I had a take, and it sucked, apparently.

Today was another day at the office. "The rim job," it's still going folks.

What do I do at work? Lots of different and interesting stuff. I open up boxes of car rims, take pictures of them, take the packaging off the rims, then pick up the rims and inspect them for fire damage, then put the rims back in the boxes, make notes on a clipboard of what I see, and finally, put a piece of paper on the side of the box with my analysis written on it. Rinse, wash, repeat, all day. And I practice Spanish, since half of the illegal workforce in the warehouse no habla ingles.

The best part of my day is between 11 and 2. This is when the Jim Rome Show comes on the radio.

I listen to it while I work every single day. I live for that three hour time slot.

Today, I finally called in. It was my first time ever, and I've been listening to the show for years, since junior high. I had to talk about the Phillies. I was not happy that they won. I am still not happy. And I will go to the grave unhappy, all because of Brad Lidge. (As I write this, I'm watching slow mo montage shots of his freaking loser face thanking God for helping him record the final out of last night's Game 5. Grrrrrrrr.)

Anyway, I had the phone on speaker while I was hard at work on a rim job.

Riiiiiing, riiiiiing, riiiiiiing, riiiiiiing........

(Fifty minutes later)

riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing........

(And finally, as I'm putting the covering back on rim #8,563 of the day)

riiii -- "Jim Rome Show."

A voice!

My heart started racing.

A voice!

"Hello? Hi, uh, hi," I said... I think. I don't remember what I said. I remember what I was thinking ("A voice!"), but what I said is anyone's guess. It was J-Stew, the famous J-Stew, Rome's producer, the one you've got to go through to get on the air.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Bayless," I enunciated.

"What?"

"BAYless."

"Dude I can't hear you. What?"

Two tries later, J-Stew finally got it down.

"What city?"

"Houston!"

"What are you gonna talk about on the air?"

Hmmmm....

I had two options:
1) Why I Hate Brad Lidge. I decided it was played already (Rome had been talking about that all morning). So I went with the other option.

2) Why Philly Phans Suck. Exhibit A: Tom.

Here's how I tried to pitch it to J-Stew. (By the way, I was sure at this point that I was getting on air. I was SURE.)

"Fake Philly fans," I said. "My friend Tom, he's from Havertown, which isn't even really Philly I guess, he says he's rowdy but then he goes on vacation the week of the World Series! And he doesn't even have a job."

J-Stew said nothing. It was silence.

"Hello?" I asked. Did I lose connection?

Turns out the connection was fine.

"Sorry man," he said after a pregnant pause that felt much longer than the one second that it probably was. "That's not gonna work."

And then he hung up.

And then I went back to the rim job. Rinse, wash, repeat, until tomorrow's Jim Rome Show.

Why does Mark Schlereth have to always specify things with the word "football," as if ESPN pays him to talk about things other than football? "This football team" or "the football game," and so on and so forth.

For example, in the time it took me to type that paragraph, I heard him say, "...the best football team in the National Football League."

It's like, Mark, were you the same guy who stretched contractions into two words on high school papers that had a minimum word count above the threshhold of what you were normally capable of?

The football team couldn't.... "Errrr, scratch that,"

The football team could not come back and win the game.... "Still not enough,"

The football team could not come back and win the football game.

"Perfect."

Brad Lidge, please listen to what I am about to say.

You will always be a loser in my eyes. Always.

Dear Bud,

I looked at the radar and it looks like the rain could be pretty bad through the night tomorrow as well. How about we just play the rest of Game 5 in Milwaukee? Or, to make things easier, let's just play it in Miami? Just so we can have some fans show up for the game. Even if that means visiting fans.

Sincerely,

Houston Astros fans

p.s. My friend Tom is a huge Phillies fan, and he's got a problem. You're the commissioner; I figure you could help him. His team is playing in the World Series, and he's on vacation. It's not his fault; he planned to go to North Carolina and Virginia Beach way back in the final days of the regular season, when it wasn't clear whether or not the Phillies would even win the NL East, let alone the pennant. Even though he's rowdy and from Philly, he just assumed they wouldn't be in the position they're now in: one win away from their second ever World Series title. He's still in Virginia Beach, but was planning to have to rush back to Philly for the victory celebrations if there was a Game 7 (his exact words were that if there's a Game 7 he'll leave Va Beach early to be back in Philly when it's played, and that he just wants to be there for the victory celebrations.) This is really inconvenient for him. Could you maybe schedule the final two and a half games to be played at the Norfolk Tides stadium? Or, if not, at the new Nationals park in D.C.?

If you want proof of how big of a Phillies phanatic he is, I attached two photos to prove it. If you could help him out, that would be really cool of you. He is a die hard phan.

(Check out Tom's hat)

(And his mom's Phillies magnet)

I'm watching Joe Biden give a speech on CNN, and the ticker on the bottom of the screen catches my eye:

"Robin Gibb tells BBC he has never seen 'Saturday Night Fever' all the way through, even though the Bee Gees sound defined the film."

Ladies and gentleman, Western culture!

Halloween is the greatest thing ever.

And if you're from Texas, and are friends with a lot of Texan deer hunters during a year in which Halloween weekend coincides with the start of deer season, the weekend before Halloween is the greatest thing ever.

The difference in how October 31 is celebrated by the different age groups within our culture is fascinating. From around the time you start to kind of understand the nature of your own existence until about fifth or sixth grade, it's all about costumes and candy, and Halloween is the greatest thing ever. Then there is a lull, from about middle school through high school, when it's not cool to dress up, the candy just isn't as big of a deal anymore, and Halloween at this point becomes pretty lame. This, fortunately, is simply an unfortunate phase, one that lasts until your first Halloween of college.

This is when you realize that wearing costumes and making revelry is the shizit.

Last night was only my third opportunity to celebrate Halloween since entering this phase of it re-becoming an awesome holiday amongst my peers. Whether it be debutante balls, studying abroad, traveling abroad or working abroad, there's usually been something that rained on my parade. This year, though, there was nothing holding me back...

This is how you're supposed to pose if you're a Southern girl, right?

...from dressing like a woman.

I was a Strake Jesuit cheerleader last night. Strake Jesuit is where I went to high school. My little sister Garland, a senior, is now the captain of the squad at my alma mater. She graciously donated an old uniform, pom pom's and a ribbon for my curly pig tails for me to wear. She also lent me her letter jacket, with my last name scrawled across the back in cursive for me to wear.

I must say, for a guy, clearly I don't have "good legs." But for a girl ...

It was really, really hard to get the top on.

I made Garland, 18, come to a party being thrown by a 24 year old. Figured it would expose her to what college parties are going to be like. In truth, I did not "make" her doing anything, but that's what she, and everyone else who witnessed me talk her into it, is calling it. But I swear to God I did not "make" Garland come to the party. I simply persuaded her. By not allowing her to say no.

"I don't even have a costume," she tried to protest. I had gotten her to drive me to Andrew's and drop me off there, since I had no intention of driving home that night.

"Sure you do. John Michael's Strake football uniform." John Michael is Andrew's little brother. "Throw on a little eye black and you're good to go."

