Gone Country

The weekend came and went (as most tend to do) and I managed to neglect writing the Country Stampede-themed blog I promised. I’d like to blame something rational for such an omission (I did spend 10 minutes at a drive-thru on Saturday… Where does the time go?), but it’s much more entertaining for me to fabricate an absurd excuse. Thus, I didn’t get any writing in over the weekend because I was called away at the last minute to attend a meeting of the secret society that dictates which greetings are considered cool. (Spoiler alert: the three-step-handshake/man-hug will soon give way to the double-wet-willie… Be prepared.)

With my 10-year high school reunion set for Saturday, I decided that I should look back at my experience working at the Country Stampede; the only job from my high school life that did not involve a lawnmower or weeds. Let’s hope this is more entertaining than pulling said weeds.

The decision to join the Stampede labor force came about as an effort to raise funds for a high school class trip to New York. Each student in our Entrepreneurship class was tasked with raising a certain amount of funds to make said trip. As an awkward high school junior-to-be, my most marketable skills were serving as a tackling dummy during football practice and stammering around cute girls. Oddly, such traits did not translate well to fundraising efforts. (Alas, if it had been six years later, I probably could have had Michael Cera’s acting career.)

Because folks weren’t willing to pay good money to see how quickly I could avert my gaze after making eye contact with someone, I was forced to pursue jobs that actually “existed.” Through one route or another, I wound up filling out an application to work as a Country Stampede laborer. At the time, I despised country music and had never been to the event. Frankly, the only real knowledge I had about the boot-scootin’ blowout was that a fatal stabbing had occurred during the inaugural concert. Win-win, this was not.

I arrived for my “orientation” session at the Stampede grounds a few days before the event began. Embracing my introverted nature, I’m not sure that I spoke more the four words the entire time. Instead, I just listened as a nondescript* middle-aged man explained my duty as an “ice runner.”

*Writer’s code for: It was 12 years ago and I respect you far too much to attempt to fictionalize this guy’s appearance.

Luckily, my job involved no actual running. Luckily, my job involved repeated trips into a refrigerated semi-trailer (to retrieve bags of ice) during one of the hottest stretches of the summer. Luckily, fellow ice runner and I got to cruise the Stampede grounds in a road-ready Gator vehicle

Unluckily, as I quickly learned, the Country Stampede brings thousands of people to Tuttle Creek Park, and many of them, when inebriated, are as kind and accommodating and pit bulls.

Backed with a soundtrack that my ears found quite grating, my days involved loading 20-pound bags of ice onto the gator, toting them to various concession locations around the grounds, and continually being cursed at by Stampede-folk because I would not compromise my integrity and rob my employer to give them free ice. Had I been an exchange student working on picking up the language of the American Midwest, I probably would have gathered that the “f-bomb” was the most versatile word in the vernacular. (I also might have assumed that the natural accent of folks from the area involved slurred speech.)

Granted, the Stampede was/is more than cursing drunks. I was witness to an all-out wrestling match in a pit of mud. I regularly participated in recreational people-watching. (Yes, some people do have their entire backs covered by tattoos of the Confederate flag.) I saw plenty of cute girls (with whom I, naturally, avoided eye contact). And, from what I understand, there was even some good music played. Imagine that… Some folks actually attend for the music.

The People's Blog

What’s a guy to do when he’s been struggling for blog topics? Naturally, he seeks the opinion of the people.

I put out a call for topic ideas today via Twitter and Facebook. My faithfully devoted followers and friends (read: people who tolerate me, I assume because they are being paid off by someone) responded quickly and in quality fashion. Below you’ll find the topic ideas provided, with my immediate reactions, as well. Yes, we will be revisiting some of these ideas in the future.

Cheese
Behold the power of cheese. I’ll admit, I’m a fan of most varieties (even in cake form). Alas, I’m not I can bring a new take on the dairy product. I assume the cheese stands alone for good reason.

Lace Dunn
As far as I know, this is referring to the former Baylor basketball player and not anything with doilies. At Baylor, Dunn was best known for being one heck of a scorer, but also for taking the sort of shots that made one wonder if he’d forgotten that passing the ball was legal… Oh yeah, and he was allegedly involved in a domestic dispute that resulted in his girlfriend’s broken jaw. At this point, I’m afraid to write anything that might be considered a joke.

Niles
The dachshund belonging to a couple good friends. Deemed my “godson” years ago. His favorite hobby? Barking to wake up their toddler. 

Benjamin
The toddler. A joyful tike who has recently become exceedingly mobile. Seemingly a big fan of mine… I assume this is because we have similar mental capacities.

Milky Cabana
A pretty funny mispronunciation for current Royal Melky Cabrera. A suggestion for a blog covering the best names in sports? This has potential…

High school reunions
My 10-year reunion is just over one week away. This is a disturbing fact, but it remains true. I hope we hand out awards. I think I’m a shoo-in for best-looking “Derek L.” in attendance.

Country Stampede
An event that brings hordes of inebriated wannabe cowboys to my neighborhood? Yes, this will be covered.

Getting a dog
Does watching that new “Wilfred” show that stars Frodo count?

Best/worst college courses
This would take some careful consideration. By “careful consideration” I mean that I’ll actually have to attempt to remember what classes I took in college.

Best/worst bible school memories
The idea of a “worst” bible school memory seems like it could be sacrilegious.

Best/worst 4-H memories
For me, the idea of a “best” 4-H memory might also be sacrilegious.

Fashion commentary
Yes, I do need to bring back “Things I don’t understand.” Duly noted.

Most boring sports
Definite potential here.

Best vacations
Note to self: take a vacation.


We have some good ideas here, but where to begin?

What's that you say, out-of-towners who have never seen a traffic roundabout? You want more booze and you've been wearing the same shirt for three days?

Country Stampede, it is.

Good news, better news

There's good news and there's better news.

The good news is that Saturday evening's wedding and reception ended up being as near to picture-perfect as a person can expect. The ceremony was very nice. There were no on-the-job meltdowns from either the flower girl or the ring bearer. I avoided using my handkerchief to wipe sweat from my brow through the entire ceremony, and no cameras were broken despite the fact that I was involved in more pictures than most Hollywood stars. Also, despite ominous reports of impending storms earlier in the day, foul weather steered clear of Vintage Gardens*. Beyond all that, my family still avoided scaring off my brother's bride-to-be, meaning I have a new sister. Life is good.

*No, this area was not full of well-aged (read: dead) plants, though the name might suggest it. It was actually about the perfect area for a wedding reception on a not-blazing-hot day.

The better news is that I no long have to attempt to live up to any titles that contain the word "best." I performed my duties during the wedding*, and even avoided sprinting away in terror when it was time to give my toast. It's like a weight off one's shoulders, knowing he can go back to being referred to as "anything but the best man."**

*A couple people told me I did a good job with my ceremonial duties, which basically involved standing next to my brother and breaking in my ridiculously uncomfortable shoes. My response? "Thanks. I'm pretty good when it comes to standing around and not talking."

**Truth: I have never actually been called "anything but the best man"... to my face, anyway.

Was my toast any good? If "good" can be judged by the fact that I did not - at any point - fall to the ground and curl up in the fetal position, then yes. If "good" takes into account the actual content and delivery of the speech, then I really have no idea. I did get some compliments from folks afterward, but I'm never one to discount the value of pity.*

*Note to self: learn how to take a compliment.

Whatever the case, a couple of family members asked me to give the written form of the toast a home here, so I've reproduced it to the best of my ability below. (I actually made it through the speech without having to look at my notes once... Apparently there is something to that whole "practice" idea. Luckily for my car, I will no longer best testing how many times I can recite the speech on a drive from Manhattan to Riley.)


----------

For those that don't know, I'm Derek; Jared's brother and the best they could do at short notice.

It’s great to see so many people here tonight. I know that some of you traveled miles and miles; some even traveled across the country, just to be here. I think that says quite a bit about these two. Of course, the thing it probably says the loudest is that apparently it‘s pretty hard to imagine a Larson finding a girl willing to put up with him. As the last single Larson male standing, I have to say that’s not very encouraging... but I'm getting off topic.

