This week's Thursdays With Bone has been moved to Friday. Also, due to the fact that I'm currently at the beach, it is a repost. I know, we're already into reruns after one week?
Anyway, this is a post about a place I love. And it's where I'll be until Sunday. Hopefully, BP won't be destroying it anytime soon.
From 2007, here's a little number I like to call "The Fever."
On US Highway 98, just east of Destin, between Miramar and Santa Rosa, sits a little cafe called The Donut Hole. It's become tradition that on the day we leave the beach, we stop there for breakfast.I recommend the southwestern omelet. And the doughnuts, of course. I always get a box of doughnuts for the road. The food is great. The service sometimes lacking because it's so busy. But I've never been when there wasn't a line of people out the door and down the side of the building waiting.
I wish I was there.
There's a beachside restaurant called The Back Porch, with big bay windows to let in the ocean breeze, an outside bar, and picnic tables in the sand. I recommend the dreamsicle cake for dessert. And any and all of the seafood. You'll think they must have caught it that morning. And maybe they did.
I wish I was there.
There's an empty spot in the sand, just at the edge of the uprush, perfect for sitting. Where the water might wash over your feet once every five or six waves. Where you can bury your toes in the cool, damp sand, and think about anything and everything. Or nothing at all. And even though it's only a few hundred feet to the highway, it seems a million miles away.
I wish I was there.
I've got beach fever, if you can't tell. The highs have been between 60 and 70 here for seemingly the past week. I've been driving with the sunroof open, even at night. And last night before the storms moved in, it was warm and very windy, and reminded me of the ocean breeze.
So I've been listening to Buffett and thinking about the beach. The sand. The breeze. The waves. Gorgeous American girls working on their tans. All the while, me having no clue as to whether they are 16 or 29.
Last night, I opened the window so I could listen to it rain. Seemed like it rained for twelve hours.
That's another good thing about the beach. Even when it rains, it never seems to last very long.
I wish I was there.
"I got my toes in the water, toes in the sand, not a worry in the world..."
Friday, May 21, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Thursdays with Bone
In the interest of blogging more than once a fortnight, here I am again. I notice that my last two posts, and three of the last four, have come on a Thursday. That was not at all planned, but if you would like to believe that it was planned, feel free. Think of it sort of like Tuesdays With Morrie. Except on Thursdays. And with Bone. Also, much less enlightening.
Last Thursday, I was at a place that I daresay few of you have ever been, and most likely will never be. I went to see country supergroup The Oak Ridge Boys in concert.
Joe, Duane, Richard, and William Lee sang all your favorite Oaks' hits, such as American Made, Ya'll Come Back Saloon, Trying To Love Two Women (which one of them cracked was Tiger Woods' favorite song), and Ozark Mountain Jubilee. Any of these ringing a bell? What about Elvira? Yeah, you wish you'd gone now, don't you?
Here's a bit of Oak Ridge Boys history I found out during the show. The group was originally known as the Georgia Clodhoppers. In the 1940's, the Clodhoppers were brought in to the secret city of Oak Ridge to entertain the residents there who had been sequestered from the rest of civilization to work on the Manhattan Project. From there, they began calling themselves the Oak Ridge Quartet and later, as we know them today, the Oak Ridge Boys.
I also may or may not have got hit on during the show. The lady behind me supposedly "dropped" her phone and couldn't find the back to it. So I found it for her. Then she poked me on the shoulder and said she couldn't seem to put it back together. Please, could she have been more obvious? It's the 2010's, lady. Cars are parallel parking themselves. Who doesn't know how to reassemble their cell phone? Of course, she did look to be about seventy. Nevertheless, I fixed her phone. Rescuing damsels in distress: this is what I do.
Now I know some of you might be thinking that was the most exciting part of my weekend. (Yes, I'm including Thursday night in the weekend, just go with it.) Well, normally it would have been, by far. But not this time.
That's because on Saturday I got to pick up Nephew Bone and take him to the Spring Festival, Bluegrass Jamboree, and Antique Car, Tractor & Engine Show. All by myself.
It was our first uncle/nephew outing together, and he was so well-behaved. He especially seemed to enjoy the funnel cake. And he also got hit on by an older woman. A girl, who looked to be about eighteen, stopped him as we were walking between the giant slide and the bouncy thingy and said, "You are so cute." Like uncle, like nephew. Right, buddy?
On the way home, I started singing songs I thought he knew. I sang Jesus Loves Me, and when I finished, I turned around and he was looking at me with this big smile on his face, like "I know that song, Uncle Bone!"
Then I started singing Itsy Bitsy Spider. About halfway through, I looked in the back seat again and Nephew Bone was looking out the window, his arms in the air, doing his hand motions for the rain and the sun and the spider.
If only you could box up moments.
"Thank God for kids, there's magic for awhile. A special kind of sunshine in a smile. Do you ever stop to think or wonder why, the nearest thing to heaven is a child..."
Last Thursday, I was at a place that I daresay few of you have ever been, and most likely will never be. I went to see country supergroup The Oak Ridge Boys in concert.
