Sorry Kiddos

I have some bad news for you...please sit down. Due to a camping trip the high heat will be giving you the cold shoulder for a few days. It will be back on line July 3rd. So hang on...if you can.

I love you all. Be careful out there.

Question of the Day

Here's a classic:

If you had three wishes what would they be?

There are rules though:

1. You can't wish for more wishes.
2. You can't wish for another way to get more wishes.

Just a Little Off the Top

Howdy there, all you high cheese maniacs. I can't tell you how good it feels to be back in action. Other than one bad hair day (which is challenging with hair as short as mine), I had a great weekend, and I hope that you had the same. If not, let the cheese soothe your soul and balm your painful hurts. You know who loves you right.

I need to get my hair cut, that's the problem. I am getting a little too wooly on top. The lid is overgrown. I need to call the greatest stylist in the universe, Margaret Perazzelli. She knows exactly how to cut my hair perfectly. Never a complaint. Never a problem.

You see, this is very important to the highest of cheeses. When the most incredible woman in the universe and I lived in Nashville, I found Jan. Jan knew exactly how I liked my hair cut. Every four weeks I got a hair cut from Jan. We had a deal--she would cut my hair and gush about her family ills and I would pay $20 and an hour's worth of therapy for the hair cut. But it was still worth it. Every four weeks for five years. I was a lifer. And then we moved...

Here in South Jersey, I didn't know who to go to. I asked around, but everyone just said, "I don't know...just use the coupon in the paper." I know...this is extremely suspect advice, but it does explain some of why most people in South Jersey have severe looking hair cuts. But, being the moron that I am, I went with it. I went to the local chain shop, Hair Cuttery (because the cheese always names names). The most incredible woman in the universe and I showed up that fateful day and sat in the waiting area. I begged her to let us leave, but she insisted that I needed a haircut (It did not help my case that in the pleading to let me leave, I was also seeking to fly to Nashville for a hair cut from Jan...perhaps a bit unreasonable).

Why was I so eager to leave, you may ask. I will tell you. The "stylist" (used in the most liberal sense) that was going to cut my hair was a stocky lesbian-looking woman with a permed mullet--or a permullet as they have been called (check out mullets galore for a laugh). You see I have standards that must be met before I trust the lid to someone, and this woman did not meet those standards.

Rule #134: Never agree to play anyone if they call the game table tennis, and not ping pong...you will be thrashed soundly. (This is of little consequence here, just giving the rule book context)

Rule #135: It is better to be seen wet than in a plastic poncho. (more context)

Rule #136: Only get your hair done by people who have good-looking hair.

That is not such a tough rule is it?

Well, I got my turn in her chair and I told her in detail what I wanted. "I would like it clipped short on the sides with a two-guard on the trimmer. I would like the top to be cut to about one inch in length. This field of hair should extend to about two inches above my ears and down about one inch below my crown. Square the back, don't taper."

I left with a bad looking marines mohawk. I had a three inch wide, crooked no less, strip of half inch buzz cut mohawk down the leftish side of my scalp. The rest of my hair was shorn with a one guard.

She asked me what I thought. I told her that she had "really badly messed-up my head." I plainly stated, "This is nothing like what I told you I wanted."

She replied with a bit of a snarl, "Sure it is, short here, long here."

I calmly replied, "No. That's not what I said. I said...(see above). Instead you did this, and it looks really bad."

She took offense, "Well, it looks fine, I do twenty of these a day."

To which I replied, "Then twenty people leave here mad and unhappy because you just made them look awfully stupid."

She offered to fix it, although I have no idea how you could fix it. I declined, I would take my now butchered head elsewhere. I missed Jan more than ever.

Well, the most wonderful woman in the world got her bad haircut (I think it was an empathy cut--she knew it was coming, but wouldn't make me get it, then back out on it herself), cried about it, laughed at mine, and we went home where I immediately shaved my head. I kept it shaved until I met Margaret. Margaret, and her entire family has good looking hair (I would like to have hair this good-looking). Turns out, Margaret is not only good, and not only really good, she is actually better than Jan. So now every four weeks, I am there getting it cut just the way I like it (and don't have to give free therapy either).

All that to say, my hair is long and needs to be cut. I need to call Margaret. Perhaps you should too, Taylor...perhaps.

