Tales from the Road - Days 3-5

To continue the common theme here at The Writings of posting things after they are no longer timely, this summation of days 3-5 of the Road Trip of Derek Larson comes two days after I returned home. This lack of punctuality was the plan all along.*

*Cough*LIAR*cough.

In our last post - which may be commonly referred to as The Epic of Derek, thanks to it's absurd length* - Derek traveled to Arkansas, caught a Double-A baseball game, was awaken by some sort of terrorist infiltration alarm, and traveled across Missouri into Illinois. As we pick things up in part 2 of The Epic, our protagonist is departing from his stay in Galesburg, Ill., and headed toward Clinton, Iowa.

*The Cliffs Notes will be available in bookstores soon.

News flash - I can be easily distracted. While I do not officially have Attention Deficit Disorder, at times I like to consider myself as an honorary member of the ADD society. With one task on my mind, the simple sight of something out of the ordinary ("Ooh, an Arby's!") can throw me off completely. This journey marks one such occasion, as it seems some sort of distraction led me to divert from my intended route. I pulled into a gas station, grabbed my road atlas, and attempted to gain my bearings. It was at this time that I found an alternate route guaranteed to be more scenic, as it would travel right along the Mississippi River. After a quick discussion with my navigator*, this new route was accepted, and I was back on track.

*I do my best to make talking to myself sound reasonable.

 While the alternate route brought a bit of frustration, courtesy massive road construction efforts, it also brought provided the opportunity to assuage my inner gambler.



At the sight of a casino, I slammed on my brakes, swerved to the right, hopped a curb, parked illegally, jumped from my car and ran inside, shouting "ching, ching" all the way. Sprinting up to the nearest roulette table, I put $500 on red, only to see that little ball settle on 26 black. Discouraged, but not defeated, I continued to feed the gambling demon inside me, only to leave when I had lost all my cash and I discovered they wouldn't accept my scorecard from the Northwest Arkansas Naturals game as a bet. As a result, I currently live in the streets of Davenport, Iowa, and I'm typing this Writing from the laptop of a Starbucks customer who is currently in the restroom.


Remember when I said I can be easily distracted? Consider the previous paragraph as proof. In truth, as I drove through Davenport, I found that this area of town along the river seemed to be a pretty nice location. Thanks in part to the Holiday Inn's "You'll Wake Up and You'll Like It" alarm from the morning before, I was well ahead of schedule, so I decided to stop and check things out. I did go and check out the casino, however my gambling exploits were not as bold as those detailed above. Embracing my "wuss bets" nature, I played nothing but penny and nickel slots. I left with $6 less than I arrived with, and the knowledge that this particular casino was basically a retirement home with smoking, drinks, and slot machines. I'm pretty confident I was the youngest person there by about 40 years.







After departing the casino, I took a stroll along the river. It was there that I encountered a rather large (read: obese), shirtless man, who wore shorts that appeared to be a bit too small; a wanna-be singer who was having a friend snap pictures of her on the stage of an ampitheater, and another large man who was putting his shirt on as he walked toward the casino. None of this is really relevant at all, but I am glad the last guy was going to follow the "no shoes, no shirt" policy at the casino.

A scenic trip on Highway 67 brought took me to Clinton, where I found the need to adjust my initial plans for lodging. Such changes were deemed necessary when I discovered that the hotel I orginally planned to stay at was located next to three rough looking bars and a gentleman's club. I decided this lodging option did not meet my strict standards for overnight stay options*, and found an alternate option.

*Rule No. 1 - Don't stay someplace where the odds of you getting stabbed are 1:1.

After settling in, I was off to Alliant Energy Field to see the Burlington Bees attempt to sting the Clinton Lumberkings.



 Hitting the highlights...

- The folks in Clinton seem to take the "park" in "ballpark" very seriously, as there seemed to be as many seats available at picnic tables around the field as there were in the stands. It gave the game the feel of a little league contest. Unfortunately, I did not witness any angry parents shouting from the stands or players sitting down in the outfield.

- The drop from Double-A ball to Single-A was noticeable. The stadium featured no video board, and names did not appear on jerseys, again contributing to a little league feel. Unfortunately, I'm unsure whether the teams went out for pizza after the game.

- During the eighth inning, the folks in the stadium PA box played the chicken dance. After watching those that participated, I determined this is the method used to determine who in the stadium is no longer sober enough to drive home.

- Instead of traditional ballpark vendors, this park featured waitresses walking around with serving trays and taking drink orders. I'm unsure whether LumberKings* management conducted studies to determine that drink sales increase when those in the stands feel like they're at a bar. If so, it seems that the next step is having a jukebox in the dugout and a pool table in the outfield.

*For those curious, it seems that a LumberKing is simply a lumberjack wearing a crown. I'm not sure how many lumberjacks in the world are actually of royal bloodlines, but it may be worth looking into.

- In regard to the actual baseball game that took place, Burlington picther Ivor Hodgson showed some pitches that moved as if they had minds of their own. He struck out 12 batters in just 5 2/3 innings. Burlington topped Clinton 6-4, putting Royals-affiliated squads at 1-1 on my trip.


Friday morning, I departed the wondrous city of Clinton on my way to Omaha, Neb. This trip called for driving the entire length of Iowa, from east to west. Luckily, I wasn't traveling alone. You see, a friend called rain decided to accompany me for a few hours that morning.



While the company provided by such precipitation was appreciated*, the rain and I decided to part ways before arriving in Des Moines. Because I had plenty of driving at hand and little time for detours, I drove Interstate 80 for the length of this trip. As a result, the scenery I witness on this journey could be summed up in one word: corn. By the time I reached Omaha, I was having a hard time distinguishing what was real and what was the result of cornfield overload hallucination. The Kellogg's Corn Flakes rooster on my shoulder telling me stop at every grocery store for Corn Flake goodness certainly wasn't helping, either.

*In the same way one appreciates a flesh-eating virus.

In Omaha, I found myself cursing the person who first came up with the idea of a one-way street. Driving through the downtown area, it seemed every turn I wanted to make involved going the wrong way on a one-way. With rebellion not being part of my nature, I fought such notions and drove through the city as if I was obeying a short-circuiting GPS unit. I don't consider it a good sign when you make it from one end of a city of 390,000 people to the other and still have no idea where you are going to be lodging. I'd say my meandering trip went unnoticed, but there are probably a few folks on street corners that noticed a car with Kansas plates drive by multiple times who would disagree.

After finally finding a place to lay my head that did not involve sneaking into the zoo, I was off to Rosenblatt Stadium.



I gathered from the souvenir program that the theme for the 2009 Omaha Royals is "Fun Rules!" Sadly, the Royals entered the contest sitting at the bottom of the Pacific Coast League. Fun may rule, but it apparently doesn't involve success.

One thing fun must involve is screaming, as the kids in attendance treated the game as if it were a Jonas Brothers concert. I'm not sure why a t-shirt toss calls for ear-crippling cries, but apparently it must be listed in the Fun Rulebook.

The Royals lost to the Las Vegas 51s, 6-4. Despite the losing effort, I enjoyed the chance to see the Triple-A Royals in action. For those unaware, Triple-A is the highest level of the minor leagues, meaning many players on this squad are one sprained ankle away from playing in Kansas City. The fact that the Triple-A version of the Royals is in last place, though, does not seem to say much for the immediate future for the major league club.

The big event following the game was a fireworks display, which I decided would serve as a replacement for the colorful explosions I missed seeing while away on business for Independence Day. This particular display proved noteworthy due to the soundtrack that accompanied the show. I'm not sure what exactly Ace of Base's "All That She Wants (is another baby)" or Inner Circle's "Bad Boys" (the theme from Cops) have to do with fireworks, but I'm sure there's an explanation out there somewhere. (Even if it involves a disgruntled employee.)

With my time in Omaha coming to a close, I discovered the following morning that the Days Inn in the city is apparently the preferred lodging for hobbits in the area. The showerhead was situated no higher than the top of my chest. I could handle such an issue, but I soon discovered another problem. It seemed that the hobbits that normally inhabit this room had an issue with hot water. The basic liquid intended to wash me reached a temperature no higher than that of soup that has been sitting out for a day. Before this trip, I knew I was not a morning person, but now I am wondering if mornings are taking offense to this fact. If I ever am run down by a steamroller that has been hijacked by an escaped gorilla, I am sure it will happen in the morning.

A Saturday trip to Kansas City gave me the chance to meet up with my brother and some close friends for the final baseball game of the trip - a battle between the Kansas City Royals and the Oakland A's at "The New" Kauffman Stadium.



While I can be considered a bit of a loner, (or a hermit,) I definitely enjoyed the chance for a little human interaction after days of talking to few ballparkgoers that would pass a sobriety test. I also relished the opportunity to take in the sights at the renovated stadium. It definitely impressed, and I'm looking forward to going there again for the chance to check out new Royals Hall of Fame.

During the game, I discovered one detail about Royals fans that cannot be argued: they're literate. Everytime the stadium video board urged fans to get "louder" or "make some noise" such instructions were followed as if they were military commands. A study of cause-and-effect relationships leads to the conclusion that fans must read the words on the board in order to comprehend them. Therefore, we have literate fans. I think there's a marketing slogan in there somewhere.

