Eponymous

I'm about to make a crazy analogy; no need to call me on it, I already know.  I hope you're not offended, but there's a great line in The Princess Bride, just as Buttercup is about to off herself in perhaps the most painful and savage suicide in history (seriously, trying to stab yourself in the heart?!), Westley pipes in with this gem: "There's a shortage of perfect breasts in this world.  T'would be a pity to damage yours."  Well spoken, sir.  It may seem odd, but that's how I felt about this last weekend.  Let's just say there's a shortage of perfect weekends, but this one was a Buttercup.

Let's start with this: I am easily satisfied when it comes to time off.  51 weekends a year I do my laundry and sleep until 9 am, and that's enough for me.  Anything beyond that is pure gravy (if gravy is your measuring liquid of choice.)  So the chance to see my beloved Texas Rangers in action, live and and in person, is an entire boat of Mom's world-famous gravy.  Back to back games?  That's an open-faced roast beef.  Me and my brother openly rooting for the Rangers at Safeco Field?  Insert your favorite food.

The brother, his wife, and rossnation... rolled into Safeco Field like a freight train on Saturday.  That is, if a freight train could pull off a Josh Hamilton jersey like the 'nation.  But as we all know, trains don't wear clothes.  And let me be clear, the best place in the world to watch a baseball game is Safeco Field.  End of story.  I understand that Fenway has more history, and Wrigley is the friendly confines, and on and on.  You can make a case for every ballpark (except Tropicana.)  But if you want comfortable weather, a pristine field, a good seat, and a nice selection of ballpark (read unhealthy) food, there is no contest.  Safeco doesn't even smell like forty thousand people.  They retracted the roof just before game time, it was 67 degrees, we had seats halfway up the third base line, and the smell of garlic was hanging in the air like delicious tear gas.  It is, quite simply, perfect.

I don't remember my first baseball game, but I'd like to think it was a lot like this.  I am still in awe of how green the grass is, the sharp contrast it makes with the cleanest dirt on earth, the chalk on the world's largest chalkboard.  Baseball didn't grow up, and neither did I, I just got bigger.  Which is why my heart still paused briefly when Ian Kinsler lifted his bat and took a mighty cut at the third pitch of the game.  The 'nation and the brother stood, almost in slow motion, the only ones in a sea of Mariners fans, and watched as the ball rocketed into the seats in left field, and I raised my glove in joy.  There is triumph, and then there is being alone in that triumph, as Grant and I were in that moment.  It's your first kiss, the birth of a child, the winning lotto number.  It's an elation so pure you could sterilize with it.  And then you get booed, and you do not care.

The Rangers won their tenth game in a row on Saturday, and it was never really in doubt.  Ian hit another home run in the eighth inning, and 30 thousand other souls went home with a brick on their hearts, but not us.  On Sunday Grant and I watched the Rangers win again from the comfort and anonymity of the box seats, easily the best view I've ever had of a baseball game, as long as you don't count my couch, which I don't.  We gorged on garlic fries (if crack was a starch), fish and chips, a 12 dollar hefeweizen, and the knowledge that the Rangers hadn't let us down.  It was a Buttercup of a weekend, and even the 5 hour drive back to Moscow couldn't have made it any less perky.

rossnation... out.

Super Ocho (as the Spaniards would say)

This is perhaps the most misleading business name ever; there is nothing super about this place.  On the one hand, I've stayed in some fairly janky motels in my day.  Like the one in Gardena, California, where I woke up one morning to find the hallway cordoned off because someone had been stabbed the night before.  Or the hotel in Bowling Green, Ohio with the carpet that smelled like... stuff.  And to be fair, my apartment isn't exactly the Four Seasons.  So I've got no beef with the Super 8 in Moscow: it's clean, it's got internet, and, most importantly, a flat surface to sleep on.  But it is not super.  In fact, I'm not even sure it's 8!

