FOUL BALL!

Summer fades away too fast. As the days ever so perceptibly, become shorter on both ends, Autumn will begin to poke its head out onto the horizon. Before we know it school will starting for kids of all ages. There's already been a few college students who have arrived back into town to begin classes at SUNY Oswego in a couple of weeks.

I am actually a huge fan of the Fall. As the seasons begin to change, the humidity that lingers during the Summertime in Oswego softly drifts away. For some reason I become incredibly optimistic about the future of the Buffalo Bills at this time of year. This season they return to the field on Sunday, September 12, to square off against the hated Miami Dolphins, their biggest rival. Unfortunately, the last decade has put a real strain on the Bills fan base due to a lack of post season success that we had become accustomed to in the 1990's. Therefore, I am usually resigned to putting my eggs in the Yankees' basket in order to fulfill my hopes for a successful Fall sports season.

Baseball was the 1st sport that I was introduced to at an early age. I can remember being clad in Yankee gear in the late 1970's as early as the age of 3 years old. I can recall fond memories of having a simple game of catch with my Old Man in the yard. It was at that time when I grew to love the game and develop a passion for both watching and playing such a wonderful sport.

Much like many competitive sports, baseball is a great teaching tool for what life offers. Unlike today where everyone gets to bat and goes home with a trophy, when I played the game in my youth, we had winners and losers. The game taught us that life wasn't always fair, but if you worked hard, sometimes you'd earn the trophy that was handed out at the end of the season. My good friend, Dave Herring, a former Little League coach himself in the 90's, couldn't agree more with my feeling about the game today.

"A generation of pussies!" was his favorite way to describe the kids on the Elks Lodge. They didn't like to practice because it was too hard. Well cry me a friggin' river. How in the Hell do you think you are going to get better? I don't care if its a sport, an instrument, or academics. The only way you'll succeed in a particular field is through hard work, practice, and learning from your mistakes.


Dave called a special practice one morning on the day of a game. Of course the little brats objected, but tough noogies. And guess who threw batting practice. That's right, the coach. Now Dave claims to have held back with regards to his pitching velocity that morning. I was not personally in attendance for that practice, but I called immediate bullshit. I know in my heart he was bringing the heat. I suppose that was his best defense, in case some of the tree hugger parents caught wind that he was throwing at their kids.

Wouldn't you know it. After the toughest practice those pansies ever went through in their short lives, they came away with a sense of accomplishment and were sky high with confidence. Surprise, surprise, they kicked the ever living shit out of their feeble opponents that day. As a former member of a dominant Elks Lodge team of the mid 1980's, I couldn't have been prouder of the team that day. Although Dave moved on to bigger and better things shortly there after, it was good to know that the winning culture that existed in my day was on the path to restoration.

Baseball is often called a kid's game. Although some of my fondest childhood memories took place on the diamond at Breitbeck Park in Oswego, I still get a great deal of enjoyment out of watching the game today. And I'm not alone. People of all ages can be seen at the ballpark. As much as I enjoy traveling to Yankee Stadium in the Bronx, there's another team in my backyard that is a much more convenient trip. The Washington Nationals AAA team, the Chiefs, play their games at Alliance Bank Stadium in Syracuse, NY. The 45 minute drive from Oswego is much less taxing than driving to see the Yankees play in New York. Though the level of play isn't as great as the Major League's, the players at the minor league level are still quite talented. Besides, its also much more affordable to attend games in Syracuse.

I cannot count the amount of games that I've attended in Syracuse during my lifetime. One game in particular does stand out though. It took place nearly a decade ago, right about this time of the year. I went with a number of family members, including my older brother Kevin. He can be described as nothing short of a Yankee fanatic. And much like myself, he enjoyed playing the game of baseball as a child as well. He was clearly never as talented a player as I was, despite being my elder. Although he was a valuable asset to our teams, he never reached the all-star status which I enjoyed in my playing days. Unfortunately for him, that was the case in all of the sports we played growing up. It must have been difficult being overshadowed by his super star younger brother, but he turned out ok anyways.

Enough of me piling on Kevin though. When you hear what he did at one particular Chiefs game, you're gonna want to slap him yourself.

We arrived at the stadium a bit early. We wanted to leave ample time to scope out the ballpark food as well as slug down a couple of adult beverages. When we walked down to our seats I think everyone in our party was more than pleased. The late Summer sunshine had begun to wane and the lights were shining down on the Chiefs and the Toledo Mud Hens. We were seated about 7 rows off of the field on the 1st base line, right behind the home team's dugout. The seats were almost too close to the field. It was imperative that you pay crisp attention to each and every pitch. Otherwise, instead of chomping down on a bite of your nachos you might noshing on a piece of leather from a foul ball. That was of particular concern for myself because faces as beautiful as mine just don't come around that often.

The game started and the ballpark was quickly filled in with anxious fans. I remember thinking about moving down a row because there were a couple of vacant seats. It was only the first inning so I figured it was a good idea to wait. That turned out to be a smart choice. In the top of the second inning an elderly man came walking down the aisle. He seemed a bit confused until an usher stepped up and directed him to one of the empty seats in front of us.

Upon settling into his seat, he audibly took a deep breath, put his backpack and walking cane in the seat next to him, then gazed at the field. It was actually kind of refreshing to see an 80 year old man look like a seven year old boy, taking in his first live game. He looked so excited as he reached into his bag to grab the oldest baseball glove I've ever seen. I could tell his glove was ancient when I read his name, Yoda, stitched into the leather. I have no idea what he thought that glove was gonna do for him. As close as we were he never would have been able to react in time to a foul ball.

In the top of the fourth inning things in our section got rather interesting. The Mud Hens 3rd base prospect hit a towering fly ball that was zeroing in on our row. I made a valiant effort to lunge for the souvenir, but it was just out of my reach. Besides, with Kevin cowering in my direction, seeking protection from the missile that was charging back towards us, any chance I had of snatching the ball were diminished. Luckily for Kevin, and Yoda for that matter, the ball missed both of them. By chance the ball plopped right in the backpack that the old fella had placed in front of us innings earlier. However, before the poor guy could fish the ball out of his bag, someone was rifling through his possessions. That's right, Kevin grabbed the ball and held it up, saluting the crowd with his prize.

I can't tell you how embarrassing that shameful act was for my family. The old guy just turned around, almost waiting for Kevin to return the ball to its rightful owner, but to no avail.

"Give that back to him right now!" I exclaimed.

"What? I got that fair and square." was his feeble reply.

He knew he was wrong but refused to return the "stolen property". Even with an entire section of the ball park booing in his direction, Kevin kept the ball. I argued in favor of the man, stating:

"Look at that guy for God's sakes. He's on borrowed time as it is. He isn't likely to make it home without dropping dead. Do you think he's gonna have another chance at a foul ball from a pro baseball game ever again? I mean he's got one foot in the grave already. Give it back!"

Unfortunately, his hearing was much better than his reflexes for a gentleman of his experience. He heard everything I said to my brother. I'm not sure who he was more upset with at that point. Now all of a sudden I was the bad guy, and I was defending him.

