way out, the PA system was playing a song that I'd not heard in a LONG time. Shiny Happy People by R.E.M. Being that this is one of those songs that will stick in your brain if you don't play it out, I found it on the iPod and let it rip.
The strangest thing happened. Driving back from Woodman's to my place takes about 2 minutes, not enough time to finish the song. So I cruised right by the entrance to my subdivision and turned left off of Oak street to Randall Road. And I turned the music up, and sang along. All of a sudden I wasn't a 30-year old ATC trainee that's about to get married. I was 16 again, and I just got my licence. It was fucking GREAT. The song ended, and another one of my favs from Out of Time popped on, ironically titled Radio Song. Now I'm in Batavia, just cruising along Randall singing along with Mike Stipe and KRS-One (Damn that radio song...hey hey hey!). OK, maybe now I should head back...but wait, Losing My Religion is on...I cant head back yet! Me In Honey! Texarcana! Now I'm in St. Charles, turning left on Rt. 64 heading west. Switch albums to Automatic For the People and head for The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonite. Then it's on to Man on the Moon, and Find The River, singing along at the top of my lungs and pounding out the beat on the steering wheel.
Now I've reached Rt. 47, and I feel like some more high school music. What does the randomizer have in store for me? The Goo Goo Dolls, apparently. I'd almost forgotten how much I loved the song Big Machine. Keep on driving! Now it's on to Hootie and the Blowfish. Only Wanna Be With You! Time to head South on 47 and keep the tunes going. I drive all the way to Route 30 in Sugar Grove, then head for I-88. I take I-88 to Farnsworth and get off there, turning onto Butterfield road just as Sad Caper hits the radio. Now it's time for some Our Lady Peace...good solid Canadian Rock Music. Keep on singing along, drumming out the tunes on the wheel, and...oh shit. Did I just get pulled over?
I probably should have seen this coming, being that it's now 2 in the morning and I'm driving with both my windows down with the stereo on full. I'm also grooving to the tunes a bit to heavily, which may or may not be causing me to swerve slightly whilst driving. Anyways, the cop walks up and asks the standard questions: Licence and registration? Check. Know why I pulled you over? Yeah, I have a pretty good idea. You been drinkin tonight son? Nope, not a drop. You willing to take a Breathalyzer? Sure thing.
I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised, being that I had been in chlorine-infested pool water an hour previously. With my bloodshot eyes and crazy hair I must have looked stoned out of my gourd. Also, my night vision goes to shit when I don't wear my glasses. I nearly hit a deer, a raccoon, a stork, and what appeared to be a monkey in a tuxedo pushing a wheelbarrow. I could be wrong about that last one. Anyways, the cop must have found my story pretty amusing, and my gym bag and groceries in the back corroborated my story. He let me go, telling me to head home. So I headed home, back on R.E.M. again. Electrolyte is one of the more beautiful songs that I've ever heard, and that's what I ended my trip tonight with. I started the drive sullen and grumpy, and ended it with a clear mind and a happy soul. Music really is the greatest.
In case you were wondering, here was my playlist for the mini-road trip:
R.E.M.
Shiny Happy People
Radio Song
Me In Honey
Losing My Religion
Texarcana
Sidewinder Sleeps Tonight
Man on the Moon
Find the River
Electrolyte
GooGoo Dolls:
Big Machine
Hootie and the Blowfish:
Only Wanna Be With You
Runnin' With An Angel (best non-relased Hootie song...awesome)
Drowning
Time
Hold My Hand
Sad Caper
Earth Stops Cold At Dawn
Monday, June 8, 2009
Dots (part two)
So it's been awhile since my last update about my foray into the world of Air Traffic Control. From that time there has been good news and bad news. Just like everything else in the world, the bad news comes first: I'm still a retard trainee, and will be probably through the end of the year. It's just the way that it goes. What does that mean? More snide comments about my mental acuity. More mistakes that make ME question my mental acuity. More days that make you feel like sticking your hand into a plugged-in blender while sitting in a full bathtub. A change in days off that means working on the weekends, and seeing less of The Woman.
Bummer, huh?
As for the good news, I have gotten checked out at 2 sectors (out of a possible 5), one of which might be the most difficult one in the area. I gotta say, passing that first check ride was an awesome feeling. Gave me a glimmer of hope that this just might be the job for me. I sure hope it is, because it's badass. Another bonus is my first raise. Sweet payola. I'm not going to get into what I get paid, because that's a whole nother bitchfest. Needless to say that with a wedding in Las Vegas rapidly approaching, every little bit helps. It's definitely a motivator to get checked out as fast as I can. Here's hoping NATCA can fix the contract and get me on a pay scale the same level as everyone else.
