:: An intelligent discussion on riots, and how to prevent them ::
Scotty: What did you get for your birthday, Canucks tickets for the next four rounds? Me: Ha, no, I got a watch. But going to games cuts into my rioting time anyway. Scotty: You're the third person who has said that to me today. Me: Haha. Scotty: It's pretty bad when you have to have anti-rioting commercials. Me: I know, so dumb. I mean, listen, if I'm gonna riot, I'm gonna riot*. I'm not going to pull the gas-soaked rag out of the police car gas-tank just because I suddenly remember that Kevin Bieksa told me not to. Scotty: I know... I can't be responsible when I'm liquored up. Me: No, of course not. If you were down there last year, every cop would have been Boston Crabbed to death. Scotty: How fitting, too.
*Dear law enforcement and other Internet do-gooders: I'm not actually going to riot. Chill out.
There was a time, about seven/eight years ago (shortly after I returned from my brief sojourn to northern Alberta), where I was as big as I've ever been. It was one of those things I didn't really notice at the time – it's always sort of a gradual fattening when you're in it.
But in reality, it wasn't that gradual. I left for university weighing, as best as I can remember, about 220-225 lbs. – still fat, but not that fat. Two years of school, 9 months on my own in Alberta, thousands of beers, plates of nachos, perogies, pizzas and fast-food burgers later, I came home and did not step on a scale until my own mom mentioned I'd gained a couple pounds.
Pffft, maybe a couple, I reasoned. But how bad could it be?
Well, pretty bad, as it turned out. I don't remember all the gory details – it was a long time ago, after all, plus I've probably blocked most memories of that era out – but I do remember that first scale reading: 288.5.
Yes, 288.5.
Shocked, sad, and angry I set out to fix the problem, and got down to about 240 or so, which is where I've basically sat ever since – yo-yo-ing between about 235 and 255. But before then, there was not a lot of clothes I could wear.
I couldn't shop at the mall for almost anything, and most of my pants were by necessity very forgiving. I never got to wear the clothes I wanted to wear because the clothes I wanted to wear never fit. It was, looking back, pretty painful.
At one point during my Alberta days, I was wearing size 44 jeans. (There may well have even been a 46 thrown in there, but I know 44 for sure). And let's be reasonable, it's hard to look good in clothes that big, no matter where they come from.
I still remember, once I got down to the 240-range about seven years ago, how happy I was when I went to American Eagle in the mall, and pair of size 38 jeans actually fit. It was the first time since I was about 19 that I was able to buy "mall pants." For most people, that's probably a nothing moment, but after you've come a little too close to 300 for anyone's liking, it was a good moment for me. There's a reason I remember it.
Last weekend, I had a similar experience at the same store.
My 38-inch jeans are all too big. Some still look OK, but without exception, I can take all of them off without undoing them. I take my belt off, and they just fall down to the floor. So off Christene and I went to the mall, on the search for cheap "transition" jeans (because I plan on getting skinner still). Well after a few aborted attempts at other stores, I went back to the ol' standby, American Eagle.
I picked out two pairs of 36-inch pants – one of which were straight legged (and for the fat or formerly fat folks out there, you know that straight-leg jeans are nobody's friend). To my surprise, they both fit. Sure, the straight-leg pair juuuust fit, but they fit nonetheless.
Thirty-fucking-six.
I haven't worn 36-inch pants since at least Grade 10.
I went home and immediately began rifling through my closet, trying a bunch of things on, and throwing most of them out. I tossed away about 6-7 shirts, a few hoodies and nine or 10 pairs of pants, including one pair of dress pants that were so baggy I told Christene "I could only wear these to MC Hammer's funeral." Another pair of old khakis, found at the back of the closet, had a 42-inch waist.
I packed em all up in a heap and put them in a garbage bag, bound for Value Village.
One of the best parts of the The Simpsons, for the die-hard fans anyhow, are all the little moments that make things way funnier. The words on the church sign, the sometimes-vague references to pop culture in Bart's chalkboard scribblings, or in later seasons, the self-referential comments made by the characters, referring back to old episodes.
And as something of a veteran watcher of The Simpsons (to put it mildly), I cannot believe what I'm about to tell you has escaped me all these years. I'm not surprised that I didn't figure it out, mind you, but I'm just surprised I never heard of it.
