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August 16, 2008 - Them! Show THEM!
   • If Fox News has an "eBay Auction Item of the Day," I've got to figure this was at least in the nomination pool.



Show your support for English as the #1 language in the USA. Show them you always Press '1' For English!

"PRESS 1 (ONE) FOR ENGLISH" IS A US TRADEMARK
   I suppose it could have been better.

   "Language" could have been spelled wrong.

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August 15, 2008 - Dumb City. Wanting Their Money.
   • I'd finally beaten a system. Not a very significant system, but one that I could at least enjoy some pride in beating.


   That's BU's South Campus, where I lived in 2001-02 and have been parking for Red Sox games ever since. The green areas are totally free parking, with Fenway barely a walk away -- it's the gray in the bottom right. The blue areas to the left were my 2008 discovery: three-hour parking meters that shut off at 6 o'clock. Because I have to get to the park before 4:00 on game nights, all the meters in the area are of no use ... they cap at two hours, and it's not really feasible for me to run back outside to reload.

   So, instead of the 2004-07 plan of mostly parking for free and getting $25 expired meter tickets from time to time, 2008 was 24 games of glory: free or $2 about 90 percent of the time. Throwing out a couple weekend games, I'd spent maybe $20 in three-plus months.

   Until today, my first day in Boston since the city figured it out, and made Mountfort Street all two-hour resident parking until 6 p.m. Which means it's end-to-end red -- $40 ticket, which is more than the lots around the park* and thus invalidates the one argument I had with my bosses when I'd hand them a fistful of parking tickets on an expense report.

   * - Media parking, before someone asks, is not free in Boston. Because there's almost no parking around the stadium, the stuff they own they give to high rollers and rent for everybody else. And because they rent, media people have to buy 81 passes at the start of the year regardless of whether they'll all be used.

   The fishwrap, million-dollar enterprise that it is, doesn't have $2,500 to throw around, especially when half of it's going in the toilet. Nor would I ever let them, given my system beating and pride from beating said system.

   The move makes things a clusterfuck again: the cars that were basically stashed in most of the free spots are now in the remaining free spots, and filling the three-hour meters I'd all but had my pick on a daily basis. So now, I have to either get lucky and find a spot, swallow a $25 ticket and hope no one in the office says anything, or play the always fun game of "Will 2.5 hours in a two-hour spot doesn't cost me $40 today?"

   It didn't today, which was nice since I saw no game and walked back to my car in driving rain.

   Do you care? Probably not, at least after you printed out my cheat sheet and will proceed to use it against me. But just remember this when I'm at another Game 7 or flitting around the country for a third World Series.

   I've got it horribly, horribly tough after all.

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August 14, 2008 - For Ten Points, What's Her Name?
   • I don't have any real significant memories of watching women's gymnastics in Olympics past, but I know I have. I'm generally a pro-Olympics guy, all the way back to recalling sadness about the end of the winter games in Calgary.

   Obviously, things evolve over the course of two decades. Society evolves. We're not in some idyllic wonderland, with Keith Jackson talking to me in a red blazer, inside some faux log cabin in Alberta. Bob Costas -- whom people apparently hate a hell of a lot more than I ever realized -- is grilling the President on foreign policy while half of America is doing impressions of the whole thing from home.

   But I'd like to think I'm not the only one getting significantly creeped out. Not so much from the "Hey, don't those Chinese gymnasts look like they're nine years old?" Not the whole "Isn't it weird how quickly female gymnasts mature after they stop doing whatever it is they do?" Not even the way Agawam's own Tim Daggett casually chided how the Romanian gymnasts now have the nerve to smile every so often while competing.


-- Um ... doesn't a show like this usually involve trenchcoats and dollar bills?

Romania's gymnast Steliana Nistor performs on the uneven bars during the womens' gymnastics individual all-around finals at the Beijing 2008 Olympics on Friday. (AP Photo/Matt Dunham)
   It's not even that watching this bothers me. It's thinking about the other people watching this who ... yeah.


-- But hey. On the plus side, America's newest Mike Eruzione has been born.

Eruzione retired from competition after the Olympics, despite contract offers from the New York Rangers, stating that he'd reached the pinnacle of achievement already.

...

On January 19, 2007, Eruzione appeared on the new version of the game show I've Got a Secret. His secret was that he was the captain of the 1980 U.S. Men's Olympic hockey team.
   God bless him. The guilt might have gotten some people about 15 years in.

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August 13, 2008 - Mmm. Tattoos On The Elderly.
   • It's very rare that Julie out and out requests I post something, so when she does, she usually gets her way.

   Therefore:

   Don't blame me. I'm voting for Kodos.

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Under construction, I swear.

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August 4, 2008 - Sympathy For A Fellow Man
   • Someone, somewhere, has this certificate printed out on a wall as a source of pride.


   We should go try to find them, because I'm guessing they really need a hug.