After being checked out on the two "high" sectors in my area (with altitude limits starting at 24,000 feet all the way up to Jesus), I've been sent down to the low altitudes. The first of which is centered over Dubuque, Iowa (for clarity's sake, hereafter referred to as DBQ). Apparently, there are still people out there who have a burning desire to fly to DBQ to take a gander at the miles and miles of nothing. DBQ is alot like Grand Forks, except no blackjack in the bars and a greater distance away from Canada. I've gone from talking to professional pilots who (most of the time) listen to your instructions and (most of the time) comply with them. Down at DBQ, you get alot of Weekend Warrior types who completed their private pilot's exam by watching an 8mm documentary of WW II Japanese kamikaze pilots and taking a ScanTron test with half the holes already filled in. It's pretty entertaining listening to them do the kind of shit that I used to when I was getting my license. And I did some shit that made my flight instructor's head spin.
So needless to say it's a brand new learning experience. Just when I thought I had it all figured out with the high altitudes, DBQ backhands me in the junk. And on top of that, it's springtime. Which means you could be working a perfectly peaceful sector and then oh my god there are thunderstorms everywhere and everybody wants to deviate and DBQ tower is calling for releases and I just got put into the hold and Sue hates me and she's on my D-side and HOLY SHIT IS THAT A TORNADO????? This crap is gonna make me age faster than the dude who drank out of the wrong grail in the 3rd Indiana Jones flick.
But hey, it could be worse. I could be working for GM.
Bummer, huh?
As for the good news, I have gotten checked out at 2 sectors (out of a possible 5), one of which might be the most difficult one in the area. I gotta say, passing that first check ride was an awesome feeling. Gave me a glimmer of hope that this just might be the job for me. I sure hope it is, because it's badass. Another bonus is my first raise. Sweet payola. I'm not going to get into what I get paid, because that's a whole nother bitchfest. Needless to say that with a wedding in Las Vegas rapidly approaching, every little bit helps. It's definitely a motivator to get checked out as fast as I can. Here's hoping NATCA can fix the contract and get me on a pay scale the same level as everyone else.
After being checked out on the two "high" sectors in my area (with altitude limits starting at 24,000 feet all the way up to Jesus), I've been sent down to the low altitudes. The first of which is centered over Dubuque, Iowa (for clarity's sake, hereafter referred to as DBQ). Apparently, there are still people out there who have a burning desire to fly to DBQ to take a gander at the miles and miles of nothing. DBQ is alot like Grand Forks, except no blackjack in the bars and a greater distance away from Canada. I've gone from talking to professional pilots who (most of the time) listen to your instructions and (most of the time) comply with them. Down at DBQ, you get alot of Weekend Warrior types who completed their private pilot's exam by watching an 8mm documentary of WW II Japanese kamikaze pilots and taking a ScanTron test with half the holes already filled in. It's pretty entertaining listening to them do the kind of shit that I used to when I was getting my license. And I did some shit that made my flight instructor's head spin.
So needless to say it's a brand new learning experience. Just when I thought I had it all figured out with the high altitudes, DBQ backhands me in the junk. And on top of that, it's springtime. Which means you could be working a perfectly peaceful sector and then oh my god there are thunderstorms everywhere and everybody wants to deviate and DBQ tower is calling for releases and I just got put into the hold and Sue hates me and she's on my D-side and HOLY SHIT IS THAT A TORNADO????? This crap is gonna make me age faster than the dude who drank out of the wrong grail in the 3rd Indiana Jones flick.
But hey, it could be worse. I could be working for GM.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Left Behind
I lost my oldest friend last night.
My cat, Joe Montana Jonathan went to sleep last night and didn't wake up. I've been afraid of this day for a good five years now. Outdoor cats like Joe average about 8 years of life. Joe was 15, which I believe in Human Years is about 88. A few days ago, Joe had some trouble breathing so my parents took him to the veterinary emergency room in St. Charles. After some tests, they determined that he had feline congestive heart failure, and it was pretty much only a matter of time before it gave out. We went for a 2nd opinion on Tuesday, and it was determined that with some medication, Joe would be good for at least a few more months. He seemed better, happier than he had been in weeks. My parents took him home, and Bri and I went over to DJ's to watch American Idol that night. Joe played with me, sat with me, and attempted to steal my dinner. As I left that night, Joe walked out the front door with me as he had done so many times before. He sat on the porch, watched me get in my car and drive away. It was the last time I saw him.
