I have a road bike. Road bikes are great for city riding, because they make you less tired than a mountain bike. But on the paved roads of Austin, they also kind of suck, too. You can't hop curbs on road bikes. If you can't hop curbs, you can't really get around the inevitable foot traffic that tends to accumulate on sidewalks. I'm not confident enough yet to ride on South Congress during rush hour without a helmet or health insurance. I'm also not confident enough to know how to tell people to get the hell out of my way before I run them over.

In Holland, it's an easy answer: you ring the bell. Ding! (pause) Ding! Casual, and socially acceptable is the double ding of the bike bell in the Netherlands. Here, though, it comes across as anal and rude. The bell is out.

In New York, yelling at someone, and calling them an asshole for good measure, is considered okay, because everyone in that city yells at each other and calls each other asshole. Especially in Williamsburg. You can't do that in Texas. Especially in Austin. So yelling is out.

As much as I'd love to convince myself that the squeaky brake trick works, it doesn't, ever. My brakes are loud, because my bike is used and dusty and old. Whenever I try and slow down, even the students at the huge Texas School for the Deaf on South Congress can hear. But for some reason, the people whose knees I'm about to buckle with my road bike don't. The brake squeaking, too, is out.

What about saying, "On your left!" That always seems to anger people, for some reason.

Which brings me to the worst option, and yet, the only option I ever take: the meek, "Excuse me," followed by the, "Sorry," in passing.

It's terribly awkward. Almost like being stuck in an elevator with a stranger who foolishly tries to make small talk at the beginning, only to run out of ammo less than halfway through the ordeal. They're all bad options. But I don't have a mountain bike, so I just try to play the hand I'm dealt.

The Fair Trade Delta

I really worry that there is some synapse in my brain starving for neurological activity. I'm just envisioning one of those teachers' aid videos they used to show in my PSYC 101 class, where a computer generated image of some piece of brain is short circuiting with those little flashes of lightning. This is what your brain should not look like. This is what my brain does look like.




My mom always tells me how special I am, which must mean I am retarded. Seriously, what kind of person, when trying to make coffee in the morning, fills up the filter with grounds, pours a couple of cups of water into the back of the machine, closes the lid, plugs it in, hits start and walks away, without remembering to put the goddamn coffee pot on the hot plate, four times?

One, two, three, four times.

I come back from the shower, half awake and ready for the second leg of my morning pick me up, only to find that my kitchen counter has once again become a floodplain for my organic Fair Trade French Roast (the only hippie product I always buy, since I dated the president of the UVa Fair Trade chapter during college). God, freaking, damnit. How am I expected to handle bills and taxes and developing a good credit history when I can't even remember to put the pot under the flow of coffee?

The only good thing about my shed having been built on a series of slants and leans is that it turns my counter into a nice little delta, so that I can just sponge all the coffee right out.

What can I do about this problem? Remind myself to be more observant? That's the entire point: I keep forgetting about it no matter how many times it happens. It's the same issue I deal with in not noticing huge restaurant signs three blocks from my house, no matter how many times I drive by them: you can't 'remind yourself' to be more observant. You're either oblivious or not. I am oblivious. Sure, I won't make the same coffee pot mistake tomorrow, or the next day. Probably won't even do it again this week, because it will be fresh in my memory. But I guarantee you, this will happen again within the next month.

"Why don't you write a post it note to yourself and stick it on your cabinet?"

Uhhh, maybe because everyone else who comes over would see it?

"Why don't you just always leave the pot in the machine, that way this problem will never happen?"

Why don't you just shut the hell up?

"Well you're probably pretty tired when you make this mistake," a sympathetic female might say. After all, my routine is wake up, groggily stumble into the other room, set up the post-shower coffee, and groggily stumble into the bathroom, so that I can maximize efficiency and have a fresh pot waiting for me when I emerge. The first three times this happened, that could have been my alibi. But today, it happened post-shower, after I'd been jolted out of the doldrums which heretofore were my only excuse for being so out to lunch.

Which is why all I can envision is that computer generated brain synapse shorting out like a worn down wire on an old electric grid.

And thank God it was post shower for once, because I realized what I'd done before it was too late and, running over to the counter like a Villanova guard going coast to coast, was able to slide the pot right in there just in time to prevent another flood. Mr. Coffee, my only roommate, will try to hold off for a minute or two when its A.I. components realize that I've forgotten, once again, to put the pot on. But it can't wait forever. All that brewing coffee can only back up so much before it overflows and spills out the top. It's like (a guy) trying to take a piss and then pinching it: you've got about three seconds in you before your urethra starts to feel like an international convention of fire ants.