Joe, Duane, Richard, and William Lee sang all your favorite Oaks' hits, such as American Made, Ya'll Come Back Saloon, Trying To Love Two Women (which one of them cracked was Tiger Woods' favorite song), and Ozark Mountain Jubilee. Any of these ringing a bell? What about Elvira? Yeah, you wish you'd gone now, don't you?
Here's a bit of Oak Ridge Boys history I found out during the show. The group was originally known as the Georgia Clodhoppers. In the 1940's, the Clodhoppers were brought in to the secret city of Oak Ridge to entertain the residents there who had been sequestered from the rest of civilization to work on the Manhattan Project. From there, they began calling themselves the Oak Ridge Quartet and later, as we know them today, the Oak Ridge Boys.
I also may or may not have got hit on during the show. The lady behind me supposedly "dropped" her phone and couldn't find the back to it. So I found it for her. Then she poked me on the shoulder and said she couldn't seem to put it back together. Please, could she have been more obvious? It's the 2010's, lady. Cars are parallel parking themselves. Who doesn't know how to reassemble their cell phone? Of course, she did look to be about seventy. Nevertheless, I fixed her phone. Rescuing damsels in distress: this is what I do.
Now I know some of you might be thinking that was the most exciting part of my weekend. (Yes, I'm including Thursday night in the weekend, just go with it.) Well, normally it would have been, by far. But not this time.
That's because on Saturday I got to pick up Nephew Bone and take him to the Spring Festival, Bluegrass Jamboree, and Antique Car, Tractor & Engine Show. All by myself.
It was our first uncle/nephew outing together, and he was so well-behaved. He especially seemed to enjoy the funnel cake. And he also got hit on by an older woman. A girl, who looked to be about eighteen, stopped him as we were walking between the giant slide and the bouncy thingy and said, "You are so cute." Like uncle, like nephew. Right, buddy?
On the way home, I started singing songs I thought he knew. I sang Jesus Loves Me, and when I finished, I turned around and he was looking at me with this big smile on his face, like "I know that song, Uncle Bone!"
Then I started singing Itsy Bitsy Spider. About halfway through, I looked in the back seat again and Nephew Bone was looking out the window, his arms in the air, doing his hand motions for the rain and the sun and the spider.
If only you could box up moments.
"Thank God for kids, there's magic for awhile. A special kind of sunshine in a smile. Do you ever stop to think or wonder why, the nearest thing to heaven is a child..."
Thursday, May 06, 2010
The Queen City
(Yesterday was my 7th bloggiversary. I figured I couldn't truly claim to have made it the full seven years unless I did at least one more post. This is a recap of my trip to Cincinnati a couple of weekends ago.)
I think I was always meant to go to Cincinnati. I was raised to be a Reds fan. Well, I was raised to be a Bama fan and good southern boy first, but Mom also rooted for the Big Red Machine. (For my sports-challenged readers, the Big Red Machine is not some obscure Communist organization. It was the nickname of the Cincinnati Reds teams of the 1970's, who appeared in four World Series in the decade, winning two.) Once the Big Red Machine was dismantled, Mom could not have cared less how the Reds fared. So it has been my cross alone to bear, lo, these many years.
The most interesting thing on the drive up Friday evening was the point in the state of Kentucky where there is an adult video store on the right side of I-65 and a billboard with the words "Hell Is Real" on the left side. I made sure to keep it on the straight and narrow through there.
As I neared Ohio, an interesting geographical question began to formulate within my brain: When exactly does the South turn into the North? That was followed by other questions bubbling up, festering. At what latitude do people begin to speak faster and become difficult to understand? Do they serve sweet tea on this side of the Ohio and not on the other side? And just how many Union sympathizers have infiltrated Kentucky in the last century-and-a-half?
We actually stayed on the Kentucky side, in Covington, just to be safe. From the hotel, it was only a short bus ride or mile-and-a-half walk across the Ohio River to the stadium. The walk was either very pleasant or incredibly soggy, depending on the weather.
We wound up attending both the Saturday and Sunday games. The Reds lost the Saturday game, 5-0. On Sunday, the outlook was as dreary as the drizzly Ohio sky, as the home team fell behind 4-2. But a late-inning comeback produced a thrilling 5-4 victory. My fantasy team closer got the save. My fantasy team catcher had the game-winning RBI in the bottom of the 8th inning. And the guy my fantasy team is named after hit a homer. I was glad we had decided to go back.
One of the highlights of most any trip is the food. At the ballpark, we sampled a Skyline chili cheese coney and something called a Walking 3-Way, which is not nearly as difficult as it sounds.
Saturday night, we went to Fountain Square, which is a simply gorgeous area downtown. I found out later -- by Wikipedia'ing, of course -- that the fountain can be seen in the opening credits of WKRP In Cincinnati. After reading that, I think it's fairly obvious that fate had led us there.
We had dinner outside at the Rock Bottom Brewery. There's just something about eating outdoors at little cafes and restaurants that I absolutely love. It reminds me of being in Europe, which is quite odd when you consider that I have never been to Europe.
