Roaring Idiot

tiger, Tiger, TIGER!

"It's his personal life, stop prying... let him work it out in privacy."

Since when do worldwide icons get to dictate when public ends and private begins? Not after smashing your car into two inanimate objects a punch-shot from your driveway, that's for sure. To be clear, I am not a tabloid, TMZ, Perez Hilton fan. The world would be a better place without media outlets such as the aforementioned plastering absurd celebrity behavior across their pages for adolescents to see and associate with importance and status.

I am, however... well I guess I WAS, a huge fan of Tiger Woods. It is somewhat uncharacteristic of me because I love underdogs. Therefore I cannot stand the likes of UF Football, the Yankees, Patriots, etc. But Tiger. That man is in his own world. Somebody so dedicated to a craft that relies on such minutia, and tedious practice is something over which one can be in awe. His gutsy US Open playoff performance, his iron will and nerves of steel. Tiger personified an image that was as close to perfection as humanly possible. Beautiful wife, two kids, unsurpassed athletic ability, and a fierce competitive nature.

When other brain dead athletes are making the front page for DUIs, gun possession, drugs, steroids, it was Tiger who seemed impervious to faults. Okay, yes, he is a golfer, but he still seemed so far above the petty mega-star temptations, a guy who really had his head screwed on straight.

I think guys everywhere who are bummed out by all of this are bummed out not because of adultery, but because we finally saw a hero, who seemed unflappable and rock-solid, tumble and wipe out so hard. Tiger was like James Bond. He's cool, collected, calm under pressure. A kind of personality like Dean Martin or Frank Sinatra, or that Dos Equis guy. He epitomized the phrase "Women want him and men want to be him". And we're mad because now we've seen him unravelled in e-mail, text messages, and VOICE MAILS saying his OWN name. Son of a ----- C'MON MAN! It's not like there's another Tiger you can try to pin that on.

Now I know the feeling that the whole Wizard of Oz crew had when the curtain was pulled back to reveal the real man behind the mask. I mean, have you seen these women he's been having affairs with? And have you seen his wife? Hello?!?! Blonde Swedish bombshell, the mother of your two children or some nightclub skanks you met in Vegas and NY who look like they have fat from Roseanne's ass injected in their lips?

This guy had it all, but, in truth, he is just an insecure nerd who tried to bolster his ego by proving to himself he could get girls. His Stanford teammates did call him Erkel. Somebody please take his man-card away.

Ooo Rah!

I finally realized my goal of running a marathon yesterday and it turned out being everything I expected and more.

The Marine Corps Marathon is tremendously unique in that it does not offer any cash prizes, therefore it is titled "The People's Marathon". And what could be more fitting than running a marathon not in the quest for prize money (not that it is an attainable goal for most) but instead, running for the sheer act of running. The whole idea rings with symbolically with the reason our troops do what they do. They fight and protect because they are drawn to it and see it as a duty.

Running in the marathon is not just about personal selfish accomplishments, as I found out. It is also about the people you see and how you become one more part of the overall experience.

I witnessed men running with full post and flags (Marine, US, and Support Our Troops). The pride when you see that, no matter your political position, swells. I realized, if they can run with those flags for 26.2, then so can I.

I ran next to a man who was pushing his disabled 5 year-old son in his wheelchair. A truly selfless and incredibly touching act. I realized if that father can pour so much heart into running AND pushing, then I can surely manage to run 26.2.

I saw countless hand-bike competitors, many of them part of teams comprised of double amputee soldiers. I cheered them on with other runners as they tortured their arms going up steep inclines. Sometimes they were going the pace of a crawling toddler, but they kept going, which is all that matters. And I realized if they can dedicate themselves to our county, loss parts of their body, go through intense rehab, and come back to compete in a marathon, then I can manage it too.

I also witnessed amputees, who were fortunate enough to be able to function with lower prosthetics, chugging along as if to say, "what? I don't have lower legs? No big deal." And I realized if they could muster the courage to go through the pain, then so could I.

I watched as Marines in full camo, boots, and rucksacks, lumbered along the trail. Suddenly the pounding MY feet were taking in my comfortable, ventilated Brooks running shoes didn't seem so bad compared to what they were feeling in the military issue combat boots.

I saw some incredible things during the marathon, before, and after. But the most amazing thing is that each person, whether they interact with each other physically, is emotionally and mentally drawing off of each other to push themselves further down the course.

