I've got just a few thoughts on facebook that I need to get out of my system.

1) Why didn't I think of this thing?

2) Why do people write things like "hey, what's up?" on other people's walls?

It's a nothing question: hey, what's up? Uhhh... nothing? Do you ever really see people answer that question truthfully? Things may be going great, not so great, simply okay, but the answer is always relatively the same: chillin, not much, hanging out, working, etc.

I've got nothing against the question. I just don't understand its placement when that involves a Facebook wall. Back before you would be notified on your email if someone sent you a Facebook message, I could understand the very public "hey, what's up?"-- the person asking wanted to make sure that the person receiving would actually know in a timely fashion that they'd been thinking about them. The answer was (and is) irrelevant; it was the thought that counted (and still counts).

But now, now that you get emails every time anyone does anything on Facebook, it makes no sense to ask questions like that on someone's wall. Does anyone else feel this way?

3) I've now been friended by two priests that work at my high school. One of them even poked me.

A Jesuit priest, who took devoted his life to God and took vows of poverty, chastity and obedience, poked me on Facebook.

The non-poker priest, who doubles as the president of Strake, put "in a relationship" in his relationship status.

4) I'm starting a pool right now to see how many "happy birthday bayless!!" wishes I get on my "birthday," August 6, 1945. My real birthday is February 28.

I love the Facebook "happy birthday (blank)!!!" phenomenon. Nothing brings out my inner Holden Caulfield more than these gross displays of insincerity. Is there anything more amusing than an, "Oh, the main page tells me that someone's birthday is today. I'll let them know just how much I care by using three exclamation marks to cover up any suspicion that I may not have been thinking about this day for weeks in advance" maneuver?

The fact that I have blown my cover about the fake birthday will probably prevent one or two people from sending one of those well wishes my way on the anniversary of the bombing of Hiroshima. But they'll still come in droves, I promise you. And I will lol.

5) Tell me again why Zuckerberg turned down a cool billion?

It's like, Mark, a BILLION?? Really? Ya said "no"?

Let's say you lose, oh, I don't know, $400 million to taxes. Okay, now you've got $600 million. Take half of that, which is still $300 million, a.k.a. more than you could ever really spend, and put it away in some safe, low growth stocks or mutual funds or whatever -- just put it away. Then, you take the other $300 million, and you try to start a new company, just for the fun of it.

Or, you could be like the guy from Napster and say "Nah, I think I'm gonna hold out for a better deal." Remember Napster?

6) This one I'm really mad about.

Boooo-ring!

The logo. The new Facebook logo. Why did they have to go trying to fix something that wasn't broke?

The original design was my face. And I didn't care that they'd stolen my identity. I thought it was awesome. I swear. Just look at the old school version:


Oh wait that's Ross from "Friends." Here is what I was trying to show you:


Shit, that's that painting of the mysterious "Oh my God that's me!" saint from the Catholic cathedral in the Stari Grad of Dubrovnik.

Here is what I meant to show you:

Me!

7) Why don't they ask who dumped who when the "in a relationship" status reverts to "single"? I mean, the heart-broken-in-half deal just isn't an accurate description if you're the one doing the dumping. You're not heartbroken; you're chilling. You're free. In fact, you're the opposite of heartbroken, except in certain cases, when it was an untimely set of circumstances that led to a forced breakup.

And taking this a little bit further, what do you do when you get divorced? It seems crazy, but Facebook is no longer just a tool for the young. Remember, I am friends with two priests now ... what I failed to mention is that I'm also friends with my uncle's high school buddy who graduated high school in '84 I think. Adults are using this thing, too. And half of married adults get divorced in this country.

A broken heart may not be accurate enough of an icon for a guy whose wife cheats on him and gets half his estate, wouldn't you agree?

8) And finally, why am I Exhibit A in the "I used to be a Facebook hater but now I'm addicted" epidemic? The only option towards recovery seems to be a complete disavowal of the site. It's like entering drug rehab. Cold turkey or junkie -- you've got to pick between the two, and there's no middle ground.