So why am I in a motel in the town I live in?  Natural disaster, act of God, the dangers of old buildings?  All of the above.  In a cruel twist of fate, my bedroom ceiling leaks when the upstairs neighbor uses her kitchen sink.  If I was in a romantic comedy, this would be how I met my soulmate.  I'd go upstairs to ask if she was setting up a swimming pool in the kitchen, and you can imagine there would be a lot of slow motion shots of her tossing her hair, and probably some uncomfortable stammering on my part.  Actually, that's kind of what happened, minus anything clever coming out of my mouth.  But honestly, Ryan Reynolds I am not.  (Tweet @rossconation to tell me who you think I am.)  

So the downside of this whole ordeal is I'm staying in a motel for a few days while they rip apart my bedroom to look for the pipe that's leaking, and then a few more days while they put my bedroom back together.  In fairness to my very sweet landlord, the real downside is that it will probably cost a pretty penny.  But, as we all know, landlords are flush with cash.

So what, you're asking, is the upside?  Well, permit me a wry smile as I tell you.  The upside to situation is this:  you cannot imagine the relief I felt when I realized that the ceiling was leaking onto my bed...  and that I had not, as I first thought, wet it.

rossnation... revlieved.  and out.

Defending the Deep

Spring brought something new to rossnation... this year: expectation. And I don't know if I'm comfortable with it. The month of April is the second best month of the year (Febtober being number one, obviously). April brings with it two great things - rossnation...'s birthday (or what I like to call The Birth of a rossNation), and baseball. Now, if baseball was a church, it would be called Our Lady of Perpetual Sadness. If you're a Rangers fan that is. But since my boys in blue and red made their magical run to the World Series last year, they had to change the name to Our Lady of Perpetual Unease. In previous years, I could watch from afar as the Texas Rangers slowly imploded over the next five months. Needless to say, making the playoffs was merely wishful thinking; it was never seriously on the table. But now, the Rangers aren't a sleeper pick, or perennial basement dwellers; they're the favorites to win the division. So I found out some things about rossnation... that I didn't know. The biggest thing is that I care about baseball in general, and the Rangers in particular, to an unhealthy degree. I purchased a subscription to MLB.tv so that I could watch every Rangers game. All one hundred and sixty two glorious afternoon's hen the Rangers take to the diamond, I'll be watching, either at home, at work (but not at the expense of my work) I'll be watching on my iPhone, and everywhere else I'll be watching on my iPad. You don't need to tell me how sad this is, because I know, but also this is who I am now. I HAVE to watch. rossnation... is no longer a Rangers fan; we are Rangers Superfans.

There's good and bad in this new world order; it's like Darth Vader. The bad is the obsession. Obsession is dangerous, and I don't want to become one of those people whose life revolves around a sports team (those guys have difficulty talking to women). The good side is that I have hope. The Rangers are good, and good enough to be considered World Series contenders.

But as I mentioned before, hope is an emotion with which I'm not real familiar. But it's why I have to watch, so that I can find out, every game, whether hope will continue, or be dashed upon the rocks at the bottom of the AL West. I don't want to be down there again; that's where the sadness is, and former steroid users. It is only for the faint of heart.

But rossnation... will not be denied this season. We'll be buying Mitch Moreland jerseys and "Fear the Claw" bumper stickers and box seats for when the Rangers play in Seattle. rossnation... will throw all of our childish and misplaced enthusiasm at the Rangers, and throw all of our hatred and vitriol (and perhaps poop) at the evil Yankee empire.

GO RANGERS!

I'm rossnation..., and I approve this message.

The Redemption of Aaron Rodgers

You made an enemy out of me long ago, Aaron Rodgers.  I remember the day very clearly, because it was actually two days.  In September of 2003, you quarterbacked the Cal Bears to a triple-overtime victory over my beloved USC Trojans.  That’s more than enough to put you squarely in the Book of Ross (I have no idea why that’s capitalized) as an enemy of the state, along with the likes of Tiger Woods, Jim Gray, and the people who sell those ion bracelets.  Thirteen months later, you almost beat them again, and in dramatic fashion, by completing your first 23 passes -- and it scorched my insides to watch.  You were so efficient, so methodical, so precise, so.... - excellent - that day, and I despised you for it.  You don’t get to do that to my team and not incur the wrath.  The battle was begun....