It seemed ages ago when I first got Joe, and right from the beginning I knew that he was a bit "off". Most cats have a tendency to be somewhat aloof, not really caring if you were alive or dead just as long as the food dish was filled. Joe was different. When I first held him, he scrambled out of my arms and up onto my shoulders. He then just stood there, proclaiming to everyone that "this one is mine." Nothing would prove that wrong, as I would do anything for him. And he knew it. He ran the house. If he wanted to go outside and you were watching tv, he would walk up to whatever furniture you were sitting on, look you right in the eye, and start scratching the shit out of it. You would yell "goddamnit Joe!" and jump up. The instant your ass left the seat, he would turn around and run to the back door and look at you as if saying "this would have been alot easier if you would have just let me out in the first place". He used to drive my dad nuts. DJ would be sitting there watching the weather channel and Joe would begin his "I want out" routine. It then became a test of wills. DJ didn't want him to win, and Joe would NOT lose. So DJ would try to ignore him, and Joe would just keep on scratching. This would go on for minutes at a time. And EVERY time, DJ lost. There was just no winning...looking at the furniture is proof of that.
Just going back, thinking about Joe brings a smile to my face. I remember when everybody started coming over to watch Monday Night Raw. Dain used to smoke during the commercials, and Joe would go out with him. Kind of a "smoking buddy". Dain would get up, and say "Time for a smoke, Joe." And Joe (no matter what he was doing) would hop up and follow Dain-O to the porch. After burning one, they both would head back inside to watch the next match. Or when Roper came over, and didn't pay enough attention to him. Later on that night, Roper's coat smelled distinctly of cat urine. Joe also hated arguing. There was this one time when my dad and I were yelling at each other about something. We were in his office shouting, when Joe jumped up on the desk between us and began yowling as loud as he could. When that didn't work, he turned to the person nearest to him (me, of course) and swiped a 4-inch gash in my arm. Both my dad and I turned and looked at him, then burst out laughing. How could you be angry at him for that?
And speaking of being angry, nobody could hold a grudge like Joe. Whoever drew the short straw for taking him to the vet paid for it weeks afterword. Dirty looks and cold shoulders were on the menu for you. Oddly enough, I got it the worst. Or the time we went on vacation for two weeks and left Joe with Trevor. Joe put up with it for a week, then apparently decided "fuck this, I'm out". He took off and disappeared for the remaining week. When we got back, we all felt horrible for leaving him like that. Two days later we got a call from a family about a block up the road. Joe had apparently been sitting on their porch, waiting for someone to show. When they did, he walked in their house and got fed. Then we got the phone call, and a look from him that said: "that'll teach you."
There really isn't enough space for all the Joe stories out there. Sitting here, I can barely see the screen through my tears, but I'm smiling the whole time remembering. Dave Matthews said something after Leroi Moore died, and it stuck with me ever since.
"It's easier to leave then be left behind"
Nothing could be truer. My life is a little more empty, a little less fun now that Joe is gone. I loved him so much, and was loved in return. He demanded your love, but somehow made it wonderful to give it to him. I will miss him forever. I love you, Joe.
My cat, Joe Montana Jonathan went to sleep last night and didn't wake up. I've been afraid of this day for a good five years now. Outdoor cats like Joe average about 8 years of life. Joe was 15, which I believe in Human Years is about 88. A few days ago, Joe had some trouble breathing so my parents took him to the veterinary emergency room in St. Charles. After some tests, they determined that he had feline congestive heart failure, and it was pretty much only a matter of time before it gave out. We went for a 2nd opinion on Tuesday, and it was determined that with some medication, Joe would be good for at least a few more months. He seemed better, happier than he had been in weeks. My parents took him home, and Bri and I went over to DJ's to watch American Idol that night. Joe played with me, sat with me, and attempted to steal my dinner. As I left that night, Joe walked out the front door with me as he had done so many times before. He sat on the porch, watched me get in my car and drive away. It was the last time I saw him.