Royals ace pitcher Zack Greinke took the mound for the Royals, and while he gave up more runs than he does normally (three... which speaks to how dominant he's been this season), the offense offered a performance very out-of-the-ordinary, scoring 12 runs. An excellent capper to the Road Trip of Derek Larson. The Royals topped the A's 12-6, pushing the Royals organization to a 2-2 record in games viewed by the author. Not too shabby.


With the trip now in the rear view mirror (figuratively and literally, in a figurative sort of way), I am not sure I could have picked a better agenda for this vacation. I got to see plenty of baseball, watch some upcoming prospects, view a lot of scenery along the open road, encounter a variety of people, and absorb plenty of material for The Writings. There's just one thing to do now... Figure out where the Second-Annual Road Trip of Derek Larson will take me.

Tales from the Road - Days 1 and 2

Ahh, vacation. If only it could come along more often. It gives one the chance to escape the incessant drone of everyday normalcy. It gives one the chance to hit the road and see new things. It gives one the chance to be unexpectedly awoken at 5 a.m. and be instilled with a momentary fear that their life will end in Arkansas... but, I'm getting ahead of myself.

The inaugural Road Trip of Derek Larson kicked off Tuesday morning. Unforeseen circumstances (e.g., the need for a pair of new tires. Nothing like shelling out cash before you even approach any road the trip involves.), pushed departure time back a couple of hours, but I soon found myself heading southeast, like a migratory bird whose inner compass is slightly askew.

After venturing through thriving metropolises (metropoli?) like Gas, Kan.*, and (insert indistinct town name here), Mo., I arrived in Springdale, Ark.

*Pun not originally intended, but the author chuckled upon realization.

As one who enjoys the finer things in life.. such as television and flim, I have noticed that Arkansas is oft characterized as a state full of southern yokels who might be as likely to marry a pig as they would be to bathe. I fully expected this erroneous depiction to be rendered moot right away. Unfortunately, the man at the hotel counter chose to fuel the fire.

How so?

Let's just say the moon was bright in the Holiday Inn.

That's right, when I strolled into the hotel, the first thing I was greeted by was the sight of a large man bent at the waist so he could lean on the check-in counter, with his pants drooping a quarter of the way down his backside... Welcome to Arkansas, Derek.*

*While this story is true, most folks I encountered in Arkansas were very nice folks. I'd also like to stress that I saw no one married to a pig. 

After Arkansas' Grand Canyon made his exit, I booked a room and that was that... Well sort of. This would normally be a rather mundane portion of the trip, but the guy working the check-in counter sounded identical to Jonah Hill, of Superbad (and other movies) fame. He also looked a bit like him, which made the situation even more eerie. I nearly asked him to say a line from one of his movies, but my better judgment won out. (Lousy brain.)

After some unwinding at the hotel, it was off to Arvest Field, to witness my first minor league baseball game. In post-game wrap fashion, we'll hit the highlights...

As I approached the stadium, I was greeted by the Arkansas branch of the Scottish National Guard. While I may have misidentified these gentlemen, their music was, well, bagpipey. Unfortunately, because I grew up watching professional wrestling, I paused for a bit waiting for Rowdy Roddy Piper to make an entrance. He never showed up.

Once inside, I strolled around the concourse to check things out. There was an autograph booth set up, with no line whatsoever. Like an eight-year-old at his first ballgame, I soon found myself asking two guys (both younger than me) for their autographs, even though I did not recognize their names. Afterward, I grabbed a hotdog and a soda (total price - waaaay more than they were worth. It seems that major league food prices still apply in minor league parks.), and found a picnic table in the shade to eat a bit. During this time, the folks controlling the pregame music decided it would be a good idea to play Eiffel 65's "I'm Blue." At this point I found myself trying to decide whether it was done on a bet, or if the "DJ" had enjoyed a few pregame drinks. I'm still not sure what was going on.



After eating, I reluctantly left the comfort of the shade to find my seat. I discovered one big positive about minor league baseball - excellent seats for low cost. The above picture was taken from the comfort of seat 16 in row D. Unfortunately, that line of shade was still 30 minutes away at this point.

For those interested in the actual baseball aspect of this experience, the game featured the Northwest Arkansas Naturals (the Kansas City Royals' AA affiliate) and the Tulsa Drillers (the Colorado Rockies' AA affiliate). Sitting four rows back from the field with my Royals cap on, I figured I might encounter others sporting something similar. I figured wrong. I spotted no other fans wearing any sort of gear promoting the big league club. In fact, I only spotted two other people in the stadium wearing anything relating to Major League Baseball at all. One was wearing a Ryne Sandberg Cubs jersey, the other donned a Vernon Wells Blue Jays t-shirt. I hope to one day figure out how fan gear of a Hall of Famer who retired 12 years ago and a guy who plays in Canada relates to that particular contest in Springdale... Some day.

As the game progressed, I was reminded that some baseball terminology is easier to decipher than others. This reminder was generously provided by the absolutely clueless woman sitting directly behind me. Perhaps the baseball geek that often fuels my thinking is the only one that would notice this, but she incorrectly used the phrase "1-2-3 inning" twice in a three-inning span. For those that might be unaware, a "1-2-3 inning" is a half-inning in which all three outs are recorded in consecutive fashion. No hits. No walks. No catcher interference. Nothing but outs. This vocal fan, who seemed to always make sure all around were listening to her, deemed one inning that of the 1-2-3 variety, despite the fact that only two outs had been recorded. A couple innings later, she pulled the phrase out again, even though a hitter had singled earlier and had been standing on first base - just 20 yards away from her, for a few minutes. The situation served as a strong reminder that one should only speak knowledgeably of a subject if they actually are knowledgeable of said subject.*

*Editor's note: The author has been reminded that he often uses this very space to write about subjects he knows virtually nothing about. Forgive him. He's a little slow.

As the game carried on, I noticed that I was the only - ONLY - individual seated in my entire row. Granted, the ballpark certainly wasn't full, but this seemed excessive. There were 18 seats, but just one seat filler. That situation dissolved when a quartet of guys arrived a few minutes. These four, who all appeared to be around 30 and were downing beers like the keg was almost empty, seemed to have their pick of seats in my section. They chose my row, which was fine. They chose my end of the row, which was fine. They chose the four seats directly to my right. This was a bit odd. I seached the depths of my mind in attempt to think of a situation where I might have invited four heavy drinkers to come to the ballgame with me. The search drew no results.

For the next few innings, I was "treated" to their "side-splitting jokes" and "hilarious mockery" of the opposing first base coach... Okay, enough of the sarcasm, these guys were basically the baseball fan versions of any obnoxious drunk you may have ever encountered. Their "jokes" consisted of little more than talking about how the first base coach was not in the coach's box (although they laughed like the Full House laugh track every time it was mentioned), and their taunting of the coach did not turn out so well. You see, Tulsa's first base coach was also the hitting coach, and the Drillers scored 11 runs on 16 hits. Advantage: coach.

The sudsy crew left before the end of the game, as did most other fans. Before they left I caught a t-shirt thrown by Strike the Naturals' mascot, despite the fact that Norm (made up name for inebriated individual next to me) was draped over me like an NFL defensive back. At this point I did a touchdown dance, shoved the shirt in his face, and told him to bring his 'A' game next time... In reality, I listened to his slurred ramblings, showed him the shirt he almost had, and sat back down to continue keeping score. Sorry, readers who enjoy personal conflict, I'm mild-mannered.



The picture above tells the story. One game on The Road Trip of Derek Larson down, one Royals-affiliated loss witnessed. Nevertheless, there were a few players I was impressed with. If I had to pick four names of players to keep an eye out for in years to come, I'd say David Lough (centerfielder), Jarrod Dyson (leftfielder), Jeff Bianchi (shortstop), and Juan Abreau (relief pitcher, hit 96 on the radar gun).

Back at the hotel, I soon felt like I was losing another battle. I discovered that my lodging place of choice did not feature free Internet access or a free breakfast for the following morning, and the pillows on my bed were thicker than most couch cushions. When lying in bed, I felt as if my neck was being contorted in impossible ways.

Luckily*, I didn't have to deal with these substandard conditions for long. At 5:08 a.m. the next morning, I awoke to the sound of an alarm the likes of which one hears on television when some sort of secure goverment facility has been infiltrated by evil-doers. Thanks to a working knowledge of the television show '24', I realized that nothing good comes about when CTU security is breached, so I had little chance to survive at a Holiday Inn. I listened to the voice accompanying the alarm instructing all to head downstairs via the stairway, got dressed in rattled fashion, grabbed a couple belongings, and took off for the lobby. 

*Is luckily the right word?

In the lobby, I encountered a bevy of other hotel occupants looking as disheveled as I was. What was the emergency? Who had broken in? Where was the fire? The questions were tossed about. The answer was that it all was well. While it was a relief to hear, it was also a bit disturbing to hear the hotel employee refer to the false alarm situation as something that happens "periodically."

Pardon? Full moons happen periodically. False alarms in a hotel that instill all staying there with a sense of unrest at an early hour should not. 

Now awake a full three hours earlier than I had originally planned, I chose to embrace opportunity and hit the road.

Planned as a rather uneventful travel day, after the morning's surprise, this day reverted to the uneventful route as I rolled out of Arkansas, all the way across Missouri and into Illinois. The highlights:

- When ordering a CroisSonic sandwich and a cherry Sprite for breakfast at Sonic, the communications specialist on the other end of my order decided it would be a good idea to ask if I would like mozzerella sticks, as well. Hmmm... deep fried cheese first thing in the morning. Tempting, but I had to pass.



