The FYC

Following a weekend in Atlanta that made me puke and/or poop in and/or above four states and two time zones on our flight back Sunday afternoon, The wife and I closed on our new house Monday. You know what that means: Moving Week.

I woke up this morning at eight and immediately starting piling shit into the CRV. Four trips and five hours later, I was more than fucking wiped. And our apartment is maybe 1/4 empty. Sweet. Then I got to drive into work [where I did randomly run across long time friend of the show Rob who works for the man out in Cali and apparently does not trust my agency (nor should he -- they employ me)which was a sudden, random, and kind of awesome encounter, in the whole scope of the universe type thing (and this is the second time in a year this has happened -- he met a friend of mine from Peoria in a bar around this time last year through mutual friends)]. So, long fucking day.

But you know what makes it better? Whiskey and packing for tomorrow's move, listening to this:



And I've got a few projects lined up for the new house in the next month or two that I am super pumped about... I'll update on here accordingly, 'cause God only knows, if the people want updates on Al Fritz's home improvement projects, he will God damn give them to them.

(PS. This hot Redbirds start has me flustered. they're ten games over /500 on siete de mayo and the only ones not playing over their heads are Pujols and Ludwick -- whom one could argue is overperforming, but I believe in deeply -- starnge, awesome, great team so far. Looks to be a great 08 summer in the lou.)

Labels: Moving sucks, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About

I have no idea why I still have this blog. It's more than apparent that I am updating as infrequently as possible; what's ol' Al been up to you ask? Well, since I last regularly posted, I've gone back to working for el governmento --in a capacity which I actually enjoy, meaning that for the first time since I worked at the neighborhood Thompson Food Basket back in '97, I am getting paid to do something which I like and that every day is no longer the worst day of my life (it got to the point at my last job that I would think to myself, driving in, that I wouldn't mind getting in a car accident. That was the time to get out. And to get some xanax) -- The Wife and I have bought a house, we're a few weeks away from getting a dog, and I may or may not have a man crush on Brian Barton. So, as you can see, stuff has happened; just not a lot.

The main problem with keeping up on this blog thing is the new job. My last job left me with, out of seven hours in the office, six and a half hours of downtime a day (seriously). The new gig allows me about half an hour of brain off time per day. And if I'm not on my toes, from time to time there is a distinct possibility that someone might die, which is a hell of a lot more motivating (and at the end of the day, gratifying) than working just hard enough to not be hassled or fired.

So what becomes of the FYC as Al enters this summer (and possible beyond) of adulthood, responsibilities, and drunkenness (I haven;t changed that must)?

I don't know. I hope to post more often, albeit probably short thoughts, but we shall see.

Until then, watch this:

Labels: alduthood stinks, Giving up the blog, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About

Just... Giggle...



Probably the best video concerning obesity and rocks getting off since Lex Luger body slammed Yokozuna on that aircraft carrier. (

Also, I do believe that man is a "if the mated" of former 2nd Intel BN rock star Phillip Graves and Nic Cage. And he had an unbelievably weird fixation with Eartquake and Tugboat from the Natural Disasters as a child.

Thanks for doing your part. Lets end this oligarchy which has literally lasted all but five months of my twenty seven and a half years as an American.



Update:

Giggitty!! An unbelievable comeback?!? Illinois - Arizona Elite Eight 2k5-esque!

Labels: Barack Obama, The FYC Approves This Message

Film at 11.

Labels: poop, youtubage

Labels: Stuff You Probably Don't Care About, Weather

A new cartoon!

Labels: Dumb Cartoons

One fantastic interview.



One of the greatest moments of my youth.

Inspired by Major's Top 7 this week, click away and enjoy your Friday.

[have a great weekend watching the packers win the nfc, folks. sorry for the blog neglect as of late.]

Labels: Awesomness, youtubage

FRANK: And at the Festivus dinner, you gather your family around, and you tell them all the ways they have disappointed you over the past year.