Our last meal actually came at the suggestion of the desk clerk at the hotel. As we were checking out on Monday, she commented that she liked my shirt. I was wearing my "This Is How I Roll" Bama shirt. Turns out she was a Bama fan, so naturally we struck up a conversation. She knew her stuff, too! Refusing to call Auburn by name, she referred to it instead as "that school on the other side of the state." Talk about feeling at home.
Anyway, she recommended a place across the street called Riverfront Pizza for lunch. I tried their ranch pizza, which was pretty good. But the best part was that they had sweet tea! That's when I knew that the Yanks hadn't completely taken over Kentucky.
After I got home, I was telling Mom about going to the Reds Hall Of Fame following the game on Sunday.
"Did you see Johnny Bench or Pete Rose?"
"No, they weren't there."
"What about Morgan?" (That's apparently what my Mom calls Joe Morgan, which I wasn't aware of until that moment.)
"No. He wasn't there either."
But I was glad that she remembered them.
Overall, I loved Cincinnati. There are certain places that feel like home when I visit. They bring a sense of being completely comfortable and content. The beach is always like that. Nashville is like that sometimes. And walking into Great American Ballpark for the first time, there was a similar feeling. Seeing thousands of fellow Reds fans I thought, "Ah, these are my people."
Three or four different times random people on the street made comments about the Reds to me. Even though it's been thirty years since the Big Red Machine and twenty years since their last World Series title, it's still a baseball town.
"I walked half way from Louisville. Now there she lies at the foot of the hill. Shinin' like a jewel in the valley below, Cincinnati, Ohio. Cincinnati, where the river winds, 'cross the Mason and the Dixon line..."
I think I was always meant to go to Cincinnati. I was raised to be a Reds fan. Well, I was raised to be a Bama fan and good southern boy first, but Mom also rooted for the Big Red Machine. (For my sports-challenged readers, the Big Red Machine is not some obscure Communist organization. It was the nickname of the Cincinnati Reds teams of the 1970's, who appeared in four World Series in the decade, winning two.) Once the Big Red Machine was dismantled, Mom could not have cared less how the Reds fared. So it has been my cross alone to bear, lo, these many years.The most interesting thing on the drive up Friday evening was the point in the state of Kentucky where there is an adult video store on the right side of I-65 and a billboard with the words "Hell Is Real" on the left side. I made sure to keep it on the straight and narrow through there.
As I neared Ohio, an interesting geographical question began to formulate within my brain: When exactly does the South turn into the North? That was followed by other questions bubbling up, festering. At what latitude do people begin to speak faster and become difficult to understand? Do they serve sweet tea on this side of the Ohio and not on the other side? And just how many Union sympathizers have infiltrated Kentucky in the last century-and-a-half?
We actually stayed on the Kentucky side, in Covington, just to be safe. From the hotel, it was only a short bus ride or mile-and-a-half walk across the Ohio River to the stadium. The walk was either very pleasant or incredibly soggy, depending on the weather.
We wound up attending both the Saturday and Sunday games. The Reds lost the Saturday game, 5-0. On Sunday, the outlook was as dreary as the drizzly Ohio sky, as the home team fell behind 4-2. But a late-inning comeback produced a thrilling 5-4 victory. My fantasy team closer got the save. My fantasy team catcher had the game-winning RBI in the bottom of the 8th inning. And the guy my fantasy team is named after hit a homer. I was glad we had decided to go back.One of the highlights of most any trip is the food. At the ballpark, we sampled a Skyline chili cheese coney and something called a Walking 3-Way, which is not nearly as difficult as it sounds.
Saturday night, we went to Fountain Square, which is a simply gorgeous area downtown. I found out later -- by Wikipedia'ing, of course -- that the fountain can be seen in the opening credits of WKRP In Cincinnati. After reading that, I think it's fairly obvious that fate had led us there.We had dinner outside at the Rock Bottom Brewery. There's just something about eating outdoors at little cafes and restaurants that I absolutely love. It reminds me of being in Europe, which is quite odd when you consider that I have never been to Europe.
Our last meal actually came at the suggestion of the desk clerk at the hotel. As we were checking out on Monday, she commented that she liked my shirt. I was wearing my "This Is How I Roll" Bama shirt. Turns out she was a Bama fan, so naturally we struck up a conversation. She knew her stuff, too! Refusing to call Auburn by name, she referred to it instead as "that school on the other side of the state." Talk about feeling at home.
Anyway, she recommended a place across the street called Riverfront Pizza for lunch. I tried their ranch pizza, which was pretty good. But the best part was that they had sweet tea! That's when I knew that the Yanks hadn't completely taken over Kentucky.
After I got home, I was telling Mom about going to the Reds Hall Of Fame following the game on Sunday. "Did you see Johnny Bench or Pete Rose?"
"No, they weren't there."
"What about Morgan?" (That's apparently what my Mom calls Joe Morgan, which I wasn't aware of until that moment.)
"No. He wasn't there either."
But I was glad that she remembered them.