Not even Mr. Coffe can hold out forever before he pisses his pants.

So it turns out that I didn't get to meet Kanye West last Saturday, which means I did not get to tell him that his name in Swahili means "Go take a shit."

I did not get to do either of these things because Kanye West is a douche.

How do I know Kanye West is a douche?


1) He wears a vest that says "Sons of Thor/Idaho."

The words on the back aren't even necessary for him to become an automatic D-bag. It's a jean jacket vest. Go take a shit!

2) His face once appeared on a magazine cover not in its original form, but as its left half multiplied by two, each side simply a mirror of the other, so that it could be "symmetrical." And he still got mad at the way it turned out.

I am not kidding about this. Go get your magnifying glasses.

3) He creates concentric rings of backstageness, so that even the people with backstage passes can't meet him to tell him his name means "Go take a shit" in Swahili.


Buuuut, I still got to to backstage to see Kanye West play a show at South by Southwest.

Him and like nine of his "cousin."

And I got to get free Budweiser tall boys any time I wanted, with no line.

Which made me feel like a VEEEEE-IP.

And I got to mingle and mesh with a melange of races and representatives from the entire spectrum of hipness.




Thanks, Hanly!




Don't know what I would've done if I hadn't been able to access the V.I.P. toilets.




I probably would've twittered my balls.

Gotakeashit West

Also known as "Kanye West."

There is a chance -- a slight, slight chance, put at 15 percent by the girl who is going to either make it happen or fail me -- that I will be able to not only meet him today, but ask him a question that has been of burning curiosity for me for over a year.




The question is this: "Kanye, do you know the meaning of your name in Swahili?"

Kanye will inevitably answer, "Naw."

And then I will tell him the meaning.

The only reason it's really up in the air whether I'll be able to pull this off is because the odds of Mr. West getting really, really pissed are high to extremely high. I've read stories in the past about his temper, and it is legendary. And let's be honest, the powers that be for Fader Magazine probably don't feel like risking a relationship with such a big time act just so that a mid-level video producer named Hanly Banks can help her friend add the ultimate conversation starter to his arsenal.

Which is why Hanly put my chances at 15 percent this morning that I'd get to ask Kanye a question, on film, during a Fader Magazine interview.

Hanly works for Fader in New York; she does the video stuff for their website. And according to our conversation this morning, Hanly is most likely going to be interviewing Kanye West tonight, before he takes the stage at the Fader Fort, the coolest place I've seen at South by Southwest.

South by Southwest is an annual event in Austin, when the city spontaneously morphs into one, huge concert, with live music on every street corner. Live music on the sidewalk, live music in people's backyards; big shows, little shows, free shows and shows that you've got to buy a ridiculously expensive wristband for. There are thousands -- literally, thousands -- of opportunities during South By (or, for you texters out there, sxsw) to check out a new band, or a new film, or meet a new friend from a part of the country, or even world, that you've never been to. Next year, I'm taking sick leave for South by Southwest, which runs from Wednesday to Sunday. It is the epitome of Austin's dominance over every other American city on the coolness meter.

I'm poor, and so I take advantage of opportunities like the one Hanly presents me with: a backstage pass to the Fader Fort. I thought I was a badass when she first offered it to me, but then I realized that the backstage pass brought me absolutely not added benefits. Not only is it free for the proles to enter -- ("proles," as in, "those who think ahead and RSVP,") -- but they also get free Budweiser tall boys, since there isn't a wide supply of gin in our society.

Free music. Free Budweiser tall boys. For everyone.

I love Austin so much.

And I love Swahili so much, and I really like Kanye West.

But what I truly love -- what trumps any one city on earth, or any exotic language learned, or even the music of any one hip hop artist -- are conversation starters. Conversation starters, simply put, are really good stories. They turn an awkward interaction with a stranger into an immediate friendship. Oh, you listen to Kanye? Let me tell about the time I told him what his name really means in Swahili...

Which brings us back to the original discussion: will I get to ask him that question during Hanly's interview?

It all depends on whether Hanly is bigtime enough to set it up. If she is, here is what I will say, after Mr. West says "Naw, [I don't know the meaning of my name in Swahili]."

"It means, 'Go take a shit.'"

I shit you not.

"Kanye" an imperative of the verb "kunya," which means "to shit." If you chop off the ku-, replace it with ka-, and change the 'a' to an 'e,' voila, kanye. "Go take a shit."