Honestly, I'm not prepared to take such a drastic step and deactivate my account. So the addiction will continue. Thank God, though, that I won't be having Internet in my house in Tanzania. Otherwise, I'd be having to reply with"thanks, what's up?" to all of the people that will wish me Happy 62nd Birthday this August.

So ... my eBay career started off with a bang, but has recently developed a whimper.

I was on fire: every bar hat I posted, BOOM! Sold. Mostly UVa castaway hats, plus a Duke Lacrosse hat, and it was easy money. I made $50 last week without even breaking a sweat.

Then, I get home from Omaha, log onto my gmail account, and see more emails than I can count, all from eBay, all taking a little swipe at my nuts with the same giant, bolded words: "eBay Item Not Sold: insert concrete failure here."

Unsold?! But, but, but ... this is eBay! How could something not be purchased?

Apparently, it happens when people aren't even searching for what I'm giving out.

eBay Item Not Sold: Mack Brown Autographed Football
eBay Item Not Sold: Original Game Boy Game Cartridges
eBay Item Not Sold: Wyoming State Flag
eBay Item Not Sold: University of Texas Rose Bowl Pennant

I could go on. There were more.

I mean, even my Michael Vick poster ended without finding a new owner!

How could someone not want this!!

Maybe Caroline was right after all. Maybe I am selling "crap."

At least someone bought my stuffed Gumby doll.

Shhh... does anyone else hear that sound? What? What was that?

Oh, that's right -- it's the noise of cash money jingling in my pocket! I am now $4 richer thanks to Item No. 320125770665.

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But I'm feeling a little bad, I won't lie. It's this habit of mine that I just can't kick: it's called "offending people." Usually, it happens when I open my mouth, which is unfortunately connected to my brain without the benefit of a filter. But even in the realm of eBay, where I have ample time to ponder my choice of words, I can't seem to stay out of trouble.

Here is how I described this piece of junk I found in my closet, which is a tribute to the obligatory "Mr. Way Too Proud Of Texas Guy" phase (see that link to have a BIG laugh) that most teenage Texan kids go through at least once in their lives:
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This is NOT the traditional, stereotypical CONFEDERATE FLAG.

The "Stars and Bars" is what everyone mistakenly believes to have been the official flag of Jefferson Davis' Confederate States of America.

That is WRONG, my friends!

The Stars and Bars was merely the BATTLE FLAG. This, in contrast, was the flag flying about the capitol building in Richmond.

BID HERE to get your OFFICIAL Confederacy state flag!!! Show that you know a little more about your own history than the guy driving in the next lane over with his redneck stickers emblazoned on the back window of his truck!

God Bless the CSA.
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Okay, so I admit that I never did any research on it, and that I was simply repeating what I had always heard to be the truth. I really didn't care what the truth was -- to me, a Confederate Flag is a Confederate Flag. They both stand for slavery, they both stand for rednecks, they both stand for bad teeth, they both stand for amateur tattoos, and most importantly, they both stand for failure.

I'm the opposite of the "Pride, Not Prejudice" sympathizer. Hell, even back in the days when I thought it was cool to pretend to be racist, pretend to be a cowboy by wearing boots, and pretend to be tough by staring people down as I drove away while listening to Pat Green (a.k.a. , back during my "Mr. Way Too Proud Of Texas Guy" phase), I hated Confederacy nostalgia.

So please, don't waste your time trying to show me the light. My feelings on these flags have already been documented. When I was in Germany last June, I almost picked a fight with a random Texan who decided he was going to wear a Confederate Flag cape as a way to support the United States soccer team. That's right, he wore the flag of a country that seceded from -- and fought a war against -- the country he had flown to Germany to watch play soccer. Logic like that is the reason presidents get reelected these days. And like always, when I've put a few German beers in my system, I find it hard not to point out the glaring problems in logic like that. I was just lucky he was a "What! What!" kind of dude, rather than a right jab/left hook kind of dude, because he was way bigger than me.

So you've seen my sarcastic product description, designed to lure some stupid teenager currently mired in his own "Mr. Way Too Proud of Texas Guy" phase to drop $8 on the flag that I don't even know why I have. What I'll show you now are the two comments I received -- which outnumbered the number of bids I received by two -- expressing their discontent with my version of history.

