11/25/2007
Miscellany: Mexico/Book Review/Mizzou/Playlist
The trip to Tulum was muy fantastico. I am overjoyed to report that The Lady Friend (henceforth known as The Wife) actually said "I do" and we are now happily married. In fact, as I write this, it's 9:15 on a Saturday night and she is already passed out on the couch. Married life is as exciting as I expected.
I'll be doing a series of day by day recaps of the trip as the week goes on; look out Internets.
---------
I read a copy of Bryan Burwell's The Best St Louis Sports Arguments while on holiday. While I will never claim that it is the greatest book ever written, it did serve it's purpose, as I found myself passionately agreeing and disagreeing with many of Burwell's arguments.
Mark McGwire not belonging in the Hall of Fame? Disagree, to the millionth degree. Took a drug which nearly everyone else (pitchers included) was taking and finished with a 10.6 HR/AB ratio? In.
Not blaming Don Denkinger for the 1985 World Series. Completely agree. Blaming him for '85 is as dumb as Cubs fans blaming Steve Bartman for 2003. And the rednecks who sent Denkinger death threats are absolutely shameful and makes me agree with Burwell's assertion that St Louis is not the best baseball town in America; it may be a great baseball town in which we live, but until fan support can be adequately quantified, the random fandom ranking of "best" is absurd.
And of record keeping, Burwell's lean on Gold Gloves when ranking players disappoints me. Gold Gloves, and, really, all BBWAA awards, are a farce. The time has come for SABR or another organization to give out likewise awards so we no longer have to live in a world where Jimmy Rollins is considered the best player in the National League in 2007.
At times it seems as if Burwell is almost too ingrained into the mind of not the St Louis sports "fan" but the "fanatic." The average Cardinals fan does not want Tony LaRussa fired after every bad decision, but the normal message boarder or sports radio caller-in may. There is a big difference. I consider myself way too invested in the St Louis baseball Cardinals -- like Nick Hornby Fever Pitch invested -- however, I compare as nothing to the "people" who populate Cardinals, Rams, and Blues message boards (the moment I realized Viva El Birdos, a site I participate in frequently, had metamorphised from a blog to a fan message board was an odd moment; I loathe fan message boards, yet, I stay on).
This problem, of course, comes entirely from the anonymity which both radio and message boards provide. I may write articles and blogs and post (grudgingly, now) on message boards about my favorite team, but I do so using my own name. Anything which I may write, drunkingly, upsetly, ecstatically, comes back to my name. I must take, as does Burwell, complete accountability for my words. "G0CARdZZ190," "Pujo1s 1s a G0D," and the like do not. They are not real people, only counter identities of people who generally don't like themselves and/or refuse to be accountable for the actions which they take. Their voice is nil and should not be included in this book.
(Sweet fuck, I really get worked up about this. Anonymity has ruined the Internet. It could have been something.)
Arguments left me with two major bones to pick with Burwell. One is not even mentioning the 2000-2005 Cards as one of the best Cardinals eras in St Louis baseball history in chapter 14, but then saying that Tony LaRussa is the best Cardinals manager in history (which I agree with) in chapter 28. Somehow, that just doesn't add up.
My other point or ire, in another argument he makes which I agree with "Should the Cardinals Retire Willie McGee's Number" (yes. Yes they should), he writes:
"He (McGee) may not be the greatest redbird, but he is arguably the most beloved. So beloved, in fact, that Tim McKernan, morning talk show host on KFNS radio, started an online petition last year that now includes more than 7,500 signatures. McKernan's grass-roots movement seemed to have a big impact initially, when a city full of McGee lovers kept logging on to McKernan's InsideStL.com website and pledging their allegiance to the heart and soul of those 1980s championship teams by purchasing "Retire 51" T-shirts and joining the petition."
The problem here is that the movement was promoted by McKernan, but was the original idea of my Joe SportsFan cohorts Pat Imig and Josh Bacott and the shirts were designed by handsome man Matt Sebek. They pitched the idea to McKernan since he had the platforms, both radio and local web, to promote it and it was ran with back in that odd Cardinal summer of 2006. Now, I'm probably the only guy on Earth who knows this information, but it seems like an oversight Burwell could have easily avoided with a simple phone call to McKernan and he could have been able to give the original idea for the push to it's rightful owners.