What I'm referring to is the McBain movie franchise, which stars Springfield's Swarznegger-esque Ranier Wolfcastle. Clips of the McBain franchise were especially prevalent in the show's early seasons. Maybe they showed the Simpsons family watching it for a few minutes, before going on on some zany adventure. Maybe there's 20-seconds of a throwaway of Homer watching it in a video store. You know, background stuff.
But the thing is this: if you combine all those little throwaway scenes together, which appeared on the show over the first few years, you actually get a complete story. So I present to you, McBain: The Full Movie.
I know it's not Friday any longer, but I've been meaning to post this since then. Also, I'm on vacation for the next week, so you can multiply the following e-card's sentiments by 7.
Christene and my anniversary was Jan. 7 for those keeping track (and if you were keeping track, where the hell were you two weeks ago? More on that in a second). And to be honest, that date isn't exactly right... it's an arbitrary, kinda-close date we both chose because the real day, if you wanted to pin it down, conflicted with too many other things. Also, we could never figure out the right day anyway.
Our first real date, if you wanna call it that, was Dec. 31 – New Year's at Brett and Tara's house.
Before that, was my company Christmas party, which wasn't so much an official date (because some unnamed party was still, perhaps, married) as it was a 'Hey, you wanna come with the rest of us to the party? There's free booze!).
And in between those two days, there was Christmas, etc. So thats why we decided, three years ago, that Jan. 7 would be our new "anniversary." It came after the hub-bub of Christmas and New Year's, and it seemed as good as day to celebrate as any other. So we did.
Except for 2012.
We didn't celebrate it this year because both of us flat-out forgot.
I – like most guys, probably – tend to forget these things, but this time, neither of us remembered until Sunday night, when it sprung into my mind for one reason or another. It's not like we juuuuust missed it either; it'd been more than a week. I just laughed it off with an "oh well," but Christene was sufficiently rattled.
"This was going to be our last January anniversary," she said sadly, not because she's breaking up with me but because in 10 months (editor's note: Holy Fuck, 10 months!) our wedding anniversary (again, Holy Fuck) in November will trump the January date.
Not to worry though, Christene. Just wait until the first time I forget – or remember at the last, possible minute – our November anniversary. This won't seem like such a big deal then.
And hey, did I mention that it's only like 10 months or so away? Christ that's coming quick.
Considering it's been 11 days and I haven't included this one yet, you just knew I was putting it at the top of the list. It's not angry like some, but it is still my all-time favourite for whatever reason.
Just an absolutely bona-fide classic.
Also, because this is the final day of the 12 Days of Awesome Press Conferences, I've decided to leave you with a bonus montage of some other sports interviews, which tend to be more angry or tense than funny. Still, many of them could have been in my list (and some of them are).
I have mixed feelings on this one because I particularly like Jim Rome a lot of the time – his broascast style and attitude drives me crazy – but this interview no doubt put a young Rome on the map, and made him famous. I guess that's the other reason I don't like it – it comes off, to me, as a staged career move on the part of Rome.
That said, anytime you can get an NFL quarterback to attack you, you gotta end up high on the list.
This classic hissy fit thrown by former MLB manager Hal McRae turns up on nearly every list of classic sports rants, and for good reason. Guy trashes his own damn office, for Christ's sakes.
In a hilariously noble act, Oklahoma State football coach Mike Gundy defends – vigorously – one of his young players who he feels has been torn apart in one particular issue of a local newspaper. And don't worry if you're unsure which newspaper it is – Gundy brought it with him. This one of one of my all-time favourites.
Well, considering the last two days have featured press conferences most of you have seen a million times, I've decided to throw one in that perhaps is a little less well-known (although it's quite infamous in baseball circles). No video of this one – audio only – but it's still worth it. Former Chicago Cubs manager Lee Elia just tears into Cubs fans... it's vicious. I had to work hard to find an unedited, unbeeped version of this beauty.
Another classic, courtesy of the National Football League. Former Arizona coach, lamenting the loss to the Chicago Bears. Turns out, he knows who they are.
This one's a classic, and you've all no doubt seen it before – including in beer commercials. But it's too famous, and too damn good, to leave out. That said, I give you Jim Mora, former coach of the Indianapolis Colts.
(Speaking of which, Mora's question is one many around Indy will soon be asking again if and when Peyton Manning leaves town, either through trade or retirement. Man, they suck.)
