FAREWELL, FORTY-NINE

I write this on the occasion of what may very well be my last few hours in the Large State Of Alaska. It feels like it might be, anyway or at least the last time I come up here on someone else's dime. I've traveled here for the fifth time this year and I am typing this in the cafe of the Kenai Safeway while I wait for my plane to Anchorage. It seems as appropriate a place to part with this land mass as any. I've come in here mostly to get distilled water for my CPAP machine and quarters for laundry, but also groceries, terrible ready-made meals at the deli, and candy bars. This time, I decided to buy an iced latte at the sort-of "Seattle's Best" sort-of coffee bar, and the young sideburned tweaker who took my order made the drink in a paper cup, like an animal. An animal, I tell you!

What have I learned on my many journeys? Alaska is a place for desperate people, living desperate lives, with guns. Alaska is a place for moose, not knowing they are living desperate lives and getting hit by pickup trucks, when not being shot by guns. Alaska is a spectacularly gorgeous place, with oil, and the oil is quickly running out. I read today that the state is grappling with budget cuts and low revenue from the dwindling oil leases, and the populace has taken a particularly self-serving approach to these problems that defies all political labels: we want our Permanent Fund Dividend checks every year, and we don't want to pay higher taxes! So, socialism and conservatism, as it suits them. This is completely understandable. As I mentioned, they are desperate. And they ALL have guns, so they will probably get both of these things, at least until all the oil runs out, and then they certainly won't get one of them.

I've also learned, or rather re-learned, that small cars and snow don't mix. I'm not sure why it never occurred to me to get an SUV on this trip, but I didn't. I suppose it was an altruistic attempt to save the French conglomerate I work for a few euros, but frankly, and Frankly, fuck them. The excellent AirBnB I've been staying at has one disadvantage, that being the driveway that sits perched on a precipice off a sloping unpaved road. This is normally negotiable when not covered by feet of snow, but this morning, this was not the case. As I backed out with my Nissan Sentra, a car that should definitely be banned in this state and probably most others, it slid to the left and almost caused me to plummet the six feet off a terrace down to the parking area below. I tried going in reverse but could not due to a) gravity and b) said feet of snow. Forward was a non-starter, although at least the car itself did start. I called Avis to send me a tow truck, and the tower (and his wife, dog, and almost definitely, his gun) extricated me from my arctic predicament. On past trips, I've slid into snow banks with a Toyota Corrolla and Nissan Altima. Next time, if there is one, I shall heed Denis Leary's many warnings and go American.

I have two hours until the plane departs for Anchorage. The local commuter airline has changed names from Era to Ravn (they dropped the 'e' to save money, undoubtedly). The trip to Anchorage is 20 minutes of what it must have felt like shortly after the Wright brothers incorporated. The pilots do everything themselves except load the luggage. I do enjoy seeing them turn for home with the nose pointed down, and you can see the runway lights through the cockpit window. It's one of the only thrilling things left in air travel, an industry that has removed all romanticism from flying and checked it to the final destination of "Never Again".

Well, that shall be it. I need to gas up the rental car and sit slack-jawed in the Kenai airport for a couple more hours. May we meet again under more auspicious circumstances, Land Of The Midnight Sun!

ALL WE HAVE TO FEAR

Wait...if that is the real reason, how the hell did the Dow ever become a positive number in the first place?

HIGH LATITUDE, LOW POINT

I'm in Alaska, the state we most regret. I'm here as a contractor working at the plant where I used to work as an employee. It took me over a week to get a badge, even though I am in the system, because they couldn't figure out that my new company changed names last year. When I did get the badge, it identified me as still working for my old company, so go figure. Ah, The Last Frontier!

When I got here, the steaming pile of excrement with whom I made my lodging reservations informed me that he didn't have a place for me for the full month, and that he would be moving me sight unseen to a cabin across the river. I wasn't happy, but I was exhausted and needed to sleep, so I went with it. The next night, I was in bed at 9:30 pm, and this same lovely human shitstorm banged on my door. I didn't answer, so he called me and asked if he could come in and take photos of the furniture because the last renter damaged it. Again, I was tired and relented. The next morning, I found a room at a hotel and packed up my stuff. I called the corporate credit card company and had the charges removed.