There are only two possibilities for what might ensue:

1) The most likely option: Kanye gets really, really pissed, flies into a rage, and either kicks me off the bus, punches me in the face, or kicks me off the bus and punches me in the face. I am more than willing to be punched in the face by Kanye West if it means I will live out the rest of my days with this on tape.

2) The least likely option: Kanye, blown away by the fact that I would have the balls to tell him that his name -- the name his deceased mother gave to him -- actually means, "Go take a shit," starts laughing, tells someone that I am a "fool" and "crazy," and proceeds to tell me I'm "aight," and would I like to go on tour with him? Ya know, as sort of the comic relief white boy sidekick?

Either one is aight with me. Both would be incredible stories, excellent conversation starters, and wonderful memories. My greatest fear is that Hanly somehow pulls it off only to have Kanye react with disinterest -- saying something like, "Oh."

There is no way that will happen, though. There is no way.

The last time I hoped for a one in a million encounter with a famous person, it was when I was in Tanzania, about to go to an event where President Bush would be attending. I not only met him, but chatted with him for over a minute, got my face all over Tanzanian news, became a minor local celebrity as a result, got all over CNN International getting a shoulder slap from W, which was seen by my best friend in Serbia from her hospital bed in Belgrade, and even pulled a private tour of the White House as a result of befriending Bush's assistant.

I would have settled for a handshake. Which makes me wonder what could happen with this Kanye situation.

The point is this: you never know. Whether it's something that seems impossible actually coming to fruition, or if your random black guy name actually means something very, very unexpected in Swahili.

Tutaona baadaye. Itafanyakiwa, Mungu akipenda.

Yet another reason why I love Austin:

Last night, we're walking back to the car at about 2 in the morning. Walking in the same direction on the other side of the street is a group of about four. One of the dudes in this group starts to yell at us. But this is Austin, not any other city in America. He's not yelling bad things at us. He's not threatening us, or talking shit, or asking why one of us had been looking at his girlfriend.

He just wanted a hug.

"HEY! HEY! I love you guys!" he screamed. "Can I get a hug!"

This is a normal, apolitical looking guy, mind you. No tattoos, no piercings. Not wearing a shirt with the word "hope" or "change" on it. Nothing to indicate he'd ever held up a peace sign with his fingers, that he was a vegetarian, or that he gave rat's ass about global warming. He was just a guy living in Austin who wanted a hug.

I saw no harm in this.

Yelling back that I loved him, too, we both stepped off the curb and began walking towards each other. The dude, his girlfriend, and the three people I was with then engaged in a series of mini group hugs, in the middle of the street at 2 a.m. Then he went back to where the other people in his posse were standing, and we got in my car and drove away.

The end.

Comeupance has an aftertaste akin to a raw clove of garlic.

"don't ever write or talk about your high school being ranked for dick because i don't give a [bleep] and they lost," the fluent Hater speaker whom I criticized in the run up to Strake's humiliating defeat Friday afternoon wrote today in a magnanimous email. "even if they had won...you would still be getting this hate mail. i hope my fluent hater caught the gramatical mistakes."

Raja:

1) The sting of your boot crashing into my ribs from my position here on the floor is well deserved, I will admit. 2) The word "grammatical" has two M's, but that is more of a spelling mistake.

Work is gonna be brutal tomorrow.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas..

"Mblahhh?"

That's "hello" in "8:30 a.m. on a holiday" for Garland. She was asleep when I called, as was my mom, but I didn't care. It felt like Christmas morning -- and not just because it's so cold in my shed that I can easily see my breath when I exhale, a result of being too cheap to turn on the heat. I'd also gotten zero sleep -- less than six hours -- and was deliriously tired when my uncle Dan called to ask about my plans for after the game tonight. But once I was up, I was up.

Like I'd gotten two cups of Starbucks injected into my bloodstream.

Garland was not up. She was asleep. Until my mom handed her the phone.

"WASSSUUUUUUUUP!" I screamed.

"Uggghh!" she groaned. Garland is probably the biggest Strake basketball fan at her school, St. Agnes, which is right across the parking lot. But even she, the captain of the Strake cheerleading team, was annoyed. "You are way too pumped up for this," she grumbled. "Way too pumped." (yaaaawn). "You're like a little kid on Christmas morning."

Garland and I back when I was the senior in high school, and she was in fifth grade. How badass is that old school Jesuit baseball jersey? That's what I'll be wearing today at the Erwin Center.

