A cry for help

I should have stayed in Wells.
Who would have thought I would ever say those words under any circumstance? But it’s true.
I should have stayed in Wells for the summer. Wells might be a 1,400 person settlement with two brothels, a closing time, and an earthquake damaged downtown, but it couldn’t be worse than this.
I’m bored out of my mind in Reno (at the very least Ty and I could be getting drunk at my house and laughing about the time he got hammered and passed out in the fetal position around a Carona tin with his pants halfway down his ass)(or the time I hit myself in the head with a step ladder at a rate of velocity that prompted massive vomiting and slurred speech, and before I’d even started drinking).
Because of internships, I had never spent a summer in Reno before now. I really wanted to see what all the hype was about.
Apparently it’s about half-empty bars, crappy semi-pro baseball teams, and wondering around casinos trying to get free drinks.
I thought I’d be hanging out with friends every night and drinking my skin yellow.
Instead I’ve been watching Celebrity Circus and assorted other television shows on NBC.

Seriously, Wee Man on the Wheel of Death and the dude from the Brady Bunch on the tight rope?
What has television come to? Have we exhausted all original ideas along with our rain forests and polar ice caps.
The only redeeming quality of the show, and thus my summer, is the presence of Clueless star Stacey Dash (how is it possible to look that good at 41?). But that’s not enough.
At this point, I think I’d have more fun subjecting myself to weekly recreational Chlamydia tests instead (for those who don’t know, they check for the clap by sticking a Q-tip in a very uncomfortable place – and no, mom, I don’t know that from experience).
Other than the weekly Farmer’s Market in Sparks, the coolest thing that’s happened all summer was watching a nappy, drunk, diseased biker chick dance topless to a Nickelback song in the dingiest bar in all of Reno.
She even propositioned me.
Biker whore: “I’ll blow you if you buy me a drink.”
Me: “Hmm, tempting, but I think I’ll pass. My penis would never forgive me if I let him contract head lice.”
Me: “I’m also not much of a hepatitis fan, although I hear it can do wonders for weight loss.”
Biker whore: “HA (this was the first time I’d ever heard “ha” slurred), you’re funny.”
Me: “No, I’m an asshole. Sorry, m’am.”
Biker whore: (trying her best to look seductive) “I like assholes.”
Me: (trying not to throwup) “Literally or metaphorically? You know what, not important. I left my wallet at home next to my dignity.”
Biker whore: (to the next guy) “Hey, I’ll bow yuh if uh eye me a drink.”
As you can see, that wasn’t all that cool.
Somebody, anybody, save me.

From the iPod:

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Secret agent man

Apparently somebody in California left the forest on the oven too long, because Reno is smoky enough at the moment to get a deciduous tree contact high on the drive home from work.
Unfortunately the effects are far more congestive than psychedelic.
A general haze has settled over Washoe Valley, making Reno look closer to a major metropolitan city than at any time I can remember.
It’s about midnight here and it looks like the bloody London ship yards outside.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. I’ve actually been pretending to be a secret agent all week, dashing through the “fog” on covert operations that involve primary targets like the hot blond chick from the adjacent building and beer.
Guess which mission I accomplished.