Question of the Day

Okay...so I know that I said no question of the day on the weekends from now on, but I didn't have time for yesterday's so I am submitting Friday's question late. Consider yourselves blessed.

Who was the best president of the United States of America? Why?

Also, you cannot put the High Cheese as your answer. While flattering, he has never been president (contrary to some porpular myth). He may run in 2012, but that is heresay up to this point.

Everyone's Favorite Game: What's That Smell?

Welcome one and all to the greatest place on earth. Everyone gets their fill of a great time here at the cheese factory. Unfortunately I will not be signing autographs today.

So the NBA finals wrapped up. I don't necessarily have much to say about it, but seeing as how it is relatively major sports news I should probably at least wave a passing hello to it......hello (said with a wave while passing). I can admit that the worst news that I received this week was that the NBA was coming back next season and not having a lock out. Bummer (Sorry Josh, not all of us can be like you...Look at me, I'm like 6 foot 10 and can dunk on anyone. I love basketball. I love Hubie Brown... --actually, I do love Hubie Brown). For a real laugh-out-loud explanation of how I see the NBA finals, go to my cousin's blog. He nailed it. It's also, coincidentally, the second time he has ever been right about anything (a treat in itself).

Anyways, on to real sports news. Who's watching the championships at Wimbledon? Honestly, ESPN is doing a really good job covering this one. I hope you all are as intrigued as I am (What's that? You all have real lives with real jobs and can't watch TV from 7am to 3pm? Oh...). Nevertheless, just know that it has been good. Take my word for it.

So while the most incredible woman in the world and I travelled across the country, I forgot that I had tossed an aging watermelon into the trash can just before we left. We asked our neighbors to water our newly planted grass and take out our trash. They watered our newly planted grass. So after a week of getting just flat out roasted in the South Jersey sun, the stink from our trash can could literally hit your gag reflex from across the street. This is a confession and a formal apology to the poor soul whose lot in life it was to empty our trash can this week. Taking that lid off ruined his day, I know it. The whoosh of air pulling into his face. The hot garbage smell being completely obliterated by the sour rottenness of skanked out baked watermelon rot (I believe you have just seen history in the making; I would bet that no one has ever written the words "skanked out baked watermelon rot" together before now.). I am sorry that you were owned by that smell, there in the street in front of everyone watching.

Finally, speaking of foul smells, is there anything worse than locking a hot fart up in the car? I can't stand it when I am driving somewhere and then fart in the car right before I get out (I literally get angry at myself for not waiting to fart once I was outside). But then, what are you gonna do? Stand there and let it dissipate. No. You lie to yourself--It will be gone when I get back. Wrong. It will incubate until you get back. It will take over your car, set up a command center, invite some buddies over, and then lie in wait for you to open that door and it will punish you with its now-warm sticky pungence. My all-time favorite is when I forget that I have done this and someone else is getting in the car as well. What do you say? "Oh jeez...the A/C is so musty." To which they astutely and, I believe, knowingly reply, "Is the car on yet?" Jerks. They know. They have to know. Just go along with it.

You all know the rules by now. Play accordingly. I love you all.

Question of the Day

What is your favorite television program?

Welcome to another blessed day of cheese! Glad you all could make it.

Normally a daily post has little to do with the question of the day, but this must be explained: In regard to the question of the day yesterday--you know the Duke brothers' fist fight. I am shocked, and therefore have to comment. People, you missed it big time. Chopper1, what are you talking about? A tie. This is a fistfight, not pingpong. This is a FISTFIGHT! We are not talking about keeping score, we are talking about kicking tail. Anticheesis, regardless of how Bo is spelled, it makes him no tougher. Sure he was tall. He was blonde. He was a frat boy. But Luke was stockier, scrappier, stronger, meaner, wiser, more resourceful, and was a ploughboy, a farmhand. Bo had a yellow shirt, Luke had a blue plaid flannel. Bo had a country music career built on the show, but Luke had a horse ranch after the show. Luke Duke destroys his brother hands down in a fist fight. It is not even that good of a fight. Schneider (Bo) cries after just a couple of minutes. Of course, this probably means he gets the girl.

Anyway, life is wonderful here in south Jersey. Wish you all were here, whether or not you do.

Question of the Day

This may have been the most important question that I was faced with in my formative years:

Which Duke brother would win in a fist fight, Bo or Luke?