"I DONE KILLED SO MANY N********!!" I screamed back across the line. That's the first line from the Ludacris/Lil' Wayne song dubbed onto the YouTube clip I've watched at least 30 times in the past week. I can't type that starred word because I'm not black. But I can sure scream it over the phone to Garland to wake her up. And I can sure rap it to myself allllll day at work today, while I'm just watching the clock, waiting to punch out. "LUDA!"

"God," she said, trying her best to act annoyed, "do you want me to just give you Joey Brooks' number so you can call him to tell him how pumped you are?"

"Forget Joey Brooks," though he is the leading scorer, and he is going to Notre Dame, and is therefore down with me, "I want Tim Frazier's number. THE GUY WHO JUMPED OVER THAT DUDE AND DUNKED IT."

I'm going out of my mind with excitement. I haven't seen Strake play since I was in high school, before we even made it into the UIL, also known as the 5A public school league that can't handle a 4A sized Catholic school. And now look at us. I am so, so glad I didn't go to St. Thomas, Lamar or St. John's. Think about if you had had to go to all three! Man. I can't even imagine.

Oh, wait, I can. I know someone who did. His name is Raja. Raja is fluent in English, French, Arabic and Hater.

"sj blows," he texted me this morning. Right. Right. I understand your point. We blow... all three of your alma maters out of the water on the hardcourt.

Sports, unlike anything else, get me going. They get me going. I am not patriotic at all; I hate the phrase "God Bless America" more than you know; I was against Iraq from Day One; I despised myself for not saying something inappropriate when I met George W. Bush in Tanzania. But when it comes to Team USA -- whether it be Olympic basketball, the World Baseball Classic or Forrest Gump on his trip to China -- I am the biggest flag waver you'll ever meet. I almost came to blows with a black American soldier I met in Germany during the World Cup who was openly rooting for Ghana to beat us in an elimination game, since, as he said, "I'm African before I'm American."

"That guy should have his passport taken away," I kept saying over and over in the wake of our argument. "Send him to Guantanamo."

Team USA Sports turn me into an Ugly American, for sure. Remember this guy?

U-S-and-A! Greatest country in the world! (during the World Cup, that is...)

And just the same, sports turn me into the most obnoxious alumnus I can be, when we're playing well.

Hence, this blog story.

DUDE! I'm sorry. I just can't believe it sometimes, still. I can't believe we're about to go Hoosiers on some people's asses. The word on the street is that the Erwin Center -- where Texas plays its home games -- is going to be sold out, filled with Catholics coming back to rep their college prep. I know the Parsley family will be well represented. Here was my little sister's half-asleep account of how that came to be:

"Oh my God, did you hear about Uncle John? He went to Strake the day after we beat Chavez [which was the first day Final Four tickets went on sale; they were being sold at the school] and got 48 tickets -- for the entire Parsley clan [the Parsley clan, a.k.a. the Parsley Patch, rolls deep. My dad is the oldest of ten. I have 29 first cousins on his side of the family alone. We are pre-Vatican II Catholicism in the flesh: a living, breathing argument against, or in favor of, depending on your opinion of us, birth control.] Strake didn't put a limit on the number you could buy, which was their mistake. So Uncle John [the ultimate salesman] goes to Coach McDonald's office [the A.D.] and says he wants 48 tickets. And Coach McDonald is like, 'I'm not selling you 48 tickets.' But they didn't put a limit! And Uncle John knew that, and he was just like, 'Yes, you are.' So he talked him into it; he was just like, 'I am buying these tickets. Give them to me.' So... the entire Parsley clan will be there, sitting in the same section."

And this is considered a sparsely attended family affair. It's what the Parsley Patch would look like after an Avian Flu epidemic.

"That is SO AWESOME!" I yelled, probably waking up my new neighbor in the efficiency next door as I envisioned an entire section of Parsleys rocking out at the biggest event in Strake Jesuit history. "Dude. I need to rock some Parsley gear today." Our family is so big, we have an annual Parsley Charity Golf Classic, a legit tournament with real sponsors and, well, we have gear. Polo shirts, hats, windbreakers, all sorts of gear, with the trademark Parsley sprig classily stitched onto the breast -- I'm telling you, Parsley Gear is gonna supplant Polo and Lacoste within our lifetimes.

So I'm pumped. And so are all the other Strake alum, too.

"I heard someone is flying in from Colorado for the game," Garland said.

Probably because they have an Internet connection and saw Tim Frazier "done kill SO MANY *****!..."

All I can say is that the timing of this is perfect, because I got invited to go to a St. Patrick's Day party Saturday night after the championship game. (I know it's not technically St. Patrick's Day that day, but whatever.) So I'll already be wearing green. And I'll certainly be ready to party.

