Teachable moment in an unwatchable film
Originally published at OCFamily.com
So, I watched one of the worst movies of the year this weekend. It’s called “Grown Ups,” and with a cast of Adam Sandler, Chris Rock, Kevin James and David Spade, plus the celluloid candy of Selma Hayek and Maria Bello, you’d think you’d have, at the very least, some watchable moments… Not so much.
There’s nary a SNL skit in the 6,120-second run-time. I converted 102 minutes to seconds, because you’ll be counting them if you rent this temporal black hole. It wasn’t even worth $1.00 I spent at Red Box. The only way this film would be worth the money is if they paid you handsomely to watch it.
The supposed “teachable moment” in this teeming dung pile comes at the end of the film. Sandler, who plays a Ari Gold-type Hollywood agent, intentionally misses a shot at the end of a pick-up basketball game because the other team could use the win more. Then we’re supposed to believe the “will get ‘em next year, Dad” crap from his mollycoddled kid. Now, as magnanimous as the plot of that morality play sounds, I think that it’s a terrible message to send a kid. It’s OK to throw a game or intentionally miss a shot if you feel sorry for the other team. How assumptive, arrogant and contrary to the whole idea of competition is that?
There’s no teachable moment for Hollywood either. The film grossed $164 million domestically. Since this film looks like it took an weekend to shoot, there’s probably plenty of return even with the high-dollar talent.
So, if there is a teachable moment in this whole exercise in futility, it is this: Don’t rent Grown Ups!
Witness Protection
Once upon a time, Cleveland’s favorite Son implored an entire city to “witness” his greatness.
Then he left.
The fairytale has long been over in Ohio, but tomorrow, Lebron James will take his talents back to Cleveland. I can imagine the giddy expectancy of Cavalier fans scorned. This must be their calm before the storm. This is the anticipatory build before an inevitable crescendo. For six months, Cleveland fans have simmered in a stew of anger at The King’s beguiling ways, and now they lay in wait for His Higness to return to his abdicated throne.
Before the season began, Lebron invited “haters” to take their ‘best shot” on his Twitter page. In what defense attorneys refer to as “entrapment,” he revealed some of the more racially charged messages in order to illustrate a point… “to show sentiments toward athletes” such as him. Really? Was he a victim or was he trying to curry favor after his poorly-rated “Decision?” And to whom does he refer with his “athletes such as him” assertion? Those who feel entitled, but who have no titles? Men who claim racism all the while embodying the ugly emotion? The plight of racism in this country may be real, but Lebron’s experience as a the chosen one and a multi-millionaire black man is not the perfect case study. Cleveland fans (and others nationwide) don’t hate you because you are black. They hate you because you’re yellow, as in cowardly. The fact that you invited jabs and then went and tattled to your Twitter universe underscores that. They don’t like you because you are not likable, despite the best efforts by your Beaverton, Oregon handlers.
When you took your “talents to South Beach,” you forsook an entire city in the process (video evidence). You mock Charles, but you may just be a role model. South Beach is known for its skinny, sycophantic divas who pout when they don’t get their way.
Lebron is like a bitter divorcée who thinks she can do better. Now that she’s single, she’s on the prowl looking for a better man but is finding out grass isn’t always greener in South Beach… it’s just sand.
For the season, his scoring is down, from second in the league to 10th. His assists and rebounds are the lowest of his carrer; however, he leads the league in one category: Turnovers, and not the Pillsbury variety that Charles Barkley so covets.
Tomorrow, James is meeting up with his ex, and it will be awkward, deliciously so. James says he “expects an emotional return.” For his sake, let’s hope the Cleveland faithful don’t emote with bottles, rotten fruit and other projectiles. If so, he may need “Witness” protection.
In any case, it ought to be a riot, though I hope not literally. Tune in tomorrow night on TNT at 5 p.m. PT, on your PC here to find out.
Panic at the Disco-unt
Originally published at OCFamily.com
I’ve got a little bit of a shopping problem. I was at Costco, and I almost bought a TV that we didn’t need. It was an open box, and the guy in the red vest and walkie-talkie was going to try to get me 30% off.
Thanksgiving is here, which also means so is Black Friday. A friend forwarded me this site, Black-Friday.net, which is a pretty awesome rundown of what’s going down the day after the turkey did. They posted the ad showing what wares the Wal-Mart will have on that dreaded retail hell-day. The prices on electronics were so cheap; there’s a laptop for under $200, but it also brought back the horrid memory of that day that has me ruing Black Friday and Wal-Mart all the same.
It was about five years ago. The sun had not yet risen, and the Thanksgiving pie had barely settled. Uncharacteristically, it was a chilly Southern California November. There were hundreds of us huddled single-file outside the Cerritos Towne Center Wal-Mart in what I can only imagine is a less civil version of the food line during the Irish Potato famine. The doors cracked open at 5:00 a.m. Any later would have incited a riot.
We scurried in, not like cattle but like some other, much less docile, creatures. An old lady about 5″2″ cut me off and ran her shopping cart over my foot without so much as a “pardon.” I can only assume she didn’t know the English equivalent. Like a lone bee in a slow moving swarm, I made my way to the electronics department. Suddenly, the line stopped moving ahead. I couldn’t see what the hold up was, but the mass of people continued to pack in from behind. I was literally smashed in a sea of shoppers, and claustrophobia crept nervously to my brain. It was all I could do to keep from acknowledging the wave of panic. My fight or flight instincts were ripe, and I was one painful childhood incident away from charging through the throng of shoppers like one of USC’s six tailbacks. But I relented, not wanting a reprise of The Who Concert I attended in ’79.
When I finished my breathing exercises (read: hyperventilating), I made my way to the computer counter only to find there were only 20 of those laptops per store and they were all gone. Out of spite, I wanted to force the guy to “call around” to other stores. My anger was only quelled by the fact that I had, in my mind’s eye, just moments before, narrowly escaped death.
Dejectedly, I retreated to the parking lot in the pre-dawn glow of the street lights. I drove home in a wordless stare then scurried up the stairs and covered myself in my full-price 300-thread-count sheets. I was careful not to stir my sleeping wife lest she wake and make me recount the details of the whole horrifying event…
Oh, but happy shopping to you… On that Friday morning, I’ll be swaddled in sheets of my bed, which, incidentally, have since been upgraded to a 600-thread-count.