Overall, I loved Cincinnati. There are certain places that feel like home when I visit. They bring a sense of being completely comfortable and content. The beach is always like that. Nashville is like that sometimes. And walking into Great American Ballpark for the first time, there was a similar feeling. Seeing thousands of fellow Reds fans I thought, "Ah, these are my people."
Three or four different times random people on the street made comments about the Reds to me. Even though it's been thirty years since the Big Red Machine and twenty years since their last World Series title, it's still a baseball town.
"I walked half way from Louisville. Now there she lies at the foot of the hill. Shinin' like a jewel in the valley below, Cincinnati, Ohio. Cincinnati, where the river winds, 'cross the Mason and the Dixon line..."
Friday, April 23, 2010
April showers bring... something from the Bone-chives
I'm off to Cincinnati, where there is a 70-90% chance of rain all weekend. Hopefully, they'll be able to fit a baseball game in there somewhere. Even if there's a four-hour rain delay, the game doesn't end until midnight and there are only like fifty fans left in the stands, I'll be one of them. And there's a 100% chance of that.
This would have been a perfect opportunity for stop number two on the Blog Reality Tour. Unfortunately, I don't believe I link to any bloggers in Ohio. There used to be one in Kentucky, and maybe a couple in Tennessee, but I guess they've all found other ways to occupy their time.
I shall return on Monday. That is, unless a Reds scout notices my surprising athletic ability and the agility of someone fifteen years younger as I scamper to chase a foul ball, and they decide to hire me on the spot as a full-time ball boy. Or, ball man, whichever. Until then, and in honor of Earth Day, I am recycling a post.
It's poetry month over at Cooper's. (OK, so as I google it now, evidently it's National Poetry Month. Who knew!) So I figured I'd do a poem for one of my three posts this month.
I would never claim to write actual and decent poetry. I'm way too literal, and always end up feeling like somewhere the words have to eventually rhyme. I'm more of a lyrics guy. Lyrics without music, that's me. I think I would have collaborated well with Bobby McFerrin.
Now that I have hopefully lowered your expectations to a sufficient level, here is an attempt at poetry, originally posted in 2007:
Perfume hint caught
Memory sparked
That year I was in love
Eager heart leapt
Lesson relearned
Forever is but a word
Freely falling fast
Feeling remembered
And missed
Past replaces present
Eyes now tightly closed
Smile grazes lips
Midnight phone calls
Sultry afternoons
Slinky black dress
Past recedes to past
I'll always believe
I loved you best
"Ain't no sun. Ain't no blue sky. The wind blows cold now that you've gone away. And tomorrow, just like today, there's a hundred percent chance of rain..."
This would have been a perfect opportunity for stop number two on the Blog Reality Tour. Unfortunately, I don't believe I link to any bloggers in Ohio. There used to be one in Kentucky, and maybe a couple in Tennessee, but I guess they've all found other ways to occupy their time.
I shall return on Monday. That is, unless a Reds scout notices my surprising athletic ability and the agility of someone fifteen years younger as I scamper to chase a foul ball, and they decide to hire me on the spot as a full-time ball boy. Or, ball man, whichever. Until then, and in honor of Earth Day, I am recycling a post.
It's poetry month over at Cooper's. (OK, so as I google it now, evidently it's National Poetry Month. Who knew!) So I figured I'd do a poem for one of my three posts this month.
I would never claim to write actual and decent poetry. I'm way too literal, and always end up feeling like somewhere the words have to eventually rhyme. I'm more of a lyrics guy. Lyrics without music, that's me. I think I would have collaborated well with Bobby McFerrin.
Now that I have hopefully lowered your expectations to a sufficient level, here is an attempt at poetry, originally posted in 2007:
Perfume hint caught
Memory sparked
That year I was in love
Eager heart leapt
Lesson relearned
Forever is but a word
Freely falling fast
Feeling remembered
And missed
Past replaces present
Eyes now tightly closed
Smile grazes lips
Midnight phone calls
Sultry afternoons
Slinky black dress
Past recedes to past
I'll always believe
I loved you best
"Ain't no sun. Ain't no blue sky. The wind blows cold now that you've gone away. And tomorrow, just like today, there's a hundred percent chance of rain..."
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Wonder whatever became of me?
Let's begin today with a little humor. Very little.
Phone call from Dad the other day:
"Did your sister tell you I'm getting an iPad?"
"What! No you are not."
"Yes, I am. I'm getting an iPad."
"Oh, Lord help us." (Thinking, how will he ever learn how to work it?)
"The doctor says I have cataracts, so after they do surgery I'm gonna have to wear an eye pad."
*smacking self on forehead*
These are my comedy roots. Knowing this, I think it's quite remarkable that I have ever made anyone laugh at all.
Easter has come and gone since the last time we commenced. Highlights included Nephew Bone hunting eggs. Although they weren't really hidden, they were just sort of strewn across the yard in plain view. Back when I used to hunt, the eggs were hard to find! They would be up in trees, across a busy street... Then again, I was thirty-six.
Then, of course, there's the Easter candy. How they came up with the combination of hiding eggs and eating candy I'll never know. Asking me to pick my favorite Easter candy is sort of like asking me to pick my favorite Wham! song -- virtually impossible and even the bad ones are pretty good.