I’m not wearing a power suit or anything – I don’t want to take this too far – but I have been wearing my Ray Bans until after 11 p.m. and instructing all my coworkers that their clicky pens may be activated for explosion in emergencies.
I’ve also been cautiously walking up to bus stops with my backpack and asking hobos “Why does the Moroccan sand lizard lay in the fall?” and then running away when they don’t answer.
Is it weird to traipse around town under the guise of a secret agent, using possibly the worst British accent in the history of linguistics to confuse unknowing citizens, and all because of a little smoke?
Probably, but homeless people do this kind of shit all the time, and I don’t understand why they get to have all the fun.
Last summer when I was in Phoenix, my friend Sara and I stopped at a gas station to hit up the ATM before heading out for a night of debauchery in Tempe.
As we were getting out of the car, a dude approached us with a sad story.
“My car broke down on the interstate the other day, and I’m waiting for my brother to get here on Monday. I’ve been moving through the city on foot for the last two days because I think the government’s after me. I can’t stay in a hotel or make any phone calls, I’ve got keep going. They sure do cause a hell of a mess, you know what I mean?”
He says this matter-of-factly, like the primary hassle in everybody’s life is trying not to get snubbed because of some government conspiracy. He continues as we fish for change:
“I asked some dude at a station down the street for some money a few minutes ago, and he gives me a half a banana. I’ve got half the U.S. government on my ass, and he gives me half a banana. WHAT THE FUCK AM I GOING TO DO WITH A HALF A BANANA?”
For the record, I would have recommended he eat the banana, except that Sara and I were laughing too hard to say anything.
Who says that?
I’ll tell you who, a homeless man. And there’s no reason I can’t do the same thing.
I’m also beginning to think that burning pine has greater psychedelic effects than originally thought.

From the iPod:

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A quick stop at Wal-Mart

Wal-Mart is a bane to humanity.
Laud its low prices and one-stop shopping all you want, but Wal-Mart represents all that is evil in the world.
The company treats its employees terribly, it puts mom and pop shops out of business wherever it goes and the lines are ridiculous.
It even takes advantage of old people.
Seriously, is there anything more sad than seeing a crouched over old man have his worth reduced to saying “hello” to people who ignore him as they walk through the door?
I’m part of the hippy journalist demographic, so I’m bothered by the above complaints. I have several friends who refuse to shop there.
Unfortunately, I cannot comply to that kind of dedicated activism.
For as much as I hate all the bullying that Wal-Mart performs, I am above all a writer intimately interested in humanity.
What’s that mean? I like watching the dregs of society interact with soccer moms.
Where else can you watch two people get into a fight in the lube section and creepy, bearded guys sort through an entire section of canned fruit to find the one’s the government hasn’t contaminated?
Nowhere, but karma’s a bitch and my days of finding pleasure in other people’s misery had to come back sometime.
That time was tonight.

