Out of the Loop

Well, my beloved White Sox just won their first post-season series since 1917 by sweeping the defending champion Boston Red Sox. These sore eyes of mine haven’t seen a sight more beautiful than White Sox pitching coach, Don Cooper, cracking a Miller's Lite during the post-game celebration in the locker room at Fenway Park. I would have pegged him as a Dragon man myself, but hey, to each his own.

This White Sox season continues to feel too good to be true, but I remain cautiously optimistic and can't wait to see what happens next. They're playing good ball, and despite Ozzie's best efforts to lose game 3 by bringing in walk specialist and professional buzz-kill, Damaso Marte, with the way El Duque saved his ass, I like our chances.

I can't decide what I'm happier with...the first round sweep, or the chance that Chris Berman won't be in the booth to do the play-by-play for the next round. You have to expect to play second fiddle to ESPN's perpetual boner over the east coast, but come on, Berman is just plain bad. And then, when he finally gets off his knees from servicing Manny Ramirez and David Ortiz, or "Batman and Robin" as they were so affectionately dubbed during the series, we're swiftly treated to a dose of ESPN's resident hussy, Erin Andrews, bringing us something extra special worthless from on or around the field.

When Mike Piazza and Rick Sutcliffe actually got the chance to talk, like during the silence Berman provided as Paul Konerko took a Wakefield knuckle ball deep over the monster, I really enjoyed what they had to say. It was a nice break from the tiring and overdramatic prize fighting references given by Berman about how the "challenging" White Sox were hoping to land an "uppercut" on the "champs" from Boston who had found themselves "on the ropes" in a late round of the heavyweight bout.

Piazza and Sutcliffe brought an interesting pitcher/catcher combo to the booth and I really liked Piazza describing the game calling aspects of catching a game. People often underestimate the role of the catcher, and Piazza brought light to the importance of good game calling catchers like A.J. Pierzynski and Jason Varitek and what a difference they can make.

It was apparent this was the first time the ESPN crew had really paid attention to the White Sox this year. To be expected of ESPN, but still funny at times. Somewhere between the 22nd replay of Boston's home runs and a close-up shot of a "Big Papi For President" sign, Sutcliffe calling Marte a "resilient" middle reliever didn't sit very well with me as he's basically the human equivalent to a forfeit. Thank God Ozzie has kept him on the second round playoff roster.

The Sox finished with the best record in the American League, one win short of 100, yet are still cast as the underdogs in this season's playoffs. I think they play better in that role, so I'm hoping we face the Yankees. In my opinion, the Angels are the best team in the AL, but the Yankees are the Yankees and we'll see what happens tonight.

Go Go White Sox,
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I was sitting around, thinking about my plans for next weekend, and I figured I'd stray from the normal bar/city scene and have few people over. It's a simple thing, but hear me out.

We could all just chill up on the roof of my apartment building, seriously, it will be awesome. There's a ton of room up there, so you can bring as many people as you want. My buddy, G-Love, said he would swing by with his guitar and some smooth, funk-infused, rhymes, and I'll even stock the whole roof with Coke Zero. On the house baby.

Dress in you're freshest hipster gear, and once the Coke takes hold, we'll join G-Love in song as we sing in harmony to the masses below about the wonders of this flavorful, zero-calorie beverage. Doesn't that sound incredible? I know, right?

That's it, we'll just hang up there, drinking Coke Zero and singing. Don't worry, you'll know the words because they're in the Coke. Yep, they're inside the Coke. Crazy, I know. You can even hold up your bottle or fist pump it to the sky from time to time if you'd like. In fact, it's encouraged.

Hope to see you there,
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I figured now would be an appropriate time to tell you I have fallen madly in love. My new squeeze's name starts with an "R," ends with a "D," and has a "eal Worl" in between. The TiVo gods above recently graced my favorite little cable box with the 16th installment of The Real World. This time, kids, they're messing with Texas.

My only "real" complaint with the show so far is the fact that their house has a giant neon sign on it which reads "AUSTIN," like we (or the perpetually drunk cast) might forget where they are at some point. Cool house, really gay sign.

The booze isn't even out on the first day, and hugs are flying around the house like it's a high school retreat. Everyone is "so happy" to meet their roommates and "can't wait" to get to know them better. Just like other "reality" favorites of mine such as Elimidate and The Fifth Wheel, the show succeeds because its cast has access to a seemingly limitless supply of alcohol to, you know, "loosen" things up.