To this day, the events that took place at the ball park that night are still a sore subject. A couple of years after that fateful night, Kevin asked me to be the best man at his wedding. With a sly grin I quickly accepted his request. For months I threatened to throw him under the bus during my best man's toast for his behavior. I decided the threat of embarrassing him was not worth ruining their special day. But now that he has been lulled into a false sense of security that I may have forgotten about his nasty deed, I'm glad to share it with you today. Feel free to bring it up to Kevin the next time you see him. I'm sure he will be glad to relive that moment.

Parachutes and Ladders

The rain-out date for our skydiving excursion has finally come and gone, but will not be soon forgotten. August 1st, 2010 will undoubtedly be one of the most memorable days of my life. I feel incredibly lucky to be able to accomplish something that I once thought I could never do. Fortunately the weather cooperated this time, in spite of Andrew's wife, Allison, doing a rain dance in the backyard on the eve of our voyage.

The morning of the jump was overcast so I tried not to get too amped up about the trip. I actually slept very well the night before because I was convinced that after 6 straight days of sunshine, our run of spectacular weather was sure to come to an end. I literally woke up one minute before the alarm on my clock radio was set to go off. Its a good thing I woke up at that point too. Its the same clock radio I've owned since college, and for some reason it never seemed to wake me up in time to make it to my classes back then. Which by the way was a shame. I loved every second of class time I could get back then so it was always a disappointment when I missed out on a quality opportunity to learn. I guess that's why I spent so much of my down time at the library in an attempt to make up for lost time.

Andrew made the call to Finger Lakes Skydiving early that morning. They said the weather was iffy, but they would make every attempt to get all six of our jumpers back down to the ground safely. Off we went on a pleasant drive to the Finger Lakes region. Its actually a beautiful area because its surrounded by a bunch wineries in every direction. Things really started to look up the closer we came to our destination. The sun began to peek through the clouds which was a sight for sore eyes. Although we had complete trust in Andrew's navigational skills, some of us became concerned with where we were headed. There didn't appear to be any direct route to get to the airport. We were traveling down what appeared to be some abandoned roads. All of a sudden it dawned on us that this could be a colossal set-up.

"Does it seem strange to anyone else that there's a $20 discount if you pay for your skydive in cash?" Tweetch asked.

I think that may have been the most nerve wracking point of the entire trip. It was at this time that everyone riding in our vehicle became very quiet. Quiet enough that you could subliminally hear the banjos warming up in the background. I think everybody started looking out the windows, waiting for a fleet of pickup trucks filled with Hillbillies to surround us, take all of our cash, and then steal all of our women. There was a collective sigh of relief when we saw the sign for Ovid International Airport.

When we got out of the car it seemed like everyone who worked there had just woke up. Most of the people there were moving pretty slowly. I guess the smoldering coals left behind by the previous night's bonfire outside should have been a clue that some of the employees had a long night. I wasn't too alarmed when I saw the empty 30 pack of Budweiser as well as wine bottle laying on the ground next to their tent. As long as the pilot was well rested we should be o.k. I mean how hard could it be to pull a rip-cord right? Hungover or not, I'm sure the instructors wanted to get two feet firmly planted on the ground too.

The first task of the day was to sign your life away, relieving Finger Lakes Skydivers from any liability. Although I had no issue with doing so, I had no idea how long that would take. It seemed like it took me as long to sign all of the required papers last Spring when I closed on my new house. And you should have seen one of the guys in the "scare video" we had to watch before we took off. I believe the guy on the tape was the person who created the idea for tandem parachutes. And yes, I said tape, in reference to the stacks of VCR cassettes that were strewn about the building. It wasn't exactly the most technologically advanced place I've ever visited. Anyways, this guy looked like he could have been in the band ZZ Top. His beard was so long it didn't fit on the TV screen. I have no issues with some one's outward appearance, but it was so distracting that I don't think anyone of us remembered one bit of the instructions he gave us.

After a brief run through, and I mean brief, we were paired together with one other person. I was to go 1st with Jerry. Andrew and his father Larry drew the next straw, followed by Kevin and Tweetch. The instructor Chris, who had taught our "class" went to go find my tandem jump instructor, Brett. As Chris and Brett were giving Jerry and I some final instruction, as well as getting us suited up, the rest of our party returned to our tailgating spot outside next to the runway.

Next we were escorted to the plane. Although I'm positive that the air craft was 100% safe, the thing looked like a 1976 AMC Gremlin with wings! Not the most comforting sight, but we all survived. Actually, the flight was great. It took about twenty minutes to reach our desired altitude of 10,500 feet, or approximately 2 miles in the air.

Jerry left the plane with Chris first so I was on deck. The hardest part for me was getting my feet out onto the HUGE step outside of the plane. Note the sarcasm. That step was about the size of a friggin' drink coaster in a bar. Once I was sitting in the ready position it was go time. All I can say is what a fucking ride. It was just short of 35 seconds of free fall at 120mph! The canopy ride to the ground was great as well. The view from up there was indescribable. Its one of the most incredible sights I've ever seen in my life.

I'm am proud to say I did not shit my pants. I may have peed a little, but nothing noticeable. I did bring a change of shorts but they were never needed. Although I went uninjured during my flight and landing, that can't be said for everyone in our party. There were no serious injuries to report. However, there were a couple of sore asses from the landing, and two of the guys, Tweetch and Kevin, landed on their "coin purses". Let's just say it was a good thing they didn't have any singing appearances in the near future. The octave at which they would have performed would have been undoubtedly higher.

After a fine meal at Red Newt Cellars winery in Hector, NY, we headed for home. The celebration continued for some of us at Greene's Ale House and Patz on the River upon arrival back into Oswego. However, there was a sobering moment during our stop at Greene's. After numerous text messages and a few phone calls, we were prompted to turn on the news. We looked up in time to see a story about a skydiving plane with six passengers, who had crashed about an hour away from where we jumped that day. There was one person critically injured, but expected to make a full recovery. The other five passengers were released rather quickly. It was kind of ironic and it did give a number of our friends and families a scare. Some of them were not aware of which airport we had gone to, or they had yet to hear from us that day. I guess that should have been enough to deter me from ever jumping again. NOT A CHANCE! I can't wait to go skydiving again as soon as possible. It was a bit pricey, but worth every nickel in my opinion.

I'd like to congratulate my Brothers in Flight, Kevin Brown, Tom Matweetcha, Jerry McManus, Andrew Heintz and Larry Heintz. I'd also like to give a special thanks to Jerry's wife Jeanne, for being one of the designated drivers and carting our drunk asses around. In addition, I'd also like to thank Allison and Mary Lou Heintz, the wives of Andrew and Larry, for their support from the ground, as they watched us drift back down to Planet Earth. It was truly one of the greatest days and experiences of my life.

A Few Of My (Un)Favorite Things

I pride myself on being a fairly tolerant individual. There are times behind the bar at Greene's Ale House when customers, both intentionally and unintentionally, test my patience. But being the level headed person who I am, I can usually defuse a situation before I become overly agitated. Never let them see you sweat, right? In fact, in times of turmoil I have often been called upon to act as the voice of reason.

However, there are certain situations that really chap my ass. I guess pet peeves would be a more accurate description. The following are just a few examples of actions or events that really get my goat.