It seemed ages ago when I first got Joe, and right from the beginning I knew that he was a bit "off". Most cats have a tendency to be somewhat aloof, not really caring if you were alive or dead just as long as the food dish was filled. Joe was different. When I first held him, he scrambled out of my arms and up onto my shoulders. He then just stood there, proclaiming to everyone that "this one is mine." Nothing would prove that wrong, as I would do anything for him. And he knew it. He ran the house. If he wanted to go outside and you were watching tv, he would walk up to whatever furniture you were sitting on, look you right in the eye, and start scratching the shit out of it. You would yell "goddamnit Joe!" and jump up. The instant your ass left the seat, he would turn around and run to the back door and look at you as if saying "this would have been alot easier if you would have just let me out in the first place". He used to drive my dad nuts. DJ would be sitting there watching the weather channel and Joe would begin his "I want out" routine. It then became a test of wills. DJ didn't want him to win, and Joe would NOT lose. So DJ would try to ignore him, and Joe would just keep on scratching. This would go on for minutes at a time. And EVERY time, DJ lost. There was just no winning...looking at the furniture is proof of that.
Just going back, thinking about Joe brings a smile to my face. I remember when everybody started coming over to watch Monday Night Raw. Dain used to smoke during the commercials, and Joe would go out with him. Kind of a "smoking buddy". Dain would get up, and say "Time for a smoke, Joe." And Joe (no matter what he was doing) would hop up and follow Dain-O to the porch. After burning one, they both would head back inside to watch the next match. Or when Roper came over, and didn't pay enough attention to him. Later on that night, Roper's coat smelled distinctly of cat urine. Joe also hated arguing. There was this one time when my dad and I were yelling at each other about something. We were in his office shouting, when Joe jumped up on the desk between us and began yowling as loud as he could. When that didn't work, he turned to the person nearest to him (me, of course) and swiped a 4-inch gash in my arm. Both my dad and I turned and looked at him, then burst out laughing. How could you be angry at him for that?
And speaking of being angry, nobody could hold a grudge like Joe. Whoever drew the short straw for taking him to the vet paid for it weeks afterword. Dirty looks and cold shoulders were on the menu for you. Oddly enough, I got it the worst. Or the time we went on vacation for two weeks and left Joe with Trevor. Joe put up with it for a week, then apparently decided "fuck this, I'm out". He took off and disappeared for the remaining week. When we got back, we all felt horrible for leaving him like that. Two days later we got a call from a family about a block up the road. Joe had apparently been sitting on their porch, waiting for someone to show. When they did, he walked in their house and got fed. Then we got the phone call, and a look from him that said: "that'll teach you."
There really isn't enough space for all the Joe stories out there. Sitting here, I can barely see the screen through my tears, but I'm smiling the whole time remembering. Dave Matthews said something after Leroi Moore died, and it stuck with me ever since.
"It's easier to leave then be left behind"
Nothing could be truer. My life is a little more empty, a little less fun now that Joe is gone. I loved him so much, and was loved in return. He demanded your love, but somehow made it wonderful to give it to him. I will miss him forever. I love you, Joe.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
The Downward Spiral.
Here's how I feel about the play of the Blackhawks Big Summer Free Agent Signing, Christobal Huet:
The Hawks better get their act together, otherwise they are going to At Best: find themselves in the 7 or 8 seed in the playoffs, resulting in a first round exit against Detroit or San Jose. Or At Worst: packing their shit in the lockers for the summer and hitting the links.
It's not just one thing brining down the team (although goaltending is tops on the list), it's a bunch of little things. Team defense is falling apart, Brian Campbell is fighting the puck like a Roman gladiator, Duncan Keith is tired, Pat Sharp is hurt, Matt Walker is an ass, etc. It's the time of the season where you have to win every battle, earn every goal, and play each game like it's your last. The Hawks are a young team, with only a handfull of players ever experiencing the post season. This is where (to quote Hawk Harrelson, which I hate to do) you need to "sinch er up, and hunker down." The next few weeks will show just how tough this Hawks team is. I truly hope they are up to the challenge, because I'm tired of the Scum fans and the Shorks fans (sorry Bri) getting all the excitement. This team is good enough to make some noise in the playoffs, but they are gonna have to fight to get there.
Otherwise it's baseball time for me.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Gravity Is Your Enemy
So last Wednesday night I forgot how to use steps. I should have seen this coming, as I have been devoting so much time and effort into getting checked out at work that something had to give. You can only learn so much until the available space in your brain is filled, and something has to go. It's like sorting through all the digital music on your Ipod, and realizing that it's about full. The only way to put the new Dave Matthews tunes you downloaded (read: stole) on there is to go in and make the decision that you really don't need Tubthumping by Chumbawumba on your Ipod anymore. So being that I've learned so much lately on what NOT to do at the Badger sector at ZAU, my brain decided that I didn't need that precious information anymore and I fell faster than Apple stock when Steve Jobs sneezes.