Chicks are kissing in the hot tub on the first day, well, one chick and one bridge troll, people are making out left and right, and we even get to witness an authentic street fight...complete with a life threatening injury and a trip to the ER. All in the first three episodes! Mix in some surgery and a nymph and you've got an alcohol induced recipe for success.

Every Tuesday night at 10/9 central, I get to tune into a half hour frat party and I absolutely love it. Last night two of the guys introduced the "groupie drawer." Brilliant! They have this big drawer full of phone numbers from girls they meet and then they close their eyes and randomly pick one to "hook up with" for the night. Plain old phone numbers weren't cutting it, so they're looking to invest in a Polaroid to put faces with names. Soon they might even introduce a Dewey decimal system. It's like having a local match.com right next to your kitchen sink.

Wes has me in stitches every time he comes on the screen. He says things like "I'm going to go crazy tomorrow night...I'm going to hook up with sooo many chicks." Then he puts a tight shirt on, gets drunk, throws some store bought game around, comes home with nothing, and gets right back on the horse the next day. I really admire his spirit.

Melinda really had me for the first few episodes. I couldn't stop thinking about those boy shorts she sports all over the house. Oh man. But lately, she's really been fading on me. I can't tell if it's her painful Milwaukee accent, or the fact that she's "never felt this way before about someone" three seconds after breaking up with her long time boyfriend, but right now, she's gotta work hard to get back to the top of my list. More boy shorts will help.

I know I'm a few episodes deep, but I really think I'm going to start writing reviews. I need to get back on the blog train for a bit.

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Yesterday I returned from my second trip to Las Vegas, NV. Five of our six man group flew to Sin City via Southwest Airlines. I always hear people saying "flights to Vegas are dirt cheap" but the last two times I've gone my ticket has been at least $350 and that seems like a lot, especially for an airline that bills itself as a low cost carrier. Granted, it was Memorial Day weekend, but we bought the tickets well in advance and for the hell ride Southwest gives you, it seems like a bit much.

This trip to Vegas was better than the last one as soon as the plane touched the ground. We had an awesome time and our group came out well ahead. Naturally, we had to be punished for this great time, you can't bat .1000 all season, right? Our punishment came wrapped in a little, red and blue package called Southwest Airlines.

I'm usually knowledgeable of happenings in the business world, but I must have missed the recent merger between Six Flags and Southwest. From here on out, I'm re-branding Southwest Airlines as Six Flags Airlines. If you're unfamiliar with how the boarding process works with Six Flags, I'll break it down. Your boarding pass is issued with the letter A, B, or C. This letter dictates which line you'll be waiting in to board the plane. Seats on a Six Flags flight are open game, so if you pull Group C you're basically guaranteed a middle seat. A middle seat right in the heart of the circus waiting for you on board. Without much surprise, We pulled group C.

As we made our way onto the plane, we overheard the announcement echoing through the crowded jet way... "All baggage compartments are full, if you cannot find room for your carry-on luggage you'll have to check it at the door." Awesome. Six Flags doesn't stock real flight attendants, they have people in theme park uniforms and khaki shorts that specialize in passing out snack boxes. Normal flight attendants make sure passengers put their bag in the overhead bin the right way, so they aren't full before Group C gets on the plane. On Six Flags, not the case. Once the cattle call begins, you're on your own to fend for yourself among the herd. Luckily, I was able to rearrange a bin, and get my bag on the plane. My teammates weren't so lucky. I snagged a middle seat next to a harmless looking, sleeping girl and buckled up.

As I looked around the plane, it became obvious that the guy who holds the "you must be this tall to ride this ride" sign had taken the day off because there were kids everywhere. Were all these kids in Vegas for the weekend? Do parents really think Vegas is a good place to bring the kids? Desperately in need of some Z's on the flight, I couldn't wait to just pass out. My nap didn't last long before my sleeping neighbor started feeling the pain.

She must have been a little too drinky the night before because she had the barf bag out ASAP. Crouching over, making noises. Luckily, she never actually had to use the bag, but she did make two trips to the bathroom to let it fly. Very attractive. Very hard to sleep next to.

Shortly after sleeping beauty's first trip to the lav, the family of four to my left decided it was time for their youngest to watch some DVDs. Did they give her some headphones to enjoy such a treat? Nope, they just cranked up the volume to 11 and welcomed everyone nearby to the no napping section of the theme park, complete with singing farm animals and a sock puppet picnic. Combine that with daughter #2's Game Boy on full blast, and It was really enjoyable.