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August 3, 2008 - The Soccer Hall of Fame

• I haven't talked much about the Baseball Hall of Fame here because I wrote a column about it. A shockingly average place, hurt by its being placed atop the highest pedestal after years and years of hearing how wonderful it is. Did we stay for something like five hours? Yes. Did I, an hour in, check my watch as I looked at another case full of cleats? You bet.    My brother's a Marlins fan. They've won two World Series, and been a franchise -- albeit, not a great one -- for going on 15 years. Is it too much to expect I should be able to find a souvenir for him somewhere in the gift shop? I believe my options were a generic cap and beer steins commemorating each title.    If you knew nothing about baseball and went to Cooperstown, you might think the league still had 12 teams: Yankees, Dodgers, Red Sox, Phillies, Cubs, etc.    Just strikes me as a little strange.    I'd like to think the crux of my piece was that you don't really connect to the sport at the Hall of Fame. You don't touch a bat. You can't throw a ball. Everything's under glass. There's a depressing lack of video and audio.    It all reeks of baseball's fascination with its own history. Contrast that with the National Soccer Hall of Fame, just 20 miles down the road.

    Look at the bottom of that receipt ... "Thank You For Choosing National Soccer Hall of Fame." Isn't that the same thing you'd expect to see on the receipt at your local Ruby Tuesday's?


-- There's a quiet charm in this.
   I understand soccer is not big here, especially as someone who's probably less an actual fan and more fascinated by the sport in short bursts. I understand the meager parking lot had maybe 18 cars in it -- employees included -- not just because we went on a Wednesday. But when we walk across the empty lobby to the desk, ask for two tickets and get an almost over-eager, "So, how did you hear about us?"

   Um, you're the soccer Hall of Fame. You just kind of sit in the psyche, as you have since I saw a patch on a fellow player's back when I actually played soccer poorly 20 years ago. Yeah, we're not talking about the White House, but people ought to know you exist.

     
-- I mean, hell. You're exploding with soccer action!
   Regardless of how you feel about soccer, I really feel like they put together what a Hall of Fame should be. There's all sorts of stuff under glass.


-- Some of which with the always popular "local flavor."
   Old trophies, jerseys, shoes. The story of the game in America. Whole bunch of stuff on the World Cup, including a suit from favorite mascot of my youth, Striker. Whole display on the current lineup of MLS.


-- But then, headers! (With sideways video!)


-- Speed Kick! (Not pictured: Me, trying to be cool, managing to kick the ball off the exhibit framework and back down to the first level of the building.)
   Then, the foosball tables. (I still, apparently, suck at foosball.) An enclosed indoor soccer arena. (Julie, apparently, sucks more than I do.) To say nothing of the complete lack of pretense implied by foosball tables and video games and a Lego display.

   It was while trying to take a picture of said Lego display through its sort-of dirty case that a nice older man emerged from a back room and started talking to me. He told me it was part of what used to be a traveling exhibit that went around to MLS games, then starting asking where we were from and how I got away with wearing a Blue Jays hat in Boston. A genuine nice conversation, which is saying something given my feelings about smalltalk.

   Turns out, he was the museum director.

   I just can not recommend this place enough. I left sweaty, but we left happy.


-- Even if I still suck. (I did drill a 49-mph blast later, not that you believe me.)

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August 2, 2008 - 94.
   The Mystery of Chain Restaurants: How is that Bennigan's has needed to file for bankruptcy, yet the crap shack that is Applebee's continues to soldier on in its crapulence?

   Admittedly, I've not been to a Bennigan's in a while, but it was a staple of family college visits. Matty Cooch frequently ordered what I figured was their ace in the hole: "The Wheelhouse," a burger with a topping list centered around a fried cheese wheel.

   This is America ... how can a fried cheese wheel be topped by riblets, onion straws and a '4-out-of-10' consistency no matter where you are?

   (The other restaurant that's got this going on? Friendly's, which I've said for years offers slightly above average food, deplorable service and reasonable prices no matter the locale.)


-- I haven't been wrong yet. May they welcome us to Western Mass.
on the Massachusetts Turnpike for years to come.
   • I just hope that the loss doesn't date:


-- too much.
   Edit: Upon actually reading the story -- a novel idea when trying to sound informed -- all Bennigan's are not closing, just the company-owned ones. Apparently, the one of local relevance is closed.

   There've been two times in family history when we've been forced to abort a vacation, and the second tangentially involves Bennigan's. We were in Boston in my pre-high school days, and ate there before retiring to our high-rise hotel across the street.

   In the heart of the Theater District on a Saturday night, even closing the windows couldn't keep the commotion of shows letting out in the wee hours out of the room. My mother was having none of it, threw a fit and away we went.

   (The other bad trip? Gloucester, in the '80s. Matty Cooch was very young, and for whatever reason would not stop crying when we tried to go to sleep. That must have a been a fun drive back across the state in the pitch black ... I don't remember it because I fell asleep in the car, thus meaning little brother did too.

   Course, the forgotten part of the story is things started to go awry at dinner, when my parents unwittingly wandered into a dry town to eat. No idea which it was, as it appears any dry towns up there have given in over the last 20 years, but it made for a slightly uncomfortable meal.)

   But seriously, there's almost 2,000 Applebee's?! While my stomach gently weeps.