Consider this my surrender, Mr. Rodgers.*  I’m sure that you crave my respect and adoration, so here it is.

I can’t pinpoint a single instance when I stopped hating you.  It must have happened subtly, like how I’ve aged.  But I think I became a fan for the same reason your name was written in the book: excellence.  You completed 23 consecutive passes against USC in November of 2004.  It was like watching Norm Abram build an armoire from scratch, conjuring beauty and functionality out of pure tree.  The state of fervor that I was in at the time didn’t allow me to see it that way; I saw it as an affront to my team, an attack on my vicarious living through USC, even though we won that game.  

Then you went to draft day 2005, to discover your football destiny. You sat and watched as the San Francisco 49ers lay one of the great NFL draft turds in history by selecting Alex Smith with the first pick.  You took that with grace, and sat and waited some more (probably the better part of two hours) until you were chosen by a team that didn’t need you.  I was positively flummoxed when the Packers picked you with their only first round selection, because no quarterback situation has ever been less in doubt than the Packers and Brett Favre.  So why pick a backup quarterback that early in the draft?  It didn’t make sense, but as my therapist once said, it doesn’t make sense to you, but it makes sense to someone.  (Believe it, or don’t, but that double-talk makes incredible sense.)  

So you went to Green Bay, and for three seasons sat and watched as the Great Brett Favre** sucked the love out of the frozen tundra of Lambeau.  But patiently.  Patiently waited for Brett to start self-imploding.  Retrospect tells us Favre was already on the way to being run out of Wisconsin, looking forward to retiring several times and playing both the best and indescribably worst seasons of his life.  And while he was doing that, you were just getting better.

On Sunday you finished it.  You won the Super Bowl with the world’s most beat up team around you.  You were unflappable in the presence of your brick-handed receivers.  You weren’t dazzled by the bright lights of The JJ-Dome, or the bizarre and horrendous halftime show (seriously, the Black-Eyed Peas need to go away; the SB Halftime show is becoming a swan song.)  You were not in the least frightened by the vaunted Steelers defense; in fact, I think you could tell they were too old to catch you.  Overall, your game wasn’t flawless, but it was without major flaw.  It was the epitome of excellence.  

It occurs to me now that I became a fan not because something about you changed, or that you’re more likeable now, or that you renounced your allegiance to Cal.  I’m a fan now because something in me changed: I appreciate excellence like I never have before.  We live in an age were average is good enough for most, including me.  But I can’t watch excellence in action and still believe in mediocre, not anymore.  

So here’s to you, Aaron Rodgers.  You’re my favorite player...

I just wish you were a Cowboy.

rossnation... salutes you.

*Don’t think for a minute I don’t see the funny.

**Denotes extreme sarcasm and hyperbole.

Life as a Bell Curve: Theories that Kinda Make Sense

I don’t know that there’s any reason to try and put the mysteries of life into words.  Finer writers than I have given that a go (Balzac, Hemingway, Clancy, Grisham, etc.), but we’re never really going to do better than “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”  I’m gonna give it a shot anyway, just because that’s how I do.  And also I noticed an intriguing correlation the other day, which I will share herein.

I bought a new bed on Friday, and this is only remarkable to me, but for several reasons.  To begin with, it was time, and we’ll leave it at that.  Beyond that, I’ve never owned a brand-new bed, at least not since it was my responsibility to provide it.  They’ve all been hand-me-downs to some degree, and nothing to write home about (but a column, clearly.)  My new bed?  It deserves a few words, because it is... bizarre.  

I suppose you don’t really get a good look at the mattresses on the showroom floor; as it turns out, they’re just a tad bigger when you get them home.  School lesson for the day: a “tad” is a technical term, used in engineering and creative writing, whose exact value is 10 times.  So picture in your minds eye a monstrosity of a bed that fills up half of my tiny little bachelor bedroom.  And I don’t mean half of the square footage, I’m talking the whole three-dimensional space, cubic feet.