How to Ruin Your Life

Greetings to the adoring public and rapidly exploding fanbase of the old chin music (baseball term). Life is great is it not? Another day--another post, does it get any better? [Note: This is rhetorically situated so that you will answer "no" whether or not it actually does get any better. Play along.]

Well I did it. I ruined another baseball player's season. I am three for three on this. Two years ago it was Miguel Tejada. Last year it was Andy Pettite. This year, I destroyed Eric Gagne's elbow and ended his season after just 14 appearances.

How did I do this? How does the blame fall on me? You see, every year I foolishly talk myself into playing fantasy baseball thinking that somehow I will not finish last again. Anyway, I am cursed...or better yet I am the curse--every player that I select first overall ends up completely jacked up and falling apart in all aspects of life. This year, I shelved Gagne sending him in for Tommy Johns surgery before the allstar break.

Please consider this a formal apology Dodger's fans. Saint Louis Fans, rejoice: I had a chance at Pujols and took Gagne instead.

I wonder whose career I will destroy next year...

Shoutouts: Glad to see some new faces--Aryn and Anticheesis, welcome to the strike out pitch! Hi Mom, I love you!!! Dawn, I have started the second book and am doing well. Kristen, hit me up with some pics of the little one. Still looking for the high tater. Peace!

Question of the Day

What is your greatest fear?

The Greatest Rivalry of All Time - Mankind and Gravity

Hey Hey K fans! Another glorious work day! Nothing beats the great indoors--the hum of the outdated computer, the gnaw of the paper shredder, the pounding on the jammed copier...Man oh man, you gotta love it.

In my first post, I told you that occasionally I would provide proof for the claim that my wife Kelly is the most incredible woman in the universe. Here is just a small example:

For her birthday, with no coercion from me (I promise), she asked for something she has always wanted--tickets to see the Yankees and the Red Sox play (no, she is not a true fan of either, but knows that opportunities to see a great rivalry in full swing don't come around that often...and she has the plain sense enough to love the game of baseball). So a few weeks ago, we loaded up the family wagon and went to the Big Apple to sit in Yankee's Stadium and watch the Red Sox pound Mike Mussina out in three innings, and get some insurrance off of Wang and Stanton. The Red Sox won 7-5.

Of special interest, there was a fight in the section next to us after which everyone in the section wearing Red Sox gear (fair?) was thrown out of the game (8 guys and gals in all).

Even better, our seats being in row M of the top tier there were many steps to get there. We sat two rows above row K which had an absolutely brutal step that was just about 1/2 of an inch taller than all of the other stairs in the section and that caused people to trip, especially those with their hands full. This was priceless. Best seats in the house, I promise. Being in the spill zone as people fell forward, my foot was soaked in lemonade and beer by the end of the game, and I heard many normally well mannered and Christian people curse as they picked themselves and their now wasted hotdogs and nachos up off of the steps.

I saw the same girl fall four times. Four times!

The step became the game within the game. As people trudge down between innings to refuel, you knew they had to ascend those steps again...that meant they had to pass row K again...that meant they would probably fall again. I take special pleasure in watching people fall (but not as much pleasure as my cousin James does...he loves it!). To make matters worse, I ended up informing people around us as to the nature of the height of the step and the frequency of falls. So now there were like fifteen of us just watching people come up the steps--kind of like watching a car wreck (you know you should turn away but can't). Of course, we were all waiting for it, so when they fell, we all started laughing. We weren't laughing at them, we were laughing at the situation...and them. It was crushing for them. They fell and everyone really did see and laugh. That made it even funnier.

Their injury did result in a personal insult to me though--I missed a Bellhorn groundout on my score card--could've been 4-3, 5-3, 6-3, 1-3, or just plain old 3. I don't know--a guy in a tan windbreaker had just given his soda, and the cheese fries that it landed in, to the merciless step and had to tell his son not to say what he just said.

It is experiences like these that compose just a bit of the evidence that she is indeed incredible.

Well, let that keep you going until tomorrow.

Question of the Day

Here's to a new week:

Do you sing in the shower? If so, what do you usually sing?