Was it tempting to quit when, at mile 17, a pain shot through my knee? Yea, a little. Was it tempting to quit when that pain stayed with me for every stride after that? I guess it crossed my mind. Was it tempting to quit running through Georgetown seeing "All You Can Drink Mimosas If You Quit Now" sign? Well, no, but it did seem delicious. But when it came down to it I just looked around and thought, "if everybody around me can keep going, then so can I". And I managed to keep going for 26.2 miles, through the most enduring and persistent pain. But the thing is, everybody is going through the same thing, so you know you're not alone.

I realized the funny thing about distance running, particularly during a marathon, is that the runner is in complete control, every second. You can quit whenever you want, mile 1, mile 25, whenever you want. You control every ounce of pain you are experiencing, but you keep running, causing more pain. It is the oscillation between pain and the desire to see it through to the finish. It is the ultimate mind over matter because it is truly amazing what your mind can accomplish and trick your body into doing.

So, while I feel like Ray Lewis just took my legs out from under me on an end-around, I can't help but to chuckle and hobble at the same time. It doesn't matter how much it hurts now, it wouldn't even matter if it hurt weeks from now because I tortured myself and disillusioned myself and managed to tell myself, through all the pain, that it wasn't a big deal, to stop being a pussy and just keep running.

Because if they can do it, so can I.

A huge thanks to everybody who helped me.

Forgive and Forget...like you have amnesia

Our "National Past time" has been dragged through the mud, them stomped on until unconscious. The worst part is, we let these jerks keep their feelings of entitlement on top of their pedestals. Bud Selig, possibly the most pathetically wimpish commissioner, allows the players union to bully their way out of drug tests and into "are you fucking kidding me?" contract numbers.

Recently Manny Ramirez, after receiving a 50 game suspension for a banned substance, in an act of bewilderment said "it's not like I killed anybody." Really?! No you didn't kill anybody, but what you did test positive for was a female hormone that is taken by steroid users to mask the inflated levels of testosterone in their system. So while you didn't kill anybody, asshole, you did BLATANTLY cheat, and BLATANTLY try to cover it up... that's premeditated cheating in the 1st degree, Manny.

And have you read the quotes spewed out by the accused. And by the accused I mean their publicist, their sports agent, and the lawyer. It's so sad how disengenuous these CHEATERS sound while they read apologies off a sheet of paper prepared by their goon squad. Here are a few of my favorite:

Mark McGwire, "Asking me or any other player to answer questions about who took steroids in front of television cameras will not solve the problem... My lawyers have advised me that I cannot answer these questions without jeopardizing my friends, my family and myself. I intend to follow their advice." pussy

Here's a good one-two punch by Jason Giambi, "Guys that work their butts off and they're hitting home runs, now it's because they're on steroids. Even injuries, a guy gets hurt, 'Oh, he's on steroids.' It's a little sickening to me." 2002... 5 years later after getting caught in 2007......

"I was wrong for doing that stuff. What we should have done a long time ago was stand up -- players, ownership, everybody -- and said: 'We made a mistake.'" what a two-faced douche

And Manny's explanation, "Recently I saw a physician for a personal health issue. He gave me a medication, not a steroid, which he thought was OK to give me. Unfortunately, the medication was banned under our drug policy." I think I just had a minor seizure

These guys are all horribly pathetic simply because they believe that their veil of twisted logic and lie-through-the-teeth mentality is bought by the public. They deny deny deny and think that is good enough because it's how they can snake out of accusations in front of Congress. Barry Bonds says he was a "late bloomer" when he put on 40 LBS of muscle at age 36, like his testosterone cycle kicked in 12 years later than 98% of men in this country. Not to mention he is the only player in history to have progressively better numbers (in most categories, HR, RBIs, Slugging, AVG.) from age 35 to 40.

Crap, I realized I just passed my testosterone peak (age 24)... gotta go shoot up.

The Daily WTF?!

From Hedge Fund to Hobo Austin, TX

After what has already been a tumultuous year in the financials, further news shook the very foundation of the industry when it was leaked that the leading contender for hedge fund analyst of the year, David Allen, of Lafitte Capital Management, is considering voluntary homelessness.