I should also mention that I’ve never owned an actual bed, with a headboard and a footboard, a truly adult piece of furniture.  So the bed and the mattress form a mass about the size of a double wide trailer.  This bed is pushed up against one wall, leaving about two feet on the other wall, just enough to fit my tiny night table and the set of dog stairs that I’m gonna have to put there.  They’ll be for me, not my nonexistent dog, because the bed is also 4 feet tall.  I climb into this bed, quite literally.  And this is the apex of the bell curve -- the 5 or 10 years when someone can have a bed the size of a Datsun.  You certainly can’t have one when you’re young; that’s the kind of parenting that’ll get you in the papers.  And giving an Old person a bed of this magnitude would be cruel.  And hilarious.

There’s much to be said,

From the size of one’s bed.

Whether tiny or skinny or plush.

The short and squat,

Perfect for the tot,

And also for old and flush.

The monstrous berth,

Right for large girth,

But not the feint of heart.

Only young and spry, 

With a gleam in the eye,

Should fork out six hundred bucks for a bed that’s too tall to fall into when they’re exhausted after work or have had too many adult beverages.  That’s just not good business.

So it’s not exactly Ezra Pound, but the spirit of the poet is in the air, hovering over my gigantic bed.  

And I know what you’re all thinking; yes, I do have a very strange apartment.

strangeapartment... out.

The Incredible Importance of Retiring Gracefully

So... I just saw The Social Network.  And... I loved it.  It accomplished the ultimate challenge in storytelling: it created characters so compelling that in the end you’re not sure who’s the good guy.  Actually, I was so turned around at the end that I even felt semi-sympathetic towards the twin douche bags.  But the reason I bring it up has more to do with how it made me think about technology and the direction it’s taking our society.  (Yep, it’s one of those columns, so hang on to your proverbial britches.  And also your actual britches.)

No one is ever going to accuse this guy of being curmudgeonly about technology.  I love gadgets in general, my iPhone in specific, and am thoroughly giddy about some of the things we can do because of technology.  Case in point, my Starbucks card is on my phone now.  They scan my phone at Starbucks; totally bitchin’.  (And let me tell you, wow, do the girls swoon over that.)  But I’m definitely not the guy who’s excited about getting a personal bar-code tattoo, which is where we’re headed if you believe the naysayers, or the neigh-sayers, for that matter.

I’m more in the middle ground, like a Libertarian, or a shortstop.  I’m all for being “old school”, but I am thoroughly convinced there are a few things that we can give up on, and allow them to go quietly into the night/oblivion, hence the Brett Favre reference.  

And the first of these needs to be phone books.  I will say one thing for Hagadon Directories et al: they’re sticking with it.  They are tenacious holding on to this most archaic form of communication, and there is honor in that.  But there can’t possibly be money in it.  I came home to find the 2011 Moscow/Pullman phone book on my doorstep, and a tumble of different emotions overtook me.  The first was annoyance, because I had to bend down and pick it up.  Next came sadness at the thought of how many times this particular phone book would be opened (zero.)  And then finally just a tinge of anger at the thought of what a waste phone books are.  Please raise your figurative interweb hand if you’ve used a phone book in the last month... I’m sure there’s a few of you, but it was probably because you didn’t have internet access at the time, or you were trying to remember your home phone number from, you know, when you had a home phone.  I wonder if the only thing phone books are good for is sitting on if you’re wicked short.  It must be easier to sell skywriting ads than ads in the phone book.  Where is the money in this game?  It’s time to call it quits on the phone book.  The internet has killed this one something fierce, so why not save me the hassle of throwing it away.

There’s too many similarities between the Favre and the Phonebook (great name for an album title).  Imagine how fondly we could remember them if they had just bowed out gracefully.  This is the conversation I picture, using my PLP Matt as the other end of it --

Me:  “Hey, remember phone books?  Those were the bees knees back in the day!”