Strake Jesuit College Preparatory is gangsta.

• 4:29 p.m. - 46-42 strake at end of 3. Frazier has 4 fouls (My dad is obsessed with Tim Frazier. Joey Brooks, the leading scorer, gets all the press, but The Bob loves Frazier's hops, and his athleticism.)
• 4:42 p.m. - All 3 stars have 3 fouls. Down by 1 with 1:34 left
• 4:43 p.m. - 2:24 left and down by 1 (not sure if there was a time machine involved in that sequence or not)
• 4:43 p.m. - The stars have 4 fouls
• 4:47 p.m. - Tied with 16 second left

This was the sequence of text messages The Bob was sending me last Saturday, during the Region III championship game between Strake Jesuit, my high school, and Chavez, the team that knocked them out in the 5A Texas basketball playoffs last year. I'd missed all 36 previous games the Strake team had played this season, all 36 of them victories. Ranked No. 1 in Texas, and No. 4 in all the U.S., this little Catholic school of just around 900 dudes -- no girls -- was 16 seconds away from making it to the Final Four of Texas high school basketball.

Watch the video, right now. This is the team that was tied with Chavez with 16 seconds to go. LUDAAAA!

(Oh, and for max effect, put it right at 1:40 and prepare to watch something you don't normally see in high school games.)

Sixteen seconds! Tied! And??????

All I could do was sit there in Jamison's passenger seat and wait. We were driving up to Wimberley to go camping, and I had to get out of the car to go unlock the gate. Come on, dad. Update. Update. Update!

I was literally nervous.

And then, after three minutes,

• 4:50 p.m. - Strake wins 59-58

BOOM!

My dad had that sound in his voice when he called me on his way out of the arena: the same way it sounded after the Chris Burke home run in the 18th inning in Game 4 against Atlanta in 2005, or after Vince Young's superhuman performance at the Rose Bowl against USC, or Adam Vinatieri's game-winner against the Panthers in Super Bowl XXXVIII. Whenever my dad goes to truly epic sporting events, he's got that sort of drunken with pleasure and exhaustion sound in his voice.

Garland, my little sister, is the captain of the Strake cheerleading team.

I went as her for Halloween this past year

She didn't have to call to convey how she felt about the outcome.

• 5:00 p.m. - Strake F***ing Jesuit

(Added stars mine. That's my girl.)

And I'll get to see how hard she cheers at the semis tomorrow. Actually I won't watch her at all. I don't give a crap about how she does tomorrow. I care about the game that is almost 12 hours from tip off as I type this. And after we beat De Soto, then comes Saturday: the winner of the San Antonio Wagner-Cedar Hill game. The Texas high school basketball 5A state championship game, held in the UT basketball arena. Strake Jesuit, my high school, is ranked No. 1 in the state, No. 4 in the nation, are 37-0 and heavily favored. I heard St. Thomas got, like, Craig Biggio to coach their baseball team. Cool. I got his autograph once. Nice guy. I'll take having a school that is badass and gangsta to one that is currently undergoing a similar demographic crisis -- shrinking population -- as the former Soviet Union any day, even if they do have a celebrity baseball coach.

The last time I saw Strake play was my senior year, in 2002. Back then, I was the ultimate Strake basketball fan. I grew up with Strake basketball. As a fifth grader, The Bob -- who also went to Strake, and whose brothers went to Strake -- used to take me to games to see those old legendary Jesuit teams of the mid-90's. They used to run shit. Jake Voskuhl (who later went on to become "the white center" on the '99 UConn title team, and then had a long, extremely marginal NBA career as a back up) played on those teams -- and he wasn't even the best player. Now Strake is not only back to the glory days, but they've surpassed those teams, who faced private school competition in private school leagues. The Strake of today is the same school, with a few more students, playing huge public schools who think they can ball with the College Prep, but actually can't.

Now that I'm thinking about other high schools besides Strake, I wonder if St. Johns has ever had a 5A state championship event televised live on Fox Sports Southwest -- crazy cool science experiments only tangientially related to sports don't count.

My high school is gangsta. Your high school is not. It's just the facts. I'm sorry. My co-workers say I'm "gay," and that I'm "living in the past." Also "loser," I've heard that one thrown around quite a bit in conjunction with the words "Bayless is a," or "you're a." I know that language; I've heard it many times. It's called the Hater dialect. It's what haters speak. A Tribe Called Quest has a response to hater talk: "'Blah blah blah,' that's what he said. And then I F***ED UP his head."

What he said. That's what my team will do to your team. Yeah.