Let's start with a fashion faux pas. I'm referring to those of you who chose to put on a tank top before heading to the golf course. I'm no golf snob, far from it in fact. But put a friggin' shirt on for crying out loud. Preferably, it would be a collared shirt. However, wearing a clean t-shirt on a public course, would be sufficient.

Nobody, and I mean nobody, wants to see your 'man boobs' hanging out when you're bent over on the green, lining up a putt. Now I can hit the ball from the tee box a hell of a long way when I get a hold of a driver. I just don't see any reason why I should have to show off my Adonis-like body with a tank top. When someone witnesses one of my 300+ yard drives they have a pretty good idea of what my "guns" look like beneath my sleeves.

For the ladies, these rules do not apply. Feel free to wear a tasteful tank top while you're chasing the little white ball around the course. By tasteful I mean something really tight that accentuates your voluptuous cleavage. Such attire serves a dual purpose as well. While its nice for the guys to admire your "form", a tight shirt will keep the "puppies" from interfering with your back swing and follow through. You're just gonna have to trust me on this one. I personally guarantee it will shave strokes off of your scorecard.

Another thing that drives me nuts occurs when someone places a telephone call, and when I answer they say:

"Who's this?"

Well asshole, aren't you the one who just called me? Use some manners and politely address the person who has answered your call. Simply request, by name, the party you were intending to reach in the first place. I can't tell you how many times this has happened to me at work. I understand that I work in a public place with many other co-workers. But that's no excuse for being too lazy or too stoned to remember who you just dialed. The only circumstance that I will concede to is in the event that you are drunk dialing for a late night booty call. It's quite possible that you either can't remember who it is you are trying to reach, or you have forgotten that you've already called them.

On to #3. Simply put, I am not a big fan of yard sales. I'm not against people having a flea market spread across their lawn in the middle of the Summer. It can be a lucrative opportunity to peddle a bunch of shit that you no longer want or need. You'll just never catch me hosting such an event.

Don't get me wrong, they are good for some things. You can score a great deal of desirable items within the realm of furniture, electronics, or baby items, such as used car seats. Some of these items still have value.

I do however, have a bit of an issue with adult clothing for sale. If your shit is too outdated for you, then it is probably no longer stylish for anyone else either. So please just toss your pit stained leisure suit and bell bottom pants in the trash for god's sake. If you've had a dramatic change in your size, due to weight gain or loss, there are a whole bunch of other options for your tangled wears. Drop them off at Good Will or The Salvation Army. At least that way you can write off the donation on your taxes and maintain some sort of dignity.

I could not handle having a yard sale. My psyche is way too fragile to deal with the rejection. I've never gotten a grasp on how people can stand idly by while perfect strangers pick through your shit, that is priced ridiculously low, and they still don't purchase anything. If your crap was worth a damn don't you think you friends or relatives would gladly take that junk off your hands for a reasonable fee?

When your "garbage" doesn't sell, the public is basically saying that they can't afford new stuff, and your half priced shit isn't good enough for them either. That's enough to drive a person to drink. (Which by the way, if this does happen to you in the future, Greene's is located at 104 W. Bridge St in Oswego, NY. I know that's a shameless plug, but if I might say, the Happy Hour is very reasonably priced ).

Lastly, I have a huge problem with regards to the behavior of large crowds at concerts and sporting events. One behavior, in particular, takes the cake. People that scream WOOOOOO at concerts, as well as games, are incredibly annoying to me. What the hell does WOOOOO actually translate to in the English language? I think it means you're an ass-napkin that cannot come up with anything more intelligent or relevant to yell at any given time during your drunken stupor. Celebrate your favorite ball player or singer's achievement by whistling or clapping really loud. You can even sing along if the song kicks ass that much. Go nuts! Just enough of the god damn WOOOOOING!

I hate to single out the shorties, but you know damn well its always the female gender, especially at concerts, belting out the WOO. And isn't it always the borderline attractive or "beer pretty" broad too? You all know the type. She'll be undoubtedly adorned in a torn denim jacket with big hair from the 1980's. That's the person giving you ladies a bad name. It may have been acceptable 25 years ago, but try to adapt to the times. Ditch the leg-warmers and lose the feathered bangs. While you're at it take that ridiculously looking roach clip out of you hair with the orange feathers hanging off of it from a string. You might be at a STYX concert, but it's 2010 for Christ sakes. LIVE IN THE NOW!

There. I feel better already. If you'll excuse me, I just caught a glimpse of an interesting ad in the local paper. It seems there's a garage sale in town featuring items that include golf clubs. With any luck there will be some sleeved shirts to choose from as well. If I could just recall the person's name so I don't have to respond "Who's this?" when they pick up the phone.

Home Sweet Home

Having been recently forced to endure the NBA free agency sweepstakes, otherwise known as the LeBron James Circus, I've decided that its important to make an unceremonious declaration of my own. I am absolutely STAYING at Greene's Ale House as your favorite bartender.

I've never been on the fence with regards to my desire to stay employed at this wonderful establishment. I feel that now is the prudent time to avow my loyalty to my employers, as well as my legion of loyal customers and fans. I am surrounded by an exceptional staff who have allowed me to shine behind the bar on a daily basis. The resources at this fine tavern have also given me a platform to become the best mixologist I can be as well.

I have been courted by numerous bar and restaurant owners both locally and internationally over the better part of the last decade. The rumors that you may have heard in 2009 about my impending departure were in fact, just that, rumors. They were no doubt fueled by my back to back Oswego Bartender of the Year Awards. I am very proud that the public spoke on my behalf and honored me with such a prestigious "trophy". However, I have no desire to move on.

Where was my 1 hour prime time special on t.v. to announce my intentions you may ask? Unlike Mr. James, I felt it was better to take the high road and not show up any of my colleagues with a self serving, egotistical charade. In addition, I wanted to clear the air immediately in an effort to avoid having this process drag out like one of Brett Favre's off-seasons.

Now that the dust has settled I eagerly look forward to a return to serving the public. I cannot say it enough, I love my job. It has never been about the money. I pledge to continue supplying you all with food and grog as well as a plethora of sports trivia and useless knowledge at Greene's. So stop by for a pint and a bite to eat and we can continue a tradition of excellence.

GERONIMO!

Well, it's finally here. Saturday, June 12th. Weather permitting, I will be plummeting back down to planet Earth from 10,000 feet. That's right, I'm going sky diving today!

I know you're asking, why would any sane human being jump out of a perfectly good airplane to get back down to the ground. Nobody ever said I was sane though. Actually, a little over 10 years ago, while I was under the influence of alcohol, some "friends" of mine convinced me to go sky diving. At that point in my life I'd never even flown before so why in the hell would I want to go jump out of a plane. Nonetheless I agreed. Then I woke up somewhat sober and told them they were out of their F-ing minds. If I was having a hard time with the flight, the last thing I wanted to do was jump out to get back home, so to speak.

So fast forward to three and a half weeks ago. I was working when I overheard a friend talking about having a group reservation to go sky diving, but one of the jumpers had backed out. To make a long story short I took the extra spot. Before I could blink, the day has arrived. Although I truly believe that I'm in more danger driving to and from the airport in Ovid, NY, I thought it might be a good idea to leave some evidence of what I'd like done with my most prized possessions should I not make it back. So here goes. This is my only form of a living will.