Or perhaps I'm being too anal (that's what she said).
And, like most great bar arguments, there are many others which I ardently agree with (does Stan Musial deserve a better statue? Yes. The current statue encourages bad posture and makes it look like Stan's hands were three feet long. Should the Rams wear their throwbacks? Every Sunday) and forcefully disagree with (Old Busch beats New Busch, in the words of Lt. Sam Weinberg, everyday of the week and twice on Sundays. Get back to me after forty years of tradition and perhaps I will agree with you).
However, the last time I was in a bar argument and everyone agreed with each other I was strung out on mescaline in an opium den somewhere in northern India. Believe you me, that was no fun.
Arguments are the tequila shots of bar discussion.
Arguments does what it sets out to do: encourage debate and foment discussion. In that it succeeds. Is it a great book? No, but I doubt Burwell, whom I am sure did plenty of research and spent countless hours writing, set out to win a Pulitzer with this; In the end, it is, in all actuality, just a dude, sharing his opions.
However, Arguments is a nice light read and something which just about any hardcore St Louis sports fan would enjoy having on the top of their toilet.
And The Father In Law will be getting a copy of it for Christmas.
----------
If I had to rank my favorite collegiate athletic programs it would go something like:
1. University of Illinois
2. University of Notre Dame
3. Bradley University
.....
435. University of Missouri
.....
9,000,000. University of Kansas
So while I am in no way, shape, nor form a Mizzou fan (in fact, come Dec 22nd, I will spit on my own sidewalk before a certain basketball game), driving around today in the Lou, running errands and getting lunch, the electricity in the air was palpable. As I wrote earlier, before tonight's kickoff, on the one message board I can stomach, if not enjoy:
"In four years of living in St Louis, I've never seen the town have such anticipation about any football game, let alone a college football game. This is a baseball town first, a hockey town second and a soccer town third. Football? Its off the map. Years of the football Cardinals ruined this town for pigskin. Hell, it took one of the most prolific offenses in NFL history for people to give a shit about the Rams.
College football seemed non-existent when I moved here in '04, which was a huge change from the four years prior when I was living south of the Mason-Dixon. Down there, it seemed religion, here it was about as popular as a pine wood derby boxcar race. While I'm sure I'm overstating this and probably offending some ol' die hard, when I got to St Louis, the overwhelming feel at the bars, on the radio, on the message boards, was that nobody here really gave a shit.
I'm going to go out on a limb and say people in these parts haven't cared this much about college football since the forward pass was invented a few blocks down the street. Or twenty or thirty years ago, maybe. Not sure, really; I wasn't a history major.*
It's giddy out there. It is new and fresh and foreign. Nobody knows really what to do or think or say; die hards and wagon jumpers alike. They just hop on and hope to enjoy the ride. A chance for Mizzou to play in the BCS Championship Game? Mizzou? In football? Really?
This is great for the city, for the metro area, and for the state which Abe Simpson will be dead in the cold, cold ground before he recognizes. This feeling, around town, is, as far as I know, completely and totally unprecedented.
And awesome.
*false."
Sticking by that. Great win over Kansas tonight. Although I remain, through and/or through, an Illinois fan, it is cool to see, in this city of bad vibes and constant highway construction, people, not just the old timers but the band wagoners, excited about anything, especially anything college football related.
Missouri is a 17 year old at prom, and we are about to be deflowered by the chance to play for the national title. It's exciting, confusing, surreal. And nobody -- nobody -- would have it any other way.
So, for once in my life, I will say: Go Mizzou. Good luck against the Sooners, Tigers. From your neighbors to the north-east, the guys who own rights over you this decade, with breath stinking of rightly earned Busch gold tops, we say:
Play for the title. I dare you. M-I-Z.
----------
I made an imix of my wedding music*; walking down the isle (first two), into dinner music, into the first dance (La Cienega Just Smiled) slash parentsy dance (I've Been Loving You Too Long>You Are So Beautiful), into the r(c)ock out. If you want to listen, here ye be.
If you want to feel like you were at the wedding drink 12 mojitos and do 8 tequila shots while listening to it.