I’ve been rationing shampoo for about three days, but tonight I played racquetball and needed the full treatment.
So I made a quick run to Wal-Mart for fingernail clippers, bread, peanut butter and some hair care products.
I’ve never had to buy nail clippers, and I completely underestimated the difficulty.
I thought foot care was the logical place to start. Apparently not.
Grooming tools? Nope, not there either.
So started a storewide journey in search of any sort of clipping apparatus.
At first I walked toward electronics in between the hardware and bathroom sections, thinking maybe the clippers could be found in some sort of overlap between the sections that I was not previously aware of.
The clippers were nowhere to be found, but seeing Kevin Costner’s mug in the $5 movie bin did spark my memory.
Bull Durham, the greatest sports movie of all time, celebrated its 20th anniversary last week, and I watched it about five times.
Costner is quite possibly the greatest sports actor of all time. Aside from playing the part of Crash Davis, he also brought sports lovers Field of Dreams and Tin Cup.
Tin Cup is the best golf movie of all time behind Caddyshack, and I’d meant to pick it up last week to make a Kevin Costner doubleheader.
So I started searching the bin. It’s amazing how what looks to be thousands of movies is really just five different titles mixed together.
Anyway, I couldn’t find Tin Cup, but I did see a copy of A Few Good Men. I was about to take it as a consolation prize when an old woman wheeled by and swiped it.
That’s when I sort of figured the night wasn’t going to go well.
I went and grabbed the food I needed, stubbed my tow getting out of the way of an employee pulling one of those giant carts and still couldn’t find the damn clippers.
At this point my 15-minute stop at Wal-Mart was in the area of 45 minutes.
Defeated and broken, I trudged back toward the movie section to wheel around to the personal care section for one last look for the nail clippers.
As I was passing the fabric section, I noticed a fat guy peering around a corner at ratty-haired woman in neon Hammer pants.
I saw him earlier, but I’d originally thought he was just into children’s paint sets. Turns out he was following this woman. Every time she wheeled down an aisle or moved to a different fabric, the dude would get up, run to a different spot and cautiously look at this woman around the corner.
I don’t know whether he was some sort of idiotic stalker, trying to play a joke on his wife, or a husband trying to catch his wife cheating on him with linens.
In any regard, I made a decision.
“Fuck it, I’m seeing this one out.”
I stopped, leaned up against my cart and started watching.
After a few minutes of observing the creepy hilarity, the guy noticed I was staring at him.
“What are you looking at?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re sort of distracting me.”
“Don’t stop on account of me. This is the best thing that’s happened to me all night. By all means, keep acting like a douche bag.”
He stopped and I continued on my search.
I was getting ready to give up when I finally found the damn clippers in the personal care section, approximately 10 feet from where I started the night.
I was relieved to find the clippers, but I’d like to have a few words with the wise-ass who decided to put them next to the finger nail polish.
As I was trying to determine which kind to get – who knew there was more than one? – I inevitably ran into someone I knew.
I discovered that it’s not easy trying to explain yourself to a woman who thinks you’re trying to decide whether “Berry Charming” purple nail polish matches your eyes and skin tone.
Sure, I could have gone with the truth, but I wasn’t so sure the “My finger nails are long and I’ve been putting off cutting them for two days” would have appealed to her.
Besides, she thought the shade was good for me.
At that point I just wanted to go home.
I wheeled my cart to the checkout stands and played a little game I like to call “which clerk looks the least mentally handicapped?”
After finding a clerk that didn’t look strung out and/or challenged, I got in line. Turns out it was the 10 items or less express lane.
I didn’t have much in my cart, so I was pretty confident I’d be OK, but I wasn’t so thrilled with the old woman with a cart filled to the balls trying to check out.
Sure, it’s entirely plausible the women just didn’t read the sign. She was old, after all.
But her glasses were thicker than bullet proof glass, so I have a feeling she just didn’t give a shit.
After about five minutes of arguing, she finally went to another aisle and I was seconds away from heading home.
“Sir, you have 11 items.”
I was not amused.
Turns out she was serious.
Usually I would say something cheeky and cute and convince her to ring me up. I couldn’t muster any words on this particular occasion, however, because I was too busy trying to remember whether choking a store clerk is a felony or misdemeanor.
She finally checked me out after about a 10 second stare-off and sent me off with a warning about checking my cart next time.
Whatever.
I was just happy to get to my car and back to the apartment.
Oh, and it turns out that in my rush to defend my masculinity, I accidentally grabbed cuticle trimmers instead of nail clippers.
They look pretty much the same, except cuticle trimmers are inverted and only have half a blade.
It took me 15 minutes to cut my nails.
Damn you Wal-Mart.

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Garrett has moment of self-reflection; quesitions sexuality

It pains me to admit this, but there are occasional moments when I catch myself doing something that forces me to reevaluate my sexual orientation.
I’d like to think that I’m a man’s man, but there’s just too large a body of evidence that suggests otherwise.
I mean, yeah, I do have an obscenely considerable knowledge of sports, I’m a big supporter of beer, and I have the wildest mane of hair in the history of barber-free lifestyles, but I also shower several times a day, pink’s my favorite color, and I understand where Dr. Phil is coming from (even though I still hate him).
Tonight I was intermittently watching 10 AFI 10’s (the top 10 movies in 10 different genres as decided by the American Film Institute, not the band) and listening to music when I found myself dancing to Madonna’s “Like A Prayer.”
After pausing for a few moments, it occurred to me that this wasn’t the most hetero thing a guy could do in the privacy of his living room.

