There’s no warmer feeling than being recognized by familiar faces. Whether when entering church, the gym at the Y, or perhaps your neighborhood bar, it truly lifts the spirit when those that work at the establishment give you a smile of recognition. You know where this doesn’t apply? The Panda Express. No, it is rather quite embarrassing when the pleasant woman standing behind the array of mass produced Chinese fare smiles at you and then calls your order out for you. Such was my experience at lunch today (continuing a string of recent unpleasantries during lunch).
Panda Express employee: “How are you, sir?” with a smile as though she’s surprised I had managed to hold out for as long as I had (two weeks!) before returning.
Me: “Umm, okay.”
PE employee: “What can I get for you today? Oh, orange chicken and mandarin chicken, right?”
Me: “Yes” while reaching for the Blackberry, looking around nervously, and making a mental note not to return to Panda Express for quite awhile.
Here's a suggestion to employees/managers of basically all fast food establishments. Even if someone comes into your swillhole "restaurant" daily, act like it's the first time you've ever seen them. If they are in there enough for you to recognize them, you've obviously already won their business. I'm certainly not advocating rudeness, by the way. Be pleasant and peppy, just don't make it seem to them and anyone else in earshot that they are your location's top revenue driver.
So management of the Vinings Panda Express, take note. If you want my business (after my hiatus that must now extend at least three weeks), you will act as though you have never seen me the next time I grace your premises. You may be the most convenient provider of orange "chicken", but you are not the only one!
Being recognized at Cheers, far superior to being recognized at Panda Express
There isn’t much that’s sacred in corporate America these days. The soul of the American white collar worker received its pink slip a couple of years ago, and basic dignity was shown the door last year in uncomfortable fashion with two weeks’ severance and a kick in the pants as parting gifts. Still, we need something to which we can cling, a last bit of turf to call our own. I submit to you that lunch is the final frontier. I’m not demanding extended time out of the office every day or anything of the sort. I eat at my desk quite frequently and am more than happy to do so.
No, I request only that I be allowed to dine on a meal of my choosing without being made to feel like I’m pulling a shady move. Nothing drives me crazier than having to deal with a work lunch where sandwiches are provided. I honestly don’t mean to sound ungrateful. If I wasn’t appalled by tomatoes and the combination of juice and seeds they bestow on every piece of bread and sandwich meat with which they come in contact, it wouldn’t be a problem. I can actually get past the shredded lettuce which couldn’t be entirely removed from your sandwich if attacked with a shop vac. But I wouldn’t even mind that all sandwiches are ordered with the presumptuous mindset that everyone loves deli sandwiches with lettuce and tomato (and occasionally even more egregiously, with mayonnaise) if I could be allowed to alternatively go procure a lunch of my choosing. After all, that’s what all the long hours are for, are they not? So that a man can take six dollars of hard earned disposable income and buy something moderately appealing for lunch rather than staring down the barrel of a lunch that triggers nightmares from my youth. I thought I was past the point of being forced against my will to eat food that I find disgusting. If I finish this wretched tomato-drenched sandwich, do I get an extra 30 minutes of cartoons on Saturday? And one other question before I move on. What in the hell is with the chip selection that accompanies these pre-ordered lunches? I feel relatively certain that plain Lay’s potato chips and Sun Chips would both have been discontinued long ago had they not worked their way into the corporate lunch racket.
A youngster acquiring the skills needed to make it through a corporate lunch meeting
But I am not all complaints and bitterness, my friends. No, I have a solution for the lettuce and tomato haters out there who peruse their Outlook calendar and see the dreaded working lunch meeting in their future. It’s relatively simple, and though it requires some violation of social norms it can be pulled off fairly easily once you’ve got the technique down. Now your standard boxed lunch is going to be a deli sandwich cut in half with a meat of your choosing and the aforementioned lettuce and tomato. What you do is quite simply take the two defiled halves and turn them into one oversized, tolerable half. Grab your boxed lunch and head for your seat. Wait until there is sufficient commotion or, even more ideally, a presenter has started talking. When everyone’s focus is elsewhere, you slide the entire top of both halves off to the side. This removes the ruined top piece of bread as well as the lettuce and tomato. You next subtly take one half and flip it over on top of the other, thus making one large half sandwich. Not only are the unwanted toppings gone, but the two pieces of bread you kept typically have not even been touched by tomatoes.
There is an advanced version of this in which you grab an extra napkin and attempt a detailed wiping of the cheese to further purify your sandwich, but that is not to be attempted by beginners. Having your boss watch you polish a slice of Swiss cheese with your napkin while the rest of the room discusses the contents of a PowerPoint slide is something to be avoided at all costs.
I've been on quite a few flights lately, and without question the process is at best a nuisance. From chatty fellow travelers to lengthy security lines, it often feels less pleasant than the bus ride through Pakistan in Spies Like Us.
However, I think my fellow flying compatriots would all agree that one issue stands head and shoulders above the rest. Fix just this one issue, and the airlines will be back on the path to customer loyalty, an improved travel experience, and the return to bottom line profitability that would certainly follow. As I'm sure you've guessed already, the issue is legroom. Too little legroom? Passengers feeling like they've been shoehorned into their seats? Of course not! How ludicrous. No, the problem would seem to be excess legroom.