-Prior to this trip, I had no idea that there was a city called Mexico in Missouri. Having never been to Mexico (aside from the "New" version of it), I had stop in. Erring on the side of caution, I chose not to drink the water.

- I discovered that western Illinois has some of the worst highways I have ever encountered. The state of their roadways is downright shabby. You know the feeling when you are clinking along as you climb the initial slope of a roller coaster? That's similar to the bumpy sensation I encountered on several highways in the western part of the state.


Two days, and nearly 2,000 words later, it's time for bed. Here's hoping morning arrives a bit later tomorrow.

Copyright Derek D. Larson

So Long, Suspense

If you, as a reader of The Writings, know one thing about me, as the author, it is that I love suspense.*

*Please note: This isn't really true at all, but it sets things up nicely for the rest of this Writing. It seems I am willingly to make things up in order to have a fitting lead. That's a quality people look for in a writer, right?... Right?

The fact is, updates here at The Writings have been few this summer because I have embracing suspense.*

*It also seems that I am willing to openly lie in this Writing. After all, the lack of blog updates this summer has had far less to do with suspense than with a busy schedule mixed with a dose of laziness. Oh well, let's see where lies and deceit get us.

You see, on June 29, the author used this very blog to announce an upcoming roadtrip and to seek advice for possible destinations. Over a month later, that post has drawn a ridiculous amount of feedback*, and people everywhere have impatiently waited to find out just where this roadtrip would take me*.

*Lies. A few people gave suggestions, either in print or in person, but they may very well be trying to get me to leave and never return.

**More lies. On the big list of things people are concerned with, "Derek's Roadtrip Plans" fall just after "establishing a book club for homeless snails."

Well, faithful readers, wait no more. The roadtrip has been determined, and it is one with a theme. I'll be seeing four baseball games in five days, witnessing four levels of the Kansas City Royals' organization (A, AA, AAA, and the big league club) along the way. That's right, four ballgames in five days, and every one of them related to the Royals. It seems the theme of this trip is rather self explanatory.

I'm a glutton for punishment.

I kid. The great thing about baseball is that there's always hope.*

*Disclaimer: This does not apply if your starting rotation features Mark Redman, Scott Elarton, and Odalis Perez.

Road trip plans involve a lot of baseball, a lot more driving, and some opportunities to note all the wonder one might encounter when traveling through Kansas, Arkansas, Missouri, Iowa, and Nebraska.*

*Hello, excitement.

In the department of endorsements I should not attempt to comprehend...

Steve Wilkos is featured on a commercial for a company called Gold Rush. Much like the appropriately named "Cash 4 Gold"*, this company will pay you money (I assume it's even American currency) for all that annoying gold that gets in your way and makes your home look trashy.

*Did you know they'll pay cash for your gold? It's true!

Connecting the dots to determine the logic behind this endorsement is kind of like trying to figure out how The Pacifier made over $113 million dollars at the box office. Both serve as excellent scenarios to be depicted on a flash card for the term "mind-boggling."

For those that are not familiar with Mr. Wilkos, he was once the head of security on The Jerry Springer Show. When arguments about the true identities of a baby's daddy would erupt into all-out brawls - complete with chair tossing and censor-stressing language - Steve would appear out of nowhere, get someone in a full-nelson hold, and then attempt to pull their heart from their chest, Temple of Doom-style.* Big and bald, Steve became a fan-favorite, drawing hordes of cheers and chants of his name whenever he would get in the midst of a conflict. He was such a hit, that many people** wondered why the folks advertising Mr. Clean didn't take a hint and have the animated mascot begin attacking child-support dodgers in commercials for the cleaning product. It would have guaranteed a boost in sales.

*I may have made that last part up.

**In this case, "many people" refers to the author and... well... okay, just the author.

At some point, Steve earned his own talk show hosting gig. Luckily for Mr. Wilkos, he was able to spread figurative wings, and was not saddled with a shoddy knock-off of The Jerry Springer Show. No, instead dealing with topics like "My anorexic, cross-dressing, communist son has a drinking problem" his show deals with more serious topics... Okay, I actually have no idea what Mr. Wilkos' new(ish) show deals with, as daytime television often eludes me. A quick look at the website has given me a little taste, though. According to the ticker, I should call the show if I "know a teen that is roaming the streets," if I "need Steve to let someone have it," or if I "need help with an unsolved murder." Unfortunately, it provides a different phone number for each situation. As a result, I'm unsure what number to call to since I need Steve to let a teen roaming the streets have it because they are hiding information concerning an unsolved murder.

Now, it seems Steve has turned his talk show success into a quality endorsement opportunity. Why not? Egging people on to sell their gold seems like a natural transition from breaking up fights between pimps and prostitutes and facilitating talk show topics like "My obese, transvestite caddy can't read a green*", doesn't it? He's gone from serving as the muscle in some of the least civilized confrontations ever filmed to serving as a front man for something that seems like a swindle concocted by a certain Dutch super-villain. . (He loves go-ooooold.) That's only natural, right?

Right?

*This topic may not have been covered yet, but it's coming soon. It's a serious issue.

Low Blow

I had a great lead for this Writing. I really did... Unfortunately, the Royals' bullpen blew it in the eighth inning.

Ouch.

I'm sorry Royals. I really am, but nine-game losing streaks fueled by a bullpen that looks as reliable as a Sorny television make optimism difficult, even for those who at one time convinced themselves that Calvin Pickering could be a legit power hitter.  Alas, with recent baseball games serving as little more than opportunities to express unnecessary anger, it's probably best that we avoid this subject for the time being. More regular updates will come in the future. This is my promise to you, dear reader.

Lessons Learned - The Indianapolis Edition (pt. 1)

The fact that I recently spent some time in Indianapolis for work purposes has been well-publicized... on this blog. It was no secret that, while away, I was really looking forward to returning home. Upon hearing that, many people would often assume that I do not enjoy traveling. As a mascot head-wearing football analyst might say, "Not so fast, my friends." The truth is, I do enjoy traveling... when one is actually able to absorb the environment they're in. The trip I just completed did not allow such opportunities. The only thing I was really able to absorb was the atmosphere of the convention center in which I spent around 13 hours each day. By the end of each day, I could not have provided any sort of area weather report, but I could have easily directed you to the nearest restroom or water cooler. (Refreshing.)

While this trip may have been more bogus journey than excellent adventure*, there were a few lessons learned. Naturally, I find it my duty to pass these lessons along to as many people as I can reach. (The 1.5 readers of this blog.) The first such lesson comes in this writing. (Sorry for the brief post, but it seems that television is somewhat addicting when it comes in HD form and there's much less time in a week when you have five Harry Potter films to catch up on).

*Yes, we at The Writings are fluent in Bill & Ted-ese.

Street toughs are born that way.
During a rare opportunity to actually stretch my legs outdoors in the downtown area, I found myself sauntering down a city block, only to see a crew of inner-city teens headed my way. Pants were sagging, shirts were missing, and tattoos were prevalent. It seemed like a group that could normally be a bit intimidating to someone from a small town. However, there was one thing askew. Amidst the visible boxer shorts and icy cold glares, there rolled a stroller.

That's right, a stroller.

I have seen many portrayals of the street life in my day. They have come via television, film, and Michael Jackson music videos. One might think it would be hard to come by something that seemed more out of place than some youths having a dancing knife fight (before settling their differences thanks to more dancing), but this stroller struck such a cord with me. As I walked by, I was tempted to walk up to the stroller to see if the little tike inside was wearing a sagging diaper or had any baby tatts. Luckily, common sense won out and I kept to myself. I'm not sure how small of size brass knuckles come in, but I doubt it would be worth finding out.

Back in Action

Contrary to popular belief, the author of this blog did not go searching for the edge of the world, only to be abducted by alien pirates that feast on skinny Caucasian males every Wednesday. With a business trip* now complete, opportunities to write will again be prevalent. Thank you kindly, faithful reader(s), for your patience. You'll soon be rewarded with (or subjected to) Writings spurned by encounters during my nine days out of state, including baby street toughs and celebrity encounters.

*The phrase "business trip" sounds waaaaaay too sophisticated for anything I'm involved with, but the fact remains that I traveled to perform my job. What else should I call it? A workcation? Employment-fueled travels? An opportunity to screw up my sleeping patterns beyond recognition?

Stay tuned.

 

Thought for the Day/Week

Sure, you may not like where you currently sit in life. You may dread heading off to work each morning. You might even seriously consider checking Amazon.com for good prices on bindles so you can prepare for life as a hobo.

You may feel like nothing is going your way at all.

If such is the case, remember one thing: At least you still have Internet access.*

*Disclaimer: This may not apply if you are reading a printed version of this blog... If such is the case, at least you can read.**

**Disclaimer: This may not apply if this is being read to you... If such is the case, at least you can hear.***

***Disclaimer: This may not apply if the words of this blog are being conveyed to you from a friend/family member via a series of blinks... If such is the case, at least you can see.****

****Disclaimer: This may not apply if... well, I'll leave the reasoning up to you... If such is the case, you have probably realized by now that the point of this whole exercise is that there's always something you should be thankful for.*****


***** The Writings: At least the author can put together complete sentences... Most of the time. 

Needed: Ideas for a road trip... You can make a difference.