The Dodgers are in desperate need of a veteran starting pitcher. But that’s not their biggest need. They also need to bolster that young line-up with another power-hitting threat, preferably at one of the the corners. That still is not what they need most. What the Dodgers really need is… wait for it… a Kardashian… stick with me here.
My postualtion sounds a little less preposterous when you analyze the facts. This isn’t money ball; it’s honey ball. Just look what happened to Reggie Bush. He gets with Kim and her two-cheek entourage, and he wins a Superbowl. He breaks up with her and all hell and Heisman’s break loose.
Lamar Odom has been in the league for 10 years, all the while trying to reach his “potential”; He’s finally there. The only variable in that equation the addition of a Kardashian. He gives a the bling to Khloe, and he gets two championship rings back.
For those reasons, we need to go after the lone Kardashian left. The little one. I literally don’t know her name. But the Dodgers need to get Matt Kemp to drop that sucubus Rhianna and get with the little Dash. She is the key to the Dodgers’ future. So Coletti, if you are reading, make some calls. Get the Millionaire Matchmaker on the case if you must, but please make this happen. The future of the Blue Crew depends on it. 
Heat Check
The irony of the of the “Lebron Rise” Nike commercial is thick enough to eat with your fingers; the Miami Heat are on a free fall. They’re just 1-3 in their last four, they’re perched 5th in the East.
Both Bosh and LeBron say they “They’re thinking too much. They just have to play.” Well, if you believe LeBron’s commercial where James poses interrogatives and suppositions “What should I do?,” and ”should I be who you want me to be?” you see a book-clad James. You get the idea he is a thinker. My guess is he never so much as cracked a book in high school. He didn’t have to.
If he listens to Miami Vice alum Don Johnson from his sneaker pimp show (“You just gotta’ deal with the Heat man. Be patient. After a while, the temperature drops and everything is free and easy”), all this will pass. My take is quite different: This situation is like Kobe on a fast break; It ain’t passing.
There’re problems in South Beach. Who would have predicted that? There’re a few people in Cleveland who would have. You only need to see the “Rise reprise” to know that.
So, I have a few answers for you Lebron. “Should I admit that I made mistakes?” Yes. “Should I really believe I ruined my legacy?” Yes. “Should I have my (Cleveland) tattoo removed? No. You should keep it as a reminder or question 1. “Should I tell you ‘I am not a role model?’” No. You should be a role model. “Should I stop listening to my friends?” Yes. They’re not friends. They’re hangers-on. There’s one more question you should ask of the Cleveland faithful, “where should I go?”
Pose that, and you might just get an answer.
Attention Angel Fans!
So it’s your last chance to get some really cool Angel photos for Christmas. We took these and more today.
The program is called Halo Holiday Photo and it’s going on right now. All you have to do is:
- Show up at Anaheim Stadium at one of the times listed below.
- Bring a new unwrapped toy to donate to the Angels Baseball Foundation.
- Bring a camera.
You can take your holiday photo on home plate at Angel Stadium, or with Santa or both.
There are two days remaining, tomorrow and Wednesday:
Date and Times
November 22 – 2:00 pm – 4:00 pm
November 23 – 2:00 pm – 4:00 pm
November 24 – 9:00 am – 1:00 pm
Parking is free; enter through Orangewood Ave. Enter the stadium through the Home Plate Gate.
Happy Holidays!
Dancing with a dummy
So even though I am a self-professed reality TV whore, I don’t watch Dancing with the Ex-Stars, Has Beens and Whos? This is not a macho “doth protest too much” thing. I’ve seen it, and on DVR, it is sufferable. I’ve also seen how insufferable pop-star “Brandi” has been to her dance partner Max Easternblocksky, a dude so cool that he manages to look masculine in tights. A man so charming, he made his way into the tights of his last season’s parter, Erin Andrews.
And by the way, what Brandi popped, I have no idea? Her biggest claim to fame in my book is that she took Kobe Bryant to her prom; what he popped that night, again, I have no idea?
But today, I woke up to the CNN and KTLA’s shocked reaction and outrage that Brandi was voted off instead of Bristol Palin. I didn’t even need to see the show to know why. The picture inset tells me plenty. Brandi reaction is just short of a finger-wagging “oh no she didn’t.” Conversely, Palin’s was one of shock and compassion.
So forgive me if I don’t buy into Brandi-gate. It’s no wonder America chose an expressionless dummy over a too-soon diva who’s had previous dance experience.
America prefers DWAD (dancing with a dummy); I know my wife does.
Stand-Up Performance
I consider myself a stand-up guy. I freely admit when I’m wrong, when I believe I’m wrong. I may be jaded on the later, but I try to remain true to the former.
At times, I’m honest to a fault. If my wife asks me about an outfit, I’ll weigh in with my true opinion. Some may say that’s not smart, but it goes against the grain in the cloth from which I was cut to do otherwise. I once called in “partying” to work because I didn’t have the compunction to call in sick when I wasn’t. Having said that, I also used to order the clam chowder at Nordstrom Cafe knowing full well it would give me a mild reaction, one good enough to send me home at 6:00 p.m. on a Friday evening, but not one strong enough to keep me out for the night.
What is this self-indulgent preamble all about? It’s about our current commander-in-chief. Think and say what you will about President Obama, he is a stand up guy. He’s the rare player who holds up his hand and says “the foul was on me.” The albatross that says “my bad” without ever seeking your pitty. I’ve gained mad respect for our fearless leader. Granted, he’s led to bigger government, but much of those cards had already been played before he came into office. He’s the batter that came to the plate for the guy that got thrown out of the baseball game with no-ball, two-strike count. He little chance from the outset.
He’s on the TV tonight on 60 minutes, and held a press-conference a few days ago singing the same “mea culpa” song. This will do nothing for him politically. Honesty is not a value this country values any longer. But, if he’s anything like me, it will do much for his peace of mind. This admission is much more soul-feeding than most policymakers’ omissions.
