My Life as a Baseball Traditionalist, Version 2.0

"Are you crying? Are you crying? ARE YOU CRYING? There's no crying! THERE'S NO CRYING IN BASEBALL!"
-Jimmy Dugan

"You can observe a lot by watching."
-Yogi Berra

You know what's great about baseball games? Attending them. That is, unless you are sitting somewhere near me. That's right, I've been terrorizing various sections of Comerica Park in Detroit. I have twice been a season ticket owner, thus granting me the jurisdiction to say whatever I damn well please.

This season comes to a close with my beloved Tigers poised for a run at the ugliest trophy in professional sports. So with the playoffs in our near future, now is an appropriate occasion to inform all of the johnny-come-latelys of proper ballpark decorum.

First, a quick anecdote. My brother has stories of attending games when we held season tickets. We sat in a section full of other season ticket holders. I was not present this night in question. At one point during this game, prompted by my absence, our drunken neighbor leaned over to Paul and asked, "Hey, where's the baseball nazi?", inquiring after my whereabouts. Normally, one would bristle at being characterized as one of the most despicable groups in history, but I suppose it's true for better or for worse. Remember, the phrase is "baseball nazi", not: "in favor of genocide nazi" or "white supremacist nazi." So please, no angry letters or flaming bags of dog excrement on my porch.

So why on earth is this moniker appropriate? There is a set of decorum, to wit: I have rules. These rules apply to proper conduct during a baseball game. Those exempt are individuals under the age of 12 and their parents/guardians. What could these rules possibly entail? Glad you asked...


1. No gloves allowed!

Permit me to pose a hypothetical. You're sitting in the stands and a batted (or otherwise propelled) ball comes near you. Man up and catch that ball with your bare hand! You are there with your twenty-something year old cronies and you need a glove?!? C'mon, even if you are not of drinking age in the park you are of age in the parking lot. Chances are you've had enough to dull the pain. Plus, how cool is it to catch a ball bare handed? Additionally, you'll probably be a hero on tv. A word to the wise, leave the glove at home. Ammendment 1: Should you have a youngster at the game and are sitting in the line drive zone, a glove is an acceptable and recommended defense mechanism.

2. Stop with the wave nonsense.

A player puts on his batting gloves, grabs a helmet and his bat, and strides up the dugout steps toward the on-deck circle. As he makes his way onto the field he notices 42,000 raucous fans doing the wave. Surely he must be thinking, "Oh goodness, they're doing the wave, now my adrenaline is pulsing and i must perform.", right? Doubtful. The same player, in the post-game interview after driving in the game winning run, will credit the wave with his success at the plate, right? Even less plausible. The wave is a hackneyed institution. I would wager the average fan pays more attention to the wave than the game, then calls sports talk radio to complain about the poor performance of the team. How the hell do you know? You were watching the wave!

3. When at a game, no male shall imbibe booze in a fruity, squishy form.

If you have been to Comerica Park you have seen it. It is the long-necked plastic "flutes" filled with some sort of watermelon - orange concoction. Men, drink beer, please. What do you think Babe Ruth would do to you if he saw you drinking from a neon tube in the stands? On the other hand, females are allowed to imbibe in this manner. If you're a man, grow a set and get a beer! It'll help you catch the ball better without your glove.

4. No more "hulk-fist" beer cozies.

"But it keeps my beer colder longer." No it doesn't, and it looks stupid. Take it off and throw it away. The ballpark beer fits only half way into the fist. Besides, why the hell is your beer getting warm anyway? It's a ballgame, get drunk, get in a fight, get thrown out, run across the field naked and spend a night in jail, do something! just...


5. Do not fall asleep in your seat.

D'oh - yeah, that's me below.



6. One must not throw an opponent's home run ball back to the playing field.

Ammendment 2: Wrigley Field. I understand Chicago, and specifically winning famished Cubs fans created this tradition. It's theirs to have and to hold. After all, what else do they have?

Why does someone always have to ruin it for everyone else? I'm a know-it-all elitist, I am cognizant of this. I try to disguise this as "traditionalism" in an attempt to spin my own snobbery. Then why am i writing this? Mostly to poke fun at myself and to realize that baseball is just a stupid game. It's for the kids, get it? Sometimes i need to remind myself of that fact.

Note to self: lighten up.

If you have read this and disagree with me, good. Thumb your nose at me and continue doing what you will when you attend a game. I'm pretentious, and if I really was as "traditional" as I like to think I am then I would be attending games in a suit and a fedora (still quite an endearing thought when I imagine attending a game at Ebbits Field, Shibe Park, or The Polo Grounds). So i am a fraud. My idea of a good time at a ball game is actually watching the game, giving the beer guy the business (both literally and figuratively), throwing peanut shells all over the ground, and fervently booing Johnny Damon. I'm sure alot of baseball fans find my game routine quite pedestrian and think I'm the true charlatan.