“The very idea of a hedge fund analyst not ridiculously flaunting his status by getting a loft or penthouse, or at least a Beamer, is absurd!” said T Henry Jacobson III, formerly an up and coming Bear Sterns Sr Analyst. But becoming homeless, by choice, Jacobson added, “well that feat hasn’t been attempted since “Stinky Joe” Miller, in the recession of ’88.” Allen has declined to comment, mostly because he never answers his phone, but there is speculation that he refuses to admit he is technically living with his girlfriend. A close friend of Allen's, Charles Joseph commented, “Who is he kidding?! I was there for one weekend and counted 237 ‘honey bears’ and, on one occasion, heard him refer to her as ‘schnookie pie butter cup’, what the fuck does that even mean?” However, a source close to Allen did site an out-dated, yet still valid, obscure Texas law, whereby the father can rightfully defend his daughter’s innocence from any adult male he deems threatening. “The law dictates that the father can violently retaliate against any perceived threat against his daughter” University of Texas Law Professor H. Thurman Montgomery IV said “especially if that threat is perpetrated by a Northerner, or somebody who is not native to our fine country of Texas.” After this news was shared with a good friend of Allen's, Bryan Delie said, “well, in that case, it might not be such a bad idea, considering her parents don’t even think they hold hands.” He later added, “I wonder what the law would allow Mr. Zinkler to do if he knew Allen was Ogdening on his daughter every other Wednesday.”

Still yet, others point to possible Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) Allen may have suffered when, as a bright eyed, optimisstic Tulane University Undergraduate, he was violently uprooted from his off-campus residence during Hurricane Katrina. “Zer have certainly beeen many casez of PTSD among Katrina veecteems” Psychiatrist Herman Zurrheiller notes, “but I have not had ze opportunity to examine many of zem because zey cannot afford my hourly rate.” Herman then went on to explain that many Jewish American Princesses have been among his patients and they have, indeed exhibited substantial symptoms of PTSD, as a result of losing pearl necklaces, Louis Vuitton bags, and priceless other Bat Mitzvah and Hannukah presents. After Katrina Allen did experience a bit of a gypsy-like existence, bouncing around from state to state, until he finally settled into Univeristy of Texas, a source said.

Very recently, rapper Juvenile released a statement upon hearing the news of David Allen's voluntary homelessness, “Even I know Hedge Funds is suppose to be about high rollin’. Bitches and benzes, Courvoisier and Dom Perignon, gettin’ white tigers as pets and shit. Damn, that boy musta lost his mind!” Strong words from a once-influential character in Allen's life.
It remains to be seen if the feat can be pulled off and close friends question whether the homelessness is due to the recent struggles of the Emerging markets, and Allen's attempt to deflect their affect on him personally, or his undying denial of the seriousness of his 4 year relationship with Tania Zinkler. “I just hope he can get a grip and realize you can’t bring randos back to the cot in your office” Jon Kassolis said. While support for Allen is widespread there still remains doubt as to the legality of residing in a commercially-zoned office.
Friends remain close by Allen's side, figuratively, and will continue to offer advice.

Bryan Del Monte is a freelance writer based out of Washington, DC

No Surgery Necessary

SO.... In a most ironic moment, about 6 hours after I posted my traffic ticket dilemmas I was pulled over for rolling through a stop sign.

I pulled over and sat there while the officer's spotlight shined into my side view mirror, directing the beam into my eyes, kind of laughing at myself about the irony of the situation. "Is there a reason you didn't come to a complete stop at that stop sign back there?"

"Officer I really apologize I was actually just talking to my sister on the phone and found out she just broke her leg" Kind of true... my sister did pull her hamstring and I was talking to my girlfriend about it.

Bottom line, he GAVE ME A WARNING! Woohoo! I'm not quite sure why but it happened and I figured I would share the irony.

Breast Augmentation?

I don't mean to sound as if I get traffic tickets everyday. I can count on one hand the amount I've been given in my eight years of hands-on experience. But, I would like to know who these people are who, when in conversation about tickets, say, "O yea, I've gotten a few warnings". Warnings? As in, "I'm warning you, if you don't find your proof of insurance I'm taking you straight downtown" kind of warning?

I must have "dickhead" tattooed on my forehead because every instance in which I have been pulled over has resulted in a ticket, or multiple ones for coinciding offences. Take, for example, the time I was pulled over and unbuckled my seat belt to take my wallet out of my pocket... yep, he sure did write me up for not wearing my seat belt, tack that on to a "riding on parts unintended" thanks to my friend who was hanging out the window. O yea, and the time my boss transferred his company car to me with expired tags and an expired registration. Hmmmmm, I wonder if I got pulled over for that one? YEAAAAA, "I'm gonna go ahead and give you failure to provide proof of insurance, failure to provide registration (which was nowhere to be found in the glove compartment) and driving with expired tags." Awesome, thanks officer... and boss.