The hotel only had a room for a week, so I made another reservation for a hotel further from work for the remainder of the time. The new hotel doesn't have a cooking plate, so I have to eat out every meal. They do have a restaurant on the property, but it only opens at 7 am and I have to be at work by then, so I have to cook oatmeal in a paper bowl instead. To top it off, I picked the exact week that they are remodeling the guest laundry, and I am writing this from a nearby laundromat, where America's Most Likely Meth Addict Children are playing nearby.

Other than that, Emperor Hirohito, Nagasaki and Hiroshima are doing well (to put a Pacific Ocean spin on it). I'm at least getting to charge my 40 hours per week to a customer, and the worst part of the commute is having to worry about moose pedestrians.

WHY, YES, I WAS BORED

JE SUIS NOT BEING READ, AS USUAL

My thoughts on the Charlie Hebdo tragedy, tossed to the void.

Let's say that you had a next door neighbor whom you had on good authority to be a homicidal maniac. He has threatened his family, say, and you hear he has posted nonsensical rants on a foreign web site in a language you don't understand that if he ever sees a person riding a bicycle on the sidewalk past his house, he would take out an assault rifle and kill that person. For whatever reason, the police can't trace his IP address well enough to connect him to the rants, and the threats to his family were vague enough that they couldn't intervene, and he is free to live next door to you.

Do you ride your bicycle on the sidewalk in front of his house? What if someone else in the neighborhood decided that this usurpation of freedom was beyond their tolerance, and they rode their bike on the sidewalk past his house, thumbing their nose at him, and your next door neighbor, as promised, bolted out of the house with an assault rifle and shot and killed them? Since this would finally gave the police the ability to arrest and haul off your next door neighbor, isn't your other neighbor a hero?

In that situation, I personally wouldn't ride my bike on the sidewalk past my next door neighbor's house. I rarely ride a bike, and when I do, it's of no consequence to ride in the street for a few feet to avoid the sidewalk in front of his house. Does that make me a coward? I suppose, but I'm not sure. Of course the other neighbor certainly is a hero. He or she gave his or her life so that the rest of us in the neighborhood could be free. But should he or she have done that? What if he or she had a spouse and kids who needed his or her income, and now they are destitute?

These are all difficult questions. The Charlie Hebdo case has important parallels with this admittedly low-value hypothetical. The Hebdo cartoonists did not have to depict the prophet Mohammed, but they felt compelled to do so to protect the idea of intellectual freedom in the light of an irrational and monstrously violence-inducing taboo. They suffered the ultimate consequence, one they knew was very real, and of course are heroes to all of us who value freedom. However, I can't say that I would do the same. If I were a satirical cartoonist, I could imagine that it would be easy to make a cogent point about intellectual freedom in regard to Islam without depicting Mohammed. Cartoonists do it every day, and are not being cowardly for it, in my opinion. Still, the victims of the Hebdo tragedy are heroes nonetheless, because they allowed the authorities to remove these particular terrorists from the face of the Earth, they strengthened the rest of our resolves and they brought widespread attention to their ideals. Of course, none of that makes them any less dead, or their loved ones any less bereft.

Thomas Jefferson said, "The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants." It was relatively easy for him to say in 1787. The revolution he advocated had already been prosecuted successfully by others, he was filthy rich, and his chances of being in personal danger had passed. That doesn't make it any less true, but it does make it less brave. Today, it is regular folks. some with a bravery I will never understand, that must live Jefferson's truth, and this brand of Islamic extremists are the worst kind of tyrants - tyrants without borders. As in 1787, the only effective countermeasure is the willingness of those who stand for freedom to spill their blood. This is a duty to which I hope I am not called, nor for which I would volunteer, but if called, I hope I will serve.

TWO ARTICLES PER YEAR JUST SEEMS RIGHT TO ME

Hey, everybody! I'm still extant. And also breathing. I quit my last job because they were giving me way too much time to blog, and we can't have that. Seriously, I would sit there in my cube coming up with all kinds of posts that I didn't eventually write. It was making me crazy. I needed to move to a job where I could forget I had this blog, you know, like the rest of the 7 billion+ on earth have done long ago.

My new job is with a major conglomerate that makes the very product that I had spent 20 years mastering as a customer. You could say it was inevitable that I would work here one day, and hey, I just did! I like it here a lot, mostly because I am busy. Very busy. I am reaching the point in my career that I had been hearing about, where there is nobody left in North America who does my kind of work. I'm one of the last ones, and it's kind of lonely. In my cubicle area, there are about 10 nationalities and even more languages. Because I speak the English, and know what sweet tea is, I have to work with the redneckiest Texas down home southern good old blechs, while my colleagues get to fly off to Brazil or Dubai. Works for me. I may get to go back to the Large State Of Alaska in September, but that might be the extent of my travels.