"If only her row was a bit closer, I could more properly affix my knees to the back of the seat."
Rest easy, though, weary traveler. The airlines have been laser focused on the issue and are close to rolling out a solution. Behold the "SkyRider", the new seats apparently set to be installed in coach in the near future.
The SkyRider, facilitating travel to faraway lands AND a three hour gluteus maximus workout!
Read the entire article if you are so inclined, but here's the key part:
The design, named the “SkyRider”, allows just 23 inches of legroom, which is about seven inches less than the average seat's space of 30 inches.
Shaped similar to a horse saddle, passengers sit at an angle, with their weight taken on by their legs. It allows seats to be overlapped.
The seats would also offer storage space including a shelf for carry-on bags and hooks to hang a jacket or a handbag.
The makers say the seat would allow budget airlines, such as Ryanair, to cram more passengers into their tight cabins.
It appears that currently this is primarily being sought out by low cost European carriers, and that it may also face safety regulation hurdles. Rest easy, though, for I have no doubt that their American counterparts will be on the case soon enough. Now if they can just cut back a bit more on the peanuts and pretzels and perhaps further restrict passenger access to drinking water, I think they might just have a winner on their hands.
Well, my wife is currently pulling a TV session that is taking the term horrendous to a whole new level. Specifically, that involves switching back and forth between the MTV Video Music Awards she recorded last night and the current episode of Bachelor Pad. It’s bad news for me, but good news for you, because D’Arcy is back on the blog. Look at that, I wrapped cockiness and a third person reference to myself into one sentence as an homage to the NFL players currently participating in a Monday Night Football game that I can’t see.
Being at the computer also allowed me to check my Facebook account, which is almost more overwhelming than I can handle. Back when I signed up for Facebook a couple of months ago, I received a number of comments expressing shock at my decision to do so. I don’t remember roaming the countryside launching into invectives against Facebook or its membership, but perhaps I’ve just tucked those episodes far away in my mind following my decision to join. I think my reluctance had more to do with the seeming nonstop nature of it rather than any superiority I felt to the website or its participants.
After a couple of months as a fringe member of the Facebook community, I’m not critical of it in general. I definitely have questions, though. First of all, how in the hell do some people post so frequently? I can’t even remember whether or not I washed my hair at the end of half of my morning showers. How do people remember to let the world know that they are headed out for a jog? Or honestly, why do you even want to? Again, I'm not critical, I just assume that people don't care whether or not I'm currently noodling over whether the barbecue I just found in the back of my fridge is too old to safely eat for lunch. Some updates read like a real-time journal of a Frank Ricard Saturday.
Well, um, actually a pretty nice little Saturday, we're going to go to Home Depot. Yeah, buy some wallpaper, maybe get some flooring, stuff like that. Maybe Bed, Bath, & Beyond, I don't know, I don't know if we'll have enough time.
Also, how do people deal with taking what appear to be dozens of pictures a day and posting them? My wife and I have about an 18 month stretch of our lives for which I believe there is not a single shred of photographic evidence. Yet a visit to Facebook leaves me feeling like the only person in my extended network of friends who forgot to photograph and post my half-eaten inaugural Chick-fil-A spicy chicken sandwich.
Either way, God bless you frequent Facebook posters. I say go for it. I honestly wish I was better at the whole thing. Regale us with your inspirational quotes and the results of your journeys to Publix!
Hey, let's get a shout out from all the Serbs in the audience. Let me hear you! As this map from the traffic measurement tool clearly shows, Sic Transit Gloria is blowing up in Eastern Europe.
Someone in Serbia went searching for an American-style denunciation of Julia Roberts and the PGA and struck gold.
I guess when you put a high quality product out there, you can count on Europeans to climb on board the bandwagon, a fact to which this legend of both film and music can certainly attest.
For the record, I am 100% certain that the Serbian visit was some sort of random Internet anomaly. In all seriousness, though, I do appreciate everybody sticking with this thing and checking in from time to time. The blog just hit 1,000 visits, and even after you back out the one from my Serbian friend, that's still pretty solid.
And have no fear! Though the PGA season is coming to a close, Julia Roberts' latest film is already fading from the spotlight, and Burger King is now under new ownership, we'll have plenty about which to get riled up. I might even touch upon corporate America, the mother lode of angst, at some point. I'll need to recruit a volunteer to swing by and secure my belts and shoelaces before touching that one, though.
I do love golf. I want to get that on the record, because this blog is in danger of appearing to be the farthest thing from a fan of the sport. Having said that, when something appalling just presents itself to me, I'm going to comment.
So golf is having quite a run. First, the PGA ruined its eponymous championship. And now, the absurdity of the rules and "integrity" of the game has surfaced once again in the story of Zach Nash. Young Zach, a 14-year old golfer, won the boys 13-14 age division at the Milwaukee County Parks Tour Invitational. Now, that's not exactly the biggest tournament on the golf calendar, but it was clearly a big victory for the youngster. Here's what happened next:
After his victory, Nash went to the Rivermoor Golf Club — where he played 36 holes nearly every day this summer — to practice more and talk to one of his mentors, Chris Wood, the club's head golf professional.