Irrespective of his politics and the state of the economy, this commander-in-chief has commanded (read: earned) my respect.
Hit & Run
James Harrison is a hard-hitting NFL football player… or maybe, was… The Steelers linebacker has threatened to retire from the game after a recent in-game head-to-head contact hit that resulted in a $75,000 fine. The “receiver” of the hit got a concussion. In a terrible turn of irony, the two were teammates at Kent State. Harrison was so upset with the fine — and the NFL’s stricter enforcement of dangerous hits — that he said he was weighing retirement.
ESPN has audio of him saying that he can’t play like that, then he won’t play at all. To make matters worse, he was excused from the Pittsburgh Steelers’ Wednesday’s practice session after meeting with coach Mike Tomlin who thought he “needed time to cool off.”
I think we all know that Tomlin gave him the respite to assemble his résumé.
this is how it might read if Harrison were actually literate:
While his résumé is impressive, I’m not bullish on his chances in “corporate America,” especially if he can’t embrace the rules set forth by the “company” lets you:
a) work half the year
b) smack your co-workers on the ass without fear of a harassment suit
c) work 1 day a week, and practice 4-hours a day on the other days, all while being outside
d) have a seven-figure salary with a double digit IQ and a three didgit SAT score.
I can imagine his “Oh, hell no” reaction on his first day when they tell him he has to be in by 8:00 a.m. Mr. Harrison. I’ll tell you like the guys at the Improv told me… Keep your day job.
What a tool.
My wife once told a group that she was proud of me for my work ethic, which proved to be terribly ironic. This was during a pregnancy class for Jack, who is now four. I had just come off working 12-hour days setting up the lending operation for friend’s business. Subsequently, I started my own branch and broker shop, which also took long hours and dedication.
Shortly thereafter, the banking crisis hit. Lenders shrunk up like cashmere in a dryer and so did the loans… my loans. That proved to be the demise of my business. The following years have been marked with other fruit-poor endeavors to help fill the time and make some money, all the while still doing loans through the few broker relationships I still had. I dabbled in medical sales, worked debt-settlement, and made some good strides in loan modifications (until California deemed it illegal), all of which helped fill my work hours. But my days felt like an episode of “The Apprentice”… 30 minutes of content crammed into two hours of air time. In short, I’ve felt under-employed, under-utilized and frankly, less of a man.
Now that we are in a refinance boom, I’m back to 12-hour days. That’s why you see less of me here and in other social media outlets. When one leaves the house at 6:00 a.m. and doesn’t return until 9:00 p.m., it makes for a writer’s cinder-block.
But it’s nice to be working at over-capacity again. Even if it’s short-lived, I know I haven’t lost that which my wife admired in me. I know that my lack of utility was more a function of the market than the man. It was the machine that was broken, not the tool. I am that tool. A tool that shows some signs of wear, but still has all the utility that it ever had.
Originally published in OC Family October 12, 2010
The evolution of this man
This was originally published in OC Family.
I don’t think I ever held a baby before I held my own. Sounds crazy, but it’s true. If you seen me around them now, you might not believe such. Maybe it’s the pride of progeny, or perhaps it’s
the fact that Jack was practically a toddler at birth (10+ lbs), but I’ve gotten over the fear or their fragility, and have learned to love them for the little mess-making, energy sucks they are.
Likewise, I used to hate Disneyland. The lines, the people, the hassle. The announcement that we were going was usually met with an eye-roll, sigh or both. But now, I don’t know what’s come over me? Despite my exception with their pricing roll-out, I am a huge fan, and i am drinking the Disney-ade.
Perhaps I’m converted ’cause D-Land is now flanked by ESPNZone, The House of Blues and the La Brea Bakery? Or, perhaps it’s because there’re craft beers and good wine to be had behind the California Adventure walls? Those things help, but I think it’s because Disney provides repeatable, consistent experience. Whatever Disney brands, I trust. Whether it be a toy, a Disney-Pixar movie or a theme park experience, I know it will be done well.
Has Disney gotten better, or am I growing? Maybe I just had to experience it through the eyes of babes to fully appreciate the House of Mouse. Or maybe, just maybe, I’m evolving as a father and a man…
nah… It’s probably the beer.
America’s Got Boy Toy
There is a reality show I don’t watch. In fact, I think I’m missing a lot of late. E-mails, TV shows, parties, some of which I’ve RSVPed to, and now I find America’s Got Talent announced a winner I’ve met in person. That’s right… Michael Grimm is my homey.
Turns out, before he got his big break on a national TV show, he was slumming around Henderson, Nevada venues and even some So. Cal. local joints. One such engagement was Lucielle’s over in Long Beach Town Center. It was about six years ago, and Rhonda and I went there for some vittles and live music and none other than Michael Grimm was strumming his guitar and belting the blues. I’m not sure if it was the Bookers Bourbon they pour there or if he was just good, but Rhonda and were digging the kid. We bought a CD, and we struck up a conversation with a woman in her 40s who we assumed was his mother or agent… Well, he might have called her mama, but that wasn’t his mother. The two met when she was impersonating Dolly Parton at some off-the-strip establishment. I found that out when I asked if she was his mom. The awkwardness of the moment was diluted by the whiskey and beer (at least for me).
Grimm has since proposed to a much younger woman, and now he has a cool $ million to plan his future. But no word where the ex-Dolly is?
Man-crush (in-law)
This weekend, I golfed with Patrick Warburton (‘s brother-in-law, Chad). If you don’t know who Patrick Warburton is, then you are almost as big of a dummy as the character he plays on CBS’s underrated Rules of Engagement. He’s “Puddy,” Elaine’s BF on Seinfeld. On The Family Guy, he’s Peter’s wheelchair-bound cop neighbor, and on to the younger generation, he’s Kronk on The Emporer’s New School. He’s got range, people. He’s been The Tick, a Super-PC in the Mac commercials. He’s been in a Brad Paisley video, and if you’ve ever flown the friendly skies of DCA‘s “Soarin’ Over California,” then he was your captain speaking. I’m sure I creeped the poor guy (‘s brother-in-law) out by knowing his résumé more completely than he did.