Go to a game, have the time your life, ignore this baseball nazi and any other one you might come across. First and foremost, have fun with it.

The Nicholson-Freeman Phenomonon: A Study

"Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait"
-Longfellow

"Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness,
and some have greatness thrust upon them"
-Shakespeare

So I have wasted another year of my life...

Soon i will be 33, leaving me, optimistically, with maybe 10 more years of life. Time to take stock of things. In the here and now lie my aspirations. What is it, waking up everyday, I hope to accomplish? After careful consideration and reflection I present to you: my self interpretation of The Nicholson-Freeman Phenomenon. Now, I must insist that through the duration of this essay you refrain from making mental connections between it and a movie called "The Bucket List". I have never seen said movie nor do I ever have intentions to do so. To wit: as "The Bucket List" is not on my bucket list it is irrelevant vis a vis this discussion

My first undertaking is one that I have aspired to since I was a young boy. I desperately want to catch a batted ball during a major league baseball game. I suppose that as a child, this hope came out of a craving for status of some sort, even if I was not cognizant of it at the time. Currently, my desire to catch a ball is similarly a quest for status, but in a different way. I am not interested in acquiring a baseball or appearing on television, I want to know the simple pleasure of catching a batted ball at a big league game. You see, I've been to games all over, and I have still not caught a damn ball. C'mon baseball gods, I've spent the requisite years in fan purgatory, let me into batted ball heaven. This ball can be fair or foul, that part is of no matter to me. Ideally, my catch would occur in the bleachers at Wrigley Field. This ball would be a home run hit by the Cubs' opponent. Then, I would promptly return said ball onto the field of play. This practice is only acceptable at Wrigley Field...you hear that Philadelphia?! You got Cliff Lee. The Cubs suck, at least let them have exclusive rights to the tradition. You hear that Detroit?! You've got the auto industry and a thriving techno scene, Chicago's got nothing going for it except throwing upwards of 1,500 National League (and American League during inter-league play) home runs back on to Wrigley Field's carefully coiffed outfield grass every summer. (Editor's note: watch this space for a comprehensive set of rules for baseball game decorum) Digressions aside, one fateful day a ball will arc its way in to my waiting hands and I don't care if I am holding my first born infant child, I'm catching that baseball.

My second ambition is the one I feel I am least likely to accomplish as it can be considered a felony. Granted, I wish no harm on any person or property, but I would sure love to throw a Molotov Cocktail. Surely no crime would be committed if I were to throw said incendiary device in a vacant lot. The fire would just burn itself out as opposed to endangering an orphanage or a school for the blind. Like most red-blooded American males, I am a pyromaniac; but it isn't just the fire, it's also the sound of glass breaking. One of my favorite sounds on the planet is that of breaking glass and I'm currently working on a patentable onomatopoeia for it. How can it be expected of me to resist the ideal amalgamation of two of my favorite earthly delights. Explosions combined with breaking glass. What a concept! My life will not be complete until I am able to throw a Molotov Cocktail!

My next feat requires strength of both body and mind. We've all seen those cop shows on television, and I am in no way referring to Fox's timeless series, COPS. I want to give a locked door the Elliot Stabler treatment. Perhaps I have been warped by far too much prime-time television programming, warping me to the foolish extent of thinking this could be fulfilled by my humble shoes. Yet, if these swishy thespian types can make it happen for a camera, then I could assuredly strap on a pair of Bruno Magli's and go all Sipowicz on a door and its frame. Or maybe I should change this entry to: "I'd really like to break my ankle again."

The fourth ambition on my little list may be the most difficult to attain, even if the ball is already in motion. Unfortunately, in this instance, my name is Sisyphus. Three times already that ball has rolled back down that hill, crushing me all the while. I will keep taking that test, no matter how many times it takes me, and I will make my appearance on the television show Jeopardy! It is under this circumstance only that I wish to appear inside everyone's boxes. But dammit, that test is really hard, and am I really prepared to parade my bloated and ugly mug in front of the millions of octogenarians that watch that show each night? I don't have an answer for that question, but I sure am going to keep trying.

Finally, this list comes to a close with my compulsion and zeal for the American Luxury car. While my dream car might be a black convertible 1969 Lincoln Continental, I realize that the monetary strain might be worth more than the satisfaction of owning such a vehicle. Instead, I wish to own an auto that is a viable mode of daily transportation (for when my legs fall off and I am unable to safely pilot a bicycle anymore). The solution is simple, a Cadillac. One day I would like to own one, along with a passenger so I can constantly bump "Two Dope Boyz (in a Cadillac" by Outkast. Nothing says "class" like that.