Jared and Michaela, I went through a lot of ideas when trying to find a topic for this toast; most were bad. Many involved inside jokes that few would understand. Inside jokes involving things like
- “special friends”
- “bringing some excitement to the Larson family”
- Jared nearly setting my car battery on fire
- and Michaela making my niece cry the first time she met her.

Through all the bad ideas, one thing kept coming back to mind. It was a text message that Jared sent to me early in the relationship. Now, before I get to what the text actually said, I better explain something:

Whether Jared likes to admit it or not, we’re an awful lot alike.

- We read the same books.
- We quote the same movies.
- We are both undeniably handsome ---[After laughter... perhaps too much laughter] Good, people are paying attention.
- We both love K-State.
- Thanks to some incredible influences, we both know the true value of faith, family and friends.
- And, finally, we’re stoic.

Typical reactions when encountering and exciting situation usually involve some combination of jumping up and down, yelling, high fives and hugs. The typical Larson male reaction, on the other hand, involves one of us saying “Oh, really? That’s good.”

I bring this point up because Jared’s text message that night seemed to advance a bit beyond the typical stoic Larsonese. I asked him how date #2 went. His reply?

“She might be around for awhile.”

That may not sound like much to some folks, but in the stoic Larson vernacular, it’s high, high praise. It was then that I knew that the relationship might be something special.

“She might be around for awhile.”

Jared, I think I speak for everyone here when I say, I’m glad you were right.

Michaela, Welcome to the family.

----------

There you have it. Good or bad, that's not for me to decide. Mostly, I'm just glad that I was able to be a part of things... And I'm also glad that it's over.

That's good news.

LeBron was right

When I woke up this morning, I came to a frightening realization: my life was the same as it was the day before… LeBron was right! (Cue dramatic music.)

You see, following Sunday night’s game six of the NBA Finals – a game in which the Dallas Mavericks secured their spot in NBA history as champions, and the Miami Heat secured its spot in NBA history as… well, a basketball team that was once on TV – Miami’s LeBron James said the following in response to a question about folks that were rooting against his team:

 “All the people that were rooting on me to fail, at the end of the day, they have to wake up tomorrow and have the same life that they had before they woke up today. They have the same personal problems they had today. I’m going to continue to live the way I want to live and continue to do the things that I want to do with me and my family and be happy with that. They can get a few days or a few months or whatever the case may be on being happy about not only myself, but the Miami Heat not accomplishing their goal. But they have to get back to the real world at some point.”

Response to LeBron’s comment has already run rampant, and it seems that each person who encounters the diatribe interprets it in one of two ways.

Translation 1 (LeBron’s a regular guy):
“It’s unfortunate that some folks find happiness by rooting for people to fail at their chosen professions; cheering for folks to miss out on their lifelong dreams. Alas, anyone who might do such a thing probably has worries greater than basketball in the grand scheme of things*. While my detractors may feel good now, problems don’t typically disappear. I wish them all the best in making the most of life. God bless.”

*So, I shouldn’t have bought a Bucknell t-shirt in 2005? Whoops… Sorry, Jayhawks.**

**Note: I’m not really sorry.

Translation 2 (LeBron’s an elitist):
 “Sure, my team lost, but I still have money… oodles and oodles of money. Once I’m done talking to you yokels, I’m going to drive my Benz home and watch movies in my home theater, which – by the way - is larger than your house. Oh yeah, good luck with your mortgage payment, let alone feeding your homely children. Later this week I might take a private jet to some exotic location where folks will wait on me hand-and-foot. Don’t people say “happiness is buying whatever you want”? No? You say that sounds pretty arrogant? Oh well, they SHOULD say it. At no point during the next few months that these putzes are celebrating a championship (that they did nothing to earn) will I even consider mowing a lawn or washing a dish. Did I mention that I get paid absurd amounts of money to PLAY A GAME? Ka-CHING!”


The translations may or may not have merit. The only thing we can really be sure of is that LeBron should practice that whole “think before you speak” thing. While I can’t be sure of his true intentions with the comment, I would like to offer up my own guess…

If we’re really going to sit back and examine things, I have to admit that the waking realization that my life is the same as it was yesterday was not frightening. After all, I enjoy my life and all the awkward stories that come with it. The frightening part comes from the fact that LeBron predicted the future: my life didn’t change overnight! His nickname – pushed by his teams, the NBA, and even James himself – has been “King James*” to this point in his career; however, after the wisdom he spewed last night, I think “The Oracle” may be more fitting. 

*Note to self: Did LeBron translate the Bible? Research this.

What do I think? I think LeBron is already thinking about life after basketball. What career will he move on to? …Fortune telling of the so-obvious-it’s-stupid variety. I don’t know about you, but I haven’t seen a commercial featuring fortune-teller Miss Cleo in a long time. LeBron can fill the void. In fact, I have a strong desire to call Mr. Bron right now for my free psychic reading. Can I expect a free meal in the future? Should I let sleeping dogs lie? Will I wake up to the same life tomorrow as I did today?

To date, LeBron is 100-percent on predicting my future.

Here's to some semblance of intelligent thought

In just over one week, my brother is getting married. It’s an exciting time and it’s an event that provides my family with plenty to think about. How many people will show up? Will it rain? How will Derek respond to countless mentions that he’s nearly the last single guy left standing in all of his extended family? Whatever the answers to those questions may be*, it’s bound to be a great evening. Well, except for maybe one part…

*My best guesses: 1. Plenty; 2. No rain; 3. An awkward combination of fidgeting, saying “some day” and attempting to change the subject. (Beautiful evening, isn’t it?)

As the “best* man” in the ceremony, I’m tasked with giving a toast at the wedding reception. It is an honor to have the opportunity and there’s no shortage of good things to say about the new couple… It’s just that I have established a pretty solid reputation of despising public speaking. I’m not really sure where or when this aversion began, but I know that it certainly evolved over time. What began as simple nerves became a fear of actually being nervous ABOUT being nervous.**

*Term used as loosely as possible. I tried to get them to list it as “Best We Could Do On Short Notice” in the program, but to no avail.

**Which makes about as much sense as devouring three-pounds of fudge in attempt to mask depression after you realize you’ve gained a couple pounds.

Truth told, I know I’ll be nervous when dropping my profound wisdom (translation: jokes recited from Laffy Taffy wrappers) on those in attendance, but I’ve learned that such things are not worth dwelling. The content of my toast, however, is. This is my chance to share my thoughts of what a successful marriage involves*, relay embarrassing stories about my brother**, or to hone my stand-up comedy act comprised completely of chicken jokes that don’t really make sense.***

*Two televisions. 

**No chance, as I’d be opening myself up to ridiculous ridicule some day in the future. Tales of my donut-induced tantrums have no place at wedding receptions.

***Why did the chicken cross the road? Because the road had it coming.

By this point, the speech has a pretty good foundation, meaning there have been plenty of ideas that have been tossed aside. In the spirit of transparency, I think it’s only fair that I share the ideas that won’t make it into the toast.

-    Interpretive dance.
-    A mimed reenactment of the family’s reaction to news of the engagement.
-    A diorama of the basement where my brother and I staged many epic battles in the NES classic Baseball Stars 2.
-    Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar On Me”
-    A reception-wide staring contest.
-    An attempt to see how many times I can utter “dude” in two minutes.
-    A surprise appearance by a guy who used to cut former K-State basketball coach Tom Asbury’s hair.
-    Live updates from the Royals-Cardinals game that evening.
-    An auction for my autographed photo of Bob Barker. (This item is priceless.)
-    Any semblance of intelligent thought.*

*Actually, I’m still working on fitting this in. Good luck, Derek.

Being Derek Larson

What's it like to be a 20-something male with no particular plans on a summer Saturday? Peek through this secret doorway for a look at my morning.