How could we possibly not be bound for glory when we've got guys like Joey Brooks (6'5", headed to Notre Dame), Tim Frazier (6'2", headed to Penn State), Steven Rogers (5'10", headed to Rice), Wes Williams (6'4", playing football at Miami of Ohio), Eric Baars (6'6", playing football at Harvard) and Ryan Dunbar (6'3", who may try and walk on at Notre Dame)?

I've been talking about it constantly for the past two weeks, and it's finally here. I was scared to ask for time off Friday, because tipoff is at 3:30, and I get off at 6. I briefly considered having a relative die, then thought to myself, "What if that same relative really did die shortly thereafter?" Not something I want on my conscience. So I came out with the truth: I need to be at this game. My sister is the captain of the cheerleading team; my dad is going to be there; my mom; my friends; Strake is gangsta; I need to be there.

And my boss, well, I think she knew it was either let me go or let me go, ya know? So she let me go. In a good way.

Tomorrow the question that has tormented man for the past 2,000 years will be answered: Does God love Strake Jesuit basketball more than other basketball teams? I would say yes, yes he does. Because they are gangta. Even the cheerleaders call them Strake F***ing Jesuit.

The Netherlands?

What an upset. What an 11th inning rally. I'm sure the reaction back home was ... muted. A complete lack of knowledge about the sport + a big fat spliff in your mouth = scattered applause. Trust me. Boo Boo and I watched the incredible Poland-Germany World Cup game from a coffee shop in Amsterdam back in 2006, and not even a game-winning goal in the 91st minute was enough to elicit a single swear word from the entire joint (what a pun). And that was World Cup soccer, in Europe. This is baseball. In Europe. I wonder how many Dutch people even know what an out is.

I would love to know how many of their players have lived 80 percent or more of their lives in that country, because they look like real baseball players. And let's say it out loud: the Netherlands playing David to the Dominicans' Goliath was a victory for pothead sports fans across North America. Just think how many of those fitted WBC Netherlands hats you would've seen at the Phish reunion shows in Virginia last week had this game taken place about six weeks earlier -- enough time for the powers that be to get off their asses and make these hats available online, plus the time it takes to ship and handle (by the way, what does "shipping and handling" even mean? Why can't they just say shipping?). People would be bouncin' round the room with their new Dutch baseball hats, all a quarter to a half size too big, backwards or forwards, and pushed slightly to the side, with long hair poking out underneath. Just waitin' for the day, when they can hear the Dutch players say, "This has all been wonderful, but now we're on our way!"

Guarantee there will be at least one guy at the next Phish show who is wearing an orange NL hat and a Bill Walton Blazers jersey.

Because even though it was Down with D...R., you know the Dutchmen are about to get booted in the next round.

Speaking of, I just spent the last half hour searching the Internet for one of the NL hats -- and one of the Cuba ones, too, for my friend Miguel, who is related to Fidel -- and they are not sold anywhere. WTF? Neither are the Venezuelan hats. I wonder if it's a US government conspiracy to keep us from repping dictatorships and countries that have legalized pot and prostitution. After the whole diplomatic row that took place in the first WBC with Cuba, I wouldn't be surprised. (The Treasury Department -- guided by Bush -- rejected the Cubans' application to join the field of 16 because of concerns that any financial gain made by Havana would violate the embargo. Castro, that wily old fox, responded by offering to donate all proceeds to the displaced victims of Hurricane Katrina. It was a political chess move around which the embattled Bush could not maneuver in February 2005. The Cubans were allowed to play. And they came one win away from hoisting the championship trophy on American soil.)

I was beaming as I read about the redemption of Eugene Kingsdale and the greatest upset in the history of international baseball. Do you believe in miracles?? YES! Or at least, it was the greatest upset anyone who isn't autistic can recall in the history of international baseball.

Then I found out something that made me even happier, as a result of reading about the WBC: Fidel Castro has been blogging about the Cuban team. My favorite parts:

• referring to Japan's most recognizable player as "the dangerous and enigmatic Ichiro" (that really is an incredibly spot on description, albeit one you wouldn't ever hear one of these new age, smart ass Neil Everett's say out loud)

So dangerous... so.... enigmatic.

• The fact that Tener has something in common with this anti-American Cuban dictator: "The Japanese coach ordered a bunt from the second – and without doubt first-rate – batter of the team, and as a result, presented the opponents with their second out. I am sure that, for our experienced team, that would seemed an error whichever elemental way it is analyzed."

