Still, I've been eating better and exercising lately. Lost a pant size. But running is the issue. I'm still a big dude, and even at a smaller size, I couldn't run out of sight in two days time.
I'm confident that I could outrun a Romero zombie, but if the zombies have any coordination or speed, I'm probably screwed.
I'll also balk a little at one of the questions. It's easy to say that you'll shoot a loved one, but really, how often does one of them becoming an undead monster really happen? Once or twice in your life?
I'm not sure what the difference is between my pushing Mom down to get a foul ball, and my undead mother trying to eat my brains, but I kinda think that if the situation were to arise, I'd act accordingly. But I'll never know until we get there.
I've been avoiding the teevee the last couple of night, on account of the media clusterfuck that seems to grow by the day over this whole deal with Chris Benoit.
There is one thing that I keep telling myself: Nobody completely knows the fact of this case, and that's what bugs me about seeing the talking heads of the world pound their fists and gnash their teeth over whatever little portion of this case falls within the same concentric circle with their personal sacred cows.
That's the conflict I deal with in this post, from a personal standpoint. Because as much as or more than I ever do, I'm about to lay an opinion based on the facts I'm given.
The fact is, I'm fairly well convinced of the investigators' series of events, as portrayed thus far. It seems to be the easiest and most logical conclusion, as insane as it feels to say that. I believe that, for whatever reason, Chris Benoit killed Nancy Benoit, and his son, and then himself.
That makes me sick.
Try as I might to avoid the media clusterfuck, I did catch a bit of Chris Jericho on Nancy Grace last night. Not because I'm any fan of Nancy Grace...I just happened to flip past and see Jericho with his head in a box talking. I have to applaud his stance on the death of his friend. This is not a question of wrestling, or of steroids. It's a question of one man hiding a deep, horrible mental illness for years, letting it go to the point where he snapped in such an unspeakable way, creating this tragedy that a lot of people are going to have to deal with for a long, long time.
I've been mulling it over since Monday. I got into an argument with somebody about that whole topic whether wrestling is to blame, or steroids is to blame. My take was this: I can't count the number of wrestlers who've gone insane, bound the hands and feet of their wives, strangled them, then killed a mentally handicapped son with a choke hold.
Happens two three times a year, usually with the full moon.
I'm not sure what the truth is, but I'm thinking that among the talking head's out there, Jericho's gotten closest to the bullseye at this point. This guy had problems. And more than likely, something would have come of it whether he was on steroids or off, whether he was a professional wrestler, a baseball player, an accountant, a bus driver, a movie star or a fourth grade teacher.
(His thoughts echo a comment by Teresa on a post a couple down from this one...I'd missed it until now, but I agree with it...._)
Something was horribly wrong with Chris Benoit. And it came to light in the most tragic way.
Which is not to say his actions are forgiveable.
Not be any stretch of the imagination.
That's what's surprised me over this, about my own reaction. I've been angry.
I guess it brushed up one of my own sacred cows.
What it comes down to is that suicides are horrible, selfish people. Suicide's a selfish, permanent solution to a temporary problem, that doesn't do anything except hurt everybody around the person committing.
There's a special place in Hell for suicides.
But on top of that, Chris Benoit killed his own kid. I still can't even begin to wrap my mind around this one, even some three or four days later. If there's a special seat in Hell for suicides, there's a deep, shitty hole for child murderers.
At the end of the day, I guess that my issue is that I admired Chris Benoit. A lot. He's a guy who made his way in life doing something he loved, which is admirable in and of itself. What's more, he did so against the grain of what is typical in that world. Chris Benoit was undersized, he wasn't special on the microphone. Truth be told, he was rather odd looking.
But, based on his skills doing what it was he did best, he made it to the top of the game.
I admired that.
Still do, I guess.
I reckon I'd feel the same way--confused, angry--if somebody I admired from another field had committed these unspeakable acts.