KRAMER: Is there a tree?

FRANK: No. Instead, there's a pole. It requires not decoration. I find tinsel distracting.

KRAMER: Frank, this new holiday of yours is scratching me right where I itch.

FRANK: Let's do it then! Festivus is back! I'll get the pole out of the crawl space. (Turns to leave, meets up with Elaine)

ELAINE: Hello, Frank.

FRANK: Hello, woman.

--------------------

It's Festivus times, boys and girls, and who else could handle it but the fine folks over at The Airing Of Grievances . Stop by and kill your workday on this rainy, chilly Thursdee of ours. There will be new grievances up all day.

And nobody is leaving until you pin me.

Labels: Feats of Strength, Festivus

When debating who the worst baseball player of the last half century was, I have always said Cody McKay.

However, I usually follow it up with: "But, say what you will about Cody McKay... Sure he only had 19 total bases in 76 plate appearances in 2004, and it is true that for a catcher he had an unbelievably hard time actually catching a baseball, and maybe he broke the all time record for transferring ones profession from "Major League Baseball player" to "real estate agent", and, yes, his dad does have a ridiculous attraction to grab a mans ass with one hand, rub his shoulders with the other, and whisper gently, delicately, lovingly into their ear *, but, God damn it, there is no way in hell that motherfucker took steroids!"

Now, that saying is shot to hell. Will the fury light tapping of the wrist of the Mitchell Report know no ends?!?

Also named:



At least we know Taguchi was clean. Or do we?**

*That had to be really weird the first time Cody reached first base in the majors and his dad made it to first base with him.

** Yes. Yes we do.

[have a great weekend, folks. enjoy the pure, driven, midwestern snow.]

Labels: Based Balls, Dave McKay kind of creeps me out, Steroids

Via a link from The Sportsfrog, I cyber stumbled across a piece from 1898 up for auction at the Robert Edwards Auction House. It was issued by the National League and is entitled "Special Instructions To Players."

I'll let the REA blog describe it further:

"Reading this document started out very drab for a sentence or two, but then quickly got our attention as the language used became very unexpected for an official Major League baseball document, let alone one devoted to demanding players not use "any indecent or obscene word, sentence, or expression." It turned "blue," and, well, got "bluer."

This piece is ironic as it provides many examples of exactly the kind of "brutal language" that was being outlawed. In fact, it is so over the top that at first we thought it was some type of a joke. But as we examined the paper, found that this language did exist in the 1890s, considered that general rowdiness and the use of obscene language by players were big issues in baseball in this era, and noted that the accompanying items were all from the same era, we soon realized that that this was not a joke at all.

This was actually a fascinating and historically significant baseball document, distributed to National League players, that captures an aspect of professional baseball from the rough-and-tumble single-League 1890s era that is not well documented. Granted, in terms of language, it is also the most offensive official Major League baseball document that we have ever seen.

That makes it all the more amusing to us, but we also recognize that maybe this is a piece that isn't for the entire family. Truck drivers, yes, sailors, yes, ballplayers in the 1890s, obviously yes. But probably not everyone."

The entire document can be viewed here, with it broken down into two sections for easier foul language reading top and bottom.

The document begins with (and was apparently inspired by) the following anecdote:

"In a contest between two leading clubs during the championship season of 1897, the stands being crowded with patrons of the game, a gentleman occupying a seat in the front row near the players bench asked one of the visiting players who was going to pitch for them. The player made no reply. He then asked a second time. The gentleman, his wife who sat with him, and others of both sexes, within hearing distance, were outraged upon hearing the player reply in a loud, brutal tone, 'Oh, go fuck yourself.'"

That is fucking awesome.

Other outlawed phrases included: "You cock-sucking son of a bitch", "You prick eating bastard", "You cunt lapping dog," and a litany of others.

Just thought one or two other of my fellow baseball history dorks might find it interesting.