"I was showing everybody my medal and then Chris and I went and we were having a soda and he said 'Hey, whose club is this? And I said 'my friend's.' And he said 'This makes 15.' I was in shock after that," Nash said.
The penalty for breaking the rule, called rule 4-4, is two strokes for each hole played with more than 14 clubs, with a maximum of four penalty strokes. But since he didn't notice his extra club during the tournament, a penalty wasn't added. That meant he signed an incorrect scorecard, which he knew disqualified him.
Nash said golf prides itself on honesty and players calling penalties on themselves. While the decision was clear, he said he couldn't help but cry a bit in front of Wood. Wood had to call Nash's father, Bob, to pick him up.
Later that night, Nash called Andy Landenberger, junior tour director for the WPGA, to explain what happened. He sent back the medal, which Landenberger said he would present to runner-up Dane Reinhardt, who shot an 80.
Nash, who has been golfing for about three years, said a friend spent the night at his house before the tournament and left a 5-wood club, and he put it in his bag not realizing it made a total of 15.
Alright, this is unacceptable. I understand this kid is going to get on television and have articles written about him, so he probably ends up better off when all is said and done. Still, how does any of this make one bit of sense? A friend stays at your house, accidentally leaves one of his clubs with yours, you don't use it all day, a jackass club pro that is supposed to be your friend and mentor sees it and calls you out costing you your medal, and this is a feel good story? No way. Clearly the kid got no benefit whatsoever from the extra stick in his bag. Why would the club pro even point it out? What is he doing scanning the kids bag looking for infractions?
This is the kind of story that will get bounced around in golf circles and be breathlessly retold by Jim Nantz and Jimmy Roberts with melodic tunes in the background. Meanwhile, the rest of the world just keeps moving on down the road. Golf- doing it the right way, and becoming less relevant by the day.
Happy Labor Day! More importantly, we can all breathe a sigh of relief now that football season has returned. Last Sunday I found myself on my couch choosing between watching the Little League World Series and the US Amateur golf championship. Because if there's anything that can top watching 12 year old's play baseball, it's watching 17 year old's play golf. On top of that, ESPN and SportSouth were showing high school football games to round out the selections. Hey, anybody got footage from a bar mitzvah or some church league hoops while we're at it? Unreal.
The only downside to the joy of having football back on the tube is the return of the godforsaken Buffalo Wild Wings commercials. Surely all of you remember this gem from last year...
So let me make sure I understand. The loser in the #2 jersey is so desperate not to return home to his mother's basement that he asks the referee to cost his team the game and "send this thing into overtime"? Beyond the absurdity of rooting against your own team and the referee somehow communicating with you through the television over the bar, can I ask why it is that your time at the oh so sweet Buffalo Wild Wings is dictated by the end of the game? If you're having such a blast, may I recommend just staying for another beer, celebrating your team's victory, and watching the start of the next game? What blows my mind is that they have had an entire year to ponder the idiocy of these commercials (they ran a similar one during basketball season), and the outcome was to basically remake the same commercial using the groundskeeper instead of a referee?! I can't find the horrendous new commercial on YouTube, which is perhaps a blessing in disguise for all of us. Watch a little football, though, and it won't be long before you're subjected to it. If you don't have DVR, it's almost enough to have you longing for the Little League World Series.
Call it coincidence if you will, but I'm not buying it. On Monday, Murls posts a scathing piece ripping Burger King and Quiznos on this very website. A mere two days later, not only does it emerge that Burger King was a potential sale target after their stock price had declined in recent weeks, but the spokeswomen for one potential buyer made it clear that they have no interest at this point. The owners of Quiznos are no doubt in emergency crisis management sessions at this very moment.
I couldn't agree with the anti-BK sentiment more. In fact, I boycotted the place for at least two years in my younger days after they waited 20 minutes to tell me that they didn't have what I had ordered and paid for. That was on the heels of numerous other customer service offenses, which was finally enough to make me walk away from the Italian chicken sandwich of which I actually used to be quite fond. I wish I could blame a portion of my boycott on the cleanliness issue, but since at the time I routinely ordered food from an Athens Chinese establishment with a sticky floor which required significant effort to walk across and a health code rating of 73, that would be less than honest.
I’m on the road a lot these days for work. I am also blessed/cursed with a bit of a low-rent appetite when it comes to lunch. This combination, in my opinion, qualifies me to analyze the nuances of our nation’s eateries, ad nauseum, no matter how little facts I may actually be working with. My wife would tell you that I can go on for days . . . for now, let’s pick one tiny category and get the ball rolling. How about “restaurants that are in a swirling death spiral down the turlet of inevitable failure”? Just 2 for now. Cool? Cool.