[see you all later this week with glorious tales of debauchery from south of the border.]
*Well, nearly all of it; some tunes just aint available on the itunes. It's a missing about eight.
I'll be doing a series of day by day recaps of the trip as the week goes on; look out Internets.
---------
I read a copy of Bryan Burwell's The Best St Louis Sports Arguments while on holiday. While I will never claim that it is the greatest book ever written, it did serve it's purpose, as I found myself passionately agreeing and disagreeing with many of Burwell's arguments.
Mark McGwire not belonging in the Hall of Fame? Disagree, to the millionth degree. Took a drug which nearly everyone else (pitchers included) was taking and finished with a 10.6 HR/AB ratio? In.
Not blaming Don Denkinger for the 1985 World Series. Completely agree. Blaming him for '85 is as dumb as Cubs fans blaming Steve Bartman for 2003. And the rednecks who sent Denkinger death threats are absolutely shameful and makes me agree with Burwell's assertion that St Louis is not the best baseball town in America; it may be a great baseball town in which we live, but until fan support can be adequately quantified, the random fandom ranking of "best" is absurd.
And of record keeping, Burwell's lean on Gold Gloves when ranking players disappoints me. Gold Gloves, and, really, all BBWAA awards, are a farce. The time has come for SABR or another organization to give out likewise awards so we no longer have to live in a world where Jimmy Rollins is considered the best player in the National League in 2007.
At times it seems as if Burwell is almost too ingrained into the mind of not the St Louis sports "fan" but the "fanatic." The average Cardinals fan does not want Tony LaRussa fired after every bad decision, but the normal message boarder or sports radio caller-in may. There is a big difference. I consider myself way too invested in the St Louis baseball Cardinals -- like Nick Hornby Fever Pitch invested -- however, I compare as nothing to the "people" who populate Cardinals, Rams, and Blues message boards (the moment I realized Viva El Birdos, a site I participate in frequently, had metamorphised from a blog to a fan message board was an odd moment; I loathe fan message boards, yet, I stay on).
This problem, of course, comes entirely from the anonymity which both radio and message boards provide. I may write articles and blogs and post (grudgingly, now) on message boards about my favorite team, but I do so using my own name. Anything which I may write, drunkingly, upsetly, ecstatically, comes back to my name. I must take, as does Burwell, complete accountability for my words. "G0CARdZZ190," "Pujo1s 1s a G0D," and the like do not. They are not real people, only counter identities of people who generally don't like themselves and/or refuse to be accountable for the actions which they take. Their voice is nil and should not be included in this book.
(Sweet fuck, I really get worked up about this. Anonymity has ruined the Internet. It could have been something.)
Arguments left me with two major bones to pick with Burwell. One is not even mentioning the 2000-2005 Cards as one of the best Cardinals eras in St Louis baseball history in chapter 14, but then saying that Tony LaRussa is the best Cardinals manager in history (which I agree with) in chapter 28. Somehow, that just doesn't add up.
My other point or ire, in another argument he makes which I agree with "Should the Cardinals Retire Willie McGee's Number" (yes. Yes they should), he writes:
"He (McGee) may not be the greatest redbird, but he is arguably the most beloved. So beloved, in fact, that Tim McKernan, morning talk show host on KFNS radio, started an online petition last year that now includes more than 7,500 signatures. McKernan's grass-roots movement seemed to have a big impact initially, when a city full of McGee lovers kept logging on to McKernan's InsideStL.com website and pledging their allegiance to the heart and soul of those 1980s championship teams by purchasing "Retire 51" T-shirts and joining the petition."
The problem here is that the movement was promoted by McKernan, but was the original idea of my Joe SportsFan cohorts Pat Imig and Josh Bacott and the shirts were designed by handsome man Matt Sebek. They pitched the idea to McKernan since he had the platforms, both radio and local web, to promote it and it was ran with back in that odd Cardinal summer of 2006. Now, I'm probably the only guy on Earth who knows this information, but it seems like an oversight Burwell could have easily avoided with a simple phone call to McKernan and he could have been able to give the original idea for the push to it's rightful owners.
Or perhaps I'm being too anal (that's what she said).