For some reason I found it extremely funny that every single girl at the party would go, "Awww, that's so cute" when they saw me cross dressing in my 18 year old sister's threads

Can you blame people for assuming we were a couple? No. No you cannot.

I did a lot of cheering last night. Mundane things, things you would never normally think needed a rhyming chorus of encouragement, were met with cheers. "Tap that keg! Tap that keg! Taaaaaaaaaap, THAT KEG! Yaaaaaayyy!" If I have any regrets from last night, it's that I didn't cheer enough. "More cowbell." Same idea.

I don't know if I'd make varsity.

I had refused to divulge what my costume would be for weeks. Only two or three people knew. All of them I trusted to keep the secret. And it was worth it. The looks on the faces of every single person at the party when they saw me roll up were priceless.

I had some competition, though, from a rival cheerleader.

Pretty face.

A Cowboys cheerleader.

But just a so so butt.

Certainly not as nice as mine.

I'd call it an even draw between myself and the Cowboys cheerleader girl. My friend "PP6," though, clearly preferred Cowboys cheerleader girl.

Step 1: Lay the foundation.

"Oh, yeah, me too. Uh huh. Right. Yeah I am totally listening to the words that you are saying, and I am processing them, too, because they mean so much to me. Yeah. Fascinating."

Step 2: Transplant black face paint onto her face.

Step 3: Just so that everyone at the entire party will know, "Oh, she was making out with THAT guy."

"Man, can you imagine how awesome it would have been if it had been ME hooking up with random Cowboys cheerleader girl?" I asked Andrew today on the phone, as he drove back to San Antonio. "I mean, it would have been the greatest photograph in the history of the camera."

"Yeah," he said, "who knows what could have happened, too? Maybe she'd get into it, and before long both of you would be taking your skirts off."

Andrew and his brother Tony went as the Blues Brothers.

And pulled it off quite nicely if you ask me.

Miguel, the host, also pulled out quite a dandy. For those of you from parts of the country (or world) that don't have Buc-ee's gas stations, this means nothing to you. But for us Texans, it was an awesome costume.




It was fresh and unique and it cost $100, as opposed to my costume, which was free. But hey, it was worth it; Miguel was the only Buc-ee the Beaver at the party. The same could not be said for his little brother Marcus and his status as Banana Man.

Which is more wack: being one of two bananas, or being the guy that doesn't wear a costume to a freaking Halloween party?

You know when Marcus watched Banana Man Pt. 2 walk up the driveway, he's just like, "F***!"

(Let me take this opportunity to point out the pooch I had popping out between the shirt and the skirt. I need to start doing crunches.)





For those of you patient enough to read up to this point, you are about to be rewarded with a brief account of the best part of the entire night.


I almost got in a fight while wearing pig tails.

A general rule of thumb for manhood is that, if a dude wearing pig tails starts to talk shit to you, you cannot allow it to stand. I wholeheartedly agree with No Costume Guy's reacting the way he did.

It started out pretty innocently. I was taking a photo of something; some guy not wearing a costume was in the way; I called him "No Costume Guy" and told him to move, so that I could take my photo.

This is when things started to turn south.

I don't really remember exactly what happened. I know he got mad at me. And that I found this very amusing, which prompted me to continue egging him on with taunts of "No Costume Guy," "Where's your costume?", "Who comes to a Halloween party without a costume?", and my personal favorite, "What are you dressed up as tonight? A frat boy?"

The guy, who, as it turns out, is cousins with Miguel's roommate, was dressed like a kid from an SEC tailgate. These were his clothes, and not a costume.

At some point during our discourse, which escalated from words to shouts to a straight up commotion, he started calling me a word that starts with "F" and rhymes with "maggot," laying out in graphic detail just what it was that he intended to do to me after lifting up my skirt. I, in turn, threw out the rhetorical question of whether that would make me the thing that rhymes with "maggot" or he. He became even more angered at these insinuations being shot back at him by a man in a cheerleading outfit and pig tails -- (which were clearly my own hair, and not extensions, as so many assumed when they first saw me) -- and proceeded to go into "Hold me back! Hold me back!" mode in the middle of a crowd of people. I continued to taunt him, knowing that I had a 50/50 chance of getting punched in the face, but unable to resist, seeing as I knew as it was unfolding that this was going to be my favorite story of the night.

In the end, though, my big Lebanese friend came to the rescue and used his intimidation index to force No Costume Guy to leave the party, leaving me happy as a clam that I'd come up with a heads instead of a tales on my coin toss.

Always good to have Lebanese Wolverine on your side.

He played football in college. He is so dreamy.

(I really wish No Costume Guy's name had been Kobe, so that he could tell me how my ass taste.)

"KOBE! TELL ME HOW MY ASS TASTE!"

And then I passed out.




The end.

Just because David, who has known me for almost a decade and yet still hasn't caught on that I am a smart ass, made a comment about my "EZ Tag is for rich people" comment, let me assure you, that was a joke. Just wanted to clear that up.

The new "Wassssup!" commercial is, in a word, perfect.

Please, have a look for yourself.

Makes me even prouder to be able to tell people that two of them actually gave me the "Wassssuuuuuuuuppp!" at an Astros game in 2001, a few minutes after Barry Bonds hit no. 70.

I got a new car a couple of weeks ago. It doesn't have EZ Tag. Every other car in our driveway has EZ Tag, but mine doesn't. When I got on the toll road yesterday on the way to Andrew's house, I never thought to myself, "No. Your car doesn't have EZ Tag." It was one of those new toll roads, reserved for the rich people whose cars do. Now I await my ticket in the mail.

I also ran a red light a few days ago with my little sister in the passenger's seat. I never run red lights; that was extremely out of character for me. About two seconds after I did so, Garland informed me that things had changed in the last year in Houston -- cameras have been installed at all the intersections to monitor people who run red lights.


I await my tickets for both offenses.

I have four thoughts on tonight's World Series Game 1:

(And Hanly/Raja, I know y'all hate reading my sports blogs, but there is some universal humor in here, I promise, so keep reading.)

1) Best sign of the night:

Tampa Bay fan, around my age, maybe a few years younger, clearly a head, holding one up that says "SMOKE THEM PHILLIES."

Instinctively, I started laughing -- I guess I forgot I wasn't chilling in Wes the Original Beach Kid's room at school. No one around me -- Mr. and Mrs. Jenner, their three children, Garland -- got the joke.

As a matter of fact, as I found out in reply to the mass text I sent out, not even Wes the Original Beach Kid got the joke. And he even saw the sign. Don't know who's a bigger idiot: Wes or ...


2) Tim McCarver. Actually, I'm going with McCarver. Tim McCarver is a stupid idiot.

Joe Buck, the lead play-by-play man in the booth alongside this dumbass, makes some comment when Carl Crawford is batting, with two outs in the bottom of the ninth, that if he can get on base, with his speed, he could easily make it to second and put his team a hit away from a tie ballgame. McCarver then says something along the lines of, "Especially in lieu of the fact that [Brad] Lidge likes to throw the slider, and doesn't have a good pick off move..."