1. Burger King – sounds crazy to say it. Back in the 80’s it always seemed like Burger King was the formidable, albeit lesser, arch-rival of McDonald’s, the Pepsi to their Coke. Sure it was second fiddle, but the universe had to keep Burger King around just to ensure the proper balance of things. But somewhere between then and now, things went downhill, and this is before they pinned their hopes on a giant-sized KingCranium that is pretty funny but also kind of gross and in no way prompts me to sling processed meats down my gullet.
Really there’s just too much wrong with BK to list, but in a nutshell . . . their fries blow, their attempt at branding over the last decade has been a strange mix between non-existent, low-rent, and bizarre, and of course, 9 out of 10 BK Lounges are no cleaner than a set of motel sheets dipped in Hunt's ketchup and hepatitis.
Pop Quiz: Stare at this ad for two minutes and you’ll see: a) a sailboat, or b) Debbie Gibson preparing to fellate a 7 inch sandwich.
Burger King’s desperation can be seen in their constant churning out of gimmick foods – chicken fries, funnel cake sticks, seven-inch dong sandwiches, and most recently, ribs. Yes, ribs. But what will ultimately be their demise is the fact that they are hands-down the worst run of all the fast food chains. BK employees are long overdue for a Knute Rockne pep talk, or at the very least, some type of brochure that explains that they are actually working, at a job, where you’re supposed to . . . work. And not put boogers in people’s food.
OVER/UNDER of life on earth – 10 years. Papa bear has deep pockets and they can probably push their schtick on some 3rd world countries for a while.
2. Quizno’s – Hmmm, not sure what happened here. The first time I ever ate Quizno’s was in Cincinnati and it was definitely the first of its kind. Awesome. I think I ate there 3 times in the span of two days and then wrestled with fortnightly cravings upon returning home to the ATL. Soon enough, Quizno’s exploded into every town in America, billed as the nation’s fastest growing franchise. Then they pumped this little gem onto TV screens across America:
Holy bejeezus balls. I’m guessing their advertising firm was lined up, blindfolded, and systematically executed one by one after this sucker aired (although admittedly, the pepper bar line is pretty funny). But okay fine, mistake was made, and yet again one corporation learned the “disgusting rats don’t make people want to eat our food” lesson, the hard way.
I was able to power through this mishap, and I continued to hit the Q if it was in plain view. Yet even with my veteran status, I never quite understood how the frick to order at that place. Do I say what I want now, or do I wait until after my meat-laden bread plank comes out of that toaster? Oh, I order SOME of the stuff now? Okay, lettuce, tomatoes . . . what, those are after? Olives are now?! WTF!!!
Sounds nit-picky, but little things like that can often crystal-ball me the certain death of a franchise. Maybe after cracking the riddle of how to make their trays look like a “Q”, the big swingers up at headquarters were feeling a bit cocksure and got lazy. Understandable.
"Hundred bucks says you can't get it into the trash can."
Anyway, the novelty has certainly worn off for Americans, and other chains have popped up offering superior versions of toasted sandwiches (see Firehouse Subs), less commercials with rats, and less suicidal tendencies post-grub ("wait, that sub had pepperoni on it too?”). And so today I can hear the ringing of the death knell as Quizno’s scrambles to offer $4 torpedos, $3 bullets, and will soon roll out their $1 “throwing stars”, keeping consistent with the appetizing ammunition theme.
OVER/UNDER – 4 years. I take no pleasure in saying this, by the way. The poor franchisees jumped on it when it was hot, and my guess is that 90% of them never made any real money before the thing went sour. Now they’re just hanging on, hoping somehow the ship will turn around. It won’t.
Other Notables:
- Baskin Robbins: Yes I am heterosexual. I happen to appreciate a solid ice cream cone every once in a while . . . one man and his lickin' cone. Trust me on this call, Baskin Robbins is on borrowed time.
- Any mexican restaurant that charges for chips and salsa (you know who you are). Perhaps this is simply wishful thinking on my part.
I’ve always been under the impression that when you’re feeling a bit down, the best thing to do is to get out there- get out among your fellow man to have your spirits lifted. I must say that recent events lead me to believe otherwise. First, there was my less than stellar flight companion a couple of weeks ago. And now, on the heels of that brutal experience, I can add dinner last Thursday night.
After a long week, we decided to head out to grab a bite to eat. We ended up at Six Feet Under. It's a pleasant place with a solid menu, nice beer selection, and a rooftop deck. You know what you don't expect to see at such a place? An 11 year old girl doing what I assume must have been a cheerleading routine over and over again. She would typically start out doing just the hand motions while sitting in her chair and somewhat quietly chanting the cadence. Then, inevitably, the spirit of the routine would take over and out of her chair she would go. Now standing less than 10 feet from me (as I attempted in vain to focus my attention on my fried scallops), she would really get into it. This included hands behind the head, a karate chopping gesture, some louder counting, and a good bit of hip gyration that I would have expected to draw protests from the parents of the girls aiming to make this cheerleader squad. That didn't appear to be the case, though, because this whole session went down under the approving eye of the girl's mother. Sadly, the practice session came to an abrupt halt after she knocked the emergency exit door open (setting off an alarm) during one of the aforementioned gyrating portions of the act.