Sometimes I think of the line from Vegas Vacation when the black jack dealer tells Clarke, "Why don't you give me half your money, we'll go out back, I'll kick you in the nuts, and we'll call it even?"

I know what you're thinking, but you're wrong, I'm not a jerk and am on my utmost behavior when I get pulled over, I swear. It's all, yes sir, I'm sorry officer, etc etc etc. The greatest display of ass-kissing you can imagine. Maybe I need to flip the script and try out some jokes on the cop, "Sorry, officer, but my wife ran off with a State Trooper a few years back and when I saw you following me I thought you were trying to bring her back!" ***BA-DA CHING*** (joke courtesy of Kent Woolard). Or, maybe, as a female friend recently shared her get-out-of-jail-free story, I should be wearing a high school cheerleading outfit and have a friend with large - how shall I say this - chesticles, sitting shotgun. Hmmmm, it might be worth it, but with my luck I'd get pulled over by a chick who wouldn't quite see the humor in the situation.

I've never seriously considered bribery, mostly because it's a bit above misdemeanor level, but I'm getting close. My next move is to name drop a few high-ranking officers I know like crazy... A ploy my friend uses to perfection (although his timing is a little off... he dropped his Police Luitenant Uncle's name after he was put in cuffs on the side of the highway for a misunderstanding on the officer's part). Or perhaps getting ahold of an FOP (Fraternal Order of Police) suppoter sticker along with one of those black with a blue stripe bumper stickers that indicate a member of your family is an officer. A former baseball teammate of mine got pulled over going 110mph (that's right, ONE HUNDRED AND TEN) in a 40mph zone on some country road (he has FOP plates for his brother and Dad) and the officer said "who's a cop in your family?".... "Go home and thank them". Are you kidding me?!?!

O well, I'll take 'em as they come and roll with the punches, and maybe get some good feedback from any males out there who have a few tricks up their sleeve. No offense, ladies, but you all have what I never will, so please don't take it personally when I say that it wasn't your charming personality that got you out of that ticket.

Nobody Cares

I understand that time spent in an airport is truly dead time and one of my least favorite things to do. iPod, a drink at the bar, newspaper, magazine, a quick lap dance at the airport strip club; all very productive ways to pass time. Another, probably the most popular, way to pass time is talking on the phone. Catch up with some friends, tell your loved ones you made it through the stringent TSA security regulations with minimal cavity searches...... HOWEVER, you, Mr. Bluetooth, are not fooling anybody in the entire terminal into thinking you are closing Multi-trillion dollar deals while you wait for your Southwest flight.

I understand business is being done, but nobody at the gate cares about your conversation, and many of us are trying to have our own, so how bout you A) keep your voice down or B) walk to an empty gate to conduct your merger of two Fortune 500 companies.

I'm not sure why people have some inclination to advertise their telephone conversations in crowded areas. Do you think anybody cares? Are you just oblivious to the VOLUME OF YOUR VOICE (cue Will Ferrell's monotone man skit)? Maybe it just goes on a case by case basis, but I speak discretely as possible when in an airport because nothing creeps me out more than knowing people are eaves-dropping in on my conversations.

Is it people's innate desire to make their importance known, is it an underlying level of selfishness that they might not consider others around them trying to read or hear their own thoughts? In either situation I do always find it interesting when I inadvertently hear soembody saying something along the lines of, "YEA, THAT SOUNDS GREAT! YEA LET'S DO THAT... UH-HUH... SEND ME A COPY OF THAT TO MY E-MAIL... YEA.... GREAT!"

Way to go big hustler, closin deals and makin it rain... you're so very important, I'm glad I was able to share that portion of your life with you.

A Follow Up Tip

Just to offer a little field research to back up my earlier bartender tipping rant...

While wrapping up a great couple of days this past weekend in Baltimore I was getting ready to go back up to the county on Saturday night when I realized, 5 minutes after departing Looney's, that I had forgotten to close out my tab.  I went back to find a locked door, watching the bartenders clean up the bar just after having closed.  

I knocked on the door and told the female bartender from whom I was ordering all night, "I forgot to close my tab" 

to which she replied, "sorry, come back tomorrow"

"I have a flight in the morning"

and the tourette-ick woman repeated, louder, without looking up "COME BACK TOMORROW!"

