Dissed by John Edwards

I've got no problem getting dissed by interview subjects. It happens from time to time. People just don't want to talk. But tonight I had the most high-profile snub of all-time (for me, at least): former vice-presidential candidate John Edwards.

He was on hand at the North Carolina-Vermont tilt this evening, and at halftime, I attempted to get a one-minute interview for a feature called the Blue Q that we run every issue of Carolina Blue. He glad-handed me and smiled like a true lawyer/politician and told me we should do it another time. He even asked for my card. But seriously, as much of a media whore as John Edwards is, I know he's not going to call (full disclosure: I voted for the Kerry/Edwards ticket -- this is personal vitriol here, not any kind of political thing).

But I decided that if he does call, I should re-snub him with some sort of "Oh-sorry-I've-got-Dick-Cheney-on-the-other-line" sort of excuse....Assuming Cheney hasn't died of his 800th heart attack by then.

Then my buddy Ogle, who you might remember from his naming of this blog, suggested I go all Major League on his ass. As in, when minor-league manager Lou Brown (who also works in some sort of tire/auto shop) tells the Indians' general manager that he's too busy to talk about managing the Indians.

Charlie Donovan: How would you like to manage the Indians this year?
Lou Brown: Gee, I don't know...
Charlie Donovan: What do you mean, you don't know? This is your chance to manage in the big leagues.
Lou Brown: Let me get back to you, will ya, Charlie? I got a guy on the other line asking about some whitewalls.

Yeah, that's right, John Edwards....I've got Dick Cheney on the other line about some whitewalls. Me, one. You, zero.

More Sweet, Sweet Vindication

The last post was about my vindication, via science, for being a pack rat. This one's even sweeter. As you might recall, I recently had a nightmare travel experience.

Well, vindication arrived this morning in the form of a letter from some dude named Fred B. Murchison at U.S. Airways. I had written them an angry letter after returning from the dreaded Bloomington trip, expecting to get nothing but a nice warm glass of shut the fuck up in return. After all, this airline is bankrupt - why would they refund my money?

The answer is, they didn't. But, they did give me a $50 voucher for the next time I fly U.S. Airways. Which could be soon. I mean, we're currently rocking a day-time temp of 26 degrees here in Chapel Hill, so it can't be that long 'til hell frezes over.

In summary, U.S. Airways = bad (but not as bad as they were before they sent me money); angry letters = good.

Pack It Up, Pack It In

What do random pipe cleaners, a super ball, a dry-erase marker and my old watch have in common? Well, they’re all resting comfortably together in a shoe box in my room. Why do I keep these things, instead of just throwing them out like a sane person? Well, science has vindicated me at last. Turns out, being a pack rat is totally normal human behavior. Who knew?

Apparently, hamsters, given the chance, will obsessively collect glass beads. By comparison, it feels relatively normal knowing the aforementioned shoe box also contains matches from the Imperial Palace in Vegas; or a conversation tape I recorded for my first college Spanish class; or the Arabian Sandalwood incense that was part of a gag secret Santa gift from a buddy of mine years ago.

Or how about the receipt from when I got my ear pierced in 1997. Hell, I don’t even have the earring anymore. But the receipt for the piercing? You betcha.

The wallet that the Atlantic Ocean mercilessly destroyed some years back? Oh, I’ve still got it. In the box. Mind you, I have a perfectly good wallet in my back pocket right now. Yet I still have the old one.

And this is just one box. When my parents moved last year, I had to go into my childhood room and make some real hard decisions. (Note: for any normal person, these would be easy decisions.) It was traumatic throwing things away. I don’t like it. This is my biggest fear should I ever have to move: That I would have to throw out these random things in lieu of packing them to bring them somewhere else.

What’s a poor pack rat to do? Well, play with this super ball for starters. Maybe burn some incense lit with a Vegas match, lean back and listen to an old tape. Que divertido!

Brush With Greatness

I just got out of the shower (fear not, I’m clothed), and I wanted to discuss a couple of things. Namely, two products I got at Target recently. These items can only be described as fantastically wonderful. Or I guess wonderfully fantastic would work, too. Up to you.

The shower-related products in question are a no-fog mirror and a brush on a stick. In the interest of saving the best for last, let’s start with the mirror.

A couple of months ago, on a trip to Utah, I found myself sans shaving cream, and in need of a shave. So, being already in the shower, I opted for the shaving-with-soap route, and miraculously it worked. My skin can be a bit sensitive, so I’m a little particular about how I shave (making the electric razor my sworn nemesis). But once this worked, I decided I was going to shave in the shower all the time (albeit with shaving cream). Hence, the mirror. So far, so great.

But the real winner is the brush. I mean, the mirror is good, but the brush…Whoa (if I might quote Joey Lawrence). It was an impulse buy, and when I first saw it, I thought of the Simpsons episode where Homer gets intentionally fat to go on disability. In this episode, Bart fantasizes about being fat in the future and saying, in his best redneck voice, “I warsh myself with a rag on a stick.” That freaked me out a bit, but, hey, I’m not that fat, so whatever. Using something on a stick to reach my back was a choice, not a requirement.

Anyway, the brush is a godsend. So much so that it has inspired me to (literally) sing its praises. So that everyone can play, I have selected a tune that most of the people reading this (including our friend Glitzy) should know: a portion of the UNC alma mater.