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August 1, 2008 - It's Old. It's Gray.
   Now This? This is Balls: From the month away, Bill Rhoden writes about the epic Federer-Nadal Wimbledon final ... from the perspective of not watching it.

No one expected a day-night match for the ages.

Who thought that in a stretch of 24 hours, Venus Williams's great accomplishment -- a fifth women's singles championship -- would be dwarfed by a tennis marathon?

Who thought? Not us. So we watched as Nadal took a commanding two-set lead, concluded that this was Nadal's day and decided to take in a movie, "Hancock."
   That's his angle. In London, at Wimbledon, about to see the five-time champion finally be usurped, HE LEAVES TO GO WATCH A WILL SMITH MOVIE.

   And then WRITES A FUCKING COLUMN ABOUT IT.

There was a certain unproven-ness about Nadal. Was he a warrior? Even if he had simply run away with the match, as he threatened to do early on, Nadal may not have won pub respect, rugby respect, as a rough-and-tumble fighter.

He was the muscled young prince.

By the time we reached Fulham Road, Federer had battled back and Nadal was in for the match of his life -- and so were we. I ducked into the Goat and Boots, with my wife and daughter. An overwhelmingly pro-Federer crowd cheered lustily as the champion began to close in.

Finally at 6:57 p.m., another deadline called -- the movie. Nadal seemed to have things somewhat in hand. So we left, walking slowly, looking back.
   I'm not the kind of guy who leaps up, pointing "this is the problem with newspapers." It's pretty clear he was not there on assignment, and wrote this either on his own accord -- something I'd do, albeit at an event far less significant than Wimbledon -- or at the request of an editor who knew he was there.

   But there's somebody here who needs his damned face slapped. Whether it's Bill "Race Card" Rhoden or his editor isn't terribly important.

We reached the Hereford Arms, saw the large crowds, heard the whooping, and realized that these were not highlights. This match had become an epic. Nadal was near exhaustion but fighting with a determined verve that had long since won over even the most skeptical fan. A classic. The crowd cheered lustily, and by this point rooting interests had given way to deep respect for two champions. All that remained was to crown a champion, not determine the better man.

In the three minutes required to walk from the Hereford Arms to our hotel, Federer had slapped a forehand into the net on Nadal’s fourth match point. There was a roar behind and a roar ahead. The classic was over.
   I damn well hoped someone delivered it.

   • I swear to God. That makes less sense now than it did when I first read it. The New York Times ... I wouldn't run that, clearly proving why I'll never make it in this business.

   Anyway, in a different head-shaking category, I do not pretend to understand the level of preparation needed on the female side of the wedding. Aside from having had as little to do with it in my own wedding, I took the run-up to the nuptuials to get in the worst shape of my life.

   But even had I not, I (nor Julie) would not have asked the bridal party to go get cosmetic surgery.

And let's not forget the pictures of college roommates-turned-bridesmaids quickly posted to Facebook. It is no longer sufficient to hire a hairstylist and makeup artist to be on hand the day of. Instead, bridal parties are indulging in dermal fillers and tooth-whitening months before the Big Day.

Some brides pick up the tab for their attendants, replacing the pillbox inscribed with the wedding date with a well-earned squirt between the eyes. In other cases, bridesmaids -- who may quietly seethe about unflattering dresses -- are surprisingly willing to pay for cosmetic enhancements.
   Man, would I love to read something from those brides who don't pick up the tab. Fortunately, the nation's newspaper has the resources to semi-deliver.

A bride's request that you whiten your grayish teeth can strain a relationship. Samantha Goldberg, a wedding planner in Chester, N.J., recalled a bride who asked her attendants to get professionally spray-tanned for a Hawaiian-theme reception.

Alas, two women were claustrophobic and couldn't bear standing in a tanning capsule. "They asked the bride if they could use regular tanning cream from a salon," Ms. Goldberg said. The bride refused; she wanted everyone to be the same shade. The women ultimately declined to be bridesmaids.

"Friendships of 20-plus years gone over a spray tan?" Ms. Goldberg said. "Sad!"
   It's only made better by her not only being from New Jersey, but her dream reception involving tiki torches.

   They're out there among us. If only we could hit them all with our cars.

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2008: [07] - [06] - [05] - [04] - [03] - [02] - [01]
2007: [12] - [11] - [10] - [09] - [08] - [07] - [06] - [05] - [04] - [03] - [02] - [01]
2006: [12] - [11] - [10] - [09] - [08] - [07] - [06] - [05] - [04] - [03] - [02] - [01]
2005: [12] - [11] - [10] - [09] - [08] - [07] - [06] - [05] - [04] - [03] - [02] - [01]
2004: [12] - [11] - [10] - [09] - [08] - [07] - [06] - [05] - [04] - [03] - [02] - [01]
2003: [12] - [11] - [10] - [09] - [08] - [07] - [06] - [05] - [04] - [03] - [02] - [01]
2002: [12] - [11] - [10] - [09] - [08] - [07] - [06] - [05] - [04] - [03] - [02] - [01]
2001: [12] - [11] - [10] - [09] - [08] - [07] - [06] - [05]

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