As those with sharp eyes (read: people who can read and comprehend the blatantly obvious) may have gathered from recent Writings, I've been a bit busy lately. Unfortunately for the author, "lately" will also extend for the next 12 days. (Not that anyone is counting.) Nonetheless, there is a light at the end of this tunnel. That light, although it seems as dim as a penlight in a spelunking expedition right now, is still putting forth a tiny glow. That tiny glow represents the vacation I'll take later this summer.

Currently*, the plan is to hit the road and take a trip to check out some new locales. Unfortunately, I don't really have any good ideas as to where to go. Big cities are out of the running, as it seems that visiting the sites of a big city would be better suited for traveling with a companion. (That, and I drive like a cataract-suffering grandmother in heavy rush-hour traffic.) Traveling to Cooperstown to visit that Baseball Hall of Fame is also a no-go, as that is a trip being saved for another occasion. I have been to Nebraska, Missouri, and Colorado on many occasions, and therefore must also eliminate them from road-trip consideration. I won't drive to Canada, as I will not consider having to adhere to the metric system two summers in a row. I also refuse to consider going anywhere overseas... You see, this is a road trip, and I'm fairly confident my car will not stay buoyant enough to float across the ocean. 

*"Currently" could transform into "formerly, should fuel prices rise to the point that one cringes at the thought of filling their gas tank.

As you can tell by now, I really have no direction (literally and figuratively) concerning where I should travel on this trip. This is where you come in, oh valued reader. Delve into the deepest crevices of your mind and suggest a potential stopping point for the DLRT09*. You can suggest a state, a city, a small town, a tourist trap, a restaurant, a relative you would like a message delivered to, a trip theme, a list of roads to avoid, the number of miles I should drive with my eyes shut... You can pretty much suggest anything.

*Derek Larson Road Trip '09... It's the best I can name the trip without an actual destination in mind. It was either that, or "The Quest to Locate Some Semblance of Sense."

My hope is that the trip will provide plenty of material for a blog that has been severely neglected in recent weeks. It may not admit that its feelings have been hurt, but the fact that it's been playing Boyz II Men's "Water Runs Dry"* on a loop lately has me thinking something might wrong. It puts up a tough front, but in reality it's a very fragile blog. It seems that a cross-country trip where I'm sure to encounter "people in your neighborhood" and plenty of "things I don't understand," may be just what is needed to get things around here clicking again.

*Most optimistic estimate - This reference will confuse all but about three people that might read it. Hopefully, those three people appreciate it.

If you have any roadtrip ideas whatsoever, pass them along... Not for me. For The Writings.

Rooting for Fall

Usually, we at The Writings try to keep things lighthearted. We poke fun at life's quirks. We make light of all we encounter. We even back waterfowl for the country's highest office, despite knowledge that a duck would never be able to carry states where hunting is popular. Such shenanigans are typical business around here. Not today. Today is different. Today is the day The Writings takes a firm stance on an important issue.

Henceforth, The Writings shall be known as a blog that is firmly anti-summer.

That's right, I've had it with summer. What good comes from a season where the weather is so hot that one perspires just thinking of going outside? The temperatures in Kansas have been so sweltering lately that I'm fairly confident area hotels are going to start advertising their parking lots as saunas.

This staunch anti-summer attitude also stems from the fact that the author's workload increases exponentially in the year's sixth and seventh months. Apparently the only reason days get longer during this period is so one can spend more time behind his desk.

Sure, some might argue that someone who enjoys baseball as much as I do should love the summer months. If I had time to get to any games, I might agree. As things currently stand, I still am unsure whether Kauffman Stadium was actually renovated or whether the Royals are playing televised home games in front of a large green screen.

Now you might be wondering how one can commit to an anti-summer agenda when they only support their stance two reasons. Personally, I think the fact that my windows may very well be melting and that I've been too busy lately to buy a jug of milk should be enough, but I'm prepared to give my argument further backing.

What season finds you continually swatting at mosquitos in the evening, and leaves you feeling itchy enough to seriously consider diving into a thornbush the next day?

What is the only season where, when out in public, the wardrobe decisions of others continually remind you that God created very few perfect bodies?

What season sees you continually retreating to the shelter of a basement in anticipation of severe weather?

What season gives people who have no business anywhere near explosives the chance to embrace their inner pyromaniac, leaving house pets everywhere terrified?

What season finds television networks trying to pass off knockoffs of Japanese game shows as "must-see" programming?

The answer to all these questions, my friends, is summer. I'm sorry, but summer stinks.

**** Please note: The author reserves the right to turn his back on this stance when August arrives and he has the chance to take a vacation.****

Hey, an update... Amazing.

According to the band Sublime, "the living's easy" in summertime. This may come as a shock to many, but it seems the members of Sublime never worked my job, where my schedule has gotten considerably more busy with the arrival of summer. Nevertheless, I refuse to let a hectic schedule serve as an excuse for neglecting The Writings. (Other than, you know, earlier in this paragraph when I basically tried to use that excuse.) Anyway, what follows is yet another collection of random thought, which, if tangible, would probably pump through my veins.

-----

Remember the scene in the movie Anchorman where Ron Burgandy reacts to Veronica Corningstone's statement that she wants to be a news anchor by yelling out in disbelief, "I thought you were joking"? I keep waiting for Minnesota Vikings head coach Brad Childress to admit this to Brett Favre. After all we have been put through with the continued (and continued... and continued...) media coverage of another possible Favre comeback, wouldn't that be the perfect ending to this story? Favre could show up to the first day of the Vikings' training camp, only to see Sage Rosenfels taking snaps with the first team. Favre would then confront Childress, with the two jawing back and forth. Finally, the conversation would close in the following fashion.

Favre: ...but I told you I wanted to be the Vikings' starting quarterback.
Childress (by this point, also fed up with the fact that the only story surrounding his team involves a 39-year-old quarterback that threw as many interceptions as touchdowns the season before): I thought you were joking! I even wrote about it in my diary. "Brett had a very funny joke today." ... I laughed about it later that night!

A dignified way to close a Hall of Fame career? No. But is the current "I like you. If you like me circle 'yes'" flirtation much better?

-----

It's well documented that I have an abominable history when it comes to making accurate predictions. It's so bad, that I'm fairly confident that if I had been around to predict a victory for the colonies in the Revolutionary War, we'd all be enjoying a lot more tea and playing a lot more cricket. With in accurate predictions being my forte, I was rather astonished (and then enraged, but then more astonished) when an event I wrote about a week ago actually materialized the following night.

You may have seen it by now, but if not, have a look. The Indians topped the Royals, thanks in part* to hot ground ball playing tag with an unfortunate seagull. In watching the clip, pay particular attention to the commentary by the Indians' announcers. Upon discovering that the baseball clocked the bird, they laugh like most folks do when they see one of the 37 groin shots shown in every episode of America's Funniest Home Videos. It's a laugh that almost seems diabolical. While the initial question on my mind was how the Royals could be so unfortunate that they lose a game on a seagull aided play, the big question occupying my thoughts now is whether that Indians commentator has a personal history with sea birds that makes him have hostility toward them. Did a flock of seagulls** attack his family when he was young? Is he actually a supervillain that is continually thwarted by a hero called Gullman?

*"In part" because Coco Crisp, who hasn't practiced fielding balls of members of the gull family nearly enough, isn't exactly known for having a strong throwing arm, and was also playing with a sore shoulder that now has him on the disabled list... It might have been rough getting DeRosa at the plate.

**Again, not the band... Although, again, that might be a more entertaining thought.

-----

Big news recently is the revelation that you can now have a username on Facebook. As www.facebook.com itself touts it, "Easily direct friends, family, and coworkers to your profile with a Facebook username."

Personally, I'm thrilled that usernames are now a part of Facebook. After all, it was such a chore directing my friends, family, and coworkers to the bevy of useful information contained in my Facebook profile by providing them with nothing to search for buy my actual name. Who can remember the full name of a friend, family member, or coworker, anyway? I hear it's a documented fact that most people are lucky to remember anything more than the first syllable of the first name if they haven't known someone for over four years. Good luck searching for my Facebook profile when you only have "Der" to search for.*

*This paragraph brought to you by the "No, seriously, this whole username idea is absurd. Do you really want to open Facebook to names like 'BigPlayaBallaPimp69'? Redact it while you still can" Foundation.

Home Field Advantage?

It's the bottom of the seventh inning in Cleveland, and a flock of seagulls is attempting to take Progressive Field by force. (To avoid any confusion, please note that I speak of an actual flock of seagulls, not the 80s rock band of that name... Although that would infinitely more terrifying.) As the Royals move close to winning (yes, I said winning) in Cleveland, these sea birds are gathering in the outfield like it's some sort of garbage barge. (There you go, Cleveland. If you choose to change the name of your stadium, you can always use Garbage Barge Field. I won't even need credit for it.)

These birds, it seems, enjoy flirting with disaster. Haven't they seen what can happen to the feathered sort on a baseball field?

As they flap, swoop, and do whatever else seagulls do (I have seen no evidence of defecation, but there was a woman wearing a game program on her head... Draw your own conclusions.), I have begun to wonder if someone from the Indians organization may have lured them to the field with the purpose of providing a little extra advantage for the home team. Much like the Red Sox gain an advantage by learning the best ways to field hits off the Green Monster, the Indians could be working on studying trajectories of hits that deflect of winged creatures. It makes perfect sense.