There's a lot of disgruntlement afoot at my new job. A lot of these guys have been around for decades, and they imagine they can do better working for oil companies, which they maybe could, but for whatever reason lack the will or actual skills to make the move. The company has been traded around like a 1978 Manny Sanguillen less-than-vintage baseball card, but it seems to me it has landed in the best possible hands. The veterans here are wary, as I imagine they should be, but based on my experience, this seems like a professional, smart, focused company that knows the business very well and happens to be French, which makes it more difficult to understand and also makes the gun-toting nimrods here have indigestion from a dyspeptic melange of ignorance and xenophobia. I'm cool with it. If they can turn a profit, sell good products, and get us projects to do, I don't really care if they think snails are haute cuisine.

Other than that, my life plods on into advanced middle age. My dreams fall by the wayside almost daily, and others I knew in my youth surpass me almost hourly. I find comfort in small things, like a Mets two-game winning streak. You know, not often, is what I am saying.

2014 MLB PREDICTIONS - IT'S OUR F*CKING YEARLY ARTICLE!

Someday, the snow will melt, and newly-average-sized men (Bartolo Colon excepted) will be playing with bats and balls in taxpayer-funded stadia. It's baseball again! Here's your yearly guide to what will (not) happen. This is all subject to video review back in New York.

NL East

The Nationals will have Stephen Strasburg and Bryce Harper in the same lineup again, until the former bumps his porcelain arm against a feather pillow and breaks it, and the latter surfs a wave of lava on a stainless steel surfboard while riding a Harley through a brick wall while drinking a Four Loko, broheme, and only lands on the 15-day DL. The Braves have already lost two pitchers to Dr. James Andrews' scalpel, but will dip into their endless pool of Upton brothers to stay above water. Things aren't looking good between new manager Ryne Sandberg (Graduate, Old School, 2005) of the Phillies and his recalcitrant shortstop Jimmy Rollins. That's not hard to imagine given that Rollins owns the one World Series ring between them. The Mets, like Jimmy Stewart, have an invisible entity named (Matt) Harvey plaguing them. GM Sandy Alderson pledged the fans a 90-win season, which only Bernie Madoff's former customers believed. Meanwhile, speaking of con artists, the Marlins' art-collector owner Jeff Loria has already agreed in principle to trade ace Jose Fernandez to the Yankees when his free agent contract is due in exchange for A-Rod's centaur painting.

NL Central

Yeah, we get it, the Cardinal Way. It used to be spending bounteous amounts of Busch family cash and beating up on inferior teams, and now is solely the result of hooking David Eckstein to an MRI machine and transmitting his brain waves to the players to increase their "grit". Whatever. The Pirates are now a contender thanks to Andrew McCutchen, who kind of looks like a pirate. The Reds will add the fastest man in baseball, Billy Hamilton, to a roster possessing the fastest thrower in baseball, Aroldis Chapman. This will somehow help them win games of baseball, the slowest sport there is (now with replay challenges!). Ryan Braun is back for the Brewers after his unfortunate bout of failing a drug test, succeeding at an appeal by accusing his urine collector of being anti-Semitic, being named in the Biogenesis report, finally taking a 65-game suspension, and meeting with his urine collector to apologize. This actually happened. The Cubs have a new mascot who doesn't wear pants, much like Harry Caray around the 8th inning of an interminable summer day game in the early 80s.

NL West

Yasiel Puig rescued the $2 Billion Dodgers from the brink last season. This year, their main concern may be figuring out what to do after they clinch on August 27th. This is not a great division. The Giants are probably the main competition, assuming the newly clipped Tim Lincecum will be allowed in the stadium without his parents' permission. The D'Backs continue to evaluate players based on "who Kirk Gibson thinks is a winner" instead of "facts", which should at least yield predictable results. The Padres are counting on two really solid, productive weeks from Carlos Quentin. The Rockies are going to crack this high-altitude problem "one of these decades".