My wife says I have “a man crush” on him. When I watch his show, I’ll chamber a few belly laughs only to unload them inappropriately and uncontrollably when he drops dialog. His Jeff Bingham character on Rules is not too far from (what his brother-in-law describes as) his own demeanor. His delivery is as dry and stirring as fresh coffee grounds, and his wit comes from his 70/30 mix of could-care-less and clueless. That, and he’s classically trained in the “squints a lot” school of a acting.
His (brother-in-law’s) swing was pretty good. He invited me to his (brother-in-law’s) golf tournament… well, invite might be strong. He mentioned it. Oh, and he (Chad not Patrick) has a local poker game; I invited myself in on that. Curiously, Chad took off before I could “get him my digits.”
Deus mio!
It’s not like I’m some crazy stalker or something. Just because I can recite the entire Seinfeld “deus mio/face painter” episode, and happen to know that the immensely talented Warburton is happily married since 1991 and lives in Camarillo with his wife and four kids. That’s common knowledge.
I’m not obsessed… though I did just schedule a taping of his show on the Sony Studios Lot (you might want to go ahead and alert security).
If you, however, want to see him without being placed on a “watch list,” then just tune in to CBS on Mondays at 8:30, sandwiched between How I Met Your Mother (will we ever find out?) and Two-and-a-Half Men… or you could do like I did and stalk his brother-in-law, Chad, at the Fullerton Golf Course.
Bitches be catty…
The best rivalry in sport isn’t between men. USC vs. UCLA has nothing on this clash. Red Sox vs. Yankees is a friendly affair in comparison. One of the greatest head-to-head conflicts in all of sport was Chris Everet vs. Martina Navratilova. They met 80 times; McEnroe and Conners only went mano-a-mano 34 times; that’s same number for Aggasi & Sampras. These women matched 14 times in Grand Slam titles. Federer and Nadal only have seven such meetings.
These women hated each other. They respected each other’s game, but they were the fiercest of rivals. Each has won 18 grand slam titles. Federer only has 16. Stefi Graff has 22, but she had no equal during her reign. Had Everet chosen to go to Barbazon College to pursue a career in cosmetology, Martina might well have 36 slams.
So imagine my surprise to tune into ESPN’s “Unmatched,” an ESPN “30 for 30” documentary to find these two women sitting on some over-stuffed Hampton couch spewing congratulatory words toward each other. They put their racquets down, retreat their claws and recount the moments that made their 15-year clash so epic. The two walk on the beach pouring out their souls. Everet even admits “she was jealous” of her Czech mate. They speak of their failed relationships while driving the countryside in a vintage Mercedes ragtop. It sounds so sappy that Hallmark could have sponsored it.
But it is not, and they didn’t. This exquisitely produced documentary was forged by the original female sideline reporter, Hanna Storm among others. I haven’t watched any of the other installments of the “30 for 30″ series, but if they are all done as well as this, then I am certainly missing out.
Chris Evert is coming off a divorce from golfer Greg Norman. By my calculations, she is 55-years-old, and she looks great. Likewise, Martina has turned out to be quite the handsome man herself…
What, I couldn’t go the whole post and invoke its very title?
The bane of I’s existence…
I consider myself sort of a grammarian, and it’s not that I’m particularly great at it; it’s just that many people are so bad with our English language… and most of those people seem to be on national TV.
Here’s the number one grammar faux pas that bugs me most and seems to happen most frequently. It’s the misuse of subjective and objective pronouns. I’ve heard newscasters bungle them. I’ve seen the rule bastardized on Facebook. Ironically, the most annoying flubs come from one of Facebook’s ex-patriots, Ali Fedotowsky – The Bachelorette. She was pretty bad on her ABC shows, but now she’s posting pictures of “Roberto & I?“
Even worse is (or was… tonight was the fianale) Ali’s sister show, Bachelor Pad. It is a veritable cornucopia of grammar gaffes.
So here’s the breakdown of the rule:
I
I is the first person singular subject pronoun. It is the subject of the sentence and it is the the one performing the verb as in “I went to the store.”
Me
Me is the object pronoun. In the “Ron went to the store with me” sentence, the “me” is the object. So an object is the the “thing” that is being done to or, in this case, the person that the action of a verb is being done to, or to which a preposition refers.
Nobody ever says “Look at these pictures of I.” It’s so terribly obvious when it is by itself. The confusion always comes when it’s attached to conjunction and a name or pronoun. To some, the sentence “Look at these pictures of Roberto and I” sounds proper. Let me tell you it’s not, and, to me, it’s fingernails-on-the-chalkboard wrong.
The litmus test for this rule is so simple, I don’t know how anybody screws it up.
The the “Roberto and” out of the sentence. If it makes sense, it’s probably right. ”Me and Roberto went to the store.” That doesn’t sound so bad, but it is quite improper. When you remove “and Roberto,” it is obvious it’s wrong as Soon-Yi and Woody. Unless, of course, the sentence “Me went to the store” sounds pleasing to your ear. If so, perhaps you live in a cave and groove on discord of Matisyahu.
If that is the case, then please do me this favor: stay off national TV. And if you do choose to bludgeon the English language, at least keep it confined to the comfort of your terra cotta grotto, because you really hurt I’s ears when you do it in public.
5 reasons why you will lose your husband
Your Hubby's Work-League Fantasy Commish
Ladies, say goodbye to your husbands. No, not because of that new hussy admin that works in his office, but because it’s football season.
That’s right, the National Football League literally kicks off in a matter of hours, and this is when guys get to be guys again.
If you wonder why we love football so much, it’s as primordial as ooze:
- We get to dedicate a whole day to sitting on the couch watching TV, eating snacks and drinking cherry cosmos…. I mean beer.
- Gambling. Whether it’s weekend parlays, fantasy football, or just a a pick-’em pool, it’s all about the betting. No other sport allows you to devote 6 days to wagering on 16 games in 32 hours. Besides, you can’t even bet other sports. Dodgers are -1½ +150 tonight versus Houston… I don’t even know what that means?
- Monday Night Football – It gives us something to do while you’re watching Dancing with the Stars.