So there you have it, all of my hopes, dreams, and aspirations encapsulated in one essay. Now, there are still so many things I want to do with my life, like help ALF find Rhonda, his long lost girlfriend from Melmac. I also want to drive a car with my feet a la Fred Flintstone, and at long last slay Puff the Magic Dragon to end the decades of feuding. These other things would be the icing on the cake made of the other five listings. Thank you and good night.

Cheap Shot Top Ten

EDITOR'S NOTE: This is an unedited preview of a blog coming soon to a monitor near you.

I submit to my readers, my top ten of the moment:

1. Pretending to be a Blogger

Let's be honest, I haven't really been paying that much attention to this particular website. I would be fooling myself if i actually considered myself a writer in any way shape or form. I write long run-on sentences. I have little to no compassion for my audience as I lack an inner censor/editor. How can I have compassion for my audience when I have no idea who they are? Again, I realize that I am the one prattling on aimlessly. Yet, here we are. The way I see it, everyone has a blog. So I deserve one too, even if I haven't paid attention to it in over a year. I'm also really immature, so I crave constant attention, good or bad.

2. The Tigers collapsing before September (or October)

Game 163 of the 2009 Tigers' season was thrilling. One of the best baseball games in recent memory, it included lead changes, close plays, and an Alexi Casilla game winning hit in the 12th inning. Casilla plays for the Twins, a team that I can, inexplicably, not hate. That hurt last season, the Tigers hanging on through series loss after series loss, winning just enough to stay in the hunt. The thrill of that last game's ending stung. However this season, I have none of those concerns. As I write this sentence, Rick Porcello is leaving in the 5th, trailing 7-1. Juan Pierre, a fine player that rarely hits the ball out of the infield, has a double and his first home run of the season...in August. The Tigers are done. While they have certainly exceeded my expectations for them in the first half, another second half collapse is no picnic. As a fan of the Tigers, especially in recent years, it kind of feels good to not get my hopes up.

We'll get 'em next year.

3. TMZ - The Television Program

Who doesn't love snarky California hipsters ripping celebs? Truth be told, despite my usual aggressive aversion to said subculture, I love this show. Surely, it stems from my ever evolving obsession with pop culture; an abstract that I claim to loathe while constantly referring to it, a labor of love. Sure, I am completely contradictory, but pop culture is crucial to every trivia nerd, one of my many maladies. Anyhow, I suggest you give the show a look-see, it isn't the most intellegent of all programming, but it is a delicious break from all of the "regular" media's coverage of celebretards.

4. New Episodes of Futurama on Comedy Central

I had read online some years ago that new episodes were going into production when Comedy Central bought the rights to Futurama. After a long wait I have two things to say: "Welcome back.", and "What took so long?" I might appreciate the new episodes more because of how long we have gone without. One of the charms of this show is while it resembles The Simpsons, it is free of the "frozen in time" aspect of its predecessor. The writers of Futurama have complete freedom to introduce any concept due to the uncertainty of the cosmos. Which leads us to...

5. The Simpsons - Lifetime Membership

"Facts are meaningless! You can use facts to prove anything that's even remotely true"

-Homer Simpso

6. The Indoorsman - The Yakima Herald

• Chew on this nugget
  

• and then this one

7. Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer

Surely it is no surprise that I enjoy beverages consisting of malt, barley, and hops. Have you seen my waistline recently? While I do appreciate a fine craftsman's beer, few things warm my heart (and give me a cool buzz) the way the beer in a red, white, and blue can does. The ideal vehicle for this potent potable is the pounder can, that is to say the 16 oz. can. However, PBR is acceptable in any form. A word of warning though: there are establishments in this fine country of ours that will charge $5 or more for a 12 oz. can. Avoid these barrooms as they are typically inhabited by hipsters. Honestly, $5!

8. Actually Buying Physical Music Media

Normally, I acquire new(ish) music the way everyone else does, legally through the internet of course. Occasionally, I like to hop into the wayback machine to purchase little anachronistic compact discs, remember those? No, those were pogs, I'm talking about cds, with music on them. Anyhow, there is something about buying actual physical media. Maybe it's the lusty, adolescent groping and tearing at the plastic shrink wrap in anticipation. Also there is the embarrassingly nerdy (and private) pouring over the insert to examine the artwork, lyrics, and liner notes, a trivially satisfying endeavor. But the real reason is to satisfy my conscience. A friend once brought up the fact that supporting your favorite artists will keep them under contract and recording. Therefore I don't feel quite as guilty for legally obtaining music from the internet.