And, of course, I'd be remiss not to include a link to the most informative video on Olde Tyme Baseball ever produced.

(Also, if Rolen thought La Russa's letter was too rough, imagine if TLR would have said: "A dog must have fucked your mother when she made you." Olde Tymes sound awesome.)


[have a great winterly weekend, boys and girls. enjoy the x-mas parties and pugilistic exhibitions.]

Labels: Based Balls, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About

After tonight's icing, my trip from two weeks ago feels like six months ago. And, truth be told, I don't remember that much anyway. So let us just say the following took place: We snorkled, partied it up on the beach, and Dennis Quaid caught a barracuda.

Then we left Mexico to arrive in our present cold hell.

The end.

Labels: Al's Mexcellent Adventure, Terrible Conclusions

Tito likes to drink.

Tito also likes to name things. These two passions first came together late in the Spring of '99, when our friends who left town for college returned after freshman year. About ten of us met up at Tito's house for a BBQ and a day drink. That day drink quickly grew out of hand and the next thing we knew it was seven o'clock and we had all run through personal 18 packs of Icehouse.

(Just typing that makes me want to puke.)

The day ended in all of us getting kicked out of a high school girls soccer game, Dennis Quiad going into work at Office Depot stinking drunk and dropping his pants in aisle five, and some lost hubcaps. And I'm willing to bet I passed out on Tito's porch.

That was on a Tuesday; or, as it came to be known: "Drunk Tuesday."

Fast forward to this year. I received the following e-mail from Tito on August 22nd:

"I say we have drunk Monday where we start with tequila shots at 10 and black out by 4. Then do it again starting at 8. Sorry for rambling, I am that excited."

Tito wanted a "Drunk Monday" and that's exactly what he got.

The families of both of The Wife and me, as well as a bunch of our friends, left on Monday morning to return home. Leaving Mexico always sucks, but it was rainy and (relatively) cold, helping out the leaving pains. Our group was down to ten, with Tito's parents set to arrive later in the day (they had passport issues. God damn democrats.)

We met up at noon and the beers started to flow like water. The next thing I know, there's a five-on-five battle of the sexes Catchphrase match going on (the girls would go onto win in three sets) and I was drunk. It was about five in the afternoon. Drunk Monday had come and gone and I spent the whole time drinking and missed it.

We met up for dinner, did some bartering on giant bottles of tequila, and headed off to see a hypnotist show. The hypnotist's (one Danny Doyle) show got off to a rough start when during the introduction the narrated voice-over said "Hypnotism has been around for a thousand years. No one know when it began." I turned to my cousin Jeremy and said "Sure we do. It was a thousand years ago. You just said that."

Danny Doyle succeeded in hypnotizing two out of twenty five people, but their spell (or whatever) wore off by the time his big finale came around and it failed miserably. Danny Doyle bombed.

Afterwards, Mr T showed up and we went snorkeling.*

Thursday, we took a cab out to the Mayan ruins in Tulum and played around at the beach there. We stayed until around five, then cleaned up in the most disgusting bathroom ever and got yelled at for putting our feet in the sinks. We went into Tulum and enjoyed a whole meal of food and drinks at Charlie's.

The food was fantastic, as were the drinks, but what they poured us for shots would be what you or I here in the states would refer to as double shots. I took my first shot down, but struggled; it was really good tequila, I just can't do that big of a shot.

When it was time for our next round of bangers, I tried to ask the bartender to only pour me half of a "shot." He no comprendo. Dennis Quiad was working the town as our more fluent translator (he majored in Spanish at SMS), so I asked him to ask the bartender about my needs. Now, I may have only have taken two years of Spanish in high school, and, sure, I got Ds in both of those classes, but I'll be damned if Dennis Quaid didn't call me a pussy in Spanish. Pendejo.