To cap it off the general indecency going down around us, my wife let out an exasperated gasp about halfway through dinner.
"Yeah, I know this girl is doing a cross between Mr. Miyagi and Beyonce. I'm trying to look elsewhere."
"No, not that, you have to check out this couple sitting behind you."
It turns out that as a means of showing affection, they were getting up in each other's grills and playfully rubbing their noses back and forth. How about a little decorum, folks? If you decide to dine in a public setting, keep your beak to yourself and keep your pre-teen child's cheerleading practice on hold until you get home. I don't think it's too much to ask.
It wasn't supposed to be this way. Damn you, Julia Roberts, I will not let you take over my blog! That said, I must revisit your wretchedness one last time. After the excellent guest post by Murls and my follow up, I thought we had left Julia Roberts in our collective rear view mirror. And then, unfortunately, my wife asked me last night if I had heard about her recent conversion to Hinduism. "Uhhh, no, and for God's sake can we keep it that way?" was my response. Unfortunately we could not, and soon enough I was reading an article discussing Julia's conversion.
The gist of it is this- Julia Roberts, while filming Eat, Pray, Love, converted to Hinduism. As a result, a priest renamed her three children Laxmi, Ganesh, and Krishna Balram. I'm no expert on Hinduism, and in all seriousness I understand that Krishna Balram is quite probably a highly respected name in that faith. But can I just say that a decade or so from now, when paparazzi cameras are following an adolescent Krishna Balram into crystal meth houses, and Julia and her godforsaken husband are trying to figure out where it all went wrong, this might be a good place to start? Were you to continue reading the discussion with Julia, which apparently is part of an upcoming story in Elle magazine, you would also learn that she also now believes in reincarnation. The oh-so-deep-thinker Julia says that after her hectic and stressful current celebrity life, she hopes to be reincarnated as "something quiet". I have no doubt that you will be, Julia. The Hindu gods have already blessed you with the mouth of a catfish in this life, and I can think of no quieter animal than that.
Someday in the future an innocent catfish will be paying for your sins of today, Julia.
As I briefly described in Part I, the PGA tour is hanging by a bit of a thread these days. No one has consistently stepped up and taken advantage of the vacancy left by the implosion of Tiger Woods. Still, I certainly understand that neither the PGA or the United States Golf Association (USGA) can be blamed for that. I have no doubt that they are praying either for Tiger to return to form or for someone else to elevate their game to the point where they can actually motivate viewers to return. But while I won't blame tour or USGA officials for the current state of play, I have a serious, serious gripe. I will try my best to lay it out more tactfully than the profanity-laced tirade I directed at my television on Sunday evening.
First, how about a little test to determine your legitimacy as a golf fan in the eyes of both the PGA and the USGA? In the picture below from a major golf tournament a few years ago, which person is the most important to the event?
If you went with the top ranked Tiger Woods or his highly touted opponent Padraig Harrington, you would be incorrect. If, for some reason, you chose the rules official on the right, you are correct (and I hate you). Golf has an absurd obsession with its rules and with letter-of-the-law enforcement, and both are extremely problematic.
Let's start with the rules. Good God, the rules. It is perhaps easiest just to lay out an example. Are you aware that according to the USGA rulebook, rabbits, moles, groundhogs, gophers, and salamanders are deemed burrowing animals? You might wonder why the rules of golf address the status of salamanders. It is because you are only entitled to move your golf ball out of a hole in the ground if it is made by a "burrowing" animal. So if it is deemed that the hole was created by a dog, which is a non-burrowing animal (this is an actual example on the USGA website), you are not allowed to move your ball. Brilliant. The USGA rulebook is literally full of gems such as this.
So I hope we can agree that many of the hair-splitting rules of golf are completely absurd. That in and of itself, though, wouldn't be an insurmountable problem. No, the deal breaker is the method in which these rules are enforced in tournament play. You see golf leaves the keeping of score up to the players themselves, and that is what causes the absolute injustices that occur far too frequently. The first thing to keep in mind about this unnecessary and archaic way of doing things is that both the PGA and the USGA are EXTREMELY proud of this setup. They claim that relying on players to keep their own score is what makes golf more honorable and noble than other sports. But here's the problem- tour officials are lurking and waiting to catch players on inadvertent mistakes and technicalities. And in golf, they don't just correct your score or the situation, they hit you with penalties. Quite often, the penalty is complete disqualification from the tournament. True story- in 2007, Sergio Garcia was disqualified from a PGA event because his playing partner accidentally wrote down the wrong score on a hole for Sergio. That's right, because the guy he was playing with made an error writing down his score (one player keeps the official score for the other playing partner), Garcia was DQ'd. Absolutely unreal.
It would be the equivalent of the home plate umpire in baseball not announcing balls and strikes but penalizing the batter if he guesses wrong and heads down to first base thinking he drew a walk. And the scorecard travesty is just one example at the end of the round. Players are subject to this lunacy throughout the round. What drives me crazy is that there are now rules officials out walking with every group. It would seem quite logical to me that if questionable circumstances arise, it would be on the rules official to preemptively issue a ruling so that the player knows what they are facing. But no, they revel in lurking in the shadows and allowing players to walk into traps for which the officials can then gleefully destroy their round and tournament.