The last 3 albums I bought:
Omni - Minus The Bear
How I Got Over - The Roots
Them Crooked Vultures



9. Playing Risk...

10. ...And Keeping Stats

Megalomaniacs for Global Domination

"All men can see these tactics whereby I conquer, but what none
can see is the strategy out of which victory is evolved"
- Sun-tzu

"The same thing we do every night, Pinky. Try to take over the world"
- The Brain

A relatively new development has occurred within the last year or so of my time on this planet. I have become increasingly interested in complete control and domination of the entire earth, except for Antarctica, and only because it cannot be found on the board. Far too many years have passed where the phenomena known as Risk was absent from my consciousness. Luckily, I have some vigilant comrades who noticed something was lacking in my life. They introduced me to the game of global domination, Risk.

Indeed, I may have had a deprived childhood. My salad days were filled with baseball, among other sandlot sports. When I wasn't outside running out my hyperactivity, I would occasionally pull out a board game. Typically the game of choice would be Clue, Pictionary, Life, Trivial Pursuit (once I was a teenager) or a three letter card based game like War or Uno. Unfortunately, Risk is not found on this list. Now I'm sure that the aforementioned games do have some educational benefits, but they pale in comparison to the cultivation and enlightenment Risk entails. I spent my formative years completely oblivious to the game in what's known as a deprived childhood. Fortuitously, I was given the gift of Risk with plenty of time to spare.

When your young lad or lass starts asking questions like, "Why is our president heading into Iraq?" any good parent should head to the closet and dust off that 0ld Risk box that has been moldering on the top shelf for years. Any socio-political questions can usually be explained and solved by a couple of hours of dice rolls. A vigilant parent can easily elucidate and illuminate what exactly our fine President was feeling when he decided to send Americans after the dastardly Saddam Hussein. This theory finds practice across the board, consider using Risk when your rug rat starts studying Napoleon, Alexander the Great, or the Roman Empire. A couple of hours of trying to claim Kamchatka for the red army, and mankind's natural tendency for imperialistic blood lust is undeniable.

Another benefit of introducing Risk to your offspring is to illustrate the human code of honor (or lack thereof). One has the option to double-cross anyone seated at the table with little recompense other than inevitable removing all of one's plastic representation of humanity from a map of the world. Risk speaks volumes as to a player's character. Does one hold up the treaties that are struck during game play? Does one prey on the weak? Is one player constantly serving the needs of another by refusing to ever attack one other specific player? Perhaps one player angers you enough to create a strategy claiming your territories adjacent to the antagonizer in order to eliminate that player first. Also, what better way to introduce your kids to harsh reality than to wipe the floor with them in a game of global domination? Just watch out when they wind up teaching you a few lessons.

The social advantages of Risk should also be considered. First, you have to play amidst other human beings, thus guaranteeing personal contact (unless you play online, you mountebank). Also, if one so chooses, beer can be introduced into the equation allowing for further relaxation. So there you have it, harmless fun. You and your comrades spending an evening or ten together blowing off steam. Speaking of relaxation, Risk is a good way to diffuse after dealing with reality. One is usually not permitted to rail at the jerks encountered on a day to day basis, so bottle it up and scream and shout at your friends and inanimate pieces of plastic. This is what is known as "Risk Tilt" and is more therapeutic than an army of psychiatrists and their frighteningly mind altering pills. (Editor's note: The author leads the league in total time on Risk tilt.) It is crucial to always remember the separation of Risk and real life, or you will end up with some angry chums. Otherwise, Risk is simply the game that keeps on giving.

I, with some friends, have had a recurring Risk game Thursday nights. Often times, upon learning that my evening plans consisted of a game of Risk, people will be astonished. Risk is the international language, I know you're out there closeted Risk fans. I am here to tell you that it is perfectly acceptable to take over Australia, yell "devil cock" when you roll three sixes (of course that's a nod to The Frogs), or shout about how Ukraine is weak. Grab a six pack and come over, let's play some Risk.

Make With The Swimsuits Already

"People demand freedom of speech as a compensation
for the freedom of thought which they seldom use."
-Soren Kierkegaard

An interesting opinion letter appeared today in that anachronistic dinosaur known as The Detroit Free Press. As many things tend to do for pretty much all of my waking hours on this planet, this letter got me to thinking. Said letter absolutely skewers doltish boob and celebrity blogger Perez Hilton (if that is your real name) and I couldn't agree with the author, Edmond Guay of Auburn Hills, MI, more fervently.