David Stern vs. a Moron vs. The Most Incredible Woman in the Universe

Greetings from el queso alto! For all our sakes I will save the shout-outs for the end of this post. Still I am slowly getting a feel for my devoted readers. Most of you read at work, and therefore most of you don't interact with the cheese on the weekends as frequently as during the week. As a result, the Highest of Cheeses is establishing a new pattern of publication. The Daily post on weekdays (because I know you need your fix), and the one-shot Weekend spectacular sometime on the weekend. There will be no question of the day on weekends. Agreed? I think this is fair.

So the greatest woman in the universe and I happen to be seated in our livingroom recovering from a run and watching Sportscenter (If cable came only with ESPN I would still pay for it). They are showing highlights from the NBA finals game 5, when out of nowhere she comments: "I'm just not buying it. I'm suspicious. They rigged it."

Admittedly, I secretly admired her overall deep-seated suspicion, especially of the NBA. Still for the sake of sports in general I argued that this was untenable. She came back more passionately than I had expected, "The first two games it was like the Spurs vs a high school team!" Foolishly thinking I had found a soft spot in the argument, I responded in that I-know-more-about-sports-than-you man-voice, "But Detroit won the next two just as lopsidedly." I don't even know if lopsidedly is a word. It felt right when I thought it, but oh so stupid when I said it. Fortunately she ignored it (I had dodged a major bullet I thought).

Unwittingly, though, I had played right into her hand (she is smarter than me, but never uses the You-may-watch-more-sports-than-me-or-anyone-with-a-real-life-for-that-matter-but-you-are-actually-a-moron-and-I-am-really-smart voice), "Exactly! Two blowouts followed by two blowouts--all homecourt wins, and now at homecourt it's a nailbiter with overtime? This is not about basketball...this is about money."

I was beaten like a rented mule and I knew it. Still I tried to look like I had a clue as to what I was talking about: "Maybe they finally got a read on each other and it just took a while, you know." [Note to self: ending any sentence in a debate with "you know" and an unsure glance is a sure sign that the death knell will be rung soon.] Anyway, This was flimsy. We both knew it. "All season wasn't long enough?" She said with a genuinely nice smile (am I nice like that when I am right?). I couldn't give up though--obviously I had more invested in this debate than I did in the finals themselves. I went to the almighty dollar in what I thought was a stroke of genius, "If it was fixed, too many rich people would know and the betting lines would be all screwed up and the fix would announce itself, like with the 1919 Black Sox." (Not a bad point, but a lost cause.)

"Who?" She asked. I smirked (I found out that I am not that nice when I am right. Crap. I vow to work on that.).

She then hit me with her trump card, and we both knew it was coming inevitably, "We'll see who wins and you can tell me if it's a fix." You see, she wins either way. Even if the Spurs win, I still lose. If they blow out Detroit in game 6, then game five is a huge abaration and looks like a fix (better to have had seven blowouts than this). If the Spurs win a close game, then she talks about TV shares and ratings driving the flow of the game and keeping it close. On the off chance the Spurs lose, she of course, is right, and I lose.

Either way, this only underlines a simple lesson in life: The most wonderful woman in the world is smarter than I am. She doesn't rub it in though. I love her more each day. By the way, that underlines a major point that all of you should take home with you: I married over my head! So there--I'm not completely hopeless.

Now for the shout-outs: Quesofomage, you rule! Dawn, if you're reading this I should be reading and you know it. Tate, when do we get to see the High Tater at blogspot? And last but not least, gracias Bill Withers for changing my life (if you don't get it, get it, and then you will get it).

Question of the Day

I almost went with: Who would win in a cage match between Russel "The Donkey" McMinnville and Tango & Cash?

Instead:

What is your most guilty passion?

The Tallest and Dumbest Hear Their Names First

Cheese lovers and friends:

One editorial redaction: After another hour of conversation with my uncle, who is the most knowledgable professional wrestling fan I have ever met, I can redeem him by saying that he realizes his passion is odd, but really knows his stuff. The man is amazing--he knows the real name of like every wrestler on the planet! Truly enlightening.

On to the good stuff for today kiddos.

So back in Jersey the sun is hot and I am sweaty. Titus, my most faithful companion and truest friend, is back from the kennel and appears to have gone on hunger strike. I hope that the neighbors don't call myself and the most wonderful woman in the universe in for pet abuse.