And, like most great bar arguments, there are many others which I ardently agree with (does Stan Musial deserve a better statue? Yes. The current statue encourages bad posture and makes it look like Stan's hands were three feet long. Should the Rams wear their throwbacks? Every Sunday) and forcefully disagree with (Old Busch beats New Busch, in the words of Lt. Sam Weinberg, everyday of the week and twice on Sundays. Get back to me after forty years of tradition and perhaps I will agree with you).
However, the last time I was in a bar argument and everyone agreed with each other I was strung out on mescaline in an opium den somewhere in northern India. Believe you me, that was no fun.
Arguments are the tequila shots of bar discussion.
Arguments does what it sets out to do: encourage debate and foment discussion. In that it succeeds. Is it a great book? No, but I doubt Burwell, whom I am sure did plenty of research and spent countless hours writing, set out to win a Pulitzer with this; In the end, it is, in all actuality, just a dude, sharing his opions.
However, Arguments is a nice light read and something which just about any hardcore St Louis sports fan would enjoy having on the top of their toilet.
And The Father In Law will be getting a copy of it for Christmas.
----------
If I had to rank my favorite collegiate athletic programs it would go something like:
1. University of Illinois
2. University of Notre Dame
3. Bradley University
.....
435. University of Missouri
.....
9,000,000. University of Kansas
So while I am in no way, shape, nor form a Mizzou fan (in fact, come Dec 22nd, I will spit on my own sidewalk before a certain basketball game), driving around today in the Lou, running errands and getting lunch, the electricity in the air was palpable. As I wrote earlier, before tonight's kickoff, on the one message board I can stomach, if not enjoy:
"In four years of living in St Louis, I've never seen the town have such anticipation about any football game, let alone a college football game. This is a baseball town first, a hockey town second and a soccer town third. Football? Its off the map. Years of the football Cardinals ruined this town for pigskin. Hell, it took one of the most prolific offenses in NFL history for people to give a shit about the Rams.
College football seemed non-existent when I moved here in '04, which was a huge change from the four years prior when I was living south of the Mason-Dixon. Down there, it seemed religion, here it was about as popular as a pine wood derby boxcar race. While I'm sure I'm overstating this and probably offending some ol' die hard, when I got to St Louis, the overwhelming feel at the bars, on the radio, on the message boards, was that nobody here really gave a shit.
I'm going to go out on a limb and say people in these parts haven't cared this much about college football since the forward pass was invented a few blocks down the street. Or twenty or thirty years ago, maybe. Not sure, really; I wasn't a history major.*
It's giddy out there. It is new and fresh and foreign. Nobody knows really what to do or think or say; die hards and wagon jumpers alike. They just hop on and hope to enjoy the ride. A chance for Mizzou to play in the BCS Championship Game? Mizzou? In football? Really?
This is great for the city, for the metro area, and for the state which Abe Simpson will be dead in the cold, cold ground before he recognizes. This feeling, around town, is, as far as I know, completely and totally unprecedented.
And awesome.
*false."
Sticking by that. Great win over Kansas tonight. Although I remain, through and/or through, an Illinois fan, it is cool to see, in this city of bad vibes and constant highway construction, people, not just the old timers but the band wagoners, excited about anything, especially anything college football related.
Missouri is a 17 year old at prom, and we are about to be deflowered by the chance to play for the national title. It's exciting, confusing, surreal. And nobody -- nobody -- would have it any other way.
So, for once in my life, I will say: Go Mizzou. Good luck against the Sooners, Tigers. From your neighbors to the north-east, the guys who own rights over you this decade, with breath stinking of rightly earned Busch gold tops, we say:
Play for the title. I dare you. M-I-Z.
----------
I made an imix of my wedding music*; walking down the isle (first two), into dinner music, into the first dance (La Cienega Just Smiled) slash parentsy dance (I've Been Loving You Too Long>You Are So Beautiful), into the r(c)ock out. If you want to listen, here ye be.
If you want to feel like you were at the wedding drink 12 mojitos and do 8 tequila shots while listening to it.
[see you all later this week with glorious tales of debauchery from south of the border.]