"C'mon!"

"Manana!" ahhh, she's bi-lingual

I looked for help from a bouncer who came to the front to see what was going on and yelled through the glass that I had a flight and that she refused to give me my credit card.  The bouncer, surprisingly, talked some sense into the (insert whatever you would have called her here) .

So, after facing defeat, she came out to hand me my card, adding the obligatory 20% tip to unclosed tabs and I was on my way......

Just another bartender that proved my point.

Dog Day Afternoon

 A quick bit:

In the spirit of this God-forsaken economical mess I have been doing my best to support those deserving of support.  NOT the auto executives who take their private jets to a bailout meeting with Congress, NOT the banking big wigs who spend $1.2 M redecorating their offices (see http://www.latimes.com/news/nationworld/world/asia/la-fi-thain23-2009jan23,0,6020240.story).  

What douches.  Honestly, I can't think of a more accurate word.  The average home value in Detroit right now sits at $18,000.  Yes, that's for a house.  And these DOUCHES spend $30,000 on their flights to Washington.  Merrill Lynch's former CEO spent $1,405 on his office trash can... which is where Congress should have shredded and stuffed their bailout proposals, instead of handing the moolah over to these pompous bunch of self-inundated assholes.

I'm sorry, I digress.

So, as I was saying... I choose to the "back to basics" support approach.  Where, in these days, people can shop in conglomerated warehouses that sell everything from tofu to toilet paper, I have tried my best to eat at those tiny neighborhood spots, buy breakfast at the corner cafes, and, yes, even get my dog treats from a dog bakery down the street.  I know that one man cannot make a difference, but one man who tell others might be able to keep these "Mom and Pop" operations open a little longer during these bleak times.  

See Spot Eat, to anyone is Nashville looking for great, organic, cheap dog treats... located on Bransford Ave.

Buy local, get to know your neighborhood.  

Here's My Tip To You

Do you work hourly? If not, then you're salaried, I guess. Maybe you make some commission, too. Either way, add up what you make a year, divide it by the amount of hours per year you work (2080 if you do the 9-5 thing). So, regardless of whether or not you work hourly, you can figure out your wage. 10, 15, 20, 25. You can break down, then figure out around how much you make per minute, per 10 minutes, etc. Say you make $20/hour, you make $5/15 minutes, 33 cents/minute, and .5 cents/second. So why the fuck does some jackass behind the bar expect me to tip him $1 for every 5 seconds it takes him to pop off a cap and hand me a bottle of beer?!

Do you find yourself asking yourself the same question? I'm not one to complain or dare be the one to say that what the women and men behind the bars of America have an unimportant job. I also am not "cheap" and will always give at least 15%, usually close to 20%, after a meal. However, snarky comments, a rude look, or scoffing from a bartender... are they not in the service industry? Buddy, I didn't hit you up this time, but the next time I take up 5 seconds of your working day I'll throw you a Washington, but not if you act like a prick.

My general policy is every other bottled beer I'll tip. Recently, though, I have started opening tabs, which was strictly against my social rules, mostly for fear of forgetting the close and having an automatic 25% tacked on (usual standard policy). After being treated like an inconvenience by many bartenders (see Sam's Sportsbar), opening a tab tips the scales in the patron's favor in several ways: 1) It make the bartender believe you will be drinking like a fish, and buying rounds of shots and girly drinks for your friends... 2) no exchange of money = faster transactions... 2b) those annoying $3.50 prices won't leave you with jingling quarters in your pocket... 3) you don't have to feel guilty (if you're on the "every other round" tipping policy) of people wondering why you didn't tip, you cheapass... and finally, most importantly 4) at the end of the night you can tally up the appropriate % (was the bartender a bitch? or more like Tom Cruise from Cocktail?) tip accordingly.

Ladies and gentlemen, don't confuse me for a moneygrubber or a miser. I'm merely trying to reward those bottle jockeys who work to please with a smile and a long pour. The assholes, pricks, and douche bags who think their position behind the bar means they can choose to liquor up girls all night and ignore you while you're holding cash right in front of their face? Well, they can suffer the consequences of their actions and go home a little short. But won't that just feed their behavior? Maybe, but it might also get them thinking... hmmm, what if I actually act like I'm in the service industry and treat every customer like they're the most important customer? Well, maybe then they'll stop holding a grudge and scrape up a few more tips to get them through their GED equivalency class.