However, Marshmallow Peeps are a perennial favorite around the Bone household. I especially appreciate the extra effort they take in putting two brown dots for the eyes on each and every chick. What was the thinking behind this? "No! You can't market them like that. No one will ever believe they're chickens unless they have eyes!"
This past Saturday, I ran my first 10K of the year. I say first, which would indicate that there will be at least one more in the lead-up to the half marathon of a still-to-be-determined date and location. I ran a 48:35 Saturday, good for a solid 66th-place finish. I also realized that I have the same thought when I get to every race and see hundreds of people milling around: Am I the only person here who isn't normally up at 6 AM on a Saturday!?!?
In other news of note, I think we may have skipped right over spring this year in the heart of Dixie. We had about two days of windy, 65-degree weather. Otherwise, we pretty much went straight from not-really-cold-enough-to-be-winter-but-too-gray-to-be-spring to may-as-well-call-it-summer. I briefly considered inventing another new season -- perhaps Spummer or Suing -- but I figure one new season is enough for one person for one lifetime. I don't want to be too prolific, else people will start expecting things.
Not that I'm complaining about the weather, mind you. I enjoy warmth, whether it's an inappropriate hug from a grandmotherly old lady who I don't really know or simply basking in the glow of our yellow sun. Temps have been in the 80's most of the last two weeks here and I've been taking full advantage, doing plenty of grilling, golfing and running.
Next weekend, I'll be heading up to Cincinnati to see my beloved Reds play. It'll be my first visit to Great American Ballpark, or Cincinnati for that matter, land of Johnny Bench and Johnny Fever. We're going to the game on Saturday. I'm open to suggestions for something to do that Sunday, as apparently there is, much to my dismay, not a WKRP In Cincinnati museum.
"From some other planet, I'd get this funky high on yellow sun. Boy, I bet my friends would all be stunned..."
Phone call from Dad the other day:
"Did your sister tell you I'm getting an iPad?"
"What! No you are not."
"Yes, I am. I'm getting an iPad."
"Oh, Lord help us." (Thinking, how will he ever learn how to work it?)
"The doctor says I have cataracts, so after they do surgery I'm gonna have to wear an eye pad."
*smacking self on forehead*
These are my comedy roots. Knowing this, I think it's quite remarkable that I have ever made anyone laugh at all.
Easter has come and gone since the last time we commenced. Highlights included Nephew Bone hunting eggs. Although they weren't really hidden, they were just sort of strewn across the yard in plain view. Back when I used to hunt, the eggs were hard to find! They would be up in trees, across a busy street... Then again, I was thirty-six.
Then, of course, there's the Easter candy. How they came up with the combination of hiding eggs and eating candy I'll never know. Asking me to pick my favorite Easter candy is sort of like asking me to pick my favorite Wham! song -- virtually impossible and even the bad ones are pretty good.
However, Marshmallow Peeps are a perennial favorite around the Bone household. I especially appreciate the extra effort they take in putting two brown dots for the eyes on each and every chick. What was the thinking behind this? "No! You can't market them like that. No one will ever believe they're chickens unless they have eyes!"
This past Saturday, I ran my first 10K of the year. I say first, which would indicate that there will be at least one more in the lead-up to the half marathon of a still-to-be-determined date and location. I ran a 48:35 Saturday, good for a solid 66th-place finish. I also realized that I have the same thought when I get to every race and see hundreds of people milling around: Am I the only person here who isn't normally up at 6 AM on a Saturday!?!?
In other news of note, I think we may have skipped right over spring this year in the heart of Dixie. We had about two days of windy, 65-degree weather. Otherwise, we pretty much went straight from not-really-cold-enough-to-be-winter-but-too-gray-to-be-spring to may-as-well-call-it-summer. I briefly considered inventing another new season -- perhaps Spummer or Suing -- but I figure one new season is enough for one person for one lifetime. I don't want to be too prolific, else people will start expecting things.
Not that I'm complaining about the weather, mind you. I enjoy warmth, whether it's an inappropriate hug from a grandmotherly old lady who I don't really know or simply basking in the glow of our yellow sun. Temps have been in the 80's most of the last two weeks here and I've been taking full advantage, doing plenty of grilling, golfing and running.
Next weekend, I'll be heading up to Cincinnati to see my beloved Reds play. It'll be my first visit to Great American Ballpark, or Cincinnati for that matter, land of Johnny Bench and Johnny Fever. We're going to the game on Saturday. I'm open to suggestions for something to do that Sunday, as apparently there is, much to my dismay, not a WKRP In Cincinnati museum.
"From some other planet, I'd get this funky high on yellow sun. Boy, I bet my friends would all be stunned..."
Friday, April 02, 2010
Blog Reality Tour: Nashville
Last Friday evening presented me with the most interesting of decisions. I could either drive to Nashville to hang out with three girls, or I could sit home, watch basketball in my underwear, and slink further away from human interaction. After careful contemplation, I decided to ward off dementia at least for a few more years and go to Nashville.