*Well, nearly all of it; some tunes just aint available on the itunes. It's a missing about eight.
Labels: Books, College Futbol de americana, Mexico, Music, Stuff That She Said
10/31/2007
Goulet; Countdown to Mexico
RIP Robert Goulet, who with the exception of a random cameo on The Simpsons, I wouldn't even know existed before Will Ferrell took on his persona on SNL
(that skit still has the funniest use of the n-word I have ever heard.)
And later on Conan O'Brien
RIP, Goulet. Here's hoping for many a diablo martini for you, wherever you are.
---------------------
In two weeks from right about now, I'll be hoping a plane for our neighbor to the south, el mejico. Back to my old haunt of Tulum. Is it odd that all those little guys down there keep trying to come up here and I keep going down (thats what she said) there? Maybe, whatever. Mas mojitos,tiny guy with a nice mustache mi amigo.
Anyhoo, it will be ten days of sunning, swimming, boozing, carousing, eating, drinking, playing, and imbibing with 46 of my closest friends and family members (if my estranged adopted brother David ever gets out of that Turkish prison, it will be 47. I told you not to open mouth kiss a man over there, Dave, but did you listen to me? Of course not, you never do). Also, I will be getting married. No big whoop.
Anyway, as expected, myself, The Lady Friend, and our cast of dozens are rightfully jazzed for this whole excursion [you may remember some of the cast from my second previous journey south of el bordero -- not to be confused w/ last Novembers -- however, we will be sans Zeus, Injury McProne, andWillie Tripod Johnny Dangerously (damn adulthood and it's stupid careers); but plus longtime friends of the show Nasty & his GF Sarah, Sarah #2, K$, JaqE, Just Plain E, Joshtastic, Gallo, Elimidate Will & his wife Haley, and Daryl & his wife Laura.] Holy god shit, that's quite the fucking crew.... and that's not even including the family.
Tito, or as he was known on the previous journey, "Lionel Hutz" -- here's a picture of him humping a passed out Nasty after Cookman's wedding! -- has asked for me to starting priming the ol' blog up for the Mexico trip, mainly b/c he was jealous of my orange peeling skills and thought that this post sucked (it did).
So, in order to appease the hairy, drunken Peorian, I will begin doing a top five things I love about Mexico.
Coming up tomorrow: Sushi.
(that skit still has the funniest use of the n-word I have ever heard.)
And later on Conan O'Brien
RIP, Goulet. Here's hoping for many a diablo martini for you, wherever you are.
---------------------
In two weeks from right about now, I'll be hoping a plane for our neighbor to the south, el mejico. Back to my old haunt of Tulum. Is it odd that all those little guys down there keep trying to come up here and I keep going down (thats what she said) there? Maybe, whatever. Mas mojitos,
Anyhoo, it will be ten days of sunning, swimming, boozing, carousing, eating, drinking, playing, and imbibing with 46 of my closest friends and family members (if my estranged adopted brother David ever gets out of that Turkish prison, it will be 47. I told you not to open mouth kiss a man over there, Dave, but did you listen to me? Of course not, you never do). Also, I will be getting married. No big whoop.
Anyway, as expected, myself, The Lady Friend, and our cast of dozens are rightfully jazzed for this whole excursion [you may remember some of the cast from my second previous journey south of el bordero -- not to be confused w/ last Novembers -- however, we will be sans Zeus, Injury McProne, and
Tito, or as he was known on the previous journey, "Lionel Hutz" -- here's a picture of him humping a passed out Nasty after Cookman's wedding! -- has asked for me to starting priming the ol' blog up for the Mexico trip, mainly b/c he was jealous of my orange peeling skills and thought that this post sucked (it did).
So, in order to appease the hairy, drunken Peorian, I will begin doing a top five things I love about Mexico.
Coming up tomorrow: Sushi.
Labels: Mexico, My former brother David that the family never talks about but who actually exisited -- its a long story, Stuff That She Said, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About
8/30/2007
The Cucumber Saga Continues
We have a follow up!
Putting produce to bad use
By Phil Luciano
Ricky Dean got beat up pretty bad, walloped by bricks and jabbed with car keys.
But what really hurt was the cucumbers.