In fact, I’m not sure I’ve heard a straight man admit that he likes Madonna, let alone have her on the playlist.
Before I start exploring my straightness, let me say that I probably spend so much time on this subject because I really couldn’t care less either way.
I’m one of the approximately 7 rural Americans that supports gay marriage and I have absolutely no problem with homosexuality.
Even if people could choose between being gay and straight – which they can’t – I don’t see why it should matter (I mean honestly, even if you’re absolutely appalled by the idea of two dudes getting it on – for some reason it’s only wrong for guys – how does someone else’s lifestyle affect your life?).
I’m also constantly reminded of my tendencies by a cult following of friends who are astounded that I’m straight.
Because of this, I developed a list 5 questions to determine sexuality.

1. Likes pink? It’s probably fair to say that I own more pink than any sportswriter in America. I still don’t understand why pink is any more gay than, say, yellow. I mean pink is only a gay color for guys because some stupid nurse back in the day gave a little girl the pink hoodie. If it had gone the other way, my hot pink bedding would make me more of a man.

2. Showers obsessively? At least twice a day, and it’s usually just because I enjoy the warm splash and cleansing steam. I have no defense.

3. How much do you like shopping? I like it a lot. One of my top three motivations becoming famous is the free clothes, shoes, and accessories. Here’s the kicker, though, I’m not sure that shopping is gay. Like I said, I know a bunch of gay guys that hate shopping. And I don’t even need to address the metrosexual issue.

4. Would you rather be Connery Bond or Brosnan Bond? You might be questioning this question, but I assure you that it reveals a great deal about a man. Sure, both guys play the same suave secret agent, but there are inherent differences. Connery might be smooth, but he’s rough around the edges. He’s not a pretty boy like Brosnan, and his accent is killer (plus he could bag every woman and gay man in the world born after 1960). Brosnan, on the other hand, had way sweeter gadgets than Connery. He got to drive an Ashton Martin Vanquish, after all. Guys may be all about toys, but I’d still prefer Connery.

5. If given the chance, would you rather make out with High Jackman or Kirsten Dunst? Obviously this the “are you in to dudes or chicks?” question, but with a twist. This is the ultimate test because Jackman is so goddamned handsome and, if given a choice of all the starlets in Hollywood, most men would say that Dunst is the least sexually appealing. This is especially tough for me, because Kirsten “Fangs” Dunst could be a model for bad teeth pamphlets, and poor dental hygiene is a deal breaker for me. Would you do her because she’s a star and moderately attractive?

As usual, my answers to the first four questions were not conclusively straight, so my sexuality was left to question No. 5. Bad teeth really do bother me, so I was having a tough time saying that I’d make out with Dunst.
I was starting to get worried about actually thinking that Jackman was a better choice when Jessica Alba came on the screen to host one of the categories and I wasn’t even angry about her shitty acting skills (her biggest contributions to Hollywood all involve her wearing leather. She was even terrible in Entourage, and she was playing herself for God’s sake).
Turns out I still really, really, really dig what you females have going on. And that’s all that matter.
Now back to jamming to the Material Girl.

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Happy Father's Day

My dad hates sports.
He always has.
Sure, he’ll watch Nevada games to keep up with what’s going on in my world (and I’m usually covering the games on the sideline, so I get ESPN cameos whenever the opposing coach throws a hissy fit), but other than that he’s probably watched less than five games my entire life.
That would seemingly be a problem.
My dad is quiet and doesn’t have much interest in sports. I am a loud obnoxious sports writer.
Still, I wouldn’t be in the same place without my dad.