From 2007markgraf:

"you are mistaken....the flag that you are showing in the photo is the official Confederate States of America flag.......which IS known as the stars and bars... the battle flag is actually known as the St. Andrew Cross...just thought that you should know...next time do a little more research before posting what isnt correct"

And from simple_jesse:

"With all due respect, this IS the Stars and Bars. The flag that you're referring to is the Battle Flag, or the Naval Jack."

Ouch. I guess I should have done my research -- these people aren't joking around.

Here were my respective replies.

First: "well i will certainly forward your comment to my 7th grade history teacher who is responsible for this mistake. i just hope that my ebay advertisement isn't being cited in any graduate level dissertations."

Second: "so....what you're saying is, you don't wanna buy it?"

I'm way more upset about the fact that I couldn't con any of those teenagers out there with Ducks Unlimited stickers on their trucks into buying this thing than I am about my (extreme) ignorance regarding Confederate history. It actually is embarrassing that I, a history major from a Confederate state, went 23 years without knowing the truth about the Stars and Bars -- but I'm trying to get some money together to be able to spend in Africa, and my attempt to make fun of the very audience whose money I sought backfired.

Less money to spend in Africa because I insulted the nation that fought for the right to enslave Africans. Oh, the irony.

Let's just hope I don't offend people interested in orange Polo shirts, Mini MagLites and Cleveland Indians fitted caps...

I can't afford to make any more eBay e-Nemies.

Before I get into my thoughts on Omaha, my mom's knowledge of baseball and alternative rock, and the College World Series, let me say that I saw ESPN sideline reporter Erin Andrews walking across the field between innings tonight, and she is TEN TIMES more beautiful in person than on television.


Watch this YouTube video to see evidence of why I yelled, "I LOVE YOU ERIN!!" for all the world to hear as she flaunted her stuff in front of me.

As for when she went to ask the home plate umpire a question in the middle of the 6th? All he could have possibly been thinking in the aftermath was "Thank God I'm wearing a cup."

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The Real Field of Dreams.

Omaha, Nebraska

For the fourth year in a row, Virginia choked in the opening round of the NCAA Baseball Tournament and failed to advance to the Super Regionals.

Three of those four times, they were the No. 1 seed at home. Two of those four times, they were eliminated by Oregon State. One of those four times, I got to see the team that took Virginia's place play in the College World Series.

That "one time" would be tonight, when Beaver Nation shock-n'-awed Cal State Fullerton into the loser's bracket at Rosenblatt Stadium. OSU won 3-2, thanks to a huge baserunning gaffe by Fullerton which probably cost the Titans a run.

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If Cooperstown is Baseball Mecca, Omaha is Baseball Medina. I haven't made the hajj to upstate New York just yet, but I've seen at least Holy City No. 2. The College World Series is that sacred.

People cheer, they boo, they pay $9 for general admission and then line up for hours under the pounding sun for a bleacher seat in the outfield, they mingle with the players after the games, and they do it every day, twice a day, for two weeks. And they do it again the next year.

Eight teams, one consensus: Omaha is where it's at for baseball purists. If only Kevin Costner were here, he could sum up my feelings perfectly.

Me: "Is this Heaven?"

Kevin: "No, it's Nebraska."

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A few thoughts.

• Who invented booing? Is it some innate human noise that everyone just knows how to do? Do they boo in China? Were the Aztecs booing when someone messed up on that hip-bouncing game thingy? Did the Jews boo when Goliath came out to face David? It really is an amazing sound. "Booooo! BOOOOO! BOOOOOOOO!" It is so fun to really let out a healthy one -- especially when your voice is a little deeper than average, because you can really get your point across: "I am extremely displeased!" I boo at every possible opportunity. Even when I'm not extremely displeased, if the time is right, I'm taking flight with the boo birds. Like, say, when ... security tries to take an Arizona State fan's oversized flag because it surpasses the 3 x 5 limit, stoking the ire of every Sun Devil fan in sight; or when security tries to take away a beach ball from a sea of overjoyed fans; or whenever there is the slightest bit of controversy regarding a call at first base; or when the ball girl misplays a foul pop that rolls way too fast off the protective net, over her head and into the batter's box during an at bat; or -- the classic -- just whenever anyone else boos. I hate to let them be alone.