If Ryne Sandberg, or Carlos Zambrano had done it.
Stephen King, or Joe Lansdale.
Morgan Freeman, or Scarlett Johannsen.
It'd be just as confusing.
This'll be the last I comment on the whole deal, I think. Unless something magically comes to light--I think there's a small, Santa-believing part of me that still wants there to be a bad guy to blame in this whole deal. Part of me hopes that in true, pro-wrestling, bad B-Movie fashion, we'll learn that somehow, somebody murdered the whole family, and that this person I admired is blameless in the whole ordeal.
But it won't.
That doesn't happen, outside of bad soap operas, or Monday Night Wrestling....
He went 5 for 6 last night. I've always been a fan of the guy, despite the fact that he's played for a hated rival. He's a classy guy who plays the game the way it should be played. In a time where we all tend to look at statistical mileposts with a bit of skepticism, I think you can look at this one with the utmost confidence.
Well, early this morning, I operate on three or four restless hours of sleep. Don't at all look forward to going in and working today, on this little sleep. Should be used to it: this insomnia streak is verging on a couple months, now.
At least I can put a finger on what I was thinking about while sitting up last night.
I never would have figured that: that at 30, I'd be lying awake at night thinking, bothered about the craziness...the downright literal fucking insanity...of what's happened in a household of a person I'd never met. It's almost laughable, and given a couple days more time, I might laugh about it. But I did precisely that, last night. I don't know if it's what kept me awake, but I do know it's what I thought about while I did the math, subtracting 3:48 from 6:45...
Given the gypsy nature of the WWE of late, what with the Vince McMahon is Dead storyline, I hope this isn't true.
I really hope it isn't.
Update: Well, it appears to be true. It's surprising to me that they aren't holding the Corpus Christi show live tonight, considering that they did shows the night Brian Pillman and Eddy Guerrero died, and during and right after Owen Hart died. Granted, those were PPV's, but the Owen and Eddy tribute shows were Raws held live.
As an aside, it's rough having all these tribute shows.
Especially since Eddy and Benoit were two of my favorites.
Authorities confirmed that Chris Benoit, his wife Nancy and their 7-year-old son, Daniel, were found dead at the home on Quarters and Redwine roads in Fayetteville about 4 p.m.
Officials would not say how the family died, other than to say they weren't shot to death.
This really sucks.
9:00 As the WWE replays the Vince McMahon open, it makes me wonder where they'll go with his death angle.
Just want to say welcome to all the new readers. Google put me as the first entry on the blog part of searching "Chris Benoit." This stupid little blog's gotten more hits in the past 90 minutes than its gotten in the past two weeks.
So Sammy Sosa hit his 600th home run. Big deal. Are baseball fans supposed to do cartwheels for him? Did one of Sosa's teams ever actually win anything? For a guy who found "ways" to hit a HR every 15 AB during the regular season in his career - Sosa managed only 2 HR in 53 AB in the post-season (maybe he was coming off his cycles?). Sosa made over $123 million playing baseball. Baseball fans don't owe him anything - especially a place in the Hall of Fame when players like Andre Dawson and Jim Rice aren't in because the inflated stats of steroids guys devalued their real accomplishments...
Stupid Bonnaroo, and its infesting that truck stop with all those hippies. It was like a Midnight Dirty Smelly Convention. I just wanted a snack and a drink, but it's like filing for a building permit.
I wish I'd taken a picture. You'd never believe how many hippie-wannabes pack into a truckstop McDonald's at 15 after midnight, the day after Bonnaroo.
I'm a busy asshole. You're just dicking around at work, anyway. So just re-read something I wrote this time last year, when I was likewise suffering from a bit of insomnia:
Tommy needum sleep.
Been feeling rough all day. Not bad, like I'm sick. Not good, though. I mean, I still feel like a badass...just not like the baddest ass.
I may not be drinking enough water. Is it normal to pee once every three days?