Matt:  “We used to have a jolly good time flipping through that thing, looking for funny name combinations!”

Me:  “Whatever happened to those?  You used to get a new one every year.”

Matt:  “I don’t know, but we seem to be doing just fine without them.  We don’t need them anymore now that everybody texts.  Although, they did have those ads in them for plumbers and stuff.”

Me:  “That’s right!  I forgot that there were businesses in there.  But if I need a plumber I can just google plumbers.”

Matt:  “I suppose you could, but I judge you for that.”

Me:  “You are very judgemental when it comes to plumbers.:

Matt:  “I feel passionately about the subject!  A man’s got to have a cause to fight for!”

Me:  “I suppose.”

Matt:  “Alright, I’ll call you later.”

Me:  “How will you get my number without a phone book?”

Matt:  “Touche.  But I’m just kidding, I’m not gonna call.”

Me:  “Oh, I’m not gonna miss you.”

See how nostalgic that could be?  And it would be the same with Favre.  The problem with holding on too long, is that inevitably our final memories involve the sad, like Brett Favre throwing sad interceptions and limping off the field like he’s me, or the sad phone book sitting on my doorstep, as if someone said to me, “Here, you throw this away.”  And I did, I put that phone book out of it’s misery, right into the trash can where it belongs.  If I respected it I would perhaps recycle it, but why is it my fault that someone still thinks this is a viable advertising medium?  Don’t judge me; after all, it’s not like I’m googling plumbers...

rossnation... out.

The Incredible Importance of Superpowers

So, it turns out that I’m a superhero.

Look, I’m as shocked as you are.  But before we all get carried away here (you know, expecting me to start fighting crime and responding to bat-signals) allow me to temper your excitement, because I’m not a “traditional” superhero.  They’re probably not going to make a movie about me.  I have no superpowers, per se (except the power of the written word, which doesn’t get the ladies all a-flutter.)  Chances are fair to middlin’ that I will not be on a lunchbox anytime soon.  Which is fine, because I don’t think they make those anymore.  Anyway, I’m more Clark Gable than Clark Kent.  Oh, why kid ourselves, probably more Clark Griswold.  

I guess what I’m saying is that I only have one superhero trait, but every superhero has it.  I have a nemesis.  This is not to be confused with an arch enemy, or the Swedish metal band Arch Enemy.  My nemesis is my worst enemy, my most hated rival.  Evil and perfect in all the ways I’m not; my exact opposite, especially when you consider that my nemesis is not a person.  It’s a utility pole.  (Yeah, a telephone pole, how’s that for a let down!)

Bear with me, unless you already checked out with that last sentence, and I can’t say I blame you.  But good things come to those who wait, or so the Heinz company would have us believe.  (Personally, I think that ad campaign was only necessary because they couldn’t figure out plastic bottles, and that’s just lazy.)  That said, at least ketchup has a worthy adversary.  My nemesis is so... incredibly lame, but this particular piece of dead tree just has it in for me, and I’m not really winning the war.  

I’ll set the stage for you.  On the hill behind our office, there is a street that progress has forgotten, and the utilities for the houses are still hung from an old, decrepit utility pole in one of the backyards.  If this utility pole were a person?  Betty White.  Still hanging in there, but no one really wants to put a ladder up there, ya’ feel me?  So for the sake of simplicity, we’re gonna call this telephone pole Betty.  Betty stands in the backyard of 230 ---- St, at the top of a hill that is actually three tiers, 30 or 40 feet above the street.  Betty is at the junction of two fences, so to climb with gaffs you have to stand on top of the fence and start there.  Carrying a 60 pound extension ladder up the hill is the other method of getting there; also not fun.  In the summer, I imagine it wouldn’t be that difficult or annoying of an assignment.  The problem is, I’ve never had to work on Betty in the summer.