• How does Drunk Heckler Guy not turn into Sobering Up Heckler Guy by the 7th inning at a CWS game? The 7th inning! That's like two-plus hours after the first pitch! How is he still this drunk? They're not selling alcohol in the stadium, and this guy isn't making any in-and-out trips to the tailgate. I guess he must have snuck something in past Rosenblatt's security check, whose training regimen is definitely modeled after a pre-9/11 TSA manual. Not exactly Israeli-esque in their pat downs here in Omaha. Today's Drunk Heckler Guy was helping to make me forget about the scorching sun pounding down on my thighs, and only because of a simple question he left unsolved: Which team was he even heckling? One minute, he was all over ASU's pitcher: "You suck two-two! You've got nothing!" The next, UC Irvine's batter was getting it: "Blow it by him two-two! Rip him up!" The lipper he was packing defied description; I didn't know they even put that much in a can. His eyes were glazed, his drool was effusive. He's Drunk Heckler Guy; he's the man.


• I've never been more positive that a stranger was baked out of his mind than I was today with the bottled water guy who was trekking up and down the stairs in the 200 degree heat. "Two bottles of water!" -- two second delay, a laugh with the guy sitting on the aisle, and then acknowledgement: "Seven bucks," with a really relaxed smile. And he had a lot of trouble making change for a 50. But I mean, he's the bottled water guy. It's the summer. He's probably in college. He's just trying to chill.


• Here are some questions my mom asked tonight at the game. 1) (because the kids in front of us were from Colorado) "So, is Colorado playing in the World Series too?" 2) (after the Fullerton baserunning error that led to a crucial out on a rundown between third and home) "Has anyone ever gotten out of that situation?" Me: "What, in the College World Series?" Her: "No, just ever." 3) "Does the pitcher stand on the rubber, or in front of it?" It's like, Mom. Mom, Mom, Mom. I don't even know how to begin.


• My little sister brought a People Magazine to a baseball game. I was livid. Me: "You bringing People to a baseball game would be like me reading pornography in church." She kept the magazine in her purse.


• Omaha has inspired me to bring back the beach ball to Astros games. Where has it gone? As a kid, I have countless memories of them bouncing around the outfield deck seats at the Dome. But at Minute Maid, I am drawing a blank. Have I ever seen a beach ball at the Ballpark Formerly Known as Enron Field? I honestly cannot recall it. Three games at Rosenblatt for the College World Series has more than made up for eight seasons of no shows, though. The general admission rowdiness in the outfield seats is conducive to that sort of behavior. At one point tonight, I swear there were at least 10 of them bouncing around at the same time in right field. Then they would inevitably fall onto the warning track, the high school aged, blue-shirted Rosenblatt employee would run out to collect them, he'd fill his arms with three our four, begin to run back, only to find that another two have been knocked onto the field, and he would call for back-up. This never ceases to amuse me. It's like booing. I will never get tired of it. I watch the beach balls before I watch the game. When I go back to Houston, I'm going to $2 outfield deck seat night on a Tuesday, and I'm bringing like 15 uninflated beach balls with me. I am prepared for an ejection if an ejection is the opportunity cost of hilarity.


• Primo seats are where The Wave goes to die. There is a direct corrolation between the price of the seats and the rowdiness of the fan that sits there.


• The 15ish-year-old kid in front of us, who Garland has dubbed "Perfect Hair Kid," was a lock for "Most Likely to Make Use of the Hotel Blow Dryer" Award. I mean, he had it down -- the "organized chaos" look that is. Thirty minutes a morning in the mirror, on average? Sounds about right. The repeated use of the brush, followed by a shake of the head, followed by some pinpoint ruffling of the hair, followed by a profile shot in the mirror. Organized chaos. Working hard to make it look like he didn't work hard. He had no idea he was being analyzed by a girl of the same age bracket which he was trying to impress. And when he did the "hair flip," I thought Garland was going to start crying with laughter. The best part of all? "Oh my god Bayless!" Garland had just come back into our hotel room and she was bursting at the seams. "Perfect Hair Kid is in our hotel! He's staying on this floor!" We're gonna have to put our ears to the door to see if he's using that blow dryer. We've got a hundred bucks riding on the outcome.