Division Champs
Nationals
Cardinals
Dodgers
Wild Cards
Pirates, Braves

Pirates beat Braves

Dodgers beat Pirates
Nationals beat Cardinals

Dodgers beat Nationals

AL East

Big Papi single-handedly defeated global terrorism by swearing at it into a live mic and then won the Red Sox  the World Series. One hopes things won't be quite as eventful this season, but I wouldn't bet against him if Obama deployed him against Putin. The Rays manager Joe Maddon will lead the league in successful replay reviews, because he's probably figured out the ideal calls to challenge and has devised an elaborate scheme to capitalize on the camera's parallax effect and advantageous light angles. He's a smart man. In New York, Derek Jeter will receive retirement gifts of Sports Illustrated swimsuit models from each of the Yankees' visiting opponents. Not photos, the actual models. The Orioles' Chris Davis hit 53 homers last year. Urine collectors everywhere hope he did it legitimately. Along those lines, Toronto Mayor Rob Ford is eagerly awaiting the crack of the bat when the Blue Jays take the field. Or something close to that.

AL Central

Dartmouth-educated Brad Ausmus takes over the potent Tigers. When the Rays hit town, he and Joe Maddon will get crazy and spend the mornings as guest docents at the Michigan Science Center. The Indians are becoming contenders with such stars as Michael Brantley, Jason Kipnis, Bryan Shaw, and Cody Allen. Astonishingly, these are not names I selected at random. Lorde has made the Royals her pre-season favorite, but she is from New Zealand and only knows baseball from reading National Geographic. Cuban defector Jose Abreu joins the White Sox, who have as much future as Fidel Castro. All the Twins have is future, and it's not starting this year.

AL West

The Rangers fired Nolan Ryan in a front-office power struggle, probably their worst move since selling the franchise to certain C student from Yale. Adding Prince Fielder and Shin-Soo Choo will overcome that for now, until Prince discovers Texas BBQ. The Athletics didn't get to stage an ALCS beard-off with Boston last year, but Josh Reddick and Eric Sogard have nothing to be ashamed of. Mike Trout will one day bankrupt the Angels or whatever team he decides to play for, but for now, Anaheimians, enjoy his relatively low-cost tenure while it lasts. Felix Hernandez gets another year of being the King Of Wishful Thinking (yes, I googled a Go West song from the soundtrack of Pretty Woman) for the Mariners. Finally, we come to the 30th and worst team in baseball, the Astros. I hear they still exist, but Comcast will not allow me to watch them here in Houston. Bless you, Comcast.

Division Champs
Red Sox
Tigers
Rangers
Wild Cards
Rays, Athletics

Athletics beat Rays

Red Sox beat Athletics
Rangers beat Tigers

Red Sox beat Rangers

World Series

Dodgers and Red Sox. With one out in the 9th of Game 7 at Fenway and the Red Sox down a run, Yasiel Puig will rob David Ortiz of a 2-run game-winning home run by leaping atop the short bullpen fence in right. He will climb off the fence and throw a laser to the plate to nip a tagging Dustin Pedroia. Or is Pedroia safe? Replays will be consulted...it's really close...then Bud Selig himself will decide that, as his last act as commissioner, he's going to call the World Series a tie.

THEY SAY IT'S MY BIRTHDAY

And they would be right. I am 47. Today is going better than the birthday when I attended someone else's birthday party, but probably not as good as some others, although I can't recall any really good ones. My birthday has always been an afterthought, nestled in among the hazy days after New Year's Day and before the year really gets going. I am not complaining. It's just a day. On January 3rd, 1967, I was inside my mother's body, and the next day, I wasn't. My mother can no longer remember it, and I never could. My sister was celebrating her own birthday that day, and probably didn't think it was that great to have me literally spewing bodily fluids all over it. Oh well. I didn't ask to be born, and at least I'm holding my own, with a job and a house, and I'm paying taxes. I'm not contributing much else, but at least I'm pretty much a net positive, not that this blog puts me over the top. Forty-seven. I go on.

HEY, FOX NEWS, COMMENT HERE!

Surely, you've read this. I'm guessing they are still doing it, and in an attempt to get anyone to comment, here we go:

Fox News, you suck! You are a pro-Republican propaganda machine with shit-for-brains "newscasters" and even stupider pundits! Bill O'Reilly is a rage-aholic sex maniac, Sean Hannity lies whenever he opens his mouth, and Roger Ailes is a fat tub of goo!

There. It might not work, but it felt good.

