Rambling Rhodes

Oh Yeah, I Remember Now

Oh Yeah, I Remember Now

I remember Hillary Scott. Who can't remember Hillary Scott? *sigh* Hillary Scott.

Or, for that matter, the following list of hotties:

Namrata Singh Gujral. Cerina Vincent. Lauren Lee Smith. Tawny Cypress. Jayma Mays. Rose Byrne. Natalia Tena. Carice van Houten. Sonya Walger. Michelle Ryan. Alice Braga. Kristen Stewart. Katie Leung. Vera Jordanova. Mia Maestro. Ninel Conde.

"The Ryan Rhodes Shopping Experience"

"The Ryan Rhodes Shopping Experience" c. Ryan Rhodes, April 25, 2001

I went grocery shopping at Rainbow Foods last week, and although the overall outcome was typical of my shopping prowess, the end result was still no less perplexing. In short, after spending 45 minutes, and $70, I found myself without anything to eat, or at least nothing that would constitute a meal.

As I stood in my kitchen, staring blankly into my spacious refrigerator that had very little in it, I replayed in my mind my recent shopping experience. Here, then, is a stream of consciousness explanation of how I routinely end up spending a lot of money on relatively no groceries:

Man I hate grocery shopping. It seems that every time I come here I end up spending all sorts of money on absolutely nothing. Why didn't the automatic door open? Oh, that's the exit. I should maybe try the Enter door. There we go. Automatic doors have sure taken all the work out of pushing and pulling my way into buildings. That used to be such a chore. Hmmm. Do I want a cart or a basket? I need a lot of groceries, so I should probably get a cart. But a cart is so unmanly. It's so much more manly to carry a basket. Cart or basket? Cart or basket? Whoa! Who is that attractive girl? She's going for a cart. I'll grab one for her just to be nice, and of course to ogle her a while longer.

ME: "Here, let me get that for you."

UNKNOWN GOOD LOOKING GIRL: "Thanks."

Well, that clinches it; now I have to get a cart or it will look like I just hover around handing out carts to women all day. Let's see, I suppose I should make my way through the fruit and vegetable aisle. I don't know why I bother. I can never buy anything that doesn't have a shelf life of over three weeks. That reminds me, I have to throw away that bag of iceberg lettuce I bought a month ago. It's starting to look brown and soggy. Brown and soggy? That reminds me, I have to do laundry this weekend. Let's see, I need some sort of food. I don't know why people waste their time making out grocery lists. I know exactly what I need. It's all in my head. Oooohh, I need hot sauce. But I already have five bottles at home. So what, I can never have too much hot sauce. Don't forget to buy a bottle of ranch dressing. But, I already have four bottles of ranch dressing, and all my lettuce is brown and soggy, and I have to do laundry. Well, I suppose one more bottle won't hurt. Hey, I should really buy some salsa. What goes good with salsa? What doesn't go good with salsa? Good point. I'll buy some salsa. Note to self: look for things that go good with salsa. Hey, now I'm getting to the good stuff. I need like eight boxes of macaroni and cheese and five boxes of hamburger helper. Well, don't forget to buy hamburger and milk then. Note to self: buy milk and hamburger. It's all in my head. I wonder if macaroni and cheese goes good with salsa. I'll have to try that. I'll call it Salsaroni. No, that would be stupid. Ah, the soup section; my one stop quick meal section for soup and sandwiches. That reminds me, I should go back and pick up some bread and sandwich meat. Right. I'll make a mental note of that. It's all in my head. Hey, that good looking girl just rounded the corner and she's checking out the soup too. We have something in common. She just dropped her shopping list. I'll pick it up for her.

ME: "Here, let me get that for you."

UNKNOWN GOOD LOOKING GIRL: "Thanks."

I wonder if she noticed that I'm smoking hot. Let's see, I'm in the chips and snack section. Do I need any chips or snacks? Chips. What goes good with chips? Chips and what? Chips and what? Well, I probably don't need any chips. I can always come back if I decide I want chips. It's all in my head. I should really swing back and get that bread now. I'll get two loaves. You can never have too much bread. I wonder what the weather is going to be like this weekend. Let's see, cleaning supplies. Do I need any cleaning supplies. Yes, I need some sort of shower cleaner because. . . well, it just really needs to be cleaned. And toilet cleaner because. . . well, it just really, really, really needs to be cleaned. Whoops, my cart is blocking the aisle and someone wants to get by. Oh, it's that really good looking girl again.

