5/08/2007
Mystery, Al (Fritz)
If I could properly sum up my recent string of craptitude in life into one example, it would be this: One of The Lady Friends best friends growing up now plays professional baseball. He's in the Rockies organization and got called up to the bigs a few weeks back. We checked out the schedule and saw that the Rockies were coming to St Louis this week. Hoping against hope that we'd get to see him play at Busch, I hopped online and ordered up some tickets for tonight's game; not the cheap ones, either. Later that day, he was optioned back to AAA.
Great.
So, tonight I get to see two very bad baseball teams play a random Tuesday night game in May. "Taylor Buchholz! Brad Thompson! Baseball Fever! Catch it!"
Luckily, to help pull me out of these here spring doldrums has been the ever plucky Ace Cowboy of Slack LaLane. He's been firing Phish youtube clips into my box ("Thats what she said") at a staggering rate, and I have been enjoying the ever living hell out of them.
Phish... Bad Cardinals baseball... Somebody give me a baby blue '93 LeBaron, a New Yorker pizza and an 18 pack of Icehouse 'cause I'm pretty sure 1999 is calling collect (from a payphone) for me.
And speaking of 1999, I now have my first mystery to solve since that gorgeous year full of Lewinsky jokes, Y2K fears, casual handjobs, and the fighting spirit of a moronic 19 year old.
To begin, back in the late 90's, when this Internet thing-a-ma-jig was first starting up, my buddy Joe had a frighteningly large e-mail group known as "The Joe Report."
It followed his exploits as he bounced around between schools, playing guitar and helping retards. He'd fire out a summary of his gallivanting antics every two or three weeks, and eventually this e-mail grew to include separate mini-columns from others in the group. I wrote a column title "I Am Not Making This Up" in which I (mostly) lied about fights with both the law and children, excessive drinking and eating of Wendy's, and wondered in print why my buddy Gibby had such an odd, down right dangerous obsession with the character "Dauber" on Coach.
Anyhoo -- during one prolonged "cold streak" of mine (which was actually broke by the young minx from this tale) I started writing about how I had lost my groove, yet was determined to find it (I can't remember exactly what happened -- I'll have to dig through the Fritz archives later -- but I'm pretty sure that in the end, it was found to have been stolen by Ozzie Smith) (don't ask); and that became the great mystery of 1999. A nice lil' sub-plot, if you will: Where is Al's groove and can he get it back?
Alright, now fast forward yourself from those glorious, hazy late 90's days of frisbee golf, ¢79 gallons of gas, $2 packs of smokes, and $10 dime bags to the present day. Well, last Sunday actually. TLF an I are at the friendly neighborhood Schnucks, grabbing some supplies for a wonderful Sunday night feast. While standing in the checkout line and wondering to myself whether or not it was a good idea to drink that gigantic vodka-lemon-lime-ade (say it real fast) last night (it was) and deciding just how hilarious Floyd Mayweather looked wearing a sombrero (very. Very hilarious. "Get it? Its an oversized hat. It's funny.") I noticed a picture sticking out of the magazine rack.
It was this picture:
Odd, me thought. I picked it up and flipped it around. This was to be found:
Well, I don't know. I don't know anything about what in the hell is going on here. I looked around, hoping perhaps there were more pictures to be found, but there were none. Confused, I slipped it into my pocket. I got home and sent an e-mail to the address from the back:
Forty some odd hours later... Nothing. No response at all. What the devil is going on? Is this some sort of treasure hunt? Am I in some weird Christopher Nolan-esque movie and not know it? Am I going to find two old dudes chilling on a picnic table on my front yard one of these days (which would realllly freak me out)? I don't know.
I just don't know.
I don't know what the hell is going on, so I'm just throwing it out there, internets. Hoping for some leads.
I also don't know how to finish this rambling, idiotic post. Oh wait. Yes I do:
Great.
So, tonight I get to see two very bad baseball teams play a random Tuesday night game in May. "Taylor Buchholz! Brad Thompson! Baseball Fever! Catch it!"
Luckily, to help pull me out of these here spring doldrums has been the ever plucky Ace Cowboy of Slack LaLane. He's been firing Phish youtube clips into my box ("Thats what she said") at a staggering rate, and I have been enjoying the ever living hell out of them.
Phish... Bad Cardinals baseball... Somebody give me a baby blue '93 LeBaron, a New Yorker pizza and an 18 pack of Icehouse 'cause I'm pretty sure 1999 is calling collect (from a payphone) for me.
And speaking of 1999, I now have my first mystery to solve since that gorgeous year full of Lewinsky jokes, Y2K fears, casual handjobs, and the fighting spirit of a moronic 19 year old.
To begin, back in the late 90's, when this Internet thing-a-ma-jig was first starting up, my buddy Joe had a frighteningly large e-mail group known as "The Joe Report."
It followed his exploits as he bounced around between schools, playing guitar and helping retards. He'd fire out a summary of his gallivanting antics every two or three weeks, and eventually this e-mail grew to include separate mini-columns from others in the group. I wrote a column title "I Am Not Making This Up" in which I (mostly) lied about fights with both the law and children, excessive drinking and eating of Wendy's, and wondered in print why my buddy Gibby had such an odd, down right dangerous obsession with the character "Dauber" on Coach.
Anyhoo -- during one prolonged "cold streak" of mine (which was actually broke by the young minx from this tale) I started writing about how I had lost my groove, yet was determined to find it (I can't remember exactly what happened -- I'll have to dig through the Fritz archives later -- but I'm pretty sure that in the end, it was found to have been stolen by Ozzie Smith) (don't ask); and that became the great mystery of 1999. A nice lil' sub-plot, if you will: Where is Al's groove and can he get it back?
Alright, now fast forward yourself from those glorious, hazy late 90's days of frisbee golf, ¢79 gallons of gas, $2 packs of smokes, and $10 dime bags to the present day. Well, last Sunday actually. TLF an I are at the friendly neighborhood Schnucks, grabbing some supplies for a wonderful Sunday night feast. While standing in the checkout line and wondering to myself whether or not it was a good idea to drink that gigantic vodka-lemon-lime-ade (say it real fast) last night (it was) and deciding just how hilarious Floyd Mayweather looked wearing a sombrero (very. Very hilarious. "Get it? Its an oversized hat. It's funny.") I noticed a picture sticking out of the magazine rack.
It was this picture:
Odd, me thought. I picked it up and flipped it around. This was to be found:
Well, I don't know. I don't know anything about what in the hell is going on here. I looked around, hoping perhaps there were more pictures to be found, but there were none. Confused, I slipped it into my pocket. I got home and sent an e-mail to the address from the back:
Forty some odd hours later... Nothing. No response at all. What the devil is going on? Is this some sort of treasure hunt? Am I in some weird Christopher Nolan-esque movie and not know it? Am I going to find two old dudes chilling on a picnic table on my front yard one of these days (which would realllly freak me out)? I don't know.
I just don't know.
I don't know what the hell is going on, so I'm just throwing it out there, internets. Hoping for some leads.
I also don't know how to finish this rambling, idiotic post. Oh wait. Yes I do:
Labels: mysterys, Stuff That She Said, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About, youtubage