EVERYTHING OLD IS STILL OLD...AGAIN

Hey, I just realized I haven't posted in this piece of shit since we moved. We are back in Pearland! Not that anyone gives a fuck. I am alone in a sea of electrons, and whatever. Anyway, we moved. We sold our house, and bought a new house. That process was routinely horrendous. We ended up selling our house in San Antonio to the first person who offered, who was a pathological liar. Her and her father low-balled us at first, and said they needed to move in within 2 weeks. After we rejected that offer, they waited two months and gave us a slightly better offer, and said they had to move in within 3 weeks. We rejected that as well. Then they waited another couple of weeks, and asked us what our bottom line was. We gave it to them, and they accepted it, except they also wanted our sectional sofa. Apparently,  they don't really understand what "bottom line" means. We said no to that, and then they finally accepted our true bottom line offer, and gave us a month to vacate, which exposed all of their previous deadlines as lies.

After we closed in San Antonio, we started looking in earnest in the Houston area. The Clear Creek school district is worth about $30,000 more in sale price than nearby districts, which tells you all you need to know about the fucked up state of education in this country. Since we don't have kids and we intend to stay here until we retire, we opted to eschew CCISD and look in Dickinson. Dickinson is a melange of bible-thumpers who were born there and immigrants and transplants who can't quite afford the Houston school and property taxes and the school district premium for houses (like us). It's not the ideal location, but it is close enough to work and doesn't cut too deep into our finances, so we should be able to deal with its eccentricities.

We found a neighborhood and a builder we liked, and they had a spec house for sale. The lady who was there when my wife first saw the house said all kinds of things about getting modifications and changes done, such as extra tile and a screened porch. Then after we brought our real estate agent in to meet the sales manager, suddenly it was "this house is being sold as is, no changes." The sales manager for this subdivision is a uniquely unpleasant 30-something woman who has fake tits and likes to work out obsessively. I dubbed her Boobzilla. We immediately went over Boobzilla's head to get what the other lady was promising, and after much passionate beseeching, we got them to take a cashiers check to rip out some carpet and install new tile. Boobzilla seethed, which was fine with us.

Finally, after all that drama, we closed, and my wife is painting the entire house. We may actually move in one day, who knows.

Generally speaking, life pretty much sucks right now. We still spend our nights in my father-in-law's crappy roach-infested rental house with one toilet. My sister-in-law used to live there but moved out more than 8 years ago, and left the place in a state of blight that post-earthquake Haitians wouldn't tolerate. My wife cleaned out most of the filth before we moved in, but it's still pretty disgusting. It doesn't help that we have two dogs and two cats who contribute to the decrepitude just by existing.

As for the job, it seems as though I have arrived at a point in my career where I am too expensive to do actual work, and the various powers that be would prefer that I manage others, and thus better earn my salary by taking a position that is harder for them to fill. It's pretty stupid how that works, since I am very productive at doing actual work, but I would be horrible and counter-productive as a manager. It's as if at my age and experience level, they think my work will not be valuable enough to justify what they are paying me. The problem is, they hired me to do actual work, but they are not giving me much to do, which is the worst case scenario. I kind of wish I would get offered a management job just to stay busy, although I know I would ultimately fail at it.

Well, that's all for now. Life continues, unabated.

TIME/LIFE

I was driving from the San Francisco airport to my hotel room in the East Bay hills, listening to KFOX on the radio, when I heard "Time", the amazing song by Pink Floyd from "Dark Side Of The Moon". What a song. The ominous rising cacophony of clocks at the beginning; the languid, melancholy lyrics, telling an unsentimental tale of wasted youth and "quiet desperation"; the haunting, bluesy, background vocals; David Gilmour's soaring guitar riffs. Just fantastic.

Then, next, as if to cleanse the palate and then shove 50 pounds of garbage down one's throat, KFOX played Third Eye Blind's "Semi-Charmed Kind Of Life", written by front man Stephan Jenkins. I will henceforth explain why this turd of a tune is the antithesis of "Time". And quite possibly an early signal to the decline and end of time itself.

I'm packed and I'm holding 

I'm smiling, she's living 

She's golden, she lives for me 

She says she lives for me ovation, she got her own motivation 

I guess this means that he is carrying some drugs, and he has a blonde girlfriend who at least pays lip service to being in love with him. And off we go! 

She comes 'round and she goes down on me 
And I make her smile 
It's like a drug for you 
Do ever what you want to do 
Coming over you 

Ah, the poetry! Never has a blowjob with a facial sounded so gosh darn peppy. Come on, Irving Berlin, where was this kind of stuff back in the day?