About six rows back was the classic, crying infant. Normally, I can deal with a crying baby because when they're that young, there's really nothing the parents can do, and usually they manage to calm down. What made this one so bad was the mother. Every little whimper the kid would let out was followed by an immediate, louder than the crying, "Sssssshhhhhh." I think the extensive shooshing was just making the baby cry more, and this went on for, well, the ENTIRE flight. Cry, sssshhhhh, cry, ssshhhhhhhhh.

I've always thought a hilarious skit for Will Ferrell would be him in a similar setting, with a crying baby nearby and Ferrell just going off on the parents and baby. "WOULD YOU PLEASE SHUT THAT MONSTER UP!" Over and over. I don't know, just try to picture it. You know it would be funny.

As we landed in Chicago, our ride operator informed us that we had some newlyweds on board, sitting mid-cabin, that had tied the knot in Vegas. She asked us to give them a round of applause. The circle of trash was now complete. Everyone gave a half-ass applause and did the "stand up before it's really time to stand up when the plane lands" thing. Thank you for flying with Six Flags, and welcome to Chicago.

I'm happy to be back, and can't wait for Beauty and the Geek to start on the WB. I think it's going to be my new Apprentice, so stay tuned for some choice commentary...

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Has anyone seen the new ad for the Tampax Pearl? I know I'm not the target audience for this thing, but seriously, you'd think the marketing department could come up with something a little better (sorry Kim, I think it was Leo Burnett). Does anyone really enjoy these ads? Seriously ladies, pony up on some comments and let us know. Does an ad for a tampon really sway your purchase decision? Do you think, wow, this one holds 62 buckets of blue test liquid as compared to this amateur that only holds 58?

Let me break it down. A man and a woman are out in some pond on a rowboat and all of the sudden the boat springs a leak. Oh no! Are they going to make it? Will their date be ruined as they have to attempt to swim to safety and she can't escape the grip of the raging undertow? Will the guy look like an idiot when he can't fix the leak? Nah, his trusty date opens her travel sack to reveal an ENTIRE BOX of tampons. An ENTIRE BOX. Ladies, who carries around an entire box, let alone on a ROWBOAT in a TRAVEL SACK?

So, as the guy frantically searches his tiny rowboat for something to fix the life threatening situation that has come about, his quick thinking date pulls out a tampon (hopefully a spare) and plugs up the leak. The guy realizes he's found a real keeper, and they share a moment as their freshly repaired boat floats off into happiness. Because, wait for it, the Tampax Pearl is all about preventing leaks.

Who knew tampons were also the tool of choice for life savers across the globe?

Here's a link to the video if you really want it. Right click, Save Target As...

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I just launched a photoblog at http://schrags.greasyweezle.net/photoblog so go check it out. I'm going to try and update it as often as possible, but we all know how that goes. Once it starts to get warmer out, I'm sure I'll start to take more pictures.

This isn't a replacement for my Photo Archive, it's just going to be more of a site dedicated to photography instead of pictures of me and my friends drinking.

I'm working on getting the comments functional, so they should be up and running soon.

Enjoy,
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If you weren't sick enough of the Lance Armstrong bracelets that puked all over the Earth, brace yourself for the second coming. Cubs nation is offering blue bracelets inscribed with the recently adopted Cubs mantra, "BELIEVE."

"BELIEVE" in Dusty and his Cubs that lost 7 out of 9 at the end of the season with a great baseball team to miss the playoffs. "BELIEVE" Steve Bartman cost them the World Series the year before. Maybe they should start "believing" in themselves as a team instead of individuals before anything else.

Cubs fans have reportedly been confusing the bracelets with the more familiar wristbands given out at most bars. I've heard a few reports of saddened Cub fans who apparently "believed" the wristband granted them free Old Style at Wrigley Field all season long.

The bracelets are available for $2, but honestly, if you're considering buying one, I "believe" a better idea would be dropping your $2 in a dirty puddle, stomping all over it, pouring gasoline into the puddle, and then lighting it on fire.

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Yesterday I daringly braved the cultural depths of the 2005 Chicago International Auto Show. I must say, people never cease to amaze me. Never. The "international" part lived up to its name, but the "show" part kind of fell short.

