Field of Dreams

Oftentimes, the best lessons in life we learn without even knowing it. Mr. Miyagi began teaching Daniel Karate by making him wax his cars, paint his house and fence, and sand the floors. Similarly, my Father taught me some of life's most valuable lessons by teaching me how to play baseball.

 

My Dad taught me how to properly oil and shape a new baseball glove; carefully and meticulously working the oil into the new leather, forming a perfect pocket for the ball. Many hours were devoted to punching my fist into the cradles of new gloves to ensure the perfect feel and wear. Life is eerily similar. If you work hard enough at something, life can bend to your will. I learned that the most rewarding things in life need to time to be cultivated.

He showed me how to wait for the perfect pitch, how to hit curveballs, throw a sinker, and 3 different types of fastballs. He showed me how to cut off a throw from the outfield, cover a base, sacrifice bunt, and steal bases. He also stressed that you don't always have to try and smash the ball, just make contact. You'd be surprised how far it goes when you just make contact with the sweet spot of a bat.

Timing is everything. Sometimes showing restraint in the present will produce the perfect set of circumstances in the future. Life inevitably throws you curveballs, I know how to wait them out. Life comes with its hitting slumps, I know how to keep swinging through them. When one strategy isn't working, have two other fastballs you can throw. There are moments when you have to step in and take over a situation, cover your buddy's back, sacrifice yourself for others, or take a risk. When I'm trying too hard to make something work, I know that sometimes just the right amount of effort or finesse, will garner the desired results, often exceeding expectations.

 

I remember my Dad liked to say that there will ALWAYS be somebody faster, stronger, and better than you. You have to work harder, work smarter, and although you might not always beat him, eventually you will. I learned that I didn't like losing, but that it's very much a part of life, and the smart ones learn from it.

He instilled discipline, work ethic, commitment, and courage. Being the coach's son, I was the first to arrive and the last to leave. I learned the value and responsibility of working hard to hone skills. It takes courage to stand in front of an 85 mph fastball. I learned that occasionally you get hit, and although it's painful, you can capitalize on misfortune. Life too can sting, but you have to dust yourself off and get back in the batter's box no matter what. And sometimes, you have to take one for the team.

 

From watching my Dad trek across the baseball diamond to argue a call with an umpire, I learned that you have to stand up for justice, fairness, and equality. I learned that there are times you have to question authority/government and that you have a voice. If nothing else, every time he got in an umpire's face, it demonstrated the quintessential example of commitment and loyalty. In life you have to be fully committed to your cause, your family, and what you believe in, others will loyally follow.

 

He conditioned me to be coachable. I remember he would also say that everyone you come in contact with in your life, potentially has knowledge or insight that could be useful and applicable to your situation. Different people have different vantage points, experiences, skill sets, and knowledge. Stay open minded, listen to what they have to say, consider their experiences and learn from them.

We played catch, pepper, hit batting practice, caught fly balls, and threw countless pitches. It still baffles me to this day, how after all of that, he was simultaneously molding my character and preparing me for life. I had to work hard at some things, while others just came naturally. As I get older and reflect upon these memories with greater frequency, I begin to understand the importance of the bond between Father and Son, and more importantly, how monumentally significant even the most trivial of activities spent with your Father can influence and shape your life.

I'll leave you with lyrics from a Kenny Rogers song that my Dad sent me one day. I think they sum things up rather well. You got to know when to hold em, know when to fold em, Know when to walk away and know when to run. You never count your money when you're sittin at the table. There'll be time enough for countin when the dealins done.

The Reader

I have discovered the Holy Grail! Okay, well, not like the actual cup of Christ with life saving capabilities and all, but more like the next best thing. For those of us that like to read or watch movies anyway. And I didn't exactly discover it really, my sister Cris more or less sat me in front of her computer and showed me the awesome amazingness that is Swaptree.com. I'm sure for all of you reading this, because we're related, is probably old news. However, for the remote possibility that someone I'm not related to should happen upon this blog and doesn't know about this gem of euphoric reading fantasticness (it's a word a swear), I shall give you the 411 as they say. (I'm not sure who says this shit anymore, but it seemed fitting.)

