An open letter to Milton Bradley...

An open letter to Milton Bradley

Dear Milton:

Hi. How are you?

I've sat here for several minutes trying to find an eloquent way to say this.

And I can't.

I don't dislike you because you're black.

I want to say that first. Black, white, purple, brown, green or polkadotted with plaid eyelids, I could give a shit.

I dislike you because you do silly, uesless shit all the time. Not limited to popping up an inexplicable bunt in today's game, or grounding weakly to second with the game on the line. I won't even mention the multiple run-ins with fans/umpires/teammates over the course of your career.

Or your penchant for blaming your problems on the fact that we have a problem with your being black.

I have a problem with anybody who fails to take responsibility for their actions.

If you don't like playing in Chicago, forfeit the rest of that 8-digit paycheck you get for playing a game (badly).

Otherwise, suck it up, and shut your piehole.

Signed,

Tommy Acuff
(Who works 55-60 hours a week, 50 weeks a year, for roughly what you get in one or two plate appearances....)

Beer Beer Beer....

Beer Beer Beer....

Wandered down to Southern Brewers Festival on Saturday. A good day, out in the sun. Here lately, and by lately, I mean since 2004, I spend a little too much time inside. It's not unusual to go into work in the dark, and leave in the dark. And given my desire a.) to continue school and b.) write whenever I can, I end up spending more time than I should inside.

So, I took the pale-ass legs, arms and rest of Tommy out to Ross's Landing for some beer.

A few quick notes:

I stuck mainly to IPA's. The old joke is that Tommy likes his beers like he likes his women, cold and bitter. And while I can't comment too much without further damaging my social life, I will say that there isn't much that beats a good IPA for my money. People laugh about the bitter, but I'm one of those weird fuckers who likes actually Taste my beer when I drink it. I like an IPA because they tend toward the fullest flavor, for my money, and don't end up laying on my stomach like a porter or stout....

Out of what I had, Bold City Brewery's Mad Manatee was maybe my favorite, with Starr Hill's Northern Lights coming in a very close second (and then only possibly because toward the end of the night, they were a 200 foot stretch of crowd away from our staked out position. Both were excellent, and if you're somewhere close to their areas. There were a handful of other IPA's sampled (and one sad absence...I always look forward to Bosco's IPA, but they weren't in attendance this year...Bosco's is the best IPA I've ever had).

I stuck mainly to IPA, but among those when I wavered:

New Belgium's got a helluva nice beer Hoptoberfest, if you can check it out. It's a seasonal...New Belgium doesn't make a bad beer, so I recommend it if you have the time....Hoppy enough to wander into the IPA category, but a bit sweeter on the whole. It's a beer I'd be fine taking home with me...

One more of note: Highland Brewing's Gaelic Ale (a personal favorite, and occasionally available in bottle form aroudn these parts), and it's hard to resist. Their stuff is great on tap, if you can find it....

At the end of the night, there was a brief trip to Mellow Mushroom, to soak up a little bit of the alcohol, which tends to build up even if you're going 8 to ten ounces at a time....

Chapter MMMCCXXXIII: In which he exults over a weather forecast....

Chapter MMMCCXXXIII: In which he exults over a weather forecast....



Okay, campers. Your old stupid pal wandered back from vacation to find himself yet again working another stretch where he worked nine 10-12 hour days out of ten days. And while this has something to do with his disposition becoming less and less sunny along a plottable curve, it may work out for the best.

You see? There are plans to attend Southern Brewer's Fest down in Chattaboogie. It's a chance to see friends, taunt Jason, and celebrate the fact that my friend Chewie Finally found a job....

And your old pal was afraid that rain would dampen the occasion, as it did the almost annual camping trek a couple or three weekends ago.....

But the fine folks at News Channel 9 are predicting fair skies (and helluva not-hot day, to boot).

Can I go local for a second, and comment on Channel 9's weather team?

David Glenn looks like a dentist, and absolutely the opposite of a weather psychic. And there's a part of me that still wonders if he's up to the task of dealing with the Chattaboogie Weather Juggernaut Dream Team of Paul "I have a beard" Barys and Neal "Multi Mortgage" Pascal over on channel 3. I give him the benefit of the doubt, though his magic is somewhat lessened without Jed Mescon to egg him on at 5 in the morning. Jed Mescon owns the morning. Remember that, y'all. He made fellow blogger Thom Benson a star.