"Hey, rules official here, what's the best way to screw this guy? Keep it down, he's right beside me."
All this brings us to the asinine end to Sunday's PGA Championship. Dustin Johnson came to the 18th tee leading by one and proceeded to honk his drive into the area where the crowd had gathered. He headed over, cleared out a bit of space, and hit his second shot following his normal shot routine. That involved his club head touching the ground, and that would come back to haunt him. After finishing up with a bogey, he thought he was to be part of a three-man playoff. He was quickly informed otherwise by a rules official, who met him on the 18th green with a sad and somber look that I would have taken as genuine if I didn't know how those guys revel in these situations. Let's do one more test. What do you notice about this picture of Dustin Johnson hitting out of a "bunker" that is rather uncommon?
If you went with the fact that about 1,000 people are standing in the supposed bunker (including tournament marshals), you win! What an absolute joke and disgrace. As mad as I was watching it go down, what truly put me over the top was the predictable turn that Jim Nantz, chief announcer cheeseball and tour suck up, made as the situation progressed. There was about a 10 minute stretch from the time Johnson was first confronted on the 18th green until the official announcement of a two stroke penalty was made. During this time, Nantz slowly shifted from the initial stance of all the broadcast team, which was that there was no way that could be deemed a bunker, to the stance that it was a tough break but that technically is the rule so that's how it has to be.
And what was the net result? Dustin Johnson, an up and coming golfer that just might fit the bill of much needed rising superstar, sitting in the clubhouse while yet another also ran (Martin Kaymer) hoisted the trophy at a major championship. Rather than talking about the great shots of the week and whose game was on the rise, we're talking about the specifics of rules and the "integrity" of the game. It's just the way the PGA and USGA like it. Unfortunately for them, they're the only ones.
I don't normally post article links on here, but this one was too classic. While getting caught up on the world of figure skating (what?), I ran across the following headline:
Ex-skate champ Bobek gets probation on meth count
I was intrigued, so I clicked on the article. Apparently Nicole Bobek was once a successful skater but ended up involved in a crystal meth ring. She was sentenced to five years probation and, I think, now wants to get her life back on track. I'm not 100% certain, though, based on her quote about the whole situation...
"Nothing but positive things can come out of this," Bobek said outside the Jersey City courtroom where she was sentenced Monday. "It's been a long 1 1/2 years. I'm looking to get back onto that ice."
Hey hon, just a quick word of advice. If you're really "looking to get back onto that ice", you might want to keep that to yourself. That is, after all, what got you in trouble in the first place.
I should have known better, I really should have. It's a significant statement about the appeal of the PGA tour as things currently stand that I only realized the PGA Championship, golf's fourth and final major of the year, started on Thursday while randomly checking Yahoo! Sports at work. I'm not a completely over-the-top follower of the PGA, but that I wouldn't even realize a major was going on would have been completely impossible prior to the past few months. Even worse, the realization that such a big tournament was getting underway didn't inspire me to get caught up and ready to get dialed in for some golf. No, it made me decide that this was the right time to completely skip out on the whole thing.
My rapidly disintegrating interest in professional golf is obviously tied in large part to the Tiger meltdown that started last Thanksgiving with him wrapping his SUV around a tree after firing off one too many texts to his collection of unseemly broads. I make no apology for the fact that I watched tour events largely to soak in the majesty of Tiger in top form. I had no problem with the networks' decision to continue covering Tiger even when he was 10 shots off the lead, as he was still more likely than anyone else to produce an insane shot, not to mention actually inject some life into the otherwise stodgy galleries.
Nonetheless, I stand ready and willing to watch some entertaining golf, even if Tiger's not going to be the one to produce it. Give me some sweet shot-making, a power swing, and (please don't forget this part, aspiring golf "super stars") a non-robotic course demeanor, and I'm in. Instead, major after major is being won by also rans who can be reliably counted on to fade back into the mediocrity that their game demands.
Louis Oosthuizen, winner of the 2010 British Open, and apparently less interesting that whatever is on the television
So knowing all of this, I steered clear of this past weekend's PGA Championship entirely. Until, that is, I returned home Sunday afternoon just in time to catch the final hole. How I wish I hadn't done that, for the mere 20 minutes I watched still has me infuriated a full 24 hours later.
So air travel's a blast, huh? I know this is news to no one, but it was driven home to me in painful fashion last week. I traveled to Minneapolis for a few days for work and was reminded of just how horrible the whole experience has become. The return flight was delayed, resulting in our landing at 11:30pm. As I still felt entitled to dinner, the end result was my sitting in the dark at home wiping the mayo off of a Wendy's spicy chicken sandwich at 12:45am on a Thursday night. Good times.
As annoyed as I was by that debacle, you can't get too upset about a flight delay of an hour and a half. The flight out on Tuesday was another matter, though. I'm not mad at the airline about this. I can't say I was actually mad at anyone, just very, very annoyed.
