When I was in middle school and high school, my brother EJ and I use to go to Red Hot Inn every Monday to get fried eggs, hash browns, toast, and maybe a piece of pie. (This was before I realized that eggs contain too much egg flavoring for their own good). While there we would read the entertainment sections of several different news papers, including the Detroit Free Press. The DFP had a columnist (and perhaps still does) name Bob Talbert who ever Monday would write his column "Out of My Monday Mornin' Mind." The column basically contained his random thoughts for the week such as "need to go to the super market today and buy eggs . . . so what is a Spice Girl anyway . . . kids don't read enough these days. . ." I am not the journalistic genius that Bob Talbert is so I only hope my imitation is half as incoherent as his.
Why are there not more graphic sports injuries? Off hand I can only think of three injuries that make me cringe . . . Is it possible that no man will make me as happy as George Clooney makes me . . . Cameron Diaz's childhood nickname was Skeletor . . . Harnessing my random thoughts is more difficult than one would thing . . . One time I saw a vulture in real life (well, actually in the zoo, does that count as real life or is it a blend of reality and caged fiction?) and it looked identical to the vulture in Disney's Robin Hood except that he wasn't wearing a helmet or carrying a cross bow. . .
A paragraph break for your reading convenience . . . The idea of a dress with pockets makes me happy, although I would actively avoid purchasing one . . .Why is it that everyone looks good in black and white photographs but me? . . . 50% of the interviews I have had in 2007 I have mentioned the movie Legally Blonde . . . It seems unfair that everyone (I am not sure who this everyone includes) knows Babylon gods but not their (superior) Sumerian predecessors . . . Birds and giants are terrifying. As a general rule I am suspicious of anything that can crap on me from overhead . . . I have no opinion of Cate Blanchett except that I hate her . . . Dressing room clothing limits make me nervous. If I want to try on twenty things I should be able to try them all on without having to swap out items . . .
I think cold cuts, lettuce, and tomato sandwiched in between two slices of cold pizza is the most disgusting thing in the world. If I had been on that season of the Apprentice, I would have begged Donald to fire me rather than sample that monstrosity. . . Thinly sliced turkey is as a general rule disgusting . . . Because American Gladiators is no longer on the air, I have no incentive to work out. . . When you can hear someone blowing their nose on the other side of a wall perhaps they are blowing just a bit too hard . . . Do you think that King Midas and the Emperor (from the Emperor's New Clothes) were contemporaries? I like the idea of them meeting to sign a treaty or whatever it is foreign leaders do (I actually don't have any idea). When they go to sign the treat, the Emperor attempts to reach into his imaginary coat pocket for a pen but than King Midas says "No, I have one" but when he touches the pen the pen and the ink turn to gold and is no good for treaty signing. Let's just face it, a treaty between King Midas and the Emperor is just never going to get signed. . .
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Hustlin' Only Hurts the Hair
Two things I have found out about myself in recent years: Homeless men gravitate towards me and schizophrenics want to stab me with a shiv. Luckily, I encountered the first this morning and not the second (but the day is young . . .).
Homeless man, I will call him Sanders, gets off the bus and heads over to the Greyhound station where I am waiting outside for office to open. There is a group of five of us waiting outside and with the addition of Sanders that makes six. Sanders makes a bee line for me and begins to tell me about his girlfriend, an ex-nurse, who is abusing prescription drugs. Unfortunately for the man who had been pacing up and down the side walk, Sanders decision to talk to me is impeding his pacing. He now has to pace back and forth in a four foot square.
While Pacey keeps looking angrily in Sanders direction, Sanders continues his life story. Apparently, he has some sort of hustlin' turf war with his barber. I'm not sure what they are hustlin' but I am fairly certain it involves cans (he kept talking about his barber taking his cans and getting nickels and dimes for them). However, the real issue is not the hustlin' turf war but the fact that Sanders' barber because of the turf war now refuse to cut Sanders' hair. And Sanders, based not on my own judgment (he was wearing a hat) but on his own admission, hasn't gotten a decent hair cut in months.
"Why can't we just put things aside for a hair cut, man?" Sanders asked me. "We hustlin' but its a hair cut. Why can't we just get along for the hair? I mean its hair, man. Think about it. Whose you hurtin'?"
You're only hurting the hair, man. Only the hair.
Homeless man, I will call him Sanders, gets off the bus and heads over to the Greyhound station where I am waiting outside for office to open. There is a group of five of us waiting outside and with the addition of Sanders that makes six. Sanders makes a bee line for me and begins to tell me about his girlfriend, an ex-nurse, who is abusing prescription drugs. Unfortunately for the man who had been pacing up and down the side walk, Sanders decision to talk to me is impeding his pacing. He now has to pace back and forth in a four foot square.