The highlight of my trip to Charlie's was seeing this sign in the restroom:


In case you can't tell, it is requesting you to kindly throw your used toilet paper into the trash can, not to flush it. I had never done that before. So, even though I didn't really have to go, I squeezed one out and threw the leftovers into a trash can. When in Rome, as they say.

Later, we went back to the resort and I filled in on the bass during a Journey concert.**

*I have no idea what we did next, but that would have been awesome.
**Ditto.

Labels: Al's Mexcellent Adventure, Mexico, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About

A day, Saturday, my wedding day, in pictures -- many thanks to Matt, Jaquie (who apparently doesn't like being referred to as a coked out lesbian on the internet; my bad, Jaq), and a perhaps bisexual Spaniard who followed us around for an hour, making us pose in very odd manors, until I was near punching him in the eye and he left us alone.

The Groom:



A really cool picture of Will in a ridiculous hat:



The dudes:



During the ceremony, Dennis Quaid watches a kite surfer:



Fists of victory:



The happy couple:



The wedding party:



Ever'body:



(Then there was a dinner, which was the best seven course meal of my life, but apparently there are no pics of it. Whatevs.)

White people dancing:



Drinks, drinks, and more drinks:



From there the reception ended up getting a little too hot and was moved to the discotheque, where my faux cousin Jeremy and I did the world's worst teuila shot (I took it down, looked Jeremy straight in the eye, said "excuse me" and walked outside the front of the disco where I calmly yacked for the next three minutes. Everything got out, lunch, the seven course dinner, the mojitos, everything, all because of the hot bag of garbage they called a shot. I don't know how Jeremy kept his shot down, but he agreed that it very well could have been a shot of luck warm urine.) So, yes, I puked on my wedding night. All fucking class, this guy.

From there, there was a hostile takeover of the disco's ipod and twenty drunken idiots all standing in a circle, screaming Piano Man at each other. The Wife and I bounced soon after and went back to our room to consummate our marriage.

And by "consummate our marriage" I mean "eat club sandwiches and chicken fingers, drink Coronanitas, and pass out watching Arrested Development DVDs." Like I said, class all around.

Sunday: I was hungover. It was sunny. It was my sisters birthday. I was hungover. We had sushi and some Asian food. I was hungover.

That's really all I remember.

Up next: Drunk Monday and Tulum Tuesday

Labels: Al's Mexcellent Adventure, Mexico, pics, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About

Two great things we learned Thursday morning:

1) Our friends Jacquie and Erin may or may not have shared a bed the night before, thus beginning their coming out party as weekend traveling, coke fueled lesbians, and

2) Daryl had yet to find the voice that he had lost on Wednesday, meaning that we had yet another day of making fun of him for having a light, scratchy voice (my favorite still was "Hey, speak up there, gay guy from Independence Day!")

Aside from that, Thursday morning started off like all others did (wake up at 10, wonder if your hung over, eat something, get some sun, hey! it's noon! start drinking) and nothing too eventful took place. My wandering erstwhile roommate Matt made his way to the resort that afternoon and we commenced playing olde tyme shuffleboard.

Sometime after a large dinner of sushi, Matt, Will, and I began wandering around, mixing it up with the vendors, trying to barter out a deal on some crap. We noticed one guy selling a wide variety of paraphernalia, from pipes to bowls to oneys. That could be fun, we decided. I told him we were interested, but we needed something to go into it. No problemo, said our beady eyed dealer, he had the green.

Matt immediately got very nervous. The whole deal was going down way too easily for him, and I think he thought it was a sting. I told him it was going so easily because it was that easy. Pot is legal down there (note - I have no idea if that's true or not, but it sounded good at the time), and besides, that guy doesn't want to lose his business of selling hastily made and poorly painted merchandise at outrageous prices to gringos.

"But we don't even smoke pot," said Matt.

"True, but we have to buy it," I countered. "For the story."

"Fine. Lets do it."