Dean ended up in the hospital after he was pummeled by two alleged cuke-wielding carjackers.
"It was wild," says Dean, 45, smiling while rubbing various bruises all over his body.
Early Tuesday, Dean, who lives near Northwoods Mall, was with his girlfriend, Sara Peterson, 22, who lives in Far North Peoria. About 2 a.m., they were "just driving" near Harrison Homes, he says.
With Dean in the passenger seat, Peterson was at the wheel of her souped-up '93 Ford Escort. In the 2700 block of North Trewyn Avenue, they heard two women scream, "Help!"
Peterson stopped the car. Dean stepped out, telling her to stay put while he went to talk to the women. They were standing outside a car, which apparently one of them owns, Dean says. He says he does not know the women.
Dean now thinks the pair had been looking for an easy mark.
"They were looking for somebody, I guess," he says.
He started to ask if they needed help. But they yelled at him, "Get away from your car!"
They were packing heavy ammunition: Bricks, apparently swiped from a nearby construction site. Each flung a brick at Dean, with one bashing him in the left shoulder.
Bereft of more bricks, they reached into their car and hoisted out a grocery sack. It was stuffed with cucumbers.
In recollection, Dean's eyes widen and he holds his hands about two feet apart: "The cucumbers were this big."
They rushed Dean and started pounding him with the cukes. He ducked and turned, but the women belted his back with the gargantuan gourds.
Dean, who stands about 5 feet 9 inches and weighs a robust 325 pounds, did not hit back.
"They were ladies," he says.
As the beating continued, he tried to get them off him. "I kept pushing them," he says. "(But) they were pretty big women."
They then noticed Peterson had stepped out of the car. An attacker dashed over, grabbed the keys from the ignition and yipped, "We're taking this car."
But first she sprinted to Dean and poked him hard with keys "all over my body," he says. For reasons he doesn't understand, the two women ordered Peterson into the backseat of the car. Then they sped off.
Dean dug his cell phone out of his pants and called 911. Soon, police found the car, with the women still inside. Absent was Peterson, who'd been forced out not far from Harrison Homes. Police found her walking nearby a while later.
Police arrested two women: Martella M. Brown, 19, 2719 N. Trewyen Ave., and Nicole S. Bailey, 23, 2414 W. Malone St. Both have been charged with aggravated battery. Brown, whose residence is on the same block as the attack, also faces a count of vehicular hijacking.
Banged up, Dean took up the cops' offer of an ambulance ride to Methodist Medical Center. He suffered multiple bruises, but otherwise is all right. He was released later that morning.
Peterson was unavailable for comment. Dean says that her mother, after hearing about the assault, drove to Peoria and brought her daughter to the mom's home in Champaign - where, apparently, law-abiding citizens are free from the risks of vine-ripened weapons.
Dean just shakes his head and grins at the weirdness.
"It was crazy, man," he says.
-----
1. People don't go "just driving" near Harrison Homes, especially at 2 in the morning. Why? Because you get attacked with fucking cucumbers.
2. "The cucumbers were this big." That's what she said.
3. I'm still pretty flustered. This story is just too awesome for it's own good.
Putting produce to bad use
By Phil Luciano
Ricky Dean got beat up pretty bad, walloped by bricks and jabbed with car keys.
But what really hurt was the cucumbers.
Dean ended up in the hospital after he was pummeled by two alleged cuke-wielding carjackers.
"It was wild," says Dean, 45, smiling while rubbing various bruises all over his body.
Early Tuesday, Dean, who lives near Northwoods Mall, was with his girlfriend, Sara Peterson, 22, who lives in Far North Peoria. About 2 a.m., they were "just driving" near Harrison Homes, he says.
With Dean in the passenger seat, Peterson was at the wheel of her souped-up '93 Ford Escort. In the 2700 block of North Trewyn Avenue, they heard two women scream, "Help!"
Peterson stopped the car. Dean stepped out, telling her to stay put while he went to talk to the women. They were standing outside a car, which apparently one of them owns, Dean says. He says he does not know the women.
Dean now thinks the pair had been looking for an easy mark.
"They were looking for somebody, I guess," he says.
He started to ask if they needed help. But they yelled at him, "Get away from your car!"