When I was 10 years old, I badly wanted to try out for pitcher on my Little League baseball team, but I didn’t think I could do it (this was during the brief time during my physical progression between being tiny and being huge).
Then one day after school, my dad took me to the park and made me give it a shot.
Had just worked outside all day, but he crouched down behind the plate for more than an hour while I pitched to him.
I had never had the courage to try pitching before, but it turned out I was pretty good.
After that session, I had the confidence to do the same thing during practice, and I ended up being one my team’s two pitchers.
I obviously didn’t end winning a Cy Young award, but it did help me keep going in sports and teach me that I could accomplish whatever I wanted if I worked hard enough.
My dad did that kind of stuff all the time.
He worked hard and hated sports, but he’d still find the time to grab his glove and go out back and play catch, or throw me ground balls, or toss whiffle balls so I could get in a little pregame batting practice.
He didn’t know anything about soccer, but he coached my AYSO team so I could play (I was actually good. Again, this was between being small and being large).
From the time I started t-ball at 6 years old to when I gave up team sports to play golf in high school, I think my parents missed about six games spanning three sports.
My dad has made sacrifices my whole life so I could do the things I wanted to do.
He helped me move all over the West for internships when I couldn’t do it myself. He didn’t complain when I couldn’t visit home because I had to work. And he always wrote a check whenever I needed to do something or go somewhere that benefited my resume.
My dad didn’t have the knowledge to teach me how to throw a curveball, we’ve honestly never had a discussion that included the words “fantasy” and “football” in succession, and he couldn’t help me fix my golf swing when I started spraying balls from the second tee box into our front yard.
He did teach me I could do whatever I wanted by showing me how to work hard and supporting the outcome.
So I didn’t inherit the things I do from my dad – but I did learn how to be who I am because of him.

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Red Rover: not just a kid's game anymore

Everyone is a different kind of drunk.
If you’re at the high school graduation party of a family friend, for example, you’ll notice that all the adults standing around and drinking will behave differently.
Some of the adults will get a little to deep into the keg and start laughing hysterically at everything, regardless of appropriateness.
Most of the people in attendance will act amicably and congratulate the student, grab some food, and politely talk amongst themselves. You know, like normal people.
I, on the other hand, will get wasted with my cousin Ty and play Red Rover with a bunch of high school kids and some old teachers.
How do I know this so specifically, you ask?
Well, it happened.

I got hammered at our family friend Molly’s grad party and ended up holding a beer with one hand and a high school girl’s hand with the other (and not in a dirty, illegal way pervs. It’s part of the damn game.)
I wasn’t going to let that kind of thing happen. I actually was going to avoid the situation altogether.
It’s just that my mom buttonhooked me into the whole mess with a giant lie.
I was home in Wells spending a couple weeks with the family, which was awesome, and my original plan was to go to Luther’s and drink with Ty.
Mom had to go to graduation and said she’d drop me off on the way, except she really just didn’t want to go to graduation alone. I mean, yeah, I made it to Luther’s and got absolutely blitzed later on (not in commemoration of graduation. In Wells, graduation is one of three events that brings people back home. So most of my friends from high school and a few from college were back in town), but that’s not the point.
I didn’t want to be the 23 year old dude hanging out with a bunch of high school kids. Except that’s what sort of happened.
After graduation, I ended up going with my parents to a couple grad parties, and Molly’s happened to be right up my alley.
Molly’s dad is my old vice principal and English teacher who got me started doing high school football and basketball games on the radio, and all my other favorite teachers from high school were there.
They also had a keg and a bunch of beer cooling in the stream and there’s nothing like drinking with your old teachers.
So I did. A lot.
Originally I though I had to drive back to Reno that night, so I took it easy. But then I was informed that I could wait to leave until Monday morning, so I started attacking the keg like it was the last source of beer on the planet.
Ty, who started the day as my driver, did the same.
We got drunk (along with our friend Kristen who goes to Idaho).
Our younger cousins invited us to play in a spirited match of Red Rover.
Ty ended up challenging me, and I almost dislocated a high school chicks shoulder while breaking through the line.
It was a good day.

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An apology to (one of) the greatest lead singers of all time

Steve Perry, I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t mean to take your beautiful, soaring, ball-breaking tenor voice for granted.
It’s just that, well, I couldn’t help myself.
I could have stayed in, but I had feathery soft hair with Owen Wilson bangs going on – yes, I am the most vane overweight guy you’ll ever meet – and I wanted people to see.
My friends will also attest that I’m a bit of an entertainment whore, and Semi-Pro just came out on DVD.
So I headed to Wal-Mart with every intent to buy Ferrell’s new flick.
It’s just that there was a problem.