*clearing throat*

Hail to the greatest brush of all,
It cost six ninety-nine!
Shower back brush, priceless gem,
Receive all praises thine!

I could go into it being a back-brush born and a back-brush bred, but that would be over the top. Plus, I never want to imagine my back brush dead. So, in closing, Go to Hell, State.

Shiver Me Timber

My brother suggested I blog about a random subject that is an occasional favorite of mine: the pee shivers.

Now, ladies, I know you won't know what I'm talking about. I discovered that the pee shivers (the definition of which will follow) is a uniquely male phenomenon. At least according to this girl Kristen that I dated some time back. I came out of her bathroom one day saying, "You know when you get the pee shivers..." Needless to say, this was met with a blank stare. Probably in part from the fact that she had no idea what I was talking about. But also because it involved the word pee. I doubt pee is used very often as a modifier for anything, much less shivers. So I quickly endeavored to explain, before she noticed the shiver had made my nipples hard.

When us guys go No. 1, sometimes while you're peeing, you get this whole body shudder, sort of like the chills. It makes you shimmy like you're doing a very, very subtle touchdown celebration. It feels strange but good. So as long as your aim remains true, it's really not a bad thing.

(For the record, I have no idea why it happens, but apparently it does not happen to girls. Maybe it's the guys' standing-up factor, or just another fun bonus for those of us with our junk situated externally.)

After I first told Kristen and she responded with utter disbelief, I began to worry that the pee shivers were some bizarre affliction that only I suffered from. I could picture the doctors standing over my corpse some day in the future, going, "Well, this man appears to be completely healthy...It seems he died from a little-known malady as 'shiverus urinia' more commonly known as the 'pee shivers.'" Lousy doctors!

So I asked my guy friends. They put my mind at ease by revealing that they, too, had had the pee shivers. Whew! Finally, I could go back to enjoying them when they happened. So, ladies, do you really never get them? For real? Can anyone tell me why? Seriously, as much fun as it is to have a penis for entertainment purposes alone, this is where you are really missing out. Pee shivers. Man, I love saying that. Pee shivers.

Oh, the Places You'll (Eventually) Go!

I have had some nightmarish travel experiences in my day, the most notable being a Thanksgiving “flight” from Raleigh-Durham to Islip that resulted somehow in a bus trip from Baltimore to Long Island and concluded mercifully at 6 a.m.

Well, now the adventure I had Wednesday trying to get from RDU to Bloomington, Indiana, now officially ranks right up there. What follows is the summarized version (for the sake of both your and my sanity):

My fellow U.(As)S. Airways passengers and I had nearly a two-hour delay in Raleigh thanks to “high winds” in Philly, which was were I was connecting to Indianapolis. From Indy, I’d rent a car and drive the hour or so to Bloomington.

So these winds screw us right off the bat, as I arrive in Philly well after my connecting flight has left. So they put me on a flight three hours later. I should mention that I’m flying the day of the game I have to cover, so if I’m not in Assembly Hall by 9 p.m., there’s no reason for me to be there at all.

Now I’m on a 4 p.m. flight to Indy, arriving at 6 p.m. – allegedly. We get pushed back to 4:30, and we’re still not on the plane yet. So I inquire with a gate agent about flights back to RDU, figuring if it gets too late for me to make the game, why even go to Indy? He tells me to wait. I do, for 20 minutes. Then this jerk announces a gate change, and the herd migrates hurriedly.

At the new gate I wait in line again. He blows me off til it’s boarding time. I ask again, and he says I’ll have to wait. Wait til when? I have to get on the damn plane! I explain to him that I’ve been waiting 40 minutes for him to check on something that would take him two minutes. The following exchange occurs:

Gate Agent (smugly): Well, your patience is appreciated.
Me (angrily): Well, your condescension is not.

So I get on the plane and ask the flight attendants if they have one of those books with all the flights in it because the guy at the gate has ignored me and been mean. They say no, but I should ask him again, or go check the screen and then come back.

I leave the plane and exchange some more unpleasantries with the gate guy. He tells me to get on the plane NOW because he’s closing the doors. But when I get on the flight attendants stop me and tell me how nice I was to them, whereas other people (or me at any other given moment) normally yell at them for stuff that’s not their fault.

So, get this. They bump me to first class. Thanks, girls of Flight 1089 – you’re aces. They are, as my roommate might say, two of the all-time greats.

So I made it to the game, and I learned an important lesson: Sometimes being nice and polite in the face of frustration is better than raging out with profanity.

No, wait, that wasn’t it. Oh yeah, the lesson was: U.S. Airways sucks. And the Philly airport, too.

Day two travel note (I feel like Peter King): The next morning (Thursday), leaving Indy, I get pulled aside by security. The guy tells me he is going to wand me and then pat me down. He then says: “If at any time you’d like a private screening, let me know.”

While he seemed like a nice, strapping young Indiana lad, I can’t think of one good reason why I’d want a “private” screening from him. No thanks, guy, you can pat me down right here in front of everybody.

Is this like the airport equivalent of the strip-club VIP room? Excuse me, sir, how much for the, ahem, private screening. Bow-chicka-wow-wow.

Of course maybe I shouldn’t have been stuffing dollar bills in his g-string. Oh well, live and learn I guess.