After sleeping in until 8:30 a.m., consuming more coffee than the Folgers family and completing an abundance of important work online (translation: checking fantasy baseball lineups and reading up on new movies) I determine that it's time to actually be productive. Alas, my own incompetence attempts to halt things. When dressing after my shower (please note: I do dress after my shower, not before or during... I find that lifestyle choice to be an important one) a grab a pair of socks, only to discover that said pair does not match. It seems that, on occasion, the tedious nature of matching socks renders my mind to a barely-functional state. Thus, I end up with socks paired despite their non-matching nature. I am not yet worried about this boredom-inspired brain flubbing, however I might grow concerned if such carelessness carries into the realm of walking down long flights of stairs or driving on straight roads. 

The first stopping after leaving my apartment is the ATM just outside. For some reason, I feel compelled to have cash in my pocket today. It's as if my conscience really wants to have something to frighteningly rip out of my pocket if I get mugged on the mean streets of MHK... That or I'll consider stopping by a friendly garage sale if I happen upon one. The ATM sits next to a laundromat, where I have to circle around a group of six middle-aged women sitting just outside the door. A normal person might assume that these ladies are simply waiting for their laundry to wash and/or dry and decided to enjoy the not-yet-blistering temperatures of this Saturday morning. On the other hand, as I punch in my pin number at the ATM I wonder to myself whether these women are actually in some sort of Oprah-inspired gang. I know her show is now off the air, but did she start some sort of movement among the moms of the world as she signed off? Am I going to be beaten with hardbound editions of her favorite books once I get my cash? Not even Dr. Phil's hokey advice can help me at this point.

I escape from the threatening horde of women with no injuries and make it to my car. It's at this point that I'm reminded about a quirk with my vehicle that has become all too apparent lately. You see, when it rains, the rear door on the passenger side of my car literally holds water, which later drips out of the door at the pace of some sort of water-torture device. It's an odd experience to open my car door after a rain storm and hear water sloshing as if Big Van Vader had just belly-flopped into my bathtub.

My destination, after setting off in the SS Minnow, is Best Buy. It's there that I am privileged to take part in the standard conversation one always falls into when they are shopping for nothing in particular.
Employee: Hi. How are you?
Derek: I'm fine. How are you doing?
Employee: Good. Can I help you find anything.
Derek: Nope. Just looking around.
Employee: Okay. Well let me know if I can help.
Derek: You bet.
This one-act play is not an unusual one. Again, it's one I take part in nearly every time I go to Best Buy. What made today different was that I played the role of Derek* three different times, each with the same overanxious employee opposite me. Whether this guy considered the first two interactions rehearsals for the grand finale, I'll never know. I do know, however, that I should have decided to mess with the guy a bit by the third time. "Yes, you can help. Where's the Betamax section?"

*I do a pretty stellar imitation of myself.

I walk away from the electronics store with nothing new to my name, as I've become rather good at talking myself out of impulse purchases in recent years. Yes, Blazing Saddles is a classic film, but the fact that I already own it on DVD probably means I don't need to add it to my Blu-Ray library. With my watch reading 11:30 and my stomach rumbling (apparently coffee and vitamins are not a complete breakfast... weird) I decide to check out a Chinese restaurant that opened recently. The restaurant features "Express" as part of it's name, so I figure that the drive-thru might be the way to go, meaning I can then eat my lunch at the park. Alas, I soon discover that this eatery must be train-themed on the inside, as the drive-thru service certainly does not bring the word express to mind. As I wait, and wait, and wait for my food, I begin to wonder whether my food is actually being delivered from China. Whatever the case, it arrives and I head to the park, where I intend to eat in my pirate ship of a car with the windows rolled down.

I don't know about you, but when I eat Chinese food, I avoid chopsticks and stick to a fork. Alas, those who prepped my order did not include a fork when they passed it through the drive-thru window. Time for chopsticks. I can probably handle the chunks of sweet-and-sour pork with them. Unfortunately, chopsticks aren't included, either. There's no fork, no spoon, no spork, no knife, no chopsticks, nothing but a napkin. Being the absent-minded person I am, I forgot to shove any cutlery or flatware into my pockets as I left my apartment, meaning I am face with the choice of eating with my hands in the middle of the public park or driving home to eat in a civilized fashion.* With fear of being arrested for public indecency (I would have made that much of a mess), I choose the latter.

*Term used loosely. I'm not sure eating on my couch while watching ESPNews can be considered civilized by many.

As I prepare to eat, I realize that this restaurant already has two strikes against it: slow service and inability to provide utensils essential to the eating process. If the food is no good, the place has struck out. Luckily, the pork comes through. It's good. Very good. Sure, there are too many onions included, but I've become quite accustomed to picking around those in several dishes. I eat my fill, stuffing myself to the point where I'm unsure that I can move off my couch. At that point, it's fortune cookie time.

My fortune: Good ideas will spring forth naturally from your mind in the coming week.

... I think there might be something to that fortune. I did fit in a nap this afternoon, after all.

Quick observation - June 1

In recent months I have developed a bit of a Twitter addiction. What’s not to love about the web phenomenon, after all? (Well, other than the name… And the 140-character limit per tweet… And the folks that tweet things like “Just went to Wal-Mart. Tired.”) In an age where seemingly everyone has some sort of device that can access the Internet (“What? Janie sneezed? Let’s check WebMD… Just let me access the web browser on my Chapstick tube), it’s a great way to keep up with news as it is very literally happening. (Granted, I have yet to see a tweet tweeted in the midst of someone’s fall down the stairs, but it’s probably coming soon.) Case in point, I knew that Eric Hosmer had earned a promotion to the Major Leagues two minutes before it was first mentioned on the radio. Thanks Twitter.

Alas, there’s a current Twitter trend out there that I can’t commit to. Whether through their own volition or automated pedometer-like devices, folks tweet the distance they run and the amount of time it takes them. I understand that this could serve as motivation for some, but for me, well, it mostly feeds my cynical side. I’m thisclose to continually tweeting things like “Considered running two miles… then fell into a fit of deep laughter. Time: 00:00:17.”

Twitter: Feeding my desire to make smartass remarks each and every day.

People in your neighborhood - The No One Edition

When one lives just two blocks from a bar district in a college town, he learns to appreciate the sort of tranquility that comes with silence. With that in mind, I stray from the norm today, writing an edition of People In Your Neighborhood about my neighborhood sans people.

Here it is, May 29, and a large chunk of the collegiate population that inhabits this town for 10 months each year has left with the speed of a first-timer in a fire drill. As a result, the streets are empty, lines are short, and I can actually hear the birds outside my window as I type (rather than the continual drone of motors on Anderson Ave).

Do I sound antisocial to be taking such joy in the fact that there are fewer people to drive behind, scoot around, or painstakingly listen to on a daily basis over the summer? Perhaps. Then again, I might not be conditioned in such a manner if folks gave courtesy waves at crosswalks* and refrained from horrible attempts at freestyle rapping at all hours of the day.

*Note to any kid preparing for college. The courtesy wave is your friend. Consider: there's a two-ton vehicle bearing down the street at 33-mph. It skids to a stop, all because it sees you standing at the side of the road, next to a path of white stripes. Had the driver of said vehicle not taken note of you, you might be enjoying the finest dining that a tube can offer for months. You want to at least lift your arm in some sort of manner to acknowledge said driver? I thought so.

Gone from town are the packs of fraternity folks making their nightly journeys to Aggieville, seemingly thinking that "Woooooooo! I'm wasted!" is a good conversation starter. Gone are the folks that have been in town for 10 months, but still don't know how to properly navigate a roundabout. (COUNTERclockwise? What?) And gone are the neighbors who refuse to acknowledge you, know matter how many times you hold a door open for them. (Speaking from experience? Me?)

It's true, Manhattan would not be Manhattan without K-State and the energy that the students bring. That said, I can live with calling the town New Boston for a couple months each year. Now excuse me. I have some silence to enjoy.

Void

Well, my poor blog has become the picture of neglect over the past month. For this, I apologize. I also realize that if things proceed in this fashion for too long, said blog will soon be shown on commercials that feature the sort of music that makes a person begin to tear up immediately and that ask for donations to benefit those less fortunate.

I can't let that happen.

I won't let that happen.