We offered $110 for a pipe and whatever he had. Our new amigo snuck a bag from his pocket, wrapped it around the pipe, and wrapped that up in newspaper all in the blink of an eye. He threw it in a sack, we handed him our cash, and the transaction was complete.

And that is how it came to be that Matt and I purchased a big sack of weed south of the border.

Later that night, after securing our new purchase in my room, we headed down to the discotheque for some sort of comedy/magic show. I lasted approximately thirty seconds into the show before I felt my brain turning off by how absolutely fuckawful this dude was. I grabbed a drink from the bar and headed outside, where a few of us stood with some affable Canadians, making fun of the comedian who was painfully bombing inside.

Every few minutes another couple of people would leave the disco, generally muttering either "that was the worst five minutes of my life," "that was painful," "that guy should be shot," or a combination of all three. He was a hit.

While we were hanging around outside, we decided that Daryl's now even more hoarse voice was beginning to sound like a combination of Randy Savage's and the Kool Aid Man's voices. Since Josh was wearing a red polo, and Josh's shirts are about five sizes bigger than Daryl's, we figured if Daryl were to put on Josh's shirt, not only would he sound like Kool Aid Man, he would also look like him. We were correct.

And so, a few minutes later, Daryl burst through the doors of the disco, and tried, with all his might, to scream "OH YEAH!" Unfortunately, he still didn't have that much of a voice, so nobody inside really heard him, they just saw a guy in an over sized red polo wildly swing the doors open and stand in the doorway, trying to scream, while a dozen or so people outside were giggling. So, yeah, that kind of bombed, too.

Things did get better for Daryl, however, as a few hours later he would devour 21 tacos and eat his way into a food coma. Good night, friend.

On Friday, I checked into my own room, that way The Wife and I would not (in theory) see each other on our wedding day. The plan for that evening was to get the dudes together in my bachelor room, get zooted off of Mexican schwag, and watch Will's Elimidate episode from '03. Sounded perfect in theory.

Since Will apparently lives in 1991, he brought a VHS copy of the show with him. The rooms came equipped with DVD players but not, natch, VCRs. It was my job to somehow locate a VCR, somewhere in the resort. I called up the concierge, who seemed very confused as to what the concept of a VCR was (did Mexico never have them?), but eventually called housekeeping and told me that they had one and would drop it off in my room that afternoon.

I rambled down to the pool sometime after noon to see if anymore of my friends had gotten in (the rest of The Association was convening that day) and, in fact, Tito and Julia had just arrived. We hung out at the pool, sipping some Vices and cervezas, and waited for everyone to roll in. Sometime around three, the activity directors who hang out at the pool all day listening to bad music and trying to make people do shit asked if any of us wanted to participate in a belly flop competition. We all immediately thought of Josh.

Josh is a big man (if I had to guess, I'd say 6'3" 285lbs -- correct me if I'm wrong, Josh) and if ever a contest was perfectly suited for him, it was this. And still, it took some goading and a "JOSH! JOSH! JOSH!" chant to get him to participate (My fake cousin Jeremy had actually just gotten in and could hear me screaming from half way across the resort; he knew where to find us).

And participate Josh did.

He made it into the finals by a landslide (tsunami?) and was flopping for the crown. His opposition went first and flopped nearly flawless, he wasn't near Josh's size, but he was all fundamentals. Near perfection; a finesse floper. Josh went next and the whole thing went to shit; if they were running backs, contestant number one would have been Barry Sanders and Josh would be William Perry. He was all power.



But by that point in time, it didn't matter. There were forty-some-odd people standing around the pool screaming intensely, passionately, dare I say lustfully for the big man from Knoxville. Despite not bringing his "A" game to the finals, the people had spoken: Josh was our champion.

His prize: A medium sized t-shirt. He wore it ill fittingly and proudly. I'm going to go on record and say that was the greatest moment of Josh's life.