Keep on smiling, what we go through 
One stop to the rhythm that divides you 
And I speak to you like the chorus to the verse 
Chop another line like a coda with a curse 
Come on like a freak show takes the stage 
We give them the games we play 

Ok, now here we have some musical terms that make no sense, just to make sure that we understand that these folks are musicians, another drug reference, in case we were confused, and the singer would like to emphasize that he has ejaculated very heavily on his girlfriend.

She said 

"I want something else 

To get me through this 

Semi-charmed kind of life 

Baby, baby 

I want something else 

I'm not listening when you say 

Goodbye..." 

Doot (x24) 

Now the chorus, not speaking to me like a verse or a coda or anything else. Here, the singer is making clear that his girlfriend needs drugs to get through her middle-class existence, and probably only allows herself to be debased because the singer gives her free drugs. Also, when in doubt, just sing "Doot" 24 times.

The sky was gold, it was rose 
I was taking sips of it through my nose 
And I wish I could get back there 
Some place back there 
Smiling in the pictures you would take 
Doing crystal meth 
Will lift you up until you break 

The singer would like to make it known that crystal meth is his drug of choice, and that he likes to snort it. Refreshing honesty, I suppose, or civilization-crushing candor. You decide.

It won't stop, I won't come down 
I keep stock 
With a tick tock rhythm 
A bump for the drop 
And then I bumped up 
I took the hit that I was given 
Then I bumped again 
Then I bumped again, she said 

He did so many lines of meth, he had to rely on his girlfriend to explain to him exactly how many lines of meth he did. And civilization is on the ropes!

How do I get back there to 

The place where I fell asleep inside you 

How do I get myself back to 

The place where you said 

(Chorus)

Meth made this guy so dynamic in the sack that he literally fell asleep while schtupping his girlfriend. Why would one want to brag about something like that? It's pretty depressing for both parties, if you ask me. No one asked me, of course, but here we are.

I believe in the sand beneath my toes 
The beach gives a feeling 
An earthy feeling 
I believe in the faith that grows 
And the four right chords could make me cry 
When I'm with you I feel like I could die 
And that would be all right 

Now we move on to a paean to the beach, completely out of nowhere. Another musical reference is thrown in, because four chords makes it seem like he knows what he's talking about. Much of rock and roll consists of progressions of three chords, and it's actually pretty good, as opposed to this monstrosity. Does this guy even know four chords? Doubtful.

All right 
And when the plane came in 
She said she was crashing 
The velvet it rips 
In the city we're tripped 
On the urge to feel alive 
But now I'm struggling to survive 
Those days you were wearing 
That velvet dress 
You're the priestess, I must confess 
Those little red panties 
They pass the test 
Slides up around the belly 
Face down on the mattress 

This is the rap section, which is often omitted on the radio, but which KFOX dutifully left in to try our patience. Another couple of drug references, and then an ode to some red panties, and some more debasement, possibly of the anal variety.

There's more, but I think we get the idea.

Let's review: Stephan Jenkins is a musician who has a girlfriend, who submits to demeaning sex acts, through which he can't even stay awake, in exchange for meth, and he likes the beach.

This dude dated Charlize Theron for THREE YEARS!

I hope you are right, Mayans.

WATCH OUT, NATE SILVER!

Part 1 of my prediction has come true. Stay tuned for the rest!

TCP'S ALASKA: THE FINAL COUNTDOWN

Well, my time in the great (great - unusually large in size or dimension) state of Alaska has nearly come to an end. I've sold my vehicle and most of my furniture, and I have a plane ticket bound for home. This lovely (sarcasm - harsh or bitter derision...oh never mind) place has seen fit to bestow on me a raging cold on my way out. I will do my best not to sneeze directly on other Alaskans as I leave, but if they breathe in my germs, that's their own fault.

What have I learned on my sojourn to the 49th state? Oh, so much.

1. Never put a garage door opener on your keychain. If you do, $600 will fly out of your bank account.

2. Never ask S****** B******* S***** to fix said garage door. They will very aggressively not do that.

3. If you need to do something, do it yourself. Even if that means having to learn our horrible system for ordering stuff. That would have saved a bunch of migraines and misery.

4. Bears will mostly run away, but moose will happily run at you and kick or bite you. Luckily, I only learned this in the paper.

5. Pickle Hill is where they put the tower for the local public radio station. I wish I could have hung out with those folks more. They seemed nice.