A few weeks ago at that momentous American tradition, the Miss USA pageant, everyone's favorite blogger asked a question as to one contestant's point of view regarding the legalities (or lack thereof) of gay marriage. The contestant responded that she felt that marriage should remain between a man and a woman. This upset the rotund reporter who took to his blog to explain why Miss California had not attained the national honorific. He averred, "She gave the worst answer in pageant history. She lost because she's a dumb bitch, okay?" Classy.

The aftermath, as this was the biggest story of the weekend and still plagues our pop culture consciousness, brought out all of our favorite flag-wavers clamoring for the spotlight and ensuring their status as liberal.

One thing for the record. Mr. Hilton, I am on your side when it comes to the legalization and (with hope) proliferation of gay marriage. This is something that absolutely NEEDS to happen, but that is an entirely separate discussion for another time. Furthermore Mr. Hilton, I am quite sure that your life has required immeasurable amounts of personal courage and strength. This should certainly have endowed you with the onions to be man enough and recognize when someone actively participates in intellegent discourse. I've been wrong before.

Mr. Hilton, perhaps I am giving you too much credit, but I am a kind and benevolent hater. It seems to me that you would most likely possess the good sense to realize that asking a controversial question could potentially evoke a response that would make your blood boil. Shame on you for admonishing this young woman for exercising her rights as an American. We're talking about the Miss USA pageant, not the Miss Liberal competition. The very deserved freedoms you rightfully strive to attain are founded on the same rights Miss California has in feeling you should be unable to marry, misguided as her feelings are.

Another argument which did not occur to me until it was brought to my attention by a friend. Perhaps Miss USA has to be representative of all Americans, an ideal. I do see merits in this rationale and deem it valid. But, on the other end of the spectrum lies the ability to be able to state unequivocally one's true belief, well isn't that quintessentially American as well? One must also remember, we're talking about Miss USA here, not the next Pope.

So why are my underpants all in a bunch? Mr. Edmond Guay's letter to the Free Press. His main point can be summed up thusly: the overly PC crowd will "support the unfettered expression of free speech - as long as you don't disagree with them." Ahh, sweet music to my curmudgeonly ears. Clearly, Mr. Guay is not a liberal, take it from the man himself:

The pageant judge who asked the question, Perez Hilton, is a nothing; he's a blogger whose only clam to fame is making a name for himself on the Internet sharing his own opinions about whatever he chooses. And he has the temerity (ed. note: serious vocab points there) to whoop up a holy war about someone else's constitutional right to do exactly the same thing? And the rest of his liberal friends are jumping on the bandwagon.

Granted, Mr. Guay certainly has a slanted view, but in such a way that it benefits me and my crusade against loud mouthed celebrities. My feeling is this has nothing to do with any type of party affiliation, it just happens to be a matter of fact that the majority of blathering celebs are liberal, not that there's anything wrong with being liberal.

So then what's the problem? Celebrities drunk on self-aggrandizement. Sure, entertainment is art and art is imitation of life which is an imitation of art. Granted, art has every right to be socially constructive or subversive, but there is a line that occasionally needs to be drawn. Some of these outspoken entertainers have no concept of real life, and I for one am jealous. I want to be financially secure to the point of hedonism. Not only am I jealous, I don't like to be told what my system of beliefs must entail.

Political correctness has reached epidemic proportions. All too frequently, celebrities are butting expensively crafted noses into my private pop culture sphere to scold me into a perfectly framed ethos, working only in their financially secure idyllic lives. You are as anti-American as humanly possible if you have the gall to tell me that if I don't believe the way you do is wrong. A friend mentioned a postcard she saw at the Museum of Communism in Prague that had a slogan suggesting that a misconception of the west is that political correctness is their idea.

Nonetheless, in my rage, I am forced to call out some celebrities, plead my case, and hope they and button it. Alec Baldwin, why are you still here? You said you would move to Canada if George W. Bush was elected to a second term in 2004. See ya, old chap, send my regards to Don Cherry. Don't get me wrong, I love your work, but please, put a sock in it. Sean Penn, you overact, you are uber hip, and have a big mouth. Kudos though, for taking challenging roles, they speak with more nobility and credibility then you ever will. Bono and Oprah...yeah, just go away, please.

Yet, after all of this rambling, I feel my hostility is a tad misdirected. These grand folks have just been lucky enough to grab their slice of the big pie that is the American Dream. I cannot blame the media in a capitalistic society, but rather the consumers too blind, apathetic or lazy to turn off the television. Seriously America, American Idol has come out and told you, "hey, we're frauds," and you keep watching and voting. An original movie has not been made here in ages, yet we are in Hollywood's golden age. People of the United States, please open your eyes, think for yourselves. Let celebrities entertain you, let them move you with their performances, but for the love of crumbcake, stop worshiping them!