Through the medium known as electronic mail, I had received word several weeks ago that avid IYROOBTY reader OK Chick, Oklahoma City's foremost blogging runner, was going to be in town for a wedding. And so, after five-plus years of reading each other's blogs, we finally met!
It will go down as one of the great meetings of all-time. Right up there with When Harry met Sally, when Charlie finally met the Angels, and of course the most famous of them all, Act 1: They Meet after the second board of Ms. Pac-Man.
The four of us -- OK Chick, her sister, friend and I -- had dinner downtown at Jack's BBQ and listened to some live music at Tootsie's and Legends. In between dinner and music, we also took in a little taste of Old Nashville with a carriage ride.
The first time our driver (Is that what they're called? Driver?) quipped, "I'm Bill. This is Pete. He's the brains of the operation," it was folksy. When he said it the second time, two minutes later and with no apparent recollection of having already told us, I began to seriously wonder just where this guy was going to take us. (I was also thinking that if I had the Darryls with me, I could have responded with "I'm Larry. This is Darryl...")
But it went off without a hitch -- well, other than the horse being hitched to the carriage. Actually, there was a point near the end of the ride when a foul odor began wafting through the evening air. Apparently, Bill feeds Pete Beefareeno.
It was a fun night. (What a well-crafted line! Never say you don't get exceptional writing here, ladies and gentlemen.) I discovered that I kinda like being called "Bone" in social situations. Not to mention I scored two more Facebook friends from the outing. And really, isn't that what life has come to be all about?
This has also rekindled my interest in an idea I had several years ago, when I wore a younger blogger's clothes. You remember my Blog Reality Tour?
No?
Well, it was an idea conceived by me, circa 2006. The gist of it is that I would tour the country visiting the people on my blogroll. Of course, I had quite a few more readers back then. And I posted much more frequently... (It strikes me here that if one is reminiscing about blogging days of yore, it is entirely possible one may have been blogging far too long.)
Anyway, where was I? Oh right, resurrecting the Blog Reality Tour. While thinking about this the other night, I realized that in all the times I've pondered this idea in my mind I've always just assumed that all bloggers would be perfectly fine with me staying with them overnight. Overjoyed, even. When in reality, that probably would not be the case at all. It's funny though, the little things we assume and how we see ourselves.
Sometimes I think the difference between how I view myself and how others view me is a deep, yawning chasm.
Nah! Surely not.
Until next time, this is your ruggedly athletic but sensitive, capable-of-grand-things-yet-accomplishing-very-little blogger, Bone.
"He says, Bill I believe this is killing me, as a smile ran away from his face. I'm sure that I could be a movie star, if I could get out of this place..."
Through the medium known as electronic mail, I had received word several weeks ago that avid IYROOBTY reader OK Chick, Oklahoma City's foremost blogging runner, was going to be in town for a wedding. And so, after five-plus years of reading each other's blogs, we finally met!
It will go down as one of the great meetings of all-time. Right up there with When Harry met Sally, when Charlie finally met the Angels, and of course the most famous of them all, Act 1: They Meet after the second board of Ms. Pac-Man.
The four of us -- OK Chick, her sister, friend and I -- had dinner downtown at Jack's BBQ and listened to some live music at Tootsie's and Legends. In between dinner and music, we also took in a little taste of Old Nashville with a carriage ride.
The first time our driver (Is that what they're called? Driver?) quipped, "I'm Bill. This is Pete. He's the brains of the operation," it was folksy. When he said it the second time, two minutes later and with no apparent recollection of having already told us, I began to seriously wonder just where this guy was going to take us. (I was also thinking that if I had the Darryls with me, I could have responded with "I'm Larry. This is Darryl...")
But it went off without a hitch -- well, other than the horse being hitched to the carriage. Actually, there was a point near the end of the ride when a foul odor began wafting through the evening air. Apparently, Bill feeds Pete Beefareeno.
It was a fun night. (What a well-crafted line! Never say you don't get exceptional writing here, ladies and gentlemen.) I discovered that I kinda like being called "Bone" in social situations. Not to mention I scored two more Facebook friends from the outing. And really, isn't that what life has come to be all about?
This has also rekindled my interest in an idea I had several years ago, when I wore a younger blogger's clothes. You remember my Blog Reality Tour?
No?
Well, it was an idea conceived by me, circa 2006. The gist of it is that I would tour the country visiting the people on my blogroll. Of course, I had quite a few more readers back then. And I posted much more frequently... (It strikes me here that if one is reminiscing about blogging days of yore, it is entirely possible one may have been blogging far too long.)
Anyway, where was I? Oh right, resurrecting the Blog Reality Tour. While thinking about this the other night, I realized that in all the times I've pondered this idea in my mind I've always just assumed that all bloggers would be perfectly fine with me staying with them overnight. Overjoyed, even. When in reality, that probably would not be the case at all. It's funny though, the little things we assume and how we see ourselves.
Sometimes I think the difference between how I view myself and how others view me is a deep, yawning chasm.
Nah! Surely not.
Until next time, this is your ruggedly athletic but sensitive, capable-of-grand-things-yet-accomplishing-very-little blogger, Bone.