6. Baseball in Alaska - as cold as you imagined it would be.

7. Softball in Anchorage - Just Say No. Or you will be saying, "Can you call me an ambulance?"

8. Turnarounds are hell. Again. And they don't get any less hellish as you get older.

9. It's better to join the nice gym close to your house that is closed on Saturdays than the rat trap gym far from your house that is open every day, because, duh, you will probably not go to either gym as much as you hoped, and you will never get that smell out of your head.

10. Drive-up espresso is the libation of the gods. I will miss it dearly.

ETRE EN MANQUE, HOMMES

Today (along with this coming Wednesday) is one of the two days of the year when there are no scheduled MLB, NFL, NBA, or NHL games on the calendar. Because Wimbledon added a roof to Centre Court, there was no rain at the PGA or LPGA golf tournaments, and MLS doesn't play on Mondays, even the minor sports are off today.


I'm itching, man, it's like spiders are crawling all over me, man. I gotta have a hit, man. I'll take anything, man, Tour De France? Fuck yeah, give me that fucking Tour De France, mainline that shit, man, stab me in the heart with that Tour De France shit, man, I GOTTA HAVE IT!!!!


Oh, this shit is horrible, man. It's just a bunch of skinny guys on bikes and French people clanging cowbells. What the fuck is a peloton, man? Get me some good shit, man, I NEED IT, I NEED IT NOW!!!!

I'D WATCH IT

In light of "Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter", TCP has commissioned a script even more fantastical and improbable. The first page or so is below:

GEORGE W. BUSH:

CORRUPT BANKER HUNTER

A film by

Alan Smithee

FADE IN

INT: OVAL OFFICE, NIGHT

GEORGE W. BUSH

Well, my work for the day is done. Signed the Affordable I Don't Care About Women's Health Act. Supported the troops by sendin' another 10,000 of 'em to Iraq. Asked some guy about where Osama might be hidin'. It's been a full day.

JOSH BOLTEN

Yes, sir, it certainly has been.

GEORGE W. BUSH

Well, Boltman, I'm gonna turn in. See ya in the mornin'.

JOSH BOLTEN

Good night, sir.

GEORGE W. BUSH

Night.

GEORGE W. BUSH waits until JOSH BOLTEN leaves the Oval Office.

GEORGE W. BUSH (to himself)

Good, he's gone. Thought I'd never get rid of him. Now on to my night job...Corrupt Banker Hunter!

GEORGE W. BUSH puts on a flak vest, and grabs a hidden backpack, which he checks. We see his POV as he looks into the backpack. It has night vision goggles and weapons in it.

GEORGE W. BUSH (to himself)

All set. Let's..uh what was it that guy said? Roll. That's right.

EXT: WHITE HOUSE ROSE GARDEN, NIGHT

GEORGE W. BUSH sneaks through the Rose Garden to a large rock. He hits a button on his wrist, and the rock opens to show a passage. He enters the passage and comes to a fire pole, which he slides down. He enters the Corrupt Banker Hunter Cave.

INT: CORRUPT BANKER HUNTER CAVE

We see a huge underground lair, with computer screens everywhere. Sitting in front of the central computer screen is DICK CHENEY

DICK CHENEY

Where ya been? We got Blankfein, Dimon, and Fuld going Code Red!

GEORGE W. BUSH

Got here as fast as I could, Chainster. Now, let's hunt some corrupt bankers!

And it goes on like that, never getting any more plausible.

A NEW HOPE: PART X

Full Name: Gavin Glenn Christopher Joseph “What Am I, Fucking Royalty?” Cecchini

Position: Shortstop

Born: December 22, 1993

Height: 6’2”

Weight: 180 lbs.

How acquired: 2012 June Amateur Draft, First Round, #12

Uniform number: N/A

MLB experience: None

Best season: N/A

Injury history: None.

2012 salary: $2.3 million signing bonus

Actual scouting notes: Prince Gavin is a high-schooler from Lake Charles, LA. He has a lot of tools, which based on the selection of Brandon Nimmo last year, is going to be a common theme with Mets first rounders under Alderson and company. For what they are worth (nothing), his numbers at Barbe High School included a .467 BA and a .527 OBP, with 7 homers and 31 stolen bases. Scouts like his bat, baseball IQ, and speed most, and are not that high on his glove.