It was the final day of this automobile extravaganza, so the place was PACKED. If you've never been, you're not missing much. It's a bunch of very waxed cars in a gigantic room among many non-waxed foreign individuals and kids. It hot, sweaty, and smelly, all rolled into one, just like your average used car salesman. Basically, you walk around this gigantic room and look at cars. The concept cars are usually cool, but they're always sure to remind you that "there are no future plans to mass produce this vehicle." Always a disappointment.

I'm pretty sure they were giving away digital cameras out at the door, because everyone seemed to be taking pictures with one. That, or this was just their first chance to use it since they got one for Christmas. What the hell are you going to do with pictures from the auto show? Use that killer shot of you next to the new GTO for your match.com profile? Here's a picture of a stationary car with hundreds of people standing around it. Awesome. Ooh, get a picture of those greasy fingerprints all over the door. Perfect. They stand 5 feet away from the car, trying to line up a picture, and then get pissed when a family unknowingly walks in their line of sight. Keep in mind, the floor is mobbed with people, but seriously, can't everyone just stop when you need to take a crappy picture of a car. Stop yourself. NEWS FLASH: Camera phone pics are ok for stupid, crappy, worthless send-to-your-friend type shots, but they really aren't the best option for a family portrait of your Mexican family of five.

Most of the cars are even unlocked, can you believe it? You can actually get inside a non-moving vehicle, sit on a damp-with-butt-sweat-seat, close the door, and pretend like you and your dad are cruising down "A1A, Beach Front Avenue." I can only imagine the thrill is overwhelming.

Kids were popping out of trunks, strollers seemed very hard to maneuver through the masses of people, and you could even buy fudge at one of the multiple kiosks located throughout the concourse. Real fudge!! It's like a bad dream set in a mall, gone even worse. Hey honey, don't forget the camcorder. So you can VIDEOTAPE the auto show? Again, even more than before, what the hell are you going to do with a video tape of the auto show? Anyone want to come over next weekend and watch my auto show tape? Sure, only if we can we beat you up after. Hey bro, grab me a beer and throw in that auto show tape, it's awesome. Fast forward to the part where the obese black woman won't just PUT DOWN THE ICE CREAM CONE.

Jeep set up an actual "test-course" this year. You could wait in a 3 HOUR LINE to get inside a rough & tough Jeep Liberty to drive over some rocks and tame a mean artificial mesa at 5 mph. I'm pretty sure I'd rather get hit by a Jeep.

Did I mention they serve beer and cocktails at the auto show? Nothing like a scotch while you're in the cockpit of the new VW Beetle.

People are also obsessed with the free stuff the car companies give out. I'm pretty sure I could fill bags up with crap, real, authentic, human crap, and people would flock to wait in line to grab one and carry it around. There were little kids, lugging around 50+ pound bags of promo materials.

Are they planning on a buying a car sometime soon? Hopefully they can test drive it over a cliff when they do.

schrags. out.

haha.

It has been over one month since my last blog-session. I just haven't been inspired lately, but I'm going to try and give it a crack here. January hasn't brought much to me. I thought the Apprentice might do it, but it's just too soon for another round with the Donald and his product placement cronies. I thought The Bachelorette could be the one, but that got really lame, really fast. No rose for you. Nothing has really caught my attention, and I haven't encountered anything I felt was truly "blogworthy."

Last night was somewhat funny though. I went to "Crush" on Halsted to meet up with a few friends and watch my buddy play in the open mic. The place was absolutely dead, there were maybe 15-20 people in the normally crowded "open mic area." When I got there, the guy who was in charge of the whole deal was performing. He was a decent singer, but was one of those over the top type guitar players who adds weird techniques to his songs just because he can. Stuff like two handed finger tapping, weird tunings, and a completely unnecessary use of a slide. Congratulations boss, you can finger tap the whole song, why don't you try writing a good song to tap to first. He proceeded to be "shit-your-pants" annoying for the remainder of the evening, which climaxed when he passed out small pieces of paper urging you to visit his crappy website.

The crowd featured an interesting, but very standard, mix. There was the typical chubby girl who's there either because she just LOVES music that much, or is secretly in love with one of her friends that is going to play. Oddly enough, she had a video camera with her as well (she probably just LOVES music that much). The drunk kid in the corner who loves to SCREAM OUT, in between cigarettes, how much he loves all things alcohol, just HOW DRUNK he is tonight, and how cool it would be if you played Freebird. Don't forget his friend, the fat, music loving guitar player, who does the slow nod for every song that someone plays. You know the slow nod, where he casually looks around, and nods in appreciation because he knows EVERY SONG ever made, and "really digs" your attempt bro. There's also the "beer snob" who can be found at the bar, instructing the anorexic bartender just how to properly pour his "Blue Moon." Then, seated at the table directly in front of us were the very out of place "snuggling couple out on a date." Hey honey, let's go check out the dead open mic at Crush. We can sit at a table together, as close as humanly possible, caress each other, and kiss passionately between bad cover songs and the drunk kid telling us he just finished another beer. If only Valentine's Day could come earlier.