- Not everybody loves the Lakers. Believe it or not, there’re a few people out there who hate the reigning champs. If you hate the Kobe & Co., the NBA is pretty much unwatchable. In football, everybody has a team, and every team has a chance with the parity in the NFL (get a hint, Bud).
- Football is our new Pastime. Baseball is passé. Don’t get me wrong, I love baseball, but the commissioner is running the sport in the ground. Also, the bulk of the players seem like primadonas. Football is about work. Hard work and Teamwork… values America still cherishes. Besides, you can’t even tailgate in the MLB. They’ll throw you in jail.
So, if I had any advice for you ladies for the next 17 weeks, it would be join a pick-‘em pool so you’ve got some skin in the game. That will keep you vested enough that you can have conversations with your husband that a) make him feel smart and b) you seem sexy. I bet you didn’t realize the phrase “How’d the Broncos do?” could be both intriguing and a turn-on to your lesser halves.
So here’s to another great NFL Season… We’ll catch back up with you in January.
p.s. One more piece of advice… Keep your eye on the new harlot in his office. She’s bad news.
The Big ABCD
I’ve got good news and bad news for you.
First the good.
The Angels have an awesome program called “Reading on the Green.” It’s a place where dad’s like me get to realize a dream of taking the field on professional baseball grass. Well, there’s an educational component too. It’s part of the Angels “Rally Readers,” a summer reading program that encourages kids to read.
While I’m sure it’s educational and all, I’m here to talk about the excitement for a 4-year old going on the field in a professional stadium… well, it’s actually hard to gauge in always-happy preschooler, but for a grown-a$$ man, it was awesome!
I think Jack was actually was more excited about the backpack full of back-to-school tchotchkes they gave away.
So here’s how the day goes:
After checking in with members of the Angels Strike Force (clearly, Jack is thrilled),
you take the field “picnic style” where Juan Rivera would normally be.
Then you pose for obligatory pictures.
and again…
and again…
and still again…
Then you actually do some reading.
After The Giving Tree, Green Eggs and Ham and a Pop-Up Baseball Book in the 90-degree heat, it was time to socialize.
So all-in-all, it was a great way to spend a long lunch-hour. Who knows? Maybe it was an indelible experience that he’ll remember always. I know I won’t ever forget it… at least not until I’ve gone senile, holed up in some crummy rest home, eating peas through a straw… but I digress.
So on with the bad news.
The program is over for the summer, so this has just been a big tease. Stay tuned for next year.
Hootie blows
Stop me if you heard this one before…
Rhonda and I were watching the CMA Music Festival: “Country’s Night to Rock” last night. It was like an awards show without the hardware, and it featured performances by Country Music’s top artists and, also, Darius Rucker. To call Rucker an artist is like calling the kid flipping burgers at MickeyD’s a chef.
You might recognize Rucker from his “Cracked Rear View” days, his monster pop-rock blues-laden debut with “Hootie and the Blowfish.” You’ll find that beer coaster in the used bin at the record store somewhere between Hoodoo Gurus and Bruce Hornsby. The three huge track on Cracked was Hold My Hand, Let Her Cry and Only Wanna’ Be With You. You may read that sentence and think to yourself that “Steve, you’ve got a subject-verb agreement issue there.” That’s actually not the case; they are in agreement, they are just not plural. They’re singular. Why would I say “three track” with the noun in the singular form? — because those three songs are the same flippin‘ song — Same chords, just slightly different arrangement and words.
The catchy rifts that got Hootie the radio play were also the source of their (his) demise the first time ’round. That sticky pop sound can only go so far before people have a guttural aversion to it. By the mid ’90s, it was pretty much a consensus that Hootie Blows. Due to radio overplay, lack of musical creativity and their bubble-gum edged sound, the South Carolina bar-band-done-good were musical pariahs. Their music is the epicurean equivalent of eating a bowl of frosting… sure it’s good, but somewhere near the end you’re going to feel sick and never want the stuff again.
There’s no doubt that Rucker is talented. He’s got solid pipes and a pleasant raspy sound to his baritone voice. I don’t know if he writes his stuff (because I will never have one of his CD jackets to reference), but my guess is he does. All his songs have the same elementary composition that just seems like a woman who drinks white zinfandel… cheap and easy. So while he doesn’t write anything deep or layered, he does get airplay.
But what Hootie should truly be heralded for is his brilliant career move. Pop radio will have none of him, so what has he done? He’s pulled an Alan Jackson and “Gone Country.” Where else could “three chords and a hook” go over so well than with some simple country folk?
Problem is his new crap is just like his old. Each song sounds faintly like the next. I dare you to tell these three diddys apart: It Won’t Be Like This For Long, Don’t Think I Don’t Think About It, and History In The Making. You could swap choruses and the songs wouldn’t mean any less. He’s got another country hit, but I can’t think of it. It’s like telling loose socks apart. You can’t?
Meanwhile, Darius won the CMA’s Best New Artist last year… What’s more surprising than the “New” in the title (dude’s been making records since ’89) is that the “C” does not stand for “chocolate”. It’s country. But check out the clip below, you’ll notice he’s about as country as a skyscraper.
Country music is a more sophisticated genre than most believe. Sure, there’s Taylor swift who’s so pretty and sweet and probably smells like flowers, but the girl writes here own stuff. While her songs all have her young-girl charm, they are unique and good. Say what you will about her voice, she is an artist.
Country Music is loaded with talent. Miranda Lambert’s The House That Built Me might be one of the best songs ever written. Bands like Lady Antebellum prove that Country Music is more than a banjo and a twang. New artists like The Zac Brown Band (who should have won 2009 Artist of the Year) are undeniably Country. Hootie just seems like he doesn’t belong. Not because he’s black, but because he’s kinda’ a hack. Perhaps if he tried something that didn’t read like a Hallmark card that had more than three chords and wasn’t some half-rock, half-ballad hybrid, he might stay around a little longer in this genre.
He may be Darius Rucker to the Country Music world, but he’ll always be Hootie to me… and Hootie still Blows.
15-Minutes of Fame
Had a ball, but realized I AM ‘that guy’
Well, tonight was a wonderful night at my first OCBloggerBall. Good times were had by all, even the spouses of bloggers who have no idea what (or why) we do what we do.