Weird, wild stuff: His brother, Garin “My Brother Has All My Middle Names” Cecchini, is in the Red Sox organization. His dad coaches his high school team, and his mother is his batting practice pitcher. That has to be interesting. “Gavin, did you clean your room?” “Nope.” ZING! (high hard one at the batting helmet). Gavin signed with the Mets for $2.3 million. He and Garin can now afford one hell of an Xbox setup during spring training. No telling where he will end up in 2012, but he will likely open 2013 in Port St. Lucie. I can’t imagine he’ll sniff Citi Field for at least three years if not four. Best-case scenario looks like J.J. Hardy, who hits between 20 and 30 homers a year when healthy and plays a decent shortstop. Worst case is a guy like Omar Quintanilla, who hits well in the minors but can’t hold a major league job.

YOUR FRESHNESS MAY VARY

Is it just me, or is it ironic that a radio show that regularly features old interviews of people who are recently deceased is called "Fresh Air"?

To quote Ethel the maid from Downton Abbey, "'I'm just saying."

DAS BUTT

I am in the Anchorage airport, and I came across a woman with an ass that lesser men have killed for. I mean, this woman had a derrière engineered by German scientists. If this keister had fallen into the wrong hands during the war, it could have changed the course of history. She wasn't that pretty, with a hairstyle that Kate Gosselin would have deemed bizarre, but man, what a spectacular tucus. She was wearing spandex leggings that released the gluteus for maximus impact. Jennifer Lopez would have performed a one-person standing ovation had she seen this set of cheeks. It was that amazing.


By the way, this trend of women wearing spandex leggings that leave nothing to the imagination? I approve.

A NEW HOPE: PART IX

Full Name: Jeremy Scott (“No Relation”) Hefner

Position: Pitcher

Born: March 11, 1986

Height: 6’4”

Weight: 215 lbs.

How acquired: Signed off waivers from the Pittsburgh Pirates

Uniform number: 53

MLB experience: None

Best season: 2010 for San Antonio in the Texas League. He started 28 games, and went 11-8 with a 2.95 ERA and a 1.235 WHIP. I probably saw him pitch, but it didn’t register.

Injury history: None.

2012 salary: Major League minimum, pro-rated.

Actual scouting notes: Hef doesn’t throw hard, or have any devastating breaking balls (this is like shooting fish in a barrel). He gets by on command to the extent that he does get by. He’s 26 and is just now appearing in his first major league games, which makes him a bit of a late bloomer, if he does in fact bloom. His first eight innings for the Mets have been pretty good, which means almost nothing. He’s been thrust into the rotation now with all the injuries and ineffectiveness of the Mets starters. As reliable as a piston engine, he's never had even the most minor injury that I could identify.

Weird, wild stuff: Jeremy went to Oral Roberts University, meaning he has only about 1/3 in common with Hugh. The other 2/3, not so much. While he was in the bullpen, I was wondering if the Mets would rechristen it “The Grotto”. The Mets as an organization must really like this guy. They drafted him twice, and then snapped him up when the Bucs waived him. Maybe the Wilpons mistakenly think he will help them meet Holly or Kendra.

A NEW HOPE: PART VIII

Full Name: Brandon T. Nimmo (the T stands for Tiberius, maybe?)

Position: Outfielder

Born: March 27, 1993

Height: 6'3"

Weight: 185 lbs.

How acquired: Drafted in the first round of the June 2011 MLB Draft (13th overall).

Uniform number: N/A

MLB experience: None.

Best season: Was a rookie in the Gulf Coast League and at Kingsport in 2011.

Injury history: Right ACL surgery in 2009.

2012 salary: Minor league salary. Signed a $2.1 million bonus in 2011.

Actual scouting notes: Nimmo is a big kid with speed, power, and plenty of tools. He grew up in Cheyenne, Wyoming, which is not known for the quality of its scholastic baseball competition. Any stats he racked up there are probably irrelevant. He didn't show anything special at the Gulf Coast League in terms of slash lines, but he only had 32 plate appearances. Best-case scenario is a Jason Bay type (pre-concussion version), who can play a corner outfield spot and hit homers. It's an odd pick for Sandy/DePo/Ricciardi. He almost could be the second coming of Billy Beane, and we know how that worked out the first time. I guess they saw something to warrant a first round pick on the guy, but I'll be damned if I know what it is. This first full short-season in Kingsport will tell us a lot.

Weird, wild stuff: Wyoming has not yielded a first-round pick since Dick Cheney, who picked himself. In baseball, they've never had one before. Nimmo played only Legion ball in high school because his high school did not field a team. He did wrestle (no word if bears were involved) and run indoor track (ditto).