It wasn't so bad that I fell, because I've actually done quite a bit of that. It's that I fell with my right foot still stuck underneath me, and at an angle that isn't medically conductive to continued use. The tendons in your ankle are tightly knit together, but somewhat flexible like a bungee cord. After the twisting I put them through, they still look and function like a bungee cord, but one that has Rosie O'Donnel hanging on the other end of it. Now my right foot has inflated like a balloon, and turned the shade of purple usually reserved for the bottom row of the Crayola box. I have a brace given to me by the kind folks at Fox Valley Orthopedic (whom I recommend to anyone with the insurance to cover their services) which helps me move about. The only problem is that it re-distributes the swelling to areas of my foot which are not, technically, injured. So now my toes have inflated to the size of cocktail weenies, and turned purple as well. Good times.
The most important thing about this injury is that it should heal fairly quickly, and I will be ready for the beginning of the softball season, which we all should know is rapidly approaching. Just sitting inside today with the beautiful 55 degree day outside gave me that itch to get out there and play some type of sport. Instead I was confined to the couch with my foot up in the air and an icepack slapped onto it. Life sucks, especially if you can't do the simple things, like walk down stairs. The following pictures should serve warning to people to only learn things they REALLY, REALLY need. Otherwise they might forget how to do other necessary things, like walking. Or how to not pee your pants.
It wasn't so bad that I fell, because I've actually done quite a bit of that. It's that I fell with my right foot still stuck underneath me, and at an angle that isn't medically conductive to continued use. The tendons in your ankle are tightly knit together, but somewhat flexible like a bungee cord. After the twisting I put them through, they still look and function like a bungee cord, but one that has Rosie O'Donnel hanging on the other end of it. Now my right foot has inflated like a balloon, and turned the shade of purple usually reserved for the bottom row of the Crayola box. I have a brace given to me by the kind folks at Fox Valley Orthopedic (whom I recommend to anyone with the insurance to cover their services) which helps me move about. The only problem is that it re-distributes the swelling to areas of my foot which are not, technically, injured. So now my toes have inflated to the size of cocktail weenies, and turned purple as well. Good times.
The most important thing about this injury is that it should heal fairly quickly, and I will be ready for the beginning of the softball season, which we all should know is rapidly approaching. Just sitting inside today with the beautiful 55 degree day outside gave me that itch to get out there and play some type of sport. Instead I was confined to the couch with my foot up in the air and an icepack slapped onto it. Life sucks, especially if you can't do the simple things, like walk down stairs. The following pictures should serve warning to people to only learn things they REALLY, REALLY need. Otherwise they might forget how to do other necessary things, like walking. Or how to not pee your pants.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Not Selling Out, Just Window Shopping.
If you had to make a choice to be a fan of something other than the teams you currently root for, what would that choice be? If you were to buy a jersey from a player who was not on your favorite team, who would it be?
I had to sit down for a minute and think about my answer. I went sport by sport, and here is what I was able to come up with:
Baseball:
This one was fairly easy. My reasons started out a bit off, as it was financially related. Back in 1990, when I was all of 11 years old, the most sought-after baseball card was the Upper Deck Ken Griffey Jr. rookie card. If you could score one of these babies, the grumpy proprietor of The Dugout sports card emporium in Batavia, Il, would shell out an entire EIGHTY bucks in trade for a KG.JR rookie card. Do you know how many Super Pro football cards that could buy me?
Anyways, in the beginning I loved Griff for the financial success him and his card could bring me. But as I got older, and a little wiser about the game of baseball, I realised that the guy was the absolute complete package. A great defender. An outstanding power hitter. An amazing teammate, and most importantly, a great person. Even when he left Seattle for the wasteland that is Cincinatti, you always knew he would return to the city that adored him (with a little stop in Chicago along the way).
He was (and still is) the anti-Barry Bonds. A pure baseball player, not just some roided up chump who was no good too his team outside of the batters' box. THATS why the only other baseball jersey I would buy would be a Mariners' Griffey jersey.
Football:
This one for me, was the hardest. I love the 49ers. I always have. All of my favorite players have come from the Niners, and my football season begins with SF, and usually ends with them in late December when they miss the playoffs. I can still smell the glory days, though. Montana to Rice. Young to Rice. Garcia to...uhm...JJ Stokes?