They were packing heavy ammunition: Bricks, apparently swiped from a nearby construction site. Each flung a brick at Dean, with one bashing him in the left shoulder.
Bereft of more bricks, they reached into their car and hoisted out a grocery sack. It was stuffed with cucumbers.
In recollection, Dean's eyes widen and he holds his hands about two feet apart: "The cucumbers were this big."
They rushed Dean and started pounding him with the cukes. He ducked and turned, but the women belted his back with the gargantuan gourds.
Dean, who stands about 5 feet 9 inches and weighs a robust 325 pounds, did not hit back.
"They were ladies," he says.
As the beating continued, he tried to get them off him. "I kept pushing them," he says. "(But) they were pretty big women."
They then noticed Peterson had stepped out of the car. An attacker dashed over, grabbed the keys from the ignition and yipped, "We're taking this car."
But first she sprinted to Dean and poked him hard with keys "all over my body," he says. For reasons he doesn't understand, the two women ordered Peterson into the backseat of the car. Then they sped off.
Dean dug his cell phone out of his pants and called 911. Soon, police found the car, with the women still inside. Absent was Peterson, who'd been forced out not far from Harrison Homes. Police found her walking nearby a while later.
Police arrested two women: Martella M. Brown, 19, 2719 N. Trewyen Ave., and Nicole S. Bailey, 23, 2414 W. Malone St. Both have been charged with aggravated battery. Brown, whose residence is on the same block as the attack, also faces a count of vehicular hijacking.
Banged up, Dean took up the cops' offer of an ambulance ride to Methodist Medical Center. He suffered multiple bruises, but otherwise is all right. He was released later that morning.
Peterson was unavailable for comment. Dean says that her mother, after hearing about the assault, drove to Peoria and brought her daughter to the mom's home in Champaign - where, apparently, law-abiding citizens are free from the risks of vine-ripened weapons.
Dean just shakes his head and grins at the weirdness.
"It was crazy, man," he says.
-----
1. People don't go "just driving" near Harrison Homes, especially at 2 in the morning. Why? Because you get attacked with fucking cucumbers.
2. "The cucumbers were this big." That's what she said.
3. I'm still pretty flustered. This story is just too awesome for it's own good.
Labels: Awesomness, Cucumber Beatings, Peoria, Stuff That She Said
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
1/17/2007
Help Me Help... Well... Me.
I’ve got nothing for today, once again. I am absolutely serious about this being the most boring stretch of days on the whole calendar. I’m not helping any by lying rather low these past few weekends, but after the holidays and before my upcoming two weeks of social obligations, I’ve felt the need to recharge my batteries. And I regret nothing.
Anyhoo, [Dennis Miller] since I’m about as useful as affirmative action in 1870’s Georgia [/Dennis Miller], I turn to you fine people for two things which I need help with:
1) The Lady Friend and I are flying out to Phoenix on Friday and are looking for something to do that night. She suggested “go to the Grand Canyon” but since we’re not an early 1970’s ABC sitcom, I really don’t see the need for riding some donkey down a cliff, getting lost, and stumbling upon some wise Indians who help us find not only ourselves, but also each other, instead of – you know – something useful like the fucking interstate.
My second suggestion (“Go to a Suns game”) went over only slightly better than my first (“threesome”), so I don’t think that’s going to cut it, either.
So, if you’ve ever been to Phoenix and did something cool, be a pal and let me know what it was. Please.
2) For any of you St. Louis folks – I’m getting sick and/or tired of crappy cuts of meat from my neighborhood Schnuck’s and I believe it’s time I found myself a butcher. I had an awesome one back up in Peoria, and I miss them dearly. Since I don’t have any real family around this place, I’m turning to you, the Internets, to help me find an Al Fritz approved butcher in St Louis.
All I’m looking for is good, quality meat (“That’s what she said.”) and a nice selection – steaks, chops, poultry, the usual. I’d just go to Whole Foods for my weekly shopping, but I have yet to go in there and spend less than $75 on a single meal for two (and it’s not that they’re too expensive, it’s just by the time I’ve grabbed two steaks, I’ll see a bottle of wine which peaks my interests and one or three or eight weird beers which sole reason for being is to live forever in my magical tummy,* along with a fresh loaf of bread, some sushi, a ginger ale, and some squash. Every fucking time we’re there, I shit you not.), so I can’t imagine how much shopping for a whole week’s worth of food would set me back. Other than that, I’m not looking for anything fancy – Just quality meat (again, “That’s what she said.”)