Yada yada yada, Tim McCarver doesn't know the meaning of "in lieu of." I think the phrase you're searching for, Tim, is, "in light of," not "in lieu of."

You're better than that, Tim. It's a national audience. Game 1. And your network has surely reminded you by now, "There's only one October!" Pick up your game.

I also think a certain satellite company should pick up their game for the Fall Classic. This satellite company is known as ...


3) DIRECTV. An example of how technology will not save us.

The Bob became very angry with Comcast after the lengthy delays in getting our cable back up and running after it got worked by Hurricane Ike. Unintelligible grumbling and some agitated quotes about their customer service reps always being "some woman in Russia or Mexico" preceded the switch to DirecTV.

Which is great ... except for when there are pounding thunderstorms, like there was tonight.

Our satellite stopped working right before the boos rained down on the Backstreet Boys just before they sang the national anthem, and the technical difficulties persisted through the first pitch. I'm not sure which I was more upset about missing: Nick's voice or Kazmir's arm. Garland and I solved the problem by driving over uninivited to her friend Molly's house to watch the first seven innings, until the rain stopped.

(Molly's dad, ironically, looks like Joe Buck.)

When we came home, I could turn the TV upstairs on, but was denied in my attempts to change the channel. In my parents room, I turned the TV on, then the satellite began "searching." I was starting to regret leaving the Jenner's.

Luckily, the four inch set in my mom's study, probably produced in Japan before Hideo Nomo made his MLB debut, was working. I was able to watch the eighth and ninth innings in there, just in time to see the Philies take the 1-0 Series lead. Which brings me to my fourth, final, and most adamant point from Game 1:


4) I HATE BRAD LIDGE AND I WANT HIM TO FAIL.

Mr. Jenner (Joe Buck) and I have a fundamental disagreement on this issue. And the issue is this: if you are a Houston Astros fan, and you remember how much Lidge let you down -- nay, ripped your heart out and pissed on it and then tied it into a pretzel and then ate it and then pooped it out and then flushed that poop down the toilet into the sewer -- in 2005, do you wish him success or continued failure/humiliation with his new team in Philadelphia?

Personally, I wish him continued failure and humiliation. Why should Philly fans get to reap the benefits that were rightfully mine? Why should they get to watch Lidge as a part of Fox/ESPN postseason montages for years to come, celebrating a World Series title in a uniform that still looks really, really weird on him?

I just can't do it. I can't. I've been sick to my stomach all season as I read again and again that Lidge had saved the day. (Get it? "Saved" the day?) What is it now, FIFTY SAVES IN A ROW? Second all time, behind Gagne's unhuman mark of 84 straight? And here's the worst part: Brad Lidge is perfect in a Philadelphia uniform. Perfect! He hasn't blown a single save. Not the one. This is the same guy who singlehandedly lost three postseason games for the greatest Astros team of all time just three years ago:

1) Pujols' "John Glenn" shot in Game 5

Still rotating around the earth.

2) Podsednik's walk off in Game 1

The guy had zero home runs in the regular season. ZERO HOME RUNS IN THE REGULAR SEASON.

3) And finally, Jermaine Dye's World Series winning RBI single up the middle in Game 4

My thoughts while watching from the stands that night: "I want to Dye."

I watched the White Sox celebrate in our own house. And I must revisit that memory every time I watch a World Series montage, from now till Kingdom Come.

These men haunt my dreams.

I don't want to have two montages that make me sad.

Lidge having success with his new team, for an Astros fan, is like finding out an ex-girlfriend who you loved is blissfully happy with a new guy. You just don't want to know, you know? But you can't take your eyes away, either -- especially if you have Facebook and the News Feed. It's one thing to see Lidge in the World Series ... but winning it? And even worse, being the montage guy by getting the final out? That'd be like seeing on the News Feed that your ex is engaged. The ultimate kick in the balls.

The equivalent of getting your ex's Christmas card with the new bo in tow, in front of the fireplace and the black lab laying in the middle

Now, if you're with a new hot chick who you love (read: if the Astros had won the World Series in 2006 or 2007), you're fine with Lidge becoming montage guy in a red hat (read: you're fine with your ex moving on as well).

But that's not the situation for us Astros fans, now is it?

Let's go Rays. Please, in the name of the future 20 years of montages, let's, go, Rays.

I am using my UVa degree to get paid for a rim job.

Since the Monday before last, I've been a temp, working for my uncle's company out at this warehouse in B.F. Aldine, inspecting car rims. As in, ghetto, hip hop style car rims. Twenty-two's, etc. That's right, I'm Mike Jones.

When you think about it, though, it's a rim job. I am getting paid an exorbitant amount of money per hour for a rim job.

The scene: me holding my laptop, which is open and turned on, in my left arm, while shutting the door to the downstairs bathroom with my right. Just as the door is about to close, I see my mother in the reflection of the mirror. She is about to go up the stairs, dressed in her morning robe, portable phone to her ear.

Mom: "Going to the office?"

Me: "Yes."

Mom: (to the person on the phone, who is probably asking something to the effect of, "Oh, Bayless finally got a job?") "No, the bathroom downstairs."

I love wireless Internet.

How you know that every single person in Tropicana Field tonight is a bandwagon fan:

Every single one of them is wearing the new style of Tampa Bay Rays jerseys. There isn't a single one from the era of automatic last place finishes in the AL East. That is because no one bought Tampa Bay jerseys when they were the Devil Rays. Or even the cut off/green tee Rays.

Welcome to the new reality. More vivid than ever before.

The Bob's reaction to the news that Colin Powell has officially endorsed Barack Obama:

"Well, I guess I'm moving to Australia."

With every day that passes, the reality of our economic situation becomes more and more entrenched in the public psyche. No, this is not a dream. Yes, you are going to have to sacrifice. No, it is not going to get better any time soon. In fact, it is going to get much, much worse before it gets better.

Right now it's a beautiful day in Houston. The sun is shining, the birds are putting on a free concerto in my front yard, a couple plays tennis across the street, a middle aged woman walks her dogs, one big, one small, and the world, from the vantage point of my family's front porch, is at total peace.

Then a melange of images flashes through my mind. The Bosnian kid from Travnik talking about his parents' death in Sarajevo during the war. The 500 billion dinar note I have taped in my journal, a gift from Dragana, just a small relic from the period of hyperinflation in Serbia taking place when Mookie's parents were killed. The grimaced expression on a poor Tanzanian farmer's face as he pushes a cheap Chinese bicycle up an unpaved hill, eight million pounds of whatever crop he grows loaded onto the back. The sadness in my student Rosie's eyes as we wait together outside of the AIDS clinic in Arusha, so that she can get her monthly check up for a disease that even a six-year-old African child knows has no cure.

If there's anything my experiences of the past two years has prepared me for, it's this. Times will get tough; we will survive. That's what human beings do.

Tom is from Havertown, Pennsylvania. So it's not that surprising that he's not a real Phillies fan. He's not even really from Philadelphia.

Nonetheless, he tries to front like he's rowdy. Just like he tried to pretend he was obsessed with the Eagles during college; I never hear him talking about "Donovan" these days, now that baseball is de rigeur once again in the city closest to his hometown. Now the Phils are back in the World Series for the first time since Mitch Williams, all the way back in 1993. And Tom's not even going to be in town for it.