Tonight’s gala was at @ESAnaheimSouth (Embassy Suites Anaheim South), the one by Disneyland. Such a cool venue. Why? Because it’s beautiful
and centrally located? No. Because every room is a suite? No. Then why, you ask, is Embassy Suites such a great destination for a ball, wedding, AMWAY convention (is that crap still around)? Easily answered in liquid form. Embassy Suites has “Manager’s Reception” from 5:30 – 7:30 p.m. I’m not sure what the manager is receiving during these hours, but it’s laden with free booze. That’s right, the “Manager’s Reception” is a free cocktail hour that takes place at all Embassy Suites, or at least the six I’ve patronized (read: crashed).
Speaking of patronize, Marcy was the co-host at tonight’s “OCBlogger’s Ball.” She was good enough to include me on the media list since I was dumb enough to miss the RSVP… twice. Not that it would matter. I would have ‘snuk’ in as unseemingly as I did the “manager’s reception.”
I won $50 at Eli’s Lids. I did not, however, win the iPad that was auctioned off. That went to some chick who has obviously sold her soul for more than 20%-off a one-night’s stay.
If for some reason you don’t drink and like to get up early (you are weird), Embassy Suites also offers free full-serve breakfasts. I can’t tell you how many dates I’ve taken there the morning after and told them that “I know a guy.”
So what have I done here? Pimped Embassy Suites? Maybe. Relayed in word form what a cool night the OC Bloggers Ball was? Sure. Implicated myself in several crimes? Possibly.
So, if you need to find me, look for me here at www.thebushreport.com or an Embassy Suites between the hours of 5:30-7:30 p.m. Otherwise, you might contact the Anaheim Police department… though, I doubt those accommodations are nearly as “suite” as Embassy’s.
It Ain’t Like You Can Un-suck
To make a point, a friend of mine recently reminded me of when Danny Bonaduce beat up that dyslexic transvestite, pointing out afterward what he said afterward to the PoPo (police)?
“Sure, it apologized to me—but it ain’t like it could unduck my sick!”
(some consonants were swapped to protect virgin ears).
There’s another saying, slightly older than Boaduce’s, but equally as potent: “nobody forgets where they buried the hatchet.” As Christian as it sounds to forgive and forget, we have human limitations. God may forgive your sins, but as mortals, we lack the ability to truly forget. To me, forgiveness without forgetting is hollow. If someone claims they forgive you, but they throw the deed/words/actions in your face whenever they need to illustrate a point, their forgiveness was really no more than a conciliatory gesture.
So what’s the moral of this post? Don’t hire transvestite hookers? That’s probably a pretty good rule to live by, but I think it’s even more simple than that. Think twice, and be nice, and generally, don’t suck… because if there’s one takeaway from all this self-righteous pontification, it’s Danny Partridge’s potently cogent words…
It ain’t like you can un-suck.
*A-Rod; *A is for asterisk (A Farve Repost)
Originally posted in SmartlyOC AUGUST 5, 2010 BY STEVEBUSH
I read where someone said that A-Rod’s #600 is not a real number… I like that.
But if that’s the case, none of the numbers are real. The sport isn’t real. The whole league was* juiced.
You can’t go back and re-do history. You can asterisk it, but it illegitimizes the sport. Baseball and Selig are at fault here. When you engender an epidemic by turning your collective bobble heads, you de-facto endorse the behavior.
Move on with baseball, and stop beating this dead horse, which is kind of ironic because some of the juice was purported to be of the equine variety.
I’m just glad I don’t have to be on “#600 Watch” anymore. I thought “Stormwatches” in So. Cal. were ridiculous. This perpetual grandstanding is even worse. They are way more Carrie Bradshaw than Terry Bradshaw. Lebron and his “The Decision” press conference.
Farve and his vacillations. I feel like a husband standing outside of a dressing room having to field the same inane question “does this retirement make me look fat?” My answer: yes… or no. I don’t care. Just make a decision and move on.
Likewise, baseball needs to forge ahead and forget about annotating every record with a star-shaped figure (*). Having said that, A-Rod couldn’t have a more befitting nick name. He is truly a rod.
And here’s my asterisk for this post: *I say the whole league “was” juiced because the MLB homerun leader, Jose Bautista, has 33 thus far. He had 8 last year. Somebody check his Gatorade. I think I heard him whinny on his last trip around the bases.
This Bark has bite
You gotta’ love Charles Barkley.
On a radio show yesterday, Barkley said “I heard about LeBron’s little Tweet today that he’s remembering everybody who said anything bad about him And he said ‘everybody.’ Well, I want him to make sure that he puts my name on that [list].“ He added that he thought his press conference was a “punk move” and that “[LeBron] knows where I’ll be, I don’t run. I’m on TV every week, I’m easy to find.”
It’s so great to have someone shirk political correctness in favor of candor. Whereas Van Gundy’s on-the-record comments make him look like an idiot, these make Barkley look like a bad ass… and rightly so. This is the guy who stood up to Shaq, and who threw a grown-ass man throgh a plate-glass window for heckling him. As I recall, no charges were filed, so the “fan” had it coming to him.
This also the same man who once made me clinch up like a guy at his first prostate exam (for the record, I’m only 39). It was a Laker game at the Forum. My seats were close enough to let Sir Charles know that “he sucked;” after all, he was playing my beloved Lakers. I hurled a few insults, and then decided to launch one more just as play on-the-court stopped. Barkley’s head swiveled slowly from the hardwood to the stands where I was sitting. His head was down and his gaze was deliberate like a hound who just caught a scent of his prey. His eyes spiked mine in what I must admit was one of my least manly stands to date. I literally hiccuped with fear.
So LeBron can vow to remember all of those who criticize him, but one of his biggest critics just called him out. That said, I don’t know what makes him think his recall skills are so good. The man skipped college, and my guess is Cleveland’s former favorite son wasn’t put through the rigors at St. Vincent-St. Mary’s High School. Of course, he could just ID anybody who doesn’t have a South Beach tan or diet and assume they hate him, and he’d be right.