I’ve worked at Time Warner for almost four years, and I’ve only had to access Betty during the winter, only in the dark, and only with snow on the ground.  And not once, every winter.  I’ve had to activate 234 twice, and disconnect it twice.  Two houses over, 242, also gets cable from Betty.  242 is occupied by Moscow’s finest college boys, who I think probably like to zip line on the cable when they’re drunk.  Plus the cable hangs under about 100 feet of tree branches which have a tendency to fall on the cable during the winter storms.  Long story short(er), that cable comes down every winter, and I always seem to get the job of hanging it back up.  Please don’t take this as complaining: I always have help, and I get paid a healthy wage and free cable to do it.  But it’s exhausting, and cold, and annoying to have to do it over and over again.

And I’m starting to resent Betty and her offensive cables.  She may be the most difficult pole in Moscow to get to, and she is conspiring to keep me coming back.  About ten times, so far.  She is trying to break me, like Lex Luther (in this analogy, I’m Superman; pretty sweet what you can do when you’re the one typing.) 

So maybe I’m not a superhero.  Maybe I’m reading too much into this.  But I will tell you this for certain: Superman would make a hell of a cable guy...

cable guy!!! out.

The Incredible Importance of Moral Obligation

According to Wikipedia (and let’s be honest with ourselves, this is where 90 percent of the world’s knowledge is housed) the phrase “moral obligation” is applied to an act that is perceived as part of a person’s belief system... and that’s about it.  Seriously, this is the website that brings us hard-hitting articles about impact wrenches, wenches as they apply to British sitcoms, and “Ridin’ Wild” the 1922 western film directed by Nat Ross and starring Hoot Gibson (aside, I am the only person to “like” this on Facebook.  Go ahead, check, I’m no liar.)  And yet Wikipedia can’t give me three lousy sentences on a simple turn-of-phrase.  

All whining aside, I was looking for information on the subject because it’s a weird combination of words.  And I thought of it when searching for a way to describe my recent dabbling in the world of all-you-can-eat sushi.  I think the theory probably applies to all forms of AYCE (BBQ, pizza, chinese, waffles, et al), which might be one of my favorite and least favorite concepts in the world.  All-you-can-eat is a man’s game.  It’s a battle of wits, for the princess, to the death...

I accept.  As did my father, my brother, and our friend Brian.  We did it without hesitation, or any thought to the prudence of the matter.  Boise being so close to the ocean, and thus famous the world over for its sushi skills, how could we go wrong?  Thus, we drop 25 dollars per for the opportunity to cram our mouths with as much Royal California, unagi, and yellowtail nigiri as we can possibly stomach.  In my younger days, it was a small amount for me; I simply didn’t like to eat raw what-nots, irregardless of the freshness or large amounts of soy and wasabi.  Also, I feel as if we’re sort of thumbing our noses at the guys who discovered fire.

And this is were “moral obligation” comes in.  Because that is how Grant and Brian treated that meal.  They knew that dad and I were weak, and would only eat slightly more than necessary to fill our tummies.  For them, it was then gut-check time (blam, double entendre).  It was their moral obligation to ensure that Yoi Tomo lost money, and the only way to offset the rest of us and the prohibitive cost of the hot tea (no bueno, by the way) was to eat their weight in raw foodstuffs.  Which is tough, because rice expands as we all know.  

It was an epic performance.  Even the server started to get a little bit rattled.  I don’t think she was used to such dedication to overindulgence.  But as I’ve said, it was their moral obligation to get dad’s money’s worth; Jesus wanted it that way.  I lost track of how many rolls we went through, but Grant and Brian must have taken down 15 to 20.  It was dining as moral obligation; far beyond working to eat, it was eating as work, and a sight to behold.  It was this type of dedication that sculpted the great pyramids, built the Oregon Trail, and took us to the moon.  So I’m excited to see what Brian and Grant are able to do when they apply their energy something more constructive than putting a sushi joint out of business.  Or maybe that in itself is a worthy goal: after all, if you open an AYCE restaurant, you’re just asking to be eaten out of house and home.  And I know just the men for the job.

rossnation... out.