Finally, I am not a fascist, celebrities have every right to outspoken outrage - just not over any single other person in this country. Don't Tread on Me!



-Please click here for the letter to the editor discussed above-

Five Steps to a Better Business

"I'll keep it short and sweet. Family, religion, friendship...these are the three demons you must slay if you want to succeed in business."
- C. Montgomery Burns

Welcome to the new depression. Times are changing. Good, hard working people are losing their jobs. An already volatile business atmosphere is becoming more hazardous, and today's savvy entrepreneur needs contemporary thought to keep the spirit of commerce alive. The good news is a list has been compiled to guide the business owner through uncertain times. Regardless of what your business is, these tips are applicable.

1. Remember: It's Your Commodity

Only a charlatan would say, "Business is like music, it has all been done before, but it's a matter of how you do it that sets you apart." Nothing could be further from the truth. You are the mastermind behind the venture, the originator, the end-all-be-all. It is critical that you never let your underlings forget this fact. Additionally, never let anyone convince you that you have "stolen" an idea - there is always a loophole permitting a total autocracy.

You must constantly recall that this is your entity and how crucial that is to your authority. You are the emperor, granting you license to alter the rules at any given point, even mid game. This will continually work to your advantage, no matter how insignificant the dispute, even if it be $25 or less.

2. Overestimate Your Product

As an owner, you have to assume that your idea/product/commodity is the greatest thing since pants with pockets. This idea is especially significant if your business happens to provide a service for another business. Also, it is most certainly beneficial (at least from your point of view) to assume the service you provide is exponentially more important than the business with which you have become aligned.

Now that you have created and established your vision, make sure that you spread it to every plausible niche in every imaginable market. No matter when, no matter where, everyone wants it, and that means every waking minute. Your best movie is to glut your target audience and in no time, your IPO will be wearning you so much bling it will make you want to slap Mr. T. The most important thing, people love your product and you have the return patronage of a crack dealer.

3. Never Keep a Promise

You will inevitably need employees, especially if you overestimate your product (as previously discussed) and your demand goes to plaid, causing you to accommodate with a healthy dose of supply. Employees are great, you can basically delegate jobs/responsibilities/work until you have nothing to do but complain about those you lord over and to count your money. This ragtag group has one unfortunate flaw: they require compensation, those vandals. These scoundrels, stinking of money-lust, will shake you down until your enterprise is as insignificant and worthless as Enron stock. There are two solutions to this little puzzler: (1) choose your employees wisely, and (2) never keep a promise.

The former is trickier than the latter because the goal is to attain totalitarian control. Be sure that no individual voice is heard, including valid suggestions, ideas, etc. A business owner needs an army of toadies, folks that will not rock the boat, thereby never tipping it over. You need their undying love and affection. This general atmosphere of worship will ensure the deserved accolades due to you not only for granting your employees a better life, but also for gracing humankind with your conception.

As a business owner, the second aspect, never keeping a promise, is nowhere near as difficult. This is not to say "lie outright" to your employees (although that might not be such a bad tactic) but rather to dangle that unattainable carrot in front of their greedy, greedy eyes. This is intended to keep their proletariat hands busy filling your pockets when they think the incentive will eventually trickle down. The attainable results are astonishing when one offers a piece of the pie that was never intended to be sliced. The businessperson that keeps the workforce pacified vis a vis worthless perks has struck a serious blow in class warfare.

This idea is also applicable to regular wage. As previously stated, any rule can be adapted or generated courtesy of intelligent design to suit your every wish. Your subordinates exist to make YOU money not the other way around. After all, your workers are in debt to you for allowing them the absolute privilege of being part of your team.

Finally, to twist an old Gloria Steinem chestnut, a business needs ethics like a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.

4. Be Sure To Keep The Employee in its Place

Ahh, sweet rhetorical usage of the word "its". Never give an underling the idea you consider them remotely human. You are part of the Bourgeoisie now, climbing that ladder to happier and happier times. Leave the work to the avaricious hoi polloi. Work to a business owner is birth control to a Catholic, to wit: contradictory. Responsibility rests on the shoulders of your unwashed masses of mouth breathers as they are so seamlessly disposable and replaceable.

An important facet as you delegate responsibility is to maintain your role as authoritarian, absolute ruler, strongman. As the proprietor, you are, in no uncertain terms, permitted to act as a tyrannical despot for the sake of your commodity. Employees exist to (monetarily) fuel your creative outpouring, not to offer hackneyed cliches passed off as "insight" about how you are keeping shop.