• When Erin Andrews went and sat in the Oregon State dugout in the 7th, I was sure she had been paid off by someone in the Fullerton camp to do her best distracting job. The Beavers were winning by one, Fullerton hadn't been hitting all night, and this was a last gasp effort to avoid the losers bracket. Well, like someone with less foresight than Donald Rumsfeld could have predicted, one of the OSU players began to hit on her, during the game, taking his eyes completely off the field. Did anyone not see this coming? It's Erin freaking Andrews. She's hotter than Melissa Stark, easy. And she's chilling in your dugout. What line is this guy going to use? This isn't some stupid college chick who thinks it's cool to hook up with a college baseball player -- Erin has probably turned down more than one offer from real major leaguers like Harold Reynolds. Well, the ploy almost worked -- that dropped pop fly in left on what would have been the final out of the game definitely doesn't go down if they send Rachel Nichols to Omaha. No sir.
  
• The owners of the house whose yard we parked in today had a pet raccoon. Uhhhh.... is it okay that I let it crawl around on my shoulders? Have these people gotten any rabies vaccinations for their new pet? And is "Pancho" gonna realize at any time that he is not supposed to be domesticated and start tearing shit up? Way too many questions about that issue.


• More quotable quotes from my mom, this time on the ride home: 1) "What was the deal with the guy that had that 'Beavers' t-shirt on?" (this is the part where we explain to her that the Oregon State mascot is the beaver). "Really? Oh." I kid you not, I have seen at least 476 t-shirts that say "BEAVER NATION" across the front since arriving in Omaha yesterday. Maybe 500. They are orange t-shirts. 2) (in response to my exaggerated sing-along rendition of a Collective Soul song playing on the radio) "This is from our generation ... it's the Stones, right?"


• And finally, my No. 1 overriding thought of the day: I WISH VIRGINIA WAS PLAYING IN THIS THING, I WOULD BE GOING CRAZY IF THEY WERE.

Third NBA Championship ring in five years.

NBA Finals MVP.

Eva Longoria in your bed for the rest of your life (or at least for the rest of your marriage).

I hate you, Tony Parker.

Bill Simmons never ceases to amaze me with his BRILLIANT insights. How have I not thought of this conundrum before? From his running diary of Game 1:

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6:24: Jacque Vaughn gives Parker a rest.

(Un americain et un français. Qui est qui?)

Shouldn't they just switch names? How can the Spurs have a French guy on the team and a guy named Jacque? By the way, eight points, three boards and three blocks for Duncan already. John Hollinger just reported that he's on pace to average a 43-16-16 for the series.
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From now on, I'm calling No. 9 Jacque Parker and his backup Tony Vaughn.

And may I also add, who names their kid Jacque and then drops the 's'? The answer: Someone who doesn't realize that they're dropping an 's'.

Something else The Sports Guy, Simmons, failed to bring up (though he did reference the never-ending Longoria-Parker engagement reminders that Disney subsidiaries have thrown our way throughout these NBA Playoffs): How many girlfriends of basketball fans across the country -- remembering references to "the French player who's engaged to Eva Longoria" -- have exclaimed to the TV when Vaughn's oh-so-deceptive-in-origin name flashes across the screen, "Oh, that's the French player who's engaged to Eva Longoria!"

A hundred? A thousand? More?

Not a good way to impress your man, ladies.

Very nice, how much?

Also from the running diary of Game 1:

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8:15: Seven layups, 24 points, seven assists for Parker. Meanwhile, LeBron just nailed two straight 3s. I think my Bayless joke woke him up telepathically.
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Can you believe my favorite writer actually threw me a shout out in one of his columns?! On espn.com?!