So Lebron, why don’t you stick to trying to remember the easy stuff like making the mother of your two illegitimate children your wife, but that too might prove tough in land of scantily clad models. And about Charles, the guy who called you “a punk.” He’ll be on TNT Tuesdays and Thursdays starting in October. If it doesn’t slip your mind, go get ‘em Bron Bron.
Idiots say the darndest things
I thought Jeff Van Gundy was annoying as a coach, then I heard him as an NBA analyst. Who is this combed-over man of whom I speak? Jeff Van Gundy was a coach in the NBA. He is probably most infamous for clutching Alonzo Mourning’s leg during an on-court fight… holding it furiously like a fat kid would the last leg in the bucket. I thought that was bad, now this.
In an interview with the Miami Herald on the new look Heat, he said “they will break the (The Bulls’) single-season win record (72 games).“ The diminutive NBA coach went on to show he’s small of mind as well saying “I think they have a legit shot at the Lakers’ 33-consecutive game winning streak as well,” then adding “they will never lose two games in a row this year.”
He’s not only drinking the Koolaid, he’s busting through the wall like the mascot, but this should should be no surprise. He makes clownish remarks during the most serious of games. He’s the jerk who pauses a movie right at the climax just to make a insipid remark that takes you right out of the scene.
He’s an ESPN analyst, so he’s on the biggest telecasts, like those Lakers games that show up under my tree on Christmas Day. ESPN continues to undermine their standing as journalistic entity with stunts like “The Decision” and continuing to employ idiots like Jeff Van Gundy. He’s the NBA’s little clown. The fact is he’s poor analyst, and he’s only there because four-letter network knows he’ll say something that will make a write-up in the next day’s Times, Herlad, Tribune, or Daily News such as “LA fans are idiots.” That’s your impartial announcer speaking. I’m writing about him now, so I’ve fallen victim to the leprechaun’s spells as well.
Albert Puljos is great, but he’s not going to hit in 57 straight and crack 73 home runs in the same season. That’s essentially what J. Van Gundy predicts. Of course, if I predicted it and it went down, I’d be brilliant. Otherwise, I’m just the village idiot.
I guess that’s the good thing about being perceived an idiot already… You can go out on shaky limbs and people will just say “oh, that’s just Jeff. He’s an idiot. Don’t pay any attention to him.”
But we do.
Bad Mouse
Disney raised their rates yesterday on all their ticket prices. Almost worse than what they did is how they did it. It was announced Tuesday. Hikes went into effect Thursday. It would have been nice to give the public some ample notice to get their orders in, or in many cases, save up.
The announcement came on the heel pads of the ruling on Prop. 8. I’m thinking that Disney timed it that way knowing full well that the gay population would be so busy celebrating, they’d fail to notice.
Disney is the 800 lb. mouse. They can do whatever the hell they want, and the park will still be filled to Nemo’s gills. However, what they gross in revenue, they stand to lose in goodwill. This is a PR case study in what not to do.
Day passes went up 4 bucks, but season passes increased as much as $30 each. Meanwhile, the economy is statistically worse than it was in the depression. The message that the Disney Co. sends with the price hike is they don’t care about your economic woes.
Worse still, it was announced with slick spin. The press release read “New Information About Tickets.” It’s as sing-song-y as one of the parade numbers.
The Mousketeer marketeers who thought this up ought to get into the mortgage game. At least when they come to repossess your house, they’ll do it in gleeful song.
Still spinning, they wrote “While the prices do reflect an increase, you can still find special values…” and the official announcement reads prices will be“adjusted,” not increased, raised or hiked. Such euphemisms ignore the Dumbo in the room. That’s like your boss telling you “You’re not being fired, your employment term is simply being adjusted… backward… and as of today.” Then with cocked smile, “Here’s your box!”
Disney, who does almost everything excellently, really screwed the pooch on this one.
Well, actually, the pooch screwed you.
a rod*
Alex Rodriguez's 600th Home Run Ball
Someone said that A-Rod’s #600 is not a real number… I like that.
But if that’s the case, none of the numbers are real. The sport isn’t real. The whole league was* juiced.
You can’t go back and re-do history. You can asterisk by it, but it illegitimizes the sport. Baseball and Selig are at fault here. When you engender an epidemic by turning your collective bobble heads, you de-facto endorse the behavior.
Move on with baseball, and stop beating this dead horse, which is kind of ironic because some of the juice was purported to be of the equine variety.
I’m just glad I don’t have to be on “#600 Watch” anymore. I thought “Stormwatches” in So. Cal. were ridiculous. This perpetual grandstanding is sickening. They are way more Carrie Bradshaw than Terry Bradshaw. Lebron and his “The Decision” press conference. Farve and his vacillations. I feel like a husband standing outside of a dressing room having to field the same inane question “does this retirement make me look fat?” My answer: yes… or no. I don’t care. Just make a decision and move on.
Likewise, baseball needs to forge ahead and forget about annotating every record with a star-shaped figure (*). Having said that, A-Rod couldn’t have a more befitting nick name. He is truly a rod.
And here’s my asterisk for this post: *I say the whole league “was” juiced because the MLB homerun leader, Jose Bautista, has 33 thus far. He had 8 last year. Somebody check his Gatorade. I think I heard him whinny on his last trip around the bases.
The Dodgers Need Gibson
One of my favorite headlines ever was when The Dodgers bolstered their bench at the 1998 trade deadline with veteran Robin Ventura. The LA Times Sports Section headline read “The Dodgers Needed Batman; They Got Robin.”
Eight games back of first place, they could use a miracle of Kirk Gibson proportions about now. I toured Dodger Stadium earlier this summer on a day when The Dodgers were away at a day game in San Francisco. On the tour, we saw a lot of Dodger memorabilia, the Dodger Godfather himself, Tommy Lasorda, and many things that would make a baseball stoic gush.
The picture here was a particular treat in person. This is a warm-up tee, and is just a narrow-hallway from the rear steps of the dugout. This is the same tee where Kurt Gibson warmed his hobbled frame up just before he hit his legendary home run in game one of the World Series.