If such is the case, and the Indians (aside from tonight... and most other nights this season, since they now have the worst record in the American League... just ignore such "facts" as they really put a crimp in this hypothetical situation) are earning a competitive advantage by luring seagulls to their ballpark, I think it's only fair that other MLB teams have an opportunity to follow suit. Imagine if, instead of seagulls, the Yankees and Mets were able to lure hordes of angry New Yorkers down onto the field to push and curse at opposing players. What if the Detroit Tigers could take cars from area motor plants and allow them to be test driven in the Comerica Park outfield. The Milwaukee Brewers have beer vendors patrol the opposing dugout in attempt to get the opposing players and manager inebriated by the fifth inning, and the Arizona Diamondbacks could embrace their desert locale, planting cacti in the infield and allowing desert wildlife - from rattlesnakes to coyotes - to have free reign on the field. Such changes could even attract a few more fans to the game, as the very fact that you recognize the name Steve-o gives great credence to the idea that people enjoy watching others hurt themselves.

The question remains, with ideas for other franchises, what would I suggest the Royals do to increase their home field advantage? Could they offer free barbecue to any opposing player that commits an error? Should they move the fountains from beyond the outfield walls to the actual playing field so that tracking a fly ball is like a trip to Oceans of Fun? Maybe they could play the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Video on the monstrous video screen in centerfield as the opposing team bats.

My suggestion? How about we start with a shortstop that can hit.

Too far-fetched?

A Cheesy Story

As he pulled up to the curb, the brakes on Donald's Ford Festiva squealed like a group of teenage girls at a Jonas Brothers concert. The sound, which was the result of general neglect in the area of car care (he was driving a Festiva, after all) was sickening, but Donald had no time to worry about it. He grabbed the pair of pizza boxes sitting on his passenger seat, and opened the driver's side door, vaulted out of his car, and kicked the door back shut in one fluid motion. If someone had caught this maneuver on high-speed film, it would have looked rather impressive. Again, Donald had no time to consider such things.

He gripped the boxes tightly as he sprinted across the street and up to the front door at 908 Maple Circle. The Cheezy Deluxe and the Carnivore's Delight pizzas housed in those boxes had cooled considerably since Donald had departed from The Cheese Stands Alone Pizza Shop 39 minutes earlier. There were times when Donald loathed this form of employment. This was one of them. The tips were lousy, the customers were often unfriendly, and he was constantly reminded that other people actually had lives. While peers were enjoying social evenings with friends, he was fighting traffic, contributing to the poor health of the morbidly obese, and wearing ridiculous Cheese-Stands-Alone-issued yellow attire. The outfit even included a hat with ear flaps, supposedly designed to look like a chunk of mozzarella.

While he did not always find his job horrendous, nights like this made it seem like Hell's torture chamber. The response to a late pizza delivery nearly always followed the same formula. After a ring of the doorbell or knock on the door, an individual sporting a scowl would slowly open the door. A smartass remark, of the "Hey, you guys realized my order wasn't a prank call," would then be added to the equation. Donald would apologize. More "hilarious" quips would follow, with others that had also been waiting for their pizza dinner yukking it up. Donald would apologize again. The customer would remark that they shouldn't pay at all. Then they would pay, but stiff Donald on the tip. He wondered if just dropping the pizzas and driving off, never to be seen in town again, would be a better option.

-----

This delivery should not have been late at all. Donald had done his job, driving to the address he had been given. Unfortunately, that address was not accurate on this occasion. Twenty minutes earlier, just as he was pulling up to an addressed he assumed was correct, his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. Checking his caller ID, he noticed it was Alan, another Cheese employee. He flipped his phone open, but before his brain could process the "What's up" he intended to utter, he heard, "Don't yell at me."

Great.

"Okay. What am I not yelling at you for, Alan."

"You're driving to 908 Maple, right?"

"Yes. In fact, I can see in the front window right now. There's a hefty guy sitting on the couch. I wonder if both pizzas are for him."

"I'm going to say no, Donald. See I wrote down 908 Maple Street, but the order actually goes to 908 Maple circle."

Donald had learned long ago that if the only replies he could think of involved words he had first learned from Joe Pesci movies, he shouldn't say anything. He clamped his phone shut instead. For some reason, whoever had mapped out New Boston originally had put Maple Circle on the opposite side of town of Maple Street. He was furious. This delivery would be extremely late, and it was no fault of his.

-----

The late delivery interaction played out just as Donald had expected. As the door shut in his face, he had no pizzas, no tip, and no dignity. As he turned to go back to his car, his mind was flooded with thoughts of his job and his frustration with it. When he made mistakes, he continually heard about it. When the mistakes were not his own, he still often received blame. He had no future with the job. Nowhere to go. What the hell was he doing?

By the time he got to the street, Donald was mumbling with his head down. "I should just quit," He muttered to himself. "Why should I keep wasting my time in this stupid-"

-----

Donald woke up confused, with headache so severe he checked to see if some sort of medieval clamps were on his temples. He was not sure what was going on, but he was certain that this rather sanitary looking room he now inhabited was not on Maple Circle.

Later on, a kind nurse whose pace of speech rivaled the guy from the old Micro Machines commercials filled him in on what had happened. The fact that she did this as she provided him with a catheter was odd, but he appreciated the story. During his rage-filled trek back to his Festiva, Donald had apparently failed to notice a pair of headlights acting as his personal spotlights. Oblivious to his surroundings, Donald had been run down by a car that had never slowed down. Once his intrusive southern neighbor had taken residence, the speed-talking nurse mentioned that the accident would have been much worse, possibly fatal, had he not been wearing head protection - the Cheese-issued cap.

Stuck in a hospital bed with a fractured hip and a bit of head trauma, Donald now had plenty of time to consider anything and everything.  It was then that he realized that his self-pity and continual worry about his work was misplaced.

His job couldn't kill him. However, getting too worked up about it could.

Did you know? - The Royals Draft Edition

We are just one week away from the MLB First-Year Player Draft. Widely viewed as the biggest crapshoot among drafts of major sports, the MLB Draft is never an easy one to predict. As a result, and because I my record with predictions might be worse than the Washington Generals' record against the Harlem Globetrotters, I will make no predictions concerning next week's draft. Instead, I'll allow you to soak in the following tidbits concerning this annual event as it relates to the team I root for through thick and (most often) thin, the Kansas City Royals.

- In 1979, the Royals drafted a pair of Hall of Famers. Unfortunately for the Royals, both would bypass the diamond for glory on the gridiron. Kansas City drafted Dan Marino in the second round and John Elway in the 18th.

- Over the history of the franchise, the Royals have drafted two more Hall of Fame quarterbacks than the Chiefs.

- In 1982, the Royals drafted a first baseman that would go on to appear in six All Star games and win an MVP award in 1989. Unfortunately, Will "The Thrill" Clark chose not to sign with Kansas City and attend Mississippi State University instead.

- Bret Saberhagen, who would go on to win a pair of Cy Young Awards for KC, was actually the Royals' 19th pick in 1982. Picked ahead of Saberhagen were household names like Joe Szekely, Mark Pirruccello and Darren Sturdivant.

- 1985 was an historic year for the Royals, as they won the franchise's only World Series title. Though he would not sign, they also drafted Deion Sanders in the sixth round of the draft. The following year, they drafted Bo Jackson in the fourth round... It seems the Royals' front office should have been drafting for the Chiefs in the 80s.

- In 60 rounds of the 1989 draft, the Royals drafted exactly four players that actually played in the Major Leagues. Only two played for Kansas City.

- In 1994, KC drafted 10 players that reached the big leagues. The best was a pitcher named Jose Rosado that was a two-time All Star before his career fell apart due to injuries. No. 2 on that list would probably be Matt Treanor. Unfortunately for the Royals, the reason you recognize that name is probably because of his wife.

- In 2000, the Royals had the No. 4 overall pick. They drafted a pitcher named Mike Stodolka. He never pitched in the majors, and was actually last seen playing first base in the minor leagues. Philadelphia drafted three-time All Star Chase Utley 11 picks later.

Could you use it in a sentence, please?

It's a big night in Washington D.C. Eleven kids who are, most likely, too smart for their own good, are competing for the title of National Spelling Bee Champion. It's a night that combines the socially awkward, those that read the dictionary for fun, and one 13 year old who can grow a better mustache than I can. In other words, it's great TV.

On this night, one question you'll often hear is, "Can you use it in a sentence, please?" Because the words volleyed at these youngsters are used in everyday speech about as often as the lyrics to "Rico Swuave," I'll attempt to place some of these spell-tastic mind-benders into sentences that would help any potential champ. After all, here at The Writings, we're all about learning.

Pogonip - a dense winter fog containing ice particles.
When the author talks to those of the female persuasion, it's not rare for him to receive glares as cold as a pogonip.

Ophelimity - economic satisfaction.
According to advertisements, the ABC show "Un-broke" is supposed to lead to ophelimity, but my guess is that it's a bunch of mularkey.

Geusioleptic - having or characterized by pleasant flavor.
The geusioleptic BK meal I just consumed would have been even better if those in the kitchen would have taken a break from trying to figure out how the ketchup gets in those tiny packets, and actually had it ready in under 15 minutes.

Wipeout - ABC's ripoff of a Japanese show that isn't near as entertaining as the original.
Yeah, that was was actually just an ad, but the definition is still accurate.

Goombay - form of Bahamian music and a drum used to create it.
Goombay may sound fun at first, but then you realize it's not a little mushroom-looking foe from Super Mario Bros.

Becquerel - a unit of radioactivity, equal to one nuclear decay per second.
After listening to spelling words all evening, my mind felt as if it were suffering from the results of becquerel.