And when I do, it's as black as tar.
It's about the same consistency.
Truth be told, it smells a bit like licorice. In wartime, I think you could successfully cut it with coffee, to extend your supply of the latter, without a drastic dip in the quality of your morning beverage. It wouldn't be something you'd want to pay 1.65 for, but say it's wartime, and you need a cup a joe to keep fighting the Yanks (or the Rebs, whichever your persuasion in the War of the Northern aggression).
I wouldn't drink it though. Even in wartime.
I mean, something that hurts that badly shooting out your peehole probably isn't that good for you. Seriously. When I pee, it's like forcing pudding through a drinking straw.
Plus, I'm kinda off the coffee. I used to drink it fairly regularly. I mean, I wasn't a coffee fiend, per se, murdering and maiming if I didn't get my morning cup of joe. But I drank my share of the coffee. A couple cups a day.
Don't know why I quit. I think my addiction to over-the-counter truckstop caffeine pills kind of made coffee redundant.
Going back a second, I don't think the news media uses the word "fiend" enough. I don't think anybody uses it enough--it may be the first time I've used the word on this blog, some 3 years, 7 months into the venture. But I think the news media (print, interweb and broadcast) should work on shoehorning the word "fiend" into their lexicon. It would please me muchly to hear of an axe murderer killed by police reported as "fiend felled by constables."
Not that we have an over abundance of axe murderers. Which is the shame of the handgun, I think. It takes work to kill somebody with an axe. It takes conditioning, smarts and precision. I'm all about your right to own a gun, but it doesn't take any work to pop a cap in somebody.
1. It takes conditioning to chase the victim down if you're an axe murderer. I mean, unless you're Paul Bunyan, you gotta get within a few feet of your victim to be able to strike a blow with the axe. Here's an exercise: I want you to pick up an axe, raise it over your head, and run at full speed while screaming at the top of your lungs...I'll bet you smokers won't get far....
2. It takes smarts to know that you don't start chopping with the sharp edge unless you can do it in a precise manner--your best bet is to hit upside the head with a blunt side, stunning the victim, so that you can chop them up.
3. It takes precision. Unless you're some maniac (and who's to say you're not?), you can't go chopping with reckless abandon, especially if you're winded from chasing a victim down while carrying an axe.
So, it comes back to conditioning....
That's why I'd be impressed to hear on the news about an axe fiend.
See, I could shoot somebody with a gun. And I'm as out of shape as a candle left out in the hot summertime sun. It's like bowling and the Olympics. Bowling's not an Olympic sport because I can bowl, and bowl well. If I could shoot somebody, then it's not really that special a thing to do. Yet they spend all the time on the news talking about all the gun murders we have.
But chasing somebody down with an axe and chopping them up? That takes dedication. That's a fiend worth my teevee time.
I'll have more to say on the matter when I've had sleep, but to hear these to bags of piss go on and on during the Atlanta Braves' postgame show about how Ted Lilly's hitting Edgar Renteria was intentional, as if it were blatant fact, while stating in the same breath that Tim Hudson's plunking of Fonzy Soriano last night was not?
That's an insult to what little intelligence I have, fellas.
Chip, your Grandpa was a homer, no ifs about it.
But he also knew when to call a spade a spade.
Why the blue fuck would Ted Lilly intentionally hit Edgar Renteria with two outs and two strikes on him? Knowing full well that the bullpen took a licking the night before and that he was needed to go at least seven tonight?
And here's the thing: I'm not against Tim Hudson plunking Alfonso Soriano. If you feel like he was trying to slight your team by stretching a single into a double on a night he hits three homers and your down seven, so be it. Some might say that you got your revenge by throwing him out in the process, but you got your dime store vengeance the next night.