"He says, Bill I believe this is killing me, as a smile ran away from his face. I'm sure that I could be a movie star, if I could get out of this place..."
Sunday, March 28, 2010
With apologies to CCR
Before we begin today, I have a confession to make: I kinda want to see Hot Tub Time Machine.
I know! It's just, the previews look rather hilarious. Also, I've never been in a hot tub or a time machine. And while I'll always consider the latter a definite possibility, the former -- given my chronic germophobia -- will likely never happen.
Whew, I'm glad to have that off my chest. Now we can move on to more pressing matters. (Could it get any less pressing?)
The NCAA Tournament has taken up quite a bit of my time these past two weekends. I wish I could say the same for the Kansas Jayhawks, my pick for national champs. Unfortunately, they couldn't be bothered with more than a couple days of March Madness this year.
The Bone bracket was a mixed bag. I correctly picked St. Mary's and Cornell for the Sweet Sixteen. However, I also had Georgetown in the Elite Eight. And only one of my Final Four picks made it: West Virginia.
Finally, I feel I would be remiss if I didn't mention a topic that is on the minds of many Americans these days. And that is, how to fix our current fantasy baseball team naming system.
Last year my team -- Los Rojos -- finished 3rd. For some people, that might be satisfactory. But I say no! When did 3rd place become good enough? This is America! No one goes around shouting "We're number three!" They don't sell big foam hands with three fingers extended at football games.
Combine that with the fact that I finished in 4th place the year before, and it became obvious to me the current system wasn't working. It was time for a change.
So I put a lot of thought into coming up with a plan which would select the best fantasy team name possible. One which would both display my right-brain creativity and inspire my left-brain baseball knowledge, thus resulting in a first-place finish.
After narrowing down my choices to five finalists, I consulted with several of my trusted inner email circle, then submitted my final choice for approval. Well, the right-wing anti-Bone fat cats at Yahoo Sports were having none of it. Clearly clinging to failed policies of the past, they had placed an ultra-conservative 20-character limit on all fantasy team names. Therefore, the greatest team name in fantasy sports history -- Between Bill Buckner's Legs -- will not be used.
Forced to scramble and come up with an eleventh-hour compromise -- my fantasy draft is Wednesday -- I did my best. I know some of you may view this as nothing more than a heavily watered down version of my original proposal, but my hope is that it will at least be better than what we had.
And so, without further adieu, allow me to introduce you to your 2010 Bone fantasy baseball team: Rolen On The River.
Is this change we can believe in? Time will tell.
"Left a good job in the city, workin' for the man every night and day. And I never lost one minute sleepin', worrying 'bout the way things might have been..."
I know! It's just, the previews look rather hilarious. Also, I've never been in a hot tub or a time machine. And while I'll always consider the latter a definite possibility, the former -- given my chronic germophobia -- will likely never happen.
Whew, I'm glad to have that off my chest. Now we can move on to more pressing matters. (Could it get any less pressing?)
The NCAA Tournament has taken up quite a bit of my time these past two weekends. I wish I could say the same for the Kansas Jayhawks, my pick for national champs. Unfortunately, they couldn't be bothered with more than a couple days of March Madness this year.
The Bone bracket was a mixed bag. I correctly picked St. Mary's and Cornell for the Sweet Sixteen. However, I also had Georgetown in the Elite Eight. And only one of my Final Four picks made it: West Virginia.
Finally, I feel I would be remiss if I didn't mention a topic that is on the minds of many Americans these days. And that is, how to fix our current fantasy baseball team naming system.
Last year my team -- Los Rojos -- finished 3rd. For some people, that might be satisfactory. But I say no! When did 3rd place become good enough? This is America! No one goes around shouting "We're number three!" They don't sell big foam hands with three fingers extended at football games.
Combine that with the fact that I finished in 4th place the year before, and it became obvious to me the current system wasn't working. It was time for a change.
So I put a lot of thought into coming up with a plan which would select the best fantasy team name possible. One which would both display my right-brain creativity and inspire my left-brain baseball knowledge, thus resulting in a first-place finish.
After narrowing down my choices to five finalists, I consulted with several of my trusted inner email circle, then submitted my final choice for approval. Well, the right-wing anti-Bone fat cats at Yahoo Sports were having none of it. Clearly clinging to failed policies of the past, they had placed an ultra-conservative 20-character limit on all fantasy team names. Therefore, the greatest team name in fantasy sports history -- Between Bill Buckner's Legs -- will not be used.
Forced to scramble and come up with an eleventh-hour compromise -- my fantasy draft is Wednesday -- I did my best. I know some of you may view this as nothing more than a heavily watered down version of my original proposal, but my hope is that it will at least be better than what we had.
And so, without further adieu, allow me to introduce you to your 2010 Bone fantasy baseball team: Rolen On The River.
Is this change we can believe in? Time will tell.
"Left a good job in the city, workin' for the man every night and day. And I never lost one minute sleepin', worrying 'bout the way things might have been..."