Schizaffin - characterized by slender build and slight muscular development
I didn't think any of the words used tonight would describe the meager results of my years of avoiding weightlifting... Then they tossed out schizaffin.

Opening a New Pack of Absurdity

An innocent comment from a friend on Sunday pushed my mind into a dangerous realm. Granted, it's one I've visited on several prior occasions, and it has even served as the basis for a previous Writing. Nevertheless, it's not a place many would venture. It's a place where one develops a great desire to scour through boxes upon boxes of 2.5 in. x 3.5 in. cardboard rectangles, each featuring a different professional athlete. As I've discussed in the past, it's intriguing to read the tidbits included on the back of certain cards. Some contain trivia that is actually relevant and interesting... Others make one wonder whether the card author was disgruntled when it press deadline came around.

Naturally, we're more concerned with facts written by those that may not have been employed once the packs of cards were on the shelves.

Mike Morgan - Score Select 1994
"When he is healthy, he throws heavy, downward moving fastballs and a sinking slider."

That's fine, but now I'm kind of curious as to what Mike throws when he is unhealthy. Hopefully the answer is not "beanballs at his nurses," or "sharp objects at autograph seekers."

Roger McDowell - Sportflics 1987
When it comes to composing incredibly long sentences, The Writings certainly makes a contribution to society. Alas, I cannot compete with the literary marathon printed on the back of this card. Read on...

"Throwing a wicked natural sinker, the nastiest in the N.L., with impeccable control, he ran off seven successive victories at the beginning of the season - a Met record - and ended up with the most wins in the N.L. by a relief pitcher and second in the league in appearances."

I feel like there should have been a table of contents before that sentence.

Darren Lewis - Donruss Triple Play 1992
I hate to get technical when it comes to baseball cards, especially when we're talking about Triple Play - a brand specifically focused on putting the "rad" in "trading card," but I have to point something out. The back of Mr. Lewis' card features a trivia question. It reads, "From 1988-1990 three different Giants won RBI titles. How many can you name?" Below the question, the "answer" is printed in reverse-type, with instructions for the card-holder to read it in a mirror. Searching for a reflection (even if it's on the back of a spoon) seems like an unnecessary assignment when simply looking to find a trivia question answer, but that's not even the biggest mistake Triple Play made. They answered it wrong. The card lists Will Clark, Kevin Mitchell and Matt Williams as the answer. Unfortunately, the question is a quantitative one. It does not ask the reader "who" the RBI leaders were. It asks, "How many can you name?" As a result, acceptable answers would have been, "1," "2," "3," or, "How the heck should I know? I'm just a freaking baseball card."

Leeland McElroy - Score Select 1996
The author of this card had high hopes for Leeland, even writing that he would "make a lot of teams rue the day they let him slide into the second round..."

I don't have much experience when it comes to day-rueage, but I'm not sure McElroy's 729 career rushing yards, are enough to have an NFL franchise taking up the practice. His six career fumbles compared to three career rushing touchdowns also don't do much to provide rueing material.

John Burkett - Upper Deck 1996
Burkett's card points out that he's "a better pitcher in day-light." You know what that means, right? Yup, reverse vampirism. I think it was brave of Upper Deck to approach such an issue.

Duane Ward - Score 1991
It seems the Score folks wrote their cards with the sole purpose of one day making a former collector skim over their cards and giggle incessantly. It's rare that the author is one to giggle, but what else can one do when a card says the feature player and a teammate "give the team a brace of hefty relievers."

Life is rough when your baseball card calls you fat.

Joe Vitiello - Upper Deck 1992
"The Royals, short on power, think Joe Vitiello could be the answer."

Vitiello, the seventh pick of the 1991 draft, hit 21 home runs over five seasons in Kansas City. Manny Ramirez, Cliff Floyd, and Shawn Green were picked six, seven, and nine picks later, respectively. They have combined for 1,094 career home runs.

"The Royals, short on power, think Vitiello could be the answer."

In 1996, Vitiello finished tied with Kevin Young, a back up first baseman, for fifth on the team in home runs with eight. Young played in just 55 games that season.

"The Royals, short on power, think Vitiello could be the answer."

Sigh.

10 Legitimate reasons for... (The 'Where's Your Money Going?' Edition)

10 Legitimate reasons for signing a contract to pay your university's then-current-but-on-thin-ice/now-former football coach $3.2 million in deferred payments via a "secret" contract through a company that no one has ever heard of before (and may not even exist)...

1. You have a vivid imagination and like to give all imaginary companies a chance to go Pinocchio and "become a real boy"... err, company.

2. His family is poor and starving and loaves of bread have escalated to astronomical prices.

3. You are out to prove that secrets, secrets are, in fact, fun.

4. You thought the contract you signed to agree to the payment was actually an ACME Joke Contract, which would explode in comic fashion within a matter of minutes.

5. The head coach is Benjamin Linus, the leader of a group on mystical island, who needs the money to bribe a guy who speaks to dead folks. After receiving the cash, the guy who received the bribe will report that Linus isn't on the island to the folks on his offshore freighter.*

*Odds are, few of you understood that, but those that watch Lost hopefully appreciate it.

6. The head coach is also a baseball card dealer and your athletic department desperately needs 3.2 million packs of 1994 Collector's Choice baseball cards.

7. The money will be paid in the form of cursed pirate booty.

8. The money will be paid in the form of Monopoly money.

9. The money will be paid in the form of Schrute Bucks and Stanley Nickels.

10. Your luck has run out... Wait, that one doesn't happen until the "secret" is uncovered.

DLDP... It's the next big thing

Watch your back, Weight Watchers. Look out, Jenny Craig. The Derek Larson Diet Plan is coming for you.

It's true, those that know Derek Larson might argue that he's already thinner than most arguments for making the hunting of people lawful, and Derek would probably agree. That's the beautiful part of this diet plan - it's involuntary. Have you ever felt like you should go on a diet, but then struggled when it came time to commit? The DLDP will have you on board from the start. In fact, it's so effective that the simple thought of eating will make you quiver in terror.

The key to the DLDP, you see, is what those in the medical field might refer to as the "influenza virus." Quick and effective, once the DLDP works its way into your system, the sight of food will have you pulling the cool washcloth on your forehead down over your eyes. While you may have once dined on burgers and fries, you'll soon consume nothing but water and ice chips. Much like the energy you once had, the pounds will melt away.

Our patented diet plan involves no special meals that you have to order. There's no silly menu guide for you to print off the Internet. There's no book to read. Once we have your check, we simply send a "diet plan specialist" (e.g., someone that currently has the flu) to hang around with your for a day or two. Don't be concerned if they seem to be invading your personal space, or coughing on your television remote and all the doorknobs in your home. It's all part of the plan, and results will follow.

While the DLDP will have you looking slimmer in no time, we are required to mention possible side effects that some might deem "negative." They include: fever, headaches, body aches, shakes, quakes, fear of steaks, nausea, a general "horrible" feeling, curiosity of how horrible death could actually be, lack of energy, lack of sleep, lack of ability to think clearly, baggy eyes, continual queries concerning whether your flu is of the H1N1 variety, the fact that people will be afraid to be anywhere near you, the continual reminder that The Price is Right isn't the same without Bob Barker, the fact that you have to put up with daytime television, and the fact that you will become much, much closer to your trash can.

Sure, there are some negative parts about the DLDP, but you want to lose weight, don't you? No pain, no gain... uhh, loss. Give us a call and try it today!

A lesson for those graduating

"... and so the second penguin said, 'I thought YOU were bringing the compass.'"

Tom had nailed it. His timing, his enunciation, his syllabic emphasis, they were all perfect. All that remained was the ensuing waves of laughter.

He waited for what seemed like 15 seconds, although it was no more than three. No laughs. Not even a chuckle. "Tough crowd," he thought.

Just two weeks earlier, Tom had graduated from Hatfield University with a degree in accounting. While job interviews were on the horizon and he'd soon be a professional in the field, he really had no interest in it. He had compromised. When asked what he was interested in majoring in prior to his freshman year, he chose accounting not because he liked the idea of keeping track of numbers, but because it was as far as he had read on the alphabetic list of major programs. He was a smart kid. He had graduated from high school as an honors student, despite refusing to study for any exam for more than 30 minutes. He could have been successful in any major he had selected. He chose accounting, but crunching numbers was certainly not his dream.

Tom wanted to be a comedian. He always had. As a kid, Tom absorbed all the stand-up comedy he could, from old tapes of Bill Cosby to rising comedians on Comedy Central. He memorized their routines and mimicked their actions. He grew up craving a chance to be just like them; to be in front of a crowd and have them rolling with laughter. Today, he had his audience.

His penguin material had failed miserably, but he wasn't going to fret. That wasn't his "A" stuff, after all. It was time to dig deeper into his repertoire. He transitioned into a story about two blind politicians - a democrat and a republican. Politics were always comedy gold. He knew the key to a good joke was proper build up, so he spared few details. He delved into their political backgrounds. He articulated their facial expressions as they debated. He even mentioned the shine in their shoes. He glanced at the clock as he spoke of their political views on immigration. He knew his time on stage was winding down, but this would be worth it. It was all building up to his punchline, and he could not wait to be engulfed in laughter of those in the audience. As he spoke he recognized friends and family in the crowd, even old relatives he hadn't seen in years. This was his chance to shine.