Ted Lilly had nothing to gain by hitting Edgar Renteria. I don't think he did so intentionally. And if neither team was warned prior to the game, then his ejection was unwarranted, and the umpires overstepped their bounds
Although, somebody might correct me if I'm wrong: I haven't seen it on teevee. I saw it from next to the foul pole in right field, so maybe somebody can argue with me. But it looked like Ted Lilly's pitch got away from him, and Edgar got a little sensitive about it. Also, it's hard to tell if Ted Lilly mouthed off--something that I'll admit to you is the capital city of the Realm of Possibility.
Anyway, this post was intended to be a letter to Messrs. Lemke and Caray, whose verbal diarrhea poisoned the airwaves after tonight's contest.
Fellas, you got no right to bitch about people intentionally hitting people after the umpires did all but serve you the game on a silver platter.
Now go groom your eyebrows, and let the rest of us grownups watch the game.
Morning Update: After watching the highlights on SportsCenter this morning, I feel like umpire Jim Wolf dropped the ball. If he "felt like this was going to happen," as he said to Sweet Lou, then he neglected his responsibility to warn both dugouts before the contest.
I still contend that Lilly had one get away from him, and Jim Wolf overstepped his bounds.
And, if Lilly was tossed, Renteria should have been tossed for driving into Mike Fontenot the way he did. It caused just as much harm.
Wandered down to Atlanta to watch the Cubs blow a 4-spot they took in the first, and lose 9-5. No situational hitting. Another bit of bad baserunning from our catcher, who seems to have been eating box after box of Cinnamon Raisin Stupid for breakfast this year.
After the game, we're heading north on I-75, and in what seems to be the norm in any trip north after a Braves game, we stop for traffic caused by a wreck. In the distance, we see the blue lights, we see the red and white lights of the ambulances.
Ever get an image you can't shake? I got one when we passed by the accident scene.
I'm not up on my religious offices, so I'm not sure exactly what we saw as we passed slowly by the scene. I was attempting not to rubberneck, actually. But I saw, lit by the lights of the police cruisers and other rescue vehicles, what looked like a lady in a white habit. I looked, and standing in a circle facing each other were another eight women in white habits, lit by the headlights and calmly speaking to one another.
It was a second-or-so glimpse, and I didn't piece together whether they were in the accident, or were for some reason there for somebody else. It was just a bit of a weird moment, I guess. Definitely stuck with me....
Holy Crap, I've been running this inane little corner of the interweb for a long time.
Here's something I wrote this very weekend, four years ago. Any resemblance to my former roommate Bill is purely coincidental.
"What are you doing?" asks the man behind the counter.
"What do you think I'm doing?" asks Bill in return.
"I don't know what you're doing...why do you have your pants off?"
"Because it's hot in here."
The clerk can't seem to decide whether to come out from behind the counter or stay back there. He waffles back and forth between the two options until Bill bends over to pick up his pants, not to put them back on but to fold them across his right arm. It is then that the clerk opts for the counter, and the phone.
"It's not that hot in here," the clerk says, picking up the handset. "Put your pants on, or I'm calling the cops."
"The police. Put your damn pants on."
Another customer wanders into the Mr. Buzz Convenience Store. She is a younger lady: a redhead. She is probably a student at the small college a couple of blocks away. She freezes, as she has just heard the clerk order Bill (our hero) to put his damn pants on. She looks uncertainly left, at Bill, who has put one leg up onto a display of Pepsi 12-packs, then right, at the clerk, who now seems torn between his duty to the customer and his need for the customers to keep their pants on.
The clerk's eyes dart from the new customer, to Bill, and back to the customer.
"Can I...um. Can I help you?" he asks, keeping an eye on Bill, who seems to be studying the ceiling now.
"No, I'm fine," Bill says.
"I wasn't talking to you!" he says, a vein popping out on his forehead. He looks, wide-eyed, at the girl.
She doesn't move from the doorway. "A pack of Marlboro lights?" She asks. She is a little thrown by the situation. She has decided Bill is the center of attention, as well.
