101

This is my 101st post, so in honor of that, I’m just going to ramble on about nothing in particular.

I had to get up at 5:20am today to drive my daughter to school for weight training. The kid is a freshman and has made the varsity basketball team. I probably have mentioned this before but she inherited the hoop skills from me. Back in my day, it was a rarity for a freshman to make the varsity. There was one guy in my high school that did it. He ended up being the 1972 Tri-County player of the year. Some readers know what I’m talking about, but to the rest of you, I told you up front I was going to ramble. Reflecting on high school basketball brings to mind the old DUSO League (Dutchess, Ulster, Sullivan, Orange). It was gone by the time I rode the pine for my JV team. Upstate NY became more populated in the 1960s, with the exodus from NYC. I mentioned this in one of my seminal works of fiction (10/21/06 post), which is certainly worth re-reading. Due to this population influx, there was enough competition within the individual, aforementioned counties to have their own leagues. I just googled DUSO and didn’t come up with much so consider this a primer.

Tonight she plays at The Coliseum before the Warriors game, with a bunch of other high school girls teams. We’re all going there to watch. I’m hoping my mojo will help the Warriors snap their 0-6 defeated streak. I actually played hoop there once. When I was with MCI, they were an account of ours, and we played against the marketing department. They kicked our butt. I was sucking wind after about three times up and down the court. I tried a three point shot once then realized I shouldn’t try it again unless I had a catapult.

What else? The career is going gangbusters. I’m stuck in a Dilbert strip and I can’t get out. Last weekend, I was so frustrated I drank a bunch of rice beer and started going on a rampage in my backyard. Fortunately my BFF Paris Hilton came by and talked me down. Once I calmed down, I asked her if she could intercede on my behalf in the George Clooney/Fabio contretemps.

I’m heading to Vegas Sunday with 4M and The Upgrade King. I bet them both that UK wouldn’t get upgraded this time. I like to lose early and often. This is a good time to get out of town. I was booing at the Amy Winehouse concert the other night. Her husband is coming to kick my ass, once he gets out of the slam.

Hey #1, you owe me money.

But My Butt

Well blog fans, I have to admit that I've not been very motivated to post lately. I guess I'm feeling a little sluggish. I haven't been able to do my vigorous workouts due to a bad wheel. About four years ago, I had a partial tear of the gluteus maximus that had me back on the crutch for a week or so. I've had a bit of a recurrence recently, although not as severe. I went to see one of San Mateo's finest orthopedic guys and got a cortisone shot, so I'll be back to normal in no time. All I’ve able to do for the last few weeks is a couple tribathalons.

In other gluteus maximus news, I was looking at a copy of Elle magazine in the grocery store this week when a featured article caught my eye; “How One Woman Saved Her Butt". I thought it would be an inspiring story of her overcoming an illness or something of that nature. Then I looked at the heading: "The Lipo Diaries". So it seems her butt was rescued by superfluous medical technology. Yet another lowlight in the quotidian stream of bilge from the American media.

The wife and I have been having some weird dreams lately. Apparently The Exec showed up in a tutu in one of hers a few nights ago. That definitely qualifies as a nightmare. Last week I was back in my hometown in one of my visions. I was supposed to meet up with 4M’s brother and his crew. I was walking down one of the main streets and the sidewalk became a footpath surrounded by weeds. Then I heard 4M’s brother yelling for me. He was pulling into a rutted parking lot with people milling all about. They couldn’t or wouldn’t pony up for the $2 cover charge. I was going to be a sport and buy a round of Sierra Nevada, until I realized where I was. A pitcher of Bud barkeep.

There was another with me and my brother getting into a fight with a couple of chuckleheads over our car. We had the hood up and one of the guys was grabbing something inside. It must have been a dream because my brother and I know nothing about cars. We have enough trouble finding the hood latch. In the last dream, I was back in SF playing dodge ball, except we were using cookies instead of balls. Dr. Freud?

I’ll be closing out this week by heading up to the big city with #1 to see Feist at the Masonic Auditorium. He bought a pair of tickets before checking his calendar. The village wives head out Thursday for a long weekend in NYC. #1 could have asked The Exec, #2, TCG, or The Belgian to join him for the concert. But he didn’t. He asked me. Why? One word. Charisma