As much as I love Ferrell’s petulant humor, I’m one of a minority who believes the “hey, let’s put Ferrell in some sort of crazy, whacked out sports situation, tell the same jokes again, and see if it’s still funny” movie model will eventually fail.
I also happen to believe the run of Anchorman (stay classy, Teal), Talladega Nights, and Stranger Than Fiction was the peak of Ferrell’s career, and that diminishing returns are inevitable (I’m looking at you Adam Sandler).
There were also a couple external issues that I couldn’t get around.
One, There Will Be Blood finally came out on Blu-Ray after three months of anticipation (it was originally slated for HD DVD, but its hi-def release was delayed when Paramount changed over to Blu-Ray).
Plus, as I stared at the rack, I saw The Assassination of Robert Ford by the Coward Jesse James and The Valley of Elah, two other movies I’ve been waiting to see.
Instead of spending $120 to buy the movies, I decided the smarter call would be to rent them for $10 (college degree getting put to get use).
I turned to walk out of the store to drive back to the apartment and watch Entourage – I really did – when I saw a sign from God.
I’d completely forgotten that Journey released Revelations on the 3rd (oh, and thanks journey for the neon cover with the eagle-winged beetle. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure flaming eagle wings were boss back when threaded leather jackets were in vogue. It’s just that I already had the hair thing and I was wearing a pink shirt, so I really didn’t need to look any more feminine. And it’s not exactly like Journey is the quintessential man band to begin with.).
The 3-disc package is Journey’s first release in several years, this time with new lead singer Arnel Pineda.
I’m normally not into the former awesome band with a new lead singer thing, but this was different.
I saw a story about Pineda on Sunday Morning, and he was a homeless Filipino until the Journey boys saw him singing Karaoke on YouTube. Unlike some of the other replacement Perry’s, his voice is actually kick-ass.
Plus, I really love Journey.
This particular release offers a disc of new material, a live DVD, and a disc of rerecorded hits.
The thing is, Steve, the thought of listening to Journey’s Greatest Hits with modern production value was too much to overcome. So I bought the damn thing and hurried to my car.
I’ll have you know that I didn’t and have no interest in the first disc. As far as I’m concerned, new Journey songs ceased to exist as soon as the band broke up.
So I popped in the redone compilation and listened carefully.
“Faithfully” restored hope that the forbidden romance between me and my childhood babysitter Stephanie could finally blossom (now it actually wouldn’t be illegal, it would just make me a cougar hunter – win-win).
“Any Way You Want It” made me want to do Tae Bo in a neon head band and crotch-hugging spandex shorts.
“Wheel in the Sky” made me wish I was standing next to a 1978 Pontiac Firebird wearing a wifebeater and acid ripped jeans with a mullet, a creepy ‘stache, and an empty can of Bud original.
Everything was normal.
And then came “Don’t Stop Believing.”
I purposely left “Don’t Stop Believing” for last because it’s the one Journey song I can’t forgive being messed up.
It’s the theme song to my life, it was the catalyst for the Chicago White Sox World Series run in 05 (the lone world championship of my sports fan career), and I’m pretty sure it’s the only 80s ultra-pop song to make a significant impact in mafia-related media content (even though I’m not a huge fan of The Sopranos).
So damn you Arnel Pineda, damn you for ruining Journey(although, in fairness, it was only partially Pineda's fault, and it didn't actually ruin Journey...much.).
The raw emotion of that ball-breaking tenor voice I mentioned earlier was completely gone, somebody went a little nuts with the Pro Tools, and the diction was all kinds of messed up (which is weird, because it was fine most everywhere else).
That song had to be perfect, and it wasn’t.
So I’m sorry Steve Perry. I betrayed you.

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