Tell me this: what kind of fan plans a trip to North Carolina and Virginia for the week of the World Series when his team is in the division race the month before? A fake fan. One who a) doesn't think his team is going to make it that far, or b) doesn't care. Or c) doesn't believe and doesn't care.

He tried to paint himself differently, of course, in his email to me the night after the baseball team in his area took down the Dodgers in five games:


"I am a fan. I love watching baseball games and going to them. compared to the average american, i am above average in my support and love of baseball and other sports, especially watching them. But yes, compared to people like you, i am shit. following sports teams day in day out stuff, especially when the information is not readily available. is not one of my priorities. but when it is, i can be on my game quite readily. now im back. i will say that i was in the city last night for the game. it was awesome. there were bonfires and cops and banging on cars... very enjoyable."


Wow, you really convinced me, Tom. Ya know, I lived in Africa for over a year, too. And I was traveling for a year before that. And not once did I not know what was going on in the NL Central standings. Not only that, but in the fall of 2004, when my Astros were up 3-2 in the series with St. Louis, and a game away from their first World Series appearance in franchise history, I went so far as to book a round-trip ticket home from Switzerland, where I was studying abroad at the time, so that I could go to Game 4, and then leave the next day to go back to Europe. I had a refundable ticket reserved through a travel agent, throwing down $687 of my own money, so that I could be there for my team in such a special moment.

Of course, thanks to Jim Edmonds and Dan Miceli, I ended up not having to make that trip, because the Cards took the last two games of the Series, en route to an ass kicking at the hands of a Boston team that was not to be denied. But at least I proved my dedication. Tom? He's "back" from South Africa, and he's not even going to be in the state of Pennsylvania for the entirety of the Series.

I think that fact speaks volumes on his character. He is not a real Phillies fan. Thank you.

Just to show that I'm fair and balanced...

My goodness. As Howard Stern said, "Nobody knows what the f***'s goin' on."

"Oh, shit," I thought, as soon as I saw the second thumbnail under the Related Videos tab on YouTube tonight. "She's blown it."

The label, "Shocking comments from Barack Obama's wife!!" just didn't make me feel too good.

I always feared that Barack's undoing would come down to something Michelle blurted out in the stretch run, something racist against white people, or a revelation that proves her husband was actually born in Kenya, or is an Indonesian citizen, or something crazy and earth shattering. So to see that video staring at me on the screen, waiting to be clicked on, it momentarily scared me.

Then I watched the video.

Two things to keep in mind when you do:

1. The conclusion that she is a flag-burning Muslim.
2. Red leather.

"Is she ready to defend this country from terrorism..."

DUH! DUH DUH DUH! WEEEER WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRR!!! (that's me doing death metal background music).

I really feel sorry for Republicans sometimes.

"I'll have the spaghetti."

When you're ordering food at a restaurant, when does it become the fillet, the lamb, the whatever? At what point do you go from the omission of an article to insertion of the definite?

"Yes, I'll have the lobster."

But the hamburger? Never.

"I'll just get a hamburger."

And fries, right? No article. Perhaps you would say "and some fries," but never the.

I had never thought of this until Tom's friend Martha expounded upon it for five minutes a few weeks back in Philly. Actually, she talked about it for maybe 20 seconds, and I wouldn't let it drop. It is a brilliant observation.

"When you have to worry about what you're wearing, that's when you go with 'the,'" Matt McCarron offered. He's the one who writes the blurbs on the labels of Vitamin Water, in case you didn't realize.

Martha, the creator of this theory, basically agrees.

"I think it depends on the restaurant, not the dish."

Exactly right. They may cook steaks at Applebee's, but it would just feel uncomfortable to say "the Bourbon Street Steak." You're not hearing "the's" dropped at Applebee's.

There are basically four cities that I'm trying to move to. In no particular order: Austin, San Francisco, Portland, Seattle. Each one has its own allure. Austin is closer, plus I've got a spot already lined up to live. San Fran is San Fran. Portland is bike central, and I don't know a soul (actually a plus). And Seattle is like a ritzier Portland, with less bikes, but with baseball.

I'm constantly scouring craigslist.com for anything that may catch my eye. I think I found a winner in Oregon:

Sales Associates (Portland)

---

Reply to: job-878392714@craigslist.org ^[?]
Date: 2008-10-13, 9:37PM PDT


Taboo Adult Video is currently hiring full & part-time Sales Associates for our Portland/Vancouver locations. We are a 24/7 operation and want to primarily fill swing and gravyard shifts. We're looking for self-motivated individuals with good customer service skills. Some positions may develop into management spots. Hourly wage, monthly bonus and additional perks. Please apply with your resume to this ad c/o craigslist.

• Location: Portland
• Compensation: $8.50 +

Mmm, additional perks...

That's what she said.

King of the Castle.

My goal before I went was simple: I wanted to get a video of myself doing the "King of the Castle" scene from "Borat," while swiveling around in President Bush's chair in the Oval Office.

To make sure I got it just right, I even wrote down the lines in my pocket notebook the night before I flew to D.C.: "Oh la la! Wo wo wee wah. King of the castle, king of the castle. I have a chair, I have a chair. (smacking noise with lips). Oh GO DO THIS! Go do this! King of the castle."

Then I found out that they rope off the Oval Office at night. So I settled for the plain old tour of the West Wing.




Before you get any further, I should probably let you know it's going to make a lot more sense if you first go back and read Part One, the story about when Hunter and I got to meet President Bush in Tanzania last February.

Premier Bush!

This is Part Two.

In the weeks following our stop and chat with George W. Bush in Arusha, Hunter's and my cell phone inboxes were blowing up with text messages. Everyone -- colleagues, neighbors, dudes from basketball -- had seen us on TV shaking hands with Bush. On TVT, Tanzania's national news network, they showed the entire clip, unedited and running well over a minute, of the three of us slapping skin, laughing, getting shoulder slapped, just schmoozin' it up. And in Arusha, where, after eight months, we had become familiar faces to most of the locals, people even recognized us on the streets a few times afterwards, as the dudes who are machizi with the Rais wa Marekani: "Sema wakubwa!" What up big men!

In short, W's visit did wonders for our reps in A-Town Nightmares. People thought we were spies or something. Or just straight kachaa's. All because of that man. George Walker Bush.

There was a cherry on top for me, though, that Hunter didn't receive. Two, as a matter of fact.

The first is that I was not only on TVT that day, but all over the world's television screens. My old friend from Serbia, O.G. Zoka, was lying in a Belgrade hospital bed with a leg injury one day when a familiar face popped up on her television screen. She is the one who brought my CNN International appearance to my attention:


"...'texas proud', ah? what was that ,'king of the castle',ah ? ha,ha...it was so funny, at that time i watched Bush on CNN talking about Kosovo from TZ...i just knew it...i thought, he is in Tz and B is there.... he have to visit american camp...next thing i could see was my best friend from texas have handshaking with the president...haha... alal vera, brate!!!"


Alal vera, indeed.