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Asking out a guy
As a guy, one of the toughest things to deal with is rejection. I know times they are a-changin', but for most of my dating life, I have been the one expected to ask out the girl. Sometimes I did and she accepted. Sometimes I asked and was rebuffed with great prejudice. And sometimes I never asked and spent the rest of my life up to and including this very day wondering what if...
Where was I? Oh yes. There is one thing tougher than being rejected by a girl, however. And that is being rejected by a guy.
If a girl rejects you, in a lot of cases you probably never have to see her again, or at the least can avoid her most of the time. But if a guy rejects you, it's likely one of your guy friends, and it can be awkward. Not as awkward as having your hands accidentally touch as you're riding down the road -- that's the single most awkward situation known to modern heterosexual man and must never be spoken of by either party as long as they both shall live -- but awkward, nonetheless.
I dealt with this very situation recently. The being rejected by a guy, not the incidental hand-touching. I called Wolfgang -- OK, texted, everyone knows we don't talk on the phone -- to see if he wanted to hang out one Friday night. For months, we'd (the Darryls and I) had a standing date every weekend. But things were different now. We hadn't been out in weeks since he acquired a significant other (another significant other, other than LJ). As I thought about all the good times we had, I waited nervously for his reply. Then piercing the stillness of the room with my sonar-like text alert, there it was:
"I already have plans for tonight."
OK, so it wasn't outright rejection. But it was still a declination. And still awkward.
Now, once the initial awkwardness subsides after the man-date rejection, you then have to decide when and if to ask this guy out again. And it's a difficult decision, because the only thing worse than being rejected by a guy is to be rejected a second time by that same guy. Am I right ladies?
If you ask a girl out two, three, ten times, you might be considered persistent. But if you ask a guy out more than two times without him accepting, just... don't... ever share that with anyone else.
Being rejected by a girl is also much easier in part, I think, because as guys we almost expect it sometimes. I know I do. I mean, the average guy is probably turned down, what, tens of times in his life, if not more?
Lastly, if you're turned down by a girl, well there are three billion others out there. But if you're turned down by a guy, well you only probably have a handful of guy friends, and at this point in my life anyway, I'm not really out there trying to meet any new guys. Should I be?
That is why I think guys generally just accept any man-date we are asked out on. We understand how difficult it is to ask someone else out, whether it be a girl or another guy. If we really don't want to do something with another guy, then we just won't answer the phone when he calls, thus avoiding having to say "no" and all of the awkwardness that would thereby ensue.
This is just the tip of the proverbial iceberg when it comes to man-dates. Maybe someday we'll look at some other topics of interest, including who pays, how long should you wait for your man-date to show up before leaving, and last but not least, man-shakes and fist bumps -- how soon is too soon?
"Tell me, why'd you have to go and make things so complicated?"
Where was I? Oh yes. There is one thing tougher than being rejected by a girl, however. And that is being rejected by a guy.
If a girl rejects you, in a lot of cases you probably never have to see her again, or at the least can avoid her most of the time. But if a guy rejects you, it's likely one of your guy friends, and it can be awkward. Not as awkward as having your hands accidentally touch as you're riding down the road -- that's the single most awkward situation known to modern heterosexual man and must never be spoken of by either party as long as they both shall live -- but awkward, nonetheless.
I dealt with this very situation recently. The being rejected by a guy, not the incidental hand-touching. I called Wolfgang -- OK, texted, everyone knows we don't talk on the phone -- to see if he wanted to hang out one Friday night. For months, we'd (the Darryls and I) had a standing date every weekend. But things were different now. We hadn't been out in weeks since he acquired a significant other (another significant other, other than LJ). As I thought about all the good times we had, I waited nervously for his reply. Then piercing the stillness of the room with my sonar-like text alert, there it was:
"I already have plans for tonight."
OK, so it wasn't outright rejection. But it was still a declination. And still awkward.
Now, once the initial awkwardness subsides after the man-date rejection, you then have to decide when and if to ask this guy out again. And it's a difficult decision, because the only thing worse than being rejected by a guy is to be rejected a second time by that same guy. Am I right ladies?
If you ask a girl out two, three, ten times, you might be considered persistent. But if you ask a guy out more than two times without him accepting, just... don't... ever share that with anyone else.
Being rejected by a girl is also much easier in part, I think, because as guys we almost expect it sometimes. I know I do. I mean, the average guy is probably turned down, what, tens of times in his life, if not more?
Lastly, if you're turned down by a girl, well there are three billion others out there. But if you're turned down by a guy, well you only probably have a handful of guy friends, and at this point in my life anyway, I'm not really out there trying to meet any new guys. Should I be?
That is why I think guys generally just accept any man-date we are asked out on. We understand how difficult it is to ask someone else out, whether it be a girl or another guy. If we really don't want to do something with another guy, then we just won't answer the phone when he calls, thus avoiding having to say "no" and all of the awkwardness that would thereby ensue.
This is just the tip of the proverbial iceberg when it comes to man-dates. Maybe someday we'll look at some other topics of interest, including who pays, how long should you wait for your man-date to show up before leaving, and last but not least, man-shakes and fist bumps -- how soon is too soon?
"Tell me, why'd you have to go and make things so complicated?"
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