Anyways, I'm pretty fierce in my loyalty to the Crimson and Gold. Up until this past year, I probably would have just skipped this sport and moved on to Soccer (Freddi Adu, here I come!). However this one player made me stop and consider just how much I would give up to get him on the Niners. That player is Larry Fitzgerald.
I've never seen a reciever in the past 10 years that does just what LF can do. I actually watched him at Pitt, and was fairly impressed with him. Then Zona drafted him, and he went from Potential Savior to Bitter Enemy. I had a chance this year to watch him quite a bit. I drafted him second round in my 2nd fantasy football league, and was rewarded with the best all-around reciever in the game.
The thing that I love best about Fitz is that he remembers that it's a team game. No matter how impressive or impossible the TD, the first person Fitz congratulates are his teammates. He knows that without the offensive line, or the arm of Kurt Warner, there is no way that he would be able to do what he does so well. Then, in the offseason, he spoke to Cardinals management about taking a pay cut just so the team could afford to keep Anquan Boldin and Warner around. For those reasons (and the absolute dominance), the only non-Niners jersey I would buy would be that of Larry Fitzgerald.
Basketball:
This one was a bit hard for me as well. During the 90's, I was a rabid Bulls fan (who wasn't?). Jordan, Pippen, Cartwright, Paxon...they had it all. Then MJ retired, and decided he wanted to play baseball for my White Sox. He turned spring training into a media circus. Then he got sent down to AA Birmingham, and turned THAT place into a circus. And something happened. I stopped liking Mike. It seemed that he was just in it to prove that he was somehow good enough (and popular enough) to force his way into a Sox uniform. Some poor kid making $12,000 a year riding a bus from game to game was going to lose his shot at his dream because MJ decided to entertain a whim he had. And what a whim it was.
Eventually he tired of the expiriment, as we all knew he would, and headed back to the Bulls. Now I was a bit irritated, though. I really found that I was not interested in rooting for him. Sure he was the best player ever (still is. Suck it, Kobe), but I just didn't give a shit. So I found another team to root for. And that team was the Indiana Pacers. And the center(hah)piece of the Pacers was a 7' 4" beast of a man from the Netherlands named Rik Smits.
In high school basketball, I found myself playing the big man's posistion. After watching Rik play with the Pacers, I modeled my game after his. I learned to love posting up, and hitting a fadeaway bank shot on the blocks. Or getting a pass inside and letting the D collapse, then kicking it back out for a wide-open 3. Smits also had a pretty solid jumper from 20 feet in. All that, and he got to play with the best pure shooter in the league, Reggie Miller. And for that reason, Rik Smits is the non-Bulls jersey I would buy.
HOCKEY:
Last, but most definitely not least, comes the NHL. Until a year ago, I would have answered this question in a heartbeat. I would have answered Mario Lemiuex. The guy was everything that Wayne Gretzkey was not. Big, powerful, not afraid to take a hit, but could still rip a puck top shelf at pretty much his will. And you never heard him complain or whine about calls. Not to mention the fact that he overcame CANCER to come back and play at an elite level. Then after that he rewarded the city that had invested so much of their time and hope in him by buying the only franchise that he had ever known. The classiest of a bunch of athletes who are known throughout the sporting world as being classier than most.
Who wouldn't pick Super Mario, right? Well this past year or so has seen the rise of an incredible young star. One guy who has the ability to bring back fans to the NHL, when the league so desperately needs the attention. And that player is Sydney Crosby.
Just kidding. Screw that little whiner. Alex Ovechkin is the guy I'm talking about. Not only his he the most prodigious goal-scorer in the league right now, he does it with a flair and panache that leaves Sid the Kid in his dust. The most important thing is his enthusiasm. Every goal scored while he is on the ice, even the ones that his teammates score, he celebrates with energy usually reserved for game 7 of the Stanley Cup finals. He celebrates with his linemates, then speeds over to the bench to be with the team. And good god, the goals he DOES score are usually some out-of-your-mind Holy Crap did you just see what Ovechkin just did, that's just not fair type of goals.
So for all those reasons and more, the only non-Blackhawks sweater I would buy would be #8 from the Washington Capitals, Mr. Alexander Ovechkin.
Who would you pick?