By request, I leave a fabulous collection of Hawaiian shirts to Bill 'Blind Melon' Dowdle. I would split them between Bill and my good friend Rich Murney but how can I put this delicately? Rich is a bit too portly to fit into them and I'd hate to see them torn. Wear them proud Billy Boy, especially the Duke ones.

I don't want Murney feeling left out in the cold, so to him I leave my recently installed Shazaam shag carpeting, Super Hero Blue of course. What can I say, chicks really dig it. Good luck Murn.

To my good friend Tim Wink, I leave a vast collection of Duke sports apparel. And with the recent National Championships by the Men's Basketball and Lacrosse teams, the collection has grown quite a bit. Wear and display everything with pride and be sure to taunt your wife for me every time the Blue Devils crush the Tar Heels.

My 2000 Pontiac Grand Prix goes to my good friend Kevin Fitch. You should see the soccer mom van that poor kid is driving now. Maybe now he'll be able to close the deal and actually hook up with one of the many, so called hot chicks that he has creepy pictures of on his cell phone.

To Kappy I leave my "Big Grey Hairy Pussy". I'm talking about my cat named Boo. I figure she's as good as anyone because her roommate is a vet or something. Plus, Kappy's about one cat shy of becoming the crazy cat lady on her street anyway so it just makes sense.

Lastly, I leave the rights to all of my blog material to my good friend and writing coach Mai. Without your encouragement and support, Boozer's Blog never would have gotten off the ground. Thank you so much for inspiring me to follow a dream of entertaining people.

There are so many more people to thank, as well as will the rest of my possessions, but I leave that up to my family to decide. I believe I will be able to write a sequel to this in the very near future but you just never know. So, if Mother Nature complies today, and allows me to fly through the sky at 120 mph, I will be dedicating this jump to the late Ed B. It's only been a week since you were taken away from us, but you won't be soon forgotten.

The witching hour is nearing. Gotta go friends. I've got a plane to catch.

I'm Gonna Get You Sucker

During my formative years, I used to spend Friday nights in the Fall at Wilbur Field in Oswego, NY. The Oswego High football team plays their home games at that venue. My sister Donna and oldest brother Jeff used to play in the marching band at intermission of the Buccaneer home contests. My mother would bring my brother Kevin and I along to the games so we could pal around with our friends, while she proudly watched the band.

I was already forming a life-long love for sports, so it was fun for me to watch the game on the field. There were also countless pick-up football games for kids my age surrounding the 'big field'. Although I never played organized football, a passion for the grid-iron game remains with me today. Fortunately, the losing culture that has surrounded the Oswego program hasn't deterred me from loving this sport. I guess that's why I'm an avid supporter of the Buffalo Bills and the Duke Blue Devils football teams respectively.

Anyways, it was a cool, crisp night in the Autumn of 1986. A clear sky filled with stars and a full moon shone over the crowd. I believe the Bucs were hosting the New Hartford Spartans. After a highly spirited 1st half the band took the field. I stopped to watch my brother Jeff on the field, blasting his trumpet. After their performance was over the two teams emerged from their locker rooms.

As I remember it, New Hartford began to have their way with the Bucs in the 3rd quarter. As my interest in the contest waned, I was beckoned to join another pick-up game with my friends. I was tearing up the field,running and throwing for multiple touchdowns. It was as dominating a performance as Oswego fans had ever seen. A small crowd began to form around our little battle, as word of my legendary play began to filter through the crowd. As I whipped my new found fan base into a frenzy with my play, I could hear my name being chanted by the on-lookers. I believe a petition was formed to shift our contest to the main field as the Spartans were cementing their strong-hold on the Varsity game. Although a shift over to the 'big field' never came to fruition, a new star was unleashed nonetheless.

Following our spirited contest, my classmates and I returned to check out some of the 4th quarter action between our hometown boys and the hated Spartans. Some of the people on the sidelines began taunting New Hartford in an attempt to distract them and possibly get them off their game. However, the Spartans remained in control with the exception of one player. Apparently he'd had enough of the chatter and chased us away with a full water bottle that he hurled at us. Fortunately the fence stopped his missile as we ran to safety.

Many of the kids in our posse had aquired quite a thirst as a result of pursuing me all over the field during our game. Not me though. I could have played all night. I ventured over to the concession stand with them anyway. And that's where the evening became even more memorable.

As they were all scrambling for loose change to grab a soda, I had my eyes on a different prize. I was a sucker for sour apple Blow Pops. If you don't know what they are, then shame on you. I'm not sure who invented the Blow Pop, but it was nothing short of pure genius. Its a lollipop that rewards you with chewing gum when you reach the center. What boy, a mere few weeks shy of his 11th birthday, wouldn't be in heaven with such a prize.

So, as I dug a shiny brand new dime from my pocket, I quickly marched to the front of the line. There was a very attractive co-ed manning one side of the concession stand, so naturally I went to her. I walked up to the counter an plopped my dime on the counter and said:

"Can I have a Blow Pop?"

Her jaw dropped. I thought, maybe I wasn't clear enough. Then I realized what I had done, so I requested again. This time with proper manners.

"May I have a sour apple Blow Pop PLEASE?"

There, that should have done the trick, but to no avail. Again, her jaw dropped, and I still had no Blow Pop in my hand. So...I figured why not try this one more time. In a very deliberate voice I, again, requested:

"CAN...I...HAVE...A...SOUR APPLE...BLOW POP...PLEASE!!"

It was then that I realized why my first three attempts had not been rewarded. What I was actually saying to her was:

"Can I have a sour apple BLOW JOB please?"

I'm not sure who was more red in the face at that point, me or her. I do know, that when she finally gave me my sucker, I'd never ran so fast (not even during my domination on the side football field earlier that night). I wish I knew who the girl was that waited on me that brisk, Fall evening. I know one thing though, I'm sure neither one of us will ever forget the events of that night.

Answering Machine

Part of my job as a bartender is obviously interacting with a great deal of people. Most of the interaction is face to face. However, talking on the phone, for business reasons, is also an essential aspect of helping to maintain a properly functioning business.

Whether it's calling in payroll, taking food orders, speaking with sales people, or trying to smooth over the occasional complaint when one of my co-workers screws up, most of the people on the other end of the line, are in fact, nearly as intelligent as me. Weird, I know. But in the past that has been the case. However, the IQ of some callers has come into question during my time at Greene's. Allow me to share a few examples if you would.

Can someone please explain to me when it became the norm for telemarketers to turn the tables on us and actually treat us like shit? At times, it is partially my fault when I answer their calls. You and I know very well that when you answer the phone and there's a delay, it's probably a telemarketer. Normally I use that window to just hang up. The problem with that strategy is that if you don't take the call, their computer will continue to automatically keep calling you back every five minutes. This can be a complete pain in the ass, especially if you are busy.

Here is where I have a problem. I know many of us used to just hang up on telemarketers when this annoyance first became prevalent. That behavior sucked though because they were just trying to do their jobs. What chaps my ass is when they call a business now and ask to speak to the owner or financial decision maker. When I tell them that person is not available, before I offer to take a message, now they just hang up. What gives? I thought it was their occupation to solicit new business. I hardly think hanging up on a potential client is acceptable. I hate those friggin' ass-napkins!