While I work on getting back to a more regular (read: sporadic) posting schedule, you should probably check out www.thescoopmanhattan.com in the mean time. It's a great site, and I hear that some ruggedly handsome, semi-writer has posts over there on occasion.

The Writings: Your home for the author's shameless self-promotion.

Salinity Now

This just in: I don’t drink the saline solution that one typically stores contact lenses in.

Nor do I bathe in it, nor swim in it in recreational fashion.

I also refrain from using it to create very hygienic dioramas of ocean life.

Alas, none of this seems to matter to the young woman who gathered my contact lens materials at the eye doctor yesterday. She sent me home with a back packed so full of bottles of contact solution that – had I been sporting red clothes and a white beard – people might have been wondering if Santa Claus had finally lost his bearings and forgotten how to read a calendar. As I stumbled through the door, lugging the bag like a toddler carrying a bowling ball, I realized that a visit to the optometrist’s office is a situation that this blog needs to delve into. Read on… Feel free to cover your right eye while you do so.

 The waiting is the hardest part… - Tom Petty, with or without accompanying heartbreakers
If you have ever heard any 1980’s stand-up comedy, you are familiar with the notion that waiting rooms of doctors’ offices tend to feature outdated magazines. The optometrist does not disappoint in the aspect, providing me with a Sports Illustrated from six months ago.  While it’s true that I do enjoy reading through back issues of SI (my old bedroom at my parents’ home is littered with them as if they hold clues for surviving the Apocalypse), I don’t necessarily the old woman staring me down from across the way. Via my peripheral vision, I notice that the senior is looking at me as if I have been leading a mole immigration effort that ends in her yard. Uncomfortable. Luckily, her attempts to telepathically cripple my mind end when my name is called. 

Ow, my eye! I’m not supposed to get pudding in it! – Lenny Leonard
As a sports fan, many of the tests I’m put through at an annual eye exam seem like drills at the NFL Draft Combine.
“Quickly, cover one eye and read the bottom row.”
“A, R, T, G, S, L, 8”
“Good.” (brings up a different line on chart.) “Now cover the other eye and read the bottom line.”
“O, P, S, D, M, Egyptian hieroglyph that looks like a bird, Pepsi logo, and drawing of an obese hamster.”
“Uhh… good…”
Yes, I am one of those people that will try to guess what a letter on the eye chart is rather than simply admitting that I can’t read it. Weird? Absolutely, since the eye-loving folks are just trying to ensure that my vision is as sharp as possible, but apparently the childhood fear of drawing poor marks in school has transcended to the world of eye exams… At least I’ve never been in the position of having to test said personally quirk in a sobriety test. Slapping oneself in the forehead whilst trying to touch one’s nose and then attempting to convince an officer of the law that you meant to do it probably wouldn’t go over well.

I have many leather-bound books and my home smells of rich mahogany. – Ron Burgandy
Events at the optometrist reach a climax when my actual eye doctor enters the exam room. Doc (name omitted to protect the innocent) has been dealing with my peepers for about 18 years, so it’s fair to say that we have crossed paths a few times. That said, for some reason I’m always surprised when he remembers that I write part-time. After all, judging by the (lack of) frequency of updates to The Writings recently, I have a difficult time remembering that I write part-time. I’m not saying that my writing seems insignificant at times, but… well… my writing seems insignificant at times.
Enough about me, back to the doc. His fingers deftly speed through switches and dials while attempting to correctly prescribe the correct lenses for my eyes, all while carrying an all-too-familiar refrain, “One… or two… or one…. Three … or four…) If it was not for my indecision and lack of trust in my own judgment (“Wait, was six really better than seven? Can we rewind?”) I think the examination would last approximately two minutes and nine seconds. Even the blinding attempts to peer into my eye with a microscope and flash light (personally, I think it would be a lot cooler if they wore miners’ helmets for this) go by in a jiffy. Before I know it, I have a new contact lens prescription (each eye “bumped up a quarter” whatever that might mean… I’m fairly certain that no Washington-adorned currency was actually involved), a free pair of sunglasses (which are slightly more stylish than wrapping my head in tinted film and provide enough pressure that my medulla may shoot out my nose), and a bag packed with so many fluid filled bottles that I’m surprised it didn’t come loaded on an oxen-pulled wagon. 

A day at the optometrist is an eventful one, indeed.

Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have a lifetime supply of contact solution to attempt to sell on eBay.

Happy Mothers'... D'oh!

As I type this, I find myself up a creek with no paddle, tentatively teetering in the current while on a raft made of generic brand of cotton swabs. Did I mention that the creek serves as home to schools of piranhas that love nothing more than tearing into the flesh of wannabe-writers who have one ear that sticks out further than the other? No? Forgive the omission.

What did I do to find myself in such a predicament?

I scheduled a bachelor party on Mothers’ Day weekend.

And every person attending said party – other than myself – is married or engaged.

And 76.9-percent of those attendees have wives who are - or will soon be - mothers.

 … Yes, “D’oh!” is right.

Such an error in judgment could have been avoided fairly easily, it seems. After all, I’ve heard that many people use things called “calendars” to track daily schedules and note annual events. Practicing such responsibility would have probably been a good move, but wouldn’t that require moving through life in an organized manner? (Note to self: look into this.)

I should probably just wrap this note with a picture that shows how red my forehead is from the repeated, self-inflicted slapping it received once I realized that how these dates fell on the calendar, but at this point I am afraid that any pictures I post of myself will ultimately serve as dartboards (or worse).  Frankly, I’d prefer that we keep games of “Pin the razor-sharp railroad spike to Derek’s throat” limited to girls that I’ve dated.  Instead, a quick note to moms out there:

The work that you do is unbelievable;
It’s tireless, endless, and tough;
Chances are strong that your family,
Will never be able to thank you enough.

Someday a fool may foul up your weekend;
Forgetting about the second Sunday in May;
Please know he means no harm, he’s just a fool;
Have an undeniably great Mothers’ Day!

AI

If you have ever watched much science fiction on television or in film, you know that there has been plenty of thought put into the idea of what might happen as our society continues to advance technologically. From droids to cylons to homes too smart for their own good, it seems that creations with intelligence of the artificial variety always seem to find some way to go awry. Luckily, it seems that those crafting such stories are paying far too much credence to the programming that goes with such intelligence. Simply put, they're wrong; we're safe. Why don't I fear the uprising of artificial intelligence leading to the collapse and enslavement of the human race?

According
to "personalized" emails I have recently received, I am both a Democrat
and a Republican*; I am an avid NBA bettor; I am a plus-sized woman who
enjoys buying clothes online; I am always looking for bargain prices on prescription pain meds; and I am gullible enough to believe that I can buy an iPad for $23.74.

*Unfortunately I have yet to receive anything from the whigs.

According to iTunes' "genius feature, I should be buying an album by Sum 41, despite the fact that it's no longer 2001 and I don't own a skateboard.

According to Netflix's movie suggestions, I'd really enjoy a Nova special about "social robots," all because I gave the NBC comedy "Parks and Recreation" a high rating.*

*Connect those dots... I'd enjoy a science special because I enjoy laughing during a show where the main characters think that all library employees are evil. Nice try, artificial intelligence!

After thorough review of the above, I'm fairly certain that we all can feel safe. Artificial intelligence has a long way to go before it is posing any major threats, so don't feel threatened by any "smartphones" you see.

Armies of uber-intelligent nanobots won't soon be invading my home... But if they do, there's no way I'm buying any plus-sized women's clothing from them.

An Easter thought...

Which potential lesson that a child might take away from Easter is more dangerous:

A. All eggs are gifts from a friendly bunny who likes nothing more than to see children smile as they fill baskets up with candy?

... or...

B. The Easter Bunny is an evil minion of the Big Alliance of Dentists (B.A.D.) who puts on a happy face, but is really passing out candy in order to promote the rotting of teeth and visits to the dentist office?

Ponder, won't you?

(This Writing composed by Derek's 8-year-old, dentist-fearing self.)