Did this rant come about as result of a recent encounter? No. Just a thoughtful observation from watching too many sweat-band cladded, spikey haired, tight-shirted sauce slingers act like they're fuckin rock stars who don't have the time of day to serve their customers.

Cheers.

Doggin' It

While Nashville's weather is about as unpredictable as Lindsey Lohan's sexuality, I am fully comfortable with taking advantage of a beautiful seventy and sunny weekend. Even though it might be spitting rain and 33 degrees tomorrow, the current conditions inevitably joggle memories of springtime and everything that comes with it. Shorts and flip-flops, open windows, an afternoon baseball game with a cold beer, and, most of all, a hot dog.

What better food exists than the all-American concoction of mixed beefs and a toasted bun? The rest of the ensemble is up to you. That seems to be the message of the "Dog of Nashville" hot dog joint down the street from Sam's and the McDougle's. And what better way to celebrate an amazing Sunday afternoon than to order up a grilled "Barnyard" dog, complete with pulled pork cole slaw, and BBQ sauce? Wash it down with a cold beer (which they serve) and my day is complete.

The menu is various and leaves room for improvisation. As long as they have the toppings and condiments you can have them make it. A definite must, if you ask me, is the "Rise and Shine" hangover-curing grilled, bacon-wrapped hot dog topped with a melted cheese and a fried egg. Hangover cured, heart-attack imminent. In a rush, order ahead and pick it up. Check out what you want on www.thedogofnashville.com I guarantee you will not be disappointed.

So next time you see the clouds parting, head down to Belcourt Ave, be a true American, and grab plenty of napkins.

Are You Lost Also?

After being sucked into the under-toe that is Lost! during the first 4 seasons, I have been left with no option other than to watch the 5th season. It pains me to succumb to corporate America's commercial fish net; but indulges are such called because they are knowingly a guilty pleasure.

However, after 3 Lost! episodes I got to thinking:
AT WHAT POINT DOES A SHOW BECOME A SOAP OPERA (BESIDES ITS WEEKLY TIMESLOT)?
I came up with a little bit of a list...
1. The plot is non-sensical
2. It seems like the writers have been to Bonnaroo a few too many times
BTW: Why does that Daniel character whisper every fucking line he has?
3. Horrible, fake orchestral music
4. Quick scenes, that sometimes do not even involve dialogue, but maybe one-liners from each actor involved in each scene
5. Seemingly unexaplainable transitions between scenes... wait we're on the mainland *** flash*** no we're on Hawai'i - I mean the south-Pacific - now!
6. Cheesy last-line-of-scene dialogues... you know what I'm talking about, like every line Sawyer or Locke has
7. Inane medical logic... whether on the island or in an actual hospital, since when will cutting off somebody's leg in an impromptu island OR give somebody a better chance of living (season 1). Or how about when Saeed is just chillin there in the hosital and some male Focker nurse comes in about to administer him some drugs into his IV, which is inexplicable ACROSS THE ROOM from the bed?! Oh yea, then Saeed moves from the bed next to the male nurse without the dude (who is obviously not a nurse, but some sort of mercinary or assassin) even noticing. How the hell does a mercinary not hear a guy rustling out of bed, stepping onto the floor, and dashing across the room in a matter of seconds?
8. Easy to predict, once you get "in the retardedly rediculous zone"
9. Cheesy one-liners, obviously... "I'll drive!" "We're running outta time!" or my absolute favorite, "Do you know WHEN we are?"
10. Single camera shots of actors' facial expressions instead of dialogue for a scene
11. Ridiculous rhetorical questions
12. Excessive furrowing of eyebrows
13. The actors are so unrealistically good looking (for a "random group of people" who crashed on an island) you don't know if you'd rather do Kate, Juliette, Jack, or Sawyer (regardless of your gender)
14. Before you know it a huge monochromatic logo of the show appears in the middle of a LOST!

Cue weird, freaky music

Suspending My Disbelief

So, the worst-case scenario has played out.  And now, my morning and mid-day routines of listening to ESPN Radio and Fox Sports on XM must be put on hold.  At least for the past couple weeks I could pretend that the improbable hopeful Cardinals would somehow pull another rabbit out of their helmets.  But now the radio waves will inevitably be bombarded by talk of the Steelers Super Bowl title.  I'd rather swallow shards of glass.