However, I am restricted somewhat by geography. Well, “restricted” really isn’t the word. I guess it’s actually “lazy.” I’m lazy. And I fucking hate driving in this town, so I pretty much refuse to go west of 170 on 40 and west of 270 on 44. Hence, I’m looking for a butcher in the city proper. Actually, something outside of the city would probably work, too. I’ll just send The Lady Friend.
(Although, considering she’s engaged to me, she probably doesn’t have the faintest clue about what quality meat really is. So... )
Anyway, sorry about the boring post, but I’m seriously working with nothing over here. I swear, this weekend I’ll get all boozed up and drive my rental car through a museum or steal a few of Nathan Arizona’s many babies or something equally ridiculous and write about it next Tuesday.
But for now, if you kids could just assemble into some sort of advisory board and help me find a quality butcher and something to do in Phoenix on a Friday night, I will forever be in your gratitude, and, if you play your cards right, will open mouth kiss you.
*I love saying “tummy.”
Anyhoo, [Dennis Miller] since I’m about as useful as affirmative action in 1870’s Georgia [/Dennis Miller], I turn to you fine people for two things which I need help with:
1) The Lady Friend and I are flying out to Phoenix on Friday and are looking for something to do that night. She suggested “go to the Grand Canyon” but since we’re not an early 1970’s ABC sitcom, I really don’t see the need for riding some donkey down a cliff, getting lost, and stumbling upon some wise Indians who help us find not only ourselves, but also each other, instead of – you know – something useful like the fucking interstate.
My second suggestion (“Go to a Suns game”) went over only slightly better than my first (“threesome”), so I don’t think that’s going to cut it, either.
So, if you’ve ever been to Phoenix and did something cool, be a pal and let me know what it was. Please.
2) For any of you St. Louis folks – I’m getting sick and/or tired of crappy cuts of meat from my neighborhood Schnuck’s and I believe it’s time I found myself a butcher. I had an awesome one back up in Peoria, and I miss them dearly. Since I don’t have any real family around this place, I’m turning to you, the Internets, to help me find an Al Fritz approved butcher in St Louis.
All I’m looking for is good, quality meat (“That’s what she said.”) and a nice selection – steaks, chops, poultry, the usual. I’d just go to Whole Foods for my weekly shopping, but I have yet to go in there and spend less than $75 on a single meal for two (and it’s not that they’re too expensive, it’s just by the time I’ve grabbed two steaks, I’ll see a bottle of wine which peaks my interests and one or three or eight weird beers which sole reason for being is to live forever in my magical tummy,* along with a fresh loaf of bread, some sushi, a ginger ale, and some squash. Every fucking time we’re there, I shit you not.), so I can’t imagine how much shopping for a whole week’s worth of food would set me back. Other than that, I’m not looking for anything fancy – Just quality meat (again, “That’s what she said.”)
However, I am restricted somewhat by geography. Well, “restricted” really isn’t the word. I guess it’s actually “lazy.” I’m lazy. And I fucking hate driving in this town, so I pretty much refuse to go west of 170 on 40 and west of 270 on 44. Hence, I’m looking for a butcher in the city proper. Actually, something outside of the city would probably work, too. I’ll just send The Lady Friend.
(Although, considering she’s engaged to me, she probably doesn’t have the faintest clue about what quality meat really is. So... )
Anyway, sorry about the boring post, but I’m seriously working with nothing over here. I swear, this weekend I’ll get all boozed up and drive my rental car through a museum or steal a few of Nathan Arizona’s many babies or something equally ridiculous and write about it next Tuesday.
But for now, if you kids could just assemble into some sort of advisory board and help me find a quality butcher and something to do in Phoenix on a Friday night, I will forever be in your gratitude, and, if you play your cards right, will open mouth kiss you.
*I love saying “tummy.”
Labels: Stuff That She Said, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About