• His way of describing the Japanese, who defeated Cuba in the final of the first World Baseball Classic in 2005: "I would like our victory in the Classic to be achieved at the expense of this team; a team that has tremendous technical expertise."

And now, it's time for photos of Fidel. Thank you, Google Images.

Umm... yes. I think I may frame this one. (If only a U.S. sniper had been on the rooftop at this game. Talk about two birds with one stone.)

Castro's "Cold War loser" face

Time heals all wounds

Or maybe not. They sure don't look too happy.

Dwyane Wade is a machine.

It's because of games like last night that I bought those D. Wade shoes two Christmases ago, when I was back in the States for a couple of weeks, an interlude between Parts 1 and 2 of my year in Tanzania. I'd been playing in some used kicks I bought in my village's outdoor market -- pretty sure they were made by Pony, which I didn't realize until that day had ever made anything other than big, clanky baseball cleats -- and I was using my Christmas list as a way to get hooked up with some better raba ("rubber" pronounced in an African accent), as they're called in TZ.

I wanted to be like Dwyane "Don't Call Me Dwayne" Wade, my favorite player since Charles Barkley.

(Jerryd Bayless was still in college at the time.)

WATCH THIS HIGHLIGHT.

The 48-point, six-rebound, 12-assist, four-steal, three-block stat line is an afterthought to the dramatics. Three buzzer beating three pointers in one game: one at half, one at the end of regulation, and then...

It is so thrilling that I do not want to ruin it for you. It'd be like telling you the ending to "Inside Man." What Dwyane Wade did last night against the Bulls is the kind of stuff that happens on movies, not NBA regular season games. I will give you Wade's quote on the last play, and that is all:

"You never know until it goes in," Wade said. "But I was 99.9 percent sure that one was cash."

It's like Chase said: "basketball is back!"

Two nights ago, when I was camping in Wimberley, I drank too many beers and, as a result, ate too many chili dogs.

I ate six chili dogs in all, spaced out over time, of course. That actually might make it worse, since the last one went down around 3 a.m., after the following exchange took place:

Me: "Is there a reason no one ate this last one?"

People at the table: "I don't know man, it looks kinda sketch."

Me (looking for the approval of at least one person, which would thereby make it possible for me to blame someone else should something go awry as a result of me imbibing this cold, "sketch" hot dog): "Really?"

One person at the table: "I'm sure it's fine, man."

Me: "Yeah, I'm sure it's fine."

And then I went over to the gas stove, which had been turned off for hours at that point, and scooped out a cold serving -- two cold servings, to be exact -- of inexpensive chili, to put atop my cold hot dog, which was enwrapped in a cold bun. And then I put some cold cheese on it, and some lukewarm mustard. And then I ate it.

I regretted the decision almost immediately. Laying down in my sleeping bag -- as someone who suffers from acid reflux, I was very thankful to be sleeping on an incline, with my head above my feet -- I literally felt pain in my back, that's how full to the brim I was with disgusting animal parts and other yummie shit.

"This stuff has got to find an exit at some point," I kept saying over and over again yesterday, during a full schedule of Bacci ball, warm beer drinking and getting burned as shit by the Texas afternoon sun. And it did, last night. And this morning. And again in mid-morning. And now I'm almost late for work. Shit!

Ethan?

My friend at work had a baby today. I think. The last I heard, it was ten hours into labor and his wife was still in labor. He's from Serbia; she's Mexican. Their impatient baby girl, who popped out a little less than three weeks early, still didn't have a name when the agua broke.

What to do about naming the "Hispanoslav" baby?
"Hispanoslav Papic: I think that's a fine name itself," was my favorite suggestion on the extensive email thread that was passed around this morning at work.

I suggested we call it something incorporating the name of Tito, the late, great dictator of Yugoslavia, with the Hispanic suffix of endearment or description of small things, -ito.

And this other girl I work with just sent out the link to this: the Social Security Administration Popular Baby name site!

I didn't take the time to look through it until I got home from work tonight. The first thing I thought when I looked at the front page was, "Ethan?"

How is Ethan no. 3? You're telling me that in 2007, in America, after Jacob and Michael (ironically both the names used for Tom's little brother), that Ethan was the next most widely given name? Ethan. I don't think I've ever met an Ethan. Name one Ethan you know. In fact, I think I can only name two: Ethan Hawke and Ethan Allen. Even if you're really smart and could list like ten Ethan's there is no way that was the third most common male name given to babies born in 2007.

The second thing I thought was, "Ava?"

Ava. Now I really don't know any Ava's. Is that a black name? Is it Hispanic? What is the deal with Ava? No. 4 for girls? This is crazier than Ethan!