Am I a sore loser?  Yes.  Will I keep pretending the NFL season ended when the Ravens beat the Titans?  Yes.  Will I respond with a blank stare if you start talking about how the Steelers won the Super Bowl?  What Super Bowl?  I am jealous?  No.  You couldn't offer me anything that would make me stop cheering on the Ravens.  Being the constant under-dog, a city that finally reclaimed its football glory after having it uprooted 29 years ago, a true sense of renewed pride and love for the color purple is something that will always remain.

No major analyst had the Ravens anywhere close to .500, and most predicted that we would go 5-11, not 13-5.  Excuses?  Not at all.  If you had said to me at the dawn of starting an NFL season with a rookie head coach and a rookie, 3rd string quarterback,  "Would you be happy, without any regrets, if the Ravens get to the AFC Championship game?" I would say, "damn straight!"  

26 injured reserve players later, playing the majority of the season without one of the best corners in the league, without one of the best nose tackles in the league, with second stringers scattered over the field, the Ravens prove that we are undoubtedly the toughest win to get in the NFL.  No other team will out-work you and out-hit you.  We ended the seasons of several running backs,  put a stop to the ridiculous wild-cat/wild-hog formation, hammered the final nail in the coffin of "America's Team", and ended the silly notion that Tennessee actually had a decent team this year.  We made it further than 28 teams.  Coming in 3rd place (yes, 3rd place because in week 12 we kinda put a 36-7 beating on the Eagles) when many picked us to finish 3rd in OUR OWN DIVISION... I'll take it.  O yea, do you all mind doing all of that while playing 18 straight weeks, a season with virtually no bye?  Our players' responses resounded each week as they, through their play, said, "sure thing, no problem".  

Show me a tougher team, with more stacked against them, who made more out of less than the Ravens.  

Crabcakes and football, baby!

Grab a Skirt

I'm all for doing whatever makes you happy. And by happy, I mean not bored. Boredom, in my opinion is worse than any other feeling or state one can experience. People do a lot of things to avoid boredom. Guys (and girls, I guess) live for the start of the next football season, to fill our weekends with ritualistic meaning. Right now, sadly, is a difficult time for all but two fan-bases.

I suppose, when true desperation kicks in, men are forced outside their comfort zone and react largely out of necessity; the necessity to avoid boredom.

Television is an automatic go-to for most people looking for simple entertainment. With multiple cable companies and hundreds of channels, there is a lot of crap on TV nowadays. It is America and freedom still reigns. However, in this particular case, freedom is an unfortunate thing. I'm talking about grown men watching The Hills.

This epidemic is apparently sweeping Man Caves across the country. Just recently, two of my friends unknowingly came out of The Hills closet when, during a manweekend of beer and football, they started going back and forth about Heidi, Spencer, LC, and whoever else is on the show. At first I thought they were joking. Sadly they were not.

If you find yourself in the uncomfortable situation of dealing with your own friends' Hills coming out parties there are a few things, we, members of the FWDLFWTH (Friends Who Don't Let Friends Watch The Hills) can do. And, yes, you are a member of FWDLFWTH if you A) don't watch The Hills, and B) have friends who throw on a skirt and watch The Hills.

Firstly, you must root out the closet cases and confront their issue... Remember, the first step is getting them to admit they have a problem. Secondly, most obviously, do not, in any way allow talk of or watching of The Hills in your presence. And Thirdly, like a crying child, you must fully ignore your wayward friend if she, I mean he, starts any talk of The Hills.

Together, men, we will get through the football off-season, and do our best to keep our friends from straying. We will battle the will of their girlfriends and win the war against MTV and shitty cable programming.

Soak up the Nash

The wrong first impression can leave a lasting scar.  I was first introduced to Music City by way of Vanderbilt University.  Sadly, while Vanderbilt is a great place, it does suffer from the "Vanderbubble" effect, keeping students somewhat depraved of the true cultural uniqueness that is Nashville.  

I am now a couple years removed from school and have finally shed the monkey that Vanderbilt put on my back.  I regret the days I wasted at school being wasted at frat houses and house parties rather than soaking in the live music scene at the dozens of venues around town.  

One thing I know for sure.  After seeing people like George Ducas and Ratney Foster, the true song-writers of Nashville (I truly hope you don't think any of those fake artists you see on CMT and MTV actually write their own stuff), I can now truly appreciate the realness of places like Nashville, Austin, New Orleans, Chicago, full of the real musical artists, not to mention the countless number of Nashville neighborhoods and gigs that keep the real music alive.