The second cherry came from someone I'd never even met before, President Bush's assistant, who was there at Emusoi that day. He sent me an email a few weeks later at the request of the President, who wanted him to let me know how good a friend my grandfather had been, both to himself and his father, Bush 41. In fact, the President had asked him why no one had taken me aside and brought me back to the V.I.P. section that day so that he could chat more with me.

I shoot back a reply. As does Bush's assistant. Soon it becomes one of those you-obviously-have-a-Blackberry situations. And before you know it, I come away with an open-ended invitation to come tour the White House if I make it back to the States on time.

The money I made from Ike's Tree Service turned that into a possibility. And just like that, just five weeks after I got back from Tanzania, I found myself in D.C., passing through the metal detectors of the White House security with my own private tour guide from Dallas.




Here are some of the things I learned, besides the stuff about "Kitty":

1) George gets thirsty.

In the two meeting rooms situated in the West Wing, there are long conference tables. You can tell which chair the President uses at each because the backs run slightly higher up than those on all the others. Directly in front of the presidential chair, on the underside of the table, are two buttons: one is for security, to be pressed only when the President is in dire straights and needs Secret Service to enter the room immediately (I see no reason why he would ever need to hit this button); the other is, essentially, a Diet Coke button.

When George gets thirsty, he reaches under the table and surreptitiously presses a button, pretending to be paying attention to what his staff is telling him, when in reality, all he can think is, "Man that Diet coke is gonna taste so good..."

My tour guide had no idea that this arcane tidbit of information would become the most important piece of White House trivia I'd hear all night. There she is, pointing out stuff like million dollar works of art and pieces of furniture used by a Who's Who list of the American presidency, and there I am, asking maybe 10 follow up questions to her passing comment about "The Button."

For example: "What color is the button?" And before she can answer, "Tell me it's red. Tell me, it's red."

She didn't know the color.

"When the President talks about the button, does he ever refer to it as 'The Button'? Does he ever make jokes about 'hitting the button,' and then laugh and take a sip of Diet Coke?"

Again, she didn't know.

When she introduced me to some of the other White House staff, I also began asking them about The Button, first thing after shaking hands and exchanging names. I was taking notes in my little Marble Memo. They didn't have any answers to my questions, because my questions weren't about the Norman Rockwell paintings, or the security policies, or the history of the White House. Just about Diet Coke, and the color of the button that George presses when he gets thirsty as a result of all that talk about weapons of mass destruction, or the housing market, or the pennant race in the AL Central.

"Like I said, the only gross domestic product that I know of is Diet Pepsi. That stuff tastes like aluminum cans, man."

I wonder if he's ever hit the wrong button and had a fleet of Secret Service agents come running into the room, guns drawn, only to find that the President's glass was empty.

"Sorry bout that. But hey, how bout you bring me somethin to drink while you're at it."


2) George likes to color.

He uses Sharpies to write. Just Sharpies. All the time. I saw a copy of a speech he'd given recently, all marked up with his notes and annotations -- "Next time, ask for lime with Diet Coke" -- in the thick black line of a permanent marker.

Look closely.

I wonder if he likes the way they smell.


3) George likes to exercise.

He's the anti-Michael Moore, in every way. For at least an hour every day, according to my tour guide, the President exercises. No matter what. No matter what. Gotta get that cardio in.

This didn't surprise me; I'd heard things to that effect said before. And when I met him in Arusha, I was struck by how powerful a physique the guy had. If geopolitics were determined by how well every country fared in a tournament of their leaders putting on the gloves in a ring, I'd still put money on Washington to come out on top.

"To set a good example for our nation as to the importance of physical fitness," is the reason the guide gave for the hour-a-day exercise policy. I looked over to a blown up, framed shot of Vice President Cheney shaking hands with some foreign leader.

"Right," I said.


4) George's dogs like to bite.

Especially Barney.




This was out in the Rose Garden. Barney is quite a ferocious animal. Watch the video I took, and watch the white ball. Also, listen for the sounds.

Apparently he recently dug his teeth into the ankle of some foreign dignitary, and as a result, the presidential dogs have been banned from the West Wing.


5) Derek Jeter shamed Bush into throwing from the mound before Game 3.

You can't walk anywhere in the West Wing without seeing a big, blown up photograph, beautiful stuff, framed and stuck on a wall in some hall, or in some office. These are pictures taken by White House photographers, and are not published for the public consumption. Most are of the president, but not all. There are some amazing shots in the collection. But none compare to the one of W chatting with Derek Jeter, who is standing with bat in hand, before the start of Game 3 in the 2001 World Series.

Here is how my friend -- a kid that played lacrosse with me in high school but who I hadn't seen for years, until I happened to run into him at work ... in the West Wing -- described the story behind that photo.

Jeter: "You given any thought to where you're gonna throw from tonight?"

Bush: (lying; he'd been practicing for weeks from all sorts of locations) "No."

Jeter: "Well I just wanted to let you know, in this city, at this field ... we throw from the mound."

And what does Bush go and do? No only does he throw from the mound, but it is a perfect strike, right down the middle.

Back when he was Jamie Moyer's age

And the crowd went wild.


I did receive a consolation prize the next day, when, as chance would have it, my friend Miguel's dad was being sworn in as the Executive Director at the U.S. seat for the Inter American Development Bank. The Oval Office was off, so I settled for the seat of Luis Alberto Moreno, President of the IADB.

(These pictures are here just to show the only places you're allowed to take them.)

Until a few weeks ago, I knew absolutely nothing about words like derivatives, or capital, or write-offs, or anything with an acronym not used in sports terminology or in describing attractive middle aged women with children. I now have a small amount of knowledge regarding these things. For example, CDO's, I know those. You'll have to forgive my ignorance. When I left America in June 2006, it was a place exempt from history. I came back in August of this year to a place suddenly very vulnerable and fragile. Everyone, including myself, is trying to figure out an answer to the question, "How did we get here?"

More importantly, we're trying to figure out an answer to the riddle, "Which way is the exit?"

And here is all I've come up with: nobody knows the answers. Not even the people that knew what CDO's were all along.

But sometimes, I feel that the less you know, the more you can see the big picture. Things are clearer when you lack the knowledge to muddle your mind with theories and figures and percentage points, colored red and green, with arrows pointing up and down: self-assurances that the path you have chosen is the only path to prosperity. If you aren't so mired in the fog, you can watch it sweeping across the water, and tell someone its shape, its size, its direction.

To me, it has always seemed as if our culture of gas-guzzling individualism -- financed with zero percent interest loans -- was bound to lead us over a cliff. Where is this taking us? What is the endpoint? What will the world look like in 200 years at this pace? We haven't fallen over one yet, but we sure are getting quite a view of the precipice below.

Sometimes I feel like I just want to escape it all. What a terrible time to be alive. What an amazing time to be alive.

I'm about to have a "colinasm" explode in my brain.

I am in the middle of getting my resume together, so I can begin the process I've put on hold for too long now: getting a job.

Rachel, Bino, y'all will be happy. Or sad? I don't know which one. But soon, you will no longer be able to use your go to line of, "Some of us have real jobs." Hope you're having fun fasting, schmuks.