After the athletic display, I headed back to my fake room to check on the VCR status. It was not there, so I once again called up a very confused concierge, who informed me that they do not, in fact, have a VCR and perhaps I should go back to 1987 and be more comfortable. Will's Elimidate showing was officially off.

The Wife and I had our "rehearsal dinner" that night (we didn't actually rehearse anything, we just got everyone together, thanked them all for coming, and ate), during which I started feeling unbelievably sick. Dennis Quaid, who has seen me puke more than any man on earth has seen another man yack, told me that I had "that look."

I ended up choking down dinner, doing a few tequila shots (b/c I'm an idiot), and heading back to my fake room around 8:45, breaking a record for "most lame guy in Mexico." Which meant that Friday night would include not only no Elimidate, but also no getting zooted. In the end, I got back to my room, thought about throwing up but decided not to unless it was absolutely necessary, popping a restoril, and falling asleep to the Discovery Channel by 10.

As fantastically as the day had begun with promise, it had ended with lameness. This would not happen again.

Manana: The Wedding and The Aftermath

Labels: Al's Mexcellent Adventure, Mexico, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About

I woke up around midnight Tuesday night/ Wednesday morning to The Wife banging around in our other bedroom, trying to weigh luggage or something. I really don't know what the hell she was doing, but it was loud. And annoying. She couldn't sleep and was doing counter-productive last minute packing. We had a taxi coming at 4:30 to take us to the airport and if she didn't get any sleep (I had been assed out for about four hours at this point), she'd have been a big bowl of suck traveling.

After convincing her that our downstairs neighbor probably didn't appreciate her incessantly stomping around our apartment, she hopped in the shower and then into bed. Alas, as she drifted off to sleep, it was I who could no longer sleep. Sometime around one, I stopped my futile attempt to slumberand played video games. As far as I know, I am the only guy to do a fantasy draft and simulate an entire season of MLB 2K6 immediately before leaving the country.

I woke The Wife up at 3:30, fixed myself a bloody, and was in the cab and out the door by 4:20 and at Lambert Airport by 4:45. Our plane, which was about 1/4 full of our families (if that sucker were to go down, my nieces and nephews -- none of the four made the trip -- would have been fucked) took off early and landed in Cancun shortly after nine. From there, I pressed a button, it flashed green, and I was officially in Mexico. We rode in a Dodge Stratus (!!!) for an hour and fifteen minutes, listening to an odd playlist featuring Aerosmith, War, and twenty different Cranberries songs (they may very well have been the same song, played over and over again for all I know), and arrived at our resort.

From there is was a big bag of confusion, as The Wife and I tried to check in and assemble gift bags for the rest of our party before they arrived. It was unsuccessful. So, I drank.

I'm not sure what happened in the next twelve hours, but the next thing I know, I'm on a hot dancefloor, listening to a crappy Mexican rock band cover Skynyrd. It was as awesome as it sounds. We closed the discotheque down at one in the morning and headed back to our room for after hours (it was like we were 18 again). During the walk back, our friend Sarah offered me five dollars to hop in a fountain. Since I'm an idiot and will do just about anything just for a story (let alone for five bucks), I accepted her offer.

Big day of travel, twelve hours of drinking, no sleep in over a day, big fat guy in a fountain? Not pretty.
(This is where I remember that Sarah still owes me five dollars.)

We get back to our room, joined by my older sister Maggie, and my Marine buddies Joshtastic and Will. Josh, Will and I conquer my balcony with beers, while the ladies stay inside and talk about their menstrual cycles (or so I imagine). I finally get sleepy and head to bed. When Josh and Will finally leave (after screaming at each other about college football on my balcony for two hours), they find The Wife and my sister both passed out on the couch (presumably eating club sandwiches for effect) and me in bed. According to them, the whole scene makes about as much sense as you'd expect.

And that is how I spent my Wednesday two weeks ago.

Coming up tomorrow: Al and Gallo buy a big bag of Mexican schwag.

Labels: Al's Mexcellent Adventure, Mexico, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About