The clerk reaches up without looking and pulls down the pack of cigarettes.
"$3.20," he says.
Bill--to her the man with no pants--has left his post at the Pepsi 12-packs. He is wandering toward the back of the store, towards the beer coolers. He absently lays his folded pants on top of the shelf containing horrendously overpriced housewares.
"Hey! Come back here!"
"I'm not going anywhere, chief," says Bill over his shoulder. When he reaches the coolers, he opens up the refrigerator door. Cooler air wafts out toward him in icy clouds.
The girl lays four dollars on the counter.
"Hey!" the clerk yells. "Hey! What are you doing back there?"
"I told you it's hot in here," Bill says, his tone edging toward irritation. "I've explained it all to you."
"Get out of my cooler!"
"Get out of your what?" Bill has his head wedged between the shelf holding 6-packs of Bud and the shelf holding 6-packs of Bud Light.
"I said 'Get out of the cooler!'"
"I'm not in the cooler," Bill replies, as if that were patently obvious. "Only my head."
"I'm sorry," the girl says, brushing her red hair out of her eyes, "can I have my cigarettes?"
"Sorry," the clerk says. He pushes the pack across the counter.
"Keep the change," she says, rolling her eyes at the whole situation.
"I'm calling the cops!" The bell on the door clangs as the redhead leaves.
"The police. You're acting crazy!"
"What am I doing?"
"Get out of my cooler, put your pants on and get out of my store!" He's yelling now.
Bill considers the request. He closes the cooler door, but makes no move to leave.
"Are you leaving?"
"I haven't gotten what I came for." Bill looks disgusted with the whole situation.
The clerk sighs. "What did you come for?"
"The pleasant atmosphere."
The events in this story are fictional, and any resemblance of characters or events to actual people or events is purely coincidental, Bill.
One of my neighbors just said that. I was out checking my mail. He was saying that to his fellow porch-dwellers. I think it was intended to rile them up, to get them excited about the fact that it is, indeed, Friday. But I think it fell a little flat, not much unlike Bluto's big speech (Germans bombed Pearl Harbor) near the end of Animal House.
In my mind, and at risk of repeating a Randall Graves-like series of catastrophic (yet hilarious) events, I call my neighbors the Porch Monkeys. Mostly because morning, noon and night, you'll find them sitting out on their porch, watching the street that runs between mine and their house.
I close the store from time to time. I'll get home after midnight. One of the small things I enjoy in life is how the grass in the front yard feels on my feet. That might be the most sissified thing I've ever written, but it helps center me. It's a nice feeling, and I recommend it.
Anyway, I'll be wandering around the yard in my bare feet at 1 or 2 in the morning, and suddenly I'll hear voices from across the way. Or I'll see the glowing tip of a cigarette, and I'll know that the porch monkeys are standing their post, sentry and witness to all that goes by on our road, even at the darkest part of the night.
Actually, I was outside cleaning my truck out one day, and I figured out there was some manner of game going on, where all would say "Whoo" whenever an eighteen wheeler would roll by. I never found out the scoring, but it seemed like they were enjoying themselves.
But that's what one of the porch monkeys said. "It's Friday, you sunsabitches!" It's been ringing in my head since then.
That's how easily nicknames get made. Because all morning, I've been calling them "those sunsabitches on the porch."
Not a whole lot else going on in this neck of the woods. Heading down this weekend to catch the Braves and Cubs. Good to get out of the house, catch a ballgame or two.
This is just a thought, and it's probably not really a good one. I often fear that my favorite game is pricing itself out of future business. I mean, if people are paying $40 for a ticket, fine. But can a family of four afford to go anymore? It's probably with no warrant, and baseball will continue to make money. But it's something I think about, whenever I pay $8 for a beer.
I had a missed opportunity last week. I had the day off, and I'd put a little thought into going to see the Braves and Lookouts. Didn't go. Missed the little spat that has been all over creation since then.