Wherever you are, whatever city, enjoy its uniqueness, its singularity, and its liveliness.  Every city, no matter, has its own pulse and breath.  Find yours and enjoy it, before you look back and realize you've been visiting too many museums.

Trust Me.

Islamorada Lifestyle

My first trip to Islamorada was much different from my most recent.  I would encourage visitors to observe the speed limit and comply with all of Islamorada PD's requests.  Once you break through the barrier of over-hyped, under-stimulated Isla police force, you will find yourself in the midst of a slow-motion, easy-goin, hand-made, tropical-fruited drink, house-made cocktail wonderland.  

A FEW PLACES TO AVOID:

Lazy Daze.

It's great for the view, but the food, ehhh we can find better.  Besides, WHO HAS A HAPPY HOUR THAT ONLY APPLIES TO THOSE SITTING AT THE 10 SEAT BAR-AREA?!  You read me right.  If you go for an early dinner, or room at the bar is scarce, NO HAPPY HOUR FOR YOU!  As I was told by the local inbred bar-keep, "if we didn't restrict happy hour to just the bar, the whole restaurant would fill up during happy hour."  Well, shit, that would just be horrible for business!  The food is sub-par, nothing fancy, too touristy.

LETS GET REAL

You want the goods?  When in Rome!  You want the best, freshest, straight off the boat STONE CRABS?  Go to Mr. Lobster.  Hell, once you pull up to the docks you'll probably want to add some Yellowfin and Snapper to the menu.  This place is a main importer for restaurants up and down the coast.  BUY LIKE THE WHOLESALERS DO!  Large Stone Crabs caught that day for $14/LB... yes, please.  Your welcome.

That's local livin', no BS tourist cuisine.  Freshest you could ask for.

If I'm in Miami I'll make the 4 hour round trip drive to give my friends the freshest, best tasting stone crab they could ask for... it's worth it... unless your friends are assholes.

Going out for dinner?

Islamorada Fish House.  $25 entrees, freshest fish (no shit) eat outside in a table on the sand, listenin to the live band.  Can't go wrong.

Breakfast after a long night.  Okay, here I stray, but I swear that ROBBIE'S is the best b'fast spot in the Isla.  Sit on the patio and watch Euro tourists feed the hundreds of Tarpons that gather around the docks... but know that the Eggs Benedict, and Corned Beef Hash are the real thing, made from love in a cramped trailer-for-a-kitchen.  MILE MARKER 76, check it out, try the mimosas and enjoy some delish b'fast specials!

Trust Me.

Pascal's Miami

In terms of culinary delights, Pascal's is tops.  My recent trip to Miami made me realize that anybody who travels to the Cuba of the South would be a fool to not reserve themselves a table at Pascal's of Miracle Mile.  

The dining room is small and intimate, ten tables max, fifty people per seating.  

I had THE MOST AMAZING MEAL OF MY LIFE at Pascal's over my Christmas Vacation.

If you want a sure bet, to impress coworkers, dates, in-laws... a hands-down, no-brainer, of a restaurant experience, you would be remise in not taking three hours out of your life to not enjoy the amazing food at this French culinary wonder.

I would even go so far as to say if you had only three hours in Miami that you should spend it as Pascal's, and you would leave Miami satisfied.

The meal might run you $100 apiece, but you would be a fool not to make this sure-fire intestinal investment.  

MY MEAL:

I had the fois gras special, which was seasoned for 48 hours and spiced rubbed.   They have two fois gras on the regular menu, and I suggest trying either one.

I also relished the opportunity to taste their gnocchi appetizer, drizzled with white truffle oil... best I have ever tasted... sorry Grandma.  Seriously though, I have never been held speechless over food until that point.

My main course was the Veal Shank, which, suffice it to say, needed no knife, and only a fork to peel the delicate layers of non-pretentious proteins from their supple bones into my mouth until only the hollowed-out bones remained.  

We (Eve and I) also ordered the Souffles special for dessert.  Normally, I am not a "dessert person" but figured it was only appropriate to complete the circle of culinary delight we had experienced in the previous two hours.  

The service... incredible.  The food... words do not exist that can describe.  The atmosphere... beyond delightful.

HANDS DOWN THE BEST MEAL OF MY LIFE, you will not be disappointed.

If you want to impress those whom need impressing, look no further.

Trust Me.

Bryan