So I was up late on Sunday night. And I guess this isn’t much of a surprise. I suppose I’m up late a lot.
But on this night, I was doing some work, and some reading, and some general procrastinating.
And then I saw this:
So this, as you may have guessed from the video, is “Guy On A Buffalo.” Continue reading
I guess it’s kind of like this.
I just don’t care much about shoes. I certainly want them to look good. And I do care quite a bit about how shoes look with certain pants.
Although, I’m not really talking about how they MATCH with the pants.
No. What I mean is this: I really want my pants to fall nicely on the shoe itself. In my mind, the smaller and skinnier the shoe the better. But maybe it’s just me.
I suppose these words maybe contradict what I just said. Maybe I do care quite a bit about shoes. Continue reading
Two nights in a row, two games in the World Series, Lil’ Papi has earned an at-bat. And I chose that verb for a reason. He has earned it.
It’s strange with Lil’ Papi. He has the best nickname in the world – one that I obviously stole to make myself sound cooler – and no one really knows that he has it. I’m not entirely sure that anyone would know it if they hadn’t asked me for the origin of my Facebook name, or if they were hardcore fans of Joe Posnanski.
Lil’ Papi, the first Lil’ Papi, is Esteban German. Continue reading
Earlier this week, I posted something about turning 25… being 25… living 25.
And then today, I saw this story: “The Kids are Actually Sort of Alright.”
From New York Magazine:
“Earlier generations have weathered recessions, of course; this stall we’re in has the look of something nastier. Social Security and Medicare are going to be diminished, at best. Hours worked are up even as hiring staggers along: Blood from a stone looks to be the normal order of things “going forward,” to borrow the business-speak. (Snip) … A majority of Americans say, for the first time ever, that this generation will not be better off than its parents.”
Well, that’s just beautiful. Continue reading
Here is a story. A few months back, a few weeks before my 25th birthday, I went to go see the Arcade Fire at Starlight Theater.
The opening band went on at 7:30. We got their late. I had to finish up an assignment for work before I could finally be free. And after running around for almost two hours, making phone calls, finishing up interviews, running through a story outline in my head, I was finally ready.
Ready to start. Continue reading
I lost my wallet last Friday night.* I lost it in the parking lot of a Taco Cabana because my pockets were too shallow. I lost the first normal wallet I ever owned.
*Is that one of the Friday foibles Katy Perry discusses in her TGIF song?
Long before last Friday, probably during senior year of high school, someone pointed out to me that I was, unbeknownst to me at this point, actually George Costanza. I didn’t work for the Yankees. I didn’t carve a secret compartment underneath my desk so I could take naps. And I didn’t go on a date with Marissa Tomei that ended with a slap and tell my fiancé that I was actually meeting with a friend’s boyfriend named Art, who exported chips, in an attempt to cover up the mishap.
It was because of the wallet. Continue reading
When I was 13 years old, I used to wake up for school around 7:00 a.m. and stumble downstairs to the kitchen table.
I would open the Kansas City Star sports page, go to my page of my choice, and put my breakfast plate on top of the inky newsprint.
This next part is not meant for exaggeration. It’s not meant for effect. It’s the truth.
I ate Eggo waffles with peanut butter every day. Every single day. Seriousy. Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday… and so on. Every day. Continue reading
This is a short story about the road.
Every time I drive through the endless acres of the Midwest, I always find myself stopping at some random gas station in some obscure small town. Continue reading
I went for a run today.
I always hesitate to call myself a runner. To be honest, I don’t know anything about running. I don’t know anything about times, or paces, or strategy.
When I run six miles, I run close to a 9-minute mile pace. When I run two miles, I run around a 9-minute mile pace.
I don’t know anything about running, but I still run. Continue reading
The Brew House 