People in your Neighborhood - The Frogurt Edition

I have never gone water-skiing. I have never whittled a woodwind instrument. I have never eaten at a frozen yogurt place... One of those statements in no longer true. Apologies who love the sweet tunes that come from a home-fashioned pan flute, but the item I can cross off that list involves frozen yogurt (which I, along with many others, call frogurt). I had some reservations about giving the place a chance, but it turns out that it's not bad dining. Beyond that, the crop of customers available for observation was one of the bumper variety. Read on to learn about a few of the people at your local frozen yogurt shop. 


The Dancer
In the land where frozen yogurt cascades like congested waterfalls, club music is king - at least it was on this night. As I waited in a horseshoe-shaped line to populate a bowl with fro-yo* and enough toppings to cripple one's mind, bass beats that sounded eerily techno-ish provided a very strange take on background noise. This may come as a shock to any and all reading this, but I'm fairly sarcastic and cynical by nature. (GASP!) As a result, once I noticed the music playing I prepared to make some sort of snarky comment about it to my brother; something along the lines of "Where do we pick up the glowsticks?"^^ Alas, when I turned to speak, I noticed the guy about 10 people ahead of us in line. He wore a navy blue t-shirt, which was at least one size too small if you asked his belly, and had hair caked with more grease than most items on the Long John Silver's menu. His look was one thing, but I barely had a chance to let the ridiculousness settle in when I noticed that he was pigeon-necking to the beat of the music. Yes, he was into it. Surely he's doing that as a joke, I thought, but he did not seem to be attempting to catch anyone's eye as he did it. The story was the same when I saw him reclining back on one of the establishment's couches later. He was simply grooving to, and enjoying, the beat. Apparently the Frogurt place needs a cover charge.

*This is my attempt to connect with the youth of America... I'm hip. I'm with it...

^^Hey, it was funny in my head.

Crocs'n'Socks
I have never worn, nor do I ever intend to wear, a pair of Crocs. I understand that they're very comfortable, but there's something about wearing "shoes" that look much more like bath sponges that I am just not comfortable with. That said, if I did ever wear Crocs, I would not wear them with socks. No, I'm not one to keep tabs on styles or fashion (What do you mean my Homer Simpson t-shirt isn't "in"?), but wearing glorified sandals along with socks pulled up to one's knees seems like a curious move even to me. I guess this guy's lower legs could incredibly prone to insect bites or he might have once made the unfortunate mistake of having socks surgically attached to his legs; perhaps the explanation is that easy... Whatever the case, I'm concerned.

*Would I, could I, in a house? Would I, could I, with a blouse? I could not, would not in a house. I could not, would not, with a blouse.

Pajama Patty
Locations where the donning of one's pajamas is appropriate: one's home; someone else's home, should one be invited for an overnight stay or to a pajama party there.
Locations where the donning of one's pajamas is NOT appropriate: anywhere else. (Note to the lady with the weird tattoo on her neck: "anywhere else" includes the frogurt shop. I'll admit, I was rather confused when I walked through the door and saw you standing in line... I thought I'd wandered into someone's home kitchen.)

The Writings' guide to the Royals

If you have read/heard/interpreted-through-a-form-of-telepathy-that-is-beyond-my-comprehension anything about the Kansas City Royals this year, odds are strong that such details involved "the future." You see, the Royals currently have a collection of talent in the minor leagues that - according to some experts - rivals any farm system* in history. The potential for future success is great, but it's just that: potential. I've heard many folks comment that they've heard all this before; that the Royals have had good young players in the past and KC has either ruined them or traded them away for beans that weren't even advertised as magic. "How will things be different this time?" people ask. The answer: It looks like ownership is finally willing to part with some money to support a winning team.

*Note for those unfamiliar with Major League Baseball: "Farm system" refers to a Major League club's minor league affiliates. It has nothing to do with irrigation or eliminating pesky boll weevils.

The youth is on the way, with top prospects Mike Moustakas and Eric Hosmer expected to debut at some point this season, and several young pitchers already on the big league club. While many look to the future, we at The Writings are enjoying the present. Since it's been far too long since we've written anything about the KC club, let's take a quick look at the 2011 Royals.*

*Note: "Quick" is a relative term.

We'll start in the outfield, where one of the season's biggest question marks tracks fly balls. Alex Gordon - once one of the top prospects in baseball; once subject of a Sports Illustrated article oozing more fluff than fan letters to Justin Bieber; once touted as the next George Brett; once prophecized as the person that will one day lead humanity to galactic dominance* - enters 2011 searching, yet again, for a breakout season. Gordon has dominated the minor leagues in the same manner that a video gamer handles a video game after entering a cheat code, but injuries and holes in his swing have never allowed that success to translate to the Major League level. Gordon arrived at Kansas City as a third baseman, but moved off the position last season, perhaps in anticipation of Moustakas' anticipated arrival. Through a handful of games this season, Gordon seems to finally be in his happy place (whether he sees grannies winning the lotto and little people on tricycles, we may never know). His defense in left field has been above average and he has been one of the hottest hitters in baseball. Can he keep it going? That's a question that puzzles more folks than those mind-benders involving trains leaving stations at different times only to eventually wreck into each other because neither is one of Doc Brown's time machines. (Sorry if that's not quite accurate... I haven't taken a standardized test in awhile.)

*I only made one of those up.

 Joining Gordon in the outfield are centerfielder Melky Cabrera, the former-Yankee who played for Atlanta last season while attempting to prove that chubby kids can be outfielders (the results were not good, hence his signing with KC on just a one-year deal), and rightfielder Jeff Francoeur, another one-time top prospect, who was once featured on the cover of Sports Illustrated despite the fact that he was barely old enough to legally consume any of the alcoholic beverages featured in the issues ads. Backup Jarrod Dyson is not a hitter, but his speed alone makes him a rather valuable member of the roster.

In the infield, KC should see significant improvement defensively thanks to the addition of shortstop Alcides Escobar. Escobar, who came to the Royals as part of the Zack Greinke trade, has shown the sort of range at shortstop that makes one think the Royals would be safe with a hippopotamus playing next to him at third. (No, I am not calling Wilson Betemit and Mike Aviles hippos... Placeholders for Moustakas, perhaps... Hippos, no.)  Escobar's double-play partner is second baseman Chris Getz, another player who brings plenty to the table defensively, but isn't exactly setting fine china on offense. Billy Butler and Kila Ka'aihue share duties at first base and designated hitter. Butler is just 24, but has been the team's best hitter for the past two seasons. Ka'aihue is a Hawaiian slugger who is finally getting the opportunity to prove himself as an everyday player... My guess is that he also enjoys hearing people attempt to pronounce his last name and butcher it slaughterhouse fashion. Matt Treanor and Brayan Pena share catching duties until 83-year old Jason Kendall (What do you mean he's only 36?) returns from injury. 

The Royals have a bevy of young, left-handed starting pitchers, but all are young enough that they will begin the season in the minor leagues. The names of KC's big league starters (Luke Hochevar, Bruce Chen, Jeff Francis, Kyle Davies, Vin Mazarro) may not strike fear in the hearts of opposing hitters, but they possess the ability to keep the team in games long enough to pass along to a strong bullpen - a bullpen led by closer Joakim Soria. Soria, who declared he no longer wanted to be referred to as "The Mexicutioner" in the offseason, is one of the best relief pitchers in all of baseball. He is joined in the bullpen by a lot of young talent, from the 21-year-old, hobbit-sized Tim Collins (or Timbo Collgins, in Tolkienese) to Aaron Crow, a Topeka-native who pitched collegiately for the University of Missouri. In previous seasons, the thought of handing a game off to a KC relief pitcher brought feelings of dread and/or despair (plus far too many frustrated mutterings from my couch). This season, a call to the 'pen is accompanied by an unfamiliar feeling... I think some call it optimism. Weird.

Will the Royals be contenders in 2011? The odds are certainly not overwhelming, but, for the first time in many, many years the club has mixed a fine cocktail of potential and direction... I like it.