It started with me running a bit late (typical) as I rolled into the Atlanta airport. I pulled all the way up to the parking deck entrance before realizing that the only area with any open spaces was hourly. Faced with a time crunch, I hit the hourly zone hoping my employer would see fit to reimburse me. I then endured the misery that is security at Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport. You all know the drill- long lines, fellow travelers who missed the notice that you can't carry 48 ounce bottles of hair product through security since A DECADE AGO, stripping down to your boxers, redressing while your belongings continue moving down the conveyor belt.
So I was already in a state of semi-disarray as I stepped on board and headed for my seat in row 45. I was unaware that the engineers at Delta had even found a way to wedge that many rows in. As I finally arrived at row 45, I noticed a kid about 10 years of age already seated in the aisle seat. I was to endure this flight seated between him and a guy in the window seat halfway through a Domino's pizza he brought on board. The kid wasn't all that pleased with me at first. You see, he had already lowered his tray and set up a battle scene among eight or nine action figures he brought with him for the flight. And though he most assuredly enjoyed his enactment of some sort of battle for world domination among these action figures, complete with his replicating the sounds of flying and gunfire, I soon learned that there was something that he enjoyed even more- talking. Among the things I learned from my fellow traveler prior to his mom finally yelling at him to stop talking to me about three hours into the experience: there is some special feature to the chest plate in Iron Man's armor; he doesn't want to be a pilot because planes have too many buttons and he wishes they were like cars; he really likes Iron Man (this was proven when he put on a giant arm/wrist pseudo-weapon toy which he held up to the left of my face for a couple of minutes until I looked over; he would really like to meet Stan Lee, the creator of Marvel comics; he will never smoke but he might chew on cigars because that's not bad. I'm leaving out many, many things that I've managed to block from my memory. Did I mention that this flight was delayed as well and had no air conditioning in my part of the plane for the first hour I was on board?
I have more to say about airline travel in general, but I will save my complaints about people who recline their seats all the way back and the bag of eight microscopic pretzels they now serve you for another day.
A small portion of the scene to my left on last week's flight
One of the things I pride myself on is that I don’t, in the normal course of my daily affairs, punch 16-year old kids in the face. It’s just one of those rules I like to live by. I think perhaps I learned it in church. Regardless, I am pondering a one-time exception to my otherwise firm principle in the case of Justin Bieber.
My feelings took a turn from general annoyance to the just discussed rage after reading that Bieber, at the age of 16, is releasing his "memoir". I love the cover that they have been so kind as to release ahead of time, though. There's nothing that annoys me more than a memoir that is only 80%-90% official. Rest easy Bieber Nation, this one is 100% official!
We love u 2, Justin
But here’s the real question- what in the hell are people in their twenties (and older) doing listening to this stuff? While out this past weekend, I actually witnessed people theoretically old enough to be receiving paychecks from corporate America voluntarily dancing to one of his tunes. After a bit of follow up research, I believe the song in question was "Baby". I do have to admit that the lyrics are quite impressive for a lad of 16...
And I'm like Baby, baby, baby ohh Like Baby, baby, baby noo Like Baby, baby, baby ohh Thought you'd always be mine (mine)
I suppose it's just that kind of insight into the human condition that has fans on edge awaiting the October release of the book chronicling Justin's life journey thus far. I have no doubt that the prose will be on par with the great stories of Ernest Hemingway. We can only hope that, in similar fashion, the story ends with the main character getting gored by a bull or angry marlin.
Murls, God bless you for addressing the absurdity of Julia Roberts' “iconic” status. It baffles me to no end, and I very nearly threw something at the screen the first time I had to endure the Julia Roberts playing Julia Roberts scene in Ocean’s 12.
I was a bit troubled that when you went searching the recesses of your mind for an ideal masseuse, the wheel stopped on Brigitte Nielsen. Even at her peak, as she stood by watching Ivan Drago get pumped full of ungodly substances prior to felling the great Apollo Creed in Rocky IV, she seemed a bit rough to me. And having been forced to sit through her season of Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew Pinsky, I can tell you it has gone downhill from there.
I believe there's been a mistake, I requested a female masseuse.
Otherwise, you were spot on. I'm not sure why you left out some of her other travesties, such as Stepmom, but perhaps you were just displaying a bit of mercy. I will say that for whatever reason, she annoyed me in Sleeping with the Enemy perhaps more than in any other film (excluding the previously discussed Ocean's 12 scene). Watching her and Kevin Anderson duel it out for cheeseball of the year made it hard not to find yourself rooting for the angry and unstable husband. The only thing I could never figure out is why in God's name the guy wanted her back badly enough to drive to Iowa to retrieve her in the first place.