I had the opportunity to attend a local high school graduation yesterday. Man oh man are they different here than what I was expecting. This was the most tearful "happiest moment of our lives" I have ever seen. First off, all graduation ceremonies should not exceed one and one half hours, period. Even if they are not done, they should have to call the game. Anything longer is tedious. This one went like eight hours or something (okay a long two, but the bleechers almost gave me the piles). There were three (three!) student speakers who all sounded like they had plegiarized from one another and all of them cried (a father's unexpected death, heartbreak and defeat, and sympathy or fitting in, I think, respectively.). It was very heavy stuff. At my graduation we had a kid scrap his speech and give an impromptu about getting some action in college. Then there were three (three more!) adult speakers (ramblers, might be more approapriate). Then they called the names of the graduates--not in alphabetical order, but--get ready--in order of a combined z-score average of your class rank and your height...no lie, this is the real statsical organization of the names! Amazing. Really freaking weird, but amazing.

Well, the most wonderful woman in the world is hungry and so am I. Enjoy your day.

Question of the Day

Sadly, I admit that this question came from a discussion with my Uncle whom heretofore I greatly respected, but after thirty minutes of why "The Nature Boy" Ric Flair is the greatest wrestler of all time (we really had this conversation), I found myself questioning my own judgment of cool. Nevertheless, on with the question:

If you were a professional wrestler, what would your name be?

Remember, if you choose your own actual given name (i.e. scott barker), you only last a couple of minutes in an unimportant match with some other really important wrestler who gets all the calls and doesn't have to try hard to beat you to a pulp.

There's No Place Like Home

Adoring cheese addicts, today the most incredible woman in the world and I will be flying home to our home in beautiful South Jersey. I can't wait to get back to grinding poverty, urban blight, and industrial polutants.

On to the really exciting news--the US Open started this morning. I know that you are all really fired up for Golf news, but I promise it won't take long. After watching most of the first round I think that right now the smart money is on Ratief Goosen. He is playing strong right now, but it is only Thursday, and they don't call him Great-on-Thursday-Absolutely-Crap-on-Sunday-Ratief for nothing. Actually they don't call him that. I think he may have won last year.

Beyond golf (is there anything beyond golf?...yes! At least we are all agreed on that.), it is another glorious day in Seattle. Having read my cousin's blog (which is linked on the right of the page) I am fearful of my chances of leaving Sea-Tac on time, but we are praying that it will be fine. Have I mentioned that I hate flying? I really wish someone would work on those transporters. I'd do it every time.

Question of the Day

Okay all you Janet Reno fans, here is part two:

Would you rather eat a turd sandwich or co-host a sleepover with Michael Jackson?

Two Tickets to Paradise

Good day to all of you out there who are just chomping at the bit to find out what the high cheese is offering for dinner today! We have the Eddie Money special: Two Tickets to Paradise.

Updating you on all the details of yesterday's trip with the most wonderful woman on the planet, I have to suggest that all of you make your way to Mt. Rainier before you die (from happiness to morbidity so quickly...my specialty). Two tickets to Paradise actually only cost ten bucks total--they charge per car load (who would have thought). Anyway, Paradise leaves a bit to be desired I guess. I'm not bitter, but it was bitter cold and had more fog than I would have thought having heard mention of the name. Still, the view was breathtaking (actually the way I described it at the time was a little less poetic: "Wow. Have you ever looked at something so big you wanted to take a dump in your pants right there?"). Looking back, I may have detracted from Paradise as well.

Heading back down we stopped at Longmire Camp and then hiked up the Wonderland Trail (I didn't name that either, but whoever did is genius) through the Ramparts (another great name, this place is on fire!) up to Ramparts Ridge (elevation 6,000+ ft.), down the Rampart Ridge trail to the Trail of Shadows (the hits just keep coming) and back to Longmire (just under 6 miles). All I can say is that it was incredible and you have to go sometime. I may make it a goal in my life to hike all 96 miles of the Wonderland Trail.

So what did you do with your Tuesday? If you want, you can live vicariously through mine.

Question of the Day

Today we go third-grade*: Would you rather eat a turd sandwich or make out with Janet Reno?



*Janet Reno's name has been supplied in the place of the ugly girl with the prosthesis in third grade whose name originally appeared in this fine and mature question from my past. I can only hope that that girl will forgive me for my cruelty as behind her back I honestly chose to eat fecal matter on bread instead of enjoying her romantic company.