We had a few discussions at our table with Tony, our guitar slinging friend, and were asking him what he was going to play. He gave us the usual rundown, Radiohead, Fleetwood, pretty standard, but then he told us he was thinking about playing a song he wrote a while back called "Spic Bastard Nephew." If you know the story behind SBN, the song makes a whole lot more sense, but either way, it's a wonderfully written song about his brother's Hispanic son. It's hilarious, but it has a much deeper theme if you really give it a listen. This presents one of my questions of the evening. Is it ok to play a song containing racially sensitive material at an open mic? I think so, but he sure got a few weird looks, and website guy asked him "what that was all about." Tony replied, "it's about my spic bastard nephew." If you're ever around Tony, and he has a guitar nearby, ask him to play it, it's a great tune.

Moving along to my second question of the evening. Is it ok to ask the same person twice to bum a cigarette? My friend Walsh was gracious enough to bum the drunk kid a cigarette (even before the drunk kid offered him a whole quarter). Drunk kid leaves for a few minutes and then returns, only to ask for another cigarette. Walsh declined, and drunk kid offered up 2 whole quarters. Walsh said no again, despite the generous offering, and drunk kid asked why not. In the line of the evening, Walsh said "because I can't smoke your quarters, but I can smoke these cigarettes." Now that's "shit-your-pants" funny.

As this entry moves deeper into the depths of worthless, I must ask, do the drunk kid and the stoner guy share a cab to the bar? Seriously, you can't go somewhere without them. The last act of the evening was the sound guy, and he was playing a nice rendition of Paul Simon's "Late In The Evening." The bar was very empty by now, and I leaned to Walsh and said, I bet someone does something stupid when he says "and I stepped outside to smoke myself a j." Sure enough, right after "j" there was a lame cheer from some pot-loving dork at the bar. Where do these people come from?

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Last night, in a spur of the moment decision, I decided I couldn't handle the beard I had so proudly donned for the past two months.  It had taken over me.  I had forgotten it was there, and that started to worry me.  It was so thick I could have hidden a pencil in it, and I didn't like that.  I was afraid to smile at little kids, and little kids were probably afraid of me.

On my way home from work, I reluctantly headed to The Razor's Edge to see the one man I trusted with such a feat.  As I entered the great man's place of business, he was startled, and had to do one of those squinty stare things to recognize me.  He almost said "holy shit" but caught himself before the "t."  Sal couldn't believe his eyes, and all he kept saying was "wow" while shaking his head in disbelief.  I said "Sal, I want it all off."  He just looked at me and smiled, because he knew he was the best man, the only man, for the job.

Sal worked away at my overgrown mop, like he has so many times before, just shaking his head and saying "wow....this is a thick one" over and over.  The admiration was apparent in his tone of voice, comparable to someone in the presence of a great painting or witnessing an amazing athletic performance.  Eventually he made his way down to the beard, and I feared his clippers wouldn't have enough power to tame the wild stallion very much alive on my face.  They did, even without the need for auxiliary power.  I'm struggling to describe the feeling when the clippers finally broke through and touched skin for the first time.  It was sensational.

After everything was gone, and the straight blade to the back of the neck was complete, I shook the man's hand for a job well done.  He asked me to stay and have a holiday drink with him (Sal stocks a small liquor shelf during the holidays).  I graciously accepted his offer, and Brandy was his drink of choice.  Cheers to the New Year and to beards.  What an extraordinary man.

Despite its obvious shortcomings, there are a lot of things I'm going to miss about my beard.  It doubled as an extra pillow, provided protection from the harsh winter elements, was fun to scratch, spawned some great conversations, temporarily removed me from the living hell that is shaving, yielded nicknames (i.e. Lumberjack, Grizzly, etc.), dominated, intimidated, inspired, and most of all, grew.  It grew on me in both senses of the word.  You haven't really lived until you've bearded.

As Ham has already requested, join our cause and honor all things man.  We hope to see you next November.

Beard Strong,
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