Julia Roberts (and the annoying Kevin Anderson) from her most appealing angle in Sleeping with the Enemy
During a recent 'situation' in which I was kidnapped, bound and gagged, and forced to read People Magazine's 'Sexiest People' issue, I stumbled across the following poll:
This little example of hard-hitting journalism pretty much frames my long-running confusion with the altar upon which the world places Julia Roberts. She has been revered as the world's queen of actresses for at least a decade, and of all the most bankable actresses in Hollywood, she seems to hover above the rest of them in stature. In fact, if you were fortunate enough to endure the epic saga that is Oceans 12 you will remember that she even partook in a parody of herself; a parody in which she was so worshiped that she was given special access to some lame jewel-encrusted egg (which was eventually thought to be grinched by some dude in a tracksuit performing impossibly-lamer dance moves through lasers).
"My agent is so fired."
So we all agree that Julia Roberts is staggeringly famous and adored, right? The thing is, I don't think she's been in all that many good movies.
Nicholson, Duvall, Deniro, Pacino, even Leo . . . they are considered great and each have a handful of ridiculous movies in their quiver (gross). Lest you think I'm being sexist, we can say the same for Meryl Streep, Diane Keaton, etc. But here we have the hallowed Julia Roberts, and the list from which I should choose her best movie reads like a form of punishment for shoplifting in at least 9 states. Let's review:
Pretty Woman: Blockbuster, damn successful film, this cannot be denied. But what absolutely perplexes me is, why in the crapdom is this movie so iconic and considered a benchmark for romance? I believe I speak for every man on the planet here - she was a hooker!!! What in the pots and pans is romantic about a chick that has anything to do with being a hooker?! I realize that kissing a frog and having it turn into Prince Charming is a bit outdated, but no way little girls across America are now daydreaming of turning a few tricks with some fat bald men en-route to meeting Mr. Right. Maybe throw in a crack pipe and some track marks just so you can say you had the full experience?
Nobody finds love on an empty stomach.
Oh, and also, SHE WAS A HOOKER!
My Best Friend's Wedding: Sorry, I'm finding it difficult to type with this pencil in my eye. Once this film ends I will remove it. We'll talk soon.
Charlie Wilson's War: Pardon me? That was a movie? It had Tom Hanks in it too?! Soooooo . . . it's a nice piece of revisionist history involving the least interesting characters to ever be allegedly linked to the most obscure aspect of the Cold War in the 1980's, AND it's a politics play. You know what, cancel my 4 o'clock massage with Brigitte Nielsen, I'm in.
Wait. Shoot. I can't decide.
Erin Brockovich: Good movie, good acting, good actress. Bravo, Julia, seriously.
I feel like at least once a week, I have a conversation that goes a little something like this:
Friend/Acquaintance: "Hey, do you watch (insert name of trendy cable show)?" Craig: "Oh yeah, uh, yeah, well no, well I've seen it a couple of times but I can never remember to watch it on a regular basis. Yeah, but it seems really sweet." Friend/Acquaintance: "You should watch it", with a look of scorn and disapproval.
I'm sorry! I can't keep up! Earlier tonight I started thinking about taking the $13 per month gut punch and resubscribing to HBO and then broke into a sweat when I remembered that some of the hip shows are now on Showtime. Maybe HBO isn't cool anymore; maybe Curb Your Enthusiasm and Entourage are yesterday's news. Showtime has shows about serial killers, lesbians, and pot. Seems trendy to me, but then I won't have time for the shows about vampires!
As I have mentioned, some of the TV viewing time in my house is burned on shows that have no place in a respectable society. Still, there's seriously no way to keep up. I pondered trying to climb on board the Mad Men bandwagon this summer, but we missed the season premiere and I don't know if I have it in me to try to catch up.
It just seems like it was a better setup back in the heyday of network TV, when there were three legitimate channels and everybody watched whatever made it into the prime time slots. I guess I should embrace the progress and the fact that programming options are so abundant. My glorified view of 1980's television overlooks the fact that people were so short on options that they actually kept Hotel and Falcon Crest on the air for five and nine seasons, respectively.
Why, yes, our show did suck, but at least people knew where to find it.
It's really just part of the larger narrative of my falling behind the times in general. I think the government is in initial discussions to have my house listed on the National Register of Historic Places due to the fact that you can find both a home telephone and actual CDs inside.
Whoa, say what? While in Nantucket last week, I ventured into a local bookstore in search of tales of the sea or perhaps a nautical map that appeared to hail from centuries ago. Though sadly much of the store turned out to be run of the mill bookstore fare, I did find a couple of books and a magazine worthy of purchase. As I stood in line, I noticed the guy in front of me head toward the exit with a book about "stuff". I thought nothing of it and made my way to the counter, unaware that I was headed for some serious irony.
As I stepped up, the lady behind the counter informed me that they were giving away a free book and tote bag to everyone making a purchase. Okay, I guess I'm all for some free stuff I thought. Perhaps it's something with a bit of local Nantucket flair or something tied to the island's whaling past? Nope...
That's right, it's a book about how we all have too much stuff and how that fact is destroying our lives and the planet. And how best to promote such a minimalist philosophy? Why, by handing out unsolicited copies of your book and a similarly themed tote bag to people who have expressed no discernible interest in them of course. Unreal. Alanis Morissette, in the unlikely event that you Google yourself and find yourself reading this blog, that's ironic.
Being recognized at Cheers, far superior to being recognized at Panda Express