Life as a Tourist in the Great Northwest

Hey there fans of the old 0-2 chin music (the high cheese is actually a high fastball in baseball slang)! I know you might be thinking, his posts are coming later than usual. But factor in the time change please, it is crucial. I'm west coast now baby!

Kelly (the aforementioned most wonderful woman in the world) and I take a funfilled trip to Mt. Rainier today. That should be a blast. Aparently we are going to this place where it is 6,000 feet elevation called (no lie) "paradise."

That is what I am talking about! We need more places to just lay it on the line. I want some bold statements of faith. The world needs them. You need to just say this place is paradise. You know how in the Bible, Jesus told that crook on the cross that today they would be in paradise together, they ment 6,000 feet up Mt. Rainier! This is paradise.

But any faith statement is welcome. "This is best darn burrito in the free world!" Or something like, "I am the sweatiest man on the planet." Or, "Plastic is the work of Satan." These are the statements we need more of just so that we know that the absolute still has a place in the world. Forget one size fits most--what is that?!? Weak. One size fits ALL! And a special shout out to TCBY for standing for This Country's Best Yogurt! That is a fiath statement! That is an absolute. I likes it alot.

About Kelly, today she will be with me in Paradise. (Very nice rhetorical device there if I do say so myself.)

Question of the day?

What is the worst movie you have ever seen? Explain.

The More You Think You Know Someone

Greetings from Seattle! I love vacations, but I love my adoring public more (take special care not to spell public incorrectly). Duty calls. You all want to know more, and more is just what I am going to give you. Let's get the party started.

So my wife surprised me yesterday with this bombshell: "I could live here (sigh with gaze of contentment at mountain a silhouetted in the distance)."

Talk about a blow. I mean, I could happily live here as well, but this really threw me for a loop. My wife, who, coincidentally, is the most incredible woman on the face of the planet (I will explain on some later date), and I have talked about these sorts of things before. We agreed that both of us had lived in Indiana and now New Jersey long enough to know that we wanted to live somewhere hot, preferably dry and hot. We were looking in the southwest. This was the plan. Well you know the best laid plans of mice and men... (if you don't ask Robert Burns later).

"I could live here." Simple words, but infintely complex when one considers that not a single day has it been either hot or dry. Those were the criteria up to this point. Hot and Dry. Not too tough. Seattle is neither; yet, "I could live here."

This leads me to think that there are two possible solutions. First, she could be simply playing with me. You know, playing the keep-him-guessing game in order to keep things spiced up. Not a bad idea. It seems to have worked. My interest is peaked. The other option is that she has simply ammended the list of two criteria down to one overarching criterion because of our time in glorious south Jersey. The new super-criterion is: cleanliness. I get that. It is after all next to godliness.

Well, here is to greener grass in other yards. God bless you all.

Question of the Day

I was astounded by your romanticism. Let me give you a depressing update. There is some room for error in this calculation, because I estimated the worsham clan's weekly paycheck and chopper1 failed to give a number. Anyway, here is what you would pay on average for true love: a whopping $242.45.

$242.45. That is sad. True love is cheaper than an Ipod mini. Better yet, you could buy 165 cases of true love for the cost of one kidney. I worry about you all.

Anyway, on to the question:

What three songs are certainly on the soundtrack to your life?

Towering Above Mortal Men

Happy happy everybody! Greetings from rainy Seattle. Internet is not as accessible as I had hoped, but we are certainly making due.

Today we went sight seeing, and I can assure you the sights were seen. On a high note (bad pun intended) I was rocketted 520 feet above the earth to see the world from the Seattle Space Needle observation deck. Neato! Try it if you ever get the chance!

By the way--I got Chris Snelling's autograph. Keep an eye out for this AAA phenom with the Tacoma Rainiers. He really can hit the cover off the ball. Also watch for Henri Stanley to be in LA before the season is over. So much for AAA baseball talk (I know you are all sad).

Love for all, tips for none. Farewell adoring public.

Question of the Day

How much, in US dollars would you pay for true love if given the opportunity?

(p.s. don't give me the "I already have it, blah blah blah crud." I have ratings to keep up people. Give me a number!)