While Pacey keeps looking angrily in Sanders direction, Sanders continues his life story. Apparently, he has some sort of hustlin' turf war with his barber. I'm not sure what they are hustlin' but I am fairly certain it involves cans (he kept talking about his barber taking his cans and getting nickels and dimes for them). However, the real issue is not the hustlin' turf war but the fact that Sanders' barber because of the turf war now refuse to cut Sanders' hair. And Sanders, based not on my own judgment (he was wearing a hat) but on his own admission, hasn't gotten a decent hair cut in months.
"Why can't we just put things aside for a hair cut, man?" Sanders asked me. "We hustlin' but its a hair cut. Why can't we just get along for the hair? I mean its hair, man. Think about it. Whose you hurtin'?"
You're only hurting the hair, man. Only the hair.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
A Broken Heart and A Broken Ankle
Ask me the greatest moment of my childhood and my answer without hesitation will be the 1992 NCAA East Regional Final game between Duke and Kentucky. That was the day I fell in love with a gangly Duke sophomore who had a flat-top (Fresh Prince style). Ordinarly, I would have fallen in love with Christian Laettner, the leader of the team, but I had been told by my brother's friend that he was gay (I found out years later this was untrue). I figured no point in loving someone who would not love me back (wise for a third grader) and turned my affection to Grant Hill.
In 1994, the Detroit Pistons drafted my love and I knew than we would be together forever. I would go to Duke to be a sports broadcaster and he would come back for a game and would fall hopelessly in love with me. His mother, a lawyer and Hillary Clinton's college roommate, would adore me and take me in as the daughter she never had. His father, former Dallas Cowboy running back, would dote on me and marvel at my sports knowledge.
This dream was dashed in the summer of 2000. As I prepared to leave for college, Grant prepared to rip my heart out with his decision to join the Orlando Magic.
Eight good years we had together!! Jerseys, posters, dolls, cards, videos! All of it worthless. The Grant Hill for MVP campaign I waged for the 1996-1997 apparently was not enough for him. All my unwavering support through the rough playoff campaigns when he all but disappeared was forgotten as he walked out the door.
After that I gave up the NBA. The idea of seeing him in another uniform was just too heart breaking. Little did I know I would not have to see him in another uniform often as his arrival in Orlando was plagued with injury after injury. No longer would Grant Hill's name be whispered in the same sentence as Michael Jordan. Instead he joined the likes of Harold Miner and Anfernee Hardaway as those who never lived up to their "Next Jordan" labels.
I saw Grant last night for the first time in years; he was in an Orlando jersey. He looked well, and played alright but I can't say that it didn't hurt. However, it hurt a lot less knowing he had also been miserable since the break-up.
A broken heart for a broken ankle, almost seems like a fair trade-off.
In 1994, the Detroit Pistons drafted my love and I knew than we would be together forever. I would go to Duke to be a sports broadcaster and he would come back for a game and would fall hopelessly in love with me. His mother, a lawyer and Hillary Clinton's college roommate, would adore me and take me in as the daughter she never had. His father, former Dallas Cowboy running back, would dote on me and marvel at my sports knowledge.
This dream was dashed in the summer of 2000. As I prepared to leave for college, Grant prepared to rip my heart out with his decision to join the Orlando Magic.
Eight good years we had together!! Jerseys, posters, dolls, cards, videos! All of it worthless. The Grant Hill for MVP campaign I waged for the 1996-1997 apparently was not enough for him. All my unwavering support through the rough playoff campaigns when he all but disappeared was forgotten as he walked out the door.
After that I gave up the NBA. The idea of seeing him in another uniform was just too heart breaking. Little did I know I would not have to see him in another uniform often as his arrival in Orlando was plagued with injury after injury. No longer would Grant Hill's name be whispered in the same sentence as Michael Jordan. Instead he joined the likes of Harold Miner and Anfernee Hardaway as those who never lived up to their "Next Jordan" labels.
I saw Grant last night for the first time in years; he was in an Orlando jersey. He looked well, and played alright but I can't say that it didn't hurt. However, it hurt a lot less knowing he had also been miserable since the break-up.
A broken heart for a broken ankle, almost seems like a fair trade-off.
Without Me
This Blog was created with you, dear reader, in mind. I, try as I might, am not omnipresent and thus, can not be there for you at every moment of every day. My failure in this area has caused me many sleepless nights. What if you need to know something about the 1993 Phoenix Suns, American Gladiators, or eating cereal dry and I am not around? I would hate to think that you would have to go with out such information or that you might have to *gasp* look it up!
Fear not kind reader, I am now available 24 hours a day, seven days a week.
Welcome to Unbought Stuffed Dogs, the blog that will fill the void left in your life when I leave the room.
Fear not kind reader, I am now available 24 hours a day, seven days a week.
Welcome to Unbought Stuffed Dogs, the blog that will fill the void left in your life when I leave the room.
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