Neither can I. Here was the "Bayless joke," printed right above:

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8:13: Cavs down by 16, seven minutes to play ... and LeBron has only eight points. You might see a giddy Skip Bayless show up for Friday's taping of "First Take" dressed like Machine from "8 MM."
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Skip Bayless is a bitch. A big time one. So irritating is his face (look below)


and voice, and opinions, too. My mission in life is to one day be the first thing that comes up when you Google "Bayless," surpassing Bayless School District, a car dealer named Bayless who only sells Fiats, more auto parts mixed in with a salad prepared by a world famous Gourmet Mexican food chef, and then, coming in at a measly 9th place, Skip Bayless himself.

I better get off my ass and start doing something that will help me climb that e-ladder then, huh?

"All right then, bend over."

I obeyed. Awkward.

"Really bend over, farther."

Again, I obeyed, scooching down a bit. Awkwaaaaaard.

And then the doctor really took it to the next level, when he started to push all around my scoofy with a rubber gloved finger.

For any med students out there, a scoofy is the Strake Jesuit term for the "perineum." For any non-med students out there, just Google "perineum."

(Or see synonyms, "grundle," "taint" or "nacho.")

It was the first time any human being other than myself has touched my scoofy. And ya know what?

It kinda tickles!

ESPECIALLY if you're looking for this

"Bayless, have you gotten a job yet?" The Bob was playing with our dog Shiner when he asked the question. He had just gotten home from work, a routine he has been engaged in for the past 30 years.

I hadn't been outside of the house all day. It was dark by that point.

"Nah, I've decided I'm just gonna sell a bunch of crap on eBay."

The look on my dad's face was, in a word, unimpressed.

"My son, instead of deciding to work, is going to sell stuff on eBay." He was kind of talking to himself -- I'm not sure how I was supposed to take that one.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

So far I've only posted four items. That's four down, about 100 to go.

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Caroline wasn't any more impressed than The Bob.

"Yeah, uhhh, I saw some of the pictures on Mary's computer of what you're trying to sell on eBay...."

"Really!"

"Yeah."

Confidence was oozing out of my pours as I awaited her next line -- this idea was $$$$$$ and I knew it.

"Dude, no one is gonna buy that crap."

(insert sound of screeching record here)

"WHAT?!"

I scanned the room for support.

Blank faces. No support.

"What are you TALKING about, dude?!"

My ex-girlfriend (and after this insult, I am emphasizing the EX) scanned the same room before she continued to "baca hejt" (bat-sah hate) as they say in Serbian.

"You're selling CRAP!"

Throwing hate.

Oh really, Caroline?

	Roget's New Millennium™ Thesaurus - Cite This Source
Main Entry:	trash
Part of Speech:	noun 3
Definition:	nonsense
Synonyms:	balderdash, bilge*, bunkum, claptrap, crap, drivel, foolish talk, hogwash, hokum, inanity, malarkey*, nonsense, prating, rot, rubbish, tripe, twaddle

If trash = crap, and one man's trash is another man's treasure, than I am selling treasure.

There's a lot more on the way, too.

Old school Houston Oilers wife beater's

Belts that my belly has outgrown

Scottish Kilts ... that my belly has outgrown

Texas bar hats that some stupid 15-year-old frat boy in training will snag

Soccer ball pillows (juggling lessons not included)

Peek-a-Pooh stuffed animals

(Get it??)

And my favorite, the one that will FOR SURE bring home the big bucks, my vintage Michael Vick poster

Whatever kind of treasure it is, you can get it on eBay.

I ADMIT IT!

Having a little sister who leaves mix CD's inside the six-disc player of the car (that you are borrowing from her full time) can come in handy every now and then.

Like tonight, for example.


I've decided that if I ever do make that CD called "I Admit It! The 90's," the title track will come from this band.
"Mmmbop! Dip-bee-dop, bop dewww wop, A DIBBY DOP BAH DEWWWW WOP, dip bee dop, bah DEWWWW! Yayee yeahhh.....!"

That was me driving home from John's apartment tonight. By myself, but jammin. I was singing loud, too.

And you know why? Because I'm able to take a deep breath and say it:

I like the song "Mmmbop" by Hanson.