ME: "Here, let me get that out of the way for you."

UNKNOWN GOOD LOOKING GIRL: "Thanks."

I should have said more to her, but here I am clinging to a bottle of toilet cleaner. What was I going to say, "My name is Ryan and I'm going to clean my dirty toilet tonight. And your name is?"

Don't forget to buy milk, and lunch meat, and cheese, and hamburger, and something that goes with salsa. It's all in my head. Hey, I need something quick to eat tonight. Pizza. I can never go wrong with pizza. Let's see, this pizza has five servings with 30 percent fat per serving. So, I just won't eat tomorrow. Or the next day. Well, that should do it. I guess I can head to the checkout line. I'm sure I've forgotten to buy something. Oh well, if that's the case, I can always come back. I'm really good at remembering things I need. It's all in my head.

Oh, Shit. I'm French French

Oh, Shit. I'm French

French Guard
I'm French! Why do think I have this outrageous
accent, you silly king-a?!


What Monty Python Character are you?
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Although I take umbrage with being labeled a French "snail eating surrender monkey," I think the rest of the description is strangely appropriate. And I don't think the English are pigs.

UPDATE: Speaking of pig dogs, I think this dog should be named Lucky, or maybe Pupcicle, or maybe Bullet, or maybe Goodyear, or maybe. . . okay I'll stop now.

Girlfriend Family Matters It just

Girlfriend Family Matters

It just struck me last night how odd Melissa's family actually is. Not bad, mind you, but odd.

First, you have her gay dad. How Melissa was able to turn out relatively normal after enduring her parents' divorce when she was in 9th grade, followed by her father's announcement that he was gay a couple of years later, is rather astounding. Throw into the mix how her mother went into a deep depression following the divorce and effectively sequestered herself in her bedroom for years afterward, and I'm left wondering if Mel isn't actually a time bomb waiting to go off.

Then, you have her mother. She's so deeply religious, she thinks everything is a sin. Melissa and I have sex? Well, we're going to hell. I'm not kidding here. She actually tells Melissa that. And this coming from a woman who is currently dating a married man. During Thanksgiving, Melissa chided her mother about her new man. "Mom," said Melissa. "You're dating a married man. You're going to hell." Her mother's response to both of us? "Me? What about you two?" One big, happy, hellbound family.

Then, you have the younger sister. A former Army recruit, she got pregnant while living in Kuwait and ended up marrying the Marine father so she could stay in the country (Islamic nation, you know; can't have unmarried mothers running around). I've only met her once, but I was immediately struck by how little of a personality she had. Her husband is her eyes, ears and mind. He dictates EVERYTHING. I don't think she's had a thought of her own for two years or more. Melissa says that her sister didn't always used to be that way, which is hard to believe.

Finally, you have the youngest sister. She was just a really, REALLY, young one when her parents divorced and her father announced that he liked men. With dad out of the house, mom locked in her bedroom, and older sisters vying for parental attention of their own, she ended up pretty much growing up alone. When Melissa refers to her sister's friends, she uses the singular form, friend, because, as far as Mel can tell, she only has one. She's a nice girl, with a big laugh, but getting her to talk is more difficult than understanding quantum physics. Much to my absolute shock, she recently announced that she has a boyfriend, who she has been dating for two weeks. I could hardly believe it.

Easter, perhaps, provided the best example of how odd Melissa's family is. Her father didn't show up, despite promises to be there. Her youngest sister announced that she had a boyfriend, much to the shock of everyone in the room. And her mother's response to the great news? "Well, he's not black is he?" To which the sister replied "Yes he is." At that, the mother went off on a rant about how black people are unreliable and untrustworthy and lazy, and God knows what else. So, I learned that Melissa's mother, in addition to being a Bible banger who thinks all her daughters are going to hell, is also a racist.

Melissa's method of coping was pretty understandable. She drank 3/4 of a bottle of merlot in the morning and slept well into the afternoon.

Step aside, Norman Rockwell.

Tim Robbins So Deserves A

Tim Robbins So Deserves A Rant

A lot was made recently when Dale Petrovskey, president of the Baseball Hall of Fame, cancelled an appearance by Tim Robbins and Susan Sarandon, two outspoken war opponents, in what was supposed to be some sort of appreciation for the movie Bull Durham, which, if I recall, was a travesty of a movie. I mean, it just plain sucked. But, whatever.