I'm not sure if everyone has heard or not, but the economy is not doing well. At all. It is doing horribly. Horribly, horribly not well. And it is at this time that I have chosen to throw my hat in the ring!

Here is a transcript of my current voicemail, if you want a feel for how I'm feeling:


"This is Bayless, who is just wondering if he could have picked a worse time to be looking for a job. Leave a message."


Some people will say, "Now Bayless, if you're really looking for a job, you need to have a more professional sounding voice mail." I scoff at that. There are two markers for me of a full on, bona fide "grown up," markers that I hope to never, ever meet:

1. Tucking my t-shirts into my shorts. Sean Streckfus, my friend from Strake, started doing this when we were 23. Embarrassing.
2. Having a voice mail that states my name, and asks the caller to leave their name and number, after which I promise to call them back. Or something to that effect.

Creative voice mails are intertwined into my identity. I can sell my soul to corporate America, but y'all, if you ever hear me go boring on the voice mail, I give you full license to say to me, "You've changed, Bayless. You've changed."

Besides, I just caved (somewhat) by getting a "more professional" sounding email -- just for work purposes. And by work purposes I mean "looking for work" purposes.

My aunt said that billyparsley@gmail.com was no good. I guess she didn't think employers would be impressed by the story behind my nickname. That would be hard to convey on paper, anyway, without coming off as racist. I was 16; it was my first summer working construction; my first day at work. I was introduced to Victor, a Mexican whose English was okay at best. Victor sweats a lot, and he has very, very strong hands. Here was the opening dialogue in our relationship:


Victor: ¿Como te llamas?

Me: Bayless.

Victor: ¿Como?

Me: Bay-less.

Victor: Baylee.

Me: No. Baylesssss.

Victor: (face crinkling) Baaayyeeeleeece.

Me: Bay. Less.

Victor: Bayee. Lee.

Me: (frustrated, tired of this game)

Victor: Beelee.

Me: Billy. Billy is fine.

Victor: Bílly. ¡Mucho gusto Bílly! Me llamo Victor.


Make sure to pronounce it with the accent over the "i."

I just registered a new gmail account: rbparsley@gmail.com.

If any of you send me an email to that address, I will not answer it. Unless you are offering me money for my services.

That's right, my first name is Robert. It's out there! I am a fake Bayless. I tried to keep it under wraps, but was foiled by some mystery man who already nabbed baylessparsley@gmail.com.

"Taken"?! By who!

Honestly. Who could have wanted baylessparsley@gmail.com? And why? And where does he or she live? And what do you think the odds are that they don't respond to the email I just sent them?


subject: really?

bayless,

MY name is bayless parsley. how is this email already taken? who are you? do you really exist? this is crazy. please write back. i want to know your story.

your friend,

bayless parsley


As Gaylord Focker would say about his portfolio, "I'd say strong, to ... very strong."

Now let's move on to the next burning issue of the day (worldwide short term interest rates, have a seat and take a number).

These things:

What do we even call these things? Who designs them? Who wakes up every morning, showers, has coffee, drives to work, turns on their computer and then designs these things?

And what does this particular one say?

I'm always blown away by how hard some of them can be to decipher. It's like you're playing a video game, and if you want to successfully complete your purchase, or move on to the next level in Email Register III, you've got to get past these things.

I failed on this particular one during my mission to nab rbparsley@gmail. Luckily, I'd gotten enough coins in the earlier levels to have an extra life. The second go round was much easier -- no italics. Which there should never be. If the purpose of these things is to prevent computer programs from wreaking havoc upon our intricate systems that require a password security guard, that's fine. But don't throw one of these at me!




Is that an apostrophe, or an "i"? Does it say "connasms"? "Cormasms"? "Colinasms"? Or something entirely different that I'm just not saying?

Ugh. Why can't I just pray for rain (and extremely hard winds) and cut trees for a living?

The Grateful Bed

Lithuania, Tanzanian markets, and my new friend Mantas

I never made it to Lithuania during my trip. But I have had a strange fascination with that country since I was eight years old. Ever since the '92 Olympics in Barcelona.

We all remember the Dream Team. Jordan, Bird, Magic, Barkley, and of course, Laettner. I'm not sure who dominated more: U.S. forces in the Gulf War, or that team in Spain. I mean, they simply ran shit. It was very symbolic, a fitting start for a post-Cold War America rearing to go. The Russians were done, not only geopolitically, but on the hardwood, too. No one could stop us now. The gold? A mere formality, something to be picked up like dry cleaning, in between signing autographs for opposing players and taking a stroll down Las Ramblas. As Tener would say, "Who could forget?" No one. Not with that team. I bet you not even John Hollinger could tell you who won the silver in that year's Games. It was the best and the rest, period.

But I do remember who won the bronze in Barcelona: Lithuania.

"How do you remember that?" you ask. "You were eight!"

Easy. Just look at how the Lithuanian team was dressed when they took to the podium to receive their medals.

Look at these guys! No more Soviet Union?! Tie dyes?! Shades?! They are CHILLIN.

I didn't have former hippies for parents. I didn't know anything about the Grateful Dead. All I knew was that those shirts were the coolest things I had ever seen.

This was before Al Gore invented the Internet. There was no Google, no eBay, no way I could go about looking for one of those shirts, the one with the tie dye, and the skeleton two-hand dunking a basketball that looked like it was about to shoot through the worm hole into a scene from "Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure." Did I still believe in Santa Claus at that time? I can't remember. If I did, it was towards the tail end of that era. But even if I did, how would even Santa be able to get me one of those shirts? It was a lost cause. I soon gave up hope.

I spent years thinking about those tie dyed warm ups: a skeleton, clad in a Team Lithuania jersey, slamming it home to go up 96 to -- you couldn't see; his bony right hand obscured the irrelevant point tally of the visitors, as the crowd of fellow (Lithuanian?) skeletons sat mesmerized by a visible current of electricity flowing through the net.




When eBay finally did hit the scene, almost a decade later, what was the first thing I looked for? The tie dye Lithuania basketball t-shirt. I knew about the Dead by then, even though it would be a few more years still until I started listening to them. But it wasn't about Jerry Garcia or some hippie band that only pot heads with pony tails listened to. I just wanted the shirt.

A few years later, I went to Tanzania.

Tanzania's outdoor markets -- the third world's outdoor markets, actually -- are nothing but bazaars cluttered with unorganized piles of tattered, U.S. hand me down's donated to poor, helpless Africans by the American people, Joe Six Pack's who feel they can clear some storage space and do a good deed in one fell swoop. It's like a giant Value Village, where you can find anything from last decade's YMCA soccer jerseys, to Balloon Fest '91 shirts, to red, mesh trucker hats adorned with a Texas flag, perfect for wearing if you ever get to meet an American president from your home state.




These "donated" clothes are sold to the poor, helpless Africans, not given out for free, as Joe Six Pack is led to believe. It is a scam of epic proportions, this business of giving clothes away to poor, helpless Africans. But they're still cheap, so I'm not really that concerned about it. The point is this: if you look long enough, you can find some pretty amazing stuff. And that includes stuff that isn't technically for sale.