Surely you will eventually encounter an extraordinarily outspoken member of the rank and file, and such an individual is an easily dispatched foe. The first step is to debunk any suggestions, input or feedback as criticism and deconstruction. Admitting that anyone else possesses the remarkable savior-faire required to keep your business thriving in this economy is absolute suicide. Secondly, if an unruly sardine is continuously insubordinate, your best option is to insult, berate, and degrade them into silence. Should the problem persist, a blacklist is then perfectly in order. Crack open the book on good old Joe McCarthy in order to rein in any rogue prole. Finally, though it is never to early to consider this action, comes excommunication. No peon is worth any part of your so appropriate and requisite cut.

5. Should Things Go Awry, Burn All Bridges

Friendships are for pussies.

So there you have it comrades, a new chapter for the new depression survival guide. Take heed fellow entrepreneurs, my advice is as golden as the parachute you'll be gently using as you run out the clock in Florida with adult diapers made of c-notes. As sure as Vince Shlomi will repeatedly punch a prostitute in the face, adherence to these philosophies will grant your champagne wishes and caviar dreams.

cheap shot re-post

okay, some of you may have seen this before on myspace...but it is still dedicated to spotty...

Monday, April 16, 2007

1999 called...it wants right now back/got a minute? this is a document of the latest chapter in a continuing story (but not of a quack who's gone to the dogs - name the reference, i owe you a drink). the middle of march (around the time of that holiday where everyone turns irish for a day) in michigan isn't exactly a tourist stop, that's why i jumped on a plane on the fifteenth for the sunny, idyllic beaches of miami. okay that isn't why i went, but i still went. now, this story would be alot longer, for i had written the earlier chapters years ago in a different city. you see, i used to work at the best bar on the planet (it's in philadelphia on second street), and i had this story - no, epic - written out when disastrously, a pipe broke in the basement and saturated my backpack. the notebook containing this opus was waterlogged and more or less ruined. my friend spotty, upon hearing this news, related to me a story about hemmingway. apparently, once a story is lost (for whatever reason) it is gone forever. well, the story may be gone, but the memories are not. additionally, the trip to miami was certain to add to this waterlogged story at the bottom of some dump somewhere on the east coast (most likely jersey - sorry kate), and i was not disappointed. it was a great trip, even if i didn't get to see anyone naked (too soon?). the story that i have been talking about is the chronicle of a house of ill-repute. anyone who has ever set foot inside of 264 gunson knows what i am getting at here. remember a couple of years ago when the "all i really know i learned in kindergarten" fad hit? well, i didn't read that mess because i don't believe it. all i really need to know i learned in college. my teachers were my best friends. i am absolutely sure that i will never ever again have the opportunity to make friends like muir, spotty, and ford (would you rather fuck a chicken or your sister? chicken fucker). so, on a thursday, i drove myself to detroit metro airport giddy with excitement and anticipation. i hadn't seen spotty since he visited philadelphia in 2001 (or so) and pat, well, i just saw him around christmas (if you consider yourself a person that can get enough pat muir, then you are a damn pinko communist), but the three of us have not been in the company of each other since pat's birthday/aaron's going away party in february of 2000. big surprise here, i'm a bit smug as well, because i had promised spotty when he was in philly that i would repay the trip and visit miami, and i was finally doing it. thanks to serendipity (the muse, not the fucking movie - read a book), pat and i wound up on the same plane to miami, and we arrived sometime around ten thirty. we were three roommates, no old friends, reunited. on the way to the car, aaron called shotgun, firing the first shot of a war (is it okay to use "war" in a hyperbolic sense in the current political climate? i don't want to be imused off of myspace. i'm p.c. dammit!) that would last a week. it looked to be entirely dominated by yours truly, but i had to fight off a late charge from muir threatening my throne. what pat lacked in the sitting-in-the-front-seat department, he more than compensated for with his mix-cd making skills. we rocketed north on i-95, three of the gayest men on the earth as we had the windows down and the breeze in our hair...wait...i mean gay in the mirthful, jocund sense. andrew w.k. provided us with an invocation to party and the pogues administered a dose of beer craving, while peaches tugged on our nihilism, reminding us to live it up because we should neither give a damn about our reputations nor give a fuck. i'm speaking for myself here when i say that waits filled me with sentimentality and a soft regret for not being able to recapture the magic that i feel in the presence of these gentlemen (how's that for gay?). when you've got the world by the short-hairs, you're young, in miami, and ready to party; where is the first place you go? a retirement community. woo! spring break! all jokes aside, we got to meet dana, spotty's beautiful bride-to-be. dana is a trooper, she tolerated days of constant reminiscence, inside jokes, references to strangers, overuse of the