Robbins went and cried foul that it was a violation of his first amendment right to free speech, WHICH IT WASN'T, but I'll get to that later. At any rate, Robbins eventually got to spout his meaningless steam to the National Press Club in Washington D.C. on April 15. Here's what he had to say, with my own invective interspersed for good measure.

Thank you. And thanks for the invitation. I had originally been asked here to talk about the war and our current political situation, but I have instead chosen to hijack this opportunity and talk about baseball and show business. (Laughter.) Just kidding. Sort of.

*wiping tears from my eyes* Man, that was funny. He should be doing stand-up. Oh, wait, I guess he sort of is doing stand-up.

I can't tell you how moved I have been at the overwhelming support I have received from newspapers throughout the country in these past few days. I hold no illusions that all of these journalists agree with me on my views against the war. While the journalists' outrage at the cancellation of our appearance in Cooperstown is not about my views, it is about my right to express these views. I am extremely grateful that there are those of you out there still with a fierce belief in constitutionally guaranteed rights. We need you, the press, now more than ever. This is a crucial moment for all of us.

Screech! Okay, Mr. Robbins, I'm going to have to ask you to stop right there. I need to frisk you, and I'm talking about an entire body cavity search here. "Constitutionally guaranteed rights." Let's revisit that one, shall we? By rights, I assume you mean the first amendment, so let's look at that little bit of Constitutional goodness. Being that I have a degree in journalism, I was kind of forced to learn this one by heart. Seriously, I had to write it, verbatim, during one of my tests. Hey, I had a lazy professor, what can I say. *ahem* Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof, or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press, or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.

The important word here is. . . anyone? Mr. Robbins? CONGRESS! That's right, the guv'mint can't step in to shut you up. You can't be jailed, or tortured, or sodomized by Richard Simmons for speaking publicly against something in this country. Privately owned institutions, on the other hand, like, oh, I don't know, the Baseball Hall of Fame, should they take umbrage with with your views, can choose not to host you should they feel so inclined. It's like this: let's say I have a child, and you have a penchant for swearing like a sailor. Now, although I have no problem with you swearing on your own time, I'd just as soon you not do so in front of my child. So, I don't invite you to my house, and that's perfectly within my rights. It's not a violation of the first amendment. You have no Constitutional right to come into my house and swear in front of my child, just as you don't have the right to make sexually harassing comments in the workplace, just as you don't have the right to speak at the Baseball Hall of Fame should the president of that insitution decide that he doesn't particularly like you or your views. Got that? Good. Then let's move on.

For all of the ugliness and tragedy of 9-11, there was a brief period afterward where I held a great hope, in the midst of the tears and shocked faces of New Yorkers, in the midst of the lethal air we breathed as we worked at Ground Zero, in the midst of my children's terror at being so close to this crime against humanity, in the midst of all this, I held on to a glimmer of hope in the naive assumption that something good could come out of it.

Oh, good. Tim Robbins held on to a glimmer of hope that something good could come out of 9-11. I feel so much better. God bless the hopes of celebrities.

I imagined our leaders seizing upon this moment of unity in America, this moment when no one wanted to talk about Democrat versus Republican, white versus black, or any of the other ridiculous divisions that dominate our public discourse. I imagined our leaders going on television telling the citizens that although we all want to be at Ground Zero, we can't, but there is work that is needed to be done all over America. Our help is needed at community centers to tutor children, to teach them to read. Our work is needed at old-age homes to visit the lonely and infirmed; in gutted neighborhoods to rebuild housing and clean up parks, and convert abandoned lots to baseball fields. I imagined leadership that would take this incredible energy, this generosity of spirit and create a new unity in America born out of the chaos and tragedy of 9/11, a new unity that would send a message to terrorists everywhere: If you attack us, we will become stronger, cleaner, better educated, and more unified. You will strengthen our commitment to justice and democracy by your inhumane attacks on us. Like a Phoenix out of the fire, we will be reborn.