Let me also take a minute to address the Haystacks Calhoun of Chattanooga weathermen: How large will Bill Race become before he reaches critical mass? And I'm not talking about fat, necessarily. Bill Race is expanding in all directions of the compass, suffering (exulting) in his own personal Big Bang. Indeed, that might be why Bill Race is a weatherman, because he's now tall enough to gauge weather patterns at an atmospheric level. I'm of the belief that he's part sasquatch, and is wandering somewhere in the mass of an imported pickup truck. What is he? Nine feet tall? Does Bill Race look at all that stuff Michael Phelps ate before swimming and scoff as he's gnawing suckling pig in one hand and popping muffins like Hershey Kisses with the other during his own personal Second Breakfast? Bill Race's picture has not changed on News Channel 9's website in ten years, simply because a panoramic camera is too expensive.

My only request is that David Glenn or Bill Race neither be the one to break it to me that it will rain on my Saturday off (only my fourth this year not associated with a vacation). I fear for David Glenn's safety should he be the one to say "it'll rain on your personal hops and barley parade." And I fear for mine around Bill Race, no matter what the weather. Seriously, I'm 6'4" and I don't much cotton to having to look up to anybody. It's why me and Dikembe Motumbo are no longer friends.

If Channel 9 must break that news, please let it be Allison Chinchar.



Because I have a television crush on her. If she were the one to tell my parents died in a catapult accident, and that I was dying of cancer of the nostrils, I'd probably be okay, responding only with a very shy smile.

She's purty.

And she's done much in assuaging my much documented anti-Ohio bias. Can I just say that?

I have nothing more to say on this matter, without embarassing myself further.

Ahem.

Anyway. With Brewer's Fest some 2 days away, I do find myself wishing David Neal still worked in Chattanooga, even if he had that creepy mustache. That man was a psychic, and he would not just be able to tell me whether it would rain that day, but what the exact temperature would be, and just how many IPA's I'd imbibe before the whole shebang was said and done Saturday, and I'd wandered my tipsy self to Mellow Mushroom to sober up over a calzone. And aside from watching Andy Griffith re-runs and looking to see if Luther Masingale is announcing your dog was found in St. Elmo, David Neal's weather forecast was the only reason to watch channel 12.

Ever.

Take that Joe Legge.

Mobile Blogging?

Hey look...- can take my inanity mobile.

Well, I guess I always could, but never took time to spread it over the interweb whilst out being mobile

Why Guys Shouldn't Live Together....

Why Guys Shouldn't Live Together....

This is what happens when boredom sets in.

Andre the Giant....

Andre the Giant....

Modern Drunkard's got a nice article about the drinking exploits of the late, great Andre the Giant.

I'd heard all the stories before, as biographies and autobiographies of professional wrestlers are something of a guilty pleasure. I would like to take a second to address a couple small points with the article:

First, Wrestlemania III's attendance is mentioned as 78,000. That's one of three or four numbers you hear in conjunction with the event held in 1987, and it's the one I'm most likely to accept as most plausible. The WWF/E holds to this day that 93,173 people were in attendance, as was announced by the company during the show itself, which legitimately sold more than 70,000 tickets--no mean feat for any event, fake fighting or no. It was a huge arena, and the WWF did paper a substantial number of tickets for the event. I think the 78,000 number most closely matches the amount of turnstile turns for the day itself....

Also, Richard English mentions that Andre wrestled a "body slam" match against Hulk Hogan. Though it was very much the defining point for Hulk Hogan's career when he bodyslammed Andre during the match, the match did not carry any stipulations surrounding the feat. Andre did wrestle Big John Studd in a Body Slam Challenge at the first Wrestlemania, so some confusion may come from those two matches.

Lastly, the way one final passage is written, it makes it seem that Andre retired after that Wrestlemania match with Hulk Hogan. I think it's a sloppily written passage, and not necessarily a mistake, as English mentions earlier in his piece that a rematch between Andre and Hogan after the Wrestlemania III match aired on NBC drew 33 million viewers. I'm gonna have to check the math on the rematch--the rematch I think is being referred to was likely the Main Event match between Hogan and Andre in February of 1988, some ten months later, rather than two.

I should also mention to clarify, Andre wrestled three more Wrestlemanias after Wrestlemania III, though it was on a much lighter schedule than the rest of the WWF's roster at the time...generally, he was on hand for pay-per-views and Television tapings (with the major New York, Philadelphia or Boston house show on schedule, as well...)

All in all, though, a nice read. I'm mostly writing this to get some words onto paper, and to hear the sound of the wind rushing out of my head.....