Ending the madness

It's the first Monday in April and the last night of the 2010-2011 college basketball season. Seems like a good opportunity to force you to read all the random thoughts that wade through my mind, no? Joining me for the festivities, we have a half-finished strawberry shake from Coldstone Creamery (when you're paying for ice cream, make sure you pay plenty), my next door neighbor's voice that I can hear through my wall (note to self: buy a home), and a degree of snarkiness that increases with every minute of unnecessary pregame coverage (23 minutes total... Look out!)

-----

I've been told that I look a bit like Butler coach Brad Stevens, and - frighteningly enough - I can see a bit of resemblance. This is horrible news for Stevens, but good news for me... I can put that on a resume, right?

-----

Has any film franchise ever had more unnecessary sequels than "The Fast and the Furious"? Vin Diesel's character likes to drive fast cars... I get it. That's not really a plot that requires five films worth of exploration.

-----

Charles Barkley has the be the greatest college basketball analyst who ever threw someone through a plate-glass window, doesn't he? (Note: This is not a rhetorical question... If you really do know of a better one, I really do want to know.)

-----

At the first media timeout, Butler and UConn have combined to shoot 3-for-18 from the field. "Defense wins championships!" ... True, but horrendous shooting loses them, as well.

-----

Is it safe to say that the folks working for HP in 1996 could not have predicted that Dr. Dre would be one of their company ad spokesmen 15 years later?

-----

Hey, it's a basketball game... and the score is 16-15 with fewer than seven minutes left in the first half. This is the sort of offense that only a mother could love. A mother who hates basketball.

-----

This just in: I have a horrible "multitasking" habit, meaning I am continually looking at thinks online even while watching a basketball game. This means that I'm subjected to reading rumors of potential college basketball changes (some concerning my alma mater) as I watch this game. So, not only am I continually reminded that K-State lost to Brad "not Derek" Stevens' Butler squad last season, but now I must digest rumors that there could be another coaching search in the future... I need to find something less depressing.

-----

... Hey, Ken Burns' Civil War documentary is on PBS!

-----

Butler guard Shelvin Mack sinks a buzzer-beating three to give the Bulldogs a 22-19 lead at the half. It's a beautiful shot and a great moment... Until the broadcaster fouls it up by saying "Mack is back!" Note to broadcasters: Dr. Seuss wrote children's books. He did not provide play-by-play for college basketball games. Don't cross the streams!

-----

Butler's up, they lead by three, but never count out a UConn Huskie.
20 minutes done, 20 remain. Such little time with so much to gain.

-----

Please forgive the Seuss vibe.

-----

Barkley at halftime: "Both teams need to play better."

And people wonder why I find halftime analysis worthless.

-----

After a UConn turnover, with the Huskies leading 26-25, coach Jim Calhoun shakes his head in disgust. If any college basketball coach were to be cast to play a grouchy old neighbor in a motion picture, I think Calhoun would have the role hands down. The simple sight of him standing with his arms crossed causes me to check my feet to make sure I'm not standing on his lawn.

-----

With 10 minutes left, UConn leads 39-28. I keep waiting to hear the broadcasters mention that this is actually a scrimmage and the real game will take place next... Thus far, they have failed to mention this fact.

-----

Seven minutes left, and Butler is shooting 2-for-24 in the second half. 2-for-24!

To put this in perspective, I succeed in making jokes 3 times out of every 24 attempts. Poor Butler.

-----

With two minutes left, Butler is on track to break the record for lowest shooting percentage EVER in a championship game. Hey, a record! Congratulations!

... Oh, nevermind.

-----

Aaaaaaaaand, that's the game. UConn is your champ, winning 53-41. Congrats to the Huskies for winning, to the Bulldogs for making it to the championship game two years in a row, and to you for making it through the written summation of such an ugly game. Eeesh.

The Heard

Communication, if you really sit down and ponder it, is a mind-boggling thing. Consider that it’s possible to convey the message “Did you hear that? What the hell is this guy thinking?” with nothing more than a raised eyebrow.* From a quick wink (which is almost always creepy) to a rambling soliloquy spoken in effort to express one’s true appreciation for oven mitts, thoughts can be conveyed in a myriad of ways. Because there are so many dynamics that come with communication (or because I have been hurting for blog topics lately… I really need something awkward to happen to me soon), I think it’s time that we analyze some of the things that I hear (or read) every day (figuratively). Perhaps we’ll unearth a better understanding of communication… More likely, we’ll discover that I should really keep my thoughts to myself.

*Yes, I know this from experience.


A speaker amplified voice recently asked me if I’d like to add cheese sticks or ice cream to my lunch order…
For the 432nd time, the answer is no. I operate by a simple premise: if I want to purchase something, I’ll ask for it. I don’t tiptoe around ordering ice cream like the person who doesn’t want to ask another person how they got a scar*, and I’m also not going to succumb to any sort of peer pressure that involves fried foods. Sorry.

*Fell in the bathtub. Thanks.


A voice on the radio recently told me far too many things about car racing…
I do not intend to become a racing fan, nor will I ever test my 2004 Impala’s engine in any sort of fast and/or furious manner. Thus, “The Racing Boys” segment on sports radio is one that I have no interest in. If you require an illustration of the precise amount of interest I have in hearing folks discuss advertisements disguised as race cars, consider the amount of interest your pet has in reading Stephen Hawking’s “A Brief History of Time”… Now cut that level of interest in half.



A friend recently told me that I can’t take a compliment…
I’m not sure that this is true. I’ll gladly take compliments on the rare occasions that they come my way… I just have a tendency of responding to them with the sort of self-deprecating remark that might make a person wish to enroll me in a self-affirmation course taught by Stuart Smalley. Rest assured, readers, I don’t suffer from any crippling personality disorders (that I’m aware of). The self-loathing nature is just part of a continued effort to make sure my head doesn’t get big in the figurative sense (since it’s already too large for my body in the physical sense).

I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and – gosh darn it – people like me… sometimes.



A former boss gave me advice via email, saying “The only constant in life is change”…
I can’t argue with this, since pennies seem to sprout about my car like dandelions on a summer lawn… Wrong sort of change?  Nevertheless, there is credence to these words. Jobs change. People change. Even your opinion concerning that shirt you bought two months ago changes. (What were you thinking?) And when you really think you might have things figured out, things change with the velocity, ferocity and atrocity of a rabid-dog-wielding tornado.

With all of this potentially life-altering change, what can a person do? Keep reading…


When my niece recently ate an extra piece of chocolate, despite me telling her not to, I told her that I was sad, completing the façade with the sort of look a kid gives when he’s told he can’t have cotton candy at the fair. Her response? “You don’t have to be sad. You can be happy if you want to.”
How can a person argue with that sort of wisdom?*

*If her two-year-old mind is that keen when it comes to philosophy, does that mean she’s a genius in other subjects, too? Maybe I should really take heed when she tells me that monsters and snakes live in my walls.

A look back

This wasn't supposed to happen.

No, I'm not referring to the fact that K-State lost in the second round of the 2011 NCAA Tournament (though there is credence to that argument). Instead, I'm referring to the posting of this season wrap to The Writings. It was actually intended for another web site. (GASP!)

Never fear, dear readers. I'm not turning my back on The Writings, nor cheating on them with another blog. I have, however, signed on to do some writing for www.thescoopmanhattan.com. (You should probably bookmark it/favorite it/make it your homepage if The Writings don't currently hold that honor.) It's a site intended to bring light to all the great things that Manhattan has to offer. Alas, there have been some issues on the development end; issues covered eloquently in the placeholder text that currently appears at the website. (If you don't understand it, go rent Billy Madison immediately and then watch it twice... I can wait.) As a result, the return of The Scoop has been delayed to a point where my K-State hoops piece will no longer be "timely." Thus, I'm bringing it to The Writings. Enjoy. (Or don't. Who am I to tell you what to do?)

----------

With the publication of this post, K-State’s basketball season has been finished for over 24 hours. The season capped with a nail-biter of a contest fueled by an extraordinary effort from one of the greatest players in the history of the program. Alas, that game is all you’re reading about at every other website with even a loose connection to Manhattan or sports in general. (Well, maybe not www.joyofbocce.com, but you get the idea.)  Instead of a quick game recap, we at The Scoop want to take the opportunity to look back on the season as a whole.  (Well, truthfully, we wanted to plan a trip to New Orleans for the Sweet 16, but one has to make lemonade with lemons thrown maliciously his way, right?)