It seems less dramatic on the surface that this grand occurrence happened in the first game, but it wasn’t then. The Dodgers were huge dogs that year. The A’s were formidable, and had the likes of “The Bash Brothers” Mark Maguire and Jose Canseco in their lineup. Granted, both were more juiced than Hawaiian Punch, but we didn’t care about those esoteric game-ruining things back then.
What made me think of this? For one, the Dodgers are going to need a miracle this year. Another reason is that I downloaded an iStortytimeapplication for Jack called ”Gibby’s Homer.” If you have kids (and an iPhone), it’s a great application. The books have the option to read to the kids directly. There are plenty titles to choose from. If you tune into my OCFamily Page, you can win 10 books for your iPhone courtesy of the iStorytime founder. Hurry, contest ends Thursday, August 5 at midnight.
In the meantime, I’ll be hoping for another Dodger miracle.
Nailed it!
Nailed it!
That’s not only what the guys said after the overnight dates, but it’s true of my week one prediction of this season’s Bachelorette.
Though being right is bittersweet, because I’m actually rooting for Ali and Roberto. Bitter because It sure was more fun making fun of the tool and the trolip (Jake and Vienna) than these two decent folks.
Kudos to Allie for keeping it classy. It was a nice move to give the Nantucket boot to runner-up Chris before the blind walk of shame. Perched up on that ocean cliff faced with the rejection could make a guy want to hurl himself (or Allie) of the embankement.
Oh, and congrats to me too for being right, though I’ve nearly thrown my shoulder out patting myself on the back for that one.
And lastly, hats off to ABC for managing to keep this testosterone-sucking series fresh. And now that it’s over, perhaps I can apply for that man card back? In any case, I thank the TV-deities that I don’t have to hear Chris Harrison’s labored, monosyllabic pronunciation of ”Row – Bert – Oh” again.
The Rich Got Richer
I don’t know if you noticed, but the Yankees just picked up two borderline Hall-of-Famers. It doesn’t even make news anymore because the Yankees seem to do this every year. They have the best record in baseball, and they add Lance Berkman, Kerry Wood and Austin Kearns.
It’s the same old story: the rich get richer. The funny thing is the Yankees didn’t even need these guys. Presumably, they picked them up so other teams wouldn’t get them. It’s an embarrassment of riches; though the embarrassment is on baseball, the system and Bud Selig, not the Yankees. The Yankees draw more fans, make more money than any other MLB franchise, so why wouldn’t they spend the money, especially when their profits just go to revenue sharing for small market teams? The Yankees will have paid out more than 200 million since its inception in 2003, a full 92 percent of sharing revenues.
Side Note: It would sure be nice if the number two fan draw in the league (The LA Dodgers) would spend some money...
It’s embarrassing because teams like the Pirates and the Royals and are essentially minor league teams. It’s embarrassing because Selig is a such a buffoon, and rarely do words come out of his mouth that don’t confirm that fact. Look at Roger Goddell. He looks like a senator. David Stern of the NBA could be captain of any industry. Then look at the slothful, bumbling Bud. You wouldn’t want him running your local Albertson’s much less America’s Pastime… the way it’s going, it may be America’s pass-tense.
I don’t care what arguments you put forth, when the Yankess payroll exceeds $200 million, it is bad for baseball. Their $220 million payroll exceeds the payroll of the Pirates, Padres, Athletics and Rangers… combined. It’s bad because fans in Cleveland know their season is over in May, and now they don’t even have basketball to look forward to thanks to the King’s exodus. It’s bad because dollars equal wins, and that turns baseball into sport the verb (to mock, scoff, or tease), instead of sport the noun (an athletic activity requiring skill or physical prowess and often of a competitive nature).
The NFL has parity, and there is a salary cap. That’s no coincidence. Sure, there are teams that manage drafts and player personnel better (The Patriots) than others (The Raiders). But every year, every team has a shot; the New Orleans Saints were a .500 team the year before they won the Super Bowl. The old saying “any given Sunday” is true in a league where there are only haves. The NFL, with all it’s problems, is still the most popular and profitable league in sports, and it’s not even close. The $20 billion NFL television contract is roughly seven times as much as MLB’s.
And how about salary… This tells it all. Why would the scrooge-esqe Selig care what he’s doing to the sport. Just look what he’s putting in his coffers.
So are the Yankees bad for baseball? Sure. But baseball is worse for baseball.
By the way A-Rod… we’re still waiting on number 600.
Tons of Funundrum!
I had a big date this morning… 10 thousand pounds worth… just as advertised, she was tons of fun…
What was this all about? Well, the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus kicked off the Orange County run of Funundrum! at Honda Center last night, and we got the clean up duties. Actually, we got a close-up insider’s look at the elephants baths they got before their 1 o’clock performance today.
Because of some Orange County ordinance, we were only voyeurs. The lucky ones who got this treatment at Staples Center earlier this month actually got to participate. They are awesome creatures and seemed so docile and sweet for animals that weigh more than two Chevy Tahoes. What do these beautiful creatures do after they get soaped up, scrubbed down and rinsed off?
Here’s a little preview:
So all our hard work was for naught, but they sure look like they were having fun.
If you want to see them up close yourself, Funundrum runs through August 8 at the Anaheim locale. Because I’m connected with the circus folk (OC Family, actually), you can get a special MOM discount (works for dads too). Here’s the deal: 4 tickets for $48 – all performances, including weekends. To take advantage, go to Ticketmaster.com or call (800) 745-3000 and enter or say MOM to redeem your savings!
Here are the remaining dates at The Pond…, err… Honda Center (I miss the “The Pond” moniker myself):
| Thu | July 29 | 1:00PM, 7:30PM |
| Fri | July 30 | 10:30AM, 7:30PM |
| Sat | July 31 | 11:30AM, 3:30PM, 7:30PM |
| Sun | August 1 | 1:30PM, 5:30PM |
| Tue | August 3 | 7:30PM |
| Wed | August 4 | 1:00PM, 7:30PM |
| Thu | August 5 | 10:30AM, 7:30PM |
| Fri | August 6 | 1:00PM, 7:30PM |
| Sat | August 7 | 11:30AM, 3:30PM, 7:30PM |
| Sun | August 8 | 1:30PM, 5:30PM |
It’s The Greatest Show on Earth! Take it from a guy who nose!