"The democrat folded his arms and said, 'Well, I don't see it that way.'"

Yahtzee. Tom could not have told the joke any better. With his eyes on the crowd he saw a few small smiles and heard a couple faint laughs. It wasn't the wall-rumbling response he had hoped for, but he said a quick thanks anyway, and left the stage with a smile and a wave.

Minutes later, as Tom sat in the parking lot on the hood of his 1984 Caprice Classic, Tom's father approached. Tom had been running his routine back through his head, trying to figure out why the crowd's response had been so timid.

"Dad, what did I do wrong?"

"Nothing, son," Tom's father said. "As you go on, you'll learn that material goes over better in some places than others and that some audiences just aren't in the mood. Nevertheless, you got a few laughs. I saw a couple youngsters that were nearly cracking up."

"Yeah," Tom replied. "I guess I connected with a few folks, anyway. Maybe the problem was the acoustics, I'm not sure they were all that great in there."

"I think you're right," Tom's father said. "Now we just have to find another opportunity for you to do your routine... This time, maybe one that isn't the open mic at your great aunt's funeral."

- - - - -

The lesson, dear readers, is no matter what your diploma says, you should never abandon your dreams.

... But you can probably leave those dreams in the car while you're at a wake. They'll be fine as long as you leave the window open a crack.

The Writings' Night In

Is there a problem in our country of women being stuck indoors? I ask because tonight's Royals game is featuring a promotion called "Girls' Night Out*," and I just saw a commercial for something called "Women's Day Out." Are hordes of females imprisoning themselves indoors, refusing to come out unless it's for some sort of public event? It seems the focus should be on getting people outside who otherwise would rarely be. As a result, I'm expecting to see some sort of "Derek's Day Out" promotion in the future. After all, I have seen kitchen appliances that spend more time outside than I do. You know the phrase, "I don't get out much"? I believe the International Cliche Committee is going to retire it in my honor.

*Your eyes do not deceive you. The Royals, the Major League Baseball franchise for whom I have dedicated countless hours of my life following, have a promotion designed to get females, many of whom might be near my age and single, out to the ballpark. On the same night as this promotion - which, again, involves young, single, female Royals fans - I sit on my couch eating a bowl of cereal... Nice work, Derek.
- - - - -
A lunch conversation today spurred a thought in my head. (Which is a good place for thoughts to be.) Am I one of only seven Americans that has not read a single book (or seen a single movie) of the Harry Potter series? It seems all at the lunch table today were well-versed in the Hogwarts hubbub. Members of my family speak good things of the bespectacled wizard. I sometimes wonder if even my niece, whose favorite hobbies are crawling up the stairs and sneezing, has at least polished off Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. What does this all mean? If the cure for the H1N1 virus is knowledge of fictional wizardry, I am doomed.
- - - - -
I recently heard tell of a man playing a trumpet as he drove along an interstate highway. That's right. A man was devoting the thought and energy needed to play a tune on a brass horn as he careened down a highway in a 1.5-ton vehicle traveling 70-miles per hour. Smart guy. I realize this is beginning to sound like a question on an eighth grade math test, so rest assured that I'm not going to ask you how far he'll be from a tuba playing train conductor chugging the opposite direction at 60 m.p.h. The question I do have is: What musical instrument would be the most entertaining to watch someone play as they drove down the road? A full trap set? A double guitar? Perhaps a harp? All are good options, but the only real choice is Bert's one man band set from Mary Poppins.* I will accept no substitutes until I witness this.

*Congratulations to those that picked May 14, 2009 as the date The Writings would have a Mary Poppins reference. Think of me when you're counting the winnings from your office pool.
- - - - -
Another show to add to the big list of television programs that should not have ever been created... Style By Jury. Congratulations, CW.

GSD

There is a day, oh friends, that is a truly grand one, but it is one that receives little glory. When it comes to days worthy of marking one's calendar in anticipation, the hubbub usually surrounds holidays, birthdays and weddings, despite the fact that this day consistently accomplishes a feat that these other celebratory periods rarely do. It brings folks of all backgrounds together. This day knows no race, no religion, no age, and no social standing. It knows no discrimination; no bias whatsoever. It only knows the sound of fingers combing through a handful of change to find an extra nickel.

This day, this marvelous day, is Garage Sale Day.

Originally established by Nordic settlers looking to pawn off their foul-smelling lutefisk on unsuspecting folks of different origin, Garage Sale Day (or GSD, as it's most commonly referred) has come a long way. Back then, GSD was called "Give Me Something of Value for This or I Will Shove it in Your Ear Day." While GMSVFTOIWSIIYED (as it was more commonly referred) involved more bloodshed than the GSDs of today, the general spirit was the same: getting rid of junk you don't want and receiving something you can use in return.*

*If you find an ounce** of truth in that paragraph, please contact the author immediately.

**No, I'm really not sure how one goes about weighing truth accurately enough to know when there's an ounce of it present. I'd check The Sharper Image.

What is it that makes GSD so blog-inspiringly wonderful? It encompasses parts of all holidays that you enjoy. It brings together family. (Who else is going to help you lug your aging living room furniture out to the front lawn?) It promotes the spirit of giving. (How else are you getting rid of those old sneakers that can't even get someone to part with a nickel?) For those who find their televisions continually stuck on HGTV, it even involves festive decorations. (They're next to the used kitchen items, in that box marked "50 cents.")

I was lucky enough to actively participate in GSD over the weekend, as I offered two hands, a couple of feet, and a coin-counting mind to family in effort to help them with their sale. The bargains were fleeting, but the memories will last a lifetime.

On GSD, there's no dress code
Thick and thin, deep and wide, these garage sale goers sported their wardrobes with pride. While the clothes we had on sale were mainly limited to the jeans/t-shirts/polos variety, the potential customers were a bit more diverse with their fashions. While Customer A might have been wearing sweats so worn that you wondered if they had just recently completed a three-month stay on their sofa, Customer B appeared ready to saddle up a horse of a different color, donning a western shirt, Wranglers, and a pair of boots featuring more colors than a box of Pop Ice. Another customer was fully prepared for a heat wave, and for any snuff cravings that might occur, sporting a shirt with cutoff sleeves and a can of chaw in the breast pocket. Unfortunately, he was not carrying around a spit cup, spittoon, or a button that said "I'm enjoying my gums while they're not bleeding."

Smoking ban? Not here
Ah, the great outdoors. On a breezy Saturday morning it can be invigorating to inhale that fresh Spring air. On this breezy Saturday morning, we had the great pleasure of having that fresh air combined with some fresh second-hand smoke. Refreshing. The smoke-and-shop freedom is one rarely granted anymore, thus GSD presents a great opportunity for those who choose to spend appalling chunks of their income on cigarettes. On Saturday, an older woman sifted through some shirts with one hand while loosely grasping her cigarette in the other. With each puff, smoke left her lungs and found its way to the threaded items below, all while a tail of ash nearly half an inch long wagged at the end of her coffin nail,* like a tired child nearing an inevitable fall from the monkey bars.

*Have you ever tried to find a synonym for cigarette that doesn't come off sounding inappropriate? It's not easy.

Everything is negotiable
Run to your nearest fast food establishment, order the most expensive value meal on the menu, and then when the monetary transactions coordinator (sounds better than cashier, right?) tells you the total you need to pay, say, "Let's call it $2." If that works, let me know, because I haven't eaten dinner yet. Odds are, it won't. While the roots of our economy may have seen more focus on bargaining, there just isn't much room for it today. Garage sales are a different story. Need a slightly used nose trimmer, but you aren't willing to pay the $4 it's marked for? Make a different offer. They just might take it.

On Saturday, a woman walked up to me with a Pyrex baking dish, still in the box. It wouldn't have known a casserole if it had spent weeks watching Rachel Ray. This brand new dish was priced at $2. This woman, who certainly didn't appear to be struggling to find cash, asked me if I would take $1.50 for it. Granted, her very question spit in the face of one essential rule of life: if you are buying a baking dish, you have an oven. If you have an oven, you don't haggle over a matter of 50 cents. I was taken aback by her determination to get this dish for two quarters less than the asking price. What did she need the extra 50 cents for? Buying 2.5 chicken nuggets at Wendy's? Did she have a half-off coupon for Everything's a Dollar? Was she going to travel back in time to a period when you could actually get something for 50 cents? Once I quit trying to imagine what this woman could possibly need that extra half-dollar for, I accepted her offer. After all, I thought, maybe she only has $1.50 on her before she has to break a large bill. I don't like counting out a ton of change anyway, so this could have been making my life easier... Then she paid with two crisp $1 bills.

GSD is open to window shoppers
Granted, this isn't your typical window shopping. The windows in play are actually those of the cars that slowly idle by as those inside squint and crane their necks, attempting to see what goods might be available. If something looks interesting, they'll find a good parking spot like in front of a mailbox or a neighbor's driveway. If not, they creep on to the next sale.

It's worth mentioning that window shoppers are typically not interested in pleasantries. As they take inventory of your items from their vehicle, they will ignore any attempts you might make to be friendly. Waves will receive bewildered looks in return, attempts to invite them to check things out from a closer perspective seem to come off as offensive. The only instance in which you might hear from a window shopper is when they shout questions about your merchandise from inside their vehicle. "Yo, you got any baby clothes?"