So, this website, as I was saying, is fantastical awesomeness. It allows you to swap Books, CD's, DVD's, video games, and babies (I had a cute little African baby I wanted, but Madonna beat me to it). When you are finished with books or movies you don't want anymore, you can put them in a queue as stuff to be traded, in exchange for things you want. Both your wish list, and tradeables can be comprised of all the aforementioned things, except for babies (but I think stem cells are okay). The website, powered by magic and scientifically enhanced hummingbirds, matches and pairs you up with other random people who have books you want, and vice-versa. All you need to do, is either accept or decline offers from these gate keepers of stupendousness, that have nothing better else to do than hoard all the shit you've ever wanted. Sometimes, you can be involved in a 3 or 4 person trade . . . . like an orgy! See? I told you it was awesome.

What Women Want

I often think that I possess extraordinary knowledge when it comes to women. After all, I have five sisters who made it their personal endeavor to "groom" me into a man that had all of the characteristics they deemed necessary for the perfect gentleman. Having been exposed to this kind of torture environment during my impressionable years has also provided me with invaluable insight into the female psyche. Harboring this knowledge has granted me countless advantages and there is very little that a woman can do that will leave me entirely perplexed. One of those things, however, I witness everyday, and it's beginning to drive me to the point where I'm experiencing overwhelming desires to extract my eyeballs with rusty utensils.

Why do women who are driving with the windows down, find it necessary to fluff, fiddle, manipulate, and incessantly adjust their hair when as soon as they accelerate, its only going to return into disheveled mess again anyway? Makes no sense. Wear a hat, tie it up, or roll your freakn' windows up. I happened to be in a little bit of traffic the other day, and I had the comical fortune of being behind the same lady through 4 traffic lights and a good stretch of highway. Never failed, at every single stop their was excessive primping and poking of bangs. You would have thought she was preparing a poodle for Best In Show.

I've seen some retarded acts of humanity in my day, (many of them my own) and even though it shouldn't boggle my mind as much as it does, I find it absolutely incomprehensible that so many of these things I see while driving. For instance, reading. Why people think this is any smarter than swimming amongst sharks with a bludgeoned sea lion around their neck, I will never know. And I'm not talking about the casual glance at printed directions either, I mean the full on I didn't finish reading this chapter last night for my presentation, or the I will sacrifice my life to find out how this article on cross-pollination of orchids ends. Generally, I'm all about encouraging a strong reading regiment. Personally, I don't think people do enough of it. But seriously, put down the literature while you drive. I doubt anyone is reading anything on the highway that's worth dying for.

Which leads me to my next observation of feet in the windshield. I've witnessed many accidents during my motor vehicle conducting career, and let me tell you, people that like to stick their feet out the window or think it's cute to display them on the dashboard, are playing with fire. It's one thing to survive a horrible accident. It's quite another for paramedics to have to search for your foot to reattach it, or for doctors to surgically remove your kneecaps from your face. Not so cute anymore is it? Well, if you're going to continue to defy the traffic gods, tempt fate, and subject me to the sight of your crusty-ass feet, for heaven's sake, (and mine) at least put some damn lotion on.

A League of Their Own

Pssssssssssst! Hey . . . . you. Are they gone? You know, all those relentless poopie fanatics. I was hoping to shake the majority of those thoughtless, uncultured minions off my trail with an extended hiatus. All the e-mails, letters, and comments were becoming too overwhelming. I mean really, who has time to respond to all that shit?

Well, now that it appears to be just us select few again , let me say the majority of the reason behind Mr. Poopie's glorious return is due to my Dad, and of course the Amazing Cheasty Pants, who by the way, was the only person who begged me to come back. And by beg, I mean she sent me endless e-mails pleading for me to once again grace blog-land with my all-knowing voice of reason. As part of her elaborate plans of coercion, she sent pictures of herself in mid air, pictures of her friends in mid air, pictures of random Central American foliage, food, and even poetry. Yes, poetry. She begged, pleaded, implored, and groveled. After witnessing enough of her rueful antics, I figured I would bestow her some clemency. Although, I think I would have never tired of all the Nicaraguan beer I received.

The truth is, I've been reading voraciously, writing a book, and doing lots of homework for school. Yeah, you heard me . . . . . . . school. I suppose it's time for me to finish school and secure my Masters so that I can join the elite 9.4% of the populace to have accomplished the same. Let's face it, as much as I'd like to, I can't rub people for ever.

To say that things have slowed down in the massage business would be an understatement. Although, the industry leading, luxury resort conglomerate I work for caters to the affluent, we have begun to feel the effects of our ever weakening economy. Consequently, Mr. Poopie has had a lot more time to do other things like reading and pondering why certain people are allowed to procreate. Also, to be even more forthcoming, there wasn't a whole lot I felt impelled to talk about that wasn't already being shoved down our throats by mass media. Economy, blah blah, Obama, blah blah blah, Iran and nuclear-blah blah, bad peanut butter-blah.