Hold on, that last sentence was an oxymoron. We're talking about Tanzania, which is in Africa. And in Africa, everything is for sale, for the right price.

Including one of these special edition George W. Bush kanga's, which I purchased off a different woman's back one day on the sidewalk in Arusha

I saw it coming from a mile away. It's hard to miss a bright, tie dyed shirt of red, yellow and green, with a dash of magenta, standing alone in a sea of black Africans who aren't wearing bright, tie dyed shirts of red, yellow and green, with a dash of magenta. Kind of like that fat guy in the crowd at last night's town hall debate between Obama and McCain, who was wearing a button down orange shirt -- it screams out at you even if you're not looking for it.

There he was, a Tanzanian man roughly my age, standing with his friends in a nondescript corner of my village's market. I had been in TZ for a few months. I had been looking for the shirt on his back for a few thirds of my life. And there it was. At last.

I did not hesitate to approach him.

"Shingapi unataka kwa shati yako?" I asked, telling him to name a price, as I motioned towards what he was wearing.

He, too, did not hesitate, as if this were a common question.

"Elfu kumi."

I guarantee you he couldn't have paid a dollar for it. Now he wanted ten.

"Fanya elfu tano," I said, offering him half that.

Again, no hesitation. A rule of life for a poor person in Tanzania is that if a random Mzungu comes up offering you lunch for the next week, for basically nothing, you take the deal. He took the deal.

"Sawa." And he took it off, right there in the market, in exchange for TSh 5,000, or just under five dollars.

And just like that, I was the proud new owner of a XXL, 1992 Lithuanian men's basketball warm up shirt.

The one I'd wanted since I was eight years old, living on Lehigh, watching my first Olympic games.

That guy gets fed, or he gets a few beers, or some vidole of weed -- whatever he wants to do with the TSh 5,000. Me, I get something I've been looking for for years, a tie dyed, old school sports shirt, which represents the dichotomy of my personality in ways the Grateful Dead could never have anticipated when they decided to sponsor the '92 Lithuanian men's team. It was a win-win situation.

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There is a website designed for budget travelers alone in a foreign land who need a place to stay. Two, actually, that I am a member of. One is called CouchSurfing.com; the other, HospitalityClub.org. They're kind of like Facebook, in that they are social networking tools, with profiles and pictures and flowery quotes about yourself and the meaning of life. And you have friends and all that, electronic ones at least. But the beauty of CS, or HC, is that if you're on your own, and you don't want to throw down money for a place to stay, or even if you just want a way to meet some cool people in whatever town in whatever country you happen to be passing through, all you have to do is type in the name of the city, and voila, you have friends.

It is the most enlightened site on the Web. People you don't even know will literally give you the keys to their apartment and say "Welcome." The first time I used it, in Istanbul, I couldn't believe Orhan was actually giving me carte blanche to rob him blind. And the second time, also in Istanbul, the people I stayed with actually insisted on paying for all my meals, too. Since that week, I've only used it one other time, when Mary and I were traveling around Ethiopia, and we landed our own room -- with mosquito net, nice -- at a house being rented by Karlijn and Ruhan, a Dutch girl and South African guy who were working in Gonder.

I've always wanted to give back a little, not just rape the system of free accommodation. To be able to help out a solo traveler in the way that so many people helped me, it would almost be cooler for me than for them. I finally got my wish a few weeks ago, just after my career as a post-Ike tree cutter had come to a close.

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:)
hello my name is mantas.
I'm student from Lithuania now traveling through America...

That's the email which I saw pop up in my inbox as I was going through Craig's List looking for tickets to Austin City Limits -- the tree cutting had provided me with a rapid influx of cash, and I was treating myself; not just to my first ACL, but to a trip to D.C. to take that tour of the White House I'd been offered, and then to Philly, for the granddaddy of all college reunions. That is irrelevant to this story. What is very relevant is the key word that jumped out at me from that first bit of Mantas' email: LITHUANIA, in flashing red lights.

I had to have been the first to read it, as he undoubtedly had sent it out as a mass message to the first to respond. I knew no one could have beaten me to the punch after I immediately hit reply and said I'd host him. This was my chance to finally give back a little; but more importantly, this was my chance to finally show off the shirt to someone who would appreciate it.

Mantas (pronounced mon-tuss), a 21-year-old kid who decided to hitchhike across America, had been working all summer in California. He wanted to see the country. He had a plane to catch in Florida. He was that someone.

Very Kerouac. Very crazy. Very budget operation he was running.

What kind of name is Mantas? I'd never heard it. Maybe because I had only met two other Lithuanian people in my life up to that point -- the first of whom, ironically enough, was dating one of the Turks who let me sleep on his couch in Istanbul. She remembered the shirts, but didn't know where to find one. And she wasn't hot, which I hoped Mantas would be, assuming Mantas was a girl, which I kind of assumed he was when I clicked the reply button.

A hot Lithuanian chick at my house for just one night? Sure, I'll come pick you up.

The last time I'd worn the shirt, in New York, I'd been approached by a hot Lithuanian girl on the sidewalk. At the time, I was walking to meet up with my UVa buddy Wes "The Original Beach Kid" Petticrew, whom I hadn't seen in over a year, and whose unmistakable frame I could see barreling towards me and Hunter from over a block away. To my left, crossing the street and coming towards me, was this girl -- the second Lithuanian I'd ever met. A random girl, one I'd never seen, but one that sure was looking at me like we knew each other. In fact, she'd been eyeing me the whole time, with a big, sexy smile on her face.

"Yay-uhhh," I said, silently, to myself, in a tone I'm sure you can replicate, feeling big time. "She must dig dudes with pony tails." Believe me, some girls do dig dudes with pony tails.

"Shabadoo bah da boo?" she asked. That's what it sounded like to me, at least, like the teacher on "Charlie Brown."

"No," I said, confused, suddenly realizing that that sexy smile may not have been intended for "me," me as in Bayless Parsley. She probably had me confused with someone else, which happens all the time (see: Ross from "Friends," "that guy from 'Transformers,'" and some new dude from an HBO show about Iraq). "That's not me."

"Are you from Lithuania?" she pointed at the skeleton, still smiling that sexy ass smile. Clearly, the girl remembered the '92 team well. She wanted me to say yes. I wanted me to say yes. Hunter wanted me to say yes.

And here's what I said: "No."

"Oh." She looked disappointed.

I tried to explain, but had no time, as Wes was literally rolling up at that moment. We did the man hug thing; she walked away. I watched her model-like, tan, 5'10" frame disappear, and then I looked at Wes, who is not as attractive. I did not like Wes at that particular moment.

Besides, there was already someone else in New York I wanted to see. And as for Mantas? Turns out he was a dude, anyway. As the "Jump to Conclusions Mat" would say, "MOOT!"

(I refuse to dumb down my humor for those of you who don't understand what this is.)

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I picked Mantas up in a church parking lot near my house. I couldn't wait to see his reaction to what I had on.

This was it, the big moment, the reason I had pounced on my first opportunity to host a couch surfer with such gusto. This kid is gonna go CRAZY when I get out of the car and he sees what I'm wearing! I live for stuff like this. I love stories; telling them, hearing them. This was excellent, excellent story material.