On more occasions than I can count, I've actually had people call up and ask for the phone number to other bars. Really? You want me to steer business to a competitor because you're too lazy to look up their number? Don't get me wrong, its flattering that you know the number to Greene's by heart, but there are these things called telephone books that are issued on an annual basis to update, as well as confirm that businesses, and humans for that matter, are still alive and kicking. If they're listed in the book, the place is probably still in existence. In the event that you cannot locate a copy of the Yellow Pages, there is this recent invention called the Internet, as well as public information, that can provide you with the digits you so desire. Call them to find out their hours of operation.

I'll offer an instance of such laziness.

"But I thought that since you worked in a tavern, you'd know the numbers to all of the other bars in Oswego too" some clown asked me.

"O.k., by that logic, you must know the phone numbers to every douche-bag in town as well." was my retort.

I could have given him the number to some place I don't like, but it didn't seem worth my while. Instead, I just placed him on hold and waited for him to figure it out that I wasn't ever coming back to the phone to assist him.

Another unfortunate irony that has come into play at Greene's pertains to the similarity between the phone number here, and the number for Time Warner Cable's office, located on West 1st Street in Oswego. Our numbers are identical, with the exception of the very last digit. This has caused both some entertaining as well as extremely frustrating conversations.

At least once a week someone reaches out to the cable company and misdials their phone. More often than not it sounds as if its an elderly person on the other end of the line, so I always inform them that they've obtained the incorrect destination.

For every one of those cases, there have been an equal number of able bodied idiots who have called us and were positive that they'd gotten a service person at Time Warner. I had just finished a shift a few years back when the phone rang. There was a rookie bartender relieving me so I stayed around in case she needed any help. Good thing I did. She turned every shade of red imaginable and tearfully said the person on the phone wanted to speak with a supervisor. So I grabbed the phone and asked if I could be of assistance.

"I had an appointment for noon 'til 4 today. It's now 5 o'clock. Where the fuck are you people?".

After trying to calm him down for a moment I quickly realized that wasn't gonna happen. It was at about the time he began demanding free HBO that the last drop of my patience had dissolved.

"Hey you fucking asshole, if you've got a problem with your television, I'd suggest calling the cable company. Your dumb ass called a bar you dickhead!"

Probably not my most civil response to a call at Greene's, but very justifiable in my humble opinion. And that leads me to my latest "victim" to dial the wrong number.

A couple of weeks ago, a former co-worker called the bar and I pleasantly responded "Greene's Ale House." The person instantly recognized my voice and said hello to me. After a moment of small talk she admitted that she too was looking for the cable company. No big deal. Like I stated, the numbers are nearly identical. She made an honest mistake and dialed incorrectly. But nonetheless, we said our good-byes and I didn't expect to hear from her again. No sooner had I hung up on her the phone rang again.

"Greg, it's you again."

I admit, I was a bit puzzled. But her explanation was even better.

"I hit redial and I got the bar again. Why can't I get a hold of Time Warner?"

I didn't have the heart to explain to her how the redial feature works on a phone. Whether you dialed the correct number on the first attempt or not, the people at the phone company have no clue as to whom you are trying to reach. Therefore, when you hit redial its going to undoubtedly call back the same number.

As I look back now, I should have explained how redial works. When I hung up the second time, the phone rang again right away. When I answered, the party on the other end simply hung up. The fourth and final call in a row ended before I could even pick up the receiver. But my hunch told me it was her all four times.

I'd have to say she actually put a smile on my face and made my day. I was surprised because she's really an intelligent person. In fact, she was fun to work with back in the day.

Damn. It's just my luck. The phone is ringing. I gotta go.

March Madness

A short time ago I ventured into The Press Box in Oswego, NY to grab a bite to eat and watch some of the 2010 NCAA Men's Basketball Tournament. Much like Greene's Ale House, where I'm gainfully employed, The Box is a casual atmosphere for taking in the games while tasting a couple of brews. Don't get me wrong, I love hanging out at Greene's too, but it was a nice change of pace for this particular afternoon. And boy was I in for a treat with regards to one of the other patrons at that establishment.

Upon entering the building, my friend and I quickly secured a pair of seats right in front of the beer taps in the middle of the bar. It was luck on our part because we were able to get a great view of all of the HD t.v.'s. The game of the day was highlighted by the #9 seeded "Cinderella" Northern Iowa Panthers, who were able to knock off the top seeded Kansas Jayhawks. However, the most entertaining game of the afternoon was the Old Dominion Monarchs battling the Baylor Bears.

Within minutes of sitting down it became quite apparent that somebody seated behind us was either really drunk, had a shit-load of money on the game, or he went to school at Old Dominion in Virginia. As it turned out, he did in fact attend college at ODU. That made his actions more tolerable because he had a legitimate reason to be rooting for his Alma Mater. But the guy was screaming at the t.v. on almost every play. When the Monarchs hit a free throw you would have thought that his team had just won the National Championship. When in reality, they had cut the lead to 2 points with 11 MINUTES TO PLAY! Not exactly a reason to be so enthused.

This gentleman's "fan-hood" got me to thinking about how people can be so childish when it comes to watching sports. I would never embarrass myself by yelling at the boob tube during an athletic contest. I can see being vocal if you're at the game. But if you're in your living room or out at a local pub, I've got a little secret for you. THE PLAYERS CAN'T HEAR YOU!

Many of you know that I'm a big Duke fan. I root for the basketball, football, and lacrosse teams respectively. Whenever the Blue Devils square off with North Carolina on the hardwood, I always get together with my good friend Michele, who happens to be a Tar Heel basketball fan. By looking at her and talking with her you'd think she was a lot smarter than that. But for some reason she roots for those douche bags from Chapel Hill anyway. And every time it's the same thing. While she is yelling and swearing during her many rants throughout the game, I remain seated, calmly enjoying 1 to 2 adult beverages during the contest, never losing my cool.

Although this type of behavior is typical for many sports fans during March Madness, it's not limited to the NCAA Basketball Tournament. I have witnessed such actions during football in the Fall too. In addition to being a Duke fan, I am also a life-long supporter of the Buffalo Bills. Every time they play, I gather with my fellow Bills fans at Thirsty's Tavern. Much like Greene's and The Press Box, it's another local watering hole that caters to some of Oswego's finest. And while all Buffalo fans respect the game and root in an adult manor, that cannot be said for some of the people cheering for other franchises.

Thirsty's is often filled with Cowboys, Redskins, Giants, and Dolphins fans to name a few. And these guys are both obnoxious and annoying. Especially the Dolphin fans (Sorry Galloway). Whenever the Fins make a good play, which believe me is very few and far between, they stand up and slam their hands on the eave that hangs over the bar. I know what you're thinking. How adolescent. If they only realized how stupid they look. And what makes matters worse, Dave Hall, who is on the cleaning crew at Thirsty's, never dusts above the bar so debris falls from the ceiling into our drinks.

Now I admit that I displayed a slight bit of emotion last November 4th when the Yankees won the World Series in 6 games over the Phillies. It was my birthday too so in addition to my standard 2 beers when I go out, I also sipped on 2 shots of tequila to celebrate. But outside of standing to clap at the end of the game when Mariano Rivera got Shane Victorino to harmlessly make the last out, I think I kept my composure quite well.