Speaking of ball games...or games, since this particular one's played with a puck, the Stanley Cup's coming to southern California. Emily's got a nice piece on it...
I made the comment over there that I've never had my team win a national championship, in any sport. I'm a Cubs fan, so there aren't many around who did see them win it. Living in Nashville made me a Titans fan, and dammit they got close. The Predators have been decent the last couple of years, but can't do dick in the playoffs--and it's looking like they're running north to Canada. My short NBA fandom revolved mostly around rooting against Michael Jordan and the Bulls, much like my college football attention was devoted mostly toward rooting against the University of Tennessee, so I never really had favorite teams there.
I should note that, oddly, when I watch college basketball, I end up rooting for the Tennessee men's basketball team.
There's the women's basketball team at Tennessee. But there's one last admission to make: I don't care about women's basketball.
I've tried. But I don't.
Changing the subject.
Want to catch a couple of flicks sooner or later. I really want to catch Knocked Up, at some point. Seth Rogen's been my favorite part of 40-Year-Old Virgin and Undeclared. (Can't say that about Freaks and Geeks--he's great there, too, but you gotta give some credit to both the kid who played Bill and Linda Cardellini for those).
And the first Soderbergh Ocean movie carried enough gravitas that I'll overlook Ocean's Twelve, and go see Ocean's 13 at some point.
As an aside: you've seen Election, right? I just pulled a Tracy Flick thing with my own post, as the word "flick" looked like "fuck" to my horrible, horrible eyes.
Lastly: Can I just say that eating healthy fucking sucks?
It's expensive, for one. Seriously--if I'm buying crap, I can get out of the grocery store for under $40 for the week. I spent $70+ on fruits, veggies, fish and chicken breast. I've said it before: it's no wonder we're so fucking fat in this country: the unhealthy shit is the cheapest. Why should I spend $4 on a bag of apples when I can spend $1.25 on a box of Little Debbie cakes, or $2 on a bag of Oreos?
And for two, when you take away eating like shit, I have no real vices. That is unless you count huffing paint, and that's not really a vice so much as it is something I depend on to communicate with my muse.
I do alright with the eating until a stressful day. Which is not to say I do badly--I do rather well. But it's on those days that I could sit down and eat a loaf of French Bread like a candy bar--just peel back the wrapper and go to town.
Yep. I have no real way to end this post, except this way:
Neighbors whooing trucks. Beers cost Eight Bucks. Congratulations Ducks. Flicks that look like Fucks. Healthy Eating Sucks. It's Friday, you sunsabitches!
I bought a new printer the other day. I was printing off a story for somebody on my old printer, and I saw that the ink cartridge was in need of replacement. I travelled to Wal (hyphen) Mart and there I saw my friend The Evil Hippy. It was he who pointed out to me that a new printer was just a couple dollars more than the ink cartridge I was planning to buy.
Ain't that some shit? It's actually an upgrade or sorts.
No joke here. It just makes me wonder about this disposable society we live in, from time to time.
It's now three days after the fact, but I have no real thought on Carlos Zambrano and Michael Barrett's fight. Zambrano being just about my favorite player on the team (despite the fact he's throwing shit this year), instantly made Michael Barrett the heel in that encounter. But then, that's mostly because he's struck me as something of a dick.
But, I don't think either is to blame. I think they're all frustrated. I have no doubt that the players came in to this season expecting to be a lot better team than what they are. That's gotta weigh on them, even if they are making a few million a year...
Went to see the new Pirates of the Caribbean movie. It was alright, I reckon. Just overwrought and definitely overlong.
My deal was this: I have no problem sitting through a 3 hour movie.
Apparently, everybody else in the theater does. I can ignore talking. I can even ignore the fact that everybody needs to open their phone every three minutes to look at a text message or the time. But hearing that door at the back of the theater slam every 30 seconds because some dip has to get up and take a dump in the middle of the movie got old.