We enunciated our names as we shook hands, and then practiced saying one another's. Bayless was as exotic to him as Mantas was to me. (Remember: it's mon-tuss).

But even the brief introduction was too much for me. I had to draw attention to what I was wearing. Now I know what girls feel like after their boyfriends don't notice their nice new hair cut, or their cute new earrings. I couldn't believe he hadn't simply noticed it on his own volition, like that hot chick from New York had from across the street (hence the sexy smile and the stare down).

"Check it out man!" I exclaimed before he'd even gotten his bags in the car. "Remember this??" I pulled out the chest like a college basketball player trying to rep his school, my eyes as wide as the kind that would be drawn by a fifth grade art student on self portrait day.

Mantas very calmly looked at the shirt, then back up at my eyes, the ones that were about to pop out of their sockets. He did not seem one iota impressed.

"Not really," is all he said. He got in the passenger's seat and shut the door.

(Pause.)

But, but ... but ... he's from LITHUANIA!

(Play.)

"'NOT REALLY'?!?!?!"

Mantas obviously had no idea who he was dealing with.

"What do you mean, 'Not really'?!"

"I don't really follow basketball," he replied in the strangest accent I had ever heard, as calm as can be, and definitely uncertain of what it was that was making me so amped up.

There was no way for me to respond. The kid doesn't follow basketball. Not really. Plus, he was only five when the Barcelona Games took place.

I started the car and began to back out, internally cursing my new guest as I did so.

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I still wore the shirt when we took Mantas to Hooters that night, his first time. I really enjoyed explaining the pun behind the name, and its relation to the shape of the two "O's" on the Hooters sign. And I also wore it to the bar later on, where we tried our best to get him drunk. I think we succeeded. Actually, I know we did. My friends were not wearing tie dyes. Except for John, they are classified in what I would call the "young professionals" crowd. No hot girls from Eastern Europe approached me asking if I was from their country this time. That usually doesn't happen when I go out.

The next morning, I got up early and drove my guest out to I-10, all the way out to the se habla Español part of town, so that he could have the best possible chance at catching a ride to New Orleans.

"So, what are you gonna put on your sign?" I asked. No one hitchhikes in Texas. No one. Whatever he wrote, it'd have to be catchy and disarming, at the same time.

"East."

"EAST?! That's all you're gonna write? Is East?"

"Yeah. Why?"

Why, he asks? Because like I said, nobody hitchhikes in Texas. Nobody. And if I'm driving down the road to find a kid with long hair and the top button of a short sleeve collared shirt buttoned, and all he's holding up is a sign that says "EAST," there is no way I'm picking him up. Just look at this kid.

Much better.

I insisted we pull off the highway and go into a Target to get supplies. Like the food at Hooters and the beers at the bar, the poster board and Sharpies were on me.

"I'm telling you man, it's gotta be funny. If you make it funny, you will get a ride."

Mantas is not humorless. He had already come up with the idea to write the words, "Not Crazy" on a sign when he was stuck somewhere in Bumblefuck, Texas -- was it Pecos? Fort Stockton? It was somewhere I'd heard of but never been to, and his methods had worked up to this point. But East? Trying to make it to New Orleans?

Shockingly, it was me who not only bought and thought up the whole thing, but also the one who made it, right there in the Target parking lot, atop the hood of The Bob's car.

I also insisted he turn the "O" in European into a happy face. Because I remembered how much Mantas liked happy faces. (Actually, this was part of the reason I assumed he was a hot chick :().

I dropped Mantas up ahead a few minutes, on the feeder, just like he asked I do. And I gave him one of our Parsley golf hats, from my family's golf tournament, as a parting gift. Trying to get him to advertise for me in his country as I've done for him in my own. Then we said goodbye, and I drove away.

Is this a man you wouldn't pick up? I rest my case.

I was excited to finally hear a few days ago that he had made it safely back to Lithuania.

i actualy didn't use your singh (if thats the way you spell it:D) because it was way to big, wind was blowing ant it was hard to hold it:)`

That motherfu......

He better AT LEAST be wearing the Parsley hat in Vilnius.

And he better have a couch ready for me whenever I make it over there.

The End.

p.s. I saw another guy wearing the shirt at ACL, the very festival I was trying to get tickets for when I received Mantas' original message. Unfortunately I was blocked from going over and saying hi by a huge security barrier. It's probably best for him; I doubt he would have been ready for the energy I would have brought his way.

I wonder how much it would've cost to buy it off this guy's back...

p.p.s. Hanly, I am still mad at you for not interviewing me about this thing for Fader.

Shoot me in the face.

I'm lying in bed in Houston, about to fall asleep. It is well past 1 in the morning, and there is no net draped over me. I am free to dangle my limbs over the edge of the mattress if I want. Buzzing around above my head in the shape of a figure eight is a mosquito. That drone, the incessant high pitched drone that represents the M-word in Tanzania, malaria, does not scare me here in America. I am back in the first world, and I don't give a shit if there's a mosquito in my room or not.

This is the best part about being home. I AM NOT SCARED OF MOSQUITOES. BRING 'EM ON.

Especially now that the Astros are no longer playing, this liberation from fear is the highlight of being back.

When I was traveling through Ethiopia, if I was in a hotel room without a net (as was the case about 90 percent of the time), I couldn't go to sleep without stuffing up the gap between the floor and the bottom of the door. Thank you, hot dog suit.

For 14 months of my life, the droning noise I'm hearing right now would have sent shudders up my spine. I wouldn't have been able to go to bed without first tucking in my mosquito net, and tying knots in it to plug up the holes.

I even used to call mosquitoes "the enemy."

Those words mean "The mosquito is dead."

Now, I say bring it on. I ain't skeered. Bring it on, mosquitoes!

Clearly I mean to write more about this later, but I got to take a tour of the White House last night, courtesy of the connections I made during President Bush's visit to Tanzania last February.

There is a First Cat running around the West Wing, or so they say. My tour guide swears she has never seen him, his litter box, his hair on the furniture, nothing. She wonders if there even is one in reality. In a way, the First Cat of the Bush White House is kind of like the Christian God: no one knows that he actually exists, and there are three names for one entity.

(But he's black.)

"India, Willie and Kitty," my tour guide from Dallas said, before pre-emptively answering the question I had already started to ask.

"The President calls it 'Kitty.'"

Oooooooof course he does.

*If you read Kitty's bio on the White House website, it lets you in on the origins of its name:
"Named for former Texas Ranger baseball player, Ruben Sierra, who was called 'El Indio'."




Ooooooooof course he is.

On infomercials, when the man with the deep, enthusiastic voice says, "Call within the next ten minutes and we'll ship it for free!", what does that really mean? How do they know what time you saw the commercial? And is that ten minutes from the beginning of the spot, the end, or from the time he says that sentence?

And more importantly, is there anyone in this country who sprints to the phone to make sure they qualify for free shipping?

"All of them."

ALL OF THEM.

Is this a sitcom? Are we really watching this unfold in real life? Is this woman really going to become our vice president?

ALL OF THEM, Sarah Palin says.