It's not that I'm some old fashioned fuddy duddy that doesn't like to have fun. I let my hair down from time to time. I'll tap my foot a little when I'm at a concert. I will applaud achievement when I deem it necessary. It's just that in this guy's humble opinion, I think people need to prioritize what's important in life a little better. Enjoy sports for what they are, a game.

Crop Dusting

Working in a fast paced environment at Greene's Ale House has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. I've met a great deal of interesting people, some of which have become life long friends, I hope. The financial benefits have been excellent as well. They've afforded me the opportunity to pay back my student loans, purchase an automobile, and most recently, save for the down payment on my new home that I bought last Spring.

However, not every aspect of my job has been entirely fruitful. The dedication to my work has caused one aspect of my life to deteriorate at times. I'm referring to my diet. I admit that it's my fault what I put into my body. It seems like I subsist primarily on chicken wings and beer. And I do love a nice rare steak at least once a week.

My problem stems from my eating habits while I'm on the clock. Being a bartender, I don't have a set lunch break. Depending on each individual day, I eat whatever I can, whenever I can. It tends to be something fried because its quick, and I usually chase it with a carbonated soft drink. And because of my drive to get right back to my generous clientele, I have a tendency to wolf down my vittles quite rapidly. That can create a recipe for disaster.

Digestion is best served by consuming food at a casual pace, chewing each bite thoroughly. Because I ignore these directions, combined with the food I choose to nourish myself with, often, the result is GAS!! Although my shit doesn't stink, I understand that many others are not as fortunate as I. Therefore, I offer the solution of "crop dusting".

The art of crop dusting can be very challenging. If you are unaware of the practice of crop dusting, allow me to give a quick explanation. When ever you feel a fart creeping up on you, just start walking as you let her rip. The key is to keep the sound to an absolute minimum. I personally recommend letting off what I like to call a couple of testers. Take a step back from those around you and see what you have to work with. If there's minimal to no scent, then by all means, tear it up and let 'em go as needed.

If you detect noxious fumes, chances are the people around you will as well. And we all know that our own "cheese" never smells as bad as others. So take that into consideration when you are "rating" the aroma. If the stink coming out of your "big brown eye" leaves a lot to be desired, the key to passing the blame to someone else is to keep moving. In my case that's easy. I just have to appear to be leaving the scene of the crime to wait on another customer. What I've left behind could have come from anybody, right?

It's important not to jump the gun too. Let those left down wind to be the first to cast an accusation. But don't be scared to jump in on the action. I recommend waiting until at least the 3rd "air biscuit" has been launched. That way you can't be saddled with "the one who dealt it, smelt it first". Put on a good face, you know, like it wasn't really you who unleashed the fury. Then, pick out the weakest person who's near by and point the finger at them.

So far, I'm still batting a thousand at work. It's never been confirmed that I've been the guilty party breaking wind. I do have to come clean though. I've had my fair share of close calls, and I'm not talking about the smell. I've had a couple of near misses when I've been behind the bar. Allow me to share an example with you.

About ten years ago I had the pleasure of working a busy Friday day shift at Greene's. Just as the crowd was beginning to pick up around happy hour, I let a really nice, hot and wet fart go. I was sure that I had just shit myself because of the heat that accompanied this particular silent, but deadly blast. And to make matters worse, I was clad in a pair of light tan pants. I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks in embarrassment. Just before the stench was about to hit the crowd, I faked that a keg had kicked so I would have to go and change it. I went out back and grabbed some paper towels assuming that something besides the keg needed changing. To my delight, and much to my surprise, I had not greased my drawers. I really dodged a bullet.

Although that's just one instance where I've almost sharted, I'm proud to say that I've never gambled and lost. I will also understand any strange looks from you in the future when you walk into the bar while I'm working. And the next time one of you says that my service stinks, I won't take any offense. Sniff, sniff. Will you?

Go For The Gold!

It's no secret that I am extremely passionate when it comes to sporting events. I love watching Duke beat the piss out of North Carolina in college basketball and the Yankees bitch slapping the Red Sox on the baseball diamond. I'm also quite competitive when I'm on the hard courts playing Men's League Basketball, or diving all over the volley ball pit during the Summer months for the Greene's Ale House co-ed team. Quite often I compete with reckless abandonment, sacrificing my Adonis-like physique for the welfare of my teammates. At times my dedication results in a great deal of cuts and bruises. But hey, no pain, no gain, right? Besides, with the proper amount of alcohol before, during, and after said competitions, I think I manage the pain rather well.

Enough about my many accomplishments. My beef is with NBC's family of networks and the International Olympic Committee for their spotty coverage of the 2010 Winter Games in Vancouver. It all began with the very 1st night, before the Opening Ceremonies aired. Was it absolutely necessary to show 21 year old Republic of Georgia luger, Nodar Kumaritashvili, slam into a support beam during practice, resulting in his untimely death. I get that it was a news worthy event, but they didn't need to air it without warning 16 times in a row in slow motion. I would expect that type of gruesome video on YouTube, but not on national television.

The next faux pas that occurred which really chapped my ass took place during the Women's 10K cross country skiing competition. Gold medal favorite Kristin Smigun, of Estonia, took a nasty spill during her qualifying heat. Only the top 30 times moved on to the medal round so it appeared that her hopes were squashed. If you haven't seen the crash, look it up on the Internet. She missed a turn and dropped down a hole about 10 feet. You couldn't even see her as she seemingly fell of the face of the Earth. After she was assisted out of the bunker, the Olympic Committee must have had a moment of weakness. In an unprecedented move, those bleeding heart douche bags let her go back to the starting gate and begin a second qualifying run. Surprise, surprise, the World's #1 ranked skier in this event managed to post a time in the top 30. What really pissed me off was that her time bumped the last legitimate athlete who qualified for the medal run. Talk about favoritism. That would have been just like letting A-Rod bat again during the World Series if he had struck out with the game on the line. Fortunately, he came through for the Bronx Bombers and he legitimately got his "Gold Medal". Little miss Smigun wasn't as successful as A-Rod. It was poetic justice that she only "won" the Silver Medal.

I also understand that with the Olympics there comes a great deal of different sports. I realize some of the events that I enjoy watching might not coincide with the tastes of every other viewer. And NBC can't show all of the events, even though they are showing games on 4 different stations. But I think the networks should show a greater variety of events.

So lets start with curling. I actually love curling, now that I understand how the strategy and scoring works. It might seem like paint drying to some of you, but during the 2006 Games in Torino, Italy, I managed to corner a native Canadian in a local watering hole and demanded that he explain how curling worked, so to speak. But as much as I enjoy curling, I do think it was covered excessively.

I would, however, watch curling 24 hours a day if I never had to be subjected to ice dancing ever again. Ice dancing? Really? What is the friggin' point of that so called sport. Who wants to watch that crap. It's about as exciting as watching C-SPAN, or re-runs of Designing Women, before Delta Burke ballooned to 400 pounds. I can't stand watching figure skating either, but at least there's a pretty good chance that a couple of the competitors could choke under the pressure of the moment and fall. They might even break a bone or bloody their nose and make it interesting.