One thing I do feel relatively inspired to discuss, besides boobies of course, is all this ubiquitous discussion about steroids and baseball. Helloooooooo, am I the only person on the planet that knew these fools were juicing? The commissioner of baseball has the cojones to act like he didn't know what was going on, and worse yet, the gall to say he's going to consider distributing punishment. I have a couple of problems with this entire A-Rod steroid saga. For those of you who live in a shell, or Cambodia for that matter, there were some random, supposedly anonymous, drug testing done back in 2003 to get an idea of how many baseball players were taking steroids. We won't address why an "anonymous" test involved actual "names" to begin with, but some how, the list of those positive tests has leaked, and of course A-Roid (as he's been so appropriately named) was at the top of that list. Keep in mind that performance enhancing drugs were not illegal in baseball at the time. (reason number one, the results should be thrown away and this entire fiasco forgotten)

The second problem I have with all this, is that congress has been involved with the witch hunt to find out who has been taking PED's, which inevitably has led to some athletes to lie under oath, which in turn has put their freedom in jeopardy. By no means am I siding with the players, or condoning the use of banned substances, I just feel that all this is a huge waste of time and money. Implement better testing and move forward. No need to drudge up a bunch of meaningless tests, dirty syringes, (who keeps this shit?) and DNA samples that ultimately aren't going to solve the problem, but only confirm what we already suspected in the first place.

Congress? Why are my tax paying dollars being used to out athletes who we already know used steroids, when there is a 1100 page stimulus package that I know the majority of them haven't dedicated the time to read? I'm sorry, but Congress needs to stay out of baseball. I think the sport is completely capable of cleaning things up without the help of a large bureaucratic counsel of geriatric law makers. Figure out how to balance the budget, save Michael Jackson's face from falling off, then worry about sports. It's only a matter of time before the spot light turns to football. Which, by the way, is where they should have been looking all along. Hee-hee, Schamone!

8 mile

Well, I think it's pretty obvious who the Dumb ass of the week is. Unquestionably, the award is bestowed to Plaxico Buress, a wide receiver for the New York Giants football team.

If you haven't heard already, numb nuts took a loaded weapon to a nightclub, and accidentally shot his stupid ass self in the leg. Right. In. The. Leg. I think I may have to repeat this for the sake of clarity; this man entered a night club with a LOADED weapon concealed in the waistline of his PANTS. And the only reason, he got caught for doing so illegally, was the minute fact that the gun accidentally discharged while in his trousers. And I thought this sort of thing only happened to fictional characters like Cheddar Bob.

What I think is even more asinine than the actual act of shooting himself in the leg, is that he is pleading not guilty to charges of criminal possession of a weapon, (basically carrying a weapon without a license) and carrying ammunition for said weapon. Both by the way, are Class C felonies, for which fuck face could be sentenced to 3 1/2 to 15 years in jail if convicted. Gee I wonder what the defense is going to use as their strategy; It wasn't me? Having to receive hospitalization for a gunshot wound from the very weapon you were carrying seems like very incriminating evidence to the contrary. a) You can't successfully shoot yourself in the leg without a gun and b) For you to receive a gunshot wound from the aforementioned weapon, there has to be the presence of ammunition. Guilty as charged, on both accounts.

I am sick and tired of hearing about these professional athletes with weapons in night clubs. How are they even allowed to bring firearms into nightclubs to begin with? If you're so worried about your safety, then hire a damn bodyguard or hang out with the offensive linemen. I'm pretty certain they could stop a bullet or two. Or here's a brilliant idea, If you're supposed to be recovering from an injury, how about not even going out to a fucking club to begin with? How bout that? Ass clown.

I don't think there should be any leniency because he's a professional athlete either. If anything, he should be prosecuted even more harshly for thinking he was above the law. I'm usually not one to desire ill towards my fellow man, but I gotta say, I hope he goes to jail. If for nothing else, just for being a dumb ass.

Quantum of Solace

I really wanted to love this movie. I was so excited to see it, that being let down was the farthest thing from my mind, even after I had discovered they weren't going to keep the same director as it's immediate predecessor, Casino Royale, which was brilliant, edgy, and refreshing. So much so, that I never resist watching it over and over again when the opportunity arises. The director got it right, the casting was spot on, and the actors stepped up to the plate. Most importantly, Daniel Craig hit a home run.