I had to sit down for a minute and think about my answer. I went sport by sport, and here is what I was able to come up with:
Baseball:
This one was fairly easy. My reasons started out a bit off, as it was financially related. Back in 1990, when I was all of 11 years old, the most sought-after baseball card was the Upper Deck Ken Griffey Jr. rookie card. If you could score one of these babies, the grumpy proprietor of The Dugout sports card emporium in Batavia, Il, would shell out an entire EIGHTY bucks in trade for a KG.JR rookie card. Do you know how many Super Pro football cards that could buy me?
Anyways, in the beginning I loved Griff for the financial success him and his card could bring me. But as I got older, and a little wiser about the game of baseball, I realised that the guy was the absolute complete package. A great defender. An outstanding power hitter. An amazing teammate, and most importantly, a great person. Even when he left Seattle for the wasteland that is Cincinatti, you always knew he would return to the city that adored him (with a little stop in Chicago along the way).
He was (and still is) the anti-Barry Bonds. A pure baseball player, not just some roided up chump who was no good too his team outside of the batters' box. THATS why the only other baseball jersey I would buy would be a Mariners' Griffey jersey.
Football:
This one for me, was the hardest. I love the 49ers. I always have. All of my favorite players have come from the Niners, and my football season begins with SF, and usually ends with them in late December when they miss the playoffs. I can still smell the glory days, though. Montana to Rice. Young to Rice. Garcia to...uhm...JJ Stokes?
Anyways, I'm pretty fierce in my loyalty to the Crimson and Gold. Up until this past year, I probably would have just skipped this sport and moved on to Soccer (Freddi Adu, here I come!). However this one player made me stop and consider just how much I would give up to get him on the Niners. That player is Larry Fitzgerald.
I've never seen a reciever in the past 10 years that does just what LF can do. I actually watched him at Pitt, and was fairly impressed with him. Then Zona drafted him, and he went from Potential Savior to Bitter Enemy. I had a chance this year to watch him quite a bit. I drafted him second round in my 2nd fantasy football league, and was rewarded with the best all-around reciever in the game.
The thing that I love best about Fitz is that he remembers that it's a team game. No matter how impressive or impossible the TD, the first person Fitz congratulates are his teammates. He knows that without the offensive line, or the arm of Kurt Warner, there is no way that he would be able to do what he does so well. Then, in the offseason, he spoke to Cardinals management about taking a pay cut just so the team could afford to keep Anquan Boldin and Warner around. For those reasons (and the absolute dominance), the only non-Niners jersey I would buy would be that of Larry Fitzgerald.
Basketball:
This one was a bit hard for me as well. During the 90's, I was a rabid Bulls fan (who wasn't?). Jordan, Pippen, Cartwright, Paxon...they had it all. Then MJ retired, and decided he wanted to play baseball for my White Sox. He turned spring training into a media circus. Then he got sent down to AA Birmingham, and turned THAT place into a circus. And something happened. I stopped liking Mike. It seemed that he was just in it to prove that he was somehow good enough (and popular enough) to force his way into a Sox uniform. Some poor kid making $12,000 a year riding a bus from game to game was going to lose his shot at his dream because MJ decided to entertain a whim he had. And what a whim it was.
Eventually he tired of the expiriment, as we all knew he would, and headed back to the Bulls. Now I was a bit irritated, though. I really found that I was not interested in rooting for him. Sure he was the best player ever (still is. Suck it, Kobe), but I just didn't give a shit. So I found another team to root for. And that team was the Indiana Pacers. And the center(hah)piece of the Pacers was a 7' 4" beast of a man from the Netherlands named Rik Smits.
In high school basketball, I found myself playing the big man's posistion. After watching Rik play with the Pacers, I modeled my game after his. I learned to love posting up, and hitting a fadeaway bank shot on the blocks. Or getting a pass inside and letting the D collapse, then kicking it back out for a wide-open 3. Smits also had a pretty solid jumper from 20 feet in. All that, and he got to play with the best pure shooter in the league, Reggie Miller. And for that reason, Rik Smits is the non-Bulls jersey I would buy.
HOCKEY:
Last, but most definitely not least, comes the NHL. Until a year ago, I would have answered this question in a heartbeat. I would have answered Mario Lemiuex. The guy was everything that Wayne Gretzkey was not. Big, powerful, not afraid to take a hit, but could still rip a puck top shelf at pretty much his will. And you never heard him complain or whine about calls. Not to mention the fact that he overcame CANCER to come back and play at an elite level. Then after that he rewarded the city that had invested so much of their time and hope in him by buying the only franchise that he had ever known. The classiest of a bunch of athletes who are known throughout the sporting world as being classier than most.