Try it with me now.

I like the song "Mmmbop" by Hanson.

Exhale aaaand ...

Savasana.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhh. Like a 50-pound weight being removed from your chest, isn't it?

I liked "Mmmbop" back in the day; I like it now. But like coming out of the closet for professional athletes to this day, confessing to a secret love for that song in a middle school environment was something you just didn't do.

That's why I'm trying to make "I Admit It! The 90's" -- a mega disc (though I'm open to multi-disc, if I get enough email suggestions) comprising (or is it "comprised of?") all of those songs that you internally tapped your foot to in your youth, all the while maintaining a shell of disinterest so as to appear cool.

"I Will Remember You" by Sarah McLachlan, any song by No Doubt, any song by the Dixie Chicks, "Swallowed" by Bush, "Always be my Baby" by Mariah Carey (*huge example*), "Just the Two of Us" by Will Smith, any song by Trisha Yearwood (I'm from the South) and many, many more.

Let me reiterate: I'm open to email suggestions, because I'm serious about making this disc.

But I mean, I'm pretty flexible about it, too. It doesn't have to be just 90's. We've gotta make some space for my all time "I ADMIT IT!" favorite, after all.

"I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOUUUUUUU!!!!"

Tom Kuklinski turned me onto it my fourth year at Virginia and it was a regular on my iPod rotation my entire trip. It's amazing how easy it is to get people to open up about these types of things when you take the first step.

You: "All right, I admit it! I LOVE NATASHA BEDINGFIELD. 'THEEEEEESE WORDS ARE MY OWN, FROM MY HEART....(random noise, a singing mumble).... I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOUUUU!'"

Other dude: "Yeah man, I totally love Bryan Adams!"

You: "Uhhhh.... yeah man. Cool." (raised eyebrows)

For example, Pigneri:

This was on Memorial Day weekend, when the Pig schooled me in Dance, Dance Revolution, Natasha Bedingfield style.

Or was it that new Maroon 5 song? The one I heard on Mary's mix CD and liked, but had to ask her first, "Is it considered socially acceptable for guys to like this song? Because I do. Is that okay?"

I admit it!


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This is just an aside, but I couldn't stop thinking about this while I was jamming to "Mmmbop."

You know the older brother? Here, we'll have another look because it's ten times funnier when you have a visual of this guy.


It's the tallest one that I'm talking about (obviously). What must it have been like for that one? The middle child -- the star; the band, essentially -- was chillin'. The youngest brother -- the lucky to be there character -- was chillin'. The only one that could have/should have had a complex was the oldest brother.

"Oh, you play in a band with your two little brothers, only 50 percent of whom have pubes?"

"Yeah."

"Sounds good man."

It's like, look at him. He clearly was the guy who, in 8th grade, had the badass 6th grade brother that consistently embarrassed him in the ladies/sports categories. Did he resent the Silverchair-guy wannabe lead singer's fame?

It'd be hard for me to believe otherwise. I took the liberty of tracking down some of the lyrics to "Mmmbop" just to find out what those words actually were that kept making me crack up in the car as I listened to Hanson in my driveway. Not the main words, but the ones in the background -- the ones from the oldest brother.

No you can't 'cause you don't know
Can you tell me? oh
You say you can but you don't know
Can you tell me? oh
(Which flower's going to grow?)
No you can't 'cause you don't know
Can you tell me? oh
(If it's going to be a daisy or a rose?)
You say you can but you don't know
Can you tell me? oh
(which flower's going to grow?)

The bold represents the extent of the older brother's singing career.

(I am assuming; I've never heard any other Hanson songs. Have you?)

It really is a sad story when you think about the older brother's situation. It's like, his midde brother owns him.

I wonder if older brother Hanson ever says "I admit it!"

I love players like Gary Sheffield.

He's the Al Sharpton of baseball, with way less cool hair.

"Hey, did you know that I was black? Did you? Because I am. I'm black. If anything bad ever happens to me during a baseball game I'm gonna call Reverend Jackson and complain. These megadollars aren't any sign that you want me on your team. I'm black, by the way."