And here I thought his opening paragraph was funny! This is just plain hysterical! In other words, to combat international terrorism, and to prevent future planes from crashing into buildings, and to prevent anthrax from being sent through the mail, America needs to. . . tutor children and teach them to read! fuck-a-duck-a-ding-dong! Was this guy brought up on Mars? Wait, my sides are still hurting, but I MUST repeat his most golden line: "send a message to terrorists everywhere: If you attack us, we will become stronger, cleaner, better educated, and more unified." Yes, I'm just sure that terrorists would quake in their boots when they look and see how their attacks have made us cleaner and better educated. That'll learn 'em up real good.

But, you know, before we go and focus on our better, cleaner, more unified America, I have an idea. First, let's go into Afghanistan, a hotbed of terrorism, bomb them into the first century, scatter their terror members to the four winds, and then put the lean on any other country that harbors them. And then that one country, Iraq, which harbors terrorists of its own and compensates the families of "martyrs," let's knock that regime down while we're at it. Because, you see Mr. Robbins, 9-11 didn't happen because of unclean, un-tutored American masses. It happened because of a rotten cancer running throughout much of the Middle East that has to be removed. You go and scrub and tutor all the Americans you want, that won't make us one bit safer.

And then came the speech: You are either with us or against us. And the bombing began. And the old paradigm was restored as our leader encouraged us to show our patriotism by shopping and by volunteering to join groups that would turn in their neighbor for any suspicious behavior.

Yeah, I know I was turning in my neighbors left and right. Those were the good old days. Listen, Tim, I know the world must look a tad weird when you're sitting atop a pile of money that you earned acting, and to a lesser extent directing, you should know that, down here in the trenches called the middle class, we're not on the lookout for suspicious behavior. We don't take the color-coded terror system seriously. What we've done is taken it upon ourselves to actually learn what makes this world, not just America, tick. We have learned that it takes far more than a simple focus on the homefront to exact change, and we're willing to fight to bring that change about.

In the 19 months since 9-11, we have seen our democracy compromised by fear and hatred. Basic inalienable rights, due process, the sanctity of the home have been quickly compromised in a climate of fear. A unified American public has grown bitterly divided, and a world population that had profound sympathy and support for us has grown contemptuous and distrustful, viewing us as we once viewed the Soviet Union, as a rogue state.

Okay, our democracy has not been compromised. Once police begin routinely opening fire on protesters and we start jailing and torturing dissidents for speaking against the government, then you can talk about a compromised democracy. And, I don't know about you, but the sanctity of my home hasn't been compromised by fear, although I'd sure like to find out where that weird smell is coming from. As for the world that had profound sympathy for us in the wake of 9-11, I think it's become rather obvious that a lot of that sympathy was, at best, crocodile tears. When you see footage of fleeing Iraqi Ba'athist leaders all driving BMWs, you have to ask just how much of that contempt and distrust was actually fear of having the U.S. discover just how much opposing countries have been, in fact, in bed with terror supporting regimes. As far as I'm concerned, world sympathy is pretty much useless if it doesn't translate into support.

This past weekend, Susan and I and the three kids went to Florida for a family reunion of sorts. Amidst the alcohol and the dancing, sugar-rushing children, there was, of course, talk of the war. And the most frightening thing about the weekend was the amount of times we were thanked for speaking out against the war because that individual speaking thought it unsafe to do so in their own community, in their own life. Keep talking, they said; I haven't been able to open my mouth.

In other words, people kept sucking up to big star. The danger of being surrounded by toadying "yes" people, is that eventually you may actually start believing them.

Susan and I have been listed as traitors, as supporters of Saddam, and various other epithets by the Aussie gossip rags masquerading as newspapers, and by their fair and balanced electronic media cousins, 19th Century Fox. (Laughter.) Apologies to Gore Vidal. (Applause.) Two weeks ago, the United Way canceled Susan's appearance at a conference on women's leadership. And both of us last week were told that both we and the First Amendment were not welcome at the Baseball Hall of Fame.

In my world, this is what is known as WHINING. Awwwww, poor Tim. And, again with the first amendment. Well, as long as we're on the topic, here's another little tidbit about the freedom of speech. It's simply the freedom of speech, it is NOT the freedom of speech without consequences. Yes, you can say whatever you damn well please in this country. You can go into the center of a city and expound, at the top of your lungs, about whatever you wish. However, don't assume that, just because you're loud and your voice carries, that people will agree with you and stay silent about their opposition to you and your views. When people disagree with you, weird things can happen. People will stop inviting you places. People will cancel previous engagements they may have had with you. And, people will most assuredly call you names. And, you know what? All of that is perfectly legal and well within the framework of the first amendment. They're simply exercising their first amendment rights in response to your first amendment rights. Ain't America cool?