How does one properly summarize the 2010-2011 K-State basketball season? The highs and lows seem so extreme that any sort of roller coaster analogy may not do justice. (Roller coasters are, after all, constricted by the laws of physics.) Handing out postseason awards is overplayed and far too predictable. (If you can’t determine this team’s MVP without our help, basketball might not be your sport. Have you considered jai alai?) The “predicted champ falls on hard times, but then bests its rival on its way to possible redemption” storyline could be one destined for film, but the budget here is low and we lack directors’ chairs. It seems the best way to look back at the season is to simply look back. (Original idea, no?) Here’s an examination of key points in K-State’s season, detailed in effort to accurately illustrate how remarkable/strange/mind-boggling the campaign has been. 

*Please note: “Fan confidence level” ratings were determined through a very scientific process utilizing retrospective surveys, ink blot illustrations and polygraph tests… That, or the author simply tried to remember how encouraged (or frustrated) the majority of the fan base seemed at that particular point in time. As a point of reference, the final season of the Tom Asbury era scored a -6 (of 10) on the scale. 


Date: Early Nov., 2010
Event:  Preseason love
K-State record: 0-0
Fan confidence level: 10 (of 10)
After years of receiving Sports Illustrated college basketball preview magazines featuring random Jayhawks on the cover, Wildcat fans all over Kansas rejoiced to see Jacob Pullen gracing the regional issue. The nod from SI not only eliminated ritualistic mass burnings of the annual issue in Manhattan, but also gave national credence to the expectations surrounding the 2010-2011 team. K-State saw national rankings as high as No. 3 in the preseason and was predicted to be league champ by Big 12 coaches. There was even talk that the K-State frontcourt might be the best in the nation. At no point in the modern era had so much been expected of a K-State basketball team.


Date: Nov. 23, 2010
Event:  Cats fall to Duke; Kyrie Irving proves that he’s really quick
K-State record: 4-1
Fan confidence level: 9 (of 10)
K-State’s first loss of the season came at the hands of Duke, the nation’s No. 1 team and defending National Champion. Losing to the best was nothing to fret about, but the manner in which the Wildcats lost did raise concerns. Pullen finished with just four points, shooting 1-12 from the field. Meanwhile, Duke freshman guard Kyrie Irving torched KSU, finishing with 17 points and six assists, seemingly revealing a glaring hole in the K-State defense. It was clear that the Wildcats were not at the level of Duke, but few teams could claim that they were.


Date: Dec. 21, 2010
Event:  K-State seniors suspended; Cats fall to Runnin’ Rebels; KSU fans contemplate boycotting all department stores in Manhattan
K-State record: 9-3
Fan confidence level: 7 (of 10)
If one wanted to get under a K-State fan’s skin at midseason, one good way was to repeatedly mention “impermissible benefits.” News that Pullen and Curtis Kelly had been suspended began to leak in the hours leading to tip-off of the night’s game at the Sprint Center, and fans that hadn’t heard the news became fully aware when the pair was not seen in KC. The Wildcats had struggled finding leadership to that point, and such an error in judgment by the team’s elder statesmen seemed to provide a glowing illustration of that fact. The Wildcats, playing without Pullen for the first time since Bob Huggins called Manhattan home, had four players finish in double-figures, but lost to UNLV by four points. With both seniors facing multi-game suspensions and Kansas State yet to find an identity as a team, fans were given a couple reasons for worry as conference play approached.


Date: Jan. 29, 2011
Event:  KU decimates KSU; Wally Judge leaves team
K-State record: 14-8, 2-5 (Big 12)
Fan confidence level: 4 (of 10)
Think January is a slow month? Think again. In a span of 23 days, the Wildcats:
-    Lost to Oklahoma State and Colorado with Kelly on the sideline;
-    Drew criticism when Pullen said he would not play in the NIT;
-    Saw Kelly return to the lineup, but had Freddy Asprilla quit the same week;
-    Beat Texas Tech and Baylor at home, but fell to Missouri, Texas A&M and Kansas on the road by a combined 48 points;
-    Suffered their second mid-season departure when Judge, a former McDonald’s All-American, left the squad one day after the loss to KU.
The drama, tribulations, and sudden departures rivaled those reality television shows. Near the end of this stretch, some K-State fans were fully expecting starting lineups to be determined by cooking challenges or sing-offs judged by Randy Jackson. If backup point guard Juevol Myles had announced he was leaving the team at that point to join Canadian alt-rock group Barenaked Ladies, it would not have seemed out of the ordinary.  Frustrations and struggles peaked in the midst of a 24-point loss to Kansas; a game where the Wildcats shot just 19-percent in the first half and Kelly sat benched for the final 20 minutes.


Date: Feb. 14, 2011
Event:  Wildcats celebrate Valentine’s day, stomp KU, and prove college hoops “experts” do not exist
K-State record: 17-9, 5-6 (Big 12)
Fan confidence level: 7 (of 10)
Who predicted that K-State might topple No. 1 Kansas that Big Monday? Answering “no one” almost seems generous. Two days earlier, the Wildcats suffered a soul-fracturing, now-you-have-it-now-you-don’t loss to the Colorado Buffalos and the week prior had been filled with rumors that Kelly’s days as a Wildcat were through after he had allegedly violated a university rule. Many fans entered Bramlage in purple, but expected to leave feeling black-and-blue. Instead, something happened – something many call “quality basketball.” The Wildcats pushed their defense to a level not seen since the 2010 postseason and showed that a midseason change in offensive philosophy by the K-State coaching staff was near brilliant. The Wildcats built a substantial lead early and – in a manner never before practiced against KU at Bramlage – piled on until the Jayhawks tapped out. It’s amazing what a win over the nation’s No. 1 (especially when it’s a rival) can do in relation to confidence.


Date: 3/17/11
Event:  March Madness begins
K-State record: 22-10
Fan confidence level: 8 (of 10)
On the heels of the victory over KU, K-State rattled off five more wins to close the season before falling to Colorado in their first game of the Big 12 Tournament.  After 130+ days, thousands of practice free throws, 497 cold and wordless stares by Frank Martin, ten different starters, two player departures, and one major change to the team’s offensive scheme, the Wildcats entered the NCAA Tournament as one of the scariest match-ups in college basketball. It’s a spot many expected K-State to be in from the start of the season, but the road to it was littered with Bramlage-sized potholes. Now, Kansas State appeared to be near strength and match-up against No. 12-seed Utah State would be the start of the postseason journey.


Date: Today
Event:  Game over; K-State’s season ended with a 70-65 loss to Wisconsin
K-State record: 23-11
Fan confidence level: ?

Forgive the question mark denoting the fan confidence level, but it is a ponder-worthy subject at this point. If life was a comic strip, you would see that question mark above a K-State fan’s head when they’re presented with the question, “How will the Cats do next season?“ With the loss in the NCAA Tournament’s quasi-third round, there’s credence to the argument that the Wildcats failed to live up to the preseason expectations of the media, the Big 12 coaches, and of fans in general. But, in games against some of the nation’s best, the Wildcats showed that they could compete at that level. They showed a remarkable ability to bounce back from suspensions and departures that could have crippled the team. And they showed that their star player could take over a game as well as any player in the nation.

The Wildcats should have all but two players returning next season… Unfortunately, one graduating senior is the basketball program’s all-time leading scorer and the other is a wildly talented post. Neither will be easy to replace, but the Wildcats have been tasked with such a burden before. Two seasons after All-American Michael Beasley and uber-skilled Bill Walker took their brand of bucketization to the NBA, K-State put together its most successful season in 20+ years, led by players who were question marks when they arrived. As a freshman, Pullen was mainly known as the little point guard who Frank Martin yelled at incessantly. No one was predicting that he might one day have his No. 0 in the rafters. Kelly arrived in Manhattan as an underperforming transfer from UConn. He leaves K-State owning the record for blocked shots in a season and possessing one of the most picturesque high-post spin moves that you will ever see. While there are reasons for worry as Pullen and Kelly exit, thoughts of Rodney McGruder’s long-range shooting and Jordan Henriquez-Robert’s continued progression provide ample hope for the future.