Quantum of Solace needed to be an equally hard hit line drive, but fizzled embarrassingly short of the outfield like a pop fly. Even the opening song was out of place for this movie. Madonna was criticized for her theme song in Die Another Day, to the point where it was left off the movie score entirely. I was amazed to find out that Alecia Keys was on this collaborative piece of crap with Jack White, that was extremely difficult to listen to. It was a rough start from the beginning my friends.

The bond girl was a perfect choice, the pouty Olga Kurylenko, who was in Hitman. However, her part was transparently staged and it seems as though they were trying to make her something the movie did not require her to be (a sniveling head case with daddy issues). Unfortunately, her part could have been extracted all together and we would have never noticed. Speaking of which, 007 didn't even seem remotely attracted to one of the hottest Bond girl's ever, although she was so notably distracted by her own childish antics, that I doubt she would have noticed being hit on anyway. They also tried too hard to make Bond this cold hearted killer on a vengeful rampage of retribution, but never once did he ever show any true emotion toward the woman who's death he was avenging. Actually, he couldn't have been more cavalier about her nonexistence. Is that irony?

On a positive note, all the action sequences were seamlessly executed and very exciting. I enjoyed all of them except for the end when the characters found themselves in some fuel cell powered hotel, (without any people in it mind you) going up in flames, in the middle of a remote desert in Bolivia. Lame. And to top it all off, the main villain in the movie could have very well been an angry Deer Park executive with desires to monopolize the world's water sources. Gee, so eerily sinister. No! You mean to tell me that we will all have to . . . . no, don't make me say it . . . . I refuse . . . . .have to . . . .have to . . . .BUY our water from YOU and no one else? Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! Bitch please, can't I just get a ridiculously insane Eastern European villain with female issues and penis envy to build an over sized laser, and want nothing more than to disintegrate largely populated areas for no apparent reason other than his own maniacal amusement?

Even after all of the problems I had with this movie, it still wasn't awful. I guess that says something in itself. As a matter of fact, I'm going to go watch it again. I want to be sure my initial assessment was right. I mean, even I miss a few details from time to time. Besides, I really want to believe that it wasn't as bad as I thought. I'm hoping my expectations were just too high, and that after seeing it again, without being as critical, that I will enjoy it more. You know, sometimes movies have to grow on you. So, with all those things in mind, I think I'll give it another try. Perhaps I shall be the one needing a quantum of solace after watching it again, but let's hope not.

Interview With A Vampire

Well, against my better judgement, I finally succumbed to my sister's relentless pleading to read Twilight. I hope that she doesn't read this, (I feel that my honesty might crush her entirely) but here is what I thought about it in a nutshell; it was okay.

I feel that the story took entirely way too long to develop, and when the suspense had finally peaked, reaching the long awaited climax, much was left to be desired. Kind of like when you finally get to kiss your beautiful date at the end of a exquisite night, you disappointingly discover that a vacuum cleaner, or a Saint Bernard would be a better kisser. The story ended pretty much as ordinarily as it had begun, which after all that had transpired was a bit disappointing and left me with no overwhelming desire to want to read the other three that follow. Granted, I'm not a pubescent female teen, I still feel that a love story with dangerous vampires would have left me a little more satisfied. Of course, the allure of vampires being the only reason I even agreed to read a love story to begin with. And to pacify my sister's groveling pleas, obviously.

I don't mean to be entirely nit picky, but I think the writing wasn't that impressive either. I mean, if I'm going to spend my time reading 500 pages of anything, especially a book that has received as much praise as this one has, I generally prefer for the author to have superior writing skills to mine. Call me old fashioned, but I like authors to either spark my imagination, elicit thought, or keep me entranced with intrigue or suspense. And from time to time, I'm not against a chuckle or two. Not that I think I'm some great writer by any stretch of the imagination, but I suspect that I could have possibly written something comparable, at the very least, a little juicier.

Anyway, it wasn't a bad book by any means. It was a relatively fresh perspective on a subject that Ann Rice has had her fangs sunk into for as long as I can remember. I suppose I just expected more considering how popular the series has become, and how much my 39 year old sister insisted that I read them. I did have to take into consideration that all of her previous reading recommendations up to this point have been more than solid. So, I won't be holding this one against her. After all, unlike Edward . . . . . . . she's only human.