A famous middle-aged rock-and-roller called me last week to thank me for speaking out against the war, only to go on to tell me that he could not speak himself because he fears repercussions from Clear Channel. "They promote our concert appearances," he said. "They own most of the stations that play our music. I can't come out against this war." And here in Washington, Helen Thomas finds herself banished to the back of the room and uncalled on after asking Ari Fleischer whether our showing prisoners of war at Guantanamo Bay on television violated the Geneva Convention.

Again, this goes back to the simple rule that the freedom of speech is not the freedom of speech without consequences. Here's something that is apparently lost on Tim: in the professional world, the world of bosses and paychecks and office politics, there are PLENTY of things you can think but you DON'T say, lest it mean your immediate dismissal. Sure, I think the girl in the office down the hall has a stellar butt, but I don't TELL her that. Sure, I think this company could be run better by a geriatric monkey with half a brain, but I don't post a memo throughout the building stating that. Sure, Helen Thomas is older than most buildings in Washington D.C., and she disagrees with everything the Bush administration does, and she would have loved to use her front row position to flap her jaw and state her opinions as if the press room was her own personal theater, but that doesn't mean she could do that without CONSEQUENCES.

A chill wind is blowing in this nation. A message is being sent through the White House and its allies in talk radio and Clear Channel and Cooperstown. If you oppose this administration, there can and will be ramifications. Every day, the air waves are filled with warnings, veiled and unveiled threats, spewed invective and hatred directed at any voice of dissent. And the public, like so many relatives and friends that I saw this weekend, sit in mute opposition and fear.

No, we sit at our jobs all day trying to earn what is commonely referred to as a living. Opposition is alive and well in this country, just watch the steady stream of protests being organized practically on a daily basis. Mute opposition my ass. Sometimes, Tim, what you percieve to be mute opposition, may actually be mute support.

*At this point, Tim goes off on a strange and totally irrelevant tangent about Hollywood and the media, and Columbine (yes, Columbine), and how it all somehow ties back to the war in Iraq. I won't take the time to fisk that portion because, quite frankly, it fisks itself.*

And in the midst of all this madness, where is the political opposition? Where have all the Democrats gone? Long time passing, long time ago. (Applause.) With apologies to Robert Byrd, I have to say it is pretty embarrassing to live in a country where a five-foot- one comedian has more guts than most politicians. (Applause.)

I have a theory on this. Perhaps the Democrats are staying silent because maybe, just maybe, they actually support this war. With apologies to Paul Wellstone (Applause). It's kind of hard to look at the atrocities played out by Saddam's regime and then step in front of the cameras and say that ousting Hussein and his cronies was a bad idea.

We need leaders, not pragmatists that cower before the spin zones of former entertainment journalists. We need leaders who can understand the Constitution, congressman who don't in a moment of fear abdicate their most important power, the right to declare war to the executive branch. And, please, can we please stop the congressional sing-a- longs? (Laughter.)

Yeah, the sing-a-longs are pretty fucking stupid.

In this time when a citizenry applauds the liberation of a country as it lives in fear of its own freedom, when an administration official releases an attack ad questioning the patriotism of a legless Vietnam veteran running for Congress, when people all over the country fear reprisal if they use their right to free speech, it is time to get angry. It is time to get fierce. And it doesn't take much to shift the tide. My 11-year-old nephew, mentioned earlier, a shy kid who never talks in class, stood up to his history teacher who was questioning Susan's patriotism. "That's my aunt you're talking about. Stop it." And the stunned teacher backtracks and began stammering compliments in embarrassment.

By who's word is he going on for that anecdote, I wonder. I'm betting he's going by the word of his 11-year-old nephew, and we all know that 11-year-olds are bastions of truth and honesty, and they never, NEVER, embellish stories. Hell, I'll even pretend the story is true, because making the leap that a classroom anecdote like that is somehow a microcosm of America is just laugh out loud funny.

The journalists in this country can battle back at those who would rewrite our Constitution in Patriot Act II, or "Patriot, The Sequel," as we would call it in Hollywood.

Yeah, the Patriot Act and its follow-on are both horrendously misguided, and probably illegal, pieces of legislation. I agree with Tim on this point, as much as it pains me to admit that.