Who wouldn't pick Super Mario, right? Well this past year or so has seen the rise of an incredible young star. One guy who has the ability to bring back fans to the NHL, when the league so desperately needs the attention. And that player is Sydney Crosby.
Just kidding. Screw that little whiner. Alex Ovechkin is the guy I'm talking about. Not only his he the most prodigious goal-scorer in the league right now, he does it with a flair and panache that leaves Sid the Kid in his dust. The most important thing is his enthusiasm. Every goal scored while he is on the ice, even the ones that his teammates score, he celebrates with energy usually reserved for game 7 of the Stanley Cup finals. He celebrates with his linemates, then speeds over to the bench to be with the team. And good god, the goals he DOES score are usually some out-of-your-mind Holy Crap did you just see what Ovechkin just did, that's just not fair type of goals.
So for all those reasons and more, the only non-Blackhawks sweater I would buy would be #8 from the Washington Capitals, Mr. Alexander Ovechkin.
Who would you pick?
Friday, February 6, 2009
Lethargy Zoning
I realize that it's been about 2 months since I've posted anything on the ole' blog, and that kind of surprises me. Normally I'll be sitting at work (on break), looking at cnn.com, and I'll see something that makes me say "that's pretty screwed up. I should write a blog about that." Then I'll head home, full of piss (and occasionally vinegar) ready to spew blog-style venom about whatever current events topic I read about online. Once I get home, however, one of two things happens. I realize that what I thought of isn't funny or topical, or I realize that I had to be at work at 5:45 am, and I am too tired to give a shit anymore.
Usually, it's the fact that I am zonked out of my gourd tired that prevents me from blogging, or going to the gym, or doing anything else remotely productive with my life. I'm like Pete without the diabetes. I feel guilty about just getting home from work and just sliding into a comatose state. I know that there is stuff I could be out there doing that would advance (and possibly extend) my life, but I just can't muster up enough energy to give a shit. It's like there is some kind of wierd Lethargy Zone around Roper's house that just sucks out the will to do anything proactive. If Pete didn't have to pay rent, I don't think he would ever leave his room. 45 years down the road when Roper finally sells the house, there is going to be a Pete skeleton sitting on top of a pile of comics and empty Coke Zero cans that needs to be buried, or fed to the neighborhood dog.
That being said, there are two important things coming up this summer that I REALLY want to be in shape for. Number one is my wedding day. There is just something about the threat of looking like Hurley from LOST in your wedding pictures that can motivate you to hit the gym. The second thing is that very shortly, we will begin practicing for the upcoming softball season. I love Rambone, probably moreso than any other sporting team I've been a part of. I want to be the best damn 1st baseman I can be, and that includes being able to score from 1st base on a double to the fence. I'd like to be able to go from 1st to home without needing to take a hit on the portable oxygen tank afterwards. So if you happen to drop by Roper's place in the next few months, and you see me sitting on the couch like a coma patient, do me a favor and slap me in the nuts and tell me to hit the gym.
I really need to up my "Runs Scored" stats this year.
Usually, it's the fact that I am zonked out of my gourd tired that prevents me from blogging, or going to the gym, or doing anything else remotely productive with my life. I'm like Pete without the diabetes. I feel guilty about just getting home from work and just sliding into a comatose state. I know that there is stuff I could be out there doing that would advance (and possibly extend) my life, but I just can't muster up enough energy to give a shit. It's like there is some kind of wierd Lethargy Zone around Roper's house that just sucks out the will to do anything proactive. If Pete didn't have to pay rent, I don't think he would ever leave his room. 45 years down the road when Roper finally sells the house, there is going to be a Pete skeleton sitting on top of a pile of comics and empty Coke Zero cans that needs to be buried, or fed to the neighborhood dog.
That being said, there are two important things coming up this summer that I REALLY want to be in shape for. Number one is my wedding day. There is just something about the threat of looking like Hurley from LOST in your wedding pictures that can motivate you to hit the gym. The second thing is that very shortly, we will begin practicing for the upcoming softball season. I love Rambone, probably moreso than any other sporting team I've been a part of. I want to be the best damn 1st baseman I can be, and that includes being able to score from 1st base on a double to the fence. I'd like to be able to go from 1st to home without needing to take a hit on the portable oxygen tank afterwards. So if you happen to drop by Roper's place in the next few months, and you see me sitting on the couch like a coma patient, do me a favor and slap me in the nuts and tell me to hit the gym.
I really need to up my "Runs Scored" stats this year.
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