Gary's talent for the game is unquestioned; his talent for playing the race card to garner sympathy is less than absolute.

Forget the millions of dollars in contracts that he has locked up over the past two decades in the game. Gary just wants the following things, if we judge from his public statements:

• "respect" (whatever that means. most overused word in professional sports. WHAT DOES THIS WORD EVEN MEAN?)
• to be "talked to like a man" (a.k.a. to be talked to like a little baby whose mother just wants to put to sleep for a while. I LOVE this one because Gary says it ALL THE FREAKING TIME. What is being talked to like a man, Gary? To your face? Is that really it? Or is it that someone has to say what you want to hear, in conjunction with it being spoken to your face?)
• for everyone to "keep it real" (my personal favorite due to its vagueness)

Sheffield has theory why fewer blacks play MLB

I saw that link tonight on ESPN.com and I could already read what it said in my mind, before I clicked:

(my reactions in red)

"I called it years ago..."

Please say "talk to me like a man," you know you want to, Gary. Please say it.

"...What I called is that you're going to see more black faces, but there ain't no English going to be coming out. … [It's about] being able to tell [Latin players] what to do -- being able to control them," he told the magazine.

"There ain't no English going to be coming out...." hmm, the irony is that many people wouldn't technically classify that which you have just spoken as "English."

"Where I'm from, you can't control us..."

WHOAAAA! Watch out! Gary Sheffield is on the prowl!

"...You might get a guy to do it that way for a while because he wants to benefit, but in the end, he is going to go back to being who he is."

A.k.a...... keeping it real? Score.

"...And that's a person that you're going to talk to with respect, you're going to talk to like a man."

SO GOOD! I am so good.

"These are the things my race demands."

Is that official, or is that just the World According to Gary?

"...So, if you're equally good as this Latin player, guess who's going to get sent home? I know a lot of players that are home now can outplay a lot of these guys."

In what, basketball? Great theory, Gary. It isn't that black kids have stopped playing baseball (I asked a group of eight Third Ward ghetto youths a few weeks back if any knew who Barry Bonds was -- zero hands went up. Eight hands went up for Tracy McGrady). No, it's that teams think they can control Latin players better.

While I'm on Gary's case, can we please get a Webster's definition of the word "cousin?"



cous·in /Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciation[kuhz-uhn] Pronunciation Key - Show IPA Pronunciation
–noun
1. Also called first cousin, full cousin, cousin-german. the son or daughter of an uncle or aunt.
2. one related by descent in a diverging line from a known common ancestor, as from one's grandparent or from one's father's or mother's sister or brother.
3. a kinsman or kinswoman; relative.
4. a person or thing related to another by similar natures, languages, geographical proximity, etc.: Our Canadian cousins are a friendly people.
5. Slang. a gullible, innocent person who is easily duped or taken advantage of.
6. a term of address used by a sovereign in speaking, writing, or referring to another sovereign or a high-ranking noble.

I use the ole "our parents are siblings" definition. Gary uses No. 4, which, modified for his specific situation, could be described as "anyone who is black, good at baseball, and grew up kinda close."

And voila, Gary Sheffield is "cousins" with both Dwight Gooden and Reggie Jackson.

Wait, did Reggie even grow up near him? Nevermind, I'm changing Gary's definition of the word to simply "black and good at baseball."

"He my cousin...."

Whatever Gary. We just can't understand you because we are white.

THESE COLORS DON'T RUN.

That's why Whataburger uses its own ketchup, instead of that liberal, surrender monkey ketchup known as "Heinz."

Does anyone else find it just a little bit weird that Whataburger posts "One nation UNDER GOD INDIVISIBLE" stickers on all its windows?





With an American flag flowing in the wind?

I mean, I get the "Support our troops" style patriotism at a Corpus-based restaurant, but the "Under God" insertion? What is this, Chick-Fil-A? "Oh, we don't even OPEN on Sundays, we are sooooooooo holy."

Which brings up another question I've been wondering about for years:



Can a Jew or a Muslim obtain franchise rights to a Chick-Fil-A?



It'd be like a dude working at Hooters.