I typed in "Bayless" to see where my name would rank. Surely, with Ethan as the third most common name for boys in 2007, and Ava as the fourth most given for girls, Bayless would crack the top 1,000.

Bayless is not in the top 1000 names for any year of birth in the last 9 years.
Please enter another name.

Okay then.

Then I remembered an article I read back in 2004, the first year Carmelo and Lebron came in the League, about how both of those guys' names went from complete obscurity to semi-common among black people and huge basketball fans. Something like a 2,000% jump, a number so high it reminds me of inflation in Zimbabwe (so high it's like, what's the point of knowing exactly?)

So I checked.

Lebron?

Nothing.

Carmelo?

2007	860
2006	872
2005	902
2004	912

And Lebron was a no show??


These are the ranks, by the way. It's not the number of Carmelo's. I don't know if the number of the rank is greater than, equal to or less than the number of Carmelo's, but I know there are more Carmelo's than there are Bayless'.

Except for in the NBA, that is!

I had a great joke prepared for this caption about my favorite player Jerryd Bayless, but sensed that it could get me into some trouble, as it was not politically correct. I called Tony to ask if it was kosher, and he said, "If you feel like you're toeing the line, don't cross it. It's funny, I agree, but don't put that."

Picture being me and getting to watch a YouTube clip of a guy named Jerryd Bayless dunking in some guy's face. The announcer is going crazy and he's screaming your name. "High pick and roll, Bayless, baseline, OHHHH! HE JAMS WITH TWO HANDS, AND HE'S FOULED! You've gotta be kidding me! Bayless has 19! ... Oh, get excited, tell 'em where you're from!"

I'm from H-Town, baby. Dat's where I from. But that's not where Jerryd is from. He's from Arizona, and we have nothing in common.

Except for the fact that neither Bayless nor Jerryd cracked the top 1,000 names given to newborns in America from 1999 to 2007.

Okay, so what about Dwyane? (No, I'm not dyslexic. He spells it with the 'y' before the 'a'.)

Forget All Star voting. Let's let the Social Security Administration decide who's the real fan favorite.

Zero. Shouldn't have spelled it wrong, Mrs. Wade. Your son could have won the SSA name popularity contest had you done a little spell check. Check out where the Dwayne's are sitting:

	Popularity of the male name Dwayne Year of birth Rank 2007 660 2006 613 2005 640 2004 686 2003 609 2002 614 2001 587 2000 539 1999 550

Oh, and for good measure, I tried entering the names "Poop," "Ass" and "Douche." Zero, zero, zero.

But Kanye? That means "go take a shit" in Swahili, by the way -- my favorite fun fact in the history of facts.

Popularity of the male name Kanye

Year of birth	Rank
2005	893
2004	490

What is wrong with people? Ethan. (shaking my head)

"Excuse me, miss, but I see that side pony tail. You're not fooling anyone."

I just took my TABC online certification course for this party boat job I'm trying to start soon. It was probably designed by the same folks who brought you online defensive driving. These are three and a half hours that I will never get back, and I learned nothing from the experience.

I take that back. I did learn one thing: this course has not been updated since the Internet was invented.

One of the sections was about how you can spot underage patrons. It gives "tips" that you can use as a bartender to spot them out. I couldn't copy and paste, as it was all Flash player, so I took the time to write them all down so I could get it exactly right.


Clothes or accessories favored by young people:

• school jackets or sweatshirts

• class rings

• acid washed jeans

• "high top" tennis shoes with colorful laces or no lace at all

• non-matching earrings

• earrings worn on only one ear

• denim mini skirts

• oversize sweatshirts with blouses/shirts underneath

• excessive use of "junk" jewelry

• wearing multiple layers of clothing

Grooming styles favored by young people:

• extremely short haircuts on boys ("burrs" or "crew cuts")

• heavy use of eye makeup (especially eyeliner and mascara)

• large bows, barrettes and accessories worn in the hair

• extreme fads favore by some young people ("punk" look; garish hair colors, bizarre hair cuts)

It later goes on to talk about different behavioral clues exhibited by minors. My favorite is under the "Preoccupation with how the individual appears to other," where it describes typical minor-like activity:

"Minors tend to spend a great deal of time 'checking' their appearance, combing hair, applying makeup, etc."


I know it was updated as recently as September 1, 2000, because of some new law that was passed by the Texas legislature. It was clearly the same information they used to use in the VHS courses. Back in the days when denim mini skirts were still clues that you've got a minor on your hands.