Curious? Better test it out
Garage sales are perfect for folks who prefer to get a feel for things before making a purchase. You can test out toys, try on shoes, and even take furniture for a test sit. Granted, I'm not sure that repeatedly bouncing on a couch is necessary in testing it, but I'm also not the one considering ignoring the pet hair on it and buying it... Please, please just buy the couch.

You bought what?
What this says about me, I'll never know, but watching folks to see what items they were interested in was an interesting exercise. Who could have guessed that a 70-year-old man would be thrilled to find a box full of Beanie Babies? Or that the only others who would ask about Beanie Babies the rest of the day would be two young boys? It also seems that the consolation prizes for those that miss out on Beanie Babies are old, crafty Halloween decorations. That's right, this pair of brothers asked no questions about footballs or video games, their allowances were devoted to stuffed animals and Hobby Lobby pumpkins.

Open to all, still ignored by some
Unfortunately, although GSD is open to all, it seems that some folks still refuse to recognize it. They ignore the swarms of people digging through boxes of old ball caps. They look past the humidifier ready to bring moist air to a new home. They fail to recognize the thrill of rummaging through a stranger's belongings in effort to discover something they might have a use for. In essence, they're tossing rubbish on the entire celebration.

Saturday, this happened quite literally as the landlord of this housing development took a wild ride atop his grass devouring, children cowering, driver empowering lawn tractor. Whether he was oblivious to the fact that an inordinate number of folks in the neighborhood had contents of their homes arranged in their driveways, or he was attempting to be deemed the Grinch of GSD, no one knew for sure. While his intentions were unclear as he tore through each and every yard (literally grinding away a chunk of sidewalk just feet from where we were set up), he certainly left his mark. The grass clippings that this grass master had strewn about like confetti on New Year's was now masking the merchandise. The couch, donning a "sold" sign by this point, wore a bit of the outdoors when the new owner's arrived to pick it up. Shirts stacked symmetrically on a card table now featured a texture of natural camouflage. Elsewhere, clumps of grass clippings tossed into 25-cent boxes confused customers, who probably figured we had a lot of nerve to ask for them to pay for yard clippings. Luckily, Old Man Mower struck as the sale was winding to a close. It seems that even he could not destroy the spirit of GSD.

While it may have its detractors, GSD remains a fixture in American culture. Don't forget to mark your calendar.

So a history buff, an engineer, and a wannabe writer start a sports blog...

Yes, dear readers, it seems that one blog was simply not enough to contain the waves of thought that cascade in my mind. In a joint venture with two of the greatest minds of this generation (or two former co-workers/current fantasy league opponents... Who can keep track of such details?), I'll be contributing to Butchwaglar's Sports Emporium. (Rolls right off the tongue, doesn't it?) It's intended to be an outlet for random thought focused (however loosely) on sports.

Those that are concerned that taking on more writing might remove focus from The Writings, don't fret. With other writers contributing at BSE (perhaps just the BS should be capitalized...), I'm confident I will be able to update here at The Writings in the same manner that I always have - sporadically and with little sense of direction.

Anyway, if you enjoy The Writings, and you enjoy sports, check out BSe.

If you enjoy The Writings, and you despise sports, I apologize for wasting so much of your time throughout the life of this blog... but check out BSe anyway. In the epic words of Rocky Balboa addressing the Russian crowd after defeating Ivan Drago, "If I can change*, and you can change, everybody can change."

*Note: I haven't changed.

If you don't enjoy The Writings, and you only visit this site in order to research ways in which you might someday initiate a multifaceted revenge plan that will humiliate me in front of friends, family and the cast of Growing Pains, all because I inadvertantly wronged you somehow, I really wish you'd reconsider. Maybe BSe can change your mind.

Things I Don't Understand - Spring Football Edition

I went to the K-State spring football game on Saturday.

I apologize if the opening sentence of this Writing seems a little bland, but it seems to fit the subject pretty well. While American football as a spectator sport is often about big hits, exciting plays, roaring crowds, and fierce competition, spring football falls a bit short in most of those aspects. While the contest contained a couple pretty decent hits dispersed and a few plays that could have been deemed exciting, such cases were certainly not the norm, and were not the goal of the game. Football games are played to determine a winner... Spring football games are played to wrap up spring practices and remind people to buy season tickets.

Even Bill Snyder, the legendary former/returning coach of K-State, admitted that the spring game was boring after it was finished. Entertainment is simply not the purpose. It's a glorified practice where the team involved can continue their work on the same basic plays they have focused on all spring. As I see it, there are seven different reasons to go to a spring football game.

1. You are playing in the game.
2. You are coaching in the game.
3. You are a member of the media writing about/broadcasting the game.
4. You are a family member of a player/coach.
5. You are a loyal fan that wants to get an early look at new players/coaching schemes for the upcoming season. (Or you pretend to be doing that, but end up making an endless amount of absurd comments in the process.)
6. You got confused and thought it was a regular season game. (Therefore, you were pretty confused when you got to your seat and realized there was not another team present.)
7. You need an excuse to enjoy the taste of alcohol.  (This one could actually be paired with No. 6, as a drunken stupor could probably lead to such confusion.)

While I have had No. 3 as an excuse for attending a couple times in the past, this year I was firmly in camp No. 5. While this seemed to be a fairly popular reason for attending in 2009, judging from the amount tailgating in the parking lot (accompanied, of course, by a continual chorus of the refrain of the buzzed... You know, "Wooooooo"...(the call echoes in the distance, soon a reply follows...) "Yeaaaaaaaaaah"... (repeat)) choice No. 7 was the clear-cut winner. Unbelievably, I encountered something that falls in the TIDU* chapter of the nonsensical novel that is my life.

*Things I Don't Understand... The Writings: Where pointless acronyms that no one understands are hip.

It's not wise to choose sides in an argument with yourself.
I attended the spring football game by myself. This is either because most of the folks I normally tend to attend such functions with (my cronies, if you will) were unavailable, or because all the folks who I consider to be friends are actually being paid to act as such and their most recent checks bounced.* Nonetheless, upon arriving at the game, I embraced my naturally introverted nature and found a seat in a corner section of the stadium, where few were sitting. I wanted to be able to watch the game on my own and not be distracted by the mind-numbing conversations of those around me.

*This scenario brought to you by the World Paranoia Association... What did you say about us? Nothing? We could have sworn we heard something. 

Despite my best efforts to claim a stake of seating territory that would not have anyone sitting within 10 feet of me, I soon had a family of three seated directly behind me.

Directly. Behind. Me.

They were sitting so close that, at one point, the father's knee was in direct contact with my spine. At a regular football game, this would not be an issue. It's normal to be crowded and uncomfortable. This was not a normal game in the fall. This was spring football. In the very section I (along with this man's knee) was sitting, there was an abundance of open seats. Seats with cushions. Seats without. Seats with numbers even and odd. Seats where once could sit without giving the guy sitting in front of you a kneeatsu* massage. Nevertheless, the family stayed camped right behind me.

*Yes, that was lame... I apologize.

Unfortunately, the contact wasn't the worst part of the situation. Their commentary was. You know how, on TV and in film, it's not unusual to see a little devil pop up on ones shoulder offering mean-spirited advice, and then a little angel pop up on the other offering good-natured advice? Mr. Kneebone and his wife were situated in such a manner that their comments sounded like just that. I'd get one voice in my right ear, the other in my left. I believe, in a Saturday Night Live sketch, that Adam Sandler once referred to such a situation as "stupid in stereo." Alas, I won't be judging whether or not anyone is devoid of intelligence. After all, I may or may not have once gotten my fingers caught underneath an office door when attempting to deliver an envelope. I must, however, address one comment that did boggle my mind.

Those unfamiliar with Bill Snyder-coached spring football games should be told that the format is not one that favors parity. The teams are squads are split up to have starters on one side, backups on the other. Keep in mind, starters normally start because they are better players. As a result, one might expect the starters to win the game, often in sound fashion. The important thing to remember is that, in the end, all of the players are actually on the same team. Mr. Kneebone struggled with this concept. On the Purple squad's (read: first team/starters/better players') first offensive drive, running back Keithen Valentine scored on a nine-yard touchdown run. At this point, most fans in attendance were excited. Points had been scored. It was reason for celebration. Amidst all the hoorays* and yippees*, the voice on my right shoulder grunted, "C'mon defense!"

*Disclaimer: Such words are simply used to express the muffled excitement of the crowd. The author heard no actual shouts of "hooray" or "yippee."

Upon hearing this, I sat perplexed. It seemed this man had chosen sides in an intrasquad scrimmage. I struggled to make sense of the situation, but found no solace in reasoning. He was rooting for K-State, against K-State. It was like he was arm-wrestling himself and cheering for "Lefty." Surely this man recognized that the end result of this game had slightly less bearing on the upcoming football season that the date of the punter's next haircut. Surely this man realized that the starting squad scoring against the backups would not be an uncommon event; that it was a foregone conclusion that the offensive starters could find the end zone against defensive reserves. Surely he knew that any progress shown by Valentine - who began last season as the starting running back, but fell out of favor and rarely saw the field by the end of the season - was progress that the Wildcats' running game will depend on this fall.

He didn't. Throughout the game the "C'mon defense," refrain remained, uttered again and again as the Purple squad scored 45 points to the White squad's zero. I began to wonder if this man just loathed the color purple (the color, not the novel), or if he had seen "Rocky" years ago and now rooted for underdogs with the fervor of a gambling addict down to his last dollar, but I never worked up the courage to ask him.

Hopefully he felt better when he read the paper this morning and realized that K-State won.