We are counting on you to star in that movie. Journalists can insist that they not be used as publicists by this administration. (Applause.) The next White House correspondent to be called on by Ari Fleischer should defer their question to the back of the room, to the banished journalist du jour. (Applause.) And any instance of intimidation to free speech should be battled against. Any acquiescence or intimidation at this point will only lead to more intimidation. You have, whether you like it or not, an awesome responsibility and an awesome power: the fate of discourse, the health of this republic is in your hands, whether you write on the left or the right. This is your time, and the destiny you have chosen.

There's nothing quite like having a celebrity acting as a cheeleader for the nation's journalists. If I had been sitting in on that speech, I would have stood up and politely asked Tim not to tell me how to do my job.

Our ability to disagree, and our inherent right to question our leaders and criticize their actions define who we are. To allow those rights to be taken away out of fear, to punish people for their beliefs, to limit access in the news media to differing opinions is to acknowledge our democracy's defeat. These are challenging times. There is a wave of hate that seeks to divide us -- right and left, pro-war and anti-war. In the name of my 11-year-old nephew, and all the other unreported victims of this hostile and unproductive environment of fear, let us try to find our common ground as a nation. Let us celebrate this grand and glorious experiment that has survived for 227 years. To do so we must honor and fight vigilantly for the things that unite us -- like freedom, the First Amendment and, yes, baseball. (Applause.)

With that, I must get back to work, and I can assure you that I will do so half-heartedly at best, because from this day forth, all my writing will be done in the name of Robbins' 11-year-old nephew, and that makes me so sad, I think I'm going to cry.

The Crack Of The Bat,

The Crack Of The Bat, And The Eye Socket

Ah, the baseball season is upon us, and with it comes the yearly reminder that I am, always have been, and always will be, terrible at America's favorite pastime.

I'm one of those chosen individuals on earth who is meant to watch baseball rather than play it. Although I can grasp the big picture of the game, you know, who is winning and who is losing, if you put me in the game, with an actual glove or bat, chances are I'll make a monstrous error within five minutes, if not sooner.

Even when I played tee-ball, a game where players often ran the wrong direction around the bases and it wasn't uncommon for batters to miss the ball and instead whack the tee, with the home plate still attached, about three feet forward, I still considered myself a pretty awful player.

Although my father did his part to expose me to the world of baseball -- he bought me a glove, and he played catch with my regularly -- I was really never able to carry his fatherly lessons with me onto the actual baseball diamond. For some reason, a ground ball hit by anyone other than my father just seemed unpredictable and somewhat angry.

In retrospect, I think my poor baseball-playing ability stemmed primarily from my bowel-emptying fear of getting hit by a baseball. After stopping a hard ground ball with the palm of the glove rather than the webbing a couple of times, I had pretty much decided that getting hit by a baseball was something I should avoid at all costs.

Alas, try as I might, I couldn't prevent the strange magnetic attraction baseballs had to my little body. My first baseball-related injury occurred, of course, during a tee-ball game. For some reason that still escapes me, I was playing first base, and the biggest kid in my class, Joe, was up to bat, er, tee off, or whatever you call batting off a tee.

Joe was a farm boy who spent most of his days bench pressing sows, or so I believed. With a swing of his mighty bat, he smacked a hard grounder right at me. I crouched to retrieve the oncoming projectile, which was approaching so fast I think I saw flames. The ball hit my glove, rolled up my arm, and rammed smack center into my eye. The impact knocked me into a strange new world of glimmering stars and inky blackness, and eyewitness reports said that I dropped to my back like a felled oak.

When I came to, I assessed the situation, including the stinging pain all around my eye socket, and my newfound headache, and I let loose with a childhood wailing that I'm certain could be heard two towns away. I think every dog in the neighborhood was singing my mournful song before my parents were able to steer me into the backseat of the car and drive me home, where a bag of ice was placed on my tender eye.

The resulting black eye should have served as a dire testimonial to my lack of baseball ability, but I decided to tempt fate even further by playing little league a couple of years later.

I'm not sure why I chose to play little league, exactly, although I think it had a lot to do with the fact that, in my small town, it was generally expected that young boys should play little league.

Imagine my horror when I realized that, instead of a trusty tee from which I could safely swing at the hard little ball, there was someone actually throwing a ball at me, and the pitcher's accuracy, more often than not, was nowhere near the strike zone.