moniker "dicknuts" (or dick-anything for that matter), random outbursts of lyrics courtesy of the frogs, and overall immature behavior...not to mention all the racket, the mess, and the smell. as we related tales of east lansing, a look of confusion would periodically cross dana's face. then came the disclaimer: we were all, at one time, much more attractive (according to anna muir, pat's sister, in reference to the author, "he used to be really hot". backhanded, no?). it's good to have friends that you can get ugly and old with, even if you can't see them as much as you would like. the blur of five days took its toll on our memories, physical appearances, and spotty's tolerance for traffic (wait, that was already shot). it was a litany of beer runs (oh, the duality of that statement), goldeneye for nintendo 64, surgically enhanced body parts, and the best fucking soundtrack ever. we even made it to a record store, if you could call it that. this place, stocked to the rafters with really cool shit minus price tags, was sauna hot. the "merchandise" sans tags was not for sale (we're talking the majority of the store). so really, let's not mince words, your operation is a museum. boo-urns. we ate giant hamburgers, drank too many margaritas, took off our clothes and jumped in the ocean (i'm not helping my own cause here...i swear on a stack, i'm straight), and wound up bringing home a shot glass and about a pound of sand in my pants. we went to a pub where we were attracted to the bartender. being the only single member (huh-huh-huh) of the group, i pleaded with pat and spotty (both in committed relationships, suckers) to go when she invited us to another gin joint called shenanigans (i'll pistol whip the next person that says shenanigans), i swear i had a chance with her, and she was hot. i think it was the night that spotty had play wet blanket (justifiably), pat and i were being quite loud, and spotty had to be responsibly up early the next morning. it really was a beautiful thing, the crescendo that led up to the eruption. pat and i were in the throes of chemical passion, playing bond (after pat whooped my ass at madden - the more things change, the more they stay the same...fucking screen pass. i hate you pat, you're worse than hitler), when pat looks at me and says: "you know what dude? 1999 called, it wants right now back." uproarious laughter ensued, and then someone (i'm not pointing any fingers here) broke a relic from the gunson house, that is to say, a glass. spotty's yells immediately lowering our boisterous voices and eliciting apologies. the next day, upon spotty's return from work and amid the questions as to how the day was, we regaled him with stories of our tough day ensconced in profoundly important discussions of world series champions and the finer points of the simpsons. we're dicks. the week went way too fast. the rapport that we all have in company of one another set in and i think we all took it for granted while it was happening. before i knew it, spotty was driving us to the airport so we could fly to our respective homes. separation anxiety sucks, that's my psych 101 analysis. so much did happen on this trip, but even more intriguing is what did not happen. none of us were arrested, something of a miracle considering that one of the first things we all admitted to was putting aside bail money. spotty didn't call me a hipster doofus, a favorite insult of his dating back to the gunson days. i didn't threaten anybody with the phrase, "i will slap you in the face, i am aaron kluza!", one of the best instances of my tendency to make jokes by citing pop culture (my original usage, yeah...gunson again, was all about timing). nobody saw pat consume ramen noodles or a frozen burrito from quality dairy -that doesn't mean it didn't happen- EPILOGUE -with apologies if anyone's name is incorrectly spelled- spotty stayed at home in miami and will wed dana on september 15, 2007 and i will be there in north carolina with bells on. (by the way dana, all the comments about pat and me and our roles in the wedding tug my heart. it's quite a complement to be held in your esteem.) pat returned to yakima/zillah where he is lucky enough to learn the art of crafting peirogi with adrianna and to urinate off his back porch (that's the one that's gonna get me in trouble, but it's every man's lifelong manifest destiny to use the world as his toilet). aaron returned to grosse pointe park where he is still chasing something but not totally knowing what something is and listening to the song "got a minute?" by kid dynamite because it's a damn good song and the lyrics encapsulate gunson... we used to see each other everyday. now we're lucky if it's twice a year. i don't know what i've been thinking. without blinking we've been set back. remember driving through the yesteryears and the conversations of our dreams and fears. you grabbed yours. i'm grabbing mine now. at your wedding i just smiled and thought about how life goes by so fast and how so many friendships weren't really meant to last. we have always been good at keeping in touch, but for some reason it never meant this much. it's hard to believe that you have a brand new life, while mine i take in stride. it's hard to believe how easy dreams come true when you want them to. ...and that's pretty fucking cool. lastly, i'm sensing a theme and i'm having my james-fucking-patterson recurring character moment. the first chapters have been erased, but fuck hemingway, what does he know, anyway? stay tuned for the next installment of "the gunson street adventure series". i need to start my memoirs somewhere, don't i?