What I really can't stand about the figure skating is the commentating. I've got a message for former U.S. Olympic figure skater, turned broadcaster, Scott Hamilton:

"Your brother Yoda just called. Luke Skywalker cancelled tonight's dinner party. You don't need to stop at the liquor store on your way home from the rink."

Seriously, how old is that guy. He looks like a 90 year old, bald, troll doll. And that frickin' pip-squeak voice of his when one of those clowns lands a triple axle or toe loop for Christ sakes. Give me a break.

For the most part I am a huge fan of the Olympics. I just think they need to be fine tuned a bit. For starters get rid of the skating. Put a keg of beer at the end of the curling rink. And make the biathlon skier/shooters hunt wild game instead of stationary targets. I think that's just what NBC and the Olympic Committee needs to spice things up for the 2014 Winter Games in Russia. Who knows, as bad as the U.S. Men's Curling team performed in Vancouver, if I start training now, maybe I could be on the next squad. But only if the team has a healthy supply of beer in Russia.

The End of Innocence

About two weeks ago, a frightening story was unleashed that could be a sign that the beginning of the end is nearing with regards to amateur sports. The University of Southern California (USC) accepted a verbal commitment from David Sills of Bear, Delaware, to play quarterback for the Trojans. I guess that shouldn't come as a total surprise. Many of the nation's top Seniors are signing on the dotted line to play Division I sports. The traditional power houses have been aggressively snatching up NFL caliber talent like David, in an effort to win the next BCS National Championship game.

Oh....Did I forget to mention that David Sills is not a Senior this year? In fact, the little shit isn't even in high school for cryin' out loud. He's a friggin' 13 year old boy who's expected to graduate in 2015! He just found out that there's no Santa Claus 3 years ago for Christ sakes. Now USC is expecting him to take over as their signal caller in 5 years so they can reach the promised land again? Excuse me while I go take a piss on the Trojan's football program.

Any verbal agreement with an athlete is not entirely binding for either side. Until they actually put ink to paper, both parties could legally put an end to their partnership. I'm just appalled that "amateur sports" have gotten to this point. This kid should be worried about putting gum in some girl's hair from his class and not getting caught for it. He shouldn't be seriously thinking about what he's gonna major in when he goes to college.

It's also creeping into the ranks of college hoops. I know that basketball scouts have been ranking kids as young as 12 for decades. That's nothing new. And now DePaul University in Chicago has taken it a step further to sign a 12 year old basketball star. The school's Athletic Director Jean Ponsetto admits to having had contact with Jahlil Okafor. If the name sounds familiar it should. He is the cousin of former UCONN star Emeka Okafor who now plays in the NBA for the New Orleans Hornets. Ponsetto stupidly confirmed that a relationship with this 6 and a half foot tall wonder-boy has been ongoing with the Blue Demons staff.

I can already see the drool slobbering from the mouths of the NCAA rules committee. Good luck DePaul, the NCAA is a more ruthless organization than The P.L.O. Just by admitting that they initiated contact with a player his age who hasn't signed with them is a major violation. Nice going. Even if this youngster wants to play for DePaul when he's eligible, the Blue Demons will probably be suspended from post season play as a result of the contact they had with Jahlil when he was 12.

The exploitation of kids isn't just reserved for the next great super star on the field. How about the little girls who are treated like Barbie Dolls. You know you've seen it. I'm talking about parents who live out their own childhood fantasies by forcing kids to compete in cut-throat, winner take all, beauty pageants. Or how about some of the schmucks who parade their teens out onto the stage to become the next American Idol. I'd rather listen to a bird stuck in the garbage disposal than have to hear some of these hacks. And listen you PETA tree huggers, I'm kidding about the bird. I'm just trying to make my point, so don't bother getting on my ass about that little barb.

I guess my gripe is that childhood is ending far too prematurely. Picking a college at such a young age is ludicrous in my eyes. It's good that they are interested in higher education, but is it for the right reasons. Where does it stop? Maybe David and Jahlil should give up their last year of Junior High and enter High School early. The risk of injury is too great to risk another year at their current level.

I do wish David, Jahlil, as well as the rest of the youth of America the best of luck. With this type of pressure at such a young age, I believe this won't be the last time we will be reading about them in the media outlets. Hopefully it will be for academic and athletic achievement. My gut tells me it will be in the police blotter when they've gone postal on somebody.

Are You Hiring?

I'm sure many of you already know that I reside in Oswego, NY, right on Lake Ontario. In addition to being known for being the home of multiple nuclear energy plants, Oswego is also recognized as a college town. With the close of the month of January a new semester has recently begun. All of the co-eds have returned to the land of OZ. Classes are in full swing now and before you know it, graduation will be taking place in May. But lets not get too far ahead of ourselves.

Much like the onset of the Fall semester, January brings with it a new crop students knocking on the door of Greene's Ale House in search of a job. Starting around a week or so ago, there's been a plethora of kids seeking employment. Some of them have been coming in to fill out applications. Others take a different avenue. One of my biggest pet peeves is when someone calls to ask:

"Are you hiring?"

My response, "No, at the current time we are fully staffed. You are more than welcome to come in and fill out an application if you'd like. We'd be happy to keep it on-hand if we need help in the future."

Translation: Why don't put down the bag of sour cream and onion chips, get off your lazy ass, and inquire in person. Even if we were short staffed I wouldn't tell them over the phone. I know, I should have a more professional attitude, but show some damn initiative people.

And might I add a couple of suggestions when applying for a position at this fine establishment. Bring a pen with you, smile to show a positive attitude, and dress casual. It's not a lawyer's office so you don't need to wear a tie, but take a shower within a week of your "interview" for Christ sakes! You wouldn't believe what some people show up looking like. Torn sweat pants are for the library and sitting on the couch watching the boob tube. They don't make a good 1st impression.

Lastly, it's probably not a good idea to ask for an application and then order a drink with alcohol in it. It just sends the message that you think it's o.k. to drink on the job. Everybody who comes to Greene's on my shifts know I wouldn't be caught dead drinking on the job. I take my job too seriously to risk making a mistake with $$ as a result of being under the influence.

Upon reviewing many applications over the years I must admit I've read some pretty funny shit. You wouldn't believe some of the crap people write down. For starters, when seeking a position, be flexible with regard to your availability. I understand that class schedules can conflict with work schedules. However, don't put down that you need at least one of the weekend nights off so you can go out drinking with your friends. At least lie about it and say you have a mandatory study group on those nights. We're not gonna believe you, but at least you tried to fool us. I shit you not, I've seen such requests on no less than two applications.

Probably my favorite part to read on a job application falls under the category of previous employment. More specifically, the place where a future candidate states why they've left previous positions. On one occasion a young lady had written that she left as a result of sexual harassment, FROM HER LAST 3 JOBS!! Like she had a chance. I don't mean to make light of such accusations, it's no laughing matter. But that's just inviting a law suit.

Quite possibly the funniest thing I've ever heard of being stated on an application:

And I quote "Some pretty fucked up shit went down. I will explain in person."

Seriously, how do you respond to that one. Let's just say that young man got called for a face to face interview. If for nothing else, we just had to find out what happened to him. Much to our displeasure, by the time he was called for an interview he had already found employment elsewhere. What luck.