So, there I stood, bat in hand, waiting for the pitcher to throw the ball which, four out of five times, was almost guaranteed to hit me. I was never much good at hitting anything, but I'm pretty sure my left arm, at the end of the season, could easily absorb the impact of an Abrams tank round. I hated little league with a passion, and I only permitted myself to endure one year of the pointless punishment.

Softball, I thought, would provide a safer outlet for me to try my hand at the game. But, once again, I discovered that my hitting was only slightly better with a slow moving pitch rather than a fast one.

During the one year I was on a softball team, at the age of 23, I only hit one ball into the outfield. Almost all of my hits consisted of me nicking the ball about four inches and then running frantically to beat the throw to first. Our team had softball shirts specially made. On the back, they read, "Win Or Lose, We Booze." That pretty much summed up our season. I think we won one game, and that was because, I'm convinced, the other team was laughing so hard at me, they couldn't function.

So, enjoy this year's baseball season, but don't expect to see me anywhere on the field. But, if I'm out there, I should be easy to spot. I'll be the one getting hit repeatedly by the baseball.

I'm An Easter Hobo Ever

I'm An Easter Hobo

Ever since my parents started teaching in Tokyo, oh those many years back, back, waayyyyy back. It might be! It could be! It IS! Excuse me, I was channeling my inner Harry Carey for a moment there. Anyway, my parents have been teaching in Tokyo now for over a decade, so many of the traditional holidays enjoyed by most families have been on hold for the past 10 years or so.

Although my family always manages to celebrate some measure of Christmas, whether here in Minnesota or meeting halfway in Hawaii, most of the other family get togethers, such as Thanksgiving, Easter, President's Day and Yom Kippur, are just days on the calendar that come and go with little or no fanfare. And I've always been totally fine with this. I don't really miss all the fuss and preparation that goes into a big holiday observance.

Still, come Thanksgiving, or Easter, people, for whatever reason, feel they must take pity on me. I'm not sure why they do this, exactly, but as a holiday approaches, friends and members of my more extended family start calling me, asking me to attend their celebrations. This is by no means a complaint. It gives me warm fuzzies to know that people are actually concerned about my holiday well-being. Plus, the chance for a free meal is always greatly appreciated.

I did two Easters this year; one with my cousin a week ago, and one with a hometown family that I practically grew up with as a young-un. Although, to be honest, the second "Easter," was mostly an invitation by my friend to come over and play Nintendo 64 games, which was just fine, I guess.

My childhood friend, B.J. (hold the felatio jokes, please), is now a husband and father of a three year old girl, Bailey. Bailey in at that tender age where cartoons can transfix her attention for many consecutive hours, no matter how bad the cartoons may be. Yesterday, the Easter Bunny gave Bailey a tape of collected cartoons from, oh, I'm guessing 1923 or so. All of the cartoons were supposed to have an Easter theme, but I'm here to tell you that any thread connecting these cartoons to Easter were tenuous at best.

I think the cartoons just barely pre-dated the emergence of Bugs Bunny. They consisted of silly animations complemented with a scratchy background musical score heavy on the flutes. Any dialog spoken by the characters was limited to a short line, maybe two ("It's time for spring!"), and some of the lessons being projected to children were frightening, to say the least.

During one cartoon, two love birds get separated in a big city, presumably New York, during a great blizzard. Eventually, the female bird, cold and miserable, and without hope, decides to throw herself off a skyscraper in despair. She even makes sure to tie her wings to her side so she can't change her mind in mid-plummet. Now, it was at this point that I had to wonder what Bailey was thinking about all of this. Suicide?! How does a three year old girl digest the concept of suicide?! I looked at B.J., who was nervously glancing over at his daughter, no doubt dreading the flurry of questions boiling within Bailey's fertile little mind.

The bird jumps, and she falls through the air at a rapid pace, until suddendly. . . she lands on the her lost lover bird, who was warming himself below on a discarded cigar butt. Forget the fact that she landed directly on his head, with her own head, a collision that would, in the real world, result in a spray of feather and brain. Such a nightmare scenario did not play out. Rather, the two birds shake away a few stars that are circling around their noggins, stare at each other for a moment before realizing they had found each other, and then they hug and kiss and the next scene shows them living in a birdhouse somewhere in the Caribbean. The moral: who fucking knows? All that I know for certain is that Bailey is likely scarred for life.