White Flight

What it is frenzied and bedazzeled public. Welcome to the only June 9, 2005 you will ever live--make it a good one (source: Tater).

So today I must gird up my soul and once again conquer my fear of flying. It's not that I am super afraid, and I won't cry or anything, but I just know that big metal things shouldn't be able to remain suspended in air. I never was great at physics, but I can promise you that I am pretty good at repetitive, white-knucled prayer.

I wish there were transporters. I mean, I would even pay penalties in order to use them. For instance, if it meant that every time you transported you were at your destination within 30 seconds but then spent 30 minutes violently sick, I would still do it and all the time too. I would do it in a heartbeat. For one, I hear that vomiting is a great way to lose weight! (Just kidding! The High Cheese in no way supports this. Take care of yourselves.)

Well, I may be one of the largest white men in the sky today, but that don't mean that I ain't got the soul it takes to make it happen. Lay 'em down and smack 'em yak 'em (that's jive for those of you who didn't know). Until we meet again...

Question of the Day

Would you sell a kidney on the black market for $40,000? Why or why not?

Seattle or bust

Hey there adoring public! I hope that this morning finds you all alive, well, and eager to get out there and live with gusto!

So the Mrs. and I are taking a little bit of a vacation--we are headed to Seattle, WA to visit some family (read: cause dysfunction in an otherwise happy crew), drink some coffee (read: cook my brain with caffiene), climb some mountains (read: watch ESPN while my wife climbs mountains), watch some baseball (read: or watch the Mariners which may not be baseball), and have an otherwise tremendous time resting and relaxing. I wonder if Seattle is the most highly populated northernmost city in the US--I don't even know if that makes sense. I am sure that some more dedicated blogger would have looked it up. I hate it when I let you all down.

Anyway, I will be keeping the blog going through the trip--I knew that you were all waiting with baited breath to hear me say that! Just because you can live without the details doesn't mean you should have to, and if anyone knows that it's me.

I still wonder why my family doesn't want to come see beautiful New Jersey.

Sports and TV

Allow me a moment to sing the praises of the great indoors. In particular, let me address several issues revolving around the most dynamic of duos in the world--Sports and TV.

If you haven't been paying attention, you are currently missing the third best time of the year when it comes to sports and television. In order I would identify the following as the top three annual* televised sports events:

1. The first four days of the NCAA Men's Basketball Tournament - I save sick days just for this.

2. Bowl week on ESPN - even if the game of football is superior to the game of basketball, the tourney means crucial games from sun-up to sun-down, bowl week is at best three games in a day.

3. NCAA Baseball and Softball World Series

To be fair, this time period is also sweetened by the fact that MLB is in full swing and bringing nightly images of what is best about America (the never-ending quest to outwit steroid screenings). Anyway...

I know what you're thinking. You were okay until I brought in college softball. I stand my ground. First off, they throw faster underhand than I do overhand...no math conversion needed to determine what would be the baseball equivalent. Second, softball players are a different grain of dirt than the rest of us. They play hard all the time and the field is so small that the room for error is next to nil. Also, if you watch consistently, you develop an attachment because of the player interviews and color-person anectdotes. You feel like you got to know them--like they went to your school. You learn who is fastest on the team, who goes by "jilly-bean" and "oreo," and who wants to be a painist when they graduate. They all have nick-names that the announcer is free to use. It's just wholesome sport, still pure. Also, it is a much easier tournament to follow than its baseball counterpart.

The college baseball world series is always great TV--the ping of the bat alone should make us all weep and pledge allegiance. Still, the tourney does require consistently accurate long-division and proficiency with a slide rule in order to know when your team has advanced, been sent home, or just simply put in their time that day. I am not even sure that it simply isn't arbitrary and when they are ready for Cal State Fullerton to move on, they just say so--sorry Harvard, good team, but we want CSF right now.

I should take a brief moment to note that Alabama is in both this year which makes it even more fun to watch. Roll Tide!!!

* Notice that this list is comprised of those events that are annual. We all know that the World Cup is the single greatest televised sports event; however, it is not annual. Even if you don't like soccer, don't know who any talented footballers are, and have never cared, you will find yourself whipped into a jingoistic frenzy cheering against whatever pinko third-world backwater cheats the world throws at our boys.

You kids behave, and watch more TV--it sharpens passive staring skills.