Possibly the funniest thing I've heard during the interview process took place on one of my days off about 2 and half years ago. I was planted at the bar enjoying a tasty craft beer when a fine looking young lady came in for a 2nd interview. The boss was already with another candidate, so at the bartender's suggestion she and her boyfriend took a seat to wait for her turn. I guess she brought him for moral support. I have to admit I was already sizing her up. I didn't like the fact that she had a boyfriend, but that didn't mean I couldn't hook up with her if she got the position. She had on a tight pair of dungarees and a cute top, which much to my delight was revealing a significant amount of cleavage. It was a tasteful look, and at the same time, not too slutty.

I overheard her as she turned to her beau and asked:

"Honey, do these jeans make my ass look fat?"

"No, your fat ass makes your ass look fat, the jeans are fine."

SLAP!!

It was priceless. Brutally honest, but none the less priceless. Shortly there after, her name was called. As it turned out she didn't get the job, but I don't think it was because of her jeans. I think she forgot to bring a pen.

Rain Delay

I've spent the better part of my existence residing in Upstate New York. To be more specific, I live on Lake Ontario in Oswego, NY. The few years that I was away from the area, I was matriculating at Potsdam State, studying my ass off in the Arctic North of New York State. Needless to say, inclement weather is nothing new to me.

This time of year was always filled with hope when I was a kid. There would be a great deal of anticipation for a delay to the school day. A weather related closing due to lake effect snowfall or maybe an occasional ice storm was always a welcomed treat. However, anyone who has lived in this region of the country would agree that it would take quite the storm to close school.

Nowadays, there's a constant "ticker" scrolling on the bottom of the television reporting closing and delays. And the Internet is always an option to check for postponements. All of you who grew up around Oswego would undoubtedly remember tuning into WSGO, our local AM radio station, to listen to the voice of weather man Bob Sykes telling us we had a day off from academic torture.

It was an opportunity to go back to sleep, or better yet, head outside to frolic in the snow. It was also a reprieve for those of you who might have been a bit relaxed with regard to any assignments due on that day. I of course always had a tight grasp on my academic standing, completing all of my course work in advance of their due dates. In fact, with my own studies completed ahead of time, I could often be found tutoring neighborhood children on my free time. I was nobody special, just a concerned American trying to give back to my community. I would contribute by helping youngsters with their math homework for example, as well as reading to the blind. And that still left me enough time on my way home to shovel out the elderly when the big storms hit.

But enough about the work ethic we had back in my day. It's the youth of America in the present that has me concerned. Here's why.

Several years ago, my cousin Tim and his wife Carie moved to Winchester, Virginia, accompanied by their two children. Tim grew up in Oswego, and to the best of my knowledge, Carie lived in New York State as a child as well. Their kids lived in the North for a few years too. The point I'm attempting to convey is that none of them are foreigners to Winter weather. So if any of them are reading this, when I slam the people of the South for being the biggest pussies when it comes to dealing with the Winter, you four are exempt from my rant. I understand that you guys have lived there long enough to call Virginia home, but you were transplanted there.

As I arose from my own slumber yesterday, I could recognize without doubt that there was some form of precipitation clapping on my bedroom window. As I drew the blinds back to peer outside I could quickly see that it was in fact rain. I welcomed this vision because I was certain that the rain was sure to melt a great deal of the snow on the ground.

Shortly after I awoke, I went downstairs to start my day. It's not uncommon for me to hop on the Internet to check email as well as what was going on with my friends and family via Face Book. Within a very short period of time I came across a post listed by Carie. She stated that her kids had a 2 hour delay from school. Most would assume it was due to snow or possibly ice. Nope. They had a delay due to RAIN!!

Are you shitting me? RAIN! I immediately went to Yahoo weather to see if there was a chance of the rain shifting to ice. To my surprise it was 55 degrees. What the hell was the superintendent worried about? Were the kids going to melt in the rain?

What is going to become of this generation of kids. Remember when we used to walk to school in the middle of the Winter, uphill both ways with no shoes on. It built character and established a work ethic that may never be seen again. And what's gonna happen when the sun comes back out in Virginia? The poor children could be susceptible to a nasty sunburn waiting for the bus. I think all parents should consider home schooling their children from now on in order to protect them from such harsh elements.

Big Mac Land

Many of you are aware that I'm an avid sports fan. Baseball in particular, was one of my 1st loves. As far back as I can remember into my childhood, I can recall being clad in various New York Yankees attire. They were really the only sports team I could say that I was "strongly encouraged" to support by my Dad. And although the Yanks have had a great deal of recent success, when I was growing up they were often at the bottom. Thankfully, Jeter and the boys turned it around for New York in the 90's.

Recently, two stories have come to the forefront of the baseball world. I'll leave it up to you to decide for yourself which is more disturbing. However, both sagas have caused me a bit of concern, for very different reasons. They are of course, the alleged engagement of future Yankee Hall of Famer Derek Jeter, as well as the admission of Mark "Big Mac" McGuire's use of Performance Enhancing Drugs (PED's).

Lets start with Jeter. He and his fiance, Minka Kelly, are apparently planning a November 5th wedding later this year. And believe me, she is one seriously hot babe, but what could be going through his mind. Has he learned NOTHING from the Tiger Woods "situation"? Being the short stop for the World Champion New York Yankees comes with a great deal of privileges. He's rich beyond his wildest dreams, has a chance to win every year, and most importantly can get laid by the most beautiful women all over planet Earth with little to no effort. Something keeps telling me that he must have knocked her up.

What's the one thing that separates him from Tiger you ask? Besides a few million $$, Tiger threw his bachelorhood away and tied the knot. Don't get me wrong, Tiger's wife is a babe too, but that's no reason to settle down. A girlfriend is a hell of a lot less likely to crack you upside the head with a golf club or a baseball bat than a wife. Why? It's way cheaper to dump a girlfriend. Enough about Derek though. I suppose it's not the very worst decision he could make, and there's still time for his friends and family to talk him out of this.

McGuire's announcement came as a huge shock to me. What's next, Barry Bonds is gonna be outed for PED's? Say it ain't so. Seriously though I don't feel sorry for these guys when they get caught taking drugs. And shame on baseball for acting like they had no clue these things were going on. These players went from looking like normal human beings to something out of pro wrestling practically over night. Sorry Hulk Hogan, but its true. Major League Baseball was making boatloads of money and were willing to look the other way when Big Mac was crushing balls out of the park. They couldn't have cared less and neither did the fans. After all, chicks dig the long ball.

When it's all said and done, I'm the injured party here with regards to McGuire's confession. I currently own 3 of his 1987 Topps rookie baseball cards. Two of which I bought off of my brother when he was 15 so he could pitch in on a case of Milwaukee's Best beer and go drinking at "The Road". What are those cards worth to me now.

Mark McGuire will end out better off in the long run. He's gonna get a lucrative book deal portraying him as the victim in all of this. Oprah or Dr. Phil will have him on their couch spilling his guts again. How heroic of him to come out about drug abuse in an effort to save the children. Excuse me while I go puke my guts out Mark.

And with the book deal will most undoubtedly come some Mini-Series on the Lifetime Television Network. I can see it now:

"Big Mac Land: The Mark McGuire Saga" starring Chuck Norris as Mr. Steroid Man himself.