What happens in the next chapter of this story? There will be plenty of time to pitch storylines as next season approaches. That said, after the twists 2010-2011 provided, little - beyond Frank Martin quitting to train for a fight against Clubber Lang - may come as a shock to K-State fans.

Spring Breakin'

We’ll start with an apology. This Writing has nothing to do with break-dancing, though the apostrophized title might lead on to assume it does. For those unaware, the popular* break-dancing movie “Breakin’” shares the same construction of the word. Alas, I have never seen the film and I possess as much rhythm as a plastic spork. Please forgive the lack of electric boogaloos in this Writing.

*Term used as loosely as possible. 

Now, on to the subject that this log will cover: spring break. It’s the annual week that I anticipate more than most as little as six years ago. After all, it meant a break from classes, a break from study, and a break from everyday inconveniences like bathing. (Scratch that last one.) Spring break was like a mandatory vacation, and it was great. Today, spring break mainly serves as a reason to be jealous of my friends and family members that teach. Sure, they’re underpaid and they have to deal with hellion kids and clueless parents alike, but they get one week off every spring. Unfair!

While spring break now affects my work-life in the same way that dinner menus in Panama affect my slumber, I will admit that there are some perks that come with the annual holiday. For one, it means that college students skip town like sane folks flee any home airing “Jersey Shore.” I have nothing against college students – after all, I was once one of them – but I must say that life is a little less hectic when they leave in droves. Traffic clears up, finding a parking spot is no longer akin to the late stages of a Chubby Bunny contest, and the number of inebriated shouts of “wooooo!” I hear through my apartment windows in the evening hours reduces significantly. For one week, the town I call home regains the feel of a quiet place in the Midwest.

How does one appreciate such a state? Thus far the wind (which seems to currently gusting at the speed of a military aircraft) has limited the opportunities to take in much of the outdoors. I ventured to the park yesterday to sit on a bench and read*, but the wind continually threatened to confiscate my paperback and swiftly deliver it to someone up north. (Do Nebraskans like Stephen King?)

*Is it possible that I’m actually 68 years old? I’m looking into it.

As a result, my spring break involves sitting in an office, driving home while hoping the wind does not cause my car to take flight, and then crafting prose about spring break. It may not sound like much, but it’s not bad.

… I guess I could always rent Breakin’. 

Writing Feverishly

First things first, I better get one thing straight: being sick is horrible. I had the pleasure of waking up at 3 this morning soaked with sweat and generally feeling as if my head was near a low flame. I tried to put the general lousiness behind me and return to my slumber, but such a task was akin to learning Latin during "The Price is Right." After an undetermined period of time (I don't track well when generally confounded by sleep deprivation), I made my way to my thermometer to take my temperature. When three digital digits appeared prior to the decimal, I had confirmation that one of those flu bugs that have been making the rounds had stopped by my place. I also had the sort of headache that makes a person check the sides of his head to ensure that he is not currently in the grasp of a medieval torture device. Back to bed!

From that early morning hour through 9 a.m., I probably slept for an hour-and-a-half. Believe it or not, that schedule does not meet my typical quota. Alas, where there's bad, there's often good. You see, today is the first TRUE day of the NCAA Tournament (sorry, opening round... you're dead to me), meaning that my television will be airing little other than hoops from 11 a.m. onward.

You know what they say: When life hands you lemons, stay on your couch and watch basketball.*

*The Writings: We really have no insight into popular vernacular.

With my day's schedule now cleared, there's plenty of time to keep updates coming on the day as it proceeds. If you only read one running account of a sick day this week, make it this one.

10:24 a.m. - While trying to get through NCAA pregame without falling asleep (note to self: record some studio shows to watch next time you can't sleep), I realize that today is St. Patrick's Day. I have no Irish luck, I'm not wearing green, and I don't see a pint of Guiness in my future... Apparently I'm the Grinch of St. Patty's.

10:34 a.m. - Pregame includes a short interview with Jimmer Fredette, the BYU guard who leads the nation in scoring. I cannot watch a Jimmer interview without expecting some sort of pitch to drink milk or visit the library at the end.

10:42 a.m. - Good news: we're just 18 minutes away from the start of the first game. Better news: we're just ten hours and 15 minutes from the start of K-State's game against Utah State. I have of goal of being able to sit up by that point without my head feeling like someone is jabbing my brain with the pokey end of a compass. It's good to have goals.

10:47 a.m. - Within a span of three minutes, the pregame show aired highlights of KU's loss to Northern Iowa in 2010 and of Kansas falling to Bucknell in 2005. Have I mentioned that I love March?

11:06 a.m. - Charles Barkley calls the Big East the most overrated basketball conference in the country. If you disagree, you're wrong. Just ask Chuck. Sure, Sir Charles may have once thrown a guy through a bar window, but he's undeniably entertaining on television. I don't think there's any correlation there, but I could be wrong.

11:24 a.m. - Four minutes into the first game of the day, West Virginia - coached by former K-Stater Bob Huggins - is shooting slightly less accurately than a blind, vertigo-stricken marksman. Remember, their opponent - Clemson - is the team that just competed in a "first round" game 38 hours ago. Lesson: sports make no sense.

11:43 a.m. - The second game of the day - Butler-Old Dominion - has begun and now my thumb will get a workout. For the first time ever, four networks are broadcasting the NCAA Tournament, meaning all games can be viewed in their entirety. I'd say that my head hurts just thinking about all that basketball, but we've already established that it hurts and I don't condone beating horses in any state of being.

11:53 a.m. - If Mario (of Super Mario Bros. fame) was a real person that wore suits, I am fairly certain that he would look identical to Old Dominion's coach. This update brought to you by the Council for Pointless Observations.

12:47 p.m. - Through fastidious research, I discovered that "rest" is a recommended remedy to things like the flu. Thus, I gave that a go, along with a healthy dose of off-brand Dayquil. (We'll call it Fakequil.) Have I made a miraculous recovery? Not exactly, but I'm no longer daydreaming about video game characters becoming basketball coaches... That's progress, right?

12:58 p.m. - Ever feel like you'd be better off letting a Latvian hobo make your bracket picks than deciding the winners yourself? Welcome to my world, as Louisville - one of my Final Four picks - is losing to Morehead State (a school seemingly named after a common phrase at cannibal dinners) 8-0 early on. 

1:36 p.m. - Game one of the day wraps with West Virginia reigning as the victors. Broadcasters credit the Mountaineers' defense down the stretch. I credit their bright yellow shoes. How the opposing team can concentrate while continually asking "It's possible to make shoes that shade? Does that color even exist naturally in nature?" is beyond my comprehension.

1:50 p.m. - Like buzzer beaters? Butler wins with one, causing me to sit up so quickly that my brain seemingly stayed back on my pillow. Note to self: don't do that again.

2:55 p.m. - I've never had one of my Final Four picks lose in the 64-team round of the NCAA Tournament... Apparently there's a first time for everything. Morehead State just topped Louisville and I now know that there are a ton of people out there who feel a whole lot worse than I do... On that note, I've been sitting upright for 30 minutes now and my head has yet to explode. Progress.

3:11 p.m. - Like buzzer beaters? Wow, this sounds awfully familiar. Whether I'm encountering deja vu, suffering from 'quil-related hallucinations, or simply witnessing a great day of basketball, I'm not entirely sure. If my eyes don't deceive, though, Temple just beat Penn State with a bucket that left just 0.4 seconds on the clock. I'm not one to support overuse of common phrases that slyly refer to mental illness, but "March Madness" is pretty accurate in describing things so far.

Five hours and 1,000 words into this log, it's probably time to let things rest. After all, the Cats will take the court in five-and-a-half hours. That's just enough time to attempt to nap, get frustrated because I can't sleep, and then watch more basketball. Good times.